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INDIAN SUMMER

MR. W. D. HOWELLS' WORKS.

Pocket Editiony in One Shilling Vols.

THE RISE OP SILAS LAPHAM, 2 vols.
A FOREGONE CONCLUSION.
A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.
THEIR WEDDING JOURNEY.
A COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT.
LADY OF THE AROOSTOOK. 2 vols.
OUT OF THE QUESTION.
UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 2 vols.
A FEARFUL RESPONSIBIUTY.
VENETIAN LIFE. 2 vols.
ITALIAN JOURNEYS. 2 vols.

Edinburgh: David Douglas.
London : Hamilton. Adams ft Co.

INDIAN SUMMER

WILLIAM D: POWELLS

Author s Edition

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH

DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET

1887

T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY.

INDIAN SUMMER

xn.

IN his room Colville was devoaring as best
he might the chagrin with which he
had come away from Palazzo Pinti, while
he packed his trunk for departure. Now
that the thing was over, the worst was past.
Again he observed that his emotions had no
longer the continuity that the emotions of
his youth possessed. As he remembered, a
painful or pleasant impression used to last in-
definitely ; but here he was with this humi-
liating affair hot in his mind, shrugging his
shoulders with a sense of relief, almost a
sense of escape. Does the soul really wear
out with the body? The question flitted
across his mind as he took down a pair of
trousers, and noticed that they were con-
siderably frayed about the feet ; he de
termined to give them to Paolo, and this

152686

6 INDIAN SXTMMEn.

Feminded him to ring for Paolo, and send
word to the office that he was going to take
the evening train for Rome.

He went on packing, and patting away
with the different garments the unpleasant
thoughts that he knew he should he sure to
unpack with them in Rome ; but they would
then have less poignancy. For the present
he was doing the best he could, and he was
not making any sort of pretences. When
his trunk was locked he kindled himself a
fire, and sat down before it to think of Imo-
gene. He began with her, but presently it
seemed to be Mrs. Bowen that he was think-
ing of ; then he knew he was dropping off
to sleep by the manner in which their two
ideas mixed. The fatigues and excitements
of the week had been great, but he would
not give way ; it was too disgraceful.

Some one rapped at his door. He called
out " Avanti! " and he would have been less
surprised to see either of those ladies than
Paolo with the account he had ordered to
be made out. It was a long, pendulous,
minutely itemed affair, such as the traveller's
recklessness in candles and firewood comes
to in the books of the Continental land-
lord, and it almost swept the floor when its
volume was unrolled. But it was not the

INDIAN SUMMER. 7

sum-total that dismayed Colville when he
glanced at the final figure ; that, indeed, was
not so very great, with all the items ; it was
the conviction, suddenly flashing upon him,
that he had not money enough by him to
pay it. His watch, held close to the fire,
told him that it was five o'clock ; the banks
had been closed an hour, and this was
Saturday afternoon.

The squalid accident had all the effect of
intention, as he viewed it from without him-
self, and considered that the money ought
to have been the first thing in his thoughts
after he determined to go away. He must
get the money somehow, and be off to Rome
by the seven o'clock train. A whimsical
suggestion, which was so good a bit of irony
that it made him smile, flashed across him :
he might borrow it of Mrs. Bowen. She
was, in fact, the only person in Florence
with whom he was at all on borrowing
terms, and a sad sense of the sweetness of
her lost friendship followed upon the antic
notion. No; for once he could not go to
Mrs. Bowen. He recollected now the many
pleasant talks they had had together, confi-
dential in virtue of their old acquaintance,
and harmlessly intimate in many things.
He recalled how, when he was feeling dull

S INDIAN SUMMER.

from the Florentine air, she had told him to
take a little quinine, and he had found imme-
diate advantage in it. These memories
did not strike him as grotesque or ludicrous ;
he only felt their pathos. He was ashamed
even to seem in anywise recreant further.
If she should ever hear that he had lingered
for thirty-six hours in Florence after he had
told her he was going away, what could she
think but that he had repented his decision ?
He determined to go down to the office of
the hotel, and see if he could not make some
arrangement with the landlord. It would
be extremely distasteful, but his ample letter
of credit would be at least a voucher of his
final ability to pay. As a desperate resort
he could go and try to get the money of Mr.
Waters.

He put on his coat and hat, and opened
the door to some one who was just in act to
knock at it, and whom he struck against in
the obscurity.

" I beg your pardon," said the visitor.

"Mr. Waters! Is it possible?" cried
Colville, feeling something fateful in the
chance. *' I was just going to see you."

''I'm fortunate in meeting you, then.
Shall we go to my room?" he asked, at a
hesitation in Ck>lville*s manner.

INDIAN SUMMER. 9

"No, no," said the latter; "come in
here." He led the way back into his room,
and struck a match to light the candles on
his chimney. Their dim rays fell upon the
disorder his packing had left. " You must
excuse the look of things," he said. " The
fact is, I 'm just going away. I 'm going to
Rome at seven o'clock."

'* Isn't this rather sudden?" asked the
minister, with less excitement than the fact
might perhaps have been expected to create
in a friend. " I thought you intended to
pass the winter in Florence."

"Yes, I did — sit down, please — ^but I
find myself obliged to cut my stay short.
Won't you take off your coat ? " he asked,
taking off his own.

"Thank you; I've formed the habit of
keeping it on indoors, " said Mr. Waters.
** And 1 oughtn't to stay long, if you 're to
be off so soon."

Colville gave a very uncomfortable laugh.
" Why, the fact is, I 'm not off so very soon
unless you help me."

"Ah?" returned the old gentleman, with
polite interest.

"Yes, I find myself in the absurd posi-
tion of a man who has reckoned without his
host. I have made all my plans for going,

14 INDIAN SUMMER.

"Ak, I'm sorry. Good-bye, my dear
yoBBg friend. It 's been a great pleasure to
kmaw yon.'* Colville walked down to the
door of the hotel with his visitor, and parted
witli him there. As he turned back he met
tlw landlord, who asked him if he would
hvre the omnibus for the station. The
laadlocd bowed smilingly, after his kind,
aad nibbed his hands. He said he hoped
Oblrille was fdeased with his hotel, and ran
to bis desk in the little office to get some
<aids for him, 90 that he might recommend
it aoouat^ to American families.

CkthiOe looked absently at the cards.
*"1]m £act is,*' be ssid, to tiie little bowing,
iMiltnj; man ; " I dont know but I shall be
obliged to postpone my going till Monday."
He smiled too, trying to giro the fact a
JMOse effect and added, "I find myself out
of BKHwy, and I Ve no means of paying your
biU till I can see my bankers."

After aU his heroic intention, this was as
■ear as be could come to asking the landlord
to let him send the money from Rome.

TW litde man set his head on one side.

^" 0I^ w^ occupy the room tiU Monday,
tbcB." be cried hospitably. " It is quite at
ywtr ifispositioD. You will not want the
oamibos?'*

INDIAN SUMMER. 1$

** No, I shall not want the omnibns,'* said
Colyille, with a langh, doubtless not per-
fectly intelligible to the landlord, who re-
spectfully joined him in it.

He did not mean to stop that night with-
out writing to Mrs. Bowen, and assuring her
that though an accident had kept him in
Florence till Monday, she need not be afraid
of seeing him again. But he could not go
back to his room yet ; he wandered about
the town, trying to pick himself up from the
ruin into which he had fallen again, and
wondering with a sort of alien compassion
what was to become of his aimless, empty
existence. As he passed through the Piazza
San Marco he had half a mind to pick a
pebble from the gathered margin of the foun-
tain there and toss it against the Rev. Mr.
Waters's window, and, when he put his
skull-cap out, to ask that optimistic agnostic
what a man had best do with a life that had
ceased to interest him. But, for the time
being, he got rid of himself as he best could
by going to the opera. They professed to
give Bigoletto, but it was all Mrs. Bowen
and Imogene Graham to Colville.

It was so late when he got back to his
hotel that the outer gate was shut, and he
had to wake up the poor little porter, as on

12 INDIAN SUMMER.

just seen Mrs. Bowen, and she told me you
were going."

*'0h," said Colville, with disagreeable
sensation, ** perhaps she told you why I was
going."

"No," answered Mr. Waters; "she
didn^t do that." Colville imagined a con-
sciousness in him, which perhaps did not
exist. "She didn't allude to the subject
further than to state the fact, when I men-
tioned that I was coming to see you."

Colville had dropped his hand. " She was
very forbearing," he said, with bitterness
that might well have been incomprehensible
to Mr. Waters upon any theory but one.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "you arfi pre-
cipitate ; perhaps you have mistaken ; per-
haps you have been hasty. These things are
often the result of impulse in women. I
have often wondered how they could make
up their minds ; I believe they certainly
ought to be allowed to change them at least
once."

Colville turned very red. " What in the
world do you mean ? Do you imagine that
I have been ofifering myself to Mrs. Bowen ? "

"Wasn't it that which you wished to —
which you said you would like to tell me ? "

Colville was suddenly silent, on the verge

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 3

of a self -derisive laugh. When he spoke, he
said gently : '* No ; it wasn't that. I never
thought of ofifering myself to her. We have
always been very good friends. But now
I 'm afraid we can't be friends any more— at
least we can't be acquaintances."

" Oh ! " exclaimed Mr. Waters. He
waited a while as if for Colville to say more,
but the latter remained silent, and the old
man gave his hand again in farewell. **I
must really be going. I hope you won't
think me intrusive in my mistaken conjec-
ture?"

'*Ohno."

*' It was what I supposed you had been
telling me "

* * I understand. You mustn't be troubled, "
said Colville, though he had to own to him-
self that it seemed superfluous to make this
request of Mr. Waters, who was taking the
affair with all the serenity of age concerning
matters of sentiment. "I wish you were
going to Rome with me," he added, to dis-
embarrass the moment of parting.

" Thank yon. But I shall not go to Rome
for some years. Shall you come back on
your way in the spring ? "

*' No, I shall not come to Florence again,"
said Colville sadly.

14 INDIAN SUMMER.

**Ah, I'm sorry. Good-bye, my dear
young friend. It 's been a great pleasure to
know you." Colville walked down to the
door of the hotel with his visitor, and parted
with him there. As he turned back he met
the landlord, who asked him if he would
have the omnibus for the station. The
landlord bowed smilingly, after his kind,
and rubbed his hands. He said he hoped
Ck>lville was pleased with his hotel, and ran
to his desk in the little office to get some
cards for him, po that he might recommend
it accurately to American families.

Colville looked absently at the cards.
'* The fact is," he said, to the little bowing,
smiling man ; ** I don't know but I shall be
obliged to postx>one my going till Monday."
He smiled too, trying to give the fact a
jocose efifect, and added, '*! find myself out
of money, and I Ve no means of paying your
bill till I can see my bankers."

After all his heroic intention, this was as
near as he could come to asking the landlord
to let him send the money from Rome.

The little man set his head on one side.

** Oh, well, occupy the room till Monday,
then," he cried hospitably. *' It is quite at
your disposition. You will not want the
omnibus ? "

INDIAN SUMMER. 1$

** No, I shall not want the omnibns," said
Colville, with a laugh, doubtless not per-
fectly intelligible to the landlord, who re-
spectfully joined him in it.

It was so late when he got back to his
hotel that the outer gate was shut, and he
had to wake up the poor little porter, as on

1 6 INDIAN SUMMER.

tliat night when he returned from Madame
Uccelli's. The porter was again equal to
his duty, and contrived to light a new candle
to show him the way to his room. The re-
petition, almost mechanical, of this small
chicane made Golville smile, and this appa-
rently encouraged the porter to ask, as if he
supposed him to have been in society some-
where —

" You have amused yourself this evening?"

"Oh, very much."

**■ I am glad. There is a letter for you."

"A letter! Where?"

**I sent it to your room. It came just
before midnight."

INDIAN SUMMER. l^

xm.

MRS. Bowen sat before the hearth in her
sdUmt with her hands fallen in her
lap. At thirty-eight the emotions engrave
themselves more deeply in the face than
they do in our first youth, or than they will
when we have really aged, and the pretty
woman looked haggard.

Imogene came in, wearing a long blue
robe, flung on as if with desperate haste;
her thick hair fell crazily out of a careless
knot, down her back. " I couldn't sleep,"
she said, with quivering lips, at the sight of
which Mrs. Bowen's involuntary smile hard-
ened. "Isn't it eleven yet?" she added,
with a glance at the clock. "It seems
years since I went to bed."

** It 's been a long day," Mrs. Bowen ad-
mitted. She did not ask Imogene why she
could not sleep, perhaps because she knew
already, and was too honest to affect ignor-
ance.

The girl dropped into a chair opposite

1 8 INDIAN SUMMER.

her, and began to pull her fingers through
the long tangle of her hair, while she drew
her breath in sighs that broke at times on
her lips; some tears fell down her cheeks
unheeded. **Mr8. Bowen," she said, at
length, *' I should like to know what right
we have to drive any one from Florence ? I
should think people would call it rather a
high-handed proceeding if it were known."
Mrs. Bowen met this feebleness promptly.
** It isn't likely to be known. But we are
not driving Mr. Colville away."
"He is going."
** Yes ; he said he would go."
** Don't you believe he will go ? "
** I believe he will do what he says."
** He has been very kind to us all ; he has
heenaa good/"

"No one feels that more than I," said
Mrs. Bowen, with a slight tremor in her
voice. She faltered a moment. "I can't
let you say those things to me, Imogene."

•* No ; I know it 's wrong. I didn't know
what I was saying. Oh, I wish I could tell
what I ought to do ! I wish I could make
up my mind. Oh, I can't let him go— m>.
I — I don't know what to think any more.
Once it was clear, but now I 'm not sure ;
no, I'm not sure."

INDIAK SUMMER. 1 9

** Not sure about what ? "

" I think I am the one to go away, if any
one."

**You know you can*t go away,'* said
Mrs. Bowen, with weary patience.

*'No, of course not. Well, I shall never
see any one like him."

Mrs. Bowen made a start in her chair, as
if she had no longer the power to remain
quiet, but only placed herself a little more
rigidly in it.

*'No," the girl went on, as if uttering a
hopeless reverie. " He made every moment
interesting. He was always thinking of us
— he never thought of himself. He did as
much for Effie as for any one ; he tried just
as hard to make himself interesting to her.
He was unselfish. I have seen him at places
being kind to the stupidest people. You
never caught him choosing out the stylish
or attractive ones, or trying to shine at any-
body's expense. Oh, he 's a true gentleman
— I shall always say it. How delicate he
was, never catching you up, or if you said a
foolish thing, trying to turn it ag^unst you.
No, never, never, never ! Oh dear ! And
now, what can he think of me? Oh, how
frivolous and fickle and selfish he must
think me!"

1 8 INDIAN SUMMER.

her, and began to pull her fingers through
the long tangle of her hair, while she drew
her breath in sighs that broke at times on
her lips; some tears fell down her cheeks
unheeded. **Mrs. Bowen,'' she said, at
length, " I should like to know what right
we have to drive any one from Florence ? I
should think people would call it rather a
high-handed proceeding if it were known."
Mrs. Bowen met this feebleness promptly.
^' It isn*t likely to be known. But we are
not driving Mr. Colville away."
"He is going."
** Yes ; he said he would go."
** Don't you believe he will go ? "
'* I believe he will do what he says."
** He has been very kind to us all ; he has
been as good / "

"No one feels that more than I," said
Mrs. Bowen, with a slight tremor in her
voice. She faltered a moment. "I can't
let you say those things to me, Imogene."

** No ; I know it *s wrong. I didn't know
what I was saying. Oh, I wish I could tell
what I ought to do ! I wish I could make
up my mind. Oh, I can't let him go— m>.
I — I don't know what to think any more.
Once it was clear, but now I 'm not sure ;
no, I'm not sure."

IKDIAK SUMMER. 19

" Not sure about what ? "

'* I think I am the one to go away, if any
one."

"You know you can't go away," said
Mrs. Bowen, with weary patience.

**No, of course not. Well, I shall never
see any one like him."

Mrs. Bowen made a start in her chair, as
if she had no longer the power to remain
quiet, but only placed herself a little more
rigidly in it.

*'No," the girl went on, as if uttering a
hopeless reverie. '* He made every moment
interesting. He was always thinking of us
— he never thought of himself. He did as
much for Effie as for any one ; he tried just
as hard to make himself interesting to her.
He was unselfish. I have seen him at places
being kind to the stupidest people. You
never caught him choosing out the stylish
or attractive ones, or trying to shine at any-
body's expense. Oh, he 's a true gentleman
— I shall always say it. How delicate he
was, never catching you up, or if you said a
foolish thing, trying to turn it against you.
No, never, never, never ! Oh dear ! And
now, what can he think of me? Oh, how
frivolous and fickle and selfish he must
think me!"

20 INDIAN SUMMER.

*' Imogene ! " Mrs. Bowen cried out, but
quelled herself again.

**Yes," pursued the girl, in the same
dreary monotone, **he thinks I couldn^t
appreciate him because he was old. He
thinks that I cared for his not being hand-
some ! Perhaps — perhaps " She began

to catch her breath in the effort to keep
back the sobs that were coming. "Oh, I
can't bear it ! I would rather die than let
him think it — such a thing as that ! " She
bent her head aside, and cried upon the two
hands with which she clutched the top of
her chair.

Mrs. Bowen sat looking at her distract-
edly. From time to time she seemed to
silence a word upon her lips, and in fact she
did not speak.

Imogene lifted her head at last, and softly
dried her eyes. Then, as she pushed her
handkerchief back into the pocket of her
robe, "What sort of looking girl was that
other one ? "

"That other one?"

" Yes ; you know what I mean : the one
who behaved so badly to him before.**

" Imogene ! ** said Mrs. Bowen severely,
" this is nonsense, and I can*t let you go on
so. I might pretend not to know what you

INDIAN SUMMER. 21

mean ; bnt I won't do that ; and I tell you
that there is no sort of likeness — of compari-
son "

**No, no," wailed the girl, " there is none.
I feel that. She had nothing to warn her
— he hadn't suffered then ; he was young ;
he was able to bear it — ^you said it yourself,
Mrs. Bowen. But now — now, what will he
do? He could make fun of that, and not
hate her so much, because she didn't know
how much harm she was doing. But I did ;
and what can he think of me ? "

Mrs. Bowen looked across the barrier
between them, that kept her from taking
Imogene into her arms, and laughing and
kissing away her craze, with cold dislike,
and only said, ** You know whether you've
really anything to accuse yourself of, Imo-
gene. I can't and won't consider Mr. Col-
ville in the matter ; I didnH consider him in
what I said to-day. And I tell you again
that I will not interfere with you in the
slightest degree beyond appearances and the
responsibility I feel to your mother. And
it 's for you to know your own mind. You
are old enough. I will do what you say.
It 's for you to be sure that you wish what
you say."

" Yes," said Imogene huskily, and she let

22 INDIAN SUMMEB.

an intervcal that was long to them both elapse
before she said anything more. '*Have I
always done what you thought best, Mrs.
Bo wen ? "

** Yes, I have never complained of you."

"Then why can't you tell me now what
you think best ? "

'* Because there is nothing to be done.
It is all over."

** But if it were not, would you tell me ? "

**No."

"Why?"

* • Because I^ouldn't. "

"Then I take back my promise not to
write to Mr. Colville. I am going to ask
him to stay."

"Have you made up your mind to that,
Imogene ? " asked Mrs. Bowen, showing no
sign of excitement, except to take a faster
hold of her own wrists with the slim hands
in which she had caught them.

"Yes."

"You know the position it places you
in?"

"What position?"

" Has he offered himself to you ? **

" No ! " the girl's face blazed.

"Then, after what's passed, this is the
aame as oifering yourself to him."

INDIAN SUMMER. 23

Imogene turned white. ** I must write to
him, unless you forbid me."

** Certainly I shall not forbid you." Mrs.
Bowen rose and went to her writing-desk.
"But if you have fully made up your
mind to this step, and are ready for the

consequences, whatever they are " She

stopped, before sitting down, and looked
back over her shoulder at Imogene.

" Yes," said the girl, who had also risen.

"Then I will write to Mr. Colville for
you, and render the proceeding as little ob-
jectionable as possible."

Imogene made no reply. She stood
motionless while Mrs. Bowen wrote.

"Is this what you wished?" asked the
latter, offering the sheet : —

"Dbar Mr. Colvillb,— I have reasons for
wishing to recall my consent to your going away.
Will you not come and lunch with us to-morrow,
and try to forget eversrthing that has passed
during a few days ?

" Yours very sincerely,

"EVALINA BOWBN."

" Yes, that will do," gasped Imogene.

Mrs. Bowen rang the bell for the porter,
and stood with her back to the girl, waiting
for him at the salon door. He came after a
delay that sufficiently intimated the lateness

24 INDIAN SUMlfER.

of the hour. '*This letter must go at once
to the Hotel d'Atene," said Mrs. Bowen per-
emptorily.

•*You shall be served," said the porter,
with fortitude.

As Mrs. Bowen turned, Imogene ran to-
ward her with clasped hands. "Oh, how
merciful — how good "

Mrs. Bowen shrank back. ** Don't touch
me, Imogene, please ! "

It was her letter which Colville found on
his table and read by the struggling light of
his newly acquired candle. Then he sat
down and replied to it.

** Dear Mrs. Bowen,— I know that you mean
some sort of kindness by me, and I hope you
will not think me prompted by any poor resent-
ment in declining to-morrow's lunch. I am
satisfied that it is best for me to go ; and I am
ashamed not to be gone already. But a ridicu-
lous accident has kept me, and when I came in
and found your note I was just going to write
and ask your patience with my presence in Flor-
ence till Monday morning.

•* Yours sincerely,

** Theodorb Colviixb."

He took his note down to the porter, who
had lain down again in his little booth, but
sprang up with a cheerful request to be com-

INDIAN SUMMER. 2$

manded. Colville consulted him upon the
propriety of sending the note to Palazzo
Pinti at once, and the porter, with his heud
laid in deprecation upon one of his lifted
shoulders, owned that it was perhaps the
very least little bit in the world late.

**Send it the first thing in the morning,
then," said Colville.

Mrs. Bowen received it by the servant
who brought her coffee to the room, and she
sent it without any word to Imogene. The
girl came instantly back with it. She was
fully dressed, as if she had been up a long
time, and she wore a very plain, dull dress,
in which one of her own sex might have read
the expression of a potential self-devotion.

"It's just as I wish it, Mrs. Bowen," she
said, in a low key of impassioned resolution.
** Now my conscience is at rest. And you
have done this for me, Mrs. Bowen I " She
stood timidly with the door in her hand,
watching Mrs. Bowen's slight smile; then,
as if at some sign in it, she fiew to the bed
and kissed her, and so fled out of the room
again.

Colville slept late, and awoke with a
vague sense of self-reproach, which faded
afterward to such poor satisfaction as comes
to us from the consciousness of having made

26 INDIAN SUMMER.

the best of a bad business ; some pangs of
softer regret mixed with this. At first he
felt a stupid obligation to keep indoors, and
he really did not go out till after lunch.
The sunshine had looked cold from, his
window, and with the bright fire which he
found necessary in his room, he fancied a
bitterness in the gusts that caught up the
dust in the piazza, and blew it against the
line of cabs on the other side ; but when he
got out into the weather he found the breeze
mild and the sun warm. The streets were
thronged with people, and at all the comers
there were groups of cloaked and overcoated
talkers, soaking themselves full of the sun-
shine. The air throbbed, as always, with
the sound of bells, but it was a mellower
and opener sound than before, and looking
at the purple bulk of one of those hills
which seem to rest like clouds at the end of
each avenue in Florence, Colville saw that
it was clear of snow. He was going up
through Via Gavour to find Mr. Waters and
propose a walk, but he met him before he
had got half-way to San Marco.

The old man was at a momentary stand-
still, looking up at the Riccardi Palace, and
he received Colville with apparent forgetful-
of anything odd in his being still in

INDIAN SUMMSB. 27

Florence. **Upon the whole," he said,
without preliminary of any sort, as Colville
turned and joined him in walking on, **I
don't know any homicide that more dis-
tinctly proves the futility of assassination as
a political measure than that over yonder."
He nodded his head sidewise toward the
palace as he shuffled actively along at Col-
villous elbow.

** You might say that the moment when
Lorenzino killed Alessandro was the most
auspicious for a deed of that kind. The
Medici had only recently been restored;
Alessandro was the first ruler in Florence
who had worn a title; no more reckless,
brutal, and insolent tyrant ever lived, and
his right, even such as the Medici might
have, to play the despot was involved in
the doubt of his origin ; the heroism of the
great siege ought still to have survived in
the people who withstood the forces of the
' whole German Empire for fifteen months ; it
seems as if the taking o£f of that single wretch
should have ended the whole Medicean domi-
nation ; but there was not a voice raised to
second the homicide's appeal to the old love
of liberty in Florence. The Medici party
were able to impose a boy of eighteen upon
the most fiery democracy that ever existed,

28 INDIAN SUMMER.

and to hunt down and destroy Alessandro's
morderer at their leisure. No," added the
old man thoughtfully, **I think that the
friends of progress must abandon assassina-
tion as invariably useless. The trouble was
not that Alessandro was alive, but that
Florence was dead. Assassination always
comes too early or too late in any popular
movement. It may be," said Mr. Waters,
with a carefulness to do justice to assassina-
tion which made Colville smile^ *'that the
modem scientific spirit may be able to
evolve something useful from the principle,
but considering the enormous abuses and
perversions to which it is liable, I am very
doubtful of it — very doubtful."

Colville laughed. "I like your way of
bringing a fresh mind to all these questions
in history and morals, whether they are con-
ventionally settled or not. Don't you think
the modem scientific spirit could evolve
something useful out of the old classic idea
of suicide ? "

** Perhaps," said Mr. Waters ; " I haven't
yet thought it over. The worst thing about
suicide — and this must always rank it below,
political assassination — is that its interest
is purely personaL "So man ever kills him-
self for the good of others."

INDIAN SUMMER. 29

" That *s certainly against it. We oughtn't
to countenance such an abominably selfish
practice. But you can't bring that charge
against euthanasy. What have you to say
of that?"

** I have heard one of the most benevolent
and tender-hearted men I ever knew defend
it in cases of hopeless suffering. But I don't
know that I should be prepared to take his
ground. There appears to be something so
sacred about human life that we must re-
spect it even in spite of the prayers of the
sufferer who asks us to end his irremediable
misery."

"Well," said Colville, "I suspect we
must at least class murder with the ballet
as a means of good. One might say there
was still some virtue in the primal, eldest
curse against bloodshed."

**0h, I don't by any means deny those
things," said the old man, with the air of
wishing to be scrupulously just. ** Which
way are you walking ? "

" Your way, if you will let me," replied
Colville. "I was going to your house to
ask you to take a walk with me."

" Ah, that 's good. I was reading of the
great siege last night, and I thought of
taking a look at Michelangelo's bastions.

30 INDIAN SUMMEB.

Let US go together, if you don't think you 11
find it too fatiguing."

"I shall be ashamed to complain if I
do."

** And you didn't go to Rome after all?"
said Mr. Waters.

**No; I couldn't face the landlord with
a petition so preposterous as mine. I told
him that I found I had no money to pay his
bill till I had seen my banker, and as he
didn't propose that I should send him the
amount back from Rome, I stayed. Land-
lords have their limitations; they are not
imaginative, as a class."

**WeU, a day more will make no great
difference to you, I suppose," said the old
man, "and a day less would have been a
loss to me. I shall miss you. "

"Shall you, indeed?" asked Colville,
with a grateful stir of the heart. " It 's very
nice of you to say that. "

"Oh no. I meet few people who are
willing to look at life objectively with me,
and I have fancied some such willingness in
you. What I chiefly miss over here is a
philosophic lift in the human mind, but pro-
bably that LB because my opportunities of
meeting the best minds are few, and my
means of conversing with them are small.

INDIAN SUMMEB. 3 1

If I had not the whole past with me, I
should feel lonely at times."

*'And is the past such good company
always ? "

"Yes, in a sense it is. The past is
humanity set free from circumstance, and
history studied where it was once life is the
past rehumanised."

As if he found this rarefied air too thin for
his lungs, Colville made some ineffectual
gasps at response, and the old man con-
tinued : '* What I mean is that I meet here
the characters I read of, and commune with
them before their errors were committed,
before they had condemned themselves to
failure, while they were still wise and sane,
and still active and vital forces."

**Did they all fail? I thought some of
the bad fellows had a pretty fair worldly
success ? "

" The blossom of decay."

** Oh ! what black pessimism ! "

"Not at all ! Men fail but man succeeds.
I don't know what it all means, or any part
of it; but I have had moods in which it
seemed as if the whole secret of the mystery
were about to flash upon me. Walking
along in the full sun, in the midst of men,
or sometimes in the solitude of midnight.

32 INDIAN SUMMER.

poring over a book, and thinking of quite
other things, I have felt that I had ahnost
surprised it."

** But never quite ? "

** Oh, it isn't too late yet."

" I hope you won't have your revelation
before I get away from Florence, or I shall
see them burning you here like the great
/mfe."

They had been walking down the Via
Galzioli from the Duomo, and now they came
out into the Piazza della Signoria, suddenly,
as one always seems to do, upon the rise of
the old palace and the leap of its tower into
the blue air. The history of all Florence is
there, with memories of every great time in
bronze or marble, but the supreme presence
is the martyr who hangs for ever from the
gibbet over the quenchless fire in the midst.

" Ah, they had to kill him ! " sighed the
old man. ** It has always been so with the
benefactors. They have always meant man-
kind more good than any one generation can
bear, and it must turn upon them and de-
stroy them."

"How will it be with you, then, when
you have read us ' the riddle of the painful
earth'?"

"That will be so simple that every one

INDIAN SUHMEB. 33

will accept it willingly and gladly, and
wonder that no one happened to think of it
before. And, perhaps, the world is now
grown old enough and docile enough to re-
ceive the truth without resentment."

''I take back my charge of pessimism,"
said Colville. '* You are an optimist of the
deepest dye."

They walked out of the Piazza and down
to the Lung' Amo, through the corridor of
the Uffizzi, where the illustrious Florentines
stand in marble under the arches, all recon-
ciled and peaceful and equal at last. Col-
ville shivered a little as he passed between
the silent ranks of the statues.

" I can^t stand those fellows, to-day.
They seem to feel such a smirk satisfaction
at having got out of it all."

They issued upon the river, and he went
to the parapet and looked down on the
water. ** I wonder," he mused aloud, " if it
has the same Sunday look to these Sabbath-
less Italians as it has to us."

"No; Nature isn't puritan," replied the
old minister.

" Not at Haddam East Village ? "

•*No ; there less than here ; for she 's had
to make a harder fight for her life there."

** Ah, then you believe in Nature — you're

VOL. II. c

34 INDIAN SUMMER.

a friend of Nature ? " aaked ColviUe, follow-
ing the lines of an oily swirl in the current
with indolent eye.

**Only up to a certain point." Mr.
Waters seemed to be patient of any direc-
tion which the other might be giving the
talk. " Nature is a savage. She has good
impulses, but you can't trust her altogether."

"Do you know," said Colville, "I don't
think there 's very much* of her left in us
after we reach a certain point in life ? She
drives us on at a great pace for a while, and
then some fine morning we wake up and
find that Nature has got tired of us and has
left us to taste and conscience. And taste
and conscience are by no means so certain of
what they want you to do as Nature was."

"Yes," said the minister, "I see what
you mean." He joined Colville in leaning
on the parapet, and he looked out on the
river as if he saw his meaning there. " But
by the time we reach that point in life most
of us have got the direction which Nature
meant us to take, and there 's no longer any
need of her driving us on."

"And what about the unlucky fellows
who haven't got the direction, or haven't
kept it?"

" They had better go back to it."

INDIAN SUMMEB. 35

" But if Nature herself seemed to change
her mind about you ? "

"Ah, you mean persons of weak will.
They are a great curse to themselves and to
everybody else."

" I*m not so sure of that," said Colville.
** I Ve seen cases in which a strong will
looked very much more like the devil."

* * Yes, a perverted will. But there can be
no good without a strong will. A weak will
means inconstancy. It means, even in good,
good attempted and relinquished, which is
always a terrible thing, because it is sure to
betray some one who relied upon its accom-
plishment."

**And in evil? Perhaps the evil, at-
tempted and relinquished, turns into good."

" Oh, never ! " replied the minister fer-
vently. " There is something very mysteri-
ous in what we call evil. Apparently it has
infinitely greater force and persistence than
good. I don't know why it should be so.
But so it appears. "

* 'You'll have the reason of that along
with the rest of the secret when your revela-
tion comes," said Colville, with a smile. He
lifted his eyes from the river, and looked
up over the clustering roofs beyond it to the
hills beyond them, flecked to the crest of

36 INDIAN SUMMKB.

their purple slopes with the white of villas
and villages. As if something in the beauty
of the wonderful prospect had suggested the
vision of its opposite, he said dreamily, " I
don't think I shall go to Rome to-morrow,
after alL I will go to Des Vachea ! Where
did you say you were walking, Mr. Waters ?
Oh yes ! You told me. I will cross the
bridge with you. But I couldn't stand any-
thing quite so vigorous as the associations of
th^ siege this afternoon. I 'm going to the
Boboli Gardens, to debauch myself with a
final sense of nerveless despotism, as it ex-
pressed itself in marble allegory and formal
alleys. The fact is, that if I stay with you
any longer I shall tell you something that
I'm too old to tell and you're too old to
hear." The old man smiled, but ofifered no
urgence or comment, and at the thither end
of the bridge Colville said hastily, " Good-
bye. If you ever come to Des Vaches, look
me up."

** Good-bye," said the minister. "Per-
haps we shall meet in Florence again."

** No, no. Whatever happens, that
won't."

They shook hands and parted. Colville
stood a moment, watching the slight bent
figure of the old man as he moved briskly

INDIAN SUMMEB. 37

up the Via de' Bardi, turning his head from
side to side, to look at the palaces as he
passed, and so losing himself in the dim,
cavernous curve of the street. As soon as
he was out of sight, Colville had an impulse
to hurry after him and rejoin him ; then he
felt like turning about and going back to
his hotel.

But he shook himself together into the
shape of resolution, however slight and tran-
sient. " I must do something I intended to
do," he said, between his set teeth, and
pushed on up through the Via Guicciardini.
'* I will go to the Boboli because I said I
would."

As he walked along, he seemed to himself
to be merely crumbling away in this impulse
and that, in one abortive intent and another.
What did it all mean? Had he been his
whole life one of these weak wills which are
a curse to themselves and others, and most
a curse when they mean the best? Was
that the secret of his failure in life? But
for many years he had seemed to succeed,
to be as other men were, hard, practical
men ; he had once made a good newspaper,
which was certainly not a dream of romance.
Had he given that up at last because he was
a weak will? And now was he running

38 INDIAN STJMMEB.

away from Florence because his will was
weak ? He could look back to that squalid
tragedy of his youth, and see that a more
violent, a more determined man could have
possessed himself of the girl whom he had
lost. And now would it not be more manly,
if more brutal, to stay here, where a hope,
however fleeting, however fitful, of what
might have been, had revisited him in the
love of this young girl? He felt sure, if
anything were sure, that something in him,
in spite of their wide disparity of years, had
captured her fancy, and now, in his abase-
ment, he felt again the charm of his own
power over her. They were no further
apart in years than many a husband and
wife ; they would grow more and more to-
gether ; there was youth enough in his heart
yet ; and who was pushing him away from
her, forbidding him this treasure that he
had but to put out hil^ hand and make his
own? Some one whom through all his
thoughts of another he was trying to please,
but whom he had made finally and inexor-
ably his enemy. Better stay, then, some-
thing said to him ; and when he answered,
" I will," something else reminded him that
this also was not willing but unwilling.

INDIAN SUMMER. 39

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 re-
fused him ; he recalled with a grim smUe
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 loiter-
ing through the paths, and chiefly speaking
English ; but no one spoke to him, and no
one invaded the solitude in which he walked.

40 INDIAN SUMMER.

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 pedestab 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

INDIAN SUMMEB. 4 1

an Italian garden under an Italian sky. He
was right in the name which he mockingly
gave the efifect before he felt it; it was a
debauch, delicate, refined, of unserious pen-
siveness, 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 magnifi-
cent 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 it-
self 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 remem-
bered 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 whififs of soft wind on hia uncovered
head. The spring was ooming ; that was its

42 INDIAN SUMMER.

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 girPs 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 mis-
givings 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 twi-
light that he had made himself, and forced
him to the same weary conjecture as if he

INDIAK SUMMER. 43

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 Imo-
gene 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.

44 INDIAN SUMMER.

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 recog-
nisable ; I apologise for being visible," said
Colville, with some shapeless impression
that he ought to excuse his continued pre-
sence 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."

INDIAN SUMMER. 45

** 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 extraor-
dinary. 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 Flor-
ence ? "

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

46 INDIAN SUMMER.

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

INDIAN SUMMER. 47

your hand, so that I should know you with-
out being obliged to put on my specta-
cles."

"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 bat 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

48 INDIAN SUMMER.

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
fonnd," said Imogene irrelevantly, to a re-
mark of Mrs. Amsden*s about the expensive-
ness 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. '* €rO 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 ob-
jects — 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.

INDIAN SUMMER. 49

" 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."

ColviUe waited a long moment. " Then,
I thank you, you dear girl, and I am going
to-morrow, all the same. But I sha'n't forget
this; whatever my life is to be, this will
make it less unworthy and less unhappy.
If it oould 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 '11 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 *11
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

VOL. II. D

62 INDIAN SUMMBB.

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 look-
ing 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 con-
sider 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 Imo-
gene's mother."

'*I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps

imder the circumstances " The tremor

died out of the hand he held ; it lay lax
between his. "What do you say, Imo-
gene?"

INDIAN SUMMER. 6$

**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 ad-
vanced toward the girl, who stood passively
letting her come the whole distance. As if
sensible of the rebuff expressed in this atti-
tude, 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

64 INDIAN SUMMBB.

with a slow, rigid pace, like one that con-
trols 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.
«*0h! oh! oh!"

" What is it ? — ^what is it, my poor girl ? "
he n^urmured. "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 ColviUe.

"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."

INDIAN SUMMER. 65

* * I don't understand. But you are excited
now. When you 're calmer you 11 feel dif-
ferently, 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.

She pushed herself from him and dried her
eyes. "Oh yes."

* * And, Imogene — perhaps — perhaps

Or, no ; never mind, now. I must go

away " She looked at him, frightened

but submissive. * * But I will be back to-night,
or perhaps to-morrow morning. I want to
think — to give you time to think. I don't
want to be selfish about you — I want to con-
sider you, all the more because you won't
consider yourself. Good-bye." fle stooped
over and kissed her hair. Even in this he
felt like a thief ; he could not look at the
face she lifted to his.

Mrs. Bowen sent word from her room that
she was not coming to dinner, and Imogene
did not come till the dessert was put on.
Then she foimd Effie Bowen sitting alone at
the table, and served in serious foimality by
the man, whom she had apparently felt it
right to repress, for they were both silent.
The little girl had not known how to deny

VOL. II. E

66 INDIAN SUMMER.

herself an excess of the less wholesome
dishes, and she was perhaps anticipating the
regret which this indulgence was to bring,
for she was very pensive.

" Isn't mamma coming at all ? " she asked
plaintively, when Imogene sat down, and
refused everything but a cup of coffee.
"Well," she went on, "I can't make out
what is coming to this family. You were
all crying last night because Mr. Colville
was going away, and now, when he 's going
to stay, it 's just as bad. I don't think you
make it very pleasant for him, I should
think he would be perfectly puzzled by it,
after he 's done so much to please you all.
I don't believe he thinks it 's very polite. I
suppose it is polite, but it doesn't seem so.
And he's always so cheerful and nice. I
should think he would want to visit in some
family where there was more amusement.
There used to be plenty in this family, but
now it 's as dismal ! The first of the winter
you and mamma used to be so pleasant when
he came, and would try everything to amuse
him, and would let me come in to get some
of the good of it ; bat now you seem to fly
every way as soon as he comes in sight of
the house, and I 'm poked off in holes and
comers before he can open his lips. And

INDIAN SUMMER. 67

IVe borne it about as long as I can. I
would rather be back in Vevay. Or any-
where." At this point her own pathos over-
whelmed her, and the tears rolling down her
cheeks moistened the crumbs of pastry at
the comers of her pretty mouth. " What
was so strange, I should like to know, about
his staying, that mamma should pop up like
a ghost, when I told her he had come home
with us, and grab me by the wrist, and
twitch me about, and ask me all sorts of
questions I couldn't answer, and frighten
me almost to death ? I haven't got over it
yet. And I don't think it 's very nice. It
used to be a very polite family, and pleasant
with each other, and always having some-
thing agreeable going on in it ; but if it
keeps on very much longer in this way, I
shall think the Bowens are beginning to lose
their good-breeding. I suppose that if Mr.
Colville were to go down on his knees to
mamma and ask her to let him take me
somewhere now, she wouldn't do it." She
pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket,
and dried her eyes on a ball of it. ** I don't
see what you've been crying about, Imogene.
You've got nothing to worry you."

" I 'm not very well, Effie," returned the
girl gently. ** I haven't been well all day."

68 INDIAN SUMMER.

** It seems to me that nobody is well any
more. I don't believe Florence is a very
healthy place. Or at least this house isn't.
1 think it must be the drainage. If we keep
on, I suppose we shall all have diphtheria.
Don't you, Imogene ? "

** Yes," asserted the girl distractedly.

**The girls had it at Vevay frightfully.
And none of them were as strong after-
ward. Some of the parents came and took
them away ; but Madame Schebres never let
mamma know. Do you think that was
right ? "

** No ; it was very wrong."

** I suppose Mr. Colville will have it if
we do. That is, if he keeps coining here.
Is he coming any more ? "

"Yes; he's coming to-morrow morn-
ing."

**/« he?" A smile flickered over the
rueful face. ** What time is he coming ? "

"I don't know exactly," said Imogene,
listlessly stirring her coffee. ''Some time
in the forenoon."

"Do you suppose he's going to take us
anywhere ? "

*' Yes— I think so. I can't tell exactly."

" If he asks me to go somewhere, will you
tease mamma? She always lets you, Imo-

INDIAN SUMMER. 69

gene, and it seems sometimes as if she just
took a pleasure in denying me."

"You mustn't talk so of your mother,
Effie."

** No ; I wouldn't to everybody. I know
that she means for the best ; but I don't be-
lieve she understands how much I suffer
when she won't let me go with Mr. Colville.
Don't you think he 's about the nicest gentle-
man we know, Imogene ? "

" Yes ; he 's very kind."

'*And I think he's handsome. A good
many people would consider him old-look-
ing, and of course he isn't so young as Mr.
Morton was, or the Inglehart boys; but
that makes him all the easier to get along
with. And his being just a little fat, that
way, seems to suit so well -with his char-
acter." The smiles were now playing across
the child's face, and her eyes sparkling. ** /
think Mr. Colville would make a good Saint
Nicholas — the kind they have going down
chimneys in America. I'm going to tell
him, for the next veglione. It would be
such a nice surprise."

*' No, better not tell him that," suggested
Imogene.

** Do you think he wouldn't like it?"

"Yes."

70 INDIAN SUMMER.

"Well, it would become him. How old
do you suppose he is, Imogene? Seventy-
five?"

" What an idea ! " cried the girl fiercely.
** He *s forty-one."

**1 didn't know they had those little
jiggering lines at the comers of their eyes
so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn't
it ? Is Mr. Waters "

''Effie,*' said her mother's voice at the
door behind her, "will you ring for Gio-
vanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of
coffee in here ? " She spoke from the por-
tUre of the scUoUo.

** Yes, mamma. I *11 bring it to you my-
self."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Bowen called
from within.

The little girl softly pressed her hands to-
gether. " I hope she '11 let me stay up ! I
feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think
80 long before I get to sleep. Couldn't you
just hint a little to her that I might stay up ?
It's Sunday night."

* * I can't, Effie, " said Imogene. * * I oughtn't
to interfere with any of your mother's rules."

The child sighed submissively and took the
coffee that Giovanni brought to her. She
and Imogene went into the salotto together.

INDIAN SUMMER. 7 1

Mrs. Bowen was at her writing-desk. ** You
can bring the coffee here, Effie," she said.

*'Must I go to bed at once, mamma?"
asked the child, setting the cup carefully
down.

The mother looked distractedly up from
her writing. '*No; you may sit up a
while," she said, looking back to her writ-
ing.

*' How long, mamma ? " pleaded the little
girl. '

**0h, till you're sleepy. It doesn't
matter now" She went on writing ; from
time to time she tore up what she had
written.

Effie softly took a book from the table,
and perching herself on a stiff, high chair,
bent over it and began to read.

Imogene sat by the hearth, where a small
fire was pleasant in the indoor chill of an
Italian house, even after so warm a day as
that had been. She took some large beads
of the strand she wore about her neck into
her mouth, and pulled at the strand list-
lessly with her hand while she watched the
fire. Her eyes wandered once to the child.

" What made you take such an uncomfort-
able chair, Effie?"

EfiSe shut her book over her hand. " It

62 INDIAN SUMMER.

manage all that. It isn^t as if you were
both "

*« Young ? " aaked 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 look-
ing at Mrs. Bowen*8 face, in which certainly
there was not much pleasure, either.

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 Imo-
gene's mother."

**1 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, Imo-
gene?"

INDIAN SUMMER. 63

**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 ad-
vanced toward the girl, who stood passively
letting her come the whole distance. As if
sensible of the rebuff expressed in this atti-
tude, 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

64 INDIAN SUMMER.

with a slow, rigid pace, like one that con-
trols a tendency to giddiness.

Imogene threw herself on Oolville'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.
**0h! oh! oh!"

" What is it ? — what is it, my poor girl ? *'
he iQurmured. "Are yon 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 I "

** 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 hiurmed 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."

INDIAN SUMMER. 6$

** I don't understand. But you are excited
now. When you *re calmer you 11 feel dif-
ferently, 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.

She pushed herself from him and dried her
eyes. "Oh yes."

* * And, Imogene — perhaps — perhaps

Or, no ; never mind, now. I must go

away " She looked at him, frightened

Mrs. Bowen sent word from her room that
she was not coming to dinner, and Imogene
did not come till the dessert was put on.
Then she foimd Elffie Bowen sitting alone at
the table, and served in serious formality by
the man, whom she had apparently felt it
right to repress, for they were both silent.
The little girl had not known how to deny

VOL. II. K

66 INDIAN SUMMER.

herself an excess of the less wholesome
dishes, and she was perhaps anticipatmg the
regret which this indulgence was to bring,
for she was very pensive.

" Isn't mamma coming at aU ? " she asked
plaintively, when Imogene sat down, and
refused everything but a cup of coffee.
"Well," she went on, "I can't make out
what is coming to this family. You were
all crying last night because Mr. Colville
was going away, and now, when he 's going
to stay, it 's just as bad. I don't think you
make it very pleasant for him, I should
think he would be perfectly puzzled by it,
after he 's done so much to please you all.
I don't believe he thinks it 's very polite. I
suppose it is polite, but it doesn't seem so.
And he's always so cheerful and nice. I
should think he would want to visit in some
family where there was more amusement.
There used to be plenty in this family, but
now it 's as dismal ! The first of the winter
you and mamma used to be so pleasant when
he came, and would try everything to amuse
him, and would let me come in to get some
of tiie good of it ; but now you seem to fly
every way as soon as he comes in sight of
the house, and I 'm poked off in holes and
comers before he can open his lips. And

INDIAN SUMMES. 67

I Ve borne it about as long as I can. I
would rather be back in Vevay. Or any-
where. " At this point her own pathos over-
whehned her, and the tears rolling down her
cheeks moistened the crumbs of pastry at
the comers of her pretty mouth. " What
was so strange, I should like to know, about
his staying, that mamma should pop up like
a ghost, when I told her he had come home
with us, and grab me by the wrist, and
twitch me about, and ask me all sorts of
questions I couldn't answer, and frighten
me almost to death ? I haven't got over it
yet. And I don't think it 's very nice. It
used to be a very polite family, and pleasant
with each other, and always having some-
thing agreeable going on in it ; but if it
keeps on very much longer in this way, I
shall think the Bowens are beginning to lose
their good-breeding. I suppose that if Bir.
Colville were to go down on his knees to
mamma and ask her to let him take me
somewhere now, she wouldn't do it." She
pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket,
and dried her eyes on a ball of it. ** I don't
see what you've been crying about, Imogene.
You 've got nothing to worry you."

" I 'm not very well, Effie," returned the
girl gently, ** I haven't been well all day."

66 INDIAN SUMMER.

herself an excess of the less wholesome
dishes, and she was perhaps anticipating the
regret which this indulgence was to bring,
for she was very pensive.

" Isn*t mamma coming at all ? " she asked
plaintively, when Imogene sat down, and
refused everything but a cup of coffee.
"Well," she went on, "I can't make out
what is coming to this family. You were
all crying last night because Mr. Colville
was going away, and now, when he 's going
to stay, it 's just as bad. I don't think you
make it very pleasant for him. I should
think he would be perfectly puzzled by it,
after he 's done so much to please you all.
I don't believe he thinks it 's very polite. I
suppose it is polite, but it doesn't seem so.
And he 's always so cheerful and nice. I
should think he would want to visit in some
family where there was more amusement.
There used to be plenty in this family, but
now it 's as dismal ! The first of the winter
you and mamma used to be so pleasant when
he came, and would try everything to amuse
him, and would let me come in to get some
of the good of it ; but now you seem to fly
every way as soon as he comes in sight of
the house, and I 'm poked off in holes and
comers before he can open his lips. And

INDIAN SUMMER. 67

IVe borne it about as long as I can. I
would rather be back in Vevay. Or any-
where." At this point her own pathos over-
whelmed her, and the tears rolling down her
cheeks moistened the crumbs of pastry at
the comers of her pretty mouth. " What
was so strange, I should like to know, about
his staying, that mamma should pop up like
a ghost, when I told her he had come home
with us, and grab me by the wrist, and
twitch me about, and ask me all sorts of
questions I couldn't answer, and frighten
me almost to death ? I haven't got over it
yet. And I don't think it 's very nice. It
used to be a very polite family, and pleasant
with each other, and always having some-
thing agreeable going on in it ; but if it
keeps on very much longer in this way, I
shall think the Bowens are beginning to lose
their good-breeding. I suppose that if Mr.
Colville were to go down on his knees to
mamma and ask her to let him take me
somewhere now, she wouldn't do it." She
pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket,
and dried her eyes on a ball of it. ''I don't
see what you^ve been crying about, Imogene.
You^ve got nothing to worry you.'*

**I'm not very well, Effie," returned the
girl gently. ** I haven't been well all day."

68 INDIAN SUMMER.

" It seems to me that nobody is well any
more. I don't believe Florence is a very
healthy place. Or at least this house isn't.
1 think it must be the drainage. If we keep
on, I suppose we shall all have diphtheria.
Don't you, Imogene ? "

** Yes," asserted the girl distractedly.

** No ; it was very wrong."

** I suppose Mr. Colville will have it if
we do. That is, if he keeps coming here.
Is he coming any more ? "

**Yes; he's coming to-morrow morn-
ing."

**/« he?" A smile flickered over the
rueful face. ** What time is he coming ? "

''I don't know exactly," said Imogene,
listlessly stirring her coffee. "Some time
in the forenoon."

"Do you suppose he's going to take ns
anywhere ? "

**Yes — I think 80. I can't tell exactly."

" If he asks me to go somewhere, will you
tease mamma? She always lets you, Imo-

INDIAN SUMMEB. 69

gene, and it seems sometimes as if she just
took a pleasure in denying me."

**You mustn't talk so of your mother,
Effie."

** No ; I wouldn't to everybody. I know
that she means for the best ; but I don't be-
lieve she understands how much I suffer
when she won't let me go with Mr. Colville.
Don't you think he *s about the nicest gentle-
man we know, Imogene ? "

" Yes ; he 's very kind."

"And I think he's handsome. A good
many people would consider him old-look-
ing, and of course he isn't so young as Mr.
Morton was, or the Inglehart boys; but
that makes him all the easier to get along
with. And his being just a little fat, that
way, seems to suit so well with his char-
acter." The smiles were now playing across
the child's face, and her eyes sparkling. " /
think Mr. Colville would make a good Saint
Nicholas — the kind they have going down
chimneys in America. I'm going to tell
him, for the next veglione. It would be
such a nice surprise."

" No, better not tell him that," suggested
Imogene.

** Do you think he wouldn't like it ? "

"Yes."

yO INDIAN SUMMEB.

**Well, it would become him. How old
do you suppose he is, Imogene? Seventy-
five?"

** What an idea ! " cried the girl fiercely.
"He's forty-one."

<*I didn't know they had those little
jiggering lines at the comers of their eyes
so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn't
it ? Is Mr. Waters "

"Effie," said her mother's voice at the
door behind her, "will you ring for Gio-
vanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of
coffee in here ? " She spoke from the 'por-
tUre of the scHoUo,

" Yes, mamma. I '11 bring it to you my-
self."

" Thank you, dear," Mrs. Bowen called
from within.

The little girl softly pressed her hands to-
gether. " I hope she '11 let me stay up ! I
feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think
so long before I get to sleep. Couldn't you
just hint a little to her that I might stay up ?
It's Sunday night."

* * I can't, Efl&e, " said Imogene. * * I oughtn't
to interfere with any of your mother's rules. "

The child sighed submissively and took the
coffee that Giovanni brought to her. She
and Imogene went into the salotto together.

INDIAN SUMMEB. 7 1

Mrs. Bowen was at her writing-desk. ' ' You
can bring the coffee here, Effie," she said.

'*Must I go to bed at once, mamma?"
asked the child, setting the cup carefully
down.

The mother looked distractedly up from
her writing. **No; you may sit up a
while," she said, looking back to her writ-
ing.

*' How long, mamma ? " pleaded the little
girl. '

**0h, till you're sleepy. It doesn't
matter now,** She went on writing ; from
time to time she tore up what she had
written.

Effie softly took a book from the table,
and perching herself on a stiff, high chair,
bent over it and began to read.

*' What made you take such an uncomfort-
able chair, Effie?"

EfSe shut her book over her hand. *' It

72 INDIAN SUMMER.

keeps me wakeful longer/' she whispered,
with a glance at her mother from the comer
of her eye.

•* I don't see why any one should wish to
be wakeful,'* sighed the girl.

When Mrs. Bowen tore up one of her half-
written pages Imogene started nervously
forward, and then relapsed again into her
chair. At l&st Mrs. Bowen seemed to find
the right phrases throughout, and she
finished rather a long letter, and read it
over to herself. Then she said without
leaving her desk, *< Imogene, IVe been
trying to write to your mother. Will you
look at this ? "

She held the sheet over her shoulder, and
Imogene came languidly and took it ; Mrs.
Bowen dropped her face forward on the desk,
into her hands, while Imogene was reading.

"Florkncb, March 10, 18—.

"Dbab Mbs. Graham,— I have some veiy
important news to give you in regard to Imo-
gene, and as there is no way of preparing you
for it, I will tell you at once that it relates to
her marriage.

" She has met at my house a gentleman whom
I knew in Florence when I was here before, and
of whom I never knew anything but good. We
have seen him very often, and I have seen

Iin>IAN SUMMER. 7^

nothing in him that I could not approve. He
is Mr. Theodore Colville, of Prairie des Vaches,
Indiana, where he was for many years a news-
paper editor; but he was bom somewhere in
New England. He is a very cultivated, inter-
esting man; and though not exactly a society
man, he is very agreeable and refined in his
manners. I am sure his character is irreproach-
able, though he is not a member of any church.
In regard to his means I know nothing what-
ever, and can only infer from his way of life
that he is in easy circumstances.

''The whole matter has been a surprise to
me, for Mr. Colville is some twenty-one or two
years older than Imogene, who is very young in
her feelings for a girl of her age. If I could
have realised anything like a serious attachment
between them sooner, I would have written be-
fore. Even now I do not know whether I am to
consider them engaged or not. No doubt Imo-
gene will write you more fully.

** Of course I would rather not have had any-
thing of the kind happen while Imogene was
under my charge, though I am sure that you
will not think I have been careless or imprudent
about her. I interfered as far as I could, at the
first moment I could, but it appears that it was
then too late to prevent what has followed.—
Yours sincerely, Evalina Bowbn."

Imogene reaxi the letter twice over, and

74 INDIAN SUMMER.

then she said, "Why isn*t he a society
man?"

Probably Mrs. Bowen expected this sort
of approach. ** I don't think a society man
would have undertaken to dance the Lancers
as he did at Madame Uccelli's," she an-
swered patiently, without lifting her head.

Imogene winced, but "I should despise
him if he were merely a society man," she
said. "I have seen enough of them. I
think it*s better to be intellectual and
good."

Mrs. Bowen made no reply, and the girl
went on. "And as to his being older, I
don't see what difference it makes. If
people are in sympathy, then they are of
the same age, no difference how much older
than one the other is. I have always heard
that." She urged this as if it were a ques-
tion.

** Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.

"And how should his having been a
newspaper editor be anything against
him?"

Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at
the girl in astonishment. "Who said it
was against him ? "

"You hint as much. The whole letter is
against him."

INDIAN SUMMER. 75

**Imogene ! "

**Yes! Every word! You make him
out perfectly detestable. I don't know why
you should hate him. He 's done everything
he could to satisfy you."

Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting
her hand to her forehead, as if to soften a
shock of headache that her change of posture
had sent there. " I will leave the letter
with you, and you can send it or not as you
think best. It's merely a formality, my
writing to your mother. Perhaps you'll
see it diflferently in the morning. Effie!"
she called to the child, who with her book
shut upon her hand had been staring at them
and listening intently. " It 's time to go to
bed now."

When Effie stood before the glass in her
mother's room, and Mrs. Bowen was braid-
ing her hair and tying it up for the night,
she asked ruefully, "What's the matter
with Imogene, mamma ? "

" She isn't very happy to-night."

** You don't seem very happy either,"
said the child, watching her own face as it
quivered in the mirror. "I should think
that now Mr. Colville's concluded to stay,
we would all be happy again. But we don't
seem to. We *re — we 're perfectly demoral-

76 INDIAN SUMMEB.

ised ! " It was one of the words she had
picked up from Colville.

The quivering face in the glass broke in a
passion of tears, and Effie sobbed herself to
sleep.

Imogene sat down at Mrs. Bowen's desk,
and pushing her letter away, began to write.

" Flobbnoe, Ma/rch 10, 18—.

*' Deab Mothbb, — I enclose a letter from Mrs.
Bowen which will tell you better than I can
what I wish to telL I do not see how I can add
anything that would give you more of an idea of
him, or less, either. No person can be put down
in cold black and white, and not seem like a
mere inventory. I do not suppose you expected
me to become engaged when you sent me out to
Florence, and, as Mrs. Bowen says, I don't
know whether I am engaged or not I will leave
it entirely to Mr. Colville ; if he says we are en-
gaged, we are. I am sure he will do what is
best. I only know that he was going away from
Florence because he thought I supposed he was
not in earnest, and I asked him to stay.

'' I am a good deal excited to-night, and can-
not write very clearly. But I will write soon
again, and more at length.

*' Perhaps something will be decided by that
time. With much love to father,

" Your affectionate daughter,

" Imoobne.**

INDIAN SUMMEB. ^^

She put this letter into an envelope with
Mrs. Bowen's, and leaving it unsealed to
show her in the morning, she began to write
again. This time she wrote to a girl with
whom she had been on terms so intimate
that when they left school they had agreed
to know each other by names expressive of
their extremely confidential friendship, and
to address each other respectively as Diary
and Journal. They were going to Mrrite
every day, if only a line or two ; and at the
end of a year they were to meet and read
over together the records of their lives as
set down in these letters. They had never
met since, though it was now three years
since they parted, and they had not written
since Imogene came abroad ; that is, Imo-
gene had not answered the only letter she
had received from her friend in Florence.
This friend was a very serious girl, and had
wished to be a minister, but her family
would not consent, or even accept the com-
promise of studying medicine, which she
proposed, and she was still living at home
in a small city of central New York. Imo-
gene now addressed her —

*'Dbab Diabt, — You cannot think how far
away the events of this day have pushed the

78 INDIAN SUMMBR.

feelings and ideas of the time when I agreed to
write to you under tliis name. Till now it seems
to me as if I had not changed in the least thing
since we parted, and now I can hardly know my-
self for the same person. dear Di ! something
very wonderful has come into my life, and I feel
that it rests with me to make it the greatest
blessing to myself and others, or the greatest
misery. If I prove nnworthy of it or unequal to
it, then I am sure that nothing but wretchedness
will come of it.

<'I am engaged — yes 1— and to a man more
than twice my own age. It is so easy to tell
y<m this, for I know that your laige-mindedness
will receive it very differently from most people,
and that you will see it as I do. He is the
noblest of men, though he tries to conceal it
under the light, ironical manner with which he
has been faithful to a cruel disappointment. It
was here in Florence, twenty years ago, that a
girl— I am ashamed to call her a girl— trifled
with the priceless treasure that has fallen to me,
and flung it away. You, Di, will understand
how I was first fascinated with the idea of trying
to atone to him here for all the wrong he had
suffered. At first it was only the vaguest sug-
gestion—something like what I had read in a
poem or a novel— that had nothing to do with
me personally, but it grew upon me more and
more the more I saw of him, and felt the
witchery of his light, indifferent manner, which

INDIAN SUMBIER. 79

I learned to see was tense with the anguish he
had suffered. She had killed his youth ; she
had spoiled his life : if I could revive them,
restore them I It came upon me like a great
flash of light at last, and as soon as this thought
took possession of me, I felt my whole being
elevated and purified by it, and I was enabled
to put aside with contempt the selfish considera-
tions that had occurred to me at first. At first
the difference between our ages was very shock-
ing to me ; for I had always imagined it would be
some one young ; but when this light broke upon
me, I saw that he was young, younger even than
I, as a man is at the same age with a girL Some-
times with my experiences, the fancies and flirta-
tions that every one has and must have, however
one despises them, I felt so old beside him ; for
he had been true to one love all his life, and he
had not wavered for a moment. If I could make
him forget it, if I could lift every feather's
weight of sorrow from his breast, if I could help
him to complete the destiny, grand and beauti-
ful as it would have been, which another had
arrested, broken off— don't you see, Di dear, how
rich my reward would be ?

"And he, how forbearing, how considerate,
how anxious for me, how full of generous warn-
ing he has been ! always putting me in mind, at
every step, of the difference in years between us ;
never thinking of himself, and shrinking so much
from even seeming to control me or sway me.

8o INDIAN SUMMER.

that I don't know really whether I have not
made all the advances !

" I cannot write his name yet, and you must
not ask it till I can ; and I cannot tell you any-
thing about his looks or his life without seeming
to degrade him, somehow, and make him a
common man like others.

" How can I make myself his companion in
everything ? How can I convince him that there
is no sacrifice for me, and that he alone is giving
up ? These are the thoughts that keep whirling
through my mind. I hope I shall be helped,
and I hope that I shall be tried, for that is the
only way for me to be helped. I feel strong
enough for anything that people can say. I
should welcome criticism and opposition from
any quarter. But I can see that fie is very sensi-
tive — it comes from his keen sense of the ridicu-
lous—and if I suffer, it will be on account of this
grand unselfish nature, and I shall be glad of
that.

" I know you will understand me, Di, and I
am not afraid of your laughing at these ravings.
But if you did I should not care. It is such a
comfort to say these things about him, to exalt
him, and get him in the true light at last.

" Your faithful Journal.

*^ I shall tell him about you, one of the iirst
things, and perhaps he can suggest some way
out of your trouble, he has had so much exi)eri-

INDIAN SUMMEB. 8 1

ence of every kind. Yon will worship him, as I
do, when yon see him ; for you will feel at once
that he understands yon, and that is such a rest.

Before Imogene fell asleep, Mrs. Bowen
came to her in the dark, and softly closed
the door that opened from the girl's room
into Effie's. She sat down on the bed, and
began to speak at once, as if she knew Imo-
gene must be awake. "I thought you
would come to me, Imogene ; but as you
didn't, I have come to you, for if you can
go to sleep with hard thoughts of me to-
night, I can't let you. You need me for
your friend, and I wish to be your friend ;
it would be wicked in me to be anything
else ; I would give the world if your mother
were here ; but I tried to make my letter
to her everything that it should be. If you
don't think it is, I will write it over in the
morning."

''No," said the girl coldly; ** it will do
very well. I don't wish to trouble you so
much."

" Oh, how can you speak so to me ? Do
you think that I blame Mr. Colville? Is
that it ? I don't ask you — I shall never ask
you — how he came to remain, but I know

VOL. n. F

82 INDIAN SUMMEB.

that he has acted trathfuUy, and delicately.
I knew him long before you did, and no one
need take his part with me.** This was
not perhaps what Mrs. Bowen meant to say
when she began. " I have told you all along
what I thought, but if you imagine that I
am not satisfied with Mr. Colville, you are
very much mistaken. I can't burst out into
praises of him to your mother : that would
be very patronising and very bad taste.
Can't you see that it would ? "

"Oh yes."

Mrs. Bowen lingered, as if she expected
Imogene to say something more, but she did
not, and Mrs. Bowen rose. ''Then I hope
we understand each other," she said, and
went out of the room.

INDIAN SUMMEB. 83

XVL

WHEN Colville came in the morning,
Mrs. Bowen received him. They
shook hands, and their eyes met in the in-
tercepting glance of the night before.

"Imogene will be here in a moment," she
said, with a naturalness that made him awk-
ward and conscious.

'' Oh, there is no haste," he answered un-
couthly. ''That is, I am very glad of the
chance to speak a moment with you, and to
ask your — to profit by what you think best.
I know you are not very well pleased with
me, and I don't know that I can ever put
myself in a better light with you — ^the true
light. It seems that there are some things we
must not do even for the truth's sake. But
that 's neither here nor there. What I am
most anxious for is not to take a shadow of
advantage of this child's — of Imogene's inex-
perience, and her remoteness from her family.
I feel that I must in some sort protect her

74 INDIAN SUMMER.

then she said, "Why isn't he a society
man?"

Probably Mrs. Bowen expected this sort
of approach. ** I don't think a society man
would have undertaken to dance the Lancers
as he did at Madame Uccelli's/' she an-
swered patiently, without lifting her head.

Imogene winced, but **I should despise
him if he were merely a society man," she
said. "I have seen enough of them. I
think it's better to be intellectual and
good."

Mrs. Bowen made no reply, and the girl
went on. ''And as to his being older, I
don't see what difference it makes. If
people are in sympathy, then they are of
the same age, no difference how much older
than one the other is. I have always heard
that." She urged this as if it were a ques-
tion.

" Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.

''And how should his having been a
newspaper editor be anything against
him?"

Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at
the girl in astonishment. "Who said it
was against him ? "

" You hint as much. The whole letter is
against him."

INDIAN SUMMER. 75

* * Imogene ! "

**Yes! Every word! You make him
out perfectly detestable. I don't know why
you should hate him. He 's done everything
he could to satisfy you."

Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting
her hand to her forehead, as if to soften a
shock of headache that her change of posture
had sent there. "I will leave the letter
with you, and you can send it or not as you
think best. It's merely a formality, my
writing to your mother. Perhaps you'll
see it differently in the morning. Effie!"
she called to the child, who with her book
shut upon her hand had been staring at them
and listening intently. " It 's time to go to
bed now."

When Effie stood before the glass in her
mother's room, and Mrs. Bowen was braid-
ing her hair and tying it up for the night,
she asked ruefully, "What's the matter
with Imogene, mamma ? "

" She isn't very happy to-night."

" You don't seem very happy either,"
said the child, watching her own face as it
quivered in the mirror. "I should think
that now Mr. Colville's concluded to stay,
we would all be happy again. But we don't
seem to. We 're — we 're perfectly demoral-

74 INDIAN SUMMEB.

then she said, "Why isn't he a society
man?"

Probably Mrs. Bowen expected this sort
of approach. *' I don't think a society man
would have undertaken to dance the Lancers
as he did at Madame Uccelli's," she an-
swered patiently, without lifting her head.

Imogene winced, but **I should despise
him if he were merely a society man," she
said. '*I have seen enough of them. I
think it's better to be intellectual and
good."

" Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.

''And how should his having been a
newspaper editor be anything against
him?"

Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at
the girl in astonishment. "Who said it
was against him ? "

"You hint as much. The whole letter is
against him."

INDIAN SUMMER. 75

**Imogene ! "

** Yes ! Every word ! You make him
out perfectly detestable. I don't know why
you should hate him. He 's done everything
he could to satisfy you."

Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting
her hand to her forehead, as if to soften a
shock of headache that her change of posture
had sent there. *' I will leave the letter
with you, and you can send it or not as you
think best. It's merely a formality, my
writing to your mother. Perhaps you'll
see it diflferently in the morning. Effie I "
she called to the child, who with her book
shut upon her hand had been staring at them
and listening intently. '' It 's time to go to
bed now."

When Effie stood before the glass in her
mother's room, and Mrs. Bowen was braid-
ing her hair and tying it up for the night,
she asked ruefully, "What's the matter
with Imogene, mamma ? "

" She isn't very happy to-night."

76 INDIAN SUMMER.

ised ! " It was one of the words she had
picked up from Colville.

The quivering face in the glass broke in a
passion of tears, and Effie sobbed herself to
sleep.

Imogene sat down at Mrs. Bowen's desk,
and pushing her letter away, began to write.

" Flobbnoe, March 10, 18—.

" Deab Mothbb, — I enclose a letter firom Mrs.
Bowen which will tell yon better than I can
what I wish to telL I do not see how I can add
anything that would give you more of an idea of
him, or less, either. No person can be put down
in cold black and white, and not seem like a
mere inventory. I do not suppose you expected
me to become engaged when you sent me out to
Florence, and, as Mrs. Bowen says, I don't
know whether I am engaged or not I will leave
it entirely to Mr. Colville ; if he says we are en-
gaged, we are. I am sure he will do what is
best I only know that he was going away from
Florence because he thought I supposed he was
not in earnest, and I asked him to stay.

<< I am a good deal excited to-night, and can-
not write very clearly. But I will write soon
again, and more at length.

*' Perhaps something will be decided by that
time. With much love to father,

** Your affectionate daughter,

"Imoobne.**

INDIAN SUMMEB. ^^

She put this letter into an envelope with
Mrs. Bowen*s, and leaving it unsealed to
show her in the morning, she began to write
again. This time she wrote to a girl with
whom she had been on terms so intimate
that when they left school they had agreed
to know each other by names expressive of
their extremely confidential friendship, and
to address each other respectively as Diary
and Journal. They were going to write
every day, if only a line or two ; and at the
end of a year they were to meet and read
over together the records of their lives as
set down in these letters. They had never
met since, though it was now three years
since they parted, and they had not written
since Imogene came abroad ; that is, Imo-
gene had not answered the only letter she
had received from her friend in Florence.
This friend was a very serious girl, and had
wished to be a minister, but her family
would not consent, or even accept the com-
promise of studying medicine, which she
proposed, and she was still living at home
in a small city of central New York. Imo-
gene now addressed her —

** Dear Diabt, — You cannot think how far
away the events of this day have pushed the

78 INDIAN SUMMEB.

feelings and ideas of the time when I agreed to
write to yon nnder this name. Till now it seems
to me as if I had not changed in the least thing
since we parted, and now I can hardly know my-
self for the same person. dear Di ! something
very wonderful has come into my life, and I feel
that it rests with me to make it the greatest
blessing to myself and others, or the greatest
misery. If I prove unworthy of it or unequal to
it, then I am sure that nothing but wretchedness
will come of it.

" I am engaged — yes !— and to a man more
than twice my own age. It is so easy to tell
you this, for I know that your large-mindedness
will receive it very differently from most people,
and that you will see it as I do. He is the
noblest of men, though he tries to conceal it
under the light, ironical manner with which he
has been faithful to a cruel disappointment. It
was here in Florence, twenty years ago, that a
girl— I am ashamed to call her a girl^trifled
with the priceless treasure that has fallen to me,
and flung it away. Tou, Di, will understand
how I was first fascinated with the idea of trying
to atone to him here for all the wrong he had
suffered. At first it was only the vaguest sug-
gestion—something like what I had read in a
poem or a novel — that had nothing to do with
me personally, but it grew upon me more and
more the more I saw of him, and felt the
witchery of his light, indifferent manner, which

INDIAN SUMMER. 79

I learned to see was tense with the anguish he
had suffered. She had killed his youth ; she
had spoiled his life : if I could revive them,
restore them I It came upon me like a great
flash of light at last, and as soon as this thought
took possession of me, I felt my whole being
elevated and purified by it, and I was enabled
to put aside with contempt the selfish considera-
tions that had occurred to me at first. At first
the difference between our ages was very shock-
ing to me ; for I had always imagined it would be
some one young ; but when this light broke upon
me, I saw that he was young, younger even than
I, as a man is at the same age with a girL Some-
times with my ezperienees, the fancies and flirta-
tions that every one has and must have, however
one despises them, I felt so old beside him ; for
he had been true to one love all his life, and he
had not wavered for a moment. If I could make
him forget it, if I could lift every feather's
weight of sorrow from his breast, if I could help
him to complete the destiny, grand and beauti-
ful as it would have been, which another had
arrested, broken off— don't yon see, Di dear, how
rich my reward would be ?

8o INDIAN SUMMER.

that I don't know really whether I have not
made all the advances !

*'I cannot write his name yet, and you must
not ask it till I can ; and I cannot tell you any-
thing about his looks or his life without seeming
to degrade him, somehow, and make him a
common man like others.

'' How can I make myself his companion in
everything? How can I convince him that there
is no sacrifice for me, and that he alone is giving
up ? These are the thoughts that keep whirling
through my mind. I hope I shall be helped,
and I hope that I shall be tried, for that is the
only way for me to be helped. I feel strong
enough for anything that people can say. I
should todcame criticism and opposition from
any quarter. But I can see that ?ie is very sensi-
tive — it comes from his keen sense of the ridicu-
lous—and if I suffer, it will be on account of this
grand unselfish nature, and I shall be glad of
that.

" Your faithful Journal.

"I shall tell him about you, one of the first
things, and perhaps he can suggest some way
out of your trouble, he has had so much experi-

INDIAN SUMMER. 8 1

ence of every kind. You will worship him, as I
do, when you see him ; for you will feel at once
that he understands you, and that is such a rest.

Before Imogene fell a^eep, Mrs. Bowen
came to her in the dark, and softly closed
the door that opened from the girl's room
into Effie's. She sat down on the bed, and
began to speak at once, as if she knew Imo-
gene must be awake. '^I thought you
would come to me, Imogene ; but as you
didn't, I have come to you, for if you can
go to sleep with hard thoughts of me to-
night, I can't let you. You need me for
your friend, and I wish to be your friend ;
it would be wicked in me to be anything
else ; I would give the world if your mother
were here ; but I tried to make my letter
to her everything that it should be. If you
don't think it is, I will write it over in the
morning. "

**No," said the girl coldly; ** it will do
very well. I don't wish to trouble you so
much."

*' Oh, how can you speak so to me ? Do
you think that I blame Mr. Colville? Is
that it ? I don't ask you — I shall never ask
you— how he came to remain, but I know

VOL. n. F

82 INDIAN SITMMER.

that he has acted truthfully, and delicately.
I knew him long before you did, and no one
need take his part with me." This was
not perhaps what Mrs. Bowen meant to say
when she began. " I have told you all along
what I thought, but if you imagine that I
am not satisfied with Mr. Colville, you are
very much mistaken. I can*t burst out into
pndses of him to your mother : that would
be very patronising and very bad taste.
Can't you see that it would ? "

"Ohyes."

Mrs. Bowen lingered, as if she expected
Imogene to say something more, but she did
not, and Mrs. Bowen rose. ''Then I hope
we understand each other," she said, and
went out of the room.

INDIAN SUMMER. 83

XVL

WHEN Colville came in the morning,
Mrs. Bowen received him. They
shook hands, and their eyes met in the in-
tercepting glance of the night before.

'* Imogene will be here in a moment," she
said, witii a naturalness that made him awk-
ward and conscious.

" Oh, there is no haste," he answered un-
couthly. " That is, I am very glad of the
chance to speak a moment with you, and to
ask your — ^to profit by what you think best.
I know you are not very well pleased with
me, and I don't know that I can ever put
myself in a better light with you — the true
light. It seems that there are some things we
must not do even for the truth's sake. But
that 's neither here nor there. What I am
most anxious for is not to take a shadow of
advantage of this child's — of Imogene's inex-
perience, and her remoteness from her family.
I feel that I must in some sort protect her

$4 INDIAN SX7MMEB.

from herself. Yes — ^that is my idea. But
I have to do this in so many ways that I
hardly know how to begin. I should be very
willing, if you thought best, to go away and
stay away till she has heard from her people,
and let her have that time to think it all
over again. She is very young — so much
younger than I ! Or, if you thought it
better, I would stay, and let her remain free
while I held myself bound to any decision
of hers. I am anxious to do what is right.
At the same time" — he smiled ruefully —
" there is such a thing as being so dismter-
ested that one may seem i/ninterested. I
may leave her so very free that she may
begin to suspect that I want a little freedom
myself. What shall I do? I wish to act
with your approval"

Mrs. Bowen had listened with acquies-
cence and intelligence that might well have
looked like sympathy, as she sat fingering
the top of her hand-scroen, with her eyelids
fallen. She lifted them to say, ** I have told
you that I will not advise you in any way.
I cannot. I have no longer any wish in this
matter. I must still remain in the place of
Imogene's mother ; but I will do only what
you wish. Please understand that, and don*t
ask me for advice any more. It is painful. "

INDIAN SUMMER. S5

She drew her lower lip in a little, and let
the screen fall into her lap.

" I 'm sorry, Mrs. Bowen, to do anything
— say anything — that is painful to you," Col-
ville began. " You know that I would give

the world to please you " The words

escaped him and left him staring at her.

"What are you saying to me, Theodore
Colville?" she exclaimed, flashing a full-
eyed glance upon him, and then breaking
into a laugh, as unnatural for her. " Really,
I don't believe you know ! "

'* Heaven knows I meant nothing but what
I said," he answered, struggling stupidly
with a confusion of desires which every
man but no woman will understand. After
eighteen hundred years, the man is still im-
perfectly monogamous. " Is there anything
wrong in it ? "

"Oh no ! Not for you," she said scorn-
fully.

** I am very much in earnest," he went on
hopelessly, **in asking your opinion, your
help, in regard to how I shall treat this
affair."

'* And I am still more in earnest in telling
you that I will give you no opinion, no help.
I forbid you to recur to the subject." He
was silent, unable to drop his eyes from

86 I^'DIAN SUMMEB.

hers. ' * But for her, " continued Mrs. Bowen,
" I will do anything in my power. If she
asks my advice I will give it, and I will give
her all the help I can.''

"Thank you," said Colville vaguely.

"I will not have your thanks," promptly
retorted Mrs. Bowen, **for I mean you no
kindness. I am trying to do my duty to
Imogene, and when that is ended, all is
ended. There is no way now for you to
please me — as you call it — except to keep
her from regretting what she has done."

" Do you think I shall fail in that ? " he
demanded indignantly.

" I can offer you no opinion. I can't tell
what you will do."

** There are two ways of keeping her
from regretting what she has done; and
perhaps the simplest and best way would
be to free her from the consequences, as
far as they're involved in me," said Col-
ville.

Mrs. Bowen dropped herself back in her
arm-chair. " If you choose to force these
things upon me, I am a woman, and can't
help myself. Especially, I can't help myself
against a guest."

"Oh, I will relieve you of my presence,"
said Colville. " I 've no wish to force any-

INDIAN SVMMBB. 87

thing upon you — least of all myself." He
rose, and moved toward the door.

She hastily intercepted him. "Do you
think I will let you go without seeing Imo-
gene? Do you understand me so little as
that ? It *s too late for you to go ! You
know what I think of aU this, and I know,
better than you, what you think. I shall
play my part, and you shall play yours. I
have refused to give you advice or help, and
I never shall do it. But I know what my
duty to her is, and I will fulfil it. No
matter how distasteful it is to either of us,
you must come here as before. The house
is as free to you as ever — ^f reer. And we are
to be as good friends as ever — better. You
can see Imogene alone or in my presence,
and, as far as I am concerned, you shall con-
sider yourself engaged or not, as you choose.
Do you understand ? "

" Not in the least," said Colville, in the
ghost of his old bantering manner. '*But
don't explain, or I shall make stiU less of it.''

'* I mean simply that I do it for Imogene
and not for you."

''Oh, I understand that you don't do it
forme."

At this moment Imogene appeared be-
tween the folds of the portiire, and her

88 INDIAN SUMMER.

tiinid, embarrassed glance from Mrs. Bowen
to Colville was the first gleam of consolation
that had visited him since he parted with
her the night before. A thrill of inexplic-
able pride and fondness passed through his
heart, and even the compunction that
followed could not spoil its sweetness. But
if Mrs. Bowen discreetly turned her head
aside that she need not witness a tender
greeting between them, the precaution was
unnecessary. He merely went forward and
took the girPs hand, with a sigh of relief.
'*6ood morning, Imogene," he said, with a
kind of compassionate admiration.

"Good morning," she returned half -in-
quiringly.

She did not take a seat near him, and
turned, as if for instruction, to Mrs. Bowen.
It was probably the force of habit In any
case, Mrs. Bowen's eyes gave no response.
She bowed slightly to Colville, and began,
" I must leave Imogene to entertain you for
the present, Mr. "

" No !" cried the girl impetuously : **don*t
go.** Mrs. Bowen stopped. "I wish to
speak with you — with you and Mr. Colville
together. I wish to say — I don't know how

to say it exactly ; but I wish to know

You asked him last night, Mrs. Bowen,

INDIAN SUMMEB. 89

whether he wished to consider it an engage-
ment?"

"I thought perhaps you would rather
hear from your mother "

" Yes, I would be glad to know that my
mother approved ; but if she didn't, I
couldn't help it. Mr. ColviUe said he was
bound, but I was not. That can't be. I
tnsh to be bound, if he is."

"I don't quite know what you expect me
to say."

"Nothing," said Imogens. "I merely
wished you to know. And I don't wish you
to sacrifice anything to us. 'If you think
best, Mr. Colville will not see me till I hear
from home ; though it won't make any dif-
ference with me what I hear."

"There's no reason why you shouldn't
meet," said Mrs. Bowen absently.

" If you wish it to have the same appear-
ance as an Italian engagement "

"No," said Mrs. Bowen, putting her hand
to her head with a gesture she had ; " that
would be quite unnecessary. It would be
ridiculous under the circumstances. I have
thought of it, and I have decided that the
American way is the best."

"Very well, then," said Imogene, with
the air of summing up ; " then the only

8o INDIAN SUMMER.

that I don't know really whether I hare not
made all the advances !

" How can I make myself his companion in
everything ¥ How can I convince him that there
is no sacrifice for me, and that he alone is giving
up ? These are the thoughts that keep whirling
through my mind. I hope I shall be helped,
and I hope that I shall be tried, for that is the
only way for me to be helped. I feel strong
enough for anything that people can say. I
should welcome criticism and opposition from
any quarter. But I can see that ?ie is very sensi-
tive — it comes from his keen sense of the ridicu-
lous—and if I suffer, it will be on account of this
grand unselfish nature, and I shall be glad of
that.

** I know you will understand me, Di, and I
am not afraid of your laughing at these ravings.
But if you did I should not care. It is such a
comfort to say these things about him, to exalt
him, and get him in the true light at last.

** Your faithful Journal.

** I shall tell him about you, one of the first
things, and perhaps he can suggest some way
out of your trouble, he has had so much ezperi-

INDIAN SUMMEB. 8l

ence of every kind. You will worship him, as I
do, when you see him ; for you will feel at once
that he understands you, and that is such a rest.

"J."

Before Imogene fell a^eep, Mrs. Bowen
came to her in the dark, and softly closed
the door that opened from the girl's room
into Effie's. She sat down on the bed, and
began to speak at once, as if she knew Imo-
gene must be awake. '*I thought yon
would come to me, Imogene ; but as yon
didn't, I have come to you, for if you can
go to sleep with hard thoughts of me to-
night, I can't let you. You need me for
your friend, and I wish to be your friend ;
it would be wicked in me to be anything
else ; I would give the world if your mother
were here ; but I tried to make my letter
to her everything that it should be. If you
don't think it is, I will write it over in the
morning."

**No," said the girl coldly; "it will do
very weU. I don't wish to trouble you so
much."

" Oh, how can you speak so to me ? Do
you think that I blame Mr. Golville? Is
that it ? I don't ask you — I shall never ask
you — how he came to remain, but I know

VOL. II. F

82 INDIAN SUMMSB.

that he has acted truthfully, and delicately.
I knew him long before you did, and no one
need take his part with me.'' TMs was
not perhaps what Mrs. Bowen meant to say
when she began. *' I have told you all along
what I thought, but if you imagine that I
am not satisfied with Mr. Oolville, you are
very much mistaken. I can't burst out into
pndses of him to your mother : that would
be very patronising and very bad taste.
Can't you see that it would ? "

"Oh yes."

Mrs. Bowen lingered, as if she expected
Imogene to say something more, but she did
not, and Mrs. Bowen rose. '*Then I hope
we understand each other," she said, and
went out of the room.

INDIAN SUMHEB. S^

XVL

WHEN Colville came in the morning,
Mrs. Bowen received him. They
shook hands, and their eyes met in the in-
tercepting glance of the night before.

"Imogene will be here in a moment,** she
said, with a naturalness that made him awk-
ward and conscious.

" Oh, there is no haste," he answered un-
couthly. " That is, I am very glad of the
chance to speak a moment with you, and to
ask your — to profit by what you think best.
I know you are not very well pleased with
me, and I don't know that I can ever put
myself in a better light with you — ^the true
light. It seems that there are some things we
must not do even for the truth's sake. But
that *s neither here nor there. What I am
most anxious for is not to take a shadow of
advantage of this child's — of Imogene's inex-
perience, and her remoteness from her family.
I feel that I must in some sort protect her

84 INDIAN SUMMER.

from herself. Yes — ^that is my idea. But
I have to do this in so many ways that I
hardly know how to begin. I should be very
willing, if you thought best, to go away and
stay away tiU she has heard from her people,
and let her have that time to think it all
over again. She is very young — so much
younger than I ! Or, if you thought it
better, I would stay, and let her remain free
while I held myself bound to any decision
of hers. I am anxious to do what is right.
At the same time" — he smiled ruefully —
" there is such a thing as being so dismteT-
ested that one may seem i/ninterested. I
may leave her so very free that she may
begin to suspect that I want a little freedom
myself. What shall I do? I wish to act
with your approvaL"

Mrs. Bowen had listened with acquies-
cence and intelligence that might weU have
looked like sympathy, as she sat fingering
the top of her hand-screen* with her eyelids
fallen. She lifted them to say, ** I have told
you that I will not advise you in any way.
I cannot. I have no longer any wish in this
matter. I must still remain in the place of
Imogene's mother ; but I will do only what
you wish. Please understand that, and don't
ask me for advice any more. It is painfuL"

INDIAN SUMMEB. 85

She drew her lower lip in a little, and let
the screen fall into her lap.

" I 'm sorry, Mrs. Bowen, to do anything
— say anything — that is painful to you," Col-
ville began. ** You know that I would give

the world to please you " The words

escaped him and left him staring at her.

"What are you saying to me, Theodore
Colville?" she exclaimed, flashing a full-
eyed glance upon him, and then breaking
into a laugh, as unnatural for her. " Really,
I don't believe you know ! "

** Heaven knows I meant nothing but what
I said," he answered, struggling stupidly
with a confusion of desires which every
man but no woman will understand. After
eighteen hundred years, the man is still im-
perfectly monogamous. " Is there anything
wrong in it ? "

"Oh no ! Not for you," she said scorn-
fully.

" I am very much in earnest," he went on
hopelessly, **in asking your opinion, your
help, in regard to how I shall treat this
affair."

" And I am still more in earnest in telling
you that I will give you no opinion, no help.
I forbid you to recur to the subject." He
was silent, unable to drop his eyes from

74 INDIAN SUMMER.

then she said, "Why isn't he a society
man?"

Probably Mrs. Bowen expected this sort
of approach. " I don't think a society man
would have undertaken to dance the Lancers
as he did at Madame Uccelli's," she an-
swered patiently, without lifting her head.

Imogene winced, but **I should despise
him if he were merely a society man," she
said. "I have seen enough of them. I
think it's better to be intellectual and
good."

Mrs. Bowen made no reply, and the girl
went on. "And as to his being older, I
don't see what difiference it makes. If
people are in sympathy, then they are of
the same age, no difference how much older
than one the other is. I have always heard
that." She urged this as if it were a ques-
tion.

" Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.

"And how should his having been a
newspaper editor be anything against
him?"

Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at
the girl in astonishment. "Who said it
was against him 1 "

" You hint as much. The whole letter is
against him. "

INDIAN SUMMER. 75

"Lnogene ! "

"Yes! Every word! You make him
out perfectly detestable. I don't know why
you should hate him. He 's done everythmg
he could to satisfy you."

Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting
her hand to her forehead, as if to soften a
shock of headache that her change of posture
had sent there. "I will leave the letter
with you, and you can send it or not as you
think best. It's merely a formality, my
writing to your mother. Perhaps youll
see it differently in the morning. Effie!"
she called to the child, who with her book
shut upon her hand had been staring at them
and listening intently. " It 's time to go to
bed now."

When Effie stood before the glass in her
mother's room, and Mrs. Bowen was braid-
ing her hair and tying it up for the night,
she asked ruefully, "What's the matter
with Imogene, mamma ? "

** She isn't very happy to-night."

76 INDIAN SUMMER.

ised ! " It was one of the words she had
picked up from Colville.

The quivering face in the glass broke in a
passion of tears, and Effie sobbed herself to
sleep.

Imogene sat down at Mrs. Bowen's desk,
and pushing her letter away, began to write.

" Florence, March 10, 18—.

*'Dear Mother, — I enclose a letter from Mrs.
Bowen which will tell you better than I can
what I wish to tell. I do not see how I can add
anything that would give you more of an idea of
him, or less, either. No person can be put down
in cold black and white, and not seem like a
mere inventory. I do not suppose you expected
me to become engaged when you sent me out to
Florence, and, as Mrs. Bowen says, I don't
know whether I am engaged or not I will leave
it entirely to Mr. Colville ; if he says we are en-
gaged, we are. I am sure he will do what is
best. I only know that he was going away from
Florence because he thought I supposed he was
not in earnest, and I asked him to stay.

** I am a good deal excited to-night, and can-
not write very clearly. But I will write soon
again, and more at length.

" Perhaps something will be decided by that
time. With much love to father,

" Your affectionate daughter,

"Imogene."

INDIAN SUMMBB. ^^

She put this letter into an envelope with
Mrs. Bowen's, and leaving it unsealed to
show her in the morning, she began to write
again. This time she wrote to a girl with
whom she had been on terms so intimate
that when they left school they had agreed
to know each other by names expressive of
their extremely confidential friendship, and
to address each other respectively as Diary
and Journal. They were going to write
every day, if only a line or two ; and at the
end of a year they were to meet and read
over together the records of their lives as
set down in these letters. They had never
met since, though it was now three years
since they parted, and they had not written
since Imogene came abroad ; that is, Imo-
gene had not answered the only letter she
had received from her friend in Florence.
This friend was a very serious girl, and had
wished to be a minister, but her family
would not consent, or even accept the com-
promise of studying medicine, which she
proposed, and she was still living at home
in a small city of central New York. Imo-
gene now addressed her —

"Dbab Diary,— You cannot think how far
away the events of this day have pushed the

78 INDIAN SUMMER.

feelings and ideas of the time when I agreed to
write to you under this name. Till now it seems
to me as if I had not changed in the least thing
since we parted, and now I can hardly know my-
self for the same person. dear Di ! something
very wonderful has come into my life, and I feel
that it rests with me to make it the greatest
blessing to myself and others, or the greatest
misery. If I prove unworthy of it or unequal to
it, then I am sure that nothing but wretchedness
will come of it.

" I am engaged — yes !-^and to a man more
than twice my own age. It is so easy to tell
you this, for I know that your large-mindedness
will receive it very differently from most people,
and that you will see it as I do. He is the
noblest of men, though he tries to conceal it
under the light, ironical manner with which he
has been faithful to a cruel disappointment. It
was here in Florence, twenty years ago, that a
girl— I am ashamed to call her a girl— trifled
with the priceless treasure that has fallen to me,
and flung it away. You, Di, will understand
how I was first fascinated with the idea of trsring
to atone to him here for all the wrong he had
suffered. At first it was only the vaguest sug-
gestion—something like what I had read in a
poem or a novel — that had nothing to do with
me personally, but it grew upon me more and
more the more I saw of him, and felt the
witchery of his light, indifferent manner, which

INDIAN SUMMER. 79

I learned to see was tense with the anguish he
had suffered. She had killed his youth ; she
had spoiled his life : if I could revive them,
restore them ! It came upon me like a great
flash of light at last, and as soon as this thought
took possession of me, I felt my whole being
elevated and purified by it, and I was enabled
to put aside with contempt the selfish considera-
tions that had occurred to me at first. At first
the difference between our ages was very shock-
ing to me ; for I had always imagined it would be
some one young ; but when this light broke upon
me, I saw that he was young, younger even than
I, as a man is at the same age with a girL Some-
times with my experiences, the fancies and flirta-
tions that every one has and must have, however
one despises them, I felt so old beside him ; for
he had been true to one love all his life, and he
had not wavered for a moment. If I could make
him forget it, if I could lift every feather's
weight of sorrow from his breast, if I could help
him to complete the destiny, grand and beauti-
ful as it would have been, which another had
arrested, broken off— don't you see, Di dear, how
rich my reward would be ?

'*And he, how forbearing, how considerate,
how anxious for me, how full of generous warn-
ing he has been ! always putting me in mind, at
every step, of the difference in years between us ;
never thinking of himself, and shrinking so much
from even seeming to control me or sway me.

8o INDIAN SUMMEB.

that I don't know really whether I have not
made all the advances !

<< I cannot write his name yet, and you must
not ask it tDl I can ; and I cannot tell you any-
thing about his looks or his life without seeming
to degrade him, somehow, and make him a
common man like others.

'* How can I make myself his companion in
everything ? How can I convince him that there
is no sacrifice for me, and that he alone is giving
up ? These are the thoughts that keep whirling
through my mind. I hope I shall be helped,
and I hope that I shall be tried, for that is the
only way for me to be helped. I feel strong
enough for anything that people can say. I
should welcome criticism and opposition from
any quarter. But I can see that ?ie is very sensi-
tive — it comes from his keen sense of the ridicu-
lous—and if I suffer, it will be on account of this
grand unselfish nature, and I shall be glad of
that.

'* Your faithful Journal.

**I shall tell him about you, one of the first
things, and perhaps he can suggest some way
out of your trouble, he has had so much experi-

INDIAN SUHMEJEU 8l

ence of every kind. You will worsliip him, as I
do, when you see him ; for you will feel at once
that he understands you, and that is such a rest.

"J."

Before Imogens fell asleep, Mrs. Bowen
came to her in the dark, and softly closed
the door that opened from the girl's room
into Effie's. She sat down on the bed, and
began to speak at once, as if she knew Imo-
gene must be awake. **I thought you
would come to me, Imogene ; but as you
didn't, I have come to you, for if you can
go to sleep with hard thoughts of me to-
night, I can't let you. You need me for
your friend, and I wish to be your friend ;
it would be wicked in me to be anything
else ; I would give the world if your mother
were here ; but I tried to make my letter
to her everything that it should be. If you
don't think it is, I will write it over in the
morning."

**No," said the girl coldly; ** it will do
very well. I don't wish to trouble you so
much."

** Oh, how can you speak so to me ? Do
you think that I blame Mr. Golville? Is
that it ? I don't ask you — ^I shall never ask
you — how he came to remain, but I know

VOL. n. F

lOO INDIAN SUMMEB.

mean, or else I've told it in such a way
that I Ve made it hateful to you. Do you
think I don't care for you except to be
something to you ? I 'm not so generous as
that. You are all the world to me. If I
take myself back from you, as you say,
what shall I do with myself ? "

**Ha8 it come to that?" asked Colville.
He sat down again with her, and this time
he put his arm around her and drew her to
him, but it seemed to him he did it as if
she were his child. "I was going to tell
you just now that each of us lived to him-
self in this world, and that no one could
hope to enter into the life of another and
complete it. But now I see that I was
partly wrong. We two are bound together,
Imogene, and whether we become all in all
or nothing to each other, we can have no
separate fate."

The girl's eyes kindled with rapture.
*'Then let us never speak of it again. I
was going to say something, but now I won't
say it."

"Yes, say it."

''No ; it will make you think that I am
anxious on my own account about appear-
ances before people. "

"You poor child, I shall never think you

INDIAN SUMMER. lOI

are anxious on your own account about any-
thing. What were you going to say ? "

**0h, nothing ! It was only — are you in-
vited to the Phillipses' fancy ball ? "

"Yes," said Colville, silently making
what he could of the diversion, '* I believe
so."

**And are you going — did you mean to
go ? " she asked timidly.

" Good heavens, no ! What in the world
should I do at another fancy ball ? I walked
about with the airy grace of a bull in a
china-shop at the last one."

Imogene did not smile. She faintly sighed.
** Well, then, I won't go either."

** Did you intend to go ? "

" Oh no ! "

" Why, of course you did, and it 's very
right you should. Did you want me to go ? "

*' It would bore you."

* * Not if you 're there. " She gave his hand
a grateful pressure. " Come, 1 11 go, of
course, Imogene. A fancy ball to please
you is a very different thing from a fancy
ball in the abstract."

** Oh, what nice things you say ! Do you
know, I always admired your compliments ?
I think they 're the most charming compli-
ments in the world. "

102 INDIAN SUMMER.

" I don't think they *re half so pretty as
yoors ; but they *re more sincere.**

** No, honestly. They flatter, and at the
same time they make fun of the flattery a
little ; they make a person feel that you like
them, even while you laugh at them."

"They appear to be rather an intricate
kind of compliment — sort of salsa agradolce
affair — ^tutti frutti style — species of moral
mayonnaise."

"No — ^be quiet ! You know what I mean.
What were we talking about ? Oh ! I was
going to say that the most fascinating thing
about you always was that ironical way of
yours."

"Have I an ironical way? You were
going to tell me something more about the
fancy ball."

" I don't care for it. I would rather talk
about you."

"And I prefer the ball. It's a fresher
topic — to me."

"Very well, then. But this I wiU say.
No matter how happy you should be, I
should always want you to keep that tone
of persiflage. You 've no idea how perfectly
intoxicating it is."

" Oh yes, I have. It seems to have turned
the loveliest and wisest head in the world."

INDIAN SUMMEB. IO3

**0h, do you really think so? I would
give anything if you did."

«*What?"

"Think I was pretty," she pleaded, with
full eyes. ** Do you ? "

**No, but I think you are wise. Fifty
per cent, of truth — it's a large average in
compliments. What are you going to
wear ? "

" Wear ? Oh ! At the ball ! Something
Egyptian, I suppose. It 's to be an Egyptian
ball. Didn't you understand that ? "

**0h yes. But I supposed you could go
in any sort of dress."

"You can't. You must go in some
Egyptian character."

"How would Moses do? In the bul-
rushes, you know. You could be Pharaoh's
daughter, and recognise me by my three
hats. And toward the end of the evening,
when I became very much bored, I could go
round kUHng Egyptians."

"No, no. Be serious. Though I like you
to joke, too. I shall always want you to
joke. Shall you, always ? "

" There may be emergencies when I shall
fail — like family prayers, and grace before
meat, and dangerous sickness."

"Why, of course. But I mean when

I04 INDIAN SUMMEB.

we 're together, and there 's no reason why
yon shouldn't ? "

" Oh, at such times I shall certainly joke."

"And before people, too ! I won't have
them saying that it 's sobered you — that you
used to be very gay, and now you 're cross,
and never say anything."

'*I will try to keep it up sufficiently to
meet the public demand."

*'And I shall want you to joke me, too.
You must satirise me. It does more to show
me my faults than anything else, and it will
show other people how perfectly submissive
I am, and how I think everything you do is
just right."

** If I were to beat you a little in company,
don't you think it would serve the same
purpose?"

**No, no ; be serious."

"About joking?"

•* No, about me. I know that I 'm very
intense, and you must try to correct that
tendency in me."

"I wUl, with pleasure. Which of my
tendencies are you going to correct? "

** You have none."

" Well, then, neither have you. I 'm not
going to be outdone in civilities."

" Oh, if people could only hear you talk in

INDIAN SUMMER. I05

this light way, and then know what /
know ! "

Colville broke out into a laugh at the deep
sigh which accompanied these words. As a
whole, the thing was grotesque and terrible
to him, but after a habit of his, he was find-
ing a strange pleasure in its details.

"No, no," she pleaded. "Don't laugh.
There are girls that would give their eyes
for it."

" As pretty eyes as yours ? "

** Do you think they *re nice ? "

*' Yes, if they were not so mysterious."

** Mysterious ? "

* * Yes, I feel that your eyes can't really
be as honest as they look. That was what
puzzled me about them the first night I saw
you."

"No-<lid it, really?"

" I went home saying to myself that no
girl could be so sincere as that Miss Graham

'* Did you say that ? "

" Words to that effect."

" And what do you think now ? "

'*Ah, I don't know. You had better go

as the Sphinx. "

Imogene laughed in simple gaiety of heart.

**How far we've got from the ball!" she

88 INDIAN SUMMER.

timid, embarrassed glance from Mrs. Bowen
to Colville was the first gleam of consolation
that had visited him since he parted with
her the night before. A thrill of inexplic-
able pride and fondness passed tiirongh his
heart, and even the compunction that
followed could not spoil its sweetness. But
if Mrs. Bowen discreetly turned her head
aside that she need not witness a tender
greeting between them, the precaution was
unnecessary. He merely went forward and
took the girl's hand, with a sigh of relief.
"Good morning, Imogene," he said, with a
kind of compassionate admiration.

"€U>od morning," she returned half -in-
quiringly.

She did not take a seat near him, and
turned, as if for instruction, to Mrs. Bowen.
It was probably the force of habit. In any
case, Mrs. Bowen's eyes gave no response.
She bowed slightly to Ck>lville, and began,
" I must leave Imogene to entertain you for
the present, Mr. "

" No !" cried the girl impetuously : '* don't
go." Mrs. Bowen stopped. ''I wish to
speak with you — ^with you and Mr. Colville
together. I wish to say — ^I don't know how

to say it exactly ; but I wish to know

You asked him last night, Mrs. Bowen,

INDIAN SUMMEB. 89

whether he wished to consider it an engage-
ment?"

**I thought perhaps you would rather
hear from your mother "

** Yes, I would be glad to know that my
mother approved ; but if she didn't, I
couldn't help it. Mr. Colville said he was
bound, but I was not. That can't be. I
wish to be bound, if he is."

"I don't quite know what you expect me
to say."

"Nothing," said Imogen^. "I merely
wished you to know. And I don't wish you
to sacrifice anything to us. If you think
best, Mr. Colville will not see me till I hear
from home ; though it won't make any dif-
ference with me what I hear."

"There's no reason why you shouldn't
meet," said Mrs. Bowen absently.

" If you wish it to have the same appear-
ance as an Italian engagement "

"Very well, then," said Imogene, with
the air of summing up ; " then the only

90 INDIAN SUMMER.

qaestion is whether we shall make it known
or not to other people."

This point seemed to give Mrs. Bowen
greater pause than any. She was a long
time silent, and Colville saw that Imogene
was beginning to chafe at her indecision.
Yet he did not see the moment to intervene
in a debate in which he found himself some-
what ludicrously ignored, as if the affair
were solely the concern of these two women,
and none of his.

"Of course, Mrs. Bowen," said the girl
haughtily, " if it will be disagreeable to you
to have it known "

Mrs. Bowen blushed delicately — a blush
of protest and of generous surprise, or so it
seemed to Ck)lviUe. "I was not thinking
of myself, Imogene. I only wish to consider
you. And I was thinking whether, at this
distance from home, you wouldn't prefer to
have your family's approval before you
made it known."

'*I am sure of their approvaL Father
will do what mother says, and she has
always said that she would never interfere
with me in — in — such a thing."

"Perhaps you would like all the more,
then, to show her the deference of waiting
for her consent."

INDIAN SUMMER. 9 1

Imogene started as if stopped short in
swift career ; it was not hard for Colville to
perceive that she saw for the first time the
reverse side of a magnanimous impulse.
She suddenly turned to him.

''I think Mrs. Bowen is right," he said
gravely, in answer to the eyes of Imogene.
He continued, with a flicker of his wonted
mood : '* You must consider me a little in
the matter. I have some small shreds of
self-respect about me somewhere, and I
would rather not be put in the attitude of
defying your family, or ignoring them."

**No," said Imogene, in the same effect of
arrest.

**When it isn't absolutely necessary,"
continued Colville. '* Especially as you say
there will be no opposition."

"Of course," Imogene assented; and in
fact what he said was very just, and he
knew it ; but he could perceive that he had
suffered loss with her. A furtive glance at
Mrs. Bowen did not assure him that he had
made a compensating gain in that direction,
where, indeed, he had no right to wish for
any.

" Well, then," the girl went on, " it shall
be so. We will wait. It will only be wait-
ing. I ought to have thought of you before ;

92 INDIAN SUBIMEB.

I make a bad beginning/* she said tremu-
lonsly. * * I supposed I taaa thinking of you ;
but I see that I was only thinking of myself."
The tears stood in her eyes. Mrs. Bowen,
quite overlooked in this apology, slipped
from the room.

" Imogene ! " said Colville, coming toward
her.

She dropped herself upon his shoulder.
" Oh, why, why, why am I so miserable ? "

" Miserable, Imogene ! " he murmured,
stroking her beautiful hair.

** Yes, yes ! Utterly miserable ! It must
be because I'm unworthy of you — ^unequal
every way. If you think so, cast me off at
once. Don't be weakly merciful ! "

The words pierced his heart. " I would
give the world to make you happy, my
child ! ** he said, with perfidious truth, and
a sigh that came from the bottom of his soul.
'* Sit down here by me," he said, moving to
the sofa ; and with whatever obscure sense
of duty to her innocent self-a^iuioii, he
made a space between them, and reduced
her embrace to a clasp of the hand she left
with him. " Now tell me," he said, " what
is it makes you unhappy ? '*

" Oh, I don't know," she answered, dry-
ing her averted eyes. **I suppose I am

INDIAN SUMMER. 93

overwrought from not sleeping, and from
thinking how we should arrange it all."

"And now that it's all arranged, can't
you be cheerful again ? "

"Yes."

"You're satis^ed with the way we've
arranged it ? Because if "

"Oh, perfectly — perfectly!" she hastily
interrupted. "I wouldn't have it other-
wise. Of course," she added, "it wasn't
very pleasant having some one else suggest
what I ought to have thought of myself,
and seem more delicate about you than I
was."

"Some one else?"

"You know ! Mrs. Bowen."

"Oh ! But I couldn't see that she was
anxious to spare me. It occurred to me
that she was concerned about your family."

"It led up to the other ! it 's all the same
thing."

" Well, even in that case, I don't see why
you should mind it. It was certainly very
friendly of her, and I know that she has
your interest at heart entirely."

"Yes ; she knows how to make it seem
so."

Oolville hesitated in bewilderment. "Imo-
gene ! " he cried at last, " I don't understand

94 INDIAN SUMMER.

this. Don't you think Mrs. Bowen likes
you ? "

" She detests me."

"Oh, no, no, no ! That's too cruel an
error. You mustn't think that. I can't let
you. It's morbid. I'm sure that she's
devotedly kind and good to you."

''Being kind and good isn't liking. I
know what she thinks. But of course I
can't expect to convince you of it ; no one
else could see it."

"No!" said Colville, with generous fer-
vour. "Because it doesn't exist, and you
mustn't imagme it. You are as sincerely
and unselfishly regarded in this house as you
could be in your own home. I'm sure of
that. I know Mrs. Bowen. She has her
little worldlinesses and unrealities of manner,
but she is truth and loyalty itself. She
would rather die than be false, or even un-
fair. I knew her long ago "

"Yes," cried the girl, "long before you
knew me ! "

"And I know her to be the soul of
honour," said Colville, ignoring the childish
outburst. "Honour — ^like a man's," he
added. "And, Imogene, I want you to
promise me that you 11 not think of her any
more in that way. I want you to think of

INDIAN SniOIEB. 95

her as faithful and loving to yon, for she is
so. Will you do it?"

Imogene did not answer %him at once.
Then she turned upon him a face of radiant
self-abnegation. "I will do anything you
tell me. Only tell me things to do."

The next time he came he again saw
Mrs. Bowen alone before Imogene appeared.
The conversation was confined to two sen-
tences.

"Mr. CJolville," she said, with perfectly
tranquil point, while she tilted a shut book
to and fro on her knee, "I will thank you
not to defend me."

Had she overheard ? Had Imogene told
her ? He answered, in a fury of resentment
for her ingratitude that stupefied him. *' I
will never speak of you again."

Now they were enemies ; he did not
know how or why, but he said to himself, in
the bitterness of his heart, that it was better
so ; and when Imogene appeared, and Mrs.
Bowen vanished, as she did without another
word to him, he folded the girl in a vindic-
tive embrace.

*' What is the matter ? " she asked, push-
ing away from him.

"With me?"

" Yes ; you seem so excited. "

96 INDIAN SUMMER.

''Oh, nothing/* he said, shrinking from
the sharpness of that scrutiny in a woman's
eyes, which, when it begins the perusal of a
man's soul, astonishes and intimidates him ;
he never perhaps becomes able to endure
it with perfect self-controL ''I suppose a
slight degree of excitement in meeting you
may be forgiven me. " He smiled under the
unrelaxed severity of her gaze.

** Was Mrs. Bowen saying anything about
me?"

**Not a word," said CJolville, gliawi of get-
ting back to the firm truth again, even if
it were mere literality.

"We have made it up," she said, her
scrutiny changing to a lovely appeal for
his approval. " What there was to make
up."

"Yes?"

' ' I told her what you had said. And now
it 's all right between us, and you mustn't be
troubled at that any more. I did it to please
you."

She seemed to ask him with the last words
whether she really had pleased him, aa if
something in his aspect suggested a doubt ;
and he hastened to reassure her. ' ' That was
very good of you. I appreciate it highly.
It 's extremely gratif3ing."

INDIAN SUMMER. 97

She broke into a laugh of fond derision.
" I don't believe you really cared about it,
or else you're not thinking about it now.
Sit down here ; I want to tell you of some-
thing I Ve thought out." She pulled him to
the sofa, and put his arm about her waist,
with a simple fearlessness and matter-of-
course promptness that made him shudder.
He felt that he ought to tell her not to do it,
but he did not quite know how without
wounding her. She took hold of his hand
and drew his lax arm taut. Then she looked
up into his eyes, as if some sense of his mis-
giving had conveyed itself to her, but she
did not release her hold of his hand.

** Perhaps we oughtn't, if we're not en-
gaged?" she suggested, with such utter
trust in him as made his heart quake.

"Oh," he sighjed, from a complexity of
feeling that no explanation could wholly
declare, ''we're engaged enough for that,
I suppose. "

"I'm glad you think so," she answered
innocently. ** I knew you wouldn't let me
if it were not right." Having settled the
question, " Of course," she continued, " we
shall all do our best to keep our secret ; but
in spite of everything it may get out. Do
you see ? "

VOL. II. o

98 INDIAN SUMMER.

" Well, of course it will make a great deal
of remark."

** Oh yes ; you must be prepared for that,
Imogeiie,"8aid ColvUle, with as much gravity
as he could make comport with his actual
position.

**I am prepared for it, and prepared to
despise it," answered the girl. *'I shall
have no trouble except the fear that yo^
will mind it." She pressed his hand as
if she expected him to say something to
this.

**I shall never care for it," he said, and
this was true enough. " My only care will
be to keep you from regretting. I have
tried from the first to make you see that I
was very much older than you. It would
be miserable enough if you came to see it
too late."

'* I have never seen it, and I never shall
see it, because there's no such dififerenoe
between us. It isn't the years that make
us young or old — ^who is it says that ? No
matter, it's true. And I want you to
believe it. I want you to feel that / am
your youth — the youth you were robbed of
— ^given back to you. Will you do it ? Oh,
if you could, I should be the happiest girl

INDIAN SUMMER. 99

in the world." Tears of fervour dimmed
the beautiful eyes which looked into his.
** Don't speak ! " she hurried on. ** I won't
let you lill I have said it all. It 's been
this idea, this hope, with me always — ever
since I knew what happened to you here
long ago — that you might go back in my life
and take up yours where it was broken off ;
that I might make your life what it would
have been — complete your destiny "

Colville wrenched himself loose from the
hold that had been growing more tenderly
close and clinging. " And do you think I
could be such a vampire as to let you ? Yes,
yes ; I have had my dreams of such a thing ;
but I see now how hideous they were. You
shall make no such sacrifice to me. You
must put away the fancies that could never
be fulfilled, or if by some infernal magic they
could, would only bring sorrow to you and
shame to me. €k>d forbid ! And Qod for-
give me, if I have done or said anything to
put this in your head ! And thank God it
isn't too late yet for you to take yourself
back."

**0h," she murmured. **Do you think
it is self-sacrifice for me to give myself to
you ? It 's self-glorification ! You don't
understand — I haven't told you what I

no INDIAN SUMlfER.

"Good-bye," said Colville, and went out.

"Oh, Mr. Colville!" she called, before
he got to the outer door.

" Yes," he said, starting back.

She met him midway of the dim corridor.

"Only to " She put her arms about

his neck and sweetly kissed him.

Ck>lville went out into the sunlight feeling
like some strange, newly invented kind of
scoundrel — a rascal of such recent origin and
introduction that he had not yet had time
to classify himself and ascertain the exact
degree of his turpitude. The task employed
his thoughts all that day, and kept him
vibrating between an instinctive conviction
of monstrous wickedness and a logical and
well-reasoned perception that he had all the
facts and materials for a perfectly good con-
science. He was the betrothed lover of this
poor child, whose affection he could not check
without a degree of brutality for which
only a better man would have the cour-
age. When he thought of perhaps refusing
her caresses, he imagined the shock it would
give her, and the look of grief and mystifica-
tion that would come into her eyes, and he
found himself incapable of that cruel recti-
tude. He knew that these were the impulses
of a white and loving soul ; but at the end of

INDIAN SUMMEK. Ill

all his argument they remained a terror to
him, 80 that he lacked nothing but the will to
fly from Florence and shun her altogether
till she had heard from her family. This, he
recalled with bitter self-reproach, was what
had been his first inspiration ; he had spoken
of it to Mrs. Bowen, and it had still every-
thing in its favour except that it was im-
possible.

Imogene returned to the scUotto, where the
little girl was standing with her face to the
window, drearily looking out ; her back ex-
pressed an inner desolation which revealed
itself in her eyes when Imogene caught her
head between her hands, and tilted up her
face to kiss it.

<*What is the matter, Effie?" she de-
manded gaily.

"Nothing."

"Oh yes, there is."

" Nothing that you will care for. As long
as he 's pleasant to you, you don't care what
he does to me."

* * What has he done to you ? "

"He didn't take the slightest notice of
me when I came into the room. He didn't
speak to me, or even look at me. "

Imogene caught the little grieving, quiver-
ing face to her breast. "He is a wicked,

112 INDIAN SUMMER.

wicked wretch ! And I will give him the
awfulest scolding he ever had when he comes
here again. I will teach him to neglect my
pet I will let him understand that if he
doesn't notice you, he needn't notice me. I
will tell you, Effie— I Ve just thought of a
way. The next time he comes we will both
receive him. We wiU sit up very stiffly on
the sofa together, and just answer Yes, No,
Yes, No, to everything he says, till he be-
gins to take the hint, and learns how to be-
have himself. WiU you ? **

A smile glittered through the little girl's
tears ; but she asked, *' Do you think it
would be Very polite ? "

" No matter, polite or not, it 's what he
deserves. Of course, as soon as he begins to
take the hint, we will be just as we always
are."

Imogene despatched a note, which Col-
ville got the next morning, to tell him of
his crime, and apprise him of his punish-
ment, and of the sweet compunction that
had pleaded for him in the breast of the
child. If he did not think he could help
play the comedy through, he must come
prepared to ofifer Effie some sort of atone-
ment.

It was easy to do this : to come with his

INDIAN SUMMSB. II3

pockets full of presents, and take the little
girl on his lap, and pour out all his troubled
heart in the caresses and tendernesses which
would bring him no remorse. He humbled
himself to her thoroughly, and with a
strange sincerity in the harmless duplicity,
and promised, if she would take him back
into favour, that he would never offend
again. Mrs. Bowen had sent word that she
was not well enough to see him ; she had
another of her headaches ; and he sent
back a sympathetic and respectful message
by Effie, who stood thoughtfully at her
mother's pillow after she had delivered it,
fingering the bouquet Colville had brought
her, and putting her head first on this side,
and then on that to admire it.

"I think Mr. Colville and Imogene are
much more affectionate than they used to
be," she said.

Mrs. Bowen started up on her elbow.
«* What do you mean, Effie ? "

** Oh, they *re both so good to me."

"Yes," said her mother, dropping back
to her pillow. "Both?"

"Yes ; he's the most affectionate."

The mother turned her face the other
way. " Then he must be," she murmured.

" What ? " asked the child.

VOL. n. H

114 INDIAN SUMMEB.

" Nothing. I didn't know I spoke."

The little girl stood a while still playing
with her flowers, "/think Mr. Colville is
abont the pleasantest gentleman that oomes
here. Don't you, mamma ? "

"Yes."

" He 's 80 interesting, and says such nice
things. I don't know whether children
ought to think of such things, but I wish I
was going to marry some one like Mr. Col-
ville. Of course I should want to be toler-
ably old if I did. How old do you think a
person ought to be to marry him ? "

'' You mustn't talk of such things, Effie,"
said her mother.

** No ; I suppose it isn't very nice." She
picked out a bud in her bouquet, and kissed
it; then she held the nosegay at arm's-
length before her, and danced away with it.

INDIAN SUMMBB. 11$

XVII.

IN the ensuing fortnight a great many
gaieties besides the Egyptian ball took
place, and Colville went wherever he and
Imogene were both invited. He declined
the quiet dinners which he liked, and which
his hearty appetite and his habit of talk
fitted him to enjoy, and accepted invitations
to all sorts of evenings and At Homes, where
dancing occupied a modest comer of the
card, and usurped the chief place in the
pleasures. At these places it was mainly
his business to see Imogene danced with by
others, but sometimes he waltzed with her
himself, and then he was complimented by
people of his own age, who had left off
dancing, upon his vigour. They said they
could not stand that sort of thing, though
they supposed, if you kept yourself in prac-
tice, it did not come so hard. One of his
hostesses, who had made a party for her
daughters, told him that he was an example
to everybody, and that if middle-aged people

I06 INDIAN SX7MMKR.

said, as if the remote excnrsion were a
triumph. " What shall we really go as ? "

'^Isis and Osiris."

" Weren't they gods of some kind ? '*

"Little one-horse deities — not very
much."

" It won't do to go as gods of any kind.
They *re always failures. People expect too
much of them."

"Yes," said Colville. "That's human
nature under all circumstances. But why
go to an Egyptian ball at all ? "

"Oh, we must go. K we both stayed
away it would make talk at once, and my
object is to keep people in the dark till the
very last moment. Of course it 's unfortu-
nate your having told Mrs. Amsden that
you were going away, and then telling her
just after you came back with me that you
were going to stay. But it can't be helped
now. And I don't really care for it. But
don't you see why I want you to go to all
these things ? "

"^ZUhese things?"

"Yes, everything you're invited to after
this. It 's not merely for a blind as regards
ourselves now, but if they see that you 're
very fond of all sorts of gaieties, they will see
that you are— they will understand "

INDIAN SUMMER. I07

There was no need for her to complete the
sentence. Colville rose. " Come, come, my
dear child," he said, **why don't you end
all this at once? I don't blame you. Heaven
knows I blame no one bnt myself ! I ought
to have the strength to break away from this
mistake, but I haven't. I couldn't bear to
see you su£fer from pain that I should give
you even for your good. But do it yourself,
Imogene, and for pity's sake don't forbear
from any notion of sparing me. I have no
wish except for your happiness, and now I
tell you clearly that no appearance we can
put on before the world will deceive the
world. At the end of all our trouble I shall
still be forty "

She sprang to him and put her hand over
his mouth. " I know what you *re going to
say, and I won't let you say it, for you Ve
promised over and over again not to speak
of that any more. Oh, do you think I care
for the world, or what it will think or say ? "

"Yes, very much."

** That shows how little you understand
me. It's because I wish to defy the
world "

** Imogene! Be as honest with yourself
as you are with me."

**I om honest."

I08 INDIAN SUMMER.

" Look me in the eyes, then."

She did so for an instant, and then hid
her face on his shoulder.

** You silly girl," he said. ** What is it
you really do wish ? "

"I wish there was no one in the world
but you and me."

**Ah, you'd find it very crowded at
times," said Colville sadly. " WeU, well,"
he added, ''I'll go to your fandangoes, be-
cause you want me to go."

"That's all I wished you to say," she
replied, lifting her head, and looking him
radiantly In the face. " I don't want you
to go at all ! I only want you to promise
that you'll come here every night that
you 're invited out, and read to Mrs. Bowen
and me."

"Oh, I can't do that," said Colville;
**I'm too fond of society. For example,
I 've been invited to an Eg3rptian fancy ball,
and I couldn't think of giving that up."

" Oh, how delightful you are ! They
couldn't any of them talk Hke you."

He had learned to follow the processes of
her thought now. ** Perhaps they can when
they come to my age. "

"There!" she exclaimed, putting her
hand on his mouth again, to remind him of

INDIAN SUMMBB. IO9

another broken promise. ** Why can't you
give up the Egyptian ball ? "

*' Because I expect to meet a young lady
there — a very beautiful young lady."

'*But how shall you know her if she's
disguised ? "

*'Why, I shall be disguised too, you
know."

"Oh, what delicious nonsense you do
talk ! Sit down here and tell me what you
are going to wear."

She tried to pull him back to the sofa.
" What character shall you go in ? "

*'No, no," he said, resisting the gentle
traction. '* I can't ; I have urgent business
down-town.'*

" Oh ! Business in Marenee ! "

" Well, if I stayed, I should tell you what
disguise I 'm going to the ball in."

" I knew it was that. What do you think
would be a good character for me ? "

'* I don't know. The serpent of old Nile
would be pretty good for you."

"Oh, I know you don't think it!" she
cried fondly. She had now let him take
her hand, and he stood holding it at arm's-
length. £!ffie Bowen came into the room.
** Good-bye," said Imogene, with an instant
assumption of society manner.

no INDIAN SUMMER.

"Crood-bye," said Colville, and went out.

"Oh, Mr. Colville!" she called, before
he got to the outer door.

'* Yes," he said, starting back.

She met him midway of the dim corridor.

"Only to " She put her arms about

his neck and sweetly kissed him.

Colville went out into the sunlight feeling
like some strange, newly invented kind of
scoundrel — a rascal of such recent origin and
introduction that he had not yet had time
to classify himself and ascertain the exact
degree of his turpitude. The task employed
his thoughts all that day, and kept him
vibrating between an instinctive conviction
of monstrous wickedness and a logical and
well-reasoned perception that he had all the
facts and materials for a perfectly good con-
science. He was the betrothed lover of this
poor child, whose affection he could not check
without a degree of brutality for which
only a better man would have the cour-
age. When he thought of perhaps refusing
her caresses, he imagined the shock it would
give her, and the look of grief and mystifica-
tion that would come into her eyes, and he
found himself incapable of that cruel recti-
tude. He knew that these were the impulses
of a white and loving soul ; but at the end of

INDIAN SUMMER. Ill

all his argament they remained a terror to
him, so that he lacked nothing bat the will to
fly from Florence and shnn her altogether
till she had heard from her family. This, he
recalled with bitter self-reproach, was what
had been his first inspiration ; he had spoken
of it to Mrs. Bowen, and it had still every-
thing in its favour except that it was im-
possible.

*<What is the matter, Effie?" she de-
manded gaily.

"Nothing."

"Oh yes, there is."

" Nothing that you will care for. As long
as he 's pleasant to yon, you don't care what
he does to me."

** What has he done to you ? "

''He didn't take the slightest notice of
me when I came into the room. He didn't
speak to me, or even look at me. "

Imogene caught the little grieving, quiver-
ing face to her breast. "He is a wicked,

112 INDIAN SUMMER.

wicked wretch ! And I will give him the
awfulest scolding he ever had when he comes
here again. I will teach him to neglect my
pet. I will let him understand that if he
doesn't notice you, he needn't notice me. I
will tell you, Effie— I Ve just thought of a
way. The next time he comes we will hoth
receive him. We will sit up very stiffly on
the sofa together, and just answer Yes, No,
Yes, No, to everything he says, till he he-
gins to take the hint, and learns how to he-
have himself. Will you ? "

A smile glittered through the little girl's
tears ; but she asked, *' Do you think it
would be Very polite ? "

** No matter, polite or not, it 's what he
deserves. Of course, as soon as he begms to
take the hint, we will be just as we always
are.

It was easy to do this : to come with his

INDIAN SUMMER. II3

**I think Mr. Colville and Imogene are
much more affectionate than they used to
be,'* she said.

Mrs. Bowen started up on her elbow.
** What do you mean, Effie ? "

*' Oh, they 're both so good to me."

"Yes," said her mother, dropping back
to her pillow. "Both?"

" Yes ; he 's the mo8t affectionate."

The mother turned her face the other
way. " Then he must be," she murmured.

" What ? " asked the child.

VOL. n. H

114 INDIAN SUMMEB.

" Nothing. I didn't know I spoke."

The little girl stood a while still plajring
with her flowers, "/think Mr. Colville is
about the pleasantest gentleman that oomes
here. Don't you, mamma ? "

"Yes."

" He 's so interesting, and says such nice
things. I don't know whether children
ought to think of such things, but I wish I
was going to marry some one like Mr. Col-
ville. Of course I should want to be toler-
ably old if I did. How old do you think a
person ought to be to marry him ? "

" You mustn't talk of such things, Effie,"
said her mother.

** No ; I suppose it isn't very nice." She
picked out a bud in her bouquet, and kissed
it; then she held the nosegay at arm's-
length before her, and danced away with it.

INDIAN SUMMEB. II 5

XVII.

Il6 INDIAN SUMMER.

at home mingled more in the amusements of
the young, American society would not be
the silly, insipid, boy-and-girl affair that it
was now. He went to these places in the
character of a young man, but he was not
readily accepted or recognised in that char-
acter. 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 not care for his talk.

At one of the parties Imogene seemed to
become aware for the first time that the
lapels of his dress-coat were not faced with
silk.

"Why don't you have them so?" she
asked. <<A11 the otJier young men have.
And you ought to wear a boutonni^e,**

** Oh, I think a man looks rather silly in

silk lapels at my *' He arrested himself,

and then continued: <'I*11 see what the
tailor can do for 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 is ten times aa
good as if any one else did it.*'

The same evening, as he stood leaning
against a doorway, behind Imogene and a
young fellow with whom she was beginning
a quadrille, he heard her taking him to task.

INDIAN SUMMEB. II7

" Why do you say * Sir * to Mr. Colville ? "

*'Well, I know the English laugh at us
for doing it, and say it *s like servants ; but
I never feel quite right answering just * Yes '
and ' No * to a man of his age."

This was one of the Inglehart boys, whom
he met at nearly all of these parties, and not
all of whom were so respectful. Some of
them treated him upon an old-boy theory,
joking him as freely as if he were one of
themselves, laughing his antiquated notions
of art to scorn, but condoning them because
he was good-natured, and because a man
could not help being of his own epoch any-
way. They put a caricature of him among
the rest on the walls of their trattoria,
where he once dined with them.

Mrs. Bowen did not often see him when
he went to call upon Imogene, and she was
not at more than two or three of the
parties. Mrs. Amsden came to chaperon
the girl, and apparently suffered an increase
of unrequited curiosity in regard to his rela-
tions to the Bowen household, and the
extraordinary development of his social ac-
tivity. Colville not only went to all those
evening parties, but he was in continual
movement during the afternoon at recep-
tions and at ''days," of which he began to

Il8 INDIAN SUMMER.

think each lady had two or three. Here he
drank tea, cup after cnp, in reckless excite-
ment, and at night when he came home
from the dancing parties, dropping with
fatigue, he could not sleep till toward morn-
ing. He woke at the usual breakfast-hour,
and then went about drowsing throughout
the day till the tea began again in the after-
noon. He fell asleep whenever he sat down,
not only in the reading-room at Vieusseux's,
where he disturbed the people over their
newspapers by his demonstrations of somno-
lence, but even at church, whither he went
one Sunday to please Imogene, and started
awake during the service with the impres-
sion that the clergyman had been making a
joke. Everybody but Imogene was smiling.
At the caf^ he slept without scruple, select-
ing a comer seat for the purpose, and pro-
portioning his buonamano to the indulgence
of the giovane. He could not tell how long
he slept at these places, but sometimes it
seemed to him hours.

One day he went to see Imogene, and
while Effie Bowen stood prattling to him
as he sat waiting for Imogene to come in,
he faded light-headedly away from himself
on the sofa, as if he had been in his comer
at the caf^. Then he was aware of some

INDIAN SUMMEB. II9

one saying " *Sh ! " and be saw Effie Bowen,
with her finger on her lip, turned toward
Imogene, a figure of beautiful despair in the
doorway. He was all tucked up with sofa
piUows, and made very comfortable, by the
child, no doubt. She slipped out, seeing
him awake, so as to leave him and Imogene
alone, as she had apparently been generally
instructed to do, and Imogene came forward.

"What is the matter, Theodore?" she
asked patiently. She had taken to calling
him Theodore when they were alone. She
owned that she did not like 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 raised himself to
a sitting posture, but she did not offer him
any caress.

"Nothing," he answered. "But this
climate is making me insupportably drowsy ;
or else the spring weather."

"Oh no ; it isn't that," she said, with a
slight sigh. He had left her in the middle
of a german at three o'clock in the morning,
but she now looked as fresh and lambent as
a star. "It's the late hours. They're
killing you."

Ck>lville tried to deny it ; his incoherencies
dissolved themselves in a yawn, which he

I20 INDIAN SUMlfER.

did not succeed in passing for a careless
langh.

** It won't do," she said, as if speaking to
herself ; "no, it won't do."

«* Oh yes, it wiU," Colville protested, «* I
don't mind being up. I 've been used to it
all my life on the paper. It's just some
temporary thing. It 'U come all right."

"Well, no matter," said Imogene. **It
makes you ridiculous, going to all those
silly places, and I 'd rather give it up."

The tears began to steal down her cheeks,
and Colville sighed. It seemed to him that
somebody or other was always crying. A
man never quite gets used to the tearfulness
of women.

" Oh, don't mind it," he said. " If you
wish me to go, I will go ! Or die in the at-
tempt," he added, with a smile.

Imogene did not smile with him. "I
don't wish you to go any more. It was a
mistake in the first place, and from this out
I will adapt myself to you."

"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 off your young life in
any way, Imogene — not shorten it or dimin-
ish it. If I thought I should do that, or

INDIAN SUMMER. 121

you would try to do it for me, I should wish
I had never seen you. "

" It isn't that. I know how good you are,
and that you would do anything for me."

" Well, then, why don't you go to these
fandangoes alone ? I can see that you 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 your fun. I will drop
in now and then, but I won't try to come to
all of them, after this ; you '11 get along per-
fectly well with Mrs. Amsden, and I shall
be safe from her for a while. That old lady
has marked me for her prey : I can see it in
her glittering eyeglass. I shall fall asleep
some 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 think it'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 little more, if she
isn't well. "

"Why, isn't Mrs. Bowen well?" asked
Colville, with trepidation.

122 INDIAN SUMHBB.

"No; she's miserable. Haven*t you
noticed?"

** She sees me so seldom now. I thought
it was only her headaches "

" It *8 much more than that. She seems
to be failing every way. The doctor has
told her she ought to get away from Flor-
ence." Colville could not speak ; Imogene
went on. "She's always delicate, you
know. And I feel that all that's keeping
her here now is the news from home that I
— we 're waiting for."

Colville got up. < ' This is ghastly ! She
mustn't do it I "

** How can you help her doing it ? If she
thinks anything is right, she can't help
doing it. Who could ? "

Ciolville thought to himself that he could
have said ; but he was silent. At the moment
he was not equal to so much joke or so much
truth ; and Imogene went on —

" She 'd be all the more strenuous about
it if it were disagreeable, and rather than
accept any relief from me she would die."

** Is she — ^unkind to you ? " faltered Col-
ville.

" She is only too kind. You can feel that
she 's determined to be so— that she 's said
she will have nothing to reproach herself

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 23

with, and she won'fc. You don't suppose
Mrs. Bowen would be unkind to any one
she disliked ? "

" Ah, I didn't know," sighed Colville.

** The more she disliked them, the better
she would use them. It *s because our en-
gagement is so distasteful to her that she 's
determined to feel that she did nothing to
oppose it."

" But how can you tell that it 's distaste-
ful, then?"

** She lets you feel it by — not saying any-
thing about it."

** I can't see how "

" She never speaks of you. I don't be-
lieve she ever mentions your name. She
asks me about the places where I Ve been,
and about the people — every one but you.
It 's very uncomfortable. "

"Yes," said Colville, "it's uncomfort-
able."

" And if I allude to letters from home,
she merely presses her lips together. 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. ''Imo-
gene !" he exclaimed, with a sudden inspira-
tion. ** Why shouldn't I go away ? "

124 INDIAN SUMMER.

"Go away?" she palpitated. "What
should /do?"

The colours faded from his brilliant pro-
posal. "Oh, I only meant till something
was settled — determined^oncluded ; till
this terrible suspense was over." He added
hopelessly, " But nothing can be done ! "

" I proposed," said Imogene, " that we
should all go away. " I suggested Via
Reggio — the doctor said she ought to have
sea air — or Venice ; but she wouldn't hear
of it. No ; we must wait."

"Yes, we must wait," repeated ColviUe
hollowly. * * Then nothing can be done ? "

" Why, haven't you said it ? "

" Oh yes — ^yes. I can't go away, and you
can't. But couldn't we do something — ^get
up something ? "

" I don't know what you mean."

" I mean, couldn't we — amuse her some-
how? help her to take her mind off her-
self?"

Imogene stared at him rather a long time.
Then, as if she had satisfied herself in her
own mind, she shook her head. "She
wouldn't submit to it."

" No ; she seems to take everything amiss
that I do," said ColviUe.

" She has no right to do that," cried Imo-

INDIAN SUMMER. 12$

gene. ** I 'm sure that you 're always con-
sidering her, and proposing to do things for
her. I won't let you humble yourself, as if
you had wronged her. "

"Oh, I don't call it humbling. I— I
should only be too happy if I could do any-
thing that was agreeable to her."

** Very well, I will tell her," said the girl
haughtily. " Shall you object to my join-
iiig you in your amusements, whatever they
are ? I assure you I will be very unobtru-
sive."

"I don't understand all this," replied
Colville. "Who has proposed to exclude
you ? Why did you tell me anything about
Mrs. Bowen if you didn't want me to say or
do something ? I supposed you did ; but
I'll withdraw the offensive proposition,
whatever it was.**

"There was nothing offensive. But if
you pity her so much, why can't you piiy
meaUttle?"

" I didn't know anything was the matter
with you. I thought you were enjoying
yourself **

"Enjoying? Keeping you up at dances
till you drop asleep whenever you sit down ?
And then coming home and talking to a
person who won't mention your name ! Do

126 INDIAN SUMMEB.

yoa call that enjoying? I can't speak of
yon to any one; and no one speaks to
me "

"If you like, I will talk to you on the
subject," Golville essayed, in dreary jest.

" Oh, don't joke about it'! This perpetual
joking, I believe it 's that that's wearing me
out. When I come to you for a little com-
fort in circumstances that drive me almost
distracted, you want to amuse Mrs. Bowen,
and when I ask to be allowed to share in
the amusement, you laugh at me ! If you
don't understand it all, I 'm sure / don't."

"Imogene !"

"No ! It's very strange. There's only
one explanation. You don't care for me. "

"Not care for you!" cried Colville,
thinking of his sufferings in the past fort-
night.

" And I would have made any — any sacri-
fice for you. At least I wouldn't have made
you show yourself a mean and grudging
person if you had come to me for a little
sympathy."

" O poor child !" he cried, and his heart
ached with the sense that she really waa
nothing but an unhappy child. " I do
sympathise with you, and I see how hard it
is for you to manage with Mrs. Bowen's

INDIAN SUMMER. 127

dislike for me. But yoa mustn't think of
it. I dare say it will be different ; I 've no
doubt we can get her to look at me in some

brighter light. I " He did not know

what he should urge next ; but he goaded
his invention, and was able to declare that
if they loved each other they need not re-
gard any one else. This flight, when ac-
complished, did not strike him as of very
original effect, and it was with a dull sur-
prise that he saw it sufficed for her.

" No ; no one ! " she exclaimed, accepting
the platitude as if it were now uttered for
the first time. She dried her eyes and
smiled. **I will tell Mrs. Bowen how you
feel and what you Ve said, and I know she
will appreciate your generosity."

"Yes," said Colville pensively ; "there's
nothing I won't jpropo«e doing for people."

She suddenly clung to him, and would not
let him go. " Oh, what is the matter ? " she
moaned afresh. " I show out the worst that
is in me, and only the worst. Do you think
I shall always be so narrow-minded with
you ? I thought I loved you enough to be
magnanimous. Tou are. It seemed to me
that our lives together would be grand and
large; and here I am, grovelling in the
lowest selfishness! I am worrying and

I2S INDIAN SCTMMJCR.

scolding you because ^u wish to please
some one that has be^ as good as my own
mother to me. Do you call that noble ? "

Golville did 'not venture any reply to a
demand evidently addressed to her own con-
science.

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 I don't want you to
sympathise with me at all. When I ask for
your sympathy, it 's a sign that I don't de-
serve it. "

"Is that so?"

"Oh, be serious with me. I mean it.
And I want to beg your pardon for some-
thing."

"Yes; what's that?"

"Can't you guess ? "

"No."

" You needn't have your lapels silk -lined.
You needn't wear botUonniires,"

INDIAN SUMMEB. 1 29

** Oh, but I Ve had the coat changed."

" No matter ! Change it back ! It isn't
for me to make you over. I must make
myself over. It 's my right, it *s my sacred
privilege to conform to you in every way,
and I humble myself in the dust for having
forgotten it 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 another time ! From this out,
I shall dress more in keeping with you. I
boasted that I should live to comfort and
console you, to recompense you for the past,
and what have I been doing? Wearying
and degrading you ! "

" Oh no," pleaded Colville. ** I am very
comfortable. I don't need any compensation
for the past. I need — sleep. I 'm going to
bed to-night at eight o'clock, and I am going
to sleep twenty-four hours. Then I shall be
fresh for Mrs. Fleming's ball."

" I 'm not going," said Imogene briefly.

**0h 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 in the abs-

VOL. II. I

130 INDIAN SUMMEB.

traction of a sublime regret; she seemed
puzzled, bewildered at herself.

Colville got away. He felt the pathos of
the confusion and question to which he left
her, but he felt himself powerless against
it. There was but one solution to it all,
and that was impossible. He could only
grieve over her trouble, and wait; grieve
for the irrevocable loss which made her
trouble remote and impersonal to him, and
submit.

INDIAN SUMMER.

XVIII.

THE young clergyman whom Colville saw
talking to Imogens on his first even-
ing at Mrs. Bowen's had come back from
Rome, where he had been spending 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. The
suave house-priest manners of the young
clergyman offended Colville ; he could hardly
keep from sneering at his taste in art and
books, which in fact was rather conven-
tional; and no doubt Mr. Morton had his
own reserves, under which he was perfectly
civil, and only too deferential to Colville, as
to an older man. Since his return, Mrs.
Bowen had come back to her salon. She
looked haggard ; but she did what she
could to look otherwise. She was always
polite to Colville, and she was politely cor-
dial with the clergyman. Sometimes Col-
ville saw her driving out with him and
Effie ; they appeared to make excursions,

132 INDIAN SUMMEB.

and he had an impression, very obscure,
that Mrs. Bowen lent the young clergyman
money ; that he was a superstition of hers,
and she a patron of his ; he must have been
ten years younger than she ; not more than
twenty-five.

The first Sunday after his return, GolviUe
walked home with Mr. Waters from hearing
a sermon of Mr. Morton's, which they agreed
was rather well judged, 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 pre-
served that to its 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 shall so soon know all
about it that they don't move me. But at
times I think that if I were to live my life
over again, I would prefer to be of some
formal, some inflexibly ritualised, religion.
At solemnities — weddings and funerals — I
have been impressed with the advantage of
the Anglican rite : it is the Church speaking

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 33

to and for humanity — or seems so," he added,
with cheerful indifference. * ' Something in
its favour," he continued, after a while, "is
the influence that every ritualised faith has
with women. If they apprehend those mys-
teries more subtly than we, such a prefer-
ence of theirs must mean a good deal. Yes ;
the other Protestant systems are men's sys-
tems. Women must have form. They don't
care for freedom."

'* They appear to like the formalist too, as
well as the form," said Colville, with scorn
not obviously necessary.

" Oh yes ; they must have everything in
the concrete," said the old gentleman cheer-
fully.

** 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 used often to
meet him at her house. I think she has
helped him with money at times."

" Isn't that rather an unpleasant idea? "

"Yes; it's disagreeable. And it places
the ministry in a dependent attitude. But
under our system it 's unavoidable. Young
men devoting themselves to the ministry fre-
quently receive gifts of money."

"I don't like it," cried Colville. ,

134 INDIAN SUMBIEB.

"They don't feel it as others would. I
didn't myself. Even at present I may be
said to be living on charity. But sometimes
I have fancied that in Mr. Morton's case
there might be peculiarly mitigating cir-
cumstances. "

** What do you mean ? "

"When I met him first at Mrs. Bowen's
I used to think that it was Miss Graham in
whom he was interested '*

"I can assure you," interrupted Colville,
"that she was never interested in him."

" Oh no ; I didn't suppose that," returned
the old man tranquilly. " And I Ve since
had reason to revise my opinion. I think
he is interested in Mrs. Bowen."

" Mrs. Bowen ! And you think that
would be a mitigating circumstance in his
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 these
things too romantically. He probably
reasons that she would give him all her
money if they were married."

" But he has no right to reason in that
way," retorted Colville, with heat. "They
are not married ; it 's ignoble and unmanly

INDIAN SUMMER. I35

for him to count upon it. It 's preposterous.
She must be ten years older than he."

**0h, I don't say that they're to be
married," Mr. Waters replied. **But these
disparities of age frequently occur in mar-
riage. I don't like them, though sometimes
I think the evil is less when it is the wife
who is the elder. We look at youth and
age in a gross, material way too often.
Women remain young longer than men.
They keep their youthful sympathies ; an
old woman understands a young girL Do
you — or do I — understand a young man ? "

Colville laughed harshly. **It isn't quite
the same thing, Mr. Waters. But yes ; I 'U
admit, for the sake of argument, that I don*t
understand young men. I '11 go further, and
say that I don't like them ; I 'm afraid of
them. And you wouldn't think," he added
abruptly, "that it would be well for me to
marry a girl twenty years younger than my-
self."

The old man glanced up at him with inno-
cent slyness. **I prefer always to discuss
these things in an impersonal way."

" But you can't discuss them impersonally
with me ; I 'm engaged to Miss Graham.
Ever since you first found me here after I
told you I was going away I have wished to

136 INDIAN SUMMEB.

tell you this, and this seems as good a time
as any — or as bad." The defiance faded
from his voice, which dropped to a note of
weary sadness. "Yes, we're engaged — or
shall be, as soon as she can hear from her
family. I wanted to tell you because it
seemed somehow yonr due, and because I
fancied '^ou had a friendly interest in us
both."

** Yes, that is true," returned Mr. Waters.
**I wish you j6y." He went through the
form of offering his hand to Golville, who
pressed it with anxious fervour.

"I confess," he said, "that I feel the
risks of the afifoir. It 's not that I have any
dread for my own part ; I have lived my life,
such as it is. 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 afiGair that I had
here twenty years ago. It 's pretty of her,
but it*s terribly pathetic— it *s tragic. I
know very well that I 'm a middle-aged man,
and that there 's no more youth for me. I 'm
getting grey, and I *m getting fat ; I wouldn't
be young if I could ; it 's a bore. I suppose
I could keep up an illusion of youthfulness
for five or six years more ; and then if I

INDIAN SUMMEB. 1 37

conld be quietly chloroformed out of the way,
perhaps it wouldn't have been so very bad."

** I have always thought," said Mr. Waters
dreamily, '* that a good deal might be said
for abbreviating hopeless suffering. I have
known some very good people advocate its
practice by science."

**Yes," answered Colville. "Terhaps
I ve presented that point too prominently.
What I wished you to understand was that
I don't care for myself ; that I consider only
the happiness of this young girl that 's some-
how — I hardly know how — ^been put in my
keeping. I haven't forgotten the talks that
we Ve had heretofore on this subject, and it
would be affectation and bad taste in me to
ignore them. Don't be troubled at anything
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
do would be to break with her, to leave her.
But I know that I shall do nothing of the
kind ; I shall drift. The child is very dear
to me. She has great and noble qualities ;
she 's supremely unselfish ; she loves me
through her mistaken pity, and because she
thinks she can sacrifice herself to me. But
she can't. Everything is against that ; she
doesn't know how, and there is no reason

138 INDIAN SUMMEB.

why. I don't express it very well. I
think nobody clearly understands it bnt
Mrs. Bowen, and IVe somehow alienated
her. "

He became aware that his self-abnegation
was taking the character of self-pity, and
he stopped.

Mr. Waters seemed to be giving the sub-
ject serious attention in the silence that
ensued. ** There is this to be remembered,"
he began, ** which we don't consider in our
mere speculations upon any phase of human
affidrs ; and that is the wonderful degree of
amelioration that any given difficulty finds
in the realisation. It is the anticipation,
not the experience, that is the trial. In a
case of this kind, facts of temperament, of
mere association, of union, work unexpected
mitigations; they not only alleviate, they
allay. You say that she cherishes an illu-
sion concerning you : well, with women,
nothing is so indestructible as an illusion.
Give them any chance at all, and all the
forces of their nature combine to preserve
it. And if, as you say, she is so dear to
you, that in itself is almost sufficient. I can
well understand your misgivings, springing
as they do from a sensitive conscience ; but
we may reasonably hope that they are ex-

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 39

aggerated. Very probably there will not
be the rapture for her that there would be
if — if you were younger; but the chances
of final happiness are great — yes, very con-
siderable. She will learn to appreciate what
is really best in you, and you already under-
stand her. Your love for her is the key to
the future. Without that, of course "

"Oh, of course," interrupted Colville
hastily. Every touch of this comforter's
hand had been a sting ; and he parted with
him in that feeling of utter friendlessness
involving a man who has taken counsel
upon the confession of half his trouble.

Something in Mrs. Bowen*s manner when
he met her next made him think that per-
haps Imogene had been telling her of the
sympathy he had expressed for her ill-
health. It was in the evening, and Imo-
gene and Mr. Morton were looking over a
copy of The Marble Faun^ which he had il-
lustrated with photographs at Home. Imo-
gene asked Colville to look at it too, but he
said he would examine it later ; he had his
opinion of people who illustrated The Marble
Faun with photographs ; it surprised him
that she seemed to find something novel and
brilliant in the idea.

Effie Bowen looked round where she was

I40 INDIAN SUMMER.

kneeling on a chair beside the couple with
the book, and seeing Colville wandering
neglectedly about before he placed himself,
she jumped down and ran and caught hia
hand.

"Well, what now?" he asked, with a
dim smile, as she began to pull him toward
the sofa. When he should be expelled from
Palazzo Pinti he would really miss the
worship of that little thing. He knew that
her impulse had been to console him for his
exclusion from the pleasures that Imogene
and Mr. Morton were enjoying.

" Nothing. Just talk," she said, making
him fast in a comer of the sofa by 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 say spring,
now that it *8 coming on so nicely."

"Do you think I*m so changeable as
that ? Haven*t I always said winter when
this question of the seasons was up ? And
I say it now. Sha'n't you be awfully sorry
when you can't have a pleasant little fire on
the hearth like this any more ?"

"Yes; I know. But it*s very nice
having the flowers, too. The grass was all

INDIAN SUMMER. I4I

fall of daisies to-day — ^perfectly powdered
with them."

"To-day? Where?"

**At the Gascine. And in under the
trees there were millions of violets and
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 shut up, and the little
pink leaves outside made it look like a field
of red clover. Are you never going there
any more ? "

Mrs. Bowen came in. From the fact that
there was no greeting between her and Mr.
Morton, Colville inferred that she was re-
turning to the room after having already
been there. She stood a moment, with a
little uncertamty, when she had shaken
hands with him, and then dropped upon the
sofa beyond Effie. The little girl ran one
hand through Colville's arm, and the other
through her mother's, and gripped them
fast. "Now I have got you both," she
triumphed, and smiled first into her face,
and then into his.

"Be quiet, Efl&e," said her mother, but
she submitted.

"I hope you're better for your drive to-
day, Mrs. Bowen. EfiSe has been telling
me about it."

142 INDIAN SUMBIEB.

"We stayed out a long time. Yes, I
think the air did me good ; but I 'm not an
invalid, you know."

**Ohno."

''I'm feeling a little fagged. And the
weather was tempting. I suppose youVe
been taking one of your long walks."

" No, I Ve scarcely stirred out. I usually
feel like going to meet the spring 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 11 get away from Florence,"
said Colville.

**0h," she returned, with a faint flush,
*' I 'm afraid Imogene exaggerated that a
little." She added, ** You are very good."

She was treating him more kindly than
she had ever done since that Sunday after-
noon when he came in with Imogene to say
that he was going to stay. It might be
merely because she had worn out her mood
of severity, as people do, returning in good-
humour to those with whom they were of-
fended, merely through the reconciling force
of time. She did not look at him, but this
was better than meeting his eye with that
intercept ve glance. A strange peace touched

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 43

his heart. Imogene and the young clergy-
man at the table across the room were in-
tent on the book still; he was explaining
and expatiating, and she listening. Col-
ville saw 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 had been saying some-
thing ; 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 Morence, I think 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 Col-
ville : "I was thinking of Lausanne. Do
you know Lausanne at 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 Efl&e's fingers. ** It *s pleasant by the
lake, I suppose."

"It's lovely by the lake!" cried the

144 INDIAN SUMMEB.

child. '*0h, do go, mamma ! I could get
a boat and learn to row. Here you can't
row, the Amo *8 so swift."

" The air would bring you up," said Col-
ville to Mrs. Bowen. ** Switzerland's the
only country where you 're perfectly sure of
waking new every morning."

This idea interested the child. '* Waking
new ! " she repeated.

**Yes; perfectly made over. You wake
up another person. Shouldn't you think
that would be nice ? "

«*No."

"Well, I shouldn't, in your place. But
in mine, I much prefer to wake up another
person. Only it 's pretty hard on the other
person."

" How queer you are ! " The child set
her teeth for fondness of him, and seizing
his cheeks between her hands, squeezed
them hard, admiring the effect 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 very rude. I shall send you to
bed."

'* Oh no, don't, Mrs. Bowen," he begged.

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 45

'* I 'm responsible for these violences. Effie
used to be a very well behaved child before
she began playing with me. It's all my
fault."

They remained talking on the sofa to-
gether, while Imogene and Mr. Morton con-
tinued to interest themselves in the book.
From time to time she looked over at them,
and then turned again to the young clergy-
man, who, when he had closed the book,
rested his hands on its top and began to
give an animated account of something,
conjecturably his sojourn in Rome.

In a low voice, and with pauses adjusted
to the occasional silences of the young
people across the room, Mrs. Bowen told
Colville how Mr. Morton was introduced to
her by an old friend who was greatly in-
terested in 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 she were privy to the
conjecture that had come to the surface in
his talk with Mr. Waters, and wished him
to understand exactly how matters stood
with the young clergyman and herself. Col-
ville, indeed, began to be more tolerant of
him; he succeeded in praising the sermon
he had heard him preach.

VOL. II. K

146 INDIAN SUMMER.

*< Oh, he has talent," said Mrs. Bowen.

They fell into the old, almost domestic
strain, from which she broke at times with
an effort, but returning as if helplessly to it.
He had the gift of knowing how not to take
an advantage with women ; that sense of
onconstraint in them fought in his favour ;
when Effie dropped her head wearily against
his arm, her mother even laughed in sending
her ofif to bed ; she had hitherto been serious.
Imogene said she would go to see her tucked
in, and that sent the clergyman to say good-
night to Mrs. Bowen, and to put an end to
Ck)lville*s audience.

In these days, when Colville came every
night to Palazzo Pinti, he got back the tone
he had lost in the past fortnight. He thought
that it was the complete immunity from his
late pleasures, and the regular and sufficient
sleep, which had set him firmly on his feet
again, but he did not inquire very closely.
Imogene went two or three times, after she
had declared she would go no more, from
the necessity women feel of blunting the
edge of comment ; but Colville profited in-
stantly and fully by the release from the
parties which she offered him. He did not
go even to afternoon tea-drinkings ; the
"days" of the different ladies, which he

INDIAN SUMMER. I47

had been so diligent to observe, knew him
no more. At the hours when society as-
sembled in this house or that and inquired
for him, or wondered about him, he was
commonly taking a nap, and he was punctu-
ally in 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 met Imogene else-
where, and he found the house pleasanter
than it had ever been since the veglione.
Mrs. Bowen's relenting was not continuous,
however. There were times that seemed to
be times of question and of struggle with her,
when she vacillated between the old cordi-
ality and the later alienation ; when she
went beyond the former, or lapsed into
moods colder and more repellent than the
latter. It would have been difficult to mark
the moment when these struggles ceased*
altogether, and an evening passed in un-
broken kindness between them. But after-
wards Colville could remember an emotion of
grateful surprise at a subtle word or action
of hers in which she appeared to throw all
restraint — scruple or rancour, whichever it
might be — to the winds, and become per-
fectly his friend again. It must have been
by compliance with some wish or assent to

148 INDIAN SUMMER.

some opinion of his ; what he knew was
that he was not only permitted, he was in-
vited, to feel himself the most favoured
guest. The charming smUe, so small and
sweet, so very near to bitterness, came back
to her lips, the deeply fringed eyelids were
lifted to let the sunny eyes stream upon
him. She did, now, whatever he asked her.
She consulted his taste and judgment on
many points ; she consented to resume,
when she should be a little stronger, their
visits to the churches and galleries : it would
be a shame to go away from Florence with-
out knowing them thoroughly. It came to
her asking him to drive with her and Imo-
gene in the Cascine ; and when Imogene
made some excuse not to go, Mrs. Bowen
did not postpone the drive, but took Col-
ville and Effie.

They drove quite down to the end of the
Cascine, and got out there to admire the
gay monument, with the painted bust, of
the poor young Indian prince who died in
Florence. They strolled all about, talking
of the old times in the Cascine, twenty years
before ; and walking up the road beside the
canal, while the carriage slowly followed,
they stopped to enjoy the peasants lying
asleep in the grass on the other bank. Col-

INDIAN SUMMBR. I49

ville and Effie gathered wild-flowers, and
piled them in her mother's lap when she
remounted to the carriage and drove along
while they made excursions into the little
dingles beside the road. Some people who
overtook them in these sylvan pleasures re-
ported the fact at a reception to which they
were going, and Mrs. Amsden, whose mind
had been gradually clearing under the simul-
taneous withdrawal of Imogene and Colville
from society, professed herself again as
thickly clouded as a weather-glass before a
storm. She appealed to the sympathy of
others against this hardship.

Mrs. Bowen took CJolville home to dinner ;
Mr. Morton was coming, she said, and he
must come too. At table the young clergy-
man made her his compliment on her look
of health, and she said, Yes ; she had been
driving, and she believed that she needed
nothing but to be in the air a little more, as
she very well could, now the spring weather
was really coming. She said that they had
been talking all winter of going to Fiesole,
where Imogene had never been yet ; and upon
comparison it appeared that none of them
had yet been to Fiesole except herself. Then
they must all go together, she said ; the car-
riage would hold four very comfortably.

150 INDIAN SUMMER.

"Ah ! that leaves me out," said Colville,
who had caught sight of Effie's fallen coun-
tenance.

" Oh no. How is that ? It leaves Effie
out."

" It 's the same thing. But I might ride,
and Effie might give me her hand to hold
over the side of the carriage ; that would
sustain me."

**We could take her between us, Mrs.
Bowen," suggested Imogene. "The back
seat is wide."

" Then the party is made up," said Col-
ville, ''and Effie hasn't demeaned herself
by asking to go where she wasn't invited."

The child turned inquiringly toward her
mother, who met her with an indulgent smile,
which became a little flush of grateful appre-
ciation when it reached Colville ; but Mrs.
Bowen ignored Imogene in the matter alto-
gether.

The evening passed delightfully. Mr.
Morton had another book which he had
brought to show Imogene, and Mrs. Bowen
sat a long time at the piano, striking
this air and that of the songs which she
used to sing when she was a girl : Colville
was trjring to recall them. When he and
Imogene were left alone for their adieux,

INDIAN SUMMER. I5I

they approached each other in an estrange-
ment through which each tried to break.

** Why don't you scold me?" she asked.
** I have neglected you the whole evening."

" 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 its simplicity.

•* 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 ? "

**1 thought she was rather colder than
usual."

** Colder ! " The chill of the idea pene-
trated even through the density of Colville's
selfish content. A very complex emotion,
which took itself for 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 without praising
you."

152 INDIAN SUMMBB.

** Does she speak of me ? " asked the girl,
with her honest eyes wide open upon him.

"Why, no," Colville acknowledged.
"Come to reflect, it*s I who speak of you.
But how— how is she cold with you ? "

**0h, I dare sayit*s a delusion of mine.
Perhaps I 'm cold with her."

"Then don't he so, my dear! Be sure
that she's your friend — ^true and good.
Goodnight."

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 guly.

INDIAN SUMMER. I $3

XIX.

THE next time Golville came he found
himself alone with Imogene, who asked
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 devotion implied in it. After
a while she said : "Do you believe in courses
of reading? 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 my laurels if I were
you."

Imogene did not smile. "Mr. Morton
thinks I should enjoy a course of Kingsley.
He says he *8 very earnest."

" Oh, immensely. But aren't you earnest
enough already, my dear? "

154 INDIAN SUMMER.

** 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 criti-
cise in me ? Are you satisfied with me in
every way? You ought to think. You
ought to think now. Do you think that I
am doing right in all respects? Am I all
that I could be to you, 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 you take 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 should do. I

INDIAN SUMMER. 1$$

should have to begin to improve too, and I 'm
very comfortable as I am."

"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 her hand ; she
kept it from him, and removed to the
farthest comer of the sofa. Apparently,
however, her ideal did not admit of open
pique, and she went on trying to talk seri-
ously with him.

** You think, don't you, that we oughtn't
to let a day pass without storing away some
thought — suggestion "

"Oh, there's no hurry," he said lazily.
"Life is rather a long affidr — if you live.
There appears to be plenty of time, though
people say 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 for reading, why not read
when you're hungry, just as you eat?
Shouldn't you hate to take up a course of
roast beef, or a course of turkey ? "

"Very well, then," said Imogene. "I
shall not begin Ejngsley."

"Yes, do it. I dare say Mr. Morton's
quite right. He will look at these things

156 Iin)IAN SUHHEB.

more from your own point of view. All the
Kingsley novels are in the 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 some amends by a greater show of cordi-
ality than he felt. But he was glad of the
effort, for he began to like him as he talked
to him ; it was easy for him to like people ;
the young man showed sense and judgment,
and if he was a little academic in his mind
and manners, Colville tolerantly reflected
that some people seemed to be bom so, and
that he was probably not artificial, as he
had once imagined from the ecclesiastical
scrupulosity of his dress.

Imogene ebbed away to the piauo in the
comer of the room, and struck some chords
on it. At each stroke the young clergyman,
whose eyes had wandered a little toward
her from the first, seemed to vibrate in re-
sponse. The conversation became incohe-
rent before Mrs. Bowen joined them. Then,
by a series of illogical processes, the clergy-
man was standing beside Imogene at the

IHDIAN SUMMER. 1 57

piano, and Mrs. Bowen was sitting beside
Colville 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 with you — about
Imogene. "

"Yes," said Colville, not very eagerly.
At that moment he could have chosen
another topic.

** It is time that her mother should have
got my letter. In less than a fortnight 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 is absorbed in busi-
ness, and defers to her in everything."

"It isn't an unconmion American situa-
tion," said Colville, relieving his tension by
this excursion.

Mrs. Bowen ignored it. "I don't know
how she may look at the affair. She may
give her assent at once, or she may decide
that nothing has taken place till — she sees
you."

** I could hardly blame her for that," he
answered submissively.

" It isn't a question of that," said Mrs.

158 INDIAN SUMMER.

Bowen. " It 's a question of — others. Mr.
Morton was here before you came, and I
know he was interested in Imogene — I am
certain of it. He has come back, and he
sees no reason why he should not renew his
attentions."

** No— 0—0," 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 whose recent
absence Colville had found so comfortable,
** that I can't advise or suggest anything at
aU."

He was long and miserably silent. At
last, ** Did you ever think," he asked, " did
you ever suppose — that is to say, did you
ever suspect — that — 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 disposi-
tion to whistle.

"But that is nothing," she went on.
** People have many passing fiEincies. 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 sudden thought

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 59

flashed upon him. "Why shouldn't I go
away from Florence till Imogene hears from
her mother? That seemed to me right in
the first place. There is no tie that binds
her to me. I hold her to nothing. If she
finds in my absence that she likes this

young man better " An expression of

Mrs. Bowen's face stopped him. He per-
ceived that he had said something yery
shocking to her; he perceived that the
thing was shocking in itself, but it was not
that which he cared for. "I don't mean
that I won't hold myself true to her as long
as she will. I recognise my responsibility
fully. I know that I am answerable for all
this, and that no one else is ; and I am
ready to bear any penalty. But what I
can't bear is that you should misunderstand

me, that you should I have been so

wretched ever since you first began to
blame me for my part in this, tind so happy
this past fortnight that I can't — ^I vyonH —
go back to that state of things. No ; you
have no right to relent toward me, and
then fling me off as you have tried to
do to-night ! I have some feeling too
— some rights. You shall receive me as a
friend, or not at all ! How can I live if
you "

l6o INDIAN SUMMBB.

She had been making little efforts as if to
rise ; now she forced herself to her feet, and
ran from the room.

The young people looked up from their
music ; some wave of the sensation had
spread to them, but seeing Colville remain
seated, they went on with their playing till
he rose. Then Imogene called out, ''Isn*t
Mrs. Bowen coming back ? "

" I don't know ; I think not," answered
Oolville stupidly, standing where he had
risen.

She hastened questioning toward him.
* * What is the matter ? Isn't she well ? "

Mr. Morton's face expressed a polite share
in her anxiety.

"Oh yes; quite, I believe," Colville re-
plied.

"She heard Effie call, I suppose," sug-
gested the girl.

" Yes, yes 5 I think so ; that is — yes. I
must be going. Good night. "

He took her hand and went away, leaving
the clergyman still there ; but he lingered
only for a report from Mrs. Bowen, which
Imogene hurried to get. She sent word
that she would join them presently. But
Mr. Morton said that it was late already,
and he would beg Miss Graham to say good-

INDIAN SUMMER. l6l

night for him. When Mrs. Bowen returned
Imogene was alone.

She did not seem surprised or concerned
at that. '* Imogene, I have been talking 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 your en-
gagement. Then you must be prepared to
act."

"Act?"

"To make it known. Matters can't go
on as they have been going. I told Mr.
Colville that Mr. Morton ought to know at
once."

"Why ought he to know?" asked Imo-
gene, doubtless with that impulse to tem-
porise which is natural to the human soul in
questions of right and interest. 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. "No-
thing shall make me break it."

"Very well, then!" exclaimed Mrs.

VOL. II. L

1 62 nn>IAN SUMMER.

Bowen. "We need not wait for your
mother'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 I do. 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 go on 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 him be treated so. "

They were both silent. Then, "What
did Mr. Colville say ? " asked Imogene.

"He? I don't know that he said any-
thing. 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 teU 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 sufifer, and your
suffering will not help him."

INDIAN SUMMES. I63

Imogene trembled into her chidr again.

•* I see," said Mrs. Bowen bitterly, " how
it will be at last. It will be as 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
in which the occupancy of several people
leaves a room at the end of an evening.
She closed the piano, which Imogene had
forgot to shut, with a clash that jarred the
strings from their silence. " But I will do
it, and I wonder "

"You will speak to him?" faltered the
girl.

" Yes ! " returned Mrs. Bowen vehe-
mently, and arresting herself in her rapid
movements. **It won't do for you to tell
him, and you won't let Mr. Colville."

** No, I can't," said Imogene, slowly shak-
ing her head. " But I wUl discourage him ;
I will not see him any more." Mrs. Bowen
silently confronted her. ' ' I will not see any
one now till I have heard from home."

"And how will that help? He must
have some explanation, and I will have to
make it. What shall it be ? "

Imogene did not answer. She said: "I
will not have any one know what is between
me and Mr. Colville till I have heard from

164 INDIAN SUMMEB.

home. If they try to refuse, then it will be
for him to take me against their will. But
if he doesn't choose to do that, then he shall
be free, and I won't have him humiliated a
second time before the world. This time he
shall be the one to reject. And I don't care
who suffers. The more I prize the person,
the gladder I shall be ; and if I could sufifer
before evetybody I would. K people ever
find it out, I will tell them that it was he
who broke it off." She rose again from her
chair, and stood flushed and tiirilling with
the notion of her self-sacrifice. Out of the
tortuous complexity of the situation she had
evolved this brief triumph, in which she
rejoiced as if it were enduring success. But
she suddenly fell from it in the dust. *' Oh,
what can I do for him ? How can I make
him feel more and more that I would give
up anything, everything, for him ! It 's be-
cause he asks nothing and wants nothing
that it 's so hard ! If I could see that he
was unhappy, as I did once ! If I could see

that he was at all different since— since

Oh, what I dread is this smooth tranquillity !
If our lives could only be stormy and full of
cares and anxieties and troubles that I could
take on myself, then, then I shouldn't be
afraid of the future I But I 'm afraid they

INDIAN SUMMER. ie>5

won*t be so — ^no, I 'm afraid that they will
be easy and quiet, and then what shall I
do ? Mrs. Bowen, do you think he cares
forme?"

Mrs. Bowen turned white ; she did not

The girl wrung her hands. ** Sometimes
it seems as if he didn't — as if I had forced
myself on him through a mistake, and he
had taken me to save me from the shame of
knowing that I had made a mistake. Do
you think that is true? If you ican only

tell me that it isn't Or, no ! If it is

true, tell me that! That would be real
mercy. "

The other trembled, as if physically beaten
upon by this appeal. But she gathered her-
self together rigidly. ** How can I answer
you such a thing as that ? I mustn't listen
to you; you mustn't ask me." She turned
and left the girl standing still in her atti-
tude of imploring. But in her own room,
where she locked herself in, sobs mingled
with the laughter which broke crazily from
her lips as she removed this ribbon and that
jewel, and pulled the bracelets from her
wrists. A man would have plunged from
the house and walked the night away; a
woman must wear it out in her bed.

1 66 INDIAN SUMMER.

XX.

IK the morning Mrs. Bowen received a note
from her banker covering a despatch by
cable from America. It was from Imogene*s
mother; it acknowledged the letters they
had written, and announced that she sailed
that day for Liverpool. It was dated at
New York, and it was to be mferred that
after perhaps writing in answer to their
letters, she had suddenly made up her mind
to come out.

" Yes, that is it," said Imogene, to whom
Mrs. Bowen hastened with the despatch.
"Why should she have telegraphed to
you ? " she asked coldly, but with a latent
fire of resentment in her tone.

" You must ask her when she comes," re-
turned Mrs. Bowen, with all her gentleness.
** It won*t be long now."

They looked as if they had neither of them
slept; but the girl's vigil seemed to have
made her wild and fierce, like some bird

INDIAN SUMMER. 167

that has beat itself all night against its cage,
and still from time to time feebly strikes the
bars with its wings. Mrs. Bowen was
simply worn to apathy.

"What shall you do about this?" she
asked.

" Do about it ? Qh, I will think. I will
try not to trouble you."

** Imogene ! "

" I shall have to tell Mr. Colville. But I
don't know that I shall tell him at once.
Give me the despatch, please." She pos-
sessed herself of it greedily, offensively. " I
shall ask you not to speak of it."

** I will do whatever you wish."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Bowen left the room, but she turned
immediately to re-open the door she had
closed behind her.

"We were to have gone to Fiesole to-
morrow," she said inquiringly.

"We can still go if the day is fine,"
returned the girl. "Nothing is changed.
I wish very much to go. Couldn't we
go to-day?" she added, with eager defi-
ance.

"It's too late to-day," said Mrs. Bowen
quietly. " I will write to remind the gentle-
men."

1 68 INDIAN SUMMBB.

« Thank you. I wish we could have gone
to-day."

*' You can have the carriage if you wish
to drive anywhere," said Mrs. Bowen.

<*I will take Effie to see Mrs. Amsden."
But Imogene changed her mind, and went
to call upon two Misses Guicciardi, the
result of an international marriage, whom
Mrs. Bowen did not like very welL Imo-
gene drove with them to the Cascine, where
they bowed to a numerous military acquaint-
ance, and they asked her if Mrs. Bowen
would let her join them in a theatre party
that evening : they were New-Yorkers by
birth, and it was to be a theatre party in
the New York style ; they were to be chape-
roned by a young married lady ; two young
men cousins of theirs, just out from America,
had taken the box.

When Imogene returned home she told
Mrs. Bowen that she had accepted this in-
vitation. Mrs. Bowen said nothing, but
when one of the young men came up to
hand Imogene down to the carriage, which
was waiting with the others at the gate, she
could not have shown a greater tolerance of
his second-rate New Yorkiness if she had
been a Boston dowager ofifering him the
scrupulous hospitalities of her city.

INDIAN SUMMER. I69

Imogene came in at midnight ; she hummed
an air of the opera as she took ofif her wraps
and ornaments in her room, and this in the
quiet of the hour had a terrible, almost pro-
fane effect : it was as if some other kind of
girl had whistled. She showed the same
nonchalance at breakfast, where she was
prompt, and answered Mrs. Bowen's in-
quiries about her pleasure the night before
with a liveliness that ignored the polite re-
solution that prompted them.

Mr. Morton was the first to arrive, and if
his discouragement began at once, the first
steps masked themselves in a reckless wel-
come, which seemed to fill him with joy,
and Mrs; Bowen with silent perplexity. The
girl fan on about her evening at the opera,
and about the weather, and the excursion
they were going to make; and after an
apparently needless ado over the bouquet
which he brought her, together with one
for Mrs. Bowen, she put it into her belt,
and made Colville notice it when he came :
he had not thought to bring flowers.

He turned from her hilarity with anxious
question to Mrs. Bowen, who did not meet
his eye, and who snubbed Effie when the
child found occasion to whisper : ** / think
Imogene is acting very strangely, for her ;

I70 INDIAN SUMMER.

don't you, mamma? It seems as if going
with tiiose Goicciardi girls just once had
spoiled her."

*' Don't make remarks about people, Effie, "
said her mother sharply. '* It isn't nice in
little girls, and I don't want you to do it.
You talk too much lately. "

Effie turned grieving away from this re-
jection, and her face did not light up even
at the whimsical sympathy in Colville's face,
who saw that she had met a check of some
sort; he had to take her on his knee and
coax and kiss her before her wounded feel-
ings were visibly healed. He put her down
with a sighing wish that some one could take
him up and soothe his troubled sensibilities
too, and kept her hand in his while he sat
waiting for the last of those last moments
in which the hurrying delays of ladies pre-
paring for an excursion seem never to
end.

When they were ready to get into the car-
riage, the usual contest of self-sacrifice arose,
which Imogene terminated by mounting to
the front seat ; Mr. Morton hastened to take
the seat beside her, and Colville was left to
sit with Effie and her mother. '< You old
people will be safer back there," said Imo-
gene. It was a little joke which she ad-

INDIAN SUMMER. I7I

dressed to the child, but a gleam from her
eye as she turned to speak to the young man
at her side visited Colville in desperate de-
fiance. He wondered what she was about
in that allusion to an idea which she had
shrunk from so sensitively hitherto. But
he found himself in a situation which he
could not penetrate at any point. When he
spoke with Mrs. Bowen, it was with a dark
undercurrent of conjecture as to how and
when she expected him to tell Mr. Morton
of his relation to Imogene, or whether she
still expected him to do it ; when his eyes
fell upon the face of the young man, he de-
spaired as to the terms in which he should
put the fact ; any form in which he tacitly
dramatised it remained very embarrassing,
for he felt bound to say that while he held
himself promised in the matter, he did not
allow her to feel herself so.

A sky of American blueness and vastness,
a mellow sun, and a delicate breeze did all
that these things could for them, as they
began the long, devious climb of the hills
crowned by the ancient Etruscan city. At
first they were all in the constraint of their
own and one another's moods, known or
imi^gined, and no talk began till the young
clergyman turned to Imogene and asked,

172 INDIAN SUMMEB.

after a long look at the smiling landscape,
" What sort of weather do you suppose they
are having at BuffiJb to-day ? "

*'At BufiElaJo?" she repeated, as if the
place had only a dim existence in her re-
motest consciousness. '*0h ! The ice isn't
near out of the lake yet. You can't count
on it before the first of May. "

«And the first of May comes sooner or
later, according to the season, " said Colville.
'* I remember coming on once in the middle
of the month, and the river was so full of ice
between Niagara Falls and Buffalo that I
had to shut the car window that I 'd kept
open all the way through Southern Canada.
But we have very little of that local weather
at home ; our weather is as democratic and
continental as our political constitution.
Here it 's March or May any time from Sep-
tember till June, according as there 's snow
on the mountains or not."

The young man smiled. ''But don't you
like," he asked with deference, ** this slow,
orderly advance of the Italian spring, where
the flowers seem to come out one by one,
and every blossom has its appointed time ? "

" Oh yes, it *s very well in its way ; but I
prefer the rush of the American spring ; no
thought of mild weather this morning; a

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 73

warm, gnsty rain to-morrow night; day
after to-morrow a burst of blossoms and
flowers and young leaves and birds. I don't
know whether we were made for our climate
or our climate was made for us, but its im-
patience and lavishness seem to answer some
inner demand of our go-ahead souls. This
happens to be the week of the peach blossoms
here, and you see their pink everywhere to-
day, and you don't see anything else in the
blossom line. But imagine the American
spring abandoning a whole week of her pre-
cious time to the exclusive use of peach
blossoms. ! She wouldn't do it ; she 's got
too many other things on hand."

Effie had stretched out over Colville's lap,
and with her elbow sunk deep in his knee,
was resting her chin in her hand and taking
the facts of the landscape thoroughly in.
" Do they have just a week ? " she asked.

" Not an hour more or less," said Colville.
*' If they found an almond blossom hanging
round anywhere after their time came, they
would make an awful row ; and if any lazy
little peach-blow hadn't got out by the time
their week was up, it would have to stay in
till next year ; the pear blossoms wouldn't
let it come out."

"Wouldn't they ?" murmured the child.

174 INDIAN SUMMEB.

in dreamy sympathy with this belated peach-
blow.

**Well, that's what people say. In
America it would be allowed to come out
any time. It 's a free country."

Mrs. Bowen offered to draw Effie back to
a posture of more decorum, but Colville put
his arm round the little girl. " OJfi, let her
stay ! It doesn't inconmiode me, and she
must be getting such a novel effect of the
landscape."

The mother fell back into her former
attitude of jaded passivity. He wondered
whether she had changed her mind about
having him speak to Mr. Morton ; her quies-
cence might well have been indifference ;
one could have said, knowing the whole
situation, that she had made up her mind
to let things take their course, and struggle
with them no longer.

He could not believe that she felt content
with him ; she must feel far otherwise ; and
he took refuge, as he had the power of doing,
from the discomfort of his own thoughts in
jesting with the child, and mocking her
with this extravagance and that; the dis-
comfort then became merely a dull ache
that insisted upon itself at intervals, like a
grumbling tooth.

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 75

The prospect was full of that mingled
wildness and subordination that gives its
supreme charm to the Italian landscape ;
and without elements of great variety, it
combined them in infinite picturesqueness.
There were olive orchards and vineyards,
and again vineyards and olive orchards.
Goser to tl;e farm-houses and cottages there
were peaches and other fruit trees and
kitchen-gardens ; broad ribbons of grain
waved between the ranks of trees ; around
the white villas the spires of the cypresses
pierced the blue air. Now and then they
came to a villa with weather-beaten statues
strutting about its parterres. A mild, plea-
sant heat brooded upon the fields and roofs,
and the city, dropping lower and lower as
they mounted, softened and blended its
towers and monuments in a sombre ma^s
shot with gleams of white.

Golville spoke to Imogene, who withdrew
her eyes from it with a sigh, after long
brooding upon the scene. *' You can do no-
thing with it, I see."

"With what?"

"The landscape. It's too full of every
possible interest. What a history is written
all over it, public and private ! If you don't
take it simply like any other landscape, it

176 INDIAN SUMMBB.

becomes an oppression. It's well that
tourists come to Italy so ignorant, and keep
so. Otherwise they couldn't live to get
home again ; the past would crush them."

Imogene scrutinised him as if to extract
some personal meaning from his words, and
then turned her head away. The clergyman
addressed him with what was like a respect-
ful toleration of the drolleries of a gifted but
eccentric man, the flavour of whose talk he
was beginning to taste.

*• You don't really mean that one shouldn't
come to Italy as well informed as possible ? "

"WeU, I did," said Colville, "but I
don't."

The young man pondered this, and Imo-
gene started up with an air of rescuing them
from each other — as if she would not let Mr.
Morton think Colville trivial or Colville con-
sider the clergyman stupid, but would do
what she could to take their minds off the
whole question. Perhaps she was not very
clear as to how this was to be done ; at any
rate she did not speak, and Mrs. Bowen came
to her support, from whatever motive of her
own. It might have been from a sense of
the injustice of letting Mr. Morton suffer
from the complications that involved herself
and the others. The affair had been going

INDIAN SUHMEB. l^^

very hitchily ever since they started, with
the burden of the conversation left to the
two men and that helpless girl ; if it were
not to be altogether a failure she must in-
terfere.

" Did you ever hear of Gratiano when you
were in Venice ? " she asked Mr. Morton.

" Is he one of their new water-colourists ? "
returned the young man. " I heard they
had quite a school there now. "

**No," said Mrs. Bowen, ignoring her
failure as well as she could; ''he was a
famous talker; he loved to speak an infi-
nite deal of nothing more than any man in
Venice."

" An ancestor of mine, Mr. Morton," said
Colville ; "a poor, honest man, who did his
best to make people forget that the ladies
were silent. Thank you, Mrs. Bowen, for
mentioning him. I wish he were with us
to-day."

The young man laughed. " Oh, in the
Merchant of Venice / "

** No other," said Colville.

** I confess," said Mrs. Bowen, ** that I am
rather stupid this morning. I suppose it 's
the softness of the air ; it 's been harsh and
irritating so long. It makes me drowsy."

* * Don't mind ua, " returned Colville. * * We

VOL. II. M

178 INDIAN SUMMER.

will call you at important points." They
were driving into a village at which people
stop sometimes to admire the works of art

in its church. "Here, for example, is

What place is this ? " he asked of the coach-
man.

** San Domenico."

'* I should know it again by its beggars.*'
Of all ages and sexes they swarmed round
the carriage, which the driver had instinc-
tively slowed to oblige them, and thrust
forward their hands and hats. Colville gave
Effie his small change to distribute among
them, at sight of which they streamed down
the street from every direction. Those who
had received brought forward the halt and
blind, and did not scruple to propose being
rewarded for this service. At the same time
they did not mind his laughing in their
faces ; they laughed too, and went ofif con-
tent, or as nearly so as beggars ever are. He
buttoned up his pocket as they drove on more
rapidly. *' I am the only person of no prin-
ciple — except Effie — in the carriage, and yet
I am at this moment carrying more blessings
out of this village than I shall ever know
what to do with. Mrs. Bowen, I know, is
regarding me with severe disapproval She
thinks that I ought to have sent the beggars

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 79

of San Domenico to Florence, where they
would all be shut up in the Pia Casa di
Ricovero, and taught some useful occupa-
tion. It's terrible in Florence. You can
walk through Florence now and have no
appeal made to your better nature that is
not made at the appellant's risk of imprison-
ment. When I was there before, you had
opportunities of giving at every turn."

** You can send a cheque to the Pia Casa,"
said Mrs. Bowen.

"Ah, but what good would that do me?
When I give I want the pleasure of it; I
want to see my beneficiary cringe under my
bounty. But I 've tried in vain to convince
you that the world has gone wrong in other
ways. Do you remember the one-armed
man whom we used to give to on the Lung'
Amo ? That persevering sufferer has been
repeatedly arrested for mendicancy, and
obliged to pay a fine out of his hard earnings
to escape being sent to your Pia Casa."

Mrs. Bowen smiled, and said, Was he
living yet ? in a pensive tone of reminiscence.
She was even more than patient of Oolville's
nonsense. It seemed to him that the light
under her eyelids was sometimes a grateful
light. Confronting Imogene and the young
man whose hopes of her he was to destroy

l8o INDIAN SUMMER.

at the first opportunity, the lurid moral
atmosphere which he breathed seemed
threatening to become a thing apparent to
sense, and to be about to blot the landscape.
He fought it back as best he could, and
kept the hovering cloud from touching the
earth by incessant eiSbrt. At times he
looked over the side of the carriage, and
drew secretly a long breath of fatigue. It
began to be borne in upon him that these
ladies were using him ill in leaving him the
burden of their entertainment. He became
angiTt but his heart softened, and he for-
gave them again, for he conjectured that he
was the cause of the cares that kept them
silent. He felt certain that the afiEur had
taken some new turn. He wondered if Mrs.
Bowen had told Imogene what she had de-
manded of him. But he could only conjec-
ture and wonder in the dreary undercurrent
of thought that flowed evenly and darkly on
with the talk he kept going. He made the
most he could of the varying views of Flor-
ence which the turns and mounting levels
of the road gave him. He became affection-
ately grateful to the young clergyman when
he replied promptly and fully, and took an
interest in the objects or subjects he brought
up.

INDIAN SUMMER. l8l

Neither Mrs. Bowen nor Imogene was
altogether silent. The one helped on at
times wearily, and the other broke at times
from her abstraction. Doubtless the girl
had undertaken too much in insisting upon
a party of pleasure with her mind full of so
many things, and doubtless Mrs. Bowen was
sore with a rankling resentment at her insist-
ence, and vexed at herself for having yielded
to it. If at her time of life, and with all her
experience of it, she could not rise under this
inner load, Imogene must have been crushed
by it.

Her starts from the dreamy oppression, if
that were what kept her silent, took the
form of aggression, when she disagreed with
Golville about things he was saying, or at-
tacked him for this or that thing which he
had said in times past. It was an unhappy
and unamiable self-assertion, which he was
not able to compassionate so much when she
resisted or defied Mrs. Bowen, as she seemed
seeking to do at every point. Perhaps
another would not have felt it so : it must
have been largely in his consciousness ; the
young clergyman seemed not to see anything
in these bursts but the indulgence of a gay
caprice, though his laughing at them did not
alleviate the effect to Colville, who, when he

l82 INDIAN SUMHEB.

turned to Mrs. Bowen for her alliance, was
astonished with a prompt snub, unmistak-
able to himself, however imperceptible to
others.

He found what diversion and comfort he
could in the party of children who beset
them at a point near the town, and followed
the carriage, trying to sell them various light
and useless trifles made of straw — fans,
baskets, parasols, and the like. He bought
recklessly of them and gave them to EfiSe,
whom he assured, without the applause of
the ladies, and with the grave question of
the young clergyman, that the vendors were
little Etruscan girls, all at least twenty-five
hundred years old. ** It *s very hard to find
any Etruscans under that age ; most of the
grown-up people are three thousand."

The child humoured his extravagance
with the faith in fable which children are
able to command, and said, *'0h, tell me
about them ! " while she pushed up closer to
him, and began to admire her presents,
holding them up before her, and dwelling
fondly upon them one by one.

** Oh, there *8 very little to tell," answered
Colville. "They're mighty dose people,
and always keep themselves very much to
themselves. But wouldn't you like to see a

INDIAN SUMMBB. 1 8$

party of Etruscans of all ages, even down to
little babies only eleven or twelve hundred
years old, come driving into an American
town ? It would make a great excitement,
wouldn't it?"

** It would be splendid."

** Yes ; we would give them a collation in
the basement of the City Hall, and drive
them out to the cemetery. The Americans
and Etruscans are very much alike in that —
they always show you their tombs."

"Will they in Fiesole ? "

** How you always like to buiTow into the
past ! " interrupted Imogene.

" Well, it 's rather difficult burrowing into
the future," returned Colville defensively.
Accepting the challenge, he added : '* Yes,
I should really like to meet a few Etruscans
in Fiesole this morning. I should feel as if
I 'd got amongst my contemporaries at last ;
they would understand me."

The girl's face flushed. " Then no one
else can understand you ? "

** Apparently not. I am the great Ameri-
can incompris. "

** I 'm sorry for you," she returned feebly ;
and, in fact, sarcasm was not her strong
point.

When they entered the town they found

184 INDIAN SUMMER.

the Etruscans preoccupied with other visi-
tors, whom at various points in the quaint
little piazza they surrounded in dense groups,
to their own disadvantage as guides and
beggars and dealers in straw goods. One of
the groups reluctantly dispersed to devote
itself to the new arrivals, and these then
perceived that it was a party of artists,
scattered about and sketching, which had
absorbed the attention of the population.
Golville went to the restaurant to order
lunch, leaving the ladies to the care of Mr.
Morton. When he came back he found tlie
carriage surrounded by the artists, who had
turned out to be the Inglehart boys. They
had walked up to Fiesole the afternoon be-
fore, and they had been sketching there all
the morning. With the artist's indifiference
to the conventional objects of interest, they
were still ignorant of what ought to be seen
in Fiesole by tourists, and they accepted
Golville's proposition to be of his party in
going the rounds of the Cathedral, the
Museum, and the view from that point of
the wall called the Belvedere. They found
that they had been at the Belvedere before
without knowing that it merited particular
recognition, and some of them had made
sketches from it — of bits of architecture and

INDIAN SUMMER. 185

landscape, and of figure amongst the women
with straw fans and baskets to sell, who
thronged round the whole party again, and
interrupted the prospect. In the church
they dififered amongst themselves as to the
best bits for study, and Colville listened in
whimsical despair to the enthusiasm of their
likings and dislikings. All that was so far
from him now ; but in the Museum, which
had only a thin interest based upon a small
collection of art and archaeology, he suffered
a real affliction in the presence of a young
Italian couple, who were probably plighted
lovers. They went before a grey-haired
pair, who might have been the girl's father
and mother, and they looked at none of the
objects, though they regularly stopped be-
fore them and waited till their guide had
said his say about them. The girl, clinging
tight to the young man's arm, knew nothing
but him ; her mouth and eyes were set in a
passionate concentration of her being upon
him, and he seemed to walk in a dream of
her. From time to time they peered upon
each other's faces, and then they paused,
rapt and indifferent to all besides.

The young painters had their jokes about
it ; even Mr. Morton smiled, and Mrs.
Bowen recognised it. But Imogene did not

1 86 INDIAN SUBfHER.

smile ; she regarded the lovers with an in-
terest in them scarcely less intense than
their interest in each other ; and a cold per-
spiration of question broke out on Colville^s
forehead. Was that her ideal of what her
own engagement should be? Had she ex-
pected him to behave in that way to her,
and to accept from her a devotion like that
girl's? How bitterly he must have disap-
pointed her ! It was so impossible to him
that the thought of it made him feel that
he must break all ties which bound him
to anything like it. And yet he reflected
that the time was when he could have been
equal to that, and even more.

After lunch the painters joined them again,
and they all went together to visit the ruins
of the Roman theatre and the stretch of
Etruscan wall beyond it. The former seems
older than the latter, whose huge blocks of
stone lie as firmly and evenly in their courses
as if placed there a year ago ; the turf creeps
to the edge at top, and some smaU trees nod
along the crest of the wall, whose ancient
face, clean and bare, looks sternly out over
a vast prospect, now young and smiling in
the first delight of spring. The piety or in-
terest of the community, which guards the
entrance to the theatre by a fee of certain

INDIAN SUMMER. 1 87

centesimi, may be concerned in keeping the
wall free from the grass and vines which
are stealing the half -excavated arena back
to forgetfulness and decay ; but whatever
agency it was, it weakened the appeal that
the wall made to the sympathy of the spec-
tators. They could do nothing with it ; the
artists did not take their sketch-blocks from
their pockets. But in the theatre, where a
few broken columns marked the place of the
stage, and the stone benches of the audito-
rium were here and there reached by a flight
of uncovered steps, the human interest re-
turned.

'* I suspect that there is such a thing as a
ruin's being too old," said Colville. "Our
Etruscan friends made the mistake of build-
ing their wall several thousand years too
soon for our purpose."

**Yes," consented the young clergyman.
'*It seems as if our own race became alien-
ated from us through the mere effect of
time, don't you think, sir? I mean, of
course, terrestrially."

The artists looked uneasy, as if they had
not counted upon anything of this kind, and
they began to scatter about for points of
view. Effie got her mother's leave to run
up and down one of the stairways, if she

1 88 INDIAN SUMMER.

would not fall. Mrs. Bowen sat down on
one of the lower steps, and Mr. Morton took
his place respectfully near her.

** I wonder how it looks from the top?"
Imogene asked this of Colville, with more
meaning than seemed to belong to the ques-
tion properly.

*' There is nothing like going to see," he
suggested. He helped her up, giving her
his hand from one course of seats to another.
When they reached the point which com-
manded the best view of the whole, she sat
down, and he sank at her feet, but they did
not speak of the view.

•* Theodore, I want to tell you something,"
she said abruptly. "I have heard from
home."

'* Yes ? " he replied, in a tone in which he
did his best to express a readiness for any
fate.

** Mother has telegraphed. She is coming
out. She is on her way now. She will be
here very soon."

Colville did not know exactly what to
say to these passionately consecutive state-
ments. ** Well ?" he said at last.

** Well " — she repeated his word — ** what
do you intend to do ? "

** Intend to do in what event?" he asked,

INDIAN SITMHEB. 189

lifting his eyes for the first time to the eyes
which he felt burning down upon him.

" U she should refuse.'*

Again he could not command an instant
answer, but when it came it was a fair one.
** It isn't for me to say what I shall do," he
replied gravely. " Or, if it is, I can only
say that I will do whatever you wish."

" Do you wish nothing ? "

** Nothing but your happiness."

"Nothing but my happiness!" she re-
torted. **What is my happiness to me?
Have I ever sought it ? "

"I can't say," he answered; "but if I
did not think you would find it "

"I shall find it, if ever I find it, in yours,"
she interrupted. " And what shall you do
if my mother will not consent to our engage-
ment?"

The experienced and sophisticated man —
for that in no ill way was what Colville
was— felt himself on trial for his honour
and his manhood by this simple girl, this
child. He could not endure to fall short of
her ideal of him at that moment, no matter
what error or calamity the fulfilment in-
volved. "K you feel sure that you love
me, Imogene, it will make no difference to
me what your mother says. I would be

190 INDIAN SUMMER.

glad of her consent ; I should hate to go
counter to her will ; but I know that I am
good enough man to be true and keep you
all my life the first in all my thoughts, and
that 's enough for me. But if you have any
fear, any doubt of yourself, now is the
time "

Imogene rose to her feet as in some tur-
moil of thought or emotion that would not
suffer her to remain quiet.

** Oh, keep still ! " " Don't get up yet ! "
"Hold on a minute, please !'* came from
the artists in different parts of the theatre,
and half a dozen imploring pencils were
waved in the air.

" They are sketching you, " said Colville,
and she sank compliantly into her seat
again.

**I have no doubt for myself — no," she
said, as if there had been no interruption.

** Then we need have no anxiety in meet-
ing your mother," said Colville, with a light
sigh, after a moment's pause. ''What
makes you think she will be unfavour-
able?"

" I don't think that ; but I thought— I
didn't know but "

"What?"

** Nothing, now." Her lips were quiver-

INDIAN SUBfMEB. 191

ing ; he coald see her struggle for self-con-
trol, bat he coald not see it unmoved.

** Poor child ! " he said, putting out his
hand toward her.

** Don't take my hand ; they 're all look-
ing," she begged.

He forbore, and they remained silent and
motionless a little while, before she had re-
covered herself sufficiently to speak again.

'*Then we are promised to each other,
whatever happens," she said.

"Yes."

** And we will never speak of this again.
But there is one thing. Did Mrs. Bowen
ask you to tell Mr. Morton of our engage-
ment?"

*' She said that I ought to do so."

" And did you say you would ? "

"I don't know. But I suppose I ought
to tell him."

** I don't wish you to ! " cried the girL

" You don't wish me to teU him ? "

** No ; I will not have it ! "

"Oh, very well; it's much easier not.
But it seems to me that it's only fair to
him."

•*Did you think of that yourself?" she
demanded fiercely.

"No," returned Colville, with sad self-

202 INDIAN SUMMBS,

and her clear gaze grew troubled. But she
apparently girded herself for the struggle.
<< As far as you are concerned, Mr. Golville,
I have not a word to say. Your conduct
throughout has been most high-minded and
considerate and delicate."

It is hard for any man to deny merits
attributed to him, especially if he has been
ascribing to himself the opposite demerits.
But Golville summoned his dispersed forces
to protest against this.

** Oh, no, no," he cried. ** Anything but
that. My conduct has been selfish and
shameful. K you could understand all "

*' I think I do understand all — at least far
more, I regret to say, than my daughter has
been willing to tell me. And I am more
than satisfied with you. I thank you and
honour you."

" Oh no ; don't say that," pleaded Gol-
ville. '* I really can't stand it."

« And when I came here it was with the
full intention of approving and confirming
Imogene's decbion. But I was met at once
by a painful and surprising state of things.
You are aware that you have been very sick? "

"Dimly," said GolviUe.

'* I found you very sick, and I found my
daughter frantic at the error which she had

INDIAN SUMMEB. 203

discovered in herself — discovered too late,
as she felt." Mrs. Graham hesitated, and
then added abruptly, ''She had found out
that she did not love you."

"Didn't love me?" repeated Colville
feebly.

"She had been conscious of the truth
before, but she had stifled her misgivings
insanely, and, as I feel, almost wickedly,
pushing on, and saying to herself that when
you were married, then there would be no
escape, and she mtist love you.'*

** Poor girl ! poor child ! I see, I see."

" But the accident that was almost your
death saved her from that miserable folly
and iniquity. Yes," she continued, in an-
swer to the protest in his face, " folly and
iniquity. I found her half crazed at your
bedside. She was fully aware of your
danger, but while she was feeling all the
remorse that she ought to feel — that any
one could feel — she was more and more con-
vinced that she never had loved you and
never should. I can give you no idea of her
state of mind."

** Oh, you needn't I you needn't I Poor,
poor child ! "

** Yes, a child indeed. If it had not been
for the pity I felt for her But no matter

204 INDIAN SUMMSB.

about that. She saw at last that if your
heroic devotion to her" — Colville did his
best to hang his pillowed head for shame —
" if your present danger did not awaken her
to some such feeling for you as she had once
imagined she had ; if they both only in-
creased her despair and self-abhorrence,
then the case was indeed hopeless. She
was simply distracted. I had to tear her
away almost by force. She has had a nar-
row escape from brain-fever. And now I
have come to implore, to dematid** — ^Mrs.
Graham, with all her poise and calm, was
rising to the hysterical key — "her release
fi'om a fate that would be worse than death
for such a girl. I mean marrying without
the love of her whole soul. She esteems
you, she respects you, she admires you, she

likes you ; but " Mrs. Graham pressed

her Hps together, and her eyes shone.

** She is free," said Colville, and with the
words a mighty load rolled from his heart.
** There is no need to demand anything."

"I know."

" There hasn*t been an hour, an instant,
during — since I — we — spoke together that I
wouldn't have released her if I could have
known what you tell me now."

" Of course !— of course I "

INDIAN STJMMEB. 20$

" I have had my fears — my doubts ; but
whenever I approached the point I found no
avenue by which we could reach a clearer
understanding. I could not say much with-
out seeming to seek for myself the release I
was o£fering her."

''Naturally. And what added to her
wretchedness was the suspicion at the bot-
tom of all that she had somehow forced
herself upon you — misunderstood you, and
made you say and do things to spare her
that you would not have done voluntarily."
This was advanced tentatively. In the midst
of his sophistications Colville had, as most
of his sex have, a native, fatal, helpless
truthfulness, which betrayed him at the
most unexpected moments, and this must
now have appeared in his countenance.
The lady rose haughtily. She had appar-
ently been considering him, but, after all,
she must have been really considering her
daughter. "If anything of the kind was
the case," she said, **I will ask you to
spare her the killing knowledge. It 's quite
enough for me to know it. And allow me
to say, Mr. Colville, that it would have
been far kinder in you "

*' Ah, think, my dear madam ! " he ex-
claimed. " How cotUd I ? "

206 INDIAN SUMMER.

She did think, evidently, and when she
spoke it was with a generous emotion, in
which there was no trace of pique.

"You couldn't. You have done right ; I
feel that, and I will trust you to say any-
thing you will to my daughter."
. " To your daughter ? Shall I see her ? "

" She came with me. She wished to beg
your forgiveness."

Golville lay silent. "There is no forgive-
ness to be asked or granted," he said, at
length. "Why should she suffer the pain
of seeing me? — for it would be nothing
else. What do you think ? Will it do
her any good hereafter? I don't care for
myself."

"I don't know what to think," said Mrs.
Graham. "She is a strange child. She
may have some idea of reparation."

" Oh, beseech her from me not to imagine
that any reparation is due ! Where there
has been an error there must be blame ; but
wherever it lies in ours, I am sure it isn't at
her door. Tell her I say this ; tell her that
I acquit her with all my heart of every
shadow of wrong ; that I am not unhappy,
but glad for her sake and my own that this
has ended as it has." He stretched his left
hand across the coverlet to her, and said,

INDIAN SUMMEB. 207

with the feebleness of exhaustion, "Good-
bye. Bid her good-bye for me."

Mrs. Graham pressed his hand and went
out. A moment after the door was flung
open, and Imogene burst into the room.
She threw herself on her knees besid^ his
bed. " I will pray to you ! " she said, h6r
face intense with the passions working in
her soul. She seemed choking with words
which would not come ; then, with an inar-
ticulate cry that must stand for all, she
caught up the hand that lay limp on the
coverlet ; she crushed it against her lips,
and ran out of the room.

He sank into a deathly torpor, the physi-
cal refusal of his brain to take account of
what had passed. When he woke from it,
little Effie Bowen was airily tiptoeing about
the room, fondly retouching its perfect
order. He closed his eyes, and felt her
come to him and smooth the sheet softly
under his chin. Then he knew she must be
standing with clasped hands admiring the
e£fect. Some one called her in whisper from
the door. It closed, and all was still again.

198 * INDIAN SUMMER.

and to spare himself ; and there were some
things about the affair which gave him a
singular and perhaps not wholly sane con-
tent. One of these was the man nurse who
had evidently taken care of him throughout.
He celebrated, whenever he looked at this
capable person, his escape from being, in
the odious helplessness of sickness, a burden
upon the strength and sympathy of the two
women for whom he had otherwise made so
much trouble. His satisfaction in this had
much to do with his recovery, which, when
it once began, progressed rapidly to a point
where he was told that Imogene and her
mother were at a hotel in Florence, waiting
till he should be strong enough to see them.
It was Mrs. Bowen who told him this with
an air which she visibly strove to render
non-committal and impersonal, but which
betrayed, nevertheless, a faint apprehension
for the effect upon him. The attitude of
Imogene and her mother was certainly not
one to have been expected of people holding
their nominal relation to him, but Ck>lville
had been revising his impressions of events
on the day of his accident ; Imogene's last
look came back to him, and he could not
think the situation altogether unaccount-
able.

INDIAN SUHMBB. t^g

"Have I been here a long time?" he
asked, as if he had not heeded what she
told him.

"About a fortnight," answered Mrs.
Bowen.

"And Imogene— how long has she been
away ? "

" Since they knew you would get well."

"I will see them any time," he said
quietly.

« Do you think you are strong enough ? "

"I shall never be stronger till I have
seen them," he returned, with a glance at
her. "Yes ; I want them to come to-day.
I shall not be excited ; don't be troubled —
if you were going to be, " he added. ' ' Please
send to them at once."

Mrs. Bowen hesitated, but after a moment
left the room. She returned in half an hour
with a lady who revealed even to ColviUe's
languid regard evidences of the character
which Mrs. Bowen had attributed to Imo-
gene's mother. She was a large, robust
person, laced to sufiELcient shapeliness, and
she was well and simply dressed. She
entered the room with a waft of some dean,
wholesome perfume, and a quiet tempera
ment and perfect health looked out of hei
clear, honest eyes — the eyes of Imogene

206 INDIAN SUMMEB.

Graham, though the girl's were dark and
the woman's were bine. When Mrs. Bowen
had named them to each other, in withdraw-
ing, Mrs. Graham took Golville's weak left
hand in her fresh, strong right, and then
lifted herself a chair to his bedside, and sat
down.

"How do you do to-day, sir?" she said,
with a touch of old-fashioned respectfulness
in the last word. " Do you think you are
quite strong enough to talk with me ? "

"I think so," said Colville, with a faint
smUe. "At least I can listen with forti-
tude."

Mrs. Graham was not apparently a person
adapted to joking. " I don't know whether
it will require much fortitude to hear what
I have to say or not," she said, with her
keen gaze fixed upon him. "It's simply
this : I am going to take Imogene home."

She seemed to expect that Colville would
make some reply to this, and he said blankly,
"Yes?"

" I came out prepared to consent to what
she wished, after I had seen you, and satis-
fied myself that she was not mistaken ; for I
had always pnMnised myself that her choice
should be perfectly untrammelled, and I
have tried to bring her up with principles

INDIAN SUMMEB. 20I

and ideas that would enable her to make a
good choice."

" Yes, " said Colville again. " I *m afraid
yon didn't take her temperament and her
youth into account, and that she disap-
pointed you."

" No ; I can't say that she did. It isn't
that at all. I see no reason to blame her
for her choice. Her mistake was of another
kind."

It appeared to Colville that this very
sensible and judicial lady found an intellec-
tual pleasure in the analysis of the case,
which modified the intensily of her maternal
feeling in regard to it, and that, like many
people who talk well, she liked to hear her-
self talk in the presence of another appre-
ciative listener. He did not offer to inter-
rupt her, and she went on. "No, sir, I
am not disappointed in her choice. I think
her chances of happiness would have been
greater, in the abstract, with one nearer her
own age ; but that is a difference which
other things affect so much that it did not
alarm me greatly. Some people are younger
at your age than at hers. No, sir, that is
not the point." Mrs. Graham fetched a
sigh, as if she found it easier to say what
was not the point than to say what was,

202 INDIAN SU:

and her clear gaze grew troubled. But she
apparently girded herself for the struggle.
*' As far as you are concerned, Mr. Colville,
I have not a word to say. Your conduct
throughout has been most high-minded and
considerate and delicate.**

It is hard for any man to deny merits
attributed to him, especially if he has been
ascribing to himself the opposite demerits.
But Colville summoned his dispersed forces
to protest against this.

** Oh, no, no," he cried. " Anything but
that. My conduct has been selfish and
shamefuL If you could understand all '*

*' I think I do understand all — at least far
more, I regret to say, than my daughter has
been willing to tell me. And I am more
than satisfied with you. I thank you and
honour you."

" Oh no ; don't say that," pleaded Col-
viUe. '* I really can't stand it. "

" And when I came here it was with the
full intention of approving and confirming
Imogene's decision. But I was met at once
by a painful and surprising state of things.
You are aware that you have been very sick ? "

"Dimly," said ColviUe.

" I found you very sick, and I found my
daughter frantic at the error which she bad

INDIAN SUMMEB. 203

discovered in herself — discovered too late,
as she felt.'' Mrs. Graham hesitated, and
then added abruptly, "She had found out
that she did not love you."

"Didn't love me?" repeated Colville
feebly.

" Poor girl ! poor child ! I see, I see."

" But the accident that was almost your
death saved her from that miserable folly
and iuiquity. Yes," she continued, in an-
swer to the protest in his face, " folly and
iniquity. I found her half crazed at your
bedside. She was fully aware of your
danger, but while she was feeling all the
remorse that she ought to feel — that any
one could feel — she was more and more con-
vinced that she never had loved you and
never should. I can give you no idea of her
state of mind."

" Oh, you needn't ! you needn't ! Poor,
poor child!"

" Yes, a child indeed. If it had not been
for the pity I felt for her But no matter

204 INDIAN SUMMER.

about that. She saw at last that if your
heroic devotion to her "— Colville did his
best to hang his pillowed head for shame—
« if your present danger did not awaken her
to some such feeling for you as she had once
imagined she had ; if they both only in-
creased her despair and self-abhorrence,
then the case was indeed hopeless. She
was simply distracted. I had to tear her
away almost by force. She has had a nar-
row escape from brain-fever. And now I
have come to implore, to demand" — Mrs.
Graham, with all her poise and calm, was
rising to the hysterical key — "her release
from a fate that would be worse than death
for such a girl. I mean marrying without
the love of her whole soul. She esteems
yon, she respects you, she admires you, she

likes you ; but " Mrs. Graham pressed

her lips together, and her eyes shone.

" She is free," said Colville, and with the
words a mighty load rolled from his heart.
" There is no need to demand anything."

"I know."

** There hasn't been an hour, an instant,
during — since I — we — spoke together that I
wouldn't have released her if I could have
known what you tell me now."

** Of course !— of course I "

INDIAN SUMMEB. 20$

''Naturally. And what added to her
wretchedness was the suspicion at the bot-
tom of all that she had somehow forced
herself upon you — ^misunderstood you, and
made you say and do things to spare her
that you would not have done voluntarily."
This was advanced tentatively. In the midst
of his sophistications Colville had, as most
of his sex have, a native, fatal, helpless
truthfulness, which betrayed him at the
most unexpected moments, and this must
now have appeared in his countenance.
The lady rose haughtily. She had appar-
ently been considering him, but, after all,
she must have been really considering her
daughter. "If anything of the kind was
the case," she said, "I will ask you to
spare her the killing knowledge. It 's quite
enough for me to know it. And allow me
to say, Mr. Colville, that it would have
been far kinder in you "

*' Ah, think, my dear madam ! " he ex-
claimed. ** How could II"

206 IKDIAV SUMMER.

She did think, evidently, and when she
spoke it was with a generous emotion, in
which there was no trace of pique.

** You couldn't. You have done right ; I
feel that, and I will trust you to say any-
thing you will to my daughter."
. " To your daughter ? Shall I see her ? **

" She came with me. She wished to beg
your forgiveness."

Colville lay silent. "There is no forgive-
ness to be asked or granted/* he said, at
length. *'Why should she suffer the pain
of seeing me? — for it would be nothing
else. What do you think ? Will it do
her any good hereafter? I don't care for
myself."

**I don't know what to think," said Mrs.
Graham. *'She is a strange child. She
may have some idea of reparation."

** Oh, beseech her from me not to imagine
that any reparation is due ! Where there
has been an error there must be blame ; but
wherever it lies in ours, I am sure it isn't at
her door. Tell her I say this ; tell her that
I acquit her with all my heart of every
shadow of wrong ; that I am not unhappy,
but glad for her sake and my own that this
has ended as it has." He stretched his left
hand across the coverlet to her, and said.

INDIAN SUMMEB. 207

with the feebleness of exhaustion, "Good-
bye. Bid her good-bye for me."

Mrs. Graham pressed his hand and went
out. A moment after the door was flung
open, and Imogene burst into the room.
She threw herself on her knees besid^ his
bed. "I will pray to you ! " she said, h6r
face intense with the passions working in
her soul. She seemed choking with words
which would not come ; then, with an inar-
ticulate cry that must stand for all, she
caught up the hand that lay limp on the
coverlet ; she crushed it against her lips,
and ran out of the room.

He sank into a deathly torpor, the physi-
cal refusal of his brain to take account of
what had passed. When he woke from it,
little Effie Bowen was airily tiptoeing about
the room, fondly retouching its perfect
order. He closed his eyes, and felt her
come to him and smooth the sheet softly
under his chin. Then he knew she must be
standing with clasped hands admiring the
effect. Some one called her in whisper from
the door. It closed, and all was still again.

208 INDIAN SUMMER.

xxn.

COLVILLE got himself out of the com-
fort and quiet of Mrs. Bowen's house
as soon as he could. He made the more
haste because he felt that if he could have
remained with the smallest trace of self-
respect, he would have been glad to stay
there for ever.

Even as it was, the spring had advanced
to early summer, and the sun was lying hot
and bright in the piazzas, and the shade
dense and cool in the narrow streets, before
he left Palazzo Pinti ; the Lung' Amo was
a glare of light that struck back from the
curving line of the buff houses ; the river
had shrivelled to a rill in its bed ; the black
cypresses were dim in the tremor of the
distant air on the hill-slopes beyond; the
olives seemed to swelter in the sun, and the
villa walls to bum whiter and whiter. At
evening the mosquito began to wind his tiny
horn. It was the end of May, and nearly
everybody but the Florentines had gone out

INDIAN SUMMEB. 209

of Florence, dispersing to Villa Reggio by
the sea, to the hills of Fistoja, and to the
high, cool air of Siena. More than once
Colville had said that he was keeping Mrs.
Bowen after she ought to have got away,
and she had answered that she liked hot
weather, and that this was not comparable
to the heat of Washington in June. She
was looking Tery well, and younger and
prettier than she had since the first days of
their renewed acquaintance in the winter.
Her southern complexion enriched itself in
the sun ; sometimes when she came into his
room from outdoors the straying brown hair
curled into loose rings on her temples, and
her cheeks glowed a deep red.

She said those polite things to appease
him as long as he was not well enough to go
away, but she did not try to detain him
after his strength sufficiently returned. It
was the blow on the head that kept him
longest. After his broken arm and his other
bruises were quite healed, he was aware of
physical limits to thinking of the future or
regretting the past, and this sense of his
powerlessness went far to reconcile him to a
life of present inaction and oblivion. Theo-
retically he ought to have been devoured by
remorse and chagrin, but as a matter of fact

VOL. II. o

2IO INDIAN SUBIMEB.

he suffered very little from either. Even in
people who are in full possession of their
capacity for mental anguish one observes
that after they have undergone a certain
amount of pain they cease to feeL

Golville amused himself a good deal with
Effie's endeavours to entertain him and take
care of him. The child was with him every
moment that she could steal from her tasks,
and her mother no longer attempted to stem
the tide of her devotion. It was understood
that Effie should joke and laugh with Mr.
Golville as much as she chose ; that she
should fan him as long as he could stand it ;
that she should read to him when he woke,
and watch him when he slept. She brought
him his breakfast, she petted him and
caressed him, and wished to make him a
monster of dependence and self -indulgence.
It seemed to grieve her that he got well so
fast.

The last night before he left the house she
sat on his knee by the window looking ont
beyond the firefly twinkle of Oltramo, to the
silence and solid dark of the solemn company
of hills beyond. They had not lighted the
lamps because of the mosquitoes, and they
had talked till her head dropped against his
shoulder.

INDIAN SUMMBB. 211

Mrs. Bowen came in to get her. ** Why,
is she asleep ? "

"Yes. Don*t take her yet," said Ck)l-
viUe.

Mrs. Bowen rustled softly into the chair
which Effie had left to get into Colville's
lap. Neither of them spoke, and he was so
richly content with the peace, the tacit
sweetness of the little moment, that he
would have been glad to have it silently
endure for ever. If any troublesome ques-
tion of his right to such a moment of bliss
obtruded itself upon him, he did not concern
himself with it.

"We shall have another hot day to-
morrow," said Mrs. Bowen at length. "I
hope you will find your room comfort-
able."

"Yes: it's at the back of the hotel,
mighty high, and wide, and no sun ever
comes into it except when they show it to
foreigners in winter. Then they get a few
rays to enter as a matter of business, on
condition that they won't detain them. I
dare say I shall stay there some time. I
suppose you will be getting away from Flor-
ence very soon."

" Yes. But I haven't decided where to go
yet."

212 INDIAN SUMMER.

" Should you like some general expression
of my gratitude for all you Ve done for me,
Mrs. Bowen?"

" No ; I would rather not. It has been a
great pleasure — to Effie."

"Oh, a luxury beyond the dreams of
avarice.'* They spoke in low tones, and
there was something in the hush that sug-
gested to Colville the feasibility of taking
into his unoccupied hand one of the pretty
hands which the pale nightlight showed him
lying in Mrs. Bowen's lap. But he forbore,
and only sighed. " Well, then, I will say
nothing. But I shall keep on thinking all
my life."

She made no answer.

**When you are gone, I shall have to
make the most of Mr. Waters," he said.

''He is going to stop all summer, I be-
lieve."

"Oh yes. When I suggested to him the
other day that he might find it too hot, he
said that he had seventy New England
winters to thaw out of his blood, and that
all the summers he had left would not be
more than he needed. One of his friends
told him that he could cook eggs in his
piazza in August, and he said that he
should like nothing better than to cook eggs

INDIAN SUMMEB. 213

there. He *8 the most delightfully expatri-
ated compatriot I Ve ever seen."

"Do you like it?"

" It 's well enough for him. Life has no
claims on him any more. I think it 's Tery
pleasant over here, now that everybody's
gone," added Colville, from a confused re-
sentfnlness of collectively remembered Days
and Afternoons and Evenings. " How still
the night is!"

A few feet clapping by on the pavement
below alone broke the hush.

"Sometimes I feel very tired of it all,
and want to get home," sighed Mrs. fiowen.

"Well, so do I."

"I can't believe it's right stajring away
from the country so long." People often
say such things in Europe.

"No, I don't either, if youVe got any-
thing to do there."

"You can always make something to do
there."

"Oh yes." Some young men, breaking
from a street near by, began to sing. " We
shouldn't have that sort of thing at home."

" No," said Mrs. Bo wen pensively.

"I heard just such singing before I fell
asleep the night after that party at Madame
Uccelli's, and it filled me with fury."

214 INDIAN SUHMBB.

" Why should it do that ? "

**I don't know. It seemed like voices
from our youth — Lina."'

She had no resentment of his use of her
name in the tone with which she asked :
" Did you hate that so much ?"

"No; the loss of it."

They both fetched a deep breath.

** The Uccellis have a villa near the baths
of Lucca," said Mrs. Bowen. " They have
asked me to go."

** Do you think of going ?" inquired Col-
ville. "IVe always fancied it must be
pleasant there."

"No; I declined. Sometimes I think I
will just stay on in Florence."

" I dare say you 'd find it perfectly com-
fortable. There's nothing like having the
range of one's own house in summer." He
looked out of the window on the blue-black
sky.

" ' And deepening through their silent spheres.
Heaven over heaven rose the night/ "

he quoted. **It's wonderful ! Do you re-
member how I used to read Mariana in the
SotUh to you and poor Jenny ? How it must
have bored her ! What an ass I was ! "
" Yes," said Mrs. Bowen breathlessly, in

INDIAN SUMMER. 21$

sympathy with his reminiscence rather than
in agreement with his self -denunciation.

Colville broke into a laugh, and then she
began to laugh too ; but not quite willingly
as it seemed.

Effie started from her sleep. ''What—
what is it?" she asked, stretching and
shivering as half -awakened children do."

"Bed-time," said her mother promptly,
taking her hand to lead her away. "Say
good-night to Mr. Colville."

The child turned and kissed him. " Good
night," she murmured.

** Good night, you sleepy little soul ! " It
seemed to Colville that he must be a pretty
good man, after all, if this little thing loved
him so.

« Do you always kiss Mr. Colville good-
night?" asked her mother when she began
to undo her hair for her in her room.

" Sometimes. Don't you think it *s nice ?"

** Oh yes ; nice enough."

Colville sat by the window a long time
thinking Mrs. Bowen might come back ; but
she did not return.

Mr. Waters came to see him the next
afternoon at his hotel.

"Are you pretty comfortable here?" he
asked.

2l6 INDIAN SUMMEB.

" Well, it '8 a change," said Colville. " I
miss the little one awfully."

''She's a winnmg child," admitted the
old man. '*That combination of conven-
tionality and nalveU is very captivating. I
notice it in the mother."

" Yes, the mother has it too. Have you
seen them to-day ? "

'* Yes ; Mrs. Bowen was sorry to be oat
when you came."

'* I had the misfortune to miss them. I
had a great mind to go again to-night."

The old man said nothing to this. '* The
fact is," Colville went on, **I*m so habi-
tuated to being there that I*m rather
spoiled."

'<Ah, it's a nice place," Mr. Waters
admitted.

*' Of course I made all the haste I could
to get away, and I have the reward of a
good conscience. But I don't find that the
reward is very great."

The old gentleman smiled. ''The diffi-
culty is to know conscience from self-inter-
est."

" Oh, there *s no doubt of it in my case,"
said Colville. *' If I 'd consulted my own
comfort and advantage, I should still be at
Palazzo Pinti."

INDIAN SUMMER. 21 7

'* I dare say they would have been glad
to keep you."

"Do you really think so?" asked CJol-
ville, with sudden seriousness. *'I wish
you would tell me why. Have you any
reason — grounds ? Pshaw ! I *m absurd ! "
He sank back into the easy-chair from
whose depths he had pulled himself in the
eagerness of his demand, and wiped his fore-
head with his handkerchief. ** Mr. Waters,
you remember my telling you of my engage-
ment to Miss Graham ? "

"Yes."

" That is broken off— if it were ever really
on. It was a great mistake for both of us —
a tragical one for her, poor child, a ridiculous
one for me. My only consolation is that it
was a mistake and no more ; but I don't
conceal from myself that I might have pre-
vented it altogether if I had behaved with
greater wisdom and dignity at the outset.
But I 'm afraid I was flattered by an illusion
of hers that ought to have pained and
alarmed me, and the rest followed inevit-
ably, though I was always just on the point
of escaping the consequences of my weakness
— my wickedness."

" Ah, there is something extremely inter-
esting in all that," said the old minister

2l8 INDIAN SUMMER.

thoughtfully. '*The situation used to be
figured under the old idea of a compact with
the devil His debtor was always on the
point of escaping, as you say, but I recol-
lect no instance in which he did not pay at
last. The myth must have arisen from man's
recognition of the inexorable sequence of
cause from effect, in the moral world, which
even repentance cannot avert. Goethe tries
to imagine an atonement for Faust's trespass
against one human soul in his benefactions
to the race at large ; but it is a very cloudy
business."

" It isn't quite a parallel case," said Col-
ville, rather sulkily. He had, in fact,
suffered more under Mr. Waters*s generali-
sation than he could from a more personal
philosophy of the affair.

** Oh no ; I didn't think that," consented
the old man.

''And I don't think I shall undertake any
extended scheme of drainage or subsoiling in
atonement for my little dream," Ck>lville
continued, resenting the parity of outline
that grew upon him in spite of his protest.
They were both silent for a while, and then
Ck>lville cried out, "Yes, yes; they are
alike. / dreamed, too, of recovering and
restoring my own lost and broken past in

INDIAN SUMMER. 2I9

the love of a young soul, and it was in
essence the same cruelly egotistic dream;
and it 's nothing in my defence that it was
all formless and undirected at first, and
that as soon as I recognised it I abhorred it."

**0h yes, it is," replied the old man,
with pei^ect equanimity. ** Your assertion
is the hysterical excess of Puritanism in all
times and places. In the moral world we
are responsible only for the wrong that we
intend. It can't be otherwise."

**And the evil that's suffered for the
wrong we didn't intend ? "

" Ah, perhaps that isn't evil."

"It's pain!"

"It 'Spain, yes."

" And to have wrung a young and inno-
cent heart with the anguish of self-doubt,
with the fear of wrong to another, with the
shame of an error such as I allowed, per-
haps encouraged her to make "

"Yes," said the old man. "The young
suffer terribly. But they recover. After-
ward we don't suffer so much, but we don't
recover. I wouldn't defend you against
yourself if I thought you seriously in the
wrong. If you know yourself to be, you
shouldn't let me."

Thus put upon his honour Colville was a

220 INDIAN SUHBfEB.

long time thoughtful. **How can I tell?"
he asked. *' Yon know the facts ; you can
judge."

'* If I were to judge at all, I should say
you were likely to do a greater wrong than
any you have committed."

" I don't understand you."

"Miss Graham is a young girl, and I
have no doubt that the young clerg3naaan —
what was his name ? "

"Morton. Do you think — do you suppose
there was anything in that?" demanded
Colville, with eagerness, that a more humor-
ous observer than Mr. Waters might have
found ludicrous. "He was an admirable
young fellow, with an excellent head and a
noble heart. I underrated him at one time,
though I recognised his good qualities after-
ward ; but I was afraid she did not appre-
ciate him."

" I *m not so sure of that," said the old
man, with an astuteness of manner which
Colville thought authorised by some sort of
definite knowledge.

** I would give the world if it were so I "
he cried fervently.

** But you are really very much more con-
cerned in something else."

"In what else?"

INDIAN SUMMER. 221

** Oan*t you imagine ? "

<*No," said ColviUe; but he felt himself
growing very red in the face.

" Then I have no more to say."

''Yes, speak!" And after an interval
Golville added, "Is it anything about —
you hinted at something long ago — Mrs.
Bowen?"

"Yes;" the old man nodded his head.
" Do you owe her nothing? "

"Owe her nothing? Everything! My
life I What self-respect is left me ! Immea-
surable gratitude ! The homage of a man
saved from himself as far as his stupidity
and selfishness would permit! Why, I — I
love her ! " The words gave him courage.
" In every breath and pulse ! She b the
most beautiful and gracious and wisest
and best woman in the world ! I have loved
her ever since I met her here in Florence
last winter. Good heavens ! I must have
always loved her ! But," he added, falling
from the rapture of this confession, "she
simply loathes f?ie / "

" It was certainly not to your credit that
you were willing at the same time to marry
some one else."

"Willing! I wasn't willing! I was
bound hand and foot! Yes— I don't care

222 INDIAN SUMMER.

what you think of my weakness — I was not
a free agent. It's very well to condemn
one's-self, but it may be carried too far ; in-
justice to others is not the only injustice, or
the worst. What I was willhig to do was
to keep my word — to prevent that poor
child, if possible, from ever finding out her
mistake."

If Colville expected this heroic confession
to impress his listener he was disappointed.
Mr. Waters made him no reply, and he was
obliged to ask, with a degree of sarcastic
impatience, ''I suppose you scarcely blame
me for that?"

**0h, I don't know that I blame people
for things. There are times when it seems
as if we were all puppets, pulled this way or
that, without control of our own movements.
Hamlet was able to browbeat Rosencrantz
and Guildenstem with his business of the
pipe ; but if they had been in a position to
answer they might have told him that it re- 1
quired far less skill to play upon a nrnn than I
any other instrument. Most of us, in fact,
go sounding on without any special applica-
tion of breath or fingers, repeating the tunes
that were played originally upon other men.
It appears to me that you suffered yourself
to do something of the kind in this affair.

INDIAN SUHMEB. 22$

We are a long time learning to act with
common-sense or even common sanity in
what are called matters of the affections.
A broken engagement may be a bad thing
in some cases, but I am inclined to think
that it is the very best thing that could
happen in most cases where it happens.
The evil is done long before; the broken
engagement is merely sanative, and so far
beneficent."

The old gentleman rose, and Colville, dazed
by the recognition of his own cowardice and
absurdity, did not try to detain him. But
he followed him down to the outer gate of
the hoteL The afternoon sun was pouring
into the piazza a sea of glinmiering heat,
into which Mr. Waters plunged with the
security of a salamander. He wore a broad-
brimmed Panama hat, a sack coat of black
alpaca, and loose trousers of the same mate-
rial, and Colville fancied him doubly de-
fended against the torrid waves not oidy by
the stored cold of half a century of winters
at Haddam East Village, but by an inner
coolness of spirit, which appeared to diffuse
itself in an appreciable atmosphere about
him. It was not till he was gone that Col-
ville found himself steeped in perspiration,
and glowing with a strange excitement.

224 INDIAN 8UMMBR.

xxra.

COLVILLE went back to his own room,
and spent a good deal of time in the
contemplation of a suit of clothes, adapted
to the season, which had been sent home
from the tailor's just before Mr. Waters
came in. The coat was of the lightest serge,
the trousers of a pearly grey tending to
lavender, the waistcoat of cool white duck.
On his way home from Palazzo Pinti he had
stopped in Via Tomabuoni and bought
some silk gauze neckties of a tasteful gaiety
of tint, which he had at the time thought
very weU of. But now, as he spread out
the whole array on his bed, it seemed too
emblematic of a light and blameless spirit
for his wear. He ought to put on something
as nearly analogous to sackcloth as a modem
stock of dry -goods a£forded ; he ought, at
least, to wear the grave materials of his
winter costume. But they were really in-
supportable in this sudden access of summer.

INDIAN SUMMER. 22$

Besides, he had grown thin during his sick-
ness, and the things bagged about him. If
he were going to see Mrs. Bowen that even-
ing, he ought to go in some decent shape.
It was perhaps providential that he had
failed to find her at home in the morning,
when he had ventured thither in the clumsy
attire in which he had been loafing about
her drawing-room for the past week. He
now owed it to her to appear before her
as well as he could. How charmingly punc-
tilious she always was herself !

As he put on his new clothes he felt the
moral support which the becomingness of
dress alone can give. With the blue silk
gauze lightly tied under his collar, and the
lapels of his thin coat thrown back to admit
his thumbs to his waistcoat pockets, he felt
almost cheerful before his glass. Should he
shave? As once before, this important
question occurred to him. His thinness
gave him some advantages of figure, but he
thought that it made his face older. What
efifect would cutting ofif his beard have upon
it ? He had not seen the lower part of his
face for fifteen years. No one could say
what recent ruin of a double chin might
not be lurking there. He decided not to
shave, at least tiU after dinner, and after

VOL. II. p

226 INDIAN SUMMER.

dinner he was too impatient for his visit to
brook the necessary delay.

He was shown into the salotto alone, but
Effie Bowen came running in to meet him.
She stopped suddenly, bridling.

** You never expected to see me looking
quite so pretty," said Oolville, tracing the
cause of her embarrassment to his summer
splendour. ** Where is your mamma ? "

"She is in the dining-room," replied the
child, getting hold of his hand. '*She
wants you to come and have coffee with us."

" By all means— not that I liaven*t had
coffee already, though."

She led the way, looking up at him shyly
over her shoulder as they went.

Mrs. Bowen rose, napkin in lap, and gave
him a hand of welcome. " How are you
feeling to-day?" she asked, politely ignor-
ing his finery.

''Like a new man," he said. And then
he added, to relieve the strain of the situa-
tion, **0f the best tailor's make in Flor-
ence."

"You look very well," she smiled.

"Oh, I always do when I take pains,"
s^d Colville. " The trouble is that I don't
always take pains. But I thought I would
to-night, in calling upon a lady. "

INDIAN 8UMMEB. 227

" Effie will feel very much flattered," said
Mrs. Bowen.

"Don't refuse a portion of the satisfac-
tion," he cried.

"Oh, is it for me too?"

This gave Oolville consolation which no
religion or philosophy could have brought
him, and his pleasure was not marred, but
rather heightened, by the little pangs of
expectation, bred by long custom, that from
moment to moment Imogene would appear.
She did not appear, and a thrill of security
succeeded upon each alarm. He wished
her well with all his heart ; such is the
human heart, that he wished her arrived
home the betrothed of that excellent, that
wholly unobjectionable young man, Mr.
Morton.

"Will you have a little of the ice before
your coflfee ? " asked Mrs. Bowen, proposing
one of the moulded creams with her siK)on.

" Yes, thank you. Perhaps I will take it
in place of the coffee. They forgot to offer
us any ice at the table d*h6te this even-
ing."

"This is rather luxurious for us," said
Mrs. Bowen. " It 's a compromise with Effie.
She wanted me to take her to Giacosa's this
afternoon."

228 INDIAN SUMMER.

"I tliotight you would come," whispered
the child to Colville.

Her mother made a little face of mock
surprise at her. " Don't give yourself away»
Effie."

'*Why, let us go to Giacosa's too," said
Colville, taking the ice. "We shall be
the only foreigners there, and we shall not
even feel ourselves foreign. It *8 astonish-
ing how the hot weather has dispersed the
tourists. I didn't see a Baedeker on the
whole way up here, and I walked down Via
Tomabuoni across through Porta Rosso and
the Piazza della Signoria and the UfiBzzL
You Ve no idea how comfortable and home-
like it was — ^all the statues loafing about in
their shirt sleeves, and the objects of interest
stretching and yawning round, and having a
good rest after their winter's work."

Effie understood Colville's way of talking
well enough to enjoy this ; her mother did
not laugh.

"Walked?" she asked.

"Certainly. Why not?"

* * You are getting well again. Yon 11 soon
be gone too."

"I've ^^ well. But as to being gone,
there's no hurry. I rather think I shall
wait now to see how long you stay."

INDIAN SUMlfER. 229

" We may keep you all summer," said Mrs.
Bowen, dropping her eyelids indifferently.

** Oh, very well. All summer it is, then.
Mr. Waters is going to stay, and he is such
a very cool old gentleman that I don't think
one need fear the wildest antics of the
mercury where he is."

When Colville had finished his ice, Mrs.
Bowen led the way to the salotto, and they
all sat down by the window there and
watched the sunset die on San Miniato.
The bronze copy of Michelangelo's David, in
the Piazzale below the church, blackened in
perfect relief against the pink sky and then
faded against the grey while they talked.
They were so domestic that Colville realised
with difficulty that this was an image of
what might be rather than what really was ;
the very ease with which he could appa-
rently close his hand upon the happiness
within his grasp unnerved him. The talk
strayed hither and thither, and went and
came aimlessly. A sound of singing floated
in from the kitchen, and Effie eagerly asked
her mother if she might go and see Madda-
lena. Maddalena's mother had come to see
her, and she was from the mountains.

" Yes, go," said Mrs. Bowen ; ** but don't
stay too long."

230 INDIAN SUMMER.

"Oh, I will be back in time," said the
child, and Colville remembered that he had
proposed going to Giacosa's.

"Yes ; don't forget." He had forgotten
it himself.

"Maddalena is the cook," explained Mrs.
Bowen. "She sings ballads to Effie that
she learned from her mother, and I suppose
Effie wants to hear them at first-hand."

** Oh yes," said Colville dreamily.

They were alone now, and each little
silence seemed freighted with a meaning
deeper than speech.

**Have you seen Mr. Waters to-day?"
asked Mrs. Bowen, after one of these lapses.

"Yes ; he came this afternoon."

" He is a very strange old man. I should
think he would be lonely here."

"He seems not to be. He says he finds
company in the history of the place. And
his satisfaction at having got out of Haddam
East Village is perennial."

" But he will want to go back there before
he dies."

"I don't know. He thinks not. He's a
strange old man, as you say. He has the
art of putting all sorts of ideas into people's
heads. Do you know what we talked about
this afternoon ? "

INDIAN SUMMER. 23 1

•*No, I don't," murmured Mrs. Bowen.

** About you. And he encouraged me to
believe — ^imagine — that I might speak to you
— ask — tell you that — I love you, Lina. " He
leaned forward and took one of the hands
that lay in her lap. It trembled with a
violence inconceivable in relation to the per-
fect quiet of her attitude. But she did not
try to take it away. ** Could you— do you
love me ? "

**Yes," she whispered; but here she
sprang up and slipped from his hold alto-
gether, as with an inarticulate cry of rapture
he released her hand to take her in his arms.

He followed her a pace or two, * ' And you
will — will be my wife ? " he pursued eagerly.

"Never!" she answered, and now Col-
ville stopped short, while a cold bewilder-
ment bathed him from head to foot. It must
be some sort of jest, though he could not tell
where the humour was, and he could not
treat it otherwise than seriously.

*'Lina, I have loved you from the first
moment that I saw you this winter, and
Heaven knows how long before ! "

"Yes; I know that."

"And every moment."

"Oh, I know that too."

"Even if I had no sort of hope that you

232 INDIAN SUMMER.

cared for me, I loved you so much that I must
tell you before we parted "

** I expected that — I intended it."

** You intended it ! and you do love me !
And yet you won't Ah, I don't under-
stand ! "

** How could you understand ? I love you
— I blush and bum for shame to think that
I love you. But I will never marry you ; I
can at least help doing that, and I can still
keep some little trace of self-respect. How
you must really despise me, to think of
anything else, after all that has happened I
Did you suppose that I was merely waiting
till that poor girl's back was turned, as you
were? Oh, how can you be yourself, and
still be yourself ? Yes, Jenny Wheelwright
was right. You are too much of a mixture,
Theodore Colville" — her calling him so
showed how often she had thought of him so
— " too much for her, too much for Imogene,
too much for me ; too much for any woman
except some wretched creature who enjoys
being trampled on and dragged through the
dust, as you have dragged me."

'* / dragged you through the dust ? There
hasn't been a moment in the past six months
when I wouldn't have rolled myself in it to
please you."

INDIAN SUMMER. 233

'* Oh, I knew that well enough ! And do
you think that was flattering to me ? "

** That has nothing to do with it. I only
know that I love yon, and that I couldn't
help wishing to show it even when I wouldn't
acknowledge it to myself. That is all. And
now when I am free to speak, and you own

that you love me, you won't I give it

up ! " he cried desperately. But in the next
breath he implored, " Why do you drive me
from you, Lina ? *'

'* Because you have humiliated me too
much.'' She was perfectly steady, but he
knew her so well that in the twilight he
knew what bitterness there must be in the
smile which she must be keeping on her lips.
"I was here in the place of her mother, her
best friend, and you made me treat her like
an enemy. You made me betray her and
cast her oflF."

"Yes, you ! I knew from the very first
that you did not really care for her, that you
were playing with yourself, as you were
playing with her, and I ought to have
warned her."

"It appears to me you did warn her,"
said Colville, with some resentful return
of courage.

234 INDIAN SUMMEB.

** I tried," she said simply, " and it made
it worse. It made it worse because I knew
that I was acting for my own sake more
than hers, because I wasn't— disinterested."
There was something in this explanation,
serious, tragic, as it was to Mrs. Bowen,
which made ColviUe laugh. She might have
had some perception of its effect to him, or
it may have been merely from a hysterical
helplessness, but she laughed too a little.

** But why," he gathered courage to ask,
"do you still dwell upon that? Mr.
Waters told me that Mr. Morton — ^that
there was "

*'He is mistaken. He offered himself,
and she refused him. He told me."

•*0h!"

" Do you think she would do otherwise,
with you lying here between life and death ?
No : you can have no hope from that."

ColviUe, in fact, had none. This blow
crushed and dispersed him. He had not
strength enough to feel resentment against
Mr. Waters for misleading him with this
igriia fatuus,

'*No one warned him, and it came to
that," said Mrs. Bowen. '* It was of a piece
with the whole affair. I was wei^ in that
too."

INDIAN SUMMER. 235

Colville did not attempt to reply on this
point. He feebly reverted to the inquiry
regarding himself, and was far enough from
mirth in resuming it.

'*I couldn't imagine," he said, that you
cared anything for me when you warned
another against me. If I could "

** You put me in a false position from the
beginning. I ought to have sympathised
with her and helped her instead of making
the poor child feel that somehow I hated
her. I couldn't even put her on guard
against herself, though I knew all along
that she didn't really care for you, but was
just in love with her own fancy for you.
Even after you were engaged I ought to
have broken it off; I ought to have been
frank with her; it was my duty; but I
couldn't without feeling that I was acting
for myself too, and I would not submit to
that degradation. No ! I would rather have
died. I dare say you don't understand.
How could you ? You are a man, and the
kind of man who couldn't. At every point
you made me violate every principle that
was dear to me. I loathed myself for caring
for a man who was in love with me when he
was engaged to another. Don't think it was
gratifying to me. It was detestable ; and

236 INDIAN SUMMER.

yet I did let you see that I cared for you.
Yes, I even tried to make you care for me —
falsely, cruelly, treacherously."

** You didn't have to try very hard," said
Oolville, with a sort of cold resignation to
his fate.

"Oh no ; you were quite ready for any
hint. I could have told her for her own
sake that she didn't love you, but that
would have been for my sake too ; and I
would have told you if I hadn't cared for
you and known how you cared for me. I Ve
saved at least the consciousness of this from
the wreck."

** I don't think it 's a great treasure," said
C)olville. ** I wish that you had saved the
consciousness of having been frank even to
your own advantage."

**Do you dare to reproach me, Theodore
Colville? But perhaps I've deserved this
too."

" No, Lina, you certainly don't deserve it,
if it 's unkindness, from me. I won't afflict
you with my presence : but will you listen
to me before I go ? "

She sank into a chair in sign of assent.
He also sat down. He had a dim impres-
sion that he could talk better if he took her
hand, but he did not venture to ask for it.

INDIAN SUMMER. 237

He contented himself with fixing his eyes
upon as much of her face as he could make
out in the dusk, a pale blur in a vague out-
line of dark.

"I want to assure you, Lina — Lina, my
love, my dearest, as I shall call you for the
first and last time ! — that I do understand
everything, as delicately and fuUy as you
could wish, all that you have expressed, and
all that you have left unsaid. I understand
how high and pure your ideals of duty are,
and how heroically, angelically, you have
struggled to fulfil them, broken and borne
down by my clumsy and stupid selfishness
from the start. I want you to believe, my
dearest love — you must forgive me ! — that if
I didn't see everything at the time, I do see
it now, and that I prize the love you kept
from me far more than any love you could
have given me to the loss of your self-
respect. It isn't logic — it sounds more like
nonsense, I am afraid — but you know what
I mean by it. You are more perfect, more
lovely to me, than any being in the world,
and I accept whatever fate you choose for
me. I would not win you against your will
if I could. You are sacred to me. If you
say we must part, I know that you speak
from a finer discernment than mine, and I

238 INDIAN SUMMEB.

submit. I will try to console myself with
the thought of your love, if I may not have
you. Yes, I submit. "

His instinct of forbearance had served him
better than the subtlest art. His submission
was the best defence. He rose with a real
dignity, and she rose also. "Remember,"
he said, **that I confess all you accuse me
of, and that I acknowledge the justice of
what you do — ^because you do it." He put
out his hand and took the hand which hung
nerveless at her side. ** You are quite right.
Good-bye." He hesitated a moment. "May
I kiss you, Lina?" He drew her to him,
and she let him kiss her on the lips.

"Grood-bye," she whispered. "(Jo "

"lam going."

Effie Bowen ran into the room from the

kitchen. "Aren't you going to take "

She stopped and turned to her mother.
She must not remind Mr. Colville of his
invitation ; that was what her gesture ex-
pressed.

Colville would not say anything. He
would not seize his advantage, and play
upon the mother's heart through the feel-
ings of her child, though there is no doubt
that he was tempted to prolong the situation
by any means. Perhaps Mrs. Bowen divined

INDIAN SUMMBB. 239

both the temptation and the resistance.
** Tell her," she said, and tamed away.

"I can't go with you to-night, Efl&e," he
said, stooping toward her for the inquiring
kiss that she gave him. **I am — agoing
away, and I must say good-bye. "

The solemnity of his voice alarmed her.
•* Going away ! " she repeated.

** Yes — away from Florence. I*m afraid I
shall not see you again."

The child turned from him to her mother
again, who stood motionless. Then, as if
the whole calamitous fact had suddenly
flashed upon her, she plunged her face
against her mother's breast. *' I can't hear
it ! " she sobbed out ; and the reticence of
her lamentation told more than a storm of
cries and prayers.

Colville wavered.

** Oh, you must stay ! " said Lina, in the
self-contemptuous voice of a woman who
falls below her ideal of herself.

240 INDIAN SUMMER.

XXIV.

IN the levities which the most undeserv-
ing husbands permit themselves with
the severest of wives, there were times after
their marriage when Colville accused Lina
of never really intending to drive him away,
but of meaning, after a disciplinary ordeal,
to marry him in reward of his tested self-
sacrifice and obedience. He said that if the
appearance of Effie was not a coup de
tliMtre contrived beforehand, it was an acci-
dent of no consequence whatever ; that if
she had not come in at that moment, her
mother would have found some other pre-
text for detaining him. This is a point
which I would not presume to decide. I
only know that they were married early in
June before the syndic of Florence, who
tied a tricolour sash round his ample waist
for the purpose, and never looked more
paternal or venerable than when giving the
sanction of the Italian state to their union.
It is not, of course, to be supposed that

INDIAN SUMMER. 24 1

Mrs. Colville was contented with the civil
rite, though Colville may have thought it
quite sufficient. The religious ceremony
took place in the English chapel, the as-
sistant clergyman officiating in the absence
of the incumbent, who had already gone
out of town.

The Rev. Mr. Waters gave away the
bride, and then went home to Palazzo Pinti
with the party, the single and singularly
honoured guest at their wedding feast, for
which Effie Bowen went with Colville to
Giacosa's to order the ices in person. She
has never regretted her choice of a step-
father, though when Colville asked her how
she would like him in that relation she had
a moment of hesitation, in which she recon-
ciled herself to it ; as to him she had no
misgivings. He has sometimes found him-
self the object of little jealousies on her
part, but by promptly deciding all ques-
tions between her and her mother in Effie's
favour he has convinced her of the ground-
lessness of her suspicions.

In the absence of any social pressure to
the contrary, the Colvilles spent the sum-
mer in Palazzo Pinti. Before their fellow-
sojourners returned from the vUleggiatura
in the fall, however, they had turned their

VOL. XL Q

8 THE LADY OF THE AROOSTOOK.

be ? ' * Oh, I don't know,* returned Staniford, with a cold
disgust ; * I should object to the society of such a yotmg
person for a month or six weeks, under the most favour-
able circumstances and with frequent respites ; but to be
imprisoned on the same ship with her, and to have her on
one's mind and in one's way the whole time, is more than
I bargained for. Captain Jenness should have told us ;
though, I suppose, he thought that if she could stand it
we might. There s that point of view. But it takes all
ease and comfort out of the prospect.' "

At this point, however, the questionable youth, Mr.
Hicks, comes up to report all the gossip about
Lydia that he can glean from the cabin-boy, and
immediately the sympathies of the two friends set
strongly inner favour. Hicks finds himself severely
snubbed, and Stamford concludes that Lydia's un-
protected presence among them is ** plainly due to a
supernatural innocence on the part of herself and
her friends, which wouldn't occur among any other
people in the world but ours." They agree, so far
as they are able, to '* make her feel that there is
nothing irregular or uncommon in her being here as
she is." At the same time Staniford, the elder and
cleverer of the two friends, does not allow his
gentlemanly instincts to blind him to the comedy of
Lydia's Yankeeisms and curious bringing up. He
philosophically declares her beauty is only " part of
the general tiresomeness of the situation, and finds
perpetual entertainment in speculating with Dunham
as to the countrified views and feelings hidden under
the girl's quiet manner. Meanwhile the whole ship
devotes itself to taking care of Lydia. Dunham,
who is High Church, and engaged, befriends her
from a purely disinterested standpoint, the captain
watches over her as he would over one of Ms own
girls, the sailors show her little attentions, the
cabin-boy fetches and carries for her, and even Hicks,
now compulsorily sober and well-behaved, shows

THE LADY OF THE ABOOSTOOK. 9

himself pleasant and respectful. Only Staniford
holds aloof. He has a turn for character-reading,
and for a time prefers dissecting Lydia at a distance
to making friends with her. Of course the aim of
the story is to show how Stamford's indiflference
gives way first of all to the natural interest of a
young man in a young girl ; then to jealousy, and,
lastly, to the mingled power of the younggirl'sbeauty,
helplessness, and genuine refinement of nature.

The only incident, properly so called, in the voy-
age is afforded by Hicks^ outbreak of drunkenness
at Gibraltar, and by Stamford's meeting with some
fashionable friends of his at Messina. But every

Sige is interesting, and Lydia's tSte-d-tites, now with
unham, now with Staniford, her musical relations
with Hicks, and the jealousy they arouse in Stani-
ford, and through it all her innocence, her naivetS,
her unconsciousness in the midst of a situation which
would have proved intolerably embarrassing to any
one less ignorant and im worldly, make up a charming
picture. The plot begins to thicken towards the
climax with the appearance of the Messina friends.
Their astonishment recalls Staniford to the oddity of
Lydia's position, and at the same time makes nim
feel by contrast the peculiar rarity and simplicity of
her character. His love takes rapid and fiery shape,
and only his chivalrous scruples prevent his propos-
ing to her before they part at Trieste. He resolves,
however, to take no advantage of her loneliness, and
to wait till she is under her aunt's roof at Venice.
The complications to which this leads, and the cruel
way in which Lydia's eyes are opened at Venice to
the social solecism she has committed in crossing
the Atlantic without a chaperone, bring a vein of
pathos into the story, and supply the necessary re-
lief to the pretty little Utopia on board the Aroo-
stook.— 7%« Tim9s

THE UNDISCOVEEED COUNTRY.

2 vols., price 2«.

FROM our own knowledge we can recommend
The Undiscovered Country as a book of care-
ful workmanship and accurate observation, written
from the American point of view, and without the
least apparent influence, either in style or point of
view, of English writers." — Saturday Review.

VENETIAN LIFE.

2 vols.f price 28.

MR. HOWELLS takes the reader to every place
of interest in Venice, introduces him to the
inner and outer society of the city . . . thus, while
seated by the fireside one is treated to an imaginary
trip of absorbing mteTesL—Nevjcastle Chronicle.

ITALIAN JOURNEYS.

2 vols., price 28.

VENETIAN LIFE AND ITALIAN JOURNEYS
are delightful reading.— Cen^wry.

A FEAEFUL EESPONSIBILITY
AND TONELLI'S MAEEIAGE.

1 vol., price Is,

[T is one of Mr. Howells's lighter and more play-
ful works, in which he makes no attempt to
prapple with any such momentous questions as he
las discussed in his Modem Instance. — Freeman.

A COUNTEEFEIT PEESENTMENT
AND THE PAELOUE CAR

1 vol., price Is.

OUT OF THE QUESTION and the
SIGN OF THE SAVAGE.

1 vol., price Is,

OUT OF THE QUESTION has the Ught and airy
style of A Counterfeit Presentment, though we
feel bound to state that it is distinctly more humorous
than the latter. *' Bellingham's diplomacy" is
"excellent fooling," and affords the author very
comic situations, of which, as may be expected from
a lover of situations like Mr. Ho,wells, he takes
full advaxit&ge.— Cambridge Review.

" The Sign of the Savage, a charming little tale
brimming over with ixxn." — Westminster Review.

Edinbcbqh : David Douolas.

London : Hamilton, Adams & Co., and

SiMPKiN, Marshall & Go.

To be had at all the Railway Bookstalls.

AMERICAN AUTHORS.

POCKET EDITIONS IN ONE SHILLING VOLUMES.

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By W. D. HOWELLS.
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2yo18.
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A Chance Acquaintance.
Their Wedding Journey.
A Counterfeit Presentment.
The Lady of the Aroostook.

2 vols.
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2yo18.
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Indian Summer. 2 vols.

By O. W. HOLMES.

The Autocrat of the Break-
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The Poet. 2 vols.
The Professor. 2 vols.

By Q. W. CURTIS.
PrubandI.

By J. C. HARRIS.

MlNGOi AND other SKETCHES.

By P. R. STOCKTON.

Rudder Grange.

The Lady or the Tiger?

A Borrowed Month.

By J. BURROUGHS.

Winter Sunshine.

Pepacton.

Locusts and Wild Honey.

Wake-Bobin.

Birds and Poets.

Fresh Fields.

By G. W. CABLE.

Old Creole Days.
Madame Dblphine.

By B. W. HOWARD.

One Summer. A NoveL

By G. P. LATHROP.
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By R. Q. WHITE.

Mr. Washington Adams.

By T. B. ALDRICH.

The Queen of Sheba.
Marjorie Daw.
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THEIE WEDDING JOUENEY.

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THE author of this says that " in attempting to
tell the reader of the WEDDING JOURNEY
of a newly married couple, no longer very young, to
be sure, but still fresh in the light of their love, I
shall have nothing to do but to talk of some ordi-
nary traits of American life as these appeared to
them, to speak a little of well-known and easily
accessible places, to present now a bit of Itftidscape^
and now a sketch of character." This passage
admirably describes the range of the work. The
country from Boston to Niagara and back, the style
of travel of our western cousins, their humour and
peculiarities, are all deftly wrought into a tale
which is charming from beginning to end. — Dundee
Advertiser.

THE LADY OF THE AKOOSTOOK.

2 vols., price 2«.

THERE are few more perfect stories than THE
LADY OF THE AROOSTOOK. Lydia
Blood, its heroine, the young, pretty unsophisticated
school-marm from South Bradfield, Massachusetts,
finds herself crossing the Atlantic, alone and un-
chaperoned, in the company of three young men,
two of them well-bom and cultivated Bostonians.
Here is the situation on board the Aroostook. Lydia
Blood, a young school-teacher from an up-country
Massachusetts village, has been shipped off to
Europe by her aunt and grandfather, on a visit to
another aunt living at Venice. The old grandfather,
utterly ignorant of the ways of the world, comes to
Boston to arrange about the journey. Referred to

THE LADY OP THE ABOOSTOOK. 7

Captain Jenness, of the sailing ship Aroostook,
bound from Boston straight to TMeste, the old man
asks the ^ood-natured captain to take charge of his
'* little girl." The captain thinks the child may
be **a bother on the voyage;" but, reflecting that
he is used to children, consents, and the gran(uather
goes back to fetch Lydia. The captain's dismay
when " the little girl " turns out to be a slim, beau-
tiful, and well-dressed damsel, whom her confiding
grandfather leaves solely in Ms charge on the day
of sailing, is considerable, especially as he has
already promised berths to three young men, two of
them of excellent character and antecedents, the
third a youth of dissipated habits, whom out of com-
passion he had consented to take to Europe, in order
to try the reforming effects upon him of a sea-
voyage. Lydia has a few pangs of lonely disappoint-
ment when she finds out that there is neither
stewardess nor woman of any kind on board, and
the sight of the young men is an uncomfortable
surprise ; but on the whole she is too ignorant and
too guileless to feel the awkwardness of the situation
as she should. And out of pure good feeling the
young men, after the first shock, determined that,
as far as in them lies, she shall never feel it.

The two friends Staniford and Dunham discuss
the situation after the first common meal of the
oddly assorted little company : —

"As Dunham lit his cigar at Staniford's on deck, the
former said significantly, * What a very American thing ! *
' What a bore,' answered the other. Dunham had never
been abroad, as one might imagine from his calling Lydia's
presence a very American thing ; but he had always con-
sorted with people who had llv»d in Europe, he read the
Revue des Deux Mondes habitually, and the London weekly
newspapers, and this gave him the foreign standpoint
from which he was fond of viewing his native world.
* It 's incredible,' he added. * Who in the world can she

8 THE LADY OP THE AROOSTOOK.

be ? ' * Oh, I don't know/ returned Staniford, with a cold
disgust ; * I should object to the society of such a young
person for a month or six weeks, under the most favour-
able circumstances and with frequent respites ; but to be
imprisoned on the same ship with her, and to have her on
one's mind and in one's way the whole time, is more than
I bargained for. Captain Jenness should have told us ;
though, I suppose, he thought that if she could stand it
we might. There s that point of view. But it taJces all
ease and comfort out of the prospect.'"

At this point, however, the questionable youth, Mr.
Hicks, comes up to report all the gossip about
Lydia that he can glean from the cabin-boy, and
immediately the sympathies of the two friends set
strongly in her favour. Hicks finds himself severely
snubbed, and Staniford concludes that Lydia's un-
protected presence among them is ** plainly due to a
supernatural innocence on the part of herself and
her friends, which wouldn't occur among any other
people in the world but ours." They agree, so far
as they are able, to '^ make ber feel that there is
nothing irregular or uncommon in her being here as
she is." At the same time Staniford, the elder and
cleverer of the two friends, does not allow his
gentlemanly instincts to blind him to the comedy of
Lydia's Yankeeisms and curious bringing up. He
philosophically declares her beauty is only " part of
the general tiresomeness of the situation, and finds
perpetual entertainment in speculating with Dunham
as to the countrified views and feelings hidden under
the girl's quiet manner. Meanwhile the whole ship
devotes itself to taking care of Lydia. Dunham,
who is High Church, and engaged, befriends her
from a purely disinterested stajadpoint, the captain
watches over her as he would over one of his own
girls, the sailors show her little attentions, the
cabin-boy fetches and carries for her, and even Hicks,
now compulsorily sober and well-behaved, shows

THE LADT OF THE AROOSTOOK. 9

himself pleasant and respectful. Only Staniford
holds aloof. He has a turn for character-reading,
and for a time prefers dissecting Lydia at a distance
to making friends with her. Of course the aim of
the story is to show how Stamford's indiflference
gives way first of all to the natural interest of a
young man in a young girl ; then to jealousy, and,
lastly, to the mingled power of theyounggirl'sbeauty,
helplessness, and genuine refinement of nature.

The only incident, properly so called, in the voy-
age is afforded by Hicks^ outbreak of drunkenness
at Gibraltar, and by Staniford's meeting with some
fashionable friends of his at Messina. But every
page is interesting, and Lydia's Ute-d-tites, now with
Dunham, now with Staniford, her musical relations
with Hicks, and the jealousy they arouse in Stani-
ford, and through it all her innocence, her nalveU,
her imconsciousness in the midst of a situation which
would have proved intolerably embarrassing to any
one less ignorant and unworldly, make up a charming
picture. The plot begins to thicken towards the
climax with the appearance of the Messina friends.
Their astonishment recalls Staniford to the oddity of
Lydia's position, and at the same time makes him
feel by contrast the peculiar rarity and simplicity of
her character. His love takes rapid and fiery shape,
and only his chivalrous scruples prevent his propos-
ing to her before they part at Trieste. He resolves,
however, to take no advantage of her loneliness, and
to wait till she is under her aunt's roof at Venice.
The complications to which this leads, and the cruel
way in which Lydia's eyes are opened at Venice to
the social solecism she has committed in crossing
the Atlantic without a chaperone, bring a vein of
pathos into the story, and supply the necessary re-
lief to the pretty little Utopia onboard the Aroo-
stook. — The Tim98

THE UNDISCOVEEED COUNTRY.

2 vols., price 2«.

VENETIAN LIFE.

2 vols.f price 28.

MR. HO WELLS takes the reader to every place
of interest in Venice, introduces him to the
inner and outer society of the city . . . thus, while
seated by the fireside one is treated to an imaginary
trip of absorbing interest. — Newcastle Chronicle.

ITALIAN JOURNEYS.

2 vols., price 2».

VENETIAN LIFE and ITALIAN JOURNEYS
are delightful reading.— Cen^wry.

A FEAEFUL RESPONSIBILITY
AND TONELLI'S MARRIAGE.

1 vol., price Is,

IT is one of Mr. Howells's lighter and more play-
fal works, in which he makes no attempt to
grapple with any such momentous questions as he
has discussed in his Mod&m Instance. — Freeman.

A COUNTEEFEIT PEESENTMENT
AND THE PAELOUE CAE.

1 vol., price Is.

OUT OF THE QUESTION and the
SIGN OF THE SAVAGE.

1 vol. , price Is.
UT OF THE QUESTION has the Ught and airy

style of A Counterfeit Presentment, though we
feel bound to state that it is distinctly more humorous
than the latter. " Bellingham's diplomacy" is
"excellent fooling," and affords the author very
comic situations, of which, as may be expected from
a lover of situations like Mr. Ho;wells, he takes
full advantage. — Cambridge Review.

**The Sign of the Savage, a charming little tale
brimming over with ian." — Westminster Review.

Edinburgh : David Douglas.

LoiiDON : Hamilton, Adams & Co., and

SiMPKiN, Marshall & Go.

To be had at all the Railway Bookstalls.

AMERICAN AUTHORS.

POCKET EDITIONS IN ONE SHILLING VOLUMES.

By Post, U. 2d.

Printed by Cotutdbley and published with the sanetion ctfihe Authors.

By W. D. HOWELLS.

The Rise or Silas Laphaic

2 vols.
A. FoREooNE Conclusion.
A Chance Acquaintance.
Their Wedding Journey.
A Counterfeit Presentment.
The Lady of the Aroostook.

2 vols.
Out of the Question.
The Undiscovered Country.

2 vols.
A Fearful Responsibility.
Venetian Life. 2 vols.
Italian Journeys. 2 vols.
Indian Summer. 2 vols.

By O. W. HOLMES.

The Autocrat of the Break-
fast Table. 2 vols.
The Poet. 2 vols.
The Professor. 2 vols.

By Q. W. CURTIS.
PruxandL

By J. C. HARRIS.

MlNQO, AND other SKETCHES.

By P. R. STOCKTON.

Rudder Grange.

The Lady or the Tiger?

A Borrowed Month.

By J. BURROUGHS.

Winter Sunshine.

Pepacton.

Locusts and Wild Honey.

Wake-Robin. ^

Birds and Poets.

Fresh Fields.

By G. W. CABLE.

Old Creole Days.
Madame Delphine.

By B. W. HOWARD.

One Summer. A KoveL

By G. P. LATHROP.
An Echo of Passion.

By R. Q. WHITE.

Mr. Washington Adams.

By T. B. ALDRICH.

The Queen of Sheba.
Marjorie Daw.
Prudence Palfrey.
The Stillwater Tragedy.
2 vols.

By B. MATTHEWS and
H. C. BUNNER.
In Partnership.

By WILLIAM WINTER.

Shakespeare's England.

Others in preparation.

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