XVII
In the ensuing fortnight a great many gaieties besides the Egyptian balltook place, and Colville went wherever he and Imogene were both invited.He declined the quiet dinners which he liked, and which his heartyappetite and his habit of talk fitted him to enjoy, and acceptedinvitations to all sorts of evenings and At Homes, where dancingoccupied a modest corner of the card, and usurped the chief place in thepleasures. At these places it was mainly his business to see Imogenedanced with by others, but sometimes he waltzed with her himself, andthen he was complimented by people of his own age, who had left offdancing, upon his vigour. They said they could not stand that sort ofthing, though they supposed, if you kept yourself in practice, it didnot come so hard. One of his hostesses, who had made a party for herdaughters, told him that he was an example to everybody, and that ifmiddle-aged people at home mingled more in the amusements of the young,American society would not be the silly, insipid, boy-and-girl affairthat it was now. He went to these places in the character of a youngman, but he was not readily accepted or recognised in that character.They gave him frumps to take out to supper, mothers and maiden aunts,and if the mothers were youngish, they threw off on him, and did notcare for his talk.
At one of the parties Imogene seemed to become aware for the first timethat the lapels of his dress-coat were not faced with silk.
"Why don't you have them so?" she asked. "All the _other_ young menhave. And you ought to wear a _boutonniere_."
"Oh, I think a man looks rather silly in silk lapels at my--" Hearrested himself, and then continued: "I'll see what the tailor can dofor me. In the meantime, give me a bud out of your bouquet."
"How sweet you are!" she sighed. "You do the least thing so that it isten times as good as if any one else did it."
The same evening, as he stood leaning against a doorway, behind Imogeneand a young fellow with whom she was beginning a quadrille, he heard hertaking him to task.
"Why do you say 'Sir' to Mr. Colville?"
"Well, I know the English laugh at us for doing it, and say it's likeservants; but I never feel quite right answering just 'Yes' and 'No' toa man of his age."
This was one of the Inglehart boys, whom he met at nearly all of theseparties, and not all of whom were so respectful. Some of them treatedhim upon an old-boy theory, joking him as freely as if he were one ofthemselves, laughing his antiquated notions of art to scorn, butcondoning them because he was good-natured, and because a man could nothelp being of his own epoch anyway. They put a caricature of him amongthe rest on the walls of their _trattoria_, where he once dined withthem.
Mrs. Bowen did not often see him when he went to call upon Imogene, andshe was not at more than two or three of the parties. Mrs. Amsden cameto chaperon the girl, and apparently suffered an increase of unrequitedcuriosity in regard to his relations to the Bowen household, and theextraordinary development of his social activity. Colville not only wentto all those evening parties, but he was in continual movement duringthe afternoon at receptions and at "days," of which he began to thinkeach lady had two or three. Here he drank tea, cup after cup, inreckless excitement, and at night when he came home from the dancingparties, dropping with fatigue, he could not sleep till toward morning.He woke at the usual breakfast-hour, and then went about drowsingthroughout the day till the tea began again in the afternoon. He fellasleep whenever he sat down, not only in the reading-room at Viesseux's,where he disturbed the people over their newspapers by hisdemonstrations of somnolence, but even at church, whither he went oneSunday to please Imogene, and started awake during the service with theimpression that the clergyman had been making a joke. Everybody butImogene was smiling. At the cafe he slept without scruple, selecting acorner seat for the purpose, and proportioning his _buonamano_ to theindulgence of the _giovane_. He could not tell how long he slept atthese places, but sometimes it seemed to him hours.
One day he went to see Imogene, and while Effie Bowen stood prattling tohim as he sat waiting for Imogene to come in, he faded light-headedlyaway from himself on the sofa, as if he had been in his corner at thecafe. Then he was aware of some one saying "Sh!" and he saw EffieBowen, with her finger on her lip, turned toward Imogene, a figure ofbeautiful despair in the doorway. He was all tucked up with sofapillows, and made very comfortable, by the child, no doubt. She slippedout, seeing him awake, so as to leave him and Imogene alone, as she hadapparently been generally instructed to do, and Imogene came forward.
"What is the matter, Theodore?" she asked patiently. She had taken tocalling him Theodore when they were alone. She owned that she did notlike the name, but she said it was right she should call him by it,since it was his. She came and sat down beside him, where he had raisedhimself to a sitting posture, but she did not offer him any caress.
"Nothing," he answered. "But this climate is making me insupportablydrowsy; or else the spring weather."
"Oh no; it isn't that," she said, with a slight sigh. He had left her inthe middle of a german at three o'clock in the morning, but she nowlooked as fresh and lambent as a star. "It's the late hours. They'rekilling you."
Colville tried to deny it; his incoherencies dissolved themselves in ayawn, which he did not succeed in passing for a careless laugh.
"It won't do," she said, as if speaking to herself; "no, it won't do."
"Oh yes, it will," Colville protested. "I don't mind being up. I've beenused to it all my life on the paper. It's just some temporary thing.It'll come all right."
"Well, no matter," said Imogene. "It makes you ridiculous, going to allthose silly places, and I'd rather give it up."
The tears began to steal down her cheeks, and Colville sighed. It seemedto him that somebody or other was always crying. A man never quite getsused to the tearfulness of women.
"Oh, don't mind it," he said. "If you wish me to go, I will go! Or diein the attempt," he added, with a smile.
Imogene did not smile with him. "I don't wish you to go any more. It wasa mistake in the first place, and from this out I will adapt myself toyou."
"And give up all your pleasures? Do you think I would let you do that?No, indeed! Neither in this nor in anything else. I will not cut offyour young life in any way, Imogene--not shorten it or diminish it. If Ithought I should do that, or you would try to do it for me, I shouldwish I had never seen you."
"It isn't that. I know how good you are, and that you would do anythingfor me."
"Well, then, why don't you go to these fandangoes alone? I can see thatyou have me on your mind all the time, when I'm with you."
"Oughtn't I?"
"Yes, up to a certain point, but not up to the point of spoiling yourfun. I will drop in now and then, but I won't try to come to all ofthem, after this; you'll get along perfectly well with Mrs. Amsden, andI shall be safe from her for a while. That old lady has marked me forher prey: I can see it in her glittering eyeglass. I shall fall asleepsome evening between dances, and then she will get it all out of me."
Imogene still refused to smile. "No; I shall give it up. I don't thinkit's well, going so much without Mrs. Bowen. People will begin to talk."
"Talk?"
"Yes; they will begin to say that I had better stay with her a littlemore, if she isn't well."
"Why, isn't Mrs. Bowen well?" asked Colville, with trepidation.
"No; she's miserable. Haven't you noticed?"
"She sees me so seldom now. I thought it was only her headaches----"
"It's much more than that. She seems to be failing every way. The doctorhas told her she ought to get away from Florence." Colville could notspeak; Imogene went on. "She's always delicate, you know. And I feelthat all that's keeping her here now is the news from home that I--we'rewaiting for."
Colville got up. "This is ghastly! She mustn't do it!"
"How can you help her doing it? If she thinks anything is right, shecan't help doing it. Who could?"
Colville thought to himself that he could have said; but he was silent.At the moment he was not equal to so muc
h joke or so much truth; andImogene went on--
"She'd be all the more strenuous about it if it were disagreeable, andrather than accept any relief from _me_ she would die."
"Is she--unkind to you?" faltered Colville.
"She is only _too_ kind. You can feel that she's determined to beso--that she's said she will have nothing to reproach herself with, andshe won't. You don't suppose Mrs. Bowen would be unkind to any one shedisliked?"
"Ah, I didn't know," sighed Colville.
"The more she disliked them, the better she would use them. It's becauseour engagement is so distasteful to her that she's determined to feelthat she did nothing to oppose it."
"But how can you tell that it's distasteful, then?"
"She lets you feel it by--not saying anything about it."
"I can't see how--"
"She never speaks of you. I don't believe she ever mentions your name.She asks me about the places where I've been, and about thepeople--every one but you. It's very uncomfortable."
"Yes," said Colville, "it's uncomfortable."
"And if I allude to letters from home, she merely presses her lipstogether. It's perfectly wretched."
"I see. It's I whom she dislikes, and I would do anything to please her.She must know that," mused Colville aloud. "Imogene!" he exclaimed, witha sudden inspiration. "Why shouldn't I go away?"
"Go away?" she palpitated. "What should I do?"
The colours faded from his brilliant proposal. "Oh, I only meant tillsomething was settled--determined--concluded; till this terriblesuspense was over." He added hopelessly, "But nothing can be done!"
"I proposed," said Imogene, "that we should all go away. I suggested ViaReggio--the doctor said she ought to have sea air--or Venice; but shewouldn't hear of it. No; we must wait."
"Yes, we must wait," repeated Colville hollowly. "Then nothing can bedone?"
"Why, haven't you said it?"
"Oh yes--yes. I can't go away, and you can't. But couldn't we dosomething--get up something?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean, couldn't we--amuse her somehow? help her to take her mind offherself?"
Imogene stared at him rather a long time. Then, as if she had satisfiedherself in her own mind, she shook her head. "She wouldn't submit toit."
"No; she seems to take everything amiss that I do," said Colville.
"She has no right to do that," cried Imogene. "I'm sure that you'realways considering her, and proposing to do things for her. I won't letyou humble yourself, as if you had wronged her."
"Oh, I don't call it humbling. I--I should only be too happy if I coulddo _anything_ that was agreeable to her."
"Very well, I will tell her," said the girl haughtily. "Shall you objectto my joining you in your amusements, whatever they are? I assure you Iwill be very unobtrusive."
"I don't understand all this," replied Colville. "Who has proposed toexclude you? Why did you tell me anything about Mrs. Bowen if you didn'twant me to say or do something? I supposed you did; but I'll withdrawthe offensive proposition, whatever it was."
"There was nothing offensive. But if you pity her so much, why can't youpity me a little?"
"I didn't know anything was the matter with you. I thought you wereenjoying yourself----"
"Enjoying? Keeping you up at dances till you drop asleep whenever yousit down? And then coming home and talking to a person who won't mentionyour name! Do you call that enjoying? I can't speak of you to any one;and no one speaks to me----"
"If you like, I will talk to you on the subject," Colville essayed, indreary jest.
"Oh, don't joke about it! This perpetual joking, I believe it's thatthat's wearing me out. When I come to you for a little comfort incircumstances that drive me almost distracted, you want to amuse Mrs.Bowen, and when I ask to be allowed to share in the amusement, you laughat me! If you don't understand it all, I'm sure _I_ don't."
"Imogene!"
"No! It's very strange. There's only one explanation. You don't care forme."
"Not care for you!" cried Colville, thinking of his sufferings in thepast fortnight.
"And I would have made any--_any_ sacrifice for you. At least I wouldn'thave made you show yourself a mean and grudging person if you had cometo me for a little sympathy."
"O poor child!" he cried, and his heart ached with the sense that shereally was nothing but an unhappy child. "I do sympathise with you, andI see how hard it is for you to manage with Mrs. Bowen's dislike for me.But you mustn't think of it. I dare say it will be different; I've nodoubt we can get her to look at me in some brighter light. I--" He didnot know what he should urge next; but he goaded his invention, and wasable to declare that if they loved each other they needed not regard anyone else. This flight, when accomplished, did not strike him as veryoriginal effect, and it was with a dull surprise that he saw it sufficedfor her.
"No; no one!" she exclaimed, accepting the platitude as if it were nowuttered for the first time. She dried her eyes and smiled. "I will tellMrs. Bowen how you feel and what you've said, and I know she willappreciate your generosity."
"Yes," said Colville pensively; "there's nothing I won't _propose_ doingfor people."
She suddenly clung to him, and would not let him go. "Oh, what is thematter?" she moaned afresh. "I show out the worst that is in me, andonly the worst. Do you think I shall always be so narrow-minded withyou? I thought I loved you enough to be magnanimous. _You_ are. Itseemed to me that our lives together would be grand and large; and hereI am, grovelling in the lowest selfishness! I am worrying and scoldingyou because you wish to please some one that has been as good as my ownmother to me. Do you call that noble?"
Colville did not venture any reply to a demand evidently addressed toher own conscience.
But when she asked if he really thought he had better go away, he said,"Oh no; that was a mistake."
"Because, if you do, you shall--to punish me."
"My dearest girl, why should I wish to punish you?"
"Because I've been low and mean. Now I want you to do something for Mrs.Bowen--something to amuse her; to show that we appreciate her. And Idon't want you to sympathise with me at all. When I ask for yoursympathy, it's a sign that I don't deserve it."
"Is that so?"
"Oh, be serious with me. I mean it. And I want to beg your pardon forsomething."
"Yes; what's that?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
"You needn't have your lapels silk-lined. You needn't wear_boutonnieres_."
"Oh, but I've had the coat changed."
"No matter! Change it back! It isn't for me to make you over. I mustmake myself over. It's my right, it's my sacred privilege to conform toyou in every way, and I humble myself in the dust for having forgottenit at the very start. Oh, _do_ you think I can ever be worthy of you? I_will_ try; indeed I will! I shall not wear my light dresses anothertime! From this out, I shall dress more in keeping with you. I boastedthat I should live to comfort and console you, to recompense you for thepast, and what have I been doing? Wearying and degrading you!"
"Oh no," pleaded Colville. "I am very comfortable. I don't need anycompensation for the past. I need--sleep. I'm going to bed tonight ateight o'clock, and I am going to sleep twenty-four hours. Then I shallbe fresh for Mrs. Fleming's ball."
"I'm not going," said Imogene briefly.
"Oh yes, you are. I'll come round to-morrow evening and see."
"No. There are to be no more parties."
"Why?"
"I can't endure them."
She was looking at him and talking at him, but she seemed far aloof inthe abstraction of a sublime regret; she seemed puzzled, bewildered atherself.
Colville got away. He felt the pathos of the confusion and question towhich he left her, but he felt himself powerless against it. There wasbut one solution to it all, and that was impossible. He could onlygrieve over her trouble, and wait; grieve for the irrevocable loss whichmade her trouble remote and impersonal
to him, and submit.