He paused involuntarily. His mouth was dry. When he began to explain the tablet, he had not realized what it would be like to tell the story to this girl at this place. It was as if some other voice, talking above his with his words, gave a meaning and an emphasis which must be unmistakable to her. It was hard to go on, for with each sentence he would surely stumble deeper into difficulty. Yet the silence was electrical. Unsaid things seemed rustling in ambush. He dared not look again at Mary, and he felt that she dared not look at him. But it was necessary to go on, and he took up the narrative clumsily, fearing to tangle the thread.
"The Italian asked the girl to marry him—here, where we stand. And they were engaged. But in a few weeks or months something happened. My friend is not sure whether she died, or whether some one came between them. He is sure only that they parted. And afterward the man had this tablet put up to mark the spot where he had lived his happiest hour."
"It is a sad story," Mary said.
"Yes. It is sad. But it is beautiful, too. He was faithful. 'Remember eternal at my heart.'"
"Perhaps those were the very words he spoke to her here, when—they loved each other and he was trying to talk in her language."
"I thought of that, too. It's almost certain he said these words, to assure her that he could never forget this place."
"No one else can forget, who knows the story. It makes the tablet seem haunted."
"Would you be afraid to see the ghosts of those lovers?" Vanno asked.
"No," Mary answered. "For if he too is dead—and 1881 is quite a long time ago!—they must be happy together now. Happy ghosts would try to give happiness to others."
Instantly the sentiment was uttered Mary regretted it. She feared that the man might think she associated herself with him in some vague hope of happiness. "I trust at least," she hurried on, "that the story of the lovers is true."