Ah, her humility was divine. And she was so like his mother—his dear mother who had died when he was a boy and who had taught him to sing. Ah, she was herself now singing in Paradise, and she would look down and approve his choice. She, too, had been as meek as a flower, and had never been so happy as when they had been together at a little farm in Tuscany with him by her side among the olives. Oh, she would approve his choice. And quite simply he addressed his dead mother, as though she were beside him, asking her if she could desire to have a daughter sweeter or more gentle. He had lapsed into his native Italian in this; but Fanny could follow his slow, devout words, and her eyes were full of tears, her heart of love.
She now perceived how simple and gentle a nature was that of the young Roman. He remained unspoilt by the adulation which he had received both in his own country and in England. Seeing him thus revealing a simplicity which she had not associated with him before, she was led to ask herself if there was, after all, so great a difference between them as she had believed to exist. She had forgotten all about his singing, and he was now in her eyes nothing more than a man—the man who loved her. Ah, that was enough. He loved her, and therefore she was bound to save him from the mortification of hearing the whispers of the people around them asking how he could ever have been stupid enough to marry a girl like herself, who was a nobody and without a fortune, when he might have chosen any girl in the world.
Her resolution came back to her with greater force than ever. Since he had made his nature plain to her, it would, she felt, be taking advantage of his simplicity to engage herself to him just as she was. She knew more of the world than he did. She knew how the world talked, and how it would talk regarding herself as well as regarding him in such a matter. He was simple and generous; it was necessary for her to take thought for both of them.
“Have you heard me?” he asked of her in a whisper.
“The tears are still in my eyes,” she replied. “Oh, my dear friend, cannot you see how bitter it is for me to be compelled to ask you to wait for these months that I spoke of? Cannot you see that it is a matter of conscience and honour? Ah, I should never forgive myself if I were to do other than I have done! If you——”
“Dear one,” said he, “I ask for nothing more than to hear you tell me that you love me. Who am I, that I should demand your secret? So long as you do not conceal your love from me, I do not mind if you have a score of secrets locked away in your white bosom. Tell me again that you love me and all must be well.”
She looked at him, but he knew that she could not see a feature of his face by reason of the tears that were still in her eyes.