“But I can’t hold you responsible for that, can I? It is the work which draws you both, is it not—not each the other?”
Inez moved uneasily and withdrew her hand from Helen’s lap. “Of course it is the work,” she answered, quietly; “but, frankly, would you not rather have it discontinued?”
“No,” replied Helen, without hesitation; “but I sincerely wish Jack might be less completely absorbed by it. I have no intention of opposing it, and I am willing to sacrifice much for its success, yet I see no reason why it should so wholly deprive me of my husband.”
“It has opened up an entirely new world for me.” Inez seemed suddenly obsessed by a reminiscent thought. Her troubled expression changed into one of rapt ecstasy. Helen watched the transformation, deeply impressed by the strange new light which she saw in the girl’s eyes. “I must be more impressionable than I supposed,” she continued, “for it all seems so real. I can see Michelangelo’s face as I read his letters; I can see his lips move, his expression change—I can even hear his voice. I have watched him fashion the great David out of the discarded marble; I have heard his discussions with Pope Julius and Pope Leo; I have witnessed his struggle with Leonardo at the Palazzo Vecchio. The events come so fast, and the letters give such minute information upon so many topics, that I actually feel myself in the midst of it all. I know Vittoria Colonna as well as Michelangelo ever did, and I know far better than he why she refused to marry him. All these great characters, and others, live and move and converse with us these mornings at the library.” Inez paused to get her breath. She was talking very fast. “I know it sounds uncanny,” she went on, “but there is something in the very atmosphere which makes me forget who or what I am. Cerini comes and stands beside us, rubbing his hands together and smiling, and yet we hardly notice him. He is a part of it all. What he says seems no more real than the conversations and the communions we have with the others who died centuries ago. I realize how inexplicable all this must sound to you, because I find myself absolutely unable to explain it to myself. It must be a spell, as you say, but I have no strength to break it.”
“It must be something,” Helen admitted, gravely, “to affect both you and Jack the same way. I wonder what it is?”
Inez paid no heed to the interrogation. “You should see your husband, Helen, when he is at his work. You don’t really know him as you see him here.”
Helen felt herself impressed even more strongly than she had been during her visit to the library. Inez spoke with the same intensity and conviction which at that time had overwhelmed her previously conceived plans.
“Cerini said the same thing—” she began.
“Cerini is right,” Inez interrupted. “Your husband is a god among them all. He is not a mere student, searching for facts, but one of those great spirits themselves, looking into their lives and their characters with a power and an intimacy which only a contemporary and an equal could do. Cerini says that his book will be a masterpiece—that it will place him among the great savants of his time. No such work has been produced in years; and you will be so proud of him, Helen—so proud that he belongs to you! Is it not worth the sacrifice?”
As her friend paused Helen bowed her head in silence. “So proud that he belongs to you,” Inez had just said. Did he belong to her—had he ever belonged to her? The new light in Inez’ eyes, the intensity of her words, both convinced and controlled her. What was she, even though his wife, to stand in the way of such a championship? What were the conventions of commonplace domestic life in the presence of this all-compelling genius? She felt her resentment against Jack become unimportant. With such absorption it was but natural that he should not act like other men.