Diana Trelawny

by

Margaret Oliphant

- 1892 -

Contents

I. Herself

II. Her Neighbours

III. To Italy

IV. The Two Little Women

V. The Palazzo dei Sogni

VI. New Arrivals

VII. The English Lady in Pisa

VIII. An Evening Party

IX. Warnings and Consultations

X. The Two Little Women

XI. The Proposal

XII. The House of Dreams

XIII. A Surprise

XIV. Despair

XV. The Sposa

XVI. A Sympathising Friend

XVII. The Wedding-Day

XVIII. Afterwards

I. HERSELF

Diana Trelawny was a great heiress in the ordinary sense of the word, though the term was one which she objected to strongly. She was rather a great proprietor and landowner, no longer looking forward to any inheritance, but in full possession of it. She had a fine estate, a fine old English house, and a great deal of money in all kinds of stocks and securities. Besides this, she was a handsome woman, quite sufficiently handsome in the light of her wealth to be called beautiful—not a girl, a beautiful woman of thirty, with some talents, a great deal of character, and a most enviable and desirable position. She was not, indeed, chairman of the quarter-sessions, as she might have been had she written herself Daniel instead of Diana, nor was she even on the commission of the peace. She did not, so far as I am aware, regret either of these disabilities; but these, and a few more of the same kind, were the chief things that distinguished her from the other great county magnates. She paid very little attention to these points of difference. A woman who is rich, and has a commanding position, has few but sentimental grievances to complain of. These sentimental grievances are often very disagreeable, and tell like personal insults by times; but they are practically inoperative in cases like that of Miss Trelawny. She had broken the bonds of youth, the only ones which, in her position, might have restrained her. She had no objections that all the country and all the world should know she was thirty; and being thirty, she claimed full independence, which was as fully accorded to her. She had no tastes or inclinations to make that independence unlovely: and no theory of emancipation which demanded exceptional boldness of fact to justify it—a thing which gets many women into trouble. Her house was as pleasant a house as could be found, her society courted, her character respected. She had all the advantages of a country gentleman, and she had other advantages inseparable from the fact that she was a lady and not a gentleman. A marriageable young squire of her age and good looks would no doubt have been an extremely popular and much-sought-after person; but Diana was more popular and more sought after than any young squire. For even if you take the very worst view of English society, and believe that managing mothers and daughters eager to be married are as abundant as blackberries, the fact still remains that certain reticences must be observed, and that the best women do not throw themselves at the hero’s head—or feet. Whereas, in Diana’s case, these reticences were scarcely necessary, for everybody paid undisguised court to the beautiful, wealthy, smiling, and gracious young woman, and the best men in the neighbourhood thought no shame to throw themselves at her head—or feet, as the case might be. She was more openly courted than any man, for it was more seemly and fit that she should be courted, and no disgrace to the noblest. The county was more proud of her, more devoted to her, than it would have been to any male potentate. It made a kind of queen of her, always in dutiful and loyal subordination to the real mistress of these realms; but Diana was the queen of the county. Thus her sex was nothing but an additional pedestal to this enviable person: for to be sure she did not much care, being as yet indifferently interested in politics, for the disadvantage of having no vote.

Diana, however, had not always been so fortunate and so great: she was not born the heiress of the Chase, and of all the good things involved in that. Old Lady Trelawny, its last ruler, was a Trelawny born, and princess of the name, as well as a Trelawny by marriage. She and her husband had united the two branches of the family, he having the title and she the property: and had intended in so doing to re-found and concentrate in their descendants the strength of the race, which had become straggling and weakly, running into wild offshoots of collaterals which sucked all the strength from the parent stem. But, alas! there is nothing more remarkable than the indifference of Providence to such arrangements, even in the most important families. In this case Heaven took no notice of the intention at all, but simply left this pair childless, as if their off-spring had been of no consequence, confounding all their designs. They could not believe for a long time that such a neglect was possible; but they lived long enough to get over their surprise, and to form a great many new plans for their future heir, who had to be chosen within a certain circle of kinship. It may be supposed that this choice, which had to be made among them, fluttered the family of Trelawny beyond measure, and kept up for years a wonderful excitement in all its branches. Such a possibility hanging over one’s head is very bad for the character, and it is to be feared that the Trelawnys in general made exhibitions of their eagerness in a way which did not please the sharp-sighted old pair to whom the privilege of choice was given.

The only one of all the lineage who did not answer to the general call, and put in some claim more or less servilely to his chance of the inheritance, was a certain Captain John, who had disappeared from the surface of the family long before, and Lady Trelawny knew why. Up to the time when the old lady was seventy, it still seemed quite clear to her that Captain John kept out of the way because he could not bear to see her the wife of Sir John, though such had been her position for the last half-century.

The old pair were at Brighton when the husband’s last illness began: and looking from their windows, in the feebleness of their old age, they watched daily a certain procession of girls from one of the many girls’ schools (or should I not say establishments for young ladies?) in the place, which amused the old people much. It was an event in Sir John’s dull morning when they passed with their fresh faces, in charge of a handsome stately young woman, who was the English governess. By degrees both Sir John and my lady became interested in this girl: and it may be supposed what a leap of additional warmth was given to the rising fancy when they found out that her name, too, was Trelawny. Trelawnys are not so plentiful as Browns: the old lady drove to Mrs. Seymour’s school to find out who she was, and sent her half-a-dozen invitations before Diana could be persuaded to go. “Why should I go? I would in a moment if I could do anything for them; but they are smothered in friends and doctors and servants,” said the proud young woman. Mrs. Seymour, who was a sensible person, coaxed and persuaded and half compelled the visit; and when it turned out that this stately Diana was the only child of Captain John, it may be supposed what excitement awoke among all the Trelawnys. It gave the old lady a great shock at first, for she had believed in Captain John as living on somewhere in mournful old bachelorhood, keeping out of sight and out of the world in order to escape the misery of seeing herself at seventy the wife of another, and her desillusionment cost her a pang. Afterwards, when she found out that Captain John had married late in life—he was older by ten years than she—a homely little clergyman’s daughter who had been kind to him in a little village in Wales where he fished and dreamed his life away, and had died there a dozen years before, her heart was touched more than ever; and it was Lady Trelawny’s tears that persuaded Diana, against her will, to leave her independent position and become the nurse and companion of the old people. Before Sir John died the decision was made, but it was the old lady who carried it out. Captain John had been the nearest in blood, first cousin to both husband and wife. His daughter was, of all the Trelawnys, the one most near to them, their natural heir.

A year afterwards Diana had become Miss Trelawny of the Chase, a very great lady, and had taken the county by storm at the first glance. Perhaps, indeed, their want of any previous familiarity with her had something to do with the position to which she rose immediately in her own right. The county had not seen her grow up, and did not know all her youthful faults and weaknesses, as was the case with most of her fellow-magnates. She came into it full-grown, full-blown, beautiful, stately, independent, neither to be snubbed nor patronised nor put down. The episode of the school, which might have sentenced a humbler woman to exclusion from the reigning caste, what did it matter in a Trelawny? Your princesses born can do anything, the humblest offices. She neither bragged of it nor was ashamed of it, but would mention it simply in her conversation when need was, in the most matter-of-fact way, as a princess ought to do. What did it matter to her one way or another? The humility and the greatness were immaterial to Diana. She was herself in all times and places, and had been herself before she became Miss Trelawny of the Chase; though the title (really a title in the circumstances) suited her admirably. Her neighbour, Mr. Biddulph, called her “the image that fell down from Jupiter.” Such was her position in the world, eminent, rich, remarkable in position, yet something more—something that had nothing to do with her position, which was simply her, and her alone.

There was one thing, however, which startled the county much, and filled it with disapproval, which would have been warmer had there been any real belief in the purpose announced. Diana declared from the beginning that she would not marry. This is not an announcement which excites very warm belief in any case. If it is not believed of a man, how should it be of a woman, to whom (as everybody still believed in those days) it is the one thing needful? This, however, was what Diana said, quite seriously, without, it was supposed, meaning any joke; and, indeed, joking was not in her character. She said in so many words that she did not mean to marry. There was a great deal to do on the estate, she said, which was true; for the old Trelawnys had done little, and had not at all marched with the times, but contented themselves with the state of affairs which had existed a hundred years ago, or at least in the beginning of the century. The farming was bad, the cottages were bad, everything was behind in Trelawny parish. “But a gentleman could do all that so much better than you could,” her friends said to her. “It is my business, and not any problematical gentleman’s,” said this impracticable young woman. She had a belief in celibacy which was incredible to the community in general; and thought, however bad it might be to make that state compulsory, that unmarried persons, both lay and clerical, were an advantage here and there to their fellow-creatures. The question was discussed continually between her and her neighbours, the Biddulphs, to whom such a rebellion against all the rules which regulate human life seemed monstrous, and not to be put up with. It was un-English, they said—it was wicked; but Diana only smiled. One thing was certain, that this fad kept up her importance and her unique position as the finest of matches could not have done; and it seemed to some of her friends that it was more to Diana’s credit to allege this as the reason, than to allow it to be believed that she was guilty of the eccentricity of despising or objecting to matrimony. “She would be nobody if she married,” they said. “She would just be like other people; but Miss Trelawny of the Chase is a great personage.” This was so much more reasonable, so much more natural a motive, everybody felt, than any foolish fancy about work to be done or personal responsibilities to be upheld, that the neighbourhood was quite glad to adopt it. “Diana likes to be important,” was an answer to everything; and Diana did not contradict the opinion so universally formed. Perhaps she did like the importance of her position, and even the suitors and suitors’ friends who paid such court to her, in hopes of appropriating, some time or other, her solid attractions of money and land and social position to themselves. So Queen Elizabeth did too, I suppose, whatever were the real motives of that astute sovereign for declining to share her throne. Diana did not want her throne to be shared; but she did not, perhaps, being human, dislike the great competition there was for the vacant place.

Besides this, probably there had been experiences in her life which made the question of marriage less attractive to her. Few people live to be thirty without something of the kind, happy or unhappy; but nobody in the neighbourhood of Trelawny had been taken into her confidence in this respect. So she lived in the great house a cheerful and busy life, working at her estate as few landlords take the trouble to work, making a profession of it which cannot be said to be usual. Sometimes she was alone, but more generally there were guests to give the semblance of a family to the huge old mansion: and very pleasant society Diana managed to gather round her,—people of all kinds, almost of all classes, within the limits which education and refinement made possible—poor people and rich people, great people and small people, in a melange which was both picturesque and pleasant. There is nothing that gives such a zest to society as having been shut out from it for years; and if it was at all common for the poor and aspiring to be frequently raised at once into the possession of great means and independence as had happened to Diana, nothing, I believe, would benefit more by this than society. What dreams she had entertained in her loneliness, when Mrs. Seymour’s parlour was the highest sphere possible to her, of the fine company she would like to see if she had the power! To sit and work, and listen diligently to the words of wisdom which fell from the lips of the senior curate, sometimes on her own account venturing a respectful remark as to the last story in the ‘Monthly Packet,’ was all that Diana could hope for in those days; and as she sat with her head bowed and her mind half impatient, half amused, listening to the conversation of these her superiors, it would be endless to tell how many fascinating groups she gathered round her, how much brilliant conversation went flashing about, while Mrs. Seymour prosed, and the curate at his ease laid down the law. Sometimes she was half afraid these good people would hear the fun and the laughter that were going on so near them, and would bend her head close over her needlework to hide the smile upon her face. Strange freaks of fancy? for often now, when the beautiful drawing-room at the Chase was full of the best society, Diana, drooping her head, would hear again Mrs. Seymour prosing and the curate laying down the law, and listen to them a while with a smile on her face and very gentle thoughts. But in all probability, had she been born in the purple at Trelawny, and never sat in Mrs. Seymour’s parlour, she would have been satisfied with the county magnates and fine people within reach, and would not have made those efforts after good society which the county enjoyed, yet looked upon with suspicion—wondering why its own provisions in that particular should not be good enough for her, as they had been for her forefathers. It did not injure her popularity, however—rather increased it. The Chase was a pleasant house to visit, and its mistress “a delightful person to know:” and she was one of the best matches in England, and might at any moment turn anybody’s second son into an important county gentleman. Can the reader be surprised that on all accounts, and in every section of society, there should be but one opinion about such an important and attractive person as Miss Trelawny of the Chase?

II. HER NEIGHBOURS

There were very great people in the county, whom I will not venture to describe here,—a duke, with his duchess, and all the fine things that naturally belong to dukes: and two barons, and Sir Johns without number: for the county was large and important. Miss Trelawny, I believe, had she acted with ordinary prudence, might have had the Marquis, and been Duchess in her day. He was some years younger than she was; but, as everybody said, if his family did not object to that difference of age on the wrong side, why should she? and the young man was fathoms deep in love, and did not get over his disappointment for three months at least; and nothing could have made a finer match than the Trelawny estate with the Duke’s lands. However, I am not qualified to enter upon any discussion of the motives of such sublime personages.

The neighbours who specially belonged to Diana, and who were most interested in the episode of her life which it is my business to relate, were the Hunstantons, who lived in the nearest “place” to Trelawny, and were deeply attached to its mistress; and another small and insignificant household, which, except in consequence of its connection with Diana, would scarcely have been of sufficient importance to be mentioned at all. This latter family was composed of two ladies, an aunt and a niece—the one a clergyman’s widow, the other a clergyman’s orphan-child; peevish, humble-minded, weakly little gentlewomen, with nothing remarkable about them except the simple prettiness of the girl, Sophy, who was a soft, smiling golden-haired creature, unobtrusive and gentle as a little bird. Mrs. Norton was disposed to be mysterious about the connection of herself and her niece with Diana, fearing, as she said, to “compromise” a lady in her position; but this connection was of the very simplest kind. Sophy had been at Mrs. Seymour’s school—a piece of extravagance which had cost her kind aunt a great deal more than she could afford—but the girl had been delicate, and sea-air had been prescribed for her, and good little Mrs. Norton was willing to “live anyhow” in order to secure advantages for the child to whom she had performed all a mother’s duties. Diana was one of the women to whom a dependent of some kind is an invariable appendage, gathered to her by sheer attraction of nature: and Sophy Norton took the place of the necessary burden to be carried about on the other’s strong shoulders. The child was delicate, the governess was kind. She nursed her, she petted her, she became to her a sort of amateur mother. Mrs. Norton lived in cheap little lodgings at Brighton to be near her little girl, and when she asked the governess to come to tea with Sophy, she too felt that in her way she was exercising kindness and patronage, and that Miss Trelawny’s care of Sophy was compensated by the notice which she, a lady of private means, not requiring to work for her living, took of the governed—so that on this foundation of mutual kindness they got on in a very pleasant way.

I will not say that Diana herself felt Mrs. Norton’s notice to be of the elevating character which the excellent little woman herself supposed: but she was lonely, and very grateful for kindness of any description simply offered. She liked the prattle of the two innocent creatures, the aunt not much wiser than the niece; and she liked the spectacle of their love, which brought sometimes a wistful look to her own face, and sometimes lit her up with smiles, for it had its amusing as well as its tender aspects. When Diana came to her kingdom, it is not to be described what awe, and wonder, and pride, took possession of Mrs. Norton’s soul. To think that the governess to whom she had condescended should have risen to be such a great lady! but yet, at the same time, to think that she had always appreciated Miss Trelawny,—always done her best, though that was but little, to show her appreciation! When old Lady Trelawny died, Mrs. Norton wrote, with much timidity, to offer, if Diana would like it, a visit of sympathy for one day only—for she had her pride, and meant nothing but kindness, if not perhaps a tremulous expedient of love to recall little Sophy to the mind of one who now might be as good a friend to the little girl “as I tried to be to her, my dear, in her days of poverty.” Diana accepted this not entirely unalloyed kindness. She understood the alloy and forgave it; nay, perhaps liked the little bit of gold there was all the better for that heavenly kind of dross mixed with it—the anxious love of Sophy which prompted her aunt to seek her interest in any practicable way. They came to the Chase for two days, and stayed two months, amusing and refreshing their hostess in her loneliness with their pretty foolish ways. They were like two kittens to Diana; their harmless gambols gave her pleasure such as sensible persons did not always understand. When she had kept them with her all that time, it seemed hard to send the two little things away again into the seaside lodgings or small suburban house which they contemplated. Diana offered them a cottage in her park which had been built by some other kind Trelawny for a poor relation,—a little red house, overgrown with climbing roses and honeysuckle, set in a little clearing of green lawns in the heart of the trees. No words could tell Sophy’s delight with this pretty nest; but Mrs. Norton did all she could to maintain her dignity, and to seem to doubt and hesitate a little—firstly, as to whether she ought to accept such a favour from a friend who was not a relation, as she said; and secondly, as to whether in the midst of the trees it might be damp. But in a very short time both these fears were put to flight, and no children were ever more happy over the fitting up of a doll’s house than those two little ladies were over their furnishing. And, again, to the wonder of her sensible friends, so was Diana too. Is not a grown-up sister, a young mother, sometimes excited about the doll’s house as well as its lawful possessor? Miss Trelawny bought little bits of furniture, sought out scraps of china, had little brackets fitted in the little corners, and stands of flowers set out in the tiny hall. It was a toy mansion for her pets, upon which she expended more trouble than on her own stately dwelling-place; though what she could see in those two silly little women! as Mrs. Hunstanton constantly said.

The Hunstantons were of a totally different class. They were landed gentry as good as the Trelawnys themselves, if not quite so rich. They had a house in a great grove of trees which, except in the heat of summer, was not very cheerful, and which was supposed not to be wholesome for the delicate boy who was their eldest hope and the heir. He was a pale melancholy individual, like neither father nor mother, and it was on his account that they constantly spent their winters abroad. Mr. Hunstanton was an unsteady man with nerves, who had attacks of neuralgia and notions, and was fond of meddling, people said, with things that did not concern him much. He was thin to the utmost possible of thinness, running about in jerks and thinking in jumps, a hasty man, not wise but yet lovable, and ready to undertake anything for anybody. His wife was as unlike him in person as in character. She was sensible, cool, and indisposed to “mix herself up” with other people’s affairs—still handsome though nearly fifty, calm in disposition, and somewhat disposed to criticism, for which she had ample ground in her husband’s doings and sayings. They had married late, and had some children still in the nursery, and the weakly boy of sixteen already mentioned, whom it was the chief object of their lives to tide over the difficult period of youth. For him they were always ready to move at a moment’s notice, to fly from the east winds or from the damp, or from the too great heats of summer. Climate was one of the few things which both of them believed in, and their house was full of books on the subject, and every new place was eagerly caught at and inquired about. All along the Riviera they had wandered, over Italy with all its islands, into Spain, to Gibraltar, to Algiers, up the Nile—almost as many places as there had been winters in the delicate boy’s life. Curiosities from all of these spots which possessed any curiosities filled their rooms, and the acquaintances which an active-minded man like Mr. Hunstanton made in these prolonged periods of leisure were beyond counting. He had something to do with private histories all over the world, and had thrust his nervous head into more tangled webs than could be reckoned. His wife, who at first had tried to restrain him, had long ago given up the attempt as impracticable, and only looked on and wondered and criticised.

Such were Diana’s nearest neighbours. The Nortons were in the park, to be got at at a moment’s notice—convenient people who could be sent for, who were always ready to fill up a corner, to do anything that might be agreeable. Sophy sung a little pleasantly and prettily, as she did everything. Her aunt was ready to play quadrilles and waltzes, or the simpler kind of accompaniments, till midnight at any time. They were liked by all the much greater people into whose society they had been transplanted bodily, and whom they delighted in, in return, with enthusiasm. The Duchess, on the one occasion when she had spent three days at the Chase, at the time when Diana had been thought possible for her most noble son, paid special attention to Mrs. Norton, taking her for the resident clergywoman of the place: and the distinction was one which had never been forgotten. It must be added that, by some special dispensation of Providence, the clergy of the parish were an uncle and nephew—one rector, the other curate; two black-browed, silent men, whose chief use in nature seemed to be (besides their duties in the parish) to balance these two little ladies at Diana’s dinner-table. They were both unmarried, and Nature seemed to intend that if not two couplings at least one should result from this singularly appropriate balance of forces. Everybody, however, saw this except the parties concerned, as so often happens. They did not see it at all. The elder Mr. Snodgrass unjustly stigmatised poor little Mrs. Norton as a gossip; and the younger one had lost his head, not to speak of his heart, in a vain adoration of Diana, who was about as far removed from him as her namesake in the skies. And this taciturn young man was the favourite butt for Sophy’s simple little wit, which was not of a brilliant character indeed, but now and then could be sharp on a personal peculiarity. Thus perverse human nature balked Providence, as seems not unusual on the surface in mortal affairs.

Diana had been reigning for full two years when this story begins, and for more than one the pair of little ladies had been settled in the Red House. They had not complained of the damp during the first winter; but now that another was about to begin, there was a little flutter of talk about Sophy’s cough, which had not been lost upon Diana. Sophy, there was no doubt, had a cough. She had not got rid of it last year until the end of May, and though it did not seem to hurt her, it was enough to disturb Mrs. Norton, and even to attract Diana’s attention whatever she was doing, stopping her in the midst of the most interesting conversation. Was it the humid atmosphere under the trees? was it the green, too luxuriant growth about the Red House? Diana set out walking one October morning, after many thoughts, to satisfy herself on this point. She was fond of the girl in her own person, and she was moved by a still deeper sympathetic sense of the love of the aunt to whom Sophy was everything. What would the economy matter, the pretty house which they had rent free, or even the fine company which Diana felt was still more dear to Mrs. Norton—in comparison with her child’s health? Diana went across the park, the short cut, not afraid of the moisture which shone on the grass, in her strong boots and serge dress. She was tall and fully developed, in the long lines and noble curves that became her age: no longer a slim girl, but mature, in the pride and height of life: her step firm and commanding, though light and swift; her fine head held high, not a stoop nor a droop had she; light and strong and beautiful, like a tall lily among the fragile undergrowth of blooms. Sophy was sitting by the window, looking out upon the park, with a basket of flowers before her, and all the flower-vases of the house ranged round her; the air sweet with mignonette; the sunshine coming in over her head, and catching the ruddy glimmer in her hair. “Here is Diana, auntie,” she said, getting up to run to the door and welcome her friend. Mrs. Norton was sitting with her needlework by the table. There was a pucker in her gentle little brow, for Sophy had coughed three times since breakfast. Something would have to be done. “I will take my courage in both hands, and I will speak to Diana,” she said to herself, then looked round the pretty room and sighed.

It was a very pretty room. Diana had almost furnished it, as well as given the house. Opposite the window was an old-fashioned convex mirror, making the prettiest sparkling picture of the park with its trees; a little old cabinet underneath had Mrs. Norton’s pet china arranged upon it, catching the sunshine: the sofa by the fireside was as softly luxurious, though it was so small, as anything in the Chase. “What have we done that she should have been so good to us? and she will think it ungrateful,” Mrs. Norton said to herself, drying her eyes; but nothing could be ungrateful which was done with such reluctant sorrow. She heard the sound of the voices outside, and got up from her work tearfully, thinking how rash Sophy was with her cough to run to the door. “I shall never get her to take care—here,” she thought. “How nice of you to come!” Sophy was saying. “Oh, I was just sitting at the window, wishing and wishing for you—yes, isn’t the mignonette sweet?—it is almost the last thing now—the flowers are going. Oh, but come in, come in—you must not stand in the hall; and your boots are wet, Diana. You have come across the grass.”

“Which is not a thing for little girls to do,” said Diana, letting the long serge skirt drop which she had been carrying looped over her arm. She was fond of long dresses, though they were inconvenient, and had to be looped up. “I have come to speak to your aunt about business, and you may run away for a little. Go and see if your ribbons are all right for this evening: for you are coming up to dinner to meet the Hunstantons and the clergy; and you know in that case you are always to look your best.”

“As if I cared how I look, for them!” said Sophy. “But are we really, really coming up to-night? My white is not quite fresh enough if Mrs. Hunstanton is coming—she is so particular; and my blue is rather shabby; and you don’t like my green. What am I to wear? There is the grey Japanese silk you gave me; or shall I put on my pink spotted?”

“Here is the auntie,” said Diana. “Send her away, Mrs. Norton, for I have something to consult you about.”

“Your grey, my love,” said Mrs. Norton, “with the blue ribbons. That is pretty for this season, and not so thin. Oh, Diana! I ought to have gone to you. I, too, want to tell you of something. If you should think me ungrateful, or that I don’t feel all your kindness to the bottom of my heart—”

“We mean the same thing, poor little auntie. That cough of Sophy’s—”

“Then you have noticed it,” cried Mrs. Norton, turning very pale. “You think it very serious—as I do! like her mother’s! O Diana, my child! Perhaps the doctor has said something to you. What shall I do? what shall I do?”

“It is not the least serious,” said Diana. “I spoke to the doctor, and he laughed.”

“He laughed!” Mrs. Norton wavered between relief and offence. Then she shook her head. “I have no confidence in country doctors. He would not have laughed if—if he had any real experience—if—if he knew—”

“Do not cry,” said Diana. “Pray, pray do not cry. I have come to propose something to you. I want you to go to Italy with the Hunstantons.”

Mrs. Norton gave a little shriek. “To Italy! Oh, Diana!” Then she stopped in the first impulse of joy.

“You are deceiving me,” she said, trembling. “You think it a great deal more serious than you say.”

“I think you are the silliest little woman! and if you make me out to have a hundred meanings I never thought of, I will not speak to you any more. Ask the doctor. Ask a dozen doctors if you please. But look here—if you are proud and hoity-toity, why, then, there must be a general dissolution and breaking up of friendship; and you know, Mrs. Norton, it is a dreadful thing to break off with and alienate a true friend.”

“I do, I do! Oh, how could you ever think it of me, Diana? and why do you speak to me so formally? If we were to go away to-morrow and never to come back again, do you think that would make me less grateful to you? And me hoity-toity! was I ever?—could I ever be?—does any one think it possible?”

“Do you know what that is?” said Diana. “I found it in my desk to-day.”

Mrs. Norton looked at the paper through her tears. She knew very well what it was. Though she was not rich, she prided herself on having travelled abroad in her time, and knowing all about such matters. It was a banker’s letter recommending herself to the correspondents of the firm—one of those documents which make the traveller’s path easy, and are of more use than any passport—as long as they hold out

“Now,” said Diana, with a threatening aspect, “if you make any objections or say anything disagreeable, I am your landlady, and I shall evict you. If you refuse to go I shall take your roof off. I shall turn out all your furniture; and anybody who pleases may take your china. There! the power of threatening can no further go. And now I must hurry home, for I have a great deal to do to-day. Give me some of Sophy’s mignonette. Tell her she is a little goose, and that young Mr. Snodgrass prefers pink to blue; and if you were not very inexorable and unkind, his poor uncle—but of course if you will not listen to him, what does it matter what I say? Sophy, good-bye—I have no time to stay.”

“But, Diana, Diana!” said Mrs. Norton, breathless, with the letter in her hand, rushing to the door after the hasty visitor.

“I have not another moment—there are people waiting: good-bye till the evening,” cried Diana, halfway across the lawn, with her blue gown over her arm.

“She will wet her feet, she will catch cold, she will get rheumatism. Oh, if she knew what it was to have neuralgia like me! But Italy!” said Mrs. Norton to herself. She went back to her little drawing-room in a flutter of excitement. Italy! It had been the pride of her life to have been at Geneva once in her early days, and in this one expedition she had found a parallel to all she had heard of wonderful and stupendous since then. “I can understand it,” she had said, “because, when I was at Geneva—” With this the greatest traveller, and even Mr. Hunstanton himself, had been quelled. But now Italy! It took away the little lady’s breath. She went in and looked at the banker’s letter. Surely it would turn into a bit of rag again in her hands. It could not be real. Italy—and a hundred pounds! Mrs. Norton was dumb. She gasped for breath: she had not composure enough to call down Sophy, blissfully occupied in looking up her ribbons, and unaware that there was anything to hear.

Diana went back with a smile on her face. The power of doing such things as this is most likely sweeter when it is newly acquired than when people have possessed it all their life. She liked the indulgence. To be very rich, is it not to be in some sort a god upon earth, putting right the wrongs of fortune, and remedying its injustice? It was not so always: had she herself been ill in the old days, she must have borne it, and died in patience without hope of relief; and now to be able to forestall the first possibility of danger to another seemed very sweet to her. Yet she was not unaware, and the recollection made her smile again, that there was something absurd in the choice of Sophy Norton as the recipient of her bounty. There was many a consumptive girl in the county to whom the help would have been invaluable—but Sophy was not consumptive or unhealthy. She had a cough which was no more dangerous than a toothache, and which had only attracted the notice of her friend from the fact of the supposed dampness of the little Red House in the park. What a curious commentary it was on the inequalities of fortune, and the duty of the rich to bear the burdens of the poor! Mrs. Norton was not exactly poor: she had enough to keep a house comfortably enough, therefore it was to her that the rent-free cottage naturally fell; and Sophy had no more need of transportation to a warm climate than one of the elm-trees had, therefore of course it was Sophy who had the means thrust into her hand. What a curious travesty of need and of duty! and what could the great lady say for herself who was so glad to offer this pleasure and favour to her semi-dependants? She did nothing but smile, with an acute sense of those difficulties of life which no one can explain and scarcely any one overcome. Had Diana known the people to whom this favour would have been most a favour—to whom it might have been life and death—probably they would have been proud persons who would have rebelled at even the most delicate help. No man can save his brother. Those who want help most are those who will not accept, who cannot get it, whose wants are as far removed from the ken of the helpful by natural independence or by ignorance as if there were no help-givers in the world. Her own feelings even were to herself the strangest commentary upon her sincere desire to be of use to her fellow-creatures. This was a joke, a piece of self-indulgence, not noble neighbourliness, such as it was in Diana to do if need were. She laughed at herself and her banker’s letter, and the little show of violence with which she had insisted on its acceptance. Who could tell how near at hand and in what imminent need might be the other whom to save Diana would have strained every nerve? And how blind and poor and miserable is human nature, which cannot clear up even these initial difficulties! She went on sighing before the smile had died off her face, feeling amid all her power and capabilities how limited and how poor!

III. TO ITALY

“I did not think Diana had been such a fool,” was the remark of Mrs. Hunstanton, when the arrangement was proposed to her. She made no objection to the joint journey. The invalid boy for whom they travelled, and in whom all her hopes were concentrated, was on the whole a fatiguing companion, dear as he was both to father and mother; and as Mrs. Norton was one of the women who are utterly beyond fatigue in the amusement of children, there was compensation for the risk of being bored by the helplessness of the two little women. But that Miss Trelawny should carry her “infatuation” about these trifling persons to the length of sending them off like an anxious mother because the girl had a cough, filled her with an angry surprise. If she had a cough, what had Diana to do with it? She had an aunt of her own to look after her, and they had, Mrs. Hunstanton supposed, enough to live on, or what business had they there at Diana’s table meeting the best people in the county? Her unaccountable fondness for them irritated her friend. What could she see in such commonplace persons? for indeed the mixture of amusement and habit and indulgence in Diana’s affection was incomprehensible to Mrs. Hunstanton, who either was fond of people or disliked them, and disapproved of such complications of feeling. To tell the truth, the Nortons themselves took Diana’s kindness as proof of a deep and absorbing love, and asked each other, with a gentle complacency, what they had done to make her so fond of them. “Not that I should wonder at any one being fond of you, my darling,” the aunt said; a sentiment which the niece echoed warmly, both putting Diana’s love down to the credit of the other. Diana herself smiled a little when they talked to her of her love. Yes; she supposed she was fond of them in a way, poor little souls! and she laughed at the indignation of Mrs. Hunstanton, which was so naive and open. It was no harm to that good woman, did not take anything from her, that her friend should pet and spoil these little women. Still it irritated her; and to think of this extravagant indulgence of their weaknesses angered her almost beyond bearing.

“As for their coming with us, they are welcome to come, I am sure,” she said, thinking, not without a little relief, of Reginald, who was “a handful” on a long journey. She saw in her mind’s eye Mrs. Norton devoting herself to the boy, petting him—for it was her nature to be always petting somebody—reading to him, finding out endless stores of conundrums and foolish games for his amusement; and she was mollified. It was possible even that, though of themselves bores, they might be a kind of acquisition on the journey; but what Diana could mean by it! Mrs. Hunstanton shrugged her shoulders, and made up her mind that human creatures in general were more inscrutable than any other mystery on the face of the earth. She had occasion to learn this truth nearer home. There was her own husband always dancing about on somebody’s business, meddling with somebody’s affairs. No such temptation disturbed her mind. She was interested about her own people, loved them, and would have spent her last sixpence and her last hour in serving them. But people who did not belong to you! What right had you to be disturbed and deranged by their affairs?

Nevertheless, notwithstanding Mrs. Hunstanton’s objections to the whole business, she took a good deal of trouble that evening in enlightening the inexperienced travellers, who had a thousand questions to ask.

“When I was at Geneva, there was a light kind of challis which I wore—a kind of dust-colour—with flowers upon it,” said Mrs. Norton.

“Oh, not dust-colour, dear auntie; let it be grey,” said Sophy.

They were all in a flutter of expectation and excitement, eager to be told if new outfits were necessary, and a total change of raiment, as if they had been going to India. For Mrs. Norton, with no rent to pay, was rich enough to indulge Sophy with several new dresses if necessary, and would have liked the business. Mrs. Hunstanton cut them very short. “I hope you don’t think you are going to eternal summer,” she said.

“No, indeed—until we get away from this sad world altogether, Mrs. Hunstanton.”

Sophy had no desire to escape from this sad world. She said, “But it is much warmer. It is to take away my cough; and Reginald—of course Reginald goes for the warm weather?”

“Equable, equable. We don’t jump up and down the thermometer as we do at home. And the place is very dull. You can’t think how dull it is—high houses: if you live on the second floor—and unless you are rich you must live on the second, or even the third floor—you can’t even see the street. As for a glimmer of sunshine, that is past praying for, if you happen to be on the wrong side. And no society, or next to none. The Italians are very exclusive; and the English—well, the less said about the English the better,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, in her serious vein.

The two little ladies looked at each other. Tears sprang to Sophy’s eyes, who was the one most easily moved. “We must go now,” she said, “to please Diana.” And then, after a pause, “Diana is so kind. Perhaps she is too kind, auntie. If it had not been all settled for us—you know there are other places which are not dull.”

“And ungrateful, too!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself; but she said nothing more about the dulness of Pisa. She gave them some small instructions, which restored their cheerfulness; and told them when she meant to start. And though they were damped, their courage rose after the interview was over. “If it was as bad as she says, who would wish to go there?” said Mrs. Norton, with unusual shrewdness. “They are going themselves, so we must have some society. Depend upon it, dear, Diana would not send you if she were not sure it was for your good.”

Sophy, who had no doubt on this subject, accepted the assurance very sweetly; and Mr. Hunstanton, who met them on the road, gave them much greater encouragement. They had come out next day in Diana’s own pony-carriage, which neither of them had courage to drive, and they met him on the road, trudging along in his gaiters. “My wife would not give you much advice,” he said; “you should have come to me. Take alpaca and that sort of thing, Mrs. Norton. Don’t you call it alpaca? or merino, is it? Not too thin, nor yet too thick. You will enjoy it very much. None of those blighting colds we have here, but an equable, pleasant temperature. You can always go out every day, and a little pleasant society always at your command. We know people everywhere; and, of course, wherever we are, after knowing you so intimately as Diana’s friends, and all that, there will be a corner for you.”

“Sophy,” said Mrs. Norton, with enthusiasm, when he had passed on, “Diana may say what she pleases, and I know she is cleverer than you and I; but for real understanding there is nothing like a gentleman! They know how to convey information, and they are so genuine. Now, ladies are always jealous. It must be jealousy. What a different account he gave! Mr. Hunstanton is a very nice man, and he understands what is due to people in our position. It will be a great advantage to be near them: for whatever Mrs. Hunstanton may say, of course they must have some society. Besides, my love,” added Mrs. Norton, “the great thing is your health. We can bear anything if your cough goes.”

“I think it is better since Thursday,” said Sophy. Thursday was the day of Diana’s visit, when this great step was decided upon.

“I think so too,” said the aunt. “You know how one’s toothache goes away when one knocks at the dentist’s door.”

This was perhaps not a very flattering simile: but that Sophy’s cough did improve immediately was very apparent. Diana from the great house looked on at the movements in the little one with that amused observation which Mrs. Hunstanton could not understand. That Sophy’s cough was better, that Mrs. Norton was no longer frightened to expose her niece to the cold winds, and even bore with equanimity Sophy’s adoption of the “short cut” across the park, which would have alarmed both of them a few weeks before, and that Mrs. Norton herself had no neuralgia when she drove out and in to Ireton to do the shopping which she found inevitable,—all this was very apparent to Diana. Mrs. Hunstanton, and even Miss Trelawny’s maid, remarked these circumstances with wrath, and the former hotly declared it to be utter cynicism and disbelief in human nature which made Diana laugh, and go on petting the little humbugs as much as ever. Is there always perhaps a little cynicism mingled with the toleration of the larger nature? Diana protested against it warmly, and felt herself injured by the imputation. She did not expect so much as the others did. It pleased herself to be kind and liberal to them. She did not want gratitude. Thus one part of the world will argue for ever, while another part receives the favours given and feels itself relieved from obligation by that very argument; and a third, incapable either of the generosity or the ingratitude, stands by and grows wroth and criticises. After all, it is the givers who have the best of it, though they have all the loss and the largest share of the pain,—which is a paradox, as most things that concern this paradoxical human nature must be.

The travellers went away, and Diana was left alone. Even in the heyday of health and life this is seldom desirable. She was alone in the world. So fortunate, so happy, so capable a woman, with “everything that heart could desire,” did her prosperity, her wealth and power, and beautiful surroundings do much for her? I think they did ameliorate her lot to an almost incalculable extent. Shut up in a limited space, in sordid circumstances, poor, with nothing to occupy her active faculties, she would have been like a caged lion. But she had abundance to do—occupations important and valuable and necessary, not the things done for the mere sake occupation which are the lot of so many women, and indeed also of many men. The work of the estate, taken up for the first time for many generations with genuine enthusiasm, exercised all her powers; and as she had the advantage over most reformers of being able actually to execute a great many of the reforms she had planned, her work kept her going as perhaps no other work could have done. A reforming despot, eager to set everything right, and really able in many cases to enact the part of Providence, redress wrongs, and do poetic justice among men,—what position could be more sustaining and encouraging to a vigorous and fanciful soul? Diana’s “work” occupied her like a profession. She was rich, for what use but the good of others? The most extravagant expenditure possible to herself personally, she thought, could not amount to half of her income—though she loved to have beautiful things about her, and to spend liberally with the generous habit of her nature. She never meant to marry, she never meant to save. The next Trelawny who should succeed her would find an unencumbered estate, and an improved one, please God, but hoards of money none. This was the intention of her life. You may believe, if you please, that some disgust of youth with the ordinary arrangements of humanity, some horror of false love, or unforgotten outrage of the heart, was at the bottom of the system upon which she had formed her future existence. But whatever this was, she had surmounted the pain of it, and her imagination had been caught by that ideal of the virgin princess, which had something captivating in it, though it is rarely recognised by the world. Then she had herself been poor, and knew how to give succour and who needed it. But she kept the family lawyers of the Trelawny house, I allow, in a state of fever and exasperation very prejudicial to the health of these respectable gentlemen. They thought her mad, no less, when she proposed to them to give large slices of her income to this one and the other—not “the poor,” in the ordinary sense of the word. Subscriptions to hospitals, to orphanages, to charities in general, that they understood; but a civil list of pensions like the Queen’s—sometimes more liberal than her Majesty is permitted to give!

“The young woman is mad!” said Mr. Seign and Mr. Cachet. But it was in favour of Diana’s sanity that she had her dresses from Paris, and drove a beautiful pair of horses, and bought pictures, and saw a great deal of society. Her conservatories were the pride of the county; her head gardener a man of such erudition that professors quailed before him. This did not look like insanity; neither did the great Christmas party which gathered in the Chase, when Mr. Cachet was one of the guests, and was forced to acknowledge that things had not been carried on with anything like so much splendour in old Sir John’s time. She was not a hermit nor an anchorite nor a monomaniac. As for her resolution not to marry, of course that meant solely that she had not yet been addressed by the right man; and when he appeared, no doubt he would make short work with the civil list. This calmed the tone of Messrs. Seign & Cachet’s remonstrances. They protested on principle against any new “eccentricity” of the feminine Squire of Trelawny; but they trusted in time and the chapter of accidents, and Diana’s beauty and her youth—for naturally when she has a large property, however it may be under other circumstances, a woman of thirty has by no means ceased to be young.

Thus Diana occupied herself through the dulness of the winter; but when spring began to thrill nature with its first touches through the gloom her energy flagged. There was no one with her. Were I to say that these two silly little women in the Red House had been “company” for Diana it would be folly; and yet she missed them and their chatter and their soft voices. How much domestic comfort there is in pleasant looks and smiles and soft tones, even when unaccompanied by high qualities! They had gone away without thinking much of her who was so much their superior, accepting her favours with light hearts, but quite easy in the thought that Diana liked to give. And she, foolish, bigger, nobler creature, missed them! How absurd it was, yet true! And she missed also the Hunstantons, her nearest neighbours, and her strength of winter flagged; and all those imaginations to which “in spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns” awoke in Diana’s mind—not to thoughts of love, but to those unnamed and unnameable disturbances, longings for something other than what we possess, which are not confined to youth alone. “Folk are longen to gon on pilgrimages,”—old characteristic of human nature never changed! Diana got up one morning with a sudden thought in her mind. She, who for these last two years had been helping all sorts of people to all sorts of pleasure, she had never been anywhere herself, except in the last months of old Lady Trelawny’s life, when she went to Cannes with her in an invalid pursuit of the warmth and sunshine. She made up her mind all at once to go to Italy too.

I don’t know whether it was fortunate or unfortunate for her, but it was the fact that her first rapid glance round all her horizon to try to remember if she knew any one who would like to be taken there with her—came to nothing. If she chose to go she must make up her mind to go for herself. Well, she said after an interval, why not go for myself? There was nothing unlawful in it, no more than in getting dresses from Paris, which she did without hesitation. Therefore, accordingly, with her usual rapidity, having placed everything on a safe footing that none of her enterprises might be arrested, Diana set off. She sent no warning letters before her. Perhaps this was rash: but it was not as if she expected any special warmth of welcome. She knew exactly how she would be received by all her friends,—how Sophy and her aunt would flutter about her; how Mrs. Hunstanton would raise her eyebrows, and proceed to immediate but probably silent speculations as to what had brought her; how Mr. Hunstanton would claim her interest in the histories of all his friends; even how sickly Reginald would inspect her to see what she had brought him. All this Diana knew beforehand. She went rapidly across the sea and land on the last wild days of March, and found herself whirled through the Tuscan plain among the almond-trees in the beginning of April. What a flush there was everywhere about of those almond-trees, useful and meant for fruiting, not kept merely to be the earliest ornaments of the garden, like ours! She seemed to be wandering through the backgrounds of all the Italian pictures she knew, seeing the soft evening light strike upon the little cones of hills, the old castles and convents. Was this the Val d’Arno, the country of dreams, and were these the Apennines? There was a vague elation, a sense of wondering joyous unreality, in the very names.

The Hunstantons “knew themselves” in all these places which are frequented by invalids, and knew where to go. They were established in an old palace on the sunny side of the river. There they had saved wood and kept themselves warm all the winter, and now began to talk of the risks of too much heat and the necessity of closing the persianis[1]. Reginald was better, and as for Sophy’s cough, no one had heard it since she left England. It had been cured too soon; but only Mrs. Hunstanton recollected this fact, or ever had mentioned it. The Hunstantons had the second floor of the palace, being economical people; the Nortons had a little appartemento above. They lived separately, yet together; and Reginald had been so much happier with the Nortons to fall back upon, to find out conundrums for him, and play games with him, and fill up his idle moments, that his mother had forgotten all her objections to her fellow-travellers. Reginald was her very dear son, but he was not an interesting boy. Sometimes even fathers and mothers are conscious of this fact, but kind little Mrs. Norton was quite unconscious of it. “I do really believe that Diana, who thinks of everything, saw what an advantage it would be for Reginald, and that she sent them for that, as much as for Sophy’s ridiculous little pretence of a cough,” Mrs. Hunstanton had been saying on the very evening of Diana’s arrival. This was when she and her husband were alone after dinner on one of their “off-nights.” On alternate evenings they held small receptions,—little gossiping friendly parties which were not parties, and to which the English—of whom this lady had said that the less said of them the better—constantly came. One stranger only interfered on this evening with the conjugal tête-à-tête. He was an Italian—a Florentine—of the great house of the Pandolfini, but not a wealthy scion of the race.

“Yes; Sophy is an unselfish little thing. I always told you so. She likes to be of use.”

“I observe,” said Pandolfini, who bore the title of Cavaliere, but was invariably addressed, according to Italian use and wont, by his Christian name. He spoke good but formal English, avoiding the contractions with which we break the solemnity of our speech. “I observe that it is the epithet for the young lady—unselfish. All the English say so. Is there not, then, another epithet which will mean something more large, more fine?”

“What could be finer than unselfishness?” said Mrs. Hunstanton, raising her eyebrows. “Mind, I don’t apply it as so many people do; and I was not talking of Sophy, whose chief claim is that she is young and pretty, but of her aunt: or rather, indeed, of Diana.”

“Ah, Diana!” said her husband; “that is a different thing altogether.”

“And who, then, is Diana?” said Pandolfini, smiling. He had heard the name a great many times; but that any one should be ignorant who Diana was seemed so unlikely to the little party, that the Italian, though a constant visitor, knew nothing of her but her name.

“Oh, Diana! Why, you know she—Who is that, my dear, at the door? We don’t expect any one, do we, to-night?”

“I don’t expect any one—unless you have forgotten what night it was, as I’ve known you to do, and asked somebody—”

“Why, why!” said Mr. Hunstanton—“God bless me! listen: if I did not know she was safe in England I should say that voice—My dear!—why, it is! Diana, her very self!”

The Italian stood behind backs, smiling and looking on. The room was large and but partially lighted, with frescoes on the walls shining out here and there where there was light enough to see them. He saw a lady come in against one of these illuminated bits of wall, relieved against a mass of dark-crimson drapery, holding out her hands. She was in black, with a lace veil wound about her head. The smile faded off his face as he stood and gazed. He had been thinking of Sophy’s type of English womankind, which was what he had seen most, with that same amused, indulgent, kind semi-contempt which had been in Diana’s mind. But here he was stopped suddenly short. The beautiful face which met his look without being aware of it was pale, partly by nature, partly by fatigue. Her hair was dark, shining with a soft gloss, yet ruffled over her forehead by a tendency to curl which had often disturbed Diana: her eyes of that lustrous and dewy grey which is so rare: her face as perfect in its somewhat long oval as if it had been painted by Luini, but not weak as Luini’s faces sometimes are. She stood smiling, putting out her hands, which looked like snow through the cloud of drooping lace. “Yes, it is Diana—the last person in the world you expected to see!” she said.

Pandolfini felt the words echo down to the very bottom of his heart. Surely the very last person in the world he had expected to see,—such a woman as he had been looking for all his life! Fortunately he was in the shade, and she was occupied with her friends and the welcome they gave; and though she saw there was a stranger present, could not see, and therefore could not be offended by, his gaze. And an Italian can gaze at a woman without impertinence as a man of no other nation can. If she is beautiful, is it not the homage he owes her? and if she is not beautiful, it is kind to make her think so—to give the admiration due to her sex, if not to her. Presently however, he awoke to the recollection that English susceptibilities were sometimes shocked by this simple homage. He did not go away as an Englishman would have done, but he went to one of the distant windows, and, half hidden in the curtains, looked on still while they put her in a chair, discharging volleys of questions—while they offered her everything, dinner, tea, wine, all that a traveller might be supposed to require, and she replied with soft laughter and explanations, declaring herself fully refreshed and rested. Then there was a flutter and a rush, and the two little ladies from the third floor came rushing in, called by Reginald, and blotted out the beautiful new-comer with their embracings. When the party remembered him at last, and brought him out of the shadow and presented him to the stranger, Pandolfini, much against his will, had to go away. Not even his Italian simplicity was proof against the little chill that came over the English group as he was brought (of course by good Mr. Hunstanton’s officious kindness) into the midst of it. “I must not disturb the happiness of the re-seeing,” he said in his formal English, carefully pronouncing every syllable. Sophy had been sent by her aunt to fetch something as he got his hat in the anteroom, and lingered a moment in the great gloomy staircase, lighted only by the little coiled taper she carried, and by the lamp of the servant who stood ready to show him the way down that dark cavern of stairs. It made a curious picture,—the light all centring in Sophy’s whiteness, her muslin dress, and the flower face that bloomed over it in all the English glory of complexion. She lingered to say good-night to him, putting out her soft little hand. “You are happy to-night?” he said, looking at her with that kind smile. “How can I help it?” cried Sophy, but with a curious wistful look in her eyes; “Diana has come.” Then she ran with a thrill and vibration of light and brightness up into the dark, carrying her taper, and he more heavily went down to the night and the outside world.

Diana has come! He kept saying it to himself all the way back to his lodging, trying to harden the soft syllables in the English way—then melting, softening over them, taking them back to his own tongue. The moon was large in the sky, stooping out of the blue, wondering at him—she, too, who was Diana. He laughed to himself softly, and then—strange!—felt his eyes full of tears. Why, in the name of every sylvan goddess?—because an English lady whom he had never seen before had suddenly appeared in the big, dim, painted room, where her country-people were staying—the most natural of incidents. What could he do but laugh at himself thus suddenly startled into—sentiment. Yes, that was the word—a foolish word, meaning a foolish thing. But why that filling of the eyes? He was an Anglo-maniac, and it vexed him to feel how southern he was, how unrestrained, overcome in that foolish Italian way by feeling. An Englishman would not have been capable of these absurd tears. And as he pursued his way in the moonlight all the length of the Lung’ Arno the bells began to strike their prolonged Italian twenty-two hours, for it was ten o’clock: and every chime all over the city (for need I say every clock was a little behind its brother?), prolonging the twenty-two into half a hundred, struck out the same sound that was in his heart: Di—ana—Diana—Diana! She had come—she whom no one had heard of till to-day.

IV. THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN

“So you have been happy,” said Miss Trelawny. She was in her room at her hotel, lying upon a sofa, not because of fatigue so much as to please the two little women who were fluttering about her, and to whom it was a matter of conventional necessity, that having just “come off a journey,” a lady ought to be fatigued and should “lie down.” Diana, in her perfect health and vigour, had thrown off all her tiredness in a night’s rest; but Mrs. Norton did not think this possible, and was doubtful even whether it was right.

“Oh, very happy,” said Sophy; “everybody has been kind to us. We have had the most delightful parties—little dances even: and almost everybody has a reception one night in the week. And it is so beautiful! and all the churches and things to go and see; and the alabaster shops: and Mr. Pandolfini has been so kind.”

“Yes, Diana, it has been very nice indeed,” said her aunt; “everybody is kind, as Sophy says. So interested in her, seeing that she was delicate—”

“Oh, auntie, I am not delicate now—my cough is quite, quite gone. I feel as if I could do anything. Fancy, Diana, Mr. Pandolfini took us all over the Cathedral and up the Leaning Tower, and to see everything; and then there was a little impromptu dance at the Winthrops—Americans, you know—and I danced—I danced with him alone four dances. I was quite ashamed of myself—”

“Is Mr. Pandolfini him alone?” said Diana, laughing; “but what does all this mean? For I thought Mrs. Hunstanton said there was no society in Pisa—”

“She must have been in an ill temper that day,” said Sophy; “there never was such delightful society anywhere, never! Oh, Diana, you will enjoy it so; everything is so lovely! The Cathedral alone, when you go over it as you ought, and the Campo Santo, and all the pictures. Mr. Pandolfini knows them all, every one, and tells you everything. Oh, Mr. Pandolfini is so kind!”

“Ah, little one, is it so?” said Diana, looking up at her with a smile. But Mrs. Norton interposed hastily—

“Sophy always thinks everybody is so kind that shows a natural interest in her. She is so ridiculously humble-minded. But even a virtue should not be carried too far, should it? We must not say a word against Mrs. Hunstanton, who has been a very good friend to us; but what she said about society was quite a mistake. The society is very good. I need not tell you, my dear Diana, that Sophy is a little goose, and knows nothing: all society is good to her when people are kind to her; but I have a little more experience. The Hunstantons themselves, of course we know what they are—very good friends to us and very nice, and everything one could desire—but not perhaps, you know, the very crème de la crème.”

“Ah, indeed,” said Diana, with a smile; “and who then are the crème de la crème?”

“Oh, we must not try to prejudice you,” said Mrs. Norton; “you will see for yourself. Everybody of course will be glad to see you, Diana. But I must say I think it is the greatest testimony to people’s disinterestedness that they have been so good to us. We are not wealthy, you know, nor great ladies; but everybody has seen my Sophy’s sweetness, Diana. That is what goes to my heart. They do all so appreciate Sophy—”

“Oh, auntie, how can you say so?” cried Sophy, rosy with blushes, running to her, and clasping her arms round her. “Fancy anybody thinking of poor little me! They like me because I am your child.”

Diana lay on her sofa and laughed very softly to herself. The mutual admiration amused, and it did not displease her. Mrs. Hunstanton would have taken it very differently, but Diana could not but be amused. “Come,” she said, “it is not kind to leave me in so much lower a place. I am only to be received, because I am Miss Trelawny; that is hard upon me. I should like to be liked for myself too.”

“Or Diana! you!—as if any one would look at me when you are there!” cried Sophy, with a blush and flutter, running to kiss her friend; while Mrs. Norton remonstrated more gravely—

“My dear Diana, you are a person of importance, we all know, in every way. You are so clever, very different from either Sophy or me: besides being a great lady, which, of course, opens every door. You must not grudge us, dear, a little interest that people take in us, because we are quite unimportant. It is her innocence, you know, that interests everybody—such a little white dove of a creature—and partly, too, because you have been such a friend to us, Diana. Everybody knows how kind you have been.”

This silenced Diana, who had no mind to be commended for her kindness. She told Sophy where to find certain little boxes of gloves and trifling ornaments which she had bought in her passage through Paris, and so turned the course of the conversation. They were much delighted as a matter of course with their presents, and most eager to get a little information about the fashions, which Diana, who got her dresses in Paris, must be so well qualified to give. Then Diana’s maid was called, and the last gown was brought out, and examined with the greatest interest, Diana looking on from her sofa, always with a smile. They were not rich enough to have their dresses from M. Worth; but they were not at all disposed to wear things that were out of fashion. Why should they?

and both the aunt and the niece were very serious in their conviction that it was a great advantage to be able to study Diana’s things, and see exactly what was the newest trimming, and how “a really good” gown was made. Mrs. Norton was very clever with her needle, and thought nothing of altering the trimming of a dress when she saw a newer fashion, or even of changing the cut of the garment itself (if the stuff would allow). “It is so much more easy when you have a pattern before your eyes instead of only the plate in a fashion-book,” she said. Diana’s maid, Morris, had her own opinion about this, and was indignant that her mistress’s things should be copied; but Diana threw open her wardrobe with that absurd liberality which shocked Morris as much as it shocked Mrs. Hunstanton. They did not understand how it was possible that she could be amused by the sight of those two heads so closely bent over her best dress, pinching the flutings with their inquisitive fingers, and examining with such precision the way in which it was looped up. “What a blessing that your new grey is not made up!” said the aunt to the niece; “I see exactly how this is done.” “You are so clever, auntie,” said Sophy, admiringly. “The front width forms a tablier[2],” said Mrs. Norton, “and the back is in a pouff. See! nothing could be more simple; and yet how handsome it looks! To be sure, yours is not such handsome silk as Diana’s; but with your light little figure—” “And, dear auntie, don’t you think your plum-colour could be altered to look like this, with a new flounce at the bottom? I must not be selfish, and let you think always of me,” said Sophy. How angry Mrs. Hunstanton would have been, and how Maria Morris gloomed at the two little ladies! But Diana, in the background, was amused and pleased on the whole. How could it be supposed to harm her? And it pleased them; and to see them fluttering over it, consulting, and putting their little heads on one side, and examining all the seams, and looking as if something much more serious than affairs of the State were in hand, was as good as a play.

She had bought a box of gloves for Sophy, and a pretty parasol and ribbons for Mrs. Norton. The first of these had created a slight disappointment, she could see, gloves being then cheap in Tuscany. “But I am sure it was most kind of Diana to think of you at all: and they are such beautiful gloves,” said Mrs. Norton, in a reassuring tone. Diana felt a little mortified to find that she had thus brought, as it were, coals to Newcastle; but even that amused her more or less—for her little protégée was already more learned than she in the smaller necessities of the toilet, and where things could be got cheap.

Diana got up from the sofa while they were occupied with her wardrobe, and betook herself to her letters. Hers was not the usual lady’s budget of not very necessary correspondences: already the questions, the references, the applications which weary out the absent who are involved in the real business of life, and make a holiday almost more troublesome than a working day, had begun. She had to write to her steward, to her lawyer, and to more than one of the pensioners on her civil list, who thought it their duty to make deferential communications to her about their families, and consult her as to the steps to be taken for placing Willie in an office or Fanny at school. No one could believe that it was not personal love which made Diana good to them—a perception of their own excellences, not general in the world; and this sentiment in her mind no doubt made all the trouble she took a pleasure to her. This conviction arose from no protestations of affection on Diana’s part; but simply from the fact of her beneficence, which otherwise no one could understand, not even her friends. She replied as best she could to those applications about Willie and Fanny, approving generally of what was being done, and sending a little present to make up for the deficiency in interest which she felt rather guilty about, but which no one suspected. “How you can be fond of so many commonplace people is a thing I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, who came in while she was thus occupied.

“I am not fond of them,” said Diana, humbly. Her friend shook her head with undisguised impatience. She was rather shocked even by the idea. “You are either the most affectionate person in the world, or you are the greatest deceiver,” she cried, in her non-comprehension, stung to warmer energy than usual by the sight of Mrs. Norton and Sophy in the background, still examining the new mode.

“I am either a fool or a humbug: is that what you would say?”

“Not a humbug, perhaps, not a conscious humbug: a cynic, that is what it is. You despise everybody, therefore you can manage to be good to them. Look at that now! I would not put up with it for a moment—turning over all your things—making your very gowns common—”

This is a sort of desecration that goes to a woman’s heart—to bring down her newest fashion to the common level—to copy in poor materials the very finest and newest cuts! “I could not away with it!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, and she meant what she said.

Diana laughed, which was quite exasperating in the circumstances. “They like it,” she said, “and it does me no harm. I am very glad to see Sophy looking so well—”

“My dear Diana, Sophy never looked the least ill, except in your anxious eyes. Well, I don’t intend to say anything more about it; you chose to do it, and that is enough. Tom is as ridiculous as you are. He insists that I should take them everywhere, and introduce them to all the people we know. I allow that they are very good to Reginald—oh, very good. They actually make his life happier, and of course I am grateful. It is not that I dislike them or grudge anything I can do; but you, Diana, you! to waste so much affection upon two little selfish—”

“Unselfish, you mean.”

“It comes to the same thing,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, in her fervour. “Oh yes, they are always giving in, thinking what you will like, and deferring to each other; and the result is that they have everything they wish, which, rich as you are and clever as you are, Diana, is more than could be said for you—”

“I have a great many things I like,” said Diana, quietly; “no one has more; and I have my own way—you don’t consider the blessedness of that. Above all things in the world, one likes one’s own way.”

“You have your own way by letting every one have theirs,” said her friend. “What is Sophy about? Are you going to copy all Diana’s things, one after the other? But you must allow for the difference of style: Diana’s things will never suit you.”

“Indeed Sophy is a great deal more sensible than to think she could be like Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, with dignity; “there is a great difference of style; and different people like different things,” she added, oracularly, “some one, some another.” Mrs. Norton felt herself able to show fight with the backing up of Diana behind her, and even, with that moral support, felt strong enough slightly to under-value Diana: a whimsical way, yet a very genuine one, of proving unbounded faith in her. For the moment indeed she had an easy victory, for Mrs. Hunstanton was struck dumb by the audacious idea that Sophy’s “style” should be identified in opposition to Diana’s, and was silent against her will, finding no words at her command to say. And the others gathered up their presents, while the little scratch of Diana’s pen was the only sound clearly audible. Sophy turned over her gloves half regretfully, half pleased. They were beautiful gloves—some of them twelve-buttons! which was wonderful—much better than she ever would have herself bought; but then the Tuscan gloves did very well, and if it had only occurred to Diana to bring her something more useful! “But how good of Diana to think of you at all!” Mrs. Norton was whispering in her ear.

“I don’t hear you talking,” said Diana, “if it’s out of consideration for me, never mind. You don’t disturb me, and my letters are almost done.”

“You must go over all the sights,” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “my husband will give us no peace till you have seen everything. How pleased he will be to have a new person to take about! He will not spare you a single picture or a single chapel. He likes to do things thoroughly.”

“But Diana must not do too much,” said Mrs. Norton, “after such a long journey. She must keep quite quiet for a day or two, and lie on the sofa. Indeed I should have the blinds down, if she would be guided by me. She must not try her nerves too much.”

“Have I any nerves?” said Diana, laughing; “to lie on the sofa would make an end of me. But I don’t think I am good for sight-seeing. It is quite enough at present to say when one wakes, This is Italy. Fancy being in Italy! What could one desire more?”

“But, dear Diana, that is nothing!” cried Sophy, great in her superior knowledge. “Wait till you have seen Pisa properly—oh, only wait a little! You don’t know—you can’t imagine how nice it is?”

Mrs. Hunstanton cast a look of impatience upon this outburst of enthusiasm. She had put up with these little women good-humouredly enough hitherto, and had been rather grateful for their good offices in respect to Reginald; but Diana’s presence made a change. Their little ways exasperated her as soon as their protectress and patron appeared on the scene. They were Diana’s folly—they were the one thing unaccountable in her, at least the most prominent thing; and as soon as Mrs. Hunstanton saw that familiar smile of kindness on Diana’s lip, she became censorious, critical, impatient, as when she was at home.

“There are much finer places in the world than Pisa,” she said. “We need not raise Diana’s expectations; but still there is something to see, and Mr. Hunstanton—”

“Oh, but please, Diana, let Mr. Pandolfini go too!” cried Sophy, irrepressible. “No one knows so well as he does; and he is so clever and so good-natured. He will take you everywhere. I never understood anything till he explained it. Oh please, Mrs. Hunstanton, let Mr. Pandolfini take Diana! He is the best.”

“Sophy!” said her aunt in an undertone, raising a warning finger. “It is not that she does not appreciate dear Mr. Hunstanton—he is always so kind; but Mr. Pandolfini being a stranger—”

“Oh, I am not jealous for my husband,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a laugh.

Sophy did not appreciate either the warning or the displeasure. She babbled on about the sights she had seen, while Diana listened and admired. She knew a great deal more, and had seen a great deal more than Diana, not only the Cathedral and the Campo Santo, but an alabaster shop which Mr. Pandolfini had told her was very good, and not so dear as some of the others; and where Sophy had bought the dearest little pair of oxen with a funny waggon, “just like what you see the peasants have,” she said, with a sense of knowing all about it which was very pleasant. Diana put up her letters composedly, and let the girl run on. Mrs. Hunstanton felt that she herself would have been quite incapable of so much patience, and this made her still more angry in spite of herself. But she had made up her mind to stay them out, and got rid of them at last triumphantly, by reminding Sophy that there was choir practice that afternoon at the Winthrops, who had “interested themselves very much” in the English service, and were very musical. This master-stroke left Mrs. Hunstanton in possession of the field. She breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone.

“That little Sophy is beyond anything,” she cried. “Why, she patronises you, Diana, for being foolish enough to send her to Italy when she had no more need to go—”

“Hush,” said Diana, putting up a hand as if to close her friend’s mouth; “but tell me, who is this Mr. Pandolfini? Sophy does not seem able to talk of anything else. Poor child! has she come out here innocently to meet her fate?”

“Diana, don’t be so ridiculous about that child; you make me so angry. You do nothing but encourage her in every kind of nonsense—”

“Is love nonsense?—and marrying? I thought you were always preaching their advantages.”

“Ah, to you! that is a different thing altogether—except that there is no one half good enough for you. You! Yes, of course we shall all be too happy to see a Prince Consort.”

“There will never be a Prince Consort,” said Diana; “if you knew what it is to be free, after being under somebody’s orders all your life!”

“But a good husband does not give you orders; only men in novels, so far as I can see, call upon their wives to obey them in that melodramatic way. If Tom were to do it, I cannot say I should be angry: it would be too comical—I should laugh. Marriage is not slavery, Diana.”

“But if I don’t mean to try it, why should I? there are quantities of people in the world to marry and be married. It is no sin, is it? but rather a variety. Now, acknowledge that I am convenient now and then, from the mere fact that there is only one of me! But it is the whole duty of woman in Sophy’s case. To marry and to marry well—to get a kind good man, who will not object to her aunt. So I repeat. Who is Mr. Pandolfini? To call her by such a big-sounding name would be very droll. But Italians are kind. Tell me who he is?”

“He is—well, he is not for Sophy, if that is what you mean. The ridiculous idea! Sophy—a little nobody, a blanche Miss! If you knew the man, you would laugh—”

“But you don’t laugh—”

“No; because men are such fools! and you never know what absurdity they may be guilty of when a girl has that little admiring manner, and looks up to them. Still, the Cavaliere has better taste—he has more sense. He might die for you, Diana; but that little thing—”

“For me!” Diana laughed, but a faint colour came upon her face. “That means, I suppose, that a tall dark woman seems more in this hero’s way than a little light one? Let us hope that the law of contraries will bring them together. I should not like little Sophy to be disappointed—and her aunt.”

“You are really too absurd about Sophy and her aunt. Is a man to marry both of them? But he is my friend, and I can’t have him brought down to such a fate. If that is what you mean, Diana, it must be a stand-up fight between you and me. I shall not give in if I can help it; and I am sure he is not such a fool.”

“There is a wavering in your voice which sounds like alarm,” said Diana, laughing; “but I have no evil intentions in respect to your Mr. Pandolfini. I shall not stand up and fight. If Sophy cannot do it for herself, I shall not interfere.”

“Sophy!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with vast disdain; but nevertheless there was a slight quaver in her voice.

V. THE PALAZZO DEI SOGNI

A great many things happened in the next few days. The first floor of the Palazzo dei Sogni, where the Hunstantons lived, being vacant, Diana was made by her friends to take it for the remainder of the season; and they brought her in triumph from her hotel, where indeed she had felt herself out of place, to the vast magnificent faded rooms, so bare and yet so noble, in which the Marchesi dei Sogni had vegetated for generations. There were few things left in them except mere furniture which could be made money of; but the furniture itself would have gone long ago, had it not been for the more immediate advantage of letting the piano nobile[3], and the immediate disadvantage of buying other chairs and tables in modern taste. Accordingly, the beautiful rooms were still furnished as became them, with articles which, if not so old as the walls, had at least lived there for more than a century. And there was one Vandyke—indifferent the dealers said, but very splendid still to be in the private enjoyment of an English lodger,—a full-length of a melancholy dark Di Sogni of two hundred years ago, which threw still further dignity upon the lofty rooms, all opening upon one another, in which his ancestors had lived and died. Sophy and her aunt were overawed by the splendour of this presiding deity, yet ventured to suggest that a new drawing-room suite in blue satin would be “sweet,” and make everything look quite different—which no doubt was very true.

Diana, however, was entirely in her place in these rooms, and enjoyed them with that thrill of her being which she herself laughed at as a sign of superannuated youthfulness and romanticism, and which, to tell the truth, none of her friends comprehended at all. For, after all, what was Italy more than any other place? A better climate, a good many things to see, and, as Sophy thought, delightful society, and many little parties, balls, and other gentle diversions which she had never before attained to. In their hearts they all thought Diana a little absurd. But at the same time it was very pleasant to have her there, and to get the advantage of her large rooms as it grew hotter, and of her carriage, in which Mrs. Norton and Sophy went about everywhere. They had felt often that Mrs. Hunstanton was not very hospitable in respect to her little carriage, which had only one horse, and no very great accommodation. “I suppose she thinks she cannot ask one of us without the other,” Mrs. Norton had said; “but I am sure, as long as my darling had a drive now and then, I should not mind.” “If she would only have taken auntie sometimes—that is all I should have cared for,” said the girl. They were very unselfish, always preferring each other. But Diana’s carriage made everything smooth. When she went out, she had the chief seat; but when she did not go, Mrs. Norton and Sophy were quite happy. Sometimes they would take pretty Mrs. Winthrop, the American, and her little daughter, and then their airs of gentle patronage was delightful. They were very kind, always ready to be of use. “What were our blessings given to us for, but to be shared with others?” Mrs. Norton would say; “I am sure dear Diana is of that opinion.” And no doubt there crept by degrees a certain confusion into her mind on the subject, and she ceased to be quite sure that dear Diana’s opinion on this subject was more important than her own. All this Mrs. Hunstanton beheld with hostile eyes. She had no patience with Diana’s supineness. “You demoralise everybody,” she cried at last, wound up to desperation. “They were good enough little silly creatures, but now they are unendurable.” Was there perhaps a consciousness in her mind, behind this warmth of righteous indignation, that the additional importance which the two little ladies had taken upon them, and the carriage and Diana’s backing, had made a difference in their attentions to Reginald? If so, Mrs. Hunstanton would no doubt have felt that she was quite right in finding fault with such selfishness, for had not they paid court to herself assiduously until such time as they needed her no longer? Mercenary little things, both aunt and niece!

No one, however, could shake Diana out of this supineness, or could drive her into a fiery round of sight-seeing such as her friends desired. She went out and walked, roaming about the sacred places, making slow acquaintance with the things she wanted to see, spending the cool hours under the shadow of the Vandyke in these great cool melancholy rooms, sitting out in the balcony, where a faint waft of orange-blossom out of the nearest convent garden came upon the soft evening air. Fortunately there was a moon, which, so long as it lasted, whitening the loggias[4] and high roofs of the tall houses on the other side of Arno, and casting a long silvery gleam along the course of the river between, pleased her more than anything. They said she was lazy, and they said she was sad; but Diana was no more sad than a nature finely touched is apt to be by moments everywhere, and she had more occupation every day than good Mr. Hunstanton, who was the chief supporter of the lazy theory, got through in a week. It was only her friends, however, as so often happens, who found fault with her. The general community looked with profoundest admiration upon this beautiful young woman (“though not so very young,” some people said), who was so rich, and in her own country such a great lady. Again, Diana had the advantage over a young Squire Trelawny of her own age and wealth. Much as that personage would naturally have been prized in an English colony, she was looked up to still more. She was so rich; she had so much power to give pleasure to others, and such goodwill to do it. And then to pay court to her injured no one’s amour proper, neither that of man or woman. To want to marry her even, had it gone so far as that, would have been no shame to any one. She rose easily, without any effort of her own, into something of the same princess position which she held at home. The English chaplain went to her at once, you may be sure, and got the largest subscription from her that had ever been known in the records of the church at Pisa. If she did not buy alabaster at Sophy’s favourite shop, she bought better things, and befriended everybody, which was the best of all. On the ground of having been once poor herself, her sympathy for all who were poor went the length of absurdity, Mrs. Hunstanton thought. And even Mrs. Norton remonstrated gently. “We have no right to say so, but you must not be too good, Diana,” she said. Diana was a puzzle to the people who were so familiar with her, who felt authorised to find fault with her, to lecture her, to point out a great many better ways of doing everything. Sophy, indeed, took upon herself to allow that perhaps dear Diana was a little eccentric. “But then she is so good! we all love her so!” cried the little girl, with a certain indulgence and patronage.

Diana was aware of all this, more or less. She knew that they were conscious of a mild superiority, even while they took everything, and a degree of importance above all, from her. But she only smiled; they meant no harm. It was nature. They could not bring out any more than was in them: they were good, if they were not wise. They meant no harm. And if her own little world was more puzzled than respectful, the outer world had a great respect for Diana. She was so rich! What a thing that is! And if it makes the homeliest persons interesting, how much more must it do for those who are not homely, who are interesting by gift of nature? Miss Trelawny was on everybody’s lips—all the more, perhaps, that she did not drive about constantly, as her companions wished, and show herself in everybody’s eyes.

Thus the first week or two passed; and insensibly the little receptions of the Hunstantons began to take place downstairs on Diana’s floor. The rooms were so much handsomer; and what did it matter which of them it was that gave the simple refreshments required? Thus it was settled, though not without a little feeling on Mrs. Hunstanton’s part that she too was making use of Diana, as she objected to all the other people for doing. But then it was good for Diana to see people. Somehow the rustle and murmur of the little society acquired dignity in the loftier and more splendid rooms of the piano nobile, where the little coterie of the English Church party—the people who had choir practice every week in Mrs. Winthrop’s rooms, and who flattered themselves that their “simple beautiful service” must be a revelation to any belated Italian who stumbled across the threshold of their chapel—could rub shoulders with worldly-minded travellers and with Italians pur sang[5], without either coterie coming in the way of the other. For Sophy’s sake, there had even been a dance one evening in one of those fine rooms. Everything had widened and grown larger since Diana came. She neither danced nor did she join in the choir practice; but all kinds of people came and bowed before her as she sat opposite the Vandyke.

One of those who ventured least to occupy her attention was Pandolfini, though he came with the rest, and never missed an occasion. Diana had noticed him a great deal on his first introduction to her. She had, indeed, almost watched him; and he had been vaguely aware of the scrutiny, although quite at a loss to know why it was; but after a few days he had been conscious that it relaxed, and that Diana watched him no more. Had she heard something of him that interested her? He had done things in his day that might have interested a woman. He had conspired, as everybody had done in his time in Italy, and had fought for his country, and had got the usual reward of the disinterested. What did it matter? The country had been saved, and what was an individual in comparison? But the idea that this beautiful noble Englishwoman, the first sight of whom had so deeply touched his own imagination, should have heard of him, and should think him worthy of observation, went to Pandolfini’s heart. Once more he felt the tears come into his eyes, and was ashamed and grieved at himself secretly, as a demonstrative Italian, how unlikely to please her in her national reticence! But yet she noticed him, kept an eye upon him when nobody observed but himself—alas! and in a few days gave it over, and noticed him, except as she noticed everybody, no more. Had Pandolfini known that this was merely for Sophy’s sake, the little English mees of whom he had never thought twice, who was to him only a pretty child, a little nobody! It is well in this life that our knowledge of what other people think of us is happily so circumscribed.

But he did not know this, and as his secret pleasure had been great in seeing her attention turned towards him, so was it bitter to him now to find it withdrawn. She had heard good of him, which had interested her; and then she had heard something less good. This must be how it was. The consequence was, that he had kept studiously away from Diana—at first in hope, thinking that she might perhaps turn to him, call him, make him feel that her interest in him was more than the common; and then, in fear and discouragement, searching the depths of his recollection to see what thing he could have done by which he could have been discredited in her eyes. This thought was appalling to him. Had he ever looked like a coward or a traitor? had he done anything of doubtful aspect, which could be told against him? or was some traitor at work behind-backs defaming him? He had made himself so sure at first that there was something which had specially attracted her attention to himself. And so there was, poor Pandolfini! But Diana had very soon found out that he was as innocent as a child of any thoughts of Sophy; and that the frank admiration and confidence of that little simpleton had not even affected his vanity. He was perfectly innocent and unaware of it. She was almost glad to make the discovery, though she could scarcely have told why; but it changed her interest in the grave Italian with his blue eyes. Why should she think more of him? Sophy was to be discouraged evidently in her too great appreciation of his kindness, and unless Diana kept him outside of her circle of acquaintance, it would be difficult to do this. So thus it happened that the intercourse between them was checked, and that he knew less of Diana than the newest and least notable member of the little society.

On one special evening, towards the middle of April, it happened at once that this distance became the object of remark, and that it ceased to exist, almost at the same moment. Diana, in her usual seat opposite the great picture, had been left alone for the moment by the ebbing of the little crowd, most of her guests having strayed towards the next room, in which music was going on. Stranded in the same way, and quite alone, stood Pandolfini. He was in front of the portrait, holding up a book to the light, which fell full upon his face: and it was a remarkable face—no longer with the beauty of youth, but with that beauty of expression which comes with years. His dark hair, cut short à l’anglais, showed touches of white at the temples; his face was long, the oval but slightly sunken of the cheeks, the forehead white in comparison with the rest—and the eyes blue. Blue eyes in an Italian face are not like blue eyes anywhere else. There is a pathos and sweetness in the very colour, something of simplicity, poetry, almost childhood in the midst of the dark fervour and force of the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Hunstanton, standing together, as it happened, near the door which led into the music-room, remarked, at the same moment, these two left almost altogether alone.

“Can’t they find anything to say to each other, I wonder?” said Mrs. Hunstanton, almost under her breath.

“I thought these two would have been friends,” said her husband. “Why shouldn’t they be friends? they ought to have taken to each other. Somebody must have prejudiced her against him. I have told her half-a-dozen times what a nice fellow he was; but she has never taken any notice. I am surprised at Diana—to take up such a prejudice—”

“Why do you suppose she has a prejudice?” Mrs. Hunstanton thought she knew why Diana did not care for their Italian friend.

“We must bring them together. I am determined to bring them together. Here is the very opportunity, and I’ll do it at once. Music! what do I care for the music? Music is the greatest interruption—but only one must not say so—Look here, Di—”

“Tom, for heaven’s sake let them alone! They are beginning to talk of their own accord. Don’t meddle, I tell you!” cried his wife, grasping him by the arm, and giving him an impatient shake. Mr. Hunstanton was obedient for once in his life, and stopped when he was told.

“Well, I am glad they are taking a little notice of each other,” he said; “not that they will ever get any further. A nice soft little creature like Sophy is the right person for such a fellow as Pandolfini.”

“I think you are all out of your senses about Sophy,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, indignant.

“Well, well, let us see what is going on,” said he, with all his usual energy, “in the next room.”

While this colloquy was going on, Diana, raising her eyes by chance, had been suddenly caught by a resemblance, real or imaginary, between the portrait opposite to her and the man who stood immediately beneath. Having been once aroused, she looked again at Pandolfini, in whom she had taken a passing interest as the possible lover of Sophy, but whom she had ceased to notice for some time back. And he felt her eyes upon him, felt that she was at last looking at him fairly, her interest awakened—and his heart began to beat. He felt, too, that they were alone, though the others were so near. It was the first time they had really been brought face to face.

“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, at last, “I wonder if it is only a trick of the light or of my eyes, but I seem to see a resemblance between you and the Vandyke. Has it never been noticed before?”

He turned to her instantly, with a smile which lighted up his face like a sunbeam—a sudden, sweet, ingratiating, Italian smile—trying hard to keep the tremulous eagerness of response down, and look as calm as she did. “I do not remember,” he said, in his slow and elaborate English; “but it would not be wonderful. My mother was dei Sogni—of the house of the Dreams,” he repeated, with some humour in his smile.

Diana was dazzled by the look he gave her. It is the only word to use. It was not the ordinary smile, but a lighting up of the whole man, face and soul. “Indeed!” she said, ashamed of the commonplace word. “Then I may believe I am right. I did not know there was any relationship, so it was clever on my part. But if you belong to the race, Mr. Pandolfini, what poor intruders you must feel us all to be! Invaders, Goths, Forestieri—that means something like barbarians, does it not?”

“Perhaps—in the ancient days,” he said; “but now it has another signification. What was that anecdote which finds itself in all your histories?—Anglorum, Angelorum.”

“Ah, we are but a poor kind of angels nowadays,” said Diana; “black often, not white, I fear; and when we rush over your beautiful places, and crowd your palaces—like this—you must be forbearing indeed, to think well of us. I feel myself an interloper when I look at your ancestor: he is the master of the house, not I.”

“That is—pardon me,” said the Italian, “because the Signora Diana is of the house of the dreams too.”

Diana looked up at him surprised. She was half offended too, with the idea of a certain presumption in the stranger who ventured to use her Christian name on such short acquaintance. But Pandolfini’s anxious respectfulness was not to be doubted, and she remembered in time that it was the Italian custom. Besides, Diana was but human, and to be addressed in this tone of reverential devotion touched her somewhat. “You mean of the house of the dreamers, I suppose. I have nothing to say against it. I suppose it is true.”

Then there was a momentary pause. Pandolfini, like other men, was absorbed and struck dumb, when the moment he had looked forward to, the moment when he could speak to her and recommend himself, really came. His mind was full of a hundred things, and yet he could not think of one to say.

“You have been pleased—with our Pisa,” he said at last, with a sense, which made him hate himself, of the utter imbecility of the words.

“What shall I say?” Diana looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t know. Something has happened to me; but I am not sure if you will understand my loss. Italy was a wonder and a mystery when I came here: and now it is a place to live in, just like another. Do you understand? I know, of course, it is nonsense.”

“It is not non-sense—it is true-sense,” said the Italian; and the blue in his eyes moistened. “I do know what you would say.”

“Yes; everything that was impossible seemed as if it might be here. It was Italy, you know,” said Diana, growing rapid and colloquial. “And now, yes, it is Italy—a place more beautiful than any other, but just a place like any other. It is very absurd, but I am disappointed. You must think me very foolish, I am sure.”

“I think,” said Pandolfini—and then he paused. “It is that I know the meaning of it. Did not I say the Signora Diana was dei Sogni too?”

VI. NEW ARRIVALS

After this “these two,” as Mr. Hunstanton called them, “got on,” to make use also of his expression, very well. Pandolfini was very modest, and he was not in love as a boy of twenty falls in love. Men take the malady in different ways. His imagination had not rushed instantly to the point of marrying Diana, appropriating her, carrying her off, which is the first impulse of some kinds of love. Her appearance to him was like the appearance of a new great star in the sky, dwindling and dimming all the rest, but at the same time expanding and glorifying the world, making a new world of it, lighting up everything both old and new with its light. Darkness and despondency would have covered the earth had that new glory of light suffered eclipse; but he had not yet realised the idea of transferring it to his own home, and making the serene sweet star into a domestic lamp. He was too humble, in the beginning of the adoration by which he had been seized without any will of his own, to think of anything of the kind. He was so grateful to her for having come, for shining upon him, for not disappointing him or stepping down from her pedestal, but being what he had supposed her to be at the first glance. Women do not always do this, nor men either. Sometimes, very often it must be allowed, they not only come down from the pedestal on which we have placed them, but jump down, with harsh outbursts of laughter, spurning that elevation. But Diana lost no jot of her dignity to the imaginative Italian. Still and always she was dei Sogni, one of the dream-ladies, queens of earth and heaven. Sometimes her lavish liberality startled him in the habits of his poverty, for he was economical and careful as his race, not knowing what it was to be rich, and unfamiliar with the art of using money. Few of his delights had ever come in that way. He had been kind to his friends and to his inferiors in a different fashion, in the way of personal service, of tender sympathy, and the help one mind and heart can give to another; but it had never been in his power to lavish around him things which cost actual money as Diana did, and he was puzzled by her habits in this respect, and not quite sure, perhaps, that this was not a slight coming down from her high ideal position. But the fault, if fault it was, tended at least towards nobleness, for Diana’s personal tastes were simple enough, notwithstanding a certain inclination towards magnificence, which did not displease him.

He watched her as narrowly as a jealous husband, though in a very different sense, to make quite sure that she was everything he believed her to be. But Pandolfini was subtle as his race, notwithstanding that he was an Anglomane, and declared his enthusiasm for all the English virtues of openness, candour, and calm. He did not show his devotion as a blundering Englishman would have done. No one suspected him of his worship of Diana—no one—except two very acute observers, who made no communication to each other, but on the contrary avoided the subject—to wit, Diana herself and Mrs. Hunstanton. As for Diana, she was unconscious as long as possible, and denied it stoutly to herself as long as possible; yet nevertheless had the fact conveyed to her in the very air, by minute and all but invisible indications which she would not admit but could not gainsay. And her friend divined, being his friend also, and a silent observer, the very reverse of her kind busybody of a husband, to whom the idea that Pandolfini had any special admiration for Diana would have been simple food for laughter, neither less nor more.

Thus the course of events went on. When “these two” had a little talk together, Mr. Hunstanton would chuckle and rub his hands with pleasure. “Yes, I think they are getting on a little better,” he said. “Why they should not have taken to each other, is a thing I cannot comprehend. With so many things in common! But you see the Italian does not understand the Englishwoman, nor the Englishwoman the Italian. She is too independent for him; and he is too—too—too everything for her. The more they see of each other, the more they will respect each other; but there will never be any real understanding between them. A pity, isn’t it?—for there are not two better people in the world.”

“Dear Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, to whom he was talking. “It is not that she has really any strong-mindedness about her; but there is no doubt that gentlemen always do prefer women to be dependent: they don’t like a girl to say like Diana that she does not want assistance, that she can manage her affairs, and all that sort of thing. That is what I think is such a pity. Of course it would be a great deal better if there was a gentleman at the Chase to look after everything.”

“W—well,” said Mr. Hunstanton: his land marched with the Chase, and there were matters in which it did not appear so very clear to him that a gentleman would be an advantage. “To be sure she never will give in to prosecuting poachers or that sort of thing, which is positive quixotism and folly.”

“And there are matters which a gentleman must understand so much the best.”

“W—well,” said Mr. Hunstanton again. “Arguments don’t answer, you see; it is not a thing that can be argued about. Natural propriety and all that, and abstract justice—and Diana knows what to say for herself; but then the fact is, that this must be treated as a practical question. It don’t bear argument. I’m glad to see them talking to each other a little; but it will never go beyond that.”

“Did you wish it to go beyond that?” said Mrs. Norton, quickly.

“Who—I? Oh no, dear no; why should I wish it? Bless me! that was not what I was thinking of. I thought they might be friends. I like my friends to take to each other. Now, you appreciate Pandolfini: why shouldn’t Diana? that is all I say. But people are wrong-headed; the best people in the world are often the most wrong-headed,—even Pandolfini himself.”

“I have never seen anything that was not nice in Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton. “He has always been so good. How kind he has been to Sophy and me! Indeed you are all kind. I don’t wonder at it so much among those who know my child’s sterling qualities, though, I trust, I am always grateful. But when a man like Mr. Pandolfini, who knows next to nothing of her, is equally kind, as kind as her oldest friend, why that, I must say, is remarkable. It shows such a kind nature—it must be so disinterested—”

“Disinterested?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Do you think that is the word? When a man, who is not an old man, pays attention to a pretty young girl—well, it may be very kind, and all that—but I don’t think disinterested is the word I should use.”

“What could we do for him?” cried Mrs. Norton. “You may say Diana, too; but then she knows us, and I hope she is fond of us; but Mr. Pandolfini, what could we do for him? It must all be kindness—pure kindness—for we never can pay him back.”

“Aha! is that how it is?” said Mr. Hunstanton to himself.

“Is that how what is?” she asked, a little sharply.

“Nothing, nothing, my dear lady—I meant nothing,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “So that is how it is! I must say I thought as much. I generally can see through a millstone as well as another, when there is anything to be seen: and I allow that I thought it—so that is what is coming. Holloa! who is that at the other end of the room?—the Snodgrasses, I should say, if there was anything in the world which could bring them to Pisa: the—Snodgrasses! I shall expect to see the parish march in next, in full order, in clean smock-frocks, farmers and ploughmen. Actually the Snodgrasses! if one can trust one’s eyes. Excuse me, Mrs. Norton, I must go and see. I hope the Hall has not been burnt down, and that there is nothing the matter with the children. I must go and see.”

“The Snodgrasses!” Mrs. Norton said under her breath, with something like consternation. She had once entertained a very high opinion of the Snodgrasses. They were the clergy of the parish, and she had a belief in the clergy, very natural to one who had herself belonged to that sacred caste. What had brought them here at this moment? Was it, could it be, a ridiculous pursuit of Diana, who, of course, had never thought of them? or was it anything else? She drew a little nearer to the door to hear what she could. The devotion of the Snodgrasses to Diana, the way in which they followed her about, the little speeches they made to her, had always been particularly offensive to Mrs. Norton. It was on Diana’s account, who could not fail to be annoyed, she said; but, indeed, Mrs. Norton was more annoyed than Diana. And now here they were again, leaving the parish uncared for! How could they account to themselves for such a dereliction of duty? She would not approach the new-comers, or show any interest in them, on the highest moral grounds; but she crept towards them, talking to the people she found in her way, and gradually drawing nearer the door. It was the Snodgrasses: there was no mistaking them, both in their long coats, with their long faces, black-haired and somewhat grim, as with the fatigue of a journey. They were not very comely to start with, and it was almost ludicrous, their critic thought, to see two men so like each other, and without even the excuse of being father and son! The rector was slimmer, the curate stouter; they had heavy eyebrows, and very dark complexions. Mr. Snodgrass, senior, had a great deal to say, and was facetious in a clergymanly fashion. Mr. Snodgrass, junior, was silent, and generally kept in the background when it was not necessary for him to act audience for his uncle’s jokes. At the present moment, more abashed than usual by the strangers among whom he suddenly found himself, he stood in a corner, gazing at Diana, with a look which specially irritated Mrs. Norton always, though it would have been difficult for her to have explained why.

“Who could have thought of seeing you here?” she said, as the rector came up to her with that expressive grasp of the hand which was one of his special gifts, and which everybody remarked as the very embodiment of cordiality and friendliness, a sort of modest embrace. He was not glad to see her particularly, nor she to see him; but if they had flown into each other’s arms it could scarcely have been a warmer greeting than that silent clasping of hands, without even a “How d’ye do?” to impair its eloquence.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he said; “but the truth is, dear Bill was not at all well. I can’t tell what is the matter with him. But not well at all—quite out of work and out of heart—”

“Chest?” said Mrs. Norton, solemnly.

“No, I don’t think so. Nothing organic they tell me. Only want of tone, want of energy. As Easter was over so early this year, and nothing particular going on, I thought I might as well carry out an old intention and come to Italy—”

“This is entirely a chest place,” said Mrs. Norton, still very serious. “I don’t think it is supposed very good for other complaints.”

“Ah, I don’t think it will do dear Bill any harm,” said the rector. “I could quite suppose I was in my own parish, looking round. Miss Trelawny is blooming as usual.”

“Blooming is not the word I would apply to Diana, Mr. Snodgrass; but she is very well.”

“Ah, you were always rather a purist about language. Well, then, you must allow that your niece is blooming. I never saw Miss Sophy look so well.”

“My niece has been very much appreciated here,” said Mrs. Norton. “She has found herself among people who understand her, and that is always an addition to one’s happiness.”

“Surely,” said the rector, to whom the idea of Sophy as a person not understood by her surroundings was novel. He objected to Sophy and her aunt as “parasites,” just as Sophy and her aunt objected to himself and his dear “Bill” as annoyances to Diana. “It is too bad,” Mrs. Norton cried, hurrying across to Mrs. Hunstanton after this little encounter. “Diana hates these men—and she cannot get rid of them wherever she goes.”

“Diana, is a great deal too kind to everybody,” said Mrs. Hunstanton. “She has a way of concealing when she is bored which I call downright hypocrisy—but I don’t see why she should hate them in particular, poor men!”

“Look at that!” said Mrs. Norton, with a certain vehemence. It was the curate whom she pointed out, and Pandolfini, who was by, profited also by the indication. He was standing straight up in a corner, poor curate, shy and frightened of the voluble groups about, among whom there were several Italians and a good deal of polyglot conversation. Mr. William Snodgrass knew no language but his own, and was not very fluent even in that. He stood up very straight, as if he had been driven into the corner or was undergoing punishment there, and gazed over everybody’s head, being very tall, at Diana. The very dulness of the gaze had something pathetic in it, like the adoration of a faithful dog. Neither for the strange people nor the new place had the poor curate any eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton looked at him with familiar scorn, as a person well aware of his delusion, and treating it with the contempt it deserved—but Pandolfini gazed with very different feelings at his fellow-worshipper. Even while he smiled at the frightened look upon the poor fellow’s countenance, and his evident dismayed avoidance of the strangers about, his dumb devotion touched the Italian’s heart.

“It is Miss Trelawny upon whom his eyes fix themselves.”

“Yes; he does nothing but stare at Diana—silly fellow! As if a woman like Diana, without thinking of her position, would ever look at him.”

“Nevertheless,” said Pandolfini, “to turn his eyes to the best, though it be without hope, is not that well?”

“It might be very well,” said Mrs. Norton, “if it were not such an annoyance to Diana. At home she cannot move for him—he is always following her about like a dog. And you know, Mr. Pandolfini, if a woman were the best woman that ever lived, that is unworthy of a man.”

“I do not know—no, that is not what I should say. When the person is Miss Trelawny, many things may be pardoned,” said the Italian. He was so brown that an additional tint of colour scarcely showed on his face; but as his eyes turned from the curate to Diana, a subdued glow came over his countenance, and a light into his blue eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton, who was a quick observer, caught him in the very act. She looked at him, and sudden perception awoke in her. And he felt it with that sensitiveness which is like an additional sense, and looked at her in her turn with a pathetic half smile, explaining the whole, though not a word was said. Mrs. Hunstanton was touched: perhaps such a confidence, made without a word, by the eyes only, yet so frank and full of feeling, went more to her heart than if it had been accompanied by much effusion in words. But there was nothing said, and Mrs. Norton remained pleasantly unaware of anything that had happened, and went on discoursing about the

Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, with quite as much unction as if both her companions had been giving her their entire attention, as indeed she believed them to do.

“In my dear husband’s time,” she said, “the clergy of a parish were never both absent even for a day. He would have been shocked beyond description at the idea. Do you think it can be right, Mr. Pandolfini, for both the rector and the curate to be away together? If any one is sick, what is to become of them? and they are not even married, so as to leave some one behind who could look after the poor. Do you think it can be right under any circumstances?” And this anxious champion of justice fixed her eyes with an almost severe appeal on the Italian’s face.

“Can I tell?” he answered, throwing up his hands and his shoulders with a characteristic gesture. “The curate never leaves his parish in my country. When he would have leisure, he takes it among the rest. A poor priest does not think of villeggiatura, what you call holidays. He is too poor—”

“But even the rector,” said Mrs. Norton, insisting. “Of course, if there is a very good curate—yes, yes, they are generally poor in England as well as in other places—a poor curate, that is what people are always saying; but even the rector. Of course, I forgot, I beg your pardon, your priests are never married, poor wretched men! What a bondage to put upon a man! don’t you think so, Mr. Pandolfini?”

He laughed; perhaps this little woman and her talk was a relief at the moment. He said: “I have my prejudices. Your English gentleman who is a curate, I do not know him. He is a clergyman: that is different. We may not judge one the other.”

“I don’t wish to judge any one; but surely, Mr. Pandolfini, anything so unnatural—”

“Not always unnatural. Me! I do not marry myself.”

“But you will one day,” said Mrs. Norton, decidedly. “Of course you will. Now, why should not you marry? I am sure you would be a great deal happier. Those who have not known what it is,” said the little lady with a sigh, “cannot be expected to realise—ah! the difference between being alone in the world and having some one to love you and care for you! Since I lost my dear husband, how changed life has been! Before that, I never did anything for myself; he stood between me and every trouble—”

“But in that way I think it would be better for a man not to have a wife,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “I dare say Mr. Pandolfini does not want to take a woman on his shoulders, and do everything for her. Tom does not stand between me and every trouble, I can tell you. He pushes a good share of his on to my shoulders, and gives me many a tangled skein to untwist. I never try to persuade my friends to marry; but you shouldn’t frighten them—”

“I—frighten them!” Mrs. Norton’s horror was too deep for words. “I think it is time for us to say good night,” she resumed, with dignity. “Will you look for my niece, Mr. Pandolfini, while I speak a word to Diana? I really cannot let my child be late to-night.”

“So that is how it is!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself: her husband had said the same, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction, and determination to “help it on” with all his might, not very long before; but in a very different sense. The lady’s surprisal of poor Pandolfini’s secret, however, was of so delicate a kind that her conclusion was very different. She hoped that she might never be tempted to betray him; and her sympathy was more despondent than hopeful. For Diana—Diana, of all people in the world! and yet Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself, though she was not romantic, There is nothing that persevering devotion may not do. In the long-run, even the dull adoration of young Snodgrass might touch a woman’s heart—who could tell? And Pandolfini was a very different person. Could anything be done for him? As she turned this over in her mind, he passed her, fulfilling Mrs. Norton’s commission, with Sophy, all pink and smiling, on his arm. Sophy was looking up in his face with that pretty air of trust and dependence which charms most men, but fills most women with hot indignation. Mrs. Hunstanton, like many other ladies, believed devoutly that flattery of this description was irresistible, and was always excited to a certain ferocity by the sight of it. Little flirt, little humbug! she said in her heart.

“Do you see them?” said her husband, coming up to her, rubbing his hands; “the very thing I have always wished—a nice sweet clinging little thing, just the wife for Pandolfini. Why, Hetty—”

Mrs. Hunstanton had a large fan in her hand. It was all she could do not to assail him with it in good sound earnest. “Tom,” she cried, exasperated, “hold your tongue, for heaven’s sake! Don’t be a greater fool than you can help!”

Which was a very improper way for a wife to speak to her husband it must be allowed.

VII. THE ENGLISH LADY IN PISA

The presence of the Snodgrasses did not make very much difference to the party in the Palazzo dei Sogni; Mr. Hunstanton introduced them to the English club, and, as was natural, they established themselves in the select coterie of the English Church, and were a great godsend to the chaplain, and attended the choir practices, and soon became very well known in Pisa. And in the evening receptions, which took place sometimes at Miss Trelawny’s, sometimes at Mrs. Hunstanton’s, these two black figures were perpetually apparent, the uncle circulating among the little society, the nephew standing up in his usual corner. Poor curate! he did not get very much attention from any one. The Hunstantons confined their civilities to the necessary number of Good nights and Good mornings: Sophy flouted him perpetually: and Mrs. Norton made him alarming little speeches about the parish, and asked him if he felt better, in a tone which inferred a contemptuous refusal to believe that he had been ill at all. All this he bore, poor fellow; he was not ill to speak of. If he could have been left in his corner staring at Diana for twelve hours at a time, or the whole twenty-four, had that been possible, he would have been happy—and would have minded none of the snubs that were freely dispensed on all sides. And Diana herself was always kind to the poor young man. She did not talk to him, for he could not talk; but she would give him a kindly smile when she passed him. She gave him her hand when he came in, and when he went away. Now and then in heavenly courtesy she would say three words to him. “I hope you are better, Mr. Snodgrass. I hope you like Pisa. What have you been seeing to-day?” One of these phrases kept him happy for a day. He did not expect any more, nor indeed half so much; and with what aim he continued to haunt and follow her, and put all his existence into the distant enjoyment of her sight and presence, it would be hard to say. As for gaining her love, marrying her!—it seemed about as hopeful as that he should marry the other Diana in the heavens, the moon, that shone with such warm Italian splendour over the high house-tops. In his brightest dreams he could not have imagined anything of the kind.

The only other person who took any notice of poor William Snodgrass was the one other who might have been supposed least likely to notice him. Pandolfini took the poor young fellow up. Notwithstanding the curate’s awkwardness and shyness, the kind Italian insisted upon making acquaintance with him. There is no one so kind as an Italian, endowed with that cortesia which the old writers speak of as a quality of God. “The Lord of all Courtesy,” is not that a title which Dante gives to the Supreme? Pandolfini had this divine quality as much as any man, even an Italian, ever had; and his heart was touched by the most tender sympathy for this fellow-in-feeling, whom it was too absurd to think of as his rival. The poor curate was no one’s rival. He had given up his being to the most beautiful and noble creature, so far as he knew, who had ever crossed his horizon; and had not Pandolfini done so too? The sympathetic Italian gave himself up to the task of cultivating this dull but tender soul. He took him to private gems of pictures which the public saw only on rare occasions: he took him through everything that was most worth seeing: and having his eyes opened by the fact that the heavy young Englishman had set his affections upon the highest object within his firmament, saw other glimmers of perception in him which no one else had found out.

“There, I can’t understand Pandolfini,” said Mr. Hunstanton; “the uncle, now, is a man of the world. He is a man that knows what he is about. He has read a little and observed a little—as much as you can expect from a clergyman. But Bill Snodgrass is a nonentity. He is as dull as ditch-water. You can’t get a sensible word out of him. The rector can talk and take his own part like any other man.”

“I do not agree with you, my friend,” said the Italian, “there are some fine things in the Stupid: there are feelings: I do not mean feelings of the heart alone. He has nothing to say about it; but he will know a fine picture when he sees one.”

“When you tell him it is fine—”

“I never tell him anything; but there are things which Mr. Bill, if so you call him (I admire your mono-syllables), can see—and a great many people cannot see,” said Pandolfini simply, yet with meaning, with a half-smile at his companion, who laughed, unabashed, and rubbed his hands.

“He means me! Yes, I know him. The best fellow that ever breathed; but if he can give you a random cut round the corner! I refused to buy something once of a friend of his—and it turned out—what did it turn out, Pandolfini? an enormous prize, you know. How was a man to divine that? There was nobody to speak up for it, and I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur. By the way, if you have friends who want to sell anything, you had better send them to Diana. She is the person. She could buy us all up and never feel it. To see her so simple as she is, you would never suppose that she was such a great lady at home.”

“Is she, then, a great lady at home?”

“As great as a princess in other places. You didn’t know? Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference to you, but that’s the truth. She is what we call a great Squire in England. You know what that means?”

“Yes; I know what that means.” Pandolfini looked at him with a half-smile, yet sigh. What difference could it make to him? He had never thought of putting himself on a level with that beautiful princess, of securing her to be his—his housewife, his chief possession. All that he had thought of was the pleasure of being with her, looking at her, like poor Snodgrass. Now here was something which put a still greater difference between them, and removed her out of his sphere. Was it not an irony of fate that before one woman only the doors of his heart should have flown wide open? and that she should be so entirely out of his sphere? A slight vague smile came upon his face, half at himself and his evil fortune—half with a tremulous and painful pleasure that she should be so rich, so magnificent, so secure of everything that was good. Whatever happened, that was always well: that she should be a kind of queen, regnant, and safe from all straits and contradictions of fortune in the outer world as well as in the hearts that loved her. But he sighed. Why was it that the world was so made that the beautiful was always beyond reach, that love must be never more than a dream? He murmured over a verse or two of Leopardi, as he went upon his way, with that smile and sigh.

“O natura, o natura,

Perche non rendi poi,

Quel che prometti allor? perche di tanto,

Inganni i figli tuoi.”[6]

Nothing more pathetic or more poignant than that sense of tantalised anguish and pleasure—supremest good held before the eyes, but ever inaccessible, giving happiness and suffering together, without blame of any one, or wrong, can be. And Pandolfini was not the kind of man who rails at fortune. He went away melancholy along Arno: yet smiled while he sighed.

Somehow or other this passing and temporary life of the English visitors in the foreign town had become too serious, too securely established and certain with all of them, being as it really was an affair of a few weeks or months at the utmost, and incapable of extension. Perhaps this was Diana’s fault. Arriving in March, she had no more than six or seven weeks before her, a mere temporary visit—but the temporary was uncongenial to her nature. She established herself half unconsciously, involuntarily as if she had been at home. She made her piano nobile in the old palace assume a certain resemblance to herself, just as she, on the other hand, perhaps unconsciously too, perhaps with a touch of that fine vanity which disguises itself under the semblance of taste, suited herself to her dwelling-place, and put her dress and all her surroundings into conformity with it. If Diana had not had the kind of lofty beauty to which utter simplicity of toilet is becoming, probably it might not have occurred to her to leave the new dress from Paris, before which Mrs. Norton and Sophy had rendered homage, hanging in her wardrobe, and put on the old velvet gown, which, as Sophy indignantly remarked, “she had worn all last winter!” But this was what she did: though in some lights the long sweeping folds of the velvet, which was of a very dark Venetian blue, looked somewhat faded, at least in the eyes of her friends. “I never thought Diana would be like that: wearing out her old dresses, when she can afford to have as many new ones as she pleases!” Sophy cried, almost weeping at the recollections of all M. Worth’s poufs and plisses, “It does not matter for us,” Mrs. Norton added, with serious vexation, “we know her and look up to her in any dress; but among strangers!” Thus her friends were annoyed by her supposed frugality: and perhaps Diana, if her French toilet had been more becoming to her, would not have felt the necessity of conforming her dress to the style of those great rooms, so pathetically faded, so noble and worn, and independent of all meretricious decoration.

She did other things, which perhaps were less justifiable still, and which excited the displeasure of another section of her friends. In a country practically unconverted to the laws of political economy, she was but too glad to forget them, and gave alms with a largeness and liberality which, I suppose, is quite indefensible. She was even so misled as to allow the shameless beggars about to come to her for weekly pensions, putting them on their honour, and talking to them in friendly, if somewhat solemn Italian—slow as Pandolfini’s English, and from the same cause. “Giving to all those beggars,—I can’t imagine what Miss Trelawny can be thinking of,” cried the rector; “surely she must know that she is helping to demoralise them: destroying all the safeguards of society.” “So far as that goes, I don’t think Diana will do them much harm; but I object to have the staircase haunted by Peppino and Company,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I must talk to her, and you had better talk to her, Snodgrass. As for demoralising, you know, they’re past that. I defy you to demoralise Peppino. You can’t blind a man who has no eyes; can you, now?” But this will be enough to show that Diana gave dissatisfaction on both sides: only Pandolfini and the curate stood by with silent adoration, and thought everything she did and was, the noblest and the fairest that ever were made visible to eyes of men.

It must be allowed, however, that neither the disapproval nor the adoration affected Diana. She went on her way calmly, indifferent to what was said, laughing, though gently, at Mr. Snodgrass’s serious remonstrance, and at the half-crying appeal of Sophy. And everything seemed to conspire around her to give the air of stability and everlastingness which seemed natural to her life. She acquired for herself, without knowing it, a distinct position, which was partly by her beauty, no doubt, partly even by her height and dignity of person, and partly from the individuality about her, and her modest indifference to ordinary rule. There is an immodest indifference which gives distinction of a totally different kind; but Diana—who did not come for pleasure as commonly so called, who appeared seldom at public places, and whose enjoyment of her strange habitation was that of an inhabitant, not of a tourist—Diana became known in Pisa as scarcely ever forestiera had been before. Pandolfini felt that he could divine why, believing, as was natural at once to a patriot and a lover, that his race was quick to recognise supreme excellence, and that it was natural that all who knew her should bow down before her. But anyhow, in her retirement, in her quietness, she became known as if by an instinct of sympathy. The beggars in the piazzas asked nothing of her, but blessed her with bold extravagance as she passed. The people uncovered right and left. Quant’ è bella! they said, with that unfeigned and heartfelt admiration which is pure Italian, not loudly, to catch her ear, nor yet in whispers, as if they were ashamed of it, but in their ordinary tones, all being natural, both the popular worship and its object. The curate when he became aware of this grew red, and clenched his fist, with an English impulse “to knock down the fellow;” but Pandolfini, who knew better what it meant, followed her steps at a distance with glowing eyes, and was proud and happy in the universal homage. He quoted lines out of the “Vita Nuova”[7] to his stupid faithful companion. Not always to his listener’s edification. “How do you suppose I can understand that stuff?” growled the Rev. William through the beard he was growing, and the Italian ceased to throw about such pearls.

But it may be imagined what a thunderbolt fell into this peaceful little society when there began to be consultations among the leaders of the party about going away. “Our time will soon be up, you know,” Mr. Hunstanton said one evening, rubbing his hands; “May is a very nice month to get home in. A week or two in Switzerland; perhaps a week or two in London, if my wife has good accounts of the children. That’s what I like. After May it’s sultry here and uncomfortable, eh, Pandolfini? Off in November, home in May, that’s my rule—and if you like to take it old Style, you know, as they do in Russia, so much the better. That’s my regular rule.”

“W—what?” said Mrs. Norton, who sometimes tried to persuade herself that she was rather deaf, and would not hear anything that was unpleasant; but she had scarcely self-possession for this little trick, being too much aghast at the idea thus presented to her mind, which it seemed incredible they should all have ignored till now.

Then there was a pause of universal dismay, for they had all enjoyed themselves very much, and disliked the idea of breaking up. Mrs. Hunstanton alone went on working placidly, and the murmur of Reginald’s voice, who was playing patience at a table, and whispering the value of the cards to himself, became suddenly audible. The impatience of the whole company with Reginald cannot be described. “My dear boy,” said the rector sharply (in a tone which meant You odious idiot!), “couldn’t you just count as well if you did it to yourself?”

“What has the boy done?” said Mr. Hunstanton with surprise. “Yes; we must bolt. I don’t know how that may affect your plans, Diana.”

“I have no plans,” she said. “I came here by the light of nature, because you were all here—”

“And you will come away in the same manner,” said Mr. Hunstanton briskly. Sophy turned round and transfixed him with her eyes, or would have done so had his middle-aged composure been penetrable, or had he seen her, which had something also to do with it. But he did not see her, and, good man, was perfectly easy in his mind.

“Well, I confess I shall be sorry,” said the rector, “and so, I am sure, will be my dear Bill. We have had a very agreeable visit, nice society, all centring round the Church in the most delightful way, and so many charming people! I shall be very sorry to think of breaking up.”

He stopped somewhat abruptly, with unexpected suddenness, and in the silence, more audible still than Reginald’s whispering, came a sort of groan from the burdened bosom of the curate, who stood behind-backs in his usual place, and who had felt himself covered by his uncle’s speech. This made everybody look up, and there was a faint titter from Reginald, by way of revenge for the rector’s rebuke. It was Sophy who had the boldness to take up this titter in the wild stinging of disappointment and dismay.

“Why should you feel it so much, Mr. Snodgrass?—what does it matter to you? You will have to go home to the parish whether or not!” she cried.

“Sophy, hush, hush! Yes, dear Mr. Hunstanton, how pleasant it has been!” said Mrs. Norton. “What a blow to us all to break it up! I should like to stay here for ever, winter and summer. It would not be too hot for me. For I can never be grateful enough to Italy,” she added, impressively, “for restoring health to my dear child.”

This called the general attention to Sophy, whose blooming countenance, a little flushed by vexation, looked very unlike any possible failure of health. Sophy was as near crying as possible. She had to put force upon herself to keep the tears out of her eyes.

“Let us not make ourselves miserable before the time,” said Diana. “It is not May yet; there is a week of April left. Let us gather roses while we may, and in good time here is Mrs. Winthrop and our musical people. Sophy, come and help to get the songs out. We can talk of this another time.”

Sophy came, with a sullenness which no one had ever remarked in her before. She made no reply to what Diana said, but pulled the music about under pretence of arranging it. As she did so, with her back turned to the rest of the company, Diana saw a few hot hail-drops of tears pattering down among the songs. She put her hand kindly upon Sophy’s shoulder.

“Sophy, dear,” she said, “is it the thought of going away? is this what you feel so much?”

“Oh, leave me alone, please! I have got a headache,” cried Sophy, jerking away from her friend’s grasp.

Diana said nothing more. She was grieved and disturbed by this very strange new development. She put down all the songs and music that were likely to be wanted, and opened the piano, and greeted with her usual dignified kindness the new people who came rustling in to the agitated atmosphere. It did not seem agitated to them. Mrs. Winthrop came in all smiles and flounces, and there was a gathering round the piano, and much laughter and talk and consultation, as is customary on such occasions. Diana herself did not sing except rarely. She helped to set the little company going, over their madrigals and part-songs, and then she withdrew, with that sensation of relief which is afforded to the mind of the mistress of a house and chief entertainer by the happy consciousness of having set an amusement going, by means of which her guests will manage to entertain themselves for the rest of the night.

VIII. AN EVENING PARTY

Diana seated herself in her favourite place, in a great chair covered with dark old velvet, which had got a bloom on it by dint of age, such as youth sometimes has, like the duvet of a purple plum. Her own dress was made in toned white, creamy and soft, not the brilliant white of snow, and of rich silk, which fell in heavy splendid folds. But it was “old-fashioned” in its cut, which Sophy had deeply deplored already, with a plain long skirt, “such as was worn three years ago!” the girl had cried with vexation. A certain weariness was about Diana as she laid her head back on the velvet, weariness yet satisfaction in having settled all her people comfortably in the way of amusing themselves, and being thus herself left free. Mr. Hunstanton was talking with Colonel Winthrop, who was the husband of the musical lady, and two other persons who did not care for music. Mrs. Norton, who was not musical, except in the way of playing waltzes (of which she knew three) and one old set of quadrilles, had taken pity upon Reginald, and had gone to the side-table with him to play piquet, which was more amusing than patience. Diana looked round her with a sigh of comfort, feeling that all her guests were off her hands. The central group at the piano was the brightest point. Mrs. Winthrop, who was a pretty young woman, and acted as conductor, held the chief place, holding a pink forefinger in the air instead of a baton, swaying her head, and tapping her foot according to the measure. Around her were her troupe with their music, among whom, most evident to Diana, was Mrs. Hunstanton, “putting in a second,” as she had been adjured to do—and anxious to escape, Sophy singing soprano, with the half-tearful, half-sullen look gradually melting from her face under the charms of the madrigal; and over Sophy’s head, holding his book high, the poor curate, who had been forced into it, and who, with his mouth open, and his eyes wandering, added a powerful but uncertain bass. The soft lights of the candles on the walls lighted them all up, shining upon the lightness of their faces, and the dresses of the ladies, as they stood grouped about the piano. Behind, Mr. Hunstanton’s darkly attired group of men gave an agreeable balance to the picture.

In front of Diana there were but three figures. Mrs. Norton and Reginald, with a table between them, covered with the glories of the coloured cards, which were repeated in the rose-coloured ribbons of her cap; and standing quite alone in front of the dim profundity of a great old mirror—Pandolfini. He was the only one who was alone as she was, though not by design, like Diana. The glass was so old and so dim that it almost shrouded him, giving its background of mysterious reflection to make even his solid figure look unreal. But one thing about him was very real, which was that his eyes were fixed upon herself. It was an inadvertent moment, and Mr. Hunstanton’s sudden announcement of approaching departure had brought a certain agitation into the atmosphere. To Diana, who had taken root in the friendly place, notwithstanding her consciousness that her stay could not be long, the feeling was painful—but to Pandolfini it was like the crush of overthrow. He had known it, he said to himself—of course he had known it—but it had not appeared such an utter and miserable conclusion of all hopes, and revolution in life. The room had contracted round him, and the lights grown dim, just as he felt the firmament itself would contract, and the sun grow dim to him, when she was gone—and he had forgotten himself. He had not been able to talk, to join in what everybody was doing, so long as this feeling that the earth had opened under his feet, ready to swallow him up and all things, was foremost in his mind. He had had his fill of revolutions: he knew what they were, and how men could live through them, and the vulgar placidity of every day overcome all the violence that could be done in life. But here was a revolution which could not be got over. Yes, yes, he said to himself drearily, as, under cover of the music and the movement, he put himself thus behind-backs, and allowed his eyes to rest upon Diana with a half-despairing intentness. Si! Si! it could be got over. If a man is hacked limb by limb he has to bear it, making no unseemly outcries; but still the thought of what it would be, the going out of all sweet lights and hopes, the settling down of darkness, the horror of something taken away which could never be replaced, appalled his very soul. What an irony it was, what a cruelty of fate! He had been well enough before, contenting himself with his existence, thinking of no Diana, satisfied with the life which had never known her. But now!—without knowing, Pandolfini gazed at her out of the shadows with eyes that glowed and burned, and with a longing and fixedness very startling to her pensive calm, as suddenly she turned to him with a half-smile and met his look!

Diana drew a little back in her chair, swerved for a moment, so startled that she did not know what to do or think. She felt a blush rising over her—why she could not tell: a sort of self-consciousness seized upon her, consciousness of herself as being gazed at, rather than of him who was gazing. Why should he or any one look at her so? Then she recovered, with a slight shake of her head to throw off the impression, and a confused laugh at her own vanity (as she called it): and seeing nothing better to do, beckoned to him to come to her. Pandolfini was not less confused than she. His first thought was that he had betrayed himself, and that nothing was to be done now but to face his fate with melancholy boldness, which becomes the unfortunate. He had made up his mind before now in moments of peril to sell his life dearly. If this unconscious queenly lady was to have his life like a flower, at least she should be aware of what it was which was thrown on her path for her delicate foot to tread on. A kind of tender fury came into his mind. He went up to her slowly, almost solemnly, as a man might be supposed to go to his death—not affecting to be indifferent to it, but ready for whatever might befall.

Diana had called him: but she was confused, not knowing how she was to speak to this man, who looked at her not as acquaintances look. In her embarrassment she found nothing but the most banal of nothings to say.

“I cannot suppose you are not fond of music, Mr. Pandolfini.”

“Should I unite myself to the gentlemen, then? But neither does Miss Trelawny—it is not that one does not love music.”

“I cannot answer for myself,” said Diana, gladly plunging into an abstract subject. “I am fanciful—I think I like music only when it goes to my heart.”

“What a pretty idiom is that!” said Pandolfini. “One loves everything most when it touches there.” He had placed himself just a step behind her, enough to make it difficult for her to see him, while he could see her perfectly. It was an unfair advantage to take. “But music,” he added, “it has other aims—the ear first, and the mind and the imagination.”

“There is my deficiency,” said Diana. “I only understand it in this way. Other arts may instruct, or may inspire; but if music does not touch me, move my feelings, I do not make anything of it I do not understand it. This is my deficiency.”

“I acknowledge no deficiency,” said the Italian in a low tone. The excitement in his blood was subsiding a little, but still he wanted some perfume to reach her from the myrtle-bow crushed on her path. And the tone was one which answered her musical requirements, and went right to her heart. Where had she heard that tone before? It was not the first time in her life, as may be supposed; but it seemed a long time since, and the thrill of recognition was also a thrill of alarm.

“We will not quarrel on this point,” she said, “especially as the present performance is not one to call forth much feeling; but it makes people happy, which is always something.”

“Happy?” said Pandolfini; “is it this then which in your English calls itself happiness? Ah! pardon—the Italian is more rich. This is (perhaps) to be amused—to be diverted—but happy—no. We keep that name for better things. I, for instance,” he added once more, in so low a voice that she had to stoop forward to hear him, “I might say so much—and, alas! it is for a moment, for a breath, no more. But they, these gentlemen and ladies—they divert themselves: the difference is great.”

“You must say ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, glad to be able to escape from too grave an argument; “in English it is more courteous to put us first.”

“Pardon,” he said, with the flush of ready shame, which every one feels who has made a slip in a new language. “I thought it was used so. But in all languages heaven goes before the earth. I ought to have known.”

Diana laughed, but he did not laugh. He was not without humour; but at present he was in deadly earnest, incapable of seeing the lighter side. “At all events, that is pure Italian,” she said. “Your compliments are delightful, Mr. Pandolfini—so general that one ventures to accept them on account of all the other women in the world. I wish one could believe it,” she added, shaking her head.

“I do believe it,” he said once more, in his deepest tone.

“Ah! you speak too low: I cannot hear you—which is an English not an Italian fault. But you are right to discriminate between happiness and amusement. We do so too, but we are not sufficiently particular about our words, and use the first that comes to hand.”

Then there was a pause, and this time it was he who began. “Is it true,” he said, “that this is soon to come to an end?—that you are going away?”

“I suppose we must go, sooner or later. Not perhaps with the Hunstantons; but people do not stay here for summer, do they? It is for winter one comes here?”

“I am no judge,” he said gravely, with that seriousness, on the verge of offence with which a man hears his own country criticised. “I have spent many summers here. You shut yourself up behind the persianis all day; but when evening comes—ah, Miss Trelawny! the night of summer that goes to the heart, as you say. I have never been in your country. I cannot tell if among the seas you can know. Ah, you smile! I am wrong; I can believe it. England is no more sombre when you—such as you—live there; but in Italy I would give—how much—a year! years—of my life that you might see one summer night. The air it is balm; so soft, so warm, so cool, so dark. The moon more lustrous than any day. And all the people out of doors. You who love the people it would make you glad. Upon the stairs and in the doorways, everywhere, all friendly, smiling, singing, feeling the air blow in their faces. How it has made me happy!—But now,—now—”

“You ought to be more happy than ever, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, raising herself erect in her chair, turning round upon him with the courage the situation demanded, yet unable to keep a tremor of sympathy out of her voice, “now that your country has risen up again, and takes her place once more among the best.”

“I thank you for saying so—yes, I should be more happy; but, ecco, Miss Trelawny, we are not as we would. I have my senses, is it not true? I am not a child to stretch out my hands for what is beyond reach? Yet also, alas! I am that fool,—I am that child. My country?—I forget what I meant to say.”

“You are not well,” said Diana, troubled. “It is this hideous din. Oh no, I meant this beautiful music. You will be better when it is over.”

“Nay,” he said, the moisture coming into his eyes. “I like it; it makes a solitude. It might be that there was no one else in the world.”

All this was nothing. If Mr. Hunstanton had heard it, he would have said that Pandolfini was in one of his queer moods, and would have divined nothing of what lay below; but to most women this inference of adoration is more seductive than the most violent protestations. Even Diana felt herself yield a little to the charm. She had to make an effort to resist and escape from this fascination.

“And happily, here we are at the end,” she said. “Listen—here comes the last burst.”

“Will you tell me?” said poor Pandolfini, paying no attention to the interruption; “it will be very kind. Will you tell me to my own self, à me stesso[8], before you go away?”

“It will be your turn to pay us a visit in England,” she said, rising; and she turned and looked at him with a smile which was very sweet and friendly, though so calm. “Then I will show you my country as you have shown me yours,” she added. How kind she was! almost affectionate, confiding; looking at him as if he had been an old friend—she who had known him a few weeks only. But, alas! the moon in the sky was not more serene than Diana. She went forward to the singers, adding in the same breath, “Is it over so soon? You have given us a very pleasant half-hour” (was it by their singing?). “Won’t you take something, and begin again?”

“Tea is the worst thing for the voice,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “though I am dying for a cup of tea. No more to-night, dear Miss Trelawny. I am sure we have bored you quite enough: though it is amusing to those who sing, I am always sorry for the audience. We must not try you any more.”

“I have liked it,” said Diana; and he thought she gave a humorous half-glance towards himself, as if to indicate how it was that she had liked it. As for Pandolfini, he could not bear the contact of the gay little crowd. He went into one of the deep windows, and after a moment stole out into the balcony outside. He was not calm. If Diana had liked this brief retirement from her little world and its busy affairs only to plunge into them again—to pour out tea for Mrs. Winthrop, and condole with the tenor on the cold which affected his voice—the Italian was not so philosophical. His frame quivered with all that he had said and all that he had not said. Had he betrayed himself? In every other kind of sentiment two people are on easier ground; but in love, except when they understand each other completely, how are they ever to understand each other? A woman cannot be kind without being more than kind, or a man make himself intelligible without those last explanations which one way or another are final—knitting the two together, or cutting them adrift for ever. Alas! there seemed no likelihood with that calm Diana of any knitting together: and he would not be cut adrift. No: he would take her at her word. He would be patient—nay, passive, tenacious—as the English like a man to be. He would be silent, resisting all temptation to speak even as he had spoken to-night. He would give up the ways of his own race and take to hers, concealing every sentiment; he would be reticent, self-controlled, everything that an Italian is not by nature. He would take the benefit of every moment here, and enjoy her society as if he did not love her. Yes; that is what he would do—take the good of her, as if she were nothing to him but an acquaintance, and never risk that subdued happiness by any revelation of deeper feeling. And then when all was had that could be had here, he would do as she had said—he would go to England, and there be happy, or at least a little happy, again. And who could tell? If he could manage to be so wise as this, so self-controlled, so English, who could tell what might happen? She might be in some great danger from which he could rescue her; she might fall into some great strait or misfortune in which he might be of use. He did not, perhaps, immediately realise the drowning, or the fire, or the runaway horses which might form the extremity which would be his opportunity, as a youth might have done; but when a man is under the dominion of one of the primitive emotions, does not that reverse the distinctions of youth and age?

It was the most youthful foolish notion, transparent as gossamer, which thus sprang up within him, and which he cherished with such tenderness. He stood on the balcony with his back turned to the world outside: the soft infinite sky of a spring night, the dewy sense of moisture in the air, the gleam of the Arno between its banks below, and the voices of the passers-by, in which there was generally a dreamy attraction for him—all this was of less importance to Pandolfini to-night than the lighted interior, with those groups of careless forestieri laughing and carrying on their chatter under that solemn cavalier of the Sogni, his own ancestor, who looked on so gravely, seeing the Northern hordes come and go. A momentary contempt and almost hatred for them seized Pandolfini, though he was an Anglomane. What did they want here with their curiosity and their levity?

“Le case di Italia son fatte per noi,” he said to himself; then laughed at himself for the doggerel, and so brought his mind down as well as he could from these thoughts to the common platitudes, to Mr. Hunstanton, who appealed to him about a discussion which had taken place in the Italian parliament, and to Colonel Winthrop, who claimed his opinion as an impartial person as to the relative intelligence of the English and Americans. He stepped in from the balcony with a smile on his face, and gave them his reply. His heart was thrilling and quivering with the effort, but he made no sign. Was not this the first symptom that he had conquered himself, that he was as strong as an Englishman, and had surmounted that impatience of suffering, that desire for demonstration which is in the Italian blood? Would she think so? or had she divined what he meant, or ever thought enough about him to wonder? This was the most ex-citing question of all.

IX. WARNINGS AND CONSULTATIONS

Mrs. Hunstanton lingered after the visitors had gone away. She made a determined stand even against Mrs. Norton and Sophy, and outstayed them in spite of all their efforts. She said, with something of that breathlessness which betrays mental excitement, “I want to say a word to you, Diana. I want to warn you. Spectators always see more than the chief actors, and I have been a spectator all the evening. You must not play with edge-tools.”

“I play with edge-tools?” said Diana; “are there any in my way?”

“My dear,” said the elder lady, who was not addicted to phrases of affection, “I wish I could let you have a peep from my point of view without saying a word: but that is a thing which cannot be done. Diana—I don’t know if you have observed it,—but poor Pandolfini—”

Involuntarily, unawares, Diana raised her hand to stop the warning with which she had been threatened, and the colour rose in her face, flushing over cheeks and forehead, to her great distress and shame. But what could she do? Some women cannot help blushing, and those who are thus affected generally consider it as the most foolish and unpleasant of personal peculiarities. She tried to look unconscious, calmly indifferent, but the effort was entirely destroyed by this odious blush.

“Mr. Pandolfini?” she said, with an attempt at cheerful light-heartedness. “I hope it is not he who is your edge-tool. It does not seem to me a happy simile.”

“Oh, Diana,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, too eager to be careful, “don’t treat a man’s happiness or misery so lightly! I never questioned you on such subjects, but a woman does not come to your age without knowing something of it. Don’t take his heart out of his hand and fling it to the dogs. Don’t—”

“I?” cried Diana, aghast. She grew pale and then red again, and the tears came to her eyes. “Am I such a monster? or is it only you who are rhetorical? What have I to do with Mr. Pandolfini’s heart?”

“You cannot deceive me, Diana,” said her friend. “You blushed—you know very well what I mean. Men may not see such things—but women, they understand.”

“We have no right to speak of a gentleman we know so little—or at least whom I know so little—in this way,” said Diana, very gravely. “It is an injury to him. You are kind—you mean him well—but even with that we have no right to discuss—”

“I don’t wish to discuss him, Diana. If there was any chance for him, poor man—oh no, you need not shake your head; I know well enough there is no chance for him; but don’t torture him at least,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting up hastily, “this I may say—”

“It is the thing you ought least to say,” Diana said, accepting her good-night kiss perhaps more coldly than usual, for though she was perfectly innocent, she dared not dispute the fact pointed out to her. “No, I am not angry: but why should you accuse me so? Do I torture any one? You have made me very uncomfortable. If it is true, I shall have to break up and leave this nice place, which pleased me, and go back with you to England.”

“You are afraid of yourself,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton.

“I!”—Diana did not say any more. Yes; she was too proud. It was not like a woman to be so determined, so immovable: and yet a woman whose colour went and came, whose eyes filled so quickly, who was so sensitive and easily moved, could she be hard? Mrs. Hunstanton did not quite know what she wished. She was a little proud of Diana—among all the girls who married, the one unmarrying woman, placed upon a pedestal, a virgin princess dispensing good things to all, and above the common weaknesses. One such, once in a way, pleased her imagination and her esprit de corps. And if Diana had willingly stepped down from her pedestal, a sense of humiliation would have filled her friend’s mind. But then poor Pandolfini! She was quick of wit and quick of speech, and would have been as ready as anybody to turn upon him, and ask who was he that he should have the Una, the peerless woman, he a penniless foreigner with nothing but a fine name? Probably had Diana melted, all this wilful lady’s impatient soul would have risen indignant at the idea of the English lady of the manor consenting to turn herself into a Madame Pandolfini. But all the same, as Diana had no such intention, her heart melted over the hopeless lover. Poor fellow! how good he was, how kind, how friendly! It was hard that by a mere accident, so to speak, because Diana had taken it into her head so suddenly to come here, that his whole life should be ruined for him. How hard it was that such things should be! As Mrs. Hunstanton went upstairs to her own floor she could not help remembering with some virulence that it was that absurd little Sophy’s sham cough which had brought Diana here, and done all the mischief. Little ridiculous creature, whom Diana would spoil so, and raise altogether out of her sphere! Mrs. Hunstanton was quite sure that it was entirely Sophy’s fault (and her aunt’s: the aunt was on the whole, being older, more ridiculous and more to be blamed than Sophy) that this misfortune had happened; though after all, she added to herself, how could Pandolfini expect that Diana was to be kept out of Italy, and shut up, so to speak, in England on his account, lest he should come to harm? That was out of the question too. Thus it will be seen the argument on her side was inconsistent, and indeed contradictory, as most such arguments must always be.

At the same time a very different sort of conversation was going on in another room in this same Palazzo dei Sogni. As they went out, Mr. Hunstanton had seized Pandolfini by the arm. “Come upstairs and smoke a cigar with me: the night is young,” he said; “and there are lots of things I want to talk to you about. Now there are so many ladies on hand, I never see you. Come, you shall have some syrup or other, and I’ll have soda—and something—and a friendly cigar. What a business it is to be overdone with ladies! One never knows the comfort of a steady-going wife of one’s own—that is acquainted with one’s tastes and never bothers one—till a lot of women are let loose upon you. Diana there, Sophy here—a man does not know if he is standing on his head or his heels.”

“Pah! you like it,” said the Italian with a smile.

“Do I? Well, I don’t know but what I do. I like something going on. I like a little commotion and life, and I am rather fond, I confess, of helping things forward, and acting a friend’s part when I can. Yes, I’m very glad to be of use. You now, my dear fellow, if I could help you to a good wife.”

Pandolfini turned pale. Was it sacrilege this good easy Englishman was talking? The idea seemed too profane, too terrible to be even contradicted. He pretended not to have heard, and took up the “Galignani” which lay in Mr. Hunstanton’s private room—the room where he was supposed to write business letters, and do all his graver duties, but in which there was always a limp novel in evidence, from the press of Michel Levy, or Baron Tauchnitz, and where “Galignani” was the tutelary god.

“Sit down, and let us talk. You should come over to England, Pandolfini. The change would do you good. I like change, for my part. What is the good of staying for ever in one corner of the world, as if you were a vegetable and had roots? We say it is a grievance that we have to leave home every winter on Reginald’s account, and I suppose I grumble like other people; but no doubt, on the whole, I like it. There’s the hunting—of course one misses all that; but then I don’t hunt, so it matters less: change is always agreeable. And then you have got used to our little society. One abuses the women; but they are always pleasant enough. The worst is, one has a little too much of them in the country. Well, not so constantly as here; but they are our nearest neighbours, and toujours perdrix[9], you know.”

“Is it that you mean to persuade me to come, or not to come?” said Pandolfini, laughing.

“My dear fellow, how can you doubt? Of course we shall be delighted to see you, both I and my wife. We always feel together, she and I. Of course you will think me an old fool and all that for speaking with so little enthusiasm. I am past the age of les grandes passions; but a good wife is a very good thing, I can tell you, Pandolfini. It is astonishing how many worries a man is spared when he has somebody always by him who knows his ways, and sees that he is comfortable. Many a great calamity is easier put up with than having your tastes disregarded, and your customs broken in upon.”

“This may be very true, my good Hunstanton, but why to me—why say it to me? I have no—wife.” His voice changed a little, with a tone which would have been very instructive to the lady spoken of, but which conveyed no particular information to her husband. Mr. Hunstanton rubbed his hands: then he took his cigar out of his mouth in his energy, and puffed a large mouthful of smoke into his companion’s face.

“That is exactly the question—exactly the question. My dear fellow, that is just what I wanted to say to you. You ought to have a wife.”

Pandolfini gave a quick look up into his friend’s eyes. What he thought or hoped he might find there who can tell? Many things were possible to his Italian ideas that no Englishman would have thought possible. From whom might this suggestion come? His heart gave a wild leap upward, then sank with a sudden plunge and chill. What a fool, what a miserable vain fool he was! She to hold out a little finger, a corner of her handkerchief, to him or any man! His eyes fell, and his heart; he shook his head.

“Come, come, Pandolfini! that is the way with all you foreign fellows. Yon are as afraid of marriage as if it were purgatory. You have had full time to have your fling surely. I don’t mean to insinuate anything against you. So far as I know, you have always been the most irreproachable of men. But supposing that you hadn’t, why, you have had time enough to have your fling. How old are you, forty? Well, then, it is time to range yourself as the French say. An English wife would be the making of you—”

“Hunstanton,” cried the Italian, “all this that you are saying is as blasphemy. Is it to me you speak of ranging myself, of accepting unwillingly marriage, of having an English wife offered to me like a piece of useful furniture? It is that you do not know me—do not know anything about me—notwithstanding buon amico, that you are my best friend.”

Mr. Hunstanton looked at him with complacent yet humorous eyes. “Aha!” he said, “didn’t I divine it! I knew, of course, how the wind was blowing. Bravo, Pandolfini! so you are hit, eh? I knew it, man! I, saw it sooner than you did yourself.”

Pandolfini looked at the light-hearted yet sympathetic Englishman with a glow upon his dark face of more profound emotion than Mr. Hunstanton knew anything about. He held out his hands in the fulness of his heart. Instinct told him that this was not the man to whom to speak of Diana—although the Englishman was fond of Diana too in his way. But his heart melted to the friend who had divined his love. Mr. Hunstanton, too, was touched by a confession so frank yet so silent. He got up and patted his friend on the shoulder. “To be sure,” he said, his voice even trembling a little, “you mustn’t have any shyness with an old man. I divined it all the time.”

There was a little pause, during which this delightful and effusive confidant resumed his seat. He kept silence by sheer force of the emotion which he saw in the other’s face, though it was almost unintelligible to him. Why should he take it so very seriously? Mr. Hunstanton was on the very eve of bursting forth when Pandolfini himself began—

“But to what good? She is more young, more rich, more highly gifted than I. What hope have I to win her! She with all the world at her feet! I—nobody. Ah, it is not want of seeing. I see well—not what you say, my good friend, but what all your poets have said. That is what a woman is—a woman of the English. But, amico mio, do not let us deceive ourselves. What hope is there for such a one as I?”

“Hope! why, every hope in the world,” cried the cheerful counsellor. “Talk about the poets: what is it that Shakespeare says? Shakespeare, you know, the very chief of them—

‘She is a woman, therefore to be wooed;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.’

Tut! why should you be discouraged. Don’t you know our proverb, that ‘Faint heart never won fair lady’? Cheer up, man, and try. You can but lose at the worst, and then if you win—”

Pandolfini sat and looked at him with glowing eyes. He was gazing at Hunstanton; but he seemed to see Diana: not as she had been that evening, seated calmly, like a queen, in the centre of so many people who looked up to her—but as she appeared when he saw her first, when she shone upon him suddenly, with her black veil about her head, and when all the bells chimed Diana. What a revelation that had been to him! he did not even know her, nor did he know how, without knowing, he could be able to divine her as he felt he had done. He fell into a musing, his eyes all alit with the glow of passion and visionary happiness. He knew there was no hope for him: who was he that she should descend from her heights, and take him by the hand? The idea was too wonderful, too entrancing, to have any possibility in it; but it brought such a gleam of happiness to his mind as made him forget everything—even its folly. He paid no attention to Hunstanton gazing at him,—the substantial Englishman became as a mist, as a dream, to Pandolfini,—what he really saw was Diana, the revelation of that new unthought-of face rising upon him suddenly out of dimness and nothing! What a night that had been!—what a time of strange witchery ever since! He did not know how it had passed, or what he had done in it—was it not all Diana from beginning to end?

Mr. Hunstanton was kind. After a minute or two he saw that the look which was apparently bent upon himself was a visionary gaze, seeing only into some land of dreams. He broke up the fascination of that musing by a hearty honest laugh, full of genuine enjoyment. “Are you so far gone as that?” he cried; “then, upon my word, Pandolfini, some one must interfere. If you are afraid to take it into your own hands, I’ll speak for you if you like. You may be sure I am not afraid. It isn’t our English way: but I’ll do it in a moment. Is that what you would like? We’re leaving soon, as I told you, and there is not much time to lose.”

“Oh, my best friend!” cried the Italian, with sudden eagerness. Then he paused. “No, Hunstanton, I dare not. Let me have the little time that remains to me. I can at least do as does your curate. I understand him. He, too, has not any hope; how should he, or I either? but I would not be sent away from her: banished for the little time that remains. No! let me keep what I have, lest I should get less and not more.”

“Stuff!” said Mr. Hunstanton. “The curate. Bill Snodgrass! that’s a different case altogether. Look here now, Pandolfini: you are ridiculously over-humble; there is no such difference as you suppose. Now, look here! You have some confidence in me, I know, and if ever one man wished to help another, I am that man. Will you leave the matter in my hands? Oh, don’t you fear. I shan’t compromise you if things look badly. I’ll feel my way. I shan’t go a step farther than I see allowable. You shan’t be banished, and so forth. Though that’s all nonsense. Will you leave it to me?”

Pandolfini fixed his eyes this time really on Hunstanton’s face. “You are too honest to betray me,” he said, wistfully; “you would not ruin me by over-boldness, by going too far.”

“Who? I? Of course I should not. I have plenty of prudence, though you may not think so; besides, I know a few things which are not to be communicated outside my wife’s chamber. Oh, trust to me,—I know what I am doing! You don’t need to be afraid.”

“But I am,” said the other. “Hunstanton, Hunstanton, my good friend, let things remain as they are. I have not the courage.”

“Stuff!” said Mr. Hunstanton, getting up and rubbing his hands. “I tell you I know a thing or two. Betray what my wife tells me—never!—not if I were drawn by wild horses; but I know what I know. You had better leave it in my hands.”

Pandolfini searched the cheerful countenance before him with his eyes. He watched those noddings of the head, those little emphatic gestures of self-confidence and sincerity. Was it possible that this man could be in Diana’s confidence? No: but then his wife: that was a different matter: was it—could it be possible? He got up at last, and went to him with a certain solemnity. “Hunstanton,” he said, “good friend, if you have the power to say a word for me, to recommend me, to lay me most humble at her feet,”—he paused, his voice quivering,—”then I will indeed put myself in your hands.”

“That’s right—that is exactly what you ought to do. But you must not be so tremendously humble,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Yes, yes, my dear fellow, I’ll undertake it; but don’t be down-hearted. If you are not as happy a fellow as any in Christendom by this time to-morrow night—”

“You—think so? Dio mio! You—think so?” said the Italian. His heart was too full to say any more. He wrung his friend’s hand, and snatched up his hat and went away with scarcely another word, stumbling down the long staircase, which was as black as night, his mind too distracted to think of anything. As he passed Diana’s door the glimmer of light which showed underneath stopped him, as if it had carried a message, a word of encouragement. He stopped short in spite of himself, and a wild fancy seized him. It was all he could do to keep himself from rushing into her presence, confessing everything, asking—ah! what was it that he could ask? Would she be but favourable—kind—nay, something more? Should he make the plunge himself without waiting for Hunstanton, and if such an unimaginable bliss could be, have it a day earlier? The impulse made him giddy, so strong was it, turning his brain round and round; but as he stood there, with his hand uplifted almost in the act of ringing the bell, Diana’s factotum, all unaware of who was standing outside, came to the door within and began to bar and bolt and shut up for the night. Pandolfini’s hand dropped as if he had been shot. He turned and made his way, without once pausing to take breath, into the open air beneath, on the side of Arno. The lamps twinkled reflected in the water, the stars from the sky; there was a quiver and tremor in the night itself, a little soft wistful melancholy breeze. Might this be the last night for him, the end of all sweet and hopeful days? or was it, could it be, only the tender beginning of a long heaven to come?

X. THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN

Mrs. Norton and her niece had received the tidings of the Hunstanton’s approaching departure with consternation almost more profound, and certainly more simple in its exhibition, than had been exhibited by any of the other members of the party. Surprise, which at the first moment took the form of angry petulance and offence, had been the manner in which it showed itself in Sophy; and as her aunt lived only in her and her wishes, the girl’s angry vexation resolved itself into a mixture of offence and resignation in Mrs. Norton. She calmed her child and soothed her, and then repeated Sophy’s sentiments in a more solid form. “My darling, you must not blame Diana. Diana has been goodness itself. We never could have had this pleasure at all but for her thoughtfulness,” she said, and then added: “I think, however, that Diana might have managed to let us know delicately what she meant—not forcing it upon us through the Hunstantons, if that is what she wants us to know.” Sophy did not think whether Diana had or had not taken this underhand way of warning them that it was time to depart; but she was angry beyond measure and beyond reason. They both cried over the thought, shedding hot tears. “Just when we know everybody and are really enjoying ourselves!” said Sophy. “Oh! how are we ever, ever, to put up with that nasty, windy Red House among the trees, with no society, after all that we have had here?”

“Oh hush, my darling!” said Mrs. Norton; “this is what it is to be poor, and to have to do as other people like. Those who are rich can please themselves—it is only the poor who are shuffled about as other people like; but we must remember that we should never have come at all if it had not been for Diana.”

“Would it have been worse not to come at all than to be sent away now?” said angry Sophy, at that height of irritated scepticism which would rather not be, than submit to anything less than perfect satisfaction in being. Could any one say they were ungrateful? Did not the ascription of praise to Diana preface everything they said, or at least everything that the most reasonable of them said? For as for Sophy, what was she more than a child? and a child, when it is crossed, allows no wisdom or kindness even in God Himself, who ought to know better than to expose it to suffering. They made up their little plans together on the very morning after that momentous night. They would go to Diana, and find out what her intentions were—whether she meant them to go, whether they were to accompany her wherever she might be going, or go back with the Hunstantons. “She must at least see that it is reasonable we should know,” Mrs. Norton said, with a dignified and restrained sense of injury—as one above making an open complaint, whatever reason she might have. When it came to the moment of going downstairs, Sophy indeed began to hesitate. She was afraid of Diana.

“I am sure you will talk to her better without me, dear auntie,” she said. “When any one is cross I cannot bear it.”

“That is because you are too sensitive, my love,” said Mrs. Norton. “Poor darling, who would be cross to you? and you are only afraid of Diana because of the time when she was your governess,” she added, with a mild sense of superiority as of one who never was, nor had in her family any one who required to be a governess. But nevertheless, half by moral suasion, half by authority, Sophy was made to come and back up the elder lady by her presence. They went downstairs slightly nervous it must be allowed. They knew that they were braver behind backs than when Diana looked at them with those large eyes of hers; but having made such a strenuous resolution, they could not withdraw from it now. They found Diana taking her morning coffee with a book before her, as is the use of lonely people, and she received their visit quietly as a not unusual incident. She was not an early riser—that was one of her weak points—and they were early risers; and they naturally looked at each other with a glance of commentary and gentle moral indignation at her late hours.

“You are so like a gentleman sitting there with your book,” said Sophy, with a sense of pleasure in finding something to find fault with. Diana closed the book and smiled.

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” she said, “for Sophy, I know, has the highest opinion of gentlemen. Can one do better than copy them? You have been up for hours, and have done a great many things already, while I have been idling here.”

“Yes—but then we have no maid to do anything for us; and if we want to have our things nice, we must get up early,” said Mrs. Norton. “We thought most likely you would be at breakfast, and that we should be sure to see you alone for a few minutes—you are always so much engaged now.”

“Am I? I thought I was generally at my friends’ disposal,” said Diana, with a smile; and then there was a little pause. For even her smile when she looked up at them expectant, perceiving something that was on their lips to be said, alarmed the two little women. However, Mrs. Norton, feeling the situation to be too serious for silence on her part, took courage and began—

“Diana—we don’t want to disturb you, dear. We know you are sure to do what is best and kindest for everybody; but we should just like to know, if you don’t mind, what your plans are—”

“My plans! I don’t think I have any plans,” said Diana, surprised, and then she laughed and added, “To be sure, we can’t stay here all the summer, can we? We are not at home, are we? That is what I always forget when I get settled anywhere.”

“And not much wonder: for you can surround yourself with all kinds of comforts,” said Mrs. Norton, looking round her wistfully. To be sure, the third floor upstairs was not like the piano nobile: but she did not intend to seem to make any injurious comparison. The idea was suggested however, and Diana, who was very quick, took it up, and she coloured, and a pained look came upon her face. This was the kind of reproach to which she was most susceptible. It was as if she had been accused of making herself comfortable at some one else’s expense.

“I hope you are not uncomfortable upstairs,” she said. “I thought the house was the same all the way up—no difference but the stairs.”

“Oh no, Diana, dear!” cried Sophy. “Our drawing-room is not half so big as this. It is divided into two. This part is auntie’s room in our apartment—”

“But that does not matter a bit,” cried her aunt; “you must not think we are anything but comfortable, and quite happy, Diana, and most grateful to you.”

“Never mind about being grateful,” said Diana, “the comfort is much more important.” She laughed and shook off her momentary offence. “If there is anything I can do to secure that, you must tell me,” she said, kindly; “the Hunstantons’ rooms perhaps might be better when they leave.”

“Oh!” cried both the appellants, with a common breathlessness. “That was just what we meant to ask you about,” Mrs. Norton went on—Sophy, so to speak, running behind the skirts of the elder and more skilful operator. “We wanted to know if you thought—if you wished—what you think we ought to do? We came with the Hunstantons; and Pisa is not a place to stay in, in summer. But on the other hand, to go back to the Red House when you were away, Diana—”

“Yes, I understand; but shall I be away? If Pisa is not a summer place, I cannot stop in Pisa more than any one else.”

“But you can go where you like, dear. There are a great many other places to go to. There is Florence, which you would like to see, and the Bagni di Lucca; and there is Switzerland, Diana. You can do whatever you please; but we can’t afford, can we, to do anything but go straight home?—if you think we ought to go straight home.”

Diana looked from one to the other. There was a point in which she was the foolishest of women. She liked to satisfy other people, to give them the things they wanted. When she saw a secret coveting in anybody’s eyes, instead of disapproving and reproving, the immediate thought in her mind was how she could get them what they wanted. Perhaps this was a temptation which she would not have felt had she always been Miss Trelawny of the Chase, accustomed from her cradle to be better off than other people, and feeling it natural. But the new power of giving, and of gratifying those wishes which she remembered to have entertained herself without being able to gratify them, was very pleasant to her, and she could not resist it. She was not strong enough to deny herself in order to preserve the independence of Sophy and Mrs. Norton. She looked from one to another, and saw the suppressed eagerness in their eyes.

“And you would like to go to Florence too—and Lucca—and to go home by Switzerland? Why not? It seems a very reasonable plan.”

“But we cannot afford it, Diana.”

“Oh, as for that, I can afford it. Don’t say anything,” said Diana. “Don’t you see it would be no pleasure to me to go alone?—and evidently that is the natural thing to do.”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Norton, gravely. “It is not nice to travel alone: but then the expense. How could I put you to so much expense? I don’t think it would be quite—right. I don’t think—”

“As for the right and the wrong, I think we may take them in our own hands,” said Diana, with a smile. “You must get the Bradshaw—that is what you must do, and settle the routes. Of course, we must go by Switzerland. And I had never thought of it! It is evident I want you to put things in my head.”

“You are very kind, Diana. I am sure if I can be of use in any way to you who are so good to us—and, of course, it would not be nice for you to travel alone, I allow that: even for gentlemen, it cannot be so nice. But for a lady, and so young as you are still—”

Diana laughed. She was half ashamed of herself for seeing so clearly through this little air of reluctance and difficulty. “Evidently,” she said, “I am too young to take care of myself. Any one who thinks differently does me an injury. Then that is settled, is it not? It will be a great deal more pleasant having your company. I never like to do anything alone.”

“Oh, Diana, what a darling you are! How good you always are!” cried Sophy, throwing her arms round her friend. “And I am such a nasty little thing! I thought you would not care a bit: that you would send us away with the Hunstantons by that horrid long railway, and never think—Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! and you do love us, you do like to have us with you, Diana, dear?”

“Do you expect me to make protestations?” said Diana, shaking herself free with a little embarrassment, feeling compunctions on her own side that she could not be more effusive. “I ought to have thought of it before, but it did not occur to me. Yes, to be sure, we must see the snows. We have our time in our own hands; we are not compelled to be at home by a certain day like Mr. Hunstanton.”

“Oh, Mr. Hunstanton! he is so fussy, always interfering with everything—what does it matter when he gets home? I am tired of Mr. Hunstanton!” cried Sophy.

“You should not speak so rashly, my dear. Mr. Hunstanton has been very kind. She has never liked us much. She has always been jealous of Diana’s love for you, never seeing how natural it was: but Mr. Hunstanton has always been kindness itself. Oh, I am sure she will make disagreeable remarks now! She will say we don’t mind what expense we put Diana to. I know exactly how she will look. But do not think anything of that—I do not mind, Diana. Do not imagine that I would take the pleasure out of your journey, dear, for anything any one could say—”

“And spoil our own pleasure, too, when Diana is so kind,” cried Sophy, with frank delight. “Oh, do you think my old travelling-dress will do, aunt?—or should I have another grey alpaca? Switzerland! I never, never thought of such happiness: though indeed,” added the girl with a sigh, “I shall be very, very sorry to leave Pisa, too. I have never been so happy as here.”

What was it that had made Sophy so happy? Diana looked at her with some curiosity, patting her softly on the cheeks.

“So many parties,” said Sophy, “or at least as good as parties. We have never been at home for a whole week. There has always been something going on; and expeditions; and dances now and then. I have never been so happy in all my life before.”

“Hush, hush, my darling! you would be just as happy at home. I hope my Sophy does not want constant amusement to make her happy; but still it has been very pleasant, and, of course, we could not hope to have so much in a quiet country place.”

“And in England! where, as Colonel Winthrop says, the skies are always grey, and the company bumpkins,” said Sophy, with the sublime contempt of a traveller. What could Diana do but laugh as they played their little pranks before her. They were as good as two little white mice in a cage.

“You had better look into that serious question of toilet,” she said, “and quite make up your mind whether another grey alpaca is necessary; for if we do go to Switzerland, there will be a great deal of travelling to do.”

“What shall you wear, Diana?” said Sophy, growing serious; “for you know your merino that you came in will be too warm. I wish you would think of that a little more. Yes, auntie, indeed I must speak. You know you always say that Diana never does herself justice.”

“Do I?” cried Mrs. Norton, colouring a little, while Diana laughed with great amusement. “I am sure Diana always looks well whatever she puts on. You have heard me say so a hundred times.”

“Don’t take any trouble on my account,” said Diana. “I shall find something, never fear.”

“And we are wasting all your time,” said Mrs. Norton. “Sophy, we must run away. If Diana has not the little things to do which we occupy ourselves with, she has other matters to think of. Dear Diana! how can I ever say all I think of your kindness! Nothing would make me accept it except the thought that we can perhaps, in our little way, make it pleasanter for you too.”

She was very strong on this subject to everybody to whom it was mentioned afterwards. “Yes,” she said, “we are going to Switzerland. Dear Diana does not like to travel alone; and, indeed, it is scarcely proper, for she is still quite what is considered a young lady, you know—though, of course, a very great deal older than my Sophy; and Diana has been so very kind to us that I like to do all I can to be of use to her. Sophy will enjoy it too. Oh, it is not at all disagreeable to me, I assure you,” she said, smiling with gentle friendliness and resignation. The chaplain’s wife, if no other, thought it was “so kind” of Mrs. Norton to go to Switzerland with Miss Trelawny. “It took them all by surprise, I believe, and they had made their plans to go home: but they are such good creatures, so unselfish! They have changed all their arrangements rather than that Miss Trelawny should have the annoyance of travelling alone.” This was repeated over and over again that afternoon in the little church coterie at a choir practice, where there was quite a flutter of admiration over the unselfishness of the two little ladies. The glee-party was all there, with the exception of Mrs. Hunstanton, whose absence, perhaps, was fortunate in the circumstances. As for Mrs. Norton, she never departed from this ground even in her most private moments. “I am so fond of Diana that nothing is a trouble,” she said, “she has always been such a friend;” and then it got whispered round, to the great admiration and surprise of everybody, that Miss Trelawny, though so great a lady, had once been Sophy’s governess. What a wonderful thing it was! everybody said; exactly like a romance in real life!

The Snodgrasses, who were also at the choir practice, heard, like the rest, of Miss Trelawny’s plan, and the excitement of the information brought the curate out of his corner. “I don’t really care about going to Florence. I never did care,” he said hurriedly to his uncle. “Switzerland is what I should like most.” The rector shook his head, and called his dear Bill a goose; but yet, reflecting within himself that dear Bill was six feet high, and a fine specimen of a man (though not perhaps what is generally called handsome), and that Miss Trelawny had a fine fortune, and that Perseverance was the thing which carried the day, Mr. Snodgrass thought that perhaps, by chance, so to speak (if it were not an impious thing to speak of Chance), he might direct his steps to Switzerland too. So that a whole party of people were moved, and their intentions and destinations changed, by the impatience and disappointment of Sophy Norton at the prospect of an abrupt conclusion of her holiday. She thought herself, and with justice, an insignificant little person, yet it was she who had made all this commotion.

In the meantime Sophy’s own head was full of her wardrobe, to the exclusion of other ideas. Should she have dresses enough for the summer? should she want another grey alpaca? or could she get on with what she had, with a new white frock, perhaps, and a dust-cloak? “There is nothing looks so nice as white,” said Sophy, regarding her wardrobe with an anxious pleasure. “In fine weather, my darling: but it always rains among the mountains, and a white dress, or a cotton dress of any kind, looks poor in bad weather.” This was a very serious question: for indeed she had a grey alpaca already, which was too good yet to be taken merely for a travelling-dress. It was the one which had been made up on the model of Diana’s beautiful new silk from M. Worth’s. This was a very perplexing problem, and one which gave them a great deal of trouble; but yet it was a happy kind of care.

As for Diana, she had the faculty of putting aside the points that jarred in her friends’ characters. She was aware that they were not perhaps so unselfish as they took credit for being, and she could not but laugh softly under her breath at Mrs. Norton’s solemn conviction that she “could be of use” to Diana. But what then?—what did it matter after all? It would be pleasant enough to go to Switzerland, and travelling alone was not very pleasant. So far the Nortons were right. Diana feared (a little) the innuendoes of Mrs. Hunstanton when she heard of the project; but otherwise it amused her (she did not put it on any higher ground) to see their pleasure, to indulge them with every luxury of a journey made en prince. To have everything you can desire, without ever having to think of the expense, how pleasant it was! How she would have liked it when she was poor! She did not say to herself that she had been as independent as she was poor, and would not have lightly taken such a pleasure at any one’s hand. Why should she have remembered this? Sophy was not like her: and after all, to make these two little women perfect, to reform their characters, and mould them after her own model, was at once a hopeless proceeding and one altogether out of her way.

XI. THE PROPOSAL

The rooms on the third floor of the Palazzo de Sogni were not like those in Diana’s beautiful appartamento. The drawing-room, which was so spacious and lofty in the piano nobile, was low, and divided into two; one half of it was Mrs. Norton’s bedroom. In moments of excitement, and in the early part of the day, the door of communication was sometimes left open, though it was against all the English ideas of nicety and tidiness, in which these little ladies were so strong, to leave a bedroom visible. But what else could be done, when Sophy was seized with that anxiety about her toilet, and the delightful sense of preparation for a further holiday whirled them both out of their sober routine? Mrs. Norton had her excuse all ready if anybody should call—that is, if any lady should call—for the thought of a masculine foot crossing her threshold did not occur to her. “We have no maid,” was what she would say, “and of course there are a great many things which we must do ourselves. Fortunately, I am quite fond of needlework, and Sophy is so clever, and has such taste. You would never think that pretty dress was made at home? but I assure you it is all our own work. The only thing is that we keep the bedroom door open, in order to keep this one as tidy as possible.” Every visitor (being a lady) sympathised and understood: and gentlemen, except the clergyman, never came. A clergyman, by virtue of his profession, has more understanding on these points—has he not?—than ordinary men; he is apt to understand how poor ladies have to employ themselves when they have no maid; in short, he has the feminine element so strongly developed as to be able to criticise without rushing into mere ignorant censure, as probably a gentleman visitor of another kind would have done. And no profane male foot ever crossed Mrs. Norton’s threshold. They were at their ease therefore next morning, after their interview with Diana, when they got up to the serious business of the day. There was no hurry; but the work was agreeable, the excitement of preparation agreeable, and then, to be sure, a hundred things might happen to hasten their departure, and it was always best to be prepared. The door of Mrs. Norton’s sanctuary was accordingly standing wide open, revealing not only the Italian bed with its crackling high-piled mattress of turchino[10], but a large wardrobe standing open with all kinds of dresses hung up inside. The alpaca which was in question was spread out upon the sofa in the little drawing-room, and formed the foreground to the picture. They were both standing at a little distance contemplating it with anxious interest. Mrs. Norton had her head on one side. Sophy had a pair of scissors in her hand. It was almost the most difficult question that had ever come before them.

“It is very elaborately made,” said Mrs. Norton, doubtfully. “The flounces would be very awkward in a travelling-dress. They are so heavy to hold up, and they get so full of dust—”

“But, auntie, I have heard you say it made all the difference to a dress when it was nicely made.”

“Yes, that is very true; but a travelling-dress ought to be simple—it never ought to have a train, especially for a young person. You ought to be able to jump out and in of carriages, and never think of your dress. Besides, that would be so useful at home. You could wear it so nicely for Diana’s little parties, or when she is alone—”

“Oh, auntie! I shall never care for these horrid little parties again.”

“Hush, my darling! at least you must never talk like that. You will be very glad of them, Sophy, when winter comes.”

Sophy shook her head: but the present matter was still more important. “Something new would be better, no doubt,” she said, “for the evening—one of those light silks that are almost as cheap as alpaca. When one has to get a new thing, isn’t it better to have it for one’s best? whereas an alpaca is never very much for a best dress, and would look nothing in the evening; and making a new common dress is just as troublesome as making a handsome one. And I might cut this a little shorter, or loop it up: and it would look nice when we stayed anywhere for a few days. Diana will insist on staying everywhere for a few days: I am sure she cannot really like travelling: and this with my white frocks when it is very fine—”

“I see your heart is set upon a new silk.”

“No, indeed, auntie,” said Sophy, half offended. “The only thing is, what should I do with two grey alpacas? If I were to take off the trimming here, and change this flounce—”

“Run, Sophy, run! there is some one at the door. Filomena has no sense—she will show them in at once.”

“What does it matter?” said Sophy. “It can only be Mrs. Hunstanton—I don’t mind at all what she says. I should like her to know. She ought to be cured of her interfering. It will let her see who Diana cares the most for. It will show her—”

“Mr. Hunstanton!” cried Mrs. Norton, with almost a shriek. A gentleman! and actually the bed visible, and all the things hanging up. She made a dart at the door and shut it, then turned round breathless but bland. “This is a pleasure!” she said; “but you find us in great disorder. I am so sorry. We were just arranging a little against our journey.”

“What journey?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Don’t apologise. I like to have a finger in the pie. You shall have my advice with the greatest pleasure. But what journey? Were you thinking really of returning with us? That would be good news: though I think I have perhaps something to say that may make a difference. Don’t take away the dress: I am a great authority about dress—though my wife snubs me. Don’t take it away.”

“We are going with Diana,” said Mrs. Norton. “If we had been going home there is nothing I should have liked so much as going with your party. You were all so kind to us coming. But our first duty is to Diana. She has never been abroad before—she thinks she would like to return by Switzerland, and see as much as possible; and, of course, I could not let her go alone. And Sophy will enjoy it—though, indeed,” said the little woman, with a sigh, “it will not be unalloyed pleasure to me. My circumstances were very different when I was there before. Still I must not be selfish; and, of course, I could not let Diana go alone. After all her kindness to Sophy, that would be too ungrateful—it is what I could not do—”

“Whew!” said Mr. Hunstanton under his breath: and then corrected himself, and composed his countenance. “So you are going to Switzerland with Diana. Ah-h!—with Diana! That is a new idea. Bless me! I wonder what Diana will say to me if I spoil her trip for her? Mrs. Norton, I have come to say something very important to you. It is not on my own account exactly. I am come as an ambassador; as—plenipotentiary. I have got something to say to you. Well, of course I don’t know what you will answer; but it is not disagreeable. It is the sort of thing I have always heard that ladies like to hear—”

Mrs. Norton looked with unfeigned amazement at the beaming ambassador, whose enjoyment of his office there could, at least, be no doubt about. The smile on his face, the knowing look, the air of mingled fun and flattery which he put on, with a comical assumption of the aspect which the wooer he represented ought to have worn, half alarmed her. Though she was conscious to the bottom of her heart of her dignity as a married woman, with a late “dear husband” to refer to, yet the mild little lady was as old-maidish in her primness and over-delicacy as the most pronounced specimen of that type. What could Mr. Hunstanton mean? Had he gone out of his senses? or was there anybody so rash and foolish as to think of addressing her, a clergyman’s widow, in this way? A momentary recollection of Mr. Snodgrass flashed across her mind, and a slight blush came upon her matronly cheek.

“Oh, shall I run away?” cried Sophy, still more surprised, and most unwilling to go.

“No, no! Sophy must not go—why, it is all about Sophy!” cried Mr. Hunstanton. “She must not go on any account. Mrs. Norton, you know it isn’t our English way; but whether it is that I have lived so much abroad, I don’t know, but I think it a very rational way. Inquire first if there are any objections; and then if there are any objections, withdraw without humiliation. Oh yes, I have a great opinion of the good sense of an English girl; but still you know, Sophy, you are fallible, and sometimes a man is drawn on—and then sent to the right-about, as if he had no feelings at all.”

Mrs. Norton had taken time to compose herself during this speech. She dismissed the rector out of her mind abruptly, with something of the feeling with which she would have turned an impertinent intruder out of doors—indignant: though, indeed, it was not at all Mr. Snodgrass’s fault that she had thought of him. The excitement was scarcely less when the case was that of Sophy: but still that personal suggestion took the edge off her flutter, and made her listen more calmly. But there are limits to patience. She interrupted Mr. Hunstanton with all the weight of authority. Here certainly she was mistress of the position; though it was not very clearly apparent what that position was.

“I have no objection to you as an ambassador, Mr. Hunstanton,” she said, “and I think it very right that any gentleman should address me first rather than to disturb my child. But Sophy, pardon me, had better withdraw. The only reason for telling me would be that Sophy should not know—except afterwards, if I thought fit, through me.”

“Oh, auntie!” said Sophy, under her breath. She stood, holding the dress in her hands, in natural curiosity and excitement, her pretty round face all flushed. She did not want to go; but she was dutiful though she was excited, and thought of nothing beyond remonstrance. Mr. Hunstanton, for his part, lost his head altogether. He got up and took the dress out of her hands (not so awkwardly for a man, they said afterwards). When he had laid it down with clumsy care on the sofa, he took Sophy’s hand, and drew her forward. “Sit down here,” he said. “Come, Sophy, you needn’t blush. I am not going to make love to you. We’ll leave him to do that; but I can’t let you be sent away. It is her affair. Let her hear it. After all, there is nobody so much interested. Well now, look here—guess! You ladies have eyes more than we have for that sort of thing especially. Who do you suppose has sent me here to-day?”

Sophy sat where he had placed her, and looked at him, her soft little face crimson with excitement and pleasurable expectation, her blue eyes round and eager. She was a pretty little thing, and a man would be very well off, the ambassador thought, with such a fresh soft innocent creature always looking up to him. Mr. Hunstanton was sensible enough to feel that a wife always looking up to you might be, on the whole, inconvenient now and then: but still it would be pleasant; and it would just suit Pandolfini, who was a solemn sort of personage. Where is the man that would not like it? though the other sort of wife is of more use, perhaps; and he was content with his own lot. Sophy looked quite ready to accept any love-making that should come her way. Her lips were a little apart, her breath coming quick, her little heart all a-flutter, her whole mind absorbed in inquiry. Who could it be? Pandolfini was the romantic hero of Sophy’s imagination, but there were two or three others whom she would not have frowned upon. Which could it be? Her eyes fixed upon Mr. Hunstanton with growing eagerness. She made a pretty picture—all glowing innocence and ignorance, the most charming blank sheet of paper on which a man could desire to inscribe his name.

“Mr. Hunstanton!” said Mrs. Norton, shocked; “indeed I don’t approve of my child being exposed to this. Sophy, you had really better go away. It is quite improper—it is a sort of thing—we are not accustomed to—”

“I should hope not, I should hope not, my dear Mrs. Norton; though I don’t doubt that you knew all about it in your day. But Sophy is young enough to begin her experiences, and I trust we shall bring them to a close very suddenly. Now I am not going to keep you in suspense. Mrs. Norton, you know him very well. You have had ways of seeing how much we think of him. My wife has the very highest opinion—and you know in many things Mrs. Hunstanton is perhaps more difficile than I am. His means are not great. He has enough to be very comfortable, but not enough to make a great show according to our English notions” (here Sophy’s countenance fell a little, for, to be sure, where everything was so vague, it was easy to add riches to the fabulous unknown wooer); “but Sophy is not the girl to mind that: and he belongs to a very good family. She will be able to call cousin with half the princes in the Italian peerage.”

“Mr. Hunstanton!” cried Mrs. Norton, breathless; “what is all this in comparison to more essential things? It depends entirely upon Sophy’s feelings; and how can we tell till we know—not what he is, but who he is?”

“My dear lady, am not I just going to tell you? Sophy knows who he is. She has found it out in his eyes, as I did. Why, who should it be but Pandolfini? And a man any girl might be proud of—a fellow, though I say it that shouldn’t—who knows English as well, and is as fond of it as of his own language—a most accomplished fellow! I verily believe just the best man living, and so modest you would never find it out. There’s the lover I bring you, Sophy; and if you don’t appreciate him, you are not the girl I took you for. He deserves—simply the most charming wife in the world.”

“The Cavaliere!” cried Sophy under her breath. In the first moment of awe the colour fled from her cheeks.

“Mr. Pandolfini!” cried her aunt. Then she paused and looked at Sophy, who sat breathless, the blush coming back again. “Mr. Hunstanton, I am sure you will not doubt we are very sensible of the honour he does us. Not that my Sophy would not be an ornament to any family; but till I know her feelings—Yes; he is a very charming person indeed. I have the greatest respect for him—and admiration—a man that any one might be proud of, as you say; but till I know my Sophy’s feelings—my darling?” the little woman grew tremulous. It was a situation which she had never realised.

“Oh, auntie!” cried Sophy, throwing herself into Mrs. Norton’s arms. The girl laid her head upon her aunt’s shoulder, and melted into sobs. “Oh, I am not good enough! I am not clever enough! It cannot be me he cares for.”

“My darling! when Mr. Hunstanton tells you—”

“Oh, it must be some mistake—it must be some mistake!” cried Sophy, burrowing with her head in her aunt’s bosom. Mrs. Norton encircled her with tender arms. She felt that her child was behaving herself at this wonderful emergency exactly as she ought.

“You see how much overcome she is! You must let us have a little time, dear Mr. Hunstanton. You can imagine the excitement, the agitation. She is so young. And when I am so much upset myself, what should she be—at her age? But, indeed, it is I who have the most occasion,” said the little lady, beginning to cry: “for what shall I do without my Sophy?—not that I should think of that when her happiness is concerned.”

“Oh, auntie!” cried Sophy, clasping her close, and burrowing more than ever, “I could never leave you—how could I ever leave you? You must always—always stay with me.”

Mr. Hunstanton rubbed his hands. “I see—I see!” he said, “it is too early for a direct answer; but I don’t think Pandolfini need be cast down. I think there are indications that he will gain the day.”

At this moment it became apparent to Mrs. Norton that Sophy’s agitation was too sacred to be witnessed by strange eyes, especially by a gentleman’s eyes. Encircling her child with one arm, and holding her close to her breast, she extended the other hand to Mr. Hunstanton. It was too exquisite a moment for ceremony. “Dear friend,” she said, amid her tears, “you see how it is. Leave me alone with her, and if you will come later—or I will write you a note: yes, that is the best, I will write you a note. No, I do not think he need despair.”

“I understand—I understand—a note will be the best, which I can show him,” cried Mr. Hunstanton, delighted. “Good-bye—good-bye, Sophy. Yes—yes, I shall take myself off. Let her have it out; but it will not be long till Miss will be turned into Madame, I can see. Never mind the door. I hope I can open it for myself. Yes—yes, it is she that wants you most, poor little soul!”

Sophy raised herself from her shelter when the ambassador was heard to go; her pretty little face was all stained like a child’s with tears. “Oh, auntie!” she cried, looking her aunt in the face, then giving her a still closer hug; and then there followed a moment of mutual endearment, sobs, and kisses. “Oh, auntie, do you think it can be true? Him. I thought him so far above me. I never thought he would look twice at a little insignificant thing like me.”

This was selon les règles[11] too; and Mrs. Norton felt with unfeigned satisfaction that Sophy was fully equal to the circumstances, and was saying and doing exactly what she ought. She pressed her to her breast with mingled love, respect, and admiration. Nothing inappropriate or out of place had come from Sophy’s lips. In everything she had comported herself as the most anxious of aunts could wish; and all the girls of England might have been there to take a lesson. Mrs. Norton breathed a sigh of content as she pressed her child to her heart.

“My darling, you are too humble—not that I wish you different, Sophy. I like to see that my child is the only one that is unconscious of her own merits. But Love sees further. Dear fellow! Oh, what a happiness for me, my pet, to think, if anything happened to me, that I could leave you in such good hands!”

“But oh, auntie, him! I thought it was Diana he would care for—”

“Diana, Sophy? My dear, Diana is very handsome—for her age: but she is not like you. You know how fond I am of Diana; but gentlemen don’t care for such clever women. They like some one to look up to them, not a person who is always standing on her opinion. No, my darling, Diana will never attract a man of fine feeling like dear Mr. Pandolfini. It is not just an equal he wants. He wants a clinging, sweet, dependent creature. And then youth, my pet, youth! that always carries the day.”

“But oh, auntie, fancy any one being with Diana, and preferring poor little me!”

What more natural than that a flutter of gratified vanity should thrill through the girl! Mrs. Norton shared it to the fullest extent. She said, “I never expected anything else. Though I don’t set up for being clever, I know the world, and I know gentlemen. It is not talent that is necessary for that—you know I don’t pretend to talent—but experience, and perhaps a little insight. Oh yes, I know what may be looked for. I know what gentlemen are; and you may take my word for it, Sophy, a woman of Diana’s age has no chance—especially when they look their years as dear Diana does fully, whatever your partiality may say.”

“She will dress in such an old-fashioned way. I have spoken to her about it so often, and she never pays any attention. But oh, auntie! what will Diana say?”

“I don’t know what she can say, dear, but congratulations. Dear Diana, she will be so glad of your good fortune. She always is so generous. She will be sure to want to help with your trousseau; and it is evidently such a pleasure to her that one never knows how to refuse.”

“Oh!” cried Sophy, hiding her face, “it is too soon surely, surely, to think of anything of the kind. A trousseau, auntie! it scarcely seems—proper,—it scarcely seems—delicate.—”

“My darling, you are so sensitive!” said Mrs. Norton, taking her child once more into her close embrace.

It was not, however, till several hours later that she wrote her note to Mr. Hunstanton. It was quite a model of what an acceptance should be: dignified, yet not too dignified; cordial, yet not too effusive. She appreciated Mr. Pandolfini, but she knew the value of the treasure she was giving. “I shall be happy to see him this evening or to-morrow,” she wrote. “They will be better able to understand each other when they meet by themselves; and I too shall be glad to have a talk with Mr. Pandolfini.” Mr. Hunstanton rubbed his hands as he put this epistle in his pocket-book. “I knew they would be delighted,” he said to himself, “and with good reason. Why he should have made such a fuss I don’t know; for, of course, it’s a capital match for Sophy. And she’ll make him a nice little wife, and give him a tidy, comfortable English home, which is a thing not very common in Italy. My wife, by the by, will be in a pretty way! She never could bear these two harmless little bodies. Why are women so queer? They never judge as we do. But here’s a settler for them all,” he said, chuckling and patting his breast-pocket Certainly it was all done and settled, and put beyond the reach of uncertainty now.

XII. THE HOUSE OF DREAMS

Pandolfini scarcely slept at all that night. His mind was full of dreams and visions, and an agitation beyond his control. He let himself in to his sombre appartamento, which was all empty, echoing and vacant, and lit his lamp from the taper which he had carried with him up the dark stair-case. The rooms he inhabited were in an old palace which belonged to his family, but of which he had only a corner now. Upstairs lived an old couple of his kindred who had their terzo piano by right of blood. In the higher storeys there were some suites of smaller rooms let to smaller people. Down below in the piano nobile was an English family, the usual tenants of everything worth tenanting. His second floor contained some handsome rooms, and there was one at least which showed more signs of being lived in than seems natural to Italian rooms. It was somewhat richly hung with old tapestry. There was a carpet—unusual luxury!—covering the centre of the floor, and the walls which were not tapestried were clad with book-shelves. Books, too, were in all the corners, piled even on the floor, but carefully piled and in order, arranged by a hand that loved them. There was no sign of any one living but himself in the dark silent place, where his little open lamp with its three slightly flickering flames made a mere speck of light in the darkness, and his foot on the marble of the floor made an echoing sound all through the house till it reached the sanctuary of the old soft Turkey carpet, from which long usage had worn the pattern here and there.

He put down the lamp on the table and threw himself into a chair. The figures in the tapestry were undecipherable in the dim light, except just opposite to it where a shepherdess and shepherd sat in eternal dalliance upon the little green mound beloved of such art. The soft and worn tints gave a certain faint cheerfulness to the wall, but all was dark around and as still as the night itself. Old Antonio, his faithful servant, slept in a corner somewhere, peacefully undisturbed by the master’s comings or goings. The donna da faccenda, or woman-of-all-work, had long ago gone home to her family. This was all his establishment. The conversation he had just had, awakened, as may well be supposed, a thousand thoughts in the Italian’s mind. It had been all fervent poetry as he stood outside her door and walked home along Arno, hearing the bells chime her sweet name: Di—ana, Di-an-a, with its long, soft vowels, such as an Italian loves. But when he reached his own house, other thoughts not less thrilling or sweet, though more real, came into his mind. Was it possible that she should set foot here even—take up her abode here? He rose up from his chair when that fancy came to him, and stood with his breast expanded and his head held high, not feeling that he had breath enough for such a thought. Diana—and here; and then it occurred to him, perhaps for the first time, how poor and dark and silent it was, how worn and faded, how unlike a shrine for such a saint! What could he do to it to make it better? Pandolfini was not of so poor a spirit as to think that Love (if for him such a thing could be) would despise his condition and surroundings. No; if, profoundest wonder of wonders, Diana should love him, as his friend took upon himself to promise, what to her would be the circumstances external to him? Nothing! He had forgotten that he had heard it said she was a great lady in her own home—forgotten even the superior wealth of her surroundings here. He cared nothing about these, and Diana would care nothing. If only the first might be true, there was nothing else to be taken thought of. The wonder of her loving him could not be greater if she were a queen.

But supposing—then what could be done to make the faded things bright, to renovate, and warm, and light up his house for her coming? He dropped back into his chair and began to think. Could any magic make these apartments worthy of her? Then he rose hastily, unable to be still in his excitement, and took up his lamp in his hand again, and began to go over the room, his head throbbing with agitating thoughts. Every new door he opened sent a thrill of echoes through the place, until at last they disturbed the rest of old Antonio, who sallied forth in alarm, his grey locks tumbled from his pillow, his eyes fiery yet full of sleep, a coloured counterpane wrapped round him for want of better. “Ah! it is only the padrone[12],” cried Antonio, turning his back without another word, but with muttered grumblings in his throat. He was angry to be disturbed. “Surely he walks enough in the day to leave one tranquil at night,” the old man grumbled, as he restored the counterpane to his bed. Then a momentary thought struck him that it might not be the padrone at all, but his double, presaging evil. But after a moment’s thought, Antonio dismissed that idea; for had not his quick eye caught that very thin place, not yet a hole, on the right leg of the padroni’s pantoloons, which he had brushed so carefully that morning? No ghost risen from the grave could know about that thin place. So Antonio went grumbling yet calm to bed. Pandolfini took little notice of this old grey apparition. He gave the old man a nod, and passed on. There were many empty rooms to go through, all furnished after a sort, all with cold glistening marble floors, dim great mirrors, into which his lamp gleamed with mysterious reflections, dark pictures, bits of tapestry, here a frescoed wall, there a richly decorated roof. The remains of wealth, or rather the ghosts of wealth, were there standing with a forlorn pride in the midst of the cold and of the dim reflected lights. Of all the rooms he went into, only his own library could be called inhabitable, much less comfortable; and yet there was a faded grace and dignity in everything. Would she prize that and understand it? he wondered. Ah yes! Could it be possible that Diana did not understand everything, see everything with the noblest, gentlest comprehension of all that had been noble, then she would not have been the Diana of his thoughts. She would understand. She would learn the story of the house, and its decadence, and its pride—all in a glance. But—would she prefer her English comfort, her warmth of carpets and close-drawn hangings, and the insular way of cushioning and smoothing over every sharp corner—to this old chill splendour and poverty? He could not answer himself with any satisfaction; and his thoughts carried him further to his little farm in Tuscany, and the villa with its bare rooms and terraces, which had not even any trace of old splendour to veil the present poverty. Would it be better to dismiss the forestieri down below, who paid so good a rent for the piano nobile, and so make more room and a more seemly habitation—something more worthy of her? But then his foreign lodgers gave a very agreeable addition to his funds; and how could he do without that? or how adapt the villa for an English lady without spending of money which was impossible to him?

When the vague raptures of a dawning love change into plans of intending matrimony, the difference is very great. Had he known how rich Diana was, the simple-minded Italian might have taken matters more easily perhaps than an Englishman would have approved of; but he was an Anglomane, and had picked up some reflections of English thoughts, which made him try anxiously now if there was any way by which he himself on his own finances could accomplish all this. And the question was grave, very grave, deepening the furrows on his forehead. When he paused from these reflections, and the first initial thought of all,—the idea that Diana—Diana! loved him,—came back to his mind, Pandolfini’s heart recovered itself with a great throb of happiness beyond all imagining, an incredulous triumph of joy, which took away his breath. But then he fell back again into his anxieties, his questions. To realise this crown of all possible gladness and delight, what cares, what anxious self-discussions, what elaborate calculations must he go through! how could he make her life fair, and bright, and free from the pinchings which were in so many Italian houses, which he had learned by heart in his own life, and which, if they no longer existed for him now, might come back again were he to launch into greater expenditure and luxuries hitherto unknown?

He sat up half the night pondering all these strange new thoughts, which were penetrated now and then as by a sudden golden arrow, by that flash of consciousness which made everything glow and shine. But this very consciousness, this ecstasy, was the occasion and beginning of the care. After he had deliberated and deliberated till his very brain ached, he took paper and a pen, and began to put down his calculations. The very act of doing so, putting this wonderful hope, so to speak, into black and white, and making his visionary preparations into a tangible thing which he could look at, thrilled him through and through again with touches of delight He leant back in his chair, and laughed softly, so softly that the low utterance was more like a tone upon an instrument than the commonplace happiness of laughter. To him, to come to him! he who had never expected it, never hoped for it, since his first youth. Love! He was incredulous of it, yet believed in it to the bottom of his profound and passionate soul.

Thus he sat through the long night, feeling neither cold nor weariness, nor as if he could ever want such vulgar consolations as sleep, until Antonio’s first stirring in the blue chill of the morning aroused him from his arithmetic and his thoughts. He started guiltily, and saw the flicker of his poor little lamp reflected in the dim mirror at the end of the room, in the midst of a soft clearness of the day, which confused him, and gave him a sense of shame, as if some cool and calm spectator had suddenly looked over his shoulder and seen the follies that occupied him. Quickly and abashed he extinguished the lamp, gathered up all his papers carefully, opened the window to let in the morning air still somewhat chill: and feeling for the first time a little stiff and cold, crept noiselessly to bed, afraid to be found out by Antonio, who, however, was not deceived by this stealthy retreat, and knew very well by the smell of the suddenly extinguished lamp, and the creak of the opened window, that his master had been keeping unholy vigils. “Had he slept when all Christians ought to sleep he should have got up now,” said Antonio, “instead of stealing to bed like a thief lest I should find him. Ah, padrone mio! if you could but learn what was for your true advantage!” But that is what young men will never learn till it is too late, Antonio reminded himself: for his master was yet young to Antonio, a fit subject for lecturing and good advice still.

Pandolfini came out of his room at a respectably early hour after all, and with innocent looks that did all but deceive his old servant “I hope I did not disturb you last night,” he said, with hypocritical amiability; “I was looking for—a—book.”

“The padrone did not disturb me last night,” said Antonio, severely; “but this morning when I found the lamp still hot, and the illustrissimo’s[13] chair warm! padrone mio! it is no good for the health. There is a time to sleep, which is the night; there is a time, if you will, to make calculations to amuse one’s self—to play, if it is necessary—and that is day.”

“I am going to make use of the day,” said Pandolfini, taking the cup of coffee which was his cheerless breakfast. And then he added, “Don’t you think, my old Toni, that the olives at the farm might yield a little more oil? Marchese Rolfo has no better land than I have, and yet he sends more flasks to the market.”

“Marchese Rolfo is an old miser; he wrings the trees and the poor men that keep them,” cried Antonio; “and Gigi at the villa is as honest a man as any I know. The padrone forgets that it has been a bad year.”

“It is always a bad year,” said Pandolfini, ruefully. “I never knew it otherwise since I was a boy.”

“Praised be God, yet we live! we are not, after all, at the mercy of the olives,” said the old man, cleverly shifting his ground; then he added, in more insinuating yet judicial tones, “If, instead of making calculations on the tombola, as I see you have been doing, whether numbers or colours I know not, the padrone would make himself beautiful and marry one of those rich English ladies, who have more money than they know what to do with—”

“Fie, Tonino! is it better to be at the mercy of a lady, than of the olives?”

“That is quite different. They are only women at the best, however rich they may be; and a man is no man who cannot manage a woman; but the Providence of heaven which is inscrutable, which will send a frost when it is sunshine that is wanted, and torrents when one has but asked for showers, that is what no man can manage. The padrone may be sure that I give him good advice.”

“And why not?” said Pandolfini, with that smile which is confusion to all givers of advice. “Why not?” Was that an answer to make, as if it were some bagatelle? Antonio began to sweep energetically, careless of his master’s coffee; and Pandolfini sallied out into the fresh morning. He was not a man so objectless as not to know what to do with himself when he happened to be earlier than usual. But to-day, what was there to do? He crossed the streets, and went and looked over the low wall at Arno sweeping on below. There had been rain, and the stream was very full. The hurry and sweep of the yellow water seemed to carry his soul with it as it flowed and flowed. But it carried everything with indifference, not to be diverted from its flowing!—all kinds of waifs and strays, and even a common boat which had got loose, and was blundering heavily down-stream, like the blind thing it was, bumping here and there, carried along with a sort of labouring, piteous appeal for guidance. Pandolfini watched it with a kind of half amusement, half sympathy. It caught at last in a muddy corner under the first arch of the bridge, the only gloomy and dirty spot, so far as could be seen, in all the hurrying stream. Was this what Antonio called inscrutable Providence?—that strange, impersonal, half-heathen deity, to whose operations all Christendom attributes every evil with a sort of pious resentment?

When the boat was thus arrested in its course, Pandolfini roused himself from his fascination. He went into the little Church of the Spina, close to the river, and heard a Mass, though it was not his custom; and then he sallied forth again, and performed a multitude of little duties which he had neglected—a curious jumble. He paid a few little debts; he went and looked at some pictures which he had long forgotten; he paid a few visits—to an old canonico in the cathedral, who had taught him when he was a boy, to an old servant, to a friend whom he had almost lost sight of—such visits as might be made any morning. It seemed to him afterwards that everything he had done was like the half-conscious act of a man taking leave of his old life. When the thought occurred to him it did not make him melancholy. It is only sad to take leave of a phase of life which is ending, when that to which you look forward is less happy. When it is the other way, is there not a secret exultation, a concealed happiness, even in the farewell?

It was too early yet to go to Hunstanton, to inquire into his success. Englishmen are not so early as Italians, and Pandolfini remembered with a smile all the ceremonies that his friend had to get through before commencing any enterprise out of doors. First his breakfast—a meal unknown to the abstemious Tuscan, whose coffee was swallowed in two minutes; then the letters and newspapers which the post brought him; then his “business” in his study apart from the vulgar eye, a formula Mr. Hunstanton went through religiously, as if he had his estate to manage on the second floor of the Palazzo dei Sogni. All these had to be gone through—and who could tell how many more? He gazed at the great house from the other side of the river before there was any sign of waking save in the rooms under the roof, where the tenants were out upon the loggias, and busy with their morning occupations like the rest of their countryfolk, long before the drowsy English had opened an eyelid.

Then the persianis began to open one by one, and the mist of dreams cleared off. On the first floor the persianis had not been closed at all. How he knew Diana in that! how she loved the air, the morning sunshine, not yet too hot for pleasure, the soft gay shining of the morning, even the sounds beneath which more fastidious forestieri objected to! Nor hers the ear that was ready to be offended by lively voices of common life, by the morning noises and cries of humble traffic. Pandolfini’s heart swelled, and a soft moisture of exquisite feeling came to his eyes. Though she was of the family of the Dreams, as he had said, no artificial gloom of drawn curtains, of hushed movement, was natural to Diana; the early sunshine, the morning bells, the herb-gatherers’ cry in the streets, were no disturbance to her. The sweet homely stir of living was the best call for her. He felt that it was in her to rise lightly as the lark to all the duties of that blessed common living, were they necessary; and the more homely they were, the more noble would Diana appear in them. So he thought, looking across from the other side of Arno with that exquisite moisture in his eyes, in that glory of the morning. As a matter of fact, the first English head that appeared at the windows of the Palazzo dei Sogni was Mrs. Norton’s, who pushed the persianis open with her own hand to air the rooms, and looked out like a little brown hen-bird, the grandmother, if there could be such an official, of the nest. She called to Sophy to make haste, to get ready, while she made the tea, and to come and look at the market-people coming in from the country—or rather going away again, as they were by this time; and then Sophy looked out with all her curls. But the watcher did not so much as notice these two, and Diana’s balcony remained vacant. Notwithstanding all these beautiful thoughts about her, and notwithstanding that these thoughts were all true, Diana, as a matter of fact, was not, at this period of her life, an early riser, as has been already said.

Poor Pandolfini! He knew no more than the least interested passer-by the disastrous business his English friend was doing for him a little later on—nor how his fate was getting decided, and all the miraculous sweetness over which he was brooding, being turned to gall. He waited through all the long morning, remembering English habits with a shrug of his shoulders, till “luncheon”—mysterious word!—should be over; reflecting, perhaps not quite justly as he did so, on the portentous English appetite which demanded two meals so early in the day. Then, with a heart which did something more than beat, which gave leaps and bounds against his breast, and then paused breathless to recover itself, he rushed up the long stairs. Diana was on her balcony as he approached, and after a little wave of her hand to him, disappeared suddenly. What did that mean? His heart sank, then bounded again with excitement, anxiety, suspense. He rushed up to the Hunstantons’ second floor like a whirlwind, and found himself in his friend’s room, breathless, speechless, breaking in, he supposed, like a thief.

“Well?”—all the breath left in him, and all the fever of emotion, came forth in the one word.

“My dear fellow!” cried Mr. Hunstanton, with both hands held out, “my dear Pandolfini! I congratulate you! Well?—yes, of course, all’s well as I told you. They are as pleased as possible—say they never thought of such a thing, as all women do—but feel sure there never was anybody so good, and so perfect and delightful. Bless you, I knew it! They are as happy as you are, all in a flutter; and you are to go up at once.”

Pandolfini’s eager countenance was as a gamut of all emotions as his friend spoke—the blank of utter anxiety, the leap of hasty delight, the cloud of doubt: and withal a touch of fastidious and troubled dissatisfaction impossible to describe. He grasped and held Hunstanton’s hand, holding himself up by them, body and soul, and gazing at him with eyes that grew almost terrible in the strain.

“They!” he said, still breathless, with a long-drawn gasp, in a voice husky with agitation. “They? Who is—the other?”

“My dear fellow! You to ask such a thing with your Italian notions! Of course, her aunt! You might have done it, being the lover; but you don’t suppose I, an ambassador, could have made my proposals to little Sophy all alone! Love has turned your head.”

Pandolfini dropped his friend’s hands: a sudden darkness seemed to come over him and swallow him up. He staggered to the window, and stood there silent for a moment, looking blankly out.

XIII. A SURPRISE

Diana had begun to feel the influence of the Italian warmth, and that sweet penetrating sunshine which is happiness enough without any more active happiness, when there is no active suffering to neutralise it. She spent the whole morning in her balcony, or close by it. The balcony was full of flowers; the sounds outside came softened through the golden warmth of the air, in which voices and sounds of wheels, and clatter of hoofs and tinkle of bells, were all fused together into a homely music. It filled her with a sense of activity and living, though she was in reality doing nothing. As she sat idly among the flowers in the balcony, raising her head now and then, with the curiosity of true do-nothingness, when some special movement, something flitting across the level of her vision, attracted her, she could not but smile at herself. But it was not a common mood with Diana; it was a summer mood, to be indulged now and then, and bringing novelty with it. Summer in the depth of her own woods was still more sweet; but this affluence of life and movement, so magically hushed, soothed, harmonised by the warm atmosphere, was new to her. She leant back in her chair and trifled with a book, and indulged the curiosities of the moment, like any foolish idler capable of nothing better. The soft air held her entranced as in an atmosphere of serene leisure and pleasantness. But it was not the afternoon languor of the lotus-eater, through which there comes a vague sadness of renunciation, a “we will return no more.” Diana had never felt her life more warmly than as she sat, with an unconscious smile, absorbing into herself all that cheerful commotion of movement, idle if you please, but in sympathy with all the life and activity which was going on about. A friendly fellowship, a sense of kindness, was in her mind. It was all new and sweet to her, this quiet amid the world of sound, this soft spectatorship of humanity. She had toiled along these common paths in her day, and therefore understood it all better than any ordinary favourite of fortune could do: and this made her enter into everything with a genial fellow-feeling which it is difficult for those who have spent all their life on the higher levels, to possess. Had any emergency happened, Diana would have been as ready to help as any busy woman in the street. But this dolce far niente[14] overcame all her usual activities, and lulled her very being. She had seen Pandolfini come in, and had waved her hand to him, not going back within doors, as he thought, but only subsiding among her flowers. After that little movement of friendly salutation she saw him go out some time after, rushing, with his head down, and without even a glance at her balcony. Was anything wrong? had anything happened? She was sympathetically disturbed for the moment; but, after all, she knew nothing of Mr. Pandolfini’s affairs, and the idea floated out of her mind. She had the friendliest feeling for the Italian—more, she had that half-flattered, half-sorry sense that he thought more of herself than could ever be recompensed to him, which often makes a woman almost remorsefully tender of a man for whom she has no love. But that he did not look up, that he rushed out of the room with his head down, might not that mean only that he was more occupied than usual? “I hope there is nothing wrong,” she said to herself; then dismissed him from her thoughts.

But a few minutes later Mrs. Hunstanton came in also, with a little rush. There was care, and many puckers upon her brow. She got quickly over the usual salutations, kissed Diana with an air distrait, and dashed at once into her subject. “Have you seen Pandolfini this morning?” she said. It was a bad habit she had, and which a woman, if she is not very much on her guard, is likely to take from her husband, to call men by their surnames. Mr. Hunstanton was not particular on this point.

“I saw him come in some time ago—and I saw him go out,” said Diana. “I see everything here. I have taken a lazy fit this morning: it is so pleasant—”

“But about Pandolfini,” her friend cried, interrupting her. “Diana, I am dreadfully frightened that Tom has been making a muddle. I am sure he has got a finger in the pie.”

“In what pie?” Diana was inclined to laugh, but restrained herself—for did not Mr. Hunstanton manage to get a finger into every possible kind of pie?

“You know what I think of Pandolfini: you remember what I said to you the other night—”

“You said—nonsense: pardon me—but you know all that is utterly out of the question. It is unkind indeed to suppose anything of a man which he does not betray himself—”

“As if he had not betrayed himself! As if you did not know as well as I do, and a great deal better! Diana, I am going to put it to you once more. Is there the slightest chance for him? Now, don’t keep up your Noes from mere consistency’s sake. I am sure some women do—till they repent it: but I should have no patience with you, who ought to know better! You are not a fool, Diana. You know something of life. You understand that a good, faithful, honest, honourable man—who loves you—”

The tears had come to Mrs. Hunstanton’s eyes. Tom was a great trouble to her often. He was always having a finger in everybody’s pie—but still—she felt as he did that it was something to have a good, faithful, honourable man by your side. Her view was perhaps even higher than his, though she was frank in owning that a married woman’s life was no path of roses. She felt disposed to press matrimony upon Diana even more warmly, more sentimentally, than her husband had pressed it upon Pandolfini—but her hopes of success were a great deal lower. She looked wistfully at her friend through the moisture in her eyes.

“Must I reply to you seriously,” said Diana, “as if there was really something in it? And yet you know so well what I must say. No, there could not be any chance—not if I wished it myself, which I do not.”

“Why, in the name of heaven!—why should there be no chance?” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, vehemently.

“Because—must I explain further?—I have got a trade, an occupation. Women with that are better not to marry; and this would make me refuse any one.”

“Everybody says that men are better managers than women, do business better, could look after your estate better than you could.”

“Hush! I don’t mean to try,” said Diana, with a smile, “whatever anybody says; and I should not wish it, even without this reason,” she said, with the ghost of a sigh.

“You sigh, Diana; you blushed the other night; you don’t dislike Pandolfini?”

Diana put her hand lightly on her friend’s eager mouth. “How can I dislike,” she cried, with a voice full of emotion, “one who—cares for me? Oh, don’t speak of it—don’t make me think of it! I have—done as much myself, once. Yes, I need not blush to say it”—though she did blush, down to the edge of her white collar and up to the roots of her hair. “So that I know. And I am grateful to him, but no more—”

“He would be content with that, Diana,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, red herself to her very finger-tips in the confusion and dismay of this sudden and utterly unexpected confidence, into which she felt that she had betrayed her friend.

“Hush! not another word. It is profane,” said Diana, below her breath.

Mrs. Hunstanton was standing behind her. She gave her a sudden hug with tremulous fervour, and kissed her forehead. She dared not ask any questions, nor, indeed, in the sudden shock and surprise, say anything on this wonderful new subject, which filled her mind with questions and suggestions. With a half sob she restrained herself from speech, and the effort was no small one, as Diana felt. She turned half round in her chair, and met her friend’s eyes.

“You see I am not without understanding, nor even careless,” she said.

“I never thought so—I never thought so, Diana! I am too bewildered—I won’t attempt to say anything. But that only makes it all the worse. I know Tom has been doing something. Tom has got him into some scrape or other. I saw him rush out, with his face like ashes, looking more dead than alive.”

“I could have nothing to do with that.”

“Heaven knows!” said the poor lady; “but Tom has. Of that we may be certain. Tom has a finger in the pie.”

But Mrs. Hunstanton knew nothing more. Her husband had been mysterious and lofty all the morning, breathing hints and inferences, “I could, an if I would;” but he had been somewhat afraid of what his wife would say had he made her aware that he was ambassador for Pandolfini to Sophy. To Sophy! Mr. Hunstanton knew that his wife was capable of snatching his credentials, so to speak, out of his hand, if he had betrayed their destination. But he had not been able to refrain from hints, which she had received with eager yet impatient ears. “Don’t you meddle with Pandolfini’s love affairs,” she had said with irritation; but it was not to be expected that this vague caution could produce any effect.

Diana remained in her balcony after her friend had gone, but no longer in the same mood. She was agitated, not painfully, yet not happily. The past was long past, and she did not brood over it; but yet there was something as strange as sad in this off repetition of the same theme. Why should it be to the wrong people that love was so often given, vain love, not sweet to any one, either to those who felt or those who called it forth? By what strange fate was it that some man or woman should be always making his or her heart a gift to some one who cared nothing for it? Diana was in most ways happy—at least, happy enough—happier far than the greater part of humanity, and than many a woman who had got the desire of her heart. She was neither afraid to look back into the past, nor dissatisfied with the present. But yet, there had been hard moments in her existence; and when she thought of Pandolfini, the tears came into her eyes which she was no longer tempted to shed for herself. Poor Pandolfini! but he would get over it, as one must. There was nothing unworthy in it, nothing to be ashamed of. A man does not break his heart for such a mistake, though it might be, she added to herself sadly, the turn of the tide for him, and change the colour of his days, as it had changed her own more or less. She was too wise to throw herself back into the personal phase of the question, or endeavour to revive within herself the feelings of the time when happiness seemed impossible for her, and all the glory of life over. Life was not over; she felt it and its greater purposes, and all that was best in it, rising strong and warm in her heart. And so would Pandolfini after a while. He was a man, and had compensations upon which women could not fall back; but yet she was sorry with a tender fellow-feeling, which brought tears to her eyes.

Late in the afternoon she received a visit of a very different description. The Nortons had not known what to do. Pandolfini did not make his appearance as they had expected at once, and Sophy had even seen him hastening along the street, away from the Palazzo dei Sogni—with a mixture of surprise, consternation, and incipient offence. Fortunately she had not seen him come and go as the others had done, for it was hot upstairs in the terso piano, not shady and embowered as Diana was in her loggia, and even the most curious gazer could not spend the morning at her window. They supposed he would come in the evening, something must have occurred to detain him. But in the meantime, Mrs. Norton was of opinion that it would never do to keep dear Diana in the dark, or to delay breaking to her the important intelligence that their plans were now changed: “Of course, it must quite depend on circumstances whether we can go with her to Switzerland or not. Most likely dear Mr. Pandolfini will wish—”

“Oh, auntie! how can you talk of such things?” said Sophy, giving her a vehement hug. But she was very willing to carry the news to Diana. Indeed the two little ladies were in a state of excitement which precluded occupation. They could do nothing but sit with their two little heads together and talk; and what was the good of having such a wonderful thing happen if they did not tell somebody? “Besides, Diana has always been so kind, and always so fond of you, my darling,” Mrs. Norton said. “She has a right to know.”

Accordingly, they fluttered downstairs very important, though blushing and breathless, as became the kind of news they had to tell, charging Filomena, their maid-of-all-work, to fetch them at once if Signor Pandolfini came. Somehow or other by instinct they hurried past the Hunstantons’ door. “You may be sure she will not like it at all: but that, of course, is nothing to us,” said the aunt; and they drew their skirts together and made a little run past the dangerous place. Diana had been out in the meantime, and coming back had sat down at her writing-table to read her letters and to ponder some proposals from her lawyers which required thinking of. Her lawyers, as has been said, were in a state of perpetual resistance to her schemes of liberality, holding back with all their might, and throwing every obstacle they could in her way: and her correspondence with them was interesting by reason of this long-continued duel, which was carried on now on their side with a respectful consciousness of her power and ability to hold her own in the argument, which had not existed at first. She put her papers away when her visitors came with a certain reluctance, yet with her usual sympathy with other people. Probably it was nothing of any importance that those two little people had come to say: never mind—no doubt it seemed important to them: and it would have wounded them had she looked preoccupied. So she pushed her papers aside, and gave them all her attention. It did not occur to them that Diana could have anything to do more interesting than to hear their communication. They came in with a flutter of delicious excitement. This was the best of it: indeed it was scarcely so delightful to receive Pandolfini’s declaration, as it was to tell Diana that Sophy was engaged,—ecstatic word!

“We have come to tell you of something very important, Diana,” said Mrs. Norton. “When anything happens to Sophy she never can rest till you know: and this is so important, and it may alter your plans too: for of course it may not be possible for us to carry out—”

“Oh, auntie! Diana will think us so strange, so little to be relied upon—”

“What is this important news?” said Diana, smiling; “do not keep me in suspense.”

And then, speaking both together, and with a great deal of blushing and hesitation, and choice of appropriate words on Mrs. Norton’s part and interruption on Sophy’s, they managed to get out the wonderful piece of information that Sophy was “engaged.”

“Sophy—engaged!” cried Diana, with all the surprise they had hoped for; “this is news indeed! Engaged! how cleverly she must have done it, to raise no suspicions. Yes, of course I wish her every kind of happiness—but with whom?”

“Oh, indeed I was never deceived—I have seen all along how things were going,” cried Mrs. Norton. “Yes, to whom? I wonder if Diana would ever find out—I wonder! but no, no one, I feel sure, ever thought of such a thing but I.”

Diana looked from one to the other, really puzzled and full of inquiries. “Is it—you must not be angry, Sophy—but I do hope it is the best man in the world, though we have laughed at him so much—William Snodgrass? Nay, don’t be angry. He is the only one I can think of—I am at my wits’ end.”

“William Snodgrass! dear Bill!” said Sophy, mimicking the tone in which the rector spoke of the curate. “When you know I never could bear him, Diana!”

“Then, who is it?” said Diana, shaking her head, yet with all the calm of perfect serenity. She drew the girl towards her, and kissed Sophy kindly. “I need not wait for my good wishes till I have found out,” she said. “If you are as happy as I wish you, you will be very happy. You wicked little thing, to steal a march upon us like this!”

“Oh, I did not steal a march upon you: oh, ask auntie,” cried Sophy, burying her head on Diana’s shoulder. The only thing that tried Diana’s temper and never-failing indulgence was these clinging embraces, in which she did not know how to take her part.

“The fact is,” said Mrs. Norton, “that we have strained a point in coming to tell you so soon. But I could not bear that you should not know at once—you who have always been so fond of Sophy—indeed I am sure a mother could not have been more kind. I said to her, Diana must know: I cannot put off telling Diana: especially as perhaps it may make a difference in her plans. Yes, indeed, I have seen what was coming. I have felt all along that more was in his ways than met the eye. Before you came over, Diana—when we were here first, and feeling a little strange—oh, do you remember, Sophy, how kind, how very kind, he used to be?”

Diana looked at them more and more surprised. Who could it be? Some young Italian whom she had not remarked—or some travelling Englishman, perhaps, who had just come back after “doing” Rome and Florence, as so many did. Both of these classes were to be found among Mr. Hunstanton’s friends.

“Yes, he always distinguished us—not even Sophy only, but me for her sake. Just what such a chivalrous man would do. You will divine now, Diana, who it is. Dear Mr. Pandolfini! And he is so modest He had so little confidence in himself that it was Mr. Hunstanton who came to us first to break the ice. He was so afraid she would say No.”

Diana listened confounded. She looked from Sophy to her aunt with lips falling apart in her wonder and consternation. She did not hear anything Mrs. Norton said after his name. “Mr. Pandolfini! Mr. Pandolfini!—are you sure there is no mistake?” she said with a gasp.

“Mistake! oh no, there is no mistake!” they both cried in a breath. Diana came to herself with a sudden sense of shame, for all the very different sentiments she had been putting into his mind. Her face was suddenly covered with a vivid blush. What an absurd mistake to make! She had been so sorry for him; and all the time it was Sophy, and he was the happiest of men. She blushed, and then she laughed, but there was a kind of agitation in both; for to feel that one has so entirely misjudged a man, and been so vain, so secure of one’s own superior attractions! It was too ridiculous! She felt angry and ashamed of herself. And then there was something so utterly incongruous, so absurd, in the conjunction—Mr. Pandolfini! Could any one believe it? The two little women opposite enjoyed her surprise. They enjoyed even the discomfiture which they did not comprehend. Could Diana have thought of him herself? This was the thought that flashed across both their minds.

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Diana. “You have indeed taken me entirely by surprise. I never would have thought of Mr. Pandolfini. Mr. Pandolfini! Nay, you must not be angry, Sophy; but he is so much older, so much more serious, somewhat so entirely different from you!”

“Is it not this harmony in diversity that makes the sweetest union?” said Mrs. Norton, rising into eloquence. “Oh yes, it is so! Ah, my dear, I am not so clever as you, but there is something in experience that is never taught in books. I saw it all along. I perceived that dear Mr. Pandolfini’s delightful mind felt the refreshment of innocence like my Sophy’s. He always kept his eye upon her. Often I have been surprised at it, how he should find out just when we wanted anything, just when he could be of use; not always at her side, as a young man would have been, but keeping his eye on her. Ah! that unobtrusive unselfish love is always the deepest, and it is but few girls that call it forth. She ought to be very proud of such devotion: but I saw it all along.”

Diana listened with her mind in a maze. Perhaps it was all true. Mrs. Norton’s instincts, her watchful maternal eye, and that minute observation in which gentle gossips excel, how should these have been deceived? Yes, yes, no doubt she must be right; and in that case what a vain self-admirer, what an absurd self-deceiver must Diana be! She was filled with such lively shame that it closed her lips. That she should have thought it was herself on whom Mr. Pandolfini’s heart was set, and that it should turn out to be Sophy! That she should be so sorry for him, driven to betray herself out of tender pity for him, when, lo, it turned out that he was the happiest man in the world! Once more Diana laughed, coming round to see the comical aspect of her own confusion—for, after all, this did not matter to anybody but herself. And there was the greatest relief as well as a little disappointment in finding that the object of her unnecessary pity could so easily make himself happy, and had no need to be pitied—which was the drollest conclusion. “Pardon me for laughing,” she said; “indeed I hope they will both be very happy. It is not ridicule but surprise.”

“Ridicule! Oh no, there is no ground for ridicule,” said Mrs. Norton. “It is the most natural thing in the world to me. I have seen it all along.”

XIV. DESPAIR

Pandolfini rushed out of the house in a state of misery and despair impossible to describe. He had not made any explanation to Mr. Hunstanton of the real state of affairs. He was struck dumb; the earth seemed to open under his feet, and everything solid in the world to melt away. He stood giddy and miserable on the edge of this precipice, feeling that he did not dare to take any further step one way or another. The dilemma in which he found himself seemed more terrible than anything that had ever befallen mortal man. In the first place, Diana was lost to him, there had never been any hope for him; all his delicious fancies of last night had been dreams founded on a lie. She had never thought of him, never considered him as more than an acquaintance: it was all a fiction, all a delusion, upon which his momentary but ecstatic hopes had been built. For the moment this crushed him almost more than the other practical side of the mistake, which he did not realise. Twenty-four hours before he had known equally that Diana was out of his reach, that for him to seek her was folly, that, however he might love, he must go upon his way, and make no sign: and that this brief climax of life to him, this love-dream, this unexpected undesired revelation of a something in existence which might have been higher than his sweetest hopes, and dearer than his dearest dreams—was nothing, a passing vision of no real importance to him or to any one. He had known this very well yesterday; but it was infinitely more bitter to him to-day. Then indeed he had felt as if everything worth living for would go away with her, as if life would be utterly blank to him, without meaning or grace—but he had faced the blank, mournfully yet manfully, knowing that nothing better could be.

Now, however, after he had been led to deceive himself, had been forced into it, after such resistance as he was capable of making to an apparent joy which was the crown of all possible and impossible wishes, now! The bitterness, the keen sting of disappointment, the resentment with himself for ever having consented to this delusion, all mingled with and intensified the insupportable pang that tore him asunder, the sense that it was all illusion, that no one save himself in his folly had ever thought of Diana as his object: that she had known nothing of his love, and had not even given him the hearing, the consideration, which were implied in a refusal. This it was that wounded him most wildly, driving him almost mad with its sting. Had she refused to listen to his suit, yet she would have known it at least, would have been aware that he loved her, obliged to carry the knowledge of that fact along with her wherever she went; and, being courteous and sweet and full of tenderness for others, Pandolfini knew that in that case she would have given him many a compassionate and gentle thought. But even of this he was robbed, for she did not know. The very possibility of a hearing, the suggestion, had never been his. Diana knew nothing of his heart, had never thought of him at all, would never think of him more. Could it be possible that any man had ever had such a wrong done him? To be buoyed up with hopes which were dashed by a refusal, ah, that might have been hard to bear! but how much harder to know that these hopes had never existed, that they were delusion and mistake and nothing more! There was a stifled rage and mortification in his misery, rage with himself for ever having believed it, mortification beyond words at the depth of vanity and folly in himself which was thus revealed to him. Poor Pandolfini! it had not been vanity: but this was how in his misery it appeared to him. Fool! to think that Diana, Diana! could waste any thought upon such as he!

This fancy drove him forth wildly from Mr. Hunstanton’s presence. He dared not speak, or make any answer, in case of betraying feelings which the good Hunstanton could not understand; and it was some time before he realised the real practical effect of his good Hunstanton’s proceedings. A vessel cannot be filled above its measure, and Pandolfini was too much overwhelmed with the absolute loss of Diana to take into his mind the fact that this loss involved something else equally appalling. He was not to have the gentil donna, the princess of his dreams; but that was not all. Something had been thrust into his arms instead. Something? What? He stood still in the middle of the street when the fact burst upon him, and gave a sudden wild cry of despair. It was not so wonderful there as it would be here that a man should cry aloud in the extremity of suffering. What was this that was thrust into his arms instead? When he stood there and fairly contemplated what had happened to him, any car of Juggernaut that had driven over him and crushed him into a shapeless mass upon the stones would have done Pandolfini a kindness—or so at least in his wretchedness he thought.

Mr. Hunstanton did not understand his visitor’s strange change of mood. To come in so eager, white with anxiety, breathless with excitement,—and then, when the good news was told him, to stand aghast for a moment, to walk away to the window, to make no reply. These were all the acts of a madman. Was his head turned?—was there a screw loose somewhere, as was the case so often with “these Italians”? Next time, no doubt, he would be laughing and crying with joy—always excitable, always in one extreme or another. Mr. Hunstanton forgot the peculiarity of his friend’s character, and classed him thus summarily with his race, by way of getting rid of a cold shiver of doubt, a momentary uncomfortableness on his own part, as to whether he had, as he had intended, carried out Pandolfini’s instructions to the letter, and acted for him according to his wishes. He quenched out this alarming thought by the reflection that a foreigner, and especially an Italian, acted exactly opposite to what an Englishman would do in the circumstances. He felt it so much, that was how it was. It overpowered him. These foreign fellows, even the best of them, let themselves go. They gave in to their feelings. They had not the self-control which is peculiar to the Briton, and did not even think self-control necessary. That was all about it. Pandolfini was so much overcome by his success and happiness that it took all power of speech from him. He was (no doubt) actually struck dumb from excess of feeling. By-and-by he would come back and throw himself on his friend’s neck, and thank him for his exertions. There could be no doubt that this was how it would be.

Yet, nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that there was a cold shiver, a cloud of doubt, an uncomfortable sense of uncertainty in Mr. Hunstanton’s mind. He did not feel at his ease, or happy. There was something in his friend’s look, in the blank misery of his eyes, that discomfited him. He sat in his study for an hour or two, very uneasy, listening to all the steps that went up the stairs. He even posted Gigi, his servant, at the door, to bring him news if Pandolfini should come back. And when there was nothing to be heard or seen of the truant, and the day began to decline, and the hour of the Ave Maria approached, which was the end of all things, the good man could dissemble his anxiety no longer. He went out stealthily (for it was time to dress for dinner) to look for his friend; and found him after a long walk very near his own house, standing by the parapet looking down into the Arno. The early moon had come out into the sky, while yet the glories of sunset were not over. Pandolfini was staring intently at the reflection of the moon in the water—he was entirely absorbed in it. When Hunstanton touched him on the shoulder, he woke slowly, as one in a dream.

“I say, Pandolfini, my good fellow, this won’t do, you know,” he cried. “I dare say you like to dream in this way. All fellows in love (I suppose) do; so they say, at least. But you must not give yourself up to that till you have seen them. You ought to go and see them. English ladies, you know, are not accustomed to that kind of courtship. I took upon myself to break the ice for you, and they took it very well, on the score, you know, that this was how things were done by your country folks, and that it was your modesty and so forth. But they expected you to go and follow it up; so did I. English ways are different. We don’t understand that sort of way of making love by proxy. To tell you the truth, I should not have let any one do it for me. But you must follow it up. You ought to have followed it up before now.”

“Follow it up?” said Pandolfini. He had returned to his gazing into the river, after rousing up momentarily to hear what Hunstanton had to say.

“Yes, to be sure,” cried the other, getting more and more nervous, taking him by the arm in his fright and impatience, and shaking him slightly. “My good fellow, you must rouse up. It is not like you. It is not quite nice, you know, after sending such a commission to a girl, not to go yourself at the very first moment when you understand she is disposed to hear you. It is not—well, it doesn’t look quite—honourable.”

Pandolfini gave a start of quick resentment, and looked at his friend, who had begun to be extremely anxious. Mr. Hunstanton’s ruddy countenance had fallen. He was limp and colourless with suspense. A look of fright had taken the place of that fine confidence which usually distinguished him. “Good heavens! have I put my foot in it?” was what he was saying to himself, and the reflection of this question was very plainly to be read in his face.

“What did you say?” said Pandolfini, somewhat hoarsely. “Follow it up? Yes, I understand: yes, yes, I go. You are right; I do not doubt you are right. But it is all—strange to me—and new,” he added, with a kind of smile which was not very consoling. It was a smile, however, and Hunstanton did his best to feel satisfied.

“To be sure, to be sure,” he said, encouragingly. “This sort of thing is always new—and strange. Don’t be afraid. You’ll soon get used to it You’ll find it come quite natural,” he added, slapping his friend on the back in a way that was intended to be jocular. “Come along, though, you must not be shy. If you make haste, you have time yet before dinner—indeed they dine early, I know.”

“Before—dinner? but I am not dressed. I am not ready for the evening,” said Pandolfini, spreading out his hands with an air of dismay.

“Dressed! fiddlesticks! at a moment like this. Pandolfini, you really disappoint me,” cried Mr. Hunstanton, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. “If you are going to shilly-shally like this, why on earth did you employ me? Think of that poor girl, after committing herself, kept waiting and wondering all this time, and not knowing what to think.”

“I will come—I will come,” said Pandolfini, hoarsely; and he made half-a-dozen rapid steps in the direction of the Palazzo dei Sogni: then he stopped abruptly. “My best friend,” he said, with a smile, “you will let me follow you after, in a little—a very, very few minutes? This is, as you say, a moment—it raises the heart—there is much to think of. But I will come, almost as soon as you are there. Yes, I give you my word. But it is alone that I must go.”

“Surely, surely,” cried good Mr. Hunstanton. “We’ll see you after, in the evening. God bless me! the fellow didn’t think I meant to go with him to Sophy,” he added within himself. “If that is manners in Italy, thank heavens it is not in England; and catch me making love for any man again! As sure as I am a living man, I thought he was going to cry off,” Mr. Hunstanton said to himself, with a cold perspiration breaking out all over him. He never had, he acknowledged afterwards, such a fright in his life.

When he was left alone, Pandolfini returned to his gaze over the parapet. He did not venture to look at the moon in the sky; but the reflection of her, all broken and uneven by the crisp of the little wavelets which the evening breeze was ruffling upon Arno—that he might still look at for a moment. His eyes were dry and burning, and yet it was as if he looked at that moon through the mist of tears. Words came into his mind, words of her language, all of which had seemed delicate and sacred to her in this sweet dream-time that was now so fatally past. He was not so familiar with English that this line should return to his ear at such a moment, as it might so easily have done to a natural-born subject of the greatest of poets—but yet it came. He knew his Shakespeare almost as well as he knew his Dante, and what could an Italian say more?—

“The imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy free.”

He said these words over and over to himself; and by-and-by the bells began to chime all round him, telling the Ave Maria. Hail, all hail, oh blessed among women! This was more than Pandolfini could bear. He put his hands up to his ears, and crushed the sound out till it was over. When the tingling air was still again, he turned resolutely on his way. He was still in his morning dress, the excuse which had served him with Hunstanton: but what did it matter? He did not feel that he could trust himself even to pause again, much less turn back. He went with steady determination along Arno, seeing the lights shine in the river, with a wavering glimmer and movement: and in himself, too, notwithstanding his steady pace, there was a wavering play of giddiness, a sense of instability, the earth reeling under his feet, the heavens revolving about him. He went on all the same to the palace of the dreams, where he had given all that was in him to give, for nothing—and where now, strange flicker of human vanity and mutual ignorance, another heart was about to be given him for nothing—for less than the asking. He would not look at the light in Diana’s window, he went straight up past the door where his heart had beat last night with such wild gasps of expectation and hope. Had he obeyed his impulse then, burst into her presence, and told her! Had he but done it! Then at least she would have known, and he would not have been so utterly deceived. This thought swept into his mind as he passed, but he gave it no willing entertainment. He went up with a resolute step, up, beyond even the Hunstantons’, to Mrs. Norton’s door.

They had given him up for the day, with a little vexation, a little disappointment, and were wondering whether they would meet him in the evening as usual, and how they ought to comport themselves. As for Mrs. Norton, she was beginning to think she had been rash, and to regret her acceptance of the suitor on Mr. Hunstanton’s word alone. It was nonsense, she felt, to talk of such a man as Pandolfini as too timid to plead his own cause. Had she been too rash? Sophy, whatever thoughts might be hers, made no sign. A lover was like a new doll to Sophy: it was more. It gave her importance, made somebody of her in a moment: and she was not going to do anything which could pull her down from this enviable elevation. She would not say she was disappointed or alarmed; but all her senses were on the alert, and she heard his step coming up the stair with a rising throb of the heart. “It may be only a parcel—it may be only the newspapers,” she cried, clinging to her aunt. “If it is him, my darling, I must rush away. It is you he will want to see first,” cried Mrs. Norton; but even while she said this, Pandolfini walked into the room. They both uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. He was very pale and excited, but quite calm in external appearance. Mrs. Norton made an effort to free herself from Sophy, and with a smile to him, was hastening away.

“Madam,” said Pandolfini, “what can I say to you? The good Hunstanton has authorised me to come. He tells me that you have been so kind, so generous, as to confide to me the happiness of one most dear. How can I repay such trust as you have had in me? It will be not a matter for words; but that I may live to show it from year to year.”

“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton, not without dignity—“you are a good man, and a man of honour. This is why I have not hesitated to do what might otherwise seem imprudent, and commit my best treasure to you.”

She could not have made a more appropriate speech, or one that was better timed. “I pray God,” he said, gravely, “that this best treasure may not find you imprudent, nor that you have done what you will regret.” And he took Sophy’s hand and kissed it. The seriousness of his face did not relax, neither did his paleness warm with any gleam of colour as he did so. Sophy blushed in a rosy warmth of happiness. She was surprised, indeed, that he should let her hand go so easily. Not so do the lovers in books, of whom the girl had heard and read. And there was a pause, in which none of the three knew exactly what to do or to say.

“Have you dined?” said Mrs. Norton, to make a way of escape for herself; for, of course, what he wanted was to get rid of her, she felt sure. What so natural? “You know we dine early; but I was just going to order tea. As you are going to have an English wife,” she added, with a laugh which jarred dreadfully with the portentous gravity of his aspect, “you must learn to like such an English meal as tea;” and pleased with this little speech, which she felt to be both graceful and appropriate, the good little woman hurried towards the door.

“Nay,” cried Pandolfini, hurriedly stopping her. “I have only come in a great hurry to—to thank you for a confidence so generous. I have not sufficient of time to stay. It is to my regret, my great regret. But I could not let the evening pass without saying how I thank you. What I feel—what—gratitude—what devotion! The evening must not pass without this.”

“But cannot you stay with us?” said Mrs. Norton.

“And oh! can’t you come this evening as usual?—it is one of Diana’s nights,” cried Sophy, with countenance aghast.

“Alas!” he cried, with a face in which there was misery enough for that or a much greater misfortune. “What can I do? I am rent asunder. I have my heart in two places. But I cannot come. I have—business. Indeed it is not possible. I must hasten away.”

“Oh,” cried Sophy, “I call that hard—very hard: not to be together the first night. You have never had business before—”

“No; I have never had business before. It is more needful now that I put my affairs in order,” he said, and looked at her with an attempt at a smile.

“Of course we understood that,” said Mrs. Norton. “Of course, my darling! it is quite reasonable. Dear Mr. Pandolfini must have many things to do: but you must allow it is natural that Sophy should be disappointed—the first night, as she says,” added the aunt, with a look at Pandolfini. Once more he took Sophy’s hand and put it to his lips.

“She is an angel of goodness,” he said with fervour, kissing her hand again; but then he kissed Mrs. Norton’s hand (which seemed to Sophy unnecessary), and after a very few words more, hastened away,—leaving them, it is needless to say, somewhat dismayed, they could scarcely tell how—and yet overawed and dazzled. They stood and looked at each other for a moment or two in silence. There was a half-pout on Sophy’s lips, and a look about her eyes, as if for small provocation she might cry; but she ventured on no other demonstration. And then Mrs. Norton took the matter up, and put down all objections with a high hand.

“Now, Sophy, my pet,” she said, “I congratulate you with all my heart—but you see now you have got to deal with a gentleman, not with a poor old auntie that does everything you wish whether it is convenient or not: with a gentleman, my love-one who has business that cannot be trifled with, you know. And you must just make up your mind to have him when you can, not whenever you like. For, my love, you have entered on a new phase of life, and this is what you must make up your mind to, now.”

There was something in the grandeur of this address, and the strange thrill with which she felt the reality of the new position, which silenced Sophy. She stopped in the middle of her pout. It might not be so satisfactory, but it was more imposing than anything she had dreamed of. A lover who only kissed your hand, that was not according to Sophy’s preconceived idea of lovers—but it was very imposing. And then, of course, he was an Italian, and this must be the dignified Italian way!

XV. THE SPOSA

There was a certain solemnity about the party in Diana’s rooms that evening. Sophy and Mrs. Norton came downstairs in their best dresses, with an air of importance not to be mistaken; and was it not quite natural that they should look important? No human circumstances can possibly be more interesting than those of the bridegroom and bride who have chosen each other from the world, and who present themselves to the world smiling, hand in hand, the ever-renewed type of human progression: primitive beginning, over again, of a new world. The completeness of the position was spoiled by the fact that the fiancé was not present; but that was not the fault of the little ladies, who knew nothing about his reasons for being absent,—or rather supposed that they did know all about them, and had the privilege of representing their new piece of property, and explaining for him. “I am so sorry Mr. Pandolfini will not be able to be here,” said Mrs. Norton. “He would have liked it of all things, I need not say; but he had business to attend to. It is easy to understand how he should have business, looking forward, as he is, to a change in his condition—to such a change! and he felt sure that you would excuse him, Diana.”

“Surely,” said Diana; “there is nothing to excuse.” She was looking grave, more thoughtful than usual—or so at least two or three people in the room thought, who were thunderstruck by the unexpected news of Pandolfini’s engagement. Mrs. Hunstanton, who watched her very closely, and who was in a state of suppressed excitement, which she scarcely could manage to conceal, thought that her friend was pale. But that was probably her own imagination, which was very lively, and at the present moment extremely busy, inventing motives and sentiments all round.

“Oh, but indeed he would think it necessary to excuse himself. He has such fine feelings, and he knows all you have been to our darling, Diana. He knows how fond you are of her—taking almost a mother’s interest: and of course he would have been here to show his gratitude, if it had been possible. Every kindness that has ever been shown to my Sophy will be doubly felt by him.”

This the little lady said with an expansion of her little person and swelling of her bosom, which, even amid her consciousness that something was in all this more than met the eye, struck Diana with a sense of the ludicrous which she could not control. She laughed in spite of herself.

“I am sure Mr. Pandolfini will feel everything he ought to feel,” she said; “but you must not teach him to be grateful when there is no occasion for gratitude. You know it is not a sentiment I care for.”

“Yes, I know, dear Diana,” cried Mrs. Norton, kissing her suddenly. “You never will allow any one to thank you. But is it not all owing to you? But for you we never should have come here; and if we had not come here, the chances are we never should have met dear Mr. Pandolfini. So we owe it all to an ever-watchful Providence—and to you.”

Diana could not but smile at the conjunction. “It is Providence you must thank,” she said; “I don’t think I counted for much in it. Is Sophy very happy? That is the chief thing to think about.”

“She is in a maze of happiness,” said Mrs. Norton, fervently. “She is so humble-minded. She thinks so much more of others than of herself. That he should have thought of a poor little thing like me, she is always saying: and I cannot persuade her that she is good enough for any man, and, indeed, too good for most—as you and I know, Diana—not if I were to talk for a year. We know her value, but she is too innocent to know it. And oh, what a blessing, my dear, what a blessing that one so well fitted to appreciate her should have fallen to Sophy’s share!”

“Diana!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton in her ear on the other side, drawing her away; “how can you have the patience to listen to that little—What is to be done now? Oh! what is to be done? My heart is breaking for that poor man: and it is all Tom’s fault.”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Diana. “There is no poor man in question; there is a happy man.”

“Diana! how can you insult him by thinking so? Oh, poor Pandolfini! He is being made a sacrifice, a victim—and what can I do? It is all Tom’s fault.”

“Indeed, you are doing Mr. Hunstanton wrong. I only blush for myself that ever took up such a foolish fancy. It is far, far better as it is. I told you we had no right to conjecture a man’s feelings; and you see for once I am proved to be right: though you over-persuaded me, and I am ashamed of it,” said Diana, with a blush and a laugh. “However, fortunately there is no harm done.”

“Oh Diana, how I wonder at you! It is you who are doing poor Pandolfini wrong. He think of that little doll! He trusted his cause to Tom, thinking, perhaps, there was no need to name the name—as, indeed, there was not to any one with eyes in his head: and Tom like a fool, Tom like a busybody—oh, heaven forgive me! I don’t mean to say any ill of my husband, but that is how he has behaved,—Tom has gone and pledged this poor man’s life to somebody he can never care for, somebody quite unworthy of him. Diana, you may be cool about it; but I think it will break my heart.”

“But you have no evidence of this,” cried Diana, in consternation. She looked at the smiling Sophy, all pink with blushes and beaming with smiles as she received everybody’s congratulations, and at Mrs. Norton, important and stately as became the aunt of a bride-elect. The incongruity between this little fluttering pair and the grave and dignified Pandolfini was striking enough, but to imagine their easy commonplaceness entangled in such a tragical complication of mistake and misery and inevitable suffering, seemed beyond the reach of ordinary imagination. Diana turned quickly to her friend, who, half hidden behind, regarded the scene with a face full of anxiety and distress. Mrs. Hunstanton’s puckered brows, her eyes in which the tears seemed ready to start, her paleness and trembling, were almost as great a visible contrast to the complacent happiness of the Nortons as was Pandolfini to the girl who was going to be his wife. “Mrs. Hunstanton,” said Diana, in a low tone, “this is the wildest fancy. It is not possible. You can have no proof of it. Mr. Hunstanton is—is—he is the kindest of men. He would not hurt a fly. How could he do such a thing, and make his friend unhappy? No, no; I cannot believe it. It is you and not he who have been mistaken.”

Mrs. Hunstanton caught Diana by the arm. She poured into her ear the whole story, partly as divined by herself, partly as confessed by her husband, who kept, as Diana could see, prowling uneasily round the central group, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door. His wife had made him wretched enough, but he had done what could not be undone; and there was always the chance that his wife might have been wrong, a supposition so much more likely than that he was in the wrong himself. Her reproaches had made Mr. Hunstanton extremely uncomfortable, and no doubt there was something in the corroborative evidence of Pandolfini’s very strange behaviour, which of itself had given him a thrill of terror. And business! What business could the Italian have to detain him? He did not for a moment believe in this, but notwithstanding Mrs. Norton’s assurance to the contrary, still looked for Pandolfini’s arrival. It was absurd! He could not mean to stay away to-night: when he came Mr. Hunstanton had made up his mind to ask him point-blank what it all meant. Had he, or had he not, given him a commission? and had he, or had he not, Mr. Tom Hunstanton, carried out his wish? This would, beyond all manner of doubt, make everything clear.

Not even this hope, however, could still Mrs. Hunstanton’s nervous restlessness. She went from Diana, by whom she had sat so long breathing out her pains and fears, to Mrs. Norton, who was now little inclined to be questioned, and who felt that a great deal was due to her new position. A feeling of being attacked had come into her mind, she could scarcely tell why, and when Mrs. Hunstanton crossed over the room to come to her, the little lady immediately buckled on her armour. Mrs. Hunstanton was too anxious to pick her words. She came and sat down by the important aunt, with the air of troubled haste and agitation very clearly visible in her face.

“I have not come to congratulate you,” she said, “because I was so very, very much surprised. I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Norton. You know it is not from want of interest in Sophy, but—were not you very much surprised yourself when this happened? Did it not strike you as very strange?”

Mrs. Hunstanton took credit to herself for putting the question so very gently, and “saving their feelings.” It seemed impossible to her that any one should resist such an appeal as this.

“Surprised!” said Mrs. Norton. “Oh, no indeed! I was not surprised. I had seen it all along,”

“You had—seen it all along?”

“Surely. Yes, I had seen it. Indifferent eyes may be deceived, but nothing can blind me where my Sophy is concerned. Yes: our dear Pandolfini is not the kind of man that is demonstrative, you know; but had you asked me three months ago,” said Mrs. Norton with gentle pride, “I could have told you exactly what was going to happen. I knew it all along.”

She looked at her questioner with a serene smile, and Mrs. Hunstanton, for her part, could only gasp and gaze at her with a consternation beyond words. But she would not give up even for this distinct repulse.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, rallying her forces; “but—you won’t mind my speaking frankly? Nobody else has thought so, Mrs. Norton. He has seemed to entertain very different thoughts. I, for my part, have been quite deceived. I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but I have been watching Mr. Pandolfini very much of late, and I never suspected it was Sophy that was in his mind.”

Mrs. Norton smiled with gentle superiority. “I don’t know what you expect me to say, Mrs. Hunstanton. I have seen it, as I tell you, all along; and he must know best himself, one would suppose. When a gentleman proposes to a young lady, people do not usually set up their ideas of what they expected. He is the one that must know best.”

“I know—I know:” said Mrs. Hunstanton, driven to despair, and to a humility not at all in her way. What was there to answer to such a reasonable statement? She could not ask directly whether it was her husband who had done it all, and if it was only his word they had for Pandolfini’s sentiments. She was thoroughly wretched, and thoroughly subdued. “Have you seen him this evening?” she asked, faltering. That was the nearest approach she could make to the question she was longing to ask.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Norton, with smiling confidence. “He was with us just before we came here, and he was so sorry not to come with us. Knowing as he does our obligations to Diana, and feeling all her kindness, it quite grieved him not to come.”

“To Diana!” Mrs. Hunstanton repeated the words mechanically, catching them up without any clear comprehension of what the other said. Then she said, somewhat incoherently, “But you must have been startled, at least surprised, yourself—it must have taken you by surprise.”

“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Norton, meeting with a serene countenance the eyes full of care and trouble which her companion turned upon her, “I have already told you I had expected it all along.”

The inquirer withdrew baffled, with trembling lips and a clouded brow, leaving the little woman victorious. Mrs. Hunstanton was not used to such utter discomfiture, and bore it badly. She withdrew into a corner near the door. Perhaps Pandolfini would come after all, and she might waylay him, though she did not see what end would be served by so doing; for how could she ask him if it was true that it was Sophy and no other who was his choice? But Pandolfini did not come to answer any of these questions. He had never stayed away before.

The little community was convulsed by the news, but ended by accepting it, as what else was possible? It was not the first time that a community has been utterly taken by surprise by the announcement of a marriage. The small coterie at Pisa went through all the not unusual round of refusing to credit the report, being compelled to believe it, accepting it under protest, then forgetting the protest, and taking the matter for granted. At first it was supposed that the whole party would hasten home to prepare for an English wedding; but by-and-by it was rumoured about that Pandolfini did not wish to go to England for his bride, and that as there was nothing to wait for, the marriage would take place in Pisa, and the bride enter at once her Italian home. Some people wondered at this, some thought it very sensible, some were surprised at the ardour of the middle-aged lover, and some at the readiness of the girl’s friends to let her go; but, on the whole, it was quite reasonable, and the English visitors, who were all on the wing, were much amused by the excitement of such an unexpected event. They were doubly amused by the fact that Mrs. Hunstanton, under whose auspices the Nortons had appeared in society, was evidently disturbed, rather than pleased, by the marriage; and that Sophy’s great friend and patroness, the rich Miss Trelawny, did not throw herself into the arrangements with any enthusiasm.

And, of course, there were not wanting good-natured bystanders who averred that these ladies were disappointed, and that Miss Trelawny had intended the Italian for herself. Diana was but little disturbed, as may be supposed, by these insinuations, which, indeed, she never heard of; but she was disturbed by the complication of affairs, which she could not refuse to see through, now when it was fairly beneath her eyes.

Pandolfini was a very strange lover. He had become suddenly immersed in business—so much occupied that his visits to his betrothed were always hurried and brief. This was made necessary, he told them, by all the changes that had to be made, and successions rearranged, in consequence of this unexpected step in his life: and they were fain to accept the explanation. The strangest of all was, that notwithstanding that deep sense of obligation to Diana which it was Mrs. Norton’s delight to set forth, he never appeared in Diana’s rooms again. Once only they met by chance in Mrs. Norton’s little drawing-room, when all was nearly settled.

He came in hurriedly, seeking Mrs. Norton, whom Diana also, by some unusual chance, had come to look for; and there they met alone, for both of the little ladies were out engaged in that occupation of shopping which furnishes the unoccupied female mind with so many delightful hours. Pandolfini was struck dumb by the sight of Diana, and she, as she hastened to explain how she came to be there, was so startled by his altered looks as almost to break down in her little speech. “They are out,” she said hurriedly; “I had just come to look for them.” And then she paused, faltering—“You are—ill—Mr. Pandolfini?”

“Ill? No, I am not ill. I am as I always am.”

“Not as you used to be,” said Diana, kindly; and then she added in haste, “but it is so long since I have seen you, that you may well have changed in the meantime. And I have never had the opportunity of congratulating—of wishing you—happiness.”

He looked at her for a moment with all his heart in his haggard face; then, turning suddenly away with an imploring gesture, hid his face in his hands.

What was she to do or say? There was no contesting now what she could read as in a book—the despair that had kept him out of her presence, that made him incapable either of meeting her eye or deceiving her now. He had no wish to deceive her,—if, indeed, there was one thing more than another for which his forlorn heart had longed, it was that she should know.

“Forgive me,” he said, in a broken voice, “I can have no disguises from you.”

Diana was too much discomposed to know what to say. Such a tacit confidence seemed wrong, almost a treachery to poor little innocent Sophy, who had no conception of this secret, and could not have understood it had she known. She said gently, “You must let me wish you well at least. I do that from the bottom of my heart.”

He looked at her with piteous eyes, doubly dark with a moisture which the powerful mechanism of pain had forced into them, but which was too bitter and concentrated to fall and relieve the brain from which it was wrung. “Think of me sometimes,” he said. “You know how it is with me. You, who are kind to all, sometimes think of me a little. That will help me to bear. I will do—my duty.”

“Oh, Mr. Pandolfini!” cried Diana, the tears rising warm and sudden into her eyes. “Let me give you some comfort if I can.” The moment was too bitter, the encounter too real, as of two souls in the wilderness, to warrant any pretence on either side that they did not understand each other. “Once the same thing happened to me. I have gone through the same. There was one whom I cared for, but who made me no return. I do not hesitate to tell you. For a time it seemed worse than death: but now it is past, and I am no longer unhappy. So will it be with you.”

“Ah, my God, my God!” he cried, with sudden passion, “can such things be? You!—was he mad or blind?” Then a smile came over his haggard face, which was more pathetic than the previous look of misery. “This is to comfort me,” he said. “Yes, it is just; it was more pitiful for such a one than for me.”

“I meant—it will pass away—and all will be well,” cried Diana, trembling. “Oh, believe me. I speak who know. It will be so with you.”

“You think so,” he said, gently shaking his head. “Generosissima![15] You show me the wound to heal mine. But it will not be so with me. I wish no healing: yet I will do—my duty,” he added, in a low and broken voice.

“God bless you, Mr. Pandolfini!” she said, holding out her hand.

This overcame him altogether. He fell upon his knees and kissed it, as men of his faith kiss the holy mysteries, and then looked at her with trembling lips and dim eyes, as we look at those we are never to see more, and stumbling to his feet, turned and hurried from the room. The tears were falling frankly and without concealment from Diana’s eyes. She was touched to the heart. Oh that such things should be! that the best of life should thus be thrown away like a flower on somebody’s path to whom it was nothing. She had forgotten Sophy altogether in the anguish of sympathy and fellow-feeling. That complication, adding as it did so much misery and difficulty, seemed to fade altogether in presence of the pang which she herself understood so thoroughly, and seemed to feel again.

She had barely time to dry her eyes when she heard some one coming, and turned her back to the light to avoid a too curious gaze. It was Sophy who came in, complaining. “O Diana!” she cried, with a little start, “you are here! that was why he went away. It is very hard to see so little of him, and when he does come to be out and have him sent away.”

“Oh, Sophy, my pet, don’t be unjust,” said Mrs. Norton; “how should Diana send him away? Of course he must have felt it hard that you should be out when he snatched a moment from his business. Was he very much disappointed, Diana? I am sure you would say everything that was kind.”

“Yes: he was surprised to find me here waiting for you—as I was surprised to see him,” said Diana, with an unconscious sense of apology. “He did not—stay—I came to ask you to look at—some patterns,” her voice failed her. She could not add the trivial message which in reality, with that indulgence which Mrs. Hunstanton never could understand, was the reason of her visit: for Sophy’s trousseau, which was causing her so much delightful occupation, was for the most part Diana’s gift.

“Patterns!” they both said in a breath, in tones of interest which drove away all recollection of Mr. Pandolfini’s visit which they had lost.

“You shall see them, if you will come to me downstairs,” said Diana, glad of this easy means of getting away.

And they spent an hour or two delighted and yet anxious in the perplexities of choice, and never noticed either of them any traces of tears that might be lingering about Diana’s eyes.

XVI. A SYMPATHISING FRIEND

The spring days lengthened into summer while the preliminaries of the marriage still went on. The Hunstantons could not retard their usual day of departure for any event of such secondary importance as the marriage of Sophy Norton. “To be sure, poor Pandolfini is our friend, and for him one might be tempted to stay,” Mrs. Hunstanton said; “but the Nortons—the Nortons are only protégées of Diana’s. But for her I should never have noticed them. It is her whim to spoil these two silly little women. But though I am so fond of Diana, I have never humoured her in this; and for us to remain would be absurd.” So, though they lingered a week or so, that was all. The Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, had gone on to Florence and to Rome. The other members of the little party were dispersing on all sides. Only Diana remained to keep the bride-elect and her anxious but triumphant aunt company. And Diana had hesitated. She had wished to go with the Hunstantons straight home, but for the complaints and outcries of the two little ladies. “Oh, will you go and forsake us?” Sophy cried. “Will you leave me to be married without one friend near me?” “Indeed, Diana, I did not expect you would leave us,” said Mrs. Norton. “I should not have undertaken it if I had not felt sure of you. And how can I go through it all without some support?—without some one to lean upon?” Diana, though she smiled at these arguments, remained. There were, indeed, a great many things in which she was a support to the fluttering and nervous pair, who were half overjoyed by the approaching elevation, half frightened by the loneliness of their position. Mrs. Norton especially was apt to be invaded by doubts. Whether she ought not to have insisted that her niece should be married at home: whether it was not too much of Mr. Pandolfini to have asked of her (though so flattering to dear Sophy and lover-like was his impatience to make her his own): whether people might not think she was too anxious to have everything settled: or that it was not quite lady-like to allow things to proceed so rapidly. All these doubts Diana had to satisfy three or four times a-day.

And there were other difficulties still more important which the helpless little pair could not have got through without her. Pandolfini, who was always so busy, whose occupations continued to increase as his marriage drew nearer (“which, of course, was very natural,” Mrs. Norton said, with a certain chill of doubt in her confidence, while Sophy loudly complained of it, though without any doubting), never got into the familiar intimacy which generally characterises such moments of preface and beginning, and was accordingly of no more help to them than if he had been still merely their acquaintance, Mr. Hunstanton’s friend—much less, indeed, for Mr. Hunstanton’s friend had always been friendly and serviceable, and full of genial help, in those cheerful days when he was not over-powered by business. This gleamed across Mrs. Norton’s mind dimly by times, affording her a half-revelation—a momentary unwilling perception of differences which she did not wish to fathom. But, so far as any one knew, these perceptions were not shared by Sophy, who went on her way, with occasional grumblings, it is true, but with too much thought of herself to think very much of Pandolfini. Naturally, is it not the bride who is the most interesting? She has her clothes to think of, and her approaching promotion to the dignity of a married lady—a dignity which it was very fine to attain at so early an age. And there were all her new duties, as her aunt called them,—the management of her house, which she must learn to do in the Italian fashion, and her servants. It troubled Sophy that she did not know how many servants she was to have, and that she had never been asked to go and see the house, or to choose new carpets or curtains, as other brides had to do; but then, on the other hand, it delighted her to find that she might call herself Contessa, and would be elevated quite into the nobility by her marriage. In Italy she might only be Signora, but in England she would certainly be My Lady, Sophy reflected—and her whole being thrilled with the thought. This was a discovery, for Pandolfini had not cared for the bare and insignificant title, and all his Italian friends called him by his Christian name, according to the custom of the country. Sophy called him Pandolfo, too, though seldom when addressing himself. It was not a pretty name. If he had been Alonzo, or Vincenzo, or even Antonio; but Pandolfo!—Pandolfo Pandolfini! It was like Robert Roberts, or John Jones—not a pretty name; but then, to be a Countess! That would sweeten any name, so that it would smell as sweet as any rose.

Thus the arrangements went on strangely enough, Sophy being the only one of all concerned who did not, as time progressed, feel in them a certain strangeness and mysterious something behind. The rector and his nephew came back before the time fixed for the wedding, though it was growing hot, and Mr. Snodgrass was anxious to get home. The curate was generally the one who yielded, not the one who led, but he had steadily held to his determination to come back to Pisa, and succeeded, as was natural. The rector was one of those who had guessed Diana to intend the Italian for herself, being of the opinion that the aim of every woman, however elevated, was to “catch” a man, one way or other; and he was not without hope now that his dear Bill’s constant devotion might at last get its reward. Many a heart is caught in the rebound, and if Bill was not very good-looking, he was at least a cleanly Englishman, not one of “those Italians.” To be on the spot might be all-important for him; so his uncle yielded and came back to Pisa, though it was hot, and even volunteered his services to perform the marriage—the Protestant marriage, as it was called with contempt by the old Canonico, Pandolfini’s cousin, who was to perform the other ceremony. It was a bitter pill for the rector to hear himself called a Protestant, but there was no help for it. The Canonico only took snuff, and smiled, when the English priest called himself a Catholic. Rome repays to the highest Anglican, and with interest, the spurns which he is so fond of administering to patient merit, when it takes the form of Dissent. The Canonico had asked if Sophy was a Protestant or a Christian, when he first heard of the marriage, and treated with absolute cynicism all Mr. Snodgrass’s protestations. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Norton could not be happy without the blessing of her own Church; nor did she think it suitable that the niece of her late dear husband, who was for so many years a most respectable clergyman of the Church of England, should be married without it. How could she tell what the priest said in his Latin? but about the English service there could be no manner of doubt. So the rector swallowed the opprobrious epithet of Protestant, and declared himself ready to perform the rite. Diana would no doubt be there. She would be compelled to veil her feelings, and to witness the marriage; and, in the rebound, who could tell what dear Bill’s presence might do?

The curate deluded himself with no such vain hopes. Diana’s presence was like the sun to him. Without it he faded and drooped, though otherwise he was not much like a flower. He was a heavy Englishman, not clever or endowed with much insight, yet he had a heart in his capacious and clumsy bosom. And to those who possess that organ, some things are visible which genius itself, without it, could scarcely see. It has been said that Pandolfini had chosen the ponderous silent young Englishman as the object of his special bounties, having divined him, and the sentiment which was his soul. It was young Snodgrass’s turn now to divine his friend, and he did it sadly, with a true brotherly, friendly sorrow for the evil he had discovered. He was not contented with the plea of business which Sophy accepted, and which all the others had to accept. He sought the much-occupied bridegroom out, even in the depths of his dark palace, and resisted all attempts to send him away. “I will wait till you are ready,” he said, and pretended not to see what miserable pretence of work it was which his friend at last pushed away. He got him out against Pandolfini’s will, who went with him, as was evident, only to get rid of him the sooner. But the curate was not to be shaken off. He went again and again; he watched with all the anxiety of friendship. He perceived how little Pandolfini saw of his bride, and how eagerly he seized upon every excuse to avoid being with her. He saw how, when the bridegroom paid the hurried visits which necessity demanded, Diana avoided him, and that under no circumstances did these two see each other, who, when he left Pisa, had been meeting every night. And, above all, the curate saw the misery in Pandolfini’s eyes. He said nothing for a long time, for he was not quick of purpose, or ready to seize what could be done; but at length the spectacle became too much for the good-hearted fellow.

They were walking one night by the Arno, very silent, saying nothing to each other. It was after a half-hour spent with the Nortons: Pandolfini had apparently caught at the chance of the curate’s company to carry him through this visit—and though Snodgrass was not quick of observation, he could not but remark, having his attention roused and on the alert, the curious character of the scene of which he was a spectator. Pandolfini was not indifferent; nothing of the ease and calm of that unexcited condition was in the anxious pathetic tender apology of the tone in which he replied to Sophy’s little espiegleries[16] and reproaches. “Are you always to be so drowned in business—always business? you never had any business when we knew you first,” she cried, pouting. He looked at her with a melancholy in his eyes which went to the curate’s heart: but it did not succeed in reaching the observation of Sophy, who had other things to think of than the looks of her betrothed: he was her property, and about him she entertained no doubt.

“No,” he said, “I had little business then: but now—have I not new objects of thought and provisions to make—”

“Oh, Signor Conte, if I am going to be such a burden on you—”

“Nay, not a burden. You do me a wrong, Sophy. If I can but provide what will make you happy—”

“Oh, you foolish old thing; did you think I meant it?” cried Sophy, looking up in his face, with the pretty affectation which love thinks adorable, but which chill eyes of bystanders see with less complacence. The Italian shrank for a moment from the caressing gesture of the two clasped hands which she laid upon his arm. Then he took courage, and stooping kissed the hands.

“If I can but make you happy, poor child,” he said, with a suppressed sob in his voice. Mrs. Norton at this moment called the curate’s attention, and led him to the other end of the room to show him something. She was always watchful to “let them have a little time by themselves.” “Forgive me,” she whispered, “but, of course, they have little things to say to each other,” and the poor little lady cast furtive glances over the curate’s shoulder to see if the lovers’ interview grew more familiar. But Pandolfini very gently had freed himself from Sophy’s hand. He rose and stood before her, talking low, but not in a tone which augured any special confidence. Snodgrass thought that the very sound of it was enough to break any one’s heart. It was like the tender pitying tone in which bad news is broken to a child. Why was he so sorry for her, so sadly kind and gentle? Her little follies did not offend him, as they might have done a more warm lover. He was indulgent to everything—kind, with a melancholy appeal to her forgiveness in everything he said. The curate perhaps was proud of himself for his penetration. He had never so divined any one before.

“You see they are not just like common lovers,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, who felt that she had to put the best face upon it, and now wreathed her face in smiles to conceal the anxiety in her mind. “He is so much older than she—and more experienced—and so clever. But you can’t think how he appreciates my Sophy’s sweetness. He quite worships her. When he talks to her in that voice it brings tears to my eyes. It is so tender!” cried the anxious woman, looking for confirmation in the curate’s face.

“Yes, it sounds very—melancholy,” said young Snodgrass, who, notwithstanding the new insight in his eyes, and the ache of sympathy in his heart, could not help being a little commonplace in speech.

“Melancholy! It is tender—that is what it is! He thinks everything is angelical that she does or says. And nobody who does not know her as we do can tell what a darling my Sophy is,” said Mrs. Norton, with tears in her eyes.

The curate made some inarticulate sound of assent; but he did not himself think Sophy angelical, and there was something in all this that affected him with a confused pang of sympathy, different from anything he had ever felt before. The mystery, the concealed despair on one side, the wistful veiled anxiety on the other, and Sophy’s superficial childish light-heartedness, her little commonplace coquetries and affectations between,—he was not clear-headed enough to discriminate these: but the whole affected him with sentiments he could not define nor get the better of. He stood up in the corner, as was his usual habit, a very serious shadow, heavy in soul as in person, and looked on. And it seemed to him that he could scarcely keep silence even here. As they were leaving when the strange visit was over, he made a pause on the way downstairs. “Do you never go to see Miss Trelawny?” he asked, putting his arm suddenly within Pandolfini’s. The Italian started violently, turned round, and looked him in the face, then hurried on. He was taken by surprise, and in his agitated condition shook as if he had received a blow. Nothing more was said for some time. They walked silently on together side by side in the cool of the soft summer night, for it was late—and reached the Arno without a word. It was a beautiful night. Once more the stars were out, blazing like great lamps out of heaven; and along the long line of street the lights twinkled, reflecting themselves in the water like stars of earth. Pandolfini’s steps gradually grew slower, till at last he stopped altogether, forgetting and seeming to lose himself as he gazed at those reflections in the dark softly flowing stream.

“Pandolfini,” said the curate, “I cannot bear this any longer. You must not do it; you ought not to do it. It is more than you can bear.”

“What is more than I can bear?” he asked, dreamily, not turning to his questioner, keeping his eyes fixed on the river below.

“Pandolfini,” cried the other, too much agitated by all he had heard and seen to take much thought what he was saying, “you know what I mean well enough. Do you think I am blind and cannot see? Once you divined me. I felt it, though we said nothing about it And now it is my turn. I am not so clever as you are, but I would do anything in the world to help you. Pandolfini, you can’t go through with this marriage; it is impossible to—”

“Not a word—not a word!” cried the Italian, raising himself hurriedly. “It is late, and I go back to my—business. Yes, it is true: is it extraordinary that one of my country should have business? We have talked enough to-night.”

“We have not talked at all,” cried the curate. “Oh, Pandolfini, let me speak! God knows what sympathy I have for you—more than words can tell! But why make it worse by this? You are trying yourself beyond what any man can bear. Stop while there is time, for the love of heaven!”

“My friend, you are kind, you are good,” said Pandolfini, with a tremor in his voice; “but there are things of which one does not speak, not to one’s own soul.”

“Why should there be?” cried Bill Snodgrass, in generous excitement, “Oh, listen to me! Don’t do in a hurry what you would repent all your life. She—might suffer for a day, but you for ever. Oh don’t, for the sake of false honour, bind yourself so! Don’t go on with it! this marriage—”

“Silence!” said the Italian, with a hot flush on his face. “Silence, silence!” Then his tone changed to something of the same grieved and tender sound which it took when he addressed Sophy. “Friend,” he said, with pathetic gentleness, “why rob me of your sympathy? I will know how you think if you say nothing; but to advise will make an end of all. See! what you are talking of will soon be to me the foundation of my life. That is sacred: that no man must discuss with me. No more, not a word, or I shall lose you—too.”

You—too! Who was the other, then, whom he had lost? The curate made an effort to speak again, but was silenced still more summarily; and thus they walked slowly in silence to Pandolfini’s house, where they parted with only a mutual grasp of the hand. Young Snodgrass’s mind was distracted with generosity, pity, and distress. He walked about in front of the great dark doorway where his friend had disappeared, with a mind torn in pieces with diverse thoughts. Should he follow him, and make one last attempt?—but he felt that to be indeed useless. Then a thought came into his head that brought a sudden gush of warmth to the chill of his anxiety. He would go to Diana. If any one could help, surely she would do so—she who was always ready to help; or at least she would tell him if anything could be done. He went back to the Palazzo dei Sogni without taking time to think, and, all hot and hasty, rushed into her presence before he allowed himself to consider what he was doing. Diana was alone. She was seated by her writing-table, on which lay a number of papers; but she had pushed her chair slightly away, and had a book in her hand, which probably, at the sound of her visitor’s entering, she had dropped upon her knee. Her solitary figure in this attitude, the papers neglected, the book dropped, all seemed to imply to Snodgrass a loneliness which never before had associated itself in his mind with Diana. For the first time in his life he felt, and wondered at himself for daring to feel, a kind of pity for the princess of his thoughts. She, too, was lonely, solitary, no one near her to make the world brighter; for which purpose poor Bill Snodgrass, who knew that he was capable of nothing but boring her, thought he would willingly have given his life. She rose up with a friendly, sweet salutation when she saw who it was. She was glad to see him—was it possible? For once in his life he had brightened her by the sight of his heavy reverential face.

“I am very glad you have come,” she said, in answer to his stammered salutation, “for I was feeling lonely, which is not usual with me. Everybody whom I know gone—and our little friends upstairs are very busy, of course,” she added, with a smile.

The curate had not time to think, as he probably would have done otherwise, that the idea of these little friends neglecting Diana was incredible. His mind was too full of his mission, which filled his homely countenance with purpose and eagerness. Diana saw this almost before she had completed what she was saying. She added hastily, in a different tone, “Something has happened—you have come to tell me of something? Is it news from home?”

“No,” he said: “Miss Trelawny, perhaps it is something quite foolish or more; but you understand—and you will pardon me if I am wrong. Pandolfini—he is in a condition I cannot understand.”

“Is he ill?” He thought she grew paler, and clasped her hands together as if something moved her.

“No, not that I know of: except that he is haggard and worn—a shadow of himself. It is about this—marriage.”

Diana had made a step towards him with warm and anxious interest at Pandolfini’s name. She now drew back again, a cloud falling over her. She did not make any reply, but only shook her head, and her countenance grew very grave, the smile, which was always lurking somewhere, ready to be called forth, fading altogether from her face.

“You will do nothing. Miss Trelawny, you who help every one! and yet how few are in such trouble? For you must see how unsuitable it is—how it is killing him.”

“Hush!” said Diana, as Pandolfini had said before; “if it is going to be, nothing unkind must be said—nothing it would hurt us or them to think of hereafter. And it is not for us to discuss,” she said, with a slight faltering in her voice; “they only can tell—”

“But, Miss Trelawny, it is not for gossip, nor in the way of intrusion into other people’s affairs. But, Pandolfini, he has read my heart, and now I feel that I can read his,” said the curate, stammering and growing red. Must not she know what he meant in both cases? She stood with her hands clasped, her head drooping, but no consciousness about her, thoughtful, and almost sorrowful, as if she knew all that he would say. “Oh, Miss Trelawny,” he cried, with generous zeal, “could not you interfere? Could not you set things right? There are things a man must bear, and I don’t say you could—save him—or any of us from: give us, I mean, happiness. But this is madness, despair—I don’t know what—and it will kill him. Oh, Miss Trelawny, will not you interfere?”

“How can I interfere?” cried Diana, piteously. “What can I do?” The tears were in her eyes. “Of all helpless people on the earth, am I not the most helpless?” This was said passionately, an unintended confession of her own share in this misery, which she instantly repented. “Forgive me,” she said, with a deep blush; “I am speaking extravagantly. But, Mr. Snodgrass, think what you are saying. What could I do? There is nothing, nothing in which I can help him. God help them both! I wish some one would take me home,” she cried again, suddenly. “It is too much for me, as well as for you! But all this is useless. There is nothing either you or I can do.”

You or I! The man was generous. He had given the last proof of it in making this appeal. But when she said “You or I,” poor Snodgrass forgot Pandolfini. It turned his head.

XVII. THE WEDDING-DAY

The marriage took place on the first day of June—or rather that was the beginning of the repeated and laborious processes which made Sophy Norton into the Contessa Pandolfini. What a delight it was to take out the first handkerchief embroidered with a coronet, one of those which Diana had got her from Paris. Sophy took it out, and shook that delightful sign of new-born nobility into the air on the day of the legal ceremony, which was the day before her two ecclesiastical marriages. She would not lose a moment that she could help. And the melancholy bridegroom, and the occupations which took him away from her, faded into nothing before this privilege. Diana might be richer, and had been always more splendid than she—but Diana had no coronet. As for Diana, she was engaged in preparing for her journey, and was present only at the English or Protestant marriage, when she managed to keep as much as possible out of sight, and avoided the bridegroom entirely, notwithstanding the researches after her of Mrs. Norton, and of the bride herself, whose efforts to produce Diana to say good-bye to dear Pandolfo were repeated and unwearying. “Where is Diana? what does her packing matter? besides, she does not pack—why should she, with a maid to do everything for her?” This was said with a slight tone of grievance, for it had not occurred to Pandolfini, though he furnished that poor little faded coronet, to provide a maid. Sophy, when she had put off her bridal dress after the strictest English rule, forgot her dignity so far as to run downstairs in her own dignified person to “hunt up” Diana. “Mr. Pandolfini does not want good-byes,” said Diana; “and see, I have taken off my pretty dress. You would not like me to present myself in this grey garment, all ready for travelling. God bless you, Sophy!—and you can explain to Mr. Pandolfini if you like: but be sure he is not thinking of any one but you.”

“I hope not,” said Sophy, demurely; “but you need not call him Mr. Pandolfini now, Diana. We did so in the old times when we knew no better. But I shall not permit him to give up his title any longer. You might say Count, I think.”

“I will say his Lordship, if you like,” said Diana kissing the unconscious little creature. She smiled, but there was a meaning in her eyes which heedless little Sophy, on the heights of glory and her coronet, understood as little as any child.

“You need not laugh,” said the Countess Pandolfini, gravely; “of course it is not the custom here. But I am sure a Count ought to be My Lord in England. It is just the same as an Earl—at least, my title just the same as Lady Loamshire’s, and far, far older nobility. English lords are nothing in comparison with Italian.” Sophy’s handkerchief, as has been said, was embroidered with a coronet, and so was everything else she had upon which she could have it worked or stamped. It was worth being married for that alone.

“I think they are calling for you,” said Diana. “Thank you, little Countess, for coming to me on this great day. All the servants shall be taught to say My Lady when you come to see me at home. Good-by now: and I hope you will be very happy—and make your husband happy,” Diana added, with an involuntary change of her voice.

“Oh, of course we shall be happy! and it will not be long before I shall make Pandolfo bring me to England. Good-bye, good-bye, Diana. Oh, how I wish you were only as happy as I am! I wish there was another Pandolfo for you. Yes, I am coming, aunt; good-bye, good-bye. I shall take your love to him, shall I? Oh yes, I will let you send him your love; and very soon I shall make him bring me to England: and I shall write to you in a few days, and—good-bye, dear Diana, good-bye.”

Diana went out upon her balcony to see them go away. The flowers and plants had grown high, and she stood unseen under the shade of the loggia. She felt that some one stood beside her as she looked down and watched the grave Italian leading out his gay little bride. What a butterfly Sophy looked, as she fluttered into the carriage which was to convey them to the villa! “Poor little Sophy, too,” said Diana, involuntarily, with a sigh.

“Are you sorry for her?” said the curate, who had come in unbidden at the door which Sophy had left open. He had not presumed, poor fellow, but he had come and gone with greater confidence, and taken a humble but secure place, half friend, half devoted follower, the last of Diana’s court since the evening when he made that appeal to her. The rector thought his dear Bill was making way, and that perhaps, after all, the heart might be caught in the rebound. “Are you sorry for her?” he said with surprise; “she is not sorry for herself.”

“Yes, poor little Sophy,” said Diana, “she deserved some pretty young man like herself, who would have run about with her, and understood all her little vanities. I hope she will never be sorry for herself: but it will not be a very cheerful life.”

“I think of him,” the curate said, in a low voice.

Diana did not answer for a time. Something came into her throat and stopped her. Then she went on after a pause, “Sophy will be more of a woman than you think. She would have made you a good little wife, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“Me!” He made a step away from her in the shock of surprise and indignation. He was not vain, he thought; but he who cherished so lofty, so noble a love—he to have Sophy suggested to him, or such as she! This, from Diana, went to poor Snodgrass’s heart.

“Yes,” she said, looking at him with a smile in her clear eyes. “You are angry, but it is true. A girl like Sophy, young and fresh and sweet, who would think there was no one in the world like you, and would be good to your poor people, would make you more happy than anything else—though perhaps you do not think so now.”

Poor curate! this sudden dash of cold water upon him, in the very midst of the subdued exhilaration with which he found himself by Diana’s side, talking to her more freely than he had ever ventured to talk before, was very hard to bear. He thought, if it was possible for Diana to be cruel, that she was cruel now. That she could smile even, and jest—for it must be intended for a jest—at such a moment, when he, for his part, had come ready, as it were, to follow with her the funeral of poor Pandolfini! Was it not, if one might dare to permit such a thought, heartless of Diana? But she gave him no time to think. She had her packing to attend to, and all the last arrangements to make for leaving Pisa next day. Diana had resisted various proposals to “join a party” of tourists going north-ward. She was starting straight for home, from which she declared she had been only too long away. The Snodgrasses and Mrs. Norton were to dine with her in the evening—to drink the health of the newly married, and conclude this little episode of their life—and she had no more leisure now. She came in lightly from among the oleanders and aloes, in the soft grey dress which she had put on in such haste, as her excuse for not showing herself. It was too simple a garment—too like her governess days to suit Diana—and she had some reason of her own, perhaps, for putting it on; not any reason, one would think, however, for sad thoughts. She came in with a light in her eyes which had been somewhat veiled of late. “Now I must be busy,” she said, smiling upon her visitor as she dismissed him. The last week or two of warm Italian weather, and of these distracting melancholy contemplations, had stopped many things, or retarded them. Life itself had grown languid in sympathy: but now that was all over; the deed was done for which heaven and earth had seemed to be waiting, and there could be no more lingering, musing, over it now.

The little party, which was so shrunken out of its old dimensions, showed as curious a mixture of feelings as could well be seen, when it met that evening round Diana’s table. Mrs. Norton was subdued by the reality of the event to which she had been looking forward so long. Never till now had she thought of it as affecting herself. The little lady might be selfish for her Sophy, but she was not selfish in her own person; nor did she think of her own comfort as opposed to that of her niece. So that now, when Sophy was gone—she and her boxes and preparations, and her voice and her footstep, all gone—a sudden collapse ensued for poor Mrs. Norton. The sense of her loneliness came upon her all in a moment. She was happy now, she had said fervently; she had placed her child in the care of a good man, who would love and cherish her; and now, whatever happened to herself, Sophy would be safe. But even as she said the words the sense of her loneliness had seized upon the poor little woman, and brought up a sob into her throat. Sophy was provided for. Sophy had a husband and a coronet—the last an unhoped-for glory—but she, had she lost Sophy? She was brave, and choked back the sob, and upbraided herself for her selfishness, but still this constriction of the throat would come back. “I am rather worn out, that is the fact,” she said to Diana, unable to conceal the break in her voice, but laughing brokenly too; “we are so subject to our bodies. I never would allow I was tired, though S-Sophy warned me. If I b-break down, you know what it means, Diana—only t-tiredness and nerves—that is all.” And then she cried, and sat down to table, faltering and trembling, but trying to laugh, with the conviction that the sound, though far from mirthful, would make it apparent that she cried for joy.

As for the rector, he was full of the correctest sentiments, and kept his eye upon Diana and upon dear Bill to see what progress they were making. He made them little speeches as to the advantages of matrimony. “It is the one mistake I have made in my life,” said the rector. “It is true that my nephew, who is as good as a son to me, saves me, in some degree, from the loneliness. But I never should advise any one to follow my example. I hope my dear Bill will judge better,” Mr. Snodgrass added, with some solemnity. Diana was the only one who laughed, and this fact amused her still more than the primary cause of her merriment. Mrs. Norton put her handkerchief to her eyes, while the curate sat in dumb worship with his eyes turned towards the object of his constant thoughts.

“Ah, Mr. Snodgrass, perhaps you will feel as I do. One would make any sacrifice for the happiness of one’s children, and then after, one suffers—not that I mean to complain. To see Sophy happy will be happiness enough for me, if her dear husband is spared to her. But I know what that is,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, subsiding into her handkerchief.

“We must not think of anything gloomy to-night,” said the rector. “I trust, indeed, that our dear friends the Pandolfinis will be long spared to each other, and that they will combine the good qualities of both nations. It will be a lesson indeed in Italian society to see the beauty of an English home. There is nothing like it, my dear Mrs. Norton. I have travelled as much as most men. I may say I am acquainted more or less with European circles: but an English home, and a marriage of true affection, as we have every reason to believe this is—”

“So was mine, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Mrs. Norton; “and oh, Providence was very kind to me. There are very, very few like my dear husband. The bishop always said there was no one he trusted in so much. He was adored in the parish. Rich and poor followed him to his grave. It was as if every family had lost a member. And what is life to those who are left? Forgive me, Diana. I know I am not so gay as I ought to be: but a wedding always, more or less, b-brings back the recollection of one’s d-desolation.”

“Quite true,” said the rector; “and to a solitary man like myself, the consideration that I have made one great mistake in life—”

“Then why don’t you—?” cried Diana, in whom this mutual lamentation roused the dormant sense of humour, delivering her from her own thoughts, which were not too gay. She could not complete her sentence, however, as she intended, feeling a real pity for the poor little lady opposite. “You, at least, Mr. Snodgrass,” she said, “why don’t you mend your mistake? There is time enough yet.” The rector smiled. He was pleased by the suggestion, though he did not mean to follow it. “No, no,” he said. “To be told by you, Miss Trelawny, that it is not too late, is a compliment indeed; but I give up in favour of Bill here, who is my representative. Dear Bill must mend my mistake, not an old man like me.”

Dear Bill did not say anything. He had fallen back into his normal condition, and only gazed at Diana with dull but faithful eyes. He had forgiven her the sharp and unexpected blow she had given him, but it had killed his little confidence, his sense that there was a secret understanding between them. He to be made happy by marrying a Sophy! how little she knew!

And yet how much better it would have been for him than for Pandolfini! Diana could not but think, with impatient regret, as she looked at them all, playing their little parts round the table, where they were never to sit again. Sophy would have made the curate a very good little wife. She would have led him insensibly down from those unattainable wishes which held him suspended between earth and heaven, and brought him back to the calm delights of the parish, which was his natural sphere and hers. They would have harmonised by infallible instinct and power of natural attraction, after perhaps a little interval of difficulty. But Pandolfini! what link could there be between the little English clergywoman who would have been so useful in a parish, and the grave Italian whose habits were as alien to hers as his race? Poor Pandolfini in these few weeks had ceased even to be an Anglomane. He had gone back upon his native habitudes, upon his old relations; he had turned even his English books, in temporary disgust, out of their places. Fortune had dealt with him hardly, turning his preferences—the tastes which he had cultivated with a certain pride—into weapons of his downfall. Diana did not know all this, as she allowed herself to fall back into a review of all that passed after her guests were gone on that last evening. She was going away alone as she had come. All that had happened since her arrival here had passed over her without touching her. As she had come, so she was going away. The lamps were burning low, the soft night air was blowing in gratefully at the windows. The great picture of the Count dei Sogni, which had hung over her so long, seemed to look mildly, regretfully, half reproachfully at her through the gloom. He, too, poor Pandolfini, was of the Sogni: and she herself, and all the chances of this strange mortal life, what were they but Sogni too? “We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” said Diana softly to herself, the tears coming to her eyes as she stood there alone in the great dim room, the curtains swaying softly behind her in the air of the night, and dim reflections showing all about like ghosts, repeating her tall white figure in the old dim mirrors. It had been nothing but a caprice on her part to come here—a mere fancy, without any seriousness or purpose in it. If she had but stayed at home—gone on upon her quiet round in her own sphere, where her duty was! Why was it that this whim of hers should have brought a cloud upon the life of a good man? Life seemed to melt away and resolve itself into shadows, through those tears of visionary compunction that were in her eyes—a vain show, a phantasmagoria, momentary and delusive, strong gleams of light and rolling darknesses in which no meaning was. The vague whiteness that moved in spectral distance in the mirror far away from her at the end of the room, far-off reflection of her own solitary figure, seemed to Diana as real as herself What had they to do, the woman or the reflection, in this stately dwelling of the past?—brought here for a moment to pass across the surface of the mirror which had reflected so many things, to work unwitting and unwilling evil, and then to pass away—yet never to pass away having once been here. Diana hid her face in her hands, oppressed and bowed down by this visionary sense of intrusion, of harm, yet unreality. Not three months, not more than a moment in life: yet enough for so much to happen in, more important than many quiet years. So the great and the little mix and perplex each other, ever increasing the strange confusion of this world of shadow, till the brain turns round, and the heart grows sick.

She rose up quickly, and threw out her hands, as if throwing something away. “This must not be,” she said aloud to herself; “this must not be.” And she gathered up from the table all those little tokens of personal presence which change the aspect of a place of habitation, and make it into the likeness of its tenants,—took up a shawl which had been thrown upon a sofa, a book which lay on an old cabinet, a little basket of odds and ends already collected. With a certain reverence, as we collect the possessions of the lately dead, she carried them all away. The room was left, when she closed the door as it had been when she came in to it—the faded old furniture all ranged in its place, the great portrait looking down from the dimness of the old wall. Was it the same? A sweetness breathed in upon the air that had not been there before, a glimpse of flowers through the window, a greenness of leaves,—and on the carpet one little sprig of myrtle with its feathery globe of blossom, which had come from Sophy’s marriage-wreath, and had fallen as she went out from Diana’s hand. No more—yet something still.

Pandolfini at this moment was standing out on the terrace of his villa, looking across the Tuscan garden of rich cultivation about. The grey olive-trees were dark in the monotony of the night, the soft hills all shrouded, the distant Apennines lying like shadows against the shadowy horizon. Here and there the gleam of a firefly gave a touch of light, and the roses were all a-bloom upon the hedges, betraying themselves by their sweetness. He stood alone and gazed out upon the dark, seeing nothing, yet somehow receiving the shadowy monotones of the night into his soul, as Diana was receiving the ghostly reflections and shadowed calm of the lonely room. All shadows, without and within; but he was at one of those points of existence when everything is too vivid and actual to permit of dreaming. His whole life was changed; he was another man, with new duties, new burdens, new companionship. How he was to make his toilsome way among them he could not tell. There was a heavy dew in his eyes, essence of pain and wonder at all that had happened to him,—at this revolution which was, yet was not, his doing,—at the new claims, all so terribly real, undeniable, true. How had it come about? What fate had led him by strange paths to this transformation of existence? He could not tell. It seemed a gratuitous interference as of some potent spirit who wished him ill, and had led him astray. The world was as dark to him as the fields, with impulses of pity, of generous devotion, of honour and kindness, lighting it fitfully like the fireflies: but for himself all dark—no comfort in it, nor any visible hope. Yet his mind was hushed with the very greatness of the crisis. It was done, and the agitations were so far calmed; his fate was decided. But when the moon rose Pandolfini retreated before it, covering his eyes. The dark was more congenial. He wanted no soft angelical face to shine upon him, no light to follow him at that moment of his life.

XVIII. AFTERWARDS

Diana reached home when the country was in the full glory of summer. She, too, was like the summer, her friends said—more beautiful than ever she had been—with just a touch of sunburn from her journey, which ripened her paleness and made her eyes more brilliant. The whole county hurried to the Chase to meet and greet her, and tell her how well she was looking, and that foreign travel evidently agreed with her. “But, all the same, you must not go again, for we cannot spare you,” they cried. Nothing could go on without Diana. “And we were so sadly afraid you meant to stay and spend the summer in Switzerland,” said young Lady Loamshire (she whose title, Diana remembered with a smile, was the same as Sophy’s). Nobody could have a more flattering reception. There was a general feeling of escape that so precious a possession as their virgin-princess had been got back in safety. The county did not like her to move; even when she went to London, it was never without fears that somebody might snap her up, and marry her before any one could interfere: and how much more “abroad,” where there were always needy foreigners on the strain to catch rich English ladies! She and the county had escaped a great danger—they could not sufficiently pet and caress her when she got back. In the delight of her safety they were all quite satisfied to hear that Sophy Norton had made such a good marriage. “Only I hope the poor man was not taken in. They think all the English are so rich,” said one of those who had been afraid that Diana would be “snapt up.” This was an old lady who had as much fear for the conventional fortune-hunter as so many other old ladies have of the Pope. But Sophy Norton was nobody: she was a cheap ransom to pay for Diana, and only interested a very few people, who were amused or delighted or irritated, as the case might be, to hear that so insignificant a person was now the Countess Pandolfini. Diana did her full justice, and gave her the benefit of her coronet, by which all the servants, and especially the maid who had charge of the Red House, were deeply impressed. Diana’s own household did not like it. They thought it extremely forward of a little thing who owed so much to Miss Trelawny to marry a titled gentleman, though it was some little solace to remember that foreign counts were not much to swear by. But the maid at the Red House felt her bosom swell with pride as loftily as Sophy’s own. “I don’t believe as she’ll be a bit proud, but just as friendly with Miss Trelawny as ever,” Mary Jane said, “though a married lady, and a titled lady stands more high like in the world.” The Trelawny household did not know what to answer to this taunt. They made hot protestations on behalf of their mistress that she might have married half the gentlemen in the county, and had her pick and choice of titles; but of course they could not give proof of this assertion, and Mary Jane’s statement as to the superiority of a married and titled lady was unquestionably true.

“Then they were really married?” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “he did not get out of it? I hoped he would up to the last moment. Honour is a great thing, but that is carrying honour too far, Diana. I could not have done it. Perhaps you could who are more high-minded—”

“We are not called upon to judge,” said Diana, “so we need not inquire who could have done it. I hope they may be very happy—”

“Do not be fictitious,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “Happy! Sophy would be happy with her new dresses anywhere.”

“And her coronet,” said Diana, smiling.

“Her—coronet! do you mean to say you encouraged her in such folly? Diana, I never can understand you. Are you a cynic? are you a—?”

“Fool, perhaps. I will save your feelings by saying the word myself. Yes, I suppose I am a fool: for I—miss them,” said Diana, half laughing, half crying. “It is quite true. Their little ways, their little talk, their kindnesses, and even their little amiable selfishnesses—yes, I don’t deny it. I miss them: so I suppose I am, as you say, a fool.”

“I never said it. Amiable selfishness!—what sort of a thing is that? No, Diana, I don’t understand you. You are either the goodest, or the strangest, or the most—”

“Foolish—it is that. There are so many sensible people in the world,” said Diana, apologetic. “Yes, I had it embroidered for her on all her things. It was funny, but how it pleased Sophy! And why not? Lady Loamshire has her coronet on her handkerchiefs, and her husband’s grandfather, you know, after all, was only a—cheesemonger; whereas the Pandolfinis—But you know that better than I do.”

“Lady Loamshire! how can you be so ridiculous! She is a great personage. She is an English countess.”

“And Sophy is an Italian one. What difference is there besides?”

“What are you two arguing about?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I will set it right for you, if you will tell me. To be sure, the Pandolfinis. Tell me all about them, Diana. I suppose they are very happy, and all that. They went to the Villa for the honeymoon, English fashion? Ah, Pandolfini always was an Anglomaniac; and I am very glad he has an English wife. I had a hand in that. Did my wife ever tell you, Diana—?”

“Oh yes, I told her—she knows everything,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a suppressed groan; “but when you tell your wise deeds, if I were you I would leave that out. If ever a man had his heart broken by his friend—”

“Yes, listen to her, Diana. She wants me to believe that I spoke to the wrong person—a likely thing! For you know I managed it all. Pandolfini put it into my hands. And she says I made a mistake!” said Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands. “Now I put it to you, Diana, as an impartial person, supposing even that I was a fool, as she makes me out, who was there else to propose to? That’s the question. I defy you to answer that. If it was not Sophy, who could it be?”

The two ladies said nothing. They exchanged a half-guilty furtive glance, not venturing even to look at each other openly. Mr. Hunstanton was triumphant; he rubbed his hands more and more.

“You perceive?” he said, “that is the weak point with women—not but what I have the highest respect for your judgment, both of you. You are delightfully rapid in your conclusions,” added Mr. Hunstanton, with naive originality, “and jump at a truth which we might not reach for weeks with the aid of pure reason: but the practical argument has little favour with you. When I ask you, What other lady was there? What other could I have been sent to? neither the one nor the other of you can find a word to say.”

“No,” said Diana; her voice sounded flat and trembled a little. “No,” she said, “I think—you must have done what was best.”

Mrs. Hunstanton gave her an indignant glance: but what could they say? It was not possible to utter any name, or give any indication between them. They were even a little overawed by the determined simplicity of the appeal.

“I thought you would own it,” he said, delighted with his victory. “No, no, I made no mistake. I am not in the habit of making mistakes. They were not like each other on the surface, but I have always heard that harmony in diversity is the great secret of happiness. It was silly of him, though, to give in about the title. What does it signify to call yourself Count? Among English people it is more a drawback than anything else, when there is neither money to keep it up, nor any particular distinction. But I suppose Sophy liked it.”

“Yes—Sophy liked it very much indeed.”

“I should think Sophy would like it!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, “and her aunt. A title of any kind delights a silly woman. And to think of that foolish little pair, one on either side of poor Pandolfini! Yes, Diana, I know you have said that you agree with Tom. He will quote you now, whenever they are mentioned. He will say you are entirely of his opinion.”

“I will say—as I have always said—that Diana is the most sensible woman I know,” said Mr. Hunstanton, “the most reasonable to see the force of an argument: and the most candid—even when she is convinced against her will.”

“I have no patience with either of you,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting up and going away.

This was all that was said upon the subject of Pandolfini. Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands with a chuckle of triumph over his own victory and his wife’s discomfiture, remained master of the situation. And the ordinary life was resumed, as if this little episode had never been. Reginald, the delicate boy to whom Mrs. Norton had been so kind, asked often if she was not coming back again. There was no one like her at bezique, he said. His mother was very kind, and would play with him when she was put to it, but Reginald could see that it bored mamma. Whereas Mrs. Norton was never bored: she liked it—she was always jolly—was she ever coming back? Diana could give no answer to that question. And in the course of the following year she had more than one temptation to transfer the Red House to other tenants. But she was as faithful as Reginald to her foolish little neighbours. And the house remained empty, with Mary Jane in possession, who was very fond of talking of Madam the Countess, which she understood was her little mistress’s correct style and title; and thus a whole year went away, and another midsummer made the woods joyful. Diana had little leisure left her to think of the two small people whom she had kept warm like birds under her wing, but nevertheless she went sometimes and looked at the vacant nest, and still kept it vacant, and missed them a little, which was stranger still. The curate, who also had resumed all his former habits, and spent his life, when he was not in the parish, following Diana with dull faithful eyes that never left her, met her one day near the deserted house. He had been visiting the gamekeeper, who was disabled by some accident, and was going home by that short cut through the park. How his heart beat when he came upon her all alone! It was very seldom he saw her alone. It reminded him of that day when he made his appeal to her about Pandolfini and she spoke to him of “you and I.” Would she ever say such words again?

“I have been carrying news to Mary Jane,” said Diana, “of the birth of a little Pandolfini. She wants to know if the baby is a little lord like Lady Loamshire’s baby; but, alas! it is only a little girl.”

“Has it come to that?” said the curate, startled—though he ought to have known better with all his parish experiences.

“Oh yes,” said Diana, with a smile, “it has come to that. Sophy will be a charming little mother, and the baby will make her very happy.”

“You always had a great opinion of—Madam Pandolfini.”

“Yes,” said Diana, and she laughed, looking up at him. “I thought she would have made the very wife you want, Mr. Snodgrass; but, unfortunately, I thought of it too late.”

Thank God! the curate said devoutly within himself. For he knew, and she knew—and he knew that she knew—that he must have married Sophy had Diana willed it. He would have resisted, but he would have yielded—and been happy. How sorry Diana was that it had not occurred to her in time! “You would have been a very happy couple,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I am sure of it. What a help she would have been in the parish!” And to this he could not say no.

“I don’t know if you will like me to ask,” he said, faltering, and feeling it safe to change the subject, “but—do they get on? are they—comfortable? I knew—all about it, you remember—at the time.”

“Did you?” she said, ignoring all that had passed between them on this subject. “I have never asked if they were comfortable, Mr. Snodgrass; but why should we doubt it? There is always a little risk with people of different nationalities; but Sophy always writes in high spirits.”

“She was in high spirits on her wedding-day!” the curate muttered, furious with Sophy, for whose sake Diana treated him with such unusual severity. He had a double grievance against her now.

“And should not you like your bride to be in high spirits on her wedding-day?”

“Oh, Miss Trelawny, how hard you are upon me! when you know I shall never have any bride,” said the young man, with a look which he meant to be eloquent. They had come to the avenue by this time, and were about to part.

“Till we find a second Sophy,” she said, and gave him her hand, smiling, as she turned towards the house. He stood for a moment looking after her with dull but wistful eyes. Nothing but that smile would ever be his from Diana. But if a second Sophy could be found! The curate turned and went on with a little shiver of conscious weakness. Did not he know, and did not she know, that what she commanded he would do? But perhaps along with this fear and consciousness there was a little flutter of anticipation, too, in the curate’s faithful breast.

Some weeks after this conversation another event occurred which surprised everybody. It happened when Diana was out, so that for a full hour the servants had the privilege of discussing what had happened before any elucidation was possible. It was in the afternoon that it happened—the drowsiest moment of the day. Common cabs from the station carrying luggage very seldom appeared in the beautiful avenue, and the butler knew that no visitor was expected. But Diana’s servants did not dare to be uncivil. It was Mrs. Norton who was in the cab, and her big box, made for Continental travel, which weighted that humble vehicle above. “The Red House—oh, I would not take the liberty,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice as she stepped out. She was as dignified as travel and weariness would permit, though her bonnet was not so neat as usual. “If you will be so very good as let the man wait in the stableyard till I see Miss Trelawny. Oh, is she out? I am very sorry,” said the little lady, growing pale. “I think I must wait and see her. I think I shall have time to wait and see her. I wonder if there will be time before the train.” She was so tired and nervous, and ready to cry with this disappointment, that Jervis made bold to inquire if all was well with Madam and the baby. “She said, ‘Oh, the Countess is very well, I thank you, Jervis,’” he reported, when he went downstairs, “as grand as possible. But you take my word there’s some screw loose. Meantime, I’ll take the poor old girl a cup of tea.” This is how our servants speak of us, with that familiar affection which is so great a bond between the different classes of society; and Mrs. Norton found Jervis so respectful and so kind, that her heart swelled within her as she sat in Diana’s little morning-room, and sipped her cup of tea. It was so good, and the house was so large and quiet, with that well-bred calm which exists only in an English house, the returned wanderer said to herself—oh, so different from old Antonio, who delivered his opinions along with every dish he served. When Jervis went downstairs she wept a little, and stifled her sobs in her handkerchief. What would Diana say? Would she blame her for this step she had taken? Would she advise her to go back again by the next train? Mrs. Norton had not ventured even to have her big box taken down from the cab, which stood looking so shabby in Diana’s stableyard. She was proud, though she was so humble-minded, and she would not make any appeal to Diana’s generosity, or look as if she expected to stay. When she had finished her tea and her crying, she went to the mirror and straightened her bonnet, and tried to look as if she had never known what a tear was. But when Diana came in all smiling, and cordial as of old, and looked at her with indulgent kind eyes that found no fault and expressed no suspicion, Mrs. Norton broke down. She threw herself into her friend’s arms, regardless of her bonnet. “Oh, Diana, here I am back again a poor old lonely woman. And—I could not be in England without first coming to see you; and I feel as if I had nobody but you—”

“What is the matter?” cried Diana, in alarm. “Sophy—?”

“Oh, Sophy is very well; indeed there is nothing the matter. I—I got homesick I suppose. I—wanted my own country. She has her baby now, Diana, she has her friends: she is fond of her own way: and—oh, she does not want me any more!”

“Well,” said Diana, cheerfully, “and so you have come home? How sensible that was!—the very wisest and best thing you could do.”

“Oh, do you think so, Diana?” The little lady brightened under these words of commendation. “But I have no right to presume upon coming home after all this long time,” she said, wistfully. “And I know, dear, it was Sophy you cared for. How could it be me? I was always g-glad to think that it was S-Sophy that was cared for. But now she has her baby, Diana, and I am only a trouble to her. She does not want me. Oh, Diana, she would not be so frivolous if he did not leave her so much! No, no, I am not blaming him; he was always kind, you know, but he did not understand us,—he never made a companion of her. And now she has so many friends, and talks Italian like a native (she always was clever at languages), and they chatter and chatter, and I do not understand a word, and then she calls me cross. Me cross, Diana! And such strange ways with the baby, as if I knew nothing about babies. She even told me so, that I never had one, and how could I know? And so strange altogether—a strange man, and a strange house, and no pleasant fires, and such strange food! Oh, my dear, what could I do? He was very kind, and asked me to stay, but she—she!—never asked me. She didn’t w-want me—oh, Diana! I think it will b-break my h-heart!”

“Hush! here is Jervis,” said Diana. Mrs. Norton stopped short in the midst of her sob. She gave herself a rapid shake, raised her shoulders, cut short the heave of her little bosom. No other check could have told so effectually. It is one thing to break your heart, but to give way before the servants is quite another thing. She was not capable of such a breakdown. What Jervis saw when he came in was a little figure very erect upon the sofa, with shoulders squared and bonnet straightened, and a smile upon her face. “Oh yes, Diana, the Countess is quite well, and the baby is a darling,” said the deceitful little woman. She did not think it was deceitfulness, but only a proper pride.

And the end was that Mrs. Norton was taken in “for good,” and her big box dislodged from the cab, and carried to a pretty room very near Diana’s. She was not sent away even to the pleasant solitude of the Red House. When Mrs. Hunstanton heard of this, she came over in hot haste to know, first, how long it was going to last; second, how Diana could be so incredibly foolish; and lastly, whether anything was to be found out about the pair whom even she now was compelled to call the Pandolfinis. But Mrs. Norton, it need not be said, put on triple armour of defence against the assaults of this unkindly critic. She met her with smiles more impenetrable than chain-armour. The dear baby was so well, and Sophy was so well, she had taken the opportunity to run over and see her friends. “For, however happy one may be,” Mrs. Norton said with feeling, “and however great may be the happiness one sees around, one’s heart yearns for one’s old friends.” Thus the enemy was baffled with equal skill and sweetness: and no one ever heard from Diana why it was that Sophy’s aunt had come back. She took to watching over Diana, growing pale when she coughed, and miserable when her head ached, as she had watched over Sophy; and settled down into her pretty rooms, with pretty little protestations that it was too much—far too much! yet pious hopes that she might be of use to Diana, who was so good to everybody. And Mrs. Norton clearly saw a Higher Hand in all that had led to this final arrangement, which was so happy a solution of all difficulties. “The hand of Providence was never more clear,” she would say with cheerful solemnity from her easy-chair. “If Sophy had not had that cough, neither Diana nor any of us would have gone to Pisa, and we never should have met dear Count Pandolfo, and Sophy would never have married him. And if Sophy had never been established in Italy, and so comfortable, you would not have thought of taking me into your own delightful house, and making me so happy. Oh, how thankful we should be, Diana! This is how everything works for good. It is seldom, very seldom, that one sees it so very clear!”

Was it so clear?—was it all for this that the Palazzo dei Sogni had witnessed so many agitations, and that life had changed so strangely for that one grave Tuscan, whose days were so full of business, and whose little English wife had so many gossips? Poor Pandolfini! Diana made no answer to her guest’s happy trust in the Providence which had made such elaborate arrangements for her comfort. That chapter of life was over, whatever might have been in it,—over and closed and ended, till the time when the harvest shall be gathered, and all shall be known—where the tares came from, and where the wheat.

But Pandolfini never brought his wife to England, notwithstanding the impulse of mingled recollection and jealousy which made her long to go home when she heard of Diana’s adoption of her aunt. “Go, Sophy, if you will: but this little one is too young to travel,” he said. And Sophy, grumbling, stayed at home. After all, the man had the best of it. What flower of happiness so exquisite as this child could have come into his barren days, but for Mr. Hunstanton’s mistake? Mrs. Norton betrayed that he had carried it away, according to the custom of his Church, and had it christened the day after it was born, without even consulting the mother about its name. He had called it Stella, though that was not a family name even. Why Stella?—though it was a pretty name enough. And it is not quite clear that even Diana knew why.

THE END.

Footnotes

[1] persianis - window shutters

[2] tablier - an apron

[3] piano nobile - the principal floor of a large house.

[4] loggia - a small, often ornate, summer house built on the roof of a residence to enjoy cooling winds and admire the view.

[5] pur sang - of pure blood

[6] Oh Nature, Nature why do you not give now what you promised then? Why do you so deceive your children?

[7] Vita Nuova - A medieval text on courtly love written by Dante Alighieri.

[8] à me stesso - myself

[9] toujours perdrix - literally 'always partridge', meaning too much of the same thing.

[10] turchino - deep blue

[11] selon les règles - in accordance with the rules.

[12] padrone - master

[13] illustrissimo - most eminent, renowned or illustrious

[14] dolce far niente - sweet idleness

[15] Generosissima - generous

[16] espiegleries - shenanigans

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