Mary and Bertha Sinclair were just completing a year’s study in Florence, upon which they were depending to perfect their musical education; but both girls were sufficiently homesick after their two years’ absence from Boston to be more than eager to exchange theirpensionfor a week’s visit with Helen, who brought to them a fresh budget of home news,—for which their eagerness increased as the date for their return to America drew nearer. Emory and Eustis, too, added familiar faces, so the days following the first dinner at the villa proved to be full of interest and enjoyment to all concerned.
The guests became familiar with each portion of the house and grounds, the mysteries of Italian house-keeping were contrasted with the limitations of boarding, and numerous topics of common import succeeded each other without surcease.
During the morning following the arrival of the guests, Armstrong touched tentatively upon the subject of visiting the library.
“We went there when we first came to Florence,” Mary Sinclair replied; “and we saw everything there was.”
Armstrong smiled indulgently, thinking of the little they had really seen.
“You know we are not very literary,” explained Bertha, catching the expression upon his face.
“They are really more hopeless cases even than I,” Helen added, sympathetically.
“Why don’t you try Phil and me?” inquired Emory. “We went through the Vatican library, so we are experts. At least they said it was a library. The only books we saw there were a few in show-cases—the rest they kept out of sight.”
“You would not recognize a real book if you saw it, Emory,” Armstrong replied, with resignation. “There is no hurry. Perhaps Miss Thayer will go with me some day soon.”
“Indeed I will,” Inez responded, with enthusiasm. “There is nothing I wish so much to do.”
“Good.” His appreciation was sincere. “I shall take real delight in introducing to you my old-time friends, with whom I often differ but, never quarrel.”
“Are they so real to you as that?” Inez asked, impressed by his tone.
“They are indeed,” Armstrong replied, seriously. “I visit and talk with them just as I would with you all. But they have an aggravating advantage over me, for, no matter how laboriously I argue with them, their original statement stands unmoved there upon the written page, as if enjoying my feeble effort to disturb its serenity, and defying me to do my worst.”
“I would much prefer to give them an absent treatment,” asserted Eustis.
“Inez is clearly the psychological subject,” Helen added. “At school she was forever putting us girls to shame by her mortifying familiarity with the classics.It is only fair that she should now be paid in her own coin.”
“I accept both the invitation and the challenge,” replied Inez, bowing to her hostess, and, walking over to the low wall on which Helen had seated herself, she threw her arm affectionately about her neck. “But you must not embarrass me with such praise, or your husband will suffer a keen disappointment. To study Latin and Greek out of school-books is one thing; to meet face to face the personalities one has regarded as divinities—even reading their very handwriting—is another. It makes one wonder if she ever did know anything about them before.”
“That is exactly the spirit in which to approach the shrine, Miss Thayer!” cried Armstrong, enthusiastically. “Let us frame a new beatitude: ‘Blessed is she who appreciates the glories of antiquity, for she shall inherit the riches of the past.’”
The contrast of the two girls in the rich Italian morning light was so striking that Uncle Peabody paused in his approach after a successful attack upon the rose-bushes, touched Armstrong upon the shoulder, and nodded admiringly in their direction. They were separated a little from the others, and were busily engaged in a conversation of their own, in which no man hath a part, quite oblivious to the attention they attracted. Inez was standing, and, even though seated, Helen’s superb head reached quite to her companion’s shoulder, and the fair hair and complexion were clearly defined against the darker hue of the face and head bent down to meet her own. Her eyes, looking out into the distance even as she spoke, reflected the calm, satisfied contentment of the moment, while in the browndepths of the other’s one could read an ungratified ambition, an uncertainty not yet explained. Inez Thayer’s face was attractive, Helen’s was beautiful—that beauty which one feels belongs naturally to the person possessing it without the necessity of analysis.
Armstrong was evidently pleased with this comparison, as he had been with all previous ones. Italy, it seemed to him, formed just the background to set off to best advantage his wife’s personal attractions. Uncle Peabody smiled contentedly at the undisguised satisfaction which was so clearly indicated in the younger man’s face.
“If there had been any girls in Boston who looked like that when I was of sparking age,” he whispered to Armstrong, “I should certainly have married and settled down, as I ought to have done.”
“And allowed the world to perish of indigestion?” queried Armstrong, smiling.
“Scoffer! you do not deserve your good-fortune. Come, these roses are becoming all thorns. Young ladies, may I intrude upon yourtête-à-têtelong enough to present you with the trophies of my after-breakfast hunt?”
“A thousand apologies, Uncle,” cried Helen, taking the roses in her arms and burying her face in their fragrant petals. “Oh! how beautiful! And how idiotic ever to leave this Garden of Paradise and immure yourselves within that musty old library. Do you not repent?”
“I place the decision wholly in Miss Thayer’s hands,” said Armstrong; but he glanced at Inez with evident expectancy.
“Then I decide to go,” replied the girl. “I am quite impatient to meet the friends in whose good company Mr. Armstrong revelled before his present reincarnation.”
“When?” asked Armstrong, quickly.
“Now!”
“Splendid! I will order the carriage at once.”
“There is rapid transit for you!” exclaimed Eustis. “Jack believes in striking while the iron is hot.”
“What a narrow escape we have had,” murmured Mary Sinclair, with a sigh of relief.
“Very well,” said Helen, resignedly. “It may be just as well to have it over. Jack has been looking forward to this ever since he turned his face toward Florence, and he will be quite miserable until he has actually gratified his anticipation.—But don’t be away long, will you, Jack?”
“Miss Thayer will very likely find the staid company which we plan to keep quite as stupid as the rest of you anticipate,” replied Armstrong, “so we may be home sooner than you expect.”
Inez had already disappeared in-doors to put on her hat, and Armstrong started out to call a carriage. Helen intercepted him as he crossed the veranda.
“You won’t mind if I don’t go with you to-day, will you, Jack? If it were just to see the treasures at the library I would urge them all to go; but I know what is in your mind, dear. Truly, I will go with you some time, and you shall try your experiment upon me; but I am not in the mood for it just now. I ought not to leave the others, anyway.”
“It is all right, of course,” he answered. “I wish you did feel like going, but your substitute seems to be enthusiastic enough to make up for your antipathy.”
“Don’t call it that,” Helen answered, half-reproachfully; “it is simply that I am ashamed to have my ignorance exposed,—and it will give you such a splendid chance really to know Inez. Now run along and have a good time, and tell me all about it when you come home.”
The little one-horse victoria soon left the villa behind, and was well along on the narrow descending road before either of its occupants broke the silence. As if by mutual consent, each was thinking what neither would have spoken aloud. Helen had not seen the expression of disappointment which passed over her husband’s face as she spoke. He would have given much if it might have been his wife beside him. He had studied the girl carefully, and had found in her an intuitive sympathy with the very subjects concerning which she disclaimed all knowledge. At first he had thought that she exaggerated her limitations because of his deeper study, but he soon discovered her absolute sincerity. It was a lack of confidence in herself, he inwardly explained, and when once in Florence he would give her that confidence which was the only element lacking to her complete understanding. But as yet he had been unable to get her inside the library, or even within range of the necessary atmosphere.
Inez Thayer’s thoughts were upon the same subject, but from a different standpoint. Her last words to Helen, when Uncle Peabody had interrupted their conversation, framed a mild reproach. “If I had won a man like Jack Armstrong,” Inez whispered to her, “I would not allow any one, not even you, to take my place on an excursion such as this, upon which he has so set his whole heart.”
“You are a sweet little harmonizer, Inez,” Helen had answered, smilingly, “but you are a silly child none the less. Jack and I understand each other perfectly. He knows my limitations, and, if I went, I should only spoil his full enjoyment. You will understand it and revel in it, and he will be supremely happy. If you were not so much better fitted naturally for this sort of thing, of course I should go rather than disappoint him, but, truly, the arrangement is much better as it is.”
Inez had no opportunity to continue the conversation, but Helen had not convinced her. Hers was an intense nature, and she had much more of the romantic in her soul than her best friends gave her credit for. Her one serious love-affair had proved only an annoyance and mortification. Ferdinand De Peyster was in many ways a desirableparti, as mammas with marriageable daughters were quite aware. He was possessed of a handsome competency, was not inconvenienced by business responsibilities, and his devotion to Inez Thayer was only whetted to a greater degree of constancy by the opposition it received from its particular object. He was not lacking in education, having spent four years in the freshman class at Harvard; he was not unattractive, in his own individual way, and his one great desire, not even second to his striving for blue ribbons with his fine stable of blooded horses, was to have her accept the position of head of his household.
But Inez was repelled by the very subserviency of his devotion. Her love rested heavily upon respect, and this could be won only by a man who commanded it. John Armstrong fulfilled her ideal, and she wondered why Fate had not fashioned the man whom she had attracted in a similar mould.
Armstrong looked up from his reverie half guiltily, and for a moment his eyes met those of his companion squarely. Inez could not match the frank glance—it seemed to her as if he must have read her thoughts; but the heartiness of his words relieved her apprehension.
“What a bore you must think me, Miss Thayer! I have not spoken a word since we left the house.”
“I must assume my share of responsibility for the silence,” Inez replied, regaining her composure. “The seriousness of our quest must have had a sobering effect upon us both.”
“But you won’t find these old fellows so serious as you think,” Armstrong hastened to say. “They were humanists and products of the movement which marked the breaking away from the ascetic severity preceding them. But, after all, they were the first to realize that life could be even better worth living if it contained beauty and happiness.”
“You see how little I know about them, in spite of Helen’s attempt to place me on a pedestal.”
“Why, if it had not been for their work,” he continued, enthusiastically, “the classics might still have remained as dead to us as they were to those who lived in the thirteenth century. Instead of studying Virgil and Homer, we should have been brought up on theological literature and the ‘Holy Fathers.’”
“I feel just as I did at my coming-out party,” Inez replied—“that same feeling of awe and uncertainty. I am eager to go with you, yet I dread it somehow. It is not a presentiment exactly,—it is—”
“I know just what you mean,” Armstrong interrupted, sympathetically; “and, if you feel like that now,just wait until you see oldCerini, the librarian. It is he who is responsible for my passion for this sort of thing. Why, I remember, when I was here years ago and used to run in to see him at theLaurenziana, I never regarded him as a mortal at all; and I don’t believe my reverence and veneration for the old man have abated a whit in the twelve years gone by.”
The light vehicle had passed through thePorta alla Croce, and was swaying from side to side like a ship at sea, rattling over the stones of the narrow city streets at such a rate that conversation was no longer a pleasure.
“Just why Florentine cabmen are content to drive at a snail’s pace on a good road and feel impelled to rush at breakneck speed over bad ones is a phase of Italian character explained neither by Baedeker nor by Hare,” remarked Armstrong, leaning nearer to Inez to make himself heard.
With a loud snap of his whip and a guttural “Whee-oop,” thecocchiererounded the statue of John of the Black Bands, just missed the ancient book-stand immortalized by Browning in theRing and the Book, and came to a sudden stop before the unpretentious entrance to theBiblioteca Laurenziana.
“You have been here before, of course?” he asked his companion as they passed through the wicket-gate into the ancient cloisters ofSan Lorenzo.
“Once, with Baedeker to tell me to go on, and with the tall Italian custodian to stop me when I reached the red velvet rope stretched across the room, which I suppose marks the Dante division between Purgatory and Paradise.”
“This time you shall not only enter Paradise, butyou shall behold the Beatific Vision,” laughed Armstrong.
Passing by the main entrance of the library at the head of the stone stairs, Armstrong led the way along the upper cloister to a small door, where he pressed a little electric button—an accessory not included inMichelangelo’s original plans for the building. A moment later they heard the sound of descending footsteps, and presently a bearded face looked out at them through the small grated window. The inspection was evidently satisfactory, for the heavy iron bar on the inside was released and the door opened.
“Good-morning,Maritelli,” said Armstrong in Italian. “Is thedirettoredisengaged?”
“He is in his study, signore, awaiting your arrival.”
Maritellidropped the iron bar back into place with a loud clang and then led the way up the short flight of stone steps to the librarian’s study. Armstrong detained Inez a moment at the top.
“I brought you in this way because I want you to seeCeriniin his frame. It is a picture worthy the brush of an old master.”
Maritelliknocked gently on the door and placed his ear against it to hear the response. Then he opened it quietly and bowed as Armstrong and his companion entered.
“Buon’ giorno, padre.” Armstrong gravely saluted the old man as he looked up. “I have brought to you another seeker after the gold in your treasure-house.”
Cerini’s face showed genuine delight as he rose and extended both hands to Inez. “Your wife!” he exclaimed; “I am glad indeed to greet her.”
Armstrong flushed. “No, padre, not my wife, but her dearest friend, Miss Thayer.”
The old man let one arm fall to his side with visible disappointment, which he vainly sought to conceal.
“I am sorry,” he said, simply, taking Inez’ hand in his own. “I have known this dear friend for many years, and have loved him for the love he gave to my work. I had hoped to greet his wife here, and to find that theliteræ humanioreswere to her the elixir of life that they are to me—and to him.”
“When I tell her of my visit she will be eager to come to you as I have,” said Inez, strangely touched by the keenness of his disappointment. “To-day she could not leave her guests.”
“Will you first show Miss Thayer the illuminations and the rarest of theincunabula?” asked Armstrong, eager to change the subject; “and then will you let us come back here to talk with you?”
“With pleasure, my son, with pleasure. What shall I show her first?”
“That little ‘Book of Hours’ illuminated byFrancesco d’Antonio, padre.”
Cerinipulled up the great bunch of keys suspended from the end of his girdle and unlocked one of the drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him.
“I always wonder how you dare keep so priceless a treasure in that desk, and why it is not put on exhibition where visitors may see it,” Armstrong queried.
Cerinilaughed quietly. “There are many other treasures, my son, equally precious, as you know well, scattered about in these desks and drawers, where I alone can find them.”
“How dare you take the risk?”
Cerini’s face showed a gentle craftiness. “We are in Italy, my son. If any one could find these gems, any one could be librarian”—and the old man chuckled quietly to himself.
Inez’ eyes were fastened upon a little purple velvet case inlaid with jewels.Ceriniopened it carefully, exposing a small volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Armstrong eagerly watched the interest in the girl’s face as the full splendor of the masterpiece impressed itself upon her—the marvellous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of color, the magnificence of the decoration and the miniatures. Inez drew in her breath excitedly and bent nearer to the magnifying-glass which it was necessary to use in tracing the intricacy of the work.
“Wonderful!” she cried, and then was silent.
“It belonged toLorenzothe Magnificent, and represents the finest of thequattrocentowork, my daughter,” explained the old man, pleased as was Armstrong by her unfeigned admiration. “The patrons of the book in the fifteenth century considered gems of thought as the most precious of all jewels. The page containing them must be written upon the finest and the rarest parchment. They could not inlay costly stones, so they employed the most famous artists to place upon the page in beaten gold and gorgeous colors a representation of the jewels and miniatures as perfect as art at its highest could produce. Can you wonder, my daughter, that men brought up in the school of neo-Platonism should look upon the invention of printing as an evil and an innovation to be opposed?”
Inez would not permitCerinito close the volume until she had feasted her eyes upon every page.
“Have you not prepared me for an anti-climax?” she asked, with a sigh, as Armstrong suggested a visit to the room of illuminations. “Surely there is nothing else here to surpass what I have just seen.”
The librarian answered. “Nothing to surpass it, truly, but other volumes equally interesting.”
The old man led them into a larger room filled with wooden cases whose glass tops were covered with faded green curtains. Costly tapestries lined the walls, but Inez’ attention was quickly taken from them asCerinipulled aside the curtains and disclosed the resplendent wealth beneath. Heavy choir-books, classic manuscripts, books of hours, breviaries embellished byLorenzo Monaco, master ofFra Angelico, byBenozzo Gozzoli, whose frescos still make theRiccardifamous, and other artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art. Magnificent examples of every school, from the early Byzantine to the decadent style of the sixteenth century, combined to teach the present the omnipotence of the past.
From case to case they passed, their guide indicating the variations and the significance of the different schools, out into the great library itself, in which, with its noble yet simple proportions as laid down byMichelangelo, Inez found a relief after the gorgeousness and grandeur of the last hour. Armstrong pointed out to her thepluteiupon which the great books rested, and to which they now remained chained as in the olden days, four centuries back, when they began their eternal vigil. Life outside the old walls had changed mightily sinceCosimo de’ Medici, the first grand-duke, laid their foundations.Cosimo, “pater patriæ,” the real founderof the collection,PietroandGiovanni de’ Medicihad come and gone;Lorenzo il Magnificohad lived and died, bequeathing to them his illustrious name; Charles VIII. of France had destroyed the power of the house of theMedici, theMedicihad again regained their own, the house of Lorraine had succeeded them, the separate states had been merged into a great kingdom—and still the volumes held their places at the end of their chains, as if to prove the immutability of learning as compared with the changeability of princes.
At Armstrong’s suggestion,Ceriniled them back into his study, where the old man again took his place at his desk, as his visitors seated themselves where they could best watch him and listen to his words. It was, indeed, as Armstrong had expressed it, a picture for an old master.Ceriniwas clad in the black silk soutane of his learned order, with thebirettaupon his head. He was spare, and the skin upon his face and hands was as dried and colored as the ancient parchment of the books with which he lived. The dim light coming through the stained-glass window enhanced the weirdness of his aspect, and as one looked he seemed the personification of the ancient written manuscript vivified and speaking the words which one would have expected to read upon the page.
“My daughter,” he was saying to Inez, “you, too, are a humanist, as my young friend and I are, or you could not manifest so true an understanding as you do. For humanism, my daughter, is not only the love of antiquity: it is the worship of it—a worship carried so far that it is not limited to adoration alone, but which forces one to reproduce. By the same token the humanist is the man who not only knows intimately the ancientsand is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.”
SLOWLY THE SPELL BEGAN TO WORK UPON INEZ’ BRAIN. SHE WAS NO LONGER IN THE PRESENT—SHE WAS A WOMAN OF ITALY OF FOUR CENTURIES BACKSLOWLY THE SPELL BEGAN TO WORK UPON INEZ’ BRAIN. SHE WAS NO LONGER IN THE PRESENT—SHE WAS A WOMAN OF ITALY OF FOUR CENTURIES BACK
ThenCerinipassed on in his conversation to the old-time writers themselves. The little study was poorly ventilated, and the air was heavy. The ancient tomes exuded their peculiar odor, and the low, sing-song voice of the speaker seemed far removed from the life they had just left outside. Slowly the spell began to work upon Inez’ brain. She was no longer in the present—she was a woman of Italy of four centuries back. Petrarch, with his laurel-crowned head, rose up before her and recited verses written for Laura; Politian gave to her of his wisdom;Machiavellidiscussed Florentine politics with her. It was not the voice ofCerinithe librarian which she heard—it was the veritable voice from the dead and buried past. She furtively glanced at Armstrong and saw in his face a light which she knew Helen had never seen there, and in her heart she felt a guilty joyousness at the advantage she had gained. It wasLeonardositting at the old desk now—Leonardothe master of art, of sculpture, the forerunner, the man-god against the god-man. She pressed her hand to her head; it was dripping moisture. Would he never stop? It was becoming fearsome, unbearable. Her eyes were fixed upon the aged priestly clad figure before her; she could not move them. What power held her, what magic controlled even her thoughts? She tried to speak to Armstrong, to tell him that she was ill, but her mouth seemed parched and she could not speak. She looked atCerini’s chair again. The old man was no longerthere.Machiavellihad taken his place and was uttering diatribes against the state. She must cry out—she could not. She started to her feet—then she fell back, and all became a blank. When she revived, a few moments later, it was in the sunny enclosure of the cloister garden, whither Armstrong had anxiously carried her, and where the fresh air served to relieve the tension and to counteract the influence which had so overpowered her.
By mutual consent, Miss Thayer and Armstrong decided not to mention the rather dramatic finale to their first excursion to the library. Inez experienced the deepest mortification, while Jack blamed himself severely that he had not watched his companion more carefully. If he had done this, he repeated to himself, he might easily have anticipated and avoided the unpleasant climax to an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable morning. Miss Thayer, however, would not listen to his apologies: he had accepted her as a comrade, and she had proved herself unequal to the test. Armstrong tried to reassure her, but his efforts were not eminently successful.
The whole affair, in spite of their disclaimers, made a considerable impression upon them both. Armstrong knew that it had not been weakness alone; for even his brief acquaintance with her told him that strength was a salient point in her character. She was impressionable—he realized that—but surely not to the extent of losing all control over herself. Was it—and Armstrong feared lest Inez should read his mind as the thought came to him—was it that same irresistible influence of those ancient spirits, coming out from the past to her as they had so many times to him, recognizing her as a reincarnation of themselves, and claiming her, even forthat, brief moment of unconsciousness, as a part of what had gone before?
Inez pleaded a headache upon reaching the villa, and asked that her lunch be sent to her room; but it was long afterAnnettahad left the tray upon the table that she was able to taste, even sparingly, the tempting delicacies which were placed before her. What can be more searching than a woman’s self-examination? She had told Armstrong that she blamed herself for her weakness; so she did, but it was not wholly the weakness of losing consciousness. Who was this man, and what this influence which had so suddenly entered into her life and assumed such immediate control over her? She felt that she could resist either separately, but together they produced a power which she questioned her ability to oppose. And the strange part of it all was that no one was forcing it upon her. She knew perfectly well that she need never go to the library again unless she chose; but she knew equally well what her choice must inevitably be, if the opportunity were offered her.
Even as she recalled her experience, a thrill half of delight, half of apprehension, passed over her. What did it all mean? Armstrong compelled her respect, but it was ridiculous even to wonder whether or not the sentiments he inspired were of a more serious nature. The subjects in which he was interested appealed to her highest self and fascinated her, but beyond this what possible force could they possess to render her so immediately subservient to their demands? What was there about it all which made it seem so inexpressively delicious? And what of him, of this man above whose head the ancients had already placed the halo of theirapproval, who stood to her as the personification of ideal manhood?
These were some of the questions Inez Thayer asked herself that afternoon, wrestling within and striving honestly to decide her course; but even as she did so she found her thoughts again centering themselves upon Armstrong as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried back to the experiences of the morning. She had no reasonable excuse to leave Florence, which instinctively she felt to be the safest thing to do; and, besides this, her spirit revolted at the thought that she could not meet the problem face to face and master it. She must do it, she would do it; and, having finally arrived at this determination, she came down, just before dinner, and joined her friends in the garden, where they were enjoying the soft close of the perfect Italian day.
“There you are!” Helen welcomed her with outstretched arms. “Is your headache better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Inez replied, forcing a smile; “the air was very close in the library, and then, too, I found so much to make me thoughtful.”
“Then you were not disappointed?” Emory asked.
“Disappointed? It was wonderful. You don’t know how much you all missed.”
“You look as if Jack had shown you some spooks,” remarked Eustis; “you are as white as one yourself.”
The color quickly returned to Inez’ face. “I am always like that when I have one of these wretched headaches,” she explained. “But, truly, I never had such a remarkable experience. I can quite understand Mr. Armstrong’s devotion. I never knew before how fascinating such learning really is.”
“Did he actually conjure up those old fellows and put them through their paces for you?” Emory asked.
Miss Thayer was in no mood for bantering. “It is not possible for you to understand without experiencing it yourself,” she said, quietly.
“Or even afterward, I suspect,” Bertha Sinclair added, slyly.
“I am so glad that you enjoyed it,” said Helen. “I couldn’t get much out of Jack, and I was afraid that you had passed a stupid morning and that the headache was the natural result.”
“I shall never forget it—never!” Inez murmured.
Helen regarded her attentively for a moment. “I had no idea it would make so strong an impression on you,” she said at length. “Now that it is over, you and Jack will both feel better satisfied.”
“You must seeCerini, Helen, and let him show you those wonderful books and explain everything, just as he did to us.”
“So I will, sometime,” Helen smiled. “Perhaps he could bring out my dormant possibilities.”
“It is time we dressed for dinner,” remarked Mary Sinclair, rising. “You and Inez are alreadyen grande tenue, but the rest of us are shockingly unconventional.”
As the Sinclair girls hurried into the house, closely followed by the men, Helen leaned against the balustrade at the end of the bowling-green and watched the deepening color which touched alike the spires ofSanta Croceand the turret of thePalazzo Vecchio, gleamed on the dome of the Cathedral andGiotto’s tower, and spread like wine over the placid surface of theArno. Beyond the river rose the basilica ofSan Miniato, its ancient pediment sharply outlined against the sky.Helen’s thoughts wandered even farther away than her eyes. Inez watched her for several moments before slipping her arm about her waist.
“Oh, Inez!” Helen was startled for an instant. “Did you ever see such a wonderful spot as this?” she continued, recovering herself. “Some new beauty discloses itself uninvited hour by hour. Every time I come into the garden I find some lovely flower I never saw before, or meet some sweet odor which makes me shut my eyes and just draw it in with delight. Each time I look toward Florence the view is different, and each new view more beautiful than the last. Oh, Inez darling, is it an enchanted palace that Jack has brought me to, or is it just because I am so blissfully, supremely, foolishly happy?” Helen embraced her friend enthusiastically.
“Let us call it the enchanted palace, dear,” Inez answered as Helen released her, “and you the modern Circe, with power to make all about you as beautiful and as happy as the ancient Circe to cast malign influences.”
Helen laughed. “Why not take it further and say that the transformation of the ancient Circe is the final triumph of Uncle Peabody’s labors? Had his theories been in force among the friends of Ulysses, the fair lady could never have turned them into swine. But tell me, did you not find Jack a very different person from what you had expected after seeing him here at home?”
“I did, indeed,” assented Inez, soberly.
“Is he not simply splendid?” Helen’s face beamed with pride. “It was just as much of a surprise to me. Of course, I have always known that he was interestedin all these things, but it has only been since we were married that I have realized how much he actually knows.—I wish I thought there was even the slightest chance of his being able to lead me up to his heights, he is so eager for it. I shall give him an opportunity to try his experiment, of course, but the trouble is that in spite of the interest and fascination which I do feel, his hobby always seems to me to be hemmed in with needless limitations. For my part, I don’t see why we can’t take the best these master spirits of the past can give us, just as Jack says, but without ourselves becoming a part of the past.—You see how absolutely hopeless I am. I wonder how in the world he ever came to be attracted to me.”
“You are the only one who wonders.”
“Oh, I know that my hair is not red, and that I don’t squint, and all that, but Jack is so fascinated by everything scholarly that I don’t see why he didn’t select an intellectual wife. Why, I don’t even wear glasses!”
Inez smiled at the picture Helen drew. “The rest of us girls understand why he made just the selection he did, Helen.”
“I never wanted to be intellectual before. Until now I have always considered the caricatures of the Boston Browning woman as typical of the highly educated species; but you are showing me that a girl can be human and intellectual at the same time.”
“I wish I could show you that you make too much of a mountain out of this intellectual bugbear,” Inez replied, candidly. “Your husband is a very unusual man. His interest in the humanities is beyond anything one can appreciate without seeing him as I saw him thismorning. He longs to take you with him into this life, and if I were in your place I should let him be the one to discover my lack of understanding, if I really did lack it, instead of insisting upon it as a foregone conclusion. For myself, I don’t take much stock in it. I remember too well how quick a certain Miss Cartwright was at school to grasp new ideas, and I have not noticed any serious retrogression since.”
Helen pondered carefully over her friend’s criticism before replying. “I suppose it does seem like obstinacy,” she said, finally—“to him as well as to you; yet to myself it appears perfectly consistent. The one thing which gives me an idea of the extent of his devotion is my music. You know how I adore it, how much a part of my life it has always been—yet it means nothing to Jack, and he therefore takes no particular interest in it. He went to the Symphonies and the Opera with me while we were engaged, and to concerts and recitals, but I knew all the time that it was just to please me. I made up my mind that when we were married I would keep up my interest in this ‘devotion’ of mine only as much as I could without having it interfere with those things which he cared for or which we could enjoy together. But the fact that music means less to him than it means to me does not make me love him any the less.”
“But you don’t enter into this particular interest of his, even to please him, as he did to please you.”
“Because I appreciate from the experience I have just mentioned how little real satisfaction it would give either one of us. Looking back, I feel that I was positively selfish to let him go to those concerts with me, and I shall never inflict them on him again. I am sure thathe knows how I feel, and I think he ought to be grateful for my consideration.”
Inez pressed Helen’s hand. “You ought to know best, dear,” she answered. “You both possess such wonderful possibilities that it would be a shame not to combine them. It seems to me that you might come to an appreciation of each other’s interests by becoming familiar with them.—I wonder if you realize what a man your husband is?”
Helen leaned over and kissed her impulsively. “I realize more than I ever intend to let him know, dear child. He would become unbearably conceited were he even to guess how much he has already become to me. I really did not want to marry him—or to marry any one—but he swept away every objection, just as he always does, and now I find myself wondering how in the world I ever existed without him. Oh, Inez”—Helen’s face became tense in her earnestness—“we girls think we know a whole lot about marriage. We anticipate it—we dread it; but, when one actually enters into her new estate, she knows how infinitely more it is to be anticipated, if happy, than her fondest dream. But if unhappy—then her dread must have been infinitesimal compared with the reality.”
“‘Marriage is either a complete union or a complete isolation,’” quoted Inez.
“As I tell you, Jack and I understand each other perfectly,” Helen continued, confidently, “and that means so much to a girl. One of the first things I told him, after we became engaged, was that if our affection stood for anything it must stand for everything. If at any time while we were engaged, or even after we were married, he felt that he had made a mistake inthinking me the one woman in the world for him, he was to come to me frankly and say so, and together we would plan how best to meet the situation. Suppose, for instance, that Jack met some one whom he really loved better than me. It would be an awful experience, but how much less of a tragedy to recognize the fact than to live on, a hollow, miserable existence, such as we see in so many instances around us.”
“And he has not confessed to you yet?”
“Not yet,” Helen laughed, “and we shall have been married six weeks to-morrow. That is a pretty good start, is it not?”
“But how about yourself—have you the same privilege?”
“Of course; but that is not important, for I shall never see any one fit to ride in the same automobile with Jack.”
“What did you say about my automobile? Has it arrived?”
Armstrong’s face was filled with eager expectation as he came up behind Helen, followed by Uncle Peabody. He drew her affectionately toward him.
“You wretch!” cried Helen, “you have been eavesdropping.”
“Not an eavesdrop,” protested Jack, “and I can prove it by a witness. When I came down-stairs I looked for my beloved spouse upon the terrace and found her not. The gentleAnnettaconfided to me that you and theSignorinaThayer were in the garden; I set out upon my quest and found you here discussing my automobile or some one else’s. Again I ask you, have you news of its arrival?”
“No, Jack—no news as yet; and you make out sogood a case that I must absolve you. Since you insist on knowing, we were discussing the very prosaic subject of matrimony.”
“Why discourage Miss Thayer from making the attempt simply because of your own sad case?” Armstrong queried, releasing his wife and seating himself beside her on the edge of the balustrade. “Marriage is a lottery—so saith the philosopher. We all know the preponderance of blanks and small prizes, yet each one feels certain that he will be the lucky one. Once in a while a chap pulls out the capital prize, and that encourages the others, though it ought to discourage them, because it lessens the chances just so much. But what I object to is the growling afterward, when each should realize that he is getting exactly what he ought to have expected.”
“But it is not fair that both you and Helen should have drawn the lucky numbers,” Inez declared. “It makes it so hopeless for the rest of us.”
“There, Sir Fisher,” cried Helen, “you have gained the compliment for which you strove. Art satisfied?”
“No one has drawn me yet,” suggested Uncle Peabody, “and I am a capital prize—I admit it.”
“It is a shame to throw cold water on Miss Thayer’s beautiful sentiment,” continued Armstrong. “Such thoughts are so rare that they should be encouraged; but the facts of the case are that the capital prizes in the men’s lottery were discontinued long ago. No—among the girls they are still to be won at rare intervals, but the only way to distinguish the men is by looking up their rating in Bradstreet’s, or their mother’s family name in the Social Register. Other than this, one man is as bad as another, if not worse.”
Inez looked at Armstrong for a moment with a puzzled expression, but failed to find any suggestion that he was speaking lightly. And yet—what a change in attitude from the morning! She hesitated to turn the subject upon what seemed to her to be forbidden ground, yet she could not resist opposing his expressions, even though they might be uttered flippantly. Her voice contained a reproach.
“You spoke differently of men this morning.”
Armstrong turned to her quickly. “This morning?” he repeated. “Oh, but I was referring to the humanists, and to ancient ones at that. I am talking now of men in general, rather than of those rare exceptions, ancient or modern, who have succeeded in separating themselves from their commonplace contemporaries. Of course, my respect for the old-timers is supreme, because their great accomplishments were in the face of so much greater obstacles. Since then the world has had five hundred years in which to degenerate.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Inez,” Helen interrupted, complacently. “He is simply trying to start an argument, and he does not believe a word he says. He really looks upon men as infinitely superior beings in the past, present, and future, and this self-abnegation on the part of himself and his sex is only a passing conceit.”
“I refuse to be side-tracked,” Armstrong insisted. “I grant that the conversation started more in jest than in earnest, but I maintain my position, none the less. Modern civilization has brought to us a wonderful material development, but intellectual advance, instead of keeping abreast of the material, has positively retrograded.”
“You really make me feel ashamed to be living in such an abominable age,” suggested Uncle Peabody.
Inez was serious. “I am quite incompetent to carry on this discussion with you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, disregarding the others, “and I admire, as you know, the marvellous accomplishments of these ‘old-timers,’ as you call them, wondering at their power to overcome the obstacles which we know existed. Yet I like to believe that the ages which have passed have marked an advance on all sides rather than a retrogression.”
“So should I like to,” assented Armstrong, “if I could; but look at the facts. William James has just succeeded in making philosophy popular, but Plato and Aristotle gave it to us before the birth of Christ. We enthuse over Shakespeare and Dante and Milton, but Homer and Virgil gave us the grandest of poetry two thousand years ago. Thequattrocento, that period which so fires me with enthusiasm, gave usRaphaelas an artist, together withLeonardoandMichelangeloas the foremost examples of humanists. Whom have we had since to equal them?”
“All this is beyond argument,” Inez admitted. “But is this the fault of the men or of the times? Conditions are so changed that the same kind of work can never be done again. The telephone, the telegraph, railroad trains, fast steamships, the daily papers—everything distracts the modern worker from devoting himself wholly and absolutely to his single purpose; but with this distraction is it not also true that the modern worker gives to the world what the world really needs most under the present conditions? In other words, would not these same great men, if set down in the twentieth century,produce work very similar to what modern great men have given and are giving us?”
“I should be sorry enough to think so,” affirmed Jack. “What a pity it would be!”
Uncle Peabody’s mood had changed from amusement to interest. “If I really thought you were sincere in the attitude you take,” he said, addressing Armstrong, “I could prescribe no better cure for your complaint than to force you to subject yourself, for one single week, to those same conditions which you seem to admire so much.”
“If you refer to conveniences, Mr. Cartwright,” interrupted Armstrong, “I will admit without argument that you are right. These are wholly the result of material development.”
“Let us confine ourselves to intellectual achievements if you choose,” continued Uncle Peabody. “Without an intellect, could one harness steam and electricity and make them obedient to the human will? Is not a wireless message an echo from the brain? What is the telephone if not a product of thought?”
“You and Miss Thayer are arguing my case far better than I can do it myself,” replied Armstrong, undisturbed. “The triumphs of Watt and Edison and Marconi and Bell are all intellectual, even though utilitarian. Each of these men has proved himself humanistic, in that he has given to the world the best that is in him, and not simply modified or readapted some previous achievement. If they were not limited by living in an age of specialization they might even have been humanists. Right here in Italy you see the same thing to-day. The Italians are beyond any other race intellectually fit to rule the world now as they once did, andit is simply because they have been unable to withstand materialism that they have not reclaimed their own.”
“Just what do you mean by ‘humanism,’ Jack?” Helen asked, abruptly.
“The final definition of modern humanism will not be written for several years,” Armstrong answered. “The world is not yet ready for it, and I am afraidCerini’s creed of ancient humanism would strike you as being rather heavy.”
“Let me see if I could comprehend it.” Helen looked across to Inez, and the eyes of the two girls met with mutual understanding. “Can you repeat it?”
“I know it word for word,” her husband replied, eagerly, delighted to have Helen manifest an interest. “It was the first lesson the old man taught me, years ago. ‘The humanist,’Cerinisays, ‘is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.’”
Helen was visibly disappointed. “I thought I had an idea,” she said, slowly, “but I was wrong. Inez used the word ‘humanities’ a few moments ago, and I once heard President Eliot say that this was simply another name for a liberal education—teaching men to drink in the inspiration of all the ages and to seek to make their age the best.”
“You are not wrong, Helen,” continued Armstrong, “unless you understand President Eliot to mean that the ages which have come since these great men lived have been able to add particularly to what has gone before. All that is included in whatCerinisays.”
“Then the present, which I love so well, means nothing?”
“It means a great deal.” Armstrong laughed at the injured tone of Helen’s voice. “The great material achievements of the present, which you just heard cited by Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, are of vast importance, but the age does not stand out as a period of intellectual progression. The achievements themselves, and the new conditions which they introduce, make that impossible.”
“Can we not admire the past and enjoy what it has given us without becoming a part of it ourselves?” persisted Helen.
“Not if we remain true to our ideals. I spoke just now ofLeonardoandMichelangeloas being the foremost examples of humanists. By that I mean that they represent the highest point of intellectual manhood.Da Vinciwas a great writer, a great painter, a great scientist, a great engineer, a great mechanician, whileBuonarrotiwas famous not only as a sculptor, but also as a painter, an architect, and a poet. And these men had to develop their own precedent, while all who have striven for more than mediocrity since then have propped themselves up on the work of these and other great masters. Can you wonder that my own great ambition, quite impossible of accomplishment, is to emulate these men—not in the same pursuits, but in some way, in any way, which enables me to give to the world the best that is in me. Should I gratify myself in this, that which I accomplished would be done simply in the fulfilment of my effort, and I should gain my recompense in the knowledge that itwasmy best. This is my understanding ofCerini’s creed.”
“All this is most interesting,” admitted Helen. “It is indeed splendid to know the ancients intimately, and to receive their inspiration. It is fine to imitate them and to rehearse their lessons, but I don’t see why we should bind ourselves down to the old-time limitations by using their methods when, to my mind, our own methods are so much better suited to modern conditions?”
“Your position is fully justified, Helen, if you really believe these methods to be limitations,” replied Armstrong, seriously. “For my part, I do not feel this. I accept theCerinicreed without qualification. I grant you that many things of the past are limitations, but there are certain cardinal principles which must remain the same so long as the world lasts and which are not subject to what you call ‘modern conditions.’”
“To be wholly consistent, Jack,” pursued Uncle Peabody, “should you not adopt their tongue—as called for in the creed?”
“Not necessarily, as the ‘creed’ is, of course, idealistic; but the only reason I do not do so is because of the limitations which are placed upon us—this time by modern civilization.Ceriniand I converse for hours together in the Latin tongue, but it is very seldom that I find the opportunity to do this. Why is it that Latin is used in medicine, in botany, in science, to give names to various specimens or species? Simply because French, German, Italian, English may be forgotten languages a few centuries hence, but Latin—the so-called dead language—will be as enduring then as now.”
“I can never hope to become as much of an enthusiast as you, Mr. Armstrong,” Inez said, finally, as the others gave up the argument in despair; “and I supposeyou will never forgive me if I say that I fear it would be very uncomfortable for me if I did. You must simply let me browse around the edges as a neophyte while you and the master quaff the nectar and ambrosia of the gods.”
“And I cannot even do that,” added Helen, rising from the balustrade. “I cannot give up my dear present even to agree with my learned husband. You don’t want me to say that I am sorry I am living among all these imperfect conditions when I really find them very satisfactory and enjoyable? It is wrong of you so to break down my modern idols. There are our guests,” she continued, as a laughing group appeared on the veranda. “As penance I decree that you shall take each of us by the hand and lead us back to the villa—the Humanist flanked by the Pagan and the Christian. Arise, thou ancient one, and lead us on!”
The visits which Armstrong and Miss Thayer made to the library became of daily occurrence. Encouraged by his companion’s interest, and the eagerness with which she assimilated the enthusiasm which he andCeriniwere only too willing to share with her, Armstrong promptly embraced a scheme for definite work suggested to him by the librarian. Inez at first proved only a sympathetic spectator, but by the third or fourth day she found herself a distinct part of the working force. She demurred half-heartedly, but when it became evident that she could really make herself of service she entered into it with characteristic intensity which increased from day to day.
Soon after the departure of the guests the automobile arrived, and transformed Armstrong from a Humanist into an Egoist and then into a Mechanist. For the moment the material concern took precedence over the intellectual.
“Of course I expect to have the chauffeur do the work once we are under way,” he half apologized to Uncle Peabody, who with a good-natured interest watched him taking the precious machine to pieces; “but before I trust it to any one I must understand it thoroughly myself.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Uncle Peabody assented,cheerfully. “I believe in that theory entirely. I have noticed when my friends have found themselves stalled on the road that it never annoys them half so much if they can explain the reason why. Besides, from a secondary consideration, I suppose it adds something to the safety to know the machine yourself.”
As the car had arrived in advance of the chauffeur, Armstrong had plenty of time to study the mechanism. It came to pieces with consummate ease. Its new owner had never claimed much knowledge along these lines, but the simplicity of this particular machine increased his respect for his judgment as a purchaser and his natural though hitherto undeveloped ability as a mechanic.
“These Frenchmen,” he confided enthusiastically to Uncle Peabody, “have the rest of the world beaten to a stand-still in building automobiles. My hat is off to them.”
“Would you not be even more comfortable if you removed your shirt as well?” suggested Uncle Peabody, mischievously, as he glanced sympathetically at Armstrong’s face, from which the perspiration rolled down onto his collar in response to his unusual exertions and the heat of the full Italian sun.
“It is nearly to pieces now,” Armstrong replied, complacently. “I will wait until it is cooler before I set it up again.”
True to his word, Armstrong began work on the restoration early next morning, but the heat of the day found him still at his labors and in no cheerful frame of mind. Uncle Peabody’s philosophical suggestions had proved unacceptable some hours before. Helen’s remark that she did not believe the three extra pieces Jack helddespairingly in his hand had come from that particular machine at all brought forth such a withering expression of pitying contempt that she flew back to the house in alarm. Even the servants found that the opposite side of the villa demanded their especial care. A truce was declared for thecolazione, but Armstrong devoured his repast in silence, showing no interest in the animated conversation, and with scant apologies left the table long in advance of the others to resume his task.
At five o’clock a dustyvetturadrove noisily into the driveway, and from his point of vantage, lying on his back underneath the automobile, Armstrong saw Mr. Ferdinand De Peyster alight. With a curse muttered, not from any antipathy to his visitor, but simply on general principles, he laboriously extricated himself from his position with a view to the extension of hospitality. De Peyster saw the movement and hastily approached.
Ferdinand De Peyster was a distinct individuality, which in a degree explained the criticism which some of his friends passed upon him. His foreign descent, though now tempered by two generations of American influence, was probably responsible for the fact that he was “different from other men.” Always faultlessly dressed, his taste followed the continental styles rather than those which other men about him were in the habit of adopting, so while Americans in Florence were clad in flannels,négligéshirts, and white buckskins, De Peyster appeared at theVilla Godilombraimmaculate in the conventional lounging-coat, tucked shirt and lavender gloves, with white spats over his patent-leather shoes. There was more of a contrast between visitor and guest at that moment than Armstrong realized as he emerged in his old clothes, thoroughly soaked through with perspiration,and with his hands and face grimy with oil and dirt.
De Peyster drew back instinctively as the full vision of Jack’s figure presented itself. “Comprenez vous français?”
Armstrong stopped in his advance as he heard the question and noted the superior tone in which it was delivered. Then the humor of the situation appealed to him.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, respectfully, “or English, if you prefer.”
De Peyster’s face brightened. “Ah! Mr. Armstrong brought you over with him?” he remarked, becoming almost sociable.
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, truthfully. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“I am Mr. De Peyster,” said Ferdinand, with condescension—“a friend of your master’s in America. Is he at home this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir—”
Before Armstrong could continue De Peyster approached nearer to him and lowered his voice. “I say—is there a Miss Thayer from America visiting here just now?”
A quick movement on De Peyster’s part deposited a franc in Jack’s grimy palm. Holding his hand in front of him, his astonished look alternated between the piece of silver and his friend’s face until he found himself unable to keep up the farce.
“De Peyster, you are a fraud!” Armstrong laughed boisterously at the look of dismay in Ferdinand’s face as a realization came to him. “Do you mean to tell me that the joys of a honeymoon and life in Italy havewrought so many changes that you don’t recognize me?”
“But can you blame me?” De Peyster joined in the merriment. “Run and get some one to tell you how you look.”
The sound of this unexpected hilarity reached the terrace, and Uncle Peabody, flanked by both of the girls, came rushing out fearful lest Jack’s problem had resulted in temporary mental derangement. A glance at the picture before them, however, explained the situation better than words, and Helen hurried forward to greet her visitor while Inez followed behind.
“Ferdy De Peyster—in the flesh!” cried Helen. “What does this mean, and when did you reach Florence?”
Armstrong gave him no opportunity to reply. “He prefers to speak French, Helen, and he is just throwing his money around.”
Then turning to De Peyster and exhibiting hispourboire, he repeated, “Comprenez vous français?” while both men went off again into a paroxysm of laughter.
“What is the joke?” Helen asked, looking from one to the other completely mystified.
“It is a good one—and on me,” replied De Peyster. “I took him for the chauffeur, you know.”
Helen looked at her husband. “Is it safe for me to laugh now, Jack?” she asked. “I am glad something has happened to put you in good-humor. Can you be induced to leave your work for the rest of the day and make yourself presentable to join us in the garden?”
Armstrong cast a despairing glance at the machine.
“Of course,” he said. “I shall be fresher in the morning, anyway, and I am sure I can fix it up then.”
“Nothing like knowing all about it yourself, Jack,” Uncle Peabody remarked, innocently. “These French machines are so simple!”
“You take the girls back to the garden,” Armstrong replied, emphatically, “and kindly devote your attention to your own theories, or I will put you at work on the blamed thing yourself to-morrow.”
De Peyster greeted Inez effusively, paying but little attention to Helen and Uncle Peabody as they strolled back to the garden, while Jack disappeared in-doors.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed as they reached the balustrade. “How did Armstrong happen to find a place like this? Is it not simply splendid, Inez?”
Inez Thayer resented something—she did not quite know what. She had been expecting De Peyster’s arrival daily, yet now that he had come she was still unprepared. She could find no fault with his attentions except that they had been too assiduous. Perhaps it was that, try as she could, she had been quite unable to convince him that his devotion was useless. He accepted each rebuff philosophically and bided his time.
Annettaskilfully arranged the chairs and laid the little table, placed, as Helen had taught her, in a spot commanding the exquisite view of the valley andSan Miniatobeyond. Lusciousfragole, coolinggelati, seducing little Italianpaste, as only Helen’s cook could make them, and a refreshingAsticup replaced the tea which the girls had decided would be less acceptable on this particular day; and by the time all was in readiness Armstrong joined them clothed in his proper mind and raiment.
The conversation turned upon the voyage across.
“We had an awfully jolly crowd on board,” said DePeyster. “There were Emory and Eustis, who you say have just left you, and then there were three charming married women who insisted on my playing bridge with them every afternoon.”
“They did not have to insist very hard, did they, Ferdy?” interrupted Helen—“with your reputation for gallantry.”
Ferdinand smiled complacently. “Making up a fourth at bridge comes under the definition of ‘first aid to the wounded,’” he replied, “but I did not object at all to being the doctor. Their conversation was so clever, you know.”
“Clever conversation always helps good bridge,” Armstrong interrupted, dryly; but De Peyster was already deep in his story.
“One afternoon they had a discussion as to how large an allowance for personal expenses would make each one perfectly happy,—funny subject, wasn’t it? Well, one of them said ten thousand a year would take care of her troubles nicely; the second one was more modest and thought five thousand would do,—but what do you think my partner said? She was a demure little lady from Chicago and had only been married a year and a half.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Ferdy,” said Helen, as De Peyster yielded to the humor of his recollections.
“Truly, it was awfully funny,” he continued. “She looked rather frightened when the conversation began, and when they urged her to set a price she said, ‘I would be perfectly satisfied if I could afford to spend just what I am spending.’”
“She had a conscience—that is the only difference between her and the other women,” Armstrong commented.
“Perhaps,” added Helen; “but I’ll guarantee that inanother year she will be getting a divorce from her husband on the ground of incompatibility of income.”
“Then in the evenings,” De Peyster went on, “the men got together in the smoke-room, but I think we drank too much. I always felt uncomfortable when I got up next morning.”
“Another encouragement for mymagnum opus!” exclaimed Uncle Peabody. “I am going to invent a wine possessing such qualities that the more one drinks of it the better he will feel next morning.”
“If you succeed you will have clubdom at your feet,” Armstrong replied, while De Peyster feelingly nodded assent.
“Would you mind if I invited Inez to drive with me to-morrow, Helen?” ventured Ferdinand, abruptly, looking anxiously at Miss Thayer. “I know you honeymooners won’t mind being left alone if I can persuade her.”
“By all means, Ferdy—unless Inez has some other plans. Jack has been making her ride his hobby ever since she arrived, and I have no doubt she will be glad enough to escape us for a little breathing-spell.”
“If you put it that way I shall certainly decline”—Inez failed to show any great enthusiasm—“but otherwise I shall be very glad to go.”
“Jack intends to put his automobile together to-morrow,” Uncle Peabody remarked, “so it will be just as well not to have any one outside the family within hearing distance.”
Armstrong tried to wither Uncle Peabody with a glance, but ran up against a smiling face so beaming with good-nature that even real anger would have been dispelled.
“For Helen’s sake—” Jack began, but Uncle Peabody interrupted.
“For Helen’s sake you will hasten the arrival of your chauffeur, if such a thing be possible.”
The following day was an eventful one. First of all, as if in response to Uncle Peabody’s exhortation, the chauffeur appeared. Mr. Cartwright departed for the city soon after breakfast, to be gone all day, and by the time the heat of the afternoon had subsided De Peyster drove up in state to enforce the promise Inez had given him the afternoon before. After watching them drive away, Helen slipped her hand through her husband’s arm and gently drew him with her into the garden. They walked in silence, Helen’s head resting against his shoulder, until they reached her favorite vantage-spot, when she paused and looked smilingly into his face.