The next day Trafford rigged up an apology for a tent under that tree, and dwelt there while the doctor was carrying on the grim fight with Death in the hut.
Sometimes Trafford stole in and gazed at the flushed face and too brilliant eyes, and listened to the wild, delirious stream that issued from the parched lips. His name was ever on those lips—sometimes breathed with a passionate tenderness, sometimes uttered imploringly, at others thrilling with womanly indignation; and every time she spoke his name her voice went to Trafford’s heart like a distinct stab.
He was bound up in her, heart and soul; he forgot everything but this girl, whom he loved with a love which would turn his life to a hell or a heaven. He forgot that he was the Duke of Belfayre, and no more thought of writing home than he thought of leaving her. Everything in the world might go, if she would only live and give him back her love.
A deep anxiety sat upon Three Star. Men went about with grave faces and preoccupied manner, and the gayety of the Eldorado saloon was crushed out by the weight of suspense. Men spoke in hushed voices, the tinkling piano was silent. No one had even the heart to fight. Varley and Norman and several of the miners rode frequently to the hut to make inquiries, and hung around on tiptoe, and with suppressed voices. Presents innumerable were sent from the camp; everything that Esmeralda could be supposed to fancy—the most grotesque articles—arrived as tokens of Three Star’s love.
At the approach of visitors from the camp, Trafford invariably disappeared; he could not endure to meet any one—least of all, Varley and Norman. He had a reckoning to make with both, but he postponed it. His anger against Norman had become dwarfed and dulled by the vastness of his anxiety for Esmeralda. There was no room in his heart for rage or jealousy, or any feeling but a consuming love.
One evening, about a week later, he was leaning against a tree beside his tent, when he saw the doctor coming from the hut. Something in his gait, in the poise of his head, sent the blood to Trafford’s face. He came forward eagerly, with the unspoken question in his eyes.
The doctor nodded, with a little triumphant smile about his big, strong mouth.
“Yes,” he said; “she’s better—”
Trafford staggered slightly and drew himself up and set his teeth hard; good tidings are sometimes as difficult to bear as bad tidings.