He was practically unknown then, as a writer.  No one but Helen believed in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish.  Whereas Helen herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, sought after.  Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness.  Helen had a royal way of giving.  The very way she throned you in her heart, dropped you on one knee before her footstool.

He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of his success he owed to her.  Their love had taught him lessons, given him ideals which had not been his before.

But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen.  When the most sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood revealed for all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen’s tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced.  She only smiled and said:  “The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give it.  I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the eager ear of a listening world.”

Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss he, on those rare occasions, himself felt—­he found a firm pencil line drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen had returned them to his desk.  She never mentioned the matter to him, nor did he speak of it to her; but his hero had to forego that particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard again the words Helen had deleted.

He heard them now, however—­murmured very softly; and he caught her to him with sudden passion, kissing her hair.

Yet he meant to go. In hoc vince.  He must conquer his very need of her, if it came between him and the best thing he had yet done in his work.

He could not face the thought of the parting; but there was no need to face that as yet.  A whole fortnight intervened.  It is useless to suffer a pang until the pang is actually upon you.  Besides, every experience—­however hard to bear—­is of value.  How much more harrowing and vivid would be his next description of a parting——­

Then, suddenly, Ronald felt ashamed.  His arms dropped from around her.  He knew himself unworthy—­in a momentary flash of self-revelation he knew himself utterly unworthy—­of Helen’s generous love, and noble womanhood.

“My wife,” he said, “I won’t go.  It isn’t worth it.”

Her arms strained around him, and he heard her sob; and, alas—­it was the sob of the woman in the long grass, when she clung to the man who had crawled out first.  His plot stood out to him once more as the supreme thing.