Part 33 (1/2)
Inez saw in Armstrong's suggestion a relaxing of the strained condition which she had brought upon herself.
”Perhaps Monsignor Cerini will join us,” she added.
”Never!” replied the librarian, with sudden fervor. ”I may indulge myself in air-s.h.i.+ps when once they become popular, but never in an automobile! I will have Maritelli telephone for your car.”
Inez smiled at Jack as they watched Cerini disappear through the door of his study. Then Armstrong's face grew serious.
”The old man loves me as if I were his son,” he said, feelingly. ”He is more proud of what I have done than if he had accomplished it himself.”
”He has reason to be proud,” replied Inez; ”and so have we all.”
In olden days the bishop who was obliged to visit his diocese at San Domenico or at Fiesole had not spoken so lightly of the trip. Setting out on mule-back, and scattering blessings as he left the Porta a Pinti by the road still called the Via Fiesolana, he hoped to reach the ”Riposo dei Vescovi” in time for dinner. There, after a bountiful repast, he discarded his faithful beast of burden, and entered the ox-drawn sledge which the monks of San Domenico were bound to provide, reaching the hill-top, if all went well, about sunset. But this was before the days even of the stage-coaches, and before the modern tramway enabled Mother Florence to reach out and enfold her daughters in her arms.
The chauffeur carefully picked his way through the narrow Borgo San Lorenzo into the more s.p.a.cious Piazza del Duomo. Pa.s.sing around the apse of the cathedral, they entered the Via de' Servi.
”Sometime we must stop and take a look at these fine old palaces,” said Armstrong, leaning forward and pointing down the street. ”The Antinori, for instance, has just been restored, and it has one of the most stunning Renaissance court-yards in all Florence. We shall pa.s.s by it in a moment.”
The car crossed the square of the SS. Annunziata, where they stopped for a moment again to admire Andrea Della Robbia's swaddled babies on the facade of the Foundling Hospital, and to look up from Tacca's statue of Duke Ferdinand to the window of the Antinori Palace, hoping for a glimpse of that face from the past, whose history is recorded by Browning in his ”Statue and the Bust.” From this point the road was clearer, pa.s.sing up the Via Gino Capponi, where Armstrong again pointed out the house of Andrea del Sarto--”the little house he used to be so gay in”--past the Capponi Palace, and also that of San Clemente, where lived and died the last Stuart Pretender. With increasing speed, they crossed the Viale Principe Amedeo, past the gloomy Piazza Savonarola, around the Cemetery of the Misericordia, to San Gervasio, where the real ascent began.
The sudden change from the close atmosphere of the library to the invigorating air acted as a tonic on Armstrong and his companion; and in addition to this the tension of three months' close application was lightened. The book was actually written! Inez thought she had never seen him in so incomparable a mood, as he called her attention to many little points of interest which, during other rides, had been pa.s.sed unnoticed. On they went, olive gardens alternating with splendid villas on either side, until, almost before they realized it, San Domenico was reached, and they paused to regard the magnificent panorama spread out before their eyes. Armstrong looked back and saw the Via della Piazzola behind him. Then his glance turned to the steep hill in front. In a flood of memory came back to him the details of the last time he had been there--alone with Helen, so soon after their arrival in Florence.
”I measure everything by that day at Fiesole,” she had said to him; ”I believe it was the happiest day I ever spent.”
How long ago it seemed to him, and how much had happened since! She was not happy now--she had told him so with her own lips; she had even been forced to acknowledge it to Emory. He had been forgetful of her during these weeks of study; but it was over now, and he would make it up to her. When she saw him back in his old semblance again her pain would pa.s.s away, her happiness return, and the present misunderstanding be forgotten.
His thoughts of Helen reminded him of his intention to return to the villa in time for luncheon, after which he would tell her how deeply he regretted all that had happened.
”Turn around, Alfonse,” he said, looking at his watch, ”and run home as fast as you can; we have hardly time to get there.”
The return toward Florence was quickly made in spite of the sudden bends and narrow roads. Turning sharply at Ponte a Mensola, Alfonse increased his speed as they approached the hill leading from the Piazza of Settignano to the villa.
”Careful at the next turn, Alfonse; it's a nasty one,” cautioned Armstrong, aware that his instructions were being carried out too literally.
The machine was nearer to the corner than Alfonse realized. He saw the danger, and with his hand upon the emergency-brake he threw his weight upon the wheel. Something gave way, and in another moment the car crashed against the masonry wall, the engine made a few convulsive revolutions, and then lay inert and helpless.
Inez was thrown over the low wall, landing without injury in the cornfield on the other side. Alfonse jumped, and found himself torn and bruised upon the road, with no injuries which could not easily be mended. But Armstrong, sitting nearest to the point of contact, lay amid the wreckage of the machine, still and lifeless, with a gash in the side of his head, showing where he had struck the wall.
By the time Inez had found an opening Alfonse had gathered himself up, and together they lifted Armstrong on to the gra.s.s by the side of the road. Two frightened women and a boy hurried out from the peasant's cottage near by, the women wringing their hands, the boy stupefied by fear.
”Some water, quick!” commanded Inez; and one of the women hastened to obey.
Wetting her handkerchief and kneeling beside the still figure, Inez bathed Armstrong's face and washed the blood from the ugly cut. She chafed his hands and felt his pulse. There was no response, and she turned her ashen face to the women watching breathless beside her.
”He is dead,” she said, in an almost inarticulate voice. The women crossed themselves and burst into tears.
”May we take him in there,” she asked, pointing to the cottage, ”while the chauffeur brings his wife?”