Helen looked inquiringly at her husband. This suggestion from him, and to Phil Emory of all men! The times had indeed altered! She saw that Emory was observing her, and felt the necessity of relieving the tension.
“You must not put it on that score, Jack,” she said, quietly. “I am not at all lonely, but I should be very glad to have Phil join us to-morrow. What do you say, Phil?”
“I should like nothing better. But tell me about this work, Armstrong. Are you really boning down to arduous labor on your honeymoon?”
“It is a bit out of the ordinary, is it not?” admitted Jack, uncertain whether or not Emory’s question contained a reproach. “I would not dare do it with any one except Helen, but she understands the necessity. I don’t know when I shall get another chance.”
“Jack is accomplishing wonders in his work,” explained Helen, anxious to have Emory feel her entire sympathy; “you must have him tell you about it. In the mean time, while he is improving himself mentally, Uncle Peabody and I are entering somewhat into the social frivolities of Florence. To-morrow we are going to a reception to be given to the Count of Turin and the Florentine Dante Society at theVilla Londi. Jack scorns these functions, but you will be quite in your element. We will take you with us.”
“It is not that I ‘scorn’ these things, as you say, Helen,” protested Armstrong. “You give any one an entirely wrong idea. They are all right enough in their own way, but I can get these at home. This chance at the library, however, is one in a lifetime, and I feel that I must improve it.”
“Of course,” replied Helen, “that is what I meant to say.”
Emory glanced from one to the other quietly. “I shall be most happy to go if you are quite sure I won’t interfere with the plans you have already made. You know I am not on speaking terms with Italian.”
“You won’t have to be,” Uncle Peabody assured him. “These Italians speak English so well that you will be ashamed of your ignorance. You will have no difficulty in making yourself understood.”
Helen was rebellious at heart that Jack should have suggested Emory to relieve her loneliness. It was enoughthat he was willing to be away from her so much without taking it for granted and referring to it in such a matter-of-fact way. Inez as well came in for her share of the resentment, her very silence during the discussion serving to aggravate Helen’s discomfiture. Helen deliberately turned the conversation.
“I can’t help thinking of poor Ferdy, Phil. Have you heard from him since you left him atAix?”
“No, but I should have heard if all had not been going well.”
“What is the matter with De Peyster?” asked Armstrong.
“Oh, you did not hear what Phil told me about him before dinner, Jack. He has been very ill, and Phil took him over toAixfor a cure.”
It was the first time De Peyster’s name had been mentioned since his abrupt departure, and Inez flushed deeply as she listened.
“What was the trouble, Emory?” asked Armstrong, innocently.
“He came pretty near having pneumonia,” replied Emory. “He was hard hit with a girl somewhere over here, and was thrown down, I suspect. Then he grew careless and was a pretty sick chap when I ran across him in Paris.”
Armstrong had no idea of the result of his question. He glanced hastily at Inez and gulped down half a glass of wine, nearly choking himself in the process.
“There you go!” exclaimed Uncle Peabody, quite understanding the situation and wishing to relieve the embarrassment. “You will drown yourself one of these fine days if you don’t listen to my teachings and profit by Mr. Emory’s example.”
But Emory was quite unconscious of the delicate ground upon which he trod. The days and nights he had spent with De Peyster were still strongly impressed upon his mind.
“I thought you might know something about this, Helen,” he continued, “for Ferdy mentioned your name and Miss Thayer’s several times while he was delirious. I could not make out anything he said, he was so incoherent. Later, when he began to improve, I asked him about it, but he evidently did not care to talk. But how stupid I have been!” He broke off suddenly and turned to Miss Thayer. “Here I have been sitting beside you all this time and never once offered my congratulations!”
Inez drew back from the proffered hand. The color left her face as suddenly as it had come. “What do you mean?” she stammered.
“Why, De Peyster told me you were engaged,” Emory said, quite taken aback. “Have I said something I ought not to? He said you told him so.”
“Mr. De Peyster had no right to say that!” Inez cried, fiercely, almost breaking into tears.
Emory was most contrite. “Ten thousand pardons,” he apologized. “You must forgive me, Miss Thayer. Ferdy never suggested that it was a secret at all—and now I have given the whole thing away!”
Emory wished himself half-way across the Atlantic.
“I am very much annoyed,” replied Inez, still struggling to contain herself—“not with you, but with Mr. De Peyster.”
“But she is not engaged,” Armstrong insisted, with decision.
“I think Inez had better be left to settle that point herself, Jack,” Helen interrupted, pointedly.
“Then why does she not settle it?”
“I will settle it.” Inez sat up very straight in her chair, her tense features making her face look drawn in its ashy paleness.
“Jack has no right to force you into any such position, Inez,” Helen protested, indignantly; “he is forgetting himself.”
“De Peyster is responsible for the whole thing.” Emory struggled to step in between the clash of arms. “I recall the very words. ‘Phil, old chap,’ he said, ‘you remember Miss Thayer? She is engaged. She told me she had found some one whom she loved better than her life.’ Can you blame me for making such a consummate ass of myself?”
Armstrong’s intense interest had taken him too deeply into the affair for him to heed Helen’s protests.
“You never said anything of the kind, did you, Miss Thayer?”
“I am not engaged,” replied Inez, very firmly, “and I cannot understand why Mr. De Peyster should have put me in this uncomfortable position.”
“Of course not,” assented Armstrong, with evident satisfaction. “De Peyster is a fool. I will tell him so the next time I see him.”
“I think we had better change the subject,” said Helen, rising, her face flushed with indignation. “The methods of the Inquisition have no place at a modern dinner-table.”
Inez Thayer had congratulated herself upon her success in keeping her secret. Since her searching self-examination and the harrowing experience during De Peyster’s brief visit she had spent many hours inwardly debating the proper steps to take in order to solve her problem. She was certain that no one knew the real state of affairs, and with this certainty the only danger lay in its effect upon herself. But she knew all too well that this danger was indeed a real one. Day by day her admiration for Armstrong increased, and with that admiration her affection waxed stronger and stronger. Those hours together at the library—when they were quite alone, when his face, in their joint absorption in their work, almost touched hers, when his hand rested unconsciously for a moment upon her own—were to her moments in the Elysian Fields, and she quaffed deeply of the intoxicating draught. What harm, she argued to herself, since her companion was oblivious to her hidden sentiments—what disloyalty to her friend, since the pain must all be hers? And the pain was hers already—why not revel in its ecstasy while it lasted?
With her conscience partially eased by her labored conclusions, Inez threw herself into a complete enjoyment of her work. Helen’s attitude toward her had not in any way altered, and she was still apparently entirelyagreeable to the arrangement. Her suggestion to join them in their labors was the only evidence which Inez had seen that perhaps her friend was becoming restless, even though not ready to raise any objections; but when Helen herself gave up the idea, after her single visit to the library, Inez was convinced that she had misunderstood her motive. Nothing remained, therefore, but to accept her previous argument that she was simply following the inexorable guidance of Fate, with herself the only possible victim. It was uncomfortable, it was wearing, but she could not, she repeated over and over again, remove herself from the exquisite suffering of her surroundings until she was absolutely obliged to do so.
The episode at the dinner-table completely shattered the structure she had built, and its sudden demolition stunned her. This she vaguely realized as she and Helen left the men at the table and walked to the veranda for their coffee. Their departure was in itself an evidence of new and strained conditions, as both Helen and Jack regarded the coffee-and-cigar period as the best part of every dinner and a part to be enjoyed together. Helen had not yet acquired the Continental cigarette habit, but, as she had once expressed it, “Men are so good-natured right after dinner, when they are stuffed, and so happy when they are making silly little clouds of smoke!”
Inez hesitatingly passed her arm around her friend’s waist, and when Helen drew her closely to her she rested her head against her shoulder, relaxing like a tired child.
“Who would have expected this outcome of such a happy day?” Inez queried, sadly, as the two girls seated themselves upon the wicker divan.
“Jack was a brute!” exclaimed Helen, almost savagely.
“It is all my own fault, Helen; but I could not tell them so in there.”
Helen appeared astonished. “How do you mean? Are you really engaged, after all?”
“No, no, Helen; but you see when Ferdy urged me so hard for an answer I had to tell him something.”
Inez glanced up at Helen to see how she took her explanation.
“So you told him you were engaged?”
“Not exactly that, but—”
“That you loved some one better than your life?”
Inez shrank a little as she answered. “Something like that,” she admitted.
“And it was not true?”
Inez laughed nervously. “What an absurd question, Helen! You know I have seen almost no one since I came here.”
“Except Jack,” said Helen, impulsively.
Inez sprang to her feet. “What do you mean, Helen? You don’t accuse me of being in love with your husband, do you?”
Helen pulled her down beside her again. “Don’t be tragic, dear,” she said, quietly. “I admit that the suggestion is unkind, after the display Jack made of himself at the table. I am provoked with him myself.”
“Helen,”—Inez spoke abruptly, after a moment’s silence—“I think I ought to leave Florence.”
“Don’t be absurd, Inez. You are worked up over this miserable affair, but you will forget all about it in the morning—when you get back to your work at the library.”
“No; this time I really mean what I say. I ought to have gone when my visit was up a fortnight ago; but you were so sweet in urging me to stay, and the work had developed with such increasing interest, that I have just stayed on and on.”
“I am sorry if you regret having stayed, dear. It certainly seemed to be for the best.”
“But see what it has brought on you, Helen.”
“I am not proud of my husband’s behavior, I admit; but you have even greater cause to feel annoyed than I.”
Inez seemed to be drifting hopelessly in her attempt to find the right thing to say.
“I have felt that I ought to go for a long time.”
“A long time?” Helen echoed. “Has Jack behaved as badly as this before?”
“Not that; it is the library work which makes me feel so.”
“I don’t wonder you are getting tired of it.”
“Tired of it! Oh, Helen, I wish you could get as much joy out of anything as I do out of this work. Tired of it!” Inez laughed aloud at the absurdity of the suggestion. Then she grew serious again. “I know I ought to leave it, yet I cannot force myself to make the break.”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Helen, quietly, watching intently the struggle through which the girl was passing.
“I know you don’t, and I don’t believe I could make any one understand it,” replied Inez, helplessly.
“You talk about it in this mysterious way just as Jack does,” continued Helen. “There must be some sort of spell about it, for you both are changed beings since your first visit to the library.”
“Then you have noticed it?” Inez looked up anxiously.
“Of course I have noticed it,” admitted Helen, frankly. “How could I help it when you yourself feel it so strongly?”
“Do you blame me for it?”
“Why should I blame you, Inez? Is there any reason why I should blame any one?”
“No, except that the work takes your husband away from you so much.”
“But I can’t hold you responsible for that, can I? It is the work which draws you both, is it not—not each the other?”
Inez moved uneasily and withdrew her hand from Helen’s lap. “Of course it is the work,” she answered, quietly; “but, frankly, would you not rather have it discontinued?”
“No,” replied Helen, without hesitation; “but I sincerely wish Jack might be less completely absorbed by it. I have no intention of opposing it, and I am willing to sacrifice much for its success, yet I see no reason why it should so wholly deprive me of my husband.”
“It has opened up an entirely new world for me.” Inez seemed suddenly obsessed by a reminiscent thought. Her troubled expression changed into one of rapt ecstasy. Helen watched the transformation, deeply impressed by the strange new light which she saw in the girl’s eyes. “I must be more impressionable than I supposed,” she continued, “for it all seems so real. I can seeMichelangelo’s face as I read his letters; I can see his lips move, his expression change—I can even hear his voice. I have watched him fashion the great David out of the discarded marble; I have heard his discussions with PopeJulius and Pope Leo; I have witnessed his struggle withLeonardoat thePalazzo Vecchio. The events come so fast, and the letters give such minute information upon so many topics, that I actually feel myself in the midst of it all. I knowVittoria Colonnaas well asMichelangeloever did, and I know far better than he why she refused to marry him. All these great characters, and others, live and move and converse with us these mornings at the library.” Inez paused to get her breath. She was talking very fast. “I know it sounds uncanny,” she went on, “but there is something in the very atmosphere which makes me forget who or what I am.Cerinicomes and stands beside us, rubbing his hands together and smiling, and yet we hardly notice him. He is a part of it all. What he says seems no more real than the conversations and the communions we have with the others who died centuries ago. I realize how inexplicable all this must sound to you, because I find myself absolutely unable to explain it to myself. It must be a spell, as you say, but I have no strength to break it.”
“It must be something,” Helen admitted, gravely, “to affect both you and Jack the same way. I wonder what it is?”
Inez paid no heed to the interrogation. “You should see your husband, Helen, when he is at his work. You don’t really know him as you see him here.”
Helen felt herself impressed even more strongly than she had been during her visit to the library. Inez spoke with the same intensity and conviction which at that time had overwhelmed her previously conceived plans.
“Cerinisaid the same thing—” she began.
“Ceriniis right,” Inez interrupted. “Your husband is a god among them all. He is not a mere student,searching for facts, but one of those great spirits themselves, looking into their lives and their characters with a power and an intimacy which only a contemporary and an equal could do.Cerinisays that his book will be a masterpiece—that it will place him among the greatsavantsof his time. No such work has been produced in years; and you will be so proud of him, Helen—so proud that he belongs to you! Is it not worth the sacrifice?”
As her friend paused Helen bowed her head in silence. “So proud that he belongs to you,” Inez had just said. Did he belong to her—had he ever belonged to her? The new light in Inez’ eyes, the intensity of her words, both convinced and controlled her. What was she, even though his wife, to stand in the way of such a championship? What were the conventions of commonplace domestic life in the presence of this all-compelling genius? She felt her resentment against Jack become unimportant. With such absorption it was but natural that he should not act like other men.
The sound of voices in the hall brought both girls to themselves.
“Dare we come out?” asked Uncle Peabody, cautiously, pausing at the door. “These back-sliders are very repentant, and I will vouch for their good behavior.”
“There is only one of us who requires forgiveness,” added Armstrong, frankly, advancing to the divan. “I owe you both an apology; first of all to my wife, for not heeding her good advice, and then to my ‘sister-worker,’ asCerinicalls her, for adding to her discomfiture.”
“If Inez will forgive you, I will cheerfully add my absolution,” replied Helen, forcing a smile.
“I was really afraid that I was going to lose my right-handman,” continued Armstrong by way of explanation, “and my work must then have come to an abrupt conclusion.”
“You give me altogether too much credit,” replied Inez. “The work is already so much a part of yourself that you could not drop it if you lost a dozen ‘sister-workers.’”
“It must never come to that, Jack,” added Helen, seriously. “Inez will surely stay until the book is completed, and I shall do what little I can to help it to a glorious success.”
“You are a sweet, sympathizing little wife.” Armstrong placed his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. “Your interest in it will be all that I need to make it so.”
Emory and Uncle Peabody instinctively glanced at each other, and for a moment their eyes met. It was but an instant, yet in that brief exchange each knew where the other stood.
All Florence—social, literary, and artistic—was at theLondireception. The ancient villa, once the possession of the great Dante, fell into gentle hands when the present owner, thirty years before, entered into an appreciative enjoyment of his newly acquired property. The structure itself was preserved and restored without destroying the original beauty of its architecture; the walls were renovated and hung with rich tapestries and rare paintings; priceless statuary found a place in the courts and corridors, but with such perfect taste that one felt instinctively that each piece belonged exactly where it stood as a part of the complete harmony.
Florentine society possesses two strong characteristics—hospitality and sincerity. No people in the world so cordially welcome strangers who come properly introduced to settle temporarily in their midst; no people so plainly manifest their estimates of their adopted aliens. There is no half-way, there is no compromise. They are courteous always, they are considerate even when they disapprove; but when once they accept the stranger into their circle they make him feel that he is and always has been a part of themselves.
Uncle Peabody had won this place long since. His genial disposition and quiet philosophy appealed to them from the first by its very contrast to their own impulsiveLatin temperament. It was an easy matter, therefore, for him to introduce his niece to those whom he counted among his friends, and this he made it a point to do when he discovered how much she would otherwise have been alone. Helen had ceased to urge Jack to accompany her, and he seemed quite content to be omitted. Their first weeks in Florence had been devoted to getting settled in their villa and in rambling over the surrounding hills, entirely satisfied with their own society. The house-party had taken up another week, and even before the guests had departed Armstrong began his researches at the library, which required a larger portion of each day as time went on. The moment when Helen and Jack would naturally have jointly assumed their social pleasures and responsibilities had passed, and the necessity for diversion of some kind prompted Helen gratefully to accept her uncle as a substitute.
“There is a countrywoman of ours—theContessa Morelli,” Uncle Peabody remarked, as he skilfully piloted Helen and Emory away from the crush in the reception-hall, indicating a strikingly attractive woman surrounded by a group of Italian gallants. “She came from Milwaukee, I believe, and married the title, with the husband thrown in as a gratuity for good measure.”
“She looks far too refined and agreeable to answer to your description,” Helen replied, after regarding the object of his comments.
“She is refined and agreeable,” assented Uncle Peabody, “and—worldly. When you have once seen the count you will understand. She is a neighbor of yours, so you must meet her—theVilla Morelliis scarcely a quarter of a mile beyond theVilla Godilombra.”
“Don’t overlook me in the introduction, will you?” urged Emory, eagerly.
“Still as fond as ever of a pretty face, Phil?” queried Helen, laughing.
“Of course,” he acquiesced, cheerfully; “but this is a case of national pride. You and she—the two American Beauties present—would make any American proud of his country.”
Helen smiled and held up a finger warningly as she followed Uncle Peabody’s lead. The contessa acknowledged the introductions with much cordiality, but to Emory’s disappointment devoted herself at once to Helen.
“So you are from dear, old, chilly Boston,” she said, breezily. “The last time I passed through was on a July day, and I was so glad I had my furs with me.”
“Boston is celebrated for its east winds,” volunteered Emory, calmly.
The contessa glanced at him for a moment to make sure that his misunderstanding was wilful.
“Yes,” she replied, meaningly; “and I understand that in Boston the revised adage reads, ‘God tempers the east wind to the blue-bloods.’”
“And I was just going to say some nice things about Milwaukee!” Emory continued.
“Then it is just as well that I discouraged you,” the contessa interrupted. “No one who has not lived there can ever think of anything complimentary to say about Milwaukee except to expatiate upon its beer. That seems to mark the limitations of his acquaintance with our city.”
The contessa turned to Helen. “Mr. Cartwright tells me that you and your husband are my mysterious neighbors,about whom we have had so much curiosity. You must let me call on you very soon.”
Helen was studying her new acquaintance with much interest. Her features were as clearly cut as if the work of a master-sculptor, yet nature had improved upon human skill by adding a color to the cheeks and a vivacity to the eye which made their owner irresistible to all who met her; while the simple elegance of her lingerie gown, in striking contrast to the dress of the Italian women near her, set off to advantage the lines of her graceful figure. She was a few years older than Helen, yet evidently a younger woman in years than in experience. Uncle Peabody’s comments had naturally prejudiced Helen to an extent, yet she could not resist a certain appeal which unconsciously attracted her.
“I hope we may see much of each other,” the contessa continued, cordially, scarcely giving Helen an opportunity even for perfunctory replies. “Morelliis housed by the gout at least half of the time, and he bores me to death with his description of the various symptoms. I will run over toVilla Godilombraand let you rehearse your troubles for a change. But, of course, you have no troubles—Mr. Cartwright said you were a bride, did he not?”
The contessa noticed the color which came in Helen’s face, and her experience, tempered by her intuition, told her that it was not a blush of pleasure.
“Where is your husband?” she asked, pointedly. “You must present him to me.”
“He is engaged upon some literary work at the library,” Helen replied.
“Oh, a learned man! That is almost as bad as the gout!” The contessa held up her hands in mock horror.“Then you will need my sympathy, after all,” she said, with finality. “Oh, these husbands!—these husbands!”
It was a relief to Helen when other guests claimed the contessa’s attention. Uncle Peabody had mingled with friends in the drawing-room, so she and Emory moved on in the same direction. Here she found many whom she had previously met, and for half an hour held a court as large and as admiring as the contessa’s. Emory was quite unprepared to find his companion so much at home in this different atmosphere.
“By Jove, Helen,” he whispered, as he finally discovered an opportunity to converse with her again, “one would think you had always lived in Florence. If it were not for the gold lace of the army officers and the white heads of the ancient gallants who flock about you, I should almost imagine we were at the Assemblies again.”
“Every one is cordiality itself,” replied Helen. “See Uncle Peabody over there! Is he not having a good time? He told me Professor Tesso, of the University of Turin, was to be here, and I presume that is he.”
Following the example of the other guests, Helen and Emory strolled out into the main court, in one corner of which is the old well dating back to the time when the Divine Poet slaked his thirst at its stony brim. The sun streamed in through the narrow windows and lighted the terra-cotta flagstones where its rays struck, making the extreme corners of the court seem even dimmer. With rare restraint, the only decoration consisted of long festoons, made of lemons, pomegranates, eucalyptus, oranges, and laurel, fashioned to resemble the majolicas ofDella Robbiaand hung gracefully along the stonebalcony, between which was an occasional rare old rug or costly tapestry. Passing slowly up the spacious stairway, stopped now and again by one or more of Helen’s newly acquired friends, they reached the library, where some of the more valuable manuscripts and early printed volumes were exposed to view. A group of book-lovers were eagerly examining an edition of Dante resting upon a graceful thirteenth-centuryleggio, printed byLorenzo Della Magna, and illustrated withBotticelli’s remarkable engravings. From the balcony, leading out from the library, they gained a view of the carefully laid-out garden, brilliant in its color display and redolent with the mingled fragrance of myriads of blossoms.
Here Uncle Peabody rejoined them, bringing with him the scholarly looking professor from Turin.
“Helen, I want you to meet Professor Tesso. He was among the first who saw in my theories and experiments any signs of merit.”
The professor held up his hand deprecatingly. “You give me too much credit, Mr. Cartwright. Judicially, we men of science are all hidebound and look upon every innovation as erroneous until proved otherwise. We could not believe that your theories of body requirements of food were sound because they differed so radically from what we had come to regard as standard. But when you proved yourself right by actual experiment we had no choice in the matter.”
“Uncle Peabody has been very persistent,” said Helen, smiling. “His own conviction in time becomes contagious, does it not?”
“That is just it,” assented Professor Tesso. “What he had told us is something which we really should have known all the time, but we failed to recognize its importance.Now he has forced us to accept it, and the credit is properly his.”
“I have invited Professor Tesso to take tea with us to-morrow afternoon, Helen, at the villa,” said Uncle Peabody.
“By all means,” Helen urged, cordially. “We shall be so glad to welcome you there.”
The sudden exodus of the guests gave notice that something unusual was occurring below.
“It must be the arrival of the Count of Turin,” explained Uncle Peabody. “Let us descend and take a look at Italian royalty.”
With the others they entered the magnificent ball-room—a modern addition to the original villa made by Napoleon for his sister Pauline when she became Grand-Duchess of Tuscany. In the centre of the room, surrounded by his suite, stood the count, graciously receiving the guests presented to him by his host. Hither and thither among the crowd ran little flower-maidens bestowing favors upon the ladies andboutonnièresupon their escorts. A few pieces of music played quietly behind a bank of palms, the low strains blending pleasantly with the hum of conversation.
As Helen and Emory stood with a few Italian friends, a little apart from the others, watching the brilliant throng,Cerinisuddenly joined them. Helen had never thought of him outside the library, and it seemed to her as if one of the chained volumes had broken away from its anchorage. The old man saw the surprise in her face and smiled genially.
“I seldom come to gatherings such as this,” he explained, even before the question was put to him; “but his Highness commanded me to meet him here.”Cerinismiled again and looked into Helen’s face with undisguised admiration. “This is where you belong,” he assured her, quietly but enthusiastically—“this is your element. Do you not see that I was right that day at the library? You are even more beautiful than when I saw you before. There is a new strength in your face. You are a creation of the master-artist, like a marvellous painting which intoxicates the senses.”
Helen had no answer, but the old man continued:
“I have just left your husband and his sister-worker. They are not beautiful—they represent the wisdom which one finds in books. The world needs both, my daughter. Be content.”
And without waiting for a replyCerinidisappeared in the crowd of guests as suddenly as he had come.
Emory was the only one near enough to Helen to observe the interview withCerini. The old man’s words were uttered in too low a tone to reach his ears, but Emory saw Helen close her eyes for a fraction of a second and heard her draw a quick breath. Then she turned to him with a smile so natural that he nearly believed himself deceived, and found himself almost convinced that he must have been mistaken in what he thought he had discovered.
“Whose little old man is that?” Emory queried.
Helen laughed. Emory had a way of putting questions in a form least expected.
“MonsignorCerini,” she answered, “and he belongs to Jack.”
“Oh, he is the librarian!” Phil recognized the descriptions he had heard at the villa. “Interesting-looking old chap; I don’t wonder Jack likes him.”
“He is a wonderful man,” assented Helen; “but his knowledge almost frightens one. I feel like an ignorant child every time I meet him.”
They strolled slowly through the brilliant throng out into the court, up the stairs, and into the library again. The room was wholly deserted, the other guests preferring to watch the spectacle below. No word was spokenuntil Helen threw herself into a great chair near the balcony.
“What an awful thing it is to have so little knowledge!” she exclaimed.
Emory looked at her in surprise. At first he could not believe her serious, but the expression on her face was convincing.
“Compared toCerini?” he asked.
“Compared to any one who has brains—like Jack or Inez.”
Emory studied his companion carefully. The impression made upon him a few moments before, then, was no hallucination.
“What didCerinisay which upset you, Helen?”
“Cerini?” Helen repeated. “Why, nothing. As a matter of fact, he was very complimentary—even gallant. Some of you younger men could take lessons fromCeriniin the gentle art of flattery.”
“I beg your pardon, Helen,” Emory apologized; “I had no intention of intruding.”
“Dear old Phil,” cried Helen, holding out her hand impulsively, “of course you had not, and you could not intrude, anyhow.”
Emory held the proffered hand a moment before it was withdrawn. “I can’t help feeling concerned when I see something disturb you,” he said, quietly—“now, any more than I could before.”
Helen saw that she had not succeeded in deceiving him, but was determined that he should discover as little as possible. “I don’t believe Florence is just the right atmosphere for me,” she began. “I did not notice at first how much more every one here knows about everything than I do, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Thatis what I meant. Of course one expects this supreme knowledge in a man likeCerini, but even those Florentines whom one meets casually at receptions such as this are as well informed on literature and art and music as those whom we consider experts at home.”
“This lack of knowledge on your part does not seem to interfere any with their admiration for you,” insisted Emory. “If Jack took the trouble to see how much attention you received he might have a little less interest in that precious work of his.”
“You must not speak like that, Phil,” Helen protested. “Jack is doing something which neither you nor I can appreciate, but that is our own fault and not his. I only wish I could understand it. Every one says that his book will make him famous, and then we all shall be proud of him—even prouder than we are now.”
Emory rose impatiently. “You are quite right, Helen,—I certainly don’t appreciate it, under the circumstances; but I shall put my foot in this even worse than I did yesterday with Miss Thayer, so I suggest that we change the subject. Come, let us see what is going on down-stairs.”
Uncle Peabody met them in the court. “I was coming after you,” he said by way of explanation. “Tesso has just left, and we also must make ouradieux. Would you mind taking Mr. Emory and me to the Florence Club, Helen, on the way home? He might like to see it.”
Their appearance in the hall was a signal for the unattached men again to surround Helen with protestations of regret that she had absented herself from the reception-room, and Emory watched the episode with grim satisfaction. Uncle Peabody appeared to take no notice of anything except his responsibility, and graduallyguided the party to where their host and hostess were standing, and then out to the automobile. An invigorating run down the hill, past the walls which shut out all but the luxuriant verdure of the high cypresses, alternating with the olive and lemon trees, and through the town, brought them to thePiazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the car paused for a moment to allow the men to alight. Then, after brief farewells, Helen continued her ride alone toSettignano.
Uncle Peabody led the way up the stairs to a small room leading off from the main parlor of the club. Producing some cigars, he motioned to Emory to make himself comfortable at one end of a great leather-covered divan, while he drew up a chair for himself.
“I brought you here for a definite purpose,” he announced as soon as the preliminaries were arranged.
“I think I can divine the purpose,” replied Emory, striking a match and lighting his cigar.
Uncle Peabody looked at his companion inquiringly.
“It is about Helen, is it not?” continued Emory, without waiting for Mr. Cartwright to question him.
“It is,” assented Uncle Peabody; “and your intuition makes my task the easier.”
“It is not intuition,” corrected Emory; “it is observation.”
“Well, call it what you like—the necessity is the same. Perhaps I have no right to discuss this matter with you, but I understand you have known Helen for a good while and pretty well.”
“So well that I would have married her if she had ever given me the chance,” asserted Emory, calmly.
“What do you make out of the case?”
“The girl is desperately unhappy.”
“She is. But how are we going to help her without making things a thousand times worse?”
Emory smoked his cigar meditatively. “I have been thinking of that, too,” he replied at length, “but with no more success, apparently, than yourself. It is a rather delicate matter.”
“There is no question about that.” Uncle Peabody spoke decisively. “And this is all the more reason why we should talk things over together. We are the only ones who can possibly straighten matters out, and I am not at all certain that we can accomplish anything.”
“Do you think Armstrong himself realizes the situation?”
“Not in the slightest. He is absolutely absorbed.”
“How about Miss Thayer?”
Uncle Peabody looked at Emory interrogatively. “What have you observed about Miss Thayer?” he asked.
“That she is exceedingly sensitive upon the subject of her engagement,” replied Emory, with feeling.
“Have you come to any conclusion as to the reason?”
Emory was surprised by the implied meaning in Mr. Cartwright’s words. “Why, no,” he said, slowly.
“I was here when De Peyster proposed to her,” Uncle Peabody continued.
“Then she was the girl!”
“She was the girl,” repeated his companion. “When she threw him over, she did not tell him that she was engaged, as he repeated to you, but that she loved some one else.”
A wave of understanding passed over Emory.
“And the some one else was—Armstrong! What astupid fool I’ve been!” Emory rose and walked to the window. Suddenly he turned. “Does Helen know this?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Then why does she not put a stop to it?”
“Now you have at length arrived at my standpoint,” replied Uncle Peabody, with satisfaction. “Helen knows it, I am convinced. Miss Thayer, of course, knows her own feelings. Armstrong is head over heels in this alleged masterpiece of his, and I give him credit for appreciating Miss Thayer’s sentiments toward him as little as he does Helen’s sufferings. Except for this I should not think of interfering, but under the circumstances I feel that between us we may have a chance to straighten things out before the principals know that there is anything which needs straightening.”
“That is a fair statement of the basis of the conspiracy,” said Emory, returning to his seat; “but have you worked out the details as carefully?”
“No,” admitted Uncle Peabody, frankly. “That is a more difficult proposition, and I doubt if we can formulate any definite plan. It occurred to me that if we joined forces we would stand a better chance of hitting upon some expedient when the opportunity offered.”
“Helen seems more or less reconciled, in spite of what we know she feels,” said Emory, reflectively; “you heard what she said to Armstrong last evening about helping his work to a glorious success?”
“She is trying desperately to be reconciled, and she thinks she has concealed her real feelings,” replied Uncle Peabody; “but she is eating her heart out all the time.”
“Well, I wish I thought I could help her some way.” Emory rose and extended his hand. “I have never looked upon myself as much of a success in matters like this,Mr. Cartwright, but there is nothing I would not do for Helen—even to helping her to get a divorce!”
Uncle Peabody smiled as he took Emory’s hand and held it firmly. “I suspect you will have to eliminate yourself if you hope to accomplish anything. If I know Helen at all, she will never take another chance if this first venture turns out unfortunately. But let us hope that all will right itself, and that we may be the direct or indirect means of its so doing.”
“Amen to that,” assented Emory, warmly. “I have wanted Helen always, but I should be a brute if I did not want her happiness first of all.”
“I thought I had made no mistake,” replied Uncle Peabody. “I rather pride myself on my skill in reading human nature, and I should have been disappointed in you had you failed me.”
Uncle Peabody was late in returning to the villa, and the family had already seated themselves at dinner.
“We are all going for a moonlight ride,” announced Armstrong as Mr. Cartwright apologized for his tardy appearance, “and we felt sure you would soon be here. Did you ever see such a perfect evening?”
Uncle Peabody resolved to try an experiment. “May I venture to suggest an amendment?” he asked.
“What improvement can you possibly make on my plan?” Armstrong was incredulous.
“Simply that Miss Thayer and I give you and Helen a chance to enjoy the ride by yourselves, after the style of true honeymooners.”
Helen’s face flushed with pleasure, but Armstrong resented any change in his original arrangement.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Helen and I are not sosentimental, I trust, as to wish to keep you and Miss Thayer from enjoying the ride with us on such a night as this.”
“I think Mr. Cartwright’s amendment an excellent one,” said Inez. “It will be much better for you and Helen to go by yourselves.”
“Now you have broken up the whole party!” Armstrong turned petulantly on Uncle Peabody. “Miss Thayer has been working all the afternoon in the library, and needs the refreshment of the air even more than Helen.”
“If Miss Thayer will permit,” replied Uncle Peabody, maintaining his ground stoutly, “I will do my best to make her evening an agreeable one.”
Armstrong was not appeased, but could hardly do other than accept the situation. After seeing the car depart from the court-yard, Uncle Peabody and Miss Thayer strolled out to the garden, where he arranged their chairs so that they might gain the choicest view of the moon-illumined city and the winding river, silver in the soft, pale light.
“I have kept you from an interesting experience,” Uncle Peabody began, “but I know how much it will mean to Helen to have her husband all to herself. You understand, I am sure.”
“I do understand, perfectly,” replied Inez, heartily. “I am only ashamed that I did not think of it myself; but it is difficult to oppose Mr. Armstrong in anything he has his heart set on, and I confess that I do not possess your courage.”
“I doubt if I should have been so courageous had I realized how disagreeable he would be. Armstrong has changed much in the few weeks I have known him.”
Uncle Peabody made his assertion boldly, and then waited for a response. Inez looked up quickly.
“I think it is hard for any one to understand Mr. Armstrong without seeing him at his work. He has changed, as you say, but it is a change which no one—least of all himself—could prevent.”
Uncle Peabody expected a defence—that was but natural.
“I don’t think I quite follow you,” he said, wishing to draw her out. “Would you mind telling me more about the work, and what there is in it to affect him in this way?”
“I wish I could make it clear to you, for unless you understand it you will do him a great injustice.” Inez again keyed herself up to her self-appointed task. “Helen asked me the same question last evening, and I realized while talking with her how poorly fitted I myself am to attempt any explanation.”
The girl paused. She knew that her companion would analyze what she said much more thoroughly than Helen had done.
“Were you ever under an hypnotic influence?” she asked, suddenly.
“Yes,” replied Uncle Peabody, calmly. “But you don’t mean to say that this has happened to Jack?”
“Yes and no,” Inez continued. “If I believed in reincarnation I should say without hesitation that Mr. Armstrong was living over again, here in Florence, an existence which he had previously experienced centuries ago. As I don’t believe in this, I can simply say that there is a something which comes from an intimate contact with these master-spirits of the past which is so compelling that it takes one out of the present and assumescomplete control over him. While we are at the library all else is forgotten. I work there beside him hour after hour, yet he seems entirely unconscious of my presence except to the extent to which it assists his own efforts. All personality is absolutely obliterated. I understand it, because to a lesser degree I have felt it myself. When we leave the library he becomes more like himself again; but as he gets deeper into his work, his absorption is greater, and for that reason alone, I believe, he is less mindful of the usual every-day conventions. I wish I could make it clear to you.”
Uncle Peabody did not reply at once. What Inez had said gave him a new viewpoint both of Armstrong and of her.
“How long do you think this will continue?” he asked at length.
“Until his work is finished.”
“And when will that be?”
“Another month, at least.”
Uncle Peabody was again silent, weighing the situation from the present standpoint. “What is to become of Helen in the mean time?” he asked, abruptly.
Miss Thayer had anticipated this question. “Helen understands the situation perfectly,” she said, confidently. “She has talked it over with him and with me. It is a sacrifice on her part to be separated from her husband, especially at this time, but it is one which she is willing to accept for her husband’s sake.”
“Would you be willing to accept it were the conditions reversed?”
Inez flushed, but stood her ground bravely. “Perhaps not,” she admitted; “but Helen is a stronger woman than I.”
“She does not think so.”
“Helen is a much stronger woman than she herself realizes.”
Uncle Peabody was thoughtful. “Let me ask you one more question. Do you think that this spell, or influence, or whatever you may call it, in any way affects Armstrong’s affection for his wife?”
“I am sure that it does not,” replied Inez, with decision. “His devotion to Helen must be even stronger, because he can but appreciate the splendid generosity she is showing.”
“He certainly adopts curious methods of demonstrating it.”
“But consider the influences he is under!” Inez urged.
Uncle Peabody admired the girl’s handling of the catechising he had given her. He looked steadily into her face before replying.
“You are a noble champion, Miss Thayer,” he said, at length.
“That is because I have faith in the cause,” responded Inez, smiling. “I have been brought up to believe that every married woman must at some time in her life make a supreme sacrifice for her husband. I only hope that when my turn comes the sacrifice may be made for so good a cause.”
“This is another version of the chastening of the spirit,” added Uncle Peabody; “but I am thinking of a certain spirit which received so much chastening that it never revived. I sincerely trust that history may not repeat itself.”
Uncle Peabody was entirely right when he stated that Armstrong had become a changed man since he first came to Florence; Miss Thayer was right when she attributed this change to the associations into which he had thrown himself—yet both were wrong in thinking him unconscious of his own altered condition. As he told Helen, he had ever felt some irresistible influence drawing him back to Florence, even while engrossed in the duties of his profession. Just what the craving was he could not have explained even to himself. What he should find in Florence had taken no definite form in his mind, yet the longing possessed him in spite of all he could do to reason with himself against it.
After his arrival in Florence, even, it was not untilCerinisuggested theMichelangeloletters that he formulated any plan to gratify his long-anticipated expectations. His arguments with himself had prepared him for a disappointment. It had been a boyish fancy, he said, inwardly; he had felt the influences of his environment simply because he had been young and impressionable, and it was quite impossible that he should now, man-grown, prove susceptible to anything so inexplicable as what he had felt in his earlier days.
Then came the experience withCeriniand MissThayer. She was a woman, truly, and subject to a woman’s physical frailties, yet she was intellectually strong, and could not so have yielded to anything but a controlling power. Here, then, was a second personality affected in a like manner as himself by the same influences. He did not try to explain it; he accepted it as an evidence that this influence, whatever it was, existed and made itself manifest. From that moment he merged his own individuality into those to whomCeriniwith gentle suasion introduced him. The librarian incited him by his own enthusiasm, and then directed him along the paths which he himself so loved to tread.
ButCerinidid not foresee the extremes to which his pupil’s devotion would carry him. Day by day Armstrong felt himself becoming more and more separated from all about him, and more and more amalgamated with those forces which had preceded him. The society of any save those who acted and thought as he did failed to appeal to him. His affection for Helen suffered no change, except that she became less necessary to him. As the work progressed the intervals away from the library seemed longer, and he found it more difficult to enter into the life about him. Then came an irritability, entirely foreign to his nature, which he could not curb.
Yet through it all he was entirely conscious of what was happening. He compared himself more than once to a man in a trance, painfully alive to all the preparations going on about him for his own entombment, yet unable to cry out and put a stop to it all. He wished that Helen would object to his absences and force him to become a part of her life again. He wished that Miss Thayer would tire of the work and leave him alone in it. In contemplating either event he suffered at the mere thought of what such an interruption would meanto him, he knew that he would interpose strenuous objections—yet in a way he longed for the break to come.
Armstrong had been in one of these inexplicably irritable moods when Uncle Peabody crossed him in his plan for the moonlight ride toSan Miniato. As a matter of fact, it was only because Miss Thayer had complained of a headache as they left the library that the idea of a ride had occurred to him at all; and to have Mr. Cartwright calmly propose that she drop out of the planned excursion struck him as a distinct intrusion upon his own prerogatives. The automobile fever was out of his blood now; the motor-car had become to him merely a convenience, and no longer an exhilaration. It was quite inevitable that Miss Thayer should acquiesce in Uncle Peabody’s suggestion—in fact, she could do nothing else; yet at the library she accepted even his slightest suggestion without question, and Armstrong preferred this latter responsive attitude. All in all, he would have been glad to find some excuse for giving up the ride altogether; but none offered itself, so, with every movement an obvious protest, he had helped Helen into thetonneauand stepped in after her.
Helen was hardly in a happier frame of mind, yet she found herself so eager for this time alone with her husband that she raised none of the obstacles which she would have done a month earlier. It was a perfect June evening, with the air cooled enough by the light wind to make the breeze raised by the speed of the car agreeable to the face. The moon was just high enough to cause deep shadows to fall across the roadway and merge into fantastic shapes as the machine approached and passed over them. The peasants were out-of-doors, and expressed their contentment by snatches ofsong, rendered in the rich, melodious voices which are the natural heritage of this light-hearted people. The toil of the day was over, and they were entering into a well-earnedriposobefore the duties of the next sunrise claimed their strength.
“How peaceful this is!” Helen exclaimed, turning to her husband. The breeze had blown back the lace scarf from her head, and the moon fell full upon her luxuriant hair, lighting her upturned face. “All nature is at rest and peace, and the people reflect the contentment of the land.”
“Your uncle is becoming very dictatorial,” replied Armstrong, quite at variance with her mood.
“Why, Jack!”
Helen was mildly reproachful, yet she instinctively felt the necessity of being cautious. Perhaps she could make him forget his resentment.
“Uncle Peabody only meant to give us an opportunity to be by ourselves. We have had so few.”
“He should have understood that I had some good reason for planning matters just as I did or I should not have done it.”
“Do you regret being alone with me?”
Helen struggled to keep the tears out of her voice.
“Don’t be absurd, Helen,” replied Armstrong, impatiently. “That is not the point at all. Miss Thayer is tired and needed this relaxation. Mr. Cartwright had no right to interfere.”
There was a long silence, during which Armstrong relapsed into a profound taciturnity, while Helen found it hard to know what tack to take. She glanced occasionally at her husband, but could gain no inspiration from his grim, set features.
“Tell me, Jack,” she said, at length, “is it not possible for you to pursue your work at the library without having it make you so indifferent to everything else?”
He shifted his position uneasily. “I am not indifferent to everything else. The fact that I proposed this ride is an evidence of that.”
“Has something happened to make my companionship distasteful to you?”
Armstrong became more and more irritated. “I don’t see why you are so possessed to make me uncomfortable, Helen. But I understand what you are driving at.”
“What am I driving at?” she asked, quietly.
“You are taking this method to force me to put an end to my work.”
Helen winced. “Is that fair, Jack? What have I said to you every time the subject has been mentioned?”
“You have told me to go ahead, and then you have shown quite plainly by every action that you did not mean it.”
“Jack Armstrong!” She was indignant at his gross injustice.
“What have I said each time the subject has come up?” continued Armstrong. “You have had every opportunity to have your own way in this as in all other matters. I repeat it now—is it your wish that I stop my work? Say but the word and I will never enter that library again.”
Helen was hurt through and through. To what avail was her sacrifice if it be so little understood, so little appreciated?
“I don’t wish to be misunderstood in this,” added Armstrong, as if in answer to her thoughts. “I quite realize that I have asked much of you who can understandso little of what my book means to me. I have been entirely frank, and have accepted from you the time which rightfully belongs to you in the spirit, as I supposed, in which you gave it to me. If you did not mean what you said, you have but to tell me so and it shall be exactly as you wish.”
“I have meant every word I have said, Jack,” replied Helen, in a low, strained voice. “I have been glad to contribute in the only way I could to anything which means so much to you. I simply ask you now whether it is necessary for this absorption to include all of yourself even when you are away from it. I did not suppose that this was essential.”
“You are exaggerating the situation out of all proportion.”
“I wish I were, Jack.”
Helen’s voice had a tired note in it which Armstrong could not fail to perceive. He was amazed by his own apathy. Why did it mean so little to him? Why did he sit there beside her as if he had not noticed it when in reality he felt the pain as keenly as she did? He turned and looked at her for the first time since they had started. Helen gave no sign that she was conscious of his scrutiny, lying back with her cheek resting upon her hand, her eyes closed, her lips quivering now and then in spite of her supreme effort to control herself. Always, before, Armstrong would have folded her in his arms and brushed away the heart-pains, real or imaginary as they might have been. Now he sat watching her suffer without making any effort to relieve her.
He despised himself for his attitude. What wretched thing had come between him and this girl whom he had idolized, and prevented him from extending eventhe common sympathy which belonged to any one who needed it? What malevolent power forced him to be the cause of this sorrow and yet forbade him the privilege of assuaging it? This was not the lesson learned from the humanists. Why should not he be able to give out to those around him the reflection of that true happiness which their work first taught the world?
Helen opened her eyes suddenly and looked full into his. Startled at the expression on his face, she sat upright, keenly anxious and forgetful of her own troubles.
“Jack dear,” she cried, “you are not well! You are unhappy, too! Tell me what it all means, and let us understand it together!”
Her voice brought back the old condition. His eyes lowered and he withdrew his hand from Helen’s impulsive grasp. With a heart heavy for the explanation which lay close at hand, his voice refused to obey.
“I am perfectly well, Helen,” he replied. “Why should you think me otherwise?”
The reaction was great, yet Helen succeeded in retaining her control. While conscious, during the weeks past, of the change in her husband’s bearing toward her, she was unprepared for his present attitude. Yet the look in his face when she had surprised him by opening her eyes was the old expression by which in the past she had known that something had touched him deeply—but it was intensified beyond anything she had ever seen. It had always been her privilege to comfort him under these conditions, and instinctively her heart sprang forward to meet his. Then she saw the expression change and she grew cold with apprehension.
“Ask Alfonse to turn back, please,” she begged.“The air is getting chilly and I think I would rather be home.”
In response to her desire the chauffeur turned the car, and the ride back to the villa was accomplished in silence. Helen’s thoughts ran rampant, but further conversation was impossible. Her pain was now tempered by her anxiety. Jack was not well, in spite of his disclaimers. His close application to his work in the poorly ventilated library had undoubtedly affected him, and this was the explanation of his otherwise inexplicable attitude toward her. It was with positive relief that she discovered any explanation, and as she thought things over this relief lightened the burden she had been carrying all these weeks more than anything which had happened since the cloud began to gather. In some way she must plan to relieve the pressure and bring her husband back to her and to himself again.
Inez and Uncle Peabody met them at the doorway.
“The ride has done you good,” said the latter, giving his hand to Helen and noting the light in the girl’s eyes as they walked toward the hall.
“I have left my scarf in the car,” said Helen, turning back so quickly that Mr. Cartwright had no opportunity to offer his services.
Armstrong and Inez were standing together on the step, and as Helen approached she could not help overhearing her husband’s reply to Miss Thayer’s inquiring looks.
“You are the only one who understands me,” Armstrong was saying—“you are the only one!”