"I don't mean physically."
"And mentally as well. My mind is as clear as it ever was."
"I know, Jack; but you are far away from the influence which has so
controlled you. That is what I mean."
"It is a mighty good thing that I am." Armstrong spoke with emphasis.
"For the time being, no doubt; but soon you will be able to return to
it."
"I shall never return to it."
Helen looked up quickly. Armstrong's words were spoken so forcibly that
they startled her.
"You must go back to it," she replied, with equal emphasis; "it is your
life, and you must go back."
"I have passed through the experience once and for all time."
Helen found it difficult not to be affected by the convincing tone.
"I have made more mistakes than you know of."
"In your work, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"But this is only the first draft; you can easily correct them."
"They could be more easily corrected in the book than where they are."
"I don't understand."
"The mistakes are in me!" Armstrong cried. "I am no humanist; I am an
impostor!"
"Jack! Jack!" Helen was really alarmed. "You are putting too much of a
tax upon yourself. Remember, you are not well yet."
"I am worse than an impostor," Armstrong continued, excitedly, refusing
to be checked: "I am a traitor to the very cause I set myself to
further! I have been false in my duty to it, as I have been in my
obligations to you."
"That is just the point," Helen interrupted. "I absolved you of your
obligations to me weeks ago, so that part of it is all settled."
"But I did not absolve myself. I don't understand what I did or why I
did it. Day by day I felt myself slipping further and further away from
you. I was not strong enough to appreciate what was taking place, and
was powerless to resist."
"But I understood it even then," Helen continued. "I recognized that our
marriage was the first mistake, and decided that I would do my part
toward remedying the error with as little pain as possible."
"Our marriage was no mistake, except my own unfitness to be your
husband!" Armstrong cried, bitterly.
"Don't, Jack," Helen again pleaded. "You see, I have had a much longer
time to think the matter out."
"I was all right until I came under the influence, which completely
changed me, just as you told me it did, time and again. Then, instead of
being developed by it as I should have been, I assimilated nothing but
its limitations and began to go backward."
"You must have assimilated far more than that," Helen insisted, "for
your personal development through it all has been tremendous. Otherwise
this could not be."
"Listen, Helen." Armstrong was desperate. "Let me tell you how far down
I have gone. You know how eager I was, when we first came, to accomplish
some great achievement. You know how much I admired the works and
personalities of those grand old characters of whom you have so often
heard me speak. Well, I took up my work. I studied these characters, I
wrote about them, I tried to assimilate their principles and to express
them in words. At length the work was finished. Cerini praised it, and I
felt that I had proved myself equal to the undertaking."
"And so you had," Helen interrupted. "Cerini told me so himself."
"Cerini knows nothing of how ignominiously I failed to apply these
principles to myself. He has read the noble platitudes with which my
book is filled; you have experienced the unworthy personal expressions
as they have appeared in my every-day life."
"But you have said yourself that you could not help it."
"I should have been able to; that is where I showed my utter unfitness
for the undertaking. Now do you understand?"
"Yes, Jack," Helen replied, slowly, after a moment's pause, "I think I
do understand; but I also think that my understanding is clearer than
yours."
"Does it not enable you to forgive me for it all?"
"Yes--I have already told you that. What you have said is exactly what I
knew you must say when you had been long enough away from your work. I
have never felt this influence of which you have so often spoken, but I
have recognized its strength by what I have seen. I do not mean that you
need necessarily continue in your present intensity, but I do mean that
whether you recognize it or not this second nature is your real self."
"But I tell you that I have no further interest in my work."
"You think so, Jack, but you have been away from it for weeks. Perhaps
by returning home you could smother your love of it for a long time, but
it would be there just the same. And without it you could never express
your own individuality."
"I would, at least, be the self you knew before we came here."
"Yes, but only that. With all the pain, Jack, I have not been blind to
what it has done for you. With all the misapplication of the principles
which you mention you have gained so much that you could never be the
old self again. I could not respect you if you did. Surely it would not
be following the teachings of these grand spirits were you to live a
life below the standard which you have shown yourself capable of
maintaining."
"Then let us live that life together, Helen," Armstrong begged; "let us
begin all over again, taking my mistakes as guiding-posts to keep us
from the dangers against which I have not been strong enough, alone, to
guard myself."
"Oh, Jack!" Helen withdrew her hands and pressed them against her tired
temples. "Don't you see that this is simply repeating the mistake which
has caused all our trouble? Now, at this moment, we are to each other
just what we were when we became engaged, forgetful of all that has
occurred since. Why not recognize things as they really are, and spare
ourselves the added sorrow which must surely come?"
"Can you not forgive what has happened since?"
"I have forgiven all that there is to forgive; but I can't forget the
knowledge that has come to me."
"What knowledge is there which refuses to be forgotten?"
"A knowledge of your real self, Jack--and that self has never belonged
to me. It is as distinct and separate as if it were that of another man.
It has been developed apart from me; it is of such a nature that I
cannot become a part of it."
"You are so great a part of it already, dear, that you could not sever
yourself from it."
"No, Jack. It is your loyalty, your sense of duty, that is speaking now.
Or perhaps you are far enough away from what has happened not to see it
as clearly as I do. You have become a part of another life, and your
future belongs to that life and to the woman who has also become a part
of it."
"You can't mean this, Helen. Think what you are saying!"
"I do mean it, just as I meant it when I said so before, when you failed
to comprehend. It is Inez who must be your companion in this new life."
Armstrong did not remonstrate, as he had done before. It was impossible
to misunderstand the conviction in Helen's voice. He could no longer
attribute it to jealousy or to caprice; he could no longer fail to
understand the meaning of her words.
"I have fully deserved all this," he said, at length. "When you first
told me of Miss Thayer's feeling toward me I did not--I could
not--believe it. Never once, during all the hours we were together, was
there anything to confirm what you said."
"You did not notice this any more than you noticed other things which
happened, Jack; you were too completely absorbed. But that does not
alter the fact, does it?"
"No; the fact remains the same. It has only been since the accident
that I have realized it; and this is one of the two problems which I
have to straighten out."
"Then you do know now that Inez loves you?"
Armstrong bowed his head.
"What is it that has at last convinced you?"
He hesitated for a moment. "It seems uncanny, Helen, but I have been
'seeing things.'"
She looked at him questioningly. "Seeing things?" she repeated.
"Yes; you will think I have lost my mind again, just as I did; but the
doctor says it is not unusual. Inez was alone with me, after the
accident, you know, in the cottage."
"Well?" encouraged Helen, breathlessly.
"She thought me dead, and--this is brutal to repeat to you, Helen."
"No, no--go on!"
"Why, she said she loved me--that is all."
"But you were unconscious, Jack--you did not know what was happening."
"Not then, but later. It came to me yesterday, while lying on the
couch,--almost as in a vision. I spoke to the doctor about it, and he
said that sometimes such things do happen. If you had not told me what
you did I probably should have thought it nothing but an uncomfortable
dream, but as it was, of course I understood."
"Are you sure now that it was no dream?"
"Yes; I questioned Miss Thayer about some of the details--not the most
vital ones, of course--and she corroborated them. But telling you all
this will only make matters worse."
"No, Jack; I know about it already. Inez has told me everything, and
the poor girl is distracted. I am glad that at last you are convinced."
"You knew all this?" He looked at her in amazement. "You knew it, and
have let her stay here?"
"It is right that she should remain," Helen answered, firmly.
Armstrong's voice broke for a moment. "And I said you were jealous!" he
reproached himself. Then he continued his appeal. "But granting all
this, it cannot settle the matter, deeply as I deplore it. My own
blindness and stupidity are to blame for it, and I must accept the full
responsibility; but my love for you has never and could never be
transferred to her or to any one else. I have been criminally
neglectful, I have been culpably dense, but through it all you, and you
alone, have been in my heart. I have longed to say this to you even
while the spell was on me. I have longed to fold you in my arms and ease
the pain I have seen you suffer, but I found myself powerless in this as
in all else. Can you not--will you not--believe what I say?"
Helen looked up into her husband's face before she replied.
"Sometimes I wish you were not so conscientious, Jack--but of course I
don't mean that; only it would make it easier for me to adhere to my
determination to do what I know is right. I was sure that this moment
would arrive; I know your ideas of duty and loyalty, and I know that you
would sacrifice yourself and your future rather than be false to either.
I believe that you are sincere in thinking that your sentiments toward
Inez are purely platonic--I am sure they would be so long as you were
not free to have them otherwise."
"Then why do you insist that they are otherwise?"
"I don't insist--I am simply accepting things as they really are, even
though I must suffer by doing so. You are the only one who does not
realize it, unless it be Inez herself. Cerini told me, 'I have never
seen two individualities cast in so identical a mould.' Professor Tesso,
who saw you at work together at the library, said, 'There is a perfect
union of well-mated souls'; you yourself, when we returned from that
moonlight ride, said to her, 'You are the only one who understands me.'
It has simply been your absorption in your work and your loyalty to me
which has kept you from seeing it yourself."
"Cerini said that--Tesso saw us at the library?" Armstrong looked at
Helen in bewilderment. "You thought my remark to Miss Thayer possessed
anything more than momentary significance?" His face assumed an
expression of still greater concern. "I have, indeed, been more culpable
than I realized. Is it not enough if I tell you that you are all
wrong--that I do not love any one except the one person I have a right
to love?"
Helen smiled sadly. "No, Jack," she replied, kindly but firmly, "it is
all too clear. When you return to your real life, as you must do, you
will return to your real self as well. Then you will know that I have
saved you from the greatest mistake of all. You and Inez are meant for
each other, and always have been." She looked up with a brave but
unsuccessful attempt to smile. "Perhaps our little experience together
has been necessary in the development of us both, dear. If so, it will
make it easier to believe that our mutual suffering will not have been
in vain."
"I will never accept it, Helen!" cried Armstrong, desperately in
earnest. "Your devotion to this false idea will do more than all I have
done to wreck our lives. You must listen to reason."
"Don't make it any harder for me than it is," Helen begged, her voice
choking. "I am trying to talk calmly, and to do what I know I must do;
but I have been through so much already. Please don't make it any
harder."
Armstrong longed to comfort her, but he knew that she would repulse him
if he tried. He watched the conflict through which the girl was passing
and was overwhelmed by the sense of his own responsibility. He realized
how near the tension was to the breaking-point, and dared not pursue the
subject further. Taking both her hands in his, he gazed long into her
eyes now filled with tears.
"If to give you up is the necessary penalty for the sorrow I have
brought to you," he said, quietly, his voice breaking as he spoke, "it
shall be done--for your sake, no matter what it means to me; but my love
for you is beyond anything I have ever known before."
XXIX
There had been many visitors at the villa during Armstrong's illness and
convalescence. Cerini had called several times, being most solicitous
for the speedy recovery of his _protege_; and the Contessa Morelli,
temporarily thwarted in the solution of her problem, took advantage of
the proximity of her villa to be frequently on the spot, where she could
observe the progress of affairs under the suddenly changed conditions.
Armstrong had long desired to question the contessa further in regard to
the disquieting conversation he had held with her upon the occasion of
their first meeting; but the rapidity with which his latent impressions
had become definite realities made him unwilling to allow any new
developments to add to the complexity of the situation as he had now
come to know it. After his interview with Helen, however, he was
convinced that matters had reached their climax, and he grasped any
additional information as possible material to be used in the solving of
his double dilemma. His opportunity came on the following day, when he
found himself alone with the contessa upon the veranda, Helen having
been called to another part of the villa by some household demand.
After Helen had made her excuses, Armstrong felt himself to be the
subject of a careful scrutiny on the part of the contessa. He looked up
quickly and met her glance squarely. Amelie had a way of making those
she chose feel well acquainted with her, and Armstrong, during his
convalescence, had proved interesting.
"Well," he asked, smiling, "what do you think of him?"
It was the contessa's turn to smile, and the question caught her so
unexpectedly that the smile developed into a hearty laugh.
"I have been trying to make up my mind," she replied, frankly. "At first
I thought him a human thinking-machine, all head and no heart, but I am
beginning to believe that my early impressions were at fault."
"It gratifies me to hear you say that," Armstrong answered, calmly. "I
presume those early impressions of yours were formed at the library,
when Miss Thayer and I came under your observation."
"Yes," replied the contessa, unruffled by the quiet sarcasm which she
could but feel. "You see, I have lived here in Italy for several years
and have become accustomed to the sight of saint worship; but it is a
novel experience to see the saint come down off his pedestal and prove
himself to have perfectly good warm blood coursing through his veins."
"Don't you find it a bit difficult to picture me with all my worldly
attributes even as a temporary saint?"
"Not at all," the contessa answered. "Most of the saints possessed
worldly attributes before they attained the dignity of statues. But
think of the confusion among their worshippers should they follow your
example and again assume the flesh! I imagine their embarrassment would
almost equal yours."
Amelie spoke indifferently, but Armstrong felt the thrust. It was
evident that she had no idea of dropping the subject, and Jack saw
nothing else but to accept it as cheerfully as possible.
"Why not say 'quite'?" he asked.
"Because the saints were wifeless. Perhaps that is what made it possible
for them to be saints."
Armstrong laughed in spite of himself. "If modern women were to be
canonized, you undoubtedly think they should be selected from the
married class?"
"Canonizing hardly covers it," the contessa replied; "they belong among
the martyrs."
"But you have not told me why you now feel that your early impressions
were in error," Armstrong resumed, sensing danger along the path which
they had almost taken, and really eager to learn how far his attitude
had impressed others. The contessa regarded him critically.
"There are many kinds of men," she began, "and to a woman of the world
it is a necessity to classify those whom she meets."
"Indeed?" queried Armstrong. "You are throwing some most interesting
side-lights upon a subject which my education has entirely overlooked."
"Am I?" Amelie asked, innocently. "But your education has been so far
developed in other directions that you can easily recognize the
importance of what I say. A woman who meets the world face to face must
be able to estimate the elements against which she has to contend."
"Into how many classes do you divide us?" Armstrong was interested in
her naive presentment.
"The three principal divisions are, of course, single men, married men,
and widowers, but the subdivisions are really more important. For my own
use I find it more convenient to separate those I meet into four
classes--the interesting, the uninteresting, the safe, and the
dangerous."
"You have developed an absolute system," Armstrong asserted.
"Yes, indeed," Amelie responded, cheerfully; "without one you men would
have too distinct an advantage over us."
"I wish you would enlarge on your classification a little more. It is
gratifying to me to know that members of my sex receive such careful
consideration."
"Well, suppose we eliminate the uninteresting--they really don't count
except in considering matrimony; then we have to weigh the material
advantages they offer against their lack of interest. This brings us
down to the interesting and safe, and the interesting and dangerous."
"Have I the honor to be included in one of these two classes?"
"Yes," the contessa replied, frankly.
"May I ask which? You see, my curiosity is getting the upper hand."
Amelie threw back her head with a hearty laugh. "I was certainly wrong
in my first diagnosis," she said. "A man who was merely a
thinking-machine would possess no curiosity. Usually a learned man is
entirely safe."
"Then you really consider me dangerous?" There was a tone in Armstrong's
voice which caused the contessa to look up at him quickly.
"Most men would consider that a compliment, Mr. Armstrong."
Receiving no reply, Amelie continued:
"Your wife has such original ideas! I have found my acquaintance with
her positively refreshing."
"How does this bear upon our present conversation?" Armstrong inquired,
still weighed down by the contessa's estimate of him. Amelie's frankness
showed that no doubt existed in her mind as to his attitude toward Miss
Thayer, and he felt that denials would be worse than useless. If
impressions such as these lay in the mind of a casual observer like the
contessa it was but natural that they should assume greater proportions
to Helen; and it was with a foreboding that he heard her name mentioned
in the present conversation. Amelie, however, could not sense the effect
of her words upon her companion.
"Because we once discussed the same subject," she replied to his
question, "and her attitude was most unusual. She even said that were
she convinced that her husband really loved some other woman she would
step aside and give him a clear field."
"Did she say that?" Armstrong demanded.
"She did," asserted the contessa. "You are a very lucky man, Mr.
Armstrong," she continued, looking into his face meaningly; "my husband
is not so fortunate."
While Armstrong hesitated in order to make no mistake in his reply,
Helen returned accompanied by Cerini, and the moment when he could have
formulated an answer had passed. The old man held up a finger
reproachfully as he saw the contessa.
"You have never made another appointment to study those manuscripts with
me," he said, as he took her hand. "Tell me that your interest has not
flagged."
The librarian spoke feelingly, although he tried to conceal his
disappointment. It was such a triumph that his work should appeal to one
so devoted to a life of social gayety. Amelie remembered her interview
with him at the library and felt that she deserved the reproach.
"Surely not," she replied, with so much apparent sincerity in her voice
that the old man believed her and was mollified. "I have even received a
new impetus from listening to Mr. Armstrong's enthusiastic account of
his work with you and his impatience to return to it."
Armstrong glanced quickly at Helen as the contessa attributed to him a
desire so opposed to the definite statement he had made the day before,
while Cerini smiled contentedly. Helen gave no sign of having
particularly noticed the remark, but Jack felt keenly his inability at
that moment to set himself right.
"I was just about to take my departure," Amelie continued, "and I am
glad not to be obliged to leave the invalid alone. I know how delighted
you will be to take my place," she said to Cerini.
The old man dropped into the chair the contessa left vacant, while
Armstrong watched the two figures until they disappeared in the hallway.
Then he turned to his friend--but it was to Cerini the priest, the
father-confessor, rather than to Cerini the librarian. He felt the
seriousness of the situation more acutely than at any time since a
realization of its complexity came to him. Cerini watched him curiously.
"You are not so well to-day," he said, at length. "You must go slowly,
my son, and give Nature ample time to make her repairs."
"I fear even Nature has no remedy sufficiently powerful to cure my
malady," Armstrong replied, bitterly. "I would to God she had!"
Cerini was at a loss to understand his manner or his words.
"What has happened?" he asked, sympathetically. "Is there some
complication of which I know not?"
Armstrong bowed his head, overcome for the moment by an overwhelming
sense of his own impotency.
"What is it?" urged the old man, himself affected by his companion's
attitude. "I have missed you sadly at the library these weeks, and I am
impatient for your return."
"I shall never return!" cried Armstrong, fiercely. "I have proved myself
utterly unworthy of the work I undertook with you."
"My son! my son!" Cerini was aghast at what he heard. Then his voice
softened as he thought he divined the explanation.
"Slowly, slowly," he said, soothingly. "It is too soon to put so heavy a
burden upon your brain after the shock it has sustained. There is no
haste. Your friends at the library will be patient, as you must be."
Armstrong easily read what was passing through the librarian's mind, and
it increased his bitterness against himself. Cerini's calmness, however,
quieted him, and he was more contained as he replied.
"I wish that the facts were as you think," he said, decisively. "It
would be a positive relief to me if I could believe that my mind was
still unbalanced as a result of the accident, but it is so nearly
recovered that I must consider myself practically well. But I am glad of
this chance to tell you how we have both been deceived. It will be a
comfort to have you act as my confessor, and if your affection still
holds after my recital I know that you will advise me as to what future
course I must pursue."
In tense, clear-cut sentences Armstrong poured out to Cerini the story
of the past months as he looked back upon them. He was frank in speaking
of what he believed to be his accomplishments, as he was pitiless in his
arraignment of himself in his failures. He showed how he had assimilated
the lessons of the past only in his capacity of scribe; he explained how
self-centred, selfish, and neglectful of his duty toward others he had
been in his personal life. He spoke freely of his companionship with
Miss Thayer, of her unquestioned affection for him, and of the
impressions which had been made upon Helen and the Contessa Morelli. He
insisted simply yet forcefully upon his own loyalty to Helen, not from a
sense of duty, as she firmly believed, but because his devotion had
never wavered.
In speaking of his wife Armstrong went into minute detail, even going
back to his early attempts to interest her in what had later become his
grand passion. He described her personal attributes, her love of the
present rather than the past, her protective attitude toward her friend
even in the face of such distressing circumstances; her generosity
toward him; and finally her unalterable conviction that their separation
was imperative.
Cerini listened in breathless silence as Armstrong's story progressed.
He himself had played a part in the drama of which his companion was
ignorant, and a sense of his own responsibility came to the old man with
subtle force. He recalled his first meeting with Helen at the library,
he remembered their later conversations, and in his contemplations he
almost forgot, for the moment, the man sitting in front of him in his
consideration of the splendid development, which he had witnessed
without fully realizing it, in this woman whom he had pronounced
unfitted by nature to enter into this side of her husband's work, as she
had longed to do. Now, as a result of his lack of foresight, she
proposed to eliminate herself from what she considered to be her
husband's problem. "It has been more far-reaching than even you
realize," she had said to him at the reception at Villa Godilombra, and
this was what she had meant.
It was several moments after Armstrong ceased speaking before Cerini
raised his eyes, and to Jack's surprise he saw that they were filled
with tears. He naturally attributed it to the librarian's affection for
him and his sympathy for his sorrow.
"I should not have told you this, padre," he said, sadly, pressing the
hand which the old man laid tenderly upon his. "The fault is mine, and I
should not try to shirk the full responsibility by sharing it with you."
"It is mine to share with you, my son," Cerini replied, firmly. "You
have erred, as you state. You have been to blame for not giving out
again, as the example of the master-spirits of the past should have
taught you, those glorious lessons which impart the joy of living to
those who give as well as to those who receive. But my error is even
heavier. I have lived all my life in this atmosphere, drinking in the
knowledge and the spirit which have come to you only within the past few
months; yet I failed to recognize in your wife the natural embodiment of
all that the best in humanism teaches. What you and I have endeavored to
assimilate she has felt and expressed as naturally as she has breathed.
She has shown us humanism in its highest development, purified and
strengthened by her own fine nature, even though we have given her no
opportunity for expression. Thank God we have recognized it at last!"
"You really believe that?" cried Armstrong, recalling his own earlier
and less-defined conviction.
"Beyond a doubt," Cerini answered. "Let us find her, that we may tell
her what a victory she has won."
Armstrong placed a restraining hand upon the old man's arm. "Not yet,"
he said, gently but firmly. "There is much still to be done to prepare
her for this knowledge. At present she would not accept it."
"We must convince her."
"First of all I must make my peace with Miss Thayer," Armstrong replied.
"Until that complication is relieved there is no hope."
"Do you feel strong enough for that?" asked Cerini, anxiously.
"It requires more than strength, padre," Armstrong replied, seriously;
"it requires faith in myself, which at present is sadly lacking."
The old man rose and stood for a moment beside Armstrong's
half-reclining figure. Bending down, he took his face in his hands and
looked full into his eyes.
"Let me give you that faith," he said, affectionately. "You have
already learned by sad experience that you are not the master of Fate.
Let me tell you that by the same token you are not the victim of Fate.
Nature, unerring in her wisdom, is now giving you the privilege of being
co-partner with her in the final solving of your great personal problem.
Accept the offered opportunity, my son, and show yourself finally worthy
of it."
XXX
Helen had not overlooked the contessa's remark to Cerini, even though
she gave no evidence at the time of having heard it. Her conversation
with Jack had given her thoughts much food to feed upon. His words were
so welcome, after the long breach, his manner so sincere, that she had
been nearer to the yielding-point than he imagined. She had wondered if,
after all, her attitude was justified, in view of his expressed desire
to return to the same relations which had previously given them both
such happiness. Jack's statement that her insistence upon the present
conditions would do more to wreck their happiness than anything which he
had done, made its impression upon her. Nothing but the previous
intensity of her conviction that she must yield her place to Inez had
held her to the self-appointed duty which she found so difficult to
perform.
When the contessa repeated to Cerini what appeared to be an expression
of her husband's impatience to return to his work Helen felt all
hesitation vanish. Jack sympathized with her suffering, and would do all
which lay in his power to make amends. She knew that he would give up
all idea of future work, no matter at what sacrifice to himself, rather
than add another straw to the burden which he now saw was nearly bearing
her down. Yet the affection which she felt for him refused to be
strangled. His very insistence, even though she was convinced that it
was prompted by his sense of duty, fanned the embers into flame at a
time when she was certain that at last their fire had become extinct. It
was further evidence of her weakness, she told herself, and she would
make superhuman efforts to adhere to the duty which lay plainly enough
before her.
As she was leaving, the contessa placed her arm about Helen's waist and
whispered to her:
"Don't think me meddlesome, my dear, but you will make a great mistake
not to stick close beside that big, splendid husband of yours. They all
do it, and I imagine he has been almost circumspect compared with most
of them. Send the girl away and see if you can't make him forget his
affinity. He is worth the effort, my dear--believe me, he is worth the
effort."
Helen was so taken by surprise by the contessa's words that she stood
speechless, looking at her with dull, lifeless eyes as she stepped into
the tonneau and waved a smiling farewell as the motor-car rolled out of
the court-yard. So the contessa was aware of the situation, and was also
convinced of Jack's attachment for Inez! This was too horrible--she
could not endure it! Matters must be brought to a head soon or she would
die of mortification! She could not return to the veranda where she had
left Cerini and Jack together, but went up-stairs to her room, where she
locked the door and threw herself upon the bed in a paroxysm of tears.
Armstrong, on the contrary, had gained strength from Cerini's sympathy.
He would accept the offered opportunity and see if at last he could not
prove himself worthy of such glorious co-partnership. Unlike his
previous efforts, if he succeeded it would tend to restore Helen's
happiness as well, and this gave him an added incentive.
It was the afternoon of the next day before he was able to make his
opportunity. Inez had taken a book and secreted herself in Helen's
"snuggery" in the garden, but Armstrong's watchful eyes followed her.
Waiting until she had time to become well settled, he strolled around
the garden, finally appearing at the entrance to prevent her escape. To
his surprise she made no such effort, and appeared more at ease than at
any time since the accident.
"Have you come to join me?" she asked, with much of her former bearing.
"If I may," he replied, advancing to the seat and taking the place she
made for him beside her.
"How famously you are getting on!" she said, laying down the volume;
"you are more like yourself than I have seen you since the awful
accident."
"If I may say so," Armstrong replied, watching her closely, "I was just
thinking the same of you."
Inez flushed. "You are right," she answered, frankly, after a moment's
pause.
Armstrong was distinctly relieved by her unexpected attitude. As he
looked back he realized that there had been a change in her bearing
toward him, particularly during the past week; but until now he had not
appreciated how rapidly her unnatural manner had been returning to what
it was during the early days of their acquaintance. The apparent effort
to avoid him had disappeared, although he knew of no more reason for
this than he had originally seen cause for its existence. Whatever the
reason, the change had undoubtedly taken place, and it made matters
easier for him.
"We have passed through much together, Miss Thayer," he began. "I wonder
if we realize how much."
"It has certainly been an unusual experience," she admitted. "I
expressed this to you at the library--do you remember? As I said then,
it could hardly occur again."
"I appreciate that now," Armstrong replied, in a low voice; "at that
time I do not think I did."
"There was much which you could not appreciate then," continued Inez;
"and as I look back upon it there is much which I cannot explain to
myself. In fact, there is a great deal that I blame myself for."
"The blame belongs to me, Miss Thayer," Armstrong asserted, firmly.
"For being away from Helen so much?"
"Yes; and for many other acts of selfishness and neglect. I am to blame
for all that you feel against yourself."
"Against myself?" Inez repeated.
Armstrong paused long before he continued. "You have passed through this
spell with me," he said, at length. "You, better than any one else, know
its power, and can understand the cause of my attitude toward you and
Helen, which was as inexplicable as it was unpardonable. And because you
understand this I believe that I shall find you the more ready to
forgive."
"There is nothing for which you stand in need of my forgiveness," Inez
said, in a low tone. "On the contrary, there is much for which I have to
thank you. It was a new world to which you introduced me--one which I
should not otherwise have known; and having known it, nothing can ever
take it from me."
"If matters had only stopped there," Armstrong continued, "I should have
accomplished just what I had hoped to do. The fascination of the work so
held me, and my desire to further the principles which seemed to me to
represent all which made life worth the living resulted in blinding me
to the possibility that you, perhaps, were not affected to a similar
degree. Your assistance was so valuable, your companionship so congenial
that I never once realized that I was running any risk of not performing
my full duty toward you as well as toward Helen."
Inez could not fail to comprehend the import of his words, and a
feeling of thankfulness passed over her that this conversation had not
come earlier. The days which had passed since she confided to Helen the
secret which she had so long carried alone had, in their way, been as
full of chaotic conditions as had Armstrong's; yet it was but recently
that she had come to realize the full importance of what had really
happened. The days at the library, as she looked back upon them, seemed
as a dream. She could close her eyes and bring back the intoxication of
those moments alone with Armstrong in which she had silently revelled,
while he had applied himself to the task before him unconscious of what
was taking place. She could not deny herself the guilty pleasure of
recalling them, yet little by little these thoughts had become
disassociated from the man with whom she now came in almost hourly
contact. With this disassociation came a welcome relief. The dread which
she had felt of seeing him and hearing his voice disappeared as suddenly
as it had come. She wondered at it, but she accepted it eagerly without
waiting for an explanation.
With her return to more normal conditions her solicitude for Helen
increased. She was conscious of her friend's unhappiness, yet she,
perhaps, of all the household, was least aware of the extent of the
breach between her and Armstrong. Helen, naturally perhaps, had confined
her conversation upon this subject to Uncle Peabody and her husband, so
Inez had no thought other than that all would straighten itself out now
that Jack had become himself again. She had believed that Helen alone
shared her secret with her, so it was with surprise and mortification
that she became aware that Armstrong himself knew of what had taken
place. This was even more of an ordeal to face than when she made her
confession to Helen, yet it was one which ought to be met with absolute
frankness.
"I understand what you mean," she replied, the color still showing in
her face, "and I am glad that this opportunity has come for me to speak
freely, even at the risk of losing your esteem. It is quite true that I,
too, found myself beneath a spell--but besides this one which influenced
you there was also another and a different one. I see no reason why I
should be ashamed to say that this other spell was unconsciously exerted
by a great scholar, a noble friend, a loyal husband. The effect of it
was for a time overpowering, but now I can acknowledge it without
injuring any one and express my gratitude for an influence which must
always act for my best good."
"Miss Thayer!" Armstrong cried, overwhelmed by the revulsion which the
girl's words brought to him. "I beg of you not to make virtues out of my
errors; I cannot accept a tribute such as that, knowing myself to be
unworthy of it. Can you not see that I should have guarded you from that
spell, both for your sake and for Helen's?"
Inez smiled in real happiness that the break had at last been made. "You
have given me far more than you have taken away, dear friend," she
replied, gratefully; "now that the experience is past I appreciate it
more than ever. But promise me that you will not give up this work
because of what we all have been through."
Armstrong shook his head. "I shall not take such chances again," he
said.
"It could never repeat itself," Inez urged. "Because one has been
wounded by the thorn he failed to see is no reason why he should never
pluck another rose."
"But suppose that in plucking the rose something fell out from next the
heart which was inexpressibly dear to him and was lost forever?"
Inez looked up quickly. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Do you not know that Helen insists upon a separation?"
"A separation!" Inez repeated, rising to her feet; "why, she worships
you! Surely there is some mistake."
"No; she is convinced that our marriage was all wrong, and that she
stands between me and the continuance of this work, which she argues is
essential for my development and happiness. It is ridiculous, of course,
but I cannot move her."
"She is right about the work," the girl said, decidedly; "but there is
no one in the world better fitted to enter into it with you than she, if
she but knew it. As I said, you will never take it up in the same way
again, but having learned what it means you can never eliminate it from
your life; and this should draw you and Helen even closer together."
"My one remaining labor is to convince her of this," Armstrong replied,
feelingly.
"And I will help you do it."
Armstrong looked at her steadily for a moment. "There is another point
upon which she insists, of which I have not told you," he said.
Inez waited for him to continue.
"She believes that you and I are foreordained for each other," Armstrong
said, bluntly, "and she proposes to step aside to make the realization
of this possible."
The girl gazed at her companion in silent amazement. So this was the
cause of Helen's suffering--this was the price she was willing to pay as
a tribute to her friendship for her and her love for her husband!
"The brave, brave girl!" Inez cried, almost overcome by her emotion. "I
must make her understand that the Jack Armstrong I loved was killed at
the foot of the hill of Settignano. Dear, dear Helen! it is now my
privilege to give her back her happiness as she gave me back mine!"
XXXI
It had been to Uncle Peabody that Helen had turned during all this
period, but it was for comfort and strength rather than for advice. The
problem was hers, and she alone must finally solve it. She had thought
it settled until her conversation with Jack, which caused a momentary
wavering. She repeated Armstrong's words to Uncle Peabody, and his
absolute conviction that her husband's present attitude was a normal and
final expression encouraged her to question whether there might not be
some other solution than the one upon which she had determined. Still,
it was only a questioning; as yet she was unprepared to share Uncle
Peabody's conviction.
"Don't lean too far backward," he had said to her, "in your efforts to
stand by your principles. I have seen things which were called
principles at first become tyrants and do damage out of all proportion
to the good they would have done had the conditions not changed."
"It is the conditions I am watching, uncle," Helen had replied. "I have
no 'principles,' as you call them, which will not joyfully yield
themselves. I must not--I will not--stand in the way either of Jack's
happiness or of his development. If I can make myself see any way by
which we can stay together without accomplishing one or the other of
these mistakes, God knows how eagerly I will again pick up the thread of
life."
Uncle Peabody had folded her in his great arms again, as he had done so
many times lately.
"People have sometimes told me that I am a philosopher," he said,
huskily. "They have seen me meet death in a dear friend, or even one
closer to me, with calmness, sending the departed spirit a wireless
'bon-voyage' message and considering the incident as fortunate, as if he
had received a promotion. But when I see one as dear to me as you are,
gasping for breath in what has seemed to be a hopeless and prolonged
struggle for that life which love alone can give you, I must confess
that my stock of philosophy, such as it is, seems sadly inadequate."
Now had come the necessity of repeating to him what the contessa had
said, which gave Helen double pain, knowing, as she did, how much relief
her last conversation had given him.
"I can't believe it, Helen," Uncle Peabody said, decisively. "Whatever
else one may say of Jack Armstrong, he is honest, and I can't believe
him insincere in what he said to you."
"It is not insincerity, dear," she replied, wearily. "He is trying to
deceive himself.--What is it, Annetta?" she asked, almost petulantly, of
the maid as she approached.
"Monsignor Cerini--" began the maid.
"Mr. Armstrong is on the veranda," Helen interrupted.
"But he asks for the madama."
"For me?" Helen was incredulous. "Show him out here, Annetta."
The librarian's face beamed genially as he greeted her and Uncle
Peabody.
"Has the maid not made a mistake?" Helen asked. "Is it not our invalid
whom you wish to see?"
"No, my daughter, it is you whom I seek. I have come to make a full
though long-delayed acknowledgment."
Helen glanced over to Uncle Peabody, thoroughly mystified.
"Your husband and I were talking of you yesterday," he continued, "and
we both are deeply concerned to find how erroneous have been our
estimates and how slow we have been to recognize the truth."
So Jack had sent him to plead his cause, Helen told herself, and in her
heart she resented the interference. It was unlike him to intrust so
important a matter as this to another, yet perhaps it was a further
evidence of the new conditions.
"Shall I not leave you to yourselves?" queried Uncle Peabody.
"By no means!" Cerini cried, hastily. "It is most fitting that you
should hear what I am about to say. Do you remember the first day I met
you at the library?" he continued, addressing his question to Helen.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and an involuntary shadow of pain
passed over her face as she replied, quietly:
"Do you think I could ever forget it?"
Cerini saw it all, and it touched him deeply. "I was unkind to you that
day, my daughter--even cruel. I thought I understood, but later events
have shown me that my judgment led me far astray."
[Illustration:
SO JACK HAD SENT HIM TO PLEAD HIS CAUSE, HELEN
TOLD HERSELF; AND IN HER HEART SHE RESENTED
THE INTERFERENCE]
The old man had come to a realization at last! This, at all events, was
a comfort to her.
"Only in part," she replied, trying to speak cheerfully. "The
character-building was going on just as you said."
"It was," Cerini said, forcefully--"to a greater extent, I believe, than
any one of us knew. My only excuse is that I was possessed with a
preconceived idea--the very thing which I so much object to in others."
"I don't think I quite understand," Helen replied. "Do you mean that,
after all his efforts, my husband is right in his conviction that his
work has been a failure?"
"It is not of your husband that I am thinking now," the librarian
answered; "it is of myself--and you."
"Of me?" Helen was genuinely surprised. "But I have never entered into
the consideration at all, where the work at the library was concerned."
"You should have done so; that is just the point."
"I wanted to," Helen cried; "but you told me that I was quite incapable
of doing so."
"I know I did," replied the librarian, bowing his head; "and that is
where I made my great mistake."
"It would have stopped their work where it was--you said so yourself."
Cerini again bowed his head. "All part of the same mistake," he
admitted. "Had I encouraged you at that time you would not only have
added much to the work itself, but you would have saved your husband
from his own great error. I have been much to blame, my daughter, and
you must not hold him responsible for a fault which is really mine."
Helen tried to fathom what was in the old man's mind. She could not
question his sincerity, yet his words seemed a mockery. Jack had
evidently taken him freely into his confidence, so there was no reason
why she should not speak freely.
"Mr. Armstrong has apparently told you how unfortunately his experience
has ended in its effect upon our personal relations. Knowing this, I am
sure you would not intentionally wound me further by seeking to restore
matters to a false basis; yet I can understand your words in no other
way. As you said of my husband, that day in the library, this time it is
your heart and not your head which finds expression."
The librarian gasped with apprehension. "Daughter! daughter!" he cried,
"have I not made myself clear! Then let me do so now before any possible
misunderstanding can enter in. I am a humanist by profession--until now
I believed myself a modern humanist. When I first knew your husband, he
was a youth full of intelligent appreciation of those ancient marvels
which I delighted to show him. Imagine my joy, twelve years later, to
welcome him again, grown to man's estate, and to find that the early
seeds which I had planted within him had sent out roots and tendrils so
strong as to hold him firmly in their grasp. Then he brought Miss Thayer
to me--at first I took her for you, as she was the kind of woman I had
expected him to marry. She entered into his work with him with the same
spirit as his own, and my foolish old heart rejoiced that such splendid
material had been placed in my hands for the moulding."
"Why repeat all this?" Helen interrupted; "I know it all and accept it
all, but what agony to pass through it still another time!"
"Forgive me, my daughter," Cerini replied, quickly; "we are past the
period of your sacrifice now, and have reached the point of your
triumph."
"My triumph!" cried Helen, bitterly. "Why do you hurt me so?"
"Patience, dear," Uncle Peabody urged, quietly. "Monsignor Cerini has
some purpose in mind which makes this necessary, I am sure."
"I am unfortunate in my presentation," the librarian apologized. "The
point I wish to make is that up to the time I met Mrs. Armstrong I had
known but one kind of humanism. I myself had studied the master-spirits
of the past, and had assimilated the principles which they taught. Mr.
Armstrong and Miss Thayer assimilated their lessons in the same way as I
had done; but we all failed to recognize in this dear lady the natural
expression--the personification--of all that we ourselves had labored so
assiduously to acquire."
Both Helen and Uncle Peabody were listening to the old man's words with
breathless attention.
"You mean that Mrs. Armstrong is a natural humanist?" Uncle Peabody
queried.
"The most perfect expression of all that humanism contains which I can
ever hope to see," Cerini replied, with feeling. "I, more than any one,
have prevented the expression of these attributes which are your natural
heritage; now let me help to merge them with your husband's undoubted
talents."
"You cannot mean it," Helen said, weakly, sobering down after the first
exhilaration of the old man's words. "I am no humanist, either natural
or otherwise. Monsignor Cerini evidently means to give me a new
confidence, but it is a mistaken kindness."
"You must listen to what he says, Helen," Uncle Peabody insisted. "I
have known Cerini for many years, and he would make no such statement
unless he felt it to be true."
"It is all as unknown to me as some foreign language I have never heard
before," she protested. "I know, for I have tried to understand."
"Does a bird have to know the technique of music before it can sing?"
asked Cerini, quietly.
"Oh, this is agony for me!" cried Helen, in despair. "I can only see in
it another opening of the wound, another barb later to be torn from my
heart."
"Be reasonable, child," urged Uncle Peabody, soothingly. "It seems to me
that instead of all this Cerini has brought to you--to all of us--the
solution of our problem. Let me ask him a few questions, while you
control yourself and try to understand."
Helen acquiesced silently. Cerini's words had seemed to give her hope,
yet she dared not allow herself to hope again. Limp from exhaustion,
worn out by her ceaseless mental struggle, she had no strength even to
oppose.
"Mrs. Armstrong has taken her present position," began Uncle Peabody,
"because she feels absolutely that her husband's real expression of
himself is that which he has shown her while under the influence of this
spell which his love of the old-time learning has woven about him."
"She is right," replied the librarian, "except that by an unusual
combination of circumstances this influence overpowered him by its
strength, and he should not be held wholly responsible for his abnormal
acts. This is not the first time I have seen this happen. There is a
peculiar languor in the atmosphere, here in Florence, impregnated as it
is with the romance of centuries, which is absolutely intoxicating to
the mind, but it is rarely that it succeeds in making itself so felt
upon an Anglo-Saxon temperament. Mr. Armstrong ought never, for the sake
of his own individuality, to give up his fondness for the _literae
humaniores_, but it is entirely out of the question for him ever again
to become so subject to their control."
"She senses this quite as strongly as you do; but beyond this she feels
that he can never retain the development which has come to him here
except in an atmosphere filled with a comprehension of all which he
holds so dear."
"Mrs. Armstrong is still in the right," assented Cerini, gravely; "but
there is one point which she still fails to understand. Her husband's
work has been humanistic, but he himself is but just ready to begin to
be a humanist. She is the one best fitted in every way to join him at
this point, and their two personalities, thus united, can but produce
splendid results."
"I cannot believe it," Helen interrupted, speaking with decision. "It
has been from Inez and not from me that he has received his inspiration.
Things are no different now from what they have been: Inez is still the
one to inspire him to attain his best."
"You are wrong, dear," spoke a low voice behind them, as Inez threw her
arms about Helen and embraced her warmly. "I surmised what you were
discussing, and took this first opportunity to do my part toward
straightening things out."
Helen sat upright and looked steadily into Inez' smiling face,
completely freed for the first time in many weeks from its care-worn
expression.
"You--you could not look like that if you understood," she stammered,
still startled by her friend's sudden appearance.
"Mr. Armstrong and I have talked it all over, and at last I understand
what should have been clear to me long ago. You are a dear, brave girl,
Helen, and deserve all the happiness which is in store for you."
"Happiness--to me! Oh, Inez," Helen cried, "why do you all mock me with
that word? There can be no happiness for me, and, unless I do what I
propose, it means misery for every one instead of for me alone."
"No, dear," Inez replied, softly, gently smoothing Helen's hair as she
rested her tired head upon her shoulder. "No--there can be nothing but
happiness, now that all is understood."
"But you--you love Jack, Inez."
The girl colored as Helen spoke thus freely in the presence of others,
but her voice was firm as she replied.
"Helen, dear," she said, "here in the presence of Mr. Cartwright and
Monsignor Cerini I ask your permission to keep in my heart the image of
the man I learned to love while we both were beneath the spell. That man
no longer exists in the flesh, but I still worship his memory. He can
never exist again except as a part of an experience which could never be
repeated. Is this asking too much, dear?"
"What does it all mean?" cried Helen, gazing at her helplessly--"what
does it all mean?"
"It means that there have been two Jacks, Helen--one of whom became
transformed for a time into a veritable master-spirit of the past. To
this man, I admit, I gave a devotion which I shall never--could
never--give to any other; but he died, Helen, when the spell broke
against that wall at the foot of the hill of Settignano. This man, even
during his existence, gave me no devotion in return, and knew not the
passion which he inspired in me. He had no heart, but it was not his
heart I worshipped. To me his mind--broad, comprehensive, and
understanding--stood for all that life could give. The other Jack--the
man you married--has never wavered in the love he gave you from the
first. He has suffered from the influence of the second personality in
that he was forced into the background by the greater strength of this
sub-conscious self; but he has also gained from its influence in the
development which we all have seen. My Jack is dead, but yours still
lives. He needs you, and he longs for the return to him of the wife he
has always loved."
Inez paused after her long appeal, eager to read a favorable response in
the pale face still gazing at her, but no change came over the set
features. Once or twice Helen started to speak, but no words came. Uncle
Peabody and Cerini had followed Inez intently, realizing that she was
pleading the cause far better than they could. Affected by the scene
before them, they found themselves unable to break the silence. At last
Helen's voice came back to her.
"He longs for the return to him of the wife he has always loved?"
She repeated Inez' words slowly, in the form of a question.
"Yes, dear," her friend replied; "he is waiting for you now."
"Oh no, no, no!" Helen cried, brokenly, covering her face with her
hands; "it is all a mistake. You are all doing this for my sake, and it
is not the truth--it is not the truth!"
"You are ill, Helen!" cried Inez, alarmed by her appearance as well as
by the wildness of her words; "come, let me take you to your room."
Unresistingly Helen suffered herself to be led into the house, leaving
Uncle Peabody and Cerini looking apprehensively at each other.
"He longs--for the return to him--of the wife--he has always loved,"
Helen murmured over and over again, as Inez and Annetta undressed her
and gently put her into bed. She seemed indifferent to what Inez said to
her, and conscious only of the words which she kept repeating.
Thoroughly frightened, Inez left her in Annetta's care while she rushed
down-stairs to summon the doctor.
XXXII
For a few days Helen's condition was grave enough to warrant the anxiety
which pervaded the entire household. Dr. Montgomery was again pressed
into service, and found his skill taxed to the utmost to meet the
condition in which he found his new patient.
"This is a great surprise to me," he remarked to Uncle Peabody, shaking
his head ominously. "I have made it a point to watch Mrs. Armstrong
throughout the shock and the strain of her husband's accident,
anticipating that this nervous reaction might occur; but the time when
it would naturally have happened is now long since passed."
Mr. Cartwright reluctantly explained to the doctor enough of the facts
to assist him to a proper understanding of the case, and with sympathies
fully enlisted his efforts were redoubled. The patient herself proved to
be his greatest obstacle. Try as he would, he could not arouse in her
any interest in her recovery. She accepted his services and those of the
nurse without question, but in an apathetic manner. Armstrong, Inez, and
Uncle Peabody hovered about the sick-chamber, eagerly grasping such
information as the nurse and the doctor were able to give them, the
anxious lines in their faces becoming deeper as the hours passed by.
But it was naturally upon Armstrong that the burden rested most
heavily. He had been given the fullest details of the conference in the
garden which immediately preceded Helen's collapse, and her replies to
Cerini's appeal showed him, better even than his last conversation with
her, how seriously she had been affected. For this he alone was
responsible, and he was equally responsible for the illness which came
as a final result of it all. He had hoped that when Cerini awakened her
to a knowledge of her own splendid development she would accept his plea
that they take up their new life together, but this expectation had been
in vain.
"It has come too late," he said, bitterly, to Uncle Peabody. "We can
only imagine the tortures through which the poor girl has passed by the
severity of this reaction. She has been forcing herself to make this
supreme sacrifice, which she believes is necessary, and has succeeded at
last in destroying that love which I know she felt for me even through
the worst of the crisis."
"She loves you still, Jack," replied Uncle Peabody, whose complete
sympathy had been won by Armstrong's attitude during the trying days
they were passing through together. "It is this which has made it so
hard for her."
"It is only your ever-present optimism," the younger man replied, sadly.
"Now that I see myself as I have really been during these past weeks, I
cannot share it with you, much as I wish I could. If I, having actually
experienced this spell and knowing its force, find it so impossible to
explain to myself this long series of inexplicable events, how can I
expect anything other than this generous but unfortunate conviction that
her self-sacrifice is necessary?"
His face contracted as he spoke, and the veins upon his forehead stood
out boldly against the fair skin, still colorless from his prolonged
illness.
"And the worst of it all is that I can make no sacrifice which can
possibly accomplish anything," he continued. "She--she must suffer on
indefinitely for my selfishness, for my neglect."
"Let me speak to her just once more," Inez pleaded, in real pity for the
man beside her. "When she is strong enough, perhaps I can make her
understand."
"No," he replied, firmly, yet showing his appreciation of her thought
for him, "she has endured enough already. The very mention of her
husband can only revive unhappy memories. She shall at least be spared
any further pleading on my behalf."
At last the doctor pronounced the danger-point passed, and the relief
which the announcement brought gave Armstrong the necessary strength to
enable him to take upon himself the details of packing and closing up
the house, and getting everything in readiness to leave for home as soon
as Helen should be strong enough to travel.
"The place has been hateful to her all these weeks," he explained, "and
she must be freed from every scene which suggests what has passed."
As he went from one part of the villa to another, he was constantly
reminded with painful forcefulness of the days which they had first
enjoyed there together. The flowers in the garden, the singing of the
birds in the trees, the distant view of the city--each possessed a
personal significance. "I love the present," she had said to him--"I
love the sky, the air, the sunshine, and the flowers."
Happy, buoyant nature--the natural humanist! She assimilated all that
was best in life, and had he given her the opportunity would have
breathed it out again to those around her richer and more inspiring
because of its contact with her own rare self! Fool that he had been!
With the riches of the past lying at his hand to be drawn upon for
material, he had selfishly insisted that his own methods of using them
were the only ones, recognizing too late the inspiration and the real
assistance which she was amply able to give him in transforming these
riches into even purer gold by the magic touch of the present. Armstrong
groaned as the irony of it came to him.
Helen recovered slowly, and with a sweetness which touched the hearts of
all about her. Inez and Uncle Peabody were with her much of the time,
but Armstrong, true to his conviction that he had become distasteful to
her, waited to be asked for; and Helen did not ask. The only event which
happened to interrupt the even tenor of the days was a call from the
Contessa Morelli, who was solicitous for her condition.
"Make some excuse," Helen said, quietly, to Inez, who announced the
visitor. "Don't say anything to hurt her feelings, but I really can't
see her. She does not understand the life I know and love, and I don't
want to understand hers."
So it was Jack whom the contessa met as she took her departure.
"I am so relieved to know that your wife is in no danger," she said,
sympathetically.
"So are we all," Armstrong replied, in a perfunctory way, still feeling
ill at ease in the contessa's presence. "This villa will soon be
considered as a hospital if any more of us become invalids."
"Miss Thayer is not ill?" inquired the contessa, smiling archly.
"She is quite well, I believe," he replied, coldly, but with an effort
to be civil.
"How fortunate!" Amelie continued. "With Mrs. Armstrong in no danger and
Miss Thayer in good health, you will soon, no doubt, resume your
charming _tete-a-tetes_ at the library?"
The contessa was endeavoring to be mischievous, but Armstrong was in no
mood for her pleasantries. He resented the words no less than the
expression upon her face. Yet he himself was partially responsible, and
this thought kept back the words upon his lips which if spoken would
have been regretted. He looked intently into her face before he
answered, and the contessa's smile faded.
"Instead of replying to your question," Armstrong said, quietly, with
his eyes still fixed upon her, "may I not ask you a favor?"
"Surely you may ask it," she replied; "but that does not mean that I
must grant it, does it?"
"You need not grant it unless you choose," pursued Armstrong; "but at
least I shall have the satisfaction of asking it: will you not add one
more class into which you separate the men you meet?"
The contessa laughed merrily. "What a curious request to be made so
seriously!" she exclaimed. "Of whom shall the new class be composed?"
"Of those men who are husbands and who love their wives," Armstrong
replied, feelingly; "who despise intrigue and disloyalty and hypocrisy
in either sex; who consider honor and life as synonyms; and who, even
for the sake of civility, cannot allow misinterpretations to cast a
shadow upon the sanctity of marriage."
"_Mon Dieu!_" cried the contessa, making a pretty _moue_ as she rose and
moved toward the veranda; "and I thought he had no temperament! Shall I
put you in this exotic class? Oh no; you would be so lonesome!"
"I could not expect you to understand," Armstrong replied, in a low
tone, biting his lip with vexation.
Amelie watched his expression intently, a complete change coming over
her manner. The flippant bearing was gone; the smile, aggravating as it
was attractive, vanished. She took a step toward him as she spoke.
"But I do understand," she said, slowly, in a low, tense voice. "Perhaps
I ought to feel shamed by your contempt and indignant at your criticism.
On the contrary, I am glad that I incurred both, for by it I have
learned that a man can be honest, and that appearances are not always
the safest guides. What you have said is what a woman understands by
instinct; anything different is what she learns--from men. Will you
forgive me? I shall not offend again."
His surprise at this new and unexpected view of the contessa's character
was so great that it was only instinctively that he pressed the dainty
hand which was held out to him. For a moment their eyes met.
"I wish that you and your wife might both have come into my life
earlier," she said, simply, and then turned quickly to the door and was
in the tonneau of her motor-car before Armstrong could offer to assist
her. So, as the machine moved away, he stood on the veranda, bowing his
acknowledgment of her radiant smile into which a new element had
entered.
Then Armstrong turned back into the hallway, where he met the doctor
and Uncle Peabody coming down the stairs.
"Has she asked for me yet?" he inquired, eagerly.
"Not yet," Dr. Montgomery answered, with that understanding which is a
part of the physician's profession. Armstrong turned away to conceal his
face, which he felt must show all that was passing through his heart.
"I wish you would go to her, anyway," the doctor continued.
"You don't know what you are suggesting, doctor--I want to do it so
much--but I must not."
"It will be necessary to talk with her soon about our future plans,
Jack," Uncle Peabody said, seeing a way to accomplish their purpose.
"Dr. Montgomery says that Helen is strong enough now to discuss the
matter."
Armstrong looked from one to the other with uncertainty. "You are
right," he said, at length. "She must be consulted about that, and I am
the one to do it."
He chose the morning for his visit to her--a morning filled with the
sunshine she loved so well. He plucked a handful of the fragrant
blossoms from the garden, hoping that the odor might recall to her some
of the happy moments they had experienced together. The very perfume
rising from the redolent petals seemed to accuse him as he stood before
her door awaiting the nurse's response to his knock.
"May I come in?" he asked, looking across the room to the bed where
Helen lay propped up with pillows, so that she could look out of the
window into the garden, even though the tops of the trees alone rewarded
her gaze.
"Of course," Helen weakly replied, yet with a smile, and the nurse
discreetly left them to themselves.
Armstrong seated himself on a chair near the bed and gazed in silence
at the thin, pale features of the woman before him. This was the wreck
of the beautiful girl he had married and brought here to Florence for
her honeymoon. What a honeymoon!
"I am glad you came to me at last," Helen said, quietly, interrupting
his convicting thoughts.
"At last!" The words brought him to himself. Mastering his emotion as
best he could, he took her thin hand in his, and the fact that she did
not withdraw it gave him courage.
"I have longed to come to you each day, but you asked me not to make it
harder for you."
"I am glad you came to me at last," she repeated.
How should he begin? The sentences he had thought out carefully, which
might convey his necessary message and yet spare her, seemed too cold,
too meaningless. He glanced up at her helplessly, and the expression on
her face helped him to his purpose. Impulsively drawing his chair still
nearer to the bed, he poured out to her the self-incriminations which
had haunted him for days. In a torrent of pitiless words he pictured
himself without mercy. There was no plea for reconsideration, no thought
of future readjustment. The one idea was to let her know how fully he
realized all that had happened, how powerless he felt himself to make
restitution, and his determination to do what now remained to make her
future as little overcast as possible by the events which had already
taken place.
"I would not have come now except that it is necessary," he said,
brokenly. "I know that to see me must recall unhappy recollections, but
there are some matters which we must talk over together. I have not come
to plead for any reconsideration--you were right in what you said the
last time we talked about it, as you have been in all else. Our marriage
was a mistake, and it is I who have made it so. I no longer ask that we
try to restore matters to their former position. The only sacrifice
within my power is to give you a chance to recover as much as you can of
what I have made you lose. The penalty is hard, but well deserved."
He did not look into her face as he spoke, lest he lose his courage
before all was said. "Cerini has told you what you have taught us both,
which is another debt I owe you. It should be some little consolation,
dear, to know that your expression and your understanding have been so
much clearer than those of this librarian, whom I have considered
infallible; than those of your husband, whom in the past I know you have
respected and loved. Thank God for that love!" he repeated, abruptly.
"Then it is really true that my 'dear present' is worth something, after
all?"
"Your 'dear present' is the saving clause. Without it we limit ourselves
beyond the hope of recovery, just as I have done. The glories of the
past are as splendid and as important as I ever painted them, but they
must be awakened with the breath of present necessities. You have always
felt this and expressed it; I have known it only since you taught it to
me."
"I am glad," she answered, simply.
"But I am forgetting my errand," Armstrong continued, bracing himself
for a final effort. "As soon as you are able to travel you will, of
course, wish to return home. It may be that, for the sake of
appearances, you will wish me to go with you, in which case I shall make
it as easy as possible for you. Or you can return with Uncle Peabody, as
he tells me you once spoke to him of doing. He is eager to do anything
you wish, but he has plans which need to be arranged after you have once
decided."
Helen's gaze rested firmly upon her husband's half-averted face,
watching the changing expressions, reading the unspoken words. "He longs
for the return to him of the wife he has always loved" rang in her ears,
and now for the first time it seemed to ring true. Her mind was moving
fast as Armstrong ceased speaking, and even when she replied, a moment
later, it was not an answer.
"What is Inez going to do?" she inquired.
"As soon as we close the villa she will go to the _pension_ where the
Sinclair girls were."
"She will stay in Florence?" Helen asked, surprised.
"Yes; she has arranged with Cerini to work with him upon his _Humanistic
Studies_."
Helen withdrew her hand from his as she leaned back upon the pillow and
closed her eyes. Armstrong regarded her anxiously, fearful lest their
interview had been too great a strain upon her returning strength; but
as he looked her eyes opened again.
"You must know at once whether I prefer to return home with you or with
Uncle Peabody?" she asked, faintly.
"Not at once," he replied, leaning nearer to catch the low-spoken
words--"not until you are strong enough to decide."
Suddenly he felt both her arms about his neck, and in his ear she
whispered, "Let me go with you, Jack; but not to Boston--take me to
Fiesole!"
THE END
Transcriber's Notes
In this text-version = was used to indicate a change in font-type
of a few words from _italics_ to =no-italics= (summa cum laude).
A few missing quotation marks have been added.
Archaic and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been preserved.
On page 193 the original text is: "Because 'beautiful paintings' do
not have husbands," in the caption of the illustration the quote is:
"do not possess husbands." This has been preserved.