The next afternoon was a warm one, andAnnettasearched for some little time before she discovered Uncle Peabody half concealed within a natural arbor formed by the falling branches of an ancient tree. Here, in the cooling shade, he was reading over a budget of letters just received from America. Emory followed close behind the maid, and laughed heartily at Mr. Cartwright’s jump of startled surprise whenAnnettabroke into his absorption with the announcement of “Signor Emori.”
“Hello, Emory!” he cried, looking up genially from the letter in his hand. “I was thousands of miles away, and two words from the lips of the gentle serving-maid brought me back to Florence. Marconigrams are nothing compared with the marvellous exhibition you have just witnessed.”
“It is a shame to interrupt you,” Emory apologized. “I came up early hoping to have a little chat with you before Professor Tesso and tea-time arrived.”
“Don’t apologize, I beg of you,” protested Uncle Peabody, gathering up his letters and making room for Emory to sit beside him. “I was just on the point of returning, anyway, and you have saved me the necessity of packing up. In fact, you are very welcome.”
“I judge your news is of an agreeable nature?”
Emory saw that Uncle Peabody was eager to be questioned.
“Things are advancing famously,” replied Mr. Cartwright, enthusiastically. “These letters are from America, and report the fullest success attending the experiments there with which I am so vitally concerned. But what are you carrying so carefully at arm’s-length?”
Uncle Peabody peered into the little wicker cage Emory was holding.
“Ah, agrillo!” he said. “Then to-day must be Ascension Day and theFesta dei Grilli. I had forgotten the date.”
“So that explains why they are selling these little cages with crickets inside of them all over the city. The old woman I bought this of told me it was a token of good luck, so I brought it to Helen.”
“She will be interested in it,” replied Uncle Peabody. “The littlegrillobrought luck once upon a time, if the legend be true, and it may do so again.”
“Is thisFesta dei Grilli, as you call it, an annual festival?”
“Yes; and as firmly established as the Feast of the Dove on Easter eve. The story goes that an attempt was once made upon the life ofLorenzo de’ Mediciin his own garden by the familiar means of a goblet of poisoned wine. As the would-be assassin handed the goblet toLorenzoa cricket alighted on the surface of the wine and immediately expired. Thus, as in modern melodrama, the villain was foiled. Since then, a Florentine would harm a human being as soon as he would agrillo. Each year these cages are taken into the homes, and as long as the little crickets can be kept alive good luck attends the household.”
“Speaking of conspiracies,” remarked Emory, who lost no time in finding an opening, “how advances our present one? I have been thinking of nothing else since our talk about Helen.”
Uncle Peabody rose and glanced around the garden from his point of vantage. “Careful!” he said, drawing back. “Helen is coming, and I can only say that we must move very cautiously—even more so than I supposed. I will tell you more later.”
“Here we are, Helen,” he answered, in response to his niece’s call, and both men advanced to meet her.
“Oh, you have found my ‘snuggery’!” cried Helen, seeing them emerge from the arbor. “I intended to keep that entirely for myself, but I will be generous and share it with you.”
“Mr. Emory has brought you a talisman,” said Uncle Peabody, pointing to the wicker cage. “Perhaps you will permit this to appease your displeasure.”
Helen examined with interest the cage Emory placed in her hand.
“Why, it is a cricket!” she exclaimed, as she discovered the occupant beneath the green leaves.
The story of the origin of thefestawas retold and thegrilloplaced under her special protection.
“It is an emblem of good luck, Helen,” added Emory—“like the swastika, only a great deal less commonplace.”
“Thank you, Phil,” replied Helen. Then she looked up at him suddenly. “Why did you bring it to me?” she asked, suspiciously. “Do you think I need it?”
“I think we all need all the good luck we can get,” replied Emory, guardedly.
“Tesso is late,” remarked Uncle Peabody, opportunely,looking at his watch. “He will be greatly interested in the reports of these American experiments.”
Another half-hour passed by before the professor from Turin arrived. Helen strolled about the garden with Emory, pointing out the unusual flowers and shrubs, while Uncle Peabody collected his letters and arranged them in proper sequence.Annettabrought out the tea-table and laid everything in readiness, returning to the house just in time to usher the dignified figure into the hall.
“I hope I have not disarranged your plans,” apologized the professor, pleased with the cordiality of his reception. “I had a little experience which delayed me.”
“My uncle is so anxious to tell you of some good tidings, professor, that he has almost become impatient,” replied Helen, smiling. “You observe that I say ‘almost,’ do you not?”
“It would never do for him to become impatient, would it?” replied Tesso, turning to his friend—“you the disciple ofCornaroand the example to us all! But I myself am weaker—I admit my impatience.”
Uncle Peabody and Emory drew up the chairs, and Tesso seated himself next to Mr. Cartwright with obvious expectancy.
“You recall the results of my own experiments in attempting to show increased muscular and mental endurance as a result of eating in right manner what the appetite selects instead of eating in wrong manner what the doctors advise?” began Uncle Peabody.
“And incidentally demonstrating that the existing standard of minimum nutrition for man was three times too large?” queried Tesso.
“Yes. You all were very generous, but I know youattributed the results in a measure to my own personal peculiarities.”
“You are right to a certain extent,” admitted Tesso, “yet, so far as the experiment went, it proved that your theory was correct.”
“Now I have further evidence to add which is overwhelming,” continued Uncle Peabody, triumphantly. “For the last six months experiments have been in progress in America, taking as subjects groups of men in different walks of life—college professors, athletes, and soldiers. To-day I have received a report of the results. In every instance, on an intake of less than the recognized minimum standard, the subjects improved in physical condition and increased their strength efficiency from twenty-five to one hundred per cent. Think of that, Tesso—from twenty-five to one hundred per cent.!”
“I congratulate you heartily, my dear friend,” replied the professor, warmly. “The effects of this will be most far-reaching. I foresaw that you might demonstrate a new minimum, but I had not expected that an increased efficiency would accompany it.”
“I wish you would introduce this discovery of yours to the Harvard football team,” remarked Emory, feelingly. “Perhaps it would result in a few more victories on the right side.”
“It certainly would help matters,” assented Uncle Peabody, with confidence. “All this so-called training is necessary only because of the abuse which the average man’s stomach suffers from its owner. My theory is that any man, college athlete or otherwise, can keep in perfect condition all the time, simply by following a few easy rules and by knowing how to take care of himself. Itis just as important to be in training for his every-day life as for an athletic contest.”
“How did the experiments result with the athletes?” Emory inquired.
“These records are the most interesting of all,” replied Uncle Peabody, referring to his letter. “This group included track athletes, football players, the intercollegiate all-around champion, and several others—all at full training. They had already increased their strength and endurance efficiency at least twenty-five per cent during the training period before taking up the new system. In four months, eating whatever they craved, but using only the amount demanded by their appetites and giving it careful treatment in the mouth, these athletes reduced the amount of their food from one-third to one-half, and increased their strength and endurance records from twenty-five to one hundred per cent.”
“You ought to feel pretty well satisfied with that,” said Emory.
“I am satisfied,” replied Uncle Peabody, “as far as it goes, but I hope for far more important results than these.”
“Indeed?” queried Professor Tesso. “I shared the thought expressed by Mr. Emory that your ambition ought now to be satisfied.”
Uncle Peabody was silent for a moment. “I wonder if I dare tell you what my whole scheme really is,” he said, at length.
“You can’t startle me any more than you did with your original proposition three years ago,” encouraged the professor, smiling. “At that time I could but consider you a physiological heretic.”
“Tesso,” said Uncle Peabody, deliberately, “the results of these experiments confirm me absolutely that I am on the right track. These revelations on the subject of nutrition are but the spokes of the great movement I have at heart—or perhaps, more properly speaking, they are the hub into which the spokes are being fitted. What I really hope and expect to do is to put education on a physiological basis, and to demonstrate that it is possible to cultivate progressive efficiency—that a man of sixty ought to be more powerful, physically and intellectually, than a man of forty. I can see no reason, logically, for one to retrograde as rapidly as men do now, but this depends upon his knowing how to run the human engine intelligently and economically and thus keeping it always in repair.”
“You astonish me, truly,” said Tesso, thoughtfully, “yet I can advance no argument except faulty human experience to refute your theory. In fact, you yourself are a living demonstration of its truth.”
“Then there would be no old age?” queried Helen.
“There would be age just the same,” replied Uncle Peabody, “but it would be ripe and natural age, with only such infirmities as come from accident; and less of these, since disease would find fewer opportunities to fasten itself upon its victims. If all the world knew what some know the death-rate could be cut in two, the average of human efficiency doubled, and the cost of necessary sustenance halved.”
“Mr. Cartwright,” said Professor Tesso, impressively, “if you succeed in carrying through this great reform of yours, even in part, you will be the greatest benefactor of mankind the world has known.”
“It is too large a contract to be carried through byany single one, but my confidence in the final outcome is based on the intelligent interest which others are taking in my work. I am glad you do not think the idea chimerical. It encourages me to keep at it with tireless application.”
“Dare I interrupt with so prosaic a suggestion as a cup of tea?” asked Helen, as there came a lull in the conversation.
“Mr. Cartwright has given me so much to think about that a little relaxation will be grateful,” replied the professor. “Perhaps you would be interested if I gave you an account of the experience which delayed me this afternoon?”
“By all means,” said Helen, as she prepared the tea. “I am sure it was an interesting one.”
“You may not know that I have a great love for the romantic,” confessed Professor Tesso. “It seems a far cry from my every-day life, but sometime I mean to prepare an essay upon the subject of the relation between science and romance. In fact, I believe them to be very closely allied.”
“What a clever idea!” cried Helen. “If you ever prove that to be true it will explain a lot of things.”
“Perhaps I can do it sometime,” continued the scientist, complacently, “and in the mean time I gratify my whim by taking observations whenever the opportunity offers. To-day I had a most charming illustration, and I became so much interested that it made me late in coming to you.”
“You certainly have an admirable excuse,” assented his hostess.
“I suspect that the objects of my observation are fellow-patriots of yours, but I am not certain. The manwas a strong, fine-looking fellow with ability and determination written clearly in his face. He was evidently a deep student—perhaps a professor in some one of your American colleges. His companion, the heroine of my story, was a small woman, but so intense! I think it was her intensity which first attracted my attention.”
“I am sure they could not have been Americans, professor,” interrupted Helen. “No American woman would display her emotion like that, I am sure.—Do you take cream, and how many lumps of sugar, please?”
“You may be right, of course,” continued Tesso, giving her the necessary information. “In fact, my whole story is based upon supposition. However, as they sat there together, first he would say something to her, and they would look into each other’s faces, and then she would say something to him, and the operation would be repeated. They spoke little, but the silent communion of their hearts as they looked at each other spoke more eloquently than words. It was beautiful to behold. ‘There,’ I said to myself, ‘is a perfect union of well-mated souls. What a pity that they must ever go out into the world and run the risk of having something commonplace come between them and their devotion!’”
“Splendid!” cried Helen. “How I wish I might have been with you!”
“The whole episode could not have failed to interest you as it did me.” The professor was ingenuously sincere in his narrative. “In these days one so seldom sees husbands and wives properly matched up. Of course, it is quite possible that when this pair I speak of are actually married they will quarrel like cats and dogs. But for the present their devotion was so natural, so untainted by the world’s actualities, that I confess myselfguilty of having deliberately watched them far beyond the bounds of common decency.”
“You should certainly pursue your investigations further,” said Uncle Peabody. “After having discovered psychological subjects in a man and a woman perfectly adapted to each other, it would be a pity not to continue your researches that their perfections might be recorded for the benefit of others less fortunate.”
“Have you no idea who they were?” asked Emory.
“Not the slightest. I might have found out, as my friend, whom I went to see, must know them; but I was aghast when I discovered the hour, and ran away without so much as leaving my name.”
“Where did all this happen?” asked Helen.
“At theLaurenziana,” replied Tesso. “I went to call on my old friendCerini.” The professor laughed guiltily. “I hope he never learns the reason why I failed to keep my appointment!”
Helen placed her cup abruptly upon the table and stared stonily at Tesso. Uncle Peabody and Emory glanced quickly at each other in absolute helplessness. The professor, however, failed to notice the effect of his words upon his auditors; he was too much amused by the mental picture ofCeriniwaiting for him while he, only a few feet away from the librarian’s study, was gratifying his love for the romantic.
“May I join you?” cried a voice behind Helen, as Inez Thayer approached unnoticed in the dim light. “Mr. Armstrong went down to the station to send a cable, so I came back alone.”
“Inez—Miss Thayer, let me present Professor Tesso,” said Helen, mechanically.
The professor held out his hand and stepped towardher. As the features of her face became clear a great joy overwhelmed him.
“My heroine!” he cried, turning to the others. “This is the heroine of my story! Now, my dear Mr. Cartwright, I can record these perfections for the benefit of others less fortunate!”
What happened after Inez arrived, how she herself had acted, and how Professor Tesso’s departure had been accomplished remained a blank to Helen. All that was clear to her was the pain—the sharp, aching pain—which came to her with a realization of the true significance of the story Tesso told. The crisis was coming fast, Helen was conscious of that; she even wondered if it was not at hand already.
Throughout the long, sleepless night Helen reviewed the events of the brief months of her married life. She even began earlier than that, and recalled those days in Boston when Jack Armstrong had appeared before her first as an acquaintance, then as a friend—sympathetic, helpful, congenial—and finally as a suitor for her hand. As she looked back now the period of friendship was recalled with the greatest happiness. Perhaps this was because he had then been more thoughtful of her and less masterful, perhaps it was because the friendship entailed less responsibility—she could not tell. Even during their engagement she had laughed at those moods which she had not understood, and he had accepted her attitude good-naturedly and become himself again. Now she wondered how she had dared to laugh at him!
Then her mind dwelt upon the ocean voyage—those days of cloudless happiness, of unalloyed joy. Thevisit in Paris, where the sights, although not new, seemed so different because of the companionship of her husband. The trip to Florence, the first glimpse of theVilla Godilombra—which was to be their earliest home together—all came back to her with vivid distinctness. And the day atFiesole—that day when her husband had become a boy again, and had shown her a side of his nature so unreserved, so natural that she had felt a new world opening before her, a new happiness, the like of which she had never known.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, aloud, “why could not that day atFiesolehave lasted forever!”
Still the panorama of reminiscence continued. That evening when De Peyster, all unconsciously, repeated to her those words of Inez’ which first altered the aspect of her entire world was clearly recalled. Perhaps she might have prevented the present crisis had she recognized the danger then and acted upon the information she had unintentionally received. Perhaps if she had in some way interfered with the work at the library, and thus prevented the constant companionship of her husband and Inez, the trouble might have been averted. But she would have despised herself had she done that. If she could hold her husband’s love only by preventing him from meeting other women her happiness had indeed never been secure.
And she had tried to enter into his life, to understand this phase of his nature which, after all her efforts, had baffled her intentions. She had gone to the library with him, expecting to apply herself to her self-appointed task until she succeeded in satisfying even so exacting a master as she knew her husband to be. He would have been patient with her; he would have appreciated the lovewhich prompted her efforts, and all would have been well. ButCerinihad interfered. She could hear his voice now; she could see the expression on his face as he spoke the words, “By not interfering with this character-building, you, his wife, will later reap rich returns.” Helen laughed bitterly to herself. She was reaping the rich returns now—rich in sorrow and pain and suffering.
Perhaps she could have forced the crisis to come when Inez’ confession to De Peyster had been disclosed by Emory. Jack’s conduct at that time had almost brought Helen’s resentment to the breaking-point; but what Inez had told her afterward had made her feel more in sympathy with him, even though she understood him no better than before. “Your husband is a god among them all,” Inez had said; “you will be so proud of him—so proud that he belongs to you.” She was proud of him, but her pride could in no way make up to her for the loss of his affection. In her mind’s eye she could see him, with his masterpiece completed, receiving the world’s plaudits, but entirely unmindful of her, his wife, who had stood aside and made it possible for him to accomplish it all. Oh, it was too cruel, too unfair! Helen buried her head in the pillows and moaned piteously.
She lived over again that one moment in the automobile, that one look in her husband’s face which had given her relief. It had, indeed, been a brief respite! At that moment she felt that Jack’s love for her still existed, strong and deathless, in the face of temporary abstraction. With this certainty she could endure in patience whatever sacrifices were necessary to win him back to herself. But Jack’s words to Inez on the steps, “You are the only one who understands me”—therecould be no mistake there. It was to Inez and not to her that he turned for understanding and for comfort.
All through the day she had tried to deceive herself into believing that even this was the result of some mental illness from which Jack was suffering, but Tesso had added just the necessary detail to destroy even the semblance of comfort to which she had so tenaciously clung. “A perfect union of well-mated souls,” the professor had called them. “What a pity to have something commonplace come between them and their devotion!” And she was that “commonplace something”!
At all events, the main point had been definitely settled. For weeks she had known that Inez loved Jack; now she felt sure that this affection must be reciprocated. She should have known it sooner, she told herself. “I have been such a coward,” she said, inwardly—“I could not bear to know for a certainty what I feared to be true.” Now the worst that could happen had happened. Jack would in all probability be the last one to suggest any break. He would keep on as at present with his book—perhaps he might extend the work somewhat, in order to be with Inez a little longer; but when this was completed he would come back to her again, his obsession would disappear, and outwardly there would be no change. They would return to Boston and be received by their friends with glad acclaim, and with congratulations upon the happy months of the honey-moon passed under such congenial conditions! Jack would be an exemplary husband, she knew that. With the book completed and away from the overpowering influences which had controlled him in Florence he would again be to her, perhaps, all he had ever been. But what an irony it would be!
Not for a moment did she accuse him of having married her without believing that he loved her. Armstrong’s sincerity was a characteristic which could never be denied. He had not known Inez then. Any one could see that he and Inez were meant for each other;Cerinisaw it and said so; Tesso saw it and said so; she herself felt it without a question. Her marriage to Jack had been a mistake, an awful mistake. If only he and Inez had met earlier! Her own life was ruined, but was there any reason why the tragedy should include the others? If it would help matters Helen might be selfish enough to let them share the pain, but as there was nothing to be gained it would be worse than selfish. Jack had no idea that she was aware of the true conditions. He would oppose her if she attempted to take it all into her own life, yet this was the only course to pursue which could minimize the suffering.
Helen shut her eyes, but sleep was still far distant. The first agony had not run its course, and it would have been a misdirected mercy to stem its flow. There was no resentment in Helen’s heart, and at this she herself wondered. Inez was not to blame for loving Jack—it was the most natural thing in the world. She had tried her best to keep the knowledge of her affection to herself, and but for the double accident she might have succeeded. Jack was not to blame. He himself had not known the strength of the power which drew him back to Florence, nor could he have foreseen how wholly it would possess him when once he yielded himself to it. He had not sought Inez; Helen herself had brought them together. He had found her useful to him in his work; he had found her agreeable as a friend; all beyond that had been a natural growth which could notand perhaps should not have been checked. The more the pity of it!
At first Helen felt that if Jack could return to his old self inwardly it would be worth the struggle. Then she realized that this could never be. The intellectual strength of her husband had won Helen’s profoundest admiration, even though it was beyond her understanding. She longed to be able to enter into it and respond to it as Inez did, yet she felt her limitations. But her love had increased in its intensity by passing through the fire. The man she knew now was infinitely stronger and grander than ever before, and in the light of this new development of character she questioned whether her affection would not suffer a shock if Jack were to become again the man she had known in Boston. This new self was his real self, and the self which he must be in order to express his own individuality. It was even asCerinihad said—character-building had been in process, bringing to the surface qualities which had lain dormant perhaps for centuries; but—and here was whereCerini’s wisdom had been at fault—this development had not been for her but for another.
The faint rays of dawn crept in through the lattice windows of Helen’s room before she sank into a restless sleep. A few hours later Armstrong softly entered the room before leaving for the library and stood for several moments looking at his wife’s face, in which the lines of her struggle still left their mark. When he returned to the hall he met Uncle Peabody.
“May I have a word with you?” Armstrong asked, leading the way to the library.
Uncle Peabody acquiesced.
“Helen is still asleep,” said Armstrong by way ofpreliminaries. “The girl is overdoing somehow, and she acts very tired. As I looked at her just now she seemed ten years older than when we left Boston. Don’t you think she is taking on too many of these social functions?”
Uncle Peabody glanced at Armstrong to make sure that he was quite sincere. “I am glad that you have noticed it at last,” he replied, quietly. “I have wondered that you did not perceive the change.”
“I must speak to her about it.”
“But you have not hit on the cause of the change yet,” continued Uncle Peabody, suggestively.
“What else can it be?”
“I wish I knew you well enough to talk frankly with you, Jack.”
Uncle Peabody was bidding for an opening.
“I suppose that means that I have done something which has not met with your approval.”
“That answers my question, Jack. I don’t know you well enough, so I will refrain.”
“Has it to do with Helen?” insisted Armstrong.
“It has,” replied Uncle Peabody. “But what I have to say is not intended as a reproach. I simply feel that if you have not already discovered that Helen is a very unhappy girl it is time some one called your attention to it.”
Armstrong was thoughtful. “Do you mean that Helen is really unhappy, or simply upset over some specific thing?”
“I mean that she is suffering, day after day, without relief.”
“You must be wrong,” replied Armstrong, decisively. “She was a little hurt over something I said to her nightbefore last, and I mean to straighten that out; but if there was anything beyond that, I should surely have known of it.”
“You are the last one she would speak to about it,” Uncle Peabody said, gravely.
“Why are you so mysterious? Perhaps you are referring to my work at the library. Has Helen been talking to you about that?” Armstrong demanded, suspiciously.
“Helen has said nothing to me, and does not even know that I have noticed anything,” said Uncle Peabody, emphatically.
“Which shows you how little there is to your fears,” retorted Armstrong, relieved.
“I have no wish to prove anything, Jack,” continued Uncle Peabody. “The fact remains, whatever the cause, that Helen is fast getting herself into a condition where she will be an easy victim for this accursed Italian malarial fever. I sound the warning note; I can do no more.”
Armstrong was unconvinced. “I never looked upon you as an alarmist before,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “I am late for my work this morning, but when I return I will question Helen carefully and arrive at the root of the difficulty.”
“I hope you succeed,” replied Uncle Peabody, feelingly.
Helen came down-stairs in the afternoon and found the villa deserted. Instinctively she sought the garden, walking out upon the terrace, where she leaned against one of the ancient pillars, her gaze extending to the familiar view of the river and the city beyond. She thought of the dramas which had been enacted within the walls ofthe weather-stained palaces whose roofs identified their location. These had been more spectacular, and had won their place in history, but she questioned whether they could have been more tragical than the one she was now passing through. Surely it was as easy, she told herself, to meet intrigue and opposition, as to be confronted with the necessity of decreeing one’s own sentence and then carrying it into execution.
“Oh, Jack!—my husband!” her heart again cried out in its pain. “Why did you come into my life, since I never belonged in yours, only to give me a taste of what might have been!”
Her reveries were interrupted byAnnetta’s announcement that theContessa Morelliwas at the door, in her motor-car. Glad of any diversion, Helen hastened to welcome her, and returned with her to the garden.
“I am so glad to find you in,” the contessa remarked, with evident sincerity, as they seated themselves in the shade. “In the first place, I really wanted to see you, and, in the second, my dearMorelliis in his most aggravating mood to-day, and we should have come to blows if I had not run away.”
“How unfortunate that your husband suffers so!” Helen replied, sympathetically.
“It certainly is unfortunate for me.”
“And for him, too, I imagine,” insisted Helen, smiling.
The contessa was unwilling to yield the point. “I claim all the sympathy,” she said, with finality. “When a man has had sixty years of fun in getting the gout, he has no right to complain.”
“Sixty years—” began Helen, in surprise.
“Yes, my dear,” replied the contessa, complacently.“I belong to the second crop. He was a widower with a title and position, and I had money; but I must admit that we were both moderately disappointed. However, marriage is always a disappointment, and I consider myself fortunate that things are no worse.”
Helen felt the color come to her face as the contessa’s words recalled her own sorrow, which for the moment she had forgotten. The freedom with which her guest spoke of her personal affairs repelled her, yet there was a subtle attraction which Helen could not help feeling.
“You are very pessimistic on the subject of marriage,” she ventured.
“Not at all,” the contessa insisted, calmly. “Husbands are selfish brutes, all of them; but they are absolutely necessary to give one respectability. Perhaps your husband is an exception, but I doubt it. Where is he now?”
“He is at the library,” Helen faltered, resenting the contessa’s question, but forced to an answer by the suddenness with which it was put.
“At the library?” repeated the contessa, interrogatively. “That is where he was on the afternoon of theLondireception. Is he there all the time?”
“A good deal of the time,” admitted Helen. “He is engaged upon an important literary work.”
“In which he takes a great interest and you none at all. There you have it—selfishness, the chief attribute of man!”
“It does look like it,” Helen answered, concluding that she had better move in the line of the least resistance. “But in this particular case I am very much interested in my husband’s work, even though I am unable to enter into it.”
“That is not interest,” corrected the contessa—“it is sacrifice; and that is woman’s chief attribute.”
“I see you are determined to include my husband in your general category.”
“I must, because he is a man. But my reason for doing this is to convince you that it is the thing to be expected. Unless you learn that lesson early in your married life, my dear, you will be miserably unhappy. I am certain that the old Persian proverb, ‘Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed,’ was written by a woman—and a married woman at that.”
Helen’s duties at the tea-table aided her to preserve her composure, but the contessa’s matter-of-fact expressions were not reassuring in the present crisis she was passing through. She felt herself in no position to combat her theories, yet not to do so seemed a tacit admission of all which she strove to conceal.
“I could not live with a man such as you describe,” she said, quietly.
“Oh yes, you could!” The contessa laughed at Helen’s innocence and inexperience. “That is the way we all feel when we are first married; but we soon get over it—unless there is another woman in the case; then it is different.”
“What do we do in that case?” asked Helen, looking up at her guest with a smile. “You may as well prepare me for any emergency.”
“In that case,” the contessa replied, seriously, resting her elbow upon the little table and returning Helen’s glance—“in that case we try to arouse our husband’s jealousy; but we must do it discreetly, as they are not so long-suffering as we.”
“Why not leave one’s husband?”
“You dear, simple little bride!” cried the contessa, indulgently—“and let him have a clear field? What an original idea! But how our conversation has run on!” The contessa rose and held out her hand graciously. “I really must be going now; but I wish you and Mr. Armstrong would take tea with me—say day after to-morrow. I want to see this exceptional husband of yours, and if my dearMorelliis not too impossible I will show him off to you.”
“I doubt if Mr. Armstrong will feel that he can spare the time away from his book—” began Helen.
“In that case, then, come alone. Perhaps we can have all the better visit by ourselves. I shall expect you. Good-bye!”
Before Helen could make any further remonstrance the contessa had vanished through the hall-door, and a moment later the car could be heard moving out of the court-yard. She again leaned against her favorite pillar, trying to comprehend this new phase of life. Uncle Peabody found her standing there a few moments later when he returned from the city. Helen pulled herself together when she saw him coming, even though she made no attempt to change her position. Mr. Cartwright longed to comfort her, but something in the girl’s face told him that the time had not yet come. So he took his place beside her, and, passing his arm about her waist, gently drew her toward him. Helen accepted the caress with the smile which she had learned to use to conceal the ruffled surface of her heart.
“TheContessa Morellihas just been here,” she observed.
“Ah! Did you find her entertaining?”
“Yes; I think that just expresses it.”
“And—worldly?”
Helen laughed. “She is certainly worldly. Yet there is something beneath it all which attracts me.”
“She is a splendid example of a woman who takes the world as she finds it,” Uncle Peabody continued, seriously. “Most women consider their husbands as material for idealizing. Then they rub their Aladdin’s lamp, set a train of wishing in operation, and expect their selected material to live up to the ideals. When the material proves unworthy, they lose faith in everything instead of letting their experience educate their ideals. The contessa has risen above this.”
“Yet, I judge, her husband has given her plenty of opportunity to lose her faith,” Helen added.
“Yes,” Uncle Peabody acquiesced. He looked affectionately at her, and fastened behind her ear a little strand of hair which had become loose. Then he continued, half-jocosely, “The men I know whom I would marry if I were a woman are so precious few that I would certainly be a bachelor maid.”
Helen smiled at the expression on Uncle Peabody’s face. “Is it not good to be here together?” she said, simply. “Your visit has meant so much to me, and now I have been considering a lot of plans which you must help me to work out. I have been waiting for just the right time, and now I believe it has come.”
Uncle Peabody was genuinely surprised by Helen’s manner as well as by her words.
“How much longer are you going to stay in Florence, Helen?” he asked, pointedly.
“I don’t really know,” she replied, frankly. “Our original plan was to leave early in July; but that isonly about a month from now, and I presume Jack will require a longer time to complete his work.”
“He has not made any definite plans, then?”
“No, and I hope we shall stay at least as long as that. The things which I have in mind may require even more time than I suspect.”
“And these things are—”
“You inquisitive old Uncle Peabody!” Helen took his face between her hands as she kissed him affectionately. “I will tell you all in good time, and you shall be the first to know!”
Helen debated with herself long and seriously regarding the contessa’s invitation. As she had said to Uncle Peabody, her new acquaintance both repelled and attracted her. Here was a woman who had undoubtedly passed through far more bitter experiences than she herself would ever be called upon to endure, yet was able to rise supremely above them and force from the world that which she still considered to be her just due. Helen could not help admiring her for this quality, and she tried to draw from her example some lessons which might be applicable to the present situation. At first she thought of insisting that her husband accompany her. She felt certain that he would not refuse her if he really understood that she expected and wished it, yet she knew without his telling her how distasteful it would be to him. If they were planning to live in Florence, it would, of course, be necessary for him to place himself in evidence, as the contessa had said, for the “respectability” of it; but as their life in Italy was so nearly ended—as their life together was so nearly ended—she felt that there was nothing to be gained in asking him to make this sacrifice. So Helen decided to return the contessa’s call alone.
Alfonse was waiting for her in the motor-car when Emory drove into the court-yard. Seeing the machine,he alighted and stepped through the open door into the hall, where he intercepted her a few moments later when she came down-stairs.
“So you are just going out?” he said, by way of greeting.
“Why, Phil—where did you come from?”
“Out of that old picture there,” he replied, pointing to the wall. “Don’t I look funny without my ruffles and knee-breeches?”
“Do be serious, Phil,” Helen laughed.
“I am serious. How could I be otherwise when I see you just going out when I have come all the way up here to have a quiet little chat?”
Helen was clearly disturbed. “This is really too bad,” she said, trying to think of some plan out of it. “I promised theContessa Morellito take tea with her this afternoon, or I would stay home.”
“TheContessa Morelli!” exclaimed Emory. “That simplifies everything.”
“I don’t see how,” Helen remarked, frankly.
“Why, you can take me with you. What could be easier?”
“That is true,” admitted Helen, meditatively. “Why not?”
“I don’t see any ‘why not,’” Emory asserted.
The contessa welcomed Helen with open arms. “But this is not your husband!” she exclaimed, turning to Emory before Helen had an opportunity to explain. “I had the pleasure of meeting you at theLondireception, did I not?”
“Mr. Emory came to call just as I was starting out,” Helen hastened to say, “and he begged so hard to be allowed to see you again that I could not refuse him.”
“So you could not pull your learned husband away from his books?” the contessa queried, after smilingly accepting Emory’s presence.
“I did not try, contessa,” Helen answered, promptly. “He has reached a crisis in his work, and I was unwilling to suggest anything which might divert his mind.”
“What an exemplary wife you are! If we all treated our husbands with such consideration they would become even more uncontrollable than at present. Don’t you think so, Mr. Emory?”
“The suggestion is so impossible that I can think of no reply,” Emory answered. “Mrs. Armstrong is such an unusual wife as to warrant considering her as an isolated exception.”
Emory spoke with such sincerity that the contessa looked at him with renewed interest.
“I knew that to be the case,” she said at length, “but I am glad to hear you say it. One so seldom hears a married woman championed so freely by a friend of the opposite sex.”
“Mrs. Armstrong needs no champion,” Emory hastened to add, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, for Helen’s sake, over the turn the conversation had taken. “But why should I not be permitted to express my admiration for you or for her just as I would for a beautiful painting or any other creation of a lesser artist?”
“Because ‘beautiful paintings’ do not have husbands,” replied the contessa, sagely, smiling at Emory’s compliment.