XVIII
The young clergyman whom Colville saw talking to Imogene on his firstevening at Mrs. Bowen's had come back from Rome, where he had beenspending a month or two, and they began to meet at Palazzo Pinti again.If they got on well enough together, they did not get on very far. Thesuave house-priest manners of the young clergyman offended Colville; hecould hardly keep from sneering at his taste in art and books, which infact was rather conventional; and no doubt Mr. Morton had his ownreserves, under which he was perfectly civil, and only too deferentialto Colville, as to an older man. Since his return, Mrs. Bowen had comeback to her _salon_. She looked haggard; but she did what she could tolook otherwise. She was always polite to Colville, and she was politelycordial with the clergyman. Sometimes Colville saw her driving out withhim and Effie; they appeared to make excursions, and he had animpression, very obscure, that Mrs. Bowen lent the young clergymanmoney; that he was a superstition of hers, and she a patron of his; hemust have been ten years younger than she; not more than twenty-five.
The first Sunday after his return, Colville walked home with Mr. Watersfrom hearing a sermon of Mr. Morton's, which they agreed was rather welljudged, and simply and fitly expressed.
"And he spoke with the authority of the priest," said the old minister."His Church alone of all the Protestant Churches has preserved that toits ministers. Sometimes I have thought it was a great thing."
"Not always?" asked Colville, with a smile.
"These things are matters of mood rather than conviction with me,"returned Mr. Waters. "Once they affected me very deeply; but now I shallso soon know all about it that they don't move me. But at times I thinkthat if I were to live my life over again, I would prefer to be of someformal, some inflexibly ritualised, religion. At solemnities---weddingsand funerals--I have been impressed with the advantage of the Anglicanrite: it is the Church speaking to and for humanity--or seems so," headded, with cheerful indifference. "Something in its favour," hecontinued, after a while, "is the influence that every ritualised faithhas with women. If they apprehend those mysteries more subtly than we,such a preference of theirs must mean a good deal. Yes; the otherProtestant systems are men's systems. Women must have form. They don'tcare for freedom."
"They appear to like the formalist too, as well as the form," saidColville, with scorn not obviously necessary.
"Oh yes; they must have everything in the concrete," said the oldgentleman cheerfully.
"I wonder where Mr. Morton met Mrs. Bowen first," said Colville.
"Here, I think. I believe he had letters to her. Before you came I usedoften to meet him at her house. I think she has helped him with money attimes."
"Isn't that rather an unpleasant idea?"
"Yes; it's disagreeable. And it places the ministry in a dependentattitude. But under our system it's unavoidable. Young men devotingthemselves to the ministry frequently receive gifts of money."
"I don't like it," cried Colville.
"They don't feel it as others would. I didn't myself. Even at present Imay be said to be living on charity. But sometimes I have fancied thatin Mr. Morton's case there might be peculiarly mitigatingcircumstances."
"What do you mean?"
"When I met him first at Mrs. Bowen's I used to think that it was MissGraham in whom he was interested----"
"I can assure you," interrupted Colville, "that she was never interestedin him."
"Oh no; I didn't suppose that," returned the old man tranquilly. "AndI've since had reason to revise my opinion. I think he is interested inMrs. Bowen."
"Mrs. Bowen! And you think that would be a mitigating circumstance inhis acceptance of money from her? If he had the spirit of a man at all,it would make it all the more revolting."
"Oh no, oh no," softly pleaded Mr. Waters. "We must not look at thesethings too romantically. He probably reasons that she would give him allher money if they were married."
"But he has no right to reason in that way," retorted Colville, withheat. "They are not married; it's ignoble and unmanly for him to countupon it. It's preposterous. She must be ten years older than he."
"Oh, I don't say that they're to be married," Mr. Waters replied. "Butthese disparities of age frequently occur in marriage. I don't likethem, though sometimes I think the evil is less when it is the wife whois the elder. We look at youth and age in a gross, material way toooften. Women remain young longer than men. They keep their youthfulsympathies; an old woman understands a young girl. Do you--or doI--understand a young man?"
Colville laughed harshly. "It isn't _quite_ the same thing, Mr. Waters.But yes; I'll admit, for the sake of argument, that I don't understandyoung men. I'll go further, and say that I don't like them; I'm afraidof them. And you wouldn't think," he added abruptly, "that it would bewell for me to marry a girl twenty years younger than myself."
The old man glanced up at him with innocent slyness. "I prefer always todiscuss these things in an impersonal way."
"But you can't discuss them impersonally with me; I'm engaged to MissGraham. Ever since you first found me here after I told you I was goingaway I have wished to tell you this, and this seems as good a time asany--or as bad." The defiance faded from his voice, which dropped to anote of weary sadness. "Yes, we're engaged--or shall be, as soon as shecan hear from her family. I wanted to tell you because it seemed somehowyour due, and because I fancied you had a friendly interest in us both."
"Yes, that is true," returned Mr. Waters. "I wish you joy." He wentthrough the form of offering his hand to Colville, who pressed it withanxious fervour.
"I confess," he said, "that I feel the risks of the affair. It's notthat I have any dread for my own part; I have lived my life, such as itis. But the child is full of fancies about me that can't be fulfilled.She dreams of restoring my youth somehow, of retrieving the past for me,of avenging me at her own cost for an unlucky love affair that I hadhere twenty years ago. It's pretty of her, but it's terriblypathetic--it's tragic. I know very well that I'm a middle-aged man, andthat there's no more youth for me. I'm getting grey, and I'm gettingfat; I wouldn't be young if I could; it's a bore. I suppose I could keepup an illusion of youthfulness for five or six years more; and then if Icould be quietly chloroformed out of the way, perhaps it wouldn't havebeen so very bad."
"I have always thought," said Mr. Waters dreamily, "that a good dealmight be said for abbreviating hopeless suffering. I have known somevery good people advocate its practice by science."
"Yes," answered Colville. "Perhaps I've presented that point tooprominently. What I wished you to understand was that I don't care formyself; that I consider only the happiness of this young girl that'ssomehow--I hardly know how--been put in my keeping. I haven't forgottenthe talks that we've had heretofore on this subject, and it would beaffectation and bad taste in me to ignore them. Don't be troubled atanything you've said; it was probably true, and I'm sure it was sincere.Sometimes I think that the kindest--the least cruel--thing I could dowould be to break with her, to leave her. But I know that I shall donothing of the kind; I shall drift. The child is very dear to me. Shehas great and noble qualities; she's supremely unselfish; she loves methrough her mistaken pity, and because she thinks she can sacrificeherself to me. But she can't. Everything is against that; she doesn'tknow how, and there is no reason why. I don't express it very well. Ithink nobody clearly understands it but Mrs. Bowen, and I've somehowalienated her."
He became aware that his self-abnegation was taking the character ofself-pity, and he stopped.
Mr. Waters seemed to be giving the subject serious attention in thesilence that ensued. "There is this to be remembered," he began, "whichwe don't consider in our mere speculations upon any phase of humanaffairs; and that is the wonderful degree of amelioration that any givendifficulty finds in the realisation. It is the anticipation, not theexperience, that is the trial. In a case of this kind, facts oftemperament, of mere association, of union, work unexpected mitigations;they not only alleviate, they allay. You say that she cherishes ani
llusion concerning you: well, with women, nothing is so indestructibleas an illusion. Give them any chance at all, and all the forces of theirnature combine to preserve it. And if, as you say, she is so dear toyou, that in itself is almost sufficient. I can well understand yourmisgivings, springing as they do from a sensitive conscience; but we mayreasonably hope that they are exaggerated. Very probably there will notbe the rapture for her that there would be if--if you were younger; butthe chances of final happiness are great--yes, very considerable. Shewill learn to appreciate what is really best in you, and you alreadyunderstand her. Your love for her is the key to the future. Withoutthat, of course----"
"Oh, of course," interrupted Colville hastily. Every touch of thiscomforter's hand had been a sting; and he parted with him in thatfeeling of utter friendlessness involving a man who has taken counselupon the confession of half his trouble.
Something in Mrs. Bowen's manner when he met her next made him thinkthat perhaps Imogene had been telling her of the sympathy he hadexpressed for her ill-health. It was in the evening, and Imogene and Mr.Morton were looking over a copy of _The Marble Faun_, which he hadillustrated with photographs at Rome. Imogene asked Colville to look atit too, but he said he would examine it later; he had his opinion ofpeople who illustrated _The Marble Faun_ with photographs; it surprisedhim that she seemed to find something novel and brilliant in the idea.
Effie Bowen looked round where she was kneeling on a chair beside thecouple with the book, and seeing Colville wandering neglectedly aboutbefore he placed himself, she jumped down and ran and caught his hand.
"Well, what now?" he asked, with a dim smile, as she began to pull himtoward the sofa. When he should be expelled from Palazzo Pinti he wouldreally miss the worship of that little thing. He knew that her impulsehad been to console him for his exclusion from the pleasures thatImogene and Mr. Morton were enjoying.
"Nothing. Just talk," she said, making him fast in a corner of the sofaby crouching tight against him.
"What about? About which is the pleasantest season?"
"Oh no; we've talked about that so often. Besides, of course you'd sayspring, now that it's coming on so nicely."
"Do you think I'm so changeable as that? Haven't I always said winterwhen this question of the seasons was up? And I say it now. Shan't yoube awfully sorry when you can't have a pleasant little fire on thehearth like this any more?"
"Yes; I know. But it's very nice having the flowers, too. The grass wasall full of daisies to-day--perfectly powdered with them."
"To-day? Where?"
"At the Cascine. And in under the trees there were millions of violetsand crow's-feet. Mr. Morton helped me to get them for mamma and Imogene.And we stayed so long that when we drove home the daisies had all shutup, and the little pink leaves outside made it look like a field of redclover. Are you never going there any more?"
Mrs. Bowen came in. From the fact that there was no greeting between herand Mr. Morton, Colville inferred that she was returning to the roomafter having already been there. She stood a moment, with a littleuncertainty, when she had shaken hands with him, and then dropped uponthe sofa beyond Effie. The little girl ran one hand through Colville'sarm, and the other through her mother's, and gripped them fast. "Now Ihave got you both," she triumphed, and smiled first into her face, andthen into his.
"Be quiet, Effie," said her mother, but she submitted.
"I hope you're better for your drive to-day, Mrs. Bowen. Effie has beentelling me about it."
"We stayed out a long time. Yes, I think the air did me good; but I'mnot an invalid, you know."
"Oh no."
"I'm feeling a little fagged. And the weather was tempting. I supposeyou've been taking one of your long walks."
"No, I've scarcely stirred out. I usually feel like going to meet thespring a little more than half-way; but this year I don't, somehow."
"A good many people are feeling rather languid, I believe," said Mrs.Bowen.
"I hope you'll get away from Florence," said Colville.
"Oh," she returned, with a faint flush, "I'm afraid Imogene exaggeratedthat a little." She added, "You are very good."
She was treating him more kindly than she had ever done since thatSunday afternoon when he came in with Imogene to say that he was goingto stay. It might be merely because she had worn out her mood ofseverity, as people do, returning in good-humour to those with whom theywere offended, merely through the reconciling force of time. She did notlook at him, but this was better than meeting his eye with thatinterceptive glance. A strange peace touched his heart. Imogene and theyoung clergyman at the table across the room were intent on the bookstill; he was explaining and expatiating, and she listening. Colvillesaw that he had a fine head, and an intelligent, handsome, gentle face.When he turned again to Mrs. Bowen it was with the illusion that she hadbeen saying something; but she was, in fact, sitting mute, and her face,with its bright colour, showed pathetically thin.
"I should imagine that Venice would be good for you," he said.
"It's still very harsh there, I hear. No; when we leave Florence, Ithink we will go to Switzerland."
"Oh, not to Madame Schebres's," pleaded the child, turning upon her.
"No, not to Madame Schebres," consented the mother. She continued,addressing Colville: "I was thinking of Lausanne. Do you know Lausanneat all?"
"Only from Gibbon's report. It's hardly up to date."
"I thought of taking a house there for the summer," said Mrs. Bowen,playing with Effie's fingers. "It's pleasant by the lake, I suppose."
"It's lovely by the lake!" cried the child. "Oh, do go, mamma! I couldget a boat and learn to row. Here you can't row, the Arno's so swift."
"The air would bring you up," said Colville to Mrs. Bowen."Switzerland's the only country where you're perfectly sure of wakingnew every morning."
This idea interested the child. "Waking new!" she repeated.
"Yes; perfectly made over. You wake up another person. Shouldn't youthink that would be nice?"
"No."
"Well, I shouldn't, in your place. But in mine, I much prefer to wake upanother person. Only it's pretty hard on the other person."
"How queer you are!" The child set her teeth for fondness of him, andseizing his cheeks between her hands, squeezed them hard, admiring theeffect upon his features, which in some respects was not advantageous.
"Effie!" cried her mother sternly; and she dropped to her place again,and laid hold of Colville's arm for protection. "You are really veryrude. I shall send you to bed."
"Oh no, don't, Mrs. Bowen," he begged. "I'm responsible for theseviolences. Effie used to be a very well behaved child before she beganplaying with me. It's all my fault."
They remained talking on the sofa together, while Imogene and Mr. Mortoncontinued to interest themselves in the book. From time to time shelooked over at them, and then turned again to the young clergyman, who,when he had closed the book, rested his hands on its top and began togive an animated account of something, conjecturably his sojourn inRome.
In a low voice, and with pauses adjusted to the occasional silences ofthe young people across the room, Mrs. Bowen told Colville how Mr.Morton was introduced to her by an old friend who was greatly interestedin him. She said, frankly, that she had been able to be of use to him,and that he was now going back to America very soon; it was as if shewere privy to the conjecture that had come to the surface in his talkwith Mr. Waters, and wished him to understand exactly how matters stoodwith the young clergyman and herself. Colville, indeed, began to be moretolerant of him; he succeeded in praising the sermon he had heard himpreach.
"Oh, he has talent," said Mrs. Bowen.
They fell into the old, almost domestic strain, from which she broke attimes with an effort, but returning as if helplessly to it. He had thegift of knowing how not to take an advantage with women; that sense ofunconstraint in them fought in his favour; when Effie dropped her headwearily against his arm, her mother even laughed in sending her off
tobed; she had hitherto been serious. Imogene said she would go to see hertucked in, and that sent the clergyman to say good-night to Mrs. Bowen,and to put an end to Colville's audience.
In these days, when Colville came every night to Palazzo Pinti, he gotback the tone he had lost in the past fortnight. He thought that it wasthe complete immunity from his late pleasures, and the regular andsufficient sleep, which had set him firmly on his feet again, but he didnot inquire very closely. Imogene went two or three times, after she haddeclared she would go no more, from the necessity women feel of bluntingthe edge of comment; but Colville profited instantly and fully by therelease from the parties which she offered him. He did not go even toafternoon tea-drinkings; the "days" of the different ladies, which hehad been so diligent to observe, knew him no more. At the hours whensociety assembled in this house or that and inquired for him, orwondered about him, he was commonly taking a nap, and he was punctuallyin bed every night at eleven, after his return from Mrs. Bowen's.
He believed, of course, that he went there because he now no longer metImogene elsewhere, and he found the house pleasanter than it had everbeen since the veglione. Mrs. Bowen's relenting was not continuous,however. There were times that seemed to be times of question and ofstruggle with her, when she vacillated between the old cordiality andthe later alienation; when she went beyond the former, or lapsed intomoods colder and more repellent than the latter. It would have beendifficult to mark the moment when these struggles ceased altogether, andan evening passed in unbroken kindness between them. But afterwardsColville could remember an emotion of grateful surprise at a subtle wordor action of hers in which she appeared to throw all restraint--scrupleor rancour, whichever it might be--to the winds, and become perfectlyhis friend again. It must have been by compliance with some wish orassent to some opinion of his; what he knew was that he was not onlypermitted, he was invited, to feel himself the most favoured guest. Thecharming smile, so small and sweet, so very near to bitterness, cameback to her lips, the deeply fringed eyelids were lifted to let thesunny eyes stream upon him. She did, now, whatever he asked her. Sheconsulted his taste and judgment on many points; she consented toresume, when she should be a little stronger, their visits to thechurches and galleries: it would be a shame to go away from Florencewithout knowing them thoroughly. It came to her asking him to drive withher and Imogene in the Cascine; and when Imogene made some excuse not togo, Mrs. Bowen did not postpone the drive, but took Colville and Effie.
They drove quite down to the end of the Cascine, and got out there toadmire the gay monument, with the painted bust, of the poor young Indianprince who died in Florence. They strolled all about, talking of the oldtimes in the Cascine, twenty years before; and walking up the roadbeside the canal, while the carriage slowly followed, they stopped toenjoy the peasants lying asleep in the grass on the other bank. Colvilleand Effie gathered wild-flowers, and piled them in her mother's lap whenshe remounted to the carriage and drove along while they made excursionsinto the little dingles beside the road. Some people who overtook themin these sylvan pleasures reported the fact at a reception to which theywere going, and Mrs. Amsden, whose mind had been gradually clearingunder the simultaneous withdrawal of Imogene and Colville from society,professed herself again as thickly clouded as a weather-glass before astorm. She appealed to the sympathy of others against this hardship.
Mrs. Bowen took Colville home to dinner; Mr. Morton was coming, shesaid, and he must come too. At table the young clergyman made her hiscompliment on her look of health, and she said, Yes; she had beendriving, and she believed that she needed nothing but to be in the air alittle more, as she very well could, now the spring weather was reallycoming. She said that they had been talking all winter of going toFiesole, where Imogene had never been yet; and upon comparison itappeared that none of them had yet been to Fiesole except herself. Thenthey must all go together, she said; the carriage would hold four verycomfortably.
"Ah! that leaves me out," said Colville, who had caught sight of Effie'sfallen countenance.
"Oh no. How is that? It leaves Effie out."
"It's the same thing. But I might ride, and Effie might give me her handto hold over the side of the carriage; that would sustain me."
"We could take her between us, Mrs. Bowen," suggested Imogene. "The backseat is wide."
"Then the party is made up," said Colville, "and Effie hasn't demeanedherself by asking to go where she wasn't invited."
The child turned inquiringly toward her mother, who met her with anindulgent smile, which became a little flush of grateful appreciationwhen it reached Colville; but Mrs. Bowen ignored Imogene in the matteraltogether.
The evening passed delightfully. Mr. Morton had another book which hehad brought to show Imogene, and Mrs. Bowen sat a long time at thepiano, striking this air and that of the songs which she used to singwhen she was a girl: Colville was trying to recall them. When he andImogene were left alone for their adieux, they approached each other inan estrangement through which each tried to break.
"Why don't you scold me?" she asked. "I have neglected you the wholeevening."
"How have you neglected me?"
"How? Ah! if you don't know----"
"No. I dare say I must be very stupid. I saw you talking with Mr.Morton, and you seemed interested. I thought I'd better not intrude."
She seemed uncertain of his intention, and then satisfied of itssimplicity.
"Isn't it pleasant to have Mrs. Bowen in the old mood again?" he asked.
"Is she in the old mood?"
"Why, yes. Haven't you noticed how cordial she is?
"I thought she was rather colder than usual."
"Colder!" The chill of the idea penetrated even through the density ofColville's selfish content. A very complex emotion, which took itselffor indignation, throbbed from his heart. "Is she cold with you,Imogene?"
"Oh, if you saw nothing----"
"No; and I think you must be mistaken. She never speaks of you withoutpraising you."
"Does she speak of me?" asked the girl, with her honest eyes wide openupon him.
"Why, no," Colville acknowledged. "Come to reflect, it's I who speak ofyou. But how--how is she cold with you?"
"Oh, I dare say it's a delusion of mine. Perhaps I'm cold with her."
"Then don't be so, my dear! Be sure that she's your friend--true andgood. Good night."
He caught the girl in his arms, and kissed her tenderly. She drew away,and stood a moment with her repellent fingers on his breast.
"Is it all for me?" she asked.
"For the whole obliging and amiable world," he answered gaily.