PART TWO - CHAPTER V

by Kathleen Norris

　　Miss Toland, who had accepted Julia's invitation for Thanksgiving,arrived unexpectedly on the afternoon before the holiday, to spend thenight with the Studdifords. It was a wild, wet day, settling down toheavy rain as the early darkness closed in, and the Pacific Avenue housepresented a gloomy if magnificent aspect to the guest as she came in.But Ellie beamingly directed her to the nursery, and here she foundenough brightness to flood the house.

　　Caroline, it appeared, had gone to her own family for the afternoon, andJulia, looking like a child in her short white dress and buckledslippers, was sitting in a low chair with little Anna in her arms. Theroom was bright with firelight and the soft light from the subduednursery lamps, and warm russet curtains shut out the dull and dyingafternoon. Dolls and blocks were scattered on the hearth rug, and Juliasat her daughter down among them, and jumped up with a radiant face togreet the newcomer.

　　"Aunt Sanna—you darling! And you're going to spend the night?" Juliacried out joyfully, with her first kisses. "What a dear thing for you todo! But you're wet?"

　　"No, I dropped everything in my room," Miss Toland said. "Things werevery quiet at The Alexander—that new woman isn't going to do at all, bythe way, too fussy—so I suddenly thought of coming into town!"

　　"Oh, I'm so glad you did!" Julia exulted. Miss Toland rested firm handson her shoulders, and looked at her keenly.

　　"How goes it?"

　　"Oh, splendidly!" The younger woman's bright eyes shone.

　　"No more blues, eh?"

　　"Oh, no!"

　　"Ah, well, that's a good thing!" Miss Toland sat down by the fire, andstretched sturdy shoes to the blaze. "Hello, Beautiful!" she said to thebaby.

　　Julia dropped to the rug, and smothered the soft whiteness and fragranceof little Anna in a wild hug.

　　"She has her good days and her bad days," said Julia, biting ecstaticlittle kisses from the top of the downy little head, "and to-day she hassimply been an angel! Wait—see if she'll do it! See, Bunny," Juliacaught up a white woolly doll. "Oh, see poor dolly—Mother's going toput her in the fire!"

　　"Da!" said Anna agitatedly, and Julia tumbled her in another madembrace.

　　"Isn't that darling, not six months old yet?" demanded the mother."Here, take her, Aunt Sanna, and see if you ever got hold of anythingnicer than that! Come, baby, give Aunt Sanna a little butterfly kiss!"And Julia swept the soft little face and unresponsive mouth across theolder woman's face before she deposited the baby in her lap.

　　"She's like you, Julie," Miss Toland said, extending a ringed finger forher namesake's amusement.

　　"Yes, I think she is; every one says so. You see her hair's coming to bethe same ashy yaller as mine. And see the fat sweet little knees, anddon't miss our new slippers with wosettes on 'em!"

　　"She's really exquisite," Miss Toland said, kissing the tawny littlecrown as Julia had done, and watching the deep-lashed blue eyes thatwere so much absorbed by the rings. "Watching her, Ju, we'll see justwhat sort of a little girl you were."

　　"Oh, heavens, Aunt Sanna," Julia protested, with a rather sad littlesmile, "I was an awful little person with stringy hair, and colds in mynose, and no hankies! I never had baths, and never had regular mealhours, or regular diet, for that matter! Anna'll be very different fromwhat I was."

　　"Your mother was to blame, Ju," Miss Toland said, gravely shaking herhead.

　　"Oh, I don't know, perhaps her mother was," Julia suggested. "Yet myGrandmother Cox is a sweet little old woman," she went on, smiling,"always afraid we're hungry, and anxious to feed us, tremendously loyalto us all. I went out there to-day, to take Mama some special littlethings for Thanksgiving, and see if their turkey had gotten there, andso on, and my heart quite ached for Grandma—Mama's very exacting now,and the girls—my aunt, Mrs. Torney's girls—seemed so apathetic anddull. The house was very dirty, as it always is, and the halls icy, andthe kitchen hot—I just wanted to pitch in and clean! Mama was cross atme for not bringing Anna, in this rain, and staying to dinner to-morrow;but Grandmother was so pleased to have the things, and she got totelling me of old times, poor thing, and how she had to work and schemeto get up a Thanksgiving dinner, and how my grandfather would worry herby promising that he'd only have one drink, and then disappearing forhours—"

　　"Does it ever occur to you that you are an unusual woman, Julia?" MissToland asked, holding her watch to the baby's ear. Julia flushed andlaughed.

　　"Well, no, I don't believe it ever did!"

　　"Not so much in climbing up in the world as you have," pursued the olderwoman, "but in not despising the people you left behind you! That's veryfine, Julie. I can't tell you how fine it seems to me!"

　　"There's nothing fine about it," Julia said simply. "It's just that Ilike that sort of people as well as I do—Jim's sort. I used to thinkthat to work my way into a world where everything was fine and fragrantand costly would mean to be happy, but of course it doesn't, and I'vecome more and more to feel that I like the class where joys are real,and sorrows are real, and the goodness means more, and there's moreexcuse for the badness!"

　　"Did you ever think of writing, Julia?" Miss Toland asked. "Stories, Imean?"

　　"Everybody does nowadays, I suppose," Julia laughed. "Sometimes I thinkwhat good material The Alexander stuff would be, Aunt Sanna. But thetruth is, Jim doesn't like the idea."

　　"Doesn't? Bless us all, why not?"

　　"Oh!" Julia dimpled demurely. "The great Mrs. Studdiford writing, like amere ordinary person?" she asked.

　　"Oh, that's it? Where is Jim, by the way?"

　　"Sacramento. But the operation was on Sunday, so he should have beenhere yesterday, at latest," Julia said. "However, he'll rush in to-nightor to-morrow; he knows you're all going to be here. Give her to me, AuntSanna, she's getting hungry, bless her little old heart! Ah, here'sEllie with something for Mother's girl!"

　　"And tea for you in the library," Ellie said in an aside, receiving thebaby into her arms with a rapturous look.

　　"Tea, doesn't tea sound good!" Julia caught Miss Toland by the hand."Come and have some tea, Aunt Sanna!" said she. "I'm starving!"

　　They were loitering over their teacups half an hour later when Lizziecame into the library with a special delivery letter.

　　"For me?" Julia smiled, reaching for it. "It's Jimmy!" she addedruefully, for Miss Toland's benefit, as she took it. "This means hecan't get here!"

　　"Drat the lad!" his aunt said mildly. "What has he got to say?"

　　Julia pulled out a hairpin to open the letter, her face a littlepuzzled. She unfolded three pages of large paper closely written.

　　"Why, I don't understand this," said she. "Jimmy writes such shortletters!"

　　And immediately fear, like cold iron, entered her heart, and she felt achill of distaste for the letter; she did not want to read it, shewished she might fling it on the ere, and rid her hands of the horriblething.

　　"It is Jim, isn't it?" Miss Toland said, with a sharp look. "Is hecoming?"

　　"I don't know," Julia said, hardly above a whisper.

　　"Anything wrong?" Miss Toland asked, instantly alert.

　　"No, I don't suppose so!" Julia said, trying to laugh. "But—but I hatehim to just send a letter when I expected him!" she added childishly.

　　She picked it up, and began slowly to read it. Miss Toland, watchingher, saw the muscles of her face harden, and her eyes turn to steel. Theblood rushed to her face, and then receded quickly. She read to the lastword, and then looked up to meet the other woman's eyes.

　　"What is it?" Miss Toland demanded, aghast at Julia's look.

　　"It's Jim," said Julia. Her face was blazing again, and she seemed to bechoking. "He's going to Europe," she went on, in a bewildered tone,"he's not coming back."

　　"What!" said Miss Toland sharply. "D'you mean to tell me he's simplywalked off—"

　　Julia's colour was ghastly; her eyes looked sick and heavy.

　　"No, no, he can't mean that!" she said quickly. She crushed the pages ofthe letter together convulsively. "I can't—" she began, and stopped.Suddenly she rose to her feet, muttered something about coming back, andwas gone.

　　She ran up to her room, and alone there, it seemed for a few moments asif she must suffocate. She put the letter on her desk, where its foldedsheets instantly looked hideously familiar. She went into the bathroom,and found herself holding her fingers under the hot-water tap, vaguelywaiting for hot water. Like a hunted creature she went through theluxurious rooms, the mortal wound in her heart widening every instant;finally she came back to her desk, and sat down, and read the letteragain.

　　"Dear Julia," wrote Jim, "I have been thinking and thinking about thisaffair, and I cannot stand it. I am going away. Atkins is going toBerlin for a three months' course under Hofner and Braun, and I am goingwith him. I only made up my mind to-night, but I have thought ofsomething like this a long, long time. I cannot bear it any longer. Ithink and think about things—that another man loved you and you lovedhim—and I nearly go mad. Even when people meet me and ask how you are,I am reminded of it; for weeks now I haven't thought of anything else;it just seems to rise up wherever I go.

　　"I think it will be better when I don't see you.

　　"I have been sitting here with my head in my hands, wondering if thereis any way in which I can spare you the pain of reading this letter, butit's no use, it's impossible to go back and bluff about it.

　　"Collins spoke to me about the change in me; he said he thought it wasthat touch of the sun in September. I wish to God it was!

　　"I will take the course with Atkins, and then let you know. He wants togo to Benares for some reason or another, and perhaps I will go withhim, or perhaps come home to you. But I don't think I will come backunder a year.

　　"You hear of men all your life who do this, but I feel as if it waskilling me, and you, too. I wish there was some other way.

　　"I have written Harry at the Crocker; my account there is to betransferred to your name. I don't know exactly what it is, but the moneyfrom the San Mateo lots went in there, and so there is plenty. For God'ssake spend it, don't hesitate about getting anything you want. Whyshouldn't you keep the house, until April anyway; some one would staywith you, and then you could go to San Rafael.

　　"I'm not going to try to tell you how I feel about all this, because youknow. It all seems to me a bad dream. Every little while I try to makemyself think that after a while it will all come right, but it seemed tome all dead and buried after that time on the steamer, and of course itwasn't!

　　"Tell people what you please, I leave all that to you.

　　"Chadwick will sell the car, and send you the bill of sale and themoney. He knows what I want sent; he'll do all that.

　　"I've written and rewritten this ten times; my head is splitting. Itseems strange to think it is you and me.

　　"God bless you always, and our little girl.

　　"Jim."

　　Julia finished it with a little grinding sound, like a groan, heardherself make a dramatic exclamation, an "Ah!" of agonized unbelief. Shesat down, got up again to take a few irresolute steps toward her desk,and finally went to her bedside telephone, and took down the receiver.

　　There was a delay; Julia rapped an impatient slipper on the floor, andrattled the hook.

　　"Western Union, please," she said, a moment later; "I want to send atelegram."

　　An interval of silence followed. Julia sat staring blankly at the wall.Then she rattled the hook again.

　　"No matter about that number, Central; I've changed my mind," she said.She walked irresolutely into the middle of the room, stood there amoment frowning, and then turned, to go back and fling herself on herbed, staring up into the dark, the letter crackling as it dropped besideher.

　　After a while she began to say, "Oh, oh, oh!" quietly and quickly underher breath. The cry grew too much for her, she twisted on her face tostifle it, and after a few moments it stopped. Then she turned on herback again, and said something sharply to herself in a whisper once ortwice, and after that the moaning "Oh, oh, oh!" began again.

　　So Miss Toland found her, when she came into the room without knocking,a little later.

　　"Julia," Miss Toland said sharply, sitting down on the edge of the bedand possessing herself of one of Julia's limp, cold hands, "Ellie toldme you—she came to the door and heard you! My child, this won't do! Youmustn't make mountains out of molehills. If Jim Studdiford has had thesenseless cruelty to go off to Europe in this fashion, why, he ought tobe horsewhipped, that's all! But I don't believe he'll get any fartherthan New York, myself; I don't believe he'll get that far!" She paused,but Julia was silent. After a moment the older woman spoke again. "Whatdoes he say in the letter?" she asked. "One would really like to knowjust how this delightful piece of work is explained."

　　"Aunt Sanna!" Julia said, in a difficult half whisper. She took MissToland's hand and pressed it against her heart. Her lips were shuttight, and against the white pillow there was a little negative movementof her head.

　　"Well, of course you don't want to talk about it," Miss Toland saidsoothingly. "But was there a quarrel?"

　　"Oh, no—no!" Julia said quickly, briefly, with another convulsivepressure of Miss Toland's hand, and another jerk of her head. "It wassomething—that distressed Jim—something I couldn't change," she addedwith difficulty.

　　"H'm!" said the other, and the evidence for both sides was in, as far asMiss Toland was concerned, and the case closed. She sat beside Julia inthe dark for a long time, patting her hand without speaking. After awhile Ellie brought a glass of hot milk, and Julia docilely drank it,and submitted to being put to bed, raising a face as sweet as a child'sfor Miss Toland's good-night kiss, and promising to sleep well.

　　The pleasant winter sunlight was streaming into the older woman's roomwhen Julia came in the next morning, although all San Francisco echoedto the sombre constant call of the foghorn, and the air was cool enoughto make Miss Toland's fire delightful. Julia had Anna with her, adelightful little armful in her tumbled nightwear, and she smiled at thepicture of Miss Toland, comfortably enjoying her breakfast in bed. Butit was evident that she had not slept: deep shadows lay under her blueeyes, and she was very pale. She put the baby down on the bed with asilver buttonhook and a bracelet, and sat down.

　　"Sleep any?" Miss Toland asked.

　　"Yes, I think I did!" Julia said, with an effort at brightness. Sheseemed nervous and restless, but showed no tendency to break down. "I'vejust been talking to Caroline," she went on. "I told her that DoctorStuddiford had been called away, and implied that there would bechanges. Then I spoke to Foo Ting at breakfast—Mrs. Pope is crazy toget him—so that will be all right—"

　　"Julia—of course I've not read Jim's letter," Miss Toland saidearnestly, "but aren't you taking this too much to heart—aren't youacting rather quickly?"

　　Julia looked down at her laced fingers for a few moments withoutspeaking.

　　"Jim isn't coming back," she said soberly.

　　"But what makes you say so, dear? How do you know?"

　　"Well, I just know it," Julia said, raising heavy-lidded eyes. Theylooked at each other.

　　"But you aren't telling me seriously, my child, that you two—the mostdevoted couple I ever saw—why, Julia, show a little courage, child! Jimmust be brought to his senses, that's all. We must think what's wisestto do, and do it. But, my dear, there'd be no marriages left in theworld if people flew off the handle—"

　　"I have been thinking, all night," Julia said patiently, "and this iswhat I thought. I want"—she glanced restlessly about the room—"I wantto get away from here! That'll take some little while."

　　"Go away by all means, dear, if you want to, but don't dismantle yourhouse—don't make it impossible for the whole thing to blow over——"

　　"He won't come back," Julia repeated quietly.

　　"You don't think so?" Miss Toland said uncomfortably. "H'm!"

　　"No one must know, not even Doctor and Mother," pursued Julia. "Nonewspapers, nobody!"

　　"Well, in any case, that's wise!" the older woman assented. "And wherewill you go—to Sally?"

　　"No!" Julia said with a quick shudder. "Not anywhere near here! No, Ishould rather like to give the impression that I will be with Jim, ornear Jim," she added slowly.

　　"Following him abroad with the baby, that's quite natural!" Miss Tolandapproved. "But why not stay a week or two in Sausalito, just to keepthem from guessing?"

　　"Oh, I couldn't!" Julia said, in a quick breath.

　　"And where'll you go—New York?"

　　"Oh, no!" Julia leaned back and shut her eyes. The muscles of her throatworked. "We were so happy in New York," she said, with a suddenquivering of her lips. But a moment's struggle brought back hercomposure. "I thought—some little French village, or England," shehazarded.

　　"England," Miss Toland said promptly. "This is no time of the year totake a child to France; besides, you get better milk in England, and ifAnna was sick, there's London, full of doctors who speak your ownlanguage."

　　"So long as it's quiet," Julia said, "and we see nobody—that's all Icare about. Then if Jim should—But I couldn't wait here, with everybodyasking, and inviting me places, and spying on me!"

　　"We'll take some sort of little place in Oxfordshire," Miss Toland said,"and then we can run up to London—"

　　"'We?'" Julia echoed. She gazed bewilderedly at the other woman for amoment, then put her hands over her face and burst into tears.

　　A month like a nightmare followed. Julia had never grown to care for thePacific Avenue house; now it came to have an absolute horror for her.She seemed to see it through a veil of darkness; she seemed to moveunder the burden of an intolerable weight. Sometimes she found herselfpanting as if for air, as she went from silent room to silent room, andsometimes a memory unbearably poignant and dear smote her as withphysical violence, and her face worked for a few moments, and she foughtwith tears.

　　There were other times, when life seemed less sad than dull. Julia grewsick of loneliness, sick of silence; she stared at her face in themirror, when she was slowly dressing in the morning; stared at herselfagain at night—as if marvelling at this woman who was a wife, and amother, and deserted in her young bloom. Deserted—her husband had goneaway from her, and she knew no way to bring him back. A weary flatnessof spirit descended upon her; it seemed a part of the howling winterstorms, the dark and heavy weather.

　　For the servants other positions were quickly found, the furniture wasstored, the motor car sold. On the last day on which the last was at herdisposal, Julia, with Ellie and the baby, drove about downtown, anddisposed of several odds and ends of business. She left the keys of thePacific Avenue house at the agent's office, not without an agonizedmemory of the day she had first called for them, more than two yearsago. She went to the bank, and was instantly invited into the manager'soffice and given a luxurious chair.

　　"Well, Mrs. Studdiford," said Mr. Perry pleasantly, "what brings you outin this dreadful weather?"

　　"Good-byes," Julia said, flinging back her veil, and laying her muffaside. "Miss Toland and I will probably leave for New York on theseventh, and sail as soon as we can after we get there. I want to take aletter of credit, and I want to know just how I stand here."

　　Mr. Perry touched a button, the letter of credit was duly made out, aclerk came in with a little slip, which he handed to Mr. Perry.

　　"Ah, yes, yes, indeed! And where is Doctor Studdiford now? In Berlin?Lovely city. You'll like Berlin," said Mr. Perry. He glanced at theslip. "Thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and twenty dollars, Mrs.Studdiford," said he. "Transferred to your name a month ago.

　　"I had no idea it was so much!" Julia said, her heart turning to lead.Why had he given her so much?

　　Mr. Perry, bowing her out, laughed that that was a fault on the rightside, and Julia left the bank, with its brightly lighted warm atmospheretinged with the odour of ink and polished wood and rubber flooring, andits windows streaming with rain. She got into the motor car again, andtook little Anna on her lap.

　　"Now I think we'll drop you at the hotel, Ellie," said she, "and I'lltake the baby out to say good-bye to my mother."

　　"Oh, Mrs. Studdiford, it's raining something terrible!" protested themaid.

　　"Yes, I know," Julia agreed, looking a little vaguely out of the blurredwindow. "But you see to-morrow may be just as bad, and we've got her alldressed and out now. So you go home and pack, and I'll just fly outthere and fly back. Day after to-morrow I've promised to take her toSausalito, and the day after that we start!"

　　The city streets looked dark and gloomy under the steady onslaught ofthe rain, as the car rolled along. Julia stared sombrely through thedrenched glass, now and then kissing the perfumed top of the little silkcap that covered the drowsy head on her breast. It was a long trip toShotwell Street; for all her family's peculiarities, it was rather a sadtrip to-day. She let her thoughts drift on to the coming changes in herlife. She thought of New York, of the great unknown ocean, ofLondon—London to Julia meant fog, hansom cabs, and crossings that mustbe swept. It was not, she felt, with a certain baffled resentment, whatshe wanted to do. London was full of Miss Toland's friends, and Juliawas too sick in spirit to wish to meet them now. To be alone—to bealone—to be alone—some gasping inner spirit prayed continually. Theywould go to Oxfordshire, of course. But Miss Toland would be miserablein the country, she was always miserable in the country.

　　They were passing Eighteenth Street, passing St. Charles's shabby littlechurch. Julia stopped the motor. She got out and carried the baby up thestairs, and went up the echoing aisle to a front pew, where Anna couldsit and stare about her. Julia, panting, dropped on her knees. The bigedifice was empty, and smelled of damp plaster, rain rattled the highwindows. The afternoon was so dark that the sanctuary light sent alittle pool of quivering red to the floor below.

　　After a while a very plain young woman came out of the vestry, andwalking up the steps to the main altar, carried away one of the greatcandlesticks. She was presently joined by a little nun; the twowhispered unsmilingly together, came and went fifty times with flowers,with candles, with fresh altar linen.

　　Julia could not pray. Her thoughts would not settle themselves; theydrifted back and forth like rippling breezes over grass. She felt thatif she might kneel here an hour she could begin to pray. Now a thousandlittle things distracted her: the odour of the church, the crisping feetof some one entering the church far behind her, the odour of the dampglove upon which she rested her cheek.

　　Life troubled her; she was afraid. She had thought it lay plain andstraight before her; now all her guide posts were gone, and all herpathways led into deeper and deeper uncertainty. The utter confusioninto which she had been thrown made even her own identity indefinite toher; she suffered less for this bewilderment. If by the mere raising ofher hand she might have brought Jim back to her, she would not haveraised that hand; not now, not until some rule that would adjust theirrelationship was found. Her marriage seemed a dream, their love asstrange and remote as their separation.

　　Only Anna seemed real, and as much a sorrow as a joy just now. To whatheritage would the beautiful, mysterious little personality unfold? Whatof the swiftly coming time when she would ask questions?

　　Julia turned to the little white-capped, white-coated figure. Anna hadchewed a bonnet string to damp limpness; now she was saying "Da!" in analluring and provocative tone to a lady praying nearby. The ladyregarded her with an unmoved eye, however, and Julia gathered her smalldaughter in her arms and went down to the motor car.

　　At her mother's door she dismissed Chadwick for an hour or two of warmthand shelter, and, sighing, went into the unaired dark hallway thatsmelled to-day of wet woollens and of a smoky kerosene wick, andretained as well its old faint odour of carbolic acid.