PART TWO - CHAPTER IX

by Kathleen Norris

　　September daylight, watery and uncertain, and very different from thegolden purity of California's September sunshine, fell in pale oblongsupon the polished floor of a certain London drawing-room, and battledwith the dancing radiance of a coal fire that sent cheering gleams andflashes of gold into the duskiest corners of the room.

　　It was a beautiful room, and a part of a beautiful house, for theAmerican doctor and his wife, deciding to make the English capital theirhome, had searched and waited patiently until in Camden Hill Road theyhad discovered a house possessed of just the irresistible combination ofbigness and coziness, beauty and simplicity, for which they had hoped.In the soft tones of the rugs, the plain and comfortable chairs, thewarm glow of a lamp shade, or the gleam of a leather-bound book, therewas at once a suggestion of discrimination and of informal ease. Andinformal yet strangely exhilarating the friends of Doctor and Mrs.Studdiford found it. Very famous folk liked to sit in these deep chairs,and talk on and on beside this friendly fire, while London slept, andthe big clock in the hall turned night into morning. No hosts in Londonwere more popular than the big, genial doctor, and his clever, silent,and most beautiful wife. Mrs. Studdiford was an essentially genuineperson; the flowers in her drawing-room, like the fruit on her table,were sure to be sensibly in season; her clothes and her children'sclothes were extraordinarily simple, and her new English friends, simpleand domestic as they were, whatever their rank, found her to be one ofthemselves in these things, and took her to their hearts.

　　Julia herself was sitting before the fire now, one slippered foot to theblaze. Four years in London life had left her as lovely as ever; perhapsthere was even an increase of beauty in the lines of her closed lips, acertain accentuation of the old spiritual sweetness in her look. Herbright hair was still wound about her head in loose braids, and herseverely simple gown of Quaker gray was relieved at the wrists andthroat by transparent frills of white. In her arms lay a baby less thana year old, a splendid boy, whose eyes, through half-closed lids, werelazily studying the fire. His little smocked white frock showed sturdybare knees, and the fine web of his yellow hair blew like a gold mistagainst his mother's breast.

　　The room's only other occupant, a tall, handsome woman, in a tan clothsuit, with rich furs, presently turned from the deep curtained arch of awindow. This was Barbara Fox, Lady Curriel now, still thin, and stillwith a hint of sharpness and fatigue in her browned face, yet with rarecontent and satisfaction written there, too. Barbara's life was full,and every hour brought its demand on her time, but she was a very happywoman, devoted to her husband and her three small sons, and idolizingher baby daughter. Her winters were devoted to the social and politicalinterests that played so large a part in her husband's life and her own,but Julia knew that she was far more happy in the summers, when herbrood ran wild over the old manor house at High Darmley, and everycottager stopped to salute the donkey cart and the shouting heirs of"the big family."

　　"Not a sign of them!" said Barbara now, coming from the window to thefire, and loosening her furs as she sat down opposite Julia. "Is heasleep?" she added in a cautious undertone.

　　"Not he!" answered Julia, with a kiss for her son. "He's just lying hereand finking 'bout fings! I don't know where the others can be," she wenton, in evident reference to Barbara's vigil at the window. "Jim saidlunch, and it's nearly one o'clock now! Take your things off, Babbie,and lunch with us?"

　　"Positively I mustn't, dear. I must be at home. I've to see the paperersat two o'clock, and to-morrow morning early, you know, we go back to thekiddies at the seaside."

　　"And they're all well?"

　　"Oh, splendid. Even Mary's out of doors all day, and digging in thesand! We think Jim's right about Geordie's throat, by the way; it oughtto be done, I suppose, but it doesn't seem to trouble him at all, and itcan wait! Julie dear, why don't you and the boy and Anna come down, ifonly for four or five days? Bring nurse, and some old cottons, and aparasol, and we'll have a lovely, comfy time!"

　　"But we're just home!" Julia protested laughingly. "I've hardly gotstraightened out yet! However, I'll speak to Jim," she went on. "Thisgentleman thinks he would like it, and Anna is frantic to see the boys."

　　"And we must talk!" Barbara added coaxingly. "Is California lovely?"

　　"Oh—" Julia raised her brows, with her grave smile. "Home is home,Bab."

　　"And Mother looks well?"

　　"Your mother looks very well. But when she and Janey come on in Januaryyou'll see for yourself. Janey's so pretty; I wish she'd marry, but shenever sees any one but Rich! Rich is simply adorable; he had Con and herhusband and little girl with him this summer. Con's getting veryfat—she's great fun! And Ted's very much improved, Bab, very much moregentle and sweet. She told me about Bob Carleton's death, poor fellow!She went to see him and took George, and do you know, I don't think Tedwill marry again, although she's handsomer than ever!"

　　"And Sally's the perfect celebrity's wife?" Barbara asked, with a smile.

　　"Sally? But I wrote you that," Julia laughed. "Yes, Keith was giving aconcert in Philadelphia when we went through at Easter. So Jim and Imade a special trip down to hear it, and, my dear! The hall was packed,the women went simply crazy over him, and he's really quite poeticallooking, long hair and all that. And Sally—-I saw her at the hotel thenext morning, and such a manner! Protecting the privacy of the genius,don't you know, and seeing reporters, and answering requests forautographs, and declining invitations, here, there, and everywhere! Ithink she has more fun than Keith does! He's quite helpless without her;won't see a manager or answer a note, or even order a luncheon! 'Sally,'he says, handing her a card, 'what do I like? Tell them not to ask me!'He worships her, and, of course, she worships him; she even said to methat it was lucky there were no children—Keith hated children!"

　　"Funny life!" Barbara mused, half laughing. "And your people are well,Ju?" "Splendidly," Julia smiled. "Mama looks just the same; she wassimply wild about our Georgie—saw him nearly every day, for if Icouldn't go I sent nurse with him. My cousin Marguerite is dead, youknow, and her husband is really a very clever fellow, a tailor, makinglots of money. He and the three children have come to live with AuntMay; Regina manages the whole crowd; it's really the happiest sort of ahome! Anna had beautiful times there; she remembered it all, and AuntMay and Mama nearly spoiled her!"

　　"You couldn't spoil her," Barbara said affectionately. "She is reallythe dearest and most precious! Are you going to let La Franz paint her?"

　　"No." Julia's motherly pride showed only in a sudden brightness in herblue eyes. "And I hope no one will tell her that he asked! Even at ten,Bab, they are quite sufficiently aware of admiration. She had on a sortof greeny-yallery velvet gown the day we met him, and really she wasquite toothsome, if you ask an unprejudiced observer. But Jim and I werewondering if it's wise to make her quite so picturesque!"

　　"You can't help it," Barbara said. "She's just as lovely in a Hollandpinny, or a nightie, or a bathing suit! I declare she was too lovely onthe sands last year, with her straw-coloured hair, and a straw-colouredhat, and her pink cheeks matching a pink apron! She's going to beprettier than you are, Ju!"

　　"Well, at that she won't set the Thames afire!" Julia smiled.

　　"I don't know! You ought to be an absolutely happy woman, Julie."

　　Julia settled the baby's head more comfortably against her arm, andraised earnest eyes.

　　"Is any one, Bab? Are you?"

　　"Well, yes, I think I am!" Lady Curriel said thoughtfully. "Of coursethose months before Francis's uncle died were awfully hard on us all,and then before Mary came I was wretched; but now—there's reallynothing, except that we do not live within our income when we're in thetown house, and that frets Francis a good deal. Of course I try toeconomize in summer, and we catch up, but it's an ever-present worry!And then our Geordie's throat, you know, and being so far from Motherand Rich and the girls, of course! But those things really don't count,Ju. And in the main I'm absolutely happy and satisfied. I'm pleased withthe way my life has gone!"

　　"Pleased is mild," Julia agreed. "I'd be an utter ingrate to be anythingbut pleased, looking back. Jim is exceptional, of course, and Anna andthis young person seem to me pretty nice in their little ways! And whenwe went home this year it was really pleasant and touching, I thought;all San Francisco was gracious; we could have had five times as long avisit and not worn our welcome out!"

　　"So much for having been presented," laughed Barbara.

　　"Well, I suppose so. Mama was wild with interest about it; she has myphotograph, in the gown I wore to the drawing-room, framed on the wall.But Aunt May was dubious, isn't at all sure that she admires the Britishroyal family. She's a most delightful person!" Julia laughed out gayly."If ever I happen to speak of the Duchess of This or Lady That, Mama'seyes fairly dance, but Aunt May isn't going to be hoodwinked by anytitle. 'Ha!' she says. 'Do you think they're one bit better in the sightof God than I am?' And I like nothing better than to regale her on theirsilliness, tell her how one has forty wigs, and another is so afraid oflosing her diamonds she has a man sit and watch them every night. Longafterward I hear her exclaiming to herself, 'Wigs, indeed!' or'Diamonds! Well, did you ever!'"

　　"When you come to think of it, Ju, isn't it odd to think of your ownpeople doing their own work, 'way out there on the very edge of thewestern world, and you here, in a fair way to become a Londonf'yvourite!"

　　"Doing their own work, indeed!" laughed Julia. "My good lady, you forgetCarrie. Carrie comes in every night to do the dishes, and because she'scoloured, my Aunt May has always felt that she stole sugar and tea.However, we all laughed at Aunt May this year, when it came tosuspecting Carrie of stealing Regina's face powder! No, but you're quiteright, Bab," she went on more seriously. "It's all very strange anddramatic. Saturday, when the Duchess came in to welcome us, and flowerscame from all sides, and the Penniscots came to carry us off to dinner,I really felt, 'Lawk a mussy on me, this can't be I!'"

　　"Well, then, where is the pill in the jelly?" asked Barbarasolicitously.

　　Julia had flung back her head and was listening intently. Footsteps andvoices were unmistakably coming up the hall stairs.

　　"No pills—all jelly!" she had time to say smilingly, before the dooropened and three persons came into the room: Doctor Studdiford,handsomer and more boyishly radiant than ever; Miss Toland, quite gray,but erect and vigorous still; and little Anna, a splendid, glowingten-year-old, in the blue serge sailor suit and round straw hat madepopular by the little English princess.

　　Babel followed. Every one must kiss Barbara; little George must come infor his full share of attention. Presently the beaming Ellie wassummoned, and the children went away with her; Barbara carried off heraunt for a makeshift luncheon in the dismantled Curriel mansion, and theStuddifords were left alone.

　　"We picked Aunt Sanna up at the corner," said Jim, one arm about hiswife as they stood in the window looking down at the departing visitors,"and of course Anna must drag her along with us to see the baby lion! Istopped at Lord Essels's, by the way, and it's a perfect knit—can'ttell where one bone stops and the other begins!"

　　"Oh, Jimmy, you old miracle worker! Aren't you pleased?"

　　"Well, rath-er! And young Lady Essels wants to call on you, Ju; says youwere the loveliest thing at the New Year's ball last year! Remember whenwe rushed home to feed Georgie, and rushed back again?"

　　"Oh, perfectly. I hope she will come; she looked sweet. And every one'scoming to our Tuesday dinner, Jim, except Ivy; notes from them all. Ivysays Lady Violet is so ill that she can't promise, but Phyllis is comingwith the new husband. She wrote such a cunning note! And—I'll see Ivythis afternoon, and I think I'll tell her that I'm going to leave herplace open; if she can't come, why we'll just have to have a man over,that's all! It won't be awfully formal anyway, Jimmy, at this time ofthe year!"

　　"Whatever you say, old lady!" Jim was thinking of something else. "Howdo you feel about leaving the kids and going off for a little run withthe Parkes to-morrow night?" he asked. "He's found some new place inwhich he wants us to dine and sleep. Home the next morning."

　　"Well, I could do that," Julia said thoughtfully.

　　"You're terribly decent about leaving 'em," said Jim, who knew how Juliahated to be away from Anna and George at night, "but, really, I thinkthis'll be fun—cards, you know, and a good dinner."

　　"That's to-morrow?"

　　"To-morrow." Jim hesitated. "I know you're not crazy about them," hesaid.

　　"I don't dislike them," Julia said brightly. "She's really lots of fun,but of course he's the Honourable and he's a little spoiled. But I'mreally glad to go. Was Anna nice this morning?"

　　"Oh, she was lovely—held her little head up and trotted along, askingintelligent questions, don't you know—not like a chattering kid. Shepitched right into me on the governess question; she's all for MissPercival's school, won't hear of a governess for a minute!"

　　"And the stern parent compromised on Miss Percival?" smiled Julia.

　　"Well, I only promised for a year," Jim said, shamefaced. "And you wereagainst the governess proposition, too," he added accusingly.

　　"Absolutely," she assured him soothingly. "I love to have Anna with mein the afternoons, and when Bab's in town we can send her overthere—she's no trouble!" Julia turned her face up for a kiss. "Run andwash your hands, Doctor dear!" said she.

　　"Yes—and what are you going to do?" Jim asked jealously.

　　"I'm going to wait for you right here, and we'll go down together," shesaid pacifically. Jim took another kiss.

　　"Happy?" he asked.

　　Just as he had asked her a thousand times in the past four years. Andalways she had answered him, as she did now:

　　"Happiest woman in the world, Jim!"

　　The happiest woman in the world! Julia, left alone, still stood dreamingin the curtained window, her eyes idly following the quiet life of thesunny street below. A hansom clattered by, an open carriage in which anold, old couple were taking an airing. Half a square away she could seethe Park, with gray-clad nurses chatting over their racing charges orthe tops of perambulators.

　　But Julia's thoughts were not with these. A little frown shaded hereyes, and her mouth was curved by a smile more sad than sweet. Thehappiest woman in the world! Yet, as she stood there, she felt an utterdisenchantment with life seize upon her; she felt an overwhelmingweariness in the battle that was not yet over. For Julia knew now thatlife to her must be a battle; whatever the years to come might hold forher, they could not hold more than an occasional heavenly interval ofpeace. Peace for Jim, peace for her mother, peace for her children andfor all those whom she loved; but for herself there must be times of anincreasing burden, an increasing weariness, and the gnawing of anundying fight with utter discouragement. Her secret must never beanything but a secret; and yet, to Julia, it sometimes seemed that heronly happiness in life would be to shout it to the whole world.

　　Not always, for there were, of course, serene long stretches ofhappiness, confident times in which she was really what she seemed tobe, only beautiful, young, exceptionally fortunate and beloved. But itwas into these very placid intervals that the word or look would enter,to bring her house of cards crashing about her head once more.

　　Sometimes, not often, it was a mere casual acquaintance whose chanceremark set the old, old wound to throbbing; or sometimes it wasBarbara's or Miss Toland's praise: "You're so sweet and fine, Ju—ifonly we'd all done with our opportunities as you have!" Oftener it wasJim's voice that consciously or unconsciously on his part stabbed Juliato the very soul. For him, the sting was gone, because, at the firstprick, Julia was there to take it and bear it. No need to conceal fromher now the bitterness of his moods; she would meet him halfway. He wasworrying about that old affair? Ah, he mustn't do that—here wereJulia's arms about him, her lovely face close to his, her sweet andearnest sympathy ready to probe bravely into his darkest thought, andfind him some balm. Still gowned from a ball, perhaps, jewelled,perfumed, dragging her satin train after her, she would come straightinto his arms, with: "Something's worrying you, dearest, tell me what itis? I love you so—"

　　No resentment on Jim's part could live for a moment in this atmosphere.He only wanted to tell her about it, to be soothed like a small boy, tocatch his beautiful wife in his arms, and win from her lips again andagain the assurance that she loved him and him alone. What these scenescost Julia's own fine sense of delicacy and dignity, only Julia knew.They left her with a vague feeling of shame, a consciousness ofcompromise. For a day or two after such an episode a new hesitancy wouldmark her manner, a certain lack of confidence lend pathos to thesweetness of her voice.

　　But no outside influence ever could bring home to her the realization ofthe shadow on her life as forcibly as did her own inner musings, thetestimony of her own soul. If she had but been innocent, how easy tobear Jim's scorn, or the scorn of the whole world! It was the bitterknowledge that she had taken her life in her own hands nearly twentyyears ago, and wrecked it more surely than if she had torn out her owneyes, that made her heart sick within her now. She, who loved dignity,who loved purity, who loved strength, must carry to her grave theknowledge of her own detestable weakness! She must instruct herdaughter, guarding the blue eyes and the active mind from even theknowledge of life's ugly side, she must hold the highest standard ofpurity before her son, knowing, as she knew, that far back at her life'sbeginning, were those few hideous weeks that, in the eyes of the world,could utterly undo the work of twenty strong and steadfast years! Shemust be silent when she longed to cry aloud, she must train herself tocry aloud at the thing that she had been. And she must silently endurethe terrible fact that her husband knew, and that he would never forget.Over and over again her spirit shrank at some new evidence of the factthat, with all his love for her, his admiration, his loyalty, there wasa reservation in her husband's heart, a conviction—of which he wasperhaps not conscious himself—that Julia was not quite as other women.Her criticism of others must be more gentle, her opinion lessconfidently offered. Others might find in her exceptional charms, rarestrength, and rare wisdom—not Jim. For him she was always the exquisitepenitent, who had so royally earned a perpetually renewed forgiveness,the little crippled playfellow whom it was his delight to carry in hisarms. His judgment for what concerned his children was the wiser, andfor her, too, when she longed to throw herself into this work of reformor that—to expose herself, in other words, to the very element fromwhich a kind Providence had seen fit to remove her. Obviously, oncertain subjects there must not be two opinions, in any house, and,whatever the usual custom, obviously he was the person to decide in hisown.

　　"Rich says you were not a saint yourself when you were in college, Jim!"she had burst out once, long years ago, before their separation. Butonly once. After all, the laws were not of Jim's making; whatever he haddone, he was a respecter of convention, a keeper of the law of man.Julia had broken God's law, had repented, and had been forgiven. But shehad also broken the law of man, for which no woman ever is forgiven. Andthough this exquisite and finished woman, with her well-stored brain andripened mind, her position and her charm, was not the little Julia Pageof the old O'Farrell Street days, she must pay the price of that otherJulia's childish pride and ignorance still.

　　She must go on, listening, with her wise, wistful smile, to the chatterof other women, wincing at a thousand little pricks that even herhusband could not see, winning him from his ugly moods with that mixtureof the child and the woman that his love never could resist.

　　His love! After all he did love her and his children, and she loved thethree with every fibre of heart and soul. Julia ended her reverie, asshe always ended her reveries, with a new glow of hope in her heart anda half smile on her lips. Their love would save them all—love fulfilledthe law.

　　"Julia!" said Jim, at the door, "where are you?"

　　She turned in her window recess.

　　"Not escaped, O Sultan!"

　　"Well"—he had his arm about her, his air was that of a humouredchild—"I didn't suppose you had! But I hate you to go down without me!"

　　"Well, the poor abused boy!" Julia laughed. "Come, we'll go downtogether!"

　　"What were you thinking of, standing there all that time?" he asked.

　　"You principally, Doctor Studdiford!" Julia gave him a quick sidewiseglance.

　　"Glad I came out to the Mission to fix the Daley kid's arm?" Jim asked.

　　"Glad!" said Julia softly, with a great sigh that belied her smile. Theytook each other's hands, like children, and went down the broad stairwaytogether.

　　THE END