“Yes; they put her in my charge. They will have to know. Shall I write to them?”
“Why, if you will.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Thank you.”
He had taken to stroking with his right hand the hand of Imogene which he held in his left, and now he looked round at her with a glance which it was a relief not to have her meet. “And till we can hear from them, I suppose 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 else to say, but Colville could not think of anything except: “We wish to act in every way with your approval, Mrs. Bowen. And I know that you are very particular in some things”—the words, now that they were said, struck him as unfortunate, and even vulgar—“and I shouldn’t wish to annoy you—”
“Oh, I understand. I think it will be—I have no doubt you will know how to manage all that. It isn’t as if you were both—”
“Young?” asked Colville. “No; one of us is quite old enough to be thoroughly up in the convenances. We are qualified, I’m afraid, as far as that goes,” he added bitterly, “to set all Florence an example of correct behaviour.”
He knew there must be pain in the face which he would not look at; he kept looking at Mrs. Bowen’s face, in which certainly there was not much pleasure, either.
There was another silence, which became very oppressive before it ended in a question from Mrs. Bowen, who stirred slightly in her chair, and bent forward as if about to rise in asking it. “Shall you wish to consider it an engagement?”
Colville felt Imogene’s hand tremble in his, but he received no definite prompting 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 tremor died 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, he said, “Perhaps if you know Imogene’s mother, Mrs. Bowen, you can suggest—advise—You—”
“You must excuse me; I can’t suggest or advise anything. I must leave you perfectly free.” She rose from her chair, and they both rose too from the sofa on which he had seated himself at Imogene’s side. “I shall have to leave you, I’m afraid; my head aches still a little. Imogene!” She advanced toward the girl, who stood passively letting her come the whole distance. As if sensible of the rebuff expressed in this attitude, she halted a very little. Then she added, “I hope you will be very happy,” and suddenly cast her arms round the girl, and stood long pressing her face into her neck. When she released her, Colville trembled lest she should be going to give him her hand in congratulation. 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 if he were letting her do herself some wrong. But she gripped him fast, and began 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 anyone. 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’ve done her some deadly wrong, without knowing it, or I couldn’t hate her as I know I do.”
“Oh no,” said Colville soothingly; “that’s just your fancy. You haven’t harmed 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 might with 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’ll feel differently, of course. I’ve kept you restless and nervous a long time, poor child; but now our peace begins, and everything will be bright 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 go away—” She looked at him, frightened but submissive. “But I will be back tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning. I want to think—to give you time to think. I don’t want to be selfish about you—I want to consider you, all the more because you won’t consider yourself. Goodbye.” He stooped over and kissed her hair. Even in this he felt like 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 found Effie Bowen sitting alone at the table, and served in serious formality by the man, whom she had apparently felt it right to repress, for they were both silent. The little girl had not known how to deny herself an excess of the less wholesome dishes, and she was perhaps anticipating the regret which this indulgence was to bring, for she was very pensive.
“Isn’t mamma coming at all?” she asked plaintively, when Imogene sat down, 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
