“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.”