"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 God! 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 God'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 emancipation 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."