At last, when she could endure no more, relief came, a new vision of love, no longer lost in the woods or in any earthly beauty, but a clear light illuminating men and women and the earth upon which they dwell. And in her soul, too, the upward impulse began to thrill, and with a sob of thankfulness she lay on her bed fully clothed and went to sleep.
She was not at all disturbed when Mendel said in the morning that he must go back to London to work on his picture. It was right. Their happiness was too tremulous. There was plenty of time for them to take up their ordinary jolly human lives, plenty of time now that they were no longer young.
She walked with him to the station, and on the way they laughed and sang, and he whistled and talked breathlessly about his picture.
“My mother says a cock robin can never mate with a sparrow,” he said. “I promised I would take you to see her.”
“I should love to come, for I love your mother.”
“I would like you to see the Jews as they are,” he said, “so simply serving God that their souls have gone to sleep.”
As they stood on the platform she said:—
“Mendel, I did . . . begin to understand last night, and it has made you and your work more important than anything else in my life.”
He gripped her fiercely by the arm.
“Come to London, now,” he said.