The spring days lengthened into summer while the preliminaries of the marriage still went on. The Hunstantons could not retard their usual day of departure for any event of such secondary importance as the marriage of Sophy Norton. “To be sure, poor Pandolfini is our friend, and for him one might be tempted to stay,” Mrs. Hunstanton said; “but the Nortons—the Nortons are only protÉgÉes of Diana’s. But for her I should never have noticed them. It is her whim to spoil these two silly little women. But though I am so fond of Diana, I have never humoured her in this; and for us to remain would be absurd.” So, though they lingered a week or so, that was all. The Snodgrasses, uncle and nephew, had gone on to Florence and to Rome. The other members of the little party were dispersing on all sides. Only Diana remained to keep the bride-elect and her anxious but triumphant aunt company. And Diana had hesitated. She had wished to go with the Hunstantons straight home, but for the complaints and outcries of the two little ladies. “Oh, will you go and forsake us?” Sophy cried. “Will you leave me to be married without one friend near me?” “Indeed, Diana, I did not expect you would leave us,” said Mrs. Norton. “I should not have undertaken it if I had not felt sure of you. And how can I go through it all without some support?—without some one to lean upon?” Diana, though she smiled at these arguments, remained. There were, indeed, a great many things in which she was a support to the fluttering and nervous pair, who were half overjoyed by the approaching elevation, half frightened by the loneliness of their position. Mrs. Norton especially was apt to be invaded by doubts. Whether she ought not to have insisted that her niece should be married at home: whether it was not too much of Mr. Pandolfini to have asked of her (though so flattering to dear Sophy and lover-like was his impatience to make her his own): whether people might not think she was too anxious to have everything settled: or that it was not quite ladylike to allow things to proceed so rapidly. All these doubts Diana had to satisfy three or four times a-day.

And there were other difficulties still more important which the helpless little pair could not have got through without her. Pandolfini, who was always so busy, whose occupations continued to increase as his marriage drew nearer (“which, of course, was very natural,” Mrs. Norton said, with a certain chill of doubt in her confidence, while Sophy loudly complained of it, though without any doubting), never got into the familiar intimacy which generally characterises such moments of preface and beginning, and was accordingly of no more help to them than if he had been still merely their acquaintance, Mr. Hunstanton’s friend—much less, indeed, for Mr. Hunstanton’s friend had always been friendly and serviceable, and full of genial help, in those cheerful days when he was not overpowered by business. This gleamed across Mrs. Norton’s mind dimly by times, affording her a half-revelation—a momentary unwilling perception of differences which she did not wish to fathom. But, so far as any one knew, these perceptions were not shared by Sophy, who went on her way, with occasional grumblings, it is true, but with too much thought of herself to think very much of Pandolfini. Naturally, is it not the bride who is the most interesting? She has her clothes to think of, and her approaching promotion to the dignity of a married lady—a dignity which it was very fine to attain at so early an age. And there were all her new duties, as her aunt called them,—the management of her house, which she must learn to do in the Italian fashion, and her servants. It troubled Sophy that she did not know how many servants she was to have, and that she had never been asked to go and see the house, or to choose new carpets or curtains, as other brides had to do; but then, on the other hand, it delighted her to find that she might call herself Contessa, and would be elevated quite into the nobility by her marriage. In Italy she might only be Signora, but in England she would certainly be My Lady, Sophy reflected—and her whole being thrilled with the thought. This was a discovery, for Pandolfini had not cared for the bare and insignificant title, and all his Italian friends called him by his Christian name, according to the custom of the country. Sophy called him Pandolfo, too, though seldom when addressing himself. It was not a pretty name. If he had been Alonzo, or Vincenzo, or even Antonio; but Pandolfo!—Pandolfo Pandolfini! It was like Robert Roberts, or John Jones—not a pretty name; but then, to be a Countess! That would sweeten any name, so that it would smell as sweet as any rose.

Thus the arrangements went on strangely enough, Sophy being the only one of all concerned who did not, as time progressed, feel in them a certain strangeness and mysterious something behind. The rector and his nephew came back before the time fixed for the wedding, though it was growing hot, and Mr. Snodgrass was anxious to get home. The curate was generally the one who yielded, not the one who led, but he had steadily held to his determination to come back to Pisa, and succeeded, as was natural. The rector was one of those who had guessed Diana to intend the Italian for herself, being of the opinion that the aim of every woman, however elevated, was to “catch” a man, one way or other; and he was not without hope now that his dear Bill’s constant devotion might at last get its reward. Many a heart is caught in the rebound, and if Bill was not very good-looking, he was at least a cleanly Englishman, not one of “those Italians.” To be on the spot might be all-important for him; so his uncle yielded and came back to Pisa, though it was hot, and even volunteered his services to perform the marriage—the Protestant marriage, as it was called with contempt by the old Canonico, Pandolfini’s cousin, who was to perform the other ceremony. It was a bitter pill for the rector to hear himself called a Protestant, but there was no help for it. The Canonico only took snuff, and smiled, when the English priest called himself a Catholic. Rome repays to the highest Anglican, and with interest, the spurns which he is so fond of administering to patient merit, when it takes the form of Dissent. The Canonico had asked if Sophy was a Protestant or a Christian, when he first heard of the marriage, and treated with absolute cynicism all Mr. Snodgrass’s protestations. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Norton could not be happy without the blessing of her own Church; nor did she think it suitable that the niece of her late dear husband, who was for so many years a most respectable clergyman of the Church of England, should be married without it. How could she tell what the priest said in his Latin? but about the English service there could be no manner of doubt. So the rector swallowed the opprobrious epithet of Protestant, and declared himself ready to perform the rite. Diana would no doubt be there. She would be compelled to veil her feelings, and to witness the marriage: and, in the rebound, who could tell what dear Bill’s presence might do?

The curate deluded himself with no such vain hopes. Diana’s presence was like the sun to him. Without it he faded and drooped, though otherwise he was not much like a flower. He was a heavy Englishman, not clever or endowed with much insight, yet he had a heart in his capacious and clumsy bosom. And to those who possess that organ, some things are visible which genius itself, without it, could scarcely see. It has been said that Pandolfini had chosen the ponderous silent young Englishman as the object of his special bounties, having divined him, and the sentiment which was his soul. It was young Snodgrass’s turn now to divine his friend, and he did it sadly, with a true brotherly, friendly sorrow for the evil he had discovered. He was not contented with the plea of business which Sophy accepted, and which all the others had to accept. He sought the much-occupied bridegroom out, even in the depths of his dark palace, and resisted all attempts to send him away. “I will wait till you are ready,” he said, and pretended not to see what miserable pretence of work it was which his friend at last pushed away. He got him out against Pandolfini’s will, who went with him, as was evident, only to get rid of him the sooner. But the curate was not to be shaken off. He went again and again; he watched with all the anxiety of friendship. He perceived how little Pandolfini saw of his bride, and how eagerly he seized upon every excuse to avoid being with her. He saw how, when the bridegroom paid the hurried visits which necessity demanded, Diana avoided him, and that under no circumstances did these two see each other, who, when he left Pisa, had been meeting every night. And, above all, the curate saw the misery in Pandolfini’s eyes. He said nothing for a long time, for he was not quick of purpose, or ready to seize what could be done; but at length the spectacle became too much for the good-hearted fellow.

They were walking one night by the Arno, very silent, saying nothing to each other. It was after a half-hour spent with the Nortons: Pandolfini had apparently caught at the chance of the curate’s company to carry him through this visit—and though Snodgrass was not quick of observation, he could not but remark, having his attention roused and on the alert, the curious character of the scene of which he was a spectator. Pandolfini was not indifferent; nothing of the ease and calm of that unexcited condition was in the anxious pathetic tender apology of the tone in which he replied to Sophy’s little espiÈgleries and reproaches. “Are you always to be so drowned in business—always business? you never had any business when we knew you first,” she cried, pouting. He looked at her with a melancholy in his eyes which went to the curate’s heart: but it did not succeed in reaching the observation of Sophy, who had other things to think of than the looks of her betrothed: he was her property, and about him she entertained no doubt.

“No,” he said, “I had little business then: but now—have I not new objects of thought and provisions to make——”

“Oh, Signor Conte, if I am going to be such a burden on you——”

“Nay, not a burden. You do me a wrong, Sophy. If I can but provide what will make you happy——”

“Oh, you foolish old thing; did you think I meant it?” cried Sophy, looking up in his face, with the pretty affectation which love thinks adorable, but which chill eyes of bystanders see with less complacence. The Italian shrank for a moment from the caressing gesture of the two clasped hands which she laid upon his arm. Then he took courage, and stooping kissed the hands.

“If I can but make you happy, poor child,” he said, with a suppressed sob in his voice. Mrs. Norton at this moment called the curate’s attention, and led him to the other end of the room to show him something. She was always watchful to “let them have a little time by themselves.” “Forgive me,” she whispered, “but, of course, they have little things to say to each other,” and the poor little lady cast furtive glances over the curate’s shoulder to see if the lovers’ interview grew more familiar. But Pandolfini very gently had freed himself from Sophy’s hand. He rose and stood before her, talking low, but not in a tone which augured any special confidence. Snodgrass thought that the very sound of it was enough to break any one’s heart. It was like the tender pitying tone in which bad news is broken to a child. Why was he so sorry for her, so sadly kind and gentle? Her little follies did not offend him, as they might have done a more warm lover. He was indulgent to everything—kind, with a melancholy appeal to her forgiveness in everything he said. The curate perhaps was proud of himself for his penetration. He had never so divined any one before.

“You see they are not just like common lovers,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, who felt that she had to put the best face upon it, and now wreathed her face in smiles to conceal the anxiety in her mind. “He is so much older than she—and more experienced—and so clever. But you can’t think how he appreciates my Sophy’s sweetness. He quite worships her. When he talks to her in that voice it brings the tears to my eyes. It is so tender!” cried the anxious woman, looking for confirmation in the curate’s face.

“Yes, it sounds very—melancholy,” said young Snodgrass, who, notwithstanding the new insight in his eyes, and the ache of sympathy in his heart, could not help being a little commonplace in speech.

“Melancholy! It is tender—that is what it is! He thinks everything is angelical that she does or says. And nobody who does not know her as we do can tell what a darling my Sophy is,” said Mrs. Norton, with tears in her eyes.

The curate made some inarticulate sound of assent; but he did not himself think Sophy angelical, and there was something in all this that affected him with a confused pang of sympathy, different from anything he had ever felt before. The mystery, the concealed despair on one side, the wistful veiled anxiety on the other, and Sophy’s superficial childish light-heartedness, her little commonplace coquetries and affectations between,—he was not clear-headed enough to discriminate these: but the whole affected him with sentiments he could not define nor get the better of. He stood up in the corner, as was his usual habit, a very serious shadow, heavy in soul as in person, and looked on. And it seemed to him that he could scarcely keep silence even here. As they were leaving when the strange visit was over, he made a pause on the way downstairs. “Do you never go to see Miss Trelawny?” he asked, putting his arm suddenly within Pandolfini’s. The Italian started violently, turned round, and looked him in the face, then hurried on. He was taken by surprise, and in his agitated condition shook as if he had received a blow. Nothing more was said for some time. They walked silently on together side by side in the cool of the soft summer night, for it was late—and reached the Arno without a word. It was a beautiful night. Once more the stars were out, blazing like great lamps out of heaven; and along the long line of street the lights twinkled, reflecting themselves in the water like stars of earth. Pandolfini’s steps gradually grew slower, till at last he stopped altogether, forgetting and seeming to lose himself as he gazed at those reflections in the dark softly flowing stream.

“Pandolfini,” said the curate, “I cannot bear this any longer. You must not do it; you ought not to do it. It is more than you can bear.”

“What is more than I can bear?” he asked, dreamily, not turning to his questioner, keeping his eyes fixed on the river below.

“Pandolfini” cried the other, too much agitated by all he had heard and seen to take much thought what he was saying, “you know what I mean well enough. Do you think I am blind and cannot see? Once you divined me. I felt it, though we said nothing about it. And now it is my turn. I am not so clever as you are, but I would do anything in the world to help you. Pandolfini, you can’t go through with this marriage; it is impossible to——”

“Not a word—not a word!” cried the Italian, raising himself hurriedly. “It is late, and I go back to my—business. Yes, it is true: is it extraordinary that one of my country should have business? We have talked enough to-night.”

“We have not talked at all,” cried the curate. “Oh, Pandolfini, let me speak! God knows what sympathy I have for you—more than words can tell! But why make it worse by this? You are trying yourself beyond what any man can bear. Stop while there is time, for the love of heaven!”

“My friend, you are kind, you are good,” said Pandolfini, with a tremor in his voice; “but there are things of which one does not speak, not to one’s own soul.”

“Why should there be?” cried Bill Snodgrass, in generous excitement. “Oh, listen to me! Don’t do in a hurry what you would repent all your life. She—might suffer for a day, but you for ever. Oh don’t, for the sake of false honour, bind yourself so! Don’t go on with it! this marriage——”

“Silence!” said the Italian, with a hot flush on his face. “Silence, silence!” Then his tone changed to something of the same grieved and tender sound which it took when he addressed Sophy. “Friend,” he said, with pathetic gentleness, “why rob me of your sympathy? I will know how you think if you say nothing; but to advise will make an end of all. See! what you are talking of will soon be to me the foundation of my life. That is sacred: that no man must discuss with me. No more, not a word, or I shall lose you—too.”

You—too! Who was the other, then, whom he had lost? The curate made an effort to speak again, but was silenced still more summarily; and thus they walked slowly in silence to Pandolfini’s house, where they parted with only a mutual grasp of the hand. Young Snodgrass’s mind was distracted with generosity, pity, and distress. He walked about in front of the great dark doorway where his friend had disappeared, with a mind torn in pieces with diverse thoughts. Should he follow him, and make one last attempt?—but he felt that to be indeed useless. Then a thought came into his head that brought a sudden gush of warmth to the chill of his anxiety. He would go to Diana. If any one could help, surely she would do so—she who was always ready to help; or at least she would tell him if anything could be done. He went back to the Palazzo dei Sogni without taking time to think, and, all hot and hasty, rushed into her presence before he allowed himself to consider what he was doing. Diana was alone. She was seated by her writing-table, on which lay a number of papers; but she had pushed her chair slightly away, and had a book in her hand, which probably, at the sound of her visitor’s entering, she had dropped upon her knee. Her solitary figure in this attitude, the papers neglected, the book dropped, all seemed to imply to Snodgrass a loneliness which never before had associated itself in his mind with Diana. For the first time in his life he felt, and wondered at himself for daring to feel, a kind of pity for the princess of his thoughts. She, too, was lonely, solitary, no one near her to make the world brighter; for which purpose poor Bill Snodgrass, who knew that he was capable of nothing but boring her, thought he would willingly have given his life.

She rose up with a friendly, sweet salutation when she saw who it was. She was glad to see him—was it possible? For once in his life he had brightened her by the sight of his heavy reverential face.

“I am very glad you have come,” she said, in answer to his stammered salutation, “for I was feeling lonely, which is not usual with me. Everybody whom I know gone—and our little friends upstairs are very busy, of course,” she added, with a smile.

The curate had not time to think, as he probably would have done otherwise, that the idea of these little friends neglecting Diana was incredible. His mind was too full of his mission, which filled his homely countenance with purpose and eagerness. Diana saw this almost before she had completed what she was saying. She added hastily, in a different tone, “Something has happened—you have come to tell me of something? Is it news from home?”

“No,” he said: “Miss Trelawny, perhaps it is something quite foolish or more; but you understand—and you will pardon me if I am wrong. Pandolfini—he is in a condition I cannot understand.”

“Is he ill?” He thought she grew paler, and clasped her hands together as if something moved her.

“No, not that I know of: except that he is haggard and worn—a shadow of himself. It is about this—marriage.”

Diana had made a step towards him with warm and anxious interest at Pandolfini’s name. She now drew back again, a cloud falling over her. She did not make any reply, but only shook her head, and her countenance grew very grave, the smile, which was always lurking somewhere, ready to be called forth, fading altogether from her face.

“You will do nothing, Miss Trelawny, you who help every one! and yet how few are in such trouble? For you must see how unsuitable it is—how it is killing him.”

“Hush!” said Diana, as Pandolfini had said before; “if it is going to be, nothing unkind must be said—nothing it would hurt us or them to think of hereafter. And it is not for us to discuss,” she said, with a slight faltering in her voice; “they only can tell——”

“But, Miss Trelawny, it is not for gossip, nor in the way of intrusion into other people’s affairs. But, Pandolfini, he has read my heart, and now I feel that I can read his,” said the curate, stammering and growing red. Must not she know what he meant in both cases? She stood with her hands clasped, her head drooping, but no consciousness about her, thoughtful, and almost sorrowful, as if she knew all that he would say. “Oh, Miss Trelawny,” he cried, with generous zeal, “could not you interfere? Could not you set things right? There are things a man must bear, and I don’t say you could—save him—or any of us from: give us, I mean, happiness. But this is madness, despair—I don’t know what—and it will kill him. Oh, Miss Trelawny, will not you interfere?”

“How can I interfere?” cried Diana, piteously. “What can I do?” The tears were in her eyes. “Of all helpless people on the earth, am I not the most helpless?” This was said passionately, an unintended confession of her own share in this misery, which she instantly repented. “Forgive me,” she said, with a deep blush; “I am speaking extravagantly. But, Mr. Snodgrass, think what you are saying. What could I do? There is nothing, nothing in which I can help him. God help them both! I wish some one would take me home,” she cried again, suddenly. “It is too much for me, as well as for you. But all this is useless. There is nothing either you or I can do.”

You or I! The man was generous. He had given the last proof of it in making this appeal. But when she said “You or I,” poor Snodgrass forgot Pandolfini. It turned his head.