PART TWO - CHAPTER VIII

by Kathleen Norris

　　It was in late September that the mail brought her a note from Jim.Julia's heart felt a second of paralyzing cramp as she put her hand onthe letter; she read its dozen lines in a haze of dancing light; theletters seemed to swim together.

　　Jim wrote that he was at home for a few days, and was most anxious tosee her, and to have a talk that would be of advantage to them both. Forobvious reasons, her home was not suitable; would she suggest a time andplace? He was always hers faithfully, James Studdiford.

　　Anna, glowing and delicious, was leaning against Julia's shoulder asJulia read and reread the little document. The mother looked downobliquely at the little rose-leaf face, the blue, blue eyes, the fresh,firm, baby mouth.

　　"When I am a grown-up girl," Anna said, with her sweet, mysterioussmile, "I shall have letters, and I will write answers, and write theenvelopes, too! And I'll write you letters, Mother, when you go 'way andleave me with Grandma!"

　　"Will you?" asked Julia, rubbing the child's soft cheek with her own.

　　"Every day!" Anna said. "Who's writing you with that cunning little owlon the paper, Mother?"

　　"That's the Bohemian Club owl," Julia evaded, giving Anna only one fairlook at him before she closed the letter. She went to her desk, andswiftly, unhesitatingly, wrote her reply. Jim must excuse her, she couldnot see the advantage of their meeting, she would much prefer not to seehim. Briskly rubbing her blotter over the flap of the sealed envelope,she had a vision of him, interrupting his evening of talk with oldfriends to scratch off the note to her, and felt that she detested him.

　　An unhappy week followed, in which Julia had time to feel that almostany consequences would have been easier to bear than the unassailablewall of silence and misgiving and doubt that hemmed her in. Constantnervous terrors weakened her spiritually and bodily, and she could notbear to have Anna for one moment out of her sight. Mrs. Page and Mrs.Torney saw notice in the papers of Jim's return, and suspected the causeof this new agitation in Julia, but neither dared attempt to force herconfidence.

　　"Men are the limit!" said Mrs. Torney to her sister, one day when theywere sitting together in the kitchen. "As I've said before, it's a greatpity there ain't nothing else to do but marry, and nothing to marry butmen! It's awful to think of the hundreds of women who spend theirhappiest hours going about doing the housework, and planning just whatthey'd do if their husbands was to be taken off suddenly! Some girls canset around until they're blue moulded, and never a feller to ask 'em,and others the boys'll fret and pleg until they're fit to be tied, withnerves! Evvy you couldn't marry off if she was Cleopatra on the Nile,and poor Julia could hang smallpox flags all over her, and every man inthe place'd want her jest the same! He wants her back, you see if hedoesn't!"

　　"I don't know that he does," said Emeline, knitting needles flashingslowly in her crippled fingers. "Maybe that's the trouble."

　　"What'd he come on for, then?" demanded Mrs. Torney. "Jest showing off,is he? Or is it another woman? The only difference between men reelyseems to be that some wear baggy pants and own up to being sultans, andothers don't!" She spread her fingers inside the stocking she wasdarning, and eyed it severely. "The idea of a man with a five-year-oldgirl sashaying round the country this way is ridiculous, to begin with,"said she indignantly.

　　"Has Ju seen him?" asked Mrs. Page.

　　"No, I'm pretty sure she hasn't," Mrs. Torney answered. "She acks morelike she was afraid to, than like she ackshally had. She'd be realrelieved to start fighting, but just now she's like a hen that gets itschickens under its wings, and looks up and round and about, and don'tknow whether it's a hawk or a fox or a man with a knife that's afterher!"

　　"I don't believe Julie hates him," said her mother. "I think she'd goback to him, if only for Anna's sake—if it seemed best for Anna."

　　"For that matter, she'd go keep house for the gorilla at the Chutes ifit seemed best for Anna!" Mrs. Torney concluded sagely.

　　It was only a day or two later that the telephone rang, and Julia,answering it, as she always did now, with chill foreboding in her heart,heard Barbara's voice.

　　"Julie, dear, is it you? Darling, we want you right away. It's Dad,Julie—he's terribly ill!" Barbara's voice broke. "He's terribly ill!"

　　"What is it?" Julia asked, tense and pale.

　　"Oh, we don't know!" Barbara gasped. "Julie—we—and Mother's quitewonderful! Con's coming right away, Janey's here, and we've wired Ted."

　　"Barbara, is it as bad as that?"

　　"I'm afraid so!" And again tears choked Barbara. "Of course we don'tknow. He fell, right here in the garden. Think if he'd been on the road,Julie, or in the street. That was the first thing Mother said. Mother'stoo wonderful! Richie was here, they carried him in. And he wrote Con'sand Ted's and your name on a piece of paper. We saw he was trying to saysomething, and gave him the paper, and that's what he wrote! And AuntSanna in New York!"

　　Stricken, and beginning to realize for the first time what an emptyplace would be left in the Sausalito group when the kindly old doctorwas gone, Julia hastily dressed herself for the hurried trip. She mustsee Jim now; there was a sort of dramatic satisfaction in the thoughtthat he must know the accident of their meeting at last to be none ofher contriving. And she would see Richie, too; her heart fluttered atthe thought. She sat on the boat, dreamily watching the gray water rushby, dreamily ready for whatever might come. The day was dull and soft;boat whistles droned all about them on the bay; from Alcatraz,shouldering through an enveloping fog, came the steady ringing of abrass gong.

　　Long drifts of fog had crept under the trees in the Toland garden, therose bushes were beaded with fine mist, the eaves dripped steadily.Julia began to be shaken with nervous anticipation of the moment whenshe must meet Jim. Would he meet her at the door, or would theydeliberately arrange—these loyal brothers and sisters—that the dreadedmoment should not come until they were all about her? She gave a quicknervous glance about the big hallway when a tearful maid admitted her.But it was only Barbara who came forward, and Barbara's first word wasthat Jim and Richie were not there; Dad had sent both on errands. "Hismind is absolutely clear," said Barbara shakenly. She herself waswaiting for an important telephone call, and occasionally pressing afolded handkerchief to her eyes. The two women kissed, with sudden tearson both sides, before Julia went noiselessly upstairs. Constance andTheodora were in their mother's room, Mrs. Toland with them. The motherhad been crying, and was now only trying to muster sufficientself-control to reenter the sickroom without giving the beloved patientalarm. Julia's entrance was the signal for fresh tears; but they allpresently brightened a little, too, and Julia persuaded Mrs. Toland todrink a cup of hot soup, "the very first thing she's touched all day!"said all the girls fondly.

　　Only Janey was with the invalid when Julia went into the sickroom, asilent, white-faced Janey, who stared at Julia with sombre eyes. Thedoctor lay high in pillows, looking oddly boyish in his white nightgownin spite of his gray hair. A fire flickered in the old-fashionedpolished iron grate; outside the window twilight and the fog weremingling. The room had some unfamiliar quality of ordered emptinessalready, as if life's highway must be cleared for the coming of thegreat Destroyer.

　　Julia knelt down by the bed and laid her hand over the old man's hand.To her surprise he opened his eyes. They moved from her face to theclock on the mantel, as if he had lost count of time, and had notexpected her so soon.

　　"How are you, Dad?" she said, with infinite tenderness.

　　"He's better," Janey answered. "Aren't you, darling? You look better!"

　　The doctor's look, with its old benevolent twinkle, went from one girl'sface to the other.

　　"Know—too—much!" he said, with difficulty, in his eyes the innocenttriumph of the child who will not be deceived. Quite unexpectedly, Juliafelt her lip tremble, tears brimmed her eyes. The invalid saw them, feltone drop hot on his hand.

　　"No—no—no!" he said, with pitying gentleness. And, with great effort,he added, "Seen—Jimmy?"

　　"Not yet," stammered Julia, shaken to her very soul.

　　The doctor shut his eyes, his fingers still clinging to Julia's. Afterperhaps two full minutes of silence, he whispered:

　　"Be good to Jimmy, Julia! Be good to him."

　　Julia could not answer. Barbara found her, in her own room, half an hourlater, crying bitterly. It was then quite dark. The two had a long talk,ended only when Constance came flying in. Dad seemed better, muchbrighter, was asking for Richie, wanted to know if Ned had come.

　　Constance and Barbara went back to the sickroom, and Julia wentdownstairs to find them. She entered the almost dark library, whereRichie and Ned were sitting before the fire. There was some one withthem; Julia knew in an instant who it was. Her heart began to hammer,her breath failed her. A murmur of friendly low voices ended with herentrance; the three dim forms rose in the gloom.

　　"Con?" asked Richie. Julia touched a wall switch, and the great lamp onthe centre table bloomed into sudden light.

　　"No, it's Julia—they want you, Rich," she said, "and you, too, Ned. Consays he's much brighter. He asked for you both."

　　"Hello, dear, I didn't know you were here," Richie said affectionately,kindly eyes on her face. "But you mustn't cry, Ju!" he added gently.

　　"I—I saw him," Julia said, mingled emotions making speech almostimpossible. "Isn't there any hope, Richie?"

　　"None at all," Jim said, leaving the fireplace to quietly join Julia andRichie at the centre table.

　　The unforgotten voice! Every fibre in Julia's body thrilled to mortalshock. She rallied her courage and endurance sternly; she must notbetray herself. Anger helped her, for she knew him well enough to knowthat the situation for him was not devoid of a certain artisticenjoyment.

　　"Yes, it may come to-night, it may come to-morrow," Richie assentedsorrowfully. "But it's the end, I'm afraid!"

　　Julia clung to his arm; never had Richie seemed so dear and good to her.

　　"Your mother will die of it, Rich," she said, to say something. The roomseemed to her shouting with Jim's presence; she kept her eyes onRichie's face. Ned, never more than an overgrown boy, put his face inhis hands and began to sob.

　　"Sh—h!" Jim warned them. Mrs. Toland came in.

　　"He's better—he wants to see you boys!" she said, tremulously happy.Her eyes went from face to face. "Why, what's the matter?" she demanded."You don't think it's—do you, Richie? Do you, Jim?"

　　Richie merely flung up his head and set his lips. Jim put one arm aroundher.

　　"He's pretty ill, dear," he said gently, and Julia found his smoothtenderness infinitely less bearable than Richie's bluntness.

　　"Why, but what are you talking about—what do you mean—I don't knowwhat you mean!" Mrs. Toland said bewilderedly. "Doctor Barr has gonehome, Richie; he said he wouldn't come back unless we sent for him!" Noone answered her, and as her pitiful look went from Julia's grave faceto Richard's sorrowful one, from Ned's despairing figure by the fire toJim's troubled look, terror seemed to seize her. Her pretty middle-agedface wrinkled; she began to cry bitterly.

　　Julia put her in a deep chair, knelt before her, trying rather to calmthan to comfort her, and after a while so far succeeded that she couldtake the poor shaken old lady upstairs. She did not glance again at Jim,although he opened the door for them, and tried his best to catch hereye.

　　Between five and six o'clock he was summoned to the sickroom. They wereall there: the girls on their knees, Richard kneeling by his father, hisfingers on the failing pulse. Mrs. Toland was seated, Julia kneelingbeside her, holding both her cold hands. A sound of subdued sobbingfilled the air; no sound came from the dying man except when afluttering breath raised his chest. His eyes were shut; he appeared tobe sleeping.

　　The clock on the mantel struck six, and as if roused, Doctor Tolandstirred a little, and whispered, "Janey!" Poor Janey's head went downagainst the white counterpane; she never dreamed that the little-girlaunt, dead fifty years ago, with apple cheeks under a slattedsun-bonnet, and more apples in her lunch bag, had come in a vision ofold orchard and sun-bathed river, to put her warm little hand in herbrother's again, and lead him home. And before the clock struck again,Robert Toland, with not even a twitch of his kind old face, went smilingaway from earth in a dream of childhood, and Richie, with a finger onthe silent pulse, and Jim, with a hand on the silent heart, had saidtogether: "Gone!"

　　An hour later Jim, standing thoughtful at an upper window, looked downto see Richie bring the runabout to the front door. Down the steps cameBarbara, bare headed, and Julia, in her wide black hat and flying veil.The three talked for a few moments together, the light from the openhall door falling on their faces; then Julia got into the car. Sheleaned out to say some last word to Barbara, her face composed andsweetly grave, then turned to Richie, and they were gone.

　　Jim would have found it difficult to analyze his own emotion. Somethingin that look toward Barbara, so brave and quiet, so bright with someinward serenity, stirred his heart. He went downstairs to meet Barbarain the hall.

　　"Where's Rich?" asked Jim, in the hushed voice that had supplanted allthe usual noise and gayety of the house.

　　"He'll be right back," Barbara said apathetically. "He's driving Julieto the boat."

　　For some reason Jim's heart sank. He had supposed them as performingonly some village errand, at the florist's, the drug store, or the postoffice. A certain blank fell upon his spirits; Julia had her grievance,of course, but she seemed singularly indifferent to the—well, theappearances of things!

　　But Julia, alone on the boat, could have laughed in the joy of escape,in the new sense of freedom on which she seemed to float. Above all hersympathy for the family she so deeply loved, and above the sorrow of herown very real personal loss, rose the intoxicating conviction that Jim'ssway over heart and soul was gone; he was no longer godlike; no longermysteriously powerful to hurt or to enchant her; he was just a handsomeman nearing forty, not particularly interesting, not noticeablymagnetic, not remarkable in any way.

　　She caught the welcoming Anna to her heart when she reached the ShotwellStreet house, telling her sad news to the others over the child's littleshoulder. But the kisses she gave her daughter were inspired by joyinstead of sorrow, and Julia lay down to sleep that night with a newcontent, and slept as she had not slept for months. With a confidenceamounting almost to indifference she faced Jim on the day of the olddoctor's funeral, her beauty absolutely startling in its setting ofdemure black veil and trailing sombre garments.

　　Jim watched her, some curious emotion that was compounded of resentmentand jealousy and astonishment darkening his face. So dignified, sopoised, so strangely, hauntingly lovely she seemed, so much in demandand so quietly equal to all demands. Jim flattered his vanity for awhile with the assurance that she was trying to impress as well as evadehim, but could not long preserve the illusion; there was no actingthere.

　　"Julia," he said, when they were all at home again after the funeral, "Iwant to see you alone for a few moments, if I may?"

　　Julia was in the dining-room, busy with a great sheaf of letters. Shegave a quick glance at the chair which Barbara had filled only a momentago, as if realizing for the first time that she had been left alone.

　　"What is it?" she asked, dryly and unencouragingly.

　　Jim sat down, leaned back, folded his arms, and looked at her steadily,in a manner that might have been confusing. But Julia went on serenelyopening, reading, and listing her letters.

　　"I want to ask how you are getting on, Julie," said Jim at last, in ahurt tone. "I want to know if there is anything in the world I can dofor you?"

　　"Nothing, thank you!" Julia said pleasantly. "Financially, I am verycomfortable. You left me I don't know how many thousands in the Crocker.I've never had one second's worry on that score, even though I've nevertouched the capital—as you can easily find out."

　　"My dear girl, do you think for one second I doubt you!" Jim saiduncomfortably. "You've been perfectly wonderful to do it, only you musthave scrimped yourself! But it wasn't about that. Surely, Julia, you andI have things more important to say to each other," he addedreproachfully.

　　"I don't know what's more important than money," she assured himwhimsically. "Of course I didn't want to use it at all; I should havepreferred to be self-supporting at any cost," she went on. "But therewas Anna and Mama to consider. And more than that, there was your name,Jim; I didn't want to start every one talking of the straits to whichyour wife had been reduced."

　　"Oh, for God's sake!" Jim growled. "Don't let's talk of money." "Thatwas all I meant to say," Julia said politely. "Is Mother lying down?"she added naturally. Jim jerked his whole body impatiently.

　　"I think she is!" he snapped. Julia opened a letter.

　　"Isn't that a pretty hand?" she asked. "English—it's Mrs. Lawrence, theConsul's wife. What pretty hands English people write!"

　　"You've changed very much," Jim observed, after a sulphurous silence.

　　"I have?" Julia asked naively. "In what way?"

　　"Why didn't you want to see me?"

　　"Oh—" Julia laid the letter down, and for the first time gave him herfull attention. "I've changed my mind about that, Jim," she saidfrankly. "I thought at first that it was an unwise thing, but I feeldifferently now. Of course you know," continued Julia, with prettychildish gravity, "that for me there can be no consideration of divorce;I shall never be any other man's wife, and never be free. But if, as Babsays, you have come to feel that you want something different, and ifyou have drifted so far from your religion as to feel that a legaldocument can undo what was solemnly done in the name of God, why then Ishan't oppose it. You can call it desertion or incompatibility, I don'tcare."

　　"Who said I wanted a divorce?" Jim demanded, in his ugliest tone. Hisface was a dull, heavy red, and veins swelled on his forehead.

　　"My life is full and happy," Julia pursued contentedly, paying noattention to his question. "I'm not very exacting, as you know. Mamaneeds me, and I have everything I want."

　　"You talk very easily of divorce," Jim said, in an injured tone, after apause. "But is it fair to have it all arranged before I say a word?"

　　Julia's answer was only a look—a full, clear, level look that scorchedhim like a flame; her cheeks above the black of her gown burned scarlet;she was growing angry.

　　Jim played with an empty envelope for a few minutes, fitting a ringertip to each corner and lifting it stiffly. Presently he dropped it,folded his arms, and rested them on the table.

　　"This is a serious matter," he said gravely. "And we must think aboutit. But you must forgive me for saying that it is a great shock to comehome and find you talking that way, Julie. I—God knows I'm bad enough,but I don't think I deserve quite this!" added Jim gently.

　　A long interval of silence, for Julia a busy interval, followed.

　　"When am I going to see Anna?" Jim asked, ending it.

　　"Whenever you want to," Julia said pleasantly. "I've familiarized herwith your picture; she'll be friendly at once; she always is. Some day,when you are going to be here, I'll send her over for the day. She lovesSausalito, and I really believe she'd do poor Mother good."

　　"And when shall I come and see you—to talk about things?" Jim askedhumbly.

　　"My dear Jim," Julia answered briskly, "I cannot see the need of ourmeeting again; I think it is most unwise—just a nervous strain on bothsides. What have we to discuss? I tell you that I am perfectly willingto let you have your way. It's too bad, it's a thing I detest—divorce;but the whole situation is unfortunate, and we must make the best ofit!"

　　Jim's stunned amazement showed in a return of his sullen colour and thefixed glassy look in his eyes.

　　"What will people think of this, Ju? Every one will have to know it—itwill make a deuce of a lot of talk!" he said, trying to scare her.

　　Julia shook her head, with just a suggestion of a smile.

　　"Much less than you think, Jim," she answered sensibly. "Society longago suspected that something was wrong; the announcement of a divorcewill only confirm it."

　　"We'll have the whole crowd of them buzzing about our heads," Jim said,determined to touch her serenity by one phase or another.

　　"Oh, no, we won't!" Julia returned placidly. "The only circumstancesunder which there would have been buzzing would have been if I had triedto keep my place in society. I dropped out, and they let me go without amurmur. No buzzing from San Francisco society ever reaches ShotwellStreet, and as for you, you'll be in London."

　　"How do you know I'll be in London?" Jim growled, utterly nonplussed.

　　Julia gave him a bright look over a letter, but did not answer, and theman fell to worrying an envelope again. Moments passed, the autumntwilight fell, Julia began to stack her letters in neat piles.

　　Presently she quietly rose, and quietly left the room, without a word,without a backward glance. Jim sat on in the dusk, staring moodily aheadof him, his eyes half shut, the fingers of one big hand drumming gentlyon the table.

　　A few days later he went out to Shotwell Street to see her. Julia methim very quietly, and presented the little Anna with the solicitousinterest in the child's manner that she would have shown had Jim beenany casual friend. Anna, who was lovely in a pale pink cotton garment alittle too small for her, looked seriously at her father, submitted tohis kisses, her wondering eyes never moving from his face, and wriggledout of his arms as soon as she could.

　　"My God! She's beautiful, isn't she?" said Jim, under his breath.

　　"She looks very nice when she's clean and good," Julia agreedpractically, kissing Anna herself.

　　"'My God's' a bad word," Anna said gravely to her father, "isn't it,Mother?"

　　"I wouldn't like to hear you say it," Julia answered. "Now trot out toAunt Regina, dear, and ask her to give you your lunch. Mother'll bethere immediately.

　　"She's exquisite," Jim said, when the child was gone. "You all overagain, Ju!"

　　"She's smarter than I was." Julia smiled dispassionately. "I've taughther to read—simple things, of course; she writes a little, and doeswonders with her numerical chart. She's very cunning, she has an unusuallittle mind, and occasionally says something that proves she thinks!"

　　A silence followed. Sunshine was streaming into the sitting-room;nasturtiums bloomed in Julia's window boxes; the net curtains fannedsoftly to and fro in the soft autumn air. In the city, a hundredwhistles shrilled for noon.

　　"I hardly knew the place," Jim said, searching for something to say."You've made it over—the whole block looks better!"

　　"Gardens have come into fashion," Julia explained; "the Mission is awonderful place for gardens. And the change in my mother is moremarked," she went on, with perfunctory pleasantness; "you would hardlyknow her. She is much thinner, of course, but so bright and contented,and so brave!"

　　"I am going to meet her, I hope?" Jim suggested. Julia looked troubled.

　　"I hardly see how," she said regretfully. "As things are I can't exactlyask you to lunch, Jim. It would be most unnatural, and they—they lookto me for a certain principle," she went on. "They know what these fouryears have meant for me; I couldn't begin now to treat the whole thingcasually and cheerfully."

　　"I don't expect you to," Jim said quickly. "I'm not taking this lightly.I only want to think the thing well over before any step is taken thatwe might regret."

　　Again Julia answered him with only a tolerant, bright look. She stood upand busied herself with the potted fern that stood on the centre table,breaking off dead leaves and gathering them into the palm of her hand.Jim, feeling clumsy and helpless, stood up, too. And as he watched her,a sudden agony of admiration broke out in his heart. Her head was bent alittle to one side, as if the weight of the glorious braids bowed it;her thick lashes hid her eyes; her sweet, firm mouth moved a little asshe broke and straightened the fern. Where the wide collar of herchecked gown was turned back at her throat, a triangle of her soft skinshowed, as white and pure as the white of daisy petals; her firm youngbreast moved regularly under the fresh crisp gingham; the folds of herskirt were short enough to show her slender ankles and square-toedsensible low shoes tied with wide bows.

　　"You used not to be so cold, Julie," Jim said, baffled anduncomfortable.

　　"I am not cold," she answered mildly. "I never was a verydemonstrative—never a very emotional person, I think. Three yearsago—two years ago, even—I would have gone on my knees to you, Jim,begged you to come back, for Anna's sake as well as my own. But thattime has gone by. This life, I've come to see, is far better for Annathan any child in our old set leads, and for me—well, I'm happy. Inever was so happy, or busy, or necessary, in my life, as I am now."

　　"Do you mean that there's no chance of a reconciliation?" Jim askedhuskily. Julia gave him a glance of honest surprise.

　　"Jim," she asked crisply, "do you mean that you came on with the hope ofa reconciliation? I thought you told Barbara something very differentfrom that!"

　　"I don't know what I came on for. I wish Barbara would mind her ownbusiness," said Jim, feeling himself at a disadvantage.

　　"My dear Jim," Julia said with motherly kindness, "I know you so well!You came on here determined to get a divorce, you want to be free, youmay already have in mind some other woman! But I've hurt your feelingsby making it all easy for you—by coming over to your side. You wanted afuss, tears, protests, a convulsion among your old friends. And youfind, instead, that all San Francisco takes the situation for granted,and that I do, too. I've made my own life, I have Anna, and more thanenough money to live on; you have your freedom; every one's satisfied."

　　"That's nonsense and you know it!" Jim exclaimed angrily. "There's notone word of truth in it!" He began to pull on his gloves, a handsomefigure in his irreproachable trim black sack suit with low oxfordsshowing a glimpse of gray hose, and an opal winking in his gray silkscarf. "There's absolutely no reason in the world why you shouldconsider yourself as more or less than my wife," he said. "There's noobject in this sort of reckless talk. We've been separated for a fewyears; it's no one's business but our own to know why!"

　　"Oh, Jim—Jim!" Julia said, shaking her head.

　　"Don't talk that way to me!" he said fiercely. "I tell you I'm serious!It's all nonsense—this talk of divorce! Why," he came so near, andspoke in so menacing a tone, that Julia perforce lifted her eyes to his,"this situation isn't all of my making," he said. "I've not beenungenerous to you! Can't you be generous in your turn, and talk thewhole thing over reasonably?"

　　"I can't see the advantage of talking!" Julia answered in faintimpatience.

　　"No, because you want it your own way," said Jim. "You expect me to giveup my child completely, you refuse me even a hearing, you won't discussit!"

　　"But what do you want to discuss?" protested Julia. "The whole situationis perfectly clear—we shall only quarrel!"

　　How well she knew the look he gave her, the hurt look of one whosesentiment is dashed by cool reason! He suddenly caught her by theshoulders.

　　"Look here, Julia!"

　　"Ah, Jim, please don't!" She twisted in a vain attempt to escape hisgrip.

　　"Please don't what?"

　　"Don't—touch me!"

　　Jim dropped his hands at once, stepped back, with a look of one mortallyhurt.

　　"Certainly not—I beg your pardon!" he said punctiliously. He took uphis hat. "When do I see you again, Julia? Will you dine with meto-morrow? Then we can talk."

　　"No, I don't think so," Julia said, after reflection.

　　"Have you another engagement?"

　　"Certainly not!" There was almost a flash of amusement in her face; herglance toward the kitchen spoke volumes for the nature of herengagements.

　　"Why do you say no, then?" asked Jim.

　　"Because I prefer not to do so," Julia answered, with sudden spirit. "Welook at this thing very differently, Jim," she added roundly. "To me itis a tragedy—the saddest thing that ever happened in my life; that youand I should have loved each other, and should be less than nothing toeach other now! It's like a sorrow, something shameful, to hide and toforget. For years I was haunted by the horror of a divorce, Jim; I neverwrote to you, I never begged you to come back, just because I was afraidof it! I used to say to myself in the first awful weeks in this house:'Never mind—it isn't as if we were divorced; we may be separated, wemay be estranged, but we are still man and wife!'" Tears came to Julia'seyes, she shook her head as if to shake them away. "I've hungered foryou, Jim, until it seemed as if I must go mad!" she went on, looking farbeyond him now, and speaking in a low, rapt voice as if to herself."I've felt," she said, "as if I'd die for just one more kiss from you,die just to have you take my big coat off once more, and catch me inyour arms, as you used to do when we came back from dinner or thetheatre! But one can't go on suffering that way," said Julia, giving hima swift, uncertain smile, "and gradually the pain goes, and the feverdies away, and nothing is left but the cold, white scar!"

　　Jim had been staring at her like a man in a trance. Now he took a steptoward her, lightly caught her in one big arm.

　　"Ah, but Julia, wouldn't the love come back?" he asked tenderly, hisface close to her own. "Couldn't it all be forgotten and forgiven?You've suffered, dear, but I've suffered, too. Can't we comfort eachother?"

　　"Please don't do that," Julia said coldly, wrenching herself free. "Thisis no whim with me; I'm not following a certain line of conduct becauseit's most effective. I've changed. I don't want to analyze and dissectand discuss it; as I say, it seems to me too sacred, too sad, to enjoytalking about!"

　　"You've not changed!" Jim asserted. "Women don't change that way."

　　"Then I'm not like other women," Julia said hotly. "Do believe me, Jim.It's all just gone out of my life. You don't seem like the man I loved,who was so sweet and generous to me. I've not forgotten that oldwonderful time; I just don't connect you with it. You could kiss me athousand times now, and it would only seem like—well, like any oneelse! I look at you as one might look on some old school friend, andwonder if I ever really loved you!"

　　She stopped, looking at him almost in appeal. Jim stood quite still,staring fixedly at her; they remained so for a long minute.

　　"I see," he said then, very quietly. "I'm sorry."

　　And without another word he turned to the hall door and was gone. Juliastood still in the hall for a few minutes, curiously numb. All this wasvery terrible, very far reaching in its results, very important, but shecould not feel it now. She did feel very tired, exhausted in every fibreof her body, confused and weary in mind. She put her head in the kitchendoor only long enough to say that she was not hungry, and went upstairsto fling herself on her bed, grateful for silence and solitude at last.

　　To Jim the world was turned upside down. He could hardly credit hissenses. His was not a quick brain; processes of thought with him wereslow and ruminative; he liked to be alone while he was thinking. When heleft Julia he went down to his club, found a chair by a library window,and brooded over this unexpected and unwelcome turn of events, viewingfrom all angles this new blow to his pride. He did not believe herprotestations of a change of heart, nothing in his life tended to makesuch a belief easy. But her coldness and stubbornness hurt him and upsetthe plans he had been allowing to form of late in his mind.

　　All his life he had been following, with sunny adaptability, the line ofthe least resistance. Thrown out of his groove by the jealousy andresentment of the dark time in his married life, Jim had realizedhimself as fairly cornered by Fate, and had run away from the wholesituation rather than own himself beaten. Rather than admit that he mustpatiently accept what was so galling to his pride, he had seized uponany alternative, paid any price.

　　And Germany had not been at all unpleasant. There was novelty in everyphase of his home and public life; there was his work; and, for at leastthe first year, there was the balm for his conscience that he would soonbe going home to Julia. He had allowed himself the luxury of moods, wasangry with her, was scornful, was forgiving. He showed new friends herbeautiful pictures—told them that she was prettier than that, nopicture could do justice to her colour.

　　Among the new friends there had been two sweet plain Englishwomen: thewidowed Lady Eileen Hungerford, and her sister, the Honourable Phyllis.These had found the rich young American doctor charming, and without adefinite word or look had managed to convey to him the assurance oftheir warmest sympathy. They could only guess at his domestic troubles,but a hundred little half allusions and significant looks lent spice tothe friendship, and Jim became a great favourite in the delightfulcircle the Englishwomen had drawn about them.

　　The midsummer vacation was spent, with another doctor, in Norway, and inSeptember Jim went for a week or two to London, where Eileen andPhyllis, delicately considerate of the possible claims of the unknownwife, nevertheless persuaded him that he would be mad to decline theoffer of the big German hospital. So back to Berlin he went, and in thissecond winter met old Professor Sturmer, and Senta, his wife.

　　Senta was a Russian, the tiniest of women, wild, beautiful, nineteen.She was a most dramatic and appealing little figure, and she knew itwell. She smoked and drank just as the young men of her set did, shedanced like a madwoman, she sang and rode and skated with the fury of awitch. She was like a child, over-dressed, overjewelled, her black hairfantastically arranged; always talking, always unhappy, a perfect typeof the young female egotist. She liked to use reckless expressions, tocurl herself up on a couch, in a room dimly lighted, and scented withburning pastilles, and discuss her marriage, her age, her appearance,her effect upon other women. Senta's was an almost pathetic and veryobvious desire to be considered daring, pantherine, seductive,dangerous.

　　Jim, fancying he understood her perfectly, played into her hand. Hewould not flirt with her, but he took her at her own valuation, and theysaw a good deal of each other. Senta confessed to him, read him loveletters, wrote him dashing, penitent little notes, and Jim scolded herin a brotherly way, laughed at her, and sometimes delighted her byforbidding her to do this or that, or by masterfully flinging somecherished note or photograph of hers into the fire. He loved to hear herscold her maid in Russian; it seemed to him very cunning when thisstately gipsy of a child took her seat in her box at the opera, or flungherself into the carriage, later, all the more a madcap because of threehours of playing the lady. He exchanged smiling looks over her littledark head with her husband, when he dined at the Sturmers'; the goodprofessor was far more observing than was usually supposed; he knew moreof Jim's character, it is probable, than Jim did himself; he knew thatSenta was quite safe with the young American, and he liked him. ButSenta, who was quite unscrupulous, was slow to realize it. She foundthis brotherly petting and scolding very well for a time, but monthswent by, a whole year went by, and there was no change in theirrelationship. Senta was only precocious, she was neither clever nor welleducated; she based her campaign on the trashy novels she read, anddeliberately set herself to shake Jim from his calm pleasure in hersociety.

　　Then, suddenly, Jim was bored. Charm dropped from her like a rich,enveloping cloak, and left only the pitiful little nude personality, abundle of childish egotisms and shallow pretences. Once he had beenproud to escort her everywhere, now her complacent assumption that heshould do so annoyed him; once he had laughed out heartily at herconstant interruption of the old professor, her naive contention thatshe was never to be for one second ignored; now she only worried him,and made him impatient. Her invitations poured upon him, her affectedlydeep voice, reproachful or alluring, haunted his telephone. Shechallenged him daringly, wickedly, across dinner tables, or from thecentre of a tea-table group, to say "why he didn't like her any more?"

　　Jim went to Italy, and Senta, chaperoned by her sister-in-law, a gauntwoman of sixty, went, too, turning up at his hotels with the naughtygrace of a spoiled child, sure to be welcome. She eyed him obliquely,while telling him that "people were beginning to talk." She laughed,with a delight that Jim found maddening, when they chanced to meet somefriends from Berlin in a quiet side street in Rome. Jim cut his vacationshort, and went back to work.

　　This angered Senta for the first time, and perhaps began to enlightenher. She came sulkily back to Berlin, and began to spread abroadelaborate accounts of a quarrel between Jim and herself. Jim so dreadedmeeting her that he quite gave up everything but men's society, but hecould not quite escape from the knowledge that the affair was discussedand criticised.

　　And at this most untimely moment old Professor Stunner died, leaving asomewhat smaller fortune to his little widow than she had expected, andnaming his esteemed young friend, Herr Doctor Studdiford, as herguardian and his executor. This again gave Senta the prominence andpicturesqueness she loved; to Jim it was a most deplorable mischance; itwas with difficulty that he acquitted himself of his bare duty in thematter, his distaste for his young ward growing stronger every moment.For weeks there was no hour in which he was not made exquisitelyuncomfortable by her attitude of chastened devotion; eventually the hourcame in which he had to stab her pride, and stab deep. It was an ugly,humiliating, exasperating business, and when at last it was over, Jimfound himself sick of Berlin, and yet sullenly unready to go home toCalifornia, as if he had failed, as if he were under even so faint acloud.

　　Just then came a letter from Eileen, another from Phyllis. Wasn't heever coming to London any more? London was waiting to welcome him. Theyhad opened their little house in Prince's Gate, the season wasbeginning, it was really extraordinarily jolly. Did he know anything ofthe surgeon, Sir Peveril McCann? He had said such charming things ofDoctor Studdiford. He had said—but no, one wasn't going to tell himanything that might, untold, make him curious enough to come!

　　Jim went to London, revelling in clear English speech after years ofTeutonic gutturals, and rejoicing in the clean, clear-cut personalitieswith which he came in contact. He loved the wonderful Londondrawing-rooms, the well-ordered lives, the atmosphere of the smart clubsand hotels, the plays and pictures and books that were discussed andanalyzed so inexhaustibly.

　　He found Eileen and Phyllis more charming than ever; and he very muchadmired their aunt, stately Lady Violet Dray, and their bright, clever,friendly cousin Ivy, who was as fresh and breezy as the winds that blewover her native heather. Ivy was slender and vivacious; her face wasthin and a little freckled, and covered with a fine blond down, whichmerged on her forehead into the straight rise of her carrot-colouredhair. Her eyes were sharply blue, set in thick, short, tawny lashes. Shewas an enthusiastic sportswoman, well informed on all topics of the day,assured of her position and sure of herself, equally at home in herriding tweeds and mud-splashed derby, and the trailing satin eveninggowns that left her bony little shoulders bare, and were embellished bymatchless diamonds or pearls. There was no sentiment in her, her bestfriends were of both sexes and all ages, but she attached Jim to hertrain, patronized and bullied him, and they became good friends.

　　Mrs. Chancellor talked well, and talked a great deal, and she stimulatedJim to talk, too. Never in his life had so constant a demand been madeupon his conversational powers; and every hour with her increased hisadmiration for Ivy and lessened his valuation of his own wisdom. She wasa thorough Englishwoman, considering everything in life desirable onlyinasmuch as it was British. Toward America her attitude was one ofgenerous laughter touched with impatience. She never for one momentconsidered seriously anything American. Mrs. Chancellor thought all ofit really too funny-"rarely too fenny," as she pronounced it. Only onething made her more angry than the defence of anything American, andthat was dispraise of anything British. The history of England wassacred to her: London was the crown and flower of the world'scivilization; English children, English servants, English law, were allalike perfect, and she also had her country's reverence for Englishslang, quoting and repeating it with fondest appreciation and laughter.Nothing pleased her more than to find Jim unfamiliar with some bit ofslang that had been used in England for twenty years; her laughter wasfresh and genuine as she explained it, and for days afterward she wouldtell her friends of his unfamiliarity with what was an accepted part oftheir language.

　　She took him to picture galleries, bewildering him with her swiftdecisions. Jim might come to a stand before a portrait by Sargent.

　　"Isn't this wonderful, Ivy Green?" It was his own name for her, and sheliked it.

　　"That?" A sweeping glance would appraise it. "Yes, of course, it's quitetoo extraordinary," she would concede briskly. "An impossible creature,of course; one feels that he was laughing at her all the time—it's nothis best work, rarely!" And she would drag Jim past forty interestingcanvases to pounce upon some obscure, small painting in a dark corner."There!" she would say triumphantly, "isn't that astonishing! Sokyawiously frank, if you know what I mean? It's most amazing—his senseof depth, if you know what I mean? Rarely, to splash things on in thatway, and to grasp it." A clawed little hand would illustrate grasping."It's astonishing!"

　　Jim, staring at a picture of some sky, some beach, and a face of rock,would murmur a somewhat bewildered appreciation, looking out of thecorner of his eye, at the same time, at the attractive gondolier singingto his pretty lady passengers, on the right, or the nice young peasantnursing her baby in a sunny window while her mother peeled apples, onthe left.

　　"Of course, it's the only thing here, this year, absolutely the onlyone," Mrs. Chancellor would conclude. "The rest is just one huge joke. Iknow Artie Holloway—Sir Arthur, he is—quite well, and I told him so!He's a director."

　　"But I don't see how you know so much about it!" Jim would sayadmiringly.

　　"One must know about such things, my dear boy," she always answeredserenely. "One isn't an oyster, after all!"

　　It was this dashing lady and not Barbara who first brought Jim's mind toa sense of his own injustice to Julia, or rather to a realization thatthe situation, as it stood, was fair to neither Julia nor himself. Notthat he ever mentioned Julia to Ivy; but she knew, of course, of Julia'sexistence, and being a shrewd and experienced woman she drew her ownconclusions. One day she expressed herself very frankly on the subject.

　　"You've taken the rooms above Sir Peveril's, eh?" she asked him.

　　"Well, yes," Jim answered, after a second's pause. "They're bullyrooms!"

　　"Oh, rather—they're quite the nicest in town," she stated. "But, I say,my dear boy, wasn't the rent rather steep?"

　　"Not terrible." He mentioned it. "And I've taken 'em for five years," headded.

　　"For—eh?" She brought her sandy lashes together and studied him throughthem. "You're rarely going to stay then, you nice child?"

　　"Yes, Grandmother dear. Sir Peveril wants me. I've taken his hospitalwork; people are really extraordinarily kind to me!" Jim summarized.

　　"Oh, you've been vetted, there's no question of that," she agreedthoughtfully. They were at tea in her own drawing-room, which wascrowded with articles handsome and hideous, Victorian lace tidiesholding their own with really fine old furniture, and exquisite bits ofoil or water colour sharing the walls with old steel engravings incumbersome frames. Now Ivy leaned back in her chair, and stirred hertea, not speaking for a few minutes.

　　"There's just one thing," she said presently. "Before you come here tostay, put your house in order. Don't leave everything at haome in anarsty mess that'll have to be straightened aout later, if you know whatI mean? Get that all straight, and have it understood, d'ye see?"

　　The colour came into Jim's face at so unexpected an attack, yet speechwas a relief, too.

　　"I don't know whether I can straighten it out," he confessed, with anervous laugh.

　　"It's not a divorce, eh?"

　　"No—not exactly."

　　"The gell's gone home to her people?"

　　"Yes." Jim cleared his throat. "Yes, she has."

　　"And there's a kiddie?"

　　"Anna—yes."

　　"Well, now." Mrs. Chancellor straightened in her chair, set her cup downon a nearby table. "I take it the gell was the injured one, eh?" saidshe.

　　Jim was a little surprised to find himself enjoying thiscross-examination immensely.

　　"Well—no. She had no definite cause to feel injured," he said. "Wequarrelled, and I came away in a hurry—"

　　"What, after a first quarrel?"

　　"No—o. It had been going on a long time."

　　"Is the cause of it still existing?" Mrs. Chancellor asked in abusinesslike way, after a pause.

　　"Well—yes."

　　"Can't be removed, eh? It's not religion?"

　　"It's an old love affair of hers," Jim admitted. The lady's eyestwinkled.

　　"And you're jealous?" she smiled. But immediately her face grew sober."I see—she still cares for him, or imagines she does," she said.

　　Jim felt it safest to let this guess stand.

　　"Of course, if she won't she won't," pursued Mrs. Chancellorcomfortably. "But the best thing you could do would be to bring her onhere!"

　　Jim shook his head sullenly and set his jaw.

　　"She won't, eh?" asked the lady, watching him thoughtfully.

　　"I don't want to do that," Jim persisted stubbornly.

　　"You don't want to?" She meditated this. "Yet she's young, andbeautiful, and presentable?" she asked, nodding her own head slowly ashe nodded affirmatives. "Yes, of course. Well, it's too bad. One wouldhave liked to meet her, take her about a bit. And it would help you morethan any one thing, my dear boy. Oh, don't shake your head! Indeed itwould. However, you must be definite, one way or the other. You musteither admit outright that you're divorced, or you must tell anacceptable story. As it is—one doesn't know what to say—whether she'simpossible in some way—just what the matter is, if you know what Imean?"

　　"I see," Jim said heavily.

　　"Go have a talk with her," commanded Mrs. Chancellor brightly. "Finishit up, one way or another. You're doing her an injustice, as it is, andyou're not just to yourself. One can't shut a marriage up in a box, youknow, and forget it. There's always leakage somewhere—much better makea clean breast of the whole thing! You're not the first person who'smade an unfortunate early marriage, you know!"

　　"I loved my wife," said Jim, in vague, resentful self-defence. "I'mnaturally a domestic man. I loved my little girl—"

　　"Certainly you did," Mrs. Chancellor interrupted crisply. "And perhapsshe did, too! The details are all the same, you know. Some people make asuccess of the thing, some people fail. I've been married. I'm a littleolder than you are in years, and ages older in experience—I know allabout it. In every marriage there are the elements of success, and inevery one the makings of a perfectly justifiable divorce. Some womencouldn't live with a saint who was a king and a Rothschild into thebargain; others marry scamps and are perfectly happy whether they'rebeing totally ignored or being pulled around by the hair! But if you'vemade a failure, admit it. Don't sulk. You'll find that doing somethingdefinite about it is like cleaning the poison out of a wound; you'llfeel better! There, now, you've had your scolding, and you've taken itvery nicely. Ring for some hot water, and we'll talk of something else!"

　　On just this casual, kindly advice Jim really did go home, prepared tobe very dignified with Julia; and to make the separation definite andfinal, if not legal, or to bring her back, however formally, as hiswife, exactly as he saw fit.

　　And then came the meeting in the Toland library, when in one stunningflash he saw her as she was: beautiful, dignified, and charming, a womanto whom all eyes turned naturally and admiringly, grave, sweet, and wisein a world full of pretence and ignorance, selfishness and shallowness.

　　She spoke, and her voice went through him like a sword, a mist rosebefore his eyes. He tried to remember that bitter resentment upon whichhis pride had fed for more than four long years; he battled with a maddesire to catch her in his arms, and to cry to her and to all the world,"After all, you are still mine!"

　　He watched her, her beauty as fresh to him as if he had never seen itbefore. Had those serious eyes, turned to Richie with such sisterlyconcern, and so exquisitely blue in the soft lamplight, ever met hiswith love and laughter brightening them? Had the kindly arms that wentso quickly about his mother, in her trouble, ever answered the pressureof his own? She could look at him dispassionately, entirely forgetful ofherself in the presence of death, but in the very sickroom his eyescould not leave her little kneeling figure; whenever she spoke, he felthis heart contract with a spasm of pain. It seemed to him that if hecould kneel before her, and feel the light pressure of her linked handsabout his neck, and have her lay that soft, sweet cheek of hers againsthis, in heavenly token of forgiveness, he would be ready to die of joy.

　　How far Julia was from this mood he was soon to learn, and no phase oftheir courtship eight years ago had roused in him such agonies ofjealousy and longing as beset him now, when Julia, quiet of pulse andlevel eyed, convinced him that she could very contentedly exist withouthim.

　　All these things went confusedly through Jim's mind, as he sat at hisclub window, staring blankly down at the dreary summer twilight in thestreet. The club was a temporary wooden building, roomy and comfortableenough, but facing on all four sides the devastation of the greatearthquake. Here and there a small brick building stood in the ashywaste, and on the top of Nob Hill the outline of the big Fairmont Hotelrose boldly against the gloom. But, for the most part, the rising hillsshowed only one ruined brick foundation after another, broken flights ofstone steps leading down to broken sidewalks, twisted, discolouredrailings smothered in rank, dry grass. Through this wreckage cable carsmoved, brightly lighted, and loaded with passengers, and to-night, inthe dusk, a steady wind was blowing, raising clouds of fine, blindingdust.

　　Jim stared at it all heavily, his mind strangely attuned to the drearyprospect. He felt puzzled and confused; he wanted to see Julia again, tohave her forgive and comfort him. When he thought of the old times, ofthe devotion and tenderness he had taken so much for granted, a sort ofsickness seized him; he could have groaned aloud. Only one thought wasintolerable: that she would not forgive him, and let him make up to herfor the lost years, and show her how deeply he loved her still!

　　He mused upon the exactions she might make, the advantages that wouldappeal to her. Not jewels—she must have more jewels now than she wouldever wear, safely stored away somewhere. He remembered giving her acertain chain of pearls, with a blinding vision of the white youngthroat they encircled, and the kiss he had set there with the gift. No,jewels were for such as Senta, not for grave, stately Julia.

　　Nor would position tempt her. She was too wise to long for it; the gloryof a London season meant nothing to her; position was only a word. Shewas happier in the Shotwell Street house, clipping roses on a foggymorning; she was happier far when she scrambled over the rough trails ofthe mountain with Richie than ever London could make her. Position andwealth might have their value for Ivy, but Julia cared as little as abird for either.

　　And now it came to him that she was infinitely more fine, morebeautiful, and more clever than Senta, and that her pure and fragrantfreshness, her simple directness, her candid likes and dislikes, wouldmake Ivy seem no more than a jaded sophist, a quoter of mere words, aworshipper of empty form.

　　To have Julia in London! To take her about, her bright face dimpling inthe shadow of a flowered hat, or framed in furs, or to see her at thetea table, a shining slipper showing under the flowing lines of hergown, the lovely child beside her, at once enhancing and rivalling themother's beauty—Jim's heart ached with the pain and rapture of thedream.

　　He was roused by Richie, who came limping into the club library, andover whose tired face came a bright smile at the sight of Jim.

　　"Hello!" said Richie, taking an opposite chair. His expression grewsolicitous at the sight of Jim's haggard face. "Headache, old boy?" heasked sympathetically.

　　Jim shook his head. The big room was almost dark now, and they had itquite to themselves.

　　"Thinking what a rotten mess I've made of everything, Rich," Jim saiddesperately.

　　Richie took out a handkerchief and wiped the palms of his hands, but didnot answer.

　　"She'll never forgive me, I know that," Jim presently said. And asRichie was again silent, he added: "Do you think she ever will?"

　　"I don't know," poor Richie said hesitatingly. "She's awfullykind—Julia."

　　"She's an angel!" Jim agreed fervently. He sat with his head in hishands for a few moments. Then he cleared his throat and said huskily:"Look here, you know, Rich, I'm not such an utter damn fool as I seem inthis whole business. I can't explain, and, looking back now, it allseems different; but I had a grievance, or thought I had—God knows itwasn't awfully pleasant for me to go away. But I had a reason."

　　"It wasn't anything you didn't know about before you were married, Isuppose?" asked Richie, with what Jim thought unearthly prescience.

　　"No," Jim answered, with a startled look.

　　"Nor anything you'd particularly care to have the world know orsuspect?" pursued Richie. "Not anything Julia could change?"

　　"No," Jim said again. Richard leaned back in his chair.

　　"Some scrap with her people, or some old friends she wanted to hang onto," he mused. Jim did not speak. "Well," said Richie, "there would beplenty of people glad to be near Julia on any terms."

　　"Oh, I know that," Jim said. And after a moment he burst out again:"Richie, am I all wrong? Is it all on my side?"

　　"Lord, don't ask me," Richie said hastily. "The older I grow the less Ithink I know about anything."

　　There was a silence. Richard clamped the arms of his chair with big bonyfingers and frowned thoughtfully at the floor.

　　"I wish to God I did know what to advise you, Jim," he said presently."I'd die for her—she knows that. But she's rare, Julia; it's liketrying to deal with some delicate frail little lady out of Cranford,like trying to guess what Emily Bronte might like, or Eugenie de Guerin!Julia's got life sized up, she likes it—I don't know whether thisconveys anything to you or not!—but she likes it as much as if it waspart of a play. You don't matter to her any more; I don't; she seesthings too big. She's quite extraordinary; the most extraordinary personI ever knew, I think. There's a completeness, a finish about her. She'snot waiting for any self-defence from you, Jim. It won't do you any goodto tell her why you did this or that. You thought this was justified,you thought that was—certainly, she isn't disputing it. You did whatyou did; now she's going to abide by it. You never dreamed thus andso—very well, the worse for you! You want to hark back to somethingthat's long dead and gone; all right, only abide by your decision. Andafterward, when you realize that she's a thousand times finer than thewomen you compare her to, and try to make her like, then don't comecrying to her!"

　　A long silence, then Jim stood up.

　　"Well, I've made an utter mess of it, as I began by saying!" he said,with a grim laugh. "Going to dine here, Rich? Let's eat together.Here"—one big clever hand gave Richard just the help he needed—"let mehelp you, old boy!"

　　"I thought I'd go home to Mill Valley," Richard said. "I can't catchanything before the six-forty, but the horse is in the village, and myboy will scare me up some soup and a salad. I'd rather go. I like towake in my own place."

　　"I wish you'd let me go with you, Rich," Jim said, with a gentleness newto him. "I'm so sick of everything. I can't think of anything I'd likeso well."

　　"Sure, come along," Richard said, touched. "Everything's pretty simple,you know, but I'll telephone Bruce and have him—"

　　"Cut out the telephoning," Jim interrupted. "Bread and coffee'll do. Anda fire, huh?"

　　"Sure," Richard said again, "there's always a fire."

　　"Great!" Jim approved. "We can smoke, and talk about—"

　　"About Ju," Richie supplied, with a gruff little laugh, as he paused.

　　"About Ju," Jim repeated, with a long sigh.

　　Two days later he went to see her, to beg her to be his wife again. Heasked her to forget and forgive the past, to trust him once more, togive him another chance to make her happy. He spoke of the Harley Streethouse, of the new friends she would find, of Barbara's nearness with theboys that Julia loved so well. He spoke of Anna; for Anna's sake theymust be together; their little girl must not be sacrificed. Anna shouldhave the prettiest nursery in London, and in summer they would go downto Barbara, and the cousins should play together.

　　Julia listened attentively, her head a little on one side, her eyesfollowing the movements of Anna herself, who was digging about under therose bushes in the backyard. Julia and Jim sat on the steps that randown from the kitchen porch. It was a soft, hazy afternoon, with filmystreaks of white crossing the pale blue sky, and sunshine, thin andgolden, lying like a spell over Julia's garden.

　　"I was a fool," said Jim. "There—I can't say more than that, Ju. AndI've paid for my folly. And, dearest, I'm so bitterly sorry! I can'texplain it. I don't understand it myself—I only know that I'd give tenyears off the end of my life to have the past five to live over again.Forgive me, Ju. It's all gone out of my heart now, all that old misery,and I never could hurt you again on that score. It doesn't exist, anymore, for me. Say that you'll forgive me, and let me be the happiest andproudest man in the world—how happy and proud—taking my wife and babyto England!"

　　The hint of a frown wrinkled Julia's forehead, her eyes were sombre withher own thoughts.

　　"Think what it would mean to Mother, and to Bab, and to all of us," Jimpursued, as she did not speak. "They've been so worried about it—theycare so much!"

　　"Yes, I know!" Julia said quickly, and fell silent again.

　　"Is it your own mother's need of you?" the man asked after a pause.

　　"No." Julia gave a cautious glance at the kitchen door behind her."No—Aunt May is wonderful with her. Muriel's at home a good deal, andGeraldine very near," she said. "And more than that, this separationbetween you and me worries Mother terribly; she doesn't understand it.She's very different in these days, Jim, so gentle and good and brave—Inever saw such a change! No, she'd love to have me go if it was the bestthing to do—it's not that—"

　　Her voice dropped on a note of fatigue. Her eyes continued to dwell onthe child in the garden.

　　"I've done all I can do," Jim said. "Don't punish me any more!"

　　Julia laughed in a worried fashion, not meeting his eyes.

　　"There you are," she said, faintly impatient, "assuming that I amaggrieved about it, assuming that I am sitting back, sulking, andwaiting for you to humiliate yourself! My dear Jim, I'm not doinganything of the kind. I don't hold you as wholly responsible for allthis—how could I? I know too well that I myself am—or was—to blame.All these years, when people have been blaming you and pitying me, I'velonged to burst out with the truth, to tell them what you were toochivalrous to tell! For your sake and Anna's I couldn't do it, ofcourse, but you may imagine that it's made me a silent champion ofyours, just the same! But our marriage was a mistake, Jim," she went onslowly and thoughtfully. "It was all very well for me to try to makemyself over; I couldn't make you! I never should have tried.Theoretically, I had made a clean breast of it, and was forgiven; butactually, the law was too strong. It's hard and strange that it shouldbe so, isn't it? I don't understand it; I never shall. For still itseems as if the punishment followed, not so much the fact, as the fact'sbeing made known. If I had robbed some one fifteen years ago, or takenthe name of the Lord in vain, I wonder if it would have been the same?As for keeping holy the seventh day, and honouring your father andmother, and not coveting your neighbour's goods, how little they seem tocount! Even the most virtuous and rigid people would forgive and forgetfast enough in those cases. It's all a puzzle." Julia's voice and look,which had grown dreamy, now brightened suddenly. "And so the best thingto do about it," she went on, "seems to me to make your own conscienceyour moral law, and feel that what you have repented truly, is trulyforgiven. So much for me." She met his eyes. "But, my dear Jim, I nevercould take it for granted again that you felt so about it!"

　　"Then you do me an injustice," said Jim, "for I swear—"

　　"Oh, don't swear!" she interrupted. "I know you believe that now, as youdid once before. But I know you better than you do yourself, Jim. Yourattitude to me is always generous, but it's always conventional, too.You never would remind me of all this, I know that very well, butalways, in your own heart, the reservation would be there, the regretand the pity! I know that I am a better woman and a stronger woman forall this thinking and suffering; you never will believe that. Let ussuppose that we began again. Don't you know that the day would come whenmy opinion would clash with that of some other woman in society, andyou, knowing what you know of me, would feel that I was not qualified tojudge in these things as other women are? Let us suppose that I wantedto befriend a maid who had got herself into trouble, or to take somewayward girl into my house for a trial; how patient would you be withme, under the circumstances?"

　　"Of course, you can always think up perfectly hypotheticalcircumstances!" Jim said impatiently.

　　"Marriage is difficult enough," Julia pursued. "But marriage with ahandicap is impossible! To feel that there is something you can'tchange, that never will change, and that stands eternally between you!No, marriage isn't for us, Jim, and we can only make the best of it,having made the original mistake!"

　　"Don't ever say that again—it's not true!" Jim said, with a sort ofmasterful anger. "Now, listen a moment. That isn't true, and you don'tbelieve it. I've told you what I think of myself. I was blind, I was afool. But that's past. Give me another chance. I'll make you thehappiest woman in the world, Julia. I love you. I'll be so proud of you!You can have a dozen girls under your wing all the time; you can answerthe Queen back, and I'll never have even a thought but what you're thefinest and sweetest woman in the world!"

　　The preposterous picture brought a shaky smile to Julia's lips and ahint of tears to her eyes. She suddenly rose from her seat and went downto the garden.

　　"Our talking it over does no good, Jim," she said, as he followed her,and stood looking at her and at Anna. "It's all too fresh—it's beentoo terrible for me—getting adjusted! I stand firm here, I feel theground under my feet. I don't want to go back to feeling all wrong, allout of key, helpless to straighten matters!"

　　"But we were happy!" he said, a passionate regret in his voice. "Thinkof our day in Chicago, Ju, and the day we took a hansom cab throughCentral Park—and were afraid the driver wasn't sober! And do youremember the blue hat that would catch on the electric light, and theday the elevator stuck?"

　　"I think of it all so often, Jim," Julia answered, with a smile as sadas tears could have been, and in the tender voice she might have used inspeaking of the dead. "Sometimes I fit whole days together, justthinking of those old times. 'Then what did we do after that lunch?' Ithink, or 'Where were we going that night that we were in such a hurry?'and then by degrees it all comes back." Julia drew a rose toward her ona tall bush, studied its leaves critically. "That was the happiest time,wasn't it, Jim?" she asked, with her April smile.

　　Jim felt as if a weight of inevitable sorrow were weighing him to theground. Julia's quiet assurance, her regretful firmness, seemed to bebreaking his heart. She was in white to-day, and in the thin Septembersunlight, among the blossoming roses, she somehow suggested the calmplacidity of a nun who looks back at her days in the world with atender, smiling pity. The child had left her play, and stood close toher mother's side, one of Julia's hands caught in both her own.

　　"Anna," Jim said desperately, "won't you ask Mother to come to Londonwith Dad?"

　　Anna regarded him gravely. She did not understand the situation, but sheanswered, with a child's curious instinct for the obvious excuse:

　　"But Grandmother needs her!"

　　"I never asked you to give her up, Julie," Jim said, as if trying toremind her that he had not been so merciless as she. Julia's eyeswidened with a quick alarm, her breast rose, but she answeredcomposedly:

　　"That I would have fought."

　　"And you have always had as much money—" Jim began again, trying torally the arguments with which he had felt sure to overwhelm her.

　　"I spent that as much for your sake as for mine," Julia said soberly."She is a Studdiford. I wanted to be fair to Anna. But I could dowithout it now, Jim; there are a thousand things—"

　　"Yes, I know!" he said in quick shame.

　　A silence fell, there seemed nothing else to be said. A great spacewidened between them. Jim felt at the mercy of lonely and desolatewinds; he felt as if all colour had faded out of the world, leaving itgray and cold. With the sickness of utter defeat he dropped on one kneeand kissed the wondering child, and then turned to go.

　　"You won't—change your mind, Ju?" he asked huskily.

　　Julia was conscious of a strange weakening and loosening of bondsthroughout her entire system. Vague chills shook her, she felt thattears were near, she had a hideous misgiving as to her power to keepfrom fainting.

　　"I will let you know, Jim," she heard her own voice answer, very low.

　　A moment later she and Anna were alone in the garden.

　　"What is it, Mother?" Anna asked curiously, a dozen times. Julia stoodstaring at the child blindly. One hand was about Anna's neck, the loosecurls falling soft and warm upon it, the other Julia had pressed tightabove her heart. She stood still as if listening.

　　"What is it, Mother?" asked the little girl again.

　　"Nothing!" Julia said then, in a sort of shallow whisper, with a caughtbreath.

　　A second later she kissed the child hastily, and went quietly out of thegreen gate which had so lately closed upon Jim. She went asunquestioningly as an automaton moved by some irresistible power; notonly was all doubt gone from her mind, but all responsibility seemedalso shed.

　　The street was almost deserted, but Julia saw Jim instantly, a fullblock away, and walking resolutely, if slowly. She drifted silentlyafter him, not knowing why she followed, nor what she would say whenthey met, but conscious that she must follow and that they would meet.

　　Jim walked to Eighteenth Street, turned north, and Julia, reaching thecorner, was in time to see him entering the shabby old church where theyhad been married eight years ago. And instantly a blinding vertigo, asuffocating rush of blood to her heart, made her feel weak and cold withthe sudden revelation that the hour of change had come.

　　She climbed the dreary, well-remembered stairs slowly, and slipped intoone of the last pews, in the shadow of a gallery pillar.

　　Jim was kneeling, far up toward the altar, his head in his hands. In allthe big church, which was bleak and bare in the cold afternoon light,there was no one else. The red altar light flickered in its hangingglass cup; a dozen lighted candles, in a great frame that held socketsfor five times as many, guttered and flared at the rail.

　　Minutes slipped by, and still the man knelt there motionless, and stillthe woman sat watching him, her eyes brilliant and tender, her heartflooded with a poignant happiness that carried before it all thebitterness of the years. Julia felt born again. Like a person long deaf,upon whose unsealed ears the roar of life bursts suddenly again, sheshrank away from the rush of emotion that shook her. It wasoverpowering—dizzying—exhausting.

　　When Jim presently passed her she shrank into the shadow of her pillar,but his face was sadder and more grave than Julia had ever seen it, andhe did not raise his eyes. She listened until his echoing footsteps diedaway on the stairs; then the smile on her face faded, and she sank onher knees and burst into tears.

　　But they were not tears of sorrow; instead, they seemed to Juliainfinitely soothing and refreshing. They seemed to carry her along withthe restful sweep of a river. She cried, hardly knowing that she cried,and with no effort to stop the steady current of tears.

　　And when she presently sat back and dried her eyes, a delicious ease andrelaxation permeated her whole body. Like a convalescent, weak andtrembling, she drew great breaths of air, rejoicing that the devastatingfever and the burning illusions were gone, and only the quiet weeks ofgetting well lay before her.

　　She sat in the church a long time, staring dreamily before her. Oddthoughts and memories drifted through her mind now: she was again alittle girl of eight, slipping into the delicatessen store in O'FarrellStreet for pickles and pork sausage; now she was a bride, with Jim inNew York, moving through the dappled spring sunlight of Fifth Avenue, onthe top of a rocking omnibus. She thought of the settlement house:winter rain streaming down its windows, and she and Miss Toland diningon chops and apple pie, each deep in a book as she ate; and sheremembered Mark, poor Mark, who had crossed her life only to bringhimself bitter unhappiness, and to leave her the sorrow of anineffaceable stain!

　　Only thirty, yet what a long, long road already lay behind her, how muchsorrow, how much joy! What mistakes and cross purposes had been tangledinto her life and Jim's, Mark's and Richie's, Barbara's and Sally's andTed's—into all their lives!

　　"Perhaps that is life," mused Julia, kneeling down to say one morelittle prayer before she went away. "Perhaps my ideal of a clean-swept,austere little cottage, and a few books, and a few friends, and sunrisesand sunsets—isn't life! It's all a tangle and a struggle, ingratitudeand poverty and dispute all mixed in with love and joy and growth, andevery one of us has to take his share! I have one sort of trouble tobear, and Mother another, and Jim, I suppose, a third; we can't choosethem for ourselves any more than we could choose the colour of our eyes!But loving each other—loving each other, as I love Anna, makeseverything easy; it's the cure for it all—it makes everything easier tobear!" And in a whisper, with a new appreciation of their meaning, sherepeated the familiar words, "Love fulfils the law!"

　　The next evening, just as the autumn twilight was giving way to dusk,Julia opened the lower green gate of the Tolands' garden in Sausalito,and went quietly up the steep path. Roses made dim spots of colour hereand there; under the trees it was almost dark, though a soft light stilllingered on the surface of the bay just below. From the drawing-roomwindows pale lamplight fell in clear bars across the gravel, but thehall was unlighted, the door wide open.

　　Julia stepped softly inside, her heart beating fast. She had got nofarther than this minute, in her hastily made plans; now she did notquite know what to do. She knew that Barbara and the boys had gone backto Richie in Mill Valley. Captain Fox was duck shooting in Novato, andConstance had returned to her own home. But Ted and her little sonshould be here, Janey, Jim, and the widowed mother.

　　Presently she found Mrs. Toland in the study, seated alone before adying fire. Julia kissed the shrivelled soft old cheek, catching as shedid so the faint odour of perfumed powder and fresh crepe.

　　"Where are the girls, darling, that you're here all alone?" she askedaffectionately.

　　"Oh, Julie dear! Isn't it nice to see you," Mrs. Toland said, "and sofresh and rosy, like a breath of fresh air! Where are the girls? Bab'swith Richie, you know, and she took her boys and Ted's Georgie with her,and Connie had to go home again. I think Ted and Janey went out for alittle walk before dinner."

　　"And haven't you been out, dear?"

　　Ready tears came to poor Mrs. Toland's eyes at the tender tone. Shebegan to beat lightly on Julia's hand with her own.

　　"I don't seem to want to, dearie," she said with difficulty; "the girlskeep telling me to, but—I don't know! I don't seem to want to. Papa andI used to like to walk up and down in the garden—"

　　Speech became too difficult, and she stopped abruptly.

　　"I know," Julia said sorrowfully.

　　"It would have been thirty-five years this November," Mrs. Tolandpresently said. "We were engaged in August and married in November.Marriage is a wonderful thing, Julia—it's a wonderful thing! Papa wasvery much smarter than I am—I always knew that! But after a whilepeople come to love each other partly for just that—the differencesbetween them! And you look back so differently on the mistakes you havemade. I've always been too easy on the girls, and Ned, too, and Papaknew it, but he never reproached me!" She wiped her eyes quietly. "Youmust have had a sensible mother, Julie," she added, after a moment;"you're such a wise little thing!"

　　"I don't believe she was very wise," Julia said, smiling, "any more thanI am! I may not make the mistakes with Anna that Mama made with me, butI'll make others! It's a sort of miracle to see her now, so brave andgood and contented, after all the storms I remember."

　　Mrs. Toland did not speak for a few moments, then she said:

　　"Julie, Jim's like a son of my own to me. You'll forgive a fussy oldwoman, who loves her children, if she talks frankly to you? Don't throwaway all the future, dear. Not to-day—not to-morrow, perhaps, but sometime, when you can, forgive him! He's changed; he's not what he used tobe—"

　　Tears were in Julia's eyes now; she slipped to her knees beside Mrs.Toland's chair, and they cried a little together.

　　"I came to see him," whispered Julia. "Where is he?"

　　"He came in about fifteen minutes ago. He's packing. You know hisroom—"

　　Julia mounted the stairs slowly, noiselessly. It was quite dark nowthroughout the airy, fragrant big halls, but a crack of light came fromunder Jim's door.

　　She stood outside for a few long minutes, thrilling like a bride withthe realization that she had the right to enter here; where Jim was, washer sanctuary against the world and its storms.

　　She knocked, and Jim shouted "Come in!" Julia opened the door and facedhim across a room full of the disorder of packing. Jim was in his shirtsleeves, his hair rumpled and wild. She slipped inside the door, andshut it behind her, a most appealing figure in her black gown, with heruncovered bright hair loosened and softly framing her April face.

　　"Jim," she said, her heart choking her, "will you take Anna and me withyou? I love you—"

　　There was time for no more. They were in each other's arms, laughing,crying, murmuring now and then an incoherent word. Julia clung to herhusband like a storm-driven bird; it seemed to her that her heart wouldburst in its ecstasy of content; if the big arms about her had crushedbreath from her body she would have died uncaring.

　　Jim kissed her wet cheeks, her tumbled hair, her red lips that sowillingly met his own. And when at last the tears were dry, and theycould speak and could look at each other, there was no need for words.Jim sat on the couch, and Julia sat on his knee, with one arm laidloosely about his neck in a fashion they had loved years ago, and whatthey said depended chiefly upon their eyes and the tones of their voice.

　　"Oh, Jim—Jim!" Julia rested her cheek against his, "I have needed youso!"

　　Jim tightened an arm about her.

　　"I adore you," he said simply, unashamed of his wet eyes. "Do you loveme?" To this Julia made no answer but a long sigh of utter content.

　　"Do you?" repeated Jim, after an interval.

　　"Does this look as if I did?" Julia murmured, not moving.

　　Silence again, and then Jim said, with a great sigh:

　　"Oh, Petty, what a long, long time!"

　　"Thank God it's over!" said Julia softly.

　　"What made you do it, dear?" Jim asked presently, in the course of along rambling talk. At that Julia did straighten up, so that her eyesmight meet his.

　　"Just seeing you—pray about it, Jim," she said, her eyes filling again,although her lips were smiling. "I thought that, this time, we wouldboth pray, and that—even if there are troubles, Jim—we'd rememberthat hour in St. Charles's, and think how we longed for each other!"

　　And resting her cheek against his, Julia began to cry with joy, and Jimclung to her, his own eyes brimming, and they were very happy.