She went on in a sort of dream, until she arrived at the little street where she was told Prospect Villas were. It was a dark, irregular street, with dingy little yellow-brick houses that led under a railway arch, and at the corner, just before the arch, stood a newspaper shop, a dingy little shop where postcards and cheap novelettes and cigarettes were sold. Julia went in.
“Is Mrs. Humble in?” she asked brightly to the weedy-looking youth behind the counter, “I’m a friend of hers, she’s expecting me.”
“What nyme?” said the youth.
“Mrs. Beale.”
“Ma,” called the youth over his shoulder, “here’s a Mrs. Beale to see you.”
The door of the parlour at the back of the shop opened, and a pleasant, motherly-looking old woman came out.
“Well, well, it’s Mrs. Beale, is it! I shouldn’t have known you, my dear. It must be years since I’ve seen you—not since you were as high as this counter. And how is your dear mother?”
“She’s all right,” said Julia, rather startled.
“Well, I’ve got those papers for her. You must be tired coming all this way. Come in, and give me all the news. Look after the shop, Johnny, Mrs. Beale and me has got lots of things to talk over.”
The youth seemed quite uninterested, and merely nodded in reply. Julia gazed in awe at the fat, comfortable Mrs. Humble, who took her through in the little hall and led her upstairs.
“Feeling a bit nervous, I expect, dear, aren’t you? Ah, well, it’s only natural. Sit down and let’s have a look at you.”
She turned on the gas-jet, and Julia found herself in a bedroom furnished with yellow-painted deal, with thick, dark red curtains drawn closely over the window. Mrs. Humble shut the door and her manner seemed to change.
“Now,” she said, “it’s all very well. You say you’re from a friend of mine, but how do I know?”
“I don’t know,” stammered Julia.
“How did you get my nyme?”
“My husband got it … he’s in the Navy; he got it from one of his friends on board ship.”
“Oh, in the Nyvy, is he?”
“Yes, he’s in an aircraft-carrier, and he’s just left for the Mediterranean cruise.” It gave Julia a curious joy to make these statements, and an added confidence—and this added confidence impressed Mrs. Humble, who appraised her shrewdly.
“How long gone do you think it is, dear?”
“About two and a half months—two months, I think,” said Julia.
“Oh, well, that oughtn’t to be serious, ought it? Cheer up, duckie. Now take off your things and lie down here, and I’ll soon tell you.”
Julia, feeling sick and outraged, submitted to the ministrations of Mrs. Humble, who, at least, first scrubbed her hands, gnarled but clean-looking hands, with carbolic soap and hot water.
“Well, that oughtn’t to be a difficult job, dear. I’ll just boil my things up. But first, where’s the money? I do all I can to help poor women—God knows they get a bad enough time of it in this world—but I can’t do it for nothing, see?”
“That’s right, isn’t it?” murmured Julia, holding out the ten one-pound notes which Leo had told her would be necessary.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Humble, rather discontentedly, “that’ll do; but from the looks of you. … Oh, well,” but her eyes travelled discontentedly over Julia’s spotless crêpe de Chine underclothes. “Now all you’ve got to do is to lie still there, and then I’ll fix you up all nice and comfortable, see? and by the time you’re in bed to-night, you oughtn’t to have any more cause to worry. That’s the way it’ll happen, see?”
Julia lay with her eyes closed, and her teeth ground together, bearing everything. This was degradation indeed. She was thankful it was not Leo’s child—but if it had been she would never have been here. No sound passed her lips, but tears of self-pity more than of pain trickled from under her closed lids.
“I can see I don’t need to tell you, dear, to take care of yourself. Antiseptics, and all that. I’m careful myself, I’ve boiled everything, and I expect my patients to be careful, too. It’s hard on me when they ain’t, see?”
Julia, sobbing by now, was lying with her head pressed against the pillow, her hands over her face.
“I know what’ll put you right. You can’t go out like that,” said Mrs. Humble, with a note of sharpness in her voice. There was a sound of a bottle clinking against a glass, and Julia found herself drinking gin and hot water. It was pleasant and comforting. Slowly, slowly, her sobs subsided.
“That’s all right, dearie, take your time. You mustn’t go out from here looking as though you’ve bin crying. That would never do, because of me, see?” said Mrs. Humble.
Julia nodded; and when she had powdered her face and made up her mouth, and dressed herself in her outdoor things, she put on her horn-rimmed spectacles, partly to hide the ravages of her tears and partly to show her the way out of this dark, unfamiliar place.
“That’s right, dear,” said Mrs. Humble, highly pleased at this last touch—which she evidently took to be in the nature of a dramatic effect—“that’s right. Now which way do you go from here? You’d better not go the same way you came in. I’ll take you out the back way. It’s quite dark now, and you turn to the left, and you go under the railway arch and keep straight on, then take the first to the right and you’ll come to the railway station. You can find your way to anywhere in London from there; only get home quick because your pains will be coming on, and you don’t want them to take you halfway home, do you?”
Julia followed Mrs. Humble’s instructions. Her body felt wracked and humiliated; but the gin gave her strength and the unaccustomed clearness of the world, owing to her spectacles, gave her decision of movement. She arrived home at about nine o’clock. Her one conscious longing was for a bath. There had been something horrible about the motherliness of Mrs. Humble, though she was, after all, not a bad old woman. She evidently believed she was helping girls out of difficult places, and if she considered the labourer worthy of his hire, why should she not do so? But the weedy youth in the shop … he must have known what his mother did; here was a depravity—and, worse, a casual acceptance of depravity that shocked Julia’s nerves. There was something dingy about the morality of the place, and at least the Darlings were never dingy. That little newspaper-shop … so blatantly innocent … seemed more sinister than an ordinary house would have done. It courted publicity, in a way. It said: “See how open and above-board I am.” It was all horrible—and never again should Herbert come near her.
In spite of her growing bodily discomfort, she almost ran up the stairs to the door of the flat. She had hardly put her key into the lock when it was opened from within, and to her surprise there stood Herbert. There was a curious look on his face, half frightened and half sorry; a look to which she was unaccustomed. She stared at him.
“Why, whatever is it, Herbert? You weren’t worrying about me, were you? I told you I should be late.”
“No, no,” said Herbert, “it isn’t that. I’ve got something to tell you, Julia. Come into the dining-room—Bertha’s in the sitting-room.”
“I thought you were going to tell her to go?”
“I did,” said Herbert, “that’s just it.” He followed Julia into the dining-room, and shutting the door, stood looking at her miserably. “I did tell her. I made it quite clear. When I make up my mind, I make up my mind, as you know, Julia. There’s no two ways about it. I told her she was coming between man and wife, and she had got to go. She said—if it came to coming between man and wife … there was someone else.” He stopped.
“Oh, I can guess all that,” said Julia.
“Julia, she’s done a dreadful thing. She got very angry with me. I don’t think she really meant to do it, only she thought she was doing it for the best. But you know what a trouble Bobby has been lately, with his rheumatism. …”
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Julia’s heart seemed to stop. She gazed at him with her mouth open.
“… yes, hardly able to move,” Herbert went on, “and you having to carry him up and down stairs, or my having to when you weren’t here. She never liked it. Well, after all, he wasn’t my dog, was he …?”
“She hasn’t done anything to Bobby! What are you trying to tell me? He’s not hurt? Where is he? Bobby! … Bobby …!” she heard her own voice begin to scream.
“Now stop it. Julia, he isn’t hurt. It’s quite all right. Bertha wouldn’t do a thing like that. She had it done ever so quietly—chloroform. He never knew a thing about it, I swear he didn’t. I’m not standing up for her, mind you … it wasn’t her dog … and she had no right to do it; but she was wild with my telling her to go and everything.”
“Where is he?” said Julia, to Herbert’s relief in a very quiet voice.
“He’s at the vet’s. She took him in a taxi. When I found out, I made them keep him for you to see. I did my best … I did really, Julia. He didn’t suffer a bit, the vet told me so. I’ve just seen him, and the people down below will let us bury him in the garden … I’ve asked them.”
Herbert had probably never been seen to such advantage as he was now, but it was too late, as far as Julia was concerned. The utter desolation which fell upon her at the news wiped all fairness for Herbert out of her mind. She turned and pushed him aside and stumbled upstairs to the front room. She managed to get on to the bed, and then was aware of Emily bending over her. Next she was terribly sick, and then what Mrs. Humble had referred to as “the pains” began. A thoroughly frightened Bertha cowered in the parlour while Herbert telephoned frantically for Dr. Ackroyd or Anne. He didn’t believe in women doctors himself, but he had a queer sort of faith in Anne.
Anne came and got Herbert out of the room. It was Anne’s kind brown eyes that Julia saw before at last she fainted.
The next three days were more or less of a nightmare to Julia. To her intense surprise a nurse appeared at her bedside. She wondered whether she was very ill, whether perhaps she was going to die. She felt too tired and drained of all vitality to care very much.
On the third day, when she was sitting up in bed, Anne, after her usual talk with the nurse, settled herself by Julia’s bedside. Julia sat looking at her sullenly, although she felt truly grateful. Anne was going to lecture her, she supposed.
“Julia,” said Anne, “there are one or two things I must say to you. I know what you’ve had done to yourself, of course … no, don’t bother to interrupt … oh yes, I know you’ve had something done … it’s my job to know these things. And I suppose it’s a relief to you to know it’s been successful. Well, I simply told Herbert that you had been going to have a baby, and now it’s all over. He jumped to the conclusion that it went wrong because of poor Bobby. It wasn’t any business of mine to contradict him, and I didn’t.”
“Thank you,” said Julia meekly.
“I found you hadn’t told Herbert anything about it. He was very surprised, and I think he’s very disappointed, Julia.”
Julia said nothing.
“Oh, Julia, why did you do it?” said Anne.
“It’s all very well for you, Anne,” Julia said, “but where should I be with a baby? I couldn’t go on working. I’d be tied up here with Herbert for the rest of my life. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“It was Herbert’s, then?” said Anne calmly.
“Oh yes, that was the trouble.”
Anne looked at her sharply.
“Yes,” said Julia—half proudly and half casually as though she had been one of the Darlings—“I’ve had a lover, and though Herbert’s suspected it, he hasn’t been sure. I haven’t told anybody but you, Anne, but there have been rows about it for months. If it had been his, I wouldn’t have minded. Herbert would have had to divorce me then.”
“You’d like that?”
“Of course I’d like it. Oh, Anne, you’d have to be married to Herbert to know. And then to have known the other thing …! Oh, you may be ever so clever. I know you’ve done wonderful things—passed all your exams., and walked the hospitals, and the rest of it … but you’re not married, Anne, and you haven’t had a lover.”
Anne accepted the perpetual shame of virginity calmly.
“No, I can’t know about your affairs as you do, of course,” she said, “but you’ve done a dreadful thing, and a very dangerous thing. You ought to go to hospital now to be tidied up.”
Julia shuddered. “No, thank you. I’m over it, and never want to think of it again. There never will be a next time, don’t worry, I’ll go on as I am.”
“Are you what’s called ‘in love’ with this man?” asked Anne.
“Of course I’m in love,” said Julia, “terribly in love. I never knew it could be like this.”
Anne sat in silence. It was no good preaching to Julia, she knew that. She also knew, only too well, that a doctor with a rich and fashionable practice might not have known the compulsion under which such as Julia lived; the compulsion not only of the bread-earner, but of the outward pressure of a small and rigid society.
It occurred to her, as it had often occurred to her before, that it would be simpler if people could go to bed with each other without making so much fuss about it; but then Herbert, she had to agree, would be the first to make a fuss about it. Julia was not the only sinner in that respect. Each made too much of it in a different way.
Anne gazed thoughtfully at Julia. After all, what did she know of her? Although both had lived in Saint Clement’s Square for years, their ways had lain so far apart. Anne’s various experiences while she was taking her degree, her life with the other students, her gradually deepening knowledge of the human body and mind; her acquaintanceship, as she went through her various courses, with sick people in hospital, with women in labour, with the mentally afflicted—all these things had made her even more different from Julia than when they had attended school together.
Julia, she felt, in spite of being married and having had a lover—experiences which Julia seemed to think taught her all there was to be known about life—had remained strangely childish. After all, what training had her mind ever had, apart from business at the shop? Her mind had been free all these years to wander unchecked in the fields of imagination. No humble and arduous following of any exact knowledge had taught it discipline. I wonder what she’s really like, thought Anne. I don’t suppose I really know. I’m only frightfully sorry for her. How much does anyone know about anyone else? Very little … at the most one catches certain aspects, gleams, sudden shadows. Niceness … everyone is at the mercy of what is called niceness … if the little point of contact between two human beings chances to occur in a moment of pleasantness, then the two people think each other nice. A man may meet another, admire his operating, or his painting, or his sculpture, or whatever it is he does, and at once the other man will feel a softening of the heart, a sudden little glow, a sense that here is a nice person. Just as two men may meet, and one be offended at some heartless remark of the other, and quite a different moment will spring to life between them. Yet both moments are true, and both untrue. They are true because the contact is real, untrue because it covers such an infinitesimal point in the soul of each man. “Knowing” anyone is only the getting together of a collection of these little points, or catching a spark as it flies off the surface of the mind struck at a certain angle for a brief flash.
You saw yourself in a glass, you were terribly isolated with yourself all your life, even in dreams; yet abysses were always opening in yourself before your horrified gaze. In the same way you saw the semblance of other isolated selves walking about, going through all the funny actions with which human beings complicate their lives; but you never saw a whole person, even physically. You couldn’t see his back, and his front and the sideways view of him at the same time, although all three existed
together. How much less, then, could you see the areas of the personality? The most you could do was to pin down in your memory—which chose them for you quite apart from your own selective volition—certain physical aspects, expressions, here a smile, there a habit of glancing sidelong, and certain reactions that you dubbed “characteristic.” How odd it was, by the way, that no one ever said, “How exactly like So-and-so” in a complimentary spirit!
And shy, blind, voiceless, deep down in everyone was a tiny, lonely point of consciousness, that passionately wished for approbation, that was always being wounded by the lack of it.
Julia had gone about the world, as every human being went about it, quite a different person from the one that was seen in snatches by the absorbed consciousness of others. She went about it, from Saint Clement’s Square to George Street, to Paris, to the seaside, a loving, passionate creature, greedy of life perhaps, but sure that she deserved, and must have, whatsoever she wanted; that she was misunderstood; that she was really gay, kind, charming. Julia saw Bertha as a crabbed, wicked old woman, but Bertha saw Julia as the wicked woman and herself as a noble character unappreciated.
Anne shook herself out of her thoughts and rose.
“There’s one thing I’ve got to say to you, Julia,” she said, “you must stay in bed for eight or ten days. Do you realise that you’re not free yet from the danger of septicaemia? If anything were to happen to you now, it’s quite likely I might be suspected of having had a hand in it. I’m known to be your friend, and I’m called in when you’re taken ill. So don’t think you can get up and go to the shop, or do anything like that. You must think of me as well as yourself.”
“Oh, I will, indeed, Anne. I wouldn’t let anybody think it was you,” said Julia truthfully. “You’ve been wonderful. I don’t know what I should have done without you. However did you get Herbert to agree to a nurse? Didn’t he say it would be awfully expensive?”
“He did at first, but when I told him what was the matter, he didn’t say another word. I’ve told him you’ll be very nervous and very delicate for some time, and he has promised to be very good. He’s brought Bobby home and buried him in the garden. I think you’ll find he’ll be quite all right if only you don’t expect too much of him. And, Julia, I ought to warn you—Daddy says that Herbert isn’t nearly as strong as he looks. His heart isn’t good. You mustn’t worry him or yourself. Your rest won’t do you any good if you’re worrying and fretting the whole time either about Herbert or about the other man. I suppose it’s no good asking you whether you can forget him?”
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