The Happy Valley had done it. The Happy Valley and Pegeen and his Smiling Lady, and he was ashamed to have been so quickly cured, so light of love, yet glad with the gladness of one who wakens from long illness and pain and fevered dreams, to consciousness and peace and the face of a friend.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the Smiling Lady. “The face of a friend.” The thought did not quite satisfy him. Friendship seemed lukewarm business for Witch Hill.
“I wonder,” he said, “whether you are as understanding as you seem.”
The laughter died out of her face. She looked at him with quiet eyes and waited. She was used to confidences, this girl whom the Valley loved and trusted.
“Could you understand a man’s having made a fool of himself over a woman—all kinds of a fool—tossing aside his ideals and ambitions and hopes for love of her, letting her fool him to the limit—and then crawling away into hiding with his hurt and his bitterness?”
The Smiling Lady nodded gravely.
“Yes,” she said; “I could understand that.”
The man raised himself on his elbow and looked into the quiet eyes. There were incredulity, wonder, and something that was part shame, part gladness, and wholly boyish in his face.
“But if the man, after all his struggle and unhappiness, should suddenly find himself whole, clean quit of the pain and the desire, glad of life again and eager for happiness—could you understand that? This is a place for oracles. Read me the riddle. What is a man worth to whom that thing can happen?”
There was self-contempt in his voice, but pleading in his eyes. Perhaps, in her merciful heart, this Smiling Lady could find charity for a man who had wasted himself on a love that had not even the excuse of greatness.