Diana had begun to feel the influence of the Italian warmth, and that sweet penetrating sunshine which is happiness enough without any more active happiness, when there is no active suffering to neutralise it. She spent the whole morning in her balcony, or close by it. The balcony was full of flowers; the sounds outside came softened through the golden warmth of the air, in which voices and sounds of wheels, and clatter of hoofs and tinkle of bells, were all fused together into a homely music. It filled her with a sense of activity and living, though she was in reality doing nothing. As she sat idly among the flowers in the balcony, raising her head now and then, with the curiosity of true do-nothingness, when some special movement, something flitting across the level of her vision, attracted her, she could not but smile at herself. But it was not a common mood with Diana; it was a summer mood, to be indulged now and then, and bringing novelty with it. Summer in the depth of her own woods was still more sweet; but this affluence of life and movement, so magically hushed, soothed, harmonised by the warm atmosphere, was new to her. She leant back in her chair and trifled with a book, and indulged the curiosities of the moment, like any foolish idler capable of nothing better. The soft air held her entranced as in an atmosphere of serene leisure and pleasantness. But it was not the afternoon languor of the lotus-eater, through which there comes a vague sadness of renunciation, a “we will return no more.” Diana had never felt her life more warmly than as she sat, with an unconscious smile, absorbing into herself all that cheerful commotion of movement, idle if you please, but in sympathy with all the life and activity which was going on about. A friendly fellowship, a sense of kindness, was in her mind. It was all new and sweet to her, this quiet amid the world of sound, this soft spectatorship of humanity. She had toiled along these common paths in her day, and therefore understood it all better than any ordinary favourite of fortune could do: and this made her enter into everything with a genial fellow-feeling which it is difficult for those who have spent all their life on the higher levels, to possess. Had any emergency happened, Diana would have been as ready to help as any busy woman in the street. But this dolce far niente overcame all her usual activities, and lulled her very being. She had seen Pandolfini come in, and had waved her hand to him, not going back within doors, as he thought, but only subsiding among her flowers. After that little movement of friendly salutation she saw him go out some time after, rushing, with his head down, and without even a glance at her balcony. Was anything wrong? had anything happened? She was sympathetically disturbed for the moment; but, after all, she knew nothing of Mr. Pandolfini’s affairs, and the idea floated out of her mind. She had the friendliest feeling for the Italian—more, she had that half-flattered, half-sorry sense that he thought more of herself than could ever be recompensed to him, which often makes a woman almost remorsefully tender of a man for whom she has no love. But that he did not look up, that he rushed out of the room with his head down, might not that mean only that he was more occupied than usual? “I hope there is nothing wrong,” she said to herself; then dismissed him from her thoughts.

But a few minutes later Mrs. Hunstanton came in also, with a little rush. There was care, and many puckers upon her brow. She got quickly over the usual salutations, kissed Diana with an air distrait, and dashed at once into her subject. “Have you seen Pandolfini this morning?” she said. It was a bad habit she had, and which a woman, if she is not very much on her guard, is likely to take from her husband, to call men by their surnames. Mr. Hunstanton was not particular on this point.

“I saw him come in some time ago—and I saw him go out,” said Diana. “I see everything here. I have taken a lazy fit this morning: it is so pleasant——”

“But about Pandolfini,” her friend cried, interrupting her. “Diana, I am dreadfully frightened that Tom has been making a muddle. I am sure he has got a finger in the pie.”

“In what pie?” Diana was inclined to laugh, but restrained herself—for did not Mr. Hunstanton manage to get a finger into every possible kind of pie?

“You know what I think of Pandolfini: you remember what I said to you the other night——”

“You said—nonsense: pardon me—but you know all that is utterly out of the question. It is unkind indeed to suppose anything of a man which he does not betray himself——”

“As if he had not betrayed himself! As if you did not know as well as I do, and a great deal better! Diana, I am going to put it to you once more. Is there the slightest chance for him? Now, don’t keep up your Noes from mere consistency’s sake. I am sure some women do—till they repent it: but I should have no patience with you, who ought to know better! You are not a fool, Diana. You know something of life. You understand that a good, faithful, honest, honourable man—who loves you——”

The tears had come to Mrs. Hunstanton’s eyes. Tom was a great trouble to her often. He was always having a finger in everybody’s pie—but still——she felt as he did that it was something to have a good, faithful, honourable man by your side. Her view was perhaps even higher than his, though she was frank in owning that a married woman’s life was no path of roses. She felt disposed to press matrimony upon Diana even more warmly, more sentimentally, than her husband had pressed it upon Pandolfini—but her hopes of success were a great deal lower. She looked wistfully at her friend through the moisture in her eyes.

“Must I reply to you seriously,” said Diana, “as if there was really something in it? And yet you know so well what I must say. No, there could not be any chance—not if I wished it myself, which I do not.”

“Why, in the name of heaven!—why should there be no chance?” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, vehemently.

“Because—must I explain further?—I have got a trade, an occupation. Women with that are better not to marry; and this would make me refuse any one.”

“Everybody says that men are better managers than women, do business better, could look after your estate better than you could.”

“Hush! I don’t mean to try,” said Diana, with a smile, “whatever anybody says; and I should not wish it, even without this reason,” she said, with the ghost of a sigh.

“You sigh, Diana; you blushed the other night; you don’t dislike Pandolfini?”

Diana put her hand lightly on her friend’s eager mouth. “How can I dislike,” she cried, with a voice full of emotion, “one who—cares for me? Oh, don’t speak of it—don’t make me think of it! I have—done as much myself, once. Yes, I need not blush to say it”—though she did blush, down to the edge of her white collar and up to the roots of her hair. “So that I know. And I am grateful to him, but no more——”

“He would be content with that, Diana,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, red herself to her very finger-tips in the confusion and dismay of this sudden and utterly unexpected confidence, into which she felt that she had betrayed her friend.

“Hush! not another word. It is profane,” said Diana, below her breath.

Mrs. Hunstanton was standing behind her. She gave her a sudden hug with tremulous fervour, and kissed her forehead. She dared not ask any questions, nor, indeed, in the sudden shock and surprise, say anything on this wonderful new subject, which filled her mind with questions and suggestions. With a half sob she restrained herself from speech, and the effort was no small one, as Diana felt. She turned half round in her chair, and met her friend’s eyes.

“You see I am not without understanding, nor even careless,” she said.

“I never thought so—I never thought so, Diana! I am too bewildered—I won’t attempt to say anything. But that only makes it all the worse. I know Tom has been doing something. Tom has got him into some scrape or other. I saw him rush out, with his face like ashes, looking more dead than alive.”

“I could have nothing to do with that.”

“Heaven knows!” said the poor lady; “but Tom has. Of that we may be certain. Tom has a finger in the pie.”

But Mrs. Hunstanton knew nothing more. Her husband had been mysterious and lofty all the morning, breathing hints and inferences, “I could, an if I would;” but he had been somewhat afraid of what his wife would say had he made her aware that he was ambassador for Pandolfini to Sophy. To Sophy! Mr. Hunstanton knew that his wife was capable of snatching his credentials, so to speak, out of his hand, if he had betrayed their destination. But he had not been able to refrain from hints, which she had received with eager yet impatient ears. “Don’t you meddle with Pandolfini’s love affairs,” she had said with irritation; but it was not to be expected that this vague caution could produce any effect.

Diana remained in her balcony after her friend had gone, but no longer in the same mood. She was agitated, not painfully, yet not happily. The past was long past, and she did not brood over it; but yet there was something as strange as sad in this off repetition of the same theme. Why should it be to the wrong people that love was so often given, vain love, not sweet to any one, either to those who felt or those who called it forth? By what strange fate was it that some man or woman should be always making his or her heart a gift to some one who cared nothing for it? Diana was in most ways happy—at least, happy enough—happier far than the greater part of humanity, and than many a woman who had got the desire of her heart. She was neither afraid to look back into the past, nor dissatisfied with the present. But yet, there had been hard moments in her existence; and when she thought of Pandolfini, the tears came into her eyes which she was no longer tempted to shed for herself. Poor Pandolfini! but he would get over it, as one must. There was nothing unworthy in it, nothing to be ashamed of. A man does not break his heart for such a mistake, though it might be, she added to herself sadly, the turn of the tide for him, and change the colour of his days, as it had changed her own more or less. She was too wise to throw herself back into the personal phase of the question, or endeavour to revive within herself the feelings of the time when happiness seemed impossible for her, and all the glory of life over. Life was not over; she felt it and its greater purposes, and all that was best in it, rising strong and warm in her heart. And so would Pandolfini after a while. He was a man, and had compensations upon which women could not fall back; but yet she was sorry with a tender fellow-feeling, which brought tears to her eyes.

Late in the afternoon she received a visit of a very different description. The Nortons had not known what to do. Pandolfini did not make his appearance as they had expected at once, and Sophy had even seen him hastening along the street, away from the Palazzo dei Sogni—with a mixture of surprise, consternation, and incipient offence. Fortunately she had not seen him come and go as the others had done, for it was hot upstairs in the terzo piano, not shady and embowered as Diana was in her loggia, and even the most curious gazer could not spend the morning at her window. They supposed he would come in the evening, something must have occurred to detain him. But in the meantime, Mrs. Norton was of opinion that it would never do to keep dear Diana in the dark, or to delay breaking to her the important intelligence that their plans were now changed: “Of course, it must quite depend on circumstances whether we can go with her to Switzerland or not. Most likely dear Mr. Pandolfini will wish——”

“Oh, auntie! how can you talk of such things?” said Sophy, giving her a vehement hug. But she was very willing to carry the news to Diana. Indeed, the two little ladies were in a state of excitement which precluded occupation. They could do nothing but sit with their two little heads together and talk; and what was the good of having such a wonderful thing happen if they did not tell somebody? “Besides, Diana has always been so kind, and always so fond of you, my darling,” Mrs. Norton said. “She has a right to know.”

Accordingly, they fluttered downstairs very important, though blushing and breathless, as became the kind of news they had to tell, charging Filomena, their maid-of-all-work, to fetch them at once if Signor Pandolfini came. Somehow or other by instinct they hurried past the Hunstantons’ door. “You may be sure she will not like it at all: but that, of course, is nothing to us,” said the aunt; and they drew their skirts together and made a little run past the dangerous place. Diana had been out in the meantime, and coming back had sat down at her writing-table to read her letters and to ponder some proposals from her lawyers which required thinking of. Her lawyers, as has been said, were in a state of perpetual resistance to her schemes of liberality, holding back with all their might, and throwing every obstacle they could in her way: and her correspondence with them was interesting by reason of this long-continued duel, which was carried on now on their side with a respectful consciousness of her power and ability to hold her own in the argument, which had not existed at first. She put her papers away when her visitors came with a certain reluctance, yet with her usual sympathy with other people. Probably it was nothing of any importance that those two little people had come to say: never mind—no doubt it seemed important to them: and it would have wounded them had she looked preoccupied. So she pushed her papers aside, and gave them all her attention. It did not occur to them that Diana could have anything to do more interesting than to hear their communication. They came in with a flutter of delicious excitement. This was the best of it: indeed it was scarcely so delightful to receive Pandolfini’s declaration, as it was to tell Diana that Sophy was engaged,—ecstatic word!

“We have come to tell you of something very important, Diana,” said Mrs. Norton. “When anything happens to Sophy she never can rest till you know: and this is so important, and it may alter your plans too: for of course it may not be possible for us to carry out——”

“Oh, auntie! Diana will think us so strange, so little to be relied upon——”

“What is this important news?” said Diana, smiling; “do not keep me in suspense.”

And then, speaking both together, and with a great deal of blushing and hesitation, and choice of appropriate words on Mrs. Norton’s part and interruption on Sophy’s, they managed to get out the wonderful piece of information that Sophy was “engaged.”

“Sophy—engaged!” cried Diana, with all the surprise they had hoped for; “this is news indeed! Engaged! how cleverly she must have done it, to raise no suspicions. Yes, of course I wish her every kind of happiness—but with whom?”

“Oh, indeed I was never deceived—I have seen all along how things were going,” cried Mrs. Norton. “Yes, to whom? I wonder if Diana would ever find out—I wonder! but no, no one, I feel sure, ever thought of such a thing but I.”

Diana looked from one to the other, really puzzled and full of inquiries. “Is it—you must not be angry, Sophy—but I do hope it is the best man in the world, though we have laughed at him so much—William Snodgrass? Nay, don’t be angry. He is the only one I can think of—I am at my wits’ end.”

“William Snodgrass! dear Bill!” said Sophy, mimicking the tone in which the rector spoke of the curate. “When you know I never could bear him, Diana!”

“Then, who is it?” said Diana, shaking her head, yet with all the calm of perfect serenity. She drew the girl towards her, and kissed Sophy kindly. “I need not wait for my good wishes till I have found out,” she said. “If you are as happy as I wish you, you will be very happy. You wicked little thing, to steal a march upon us like this!”

“Oh, I did not steal a march upon you: oh, ask auntie,” cried Sophy, burying her head on Diana’s shoulder. The only thing that tried Diana’s temper and never-failing indulgence was these clinging embraces, in which she did not know how to take her part.

“The fact is,” said Mrs. Norton, “that we have strained a point in coming to tell you so soon. But I could not bear that you should not know at once—you who have always been so fond of Sophy—indeed I am sure a mother could not have been more kind. I said to her, Diana must know: I cannot put off telling Diana: especially as perhaps it may make a difference in her plans. Yes, indeed, I have seen what was coming. I have felt all along that more was in his ways than met the eye. Before you came over, Diana—when we were here first, and feeling a little strange—oh, do you remember, Sophy, how kind, how very kind, he used to be?”

Diana looked at them more and more surprised. Who could it be? Some young Italian whom she had not remarked—or some travelling Englishman, perhaps, who had just come back after “doing” Rome and Florence, as so many did. Both of these classes were to be found among Mr. Hunstanton’s friends.

“Yes, he always distinguished us—not even Sophy only, but me for her sake. Just what such a chivalrous man would do. You will divine now, Diana, who it is. Dear Mr. Pandolfini! And he is so modest. He had so little confidence in himself that it was Mr. Hunstanton who came to us first to break the ice. He was so afraid she would say No.”

Diana listened confounded. She looked from Sophy to her aunt with lips falling apart in her wonder and consternation. She did not hear anything Mrs. Norton said after his name. “Mr. Pandolfini! Mr. Pandolfini!—are you sure there is no mistake?” she said with a gasp.

“Mistake! oh no, there is no mistake!” they both cried in a breath. Diana came to herself with a sudden sense of shame, for all the very different sentiments she had been putting into his mind. Her face was suddenly covered with a vivid blush. What an absurd mistake to make! She had been so sorry for him; and all the time it was Sophy, and he was the happiest of men. She blushed, and then she laughed, but there was a kind of agitation in both; for to feel that one has so entirely misjudged a man, and been so vain, so secure of one’s own superior attractions! It was too ridiculous! She felt angry and ashamed of herself. And then there was something so utterly incongruous, so absurd, in the conjunction—Mr. Pandolfini! Could any one believe it? The two little women opposite enjoyed her surprise. They enjoyed even the discomfiture which they did not comprehend. Could Diana have thought of him herself? This was the thought that flashed across both their minds.

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Diana. “You have indeed taken me entirely by surprise. I never would have thought of Mr. Pandolfini. Mr. Pandolfini! Nay, you must not be angry, Sophy; but he is so much older, so much more serious, somewhat so entirely different from you!”

“Is it not this harmony in diversity that makes the sweetest union?” said Mrs. Norton, rising into eloquence. “Oh yes, it is so! Ah, my dear, I am not so clever as you, but there is something in experience that is never taught in books. I saw it all along. I perceived that dear Mr. Pandolfini’s delightful mind felt the refreshment of innocence like my Sophy’s. He always kept his eye upon her. Often I have been surprised at it, how he should find out just when we wanted anything, just when he could be of use; not always at her side, as a young man would have been, but keeping his eye on her. Ah! that unobtrusive unselfish love is always the deepest, and it is but few girls that call it forth. She ought to be very proud of such devotion: but I saw it all along.”

Diana listened with her mind in a maze. Perhaps it was all true. Mrs. Norton’s instincts, her watchful maternal eye, and that minute observation in which gentle gossips excel, how should these have been deceived? Yes, yes, no doubt she must be right; and in that case what a vain self-admirer, what an absurd self-deceiver must Diana be! She was filled with such lively shame that it closed her lips. That she should have thought it was herself on whom Mr. Pandolfini’s heart was set, and that it should turn out to be Sophy! That she should be so sorry for him, driven to betray herself out of tender pity for him, when, lo, it turned out that he was the happiest man in the world! Once more Diana laughed, coming round to see the comical aspect of her own confusion—for, after all, this did not matter to anybody but herself. And there was the greatest relief as well as a little disappointment in finding that the object of her unnecessary pity could so easily make himself happy, and had no need to be pitied—which was the drollest conclusion. “Pardon me for laughing,” she said; “indeed I hope they will both be very happy. It is not ridicule but surprise.”

“Ridicule! Oh no, there is no ground for ridicule,” said Mrs. Norton. “It is the most natural thing in the world to me. I have seen it all along.”