“What shall you wear, Diana?” said Sophy, growing serious; “for you know your merino that you came in will be too warm. I wish you would think of that a little more. Yes, auntie, indeed I must speak. You know you always say that Diana never does herself justice.”
“Do I?” cried Mrs. Norton, colouring a little, while Diana laughed with great amusement “I am sure Diana always looks well whatever she puts on. You have heard me say so a hundred times.”
“Don’t take any trouble on my account,” said Diana. “I shall find something, never fear.”
“And we are wasting all your time,” said Mrs. Norton. “Sophy, we must run away. If Diana has not the little things to do which we occupy ourselves with, she has other matters to think of. Dear Diana! how can I ever say all I think of your kindness! Nothing would make me accept it except the thought that we can perhaps, in our little way, make it pleasanter for you too.”
She was very strong on this subject to everybody to whom it was mentioned afterwards. “Yes,” she said, “we are going to Switzerland. Dear Diana does not like to travel alone; and, indeed, it is scarcely proper, for she is still quite what is considered a young lady, you know—though, of course, a very great deal older than my Sophy; and Diana has been so very kind to us that I like to do all I can to be of use to her. Sophy will enjoy it too. Oh, it is not at all disagreeable to me, I assure you,” she said, smiling with gentle friendliness and resignation. The chaplain’s wife, if no other, thought it was “so kind” of Mrs. Norton to go to Switzerland with Miss Trelawny. “It took them all by surprise, I believe, and they had made their plans to go home: but they are such good creatures, so unselfish! They have changed all their arrangements rather than that Miss Trelawny should have the annoyance of travelling alone.” This was repeated over and over again that afternoon in the little church coterie at a choir practice, where there was quite a flutter of admiration over the unselfishness of the two little ladies. The glee-party was all there, with the exception of Mrs. Hunstanton, whose absence, perhaps, was fortunate in the circumstances. As for Mrs. Norton, she never departed from this ground even in her most private moments. “I am so fond of Diana that nothing is a trouble,” she said, “she has always been such a friend;” and then it got whispered round, to the great admiration and surprise of everybody, that Miss Trelawny, though so great a lady, had once been Sophy’s governess. What a wonderful thing it was! everybody said; exactly like a romance in real life!
The Snodgrasses, who were also at the choir practice, heard, like the rest, of Miss Trelawny’s plan, and the excitement of the information brought the curate out of his corner. “I don’t really care about going to Florence. I never did care,” he said hurriedly to his uncle. “Switzerland is what I should like most.” The rector shook his head, and called his dear Bill a goose; but yet, reflecting within himself that dear Bill was six feet high, and a fine specimen of a man (though not perhaps what is generally called handsome), and that Miss Trelawny had a fine fortune, and that Perseverance was the thing which carried the day, Mr. Snodgrass thought that perhaps, by chance, so to speak (if it were not an impious thing to speak of Chance), he might direct his steps to Switzerland too. So that a whole party of people were moved, and their intentions and destinations changed, by the impatience and disappointment of Sophy Norton at the prospect of an abrupt conclusion of her holiday. She thought herself, and with justice, an insignificant little person, yet it was she who had made all this commotion.
In the meantime Sophy’s own head was full of her wardrobe, to the exclusion of other ideas. Should she have dresses enough for the summer? should she want another grey alpaca? or could she get on with what she had, with a new white frock, perhaps, and a dust-cloak? “There is nothing looks so nice as white,” said Sophy, regarding her wardrobe with an anxious pleasure. “In fine weather, my darling: but it always rains among the mountains, and a white dress, or a cotton dress of any kind, looks poor in bad weather.” This was a very serious question: for indeed she had a grey alpaca already, which was too good yet to be taken merely for a travelling-dress. It was the one which had been made up on the model of Diana’s beautiful new silk from M. Worth’s. This was a very perplexing problem, and one which gave them a great deal of trouble; but yet it was a happy kind of care.
As for Diana, she had the faculty of putting aside the points that jarred in her friends’ characters. She was aware that they were not perhaps so unselfish as they took credit for being, and she could not but laugh softly under her breath at Mrs. Norton’s solemn conviction that she “could be of use” to Diana. But what then?—what did it matter after all? It would be pleasant enough to go to Switzerland, and travelling alone was not very pleasant. So far the Nortons were right. Diana feared (a little) the innuendoes of Mrs. Hunstanton when she heard of the project; but otherwise it amused her (she did not put it on any higher ground) to see their pleasure, to indulge them with every luxury of a journey made en prince. To have everything you can desire, without ever having to think of the expense, how pleasant it was! How she would have liked it when she was poor! She did not say to herself that she had been as independent as she was poor, and would not have lightly taken such a pleasure at any one’s hand. Why should she have remembered this? Sophy was not like her: and after all, to make these two little women perfect, to reform their characters, and mould them after her own model, was at once a hopeless proceeding and one altogether out of her way.
CHAPTER XI.
THE PROPOSAL.
The rooms on the third floor of the Palazzo de Sogni were not like those in Diana’s beautiful appartamento. The drawing-room, which was so spacious and lofty in the piano nobile, was low, and divided into two; one half of it was Mrs. Norton’s bedroom. In moments of excitement, and in the early part of the day, the door of communication was sometimes left open, though it was against all the English ideas of nicety and tidiness, in which these little ladies were so strong, to leave a bedroom visible. But what else could be done, when Sophy was seized with that anxiety about her toilet, and the delightful sense of preparation for a further holiday whirled them both out of their sober routine? Mrs. Norton had her excuse all ready if anybody should call—that is, if any lady should call—for the thought of a masculine foot crossing her threshold did not occur to her. “We have no maid,” was what she would say, “and of course there are a great many things which we must do ourselves. Fortunately, I am quite fond of needlework, and Sophy is so clever, and has such taste. You would never think that pretty dress was made at home? but I assure you it is all our own work. The only thing is that we keep the bedroom door open, in order to keep this one as tidy as possible.” Every visitor (being a lady) sympathised and understood: and gentlemen, except the clergyman, never came. A clergyman, by virtue of his profession, has more understanding on these points—has he not?—than ordinary men; he is apt to understand how poor ladies have to employ themselves when they have no maid; in short, he has the feminine element so strongly developed as to be able to criticise without rushing into mere ignorant censure, as probably a gentleman visitor of another kind would have done. And no profane male foot ever crossed Mrs. Norton’s threshold. They were at their ease therefore next morning, after their interview with Diana, when they got up to the serious business of the day. There was no hurry; but the work was agreeable, the excitement of preparation agreeable, and then, to be sure, a hundred things might happen to hasten their departure, and it was always best to be prepared. The door of Mrs. Norton’s sanctuary was accordingly standing wide open, revealing not only the Italian bed with its crackling high-piled mattress of turchino, but a large wardrobe standing open with all kinds of dresses hung up inside. The alpaca which was in question was spread out upon the sofa in the little drawing-room, and formed the foreground to the picture. They were both standing at a little distance contemplating it with anxious interest. Mrs. Norton had her head on one side. Sophy had a pair of scissors in her hand. It was almost the most difficult question that had ever come before them.