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, négligé 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 français?”
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 français?” 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.’”