Part 6

It was a rather disjointed supper party. Julie had to vibrate constantly between kitchen and dining-room, serving the waffles, and Mrs. Johnson was forever jumping up to hand somebody something. Her idea of entertainment was to see that her guests were well fed, over-fed,--stuffed, in fact,--and conversation was left to struggle along as best it could. Little hopeful fragments of talk were started, but constantly shattered by the necessity for serving a fresh batch of waffles, or by her starting up to get out a glass of some new kind of preserve. Brother Seabrook tried bravely to converse with his hostess, but it was no easy matter. “Yes, yes,” she responded absently to some promising remark, “Now do have one of Julie’s hot waffles, Mr. Seabrook, they’re right fresh from the iron”; or, in sudden accusation, “Why, Mr. Seabrook, you haven’t one thing on your plate!” Valiantly as the poor man struggled to see the surface of his plate, he never saw it, for always as he politely got through one mountain of food, another avalanche descended upon it. He ate manfully, however, replying as best he might to Elizabeth’s insistent talk, and trying from time to time to drag Mr. Bixby into the stream of conversation, as a small boy, not too happy in the swimming-hole, tries to urge other tentative little boys upon the bank to “come on in.” But this Elizabeth always circumvented. Whenever her husband essayed a plunge into the talk, encouraged thereto by Brother Seabrook or in a moment of his own unaided daring, she immediately chased him into silence with some sharp retort. So for the most part he ate his supper without a word. He ate it, too, as though he were very hungry. Unfortunately he told his hostess that it was just about the best supper he ever did eat. He said it in an aside, but Elizabeth overheard and paused just long enough in something she was telling Brother Seabrook to pounce upon him with, “Now _that’s_ a pretty thing to say, ain’t it! Like your own wife kep’ you half starved!”

After that Mr. Bixby fell out of the conversation altogether, only raising his eyes from his plate to glance from time to time at Julie as she came and went with her waffles. In her neat sprigged dress she looked soft and gentle. Her face was a little flushed; one dark strand of hair fell over her forehead, and when she turned to go back to the kitchen, he could see that there were two little ringlets that made curls at the nape of her neck.

Waffle-making was an art with Julie. In the practice of it she even forgot her usual feeling of constraint and breathlessness toward Elizabeth, and served her as eagerly as the rest. In her unconscious delight in doing a thing she loved to do and could do well, she created a content and serenity that drew Mr. Bixby’s eyes continually toward her, and also made the Reverend Mr. Seabrook, who appeared to harbor no malice for that brief episode in the church, rather absent to Elizabeth’s stream of talk. Elizabeth had come to the party intent on making an impression, but much as her elaborate talk and dashing costume thrust her into the foreground, she felt herself constantly in danger of being swept away into the background every time that Julie entered with fresh waffles.

It was the summer of 1918, and naturally most of the fitful conversation turned upon the war, although Elizabeth said flatly that she was just sick to death of the hateful business; and Aunt Sadie answered Brother Seabrook’s scraps of war news with, “Yes, yes--have some preserves?” The reverend gentleman, however, was patriotic, and would not be deflected from the subject.

“Well,” Elizabeth said, at last, making the best of it, “my husband’s liable to get his draft call most any time now. It’ll be right hard on me, but if the country needs him, I’ll have to give him, I reckon. Everybody’s got to do their bit.”

She patted her hair and sighed, basking in her own nobility.

Though Aunt Sadie tolerated Elizabeth, she was apt to flash out at her every now and again.

“_You_ give him?” she snorted. “Humph! that sounds mighty grand, but believe _me_ if Uncle Sam wants him, he’ll take him all right, without any giving on your part.”

Elizabeth’s eyes glittered angrily. She did not quite dare to cross swords with the older woman, so she turned upon her husband.

“Well, he’ll make a great soldier, won’t he!” she jeered.

“Why, I wouldn’t hardly think he was up to the standard height,” Brother Seabrook said, running his eye appraisingly over Mr. Bixby.

“Oh, it ain’t always the biggest men makes the best soldiers,” Mrs. Johnson protested.

They all fixed their scrutinizing eyes upon the little man, but none of them spoke directly to him, unconsciously following the impersonal attitude that Elizabeth had adopted.

Julie was standing in the background, having just returned from the kitchen. She had paused involuntarily when she heard Elizabeth’s remark about Mr. Bixby’s being drafted, and her eyes went quickly to his face. She saw his lips give that faint nervous twitch, and his face stiffen. Then when they all turned their impersonal scrutiny upon him, as though they were inspecting some curious specimen, she saw the unhappy crimson flush up to his eyes.

“What’s the matter with us?” Julie thought violently, unconsciously classing herself with him. “Why can’t folks see us? We’re there just like anybody else, but they always act like they didn’t see us. Someway we stand outside of people’s minds, an’ have to wait for them to open an’ let us in. And they never do.”

Suddenly familiar words flashed upon her with such vividness as to leave her giddy. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” She was aware of so enormous an extension of understanding that the whole of it was beyond her grasp, making her feel for an instant as though she reeled into a larger world. She knew that it was just Mr. Bixby sitting there, silent and embarrassed, shut away from life by the impersonal eyes upon him; and yet in that moment of insight it seemed to her that the great essence of humanity was there looking forth from the caged bars of the little man’s face, waiting patiently, terribly, for an invitation to enter. “I got to let him in--I _got_ to get the door open someway an’ let him in!” she thought fiercely. She moved forward quickly, holding out her plate of waffles. “Have a fresh waffle, Mr. Bixby,” she urged. “These are nice and crisp. I’d like for _you_ to try one.”

It was all perfectly simple and natural, and yet the slight emphasis she laid upon the personal pronoun seemed to open the door for him that he might emerge into the life of a real human being, set free from the negative limbo to which the others had driven him.

He looked up quickly and gladly into her face, with that look of release and freedom, and the breaking of a constricting cord which she had read in his expression before.

“I thank you, I thank you, Miss Julie,” he said gratefully. It was the first time he had dared the intimacy of her Christian name. He helped himself, and, fortified by her creative touch, held the waffle suspended upon his fork for a moment’s approving contemplation.

“My!” he said, with the air of a connoisseur, “That’s about the finest thing in the way of waffle-flesh I ever did see. I’d recommend you to try one of this batch, Brother Seabrook,” he urged.

“Well, I thought I was about done, but if you advise it, Brother Bixby--” Brother Seabrook hesitated.

“I don’t just advise you to take one, I prescribe it for your health,” Mr. Bixby returned; at which every one laughed except Elizabeth, who was furious over his being allowed any personality.

But for the other two Julie had opened the door and let him in, so that he emerged into their consciousness as some one to be taken into account. Brother Seabrook fell into talk with him about the war, and as to the possibility of his draft call, ignoring Elizabeth’s ruffled attempts to draw the conversation back to herself. The supper came to an end presently, and to Elizabeth’s chagrin, Mrs. Johnson accepted her perfunctory offer to help with the dishes.

“Yes,” she said, “you stay with me, Mis’ Bixby, an’ we’ll let Julie go out to the porch an’ entertain the men-folks for a spell. She needs a rest an’ cool-off ’fore we go to the show.”

“Well, you picked a poor hand to help you,” Elizabeth said tartly. “If there’s one thing I do despise, it’s dirty dishes. Here, Tim!” she cried to her husband; and then, realizing that if she called him back that would leave Brother Seabrook in a tête-à-tête with Julie, she said, “Oh, well, go on then”; for she suspected in the minister an interest in Julie which she resented. Her manœuvres were all so obvious and usually so futile, that Julie, informed by that wider understanding, felt a sudden pity for her.

“I’ll stay and help you with the dishes,” she offered.

But this Aunt Sadie would not allow. “No, you go on now, Julie; you’ve done your bit. You go out on the porch an’ cool off,” she ordered.

While the table was being cleared, Julie and the two men sat together in the dusk of the side porch. Julie did not talk much. She did not want to. She was slightly tired, and was content to listen to the other two. She liked to hear Mr. Bixby. It was amazing how much he found to say when the stifling incubus of Elizabeth was withdrawn. For a time the talk was still about the war, but presently it drifted away to other topics, and as that was left behind, Julie was conscious that there appeared in his voice a note of relief and picking up of interest. He talked more quickly and easily, describing the matter of printing. His father, it appeared, had been a printer before him. He had learned the trade from him. He said, “I like it.” He said that over frequently in variations. “Somehow I like it. I like a good bit of printing,” and “I liked it from the first, when I was just a kid.” He made what he said interesting: so much so that Brother Seabrook was glad to listen and said, “Well, well, is that so?” frequently. Neither of the men spoke especially to Julie, yet she knew that they were both aware of her presence, and stimulated by it.

She liked sitting there in the dusk, making the background for their conversation. She had a curious sense that something out of herself flowed forth and made a successful medium for their talk. She knew that if she had not been there Mr. Bixby could never have spoken so well and so easily about his trade. Without the touch of her sympathy, together with the mantle of the dusk, he could never have let so much of himself appear; he would not have been interesting, and Brother Seabrook would have seized the conversation and borne it away in his own large declamatory tones.

It was not long, however, before this little friendly interim was broken. The other two reappeared, and Aunt Sadie hurried them all off to the moving-picture theatre. There Elizabeth managed to secure the seat next to Brother Seabrook, a manœuvre which Aunt Sadie was not quick enough to frustrate. She would not, however, permit her guest of honor to be snatched completely from her, and so squeezed herself down firmly beside them, leaving Julie and Mr. Bixby to find seats together elsewhere.

The entertainment was preceded by a patriotic rally on behalf of one of the Liberty Loans, and as Judge Dean--the main speaker of the evening, who had come from Red River to address the Hart’s Run people--was just beginning his speech, they hastily obliterated themselves in back seats. They listened dutifully through the speech, and to the subscribing for bonds which followed, although they took no part in it, as Julie had already bought two bonds, and Mr. Bixby whispered that he too was carrying about all he could manage.

After the drive for the Loan was over, the lights were lowered, and the moving pictures began; and as always in those summer days of 1918, soldiers went marching by upon the screen. Soldiers drilling at Camp Lee; running up the flag--for a moment Old Glory waved and rippled in the wind before them, and the crowd went wild with applause; soldiers on a transport; American soldiers marching through Paris. At the sight of them and at the sound of the continuous applause, Julie felt the man beside her stiffen. “I’m liable to get my call any time now,” he whispered suddenly in the dimness.

It was only what his wife had said at supper, but now it was different. Then it had been an almost impersonal statement. Now his low voice made it alive and real, an approaching event upon which a human being’s whole life was hung.

“You heard ’em speak of it at table?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she nodded faintly.

The light from the screen glimmered upon his face, and he looked and looked at the men slipping by before him. Suddenly for Julie there seemed to be nothing in the house save those marching figures, and his white face watching them. She fixed her eyes upon them also and a twist of horror shot through her. “Look at those men,” she thought. “Look at all of them--those are all real men--they aren’t just pictures, they’re real. Every soldier there is--or was--a real person. Oh, my Lord!” she thought suddenly, “I wonder what they’re up against now.”

At last the war pictures flashed out and a play began. Mr. Bixby drew a deep breath and Julie felt him relax. He turned to her. “I--I was mightily obliged to you,” he ventured, speaking softly.

Julie knew what he meant, but she wondered if he was aware of what she had done.

“What for?” she questioned.

“Why, _you_ know.” He seemed surprised that she should ask. “At supper, for helping me out. I mean for sort of bringing me into things. After what you did, they saw I was there. But--_you_ know,” he broke off.

“Yes, I know,” she answered.

“You’ve known right from the first,” he said, daring to speak in the half obscuring dark. “When you’re there, I always know you understand. She--I mean--” he cut himself off; “some people seem to sort of strangle me. I don’t know how it is, but someway, I just can’t get to the surface with them.”

“Can’t get to the surface?” she asked quickly.

“Yes. I mean, to get into the world at all. It was like I wasn’t all in; they seem to slam a door in my face, an’ squeeze me out. I’m only half alive with them. They go right along as though I wasn’t there. I don’t know what it is.” He paused uncertainly, as though trying to blaze a pathway of words through a maze of difficult and heretofore unexpressed thoughts. “I reckon it’s my fault someway--I don’t know--or maybe it’s because I’m insignificant-looking an’ small--though I’m really only a little bit below average height--but folks go along an’ don’t even seem to see me.”

“I know: I understand,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he whispered sharply, “you do know. That’s just it. You’ve understood right from the first! There was never anybody else who ever did.”

“It’s--it’s the same with me,” she confessed, a thrill of emotion in her voice. “That’s why I understand. Some folks just choke me--an’ I--someway, I don’t know how to stand up against them.”

“Ain’t that funny?” He spoke wonderingly. “Ain’t it funny? I thought I was the only one in the world that way.”

“I know. I thought that, too.”

They spoke slowly, little pauses between each sentence, as they felt their way on this dim pathway out toward each other.

When suddenly the play came to an end, the theatre lights flashed up, and they heard Elizabeth’s loud confident laugh, they were startled and astray, as though they had come back into a strange world.

XI

That was a strained summer in Hart’s Run, an uneasy, nervous war-summer, throwing the village people out of all their accustomed ways, as they gave themselves to the business of war. Speakers were sent to them for the various “drives,” from Red River and even occasionally from Washington as well. Judge Dean spoke to them in his soft slow voice--oratory strangely different and much more impressive than the flamboyant outbursts of the ordinary campaign-days. “Strictly speaking,” he said softly, “your country has no business at the present time but the business of killing Huns; and strictly speaking, _you_ have no business but the business of killing Huns.”

What an amazing business for Hart’s Run! What had Hart’s Run, up to 1914, ever known about Huns? The nervous, high-strung days went by with Red Cross work, patriotic rallies, the conservation of food, and the tense reading of headlines. Long troop-trains went through Hart’s Run by night and by day, and every now and again a little handful of village men, and men from the surrounding country, left for Camp Lee.

The business of killing Huns--an amazing business indeed for Julie Rose! What did she know about Huns? She subscribed to the Liberty Loans, she worked for the Red Cross, she saved food conscientiously, and she listened to what others read out of the papers; but in truth the war did not touch her very acutely. She did all her duty, and more. She felt some of the horror of the war; but for the most part she looked on as an outsider. So it always was with her. She had always been an outsider--not quite in touch with the rest of the world. People were constantly crowding her shy sensitive nature to one side. As a child she had never been “in it” in the games at school, and now as a grown person she was not in it with her country in this terrible game. Perhaps because of this aloofness, which her timid nature had thrust upon her, she did not now feel much of the intense patriotism that ran through the country. That great uplifting thrill of close interest and contact with other human beings that came to many at that time was denied to Julie. She did all that was required of her; but she was untouched by any rewarding flame of consecration.

“It certainly is awful,” she said from time to time. But the awfulness of the war had been going on since 1914, and the first edge of it was gone. Yet sometimes the horror stuck its head out abruptly in their very midst. It did for Julie on the day that she read in the _Hart’s Run News_ of the death of John Webster in France. “One of our Stag County young men,” the _News_ announced, “whose parents, Mr. and Mrs. Otley Webster, are prominent citizens of Red River.” Why, yes; Julie knew the Websters. She had met them once at Henr’etta’s, and Henr’etta was always talking about Effie Webster--about her clothes, her car, how stylish she was, and about her set of new china. Henr’etta had told Julie about that china the last time she was in Red River. And now Effie Webster’s boy was dead in France. Julie shivered, and thought what awful deaths men had to die. She was rather accustomed to violent death in the lumber camps, in the mining-fields west of Hart’s Run, and on the railroads. Hadn’t her own father been killed by a falling tree? Julie recalled his death with a quiver--that stretched look of suffering, which had so widened and whitened his face. She was thinking of these things a week or so after the supper party, sitting under the light in her back room, knitting on a sweater, when Aunt Sadie came in to her from the other side of the house.

“Come on, Julie, let’s go to the picture show this evening,” she suggested.

“I can’t,” Julie returned. “I’ve got to get on with this Red Cross sweater.”

“Well,” the other sighed, “I reckon I oughtn’t to tempt you away from your duty, with our men givin’ their lives over there. Ain’t it awful about that Mrs. Webster’s boy!”

“Awful,” Julie assented.

“It’s the third one of our Stag County young men to go. That boy from Whifen that was killed early in the war, an’ that young feller that was in the Marines, and now Mrs. Webster’s son. They said when they got the word his mother just fell right over on the floor, an’ was dead for five hours. He was her only boy, and the baby child; an’ now him dead ’way off there--one of our men dead over in France--ain’t it awful?”

“Yes, awful,” Julie repeated, hurrying nervously on with her knitting.

“Well--and did you hear about the Chapin boy?” Aunt Sadie continued.

“No. What about him? What Chapin boy?” Julie asked, startled.

“Why, you know those Chapins that live out on the Easter Road, ’bout five miles from town? It’s a little log-house, sits back from the road in a right pretty yard.”

“Oh, yes, I know. What about the boy?” Julie questioned.

“Well, they had to send him back from camp. They couldn’t do one thing with him. He just cried all the time.”

“_Cried_ all the time?”

“Um--’m.” Mrs. Johnson firmed her lips to a straight line, and nodded her head up and down heavily. “Yes, they couldn’t do one thing with him.”

“But--but what was the matter with him?” Julie persisted.

“I don’t know. He just cried all the time. Lost his nerve, I reckon. They sent him back home. They said he wasn’t no good to them. His father feels terrible; says he always was a nervous kind of a boy, an’ his mother humored him along till she just ruined him.”

“Oh, the poor boy!” Julie cried.

“Well my Lord, Julie! Just s’pose all our men were like that; what would Uncle Sam do?”

“Oh, of course, I know. Only--how awful it was for him!”

“Well, I’m mighty glad he ain’t _my_ son,” Aunt Sadie retorted. “It’ll be a thing people’ll throw up against him all his life. Folks won’t forget it in a hurry. Well,”--she dragged her large figure up out of the plush rocker,--“If you won’t go with me to the picture show, I reckon I’ll just have to go ask Mis’ Bixby; she’s better’n no company.”

She went, and after a little Julie heard her and Elizabeth Bixby setting forth. Julie sat on alone, knitting under the light, her mind filled with distressful thoughts about the Chapin boy, who found camp so awful and the prospect of death in France so overpowering, that he could do nothing but cry. “How dreadful!” Julie thought. “What was the matter with him? What made him go to pieces like that? Other men stood up against it; what was the matter with the Chapin boy? Oh, the poor boy! The poor thing! How frightful to give way like that, with all the camp to see!”

As far as she could remember, she had never talked to the Chapin boy and had not seen him very often. She recalled him as a thin gangling youth, with a prominent Adam’s apple and shallow, frightened blue eyes. And now he was at home again with a disgrace like that. “Oh, the poor boy!” she thought again, horrified at the spiritual collapse that would make one’s pride and reserve go down and leave one exposed before the whole world. “It’s just what I might do if I were a man--just the way I might have acted. Oh, I’m glad I’m not a man!” she told herself.

Suddenly in the stillness she heard a sharp sound in the hall. It startled her so that her hands on the knitting-needles jumped together. “Oh, what is that?” she thought. She listened rigidly a minute, and heard a creaking on the stairway. With an effort, she wrenched herself up, and stepping to the door pressed the electric button. As the light flashed up in the hall, she saw Mr. Bixby’s white face looking down at her from the stairway.

“Oh, I scared you,” he said confusedly. “Don’t be scared; it’s just me. I didn’t go to frighten you.”

Julie looked up at him. “_You?_” she cried uncertainly. “Oh, it’s you!”

They stared at each other a moment, and then she turned back into her sitting-room. “Well,” she said, relieved, “I’m glad it’s you. I _was_ scared. I didn’t know what to think.”

He came down the stairs, still apologizing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t go to frighten you. I was upstairs all alone--my wife’s gone to the show with Mis’ Johnson--and I got to wondering where that door went to, an’ then, just out of curiosity, I hunted round till I found a closet-key that fitted it. But I’m mighty sorry I give you a start.”