He seated himself in the plush rocker easily and naturally. “All my life,” he went on, “I’ve been pretendin’ things. Puttin’ up a front an’ tryin’ to fool people into thinkin’ I’m something I ain’t.”
“I know. I always do it, too,” she answered. “I reckon it’s mighty foolish of us.” She looked at him out of her wide gray eyes which were kindled now with the light of discovery.
His face broke all at once into laughter. It was a whimsical trick of his nature to experience a certain rueful mirth over his own futilities. “Yes,” he assented, “it is foolish! But anyhow we don’t have to do it with one another, do we,” he said, restating the fact. “I’m kind of lonesome to-night, that was why I come down—I didn’t really want the shears.”
“I know. I understand,” she answered again.
“My wife likes the movies. She goes to ’em ’most every night, but I don’t care nothin’ about ’em. I don’t see what people finds in them.”
“I don’t either,” she confessed.
Thereafter they fell into easy and simple conversation. Indeed, why should he not sit and talk a little while to her? He told her of the small happenings of his day at the News office and of the big and terrible news of the world. He did not hasten to cover up any silence with the clatter of talk. He spoke when he felt like it, sitting in the plush rocker and watching her sew, and she replied—or was silent—as she pleased. He stayed for a half-hour or so and then he rose.
“Well, I reckon it’s time for me to tell you good-night,” he said, and slipped away up the stairs without further comment.
After that he came again and again. The house would be still,—as it never was when Elizabeth’s noisy personality was at home,—Julie would be sewing by her light, when she would hear the key turn in the lock and his foot upon the stair. Once or twice he said, “I was kind of lonesome; maybe you’ll let me sit here a spell,” but later he came without even that preamble, simply saying, “Well, Miss Julie, here I am,” and dropping into the plush rocker as though it were his place that was waiting for him. At first his talk was only general news of the day, but as their intimacy deepened they began to unfold themselves to each other more and more. With all the rest of humanity they continually had to pretend, dressing themselves in a garment of life that was altogether too big for them. With others they were always on the defensive, always erecting hasty barriers of reserve and shyness behind which their sensitive personalities might retreat, but with each other they were free; there they could be spontaneous and completely true. Their real selves came forth and played about naturally and easily in this intercourse of friendly comprehension. The key words of their intimacy came to be, “I know, I understand,” spoken by her, or “Yes, that’s the way it’s always been with me, too,” spoken by him. If there fell a momentary constraint or embarrassment between them, these words were all that were necessary to set them free again. And in the finding of one another’s understanding they found themselves, and a whole new world as well. This world emerged from under all the difficulties and timidities of life as she had known it; from under the strangled inhibitions from which he suffered. It was for them a world that was large and beneficent, where they were big people who were unafraid. It was difficult to put into words what they experienced, but sometimes they groped about to find expression for it.
“Ain’t it strange?” he said. “When I open that door and come down the steps, it’s more than just a door opening. It’s—it’s something in myself. I open the door, and I see you sitting there under the light, and—someway—I find myself when I find you. It’s like when I was a kid and used to be scared in the dark. We lived in the country then, and sometimes they’d send me down to the stable on errands after nightfall. Coming back, the dark’ud all close in on me. I’d be so scared, I’d seem to be getting smaller and smaller an’ bein’ smothered. I’d run an’ stumble over things. An’ then all at once, I’d see the light from the kitchen, and folks moving about inside, and everything’d be all right. The dark would kind of draw off. I’d open all up inside, like I’d been set free. An’ that’s the way it is when I come down the steps an’ see you sitting here. It’s like I’d come home. I’m a bigger person down here in this sitting-room than I am anywhere else. I mean to say,” he hesitated, turning the thought over, “there’s more of me here than anywhere else.”