AFTERWARDS.
Diana reached home when the country was in the full glory of summer.
She, too, was like the summer, her friends said--more beautiful than
ever she had been--with just a touch of sunburn from her journey, which
ripened her paleness and made her eyes more brilliant. The whole county
hurried to the Chase to meet and greet her, and tell her how well she
was looking, and that foreign travel evidently agreed with her. “But,
all the same, you must not go again, for we cannot spare you,” they
cried. Nothing could go on without Diana. “And we were so sadly afraid
you meant to stay and spend the summer in Switzerland,” said young Lady
Loamshire (she whose title, Diana remembered with a smile, was the same
as Sophy’s). Nobody could have a more flattering reception. There was a
general feeling of escape that so precious a possession as their
virgin-princess had been got back in safety. The county did not like her
to move: even when she went to London, it was never without fears that
somebody might snap her up, and marry her before any one could
interfere: and how much more “abroad,” where there were always needy
foreigners on the strain to catch rich English ladies! She and the
county had escaped a great danger--they could not sufficiently pet and
caress her when she got back. In the delight of her safety they were all
quite satisfied to hear that Sophy Norton had made such a good marriage.
“Only I hope the poor man was not taken in. They think all the English
are so rich,” said one of those who had been afraid that Diana would be
“snapt up.” This was an old lady who had as much fear for the
conventional fortune-hunter as so many other old ladies have of the
Pope. But Sophy Norton was nobody: she was a cheap ransom to pay for
Diana, and only interested a very few people, who were amused or
delighted or irritated, as the case might be, to hear that so
insignificant a person was now the Countess Pandolfini. Diana did her
full justice, and gave her the benefit of her coronet, by which all the
servants, and especially the maid who had charge of the Red House, were
deeply impressed. Diana’s own household did not like it. They thought
it extremely forward of a little thing who owed so much to Miss Trelawny
to marry a titled gentleman, though it was some little solace to
remember that foreign counts were not much to swear by. But the maid at
the Red House felt her bosom swell with pride as loftily as Sophy’s own.
“I don’t believe as she’ll be a bit proud, but just as friendly with
Miss Trelawny as ever,” Mary Jane said, “though a married lady, and a
titled lady stands more high like in the world.” The Trelawny household
did not know what to answer to this taunt. They made hot protestations
on behalf of their mistress that she might have married half the
gentlemen in the county, and had her pick and choice of titles; but of
course they could not give proof of this assertion, and Mary Jane’s
statement as to the superiority of a married and titled lady was
unquestionably true.
“Then they were really married?” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “he did not get
out of it? I hoped he would up to the last moment. Honour is a great
thing, but that is carrying honour too far, Diana. I could not have done
it. Perhaps you could who are more high-minded----”
“We are not called upon to judge,” said Diana, “so we need not inquire
who could have done it. I hope they may be very happy----”
“Do not be fictitious,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “Happy! Sophy would be
happy with her new dresses anywhere.”
“And her coronet,” said Diana, smiling.
“Her--coronet! do you mean to say you encouraged her in such folly?
Diana, I never can understand you. Are you a cynic? are you a----?”
“Fool, perhaps. I will save your feelings by saying the word myself.
Yes, I suppose I am a fool: for I--miss them,” said Diana, half
laughing, half crying. “It is quite true. Their little ways, their
little talk, their kindnesses, and even their little amiable
selfishnesses--yes, I don’t deny it. I miss them: so I suppose I am, as
you say, a fool.”
“I never said it. Amiable selfishness!--what sort of a thing is that?
No, Diana, I don’t understand you. You are either the goodest, or the
strangest, or the most----”
“Foolish--it is that. There are so many sensible people in the world,”
said Diana, apologetic. “Yes, I had it embroidered for her on all her
things. It was funny, but how it pleased Sophy! And why not? Lady
Loamshire has her coronet on her handkerchiefs, and her husband’s
grandfather, you know, after all, was only a--cheesemonger: whereas the
Pandolfinis---- But you know that better than I do.”
“Lady Loamshire! how can you be so ridiculous! She is a great personage.
She is an English countess.”
“And Sophy is an Italian one. What difference is there besides?”
“What are you two arguing about?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I will set it
right for you, if you will tell me. To be sure, the Pandolfinis. Tell me
all about them, Diana. I suppose they are very happy, and all that. They
went to the Villa for the honeymoon, English fashion? Ah, Pandolfini
always was an Anglo-maniac; and I am very glad he has an English wife. I
had a hand in that. Did my wife ever tell you, Diana----?”
“Oh yes, I told her--she knows everything,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a
suppressed groan; “but when you tell your wise deeds, if I were you I
would leave that out. If ever a man had his heart broken by his
friend----”
“Yes, listen to her, Diana. She wants me to believe that I spoke to the
wrong person--a likely thing! For you know I managed it all. Pandolfini
put it into my hands. And she says I made a mistake!” said Mr.
Hunstanton, rubbing his hands. “Now I put it to you, Diana, as an
impartial person, supposing even that I was a fool, as she makes me out,
who was there else to propose to? That’s the question. I defy you to
answer that. If it was not Sophy, who could it be?”
The two ladies said nothing. They exchanged a half-guilty furtive
glance, not venturing even to look at each other openly. Mr. Hunstanton
was triumphant; he rubbed his hands more and more.
“You perceive?” he said, “that is the weak point with women--not but
what I have the highest respect for your judgment, both of you. You are
delightfully rapid in your conclusions,” added Mr. Hunstanton, with
_naïve_ originality, “and jump at a truth which we might not reach for
weeks with the aid of pure reason: but the practical argument has little
favour with you. When I ask you, What other lady was there? What other
could _I_ have been sent to? neither the one nor the other of you can
find a word to say.”
“No,” said Diana; her voice sounded flat and trembled a little. “No,”
she said, “I think--you must have done what was best.”
Mrs. Hunstanton gave her an indignant glance: but what could they say?
It was not possible to utter any name, or give any indication between
them. They were even a little overawed by the determined simplicity of
the appeal.
“I thought you would own it,” he said, delighted with his victory. “No,
no, I made no mistake. I am not in the habit of making mistakes. They
were not like each other on the surface, but I have always heard that
harmony in diversity is the great secret of happiness. It was silly of
him, though, to give in about the title. What does it signify to call
yourself Count? Among English people it is more a drawback than anything
else, when there is neither money to keep it up, nor any particular
distinction. But I suppose Sophy liked it.”
“Yes--Sophy liked it very much indeed.”
“I should think Sophy would like it!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, “and her
aunt. A title of any kind delights a silly woman. And to think of that
foolish little pair, one on either side of poor Pandolfini! Yes, Diana,
I know you have said that you agree with Tom. He will quote you now,
whenever they are mentioned. He will say you are entirely of his
opinion.”
“I will say--as I have always said--that Diana is the most sensible
woman I know,” said Mr. Hunstanton, “the most reasonable to see the
force of an argument: and the most candid--even when she is convinced
against her will.”
“I have no patience with either of you,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting
up and going away.
This was all that was said upon the subject of Pandolfini. Mr.
Hunstanton, rubbing his hands with a chuckle of triumph over his own
victory and his wife’s discomfiture, remained master of the situation.
And the ordinary life was resumed, as if this little episode had never
been. Reginald, the delicate boy to whom Mrs. Norton had been so kind,
asked often if she was not coming back again. There was no one like her
at bezique, he said. His mother was very kind, and would play with him
when she was put to it, but Reginald could see that it bored mamma.
Whereas Mrs. Norton was never bored: she liked it--she was always
jolly--was she ever coming back? Diana could give no answer to that
question. And in the course of the following year she had more than one
temptation to transfer the Red House to other tenants. But she was as
faithful as Reginald to her foolish little neighbours. And the house
remained empty, with Mary Jane in possession, who was very fond of
talking of Madam the Countess, which she understood was her little
mistress’s correct style and title; and thus a whole year went away,
and another midsummer made the woods joyful. Diana had little leisure
left her to think of the two small people whom she had kept warm like
birds under her wing, but nevertheless she went sometimes and looked at
the vacant nest, and still kept it vacant, and missed them a little,
which was stranger still. The curate, who also had resumed all his
former habits, and spent his life, when he was not in the parish,
following Diana with dull faithful eyes that never left her, met her one
day near the deserted house. He had been visiting the gamekeeper, who
was disabled by some accident, and was going home by that short cut
through the park. How his heart beat when he came upon her all alone! It
was very seldom he saw her alone. It reminded him of that day when he
made his appeal to her about Pandolfini and she spoke to him of “you and
I.” Would she ever say such words again?
“I have been carrying news to Mary Jane,” said Diana, “of the birth of a
little Pandolfini. She wants to know if the baby is a little lord like
Lady Loamshire’s baby; but, alas! it is only a little girl.”
“Has it come to that?” said the curate, startled--though he ought to
have known better with all his parish experiences.
“Oh yes,” said Diana, with a smile, “it has come to that. Sophy will be
a charming little mother, and the baby will make her very happy.”
“You always had a great opinion of--Madam Pandolfini.”
“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----?”
“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.