She looked up, finding herself alone. She did not remember when or how
he had left the room, or how long afterward she had sat there. The fire
still smouldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight had left the
wall.
Her first conscious thought was that she had not broken her word, that
she had fulfilled the very letter of their bargain. There had been no
crying out, no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at temporizing or
evasion. She had marched straight up to the guns.
Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself alive. She looked
about her, trying to recover her hold on reality. Her identity seemed to
be slipping from her, as it disappears in a physical swoon. “This is my
room--this is my house,” she heard herself saying. Her room? Her house?
She could almost hear the walls laugh back at her.
She stood up, a dull ache in every bone. The silence of the room
frightened her. She remembered, now, having heard the front door close
a long time ago: the sound suddenly re-echoed through her brain. Her
husband must have left the house, then--her HUSBAND? She no longer knew
in what terms to think: the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge. She
sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange weakness. The clock
struck ten--it was only ten o’clock! Suddenly she remembered that
she had not ordered dinner... or were they dining out that evening?
DINNER--DINING OUT--the old meaningless phraseology pursued her! She
must try to think of herself as she would think of some one else, a some
one dissociated from all the familiar routine of the past, whose wants
and habits must gradually be learned, as one might spy out the ways of a
strange animal...
The clock struck another hour--eleven. She stood up again and walked
to the door: she thought she would go up stairs to her room. HER room?
Again the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed the narrow
hall, and walked up the stairs. As she passed, she noticed Westall’s
sticks and umbrellas: a pair of his gloves lay on the hall table. The
same stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the same old French
print, in its narrow black frame, faced her on the landing. This visual
continuity was intolerable. Within, a gaping chasm; without, the same
untroubled and familiar surface. She must get away from it before she
could attempt to think. But, once in her room, she sat down on the
lounge, a stupor creeping over her...
Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal had happened in the
interval--a wild marching and countermarching of emotions, arguments,
ideas--a fury of insurgent impulses that fell back spent upon
themselves. She had tried, at first, to rally, to organize these chaotic
forces. There must be help somewhere, if only she could master the inner
tumult. Life could not be broken off short like this, for a whim, a
fancy; the law itself would side with her, would defend her. The law?
What claim had she upon it? She was the prisoner of her own choice: she
had been her own legislator, and she was the predestined victim of
the code she had devised. But this was grotesque, intolerable--a mad
mistake, for which she could not be held accountable! The law she had
despised was still there, might still be invoked... invoked, but to what
end? Could she ask it to chain Westall to her side? SHE had been
allowed to go free when she claimed her freedom--should she show less
magnanimity than she had exacted? Magnanimity? The word lashed her with
its irony--one does not strike an attitude when one is fighting for
life! She would threaten, grovel, cajole... she would yield anything to
keep her hold on happiness. Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper! The law
could not help her--her own apostasy could not help her. She was the
victim of the theories she renounced. It was as though some giant
machine of her own making had caught her up in its wheels and was
grinding her to atoms...
It was afternoon when she found herself out-of-doors. She walked with
an aimless haste, fearing to meet familiar faces. The day was radiant,
metallic: one of those searching American days so calculated to
reveal the shortcomings of our street-cleaning and the excesses of our
architecture. The streets looked bare and hideous; everything stared
and glittered. She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van Sideren’s
address. She did not know what had led up to the act; but she found
herself suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning. It was too
late to save herself--but the girl might still be told. The hansom
rattled up Fifth Avenue; she sat with her eyes fixed, avoiding
recognition. At the Van Siderens’ door she sprang out and rang the bell.
Action had cleared her brain, and she felt calm and self-possessed. She
knew now exactly what she meant to say.
The ladies were both out... the parlor-maid stood waiting for a card.
Julia, with a vague murmur, turned away from the door and lingered a
moment on the sidewalk. Then she remembered that she had not paid the
cab-driver. She drew a dollar from her purse and handed it to him.
He touched his hat and drove off, leaving her alone in the long empty
street. She wandered away westward, toward strange thoroughfares, where
she was not likely to meet acquaintances. The feeling of aimlessness had
returned. Once she found herself in the afternoon torrent of Broadway,
swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters, with a
succession of meaningless faces gliding by in the opposite direction...
A feeling of faintness reminded her that she had not eaten since
morning. She turned into a side street of shabby houses, with rows of
ash-barrels behind bent area railings. In a basement window she saw the
sign LADIES’ RESTAURANT: a pie and a dish of doughnuts lay against the
dusty pane like petrified food in an ethnological museum. She entered,
and a young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye cleared a table for
her near the window. The table was covered with a red and white cotton
cloth and adorned with a bunch of celery in a thick tumbler and a
salt-cellar full of grayish lumpy salt. Julia ordered tea, and sat a
long time waiting for it. She was glad to be away from the noise and
confusion of the streets. The low-ceilinged room was empty, and two or
three waitresses with thin pert faces lounged in the background staring
at her and whispering together. At last the tea was brought in a
discolored metal teapot. Julia poured a cup and drank it hastily. It was
black and bitter, but it flowed through her veins like an elixir. She
was almost dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, how tired, how unutterably tired
she had been!
She drank a second cup, blacker and bitterer, and now her mind was once
more working clearly. She felt as vigorous, as decisive, as when she had
stood on the Van Siderens’ door-step--but the wish to return there had
subsided. She saw now the futility of such an attempt--the humiliation
to which it might have exposed her... The pity of it was that she did
not know what to do next. The short winter day was fading, and she
realized that she could not remain much longer in the restaurant without
attracting notice. She paid for her tea and went out into the street.
The lamps were alight, and here and there a basement shop cast an
oblong of gas-light across the fissured pavement. In the dusk there was
something sinister about the aspect of the street, and she hastened back
toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used to being out alone at that hour.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused and stood watching the stream
of carriages. At last a policeman caught sight of her and signed to her
that he would take her across. She had not meant to cross the street,
but she obeyed automatically, and presently found herself on the
farther corner. There she paused again for a moment; but she fancied the
policeman was watching her, and this sent her hastening down the nearest
side street... After that she walked a long time, vaguely... Night had
fallen, and now and then, through the windows of a passing carriage, she
caught the expanse of an evening waistcoat or the shimmer of an opera
cloak...
Suddenly she found herself in a familiar street. She stood still a
moment, breathing quickly. She had turned the corner without noticing
whither it led; but now, a few yards ahead of her, she saw the house
in which she had once lived--her first husband’s house. The blinds were
drawn, and only a faint translucence marked the windows and the transom
above the door. As she stood there she heard a step behind her, and a
man walked by in the direction of the house. He walked slowly, with a
heavy middle-aged gait, his head sunk a little between the shoulders,
the red crease of his neck visible above the fur collar of his overcoat.
He crossed the street, went up the steps of the house, drew forth a
latch-key, and let himself in...
There was no one else in sight. Julia leaned for a long time against the
area-rail at the corner, her eyes fixed on the front of the house. The
feeling of physical weariness had returned, but the strong tea still
throbbed in her veins and lit her brain with an unnatural clearness.
Presently she heard another step draw near, and moving quickly away, she
too crossed the street and mounted the steps of the house. The impulse
which had carried her there prolonged itself in a quick pressure of the
electric bell--then she felt suddenly weak and tremulous, and grasped
the balustrade for support. The door opened and a young footman with
a fresh inexperienced face stood on the threshold. Julia knew in an
instant that he would admit her.
“I saw Mr. Arment going in just now,” she said. “Will you ask him to see
me for a moment?”
The footman hesitated. “I think Mr. Arment has gone up to dress for
dinner, madam.”
Julia advanced into the hall. “I am sure he will see me--I will not
detain him long,” she said. She spoke quietly, authoritatively, in the
tone which a good servant does not mistake. The footman had his hand on
the drawing-room door.
“I will tell him, madam. What name, please?”
Julia trembled: she had not thought of that. “Merely say a lady,” she
returned carelessly.
The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost; but at that instant
the door opened from within and John Arment stepped into the hall. He
drew back sharply as he saw her, his florid face turning sallow with
the shock; then the blood poured back to it, swelling the veins on his
temples and reddening the lobes of his thick ears.
It was long since Julia had seen him, and she was startled at the change
in his appearance. He had thickened, coarsened, settled down into
the enclosing flesh. But she noted this insensibly: her one conscious
thought was that, now she was face to face with him, she must not let
him escape till he had heard her. Every pulse in her body throbbed with
the urgency of her message.
She went up to him as he drew back. “I must speak to you,” she said.
Arment hesitated, red and stammering. Julia glanced at the footman, and
her look acted as a warning. The instinctive shrinking from a “scene”
predominated over every other impulse, and Arment said slowly: “Will you
come this way?”
He followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door. Julia, as she
advanced, was vaguely aware that the room at least was unchanged: time
had not mitigated its horrors. The contadina still lurched from the
chimney-breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the threshold of the
inner room. The place was alive with memories: they started out from
every fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between the angles of
the rosewood furniture. But while some subordinate agency was carrying
these impressions to her brain, her whole conscious effort was centred
in the act of dominating Arment’s will. The fear that he would refuse
to hear her mounted like fever to her brain. She felt her purpose melt
before it, words and arguments running into each other in the heat of
her longing. For a moment her voice failed her, and she imagined herself
thrust out before she could speak; but as she was struggling for a word,
Arment pushed a chair forward, and said quietly: “You are not well.”
The sound of his voice steadied her. It was neither kind nor unkind--a
voice that suspended judgment, rather, awaiting unforeseen developments.
She supported herself against the back of the chair and drew a deep
breath. “Shall I send for something?” he continued, with a cold
embarrassed politeness.
Julia raised an entreating hand. “No--no--thank you. I am quite well.”
He paused midway toward the bell and turned on her. “Then may I ask--?”
“Yes,” she interrupted him. “I came here because I wanted to see you.
There is something I must tell you.”
Arment continued to scrutinize her. “I am surprised at that,” he said.
“I should have supposed that any communication you may wish to make
could have been made through our lawyers.”
“Our lawyers!” She burst into a little laugh. “I don’t think they could
help me--this time.”
Arment’s face took on a barricaded look. “If there is any question of
help--of course--”
It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen that look when some shabby
devil called with a subscription-book. Perhaps he thought she wanted him
to put his name down for so much in sympathy--or even in money...
The thought made her laugh again. She saw his look change slowly to
perplexity. All his facial changes were slow, and she remembered,
suddenly, how it had once diverted her to shift that lumbering scenery
with a word. For the first time it struck her that she had been cruel.
“There IS a question of help,” she said in a softer key: “you can help
me; but only by listening... I want to tell you something...”
Arment’s resistance was not yielding. “Would it not be easier
to--write?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “There is no time to write... and it won’t take
long.” She raised her head and their eyes met. “My husband has left me,”
she said.
“Westall--?” he stammered, reddening again.
“Yes. This morning. Just as I left you. Because he was tired of me.”
The words, uttered scarcely above a whisper, seemed to dilate to the
limit of the room. Arment looked toward the door; then his embarrassed
glance returned to Julia.
“I am very sorry,” he said awkwardly.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“But I don’t see--”
“No--but you will--in a moment. Won’t you listen to me? Please!”
Instinctively she had shifted her position putting herself between
him and the door. “It happened this morning,” she went on in short
breathless phrases. “I never suspected anything--I thought we
were--perfectly happy... Suddenly he told me he was tired of me... there
is a girl he likes better... He has gone to her...” As she spoke, the
lurking anguish rose upon her, possessing her once more to the exclusion
of every other emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat swelled with it, and
two painful tears burnt a way down her face.
Arment’s constraint was increasing visibly. “This--this is very
unfortunate,” he began. “But I should say the law--”
“The law?” she echoed ironically. “When he asks for his freedom?”
“You are not obliged to give it.”
“You were not obliged to give me mine--but you did.”
He made a protesting gesture.
“You saw that the law couldn’t help you--didn’t you?” she went on.
“That is what I see now. The law represents material rights--it can’t go
beyond. If we don’t recognize an inner law... the obligation that love
creates... being loved as well as loving... there is nothing to
prevent our spreading ruin unhindered... is there?” She raised her head
plaintively, with the look of a bewildered child. “That is what I see
now... what I wanted to tell you. He leaves me because he’s tired... but
I was not tired; and I don’t understand why he is. That’s the dreadful
part of it--the not understanding: I hadn’t realized what it meant.
But I’ve been thinking of it all day, and things have come back to
me--things I hadn’t noticed... when you and I...” She moved closer to
him, and fixed her eyes on his with the gaze that tries to reach beyond
words. “I see now that YOU didn’t understand--did you?”
Their eyes met in a sudden shock of comprehension: a veil seemed to be
lifted between them. Arment’s lip trembled.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t understand.”
She gave a little cry, almost of triumph. “I knew it! I knew it! You
wondered--you tried to tell me--but no words came... You saw your life
falling in ruins... the world slipping from you... and you couldn’t
speak or move!”
She sank down on the chair against which she had been leaning. “Now I
know--now I know,” she repeated.
“I am very sorry for you,” she heard Arment stammer.
She looked up quickly. “That’s not what I came for. I don’t want you to
be sorry. I came to ask you to forgive me... for not understanding that
YOU didn’t understand... That’s all I wanted to say.” She rose with a
vague sense that the end had come, and put out a groping hand toward the
door.
Arment stood motionless. She turned to him with a faint smile.
“You forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive--”
“Then will you shake hands for good-by?” She felt his hand in hers: it
was nerveless, reluctant.
“Good-by,” she repeated. “I understand now.”
She opened the door and passed out into the hall. As she did so, Arment
took an impulsive step forward; but just then the footman, who was
evidently alive to his obligations, advanced from the background to let
her out. She heard Arment fall back. The footman threw open the door,
and she found herself outside in the darkness.