By the time the call came to an end Helen and Emory had learned much

regarding Italian life from an American woman's standpoint, but in the

mean time the contessa's active brain had not been idle. The situation

in which she found her new friends puzzled her somewhat and interested

her more. She had discovered the indifferent husband and the passive

wife--two necessary elements in every domestic drama. Emory answered

well enough for the admiring friend of the wife, so all that was

necessary was to find the second woman and the _dramatis personae_ would

be complete. This would explain the husband's indifference and the

wife's passivity. It was an interesting problem, and the contessa saw

definite possibilities in it.

As Emory and Helen took their leave Phil suggested that they run down to

the library in the motor-car to pick up Armstrong and Miss Thayer.

"Miss Thayer?" queried the contessa.

"My friend, whom you must meet," Helen explained. "She has been with us

almost since our arrival, and is assisting Mr. Armstrong in his literary

work."

"Ah!" exclaimed the contessa, beaming as the completeness of her

intuition came to her. "How very interesting! I shall look forward to

meeting these two other members of your family."

The machine reached the foot of the hill and slowed down to pass through

the city streets before either Emory or Helen broke the silence, yet it

was evident that their minds found full employment. The call upon the

contessa left them both with an intangibly unpleasant sensation.

"I am sorry I went with you, Helen," Emory remarked, after the long

pause.

"I am sorry you did," admitted Helen, frankly, his words fitting in

exactly with her own thoughts.

"It is too bad that one can't do or say the natural thing without having

it misunderstood. The contessa is determined to find something upon

which she may seize as material for gossip."

"That is usually not difficult when one tries hard enough," Helen

agreed; "especially when one is living in such an atmosphere as she is."

"Jack will have to sacrifice himself temporarily or he will leave you

in an uncomfortable position."

Emory spoke guardedly and watched the effect of his words.

"He would have come this afternoon if I had asked him," Helen asserted,

confidently, "but his book is nearly finished and he is not in a mood to

be interrupted. I don't want anything to interfere with its completion."

"It will be a relief, though, to have it finished, won't it?"

Helen looked up quickly at Emory's question and as quickly dropped her

eyes as they met his. "Why--yes," she admitted, slowly. "I shall be glad

to have him take a little rest. I am sure he has been overdoing."

The girl felt Emory's questioning glance upon her, and it added to her

discomfiture.

"Don't you think it is time to let me help you, Helen?" he asked,

pointedly. "You know perfectly well that I feel toward you just as I

always have. No"--he stopped the restraining words upon her lips--"I am

going to say nothing which I ought not to say, nothing which you ought

not to hear. But I want you to be happy, Helen, and sometimes a man can

help. Don't be afraid to ask me; don't let your pride stand between us.

You know that I shall take no advantage of anything you tell me."

Helen's lips quivered slightly as she listened, but her voice was

natural though restrained. "Something is misleading you, Phil," she

answered, calmly. "Nothing has happened to make it necessary for me to

ask help from any one. If there had I should be glad to have so good a

friend to fall back upon."

"You are deceiving no one but yourself, Helen."

"What do you mean?"

She turned quickly toward him.

"Every one knows how much you are suffering in spite of your brave

attempt to keep it to yourself. Why won't you let me help you, Helen?"

"Who is 'every one'?" she demanded.

"Why--your uncle Peabody and I and--the contessa," stammered Emory.

"You and Uncle Peabody think I am suffering?"

"We know it!"

Helen held her head very high in the air, and spoke in a superior tone

so obviously assumed as a cloak to disguise her real feelings, that

Emory regretted that he had forced the subject upon her; but now it had

gone too far to draw back.

"If you know that, perhaps you know the cause of it as well?"

"We do. Jack--"

"Stop!" Helen commanded. The motor-car turned into the Piazza San

Lorenzo. "If you have anything to say about my husband," she continued,

"you had better say it direct to him."

"May I?" cried Emory, leaning forward eagerly. He looked at Helen

steadily for a moment, like a runner waiting for the pistol-shot to

release him from his strained position at "set." The girl returned his

look with equal steadiness for only an instant before she read what was

in his mind. Armstrong and Inez were just coming out through the

cloister gates.

"May I?" Emory repeated.

"No!" Helen replied, quickly, sinking back against the cushions.

XVIII

Armstrong was most enthusiastic when he returned late the next

afternoon, and Miss Thayer's face reflected his own great satisfaction.

The book was beginning to round into completeness, Cerini had placed

upon it the stamp of his unqualified approval, and the author himself

had reason to feel well pleased with the results of his tireless

application. Helen watched the two as they came out into the garden

where she and Uncle Peabody had been visiting. Yes, they were meant for

each other. Helen could see this more plainly now even than before. Her

husband had lost in weight and in color since he began his work at the

library, but the slighter frame and paler face seemed more in keeping

with the man whom she now knew. Inez had also changed. The individuality

which Helen had always considered a striking characteristic of her

friend while at school and later was now completely merged into that of

the man beside her. They thought alike, talked alike, acted alike. That

was what Jack preferred and what he needed, Helen admitted, and she felt

a certain satisfaction that she was at least strong enough to see and to

admit it.

"You seem to be very happy to-night, Jack." Helen tried hard to be

natural. "What pleasant thing has happened to you to-day?"

Armstrong drew up a chair for Inez and seated himself beside Helen.

"Nothing in particular," he replied, "except that I begin to see the end

of my book in sight."

"I am very glad," Helen answered, simply.

"Yes, I suppose you are." Armstrong spoke pointedly, looking at Helen

with a curious expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose you are."

Helen flushed. "I don't mean it as you have taken it, Jack," she

replied, quietly. "It has been a hard strain on you, and I am glad to

know that you can soon get a change. I think you need it."

Armstrong still looked at Helen intently. "It has been a strain," he

admitted, at length--"a strain on all of us." Then his face lighted up

as of old. "Cerini says the book is a masterpiece, Helen--do you

understand, a masterpiece. He says it is better than he believed it

possible for me to do; in fact, the best work on the period which has

ever been written. Can you wonder that I am happy?" He turned from Helen

to Inez. "And I could never have accomplished it except for the help of

our friend here, who has so unselfishly changed her plans at my request.

You must thank her for me--for both of us."

"Does it mean that your visit to Florence is about at an end, Jack?"

asked Uncle Peabody.

"Oh, there is much to be done yet," replied Armstrong. "The first draft

is nearly finished, and the material has all been sifted through; but I

must go over the manuscript once more at least, here in this atmosphere,

before returning to Boston."

"Even the Old South Church and Bunker Hill Monument will seem very

modern when you get back home, won't they?"

"Everything will seem modern," Armstrong assented. "I hate to think of

leaving Florence, but there is one thought which makes it easier. Miss

Thayer will, of course, visit us in Boston next winter, and she and I

will then have a chance to do some other work like this together."

"Why, Mr. Armstrong!" cried Inez, aghast. "I should not think of that

for a moment. Believe me, Helen, this is the first I have heard of it.

It could not be, of course."

"Why could it not be?" insisted Armstrong, stoutly.

"You will understand when you take time to think it over," said Inez,

picking up her gloves and starting for the hall. "He does not mean it,

Helen--truly he does not!"

"I do mean it," urged Armstrong, as Inez disappeared. "I mean every word

of it. She is your most intimate friend, and what could be more natural

than for her to visit us? Why could it not be?"

Uncle Peabody answered:

"There are some things in Boston which are as old as anything you will

find in Florence, Jack."

Armstrong failed to catch the drift of Mr. Cartwright's remarks.

"You are trying to avoid answering my question," he replied. "To what do

you refer that bears at all upon the present discussion?"

"Conventions," said Uncle Peabody, calmly.

"Conventions!" Armstrong repeated the word with emphasis. "You don't

imagine that I am going to let local conventions tell me what to do when

I get home?"

"I don't imagine anything," replied Uncle Peabody. "I was merely

stating a fact."

Helen saw the hot retort upon her husband's lips. "I would not discuss

this any more until after dinner," she said, quietly, as she rose. "As

Jack says, it is a perfectly natural thing for Inez to visit me. It is

possible that it can be arranged in some way."

"Good!" cried Armstrong. "I am glad that there is one sensible person in

the party!"

He tried to slip his arm around Helen's waist, but she gently avoided

him.

"Come," she urged, "we shall be late if we don't get ready now. We have

too little time as it is."

* * * * *

After dinner Uncle Peabody and Inez announced their intention of

devoting the evening to letter-writing, so Helen and Jack found

themselves alone together in the garden. Helen wrapped her shawl closely

about her, wondering at the chill which came over her when she realized

that she was alone with her husband and that the opportunity for which

she had waited was at hand. She was silent, trying to decide how best to

open the conversation. Her mind was made up at last. If others had begun

to notice the estrangement, it was time that Jack knew of it, and from

her. All doubt, all uncertainty had vanished.

She looked long at her husband in the dim starlight. He was so near

her, yet how far away he really was! Even he did not realize how far.

She could see the lines of his face lighted by his cigar as he silently

smoked it, his eyes fixed upon the lights of the city beyond. How strong

it was, Helen thought, how strong he was compared with her own weak

self! She wondered what his thoughts were centred upon--whether on his

masterpiece or upon Inez! Upon Inez! That brought her back to the task

before her.

It was a difficult task; she realized that. There could be no immediate

separation, for that would mean an interruption to the work. She must

stay in Florence until the manuscript was completed or Inez could not

remain. No, there must not be any break between Jack and herself for the

present, or his mind would be taken from his book and another failure

added to the great one in which she felt herself to be the most

concerned. Yet she must make him understand that she was not dull to the

signs which she and the others could but read. To continue to act as if

ignorant of them would be the worst of all. She must remain his wife

until his supreme effort was accomplished, then the living lie could be

ended and the new and separate life begun.

Armstrong interrupted her reverie before it had quite come to an end.

"You are not looking like yourself lately, Helen," he said, abruptly. "I

meant to have spoken of it before."

Helen started at the suddenness of his remark. "Not looking like

myself?" she repeated, mechanically. "How do you mean?"

"You look tired and worn out."

"I am getting older, Jack," Helen smiled, sadly. "Perhaps that is what

you have noticed."

"Nonsense," replied Armstrong. "You used to be so bright and vivacious,

and now you sit around and hardly say a word."

She could not answer for a moment. "I did not realize that I had become

such poor company, Jack. You have not seemed interested lately in the

things I would naturally talk about, and of course a great deal of your

conversation is upon subjects with which I am unfamiliar."

"You are quite sure that you are not getting too tired going to all

these social functions?"

"Quite sure. If you stop to think a moment, these are really the only

entertainment I get. Would you prefer that I stayed here at the villa

alone?"

"Why, no; unless you are doing too much of that sort of thing. Are you

feeling perfectly well?"

Helen hardly knew what to reply. "Yes," she said, at length, "I am

feeling perfectly well."

Armstrong showed his relief. "I told Uncle Peabody he was an alarmist,"

he said.

"What did Uncle Peabody say?" queried Helen, straightening up, Emory's

remarks coming back to her. "I did not know that you and he had been

discussing me."

"He said that you were unhappy, and fast becoming a fit subject for

Italian malaria. He had better stick to his specialty, and not try to

become a general practitioner."

"Oh," said Helen, relieved that she had not been anticipated, and

resuming her former position.

"Of course he was as mistaken about your being unhappy as he was about

your being ill," Armstrong continued, his remark being half assertion

and half question.

Helen made no response. He waited a moment or two, glancing at her

furtively, and then put his question more directly.

"You are not unhappy, are you?"

Helen tried to fathom the motive which underlay this question. At last

Jack had become conscious of the fact that he had hurt her and was

endeavoring to make amends. This was like him; what he had said and done

during the weeks past was not like him. Now something which Uncle

Peabody had said had brought him to himself again. He saw a duty to

perform, and he assumed it conscientiously; but it was an act of duty

rather than an act of love--she felt that in every word he spoke.

"Yes, Jack," she finally admitted, "I am very unhappy."

Armstrong was annoyed. "I really thought you were stronger, Helen," he

said, petulantly. "It is all over this library work, I suppose."

"I am not strong," replied Helen, quietly. "That is where the whole

trouble lies. I am wofully weak, and I only wish that you and I had

discovered it sooner."

"How would that have helped matters any?"

"If we had discovered it before we were married it would have helped

matters a great deal," said Helen, with decision. "As we did not do that

we must accept things as they are until we can find a solution of the

problem."

"I have offered time and again to give up my work; now it has reached a

point where I simply must finish it."

"Of course you must; I should be the first to oppose you were you to

suggest anything different."

"Then why are you unhappy? I don't understand you at all."

"I know you don't, and you understand yourself just as little. The work

you are doing is simply an incident; the results of that work in making

you an entirely different man is the main point. Do you not feel that

yourself?"

"So that is it," replied Armstrong. "The work has made a different man

of me, and you object to the change."

"No, it is not the change which has made me unhappy. During these weeks

you have become infinitely bigger and stronger and grander, and I admire

you just that much the more."

"Then why are you unhappy?"

"Because"--Helen choked down a little sob--"because, as you say, I am so

weak. Because it has left me just that much behind, and has shown me how

little suited I am to be your wife."

"How you do magnify things!" exclaimed Armstrong. "It is not an uncommon

thing for a husband to have interests apart from his wife; it is no

reflection on the wife."

"But how much better--how much more helpful--if the husband and the wife

can share the same interests?"

"Granted. But why suggest a modern miracle?"

"It has shown me another thing," Helen continued, fearful lest she

should be diverted from her main theme. "Inez is already much more to

you than I."

Armstrong sprang to his feet, with difficulty holding back the angry

words upon his lips. "This is going too far, Helen," he said, with

forced calm. "Do you realize that you are actually making an

accusation?"

Helen regarded him calmly but sadly. "I am making no accusation," she

said, quietly. "I believe in your loyalty to me and in your sense of

what is right, but the fact remains. Inez loves you, and has loved you

almost since the day she arrived. Is it possible that you are insensible

to this?"

"You must stop!" expostulated Armstrong. "You cannot realize what you

are saying!"

"Do you remember what she told Ferdy De Peyster--'I love him better than

my life'? Do you remember the scene at the table when Phil Emory spoke

of it and her reply? Have you been with her day after day without

discovering that she worships the very ground you walk on?"

"It would be useless to try to answer you, Helen," Armstrong replied,

forcefully. "The most generous view I can take of what you say is to

attribute it to a jealousy as unfounded as it is unworthy of you."

"Ah, Jack, if you only knew!" Helen looked at him reproachfully. "There

is no jealousy in my heart even now, my husband, nothing but the

greatest admiration and the deepest love. Sometime you will understand.

You have a great career before you--greater, perhaps, than I can

realize, because I know of your work only through others. This career is

one which I must not injure, which I shall not limit. Inez can help you

in attaining it, and it is right that she should do so."

Armstrong's curiosity gained the better of his resentment. "What do you

propose to do to bring all this about?" he asked, incredulously.

"Whatever may be necessary," Helen replied, looking at him firmly, "even

though it breaks my heart."

"Surely you have not suggested any of this nonsense to Miss Thayer?"

Armstrong asked, suddenly.

"I have not talked with her about it," replied Helen, quietly.

"That is to be placed to your credit, at all events. Miss Thayer has no

more sentiment toward me of the kind you suggest than if she had never

met me. She is the best kind of a friend and a most valuable assistant,

but that is all. My feelings toward her are exactly the same--no more,

no less. I beg of you not to let anything so absurdly improbable stand

between us now or later. Come, we had better go in."

"Don't wait for me," Helen answered, wearily. "I will stay here a while

longer. The cool air feels very grateful to-night."

Armstrong left her there, alone with the stars and her thoughts. The

break was made. They had stood at the parting of the ways, and Helen had

pointed out to him the path which she knew she could not travel with

him. He, with all his strength of mind, had left her without realizing

what had happened. Helen had not expected him to understand her

motive--that must come later--but she had thought that he would at least

appreciate what she had said. Perhaps it was better so. She had known

that he would disclaim the affection which she felt he could but

entertain toward Inez; she was certain that he himself did not yet

appreciate how firmly installed his "sister worker" had become in his

heart. But Helen was no less convinced that she was right. Jack would

realize it soon enough, and then he would know what she had really done

to make it easier for him. Perhaps this was better, too.

The storm was over, and Helen remained as the weather-beaten evidence

that it had taken place. Exhausted both in mind and body, she lay back

in her chair, with her eyes wide open, her thoughts rushing madly to and

fro seeking a new anchorage. She must keep her strength for the ordeal

yet before her. She must play her part through to the end without

wavering, or what she had already endured would be of no avail. So at

last she bade good-night to the stars which had been her silent

companions and entered the house. Mechanically she fastened the veranda

shutters and went up-stairs to her room, closing the door to the world

outside, with which she felt she must become acquainted anew as she

pursued her chosen path--alone.

XIX

The contessa found herself eager to continue her inquiries along the new

lines which had so clearly indicated themselves during the conversation

with Mrs. Armstrong and Emory. This desire was by no means malicious,

for those very attributes which attracted Helen to her would have

contradicted anything so really reprehensible, even as a

counter-irritant. In the contessa's life, filled as it was with _ennui_

in spite of her heroic efforts to enliven it with excitement, gossip and

a bit of scandal acted as agreeable and much-needed stimulants. She may

never have put this thought into words any more than the man does who

depends upon his modest tipple to give zest to his daily routine; yet,

like him, she found her dependence upon her stimulant growing slowly yet

steadily as the days advanced and the "dear Morelli" became more and

more "impossible." In the present instance the interval since the last

spicy episode had been longer than usual, and the contessa felt a thrill

of enthusiastic delight replace the dull apathy which she had lately

experienced, even at the suggestion of the conditions as she thought she

saw them. It was a problem which offered her the joy of solution rather

than merely a curiosity to learn more of the various factors which

entered into it.

She liked Helen from the first moment of their meeting. America often

seemed far away to the contessa, and her new acquaintance brought it

nearer to her; but beyond this Helen proved in herself to be more than

ordinarily interesting. The contessa had known women as beautiful as

Mrs. Armstrong, she had known women who carried themselves with equal

self-confidence and independence; but never had she seen these combined

with such lofty ideals actually maintained. Her early impression that

Helen's idealism was the result of innocence was soon corrected. In the

school of experience there are taught two branches in which every clever

woman of the world must perfect herself--character-reading and the

gentle art of self-defence; both are absolutely essential to her

success. Men underestimate their importance, and thus develop them to a

lesser degree; as a result, the woman's intuitive reading of character

is as much more delicate and subtle as is her practise of self-defence,

and to a similar extent more effective. Amelie was a medal pupil in both

these branches, and her instinctive exercise of the first told her that

she had discovered an unusual personality among conditions which under

ordinary circumstances would work out along but one line. This solution

was not in keeping with what she had read in Helen's character, and she

wondered how the conditions themselves had come to exist. The contessa

hummed cheerily to herself as she moved about the villa the next

morning, and the servants took it for granted that their master's malady

had taken a more decided turn for the worse.

In the afternoon the contessa's motor-car drew up before the entrance

to the Laurentian Library. The custodian at the gate took her card, and

presently returned announcing that the librarian was in his study. The

name of Morelli was well known to Cerini, who had assisted the count

upon several occasions before his marriage in disposing of some of the

rare volumes which had once been a part of his grandfather's splendid

collection. The librarian had even casually met the new contessa once or

twice, but this was the first time she had honored him with a call, and

he wondered what her errand might be. Possibly it was her desire to

dispose of other volumes; perhaps it was to protest against further

despoliation; at all events he would be guarded in his conversation

until her object was disclosed.

"Welcome to the halls of the Medici!" exclaimed Cerini, cordially,

rising to greet his visitor as she appeared in the doorway.

The contessa smiled so radiantly in acknowledging his salutation that

the librarian was convinced that his first hypothesis must be correct.

"You are surprised to see me," she remarked, seating herself with

deliberation and looking across at her host with a friendly air. "You

may as well admit it, for I can read it in your face."

"Both surprised and pleased, contessa," Cerini answered, maintaining his

guarded attitude.

"Your surprise should be that I have not been here before," Amelie

continued.

"Ah!" The old man held up his hand with a deprecatory gesture. "You

society women have so much to divert you otherwise that I could scarcely

expect, even with the wonderful books I have here, to prove a magnet

sufficiently strong to draw you away from your customary pursuits. And

your husband has so many splendid volumes in your own library that these

here can hardly prove a novelty."

"It is about these volumes that I came to see you."

Cerini smiled sagely, feeling pleased at his intuition.

"Yes, we have some splendid old volumes, as you say," the contessa

continued. "I have looked them all over and have tried to study them,

but beyond my admiration for their beauty I must admit that I can't make

much out of them."

"Then you are really interested in the books themselves!" exclaimed the

librarian, his pleasure increasing with the prospect of securing a new

convert. "This is delightful!"

"Of course." The contessa raised her eyebrows with well-feigned

surprise. She was entirely satisfied with her progress thus far. "But I

don't need to tell you that my interest is not a very intelligent one. I

tried to get Morelli to tell me something about them once, but he

doesn't know a book of hours from a missal, so I promised myself the

pleasure of learning from you, if you were willing to teach me. Are

you?"

The contessa was fond of punctuating her conversation with sharp

interrogations, but in the present instance the expression upon Cerini's

face made any question unnecessary.

"This is the happiest year I have known since I first made my home

among these books, my daughter," he replied, with much feeling. "For a

long time I felt as a miser must feel surrounded by his gold, far more

in quantity than he can ever count, yet separated by its overwhelming

value from the world outside. My loneliness came, of course, from

another cause--I craved the opportunity to share my treasures, yet this

opportunity came but rarely. Patiently have I waited, marvelling that so

few should even know that these treasures exist, and a lesser number

should care to partake of what is offered to them freely in as large

quantities as they are able to carry away. Year by year I have watched

the number increase, I have seen the signs of a veritable renaissance;

and as one after another comes to me, as you have this afternoon, my

heart fills with an unspeakable joy."

The sincerity of the old man penetrated through even the contessa's

worldly armor, but the problem she had set herself to solve was too

fascinating to be laid aside. The librarian need never know how much

less interest she felt in books than in her present undertaking.

"So this year has crowned your labors," she replied, sympathetically. "I

do not wonder that you feel gratified! You have had a greater number of

converts, you say, most of whom, I presume, come from the libraries and

universities near by."

"Not at all!" contradicted Cerini, eagerly. "They come from England,

from France, from Germany--and even from your own far-off country,

contessa."

"Indeed!" Amelie smiled at the air of triumph with which the librarian

uttered the last words. "From America? Have my countrymen really

discovered what rich mines of learning are here in Florence?"

Cerini nodded his head and drew his chair closer to hers. "At this very

moment there are two Americans working here in the library who have so

assimilated the learning of the past that they have become a part of it

themselves. I have had many students here during all these years, but

never any one who was able so completely to carry out my ideas of modern

intellectual expression. What they have done and are doing has given me

courage to believe that I am not so much of a visionary as my colleagues

think. If by my influence I can produce two such modern humanists my

labors will not have been in vain."

"Are these two wonderful men from some library or university in

America?" the contessa asked, with apparent innocence.

"They are not," replied the librarian, with emphasis. "If they were they

would have come here, as the others have, with preconceived ideas which

centuries could not break down. One of them is a young advocate from

Boston, and the other--you will scarcely believe me--is a young woman."

"Really?" The contessa manifested an interest not wholly assumed. "A

young woman, you say--his wife, perhaps?"

"No, simply a friend."

"Oh!" Amelie smiled knowingly. "Then perhaps soon to be his wife?"

"You are wrong again, contessa," replied Cerini. "The man is already

married, so that could hardly be the case."

"And his wife makes no objections? Come, come, monsignore, that would

not be human."

"His wife is as remarkable in her way as he is in his," the old man

answered, with confidence. "We have discussed the matter, and she

understands the importance of allowing the work to go on."

"Then she has raised some objections? Do tell me that she has or I shall

find it difficult to believe your story."

"She did suggest that she would have liked to be able to do this work

with her husband, but that was quite out of the question, and she saw it

just as I did."

"How very, very interesting!" the contessa remarked, more to herself

than to him. "I wish I might see them at work." The librarian hesitated,

and Amelie knew that hesitation is consent if promptly followed up. "I

will promise not to disturb them," she urged.

"I should not wish them to know that I was exhibiting them to my

friends," Cerini said, doubtfully. "Still, I can see no harm unless we

disturb them."

"Then come!" Amelie exclaimed, rising quickly lest the old man change

his mind. "I will be as still as a mouse."

Cerini led the way to the little alcove which Armstrong and Inez had

come to regard as a part of themselves. Motioning to the contessa, he

pointed out a place beside an ancient book-shelf where she could observe

without herself being seen. Amelie studied the faces before her

carefully. Armstrong was so seated that only his profile was visible,

but Inez sat so squarely in front of her that had she not been so

engrossed in her labors she could hardly have avoided seeing the

contessa. It was the girl's face which first held Amelie's attention. In

it she read all that Inez had fought so hard to conceal. She had found

the second woman! It was not the usual type, she told herself. The

passionate devotion to its given object was there, but it was evidently

absolutely controlled by the intellectual. How much more interesting,

the contessa thought, but how much more dangerous!

Then she turned her attention to Armstrong. He was younger than she had

expected and his personality far more attractive. The height of his

forehead, the depth of his eye, the strength of his mouth were all

carefully noted. The contessa watched every movement, every change in

the expression, with the keenest delight. They were an interesting pair,

she admitted, but even her astuteness, she was forced to confess, was

unequal to the task of understanding their relations without further

study. The problem was as new as it was fascinating, and the contessa

had no misgivings over her little plot, which had worked out so

successfully.

She followed the librarian quietly back to his study, where she made an

appointment for him to examine with her the Morelli collection and to

point out to her the merits of the various volumes. She expressed her

thanks for the charming afternoon he had given her, but through it all,

and even after she returned to her villa, the faces of Armstrong and

Inez were still before her. Beneath that abstraction which the man's

face and manner so clearly portrayed, was there a response to the

woman's passionate adoration? Was he capable of affection, or had the

intellectual so far claimed the ascendency that the physical had, for

the time being at least, become so subdued as practically to be

eliminated? Where did the wife, who had so attracted her, come in? These

were some of the questions over which the contessa pondered. The problem

was more complex than she anticipated, and she found herself even more

determined to carry it through to a solution.

XX

A week passed by with little outward change at the Villa Godilombra. For

a day or two after their interview in the garden Armstrong watched his

wife carefully, but as there was apparently no difference in her

attitude toward him or toward Miss Thayer he decided that what she had

said at that time was the result merely of a momentary mood which had

since passed away. He also watched Miss Thayer, to satisfy himself in

regard to the monstrous suggestion Helen had made that she was in love

with him, and became convinced that his own explanation of her feelings

toward him was correct. Having settled these two important matters to

his entire satisfaction, he promptly discarded them from his mind and

devoted himself to the single purpose of completing his work.

"Once let me get this finished," he said to himself, "and Helen will see

that there is nothing between us."

As a matter of fact, Inez had not been pleased with Armstrong's

suggestion to Helen that she should take up with him a similar kind of

work in Boston. For the first time since she had known him he had done

something which annoyed her. She realized better than any one else the

absorption which held him subject to a different code of conventions,

but this did not give him a right to assume that she would accept such

an arrangement, without at least raising the question with her. Helen

and Mr. Cartwright could but think that the matter had already been

discussed between them, and it placed her in a false light at a time

when she felt that her position was sufficiently untenable without this

unfair and unnecessary addition. She also realized, as Armstrong

apparently did not even after Uncle Peabody's pointed remarks, that this

daily companionship would be entirely impossible.

During those few days, therefore, when Armstrong was observing her, she

was in a mood quite at variance with what Helen had described; but what

had wounded her in one respect proved to be a salve in another. Had

Armstrong been conscious of her affection for him, or had he himself

reciprocated it, the request would never have been made. She was quite

safe, therefore, to continue on until the book was finished, and the

danger lay, as she had told her conscience, only with herself. And even

with this annoyance, which, after all, was but an incident, she felt it

to be her only happiness to stay beside him as long as she could. She

dreaded the time when the break must come, for she saw no light beyond

that point.

Helen had herself well in hand. She was conscious of Jack's scrutiny,

and was also conscious of the relaxing of his watchfulness. She saw his

new interest in Inez, and was equally conscious of her friend's unusual

frame of mind. Everything seemed to Helen to be intensified to such a

degree that she could read all that was passing in the minds of those

about her, and she wondered if some new power had been given her to make

her test the harder. She had already felt the force of the blow; the

others had it still before them. And it would be a blow, at least to

Jack, she was sure--not so hard a one as in her own case, for after the

pain of the break there was for him happiness and serenity; but he had

cared for her, and when he once came to a realization of what must be he

would suffer, too. This was her only consolation.

Naturally, Helen turned to Uncle Peabody. Now that all was settled, it

was better that he should know from her how matters stood rather than

surmise as he and Emory had done; and besides this, the burden had

become too heavy to be borne alone. She waited a few days for the right

opportunity, which came during a morning walk along the ancient road

above the villa which led to the highest point of Settignano. They had

left the frequented part of the path behind them, and were strolling

among the rocks and trees of the little plateau commanding a view of the

panorama on either side.

"I wish I could find out from Jack how much longer you are to remain in

Florence," Uncle Peabody said. "I really need to get back to my work."

"Not yet," exclaimed Helen, quickly. "Don't go yet. I need you so much!"

Uncle Peabody regarded his niece critically. There was a new note in her

voice, and it pained him.

"It won't be much longer, uncle," Helen continued. "I need you here, and

I may want you to go back home with me."

"I could not do that, Helen; but of course I will stay here as long as

you really need me."

"But you would go back with me if I needed that, too, would you not?"

insisted Helen.

"If you needed me, yes; but I can't imagine any such necessity."

"It would be so hard to go home alone."

Helen's voice sank almost to a whisper.

"Alone?" echoed Uncle Peabody. "Is Jack going to stay over here and send

you back?"

"I don't know what Jack is going to do, but I shall return home as soon

as his book is completed; and unless you go with me I shall go alone."

Uncle Peabody understood. "My dear, dear child," he said, taking her

hand in his and pressing it sympathetically.

"Don't, please." Helen gently withdrew her hand. "If you do that I shall

become completely unnerved. Let us return to the villa; I really want to

talk with you about it."

The short walk home was accomplished in silence. As they entered the

hallway Uncle Peabody was the first to speak. "Where shall we go?" he

asked.

"To my 'snuggery,'" Helen answered. "There we are sure not to be

interrupted."

"Now tell me all about it," he urged, as they seated themselves.

"I imagine you know a good deal about the situation without my telling

you," began Helen, bravely; "but I want you to know the whole story.

Otherwise you can't help me, and without your aid I am absolutely

alone."

"You know well that you can depend upon that," he interrupted.

Helen moved nearer and passed her hand through his arm. "We have made a

horrible mistake, Jack and I," she said. "We are not at all suited to

each other, and never should have married."

"That is a pretty serious statement," replied Uncle Peabody.

"It is," assented Helen; "but the fact itself is even more serious. Tell

me, do you not see that Jack is a very different man from the one you

first met here?"

"Yes," he replied. "There can be no question about that."

"If this change was but a passing mood it would not be so serious,"

continued Helen, "but the Jack I know now is the real Jack, and as such

our interests are entirely apart."

"But all this may correct itself," suggested Uncle Peabody. "Why not get

him away from the influences which have produced this change and see if

that will not straighten matters out?"

Helen was thoughtful for a moment. "That would never do," she said, at

length. "You see, there is another consideration which enters in. Inez

and Jack are in love with each other."

"Has Jack admitted this?" demanded Uncle Peabody.

Helen smiled sadly. "No; he would never admit it, even if he knew it to

be true. At present his affection is wholly centered upon his book, and

he himself has no real conception of how matters stand."

"Then why do you feel so certain? I think you are right about Miss

Thayer, but I have seen nothing to criticise in Jack's conduct except

this complete subjugation to his work."

"I have been watching it for weeks, uncle, and I know that I am right.

The old Jack--the Jack I married--found in me the response he craved;

but to the new Jack--the real Jack--I can give nothing. Inez is his

counterpart; Inez is the woman who can talk his language and live his

life--not I."

"There is no reason why you could not do this if he gave you the

chance," he asserted.

"At first it was my fault that I did not make the effort when he did

give me the chance. Then I tried to enter into it--you remember the day

I went to the library--but it was too late. Cerini showed me how

hopeless it was. Then you remember Professor Tesso's story. He was

right; they are absolutely suited to each other. It is useless to fight

against it and thus increase the misery."

"If you are not going to fight against it, what are you going to do?"

"I am going to right the wrong in the only way which remains," replied

Helen, firmly.

"I don't see it yet." Uncle Peabody showed his perplexity. "What are you

going to do?"

"Jack and I must be separated just as soon as it can be arranged."

Uncle Peabody placed his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her

eyes. With all the advance signals of the storm which he had noted he

was unprepared for this climax. "Surely that point has not yet arrived,

Helen," he said, slowly. "'Those whom God hath joined together--'"

"That is just the point," she interrupted. "Those whom God joins

together are those who are suited to each other. When it becomes evident

that two people have been married who are unsuited, it is also evident

that God never joined them together, and that they ought not to stay

together. That is the case with Jack and me."

"Have you told Jack your decision?"

"Not in so many words, but in substance. He does not appreciate the

situation at all, and he won't until the book is finished."

"Why don't you go home for a while and see what happens?"

"If I went away now Inez would have to leave, and that would interrupt

the work."

"I can't follow you, Helen. One moment you speak of the misery this work

has brought to you, and the next moment you can't do something because

it will interfere with the very work which you would like to stop."

"It seems to be my fate not to be able to make myself understood," Helen

replied, wearily. "Let me try again. I have no desire to stop the work.

It is a necessary part of Jack's development, and it will open up a

great future for him."

"But to continue this means to continue the intimacy between him and

Miss Thayer," insisted Uncle Peabody.

"I have no desire to stop that, either." Helen was calm and firm in her

replies. "It would be no satisfaction to hold Jack to me when I know

perfectly well that duty and marriage vows remain as the only ties. It

breaks my heart that all this has happened, but neither the work itself

nor even Inez is responsible. The other side of Jack was like an

undeveloped negative--these are simply the mediums which have brought

out the picture which was already there."

"You are not in a condition to consider this matter as you should,

Helen," Uncle Peabody replied, hardly knowing what to say. "The whole

affair has been preying on your mind for so long that you are arriving

at conclusions which may or may not be justified. Your very calmness

shows that you do not appreciate the seriousness of your suggestions."

Helen looked at Uncle Peabody reproachfully. "Don't make me think that

men are wilfully obtuse," she said. "When I talked it over with Jack he

called it jealousy; now you think I lack an appreciation of the

seriousness of it all!" Helen paused for a moment and closed her eyes.

When she spoke again all the intensity of her nature burst forth. "Can

you not see beneath this calmness the effort I am making to do my duty?"

she asked, in a low, tense voice. "Can you not see my heart burned to

ashes by the fire it has passed through? Look at me, uncle. Jack says I

seem ten years older--twenty would be nearer the truth. Do these changes

come to those who fail to appreciate what they are doing? It is not that

I don't realize; it is because I can't forget."

"Don't misunderstand me, child," Uncle Peabody hastened to say, appalled

by the effect of his words. "My own heart has bled for you all these

weeks, and I would be the last to add another burden to the load you

bear. It is hard to suffer, but sometimes I think it is almost as hard

to see those one loves passing through an ordeal which he is powerless

to lighten. I don't want you to take a step which will plunge you into

deeper sorrow, that is all. You may be right, but I pray God that you

are wrong. Now let me help you, if I can."

Helen smiled through the mist before her eyes. "You can help me," she

said, "just by being your own dear self during these hard weeks to come.

Stay here until it is over, and then take me home, where you can show me

how to use the years I see before me." Helen buried her face in her

hands. "Oh, those years!" she cried; "how can I endure them?"

"Come, come, Helen," urged Uncle Peabody, kindly, "I can't believe that

the world has all gone wrong, as you think it has. Let us take one step

at a time, and see if together we can't find the sun shining through the

cypress-trees. Tell me just what you propose to do."

"The programme is a simple one," Helen answered. "Outwardly there will

be no change. I shall make Jack's home as attractive as possible to him

while we share it together. Inez is my guest, and will be welcome as

long as I am here. Other than this it will be as if we all were

visitors. Jack will notice no difference while his work lasts. Then when

it is completed you and I will go back home. Jack may stay here or

return, as he chooses. Inez will decide her own course. Then Jack will

at last understand that I meant what I said--that I saw that I stood

in the way of his future and stepped aside."

"Do you imagine that he will permit this when once he understands?"

asked Uncle Peabody.

"He will try to prevent it," assented Helen. "He will realize that he

has neglected me and he will want to atone, but this will be from a

sense of duty, even though he does not know it. The actual break will be

a blow to him, but then he will turn to Inez and will find that I

understood him better than he did himself."

"But he is counting on continuing this work in Boston next winter. He

spoke of it again yesterday, and said how splendid it was of you to make

it possible for Miss Thayer to work there with him."

Helen rose and stepped out into the garden, looking far away into the

distance. Then she turned toward him.

"I am making it possible, am I not?" she said, simply.

And the lump in Uncle Peabody's throat told him that he understood at

last.

XXI

The evening had arrived for the reception at Villa Godilombra by which

Helen was to acknowledge the many social obligations laid upon her by

her friends in Florence. In the details of preparation she had found

temporary relief from her ever-present burden, with Uncle Peabody

assuming the role of general adviser, comforter, and prop. Together they

had worked out the list of guests; together they had planned the many

little surprises which should make the event unique. Much to old

Giuseppe's disgust, his own flowers were found to be inadequate, and to

his camellias, lilies, oleanders, and roses was added a profusion of

those rare orchids which bear witness that the City of Flowers is well

named. Emory was also pressed into service as the day drew near, and his

energy was untiring in carrying out the ideas of his superior officers

and in suggesting original ones of his own.

Armstrong had expressed his willingness to co-operate, but was

obviously relieved to find his services unnecessary. He had reached a

crisis in his work, he explained, and if he really was not needed it

would hasten the conclusion of his labors if they might be uninterrupted

at this particular point. Inez had also offered her aid, but Armstrong

insisted that she could not be spared unless her presence at the villa

was absolutely demanded. So the work upon the masterpiece had proceeded

without a break, while little by little the plans for the reception

matured.

The novelty of the preparations consisted principally in the electrical

and the floral displays. Uncle Peabody succeeded in having a number of

wires run from the trolley-line into the villa and the garden, leaving

Emory to plan an arrangement of lights which did credit to the limited

number of electrical courses which his college curriculum had contained.

The grotto was lighted by fascinating little incandescent lamps, which

shed their rays dimly through the guarding cypresses but full upon the

varicolored shells and stones. Along the top of the retaining wall, and

scattered here and there at uneven distances and heights among the trees

and the statues, the lights looked like a swarm of magnificent

fire-flies resting, for the time, wherever they happened to alight. But

Emory's _piece de resistance_ was the fountain, beneath the spray of

which he had helped the electrician to fashion a brilliant fleur-de-lis

in compliment to the city of their adoption.

This final triumph was brought to a successful conclusion almost

simultaneously with the cessation of Helen's labors in transforming the

dining-room, the hallway, and the verandas into veritable flower arbors.

Old Giuseppe and the florist's men had accomplished wonders under

Helen's guidance, and they approved the final result as enthusiastically

as they had opposed the scheme at first, when Helen had insisted upon a

departure from the conventional "set pieces" which they tried to urge

upon her. Realizing that the time was approaching for the light repast,

and glad of a respite, Helen wandered out to the garden where Emory and

Uncle Peabody, hand in hand, were executing an hilarious dance around

the fountain.

"What in the world--" began Helen, in amazement.

"It is great, is it not, Mr. Cartwright?" cried Emory, ceasing his

evolutions and turning to Uncle Peabody. "This settles it; I am going

home on the next steamer and set myself up as an electrical

engineer--specialty, decoration of Italian gardens. Watch, Helen--I will

turn on the lights."

In an instant the flitting insects were flickering throughout the

garden, and the water of the fountain became a living flame. Helen's

first exclamation of delight was interrupted by Giuseppe's groan of

terror as the old gardener hastily retreated to the house, crossing

himself and praying for divine protection against the magic of the evil

one which had entered and taken possession of his very domain. The

suspicion with which he had viewed the labors of the electricians during

the past few days was now fully justified, and he saw his work of thirty

years in danger of destruction by the conflagration which he believed

must inevitably follow.

"Splendid, Phil!" cried Helen, when Giuseppe was at last quieted. "I had

no idea you were carrying out so grand a scheme. What should I have done

without you?"

"It was Mr. Cartwright's idea, you know, Helen," insisted Emory.

"To get the light up here--not the arrangement, which is all to your

credit," Uncle Peabody hastened to add.

"I owe everything to both of you," said Helen, holding out a hand to

each. "Now I want to see every light." Slowly they walked about the

garden inspecting the illumination. "It is perfect," exclaimed Helen. "I

can't tell you how pleased I am with it. I ought to be jealous that you

have so outdone me in your part of the decoration, but I am really proud

of you!"

As they were taking an admiring view of the floral arrangements Jack and

Inez rode up. Emory started to suggest to them a view of the garden, but

a glance from Helen prevented.

"Save it for a surprise, Phil," she whispered. "They have no idea of

what you have done."

It was nearly ten o'clock when the first guests arrived, and for an hour

Helen, Jack, and Uncle Peabody greeted the brilliant gathering as it

assembled. To most of them Armstrong was a complete stranger, and it was

quite evident that many of those who had known and admired Helen and Mr.

Cartwright possessed no little curiosity concerning this man of whom so

little had been seen.

"Then there really is a Mr. Armstrong, after all," exclaimed the

Marchesa Castellani, smiling blandly as Helen presented him. "We had

almost come to look upon you as one of those American--what shall we

say?--conceits."

The color came to Helen's face, but before she could reply Cerini

pressed forward from behind.

"Signor Armstrong has been my guest these weeks, marchesa, inhaling the

wisdom of the past instead of the sweeter but more transitory grandeur

of Florentine society. This has perhaps been his loss, and yours; but,

with his great work nearly ready for the press, dare we say that the

world will not be the richer for the sacrifice?"

"I shall not be the one to dare," replied the marchesa, again smiling

and passing on to make room for others behind her.

Cerini watched his opportunity for another word with Helen. "I came

to-night," he said, "expressly to tell you that your reward is near at

hand. Another week and your husband's labors will be completed. I have

thought often of our conversation, and of your patience; but the result

of my advice has been more far-reaching even than I thought. The

character-building has extended beyond him and his 'sister-worker'--it

has reached you as well."

The arrival of new guests fortunately delayed the necessity of immediate

reply, but it also gave Cerini an opportunity to watch the effect of his

words. The old man's voice softened as he continued:

"You have suffered, my daughter; I did not know till now how much. Yet

suffering is essential. George Eliot was a woman, and she knew a woman's

heart when she wrote, 'Deep, unspeakable suffering is a baptism, a

regeneration--the initiation into a new state.' Your initiation is

passed, my daughter, and your enjoyment of the new state is near at

hand. Do you not see now how far-reaching has been the influence?"

"Yes," Helen replied, with a tremor in her voice; "and this time I think

I may say that it has been more far-reaching than even you realize."

Cerini's eyes sought hers searchingly. He had already seen more than she

had intended.

"Then the book is really coming to its completion?" she continued,

calmly. "And you feel well satisfied with my husband's work?"

"It is superb; it is magnificent," cried Cerini, enthusiastically. "He

has produced a work which is without an equal in the veracity of its

portrayal of the period and in the insight which he has shown in dealing

with the characters themselves. It will make your husband famous."

"We shall be very proud of him, shall we not?" replied Helen, forcing a

smile. "And he will owe so much to you for the help and the inspiration

you have given him."

"And also to you, my daughter," added the librarian, meaningly.

Emory approached as Cerini left her side. "Every one is in the garden

now, Helen. May I take you there?"

Helen glanced around for her husband, and saw him somewhat apart from

the other guests engaged in a conversation with the Contessa Morelli.

Unconsciously her mind went back to what the contessa had said to her

about marriage in general and about her husband in particular, and she

wondered what her new friend thought of him, now that they had actually

met.

"Jack has his hands full for the present," Emory remarked, noting her

glance. "You need not worry about him. By Jove, Helen, you are simply

stunning to-night!" he continued, in a low voice, as they strolled

across the veranda. "I have been anxious about you, but now you are

yourself again. You should always wear white."

Helen made no answer. She was recalling to herself the fact that

to-night, for the first time, Jack had made no comment upon her

appearance, as he had always done before; yet she had tried to wear the

very things which he preferred. After all, she thought, it was better

so. But what a mockery to stand beside a man, as she stood with Jack

this evening, jointly receiving their friends and their friends'

congratulations! What deception! What ignominy!

In the mean time, as Emory had surmised, Armstrong had his hands

sufficiently full with the contessa. Her mind had been too constantly

applied to her interesting problem, during the days which had elapsed

since her call upon Cerini, to allow this opportunity to escape her. She

had exercised every art she possessed to learn something further from

Helen; she even had Emory take tea with her with the same definite

object in view; but either consciously or unconsciously both had parried

her diplomatic questioning with an air so natural and simple as to

convince her that they were not unskilled themselves in the game in

which she considered herself an adept. The one thing which remained was

the picture she had seen at the library; but this had been so positive

in the impression which it had made that she found herself even more

keen than ever to follow up the small advantage she had gained.

Watching her opportunity, Amelie found herself beside Armstrong, with

the other guests far enough removed to enable her to converse with him

without being overheard.

"All Florence owes you a debt of gratitude for bringing your beautiful

wife here," she began. "And how generous you have been to let us have so

much of her while you have been otherwise engaged!"

"It has been my misfortune not to be able to share her social

pleasures," Armstrong replied. "Perhaps she has told you of the serious

work upon which I am engaged."

"Yes, indeed," answered the contessa, cheerfully. "I am sure every man

in Florence who has had an opportunity to meet your wife has blessed you

for your devotion to this 'serious work,' as you call it. Italian

husbands are not so generous, especially upon their honeymoon."

Armstrong bowed stiffly. The contessa's manner was far too affable to

warrant him in taking offence, yet he felt distinctly annoyed by what

she said. Amelie, however, gave him no opportunity to reply.

"Oh, you don't know these Italian husbands," she continued, shrugging

her beautiful shoulders. "I have one, so I know all about it. They go

into paroxysms of fury even at the thought of having their wives go

about without them, receiving the admiration of other men. I have no

doubt that at this very moment my dear Morelli is either abusing one of

the servants or breaking some of the furniture, just because I happen to

be here while he is nursing his gouty foot at home. I am always proud of

my countrymen when I see them, as you are, willing to let their wives

enjoy themselves without them."

"I do not think I have observed this trait among American husbands

developed to the extent you mention," Armstrong observed, with little

enthusiasm.

"You haven't?" queried the contessa, innocently. "Perhaps that is

because you are such a learned man, with your eyes upon your books

instead of upon the world. You must take my word that it is so. But you

know enough of the world to recognize admiration when you yourself

become the object of it?"

Amelie fastened upon her companion an arch smile so full of meaning that

Armstrong was caught entirely off his guard.

"I the object of admiration?" he asked, incredulously. "I wish I might

think that you were speaking of your own."

The contessa laughed merrily. "I certainly laid myself open for that,

did I not?" she replied. "Now suppose I had said adoration instead of

admiration, then you would not have replied as you did."

"I should hardly have so presumed," he said, mystified by the contessa's

conversation.

"Yet I have seen you the object of adoration--nothing less. I have seen

eyes resting upon your face filled with a devotion which a woman never

gives but once. You ought to feel very proud to be able to inspire all

that, Mr. Armstrong. I should if I were a man."

"You have evidently mistaken me for some one else, contessa. Otherwise I

cannot understand what you are saying."

Amelie looked at him curiously. "I wonder if you are really ignorant of

all this?" she asked.

"You say that you have witnessed it, so it cannot be my wife of whom you

speak, as you have never seen us together. I certainly know of no other

woman who cares two straws about me. It must be that you have taken some

one else for me."

"No; I am not mistaken."

Armstrong's curiosity proved stronger than his resentment. "And you have

actually seen this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where and when?"

The contessa's mood had become serious. She realized that she was

playing with dangerous weapons. "If you are sincere in what you say, Mr.

Armstrong, you would not thank me for telling you."

"But you have gone so far that now I must insist." Helen's words

suddenly came back to him as he spoke. The contessa saw a change of

expression come over his face, and she held back her answer.

"Was it at the Laurentian Library?" Armstrong asked, impulsively.

Amelie smiled triumphantly. "It is really better for me not to answer

that question, my dear Mr. Armstrong. I only meant to pay you a

compliment, and I fear that I have touched on something I should have

avoided. You will forgive me, will you not?"

Armstrong was for the moment too occupied with his own thoughts to

comprehend fully what she said to him. Mechanically he pressed the hand

which was held out to him, and a moment later the contessa entered into

a merry conversation with some of her friends in the garden. Too late he

realized that he had tacitly accepted the compromising position into

which she had led him.

Emory left Helen in the midst of an animated group discussing in

enthusiastic tones their appreciation of the many innovations. The

musicians were concealed in the "snuggery," playing airs from favorite

operas, while waiters from Doney's served _gelati_ and _paste_ and

champagne at little tables scattered throughout the garden. The cool air

was grateful to Helen, and she threw herself into the enjoyment of the

moment. No one among her guests realized how little the brilliant, happy

scene fitted in with the sorrow in her heart. Yet the musicians played

on, the guests chatted merrily, and the lights reflected only that side

of life which Helen felt was hers no more. The hour-glass filled and

emptied, with no change save the departure of the guests.

As the last good-night was spoken Helen sought mechanically the low

retaining wall against which she had so often rested. Jack and Uncle

Peabody were for the moment inside the house, and she was alone. Yes,

alone! How strongly she felt it, now that the stillness replaced the hum

of voices which had filled the garden! Her features did not change, but

a tear, unchecked as it was unbidden, coursed its way down her cheeks.

Emory saw it as he approached, unnoticed, to say good-night.

"Helen!" he whispered, softly.

She turned quickly and brushed the tear away with her hand. "How you

startled me!" she said. "I thought every one had gone."

"Helen," Emory repeated, "you are unhappy."

"I am tired," she replied, lightly; "that is all."

"No, that is not all," he insisted. "You are miserably unhappy."

"Don't, Phil," she entreated.

"I must, Helen," Emory kept on. "I should have no respect for myself if

I kept silent another moment. All this time I have stood by and seen you

suffer without saying a word, when I have longed to take you in my arms

in spite of all and comfort you as you needed to be comforted."

"Phil, I beg of you!" Helen cried, beseechingly. "You must not say such

things. I am not strong enough to stop you, and every word adds to the

pain."

"Then there is pain!" cried Emory, fiercely. "At last I know it from

your own lips. And if there is pain it gives me the right to protect you

from it."

"Oh, Phil!" Helen sank helplessly into a chair.

"I have the right," Emory repeated. "My love, which you cast aside when

you accepted him, now gives it to me; my loyalty in surrendering you to

him for what I thought was your happiness now gives it to me; his

selfishness and his neglect now give it to me. And I claim my right."

She made no reply. Convulsed with weeping, she sat huddled in the chair,

helpless in her sorrow.

"I am going to Jack Armstrong now," continued Emory, savagely. "I am

going to tell him what a brute he is and demand you of him. I did not

give you up to be tortured by neglect while he devotes himself to his

'affinity.'" Emory's voice grew bitter. "And he calls it his

'masterpiece'! Better men than he have called it by another name."

Helen rose, white and ghostlike in the pale, dim light. She was calm

again, and her voice was compelling in its quiet force.

"You have been my friend, Phil--a friend on whom I have felt I could

rely always; yet you take this one moment, when I need real, honest

friendship more than ever before in all my life, to add another burden.

Is it kind, Phil--is it noble? I have suffered--I admit it. Jack is the

cause of it--I admit that, too. You have discovered all this by pulling

aside the veil which by my friend should have been held sacred; but with

my heart laid bare before you, can you not see that it contains no

thought except of him?"

"I do not believe it," Emory replied, stubbornly.

"You must believe it," she continued, with finality. "You know that my

words are true. Jack Armstrong is my husband and I am his wife. We must

forget what you have said and never refer to it again. Come, let us join

them in the house."

"I can't, Helen."

"Then we must say good-night here."

Emory took the outstretched hand in his. For a moment their eyes met

firmly. Then he raised her fingers to his lips.

"It is not good-night, Helen," he said, his voice breaking as he spoke;

"do you understand, it is not good-night--it is good-bye."

Her glance did not falter, though a new sensation of pain passed through

her heart. "Good-bye," she replied, faintly, as she gently withdrew her

hand.

Armstrong watched Emory's hasty departure and Helen's slow return to the

house from his unintentional place of concealment behind the oleanders,

where his footsteps had been arrested by the sound of voices. The

contessa's remarks had recalled with vivid intensity his conversation

with Helen about Inez. She regarded his relations with Miss Thayer to be

at least questionable, and he impatiently awaited the departure of the

guests to tell Helen what had happened and to set himself right in her

eyes. Now he had just heard Emory express himself even more pointedly

upon the same subject.

The consciousness that he had been an eavesdropper, even though

unwittingly, prevented him from carrying out his purpose. As he saw

Helen drag herself rather than walk along the paths, he longed to fold

her to his heart and brush away her doubts for all time; but to do this

he must disclose his uncomfortable position, and this he could not do.

His resentment against Emory faded away in the face of Helen's splendid

loyalty. "My heart contains no thought except of him," he had heard her

say; and he thanked God that his awakening had not come too late.

After a few moments he returned to the house from the opposite side of

the garden.

"Where is Helen?" he asked Uncle Peabody, whom he met at the door.

"She has gone to her room, Jack," Mr. Cartwright replied, without

meeting his eyes. "She said she was very tired, and asked particularly

not to be disturbed."

Armstrong hesitated. She was hardly strong enough to talk the matter

over to-night, anyway. It would be a kindness to leave it until

to-morrow.

"Thank God it is not too late!" Uncle Peabody heard him repeat to

himself, and the old man wondered if, after all, the sun was going to

shine through the cypress-trees.

XXII

Helen did not come down to breakfast the next morning, so Armstrong and

Miss Thayer found themselves at the library at their usual hour in spite

of the festivities of the night before. The events of the evening

impressed upon Jack the necessity of bringing his work to a speedy

conclusion. With feverish haste, and forgetful of his companion, he

seized his pen and transferred to the blank paper before him the words

which came faster than they could be transcribed. Left to her own

resources, Inez picked up the bunch of manuscript and settled back in

her chair to run it over, glancing from time to time at Armstrong, who

seemed consumed by the task before him. Accustomed as she was to his

moods while at work, Inez was almost frightened by the present

intensity. She hesitated even to move about lest he be disturbed, yet

until he gave her something to do she was wholly unemployed.

For over an hour Armstrong's pen ran on. The fever was upon him, the

message was in his mind, the spirit must be translated to the more

tangible medium of words. At length, utterly exhausted for the moment,

he threw aside his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"It is finished!" he cried, looking for the first time into Inez' face;

"all is now actually written, and the revision alone remains."

Inez started to speak a word of congratulation, but in a flood of

realization she knew that the companionship of the past three months was

at an end. For the revision Armstrong would need no assistance; so she

faltered for a moment, but the omission was unnoticed.

"I have just written the summary in the last chapter," Armstrong

continued. "I have taken Michelangelo's allegorical statues in the

Laurentian Chapel as typifying the characteristics and the tendencies of

the period. All that I have written seems naturally to lead up to them.

Listen."

In a rich, tense voice Armstrong read from the sheets which he gathered

together in proper sequence:

"'Michelangelo himself has given us in his marbles the truest

interpretation of the times in which he lived. After analyzing his

correspondence and deducing from this the customs of the people, we turn

to a consideration of the principles which lay beneath. The sculptor was

a poet, and the soul of the poet found expression not through his words

but through his hands. In the sacristy of San Lorenzo there are the

tombs of the Medici, designed by Michelangelo. They are unfinished, as

is typical of the period in which they were designed. At the entrance to

these tombs rest allegorical figures, which to the casual observer

indicate phases of darkness and of light, of death and of life. They are

two women and two men, and tradition names them 'Night' and 'Day,'

'Twilight' and 'Dawning.' To one who analyzes them, however, after a

profound study of the times in which they were produced, comes a

realization that they typify the character and the religious belief of

the people themselves. These statues and their attendant genii are a

series of abstractions, symbolizing the sleep and waking of existence,

action, and thought, the gloom of death, the lustre of life, and the

intermediate states of sadness and of hope that form the borderland of

both. Life is a dream between two slumbers; sleep is death's

twin-brother; night is the shadow of death, and death is the gate of

life.

"'In each of these statues there is a palpitating thought, torn from the

artist's soul and crystallized in marble. It has been said that

architecture is petrified music; each of these statues becomes for us a

passion, fit for musical expression, but turned, like Niobe, to stone.

They have the intellectual vagueness, the emotional certainty that

belong to the motives of a symphony. In their allegories, left without a

key, sculpture has passed beyond her old domain of placid concrete form.

The anguish of intolerable emotion, the quickening of the consciousness

to a sense of suffering, the acceptance of the inevitable, the strife of

the soul with destiny, the burden and the passion of mankind--this is

the symbolism of the period as expressed by their cold, chisel-tortured

marble.'"

"Splendid, my son!" spoke Cerini's proud voice as the librarian advanced

toward them out of the dim recess in which he had been standing; "that

is a fitting ending to a magnificent work. Your use of the statues as

symbolisms of their period is masterly. I myself have felt it often, but

with me the feeling has never found expression."

"What a period that was!" exclaimed Armstrong. "How it seizes one, even

now, after four hundred years! Padre," he said to Cerini, after a

moment's pause, "you say that this work of mine is good?"

The librarian nodded assent.

"If that is so," continued Armstrong, impressively, "it is no more to my

credit than if Machiavelli or Leonardo or the Buonarroti himself had

written it. It is they who have held my hand and guided my pen."

"Ah, my son," cried Cerini, with delight, "you are indeed a true

humanist--a man in whom the ancients take delight! Too bad that you must

drop it all, after your brief experience among this galaxy of greatness,

to return to the humdrum of commonplace existence--too bad, too bad!"

"I shall never give it up, padre," Armstrong replied, firmly; "I could

not if I tried." He paused as he recalled Helen's wan face and

spiritless step. "I have been too intense. I owe it to my wife to share

with her interests which lie along other lines, but my life-work has

already been plotted out for me. I met these gods years ago, and I did

not know them; I felt them calling me back to them, and I obeyed. They

have let me sip their cup of wisdom, and he who once tastes that

delectable draught runs the risk of becoming no longer his own master. I

must leave them for a breathing-spell; I can never wholly give myself to

them again; but never fear, I shall ever come back to them. I could not

help it if I tried."

The librarian watched the enthusiasm of the younger man with rapture.

"My son, my son!" he cried, joyfully; "my life has not been spent in

vain if I have succeeded in joining one such modern intellect to that

noble band of sages who, though of the past, are ever in the present.

And you, too, my daughter," he continued, turning to Inez--"you, too,

have sipped the draught our friend speaks of; you, too, are linked

irrevocably to the wisdom of the ages."

Inez bowed her head as if receiving a benediction.

"I have tasted of it, father," she replied, seriously, "but only in

degree. This experience is one which can never be forgotten, can never

be repeated. I feel as if I were saying good-bye to friends dear and

true whom I shall never see again."

Armstrong looked at her curiously.

"I do not understand," he said. "Why should you ever say good-bye?"

Inez tried to smile, but her attempt ended in a pitiful failure.

"There is nothing very strange about it," she continued. "You and I

drifted into this work together almost by accident. To me it has been a

happy accident, and I like to think that I have helped a little in your

splendid achievement. It has been an experience of a lifetime, but, like

most experiences which are worth anything, it could never happen again."

Armstrong failed utterly to grasp the significance of her words.

"Of course not, unless you wished it so," he said.

"Not even though I wished it," replied Inez, firmly.

The contessa's words were in Armstrong's mind as he looked into her

face. If Helen could hear what she had just said his explanations would

be unnecessary. He wished the contessa were there, if she really

possessed any such idea as her conversation had suggested. This girl in

love with him, yet calmly stating that their association was at an end,

and that any continuance was an impossibility!

"It has been a strain, Miss Thayer, as Helen said," he replied,

finally; "I feel it myself. With the manuscript actually completed, I

shall take my time in putting it into final shape. And now I suggest

that we get out into the air. Suppose we take a little run in the

motor-car out around San Domenico, and then back home, to surprise them

at luncheon?"

Inez saw in Armstrong's suggestion a relaxing of the strained condition

which she had brought upon herself.

"Perhaps Monsignor Cerini will join us," she added.

"Never!" replied the librarian, with sudden fervor. "I may indulge

myself in air-ships when once they become popular, but never in an

automobile! I will have Maritelli telephone for your car."

Inez smiled at Jack as they watched Cerini disappear through the door of

his study. Then Armstrong's face grew serious.

"The old man loves me as if I were his son," he said, feelingly. "He is

more proud of what I have done than if he had accomplished it himself."

"He has reason to be proud," replied Inez; "and so have we all."

* * * * *

In olden days the bishop who was obliged to visit his diocese at San

Domenico or at Fiesole had not spoken so lightly of the trip. Setting

out on mule-back, and scattering blessings as he left the Porta a Pinti

by the road still called the Via Fiesolana, he hoped to reach the

"Riposo dei Vescovi" in time for dinner. There, after a bountiful

repast, he discarded his faithful beast of burden, and entered the

ox-drawn sledge which the monks of San Domenico were bound to provide,

reaching the hill-top, if all went well, about sunset. But this was

before the days even of the stage-coaches, and before the modern tramway

enabled Mother Florence to reach out and enfold her daughters in her

arms.

The chauffeur carefully picked his way through the narrow Borgo San

Lorenzo into the more spacious Piazza del Duomo. Passing around the apse

of the cathedral, they entered the Via de' Servi.

"Sometime we must stop and take a look at these fine old palaces," said

Armstrong, leaning forward and pointing down the street. "The Antinori,

for instance, has just been restored, and it has one of the most

stunning Renaissance court-yards in all Florence. We shall pass by it in

a moment."

The car crossed the square of the SS. Annunziata, where they stopped for

a moment again to admire Andrea Della Robbia's swaddled babies on the

facade of the Foundling Hospital, and to look up from Tacca's statue of

Duke Ferdinand to the window of the Antinori Palace, hoping for a

glimpse of that face from the past, whose history is recorded by

Browning in his "Statue and the Bust." From this point the road was

clearer, passing up the Via Gino Capponi, where Armstrong again pointed

out the house of Andrea del Sarto--"the little house he used to be so

gay in"--past the Capponi Palace, and also that of San Clemente, where

lived and died the last Stuart Pretender. With increasing speed, they

crossed the Viale Principe Amedeo, past the gloomy Piazza Savonarola,

around the Cemetery of the Misericordia, to San Gervasio, where the real

ascent began.

The sudden change from the close atmosphere of the library to the

invigorating air acted as a tonic on Armstrong and his companion; and in

addition to this the tension of three months' close application was

lightened. The book was actually written! Inez thought she had never

seen him in so incomparable a mood, as he called her attention to many

little points of interest which, during other rides, had been passed

unnoticed. On they went, olive gardens alternating with splendid villas

on either side, until, almost before they realized it, San Domenico was

reached, and they paused to regard the magnificent panorama spread out

before their eyes. Armstrong looked back and saw the Via della Piazzola

behind him. Then his glance turned to the steep hill in front. In a

flood of memory came back to him the details of the last time he had

been there--alone with Helen, so soon after their arrival in Florence.

"I measure everything by that day at Fiesole," she had said to him; "I

believe it was the happiest day I ever spent."

How long ago it seemed to him, and how much had happened since! She was

not happy now--she had told him so with her own lips; she had even been

forced to acknowledge it to Emory. He had been forgetful of her during

these weeks of study; but it was over now, and he would make it up to

her. When she saw him back in his old semblance again her pain would

pass away, her happiness return, and the present misunderstanding be

forgotten.

His thoughts of Helen reminded him of his intention to return to the

villa in time for luncheon, after which he would tell her how deeply he

regretted all that had happened.

"Turn around, Alfonse," he said, looking at his watch, "and run home as

fast as you can; we have hardly time to get there."

The return toward Florence was quickly made in spite of the sudden

bends and narrow roads. Turning sharply at Ponte a Mensola, Alfonse

increased his speed as they approached the hill leading from the Piazza

of Settignano to the villa.

"Careful at the next turn, Alfonse; it's a nasty one," cautioned

Armstrong, aware that his instructions were being carried out too

literally.

The machine was nearer to the corner than Alfonse realized. He saw the

danger, and with his hand upon the emergency-brake he threw his weight

upon the wheel. Something gave way, and in another moment the car

crashed against the masonry wall, the engine made a few convulsive

revolutions, and then lay inert and helpless.

Inez was thrown over the low wall, landing without injury in the

cornfield on the other side. Alfonse jumped, and found himself torn and

bruised upon the road, with no injuries which could not easily be

mended. But Armstrong, sitting nearest to the point of contact, lay amid

the wreckage of the machine, still and lifeless, with a gash in the side

of his head, showing where he had struck the wall.

By the time Inez had found an opening Alfonse had gathered himself up,

and together they lifted Armstrong on to the grass by the side of the

road. Two frightened women and a boy hurried out from the peasant's

cottage near by, the women wringing their hands, the boy stupefied by

fear.

"Some water, quick!" commanded Inez; and one of the women hastened to

obey.

Wetting her handkerchief and kneeling beside the still figure, Inez

bathed Armstrong's face and washed the blood from the ugly cut. She

chafed his hands and felt his pulse. There was no response, and she

turned her ashen face to the women watching breathless beside her.

"He is dead," she said, in an almost inarticulate voice. The women

crossed themselves and burst into tears.

"May we take him in there," she asked, pointing to the cottage, "while

the chauffeur brings his wife?"

Between them the body was gently lifted into the cottage and laid upon

the bed in the best room. Then Alfonse set out upon his solemn mission.

"Leave me with him," Inez begged rather than commanded the woman who

remained. "I will stay with him until they come."

She closed the door. Leaning against it for support, with her hand upon

the latch, she gazed at the inanimate form upon the bed. The necessity

of action had dulled her realization of the horror, and, sinking upon

the floor, she buried her face in her hands, giving way for the first

time to the tears which until now had been denied. The first paroxysm

over, she raised her head and looked about the room. Every object in it

burned itself into her mind: the straw matting on the floor, the cheap

prints upon the wall, the rough cross and the crucified Saviour hanging

over the bed. Dead--dead!

"Oh, God," she murmured, incoherently, to herself, "is this to be the

solution of this awful problem--inexplicable in life, unendurable in

death!"

Suddenly she rose from the floor and stood erect. She looked at the

closed door--then turned to where the body lay. She rested her hand upon

Armstrong's forehead. Then sitting upon the edge of the bed she gently

lifted his arm and grasped his hand as her body became convulsed with

heart-breaking sobs.

"Jack!" she cried, covering his hands with kisses, "Jack--speak to me!

Tell me that you are not dead," she implored. "Oh no, no--that cannot

be; you are too grand, too noble to die like this!"

She rose and stood for a moment looking down at him.

"Dead!" she repeated, piteously--"dead!" A hectic glow came into her

face. "Then you are mine!" she cried, fiercely. "Jack, my beloved, you

are mine, dear--do you hear?--and I am yours. Oh, Jack, how I have loved

you all these weeks! Now I can tell you of it, dear--it will do no

harm!"

Again she sat upon the bed and placed her hands upon his cheeks.

"My darling, my beloved!" she whispered. "Open your eyes just once and

tell me that I may call you mine if only for this one terrible moment.

This is our moment, dear--no one can take it from us! Have you not seen

how I have loved you, how I have struggled to keep you from knowing it.

Jack, Jack! this is the beginning and the end."

The room seemed to spin around, and before her eyes a mist gathered.

"I am dying, too, Jack," she said, frankly--"thank God, I am dying,

too."

At last Nature applied her saving balm to the strained nerves, and

Inez' sufferings were temporarily assuaged by that sweet insensibility

which stands between the human mind and madness. So Helen found her, a

few moments later, when pale and trembling she entered the room.