Diana reached home when the country was in the full glory of summer. She, too, was like the summer, her friends said—more beautiful than ever she had been—with just a touch of sunburn from her journey, which ripened her paleness and made her eyes more brilliant. The whole county hurried to the Chase to meet and greet her, and tell her how well she was looking, and that foreign travel evidently agreed with her. “But, all the same, you must not go again, for we cannot spare you,” they cried. Nothing could go on without Diana. “And we were so sadly afraid you meant to stay and spend the summer in Switzerland,” said young Lady Loamshire (she whose title, Diana remembered with a smile, was the same as Sophy’s). Nobody could have a more flattering reception. There was a general feeling of escape that so precious a possession as their virgin-princess had been got back in safety. The county did not like her to move: even when she went to London, it was never without fears that somebody might snap her up, and marry her before any one could interfere: and how much more “abroad,” where there were always needy foreigners on the strain to catch rich English ladies! She and the county had escaped a great danger—they could not sufficiently pet and caress her when she got back. In the delight of her safety they were all quite satisfied to hear that Sophy Norton had made such a good marriage. “Only I hope the poor man was not taken in. They think all the English are so rich,” said one of those who had been afraid that Diana would be “snapt up.” This was an old lady who had as much fear for the conventional fortune-hunter as so many other old ladies have of the Pope. But Sophy Norton was nobody: she was a cheap ransom to pay for Diana, and only interested a very few people, who were amused or delighted or irritated, as the case might be, to hear that so insignificant a person was now the Countess Pandolfini. Diana did her full justice, and gave her the benefit of her coronet, by which all the servants, and especially the maid who had charge of the Red House, were deeply impressed. Diana’s own household did not like it. They thought it extremely forward of a little thing who owed so much to Miss Trelawny to marry a titled gentleman, though it was some little solace to remember that foreign counts were not much to swear by. But the maid at the Red House felt her bosom swell with pride as loftily as Sophy’s own. “I don’t believe as she’ll be a bit proud, but just as friendly with Miss Trelawny as ever,” Mary Jane said, “though a married lady, and a titled lady stands more high like in the world.” The Trelawny household did not know what to answer to this taunt. They made hot protestations on behalf of their mistress that she might have married half the gentlemen in the county, and had her pick and choice of titles; but of course they could not give proof of this assertion, and Mary Jane’s statement as to the superiority of a married and titled lady was unquestionably true.

“Then they were really married?” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “he did not get out of it? I hoped he would up to the last moment. Honour is a great thing, but that is carrying honour too far, Diana. I could not have done it. Perhaps you could who are more high-minded——”

“We are not called upon to judge,” said Diana, “so we need not inquire who could have done it. I hope they may be very happy——”

“Do not be fictitious,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton. “Happy! Sophy would be happy with her new dresses anywhere.”

“And her coronet,” said Diana, smiling.

“Her—coronet! do you mean to say you encouraged her in such folly? Diana, I never can understand you. Are you a cynic? are you a——?”

“Fool, perhaps. I will save your feelings by saying the word myself. Yes, I suppose I am a fool: for I—miss them,” said Diana, half laughing, half crying. “It is quite true. Their little ways, their little talk, their kindnesses, and even their little amiable selfishnesses—yes, I don’t deny it. I miss them: so I suppose I am, as you say, a fool.”

“I never said it. Amiable selfishness!—what sort of a thing is that? No, Diana, I don’t understand you. You are either the goodest, or the strangest, or the most——”

“Foolish—it is that. There are so many sensible people in the world,” said Diana, apologetic. “Yes, I had it embroidered for her on all her things. It was funny, but how it pleased Sophy! And why not? Lady Loamshire has her coronet on her handkerchiefs, and her husband’s grandfather, you know, after all, was only a—cheesemonger: whereas the Pandolfinis—— But you know that better than I do.”

“Lady Loamshire! how can you be so ridiculous! She is a great personage. She is an English countess.”

“And Sophy is an Italian one. What difference is there besides?”

“What are you two arguing about?” said Mr. Hunstanton. “I will set it right for you, if you will tell me. To be sure, the Pandolfinis. Tell me all about them, Diana. I suppose they are very happy, and all that. They went to the Villa for the honeymoon, English fashion? Ah, Pandolfini always was an Anglo-maniac; and I am very glad he has an English wife. I had a hand in that. Did my wife ever tell you, Diana——?”

“Oh yes, I told her—she knows everything,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a suppressed groan; “but when you tell your wise deeds, if I were you I would leave that out. If ever a man had his heart broken by his friend——”

“Yes, listen to her, Diana. She wants me to believe that I spoke to the wrong person—a likely thing! For you know I managed it all. Pandolfini put it into my hands. And she says I made a mistake!” said Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands. “Now I put it to you, Diana, as an impartial person, supposing even that I was a fool, as she makes me out, who was there else to propose to? That’s the question. I defy you to answer that. If it was not Sophy, who could it be?”

The two ladies said nothing. They exchanged a half-guilty furtive glance, not venturing even to look at each other openly. Mr. Hunstanton was triumphant; he rubbed his hands more and more.

“You perceive?” he said, “that is the weak point with women—not but what I have the highest respect for your judgment, both of you. You are delightfully rapid in your conclusions,” added Mr. Hunstanton, with naÏve originality, “and jump at a truth which we might not reach for weeks with the aid of pure reason: but the practical argument has little favour with you. When I ask you, What other lady was there? What other could I have been sent to? neither the one nor the other of you can find a word to say.”

“No,” said Diana; her voice sounded flat and trembled a little. “No,” she said, “I think—you must have done what was best.”

Mrs. Hunstanton gave her an indignant glance: but what could they say? It was not possible to utter any name, or give any indication between them. They were even a little overawed by the determined simplicity of the appeal.

“I thought you would own it,” he said, delighted with his victory. “No, no, I made no mistake. I am not in the habit of making mistakes. They were not like each other on the surface, but I have always heard that harmony in diversity is the great secret of happiness. It was silly of him, though, to give in about the title. What does it signify to call yourself Count? Among English people it is more a drawback than anything else, when there is neither money to keep it up, nor any particular distinction. But I suppose Sophy liked it.”

“Yes—Sophy liked it very much indeed.”

“I should think Sophy would like it!” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, “and her aunt. A title of any kind delights a silly woman. And to think of that foolish little pair, one on either side of poor Pandolfini! Yes, Diana, I know you have said that you agree with Tom. He will quote you now, whenever they are mentioned. He will say you are entirely of his opinion.”

“I will say—as I have always said—that Diana is the most sensible woman I know,” said Mr. Hunstanton, “the most reasonable to see the force of an argument: and the most candid—even when she is convinced against her will.”

“I have no patience with either of you,” cried Mrs. Hunstanton, getting up and going away.

This was all that was said upon the subject of Pandolfini. Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands with a chuckle of triumph over his own victory and his wife’s discomfiture, remained master of the situation. And the ordinary life was resumed, as if this little episode had never been. Reginald, the delicate boy to whom Mrs. Norton had been so kind, asked often if she was not coming back again. There was no one like her at bezique, he said. His mother was very kind, and would play with him when she was put to it, but Reginald could see that it bored mamma. Whereas Mrs. Norton was never bored: she liked it—she was always jolly—was she ever coming back? Diana could give no answer to that question. And in the course of the following year she had more than one temptation to transfer the Red House to other tenants. But she was as faithful as Reginald to her foolish little neighbours. And the house remained empty, with Mary Jane in possession, who was very fond of talking of Madam the Countess, which she understood was her little mistress’s correct style and title; and thus a whole year went away, and another midsummer made the woods joyful. Diana had little leisure left her to think of the two small people whom she had kept warm like birds under her wing, but nevertheless she went sometimes and looked at the vacant nest, and still kept it vacant, and missed them a little, which was stranger still. The curate, who also had resumed all his former habits, and spent his life, when he was not in the parish, following Diana with dull faithful eyes that never left her, met her one day near the deserted house. He had been visiting the gamekeeper, who was disabled by some accident, and was going home by that short cut through the park. How his heart beat when he came upon her all alone! It was very seldom he saw her alone. It reminded him of that day when he made his appeal to her about Pandolfini and she spoke to him of “you and I.” Would she ever say such words again?

“I have been carrying news to Mary Jane,” said Diana, “of the birth of a little Pandolfini. She wants to know if the baby is a little lord like Lady Loamshire’s baby; but, alas! it is only a little girl.”

“Has it come to that?” said the curate, startled—though he ought to have known better with all his parish experiences.

“Oh yes,” said Diana, with a smile, “it has come to that. Sophy will be a charming little mother, and the baby will make her very happy.”

“You always had a great opinion of—Madam Pandolfini.”

“Yes,” said Diana, and she laughed, looking up at him. “I thought she would have made the very wife you want, Mr. Snodgrass; but, unfortunately, I thought of it too late.”

Thank God! the curate said devoutly within himself. For he knew, and she knew—and he knew that she knew—that he must have married Sophy had Diana willed it. He would have resisted, but he would have yielded—and been happy. How sorry Diana was that it had not occurred to her in time! “You would have been a very happy couple,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I am sure of it. What a help she would have been in the parish!” And to this he could not say no.

“I don’t know if you will like me to ask,” he said, faltering, and feeling it safe to change the subject, “but—do they get on? are they—comfortable? I knew—all about it, you remember—at the time.”

“Did you?” she said, ignoring all that had passed between them on this subject. “I have never asked if they were comfortable, Mr. Snodgrass; but why should we doubt it? There is always a little risk with people of different nationalities; but Sophy always writes in high spirits.”

“She was in high spirits on her wedding-day!” the curate muttered, furious with Sophy, for whose sake Diana treated him with such unusual severity. He had a double grievance against her now.

“And should not you like your bride to be in high spirits on her wedding-day?”

“Oh, Miss Trelawny, how hard you are upon me! when you know I shall never have any bride,” said the young man, with a look which he meant to be eloquent. They had come to the avenue by this time, and were about to part.

“Till we find a second Sophy,” she said, and gave him her hand, smiling, as she turned towards the house. He stood for a moment looking after her with dull but wistful eyes. Nothing but that smile would ever be his from Diana. But if a second Sophy could be found! The curate turned and went on with a little shiver of conscious weakness. Did not he know, and did not she know, that what she commanded he would do? But perhaps along with this fear and consciousness there was a little flutter of anticipation, too, in the curate’s faithful breast.

Some weeks after this conversation another event occurred which surprised everybody. It happened when Diana was out, so that for a full hour the servants had the privilege of discussing what had happened before any elucidation was possible. It was in the afternoon that it happened—the drowsiest moment of the day. Common cabs from the station carrying luggage very seldom appeared in the beautiful avenue, and the butler knew that no visitor was expected. But Diana’s servants did not dare to be uncivil. It was Mrs. Norton who was in the cab, and her big box, made for Continental travel, which weighted that humble vehicle above. “The Red House—oh, I would not take the liberty,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice as she stepped out. She was as dignified as travel and weariness would permit, though her bonnet was not so neat as usual. “If you will be so very good as let the man wait in the stableyard till I see Miss Trelawny. Oh, is she out? I am very sorry,” said the little lady, growing pale. “I think I must wait and see her. I think I shall have time to wait and see her. I wonder if there will be time before the train.” She was so tired and nervous, and ready to cry with this disappointment, that Jervis made bold to inquire if all was well with Madam and the baby. “She said, ‘Oh, the Countess is very well, I thank you, Jervis,’” he reported, when he went downstairs, “as grand as possible. But you take my word there’s some screw loose. Meantime, I’ll take the poor old girl a cup of tea.” This is how our servants speak of us, with that familiar affection which is so great a bond between the different classes of society; and Mrs. Norton found Jervis so respectful and so kind, that her heart swelled within her as she sat in Diana’s little morning-room, and sipped her cup of tea. It was so good, and the house was so large and quiet, with that well-bred calm which exists only in an English house, the returned wanderer said to herself—oh, so different from old Antonio, who delivered his opinions along with every dish he served. When Jervis went downstairs she wept a little, and stifled her sobs in her handkerchief. What would Diana say? Would she blame her for this step she had taken? Would she advise her to go back again by the next train? Mrs. Norton had not ventured even to have her big box taken down from the cab, which stood looking so shabby in Diana’s stableyard. She was proud, though she was so humble-minded, and she would not make any appeal to Diana’s generosity, or look as if she expected to stay. When she had finished her tea and her crying, she went to the mirror and straightened her bonnet, and tried to look as if she had never known what a tear was. But when Diana came in all smiling, and cordial as of old, and looked at her with indulgent kind eyes that found no fault and expressed no suspicion, Mrs. Norton broke down. She threw herself into her friend’s arms, regardless of her bonnet. “Oh, Diana, here I am back again a poor old lonely woman. And—I could not be in England without first coming to see you; and I feel as if I had nobody but you——”

“What is the matter?” cried Diana, in alarm. “Sophy——?”

“Oh, Sophy is very well; indeed there is nothing the matter. I—I got homesick I suppose. I—wanted my own country. She has her baby now, Diana, she has her friends: she is fond of her own way: and—oh, she does not want me any more!”

“Well,” said Diana, cheerfully, “and so you have come home? How sensible that was!—the very wisest and best thing you could do.”

“Oh, do you think so, Diana?” The little lady brightened under these words of commendation. “But I have no right to presume upon coming home after all this long time,” she said, wistfully. “And I know, dear, it was Sophy you cared for. How could it be me? I was always g-glad to think that it was S-Sophy that was cared for. But now she has her baby, Diana, and I am only a trouble to her. She does not want me. Oh, Diana, she would not be so frivolous if he did not leave her so much! No, no, I am not blaming him; he was always kind, you know, but he did not understand us,—he never made a companion of her. And now she has so many friends, and talks Italian like a native (she always was clever at languages), and they chatter and chatter, and I do not understand a word, and then she calls me cross. Me cross, Diana! And such strange ways with the baby, as if I knew nothing about babies. She even told me so, that I never had one, and how could I know? And so strange altogether—a strange man, and a strange house, and no pleasant fires, and such strange food! Oh, my dear, what could I do? He was very kind, and asked me to stay, but she—she!—never asked me. She didn’t w-want me—oh, Diana! I think it will b-break my h-heart!”

“Hush! here is Jervis,” said Diana. Mrs. Norton stopped short in the midst of her sob. She gave herself a rapid shake, raised her shoulders, cut short the heave of her little bosom. No other check could have told so effectually. It is one thing to break your heart, but to give way before the servants is quite another thing. She was not capable of such a breakdown. What Jervis saw when he came in was a little figure very erect upon the sofa, with shoulders squared and bonnet straightened, and a smile upon her face. “Oh yes, Diana, the Countess is quite well, and the baby is a darling,” said the deceitful little woman. She did not think it was deceitfulness, but only a proper pride.

And the end was that Mrs. Norton was taken in “for good,” and her big box dislodged from the cab, and carried to a pretty room very near Diana’s. She was not sent away even to the pleasant solitude of the Red House. When Mrs. Hunstanton heard of this, she came over in hot haste to know, first, how long it was going to last; second, how Diana could be so incredibly foolish; and lastly, whether anything was to be found out about the pair whom even she now was compelled to call the Pandolfinis. But Mrs. Norton, it need not be said, put on triple armour of defence against the assaults of this unkindly critic. She met her with smiles more impenetrable than chain-armour. The dear baby was so well, and Sophy was so well, she had taken the opportunity to run over and see her friends. “For, however happy one may be,” Mrs. Norton said with feeling, “and however great may be the happiness one sees around, one’s heart yearns for one’s old friends.” Thus the enemy was baffled with equal skill and sweetness: and no one ever heard from Diana why it was that Sophy’s aunt had come back. She took to watching over Diana, growing pale when she coughed, and miserable when her head ached, as she had watched over Sophy; and settled down into her pretty rooms, with pretty little protestations that it was too much—far too much! yet pious hopes that she might be of use to Diana, who was so good to everybody. And Mrs. Norton clearly saw a Higher Hand in all that had led to this final arrangement, which was so happy a solution of all difficulties. “The hand of Providence was never more clear,” she would say with cheerful solemnity from her easy-chair. “If Sophy had not had that cough, neither Diana nor any of us would have gone to Pisa, and we never should have met dear Count Pandolfo, and Sophy would never have married him. And if Sophy had never been established in Italy, and so comfortable, you would not have thought of taking me into your own delightful house, and making me so happy. Oh, how thankful we should be, Diana! This is how everything works for good. It is seldom, very seldom, that one sees it so very clear!”

Was it so clear?—was it all for this that the Palazzo dei Sogni had witnessed so many agitations, and that life had changed so strangely for that one grave Tuscan, whose days were so full of business, and whose little English wife had so many gossips? Poor Pandolfini! Diana made no answer to her guest’s happy trust in the Providence which had made such elaborate arrangements for her comfort. That chapter of life was over, whatever might have been in it,—over and closed and ended, till the time when the harvest shall be gathered, and all shall be known—where the tares came from, and where the wheat.

But Pandolfini never brought his wife to England, notwithstanding the impulse of mingled recollection and jealousy which made her long to go home when she heard of Diana’s adoption of her aunt. “Go, Sophy, if you will: but this little one is too young to travel,” he said. And Sophy, grumbling, stayed at home. After all, the man had the best of it. What flower of happiness so exquisite as this child could have come into his barren days, but for Mr. Hunstanton’s mistake? Mrs. Norton betrayed that he had carried it away, according to the custom of his Church, and had it christened the day after it was born, without even consulting the mother about its name. He had called it Stella, though that was not a family name even. Why Stella?—though it was a pretty name enough. And it is not quite clear that even Diana knew why.

THE END.

PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.