IV

When Julie reached the station to take her train for Red River, she

found herself the only passenger from Hart’s Run. A couple of traveling

men, strangers to her, were walking up and down the platform in the

fresh morning air, pulling at their cigars, evidently content and

well-breakfasted by the hospitality of the Monroe House in the village.

The station master was also there. He was Edward Black, the same bully

who had torn Julie’s doll to pieces so long ago. He had grown into a

stout and flabby man, with small eyes set in so large an expanse of

face that one inevitably thought of his cheeks as jowls. He greeted her

with “Mornin’, Julie, goin’ away on Number Twelve?”

“Just to Red River for the day,” she answered. “I hope Twelve’s on

time.”

“Hope’s cheap,” Edward retorted. It was his custom not to give away

information in regard to the trains too easily. He liked to keep the

superior knowledge that his post gave him for the gratification of his

own vanity.

Julie would have liked to slip away unnoticed into the station, but she

also wanted very much to know whether or not the train was on time, for

if it were hours late--as it sometimes was--she would not be able to

do much shopping in Red River, and so would put off her trip until the

next day. Therefore she mustered courage to put the question direct,

although she had a painfully acute inner remembrance of how very

forlorn her face had looked in the mirror that morning.

“Is--is Twelve on time?” she asked.

“Is--is Twelve on time,” he mimicked, and turned to wink at the near-by

drummers. But it was a wink misplaced. One of the men, who had been

teetering gayly up and down on the precarious footing of the iron

track, in sheer exuberance of health and the fine morning, turned a

sudden flaming red, and removed the cigar abruptly from his mouth.

“The lady’s asked you if the train’s on time. You’re here to tell her!”

he blazed.

In sulky surprise, Edward Black attempted to turn away as though called

by important business elsewhere, but the drummer came a stride nearer,

and curled his fists.

“Tell her!” he commanded.

“Yes, it’s on time,” Edward answered and made a sullen escape.

The drummer turned to Julie, and swept off his hat. “Lady, your train’s

on time,” he announced.

“Oh--oh, thank you!” Julie faltered, and retreated into the station in

an agony of embarrassment.

As she fled, she heard the drummer comment to his friend, “Oh, Lord,

how I do hate that kind of a fat bully! I hope to heavens if I ever get

to France all the Germans’ll look just like him. If they do, I’ll not

have any trouble at all stickin’ bayonets into ’em.”

Julie knew that the words were perfectly audible to Edward Black and

that he would not fail to pay her back for them. She still had her

ticket to buy, and when he opened the ticket window she approached in

apprehension. They were alone in the station.

“Say, Julie, I got a joke on you,” he jeered. “Say, I know how you go

to prayer meetin’.”

The color rushed into Julie’s face.

“Say,” he pursued, watching her from under the drooped lids of his pig

eyes, “What was you doin’ sittin’ out on the church steps last night,

when everybody else was inside?”

So Edward Black, of all people, had seen her!

“Nothing--it wasn’t anything,” she stumbled, knowing that her voice

sounded frightened, and that her cheeks were blazing.

“Oh, yes, it was nothin’! Nothin’ be dogged! Folks don’t turn red like

that over nothin’. Well, I’m goin’ to tell people how Julie Rose goes

to prayer-meeting!”

But here Number Twelve whistled down the line--a clear burst of sound,

cutting joyously through the air. Edward Black had to supply Julie with

her ticket, and so she was delivered.

It was on her way back from Red River that Julie first saw Timothy

Bixby.

The shopping trips to Red River were always occasions of discomfort to

Julie. It was unnerving to her to be shaken out of her accustomed rut

of Hart’s Run. Out in the unfamiliar streets of the larger town, she

always felt strange and dreadfully conspicuous. Henr’etta Crossman, who

had been Henr’etta Wilkinson, Julie’s schoolmate in Hart’s Run, and

with whom Julie generally took dinner when she came to Red River, was

apt to call jovial attention to Julie’s unhappy self-consciousness.

“Come right in to its momma,” she would greet Julie, enfolding her

against her large bosom. “Nothing didn’t bite you comin’ up street, did

it!”

A day in Red River spent in Henr’etta’s society left Julie limp,

crushed by the other’s exuberant self-confidence, with all the delicate

antennæ of her personality brushed aside, as a butterfly’s wing is

brushed by a too rough touch.

The day in question was no exception. Indeed, after her wretched night,

Julie was more than ever drained of all vitality when she boarded the

afternoon train for Hart’s Run, squeezing herself and her bundles down

into a seat beside a fat woman with a bulging suit-case. “Henr’etta

certainly is kind,” she told herself wearily, “but someway, being

with her always makes me feel mighty small, she’s so big and sure of

herself. And Red River, too, it always makes me feel like I was out

naked in the world. Why,” she thought suddenly, “that’s just what Mrs.

Anderson said. She said I was pretty nigh as naked as that little bird,

and it’s just the truth!”

Halfway down, all the seats on one side of the car were given over to

a detachment of men in khaki. They laughed and joked uproariously and

burst occasionally into war songs--“We won’t be back ’til it’s over,

over there,” and “Keep the home fires burning.” Men in khaki were new

and strange phenomena in Julie’s part of the world, and she looked at

them curiously. But she was so weary that even they could not engage

her interest for long, and closing her eyes, she let herself relax. She

could feel the big warm body of the woman beside her heave up and down

with each breath. The train was stuffy and hot, filled with disheveled

people and fretful children, and over all hung the smell of smoke and

cinders and peeled oranges; presently with closed eyes she went almost

to sleep in the weary atmosphere. The gray roar of the train pulsed in

her ears, making a swaying background of sound before which fantastic

thoughts on the verge of dreams spread themselves out. Suddenly,

however, against that curtain of sound a woman’s sharp voice detached

itself from the other noises and hung for a moment before Julie’s

consciousness, as distinct as words on a motion-picture screen.

“Yes, it is in there,” the voice said. “It is, too! I put it there

myself just a while back!”

Julie opened her eyes, and looking in the direction of the voice saw

Timothy Bixby for the first time. He was one seat ahead of her across

the aisle so that she had a clear view of him, a meagre little man,

fumbling anxiously through the contents of a suit-case, while a woman

in the same seat, her head against a pillow, watched him angrily. It

was the woman’s voice that had aroused Julie.

“It _is_ there, too!” she repeated. “Oh, why in the name of common

sense can’t you ever find anything? Here--get out of the way!”

She shoved the man aside, and stooping an instant, fished in the

suit-case, bringing to light a collapsible drinking-cup.

“There! I told you it was there right along,” she announced, flouncing

back into her seat. “Now for mercy sake get me that water, so’s I can

take a tablet--my head’s just about to split open.”

The little man took the cup in submissive silence and went forward to

the water cooler. Julie watched him go down the aisle. He had sandy

hair, and meek, rather drooping shoulders. His progress was zigzag, as

he clutched the back of first one seat and then another, tossed from

side to side by the speed of the train, which on a down grade now was

making up lost time. When, after filling the cup, he turned about, she

had a good view of him. He was about thirty years old, with a small

spare frame, deprecatory movements, and an anxious frown between his

blue eyes. He seemed to be trying desperately hard to cope with life,

with a kind of worried patience. But life was against him. Halfway down

the car, a small peripatetic child got in his way, and a lurch from the

train made him spill the water over its frock.

“Aw--oh!” he cried, a little ejaculation of dismay, and turned

helplessly and unhappily to the mother.

“I certainly am sorry, marm,” he apologized, while he fumbled for his

handkerchief to wipe the child’s frock. The mother paid no attention

whatever to him, but snatching her child to her, removed the small

spill of water as though her offspring had been marked by it for life.

He repeated, “I’m mighty sorry,” and continued to stand helplessly

by, but the woman would not give him even a glance of comfort or

forgiveness, so after another uncertain moment he went back for fresh

water. As he turned after refilling the cup and again came down the

aisle, he was forced to meet the eyes of all the passengers. The small

disaster had called momentary attention to him, marking him as it were

with an exclamation point, and everybody was staring. The soldiers

seized upon him as a butt for their wit.

“Now then, George, steady! Whoa--up! Steady!”

“Mind how you carry yer licker, son!”

“Atta boy!”

He advanced with averted eyes, apparently intent upon the cup, but

Julie could see the flush of painful color in his face. The soldiers

saw it too and jeered with renewed “Atta boy’s.” Julie knew exactly how

he felt. All at once, she knew it so hard, so violently, that suddenly

she seemed flowing out of herself to him with a sharp projection

of sympathy. He felt her eyes upon him, and just as he reached his

seat, looked up with a startled expression. There was a momentary

rush of contact between them, close, astonishing, almost suffocating

to Julie. An instant they were held in each other’s glance. Then he

turned away, and handed the cup to his companion. The woman accepted it

ungraciously, and putting a white tablet into her mouth, gulped it down

with a swallow of water.

“I never did see anybody as awkward as you,” she said. “Spilling water

all over that child! Now for gracious sake, keep still an’ let me be

quiet a spell, and see ’f this tablet won’t help my headache some.”

He said nothing, but readjusted her pillow for her, restored the

drinking-cup to the bag, and pushed the latter well over to his side to

make more room for her, although he was himself uncomfortably squeezed,

doing it all with that air of worried endeavor, as though Fate had

presented him with a portion of life bigger than he could manage.

He had also, Julie observed, a detached manner, a little as though

his whole self were not present. It was this aloofness that made her

comment inwardly, “Well, he certainly is good to that hateful sister

of his.” True, the woman did not look like his sister, but she could

not be his wife; surely, she thought, he would have had something

different, a fuller, more alive personality, to offer to his mate.

After the suit-case was closed, he looked around again at Julie, but

she averted her eyes now, staring away out of the window, and would not

let herself glance again at him until the train was nearing Hart’s Run,

when she straightened up, and began to gather her bundles together.

Then she looked across the aisle, and saw that he and his companion

were also making preparations to leave the train. Their suit-case

was strapped; the woman had tidied herself up and put on her hat,

presenting now an appearance completely in accord with the prevailing

style; and when the conductor put his head into the train and shouted

“Hart’s Run, Hart’s Run,” they rose and moved out into the aisle.

Julie was just behind them as they approached the door. “Well, here we

are,” the man said, and both he and his companion stooped down to peer

through the windows at Hart’s Run, evidently seeing it for the first

time.

“Well, ain’t it the awfulest little hole!” the woman ejaculated.

“Oh, maybe it won’t be so bad,” he offered.

By now they had all three moved out to the platform, waiting for the

train to come to a standstill, as the dingy little station slid to meet

them.

“Maybe! maybe!” she snorted. “I’m about sick of maybe’s! You’ve been

maybe-ing all your life. I just bet before you were born somebody said,

‘Maybe it’ll be a boy,’ an’ that’s just what you are--a kind of a maybe

man.” She ended with a burst of laughter, pleased by her own wit.

He made no retort, but Julie, who was standing close beside him now,

saw him wince, saw his lips twitch, and his hands tighten spasmodically

on the suit-case. For a moment he looked wildly about like a trapped

animal seeking escape. As he did so his eyes came full upon Julie’s

face. There was such a look of desperation, of trapped and impotent

despair in them, that a surge of rage leaped within, sweeping her

beyond all the small proprieties, so that she found herself whispering

breathlessly behind the woman’s back, “Oh, don’t mind, don’t mind so! I

understand--I understand!”

He stared at her a startled, incredulous moment, the color coming up

in his face in flood after flood.

The train jerked to a standstill. They were flung together unsteadily

for an instant, and then descended the steps.

Julie did not linger. She did not look again at the little man, but

stepping past him and his companion, walked quickly along the station

platform. Her arms were full of bundles, but she was hardly conscious

of them, nor of her feet moving over the boards; the gust of her

rage blew her along with a sense of speed and lightness, almost as

though she were flying. It was glorious. It lifted her above herself.

It set her free. At that moment she was released from all the small

constrictions of her life, she was beyond fear of anything, or of any

person. Walking thus down the platform she encountered Edward Black. He

blocked her way with his great hectoring swagger.

“Oh, I know somep’n, I know somep’n,” he sang.

Julie stopped. She was so angry that her eyes glittered, and a flame

seemed to dart out of her white face.

“What do you know?” she demanded.

Edward was surprised and disconcerted. This was not the frightened

response he expected from his victim. “Oh, well, never mind,” he

muttered, and started to turn away, but Julie stepped quickly after him.

“What do you know?” she repeated furiously.

Again he backed away a step or two. It seemed to him that this enraged

little woman might fly at his throat.

“Aw, I was just foolin’, Julie,” he said weakly.

“You saw me sitting out on the church steps last night,” Julie stated

clearly and concisely. “Now, what of it?”

“Nothing, Julie, nothing,” he repeated, still retreating sheepishly

before her, and uneasily aware that they were attracting attention from

the small group of station loafers. But Julie was swept above herself.

What people thought, or what they said was a thing beneath her feet

now. She did not even hear one of the loafers call out, “That’s right.

Miss Julie! Don’t take any foolishness off’n Ed! You got him on the run

now. Keep it up!”

“I sat out on the steps because I wanted to,” she continued fiercely.

“And what I do is no concern of yours, nor of anybody else’s.”

Edward Black fell away without another word, and Julie continued her

progress, still blown along by the gust of her rage. Presently she met

Bessie Randolph, who was the wife of Silas Randolph, the president of

the bank, a very important person in Hart’s Run.

“See that couple there,” Mrs. Randolph said, joining Julie and pointing

out the small man and his companion, who had been met by Wilson McLane,

editor of the _Hart’s Run News_. “The man must be the new printer for

the _News_. Mr. McLane told me he was expecting him by this train. That

must be his wife with him.”

“No, it’s his sister,” Julie corrected positively. She was not in the

habit of contradicting.

“Oh, then you’re acquainted with them?” the other challenged.

“I never saw them before, but I noticed them on the train, and I know

she’s his sister.”

“Well, they don’t either of them look like much,” Mrs. Randolph said

with a careless dismissal. “Come on Julie, I’ll ride you home; my car’s

right here.”

“I thank you,” Julie responded. “But I reckon I’ll walk.”

Mrs. Randolph stared at her. People did not often so lightly refuse her

condescension.

“You better ride with all those bundles,” she urged.

“No--no thank you. I want the walk,” Julie answered. “And besides, I

don’t like automobiles. It scares me to ride in them.”

For years Julie had been afraid of motors and for years she had tried

to conceal the fact. This was the first time that she had ever dared to

acknowledge it, much less to refuse an invitation from the elegant Mrs.

Randolph. But now she gave a little indifferent bow of refusal, and

went upon her way, still blown along by the gust of her anger, as she

saw again in remembrance the incident on the train platform.

“That _hateful_ woman!” she stormed to herself, the sneer on the

woman’s face when she had called her companion a “maybe man” still

sharp before her mental vision. “The hateful piece!” She found she was

repeating over and over: “I know. I understand. I know. Oh, _don’t_

take it so hard! I know how hateful folks are!--He’s as unfeathered

as I am,” she whispered to herself. “Things get at him just like they

do me, an’ he don’t know any better how to stand up against them. I

understand. I know how it is.--Well, anyhow,” she exulted, “I settled

that hateful Ed Black for once! Always picking on me. Tore my paper

doll up. Tramped on my cookie. Thought he could keep on bullyin’ me

forever, but I settled _him_ all right!” The careful speech her mother

had trained her to had slipped now, and she was reverting to the

mountain phraseology.

“Julie! Oh, Julie, wait just a minute--I want to ask you about that

crêpe waist of mine.” It was one of Julie’s customers calling to her

from a porch. People were in the habit of stopping Julie as she passed

along the street, no matter in how much haste she might be, to have

her advice about old and decrepit clothes. Although she resented this,

Julie usually meekly responded--but not this time.

“Bring your waist into the shop in the morning, and I’ll attend to it,”

she called back, continuing upon her way.

She reached home, and unlocking her door, went into her bedroom, then

depositing her bundles, removed her hat before the mirror. The face

that looked at her was flushed and alive and recreated. It was not at

all the haunted and forlorn little countenance that the glass had given

back in the morning. Julie lingered a moment, staring at herself and

wondering. She was interrupted by Mrs. Sam Wicket who entered after a

preliminary knock.

“You back, Julie?” she said. And after Julie had stated that she was

back, “Did you speak to Winter and White’s about the stove?” she

inquired.

“I did,” Julie returned, “and they’ll write to you about it.”

“Humph! Writin’ ain’t much good. Well, did you do that other little

errand for me? I ain’t got a second to stop; my light bread’s ready to

come out of the oven right this minute.”

Julie fished out her especial package from the pile on the bed, and

handed it over to her.

“Well, I certainly do thank you for all your trouble,” Mrs. Wicket

said, and was just turning away, when she paused, struck by a further

thought. “Oh, there!” she exclaimed. “What I wanted to ask you last

night was, how you knew Brother Seabrook called on you to pray?”

“I was sitting just outside on the steps and heard him,” Julie returned

simply, looking straight at her.

“You--you was sitting on the steps?”

“Yes,” Julie proceeded. “I slipped out because I was afraid to be

called on, and after I got outside it was all so sweet and still, I

just sat down there for a little bit, till I heard him ask me to lead,

an’ then I came home.”

“Well!” Mrs. Wicket ejaculated. She was speechless a moment. Then she

burst out. “Well, I think that was the funniest thing!”

“Maybe it was,” Julie interrupted her, “but anyhow I did it.”

“But Julie! Sitting outside on the church steps ’cause you’re afraid to

pray?”

“Did you say your bread was in the oven?” Julie inquired.

“Yes, my bread-rolls; yes, that’s right. I got to go.” Mrs. Wicket

turned away. “But I do think that’s mighty funny, Julie,” she called

back as she went down the walk.

Julie shut her door and sat down in a chair. Suddenly she was

extraordinarily limp and exhausted. Her anger with its glorious

exaltation had evaporated, leaving her face to face with the appalling

things to which it had swept her.

“Why, I told her--I just told her everything right out!” she whispered.

“She’ll tell everybody; they’ll all be talking about it now. An’ I was

short to Mrs. Silas Randolph, of all people! And look how I answered

Kitty Jeffers about her waist. They won’t either of ’em like it.

They’ll all be talking about me.” Then her relaxed mind gave back to

her--what she had not noticed at the time--the words of encouragement

the loafer at the station had cried to her: “That’s right, Julie;

don’t take any foolishness off’n Ed! You got him goin’ now!” Why--how

awful! Right out there on the station platform! How awful for her to

have laid herself open to such conspicuousness! She shuddered, all her

nerves tightening once more with self-consciousness, and her cheeks

burning. “Oh, what a fool you are! Oh, how they’ll talk about you! They

won’t any of ’em understand!” Glancing up, she saw her face again in

the mirror, and now it was the same white and anxious reflection that

had looked out at her in the morning. Something in its impotent appeal

brought back the look of unprotected despair in the face of the little

man on the train. “Oh, I understand, I do understand,” she burst out

passionately. “Don’t look that way, _don’t_ take it so hard! Folks

don’t understand, but I do!” And she hardly knew whether her words were

addressed to his tragedy or to her own.

V

It was two days afterward that Julie saw Mr. Bixby again. She knew his

name now. The _Hart’s Run News_ had announced that Mr. Timothy Bixby,

an expert printer and typesetter, had accepted the position left vacant

by the departure of Hobson Jones, who had left for Camp Lee to answer

his call to the colors. The _News_ added further, “We are glad to

welcome Mr. and Mrs. Bixby to our midst.”

So that woman was his wife after all.

Their next meeting occurred when Mr. Bixby made his way to Julie’s

little shop, sent by his wife to match some pink yarn for a sweater

she was knitting. It was just like her, Julie thought, to be knitting

a sweater for herself when all the rest of the women were at work on

khaki wool for the soldiers. And like her, too, to send her husband,

because she was ashamed to ask for it herself. Julie had time to

think of these things because she was busy at the hat counter with a

customer, and so had to let Maida Watkins, who sometimes helped her

out in the shop, wait on Mr. Bixby.

“_Pink_ wool?” Maida demanded sharply, her cold young eyes piercing

him, and her teeth snapping together on her chewing-gum. Maida had been

expressing superiority, leisure, and indifference, as she stood behind

the counter, ruminating slowly upon her gum, the while she patted her

blond hair from time to time, or examined her polished nails; but when

Mr. Bixby entered, and holding out the sample made his timid request,

she shot “_Pink_ wool” at him, and clenched her teeth so tight on her

gum that the muscles stood out on either side of her jaws. The color

swept up uncomfortably to his eyes, making his face look blurred and

helpless.

“Yes, marm, if you please, marm: to match this sample if you got it,”

he stammered.

“No, we ain’t got it,” Maida returned, not even deigning to glance at

the wisp of yarn he proffered. “It’s only pro-Germans would keep pink

wool these days,” she informed him. After which she returned to her

haughty mastication, staring away out of the window over his head.

It was here that Julie abruptly laid down the hat she had been

displaying and swept forward. She was animated by the same rage that

had assailed her before. As she passed Maida she glared at her. “Show

Miss Jenkins that sport hat,” she commanded; and Maida with a startled

and indignant toss of her blond puffs melted away to the obscurity of

the hat counter.

Julie reached the open door just as Mr. Bixby was starting out of it.

“I’m mighty sorry I haven’t got what you want, Mr. Bixby,” she said. “I

hope you’ll call again.”

At her words he turned, and there was a sudden leap of surprise, of

recognition, and of release in his eyes. For an instant they stood and

looked at one another, the storm-tossed personalities of each finding

a harbor and refuge in the being of the other. He spoke first. “I--I

didn’t know,” he stumbled. “Is this your shop?”

She nodded. “Yes, I live here.”

But now she knew that Maida was turning to ask her something about

the hat she held, and she hastily snatched up the momentarily dropped

mantle of conventionality.

“I’m mighty sorry we haven’t any pink wool, Mr. Bixby,” she repeated,

although she was aware that Maida was regarding her with outraged

contempt.

He replied with a sudden surprising twist of whimsicality, an

unexpected twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Oh, well,” he appealed, “ain’t it just like me to ask for pink wool a

war year? Ain’t it just the ornary kind of thing I would do?”

He spoke as though she knew him quite well, and would understand

perfectly all the small disasters to which he was prone.

“Oh, well,” she said, still offering consolation, “Of course, a man

couldn’t be expected to know how hard it is to get any kind of wool

these days. Why, the Red Cross Committee has even sent over to Winter’s

Gap to see if they can’t get some homespun. Winter’s Gap is in the back

part of the county away from the railroad, where some of the old folks

still spin,” she explained.

“Is that so?” he said with interest. People were not usually interested

in Julie’s small remarks. “Well, I reckon I must be going,” he added,

conscious now of Maida’s severe eyes upon them. He made an uncertain

gesture toward his hat and turned away. As he raised his arm, Julie

caught sight of a rip in his sleeve.

“I don’t see why in the name of goodness that woman can’t keep him

mended up!” her thoughts ejaculated angrily.