“Come back at noon——”
Charley’s sister looked up from her pad. Her swift change of expression to a certain shyness and pleasure, too, in a sort of mutual secret, added to Morning’s merriment as he left the building.... He wondered continually that afternoon what had come over him. He had not been able to do this sort of thing before. The astonishing thing was his detachment from any tensity of interest. It was all right either way, according to his condition of mind. The question was important: Must a man be aloof from the fogging ruck of accepted activities in order to see them, and to manage best among things as they are?
There was the new book, too. Betty Berry had given him the new task. A splendor had come to life—even with the unspeakable sadness of the ending of that day. The beauty of that day would never die. Every phase of her sacrifice revealed a subtle, almost superhuman, faith in him. Was it this—her faith in him—that made him so new and so strong; that made him know in his heart that if the Play were right—it would go in spite of Markheim, in spite of all New York? And if it were not right, certainly he did not want it to go.... Markheim and New York—he regarded them that night from his doorstep; then turned his back to the city, and faced the west and the woman.
It broke upon him. She was mothering him. She was bringing to his action all that was real and powerful—fighting for it, against every desire and passion of her own. Her wish for his good was superior to her own wish for happiness. She gave him his work and his dreams. He knew not what mystery of prayer and concentration she poured upon him.... This place in which she had never been was filled with her. The little frail creature was playing upon him, as upon her instrument. Moments were his in which she seemed a mighty artist.
And then he saw men everywhere—just instruments—but played upon by forces of discord and illusion.... He saw these men clearly, because he had been of them. Such forces had played upon him.... He had been buffeted and whipped along the rough ways. He had looked up to the slaughterers of the wars as unto men of greatness. He had been played upon by the thirsts and the sufferings, by greed and ambition. He had hated men. He had fumed at bay before imagined wrongs; and yet no one had nor could wrong him, but himself.
One by one he had been forced to fight it out with his own devils—to the last ditch. There they had quit—vanished like puffs of nasty smoke. He had stood beneath Reever Kennard, almost poisoning himself to death with hatred. Pure acknowledgment this, that his life moved in the same scope of evil.... He had accepted the power of Markheim, feared it, and suffered over the display of it. Now he found it puny and laughable. He had worked for himself, and it had brought him only madness and shattering of force. He had been brought to death, had accepted it in its most hideous form—and risen over it.... His hill was calm and sweet in the dusk. Though his heart was lonely—and though all this clear-seeing seemed not so wonderful as it would be to have the woman with him in the cabin—yet it was all very good. He felt strong, his fighting force not abated.
He had his work. She had shown him that. He would write every line to her. His work would lift him up, as the days of the Play had lifted him—out of the senses and the usual needs of man. He would be with her, in that finer communion of instrument and artist.... The world was very old and dear. Men’s hearts were troubled, but men’s evils were very trifling, when all was understood. He would never forget his lessons. He would tell everyone what miracles are performed in the ministry of pain.... He looked into the dark of the west and loved her.
“Well, you are on time,” said Markheim the following noon.
“Yes,” Morning said with calmness and cheer.