XVI
What happened after Inez arrived, how she herself had acted, and how Professor Tesso’s departure had been accomplished remained a blank to Helen. All that was clear to her was the pain—the sharp, aching pain—which came to her with a realization of the true significance of the story Tesso told. The crisis was coming fast, Helen was conscious of that; she even wondered if it was not at hand already.
Throughout the long, sleepless night Helen reviewed the events of the brief months of her married life. She even began earlier than that, and recalled those days in Boston when Jack Armstrong had appeared before her first as an acquaintance, then as a friend—sympathetic, helpful, congenial—and finally as a suitor for her hand. As she looked back now the period of friendship was recalled with the greatest happiness. Perhaps this was because he had then been more thoughtful of her and less masterful, perhaps it was because the friendship entailed less responsibility—she could not tell. Even during their engagement she had laughed at those moods which she had not understood, and he had accepted her attitude good-naturedly and become himself again. Now she wondered how she had dared to laugh at him!
Then her mind dwelt upon the ocean voyage—those days of cloudless happiness, of unalloyed joy. The visit in Paris, where the sights, although not new, seemed so different because of the companionship of her husband. The trip to Florence, the first glimpse of the Villa Godilombra—which was to be their earliest home together—all came back to her with vivid distinctness. And the day at Fiesole—that day when her husband had become a boy again, and had shown her a side of his nature so unreserved, so natural that she had felt a new world opening before her, a new happiness, the like of which she had never known.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, aloud, “why could not that day at Fiesole have lasted forever!”
Still the panorama of reminiscence continued. That evening when De Peyster, all unconsciously, repeated to her those words of Inez’ which first altered the aspect of her entire world was clearly recalled. Perhaps she might have prevented the present crisis had she recognized the danger then and acted upon the information she had unintentionally received. Perhaps if she had in some way interfered with the work at the library, and thus prevented the constant companionship of her husband and Inez, the trouble might have been averted. But she would have despised herself had she done that. If she could hold her husband’s love only by preventing him from meeting other women her happiness had indeed never been secure.
And she had tried to enter into his life, to understand this phase of his nature which, after all her efforts, had baffled her intentions. She had gone to the library with him, expecting to apply herself to her self-appointed task until she succeeded in satisfying even so exacting a master as she knew her husband to be. He would have been patient with her; he would have appreciated the love which prompted her efforts, and all would have been well. But Cerini had interfered. She could hear his voice now; she could see the expression on his face as he spoke the words, “By not interfering with this character-building, you, his wife, will later reap rich returns.” Helen laughed bitterly to herself. She was reaping the rich returns now—rich in sorrow and pain and suffering.
Perhaps she could have forced the crisis to come when Inez’ confession to De Peyster had been disclosed by Emory. Jack’s conduct at that time had almost brought Helen’s resentment to the breaking-point; but what Inez had told her afterward had made her feel more in sympathy with him, even though she understood him no better than before. “Your husband is a god among them all,” Inez had said; “you will be so proud of him—so proud that he belongs to you.” She was proud of him, but her pride could in no way make up to her for the loss of his affection. In her mind’s eye she could see him, with his masterpiece completed, receiving the world’s plaudits, but entirely unmindful of her, his wife, who had stood aside and made it possible for him to accomplish it all. Oh, it was too cruel, too unfair! Helen buried her head in the pillows and moaned piteously.