Diana Trelawny

by Mrs. Oliphant

The spring days lengthened into summer while the preliminaries of the marriage still went on. The Hunstantons could not retard their usual day of departure for any event of such secondary importance as the marriage of Sophy Norton. “To be sure, poor Pandolfini is our friend, and for him one might be tempted to stay,” Mrs. Hunstanton said; “but the Nortons—the Nortons are only protégées of Diana’s. But for her I should never have noticed them. It is her whim to spoil these two silly little women. But though I am so fond of Diana, I have never humoured her in this; and for us to remain would be absurd.” So, though they lingered a week or so, that was all. The Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, had gone on to Florence and to Rome. The other members of the little party were dispersing on all sides. Only Diana remained to keep the bride-elect and her anxious but triumphant aunt company. And Diana had hesitated. She had wished to go with the Hunstantons straight home, but for the complaints and outcries of the two little ladies. “Oh, will you go and forsake us?” Sophy cried. “Will you leave me to be married without one friend near me?” “Indeed, Diana, I did not expect you would leave us,” said Mrs. Norton. “I should not have undertaken it if I had not felt sure of you. And how can I go through it all without some support?—without some one to lean upon?” Diana, though she smiled at these arguments, remained. There were, indeed, a great many things in which she was a support to the fluttering and nervous pair, who were half overjoyed by the approaching elevation, half frightened by the loneliness of their position. Mrs. Norton especially was apt to be invaded by doubts. Whether she ought not to have insisted that her niece should be married at home: whether it was not too much of Mr. Pandolfini to have asked of her (though so flattering to dear Sophy and lover-like was his impatience to make her his own): whether people might not think she was too anxious to have everything settled: or that it was not quite ladylike to allow things to proceed so rapidly. All these doubts Diana had to satisfy three or four times a-day.

And there were other difficulties still more important which the helpless little pair could not have got through without her. Pandolfini, who was always so busy, whose occupations continued to increase as his marriage drew nearer (“which, of course, was very natural,” Mrs. Norton said, with a certain chill of doubt in her confidence, while Sophy loudly complained of it, though without any doubting), never got into the familiar intimacy which generally characterises such moments of preface and beginning, and was accordingly of no more help to them than if he had been still merely their acquaintance, Mr. Hunstanton’s friend—much less, indeed, for Mr. Hunstanton’s friend had always been friendly and serviceable, and full of genial help, in those cheerful days when he was not overpowered by business. This gleamed across Mrs. Norton’s mind dimly by times, affording her a half-revelation—a momentary unwilling perception of differences which she did not wish to fathom. But, so far as any one knew, these perceptions were not shared by Sophy, who went on her way, with occasional grumblings, it is true, but with too much thought of herself to think very much of Pandolfini. Naturally, is it not the bride who is the most interesting? She has her clothes to think of, and her approaching promotion to the dignity of a married lady—a dignity which it was very fine to attain at so early an age. And there were all her new duties, as her aunt called them,—the management of her house, which she must learn to do in the Italian fashion, and her servants. It troubled Sophy that she did not know how many servants she was to have, and that she had never been asked to go and see the house, or to choose new carpets or curtains, as other brides had to do; but then, on the other hand, it delighted her to find that she might call herself Contessa, and would be elevated quite into the nobility by her marriage. In Italy she might only be Signora, but in England she would certainly be My Lady, Sophy reflected—and her whole being thrilled with the thought. This was a discovery, for Pandolfini had not cared for the bare and insignificant title, and all his Italian friends called him by his Christian name, according to the custom of the country. Sophy called him Pandolfo, too, though seldom when addressing himself. It was not a pretty name. If he had been Alonzo, or Vincenzo, or even Antonio; but Pandolfo!—Pandolfo Pandolfini! It was like Robert Roberts, or John Jones—not a pretty name; but then, to be a Countess! That would sweeten any name, so that it would smell as sweet as any rose.

Thus the arrangements went on strangely enough, Sophy being the only one of all concerned who did not, as time progressed, feel in them a certain strangeness and mysterious something behind. The rector and his nephew came back before the time fixed for the wedding, though it was growing hot, and Mr. Snodgrass was anxious to get home. The curate was generally the one who yielded, not the one who led, but he had steadily held to his determination to come back to Pisa, and succeeded, as was natural. The rector was one of those who had guessed Diana to intend the Italian for herself, being of the opinion that the aim of every woman, however elevated, was to “catch” a man, one way or other; and he was not without hope now that his dear Bill’s constant devotion might at last get its reward. Many a heart is caught in the rebound, and if Bill was not very good-looking, he was at least a cleanly Englishman, not one of “those Italians.” To be on the spot might be all-important for him; so his uncle yielded and came back to Pisa, though it was hot, and even volunteered his services to perform the marriage—the Protestant marriage, as it was called with contempt by the old Canonico, Pandolfini’s cousin, who was to perform the other ceremony. It was a bitter pill for the rector to hear himself called a Protestant, but there was no help for it. The Canonico only took snuff, and smiled, when the English priest called himself a Catholic. Rome repays to the highest Anglican, and with interest, the spurns which he is so fond of administering to patient merit, when it takes the form of Dissent. The Canonico had asked if Sophy was a Protestant or a Christian, when he first heard of the marriage, and treated with absolute cynicism all Mr. Snodgrass’s protestations. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Norton could not be happy without the blessing of her own Church; nor did she think it suitable that the niece of her late dear husband, who was for so many years a most respectable clergyman of the Church of England, should be married without it. How could she tell what the priest said in his Latin? but about the English service there could be no manner of doubt. So the rector swallowed the opprobrious epithet of Protestant, and declared himself ready to perform the rite. Diana would no doubt be there. She would be compelled to veil her feelings, and to witness the marriage: and, in the rebound, who could tell what dear Bill’s presence might do?

The curate deluded himself with no such vain hopes. Diana’s presence was like the sun to him. Without it he faded and drooped, though otherwise he was not much like a flower. He was a heavy Englishman, not clever or endowed with much insight, yet he had a heart in his capacious and clumsy bosom. And to those who possess that organ, some things are visible which genius itself, without it, could scarcely see. It has been said that Pandolfini had chosen the ponderous silent young Englishman as the object of his special bounties, having divined him, and the sentiment which was his soul. It was young Snodgrass’s turn now to divine his friend, and he did it sadly, with a true brotherly, friendly sorrow for the evil he had discovered. He was not contented with the plea of business which Sophy accepted, and which all the others had to accept. He sought the much-occupied bridegroom out, even in the depths of his dark palace, and resisted all attempts to send him away. “I will wait till you are ready,” he said, and pretended not to see what miserable pretence of work it was which his friend at last pushed away. He got him out against Pandolfini’s will, who went with him, as was evident, only to get rid of him the sooner. But the curate was not to be shaken off. He went again and again; he watched with all the anxiety of friendship. He perceived how little Pandolfini saw of his bride, and how eagerly he seized upon every excuse to avoid being with her. He saw how, when the bridegroom paid the hurried visits which necessity demanded, Diana avoided him, and that under no circumstances did these two see each other, who, when he left Pisa, had been meeting every night. And, above all, the curate saw the misery in Pandolfini’s eyes. He said nothing for a long time, for he was not quick of purpose, or ready to seize what could be done; but at length the spectacle became too much for the good-hearted fellow.

They were walking one night by the Arno, very silent, saying nothing to each other. It was after a half-hour spent with the Nortons: Pandolfini had apparently caught at the chance of the curate’s company to carry him through this visit—and though Snodgrass was not quick of observation, he could not but remark, having his attention roused and on the alert, the curious character of the scene of which he was a spectator. Pandolfini was not indifferent; nothing of the ease and calm of that unexcited condition was in the anxious pathetic tender apology of the tone in which he replied to Sophy’s little espiègleries and reproaches. “Are you always to be so drowned in business—always business? you never had any business when we knew you first,” she cried, pouting. He looked at her with a melancholy in his eyes which went to the curate’s heart: but it did not succeed in reaching the observation of Sophy, who had other things to think of than the looks of her betrothed: he was her property, and about him she entertained no doubt.

“No,” he said, “I had little business then: but now—have I not new objects of thought and provisions to make——”

“Oh, Signor Conte, if I am going to be such a burden on you——”

“Nay, not a burden. You do me a wrong, Sophy. If I can but provide what will make you happy——”

“Oh, you foolish old thing; did you think I meant it?” cried Sophy, looking up in his face, with the pretty affectation which love thinks adorable, but which chill eyes of bystanders see with less complacence. The Italian shrank for a moment from the caressing gesture of the two clasped hands which she laid upon his arm. Then he took courage, and stooping kissed the hands.

“If I can but make you happy, poor child,” he said, with a suppressed sob in his voice. Mrs. Norton at this moment called the curate’s attention, and led him to the other end of the room to show him something. She was always watchful to “let them have a little time by themselves.” “Forgive me,” she whispered, “but, of course, they have little things to say to each other,” and the poor little lady cast furtive glances over the curate’s shoulder to see if the lovers’ interview grew more familiar. But Pandolfini very gently had freed himself from Sophy’s hand. He rose and stood before her, talking low, but not in a tone which augured any special confidence. Snodgrass thought that the very sound of it was enough to break any one’s heart. It was like the tender pitying tone in which bad news is broken to a child. Why was he so sorry for her, so sadly kind and gentle? Her little follies did not offend him, as they might have done a more warm lover. He was indulgent to everything—kind, with a melancholy appeal to her forgiveness in everything he said. The curate perhaps was proud of himself for his penetration. He had never so divined any one before.