AFTER this “these two,” as Mr. Hunstanton called them, “got on,” to make use also of his expression, very well. Pandolfini was very modest, and he was not in love as a boy of twenty falls in love. Men take the malady in different ways. His imagination had not rushed instantly to the point of marrying Diana, appropriating her, carrying her off, which is the first impulse of some kinds of love. Her appearance to him was like the appearance of a new great star in the sky, dwindling and dimming all the rest, but at the same time expanding and glorifying the world, making a new world of it, lighting up everything both old and new with its light. Darkness and despondency would have covered the earth had that new glory of light suffered eclipse; but he had not yet realised the idea of transferring it to his own home, and making the serene sweet star into a domestic lamp. He was too humble, in the beginning of the adoration by which he had been seized without any will of his own, to think of anything of the kind. He was so grateful to her for having come, for shining upon him, for not disappointing him or stepping down from her pedestal, but being what he had supposed her to be at the first glance. Women do not always do this, nor men either. Sometimes, very often it must be allowed, they not only come down from the pedestal on which we have placed them, but jump down, with harsh outbursts of laughter, spurning that elevation. But Diana lost no jot of her dignity to the imaginative Italian. Still and always she was dei Sogni, one of the dream-ladies, queens of earth and heaven. Sometimes her lavish liberality startled him in the habits of his poverty, for he was economical and careful as his race, not knowing what it was to be rich, and unfamiliar with the art of using money. Few of his delights had ever come in that way. He had been kind to his friends and to his inferiors in a different fashion, in the way of personal service, of tender sympathy, and the help one mind and heart can give to another; but it had never been in his power to lavish around him things which cost actual money as Diana did, and he was puzzled by her habits in this respect, and not quite sure, perhaps, that this was not a slight coming down from her high ideal position. But the fault, if fault it was, tended at least towards nobleness, for Diana’s personal tastes were simple enough, notwithstanding a certain inclination towards magnificence, which did not displease him.
He watched her as narrowly as a jealous husband, though in a very different sense, to make quite sure that she was everything he believed her to be. But Pandolfini was subtle as his race, notwithstanding that he was an Anglomane, and declared his enthusiasm for all the English virtues of openness, candour, and calm. He did not show his devotion as a blundering Englishman would have done. No one suspected him of his worship of Diana—no one—except two very acute observers, who made no communication to each other, but on the contrary avoided the subject—to wit, Diana herself and Mrs. Hunstanton. As for Diana, she was unconscious as long as possible, and denied it stoutly to herself as long as possible; yet nevertheless had the fact conveyed to her in the very air, by minute and all but invisible indications which she would not admit but could not gainsay. And her friend divined, being his friend also, and a silent observer, the very reverse of her kind busybody of a husband, to whom the idea that Pandolfini had any special admiration for Diana would have been simple food for laughter, neither less nor more.
Thus the course of events went on. When “these two” had a little talk together, Mr. Hunstanton would chuckle and rub his hands with pleasure. “Yes, I think they are getting on a little better,” he said. “Why they should not have taken to each other, is a thing I cannot comprehend. With so many things in common! But you see the Italian does not understand the Englishwoman, nor the Englishwoman the Italian. She is too independent for him; and he is too—too——too everything for her. The more they see of each other, the more they will respect each other; but there will never be any real understanding between them. A pity, isn’t it?—for there are not two better people in the world.”
“Dear Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, to whom he was talking. “It is not that she has really any strongmindedness about her; but there is no doubt that gentlemen always do prefer women to be dependent: they don’t like a girl to say like Diana that she does not want assistance, that she can manage her affairs, and all that sort of thing. That is what I think is such a pity. Of course it would be a great deal better if there was a gentleman at the Chase to look after everything.”
“W—well,” said Mr. Hunstanton: his land marched with the Chase, and there were matters in which it did not appear so very clear to him that a gentleman would be an advantage. “To be sure she never will give in to prosecuting poachers or that sort of thing, which is positive quixotism and folly.”
“And there are matters which a gentleman must understand so much the best.”
“W—well,” said Mr. Hunstanton again. “Arguments don’t answer, you see; it is not a thing that can be argued about. Natural propriety and all that, and abstract justice—and—— Diana knows what to say for herself; but then the fact is, that this must be treated as a practical question. It don’t bear argument. I’m glad to see them talking to each other a little; but it will never go beyond that.”
“Did you wish it to go beyond that?” said Mrs. Norton, quickly.
“Who—I? Oh no, dear no; why should I wish it? Bless me! that was not what I was thinking of. I thought they might be friends. I like my friends to take to each other. Now, you appreciate Pandolfini: why shouldn’t Diana? that is all I say. But people are wrong-headed; the best people in the world are often the most wrong-headed,—even Pandolfini himself.”
“I have never seen anything that was not nice in Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton. “He has always been so good. How kind he has been to Sophy and me! Indeed you are all kind. I don’t wonder at it so much among those who know my child’s sterling qualities, though, I trust, I am always grateful. But when a man like Mr. Pandolfini, who knows next to nothing of her, is equally kind, as kind as her oldest friend, why that, I must say, is remarkable. It shows such a kind nature—it must be so disinterested——”
“Disinterested?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Do you think that is the word? When a man, who is not an old man, pays attention to a pretty young girl—well, it may be very kind, and all that—but I don’t think disinterested is the word I should use.”
“What could we do for him?” cried Mrs. Norton. “You may say Diana, too; but then she knows us, and I hope she is fond of us; but Mr. Pandolfini, what could we do for him? It must all be kindness—pure kindness—for we never can pay him back.”
“Aha! is that how it is?” said Mr. Hunstanton to himself.
“Is that how what is?” she asked, a little sharply.
“Nothing, nothing, my dear lady—I meant nothing,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “So that is how it is! I must say I thought as much. I generally can see through a millstone as well as another, when there is anything to be seen: and I allow that I thought it—so that is what is coming. Holloa! who is that at the other end of the room?—the Snodgrasses, I should say, if there was anything in the world which could bring them to Pisa: the—Snodgrasses! I shall expect to see the parish march in next, in full order, in clean smock-frocks, farmers and ploughmen. Actually the Snodgrasses! if one can trust one’s eyes. Excuse me, Mrs. Norton, I must go and see. I hope the Hall has not been burnt down, and that there is nothing the matter with the children. I must go and see.”
“The Snodgrasses!” Mrs. Norton said under her breath, with something like consternation. She had once entertained a very high opinion of the Snodgrasses. They were the clergy of the parish, and she had a belief in the clergy, very natural to one who had herself belonged to that sacred caste. What had brought them here at this moment? Was it, could it be, a ridiculous pursuit of Diana, who, of course, had never thought of them? or was it anything else? She drew a little nearer to the door to hear what she could. The devotion of the Snodgrasses to Diana, the way in which they followed her about, the little speeches they made to her, had always been particularly offensive to Mrs. Norton. It was on Diana’s account, who could not fail to be annoyed, she said; but, indeed, Mrs. Norton was more annoyed than Diana. And now here they were again, leaving the parish uncared for! How could they account to themselves for such a dereliction of duty? She would not approach the new-comers, or show any interest in them, on the highest moral grounds; but she crept towards them, talking to the people she found in her way, and gradually drawing nearer the door. It was the Snodgrasses: there was no mistaking them, both in their long coats, with their long faces, black-haired and somewhat grim, as with the fatigue of a journey. They were not very comely to start with, and it was almost ludicrous, their critic thought, to see two men so like each other, and without even the excuse of being father and son! The rector was slimmer, the curate stouter; they had heavy eyebrows, and very dark complexions. Mr. Snodgrass, senior, had a great deal to say, and was facetious in a clergymanly fashion. Mr. Snodgrass, junior, was silent, and generally kept in the background when it was not necessary for him to act audience for his uncle’s jokes. At the present moment, more abashed than usual by the strangers among whom he suddenly found himself, he stood in a corner, gazing at Diana, with a look which specially irritated Mrs. Norton always, though it would have been difficult for her to have explained why.
“Who could have thought of seeing you here?” she said, as the rector came up to her with that expressive grasp of the hand which was one of his special gifts, and which everybody remarked as the very embodiment of cordiality and friendliness, a sort of modest embrace. He was not glad to see her particularly, nor she to see him; but if they had flown into each other’s arms it could scarcely have been a warmer greeting than that silent clasping of hands, without even a “How d’ye do?” to impair its eloquence.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he said; “but the truth is, dear Bill was not at all well. I can’t tell what is the matter with him. But not well at all—quite out of work and out of heart——”
“Chest?” said Mrs. Norton, solemnly.
“No, I don’t think so. Nothing organic they tell me. Only want of tone, want of energy. As Easter was over so early this year, and nothing particular going on, I thought I might as well carry out an old intention and come to Italy——”
“This is entirely a chest place,” said Mrs. Norton, still very serious. “I don’t think it is supposed very good for other complaints.”
“Ah, I don’t think it will do dear Bill any harm,” said the rector. “I could quite suppose I was in my own parish, looking round. Miss Trelawny is blooming as usual.”
“Blooming is not the word I would apply to Diana, Mr. Snodgrass; but she is very well.”
“Ah, you were always rather a purist about language. Well, then, you must allow that your niece is blooming. I never saw Miss Sophy look so well.”
“My niece has been very much appreciated here,” said Mrs. Norton. “She has found herself among people who understand her, and that is always an addition to one’s happiness.”
“Surely,” said the rector, to whom the idea of Sophy as a person not understood by her surroundings was novel. He objected to Sophy and her aunt as “parasites,” just as Sophy and her aunt objected to himself and his dear “Bill” as annoyances to Diana. “It is too bad,” Mrs. Norton cried, hurrying across to Mrs. Hunstanton after this little encounter. “Diana hates these men—and she cannot get rid of them wherever she goes.”
“Diana is a great deal too kind to everybody,” said Mrs. Hunstanton. “She has a way of concealing when she is bored which I call downright hypocrisy—but I don’t see why she should hate them in particular, poor men!”
“Look at that!” said Mrs. Norton, with a certain vehemence. It was the curate whom she pointed out, and Pandolfini, who was by, profited also by the indication. He was standing straight up in a corner, poor curate, shy and frightened of the voluble groups about, among whom there were several Italians and a good deal of polyglot conversation. Mr. William Snodgrass knew no language but his own, and was not very fluent even in that. He stood up very straight, as if he had been driven into the corner or was undergoing punishment there, and gazed over everybody’s head, being very tall, at Diana. The very dulness of the gaze had something pathetic in it, like the adoration of a faithful dog. Neither for the strange people nor the new place had the poor curate any eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton looked at him with familiar scorn, as a person well aware of his delusion, and treating it with the contempt it deserved—but Pandolfini gazed with very different feelings at his fellow-worshipper. Even while he smiled at the frightened look upon the poor fellow’s countenance, and his evident dismayed avoidance of the strangers about, his dumb devotion touched the Italian’s heart.
“It is Miss Trelawny upon whom his eyes fix themselves.”
“Yes; he does nothing but stare at Diana—silly fellow! As if a woman like Diana, without thinking of her position, would ever look at him.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pandolfini, “to turn his eyes to the best, though it be without hope, is not that well?”
“It might be very well,” said Mrs. Norton, “if it were not such an annoyance to Diana. At home she cannot move for him—he is always following her about like a dog. And you know, Mr. Pandolfini, if a woman were the best woman that ever lived, that is unworthy of a man.”
“I do not know—no, that is not what I should say. When the person is Miss Trelawny, many things may be pardoned,” said the Italian. He was so brown that an additional tint of colour scarcely showed on his face; but as his eyes turned from the curate to Diana, a subdued glow came over his countenance, and a light into his blue eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton, who was a quick observer, caught him in the very act. She looked at him, and sudden perception awoke in her. And he felt it with that sensitiveness which is like an additional sense, and looked at her in her turn with a pathetic half smile, explaining the whole, though not a word was said. Mrs. Hunstanton was touched: perhaps such a confidence, made without a word, by the eyes only, yet so frank and full of feeling, went more to her heart than if it had been accompanied by much effusion in words. But there was nothing said, and Mrs. Norton remained pleasantly unaware of anything that had happened, and went on discoursing about the Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, with quite as much unction as if both her companions had been giving her their entire attention, as indeed she believed them to do.
“In my dear husband’s time,” she said, “the clergy of a parish were never both absent even for a day. He would have been shocked beyond description at the idea. Do you think it can be right, Mr. Pandolfini, for both the rector and the curate to be away together? If any one is sick, what is to become of them? and they are not even married, so as to leave some one behind who could look after the poor. Do you think it can be right under any circumstances?” And this anxious champion of justice fixed her eyes with an almost severe appeal on the Italian’s face.
“Can I tell?” he answered, throwing up his hands and his shoulders with a characteristic gesture. “The curate never leaves his parish in my country. When he would have leisure, he takes it among the rest. A poor priest does not think of villeggiatura, what you call holidays. He is too poor——”
“But even the rector,” said Mrs. Norton, insisting. “Of course, if there is a very good curate—yes, yes, they are generally poor in England as well as in other places—a poor curate, that is what people are always saying; but even the rector. Of course, I forgot, I beg your pardon, your priests are never married, poor wretched men! What a bondage to put upon a man! don’t you think so, Mr. Pandolfini?”
He laughed; perhaps this little woman and her talk was a relief at the moment. He said: “I have my prejudices. Your English gentleman who is a curate, I do not know him. He is a clergyman: that is different. We may not judge one the other.”
“I don’t wish to judge any one; but surely, Mr. Pandolfini, anything so unnatural——”
“Not always unnatural. Me! I do not marry myself.”
“But you will one day,” said Mrs. Norton, decidedly. “Of course you will. Now, why should not you marry? I am sure you would be a great deal happier. Those who have not known what it is,” said the little lady with a sigh, “cannot be expected to realise—ah! the difference between being alone in the world and having some one to love you and care for you! Since I lost my dear husband, how changed life has been! Before that, I never did anything for myself; he stood between me and every trouble——”
“But in that way I think it would be better for a man not to have a wife,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “I dare say Mr. Pandolfini does not want to take a woman on his shoulders, and do everything for her. Tom does not stand between me and every trouble, I can tell you. He pushes a good share of his on to my shoulders, and gives me many a tangled skein to untwist. I never try to persuade my friends to marry; but you shouldn’t frighten them——”
“I—frighten them!” Mrs. Norton’s horror was too deep for words. “I think it is time for us to say good night,” she resumed, with dignity. “Will you look for my niece, Mr. Pandolfini, while I speak a word to Diana? I really cannot let my child be late to-night.”
“So that is how it is!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself: her husband had said the same, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction, and determination to “help it on” with all his might, not very long before; but in a very different sense. The lady’s surprisal of poor Pandolfini’s secret, however, was of so delicate a kind that her conclusion was very different. She hoped that she might never be tempted to betray him; and her sympathy was more despondent than hopeful. For Diana—Diana, of all people in the world! and yet Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself, though she was not romantic, There is nothing that persevering devotion may not do. In the long-run, even the dull adoration of young Snodgrass might touch a woman’s heart—who could tell? And Pandolfini was a very different person. Could anything be done for him? As she turned this over in her mind, he passed her, fulfilling Mrs. Norton’s commission, with Sophy, all pink and smiling, on his arm. Sophy was looking up in his face with that pretty air of trust and dependence which charms most men, but fills most women with hot indignation. Mrs. Hunstanton, like many other ladies, believed devoutly that flattery of this description was irresistible, and was always excited to a certain ferocity by the sight of it. Little flirt, little humbug! she said in her heart.
“Do you see them?” said her husband, coming up to her, rubbing his hands; “the very thing I have always wished—a nice sweet clinging little thing, just the wife for Pandolfini. Why, Hetty——”
Mrs. Hunstanton had a large fan in her hand. It was all she could do not to assail him with it in good sound earnest. “Tom,” she cried, exasperated, “hold your tongue, for heaven’s sake! Don’t be a greater fool than you can help!”
Which was a very improper way for a wife to speak to her husband it must be allowed.