XIV

When he entered the beautiful old garden, its benison of peace fell upon

his tumult, and he began to breathe a freer air, reverting to his

purpose to be gone in the morning and resting in it, as he strolled up

the broad curve of its alley from the gate. He had not been there since

he walked there with one now more like a ghost to him than any of the

dead who had since died. It was there that she had refused him; he

recalled with a grim smile the awkwardness of getting back with her to

the gate from the point, far within the garden, where he had spoken.

Except that this had happened in the fall, and now it was early spring,

there seemed no change since then; the long years that had elapsed were

like a winter between.

He met people in groups and singly loitering through the paths, and

chiefly speaking English; but no one spoke to him, and no one invaded

the solitude in which he walked. But the garden itself seemed to know

him, and to give him a tacit recognition; the great, foolish grotto

before the gate, with its statues by Bandinelli, and the fantastic

effects of drapery and flesh in party-coloured statues lifted high on

either side of the avenue; the vast shoulder of wall, covered thick with

ivy and myrtle, which he passed on his way to the amphitheatre behind

the palace; the alternate figures and urns on their pedestals in the

hemicycle, as if the urns were placed there to receive the ashes of the

figures when they became extinct; the white statues or the colossal

busts set at the ends of the long alleys against black curtains of

foliage; the big fountain, with its group in the centre of the little

lake, and the meadow, quiet and sad, that stretched away on one side

from this; the keen light under the levels of the dense pines and

ilexes; the paths striking straight on either hand from the avenue

through which he sauntered, and the walk that coiled itself through the

depths of the plantations; all knew him, and from them and from the

winter neglect which was upon the place distilled a subtle influence, a

charm, an appeal belonging to that combination of artifice and nature

which is perfect only in an Italian garden under an Italian sky. He was

right in the name which he mockingly gave the effect before he felt it;

it was a debauch, delicate, refined, of unserious pensiveness, a smiling

melancholy, in which he walked emancipated from his harassing hopes, and

keeping only his shadowy regrets.

Colville did not care to scale the easy height from which you have the

magnificent view, conscious of many photographs, of Florence. He

wandered about the skirts of that silent meadow, and seeing himself

unseen, he invaded its borders far enough to pluck one of those large

scarlet anemones, such as he had given his gentle enemy. It was tilting

there in the breeze above the unkempt grass, and the grass was beginning

to feel the spring, and to stir and stretch itself after its winter

sleep; it was sprinkled with violets, but these he did not molest. He

came back to a stained and mossy stone bench on the avenue, fronting a

pair of rustic youths carved in stone, who had not yet finished some

game in which he remembered seeing them engaged when he was there

before. He had not walked fast, but he had walked far, and was warm

enough to like the whiffs of soft wind on his uncovered head. The spring

was coming; that was its breath, which you know unmistakably in Italy

after all the kisses that winter gives. Some birds were singing in the

trees; down an alley into which he could look, between the high walls of

green, he could see two people in flirtation: he waited patiently till

the young man should put his arm round the girl's waist, for the

fleeting embrace from which she pushed it and fled further down the

path.

"Yes, it's spring," thought Colville; and then, with the selfishness of

the troubled soul, he wished that it might be winter still and

indefinitely. It occurred to him now that he should not go back to Des

Vaches, for he did not know what he should do there. He would go to New

York: though he did not know what he should do in New York, either.

He became tired of looking at the people who passed, and of speculating

about them through the second consciousness which enveloped the sad

substance of his misgivings like an atmosphere; and he let his eyelids

fall, as he leaned his head back against the tree behind his bench. Then

their voices pursued him through the twilight that he had made himself,

and forced him to the same weary conjecture as if he had seen their

faces. He heard gay laughter, and laughter that affected gaiety; the

tones of young men in earnest disquisition reached him through the veil,

and the talk, falling to whisper, of girls, with the names of men in it;

sums of money, a hundred francs, forty thousand francs, came in high

tones; a husband and wife went by quarrelling in the false security of

English, and snapping at each other as confidingly as if in the

sanctuary of home. The man bade the woman not be a fool, and she asked

him how she was to endure his company if she was not a fool.

Colville opened his eyes to look after them, when a voice that he knew

called out, "Why, it is Mr. Colville!"

It was Mrs. Amsden, and pausing with her, as if they had passed him in

doubt, and arrested themselves when they had got a little way by, were

Effie Bowen and Imogene Graham. The old lady had the child by the hand,

and the girl stood a few paces apart from them. She was one of those

beauties who have the property of looking very plain at times, and

Colville, who had seen her in more than one transformation, now beheld

her somehow clumsy of feature, and with the youth gone from her aspect.

She seemed a woman of thirty, and she wore an unbecoming walking dress

of a fashion that contributed to this effect of age. Colville was aware

afterward of having wished that she was really as old and plain as she

looked.

He had to come forward, and put on the conventional delight of a

gentleman meeting lady friends.

"It's remarkable how your having your eyes shut estranged you," said

Mrs. Amsden. "Now, if you had let me see you oftener in church, where

people close their eyes a good deal for one purpose or another, I should

have known you at once."

"I hope you haven't lost a great deal of time, as it is, Mrs. Amsden,"

said Colville. "Of course I should have had my eyes open if I had known

you were going by."

"Oh, don't apologise!" cried the old thing, with ready enjoyment of his

tone.

"I don't apologise for not being recognisable; I apologise for being

visible," said Colville, with some shapeless impression that he ought to

excuse his continued presence in Florence to Imogene, but keeping his

eyes upon Mrs. Amsden, to whom what he said could not be intelligible.

"I ought to be in Turin to-day."

"In Turin! Are you going away from Florence?"

"I'm going home."

"Why, did _you_ know that?" asked the old lady of Imogene, who slightly

nodded, and then of Effie, who also assented. "Really, the silence of

the Bowen family in regard to the affairs of others is extraordinary.

There never was a family more eminently qualified to live in Florence. I

dare say that if I saw a little more of them, I might hope to reach the

years of discretion myself some day. _Why_ are you going away? (You see

I haven't reached them yet!) Are you tired of Florence already?"

"No," said Colville passively; "Florence is tired of me."

"You're quite sure?"

"Yes; there's no mistaking one of her sex on such a point."

Mrs. Amsden laughed. "Ah, a great many people mistake us, both ways. And

you're really going back to America. What in the world for?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Is America fonder of you than Florence?"

"She's never told her love. I suspect it's merely that she's more used

to me."

They were walking, without any volition of his, down the slope of the

broad avenue to the fountain, where he had already been.

"Is your mother well?" he asked of the little girl. It seemed to him

that he had better not speak to Imogene, who still kept that little

distance from the rest, and get away as soon as he decently could.

"She has a headache," said Effie.

"Oh, I'm sorry," returned Colville.

"Yes, she deputed me to take her young people out for an airing," said

Mrs. Amsden; "and Miss Graham decided us for the Boboli, where she

hadn't been yet. I've done what I could to make the place attractive.

But what is an old woman to do for a girl in a garden? We ought to have

brought some other young people--some of the Inglehart boys. But we're

respectable, we Americans abroad; we're decorous, above all things; and

I don't know about meeting _you_ here, Mr. Colville. It has a very bad

appearance. Are you sure that you didn't know I was to go by here at

exactly half-past four?"

"I was living from breath to breath in the expectation of seeing you.

You must have noticed how eagerly I was looking out for you."

"Yes, and with a single red anemone in your hand, so that I should know

you without being obliged to put on my spectacles."

"You divine everything, Mrs. Amsden," he said, giving her the flower.

"I shall make my brags to Mrs. Bowen when I see her," said the old lady.

"How far into the country did you walk for this?"

"As far as the meadow yonder."

They had got down to the sheet of water from which the sea-horses of the

fountain sprang, and the old lady sank upon a bench near it. Colville

held out his hand toward Effie. "I saw a lot of violets over there in

the grass."

"Did you?" She put her hand eagerly into his, and they strolled off

together. After a first motion to accompany them, Imogene sat down

beside Mrs. Amsden, answering quietly the talk of the old lady, and

seeming in nowise concerned about the expedition for violets. Except for

a dull first glance, she did not look that way. Colville stood in the

border of the grass, and the child ran quickly hither and thither in it,

stooping from time to time upon the flowers. Then she came out to where

he stood, and showed her bunch of violets, looking up into the face

which he bent upon her, while he trifled with his cane. He had a very

fatherly air with her.

"I think I'll go and see what they've found," said Imogene irrelevantly,

to a remark of Mrs. Amsden's about the expensiveness of Madame Bossi's

bonnets.

"Well," said the old lady. Imogene started, and the little girl ran to

meet her. She detained Effie with her admiration of the violets till

Colville lounged reluctantly up. "Go and show them to Mrs. Amsden," she

said, giving back the violets, which she had been smelling. The child

ran on. "Mr. Colville, I want to speak with you."

"Yes," said Colville helplessly.

"Why are you going away?"

"Why? Oh, I've accomplished the objects--or no-objects--I came for," he

said, with dreary triviality, "and I must hurry away to other fields of

activity." He kept his eyes on her face, which he saw full of a

passionate intensity, working to some sort of overflow.

"That is not true, and you needn't say it to spare me. You are going

away because Mrs. Bowen said something to you about me."

"Not quite that," returned Colville gently.

"No; it was something that she said to me about you. But it's the same

thing. It makes no difference. I ask you not to go for that."

"Do you know what you are saying, Imogene?"

"Yes."

Colville waited a long moment. "Then, I thank you, you dear girl, and I

am going to-morrow, all the same. But I shan't forget this; whatever my

life is to be, this will make it less unworthy and less unhappy. If it

could buy anything to give you joy, to add some little grace to the good

that must come to you, I would give it. Some day you'll meet the young

fellow whom you're to make immortal, and you must tell him of an old

fellow who knew you afar off, and understood how to worship you for an

angel of pity and unselfishness. Ah, I hope he'll understand, too!

Good-bye." If he was to fly, that was the sole instant. He took her

hand, and said again, "Good-bye." And then he suddenly cried, "Imogene,

do you wish me to stay?"

"Yes!" said the girl, pouring all the intensity of her face into that

whisper.

"Even if there had been nothing said to make me go away--should you

still wish me to stay?"

"Yes."

He looked her in the starry, lucid eyes, where a divine fervour

deepened. He sighed in nerveless perplexity; it was she who had the

courage.

"It's a mistake! You mustn't! I am too old for you! It would be a wrong

and a cruelty! Yes, you must let me go, and forget me. I have been to

blame. If Mrs. Bowen has blamed me, she was right--I deserved it; I

deserved all she could say against me."

"She never said anything against you. Do you think I would have let her?

No; it was I that said it, and I blamed you. It was because I thought

that you were--you were--"

"Trifling with you? How could you think that?"

"Yes, I know now how it was, and it makes you seem all the grander to

me. Did you think I cared for your being older than I was? I never cared

for it--I never hardly thought of it after the very first. I tried to

make you understand that, and how it hurt me to have you speak of it.

Don't you think that I could see how good you were? Do you suppose that

all I want is to be happy? I don't care for that--I despise it, and I

always hate myself for seeking my own pleasure, if I find myself doing

it. I have seen enough of life to know what _that_ comes to! And what

hurt me worst of all was that you seemed to believe that I cared for

nothing but amusing myself, when I wished to be something better,

higher! It's nothing whether you are of my age or not, if--if--you care

for me."

"Imogene!"

"All that I ask is to be with you, and try to make you forget what's

been sad in your life, and try to be of use to you in whatever you are

doing, and I shall be prouder and gladder of that than anything that

people _call_ happiness."

Colville stood holding her hand, while she uttered these ideas and

incoherent repetitions of them, with a deep sense of powerlessness. "If

I believed that I could keep you from regretting this--"

"What should I regret? I won't let you depreciate yourself--make

yourself out not good enough for the best. Oh, I know how it happened!

But now you shall never think of it again. No; I will not let you. That

is the only way you could make me regret anything."

"I am going to stay," said Colville. "But on my own terms. I will be

bound to you, but you shall not be bound to me."

"You doubt me! I would rather have you go! No; stay. And let me prove to

you how wrong you are. I mustn't ask more than that. Only give me the

chance to show you how different I am from what you think--how different

you are, too."

"Yes. But you must be free."

"Well."

"What are they doing so long there?" asked Mrs. Amsden of Effie, putting

her glasses to her eyes. "I can't see."

"They are just holding hands," said the child, with an easy satisfaction

in the explanation, which perhaps the old lady did not share. "He always

holds my hand when he is with me."

"Does he, indeed?" exclaimed Mrs. Amsden, with a cackle. She added,

"That's very polite of him, isn't it? You must be a great favourite with

Mr. Colville. You will miss him when he's gone."

"Yes. He's very nice."

Colville and Imogene returned, coming slowly across the loose, neglected

grass toward the old woman's seat. She rose as they came up.

"You don't seem to have succeeded so well in getting flowers for Miss

Graham as for the other ladies. But perhaps you didn't find her

favourite over there. What is your favourite flower, Miss Graham? Don't

say you have none! I didn't know that I preferred scarlet anemones. Were

there no forget-me-nots over there in the grass?"

"There was no occasion for them," answered Colville.

"You always did make such pretty speeches!" said the old lady. "And they

have such an orphic character, too; you can interpret them in so many

different ways. Should you mind saying just what you meant by that one?"

"Yes, very much," replied Colville.

The old lady laughed with cheerful resignation. She would as lief report

that reply of his as another. Even more than a man whom she could

entangle in his speech she liked a man who could slip through the toils

with unfailing ease. Her talk with such a man was the last consolation

which remained to her from a life of harmless coquetries.

"I will refer it to Mrs. Bowen," she said. "She is a very wise woman,

and she used to know you a great while ago."

"If you like, I will do it for you, Mrs. Amsden. I'm going to see her."

"To renew your adieux? Well, why not? Parting is such sweet sorrow! And

if I were a young man I would go to say good-bye to Mrs. Bowen as often

as she would let me. Now tell me honestly, Mr. Colville, did you ever

see such an exquisite, perfect _creature_?"

"Oh, that's asking a good deal."

"What?"

"To tell you a thing honestly. How did you come here, Mrs. Amsden?"

"In Mrs. Bowen's carriage. I sent it round from the Pitti entrance to

the Porta Romana. It's waiting there now, I suppose."

"I thought you had been corrupted, somehow. Your zeal is

carriage-bought. It _is_ a delightful vehicle. Do you think you could

give me a lift home in it?"

"Yes, indeed. I've always a seat for you in my carriage. To Hotel

d'Atene?"

"No, to Palazzo Pinti."

"This is deliciously mysterious," said Mrs. Amsden, drawing her shawl up

about her shoulders, which, if no longer rounded, had still a charming

droop. One realises in looking at such old ladies that there are women

who could manage their own skeletons winningly. She put up her glasses,

which were an old-fashioned sort, held to the nose by a handle, and

perused the different persons of the group. "Mr. Colville concealing an

inward trepidation under a bold front; Miss Graham agitated but firm;

the child as much puzzled as the old woman. I feel that we are a very

interesting group--almost dramatic."

"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 sea-horses 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!"