“Always there comes a moment such as this when, poised here upon the ledge of furious strife, we stand and look; the marsh-veil shifts from the enfevered swamp, the phantoms are dispersed like painted smoke, and standing here together, friend, we all see clear again, our souls are tranquil and our hearts are quiet—and we have what we have, we know what we know, we are what we are.”
It seemed to him that all these people now had come to such a moment that this clear peace and knowledge rested in their hearts and spoke out of their eyes; it seemed to him that all his life, for years, since he had first gone to the dark North and known cities—since he had first known Starwick—was now a phantasmal nightmare—a kaleidoscope of blind, furious days, and drunken and diverted nights, the measureless sea-depth of incalculable memory, an atom lost and battered in a world of monstrous shapes, and deafened in a word of senseless, stupefying war and movement and blind fury. And it seemed to him now that for the first time he—and all of them—had come to a moment of clarity and repose, and that for the first time their hearts saw and spoke the truth that lies buried in all men, that all men know.
Elinor had taken him by the hand and was saying quietly:
“I am sorry that you will not go with us. We have had a strange and hard and desperate time together, but that is over now, Eugene: we have all been full of pain and trouble, and all of us are sorry for the things we’ve done. I want you to know that we all love you, and will always think of you with friendship, as our friend, and will hope that you are happy, and will rejoice in your success as if it were our own…. And now, good-bye, my dear; try to think of us always as we think of you—with love and kindness. Do not forget us; always remember us with a good memory, the way we shall remember you…. Perhaps”—for a moment her face was touched with her gay, rueful smile—“perhaps when I’m an old Boston lady with a cat, a parrot, and a canary, you will come to see me. I will be a nice old lady, then—but also I will be a ruined old lady—for they don’t forget—not in a lifetime, not in Boston—and this time, darling, I have gone too far. So I shan’t have many callers, I shall leave them all alone—and if you’re not too rich, too famous, and too proper by that time, perhaps you’ll come to see me…. Now, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Elinor,” he said. “And good luck to you.”
“Look,” said Starwick quietly, “we’re going on—Elinor and I… I thought… if
