CO-PARTNER WITH NATURE
XXIII
Helen received the heart-breaking news from Alfonse with a degree of
control which surprised even Uncle Peabody. Her questions were few, but
so vital in their directness that by the time she had learned the nature
and the seriousness of the accident, and the location of the cottage
where her husband's body lay, she was hurrying to the scene of the
calamity.
"Do you know where to reach an American or English surgeon?" she
promptly asked Uncle Peabody, and his affirmative reply as he hastened
to the telephone was the last word she heard as she left the villa.
Once in the cottage, she followed the guidance of the weeping,
awe-struck peasants, who silently pointed out to her the room of death.
She opened the door, and crossed the room with a firm step. Sinking to
her knees beside the bed, she buried her face for a brief moment in her
hands--then she rose quickly to her feet. With the help of the woman who
had entered with her, she lifted Inez' inert figure from across her
husband's body.
"She has fainted, poor child!" she said, quietly, divining that the
girl's insensibility was not serious. "Let us take her into the next
room."
Leaving the woman to provide for Inez' necessities, and giving her
instructions how to act, Helen turned from the improvised cot to go back
to Jack. His hands were still warm, but she could find no perceptible
pulsation. She loosened his collar and moved his head a little to one
side, discovering the wound for the first time. A cry of pain burst from
her as she drew back sick and dizzy, her lips quivering and tears
starting to her eyes. Then she leaned over him again, gently washing
away the slight flow of blood with a moist cloth which one of the women
handed her.
"Look!" she cried, pathetically, to Uncle Peabody, who entered the room
a moment later, pointing to the wound and gazing into his eyes with her
own distended by her suffering and her sense of helplessness.
Uncle Peabody put his arm about her, and rested his other hand upon
Armstrong's wrist. "Dr. Montgomery will be here in a moment, Helen," he
said, quietly, feeling instinctively that this was no time for words of
sympathy. "I caught him at the Grand Hotel, and there was a motor-car at
the door."
"He is dead!" was Helen's response, piteous in its intensity.
"Perhaps not, dear," replied Uncle Peabody, soothingly. "Let us stand by
the window until the doctor comes."
Helen refused to suffer herself to be led away from her husband's side.
"I can't," she said, simply, shaking her head; "I must watch over him."
Then she turned back to resume her self-appointed vigil, and suddenly
found herself looking into his open eyes.
"Jack!" she cried, seizing his face in her hands as she again sank upon
her knees--"oh, Jack!"
She could find no other words in the revulsion which swept over her.
Her cry quickly brought Uncle Peabody, and the women drew near to behold
the miracle of the dead brought to life; but all except Helen fell back
as the doctor entered.
"He lives, doctor!" she exclaimed exultantly, her face radiant with joy.
"Then there is hope," he replied, with a reassuring smile, as he began
the examination of his patient.
Helen followed every motion as the doctor proceeded, encouraged by the
confidential little nods he made at the conclusion of each process, as
if answering in the affirmative certain questions which he put to
himself. Armstrong again opened his eyes as the doctor carefully
investigated the depth of the wound, and his lips moved slightly. Helen
impulsively drew nearer, but the sound was barely articulate.
The doctor drew back the lids and peered intently into his open eyes,
nodding again to himself. At length he turned to the silent group about
him, who so eagerly waited for the verdict.
"Will he live?" was Helen's tense question as she seized his arm.
Dr. Montgomery looked into the upturned face with a kindly smile. "I
hope so, Mrs. Armstrong," he answered, quietly. "It is a severe
concussion of the brain, and we must await developments."
"Are there unfavorable signs?" asked Uncle Peabody, anxiously.
"No; quite the contrary so far. There is no fracture of the skull, and
the normal size of the pupils shows no serious injury to the brain."
"The unconsciousness is due simply to the concussion?"
"Exactly."
"Then what do you fear?"
"There is always danger of meningitis. We can tell nothing about this
until later."
"Will it be safe to move him?" asked Helen.
"Yes; and you had better do so. I must dress and sew up the wound, and
then he can be carried home on a stretcher. Suppose you leave me alone
with him now, while I make his head a bit more presentable."
Helen's buoyancy was contagious as she and Uncle Peabody started to
leave the room, but Jack's voice recalled them.
"It is--the symbolism--of the period," he muttered, incoherently.
"It is all right," the doctor replied to Helen's startled, unspoken
interrogation. "He is delirious, and will be so for days."
Satisfied with the explanation, they passed through the door into the
next room, where they found Inez sitting weakly in an arm-chair, her
hair dishevelled, her face white as marble, supported by the woman in
whose care she had been left.
Helen hurried to her. "He is not dead!" she cried, joyfully--"do you
hear, Inez? Jack is alive, and the doctor thinks he will recover!"
Inez answered with a fresh flood of tears. "Oh, Helen! Helen!" she
murmured, clinging impulsively to her arm.
Helen's recovery came much more spontaneously than did Inez'. With the
one the pendulum had made a completed swing, and the depths at one
extreme had been offset by the heights at the other. Inez, however, was
hopelessly distraught by the accumulated weight of a multitude of
emotions: the physical shock of the accident, the horror of the
situation as it first burst upon her with unmitigated force, the
involuntary tearing from her heart of the mask it had worn for so many
months--and now the painful joy of the reaction. She rested in her
chair, almost an inert mass, in total collapse of mind and body.
"I could not help it, Helen," she murmured, piteously, as her friend
pushed back the dishevelled hair from her hot forehead.
"Of course you could not, dear," Helen cried, smiling through her tears
of joy at the obvious relief her words gave. "Oh, I am so happy, Inez!"
Helen's face grew pale again as her thoughts returned to those first
awful moments, which now seemed so long ago. "I really thought him dead,
Inez," she continued, after a moment's silence. "We could not have
endured that, could we, dear? Now we will take him to the villa and
nurse him back to health and strength. How strange it will seem to him
not to be able to do things for himself!"
"Is he--badly hurt?" ventured Inez.
"The doctor can't tell yet, but he feels encouraged."
"Is he--conscious?"
"Not wholly--and the doctor says he will be delirious for days."
"Oh," replied Inez, again relaxing.
Dr. Montgomery quietly entered the room, carefully closing the door
after him. "All goes well," he replied to the questions before they were
put to him. "The patient is resting quietly and may be moved as soon as
a stretcher can be secured. Your villa is near by, I think Mr.
Cartwright said?"
"The stretcher is being prepared," replied Uncle Peabody, answering the
doctor's question, "and I have sent for two strong men."
"Good. Have I another patient here?" Dr. Montgomery turned to Inez.
"She is suffering only from the shock," answered Helen.
"Let me take you both home in my motor-car," suggested the doctor.
"Take Miss Thayer," Helen replied, quickly.
"Oh no!" Inez shuddered; "I can never enter one of those awful things
again!"
Dr. Montgomery smiled indulgently. "It will really be better, Miss
Thayer, and I will personally guarantee your safe arrival."
"I would rather walk beside the stretcher," Helen continued; "there
might be something I could do."
The doctor bowed as he acquiesced. "Your husband will require very
little to be done for him for some days, Mrs. Armstrong," he said; "but
if you prefer to stay near him your suggestion is better than mine."
"Did he speak again, doctor?" asked Helen.
"Yes," he replied, with a professional shrug; "but he said nothing. You
must pay no attention to his ramblings. His mind will remain a blank
until Nature supplies the connecting link. In the mean time he will
require simply quiet and rest."
Uncle Peabody's stretcher was soon ready for service, and the still
unconscious burden was gently lifted upon it and carried with utmost
tenderness up the hill to the villa, where old Giuseppe and the maids
received the party with unaffected joy at the good news that their
master would survive the accident that had befallen him. With the aid of
the trained nurse they found awaiting them, Armstrong was carefully
transferred from the stretcher to his own bed, Inez was made comfortable
in her room, and the doctor sat down upon the veranda with Helen and
Uncle Peabody, who welcomed a moment's rest after the wearing experience
of the past hour.
"Tell us the probabilities of the case, Dr. Montgomery," said Uncle
Peabody. "Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong were planning to return to Boston soon,
and now it will of course be necessary to rearrange their plans."
"Naturally," assented the doctor. "I will tell you all I can. These
cases are somewhat uncertain, but the patient's delirium will surely
last for several days. Then comes a slow period of convalescence, during
which time the body repairs much more rapidly than the mind. You cannot
count on less than two months, even with everything progressing
favorably."
Uncle Peabody glanced over to where Helen was sitting.
"I don't care how long it takes," she replied to his implied
interrogation, "so long as he gets well."
Dr. Montgomery smiled as he rose to take his leave. "My patient is
evidently in good hands," he said. "The nurse will do all that needs to
be done until I return in the course of an hour or two."
Helen and Uncle Peabody sat in silence for some moments after the
doctor departed. There was nothing further to be done for the present,
as both Jack and Inez were resting as comfortably as could be expected
under the circumstances, and absolute quiet was the one thing needful.
"Well," said Uncle Peabody, at length, "it is the unexpected which has
happened again."
"Yes," Helen assented without looking up; "if it keeps on happening with
such startling regularity I shall begin to expect it, and then your
theory will lose its point."
Uncle Peabody was in a thoughtful rather than an argumentative mood.
"If I was not afraid you would think me heartless, Helen, I would say
that I believe I see the hand of Providence in this."
She looked up quickly.
"Of course, assuming that Jack recovers," he hastened to add.
"I am afraid my philosophy is hardly equal to this test," Helen replied,
unsympathetically. "I am supremely happy that the affair is not so
serious as it seemed at first, but I can't see anything particularly
providential in the injury poor Jack has sustained, nor in the suffering
he must pass through at best."
"Is it not just possible that this long period of convalescence, which
Dr. Montgomery says is inevitable, may bring him to himself again?"
Helen smiled sadly. "It was the work at the library which brought him to
himself, uncle. A separation from those influences which so strongly
affected him there may result in a return to the old self I knew before
we came here; but that is not his real self."
"If he returns to that condition, no matter what brings it about, will
it not simplify matters?"
"I can't see how," replied Helen, seriously. "If I had never known this
new development in Jack's nature, I should of course be quite content to
have him return to his former self; but having seen him as he really is,
I could never accept any condition which allows him no development of
his higher and stronger personality. It would not be fair either to him
or to me."
Uncle Peabody regarded Helen curiously. "Let me make myself clearer," he
said, with considerable emphasis. "Only this very morning you were
discussing with me the final outcome of what appeared to be a domestic
tragedy. Your husband was controlled by the spell of the old-time
learning which had reached out from its antiquity to grasp a modern
convert. You were convinced that Miss Thayer's sentiments toward your
husband had developed into affection, and you stated in so many words
that if Jack did not reciprocate this affection he really ought to do
so, because she was the one woman in the world qualified by nature to be
his wife. In the presence of this overwhelming condition you very
generously planned--and I expressed to you how much I admired your
spirit--to eliminate yourself, and to sacrifice your own happiness in
order to enable your husband to accomplish his destiny."
"You are making sport of me--it is most unkind!" she cried,
reproachfully.
"You know I wouldn't do that," insisted Uncle Peabody. "I am merely
presenting a simple statement of the case in order to prove my original
assertion. Please let me continue. Just as the crisis seems to be at
hand this accident occurs. In a most unexpected manner Jack is instantly
divorced from the influences which have drawn him away from you. The
break between him and Miss Thayer has been accomplished naturally, and
he has been placed in his wife's hands to be nursed back to
health--during which experience you both will come to know each other
far better than ever before. Again I say--I believe I see the hand of
Providence in the whole affair."
Helen waited to make quite sure that Uncle Peabody had finished. "I
wonder if it is I who always see things differently," she said, "or if a
man's viewpoint is of necessity different from a woman's. I love Jack
more than I can ever express--and this accident has brought that
devotion nearer to the surface than I have dared to let it come for many
weeks. I have suffered in seeing him drawn away from me, and in
realizing that I was becoming less and less essential to his life. Yet,
through it all, I have understood. I have suffered to think that any
other woman could be more to him than I am, but my love has not blinded
my eyes to what I have actually seen. These are conditions which cannot
be changed, even by this accident. Suppose it does separate him from all
those influences which have brought about the crisis, as you call it;
suppose that because of this separation, and the physical weakness
through which he must pass, Jack turns to me as before, and for the time
being believes that I am more to him than all else in the world--will
this change the conditions themselves?"
"Do you mean that you would not accept this change in him?"
"I mean that I would not take advantage of it," replied Helen, firmly.
"I have seen the development which has taken place in Jack from the
moment of our first meeting down to the present time. Even with the
sorrow it has cost me I admire that development. Had I possessed equal
possibilities, all would have been well. As I did not, it would be the
act not of love but of tyranny to stand between him and his grander
potentiality."
"But suppose that as Jack recovers he comes to a realization that his
obsession has been a mistake--that your love and companionship really
mean more to him than anything he can get elsewhere?"
"That would be a retrogression, after what I have seen him pass through.
As I just said, if I possessed the ability to rise to him, what you
suggest might be a possibility; but I would never consent to have him
assume a lower plane than that upon which he belongs simply that I may
retain my claim."
Helen rose as she spoke and walked slowly down the veranda. Uncle
Peabody watched her retreating figure, and studied her face as she
returned and leaned against one of the pillars in silence.
"Why do you think it would force him to take a lower plane?" he asked,
pointedly.
Helen turned abruptly and looked at him with an expression of frank
surprise. "Why do I think so?" she repeated. "What a foolish question!"
"Still, I ask you for an answer," Uncle Peabody insisted.
"Because he is so far ahead of me in every way," Helen answered, simply.
"Suppose this is not true?"
"But it is."
"Why are you so positive?"
"Because it is quite apparent to every one--to Jack, to Cerini, and even
to myself."
Uncle Peabody rose and stood beside her, taking her face between his
hands and looking kindly into her eyes.
"You are not so far behind him as you think," he said, firmly.
"Whatever the distance between you may have been when you were first
married, the trials I have seen you endure have wrought changes at least
as great as those you have noticed in Jack. You are a brave, strong
woman, Helen, and your development has been from within outward. I wish
I could say as much for him."
"You are trying to give me courage, you dear old comforter," Helen
replied, unconvinced but with a grateful smile.
"I am trying to show you yourself as you really are, my child," Uncle
Peabody replied, "and to help you to recognize an act of Providence when
one falls your way."
XXIV
Dr. Montgomery's approximate estimate of the duration of Armstrong's
delirium proved to be only a few days shorter than the actual fact. In
less than a week all anxiety regarding any possible complications was
set at rest by the doctor's report that his patient was progressing
normally and as well as could be expected. The skull had sustained no
injury, and the brain suffered only from the concussion. The household
became accustomed to the still figure, which gave evidence of its
returning strength only by the increasing frequency of incoherent
ramblings, the voice developing in firmness as the days progressed.
Inez was about again by this time, and with sunken eyes and ashen face
shared with Helen the privilege of watching beside the patient during
the last week of his unconsciousness. But it was a different Inez from
the serious but happy and alert girl who had sat beside Armstrong in the
automobile when it had crashed against the wall. The burden of bearing
her secret alone, during all these weeks, had been in itself a wearing
experience, but this was as nothing compared with the agony of soul
through which she had since passed. The very struggle with herself, and
the sense of personal sacrifice she experienced, had previously served
in her own mind to sanctify her affection and to justify its existence.
Now that she had allowed her passion to burst from her control, all
justification was at an end. Her womanhood and sense of right seemed to
separate themselves from her weaker emotions, and to judge and condemn
them without mitigation.
It was natural that Helen should attribute her changed condition to the
horror of the accident itself; yet Inez knew that the scene which was
enacted in her mind over and over again until it almost drove her mad
was that of her own shameless disloyalty. She shuddered as it returned
to her even now while sitting beside Armstrong's bed; she shrank from
Helen's sympathetic caress and her thoughtful solicitude. If she could
only cry out and proclaim to them all the unworthy part she had
performed, she would feel some sense of relief in the self-abasement it
must bring to her.
Armstrong's delirious wanderings were a sore trial to Inez, but she
accepted and bore them with the unflinching courage of an ascetic. The
sound of his voice, the undirected, expressionless gaze of his eyes, the
uncertainty of what each disconnected sentence might call to mind--all
drove fresh barbs into a soul already tortured by self-condemnation. At
first his mind had seemed to center itself upon his wife and his
enforced separation from her.
"When it is finished," he had murmured, tossing from side to side and
finally raising his hand as if reaching out to some one--"when it is
finished she will understand."
"She does understand, dear," Helen had cried out, seizing his hand and
pressing it to her lips; but instantly he withdrew it, and his words
again became incoherent and meaningless.
At another time, when both Helen and Inez were sitting near by, his eyes
opened, and he seemed to be looking directly at his wife.
"She refuses to continue the work, Helen," he said, as she sprang to his
side, believing that at last his mind had cleared--"you were quite
wrong, do you not see?"
Helen looked at Inez quickly, noting the swift color which suffused her
pale face, but before a word could be spoken the invalid had relapsed
into his former condition. Inez made an excuse to escape from the room
for a moment. "You were quite wrong--do you not see?" she repeated
Armstrong's words to herself. Was he simply rambling, or had the subject
been brought up for previous discussion? Inez' conscience, sensitive
from the load already resting upon it, quivered with new
apprehensiveness. Yet Helen's attitude toward her had in no way
changed--in fact, the awful anxiety of the first suspense, together with
the later mutual responsibilities which they had shared, had seemed to
Inez to draw them even more closely to each other. She tried to gain an
answer to her inward questionings from Helen's face as she re-entered
the room, but found there nothing but cordiality and friendliness.
"He must be getting nearer and nearer to a return of consciousness,"
Helen had said, quite naturally; "but how he wanders!" She looked over
affectionately to her husband, still and helpless, but breathing with
the steady regularity of convalescence. "Sometimes it is about his work
at the library--sometimes it is about me. What agony of spirit he must
be passing through if he realizes any of it!"
"He loves you, Helen," Inez cried, impulsively--"he loves you now, just
as he always has!"
"Of course." Helen looked up questioningly from her fancy work. She was
not yet ready to take Inez into her confidence. "What a strange remark,
dear! Is it not quite natural that my husband should love me?"
Helen's smiling face, as she asked her simple but disconcerting
question, completely unnerved Inez.
"He has been so worried about the time which his work compelled him to
be away from you," Inez replied, at length, trying to conceal her
confusion. "He finished the first draft of the book the day of the
accident. His first thought, after he put down his pen, was to return to
the villa, that he might surprise you at lunch."
"Cerini!" called Armstrong.
Helen placed her hand upon his forehead soothingly.
"I owe it to my wife--" the invalid continued; "but I shall come
back--come back."
"Yes, dear, you shall go back," she answered, quietly, resting her cheek
against his--"you shall go back."
"When it is finished--" Armstrong murmured, again subsiding into
silence.
So the days passed, one by one, differing little, each from the other,
yet filled with many and conflicting emotions on the part of the
faithful watcher by the bedside. With all its pain, Helen welcomed this
period during which she could work out her problem with the unconscious
help of the rambling, disconnected sentences which escaped from her
husband's lips. Sometimes they were full of tenderness for her; again
they were reproaches, levelled at himself for his neglect; but most
frequently they made reference to his work in some of its various
stages. Alternately her heart was touched by his apparent affection for
her, and the wound again torn open by his appeal to or dependence upon
Inez. But through it all came the one conviction, which needed but this
strengthening reassurance to make her determined path seem certain--that
whatever drew him away from his work and back to her was a sense of
duty, and that alone.
Helen questioned Dr. Montgomery upon the ordinary phenomena in cases
such as this.
"His mutterings may be absolutely meaningless," he replied to her
questions, "or they may be thoughts or actual repetitions of
conversations which he has previously had."
"In the latter case, would he be likely to repeat them correctly?"
"Yes, provided he repeats them at all."
"And these thoughts or conversations, if correctly repeated, would
presumably indicate his convictions at the time they occurred?"
"His convictions at the time they occurred," Dr. Montgomery assented;
"but their reliability as normal expressions would depend upon his
mental condition at the time the thoughts occurred or the words were
spoken."
Armstrong's recovery came unexpectedly, even after the long days of
waiting. The perfect July day was drawing to a close, and Helen had
watched the sinking sun from the window beside his bed. It was all so
beautiful! The world seemed full of glorious hopefulness and promise,
and her heart filled to overflowing at the thought that for her, who
loved it so, that promise no longer held good. She turned to the silent
figure lying upon the bed. Would he ever realize what she had gone
through and must still endure for him? She sank upon her knees, burying
her face in the counterpane, as if to shut out the overpowering
grandeur, which produced so sad a contrast. Suddenly she felt a hand
resting upon her head, and a voice spoke her name.
She looked up quickly straight into her husband's eyes, now wide open
and filled with an expression so full of love and devotion that her
heart sprang forth in eager response. It was the expression which his
face had worn when she had first confessed her love for him, and the
intervening months, with their brief joy and their long sorrow, were
obliterated on the instant. Once more he was the devoted, thoughtful,
irresistible lover, and Helen felt the weight of years roll off her
tired shoulders, leaving her the happy, buoyant girl, proud of having
won this strong man's affection. She gazed at him silently, fearing lest
the eyes close again, and unwilling to lose a moment of their present
significance; but they remained open.
"Helen," Armstrong repeated, still looking intently at her, "be patient,
dear. I know how shamefully I have neglected you, I know how much I have
hurt you; but my work is nearly finished now. Then, believe me, all will
be as before."
The voice was calm and sustained. There was no hesitation, no rambling.
Still, she did not fully comprehend that he was himself again.
"Yes, dear," she replied, humoring him; "then all will be as before."
He could not see the sharp pain which showed in her face as she spoke,
nor did he realize how her heart wished that it might be so.
"I must get up," he continued, after a moment's silence. "What time is
it? I shall be late at the library."
"You have finished your work for to-day, Jack," she answered, quietly.
"Have I?" he asked, simply.
His glance slowly wandered about the room. "Is it not morning?" he
queried, at length.
"It is afternoon," she replied, turning toward the window. "See--the sun
is just sinking behind San Miniato."
"Afternoon?" he queried, vaguely--"afternoon, and I still in bed?"
"You have not been well," she volunteered, guardedly, carefully
following the doctor's injunctions. "Don't bother now; you will be
feeling much better in the morning."
"Not well?" Armstrong's mind was groping around for some familiar
landmark upon which to fasten. "I was at the library--was it this
morning?--Cerini was there, Miss Thayer was there--where is Miss
Thayer?"
"She went out only a moment ago. But don't try to think about it now. It
will be much better for you to do that later."
He weakly acquiesced and closed his eyes, still holding her hand firmly
grasped in his own. The doctor found him gently sleeping, with Helen
watching patiently beside him, when he entered the room an hour later.
She held up her disengaged hand warningly. "He is himself again," she
whispered.
"Good!" replied Dr. Montgomery, with satisfaction. "Tell me about it."
"That is splendid," he said, when she had recounted the details; "he is
progressing famously. You won't be able to keep him from questioning,
but try to let the awakening come as gradually as possible."
The morning brought renewed strength to the invalid. The nurse called
Helen as soon as Armstrong wakened, and he plied her with countless
interrogations. Uncle Peabody came in to see him immediately after a
light breakfast had been served, but Inez, upon one pretext or another,
delayed entering the sick-room.
"It will be better for him to become accustomed to his new conditions,"
she urged, when Helen suggested her going to see him. "You and Mr.
Cartwright should have these first moments with him. Later I shall be
only too glad to help in any way I can."
But Armstrong himself was not to be denied.
"There is more to all this than you are telling me," he said,
petulantly, at last, after learning from Helen and Uncle Peabody such
details as he could draw forth regarding the duration of his illness and
its general nature. "I remember now leaving the library in the motor-car
with Miss Thayer. We went--where did we go? Oh yes; to San Domenico.
Then we came home. Did we come home?" he asked, with uncertainty in his
voice; but before an answer could be given he had himself supplied the
connecting link.
"I have it!" he cried, raising himself upon his elbow--"there was an
accident. Alfonse tried to take that turn at the foot of the hill, and
we smashed against the wall."
"Yes," Helen assented, trying to calm his rising excitement, "there was
an accident, and you were badly hurt; but you are nearly well now.
Please go slowly, Jack, or you will undo all that your long rest has
accomplished. There is plenty of time."
"But Miss Thayer," he replied, not heeding her admonition and glancing
about searchingly. "Where is Miss Thayer? She was injured, too?"
"Not seriously," Helen reassured him.
"Then where is she?"
"I don't know exactly, but she is not far away."
"You have not sent her away while I have been ill?" he asked, with a
touch of his former suspicion.
"No, Jack." All of the tired, strained tone came back in Helen's voice
as she turned away from the bed to conceal her disappointment.
Armstrong sensed it all as he had failed to do at other times since the
gap had begun to widen.
"I did not mean that, Helen," he said, and reaching over he took her
hand and drew her to him; "I really did not mean it."
"It is all right, Jack," Helen replied, withdrawing her hand and trying
to smile; "I will find Inez and send her to you." And before he could
remonstrate she had left the room.
While he waited Armstrong had a brief moment of introspection. Again he
had wounded her, and for no cause. He had enjoyed the short period since
his awakening, particularly on account of the tender and affectionate
care Helen had given him, which she had for a long time withheld because
of his own self-centred interest. It was with real regret that he found
this little visit with his wife so abruptly brought to an end, yet he
himself had forced the termination. He must fight against this
unfortunate attribute, he told himself, and show Helen his real feelings
toward her.
His reveries were interrupted by Inez' entrance. Silently she stood
beside him, holding out her hand, which he quietly grasped for a moment
and then released. He wondered at the color in her face and at her
apparent unwillingness to meet his glance.
"They tell me we have been through an accident together," he said,
slowly. "Thank God it was I who was injured and not you."
Inez turned from him, closing her eyes involuntarily. "Don't speak of
it!" she cried, impulsively; "it was too awful!"
"But it is all over now."
"All but the memory," she replied, faintly. "Let us forget it, I beg of
you."
"I was going to ask you for some of the details," Armstrong continued,
"which you alone can give."
"Oh, I beg of you," she repeated; "I could not bear it."
"Then by all means let us forget it," he replied, curiously affected by
the girl's emotion. "Perhaps some time later you will feel more like
talking about it. You see, I can remember nothing after the crash
against the wall."
"Thank God!" cried Inez, passionately, turning away her head.
"I suppose it is better so," Armstrong assented, still wondering at the
intensity of her emotion. "But when one has had a whole fortnight of his
life blotted out, he naturally feels a bit of curiosity concerning what
happened during all that time."
"You must excuse me, Mr. Armstrong. You don't know how this tortures
me, and I really cannot bear it."
Armstrong watched the girl as she turned and fairly fled from the room,
completely mystified by her extraordinary attitude.
"What in the world can have happened?" he asked himself; and then he
settled back on the pillow and tried to answer his own question.
XXV
There is no place like the sick-room for self-examination and
introspection. In the still monotony of the slow-passing days, the
invalid's mind is freed from the conventions of every-day complexities,
and can view its problems with a veracity and a clearness at other times
impossible. As Armstrong's convalescence continued, he marshalled before
him certain events which had occurred since his arrival in Florence, and
examined them with great minuteness. Some of these seemed trivial, and
he wondered why they came back at this time and forced themselves upon
him with such persistence; some of them were important, and he realized
that Helen had much of which she might justly complain.
His eyes followed her as she moved about the room, quick to anticipate
each wish or necessity, and sweetly eager to respond; yet he distinctly
felt the barrier between them. He was conscious now that this barrier
had existed for some time, and he found it difficult to explain to
himself why he had only recently become aware of it. Helen's
conversations with him came back with renewed force and vital meaning.
He had resented it when she had told him that his work at the library
had made him indifferent to everything else, yet she had been quite
right in what she said. He had wilfully misunderstood her efforts to
bring him back to himself, and had openly blamed her for faults which
existed only in his own neglect. He had accused her of being jealous of
his intimacy with Miss Thayer, yet her attitude toward Inez was a
constant refutation. He had treated her even with incivility and
unpardonable irritability.
The fault was his, he admitted, yet were there not extenuating
circumstances? No one could have foreseen how completely engrossed he
was to become in his work, or the extent of the mastery which the spell
of this old-time learning was to gain over him. Naturally, he would have
avoided it had he foreseen it; but once under its influence he had been
carried forward irresistibly, unable to withdraw, unwilling to oppose.
And yet he had boasted of his strength!
"You have become infinitely bigger and stronger and grander," Helen had
said to him, even when her heart was breaking, "and I admire you just so
much the more."
Armstrong winced as these words came home to him. With so much real
cause for complaint and upbraiding, Helen had gently tried to show him
his shortcomings, tempering her comment with expressions full of loyalty
and affection.
But on one point she had been wholly wrong. It was natural that she
should have misinterpreted the intimacy which a community of interests
had brought about between Miss Thayer and himself. Inez was, of course,
much stronger intellectually than Helen, and by reason of this was far
better fitted to assist him in his own intellectual expressions. But
their intimacy had never extended beyond this even in thought or
suggestion. Helen had insisted that Inez was in love with him, and he
had tried to show her the absurdity of her suspicion. Here, at least, he
had been in the right. Throughout their close association, and even
after Helen had spoken, he had never discovered the slightest evidence
that any such affection existed. The still unexplained remarks of the
contessa's might or might not be significant. Emory, of course, was
prejudiced, and his comments did not require serious consideration. Miss
Thayer's refusal to continue the work, the comparative infrequency of
her visits to his sick-chamber--in fact, everything went to show how far
Helen had wandered from the actual facts.
Armstrong found some comfort in this conclusion. With Helen so
unquestionably wrong in this hypothesis, it of course went without
saying that she was equally wrong in what she had said later. She
believed that he had a career before him. Cerini had said the same
thing, Miss Thayer had said so--and Armstrong himself believed, in the
consciousness of having completed an unusual piece of work, that such a
possibility might exist. He felt no conceit, but rather that
overpowering sense of hopefulness which comes to a man as a result of
successful endeavor--not yet crowned, but completed to his own
satisfaction. If this career was to be his, he could not follow Helen's
assumption that it must separate them. That was, of course, as
ridiculous as her feelings about Inez. Success for him must mean the
same to her, his wife. When the right time came he would take up these
two points specifically with her and show her the error which had misled
her.
This self-examination covered several days. At first Armstrong found
himself unable to think long at a time without becoming mentally
wearied; but by degrees his mind gained in vigor, and proved fully equal
to the demands made upon it. The details of what had happened on the day
of the accident came back to him one by one up to the point of the
accident itself, but he felt annoyed that he could not learn more of
this. From Helen, Uncle Peabody, and the doctor he knew of the early
belief that he had been killed and of the excitement caused by his
revived respiration. Of his period of delirium, the nurse had given him
more information than the others; but of the break between the moment
when the car struck the wall, and the time when Helen arrived upon the
scene, Miss Thayer alone held the key. Armstrong's curiosity regarding
this interval was, perhaps, heightened by the evident aversion which she
felt to discussing it. To mention the subject in her presence was
certain to drive her from the room, her face blazing with color, her
body trembling in every nerve.
The patient was able to move about a little by this time, and at the
close of each day he found relief from the monotony of his room and the
veranda by short walks in the garden, rich in its midsummer gorgeousness
of color. A couch had been placed near the retaining wall, so that he
could rest upon it whenever he felt fatigued. Between his solicitude
concerning the situation with Helen, and his determination to discover
from Miss Thayer the occasion of her remarkable attitude, his thoughts
were fully occupied.
On this particular afternoon Armstrong had thrown himself upon the
couch, and for a moment closed his eyes. With no warning he saw a scene
enacted before his mental vision in which he himself was the central
figure. He was lying still and lifeless upon the grass by the roadside
at the foot of the hill. Four other figures were in the picture. He
recognized Inez, but the other women and the boy he had never seen. The
figures moved about, as in a kinetoscope. One of the women ran into the
cottage and returned with a basin of water. Inez knelt beside him and
bathed his forehead. He could see the tense expression on her face. She
seemed to speak to the women, but he could distinguish no words. Then he
saw himself lifted and carried into the cottage. At this point the
picture disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
Armstrong opened his eyes when he found the picture gone, and sat up,
gazing about him excitedly. He saw Inez crossing the veranda and called
to her abruptly.
"Tell me," he cried, as she hastened to obey the summons and before she
reached him, "who carried me into the cottage after the accident?"
The girl paled at the suddenness and intensity of the question. "There
were four of us," she said, faintly--"two peasant women, a boy, and
myself."
Armstrong passed his hand over his forehead and gazed at Inez intently.
So far, then, his vision had been correct. Breathlessly he pursued his
interrogations.
"Before that did one of the women bring some water from the cottage, and
did you kneel beside me and bathe my face?"
"Yes. Who has told you?"
"Then it all happened just like that?"
"Like what?" Inez was trembling, vaguely apprehensive.
Armstrong rose. "Why, as you have just said," he replied. "You know I
have been trying to get you to tell me about it."
"You are unkind," Inez retorted, quickly. "You know how much all mention
of this pains me, yet you persist."
"Forgive me." Armstrong controlled himself and held out his hand kindly.
"I don't mean to hurt you, believe me, but my mind is ever searching out
that connecting link. You won't tell me about it, so I suppose I shall
never find it."
She started to reply, but as quickly checked herself. "There is nothing
for me to tell," she said, at length, without looking up. "I will send
Helen to you," she added, as she hastened away.
Armstrong again threw himself upon the couch, and, trying to assume the
same position, closed his eyes in a vain endeavor to summon back the
vision he had seen. If it had only continued a little longer he might
have learned all! The fugitive nature of his quest proved a fascination,
and day after day he exerted every effort to gratify his whim.
Inez clearly avoided him. Whether or not this was apparent to the other
members of the family he could not tell, but it was quite obvious to
him. There must be some reason beyond what he knew, and he had almost
stumbled upon it! Another week passed by, more rapidly than any since
his convalescence began because of the determination with which he
pursued his baffling problem.
Again he lay upon his couch in the garden, his eyes closed, but with
his mind fixed upon its one desire. Suddenly he felt the presence of
some one. A thrill of expectation passed through him, but he dared not
open his eyes lest the impression should disappear. For what seemed a
long time he was conscious of this person standing beside him, and he
knew that whoever it might be was gazing at him intently. Then he felt a
hand gently take his arm, which was hanging over the side of the couch,
and, raising it carefully, place it in a more comfortable position. Then
the hand rested for a moment on his forehead.
Opening his eyes a little, as if by intuition, he saw Miss Thayer
tiptoeing along the path toward the house. He closed his eyes again, and
as he did so he felt a sudden return of the subconscious impression.
Now, in his mind's eye he saw a cheaply furnished room, and Miss Thayer
leaning, with ashen face and dishevelled hair, against a closed door. He
saw her sink upon the floor and pass through a paroxysm of grief. She
murmured some incoherent words, and then stood erect, looking straight
at him as he lay upon the bed. Then she lifted his arm, just as she had
a moment before, and covered his hand with kisses, sobbing the while
with no attempt at control.
"Speak to me!" he seemed to hear her say. "Tell me that you are not
dead!" He could feel the intensity of her gaze even as he lay there.
"Jack, my beloved; you are mine, dear--do you hear?--and I am yours."
Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. "How I have loved you
all these weeks!... Now I can tell you of it, dear--it will do no harm!"
Held by a force he could not have broken had he wished, Armstrong
watched the progress of the tragedy.
"My darling, my beloved!" he heard Inez whisper; "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!"
He could endure the scene no longer. With a look of horror on his face,
he sprang to his feet and glanced about him. He was alone in the garden.
He stumbled rather than walked to the retaining wall, and rested against
it for support.
"Great God!" he cried, aloud, "have I regained my mind only to lose it
again?"
He glanced toward the house. There was no one in sight, but Helen was
playing Debussy's "Claire de Lune" upon the piano in the hall, and the
sound of the music soothed him.
"Dreams--hallucinations," he repeated to himself. "God! what an
experience!"
XXVI
With Armstrong's convalescence progressing so satisfactorily, Helen
returned to her music with a clear conscience. She was determined that
the influence upon him of her personal presence should be reduced as
nearly as possible to a minimum. Naturally, during the period of his
illness and the attendant weakness, she had been with him almost
constantly; naturally he had turned to her with what seemed to be his
former affection. But the die was cast, and the accident which for the
time being interrupted the progress of events predestined to occur could
in no way prevent their final accomplishment. Helen thought often of
Uncle Peabody's optimistic suggestion that the present condition was
bound to straighten matters out, but she refused to be buoyed up by
false hopes, only to suffer a harder blow when once again Armstrong
became what she believed to be himself. She saw no gain in tuning up the
heart-strings to their former pitch, when neither she nor Jack could
again play upon them with any degree of harmony.
Helen was with her husband for whatever portion of the day he needed
her, whether it was to read aloud to him, or to converse, or to wander
about the garden. She served each meal to him with her own hands, and
watched the progress of his improvement so carefully that nothing
remained undone. Yet, with deliberate intention, she was with him no
more than this. Whenever she found him interested in something or with
some one who engaged his attention for the time being, she slipped away
so quietly that he scarcely noticed it and devoted herself to her own
interests, which she was desperately trying to make fill the void in her
life. Her music was her greatest solace, for in it she found a response
to her every mood. In the dim-lit hall of the villa she sat for hours at
the piano, her fingers running over the keys, her mind pondering upon
her complex problem--each action apparently separated from the other,
yet in exact accord. Sometimes it was a nocturne of Chopin's, sometimes
an impromptu of Schubert's; but always she found in the unspoken, poetic
expression of the composer's soul an answering sympathy which was
lacking in other forms more tangible.
Inez interrupted one of these communions, when Helen supposed herself
alone with Debussy. Lately she had found herself turning to the charm
and mystery of his atmosphere, the strangeness of his idiom, the
vagueness of his rhythms, and the fugitive grace and fancy of his
harmonic expression with an understanding and a surrender which she had
never before felt. The music reflected upon her its delicate perception
of nature in all its moods--the splash of the waves upon the shore, the
roaring of the surf, the gloom of the forests relieved by the moonlight
on the trees.
"Don't, Helen--I beg of you!" Inez exclaimed, suddenly. "Say it to me,
but don't torture me with those weird reproaches. Every note almost
drives me wild!"
"Why, Inez, dear!" cried Helen, startled by the girl's words no less
than by the suddenness of the interruption. "What in the world do you
mean? You should have told me before if my playing affected you so."
"I love it, Helen," she replied; "but lately it has hurt me through and
through. I can hear your voice echoing in every note you strike, and I
feel its bitter reproach."
Helen tried to draw Inez beside her, but the girl sank upon the floor,
resting her elbows on Helen's knees and looking up into her face with
tense earnestness.
"You have been terribly unstrung these days, dear," Helen replied, "and
you are unstrung now or you would not discover what does not exist. It
is your instinctive sympathy for poor Melisande that makes you feel
so--you see her, as I do, floating resistlessly over the terraces and
fountains, the plaything of Fate, a phantom of love and longing and
uncertainty. That is what you feel, dear."
Helen took Inez' face between her hands and looked into her eyes for a
moment. "People call it mystical and unreal," she continued, "but I
believe that some of us have it in our own lives, don't you?"
Inez did not reply directly, and struggled to escape the searching gaze.
"Helen," she said, abruptly, "I simply cannot stay on here; I shall go
mad if I do. Each time I suggest going you say that you need me, and it
seems ungrateful, after all you have done for me, to speak as I do. But
you cannot understand. I am not myself, and I am getting into a
condition which will make me a burden to you instead of a help."
"I do need you, dear," Helen replied, quietly, "but certainly not at
the expense either of your health or your happiness. The effects of the
accident have lasted much longer than I thought they would. I wanted you
to be quite recovered before you left us."
"If the accident were all!" moaned Inez, burying her face in Helen's
lap.
Helen made no response, but laid her hand kindly upon Inez' head. After
a few moments the girl straightened up. Her eyes burned with the
intensity of her sudden resolve, and she spoke rapidly, as if fearful
that her courage would prove insufficient for the task she had set for
herself to do.
"Helen!" she cried, "I am going to tell you something which will make
you hate me. You will want me to leave you, and our friendship will be
forever ended."
"Wait, dear," urged Helen--"wait until you are calmer; then, if you
choose, tell me all that you have in your heart."
"No; I must tell you now. I love Jack, Helen--do you understand? I love
your husband, and, fight it as I do, I cannot help it. Think of having
to make a confession like that!"
Helen's face lighted up with glad relief.
"I am so glad that you have told me this," she said, quietly.
Inez gazed at Helen in wonder, amazed by her calmness and her unexpected
words.
"But I must tell you more," she continued, wildly; "I have loved him for
weeks--almost since I first came here!"
"I know you have, Inez." Helen pressed a kiss upon the girl's forehead.
"I have known it for a long time; but I have also seen your struggle
against it, and your loyalty to me--and to him."
"You have known it?" Inez asked, faintly. Then her voice strengthened
again. "But you have not known all! I did fight against it, as you say,
and I was loyal until"--her voice broke for a moment--"until that day of
the accident--in the cottage--I thought him dead--"
"Yes," encouraged Helen, eagerly.
"Until then I was loyal, but when I was alone with him, and thought him
dead, I--oh, Helen, you will hate me as I hate myself--then I kissed
him, and I told him of my love, and I--"
"Yes, I know, dear," Helen interrupted, her voice full of tenderness.
"No one can blame you for what you did under such awful circumstances. I
suspected what had happened when I found you where you had fainted
across his body. But you can't imagine how glad I am that you have told
me all this. I felt sure you would, some day."
"You will let me go now, won't you? You can see how impossible it is for
me to stay."
"I need you now more than ever," replied Helen, firmly. "If you insist
on leaving I shall not urge you to stay, but even you--knowing what you
do--cannot know how much I need you."
"How did you know?" Inez asked, weakly.
"From what Ferdy said first, then from what I saw myself."
"Why did you not send me away, then?"
"I had no right to do so, Inez."
"Of course you were perfectly sure of Jack."
Helen winced. "Yes," she replied, quietly; "I was sure of Jack."
"But you understand now that I really cannot stay?"
"Jack needs you still."
"No; his manuscript is complete. He will not need me for the revision."
"You would stay if he did?"
"Why, yes."
"Then if you would stay if he needed you, surely you will do the same
for me?"
"Oh, Helen!"
"Will you? When Jack is quite himself again I will urge no longer. Now
that you have told me this, it will be easier for you. Will you not do
this for me?"
"There is nothing I would not do for you, Helen!" cried Inez, throwing
her arms impulsively around her friend's neck and kissing her
passionately. "You are so strong you make me more ashamed than ever of
my own weakness."
"Thank you, dear," Helen replied, simply, returning her embrace; "but
don't make any mistake about my strength. It is because I lack it so
sadly that I ask you to stay."
* * * * *
Dr. Montgomery found Armstrong's temperature considerably higher when he
called later in the day, after the disquieting mental experience his
patient had passed through. Armstrong also appeared to be preoccupied,
and more interested in asking questions than in answering them. For the
first time he seemed to be curious in regard to the nature of his
illness.
"In a case like mine, is it possible for the mental convalescence to be
retarded or to go backward?" he asked.
"Yes," Dr. Montgomery replied, "it is possible, but hardly probable,
especially with a patient who has progressed so normally as you have."
"It is normal for the memory to have a complete lapse, as in my case?"
"Absolutely so."
"Is it possible for a knowledge of the events which occurred during such
a lapse to be restored--say, weeks afterward?"
"Yes; under certain conditions."
"And those conditions are?" asked Armstrong, eagerly.
The doctor settled back in his chair.
"Let me see if I can make it clear to you: all memories are
permanent--that is to say, every event makes a distinct, even though it
may be an unconscious, impression upon the brain. Sometimes these
memories remain dormant for months, or even years, before something
occurs to bring them to mind; but even before this the memories are
there, just the same."
"But you are speaking of every-day occurrences, are you not? My question
is whether or not it might be possible for me, for example, to have a
reviving knowledge of certain events which took place during a period of
apparent unconsciousness."
"I understand. Yes, it would be quite possible for this to happen."
"What would be necessary to bring it about?"
Dr. Montgomery smiled at his patient's earnestness.
"Are you so eager to recall that period? But the question is a fair one.
Some incident must take place similar to something which occurred during
the unconscious period in order to revive the dormant memory. I doubt if
you could do it deliberately."
"I have no intention of trying," Armstrong replied; "but I am
interested in this particular phase of the case. Suppose, during the
apparently unconscious period, some one had lifted my arm or placed a
hand upon my forehead--would the same act be enough to restore the
dormant memory, as you call it?"
"Quite enough--though it would not necessarily do so. I have known
several cases where the repetition of such an act has produced just the
result which you describe."
"And these revived impressions are apt to be trustworthy?"
"As a photographic plate," replied the doctor, emphatically.
Armstrong was silent for some moments.
"It is an interesting phase, as you say," he remarked, at length. "I
think I may try the experiment, after all."
"The chances will be against you; but I imagine you have been pretty
well informed of what has happened. Don't try to think too hard. It will
be all the better for you to give your brain a little rest; it has had a
hard shaking-up."
So this was the solution of the mystery for which he had sought so
long! Armstrong found himself in a curious position after the doctor
took his departure, leaving behind him a new knowledge of affairs which,
six hours before, his patient would have considered absolutely
preposterous. Helen was right, and had been right from the beginning.
His one consolation was removed, and in its place was a complication
which seemed past straightening out. To the blame which Armstrong had
already taken to himself on Helen's account, he must now add the
responsibility of having inspired this sentiment in Inez' heart, which
meant unhappiness to all. Even though this had been done unconsciously,
he told himself, it was no less culpable in that he had not himself
discovered the situation and checked it before any serious harm had been
done. Helen had seen it, the contessa had seen it, and he wondered how
many others. He had been blind in this, criminally blind, and now he
must pay the penalty.
But this penalty could not be borne by him alone--he could see that
clearly. Helen and Inez were both hopelessly involved. And what a woman
his wife had shown herself to be! Knowing of this affection on the part
of Inez, she had suffered them to continue together in order that his
work might not be disturbed. She had told him just how matters
stood--not with recriminations, but with loving solicitude, offering to
sacrifice herself, if necessary, to secure his happiness, drinking her
cup of sorrow to the dregs, and alone! It was plain enough to him now.
He thought of Helen as she was when they first came to Florence, and
compared her with the Helen of to-day. He had brought about that change;
he alone was responsible for it. She had craved the present, with its
sunshine, its birds, its happiness, and instead of all this he had
filled it for her with nothing but sorrow and suffering! He merited the
scoring Emory gave him, even though the denunciation had gone too far.
As the bandage fell from his eyes, the character which he had assumed
during these past months stood out clearly before him, shorn of its
academic halo, and pitiful in its unfulfilled ideals. He had sought to
join that company of humanists who had awakened the world to the joy and
beauty of intellectual attainment. He had believed himself worthy of
this honor, in that he believed he had understood and sympathized with
their underlying motives. So he had in principle, but how wofully he had
failed in his efforts to carry them out! Instead of assimilating the
happy youthfulness of the Greek, together with the Grecian harmony of
existence, he had developed his morbid self-centering and
self-consciousness. His blind, unreasoning devotion to his single
interest had resulted in folly and fanaticism. He had overlooked the
cardinal element in the humanistic creed that knowledge without love
meant death and isolation. Instead of singling out and joining together
the beauties for which humanism stood, he had embraced and emphasized
its limitations.
"I am an impostor!" Armstrong exclaimed, no longer able to endure his
mental lashing in silence--"an arrant impostor! I have set myself up as
a modern apostle, I have written platitudes upon intellectual supremacy
and the religion of knowledge, when the one single personal attribute to
which I can justly lay claim is insufferable academic arrogance. I have
seized a half-truth and fortified it with fact; and in accomplishing
this stupendous piece of fatuous nonsense I have stultified myself and
destroyed the happiness of all!"
XXVII
Armstrong's first act, on the following day, was to send to the library
for his manuscript. Helen looked upon this as an evidence that with his
returning strength had also come a return of his all-controlling
passion. This was a natural explanation of the peculiar change which she
had noticed in him during the past few days, and his request fitted in
so perfectly with a conversation between Uncle Peabody and herself the
evening before that she almost unconsciously exchanged with him a glance
of mutual understanding.
But the real motive was quite at variance with her interpretation.
Armstrong had passed through his period of introspection without taking
any one into his confidence. Fierce as the struggle had been, he felt
instinctively that his only chance of restoring conditions to anything
which even approached equilibrium was to make no new false step. He had
come to certain definite conclusions, but was still undecided as to the
proper methods to be adopted in his attempt to turn these conclusions
into realities.
First of all, he had placed himself in an entirely false position with
Helen. He had given her cause to believe him indifferent and neglectful.
This, at least, he argued, could be remedied, even though it was now too
late to spare her the suffering through which she had passed. But he
could explain it all, and by his future devotion to her, and to those
interests of which she was a part, he could make her forget the past.
With Miss Thayer the proposition was a different one. To her he had done
an injury which could not be repaired. He had sought to take her with
him into a world full of those possibilities which the intellectual
alone can comprehend. Instead of leaving her there, inspired by the
wisdom of such an intercourse, he had--unconsciously but still
culpably--developed in her an interest in himself. The problem was to
extricate her and himself from this compromising situation without
destroying all future self-respect for them both; and the solution of it
seemed far beyond his reach.
And besides all this, there was the manuscript. Despite his best
endeavor, he could not recall even an outline of what he had written.
After a full realization came to him of the extent to which he had
misunderstood and misconstrued the basic principles of humanism itself,
his interest in his work became one of curiosity to learn by actual
examination how far he had accepted the half-truths, and how far he had
wandered from the path which he had thought he knew so well. The whole
volume must be filled with absurd theories, falsely conceived and as
falsely expressed. He must go over it, page by page, and learn from it
the bitter fact of his unworthiness to stand as the modern expounder of
those great minds whose influence alone should have been enough to hold
him to his appointed course.
When the manuscript arrived he devoted himself to it with an eagerness
which added to the natural misunderstanding of his motive. With no word
of comment, he took the package to his room, where, after bolting the
door, he opened it and applied himself to his task. Hours passed by, but
he refused to be interrupted. Helen tried to persuade him to come
down-stairs for luncheon, but he begged to be excused. Uncle Peabody
calmed her anxiety; so the day passed, leaving him alone with his
burdens.
Armstrong approached his manuscript with bitterness of spirit. This was
the tangible form of that inexplicable force which had drawn him away
from those ties which stood to him for all future peace and serenity;
this had been the medium which had fostered the new affection so fraught
with sorrow and even danger; this was the proof of his absolute lack of
harmony with those noble principles which he still felt, when rightly
expressed, represented the highest possibilities of life itself. At
first he hesitated to read it, dreading what it must disclose. Then he
attacked it fiercely, passing from page to page with feverish intensity.
As he read, his bitterness and dread disappeared, and in their place
came first surprise and then amazement. Was this his manuscript? Had he
written these pages in which the real, wholesome, glorious spirit of
past attainment and present possibilities fairly lived and breathed! His
amazement turned into absolute mystification. He read of the important
movement which liberated the rich humanities of Greece and Rome from the
proscription of the Church; he saw literature itself expand in subject
and in quantity; he himself felt the sundering of the bonds of
ignorance, superstition, and tradition which had previously confined
intellectual life on all sides.
Surely this was a simple yet sane presentation of the subject,
Armstrong said to himself, as it had formulated itself in words after
his long study. His error must lie in his application of it to the
people. The manuscript unfolded rapidly under his eager inspection. It
told him of the great step forward when writing changed to printing. He
followed the convincing argument that this new art from its earliest
beginnings was to be identical with that of culture, and a faithful
index to the standards of the ages to come. It told him that the advent
of the printing-press made men think, and gave them the opportunity of
studying description and argument where previously they had merely gazed
at pictorial design. He could see the development of the people under
this new influence, growing strong in self-reliance, and confident in
their increasing power.
He found himself unable to condemn his work thus far. In application, as
in definition, what he had written seemed to ring true. Later on he must
find expressions of those distorted ideals in the manuscript, just as he
had found them in himself. With increasing interest he read of the
benefits these people of the _quattrocento_ reaped from the principles
of Grecian civilization, now tempered by the inevitable filtering
through the great minds of a century. With no uncertain note the
manuscript portrayed the efforts made by this people to reach the
unattainable, refusing to be bound down by limited ideals, and creating
masterpieces in every art which expressed in the highest form the
ethical spirit of the period.
The pages still turned rapidly. At times Armstrong became so absorbed
that he forgot himself and the fact that he was analyzing the outpouring
of his own soul. Then he recalled the present and the problem before
him. He could not comprehend that this work was his own; he did not
remember writing it; he was ignorant of the particular study or
reasoning which had brought it forth. But there the words stood, in his
own handwriting, a visible evidence of something which had actually
taken place.
As the reading progressed, he became more and more bewildered. It was
direct and convincing. The subject was handled with restraint, and yet
he felt the force behind each sentence. Suddenly his eye fell upon this
paragraph:
"After giving due credit to humanism for its vast contribution to the
arts and to literature, there yet remains to acknowledge the greatest
debt of all: it taught man to hold himself open to truth from every
side, and so to assimilate it that it became a part of his very life
itself. Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his attitude
toward his fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and
appreciative."
Armstrong read this over a second time, and, bending forward, he rested
his head upon his hands in the midst of the sheets of manuscript and
groaned aloud. This was his acknowledgment of the great lesson of
humanism, and yet he had not applied it to his own every-day life! "It
taught man to hold himself open to truth from every side," he repeated
to himself. "Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his
attitude toward his fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and
appreciative."
At length he raised his head, and, rising wearily, he walked to the
window, drawing in the refreshing air. The strain had been intense, and
he found himself utterly exhausted.
"I see it all," he said, bitterly; "the fault is not with the book or
with the principles themselves--it is with me! I have written better
than I knew; I have preached where I have not practised. Oh, Helen--oh,
Inez! Can I ever undo the wrong I have done you both!"
XXVIII
It was several days before Armstrong found himself ready to take up the
unravelling of the thread. The shuttle had moved to and fro so silently,
and its web was woven with so intricate a pattern, that he felt the
hopelessness even of finding an end of the yarn, where he might begin
his work. He watched the two girls in their every-day life as they moved
about him; he studied them carefully, he compared their personal
characteristics. Both were greatly changed. Miss Thayer continued ill at
ease and unlike her former self in her relations to Helen and Uncle
Peabody as well as toward himself. He felt that now he understood the
reason; and beyond this it was natural that she should miss the
absorbing interest which the work had given her, coming, as it did, to
so abrupt an end and leaving nothing which could take its place.
But Helen had changed more. The girlish vivacity which had previously
characterized her had disappeared, and in its place had come a quiet,
reposeful dignity which, while it made her seem an older woman, would
have appealed to him as wonderfully becoming save for the restraint
which accompanied it. She held herself absolutely in hand. Her every
action, while considerate in its relation to others, admitted of no
denial. Armstrong felt instinctively rather than because of anything
which had happened that were their wills to clash now hers would prove
the stronger. There had been a development in her far beyond anything he
had realized.
Comparing the two, as he had ample opportunity to do, he wondered if he
had made a fair estimate of her strength in his previous considerations.
Helen had considered herself unfitted to enter into his work with him.
She had frankly stated her unwillingness to go back into the past, and
to live among its memories, when the present offered an alternative
which was to her so much more attractive. Inez seized with avidity the
opportunity he offered, and had entered into his work with an enthusiasm
second only to his own. Suppose Helen had done this, Armstrong asked
himself. With her characteristics, as he was only now coming to
understand them, she would not long have remained content to act as his
agent--she would have become a definite part of the work herself, and
would have helped to shape it, instead of yielding more and more to his
own personality. Inez had helped him much, and his obligation to her was
not overlooked; but he could see how this helpfulness had lessened, day
by day, as her intellect had become subservient to his own. He had been
glad of this at the time, but now he found himself asking whether Helen
would not have shown greater strength under the same circumstances.
Since his accident the contrast had been greater. Helen had assumed
definite control over everything. Inez, Uncle Peabody, Armstrong himself
recognized in her, without expression, the acknowledged and undisputed
head of affairs. It had all come about so naturally, and Helen herself
seemed so unconscious of it, that he could not explain it. On the other
hand, Inez had completely lost her nerve. The crisis through which the
two girls had passed had produced upon them vastly differing effects,
and Armstrong could not fail to be impressed by the result of his
observations.
Finally he determined to talk the matter over with Helen, and here again
he found himself counting upon her assistance in straightening things
out with Inez. Had he realized it, this was the first time in his life
that he had admitted even to himself that any one could aid him in any
matter which he could not personally control. Dimly, it is true, but
still definitely, he was conscious that he was making an unusual
admission, yet he experienced a certain amount of gratification in doing
so.
Helen had been reading aloud to him while he reclined upon his couch in
a shady corner of the veranda. For some moments he had heard nothing of
the spoken words, for his eyes, resting fixedly upon his wife's face,
revealed to him a more impressive story than that contained within the
printed volume. How beautiful she was! The clear-cut profile; the long
lashes hiding from him the deep, responsive eyes, whose sympathy he well
knew; the soft, sweet voice which fell upon his ear with soothing
cadence; the whole harmonious bearing, indicative of a character well
defined, yet unconscious of its strength--all combined to show him at a
single glance how rare a woman she really was. As he watched her the
definition which he himself had written came back to him with tremendous
force. "It taught man to hold himself open to truth from every side.
Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his attitude toward his
fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and appreciative." What
man or woman had he ever known who so truly lived up to this high
standard as this girl who sat beside him, all unconscious of the tumult
raging in his mind?
Then the storm passed from his brain to his heart. His affection,
intensified by the struggles he had experienced, overpowered him, and he
cried aloud in a voice which startled Helen by the suddenness of its
appeal. Seizing her disengaged hand, he pressed it passionately to his
lips.
"Don't read any more," he begged; "I must talk with you."
Startled almost to a degree of alarm, she laid down the book, regarding
him intently.
"Can you ever forgive me for all I have made you suffer?" he continued,
in the same tense voice; "can you ever believe that my forgetfulness of
everything which was due you was not deliberate, but the result of some
force beyond my control?"
Helen looked at him steadily for a moment before replying. "Yes," she
said, at length, making a desperate effort to preserve her composure; "I
forgive you gladly. Shall we go on with the story?"
"No!" he replied, almost fiercely, seizing the volume and placing it
beyond her reach upon the couch. "I have been waiting for this moment
too long, and now nothing shall take it from me."
Helen realized that it was also the moment for which she had been
waiting, and which she had been dreading beyond expression. Now he would
comprehend what she had meant, now he would struggle with her to prevent
her from doing what she knew she must do.
"There is no need of explanation, Jack," she said, at length. "I
understand everything, and have understood for a long time."
"Can you believe that I myself have only recently come to a
realization?"
"Yes; it has come to you sooner than I had expected."
"Can you believe how sincerely pained I am that all this should have
happened?"
"I have never for a moment thought that you would intentionally hurt
me."
"Then you do understand, and will forget?"
Armstrong sat up on the edge of the couch and watched Helen's face
intently.
"You don't know what you are asking," she replied, dropping her eyes.
"Yes, I do," he insisted. "I want to blot out the memory of every pang I
have caused you by a devotion beyond anything you have ever dreamed."
"Don't, Jack," protested Helen.
"Why not? Don't you think I mean it? From now on I have no interest
except you, dear; and I will make you forget everything which has
happened."
Helen pressed his hand gratefully, and then withdrew her own.
"This is only going to open everything up again," she said, in a low,
strained voice, "and that will be simply another great mistake."
"You don't believe me." Armstrong's voice was reproachful.
"I believe you feel all that you say now, Jack."
"But--"
"But you are not yourself now; that is all."