The Spell Part 18

"Where is your husband?" she asked, pointedly. "You must present him to me."

"He is engaged upon some literary work at the library," Helen replied.

"Oh, a learned man! That is almost as bad as the gout!" The contessa held up her hands in mock horror. "Then you will need my sympathy, after all," she said, with finality. "Oh, these husbands!--these husbands!"

It was a relief to Helen when other guests claimed the contessa's attention. Uncle Peabody had mingled with friends in the drawing-room, so she and Emory moved on in the same direction. Here she found many whom she had previously met, and for half an hour held a court as large and as admiring as the contessa's. Emory was quite unprepared to find his companion so much at home in this different atmosphere.

"By Jove, Helen," he whispered, as he finally discovered an opportunity to converse with her again, "one would think you had always lived in Florence. If it were not for the gold lace of the army officers and the white heads of the ancient gallants who flock about you, I should almost imagine we were at the a.s.semblies again."

"Every one is cordiality itself," replied Helen. "See Uncle Peabody over there! Is he not having a good time? He told me Professor Tesso, of the University of Turin, was to be here, and I presume that is he."

Following the example of the other guests, Helen and Emory strolled out into the main court, in one corner of which is the old well dating back to the time when the Divine Poet slaked his thirst at its stony brim.

The sun streamed in through the narrow windows and lighted the terra-cotta flagstones where its rays struck, making the extreme corners of the court seem even dimmer. With rare restraint, the only decoration consisted of long festoons, made of lemons, pomegranates, eucalyptus, oranges, and laurel, fashioned to resemble the majolicas of Della Robbia and hung gracefully along the stone balcony, between which was an occasional rare old rug or costly tapestry. Pa.s.sing slowly up the s.p.a.cious stairway, stopped now and again by one or more of Helen's newly acquired friends, they reached the library, where some of the more valuable ma.n.u.scripts and early printed volumes were exposed to view. A group of book-lovers were eagerly examining an edition of Dante resting upon a graceful thirteenth-century _leggio_, printed by Lorenzo Della Magna, and ill.u.s.trated with Botticelli's remarkable engravings. From the balcony, leading out from the library, they gained a view of the carefully laid-out garden, brilliant in its color display and redolent with the mingled fragrance of myriads of blossoms.

Here Uncle Peabody rejoined them, bringing with him the scholarly looking professor from Turin.

"Helen, I want you to meet Professor Tesso. He was among the first who saw in my theories and experiments any signs of merit."

The professor held up his hand deprecatingly. "You give me too much credit, Mr. Cartwright. Judicially, we men of science are all hidebound and look upon every innovation as erroneous until proved otherwise. We could not believe that your theories of body requirements of food were sound because they differed so radically from what we had come to regard as standard. But when you proved yourself right by actual experiment we had no choice in the matter."

"Uncle Peabody has been very persistent," said Helen, smiling. "His own conviction in time becomes contagious, does it not?"

"That is just it," a.s.sented Professor Tesso. "What he had told us is something which we really should have known all the time, but we failed to recognize its importance. Now he has forced us to accept it, and the credit is properly his."

"I have invited Professor Tesso to take tea with us to-morrow afternoon, Helen, at the villa," said Uncle Peabody.

"By all means," Helen urged, cordially. "We shall be so glad to welcome you there."

The sudden exodus of the guests gave notice that something unusual was occurring below.

"It must be the arrival of the Count of Turin," explained Uncle Peabody.

"Let us descend and take a look at Italian royalty."

With the others they entered the magnificent ball-room--a modern addition to the original villa made by Napoleon for his sister Pauline when she became Grand-d.u.c.h.ess of Tuscany. In the centre of the room, surrounded by his suite, stood the count, graciously receiving the guests presented to him by his host. Hither and thither among the crowd ran little flower-maidens bestowing favors upon the ladies and _boutonnieres_ upon their escorts. A few pieces of music played quietly behind a bank of palms, the low strains blending pleasantly with the hum of conversation.

As Helen and Emory stood with a few Italian friends, a little apart from the others, watching the brilliant throng, Cerini suddenly joined them.

Helen had never thought of him outside the library, and it seemed to her as if one of the chained volumes had broken away from its anchorage. The old man saw the surprise in her face and smiled genially.

"I seldom come to gatherings such as this," he explained, even before the question was put to him; "but his Highness commanded me to meet him here." Cerini smiled again and looked into Helen's face with undisguised admiration. "This is where you belong," he a.s.sured her, quietly but enthusiastically--"this is your element. Do you not see that I was right that day at the library? You are even more beautiful than when I saw you before. There is a new strength in your face. You are a creation of the master-artist, like a marvellous painting which intoxicates the senses."

Helen had no answer, but the old man continued:

"I have just left your husband and his sister-worker. They are not beautiful--they represent the wisdom which one finds in books. The world needs both, my daughter. Be content."

And without waiting for a reply Cerini disappeared in the crowd of guests as suddenly as he had come.

XIII

Emory was the only one near enough to Helen to observe the interview with Cerini. The old man's words were uttered in too low a tone to reach his ears, but Emory saw Helen close her eyes for a fraction of a second and heard her draw a quick breath. Then she turned to him with a smile so natural that he nearly believed himself deceived, and found himself almost convinced that he must have been mistaken in what he thought he had discovered.

"Whose little old man is that?" Emory queried.

Helen laughed. Emory had a way of putting questions in a form least expected.

"Monsignor Cerini," she answered, "and he belongs to Jack."

"Oh, he is the librarian!" Phil recognized the descriptions he had heard at the villa. "Interesting-looking old chap; I don't wonder Jack likes him."

"He is a wonderful man," a.s.sented Helen; "but his knowledge almost frightens one. I feel like an ignorant child every time I meet him."

They strolled slowly through the brilliant throng out into the court, up the stairs, and into the library again. The room was wholly deserted, the other guests preferring to watch the spectacle below. No word was spoken until Helen threw herself into a great chair near the balcony.

"What an awful thing it is to have so little knowledge!" she exclaimed.

Emory looked at her in surprise. At first he could not believe her serious, but the expression on her face was convincing.

"Compared to Cerini?" he asked.

"Compared to any one who has brains--like Jack or Inez."

Emory studied his companion carefully. The impression made upon him a few moments before, then, was no hallucination.

"What did Cerini say which upset you, Helen?"

"Cerini?" Helen repeated. "Why, nothing. As a matter of fact, he was very complimentary--even gallant. Some of you younger men could take lessons from Cerini in the gentle art of flattery."

"I beg your pardon, Helen," Emory apologized; "I had no intention of intruding."

"Dear old Phil," cried Helen, holding out her hand impulsively, "of course you had not, and you could not intrude, anyhow."

Emory held the proffered hand a moment before it was withdrawn. "I can't help feeling concerned when I see something disturb you," he said, quietly--"now, any more than I could before."

Helen saw that she had not succeeded in deceiving him, but was determined that he should discover as little as possible. "I don't believe Florence is just the right atmosphere for me," she began. "I did not notice at first how much more every one here knows about everything than I do, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. That is what I meant. Of course one expects this supreme knowledge in a man like Cerini, but even those Florentines whom one meets casually at receptions such as this are as well informed on literature and art and music as those whom we consider experts at home."

"This lack of knowledge on your part does not seem to interfere any with their admiration for you," insisted Emory. "If Jack took the trouble to see how much attention you received he might have a little less interest in that precious work of his."

"You must not speak like that, Phil," Helen protested. "Jack is doing something which neither you nor I can appreciate, but that is our own fault and not his. I only wish I could understand it. Every one says that his book will make him famous, and then we all shall be proud of him--even prouder than we are now."

Emory rose impatiently. "You are quite right, Helen,--I certainly don't appreciate it, under the circ.u.mstances; but I shall put my foot in this even worse than I did yesterday with Miss Thayer, so I suggest that we change the subject. Come, let us see what is going on down-stairs."

Uncle Peabody met them in the court. "I was coming after you," he said by way of explanation. "Tesso has just left, and we also must make our adieux. Would you mind taking Mr. Emory and me to the Florence Club, Helen, on the way home? He might like to see it."

Their appearance in the hall was a signal for the unattached men again to surround Helen with protestations of regret that she had absented herself from the reception-room, and Emory watched the episode with grim satisfaction. Uncle Peabody appeared to take no notice of anything except his responsibility, and gradually guided the party to where their host and hostess were standing, and then out to the automobile. An invigorating run down the hill, past the walls which shut out all but the luxuriant verdure of the high cypresses, alternating with the olive and lemon trees, and through the town, brought them to the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the car paused for a moment to allow the men to alight. Then, after brief farewells, Helen continued her ride alone to Settignano.

Uncle Peabody led the way up the stairs to a small room leading off from the main parlor of the club. Producing some cigars, he motioned to Emory to make himself comfortable at one end of a great leather-covered divan, while he drew up a chair for himself.