The marriage took place on the first day of June—or rather that was the beginning of the repeated and laborious processes which made Sophy Norton into the Contessa Pandolfini. What a delight it was to take out the first handkerchief embroidered with a coronet, one of those which Diana had got her from Paris. Sophy took it out, and shook that delightful sign of new-born nobility into the air on the day of the legal ceremony, which was the day before her two ecclesiastical marriages. She would not lose a moment that she could help. And the melancholy bridegroom, and the occupations which took him away from her, faded into nothing before this privilege. Diana might be richer, and had been always more splendid than she—but Diana had no coronet. As for Diana, she was engaged in preparing for her journey, and was present only at the English or Protestant marriage, when she managed to keep as much as possible out of sight, and avoided the bridegroom entirely, notwithstanding the researches after her of Mrs. Norton, and of the bride herself, whose efforts to produce Diana to say good-bye to dear Pandolfo were repeated and unwearying. “Where is Diana? what does her packing matter? besides, she does not pack—why should she, with a maid to do everything for her?” This was said with a slight tone of grievance, for it had not occurred to Pandolfini, though he furnished that poor little faded coronet, to provide a maid. Sophy, when she had put off her bridal dress after the strictest English rule, forgot her dignity so far as to run downstairs in her own dignified person to “hunt up” Diana. “Mr. Pandolfini does not want good-byes,” said Diana; “and see, I have taken off my pretty dress. You would not like me to present myself in this grey garment, all ready for travelling. God bless you, Sophy!—and you can explain to Mr. Pandolfini if you like: but be sure he is not thinking of any one but you.”

“I hope not,” said Sophy, demurely; “but you need not call him Mr. Pandolfini now, Diana. We did so in the old times when we knew no better. But I shall not permit him to give up his title any longer. You might say Count, I think.”

“I will say his Lordship, if you like,” said Diana, kissing the unconscious little creature. She smiled, but there was a meaning in her eyes which heedless little Sophy, on the heights of glory and her coronet, understood as little as any child.

“You need not laugh,” said the Countess Pandolfini, gravely; “of course it is not the custom here. But I am sure a Count ought to be My Lord in England. It is just the same as an Earl—at least, my title is just the same as Lady Loamshire’s, and far, far older nobility. English lords are nothing in comparison with Italian.” Sophy’s handkerchief, as has been said, was embroidered with a coronet, and so was everything else she had upon which she could have it worked or stamped. It was worth being married for that alone.

“I think they are calling for you,” said Diana. “Thank you, little Countess, for coming to me on this great day. All the servants shall be taught to say My Lady when you come to see me at home. Good-bye now: and I hope you will be very happy—and make your husband happy,” Diana added, with an involuntary change of her voice.

“Oh, of course we shall be happy! and it will not be long before I shall make Pandolfo bring me to England. Good-bye, good-bye, Diana. Oh, how I wish you were only as happy as I am! I wish there was another Pandolfo for you. Yes, I am coming, aunt; good-bye, good-bye. I shall take your love to him, shall I? Oh yes, I will let you send him your love; and very soon I shall make him bring me to England: and I shall write to you in a few days, and—good-bye, dear Diana, good-bye.”

Diana went out upon her balcony to see them go away. The flowers and plants had grown high, and she stood unseen under the shade of the loggia. She felt that some one stood beside her as she looked down and watched the grave Italian leading out his gay little bride. What a butterfly Sophy looked, as she fluttered into the carriage which was to convey them to the villa! “Poor little Sophy, too,” said Diana, involuntarily, with a sigh.

“Are you sorry for her?” said the curate, who had come in unbidden at the door which Sophy had left open. He had not presumed, poor fellow, but he had come and gone with greater confidence, and taken a humble but secure place, half friend, half devoted follower, the last of Diana’s court, since the evening when he made that appeal to her. The rector thought his dear Bill was making way, and that perhaps, after all, the heart might be caught in the rebound. “Are you sorry for her?” he said with surprise; “she is not sorry for herself.”

“Yes, poor little Sophy,” said Diana, “she deserved some pretty young man like herself, who would have run about with her, and understood all her little vanities. I hope she will never be sorry for herself: but it will not be a very cheerful life.”

“I think of him,” the curate said, in a low voice.

Diana did not answer for a time. Something came into her throat and stopped her. Then she went on after a pause, “Sophy will be more of a woman than you think. She would have made you a good little wife, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“Me!” He made a step away from her in the shock of surprise and indignation. He was not vain, he thought; but he who cherished so lofty, so noble a love—he to have Sophy suggested to him, or such as she! This, from Diana, went to poor Snodgrass’s heart.

“Yes,” she said, looking at him with a smile in her clear eyes. “You are angry, but it is true. A girl like Sophy, young and fresh and sweet, who would think there was no one in the world like you, and would be good to your poor people, would make you more happy than anything else—though perhaps you do not think so now.”

Poor curate! this sudden dash of cold water upon him, in the very midst of the subdued exhilaration with which he found himself by Diana’s side, talking to her more freely than he had ever ventured to talk before, was very hard to bear. He thought, if it was possible for Diana to be cruel, that she was cruel now. That she could smile even, and jest—for it must be intended for a jest—at such a moment, when he, for his part, had come ready, as it were, to follow with her the funeral of poor Pandolfini! Was it not, if one might dare to permit such a thought, heartless of Diana? But she gave him no time to think. She had her packing to attend to, and all the last arrangements to make for leaving Pisa next day. Diana had resisted various proposals to “join a party” of tourists going northward. She was starting straight for home, from which she declared she had been only too long away. The Snodgrasses and Mrs. Norton were to dine with her in the evening—to drink the health of the newly married, and conclude this little episode of their life—and she had no more leisure now. She came in lightly from among the oleanders and aloes, in the soft grey dress which she had put on in such haste, as her excuse for not showing herself. It was too simple a garment—too like her governess days to suit Diana—and she had some reason of her own, perhaps, for putting it on; not any reason, one would think, however, for sad thoughts. She came in with a light in her eyes which had been somewhat veiled of late. “Now I must be busy,” she said, smiling upon her visitor as she dismissed him. The last week or two of warm Italian weather, and of these distracting melancholy contemplations, had stopped many things, or retarded them. Life itself had grown languid in sympathy: but now that was all over; the deed was done for which heaven and earth had seemed to be waiting, and there could be no more lingering, musing, over it now.

The little party, which was so shrunken out of its old dimensions, showed as curious a mixture of feelings as could well be seen, when it met that evening round Diana’s table. Mrs. Norton was subdued by the reality of the event to which she had been looking forward so long. Never till now had she thought of it as affecting herself. The little lady might be selfish for her Sophy, but she was not selfish in her own person; nor did she think of her own comfort as opposed to that of her niece. So that now, when Sophy was gone—she and her boxes and preparations, and her voice and her footstep, all gone—a sudden collapse ensued for poor Mrs. Norton. The sense of her loneliness came upon her all in a moment. She was happy now, she had said fervently; she had placed her child in the care of a good man, who would love and cherish her; and now, whatever happened to herself, Sophy would be safe. But even as she said the words the sense of her loneliness had seized upon the poor little woman, and brought up a sob into her throat. Sophy was provided for. Sophy had a husband and a coronet—the last an unhoped-for glory—but she, had she lost Sophy? She was brave, and choked back the sob, and upbraided herself for her selfishness, but still this constriction of the throat would come back. “I am rather worn out, that is the fact,” she said to Diana, unable to conceal the break in her voice, but laughing brokenly too; “we are so subject to our bodies. I never would allow I was tired, though S-Sophy warned me. If I b-break down, you know what it means, Diana—only t-tiredness and nerves—that is all.” And then she cried, and sat down to table, faltering and trembling, but trying to laugh, with the conviction that the sound, though far from mirthful, would make it apparent that she cried for joy.

As for the rector, he was full of the correctest sentiments, and kept his eye upon Diana and upon dear Bill to see what progress they were making. He made them little speeches as to the advantages of matrimony. “It is the one mistake I have made in my life,” said the rector. “It is true that my nephew, who is as good as a son to me, saves me, in some degree, from the loneliness. But I never should advise any one to follow my example. I hope my dear Bill will judge better,” Mr. Snodgrass added, with some solemnity. Diana was the only one who laughed, and this fact amused her still more than the primary cause of her merriment Mrs. Norton put her handkerchief to her eyes, while the curate sat in dumb worship with his eyes turned towards the object of his constant thoughts.

“Ah, Mr. Snodgrass, perhaps you will feel as I do. One would make any sacrifice for the happiness of one’s children, and then after, one suffers—not that I mean to complain. To see Sophy happy will be happiness enough for me, if her dear husband is spared to her. But I know what that is,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, subsiding into her handkerchief.

“We must not think of anything gloomy to-night,” said the rector. “I trust, indeed, that our dear friends the Pandolfinis will be long spared to each other, and that they will combine the good qualities of both nations. It will be a lesson indeed in Italian society to see the beauty of an English home. There is nothing like it, my dear Mrs. Norton. I have travelled as much as most men. I may say I am acquainted more or less with European circles: but an English home, and a marriage of true affection, as we have every reason to believe this is——”

“So was mine, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Mrs. Norton; “and oh, Providence was very kind to me. There are very, very few like my dear husband. The bishop always said there was no one he trusted in so much. He was adored in the parish. Rich and poor followed him to his grave. It was as if every family had lost a member. And what is life to those who are left? Forgive me, Diana. I know I am not so gay as I ought to be: but a wedding always, more or less, b-brings back the recollection of one’s d-desolation.”

“Quite true,” said the rector; “and to a solitary man like myself, the consideration that I have made one great mistake in life——”

“Then why don’t you——?” cried Diana, in whom this mutual lamentation roused the dormant sense of humour, delivering her from her own thoughts, which were not too gay. She could not complete her sentence, however, as she intended, feeling a real pity for the poor little lady opposite. “You, at least, Mr. Snodgrass,” she said, “why don’t you mend your mistake? There is time enough yet.” The rector smiled. He was pleased by the suggestion, though he did not mean to follow it. “No, no,” he said. “To be told by you, Miss Trelawny, that it is not too late, is a compliment indeed; but I give up in favour of Bill here, who is my representative. Dear Bill must mend my mistake, not an old man like me.”

Dear Bill did not say anything. He had fallen back into his normal condition, and only gazed at Diana with dull but faithful eyes. He had forgiven her the sharp and unexpected blow she had given him, but it had killed his little confidence, his sense that there was a secret understanding between them. He to be made happy by marrying a Sophy! how little she knew!

And yet how much better it would have been for him than for Pandolfini! Diana could not but think, with impatient regret, as she looked at them all, playing their little parts round the table, where they were never to sit again. Sophy would have made the curate a very good little wife. She would have led him insensibly down from those unattainable wishes which held him suspended between earth and heaven, and brought him back to the calm delights of the parish, which was his natural sphere and hers. They would have harmonised by infallible instinct and power of natural attraction, after perhaps a little interval of difficulty. But Pandolfini! what link could there be between the little English clergywoman who would have been so useful in a parish, and the grave Italian whose habits were as alien to hers as his race? Poor Pandolfini in these few weeks had ceased even to be an Anglomane. He had gone back upon his native habitudes, upon his old relations; he had turned even his English books, in temporary disgust, out of their places. Fortune had dealt with him hardly, turning his preferences—the tastes which he had cultivated with a certain pride—into weapons of his downfall. Diana did not know all this, as she allowed herself to fall back into a review of all that passed after her guests were gone on that last evening. She was going away alone as she had come. All that had happened since her arrival here had passed over her without touching her. As she had come, so she was going away. The lamps were burning low, the soft night air was blowing in gratefully at the windows. The great picture of the Count dei Sogni, which had hung over her so long, seemed to look mildly, regretfully, half reproachfully at her through the gloom. He, too, poor Pandolfini, was of the Sogni: and she herself, and all the chances of this strange mortal life, what were they but Sogni too? “We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” said Diana softly to herself, the tears coming to her eyes as she stood there alone in the great dim room, the curtains swaying softly behind her in the air of the night, and dim reflections showing all about like ghosts, repeating her tall white figure in the old dim mirrors. It had been nothing but a caprice on her part to come here—a mere fancy, without any seriousness or purpose in it. If she had but stayed at home—gone on upon her quiet round in her own sphere, where her duty was! Why was it that this whim; of hers should have brought a cloud upon the life of a good man? Life seemed to melt away and resolve itself into shadows, through those tears of visionary compunction that were in her eyes—a vain show, a phantasmagoria, momentary and delusive, strong gleams of light and rolling darknesses in which no meaning was. The vague whiteness that moved in spectral distance in the mirror far away from her at the end, of the room, far-off reflection of her own solitary figure, seemed to Diana as real as herself. What had they to do, the woman or the reflection, in this stately dwelling of the past?—brought here for a moment to pass across the surface of the mirror which had reflected so many things, to work unwitting and unwilling evil, and then to pass away—yet never to pass away having once been here. Diana hid her face in her hands, oppressed and bowed down by this visionary sense of intrusion, of harm, yet unreality. Not three months, not more than a moment in life: yet enough for so much to happen in, more important than many quiet years. So the great and the little mix and perplex each other, ever increasing the strange confusion of this world of shadow, till the brain turns round, and the heart grows sick.

She rose up quickly, and threw out her hands, as if throwing something away. “This must not be,” she said aloud to herself; “this must not be.” And she gathered up from the table all those little tokens of personal presence which change the aspect of a place of habitation, and make it into the likeness of its tenants,—took up a shawl which had been thrown upon a sofa, a book which lay on an old cabinet, a little basket of odds and ends already collected. With a certain reverence, as we collect the possessions of the lately dead, she carried them all away. The room was left, when she closed the door, as it had been when she came in to it—the faded old furniture all ranged in its place, the great portrait looking down from the dimness of the old wall. Was it the same? A sweetness breathed in upon the air that had not been there before, a glimpse of flowers through the window, a greenness of leaves,—and on the carpet one little sprig of myrtle with its feathery globe of blossom, which had come from Sophy’s marriage-wreath, and had fallen as she went out from Diana’s hand. No more—yet something still.

Pandolfini at this moment was standing out on the terrace of his villa, looking across the Tuscan garden of rich cultivation about. The grey olive-trees were dark in the monotony of the night, the soft hills all shrouded, the distant Apennines lying like shadows against the shadowy horizon. Here and there the gleam of a firefly gave a touch of light, and the roses were all a-bloom upon the hedges, betraying themselves by their sweetness. He stood alone and gazed out upon the dark, seeing nothing, yet somehow receiving the shadowy monotones of the night into his soul, as Diana was receiving the ghostly reflections and shadowed calm of the lonely room. All shadows, without and within; but he was at one of those points of existence when everything is too vivid and actual to permit of dreaming. His whole life was changed; he was another man, with new duties, new burdens, new companionship. How he was to make his toilsome way among them he could not tell. There was a heavy dew in his eyes, essence of pain and wonder at all that had happened to him,—at this revolution which was, yet was not, his doing,—at the new claims, all so terribly real, undeniable, true. How had it come about? What fate had led him by strange paths to this transformation of existence? He could not tell. It seemed a gratuitous interference as of some potent spirit who wished him ill, and had led him astray. The world was as dark to him as the fields, with impulses of pity, of generous devotion, of honour and kindness, lighting it fitfully like the fireflies: but for himself all dark—no comfort in it, nor any visible hope. Yet his mind was hushed with the very greatness of the crisis. It was done, and the agitations were so far calmed; his fate was decided. But when the moon rose Pandolfini retreated before it, covering his eyes. The dark was more congenial. He wanted no soft angelical face to shine upon him, no light to follow him at that moment of his life.