“Oh Diana, how I wonder at you! It is you who are doing poor Pandolfini wrong. He think of that little doll! He trusted his cause to Tom, thinking, perhaps, there was no need to name the name—as, indeed, there was not to any one with eyes in his head: and Tom like a fool, Tom like a busybody—oh, heaven forgive me! I don’t mean to say any ill of my husband, but that is how he has behaved,—Tom has gone and pledged this poor man’s life to somebody he can never care for, somebody quite unworthy of him. Diana, you may be cool about it; but I think it will break my heart.”
“But you have no evidence of this,” cried Diana, in consternation. She looked at the smiling Sophy, all pink with blushes and beaming with smiles as she received everybody’s congratulations, and at Mrs. Norton, important and stately as became the aunt of a bride-elect. The incongruity between this little fluttering pair and the grave and dignified Pandolfini was striking enough, but to imagine their easy commonplaceness entangled in such a tragical complication of mistake and misery and inevitable suffering, seemed beyond the reach of ordinary imagination. Diana turned quickly to her friend, who, half hidden behind, regarded the scene with a face full of anxiety and distress. Mrs. Hunstanton’s puckered brows, her eyes in which the tears seemed ready to start, her paleness and trembling, were almost as great a visible contrast to the complacent happiness of the Nortons as was Pandolfini to the girl who was going to be his wife. “Mrs. Hunstanton,” said Diana, in a low tone, “this is the wildest fancy. It is not possible. You can have no proof of it. Mr. Hunstanton is—is——he is the kindest of men. He would not hurt a fly. How could he do such a thing, and make his friend unhappy? No, no; I cannot believe it. It is you and not he who have been mistaken.”
Mrs. Hunstanton caught Diana by the arm. She poured into her ear the whole story, partly as divined by herself, partly as confessed by her husband, who kept, as Diana could see, prowling uneasily round the central group, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door. His wife had made him wretched enough, but he had done what could not be undone; and there was always the chance that his wife might have been wrong, a supposition so much more likely than that he was in the wrong himself. Her reproaches had made Mr. Hunstanton extremely uncomfortable, and no doubt there was something in the corroborative evidence of Pandolfini’s very strange behaviour, which of itself had given him a thrill of terror. And business! What business could the Italian have to detain him? He did not for a moment believe in this, but notwithstanding Mrs. Norton’s assurance to the contrary, still looked for Pandolfini’s arrival. It was absurd! He could not mean to stay away to-night: when he came Mr. Hunstanton had made up his mind to ask him point-blank what it all meant. Had he, or had he not, given him a commission? and had he, or had he not, Mr. Tom Hunstanton, carried out his wish? This would, beyond all manner of doubt, make everything clear.
Not even this hope, however, could still Mrs. Hunstanton’s nervous restlessness. She went from Diana, by whom she had sat so long breathing out her pains and fears, to Mrs. Norton, who was now little inclined to be questioned, and who felt that a great deal was due to her new position. A feeling of being attacked had come into her mind, she could scarcely tell why, and when Mrs. Hunstanton crossed over the room to come to her, the little lady immediately buckled on her armour. Mrs. Hunstanton was too anxious to pick her words. She came and sat down by the important aunt, with the air of troubled haste and agitation very clearly visible in her face.
“I have not come to congratulate you,” she said, “because I was so very, very much surprised. I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Norton. You know it is not from want of interest in Sophy, but—were not you very much surprised yourself when this happened? Did it not strike you as very strange?”
Mrs. Hunstanton took credit to herself for putting the question so very gently, and “saving their feelings.” It seemed impossible to her that any one should resist such an appeal as this.
“Surprised!” said Mrs. Norton. “Oh, no indeed! I was not surprised. I had seen it all along.”
“You had—seen it all along?”
“Surely. Yes, I had seen it. Indifferent eyes may be deceived, but nothing can blind me where my Sophy is concerned. Yes: our dear Pandolfini is not the kind of man that is demonstrative, you know; but had you asked me three months ago,” said Mrs. Norton with gentle pride, “I could have told you exactly what was going to happen. I knew it all along.”
She looked at her questioner with a serene smile, and Mrs. Hunstanton, for her part, could only gasp and gaze at her with a consternation beyond words. But she would not give up even for this distinct repulse.