X
Colville went to Palazzo Pinti next day with the feeling that he wasdefying Mrs. Bowen. Upon a review of the facts he could not find himselfso very much to blame for the occurrences of the night before, and hehad not been able to prove to his reason that Mrs. Bowen had resentedhis behaviour. She had not made a scene of any sort when he came in withImogene; it was natural that she should excuse herself, and should wishto be with her sick child: she had done really nothing. But when a womanhas done nothing she fills the soul of the man whose conscience troubleshim with an instinctive apprehension. There is then no safety, hisnerves tell him, except in bringing the affair, whatever it is, to anearly issue--in having it out with her. Colville subdued the cowardlyimpulse of his own heart, which would have deceived him with thesuggestion that Mrs. Bowen might be occupied with Effie, and it would bebetter to ask for Miss Graham. He asked for Mrs. Bowen, and she came indirectly.
She smiled in the usual way, and gave her hand, as she always did; buther hand was cold, and she looked tired, though she said Effie was quiteherself again, and had been asking for him. "Imogene has been tellingher about your adventure last night, and making her laugh."
If it had been Mrs. Bowen's purpose to mystify him, she could not havedone it more thoroughly than by this bold treatment of the affair. Hebent a puzzled gaze upon her. "I'm glad any of you have found itamusing," he said;--"I confess that I couldn't let myself off so lightlyin regard to it." She did not reply, and he continued: "The fact is, Idon't think I behaved very well. I abused your kindness to Miss Graham."
"Abused my kindness to Miss Graham?"
"Yes. When you allowed her to dance at the veglione, I ought to haveconsidered that you were stretching a point. I ought to have taken herback to you very soon, instead of tempting her to go and walk with me inthe corridor."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bowen. "So it was you who proposed it? Imogene wasafraid that she had. What exemplary young people you are! The way eachof you confesses and assumes all the blame would leave the severestchaperone without a word."
Her gaiety made Colville uncomfortable. He said gravely, "What I blamemyself most for is that I was not there to be of use to you whenEffie----"
"Oh, you mustn't think of that at all. Mr. Waters was most efficient. Myadmirer in the red mask was close at hand, and between them they gotEffie out without the slightest disturbance. I fancy most people thoughtit was a Carnival joke. Please don't think of that again."
Nothing could be politer than all this.
"And you won't allow me to punish myself for not being there to give youeven a moral support?"
"Certainly not. As I told Imogene, young people will be young people;and I knew how fond you were of dancing."
Though it pierced him, Colville could not help admiring the neatness ofthis thrust. "I didn't know you were so ironical, Mrs. Bowen."
"Ironical? Not at all."
"Ah! I see I'm not forgiven."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
Imogene and Effie came in. The child was a little pale, and willinglylet him take her on his knee, and lay her languid head on his shoulder.The girl had not aged overnight like himself and Mrs. Bowen; she lookedas fresh and strong as yesterday.
"Miss Graham," said Colville, "if a person to whom you had done a deadlywrong insisted that you hadn't done any wrong at all, should youconsider yourself forgiven?"
"It would depend upon the person," said the girl, with innocentliveliness, recognising the extravagance in his tone.
"Yes," he said, with an affected pensiveness, "so very much depends uponthe person in such a case."
Mrs. Bowen rose. "Excuse me a moment; I will be back directly. Don't getup, please," she said, and prevented him with a quick withdrawal toanother room, which left upon his sense the impression of elegant grace,and a smile and sunny glance. But neither had any warmth in it.
Colville heaved an involuntary sigh. "Do you feel very much used up?" heasked Imogene.
"Not at all," she laughed. "Do you?"
"Not in the least. My veglione hasn't ended yet. I'm still practicallyat the Pergola. It's easy to keep a thing of that sort up if you don'tsleep after you get home."
"Didn't you sleep? I expected to lie awake a long time thinking it over;but I dropped asleep at once. I suppose I was very tired. I didn't evendream."
"You must have slept hard. You're pretty apt to dream when you'rewaking."
"How do you know?"
"Ah, I've noticed when you've been talking to me. Better not! It's a badhabit; it gives you false views of things. I used----"
"But you mustn't say you _used!_ That's forbidden now. Remember yourpromise!"
"My promise? What promise?"
"Oh, if you've forgotten already."
"I remember. But that was last night."
"No, no! It was for all time. Why should dreams be so very misleading? Ithink there's ever so much in dreams. The most wonderful thing is theway you make people talk in dreams. It isn't strange that you shouldtalk yourself, but that other people should say this and that when youaren't at all expecting what they say."
"That's when you're sleeping. But when you're waking, you make peoplesay just what you want. And that's why day dreams are so bad. If youmake people say what you want, they probably don't mean it."
"Don't you think so?"
"Half the time. Do you ever have day dreams?" he asked Effie, pressingher cheek against his own.
"I don't know what they are," she murmured, with a soft little note ofpolite regret for her ignorance, if possibly it incommoded him.
"You will by and by," he said, "and then you must look out for them.They're particularly bad in this air. I had one of them in Florence oncethat lasted three months."
"What was it about?" asked the child.
Imogene involuntarily bent forward.
"Ah, I can't tell you now. She's trying to hear us."
"No, no," protested the girl, with a laugh. "I was thinking of somethingelse."
"Oh, we know her, don't we?" he said to the child, with a playful appealto that passion for the joint possession of a mystery which all childrenhave.
"We might whisper it," she suggested.
"No; better wait for some other time." They were sitting near a tablewhere a pencil and some loose leaves of paper lay. He pulled his chair alittle closer, and, with the child still upon his knee, began toscribble and sketch at random. "Ah, there's San Miniato," he said, witha glance from the window. "Must get its outline in. You've heard howthere came to be a church up there? No? Well, it shows the sort of manSan Miniato really was. He was one of the early Christians, and he gavethe poor pagans a great deal of trouble. They first threw him to thewild beasts in the amphitheatre, but the moment those animals set eyeson him they saw it would be of no use; they just lay down and died. Verywell, then; the pagans determined to see what effect the axe would haveupon San Miniato: but as soon as they struck off his head he picked itup, set it back on his shoulders again, waded across the Arno, walked upthe hill, and when he came to a convenient little oratory up there heknelt down and expired. Isn't that a pretty good story? It's likefairies, isn't it?"
"Yes," whispered the child.
"What nonsense!" said Imogene. "You made it up."
"Oh, did I? Perhaps I built the church that stands there to commemoratethe fact. It's all in the history of Florence. Not in all histories;some of them are too proud to put such stories in, but I'm going to putevery one I can find into the history I'm writing for Effie. San Miniatowas beheaded where the church of Santa Candida stands now, and he walkedall that distance."
"Did he have to die when he got to the oratory?" asked the child, withgentle regret.
"It appears so," said Colville, sketching. "He would have been dead bythis time, anyway, you know."
"Yes," she reluctantly admitted.
"I never quite like those things, either, Effie," he said, pressing herto him. "There were people cruelly put to death two or three thousandyears
ago that I can't help feeling would be alive yet if they had beenjustly treated. There are a good many fairy stories about Florence;perhaps they used to be true stories; the truth seems to die out ofstories after a while, simply because people stop believing them. SaintAmbrose of Milan restored the son of his host to life when he came downhere to dedicate the Church of San Giovanni. Then there was anothersaint, San Zenobi, who worked a very pretty miracle after he was dead.They were carrying his body from the Church of San Giovanni to theChurch of Santa Reparata, and in Piazza San Giovanni his bier touched adead elm-tree that stood there, and the tree instantly sprang into leafand flower, though it was in the middle of the winter. A great manypeople took the leaves home with them, and a marble pillar was put upthere, with a cross and an elm-tree carved on it. Oh, the case is verywell authenticated."
"I shall really begin to think you believe such things," said Imogene."Perhaps you _are_ a Catholic."
Mrs. Bowen returned to the room, and sat down.
"There's another fairy story, prettier yet," said Colville, while thelittle girl drew a long deep breath of satisfaction and expectation."You've heard of the Buondelmonti?" he asked Imogene.
"Oh, it seems to me as if I'd had _nothing_ but the Buondelmonti dinnedinto me since I came to Florence!" she answered in lively despair.
"Ah, this happened some centuries before the Buondelmonte you've beenbored with was born. This was Giovanni Gualberto of the Buondelmonti,and he was riding along one day in 1003, near the Church of San Miniato,when he met a certain man named Ugo, who had killed one of his brothers.Gualberto stopped and drew his sword; Ugo saw no other chance of escape,and he threw himself face downward on the ground, with his armsstretched out in the form of the cross. 'Gualberto, remember JesusChrist, who died upon the cross praying for His enemies.' The story saysthat these words went to Gualberto's heart; he got down from his horse,and in sign of pardon lifted his enemy and kissed and embraced him. Thenthey went together into the church, and fell on their knees before thefigure of Christ upon the cross, and the figure bowed its head in signof approval and pleasure in Gualberto's noble act of Christian piety."
"Beautiful!" murmured the girl; the child only sighed.
"Ah, yes; it's an easy matter to pick up one's head from the ground, andset it back on one's shoulders, or to bring the dead to life, or to makea tree put forth leaves and flowers in midwinter; but to melt the heartof a man with forgiveness in the presence of his enemy--that's adifferent thing; _that's_ no fairy story; that's a real miracle; and Ibelieve this one happened--it's so impossible."
"Oh yes, it must have happened," said the girl.
"Do you think it's so very hard to forgive, then?" asked Mrs. Bowengravely.
"Oh, not for ladies," replied Colville.
She flushed, and her eyes shone when she glanced at him.
"I'm sorry to put you down," he said to the child; "but I can't take youwith me, and I must be going."
Mrs. Bowen did not ask him to stay to lunch; he thought afterward thatshe might have relented as far as that but for the last little thrust,which he would better have spared.
"Effie dear," said her mother, when the door closed upon Colville,"don't you think you'd better lie down a while? You look so tired."
"Shall I lie down on the sofa here?"
"No, on your bed."
"Well."
"I'll go with you, Effie," said Imogene, "and see that you're nicelytucked in."
When she returned alone, Mrs. Bowen was sitting where she had left her,and seemed not to have moved. "I think Effie will drop off to sleep,"she said; "she seems drowsy." She sat down, and after a pensive momentcontinued, "I wonder what makes Mr. Colville seem so gloomy."
"Does he seem gloomy?" asked Mrs. Bowen unsympathetically.
"No, not gloomy exactly. But different from last night. I wish peoplecould always be the same! He was so gay and full of spirits; and nowhe's so self-absorbed. He thinks you're offended with him, Mrs. Bowen."
"I don't think he was very much troubled about it. I only thought he wasflighty from want of sleep. At your age you don't mind the loss of anight."
"Do you think Mr. Colville seems so very old?" asked Imogene anxiously.
Mrs. Bowen appeared not to have heard her. She went to the window andlooked out. When she came back, "Isn't it almost time for you to have aletter from home?" she asked.
"Why, no. I had one from mother day before yesterday. What made youthink so?"
"Imogene," interrupted Mrs. Bowen, with a sudden excitement which shetried to control, but which made her lips tremble, and break a littlefrom her restraint, "you know that I am here in the place of yourmother, to advise you and look after you in every way?"
"Why, yes, Mrs. Bowen," cried the girl, in surprise.
"It's a position of great responsibility in regard to a young lady. Ican't have anything to reproach myself with afterward."
"No."
"Have I always been kind to you, and considerate of your rights and yourfreedom? Have I ever interfered with you in any way that you think Ioughtn't?"
"What an idea! You've been loveliness itself, Mrs. Bowen!"
"Then I want you to listen to me, and answer me frankly, and not suspectmy motives."
"Why, how _could_ I do that?"
"Never mind!" cried Mrs. Bowen impatiently, almost angrily. "Peoplecan't help their suspicions! Do you think Mr. Morton cares for you?"
The girl hung her head.
"Imogene, answer me!"
"I don't know," answered Imogene coldly; "but if you're troubled aboutthat, Mrs. Bowen, you needn't be; I don't care anything for Mr. Morton."
"If I thought you were becoming interested in any one, it would be myduty to write to your mother and tell her."
"Of course; I should expect you to do it."
"And if I saw you becoming interested in any one in a way that I thoughtwould make you unhappy, it would be my duty to warn you."
"Yes."
"Of course, I don't mean that any one would knowingly try to make youunhappy?"
"No."
"Men don't go about nowadays trying to break girls' hearts. But verygood men can be thoughtless and selfish."
"Yes; I understand that," said Imogene, in a falling accent.
"I don't wish to prejudice you against any one. I should consider itvery wrong and wicked. Besides, I don't care to interfere with you tothat degree. You are old enough to see and judge for yourself."
Imogene sat silent, passing her hand across the front of her dress. Theclock ticked audibly from the mantel.
"I will not have it left to me!" cried Mrs. Bowen. "It is hard enough,at any rate. Do you think I like to speak to you?"
"No."
"Of course it makes me seem inhospitable, and distrustful, anddetestable."
"I never thought of accusing you," said the girl, slowly lifting hereyes.
"I will never, never speak to you of it again," said Mrs. Bowen, "andfrom this time forth I insist upon your feeling just as free as if Ihadn't spoken." She trembled upon the verge of a sob, from which sherepelled herself.
Imogene sat still, with a sort of serious, bewildered look.
"You shall have every proper opportunity of meeting any one you like."
"Oh yes."
"And I shall be only too gl-glad to take back everything!"
Imogene sat motionless and silent. Mrs. Bowen broke out again with asort of violence; the years teach us something of self-control, perhaps,but they weaken and unstring the nerves. In this opposition of silenceto silence, the woman of the world was no match for the inexperiencedgirl.
"Have you nothing to say, Imogene?"
"I never thought of him in that way at all. I don't know what to sayyet. It--confuses me. I--I can't imagine it. But if you think that he istrying to amuse himself----"
"I never said that!"
"No, I know it."
"He likes to make you talk, and to talk with you. But he is perfectlyidle here, and--there is too much dif
ference, every way. The very goodin him makes it the worse. I suppose that after talking with him everyone else seems insipid."
"Yes."
Mrs. Bowen rose and ran suddenly from the room.
Imogene remained sitting cold and still.
No one had been named since they spoke of Mr. Morton.
Indian Summer Page 10