"Who has been making fun of dear Uncle Peabody? I must have him tell you about his work himself. It is true that he believes most people overeat, and it is true that he is devoting his life and his fortune to finding out what the basis of proper nutrition really is; but as for starving--wait till you see him!"

"You have relieved me considerably," Armstrong replied, gravely. "From what I had heard of your uncle I had expected nothing less than to be made an example of for the sake of science--and you have already discovered that I am really partial to my meals."

"You can be just as partial to them as ever, Jack. But, seriously, I know you will find him most interesting, and I shall be surprised if his theories do not give you something new to think about."

"His theories will not do for me," said Armstrong, a.s.suming a position of mock importance, "for I have always been taught that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius."

"Splendid!" cried Helen. "That will be just the argument to start the conversation at our first dinner and keep it from being commonplace. I have been trying to think how we could get Uncle Peabody interested. It is only that first dinner which I dread, and you have helped me out n.o.bly."

"That makes two," suggested Jack.

"Yes, two. Then there are the Sinclair girls, who have been studying here in Florence for nearly a year. They will come up from their _pension_. That makes four--and the others, you know, are Phil Emory and d.i.c.k Eustis, who arrive in Florence from Rome to-night. I don't need to tell you anything about them."

"There is a whole lot you might tell me about Emory if you chose."

Armstrong looked slyly into his wife's face.

"Shame on you, Jack!" Helen cried, flushing; "the idea of being jealous on your wedding trip!"

"I am not jealous _now_." He emphasized the last word.

"Well, I am glad you are over it."

"It looks like a very jolly party," he hastened to add, seeing that Helen's annoyance was genuine, "and I can see where we become old married folk to-morrow. You and Uncle Peabody will act as chaperons, I presume, Phil and d.i.c.k will look after the Sinclair girls, while I am to devote myself to Inez Thayer. Is that the programme?"

"Exactly. I am so anxious that Inez should appreciate what a talented husband I have. She has heard great stories about your learning and erudition, so now you must live up to the picture."

"Then suppose we start for home if you are quite rested. It is plainly inc.u.mbent on me to make sure that my knowledge of the cla.s.sics proves equal to the test."

II

The Armstrongs had installed themselves in the Villa G.o.dilombra, near Settignano. The date for the wedding was no sooner settled than Jack cabled to secure what had always seemed to him to be the most glorious location around Florence. Years before, his favorite tramp had been out of the ancient city through the Porta alla Croce to La Mensola, whence he delighted to ascend the hill of Settignano. Every villa possessed a peculiar fascination for him. The "Poggio Gherardo"--the "Primo Palagio del Refugio" of the _Decameron_--made Boccaccio real to him. The Villa Buonarroti, whither Michelangelo was sent as a baby, after the Italian custom, to be nursed in a family of _scarpellini_, always attracted him, and times without number he had stood admiringly before the wall in one of the rooms, gazing at the figure of the satyr which the infant prodigy drew with a burning stick taken from the fire. In those days he had been seized with a secret yearning to become an artist, and often he had tried to reproduce the satyr from memory, but always the ugly visage a.s.sumed a mocking, sneering aspect which caused him to relinquish his cherished ambition in despair.

But the Villa G.o.dilombra appealed to Armstrong for a different reason.

It stood high up on the hill, affording a wonderful view of the village of Settignano and the wide-spreading valley of the Arno. The villa itself, with its overhanging eaves, coigned angles, and narrow windows, set on heavy consoles, was essentially Tuscan, and impressive far out of proportion to its size. It would have seemed too ma.s.sive but for an arcade at either end, the one connecting the house itself with its chapel, the other leading from the first floor through a spiral stairway in one pier of the arcade to what originally, in the days of the Gamberelli, had been an old fish-pond and herb-garden. In front of the villa a row of antiquated stone vases shared the honors with equally dilapidated stone dogs along a gra.s.sy terrace held up by a low wall, while beyond this and the house was the vineyard.

Armstrong had studied the plans of the house and grounds from a distance, because, after his disappointing experience with Michelangelo's satyr, he had firmly determined to become an architect and to build Italian houses in America. He had walked up and down the long bowling-green behind the villa, carefully noting the number of statues set upon the high retaining wall and figuring the height of the hedges. One day old Giuseppe, the sun-baked gardener who had watched the boy first with suspicion and then with interest, invited him to enter, and his joy had been complete. Giuseppe showed him the fish-pond and the grotto, lying in the shadow of the ancient cypresses, made up of varicolored sh.e.l.ls and stones, with shepherds and nymphs occupying niches around a trickling fountain. He led him to the bal.u.s.trade at the end of the bowling-green, and pointed out the panorama which terminated in the hills beyond the southern bank of the river.

Parallel with the back of the villa was another wall which supported a terrace of cypress and ilex trees. Behind this was the _salvatico_, without which no self-respecting Italian villa could maintain its dignity, with stone seats beneath the heavy foliage offering a grateful relief from the glare of the sun. And here and there were white statues of cla.s.sic G.o.ddesses, to relieve the loneliness had it existed. An iron gate, let into the wall opposite the main doorway of the villa, led into a small garden, this leading in turn into another grotto, which, with its fountain and statues, formed an extension of the _vista_. On either side a bal.u.s.traded flight of steps led up to an artificial height--the Italians' beloved _terrazza_--flanked by rows of orange and lemon trees, growing luxuriantly in their red earthen pots; while against the wide bal.u.s.trades rested the heavily scented cl.u.s.ters of the camellia and the rose-tinted oleander.

Twelve years is a short s.p.a.ce of time in Italy, where age is reckoned by the millennial, so it seemed perfectly natural, when Armstrong arrived in Florence, to find Giuseppe still at his old post and included in the lease as a part of the Villa G.o.dilombra. The old man expressed no surprise, no delight--yet at heart he was well pleased. The previous tenants of the villa had been the unimaginative family of a German-American brewer, and their preference for beer over the wonderful _vino rosso_ which he himself had pressed out from the luscious grapes in the vineyard filled his heart with sorrow. He confided to Annetta, the red-lipped maid Armstrong had engaged for Helen, that he "was glad to serve an 'Americano molto importante' rather than a _porco_." And Giuseppe took great satisfaction in placing upon that last word all the emphasis needed to express six months' acc.u.mulated disgust.

From the moment the Armstrongs arrived, Giuseppe's admiration for Helen knew no bounds. To him she was the personification of all that was perfection. Not that he expressed it, even to Annetta--he would have forgotten ma.s.s on Good Friday sooner than so forget his place. It was rather that devotion which is born and not made--occasionally, but not often, found in those who enter so intimately into the life of those they serve, yet who must always feel themselves apart from it. Hardly a day had pa.s.sed since the Armstrongs had a.s.sumed possession of the villa that Helen had not found the choicest _fragole_ at her plate, each juicy berry carefully selected and resting upon a bed of its own leaves at the bottom of the little basket. Her room was ever redolent with the odor of the flowers he smuggled in, always un.o.bserved; and his instructions to the more frivolous Annetta as to her duties toward the _n.o.bile donna_ were such as to cause that young woman to throw her head haughtily on one side, with the observation that she was probably as well acquainted with the requirements of a lady's maid as any gardener was apt to be, even though he _were_ old enough to be her grandfather.

This particular tiff had taken place while Armstrong and his wife were making their excursion to Fiesole. On their return they had found Giuseppe in a morose mood, which quickly vanished when Helen told him, in her broken Italian, that she expected guests upon the morrow, and depended upon him to see that every room was properly decorated, as he alone could do it. The old man could hardly wait to arrange the chairs upon the veranda, so eager was he to seek revenge upon his youthful tormentor.

"Did she ask you to arrange the flowers, young peac.o.c.k-feather?" asked Giuseppe of Annetta when he found her in the kitchen. "Did she trust you even to bring the message to old Giuseppe? No. With her own lips the _Eccellenza_ praised the one servant on whom she can rely."

"She knows you are good for nothing else," Annetta retorted, with a scornful laugh and a toss of her pretty head; "and she wishes to get you out of the way while we attend to the really important matters. See,"

she cried, as the tinkling of the maids' bell punctuated her remarks, "the _n.o.bile donna_ will now give _me_ commands."

Giuseppe could not so far forget his dignity as to reply to such an outrageous slander, so he contented himself with casting upon Annetta his most withering glances as she hastily brushed past him, holding back her skirts lest they be defiled by touching the old man. He watched her angrily until she vanished through the door, then, with the choicest maledictions at his command, he shuffled into the garden--into his own domain, where the present generation of ill-bred servants, as he explained to himself, could vex him not.

Mrs. John Armstrong's first dinner at the Villa G.o.dilombra was an unqualified success. Uncle Peabody had arrived early that morning; his optimism had set its seal of approval upon the evident happiness of the bridal couple, and he had already established himself as chief reflector of the concentrated joy which he saw about him. Inez Thayer was received into Helen's welcoming arms soon after luncheon, and was at once installed in the best guest-chamber for an extended visit. Two dusty _vetture_ brought the Sinclair girls, Emory and Eustis, in time for dinner, each driver striving to deliver his pa.s.sengers first in antic.i.p.ation of an extra _pourboire_. The company was therefore complete, and each member quite in the spirit of the occasion.

The great candelabra cast their light upon the animated party seated about the table in such a manner that the old paintings hanging upon the walls of the high room were but dimly visible. The long windows were open, and the light breeze just cooled the air enough to mellow the temperature, without so much as causing the candle-flames to flicker.

Giuseppe's choicest flowers, deftly arranged upon the table by Helen's skilful hands, contrasted pleasantly with the antique silver and china which had once been the pride of the original owner of the villa; and the menu itself, wisely intrusted by Helen to the old Italian cook, was rife with constant surprises for the American palate. Even the wines were new--if not in name, at least in flavor, for Italian vintages leave behind them their native richness and aroma when transplanted. Never was any _vino rosso_ so delicious as that which Giuseppe made, even though unappreciated by his former master; never such _lacrima Christi_ as that which Armstrong secured in a little wine-shop near the Bargello; never such _Asti spumante_ as that which sparkled in the gla.s.ses, eager to share its own bubbling happiness in return for the privilege of touching the fair lips of the beautiful _donne Americane_.

"We had a friend of yours on board ship, Miss Thayer," said Emory, speaking to his left-hand neighbor as they seated themselves.

"A friend of mine?" queried Inez. "I can't think who it could be."

"Ferdy De Peyster," replied Emory.

Inez cast a quick glance at Helen. "Really?" she asked. "I thought he was going to spend the summer at Bar Harbor."

"Changed his mind at the last moment," he said. "Could not resist the charms of Italy. Do you know, Helen"--Emory addressed himself to his hostess--"De Peyster has developed a mania for art."

Helen laughed. "No," she replied, "that is news indeed. It is a side of Ferdy's nature which even his best friends had not suspected. Is he coming to Florence?"

"Can't say; but he is evidently planning to leave Rome. We left him at the Vatican, in the Pinacoteca, standing before Raphael's 'Transfiguration.'"

"With a Baedeker in his hand?" queried Jack.

"No, studying Cook's Continental Time-table."

"What a detective you would make, Mr. Emory," suggested Mary Sinclair as the laughter subsided.

"I have a better story about De Peyster than that."

Eustis waited to be urged.

"Give it to us, d.i.c.k," said Jack, helpfully.

"It was at Gibraltar," began Eustis. "We were in the same party going over the fortifications. De Peyster, you know, enlisted at the time of the Spanish war. Some family friend in the Senate obtained for him a berth as second lieutenant, and his company got as far as Key West. He rather prides himself on his military knowledge, and he confided to me that he had his uniform with him in case he was invited to attend any Court functions. Well, all the way around De Peyster explained everything to us. The Tommy Atkins who was our guide was as serious as a mummy, but confirmed everything Ferdy said. When you reach the gallery at the top, you remember, the guide points out the parade-ground below, and it happened that there was a battalion going through its evolutions."

"'Ah!' said De Peyster, 'this is very interesting.'" Then he described each movement, giving it the technical military name. At last he turned to our guide and said, patronizingly: 'I'm a bit disappointed, sergeant, after all I have heard of the precision of the English army. I have often seen American soldiers go through those same movements--just as well as that.'

"The sergeant saluted respectfully and gravely. 'Quite likely, sir,' he said, 'quite likely. These are raw recruits--arrived yesterday, sir!'"

"De Peyster was a sport, though," added Emory. "When he saw that the joke was on him he handed Tommy a shining sovereign and said: 'Here, sergeant, have this on me, and drink a health to our two armies--may comparisons never be needed.'"

Helen clapped her hands. "Good for Ferdy! He is all right if people would only leave him alone."