"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.