The presence of the Snodgrasses did not make very much difference to the party in the Palazzo dei Sogni; Mr. Hunstanton introduced them to the English club, and, as was natural, they established themselves in the select coterie of the English Church, and were a great godsend to the chaplain, and attended the choir practices, and soon became very well known in Pisa. And in the evening receptions, which took place sometimes at Miss Trelawny’s, sometimes at Mrs. Hunstanton’s, these two black figures were perpetually apparent, the uncle circulating among the little society, the nephew standing up in his usual corner. Poor curate! he did not get very much attention from any one. The Hunstantons confined their civilities to the necessary number of Good nights and Good mornings: Sophy flouted him perpetually: and Mrs. Norton made him alarming little speeches about the parish, and asked him if he felt better, in a tone which inferred a contemptuous refusal to believe that he had been ill at all. All this he bore, poor fellow; he was not ill to speak of. If he could have been left in his corner staring at Diana for twelve hours at a time, or the whole twenty-four, had that been possible, he would have been happy—and would have minded none of the snubs that were freely dispensed on all sides. And Diana herself was always kind to the poor young man. She did not talk to him, for he could not talk; but she would give him a kindly smile when she passed him. She gave him her hand when he came in, and when he went away. Now and then in heavenly courtesy she would say three words to him. “I hope you are better, Mr. Snodgrass. I hope you like Pisa. What have you been seeing to-day?” One of these phrases kept him happy for a day. He did not expect any more, nor indeed half so much; and with what aim he continued to haunt and follow her, and put all his existence into the distant enjoyment of her sight and presence, it would be hard to say. As for gaining her love, marrying her!—it seemed about as hopeful as that he should marry the other Diana in the heavens, the moon, that shone with such warm Italian splendour over the high house-tops. In his brightest dreams he could not have imagined anything of the kind.

The only other person who took any notice of poor William Snodgrass was the one other who might have been supposed least likely to notice him. Pandolfini took the poor young fellow up. Notwithstanding the curate’s awkwardness and shyness, the kind Italian insisted upon making acquaintance with him. There is no one so kind as an Italian, endowed with that cortesia which the old writers speak of as a quality of God. “The Lord of all Courtesy,” is not that a title which Dante gives to the Supreme? Pandolfini had this divine quality as much as any man, even an Italian, ever had; and his heart was touched by the most tender sympathy for this fellow-in-feeling, whom it was too absurd to think of as his rival. The poor curate was no one’s rival. He had given up his being to the most beautiful and noble creature, so far as he knew, who had ever crossed his horizon; and had not Pandolfini done so too? The sympathetic Italian gave himself up to the task of cultivating this dull but tender soul. He took him to private gems of pictures which the public saw only on rare occasions: he took him through everything that was most worth seeing: and having his eyes opened by the fact that the heavy young Englishman had set his affections upon the highest object within his firmament, saw other glimmers of perception in him which no one else had found out.

“There, I can’t understand Pandolfini,” said Mr. Hunstanton; “the uncle, now, is a man of the world. He is a man that knows what he is about. He has read a little and observed a little—as much as you can expect from a clergyman. But Bill Snodgrass is a nonentity. He is as dull as ditch-water. You can’t get a sensible word out of him. The rector can talk and take his own part like any other man.”

“I do not agree with you, my friend,” said the Italian, “there are some fine things in the Stupid: there are feelings: I do not mean feelings of the heart alone. He has nothing to say about it; but he will know a fine picture when he sees one.”

“When you tell him it is fine—”

“I never tell him anything; but there are things which Mr. Bill, if so you call him (I admire your monosyllables), can see—and a great many people cannot see,” said Pandolfini simply, yet with meaning, with a half-smile at his companion, who laughed, unabashed, and rubbed his hands.

“He means me! Yes, I know him. The best fellow that ever breathed; but if he can give you a random cut round the corner! I refused to buy something once of a friend of his—and it turned out—what did it turn out, Pandolfini? an enormous prize, you know. How was a man to divine that? There was nobody to speak up for it, and I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur. By the way, if you have friends who want to sell anything, you had better send them to Diana. She is the person. She could buy us all up and never feel it. To see her so simple as she is, you would never suppose that she was such a great lady at home.”

“Is she, then, a great lady at home?”

“As great as a princess in other places. You didn’t know? Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference to you, but that’s the truth. She is what we call a great Squire in England. You know what that means?”

“Yes; I know what that means.” Pandolfini looked at him with a half-smile, yet sigh. What difference could it make to him? He had never thought of putting himself on a level with that beautiful princess, of securing her to be his—his housewife, his chief possession. All that he had thought of was the pleasure of being with her, looking at her, like poor Snodgrass. Now here was something which put a still greater difference between them, and removed her out of his sphere. Was it not an irony of fate that before one woman only the doors of his heart should have flown wide open? and that she should be so entirely out of his sphere? A slight vague smile came upon his face, half at himself and his evil fortune—half with a tremulous and painful pleasure that she should be so rich, so magnificent, so secure of everything that was good. Whatever happened, that was always well: that she should be a kind of queen, regnant, and safe from all straits and contradictions of fortune in the outer world as well as in the hearts that loved her. But he sighed. Why was it that the world was so made that the beautiful was always beyond reach, that love must be never more than a dream? He murmured over a verse or two of Leopardi, as he went upon his way, with that smile and sigh.

Nothing more pathetic or more poignant than that sense of tantalised anguish and pleasure—supremest good held before the eyes, but ever inaccessible, giving happiness and suffering together, without blame of any one, or wrong, can be. And Pandolfini was not the kind of man who rails at fortune. He went away melancholy along Arno: yet smiled while he sighed.

Somehow or other this passing and temporary life of the English visitors in the foreign town had become too serious, too securely established and certain with all of them, being as it really was an affair of a few weeks or months at the utmost, and incapable of extension. Perhaps this was Diana’s fault. Arriving in March, she had no more than six or seven weeks before her, a mere temporary visit—but the temporary was uncongenial to her nature. She established herself half unconsciously, involuntarily as if she had been at home. She made her piano nobile in the old palace assume a certain resemblance to herself, just as she, on the other hand, perhaps unconsciously too, perhaps with a touch of that fine vanity which disguises itself under the semblance of taste, suited herself to her dwelling-place, and put her dress and all her surroundings into conformity with it. If Diana had not had the kind of lofty beauty to which utter simplicity of toilet is becoming, probably it might not have occurred to her to leave the new dress from Paris, before which Mrs. Norton and Sophy had rendered homage, hanging in her wardrobe, and put on the old velvet gown, which, as Sophy indignantly remarked, “she had worn all last winter!” But this was what she did: though in some lights the long sweeping folds of the velvet, which was of a very dark Venetian blue, looked somewhat faded, at least in the eyes of her friends. “I never thought Diana would be like that: wearing out her old dresses, when she can afford to have as many new ones as she pleases!” Sophy cried, almost weeping at the recollections of all M. Worth’s poufs and plissÉs. “It does not matter for us,” Mrs. Norton added, with serious vexation, “we know her and look up to her in any dress; but among strangers!” Thus her friends were annoyed by her supposed frugality: and perhaps Diana, if her French toilet had been more becoming to her, would not have felt the necessity of conforming her dress to the style of those great rooms, so pathetically faded, so noble and worn, and independent of all meretricious decoration.

She did other things, which perhaps were less justifiable still, and which excited the displeasure of another section of her friends. In a country practically unconverted to the laws of political economy, she was but too glad to forget them, and gave alms with a largeness and liberality which, I suppose, is quite indefensible. She was even so misled as to allow the shameless beggars about to come to her for weekly pensions, putting them on their honour, and talking to them in friendly, if somewhat solemn Italian—slow as Pandolfini’s English, and from the same cause. “Giving to all those beggars,—I can’t imagine what Miss Trelawny can be thinking of,” cried the rector; “surely she must know that she is helping to demoralise them: destroying all the safeguards of society.” “So far as that goes, I don’t think Diana will do them much harm; but I object to have the staircase haunted by Peppino and Company,” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I must talk to her, and you had better talk to her, Snodgrass. As for demoralising, you know, they’re past that. I defy you to demoralise Peppino. You can’t blind a man who has no eyes; can you, now?” But this will be enough to show that Diana gave dissatisfaction on both sides: only Pandolfini and the curate stood by with silent adoration, and thought everything she did and was, the noblest and the fairest that ever were made visible to eyes of men.

It must be allowed, however, that neither the disapproval nor the adoration affected Diana. She went on her way calmly, indifferent to what was said, laughing, though gently, at Mr. Snodgrass’s serious remonstrance, and at the half-crying appeal of Sophy. And everything seemed to conspire around her to give the air of stability and everlastingness which seemed natural to her life. She acquired for herself, without knowing it, a distinct position, which was partly by her beauty, no doubt, partly even by her height and dignity of person, and partly from the individuality about her, and her modest indifference to ordinary rule. There is an immodest indifference which gives distinction of a totally different kind; but Diana—who did not come for pleasure as commonly so called, who appeared seldom at public places, and whose enjoyment of her strange habitation was that of an inhabitant, not of a tourist—Diana became known in Pisa as scarcely ever forestiera had been before. Pandolfini felt that he could divine why, believing, as was natural at once to a patriot and a lover, that his race was quick to recognise supreme excellence, and that it was natural that all who knew her should bow down before her. But anyhow, in her retirement, in her quietness, she became known as if by an instinct of sympathy. The beggars in the piazzas asked nothing of her, but blessed her with bold extravagance as she passed. The people uncovered right and left. Quant’ È bella! they said, with that unfeigned and heartfelt admiration which is pure Italian, not loudly, to catch her ear, nor yet in whispers, as if they were ashamed of it, but in their ordinary tones, all being natural, both the popular worship and its object. The curate when he became aware of this grew red, and clenched his fist, with an English impulse “to knock down the fellow;” but Pandolfini, who knew better what it meant, followed her steps at a distance with glowing eyes, and was proud and happy in the universal homage. He quoted lines out of the “Vita Nuova” to his stupid faithful companion. Not always to his listener’s edification. “How do you suppose I can understand that stuff?” growled the Rev. William through the beard he was growing, and the Italian ceased to throw about such pearls.

But it may be imagined what a thunderbolt fell into this peaceful little society when there began to be consultations among the leaders of the party about going away. “Our time will soon be up, you know,” Mr. Hunstanton said one evening, rubbing his hands; “May is a very nice month to get home in. A week or two in Switzerland; perhaps a week or two in London, if my wife has good accounts of the children. That’s what I like. After May it’s sultry here and uncomfortable, eh, Pandolfini? Off in November, home in May, that’s my rule—and if you like to take it old style, you know, as they do in Russia, so much the better. That’s my regular rule.”

“W—what?” said Mrs. Norton, who sometimes tried to persuade herself that she was rather deaf, and would not hear anything that was unpleasant; but she had scarcely self-possession for this little trick, being too much aghast at the idea thus presented to her mind, which it seemed incredible they should all have ignored till now.

Then there was a pause of universal dismay, for they had all enjoyed themselves very much, and disliked the idea of breaking up. Mrs. Hunstanton alone went on working placidly, and the murmur of Reginald’s voice, who was playing patience at a table, and whispering the value of the cards to himself, became suddenly audible. The impatience of the whole company with Reginald cannot be described. “My dear boy,” said the rector sharply (in a tone which meant You odious idiot!), “couldn’t you just count as well if you did it to yourself?”

“What has the boy done?” said Mr. Hunstanton with surprise. “Yes; we must bolt. I don’t know how that may affect your plans, Diana.”

“I have no plans,” she said. “I came here by the light of nature, because you were all here——”

“And you will come away in the same manner,” said Mr. Hunstanton briskly. Sophy turned round and transfixed him with her eyes, or would have done so had his middle-aged composure been penetrable, or had he seen her, which had something also to do with it. But he did not see her, and, good man, was perfectly easy in his mind.

“Well, I confess I shall be sorry,” said the rector, “and so, I am sure, will be my dear Bill. We have had a very agreeable visit, nice society, all centring round the Church in the most delightful way, and so many charming people! I shall be very sorry to think of breaking up.”

He stopped somewhat abruptly, with unexpected suddenness, and in the silence, more audible still than Reginald’s whispering, came a sort of groan from the burdened bosom of the curate, who stood behind-backs in his usual place, and who had felt himself covered by his uncle’s speech. This made everybody look up, and there was a faint titter from Reginald, by way of revenge for the rector’s rebuke. It was Sophy who had the boldness to take up this titter in the wild stinging of disappointment and dismay.

“Why should you feel it so much, Mr. Snodgrass?—what does it matter to you? You will have to go home to the parish whether or not!” she cried.

“Sophy, hush, hush! Yes, dear Mr. Hunstanton, how pleasant it has been!” said Mrs. Norton. “What a blow to us all to break it up! I should like to stay here for ever, winter and summer. It would not be too hot for me. For I can never be grateful enough to Italy,” she added, impressively, “for restoring health to my dear child.”

This called the general attention to Sophy, whose blooming countenance, a little flushed by vexation, looked very unlike any possible failure of health. Sophy was as near crying as possible. She had to put force upon herself to keep the tears out of her eyes.

“Let us not make ourselves miserable before the time,” said Diana. “It is not May yet; there is a week of April left. Let us gather roses while we may, and in good time here is Mrs. Winthrop and our musical people. Sophy, come and help to get the songs out. We can talk of this another time.”

Sophy came, with a sullenness which no one had ever remarked in her before. She made no reply to what Diana said, but pulled the music about under pretence of arranging it. As she did so, with her back turned to the rest of the company, Diana saw a few hot hail-drops of tears pattering down among the songs. She put her hand kindly upon Sophy’s shoulder.

“Sophy, dear,” she said, “is it the thought of going away? is this what you feel so much?”

“Oh, leave me alone, please! I have got a headache,” cried Sophy, jerking away from her friend’s grasp.

Diana said nothing more. She was grieved and disturbed by this very strange new development. She put down all the songs and music that were likely to be wanted, and opened the piano, and greeted with her usual dignified kindness the new people who came rustling in to the agitated atmosphere. It did not seem agitated to them. Mrs. Winthrop came in all smiles and flounces, and there was a gathering round the piano, and much laughter and talk and consultation, as is customary on such occasions. Diana herself did not sing except rarely. She helped to set the little company going, over their madrigals and part-songs, and then she withdrew, with that sensation of relief which is afforded to the mind of the mistress of a house and chief entertainer by the happy consciousness of having set an amusement going, by means of which her guests will manage to entertain themselves for the rest of the night.