“I thank you,” Julie responded. “But I reckon I’ll walk.”
Mrs. Randolph stared at her. People did not often so lightly refuse her condescension.
“You better ride with all those bundles,” she urged.
“No—no thank you. I want the walk,” Julie answered. “And besides, I don’t like automobiles. It scares me to ride in them.”
For years Julie had been afraid of motors and for years she had tried to conceal the fact. This was the first time that she had ever dared to acknowledge it, much less to refuse an invitation from the elegant Mrs. Randolph. But now she gave a little indifferent bow of refusal, and went upon her way, still blown along by the gust of her anger, as she saw again in remembrance the incident on the train platform.
“That hateful woman!” she stormed to herself, the sneer on the woman’s face when she had called her companion a “maybe man” still sharp before her mental vision. “The hateful piece!” She found she was repeating over and over: “I know. I understand. I know. Oh, don’t take it so hard! I know how hateful folks are!—He’s as unfeathered as I am,” she whispered to herself. “Things get at him just like they do me, an’ he don’t know any better how to stand up against them. I understand. I know how it is.—Well, anyhow,” she exulted, “I settled that hateful Ed Black for once! Always picking on me. Tore my paper doll up. Tramped on my cookie. Thought he could keep on bullyin’ me forever, but I settled him all right!” The careful speech her mother had trained her to had slipped now, and she was reverting to the mountain phraseology.
“Julie! Oh, Julie, wait just a minute—I want to ask you about that crêpe waist of mine.” It was one of Julie’s customers calling to her from a porch. People were in the habit of stopping Julie as she passed along the street, no matter in how much haste she might be, to have her advice about old and decrepit clothes. Although she resented this, Julie usually meekly responded—but not this time.
“Bring your waist into the shop in the morning, and I’ll attend to it,” she called back, continuing upon her way.
She reached home, and unlocking her door, went into her bedroom, then depositing her bundles, removed her hat before the mirror. The face that looked at her was flushed and alive and recreated. It was not at all the haunted and forlorn little countenance that the glass had given back in the morning. Julie lingered a moment, staring at herself and wondering. She was interrupted by Mrs. Sam Wicket who entered after a preliminary knock.
“You back, Julie?” she said. And after Julie had stated that she was back, “Did you speak to Winter and White’s about the stove?” she inquired.