BOOK II

VICTIM OF FATE

XII

All Florence--social, literary, and artistic--was at the Londi

reception. 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 impulsive Latin 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--the Contessa 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--the Villa Morelli is scarcely a quarter

of a mile beyond the Villa 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. "Morelli is 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 to Villa Godilombra and 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 of Della Robbia

and hung gracefully along the stone balcony, 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-century _leggio_, printed by Lorenzo Della

Magna, and illustrated with Botticelli'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 and

_boutonnieres_ upon 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, Cerini suddenly 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." Cerini smiled 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 reply Cerini disappeared in the crowd of

guests as suddenly as he had come.

XIII

Emory was the only one near enough to Helen to observe the interview

with Cerini. 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.

"Monsignor Cerini," 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

spoken until 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 to Cerini?" 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 did Cerini say 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 from Cerini in 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. That is what I meant. Of

course one expects this supreme knowledge in a man like Cerini, 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 our

adieux. 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 gradually guided 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 the Piazza

Vittorio Emanuele, where the car paused for a moment to allow the men to

alight. Then, after brief farewells, Helen continued her ride alone to

Settignano.

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 a stupid 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 so sentimental, 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 assumes complete 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."

XIV

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 until Cerini suggested

the Michelangelo letters 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 with Cerini and Miss Thayer. 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 whom Cerini with 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.

But Cerini did 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 mean to 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 to San

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 the

tonneau and 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 of song, 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-earned _riposo_

before 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 understand so 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 even the 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!"

XV

The next afternoon was a warm one, and Annetta searched 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 when Annetta broke 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, a _grillo_!" he said. "Then to-day must be Ascension Day and the

_Festa 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 little

_grillo_ brought luck once upon a time, if the legend be true, and it

may do so again."

"Is this _Festa 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 of Lorenzo

de' Medici in his own garden by the familiar means of a goblet of

poisoned wine. As the would-be assassin handed the goblet to Lorenzo a

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 a _grillo_. 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 the _festa_ was retold and the _grillo_

placed 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. Annetta brought 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 of Cornaro and 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 you attributed 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. It is 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 by any 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 man was 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

myself guilty 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 the Laurenziana," replied Tesso. "I went to call on my old friend

Cerini." 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 of

Cerini waiting 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 toward her. 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!"

XVI

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. The visit 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 the Villa

Godilombra--which was to be their earliest home together--all came back

to her with vivid distinctness. And the day at Fiesole--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 at Fiesole have

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 love which prompted her efforts, and

all would have been well. But Cerini had 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"--there could 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; Cerini saw 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 not and

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 as Cerini had

said--character-building had been in process, bringing to the surface

qualities which had lain dormant perhaps for centuries; but--and here

was where Cerini'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 of preliminaries. "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 night before 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 of the 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 by Annetta's announcement that the

Contessa Morelli was 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 dear Morelli is 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 the Londi reception. 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 dear Morelli is 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.

"The Contessa Morelli has 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 is only 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!"

XVII

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 the Contessa Morelli to

take tea with her this afternoon, or I would stay home."

"The Contessa 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 the Londi

reception, 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."

[Illustration:

"BECAUSE 'BEAUTIFUL PAINTINGS' DO NOT POSSESS

HUSBANDS," REPLIED THE CONTESSA, SAGELY]

"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.

"Since we are speaking of husbands," Helen interrupted, thinking it

time to make her hostess exchange places with her, "you promised me that

I should meet yours this afternoon."

"Oh no, my dear," the contessa corrected. "I said 'unless he was

impossible,' and that is just what he is to-day. Be thankful that your

husband's infirmity takes the form it does rather than the gout."

"Tell me something about your villa," suggested Helen, glancing around

her. "All these places have romantic histories, and I am sure that this

is no exception."

"All one has to do in order to forget the romance with which old Italian

houses are invested is to live in one," the contessa replied. "As a

matter of fact, they contain more rheumatism than romance. This one is

fairly livable now, but I wish you could have seen it when Morelli first

brought me here as a bride! Words can't express it. An old-fashioned

house-cleaning and some good American dollars make the best antidote I

know. The first point of interest I was shown here was the room in which

the previous Contessa Morelli died. My ambitions were along different

lines, so I added some modern improvements, much to the consternation of

my husband and the servants. And the present Contessa Morelli, you may

have observed, is still very much alive."