Chapter VI: Book II: Victim of Fate (2)

"You may not know that I have a great love for the romantic," confessed Professor Tesso. "It seems a far cry from my every-day life, but sometime I mean to prepare an essay upon the subject of the relation between science and romance. In fact, I believe them to be very closely allied."

"What a clever idea!" cried Helen. "If you ever prove that to be true it will explain a lot of things."

"Perhaps I can do it sometime," continued the scientist, complacently, "and in the mean time I gratify my whim by taking observations whenever the opportunity offers. To-day I had a most charming illustration, and I became so much interested that it made me late in coming to you."

"You certainly have an admirable excuse," assented his hostess.

"I suspect that the objects of my observation are fellow-patriots of yours, but I am not certain. The man was a strong, fine-looking fellow with ability and determination written clearly in his face. He was evidently a deep student--perhaps a professor in some one of your American colleges. His companion, the heroine of my story, was a small woman, but so intense! I think it was her intensity which first attracted my attention."

"I am sure they could not have been Americans, professor," interrupted Helen. "No American woman would display her emotion like that, I am sure.--Do you take cream, and how many lumps of sugar, please?"

"You may be right, of course," continued Tesso, giving her the necessary information. "In fact, my whole story is based upon supposition. However, as they sat there together, first he would say something to her, and they would look into each other's faces, and then she would say something to him, and the operation would be repeated. They spoke little, but the silent communion of their hearts as they looked at each other spoke more eloquently than words. It was beautiful to behold. 'There,' I said to myself, 'is a perfect union of well-mated souls. What a pity that they must ever go out into the world and run the risk of having something commonplace come between them and their devotion!'"

"Splendid!" cried Helen. "How I wish I might have been with you!"

"The whole episode could not have failed to interest you as it did me." The professor was ingenuously sincere in his narrative. "In these days one so seldom sees husbands and wives properly matched up. Of course, it is quite possible that when this pair I speak of are actually married they will quarrel like cats and dogs. But for the present their devotion was so natural, so untainted by the world's actualities, that I confess myself guilty of having deliberately watched them far beyond the bounds of common decency."

"You should certainly pursue your investigations further," said Uncle Peabody. "After having discovered psychological subjects in a man and a woman perfectly adapted to each other, it would be a pity not to continue your researches that their perfections might be recorded for the benefit of others less fortunate."

"Have you no idea who they were?" asked Emory.

"Not the slightest. I might have found out, as my friend, whom I went to see, must know them; but I was aghast when I discovered the hour, and ran away without so much as leaving my name."

"Where did all this happen?" asked Helen.

"At the Laurenziana," replied Tesso. "I went to call on my old friend Cerini." The professor laughed guiltily. "I hope he never learns the reason why I failed to keep my appointment!"

Helen placed her cup abruptly upon the table and stared stonily at Tesso. Uncle Peabody and Emory glanced quickly at each other in absolute helplessness. The professor, however, failed to notice the effect of his words upon his auditors; he was too much amused by the mental picture of Cerini waiting for him while he, only a few feet away from the librarian's study, was gratifying his love for the romantic.

"May I join you?" cried a voice behind Helen, as Inez Thayer approached unnoticed in the dim light. "Mr. Armstrong went down to the station to send a cable, so I came back alone."

"Inez--Miss Thayer, let me present Professor Tesso," said Helen, mechanically.

The professor held out his hand and stepped toward her. As the features of her face became clear a great joy overwhelmed him.

"My heroine!" he cried, turning to the others. "This is the heroine of my story! Now, my dear Mr. Cartwright, I can record these perfections for the benefit of others less fortunate!"

XVI

What happened after Inez arrived, how she herself had acted, and how Professor Tesso's departure had been accomplished remained a blank to Helen. All that was clear to her was the pain--the sharp, aching pain--which came to her with a realization of the true significance of the story Tesso told. The crisis was coming fast, Helen was conscious of that; she even wondered if it was not at hand already.

Throughout the long, sleepless night Helen reviewed the events of the brief months of her married life. She even began earlier than that, and recalled those days in Boston when Jack Armstrong had appeared before her first as an acquaintance, then as a friend--sympathetic, helpful, congenial--and finally as a suitor for her hand. As she looked back now the period of friendship was recalled with the greatest happiness. Perhaps this was because he had then been more thoughtful of her and less masterful, perhaps it was because the friendship entailed less responsibility--she could not tell. Even during their engagement she had laughed at those moods which she had not understood, and he had accepted her attitude good-naturedly and become himself again. Now she wondered how she had dared to laugh at him!

Then her mind dwelt upon the ocean voyage--those days of cloudless happiness, of unalloyed joy. The visit in Paris, where the sights, although not new, seemed so different because of the companionship of her husband. The trip to Florence, the first glimpse of the Villa Godilombra--which was to be their earliest home together--all came back to her with vivid distinctness. And the day at Fiesole--that day when her husband had become a boy again, and had shown her a side of his nature so unreserved, so natural that she had felt a new world opening before her, a new happiness, the like of which she had never known.

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, aloud, "why could not that day at Fiesole have lasted forever!"

Still the panorama of reminiscence continued. That evening when De Peyster, all unconsciously, repeated to her those words of Inez' which first altered the aspect of her entire world was clearly recalled. Perhaps she might have prevented the present crisis had she recognized the danger then and acted upon the information she had unintentionally received. Perhaps if she had in some way interfered with the work at the library, and thus prevented the constant companionship of her husband and Inez, the trouble might have been averted. But she would have despised herself had she done that. If she could hold her husband's love only by preventing him from meeting other women her happiness had indeed never been secure.

And she had tried to enter into his life, to understand this phase of his nature which, after all her efforts, had baffled her intentions. She had gone to the library with him, expecting to apply herself to her self-appointed task until she succeeded in satisfying even so exacting a master as she knew her husband to be. He would have been patient with her; he would have appreciated the love which prompted her efforts, and all would have been well. But Cerini had interfered. She could hear his voice now; she could see the expression on his face as he spoke the words, "By not interfering with this character-building, you, his wife, will later reap rich returns." Helen laughed bitterly to herself. She was reaping the rich returns now--rich in sorrow and pain and suffering.

Perhaps she could have forced the crisis to come when Inez' confession to De Peyster had been disclosed by Emory. Jack's conduct at that time had almost brought Helen's resentment to the breaking-point; but what Inez had told her afterward had made her feel more in sympathy with him, even though she understood him no better than before. "Your husband is a god among them all," Inez had said; "you will be so proud of him--so proud that he belongs to you." She was proud of him, but her pride could in no way make up to her for the loss of his affection. In her mind's eye she could see him, with his masterpiece completed, receiving the world's plaudits, but entirely unmindful of her, his wife, who had stood aside and made it possible for him to accomplish it all. Oh, it was too cruel, too unfair! Helen buried her head in the pillows and moaned piteously.

She lived over again that one moment in the automobile, that one look in her husband's face which had given her relief. It had, indeed, been a brief respite! At that moment she felt that Jack's love for her still existed, strong and deathless, in the face of temporary abstraction. With this certainty she could endure in patience whatever sacrifices were necessary to win him back to herself. But Jack's words to Inez on the steps, "You are the only one who understands me"--there could be no mistake there. It was to Inez and not to her that he turned for understanding and for comfort.

All through the day she had tried to deceive herself into believing that even this was the result of some mental illness from which Jack was suffering, but Tesso had added just the necessary detail to destroy even the semblance of comfort to which she had so tenaciously clung. "A perfect union of well-mated souls," the professor had called them. "What a pity to have something commonplace come between them and their devotion!" And she was that "commonplace something"!

At all events, the main point had been definitely settled. For weeks she had known that Inez loved Jack; now she felt sure that this affection must be reciprocated. She should have known it sooner, she told herself. "I have been such a coward," she said, inwardly--"I could not bear to know for a certainty what I feared to be true." Now the worst that could happen had happened. Jack would in all probability be the last one to suggest any break. He would keep on as at present with his book--perhaps he might extend the work somewhat, in order to be with Inez a little longer; but when this was completed he would come back to her again, his obsession would disappear, and outwardly there would be no change. They would return to Boston and be received by their friends with glad acclaim, and with congratulations upon the happy months of the honey-moon passed under such congenial conditions! Jack would be an exemplary husband, she knew that. With the book completed and away from the overpowering influences which had controlled him in Florence he would again be to her, perhaps, all he had ever been. But what an irony it would be!

Not for a moment did she accuse him of having married her without believing that he loved her. Armstrong's sincerity was a characteristic which could never be denied. He had not known Inez then. Any one could see that he and Inez were meant for each other; Cerini saw it and said so; Tesso saw it and said so; she herself felt it without a question. Her marriage to Jack had been a mistake, an awful mistake. If only he and Inez had met earlier! Her own life was ruined, but was there any reason why the tragedy should include the others? If it would help matters Helen might be selfish enough to let them share the pain, but as there was nothing to be gained it would be worse than selfish. Jack had no idea that she was aware of the true conditions. He would oppose her if she attempted to take it all into her own life, yet this was the only course to pursue which could minimize the suffering.

Helen shut her eyes, but sleep was still far distant. The first agony had not run its course, and it would have been a misdirected mercy to stem its flow. There was no resentment in Helen's heart, and at this she herself wondered. Inez was not to blame for loving Jack--it was the most natural thing in the world. She had tried her best to keep the knowledge of her affection to herself, and but for the double accident she might have succeeded. Jack was not to blame. He himself had not known the strength of the power which drew him back to Florence, nor could he have foreseen how wholly it would possess him when once he yielded himself to it. He had not sought Inez; Helen herself had brought them together. He had found her useful to him in his work; he had found her agreeable as a friend; all beyond that had been a natural growth which could not and perhaps should not have been checked. The more the pity of it!

At first Helen felt that if Jack could return to his old self inwardly it would be worth the struggle. Then she realized that this could never be. The intellectual strength of her husband had won Helen's profoundest admiration, even though it was beyond her understanding. She longed to be able to enter into it and respond to it as Inez did, yet she felt her limitations. But her love had increased in its intensity by passing through the fire. The man she knew now was infinitely stronger and grander than ever before, and in the light of this new development of character she questioned whether her affection would not suffer a shock if Jack were to become again the man she had known in Boston. This new self was his real self, and the self which he must be in order to express his own individuality. It was even as Cerini had said--character-building had been in process, bringing to the surface qualities which had lain dormant perhaps for centuries; but--and here was where Cerini's wisdom had been at fault--this development had not been for her but for another.

The faint rays of dawn crept in through the lattice windows of Helen's room before she sank into a restless sleep. A few hours later Armstrong softly entered the room before leaving for the library and stood for several moments looking at his wife's face, in which the lines of her struggle still left their mark. When he returned to the hall he met Uncle Peabody.

"May I have a word with you?" Armstrong asked, leading the way to the library.

Uncle Peabody acquiesced.

"Helen is still asleep," said Armstrong by way of preliminaries. "The girl is overdoing somehow, and she acts very tired. As I looked at her just now she seemed ten years older than when we left Boston. Don't you think she is taking on too many of these social functions?"

Uncle Peabody glanced at Armstrong to make sure that he was quite sincere. "I am glad that you have noticed it at last," he replied, quietly. "I have wondered that you did not perceive the change."

"I must speak to her about it."

"But you have not hit on the cause of the change yet," continued Uncle Peabody, suggestively.

"What else can it be?"

"I wish I knew you well enough to talk frankly with you, Jack."

Uncle Peabody was bidding for an opening.

"I suppose that means that I have done something which has not met with your approval."

"That answers my question, Jack. I don't know you well enough, so I will refrain."

"Has it to do with Helen?" insisted Armstrong.

"It has," replied Uncle Peabody. "But what I have to say is not intended as a reproach. I simply feel that if you have not already discovered that Helen is a very unhappy girl it is time some one called your attention to it."

Armstrong was thoughtful. "Do you mean that Helen is really unhappy, or simply upset over some specific thing?"

"I mean that she is suffering, day after day, without relief."

"You must be wrong," replied Armstrong, decisively. "She was a little hurt over something I said to her night before last, and I mean to straighten that out; but if there was anything beyond that, I should surely have known of it."

"You are the last one she would speak to about it," Uncle Peabody said, gravely.

"Why are you so mysterious? Perhaps you are referring to my work at the library. Has Helen been talking to you about that?" Armstrong demanded, suspiciously.

"Helen has said nothing to me, and does not even know that I have noticed anything," said Uncle Peabody, emphatically.

"Which shows you how little there is to your fears," retorted Armstrong, relieved.

"I have no wish to prove anything, Jack," continued Uncle Peabody. "The fact remains, whatever the cause, that Helen is fast getting herself into a condition where she will be an easy victim for this accursed Italian malarial fever. I sound the warning note; I can do no more."

Armstrong was unconvinced. "I never looked upon you as an alarmist before," he replied, glancing at his watch. "I am late for my work this morning, but when I return I will question Helen carefully and arrive at the root of the difficulty."

"I hope you succeed," replied Uncle Peabody, feelingly.

* * * * *

Helen came down-stairs in the afternoon and found the villa deserted. Instinctively she sought the garden, walking out upon the terrace, where she leaned against one of the ancient pillars, her gaze extending to the familiar view of the river and the city beyond. She thought of the dramas which had been enacted within the walls of the weather-stained palaces whose roofs identified their location. These had been more spectacular, and had won their place in history, but she questioned whether they could have been more tragical than the one she was now passing through. Surely it was as easy, she told herself, to meet intrigue and opposition, as to be confronted with the necessity of decreeing one's own sentence and then carrying it into execution.

"Oh, Jack!--my husband!" her heart again cried out in its pain. "Why did you come into my life, since I never belonged in yours, only to give me a taste of what might have been!"

Her reveries were interrupted by Annetta's announcement that the Contessa Morelli was at the door, in her motor-car. Glad of any diversion, Helen hastened to welcome her, and returned with her to the garden.

"I am so glad to find you in," the contessa remarked, with evident sincerity, as they seated themselves in the shade. "In the first place, I really wanted to see you, and, in the second, my dear Morelli is in his most aggravating mood to-day, and we should have come to blows if I had not run away."

"How unfortunate that your husband suffers so!" Helen replied, sympathetically.

"It certainly is unfortunate for me."

"And for him, too, I imagine," insisted Helen, smiling.

The contessa was unwilling to yield the point. "I claim all the sympathy," she said, with finality. "When a man has had sixty years of fun in getting the gout, he has no right to complain."

"Sixty years--" began Helen, in surprise.

"Yes, my dear," replied the contessa, complacently. "I belong to the second crop. He was a widower with a title and position, and I had money; but I must admit that we were both moderately disappointed. However, marriage is always a disappointment, and I consider myself fortunate that things are no worse."

Helen felt the color come to her face as the contessa's words recalled her own sorrow, which for the moment she had forgotten. The freedom with which her guest spoke of her personal affairs repelled her, yet there was a subtle attraction which Helen could not help feeling.

"You are very pessimistic on the subject of marriage," she ventured.

"Not at all," the contessa insisted, calmly. "Husbands are selfish brutes, all of them; but they are absolutely necessary to give one respectability. Perhaps your husband is an exception, but I doubt it. Where is he now?"

"He is at the library," Helen faltered, resenting the contessa's question, but forced to an answer by the suddenness with which it was put.

"At the library?" repeated the contessa, interrogatively. "That is where he was on the afternoon of the Londi reception. Is he there all the time?"

"A good deal of the time," admitted Helen. "He is engaged upon an important literary work."

"In which he takes a great interest and you none at all. There you have it--selfishness, the chief attribute of man!"

"It does look like it," Helen answered, concluding that she had better move in the line of the least resistance. "But in this particular case I am very much interested in my husband's work, even though I am unable to enter into it."

"That is not interest," corrected the contessa--"it is sacrifice; and that is woman's chief attribute."

"I see you are determined to include my husband in your general category."

"I must, because he is a man. But my reason for doing this is to convince you that it is the thing to be expected. Unless you learn that lesson early in your married life, my dear, you will be miserably unhappy. I am certain that the old Persian proverb, 'Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed,' was written by a woman--and a married woman at that."

Helen's duties at the tea-table aided her to preserve her composure, but the contessa's matter-of-fact expressions were not reassuring in the present crisis she was passing through. She felt herself in no position to combat her theories, yet not to do so seemed a tacit admission of all which she strove to conceal.

"I could not live with a man such as you describe," she said, quietly.

"Oh yes, you could!" The contessa laughed at Helen's innocence and inexperience. "That is the way we all feel when we are first married; but we soon get over it--unless there is another woman in the case; then it is different."

"What do we do in that case?" asked Helen, looking up at her guest with a smile. "You may as well prepare me for any emergency."

"In that case," the contessa replied, seriously, resting her elbow upon the little table and returning Helen's glance--"in that case we try to arouse our husband's jealousy; but we must do it discreetly, as they are not so long-suffering as we."

"Why not leave one's husband?"

"You dear, simple little bride!" cried the contessa, indulgently--"and let him have a clear field? What an original idea! But how our conversation has run on!" The contessa rose and held out her hand graciously. "I really must be going now; but I wish you and Mr. Armstrong would take tea with me--say day after to-morrow. I want to see this exceptional husband of yours, and if my dear Morelli is not too impossible I will show him off to you."

"I doubt if Mr. Armstrong will feel that he can spare the time away from his book--" began Helen.

"In that case, then, come alone. Perhaps we can have all the better visit by ourselves. I shall expect you. Good-bye!"

Before Helen could make any further remonstrance the contessa had vanished through the hall-door, and a moment later the car could be heard moving out of the court-yard. She again leaned against her favorite pillar, trying to comprehend this new phase of life. Uncle Peabody found her standing there a few moments later when he returned from the city. Helen pulled herself together when she saw him coming, even though she made no attempt to change her position. Mr. Cartwright longed to comfort her, but something in the girl's face told him that the time had not yet come. So he took his place beside her, and, passing his arm about her waist, gently drew her toward him. Helen accepted the caress with the smile which she had learned to use to conceal the ruffled surface of her heart.

"The Contessa Morelli has just been here," she observed.

"Ah! Did you find her entertaining?"

"Yes; I think that just expresses it."

"And--worldly?"

Helen laughed. "She is certainly worldly. Yet there is something beneath it all which attracts me."

"She is a splendid example of a woman who takes the world as she finds it," Uncle Peabody continued, seriously. "Most women consider their husbands as material for idealizing. Then they rub their Aladdin's lamp, set a train of wishing in operation, and expect their selected material to live up to the ideals. When the material proves unworthy, they lose faith in everything instead of letting their experience educate their ideals. The contessa has risen above this."

"Yet, I judge, her husband has given her plenty of opportunity to lose her faith," Helen added.

"Yes," Uncle Peabody acquiesced. He looked affectionately at her, and fastened behind her ear a little strand of hair which had become loose. Then he continued, half-jocosely, "The men I know whom I would marry if I were a woman are so precious few that I would certainly be a bachelor maid."

Helen smiled at the expression on Uncle Peabody's face. "Is it not good to be here together?" she said, simply. "Your visit has meant so much to me, and now I have been considering a lot of plans which you must help me to work out. I have been waiting for just the right time, and now I believe it has come."

Uncle Peabody was genuinely surprised by Helen's manner as well as by her words.

"How much longer are you going to stay in Florence, Helen?" he asked, pointedly.

"I don't really know," she replied, frankly. "Our original plan was to leave early in July; but that is only about a month from now, and I presume Jack will require a longer time to complete his work."

"He has not made any definite plans, then?"

"No, and I hope we shall stay at least as long as that. The things which I have in mind may require even more time than I suspect."

"And these things are--"

"You inquisitive old Uncle Peabody!" Helen took his face between her hands as she kissed him affectionately. "I will tell you all in good time, and you shall be the first to know!"

XVII

Helen debated with herself long and seriously regarding the contessa's invitation. As she had said to Uncle Peabody, her new acquaintance both repelled and attracted her. Here was a woman who had undoubtedly passed through far more bitter experiences than she herself would ever be called upon to endure, yet was able to rise supremely above them and force from the world that which she still considered to be her just due. Helen could not help admiring her for this quality, and she tried to draw from her example some lessons which might be applicable to the present situation. At first she thought of insisting that her husband accompany her. She felt certain that he would not refuse her if he really understood that she expected and wished it, yet she knew without his telling her how distasteful it would be to him. If they were planning to live in Florence, it would, of course, be necessary for him to place himself in evidence, as the contessa had said, for the "respectability" of it; but as their life in Italy was so nearly ended--as their life together was so nearly ended--she felt that there was nothing to be gained in asking him to make this sacrifice. So Helen decided to return the contessa's call alone.

Alfonse was waiting for her in the motor-car when Emory drove into the court-yard. Seeing the machine, he alighted and stepped through the open door into the hall, where he intercepted her a few moments later when she came down-stairs.

"So you are just going out?" he said, by way of greeting.

"Why, Phil--where did you come from?"

"Out of that old picture there," he replied, pointing to the wall. "Don't I look funny without my ruffles and knee-breeches?"

"Do be serious, Phil," Helen laughed.

"I am serious. How could I be otherwise when I see you just going out when I have come all the way up here to have a quiet little chat?"

Helen was clearly disturbed. "This is really too bad," she said, trying to think of some plan out of it. "I promised the Contessa Morelli to take tea with her this afternoon, or I would stay home."

"The Contessa Morelli!" exclaimed Emory. "That simplifies everything."

"I don't see how," Helen remarked, frankly.

"Why, you can take me with you. What could be easier?"

"That is true," admitted Helen, meditatively. "Why not?"

"I don't see any 'why not,'" Emory asserted.

The contessa welcomed Helen with open arms. "But this is not your husband!" she exclaimed, turning to Emory before Helen had an opportunity to explain. "I had the pleasure of meeting you at the Londi reception, did I not?"

"Mr. Emory came to call just as I was starting out," Helen hastened to say, "and he begged so hard to be allowed to see you again that I could not refuse him."

"So you could not pull your learned husband away from his books?" the contessa queried, after smilingly accepting Emory's presence.

"I did not try, contessa," Helen answered, promptly. "He has reached a crisis in his work, and I was unwilling to suggest anything which might divert his mind."

"What an exemplary wife you are! If we all treated our husbands with such consideration they would become even more uncontrollable than at present. Don't you think so, Mr. Emory?"

"The suggestion is so impossible that I can think of no reply," Emory answered. "Mrs. Armstrong is such an unusual wife as to warrant considering her as an isolated exception."

Emory spoke with such sincerity that the contessa looked at him with renewed interest.

"I knew that to be the case," she said at length, "but I am glad to hear you say it. One so seldom hears a married woman championed so freely by a friend of the opposite sex."

"Mrs. Armstrong needs no champion," Emory hastened to add, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, for Helen's sake, over the turn the conversation had taken. "But why should I not be permitted to express my admiration for you or for her just as I would for a beautiful painting or any other creation of a lesser artist?"

"Because 'beautiful paintings' do not have husbands," replied the contessa, sagely, smiling at Emory's compliment.

"Since we are speaking of husbands," Helen interrupted, thinking it time to make her hostess exchange places with her, "you promised me that I should meet yours this afternoon."

"Oh no, my dear," the contessa corrected. "I said 'unless he was impossible,' and that is just what he is to-day. Be thankful that your husband's infirmity takes the form it does rather than the gout."

"Tell me something about your villa," suggested Helen, glancing around her. "All these places have romantic histories, and I am sure that this is no exception."

"All one has to do in order to forget the romance with which old Italian houses are invested is to live in one," the contessa replied. "As a matter of fact, they contain more rheumatism than romance. This one is fairly livable now, but I wish you could have seen it when Morelli first brought me here as a bride! Words can't express it. An old-fashioned house-cleaning and some good American dollars make the best antidote I know. The first point of interest I was shown here was the room in which the previous Contessa Morelli died. My ambitions were along different lines, so I added some modern improvements, much to the consternation of my husband and the servants. And the present Contessa Morelli, you may have observed, is still very much alive."

By the time the call came to an end Helen and Emory had learned much regarding Italian life from an American woman's standpoint, but in the mean time the contessa's active brain had not been idle. The situation in which she found her new friends puzzled her somewhat and interested her more. She had discovered the indifferent husband and the passive wife--two necessary elements in every domestic drama. Emory answered well enough for the admiring friend of the wife, so all that was necessary was to find the second woman and the _dramatis personae_ would be complete. This would explain the husband's indifference and the wife's passivity. It was an interesting problem, and the contessa saw definite possibilities in it.

As Emory and Helen took their leave Phil suggested that they run down to the library in the motor-car to pick up Armstrong and Miss Thayer.

"Miss Thayer?" queried the contessa.

"My friend, whom you must meet," Helen explained. "She has been with us almost since our arrival, and is assisting Mr. Armstrong in his literary work."

"Ah!" exclaimed the contessa, beaming as the completeness of her intuition came to her. "How very interesting! I shall look forward to meeting these two other members of your family."

The machine reached the foot of the hill and slowed down to pass through the city streets before either Emory or Helen broke the silence, yet it was evident that their minds found full employment. The call upon the contessa left them both with an intangibly unpleasant sensation.

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

"I am sorry you did," admitted Helen, frankly, his words fitting in exactly with her own thoughts.

"It is too bad that one can't do or say the natural thing without having it misunderstood. The contessa is determined to find something upon which she may seize as material for gossip."

"That is usually not difficult when one tries hard enough," Helen agreed; "especially when one is living in such an atmosphere as she is."

"Jack will have to sacrifice himself temporarily or he will leave you in an uncomfortable position."

Emory spoke guardedly and watched the effect of his words.

"He would have come this afternoon if I had asked him," Helen asserted, confidently, "but his book is nearly finished and he is not in a mood to be interrupted. I don't want anything to interfere with its completion."

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

Helen looked up quickly at Emory's question and as quickly dropped her eyes as they met his. "Why--yes," she admitted, slowly. "I shall be glad to have him take a little rest. I am sure he has been overdoing."

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

"Don't you think it is time to let me help you, Helen?" he asked, pointedly. "You know perfectly well that I feel toward you just as I always have. No"--he stopped the restraining words upon her lips--"I am going to say nothing which I ought not to say, nothing which you ought not to hear. But I want you to be happy, Helen, and sometimes a man can help. Don't be afraid to ask me; don't let your pride stand between us. You know that I shall take no advantage of anything you tell me."

Helen's lips quivered slightly as she listened, but her voice was natural though restrained. "Something is misleading you, Phil," she answered, calmly. "Nothing has happened to make it necessary for me to ask help from any one. If there had I should be glad to have so good a friend to fall back upon."

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

"What do you mean?"

She turned quickly toward him.

"Every one knows how much you are suffering in spite of your brave attempt to keep it to yourself. Why won't you let me help you, Helen?"

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

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

"You and Uncle Peabody think I am suffering?"

"We know it!"

Helen held her head very high in the air, and spoke in a superior tone so obviously assumed as a cloak to disguise her real feelings, that Emory regretted that he had forced the subject upon her; but now it had gone too far to draw back.

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

"We do. Jack--"

"Stop!" Helen commanded. The motor-car turned into the Piazza San Lorenzo. "If you have anything to say about my husband," she continued, "you had better say it direct to him."

"May I?" cried Emory, leaning forward eagerly. He looked at Helen steadily for a moment, like a runner waiting for the pistol-shot to release him from his strained position at "set." The girl returned his look with equal steadiness for only an instant before she read what was in his mind. Armstrong and Inez were just coming out through the cloister gates.

"May I?" Emory repeated.

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

XVIII

Armstrong was most enthusiastic when he returned late the next afternoon, and Miss Thayer's face reflected his own great satisfaction. The book was beginning to round into completeness, Cerini had placed upon it the stamp of his unqualified approval, and the author himself had reason to feel well pleased with the results of his tireless application. Helen watched the two as they came out into the garden where she and Uncle Peabody had been visiting. Yes, they were meant for each other. Helen could see this more plainly now even than before. Her husband had lost in weight and in color since he began his work at the library, but the slighter frame and paler face seemed more in keeping with the man whom she now knew. Inez had also changed. The individuality which Helen had always considered a striking characteristic of her friend while at school and later was now completely merged into that of the man beside her. They thought alike, talked alike, acted alike. That was what Jack preferred and what he needed, Helen admitted, and she felt a certain satisfaction that she was at least strong enough to see and to admit it.

"You seem to be very happy to-night, Jack." Helen tried hard to be natural. "What pleasant thing has happened to you to-day?"

Armstrong drew up a chair for Inez and seated himself beside Helen. "Nothing in particular," he replied, "except that I begin to see the end of my book in sight."

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

"Yes, I suppose you are." Armstrong spoke pointedly, looking at Helen with a curious expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose you are."

Helen flushed. "I don't mean it as you have taken it, Jack," she replied, quietly. "It has been a hard strain on you, and I am glad to know that you can soon get a change. I think you need it."

Armstrong still looked at Helen intently. "It has been a strain," he admitted, at length--"a strain on all of us." Then his face lighted up as of old. "Cerini says the book is a masterpiece, Helen--do you understand, a masterpiece. He says it is better than he believed it possible for me to do; in fact, the best work on the period which has ever been written. Can you wonder that I am happy?" He turned from Helen to Inez. "And I could never have accomplished it except for the help of our friend here, who has so unselfishly changed her plans at my request. You must thank her for me--for both of us."

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

"Oh, there is much to be done yet," replied Armstrong. "The first draft is nearly finished, and the material has all been sifted through; but I must go over the manuscript once more at least, here in this atmosphere, before returning to Boston."

"Even the Old South Church and Bunker Hill Monument will seem very modern when you get back home, won't they?"

"Everything will seem modern," Armstrong assented. "I hate to think of leaving Florence, but there is one thought which makes it easier. Miss Thayer will, of course, visit us in Boston next winter, and she and I will then have a chance to do some other work like this together."

"Why, Mr. Armstrong!" cried Inez, aghast. "I should not think of that for a moment. Believe me, Helen, this is the first I have heard of it. It could not be, of course."

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

"You will understand when you take time to think it over," said Inez, picking up her gloves and starting for the hall. "He does not mean it, Helen--truly he does not!"

"I do mean it," urged Armstrong, as Inez disappeared. "I mean every word of it. She is your most intimate friend, and what could be more natural than for her to visit us? Why could it not be?"

Uncle Peabody answered:

"There are some things in Boston which are as old as anything you will find in Florence, Jack."

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

"You are trying to avoid answering my question," he replied. "To what do you refer that bears at all upon the present discussion?"

"Conventions," said Uncle Peabody, calmly.

"Conventions!" Armstrong repeated the word with emphasis. "You don't imagine that I am going to let local conventions tell me what to do when I get home?"

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

Helen saw the hot retort upon her husband's lips. "I would not discuss this any more until after dinner," she said, quietly, as she rose. "As Jack says, it is a perfectly natural thing for Inez to visit me. It is possible that it can be arranged in some way."

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

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

"Come," she urged, "we shall be late if we don't get ready now. We have too little time as it is."

* * * * *

After dinner Uncle Peabody and Inez announced their intention of devoting the evening to letter-writing, so Helen and Jack found themselves alone together in the garden. Helen wrapped her shawl closely about her, wondering at the chill which came over her when she realized that she was alone with her husband and that the opportunity for which she had waited was at hand. She was silent, trying to decide how best to open the conversation. Her mind was made up at last. If others had begun to notice the estrangement, it was time that Jack knew of it, and from her. All doubt, all uncertainty had vanished.

She looked long at her husband in the dim starlight. He was so near her, yet how far away he really was! Even he did not realize how far. She could see the lines of his face lighted by his cigar as he silently smoked it, his eyes fixed upon the lights of the city beyond. How strong it was, Helen thought, how strong he was compared with her own weak self! She wondered what his thoughts were centred upon--whether on his masterpiece or upon Inez! Upon Inez! That brought her back to the task before her.

It was a difficult task; she realized that. There could be no immediate separation, for that would mean an interruption to the work. She must stay in Florence until the manuscript was completed or Inez could not remain. No, there must not be any break between Jack and herself for the present, or his mind would be taken from his book and another failure added to the great one in which she felt herself to be the most concerned. Yet she must make him understand that she was not dull to the signs which she and the others could but read. To continue to act as if ignorant of them would be the worst of all. She must remain his wife until his supreme effort was accomplished, then the living lie could be ended and the new and separate life begun.

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

"You are not looking like yourself lately, Helen," he said, abruptly. "I meant to have spoken of it before."

Helen started at the suddenness of his remark. "Not looking like myself?" she repeated, mechanically. "How do you mean?"

"You look tired and worn out."

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

"Nonsense," replied Armstrong. "You used to be so bright and vivacious, and now you sit around and hardly say a word."

She could not answer for a moment. "I did not realize that I had become such poor company, Jack. You have not seemed interested lately in the things I would naturally talk about, and of course a great deal of your conversation is upon subjects with which I am unfamiliar."

"You are quite sure that you are not getting too tired going to all these social functions?"

"Quite sure. If you stop to think a moment, these are really the only entertainment I get. Would you prefer that I stayed here at the villa alone?"

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

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

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

"What did Uncle Peabody say?" queried Helen, straightening up, Emory's remarks coming back to her. "I did not know that you and he had been discussing me."

"He said that you were unhappy, and fast becoming a fit subject for Italian malaria. He had better stick to his specialty, and not try to become a general practitioner."

"Oh," said Helen, relieved that she had not been anticipated, and resuming her former position.

"Of course he was as mistaken about your being unhappy as he was about your being ill," Armstrong continued, his remark being half assertion and half question.

Helen made no response. He waited a moment or two, glancing at her furtively, and then put his question more directly.

"You are not unhappy, are you?"

Helen tried to fathom the motive which underlay this question. At last Jack had become conscious of the fact that he had hurt her and was endeavoring to make amends. This was like him; what he had said and done during the weeks past was not like him. Now something which Uncle Peabody had said had brought him to himself again. He saw a duty to perform, and he assumed it conscientiously; but it was an act of duty rather than an act of love--she felt that in every word he spoke.

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

Armstrong was annoyed. "I really thought you were stronger, Helen," he said, petulantly. "It is all over this library work, I suppose."

"I am not strong," replied Helen, quietly. "That is where the whole trouble lies. I am wofully weak, and I only wish that you and I had discovered it sooner."

"How would that have helped matters any?"

"If we had discovered it before we were married it would have helped matters a great deal," said Helen, with decision. "As we did not do that we must accept things as they are until we can find a solution of the problem."

"I have offered time and again to give up my work; now it has reached a point where I simply must finish it."

"Of course you must; I should be the first to oppose you were you to suggest anything different."

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

"I know you don't, and you understand yourself just as little. The work you are doing is simply an incident; the results of that work in making you an entirely different man is the main point. Do you not feel that yourself?"

"So that is it," replied Armstrong. "The work has made a different man of me, and you object to the change."

"No, it is not the change which has made me unhappy. During these weeks you have become infinitely bigger and stronger and grander, and I admire you just that much the more."

"Then why are you unhappy?"

"Because"--Helen choked down a little sob--"because, as you say, I am so weak. Because it has left me just that much behind, and has shown me how little suited I am to be your wife."

"How you do magnify things!" exclaimed Armstrong. "It is not an uncommon thing for a husband to have interests apart from his wife; it is no reflection on the wife."

"But how much better--how much more helpful--if the husband and the wife can share the same interests?"

"Granted. But why suggest a modern miracle?"

"It has shown me another thing," Helen continued, fearful lest she should be diverted from her main theme. "Inez is already much more to you than I."

Armstrong sprang to his feet, with difficulty holding back the angry words upon his lips. "This is going too far, Helen," he said, with forced calm. "Do you realize that you are actually making an accusation?"

Helen regarded him calmly but sadly. "I am making no accusation," she said, quietly. "I believe in your loyalty to me and in your sense of what is right, but the fact remains. Inez loves you, and has loved you almost since the day she arrived. Is it possible that you are insensible to this?"

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

"Do you remember what she told Ferdy De Peyster--'I love him better than my life'? Do you remember the scene at the table when Phil Emory spoke of it and her reply? Have you been with her day after day without discovering that she worships the very ground you walk on?"

"It would be useless to try to answer you, Helen," Armstrong replied, forcefully. "The most generous view I can take of what you say is to attribute it to a jealousy as unfounded as it is unworthy of you."

"Ah, Jack, if you only knew!" Helen looked at him reproachfully. "There is no jealousy in my heart even now, my husband, nothing but the greatest admiration and the deepest love. Sometime you will understand. You have a great career before you--greater, perhaps, than I can realize, because I know of your work only through others. This career is one which I must not injure, which I shall not limit. Inez can help you in attaining it, and it is right that she should do so."

Armstrong's curiosity gained the better of his resentment. "What do you propose to do to bring all this about?" he asked, incredulously.

"Whatever may be necessary," Helen replied, looking at him firmly, "even though it breaks my heart."

"Surely you have not suggested any of this nonsense to Miss Thayer?" Armstrong asked, suddenly.

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

"That is to be placed to your credit, at all events. Miss Thayer has no more sentiment toward me of the kind you suggest than if she had never met me. She is the best kind of a friend and a most valuable assistant, but that is all. My feelings toward her are exactly the same--no more, no less. I beg of you not to let anything so absurdly improbable stand between us now or later. Come, we had better go in."

"Don't wait for me," Helen answered, wearily. "I will stay here a while longer. The cool air feels very grateful to-night."

Armstrong left her there, alone with the stars and her thoughts. The break was made. They had stood at the parting of the ways, and Helen had pointed out to him the path which she knew she could not travel with him. He, with all his strength of mind, had left her without realizing what had happened. Helen had not expected him to understand her motive--that must come later--but she had thought that he would at least appreciate what she had said. Perhaps it was better so. She had known that he would disclaim the affection which she felt he could but entertain toward Inez; she was certain that he himself did not yet appreciate how firmly installed his "sister worker" had become in his heart. But Helen was no less convinced that she was right. Jack would realize it soon enough, and then he would know what she had really done to make it easier for him. Perhaps this was better, too.