AT SEA AND IN PORT
To Irene Kilnorton, occupied with the matter against her will and in
face of self-contempt, the non-appearance of Jack Fenning was a source
of renewed irritation and uneasiness. She could not smile with the world
nor agree to dispose of the subject with the cynical and contented
observation that she had never supposed the man would come and had her
doubts about there being such a man at all. Her consideration of it was
bound to be more elaborate, her view more individual. Hence came the
self-contempt and anger which afflicted her without affecting facts. For
the present indeed Ora was infatuated with Ashley Mead, a position of
affairs deplorable on general grounds but reassuring on personal; but
then where was her safety, what security had she? She let injustice
trick her into panic--with such as Ora the infatuation of Monday
afternoon might be followed by a new passion on Tuesday morning. The
mixture of jealousy with her moral condemnation caused Irene to suffer
an unhealthy attraction to the subject; she could not help talking about
it; she talked about it with Bowdon to his great discomfort. He was not
a good dissembler; he could respect a secret, but his manner was apt to
betray that there was a secret; he was restless, impatient, now and then
almost rude, when Irene harped on the string of Jack Fenning's strange
behaviour. Or was it not Ora's? Had Ora at the last moment, for reasons
unquestionably sufficient, countermanded her husband? Bowdon was
pathetic in his plea of ignorance, but the plea did not ring true. Thus
she was sore with her _fiancé_, vexed with Ashley Mead, and furious
against Ora Pinsent. Yet, being a woman of the world, she was polite to
Ora when they met, friendly if severe to Ashley, and, as has been said,
interested in both of them with a reluctant intensity.
Any strangeness there might be in her own attitude was suggested to her
for the first time by the very different behaviour of her friend Alice
Muddock. Here she found a definiteness of mind, a resolution, and a
relentlessness which she hardly knew whether to laugh at, to shudder at,
or to admire. She knew what Ashley had been to Alice; she remembered how
in the beginning Alice had taken a liking to Ora Pinsent. Yet now her
own anger could hardly seem deep or serious beside Alice's silent
condemnation; her moral disapproval, with its copious discussion and its
lively interest, was mere frippery compared with her friend's eloquent
ignoring of the very existence of the culprits. Having dropped in to
talk the whole thing over, Irene was amazed to find that she was ashamed
to introduce the subject. "I suppose I'm not really moral at all,"
thought Irene with a moment's insight into the radical differences
between her friend and herself, between the talkative shockedness of
society and the genuine grieved concern which finds in silence its only
possible expression. "And I brought Ora here!" Irene reflected in
mingled awe and amusement; her deed seemed now like throwing a lighted
squib into a chapelfull of worshippers. "It's a little bit absurd," was
suggested by her usual way of looking at things. "Quite proper, though,"
added her jealousy of Ora Pinsent. But the habitual had the last word
with her. "I suppose the Muddocks were brought up in that way," she
ended.
Alice had been brought up in that way; from that way she had struggled
to escape with the help of some uncertain intellectual lights; but the
lights had drawn their flickering radiance from the flame of her love
for Ashley Mead. So long as she could she had believed the best, or had
at least refused to believe the worst. But the lights did not now burn
brightly, their oil gave out, and the prejudices (if they were
prejudices) began to gather round, thick and darkening. A lax judgment
on a matter of morals seldom survives defeat suffered at the hands of
the sinner. This fortuitous buttressing of righteousness is all to the
good. Yet because she did not see how her own feelings joined forces
with her idea of right, how the fact of the argosy being laden with her
own hopes intensified in her eyes the crime of the pirate, Alice Muddock
became hard to the sinners as well as justly severe on their censurable
doings; and, from having once tried to understand and excuse them, grew
more certain that they could put forward no mitigating plea. Weeks
passed and Ashley Mead was not asked to Kensington Palace Gardens.
"It's a little inhuman; she was fond of him," thought Irene. Then came a
flash of light. "Bertie Jewett!" she cried inwardly, and her lips set in
the stoniness of a new disapproval. Much as Bertie had conciliated her,
the reaction went too far for Lady Kilnorton's taste. It is very well to
be estimable, but it is very ill to be estimable and nothing else; and
she thought that Bertie was nothing else, unless it were that he was
also a little vulgar; to Bowdon she had denied this; to herself she
admitted it.
Yet she was very wrong. He might be vulgar; he was estimable; but he was
much besides; hence it happened that the thing which seemed to her so
impossible was in a fair way to come about. Old Sir James was dying, and
stayed his last tottering steps on Bertie Jewett's arm; Bob came home
day by day to tell how all the business hung on Bertie Jewett; Bob's
echo, Lady Muddock, was of course in the same cry; the potent influence
of the household, which so encircles the individual, ringed Alice round
with the praises of Bertie Jewett. She had no passion for him, but now
it seemed to her that passions were of doubtful advantage and that she
at least was not meant for them; the idea of having one had been part of
her great mistake. Bertie lay right on the true lines of her life, as
training and fate--as God, she said to herself--had planned them for
her; if she followed them, would she not come to Bertie? All this was
much, yet not enough had he been only estimable. He was strong also,
strong to advance and strong to wait; the keenness of his pale blue eyes
saved him here as it saved him in the bargains that he made. It shewed
him his hour and the plan of his attack. With cautious audacity he laid
his siege, letting his deeds not his words speak for him, trusting not
to his words but to his deeds to disparage his rival. The man had the
instinct for success--or seemed to have it, because his desires and
capabilities were so nicely adjusted and of such equal range. He could
not have written a poem, but he never wanted to. Ora Pinsent would have
suffered under him as under a long church service; but then he would
never have tried to please that lady.
"Do you really like him?" Irene asked Alice as they walked in the
garden.
"Yes," said Alice thoughtfully. "I really like him now."
"Oh, because he's helpful and handy, and looks after you all!"
"No, there's something more than that." She frowned a little. "You can
rely on him; I don't mean to do things so much as to be things--the
things you expect, you know. I think the one terrible thing would be to
have to do with a person who was all fits and starts; it would seem as
though there was no real person there at all."
"That's what I always feel about Ora Pinsent." Irene took courage and
introduced the name deliberately.
"Yes," Alice assented briefly. Irene had no doubt that she was thinking
of Miss Pinsent's friend also, and when she came to report the
conversation to Bowdon this aspect of it took the foremost place.
"If she marries Mr. Jewett," said Irene, "it'll be just in a recoil from
Ashley Mead."
Bowdon did not look at her but at the end of the cigarette which he was
smoking by the window in Queen's Gate. He had no difficulty in
understanding how a recoil might land one in a marriage; this was to him
trodden ground.
"She'll be happier with him," Irene continued. "Ora has quite spoilt
Ashley for any other woman."
Bowdon agreed that Miss Pinsent might very likely have some such effect,
but he expressed the view quite carelessly.
"Besides, really, how could any self-respecting woman think of him now,
any more than any man could of her?"
Bowdon made no answer to this question, which was, after all, purely
rhetorical.
"But, hang it, Jewett!" he remarked after a pause.
"I know," said Irene, forgetting her former dialectical championship of
Bertie. The matter was serious now. "She needn't have taken quite such
an extreme remedy; but he was on the spot, you see; and--and it's the
business. She's falling right back into the business, over head and ears
and all. It's rather sad, but--" It seemed as though she meant that it
was better than linking fortunes with a being all fits and starts. She
rose and came near him. "I think we're just about right, you and I,
Frank," she said. "We aren't Jewetts and we aren't Oras. I think we're
the happy compromise."
"You are, no doubt, my dear. I'm a dull dog," said Bowdon.
She looked at him for a moment and turned away with a little sigh. The
marriage was very near; was the work yet fully done, or had fits and
starts still their power over him and their attraction for him? He made
a remark the next moment which vexed her intensely.
"Well, you know," he said with a thoughtful smile, "I expect we seem to
Miss Pinsent just what Jewett seems to us."
Irene walked away and sat down in a chair on the other side of the room.
"I'm sure I don't care what I seem to Ora Pinsent," she said very
coldly; but Bowdon smoked on in pensive silence.
At this time both the triumph and the activity of Babba Flint were
great. He was divided between the masterpiece of dramatic writing at
whose birth he was assisting, and the masterpiece of prescience which
he had himself displayed touching the matter of Mr. Fenning's return.
When he contemplated these two achievements (and he took almost as much
personal credit for the first as for the second) he said openly that he
ought to find excuse for being "a bit above himself." It was no use to
tell him that he was not writing the play, and neither of the men who
knew chose to tell him that he had been wrong in regard to Jack Fenning.
Thus left to a blessed self-conceit, he obtruded on Ashley Mead certain
advice which was received with a curious bitter amusement.
"If I were you, I'd find out something about the fellow," he said. "I
mean--why didn't he come?" He looked very sly. "_Cherchez la femme_," he
added.
"And if I found her?" asked Ashley.
"Oh, well, you know best about that," said Babba. He conceded that it
was entirely for Ashley to say whether he would greet a chance of
establishing his relations with Ora on a regular and respectable basis.
"But, depend on it, she's there," he added, waving his hand in the
supposed direction of the United States.
"I shouldn't wonder at all," Ashley remarked, his recollection fixed on
Miss Macpherson's portrait.
"Now if we all go over in the winter--" began Babba.
"You all? Who do you mean?"
"Why, if we take the play. Have I told you about--?"
"Oh, Lord, yes, Babba, twenty times. But I'd forgotten."
"Well, if Hazlewood and Miss Pinsent and I go--we can't ask you, I'm
afraid, you know--we can nose about a bit."
Ashley looked at him with a helpless smile; the picture conjured up by
his expression lacked no repulsive feature. Here was a hideously apt
summary of the prospect which had been in his own thoughts; if he
followed the clue, he must nose about or get somebody to nose about for
him.
"Shut up, Babba," he commanded, rudely enough; but Babba smiled and told
him to think it over. Babba did not recognise any defect in the manner
of offering his services or anything objectionable in the substance of
them. He had flung open a door; he could not be expected to guarantee
the cleanliness of the threshold, since he had not a very fine eye with
which to guide the broom.
Whatever Ashley might think about the opportunities supposed to be
afforded by the suggested excursion to America, he could not avoid
giving consideration to the tour itself. The London season drew to a
close; Mr. Hazlewood wanted to make his plans; Babba and his associates
were urgent for a Yes or a No. If Ora said Yes, after a brief rest she
would set to work at rehearsals and in a few weeks cross the seas; if
she said No, she had the prospect of a long holiday, to be spent how she
would, where she would, with whom she would. This position of affairs
raised the great question in a concrete and urgent form; it pressed
itself on Ashley Mead; he began to wonder when it would make an
impression on Ora. For up to the present time she did not seem to have
looked ahead; she had fallen back into the state of irresponsible
happiness from which her husband's letter had roused her. She considered
the tour with interest and even eagerness, but without bringing it into
relation with Ashley Mead; in other moments she talked rapturously about
the delights of a holiday, but either ignored or tacitly presupposed
the manner and the company in which she was to spend it. She never
referred to her husband; she had, and apparently expected to have, no
letter from him. He was gone; Ora seemed as unconscious of the problem
to which his disappearance gave rise as she was ignorant of the means by
which the disappearance had been brought about. She had left to Ashley
the decision as to whether she should or should not undertake the
renunciation and reformation; so she appeared to leave it to him now to
make up his mind what must be done since the reformation had become
impossible and the renunciation of no effect. Meanwhile she was
delightfully happy.
It was this unmeditated joy in her which made it at once impossible for
Ashley to leave her and impossible to shape plans by which he should be
enabled to stay with her. To do either was to spoil what he had, was to
soil a simple perfection, was to run up against the world, against the
world's severe cold Alice Muddocks with their scorn of emotions, and its
Babba Flints with their intolerable manoeuvres and hints of profitable
nosings. That a choice of courses should be forced on him became
irksome. Things were very well as they were; she was happy, he was
happy, Jack Fenning was gone, and--well, some day he would pay Lord
Bowdon a thousand pounds.
He was in this mood when the American tour faced him with its peremptory
summons, with its business-like calculations of profit, its romantic
involving of despair, its abominable possibilities of nosing. Babba
spoke of it to him, so did Mr. Hazlewood, both with an air of curiosity;
Ora herself speculated about it more and more, sometimes in her
artistic, sometimes in her financial, sometimes in her fatalistic mood.
She was strange about it; now she would talk as though he were to be
with her, again as if he were to be at work here at home and his letters
her only comfort. She never faced facts; she did not even look at them
from the corner of an eye, over the shoulder.
"Shall I go or not?" she would ask him, as though it were a question
between keeping some trivial engagement and breaking it for a
pleasanter. "Now, shall I go, Ashley dear?"
Had she no notion of what things meant? Away from her he often asked
this question; when he was with her, it died away on his lips. Then he
declared that, if he could so cheat necessity and beguile the inevitable
from its path, she should never know what things meant, never take a
hard reckoning with the world, never be forced to assess herself. She
had forgotten what Irene and what Alice had said to her, or had
persuaded herself that they spoke for form's sake, or in jealousy, or in
ignorance, or because their clergyman had such influence over them, or
for some such cause. She was now as simply unreasoning as she was simply
happy; she was altogether at his disposal, ready to go or stay, to do
what he ordered, even (as he knew) to leave him in tears and sorrow, if
that were his will. She left it all to him; and, having it all left to
him, he left it to Mr. Hazlewood, to Babba Flint, or to any other
superficially inadequate embodiment in which the Necessary chose to
clothe itself.
But Bowdon's thousand pounds? Such a man as Ashley--or as his
creditor--will be careless of all things in earth or heaven save a
woman's secret, his given word, the etiquette of his profession, and a
debt of honour. The thousand pounds was in the fullest sense a debt of
honour. He had not a thousand pounds. To save was impossible while Ora
went everywhere with him. Money to her was like manna and seemed to
entail the same obligation that none of the day's bounty should be left
to the next morning. Ashley was hard-up; the prosaic fact shot across
his mental embarrassments in a humorous streak. He laughed at it, at
himself when he bought Ora bouquets or the last fancy in blotting-pads,
at her when she asked him for a sovereign, because she had no place
convenient for the carrying of a purse. At a word she would have repaid,
and besides flung all she had into his hands. But that word he would not
speak. The Commission drew near to its close; brief bred brief but
slowly; and as long as he owed Bowdon a thousand pounds he seemed to
himself more than criminal. But did he owe it? Yes, a thousand times.
For if he did not, then Bowdon was something more to Ora Pinsent than a
chance acquaintance or a friend's _fiancé_. He acknowledged the hearty
good comradeship which had shewn itself in the loan; but it had been a
loan; only by repaying it could he appropriate the service to himself
and remove another's offering from the shrine at which he worshipped.
Matters standing in this position, time, with its usual disregard of the
state of our private affairs, brought on the wedding of Irene Kilnorton
and Lord Bowdon. Irene had found no sufficient reason for objecting to
Ashley's presence. Logic then demanded that an invitation should be sent
to Miss Pinsent. As it chanced, it pleased Ora to come in conspicuous
fashion, in a gown which the papers were bound to notice, in a hat of
mark, rather late, full of exuberant sympathy with the performance. She
arrived only a minute before the bride, while Bowdon and Ashley Mead
stood side by side close to the altar-rails. Both saw her the moment
she came in, both looked at her, neither made any comment on her
appearance. As soon as the procession entered she made an effort to
relapse into decorous obscurity, but, willy-nilly, she halved attention
with the proper heroine of the day. A wedding affected Ora; the ready
tears stood in her eyes as the solemn confident vows were spoken. Ashley
almost laughed as he listened to Bowdon's; he had a sudden sense that it
would be rather absurd if Ora and he took such vows; he had a distinct
knowledge that the woman of whom he himself thought was in the minds of
bride and bridegroom also. He glanced at her, she smiled at him with her
innocent disregard of appearances. He looked the other way and found
Alice Muddock with eyes firm set on her prayer-book. The officiating
minister delivered a little discourse, one of his own writing, in lieu
of the homily. Looking again, Ashley found Alice's eyes on the minister
with a grave meditative gaze, as though she weighed his words and
assessed the duties and the difficulties they set forth; but Ora was
glancing round the church, finding acquaintances. When the ceremony
ended and they had come out of the vestry, he walked past Ora in the
wake of the procession. Ora smiled in a comprehending, rather
compassionate way; her emotion was quite gone. Now she seemed to bid him
take the ceremony for what it was worth. He had watched to see whether
Bowdon looked at her; Bowdon had not looked. That was because the
ceremony had seemed of importance to him. Ashley broke into a smile; it
would have been more encouraging, if also more commonplace, had Ora's
tears not been so obviously merely a tribute to the literary gifts of
the composers of the service.
At the reception afterwards--it was quiet and small--one thing happened
which seemed to have a queer significance. He found Ora, and took her
round the rooms. As they made their circuit they came on Alice Muddock;
she was talking to Bertie Jewett. She looked up, bowed to Ashley, and
smiled; she took no notice at all of Ora Pinsent. Ashley felt himself
turn red, and his lips shaped themselves into angry words; he turned to
Ora. Ora was looking the other way. She had been cut; but she had not
seen it; she had not noticed Alice Muddock. But Ashley understood that
the two women had parted asunder, that to be the friend of one was in
future not to be a friend to the other.
It was a queer moment also when Ora, full again of overflowing emotions,
flung herself on Irene's breast, kissed her, blessed her, praised her,
prayed for her, laughed at her, lauded her gown, and told her that she
had never looked better in her life. Irene laughed and returned the
kiss; then she looked at her husband, next at Ashley, lastly at Ora
Pinsent. There was a moment of silent embarrassment in all the three;
Ora glanced round at them and broke into her low laugh.
"Why, what have I done to you all?" she cried. "Have I hypnotised you
all?"
Bowdon raised his eyes, let them rest on her a moment, then turned to
Ashley Mead. The two women began to talk again. For a moment the two men
stood looking at one another. They had their secret. Each telegraphed to
the other, "Not a word about the thousand!" Then they shook hands
heartily. Ora and Ashley passed on. For a moment Bowdon looked after
them. Then he turned to his bride and found her eyes on him. He took her
hand and pressed it. Her eyes were bright as she looked at him for an
instant before a new friend claimed her notice. As she greeted the
friend, Bowdon gave a little sigh.
He was in port! But the laughing, dancing, buffeting, dangerous waves
are also sweet.
"I'm glad I went," said Ora, as Ashley handed her into her victoria. She
laughed as she lay back on the cushions.
"It was so funny at my wedding," she said. "Jack lost the ring." She
waved her hand merrily as she was driven away.
"Come soon," she cried over her shoulder.
He waved his hand in response and turned to go back into the house. In
his path stood Bertie Jewett. For an instant Ashley stood still.
"I suppose it's about over," he said carelessly.
"Just about. I must get back to the shop," said Bertie, looking at his
watch. But he did not move. Ashley, glancing beyond him, saw Alice
Muddock coming towards the door.
"So must I," he said, clapping on his hat and hailing a hansom. He
jumped in and was carried away.
One of Bowdon's servants brought his walking-stick to his rooms the next
day. He had forgotten it in a passing recollection of old days, when
Alice and he used to laugh together over the manoeuvres by which they
got rid of Bertie Jewett.