“Oh, call us a passage from a modern novel,” suggested Colville, “if you’re in the romantic mood. One of Mr. James’s.”
“Don’t you think we ought to be rather more of the great world for that? I hardly feel up to Mr. James. I should have said Howells. Only nothing happens in that case!”
“Oh, very well; that’s the most comfortable way. If it’s only Howells, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go with Miss Graham to show her the view of Florence from the cypress grove up yonder.”
“No; he’s very particular when he’s on Italian ground,” said Mrs. Amsden, rising. “You must come another time with Miss Graham, and bring Mrs. Bowen. It’s quite time we were going home.”
The light under the limbs of the trees had begun to grow more liquid. The currents of warm breeze streaming through the cooler body of the air had ceased to ruffle the lakelet round the fountain, and the naiads rode their seahorses through a perfect calm. A damp, pierced with the fresh odour of the water and of the springing grass, descended upon them. The saunterers through the different paths and alleys were issuing upon the main avenues, and tending in gathering force toward the gate.
They found Mrs. Bowen’s carriage there, and drove first to her house, beyond which Mrs. Amsden lived in a direct line. On the way Colville kept up with her the bantering talk that they always carried on together, and found in it a respite from the formless future pressing close upon him. He sat with Effie on the front seat, and he would not look at Imogene’s face, which, nevertheless, was present to some inner vision. When the porter opened the iron gate below and rang Mrs. Bowen’s bell, and Effie sprang up the stairs before them to give her mother the news of Mr. Colville’s coming, the girl stole her hand into his.
“Shall you—tell her?”
“Of course. She must know without an instant’s delay.”
“Yes, yes; that is right. Oh!—Shall I go with you?”
“Yes; come!”
XV
Mrs. Bowen came in to them, looking pale and pain-worn, as she did that evening when she would not let Colville go away with the other tea-taking callers to whom she had made her headache an excuse. The eyelids which she had always a little difficulty in lifting were heavy with suffering, and her pretty smile had an effect of very great remoteness. But there was no consciousness of anything unusual or unexpected in his presence expressed in her looks or manner. Colville had meant to take Imogene by the hand and confront Mrs. Bowen with an immediate declaration of what had happened; but he found this impossible, at least in the form of his intention; he took, instead, the hand of conventional welcome which she gave him, and he obeyed her in taking provisionally the seat to which she invited him. At the same time the order of his words was dispersed in that wonder, whether she suspected anything, with which he listened to her placid talk about the weather; she said she had thought it was a chilly day outdoors; but her headaches 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 to excuse, to justify what had happened, and he went on, with a painful sense of Imogene’s eyes bent in bewildered deference upon him. “I started out for a walk with Mr. Waters, but I left him after we got across the Ponte Vecchio; he went up to look at the Michelangelo bastions, and I strolled over to the Boboli Gardens—where I found your young people.”
He had certainly brought himself to the point, but he seemed actually further from it than at first, and he made a desperate plunge, trying at the same time to keep something of his habitual nonchalance. “But that doesn’t account for my being here. Imogene accounts for that. She has allowed me to stay in Florence.”
Mrs. Bowen could not turn paler than her headache had left her, and she now underwent no change of complexion. But her throat was not clear enough to say to the end, “Allowed you to stay in—” The trouble in her throat arrested her again.
Colville became very red. He put out his hand and took Imogene’s, and now his eyes and Mrs. Bowen’s met in the kind of glance in which people intercept and turn each other aside before they have reached a resting-place in each other’s souls. But at the girl’s touch his courage revived—in some physical sort. “Yes, and if she will let me stay with her, we are not going to part again.”
Mrs. Bowen did not answer at once, and in the hush Colville heard the breathing of all three.
“Of course,” he said, “we wished you to know at once, and I came in with Imogene 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 this sort of affair that I don’t know whether I have any wish. Imogene is here 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 which he was able only to wish that he knew what was best, and from which he came to the
