His instinct of forbearance had served him better than the subtlest art. His submission was the best defence. He rose with a real dignity, and she rose also. “Remember,” he said, “that I confess all you accuse me of, and that I acknowledge the justice of what you do—because you do it.” He put out his hand and took the hand which hung nerveless at her side. “You are quite right. Goodbye.” He hesitated a moment. “May I kiss you, Lina?” He drew her to him, and she let him kiss her on the lips.
“Goodbye,” 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. She must not remind Mr. Colville of his invitation; that was what her gesture expressed.
Colville would not say anything. He would not seize his advantage, and play upon the mother’s heart through the feelings of her child, though there is no doubt that he was tempted to prolong the situation by any means. Perhaps Mrs. Bowen divined both the temptation and the resistance. “Tell her,” she said, and turned away.
“I can’t go with you tonight, Effie,” he said, stooping toward her for the inquiring kiss that she gave him. “I am—going away, and I must say goodbye.”
The solemnity of his voice alarmed her. “Going away!” she repeated.
“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, she plunged her face against her mother’s breast. “I can’t bear it!” she sobbed out; and the reticence of her lamentation told more than a storm of cries and prayers.
Colville wavered.
“Oh, you must stay!” said Lina, in the self-contemptuous voice of a woman who falls below her ideal of herself.
XXIV
In the levities which the most undeserving husbands permit themselves with the severest of wives, there were times after their marriage when Colville accused Lina of never really intending to drive him away, but of meaning, after a disciplinary ordeal, to marry him in reward of his tested self-sacrifice and obedience. He said that if the appearance of Effie was not a coup de théâtre contrived beforehand, it was an accident of no consequence whatever; that if she had not come in at that moment, her mother would have found some other pretext for detaining him. This is a point which I would not presume to decide. I only know that they were married early in June before the syndic of Florence, who tied a tricolour sash round his ample waist for the purpose, and never looked more paternal or venerable than when giving the sanction of the Italian state to their union. It is not, of course, to be supposed that Mrs. Colville was contented with the civil rite, though Colville may have thought it quite sufficient. The religious ceremony took place in the English chapel, the assistant clergyman officiating in the absence of the incumbent, who had already gone out of town.
The Rev. Mr. Waters gave away the bride, and then went home to Palazzo Pinti with the party, the single and singularly honoured guest at their wedding feast, for which Effie Bowen went with Colville to Giacosa’s to order the ices in person. She has never regretted her choice of a stepfather, though when Colville asked her how she would like him in that relation she had a moment of hesitation, in which she reconciled herself to it; as to him she had no misgivings. He has sometimes found himself the object of little jealousies on her part, but by promptly deciding all questions between her and her mother in Effie’s favour he has convinced her of the groundlessness of her suspicions.
In the absence of any social pressure to the contrary, the Colvilles spent the summer in Palazzo Pinti. Before their fellow-sojourners returned from the villeggiatura in the fall, however, they had turned their faces southward, and they are now in Rome, where, arriving as a married 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 been the 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 one would rather it had not happened.
Last winter, however, Mrs. Colville received a letter from Mrs. Graham which suggested, if it did not impart, consolation. “Mr. Morton was here the other day, and spent the morning. He has a parish at Erie, and there is 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 long enough—But if it isn’t Mr. Morton, it will be someone else—some young person.”
Colville rose and went round the breakfast table to her. “I hope so,” he said. “I have married a young person, and it would only be fair.”
This magnanimity was irresistible.
Colophon
Indian Summer
was published in 1886 by
William Dean Howells.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
John Rambow,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2005 by
David Garcia, Eric Eldred,
