Down among men

by Will Levington Comfort

“Yes, dear, he was writing of that night he came to the theatre. I’ll get the letter for you to-night. He said that you belonged to the risen world, the woman’s world—that you trusted your vision—did not seek to explain, but rejoiced. He said you had no guile, that you asked nothing, and were unafraid. He means to give the world a portrait of the risen woman—a portrait of you.”

Betty Berry did not answer. Mention of that night at the theatre invariably affected her to silence.

“I must hurry away for a little while, but I will finish this,” Helen added, reading on:

“In the evenings, the greater power of you comes over my life like a spiritual rain. I remember the art of your hands, the sweet mystery of your lips; the tenderness of your eyes and words; but over it all—the inner power of you, strong as truth, pure as truth, wise as the East, and sweet as the South. It is the spirit of you that has come to me—your singing, winging, feminine spirit. It has made me whole.... Do you know, I used to think the world would be made better by force, by arraignment, by revelation of evil. You have shown me the better way of making the world better by loving it. That’s woman’s way, the Christ’s way.... And when I think that you have given me this blessed thing, this finest fruit of earth—your love, created out of trial and loneliness, your love, so pure and true and valorous—when I think that it is mine, and how you fought through the long day to give me this, and only this—when I think of the splendor of that day’s work of yours, I kneel to you, and to the spirit of the world—in the wood, in the hut, before the door, under my elms, under the stars,—I kneel to you and the Source of you. The peace that comes, and the power—this, is my passionate wish for you! I would restore it to you magnified.”

Helen Quiston read all this a second time that September morning, although her pupils were waiting.... It was to her like the song from a strong man’s house.

“You are rich and elect, Betty!” she cried. “You have been a woman and wanted love. You have finished your work at night, alone, and realized that there was no one—your arms tired, your throat tired, your brain and soul tired and heart-lonely—and there was no one. How rich you are now! I think a woman is rich who can say: ‘In London or Tokyo or New South Wales there is one who loves me—who may be thinking at this moment about me—who wishes I were there, or he were here; whose heart’s warmth stretches across the distance and makes the world a home, because he is in the world.... It would seem to me that I should be exultant to-day—if there was such a one for me. It seems—if I could see him in a year, even if I could not see him at all, and he were somewhere—I should be all new and radiant, born again.... But you, Betty dear—oh, think what you have—what you are giving!”

Betty’s eyes were shut. There was a gray line around the faint color of the lips, and she was pale as a candle-flame in the morning sun.

“I wish you could stay with me, dearest,” she whispered. “It is too much for me—when I am alone. But when you are here, what you say and what you see—makes me believe.... And you must tell me what to write in answer to this—to satisfy him. I shall hold it in my hand, and rest——”

“I’ll come back this afternoon. We’ll have supper, and the letter will be mailed. You’ll know what to say then——”

She hurried away, lest her heart break. The tired, emotionless voice trailed after her. And all day she heard Betty’s voice among the unfinished voices, and saw the spiritless clay of her heart’s friend sitting in deathly labor below, tormented by the phantom of a will—like a once glorious empire become desolate, a foolish scion upon the throne.