A Puritan Bohemia/Epilogue
EPILOGUE
"Three years ago to-day," said Howard Stanton, "you went away from Bohemia."
"And a year ago day before yesterday," answered Helen, "you came striding up that walk. Do you remember?"
"Do I remember!" he cried. "I stayed away as long as I could."
They were sitting on the veranda of Helen's ancestral home. Ivy and clematis and wisteria, climbing about the stone pillars, made a green background for the two heads. Before them stretched the lawn that had been the pride of Helen's great-grandfather.
"I told Sarah to bring out the tea-things," said a soft voice from the doorway. "Now I am going upstairs. I do not care for any tea."
A gray-haired lady was standing behind them. Family tradition lurked in the old-fashioned curls at the sides of her face, and in the stiff folds of her black silk gown. Her brown eyes rested affectionately on Howard. She adored her daughter's fiancé.
"Don't leave us," begged Helen. But the mother had already gone.
Presently a maid appeared with a tray. She was tall and thin. A becoming cap rested on her brown hair. It was Annabel—Annabel, subdued by two years of training into a most unnatural silence. She skilfully arranged the table, then disappeared.
It was a silver service. Cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar holder had been brought long ago by an ancestress from England. Helen toyed with the cups, then slowly made the tea.
"Tell me about Mrs. Kent—and Anne," she said.
"They've gone to live in a remarkable apartment," Howard responded briskly. "Page; reception-room downstairs; dining-room in the suite. They have their dinners sent up through hot tubes, or some such way. It is luxury that ought to disturb Anne's conscience."
"And Anne's pictures? Her letters say nothing about them."
"Anne is a success, even financially. I am proud of her," said Howard, laying a biscuit on Helen's saucer.
Helen looked at him. The old hero-worship in her eyes was blended now with something else. He was handsomer than ever, she thought. The slight plumpness was becoming.
"Howard," she asked slowly, "have you ever been sorry that you came?"
He put down his cup, and faced her in astonishment.
"Sorry? Oh, my darling! My spirit has come home at last, to the only home that it has ever had."
She turned and faced him. Above the creamy laces of her dress her face rose like a brilliant flower.
"Do you ever wish that I were Anne?"
"No," he answered firmly. "Anne is Anne, and you are you."
"But you cared!"
"I care yet, only differently. We're the best friends in the world. Things have fallen into the right place, that is all. I sometimes wonder how the old boyish passion could have lasted so long. Now it is settled. You see, there is nothing so completely gone, when it is gone, as a feeling."
There was a silence.
"Anne never quite sympathized with my wish to help the unfortunate. She could not enter into that. I feel more and more sure that that is the enduring part of me, my permanent self. In this you and I are one."
"We must do a great many things," said Helen thoughtfully. "Of course we cannot leave mother, to go to live in the slums. When father died I promised to stay with her always. But we can help with money."
"I'll go to the city frequently to see how things are getting on."
Helen pointed, smiling, to a space among the trees.
"That is where your studio is to stand," she whispered.
Howard suddenly turned.
"Where's the symbolic picture that you did? Did you destroy it."
"No; it's upstairs," answered Helen, flushing. "Please don't ask to see it."
But his wish prevailed, and Annabel was sent to bring the picture from the garret. She eyed her young mistress and her lover affectionately. Annabel's artistic sense of the fitness of things was satisfied at last.
"Why!" cried Helen, as she looked at the motley group, the disfiguring streak of paint, and the retreating figure of the rich young man, "that young man's face looks like you. I never saw that!"
"I did," said Howard. "It was the picture that first made me think"
"Think what?" demanded Helen.
"That you weren't meant for an artist," he answered hastily, pointing to the distorted drawing. Then he changed the subject. The literary significance of that half-portrait seemed unpleasantly appropriate in the light of his present surroundings.
The sun went slowly down. Shadows crept across the lawn. From marshy places near, the notes of hylas came to them, cool and sweet. The charms of love and spring and twilight blended.
In the gathering darkness Howard took the girl's soft hand and placed it against his forehead.
"It is hard to believe," he said, "in sympathy so deep. You are more real to me than myself, the meaning of myself."
The white fingers caressed his hair. As he spoke again, the words had a familiar sound. Had he read them somewhere? It did not matter. He was deeply in earnest.
"You hold my whole life in the hollow of that hand."
THE END