Julie awoke the next morning in the dim and early light and sat up in
her berth. She had slept so profoundly, swept down to such depths of
unconsciousness, that for a moment on awakening she appeared to have
drifted beyond all the moorings of her accustomed self, so that it took
her a few moments of uncertain staring at the swaying green curtains of
the berth and at the flickering light across the bedclothes, to realize
that she was on the train. “I’m going home,” she told herself at last.
Yesterday, with all its complete shattering of her life in Richmond,
its agony of parting in the morning, and its long hot sufferings of the
ensuing day, was gone into the past, and this was to-morrow.
The man had come for her trunk soon after Tim had been arrested, and
Julie had managed to slip away out of the house without having to face
a parting and explanation with any of her friends there. She had spent
most of the long, oppressive, and tragic day in the railway station,
chiefly because she did not know where else to go. It was a strained
and terrible time of waiting in heat, and confusion, and the weary
sordid smells of humanity traveling in hot weather. Every now and again
waves of hysteria swept over her, so that it was only by gripping
her hands very tight, and by staring resolutely at the moving people
before her, that she succeeded in keeping herself from breaking down
altogether there in the public waiting-room. But finally the afternoon
came, then twilight and supper; and then at last her train was made up,
and she could get on and go to bed in the sleeping-car where she had
been fortunate enough to secure a berth. She was so completely worn out
by the sleeplessness of the night before and by all she had suffered,
that--as soon as the train got under way and the intense city heat had
lessened as it took the cool open stretches of the country night--the
swaying of her berth, and the monotonous gray roar of the wheels,
broken only by an occasional hollow moment running through the pattern
of the gray roar as the train swept over a culvert, relaxed her all
over, lulling her down and down through hazy thoughts, dreams, and at
last into sleep and profound unconsciousness.
Now it was morning; she was awake again and, sitting up in her berth,
looking at the light, she told herself, “I’m going home.” She realized
that the air was cool and fresh, almost sharp. Putting up the curtain,
she peeped out. The train was on an up-grade, pushing its way steadily
along through deep cuts which occasionally closed into tunnels, or
again running out into the open along the edges of hillsides, from the
steep drop of which one looked down into hollows and little valleys
filled with mists.
“We’ve struck the mountains, I’ve come home!” she breathed. She clasped
her arms tight around her knees, and the long swell of a deep emotion
laid hold upon her. Somewhere in the profound sleep of the night the
tension of life had snapped, releasing her into something sure and
steadfast. Big things--pity, truth, love, mountains, God, the sky,
came shouldering boldly up through all the trivialities of life, and
gathered her into an enormous peace. “I’ve broke through, I’ve broke
through,” she whispered, “through into the big things. An’ _he’s_
broke through, too! He’s safe, they can’t tetch him now--they can’t lay
the weight of a finger on him now. He’s out in the deep channel. He’s
safe in the Lord.”
All her prim acquired English fell from her, and she turned back to the
phraseology of her mountain people. Her thoughts ran out in a medley of
confused, disjointed sentences, such as she had been accustomed to hear
in shouting revivals in her church: ejaculations, snatches of hymns,
remembered terms of the lumber camps--an overflowing of the spirit that
clothed itself in any words that came.
“We’ve broke through, we’ve broke through,” she whispered that, over
and over. “O my Lord! We’ve broke through! Freedom--freedom! There
ain’t nothin’ big enough to hold it. ‘Shout, you mourners, you shall be
free’--free in the Lord! The deep channel! The deep channel! He’s safe
now, like I am! We ain’t hung up in the shallers no more--the jam’s
broke an’ we’re out in the deep channel of the river, traveling free in
the peace of the Lord.”
An ecstasy of depths of peace and stillness engulfed her, a vision of
the enormousness and profundity of life which was God, so that the
tears ran down over her illumined face.
“O my Lord!” she whispered, over and over, “O my Lord, you’ve fetched
us home! You’ve give us sight. We ain’t just ourselves no more. You’ve
showed us a vision of the other folks--my sister, my brother! An’ now
we’re free. There’s freedom in the world for the little scary folks
if they go down deep enough. We _are_ free!” she cried. “My love, my
honey, my dear love, we’re safe at last! We’re traveling free in the
vision of the Lord!”
She stared out of the window at the long stretches of mountains and
valleys, with the sky above, and knew a deep kinship with them, as
well. “Freedom,” she thought. “Nothin’ can’t hold it all. Nothin’ kin
hold me. I kin stretch out all acrost the mountains, an’ lay down in
the sky, an’ I’m deep-rooted in the everlastin’ hills. O my Lord, O my
Lord!” The breathless ejaculations flowed away into complete silence,
where only the tears running from her closed eyes could express the
ecstasy of adoration that held her.
She still inhabited the same small and meagre body, but the spirit that
flowed through her now was free of all the world, and with it came an
enormous outstretching compassion, understanding, and tenderness for
all suffering.
An hour later she stepped off the train at Hart’s Run. It was a morning
in late September. An intense sparkling light fell over the world,
driving the mists away from the parti-colored hills, and disclosing the
immense dome of the blue sky.
Gathering up her hand luggage, Julie walked lightly along the familiar
platform, her footsteps answering the rhythm of the words, “I’ve come
home, I’ve come home.”
The first person to see her was Edward Black. He was pushing a
truckload of trunks, and when he caught sight of her he stopped dead
and half sat down upon the truck handles to gaze in stupefaction.
“Julie Rose! _You_ back?” he cried.
She met his eyes steadily, gazing forth at him from that deep centre of
herself. “Yes, Ed, I’m back. I’ve come home,” she answered.
His first astonishment gave place then to a mean and taunting look. He
leered as she passed and said softly, “Well, I reckon you an’ Mis’
Bixby’s husband had a high old time together.”
But she went by untouched, the insult blowing past her as lightly as a
summer wind. The great experience through which she had passed had been
out in the deep channel of the spirit. How could Ed Black know anything
about it? How could any words of his even touch it, much less hurt her?
She looked full at him as she passed, and in that instant of detached
scrutiny she was conscious of a sudden stab of pity. For a moment she
knew the man for what he was--a poor mean nature, destined always to
inhabit the murky backwaters of life, incapable of ever striking out
into the clear depths of any great emotion--a crippled bit of humanity
never again to be afraid of or bullied by, only to be sorry for. “Poor
Ed,” she thought, as she went down the platform and turned along the
main street. The morning air touched her face refreshingly, there
were drifts of great white clouds in the sky, and the mountains--the
mountains that she had been born and brought up in! “I’ve come home,
I’ve come home!” she whispered again.
Coming up the street a little in advance of her, she presently
perceived Brother Seabrook. He was pacing along abstractedly, his head
bent over his newspaper, which he had just secured from the post office
and which bore tall excited headlines about the war. A little distance
away, conscious that some one was approaching, he glanced up, saw her,
and stopped for one paralyzed instant. His hand went mechanically
toward his hat, but he checked it and, thrusting it into his breast
pocket, pretended to feel for something; then he faced abruptly round
and hastened in the opposite direction, as though suddenly reminded of
important business elsewhere.
A little farther on Julie saw Mrs. Silas Randolph’s colored girl come
out in the street to cross to the meat market. Suddenly she also saw
Julie, and stopped in her tracks as had the others. She, however,
attempted no subterfuge for her astonishment, but stood frankly still
in the middle of the street, staring with her mouth open. Julie spoke
to her as she passed, but the girl did not respond; after one more
thorough stare, she turned and ran back across the street, stumbling
under the excitement and haste of her news, turning her head back every
now and again over her shoulder to be sure of what she had seen.
Julie knew that she had raced back to tell her mistress of the return.
She knew that the latter would not believe her, but would run to the
window to peer out herself, and that, then catching unmistakable sight
of Julie, she would go to the phone and ring up different intimates to
impart the news to them, using cryptic sentences supposed to baffle
any eavesdropper on the wire. Julie knew that even now Mrs. Randolph’s
incredulous eyes were fixed upon her back as she continued along the
street. She knew her village, she knew what she had done and what she
would have to face, yet it could not break that high serenity in which
she moved. There was, too, a great peace in the thought that here all
was known. It was a part of her standing square with the world. There
would not be here any sudden pistol-shot, or the vision of an old woman
on the floor, brought to that end by what she had done.
As she went along the street, she heard a little frightened mewing,
and looking down perceived a gray kitten backed against the palings of
one of the garden fences. It was very small and helpless, and in its
wide kitten-eyes was a passion of terror. It had been chased by dogs
and boys and rolled in the dust, and one little paw was bleeding. Its
agony, its baby helplessness, and soft hurt paw stabbed Julie with an
infinite compassion.
She dropped her bag and stooped quickly down.
“Poor little kitsy--poor little kitsy,” she murmured tenderly. The
little frightened creature squeezed itself harder than ever against
the fence, spitting helplessly at Julie’s hand and trying to strike
with its tiny paw. “Don’t be scared, kitsy--poor little kitsy, there
ain’t anything to be scared of--nothing to be scared of any more,”
Julie comforted it. She gathered the little trembling body up, pressing
it close to her warm neck; and so, with the kitten held against her
breast, she came at last to her own little shop. Suddenly, as she
looked at it staring out upon the street with its shuttered blank eyes,
something clutched her throat. For one sharp suffocating moment she
almost saw her mother stand there, her apron blowing in the wind as of
old.
“_Mother!_ I’ve come home, I’ve come home,” she whispered breathlessly.
The side gate to her garden was broken and hanging upon one hinge. A
cow had squeezed its way through, defiling the little cement walk, and
trampling over and ravishing her flower beds, so that there were only
a few broken chrysanthemums left. The house was completely deserted.
Evidently Aunt Sadie was still away with her daughter.
Julie went up the walk and up the steps and, taking the key from her
bag, unlocked the door and threw it open. The cold musty smell of the
closed house rushed out to meet her, but she entered unhesitatingly.
In the kitchen she set down her bag and the little kitten, and went
about opening the windows and throwing shutters wide so that the sun
and fresh air flooded in. As she looked out from the front window of
her shop, she saw a woman walking down the middle of the street with a
white mask over her mouth. Julie stared at her for a moment. “So the
flu’s reached Hart’s Run,” she thought, and wondered how bad it was.
She had not had any breakfast, and she went out and bought some
supplies at the grocery. A new clerk was there who did not know her.
“Where’s Picket Forster?” she asked.
“Over in France,” the new clerk returned briefly.
Julie went back with her purchases and got herself some breakfast, and
was feeding the famished kitten, when the back door darkened and Mrs.
Dolly Anderson’s large figure towered above her.
“_Well_,” she cried, her eyes snapping, “I never b’lieved ’em when they
said you was back.”
“Yes, I’m back,” Julie returned simply.
The other continued to stand and stare. “Where you been all this time?”
she demanded at length.
“In Richmond,” Julie answered.
“In Richmond? Well, there’s been a heap of talk goin’ the rounds about
you, Julie.”
“I suppose there has,” Julie assented. She sat down and, taking the
kitten which was fed and comforted now, upon her knee, began to stroke
it softly. “Won’t you sit down?” she said politely.
“No, I’ll not sit down,” Mrs. Anderson returned heavily, and remained
upon her feet.
“Julie,” she said at length, “did you--did you--” she hesitated.
“Did I go off with Mr. Bixby, you mean,” Julie answered steadily. “Yes,
I did. We’ve been together in Richmond for the last two months.”
The other woman’s mouth dropped open. “An’ you _dare_ to come back here
to Hart’s Run an’ tell a tale like that?” she cried furiously.
“I don’t dare not to. I want folks to know the truth.”
“You _want_ ’em to know?”
“Yes, I want to stand straight with the world.”
“You _want_ ’em to know?” the other reiterated violently. “Well, upon
my soul! I don’t believe you’ve got one shred of decency left.”
She glared at Julie, who made no retort but went on gently stroking the
kitten, which was curled on her knee, comforted now, and blowing an
occasional silver bubble as it purred.
“_Quit_ foolin’ with that nasty little cat, an’ listen to me!” Mrs.
Anderson stormed. “What I want to know is how you ever come to do such
a thing--raised like you’ve been?”
Julie looked at her out of still eyes. How had she come to do it? How
could she ever explain to Mrs. Anderson how it had happened? How could
she explain the long repression of soul that had led her and Timothy
Bixby to blow the lid off so violently at last? There were too many
fine shades of meaning in it for her ever to make the other understand.
In truth, she could hardly understand it herself. What had happened was
down so deep in the elemental things of life that she could not put it
into words.
“I don’t think I could possibly tell you why we did it,” she answered
at length. “We cared for each other, but--but we parted as soon as we
saw it was wrong--that what we did was hurting other folks.”
“You parted as soon as you knew it was wrong? You mean to say you
didn’t know right from the first that it was wrong to go off with
another woman’s husband--an’ him a draft dodger, too? Oh, you needn’t
come back to Hart’s Run an’ tell a tale like _that_, an’ expect decent
folks to go right along an’ treat you like nothing had happened. They
won’t do it, I tell you!”
“I don’t expect them to,” Julie said.
“Well, it’s lucky you don’t. Folks won’t stand for any such carryings
on. You’ll be put out of the church. Brother Seabrook’ll put you right
out--I know he will. I don’t see to save me how you dared to come back.”
“Why, I _had_ to come back here,” Julie cried. “It’s my home--it’s
where I belong. Why, I’m rooted here.”
“Well, folks ain’t goin’ to have one thing to do with you, I tell you!
I don’t know in my soul what I’m doin’ here right this minute! And
other folks ain’t goin’ to have _nothing_ to do with you.”
“No, I reckon not,” Julie answered, “but here’s where I belong just the
same.” She looked away out of the window and rested her eyes on the
sweep of autumn hills surrounding the village--she who had been for
weeks in the city, and a flat country. “Maybe you’re right, an’ folks
won’t have anything more to do with me--but--but--the mountains are
here, an’ the sun’ll rise an’ set, an’ the snow come in the winter, an’
the sap run in spring. It’s where I belong.”
“_Julie Rose!_ Upon my word I just b’lieve you’ve lost your mind!” the
other broke in.
“I’ve found my soul,” Julie interposed beneath her breath.
“There you set, nursing that nasty cat, an’ not carin’ one thing what
people think.”
“I care what God thinks.”
“Well--you better be thinking about your sin then,” Mrs. Anderson
retorted.
“My sin,” Julie repeated, and suddenly she saw an inward picture of old
Miss Fogg’s gray head upon the floor. “But--but God forgives sins!” she
cried poignantly. “He does forgive them. ‘A broken and a contrite heart
He will not despise’--the Bible says so!”
“That’s all right about the Bible,” Mrs. Anderson cried savagely. “But
you ain’t livin’ in the Bible; you’re livin’ right here in Hart’s Run.
An’ I tell you Hart’s Run folks ain’t goin’ to stand for this: they’ll
put you out of the church--you see if they don’t.”
“Will they put the Bible out, too?” A voice spoke suddenly behind them.
Turning, they saw that Doctor Franklin had come in through the front
shop and was standing looking at them. He was a country doctor,
loose-limbed, gaunt, and gray, and old--a man born in Hart’s Run, who
had ridden all the roads about it from the old horseback days down to
Ford-car times--a man who knew intimately all the physical ills and
many of the mental and spiritual ones as well, in a radius of thirty
miles--old Doc’ Franklin--old Doc’ Franklin. When people were born
he was there, and when they died he was there, gaunt and quiet and
natural, very deeply rooted, patient, and unshaken, whether he watched
at the gates of birth or at the gates of death.
They did not know how long he had been standing there.
“Well, but look a-here, Doctor,” Mrs. Anderson protested. “Here’s Julie
Rose settin’ there foolin’ over that nasty little cat, an’ not caring
_one thing_ what folks thinks of her!”
The doctor put out one long finger, and gently rubbed the kitten’s
little mouse-colored head. Fed and reassured, it looked up at him now
out of the blue loveliness of kitten-eyes, purring happily back and
forth, blowing out that occasional, impudent, and care-free bubble.
“Well, that’s sort of like me,” he said. “Other folks have time to
calculate who can stay in the church, an’ who’s got to be put out--it’s
all too mixed up for me to know. All I know is I’ve got some mighty
sick patients up the Easter road, an’ I’ve got to dust out there an’
see ’em.”
Julie looked up into the weather-beaten old face above her. “Look at
the kitten’s paw,” she begged. “Is it broken?”
He ran a thumb and forefinger lightly down the furry leg. “No, just a
bruise,” he said. “No, little cat, you’re all right,” he added for the
small patient’s benefit, giving another little tap on its head. “Julie,
have you got any fly-netting? That’s what I stopped for when I saw your
shop was open.”
“How’s the flu, doctor?” Mrs. Anderson interposed. “Any fresh cases?”
“Half a dozen, an’ not near enough people to nurse the sick ones,” he
answered. “The Chapin family’s the worst. The father died last night
and Mrs. Chapin and the boy are just as bad off as they can be--nobody
in the house to help, an’ the neighbors not doin’ as much as they might
on account of the boy’s record. Maybe I could get you to go out there
and lend a hand for a day or so,” he said, looking at Mrs. Anderson.
“Not me,” she retorted promptly. “I’m scared to death of the flu--I’d
run a mile from it--an’ more’n that, I wouldn’t turn my hand over for
that boy after the way he disgraced the whole county in camp.”
Julie put the kitten down and stood up. “I’ll go with you right away,
doctor,” she said. “I’ve got my things here in the suit-case, an’ I’ll
get the fly-netting.”
He looked at her. “It’s hard work, Julie,” he said. “You’ve never been
very stout, you know. Do you reckon you can stand it?”
“I can stand anything now,” she told him.
“Things are in right much of a mess out there,” he hesitated.
“Then that’s where I belong,” she answered.