“Oh, Sophy is very well; indeed there is nothing the matter. I—I got homesick I suppose. I—wanted my own country. She has her baby now, Diana, she has her friends: she is fond of her own way: and—oh, she does not want me any more!”
“Well,” said Diana, cheerfully, “and so you have come home? How sensible that was!—the very wisest and best thing you could do.”
“Oh, do you think so, Diana?” The little lady brightened under these words of commendation. “But I have no right to presume upon coming home after all this long time,” she said, wistfully. “And I know, dear, it was Sophy you cared for. How could it be me? I was always g-glad to think that it was S-Sophy that was cared for. But now she has her baby, Diana, and I am only a trouble to her. She does not want me. Oh, Diana, she would not be so frivolous if he did not leave her so much! No, no, I am not blaming him; he was always kind, you know, but he did not understand us,—he never made a companion of her. And now she has so many friends, and talks Italian like a native (she always was clever at languages), and they chatter and chatter, and I do not understand a word, and then she calls me cross. Me cross, Diana! And such strange ways with the baby, as if I knew nothing about babies. She even told me so, that I never had one, and how could I know? And so strange altogether—a strange man, and a strange house, and no pleasant fires, and such strange food! Oh, my dear, what could I do? He was very kind, and asked me to stay, but she—she!—never asked me. She didn’t w-want me—oh, Diana! I think it will b-break my h-heart!”
“Hush! here is Jervis,” said Diana. Mrs. Norton stopped short in the midst of her sob. She gave herself a rapid shake, raised her shoulders, cut short the heave of her little bosom. No other check could have told so effectually. It is one thing to break your heart, but to give way before the servants is quite another thing. She was not capable of such a breakdown. What Jervis saw when he came in was a little figure very erect upon the sofa, with shoulders squared and bonnet straightened, and a smile upon her face. “Oh yes, Diana, the Countess is quite well, and the baby is a darling,” said the deceitful little woman. She did not think it was deceitfulness, but only a proper pride.
And the end was that Mrs. Norton was taken in “for good,” and her big box dislodged from the cab, and carried to a pretty room very near Diana’s. She was not sent away even to the pleasant solitude of the Red House. When Mrs. Hunstanton heard of this, she came over in hot haste to know, first, how long it was going to last; second, how Diana could be so incredibly foolish; and lastly, whether anything was to be found out about the pair whom even she now was compelled to call the Pandolfinis. But Mrs. Norton, it need not be said, put on triple armour of defence against the assaults of this unkindly critic. She met her with smiles more impenetrable than chain-armour. The dear baby was so well, and Sophy was so well, she had taken the opportunity to run over and see her friends. “For, however happy one may be,” Mrs. Norton said with feeling, “and however great may be the happiness one sees around, one’s heart yearns for one’s old friends.” Thus the enemy was baffled with equal skill and sweetness: and no one ever heard from Diana why it was that Sophy’s aunt had come back. She took to watching over Diana, growing pale when she coughed, and miserable when her head ached, as she had watched over Sophy; and settled down into her pretty rooms, with pretty little protestations that it was too much—far too much! yet pious hopes that she might be of use to Diana, who was so good to everybody. And Mrs. Norton clearly saw a Higher Hand in all that had led to this final arrangement, which was so happy a solution of all difficulties. “The hand of Providence was never more clear,” she would say with cheerful solemnity from her easy-chair. “If Sophy had not had that cough, neither Diana nor any of us would have gone to Pisa, and we never should have met dear Count Pandolfo, and Sophy would never have married him. And if Sophy had never been established in Italy, and so comfortable, you would not have thought of taking me into your own delightful house, and making me so happy. Oh, how thankful we should be, Diana! This is how everything works for good. It is seldom, very seldom, that one sees it so very clear!”
Was it so clear?—was it all for this that the Palazzo dei Sogni had witnessed so many agitations, and that life had changed so strangely for that one grave Tuscan, whose days were so full of business, and whose little English wife had so many gossips? Poor Pandolfini! Diana made no answer to her guest’s happy trust in the Providence which had made such elaborate arrangements for her comfort. That chapter of life was over, whatever might have been in it,—over and closed and ended, till the time when the harvest shall be gathered, and all shall be known—where the tares came from, and where the wheat.
But Pandolfini never brought his wife to England, notwithstanding the impulse of mingled recollection and jealousy which made her long to go home when she heard of Diana’s adoption of her aunt. “Go, Sophy, if you will: but this little one is too young to travel,” he said. And Sophy, grumbling, stayed at home. After all, the man had the best of it. What flower of happiness so exquisite as this child could have come into his barren days, but for Mr. Hunstanton’s mistake? Mrs. Norton betrayed that he had carried it away, according to the custom of his Church, and had it christened the day after it was born, without even consulting the mother about its name. He had called it Stella, though that was not a family name even. Why Stella?—though it was a pretty name enough. And it is not quite clear that even Diana knew why.
THE END.
PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.