Brandon was silent for a little while. “Langhetti was fond of you?” he repeated, interrogatively, and in a voice of singular sweetness.
“Very,” returned Beatrice, musingly. “He always called me ‘Bice’—sometimes ‘Bicetta,’ ‘Bicinola,’ ‘Bicina;’ it was his pretty Italian way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make the violin speak like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed to me to be hardly human sometimes.”
“And he loved to hear you sing?” said Brandon, in the same voice.
“He used to praise me,” said Beatrice, meekly. “His praise used to gratify, but it did not deceive me. I am not conceited, Mr. Wheeler.”
“Would you sing for me?” asked Brandon, in accents almost of entreaty, looking at her with an imploring expression.
Beatrice’s head fell. “Not now—not yet—not here,” she murmured, with a motion of her hand. “Wait till we pass beyond this ocean. It seems haunted.”
Brandon understood her tone and gesture.
But the weeks passed, and the months, and they went over the seas, touching at Mauritius, and afterward at Cape Town, till finally they entered the Atlantic Ocean, and sailed North. During all this time their association was close and continuous. In her presence Brandon softened; the sternness of his features relaxed, and the great purpose of his life grew gradually fainter.
One evening, after they had entered the Atlantic Ocean, they were standing by the stern of the ship looking at the waters, when Brandon repeated his request.
“Would you be willing to sing now?” he asked, gently, and in the same tone of entreaty which he had used before.