“You will do nothing, Miss Trelawny, you who help every one! and yet how few are in such trouble? For you must see how unsuitable it is—how it is killing him.”
“Hush!” said Diana, as Pandolfini had said before; “if it is going to be, nothing unkind must be said—nothing it would hurt us or them to think of hereafter. And it is not for us to discuss,” she said, with a slight faltering in her voice; “they only can tell——”
“But, Miss Trelawny, it is not for gossip, nor in the way of intrusion into other people’s affairs. But, Pandolfini, he has read my heart, and now I feel that I can read his,” said the curate, stammering and growing red. Must not she know what he meant in both cases? She stood with her hands clasped, her head drooping, but no consciousness about her, thoughtful, and almost sorrowful, as if she knew all that he would say. “Oh, Miss Trelawny,” he cried, with generous zeal, “could not you interfere? Could not you set things right? There are things a man must bear, and I don’t say you could—save him—or any of us from: give us, I mean, happiness. But this is madness, despair—I don’t know what—and it will kill him. Oh, Miss Trelawny, will not you interfere?”
“How can I interfere?” cried Diana, piteously. “What can I do?” The tears were in her eyes. “Of all helpless people on the earth, am I not the most helpless?” This was said passionately, an unintended confession of her own share in this misery, which she instantly repented. “Forgive me,” she said, with a deep blush; “I am speaking extravagantly. But, Mr. Snodgrass, think what you are saying. What could I do? There is nothing, nothing in which I can help him. God help them both! I wish some one would take me home,” she cried again, suddenly. “It is too much for me, as well as for you. But all this is useless. There is nothing either you or I can do.”
You or I! The man was generous. He had given the last proof of it in making this appeal. But when she said “You or I,” poor Snodgrass forgot Pandolfini. It turned his head.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE WEDDING-DAY.
The marriage took place on the first day of June—or rather that was the beginning of the repeated and laborious processes which made Sophy Norton into the Contessa Pandolfini. What a delight it was to take out the first handkerchief embroidered with a coronet, one of those which Diana had got her from Paris. Sophy took it out, and shook that delightful sign of new-born nobility into the air on the day of the legal ceremony, which was the day before her two ecclesiastical marriages. She would not lose a moment that she could help. And the melancholy bridegroom, and the occupations which took him away from her, faded into nothing before this privilege. Diana might be richer, and had been always more splendid than she—but Diana had no coronet. As for Diana, she was engaged in preparing for her journey, and was present only at the English or Protestant marriage, when she managed to keep as much as possible out of sight, and avoided the bridegroom entirely, notwithstanding the researches after her of Mrs. Norton, and of the bride herself, whose efforts to produce Diana to say good-bye to dear Pandolfo were repeated and unwearying. “Where is Diana? what does her packing matter? besides, she does not pack—why should she, with a maid to do everything for her?” This was said with a slight tone of grievance, for it had not occurred to Pandolfini, though he furnished that poor little faded coronet, to provide a maid. Sophy, when she had put off her bridal dress after the strictest English rule, forgot her dignity so far as to run downstairs in her own dignified person to “hunt up” Diana. “Mr. Pandolfini does not want good-byes,” said Diana; “and see, I have taken off my pretty dress. You would not like me to present myself in this grey garment, all ready for travelling. God bless you, Sophy!—and you can explain to Mr. Pandolfini if you like: but be sure he is not thinking of any one but you.”
“I hope not,” said Sophy, demurely; “but you need not call him Mr. Pandolfini now, Diana. We did so in the old times when we knew no better. But I shall not permit him to give up his title any longer. You might say Count, I think.”
“I will say his Lordship, if you like,” said Diana, kissing the unconscious little creature. She smiled, but there was a meaning in her eyes which heedless little Sophy, on the heights of glory and her coronet, understood as little as any child.
“You need not laugh,” said the Countess Pandolfini, gravely; “of course it is not the custom here. But I am sure a Count ought to be My Lord in England. It is just the same as an Earl—at least, my title is just the same as Lady Loamshire’s, and far, far older nobility. English lords are nothing in comparison with Italian.” Sophy’s handkerchief, as has been said, was embroidered with a coronet, and so was everything else she had upon which she could have it worked or stamped. It was worth being married for that alone.