“Mrs. Armstrong has taken her present position,” began Uncle Peabody, “because she feels absolutely that her husband’s real expression of himself is that which he has shown her while under the influence of this spell which his love of the old-time learning has woven about him.”
“She is right,” replied the librarian, “except that by an unusual combination of circumstances this influence overpowered him by its strength, and he should not be held wholly responsible for his abnormal acts. This is not the first time I have seen this happen. There is a peculiar languor in the atmosphere, here in Florence, impregnated as it is with the romance of centuries, which is absolutely intoxicating to the mind, but it is rarely that it succeeds in making itself so felt upon an Anglo-Saxon temperament. Mr. Armstrong ought never, for the sake of his own individuality, to give up his fondness for the literæ humaniores, but it is entirely out of the question for him ever again to become so subject to their control.”
“She senses this quite as strongly as you do; but beyond this she feels that he can never retain the development which has come to him here except in an atmosphere filled with a comprehension of all which he holds so dear.”
“Mrs. Armstrong is still in the right,” assented Cerini, gravely; “but there is one point which she still fails to understand. Her husband’s work has been humanistic, but he himself is but just ready to begin to be a humanist. She is the one best fitted in every way to join him at this point, and their two personalities, thus united, can but produce splendid results.”
“I cannot believe it,” Helen interrupted, speaking with decision. “It has been from Inez and not from me that he has received his inspiration. Things are no different now from what they have been: Inez is still the one to inspire him to attain his best.”
“You are wrong, dear,” spoke a low voice behind them, as Inez threw her arms about Helen and embraced her warmly. “I surmised what you were discussing, and took this first opportunity to do my part toward straightening things out.”
Helen sat upright and looked steadily into Inez’ smiling face, completely freed for the first time in many weeks from its care-worn expression.
“You—you could not look like that if you understood,” she stammered, still startled by her friend’s sudden appearance.
“Mr. Armstrong and I have talked it all over, and at last I understand what should have been clear to me long ago. You are a dear, brave girl, Helen, and deserve all the happiness which is in store for you.”
“Happiness—to me! Oh, Inez,” Helen cried, “why do you all mock me with that word? There can be no happiness for me, and, unless I do what I propose, it means misery for every one instead of for me alone.”