“That’s right—that is exactly what you ought to do. But you must not be so tremendously humble,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Yes, yes, my dear fellow, I’ll undertake it; but don’t be down-hearted. If you are not as happy a fellow as any in Christendom by this time to-morrow night——”
“You—think so? Dio mio! You—think so?” said the Italian. His heart was too full to say any more. He wrung his friend’s hand, and snatched up his hat and went away with scarcely another word, stumbling down the long staircase, which was as black as night, his mind too distracted to think of anything. As he passed Diana’s door the glimmer of light which showed underneath stopped him, as if it had carried a message, a word of encouragement. He stopped short in spite of himself, and a wild fancy seized him. It was all he could do to keep himself from rushing into her presence, confessing everything, asking—ah! what was it that he could ask? Would she be but favourable—kind—nay, something more? Should he make the plunge himself without waiting for Hunstanton, and if such an unimaginable bliss could be, have it a day earlier? The impulse made him giddy, so strong was it, turning his brain round and round; but as he stood there, with his hand uplifted almost in the act of ringing the bell, Diana’s factotum, all unaware of who was standing outside, came to the door within and began to bar and bolt and shut up for the night. Pandolfini’s hand dropped as if he had been shot. He turned and made his way, without once pausing to take breath, into the open air beneath, on the side of Arno. The lamps twinkled reflected in the water, the stars from the sky; there was a quiver and tremor in the night itself, a little soft wistful melancholy breeze. Might this be the last night for him, the end of all sweet and hopeful days? or was it, could it be, only the tender beginning of a long heaven to come?
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.”