The Reckoning

by Edith Wharton

I"The marriage law of the new dispensation will be: THOU SHALT NOT BEUNFAITHFUL -- TO THYSELF."A discreet murmur of approval filled the studio, and through thehaze of cigarette smoke Mrs. Clement Westall, as her husband descendedfrom his improvised platform, saw him merged in a congratulatory groupof ladies. Westall's informal talks on "The New Ethics" had drawn abouthim an eager following of the mentally unemployed -- those who, as hehad once phrased it, liked to have their brain-food cut up for them. Thetalks had begun by accident. Westall's ideas were known to be"advanced," but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction ofpublicity. He had been, in his wife's opinion, almost pusillanimouslycareful not to let his personal views endanger his professionalstanding. Of late, however, he had shown a puzzling tendency todogmatize, to throw down the gauntlet, to flaunt his private code in theface of society; and the relation of the sexes being a topic always sureof an audience, a few admiring friends had persuaded him to give hisafter-dinner opinions a larger circulation by summing them up in aseries of talks at the Van Sideren studio.The Herbert Van Siderens were a couple who subsisted, socially, onthe fact that they had a studio. Van Sideren's pictures were chieflyvaluable as accessories to the mise en scene which differentiated hiswife's "afternoons" from the blighting functions held in long New Yorkdrawing-rooms, and permitted her to offer their friends whiskey-and-sodainstead of tea. Mrs. Van Sideren, for her part, was skilled in makingthe most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay-figure and an easelcreate; and if at times she found the illusion hard to maintain, andlost courage to the extent of almost wishing that Herbert could paint,she promptly overcame such moments of weakness by calling in some freshtalent, some extraneous re-enforcement of the "artistic" impression. Itwas in quest of such aid that she had seized on Westall, coaxing him,somewhat to his wife's surprise, into a flattered participation in herfraud. It was vaguely felt, in the Van Sideren circle, that all theaudacities were artistic, and that a teacher who pronounced marriageimmoral was somehow as distinguished as a painter who depicted purplegrass and a green sky. The Van Sideren set were tired of theconventional color-scheme in art and conduct.Julia Westall had long had her own views on the immorality ofmarriage; she might indeed have claimed her husband as a disciple. Inthe early days of their union she had secretly resented hisdisinclination to proclaim himself a follower of the new creed; had beeninclined to tax him with moral cowardice, with a failure to live up tothe convictions for which their marriage was supposed to stand. That wasin the first burst of propagandism, when, womanlike, she wanted to turnher disobedience into a law. Now she felt differently. She could hardlyaccount for the change, yet being a woman who never allowed her impulsesto remain unaccounted for, she tried to do so by saying that she did notcare to have the articles of her faith misinterpreted by the vulgar. Inthis connection, she was beginning to think that almost every one wasvulgar; certainly there were few to whom she would have cared to intrustthe defence of so esoteric a doctrine. And it was precisely at thispoint that Westall, discarding his unspoken principles, had chosen todescend from the heights of privacy, and stand hawking his convictionsat the street-corner!It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, unconsciouslyfocussed upon herself Mrs. Westall's wandering resentment. In the firstplace, the girl had no business to be there. It was "horrid" -- Mrs.Westall found herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary --simply "horrid" to think of a young girl's being allowed to listen tosuch talk. The fact that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasionalcocktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant innocency whichmade her appear the victim, rather than the accomplice, of her parents'vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a hot helpless way that somethingought to be done -- that some one ought to speak to the girl's mother.And just then Una glided up."Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!" Una fixed her with largelimpid eyes. "You believe it all, I suppose?" she asked with seraphicgravity."All -- what, my dear child?"The girl shone on her. "About the higher life -- the freerexpansion of the individual -- the law of fidelity to one's self," sheglibly recited.Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush."My dear Una," she said, "you don't in the least understand whatit's all about!"Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering blush. "Don'tyou, then?" she murmured.Mrs. Westall laughed. "Not always -- or altogether! But I shouldlike some tea, please."Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed.As Julia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully. Itwas not such a girlish face, after all-definite lines were forming underthe rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty,and wondered why she had not married. A nice stock of ideas she wouldhave as her dower! If they were to be a part of the modern girl'strousseau --Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start. It was as though someone else had been speaking -- a stranger who had borrowed her own voice:she felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism.Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una's tea too sweet,she set down her cup, and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyes hadlong been her refuge from every uncertainty. She met them now, but only,as she felt, in transit; they included her parenthetically in a largerflight. She followed the flight, and it carried her to a corner to whichUna had withdrawn -- one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs. Van Siderenattributed the success of her Saturdays. Westall, a moment later, hadovertaken his look, and found a place at the girl's side. She bentforward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, listening, with thedepreciatory smile which acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him toswallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appetite.Julia winced at her own definition of the smile.On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised hiswife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm. "Did I open their eyes abit? Did I tell them what you wanted me to?" he asked gaily.Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from his. "What I wanted-- ?""Why, haven't you -- all this time?" She caught the honest wonderof his tone. "I somehow fancied you'd rather blamed me for not talkingmore openly -- before -- You've made me feel, at times, that I wassacrificing principles to expediency."She paused a moment over her reply; then she asked quietly: "Whatmade you decide not to -- any longer?"She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise. "Why -- the wishto please you!" he answered, almost too simply."I wish you would not go on, then," she said abruptly.He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt his stare through thedarkness."Not go on -- ?""Call a hansom, please. I'm tired," broke from her with a suddenrush of physical weariness.Instantly his solicitude enveloped her. The room had beeninfernally hot -- and then that confounded cigarette smoke -- he hadnoticed once or twice that she looked pale -- she mustn't come toanother Saturday. She felt herself yielding, as she always did, to thewarm influence of his concern for her, the feminine in her leaning onthe man in him with a conscious intensity of abandonment. He put her inthe hansom, and her hand stole into his in the darkness. A tear or tworose, and she let them fall. It was so delicious to cry over imaginarytroubles!That evening, after dinner, he surprised her by reverting to thesubject of his talk. He combined a man's dislike of uncomfortablequestions with an almost feminine skill in eluding them; and she knewthat if he returned to the subject he must have some special reason fordoing so."You seem not to have cared for what I said this afternoon. Did Iput the case badly?""No -- you put it very well.""Then what did you mean by saying that you would rather not have mego on with it?"She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his intentiondeepening her sense of helplessness."I don't think I care to hear such things discussed in public.""I don't understand you," he exclaimed. Again the feeling that hissurprise was genuine gave an air of obliquity to her own attitude. Shewas not sure that she understood herself."Won't you explain?" he said with a tinge of impatience. Her eyeswandered about the familiar drawing-room which had been the scene of somany of their evening confidences. The shaded lamps, the quiet-coloredwalls hung with mezzotints, the pale spring flowers scattered here andthere in Venice glasses and bowls of old Sevres, recalled, she hardlyknew why, the apartment in which the evenings of her first marriage hadbeen passed -- a wilderness of rosewood and upholstery, with a pictureof a Roman peasant above the mantel-piece, and a Greek slave in"statuary marble" between the folding-doors of the back drawing-room. Itwas a room with which she had never been able to establish any closerrelation than that between a traveller and a railway station; and now,as she looked about at the surroundings which stood for her deepestaffinities -- the room for which she had left that other room -- she wasstartled by the same sense of strangeness and unfamiliarity. The prints,the flowers, the subdued tones of the old porcelains, seemed to typify asuperficial refinement that had no relation to the deeper significancesof life.Suddenly she heard her husband repeating his question."I don't know that I can explain," she faltered.He drew his arm-chair forward so that he faced her across thehearth. The light of a reading-lamp fell on his finely drawn face, whichhad a kind of surface-sensitiveness akin to the surface-refinement ofits setting."Is it that you no longer believe in our ideas?" he asked."In our ideas -- ?""The ideas I am trying to teach. The ideas you and I are supposedto stand for." He paused a moment. "The ideas on which our marriage wasfounded."The blood rushed to her face. He had his reasons, then -- she wassure now that he had his reasons! In the ten years of their marriage,how often had either of them stopped to consider the ideas on which itwas founded? How often does a man dig about the basement of his house toexamine its foundation? The foundation is there, of course -- the houserests on it -- but one lives abovestairs and not in the cellar. It wasshe, indeed, who in the beginning had insisted on reviewing thesituation now and then, on recapitulating the reasons which justifiedher course, on proclaiming, from time to time, her adherence to thereligion of personal independence; but she had long ceased to feel theneed of any such ideal standards, and had accepted her marriage asfrankly and naturally as though it had been based on the primitive needsof the heart, and needed no special sanction to explain or justify it."Of course I still believe in our ideas!" she exclaimed."Then I repeat that I don't understand. It was a part of yourtheory that the greatest possible publicity should be given to our viewof marriage. Have you changed your mind in that respect?"She hesitated. "It depends on circumstances -- on the public one isaddressing. The set of people that the Van Siderens get about them don'tcare for the truth or falseness of a doctrine. They are attracted simplyby its novelty.""And yet it was in just such a set of people that you and I met,and learned the truth from each other.""That was different.""In what way?""I was not a young girl, to begin with. It is perfectly unfittingthat young girls should be present at -- at such times-should hear suchthings discussed --""I thought you considered it one of the deepest social wrongs thatsuch things never are discussed before young girls; but that is besidethe point, for I don't remember seeing any young girl in my audienceto-day --""Except Una Van Sideren!"He turned slightly and pushed back the lamp at his elbow."Oh, Miss Van Sideren -- naturally --""Why naturally?""The daughter of the house -- would you have had her sent out withher governess?""If I had a daughter I should not allow such things to go on in myhouse!"Westall, stroking his mustache, leaned back with a faint smile. "Ifancy Miss Van Sideren is quite capable of taking care of herself.""No girl knows how to take care of herself -- till it's too late.""And yet you would deliberately deny her the surest means ofself-defence?""What do you call the surest means of self-defence?""Some preliminary knowledge of human nature in its relation to themarriage tie."She made an impatient gesture. "How should you like to marry thatkind of a girl?""Immensely -- if she were my kind of girl in other respects."She took up the argument at another point."You are quite mistaken if you think such talk does not affectyoung girls. Una was in a state of the most absurd exaltation --" Shebroke off, wondering why she had spoken.Westall reopened a magazine which he had laid aside at thebeginning of their discussion. "What you tell me is immensely flatteringto my oratorical talent -- but I fear you overrate its effect. I canassure you that Miss Van Sideren doesn't have to have her thinking donefor her. She's quite capable of doing it herself.""You seem very familiar with her mental processes!" flashedunguardedly from his wife.He looked up quietly from the pages he was cutting."I should like to be," he answered. "She interests me."IIIf there be a distinction in being misunderstood, it was one denied toJulia Westall when she left her first husband. Every one was ready toexcuse and even to defend her. The world she adorned agreed that JohnArment was "impossible," and hostesses gave a sigh of relief at thethought that it would no longer be necessary to ask him to dine.There had been no scandal connected with the divorce: neither sidehad accused the other of the offence euphemistically described as"statutory." The Arments had indeed been obliged to transfer theirallegiance to a State which recognized desertion as a cause for divorce,and construed the term so liberally that the seeds of desertion wereshown to exist in every union. Even Mrs. Arment's second marriage didnot make traditional morality stir in its sleep. It was known that shehad not met her second husband till after she had parted from the first,and she had, moreover, replaced a rich man by a poor one. Though ClementWestall was acknowledged to be a rising lawyer, it was generally feltthat his fortunes would not rise as rapidly as his reputation. TheWestalls would probably always have to live quietly and go out to dinnerin cabs. Could there be better evidence of Mrs. Arment's completedisinterestedness?If the reasoning by which her friends justified her course wassomewhat cruder and less complex than her own elucidation of the matter,both explanations led to the same conclusion: John Arment wasimpossible. The only difference was that, to his wife, his impossibilitywas something deeper than a social disqualification. She had once said,in ironical defence of her marriage, that it had at least preserved herfrom the necessity of sitting next to him at dinner; but she had notthen realized at what cost the immunity was purchased. John Arment wasimpossible; but the sting of his impossibility lay in the fact that hemade it impossible for those about him to be other than himself. By anunconscious process of elimination he had excluded from the worldeverything of which he did not feel a personal need: had become, as itwere, a climate in which only his own requirements survived. This mightseem to imply a deliberate selfishness; but there was nothing deliberateabout Arment. He was as instinctive as an animal or a child. It was thischildish element in his nature which sometimes for a moment unsettledhis wife's estimate of him. Was it possible that he was simplyundeveloped, that he had delayed, somewhat longer than is usual, thelaborious process of growing up? He had the kind of sporadic shrewdnesswhich causes it to be said of a dull man that he is "no fool"; and itwas this quality that his wife found most trying. Even to the naturalistit is annoying to have his deductions disturbed by some unforeseenaberrancy of form or function; and how much more so to the wife whoseestimate of herself is inevitably bound up with her judgment of herhusband!Arment's shrewdness did not, indeed, imply any latent intellectualpower; it suggested, rather, potentialities of feeling, of suffering,perhaps, in a blind rudimentary way, on which Julia's sensibilitiesnaturally declined to linger. She so fully understood her own reasonsfor leaving him that she disliked to think they were not ascomprehensible to her husband. She was haunted, in her analytic moments,by the look of perplexity, too inarticulate for words, with which he hadacquiesced to her explanations.These moments were rare with her, however. Her marriage had beentoo concrete a misery to be surveyed philosophically. If she had beenunhappy for complex reasons, the unhappiness was as real as though ithad been uncomplicated. Soul is more bruisable than flesh, and Julia waswounded in every fibre of her spirit. Her husband's personality seemedto be closing gradually in on her, obscuring the sky and cutting off theair, till she felt herself shut up among the decaying bodies of herstarved hopes. A sense of having been decoyed by some world-oldconspiracy into this bondage of body and soul filled her with despair.If marriage was the slow life-long acquittal of a debt contracted inignorance, then marriage was a crime against human nature. She, for one,would have no share in maintaining the pretence of which she had been avictim: the pretence that a man and a woman, forced into the narrowestof personal relations, must remain there till the end, though they mayhave outgrown the span of each other's natures as the mature treeoutgrows the iron brace about the sapling.It was in the first heat of her moral indignation that she had metClement Westall. She had seen at once that he was "interested," and hadfought off the discovery, dreading any influence that should draw herback into the bondage of conventional relations. To ward off the perilshe had, with an almost crude precipitancy, revealed her opinions tohim. To her surprise, she found that he shared them. She was attractedby the frankness of a suitor who, while pressing his suit, admitted thathe did not believe in marriage. Her worst audacities did not seem tosurprise him: he had thought out all that she had felt, and they hadreached the same conclusion. People grew at varying rates, and the yokethat was an easy fit for the one might soon become galling to the other.That was what divorce was for: the readjustment of personal relations.As soon as their necessarily transitive nature was recognized they wouldgain in dignity as well as in harmony. There would be no farther need ofthe ignoble concessions and connivances, the perpetual sacrifice ofpersonal delicacy and moral pride, by means of which imperfect marriageswere now held together. Each partner to the contract would be on hismettle, forced to live up to the highest standard of self-development,on pain of losing the other's respect and affection. The low naturecould no longer drag the higher down, but must struggle to rise, orremain alone on its inferior level. The only necessary condition to aharmonious marriage was a frank recognition of this truth, and a solemnagreement between the contracting parties to keep faith with themselves,and not to live together for a moment after complete accord had ceasedto exist between them. The new adultery was unfaithfulness to self.It was, as Westall had just reminded her, on this understandingthat they had married. The ceremony was an unimportant concession tosocial prejudice: now that the door of divorce stood open, no marriageneed be an imprisonment, and the contract therefore no longer involvedany diminution of self-respect. The nature of their attachment placedthem so far beyond the reach of such contingencies that it was easy todiscuss them with an open mind; and Julia's sense of security made herdwell with a tender insistence on Westall's promise to claim his releasewhen he should cease to love her. The exchange of these vows seemed tomake them, in a sense, champions of the new law, pioneers in theforbidden realm of individual freedom: they felt that they had somehowachieved beatitude without martyrdom.This, as Julia now reviewed the past, she perceived to have beenher theoretical attitude toward marriage. It was unconsciously,insidiously, that her ten years of happiness with Westall had developedanother conception of the tie; a reversion, rather, to the old instinctof passionate dependency and possessorship that now made her bloodrevolt at the mere hint of change. Change? Renewal? Was that what theyhad called it, in their foolish jargon? Destruction, exterminationrather -- this rending of a myriad fibres interwoven with another'sbeing! Another? But he was not other! He and she were one, one in themystic sense which alone gave marriage its significance. The new law wasnot for them, but for the disunited creatures forced into a mockery ofunion. The gospel she had felt called on to proclaim had no bearing onher own case. . . . She sent for the doctor and told him she was sureshe needed a nerve tonic.She took the nerve tonic diligently, but it failed to act as asedative to her fears. She did not know what she feared; but that madeher anxiety the more pervasive. Her husband had not reverted to thesubject of his Saturday talks. He was unusually kind and considerate,with a softening of his quick manner, a touch of shyness in hisconsideration, that sickened her with new fears. She told herself thatit was because she looked badly-because he knew about the doctor and thenerve tonic -- that he showed this deference to her wishes, thiseagerness to screen her from moral draughts; but the explanation simplycleared the way for fresh inferences.The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a prolonged Sunday. OnSaturday the morning post brought a note from Mrs. Van Sideren. Woulddear Julia ask Mr. Westall to come half an hour earlier than usual, asthere was to be some music after his "talk"? Westall was just leavingfor his office when his wife read the note. She opened the drawing-roomdoor and called him back to deliver the message.He glanced at the note and tossed it aside. "What a bore! I shallhave to cut my game of racquets. Well, I suppose it can't be helped.Will you write and say it's all right?"Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening on the chair-backagainst which she leaned."You mean to go on with these talks?" she asked."I -- why not?" he returned; and this time it struck her that hissurprise was not quite unfeigned. The discovery helped her to find words."You said you had started them with the idea of pleasing me --""Well?""I told you last week that they didn't please me.""Last week? Oh --" He seemed to make an effort of memory. "Ithought you were nervous then; you sent for the doctor the next day.""It was not the doctor I needed; it was your assurance --""My assurance?"Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her. She sank into the chairwith a choking throat, her words, her reasons slipping away from herlike straws down a whirling flood."Clement," she cried, "isn't it enough for you to know that I hateit?"He turned to close the door behind them; then he walked toward herand sat down. "What is it that you hate?" he asked gently.She had made a desperate effort to rally her routed argument."I can't bear to have you speak as if -- as if -- our marriage --were like the other kind -- the wrong kind. When I heard you there, theother afternoon, before all those inquisitive gossiping people,proclaiming that husbands and wives had a right to leave each otherwhenever they were tired -- or had seen some one else --"Westall sat motionless, his eyes fixed on a pattern of the carpet."You have ceased to take this view, then?" he said as she brokeoff. "You no longer believe that husbands and wives are justified inseparating -- under such conditions?""Under such conditions?" she stammered. "Yes -- I still believethat -- but how can we judge for others? What can we know of thecircumstances -- ?"He interrupted her. "I thought it was a fundamental article of ourcreed that the special circumstances produced by marriage were not tointerfere with the full assertion of individual liberty." He paused amoment. "I thought that was your reason for leaving Arment."She flushed to the forehead. It was not like him to give a personalturn to the argument."It was my reason," she said simply."Well, then -- why do you refuse to recognize its validity now?""I don't -- I don't -- I only say that one can't judge for others."He made an impatient movement. "This is mere hair-splitting. Whatyou mean is that, the doctrine having served your purpose when youneeded it, you now repudiate it.""Well," she exclaimed, flushing again, "what if I do? What does itmatter to us?"Westall rose from his chair. He was excessively pale, and stoodbefore his wife with something of the formality of a stranger."It matters to me," he said in a low voice, "because I do notrepudiate it.""Well -- ?""And because I had intended to invoke it as" --He paused and drew his breath deeply. She sat silent, almostdeafened by her heart-beats.--"as a complete justification of the course I am about to take."Julia remained motionless. "What course is that?" she asked.He cleared his throat. "I mean to claim the fulfilment of yourpromise."For an instant the room wavered and darkened; then she recovered atorturing acuteness of vision. Every detail of her surroundings pressedupon her: the tick of the clock, the slant of sunlight on the wall, thehardness of the chair-arms that she grasped, were a separate wound toeach sense."My promise --" she faltered."Your part of our mutual agreement to set each other free if one orthe other should wish to be released."She was silent again. He waited a moment, shifting his positionnervously; then he said, with a touch of irritability: "You acknowledgethe agreement?"The question went through her like a shock. She lifted her head toit proudly. "I acknowledge the agreement," she said."And -- you don't mean to repudiate it?"A log on the hearth fell forward, and mechanically he advanced andpushed it back."No," she answered slowly, "I don't mean to repudiate it."There was a pause. He remained near the hearth, his elbow restingon the mantel-shelf. Close to his hand stood a little cup of jade thathe had given her on one of their wedding anniversaries. She wonderedvaguely if he noticed it."You intend to leave me, then?" she said at length.His gesture seemed to deprecate the crudeness of the allusion."To marry some one else?"Again his eye and hand protested. She rose and stood before him."Why should you be afraid to tell me? Is it Una Van Sideren?"He was silent."I wish you good luck," she said.IIIShe looked up, finding herself alone. She did not remember when or howhe had left the room, or how long afterward she had sat there. The firestill smouldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight had left thewall.Her first conscious thought was that she had not broken her word,that she had fulfilled the very letter of their bargain. There had beenno crying out, no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at temporizing orevasion. She had marched straight up to the guns.Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself alive. Shelooked about her, trying to recover her hold on reality. Her identityseemed to be slipping from her, as it disappears in a physical swoon."This is my room -- this is my house," she heard herself saying. Herroom? Her house? She could almost hear the walls laugh back at her.She stood up, a dull ache in every bone. The silence of the roomfrightened her. She remembered, now, having heard the front door close along time ago: the sound suddenly re-echoed through her brain. Herhusband must have left the house, then -- her husband? She no longerknew in what terms to think: the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge.She sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange weakness. The clockstruck ten -- it was only ten o'clock! Suddenly she remembered that shehad not ordered dinner . . . or were they dining out that evening?Dinner -- Dining Out -- the old meaningless phraseology pursued her!She must try to think of herself as she would think of some one else, asome one dissociated from all the familiar routine of the past, whosewants and habits must gradually be learned, as one might spy out theways of a strange animal. . .The clock struck another hour -- eleven. She stood up again andwalked to the door: she thought she would go up stairs to her room.Her room? Again the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed thenarrow hall, and walked up the stairs. As she passed, she noticedWestall's sticks and umbrellas: a pair of his gloves lay on the halltable. The same stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the sameold French print, in its narrow black frame, faced her on the landing.This visual continuity was intolerable. Within, a gaping chasm; without,the same untroubled and familiar surface. She must get away from itbefore she could attempt to think. But, once in her room, she sat downon the lounge, a stupor creeping over her. . .Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal had happened in theinterval -- a wild marching and countermarching of emotions, arguments,ideas -- a fury of insurgent impulses that fell back spent uponthemselves. She had tried, at first, to rally, to organize these chaoticforces. There must be help somewhere, if only she could master the innertumult. Life could not be broken off short like this, for a whim, afancy; the law itself would side with her, would defend her. The law?What claim had she upon it? She was the prisoner of her own choice: shehad been her own legislator, and she was the predestined victim of thecode she had devised. But this was grotesque, intolerable -- a madmistake, for which she could not be held accountable! The law she haddespised was still there, might still be invoked . . . invoked, but towhat end? Could she ask it to chain Westall to her side? SHE had beenallowed to go free when she claimed her freedom -- should she show lessmagnanimity than she had exacted? Magnanimity? The word lashed her withits irony -- one does not strike an attitude when one is fighting forlife! She would threaten, grovel, cajole . . . she would yield anythingto keep her hold on happiness. Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper! Thelaw could not help her -- her own apostasy could not help her. She wasthe victim of the theories she renounced. It was as though some giantmachine of her own making had caught her up in its wheels and wasgrinding her to atoms. . .It was afternoon when she found herself out-of-doors. She walkedwith an aimless haste, fearing to meet familiar faces. The day wasradiant, metallic: one of those searching American days so calculated toreveal the shortcomings of our street-cleaning and the excesses of ourarchitecture. The streets looked bare and hideous; everything stared andglittered. She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van Sideren'saddress. She did not know what had led up to the act; but she foundherself suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning. it was toolate to save herself -- but the girl might still be told. The hansomrattled up Fifth Avenue; she sat with her eyes fixed, avoidingrecognition. At the Van Siderens' door she sprang out and rang the bell.Action had cleared her brain, and she felt calm and selfpossessed. Sheknew now exactly what she meant to say.The ladies were both out . . . the parlor-maid stood waiting for acard. Julia, with a vague murmur, turned away from the door and lingereda moment on the sidewalk. Then she remembered that she had not paid thecab-driver. She drew a dollar from her purse and handed it to him. Hetouched his hat and drove off, leaving her alone in the long emptystreet. She wandered away westward, toward strange thoroughfares, whereshe was not likely to meet acquaintances. The feeling of aimlessness hadreturned. Once she found herself in the afternoon torrent of Broadway,swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters, with asuccession of meaningless faces gliding by in the opposite direction. . .A feeling of faintness reminded her that she had not eaten sincemorning. She turned into a side street of shabby houses, with rows ofash-barrels behind bent area railings. In a basement window she saw thesign LADIES' RESTAURANT: a pie and a dish of doughnuts lay against thedusty pane like petrified food in an ethnological museum. She entered,and a young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye cleared a table forher near the window. The table was covered with a red and white cottoncloth and adorned with a bunch of celery in a thick tumbler and asaltcellar full of grayish lumpy salt. Julia ordered tea, and sat a longtime waiting for it. She was glad to be away from the noise andconfusion of the streets. The low-ceilinged room was empty, and two orthree waitresses with thin pert faces lounged in the background staringat her and whispering together. At last the tea was brought in adiscolored metal teapot. Julia poured a cup and drank it hastily. It wasblack and bitter, but it flowed through her veins like an elixir. Shewas almost dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, how tired, how unutterably tiredshe had been!She drank a second cup, blacker and bitterer, and now her mind wasonce more working clearly. She felt as vigorous, as decisive, as whenshe had stood on the Van Siderens' door-step-but the wish to returnthere had subsided. She saw now the futility of such an attempt -- thehumiliation to which it might have exposed her. . . The pity of it wasthat she did not know what to do next. The short winter day was fading,and she realized that she could not remain much longer in the restaurantwithout attracting notice. She paid for her tea and went out into thestreet. The lamps were alight, and here and there a basement shop castan oblong of gas-light across the fissured pavement. In the dusk therewas something sinister about the aspect of the street, and she hastenedback toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used to being out alone at that hour.At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused and stood watching thestream of carriages. At last a policeman caught sight of her and signedto her that he would take her across. She had not meant to cross thestreet, but she obeyed automatically, and presently found herself on thefarther corner. There she paused again for a moment; but she fancied thepoliceman was watching her, and this sent her hastening down the nearestside street. . . After that she walked a long time, vaguely. . . Nighthad fallen, and now and then, through the windows of a passing carriage,she caught the expanse of an evening waistcoat or the shimmer of anopera cloak. . .Suddenly she found herself in a familiar street. She stood still amoment, breathing quickly. She had turned the corner without noticingwhither it led; but now, a few yards ahead of her, she saw the house inwhich she had once lived -- her first husband's house. The blinds weredrawn, and only a faint translucence marked the windows and the transomabove the door. As she stood there she heard a step behind her, and aman walked by in the direction of the house. He walked slowly, with aheavy middleaged gait, his head sunk a little between the shoulders, thered crease of his neck visible above the fur collar of his overcoat. Hecrossed the street, went up the steps of the house, drew forth alatch-key, and let himself in. . .There was no one else in sight. Julia leaned for a long timeagainst the area-rail at the corner, her eyes fixed on the front of thehouse. The feeling of physical weariness had returned, but the strongtea still throbbed in her veins and lit her brain with an unnaturalclearness. Presently she heard another step draw near, and movingquickly away, she too crossed the street and mounted the steps of thehouse. The impulse which had carried her there prolonged itself in aquick pressure of the electric bell -- then she felt suddenly weak andtremulous, and grasped the balustrade for support. The door opened and ayoung footman with a fresh inexperienced face stood on the threshold.Julia knew in an instant that he would admit her."I saw Mr. Arment going in just now," she said. "Will you ask himto see me for a moment?"The footman hesitated. "I think Mr. Arment has gone up to dress fordinner, madam."Julia advanced into the hall. "I am sure he will see me -- I willnot detain him long," she said. She spoke quietly, authoritatively, inthe tone which a good servant does not mistake. The footman had his handon the drawing-room door."I will tell him, madam. What name, please?"Julia trembled: she had not thought of that. "Merely say a lady,"she returned carelessly.The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost; but at thatinstant the door opened from within and John Arment stepped into thehall. He drew back sharply as he saw her, his florid face turning sallowwith the shock; then the blood poured back to it, swelling the veins onhis temples and reddening the lobes of his thick ears.It was long since Julia had seen him, and she was startled at thechange in his appearance. He had thickened, coarsened, settled down intothe enclosing flesh. But she noted this insensibly: her one consciousthought was that, now she was face to face with him, she must not lethim escape till he had heard her. Every pulse in her body throbbed withthe urgency of her message.She went up to him as he drew back. "I must speak to you," she said.Arment hesitated, red and stammering. Julia glanced at the footman,and her look acted as a warning. The instinctive shrinking from a"scene" predominated over every other impulse, and Arment said slowly:"Will you come this way?"He followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door. Julia,as she advanced, was vaguely aware that the room at least was unchanged:time had not mitigated its horrors. The contadina still lurched from thechimney-breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the threshold of theinner room. The place was alive with memories: they started out fromevery fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between the angles ofthe rosewood furniture. But while some subordinate agency was carryingthese impressions to her brain, her whole conscious effort was centredin the act of dominating Arment's will. The fear that he would refuse tohear her mounted like fever to her brain. She felt her purpose meltbefore it, words and arguments running into each other in the heat ofher longing. For a moment her voice failed her, and she imagined herselfthrust out before she could speak; but as she was struggling for a word,Arment pushed a chair forward, and said quietly: "You are not well."The sound of his voice steadied her. It was neither kind nor unkind-- a voice that suspended judgment, rather, awaiting unforeseendevelopments. She supported herself against the back of the chair anddrew a deep breath. "Shall I send for something?" he continued, with acold embarrassed politeness.Julia raised an entreating hand. "No -- no -- thank you. I am quitewell."He paused midway toward the bell and turned on her. "Then may I ask-- ?""Yes," she interrupted him. "I came here because I wanted to seeyou. There is something I must tell you."Arment continued to scrutinize her. "I am surprised at that," hesaid. "I should have supposed that any communication you may wish tomake could have been made through our lawyers.""Our lawyers!" She burst into a little laugh. "I don't think theycould help me -- this time."Arment's face took on a barricaded look. "If there is any questionof help -- of course --"It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen that look when someshabby devil called with a subscription-book. Perhaps he thought shewanted him to put his name down for so much in sympathy -- or even inmoney. . . The thought made her laugh again. She saw his look changeslowly to perplexity. All his facial changes were slow, and sheremembered, suddenly, how it had once diverted her to shift thatlumbering scenery with a word. For the first time it struck her that shehad been cruel. "There is a question of help," she said in a softerkey: "you can help me; but only by listening. . . I want to tell yousomething. . ."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'ttake long." She raised her head and their eyes met. "My husband has leftme," 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 tothe limit of the room. Arment looked toward the door; then hisembarrassed 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 herselfbetween him and the door. "It happened this morning," she went on inshort breathless phrases. "I never suspected anything -- I thought wewere -- perfectly happy. . . Suddenly he told me he was tired of me . .. there is a girl he likes better. . . He has gone to her. . ." As shespoke, the lurking anguish rose upon her, possessing her once more tothe exclusion of every other emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat swelledwith it, and two painful tears burnt a way down her face.Arment's constraint was increasing visibly. "This -- this is veryunfortunate," 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 wenton. "That is what I see now. The law represents material rights -- itcan't go beyond. If we don't recognize an inner law . . . the obligationthat love creates . . . being loved as well as loving . . . there isnothing to prevent our spreading ruin unhindered . . . is there?" Sheraised her head plaintively, with the look of a bewildered child. "Thatis what I see now . . . what I wanted to tell you. He leaves me becausehe'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'trealized what it meant. But I've been thinking of it all day, and thingshave 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 thattries 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 tobe 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 sawyour life falling in ruins . . . the world slipping from you . . . andyou couldn't speak or move!"She sank down on the chair against which she had been leaning. "NowI 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 wantyou to be sorry. I came to ask you to forgive me . . . for notunderstanding that you didn't understand. . . That's all I wanted tosay." She rose with a vague sense that the end had come, and put out agroping 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, whowas evidently alive to his obligations, advanced from the background tolet her out. She heard Arment fall back. The footman threw open thedoor, and she found herself outside in the darkness.

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