“You see they are not just like common lovers,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, who felt that she had to put the best face upon it, and now wreathed her face in smiles to conceal the anxiety in her mind. “He is so much older than she—and more experienced—and so clever. But you can’t think how he appreciates my Sophy’s sweetness. He quite worships her. When he talks to her in that voice it brings the tears to my eyes. It is so tender!” cried the anxious woman, looking for confirmation in the curate’s face.
“Yes, it sounds very—melancholy,” said young Snodgrass, who, notwithstanding the new insight in his eyes, and the ache of sympathy in his heart, could not help being a little commonplace in speech.
“Melancholy! It is tender—that is what it is! He thinks everything is angelical that she does or says. And nobody who does not know her as we do can tell what a darling my Sophy is,” said Mrs. Norton, with tears in her eyes.
The curate made some inarticulate sound of assent; but he did not himself think Sophy angelical, and there was something in all this that affected him with a confused pang of sympathy, different from anything he had ever felt before. The mystery, the concealed despair on one side, the wistful veiled anxiety on the other, and Sophy’s superficial childish light-heartedness, her little commonplace coquetries and affectations between,—he was not clear-headed enough to discriminate these: but the whole affected him with sentiments he could not define nor get the better of. He stood up in the corner, as was his usual habit, a very serious shadow, heavy in soul as in person, and looked on. And it seemed to him that he could scarcely keep silence even here. As they were leaving when the strange visit was over, he made a pause on the way downstairs. “Do you never go to see Miss Trelawny?” he asked, putting his arm suddenly within Pandolfini’s. The Italian started violently, turned round, and looked him in the face, then hurried on. He was taken by surprise, and in his agitated condition shook as if he had received a blow. Nothing more was said for some time. They walked silently on together side by side in the cool of the soft summer night, for it was late—and reached the Arno without a word. It was a beautiful night. Once more the stars were out, blazing like great lamps out of heaven; and along the long line of street the lights twinkled, reflecting themselves in the water like stars of earth. Pandolfini’s steps gradually grew slower, till at last he stopped altogether, forgetting and seeming to lose himself as he gazed at those reflections in the dark softly flowing stream.
“Pandolfini,” said the curate, “I cannot bear this any longer. You must not do it; you ought not to do it. It is more than you can bear.”
“What is more than I can bear?” he asked, dreamily, not turning to his questioner, keeping his eyes fixed on the river below.
“Pandolfini” cried the other, too much agitated by all he had heard and seen to take much thought what he was saying, “you know what I mean well enough. Do you think I am blind and cannot see? Once you divined me. I felt it, though we said nothing about it. And now it is my turn. I am not so clever as you are, but I would do anything in the world to help you. Pandolfini, you can’t go through with this marriage; it is impossible to——”
“Not a word—not a word!” cried the Italian, raising himself hurriedly. “It is late, and I go back to my—business. Yes, it is true: is it extraordinary that one of my country should have business? We have talked enough to-night.”
“We have not talked at all,” cried the curate. “Oh, Pandolfini, let me speak! God knows what sympathy I have for you—more than words can tell! But why make it worse by this? You are trying yourself beyond what any man can bear. Stop while there is time, for the love of heaven!”
“My friend, you are kind, you are good,” said Pandolfini, with a tremor in his voice; “but there are things of which one does not speak, not to one’s own soul.”