XXIII
Colville went back to his own room, and spent a good deal of time in thecontemplation of a suit of clothes, adapted to the season, which hadbeen sent home from the tailor's just before Mr. Waters came in. Thecoat was of the lightest serge, the trousers of a pearly grey tending tolavender, the waistcoat of cool white duck. On his way home from PalazzoPinti he had stopped in Via Tornabuoni and bought some silk gauzeneckties of a tasteful gaiety of tint, which he had at the time thoughtvery well of. But now, as he spread out the whole array on his bed, itseemed too emblematic of a light and blameless spirit for his wear. Heought to put on something as nearly analogous to sackcloth as a modernstock of dry-goods afforded; he ought, at least, to wear the gravematerials of his winter costume. But they were really insupportable inthis sudden access of summer. Besides, he had grown thin during hissickness, and the things bagged about him. If he were going to see Mrs.Bowen that evening, he ought to go in some decent shape. It was perhapsprovidential that he had failed to find her at home in the morning, whenhe had ventured thither in the clumsy attire in which he had beenloafing about her drawing-room for the past week. He now owed it to herto appear before her as well as he could. How charmingly punctilious shealways was herself!
As he put on his new clothes he felt the moral support which thebecomingness of dress alone can give. With the blue silk gauze lightlytied under his collar, and the lapels of his thin coat thrown back toadmit his thumbs to his waistcoat pockets, he felt almost cheerfulbefore his glass. Should he shave? As once before, this importantquestion occurred to him. His thinness gave him some advantages offigure, but he thought that it made his face older. What effect wouldcutting off his beard have upon it? He had not seen the lower part ofhis face for fifteen years. No one could say what recent ruin of adouble chin might not be lurking there. He decided not to shave, atleast till after dinner, and after dinner he was too impatient for hisvisit to brook the necessary delay.
He was shown into the salotto alone, but Effie Bowen came running in tomeet him. She stopped suddenly, bridling.
"You never expected to see me looking quite so pretty," said Colville,tracing the cause of her embarrassment to his summer splendour. "Whereis your mamma?"
"She is in the dining-room," replied the child, getting hold of hishand. "She wants you to come and have coffee with us."
"By all means--not that I haven't had coffee already, though."
She led the way, looking up at him shyly over her shoulder as they went.
Mrs. Bowen rose, napkin in lap, and gave him a hand of welcome. "How areyou feeling to-day?" she asked, politely ignoring his finery.
"Like a new man," he said. And then he added, to relieve the strain ofthe situation, "Of the best tailor's make in Florence."
"You look very well," she smiled.
"Oh, I always do when I take pains," said Colville. "The trouble is thatI don't always take pains. But I thought I would to-night, in upon alady."
"Effie will feel very much flattered," said Mrs. Bowen.
"Don't refuse a portion of the satisfaction," he cried.
"Oh, is it for me too?"
This gave Colville consolation which no religion or philosophy couldhave brought him, and his pleasure was not marred, but ratherheightened, by the little pangs of expectation, bred by long custom,that from moment to moment Imogene would appear. She did not appear, anda thrill of security succeeded upon each alarm. He wished her well withall his heart; such is the human heart that he wished her arrived homethe betrothed of that excellent, that wholly unobjectionable young man,Mr. Morton.
"Will you have a little of the ice before your coffee?" asked Mrs.Bowen, proposing one of the moulded creams with her spoon.
"Yes, thank you. Perhaps I will take it in place of the coffee. Theyforgot to offer us any ice at the _table d'hote_ this evening."
"This is rather luxurious for us," said Mrs. Bowen. "It's a compromisewith Effie. She wanted me to take her to Giacosa's this afternoon."
"I _thought_ you would come," whispered the child to Colville.
Her mother made a little face of mock surprise at her. "Don't giveyourself away, Effie."
"Why, let us go to Giacosa's too," said Colville, taking the ice. "Weshall be the only foreigners there, and we shall not even feel ourselvesforeign. It's astonishing how the hot weather has dispersed thetourists. I didn't see a Baedeker on the whole way up here, and I walkeddown Via Tornabuoni across through Porta Rosso and the Piazza dellaSignoria and the Uffizzi. You've no idea how comfortable and home-likeit was--all the statues loafing about in their shirt sleeves, and theobjects of interest stretching and yawning round, and having a good restafter their winter's work."
Effie understood Colville's way of talking well enough to enjoy this;her mother did not laugh.
"Walked?" she asked.
"Certainly. Why not?"
"You are getting well again. You'll soon be gone too."
"I've _got_ well. But as to being gone, there's no hurry. I rather thinkI shall wait now to see how long you stay."
"We may keep you all summer," said Mrs. Bowen, dropping her eyelidsindifferently.
"Oh, very well. All summer it is, then. Mr. Waters is going to stay, andhe is such a very cool old gentleman that I don't think one need fearthe wildest antics of the mercury where he is."
When Colville had finished his ice, Mrs. Bowen led the way to thesalotto; and they all sat down by the window there and watched thesunset die on San Miniato. The bronze copy of Michelangelo's David, inthe Piazzale below the church, blackened in perfect relief against thepink sky and then faded against the grey while they talked. They were sodomestic that Colville realised with difficulty that this was an imageof what might be rather than what really was; the very ease with whichhe could apparently close his hand upon the happiness within his graspunnerved him. The talk strayed hither and thither, and went and cameaimlessly. A sound of singing floated in from the kitchen, and Effieeagerly asked her mother if she might go and see Maddalena. Maddalena'smother had come to see her, and she was from the mountains.
"Yes, go," said Mrs. Bowen; "but don't stay too long."
"Oh, I will be back in time," said the child, and Colville rememberedthat he had proposed going to Giacosa's.
"Yes; don't forget." He had forgotten it himself.
"Maddalena is the cook," explained Mrs. Bowen. "She sings ballads toEffie that she learned from her mother, and I suppose Effie wants tohear them at first hand."
"Oh yes," said Colville dreamily.
They were alone now, and each little silence seemed freighted with ameaning deeper than speech.
"Have you seen Mr. Waters to-day?" asked Mrs. Bowen, after one of theselapses.
"Yes; he came this afternoon."
"He is a very strange old man. I should think he would be lonely here."
"He seems not to be. He says he finds company in the history of theplace. And his satisfaction at having got out of Haddam East Village isperennial."
"But he will want to go back there before he dies."
"I don't know. He thinks not. He's a strange old man, as you say. He hasthe art of putting all sorts of ideas into people's heads. Do you knowwhat we talked about this afternoon?"
"No, I don't," murmured Mrs. Bowen.
"About you. And he encouraged me to believe--imagine--that I might speakto you--ask--tell you that--I loved you, Lina." He leaned forward andtook one of the hands that lay in her lap. It trembled with a violenceinconceivable in relation to the perfect quiet of her attitude. But shedid not try to take it away. "Could you--do you love me?"
"Yes," she whispered; but here she sprang up and slipped from his holdaltogether, as with an inarticulate cry of rapture he released her handto take her in his arms.
He followed her a pace or two. "And you will--will be my wife?" hepursued eagerly.
"Never!" she answered, and now Colville stopped short, while a coldbewilderment bathed him from head to foot. It must be some sort of jest,though he could not
tell where the humour was, and he could not treat itotherwise than seriously.
"Lina, I have loved you from the first moment that I saw you thiswinter, and Heaven knows how long before!"
"Yes; I know that."
"And every moment."
"Oh, I know that too."
"Even if I had no sort of hope that you cared for me, I loved you somuch that I must tell you before we parted--"
"I expected that--I intended it."
"You intended it! and you do love me! And yet you won't--Ah, I don'tunderstand!"
"How could _you_ understand? I love you--I blush and burn for shame tothink that I love you. But I will never marry you; I can at least helpdoing that, and I can still keep some little trace of self-respect. Howyou must really despise me, to think of anything else, after all thathas happened! Did you suppose that I was merely waiting till that poorgirl's back was turned, as you were? Oh, how can you be yourself, andstill be yourself? Yes, Jenny Wheelwright was right. You are too much ofa mixture, Theodore Colville"--her calling him so showed how often shehad thought of him so--"too much for her, too much for Imogene, too muchfor me; too much for any woman except some wretched creature who enjoysbeing trampled on and dragged through the dust, as you have dragged me."
"_I_ dragged _you_ through the dust? There hasn't been a moment in thepast six months when I wouldn't have rolled myself in it to please you."
"Oh, I knew that well enough! And do you think that was flattering tome?"
"That has nothing to do with it. I only know that I love you, and that Icouldn't help wishing to show it even when I wouldn't acknowledge it tomyself. That is all. And now when I am free to speak, and you own thatyou love me, you won't--I give it up!" he cried desperately. But in thenext breath he implored, "_Why_ do you drive me from you, Lina?"
"Because you have humiliated me too much." She was perfectly steady, buthe knew her so well that in the twilight he knew what bitterness theremust be in the smile which she must be keeping on her lips. "I was herein the place of her mother, her best friend, and you made me treat herlike an enemy. You made me betray her and cast her off."
"I?"
"Yes, you! I knew from the very first that you did not really care forher, that you were playing with yourself, as you were playing with her,and I ought to have warned her."
"It appears to me you did warn her," said Colville, with some resentfulreturn of courage.
"I tried," she said simply, "and it made it worse. It made it worsebecause I knew that I was acting for my own sake more than hers, becauseI wasn't--disinterested." There was something in this explanation,serious, tragic, as it was to Mrs. Bowen, which made Colville laugh. Shemight have had some perception of its effect to him, or it may have beenmerely from a hysterical helplessness, but she laughed too a little.
"But why," he gathered courage to ask, "do you still dwell upon that?Mr. Waters told me that Mr. Morton--that there was--"
"He is mistaken. He offered himself, and she refused him. He told me."
"Oh!"
"Do you think she would do otherwise, with you lying here between lifeand death? No: you can have no hope from that."
Colville, in fact, had none. This blow crushed and dispersed him. He hadnot strength enough to feel resentment against Mr. Waters for misleadinghim with this _ignis fatuus_.
"No one warned him, and it came to that," said Mrs. Bowen. "It was of apiece with the whole affair. I was weak in that too."
Colville did not attempt to reply on this point. He feebly reverted tothe inquiry regarding himself, and was far enough from mirth in resumingit.
"I couldn't imagine," he said, "that you cared anything for me when youwarned another against me. If I could--"
"You put me in a false position from the beginning. I ought to havesympathised with her and helped her instead of making the poor childfeel that somehow I hated her. I couldn't even put her on guard againstherself, though I knew all along that she didn't really care for you,but was just in love with her own fancy for you, Even after you wereengaged I ought to have broken it off; I ought to have been frank withher; it was my duty; but I couldn't without feeling that I was actingfor myself too, and I would not submit to that degradation. No! I wouldrather have died. I dare say you don't understand. How could you? Youare a man, and the kind of man who couldn't. At every point you made meviolate every principle that was dear to me. I loathed myself for caringfor a man who was in love with me when he was engaged to another. Don'tthink it was gratifying to me. It was detestable; and yet I did let yousee that I cared for you. Yes, I even _tried_ to make you care forme--falsely, cruelly, treacherously."
"You didn't have to try very hard," said Colville, with a sort of coldresignation to his fate.
"Oh no; you were quite ready for any hint. I could have told her for herown sake that she didn't love you, but that would have been for my saketoo; and I would have told you if I hadn't cared for you and known howyou cared for me. I've saved at least the consciousness of this from thewreck."
"I don't think it's a great treasure," said Colville. "I wish that youhad saved the consciousness of having been frank even to your ownadvantage."
"Do you dare to reproach me, Theodore Colville? But perhaps I'vedeserved this too."
"No, Lina, you certainly don't deserve it, if it's unkindness, from me.I won't afflict you with my presence: but will you listen to me before Igo?"
She sank into a chair in sign of assent. He also sat down. He had a dimimpression that he could talk better if he took her hand, but he did notventure to ask for it. He contented himself with fixing his eyes upon asmuch of her face as he could make out in the dusk, a pale blur in avague outline of dark.
"I want to assure you, Lina--Lina, my love, my dearest, as I shall callyou for the first and last time!--that I _do_ understand everything, asdelicately and fully as you could wish, all that you have expressed, andall that you have left unsaid. I understand how high and pure yourideals of duty are, and how heroically, angelically, you have struggledto fulfil them, broken and borne down by my clumsy and stupidselfishness from the start. I want you to believe, my dearest love--youmust forgive me!--that if I didn't see everything at the time, I do seeit now, and that I prize the love you kept from me far more than anylove you could have given me to the loss of your self-respect. It isn'tlogic--it sounds more like nonsense, I am afraid--but you know what Imean by it. You are more perfect, more lovely to me, than any being inthe world, and I accept whatever fate you choose for me. I would not winyou against your will if I could. You are sacred to me. If you say wemust part, I know that you speak from a finer discernment than mine, andI submit. I will try to console myself with the thought of your love, ifI may not have you. Yes, I submit."
His instinct of forbearance had served him better than the subtlest art.His submission was the best defence. He rose with a real dignity, andshe rose also. "Remember," he said, "that I confess all you accuse meof, and that I acknowledge the justice of what you do--because you doit." He put out his hand and took the hand which hung nerveless at herside. "You are quite right. Good-bye." He hesitated a moment. "May Ikiss you, Lina?" He drew her to him, and she let him kiss her on thelips.
"Good-bye," she whispered. "Go--"
"I am going."
Effie Bowen ran into the room from the kitchen.
"Aren't you going to take--" She stopped and turned to her mother. Shemust not remind Mr. Colville of his invitation; that was what hergesture expressed.
Colville would not say anything. He would not seize his advantage, andplay upon the mother's heart through the feelings of her child, thoughthere is no doubt that he was tempted to prolong the situation by anymeans. Perhaps Mrs. Bowen divined both the temptation and theresistance. "Tell her," she said, and turned away.
"I can't go with you to-night, Effie," he said, stooping toward her forthe inquiring kiss that she gave him. "I am--going away, and I must saygood-bye."
The solemnity of his voice alarmed her. "Going away!" she repeate
d.
"Yes--away from Florence. I'm afraid I shall not see you again."
The child turned from him to her mother again, who stood motionless.Then, as if the whole calamitous fact had suddenly flashed upon her, sheplunged her face against her mother's breast. "I can't _bear_ it!" shesobbed out; and the reticence of her lamentation told more than a stormof cries and prayers.
Colville wavered.
"Oh, you must stay!" said Lina, in the self-contemptuous voice of awoman who falls below her ideal of herself.
XXIV
In the levities which the most undeserving husbands permit themselveswith the severest of wives, there were times after their marriage whenColville accused Lina of never really intending to drive him away, butof meaning, after a disciplinary ordeal, to marry him in reward of histested self-sacrifice and obedience. He said that if the appearance ofEffie was not a _coup de theatre_ contrived beforehand, it was anaccident of no consequence whatever; that if she had not come in at thatmoment, her mother would have found some other pretext for detaininghim. This is a point which I would not presume to decide. I only knowthat they were married early in June before the syndic of Florence, whotied a tricolour sash round his ample waist for the purpose, and neverlooked more paternal or venerable than when giving the sanction of theItalian state to their union. It is not, of course, to be supposed thatMrs. Colville was contented with the civil rite, though Colville mayhave thought it quite sufficient. The religious ceremony took place inthe English chapel, the assistant clergyman officiating in the absenceof the incumbent, who had already gone out of town.
The Rev. Mr. Waters gave away the bride, and then went home to PalazzoPinti with the party, the single and singularly honoured guest at theirwedding feast, for which Effie Bowen went with Colville to Giacosa's toorder the ices in person. She has never regretted her choice of a stepfather, though when Colville asked her how she would like him in thatrelation she had a moment of hesitation, in which she reconciled herselfto it; as to him she had no misgivings. He has sometimes found himselfthe object of little jealousies on her part, but by promptly decidingall questions between her and her mother in Effie's favour he hasconvinced her of the groundlessness of her suspicions.
In the absence of any social pressure to the contrary, the Colvillesspent the summer in Palazzo Pinti. Before their fellow-sojournersreturned from the _villeggiatura_ in the fall, however, they had turnedtheir faces southward, and they are now in Rome, where, arriving as amarried couple, there was no inquiry and no interest in their past.
It is best to be honest, and own that the affair with Imogene has beenthe grain of sand to them. No one was to blame, or very much to blame;even Mrs. Colville says that. It was a thing that happened, but onewould rather it had not happened.
Last winter, however, Mrs. Colville received a letter from Mrs. Grahamwhich suggested, if it did not impart, consolation. "Mr. Morton was herethe other day, and spent the morning. He has a parish at Erie, and thereis talk of his coming to Buffalo."
"Oh, Heaven grant it!" said Colville, with sudden piety.
"Why?" demanded his wife.
"Well, I wish she was married."
"You have nothing whatever to do with her."
It took him some time to realise that this was the fact.
"No," he confessed; "but what do you think about it?"
"There is no telling. We are such simpletons! If a man will keep on longenough--But if it isn't Mr. Morton, it will be some one else--some_young_ person."
Colville rose and went round the breakfast table to her. "I hope so," hesaid. "_I_ have married a young person, and it would only be fair."
This magnanimity was irresistible.
THE END.
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