‘She is a woman, therefore to be wooed;She is a woman, therefore to be won.’
‘She is a woman, therefore to be wooed;She is a woman, therefore to be won.’
‘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 eyesall 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 besure 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 upon 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 recommendme, 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 dayearlier? 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?
Mrs. Nortonand 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 tolet 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 wasshe 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 suasionhalf 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, wemust 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 thepiano nobile: but she did notintend 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 nothalfso 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 hercradle 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 bySwitzerland. 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.Shehas 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—Ido 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! Inever, 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. Ihopemy 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 whetheranother 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 notlike 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 travellingalone 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 madeen 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.
Therooms on the third floor of the Palazzo de Sogni were not like those in Diana’s beautifulappartamento. The drawing-room, which was so spacious and lofty in thepiano 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 nomaid,” 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 beprepared. The door of Mrs. Norton’s sanctuary was accordingly standing wide open, revealing not only the Italian bed with its crackling high-piled mattress ofturchino, 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,thatwould 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 horried little parties again.”
“Hush, my darling! at least you must nevertalklike 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. Agentleman! 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 shouldhave 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 withouthumiliation. 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 leavehimto 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 alwayslooking 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 allabout 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 moredifficilethan 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 notgood 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 wasselon les règlestoo; 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 knowhow 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 littleme!”
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 knowgentlemen. 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.”
“Shewilldress 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 yourtrousseau; 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. Atrousseau, 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 madesuch 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.
Pandolfiniscarcely 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 sombreappartamento, 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 theirterzo pianoby right of blood. In the higher storeys there were some suites of smaller rooms let to smaller people. Down below in thepiano nobilewas 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. Itwas 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. Thedonna da faccenda, or woman-of-all-work, had long ago gonehome 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—andhere; 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 shouldlovehim, 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 greatlady 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 thepadrone,” 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 amomentary thought struck him that it might not be thepadroneat 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 thepadrone’spantoloons, 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, thenshe 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 theforestieridown below, who paid so good a rent for thepiano nobile, and so make more room and a more seemly habitation—something more worthy ofher? 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 upsome 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 andbeginning 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 tohim!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 andseen 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.”
“Thepadronedid not disturb me last night,” said Antonio, severely; “but this morning when I found thelamp still hot, and theillustrissimo’schair 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. Thepadroneforgets 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 thetombola, as I see you have been doing, whether numbers or colours I know not, thepadronewould 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. Thepadronemay 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 seemedto 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 oldcanonicoin the cathedral, who had taught him when he was a boy, to anold 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 wakingsave in the rooms under the roof, where the tenants were out upon theloggias, and busy with their morning occupations like the rest of their countryfolk, long before the drowsy English had opened an eyelid.
Then thepersianisbegan to open one by one, and the mist of dreams cleared off. On the first floor thepersianishad 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 fastidiousforestieriobjected 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 theother 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 thepersianisopen 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.