“Darling Bridgie—yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is God’s will, and must be for the best. I can’t feel that—I can’t! It’s against reason. It’s no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a hypocrite.”
“You have a different nature from your sister’s. It is more difficult for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission.”
The tears rose slowly to Joan’s eyes, and she looked at him with a flickering smile.
“It’s no use talking to you. You won’t believe how wicked I am. You make excuses for me all the time.”
“Because I love you, Joan, that’s why! Have you found that out for yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I’ve been progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long, as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of years’ standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in return?”
Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.
“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I can’t tell. I like you very much; you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but that isn’t enough, is it? I don’t know if I love you, but I love you to love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less lonely. Sometimes this last week—just once or twice when we have been alone—I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped I was not mistaken.”
“You darling! Oh, you darling!” cried Hilliard rapturously. “You do make me happy by telling me that. That’s all I want—the very best proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don’t you see, my beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don’t you see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you, and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you ever since we met?”
He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back, refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous appeal in her voice.
“No, no! I don’t see, and I don’t want to see. My father is dying—he has only a little time to live, and I don’t want to think of anything but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but I can’t think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we shall have him with us. You mustn’t be vexed; you mustn’t think me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can’t help it!”