He would keep moving. To move meant enlightenment. It must mean enlightenment. He would hew at his niche and accomplish his task though a thousand millstones and anvils were loaded upon him. Somewhere were High Hilltops, peopled with soft voices and calm eyes, manifestations of elegant living because such was social efficiency—still another phase of omnipotent perfection toward which he groped blindly—Art waves in which the soul of him might bathe luxuriantly, somewhere were High Hill Tops. There was no disgrace being born in the valley so long as he had no choice in the matter and was consistently and sincerely hunting the evasive pathway up to those Hill Tops—up to the Dwelling Places of Light.
My friend had within him the gift of the Magi beyond rubies,—the great galvanism of Divinity—energizing, vitalizing, driving his young Soul Indomitable to cry from far up the heights “Excelsior!”—to battle forever toward the stars. Yet he knew it not.
To Abaddon with cloying, handicapping, misunderstanding parenthood! With fretting, abusive womanhood—with coarse environments—with petty twopenny handicaps! He would go on,—doing his duty as he saw it, taking advantage of the last iota of opportunities as they came, fighting as he went,—true to the Aryan that was in him.
And after that night, he set his face to the west and he went on, disregarding what the going cost him, little realizing that he was suddenly carrying his High Aspiration written large on his fighting face for the World and One Woman to see!
VI
Back in her apartment, Bernice picked up the packet of faded love notes, untied the string with sneering amusement and selected a letter at random. She read and the sneer disappeared.
She picked up another and read and the worldliness fell from her face. She picked up a third, a fourth, a fifth. She did not read the sixth.
Face downward in the tapestry pillows, she sobbed out her heart.