It was several moments after Armstrong ceased speaking beforeCeriniraised his eyes, and to Jack’s surprise he saw that they were filled with tears. He naturally attributed it to the librarian’s affection for him and his sympathy for his sorrow.
“I should not have told you this, padre,” he said, sadly, pressing the hand which the old man laid tenderly upon his. “The fault is mine, and I should not try to shirk the full responsibility by sharing it with you.”
“It is mine to share with you, my son,”Cerinireplied, firmly. “You have erred, as you state. You have been to blame for not giving out again, as the example of the master-spirits of the past should have taught you, those glorious lessons which impart the joy of living to those who give as well as to those who receive. But my error is even heavier. I have lived all my life in this atmosphere, drinking in the knowledge and the spirit which have come to you only within the past few months; yet I failed to recognize in your wife the natural embodiment of all that the best in humanism teaches. What you and I have endeavored to assimilate she has felt and expressed as naturally as she has breathed. She has shown us humanism in its highest development, purified and strengthened by her own fine nature, even though we have given her no opportunity for expression. Thank God we have recognized it at last!”
“You really believe that?” cried Armstrong, recalling his own earlier and less-defined conviction.
“Beyond a doubt,”Cerinianswered. “Let us find her, that we may tell her what a victory she has won.”
Armstrong placed a restraining hand upon the old man’s arm. “Not yet,” he said, gently but firmly. “There is much still to be done to prepare her for this knowledge. At present she would not accept it.”
“We must convince her.”
“First of all I must make my peace with Miss Thayer,” Armstrong replied. “Until that complication is relieved there is no hope.”
“Do you feel strong enough for that?” askedCerini, anxiously.
“It requires more than strength, padre,” Armstrong replied, seriously; “it requires faith in myself, which at present is sadly lacking.”
The old man rose and stood for a moment beside Armstrong’s half-reclining figure. Bending down, he took his face in his hands and looked full into his eyes.
“Let me give you that faith,” he said, affectionately. “You have already learned by sad experience that you are not the master of Fate. Let me tell you that by the same token you are not the victim of Fate. Nature, unerring in her wisdom, is now giving you the privilege of being co-partner with her in the final solving of your great personal problem. Accept the offered opportunity, my son, and show yourself finally worthy of it.”
Helen had not overlooked the contessa’s remark toCerini, even though she gave no evidence at the time of having heard it. Her conversation with Jack had given her thoughts much food to feed upon. His words were so welcome, after the long breach, his manner so sincere, that she had been nearer to the yielding-point than he imagined. She had wondered if, after all, her attitude was justified, in view of his expressed desire to return to the same relations which had previously given them both such happiness. Jack’s statement that her insistence upon the present conditions would do more to wreck their happiness than anything which he had done, made its impression upon her. Nothing but the previous intensity of her conviction that she must yield her place to Inez had held her to the self-appointed duty which she found so difficult to perform.
When the contessa repeated toCeriniwhat appeared to be an expression of her husband’s impatience to return to his work Helen felt all hesitation vanish. Jack sympathized with her suffering, and would do all which lay in his power to make amends. She knew that he would give up all idea of future work, no matter at what sacrifice to himself, rather than add another straw to the burden which he now saw was nearly bearing her down.Yet the affection which she felt for him refused to be strangled. His very insistence, even though she was convinced that it was prompted by his sense of duty, fanned the embers into flame at a time when she was certain that at last their fire had become extinct. It was further evidence of her weakness, she told herself, and she would make superhuman efforts to adhere to the duty which lay plainly enough before her.
As she was leaving, the contessa placed her arm about Helen’s waist and whispered to her:
“Don’t think me meddlesome, my dear, but you will make a great mistake not to stick close beside that big, splendid husband of yours. They all do it, and I imagine he has been almost circumspect compared with most of them. Send the girl away and see if you can’t make him forget his affinity. He is worth the effort, my dear—believe me, he is worth the effort.”
Helen was so taken by surprise by the contessa’s words that she stood speechless, looking at her with dull, lifeless eyes as she stepped into thetonneauand waved a smiling farewell as the motor-car rolled out of the court-yard. So the contessa was aware of the situation, and was also convinced of Jack’s attachment for Inez! This was too horrible—she could not endure it! Matters must be brought to a head soon or she would die of mortification! She could not return to the veranda where she had leftCeriniand Jack together, but went up-stairs to her room, where she locked the door and threw herself upon the bed in a paroxysm of tears.
Armstrong, on the contrary, had gained strength fromCerini’s sympathy. He would accept the offered opportunity and see if at last he could not prove himselfworthy of such glorious co-partnership. Unlike his previous efforts, if he succeeded it would tend to restore Helen’s happiness as well, and this gave him an added incentive.
It was the afternoon of the next day before he was able to make his opportunity. Inez had taken a book and secreted herself in Helen’s “snuggery” in the garden, but Armstrong’s watchful eyes followed her. Waiting until she had time to become well settled, he strolled around the garden, finally appearing at the entrance to prevent her escape. To his surprise she made no such effort, and appeared more at ease than at any time since the accident.
“Have you come to join me?” she asked, with much of her former bearing.
“If I may,” he replied, advancing to the seat and taking the place she made for him beside her.
“How famously you are getting on!” she said, laying down the volume; “you are more like yourself than I have seen you since the awful accident.”
“If I may say so,” Armstrong replied, watching her closely, “I was just thinking the same of you.”
Inez flushed. “You are right,” she answered, frankly, after a moment’s pause.
Armstrong was distinctly relieved by her unexpected attitude. As he looked back he realized that there had been a change in her bearing toward him, particularly during the past week; but until now he had not appreciated how rapidly her unnatural manner had been returning to what it was during the early days of their acquaintance. The apparent effort to avoid him had disappeared, although he knew of no more reason for this than he had originally seen cause for its existence.Whatever the reason, the change had undoubtedly taken place, and it made matters easier for him.
“We have passed through much together, Miss Thayer,” he began. “I wonder if we realize how much.”
“It has certainly been an unusual experience,” she admitted. “I expressed this to you at the library—do you remember? As I said then, it could hardly occur again.”
“I appreciate that now,” Armstrong replied, in a low voice; “at that time I do not think I did.”
“There was much which you could not appreciate then,” continued Inez; “and as I look back upon it there is much which I cannot explain to myself. In fact, there is a great deal that I blame myself for.”
“The blame belongs to me, Miss Thayer,” Armstrong asserted, firmly.
“For being away from Helen so much?”
“Yes; and for many other acts of selfishness and neglect. I am to blame for all that you feel against yourself.”
“Against myself?” Inez repeated.
Armstrong paused long before he continued. “You have passed through this spell with me,” he said, at length. “You, better than any one else, know its power, and can understand the cause of my attitude toward you and Helen, which was as inexplicable as it was unpardonable. And because you understand this I believe that I shall find you the more ready to forgive.”
“There is nothing for which you stand in need of my forgiveness,” Inez said, in a low tone. “On the contrary, there is much for which I have to thank you. It was a new world to which you introduced me—one whichI should not otherwise have known; and having known it, nothing can ever take it from me.”
“If matters had only stopped there,” Armstrong continued, “I should have accomplished just what I had hoped to do. The fascination of the work so held me, and my desire to further the principles which seemed to me to represent all which made life worth the living resulted in blinding me to the possibility that you, perhaps, were not affected to a similar degree. Your assistance was so valuable, your companionship so congenial that I never once realized that I was running any risk of not performing my full duty toward you as well as toward Helen.”
Inez could not fail to comprehend the import of his words, and a feeling of thankfulness passed over her that this conversation had not come earlier. The days which had passed since she confided to Helen the secret which she had so long carried alone had, in their way, been as full of chaotic conditions as had Armstrong’s; yet it was but recently that she had come to realize the full importance of what had really happened. The days at the library, as she looked back upon them, seemed as a dream. She could close her eyes and bring back the intoxication of those moments alone with Armstrong in which she had silently revelled, while he had applied himself to the task before him unconscious of what was taking place. She could not deny herself the guilty pleasure of recalling them, yet little by little these thoughts had become disassociated from the man with whom she now came in almost hourly contact. With this disassociation came a welcome relief. The dread which she had felt of seeing him and hearing his voice disappeared as suddenly as it had come. She wonderedat it, but she accepted it eagerly without waiting for an explanation.
With her return to more normal conditions her solicitude for Helen increased. She was conscious of her friend’s unhappiness, yet she, perhaps, of all the household, was least aware of the extent of the breach between her and Armstrong. Helen, naturally perhaps, had confined her conversation upon this subject to Uncle Peabody and her husband, so Inez had no thought other than that all would straighten itself out now that Jack had become himself again. She had believed that Helen alone shared her secret with her, so it was with surprise and mortification that she became aware that Armstrong himself knew of what had taken place. This was even more of an ordeal to face than when she made her confession to Helen, yet it was one which ought to be met with absolute frankness.
“I understand what you mean,” she replied, the color still showing in her face, “and I am glad that this opportunity has come for me to speak freely, even at the risk of losing your esteem. It is quite true that I, too, found myself beneath a spell—but besides this one which influenced you there was also another and a different one. I see no reason why I should be ashamed to say that this other spell was unconsciously exerted by a great scholar, a noble friend, a loyal husband. The effect of it was for a time overpowering, but now I can acknowledge it without injuring any one and express my gratitude for an influence which must always act for my best good.”
“Miss Thayer!” Armstrong cried, overwhelmed by the revulsion which the girl’s words brought to him. “I beg of you not to make virtues out of my errors;I cannot accept a tribute such as that, knowing myself to be unworthy of it. Can you not see that I should have guarded you from that spell, both for your sake and for Helen’s?”
Inez smiled in real happiness that the break had at last been made. “You have given me far more than you have taken away, dear friend,” she replied, gratefully; “now that the experience is past I appreciate it more than ever. But promise me that you will not give up this work because of what we all have been through.”
Armstrong shook his head. “I shall not take such chances again,” he said.
“It could never repeat itself,” Inez urged. “Because one has been wounded by the thorn he failed to see is no reason why he should never pluck another rose.”
“But suppose that in plucking the rose something fell out from next the heart which was inexpressibly dear to him and was lost forever?”
Inez looked up quickly. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Do you not know that Helen insists upon a separation?”
“A separation!” Inez repeated, rising to her feet; “why, she worships you! Surely there is some mistake.”
“No; she is convinced that our marriage was all wrong, and that she stands between me and the continuance of this work, which she argues is essential for my development and happiness. It is ridiculous, of course, but I cannot move her.”
“She is right about the work,” the girl said, decidedly; “but there is no one in the world better fitted to enter into it with you than she, if she but knew it. As I said, you will never take it up in the same way again,but having learned what it means you can never eliminate it from your life; and this should draw you and Helen even closer together.”
“My one remaining labor is to convince her of this,” Armstrong replied, feelingly.
“And I will help you do it.”
Armstrong looked at her steadily for a moment. “There is another point upon which she insists, of which I have not told you,” he said.
Inez waited for him to continue.
“She believes that you and I are foreordained for each other,” Armstrong said, bluntly, “and she proposes to step aside to make the realization of this possible.”
The girl gazed at her companion in silent amazement. So this was the cause of Helen’s suffering—this was the price she was willing to pay as a tribute to her friendship for her and her love for her husband!
“The brave, brave girl!” Inez cried, almost overcome by her emotion. “I must make her understand that the Jack Armstrong I loved was killed at the foot of the hill ofSettignano. Dear, dear Helen! it is now my privilege to give her back her happiness as she gave me back mine!”
It had been to Uncle Peabody that Helen had turned during all this period, but it was for comfort and strength rather than for advice. The problem was hers, and she alone must finally solve it. She had thought it settled until her conversation with Jack, which caused a momentary wavering. She repeated Armstrong’s words to Uncle Peabody, and his absolute conviction that her husband’s present attitude was a normal and final expression encouraged her to question whether there might not be some other solution than the one upon which she had determined. Still, it was only a questioning; as yet she was unprepared to share Uncle Peabody’s conviction.
“Don’t lean too far backward,” he had said to her, “in your efforts to stand by your principles. I have seen things which were called principles at first become tyrants and do damage out of all proportion to the good they would have done had the conditions not changed.”
“It is the conditions I am watching, uncle,” Helen had replied. “I have no ‘principles,’ as you call them, which will not joyfully yield themselves. I must not—I will not—stand in the way either of Jack’s happiness or of his development. If I can make myself see any way by which we can stay together without accomplishingone or the other of these mistakes, God knows how eagerly I will again pick up the thread of life.”
Uncle Peabody had folded her in his great arms again, as he had done so many times lately.
“People have sometimes told me that I am a philosopher,” he said, huskily. “They have seen me meet death in a dear friend, or even one closer to me, with calmness, sending the departed spirit a wireless ‘bon-voyage’ message and considering the incident as fortunate, as if he had received a promotion. But when I see one as dear to me as you are, gasping for breath in what has seemed to be a hopeless and prolonged struggle for that life which love alone can give you, I must confess that my stock of philosophy, such as it is, seems sadly inadequate.”
Now had come the necessity of repeating to him what the contessa had said, which gave Helen double pain, knowing, as she did, how much relief her last conversation had given him.
“I can’t believe it, Helen,” Uncle Peabody said, decisively. “Whatever else one may say of Jack Armstrong, he is honest, and I can’t believe him insincere in what he said to you.”
“It is not insincerity, dear,” she replied, wearily. “He is trying to deceive himself.—What is it,Annetta?” she asked, almost petulantly, of the maid as she approached.
“MonsignorCerini—” began the maid.
“Mr. Armstrong is on the veranda,” Helen interrupted.
“But he asks for themadama.”
“For me?” Helen was incredulous. “Show him out here,Annetta.”
The librarian’s face beamed genially as he greeted her and Uncle Peabody.
“Has the maid not made a mistake?” Helen asked. “Is it not our invalid whom you wish to see?”
“No, my daughter, it is you whom I seek. I have come to make a full though long-delayed acknowledgment.”
Helen glanced over to Uncle Peabody, thoroughly mystified.
“Your husband and I were talking of you yesterday,” he continued, “and we both are deeply concerned to find how erroneous have been our estimates and how slow we have been to recognize the truth.”
So Jack had sent him to plead his cause, Helen told herself, and in her heart she resented the interference. It was unlike him to intrust so important a matter as this to another, yet perhaps it was a further evidence of the new conditions.
SO JACK HAD SENT HIM TO PLEAD HIS CAUSE, HELEN TOLD HERSELF; AND IN HER HEART SHE RESENTED THE INTERFERENCESO JACK HAD SENT HIM TO PLEAD HIS CAUSE, HELEN TOLD HERSELF; AND IN HER HEART SHE RESENTED THE INTERFERENCE
“Shall I not leave you to yourselves?” queried Uncle Peabody.
“By no means!”Cerinicried, hastily. “It is most fitting that you should hear what I am about to say. Do you remember the first day I met you at the library?” he continued, addressing his question to Helen.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and an involuntary shadow of pain passed over her face as she replied, quietly:
“Do you think I could ever forget it?”
Cerinisaw it all, and it touched him deeply. “I was unkind to you that day, my daughter—even cruel. I thought I understood, but later events have shown me that my judgment led me far astray.”
The old man had come to a realization at last! This, at all events, was a comfort to her.
“Only in part,” she replied, trying to speak cheerfully. “The character-building was going on just as you said.”
“It was,”Cerinisaid, forcefully—“to a greater extent, I believe, than any one of us knew. My only excuse is that I was possessed with a preconceived idea—the very thing which I so much object to in others.”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” Helen replied. “Do you mean that, after all his efforts, my husband is right in his conviction that his work has been a failure?”
“It is not of your husband that I am thinking now,” the librarian answered; “it is of myself—and you.”
“Of me?” Helen was genuinely surprised. “But I have never entered into the consideration at all, where the work at the library was concerned.”
“You should have done so; that is just the point.”
“I wanted to,” Helen cried; “but you told me that I was quite incapable of doing so.”
“I know I did,” replied the librarian, bowing his head; “and that is where I made my great mistake.”
“It would have stopped their work where it was—you said so yourself.”
Ceriniagain bowed his head. “All part of the same mistake,” he admitted. “Had I encouraged you at that time you would not only have added much to the work itself, but you would have saved your husband from his own great error. I have been much to blame, my daughter, and you must not hold him responsible for a fault which is really mine.”
Helen tried to fathom what was in the old man’s mind. She could not question his sincerity, yet his wordsseemed a mockery. Jack had evidently taken him freely into his confidence, so there was no reason why she should not speak freely.
“Mr. Armstrong has apparently told you how unfortunately his experience has ended in its effect upon our personal relations. Knowing this, I am sure you would not intentionally wound me further by seeking to restore matters to a false basis; yet I can understand your words in no other way. As you said of my husband, that day in the library, this time it is your heart and not your head which finds expression.”
The librarian gasped with apprehension. “Daughter! daughter!” he cried, “have I not made myself clear! Then let me do so now before any possible misunderstanding can enter in. I am a humanist by profession—until now I believed myself a modern humanist. When I first knew your husband, he was a youth full of intelligent appreciation of those ancient marvels which I delighted to show him. Imagine my joy, twelve years later, to welcome him again, grown to man’s estate, and to find that the early seeds which I had planted within him had sent out roots and tendrils so strong as to hold him firmly in their grasp. Then he brought Miss Thayer to me—at first I took her for you, as she was the kind of woman I had expected him to marry. She entered into his work with him with the same spirit as his own, and my foolish old heart rejoiced that such splendid material had been placed in my hands for the moulding.”
“Why repeat all this?” Helen interrupted; “I know it all and accept it all, but what agony to pass through it still another time!”
“Forgive me, my daughter,”Cerinireplied, quickly;“we are past the period of your sacrifice now, and have reached the point of your triumph.”
“My triumph!” cried Helen, bitterly. “Why do you hurt me so?”
“Patience, dear,” Uncle Peabody urged, quietly. “MonsignorCerinihas some purpose in mind which makes this necessary, I am sure.”
“I am unfortunate in my presentation,” the librarian apologized. “The point I wish to make is that up to the time I met Mrs. Armstrong I had known but one kind of humanism. I myself had studied the master-spirits of the past, and had assimilated the principles which they taught. Mr. Armstrong and Miss Thayer assimilated their lessons in the same way as I had done; but we all failed to recognize in this dear lady the natural expression—the personification—of all that we ourselves had labored so assiduously to acquire.”
Both Helen and Uncle Peabody were listening to the old man’s words with breathless attention.
“You mean that Mrs. Armstrong is a natural humanist?” Uncle Peabody queried.
“The most perfect expression of all that humanism contains which I can ever hope to see,”Cerinireplied, with feeling. “I, more than any one, have prevented the expression of these attributes which are your natural heritage; now let me help to merge them with your husband’s undoubted talents.”
“You cannot mean it,” Helen said, weakly, sobering down after the first exhilaration of the old man’s words. “I am no humanist, either natural or otherwise. MonsignorCerinievidently means to give me a new confidence, but it is a mistaken kindness.”
“You must listen to what he says, Helen,” UnclePeabody insisted. “I have knownCerinifor many years, and he would make no such statement unless he felt it to be true.”
“It is all as unknown to me as some foreign language I have never heard before,” she protested. “I know, for I have tried to understand.”
“Does a bird have to know the technique of music before it can sing?” askedCerini, quietly.
“Oh, this is agony for me!” cried Helen, in despair. “I can only see in it another opening of the wound, another barb later to be torn from my heart.”
“Be reasonable, child,” urged Uncle Peabody, soothingly. “It seems to me that instead of all thisCerinihas brought to you—to all of us—the solution of our problem. Let me ask him a few questions, while you control yourself and try to understand.”
Helen acquiesced silently.Cerini’s words had seemed to give her hope, yet she dared not allow herself to hope again. Limp from exhaustion, worn out by her ceaseless mental struggle, she had no strength even to oppose.
“Mrs. Armstrong has taken her present position,” began Uncle Peabody, “because she feels absolutely that her husband’s real expression of himself is that which he has shown her while under the influence of this spell which his love of the old-time learning has woven about him.”
“She is right,” replied the librarian, “except that by an unusual combination of circumstances this influence overpowered him by its strength, and he should not be held wholly responsible for his abnormal acts. This is not the first time I have seen this happen. There is a peculiar languor in the atmosphere, here in Florence, impregnated as it is with the romance of centuries, whichis absolutely intoxicating to the mind, but it is rarely that it succeeds in making itself so felt upon an Anglo-Saxon temperament. Mr. Armstrong ought never, for the sake of his own individuality, to give up his fondness for theliteræ humaniores, but it is entirely out of the question for him ever again to become so subject to their control.”
“She senses this quite as strongly as you do; but beyond this she feels that he can never retain the development which has come to him here except in an atmosphere filled with a comprehension of all which he holds so dear.”
“Mrs. Armstrong is still in the right,” assentedCerini, gravely; “but there is one point which she still fails to understand. Her husband’s work has been humanistic, but he himself is but just ready to begin to be a humanist. She is the one best fitted in every way to join him at this point, and their two personalities, thus united, can but produce splendid results.”
“I cannot believe it,” Helen interrupted, speaking with decision. “It has been from Inez and not from me that he has received his inspiration. Things are no different now from what they have been: Inez is still the one to inspire him to attain his best.”
“You are wrong, dear,” spoke a low voice behind them, as Inez threw her arms about Helen and embraced her warmly. “I surmised what you were discussing, and took this first opportunity to do my part toward straightening things out.”
Helen sat upright and looked steadily into Inez’ smiling face, completely freed for the first time in many weeks from its care-worn expression.
“You—you could not look like that if you understood,”she stammered, still startled by her friend’s sudden appearance.
“Mr. Armstrong and I have talked it all over, and at last I understand what should have been clear to me long ago. You are a dear, brave girl, Helen, and deserve all the happiness which is in store for you.”
“Happiness—to me! Oh, Inez,” Helen cried, “why do you all mock me with that word? There can be no happiness for me, and, unless I do what I propose, it means misery for every one instead of for me alone.”
“No, dear,” Inez replied, softly, gently smoothing Helen’s hair as she rested her tired head upon her shoulder. “No—there can be nothing but happiness, now that all is understood.”
“But you—you love Jack, Inez.”
The girl colored as Helen spoke thus freely in the presence of others, but her voice was firm as she replied.
“Helen, dear,” she said, “here in the presence of Mr. Cartwright and MonsignorCeriniI ask your permission to keep in my heart the image of the man I learned to love while we both were beneath the spell. That man no longer exists in the flesh, but I still worship his memory. He can never exist again except as a part of an experience which could never be repeated. Is this asking too much, dear?”
“What does it all mean?” cried Helen, gazing at her helplessly—“what does it all mean?”
“It means that there have been two Jacks, Helen—one of whom became transformed for a time into a veritable master-spirit of the past. To this man, I admit, I gave a devotion which I shall never—could never—give to any other; but he died, Helen, when the spell broke against that wall at the foot of the hill ofSettignano. This man, even during his existence, gave me no devotion in return, and knew not the passion which he inspired in me. He had no heart, but it was not his heart I worshipped. To me his mind—broad, comprehensive, and understanding—stood for all that life could give. The other Jack—the man you married—has never wavered in the love he gave you from the first. He has suffered from the influence of the second personality in that he was forced into the background by the greater strength of this sub-conscious self; but he has also gained from its influence in the development which we all have seen. My Jack is dead, but yours still lives. He needs you, and he longs for the return to him of the wife he has always loved.”
Inez paused after her long appeal, eager to read a favorable response in the pale face still gazing at her, but no change came over the set features. Once or twice Helen started to speak, but no words came. Uncle Peabody andCerinihad followed Inez intently, realizing that she was pleading the cause far better than they could. Affected by the scene before them, they found themselves unable to break the silence. At last Helen’s voice came back to her.
“He longs for the return to him of the wife he has always loved?”
She repeated Inez’ words slowly, in the form of a question.
“Yes, dear,” her friend replied; “he is waiting for you now.”
“Oh no, no, no!” Helen cried, brokenly, covering her face with her hands; “it is all a mistake. You are all doing this for my sake, and it is not the truth—it is not the truth!”
“You are ill, Helen!” cried Inez, alarmed by her appearance as well as by the wildness of her words; “come, let me take you to your room.”
Unresistingly Helen suffered herself to be led into the house, leaving Uncle Peabody andCerinilooking apprehensively at each other.
“He longs—for the return to him—of the wife—he has always loved,” Helen murmured over and over again, as Inez andAnnettaundressed her and gently put her into bed. She seemed indifferent to what Inez said to her, and conscious only of the words which she kept repeating. Thoroughly frightened, Inez left her inAnnetta’s care while she rushed down-stairs to summon the doctor.
For a few days Helen’s condition was grave enough to warrant the anxiety which pervaded the entire household. Dr. Montgomery was again pressed into service, and found his skill taxed to the utmost to meet the condition in which he found his new patient.
“This is a great surprise to me,” he remarked to Uncle Peabody, shaking his head ominously. “I have made it a point to watch Mrs. Armstrong throughout the shock and the strain of her husband’s accident, anticipating that this nervous reaction might occur; but the time when it would naturally have happened is now long since passed.”
Mr. Cartwright reluctantly explained to the doctor enough of the facts to assist him to a proper understanding of the case, and with sympathies fully enlisted his efforts were redoubled. The patient herself proved to be his greatest obstacle. Try as he would, he could not arouse in her any interest in her recovery. She accepted his services and those of the nurse without question, but in an apathetic manner. Armstrong, Inez, and Uncle Peabody hovered about the sick-chamber, eagerly grasping such information as the nurse and the doctor were able to give them, the anxious lines in their faces becoming deeper as the hours passed by.
But it was naturally upon Armstrong that the burdenrested most heavily. He had been given the fullest details of the conference in the garden which immediately preceded Helen’s collapse, and her replies toCerini’s appeal showed him, better even than his last conversation with her, how seriously she had been affected. For this he alone was responsible, and he was equally responsible for the illness which came as a final result of it all. He had hoped that whenCeriniawakened her to a knowledge of her own splendid development she would accept his plea that they take up their new life together, but this expectation had been in vain.
“It has come too late,” he said, bitterly, to Uncle Peabody. “We can only imagine the tortures through which the poor girl has passed by the severity of this reaction. She has been forcing herself to make this supreme sacrifice, which she believes is necessary, and has succeeded at last in destroying that love which I know she felt for me even through the worst of the crisis.”
“She loves you still, Jack,” replied Uncle Peabody, whose complete sympathy had been won by Armstrong’s attitude during the trying days they were passing through together. “It is this which has made it so hard for her.”
“It is only your ever-present optimism,” the younger man replied, sadly. “Now that I see myself as I have really been during these past weeks, I cannot share it with you, much as I wish I could. If I, having actually experienced this spell and knowing its force, find it so impossible to explain to myself this long series of inexplicable events, how can I expect anything other than this generous but unfortunate conviction that her self-sacrifice is necessary?”
His face contracted as he spoke, and the veins uponhis forehead stood out boldly against the fair skin, still colorless from his prolonged illness.
“And the worst of it all is that I can make no sacrifice which can possibly accomplish anything,” he continued. “She—she must suffer on indefinitely for my selfishness, for my neglect.”
“Let me speak to her just once more,” Inez pleaded, in real pity for the man beside her. “When she is strong enough, perhaps I can make her understand.”
“No,” he replied, firmly, yet showing his appreciation of her thought for him, “she has endured enough already. The very mention of her husband can only revive unhappy memories. She shall at least be spared any further pleading on my behalf.”
At last the doctor pronounced the danger-point passed, and the relief which the announcement brought gave Armstrong the necessary strength to enable him to take upon himself the details of packing and closing up the house, and getting everything in readiness to leave for home as soon as Helen should be strong enough to travel.
“The place has been hateful to her all these weeks,” he explained, “and she must be freed from every scene which suggests what has passed.”
As he went from one part of the villa to another, he was constantly reminded with painful forcefulness of the days which they had first enjoyed there together. The flowers in the garden, the singing of the birds in the trees, the distant view of the city—each possessed a personal significance. “I love the present,” she had said to him—“I love the sky, the air, the sunshine, and the flowers.”
Happy, buoyant nature—the natural humanist! Sheassimilated all that was best in life, and had he given her the opportunity would have breathed it out again to those around her richer and more inspiring because of its contact with her own rare self! Fool that he had been! With the riches of the past lying at his hand to be drawn upon for material, he had selfishly insisted that his own methods of using them were the only ones, recognizing too late the inspiration and the real assistance which she was amply able to give him in transforming these riches into even purer gold by the magic touch of the present. Armstrong groaned as the irony of it came to him.
Helen recovered slowly, and with a sweetness which touched the hearts of all about her. Inez and Uncle Peabody were with her much of the time, but Armstrong, true to his conviction that he had become distasteful to her, waited to be asked for; and Helen did not ask. The only event which happened to interrupt the even tenor of the days was a call from theContessa Morelli, who was solicitous for her condition.
“Make some excuse,” Helen said, quietly, to Inez, who announced the visitor. “Don’t say anything to hurt her feelings, but I really can’t see her. She does not understand the life I know and love, and I don’t want to understand hers.”
So it was Jack whom the contessa met as she took her departure.
“I am so relieved to know that your wife is in no danger,” she said, sympathetically.
“So are we all,” Armstrong replied, in a perfunctory way, still feeling ill at ease in the contessa’s presence. “This villa will soon be considered as a hospital if any more of us become invalids.”
“Miss Thayer is not ill?” inquired the contessa, smiling archly.
“She is quite well, I believe,” he replied, coldly, but with an effort to be civil.
“How fortunate!” Amélie continued. “With Mrs. Armstrong in no danger and Miss Thayer in good health, you will soon, no doubt, resume your charmingtête-à-têtesat the library?”
The contessa was endeavoring to be mischievous, but Armstrong was in no mood for her pleasantries. He resented the words no less than the expression upon her face. Yet he himself was partially responsible, and this thought kept back the words upon his lips which if spoken would have been regretted. He looked intently into her face before he answered, and the contessa’s smile faded.
“Instead of replying to your question,” Armstrong said, quietly, with his eyes still fixed upon her, “may I not ask you a favor?”
“Surely you may ask it,” she replied; “but that does not mean that I must grant it, does it?”
“You need not grant it unless you choose,” pursued Armstrong; “but at least I shall have the satisfaction of asking it: will you not add one more class into which you separate the men you meet?”
The contessa laughed merrily. “What a curious request to be made so seriously!” she exclaimed. “Of whom shall the new class be composed?”
“Of those men who are husbands and who love their wives,” Armstrong replied, feelingly; “who despise intrigue and disloyalty and hypocrisy in either sex; who consider honor and life as synonyms; and who, even for the sake of civility, cannot allow misinterpretations to cast a shadow upon the sanctity of marriage.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the contessa, making a prettymoueas she rose and moved toward the veranda; “and I thought he had no temperament! Shall I put you in this exotic class? Oh no; you would be so lonesome!”
“I could not expect you to understand,” Armstrong replied, in a low tone, biting his lip with vexation.
Amélie watched his expression intently, a complete change coming over her manner. The flippant bearing was gone; the smile, aggravating as it was attractive, vanished. She took a step toward him as she spoke.
“But I do understand,” she said, slowly, in a low, tense voice. “Perhaps I ought to feel shamed by your contempt and indignant at your criticism. On the contrary, I am glad that I incurred both, for by it I have learned that a man can be honest, and that appearances are not always the safest guides. What you have said is what a woman understands by instinct; anything different is what she learns—from men. Will you forgive me? I shall not offend again.”
His surprise at this new and unexpected view of the contessa’s character was so great that it was only instinctively that he pressed the dainty hand which was held out to him. For a moment their eyes met.
“I wish that you and your wife might both have come into my life earlier,” she said, simply, and then turned quickly to the door and was in thetonneauof her motor-car before Armstrong could offer to assist her. So, as the machine moved away, he stood on the veranda, bowing his acknowledgment of her radiant smile into which a new element had entered.
Then Armstrong turned back into the hallway, where he met the doctor and Uncle Peabody coming down the stairs.
“Has she asked for me yet?” he inquired, eagerly.
“Not yet,” Dr. Montgomery answered, with that understanding which is a part of the physician’s profession. Armstrong turned away to conceal his face, which he felt must show all that was passing through his heart.
“I wish you would go to her, anyway,” the doctor continued.
“You don’t know what you are suggesting, doctor—I want to do it so much—but I must not.”
“It will be necessary to talk with her soon about our future plans, Jack,” Uncle Peabody said, seeing a way to accomplish their purpose. “Dr. Montgomery says that Helen is strong enough now to discuss the matter.”
Armstrong looked from one to the other with uncertainty. “You are right,” he said, at length. “She must be consulted about that, and I am the one to do it.”
He chose the morning for his visit to her—a morning filled with the sunshine she loved so well. He plucked a handful of the fragrant blossoms from the garden, hoping that the odor might recall to her some of the happy moments they had experienced together. The very perfume rising from the redolent petals seemed to accuse him as he stood before her door awaiting the nurse’s response to his knock.
“May I come in?” he asked, looking across the room to the bed where Helen lay propped up with pillows, so that she could look out of the window into the garden, even though the tops of the trees alone rewarded her gaze.
“Of course,” Helen weakly replied, yet with a smile, and the nurse discreetly left them to themselves.
Armstrong seated himself on a chair near the bed and gazed in silence at the thin, pale features of the woman before him. This was the wreck of the beautiful girlhe had married and brought here to Florence for her honeymoon. What a honeymoon!
“I am glad you came to me at last,” Helen said, quietly, interrupting his convicting thoughts.
“At last!” The words brought him to himself. Mastering his emotion as best he could, he took her thin hand in his, and the fact that she did not withdraw it gave him courage.
“I have longed to come to you each day, but you asked me not to make it harder for you.”
“I am glad you came to me at last,” she repeated.
How should he begin? The sentences he had thought out carefully, which might convey his necessary message and yet spare her, seemed too cold, too meaningless. He glanced up at her helplessly, and the expression on her face helped him to his purpose. Impulsively drawing his chair still nearer to the bed, he poured out to her the self-incriminations which had haunted him for days. In a torrent of pitiless words he pictured himself without mercy. There was no plea for reconsideration, no thought of future readjustment. The one idea was to let her know how fully he realized all that had happened, how powerless he felt himself to make restitution, and his determination to do what now remained to make her future as little overcast as possible by the events which had already taken place.
“I would not have come now except that it is necessary,” he said, brokenly. “I know that to see me must recall unhappy recollections, but there are some matters which we must talk over together. I have not come to plead for any reconsideration—you were right in what you said the last time we talked about it, as you have been in all else. Our marriage was a mistake, and it isI who have made it so. I no longer ask that we try to restore matters to their former position. The only sacrifice within my power is to give you a chance to recover as much as you can of what I have made you lose. The penalty is hard, but well deserved.”
He did not look into her face as he spoke, lest he lose his courage before all was said. “Cerinihas told you what you have taught us both, which is another debt I owe you. It should be some little consolation, dear, to know that your expression and your understanding have been so much clearer than those of this librarian, whom I have considered infallible; than those of your husband, whom in the past I know you have respected and loved. Thank God for that love!” he repeated, abruptly.
“Then it is really true that my ‘dear present’ is worth something, after all?”
“Your ‘dear present’ is the saving clause. Without it we limit ourselves beyond the hope of recovery, just as I have done. The glories of the past are as splendid and as important as I ever painted them, but they must be awakened with the breath of present necessities. You have always felt this and expressed it; I have known it only since you taught it to me.”
“I am glad,” she answered, simply.
“But I am forgetting my errand,” Armstrong continued, bracing himself for a final effort. “As soon as you are able to travel you will, of course, wish to return home. It may be that, for the sake of appearances, you will wish me to go with you, in which case I shall make it as easy as possible for you. Or you can return with Uncle Peabody, as he tells me you once spoke to him of doing. He is eager to do anything you wish, but he has plans which need to be arranged after you have once decided.”
Helen’s gaze rested firmly upon her husband’s half-averted face, watching the changing expressions, reading the unspoken words. “He longs for the return to him of the wife he has always loved” rang in her ears, and now for the first time it seemed to ring true. Her mind was moving fast as Armstrong ceased speaking, and even when she replied, a moment later, it was not an answer.
“What is Inez going to do?” she inquired.
“As soon as we close the villa she will go to thepensionwhere the Sinclair girls were.”
“She will stay in Florence?” Helen asked, surprised.
“Yes; she has arranged withCerinito work with him upon hisHumanistic Studies.”
Helen withdrew her hand from his as she leaned back upon the pillow and closed her eyes. Armstrong regarded her anxiously, fearful lest their interview had been too great a strain upon her returning strength; but as he looked her eyes opened again.
“You must know at once whether I prefer to return home with you or with Uncle Peabody?” she asked, faintly.
“Not at once,” he replied, leaning nearer to catch the low-spoken words—“not until you are strong enough to decide.”
Suddenly he felt both her arms about his neck, and in his ear she whispered, “Let me go with you, Jack; but not to Boston—take me toFiesole!”
THE END