The next morning Paolo, when he brought up Colville's breakfast, brought
the news that there was to be a veglione at the Pergola Theatre. This
news revived Colville's courage. "Paolo," he said, "you ought to open a
banking-house." Paolo was used to being joked by foreigners who could
not speak Italian very well; he smiled as if he understood.
The banker had his astute doubts of Paolo's intelligence; the banker in
Europe doubts all news not originating in his house; but after a day or
two the advertisements in the newspapers carried conviction even to the
banker.
When Colville went to the ladies with news of the veglione, he found
that they had already heard of it. "Should you like to go?" he asked
Mrs. Bowen.
"I don't know. What do you think?" she asked in turn.
"Oh, it's for you to do the thinking. I only know what I want."
Imogene said nothing, while she watched the internal debate as it
expressed itself in Mrs. Bowen's face.
"People go in boxes," she said thoughtfully; "but you would feel that a
box wasn't the same thing exactly?"
"_We_ went on the floor," suggested Colville.
"It was very different then. And, besides, Mrs. Finlay had absolutely
_no_ sense of propriety." When a woman has explicitly condemned a given
action, she apparently gathers courage for its commission under a little
different conditions. "Of course, if we went upon the floor, I shouldn't
wish it to be known at all, though foreigners can do almost anything
they like."
"Really," said Colville, "when it comes to that, I don't see any harm in
it."
"And you say go?"
"I say whatever you say."
Mrs. Bowen looked from him to Imogene. "I don't either," she said
finally, and they understood that she meant the harm which he had not
seen.
"Which of us has been so good as to deserve this?" asked Colville.
"Oh, you have all been good," she said. "We shall go in masks and
dominoes," she continued. "Nothing will happen, and who should know us
if anything did?" They had received tickets to the great Borghese ball,
which is still a fashionable and desired event of the Carnival to
foreigners in Florence; but their preconceptions of the veglione threw
into the shade the entertainment which the gentlemen of Florence offered
to favoured sojourners.
"Come," said Mrs. Bowen, "you must go with us and help us choose our
dominoes."
A prudent woman does not do an imprudent thing by halves. Effie was to
be allowed to go to the veglione too, and she went with them to the shop
where they were to hire their dominoes. It would be so much more fun,
Mrs. Bowen said, to choose the dresses in the shop than to have them
sent home for you to look at. Effie was to be in black; Imogene was to
have a light blue domino, and Mrs. Bowen chose a purple one; even where
their faces were not to be seen they considered their complexions in
choosing the colours. If you happened to find a friend, and wanted to
unmask, you would not want to look horrid. The shop people took the
vividest interest in it all, as if it were a new thing to them, and
these were the first foreigners they had ever served with masks and
dominoes. They made Mrs. Bowen and Imogene go into an inner room and
come out for the mystification of Colville, hulking about in the front
shop with his mask and domino on.
"Which is which?" the ladies both challenged him, in the mask's
conventional falsetto, when they came out.
With a man's severe logic he distinguished them according to their
silks, but there had been time for them to think of changing, and they
took off their masks to laugh in his face.
They fluttered so airily about among the pendent masks and dominoes,
from which they shook a ghostly perfume of old carnivals, that his heart
leaped.
"Ah, you'll never be so fascinating again!" he cried. He wanted to take
them in his arms, they were both so delicious; a man has still only that
primitive way of expressing his supreme satisfaction in women. "Now,
which am I?" he demanded of them, and that made them laugh again. He had
really put his arm about Effie.
"Do you think you will know your papa at the veglione?" asked one of the
shop-women, with a mounting interest in the amiable family party.
They all laughed; the natural mistake seemed particularly droll to
Imogene.
"Come," cried Mrs. Bowen; "it's time we should be going."
That was true; they had passed so long a time in the shop that they did
not feel justified in seriously attempting to beat down the price of
their dresses. They took them at the first price. The woman said with
reason that it was Carnival, and she could get her price for the things.
They went to the veglione at eleven, the ladies calling for Colville, as
before, in Mrs. Bowen's carriage. He felt rather sheepish, coming out of
his room in his mask and domino, but the corridors of the hotel were
empty, and for the most part dark; there was no one up but the porter,
who wished him a pleasant time in as matter-of-fact fashion as if he
were going out to an evening party in his dress coat. His spirits
mounted in the atmosphere of adventure which the ladies diffused about
them in the carriage; Effie Bowen laughed aloud when he entered, in
childish gaiety of heart.
The narrow streets roared with the wheels of cabs and carriages coming
and going; the street before the theatre was so packed that it was some
time before they could reach the door. Masks were passing in and out;
the nervous joy of the ladies expressed itself in a deep-drawn quivering
sigh. Their carriage door was opened by a servant of the theatre, who
wished them a pleasant veglione, and the next moment they were in the
crowded vestibule, where they paused a moment, to let Imogene and Effie
really feel that they were part of a masquerade.
"Now, keep all together," said Mrs. Bowen, as they passed through the
inner door of the vestibule, and the brilliantly lighted theatre flashed
its colours and splendours upon them. The floor of the pit had been
levelled to that of the stage, which, stripped of the scenic apparatus,
opened vaster spaces for the motley crew already eddying over it in the
waltz. The boxes, tier over tier, blazed with the light of candelabra
which added their sparkle to that of the gas jets.
"You and Effie go before," said Mrs. Bowen to Imogene. She made them
take hands like children, and mechanically passed her own hand through
Colville's arm.
A mask in red from head to foot attached himself to the party, and began
to make love to her in excellent pantomime.
Colville was annoyed. He asked her if he should tell the fellow to take
himself off.
"Not on any account!" she answered. "It's perfectly delightful. It
wouldn't be the veglione without it. Did you ever see such good acting?"
"I don't think it's remarkable for anything but its fervour," said
Colville.
"I should like to see you making love to some lady," she rejoined
mischievously.
"I will make love to you, if you like," he said, but he felt in an
instant that his joke was in bad taste.
They went the round of the theatre. "That is Prince Strozzi, Imogene,"
said Mrs. Bowen, leaning forward to whisper to the girl. She pointed out
other people of historic and aristocratic names in the boxes, where
there was a democracy of beauty among the ladies, all painted and
powdered to the same marquise effect.
On the floor were gentlemen in evening dress, without masks, and here
and there ladies waltzing, who had masks but no dominoes. But for the
most part people were in costume; the theatre flushed and flowered in
gay variety of tint that teased the eye with its flow through the dance.
Mrs. Bowen had circumscribed the adventure so as to exclude dancing from
it. Imogene was not to dance. One might go to the veglione and look on
from a box; if one ventured further and went on the floor, decidedly one
was not to dance.
This was thoroughly understood beforehand, and there were to be no
petitions or murmurs at the theatre. They found a quiet corner, and sat
down to look on.
The mask in red followed, and took his place at a little distance,
where, whenever Mrs. Bowen looked that way, he continued to protest his
passion.
"You're sure he doesn't bore you?" suggested Colville.
"No, indeed. He's very amusing."
"Oh, all right!"
The waltz ceased; the whirling and winding confusion broke into an
irregular streaming hither and thither, up and down. They began to pick
out costumes and characters that interested them. Clowns in white, with
big noses, and harlequins in their motley, with flat black masks,
abounded. There were some admirable grasshoppers in green, with long
antennae quivering from their foreheads. Two or three Mephistos reddened
through the crowd. Several knights in armour got about with difficulty,
apparently burdened by their greaves and breastplates.
A group of leaping and dancing masks gathered around a young man in
evening dress, with long hair, who stood leaning against a pillar near
them, and who underwent their mockeries with a smile of patience, half
amused, half tormented.
When they grew tired of baiting him, and were looking about for other
prey, the red mask redoubled his show of devotion to Mrs. Bowen, and the
other masks began to flock round and approve.
"Oh, now," she said, with a little embarrassed laugh, in which there was
no displeasure, "I think you may ask him to go away. But don't be harsh
with him," she added, at a brusque movement which Colville made toward
the mask.
"Oh, why should I be harsh with him? We're not rivals." This was not in
good taste either, Colville felt. "Besides, I'm an Italian too," he
said, to retrieve himself. He made a few paces toward the mask, and said
in a low tone, with gentle suggestion, "Madame finds herself a little
incommoded."
The mask threw himself into an attitude of burlesque despair, bowed low
with his hand on his heart, in token of submission, and vanished into
the crowd. The rest dispersed with cries of applause.
"How very prettily you did it, both of you!" said Mrs. Bowen. "I begin
to believe you are an Italian, Mr. Colville. I shall be afraid of you."
"You weren't afraid of him."
"Oh, he was a real Italian."
"It seems to me that mamma is getting all the good of the veglione,"
said Effie, in a plaintive murmur. The well-disciplined child must have
suffered deeply before she lifted this seditious voice.
"Why, so I am, Effie," answered her mother, "and I don't think it's fair
myself. What shall we do about it?"
"I should like something to eat," said the child.
"So should I," said Colville. "That's reparation your mother owes us
all. Let's make her take us and get us something. Wouldn't you like an
ice, Miss Graham?"
"Yes, an _ice_," said Imogene, with an effect of adding, "Nothing more
for worlds," that made Colville laugh. She rose slowly, like one in a
dream, and cast a look as impassioned as a look could be made through a
mask on the scene she was leaving behind her. The band was playing a
waltz again, and the wide floor swam with circling couples.
The corridor where the tables were set was thronged with people, who
were drinking beer and eating cold beef and boned turkey and slices of
huge round sausages. "Oh, how _can_ they?" cried the girl, shuddering.
"I didn't know you were so ethereal-minded about these things," said
Colville. "I thought you didn't object to the salad at Madame
Uccelli's."
"Oh, but at the veglione!" breathed the girl for all answer. He laughed
again, but Mrs. Bowen did not laugh with him; he wondered why.
When they returned to their corner in the theatre they found a mask in a
black domino there, who made place for them, and remained standing near.
They began talking freely and audibly, as English-speaking people
incorrigibly do in Italy, where their tongue is all but the language of
the country.
"Really," said Colville, "I think I shall stifle in this mask. If you
ladies will do what you can to surround me and keep me secret, I'll take
it off a moment."
"I believe I will join you, Mr. Colville," said the mask near them. He
pushed up his little visor of silk, and discovered the mild, benignant
features of Mr. Waters.
"Bless my soul!" cried Colville.
Mrs. Bowen was apparently too much shocked to say anything.
"You didn't expect to meet me here?" asked the old man, as if otherwise
it should be the most natural thing in the world. After that they could
only unite in suppressing their astonishment. "It's extremely
interesting," he went on, "extremely! I've been here ever since the
exercises began, and I have not only been very greatly amused, but
greatly instructed. It seems to me the key to a great many anomalies in
the history of this wonderful people."
If Mr. Waters took this philosophical tone about the Carnival, it was
not possible for Colville to take any other.
"And have you been able to divine from what you have seen here," he
asked gravely, "the grounds of Savonarola's objection to the Carnival?"
"Not at all," said the old man promptly. "I have seen nothing but the
most harmless gaiety throughout the evening."
Colville hung his head. He remembered reading once in a passage from
Swedenborg, that the most celestial angels had scarcely any power of
perceiving evil.
"Why aren't you young people dancing?" asked Mr. Waters, in a cheerful
general way, of Mrs. Bowen's party.
Colville was glad to break the silence. "Mrs. Bowen doesn't approve of
dancing at vegliones."
"No?--why not?" inquired the old man, with invincible simplicity.
Mrs. Bowen smiled her pretty, small smile below her mask.
"The company is apt to be rather mixed," she said quietly.
"Yes," pursued Mr. Waters; "but you could dance with one another. The
company seems very well behaved."
"Oh, quite so," Mrs. Bowen assented.
"Shortly after I came," said Mr. Waters, "one of the masks asked me to
dance. I was really sorry that my age and traditions forbade my doing
so. I tried to explain, but I'm afraid I didn't make myself quite
clear."
"Probably it passed for a joke with her," said Colville, in order to say
something.
"Ah, very likely; but I shall always feel that my impressions of the
Carnival would have been more definite if I could have danced. Now, if I
were a young man like you----"
Imogene turned and looked at Colville through the eye-holes of her mask;
even in that sort of isolation he thought her eyes expressed surprise.
"It never occurred to you before that I was a young man," he suggested
gravely.
She did not reply.
After a little interval, "Imogene," asked Mrs. Bowen, "would you like to
dance?"
Colville was astonished. "The veglione has gone to your head, Mrs.
Bowen," he tacitly made his comment. She had spoken to Imogene, but she
glanced at him as if she expected him to be grateful to her for this
stroke of liberality.
"What would be the use?" returned the girl.
Colville rose. "After my performance in the Lancers, I can't expect you
to believe me; but I really do know how to waltz." He had but to extend
his arms, and she was hanging upon his shoulder, and they were whirling
away through a long orbit of delight to the girl.
"Oh, why have you let me do you such injustice?" she murmured intensely.
"I never shall forgive myself."
"It grieved me that you shouldn't have divined that I was really a
magnificent dancer in disguise, but I bore it as best I could," said
Colville, really amused at her seriousness. "Perhaps you'll find out
after a while that I'm not an old fellow either, but only a 'Lost
Youth.'"
"Hush," she said; "I don't like to hear you talk so."
"How?"
"About--age!" she answered. "It makes me feel----- Don't to-night!"
Colville laughed. "It isn't a fact that my blinking is going to change
materially. You had better make the most of me as a lost youth. I'm old
enough to be two of them."
She did not answer, and as they wound up and down through the other
orbing couples, he remembered the veglione of seventeen years before,
when he had dreamed through the waltz with the girl who jilted him; she
was very docile and submissive that night; he believed afterward that if
he had spoken frankly then, she would not have refused him. But he had
veiled his passion in words and phrases that, taken in themselves, had
no meaning--that neither committed him nor claimed her. He could not
help it; he had not the courage at any moment to risk the loss of her
for ever, till it was too late, till he must lose her.
"Do you believe in pre-existence?" he demanded of Imogene.
"Oh yes!" she flashed back. "This very instant it was just as if I had
been here before, long ago."
"Dancing with me?"
"With you? Yes--yes--I think so."
He had lived long enough to know that she was making herself believe
what she said, and that she had not lived long enough to know this.
"Then you remember what I said to you--tried to say to you--that night?"
Through one of those psychological juggles which we all practise with
ourselves at times, it amused him, it charmed him, to find her striving
to realise this past.
"No; it was so long ago? What was it?" she whispered dreamily.
A turn of the waltz brought them near Mrs. Bowen; her mask seemed to
wear a dumb reproach.
He began to be weary; one of the differences between youth and later
life is that the latter wearies so soon of any given emotion.
"Ah, I can't remember, either! Aren't you getting rather tired of the
waltz and me?"
"Oh no; go on!" she deeply murmured. "Try to remember."
The long, pulsating stream of the music broke and fell. The dancers
crookedly dispersed in wandering lines. She took his arm; he felt her
heart leap against it; those innocent, trustful throbs upbraided him. At
the same time his own heart beat with a sort of fond, protecting
tenderness; he felt the witchery of his power to make this young,
radiant, and beautiful creature hang flattered and bewildered on his
talk; he liked the compassionate worship with which his tacit confidence
had inspired her, even while he was not without some satirical sense of
the crude sort of heart-broken hero he must be in the fancy of a girl of
her age.
"Let us go and walk in the corridor a moment," he said. But they walked
there till the alluring melancholy music of the waltz began again. In a
mutual caprice, they rejoined the dance.
It came into his head to ask, "Who is _he_?" and as he had got past
denying himself anything, he asked it.
"He? What he?"
"He that Mrs. Bowen thought might object to your seeing the Carnival?"
"Oh!--oh yes! That was the not impossible he."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Then he's not even the not improbable he?"
"No, indeed."
They waltzed in silence. Then, "Why did you ask me that?" she murmured.
"I don't know. Was it such a strange question?"
"I don't know. You ought to."
"Yes, if it was wrong, I'm old enough to know better."
"You promised not to say 'old' any more."
"Then I suppose I mustn't. But you mustn't get me to ignore it, and then
laugh at me for it."
"Oh!" she reproached him, "you think I could do that?"
"You could if it was you who were here with me once before."
"Then I know I wasn't."
Again they were silent, and it was he who spoke first. "I wish you would
tell me why you object to the interdicted topic?"
"Because--because I like every time to be perfect in itself."
"Oh! And this wouldn't be perfect in itself if I were--not so young as
some people?"
"I didn't mean that. No; but if you didn't mention it, no one else would
think of it or care for it."
"Did any one ever accuse you of flattering, Miss Graham?"
"Not till now. And you are unjust."
"Well, I withdraw the accusation."
"And will you ever pretend such a thing again?"
"Oh, never!"
"Then I have your promise."
The talk was light word-play, such as depends upon the talker's own mood
for its point or its pointlessness. Between two young people of equal
years it might have had meanings to penetrate, to sigh over, to
question. Colville found it delicious to be pursued by the ingenuous
fervour of this young girl, eager to vindicate her sincerity in
prohibiting him from his own ironical depreciation. Apparently, she had
a sentimental mission of which he was the object; he was to be convinced
that he was unnecessarily morbid; he was to be cheered up, to be kept in
heart.
"I must believe in you after this," he said, with a smile which his mask
hid.
"Thanks," she breathed. It seemed to him that her hand closed
convulsively upon his in their light clasp.
The pressure sent a real pang to his heart. It forced her name from his
lips. "Imogene! Ah, I've no right to call you that."
"Yes."
"From this out I promise to be twenty years younger. But no one is to
know it but you. Do you think you will know it? I shouldn't like to keep
the secret to myself altogether."
"No; I will help you. It shall be _our_ secret."
She gave a low laugh of delight. He convinced himself that she had
entered into the light spirit of banter in which he believed that he was
talking.
The music ceased again. He whirled her to the seat where he had left
Mrs. Bowen. She was not there, nor the others.
Colville felt the meanness of a man who has betrayed his trust, and his
self-contempt was the sharper because the trust had been as tacit and
indefinite as it was generous. The effect of Mrs. Bowen's absence was as
if she had indignantly flown, and left him to the consequences of his
treachery.
He sat down rather blankly with Imogene to wait for her return; it was
the only thing they could do.
It had grown very hot. The air was thick with dust. The lights burned
through it as through a fog.
"I believe I will take off my mask," she said. "I can scarcely breathe."
"No, no," protested Colville; "that won't do."
"I feel faint," she gasped.
His heart sank. "Don't," he said incoherently. "Come with me into the
vestibule, and get a breath of air."
He had almost to drag her through the crowd, but in the vestibule she
revived, and they returned to their place again. He did not share the
easy content with which she recognised the continued absence of Mrs.
Bowen.
"Why they must be lost. But isn't it perfect sitting here and watching
the maskers?"
"Perfect," said Colville distractedly.
"Don't you like to make romances about the different ones?"
It was on Colville's tongue to say that he had made all the romances he
wished for that evening, but he only answered, "Oh, very."
"Poor Mrs. Bowen," laughed the girl. "It will be such a joke on her,
with her punctilious notions, getting lost from her _protégée_ at a
Carnival ball! I shall tell every one."
"Oh no, don't," said Colville, in horror that big mask scarcely
concealed.
"Why not?"
"It wouldn't be at all the thing."
"Why, are you becoming Europeanised too?" she demanded. "I thought you
went in for all sorts of unconventionalities. Recollect your promise.
You must be as impulsive as I am."
Colville, staring anxiously about in every direction, made for the first
time the reflection that most young girls probably conform to the
proprieties without in the least knowing why.
"Do you think," he asked, in desperation, "that you would be afraid to
be left here a moment while I went about in the crowd and tried to find
them?"
"Not at all," she said. But she added, "Don't be gone long."
"Oh no," he answered, pulling off his mask. "Be sure not to move from
here on any account."
He plunged into the midst of the crowd that buffeted him from side to
side as he struck against its masses. The squeaking and gibbering masks
mocked in their falsetto at his wild-eyed, naked face thrusting hither
and thither among them.
"I saw your lady wife with another gentleman," cried one of them, in a
subtle misinterpretation of the cause of his distraction.
The throng had immensely increased; the clowns and harlequins ran
shrieking up and down, and leaped over one another's heads.
It was useless. He went back to Imogene with a heart-sickening fear that
she too might have vanished.
But she was still there.
"You ought to have come sooner," she said gaily. "That red mask has been
here again. He looked as if he wanted to make love to _me_ this time.
But he didn't. If you'd been here you might have asked him where Mrs.
Bowen was."
Colville sat down. He had done what he could to mend the matter, and the
time had come for philosophical submission. It was now his duty to keep
up Miss Graham's spirits. They were both Americans, and from the
national standpoint he was simply the young girl's middle-aged bachelor
friend. There was nothing in the situation for him to beat his breast
about.
"Well, all that we can do is to wait for them," he said.
"Oh yes," she answered easily. "They'll be sure to come back in the
course of time."
They waited a half-hour, talking somewhat at random, and still the
others did not come. But the red mask came again. He approached
Colville, and said politely--
"_La signora è partita._"
"The lady gone?" repeated Colville, taking this to be part of the red
mask's joke.
"_La bambina pareva poco lene._"
"The little one not well?" echoed Colville again, rising. "Are you
joking?"
The mask made a deep murmur of polite deprecation. "I am not capable of
such a thing in a serious affair. Perhaps you know me?" he said, taking
off his mask, and in further sign of good faith he gave the name of a
painter sufficiently famous in Florence.
"I beg your pardon, and thank you," said Colville. He had no need to
speak to Imogene--, her hand was already trembling on his arm.
They drove home in silence through the white moonlight of the streets,
filled everywhere with the gay voices and figures of the Carnival.
Mrs. Bowen met them at the door of her apartment, and received them with
a manner that justly distributed the responsibility and penalty for
their escapade. Colville felt that a meaner spirit would have wreaked
its displeasure upon the girl alone. She made short, quiet answers to
all his eager inquiries. Most probably it was some childish
indisposition; Effie had been faint. No, he need not go for the doctor.
Mr. Waters had called the doctor, who had just gone away. There was
nothing else that he could do for her. She dropped her eyes, and in
everything but words dismissed him. She would not even remain with him
till he could decently get himself out of the house. She left Imogene to
receive his adieux, feigning that she heard Effie calling.
"I'm--I'm very sorry," faltered the girl, "that we didn't go back to her
at once."
"Yes; I was to blame," answered the humiliated hero of her Carnival
dream. The clinging regret with which she kept his hand at parting
scarcely consoled him for what had happened.
"I will come round in the morning," he said. "I must know how Effie is."
"Yes; come."
X
Colville went to Palazzo Pinti next day with the feeling that he was
defying Mrs. Bowen. Upon a review of the facts he could not find himself
so very much to blame for the occurrences of the night before, and he
had not been able to prove to his reason that Mrs. Bowen had resented
his behaviour. She had not made a scene of any sort when he came in with
Imogene; it was natural that she should excuse herself, and should wish
to be with her sick child: she had done really nothing. But when a woman
has done nothing she fills the soul of the man whose conscience troubles
him with an instinctive apprehension. There is then no safety, his
nerves tell him, except in bringing the affair, whatever it is, to an
early issue--in having it out with her. Colville subdued the cowardly
impulse of his own heart, which would have deceived him with the
suggestion that Mrs. Bowen might be occupied with Effie, and it would be
better to ask for Miss Graham. He asked for Mrs. Bowen, and she came in
directly.
She smiled in the usual way, and gave her hand, as she always did; but
her hand was cold, and she looked tired, though she said Effie was quite
herself again, and had been asking for him. "Imogene has been telling
her about your adventure last night, and making her laugh."
If it had been Mrs. Bowen's purpose to mystify him, she could not have
done it more thoroughly than by this bold treatment of the affair. He
bent a puzzled gaze upon her. "I'm glad any of you have found it
amusing," he said;--"I confess that I couldn't let myself off so lightly
in regard to it." She did not reply, and he continued: "The fact is, I
don't think I behaved very well. I abused your kindness to Miss Graham."
"Abused my kindness to Miss Graham?"
"Yes. When you allowed her to dance at the veglione, I ought to have
considered that you were stretching a point. I ought to have taken her
back to you very soon, instead of tempting her to go and walk with me in
the corridor."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bowen. "So it was you who proposed it? Imogene was
afraid that she had. What exemplary young people you are! The way each
of you confesses and assumes all the blame would leave the severest
chaperone without a word."
Her gaiety made Colville uncomfortable. He said gravely, "What I blame
myself most for is that I was not there to be of use to you when
Effie----"
"Oh, you mustn't think of that at all. Mr. Waters was most efficient. My
admirer in the red mask was close at hand, and between them they got
Effie out without the slightest disturbance. I fancy most people thought
it was a Carnival joke. Please don't think of that again."
Nothing could be politer than all this.
"And you won't allow me to punish myself for not being there to give you
even a moral support?"
"Certainly not. As I told Imogene, young people will be young people;
and I knew how fond you were of dancing."
Though it pierced him, Colville could not help admiring the neatness of
this thrust. "I didn't know you were so ironical, Mrs. Bowen."
"Ironical? Not at all."
"Ah! I see I'm not forgiven."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
Imogene and Effie came in. The child was a little pale, and willingly
let him take her on his knee, and lay her languid head on his shoulder.
The girl had not aged overnight like himself and Mrs. Bowen; she looked
as fresh and strong as yesterday.
"Miss Graham," said Colville, "if a person to whom you had done a deadly
wrong insisted that you hadn't done any wrong at all, should you
consider yourself forgiven?"
"It would depend upon the person," said the girl, with innocent
liveliness, recognising the extravagance in his tone.
"Yes," he said, with an affected pensiveness, "so very much depends upon
the person in such a case."
Mrs. Bowen rose. "Excuse me a moment; I will be back directly. Don't get
up, please," she said, and prevented him with a quick withdrawal to
another room, which left upon his sense the impression of elegant grace,
and a smile and sunny glance. But neither had any warmth in it.
Colville heaved an involuntary sigh. "Do you feel very much used up?" he
asked Imogene.
"Not at all," she laughed. "Do you?"
"Not in the least. My veglione hasn't ended yet. I'm still practically
at the Pergola. It's easy to keep a thing of that sort up if you don't
sleep after you get home."
"Didn't you sleep? I expected to lie awake a long time thinking it over;
but I dropped asleep at once. I suppose I was very tired. I didn't even
dream."
"You must have slept hard. You're pretty apt to dream when you're
waking."
"How do you know?"
"Ah, I've noticed when you've been talking to me. Better not! It's a bad
habit; it gives you false views of things. I used----"
"But you mustn't say you _used!_ That's forbidden now. Remember your
promise!"
"My promise? What promise?"
"Oh, if you've forgotten already."
"I remember. But that was last night."
"No, no! It was for all time. Why should dreams be so very misleading? I
think there's ever so much in dreams. The most wonderful thing is the
way you make people talk in dreams. It isn't strange that you should
talk yourself, but that other people should say this and that when you
aren't at all expecting what they say."
"That's when you're sleeping. But when you're waking, you make people
say just what you want. And that's why day dreams are so bad. If you
make people say what you want, they probably don't mean it."
"Don't you think so?"
"Half the time. Do you ever have day dreams?" he asked Effie, pressing
her cheek against his own.
"I don't know what they are," she murmured, with a soft little note of
polite regret for her ignorance, if possibly it incommoded him.
"You will by and by," he said, "and then you must look out for them.
They're particularly bad in this air. I had one of them in Florence once
that lasted three months."
"What was it about?" asked the child.
Imogene involuntarily bent forward.
"Ah, I can't tell you now. She's trying to hear us."
"No, no," protested the girl, with a laugh. "I was thinking of something
else."
"Oh, we know her, don't we?" he said to the child, with a playful appeal
to that passion for the joint possession of a mystery which all children
have.
"We might whisper it," she suggested.
"No; better wait for some other time." They were sitting near a table
where a pencil and some loose leaves of paper lay. He pulled his chair a
little closer, and, with the child still upon his knee, began to
scribble and sketch at random. "Ah, there's San Miniato," he said, with
a glance from the window. "Must get its outline in. You've heard how
there came to be a church up there? No? Well, it shows the sort of man
San Miniato really was. He was one of the early Christians, and he gave
the poor pagans a great deal of trouble. They first threw him to the
wild beasts in the amphitheatre, but the moment those animals set eyes
on him they saw it would be of no use; they just lay down and died. Very
well, then; the pagans determined to see what effect the axe would have
upon San Miniato: but as soon as they struck off his head he picked it
up, set it back on his shoulders again, waded across the Arno, walked up
the hill, and when he came to a convenient little oratory up there he
knelt down and expired. Isn't that a pretty good story? It's like
fairies, isn't it?"
"Yes," whispered the child.
"What nonsense!" said Imogene. "You made it up."
"Oh, did I? Perhaps I built the church that stands there to commemorate
the fact. It's all in the history of Florence. Not in all histories;
some of them are too proud to put such stories in, but I'm going to put
every one I can find into the history I'm writing for Effie. San Miniato
was beheaded where the church of Santa Candida stands now, and he walked
all that distance."
"Did he have to die when he got to the oratory?" asked the child, with
gentle regret.
"It appears so," said Colville, sketching. "He would have been dead by
this time, anyway, you know."
"Yes," she reluctantly admitted.
"I never quite like those things, either, Effie," he said, pressing her
to him. "There were people cruelly put to death two or three thousand
years ago that I can't help feeling would be alive yet if they had been
justly treated. There are a good many fairy stories about Florence;
perhaps they used to be true stories; the truth seems to die out of
stories after a while, simply because people stop believing them. Saint
Ambrose of Milan restored the son of his host to life when he came down
here to dedicate the Church of San Giovanni. Then there was another
saint, San Zenobi, who worked a very pretty miracle after he was dead.
They were carrying his body from the Church of San Giovanni to the
Church of Santa Reparata, and in Piazza San Giovanni his bier touched a
dead elm-tree that stood there, and the tree instantly sprang into leaf
and flower, though it was in the middle of the winter. A great many
people took the leaves home with them, and a marble pillar was put up
there, with a cross and an elm-tree carved on it. Oh, the case is very
well authenticated."
"I shall really begin to think you believe such things," said Imogene.
"Perhaps you _are_ a Catholic."
Mrs. Bowen returned to the room, and sat down.
"There's another fairy story, prettier yet," said Colville, while the
little girl drew a long deep breath of satisfaction and expectation.
"You've heard of the Buondelmonti?" he asked Imogene.
"Oh, it seems to me as if I'd had _nothing_ but the Buondelmonti dinned
into me since I came to Florence!" she answered in lively despair.
"Ah, this happened some centuries before the Buondelmonte you've been
bored with was born. This was Giovanni Gualberto of the Buondelmonti,
and he was riding along one day in 1003, near the Church of San Miniato,
when he met a certain man named Ugo, who had killed one of his brothers.
Gualberto stopped and drew his sword; Ugo saw no other chance of escape,
and he threw himself face downward on the ground, with his arms
stretched out in the form of the cross. 'Gualberto, remember Jesus
Christ, who died upon the cross praying for His enemies.' The story says
that these words went to Gualberto's heart; he got down from his horse,
and in sign of pardon lifted his enemy and kissed and embraced him. Then
they went together into the church, and fell on their knees before the
figure of Christ upon the cross, and the figure bowed its head in sign
of approval and pleasure in Gualberto's noble act of Christian piety."
"Beautiful!" murmured the girl; the child only sighed.
"Ah, yes; it's an easy matter to pick up one's head from the ground, and
set it back on one's shoulders, or to bring the dead to life, or to make
a tree put forth leaves and flowers in midwinter; but to melt the heart
of a man with forgiveness in the presence of his enemy--that's a
different thing; _that's_ no fairy story; that's a real miracle; and I
believe this one happened--it's so impossible."
"Oh yes, it must have happened," said the girl.
"Do you think it's so very hard to forgive, then?" asked Mrs. Bowen
gravely.
"Oh, not for ladies," replied Colville.
She flushed, and her eyes shone when she glanced at him.
"I'm sorry to put you down," he said to the child; "but I can't take you
with me, and I must be going."
Mrs. Bowen did not ask him to stay to lunch; he thought afterward that
she might have relented as far as that but for the last little thrust,
which he would better have spared.
"Effie dear," said her mother, when the door closed upon Colville,
"don't you think you'd better lie down a while? You look so tired."
"Shall I lie down on the sofa here?"
"No, on your bed."
"Well."
"I'll go with you, Effie," said Imogene, "and see that you're nicely
tucked in."
When she returned alone, Mrs. Bowen was sitting where she had left her,
and seemed not to have moved. "I think Effie will drop off to sleep,"
she said; "she seems drowsy." She sat down, and after a pensive moment
continued, "I wonder what makes Mr. Colville seem so gloomy."
"Does he seem gloomy?" asked Mrs. Bowen unsympathetically.
"No, not gloomy exactly. But different from last night. I wish people
could always be the same! He was so gay and full of spirits; and now
he's so self-absorbed. He thinks you're offended with him, Mrs. Bowen."
"I don't think he was very much troubled about it. I only thought he was
flighty from want of sleep. At your age you don't mind the loss of a
night."
"Do you think Mr. Colville seems so very old?" asked Imogene anxiously.
Mrs. Bowen appeared not to have heard her. She went to the window and
looked out. When she came back, "Isn't it almost time for you to have a
letter from home?" she asked.
"Why, no. I had one from mother day before yesterday. What made you
think so?"
"Imogene," interrupted Mrs. Bowen, with a sudden excitement which she
tried to control, but which made her lips tremble, and break a little
from her restraint, "you know that I am here in the place of your
mother, to advise you and look after you in every way?"
"Why, yes, Mrs. Bowen," cried the girl, in surprise.
"It's a position of great responsibility in regard to a young lady. I
can't have anything to reproach myself with afterward."
"No."
"Have I always been kind to you, and considerate of your rights and your
freedom? Have I ever interfered with you in any way that you think I
oughtn't?"
"What an idea! You've been loveliness itself, Mrs. Bowen!"
"Then I want you to listen to me, and answer me frankly, and not suspect
my motives."
"Why, how _could_ I do that?"
"Never mind!" cried Mrs. Bowen impatiently, almost angrily. "People
can't help their suspicions! Do you think Mr. Morton cares for you?"
The girl hung her head.
"Imogene, answer me!"
"I don't know," answered Imogene coldly; "but if you're troubled about
that, Mrs. Bowen, you needn't be; I don't care anything for Mr. Morton."
"If I thought you were becoming interested in any one, it would be my
duty to write to your mother and tell her."
"Of course; I should expect you to do it."
"And if I saw you becoming interested in any one in a way that I thought
would make you unhappy, it would be my duty to warn you."
"Yes."
"Of course, I don't mean that any one would knowingly try to make you
unhappy?"
"No."
"Men don't go about nowadays trying to break girls' hearts. But very
good men can be thoughtless and selfish."
"Yes; I understand that," said Imogene, in a falling accent.
"I don't wish to prejudice you against any one. I should consider it
very wrong and wicked. Besides, I don't care to interfere with you to
that degree. You are old enough to see and judge for yourself."
Imogene sat silent, passing her hand across the front of her dress. The
clock ticked audibly from the mantel.
"I will not have it left to me!" cried Mrs. Bowen. "It is hard enough,
at any rate. Do you think I like to speak to you?"
"No."
"Of course it makes me seem inhospitable, and distrustful, and
detestable."
"I never thought of accusing you," said the girl, slowly lifting her
eyes.
"I will never, never speak to you of it again," said Mrs. Bowen, "and
from this time forth I insist upon your feeling just as free as if I
hadn't spoken." She trembled upon the verge of a sob, from which she
repelled herself.
Imogene sat still, with a sort of serious, bewildered look.
"You shall have every proper opportunity of meeting any one you like."
"Oh yes."
"And I shall be only too gl-glad to take back everything!"
Imogene sat motionless and silent. Mrs. Bowen broke out again with a
sort of violence; the years teach us something of self-control, perhaps,
but they weaken and unstring the nerves. In this opposition of silence
to silence, the woman of the world was no match for the inexperienced
girl.
"Have you nothing to say, Imogene?"
"I never thought of him in that way at all. I don't know what to say
yet. It--confuses me. I--I can't imagine it. But if you think that he is
trying to amuse himself----"
"I never said that!"
"No, I know it."
"He likes to make you talk, and to talk with you. But he is perfectly
idle here, and--there is too much difference, every way. The very good
in him makes it the worse. I suppose that after talking with him every
one else seems insipid."
"Yes."
Mrs. Bowen rose and ran suddenly from the room.
Imogene remained sitting cold and still.
No one had been named since they spoke of Mr. Morton.