“Oh, we must not try to prejudice you,” said Mrs. Norton; “you will see for yourself. Everybody of course will be glad to see you, Diana. But I must say I think it is the greatest testimony to people’s disinterestedness that they have been so good to us. We are not wealthy, you know, nor great ladies; but everybody has seen my Sophy’s sweetness, Diana. That is what goes to my heart. They do all so appreciate Sophy——”
“Oh, auntie, how can you say so?” cried Sophy, rosy with blushes, running to her, and clasping her arms round her. “Fancy anybody thinking of poor little me! They like me because I am your child.”
Diana lay on her sofa and laughed very softly to herself. The mutual admiration amused, and it did not displease her. Mrs. Hunstanton would have taken it very differently, but Diana could not but be amused. “Come,” she said, “it is not kind to leave me in so much lower a place. I am only to be received, because I am Miss Trelawny; that is hard upon me. I should like to be liked for myself too.”
“O Diana! you!—as if any one would look at me when you are there!” cried Sophy, with a blush and flutter, running to kiss her friend; while Mrs. Norton remonstrated more gravely—
“My dear Diana, you are a person of importance, we all know, in every way. You are so clever, very different from either Sophy or me: besides being a great lady, which, of course, opens every door. You must not grudge us, dear, a little interest that people take in us, because we are quite unimportant. It is her innocence, you know, that interests everybody—such a little white dove of a creature—and partly, too, because you have been such a friend to us, Diana. Everybody knows how kind you have been.”
This silenced Diana, who had no mind to be commended for her kindness. She told Sophy where to find certain little boxes of gloves and trifling ornaments which she had bought in her passage through Paris, and so turned the course of the conversation. They were much delighted as a matter of course with their presents, and most eager to get a little information about the fashions, which Diana, who got her dresses in Paris, must be so well qualified to give. Then Diana’s maid was called, and the last gown was brought out, and examined with the greatest interest, Diana looking on from her sofa, always with a smile. They were not rich enough to have their dresses from M. Worth; but they were not at all disposed to wear things that were out of fashion. Why should they? and both the aunt and the niece were very serious in their conviction that it was a great advantage to be able to study Diana’s things, and see exactly what was the newest trimming, and how “a really good” gown was made. Mrs. Norton was very clever with her needle, and thought nothing of altering the trimming of a dress when she saw a newer fashion, or even of changing the cut of the garment itself (if the stuff would allow). “It is so much more easy when you have a pattern before your eyes instead of only the plate in a fashion-book,” she said. Diana’s maid, Morris, had her own opinion about this, and was indignant that her mistress’s things should be copied; but Diana threw open her wardrobe with that absurd liberality which shocked Morris as much as it shocked Mrs. Hunstanton. They did not understand how it was possible that she could be amused by the sight of those two heads so closely bent over her best dress, pinching the flutings with their inquisitive fingers, and examining with such precision the way in which it was looped up. “What a blessing that your new grey is not made up!” said the aunt to the niece; “I see exactly how this is done.” “You are so clever, auntie,” said Sophy, admiringly. “The front width forms a tablier,” said Mrs. Norton, “and the back is in a pouff. See! nothing could be more simple; and yet how handsome it looks! To be sure, yours is not such handsome silk as Diana’s; but with your light little figure——” “And, dear auntie, don’t you think your plum-colour could be altered to look like this, with a new flounce at the bottom? I must not be selfish, and let you think always of me,” said Sophy. How angry Mrs. Hunstanton would have been, and how Maria Morris gloomed at the two little ladies! But Diana, in the background, was amused and pleased on the whole. How could it be supposed to harm her? And it pleased them; and to see them fluttering over it, consulting, and putting their little heads on one side, and examining all the seams, and looking as if something much more serious than affairs of the State were in hand, was as good as a play.
She had bought a box of gloves for Sophy, and a pretty parasol and ribbons for Mrs. Norton. The first of these had created a slight disappointment, she could see, gloves being then cheap in Tuscany. “But I am sure it was most kind of Diana to think of you at all: and they are such beautiful gloves,” said Mrs. Norton, in a reassuring tone. Diana felt a little mortified to find that she had thus brought, as it were, coals to Newcastle; but even that amused her more or less—for her little protégée was already more learned than she in the smaller necessities of the toilet, and where things could be got cheap.
Diana got up from the sofa while they were occupied with her wardrobe, and betook herself to her letters. Hers was not the usual lady’s budget of not very necessary correspondences: already the questions, the references, the applications which weary out the absent who are involved in the real business of life, and make a holiday almost more troublesome than a working day, had begun. She had to write to her steward, to her lawyer, and to more than one of the pensioners on her civil list, who thought it their duty to make deferential communications to her about their families, and consult her as to the steps to be taken for placing Willie in an office or Fanny at school. No one could believe that it was not personal love which made Diana good to them—a perception of their own excellences, not general in the world; and this sentiment in her mind no doubt made all the trouble she took a pleasure to her. This conviction arose from no protestations of affection on Diana’s part; but simply from the fact of her beneficence, which otherwise no one could understand, not even her friends. She replied as best she could to those applications about Willie and Fanny, approving generally of what was being done, and sending a little present to make up for the deficiency in interest which she felt rather guilty about, but which no one suspected. “How you can be fond of so many commonplace people is a thing I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, who came in while she was thus occupied. “I am not fond of them,” said Diana, humbly. Her friend shook her head with undisguised impatience. She was rather shocked even by the idea. “You are either the most affectionate person in the world, or you are the greatest deceiver,” she cried, in her noncomprehension, stung to warmer energy than usual by the sight of Mrs. Norton and Sophy in the background, still examining the new mode.
“I am either a fool or a humbug: is that what you would say?”
“Not a humbug, perhaps, not a conscious humbug: a cynic, that is what it is. You despise everybody, therefore you can manage to be good to them. Look at that now! I would not put up with it for a moment—turning over all your things—making your very gowns common——”