AN ARRANGEMENT FOR SUNDAY
"Elizabeth Aurora Pinsent; that's it. But Elizabeth was too solemn, and
Betty was too familiar, and Aurora too absurd. So I'm just Ora."
Lord Bowdon nodded gravely.
"And I think," she went on, lying back on the sofa, "that the world's
rather dull, and that you're rather like the world this afternoon."
He did not dispute the point. A man who wants to make love, but is
withheld by the sense that he ought not, is at his dullest. Bowdon's
state was this or even worse. Ora was a friend of Irene Kilnorton's; how
much had she guessed, observed, or been told? Would she think loyalty a
duty in herself and disloyalty in him a reproach? That would almost
certainly be her mood unless she liked him very much; and she gave no
sign of such a liking. On all grounds he was clear that he had better go
away at once and not come back again. He thought first of Irene
Kilnorton, then of his own peace and interest, lastly of Mr. Jack
Fenning; but it must be stated to his credit that he did think quite
perceptibly of Jack Fenning. Yet he did not go away immediately.
"You live all alone here?" he asked, looking round the bright little
room.
"Yes, I can, you see. That's the advantage of being married."
"I never looked at marriage in that light before."
"No," she laughed. "You've not looked at it in any light, you know; only
from the outer darkness."
As his eyes rested on her lying there in graceful repose, he felt a
grudge against the way fate was treating him. He wished he were ten or
fifteen years younger; he wished he had nothing to lose; he wished he
had no conscience. Given these desirable things, he believed that he
could break down this indifference and banish this repose. Ora had done
nothing to create such a belief; it grew out of his own sturdy and
usually justifiable self-confidence.
"Have you a conscience?" he asked her suddenly.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "afterwards."
"That's a harmless variety," he said wistfully.
"Tiresome, though," she murmured with her eyes upturned to the ceiling
as though she had forgotten his presence. "Only, you see, something else
happens soon and then you don't think any more about it." Ora seemed
glad that the cold wind of morality was thus tempered.
Such a remedy was not for the solid-minded man: he did think more about
it, notwithstanding that many things happened; and his was not merely
the harmless variety of conscience. Ora nestled lower on her cushions,
sighed and closed her eyes; she did not treat him with ceremony, if any
comfort lay in that. He rose, walked to the window, and looked out. He
felt intolerably absurd, but the perception of his absurdity did not
help him much. Again he complained of fate. This thing had come just
when such things should cease to come, just also when another thing had
begun to seem so pleasant, so satisfactory, so almost settled. He was
ashamed of himself; as he stood there he regretted his midnight
confidence to Ashley Mead a fortnight before. Since then he had made no
confidences to Ashley; he had not told him how often he came to this
house, nor how often he wished to come. Ora Pinsent's name had not been
mentioned between them, although they had met several times over the
initial business of launching their Commission.
He turned round and found her eyes on him. She began to laugh, sprang
up, ran across the room, laid a hand lightly on his sleeve, and looked
in his face, shaking her head with an air of determination.
"You must either go, or be a little more amusing," she said. "What's the
matter? Oh, I know! You're in love!"
"I suppose so," he admitted with a grim smile.
"Not with me, though!"
"You're sure of that? Nothing would make you doubt it?"
"Well, I thought it was Irene Kilnorton," she answered; her eyes
expressed interest and a little surprise.
"So it was; at least I thought so too," said Bowdon.
"Well, if you think so enough, it's all right," said Ora with a laugh.
"But I'm inclined to think differently now."
"Oh, I shouldn't think differently, if I were you," she murmured.
"Irene's so charming and clever. She'd just suit you."
"You're absolutely right," said Bowdon.
"Then why don't you?" She looked at him for a moment and he met her
gaze; a slight tint of colour came on her cheeks, and her lips curved in
amusement. "Oh, what nonsense!" she cried a moment later and drew back
from him till she leant against the opposite shutter and stood there,
smiling at him. The next moment she went on: "It is quite nonsense, you
know."
Lord Bowdon thought for a moment before he answered her.
"Nonsense is not the same as nothing," he said at last.
"You're not serious about it?" she asked with a passing appearance of
alarm. "But of course you aren't." She began to laugh again.
He was relieved to find that he had betrayed nothing more decisive than
an inclination to flirt. It would be an excellent thing to sail off
under cover of that; she would not be offended, he would be safe.
"Tragically serious," he answered, smiling.
"Oh, yes, I know!" she said. Then she grew grave, frowned a little and
looked down into the street. "You talk rather like Jack used to. You
reminded me of him for an instant," she remarked. "Though you're not
like him really, of course."
"Your husband?" His tone had surprise in it; she had never mentioned
Jack before; both the moment and the manner of her present reference to
him seemed strange.
"Yes. You never met him, did you? He used to be about London five or six
years ago."
"No, I never saw him. Where is he now?"
A shrug of her shoulders and a slight smile gave her answer.
"Why did he go away?"
"Oh, a thousand reasons! It doesn't matter. I liked him, though, once."
"Do you like him now?"
A moment more of gravity was followed by a sudden smile; her eyes
sparkled again and she laughed, as she answered,
"No, not just now, thank you, Lord Bowdon. What queer questions you ask,
don't you?"
"The answers interest me."
"I don't see why they should."
"Don't you?"
"I mean I don't see how they ought."
"Quite so."
"You're really getting a little bit more amusing," said Ora with a
grateful look.
He felt an impulse to be brutal with her, to do, in another sphere of
action, very much what Mr. Hazlewood had done when he insisted that a
business arrangement must be regarded in a business-like way. Suppose he
told her that questions of morals, with their cognate problems, ought to
be regarded in a moral way? He would perhaps be a strange preacher, but
surely she would forget that in amazement at the novelty of his
doctrine!
"How old are you?" he asked her, aghast this time at his question but
quite unable to resist it.
She glanced at him for a moment, smiled, and answered simply,
"Twenty-seven last December."
He was remorseful at having extracted an answer, but he bowed to her as
he said,
"You've paid me a high compliment. You're right, though; it wasn't
impertinence."
"Oh, no, you're all right in that way," she murmured with a careless
cordiality. "But why did you want to know?"
"I want to know all about you," he said in a low voice.
Again she looked at him for a moment, growing grave as she looked. Then
she laid her hand on his arm again and looked up in his face with a
pleading coaxing smile.
"Don't," she said.
There was silence for a moment. Then Lord Bowdon took her hand, kissed
it, smiled at her, and asked a prosaic question.
"Where's my hat?" said he.
But that prosaic question made it impossible to sail off under cover of
an inclination to flirt; it was not at all in that manner; it lacked the
colour, the flourish and the show. As he walked away, Bowdon was
conscious that whatever happened to the affair, good or evil, whether it
went on or stopped, it must be stamped with a certain genuineness. It
could not pass at once from his thoughts; he could not suppose that it
would be dismissed immediately from hers.
That he occupied her attention for a little while after he went away
happened to be the case, although it was by no means the certain result
he imagined. A mind for the moment vacant of new impressions allowed her
to wonder, rather idly, why she had said "Don't" so soon; he had done
nothing to elicit so direct a prohibition; it had put a stop to a
conversation only just becoming interesting, still far from threatening
inconvenience. Perhaps she was surprised to find her injunction so
effective. She had said the word, she supposed, because she was not much
taken with him; or rather because she liked him very definitely in one
way, and very definitely not in another, and so had been impelled to
deal fairly with him. Besides he had for a moment reminded her of Jack
Fenning; that also might have something to do with it. The remembrance
of her husband's love-making was not pleasant to her. It recalled the
greatest of all the blunders into which her trick of sudden likings had
led her, the one apparently irrevocable blunder. It brought back also
the memory of old delusions which had made the blunder seem something so
very different at the time it was committed. She walked about the room
for a few minutes with a doleful look, her lips dragged down and her
eyes woeful. It was only five; she did not dine till six. She was
supposed to rest this hour; if resting meant thinking of Jack Fenning
and Lord Bowdon and of the general harshness of the world, she would
have none of it. It occurred to her, almost as an insult, that here was
an hour in which she was at leisure and yet nobody seemed to desire her
society; such treatment was strange and uncomplimentary.
A ring at the bell scattered her gloom.
"That must be somebody amusing!" she cried, clasping her hands in the
joyful confidence that fate had taken a turn. "I wonder who it is!"
The visitor thus favoured by a prejudice of approbation proved to be
Ashley Mead. He had come once before, a week ago; three days back Ora
had in her own mind accused him of neglect and then charitably
congratulated him on indifference. Now she ran to him as though he were
the one person in the world she wished to see.
"How charming of you!" she cried. "I was bored to death. I do like
people who come at the right time!"
Ashley held her hand for a moment in sheer pleasure at the feel of it;
they sat down, she again on her sofa, he in a low chair close by.
"Tea?" she said.
"Goodness, no. Don't move from where you are, Miss Pinsent. I met Lord
Bowdon walking away."
"I sent him away."
"What delightful presentiments you have!"
"Indeed I'd no idea that you'd come. I don't think he wanted to stay,
though." She smiled meditatively. Lord Bowdon's prompt acceptance of her
"Don't" seemed now to take on a humorous air; his hesitation contrasted
so sharply with the confident readiness of her new visitor.
"I've come on business," said Ashley.
"Business?" she echoed, with an unpleasant reminiscence of Mr. Sidney
Hazlewood and his views as to the nature of an agreement.
"I want you to help me to organise something."
"Oh, I couldn't. I hate all that sort of thing. It's not a bazaar, is
it?"
"No. Perhaps we might call it a _fête_. It's a day in the country, Miss
Pinsent."
"Oh, I know! Children! You mean those children?"
He leant back in his chair and looked at her before he replied. She
seemed a little hurt and regretful, as though his visit were not proving
so pleasant as she had expected; a visit should be paid, as virtue
should be practised, for its own sake.
"No," he said. "Not those children. These children."
She took an instant to grasp the proposal; then her eyes signified her
understanding of it; but she did not answer it.
"Why not?" he urged, leaning forward.
She broke into a light laugh.
"There's no reason why not--"
"Ah, that's right!"
"Except that I'm not sure I want to," continued Ora. She put her head a
little on one side, with a critical air. "I wonder if you'd amuse me for
a whole day," she said.
"You quite mistake my point of view," he replied, smiling. "I never
expected to amuse you. I want you to amuse me. I'm quite selfish about
it."
"That's just making use of me," she objected. "I don't think I was
created only to amuse you, you know."
"Perhaps not; but let me have the amusement first. The trouble'll come
soon enough."
"Will it? Then why--"
"Oh, you understand that well enough really, Miss Pinsent."
"What would that nice serious girl you're going to marry say if she
heard of our outing?"
"I haven't received the news of my engagement yet."
"Irene says you're certain to marry her."
"Well, at any rate she doesn't say I've done it yet, does she?"
"No," admitted Ora, smiling.
"And that's the point, isn't it? Will you come on Sunday?"
Sunday had looked rather grey; there was nothing but a lunch party, to
meet a Dean who thought that the stage might be made an engine for good,
and therefore wished to be introduced to Miss Pinsent. Oh, and there was
a dinner to celebrate somebody's birthday--she had forgotten whose. Yes,
Sunday was quite a free day. The sun shone here; it would shine merrily
in the country. In short she wanted to go.
"Oh, well, I don't mind trying to prevent you being bored for just one
day," she said, with her eyes merry and mocking.
"That's very kind of you," observed Ashley in a composed tone. "I'll
call for you at eleven and carry you off."
"Where to?"
"I shall settle that. It's entirely for my sake we're going, you know,
so I shall have my choice."
"It sounds as if you might enjoy yourself, Mr. Mead."
"Yes, quite, doesn't it?" he answered, laughing. Ora joined in his
laugh; the world was no longer harsh; Lord Bowdon was nothing; there
were no more reminiscences of the way Jack Fenning used to talk. There
was frolic, there was a touch of adventure, a savour of mischief.
"It'll be rather fun," she mused softly, clasping her hands on her knee.
Behind the man's restrained bearing lay a sense of triumph. He had
carried out his little campaign well. He did not look ahead, the success
of the hour served. No doubt after that Sunday other things would happen
again, and might even be of importance; meanwhile except that Sunday
there was nothing. Merely that she came was not all--with her was not
even very much. But he knew that her heart was eager to come, and that
the Sunday was a joy to her also.
"It's dinner-time," she said, springing up. "Go away, Mr. Mead."
He was as obedient as Bowdon had been; enough had been done for to-day.
But a farewell may be said in many ways.
"Sunday, then," he said, taking both her hands which she had held out to
him in her cordial fashion. Lady Kilnorton said that Ora always seemed
to expect to be kissed. "Just manner, of course," she would add, since
Ora was her friend.
"Yes, Sunday--unless I change my mind. I often do."
"You won't this time." The assertion had not a shred of question about
it; it was positive and confident.
She looked up in his face, laughing.
"Good-bye," she said.
Bowdon had kissed her hand, but Ashley did not follow that example. They
enjoyed another laugh together, and he was laughing still as he left her
and took his way downstairs.
"Oh, dear!" she said, passing her hand over her eyes, as she went to get
ready for dinner. She felt a reaction from some kind of excitement; yet
what reason for excitement had there been?
With regard to the theatre the Muddock family displayed a variety of
practice. Sir James never went; Bob frequented with assiduity those
houses where the lighter forms of the drama were presented; Lady Muddock
and Alice were occasional visitors at the highest class of
entertainment. Neither cared much about evenings so spent as a rule; but
Lady Muddock, having entertained Miss Pinsent, was eager to see her act.
Ora was the only member of her profession whom Lady Muddock had met; to
be acquainted with one of the performers added a new flavour. Lady
Muddock felt an increased importance in herself as she looked round the
house; there must be a great many people there who knew nobody on the
stage; she knew Miss Pinsent; she would have liked the fact mentioned,
or at any rate to have it get about in some unobtrusive way. Before the
first act was over she had fully persuaded herself that Ora had noticed
her presence; she had looked twice quite directly at the box! The
little woman, flattered by this wholly fictitious recognition, decided
audaciously that Sir James' attitude towards the stage was old-fashioned
and rather uncharitable; everybody was not bad on the stage; she felt
sure that there were exceptions. Anyhow it was nice to know somebody; it
gave one a feeling of what Bob called--she smiled shyly to
herself--"being in it." She was very careful never to talk slang
herself, but sometimes it expressed just what she wanted to say. She
pulled out her pink silk sleeves to their fullest volume (sleeves were
large then) and leant forward in the box.
Between the acts Babba Flint came in. He was a club acquaintance of
Bob's, and had met the ladies of the family at a charity bazaar. It was
a slender basis for friendship, but Babba was not ceremonious. Nobody
knew why he was called Babba (which was not his name), but he always
was. He was a small fair man, very smartly dressed; he seldom stopped
talking and was generally considered agreeable. He talked now, and,
seeing the bent of Lady Muddock's interest, he made Ora his theme. Lady
Muddock was a little vexed to find that Babba also knew Ora, and most of
her colleagues besides; but there was recompense in his string of
anecdotes. Alice was silent, looking and wondering at Babba--strange to
be such a person!--and yet listening to what he was saying. Babba lisped
a little; at least when he said "Miss Pinsent," the S's were blurred and
indistinct. He had met her husband once a long while ago; "a fellow
named Denning, no, Fenning; a good-looking fellow." "A gentleman?" Babba
supposed so, but deuced hard-up and not very fond of work. She led him
no end of a life, Babba had heard; so at last he bolted to America or
somewhere. Babba expressed some surprise that Mr. Fenning did not now
return--he knew the amount of Ora's salary and mentioned it by way of
enforcing this point--and declared that he himself would put up with a
good deal at the hands of a lady so prepossessing as Miss Pinsent. Then
Lady Muddock asked whether Miss Pinsent were really nice, and Babba said
that she wasn't a bad sort to meet about the place but (Here he broke
into a quotation from a song popular in its day), "You never know what
happens downstairs." Lady Muddock tried to look as though she had
received information, and Babba withdrew, in order to refresh himself
before the rise of the curtain.
Ora played well that night, indeed played Mr. Hazlewood off the stage,
according to his own confession and phraseology. There was a ring in her
laugh, a rush in her passion, a triumph in her very walk. Alice found
herself wondering whether what happened to the woman herself had much
effect on her acting, how complete or incomplete the duality of person
was, how much was put on and put off with the stage dresses and the
stage paint. But, after all, the woman herself must be there before
them, the real creature, full of life and yet straining her great gift
of it to the full. Alice had heard men described as "living hard." That
phrase generally meant something foolish or disreputable; but you could
live hard without dissipation or folly, at least in the ordinary sense
of those words. You could take all there was in every hour out of it,
put all there was of you into every hour, taste everything, try
everything, feel everything, always be doing or suffering, blot out the
uneventful stretches of flat country so wide in most lives, for ever be
going up or down, breasting hills or rattling over the slopes. It must
be strange to be like that and to live like that. Was it also sweet? Or
very sweet when not too bitter? And when it was very bitter, what came
of it? Surely the mightiest temptation to lay it all aside and go to
sleep? Alice drew back with a sudden sense of repulsion, as though there
were no health or sanity in such lives and such people. Then she looked
again at the beautiful face, now strained in sorrow, with hands
stretched out in such marvellous appeal, the whole body a prayer. Her
heart went out in pity, and, with a sudden impulse, cried to go out in
love. But she could come to no final conclusion about Ora Pinsent, and,
vexed at her failure, was thinking when the curtain fell, "What does it
matter to me?"
The arrangement for a Sunday in the country, had she known of it, might
have made the question seem less simple to answer.