She was not to be carried away by these givings which would have made many a woman content.
“Remember, I have had your letters every day. You are very dear to me up there. You have been down in the meadows—and in the caverns—much. You are not ready to return—even for the evenings. You stand now for austere purity—for plain, ancient, mother’s knee ideals. You must not delude yourself. A man must be apart in order to see. You did not begin really to live—until you drew apart.”
He felt her stripping his heart. His face lifted in agony, and his eyes caught the picture on the wall of the meeting of Beatrice and Dante. The Florentine woman seemed not to touch the earth; the poet was awed, mystic in the fusion of their united powers. It was fateful that Morning saw the picture at this instant.
“Look,” he said, “what the world has from the meeting of that man and woman—an immortal poem!”
“But Beatrice passed on——”
“She became identified with his greater power, Betty. She was one with it——”
“By passing on!”
He arose and lifted her to her feet, and his arms did not relinquish her.
“And you mean that you would pass on?... You must not. You must not. We would both be broken and bewildered. I love you. I have come to you. I want to be near—and work with you. I know you all, and shall love you always. I have come to you, and I must stay—or you must come with me——”
Her resistance was broken for the moment. An icy burden fell from her. She clung to him, and tears helped her.