Pandolfini scarcely slept at all that night. His mind was full of dreams and visions, and an agitation beyond his control. He let himself in to his sombre appartamento, which was all empty, echoing and vacant, and lit his lamp from the taper which he had carried with him up the dark stair-case. The rooms he inhabited were in an old palace which belonged to his family, but of which he had only a corner now. Upstairs lived an old couple of his kindred who had their terzo piano by right of blood. In the higher storeys there were some suites of smaller rooms let to smaller people. Down below in the piano nobile was an English family, the usual tenants of everything worth tenanting. His second floor contained some handsome rooms, and there was one at least which showed more signs of being lived in than seems natural to Italian rooms. It was somewhat richly hung with old tapestry. There was a carpet—unusual luxury!—covering the centre of the floor, and the walls which were not tapestried were clad with book-shelves. Books, too, were in all the corners, piled even on the floor, but carefully piled and in order, arranged by a hand that loved them. There was no sign of any one living but himself in the dark silent place, where his little open lamp with its three slightly flickering flames made a mere speck of light in the darkness, and his foot on the marble of the floor made an echoing sound all through the house till it reached the sanctuary of the old soft Turkey carpet, from which long usage had worn the pattern here and there.

He put down the lamp on the table and threw himself into a chair. The figures in the tapestry were undecipherable in the dim light, except just opposite to it where a shepherdess and shepherd sat in eternal dalliance upon the little green mound beloved of such art. The soft and worn tints gave a certain faint cheerfulness to the wall, but all was dark around and as still as the night itself. Old Antonio, his faithful servant, slept in a corner somewhere, peacefully undisturbed by the master’s comings or goings. The donna da faccenda, or woman-of-all-work, had long ago gone home to her family. This was all his establishment. The conversation he had just had, awakened, as may well be supposed, a thousand thoughts in the Italian’s mind. It had been all fervent poetry as he stood outside her door and walked home along Arno, hearing the bells chime her sweet name: Di—ana, Di-an-a, with its long, soft vowels, such as an Italian loves. But when he reached his own house, other thoughts not less thrilling or sweet, though more real, came into his mind. Was it possible that she should set foot here even—take up her abode here? He rose up from his chair when that fancy came to him, and stood with his breast expanded and his head held high, not feeling that he had breath enough for such a thought. Diana—and here; and then it occurred to him, perhaps for the first time, how poor and dark and silent it was, how worn and faded, how unlike a shrine for such a saint! What could he do to it to make it better? Pandolfini was not of so poor a spirit as to think that Love (if for him such a thing could be) would despise his condition and surroundings. No; if, profoundest wonder of wonders, Diana should love him, as his friend took upon himself to promise, what to her would be the circumstances external to him? Nothing! He had forgotten that he had heard it said she was a great lady in her own home—forgotten even the superior wealth of her surroundings here. He cared nothing about these, and Diana would care nothing. If only the first might be true, there was nothing else to be taken thought of. The wonder of her loving him could not be greater if she were a queen.

But supposing——then what could be done to make the faded things bright, to renovate, and warm, and light up his house for her coming? He dropped back into his chair and began to think. Could any magic make these apartments worthy of her? Then he rose hastily, unable to be still in his excitement, and took up his lamp in his hand again, and began to go over the room, his head throbbing with agitating thoughts. Every new door he opened sent a thrill of echoes through the place, until at last they disturbed the rest of old Antonio, who sallied forth in alarm, his grey locks tumbled from his pillow, his eyes fiery yet full of sleep, a coloured counterpane wrapped round him for want of better. “Ah! it is only the padrone,” cried Antonio, turning his back without another word, but with muttered grumblings in his throat. He was angry to be disturbed. “Surely he walks enough in the day to leave one tranquil at night,” the old man grumbled, as he restored the counterpane to his bed. Then a momentary thought struck him that it might not be the padrone at all, but his double, presaging evil. But after a moment’s thought, Antonio dismissed that idea; for had not his quick eye caught that very thin place, not yet a hole, on the right leg of the padrone’s pantoloons, which he had brushed so carefully that morning? No ghost risen from the grave could know about that thin place. So Antonio went grumbling yet calm to bed.

Pandolfini took little notice of this old grey apparition. He gave the old man a nod, and passed on. There were many empty rooms to go through, all furnished after a sort, all with cold glistening marble floors, dim great mirrors, into which his lamp gleamed with mysterious reflections, dark pictures, bits of tapestry, here a frescoed wall, there a richly decorated roof. The remains of wealth, or rather the ghosts of wealth, were there standing with a forlorn pride in the midst of the cold and of the dim reflected lights. Of all the rooms he went into, only his own library could be called inhabitable, much less comfortable; and yet there was a faded grace and dignity in everything. Would she prize that and understand it? he wondered. Ah yes! Could it be possible that Diana did not understand everything, see everything with the noblest, gentlest comprehension of all that had been noble, then she would not have been the Diana of his thoughts. She would understand. She would learn the story of the house, and its decadence, and its pride—all in a glance. But—would she prefer her English comfort, her warmth of carpets and close-drawn hangings, and the insular way of cushioning and smoothing over every sharp corner—to this old chill splendour and poverty? He could not answer himself with any satisfaction; and his thoughts carried him further to his little farm in Tuscany, and the villa with its bare rooms and terraces, which had not even any trace of old splendour to veil the present poverty. Would it be better to dismiss the forestieri down below, who paid so good a rent for the piano nobile, and so make more room and a more seemly habitation—something more worthy of her? But then his foreign lodgers gave a very agreeable addition to his funds; and how could he do without that? or how adapt the villa for an English lady without spending of money which was impossible to him?

When the vague raptures of a dawning love change into plans of intending matrimony, the difference is very great. Had he known how rich Diana was, the simple-minded Italian might have taken matters more easily perhaps than an Englishman would have approved of; but he was an Anglomane, and had picked up some reflections of English thoughts, which made him try anxiously now if there was any way by which he himself on his own finances could accomplish all this. And the question was grave, very grave, deepening the furrows on his forehead. When he paused from these reflections, and the first initial thought of all,—the idea that Diana—Diana! loved him,—came back to his mind, Pandolfini’s heart recovered itself with a great throb of happiness beyond all imagining, an incredulous triumph of joy, which took away his breath. But then he fell back again into his anxieties, his questions. To realise this crown of all possible gladness and delight, what cares, what anxious self-discussions, what elaborate calculations must he go through! how could he make her life fair, and bright, and free from the pinchings which were in so many Italian houses, which he had learned by heart in his own life, and which, if they no longer existed for him now, might come back again were he to launch into greater expenditure and luxuries hitherto unknown?

He sat up half the night pondering all these strange new thoughts, which were penetrated now and then as by a sudden golden arrow, by that flash of consciousness which made everything glow and shine. But this very consciousness, this ecstasy, was the occasion and beginning of the care. After he had deliberated and deliberated till his very brain ached, he took paper and a pen, and began to put down his calculations. The very act of doing so, putting this wonderful hope, so to speak, into black and white, and making his visionary preparations into a tangible thing which he could look at, thrilled him through and through again with touches of delight He leant back in his chair, and laughed softly, so softly that the low utterance was more like a tone upon an instrument than the commonplace happiness of laughter. To him, to come to him! he who had never expected it, never hoped for it, since his first youth. Love! He was incredulous of it, yet believed in it to the bottom of his profound and passionate soul.

Thus he sat through the long night, feeling neither cold nor weariness, nor as if he could ever want such vulgar consolations as sleep, until Antonio’s first stirring in the blue chill of the morning aroused him from his arithmetic and his thoughts. He started guiltily, and saw the flicker of his poor little lamp reflected in the dim mirror at the end of the room, in the midst of a soft clearness of the day, which confused him, and gave him a sense of shame, as if some cool and calm spectator had suddenly looked over his shoulder and seen the follies that occupied him. Quickly and abashed he extinguished the lamp, gathered up all his papers carefully, opened the window to let in the morning air still somewhat chill: and feeling for the first time a little stiff and cold, crept noiselessly to bed, afraid to be found out by Antonio, who, however, was not deceived by this stealthy retreat, and knew very well by the smell of the suddenly extinguished lamp, and the creak of the opened window, that his master had been keeping unholy vigils. “Had he slept when all Christians ought to sleep he should have got up now,” said Antonio, “instead of stealing to bed like a thief lest I should find him. Ah, padrone mio! if you could but learn what was for your true advantage!” But that is what young men will never learn till it is too late, Antonio reminded himself: for his master was yet young to Antonio, a fit subject for lecturing and good advice still.

Pandolfini came out of his room at a respectably early hour after all, and with innocent looks that did all but deceive his old servant “I hope I did not disturb you last night,” he said, with hypocritical amiability; “I was looking for—a—book.”

“The padrone did not disturb me last night,” said Antonio, severely; “but this morning when I found the lamp still hot, and the illustrissimo’s chair warm! padrone mio, it is no good for the health. There is a time to sleep, which is the night; there is a time, if you will, to make calculations to amuse one’s self—to play, if it is necessary—and that is day.”

“I am going to make use of the day,” said Pandolfini, taking the cup of coffee which was his cheerless breakfast. And then he added, “Don’t you think, my old Toni, that the olives at the farm might yield a little more oil? Marchese Rolfo has no better land than I have, and yet he sends more flasks to the market.”

“Marchese Rolfo is an old miser; he wrings the trees and the poor men that keep them,” cried Antonio; “and Gigi at the villa is as honest a man as any I know. The padrone forgets that it has been a bad year.”

“It is always a bad year,” said Pandolfini, ruefully. “I never knew it otherwise since I was a boy.”

“Praised be God, yet we live! we are not, after all, at the mercy of the olives,” said the old man, cleverly shifting his ground; then he added, in more insinuating yet judicial tones, “If, instead of making calculations on the tombola, as I see you have been doing, whether numbers or colours I know not, the padrone would make himself beautiful and marry one of those rich English ladies, who have more money than they know what to do with——”

“Fie, Tonino! is it better to be at the mercy of a lady, than of the olives?”

“That is quite different. They are only women at the best, however rich they may be; and a man is no man who cannot manage a woman; but the Providence of heaven which is inscrutable, which will send a frost when it is sunshine that is wanted, and torrents when one has but asked for showers, that is what no man can manage. The padrone may be sure that I give him good advice.”

“And why not?” said Pandolfini, with that smile which is confusion to all givers of advice. “Why not?” Was that an answer to make, as if it were some bagatelle? Antonio began to sweep energetically, careless of his master’s coffee; and Pandolfini sallied out into the fresh morning. He was not a man so objectless as not to know what to do with himself when he happened to be earlier than usual. But to-day, what was there to do? He crossed the streets, and went and looked over the low wall at Arno sweeping on below. There had been rain, and the stream was very full. The hurry and sweep of the yellow water seemed to carry his soul with it as it flowed and flowed. But it carried everything with indifference, not to be diverted from its flowing!—all kinds of waifs and strays, and even a common boat which had got loose, and was blundering heavily down-stream, like the blind thing it was, bumping here and there, carried along with a sort of labouring, piteous appeal for guidance. Pandolfini watched it with a kind of half amusement, half sympathy. It caught at last in a muddy corner under the first arch of the bridge, the only gloomy and dirty spot, so far as could be seen, in all the hurrying stream. Was this what Antonio called inscrutable Providence?—that strange, impersonal, half-heathen deity, to whose operations all Christendom attributes every evil with a sort of pious resentment?

When the boat was thus arrested in its course, Pandolfini roused himself from his fascination. He went into the little Church of the Spina, close to the river, and heard a Mass, though it was not his custom; and then he sallied forth again, and performed a multitude of little duties which he had neglected—a curious jumble. He paid a few little debts; he went and looked at some pictures which he had long forgotten; he paid a few visits—to an old canonico in the cathedral, who had taught him when he was a boy, to an old servant, to a friend whom he had almost lost sight of—such visits as might be made any morning. It seemed to him afterwards that everything he had done was like the half-conscious act of a man taking leave of his old life. When the thought occurred to him it did not make him melancholy. It is only sad to take leave of a phase of life which is ending, when that to which you look forward is less happy. When it is the other way, is there not a secret exultation, a concealed happiness, even in the farewell?

It was too early yet to go to Hunstanton, to inquire into his success. Englishmen are not so early as Italians, and Pandolfini remembered with a smile all the ceremonies that his friend had to get through before commencing any enterprise out of doors. First his breakfast—a meal unknown to the abstemious Tuscan, whose coffee was swallowed in two minutes; then the letters and newspapers which the post brought him; then his “business” in his study apart from the vulgar eye, a formula Mr. Hunstanton went through religiously, as if he had his estate to manage on the second floor of the Palazzo dei Sogni. All these had to be gone through—and who could tell how many more? He gazed at the great house from the other side of the river before there was any sign of waking save in the rooms under the roof, where the tenants were out upon the loggias, and busy with their morning occupations like the rest of their countryfolk, long before the drowsy English had opened an eyelid.

Then the persianis began to open one by one, and the mist of dreams cleared off. On the first floor the persianis had not been closed at all. How he knew Diana in that! how she loved the air, the morning sunshine, not yet too hot for pleasure, the soft gay shining of the morning, even the sounds beneath which more fastidious forestieri objected to! Nor hers the ear that was ready to be offended by lively voices of common life, by the morning noises and cries of humble traffic. Pandolfini’s heart swelled, and a soft moisture of exquisite feeling came to his eyes. Though she was of the family of the Dreams, as he had said, no artificial gloom of drawn curtains, of hushed movement, was natural to Diana; the early sunshine, the morning bells, the herb-gatherers’ cry in the streets, were no disturbance to her. The sweet homely stir of living was the best call for her. He felt that it was in her to rise lightly as the lark to all the duties of that blessed common living, were they necessary; and the more homely they were, the more noble would Diana appear in them. So he thought, looking across from the other side of Arno with that exquisite moisture in his eyes, in that glory of the morning. As a matter of fact, the first English head that appeared at the windows of the Palazzo dei Sogni was Mrs. Norton’s, who pushed the persianis open with her own hand to air the rooms, and looked out like a little brown hen-bird, the grandmother, if there could be such an official, of the nest. She called to Sophy to make haste, to get ready, while she made the tea, and to come and look at the market-people coming in from the country—or rather going away again, as they were by this time; and then Sophy looked out with all her curls. But the watcher did not so much as notice these two, and Diana’s balcony remained vacant. Notwithstanding all these beautiful thoughts about her, and notwithstanding that these thoughts were all true, Diana, as a matter of fact, was not, at this period of her life, an early riser, as has been already said.

Poor Pandolfini! He knew no more than the least interested passer-by the disastrous business his English friend was doing for him a little later on—nor how his fate was getting decided, and all the miraculous sweetness over which he was brooding, being turned to gall. He waited through all the long morning, remembering English habits, with a shrug of his shoulders, till “luncheon”—mysterious word!—should be over; reflecting, perhaps not quite justly as he did so, on the portentous English appetite which demanded two meals so early in the day. Then, with a heart which did something more than beat, which gave leaps and bounds against his breast, and then paused breathless to recover itself, he rushed up the long stairs. Diana was on her balcony as he approached, and after a little wave of her hand to him, disappeared suddenly. What did that mean? His heart sank, then bounded again with excitement, anxiety, suspense. He rushed up to the Hunstantons’ second floor like a whirlwind, and found himself in his friend’s room, breathless, speechless, breaking in, he supposed, like a thief.

“Well?”—all the breath left in him, and all the fever of emotion, came forth in the one word.

“My dear fellow!” cried Mr. Hunstanton, with both hands held out, “my dear Pandolfini! I congratulate you! Well?—yes, of course, all’s well as I told you. They are as pleased as possible—say they never thought of such a thing, as all women do—but feel sure there never was anybody so good, and so perfect and delightful. Bless you, I knew it! They are as happy as you are, all in a flutter; and you are to go up at once.”

Pandolfini’s eager countenance was as a gamut of all emotions as his friend spoke—the blank of utter anxiety, the leap of hasty delight, the cloud of doubt: and withal a touch of fastidious and troubled dissatisfaction impossible to describe. He grasped and held Hunstanton’s hand, holding himself up by them, body and soul, and gazing at him with eyes that grew almost terrible in the strain.

“They!” he said, still breathless, with a long-drawn gasp, in a voice husky with agitation. “They? Who is—the other?”

“My dear fellow! You to ask such a thing with your Italian notions! Of course, her aunt! You might have done it, being the lover; but you don’t suppose I, an ambassador, could have made my proposals to little Sophy all alone! Love has turned your head.”

Pandolfini dropped his friend’s hands: a sudden darkness seemed to come over him and swallow him up. He staggered to the window, and stood there silent for a moment, looking blankly out.