There was a certain solemnity about the party in Diana’s rooms that evening. Sophy and Mrs. Norton came downstairs in their best dresses, with an air of importance not to be mistaken; and was it not quite natural that they should look important? No human circumstances can possibly be more interesting than those of the bridegroom and bride who have chosen each other from the world, and who present themselves to the world smiling, hand in hand, the ever-renewed type of human progression: primitive beginning, over again, of a new world. The completeness of the position was spoiled by the fact that the fiancÉ was not present; but that was not the fault of the little ladies, who knew nothing about his reasons for being absent,—or rather supposed that they did know all about them, and had the privilege of representing their new piece of property, and explaining for him. “I am so sorry Mr. Pandolfini will not be able to be here,” said Mrs. Norton. “He would have liked it of all things, I need not say; but he had business to attend to. It is easy to understand how he should have business, looking forward, as he is, to a change in his condition—to such a change! and he felt sure that you would excuse him, Diana.”

“Surely,” said Diana; “there is nothing to excuse.” She was looking grave, more thoughtful than usual—or so at least two or three people in the room thought, who were thunderstruck by the unexpected news of Pandolfini’s engagement. Mrs. Hunstanton, who watched her very closely, and who was in a state of suppressed excitement, which she scarcely could manage to conceal, thought that her friend was pale. But that was probably her own imagination, which was very lively, and at the present moment extremely busy, inventing motives and sentiments all round.

“Oh, but indeed he would think it necessary to excuse himself. He has such fine feelings, and he knows all you have been to our darling, Diana. He knows how fond you are of her—taking almost a mother’s interest: and of course he would have been here to show his gratitude, if it had been possible. Every kindness that has ever been shown to my Sophy will be doubly felt by him.”

This the little lady said with an expansion of her little person and swelling of her bosom, which, even amid her consciousness that something was in all this more than met the eye, struck Diana with a sense of the ludicrous which she could not control. She laughed in spite of herself.

“I am sure Mr. Pandolfini will feel everything he ought to feel,” she said; “but you must not teach him to be grateful when there is no occasion for gratitude. You know it is not a sentiment I care for.”

“Yes, I know, dear Diana,” cried Mrs. Norton, kissing her suddenly. “You never will allow any one to thank you. But is it not all owing to you? But for you we never should have come here; and if we had not come here, the chances are we never should have met dear Mr. Pandolfini. So we owe it all to an ever-watchful Providence—and to you.”

Diana could not but smile at the conjunction. “It is Providence you must thank,” she said; “I don’t think I counted for much in it. Is Sophy very happy? That is the chief thing to think about.”

“She is in a maze of happiness,” said Mrs. Norton, fervently. “She is so humble-minded. She thinks so much more of others than of herself. That he should have thought of a poor little thing like me, she is always saying: and I cannot persuade her that she is good enough for any man, and, indeed, too good for most—as you and I know, Diana—not if I were to talk for a year. We know her value, but she is too innocent to know it. And oh, what a blessing, my dear, what a blessing that one so well fitted to appreciate her should have fallen to Sophy’s share!”

“Diana!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton in her ear on the other side, drawing her away; “how can you have the patience to listen to that little—— What is to be done now? Oh! what is to be done? My heart is breaking for that poor man: and it is all Tom’s fault.”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Diana. “There is no poor man in question; there is a happy man.”

“Diana! how can you insult him by thinking so? Oh, poor Pandolfini! He is being made a sacrifice, a victim—and what can I do? It is all Tom’s fault.”

“Indeed, you are doing Mr. Hunstanton wrong. I only blush for myself that ever took up such a foolish fancy. It is far, far better as it is. I told you we had no right to conjecture a man’s feelings; and you see for once I am proved to be right: though you over-persuaded me, and I am ashamed of it,” said Diana, with a blush and a laugh. “However, fortunately there is no harm done.”

“Oh Diana, how I wonder at you! It is you who are doing poor Pandolfini wrong. He think of that little doll! He trusted his cause to Tom, thinking, perhaps, there was no need to name the name—as, indeed, there was not to any one with eyes in his head: and Tom like a fool, Tom like a busybody—oh, heaven forgive me! I don’t mean to say any ill of my husband, but that is how he has behaved,—Tom has gone and pledged this poor man’s life to somebody he can never care for, somebody quite unworthy of him. Diana, you may be cool about it; but I think it will break my heart.”

“But you have no evidence of this,” cried Diana, in consternation. She looked at the smiling Sophy, all pink with blushes and beaming with smiles as she received everybody’s congratulations, and at Mrs. Norton, important and stately as became the aunt of a bride-elect. The incongruity between this little fluttering pair and the grave and dignified Pandolfini was striking enough, but to imagine their easy commonplaceness entangled in such a tragical complication of mistake and misery and inevitable suffering, seemed beyond the reach of ordinary imagination. Diana turned quickly to her friend, who, half hidden behind, regarded the scene with a face full of anxiety and distress. Mrs. Hunstanton’s puckered brows, her eyes in which the tears seemed ready to start, her paleness and trembling, were almost as great a visible contrast to the complacent happiness of the Nortons as was Pandolfini to the girl who was going to be his wife. “Mrs. Hunstanton,” said Diana, in a low tone, “this is the wildest fancy. It is not possible. You can have no proof of it. Mr. Hunstanton is—is——he is the kindest of men. He would not hurt a fly. How could he do such a thing, and make his friend unhappy? No, no; I cannot believe it. It is you and not he who have been mistaken.”

Mrs. Hunstanton caught Diana by the arm. She poured into her ear the whole story, partly as divined by herself, partly as confessed by her husband, who kept, as Diana could see, prowling uneasily round the central group, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the door. His wife had made him wretched enough, but he had done what could not be undone; and there was always the chance that his wife might have been wrong, a supposition so much more likely than that he was in the wrong himself. Her reproaches had made Mr. Hunstanton extremely uncomfortable, and no doubt there was something in the corroborative evidence of Pandolfini’s very strange behaviour, which of itself had given him a thrill of terror. And business! What business could the Italian have to detain him? He did not for a moment believe in this, but notwithstanding Mrs. Norton’s assurance to the contrary, still looked for Pandolfini’s arrival. It was absurd! He could not mean to stay away to-night: when he came Mr. Hunstanton had made up his mind to ask him point-blank what it all meant. Had he, or had he not, given him a commission? and had he, or had he not, Mr. Tom Hunstanton, carried out his wish? This would, beyond all manner of doubt, make everything clear.

Not even this hope, however, could still Mrs. Hunstanton’s nervous restlessness. She went from Diana, by whom she had sat so long breathing out her pains and fears, to Mrs. Norton, who was now little inclined to be questioned, and who felt that a great deal was due to her new position. A feeling of being attacked had come into her mind, she could scarcely tell why, and when Mrs. Hunstanton crossed over the room to come to her, the little lady immediately buckled on her armour. Mrs. Hunstanton was too anxious to pick her words. She came and sat down by the important aunt, with the air of troubled haste and agitation very clearly visible in her face.

“I have not come to congratulate you,” she said, “because I was so very, very much surprised. I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Norton. You know it is not from want of interest in Sophy, but—were not you very much surprised yourself when this happened? Did it not strike you as very strange?”

Mrs. Hunstanton took credit to herself for putting the question so very gently, and “saving their feelings.” It seemed impossible to her that any one should resist such an appeal as this.

“Surprised!” said Mrs. Norton. “Oh, no indeed! I was not surprised. I had seen it all along.”

“You had—seen it all along?”

“Surely. Yes, I had seen it. Indifferent eyes may be deceived, but nothing can blind me where my Sophy is concerned. Yes: our dear Pandolfini is not the kind of man that is demonstrative, you know; but had you asked me three months ago,” said Mrs. Norton with gentle pride, “I could have told you exactly what was going to happen. I knew it all along.”

She looked at her questioner with a serene smile, and Mrs. Hunstanton, for her part, could only gasp and gaze at her with a consternation beyond words. But she would not give up even for this distinct repulse.

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, rallying her forces; “but—you won’t mind my speaking frankly? Nobody else has thought so, Mrs. Norton. He has seemed to entertain very different thoughts. I, for my part, have been quite deceived. I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but I have been watching Mr. Pandolfini very much of late, and I never suspected it was Sophy that was in his mind.”

Mrs. Norton smiled with gentle superiority. “I don’t know what you expect me to say, Mrs. Hunstanton. I have seen it, as I tell you, all along; and he must know best himself, one would suppose. When a gentleman proposes to a young lady, people do not usually set up their ideas of what they expected. He is the one that must know best.”

“I know—I know:” said Mrs. Hunstanton, driven to despair, and to a humility not at all in her way. What was there to answer to such a reasonable statement? She could not ask directly whether it was her husband who had done it all, and if it was only his word they had for Pandolfini’s sentiments. She was thoroughly wretched, and thoroughly subdued. “Have you seen him this evening?” she asked, faltering. That was the nearest approach she could make to the question she was longing to ask.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Norton, with smiling confidence. “He was with us just before we came here, and he was so sorry not to come with us. Knowing as he does our obligations to Diana, and feeling all her kindness, it quite grieved him not to come.”

“To Diana!” Mrs. Hunstanton repeated the words mechanically, catching them up without any clear comprehension of what the other said. Then she said, somewhat incoherently, “But you must have been startled, at least surprised, yourself—it must have taken you by surprise.”

“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Norton, meeting with a serene countenance the eyes full of care and trouble which her companion turned upon her, “I have already told you I had expected it all along.”

The inquirer withdrew baffled, with trembling lips and a clouded brow, leaving the little woman victorious. Mrs. Hunstanton was not used to such utter discomfiture, and bore it badly. She withdrew into a corner near the door. Perhaps Pandolfini would come after all, and she might waylay him, though she did not see what end would be served by so doing; for how could she ask him if it was true that it was Sophy and no other who was his choice? But Pandolfini did not come to answer any of these questions. He had never stayed away before.

The little community was convulsed by the news, but ended by accepting it, as what else was possible? It was not the first time that a community has been utterly taken by surprise by the announcement of a marriage. The small coterie at Pisa went through all the not unusual round of refusing to credit the report, being compelled to believe it, accepting it under protest, then forgetting the protest, and taking the matter for granted. At first it was supposed that the whole party would hasten home to prepare for an English wedding; but by-and-by it was rumoured about that Pandolfini did not wish to go to England for his bride, and that as there was nothing to wait for, the marriage would take place in Pisa, and the bride enter at once her Italian home. Some people wondered at this, some thought it very sensible, some were surprised at the ardour of the middle-aged lover, and some at the readiness of the girl’s friends to let her go; but, on the whole, it was quite reasonable, and the English visitors, who were all on the wing, were much amused by the excitement of such an unexpected event. They were doubly amused by the fact that Mrs. Hunstanton, under whose auspices the Nortons had appeared in society, was evidently disturbed, rather than pleased, by the marriage; and that Sophy’s great friend and patroness, the rich Miss Trelawny, did not throw herself into the arrangements with any enthusiasm.

And, of course, there were not wanting good-natured bystanders who averred that these ladies were disappointed, and that Miss Trelawny had intended the Italian for herself. Diana was but little disturbed, as may be supposed, by these insinuations, which, indeed, she never heard of; but she was disturbed by the complication of affairs, which she could not refuse to see through, now when it was fairly beneath her eyes.

Pandolfini was a very strange lover. He had become suddenly immersed in business—so much occupied that his visits to his betrothed were always hurried and brief. This was made necessary, he told them, by all the changes that had to be made, and successions rearranged, in consequence of this unexpected step in his life: and they were fain to accept the explanation. The strangest of all was, that notwithstanding that deep sense of obligation to Diana which it was Mrs. Norton’s delight to set forth, he never appeared in Diana’s rooms again. Once only they met by chance in Mrs. Norton’s little drawing-room, when all was nearly settled. He came in hurriedly, seeking Mrs. Norton, whom Diana also, by some unusual chance, had come to look for; and there they met alone, for both of the little ladies were out engaged in that occupation of shopping which furnishes the unoccupied female mind with so many delightful hours. Pandolfini was struck dumb by the sight of Diana, and she, as she hastened to explain how she came to be there, was so startled by his altered looks as almost to break down in her little speech. “They are out,” she said hurriedly; “I had just come to look for them.” And then she paused, faltering—“You are—ill—Mr. Pandolfini?”

“Ill? No, I am not ill. I am as I always am.”

“Not as you used to be,” said Diana, kindly; and then she added in haste, “but it is so long since I have seen you, that you may well have changed in the meantime. And I have never had the opportunity of congratulating—of wishing you—happiness.”

He looked at her for a moment with all his heart in his haggard face; then, turning suddenly away with an imploring gesture, hid his face in his hands.

What was she to do or say? There was no contesting now what she could read as in a book—the despair that had kept him out of her presence, that made him incapable either of meeting her eye or deceiving her now. He had no wish to deceive her,—if, indeed, there was one thing more than another for which his forlorn heart had longed, it was that she should know.

“Forgive me,” he said, in a broken voice, “I can have no disguises from you.”

Diana was too much discomposed to know what to say. Such a tacit confidence seemed wrong, almost a treachery to poor little innocent Sophy, who had no conception of this secret, and could not have understood it had she known. She said gently, “You must let me wish you well at least. I do that from the bottom of my heart.”

He looked at her with piteous eyes, doubly dark with a moisture which the powerful mechanism of pain had forced into them, but which was too bitter and concentrated to fall and relieve the brain from which it was wrung. “Think of me sometimes,” he said. “You know how it is with me. You, who are kind to all, sometimes think of me a little. That will help me to bear. I will do—my duty.”

“Oh, Mr. Pandolfini!” cried Diana, the tears rising warm and sudden into her eyes. “Let me give you some comfort if I can.” The moment was too bitter, the encounter too real, as of two souls in the wilderness, to warrant any pretence on either side that they did not understand each other. “Once the same thing happened to me. I have gone through the same. There was one whom I cared for, but who made me no return. I do not hesitate to tell you. For a time it seemed worse than death: but now it is past, and I am no longer unhappy. So will it be with you.”

“Ah, my God, my God!” he cried, with sudden passion, “can such things be? You!—was he mad or blind?” Then a smile came over his haggard face, which was more pathetic than the previous look of misery. “This is to comfort me,” he said. “Yes, it is just; it was more pitiful for such a one than for me.”

“I meant—it will pass away—and all will be well,” cried Diana, trembling. “Oh, believe me. I speak who know. It will be so with you.”

“You think so,” he said, gently shaking his head. “Generosissima! You show me the wound to heal mine. But it will not be so with me. I wish no healing: yet I will do—my duty,” he added, in a low and broken voice.

“God bless you, Mr. Pandolfini!” she said, holding out her hand.

This overcame him altogether. He fell upon his knees and kissed it, as men of his faith kiss the holy mysteries, and then looked at her with trembling lips and dim eyes, as we look at those we are never to see more, and stumbling to his feet, turned and hurried from the room. The tears were falling frankly and without concealment from Diana’s eyes. She was touched to the heart. Oh that such things should be! that the best of life should thus be thrown away like a flower on somebody’s path to whom it was nothing. She had forgotten Sophy altogether in the anguish of sympathy and fellow-feeling. That complication, adding as it did so much misery and difficulty, seemed to fade altogether in presence of the pang which she herself understood so thoroughly, and seemed to feel again.

She had barely time to dry her eyes when she heard some one coming, and turned her back to the light to avoid a too curious gaze. It was Sophy who came in, complaining. “O Diana!” she cried, with a little start, “you are here! that was why he went away. It is very hard to see so little of him, and when he does come to be out and have him sent away.”

“Oh, Sophy, my pet, don’t be unjust,” said Mrs. Norton; “how should Diana send him away? Of course he must have felt it hard that you should be out when he snatched a moment from his business. Was he very much disappointed, Diana? I am sure you would say everything that was kind.”

“Yes: he was surprised to find me here waiting for you—as I was surprised to see him,” said Diana, with an unconscious sense of apology. “He did not—stay—I came to ask you to look at—some patterns,” her voice failed her. She could not add the trivial message which in reality, with that indulgence which Mrs. Hunstanton never could understand, was the reason of her visit: for Sophy’s trousseau, which was causing her so much delightful occupation, was for the most part Diana’s gift.

“Patterns!” they both said in a breath, in tones of interest which drove away all recollection of Mr. Pandolfini’s visit which they had lost.

“You shall see them, if you will come to me downstairs,” said Diana, glad of this easy means of getting away.

And they spent an hour or two delighted and yet anxious in the perplexities of choice, and never noticed either of them any traces of tears that might be lingering about Diana’s eyes.