"Why, Ted--_Ted_--!" But even then she did not understand.

"I found them," he explained, furtively stroking the shabby sheets, but attempting a bluff and off-hand tone, "I found them--Oh, years ago!--just stuck off in a cupboard _like trash that n.o.body wanted any more_. And so--because I _did_ want them--I brought them down here."

"_You_ wanted them?" Sheila gasped. "But, Ted----"

And then he had her in his arms, and his eyes--full of the tears he had tried to repress--were gazing down into hers!

"Don't you suppose I realize what you might have done? Don't you suppose I've seen what you've given up for me--for me and Eric?"

She could not speak. She could only gaze back at him, incredulous still of the comprehension that he had so long concealed from her.

"I've been a selfish brute, Sheila," he went on. "I've craved all of you for myself and my child, and I've had all of you. It's been my man's way, I reckon, for I couldn't have helped it. If I had it to do over again, it would be just the same--though I'm ashamed of myself now. Of course I didn't ask you to give up your writing, but I'd quite as well have asked you. For I guessed that you'd done it--after Eric had scarlet fever--and I _let_ you, without a word. I've let you sacrifice your talent ever since, too--needlessly. Yes, I've _let_ you--for I've seen the whole thing."

She had sometimes felt that the tragedy of her life had been in all that Ted had not seen. Now, finding that he had seen so much more than she had ever suspected--so much of what had been profound suffering to her--she might readily have blamed him more than she had ever done before. But generosity rushed out of her to meet his generosity--belated though his was.

"No, no," she interrupted, "it isn't that you let me give up my work.

The fault isn't yours. That awful night--when it seemed that Eric would die--I offered my work for his life--I offered it to _G.o.d_! That was why I didn't write afterward."

Ted fixed pitying eyes upon her: "You poor little girl! Was it as bad as that with you? I knew I was taking advantage of your conscience, but I never dreamed you'd carried your remorse so far. Did you really believe you had to buy G.o.d's mercy? Oh, no, dear. It's only your husband that's seized the opportunity to extract a sacrifice from your Puritan conscience. But with all my selfishness, I haven't stopped you--I haven't been the end of your talent."

She started to tell him of her late emanc.i.p.ation from that unnecessary vow of hers; to tell him that she had tried to write again--and discovered that she could not. But she did not tell him after all.

For that could only hurt and shame him--in the hour of his penitence.

So she was silent, and he continued with appealing eagerness.

"I haven't been the end of your talent," he repeated. "Don't you realize, dear, that your talent isn't ended at all?"

"You mean--Eric?"

"Yes, I mean that you've handed on your gift to Eric. And he's going to have the chance I wasn't unselfish enough to let you have. Don't be afraid for him--he's going to have his chance, And he'll know what to do with it! I believe you'll be the mother of a great man--and that Eric will probably be the father of great men. I believe it will go on and on and on--what you are, what you might have done."

"But, Ted--Eric is only a child. We cannot be sure yet--

"I believe!" he insisted. "I believe _this_ is to be your work--the work I haven't stopped."

And as she listened, there came to her, too, a faith in Ted's prophecy.

Her gift would have its fruition in Eric--and perhaps in Eric's sons and his sons' sons. She was granted a vision of a torch pa.s.sed on from one trustworthy hand to another throughout the years; and beholding that vision, she was aware that nothing she had suffered mattered at all. She could face the stars now with a heart at peace. She could watch the earth's miracles, feeling herself a part of them. From the earth sprang flowers; from her flesh had sprung her son--her son who had been born to carry on the torch. She had created beauty indeed--beauty that would outlive her life in her son's art.

Even Peter's image was blurred for her as she beheld her supreme vision.

And then she recalled Charlotte's words: "I sometimes question if those of us who catch a glimpse of a happiness perfect and transcendent ever experience the reality. I doubt, in fact, if any reality could stand unimpaired by that vision."

Charlotte was mistaken. There were visions which became realities; this final vision of hers would become a reality--and it would be none the less perfect and transcendent for that.

Sheila laid her hands on her husband's shoulders. "I'm glad that I've lived!" she said. And again, with a little sob, "Oh, my dear, I'm glad that I've lived!"

THE END