One of those who ventured least to occupy her attention was Pandolfini, though he came with the rest, and never missed an occasion. Diana had noticed him a great deal on his first introduction to her. She had, indeed, almost watched him; and he had been vaguely aware of the scrutiny, although quite at a loss to know why it was; but after a few days he had been conscious that it relaxed, and that Diana watched him no more. Had she heard something of him that interested her? He had done things in his day that might have interested a woman. He had conspired, as everybody had done in his time in Italy, and had fought for his country, and had got the usual reward of the disinterested. What did it matter? The country had been saved, and what was an individual in comparison? But the idea that this beautiful noble Englishwoman, the first sight of whom had so deeply touched his own imagination, should have heard of him, and should think him worthy of observation, went to Pandolfini’s heart. Once more he felt the tears come into his eyes, and was ashamed and grieved at himself secretly, as a demonstrative Italian, how unlikely to please her in her national reticence! But yet she noticed him, kept an eye upon him when nobody observed but himself—alas! and in a few days gave it over, and noticed him, except as she noticed everybody, no more. Had Pandolfini known that this was merely for Sophy’s sake, the little English mees of whom he had never thought twice, who was to him only a pretty child, a little nobody! It is well in this life that our knowledge of what other people think of us is happily so circumscribed.
But he did not know this, and as his secret pleasure had been great in seeing her attention turned towards him, so was it bitter to him now to find it withdrawn. She had heard good of him, which had interested her; and then she had heard something less good. This must be how it was. The consequence was, that he had kept studiously away from Diana—at first in hope, thinking that she might perhaps turn to him, call him, make him feel that her interest in him was more than the common; and then, in fear and discouragement, searching the depths of his recollection to see what thing he could have done by which he could have been discredited in her eyes. This thought was appalling to him. Had he ever looked like a coward or a traitor? had he done anything of doubtful aspect, which could be told against him? or was some traitor at work behind-backs defaming him? He had made himself so sure at first that there was something which had specially attracted her attention to himself. And so there was, poor Pandolfini! But Diana had very soon found out that he was as innocent as a child of any thoughts of Sophy; and that the frank admiration and confidence of that little simpleton had not even affected his vanity. He was perfectly innocent and unaware of it. She was almost glad to make the discovery, though she could scarcely have told why; but it changed her interest in the grave Italian with his blue eyes. Why should she think more of him? Sophy was to be discouraged evidently in her too great appreciation of his kindness, and unless Diana kept him outside of her circle of acquaintance, it would be difficult to do this. So thus it happened that the intercourse between them was checked, and that he knew less of Diana than the newest and least notable member of the little society.
On one special evening, towards the middle of April, it happened at once that this distance became the object of remark, and that it ceased to exist, almost at the same moment. Diana, in her usual seat opposite the great picture, had been left alone for the moment by the ebbing of the little crowd, most of her guests having strayed towards the next room, in which music was going on. Stranded in the same way, and quite alone, stood Pandolfini. He was in front of the portrait, holding up a book to the light, which fell full upon his face: and it was a remarkable face—no longer with the beauty of youth, but with that beauty of expression which comes with years. His dark hair, cut short à l’anglais, showed touches of white at the temples; his face was long, the oval but slightly sunken of the cheeks, the forehead white in comparison with the rest—and the eyes blue. Blue eyes in an Italian face are not like blue eyes anywhere else. There is a pathos and sweetness in the very colour, something of simplicity, poetry, almost childhood in the midst of the dark fervour and force of the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Hunstanton, standing together, as it happened, near the door which led into the music-room, remarked, at the same moment, these two left almost altogether alone.
“Can’t they find anything to say to each other, I wonder?” said Mrs. Hunstanton, almost under her breath.
“I thought these two would have been friends,” said her husband. “Why shouldn’t they be friends? they ought to have taken to each other. Somebody must have prejudiced her against him. I have told her half-a-dozen times what a nice fellow he was; but she has never taken any notice. I am surprised at Diana—to take up such a prejudice——”
“Why do you suppose she has a prejudice?” Mrs. Hunstanton thought she knew why Diana did not care for their Italian friend.
“We must bring them together. I am determined to bring them together. Here is the very opportunity, and I’ll do it at once. Music! what do I care for the music? Music is the greatest interruption—but only one must not say so—— Look here, Di——”
“Tom, for heaven’s sake let them alone! They are beginning to talk of their own accord. Don’t meddle, I tell you!” cried his wife, grasping him by the arm, and giving him an impatient shake. Mr. Hunstanton was obedient for once in his life, and stopped when he was told.
“Well, I am glad they are taking a little notice of each other,” he said; “not that they will ever get any further. A nice soft little creature like Sophy is the right person for such a fellow as Pandolfini.”
“I think you are all out of your senses about Sophy,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, indignant.