Thespring days lengthened into summer while the preliminaries of the marriage still went on. The Hunstantons could not retard their usual day of departure for any event of such secondary importance as the marriage of Sophy Norton. “To be sure, poor Pandolfini is our friend, and for him one might be tempted to stay,” Mrs. Hunstanton said; “but the Nortons—the Nortons are onlyprotégéesof Diana’s. But for her I should never have noticed them. It is her whim to spoil these two silly little women. But though I am so fond of Diana, I have never humoured her in this; and for us to remain would be absurd.” So, though they lingered a week or so, that was all. The Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, had gone on to Florence and to Rome. The other members of the little party were dispersing on all sides. Only Diana remained tokeep the bride-elect and her anxious but triumphant aunt company. And Diana had hesitated. She had wished to go with the Hunstantons straight home, but for the complaints and outcries of the two little ladies. “Oh, will you go and forsake us?” Sophy cried. “Will you leave me to be married without one friend near me?” “Indeed, Diana, I did not expect you would leave us,” said Mrs. Norton. “I should not have undertaken it if I had not felt sure of you. And how can I go through it all without some support?—without some one to lean upon?” Diana, though she smiled at these arguments, remained. There were, indeed, a great many things in which she was a support to the fluttering and nervous pair, who were half overjoyed by the approaching elevation, half frightened by the loneliness of their position. Mrs. Norton especially was apt to be invaded by doubts. Whether she ought not to have insisted that her niece should be married at home: whether it was not too much of Mr. Pandolfini to have asked of her (though so flattering to dear Sophy and lover-like was his impatience to make her his own): whether people might not think she was too anxious to have everything settled: or that it was not quite ladylike to allow things to proceed so rapidly. All these doubts Diana had to satisfy three or four times a-day.
And there were other difficulties still more important which the helpless little pair could not have got through without her. Pandolfini, who was always so busy, whose occupations continued to increase as his marriage drew nearer (“which, of course, was very natural,” Mrs. Norton said, with a certain chill of doubt in her confidence, while Sophy loudly complained of it, though without any doubting), never got into the familiar intimacy which generally characterises such moments of preface and beginning, and was accordingly of no more help to them than if he had been still merely their acquaintance, Mr. Hunstanton’s friend—much less, indeed, for Mr. Hunstanton’s friend had always been friendly and serviceable, and full of genial help, in those cheerful days when he was not overpowered by business. This gleamed across Mrs. Norton’s mind dimly by times, affording her a half-revelation—a momentary unwilling perception of differences which she did not wish to fathom. But, so far as any one knew, these perceptions were not shared by Sophy, who went on her way, with occasional grumblings, it is true, but with too much thought of herself to think very much of Pandolfini. Naturally, is it not the bride who is the most interesting? She has her clothes to think of, and her approaching promotionto the dignity of a married lady—a dignity which it was very fine to attain at so early an age. And there were all her new duties, as her aunt called them,—the management of her house, which she must learn to do in the Italian fashion, and her servants. It troubled Sophy that she did not know how many servants she was to have, and that she had never been asked to go and see the house, or to choose new carpets or curtains, as other brides had to do; but then, on the other hand, it delighted her to find that she might call herself Contessa, and would be elevated quite into the nobility by her marriage. In Italy she might only be Signora, but in England she would certainly be My Lady, Sophy reflected—and her whole being thrilled with the thought. This was a discovery, for Pandolfini had not cared for the bare and insignificant title, and all his Italian friends called him by his Christian name, according to the custom of the country. Sophy called him Pandolfo, too, though seldom when addressing himself. It was not a pretty name. If he had been Alonzo, or Vincenzo, or even Antonio; but Pandolfo!—Pandolfo Pandolfini! It was like Robert Roberts, or John Jones—not a pretty name; but then, to be a Countess! That would sweeten any name, so that it would smell as sweet as any rose.
Thus the arrangements went on strangely enough, Sophy being the only one of all concerned who did not, as time progressed, feel in them a certain strangeness and mysterious something behind. The rector and his nephew came back before the time fixed for the wedding, though it was growing hot, and Mr. Snodgrass was anxious to get home. The curate was generally the one who yielded, not the one who led, but he had steadily held to his determination to come back to Pisa, and succeeded, as was natural. The rector was one of those who had guessed Diana to intend the Italian for herself, being of the opinion that the aim of every woman, however elevated, was to “catch” a man, one way or other; and he was not without hope now that his dear Bill’s constant devotion might at last get its reward. Many a heart is caught in the rebound, and if Bill was not very good-looking, he was at least a cleanly Englishman, not one of “those Italians.” To be on the spot might be all-important for him; so his uncle yielded and came back to Pisa, though it was hot, and even volunteered his services to perform the marriage—the Protestant marriage, as it was called with contempt by the old Canonico, Pandolfini’s cousin, who was to perform the other ceremony. It was a bitter pill for the rector to hear himself called a Protestant, but there was no help for it. The Canonico only took snuff, and smiled, when the English priest called himself a Catholic. Rome repays to the highest Anglican, and with interest, the spurns which he is so fond of administering to patient merit, when it takes the form of Dissent. The Canonico had asked if Sophy was a Protestant or a Christian, when he first heard of the marriage, and treated with absolute cynicism all Mr. Snodgrass’s protestations. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Norton could not be happy without the blessing of her own Church; nor did she think it suitable that the niece of her late dear husband, who was for so many years a most respectable clergyman of the Church of England, should be married without it. How could she tell what the priest said in his Latin? but about the English service there could be no manner of doubt. So the rector swallowed the opprobrious epithet of Protestant, and declared himself ready to perform the rite. Diana would no doubt be there. She would be compelled to veil her feelings, and to witness the marriage: and, in the rebound, who could tell what dear Bill’s presence might do?
The curate deluded himself with no such vain hopes. Diana’s presence was like the sun to him. Without it he faded and drooped, though otherwise he was notmuch like a flower. He was a heavy Englishman, not clever or endowed with much insight, yet he had a heart in his capacious and clumsy bosom. And to those who possess that organ, some things are visible which genius itself, without it, could scarcely see. It has been said that Pandolfini had chosen the ponderous silent young Englishman as the object of his special bounties, having divined him, and the sentiment which was his soul. It was young Snodgrass’s turn now to divine his friend, and he did it sadly, with a true brotherly, friendly sorrow for the evil he had discovered. He was not contented with the plea of business which Sophy accepted, and which all the others had to accept. He sought the much-occupied bridegroom out, even in the depths of his dark palace, and resisted all attempts to send him away. “I will wait till you are ready,” he said, and pretended not to see what miserable pretence of work it was which his friend at last pushed away. He got him out against Pandolfini’s will, who went with him, as was evident, only to get rid of him the sooner. But the curate was not to be shaken off. He went again and again; he watched with all the anxiety of friendship. He perceived how little Pandolfini saw of his bride, and how eagerly he seized upon every excuse to avoid being with her. He saw how,when the bridegroom paid the hurried visits which necessity demanded, Diana avoided him, and that under no circumstances did these two see each other, who, when he left Pisa, had been meeting every night. And, above all, the curate saw the misery in Pandolfini’s eyes. He said nothing for a long time, for he was not quick of purpose, or ready to seize what could be done; but at length the spectacle became too much for the good-hearted fellow.
They were walking one night by the Arno, very silent, saying nothing to each other. It was after a half-hour spent with the Nortons: Pandolfini had apparently caught at the chance of the curate’s company to carry him through this visit—and though Snodgrass was not quick of observation, he could not but remark, having his attention roused and on the alert, the curious character of the scene of which he was a spectator. Pandolfini was not indifferent; nothing of the ease and calm of that unexcited condition was in the anxious pathetic tender apology of the tone in which he replied to Sophy’s littleespiègleriesand reproaches. “Are you always to be so drowned in business—always business? you never had any business when we knew you first,” she cried, pouting. He looked at her with a melancholy in his eyes which went to the curate’s heart:but it did not succeed in reaching the observation of Sophy, who had other things to think of than the looks of her betrothed: he was her property, and about him she entertained no doubt.
“No,” he said, “I had little business then: but now—have I not new objects of thought and provisions to make——”
“Oh, Signor Conte, if I am going to be such a burden on you——”
“Nay, not a burden. You do me a wrong, Sophy. If I can but provide what will make you happy——”
“Oh, you foolish old thing; did you think I meant it?” cried Sophy, looking up in his face, with the pretty affectation which love thinks adorable, but which chill eyes of bystanders see with less complacence. The Italian shrank for a moment from the caressing gesture of the two clasped hands which she laid upon his arm. Then he took courage, and stooping kissed the hands.
“If I can but make you happy, poor child,” he said, with a suppressed sob in his voice. Mrs. Norton at this moment called the curate’s attention, and led him to the other end of the room to show him something. She was always watchful to “let them have a little time by themselves.” “Forgive me,” she whispered, “but, of course, they have little things to say to each other,” and the poor little lady cast furtive glances over the curate’s shoulder to see if the lovers’ interview grew more familiar. But Pandolfini very gently had freed himself from Sophy’s hand. He rose and stood before her, talking low, but not in a tone which augured any special confidence. Snodgrass thought that the very sound of it was enough to break any one’s heart. It was like the tender pitying tone in which bad news is broken to a child. Why was he so sorry for her, so sadly kind and gentle? Her little follies did not offend him, as they might have done a more warm lover. He was indulgent to everything—kind, with a melancholy appeal to her forgiveness in everything he said. The curate perhaps was proud of himself for his penetration. He had never so divined any one before.
“You see they are not just like common lovers,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, who felt that she had to put the best face upon it, and now wreathed her face in smiles to conceal the anxiety in her mind. “He is so much older than she—and more experienced—and so clever. But you can’t think how he appreciates my Sophy’s sweetness. He quite worships her. When he talks to her in that voice it brings the tears to myeyes. It is so tender!” cried the anxious woman, looking for confirmation in the curate’s face.
“Yes, it sounds very—melancholy,” said young Snodgrass, who, notwithstanding the new insight in his eyes, and the ache of sympathy in his heart, could not help being a little commonplace in speech.
“Melancholy! It is tender—that is what it is! He thinks everything is angelical that she does or says. And nobody who does not know her as we do can tell what a darling my Sophy is,” said Mrs. Norton, with tears in her eyes.
The curate made some inarticulate sound of assent; but he did not himself think Sophy angelical, and there was something in all this that affected him with a confused pang of sympathy, different from anything he had ever felt before. The mystery, the concealed despair on one side, the wistful veiled anxiety on the other, and Sophy’s superficial childish light-heartedness, her little commonplace coquetries and affectations between,—he was not clear-headed enough to discriminate these: but the whole affected him with sentiments he could not define nor get the better of. He stood up in the corner, as was his usual habit, a very serious shadow, heavy in soul as in person, and looked on. And it seemed to him that he could scarcely keep silence evenhere. As they were leaving when the strange visit was over, he made a pause on the way downstairs. “Do you never go to see Miss Trelawny?” he asked, putting his arm suddenly within Pandolfini’s. The Italian started violently, turned round, and looked him in the face, then hurried on. He was taken by surprise, and in his agitated condition shook as if he had received a blow. Nothing more was said for some time. They walked silently on together side by side in the cool of the soft summer night, for it was late—and reached the Arno without a word. It was a beautiful night. Once more the stars were out, blazing like great lamps out of heaven; and along the long line of street the lights twinkled, reflecting themselves in the water like stars of earth. Pandolfini’s steps gradually grew slower, till at last he stopped altogether, forgetting and seeming to lose himself as he gazed at those reflections in the dark softly flowing stream.
“Pandolfini,” said the curate, “I cannot bear this any longer. You must not do it; you ought not to do it. It is more than you can bear.”
“What is more than I can bear?” he asked, dreamily, not turning to his questioner, keeping his eyes fixed on the river below.
“Pandolfini” cried the other, too much agitated byall he had heard and seen to take much thought what he was saying, “you know what I mean well enough. Do you think I am blind and cannot see? Once you divined me. I felt it, though we said nothing about it. And now it is my turn. I am not so clever as you are, but I would do anything in the world to help you. Pandolfini, you can’t go through with this marriage; it is impossible to——”
“Not a word—not a word!” cried the Italian, raising himself hurriedly. “It is late, and I go back to my—business. Yes, it is true: is it extraordinary that one of my country should have business? We have talked enough to-night.”
“We have not talked at all,” cried the curate. “Oh, Pandolfini, let me speak! God knows what sympathy I have for you—more than words can tell! But why make it worse by this? You are trying yourself beyond what any man can bear. Stop while there is time, for the love of heaven!”
“My friend, you are kind, you are good,” said Pandolfini, with a tremor in his voice; “but there are things of which one does not speak, not to one’s own soul.”
“Why should there be?” cried Bill Snodgrass, in generous excitement. “Oh, listen to me! Don’t do ina hurry what you would repent all your life. She—might suffer for a day, but you for ever. Oh don’t, for the sake of false honour, bind yourself so! Don’t go on with it! this marriage——”
“Silence!” said the Italian, with a hot flush on his face. “Silence, silence!” Then his tone changed to something of the same grieved and tender sound which it took when he addressed Sophy. “Friend,” he said, with pathetic gentleness, “why rob me of your sympathy? I will know how you think if you say nothing; but to advise will make an end of all. See! what you are talking of will soon be to me the foundation of my life. That is sacred: that no man must discuss with me. No more, not a word, or I shall lose you—too.”
You—too! Who was the other, then, whom he had lost? The curate made an effort to speak again, but was silenced still more summarily; and thus they walked slowly in silence to Pandolfini’s house, where they parted with only a mutual grasp of the hand. Young Snodgrass’s mind was distracted with generosity, pity, and distress. He walked about in front of the great dark doorway where his friend had disappeared, with a mind torn in pieces with diverse thoughts. Should he follow him, and make one last attempt?—but he felt that to be indeed useless. Then a thought came into his head that brought a sudden gush of warmth to the chill of his anxiety. He would go to Diana. If any one could help, surely she would do so—she who was always ready to help; or at least she would tell him if anything could be done. He went back to the Palazzo dei Sogni without taking time to think, and, all hot and hasty, rushed into her presence before he allowed himself to consider what he was doing. Diana was alone. She was seated by her writing-table, on which lay a number of papers; but she had pushed her chair slightly away, and had a book in her hand, which probably, at the sound of her visitor’s entering, she had dropped upon her knee. Her solitary figure in this attitude, the papers neglected, the book dropped, all seemed to imply to Snodgrass a loneliness which never before had associated itself in his mind with Diana. For the first time in his life he felt, and wondered at himself for daring to feel, a kind of pity for the princess of his thoughts. She, too, was lonely, solitary, no one near her to make the world brighter; for which purpose poor Bill Snodgrass, who knew that he was capable of nothing but boring her, thought he would willingly have given his life.
She rose up with a friendly, sweet salutation whenshe saw who it was. She was glad to see him—was it possible? For once in his life hehadbrightened her by the sight of his heavy reverential face.
“I am very glad you have come,” she said, in answer to his stammered salutation, “for I was feeling lonely, which is not usual with me. Everybody whom I know gone—and our little friends upstairs are very busy, of course,” she added, with a smile.
The curate had not time to think, as he probably would have done otherwise, that the idea of these little friends neglecting Diana was incredible. His mind was too full of his mission, which filled his homely countenance with purpose and eagerness. Diana saw this almost before she had completed what she was saying. She added hastily, in a different tone, “Something has happened—you have come to tell me of something? Is it news from home?”
“No,” he said: “Miss Trelawny, perhaps it is something quite foolish or more; but you understand—and you will pardon me if I am wrong. Pandolfini—he is in a condition I cannot understand.”
“Is he ill?” He thought she grew paler, and clasped her hands together as if something moved her.
“No, not that I know of: except that he is haggard and worn—a shadow of himself. It is about this—marriage.”
Diana had made a step towards him with warm and anxious interest at Pandolfini’s name. She now drew back again, a cloud falling over her. She did not make any reply, but only shook her head, and her countenance grew very grave, the smile, which was always lurking somewhere, ready to be called forth, fading altogether from her face.
“You will do nothing, Miss Trelawny, you who help every one! and yet how few are in such trouble? For you must see how unsuitable it is—how it is killing him.”
“Hush!” said Diana, as Pandolfini had said before; “if it is going to be, nothing unkind must be said—nothing it would hurt us or them to think of hereafter. And it is not for us to discuss,” she said, with a slight faltering in her voice; “they only can tell——”
“But, Miss Trelawny, it is not for gossip, nor in the way of intrusion into other people’s affairs. But, Pandolfini, he has read my heart, and now I feel that I can read his,” said the curate, stammering and growing red. Must not she know what he meant in both cases? She stood with her hands clasped, her head drooping, but no consciousness about her, thoughtful, and almost sorrowful, as if she knew all that he wouldsay. “Oh, Miss Trelawny,” he cried, with generous zeal, “could not you interfere? Could not you set things right? There are things a man must bear, and I don’t say you could—save him—or any of us from: give us, I mean, happiness. But this is madness, despair—I don’t know what—and it will kill him. Oh, Miss Trelawny, will not you interfere?”
“How can I interfere?” cried Diana, piteously. “What can I do?” The tears were in her eyes. “Of all helpless people on the earth, am I not the most helpless?” This was said passionately, an unintended confession of her own share in this misery, which she instantly repented. “Forgive me,” she said, with a deep blush; “I am speaking extravagantly. But, Mr. Snodgrass, think what you are saying. What could I do? There is nothing, nothing in which I can help him. God help them both! I wish some one would take me home,” she cried again, suddenly. “It is too much for me, as well as for you. But all this is useless. There is nothing either you or I can do.”
You or I! The man was generous. He had given the last proof of it in making this appeal. But when she said “You or I,” poor Snodgrass forgot Pandolfini. It turned his head.
Themarriage took place on the first day of June—or rather that was the beginning of the repeated and laborious processes which made Sophy Norton into the Contessa Pandolfini. What a delight it was to take out the first handkerchief embroidered with a coronet, one of those which Diana had got her from Paris. Sophy took it out, and shook that delightful sign of new-born nobility into the air on the day of the legal ceremony, which was the day before her two ecclesiastical marriages. She would not lose a moment that she could help. And the melancholy bridegroom, and the occupations which took him away from her, faded into nothing before this privilege. Diana might be richer, and had been always more splendid than she—but Diana had no coronet. As for Diana, she wasengaged in preparing for her journey, and was present only at the English or Protestant marriage, when she managed to keep as much as possible out of sight, and avoided the bridegroom entirely, notwithstanding the researches after her of Mrs. Norton, and of the bride herself, whose efforts to produce Diana to say good-bye to dear Pandolfo were repeated and unwearying. “Where is Diana? what does her packing matter? besides, she does not pack—why should she, with a maid to do everything for her?” This was said with a slight tone of grievance, for it had not occurred to Pandolfini, though he furnished that poor little faded coronet, to provide a maid. Sophy, when she had put off her bridal dress after the strictest English rule, forgot her dignity so far as to run downstairs in her own dignified person to “hunt up” Diana. “Mr. Pandolfini does not want good-byes,” said Diana; “and see, I have taken off my pretty dress. You would not like me to present myself in this grey garment, all ready for travelling. God bless you, Sophy!—and you can explain to Mr. Pandolfini if you like: but be sure he is not thinking of any one but you.”
“I hope not,” said Sophy, demurely; “but you need not call him Mr. Pandolfini now, Diana. We did so in the old times when we knew no better. But I shallnot permit him to give up his title any longer. You might say Count, I think.”
“I will say his Lordship, if you like,” said Diana, kissing the unconscious little creature. She smiled, but there was a meaning in her eyes which heedless little Sophy, on the heights of glory and her coronet, understood as little as any child.
“You need not laugh,” said the Countess Pandolfini, gravely; “of course it is not the custom here. But I am sure a Count ought to be My Lord in England. It is just the same as an Earl—at least, my title is just the same as Lady Loamshire’s, and far, far older nobility. English lords are nothing in comparison with Italian.” Sophy’s handkerchief, as has been said, was embroidered with a coronet, and so was everything else she had upon which she could have it worked or stamped. It was worth being married for that alone.
“I think they are calling for you,” said Diana. “Thank you, little Countess, for coming to me on this great day. All the servants shall be taught to say My Lady when you come to see me at home. Good-bye now: and I hope you will be very happy—and make your husband happy,” Diana added, with an involuntary change of her voice.
“Oh, of course we shall be happy! and it will notbe long before I shall make Pandolfo bring me to England. Good-bye, good-bye, Diana. Oh, how I wish you were only as happy as I am! I wish there was another Pandolfo for you. Yes, I am coming, aunt; good-bye, good-bye. I shall take your love to him, shall I? Oh yes, I will let you send him your love; and very soon I shall make him bring me to England: and I shall write to you in a few days, and—good-bye, dear Diana, good-bye.”
Diana went out upon her balcony to see them go away. The flowers and plants had grown high, and she stood unseen under the shade of theloggia. She felt that some one stood beside her as she looked down and watched the grave Italian leading out his gay little bride. What a butterfly Sophy looked, as she fluttered into the carriage which was to convey them to the villa! “Poor little Sophy, too,” said Diana, involuntarily, with a sigh.
“Are you sorry forher?” said the curate, who had come in unbidden at the door which Sophy had left open. He had not presumed, poor fellow, but he had come and gone with greater confidence, and taken a humble but secure place, half friend, half devoted follower, the last of Diana’s court, since the evening when he made that appeal to her. The rector thought hisdear Bill was making way, and that perhaps, after all, the heart might be caught in the rebound. “Are you sorry forher?” he said with surprise; “she is not sorry for herself.”
“Yes, poor little Sophy,” said Diana, “she deserved some pretty young man like herself, who would have run about with her, and understood all her little vanities. I hope she will never be sorry for herself: but it will not be a very cheerful life.”
“I think of him,” the curate said, in a low voice.
Diana did not answer for a time. Something came into her throat and stopped her. Then she went on after a pause, “Sophy will be more of a woman than you think. She would have made you a good little wife, Mr. Snodgrass.”
“Me!” He made a step away from her in the shock of surprise and indignation. He was not vain, he thought; but he who cherished so lofty, so noble a love—he to have Sophy suggested to him, or such as she! This, from Diana, went to poor Snodgrass’s heart.
“Yes,” she said, looking at him with a smile in her clear eyes. “You are angry, but it is true. A girl like Sophy, young and fresh and sweet, who would think there was no one in the world like you, and wouldbe good to your poor people, would make you more happy than anything else—though perhaps you do not think so now.”
Poor curate! this sudden dash of cold water upon him, in the very midst of the subdued exhilaration with which he found himself by Diana’s side, talking to her more freely than he had ever ventured to talk before, was very hard to bear. He thought, if it was possible for Diana to be cruel, that she was cruel now. That she could smile even, and jest—for it must be intended for a jest—at such a moment, when he, for his part, had come ready, as it were, to follow with her the funeral of poor Pandolfini! Was it not, if one might dare to permit such a thought, heartless of Diana? But she gave him no time to think. She had her packing to attend to, and all the last arrangements to make for leaving Pisa next day. Diana had resisted various proposals to “join a party” of tourists going northward. She was starting straight for home, from which she declared she had been only too long away. The Snodgrasses and Mrs. Norton were to dine with her in the evening—to drink the health of the newly married, and conclude this little episode of their life—and she had no more leisure now. She came in lightly from among the oleanders and aloes, in the soft grey dresswhich she had put on in such haste, as her excuse for not showing herself. It was too simple a garment—too like her governess days to suit Diana—and she had some reason of her own, perhaps, for putting it on; not any reason, one would think, however, for sad thoughts. She came in with a light in her eyes which had been somewhat veiled of late. “Now I must be busy,” she said, smiling upon her visitor as she dismissed him. The last week or two of warm Italian weather, and of these distracting melancholy contemplations, had stopped many things, or retarded them. Life itself had grown languid in sympathy: but now that was all over; the deed was done for which heaven and earth had seemed to be waiting, and there could be no more lingering, musing, over it now.
The little party, which was so shrunken out of its old dimensions, showed as curious a mixture of feelings as could well be seen, when it met that evening round Diana’s table. Mrs. Norton was subdued by the reality of the event to which she had been looking forward so long. Never till now had she thought of it as affecting herself. The little lady might be selfish for her Sophy, but she was not selfish in her own person; nor did she think of her own comfort as opposed to that of her niece. So that now, when Sophy was gone—she and her boxes and preparations, and her voice and her footstep, all gone—a sudden collapse ensued for poor Mrs. Norton. The sense of her loneliness came upon her all in a moment. She was happy now, she had said fervently; she had placed her child in the care of a good man, who would love and cherish her; and now, whatever happened to herself, Sophy would be safe. But even as she said the words the sense of her loneliness had seized upon the poor little woman, and brought up a sob into her throat. Sophy was provided for. Sophy had a husband and a coronet—the last an unhoped-for glory—but she, had she lost Sophy? She was brave, and choked back the sob, and upbraided herself for her selfishness, but still this constriction of the throat would come back. “I am rather worn out, that is the fact,” she said to Diana, unable to conceal the break in her voice, but laughing brokenly too; “we are so subject to our bodies. I never would allow I was tired, though S-Sophy warned me. If I b-break down, you know what it means, Diana—only t-tiredness and nerves—that is all.” And then she cried, and sat down to table, faltering and trembling, but trying to laugh, with the conviction that the sound, though far from mirthful, would make it apparent that she cried for joy.
As for the rector, he was full of the correctest sentiments, and kept his eye upon Diana and upon dear Bill to see what progress they were making. He made them little speeches as to the advantages of matrimony. “It is the one mistake I have made in my life,” said the rector. “It is true that my nephew, who is as good as a son to me, saves me, in some degree, from the loneliness. But I never should advise any one to follow my example. I hope my dear Bill will judge better,” Mr. Snodgrass added, with some solemnity. Diana was the only one who laughed, and this fact amused her still more than the primary cause of her merriment Mrs. Norton put her handkerchief to her eyes, while the curate sat in dumb worship with his eyes turned towards the object of his constant thoughts.
“Ah, Mr. Snodgrass, perhaps you will feel as I do. One would make any sacrifice for the happiness of one’s children, and then after, one suffers—not that I mean to complain. To see Sophy happy will be happiness enough for me, if her dear husband is spared to her. But I know what that is,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, subsiding into her handkerchief.
“We must not think of anything gloomy to-night,” said the rector. “I trust, indeed, that our dear friends the Pandolfinis will be long spared to each other, andthat they will combine the good qualities of both nations. It will be a lesson indeed in Italian society to see the beauty of an English home. There is nothing like it, my dear Mrs. Norton. I have travelled as much as most men. I may say I am acquainted more or less with European circles: but an English home, and a marriage of true affection, as we have every reason to believe this is——”
“So was mine, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Mrs. Norton; “and oh, Providence was very kind to me. There are very, very few like my dear husband. The bishop always said there was no one he trusted in so much. He was adored in the parish. Rich and poor followed him to his grave. It was as if every family had lost a member. And what is life to those who are left? Forgive me, Diana. I know I am not so gay as I ought to be: but a wedding always, more or less, b-brings back the recollection of one’s d-desolation.”
“Quite true,” said the rector; “and to a solitary man like myself, the consideration that I have made one great mistake in life——”
“Then why don’t you——?” cried Diana, in whom this mutual lamentation roused the dormant sense of humour, delivering her from her own thoughts, which were not too gay. She could not complete her sentence, however, as she intended, feeling a real pity for the poor little lady opposite. “You, at least, Mr. Snodgrass,” she said, “why don’t you mend your mistake? There is time enough yet.” The rector smiled. He was pleased by the suggestion, though he did not mean to follow it. “No, no,” he said. “To be told by you, Miss Trelawny, that it is not too late, is a compliment indeed; but I give up in favour of Bill here, who is my representative. Dear Bill must mend my mistake, not an old man like me.”
Dear Bill did not say anything. He had fallen back into his normal condition, and only gazed at Diana with dull but faithful eyes. He had forgiven her the sharp and unexpected blow she had given him, but it had killed his little confidence, his sense that there was a secret understanding between them. He to be made happy by marrying a Sophy! how little she knew!
And yet how much better it would have been for him than for Pandolfini! Diana could not but think, with impatient regret, as she looked at them all, playing their little parts round the table, where they were never to sit again. Sophy would have made the curate a very good little wife. She would have led him insensibly down from those unattainable wishes whichheld him suspended between earth and heaven, and brought him back to the calm delights of the parish, which was his natural sphere and hers. They would have harmonised by infallible instinct and power of natural attraction, after perhaps a little interval of difficulty. But Pandolfini! what link could there be between the little English clergywoman who would have been so useful in a parish, and the grave Italian whose habits were as alien to hers as his race? Poor Pandolfini in these few weeks had ceased even to be an Anglomane. He had gone back upon his native habitudes, upon his old relations; he had turned even his English books, in temporary disgust, out of their places. Fortune had dealt with him hardly, turning his preferences—the tastes which he had cultivated with a certain pride—into weapons of his downfall. Diana did not know all this, as she allowed herself to fall back into a review of all that passed after her guests were gone on that last evening. She was going away alone as she had come. All that had happened since her arrival here had passed over her without touching her. As she had come, so she was going away. The lamps were burning low, the soft night air was blowing in gratefully at the windows. The great picture of the Count dei Sogni, which had hung over her so long, seemed to look mildly, regretfully, half reproachfully at her through the gloom. He, too, poor Pandolfini, was of the Sogni: and she herself, and all the chances of this strange mortal life, what were they butSognitoo? “We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” said Diana softly to herself, the tears coming to her eyes as she stood there alone in the great dim room, the curtains swaying softly behind her in the air of the night, and dim reflections showing all about like ghosts, repeating her tall white figure in the old dim mirrors. It had been nothing but a caprice on her part to come here—a mere fancy, without any seriousness or purpose in it. If she had but stayed at home—gone on upon her quiet round in her own sphere, where her duty was! Why was it that this whim; of hers should have brought a cloud upon the life of a good man? Life seemed to melt away and resolve itself into shadows, through those tears of visionary compunction that were in her eyes—a vain show, a phantasmagoria, momentary and delusive, strong gleams of light and rolling darknesses in which no meaning was. The vague whiteness that moved in spectral distance in the mirror far away from her at the end, of the room, far-off reflection of her own solitary figure, seemed to Diana as real as herself. What had they to do, the woman or the reflection, in this stately dwelling of the past?—brought here for a moment to pass across the surface of the mirror which had reflected so many things, to work unwitting and unwilling evil, and then to pass away—yet never to pass away having once been here. Diana hid her face in her hands, oppressed and bowed down by this visionary sense of intrusion, of harm, yet unreality. Not three months, not more than a moment in life: yet enough for so much to happen in, more important than many quiet years. So the great and the little mix and perplex each other, ever increasing the strange confusion of this world of shadow, till the brain turns round, and the heart grows sick.
She rose up quickly, and threw out her hands, as if throwing something away. “This must not be,” she said aloud to herself; “this must not be.” And she gathered up from the table all those little tokens of personal presence which change the aspect of a place of habitation, and make it into the likeness of its tenants,—took up a shawl which had been thrown upon a sofa, a book which lay on an old cabinet, a little basket of odds and ends already collected. With a certain reverence, as we collect the possessions of the lately dead, she carried them all away. The room was left, when she closed the door, as it had beenwhen she came in to it—the faded old furniture all ranged in its place, the great portrait looking down from the dimness of the old wall. Was it the same? A sweetness breathed in upon the air that had not been there before, a glimpse of flowers through the window, a greenness of leaves,—and on the carpet one little sprig of myrtle with its feathery globe of blossom, which had come from Sophy’s marriage-wreath, and had fallen as she went out from Diana’s hand. No more—yet something still.
Pandolfini at this moment was standing out on the terrace of his villa, looking across the Tuscan garden of rich cultivation about. The grey olive-trees were dark in the monotony of the night, the soft hills all shrouded, the distant Apennines lying like shadows against the shadowy horizon. Here and there the gleam of a firefly gave a touch of light, and the roses were all a-bloom upon the hedges, betraying themselves by their sweetness. He stood alone and gazed out upon the dark, seeing nothing, yet somehow receiving the shadowy monotones of the night into his soul, as Diana was receiving the ghostly reflections and shadowed calm of the lonely room. All shadows, without and within; but he was at one of those points of existence when everything is too vivid and actual topermit of dreaming. His whole life was changed; he was another man, with new duties, new burdens, new companionship. How he was to make his toilsome way among them he could not tell. There was a heavy dew in his eyes, essence of pain and wonder at all that had happened to him,—at this revolution which was, yet was not, his doing,—at the new claims, all so terribly real, undeniable, true. How had it come about? What fate had led him by strange paths to this transformation of existence? He could not tell. It seemed a gratuitous interference as of some potent spirit who wished him ill, and had led him astray. The world was as dark to him as the fields, with impulses of pity, of generous devotion, of honour and kindness, lighting it fitfully like the fireflies: but for himself all dark—no comfort in it, nor any visible hope. Yet his mind was hushed with the very greatness of the crisis. It was done, and the agitations were so far calmed; his fate was decided. But when the moon rose Pandolfini retreated before it, covering his eyes. The dark was more congenial. He wanted no soft angelical face to shine upon him, no light to follow him at that moment of his life.
Dianareached home when the country was in the full glory of summer. She, too, was like the summer, her friends said—more beautiful than ever she had been—with just a touch of sunburn from her journey, which ripened her paleness and made her eyes more brilliant. The whole county hurried to the Chase to meet and greet her, and tell her how well she was looking, and that foreign travel evidently agreed with her. “But, all the same, you must not go again, for we cannot spare you,” they cried. Nothing could go on without Diana. “And we were so sadly afraid you meant to stay and spend the summer in Switzerland,” said young Lady Loamshire (she whose title, Diana remembered with a smile, was the same as Sophy’s). Nobody could have a more flattering reception. There was a general feeling of escape that so precious apossession as their virgin-princess had been got back in safety. The county did not like her to move: even when she went to London, it was never without fears that somebody might snap her up, and marry her before any one could interfere: and how much more “abroad,” where there were always needy foreigners on the strain to catch rich English ladies! She and the county had escaped a great danger—they could not sufficiently pet and caress her when she got back. In the delight of her safety they were all quite satisfied to hear that Sophy Norton had made such a good marriage. “Only I hope the poor man was not taken in. They think all the English are so rich,” said one of those who had been afraid that Diana would be “snapt up.” This was an old lady who had as much fear for the conventional fortune-hunter as so many other old ladies have of the Pope. But Sophy Norton was nobody: she was a cheap ransom to pay for Diana, and only interested a very few people, who were amused or delighted or irritated, as the case might be, to hear that so insignificant a person was now the Countess Pandolfini. Diana did her full justice, and gave her the benefit of her coronet, by which all the servants, and especially the maid who had charge of the Red House, were deeply impressed. Diana’s ownhousehold did not like it. They thought it extremely forward of a little thing who owed so much to Miss Trelawny to marry a titled gentleman, though it was some little solace to remember that foreign counts were not much to swear by. But the maid at the Red House felt her bosom swell with pride as loftily as Sophy’s own. “I don’t believe as she’ll be a bit proud, but just as friendly with Miss Trelawny as ever,” Mary Jane said, “though a married lady, and a titled lady stands more high like in the world.” The Trelawny household did not know what to answer to this taunt. They made hot protestations on behalf of their mistress that she might have married half the gentlemen in the county, and had her pick and choice of titles; but of course they could not give proof of this assertion, and Mary Jane’s statement as to the superiority of a married and titled lady was unquestionably true.
“Then they were really married?” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “he did not get out of it? I hoped he would up to the last moment. Honour is a great thing, but that is carrying honour too far, Diana. I could not have done it. Perhaps you could who are more high-minded——”
“We are not called upon to judge,” said Diana,“so we need not inquire who could have done it. I hope they may be very happy——”
“Do not be fictitious,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “Happy! Sophy would be happy with her new dresses anywhere.”
“And her coronet,” said Diana, smiling.
“Her—coronet! do you mean to say you encouraged her in such folly? Diana, I never can understand you. Are you a cynic? are you a——?”
“Fool, perhaps. I will save your feelings by saying the word myself. Yes, I suppose I am a fool: for I—miss them,” said Diana, half laughing, half crying. “It is quite true. Their little ways, their little talk, their kindnesses, and even their little amiable selfishnesses—yes, I don’t deny it. I miss them: so I suppose I am, as you say, a fool.”
“I never said it. Amiable selfishness!—what sort of a thing is that? No, Diana, I don’t understand you. You are either the goodest, or the strangest, or the most——”
“Foolish—it is that. There are so many sensible people in the world,” said Diana, apologetic. “Yes, I had it embroidered for her on all her things. It was funny, but how it pleased Sophy! And why not? Lady Loamshire has her coronet on her handkerchiefs, andher husband’s grandfather, you know, after all, was only a—cheesemonger: whereas the Pandolfinis—— But you know that better than I do.”
“Lady Loamshire! how can you be so ridiculous! She is a great personage. She is an English countess.”
“And Sophy is an Italian one. What difference is there besides?”
“What are you two arguing about?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I will set it right for you, if you will tell me. To be sure, the Pandolfinis. Tell me all about them, Diana. I suppose they are very happy, and all that. They went to the Villa for the honeymoon, English fashion? Ah, Pandolfini always was an Anglo-maniac; and I am very glad he has an English wife. I had a hand in that. Did my wife ever tell you, Diana——?”
“Oh yes, I told her—she knows everything,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a suppressed groan; “but when you tell your wise deeds, if I were you I would leave that out. If ever a man had his heart broken by his friend——”
“Yes, listen to her, Diana. She wants me to believe that I spoke to the wrong person—a likely thing! For you know I managed it all. Pandolfini put it into my hands. And she says I made a mistake!” saidMr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands. “Now I put it to you, Diana, as an impartial person, supposing even that I was a fool, as she makes me out, who was there else to propose to? That’s the question. I defy you to answer that. If it was not Sophy, who could it be?”
The two ladies said nothing. They exchanged a half-guilty furtive glance, not venturing even to look at each other openly. Mr. Hunstanton was triumphant; he rubbed his hands more and more.
“You perceive?” he said, “that is the weak point with women—not but what I have the highest respect for your judgment, both of you. You are delightfully rapid in your conclusions,” added Mr. Hunstanton, withnaïveoriginality, “and jump at a truth which we might not reach for weeks with the aid of pure reason: but the practical argument has little favour with you. When I ask you, What other lady was there? What other couldIhave been sent to? neither the one nor the other of you can find a word to say.”
“No,” said Diana; her voice sounded flat and trembled a little. “No,” she said, “I think—you must have done what was best.”
Mrs. Hunstanton gave her an indignant glance: but what could they say? It was not possible to utter anyname, or give any indication between them. They were even a little overawed by the determined simplicity of the appeal.
“I thought you would own it,” he said, delighted with his victory. “No, no, I made no mistake. I am not in the habit of making mistakes. They were not like each other on the surface, but I have always heard that harmony in diversity is the great secret of happiness. It was silly of him, though, to give in about the title. What does it signify to call yourself Count? Among English people it is more a drawback than anything else, when there is neither money to keep it up, nor any particular distinction. But I suppose Sophy liked it.”
“Yes—Sophy liked it very much indeed.”
“I should think Sophy would like it!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, “and her aunt. A title of any kind delights a silly woman. And to think of that foolish little pair, one on either side of poor Pandolfini! Yes, Diana, I know you have said that you agree with Tom. He will quote you now, whenever they are mentioned. He will say you are entirely of his opinion.”
“I will say—as I have always said—that Diana is the most sensible woman I know,” said Mr. Hunstanton, “the most reasonable to see the force of an argument: and the most candid—even when she is convinced against her will.”
“I have no patience with either of you,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting up and going away.
This was all that was said upon the subject of Pandolfini. Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands with a chuckle of triumph over his own victory and his wife’s discomfiture, remained master of the situation. And the ordinary life was resumed, as if this little episode had never been. Reginald, the delicate boy to whom Mrs. Norton had been so kind, asked often if she was not coming back again. There was no one like her at bezique, he said. His mother was very kind, and would play with him when she was put to it, but Reginald could see that it bored mamma. Whereas Mrs. Norton was never bored: she liked it—she was always jolly—was she ever coming back? Diana could give no answer to that question. And in the course of the following year she had more than one temptation to transfer the Red House to other tenants. But she was as faithful as Reginald to her foolish little neighbours. And the house remained empty, with Mary Jane in possession, who was very fond of talking of Madam the Countess, which she understood was her little mistress’s correct style and title; and thus a wholeyear went away, and another midsummer made the woods joyful. Diana had little leisure left her to think of the two small people whom she had kept warm like birds under her wing, but nevertheless she went sometimes and looked at the vacant nest, and still kept it vacant, and missed them a little, which was stranger still. The curate, who also had resumed all his former habits, and spent his life, when he was not in the parish, following Diana with dull faithful eyes that never left her, met her one day near the deserted house. He had been visiting the gamekeeper, who was disabled by some accident, and was going home by that short cut through the park. How his heart beat when he came upon her all alone! It was very seldom he saw her alone. It reminded him of that day when he made his appeal to her about Pandolfini and she spoke to him of “you and I.” Would she ever say such words again?
“I have been carrying news to Mary Jane,” said Diana, “of the birth of a little Pandolfini. She wants to know if the baby is a little lord like Lady Loamshire’s baby; but, alas! it is only a little girl.”
“Has it come to that?” said the curate, startled—though he ought to have known better with all his parish experiences.
“Oh yes,” said Diana, with a smile, “it has come to that. Sophy will be a charming little mother, and the baby will make her very happy.”
“You always had a great opinion of—Madam Pandolfini.”
“Yes,” said Diana, and she laughed, looking up at him. “I thought she would have made the very wife you want, Mr. Snodgrass; but, unfortunately, I thought of it too late.”
Thank God! the curate said devoutly within himself. For he knew, and she knew—and he knew that she knew—that he must have married Sophy had Diana willed it. He would have resisted, but he would have yielded—and been happy. How sorry Diana was that it had not occurred to her in time! “You would have been a very happy couple,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I am sure of it. What a help she would have been in the parish!” And to this he could not say no.
“I don’t know if you will like me to ask,” he said, faltering, and feeling it safe to change the subject, “but—do they get on? are they—comfortable? I knew—all about it, you remember—at the time.”
“Did you?” she said, ignoring all that had passed between them on this subject. “I have never asked if they were comfortable, Mr. Snodgrass; but why shouldwe doubt it? There is always a little risk with people of different nationalities; but Sophy always writes in high spirits.”
“She was in high spirits on her wedding-day!” the curate muttered, furious with Sophy, for whose sake Diana treated him with such unusual severity. He had a double grievance against her now.
“And should not you like your bride to be in high spirits on her wedding-day?”
“Oh, Miss Trelawny, how hard you are upon me! when you know I shall never have any bride,” said the young man, with a look which he meant to be eloquent. They had come to the avenue by this time, and were about to part.
“Till we find a second Sophy,” she said, and gave him her hand, smiling, as she turned towards the house. He stood for a moment looking after her with dull but wistful eyes. Nothing but that smile would ever be his from Diana. But if a second Sophy could be found! The curate turned and went on with a little shiver of conscious weakness. Did not he know, and did not she know, that what she commanded he would do? But perhaps along with this fear and consciousness there was a little flutter of anticipation, too, in the curate’s faithful breast.
Some weeks after this conversation another event occurred which surprised everybody. It happened when Diana was out, so that for a full hour the servants had the privilege of discussing what had happened before any elucidation was possible. It was in the afternoon that it happened—the drowsiest moment of the day. Common cabs from the station carrying luggage very seldom appeared in the beautiful avenue, and the butler knew that no visitor was expected. But Diana’s servants did not dare to be uncivil. It was Mrs. Norton who was in the cab, and her big box, made for Continental travel, which weighted that humble vehicle above. “The Red House—oh, I would not take the liberty,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice as she stepped out. She was as dignified as travel and weariness would permit, though her bonnet was not so neat as usual. “If you will be so very good as let the man wait in the stableyard till I see Miss Trelawny. Oh, is she out? I am very sorry,” said the little lady, growing pale. “I think I must wait and see her. I think I shall have time to wait and see her. I wonder if there will be time before the train.” She was so tired and nervous, and ready to cry with this disappointment, that Jervis made bold to inquire if all was well with Madam and the baby. “She said, ‘Oh, theCountess is very well, I thank you, Jervis,’”he reported, when he went downstairs, “as grand as possible. But you take my word there’s some screw loose. Meantime, I’ll take the poor old girl a cup of tea.” This is how our servants speak of us, with that familiar affection which is so great a bond between the different classes of society; and Mrs. Norton found Jervis so respectful and so kind, that her heart swelled within her as she sat in Diana’s little morning-room, and sipped her cup of tea. It was so good, and the house was so large and quiet, with that well-bred calm which exists only in an English house, the returned wanderer said to herself—oh, so different from old Antonio, who delivered his opinions along with every dish he served. When Jervis went downstairs she wept a little, and stifled her sobs in her handkerchief. What would Diana say? Would she blame her for this step she had taken? Would she advise her to go back again by the next train? Mrs. Norton had not ventured even to have her big box taken down from the cab, which stood looking so shabby in Diana’s stableyard. She was proud, though she was so humble-minded, and she would not make any appeal to Diana’s generosity, or look as if she expected to stay. When she had finished her tea and her crying, she went to the mirrorand straightened her bonnet, and tried to look as if she had never known what a tear was. But when Diana came in all smiling, and cordial as of old, and looked at her with indulgent kind eyes that found no fault and expressed no suspicion, Mrs. Norton broke down. She threw herself into her friend’s arms, regardless of her bonnet. “Oh, Diana, here I am back again a poor old lonely woman. And—I could not be in England without first coming to see you; and I feel as if I had nobody but you——”
“What is the matter?” cried Diana, in alarm. “Sophy——?”
“Oh, Sophy is very well; indeed there is nothing the matter. I—I got homesick I suppose. I—wanted my own country. She has her baby now, Diana, she has her friends: she is fond of her own way: and—oh, she does not want me any more!”
“Well,” said Diana, cheerfully, “and so you have come home? How sensible that was!—the very wisest and best thing you could do.”
“Oh, do you think so, Diana?” The little lady brightened under these words of commendation. “But I have no right to presume upon cominghomeafter all this long time,” she said, wistfully. “And I know, dear, it was Sophy you cared for. How could it beme? I was always g-glad to think that it was S-Sophy that was cared for. But now she has her baby, Diana, and I am only a trouble to her. She does not want me. Oh, Diana, she would not be so frivolous if he did not leave her so much! No, no, I am not blaming him; he was always kind, you know, but he did not understand us,—he never made a companion of her. And now she has so many friends, and talks Italian like a native (she always was clever at languages), and they chatter and chatter, and I do not understand a word, and then she calls me cross.Mecross, Diana! And such strange ways with the baby, as if I knew nothing about babies. She even told me so, that I never had one, and how could I know? And so strange altogether—a strange man, and a strange house, and no pleasant fires, and such strange food! Oh, my dear, what could I do? He was very kind, and asked me to stay, but she—she!—never asked me. She didn’t w-want me—oh, Diana! I think it will b-break my h-heart!”
“Hush! here is Jervis,” said Diana. Mrs. Norton stopped short in the midst of her sob. She gave herself a rapid shake, raised her shoulders, cut short the heave of her little bosom. No other check could have told so effectually. It is one thing to break yourheart, but to give way before the servants is quite another thing. She was not capable of such a breakdown. What Jervis saw when he came in was a little figure very erect upon the sofa, with shoulders squared and bonnet straightened, and a smile upon her face. “Oh yes, Diana, the Countess is quite well, and the baby is a darling,” said the deceitful little woman. She did not think it was deceitfulness, but only a proper pride.
And the end was that Mrs. Norton was taken in “for good,” and her big box dislodged from the cab, and carried to a pretty room very near Diana’s. She was not sent away even to the pleasant solitude of the Red House. When Mrs. Hunstanton heard of this, she came over in hot haste to know, first, how long it was going to last; second, how Diana could be so incredibly foolish; and lastly, whether anything was to be found out about the pair whom even she now was compelled to call the Pandolfinis. But Mrs. Norton, it need not be said, put on triple armour of defence against the assaults of this unkindly critic. She met her with smiles more impenetrable than chain-armour. The dear baby was so well, and Sophy was so well, she had taken the opportunity to run over and see her friends. “For, however happy one may be,” Mrs.Norton said with feeling, “and however great may be the happiness one sees around, one’s heart yearns for one’s old friends.” Thus the enemy was baffled with equal skill and sweetness: and no one ever heard from Diana why it was that Sophy’s aunt had come back. She took to watching over Diana, growing pale when she coughed, and miserable when her head ached, as she had watched over Sophy; and settled down into her pretty rooms, with pretty little protestations that it was too much—far too much! yet pious hopes that she might be of use to Diana, who was so good to everybody. And Mrs. Norton clearly saw a Higher Hand in all that had led to this final arrangement, which was so happy a solution of all difficulties. “The hand of Providence was never more clear,” she would say with cheerful solemnity from her easy-chair. “If Sophy had not had that cough, neither Diana nor any of us would have gone to Pisa, and we never should have met dear Count Pandolfo, and Sophy would never have married him. And if Sophy had never been established in Italy, and so comfortable, you would not have thought of taking me into your own delightful house, and making me so happy. Oh, how thankful we should be, Diana! This is how everything worksfor good. It is seldom, very seldom, that one sees it so very clear!”
Was it so clear?—was it all for this that the Palazzo dei Sogni had witnessed so many agitations, and that life had changed so strangely for that one grave Tuscan, whose days were so full of business, and whose little English wife had so many gossips? Poor Pandolfini! Diana made no answer to her guest’s happy trust in the Providence which had made such elaborate arrangements for her comfort. That chapter of life was over, whatever might have been in it,—over and closed and ended, till the time when the harvest shall be gathered, and all shall be known—where the tares came from, and where the wheat.
But Pandolfini never brought his wife to England, notwithstanding the impulse of mingled recollection and jealousy which made her long to go home when she heard of Diana’s adoption of her aunt. “Go, Sophy, if you will: but this little one is too young to travel,” he said. And Sophy, grumbling, stayed at home. After all, the man had the best of it. What flower of happiness so exquisite as this child could have come into his barren days, but for Mr. Hunstanton’s mistake? Mrs. Norton betrayed that he had carried it away, according to the custom of his Church, and had itchristened the day after it was born, without even consulting the mother about its name. He had called it Stella, though that was not a family name even. Why Stella?—though it was a pretty name enough. And it is not quite clear that even Diana knew why.
THE END.
PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.