“The imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy free.”
He said these words over and over to himself; and by-and-by the bells began to chime all round him, telling the Ave Maria. Hail, all hail, oh blessed among women! This was more than Pandolfini could bear. He put his hands up to his ears, and crushed the sound out till it was over. When the tingling air was still again, he turned resolutely on his way. He was still in his morning dress, the excuse which had served him with Hunstanton: but what did it matter? He did not feel that he could trust himself even to pause again, much less turn back. He went with steady determination along Arno, seeing the lights shine in the river, with a wavering glimmer and movement: and in himself, too, notwithstanding his steady pace, there was a wavering play of giddiness, a sense of instability, the earth reeling under his feet, the heavens revolving about him. He went on all the same to the palace of the dreams, where he had given all that was in him to give, for nothing—and where now, strange flicker of human vanity and mutual ignorance, another heart was about to be given him for nothing—for less than the asking. He would not look at the light in Diana’s window, he went straight up past the door where his heart had beat last night with such wild gasps of expectation and hope. Had he obeyed his impulse then, burst into her presence, and told her! Had he but done it! Then at least she would have known, and he would not have been so utterly deceived. This thought swept into his mind as he passed, but he gave it no willing entertainment. He went up with a resolute step, up, beyond even the Hunstantons’, to Mrs. Norton’s door.
They had given him up for the day, with a little vexation, a little disappointment, and were wondering whether they would meet him in the evening as usual, and how they ought to comport themselves. As for Mrs. Norton, she was beginning to think she had been rash, and to regret her acceptance of the suitor on Mr. Hunstanton’s word alone. It was nonsense, she fell, to talk of such a man as Pandolfini as too timid to plead his own cause. Had she been too rash? Sophy, whatever thoughts might be hers, made no sign. A lover was like a new doll to Sophy: it was more. It gave her importance, made somebody of her in a moment: and she was not going to do anything which could pull her down from this enviable elevation. She would not say she was disappointed or alarmed; but all her senses were on the alert, and she heard his step coming up the stair with a rising throb of the heart. “It may be only a parcel—it may be only the newspapers,” she cried, clinging to her aunt. “If it is him, my darling, I must rush away. It is you he will want to see first,” cried Mrs. Norton; but even while she said this, Pandolfini walked into the room. They both uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. He was very pale and excited, but quite calm in external appearance. Mrs. Norton made an effort to free herself from Sophy, and with a smile to him, was hastening away.
“Madam,” said Pandolfini, “what can I say to you? The good Hunstanton has authorised me to come. He tells me that you have been so kind, so generous, as to confide to me the happiness of one most dear. How can I repay such trust as you have had in me? It will be not a matter for words; but that I may live to show it from year to year.”
“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton, not without dignity—“you are a good man, and a man of honour. This is why I have not hesitated to do what might otherwise seem imprudent, and commit my best treasure to you.”
She could not have made a more appropriate speech, or one that was better timed. “I pray God,” he said, gravely, “that this best treasure may not find you imprudent, nor that you have done what you will regret.” And he took Sophy’s hand and kissed it. The seriousness of his face did not relax, neither did his paleness warm with any gleam of colour as he did so. Sophy blushed in a rosy warmth of happiness. She was surprised, indeed, that he should let her hand go so easily. Not so do the lovers in books, of whom the girl had heard and read. And there was a pause, in which none of the three knew exactly what to do or to say.
“Have you dined?” said Mrs. Norton, to make a way of escape for herself; for, of course, what he wanted was to get rid of her, she felt sure. What so natural? “You know we dine early; but I was just going to order tea. As you are going to have an English wife,” she added, with a laugh which jarred dreadfully with the portentous gravity of his aspect, “you must learn to like such an English meal as tea;” and pleased with this little speech, which she felt to be both graceful and appropriate, the good little woman hurried towards the door.
“Nay,” cried Pandolfini, hurriedly stopping her. “I have only come in a great hurry to—to thank you for a confidence so generous. I have not sufficient of time to stay. It is to my regret, my great regret. But I could not let the evening pass without saying how I thank you. What I feel—what—gratitude—what devotion! The evening must not pass without this.”
“But cannot you stay with us?” said Mrs. Norton.
“And oh! can’t you come this evening as usual?—it is one of Diana’s nights,” cried Sophy, with countenance aghast.