“No, no, of course not; but, mother, I thought it was not comely for women to fall in love with men?”
“Not comely, at least, to confess their love to men. But she has never done that, Amyas; not even by a look or a tone of voice, though I have watched her for months.”
“To be sure, she is as demure as any cat when I am in the way. I only wonder how you found it out.”
“Ah,” said she, smiling sadly, “even in the saddest woman's soul there linger snatches of old music, odors of flowers long dead and turned to dust—pleasant ghosts, which still keep her mind attuned to that which may be in others, though in her never more; till she can hear her own wedding-hymn re-echoed in the tones of every girl who loves, and sees her own wedding-torch re-lighted in the eyes of every bride.”
“You would not have me marry her?” asked blunt, practical Amyas.
“God knows what I would have—I know not; I see neither your path nor my own—no, not after weeks and months of prayer. All things beyond are wrapped in mist; and what will be, I know not, save that whatever else is wrong, mercy at least is right.”
“I'd sail to-morrow, if I could. As for marrying her, mother—her birth, mind me—”
“Ah, boy, boy! Are you God, to visit the sins of the parents upon the children?”
“Not that. I don't mean that; but I mean this, that she is half a Spaniard, mother; and I cannot!—Her blood may be as blue as King Philip's own, but it is Spanish still! I cannot bear the thought that my children should have in their veins one drop of that poison.”
“Amyas! Amyas!” interrupted she, “is this not, too, visiting the parents' sins on the children?”