Esmeralda waited. She was startled, but not frightened; she did not forget that the horses were under her care, and she held them firmly, and looked straight between their ears. The healthy paleness of her face had flushed, but the color had gone again; the long lashes veiled her eyes.

It was some time before Trafford spoke again; it seemed a long time even to him. His own action and his own words had surprised him almost as much as they had surprised Esmeralda; he was full of remorse, for it seemed to him that he had taken advantage of her youth and innocence and had acted and spoken as he would not have done if she had been a girl of his own class and set. At last he said in a grave voice:

“I have frightened you?”

“No, I am not frightened,” said Esmeralda, simply.

“I ought not to have done—said—what I did. I deserve that you should be very angry with me. Are you?”

“I don’t know,” said Esmeralda; and she wondered whether she ought to be.

“It was unpardonable,” he said. “And I do not deserve that you should listen to what I have to say. But I hope you will.”

He paused. It was not easy to say what he wanted to say. He was going to ask her to be his wife, and was going to do so without saying that he loved her. For Trafford hated a lie—even to a woman.

“Miss Chetwynde,” he said,“we have known each other a very little while; how many times is it that we have met?”

“Ten,” said Esmeralda, promptly but quietly.

“Only for a few weeks. Of me you can know scarcely anything, and what I am going to ask you will seem to you presumptuous. I did not mean to speak to you to-day—so soon, but I have done that which makes it necessary that I should speak at once. Miss Chetwynde, will you be my wife?”

Esmeralda did not drop the reins, did not remove her eyes from the horses, but the blood rushed to her face, and her lips parted as if he had deprived her of breath.

He saw that she was startled, and felt that he had been almost brutal in his suddenness.

“Do not answer me yet,” he said, “for I feel that if you were to do so, it would be ‘No;’ and I want you to say ‘Yes.’ Shall I take the horses?”

Esmeralda shook her head.

“Although we have known each other for so short a time, I have learned to value the prize I am striving for, and I know that if you will say ‘Yes,’ you will make me very happy; and I will do my best to make you happy. My whole life shall be devoted to you.”

He paused again. It was hard work, this proposing to a girl without telling her that you loved her.

“It will be the study of my life to gratify your every wish. I know that I am quite unworthy of you—that there are many men less unworthy—but I will do my best to make you happy, if you will trust yourself to me. I do not ask you if you care for me; that could scarcely be, seeing how short a time you have known me, but I will try to win your love, and I hope that I shall succeed. What will you say?”

Esmeralda’s brows were drawn straight, and her lips closed. She felt troubled and uncertain. She had only been made love to once before—but how differently! Her heart was beating fast, for his words, his voice, made sweet music in her ears.

“I don’t know,” she said, the troubled look more marked in her face.

“Think,” he said. “I can understand how much I have startled you, and that you should not be ready to give me an answer. What can I say to persuade you? I will say nothing more about myself; I will only say that if you will consent to be my wife, you will not only make me very happy, but all my people. They will be delighted to welcome you as one of ourselves.”

“Your father?” she said in a low voice.

“My father,” he answered; “my uncle, Selvaine, whom you have seen, and who likes and admires you very much. There is my cousin, Lilias, who lives with my father at Belfayre. They will all be very glad to welcome you. I think you would love my father and Lilias, and I am sure that they would love you.”

“He is the Duke of Belfayre?” said Esmeralda.

“Yes,” said Trafford, looking at her questioningly.

“Why should he be glad if—if I were to be your wife? He is a great nobleman, and I—I am a mere nobody. I have learned what that means since I came to London. Why should he be glad if you married me? He, and all of them, would feel that you ought to marry some great lady equal to yourself.”

Trafford looked straight before him. He could not say to her that her two millions made up for lack of rank and position.

“No,” he said, “they would not wish me to do anything of the kind. They would think that I was extremely lucky in having won you.”

“You mean,” said Esmeralda, with perfect simplicity, “that you are all so great and noble that it doesn’t matter how common the person is you marry?”

It was so true that Trafford winced and colored.

“We are not so arrogant and foolish,” he said. “Believe what I say—that they will be very glad.”

“They have not seen me,” said Esmeralda.

He smiled.

“If they had, it would have been unnecessary for me to assure you of their delight and welcome.”

“Why?” said Esmeralda, innocently.

He looked at her, almost asking himself if such self-unconsciousness could really exist.

“Is there no looking-glass at Lady Wyndover’s?” he asked. “Has no one told you that you are very beautiful?”

Esmeralda did not blush, and her brows did not relax.

“But there are so many beautiful women,” she said. “I have seen scores of them in the ball-rooms, great lady friends of yours. There is Lady Ada Lancing, for instance.”

He winced again.

“But you are not only beautiful,” he said; “you are—charming. Every one feels that. I felt it the first night we met. My people would be quick to appreciate it also. My uncle, Selvaine, thinks you—but I will not tell you what he says of you. He shall tell you himself. Will you be my wife, Esmeralda?”

She looked from side to side, like a timid animal at bay.

“I do not know what to say!” she said in a very low voice.

“You mean that you do not care for me?” he asked, almost humbly.

She looked at the horses’ ears again, and her lips trembled.

“I am not so presumptuous—so idiotically conceited—as to dream that you should,” he went on. “But you may care for me in time. All I will ask you now is that you will try to do so; that you will let me try to win you for my wife. Will you do that?”

There was a long pause. Though she scarcely realized that he had not spoken one word of his own love for her, she felt, in the innocence of her heart, that there was something wanting. He had asked her to be his wife. He had told her that his great people would welcome her and love her; but he had not knelt at her feet, and told her that he loved her, and implored her to love him, as Norman Druce had done. At that moment the scene by the river in the moonlight at Three Star rose before her. She was silent so long that Trafford grew almost anxious. Was she going to say ‘No’—this waif of the wilds? He stretched out his hand, and laid it pleadingly on her arm.

The blood rose to her face again; his touch moved her more than all his words had done.

“Well,” he asked, “will you try?”

“Yes,” she replied in a low voice.

He took her left hand from the reins and carried it to his lips. He felt it tremble as he touched it.

“You have made me very happy,” he said; “I trust that you will soon make me happier, by telling me that you will be my wife.”

They were silent for a minute or two. A strange feeling took possession of her. She did not know that she was happier, that her heart was beating with a subtle joy; but the sky seemed bluer and brighter, the birds sung more blithely, the sunlight grew more brilliant, and suffused her with a deeper warmth. His touch seemed to linger on her arm, and her hand burned where his lips had pressed it.

“Esmeralda!” he said, presently.

She started lightly, as if he had awakened her from a dream.

“I should like you to see my father and Lilias. Will you go down and stay with them at Belfayre?”

She was silent a moment.

“Shall I?” she said.

“Yes; do,” he replied. “You will see then that what I have said is quite true. I should like you to go. I think you would be happy there. You are always longing for the country, you know.” He smiled.

“I will go if you wish it, and they would like me to?” she said.

“There is no question of that,” he said. “Will you go at once?”

“Yes, if you wish it,” she responded again.

There was another silence. If he had loved her it would have been so easy to talk; but he did not know what to say, and he could not make the silence eloquent with caresses.

“You must take your habit with you,” he said; “and I will choose a horse for you, and I will send down this pair, so that you can ride and drive as often as you please. We must try and make you happy.”

Esmeralda smiled.

“I am nearly always happy,” she said.

“Yes, I think you are,” he assented in a low voice; and her innocence smote him with a feeling of guilt and shame—it was as if he were deceiving a child.

They had turned down a hill, and were approaching West Wickham. The horses were going at a rattling pace; but he noticed, with an admiration that he could not withhold, that she kept them in hand firmly and with perfect ease.

“You drive well,” he said. “You must be very strong.”

His praise brought the light to her eyes.

“I am strong,” she said. “But they are not hard to drive. I have ridden and driven young colts that get up on their hind legs and waltz all round the place; these are quite tame. But they are good horses,” conscientiously. “I’ve never driven a pair so handsome as this.”

“You shall drive as many as you like,” he said. “I’ll get you a pair.”

“No, don’t,” she said; “or, if you do, you must let me pay for them. I’m very rich, you know.” She laughed easily.

He bit his lip, and looked at her. Did she know how poor he was? But a glance at her face showed him that she spoke quite innocently.

They pulled up at the door of the inn, and he got down. He stood, with his arms out, to help her alight, and, as he took her hands, he, half unconsciously, pressed them tightly. She blushed.

They found Lady Wyndover half asleep.

“What a time you’ve been,” she said, rubbing her eyes very delicately. “I declare, I was nearly dozing! Have you enjoyed yourself, Esmeralda?”

“Very much,” said Esmeralda, demurely. “It was a lovely view, and Lord Trafford let me drive.”

Lady Wyndover looked at her curiously. The girl’s face vibrated strangely; her eyes were bright; her usually ivory-white face had taken to itself a rose-like flush.

They started.

“Good heavens. Are you going to let Esmeralda drive?” asked Lady Wyndover.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Trafford. “She can manage them quite as well as I can.” Lady Wyndover sighed, and wrapped herself in her furs.

On the way to town Trafford and Esmeralda said little. Both seemed lost in thought. Every now and then he glanced at her, and her beauty, so to speak, won upon him. If it had not been for the remembrance of Ada, with her strained face and anguished eyes, Esmeralda’s loveliness would have filled him with delight; but he could not forget the woman who loved him, even in the presence of this lovely girl whom he had asked to be his wife.

They reached Grosvenor Square, and he took his leave. Once more he pressed Esmeralda’s hand, and once again the color rose to her face. She stood at the door, and watched him drive away, then she followed Lady Wyndover to her boudoir.

“Oh! dear, how glad I am to be home!” said Lady Wyndover. “Put more coals on, Barker, and bring me my fur wrap. How any one can find any pleasure in driving in an open carriage amazes me! Come near the fire and thaw, dear.”

“I am not cold,” said Esmeralda. The blood was dancing through every vein. She stood in the center of the room, bold upright.

“Lady Wyndover, I want to tell you something. Lord Trafford has asked me to marry him,” she said.

Lady Wyndover uttered a cry of delight, and sprung to her feet.

“Really! My dear child, I am delighted!”

Esmeralda knit her brows.

“Why?”

Lady Wyndover sunk into her chair and laughed again.

“Why? My dear Esmeralda, how can you ask? The Marquis of Trafford has actually proposed to you! Oh! I am delighted!”

“Why?” asked Esmeralda again.

“Why? My dear child, how can you ask? Lord Trafford is the best parti in London. He is not only the Marquis of Trafford, but he will be the Duke of Belfayre. The dukedom is one of the oldest in England. Belfayre is one of the most magnificent places in Europe—in the world! My dear Esmeralda, you have done splendidly! I am proud of you!”

Esmeralda knit her brows.

“When did he do it? When you were alone, I suppose? I half thought he would, and that is why I didn’t go with you. Come and let me kiss you, dear! To think that you will be Duchess of Belfayre! Oh! I am so happy!”

“But it is not settled,” said Esmeralda. “It is all undecided. I only said I—I would think it over.”

Lady Wyndover looked at her in amazement.

“My dear girl!” she said; “don’t you understand? If you marry Lord Trafford, you will be the Marchioness of Trafford, and, presently, the Duchess of Belfayre, for the present duke can not last much longer!”

“I know,” said Esmeralda, pushing her hair from her brow. “But I do not care about all that. I don’t want to be a duchess particularly. I—I am quite happy as I am.”

Lady Wyndover stared at her.

“A duchess!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you understand? Oh! how glad I am! Duchess of Belfayre! Are you sure it isn’t quite settled?”

“No; I said I’d see,” said Esmeralda.

Lady Wyndover emitted a kind of moan.

“How innocent you are!” she exclaimed. “You ought to have said ‘Yes’ at once! My dear child, Lord Trafford is the great catch. He has been most ‘difficult,’ as the French say. It is a great triumph for you to have caught him so soon.”

Esmeralda frowned again.

“He has asked me to go down to see his relations,” she said.

“Then it is settled!” exclaimed Lady Wyndover. “Oh! I’m so happy! Fancy! Duchess of Belfayre! My dear child, you don’t realize what it means! You’ll be one of the leaders of society! One of the most powerful women in London—and London is everything! With your money and his rank you can become a queen of society! Oh! I am so glad!”

Esmeralda looked at her dreamily.

“I may not marry him,” she said. “It is not settled. I am to go down to Belfayre to—to see—”

Lady Wyndover clapped her hands softly.

“Ah! yes!” She understood. “I must go to Madame Cerise to-morrow. You’ll want ever so many new dresses. Oh! my head’s in a whirl! Think of it—Duchess of Belfayre!”