One day, moreover, Jennings related the incident of Peter Erard and the old man on Halsted Street. “Peter was a stubborn beast,” he explained. “He refused to be comforted. Yet he took his private’s place in the line, like a man. And Peter had to join the dumb.”
“You are fond of the dumb,” Mrs. Wilbur said wistfully, neglecting to follow out the implications of the Erard tale.
“They are not picturesque, but—” And after a silence he told her of his own dilemma. He had received an offer of the headship of a southern training school for negroes. He was trying now to settle the question of accepting it. Mrs. Wilbur refrained from commenting. She would like to say, “Go,” but that word might sound strangely in her mouth.
In spite of all this influence which Jennings brought, the old life of work with Erard went on. She had no excuse for breaking with him, even though the hot June days sapped her strength, and his demands grew burdensome. And she was afraid of him as well as curious to know what humiliation he had in store for her. What new corners in his nature had she to explore before the end came? Somehow it was in the air that this thing was to be fought out between them to an end. Each recognized the struggle and hesitated.
The Tuscan summer crept on apace over the hills. The leafy woods in the Cascine glowed in the sun; down the river a thin line of stately, flower-like trees threw pictures of an afternoon in the pools of the Arno. The nights on Bello Sguardo were like jewelled velvet. She waited, apathetically, for some sign, some impulse of readjustment.
CHAPTER VII
Late in June Mrs. Wilbur and Erard went again to Rome with several other members of the Circle. There a gradual languor stupefied her will. The year with its multiform passions had scorched her, and she found herself feeble before the fierce heat, the parched season of Italy. Over her drawing her arm would relax, and she would gaze vacantly at the object before her, wondering where the beauty in it lay. Beauty, which she had worshipped so passionately had escaped her, was fleeing further every dead day, and behind the smile of creation which had roused her pulses, she was now feeling the dull, earthy matter. How could Erard find sensations in this pulverizing atmosphere! Dust, dust,—the pictures and frescos were crumbling in dust, and the hard white marble had died long ago: it was crumbling now, and the fragments were disintegrating. Behind her in the forum there was a mound of dead dust, and she and Erard were handling mould of a later date. It would all crumble some day, and lie baking in the hard sun, silent for centuries while the world trod it out for vulgar uses.
Yet she did not complain. She was ashamed to whimper now. The morning came when she could not drag herself out into the glare, and she lay numb in the stuffy room of the little Albergo Nero where Erard had placed the party. One day something like a miracle occurred—a new infusion of will. Jennings appeared, and saying merely, “Come! you are worn out,” brought her back to Florence like a sick child. There had been a scene with Erard, who scoffed at her indisposition, and scolded her for leaving him in the lurch. Jennings had repeated his compelling “Come.” The two men had exchanged a few innuendoes, Erard betraying his gutter-blood, and Jennings preserving his ironical good-humour. She had not made a sign, until Jennings remarked softly,—“So Freedom has come to this! In the last resort you must act.”
The household on Bello Sguardo had received her as a prodigal,—Luisa with loud exclamations of joy, Pina with roses, and Molly with a kiss. Yet she knew that the end was not yet. Erard would not let her slip so simply, and in a way that humiliating retreat from Rome had left her more powerless than ever. While she waited Walter Anthon came with real news: the divorce had been granted in chambers. Or, in Walter’s solemn words,—
“Your husband has taken the measure which society allows him. You are no longer Mrs. John Wilbur.”