Helen’s voice had a tired note in it which Armstrong could not fail to perceive. He was amazed by his own apathy. Why did it mean so little to him? Why did he sit there beside her as if he had not noticed it when in reality he felt the pain as keenly as she did? He turned and looked at her for the first time since they had started. Helen gave no sign that she was conscious of his scrutiny, lying back with her cheek resting upon her hand, her eyes closed, her lips quivering now and then in spite of her supreme effort to control herself. Always, before, Armstrong would have folded her in his arms and brushed away the heart-pains, real or imaginary as they might have been. Now he sat watching her suffer without making any effort to relieve her.
He despised himself for his attitude. What wretched thing had come between him and this girl whom he had idolized, and prevented him from extending even the common sympathy which belonged to any one who needed it? What malevolent power forced him to be the cause of this sorrow and yet forbade him the privilege of assuaging it? This was not the lesson learned from the humanists. Why should not he be able to give out to those around him the reflection of that true happiness which their work first taught the world?
Helen opened her eyes suddenly and looked full into his. Startled at the expression on his face, she sat upright, keenly anxious and forgetful of her own troubles.
“Jack dear,” she cried, “you are not well! You are unhappy, too! Tell me what it all means, and let us understand it together!”
Her voice brought back the old condition. His eyes lowered and he withdrew his hand from Helen’s impulsive grasp. With a heart heavy for the explanation which lay close at hand, his voice refused to obey.
“I am perfectly well, Helen,” he replied. “Why should you think me otherwise?”
The reaction was great, yet Helen succeeded in retaining her control. While conscious, during the weeks past, of the change in her husband’s bearing toward her, she was unprepared for his present attitude. Yet the look in his face when she had surprised him by opening her eyes was the old expression by which in the past she had known that something had touched him deeply—but it was intensified beyond anything she had ever seen. It had always been her privilege to comfort him under these conditions, and instinctively her heart sprang forward to meet his. Then she saw the expression change and she grew cold with apprehension.
“Ask Alfonse to turn back, please,” she begged. “The air is getting chilly and I think I would rather be home.”
In response to her desire the chauffeur turned the car, and the ride back to the villa was accomplished in silence. Helen’s thoughts ran rampant, but further conversation was impossible. Her pain was now tempered by her anxiety. Jack was not well, in spite of his disclaimers. His close application to his work in the poorly ventilated library had undoubtedly affected him, and this was the explanation of his otherwise inexplicable attitude toward her. It was with positive relief that she discovered any explanation, and as she thought things over this relief lightened the burden she had been carrying all these weeks more than anything which had happened since the cloud began to gather. In some way she must plan to relieve the pressure and bring her husband back to her and to himself again.
Inez and Uncle Peabody met them at the doorway.