Now, I'm not sure--not sure of anything about her. I'm not
even sure whether I want to know her or not. The favour I have to ask
is, that you help me to judge--and help her, if you have to judge
harshly."
"I?"
"Yes, you, Father. If she needs help, I'm not the one to help her. But
you could do it." And Vanno plunged deeper into explanations, warming
with his story and forgetting his first shy stiffness.
As he talked, the cure's gaze dwelt on him affectionately,
appreciatively. He admired the clear look and its fire of noble purity,
not often seen, he feared, on the face of a young man brought up to
believe the world at his feet. He admired the dark eyes, profound as the
African nights they had loved. He noted the rich brown of the swarthy
young face, clear as the profile on old Roman coins, and thought, as he
had thought before, that Murillo would have liked to paint that
colouring. He approved his Prince's way of speaking, when he lost
self-consciousness and his gestures became free and winged. "How his
mother would have loved him as he is now, if she had lived," the priest
thought, remembering the warm-hearted Irish-American girl, whose
impulses had been held down by the sombre asceticism of her husband,
which increased with years. No wonder Prince Vanno was his father's
favourite! Angelo had written that the duke disapproved his marriage,
but that Vanno when he had met the bride would "somehow make it all
come right." It would be a terrible thing if this younger son should
fall in love with the wrong woman; but it was too early yet to begin
preachings and warnings.
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