BOOK I

MASTER OF FATE

THE SPELL

I

"Now, Jack, here is a chance to put your knowledge of the classics to some practical use."

Helen Armstrong paused for a moment before a Latin inscription cut in the upper stones of the boundary wall, and leaned gratefully upon her companion's arm after the steep ascent. "What does it mean?"

Her husband smiled. "That is an easy test. The ancient legend conveys the cheering intelligence that 'from this spot Florence and Fiesole, mother and daughter, are equi-distant.'"

The girl released her hold upon the man's arm and, pushing back a few stray locks which the wind had loosened, turned to regard the panorama behind her. It was a charmingly picturesque and characteristic Italian roadway which they had chosen for their day's excursion. On either side stood plastered stone walls, which bore curious marks and circles, made--who shall say when or by whom?--remaining there as an atavistic suggestion of Etruscan symbolism. The whiteness of the walls was relieved by tall cypresses and ilexes which rose high above them, while below the branches, and reclining upon the stone top, a profusion of wild roses shed their petals and their fragrance for the benefit of the passers-by. In the distance, through the trees, showed the shimmering green of olive-groves and vineyards--covering the hillsides, yet yielding occasionally to a gay-blossoming garden; and, as if to complete by contrast, the streaked peaks of Carrara gave a faint suggestion of their marble richness. In front, Fiesole rose sheer and picturesque, while villas, scattered here and there, some large and stately, some small, some antiquated and others modernized, gave evidence that the ancient Via della Piazzola still expressed its own individuality as in the days when the bishops of old trod its paths in visiting their see at the top of the hill, and Boccaccio and Sacchetti, with their kindred spirits, made its echoes ring with merry revelling. But, inevitably turning again, the modern pilgrims saw far below them, and most impressive of all, the languorous City of Flowers, peacefully dreaming on either side of the silver Arno.

All this was a familiar sight to John Armstrong, whose five years' residence in Florence, just before entering Harvard, made him feel entirely at home in its outskirts. He preferred, therefore, to fix his eyes upon the face of the girl beside him. She was tall and fair, with figure well proportioned, yet the characteristic which left the deepest impress was her peculiar sweetness of expression. Among her Vincent Club friends she was universally considered beautiful, and a girl's verdict of another girl's beauty is rarely exaggerated. Her deep, merry, gray eyes showed whence came the vivacity which ever made her the centre of an animated group, while the sympathy and understanding which shone from them explained her popularity.

The announcement of her engagement to Jack Armstrong was the greatest surprise of a sensational Boston season, not because of any unfitness in the match,--for the Armstrong lineage was quite as distinguished as the Cartwrights',--but because Helen had so persistently discouraged all admiration beyond the point of friendship and comradeship, that those who should have known pronounced her immune.

But that was because her friends had read her character even less correctly than they had Armstrong's. They would have told you that she was distinctly a girl of the twentieth century; he discovered that while tempered by its progressiveness, she had not been marred by its extremes. They would have said that her character had not yet found opportunity for expression, since her every wish had always been gratified; he would have explained that the fact that she had learned to wish wisely was in itself sufficient expression of the character which lay beneath.

He watched her in the midst of the social life to which they both belonged, entering naturally, as he did, into its conventionalities as a matter of course, and he rejoiced to find in her, beyond the enjoyment of those every-day pleasures which end where they begin, a response to the deeper thoughts which controlled his own best expression. He could see that these new subjects frightened her a little by their immensity, as he tried to explain them; he sympathized with her momentary despair when she found herself beyond her depth; but he was convinced that the understanding and the interest were both there, as in an undeveloped negative.

This same power of analysis which enabled him to discover what all could not surmise had separated Armstrong, in Helen's mind, from other men, nearer her own age, whom she had known. She could hardly have put in words what the difference was, but she felt that it existed, and this paved the way for his ultimate success. His personal attributes, inevitably tempered by the early Italian influence, marked him as one considerably above the commonplace. At college he had won the respect of his professors by his strength of mind and tenacity of application, and the affection of his fellow-students by his skill in athletics and his general good-fellowship. Now, eight years out of college, he had already made his place at the Boston bar, and was regarded as a successful man in his profession. But beyond all this, unknown even to himself, Armstrong was an extremist. The seed had been sown during that residence in Florence years before, when unconsciously he had assimilated the enthusiasm of an erudite librarian for the learning and achievements of the master spirits of the past. Latin and Greek at college had thus meant much more to him than dead languages; in them he found living personalities which inspired in him the liveliest ambition for emulation.

These were some of the subjects to which he introduced Helen. Little by little he told her of the fascination they possessed for him, of the treasures hidden beneath their austere exterior. But the girl was perhaps more interested by the charm of his presentation than by the possibilities she saw in the subjects themselves. She felt that she could understand him, and admitted her respect for the objects of his enthusiasm, but she was convinced that these were beyond her comprehension, and frankly rebelled at the necessity of going back into dead centuries for them.

"I love the present, and all that it contains," she replied to him one day when something suggested the subject during one of the many walks they took together; "I love the sky, the air, the sunshine, and the flowers. Why should I go back to the past, made up of memories only, when I may enjoy all this beautiful world around me? And you, Jack--I should not have you if I had lived in the past!"

As her friends had said, she possessed strong ideas about marriage, and expressed them without reserve. Until Armstrong's irresistible wooing, she had decided, as a result both of observation and of conclusion, that admiration and attention from many were far to be preferred to the devotion of any single one, and that matrimony was neither essential nor desirable except under ideal conditions.

"There are so many things which seem more interesting to me than a husband," Helen asserted. "I'm afraid that I agree too much with that wise old cynic who said that 'love is the wine of life, and marriage the dram-drinking.' I insist on remaining a teetotaler."

Thus Armstrong felt himself entitled to enjoy a certain degree of pride and satisfaction in that he had succeeded in convincing her at last that the ideal conditions she demanded had been met.

Even on board the steamer, at the start of their wedding journey, as the familiar sky-line of New York became less and less distinct, Armstrong read in his wife's eyes, still gazing back at the vanishing city, the thoughts which inevitably forced themselves upon her--a last remnant of her former doubt. When she turned and saw him looking at her, she smiled guiltily.

"We are leaving the old life behind us," she said. "With all the philosophy you have tried to teach me, I have not fully realized until now what a change it means."

"Do you regret it?" he asked her, half rebellious that even a passing shadow should mar the completeness of their happiness.

Helen quickly became herself again, and threw back her head with a merry laugh at the seriousness of his interrogation. "Regret it! How foolish even to ask such a question! But you cannot wonder that the importance of the event should force itself upon me, now that we are actually married, even if it never did before. It makes so much more of a change in a woman's life than in a man's."

Helen sighed, and then looked mischievously into his face. "With you superior beings," she continued, "it simply signifies a new latch-key, a new head to your household, and the added companionship of a woman whom you have selected as absolutely essential to your happiness. You keep your old friends, give up for a time a few of your bad habits, and transfer a part of your affections from your clubs to your home. To the woman, it means a complete readjustment. New duties and responsibilities come to her all at once. From her earliest memory she has been taught to depend upon the counsel and guidance of her parents, but suddenly she finds herself freed from this long-accustomed habit, with a man standing beside her, only a few years her senior, who is convinced that he can serve in this capacity far better than any one else ever did. Even with a husband as superior as yourself, Mr. John Armstrong, is it not natural that one should recognize the passing of the old life, while welcoming the coming of the new?"

After landing, they had lingered for a fortnight in Paris, but, beneath the keen enjoyment of the attractions there, Armstrong had felt an impatience, unacknowledged even to himself, to reach Florence, which contained for him so much of interest, and whither his memory--let him give it sway--ever recalled him. He felt that his _dei familiares_ were patiently waiting for him there, indulgent in spite of his long absence, yet insistent that their rights again be recognized. Having dropped his engrossing law-practice, he yearned to take advantage of this opportunity, now near at hand, to devote himself to the girl he had won, and at the same time to gratify this long-cherished wish to study more deeply into the work of those early humanists who had foreshadowed and brought about that mighty thought revolution, the wonderful breaking-away from the deadly pall of ignorance into the light and joyousness and richness of intellectual life known as the Renaissance. Helen would no longer fail to understand them when she saw them face to face. He would lead her gently, even as Cerini the librarian had led him; and together they would draw from the old life those principles which made it what it was, incorporating them into their new existence, which would thus be the richer and better worth the living. So now that he had actually reached his goal, it was natural that his contentment at finding himself in Florence with his wife was intensified by the joy of being again amid the scenes and personages which his imagination had taken out from the indefiniteness of antiquity, and invested with a living actuality.

The sharp contrast of his two great devotions came to John Armstrong as he stood at the cross-roads on the edge of San Domenico. The one had exerted so powerful an influence on what he was to-day--the other must influence his future to an extent even greater. The one, in spite of the personality with which he had clothed it, was as musty and antiquated as the ancient tomes he loved to study; the other, as she stood there, her cheeks aglow after the brisk walk, her face animated with enthusiastic delight, seemed the personification of present reality. What a force the two must make when once joined together, contributing, each to the other, those qualities which would else be lacking!

"I must take you yet a little higher," Armstrong urged at length; "these walls still cut off much of the glorious view."

In a few moments more they had partly ascended the Via della Fiesolana, which at this hour was wholly deserted. With a sigh, half from satisfaction and half from momentary fatigue, Helen turned to her companion. She caught the admiration which his face so clearly reflected, but, womanlike, preferred to feign ignorance of its origin. Glancing about her, she discovered a rock, half hidden by the tall grass and wild poppies, which offered an attractive resting-place. Seating herself, she plucked several of the brilliant blossoms, and began to weave the stems together. At last she broke the silence.

"Why are you so quiet, Jack?"

"For three reasons," he replied, promptly. "This walk has made me romantic, poetic, and hungry."

Helen laughed heartily. "I am glad you added the third reason, for by that I know that you are mortal. This wonderful air and the marvellous view affect me exactly as a fairy-story used to, years ago. When I turned I fully expected to find a fairy prince beside me. You confess that you are romantic, which is becoming in a five-weeks'-old husband, but why poetic?"

"'Poetry is but spoken painting,'" quoted Armstrong, smiling; "and I should be pleased indeed were I able to put on canvas the picture I now see before me."

"Since you cannot do that, suppose you write a sonnet."

Armstrong met her arch smile firmly. The girlish abandon under the influence of new surroundings awoke in him a side of his nature which he had not previously realized he possessed. Stooping, he gently held her face between his hands and looked deep into her responsive eyes before replying:

"'_Say from what vein did Love procure the gold To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn, Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould? What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told Those gentle accents sweet, tho' rarely born? Whence came so many graces to adorn That brow more fair than summer skies unfold? Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control The song divine which wastes my life away? (Who can with trifles now my senses move?) What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?_'"

Helen made no reply for several moments after Armstrong ceased speaking. Then she held out her hand to him and looked up into his face.

"I never knew before that you were a real poet," she said, quietly.

"I wish I were--and such a poet! My precious Petrarch, for whom you profess so little fondness, is responsible for that most splendid tribute ever paid to woman."

Helen was incredulous.

"That sanctimonious old gentleman with the laurel leaves on his head and the very self-confident expression on his face?"

Armstrong nodded.

"Who spent all his life making love to another man's wife from a safe distance?"

"Yes; this is one of his love-letters."

"Then if I accept those lines you just repeated with so much feeling, I must be Laura?"

"But not another man's wife."

"I should have been if you had acted like that, Jack. Let me see how you look with a laurel wreath made of poppies."

She drew his head down and tied the flowers about his forehead. Then, pushing him away from her, she clapped her hands with delight.

"There! if the noble Petrarch had looked like that, Madonna Laura could surely never have resisted him."

"Had Madonna Laura resembled Madonna Helen, the worthy Petrarch would have had her in his arms before she had the chance," laughed Armstrong, improving his opportunity as he spoke.

"Very gallant, Jack, but very improper." Helen pursed her lips and looked up at him mischievously. "But let us forget your musty old antiquities and talk of the present. Do you realize that this is the end of our honeymoon?"

"No," he replied, holding her more closely and laughing down at her; "it has only just begun."

"Of course," assented Helen, disengaging herself, "but to-morrow we are to exchange the very romantic titles of 'bride' and 'bridegroom' for the much more commonplace 'host' and 'hostess.'"

"Oh! I am relieved that you are not going to divorce me at once." Armstrong was amused at her seriousness. "But it was your idea to invite them to join us, was it not?"

"I know it was--and now I must make a confession to you. I thought that in five weeks we both would be glad enough to have some little break in our love-making. But I did not realize how rapidly five weeks could pass. Still"--Helen sighed--"what is the use of having a villa in Florence unless you can invite your friends to see it?"

"Then you have not become tired of your husband as soon as you thought you would?"

"Nor you of your wife?" Helen retorted, quickly. "Mamma suggested it first. She said that so long a wedding trip as we had planned was sure to end with one or both of us becoming hopelessly bored unless we introduced other characters into our Garden of Eden."

"Did she say 'Garden of Eden'? That family party included a serpent, if rumor be correct."

The girl laughed.

"But there could not be one in ours, because I would never give you the chance to say, 'The woman did it.'"

"Your mother forgets that we are exceptions."

"She says there may be some difference in men, but that all husbands are alike."

"Trite and to the point, as always with mamma." Armstrong paused and smiled. "Well, I think even she will be satisfied with the success of her suggestion. How many do our guests number at present?"

Helen dropped the flower she was idly swinging and began to count upon her fingers.

"Let me see. There is Inez Thayer--I am glad that she could visit us, so that at last you can know her. It is strange enough that you should not have met her until the wedding. You cannot help liking each other, for she is interested in all those serious things you love so well. The girls used to make sport of our devotion at school because our dispositions are so unlike: she is thoughtful, while I am impulsive; she is carried away with anything which is deep and learned, while I, as you well know, have nothing more important in life than you and my music."

Helen paused for a moment thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wish I could really interest myself in those ancient deities you worship."

"You could if you only knew them as I do," he urged, quietly. "The present is the evolution of the past, but it has been evolved so fast that many of the old-time treasures have been forgotten in the mad pace of every-day life."

"But we can't remember everything," Helen replied; "there are not hours enough in the day. I can't even find time to read our modern writers as much as I wish I could, and I think one ought to do that before going back to the ancients."

"All modern literature is based upon what has gone before," insisted Armstrong.

"Wait a moment." Helen's face again became thoughtful. "I have it!" she cried, triumphantly. "'The gardens of Sicily are empty now, but the bees still fetch honey from the golden jars of Theocritus.' That is what you mean, is it not? I remember that from something of Lowell's I read at school."

"Splendid!" he laughed, with delight. "Who dares to say that you are not in sympathy with the past?" He bent his head down close to hers. "Would you not prefer to hold those 'golden jars' in your very hands, sweetheart, rather than merely read about them?"

"But, Jack, 'the gardens of Sicily are empty now.' Think how lonesome we should be." Helen threw back her head and drew in a long breath of the exhilarating air.

Armstrong was still insistent. "I wish I could make you see it as I do," he said. "The present of to-day is bound to be the past of to-morrow. What I want to do is to assimilate all that the past can give me, so that I may do my part, however small, toward giving it out again, made stronger and more effective because of its modern application, thus helping this present to become worthy of being considered by those who come after us."

Helen looked up at him with undisguised admiration. "Oh, Jack, that sounds so wonderful, and I wish I could enter into it with you, but I simply cannot do it. Inez will be just the one. At school, as I told you, she went in for the classics and all that, while I--well, I was sent there to be 'finished.' Don't look so disappointed, Jack. Truly I would if I could."

"I shall not give you up yet," he answered, smiling at Helen's intensity, notwithstanding his genuine regret. "Tell me something more about Miss Thayer, since you insist upon her becoming your substitute."

"Inez is a darling, in spite of her superiority," Helen replied, gayly, "and I simply could not have been married without her for a bridesmaid. She would have sailed two weeks earlier except for our wedding. As it was, she came over with her cousins, and has been travelling with them until time to join us here at the villa."

"De Peyster is still devoted, I judge?"

"Poor Ferdinand! His persistency has quite won my sympathy. He simply will not take 'no' for an answer, but travels back and forth between Boston and Philadelphia like any commercial traveller. Going over, he has a bunch of American Beauties under one arm and a box of bonbons under the other; returning, nothing but another refusal to add to those Inez has already given him."

"He is not a bad sort of chap at all, when you get past his peculiarities," Armstrong added.

"Ferdy is a splendid fellow, in his own way," assented Helen, warmly, "and any girl might do a great deal worse than marry him; but he is not Inez' style at all. I believe her trip to Europe is really to get away from him. I know he thinks that is the reason, and is simply inconsolable."

"De Peyster would be a good match," remarked Armstrong, thoughtfully. "He has plenty of money and plenty of leisure, and he ought to be able to make his wife fairly comfortable."

"But that is not what Inez wants. She has great ideas about affinities, and Ferdy does not answer to the description."

"Then there is your uncle Peabody," Armstrong prompted, helpfully.

"Yes, there is dear Uncle Peabody. You will enjoy him immensely."

"Does he live up to his reputation of a man with an 'ism'?"

"Oh, Jack! Some one has been maligning him to you. That is because he is the only original member of our family, and really the most useful."

"Indeed! If that is your estimate of him, it shall also be mine. I was prepared for a well-developed specimen of the _genus_ crank."

"Wait till you see him." Helen laughed at her husband's mental picture. "He is a crank, in a way, but he is a mighty cheerful one to have around."

"He believes in making an air-plant of one's self, in order to help him forget his other troubles, does he not?"

"Who has been making fun of dear Uncle Peabody? I must have him tell you about his work himself. It is true that he believes most people overeat, and it is true that he is devoting his life and his fortune to finding out what the basis of proper nutrition really is; but as for starving--wait till you see him!"

"You have relieved me considerably," Armstrong replied, gravely. "From what I had heard of your uncle I had expected nothing less than to be made an example of for the sake of science--and you have already discovered that I am really partial to my meals."

"You can be just as partial to them as ever, Jack. But, seriously, I know you will find him most interesting, and I shall be surprised if his theories do not give you something new to think about."

"His theories will not do for me," said Armstrong, assuming a position of mock importance, "for I have always been taught that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius."

"Splendid!" cried Helen. "That will be just the argument to start the conversation at our first dinner and keep it from being commonplace. I have been trying to think how we could get Uncle Peabody interested. It is only that first dinner which I dread, and you have helped me out nobly."

"That makes two," suggested Jack.

"Yes, two. Then there are the Sinclair girls, who have been studying here in Florence for nearly a year. They will come up from their _pension_. That makes four--and the others, you know, are Phil Emory and Dick Eustis, who arrive in Florence from Rome to-night. I don't need to tell you anything about them."

"There is a whole lot you might tell me about Emory if you chose."

Armstrong looked slyly into his wife's face.

"Shame on you, Jack!" Helen cried, flushing; "the idea of being jealous on your wedding trip!"

"I am not jealous _now_." He emphasized the last word.

"Well, I am glad you are over it."

"It looks like a very jolly party," he hastened to add, seeing that Helen's annoyance was genuine, "and I can see where we become old married folk to-morrow. You and Uncle Peabody will act as chaperons, I presume, Phil and Dick will look after the Sinclair girls, while I am to devote myself to Inez Thayer. Is that the programme?"

"Exactly. I am so anxious that Inez should appreciate what a talented husband I have. She has heard great stories about your learning and erudition, so now you must live up to the picture."

"Then suppose we start for home if you are quite rested. It is plainly incumbent on me to make sure that my knowledge of the classics proves equal to the test."

II

The Armstrongs had installed themselves in the Villa Godilombra, near Settignano. The date for the wedding was no sooner settled than Jack cabled to secure what had always seemed to him to be the most glorious location around Florence. Years before, his favorite tramp had been out of the ancient city through the Porta alla Croce to La Mensola, whence he delighted to ascend the hill of Settignano. Every villa possessed a peculiar fascination for him. The "Poggio Gherardo"--the "Primo Palagio del Refugio" of the _Decameron_--made Boccaccio real to him. The Villa Buonarroti, whither Michelangelo was sent as a baby, after the Italian custom, to be nursed in a family of _scarpellini_, always attracted him, and times without number he had stood admiringly before the wall in one of the rooms, gazing at the figure of the satyr which the infant prodigy drew with a burning stick taken from the fire. In those days he had been seized with a secret yearning to become an artist, and often he had tried to reproduce the satyr from memory, but always the ugly visage assumed a mocking, sneering aspect which caused him to relinquish his cherished ambition in despair.

But the Villa Godilombra appealed to Armstrong for a different reason. It stood high up on the hill, affording a wonderful view of the village of Settignano and the wide-spreading valley of the Arno. The villa itself, with its overhanging eaves, coigned angles, and narrow windows, set on heavy consoles, was essentially Tuscan, and impressive far out of proportion to its size. It would have seemed too massive but for an arcade at either end, the one connecting the house itself with its chapel, the other leading from the first floor through a spiral stairway in one pier of the arcade to what originally, in the days of the Gamberelli, had been an old fish-pond and herb-garden. In front of the villa a row of antiquated stone vases shared the honors with equally dilapidated stone dogs along a grassy terrace held up by a low wall, while beyond this and the house was the vineyard.

Armstrong had studied the plans of the house and grounds from a distance, because, after his disappointing experience with Michelangelo's satyr, he had firmly determined to become an architect and to build Italian houses in America. He had walked up and down the long bowling-green behind the villa, carefully noting the number of statues set upon the high retaining wall and figuring the height of the hedges. One day old Giuseppe, the sun-baked gardener who had watched the boy first with suspicion and then with interest, invited him to enter, and his joy had been complete. Giuseppe showed him the fish-pond and the grotto, lying in the shadow of the ancient cypresses, made up of varicolored shells and stones, with shepherds and nymphs occupying niches around a trickling fountain. He led him to the balustrade at the end of the bowling-green, and pointed out the panorama which terminated in the hills beyond the southern bank of the river.

Parallel with the back of the villa was another wall which supported a terrace of cypress and ilex trees. Behind this was the _salvatico_, without which no self-respecting Italian villa could maintain its dignity, with stone seats beneath the heavy foliage offering a grateful relief from the glare of the sun. And here and there were white statues of classic goddesses, to relieve the loneliness had it existed. An iron gate, let into the wall opposite the main doorway of the villa, led into a small garden, this leading in turn into another grotto, which, with its fountain and statues, formed an extension of the _vista_. On either side a balustraded flight of steps led up to an artificial height--the Italians' beloved _terrazza_--flanked by rows of orange and lemon trees, growing luxuriantly in their red earthen pots; while against the wide balustrades rested the heavily scented clusters of the camellia and the rose-tinted oleander.

Twelve years is a short space of time in Italy, where age is reckoned by the millennial, so it seemed perfectly natural, when Armstrong arrived in Florence, to find Giuseppe still at his old post and included in the lease as a part of the Villa Godilombra. The old man expressed no surprise, no delight--yet at heart he was well pleased. The previous tenants of the villa had been the unimaginative family of a German-American brewer, and their preference for beer over the wonderful _vino rosso_ which he himself had pressed out from the luscious grapes in the vineyard filled his heart with sorrow. He confided to Annetta, the red-lipped maid Armstrong had engaged for Helen, that he "was glad to serve an 'Americano molto importante' rather than a _porco_." And Giuseppe took great satisfaction in placing upon that last word all the emphasis needed to express six months' accumulated disgust.

From the moment the Armstrongs arrived, Giuseppe's admiration for Helen knew no bounds. To him she was the personification of all that was perfection. Not that he expressed it, even to Annetta--he would have forgotten mass on Good Friday sooner than so forget his place. It was rather that devotion which is born and not made--occasionally, but not often, found in those who enter so intimately into the life of those they serve, yet who must always feel themselves apart from it. Hardly a day had passed since the Armstrongs had assumed possession of the villa that Helen had not found the choicest _fragole_ at her plate, each juicy berry carefully selected and resting upon a bed of its own leaves at the bottom of the little basket. Her room was ever redolent with the odor of the flowers he smuggled in, always unobserved; and his instructions to the more frivolous Annetta as to her duties toward the _nobile donna_ were such as to cause that young woman to throw her head haughtily on one side, with the observation that she was probably as well acquainted with the requirements of a lady's maid as any gardener was apt to be, even though he _were_ old enough to be her grandfather.

This particular tiff had taken place while Armstrong and his wife were making their excursion to Fiesole. On their return they had found Giuseppe in a morose mood, which quickly vanished when Helen told him, in her broken Italian, that she expected guests upon the morrow, and depended upon him to see that every room was properly decorated, as he alone could do it. The old man could hardly wait to arrange the chairs upon the veranda, so eager was he to seek revenge upon his youthful tormentor.

"Did she ask you to arrange the flowers, young peacock-feather?" asked Giuseppe of Annetta when he found her in the kitchen. "Did she trust you even to bring the message to old Giuseppe? No. With her own lips the _Eccellenza_ praised the one servant on whom she can rely."

"She knows you are good for nothing else," Annetta retorted, with a scornful laugh and a toss of her pretty head; "and she wishes to get you out of the way while we attend to the really important matters. See," she cried, as the tinkling of the maids' bell punctuated her remarks, "the _nobile donna_ will now give _me_ commands."

Giuseppe could not so far forget his dignity as to reply to such an outrageous slander, so he contented himself with casting upon Annetta his most withering glances as she hastily brushed past him, holding back her skirts lest they be defiled by touching the old man. He watched her angrily until she vanished through the door, then, with the choicest maledictions at his command, he shuffled into the garden--into his own domain, where the present generation of ill-bred servants, as he explained to himself, could vex him not.

* * * * *

Mrs. John Armstrong's first dinner at the Villa Godilombra was an unqualified success. Uncle Peabody had arrived early that morning; his optimism had set its seal of approval upon the evident happiness of the bridal couple, and he had already established himself as chief reflector of the concentrated joy which he saw about him. Inez Thayer was received into Helen's welcoming arms soon after luncheon, and was at once installed in the best guest-chamber for an extended visit. Two dusty _vetture_ brought the Sinclair girls, Emory and Eustis, in time for dinner, each driver striving to deliver his passengers first in anticipation of an extra _pourboire_. The company was therefore complete, and each member quite in the spirit of the occasion.

The great candelabra cast their light upon the animated party seated about the table in such a manner that the old paintings hanging upon the walls of the high room were but dimly visible. The long windows were open, and the light breeze just cooled the air enough to mellow the temperature, without so much as causing the candle-flames to flicker. Giuseppe's choicest flowers, deftly arranged upon the table by Helen's skilful hands, contrasted pleasantly with the antique silver and china which had once been the pride of the original owner of the villa; and the menu itself, wisely intrusted by Helen to the old Italian cook, was rife with constant surprises for the American palate. Even the wines were new--if not in name, at least in flavor, for Italian vintages leave behind them their native richness and aroma when transplanted. Never was any _vino rosso_ so delicious as that which Giuseppe made, even though unappreciated by his former master; never such _lacrima Christi_ as that which Armstrong secured in a little wine-shop near the Bargello; never such _Asti spumante_ as that which sparkled in the glasses, eager to share its own bubbling happiness in return for the privilege of touching the fair lips of the beautiful _donne Americane_.

"We had a friend of yours on board ship, Miss Thayer," said Emory, speaking to his left-hand neighbor as they seated themselves.

"A friend of mine?" queried Inez. "I can't think who it could be."

"Ferdy De Peyster," replied Emory.

Inez cast a quick glance at Helen. "Really?" she asked. "I thought he was going to spend the summer at Bar Harbor."

"Changed his mind at the last moment," he said. "Could not resist the charms of Italy. Do you know, Helen"--Emory addressed himself to his hostess--"De Peyster has developed a mania for art."

Helen laughed. "No," she replied, "that is news indeed. It is a side of Ferdy's nature which even his best friends had not suspected. Is he coming to Florence?"

"Can't say; but he is evidently planning to leave Rome. We left him at the Vatican, in the Pinacoteca, standing before Raphael's 'Transfiguration.'"

"With a Baedeker in his hand?" queried Jack.

"No, studying Cook's Continental Time-table."

"What a detective you would make, Mr. Emory," suggested Mary Sinclair as the laughter subsided.

"I have a better story about De Peyster than that."

Eustis waited to be urged.

"Give it to us, Dick," said Jack, helpfully.

"It was at Gibraltar," began Eustis. "We were in the same party going over the fortifications. De Peyster, you know, enlisted at the time of the Spanish war. Some family friend in the Senate obtained for him a berth as second lieutenant, and his company got as far as Key West. He rather prides himself on his military knowledge, and he confided to me that he had his uniform with him in case he was invited to attend any Court functions. Well, all the way around De Peyster explained everything to us. The Tommy Atkins who was our guide was as serious as a mummy, but confirmed everything Ferdy said. When you reach the gallery at the top, you remember, the guide points out the parade-ground below, and it happened that there was a battalion going through its evolutions."

"'Ah!' said De Peyster, 'this is very interesting.'" Then he described each movement, giving it the technical military name. At last he turned to our guide and said, patronizingly: 'I'm a bit disappointed, sergeant, after all I have heard of the precision of the English army. I have often seen American soldiers go through those same movements--just as well as that.'

"The sergeant saluted respectfully and gravely. 'Quite likely, sir,' he said, 'quite likely. These are raw recruits--arrived yesterday, sir!'"

"De Peyster was a sport, though," added Emory. "When he saw that the joke was on him he handed Tommy a shining sovereign and said: 'Here, sergeant, have this on me, and drink a health to our two armies--may comparisons never be needed.'"

Helen clapped her hands. "Good for Ferdy! He is all right if people would only leave him alone."

"Too bad he has so much money!" Eustis was reflective. "If De Peyster had to get out and hustle a bit you would find he had a whole lot of stuff in him."

"Of course he has," Uncle Peabody agreed.

"Do you know Mr. De Peyster?" Inez asked, surprised.

"No," replied Uncle Peabody, "I don't need to after hearing Mr. Eustis's summary. On general principles, every one has 'a whole lot of stuff in him.' The trouble is that people don't give it a chance to come out."

"Your confidence is evidently based upon your general optimism?" Armstrong remembered that Helen had mentioned this as a cardinal characteristic.

"Yes, but proved by a thousand and one experiments. Our present subject, who now becomes No. 1002, is apparently handicapped by the misfortune of inherited leisure. It is rarely that a man of possession reaches his fullest development without the spur of necessity. More frequently we see one extreme or the other--too much possession or too much necessity."

"That is all very well as a theory, but does it really prove anything as regards De Peyster?" questioned Armstrong. "Personally I think optimism is a dangerous thing. This confidence that everything is coming out right is what makes criminals out of bank cashiers."

"There is a vast difference between real and false optimism," replied Uncle Peabody. "I knew a man once who called himself a cheerful pessimist, because every time he planted a seed it grew down instead of up. He came to expect this, so it did not worry him any. He was a real optimist, even though he did not know it."

"What would be your prescription for a case like Mr. De Peyster's?" queried Bertha Sinclair.

"A good wife, possessed of ambition, sympathy, and tact," Uncle Peabody replied, promptly. "This, my dear Miss Sinclair, is your opportunity to assist me in proving my argument. Will you be my accomplice?"

"I? Why, I don't even know Mr. De Peyster," Bertha protested. "You must find some one else."

"Very well," sighed Mr. Cartwright. "You see how difficult it is for science to assert its laws."

Helen caught sight of Inez' cheeks and hastened to her friend's relief.

"Uncle Peabody, do you know that you are responsible for the first difference of opinion which has arisen between my husband and me?"

"My gracious, no! Can it be possible?"

"It is a fact. I stated to him only yesterday that perfect digestion was the only basis on which health and happiness can possibly rest. You taught me that, but Jack asserts that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius."

"How does he know? Has he a touch of indigestion?"

"Not a touch," laughed Armstrong, "and that proves my statement. I really believe I might have been a genius if my digestion had not always been so disgustingly strong."

"Don't despair, my dear boy."

Uncle Peabody looked at Jack over his spectacles. "Genius is a germ, and sometimes develops late in life. If your theory is correct, a few more gastronomic orgies such as this will make you eligible."

"But is there not something in what I say?" Armstrong persisted, seriously. "Is it not true that good health is against intellectual progression? Is not good health the supremacy of the physical over the mental? The healthy man is an animal--he eats and sleeps too much. Pain and suffering have not developed the nervous side, which is so closely connected with the intellectual. When the physical side becomes weakened, then the brain begins to act."

Uncle Peabody listened attentively and then removed his spectacles. "My dear Jack Armstrong," he said, at last, "I can see some fun ahead for both of us, and Helen has placed me still further in her debt by her choice of a husband. Your argument is not a new one. It was invented a great many years ago in France by some clever person who wished to have an excuse for late nights, absinthe, and cigarettes. Do you mean seriously to advance a theory which, if logically carried through to the end, would credit hospitals and homes for the hopelessly depraved with being the highest intellectual establishments in the world?"

"But look at the examples which can be cited," Armstrong continued, undisturbed. "Zola produced nothing of importance after he adopted the simple life, and Swinburne's poetry lost all its fire as soon as he 'reformed.'"

"Can you prove in either case that the question of nutrition or digestion entered into the matter at all?"

"Oh, it may have been a coincidence, of course; but many other cases might be added."

Uncle Peabody was silent for a moment. "Let me give you a simple problem," he said, at length. "Helen tells me that you have an automobile now on its way to Florence?"

Armstrong assented.

"When it arrives I presume you will engage a chauffeur?"

"What has an automobile to do with nutrition, Mr. Cartwright?" demanded Mary Sinclair. "Surely an automobile has no digestion."

"My application is near at hand. When you engage that chauffeur I presume you will insist that he knows the mechanism of the machine, understands the application of the motive power and other details which enter into safe and successful handling of the car?"

"Naturally," replied Jack. "I am not introducing my machine here for the purpose either of murder or suicide."

"Exactly. That is just what I wanted you to say. Now, every human stomach is an engine which requires at least as intelligent handling as that of an automobile. Upon its successful working depends the mechanical action of the body. We may disregard the additional dependence of the brain. Petroleum in the automobile is replaced by what we call food in the human engine. Too much of either, unintelligently applied, produces the same unfortunate result. Now I ask you, John Armstrong, would you engage as chauffeur for your automobile a man who knew no more about the mechanism of its engine, or how to feed and handle it properly, than you yourself know about your own body engine?"

"No," Armstrong admitted, frankly, "I would not."

"But which is more serious--a damage resulting from his ignorance or from your own?"

"Look here, Mr. Cartwright," said Jack, laughingly, "you promised that there was fun ahead for us both. At present it seems to be mostly for you and our friends."

"Who started the discussion?"

"Helen; but I admit my error in being drawn into it. I had not expected to be convicted upon my own evidence."

Helen rose. "I must rescue my husband from the calamity I have brought upon him. Come, let us have our coffee in the garden."

III

If one could have looked within Uncle Peabody's room after the other guests had snuffed out their candles, he would have discovered its inmate seated beside the flickering light with an open letter in his hand. He had read it over many times since its receipt nearly three months earlier, announcing in Helen's characteristic way her engagement and approaching marriage. No one else had ever come so closely into his life, and he felt a certain responsibility to satisfy himself that the girl had made no mistake in the important step which she had taken. Now that he had actually met her husband, he again perused the lines which had introduced his new nephew to him.

"_It has actually happened at last_," the letter began, "_and your favorite wager of 'a thousand to one on the unexpected' has really won. In other words, I, Helen Cartwright, condemned (by myself) to live and die an old maid as penalty for being so critical of the genus homo, now confess myself completely, hopelessly in love, and so happy in my new estate that I wonder why I ever hesitated._

"_It is all so curious. The things which interested me before now seem so commonplace compared to the events to come in connection with this broader existence which is opening up before me. How infinitely more gratifying it is to feel myself living for and a part of another's life, how comforting to know that some other personality, whom I can love and respect, feels himself to be living for and a part of my life. It adds to the seriousness of it all, but how it increases the satisfaction!_

"_I wish I could describe John Armstrong to you, but now that I am about to make the attempt I realize how difficult a task I have undertaken. He is eight years older than I, but sometimes he seems to be years younger, while again I feel almost like a child beside him. No, Uncle Peabody, it is not a similar case to that little Mrs. Johnson whom you quoted when you were last home as saying that a woman feels as old as the way her husband treats her. I know this will pop into your mind, so I will promptly head you off. The fact is that Jack is a very remarkable man. He is handsome, with great strength of character showing in every feature, he is tall and athletic,--but it is his wonderful mental ability which will most impress you. Think of a man playing on the Harvard 'Varsity eleven, rowing on the crew, and yet graduating with a =summa cum laude=!_

"_Jack is a superb dancer, thus disproving the common belief that a man can't be clever at both ends; and at the Assemblies, even before we were engaged, I used to anticipate those numbers which he had taken more than all the others. Besides this, his conversation was always so original,--touching frequently upon topics which were new to me. His particular fad is what he calls 'humanism' and his particular loves the great writers of the past,--his 'divinities,' as he calls them. You probably understand just what all this means, but, alas! most of it is beyond my comprehension! What he tells me interests me, of course,--it even fascinates me. I can follow him up to a certain point; then we reach my limitations, and I am forced to admit my lack of understanding. That is when I feel so like an infant beside him. He is as patient as can be, and insists that when once I am in Florence, where the air itself is heavy with the learning of the past, I shall be able to comprehend it all, and it will mean the same to me that it does to him. I wish I felt as confident!_

"_We are to be married in April, and Jack has taken the Villa Godilombra in Settignano for the season. We expect to arrive there early in May, and we want you to come to us for just as long a visit as you can arrange. You won't disappoint me, will you, dear Uncle Peabody? We all have been broken-hearted that you have so long delayed your return, and one of the events in our plans for Florence to which I am looking forward with the greatest eagerness is this visit with you. Write and tell me how your work progresses, but don't say 'I told you so.' This would show that you really expected it all the time, and your favorite argument would lose its force. Just say that you will come to us at Settignano._"

The letter itself showed that Helen had changed much during the months which had elapsed since he had last seen her. There was a more serious undertone and a broader outlook,--due undoubtedly to Armstrong's influence. Uncle Peabody wondered whether Helen could have been attracted to this man by her admiration for his mental strength rather than by any real sentiment, perhaps mistaking the one for the other. This was the point he wished to settle in his own mind, and this was why he had studied them both, from the moment of his arrival, much more carefully than either one of them realized.

Armstrong was a remarkable man, as Helen had said. Even in the few hours he had known him, Uncle Peabody found much to admire. It was true that his manner toward Helen showed indulgence, almost as to a child rather than to a wife; but his devotion was entirely obvious, and this relation was to be expected after reading Helen's letter. Still, Mr. Cartwright told himself, the existence of this relation necessitated a certain readjustment before a perfection of united interests could be attained. Armstrong was bound to be the dominating force, and Helen must inevitably respond to this new influence, strange as it now seemed to her. His knowledge of her sympathetic and intuitive grasp of his own pet theories gave him confidence to believe that this response would be equally prompt and comprehensive.

Henry Peabody Cartwright was distinctly a citizen of the world. Boston had been his birthplace, Boston had been the base of his eminently successful business operations, and his name still figured in the list of the city's "largest taxpayers." Beyond this, the city of his early activity had, during the past twenty years, seen him only as a visitor at periodic intervals. He had emerged from his commercial environment at the age of forty, with a firm determination to gratify his ideals.

Fortunately for him, and for mankind as well, his ideals were not fully crystallized when he set out to gratify them. Boston was entirely satisfactory to him as an abiding-place, but he felt a leaven at work within him which demanded a larger arena than even the outlying territory of Greater Boston covered. He started, therefore, in the late eighties for a trip around the world, with the definite purpose, as he himself announced, of "giving things a chance to happen to him."

"I have no schedule and no plans," he said to those who questioned him. "I shall 'hitch my wagon to a star,' but always with my grip near at hand, so that I may change stars upon a moment's notice."

There were no immediate family ties to interfere with the carrying-out of what seemed to his friends to be rather quixotic ideas. There may have been some youthful romance, but, if so, no one ever succeeded in learning anything of it from him.

"It is all perfectly simple," he once good-naturedly replied to a persistent relative. "The girls I was willing to marry would not have me, and those who would have me I was not willing to marry. I used to think that I would become more attractive as I grew older, but I have given up that idea now. Once I tried to rub a freckle off with sand-paper and pumice-stone and found blood under the skin; but the freckle--the same old freckle--is there to this day."

His devotion to women in the composite was consistent and sincere; the fondness which existed between himself and his brother's family was such that his departure had left a distinct void, and his visits home were events circled with red ink in the family calendar. He enjoyed these visits no less than they; but with never more than a day or two of warning he would announce his intention of leaving for Egypt or India or some spot more or less remote in his quest for the unexpected. To the reproaches which were levelled at him, he replied, with a smile which defied controversy:

"I am just as sorry not to be with you all as you can possibly be to have me away; but I have educated myself to the separation, and have thus overcome the necessity for personal propinquity."

On that first trip around the world Uncle Peabody found one of his ideals, although he did not realize its vast importance until several years later. Japan appealed to him, and the longer he remained there the more impressed he became with certain of the national characteristics. First of all, he marvelled at the evenness of temper which the people displayed, at their endurance, their patience. He watched the carefulness with which they weighed the importance of each problem before accepting its responsibility, and their utter abandon in carrying it through when once undertaken. This was twenty years before the Russo-Japanese war, and he had come among them with the existing Occidental estimate of their paganism and barbarity. It may have been a species of incredulity leading to curiosity which induced him to remain among them, but as a result of his sojourn he discovered that they were philosophers rather than fatalists, geniuses rather than barbarians.

He questioned his new hosts, when he came to know them better, and was told quite seriously and quite naturally that they never became angry, because anger produced poison in the system and retarded digestion; that upon digestion depended health; that upon health depended happiness, and upon happiness depended personal efficiency and life itself. They explained that forethought was one of the cardinal factors of their creed, but added that its antithesis, fear-thought, was equally important as an element to be eliminated. They called his attention to the fact that they did not live upon what they ate, but upon what they digested, and that by masticating their food more thoroughly than he did they secured from the smaller quantity the same amount of nourishment without needlessly overloading their systems with undigested food which could not possibly be assimilated.

This last theory did not altogether appeal to Peabody Cartwright at first. His friends at the Somerset Club still held memories of his epicurean proclivities, and they were not weary even yet of recalling the time when he had won a goodly wager by naming, blindfolded, five different vintages of Burgundy and Bordeaux. But the more he thought it over the more convinced he became that the something to which he had promised to give a chance had really happened to him. He pondered, he experimented--but he still continued to eat larger quantities of food than the Japanese.

A year later he was in Italy, and in Venice Mr. Cartwright suddenly discovered that he had found the geographical centre of the civilized world. With Venice as the starting-point, one could reach London or Constantinople, St. Petersburg or New York, with equal exertion. Venice, therefore, became his adopted home, although it could claim no more of his presence than any one of a dozen other cities in the four quarters of the globe. During the twenty years, he had succeeded in making himself a part of each one--had become a veritable citizen of the world, but by no means a man without a country.

Italy served to drive home the truths which Japan had first shown him. Three years after his experience there, a dingy, second-hand book-store in Florence had placed him in possession of Luigi Cornaro's _Discorsi della Vita Sobria_. He read it with amazement. Here in his hand, written by a Venetian nobleman more than three hundred years before, at the age of eighty-three, was the text-book of the theories of life which he had accepted from the Japanese as new and untried except among this alien people! It gave him a start, and he journeyed to Turin, Berne, Berlin, Brussels, Paris, London, St. Petersburg, and even back to Boston, seeking to interest the famous physiologists in his discovery, which he believed was destined to exterminate disease and to transform those practising the medical profession into hygienic engineers.

Mr. Cartwright's name and personality preserved him from a sanitarium, but his theories as to self-control, forethought, and fear-thought received ample opportunity for personal experiment. He was as tenacious as if his future depended upon the outcome. A good-natured indulgence here, and an incredulous sympathy there, gave him his first opportunities for demonstration. He not only drew upon his fortune, but freely contributed himself as a subject for experiment. It had been slow, but he had learned patience from the Japanese. Disbelief gradually changed into doubt, doubt into question, question into half-belief, and half-belief into conviction. Quietly, surely, his own faith was assimilated by those high in the physiological ranks, and almost against their will, and before they realized the importance of their concessions, he had forced them to prove him right by their own analyses.

The last five years had been a steady triumph. He had found his ideals, but he had not attained them. He knew what his life-work was, and had the gratification of counting among his friends and collaborators the highest authorities the world recognized. The habits of generations could not be changed in a moment--some of them could never be changed; but the ball had been started and was gaining in size with each revolution. It no longer needed his gentle, persuasive push; it had its own momentum now, and he found it only necessary to guide its advance and to watch its growth.

Uncle Peabody's thoughts reverted to his work as he folded Helen's letter and placed it again in his pocket, where he had so long carried it. He regretted having his labors interrupted just now, but he found himself keenly interested to watch Helen's approaching evolution. His wagon was firmly hitched to this new star, and he had no notion of changing stars. So, with a murmured "Bless you, my children. May you live forever, and may I come to your funeral," he sought the repose which the others had already found.

IV

Mary and Bertha Sinclair were just completing a year's study in Florence, upon which they were depending to perfect their musical education; but both girls were sufficiently homesick after their two years' absence from Boston to be more than eager to exchange their _pension_ for a week's visit with Helen, who brought to them a fresh budget of home news,--for which their eagerness increased as the date for their return to America drew nearer. Emory and Eustis, too, added familiar faces, so the days following the first dinner at the villa proved to be full of interest and enjoyment to all concerned.

The guests became familiar with each portion of the house and grounds, the mysteries of Italian house-keeping were contrasted with the limitations of boarding, and numerous topics of common import succeeded each other without surcease.

During the morning following the arrival of the guests, Armstrong touched tentatively upon the subject of visiting the library.

"We went there when we first came to Florence," Mary Sinclair replied; "and we saw everything there was."

Armstrong smiled indulgently, thinking of the little they had really seen.

"You know we are not very literary," explained Bertha, catching the expression upon his face.

"They are really more hopeless cases even than I," Helen added, sympathetically.

"Why don't you try Phil and me?" inquired Emory. "We went through the Vatican library, so we are experts. At least they said it was a library. The only books we saw there were a few in show-cases--the rest they kept out of sight."

"You would not recognize a real book if you saw it, Emory," Armstrong replied, with resignation. "There is no hurry. Perhaps Miss Thayer will go with me some day soon."

"Indeed I will," Inez responded, with enthusiasm. "There is nothing I wish so much to do."

"Good." His appreciation was sincere. "I shall take real delight in introducing to you my old-time friends, with whom I often differ but, never quarrel."

"Are they so real to you as that?" Inez asked, impressed by his tone.

"They are indeed," Armstrong replied, seriously. "I visit and talk with them just as I would with you all. But they have an aggravating advantage over me, for, no matter how laboriously I argue with them, their original statement stands unmoved there upon the written page, as if enjoying my feeble effort to disturb its serenity, and defying me to do my worst."

"I would much prefer to give them an absent treatment," asserted Eustis.

"Inez is clearly the psychological subject," Helen added. "At school she was forever putting us girls to shame by her mortifying familiarity with the classics. It is only fair that she should now be paid in her own coin."

"I accept both the invitation and the challenge," replied Inez, bowing to her hostess, and, walking over to the low wall on which Helen had seated herself, she threw her arm affectionately about her neck. "But you must not embarrass me with such praise, or your husband will suffer a keen disappointment. To study Latin and Greek out of school-books is one thing; to meet face to face the personalities one has regarded as divinities--even reading their very handwriting--is another. It makes one wonder if she ever did know anything about them before."

"That is exactly the spirit in which to approach the shrine, Miss Thayer!" cried Armstrong, enthusiastically. "Let us frame a new beatitude: 'Blessed is she who appreciates the glories of antiquity, for she shall inherit the riches of the past.'"

The contrast of the two girls in the rich Italian morning light was so striking that Uncle Peabody paused in his approach after a successful attack upon the rose-bushes, touched Armstrong upon the shoulder, and nodded admiringly in their direction. They were separated a little from the others, and were busily engaged in a conversation of their own, in which no man hath a part, quite oblivious to the attention they attracted. Inez was standing, and, even though seated, Helen's superb head reached quite to her companion's shoulder, and the fair hair and complexion were clearly defined against the darker hue of the face and head bent down to meet her own. Her eyes, looking out into the distance even as she spoke, reflected the calm, satisfied contentment of the moment, while in the brown depths of the other's one could read an ungratified ambition, an uncertainty not yet explained. Inez Thayer's face was attractive, Helen's was beautiful--that beauty which one feels belongs naturally to the person possessing it without the necessity of analysis.

Armstrong was evidently pleased with this comparison, as he had been with all previous ones. Italy, it seemed to him, formed just the background to set off to best advantage his wife's personal attractions. Uncle Peabody smiled contentedly at the undisguised satisfaction which was so clearly indicated in the younger man's face.

"If there had been any girls in Boston who looked like that when I was of sparking age," he whispered to Armstrong, "I should certainly have married and settled down, as I ought to have done."

"And allowed the world to perish of indigestion?" queried Armstrong, smiling.

"Scoffer! you do not deserve your good-fortune. Come, these roses are becoming all thorns. Young ladies, may I intrude upon your _tete-a-tete_ long enough to present you with the trophies of my after-breakfast hunt?"

"A thousand apologies, Uncle," cried Helen, taking the roses in her arms and burying her face in their fragrant petals. "Oh! how beautiful! And how idiotic ever to leave this Garden of Paradise and immure yourselves within that musty old library. Do you not repent?"

"I place the decision wholly in Miss Thayer's hands," said Armstrong; but he glanced at Inez with evident expectancy.

"Then I decide to go," replied the girl. "I am quite impatient to meet the friends in whose good company Mr. Armstrong revelled before his present reincarnation."

"When?" asked Armstrong, quickly.

"Now!"

"Splendid! I will order the carriage at once."

"There is rapid transit for you!" exclaimed Eustis. "Jack believes in striking while the iron is hot."

"What a narrow escape we have had," murmured Mary Sinclair, with a sigh of relief.

"Very well," said Helen, resignedly. "It may be just as well to have it over. Jack has been looking forward to this ever since he turned his face toward Florence, and he will be quite miserable until he has actually gratified his anticipation.--But don't be away long, will you, Jack?"

"Miss Thayer will very likely find the staid company which we plan to keep quite as stupid as the rest of you anticipate," replied Armstrong, "so we may be home sooner than you expect."

Inez had already disappeared in-doors to put on her hat, and Armstrong started out to call a carriage. Helen intercepted him as he crossed the veranda.

"You won't mind if I don't go with you to-day, will you, Jack? If it were just to see the treasures at the library I would urge them all to go; but I know what is in your mind, dear. Truly, I will go with you some time, and you shall try your experiment upon me; but I am not in the mood for it just now. I ought not to leave the others, anyway."

"It is all right, of course," he answered. "I wish you did feel like going, but your substitute seems to be enthusiastic enough to make up for your antipathy."

"Don't call it that," Helen answered, half-reproachfully; "it is simply that I am ashamed to have my ignorance exposed,--and it will give you such a splendid chance really to know Inez. Now run along and have a good time, and tell me all about it when you come home."

* * * * *

The little one-horse victoria soon left the villa behind, and was well along on the narrow descending road before either of its occupants broke the silence. As if by mutual consent, each was thinking what neither would have spoken aloud. Helen had not seen the expression of disappointment which passed over her husband's face as she spoke. He would have given much if it might have been his wife beside him. He had studied the girl carefully, and had found in her an intuitive sympathy with the very subjects concerning which she disclaimed all knowledge. At first he had thought that she exaggerated her limitations because of his deeper study, but he soon discovered her absolute sincerity. It was a lack of confidence in herself, he inwardly explained, and when once in Florence he would give her that confidence which was the only element lacking to her complete understanding. But as yet he had been unable to get her inside the library, or even within range of the necessary atmosphere.

Inez Thayer's thoughts were upon the same subject, but from a different standpoint. Her last words to Helen, when Uncle Peabody had interrupted their conversation, framed a mild reproach. "If I had won a man like Jack Armstrong," Inez whispered to her, "I would not allow any one, not even you, to take my place on an excursion such as this, upon which he has so set his whole heart."

"You are a sweet little harmonizer, Inez," Helen had answered, smilingly, "but you are a silly child none the less. Jack and I understand each other perfectly. He knows my limitations, and, if I went, I should only spoil his full enjoyment. You will understand it and revel in it, and he will be supremely happy. If you were not so much better fitted naturally for this sort of thing, of course I should go rather than disappoint him, but, truly, the arrangement is much better as it is."

Inez had no opportunity to continue the conversation, but Helen had not convinced her. Hers was an intense nature, and she had much more of the romantic in her soul than her best friends gave her credit for. Her one serious love-affair had proved only an annoyance and mortification. Ferdinand De Peyster was in many ways a desirable _parti_, as mammas with marriageable daughters were quite aware. He was possessed of a handsome competency, was not inconvenienced by business responsibilities, and his devotion to Inez Thayer was only whetted to a greater degree of constancy by the opposition it received from its particular object. He was not lacking in education, having spent four years in the freshman class at Harvard; he was not unattractive, in his own individual way, and his one great desire, not even second to his striving for blue ribbons with his fine stable of blooded horses, was to have her accept the position of head of his household.

But Inez was repelled by the very subserviency of his devotion. Her love rested heavily upon respect, and this could be won only by a man who commanded it. John Armstrong fulfilled her ideal, and she wondered why Fate had not fashioned the man whom she had attracted in a similar mould.

Armstrong looked up from his reverie half guiltily, and for a moment his eyes met those of his companion squarely. Inez could not match the frank glance--it seemed to her as if he must have read her thoughts; but the heartiness of his words relieved her apprehension.

"What a bore you must think me, Miss Thayer! I have not spoken a word since we left the house."

"I must assume my share of responsibility for the silence," Inez replied, regaining her composure. "The seriousness of our quest must have had a sobering effect upon us both."

"But you won't find these old fellows so serious as you think," Armstrong hastened to say. "They were humanists and products of the movement which marked the breaking away from the ascetic severity preceding them. But, after all, they were the first to realize that life could be even better worth living if it contained beauty and happiness."

"You see how little I know about them, in spite of Helen's attempt to place me on a pedestal."

"Why, if it had not been for their work," he continued, enthusiastically, "the classics might still have remained as dead to us as they were to those who lived in the thirteenth century. Instead of studying Virgil and Homer, we should have been brought up on theological literature and the 'Holy Fathers.'"

"I feel just as I did at my coming-out party," Inez replied--"that same feeling of awe and uncertainty. I am eager to go with you, yet I dread it somehow. It is not a presentiment exactly,--it is--"

"I know just what you mean," Armstrong interrupted, sympathetically; "and, if you feel like that now, just wait until you see old Cerini, the librarian. It is he who is responsible for my passion for this sort of thing. Why, I remember, when I was here years ago and used to run in to see him at the Laurenziana, I never regarded him as a mortal at all; and I don't believe my reverence and veneration for the old man have abated a whit in the twelve years gone by."

The light vehicle had passed through the Porta alla Croce, and was swaying from side to side like a ship at sea, rattling over the stones of the narrow city streets at such a rate that conversation was no longer a pleasure.

"Just why Florentine cabmen are content to drive at a snail's pace on a good road and feel impelled to rush at breakneck speed over bad ones is a phase of Italian character explained neither by Baedeker nor by Hare," remarked Armstrong, leaning nearer to Inez to make himself heard.

With a loud snap of his whip and a guttural "Whee-oop," the _cocchiere_ rounded the statue of John of the Black Bands, just missed the ancient book-stand immortalized by Browning in the _Ring and the Book_, and came to a sudden stop before the unpretentious entrance to the Biblioteca Laurenziana.

"You have been here before, of course?" he asked his companion as they passed through the wicket-gate into the ancient cloisters of San Lorenzo.

"Once, with Baedeker to tell me to go on, and with the tall Italian custodian to stop me when I reached the red velvet rope stretched across the room, which I suppose marks the Dante division between Purgatory and Paradise."

"This time you shall not only enter Paradise, but you shall behold the Beatific Vision," laughed Armstrong.

Passing by the main entrance of the library at the head of the stone stairs, Armstrong led the way along the upper cloister to a small door, where he pressed a little electric button--an accessory not included in Michelangelo's original plans for the building. A moment later they heard the sound of descending footsteps, and presently a bearded face looked out at them through the small grated window. The inspection was evidently satisfactory, for the heavy iron bar on the inside was released and the door opened.

"Good-morning, Maritelli," said Armstrong in Italian. "Is the _direttore_ disengaged?"

"He is in his study, signore, awaiting your arrival."

Maritelli dropped the iron bar back into place with a loud clang and then led the way up the short flight of stone steps to the librarian's study. Armstrong detained Inez a moment at the top.

"I brought you in this way because I want you to see Cerini in his frame. It is a picture worthy the brush of an old master."

Maritelli knocked gently on the door and placed his ear against it to hear the response. Then he opened it quietly and bowed as Armstrong and his companion entered.

"Buon' giorno, padre." Armstrong gravely saluted the old man as he looked up. "I have brought to you another seeker after the gold in your treasure-house."

Cerini's face showed genuine delight as he rose and extended both hands to Inez. "Your wife!" he exclaimed; "I am glad indeed to greet her."

Armstrong flushed. "No, padre, not my wife, but her dearest friend, Miss Thayer."

The old man let one arm fall to his side with visible disappointment, which he vainly sought to conceal.

"I am sorry," he said, simply, taking Inez' hand in his own. "I have known this dear friend for many years, and have loved him for the love he gave to my work. I had hoped to greet his wife here, and to find that the _literae humaniores_ were to her the elixir of life that they are to me--and to him."

"When I tell her of my visit she will be eager to come to you as I have," said Inez, strangely touched by the keenness of his disappointment. "To-day she could not leave her guests."

"Will you first show Miss Thayer the illuminations and the rarest of the incunabula?" asked Armstrong, eager to change the subject; "and then will you let us come back here to talk with you?"

"With pleasure, my son, with pleasure. What shall I show her first?"

"That little 'Book of Hours' illuminated by Francesco d'Antonio, padre."

Cerini pulled up the great bunch of keys suspended from the end of his girdle and unlocked one of the drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him.

"I always wonder how you dare keep so priceless a treasure in that desk, and why it is not put on exhibition where visitors may see it," Armstrong queried.

Cerini laughed quietly. "There are many other treasures, my son, equally precious, as you know well, scattered about in these desks and drawers, where I alone can find them."

"How dare you take the risk?"

Cerini's face showed a gentle craftiness. "We are in Italy, my son. If any one could find these gems, any one could be librarian"--and the old man chuckled quietly to himself.

Inez' eyes were fastened upon a little purple velvet case inlaid with jewels. Cerini opened it carefully, exposing a small volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Armstrong eagerly watched the interest in the girl's face as the full splendor of the masterpiece impressed itself upon her--the marvellous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of color, the magnificence of the decoration and the miniatures. Inez drew in her breath excitedly and bent nearer to the magnifying-glass which it was necessary to use in tracing the intricacy of the work.

"Wonderful!" she cried, and then was silent.

"It belonged to Lorenzo the Magnificent, and represents the finest of the _quattrocento_ work, my daughter," explained the old man, pleased as was Armstrong by her unfeigned admiration. "The patrons of the book in the fifteenth century considered gems of thought as the most precious of all jewels. The page containing them must be written upon the finest and the rarest parchment. They could not inlay costly stones, so they employed the most famous artists to place upon the page in beaten gold and gorgeous colors a representation of the jewels and miniatures as perfect as art at its highest could produce. Can you wonder, my daughter, that men brought up in the school of neo-Platonism should look upon the invention of printing as an evil and an innovation to be opposed?"

Inez would not permit Cerini to close the volume until she had feasted her eyes upon every page.

"Have you not prepared me for an anti-climax?" she asked, with a sigh, as Armstrong suggested a visit to the room of illuminations. "Surely there is nothing else here to surpass what I have just seen."

The librarian answered. "Nothing to surpass it, truly, but other volumes equally interesting."

The old man led them into a larger room filled with wooden cases whose glass tops were covered with faded green curtains. Costly tapestries lined the walls, but Inez' attention was quickly taken from them as Cerini pulled aside the curtains and disclosed the resplendent wealth beneath. Heavy choir-books, classic manuscripts, books of hours, breviaries embellished by Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico, by Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescos still make the Riccardi famous, and other artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art. Magnificent examples of every school, from the early Byzantine to the decadent style of the sixteenth century, combined to teach the present the omnipotence of the past.

From case to case they passed, their guide indicating the variations and the significance of the different schools, out into the great library itself, in which, with its noble yet simple proportions as laid down by Michelangelo, Inez found a relief after the gorgeousness and grandeur of the last hour. Armstrong pointed out to her the _plutei_ upon which the great books rested, and to which they now remained chained as in the olden days, four centuries back, when they began their eternal vigil. Life outside the old walls had changed mightily since Cosimo de' Medici, the first grand-duke, laid their foundations. Cosimo, "_pater patriae_," the real founder of the collection, Pietro and Giovanni de' Medici had come and gone; Lorenzo il Magnifico had lived and died, bequeathing to them his illustrious name; Charles VIII. of France had destroyed the power of the house of the Medici, the Medici had again regained their own, the house of Lorraine had succeeded them, the separate states had been merged into a great kingdom--and still the volumes held their places at the end of their chains, as if to prove the immutability of learning as compared with the changeability of princes.

At Armstrong's suggestion, Cerini led them back into his study, where the old man again took his place at his desk, as his visitors seated themselves where they could best watch him and listen to his words. It was, indeed, as Armstrong had expressed it, a picture for an old master. Cerini was clad in the black silk soutane of his learned order, with the _biretta_ upon his head. He was spare, and the skin upon his face and hands was as dried and colored as the ancient parchment of the books with which he lived. The dim light coming through the stained-glass window enhanced the weirdness of his aspect, and as one looked he seemed the personification of the ancient written manuscript vivified and speaking the words which one would have expected to read upon the page.

"My daughter," he was saying to Inez, "you, too, are a humanist, as my young friend and I are, or you could not manifest so true an understanding as you do. For humanism, my daughter, is not only the love of antiquity: it is the worship of it--a worship carried so far that it is not limited to adoration alone, but which forces one to reproduce. By the same token the humanist is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue."

Then Cerini passed on in his conversation to the old-time writers themselves. The little study was poorly ventilated, and the air was heavy. The ancient tomes exuded their peculiar odor, and the low, sing-song voice of the speaker seemed far removed from the life they had just left outside. Slowly the spell began to work upon Inez' brain. She was no longer in the present--she was a woman of Italy of four centuries back. Petrarch, with his laurel-crowned head, rose up before her and recited verses written for Laura; Politian gave to her of his wisdom; Machiavelli discussed Florentine politics with her. It was not the voice of Cerini the librarian which she heard--it was the veritable voice from the dead and buried past. She furtively glanced at Armstrong and saw in his face a light which she knew Helen had never seen there, and in her heart she felt a guilty joyousness at the advantage she had gained. It was Leonardo sitting at the old desk now--Leonardo the master of art, of sculpture, the forerunner, the man-god against the god-man. She pressed her hand to her head; it was dripping moisture. Would he never stop? It was becoming fearsome, unbearable. Her eyes were fixed upon the aged priestly clad figure before her; she could not move them. What power held her, what magic controlled even her thoughts? She tried to speak to Armstrong, to tell him that she was ill, but her mouth seemed parched and she could not speak. She looked at Cerini's chair again. The old man was no longer there. Machiavelli had taken his place and was uttering diatribes against the state. She must cry out--she could not. She started to her feet--then she fell back, and all became a blank. When she revived, a few moments later, it was in the sunny enclosure of the cloister garden, whither Armstrong had anxiously carried her, and where the fresh air served to relieve the tension and to counteract the influence which had so overpowered her.

V

By mutual consent, Miss Thayer and Armstrong decided not to mention the rather dramatic finale to their first excursion to the library. Inez experienced the deepest mortification, while Jack blamed himself severely that he had not watched his companion more carefully. If he had done this, he repeated to himself, he might easily have anticipated and avoided the unpleasant climax to an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable morning. Miss Thayer, however, would not listen to his apologies: he had accepted her as a comrade, and she had proved herself unequal to the test. Armstrong tried to reassure her, but his efforts were not eminently successful.

The whole affair, in spite of their disclaimers, made a considerable impression upon them both. Armstrong knew that it had not been weakness alone; for even his brief acquaintance with her told him that strength was a salient point in her character. She was impressionable--he realized that--but surely not to the extent of losing all control over herself. Was it--and Armstrong feared lest Inez should read his mind as the thought came to him--was it that same irresistible influence of those ancient spirits, coming out from the past to her as they had so many times to him, recognizing her as a reincarnation of themselves, and claiming her, even for that, brief moment of unconsciousness, as a part of what had gone before?

Inez pleaded a headache upon reaching the villa, and asked that her lunch be sent to her room; but it was long after Annetta had left the tray upon the table that she was able to taste, even sparingly, the tempting delicacies which were placed before her. What can be more searching than a woman's self-examination? She had told Armstrong that she blamed herself for her weakness; so she did, but it was not wholly the weakness of losing consciousness. Who was this man, and what this influence which had so suddenly entered into her life and assumed such immediate control over her? She felt that she could resist either separately, but together they produced a power which she questioned her ability to oppose. And the strange part of it all was that no one was forcing it upon her. She knew perfectly well that she need never go to the library again unless she chose; but she knew equally well what her choice must inevitably be, if the opportunity were offered her.

Even as she recalled her experience, a thrill half of delight, half of apprehension, passed over her. What did it all mean? Armstrong compelled her respect, but it was ridiculous even to wonder whether or not the sentiments he inspired were of a more serious nature. The subjects in which he was interested appealed to her highest self and fascinated her, but beyond this what possible force could they possess to render her so immediately subservient to their demands? What was there about it all which made it seem so inexpressively delicious? And what of him, of this man above whose head the ancients had already placed the halo of their approval, who stood to her as the personification of ideal manhood?

These were some of the questions Inez Thayer asked herself that afternoon, wrestling within and striving honestly to decide her course; but even as she did so she found her thoughts again centering themselves upon Armstrong as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried back to the experiences of the morning. She had no reasonable excuse to leave Florence, which instinctively she felt to be the safest thing to do; and, besides this, her spirit revolted at the thought that she could not meet the problem face to face and master it. She must do it, she would do it; and, having finally arrived at this determination, she came down, just before dinner, and joined her friends in the garden, where they were enjoying the soft close of the perfect Italian day.

"There you are!" Helen welcomed her with outstretched arms. "Is your headache better?"

"Yes, thank you," Inez replied, forcing a smile; "the air was very close in the library, and then, too, I found so much to make me thoughtful."

"Then you were not disappointed?" Emory asked.

"Disappointed? It was wonderful. You don't know how much you all missed."

"You look as if Jack had shown you some spooks," remarked Eustis; "you are as white as one yourself."

The color quickly returned to Inez' face. "I am always like that when I have one of these wretched headaches," she explained. "But, truly, I never had such a remarkable experience. I can quite understand Mr. Armstrong's devotion. I never knew before how fascinating such learning really is."

"Did he actually conjure up those old fellows and put them through their paces for you?" Emory asked.

Miss Thayer was in no mood for bantering. "It is not possible for you to understand without experiencing it yourself," she said, quietly.

"Or even afterward, I suspect," Bertha Sinclair added, slyly.

"I am so glad that you enjoyed it," said Helen. "I couldn't get much out of Jack, and I was afraid that you had passed a stupid morning and that the headache was the natural result."

"I shall never forget it--never!" Inez murmured.

Helen regarded her attentively for a moment. "I had no idea it would make so strong an impression on you," she said at length. "Now that it is over, you and Jack will both feel better satisfied."

"You must see Cerini, Helen, and let him show you those wonderful books and explain everything, just as he did to us."

"So I will, sometime," Helen smiled. "Perhaps he could bring out my dormant possibilities."

"It is time we dressed for dinner," remarked Mary Sinclair, rising. "You and Inez are already _en grande tenue_, but the rest of us are shockingly unconventional."

As the Sinclair girls hurried into the house, closely followed by the men, Helen leaned against the balustrade at the end of the bowling-green and watched the deepening color which touched alike the spires of Santa Croce and the turret of the Palazzo Vecchio, gleamed on the dome of the Cathedral and Giotto's tower, and spread like wine over the placid surface of the Arno. Beyond the river rose the basilica of San Miniato, its ancient pediment sharply outlined against the sky. Helen's thoughts wandered even farther away than her eyes. Inez watched her for several moments before slipping her arm about her waist.

"Oh, Inez!" Helen was startled for an instant. "Did you ever see such a wonderful spot as this?" she continued, recovering herself. "Some new beauty discloses itself uninvited hour by hour. Every time I come into the garden I find some lovely flower I never saw before, or meet some sweet odor which makes me shut my eyes and just draw it in with delight. Each time I look toward Florence the view is different, and each new view more beautiful than the last. Oh, Inez darling, is it an enchanted palace that Jack has brought me to, or is it just because I am so blissfully, supremely, foolishly happy?" Helen embraced her friend enthusiastically.

"Let us call it the enchanted palace, dear," Inez answered as Helen released her, "and you the modern Circe, with power to make all about you as beautiful and as happy as the ancient Circe to cast malign influences."

Helen laughed. "Why not take it further and say that the transformation of the ancient Circe is the final triumph of Uncle Peabody's labors? Had his theories been in force among the friends of Ulysses, the fair lady could never have turned them into swine. But tell me, did you not find Jack a very different person from what you had expected after seeing him here at home?"

"I did, indeed," assented Inez, soberly.

"Is he not simply splendid?" Helen's face beamed with pride. "It was just as much of a surprise to me. Of course, I have always known that he was interested in all these things, but it has only been since we were married that I have realized how much he actually knows.--I wish I thought there was even the slightest chance of his being able to lead me up to his heights, he is so eager for it. I shall give him an opportunity to try his experiment, of course, but the trouble is that in spite of the interest and fascination which I do feel, his hobby always seems to me to be hemmed in with needless limitations. For my part, I don't see why we can't take the best these master spirits of the past can give us, just as Jack says, but without ourselves becoming a part of the past.--You see how absolutely hopeless I am. I wonder how in the world he ever came to be attracted to me."

"You are the only one who wonders."

"Oh, I know that my hair is not red, and that I don't squint, and all that, but Jack is so fascinated by everything scholarly that I don't see why he didn't select an intellectual wife. Why, I don't even wear glasses!"

Inez smiled at the picture Helen drew. "The rest of us girls understand why he made just the selection he did, Helen."

"I never wanted to be intellectual before. Until now I have always considered the caricatures of the Boston Browning woman as typical of the highly educated species; but you are showing me that a girl can be human and intellectual at the same time."

"I wish I could show you that you make too much of a mountain out of this intellectual bugbear," Inez replied, candidly. "Your husband is a very unusual man. His interest in the humanities is beyond anything one can appreciate without seeing him as I saw him this morning. He longs to take you with him into this life, and if I were in your place I should let him be the one to discover my lack of understanding, if I really did lack it, instead of insisting upon it as a foregone conclusion. For myself, I don't take much stock in it. I remember too well how quick a certain Miss Cartwright was at school to grasp new ideas, and I have not noticed any serious retrogression since."

Helen pondered carefully over her friend's criticism before replying. "I suppose it does seem like obstinacy," she said, finally--"to him as well as to you; yet to myself it appears perfectly consistent. The one thing which gives me an idea of the extent of his devotion is my music. You know how I adore it, how much a part of my life it has always been--yet it means nothing to Jack, and he therefore takes no particular interest in it. He went to the Symphonies and the Opera with me while we were engaged, and to concerts and recitals, but I knew all the time that it was just to please me. I made up my mind that when we were married I would keep up my interest in this 'devotion' of mine only as much as I could without having it interfere with those things which he cared for or which we could enjoy together. But the fact that music means less to him than it means to me does not make me love him any the less."

"But you don't enter into this particular interest of his, even to please him, as he did to please you."

"Because I appreciate from the experience I have just mentioned how little real satisfaction it would give either one of us. Looking back, I feel that I was positively selfish to let him go to those concerts with me, and I shall never inflict them on him again. I am sure that he knows how I feel, and I think he ought to be grateful for my consideration."

Inez pressed Helen's hand. "You ought to know best, dear," she answered. "You both possess such wonderful possibilities that it would be a shame not to combine them. It seems to me that you might come to an appreciation of each other's interests by becoming familiar with them.--I wonder if you realize what a man your husband is?"

Helen leaned over and kissed her impulsively. "I realize more than I ever intend to let him know, dear child. He would become unbearably conceited were he even to guess how much he has already become to me. I really did not want to marry him--or to marry any one--but he swept away every objection, just as he always does, and now I find myself wondering how in the world I ever existed without him. Oh, Inez"--Helen's face became tense in her earnestness--"we girls think we know a whole lot about marriage. We anticipate it--we dread it; but, when one actually enters into her new estate, she knows how infinitely more it is to be anticipated, if happy, than her fondest dream. But if unhappy--then her dread must have been infinitesimal compared with the reality."

"'Marriage is either a complete union or a complete isolation,'" quoted Inez.

"As I tell you, Jack and I understand each other perfectly," Helen continued, confidently, "and that means so much to a girl. One of the first things I told him, after we became engaged, was that if our affection stood for anything it must stand for everything. If at any time while we were engaged, or even after we were married, he felt that he had made a mistake in thinking me the one woman in the world for him, he was to come to me frankly and say so, and together we would plan how best to meet the situation. Suppose, for instance, that Jack met some one whom he really loved better than me. It would be an awful experience, but how much less of a tragedy to recognize the fact than to live on, a hollow, miserable existence, such as we see in so many instances around us."

"And he has not confessed to you yet?"

"Not yet," Helen laughed, "and we shall have been married six weeks to-morrow. That is a pretty good start, is it not?"

"But how about yourself--have you the same privilege?"

"Of course; but that is not important, for I shall never see any one fit to ride in the same automobile with Jack."

"What did you say about my automobile? Has it arrived?"

Armstrong's face was filled with eager expectation as he came up behind Helen, followed by Uncle Peabody. He drew her affectionately toward him.

"You wretch!" cried Helen, "you have been eavesdropping."

"Not an eavesdrop," protested Jack, "and I can prove it by a witness. When I came down-stairs I looked for my beloved spouse upon the terrace and found her not. The gentle Annetta confided to me that you and the Signorina Thayer were in the garden; I set out upon my quest and found you here discussing my automobile or some one else's. Again I ask you, have you news of its arrival?"

"No, Jack--no news as yet; and you make out so good a case that I must absolve you. Since you insist on knowing, we were discussing the very prosaic subject of matrimony."

"Why discourage Miss Thayer from making the attempt simply because of your own sad case?" Armstrong queried, releasing his wife and seating himself beside her on the edge of the balustrade. "Marriage is a lottery--so saith the philosopher. We all know the preponderance of blanks and small prizes, yet each one feels certain that he will be the lucky one. Once in a while a chap pulls out the capital prize, and that encourages the others, though it ought to discourage them, because it lessens the chances just so much. But what I object to is the growling afterward, when each should realize that he is getting exactly what he ought to have expected."

"But it is not fair that both you and Helen should have drawn the lucky numbers," Inez declared. "It makes it so hopeless for the rest of us."

"There, Sir Fisher," cried Helen, "you have gained the compliment for which you strove. Art satisfied?"

"No one has drawn me yet," suggested Uncle Peabody, "and I am a capital prize--I admit it."

"It is a shame to throw cold water on Miss Thayer's beautiful sentiment," continued Armstrong. "Such thoughts are so rare that they should be encouraged; but the facts of the case are that the capital prizes in the men's lottery were discontinued long ago. No--among the girls they are still to be won at rare intervals, but the only way to distinguish the men is by looking up their rating in Bradstreet's, or their mother's family name in the Social Register. Other than this, one man is as bad as another, if not worse."

Inez looked at Armstrong for a moment with a puzzled expression, but failed to find any suggestion that he was speaking lightly. And yet--what a change in attitude from the morning! She hesitated to turn the subject upon what seemed to her to be forbidden ground, yet she could not resist opposing his expressions, even though they might be uttered flippantly. Her voice contained a reproach.

"You spoke differently of men this morning."

Armstrong turned to her quickly. "This morning?" he repeated. "Oh, but I was referring to the humanists, and to ancient ones at that. I am talking now of men in general, rather than of those rare exceptions, ancient or modern, who have succeeded in separating themselves from their commonplace contemporaries. Of course, my respect for the old-timers is supreme, because their great accomplishments were in the face of so much greater obstacles. Since then the world has had five hundred years in which to degenerate."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Inez," Helen interrupted, complacently. "He is simply trying to start an argument, and he does not believe a word he says. He really looks upon men as infinitely superior beings in the past, present, and future, and this self-abnegation on the part of himself and his sex is only a passing conceit."

"I refuse to be side-tracked," Armstrong insisted. "I grant that the conversation started more in jest than in earnest, but I maintain my position, none the less. Modern civilization has brought to us a wonderful material development, but intellectual advance, instead of keeping abreast of the material, has positively retrograded."

"You really make me feel ashamed to be living in such an abominable age," suggested Uncle Peabody.

Inez was serious. "I am quite incompetent to carry on this discussion with you, Mr. Armstrong," she said, disregarding the others, "and I admire, as you know, the marvellous accomplishments of these 'old-timers,' as you call them, wondering at their power to overcome the obstacles which we know existed. Yet I like to believe that the ages which have passed have marked an advance on all sides rather than a retrogression."

"So should I like to," assented Armstrong, "if I could; but look at the facts. William James has just succeeded in making philosophy popular, but Plato and Aristotle gave it to us before the birth of Christ. We enthuse over Shakespeare and Dante and Milton, but Homer and Virgil gave us the grandest of poetry two thousand years ago. The _quattrocento_, that period which so fires me with enthusiasm, gave us Raphael as an artist, together with Leonardo and Michelangelo as the foremost examples of humanists. Whom have we had since to equal them?"

"All this is beyond argument," Inez admitted. "But is this the fault of the men or of the times? Conditions are so changed that the same kind of work can never be done again. The telephone, the telegraph, railroad trains, fast steamships, the daily papers--everything distracts the modern worker from devoting himself wholly and absolutely to his single purpose; but with this distraction is it not also true that the modern worker gives to the world what the world really needs most under the present conditions? In other words, would not these same great men, if set down in the twentieth century, produce work very similar to what modern great men have given and are giving us?"

"I should be sorry enough to think so," affirmed Jack. "What a pity it would be!"

Uncle Peabody's mood had changed from amusement to interest. "If I really thought you were sincere in the attitude you take," he said, addressing Armstrong, "I could prescribe no better cure for your complaint than to force you to subject yourself, for one single week, to those same conditions which you seem to admire so much."

"If you refer to conveniences, Mr. Cartwright," interrupted Armstrong, "I will admit without argument that you are right. These are wholly the result of material development."

"Let us confine ourselves to intellectual achievements if you choose," continued Uncle Peabody. "Without an intellect, could one harness steam and electricity and make them obedient to the human will? Is not a wireless message an echo from the brain? What is the telephone if not a product of thought?"

"You and Miss Thayer are arguing my case far better than I can do it myself," replied Armstrong, undisturbed. "The triumphs of Watt and Edison and Marconi and Bell are all intellectual, even though utilitarian. Each of these men has proved himself humanistic, in that he has given to the world the best that is in him, and not simply modified or readapted some previous achievement. If they were not limited by living in an age of specialization they might even have been humanists. Right here in Italy you see the same thing to-day. The Italians are beyond any other race intellectually fit to rule the world now as they once did, and it is simply because they have been unable to withstand materialism that they have not reclaimed their own."

"Just what do you mean by 'humanism,' Jack?" Helen asked, abruptly.

"The final definition of modern humanism will not be written for several years," Armstrong answered. "The world is not yet ready for it, and I am afraid Cerini's creed of ancient humanism would strike you as being rather heavy."

"Let me see if I could comprehend it." Helen looked across to Inez, and the eyes of the two girls met with mutual understanding. "Can you repeat it?"

"I know it word for word," her husband replied, eagerly, delighted to have Helen manifest an interest. "It was the first lesson the old man taught me, years ago. 'The humanist,' Cerini says, 'is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.'"

Helen was visibly disappointed. "I thought I had an idea," she said, slowly, "but I was wrong. Inez used the word 'humanities' a few moments ago, and I once heard President Eliot say that this was simply another name for a liberal education--teaching men to drink in the inspiration of all the ages and to seek to make their age the best."

"You are not wrong, Helen," continued Armstrong, "unless you understand President Eliot to mean that the ages which have come since these great men lived have been able to add particularly to what has gone before. All that is included in what Cerini says."

"Then the present, which I love so well, means nothing?"

"It means a great deal." Armstrong laughed at the injured tone of Helen's voice. "The great material achievements of the present, which you just heard cited by Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, are of vast importance, but the age does not stand out as a period of intellectual progression. The achievements themselves, and the new conditions which they introduce, make that impossible."

"Can we not admire the past and enjoy what it has given us without becoming a part of it ourselves?" persisted Helen.

"Not if we remain true to our ideals. I spoke just now of Leonardo and Michelangelo as being the foremost examples of humanists. By that I mean that they represent the highest point of intellectual manhood. Da Vinci was a great writer, a great painter, a great scientist, a great engineer, a great mechanician, while Buonarroti was famous not only as a sculptor, but also as a painter, an architect, and a poet. And these men had to develop their own precedent, while all who have striven for more than mediocrity since then have propped themselves up on the work of these and other great masters. Can you wonder that my own great ambition, quite impossible of accomplishment, is to emulate these men--not in the same pursuits, but in some way, in any way, which enables me to give to the world the best that is in me. Should I gratify myself in this, that which I accomplished would be done simply in the fulfilment of my effort, and I should gain my recompense in the knowledge that it _was_ my best. This is my understanding of Cerini's creed."

"All this is most interesting," admitted Helen. "It is indeed splendid to know the ancients intimately, and to receive their inspiration. It is fine to imitate them and to rehearse their lessons, but I don't see why we should bind ourselves down to the old-time limitations by using their methods when, to my mind, our own methods are so much better suited to modern conditions?"

"Your position is fully justified, Helen, if you really believe these methods to be limitations," replied Armstrong, seriously. "For my part, I do not feel this. I accept the Cerini creed without qualification. I grant you that many things of the past are limitations, but there are certain cardinal principles which must remain the same so long as the world lasts and which are not subject to what you call 'modern conditions.'"

"To be wholly consistent, Jack," pursued Uncle Peabody, "should you not adopt their tongue--as called for in the creed?"

"Not necessarily, as the 'creed' is, of course, idealistic; but the only reason I do not do so is because of the limitations which are placed upon us--this time by modern civilization. Cerini and I converse for hours together in the Latin tongue, but it is very seldom that I find the opportunity to do this. Why is it that Latin is used in medicine, in botany, in science, to give names to various specimens or species? Simply because French, German, Italian, English may be forgotten languages a few centuries hence, but Latin--the so-called dead language--will be as enduring then as now."

"I can never hope to become as much of an enthusiast as you, Mr. Armstrong," Inez said, finally, as the others gave up the argument in despair; "and I suppose you will never forgive me if I say that I fear it would be very uncomfortable for me if I did. You must simply let me browse around the edges as a neophyte while you and the master quaff the nectar and ambrosia of the gods."

"And I cannot even do that," added Helen, rising from the balustrade. "I cannot give up my dear present even to agree with my learned husband. You don't want me to say that I am sorry I am living among all these imperfect conditions when I really find them very satisfactory and enjoyable? It is wrong of you so to break down my modern idols. There are our guests," she continued, as a laughing group appeared on the veranda. "As penance I decree that you shall take each of us by the hand and lead us back to the villa--the Humanist flanked by the Pagan and the Christian. Arise, thou ancient one, and lead us on!"

VI

The visits which Armstrong and Miss Thayer made to the library became of daily occurrence. Encouraged by his companion's interest, and the eagerness with which she assimilated the enthusiasm which he and Cerini were only too willing to share with her, Armstrong promptly embraced a scheme for definite work suggested to him by the librarian. Inez at first proved only a sympathetic spectator, but by the third or fourth day she found herself a distinct part of the working force. She demurred half-heartedly, but when it became evident that she could really make herself of service she entered into it with characteristic intensity which increased from day to day.

Soon after the departure of the guests the automobile arrived, and transformed Armstrong from a Humanist into an Egoist and then into a Mechanist. For the moment the material concern took precedence over the intellectual.

"Of course I expect to have the chauffeur do the work once we are under way," he half apologized to Uncle Peabody, who with a good-natured interest watched him taking the precious machine to pieces; "but before I trust it to any one I must understand it thoroughly myself."

"Quite right, quite right," Uncle Peabody assented, cheerfully. "I believe in that theory entirely. I have noticed when my friends have found themselves stalled on the road that it never annoys them half so much if they can explain the reason why. Besides, from a secondary consideration, I suppose it adds something to the safety to know the machine yourself."

As the car had arrived in advance of the chauffeur, Armstrong had plenty of time to study the mechanism. It came to pieces with consummate ease. Its new owner had never claimed much knowledge along these lines, but the simplicity of this particular machine increased his respect for his judgment as a purchaser and his natural though hitherto undeveloped ability as a mechanic.

"These Frenchmen," he confided enthusiastically to Uncle Peabody, "have the rest of the world beaten to a stand-still in building automobiles. My hat is off to them."

"Would you not be even more comfortable if you removed your shirt as well?" suggested Uncle Peabody, mischievously, as he glanced sympathetically at Armstrong's face, from which the perspiration rolled down onto his collar in response to his unusual exertions and the heat of the full Italian sun.

"It is nearly to pieces now," Armstrong replied, complacently. "I will wait until it is cooler before I set it up again."

True to his word, Armstrong began work on the restoration early next morning, but the heat of the day found him still at his labors and in no cheerful frame of mind. Uncle Peabody's philosophical suggestions had proved unacceptable some hours before. Helen's remark that she did not believe the three extra pieces Jack held despairingly in his hand had come from that particular machine at all brought forth such a withering expression of pitying contempt that she flew back to the house in alarm. Even the servants found that the opposite side of the villa demanded their especial care. A truce was declared for the _colazione_, but Armstrong devoured his repast in silence, showing no interest in the animated conversation, and with scant apologies left the table long in advance of the others to resume his task.

At five o'clock a dusty _vettura_ drove noisily into the driveway, and from his point of vantage, lying on his back underneath the automobile, Armstrong saw Mr. Ferdinand De Peyster alight. With a curse muttered, not from any antipathy to his visitor, but simply on general principles, he laboriously extricated himself from his position with a view to the extension of hospitality. De Peyster saw the movement and hastily approached.

Ferdinand De Peyster was a distinct individuality, which in a degree explained the criticism which some of his friends passed upon him. His foreign descent, though now tempered by two generations of American influence, was probably responsible for the fact that he was "different from other men." Always faultlessly dressed, his taste followed the continental styles rather than those which other men about him were in the habit of adopting, so while Americans in Florence were clad in flannels, _neglige_ shirts, and white buckskins, De Peyster appeared at the Villa Godilombra immaculate in the conventional lounging-coat, tucked shirt and lavender gloves, with white spats over his patent-leather shoes. There was more of a contrast between visitor and guest at that moment than Armstrong realized as he emerged in his old clothes, thoroughly soaked through with perspiration, and with his hands and face grimy with oil and dirt.

De Peyster drew back instinctively as the full vision of Jack's figure presented itself. "Comprenez vous francais?"

Armstrong stopped in his advance as he heard the question and noted the superior tone in which it was delivered. Then the humor of the situation appealed to him.

"Yes, sir," he replied, respectfully, "or English, if you prefer."

De Peyster's face brightened. "Ah! Mr. Armstrong brought you over with him?" he remarked, becoming almost sociable.

"Yes, sir," Jack replied, truthfully. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"I am Mr. De Peyster," said Ferdinand, with condescension--"a friend of your master's in America. Is he at home this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir--"

Before Armstrong could continue De Peyster approached nearer to him and lowered his voice. "I say--is there a Miss Thayer from America visiting here just now?"

A quick movement on De Peyster's part deposited a franc in Jack's grimy palm. Holding his hand in front of him, his astonished look alternated between the piece of silver and his friend's face until he found himself unable to keep up the farce.

"De Peyster, you are a fraud!" Armstrong laughed boisterously at the look of dismay in Ferdinand's face as a realization came to him. "Do you mean to tell me that the joys of a honeymoon and life in Italy have wrought so many changes that you don't recognize me?"

"But can you blame me?" De Peyster joined in the merriment. "Run and get some one to tell you how you look."

The sound of this unexpected hilarity reached the terrace, and Uncle Peabody, flanked by both of the girls, came rushing out fearful lest Jack's problem had resulted in temporary mental derangement. A glance at the picture before them, however, explained the situation better than words, and Helen hurried forward to greet her visitor while Inez followed behind.

"Ferdy De Peyster--in the flesh!" cried Helen. "What does this mean, and when did you reach Florence?"

Armstrong gave him no opportunity to reply. "He prefers to speak French, Helen, and he is just throwing his money around."

Then turning to De Peyster and exhibiting his _pourboire_, he repeated, "Comprenez vous francais?" while both men went off again into a paroxysm of laughter.

"What is the joke?" Helen asked, looking from one to the other completely mystified.

"It is a good one--and on me," replied De Peyster. "I took him for the chauffeur, you know."

Helen looked at her husband. "Is it safe for me to laugh now, Jack?" she asked. "I am glad something has happened to put you in good-humor. Can you be induced to leave your work for the rest of the day and make yourself presentable to join us in the garden?"

Armstrong cast a despairing glance at the machine.

"Of course," he said. "I shall be fresher in the morning, anyway, and I am sure I can fix it up then."

"Nothing like knowing all about it yourself, Jack," Uncle Peabody remarked, innocently. "These French machines are so simple!"

"You take the girls back to the garden," Armstrong replied, emphatically, "and kindly devote your attention to your own theories, or I will put you at work on the blamed thing yourself to-morrow."

De Peyster greeted Inez effusively, paying but little attention to Helen and Uncle Peabody as they strolled back to the garden, while Jack disappeared in-doors.

"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed as they reached the balustrade. "How did Armstrong happen to find a place like this? Is it not simply splendid, Inez?"

Inez Thayer resented something--she did not quite know what. She had been expecting De Peyster's arrival daily, yet now that he had come she was still unprepared. She could find no fault with his attentions except that they had been too assiduous. Perhaps it was that, try as she could, she had been quite unable to convince him that his devotion was useless. He accepted each rebuff philosophically and bided his time.

Annetta skilfully arranged the chairs and laid the little table, placed, as Helen had taught her, in a spot commanding the exquisite view of the valley and San Miniato beyond. Luscious _fragole_, cooling _gelati_, seducing little Italian _paste_, as only Helen's cook could make them, and a refreshing Asti cup replaced the tea which the girls had decided would be less acceptable on this particular day; and by the time all was in readiness Armstrong joined them clothed in his proper mind and raiment.

The conversation turned upon the voyage across.

"We had an awfully jolly crowd on board," said De Peyster. "There were Emory and Eustis, who you say have just left you, and then there were three charming married women who insisted on my playing bridge with them every afternoon."

"They did not have to insist very hard, did they, Ferdy?" interrupted Helen--"with your reputation for gallantry."

Ferdinand smiled complacently. "Making up a fourth at bridge comes under the definition of 'first aid to the wounded,'" he replied, "but I did not object at all to being the doctor. Their conversation was so clever, you know."

"Clever conversation always helps good bridge," Armstrong interrupted, dryly; but De Peyster was already deep in his story.

"One afternoon they had a discussion as to how large an allowance for personal expenses would make each one perfectly happy,--funny subject, wasn't it? Well, one of them said ten thousand a year would take care of her troubles nicely; the second one was more modest and thought five thousand would do,--but what do you think my partner said? She was a demure little lady from Chicago and had only been married a year and a half."

"Don't keep us in suspense, Ferdy," said Helen, as De Peyster yielded to the humor of his recollections.

"Truly, it was awfully funny," he continued. "She looked rather frightened when the conversation began, and when they urged her to set a price she said, 'I would be perfectly satisfied if I could afford to spend just what I am spending.'"

"She had a conscience--that is the only difference between her and the other women," Armstrong commented.

"Perhaps," added Helen; "but I'll guarantee that in another year she will be getting a divorce from her husband on the ground of incompatibility of income."

"Then in the evenings," De Peyster went on, "the men got together in the smoke-room, but I think we drank too much. I always felt uncomfortable when I got up next morning."

"Another encouragement for my _magnum opus_!" exclaimed Uncle Peabody. "I am going to invent a wine possessing such qualities that the more one drinks of it the better he will feel next morning."

"If you succeed you will have clubdom at your feet," Armstrong replied, while De Peyster feelingly nodded assent.

"Would you mind if I invited Inez to drive with me to-morrow, Helen?" ventured Ferdinand, abruptly, looking anxiously at Miss Thayer. "I know you honeymooners won't mind being left alone if I can persuade her."

"By all means, Ferdy--unless Inez has some other plans. Jack has been making her ride his hobby ever since she arrived, and I have no doubt she will be glad enough to escape us for a little breathing-spell."

"If you put it that way I shall certainly decline"--Inez failed to show any great enthusiasm--"but otherwise I shall be very glad to go."

"Jack intends to put his automobile together to-morrow," Uncle Peabody remarked, "so it will be just as well not to have any one outside the family within hearing distance."

Armstrong tried to wither Uncle Peabody with a glance, but ran up against a smiling face so beaming with good-nature that even real anger would have been dispelled.

"For Helen's sake--" Jack began, but Uncle Peabody interrupted.

"For Helen's sake you will hasten the arrival of your chauffeur, if such a thing be possible."

* * * * *

The following day was an eventful one. First of all, as if in response to Uncle Peabody's exhortation, the chauffeur appeared. Mr. Cartwright departed for the city soon after breakfast, to be gone all day, and by the time the heat of the afternoon had subsided De Peyster drove up in state to enforce the promise Inez had given him the afternoon before. After watching them drive away, Helen slipped her hand through her husband's arm and gently drew him with her into the garden. They walked in silence, Helen's head resting against his shoulder, until they reached her favorite vantage-spot, when she paused and looked smilingly into his face.

"Jack dear," she said, quietly, "do you realize that this is almost the first time we have really been by ourselves since we took that walk to Fiesole?"

"But at least you have had an opportunity to show your villa to your friends!"

"Don't joke, Jack--I am not in the mood for it this afternoon. I don't know why, but I have been feeling very serious these last few days. Tell me, dear--are you perfectly happy?"

Armstrong looked surprised. "Why, yes--perfectly happy. What a curious notion!"

"I know it is, but humor me just this once. Are you as fond of me now as you were that day at Fiesole?"

"You silly child!" Jack drew her to him and kissed her. "Whatever has possessed you to-day?"

"I don't know, but you see I measure everything by that day at Fiesole. I believe it was the happiest day I ever spent. Since then, somehow, I have felt that we were not so near together. Of course, you have been away a good deal at the library and looking up things with Inez, which was just what I wanted you to do; and then we have had a good many here to entertain, which was also what I wanted; but I can't help feeling that you have not found here at home just what you should have found to make you perfectly happy. Tell me, dear, have I been to blame?"

Armstrong paused as if weighing something heavily in his mind. "Perhaps I have no right to go on with this work," he remarked, at length, "but the only way to stop it would be to leave Florence."

"You know I don't mean that, Jack."

"I know you don't. I am speaking simply for myself."

He was again silent, and Helen hesitated to break in upon his reverie. He seemed for the moment to be far away from her, and she felt an intangible barrier between them.

"I could not make any one understand." Armstrong was speaking more to himself than to her. "Ever since I left Florence years ago I have felt something pulling me back, and ever since I have been here I have been under influences which I can explain no more than I can resist. It must be this, if anything, that you feel."

"I think I understand," Helen hastened to reassure him. "Sometimes when I have been playing something on the piano I have the strangest sensation come over me. I seem to lose my own individuality and to be merged into another's. I feel impelled to play on, and an unspeakable dread comes over me lest some one should try to stop me. Is it not something like that which you feel?"

"Yes," replied Armstrong, "only a thousand times stronger than any one could put in words."

"I know exactly what you mean--and there is nothing for which you need blame yourself. You warned me before we left Boston that you had left here a second personality. I know that you confidently expected your own enthusiasm to excite my interest when once in the atmosphere. I wish that it had, dear, but I fear I am hopelessly modern."

Armstrong looked at his wife intently, yet he gave no evidence that he had heard her words.

"I have started on a great task at the library, Helen. The spirit of work is on me, and I feel that I have a chance to prove myself one of that glorious company. I may find myself unequal to the opportunity, but if we stay here in Florence I cannot keep away from it. If my absence from you makes you unhappy I must separate myself from these associations."

"No, indeed," cried Helen. "I would not have you stop your work for worlds. Even though I am unable to appreciate it, you know how interested I am in anything which adds to your happiness--and I am so proud of you, dear! That was one reason why I was glad that Inez could spend a little time with us. She, at least, can help you."

"She can indeed," replied Armstrong, frankly, "and she has already. I have never seen a girl with such natural intellectual gifts. Her arguments are so logical, her reasoning so clear, that I find even her disagreements most entertaining. What a pity she is not a man!"

"I knew you would like her," answered Helen. "Sometimes I think you ought to have married a girl like her instead of me, but"--Helen looked at him smilingly and drew closer to him--"but I am awfully glad that you didn't, Jack!"

"What nonsense, Helen!" cried Armstrong, coming to himself and drawing her to him. "Who is fishing now? I would ask no better chum than your charming, brown-eyed friend, but I am quite content that I possess as wife this sweet girl here in my arms who is trying to find a cloud in this cloudless sky."

"Oh no, Jack." Helen straightened up reproachfully. "But I like to hear you say these things--just as you did that day at Fiesole! And even if I should find a cloud it would be sure to have a silver lining, wouldn't it, dear?"

Armstrong smiled. "Yes, sweetheart, and, as Uncle Peabody says, 'all you would have to do would be to turn it around lining side out.'"

VII

Inez Thayer found herself overwhelmed by a varied mingling of conflicting emotions as she settled herself in the victoria, and listened without remark to the enthusiastic and joyous monologue to which her companion gave free rein. She felt herself absolutely helpless, borne along resistlessly like a rudderless ship by a force which she could neither control nor fully comprehend. She still longed for a valid excuse to leave Florence, yet in her heart she questioned whether she would now be strong enough to embrace the opportunity even if it came. She had dreaded the certain appearance of De Peyster, yet she had been eager to enter into the inevitable final discussion so that the episode might be closed forever. She said to herself that she hated Armstrong for the mastery which he unconsciously possessed over her, yet every thought of him thrilled her with a delight which nothing in her life had before given her. The color came to her cheeks even now, and De Peyster, watching her intently, thought it was in response to his own remark and felt encouraged.

The drive took them, as a matter of course, to the Cascine, where fashionable Florence parades up and down the delightful avenues formed by the pines and the ilexes. On this particular afternoon the heat encouraged them to take refuge on the shadier side toward the mountains, reserving the drive along the Arno until the brilliant coloring of the setting sun should show them both Bellosguardo and the city itself in their fullest glory. De Peyster was intoxicated by the enjoyment of his environment, and seemed quite content to accept his companion's passive submission to his mood. At length his exuberance of spirits became mildly contagious, and Inez threw off her apprehensions and forgot the dangers and perplexities which she felt surrounded her.

But her feeling of security was short-lived. De Peyster no sooner became conscious of her change of manner than he seized it as a long-awaited opportunity. Beginning where he had left off at the last attack, he rehearsed the history of his affection from the day he had first met her until the present moment. For the first time Inez experienced a sympathy toward him rather than a sorrow for herself. He was, even with his limitations, so deadly in earnest, his devotion was so unquestionable, his very persistency was so unlike his other characteristics, seeming a part of a stronger personality, that it forced her admiration. And yet how far below the standard she had set!

"You have not believed me, Ferdinand, when I have told you over and over again that what you ask is absolutely impossible." Inez spoke kindly but very firmly. "I truly wish it might be otherwise, but it is kinder that I make you understand it now instead of having this unhappiness for us both continue indefinitely. I know you mean every word, but I say to you now finally and irrevocably--it can never be."

De Peyster looked into her face searchingly. "You never said it like that before, Inez."

"Yes, I have--not once, but many times, and in almost the same words."

"But it is not the words that count, Inez. I don't care how many times you say it in the way you always have said it before. I expected to hear it again. But this tone, Inez, this manner is quite different; and for the first time I have a feeling that perhaps you do mean it after all."

"I do mean it, and I have meant it every time I have said it."

Inez was relentless, but she felt that this was the one time when matters could be finally settled, and the carriage had already begun the climb to Settignano.

De Peyster still gazed at her with uncertainty. Then a sudden light came to him and showed in his face, mingling with the evident pain which the thought brought him.

"I have it," he said, bending toward her to watch her expression more intently; "I have it. You are in love with some one else!"

Inez felt her face burn with the suddenness of the accusation. She hesitated, and in that moment's hesitation De Peyster had his answer. Still he was not satisfied. He must hear the words spoken.

"You told me last time that there was no one else," he said, reproachfully, "and I know you spoke the truth. Now there must be some one, and if there is I am entitled to know it. So long as my love for you cannot harm you, no power on earth can take it away from me; but if there is another who has a better right than I, that is a different matter. Tell me, Inez--I insist--do you love some one else?"

There was no retreat. Any denial of words would be useless, and it was the only way to end things after all. She lifted her eyes to his and spoke calmly, though the color had fled from her cheeks and her face was deathly pale. "Yes, Ferdinand, you are entitled to know it. I do love some one else, and I love him better than my life!"

"I knew it!" De Peyster exclaimed, dejectedly.

There was a long pause, during which he struggled bravely with himself.

"Tell me who it is," he said, at length. "Of course, this makes it different."

Inez could not help admiring the unexpected strength.

"No, Ferdinand, I cannot. This is my secret, and you must not question further."

"But it must be some one here, for you told me just before you sailed that there was no one."

"Perhaps here--perhaps elsewhere. You must leave it there, Ferdinand. If you care for me, as you say you do, I ask you to leave it there."

De Peyster bowed submissively and shared her evident desire for silence during the few moments which remained of their drive.

Helen and Jack met them at the villa, and were greatly disappointed that Ferdinand declined their pressing invitation to stay for supper in the garden. A promise that he would take tea with them on the following afternoon was all they could secure from him, and when Inez rushed up-stairs promptly upon his departure Jack looked at Helen meaningly.

"She must have turned him down good and hard this time, eh?"

"Poor Ferdy!" Helen replied, sympathetically. "I had no idea he could get so cut up over anything."

* * * * *

The automobile, even in the two days it had been a member of the Armstrong family, completely demoralized the entire establishment. Jack was beside himself with excitement and joy, his early experiments both with chauffeur and car being eminently satisfactory. He contented himself with short runs down to the city and back the first day after his man had succeeded in putting the car into its normal condition, but his impatience to start out again immediately after each return, even though luncheon was most unceremoniously shortened, produced almost as much dismay in the household as his bad temper while trying to reconstruct the machine.

"I want you all to have a ride in it at the earliest possible moment," he explained; "but before I risk any one's neck but my own I must satisfy myself that the car is all right and that the chauffeur knows his business."

The only event which diverted Armstrong was the return to the villa of Inez and De Peyster, for their evident discomforture caused him real concern. On general principles he was interested in the outcome of the obvious errand which had brought De Peyster to Florence, and beyond this he had already come to look upon Miss Thayer as a most agreeable companion and assistant whose happiness and equilibrium he regretted to see disturbed.

After De Peyster's unceremonious departure and Inez' abrupt disappearance, he and Helen strolled out into the garden, where the table was already laid for supper.

"There is no use waiting for Inez," said Helen. "Poor child! It is a shame to have her unhappy when we are so contented. But where is Uncle Peabody?"

"I met him on the Lung' Arno and offered to take him home, but he said he was bound for Olschki's. Trying to find out if Luigi Cornaro wrote anything he had not discovered, he said."

"Perhaps he will come before we have finished. You sit there, Jack, where you can watch the sunset behind San Miniato, and I will sit next to you so that I can watch it, too."

Helen drew the light chair nearer, and smilingly looked up at him. "There," she said. "Is this not cozy--just you and I?"

Armstrong smiled back into her radiant eyes with equal contentment. "This is absolute perfection, but you don't imagine we can eat like this, do you?"

"I don't feel a bit hungry," she replied, cheerfully, making no attempt to move. "Uncle Peabody says we ought not to eat when we don't feel like it, and I don't feel like it now."

"But what does Uncle Peabody say about not eating when you have been knocking about in an automobile all day and have the appetite of a horse?"

"Oh, you men!" cried Helen, straightening up with a pout. "I don't believe there is a bit of sentiment in a man's make-up, anyhow. Eat--eat--eat--" and she piled his plate high with generous portions from every dish within reach.

Uncle Peabody's step upon the path gave warning of his approach.

"So I am in time after all," he said. "I was afraid I should be obliged to eat my evening repast in solitary loneliness. But is this the way you follow my precepts?" he continued, as his eye fell upon Armstrong's plate. "Can't you take it on the instalment plan--or are you anticipating forming a partnership with a stomach-pump?"

"It is my fault, uncle," replied Helen, contritely. "I can't make Jack romantic, so I tried to stuff him to keep him good-natured. That is always the next best thing with a man."

"Oh ho!" Uncle Peabody looked shocked as he drew a chair up to the little table. "So I have come right into a family quarrel, have I? Naughty, naughty, both of you!"

"I wish I could quarrel with him," said Helen, "but he is too agreeable, even in his aggravating moods."

"What have you to say to that pretty speech, John Armstrong?" asked Uncle Peabody.

"What can I say?" answered Jack, between mouth-fuls, "except that, speaking for myself, I am always much more romantic when I am not hungry. If Herself will indulge me for five minutes longer I will promise to be as sentimental as the most fastidious could desire."

"I do not care for manufactured sentiment," replied Helen; "and it is too late now anyway, for my own appetite has returned and my anger is appeased."

"Miss Thayer evidently has not returned yet?" ventured Uncle Peabody, interrogatively, as the supper progressed.

"Yes, she is up-stairs in tears, and Ferdy has gone away to throw himself into the Arno," Helen replied.

"Dear me, dear me!" murmured Uncle Peabody. "What a pity! I am not sure that I would have returned had I known that I should find so much trouble."

"Now that you have had this much, I think I will let you in for the rest," suggested Armstrong. "I will take you out to the garage after you have finished."

"More trouble there?"

"Yes--punctured a tire on the way up the hill."

"And you never said a word about it!" cried Helen. "No wonder you did not feel romantic!"

"Good! Peace is once more established, which is worth more than a new tire. Come, my appetite is satisfied--suppose we all go out to the garage."

Annetta interrupted their progress at the door.

"A gentleman to see the signora," she announced--"the same gentleman who took the Signorina Thayer to ride this afternoon--and would the signora see him alone?"

"Poor Ferdy," Helen sighed, aloud. "He wants me to intercede for him. You go on, Jack, and perhaps I may join you later. Show Mr. De Peyster out here, Annetta."

Ferdinand hardly waited to be ushered through the hallway. He was visibly suffering as he approached Helen with outstretched hand.

"I am so sorry, Ferdy," was all she could say before he interrupted her.

"Forgive me, Helen, for coming to you before I have regained control of myself; but I have made a sudden decision, and unless I carry it out at once I won't be able to do it."

"A sudden decision, Ferdy?"

"Yes, I am leaving Florence on the night train for Paris; but I could not go without seeing you again and leaving with you a message for--Inez."

"The night train to-night? Surely you are not going away without seeing Inez again?"

Helen's sympathy was strong in the face of his almost uncontrollable emotion.

"Yes, to-night, Helen; and I shall never see her again unless she sends for me."

"But what has happened to make things so hopeless now? She has refused you before, Ferdy, and I have always admired your pluck that you refused to give her up."

"But it is different now--there is a reason why I must give her up. There was none before, except that she did not think she cared for me. I was certain I could make her do that--in time. But now--"

"What is it now?" Her interest was sincere.

"You must know, Helen. Why do you pretend that you don't?"

"Why, what do you mean? I am not pretending. I know of nothing."

De Peyster was incredulous. "It's all right, Helen. We men would do the same thing, I suppose, to protect another chap's secret; but it is pretty rough on me, just the same."

Helen's mystification was complete. "Look here, Ferdy," she said; "this has gone too far. Inez has evidently confided to you something which she has never told me. I have not had a word with her since she returned, and I know nothing of what has happened except what I have surmised."

"Do you mean to tell me that Inez has been here all this time as your guest without your knowing that she has fallen in love with some one over here?"

"Inez in love! Ferdy, you are crazy! Who is it, and where did she meet him?"

"I don't know--she would not tell me, but it is some one she has met over here."

"I don't believe a word of it. She must have said it to make you understand that she could not marry you."

Ferdinand shook his head. "No. A girl could fool me on some things, I suppose; but when she speaks as Inez spoke she means every word she says. 'I do love some one else,' she said, 'and I love him better than my life.' Do you think Inez would say that if she did not mean it, Helen?"

Helen leaned against the arm of the settle. "I don't understand it, Ferdy--I don't understand it."

"But I do, and I am not strong enough to see her again or to stay here in Florence. I will not trouble her again unless she sends for me--anything sent in care of Coutts will always reach me. Or after she is married, and I am myself again, I would like to see her and congratulate--him. Forgive me, Helen, I am all unstrung to-night. Good-bye."

De Peyster was gone before Helen realized it. She sank upon the settle and rested her face on her hand. Inez in love, and with some one she had met in Italy! Who was it--when was it? She had come directly to the villa upon her arrival. She had said that she had met no one who interested her on the steamer. In Florence she had met no one otherwise than casually. All her time had been spent either with her or with Jack. Helen lifted her head suddenly. "With Jack," she repeated to herself. She rose quickly and looked off into the distance. The last bright rays were disappearing behind San Miniato. "I love him better than my life," Inez had said to Ferdinand. Helen grasped the railing of the balustrade for support. "With Jack!" she repeated again. "Oh no, no, no--not that!" she cried aloud--"not that!"

VIII

"How is the work at the library progressing?"

Helen asked her husband at breakfast a few mornings later.

"Famously," Armstrong replied, pleased that she had referred to the subject.

"Is it nearly finished?"

"Finished?" Jack laughed indulgently. "You evidently don't realize what a big thing I have undertaken. I find myself appalled by its possibilities."

"Indeed." Uncle Peabody looked up surprised. "Does this mean that you are likely to lengthen your stay in Florence beyond your original plans?"

"No, I think not," Armstrong replied. "We have been here less than a month now, and I ought to be able to put my material into shape during the two months which remain--especially with the splendid assistance Miss Thayer is giving me. I can add the finishing touches after we return home, if necessary."

"Will it take as long as that?" asked Helen, her color mounting.

"Surely you are not counting upon me for any such length of time!" exclaimed Inez, almost in the same breath. "My cousins are expecting me to join them in Berlin any day now."

"You would not desert your post of duty?"

"I must follow the direction toward which it points."

"Just what is this 'big thing' you have undertaken?" interrupted Uncle Peabody. "You forget that I have not yet been taken into your confidence."

Armstrong turned to his questioner seriously. "I have really stumbled upon something which has not been done before and which ought to have been undertaken long ago. You see, Cerini has there at the library hundreds of letters which belong to the Buonarroti archives. Many of them were written by Michelangelo, and many more were written to him. The correspondence is between him and men in all walks of life--popes, kings, princes, tradesmen, and even some from the workmen in the Carrara quarries."

"And you and Miss Thayer are translating these letters?" Uncle Peabody anticipated.

"Yes; but that is not the work which most interests me, except indirectly. Any number of volumes have been published upon the life and manners and customs of every age before and since that in which Michelangelo lived, yet practically nothing concerning this particular period. The artistic importance of the epoch has been written up with minute detail, but the intimate life of the people and its significance seems to have been wholly overlooked--probably because it was overshadowed. Very few of these letters have ever been printed, and they ought to form the basis of a great work upon this subject. Cerini has turned them over to me to see what I can do with them. At first I started with the idea of going through everything myself, but that would be a hopeless task unless we plan to live in Florence indefinitely. Now, Miss Thayer reads over the letters and takes out the important data, leaving me free to work on the book itself. We are really making splendid progress, and I shall be bitterly disappointed if Miss Thayer has to go away and leave me to finish it alone."

"I am sure Inez will stay as long as she can, Jack," Helen said, quietly. "She knows how welcome she has been, but we must not urge her beyond what she thinks is best."

She broke off suddenly; then, with an assumed nonchalance, said: "I wonder if I could not help in some way and thus get the work completed just that much sooner. Of course, I don't understand Italian, but perhaps I could do some copying or something. Don't you think three would accomplish more than two, Jack, even if one of them was a weak sister?"

Helen looked over to her husband with obvious expectancy, but she could not fail to notice the momentary hush.

"I know how ridiculous my proposition sounds," she continued, bravely, "but I would really like to try."

"Why, of course," Armstrong replied, hastily. "Miss Thayer's suggestion to leave and your willingness at last to come to my rescue have combined to give me two unexpected shocks--one unpleasant, the other delightful. Let me see. Miss Thayer and I have been developing a kind of team work, so this means a little readjustment."

"Never mind, if it is not perfectly convenient." Helen made an effort to appear indifferent.

"Of course it is convenient," Jack hastened to add, ashamed of his hesitation. "You know how much I have wanted you to do this, and I am perfectly delighted. I am sure it can be arranged and that you can help us a great deal."

"I wish you knew Italian, Helen, so that you could take my place," added Inez. "Then Mr. Armstrong would not accuse me of deserting my post of duty."

"Not at all," protested Armstrong, impulsively. "Even then I could not get along without your assistance. We can easily find something for Helen to do which will help the work along and encourage her in her budding enthusiasm. This is splendid! Helen interested at last in my dusty old divinities! Perhaps we can even infect Uncle Peabody."

"Perhaps," assented Uncle Peabody; "but for the present I shall devote myself to my own researches--even though your masterpiece is forced to suffer thereby. But I will ride down with you as far as the Duomo."

No one in the automobile, unless it was the chauffeur, could help feeling a certain tenseness in the situation as the car conveyed the party to its destination. Helen's action was the result of a sudden decision, quite at variance with all the conclusions at which she had arrived during the wakeful hours of the preceding nights. Armstrong had so long since given up all thought of having his wife co-operate with him in this particular expression of himself, and the work upon which he and Miss Thayer were engaged had settled down into so regular a routine, that he was really disturbed by Helen's change of base, although he had been entirely unwilling to admit it. Inez inwardly resented the intrusion, at the same time blaming herself severely for her attitude; and Uncle Peabody, who saw in the whole affair only a clever ruse on Helen's part instigated by a tardily aroused jealousy, was in danger, for the first time, of not knowing just what to do.

As a result of all these conflicting emotions, the efforts at conversation during the ride would have seemed ludicrous had the situation been less serious. Armstrong kept up a continuous and irrelevant conversation into which each of the others joined weakly with equal irrelevance. Each was trying to talk and think at the same time. The car reached the Piazza del Duomo almost abruptly, as it seemed, and Uncle Peabody alighted with considerable alacrity, waving a good-bye which was mechanically acknowledged as the machine slowly moved into the narrow Borgo San Lorenzo. At the library, Armstrong led the way through the cloister and up the stone stairs to the little door where Maritelli was this time waiting to give them entrance.

"I will take you to meet Cerini," said Armstrong.

"While I," interrupted Inez, "will seek out our table and get all in readiness for our triple labors."

A gentle voice called "Avanti," in answer to Jack's tap upon the door of Cerini's study, and the old man rose hastily as he saw a new figure by Armstrong's side.

"My wife, padre." Jack smiled at the admiration in Cerini's face as he took Helen's hand and raised it to his lips. "She could not longer resist the magnet which draws us to you and to your treasures."

"Your wife," repeated the old man, looking from Helen to Armstrong. "I have looked forward to this day when I might meet her here. But where is your sister-worker? Surely she has not given up the splendid task which she has so well begun?"

Helen flushed consciously at Cerini's praise of Inez. "No, father; Miss Thayer is already at her work, and Mr. Armstrong is equally eager to return to it. May I not stay a little while with you?"

"Have you time to show her some of the things here which we know and love so well?" asked Armstrong.

"Most certainly."

He turned to Helen. "If you will accept my guidance we can let these humanists resume their labors while we enjoy the accomplishments of those who have gone before."

Armstrong left them, and Cerini conducted Helen through the library, explaining to her the various objects of interest. It was quite apparent to Helen that the old man was studying her minutely, and she felt ill at ease in spite of his unfailing courtesy.

"You have known my husband for a long while, have you not?" Helen asked as they passed from one case to another.

"Yes, indeed--even before he came to know himself."

"Then you must know him very well."

Helen smiled, but the old man was serious.

"Better than you know him, even though you are his wife. But see this choir-book. It was illuminated by Lorenzo Monaco, teacher of Fra Angelico. Can anything be more wonderful than these miniatures, in the beauty of their line and color?"

Helen assented with a show of interest, but she was not thinking of the blazoned page before her. The old man's words were burning in her heart. Passing through a smaller room to reach Cerini's study, they came suddenly to a corner lighted only by a small window where Armstrong and Inez were at work. So intent were they that the approach of Helen and the librarian had not been noticed. Cerini held up his hand warningly.

"Quiet!" he commanded, softly. "Let us not disturb them. I have never seen two individualities cast in so identical a mould. One sometimes sees it in two men, but rarely in a man and a woman."

Helen felt her breath come faster as she watched them for a moment longer. Inez was pointing out something in the text of the original letter which lay before them. Armstrong's head was bent, studying it intently. Then Inez spoke, and her companion answered loud enough for Helen to hear.

"Splendid! And to think that we are the first ones to put these facts together!"

The expression of sheer joy upon her husband's face held Helen spellbound, and Cerini was obliged to repeat his suggestion that they return to his study by another route.

"It is just as you have seen it, day after day," said the librarian as he closed the door quietly, and Helen seated herself in the Savonarola chair beside his desk. "When I heard from him that he was to be married I hoped that his wife might be able to enter into this joy of his life; but, since that could not be, it is well that he has found a friend so sympathetic."

Helen told herself that the old man could not intend deliberately to wound her as he was doing.

"Why are you so sure that his wife cannot enter into it also?" she asked, quietly.

Cerini looked at her in evident surprise. "Because what I have seen during these weeks, and what you have seen to-day, can happen but once in a lifetime. You are more beautiful than his companion, but you are not so intellectual."

It was impossible to take offence at the old man's frankness because of his absolute sincerity. He spoke of her beauty exactly as he spoke of one of the magnificent bindings he had just shown her, and of Inez' intellectuality as if it were the content of one of his priceless tomes.

"I came to the library to-day for the definite purpose of joining in their work--" Helen began, hesitatingly.

"Surely not!" replied Cerini, emphatically. "You would not disturb these labors which mean so much in the development of them both? It would mean stopping them where they are."

"Could I not assist them at some point, even to a slight extent, and participate in this development myself?"

Cerini was mildly indulgent at her lack of understanding. "My daughter," he said, kindly, "some one has written that it is no kindness to a spider, no matter how gentle the touch, to aid it in the spinning of its web. Any one can work at translating, truly--almost any one can write a book--but few can accomplish what your husband and Miss Thayer are doing now. The book they are engaged upon in itself is the least of value. They do not themselves realize, as I do, that it is the influence of this work upon their own characters which is making it a success. They were humanists before they knew the meaning of the word. They come into the highest expression of themselves here in this atmosphere. You were born for other things, my daughter--perhaps far more important things--but not for this."

"You cannot understand, father," Helen replied, desperately. "I am his wife, and it is my place, rather than that of any other woman, to share with him any development which affects his life as deeply as you say this does. It must be so."

"Forgive me if I offend you, but this is not a matter which you or I can settle. It is perhaps natural that I cannot understand your viewpoint. The nature of my life and work gives me little knowledge of women; but this is not a question of sex--it is the kinship of intellects. You are his wife, and, as you say, it is your privilege to share with your husband any development, but it must be along a path which you are able to tread. I mean this in no unkind way, my daughter. I doubt not that you, perhaps, in all other ways, are quite capable of doing so, but this one single portion of his life it is quite impossible that you should share."

Helen had no response. Her heart told her that all Cerini said was literally true. She felt herself to be absolutely unfitted to understand or to supplement that particular expression of her husband's character. But the matter-of-fact suggestion of the librarian that Inez should fulfil to him that which she, his wife, lacked, almost paralyzed her power to think or speak. Cerini seemed instinctively to read what was passing through her mind.

"You think me unreal, my daughter--you think me impractical. I may be both. Here, within these old walls, I am not limited by the world's conventions, so perhaps I disregard them more than is right. Those whom I love signify nothing to me as to their personal appearance or their families or their personalities except in so far as these attributes may be expressions of themselves. Life to me would not be worth the living if in debating whether or not I ought to do a certain thing I was obliged to consider also what the world would think or what some other person might think. Let me ask you a question: Was your motive in coming here this morning the result of a desire to put yourself in touch with the spirit of your husband's work, or was it to separate these two persons in the labor they have undertaken?"

Cerini's question brought Helen to herself.

"If you are really free from the world's conventions," she responded, quickly, "you will understand my answer. My husband is everything to me that a wife could ask, and his happiness is the highest object my life contains. Miss Thayer is the dearest friend I have, and my affection for her is second only to the love I bear my husband. While this side of his nature was not unknown to me, until we came to Florence--even until to-day--I have never fully appreciated its intensity. Yet when I feel that to a certain extent, at least, his welfare depends upon a gratification of this expression, is it unnatural that I, his wife, should wish to be the one person to experience that development with him?"

"You did not feel this strong desire when you first came to Florence?"

"I did not understand it."

"Would your present comprehension have come at all if his companion had been a man rather than a woman?"

Helen flushed. "You are not so free from the world's conventions as you think."

"But you do not answer the question," the old man pursued, relentlessly.

"You think, then, that my desire is prompted by jealousy? Let us speak frankly," continued Helen as Cerini held up his hand deprecatingly. "The distinction in my own mind may be a fine one and difficult for another to comprehend, but I can say truly that no jealous thought has entered into any of my considerations. I could not love my husband and be jealous of him at the same time. On the other hand, it is probably quite true that were his companion a man I should not have recognized so strongly the importance of joining him in this particular work."

Cerini rose quietly, and took from the bookcase near his desk a copy of a modern classic.

"The author has expressed an idea here which I think explains your position exactly." He turned the pages quickly. "See here," he said, drawing closer to Helen and pointing to a paragraph marked with a double score in the margin. "'No man objects to the admiration his wife receives from his friends; it is the woman herself who makes the trouble.' Now I suppose the reverse of that proposition is equally true."

Helen smiled. "You mean that the reason I am not jealous of my husband in this instance is because he has given me no occasion?"

"Exactly."

"That is perfectly true."

"But you fear that it may not always be true?"

Helen was no match for the old man in argument, yet she struggled to meet him.

"Perhaps," she said; "there is always that danger. Why not avoid it by making this other companionship unnecessary?"

"But suppose you yourself are not temperamentally fitted to gratify this particular craving in your husband's life?" Cerini watched the effect of his words upon his companion. She was silent for several moments before she raised her eyes to his.

"I know that you are right," she answered, simply. "I have felt it always, but my husband has insisted that in my case it was lack of application rather than of temperament. I came here to-day to try the experiment, and you have shown me that my own judgment is correct."

"It is correct," agreed Cerini, delighted by Helen's unexpected acquiescence. "It was your husband's heart rather than his head which led him astray in his advice. You have just shown me your intelligence by coming so promptly to this conclusion; now you are going to manifest your devotion to him by leaving him undisturbed in this work which he has undertaken. It can only last during a limited period at best. It is the expression of but one side of his nature. Before many weeks have passed you and he will be returning to your great country into a complexity of conditions where this experience will become only a memory. These conditions will call to the surface the expression of his other characteristics into which you can fully enter. By not interfering with this character-building now going on, you, his wife, will later reap rich returns."

A tap sounded on the door of the study.

"There is your husband now," said Cerini, taking Helen's hand. "Tell me that you forgive me for my frankness."

Helen pressed his hand silently as he turned from her to admit Armstrong.

"Here you are!" cried Jack, as he entered with Inez. "We became so engrossed that I am ashamed to say I completely forgot our new convert."

"Your forgetfulness has given me the opportunity to become well acquainted with your charming wife," replied Cerini. "Is your work completed for the day?"

"Yes, but we shall be at it again to-morrow. You will come with us of course?" he asked, turning to his wife.

"I am not quite sure, Jack," Helen replied. "Monsignor Cerini has suggested to me another way in which I can help you, which may prove to be equally important."

She turned to Inez with an unflinching smile. "Our friend has been explaining to me the nature of what you and Jack are doing together. You must certainly plan to stay on for a while longer. I am sure Jack could never finish it without you."

IX

The human heart can play no more difficult role than to keep on with its every-day monotonous pulsations, so far as the world sees, when in reality every throb is a measured duration of infinite pain. Ten days had passed since De Peyster had so unconsciously been the cause of completely changing the even tenor of Helen's existence, and during this time she had drifted helplessly in the deep waters of uncertainty. What was the wise thing to do? Helen knew Inez too well to deceive herself into thinking that what was said to Ferdinand had been simply an expedient to accomplish his dismissal, and her observations since then had confirmed her early convictions. Inez was in love with Jack. Jack was obviously fond of her companionship. Their work in the library had brought them constantly together, and at home an increasing proportion of the time had been devoted to a consideration and discussion of the various topics which had developed and into which Helen did not enter. Yet there was nothing in all this which was not perfectly natural; in fact, it was, as Helen said to herself, wholly the outcome of what she had originally suggested.

Helen's convictions regarding Inez were confirmed, not by what her friend did, but rather by the efforts she made to avoid doing certain things. Never for an instant did Helen question Inez' loyalty to her, and she could scarcely refrain from entering into the tremendous struggle in which she saw her engaged. Each woman's heart was passing through fire, and Helen felt a new and strange bond of sympathy between her friend and herself because of their mutual suffering. But the struggle must continue. Helen must come to some decision wiser than any which had yet suggested itself to her before disclosing to any one, and to Inez least of all, that she possessed any knowledge of the situation.

Fortunately, at this crisis, the automobile became the controlling excitement. During the intervening days Jack had resisted the temptation, devoting himself assiduously to his self-appointed task, and satisfying himself with short excursions after his labors at the library were over. Now he could resist no longer. The book was assuming definite proportions, and, as he explained to himself and the others, the work would be all the better for a little holiday. So it was that the Armstrongs, with Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, made runs to Siena, Padua, and to all the smaller towns less frequented by visitors and consequently of greater interest. Miss Thayer forgot in the excitement the experience she was passing through; Uncle Peabody forgot Luigi Cornaro and the Japanese; Armstrong, for the time being, appeared indifferent to the hitherto compelling interests at the library; and Helen, at intervals, forgot her suffering and the heavy burden which lay upon her heart in her feeling of helplessness. New sensations, in this twentieth century, are rare, and the automobile is to be credited with supplying many. The exhilaration, the abandon, which comes with the utter annihilation of time and space, forces even those affairs of life which previously had been thought important to become miserably commonplace. The danger itself is not the least of the fascination.

"I would rather be killed once a week in an automobile," asserted Uncle Peabody while the fever was on him, "than die the one ordinary death allotted to man."

With the temporary cessation of the library work, there had been no occasion for separate interests. This, Helen felt, was most fortunate, as it gave her ample opportunity to arrive at her conclusions. It was all her own fault, she repeated to herself over and over again. Had she made an earlier effort to enter into Jack's interests, even though it had proved her inability, matters need never have arrived at so serious a pass. Now she was convinced that it was too late to become a part of them; she had done an irreparable injury to Inez, whom she loved as a sister, and had taken chances on disrupting her own and her husband's domestic happiness.

"As Jack said, I have found a cloud in the cloudless sky," she thought.--"And poor Inez!"

Thus the burden resolved itself into two parts--solicitude for Inez and how best to undo the harm Helen felt she had wrought. Her first attempt had proved a failure, and she could not see the next step. While the motoring fever lasted there was nothing to do but to plan; for the excitement was infectious, and one trip followed another in rapid succession. Household regularity became conspicuous by its absence. Meals were served at all hours and were rushed through with reckless haste, entirely upsetting Uncle Peabody's theories.

"You treat your stomach like a trunk," he protested to Armstrong one morning, "and you throw the food into it just about the way an average man does his packing."

"But you finish your breakfast just as soon as any of us," was the retort.

"Yes, but if you observe carefully you will note that I actually eat about one-quarter as much as you do in the same given time. And what I have eaten will satisfy me about four times as long, because I have thoroughly masticated it and assimilated all the nourishing portions of the food. When I think of the gymnastic performances your poor stomach must go through in order to tear into shreds the chunks of food you have bolted down I admit my sympathy is fully aroused."

"Sympathy is always grateful," Armstrong replied, unconvinced, "but every moment we lose discussing nutrition is a moment taken off the finest trip we have tried yet. The car is in splendid condition, the weather is ideal, and Pisa awaits us at the other end of our excursion."

"So it is to be Pisa, is it?" Uncle Peabody arose. "Do you know, Jack, I like you for the way you plan these charming rides, and that almost makes up for your lack of judgment in some other directions. An ordinary man would spend at least the day before in studying maps, asking advice, and in making plans generally. You, on the contrary, wait until breakfast is over, throw down your napkin, and then with a proper show of impatience say, 'Why do you keep me waiting? The car is ready to take us to the moon.' All this fits in exactly with my principles: it is the unexpected which always brings satisfaction."

"Uncle's praise is distinctly a man's approval," Helen protested. "From a woman's standpoint Jack's methods represent the acme of tyranny. No inquiries as to where we prefer to be spirited, no suggestions that our opinions are worth consulting, no suspicion that we are other than clay in the potter's hands; simply, 'The machine is ready. Please hurry.' Yes, we are coming," Helen hurriedly added, seeing Jack's impatience over the bantering, "we are coming!"

Giuseppe, Annetta, and the cook were avowed enemies of the motor-car, not only because of the effect it had produced upon the household arrangements, but also because of the intrusion of the French chauffeur which it had forced upon them. They would die rather than show the slightest interest in it, yet on one pretext or another they never allowed the machine to start out without regarding it with secret admiration and respect. Giuseppe, on this particular morning, was gathering roses on the terrace, Annetta was closing a shutter on the veranda, while the cook's red face peered around the corner of the villa. Giuseppe crossed himself as the engine started up, then jumped and fell squarely into his rose-basket as the chauffeur maliciously pressed the bulb, and the machine moved majestically past him, out of the court-yard, and into the narrow road.

"I don't blame these people for resenting the invasion of motor-cars and other evidences of modern progress," said Inez as they reached the level; "it is all so out of keeping with everything around them and with everything they have been brought up to regard as right and proper."

"But 'these people' represent only one portion of the Italians, Miss Thayer," replied Uncle Peabody. "Italian civic life contains two great contrasting factors--one practical, the other ideal. Each in its way is proud of the past; the first thinks more of the present and the future, while the second, opposed on principle to innovations, only accepts, and then under protest, those which come from Italian sources. This car we are riding in is of French manufacture. Were it Italian, you would find that it would have been greeted with smiles instead of scowls just now. And yet I like their patriotism."

"But it does seem a sacrilege for the wonderful old towers and walls here in Florence to be torn down to make room for prosaic twentieth-century trolley-cars," Helen added.

"And Mr. Armstrong says there is talk of a board road being built for automobiles between Mestre and Venice. What will dear old Italy be when 'modern civilization' has finished with her?" Inez asked.

"From present tendencies," remarked Uncle Peabody, gravely, "I expect to live to see the day when the Venetian gondola will be propelled by gasolene; when the Leaning Tower of Pisa will either be straightened by some enterprising American engineer or made to lean a bit more, so that automobiles may make the ascent, even as the Colosseum at Rome is already turned over to Buffalo Bill or some other descendant of Barnum's circus for regular performances, including the pink lemonade and the peanuts."

"Don't!" Inez cried. "It would be far better to go to the other extreme, which Mr. Armstrong would like to see."

The road was level and smooth, now that the rough streets of the city lay behind them, and there was nothing to think of until after reaching Empoli. Armstrong had been running the machine, and he turned his head just in time to hear Inez' last remark.

"I can imagine what the conversation is, even though I have not heard much of it," he said, "and I am sure that I agree with Miss Thayer. How about getting back to our work at the library to-morrow?" he added.

Inez flushed at the suddenness of the question, and Helen caught her breath. The time for her decision, then, was near at hand.

"I am as eager as you are to resume it," replied Inez, her face lighting with pleasure.

"Then it is all arranged," Armstrong said, decisively. "Helen and Uncle Peabody may have the machine to-morrow, and we will start in again where we left off."

The Arno winds around and about in a hundred curves between Florence and Pisa, leaving the road for some little distance at times, but ever coming back to it in flirtatious manner. The fields stretch away between the river and the road in undulating green. Small hamlets like San Romano, La Rotta, and Navacchio, and the more pretentious settlements of Signa, Empoli, and Pontedera give variety to the ride and add by their old-time strangeness to the beauties which Nature so bountifully supplies. But the climax comes at the end of the journey, after crossing the tracks at the very modern station and the bridge which spans the Arno. Over the roofs of the quaint twelfth-century houses rise the Cathedral and the Leaning Tower and the pillared dome of the Baptistry.

The motor-car was halted in front of the little doorway of the Hotel Nettuno, where the host appeared with all his affability, offering opportunities for removing the dust accumulated by the ride, and a choice _colazione_ to be ready as soon as might be desired. Helen was preoccupied during the preparations for luncheon, but Inez' excitement over her first visit to Pisa, and Armstrong's eagerness to watch the effect of the early impressions, saved her changed demeanor from attracting any attention.

"It is hard to realize that this is the city of Ugolino and the Tower of Hunger after this sumptuous repast," remarked Jack, lighting his cigarette with much satisfaction as coffee was being served.

"Probably the 'Nettuno' was not in existence at that time," suggested Uncle Peabody.

"Is this not where the wonderful echo is to be heard?" inquired Inez.

"Yes--at the Baptistry," Armstrong replied; "and you are sure to enjoy it--the sacristan makes up such a funny face when he intones."

"The echo at Montecatini, I understand, is taking a long vacation," observed Uncle Peabody.

"How so?" inquired Inez, innocently.

"The regular echo was ill, and the sacristan failed to coach the new boy properly. The visitor called, 'What is the hour?' and the echo came back, 'Four o'clock'!"

Jack and Inez led the way from the hotel, through the narrow walled streets and under the gateway to the Piazza del Duomo, where all the splendor of the marvellous group of buildings burst upon them. Helen pleaded fatigue and asked to be left in the Duomo while the others set out to climb the Leaning Tower and to inspect the Campo Santo; so Uncle Peabody insisted on staying with her. They sat down on one of the wooden benches beneath the lamp of Galileo, and Helen rested her head upon her hand. Uncle Peabody watched her curiously for a moment. Finally he took her hand quietly in his. Helen started.

"I would do it if I were you, Helen," he said, deliberately.

"Do what?" she asked, surprised into confusion.

"Just what you were thinking of doing when I interrupted you."

"Do you know what I was thinking, then?"

"No." Uncle Peabody spoke in a very matter-of-fact way. "But I am sure it is the right thing to do."

Helen looked at him steadily, uncertain of just how far he had surmised her secret thought. There was nothing in the calm, unruffled expression which gave her even an inkling as to whether her peculiar sensation was caused by his intuition or her own self-consciousness. Then her gaze relaxed, and she laughed half-heartedly.

"You have mislaid your divining-cap this time," Helen said at length. "If you had really read my mind your advice would have been quite different."

Uncle Peabody was undisturbed. "In that case you will exercise your woman's prerogative and change it within the next twenty-four hours. When that has taken place you will find that my advice fits it exactly."

"I wish I had your confidence, Uncle Peabody." Helen rose suddenly and held out her hand to her companion. "Come, let us go into the sunlight, where things look more cheerful."

Uncle Peabody watched the figure militant as Helen preceded him down the broad aisle, past the small altars, and out into the air. He recalled this same attitude when Helen had been a child, and he remembered the determination and the strength of will which went with it at that time. He had forgotten this characteristic in meeting his niece grown to womanhood and in the midst of such apparently congenial surroundings. Now he felt that he knew the occasion for its reappearance.

Inez and Jack soon joined them, and together they returned to the hotel. A few moments later the car was gliding back toward Florence again, in the refreshing cool of the afternoon, with changed color effects to give new impressions to the panorama of the morning. They were almost home when Armstrong turned suddenly to Helen:

"How absolutely stupid of me!" he said, abruptly. "I met Phil Emory on the Lung' Arno yesterday and asked him to take dinner with us to-night." Armstrong looked at his watch. "We shall be just about in time, anyhow, but I am sorry not to have told you about it."

X

When Helen Cartwright had accepted Phil Emory as escort for the Harvard Class Day festivities, on the occasion of his graduation, every one had considered the matter of their engagement as settled; that is to say, every one except Helen and Emory. This view of the matter did not occur to Helen, even as a remote possibility, and Phil Emory had absolute knowledge to the contrary, since Helen herself had answered his question very clearly, even though not satisfactorily, some months before this event took place. But she liked him immensely none the less, and saw no reason why she should not throw confetti at him from the circus-like seats of the Stadium, or eat strawberries and ices with him and her other friends at the various Class Day spreads. In fact, she saw every reason for doing so, inasmuch as she thoroughly enjoyed it; and Emory was proud enough to act as host under any conditions whatever.

After graduation Emory probably had as good a chance as any one until Jack Armstrong entered the field. The younger man had become more and more intense in his devotion, but when he found himself out-classed by the force of Armstrong's attack he accepted his defeat generously and philosophically. No one contributed more to the jollity of the wedding breakfast or extended heartier congratulations to the bride and bridegroom.

Emory's visit at the Villa Godilombra, when he first arrived in Italy, was one of the pleasantest experiences of his whole trip thus far. Never had he seen a more glorious spot, and never had he seen Helen so radiantly beautiful. He had remarked to Eustis more than once during their stay that an Italian background was the one thing needful to show off Helen's charms to the greatest perfection. When he returned to Florence, therefore, he determined to see her again, making his belated duty call the excuse; so the fortunate meeting with Armstrong and the invitation which resulted fitted in most agreeably with his plans.

The automobile passed Emory in his _vettura_ half-way up the hill. "Good-bye, old chap! Must hurry, as we have company coming for dinner!" cried Armstrong, gayly, as the machine glided past him, giving him only a vision of waving hands before he became enveloped in the cloud of dust. When he arrived at the villa he found Helen and Jack awaiting him as if they had been at home all the afternoon.

"This is a pleasant surprise, Phil," said Helen, cordially. "Until Jack told me you were in Florence I supposed you and Dick Eustis had at least reached London by this time."

"No," Emory replied, as they walked into the garden; "I only went as far north as Paris. Eustis continued on to London, and is there now, I expect, but I ran across Ferdy De Peyster in Paris. He had a frightfully sick turn, and I had to take care of him for a while."

"Ferdy was sick, you say?" Helen was eagerly interested. "You don't mean dangerously so?"

"No--not as things turned out; but I will admit I was a bit anxious about him for a time. He had been terribly cut up over something, and then caught a beastly cold on his lungs, and I thought he was in for a severe case of pneumonia. He was pretty sandy about it, and in a week he came around all right. I took him over to Aix, where I left him, and then I decided to sail home from Naples instead of Southampton."

"Did he tell you what the trouble was?" Helen was anxious to know how confidential De Peyster had been.

"Oh, an _affaire de coeur_ he said; but he did not tell me who the girl was. He spoke of his call on you and Miss Thayer, here, shortly after we departed, but the poor chap was not very communicative."

"Forgive me for deserting you, Emory," interrupted Armstrong as he approached them from the house, closely followed by Annetta bearing a tray. "This is one part of the dinner which I never leave to any one else. These Italians know a lot of things better than we do, but mixing cocktails is not one of their long suits."

"By Jove! that is a grateful reward to a dusty throat!" said Emory, replacing the glass on the tray.

"And now to dinner," announced Helen. "Annetta bids us enter."

Uncle Peabody and Miss Thayer joined them at the table.

"I must tell you, Mr. Cartwright," said Emory, after the greetings were over, "that what you said about eating when I was here before made quite an impression on me, and I have been trying your methods a little."

"Good for you!" cried Uncle Peabody.

"I really think I ought to make a confession," Emory continued. "I had heard about your work and all that, but I had an idea that you were more or less of a crank, and that your theories were the usual ones which go with a new fad. But when you talked about understanding and running properly one's own motive power it appealed to me as being sensible. Then your idea that the appetite is given one to tell him what the system needs sounded reasonable to me; and when you insisted that this same appetite had a right to be consulted as to when enough fuel was on board I woke up to a realization that I had not always been that respectful to myself."

Uncle Peabody smiled genially. "Have you found the experiment very disagreeable?"

"By no means," replied Emory, decidedly. "Of course, I started in on it more as a joke than anything else, but I have been surprised to find how much more I really enjoy my food. Why, there are flavors in a piece of bread which I never discovered until I chewed it all to pieces."

"That is on the same principle exactly that a tea-taster or a wine-taster discovers the real flavor of the particular variety he is testing. That is one thing which gave me my idea. He sips a little and then thoroughly mixes it with the saliva, and in that way tastes the delicate aroma which the glutton never knows either in drink or food."

"How does the system work with the elaborate Continental _table d'hote_, Mr. Emory?" queried Miss Thayer.

Uncle Peabody answered for him: "You became an object of suspicion to the head-waiter, and the _garcon_ thought you were criticising the food."

"Exactly," laughed Emory. "But, all joking aside, Mr. Cartwright, I have become a confirmed disciple. I never felt so well, and I am eating about half as much as I used to."

"This seems to be developing into an experience meeting," Armstrong remarked. "Why don't you write out a testimonial for the gentleman?"

"I would gladly do so, but from what I hear he stands in no need of any such document."

Emory turned to Uncle Peabody. "It is a case of being 'advertised by our grateful friends,' is it not, Mr. Cartwright?"

"How long will you be in Florence, Phil?" asked Helen. "Are you just passing through again, or is this where you make your visit to the City of Flowers?"

"I have no definite plans. My steamer doesn't sail for a month, and I am moving along as the wind blows me. Are the Sinclair girls still here?"

"No; they sailed for home last week."

"Why don't you stay in Florence for a while and help Helen exercise the automobile?" suggested Armstrong. "Miss Thayer and I are working every day at the library, and it will prevent her becoming lonesome."

Helen looked inquiringly at her husband. This suggestion from him, and to Phil Emory of all men! The times had indeed altered! She saw that Emory was observing her, and felt the necessity of relieving the tension.

"You must not put it on that score, Jack," she said, quietly. "I am not at all lonely, but I should be very glad to have Phil join us to-morrow. What do you say, Phil?"

"I should like nothing better. But tell me about this work, Armstrong. Are you really boning down to arduous labor on your honeymoon?"

"It is a bit out of the ordinary, is it not?" admitted Jack, uncertain whether or not Emory's question contained a reproach. "I would not dare do it with any one except Helen, but she understands the necessity. I don't know when I shall get another chance."

"Jack is accomplishing wonders in his work," explained Helen, anxious to have Emory feel her entire sympathy; "you must have him tell you about it. In the mean time, while he is improving himself mentally, Uncle Peabody and I are entering somewhat into the social frivolities of Florence. To-morrow we are going to a reception to be given to the Count of Turin and the Florentine Dante Society at the Villa Londi. Jack scorns these functions, but you will be quite in your element. We will take you with us."

"It is not that I 'scorn' these things, as you say, Helen," protested Armstrong. "You give any one an entirely wrong idea. They are all right enough in their own way, but I can get these at home. This chance at the library, however, is one in a lifetime, and I feel that I must improve it."

"Of course," replied Helen, "that is what I meant to say."

Emory glanced from one to the other quietly. "I shall be most happy to go if you are quite sure I won't interfere with the plans you have already made. You know I am not on speaking terms with Italian."

"You won't have to be," Uncle Peabody assured him. "These Italians speak English so well that you will be ashamed of your ignorance. You will have no difficulty in making yourself understood."

Helen was rebellious at heart that Jack should have suggested Emory to relieve her loneliness. It was enough that he was willing to be away from her so much without taking it for granted and referring to it in such a matter-of-fact way. Inez as well came in for her share of the resentment, her very silence during the discussion serving to aggravate Helen's discomfiture. Helen deliberately turned the conversation.

"I can't help thinking of poor Ferdy, Phil. Have you heard from him since you left him at Aix?"

"No, but I should have heard if all had not been going well."

"What is the matter with De Peyster?" asked Armstrong.

"Oh, you did not hear what Phil told me about him before dinner, Jack. He has been very ill, and Phil took him over to Aix for a cure."

It was the first time De Peyster's name had been mentioned since his abrupt departure, and Inez flushed deeply as she listened.

"What was the trouble, Emory?" asked Armstrong, innocently.

"He came pretty near having pneumonia," replied Emory. "He was hard hit with a girl somewhere over here, and was thrown down, I suspect. Then he grew careless and was a pretty sick chap when I ran across him in Paris."

Armstrong had no idea of the result of his question. He glanced hastily at Inez and gulped down half a glass of wine, nearly choking himself in the process.

"There you go!" exclaimed Uncle Peabody, quite understanding the situation and wishing to relieve the embarrassment. "You will drown yourself one of these fine days if you don't listen to my teachings and profit by Mr. Emory's example."

But Emory was quite unconscious of the delicate ground upon which he trod. The days and nights he had spent with De Peyster were still strongly impressed upon his mind.

"I thought you might know something about this, Helen," he continued, "for Ferdy mentioned your name and Miss Thayer's several times while he was delirious. I could not make out anything he said, he was so incoherent. Later, when he began to improve, I asked him about it, but he evidently did not care to talk. But how stupid I have been!" He broke off suddenly and turned to Miss Thayer. "Here I have been sitting beside you all this time and never once offered my congratulations!"

Inez drew back from the proffered hand. The color left her face as suddenly as it had come. "What do you mean?" she stammered.

"Why, De Peyster told me you were engaged," Emory said, quite taken aback. "Have I said something I ought not to? He said you told him so."

"Mr. De Peyster had no right to say that!" Inez cried, fiercely, almost breaking into tears.

Emory was most contrite. "Ten thousand pardons," he apologized. "You must forgive me, Miss Thayer. Ferdy never suggested that it was a secret at all--and now I have given the whole thing away!"

Emory wished himself half-way across the Atlantic.

"I am very much annoyed," replied Inez, still struggling to contain herself--"not with you, but with Mr. De Peyster."

"But she is not engaged," Armstrong insisted, with decision.

"I think Inez had better be left to settle that point herself, Jack," Helen interrupted, pointedly.

"Then why does she not settle it?"

"I will settle it." Inez sat up very straight in her chair, her tense features making her face look drawn in its ashy paleness.

"Jack has no right to force you into any such position, Inez," Helen protested, indignantly; "he is forgetting himself."

"De Peyster is responsible for the whole thing." Emory struggled to step in between the clash of arms. "I recall the very words. 'Phil, old chap,' he said, 'you remember Miss Thayer? She is engaged. She told me she had found some one whom she loved better than her life.' Can you blame me for making such a consummate ass of myself?"

Armstrong's intense interest had taken him too deeply into the affair for him to heed Helen's protests.

"You never said anything of the kind, did you, Miss Thayer?"

"I am not engaged," replied Inez, very firmly, "and I cannot understand why Mr. De Peyster should have put me in this uncomfortable position."

"Of course not," assented Armstrong, with evident satisfaction. "De Peyster is a fool. I will tell him so the next time I see him."

"I think we had better change the subject," said Helen, rising, her face flushed with indignation. "The methods of the Inquisition have no place at a modern dinner-table."

XI

Inez Thayer had congratulated herself upon her success in keeping her secret. Since her searching self-examination and the harrowing experience during De Peyster's brief visit she had spent many hours inwardly debating the proper steps to take in order to solve her problem. She was certain that no one knew the real state of affairs, and with this certainty the only danger lay in its effect upon herself. But she knew all too well that this danger was indeed a real one. Day by day her admiration for Armstrong increased, and with that admiration her affection waxed stronger and stronger. Those hours together at the library--when they were quite alone, when his face, in their joint absorption in their work, almost touched hers, when his hand rested unconsciously for a moment upon her own--were to her moments in the Elysian Fields, and she quaffed deeply of the intoxicating draught. What harm, she argued to herself, since her companion was oblivious to her hidden sentiments--what disloyalty to her friend, since the pain must all be hers? And the pain was hers already--why not revel in its ecstasy while it lasted?

With her conscience partially eased by her labored conclusions, Inez threw herself into a complete enjoyment of her work. Helen's attitude toward her had not in any way altered, and she was still apparently entirely agreeable to the arrangement. Her suggestion to join them in their labors was the only evidence which Inez had seen that perhaps her friend was becoming restless, even though not ready to raise any objections; but when Helen herself gave up the idea, after her single visit to the library, Inez was convinced that she had misunderstood her motive. Nothing remained, therefore, but to accept her previous argument that she was simply following the inexorable guidance of Fate, with herself the only possible victim. It was uncomfortable, it was wearing, but she could not, she repeated over and over again, remove herself from the exquisite suffering of her surroundings until she was absolutely obliged to do so.

The episode at the dinner-table completely shattered the structure she had built, and its sudden demolition stunned her. This she vaguely realized as she and Helen left the men at the table and walked to the veranda for their coffee. Their departure was in itself an evidence of new and strained conditions, as both Helen and Jack regarded the coffee-and-cigar period as the best part of every dinner and a part to be enjoyed together. Helen had not yet acquired the Continental cigarette habit, but, as she had once expressed it, "Men are so good-natured right after dinner, when they are stuffed, and so happy when they are making silly little clouds of smoke!"

Inez hesitatingly passed her arm around her friend's waist, and when Helen drew her closely to her she rested her head against her shoulder, relaxing like a tired child.

"Who would have expected this outcome of such a happy day?" Inez queried, sadly, as the two girls seated themselves upon the wicker divan.

"Jack was a brute!" exclaimed Helen, almost savagely.

"It is all my own fault, Helen; but I could not tell them so in there."

Helen appeared astonished. "How do you mean? Are you really engaged, after all?"

"No, no, Helen; but you see when Ferdy urged me so hard for an answer I had to tell him something."

Inez glanced up at Helen to see how she took her explanation.

"So you told him you were engaged?"

"Not exactly that, but--"

"That you loved some one better than your life?"

Inez shrank a little as she answered. "Something like that," she admitted.

"And it was not true?"

Inez laughed nervously. "What an absurd question, Helen! You know I have seen almost no one since I came here."

"Except Jack," said Helen, impulsively.

Inez sprang to her feet. "What do you mean, Helen? You don't accuse me of being in love with your husband, do you?"

Helen pulled her down beside her again. "Don't be tragic, dear," she said, quietly. "I admit that the suggestion is unkind, after the display Jack made of himself at the table. I am provoked with him myself."

"Helen,"--Inez spoke abruptly, after a moment's silence--"I think I ought to leave Florence."

"Don't be absurd, Inez. You are worked up over this miserable affair, but you will forget all about it in the morning--when you get back to your work at the library."

"No; this time I really mean what I say. I ought to have gone when my visit was up a fortnight ago; but you were so sweet in urging me to stay, and the work had developed with such increasing interest, that I have just stayed on and on."

"I am sorry if you regret having stayed, dear. It certainly seemed to be for the best."

"But see what it has brought on you, Helen."

"I am not proud of my husband's behavior, I admit; but you have even greater cause to feel annoyed than I."

Inez seemed to be drifting hopelessly in her attempt to find the right thing to say.

"I have felt that I ought to go for a long time."

"A long time?" Helen echoed. "Has Jack behaved as badly as this before?"

"Not that; it is the library work which makes me feel so."

"I don't wonder you are getting tired of it."

"Tired of it! Oh, Helen, I wish you could get as much joy out of anything as I do out of this work. Tired of it!" Inez laughed aloud at the absurdity of the suggestion. Then she grew serious again. "I know I ought to leave it, yet I cannot force myself to make the break."

"I don't think I understand," said Helen, quietly, watching intently the struggle through which the girl was passing.

"I know you don't, and I don't believe I could make any one understand it," replied Inez, helplessly.

"You talk about it in this mysterious way just as Jack does," continued Helen. "There must be some sort of spell about it, for you both are changed beings since your first visit to the library."

"Then you have noticed it?" Inez looked up anxiously.

"Of course I have noticed it," admitted Helen, frankly. "How could I help it when you yourself feel it so strongly?"

"Do you blame me for it?"

"Why should I blame you, Inez? Is there any reason why I should blame any one?"

"No, except that the work takes your husband away from you so much."

"But I can't hold you responsible for that, can I? It is the work which draws you both, is it not--not each the other?"

Inez moved uneasily and withdrew her hand from Helen's lap. "Of course it is the work," she answered, quietly; "but, frankly, would you not rather have it discontinued?"

"No," replied Helen, without hesitation; "but I sincerely wish Jack might be less completely absorbed by it. I have no intention of opposing it, and I am willing to sacrifice much for its success, yet I see no reason why it should so wholly deprive me of my husband."

"It has opened up an entirely new world for me." Inez seemed suddenly obsessed by a reminiscent thought. Her troubled expression changed into one of rapt ecstasy. Helen watched the transformation, deeply impressed by the strange new light which she saw in the girl's eyes. "I must be more impressionable than I supposed," she continued, "for it all seems so real. I can see Michelangelo's face as I read his letters; I can see his lips move, his expression change--I can even hear his voice. I have watched him fashion the great David out of the discarded marble; I have heard his discussions with Pope Julius and Pope Leo; I have witnessed his struggle with Leonardo at the Palazzo Vecchio. The events come so fast, and the letters give such minute information upon so many topics, that I actually feel myself in the midst of it all. I know Vittoria Colonna as well as Michelangelo ever did, and I know far better than he why she refused to marry him. All these great characters, and others, live and move and converse with us these mornings at the library." Inez paused to get her breath. She was talking very fast. "I know it sounds uncanny," she went on, "but there is something in the very atmosphere which makes me forget who or what I am. Cerini comes and stands beside us, rubbing his hands together and smiling, and yet we hardly notice him. He is a part of it all. What he says seems no more real than the conversations and the communions we have with the others who died centuries ago. I realize how inexplicable all this must sound to you, because I find myself absolutely unable to explain it to myself. It must be a spell, as you say, but I have no strength to break it."

"It must be something," Helen admitted, gravely, "to affect both you and Jack the same way. I wonder what it is?"

Inez paid no heed to the interrogation. "You should see your husband, Helen, when he is at his work. You don't really know him as you see him here."

Helen felt herself impressed even more strongly than she had been during her visit to the library. Inez spoke with the same intensity and conviction which at that time had overwhelmed her previously conceived plans.

"Cerini said the same thing--" she began.

"Cerini is right," Inez interrupted. "Your husband is a god among them all. He is not a mere student, searching for facts, but one of those great spirits themselves, looking into their lives and their characters with a power and an intimacy which only a contemporary and an equal could do. Cerini says that his book will be a masterpiece--that it will place him among the great _savants_ of his time. No such work has been produced in years; and you will be so proud of him, Helen--so proud that he belongs to you! Is it not worth the sacrifice?"

As her friend paused Helen bowed her head in silence. "So proud that he belongs to you," Inez had just said. Did he belong to her--had he ever belonged to her? The new light in Inez' eyes, the intensity of her words, both convinced and controlled her. What was she, even though his wife, to stand in the way of such a championship? What were the conventions of commonplace domestic life in the presence of this all-compelling genius? She felt her resentment against Jack become unimportant. With such absorption it was but natural that he should not act like other men.

The sound of voices in the hall brought both girls to themselves.

"Dare we come out?" asked Uncle Peabody, cautiously, pausing at the door. "These back-sliders are very repentant, and I will vouch for their good behavior."

"There is only one of us who requires forgiveness," added Armstrong, frankly, advancing to the divan. "I owe you both an apology; first of all to my wife, for not heeding her good advice, and then to my 'sister-worker,' as Cerini calls her, for adding to her discomfiture."

"If Inez will forgive you, I will cheerfully add my absolution," replied Helen, forcing a smile.

"I was really afraid that I was going to lose my right-hand man," continued Armstrong by way of explanation, "and my work must then have come to an abrupt conclusion."

"You give me altogether too much credit," replied Inez. "The work is already so much a part of yourself that you could not drop it if you lost a dozen 'sister-workers.'"

"It must never come to that, Jack," added Helen, seriously. "Inez will surely stay until the book is completed, and I shall do what little I can to help it to a glorious success."

"You are a sweet, sympathizing little wife." Armstrong placed his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. "Your interest in it will be all that I need to make it so."

Emory and Uncle Peabody instinctively glanced at each other, and for a moment their eyes met. It was but an instant, yet in that brief exchange each knew where the other stood.