"That I love you. That I have asked you to be my wife."
"What did she say?"
"What a true woman and good mother should say; that if you were indeed my choice, then she was ready to welcome you as her daughter, and my wife."
"You cannot mean it!" I cried. "She knows nothing of me, and I am penniless."
"She knows that I love you, and that would be sufficient, dearest. But, as it happens, she knew more about you than I did. From her I learned, for the first time, that your mother came from a family which was great and noble before ours was ever founded. She told me a sad story of your uncle, Margharita, which you, too, doubtless know of, and she seemed glad to think that our marriage would be, in a certain sense, an act of poetic justice. She told me, too, Margharita, that if your uncle died unmarried, you could, if you chose, take his name and call yourself the Countess di Marioni. Why, sweetheart, I am not sure that I ought to aspire to the hand of so great a lady."
"Your mother, the Countess of St. Maurice, told you all this? She desires our marriage? She knows what you are asking me?" I repeated breathlessly.
"Most certainly! Shall I call her? She will tell you so herself."
"Do not speak to me for a moment, please."
I was an idiot, but I could not help it. I buried my head in the sofa cushion, and sobbed. Everything seemed fighting against me, to make my purpose more difficult.
I think that tears have a softening effect. I had steeled my heart against my lover, and yet he conquered. I felt his strong arms around me, and his lips were pressed against my wet cheeks. Oh! for strength to thrust him from me—to deny my love, but I could not.