Then he thought of the bigger thing—the Book. There wasn’t a chance for that to fail. It would find its own. What would he say about that?... He would say, “I love you, Betty Berry. It was loving you that made the book. And when it was done—how I longed for you!”
That was true—true now.... He kissed her shut eyelids. There was blessedness in her being here—even shattered and so close to death—blessedness and a dreadful fear. That fear was ever winging around, but did not come home to him and fold its wings. He was not himself.... “My God!” he cried out, “what folds upon folds and phases upon phases of experience a man must pass to learn to live——”
For an instant it all came back—that taste of the open road and larger dimension of man—the listening, the labor, the sharpened senses, scant diet, tireless service, ‘the great companions’—love of the world and unfailing compassion.... It was as they had said. He had belonged everywhere but in a woman’s arms....
It came clear as a vision, and he put it from him as an evil thing—and all the voices. The red dawn was staring into his eyes, and afar off a horse nickered. He held his hands against the light, as if to destroy it.
“I have said it in the Book, ‘We have all eternity to play in,’ and if that is not a lie—this Call will come to me again!”
And this was his renunciation.
Her stillness troubled him.
“I am your lover,” he whispered. “I will not let you go, Betty Berry. Don’t you hear—I love you?”
He lifted her, walked to and fro between the fire and the cot. She was so very little.... The day came up with a mystic shining, and the warmth returned. These were the first hours of that fleeting Indian summer, the year’s illumination—the serene and conscious death of Summer.... The door was wide open to the light.... Morning put down his burden, but could not be still. He brought water and scrubbed the floor and door-step. The wood shone white as it dried—white as the square table which was an attraction of daylight. He tossed the water away down the hollow, drew more and washed as the countrymen do, lifting handfuls to his head. Then he brought basin, soap, and towels—bathed her face and hands, afterward carrying her forth to the sunlight. The thin shade of the elms was far down the meadow, for the day was not high.