“Christ! no,” said Leo. “I say, are you quite sure?”
“Practically, I’m afraid so.”
“What about that woman friend of yours who’s a doctor?”
“Anne? Oh no, she wouldn’t dream of doing a thing like that. She’s—she’s not that sort,” and Julia thought of Anne with a yearning wish to be like her; of her shining integrity; of her enthusiasm in her profession. No; Anne, started in partnership with her father, would be the last person who would even discuss malpractice.
“I can find out, of course,” said Leo suddenly, plunging his hands into his pockets, and striding on faster than usual. He caught sight of Julia’s face in the light of a street-lamp, and felt sorry for her. She looked much younger suddenly in this fear and misery. Yet, while he was sorry for her, he felt a physical jealousy of what had made this sorrow possible; and somewhere right in the back of his mind a little voice whispered that perhaps Julia wouldn’t be able to get out of it; and that perhaps she would have to settle down to being a wife to Herbert, and he himself would be free, if the demands upon his love and loyalty were to become rather extravagant.
“I can find out,” he repeated; “several men I know from the ship are in London.”
Julia drew a sigh of relief. Once again she was going to be able to leave everything to Leo. He would find out, he would arrange everything. Her spirits rose, and next day she was able to enjoy a movie that they went to—a romantic affair which ended happily after the hero and heroine had surmounted almost insuperable obstacles.
“That’s like us, Leo,” she said, pressing his hand as they sat together in the warm, heavy darkness, thick with the breath and odours of humanity. “That’s like us. We’ll make a success still, won’t we?”
“You bet we will,” said Leo absent-mindedly. To himself he was thinking that everything was becoming rather a worry. This was not the Julia to hold him enthralled, not this dependent, half-frightened creature. The Julia he could not resist was triumphant, clever, with a quality of brilliance that no other woman he knew possessed.
He took her back to Saint Clement’s Square, and since it was better not to hide the fact that they had been out together—for no one was sharper at putting two simultaneous absences together than Herbert and Bertha—he entered boldly with her, and drank a whisky and soda while discussing the picture they had seen. Bertha had a headache and had gone to bed, and Herbert was alone, standing on the hearth-rug, his shoulders hunched to his ears, and his hands clasped behind his back. He hardly spoke to either of them while they kept up a gay conversation with him and with each other. Then he suddenly put his hands in his pockets and took a few steps forward.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, ignoring Leo and addressing Julia. “I’ve had enough of this. It’s the last time you go out alone with your fancy-man.”
Julia was furious. After all, she and Leo hadn’t, as she put it, done anything at all—this leave they hadn’t had the chance—and for Herbert to talk like this. … Herbert, who had apparently added to her difficulties, that was too much.
“I shall do as I like,” she flashed at him.
“You’ll do what I tell you, my girl, or I’ll know the reason why.” Herbert’s face was flushed an angry dark red. Leo had seen that look in a man’s face before, and he tried to get between Julia and her husband.
“Leave her alone, can’t you, Starling? Can’t you see you’re frightening her?”
“And what business is it of yours?” commented Herbert. “I can do as I like with my own wife, can’t I?”
“Not while I’m here,” said Leo, and Julia shot him a glance of admiration.
“Oh, can’t I?” said Herbert, and taking Julia by both arms he tried to push her out of the room.
“Herbert, you’re hurting me, let go,” she cried, and indeed she spoke truly, for his fingers seemed to be wringing the flesh of her delicate arms. She screamed again. “Let me go.” She tried to wrench herself free. There was a scuffle, she tore herself away and fell against the edge of the heavy mahogany bookcase. She gave a cry of pain, but Herbert, his temper thoroughly beyond control, shook her, so that she knocked up against the edge of the bookcase once again.
Leo caught Herbert on the cheek with a blow from his clenched fist, and Herbert staggered a little, let go Julia and put his hand to his face. They all three stared at each other for a moment.
“You swine,” said Leo, “you can’t let her go, and you can’t treat her right, and you call yourself a man.”
“Oh, Leo, please go,” said Julia, sobbing, “please go.” She saw Herbert’s rage was already over, that he was standing looking ashamed, and rather dazed by Leo’s blow.
“I can’t go and leave you alone with this fellow.”
“I’ll be all right … please …” said Julia. “It’ll be quite all right. Listen, there’s Bertha coming downstairs. Oh, please go.”
They all listened and heard a heavy tread beginning to descend.
“You’re sure you want me to,” said Leo. “I don’t like leaving you here. Can’t I take you to your mother’s, or back to mine?”
Julia laughed bitterly. “I should be welcome in either place, shouldn’t I?” she asked. “Go, Leo. It will make it worse if you stop … for my sake … please.”
He went reluctantly enough, and yet half relieved because he saw that she was wise, and Julia, for once unassailably in the right, disposed briefly of both the critical Bertha and the half-angry, half-repentant Herbert.
Herbert had to get into the same bed with her. There was no help for that, but at least she had a good excuse for turning her back on him and lying in silence, while he, for once unable to sleep, lay silent also.
Some sort of peace was patched up, of course. There was the family Christmas party to be thought of. Herbert was really ashamed of himself. Julia was hopeful that his violence would bring about what all her dosing had failed to do, and therefore inclined to forgive him. Besides, the position of the forgiving wife is always a pleasant one.
“No going off into corners, mind, at the party,” said Herbert, and Julia answered wearily:
“Of course not. Don’t you see you’ve spoilt everything. I had a beautiful friendship, and you’ve made it vulgar and horrid.”
Herbert grunted disbelievingly. “I dare say,” he said, “young Carr won’t come. I shouldn’t think he would after what’s happened.”
“I dare say he won’t,” said Julia. “I know who will come, and that’s your sister Bertha. For one thing she’s here anyway. You’ve got to tell her she has to behave herself.”
“Who’s going to tell Carr he’s got to behave himself?”
“Well, I can’t if you won’t let me see him,” said Julia, reasonably.
The question, however, solved itself. Uncle George, who was giving the party, hadn’t the smallest notion of letting anybody drop out of it, and he had already had hints from Bertha of the trouble at Saint Clement’s Square. Uncle George talked breezily to Leo, as one man of the world to another, and Leo, rather glad of this easy way out, joined in laughing at Herbert and shrugging his shoulders about Julia, and saying that he thought both had had their lesson, and there would be no trouble at the party.
Nevertheless, Christmas was not very happy for anyone in Julia’s little world except, perhaps, for Elsa, dimpled and bright in the possession of a new young man. He was in a bank, and hence in a very good position indeed, and he was a pleasant enough young fellow, shy and likeable.
Julia, pale and worried, had lost her illusive, butterfly brilliance, but even had it not been so, she would not have tried to take Elsa’s young man from her. There was no spite in Julia’s composition, and she was very glad for Elsa’s sake, as well as for her own, that this new interest had come along.
The kid couldn’t help being insipid, and perhaps it was better to be insipid—it meant she would n
ot get herself into the sort of mess that she herself was in. There never could be anything, thought Julia, half contemptuously, of the femme fatale about Elsa. Therefore, she did not grudge Elsa her little triumph, and sat back as a respectable married lady should, without entering into any competition.
She had few chances, at that Christmas party, for a talk alone with Leo. In the middle of the cracker-pulling, and the adjustment of the paper-caps, he managed to murmur to her:
“I’ve got an address,” and she managed to reply:
“Send it to the shop,” and that was all.
She found the address waiting for her when the shop opened again after the holiday. Leo had simply written on a slip of paper—Mrs. Humble, 5, Prospect Villas, Camden Town. Julia stowed the slip of paper away in her bag, feeling utterly miserable. Leo was leaving the next day for the Mediterranean cruise, and she was already tortured with thoughts of charming French, languorous Italian, and complaisant Maltese girls.
They were not very busy at the shop after the holiday, and it was maddening for her to have to stay there. Marian, of course, was away, and Gipsy had gone home early, and Julia had to be faithful to the trust reposed in her—as she had always been as far as l’Etrangère was concerned. She saw to the shutting up of the shop, and then went forth, her heart heavy, and with the sense of misfortune upon her, into the dark evening. Directly she saw Leo waiting for her on the north side of Hanover Square, where they were wont to meet on the few occasions that she allowed this dangerous practice, her heart began to beat more gaily. After all, she was probably making a fuss about nothing. Leo loved her. Why should he bother about her now, when she was frightened, and pale, and anxious if he did not love her? She would write him such marvellous letters all the time he was away, that he would be able to think of no other woman. He was hers, and she would keep him hers.
She slipped her hand under his arm, and together they made their way to Oxford Street into a tea-shop. When tea had been brought they found themselves, for the first time, unable to talk. The free-and-easy interchange of ideas—ideas promulgated by Julia—had somehow ceased to be possible. Did Herbert’s hostage stand between them in some queer way, making strangers of them?
“I mustn’t be late,” said Julia, looking at her wrist-watch, “not after that awful row the other night, although I think that deadly Christmas party put them off the scent.”
He helped her on with her coat, and still in that strange unnatural silence they went back together on the top of a 73 bus—the night was not cold for the time of year—to Hammersmith Broadway; and then they walked in and out of the bars of light and shade, past the evening shoppers turning over things at the food shops, overtaken every now and again by the roaring, brilliantly-lit tram-cars; on and on along the hard pavement until they reached the Square.
A sudden compunction seized Leo as they stood in its darkest corner, under their favourite tree.
“I say, this is good-bye, Julia,” he said.
She nodded. Her throat ached intolerably, and she could hardly speak. Suddenly, the remembrance of the passion of the summer, so different from anything he had ever known, invaded Leo’s mind and mingled with the deeper sense of frustration which had been his portion this Christmas leave. He pressed her to him fiercely and kissed her again and again. A sweet surge of joy filled her heart—what did anything matter if Leo loved her?
“Darling, it’s all right. It’ll be all right,” she assured him, through her tears which were running down her face as fast as he kissed them away. “I’ll go to that address. I’ll get rid of it, and we’ll have thought of something by the time you come back. You remember what you said to me when you were joking about weed-killer? That wouldn’t be any good, of course, but there must be something if he won’t give me a divorce. There simply must be something, Leo. You’re so clever. You go about everywhere, you must be able to find out. I’d do anything for you, Leo.” And for the moment, while she spoke, she believed it. Leo, while he listened, liked to think he believed it too.
They kissed again hungrily, her tears salt between their lips.
“You won’t find anyone else who’ll do for you what I will, Leo,” she whispered, when he let her go. “No other woman would risk for you what I will. Oh, I must go now, but don’t forget I’ll write to you, and when you write to me, if you hear of anything, you’ll tell me of it, won’t you? Don’t forget I’ll be working for both of us all the time, darling.”
By George! I believe she means it, thought Leo, with a certain excited pride.
Julia couldn’t have told whether she meant it or not. She only knew that a wonderful weapon had been placed in her hands, a weapon not to attack Herbert, but one with which to grapple Leo and hold him more closely by her side. Their love, which had seemed to be dying of inanition, had found a new, wonderful food by which to live. Danger and risk, even if they were only imaginative, yet gave a thrill when neither of them knew quite what was imagination and what was real.
She broke from him at last on a high note of exaltation, and fled along the Square and up the steps between the smiling lions.
Business was slack for her in the New Year and Julia went again into a trough of depression at Leo’s absence. Her fantasy of herself—the great lover who was prepared to risk everything—faded in the chill winter daylight of Hammersmith. She began to think more urgently of the trouble in which she found herself, and the absolute necessity—for she could no longer avoid that fact—of a visit to the address Leo had sent her. She was terrified … who would not be? She had heard so much of girls who had died after an adventure such as she was planning. Why, the News of the World was full of them every week; but then, that was probably because the girls didn’t take sufficient precaution when they got home; didn’t keep themselves as spotlessly clean as Julia always did.
Anyway, it was no good going on living with this menace looming over her. Better to gamble everything with the risk of loss of life itself than go on with life as it must be, unless she dared to gamble.
Rather to her surprise, Julia found the name and address were in the telephone-book, and she rang up when alone in the shop, before closing, and asked to speak to Mrs. Humble.
“Mrs. Humble speaking,” a pleasant though uneducated voice replied.
Julia began to stammer. “I … I’ve been given your address by a friend,” she said at last.
“Oh, you want those newspapers,” said the voice. “Well, I expect I can get them for you. Let me see, what’s the name, I’ve forgotten?”
“Beale,” said Julia frantically. It was the first name she could think of suddenly. Instinct told her not to use her maiden name, or her married name. “Mrs. Beale.”
“Mrs. Beale,” said the voice. “Well, when could you come and get the papers? You know this shop, don’t you?”
“No, I mean, of course, yes … I mean, I can find it,” said Julia.
“To-morrow evening at 7 o’clock,” said the voice.
“That’s rather late …”
“I can’t help it,” said the voice more sharply. “It wouldn’t be convenient earlier.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll manage somehow. You’re sure it’ll be all right?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Beale. You’ve ordered the papers, and I’ll be able to get them for you by to-morrow. We’re the little shop just before you get to the railway arch,” and there was the sound of the receiver being hung up.
It was easy enough to tell Herbert a story of going out to tea with one of the girls from the shop next evening. Leo having left the country, Herbert was no longer interested in what Julia did—for possessiveness was the mainspring of his emotion towards her. After what he considered his triumph in downing Leo—as evidenced by the complete lack of interest he and Julia showed at the party—he had considered the trouble was at an end. Leo was gone, until Easter this time, and the thing, thanks to the stand h
e had taken, was finished. … Julia was once again his wife, and this time for good. But Julia had refused to let him touch her; not only that, she had told him never again as long as she lived, and there was a new quality in her voice that frightened Herbert. He had blustered, he had argued, at last he had implored, but he might have been talking to a dead woman.
“Look here, I’ll get rid of Bertha,” he said at last. “I admit I was wrong not to do it before when I promised. It didn’t seem worth it, with Christmas so near; but I give you my word I will, I’ll tell her to-morrow.”
“I don’t care,” said Julia, “whether you tell her or not, except that I would sooner she went. I want my room to myself again. I’ll go mad if I have to go on like this. But I’ll never sleep with you again, Bertha or no Bertha.”
That had been the night before, and when Julia rang him up to tell him she would be late that evening, Herbert took it humbly. He was frightened, and Julia knew it; but she no longer cared.
Julia went on her errand very quietly dressed, with entirely clean underthings—a relic of her early childhood. For her mother had always put her into clean underclothes for a railway journey “in case anything happened,” by which Mrs. Almond meant a railway accident.
This curious piece of family folk-lore having been subconsciously obeyed, Julia was ready with the pound-notes in her bag for what might befall.
There have been pilgrimages more praiseworthy, but still less courageous than was Julia’s that evening. Leo away at sea, Herbert sitting over his supper … they were men, and so this thing could never happen to them, although they were both, in a way, responsible for it having happened to Julia. Leo’s child, because of the desire he had awakened in her, Herbert’s in actual fact; it was nobody’s child less than Julia’s, whose life had not prepared her for such realities.
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