“For me!” Diana laughed, but a faint colour came upon her face. “That means, I suppose, that a tall dark woman seems more in this hero’s way than a little light one? Let us hope that the law of contraries will bring them together. I should not like little Sophy to be disappointed—and her aunt.”
“You are really too absurd about Sophy and her aunt. Is a man to marry both of them? But he is my friend, and I can’t have him brought down to such a fate. If that is what you mean, Diana, it must be a stand-up fight between you and me. I shall not give in if I can help it; and I am sure he is not such a fool.”
“There is a wavering in your voice which sounds like alarm,” said Diana, laughing; “but I have no evil intentions in respect to your Mr. Pandolfini. I shall not stand up and fight. If Sophy cannot do it for herself, I shall not interfere.”
“Sophy!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with vast disdain; but nevertheless there was a slight quaver in her voice.
CHAPTER V.
THE PALAZZO DEI SOGNI.
A great many things happened in the next few days. The first floor of the Palazzo dei Sogni, where the Hunstantons lived, being vacant, Diana was made by her friends to take it for the remainder of the season; and they brought her in triumph from her hotel, where indeed she had felt herself out of place, to the vast magnificent faded rooms, so bare and yet so noble, in which the Marchesi dei Sogni had vegetated for generations. There were few things left in them except mere furniture which could be made money of; but the furniture itself would have gone long ago, had it not been for the more immediate advantage of letting the piano nobile, and the immediate disadvantage of buying other chairs and tables in modern taste. Accordingly, the beautiful rooms were still furnished as became them, with articles which, if not so old as the walls, had at least lived there for more than a century. And there was one Vandyke—indifferent the dealers said, but very splendid still to be in the private enjoyment of an English lodger,—a full-length of a melancholy dark Di Sogni of two hundred years ago, which threw still further dignity upon the lofty rooms, all opening upon one another, in which his ancestors had lived and died. Sophy and her aunt were overawed by the splendour of this presiding deity, yet ventured to suggest that a new drawing-room suite in blue satin would be “sweet,” and make everything look quite different—which no doubt was very true.
Diana, however, was entirely in her place in these rooms, and enjoyed them with that thrill of her being which she herself laughed at as a sign of superannuated youthfulness and romanticism, and which, to tell the truth, none of her friends comprehended at all. For, after all, what was Italy more than any other place? A better climate, a good many things to see, and, as Sophy thought, delightful society, and many little parties, balls, and other gentle diversions which she had never before attained to. In their hearts they all thought Diana a little absurd. But at the same time it was very pleasant to have her there, and to get the advantage of her large rooms as it grew hotter, and of her carriage, in which Mrs. Norton and Sophy went about everywhere. They had felt often that Mrs. Hunstanton was not very hospitable in respect to her little carriage, which had only one horse, and no very great accommodation. “I suppose she thinks she cannot ask one of us without the other,” Mrs. Norton had said; “but I am sure, as long as my darling had a drive now and then, I should not mind.” “If she would only have taken auntie sometimes—that is all I should have cared for,” said the girl. They were very unselfish, always preferring each other. But Diana’s carriage made everything smooth. When she went out, she had the chief seat; but when she did not go, Mrs. Norton and Sophy were quite happy. Sometimes they would take pretty Mrs. Winthrop, the American, and her little daughter, and then their airs of gentle patronage was delightful. They were very kind, always ready to be of use. “What were our blessings given to us for, but to be shared with others?” Mrs. Norton would say; “I am sure dear Diana is of that opinion.” And no doubt there crept by degrees a certain confusion into her mind on the subject, and she ceased to be quite sure that dear Diana’s opinion on this subject was more important than her own. All this Mrs. Hunstanton beheld with hostile eyes. She had no patience with Diana’s supineness. “You demoralise everybody,” she cried at last, wound up to desperation. “They were good enough little silly creatures, but now they are unendurable.” Was there perhaps a consciousness in her mind, behind this warmth of righteous indignation, that the additional importance which the two little ladies had taken upon them, and the carriage and Diana’s backing, had made a difference in their attentions to Reginald? If so, Mrs. Hunstanton would no doubt have felt that she was quite right in finding fault with such selfishness, for had not they paid court to herself assiduously until such time as they needed her no longer? Mercenary little things, both aunt and niece!
No one, however, could shake Diana out of this supineness, or could drive her into a fiery round of sight-seeing such as her friends desired. She went out and walked, roaming about the sacred places, making slow acquaintance with the things she wanted to see, spending the cool hours under the shadow of the Vandyke in these great cool melancholy rooms, sitting out in the balcony, where a faint waft of orange-blossom out of the nearest convent garden came upon the soft evening air. Fortunately there was a moon, which, so long as it lasted, whitening the loggias and high roofs of the tall houses on the other side of Arno, and casting a long silvery gleam along the course of the river between, pleased her more than anything. They said she was lazy, and they said she was sad; but Diana was no more sad than a nature finely touched is apt to be by moments everywhere, and she had more occupation every day than good Mr. Hunstanton, who was the chief supporter of the lazy theory, got through in a week. It was only her friends, however, as so often happens, who found fault with her. The general community looked with profoundest admiration upon this beautiful young woman (“though not so very young,” some people said), who was so rich, and in her own country such a great lady. Again, Diana had the advantage over a young Squire Trelawny of her own age and wealth. Much as that personage would naturally have been prized in an English colony, she was looked up to still more. She was so rich; she had so much power to give pleasure to others, and such goodwill to do it. And then to pay court to her injured no one’s amour propre, neither that of man or woman. To want to marry her even, had it gone so far as that, would have been no shame to any one. She rose easily, without any effort of her own, into something of the same princess position which she held at home. The English chaplain went to her at once, you may be sure, and got the largest subscription from her that had ever been known in the records of the church at Pisa. If she did not buy alabaster at Sophy’s favourite shop, she bought better things, and befriended everybody, which was the best of all. On the ground of having been once poor herself, her sympathy for all who were poor went the length of absurdity, Mrs. Hunstanton thought. And even Mrs. Norton remonstrated gently. “We have no right to say so, but you must not be too good, Diana,” she said. Diana was a puzzle to the people who were so familiar with her, who felt authorised to find fault with her, to lecture her, to point out a great many better ways of doing everything. Sophy, indeed, took upon herself to allow that perhaps dear Diana was a little eccentric. “But then she is so good! we all love her so!” cried the little girl, with a certain indulgence and patronage.
Diana was aware of all this, more or less. She knew that they were conscious of a mild superiority, even while they took everything, and a degree of importance above all, from her. But she only smiled; they meant no harm. It was nature. They could not bring out any more than was in them: they were good, if they were not wise. They meant no harm. And if her own little world was more puzzled than respectful, the outer world had a great respect for Diana. She was so rich! What a thing that is! And if it makes the homeliest persons interesting, how much more must it do for those who are not homely, who are interesting by gift of nature? Miss Trelawny was on everybody’s lips—all the more, perhaps, that she did not drive about constantly, as her companions wished, and show herself in everybody’s eyes.
Thus the first week or two passed; and insensibly the little receptions of the Hunstantons began to take place downstairs on Diana’s floor. The rooms were so much handsomer; and what did it matter which of them it was that gave the simple refreshments required? Thus it was settled, though not without a little feeling on Mrs. Hunstanton’s part that she too was making use of Diana, as she objected to all the other people for doing. But then it was good for Diana to see people. Somehow the rustle and murmur of the little society acquired dignity in the loftier and more splendid rooms of the piano nobile, where the little coterie of the English Church party—the people who had choir-practice every week in Mrs. Winthrop’s rooms, and who flattered themselves that their “simple beautiful service” must be a revelation to any belated Italian who stumbled across the threshold of their chapel—could rub shoulders with worldly-minded travellers and with Italians pur sang, without either coterie coming in the way of the other. For Sophy’s sake, there had even been a dance one evening in one of those fine rooms. Everything had widened and grown larger since Diana came. She neither danced nor did she join in the choir-practice; but all kinds of people came and bowed before her as she sat opposite the Vandyke.