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 surface with, "Imogene's family ought to know, of course."

"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 any one. 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.