XV
Mrs. Bowen came in to them, looking pale and pain-worn, as she did thatevening when she would not let Colville go away with the othertea-taking callers to whom she had made her headache an excuse. Theeyelids which she had always a little difficulty in lifting were heavywith suffering, and her pretty smile had an effect of very greatremoteness. But there was no consciousness of anything unusual orunexpected in his presence expressed in her looks or manner. Colvillehad meant to take Imogene by the hand and confront Mrs. Bowen with animmediate declaration of what had happened; but he found thisimpossible, at least in the form of his intention; he took, instead, thehand of conventional welcome which she gave him, and he obeyed her intaking provisionally the seat to which she invited him. At the same timethe order of his words was dispersed in that wonder, whether shesuspected anything, with which he listened to her placid talk about theweather; she said she had thought it was a chilly day outdoors; but herheadaches always made her very sensitive.
"Yes," said Colville, "I supposed it was cold myself till I went out,for I woke with a tinge of rheumatism." He felt a strong desire toexcuse, to justify what had happened, and he went on, with a painfulsense of Imogene's eyes bent in bewildered deference upon him. "Istarted out for a walk with Mr. Waters, but I left him after we gotacross the Ponte Vecchio; he went up to look at the Michelangelobastions, and I strolled over to the Boboli Gardens--where I found youryoung people."
He had certainly brought himself to the point, but he seemed actuallyfurther from it than at first, and he made a desperate plunge, trying atthe same time to keep something of his habitual nonchalance. "But thatdoesn't account for my being here. Imogene accounts for that. She hasallowed me to stay in Florence."
Mrs. Bowen could not turn paler than her headache had left her, and shenow underwent no change of complexion. But her throat was not clearenough to say to the end, "Allowed you to stay in--" The trouble in herthroat arrested her again.
Colville became very red. He put out his hand and took Imogene's, andnow his eyes and Mrs. Bowen's met in the kind of glance in which peopleintercept and turn each other aside before they have reached aresting-place in each other's souls. But at the girl's touch his couragerevived--in some physical sort. "Yes, and if she will let me stay withher, we are not going to part again."
Mrs. Bowen did not answer at once, and in the hush Colville heard thebreathing of all three.
"Of course," he said, "we wished you to know at once, and I came in withImogene to tell you."
"What do you wish me," asked Mrs. Bowen, "to do?"
Colville forced a nervous laugh. "Really, I'm so little used to thissort of affair that I don't know whether I have any wish. Imogene ishere with you, and I suppose I supposed you would wish to do something."
"I will do whatever you think best."
"Thank you: that's very kind of you." He fell into a silence, in whichhe was able only to wish that he knew what was best, and from which hecame to the surface with, "Imogene's family ought to know, of course."
"Yes; they put her in my charge. They will have to know. Shall I writeto them?"
"Why, if you will."
"Oh, certainly."
"Thank you."
He had taken to stroking with his right hand the hand of Imogene whichhe held in his left, and now he looked round at her with a glance whichit was a relief not to have her meet. "And till we can hear from them, Isuppose you will let me come to see her?"
"You know you have always been welcome here."
"Thank you very much." It seemed as if there ought to be something elseto say, but Colville could not think of anything except: "We wish to actin every way with your approval, Mrs. Bowen. And I know that you arevery particular in some things"--the words, now that they were said,struck him as unfortunate, and even vulgar--"and I shouldn't wish toannoy you--"
"Oh, I understand. I think it will be--I have no doubt you will know howto manage all that. It isn't as if you were both--"
"Young?" asked Colville. "No; one of us is quite old enough to bethoroughly up in the _convenances_. We are qualified, I'm afraid, as faras that goes," he added bitterly, "to set all Florence an example ofcorrect behaviour."
He knew there must be pain in the face which he would not look at; hekept looking at Mrs. Bowen's face, in which certainly there was not muchpleasure, either.
There was another silence, which became very oppressive before it endedin a question from Mrs. Bowen, who stirred slightly in her chair, andbent forward as if about to rise in asking it. "Shall you wish toconsider it an engagement?"
Colville felt Imogene's hand tremble in his, but he received no definiteprompting from the tremor. "I don't believe I know what you mean."
"I mean, till you have heard from Imogene's mother."
"I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps under the circumstances--" The tremordied out of the hand he held; it lay lax between his. "What do you say,Imogene?"
"I can't say anything. Whatever you think will be right--for me."
"I wish to do what will seem right and fair to your mother."
"Yes."
Colville heaved a hopeless sigh. Then with a deep inward humiliation, hesaid, "Perhaps if you know Imogene's mother, Mrs. Bowen, you cansuggest--advise--You--"
"You must excuse me; I can't suggest or advise anything. I must leaveyou perfectly free." She rose from her chair, and they, both rose toofrom the sofa on which he had seated himself at Imogene's side. "I shallhave to leave you, I'm afraid; my head aches still a little. Imogene!"She advanced toward the girl, who stood passively letting her come thewhole distance. As if sensible of the rebuff expressed in this attitude,she halted a very little. Then she added, "I hope you will be veryhappy," and suddenly cast her arms round the girl, and stood longpressing her face into her neck. When she released her, Colvilletrembled lest she should be going to give him her hand incongratulation. But she only bowed slightly to him, with a sidelong,aversive glance, and walked out of the room with a slow, rigid pace,like one that controls a tendency to giddiness.
Imogene threw herself on Colville's' breast. It gave him a shock, as ifhe were letting her do herself some wrong. But she gripped him fast, andbegan to sob and to cry. "Oh! oh! oh!"
"What is it?--what is it, my poor girl?" he murmured. "Are you unhappy?Are you sorry? Let it all end, then!"
"No, no; it isn't that! But I am very unhappy--yes, very, very unhappy!Oh, I didn't suppose I should ever feel so toward any one. I hate her!"
"You hate her?" gasped Colville.
"Yes, I hate her. And she--she is so good to me! It must be that I'vedone her some deadly wrong, without knowing it, or I couldn't hate heras I know I do."
"Oh no," said Colville soothingly; "that's just your fancy. You haven'tharmed her, and you don't hate her."
"Yes, yes, I do! You can't understand how I feel toward her."
"But you can't feel so toward her long," he urged, dealing as he mightwith what was wholly a mystery to him. She is so good--"
"It only makes my badness worse, and makes me hate her more."
"I don't understand. But you're excited now. When you're calmer you'llfeel differently, of course. I've kept you restless and nervous a longtime, poor child; but now our peace begins, and everything will bebright and--" He stopped: the words had such a very hollow sound.
She pushed herself from him, and dried her eyes. "Oh yes."
"And, Imogene--perhaps--perhaps--Or, no; never mind, now. I must goaway--" She looked at him, frightened but submissive. "But I will beback to-night, or perhaps to-morrow morning. I want to think--to giveyou time to think. I don't want to be selfish about you--I want toconsider you, all the more because you won't consider yourself.Good-bye." He stooped over and kissed her hair. Even in this he feltlike a thief; he could not look at the face she lifted to his.
Mrs. Bowen sent word from her room that she was not coming to dinner,and Imogene did not come till the dessert was put on. Then she foundEffie Bowen sitting alone at the table, and serv
ed in serious formalityby the man, whom she had apparently felt it right to repress, for theywere both silent. The little girl had not known how to deny herself anexcess of the less wholesome dishes, and she was perhaps anticipatingthe regret which this indulgence was to bring, for she was very pensive.
"Isn't mamma coming at _all_?" she asked plaintively, when Imogene satdown, and refused everything but a cup of coffee. "Well," she went on,"I can't make out what is coming to this family. You were all cryinglast night because Mr. Colville was going away, and now, when he's goingto stay, it's just as bad. I don't think you make it very pleasant for_him_. I should think he would be perfectly puzzled by it, after he'sdone so much to please you all. I don't believe he thinks it's verypolite. I suppose it _is_ polite, but it doesn't seem so. And he'salways so cheerful and nice. I should think he would want to visit insome family where there was more amusement. There used to be plenty inthis family, but now it's as dismal! The first of the winter you andmamma used to be so pleasant when he came, and would try everything toamuse him, and would let me come in to get some of the good of it; butnow you seem to fly every way as soon as he comes in sight of the house,and I'm poked off in holes and corners before he can open his lips. AndI've borne it about as long as I can. I would rather be back in Vevay.Or anywhere." At this point her own pathos overwhelmed her, and thetears rolling down her cheeks moistened the crumbs of pastry at thecorners of her pretty mouth. "What was so strange, I should like toknow, about his staying, that mamma should pop up like a ghost, when Itold her he had come home with us, and grab me by the wrist, and twitchme about, and ask me all sorts of questions I couldn't answer, andfrighten me almost to death? I haven't got over it yet. And I don'tthink it's very nice. It used to be a very polite family, and pleasantwith each other, and always having something agreeable going on in it;but if it keeps on very much longer in this way, I shall think theBowens are beginning to lose their good-breeding. I suppose that if Mr.Colville were to go down on his knees to mamma and ask her to let himtake me somewhere now, she wouldn't do it." She pulled her handkerchiefout of her pocket, and dried her eyes on a ball of it. "I don't see what_you've_ been crying about, Imogene. _You've_ got nothing to worry you."
"I'm not very well, Effie," returned the girl gently. "I haven't beenwell all day."
"It seems to me that nobody is well any more. I don't believe Florenceis a very healthy place. Or at least this house isn't. _I_ think it mustbe the drainage. If we keep on, I suppose we shall all have diphtheria.Don't you, Imogene?"
"Yes," asserted the girl distractedly.
"The girls had it at Vevay frightfully. And none of them were as strongafterward. Some of the parents came and took them away; but MadameSchebres never let mamma know. Do you think that was right?"
"No; it was very wrong."
"I suppose Mr. Colville will have it if we do. That is, if he keepscoming here. Is he coming any more?"
"Yes; he's coming to-morrow morning."
"_Is_ he?" A smile flickered over the rueful face. "What time is hecoming?"
"I don't know exactly," said Imogene, listlessly stirring her coffee."Some time in the forenoon."
"Do you suppose he's going to take us anywhere?"
"Yes--I think so. I can't tell exactly."
"If he asks me to go somewhere, will you tease mamma? She always letsyou, Imogene, and it seems sometimes as if she just took a pleasure indenying me."
"You mustn't talk so of your mother, Effie."
"No; I wouldn't to _every_body. I know that she means for the best; butI don't believe she understands how much I suffer when she won't let mego with Mr. Colville. Don't you think he's about the nicest gentleman weknow, Imogene?"
"Yes; he's very kind."
"And I think he's handsome. A good many people would consider himold-looking, and of course he isn't so young as Mr. Morton was, or theInglehart boys; but that makes him all the easier to get along with. Andhis being just a little fat, that way, seems to suit so well with hischaracter." The smiles were now playing across the child's face, and hereyes sparkling. "_I_ think Mr. Colville would make a good SaintNicholas--the kind they have going down chimneys in America. I'm goingto tell him, for the next veglione. It would be such a nice surprise."
"No, better not tell him that," suggested Imogene.
"Do you think he wouldn't like it?"
"Yes."
"Well, it would become him. How old do you suppose he is, Imogene?Seventy-five?"
"What an idea!" cried the girl fiercely. "He's forty-one."
"I didn't know they had those little jiggering lines at the corners oftheir eyes so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn't it? Is Mr.Waters--"
"Effie," said her mother's voice at the door behind her, "will you ringfor Giovanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of coffee in here?" Shespoke from the _portiere_ of the _salotto_.
"Yes, mamma. I'll bring it to you myself."
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Bowen called from within.
The little girl softly pressed her hands together. "I _hope_ she'll letme stay up! I feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think so longbefore I get to sleep. Couldn't you just hint a little to her that Imight stay up? It's Sunday night."
"I can't, Effie," said Imogene. "I oughtn't to interfere with any ofyour mother's rules."
The child sighed submissively and took the coffee that Giovanni broughtto her. She and Imogene went into the _salotto_ together. Mrs. Bowen wasat her writing-desk. "You can bring the coffee here, Effie," she said.
"Must I go to bed at once, mamma?" asked the child, setting the cupcarefully down.
The mother looked distractedly up from her writing. "No; you may sit upa while," she said, looking back to her writing.
"How long, mamma?" pleaded the little girl.
"Oh, till you're sleepy. It doesn't matter _now_."
She went on writing; from time to time she tore up what she had written.
Effie softly took a book from the table, and perching herself on astiff, high chair, bent over it and began to read.
Imogene sat by the hearth, where a small fire was pleasant in the indoorchill of an Italian house, even after so warm a day as that had been.She took some large beads of the strand she wore about her neck into hermouth, and pulled at the strand listlessly with her hand while shewatched the fire. Her eyes wandered once to the child.
"What made you take such an uncomfortable chair, Effie?"
Effie shut her book over her hand. "It keeps me wakeful longer," shewhispered, with a glance at her mother from the corner of her eye.
"I don't see why any one should wish to be wakeful," sighed the girl.
When Mrs. Bowen tore up one of her half-written pages Imogene startednervously forward, and then relapsed again into her chair. At last Mrs.Bowen seemed to find the right phrases throughout, and she finishedrather a long letter, and read it over to herself. Then she said,without leaving her desk, "Imogene, I've been trying to write to yourmother. Will you look at this?"
She held the sheet over her shoulder, and Imogene came languidly andtook it; Mrs. Bowen dropped her face forward on the desk, into herhands, while Imogene was reading.
"FLORENCE, _March_ 10, 18--
"Dear Mrs. Graham,--I have some very important news to give you inregard to Imogene, and as there is no way of preparing you for it, Iwill tell you at once that it relates to her marriage.
"She has met at my house a gentleman whom I knew in Florence when I washere before, and of whom I never knew anything but good. We have seenhim very often, and I have seen nothing in him that I could not approve.He is Mr. Theodore Colville, of Prairie des Vaches, Indiana, where hewas for many years a newspaper editor; but he was born somewhere in NewEngland. He is a very cultivated, interesting man; and though notexactly a society man, he is very agreeable and refined in his manners.I am sure his character is irreproachable, though he is not a member ofany church. In regard to his means I know nothing whatever, and can onlyinfer from his way of life that he is in easy cir
cumstances.
"The whole matter has been a surprise to me, for Mr. Colville is sometwenty-one or two years older than Imogene, who is very young in herfeelings for a girl of her age. If I could have realised anything like aserious attachment between them sooner, I would have written before.Even now I do not know whether I am to consider them engaged or not. Nodoubt Imogene will write you more fully.
"Of course I would rather not have had anything of the kind happen whileImogene was under my charge, though I am sure that you will not think Ihave been careless or imprudent about her. I interfered as far as Icould, at the first moment I could, but it appears that it was then toolate to prevent what has followed.--Yours sincerely, EVALINA BOWEN."
Imogene read the letter twice over, and then she said, "Why isn't he asociety man?"
Probably Mrs. Bowen expected this sort of approach. "I don't think asociety man would have undertaken to dance the Lancers as he did atMadam Uccelli's," she answered patiently, without lifting her head.
Imogene winced, but "I should despise him if he were merely a societyman," she said. "I have seen enough of them. I think it's better to beintellectual and good."
Mrs. Bowen made no reply, and the girl went on. "And as to his beingolder, I don't see what difference it makes. If people are in sympathy,then they are of the same age, no difference how much older than one theother is. I have always heard that." She urged this as if it were aquestion.
"Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.
"And how should his having been a newspaper editor be anything againsthim?"
Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at the girl in astonishment. "Whosaid it was against him?"
"You hint as much. The whole letter is against him."
"Imogene!"
"Yes! Every word! You make him out perfectly detestable. I don't knowwhy you should hate _him_, He's done everything he could to satisfyyou."
Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting her hand to her forehead, as ifto soften a shock of headache that her change of posture had sent there."I will leave the letter with you, and you can send it or not as youthink best. It's merely a formality, my writing to your mother. Perhapsyou'll see it differently in the morning. Effie!" she called to thechild, who with her book shut upon her hand had been staring at them andlistening intently. "It's time to go to bed now."
When Effie stood before the glass in her mother's room, and Mrs. Bowenwas braiding her hair and tying it up for the night, she asked ruefully,"What's the matter with Imogene, mamma?"
"She isn't very happy to-night."
"You don't seem very happy either," said the child, watching her ownface as it quivered in the mirror. "I should think that now Mr.Colville's concluded to stay, we would all be happy again. But we don'tseem to. We're--we're perfectly demoralised!" It was one of the wordsshe had picked up from Colville.
The quivering face in the glass broke in a passion of tears, and Effiesobbed herself to sleep.
Imogene sat down at Mrs. Bowen's desk, and pushing her letter away,began to write.
"FLORENCE, _March_ 10, 18--.
"DEAR MOTHER,---I inclose a letter from Mrs. Bowen which will tell youbetter than I can what I wish to tell. I do not see how I can addanything that would give you more of an idea of him, or less, either. Noperson can be put down in cold black and white, and not seem like a mereinventory. I do not suppose you expected me to become engaged when yousent me out to Florence, and, as Mrs. Bowen says, I don't know whether Iam engaged or not. I will leave it entirely to Mr. Colville; if he sayswe are engaged, we are. I am sure he will do what is best. I only knowthat he was going away from Florence because he thought I supposed hewas not in earnest, and I asked him to stay.
"I am a good deal excited to-night, and cannot write very clearly. But Iwill write soon again, and more at length.
"Perhaps something will be decided by that time. With much love tofather,
"Your affectionate daughter,
"Imogene."
She put this letter into an envelope with Mrs. Bowen's, and leaving itunsealed to show her in the morning, she began to write again. This timeshe wrote to a girl with whom she had been on terms so intimate thatwhen they left school they had agreed to know each other by namesexpressive of their extremely confidential friendship, and to addresseach other respectively as Diary and Journal. They were going to writeevery day, if only a line or two; and at the end of a year they were tomeet and read over together the records of their lives as set down inthese letters. They had never met since, though it was now three yearssince they parted, and they had not written since Imogene came abroad;that is, Imogene had not answered the only letter she had received fromher friend in Florence. This friend was a very serious girl, and hadwished to be a minister, but her family would not consent, or evenaccept the compromise of studying medicine, which she proposed, and shewas still living at home in a small city of central New York. Imogenenow addressed her--
"DEAR DIARY,--You cannot think how far away the events of this day havepushed the feelings and ideas of the time when I agreed to write to youunder this name. Till now it seems to me as if I had not changed in theleast thing since we parted, and now I can hardly know myself for thesame person. O dear Di! something very wonderful has come into my life,and I feel that it rests with me to make it the greatest blessing tomyself and others, or the greatest misery. If I prove unworthy of it orunequal to it, then I am sure that nothing but wretchedness will come ofit.
"I am engaged--yes!--and to a man more than twice my own age. It is soeasy to tell you this, for I know that your large-mindedness willreceive it very differently from most people, and that you will see itas I do. He is the noblest of men, though he tries to conceal it underthe light, ironical manner with which he has been faithful to a crueldisappointment. It was here in Florence, twenty years ago, that agirl--I am ashamed to call her a girl--trifled with the pricelesstreasure that has fallen to me, and flung it away. You, Di, willunderstand how I was first fascinated with the idea of trying to atoneto him here for all the wrong he had suffered. At first it was only thevaguest suggestion--something like what I had read in a poem or anovel--that had nothing to do with me personally, but it grew upon memore and more the more I saw of him, and felt the witchery of his light,indifferent manner, which I learned to see was tense with the anguish hehad suffered. She had killed his youth; she had spoiled his life: if Icould revive them, restore them! It came upon me like a great flash oflight at last, and as soon as this thought took possession of me, I feltmy whole being elevated and purified by it, and I was enabled to putaside with contempt the selfish considerations that had occurred to meat first. At first the difference between our ages was very shocking tome; for I had always imagined it would be some one young; but when thislight broke upon me, I saw that _he_ was young, younger even than I, asa man is at the same age with a girl. Sometimes with my experiences, thefancies and flirtations that every one has and _must_ have, however onedespises them, I felt so _old_ beside him; for he had been true to onelove all his life, and he had not wavered for a moment. If I could makehim forget it, if I could lift every feather's weight of sorrow from hisbreast, if I could help him to complete the destiny, grand and beautifulas it would have been, which another had arrested, broken off--don't yousee, Di dear, how rich my reward would be?
"And he, how forbearing, how considerate, how anxious for me, how fullof generous warning he has been! always putting me in mind, at everystep, of the difference in years between us; never thinking of himself,and shrinking so much from even seeming to control me or sway me, that Idon't know really whether I have not made all the advances!
"I cannot write his name yet, and you must not ask it till I can; and Icannot tell you anything about his looks or his life without seeming todegrade him, somehow, and make him a common man like others.
"How can I make myself his companion in everything? How can I convincehim that there is no sacrifice for me, and that he alone is giving up?These are the thoughts that keep whirling through my mind. I h
ope Ishall be helped, and I hope that I shall be tried, for that is the onlyway for me to be helped. I feel strong enough for anything that peoplecan say. I should _welcome_ criticism and opposition from any quarter.But I can see that _he_ is very sensitive--it comes from his keen senseof the ridiculous--and if I suffer, it will be on account of this grandunselfish nature, and I shall be glad of that.
"I know you will understand me, Di, and I am not afraid of your laughingat these ravings. But if you did I should not care. It is such a comfortto say these things about him, to exalt him, and get him in the truelight at last.
"Your faithful JOURNAL.
"I shall tell him about you, one of the first things, and perhaps he cansuggest some way out of your trouble, he has had so much experience ofevery kind. You will worship him, as I do, when you see him; for youwill feel at once that he understands you, and that is such a rest.
"J."
Before Imogene fell asleep, Mrs. Bowen came to her in the dark, andsoftly closed the door that opened from the girl's room into Effie's.She sat down on the bed, and began to speak at once, as if she knewImogene must be awake. "I thought you would come to me, Imogene; but asyou didn't, I have come to you, for if you can go to sleep with hardthoughts of me to-night, I can't let you. You need me for your friend,and I wish to be your friend; it would be wicked in me to be anythingelse; I would give the world if your mother were here; but I tried tomake my letter to her everything that it should be. If you don't thinkit is, I will write it over in the morning."
"No," said the girl coldly; "it will do very well. I don't wish totrouble you so much."
"Oh, how can you speak so to me? Do you think that I blame Mr. Colville?Is that it? I don't ask you--I shall never ask you--how he came toremain, but I know that he has acted truthfully and delicately. I knewhim long before you did, and no one need take his part with me." Thiswas not perhaps what Mrs. Bowen meant to say when she began. "I havetold you all along what I thought, but if you imagine that I am notsatisfied with Mr. Colville, you are very much mistaken. I can't burstout into praises of him to your mother: that would be very patronisingand very bad taste. Can't you see that it would?"
"Oh yes."
Mrs. Bowen lingered, as if she expected Imogene to say something more,but she did not, and Mrs. Bowen rose. "Then I hope we understand eachother," she said, and went out of the room.
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