Pandolfini rushed out of the house in a state of misery and despair impossible to describe. He had not made any explanation to Mr. Hunstanton of the real state of affairs. He was struck dumb; the earth seemed to open under his feet, and everything solid in the world to melt away. He stood giddy and miserable on the edge of this precipice, feeling that he did not dare to take any further step one way or another. The dilemma in which he found himself seemed more terrible than anything that had ever befallen mortal man. In the first place, Diana was lost to him, there had never been any hope for him; all his delicious fancies of last night had been dreams founded on a lie. She had never thought of him, never considered him as more than an acquaintance: it was all a fiction, all a delusion, upon which his momentary but ecstatic hopes had been built. For the moment this crushed him almost more than the other practical side of the mistake, which he did not realise. Twenty-four hours before he had known equally that Diana was out of his reach, that for him to seek her was folly, that, however he might love, he must go upon his way, and make no sign: and that this brief climax of life to him, this love-dream, this unexpected undesired revelation of a something in existence which might have been higher than his sweetest hopes, and dearer than his dearest dreams—was nothing, a passing vision of no real importance to him or to any one. He had known this very well yesterday; but it was infinitely more bitter to him to-day. Then indeed he had felt as if everything worth living for would go away with her, as if life would be utterly blank to him, without meaning or grace—but he had faced the blank, mournfully yet manfully, knowing that nothing better could be.

Now, however, after he had been led to deceive himself, had been forced into it, after such resistance as he was capable of making to an apparent joy which was the crown of all possible and impossible wishes, now!—— The bitterness, the keen sting of disappointment, the resentment with himself for ever having consented to this delusion, all mingled with and intensified the insupportable pang that tore him asunder, the sense that it was all illusion, that no one save himself in his folly had ever thought of Diana as his object: that she had known nothing of his love, and had not even given him the hearing, the consideration, which were implied in a refusal. This it was that wounded him most wildly, driving him almost mad with its sting. Had she refused to listen to his suit, yet she would have known it at least, would have been aware that he loved her, obliged to carry the knowledge of that fact along with her wherever she went; and, being courteous and sweet, and full of tenderness for others, Pandolfini knew that in that case she would have given him many a compassionate and gentle thought. But even of this he was robbed, for she did not know. The very possibility of a hearing, the suggestion, had never been his. Diana knew nothing of his heart, had never thought of him at all, would never think of him more. Could it be possible that any man had ever had such a wrong done him? To be buoyed up with hopes which were dashed by a refusal, ah, that might have been hard to bear! but how much harder to know that these hopes had never existed, that they were delusion and mistake and nothing more! There was a stifled rage and mortification in his misery, rage with himself for ever having believed it, mortification beyond words at the depth of vanity and folly in himself which was thus revealed to him. Poor Pandolfini! it had not been vanity: but this was how in his misery it appeared to him. Fool! to think that Diana, Diana! could waste any thought upon such as he!

This fancy drove him forth wildly from Mr. Hunstanton’s presence. He dared not speak, or make any answer, in case of betraying feelings which the good Hunstanton could not understand; and it was some time before he realised the real practical effect of his good Hunstanton’s proceedings. A vessel cannot be filled above its measure, and Pandolfini was too much overwhelmed with the absolute loss of Diana to take into his mind the fact that this loss involved something else equally appalling. He was not to have the gentil donna, the princess of his dreams; but that was not all. Something had been thrust into his arms instead. Something? What? He stood still in the middle of the street when the fact burst upon him, and gave a sudden wild cry of despair. It was not so wonderful there as it would be here that a man should cry aloud in the extremity of suffering. What was this that was thrust into his arms instead? When he stood there and fairly contemplated what had happened to him, any car of Juggernaut that had driven over him and crushed him into a shapeless mass upon the stones would have done Pandolfini a kindness—or so at least in his wretchedness he thought.

Mr. Hunstanton did not understand his visitor’s strange change of mood. To come in so eager, white with anxiety, breathless with excitement,—and then, when the good news was told him, to stand aghast for a moment, to walk away to the window, to make no reply. These were all the acts of a madman. Was his head turned?—was there a screw loose somewhere, as was the case so often with “these Italians”? Next time, no doubt, he would be laughing and crying with joy—always excitable, always in one extreme or another. Mr. Hunstanton forgot the peculiarity of his friend’s character, and classed him thus summarily with his race, by way of getting rid of a cold shiver of doubt, a momentary uncomfortableness on his own part, as to whether he had, as he had intended, carried out Pandolfini’s instructions to the letter, and acted for him according to his wishes. He quenched out this alarming thought by the reflection that a foreigner, and especially an Italian, acted exactly opposite to what an Englishman would do in the circumstances. He felt it so much, that was how it was. It overpowered him. These foreign fellows, even the best of them, let themselves go. They gave in to their feelings. They had not the self-control which is peculiar to the Briton, and did not even think self-control necessary. That was all about it. Pandolfini was so much overcome by his success and happiness that it took all power of speech from him. He was (no doubt) actually struck dumb from excess of feeling. By-and-by he would come back and throw himself on his friend’s neck, and thank him for his exertions. There could be no doubt that this was how it would be.

Yet, nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that there was a cold shiver, a cloud of doubt, an uncomfortable sense of uncertainty in Mr. Hunstanton’s mind. He did not feel at his ease, or happy. There was something in his friend’s look, in the blank misery of his eyes, that discomfited him. He sat in his study for an hour or two, very uneasy, listening to all the steps that went up the stairs. He even posted Gigi, his servant, at the door, to bring him news if Pandolfini should come back. And when there was nothing to be heard or seen of the truant, and the day began to decline, and the hour of the Ave Maria approached, which was the end of all things, the good man could dissemble his anxiety no longer. He went out stealthily (for it was time to dress for dinner) to look for his friend; and found him after a long walk very near his own house, standing by the parapet looking down into the Arno. The early moon had come out into the sky, while yet the glories of sunset were not over. Pandolfini was staring intently at the reflection of the moon in the water—he was entirely absorbed in it. When Hunstanton touched him on the shoulder, he woke slowly, as one in a dream.

“I say, Pandolfini, my good fellow, this won’t do, you know,” he cried. “I dare say you like to dream in this way. All fellows in love (I suppose) do; so they say, at least. But you must not give yourself up to that till you have seen them. You ought to go and see them. English ladies, you know, are not accustomed to that kind of courtship. I took upon myself to break the ice for you, and they took it very well, on the score, you know, that this was how things were done by your country folks, and that it was your modesty and so forth. But they expected you to go and follow it up; so did I. English ways are different. We don’t understand that sort of way of making love by proxy. To tell you the truth, I should not have let any one do it for me. But you must follow it up. You ought to have followed it up before now.”

“Follow it up?” said Pandolfini. He had returned to his gazing into the river, after rousing up momentarily to hear what Hunstanton had to say.

“Yes, to be sure,” cried the other, getting more and more nervous, taking him by the arm in his fright and impatience, and shaking him slightly. “My good fellow, you must rouse up. It is not like you. It is not quite nice, you know, after sending such a commission to a girl, not to go yourself at the very first moment when you understand she is disposed to hear you. It is not—well, it doesn’t look quite—honourable.”

Pandolfini gave a start of quick resentment, and looked at his friend, who had begun to be extremely anxious. Mr. Hunstanton’s ruddy countenance had fallen. He was limp and colourless with suspense. A look of fright had taken the place of that fine confidence which usually distinguished him. “Good heavens! have I put my foot in it?” was what he was saying to himself, and the reflection of this question was very plainly to be read in his face.

“What did you say?” said Pandolfini, somewhat hoarsely. “Follow it up? Yes, I understand: yes, yes, I go. You are right; I do not doubt you are right. But it is all—strange to me—and new,” he added, with a kind of smile which was not very consoling. It was a smile, however, and Hunstanton did his best to feel satisfied.

“To be sure, to be sure,” he said, encouragingly. “This sort of thing is always new—and strange. Don’t be afraid. You’ll soon get used to it. You’ll find it come quite natural,” he added, slapping his friend on the back in a way that was intended to be jocular. “Come along, though, you must not be shy. If you make haste, you have time yet before dinner—indeed they dine early, I know.”

“Before—dinner? but I am not dressed. I am not ready for the evening,” said Pandolfini, spreading out his hands with an air of dismay.

“Dressed! fiddlesticks! at a moment like this. Pandolfini, you really disappoint me,” cried Mr. Hunstanton, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. “If you are going to shilly-shally like this, why on earth did you employ me? Think of that poor girl, after committing herself, kept waiting and wondering all this time, and not knowing what to think.”

“I will come—I will come,” said Pandolfini, hoarsely; and he made half-a-dozen rapid steps in the direction of the Palazzo dei Sogni: then he stopped abruptly. “My best friend,” he said, with a smile, “you will let me follow you after, in a little—a very, very few minutes? This is, as you say, a moment——it raises the heart—there is much to think of. But I will come, almost as soon as you are there. Yes, I give you my word. But it is alone that I must go.”

“Surely, surely,” cried good Mr. Hunstanton. “We’ll see you after, in the evening. God bless me! the fellow didn’t think I meant to go with him to Sophy,” he added within himself. “If that is manners in Italy, thank heavens it is not in England; and catch me making love for any man again! As sure as I am a living man, I thought he was going to cry off,” Mr. Hunstanton said to himself, with a cold perspiration breaking out all over him. He never had, he acknowledged afterwards, such a fright in his life.

When he was left alone, Pandolfini returned to his gaze over the parapet. He did not venture to look at the moon in the sky; but the reflection of her, all broken and uneven by the crisp of the little wavelets which the evening breeze was ruffling upon Arno—that he might still look at for a moment. His eyes were dry and burning, and yet it was as if he looked at that moon through the mist of tears. Words came into his mind, words of her language, all of which had seemed delicate and sacred to her in this sweet dreamtime that was now so fatally past. He was not so familiar with English that this line should return to his ear at such a moment, as it might so easily have done to a natural-born subject of the greatest of poets—but yet it came. He knew his Shakespeare almost as well as he knew his Dante, and what could an Italian say more?—

He said these words over and over to himself; and by-and-by the bells began to chime all round him, telling the Ave Maria. Hail, all hail, oh blessed among women! This was more than Pandolfini could bear. He put his hands up to his ears, and crushed the sound out till it was over. When the tingling air was still again, he turned resolutely on his way. He was still in his morning dress, the excuse which had served him with Hunstanton: but what did it matter? He did not feel that he could trust himself even to pause again, much less turn back. He went with steady determination along Arno, seeing the lights shine in the river, with a wavering glimmer and movement: and in himself, too, notwithstanding his steady pace, there was a wavering play of giddiness, a sense of instability, the earth reeling under his feet, the heavens revolving about him. He went on all the same to the palace of the dreams, where he had given all that was in him to give, for nothing—and where now, strange flicker of human vanity and mutual ignorance, another heart was about to be given him for nothing—for less than the asking. He would not look at the light in Diana’s window, he went straight up past the door where his heart had beat last night with such wild gasps of expectation and hope. Had he obeyed his impulse then, burst into her presence, and told her! Had he but done it! Then at least she would have known, and he would not have been so utterly deceived. This thought swept into his mind as he passed, but he gave it no willing entertainment. He went up with a resolute step, up, beyond even the Hunstantons’, to Mrs. Norton’s door.

They had given him up for the day, with a little vexation, a little disappointment, and were wondering whether they would meet him in the evening as usual, and how they ought to comport themselves. As for Mrs. Norton, she was beginning to think she had been rash, and to regret her acceptance of the suitor on Mr. Hunstanton’s word alone. It was nonsense, she fell, to talk of such a man as Pandolfini as too timid to plead his own cause. Had she been too rash? Sophy, whatever thoughts might be hers, made no sign. A lover was like a new doll to Sophy: it was more. It gave her importance, made somebody of her in a moment: and she was not going to do anything which could pull her down from this enviable elevation. She would not say she was disappointed or alarmed; but all her senses were on the alert, and she heard his step coming up the stair with a rising throb of the heart. “It may be only a parcel—it may be only the newspapers,” she cried, clinging to her aunt. “If it is him, my darling, I must rush away. It is you he will want to see first,” cried Mrs. Norton; but even while she said this, Pandolfini walked into the room. They both uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. He was very pale and excited, but quite calm in external appearance. Mrs. Norton made an effort to free herself from Sophy, and with a smile to him, was hastening away.

“Madam,” said Pandolfini, “what can I say to you? The good Hunstanton has authorised me to come. He tells me that you have been so kind, so generous, as to confide to me the happiness of one most dear. How can I repay such trust as you have had in me? It will be not a matter for words; but that I may live to show it from year to year.”

“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton, not without dignity—“you are a good man, and a man of honour. This is why I have not hesitated to do what might otherwise seem imprudent, and commit my best treasure to you.”

She could not have made a more appropriate speech, or one that was better timed. “I pray God,” he said, gravely, “that this best treasure may not find you imprudent, nor that you have done what you will regret.” And he took Sophy’s hand and kissed it. The seriousness of his face did not relax, neither did his paleness warm with any gleam of colour as he did so. Sophy blushed in a rosy warmth of happiness. She was surprised, indeed, that he should let her hand go so easily. Not so do the lovers in books, of whom the girl had heard and read. And there was a pause, in which none of the three knew exactly what to do or to say.

“Have you dined?” said Mrs. Norton, to make a way of escape for herself; for, of course, what he wanted was to get rid of her, she felt sure. What so natural? “You know we dine early; but I was just going to order tea. As you are going to have an English wife,” she added, with a laugh which jarred dreadfully with the portentous gravity of his aspect, “you must learn to like such an English meal as tea;” and pleased with this little speech, which she felt to be both graceful and appropriate, the good little woman hurried towards the door.

“Nay,” cried Pandolfini, hurriedly stopping her. “I have only come in a great hurry to—to thank you for a confidence so generous. I have not sufficient of time to stay. It is to my regret, my great regret. But I could not let the evening pass without saying how I thank you. What I feel—what—gratitude—what devotion! The evening must not pass without this.”

“But cannot you stay with us?” said Mrs. Norton.

“And oh! can’t you come this evening as usual?—it is one of Diana’s nights,” cried Sophy, with countenance aghast.

“Alas!” he cried, with a face in which there was misery enough for that or a much greater misfortune. “What can I do? I am rent asunder. I have my heart in two places. But I cannot come. I have—business. Indeed it is not possible. I must hasten away.”

“Oh,” cried Sophy, “I call that hard—very hard: not to be together the first night. You have never had business before——”

“No; I have never had business before. It is more needful now that I put my affairs in order,” he said, and looked at her with an attempt at a smile.

“Of course we understood that,” said Mrs. Norton. “Of course, my darling! it is quite reasonable. Dear Mr. Pandolfini must have many things to do: but you must allow it is natural that Sophy should be disappointed—the first night, as she says,” added the aunt, with a look at Pandolfini. Once more he took Sophy’s hand and put it to his lips.

“She is an angel of goodness,” he said with fervour, kissing her hand again; but then he kissed Mrs. Norton’s hand (which seemed to Sophy unnecessary), and after a very few words more, hastened away,—leaving them, it is needless to say, somewhat dismayed, they could scarcely tell how—and yet overawed and dazzled. They stood and looked at each other for a moment or two in silence. There was a half-pout on Sophy’s lips, and a look about her eyes, as if for small provocation she might cry; but she ventured on no other demonstration. And then Mrs. Norton took the matter up, and put down all objections with a high hand.

“Now, Sophy, my pet,” she said, “I congratulate you with all my heart—but you see now you have got to deal with a gentleman, not with a poor old auntie that does everything you wish whether it is convenient or not: with a gentleman, my love—one who has business that cannot be trifled with, you know. And you must just make up your mind to have him when you can, not whenever you like. For, my love, you have entered on a new phase of life, and this is what you must make up your mind to, now.”

There was something in the grandeur of this address, and the strange thrill with which she felt the reality of the new position, which silenced Sophy. She stopped in the middle of her pout. It might not be so satisfactory, but it was more imposing than anything she had dreamed of. A lover who only kissed your hand, that was not according to Sophy’s preconceived idea of lovers—but it was very imposing. And then, of course, he was an Italian, and this must be the dignified Italian way!