Cerini looked at her in evident surprise. “Because what I have seen during these weeks, and what you have seen to-day, can happen but once in a lifetime. You are more beautiful than his companion, but you are not so intellectual.”
It was impossible to take offence at the old man’s frankness because of his absolute sincerity. He spoke of her beauty exactly as he spoke of one of the magnificent bindings he had just shown her, and of Inez’ intellectuality as if it were the content of one of his priceless tomes.
“I came to the library to-day for the definite purpose of joining in their work—” Helen began, hesitatingly.
“Surely not!” replied Cerini, emphatically. “You would not disturb these labors which mean so much in the development of them both? It would mean stopping them where they are.”
“Could I not assist them at some point, even to a slight extent, and participate in this development myself?”
Cerini was mildly indulgent at her lack of understanding. “My daughter,” he said, kindly, “some one has written that it is no kindness to a spider, no matter how gentle the touch, to aid it in the spinning of its web. Any one can work at translating, truly—almost any one can write a book—but few can accomplish what your husband and Miss Thayer are doing now. The book they are engaged upon in itself is the least of value. They do not themselves realize, as I do, that it is the influence of this work upon their own characters which is making it a success. They were humanists before they knew the meaning of the word. They come into the highest expression of themselves here in this atmosphere. You were born for other things, my daughter—perhaps far more important things—but not for this.”
“You cannot understand, father,” Helen replied, desperately. “I am his wife, and it is my place, rather than that of any other woman, to share with him any development which affects his life as deeply as you say this does. It must be so.”
“Forgive me if I offend you, but this is not a matter which you or I can settle. It is perhaps natural that I cannot understand your viewpoint. The nature of my life and work gives me little knowledge of women; but this is not a question of sex—it is the kinship of intellects. You are his wife, and, as you say, it is your privilege to share with your husband any development, but it must be along a path which you are able to tread. I mean this in no unkind way, my daughter. I doubt not that you, perhaps, in all other ways, are quite capable of doing so, but this one single portion of his life it is quite impossible that you should share.”
Helen had no response. Her heart told her that all Cerini said was literally true. She felt herself to be absolutely unfitted to understand or to supplement that particular expression of her husband’s character. But the matter-of-fact suggestion of the librarian that Inez should fulfil to him that which she, his wife, lacked, almost paralyzed her power to think or speak. Cerini seemed instinctively to read what was passing through her mind.
“You think me unreal, my daughter—you think me impractical. I may be both. Here, within these old walls, I am not limited by the world’s conventions, so perhaps I disregard them more than is right. Those whom I love signify nothing to me as to their personal appearance or their families or their personalities except in so far as these attributes may be expressions of themselves. Life to me would not be worth the living if in debating whether or not I ought to do a certain thing I was obliged to consider also what the world would think or what some other person might think. Let me ask you a question: Was your motive in coming here this morning the result of a desire to put yourself in touch with the spirit of your husband’s work, or was it to separate these two persons in the labor they have undertaken?”