CHAPTER X.
THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN.
MRS. NORTON and her niece had received the tidings of the Hunstanton’s approaching departure with consternation almost more profound, and certainly more simple in its exhibition, than had been exhibited by any of the other members of the party. Surprise, which at the first moment took the form of angry petulance and offence, had been the manner in which it showed itself in Sophy; and as her aunt lived only in her and her wishes, the girl’s angry vexation resolved itself into a mixture of offence and resignation in Mrs. Norton. She calmed her child and soothed her, and then repeated Sophy’s sentiments in a more solid form. “My darling, you must not blame Diana. Diana has been goodness itself. We never could have had this pleasure at all but for her thoughtfulness,” she said, and then added: “I think, however, that Diana might have managed to let us know delicately what she meant—not forcing it upon us through the Hunstantons, if that is what she wants us to know.” Sophy did not think whether Diana had or had not taken this underhand way of warning them that it was time to depart; but she was angry beyond measure and beyond reason. They both cried over the thought, shedding hot tears. “Just when we know everybody and are really enjoying ourselves!” said Sophy. “Oh! how are we ever, ever, to put up with that nasty, windy Red House among the trees, with no society, after all that we have had here?”
“Oh hush, my darling!” said Mrs. Norton; “this is what it is to be poor, and to have to do as other people like. Those who are rich can please themselves—it is only the poor who are shuffled about as other people like; but we must remember that we should never have come at all if it had not been for Diana.”
“Would it have been worse not to come at all than to be sent away now?” said angry Sophy, at that height of irritated scepticism which would rather not be, than submit to anything less than perfect satisfaction in being. Could any one say they were ungrateful? Did not the ascription of praise to Diana preface everything they said, or at least everything that the most reasonable of them said? For as for Sophy, what was she more than a child? and a child, when it is crossed, allows no wisdom or kindness even in God Himself, who ought to know better than to expose it to suffering. They made up their little plans together on the very morning after that momentous night. They would go to Diana, and find out what her intentions were—whether she meant them to go, whether they were to accompany her wherever she might be going, or go back with the Hunstantons. “She must at least see that it is reasonable we should know,” Mrs. Norton said, with a dignified and restrained sense of injury—as one above making an open complaint, whatever reason she might have. When it came to the moment of going downstairs, Sophy indeed began to hesitate. She was afraid of Diana.
“I am sure you will talk to her better without me, dear auntie,” she said. “When any one is cross I cannot bear it.”
“That is because you are too sensitive, my love,” said Mrs. Norton. “Poor darling, who would be cross to you? and you are only afraid of Diana because of the time when she was your governess,” she added, with a mild sense of superiority as of one who never was, nor had in her family any one who required to be a governess. But nevertheless, half by moral suasion half by authority, Sophy was made to come and back up the elder lady by her presence. They went downstairs slightly nervous it must be allowed. They knew that they were braver behind backs than when Diana looked at them with those large eyes of hers; but having made such a strenuous resolution, they could not withdraw from it now. They found Diana taking her morning coffee with a book before her, as is the use of lonely people, and she received their visit quietly as a not unusual incident. She was not an early riser—that was one of her weak points—and they were early risers; and they naturally looked at each other with a glance of commentary and gentle moral indignation at her late hours.
“You are so like a gentleman sitting there with your book,” said Sophy, with a sense of pleasure in finding something to find fault with. Diana closed the book and smiled.
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” she said, “for Sophy, I know, has the highest opinion of gentlemen. Can one do better than copy them? You have been up for hours, and have done a great many things already, while I have been idling here.”
“Yes—but then we have no maid to do anything for us; and if we want to have our things nice, we must get up early,” said Mrs. Norton. “We thought most likely you would be at breakfast, and that we should be sure to see you alone for a few minutes—you are always so much engaged now.”
“Am I? I thought I was generally at my friends’ disposal,” said Diana, with a smile; and then there was a little pause. For even her smile when she looked up at them expectant, perceiving something that was on their lips to be said, alarmed the two little women. However, Mrs. Norton, feeling the situation to be too serious for silence on her part, took courage and began—
“Diana—we don’t want to disturb you, dear. We know you are sure to do what is best and kindest for everybody; but we should just like to know, if you don’t mind, what your plans are——”
“My plans! I don’t think I have any plans,” said Diana, surprised, and then she laughed and added, “To be sure, we can’t stay here all the summer, can we? We are not at home, are we? That is what I always forget when I get settled anywhere.”
“And not much wonder: for you can surround yourself with all kinds of comforts,” said Mrs. Norton, looking round her wistfully. To be sure, the third floor upstairs was not like the piano nobile: but she did not intend to seem to make any injurious comparison. The idea was suggested however, and Diana, who was very quick, took it up, and she coloured, and a pained look came upon her face. This was the kind of reproach to which she was most susceptible. It was as if she had been accused of making herself comfortable at some one else’s expense.
“I hope you are not uncomfortable upstairs,” she said. “I thought the house was the same all the way up—no difference but the stairs.”
“Oh no, Diana, dear!” cried Sophy. “Our drawing-room is not half so big as this. It is divided into two. This part is auntie’s room in our apartment——”
“But that does not matter a bit,” cried her aunt; “you must not think we are anything but comfortable, and quite happy, Diana, and most grateful to you.”
“Never mind about being grateful,” said Diana, “the comfort is much more important.” She laughed and shook off her momentary offence. “If there is anything I can do to secure that, you must tell me,” she said, kindly; “the Hunstantons’ rooms perhaps might be better when they leave.”
“Oh!” cried both the appellants, with a common breathlessness. “That was just what we meant to ask you about,” Mrs. Norton went on—Sophy, so to speak, running behind the skirts of the elder and more skilful operator. “We wanted to know if you thought—if you wished—what you think we ought to do? We came with the Hunstantons; and Pisa is not a place to stay in, in summer. But on the other hand, to go back to the Red House when you were away, Diana——”
“Yes, I understand; but shall I be away? If Pisa is not a summer place, I cannot stop in Pisa more than any one else.”
“But you can go where you like, dear. There are a great many other places to go to. There is Florence, which you would like to see, and the Bagni di Lucca; and there is Switzerland, Diana. You can do whatever you please; but we can’t afford, can we, to do anything but go straight home?—if you think we ought to go straight home.”
Diana looked from one to the other. There was a point in which she was the foolishest of women. She liked to satisfy other people, to give them the things they wanted. When she saw a secret coveting in anybody’s eyes, instead of disapproving and reproving, the immediate thought in her mind was how she could get them what they wanted. Perhaps this was a temptation which she would not have felt had she always been Miss Trelawny of the Chase, accustomed from her cradle to be better off than other people, and feeling it natural. But the new power of giving, and of gratifying those wishes which she remembered to have entertained herself without being able to gratify them, was very pleasant to her, and she could not resist it. She was not strong enough to deny herself in order to preserve the independence of Sophy and Mrs. Norton. She looked from one to another, and saw the suppressed eagerness in their eyes.
“And you would like to go to Florence too—and Lucca—and to go home by Switzerland? Why not? It seems a very reasonable plan.”
“But we cannot afford it, Diana.”
“Oh, as for that, I can afford it. Don’t say anything,” said Diana. “Don’t you see it would be no pleasure to me to go alone?—and evidently that is the natural thing to do.”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Norton, gravely. “It is not nice to travel alone: but then the expense. How could I put you to so much expense? I don’t think it would be quite—right. I don’t think——”
“As for the right and the wrong, I think we may take them in our own hands,” said Diana, with a smile. “You must get the Bradshaw—that is what you must do, and settle the routes. Of course, we must go by Switzerland. And I had never thought of it! It is evident I want you to put things in my head.”
“You are very kind, Diana. I am sure if I can be of use in any way to you who are so good to us—and, of course, it would not be nice for you to travel alone, I allow that: even for gentlemen, it cannot be so nice. But for a lady, and so young as you are still——”
Diana laughed. She was half ashamed of herself for seeing so clearly through this little air of reluctance and difficulty. “Evidently,” she said, “I am too young to take care of myself. Any one who thinks differently does me an injury. Then that is settled, is it not? It will be a great deal more pleasant having your company. I never like to do anything alone.”
“Oh, Diana, what a darling you are! How good you always are!” cried Sophy, throwing her arms round her friend. “And I am such a nasty little thing! I thought you would not care a bit: that you would send us away with the Hunstantons by that horrid long railway, and never think—— Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! and you do love us, you do like to have us with you, Diana, dear?”
“Do you expect me to make protestations?” said Diana, shaking herself free with a little embarrassment, feeling compunctions on her own side that she could not be more effusive. “I ought to have thought of it before, but it did not occur to me. Yes, to be sure, we must see the snows. We have our time in our own hands; we are not compelled to be at home by a certain day like Mr. Hunstanton.”
“Oh, Mr. Hunstanton! he is so fussy, always interfering with everything—what does it matter when he gets home? I am tired of Mr. Hunstanton!” cried Sophy.
“You should not speak so rashly, my dear. Mr. Hunstanton has been very kind. She has never liked us much. She has always been jealous of Diana’s love for you, never seeing how natural it was: but Mr. Hunstanton has always been kindness itself. Oh, I am sure she will make disagreeable remarks now! She will say we don’t mind what expense we put Diana to. I know exactly how she will look. But do not think anything of that—I do not mind, Diana. Do not imagine that I would take the pleasure out of your journey, dear, for anything any one could say——”
“And spoil our own pleasure, too, when Diana is so kind,” cried Sophy, with frank delight. “Oh, do you think my old travelling-dress will do, aunt?—or should I have another grey alpaca? Switzerland! I never, never thought of such happiness: though indeed,” added the girl with a sigh, “I shall be very, very sorry to leave Pisa, too. I have never been so happy as here.”
What was it that had made Sophy so happy? Diana looked at her with some curiosity, patting her softly on the cheeks.
“So many parties,” said Sophy, “or at least as good as parties. We have never been at home for a whole week. There has always been something going on; and expeditions; and dances now and then. I have never been so happy in all my life before.”
“Hush, hush, my darling! you would be just as happy at home. I hope my Sophy does not want constant amusement to make her happy; but still it has been very pleasant, and, of course, we could not hope to have so much in a quiet country place.”
“And in England! where, as Colonel Winthrop says, the skies are always grey, and the company bumpkins,” said Sophy, with the sublime contempt of a traveller. What could Diana do but laugh as they played their little pranks before her. They were as good as two little white mice in a cage.
“You had better look into that serious question of toilet,” she said, “and quite make up your mind whether another grey alpaca is necessary; for if we do go to Switzerland, there will be a great deal of travelling to do.”
“What shall you wear, Diana?” said Sophy, growing serious; “for you know your merino that you came in will be too warm. I wish you would think of that a little more. Yes, auntie, indeed I must speak. You know you always say that Diana never does herself justice.”
“Do I?” cried Mrs. Norton, colouring a little, while Diana laughed with great amusement “I am sure Diana always looks well whatever she puts on. You have heard me say so a hundred times.”
“Don’t take any trouble on my account,” said Diana. “I shall find something, never fear.”
“And we are wasting all your time,” said Mrs. Norton. “Sophy, we must run away. If Diana has not the little things to do which we occupy ourselves with, she has other matters to think of. Dear Diana! how can I ever say all I think of your kindness! Nothing would make me accept it except the thought that we can perhaps, in our little way, make it pleasanter for you too.”
She was very strong on this subject to everybody to whom it was mentioned afterwards. “Yes,” she said, “we are going to Switzerland. Dear Diana does not like to travel alone; and, indeed, it is scarcely proper, for she is still quite what is considered a young lady, you know—though, of course, a very great deal older than my Sophy; and Diana has been so very kind to us that I like to do all I can to be of use to her. Sophy will enjoy it too. Oh, it is not at all disagreeable to me, I assure you,” she said, smiling with gentle friendliness and resignation. The chaplain’s wife, if no other, thought it was “so kind” of Mrs. Norton to go to Switzerland with Miss Trelawny. “It took them all by surprise, I believe, and they had made their plans to go home: but they are such good creatures, so unselfish! They have changed all their arrangements rather than that Miss Trelawny should have the annoyance of travelling alone.” This was repeated over and over again that afternoon in the little church coterie at a choir practice, where there was quite a flutter of admiration over the unselfishness of the two little ladies. The glee-party was all there, with the exception of Mrs. Hunstanton, whose absence, perhaps, was fortunate in the circumstances. As for Mrs. Norton, she never departed from this ground even in her most private moments. “I am so fond of Diana that nothing is a trouble,” she said, “she has always been such a friend;” and then it got whispered round, to the great admiration and surprise of everybody, that Miss Trelawny, though so great a lady, had once been Sophy’s governess. What a wonderful thing it was! everybody said; exactly like a romance in real life!
The Snodgrasses, who were also at the choir practice, heard, like the rest, of Miss Trelawny’s plan, and the excitement of the information brought the curate out of his corner. “I don’t really care about going to Florence. I never did care,” he said hurriedly to his uncle. “Switzerland is what I should like most.” The rector shook his head, and called his dear Bill a goose; but yet, reflecting within himself that dear Bill was six feet high, and a fine specimen of a man (though not perhaps what is generally called handsome), and that Miss Trelawny had a fine fortune, and that Perseverance was the thing which carried the day, Mr. Snodgrass thought that perhaps, by chance, so to speak (if it were not an impious thing to speak of Chance), he might direct his steps to Switzerland too. So that a whole party of people were moved, and their intentions and destinations changed, by the impatience and disappointment of Sophy Norton at the prospect of an abrupt conclusion of her holiday. She thought herself, and with justice, an insignificant little person, yet it was she who had made all this commotion.
In the meantime Sophy’s own head was full of her wardrobe, to the exclusion of other ideas. Should she have dresses enough for the summer? should she want another grey alpaca? or could she get on with what she had, with a new white frock, perhaps, and a dust-cloak? “There is nothing looks so nice as white,” said Sophy, regarding her wardrobe with an anxious pleasure. “In fine weather, my darling: but it always rains among the mountains, and a white dress, or a cotton dress of any kind, looks poor in bad weather.” This was a very serious question: for indeed she had a grey alpaca already, which was too good yet to be taken merely for a travelling-dress. It was the one which had been made up on the model of Diana’s beautiful new silk from M. Worth’s. This was a very perplexing problem, and one which gave them a great deal of trouble; but yet it was a happy kind of care.
As for Diana, she had the faculty of putting aside the points that jarred in her friends’ characters. She was aware that they were not perhaps so unselfish as they took credit for being, and she could not but laugh softly under her breath at Mrs. Norton’s solemn conviction that she “could be of use” to Diana. But what then?—what did it matter after all? It would be pleasant enough to go to Switzerland, and travelling alone was not very pleasant. So far the Nortons were right. Diana feared (a little) the innuendoes of Mrs. Hunstanton when she heard of the project; but otherwise it amused her (she did not put it on any higher ground) to see their pleasure, to indulge them with every luxury of a journey made en prince. To have everything you can desire, without ever having to think of the expense, how pleasant it was! How she would have liked it when she was poor! She did not say to herself that she had been as independent as she was poor, and would not have lightly taken such a pleasure at any one’s hand. Why should she have remembered this? Sophy was not like her: and after all, to make these two little women perfect, to reform their characters, and mould them after her own model, was at once a hopeless proceeding and one altogether out of her way.