Mother Melinda laughed again—chuckled, rather.
“We’ll see what I’ve got,” she said. “I’m going down to the stream for water; I sha’n’t be long, and I shall hear if you call. You won’t feel lonely, will you, dearie?”
“Oh, go away,” said Esmeralda. “You know that I know that you only want to steal away and talk to the boys; I heard some of them in the wood a little while ago. Go and stay as long as you like,” and she turned her head away and closed her eyes.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, and she heard footsteps ascending the hill and stop beside her. She did not open her eyes, but waited for Mother Melinda to speak; but when a minute had passed, and the exquisite silence remained unbroken, she turned her head and opened her eyes to find not Mother Melinda, but Trafford, standing beside her.
She did not utter a cry, but lay placidly gazing at him, as if she considered him a part of her waking dream. And as she looked, she thought, in a vague way, how handsome and tall and strong he looked, and how bronzed he was, and she thought that the expression in his eyes, as they dwelt upon her, was like that which they had worn the night of their marriage, just before they parted. Of course it was a dream; but the look drew the blood gradually to her face, and made her heart beat with a queer little throb. Then suddenly, very gently, and with a quiver in his voice, as if he were trying not to frighten her, he said:
“I have brought the water, Esmeralda.”
At the sound of his voice, her eyes opened wider, the color deepened in her face, and then left it paler; so that she looked, with her red-gold hair and her long lashes contrasting with the olive clearness of her face, and the deep tint of her eyes, like some exquisite tropical flower, with its wonderful harmony of hues and shades. She began to understand that she was not dreaming, but that this strong man was Trafford himself—her husband. But she did not quite realize his presence until he whispered her name again. Then she trembled a little and her lips quivered, as if she were panting.
“Esmeralda,” he said, very gently, very fearfully, as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice might frighten and trouble her. “Have I startled you? Mother Melinda said I might come. I have been waiting all this weary time—but I will go again if you wish it, if you are not strong enough to see me.”
She did not speak for a moment or two, then she whispered:
“Why—why have you come?” Had he come to upbraid her, as he had done the night they parted? She looked at him with her brows drawn together.