NEW ARRIVALS.
After this “these two,” as Mr. Hunstanton called them, “got on,” to make
use also of his expression, very well. Pandolfini was very modest, and
he was not in love as a boy of twenty falls in love. Men take the malady
in different ways. His imagination had not rushed instantly to the point
of marrying Diana, appropriating her, carrying her off, which is the
first impulse of some kinds of love. Her appearance to him was like the
appearance of a new great star in the sky, dwindling and dimming all the
rest, but at the same time expanding and glorifying the world, making a
new world of it, lighting up everything both old and new with its light.
Darkness and despondency would have covered the earth had that new glory
of light suffered eclipse; but he had not yet realised the idea of
transferring it to his own home, and making the serene sweet star into
a domestic lamp. He was too humble, in the beginning of the adoration by
which he had been seized without any will of his own, to think of
anything of the kind. He was so grateful to her for having come, for
shining upon him, for not disappointing him or stepping down from her
pedestal, but being what he had supposed her to be at the first glance.
Women do not always do this, nor men either. Sometimes, very often it
must be allowed, they not only come down from the pedestal on which we
have placed them, but jump down, with harsh outbursts of laughter,
spurning that elevation. But Diana lost no jot of her dignity to the
imaginative Italian. Still and always she was _dei Sogni_, one of the
dream-ladies, queens of earth and heaven. Sometimes her lavish
liberality startled him in the habits of his poverty, for he was
economical and careful as his race, not knowing what it was to be rich,
and unfamiliar with the art of using money. Few of his delights had ever
come in that way. He had been kind to his friends and to his inferiors
in a different fashion, in the way of personal service, of tender
sympathy, and the help one mind and heart can give to another; but it
had never been in his power to lavish around him things which cost
actual money as Diana did, and he was puzzled by her habits in this
respect, and not quite sure, perhaps, that this was not a slight coming
down from her high ideal position. But the fault, if fault it was,
tended at least towards nobleness, for Diana’s personal tastes were
simple enough, notwithstanding a certain inclination towards
magnificence, which did not displease him.
He watched her as narrowly as a jealous husband, though in a very
different sense, to make quite sure that she was everything he believed
her to be. But Pandolfini was subtle as his race, notwithstanding that
he was an Anglomane, and declared his enthusiasm for all the English
virtues of openness, candour, and calm. He did not show his devotion as
a blundering Englishman would have done. No one suspected him of his
worship of Diana--no one--except two very acute observers, who made no
communication to each other, but on the contrary avoided the subject--to
wit, Diana herself and Mrs. Hunstanton. As for Diana, she was
unconscious as long as possible, and denied it stoutly to herself as
long as possible; yet nevertheless had the fact conveyed to her in the
very air, by minute and all but invisible indications which she would
not admit but could not gainsay. And her friend divined, being his
friend also, and a silent observer, the very reverse of her kind
busybody of a husband, to whom the idea that Pandolfini had any special
admiration for Diana would have been simple food for laughter, neither
less nor more.
Thus the course of events went on. When “these two” had a little talk
together, Mr. Hunstanton would chuckle and rub his hands with pleasure.
“Yes, I think they are getting on a little better,” he said. “Why they
should not have taken to each other, is a thing I cannot comprehend.
With so many things in common! But you see the Italian does not
understand the Englishwoman, nor the Englishwoman the Italian. She is
too independent for him; and he is too--too----too everything for her.
The more they see of each other, the more they will respect each other;
but there will never be any real understanding between them. A pity,
isn’t it?--for there are not two better people in the world.”
“Dear Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, to whom he was talking. “It is not that
she has really any strongmindedness about her; but there is no doubt
that gentlemen always do prefer women to be dependent: they don’t like a
girl to say like Diana that she does not want assistance, that she can
manage her affairs, and all that sort of thing. That is what I think is
such a pity. Of course it would be a great deal better if there was a
gentleman at the Chase to look after everything.”
“W--well,” said Mr. Hunstanton: his land marched with the Chase, and
there were matters in which it did not appear so very clear to him that
a gentleman would be an advantage. “To be sure she never will give in to
prosecuting poachers or that sort of thing, which is positive quixotism
and folly.”
“And there are matters which a gentleman must understand _so much_ the
best.”
“W--well,” said Mr. Hunstanton again. “Arguments don’t answer, you see;
it is not a thing that can be argued about. Natural propriety and all
that, and abstract justice--and---- Diana knows what to say for herself;
but then the fact is, that this must be treated as a practical question.
It don’t bear argument. I’m glad to see them talking to each other a
little; but it will never go beyond that.”
“Did you wish it to go beyond that?” said Mrs. Norton, quickly.
“Who--I? Oh no, dear no; why should I wish it? Bless me! that was not
what I was thinking of. I thought they might be friends. I like my
friends to take to each other. Now, _you_ appreciate Pandolfini: why
shouldn’t Diana? that is all I say. But people are wrong-headed; the
best people in the world are often the most wrong-headed,--even
Pandolfini himself.”
“I have never seen anything that was not nice in Mr. Pandolfini,” said
Mrs. Norton. “He has always been so good. How kind he has been to Sophy
and me! Indeed you are all kind. I don’t wonder at it so much among
those who know my child’s sterling qualities, though, I trust, I am
always grateful. But when a man like Mr. Pandolfini, who knows next to
nothing of her, is equally kind, as kind as her oldest friend, why that,
I must say, is remarkable. It shows such a kind nature--it must be so
disinterested----”
“Disinterested?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “Do you think that is the word?
When a man, who is not an old man, pays attention to a pretty young
girl--well, it may be very kind, and all that--but I don’t think
disinterested is the word I should use.”
“What could _we_ do for him?” cried Mrs. Norton. “You may say Diana,
too; but then she knows us, and I hope she is fond of us; but Mr.
Pandolfini, what could we do for him? It must all be kindness--pure
kindness--for we never can pay him back.”
“Aha! is that how it is?” said Mr. Hunstanton to himself.
“Is that how what is?” she asked, a little sharply.
“Nothing, nothing, my dear lady--I meant nothing,” said Mr. Hunstanton.
“So that is how it is! I must say I thought as much. I generally can see
through a millstone as well as another, when there is anything to be
seen: and I allow that I thought it--so that is what is coming. Holloa!
who is that at the other end of the room?--the Snodgrasses, I should
say, if there was anything in the world which could bring them to Pisa:
the--Snodgrasses! I shall expect to see the parish march in next, in
full order, in clean smock-frocks, farmers and ploughmen. Actually the
Snodgrasses! if one can trust one’s eyes. Excuse me, Mrs. Norton, I must
go and see. I hope the Hall has not been burnt down, and that there is
nothing the matter with the children. I must go and see.”
“The Snodgrasses!” Mrs. Norton said under her breath, with something
like consternation. She had once entertained a very high opinion of the
Snodgrasses. They were the clergy of the parish, and she had a belief in
the clergy, very natural to one who had herself belonged to that sacred
caste. What had brought them here at this moment? Was it, could it be, a
ridiculous pursuit of Diana, who, _of course_, had never thought of
_them_? or was it anything else? She drew a little nearer to the door to
hear what she could. The devotion of the Snodgrasses to Diana, the way
in which they followed her about, the little speeches they made to her,
had always been particularly offensive to Mrs. Norton. It was on Diana’s
account, who could not fail to be annoyed, she said; but, indeed, Mrs.
Norton was more annoyed than Diana. And now here they were again,
leaving the parish uncared for! How could they account to themselves for
such a dereliction of duty? She would not approach the new-comers, or
show any interest in them, on the highest moral grounds; but she crept
towards them, talking to the people she found in her way, and gradually
drawing nearer the door. It was the Snodgrasses: there was no mistaking
them, both in their long coats, with their long faces, black-haired and
somewhat grim, as with the fatigue of a journey. They were not very
comely to start with, and it was almost ludicrous, their critic thought,
to see two men so like each other, and without even the excuse of being
father and son! The rector was slimmer, the curate stouter; they had
heavy eyebrows, and very dark complexions. Mr. Snodgrass, senior, had a
great deal to say, and was facetious in a clergymanly fashion. Mr.
Snodgrass, junior, was silent, and generally kept in the background when
it was not necessary for him to act audience for his uncle’s jokes. At
the present moment, more abashed than usual by the strangers among whom
he suddenly found himself, he stood in a corner, gazing at Diana, with a
look which specially irritated Mrs. Norton always, though it would have
been difficult for her to have explained why.
“Who could have thought of seeing you here?” she said, as the rector
came up to her with that expressive grasp of the hand which was one of
his special gifts, and which everybody remarked as the very embodiment
of cordiality and friendliness, a sort of modest embrace. He was not
glad to see her particularly, nor she to see him; but if they had flown
into each other’s arms it could scarcely have been a warmer greeting
than that silent clasping of hands, without even a “How d’ye do?” to
impair its eloquence.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he said; “but the truth is, dear Bill was not at
all well. I can’t tell what is the matter with him. But not well at
all--quite out of work and out of heart----”
“Chest?” said Mrs. Norton, solemnly.
“No, I don’t think so. Nothing organic they tell me. Only want of tone,
want of energy. As Easter was over so early this year, and nothing
particular going on, I thought I might as well carry out an old
intention and come to Italy----”
“This is entirely a chest place,” said Mrs. Norton, still very serious.
“I don’t think it is supposed very good for other complaints.”
“Ah, I don’t think it will do dear Bill any harm,” said the rector. “I
could quite suppose I was in my own parish, looking round. Miss Trelawny
is blooming as usual.”
“Blooming is not the word I would apply to Diana, Mr. Snodgrass; but she
is very well.”
“Ah, you were always rather a purist about language. Well, then, you
must allow that your niece is blooming. I never saw Miss Sophy look so
well.”
“My niece has been very much appreciated here,” said Mrs. Norton. “She
has found herself among people who understand her, and that is always an
addition to one’s happiness.”
“Surely,” said the rector, to whom the idea of Sophy as a person not
understood by her surroundings was novel. He objected to Sophy and her
aunt as “parasites,” just as Sophy and her aunt objected to himself and
his dear “Bill” as annoyances to Diana. “It is too bad,” Mrs. Norton
cried, hurrying across to Mrs. Hunstanton after this little encounter.
“Diana hates these men--and she cannot get rid of them wherever she
goes.”
“Diana is a great deal too kind to everybody,” said Mrs. Hunstanton.
“She has a way of concealing when she is bored which I call downright
hypocrisy--but I don’t see why she should hate them in particular, poor
men!”
“Look at that!” said Mrs. Norton, with a certain vehemence. It was the
curate whom she pointed out, and Pandolfini, who was by, profited also
by the indication. He was standing straight up in a corner, poor curate,
shy and frightened of the voluble groups about, among whom there were
several Italians and a good deal of polyglot conversation. Mr. William
Snodgrass knew no language but his own, and was not very fluent even in
that. He stood up very straight, as if he had been driven into the
corner or was undergoing punishment there, and gazed over everybody’s
head, being very tall, at Diana. The very dulness of the gaze had
something pathetic in it, like the adoration of a faithful dog. Neither
for the strange people nor the new place had the poor curate any eyes.
Mrs. Hunstanton looked at him with familiar scorn, as a person well
aware of his delusion, and treating it with the contempt it
deserved--but Pandolfini gazed with very different feelings at his
fellow-worshipper. Even while he smiled at the frightened look upon the
poor fellow’s countenance, and his evident dismayed avoidance of the
strangers about, his dumb devotion touched the Italian’s heart.
“It is Miss Trelawny upon whom his eyes fix themselves.”
“Yes; he does nothing but stare at Diana--silly fellow! As if a woman
like Diana, without thinking of her position, would ever look at him.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pandolfini, “to turn his eyes to the best, though
it be without hope, is not that well?”
“It might be very well,” said Mrs. Norton, “if it were not such an
annoyance to Diana. At home she cannot move for him--he is always
following her about like a dog. And you know, Mr. Pandolfini, if a woman
were the best woman that ever lived, that is unworthy of a man.”
“I do not know--no, that is not what I should say. When the person is
Miss Trelawny, many things may be pardoned,” said the Italian. He was so
brown that an additional tint of colour scarcely showed on his face; but
as his eyes turned from the curate to Diana, a subdued glow came over
his countenance, and a light into his blue eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton, who
was a quick observer, caught him in the very act. She looked at him,
and sudden perception awoke in her. And he felt it with that
sensitiveness which is like an additional sense, and looked at her in
her turn with a pathetic half smile, explaining the whole, though not a
word was said. Mrs. Hunstanton was touched: perhaps such a confidence,
made without a word, by the eyes only, yet so frank and full of feeling,
went more to her heart than if it had been accompanied by much effusion
in words. But there was nothing said, and Mrs. Norton remained
pleasantly unaware of anything that had happened, and went on
discoursing about the Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, with quite as much
unction as if both her companions had been giving her their entire
attention, as indeed she believed them to do.
“In my dear husband’s time,” she said, “the clergy of a parish were
never both absent even for a day. He would have been shocked beyond
description at the idea. Do you think it can be right, Mr. Pandolfini,
for both the rector and the curate to be away together? If any one is
sick, what is to become of them? and they are not even married, so as to
leave some one behind who could look after the poor. Do you think it can
be right under any circumstances?” And this anxious champion of justice
fixed her eyes with an almost severe appeal on the Italian’s face.
“Can I tell?” he answered, throwing up his hands and his shoulders with
a characteristic gesture. “The curate never leaves his parish in my
country. When he would have leisure, he takes it among the rest. A poor
priest does not think of _villeggiatura_, what you call holidays. He is
too poor----”
“But even the rector,” said Mrs. Norton, insisting. “Of course, if there
is a very good curate--yes, yes, they are generally poor in England as
well as in other places--a poor curate, that is what people are always
saying; but even the rector. Of course, I forgot, I beg your pardon,
your priests are never married, poor wretched men! What a bondage to put
upon a man! don’t you think so, Mr. Pandolfini?”
He laughed; perhaps this little woman and her talk was a relief at the
moment. He said: “I have my prejudices. Your English gentleman who is a
curate, I do not know him. He is a clergyman: that is different. We may
not judge one the other.”
“I don’t wish to judge any one; but surely, Mr. Pandolfini, anything so
unnatural----”
“Not always unnatural. Me! I do not marry myself.”
“But you will one day,” said Mrs. Norton, decidedly. “Of course you
will. Now, why should not you marry? I am sure you would be a great
deal happier. Those who have not known what it is,” said the little lady
with a sigh, “cannot be expected to realise--ah! the difference between
being alone in the world and having some one to love you and care for
you! Since I lost my dear husband, how changed life has been! Before
that, I never did anything for myself; he stood between me and every
trouble----”
“But in that way I think it would be better for a man not to have a
wife,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “I dare say Mr. Pandolfini does not want
to take a woman on his shoulders, and do everything for her. Tom does
not stand between me and every trouble, I can tell you. He pushes a good
share of his on to my shoulders, and gives me many a tangled skein to
untwist. I never try to persuade my friends to marry; but you shouldn’t
frighten them----”
“I--frighten them!” Mrs. Norton’s horror was too deep for words. “I
think it is time for us to say good night,” she resumed, with dignity.
“Will you look for my niece, Mr. Pandolfini, while I speak a word to
Diana? I really cannot let my child be late to-night.”
“So that is how it is!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself: her husband had
said the same, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction, and
determination to “help it on” with all his might, not very long before;
but in a very different sense. The lady’s surprisal of poor Pandolfini’s
secret, however, was of so delicate a kind that her conclusion was very
different. She hoped that she might never be tempted to betray him; and
her sympathy was more despondent than hopeful. For Diana--Diana, of all
people in the world! and yet Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself, though she
was not romantic, There is nothing that persevering devotion may not do.
In the long-run, even the dull adoration of young Snodgrass might touch
a woman’s heart--who could tell? And Pandolfini was a very different
person. Could anything be done for him? As she turned this over in her
mind, he passed her, fulfilling Mrs. Norton’s commission, with Sophy,
all pink and smiling, on his arm. Sophy was looking up in his face with
that pretty air of trust and dependence which charms most men, but fills
most women with hot indignation. Mrs. Hunstanton, like many other
ladies, believed devoutly that flattery of this description was
irresistible, and was always excited to a certain ferocity by the sight
of it. Little flirt, little humbug! she said in her heart.
“Do you see them?” said her husband, coming up to her, rubbing his
hands; “the very thing I have always wished--a nice sweet clinging
little thing, just the wife for Pandolfini. Why, Hetty----”
Mrs. Hunstanton had a large fan in her hand. It was all she could do not
to assail him with it in good sound earnest. “Tom,” she cried,
exasperated, “hold your tongue, for heaven’s sake! Don’t be a greater
fool than you can help!”
Which was a very improper way for a wife to speak to her husband it must
be allowed.