“Yes,” said Diana, and she laughed, looking up at him. “I thought she would have made the very wife you want, Mr. Snodgrass; but, unfortunately, I thought of it too late.”
Thank God! the curate said devoutly within himself. For he knew, and she knew—and he knew that she knew—that he must have married Sophy had Diana willed it. He would have resisted, but he would have yielded—and been happy. How sorry Diana was that it had not occurred to her in time! “You would have been a very happy couple,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I am sure of it. What a help she would have been in the parish!” And to this he could not say no.
“I don’t know if you will like me to ask,” he said, faltering, and feeling it safe to change the subject, “but—do they get on? are they—comfortable? I knew—all about it, you remember—at the time.”
“Did you?” she said, ignoring all that had passed between them on this subject. “I have never asked if they were comfortable, Mr. Snodgrass; but why should we doubt it? There is always a little risk with people of different nationalities; but Sophy always writes in high spirits.”
“She was in high spirits on her wedding-day!” the curate muttered, furious with Sophy, for whose sake Diana treated him with such unusual severity. He had a double grievance against her now.
“And should not you like your bride to be in high spirits on her wedding-day?”
“Oh, Miss Trelawny, how hard you are upon me! when you know I shall never have any bride,” said the young man, with a look which he meant to be eloquent. They had come to the avenue by this time, and were about to part.
“Till we find a second Sophy,” she said, and gave him her hand, smiling, as she turned towards the house. He stood for a moment looking after her with dull but wistful eyes. Nothing but that smile would ever be his from Diana. But if a second Sophy could be found! The curate turned and went on with a little shiver of conscious weakness. Did not he know, and did not she know, that what she commanded he would do? But perhaps along with this fear and consciousness there was a little flutter of anticipation, too, in the curate’s faithful breast.
Some weeks after this conversation another event occurred which surprised everybody. It happened when Diana was out, so that for a full hour the servants had the privilege of discussing what had happened before any elucidation was possible. It was in the afternoon that it happened—the drowsiest moment of the day. Common cabs from the station carrying luggage very seldom appeared in the beautiful avenue, and the butler knew that no visitor was expected. But Diana’s servants did not dare to be uncivil. It was Mrs. Norton who was in the cab, and her big box, made for Continental travel, which weighted that humble vehicle above. “The Red House—oh, I would not take the liberty,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice as she stepped out. She was as dignified as travel and weariness would permit, though her bonnet was not so neat as usual. “If you will be so very good as let the man wait in the stableyard till I see Miss Trelawny. Oh, is she out? I am very sorry,” said the little lady, growing pale. “I think I must wait and see her. I think I shall have time to wait and see her. I wonder if there will be time before the train.” She was so tired and nervous, and ready to cry with this disappointment, that Jervis made bold to inquire if all was well with Madam and the baby. “She said, ‘Oh, the Countess is very well, I thank you, Jervis,’” he reported, when he went downstairs, “as grand as possible. But you take my word there’s some screw loose. Meantime, I’ll take the poor old girl a cup of tea.” This is how our servants speak of us, with that familiar affection which is so great a bond between the different classes of society; and Mrs. Norton found Jervis so respectful and so kind, that her heart swelled within her as she sat in Diana’s little morning-room, and sipped her cup of tea. It was so good, and the house was so large and quiet, with that well-bred calm which exists only in an English house, the returned wanderer said to herself—oh, so different from old Antonio, who delivered his opinions along with every dish he served. When Jervis went downstairs she wept a little, and stifled her sobs in her handkerchief. What would Diana say? Would she blame her for this step she had taken? Would she advise her to go back again by the next train? Mrs. Norton had not ventured even to have her big box taken down from the cab, which stood looking so shabby in Diana’s stableyard. She was proud, though she was so humble-minded, and she would not make any appeal to Diana’s generosity, or look as if she expected to stay. When she had finished her tea and her crying, she went to the mirror and straightened her bonnet, and tried to look as if she had never known what a tear was. But when Diana came in all smiling, and cordial as of old, and looked at her with indulgent kind eyes that found no fault and expressed no suspicion, Mrs. Norton broke down. She threw herself into her friend’s arms, regardless of her bonnet. “Oh, Diana, here I am back again a poor old lonely woman. And—I could not be in England without first coming to see you; and I feel as if I had nobody but you——”
“What is the matter?” cried Diana, in alarm. “Sophy——?”