Part 13

“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.

XXII

The doctor took Julie in his old Ford car, along the Easter road out to the Chapins.

She sat beside him very relaxed and still, her hands lying loosely in her lap. Her eyes were rested and refreshed by the September scenery; by the tawny hills, black cloud-shadows blowing over them down into the hollows and racing up the ridges, turning their colors dark for a moment, and then giving them back to the sun; by the weathered rail-fences on either side, with red blackberry leaves, asters, and goldenrod snuggled against them; and by silver fluffs of milkweed pods that the sun had ripened and burst, and that now the wind was tossing to pieces to bear each little winged seed away on an adventure of life of its own.

The Easter road, white and dusty, led away in front of them, with the mountains towering up on either side and above, the endless sky bridging it over.

There was still that wide sense of immensity and peace upon Julie, of freedom, and of return, and the knowledge, also, that Tim had come into the same deep serenity.

“I’ve come home, I’ve come home”--the words went on saying themselves over in her mind.

Once, unconsciously, she spoke them half out-loud. “I’ve come home.”

The old doctor looked down at her. He did not seem surprised. “Home’s a good place to be,” he said.

“It’s where I belong,” she replied.

He nodded, “Yes,” again, his old brown hands on the wheel, turning it deftly to avoid a sudden hump, his eyes upon the road ahead. Old Doc’ Franklin, riding the roads of Stag County from horseback and saddlebag days down to gasolene and Ford cars. Old Doc’ Franklin, riding the roads of life down at the heart of the world; present in the great moments of existence, in the agony of birth, in the hour of death; sent for in haste and terror in the catastrophe of pain; forgotten in the times of health. Old Doc’ Franklin--you don’t fool him and you don’t shock him. Tolerant, elemental, undeceived, and faithful; familiar alike with the ravings of delirium tremens and with the prayers of dying saints; as uncritical of both as life itself, or the showers of God--old Doc’ Franklin. He hadn’t made the world--not he. Why should he judge or condemn? He helped people into life if they wished to come, and he helped them out again when they had to go; but how they behaved while here was none of his business. His job was to meet each need that the day presented, patient, forbearing, pitiful, mending where he could. Old Doc’ Franklin--gnarled, and weathered, and lined, like an apple tree on a bleak hillside; but sound and deep-rooted still.

Sitting beside him in his mud-splashed car, with the mountains on either side, the sky above, and the road before them, Julie was almost as simple, direct, and deep-rooted now as he was himself. Ahead, along the Easter road, the Chapin man was dead, the mother and the son desperately ill. Sorrow and disaster awaited them: suffering people and a distracted house. Here was something that they might do, work for them down at the heart of the world, work for them that was natural, sincere, and pitiful.

The doctor glanced down from time to time at Julie, looking at her clear quiet profile. Once he asked, “What became of little Bixby?”

She turned her still eyes upon him and answered simply, “They arrested him for not answering his draft call. He was just fixing to give himself up; they came before he could; but he’s all right.”

“All right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Things can’t get at him now like they used to. They can’t touch him now--he’s safe, he’s found himself, he’s out in the deep channel like I am.”

A little later, the doctor brought his car to a standstill before the Chapins’ dooryard. The log-house, small and weathered, looked peaceful enough on the outside, with the September sun flowing over it, a white chicken or two walking its grass, and little borders of late flowers running down to the gate; but inside human beings were at grips with death.

Old Doc’ Franklin, long and awkward and loose-jointed, a little tired-looking about the eyes, but still going, picked up his worn bag and swung himself out.

“Come on, Julie,” he said, “here’s our job.”

Was it the old doctor, or was it life itself, holding out a hand to Julie Rose, there at the end of the Easter road?

Printed by McGrath-Sherrill Press, Boston Bound by Boston Bookbinding Co., Cambridge

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.