Dianahad 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 smileat 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 genialfellow-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 thisdolce far nienteovercame 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 anair 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 unkindindeed 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, “asif 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!—whyshould 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 thosewho 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 notfall 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 theterzo piano, not shady and embowered as Diana was in herloggia, 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, thetwo 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 sureshewill 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 nowon 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 thecurate. “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,doyou 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 shehad 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 cleveras 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 moreDiana 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.”
Pandolfinirushed 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 ecstatichopes 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 intensifiedthe 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 thegentil 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 tohim, 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. Itoverpowered 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 wentout 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 quitenice, 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!haveI 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 letme 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 dreamtime 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.”
“The imperial votaress passed on,In maiden meditation, fancy free.”
“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 ofinstability, 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 fell, to talk of such a man as Pandolfini as too timidto 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;” andpleased 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 youmust 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!
Therewas 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 thefiancéwas 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 newpiece 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 somuch 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 youover-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 thereach 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 madeMr. 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 importantaunt, 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. Thatwas 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 noother 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!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 hisknees 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 whenhe 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’strousseau, 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.