Cerini laughed quietly. "There are many other treasures, my son, equally precious, as you know well, scattered about in these desks and drawers, where I alone can find them."

"How dare you take the risk?"

Cerini's face showed a gentle craftiness. "We are in Italy, my son. If any one could find these gems, any one could be librarian"--and the old man chuckled quietly to himself.

Inez' eyes were fastened upon a little purple velvet case inlaid with jewels. Cerini opened it carefully, exposing a small volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Armstrong eagerly watched the interest in the girl's face as the full splendor of the masterpiece impressed itself upon her--the marvellous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of color, the magnificence of the decoration and the miniatures. Inez drew in her breath excitedly and bent nearer to the magnifying-gla.s.s which it was necessary to use in tracing the intricacy of the work.

"Wonderful!" she cried, and then was silent.

"It belonged to Lorenzo the Magnificent, and represents the finest of the _quattrocento_ work, my daughter," explained the old man, pleased as was Armstrong by her unfeigned admiration. "The patrons of the book in the fifteenth century considered gems of thought as the most precious of all jewels. The page containing them must be written upon the finest and the rarest parchment. They could not inlay costly stones, so they employed the most famous artists to place upon the page in beaten gold and gorgeous colors a representation of the jewels and miniatures as perfect as art at its highest could produce. Can you wonder, my daughter, that men brought up in the school of neo-Platonism should look upon the invention of printing as an evil and an innovation to be opposed?"

Inez would not permit Cerini to close the volume until she had feasted her eyes upon every page.

"Have you not prepared me for an anti-climax?" she asked, with a sigh, as Armstrong suggested a visit to the room of illuminations. "Surely there is nothing else here to surpa.s.s what I have just seen."

The librarian answered. "Nothing to surpa.s.s it, truly, but other volumes equally interesting."

The old man led them into a larger room filled with wooden cases whose gla.s.s tops were covered with faded green curtains. Costly tapestries lined the walls, but Inez' attention was quickly taken from them as Cerini pulled aside the curtains and disclosed the resplendent wealth beneath. Heavy choir-books, cla.s.sic ma.n.u.scripts, books of hours, breviaries embellished by Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico, by Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescos still make the Riccardi famous, and other artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art. Magnificent examples of every school, from the early Byzantine to the decadent style of the sixteenth century, combined to teach the present the omnipotence of the past.

From case to case they pa.s.sed, their guide indicating the variations and the significance of the different schools, out into the great library itself, in which, with its n.o.ble yet simple proportions as laid down by Michelangelo, Inez found a relief after the gorgeousness and grandeur of the last hour. Armstrong pointed out to her the _plutei_ upon which the great books rested, and to which they now remained chained as in the olden days, four centuries back, when they began their eternal vigil. Life outside the old walls had changed mightily since Cosimo de' Medici, the first grand-duke, laid their foundations. Cosimo, "_pater patriae_," the real founder of the collection, Pietro and Giovanni de' Medici had come and gone; Lorenzo il Magnifico had lived and died, bequeathing to them his ill.u.s.trious name; Charles VIII. of France had destroyed the power of the house of the Medici, the Medici had again regained their own, the house of Lorraine had succeeded them, the separate states had been merged into a great kingdom--and still the volumes held their places at the end of their chains, as if to prove the immutability of learning as compared with the changeability of princes.

At Armstrong's suggestion, Cerini led them back into his study, where the old man again took his place at his desk, as his visitors seated themselves where they could best watch him and listen to his words. It was, indeed, as Armstrong had expressed it, a picture for an old master.

Cerini was clad in the black silk soutane of his learned order, with the _biretta_ upon his head. He was spare, and the skin upon his face and hands was as dried and colored as the ancient parchment of the books with which he lived. The dim light coming through the stained-gla.s.s window enhanced the weirdness of his aspect, and as one looked he seemed the personification of the ancient written ma.n.u.script vivified and speaking the words which one would have expected to read upon the page.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SLOWLY THE SPELL BEGAN TO WORK UPON INEZ'

BRAIN. SHE WAS NO LONGER IN THE PRESENT--SHE WAS A WOMAN OF ITALY OF FOUR CENTURIES BACK]

"My daughter," he was saying to Inez, "you, too, are a humanist, as my young friend and I are, or you could not manifest so true an understanding as you do. For humanism, my daughter, is not only the love of antiquity: it is the worship of it--a worship carried so far that it is not limited to adoration alone, but which forces one to reproduce. By the same token the humanist is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehea.r.s.es their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their G.o.ds, their spirit and their tongue."

Then Cerini pa.s.sed on in his conversation to the old-time writers themselves. The little study was poorly ventilated, and the air was heavy. The ancient tomes exuded their peculiar odor, and the low, sing-song voice of the speaker seemed far removed from the life they had just left outside. Slowly the spell began to work upon Inez' brain. She was no longer in the present--she was a woman of Italy of four centuries back. Petrarch, with his laurel-crowned head, rose up before her and recited verses written for Laura; Politian gave to her of his wisdom; Machiavelli discussed Florentine politics with her. It was not the voice of Cerini the librarian which she heard--it was the veritable voice from the dead and buried past. She furtively glanced at Armstrong and saw in his face a light which she knew Helen had never seen there, and in her heart she felt a guilty joyousness at the advantage she had gained. It was Leonardo sitting at the old desk now--Leonardo the master of art, of sculpture, the forerunner, the man-G.o.d against the G.o.d-man. She pressed her hand to her head; it was dripping moisture. Would he never stop? It was becoming fearsome, unbearable. Her eyes were fixed upon the aged priestly clad figure before her; she could not move them. What power held her, what magic controlled even her thoughts? She tried to speak to Armstrong, to tell him that she was ill, but her mouth seemed parched and she could not speak. She looked at Cerini's chair again. The old man was no longer there. Machiavelli had taken his place and was uttering diatribes against the state. She must cry out--she could not. She started to her feet--then she fell back, and all became a blank. When she revived, a few moments later, it was in the sunny enclosure of the cloister garden, whither Armstrong had anxiously carried her, and where the fresh air served to relieve the tension and to counteract the influence which had so overpowered her.

V

By mutual consent, Miss Thayer and Armstrong decided not to mention the rather dramatic finale to their first excursion to the library. Inez experienced the deepest mortification, while Jack blamed himself severely that he had not watched his companion more carefully. If he had done this, he repeated to himself, he might easily have antic.i.p.ated and avoided the unpleasant climax to an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable morning. Miss Thayer, however, would not listen to his apologies: he had accepted her as a comrade, and she had proved herself unequal to the test. Armstrong tried to rea.s.sure her, but his efforts were not eminently successful.

The whole affair, in spite of their disclaimers, made a considerable impression upon them both. Armstrong knew that it had not been weakness alone; for even his brief acquaintance with her told him that strength was a salient point in her character. She was impressionable--he realized that--but surely not to the extent of losing all control over herself. Was it--and Armstrong feared lest Inez should read his mind as the thought came to him--was it that same irresistible influence of those ancient spirits, coming out from the past to her as they had so many times to him, recognizing her as a reincarnation of themselves, and claiming her, even for that, brief moment of unconsciousness, as a part of what had gone before?

Inez pleaded a headache upon reaching the villa, and asked that her lunch be sent to her room; but it was long after Annetta had left the tray upon the table that she was able to taste, even sparingly, the tempting delicacies which were placed before her. What can be more searching than a woman's self-examination? She had told Armstrong that she blamed herself for her weakness; so she did, but it was not wholly the weakness of losing consciousness. Who was this man, and what this influence which had so suddenly entered into her life and a.s.sumed such immediate control over her? She felt that she could resist either separately, but together they produced a power which she questioned her ability to oppose. And the strange part of it all was that no one was forcing it upon her. She knew perfectly well that she need never go to the library again unless she chose; but she knew equally well what her choice must inevitably be, if the opportunity were offered her.

Even as she recalled her experience, a thrill half of delight, half of apprehension, pa.s.sed over her. What did it all mean? Armstrong compelled her respect, but it was ridiculous even to wonder whether or not the sentiments he inspired were of a more serious nature. The subjects in which he was interested appealed to her highest self and fascinated her, but beyond this what possible force could they possess to render her so immediately subservient to their demands? What was there about it all which made it seem so inexpressively delicious? And what of him, of this man above whose head the ancients had already placed the halo of their approval, who stood to her as the personification of ideal manhood?

These were some of the questions Inez Thayer asked herself that afternoon, wrestling within and striving honestly to decide her course; but even as she did so she found her thoughts again centering themselves upon Armstrong as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried back to the experiences of the morning. She had no reasonable excuse to leave Florence, which instinctively she felt to be the safest thing to do; and, besides this, her spirit revolted at the thought that she could not meet the problem face to face and master it. She must do it, she would do it; and, having finally arrived at this determination, she came down, just before dinner, and joined her friends in the garden, where they were enjoying the soft close of the perfect Italian day.

"There you are!" Helen welcomed her with outstretched arms. "Is your headache better?"

"Yes, thank you," Inez replied, forcing a smile; "the air was very close in the library, and then, too, I found so much to make me thoughtful."

"Then you were not disappointed?" Emory asked.

"Disappointed? It was wonderful. You don't know how much you all missed."

"You look as if Jack had shown you some spooks," remarked Eustis; "you are as white as one yourself."

The color quickly returned to Inez' face. "I am always like that when I have one of these wretched headaches," she explained. "But, truly, I never had such a remarkable experience. I can quite understand Mr.

Armstrong's devotion. I never knew before how fascinating such learning really is."

"Did he actually conjure up those old fellows and put them through their paces for you?" Emory asked.

Miss Thayer was in no mood for bantering. "It is not possible for you to understand without experiencing it yourself," she said, quietly.

"Or even afterward, I suspect," Bertha Sinclair added, slyly.

"I am so glad that you enjoyed it," said Helen. "I couldn't get much out of Jack, and I was afraid that you had pa.s.sed a stupid morning and that the headache was the natural result."

"I shall never forget it--never!" Inez murmured.

Helen regarded her attentively for a moment. "I had no idea it would make so strong an impression on you," she said at length. "Now that it is over, you and Jack will both feel better satisfied."

"You must see Cerini, Helen, and let him show you those wonderful books and explain everything, just as he did to us."

"So I will, sometime," Helen smiled. "Perhaps he could bring out my dormant possibilities."

"It is time we dressed for dinner," remarked Mary Sinclair, rising. "You and Inez are already _en grande tenue_, but the rest of us are shockingly unconventional."

As the Sinclair girls hurried into the house, closely followed by the men, Helen leaned against the bal.u.s.trade at the end of the bowling-green and watched the deepening color which touched alike the spires of Santa Croce and the turret of the Palazzo Vecchio, gleamed on the dome of the Cathedral and Giotto's tower, and spread like wine over the placid surface of the Arno. Beyond the river rose the basilica of San Miniato, its ancient pediment sharply outlined against the sky. Helen's thoughts wandered even farther away than her eyes. Inez watched her for several moments before slipping her arm about her waist.

"Oh, Inez!" Helen was startled for an instant. "Did you ever see such a wonderful spot as this?" she continued, recovering herself. "Some new beauty discloses itself uninvited hour by hour. Every time I come into the garden I find some lovely flower I never saw before, or meet some sweet odor which makes me shut my eyes and just draw it in with delight.

Each time I look toward Florence the view is different, and each new view more beautiful than the last. Oh, Inez darling, is it an enchanted palace that Jack has brought me to, or is it just because I am so blissfully, supremely, foolishly happy?" Helen embraced her friend enthusiastically.

"Let us call it the enchanted palace, dear," Inez answered as Helen released her, "and you the modern Circe, with power to make all about you as beautiful and as happy as the ancient Circe to cast malign influences."

Helen laughed. "Why not take it further and say that the transformation of the ancient Circe is the final triumph of Uncle Peabody's labors? Had his theories been in force among the friends of Ulysses, the fair lady could never have turned them into swine. But tell me, did you not find Jack a very different person from what you had expected after seeing him here at home?"

"I did, indeed," a.s.sented Inez, soberly.

"Is he not simply splendid?" Helen's face beamed with pride. "It was just as much of a surprise to me. Of course, I have always known that he was interested in all these things, but it has only been since we were married that I have realized how much he actually knows.--I wish I thought there was even the slightest chance of his being able to lead me up to his heights, he is so eager for it. I shall give him an opportunity to try his experiment, of course, but the trouble is that in spite of the interest and fascination which I do feel, his hobby always seems to me to be hemmed in with needless limitations. For my part, I don't see why we can't take the best these master spirits of the past can give us, just as Jack says, but without ourselves becoming a part of the past.--You see how absolutely hopeless I am. I wonder how in the world he ever came to be attracted to me."

"You are the only one who wonders."

"Oh, I know that my hair is not red, and that I don't squint, and all that, but Jack is so fascinated by everything scholarly that I don't see why he didn't select an intellectual wife. Why, I don't even wear gla.s.ses!"

Inez smiled at the picture Helen drew. "The rest of us girls understand why he made just the selection he did, Helen."

"I never wanted to be intellectual before. Until now I have always considered the caricatures of the Boston Browning woman as typical of the highly educated species; but you are showing me that a girl can be human and intellectual at the same time."