When the ma.n.u.script arrived he devoted himself to it with an eagerness which added to the natural misunderstanding of his motive. With no word of comment, he took the package to his room, where, after bolting the door, he opened it and applied himself to his task. Hours pa.s.sed by, but he refused to be interrupted. Helen tried to persuade him to come down-stairs for luncheon, but he begged to be excused. Uncle Peabody calmed her anxiety; so the day pa.s.sed, leaving him alone with his burdens.

Armstrong approached his ma.n.u.script with bitterness of spirit. This was the tangible form of that inexplicable force which had drawn him away from those ties which stood to him for all future peace and serenity; this had been the medium which had fostered the new affection so fraught with sorrow and even danger; this was the proof of his absolute lack of harmony with those n.o.ble principles which he still felt, when rightly expressed, represented the highest possibilities of life itself. At first he hesitated to read it, dreading what it must disclose. Then he attacked it fiercely, pa.s.sing from page to page with feverish intensity.

As he read, his bitterness and dread disappeared, and in their place came first surprise and then amazement. Was this his ma.n.u.script? Had he written these pages in which the real, wholesome, glorious spirit of past attainment and present possibilities fairly lived and breathed! His amazement turned into absolute mystification. He read of the important movement which liberated the rich humanities of Greece and Rome from the proscription of the Church; he saw literature itself expand in subject and in quant.i.ty; he himself felt the sundering of the bonds of ignorance, superst.i.tion, and tradition which had previously confined intellectual life on all sides.

Surely this was a simple yet sane presentation of the subject, Armstrong said to himself, as it had formulated itself in words after his long study. His error must lie in his application of it to the people. The ma.n.u.script unfolded rapidly under his eager inspection. It told him of the great step forward when writing changed to printing. He followed the convincing argument that this new art from its earliest beginnings was to be identical with that of culture, and a faithful index to the standards of the ages to come. It told him that the advent of the printing-press made men think, and gave them the opportunity of studying description and argument where previously they had merely gazed at pictorial design. He could see the development of the people under this new influence, growing strong in self-reliance, and confident in their increasing power.

He found himself unable to condemn his work thus far. In application, as in definition, what he had written seemed to ring true. Later on he must find expressions of those distorted ideals in the ma.n.u.script, just as he had found them in himself. With increasing interest he read of the benefits these people of the _quattrocento_ reaped from the principles of Grecian civilization, now tempered by the inevitable filtering through the great minds of a century. With no uncertain note the ma.n.u.script portrayed the efforts made by this people to reach the unattainable, refusing to be bound down by limited ideals, and creating masterpieces in every art which expressed in the highest form the ethical spirit of the period.

The pages still turned rapidly. At times Armstrong became so absorbed that he forgot himself and the fact that he was a.n.a.lyzing the outpouring of his own soul. Then he recalled the present and the problem before him. He could not comprehend that this work was his own; he did not remember writing it; he was ignorant of the particular study or reasoning which had brought it forth. But there the words stood, in his own handwriting, a visible evidence of something which had actually taken place.

As the reading progressed, he became more and more bewildered. It was direct and convincing. The subject was handled with restraint, and yet he felt the force behind each sentence. Suddenly his eye fell upon this paragraph:

"After giving due credit to humanism for its vast contribution to the arts and to literature, there yet remains to acknowledge the greatest debt of all: it taught man to hold himself open to truth from every side, and so to a.s.similate it that it became a part of his very life itself. Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his att.i.tude toward his fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and appreciative."

Armstrong read this over a second time, and, bending forward, he rested his head upon his hands in the midst of the sheets of ma.n.u.script and groaned aloud. This was his acknowledgment of the great lesson of humanism, and yet he had not applied it to his own every-day life! "It taught man to hold himself open to truth from every side," he repeated to himself. "Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his att.i.tude toward his fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and appreciative."

At length he raised his head, and, rising wearily, he walked to the window, drawing in the refreshing air. The strain had been intense, and he found himself utterly exhausted.

"I see it all," he said, bitterly; "the fault is not with the book or with the principles themselves--it is with me! I have written better than I knew; I have preached where I have not practised. Oh, Helen--oh, Inez! Can I ever undo the wrong I have done you both!"

XXVIII

It was several days before Armstrong found himself ready to take up the unravelling of the thread. The shuttle had moved to and fro so silently, and its web was woven with so intricate a pattern, that he felt the hopelessness even of finding an end of the yarn, where he might begin his work. He watched the two girls in their every-day life as they moved about him; he studied them carefully, he compared their personal characteristics. Both were greatly changed. Miss Thayer continued ill at ease and unlike her former self in her relations to Helen and Uncle Peabody as well as toward himself. He felt that now he understood the reason; and beyond this it was natural that she should miss the absorbing interest which the work had given her, coming, as it did, to so abrupt an end and leaving nothing which could take its place.

But Helen had changed more. The girlish vivacity which had previously characterized her had disappeared, and in its place had come a quiet, reposeful dignity which, while it made her seem an older woman, would have appealed to him as wonderfully becoming save for the restraint which accompanied it. She held herself absolutely in hand. Her every action, while considerate in its relation to others, admitted of no denial. Armstrong felt instinctively rather than because of anything which had happened that were their wills to clash now hers would prove the stronger. There had been a development in her far beyond anything he had realized.

Comparing the two, as he had ample opportunity to do, he wondered if he had made a fair estimate of her strength in his previous considerations.

Helen had considered herself unfitted to enter into his work with him.

She had frankly stated her unwillingness to go back into the past, and to live among its memories, when the present offered an alternative which was to her so much more attractive. Inez seized with avidity the opportunity he offered, and had entered into his work with an enthusiasm second only to his own. Suppose Helen had done this, Armstrong asked himself. With her characteristics, as he was only now coming to understand them, she would not long have remained content to act as his agent--she would have become a definite part of the work herself, and would have helped to shape it, instead of yielding more and more to his own personality. Inez had helped him much, and his obligation to her was not overlooked; but he could see how this helpfulness had lessened, day by day, as her intellect had become subservient to his own. He had been glad of this at the time, but now he found himself asking whether Helen would not have shown greater strength under the same circ.u.mstances.

Since his accident the contrast had been greater. Helen had a.s.sumed definite control over everything. Inez, Uncle Peabody, Armstrong himself recognized in her, without expression, the acknowledged and undisputed head of affairs. It had all come about so naturally, and Helen herself seemed so unconscious of it, that he could not explain it. On the other hand, Inez had completely lost her nerve. The crisis through which the two girls had pa.s.sed had produced upon them vastly differing effects, and Armstrong could not fail to be impressed by the result of his observations.

Finally he determined to talk the matter over with Helen, and here again he found himself counting upon her a.s.sistance in straightening things out with Inez. Had he realized it, this was the first time in his life that he had admitted even to himself that any one could aid him in any matter which he could not personally control. Dimly, it is true, but still definitely, he was conscious that he was making an unusual admission, yet he experienced a certain amount of gratification in doing so.

Helen had been reading aloud to him while he reclined upon his couch in a shady corner of the veranda. For some moments he had heard nothing of the spoken words, for his eyes, resting fixedly upon his wife's face, revealed to him a more impressive story than that contained within the printed volume. How beautiful she was! The clear-cut profile; the long lashes hiding from him the deep, responsive eyes, whose sympathy he well knew; the soft, sweet voice which fell upon his ear with soothing cadence; the whole harmonious bearing, indicative of a character well defined, yet unconscious of its strength--all combined to show him at a single glance how rare a woman she really was. As he watched her the definition which he himself had written came back to him with tremendous force. "It taught man to hold himself open to truth from every side.

Thus making himself inclusive of all about him, his att.i.tude toward his fellow-man could not be other than sympathetic and appreciative." What man or woman had he ever known who so truly lived up to this high standard as this girl who sat beside him, all unconscious of the tumult raging in his mind?

Then the storm pa.s.sed from his brain to his heart. His affection, intensified by the struggles he had experienced, overpowered him, and he cried aloud in a voice which startled Helen by the suddenness of its appeal. Seizing her disengaged hand, he pressed it pa.s.sionately to his lips.

"Don't read any more," he begged; "I must talk with you."

Startled almost to a degree of alarm, she laid down the book, regarding him intently.

"Can you ever forgive me for all I have made you suffer?" he continued, in the same tense voice; "can you ever believe that my forgetfulness of everything which was due you was not deliberate, but the result of some force beyond my control?"

Helen looked at him steadily for a moment before replying. "Yes," she said, at length, making a desperate effort to preserve her composure; "I forgive you gladly. Shall we go on with the story?"

"No!" he replied, almost fiercely, seizing the volume and placing it beyond her reach upon the couch. "I have been waiting for this moment too long, and now nothing shall take it from me."

Helen realized that it was also the moment for which she had been waiting, and which she had been dreading beyond expression. Now he would comprehend what she had meant, now he would struggle with her to prevent her from doing what she knew she must do.

"There is no need of explanation, Jack," she said, at length. "I understand everything, and have understood for a long time."

"Can you believe that I myself have only recently come to a realization?"

"Yes; it has come to you sooner than I had expected."

"Can you believe how sincerely pained I am that all this should have happened?"

"I have never for a moment thought that you would intentionally hurt me."

"Then you do understand, and will forget?"

Armstrong sat up on the edge of the couch and watched Helen's face intently.

"You don't know what you are asking," she replied, dropping her eyes.

"Yes, I do," he insisted. "I want to blot out the memory of every pang I have caused you by a devotion beyond anything you have ever dreamed."

"Don't, Jack," protested Helen.

"Why not? Don't you think I mean it? From now on I have no interest except you, dear; and I will make you forget everything which has happened."

Helen pressed his hand gratefully, and then withdrew her own.

"This is only going to open everything up again," she said, in a low, strained voice, "and that will be simply another great mistake."

"You don't believe me." Armstrong's voice was reproachful.

"I believe you feel all that you say now, Jack."

"But--"

"But you are not yourself now; that is all."

"I am quite myself; in fact, I am almost as good as new."

"I don't mean physically."

"And mentally as well. My mind is as clear as it ever was."

"I know, Jack; but you are far away from the influence which has so controlled you. That is what I mean."