"Why did she give him up," I returned with heat, "except that he had lost his fortune, and instead of being able to endow her with all the good things of life, himself needed aid, sympathy, love and comfort?"
Helen stared at me: "But he told Georgy she was free."
"Suppose," said I passionately, "that a man had loved you from your earliest childhood, Helen—that instead of your being possessed of wealth and other facilities for making your life all you wished, you were poor and obscure, and this man had made every sacrifice to gratify every desire of your heart. Suppose you had read his soul like a printed page, and found every thought in it noble, lofty and pure; suppose you knew that his happiness depended on you—that without you he could not have one sacred personal hope,—when you found that he was poor instead of rich, would you throw him over as you put away a glove that is worn out, even though he told you you were free—that although you had shared his prosperity he shrank from letting you endure the pains of his adversity?"
Helen was looking at me with a curious look in her brilliant dark eyes, and still watched me when I paused.
"Would you have accepted such freedom?" I demanded, impatient that she did not respond.
"I would have died for him!" she exclaimed abruptly, but she said no more about Georgy or her lovers.
The sun had set, and the glory of the clouds was all reflected in the sea. The air grew chilly, and we went in and watched at the front door for Mr. Floyd and my mother to return from their drive. It seemed curiously like the old times, and once or twice I started at some sound, expecting to hear a querulous voice and see old Mr. Raymond with his fur wrappings crossing the hall leaning on Frederick, who carried his tiger-skin. Helen was too quick and sympathetic not to understand my startled look.
"He will never come any more," said she sadly. "He is sleeping up on the hill beside his wife and all his children. Had it not been for papa I should have felt that I must go there too, it seemed so strange and lonely for him."
Presently through the pale gloaming came my mother from her drive, and when I lifted her from the carriage and almost bore her up the steps in my arms, I felt a happiness and peace which seemed but the beginning of a blessed time. My mother had grown perhaps a little older in the last two years, but surely she had grown more beautiful. It was enough at first merely to look into her face: then when I followed her up to her room we told each other many, many things, but I invite none to follow me over that threshold.
"I took good care of your boy, Mary," said Mr. Floyd, coming up to us when we descended; and when I met my mother's look I felt again all the proud humility that a son can feel, beloved as I was beloved.