XIX
The next time Colville came he found himself alone with Imogene, whoasked him what he had been doing all day.
"Oh, living along till evening. What have you?"
She did not answer at once, nor praise his speech for the devotionimplied in it. After a while she said: "Do you believe in courses ofreading? Mr. Morton has taken up a course of reading in Italian poetry.He intends to master it."
"Does he?"
"Yes. Do you think something of the kind would be good for me?"
"Oh, if you thirst for conquest. But I should prefer to rest on mylaurels if I were you."
Imogene did not smile. "Mr. Morton thinks I should enjoy a course ofKingsley. He says he's very earnest."
"Oh, immensely. But aren't you earnest enough already, my dear?"
"Do you think I'm too earnest?"
"No; I should say you were just right."
"You know better than that. I wish you would criticise me sometimes."
"Oh, I'd rather not."
"Why? Don't you see anything to criticise in me? Are you satisfied withme in every way? You ought to think. You ought to think now. Do youthink that I am doing right in all respects? Am I all that I could be toyou, and to you alone? If I am wrong in the least thing, criticise me,and I will try to be better."
"Oh, you might criticise back, and I shouldn't like that."
"Then you don't approve of a course of Kingsley?" asked the girl.
"Does that follow? But if you're going in for earnestness, why don't youtake up a course of Carlyle?"
"Do you think that would be better than Kingsley?"
"Not a bit. But Carlyle's so earnest that he can't talk straight."
"I can't make out what you mean. Wouldn't you like me to improve?"
"Not much," laughed Colville. "If you did, I don't know what I shoulddo. I should have to begin to improve too, and I'm very comfortable as Iam."
"I should wish to do it to--to be more worthy of you," grieved the girl,as if deeply disappointed at his frivolous behaviour.
He could not help laughing, but he was sorry, and would have taken herhand; she kept it from him, and removed to the farthest corner of thesofa. Apparently, however, her ideal did not admit of open pique, andshe went on trying to talk seriously with him.
"You think, don't you, that we oughtn't to let a day pass withoutstoring away some thought--suggestion----"
"Oh, there's no hurry," he said lazily. "Life is rather a longaffair--if you live. There appears to be plenty of time, though peoplesay not, and I think it would be rather odious to make every day of use.Let a few of them go by without doing anything for you! And as forreading, why not read when you're hungry, just as you eat? Shouldn't youhate to take up a course of roast beef, or a course of turkey?"
"Very well, then," said Imogene. "I shall not begin Kingsley."
"Yes, do it. I dare say Mr. Morton's quite right. He will look at thesethings more from your own point of view. All the Kingsley novels are inthe Tauchnitz. By all means do what he says."
"I will do what _you_ say."
"Oh, but I say nothing."
"Then I will do nothing."
Colville laughed at this too, and soon after the clergyman appeared.Imogene met him so coldly that Colville felt obliged to make him someamends by a greater show of cordiality than he felt. But he was glad ofthe effort, for he began to like him as he talked to him; it was easyfor him to like people; the young man showed sense and judgment, and ifhe was a little academic in his mind and manners, Colville tolerantlyreflected that some people seemed to be born so, and that he wasprobably not artificial, as he had once imagined from the ecclesiasticalscrupulosity of his dress.
Imogene ebbed away to the piano in the corner of the room, and strucksome chords on it. At each stroke the young clergyman, whose eyes hadwandered a little toward her from the first, seemed to vibrate inresponse. The conversation became incoherent before Mrs. Bowen joinedthem. Then, by a series of illogical processes, the clergyman wasstanding beside Imogene at the piano, and Mrs. Bowen was sitting besideColville on the sofa.
"Isn't there to be any Effie, to-night?" he asked.
"No. She has been up too much of late. And I wished to speak withyou--about Imogene."
"Yes," said Colville, not very eagerly. At that moment he could havechosen another topic.
"It is time that her mother should have got my letter. In less than afortnight we ought to have an answer."
"Well?" said Colville, with a strange constriction of the heart.
"Her mother is a person of very strong character; her husband isabsorbed in business, and defers to her in everything."
"It isn't an uncommon American situation," said Colville, relieving histension by this excursion.
Mrs. Bowen ignored it. "I don't know how she may look at the affair. Shemay give her assent at once, or she may decide that nothing has takenplace till--she sees you."
"I could hardly blame her for that," he answered submissively.
"It isn't a question of that," said Mrs. Bowen. "It's a questionof--others. Mr. Morton was here before you came, and I know he wasinterested in Imogene--I am certain of it. He has come back, and he seesno reason why he should not renew his attentions."
"No--o--o," faltered Colville.
"I wish you to realise the fact."
"But what would you----"
"I told you," said Mrs. Bowen, with a full return of that severity whoserecent absence Colville had found so comfortable, "that I can't adviseor suggest anything at all."
He was long and miserably silent. At last, "Did you ever think," heasked, "did you ever suppose--that is to say, did you ever suspectthat--she--that Imogene was--at all interested in him?"
"I think she was--at one time," said Mrs. Bowen promptly.
Colville sighed, with a wandering disposition to whistle.
"But that is nothing," she went on. "People have many passing fancies.The question is, what are you going to do now? I want to know, as Mr.Morton's friend."
"Ah, I wish you wanted to know as _my_ friend, Mrs. Bowen!" A suddenthought flashed upon him. "Why shouldn't I go away from Florence tillImogene hears from her mother? That seemed to me right in the firstplace. There is no tie that binds her to me. I hold her to nothing. Ifshe finds in my absence that she likes this young man better--" Anexpression of Mrs. Bowen's face stopped him. He perceived that he hadsaid something very shocking to her; he perceived that the thing wasshocking in itself, but it was not that which he cared for. "I don'tmean that I won't hold myself true to her as long as she will. Irecognise my responsibility fully. I know that I am answerable for allthis, and that no one else is; and I am ready to bear any penalty. Butwhat I can't bear is that you should misunderstand me, that youshould--I have been so wretched ever since you first began to blame mefor my part in this, and so happy this past fortnight that I can't--I_won't_--go back to that state of things. No; you have no right torelent toward me, and then fling me off as you have tried to doto-night! I have some feeling too--some rights. You shall receive me asa friend, or not at all! How can I live if you----"
She had been making little efforts as if to rise; now she forced herselfto her feet, and ran from the room.
The young people looked up from their music; some wave of the sensationhad spread to them, but seeing Colville remain seated, they went on withtheir playing till he rose. Then Imogene called out, "Isn't Mrs. Bowencoming back?"
"I don't know; I think not," answered Colville stupidly, standing wherehe had risen.
She hastened questioning toward him. "What is the matter? Isn't shewell?"
Mr. Morton's face expressed a polite share in her anxiety.
"Oh yes; quite, I believe," Colville replied.
"She heard Effie call, I suppose," suggested the girl.
"Yes, yes; I think so; that is--yes. I must be going. Good night."
He took her hand and went away, leaving the clergyman still there; buthe lingered only for a report from Mrs. Bowe
n, which Imogene hurried toget. She sent word that she would join them presently. But Mr. Mortonsaid that it was late already, and he would beg Miss Graham to saygood-night for him. When Mrs. Bowen returned Imogene was alone.
She did not seem surprised or concerned at that. "Imogene, I have beentalking to Mr. Colville about you and Mr. Morton."
The girl started and turned pale.
"It is almost time to hear from your mother, and she may consent to yourengagement. Then you must be prepared to act."
"Act?"
"To make it known. Matters can't go on as they have been going. I toldMr. Colville that Mr. Morton ought to know at once. Don't try to blind yourself, Imogene, to what you see as plainly as I do. He is in love with you."
"Why ought he to know?" asked Imogene, doubtless with that impulse totemporise which is natural to the human soul in questions of right andinterest. She sank into the chair beside which she had been standing.
"If your mother consents, you will feel bound to Mr. Colville?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"And if she refuses?"
"He has my word. I will keep my word to him," replied Imogene huskily."Nothing shall make me break it."
"Very well, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Bowen. "We need not wait for yourmother's answer. Mr. Morton ought to know, and he ought to know at once.Don't try to blind yourself, Imogene, to what you see as plainly as Ido. He is in love with you."
"Oh," moaned the girl.
"Yes; you can't deny it. And it's cruel, it's treacherous, to let him goon thinking that you are free."
"I will never see him again."
"Ah! that isn't enough. He has a claim to know why. I will not let himbe treated so."
They were both silent. Then, "What did Mr. Colville say?" asked Imogene.
"He? I don't know that he said anything. He----" Mrs. Bowen stopped.
Imogene rose from her chair.
"I will not let him tell Mr. Morton. It would be too indelicate."
"And shall you let it go on so?"
"No. I will tell him myself."
"How will you tell him?"
"I will tell him if he speaks to me."
"You will let it come to that?"
"There is no other way. I shall suffer more than he."
"But you will deserve to suffer, and your suffering will not help him."
Imogene trembled into her chair again.
"I see," said Mrs. Bowen bitterly, "how it will be at last. It will beas it has been from the first." She began to walk up and down the room,mechanically putting the chairs in place, and removing the disorder inwhich the occupancy of several people leaves a room at the end of anevening. She closed the piano, which Imogene had forgot to shut, with aclash that jarred the strings from their silence. "But I will do it, andI wonder----"
"You will speak to him?" faltered the girl.
"Yes!" returned Mrs. Bowen vehemently, and arresting herself in herrapid movements. "It won't do for you to tell him, and you won't let Mr.Colville."
"No, I can't," said Imogene, slowly shaking her head. "But I willdiscourage him; I will not see him anymore." Mrs. Bowen silentlyconfronted her. "I will not see any one now till I have heard fromhome."
"And how will that help? He must have some explanation, and I will haveto make it. What shall it be?"
Imogene did not answer. She said: "I will not have any one know what isbetween me and Mr. Colville till I have heard from home. If they try torefuse, then it will be for him to take me against their will. But if hedoesn't choose to do that, then he shall be free, and I won't have himhumiliated a second time before the world. _This_ time _he_ shall be theone to reject. And I don't care who suffers. The more I prize theperson, the gladder I shall be; and if I could suffer before everybody Iwould. If people ever find it out, I will tell them that it was he whobroke it off." She rose again from her chair, and stood flushed andthrilling with the notion of her self-sacrifice. Out of the tortuouscomplexity of the situation she had evolved this brief triumph, in whichshe rejoiced as if it were enduring success. But she suddenly fell fromit in the dust. "Oh, what can I do for him? How can I make him feel moreand more that I would give up anything, everything, for him! It'sbecause he asks nothing and wants nothing that it's so hard! If I couldsee that he was unhappy, as I did once! If I could see that he was atall different since--since----Oh, what I dread is this smoothtranquillity! If our lives could only be stormy and full of cares andanxieties and troubles that I could take on myself, then, then Ishouldn't be afraid of the future! But I'm afraid they won't be so--no,I'm afraid that they will be easy and quiet, and then what shall I do? OMrs. Bowen, do you think he cares for me?"
Mrs. Bowen turned white; she did not speak.
The girl wrung her hands. "Sometimes it seems as if he didn't--as if Ihad forced myself on him through a mistake, and he had taken me to saveme from the shame of knowing that I had made a mistake. Do you thinkthat is true? If you can only tell me that it isn't--Or, no! If it istrue, tell me that! _That_ would be real mercy."
The other trembled, as if physically beaten upon by this appeal. But shegathered herself together rigidly. "How can I answer you such a thing asthat? I mustn't listen to you; you mustn't ask me." She turned and leftthe girl standing still in her attitude of imploring. But in her ownroom, where she locked herself in, sobs mingled with the laughter whichbroke crazily from her lips as she removed this ribbon and that jewel,and pulled the bracelets from her wrists. A man would have plunged fromthe house and walked the night away; a woman must wear it out in herbed.