As they sat there, almost in silence, the Angelus sounded from a distant convent tower; and, as if in answer to its summons, Assunta began to sing in a sweet, low voice Schubert's Ave Maria. Mr. Carlisle did not say a word until it was finished; then he begged for just one more, and, knowing how much he liked the simple Scotch songs, she sang “Robin Adair.”
“Assunta, your voice grows sweeter every day. It is perfect rest to me to hear you sing.” Then, after a pause, he threw away his cigar, and turned towards her a very earnest face.
“Petite, listen to me patiently a moment. I am a very proud man, as you know, and one who is not apt to sue, even where he greatly desires. It seems”—and the peculiar smile broke over his face—“that you have exercised some magic power, and with a touch of your finger have thrown down the barrier of pride against which an army might beat in vain. My child, you know what I am going to say, because I have not changed since that moonlight night in the Colosseum, except, indeed, that the feeling I then expressed has strengthened and deepened every day. I made you a promise that night. I confess that it has been poorly enough redeemed; still, you must judge me by my self-conquests rather than by my failures. But to-day releases me: and having ceased to be your guardian, I cannot give you up. I need not repeat to you what I have already said. You know that you are dearer to me than the life you have saved. I only ask, as before, the right to devote that life to you. May I?”
“I had hoped, Mr. Carlisle, that you would consider my former answer as final,” said Assunta; but, though her words were cold, her voice trembled. “I, too, am unchanged since that night you speak of. I am compelled to be so.”
“Assunta, you are such a child; do you, then, think it nothing to have won the love of a man who has reached middle life and has never loved before?”
“Mr. Carlisle,” said the young girl sadly, “if I thought it nothing, I should not feel the pain it costs me to repeat to you, that it cannot be. I am so unworthy of your love; you must not think I do not value it. Your friendship has been more to me than I dare tell you, lest you should misunderstand me.”
“Your heart pleads for me, child.”
“Then I must not listen to it; for the voice of God in my soul pleads more loudly.”
“Assunta,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I [pg 342] think you did not understand me before—you do not understand me now. Do you suppose I should interfere in your religion? No more than I have ever done. You do not know me, child.”
“I think I know you better than you know yourself, presumptuous as this sounds,” said Assunta, forcing a smile. “I am sure that, were I to marry you, you would not be satisfied to hold a place in my heart second even to God. But,” she added, as the old expression of bitterness crossed her guardian's face, “all this is useless. Let me put a question to you, and answer me candidly. Suppose I had made a promise to you, who love me—made it, we will grant, out of love for you—and afterwards, yielding to my own weakness, I should break that promise. Would you feel that I had done rightly—that I was to be trusted?”