"Ah, America—so often you bring her home to my heart. Godspeed to you, Romney. All is well with us. All is better than the best we could know or ask for.... We will be alone together. We shall have silence here.... Yes, that is well. Toss the yellow rug about us. Now we shall know the deeper dreaming."
PART FIVE: CONCLUSION
THE HILL-COUNTRY
1
With his hand on the knob of the door, Romney looked back. The whole hour he reviewed in a rush. He had not been heroic, nor even uncommon. His story had been stammered. There had been nothing to tell such a pair, lost in each other. Even the cause of China seemed little and unsubstantial compared to the splendour of their relation. The courage of Nifton Bend should always mean the arrival of man to manhood in Romney's thoughts. The far roving spirit of the quest-woman come at last to the home-nest of a great man's heart was a sort of pattern for the world's romance.... She who had been the ruling imperious mistress of a few flashing days of his own life, was a child, utterly feminine and receptive in the presence of the greater force.
The big secrets of life had come to him in this hour, to be unwoven and unfolded during the years that remained. Just now Romney felt himself small in that he had risen to no part to help or spare them. He forgot that the revelations were for him alone; that he had furnished complete understanding; that his own soul carried forth the message of their end. In this sense he was chosen. No man could have done better. He would have been crude, indeed, to resist their way. He had entered upon the heroism of abnegation.
The hush of their great story was in his heart as he stood by the door.... The face of the Hunchback was upturned to the bowed head of the woman. There was no sound, no movement. The leaves of an ancient mulberry tree lay tranced against the leaded window. The yellow rug was folded close. The lords of life and death were in that shadowed room.
An ironical smile came to Romney's lips as he turned the knob.... He was meeting the little world of men again. He must act. He must go on with his little part, after dwelling in the presence of those who were great enough to show the world their own immortal selves.... He must fight for his own life—what a travesty. How little were the herds of mere men moving to and fro on the broad back of ample mother earth. For a little time longer he, Romney, must play his part—or die.
A last devoted look back, even as the substantial wonder of his own life recurred. To Anna Erivan now. Nothing but distance lay between—the task accomplished.... It seemed an unreckonable length of time since last night when he threaded the litany of a lover in the lobby of the Nestor waiting for Dr. Ti Kung....
He plunged into the hall—left hand to his brow, knees tumbling, his right hand in the loose pocket of the corded blouse he wore, the pistol in his palm. A pistol always made him laugh, gave him the sense of being less than a man.... No, the task was not quite done—the yellow packets to put away.... And a woman waiting in the hill-country. In that instant of outward bewilderment the reality of Anna Erivan was very close.... A servant with a tray met him in the hall near the stairs. Romney veered by, and turned quickly. The yellow boy had placed his tray on the floor and followed as if to assist a guest in the house. His face was troubled but innocent. Romney staggered on.