Diana remained in her balcony after her friend had gone, but no longer in the same mood. She was agitated, not painfully, yet not happily. The past was long past, and she did not brood over it; but yet there was something as strange as sad in this off repetition of the same theme. Why should it be to the wrong people that love was so often given, vain love, not sweet to any one, either to those who felt or those who called it forth? By what strange fate was it that some man or woman should be always making his or her heart a gift to some one who cared nothing for it? Diana was in most ways happy—at least, happy enough—happier far than the greater part of humanity, and than many a woman who had got the desire of her heart. She was neither afraid to look back into the past, nor dissatisfied with the present. But yet, there had been hard moments in her existence; and when she thought of Pandolfini, the tears came into her eyes which she was no longer tempted to shed for herself. Poor Pandolfini! but he would get over it, as one must. There was nothing unworthy in it, nothing to be ashamed of. A man does not break his heart for such a mistake, though it might be, she added to herself sadly, the turn of the tide for him, and change the colour of his days, as it had changed her own more or less. She was too wise to throw herself back into the personal phase of the question, or endeavour to revive within herself the feelings of the time when happiness seemed impossible for her, and all the glory of life over. Life was not over; she felt it and its greater purposes, and all that was best in it, rising strong and warm in her heart. And so would Pandolfini after a while. He was a man, and had compensations upon which women could not fall back; but yet she was sorry with a tender fellow-feeling, which brought tears to her eyes.
Late in the afternoon she received a visit of a very different description. The Nortons had not known what to do. Pandolfini did not make his appearance as they had expected at once, and Sophy had even seen him hastening along the street, away from the Palazzo dei Sogni—with a mixture of surprise, consternation, and incipient offence. Fortunately she had not seen him come and go as the others had done, for it was hot upstairs in the terzo piano, not shady and embowered as Diana was in her loggia, and even the most curious gazer could not spend the morning at her window. They supposed he would come in the evening, something must have occurred to detain him. But in the meantime, Mrs. Norton was of opinion that it would never do to keep dear Diana in the dark, or to delay breaking to her the important intelligence that their plans were now changed: “Of course, it must quite depend on circumstances whether we can go with her to Switzerland or not. Most likely dear Mr. Pandolfini will wish——”
“Oh, auntie! how can you talk of such things?” said Sophy, giving her a vehement hug. But she was very willing to carry the news to Diana. Indeed, the two little ladies were in a state of excitement which precluded occupation. They could do nothing but sit with their two little heads together and talk; and what was the good of having such a wonderful thing happen if they did not tell somebody? “Besides, Diana has always been so kind, and always so fond of you, my darling,” Mrs. Norton said. “She has a right to know.”
Accordingly, they fluttered downstairs very important, though blushing and breathless, as became the kind of news they had to tell, charging Filomena, their maid-of-all-work, to fetch them at once if Signor Pandolfini came. Somehow or other by instinct they hurried past the Hunstantons’ door. “You may be sure she will not like it at all: but that, of course, is nothing to us,” said the aunt; and they drew their skirts together and made a little run past the dangerous place. Diana had been out in the meantime, and coming back had sat down at her writing-table to read her letters and to ponder some proposals from her lawyers which required thinking of. Her lawyers, as has been said, were in a state of perpetual resistance to her schemes of liberality, holding back with all their might, and throwing every obstacle they could in her way: and her correspondence with them was interesting by reason of this long-continued duel, which was carried on now on their side with a respectful consciousness of her power and ability to hold her own in the argument, which had not existed at first. She put her papers away when her visitors came with a certain reluctance, yet with her usual sympathy with other people. Probably it was nothing of any importance that those two little people had come to say: never mind—no doubt it seemed important to them: and it would have wounded them had she looked preoccupied. So she pushed her papers aside, and gave them all her attention. It did not occur to them that Diana could have anything to do more interesting than to hear their communication. They came in with a flutter of delicious excitement. This was the best of it: indeed it was scarcely so delightful to receive Pandolfini’s declaration, as it was to tell Diana that Sophy was engaged,—ecstatic word!
“We have come to tell you of something very important, Diana,” said Mrs. Norton. “When anything happens to Sophy she never can rest till you know: and this is so important, and it may alter your plans too: for of course it may not be possible for us to carry out——”
“Oh, auntie! Diana will think us so strange, so little to be relied upon——”
“What is this important news?” said Diana, smiling; “do not keep me in suspense.”
And then, speaking both together, and with a great deal of blushing and hesitation, and choice of appropriate words on Mrs. Norton’s part and interruption on Sophy’s, they managed to get out the wonderful piece of information that Sophy was “engaged.”
“Sophy—engaged!” cried Diana, with all the surprise they had hoped for; “this is news indeed! Engaged! how cleverly she must have done it, to raise no suspicions. Yes, of course I wish her every kind of happiness—but with whom?”
“Oh, indeed I was never deceived—I have seen all along how things were going,” cried Mrs. Norton. “Yes, to whom? I wonder if Diana would ever find out—I wonder! but no, no one, I feel sure, ever thought of such a thing but I.”