A Servant of the Public

"What a humbug I am!" she cried, as she set down the photograph.

For the actual opportunity was very different from the imagined, as rich in effect perhaps, but by no means so attractive. She still liked her part, but the rest of the cast was not to her taste; she could still think of the final interview with a melancholy pleasure, but, with this distribution of characters, how dull and sad and empty and intolerable life would be when the final interview was done! The subsequent relations lost all their subdued charm; underlying tenderness and common recollections became flat and unprofitable.

"An awful humbug!" sighed Ora with a plaintive smile.

Why were good things so difficult? Because this thing would be very good – for him, for poor Alice, for herself. A reaction from the joy of Sunday came over her, bringing a sense of fear, almost of guilt. She recollected with a flash of memory what she had said to Jack Fenning when they parted in hot anger. "You needn't be afraid to leave me alone," she had cried defiantly, and up to now she had justified the boast. She had been weary and lonely, she had been courted and tempted, but she had held fast to what she had said. Her anger and her determination that Jack should not be in a position to triumph over her had helped to keep her steps straight. Now these motives seemed less strong, now the loneliness was greater. If she sent Ashley away the loneliness would be terrible; but this meant that the danger in not sending him away was terrible too, both for him and for her. As she sank deeper and deeper in depression she told herself that she was born to unhappiness, but that she might at least try not to make other people as unhappy as she herself was doomed to be.

While she still lay on the sofa, in turns pitying, reproaching, and exhorting herself, Janet came in.

"A letter, ma'am," said Janet. "Your dinner will be ready in ten minutes, ma'am."

"Thanks, Janet," said Ora, and took the letter. The handwriting was not known to her; the stamp and postmark were American; Bridgeport, Conn., the legend ran. "I don't know anybody in Bridgeport, or in Conn. – Conn.? – Oh, yes, Connecticut," said Ora.

The silver frame stood crooked on the table. Ora set it straight, looked at the face in it, smiled at some thought, sighed at the same or some other thought, and lazily opened the letter from Bridgeport, Conn.; she supposed it was a communication of a business kind, or perhaps a request for a photograph or autograph.

"My dear Ora, I have had an accident to my hand, so get a friend to write this for me. I am here in a merchant's office, but have had a bit of luck on Wall Street and am in funds to a modest extent. So I am going to take a holiday. I shall not come to England unless you give me leave; but I should like to come and see you again and pay you a visit. How long I stayed would depend on circumstances and on what we decided after we had met. A letter will find me here for the next month. I hope you will send one inviting me to come. I would write more if I could write myself; as it is I will only add that I am very anxious to see you and am sure I can set right any mistakes that there have been in the past. Write as soon as you can. Yours affectionately, Jack."

She turned back to the envelope: – "Miss Ora Pinsent." The friend who wrote Jack's letter probably did not know that he was writing to Jack's wife. Janet knew Jack's writing, but not the writing of Jack's friend. In secrecy and privacy Jack's letter had come. She laid it down beside the portrait in the silver frame, and lay back again quietly with wide-opened eyes. The clock ticked away ten minutes; dinner was ready; she lay still.

Had people a right to rise from the dead like this? Were they justified, having gone out of life, in coming back into it under cover of a friend's handwriting and a postage stamp? They had parted for ever, Jack and she, most irrevocably, most eagerly, most angrily. A few lines on a sheet of note paper could not change all that. He had been dead and gone; at least he had existed only as a memory and as – she hardly liked to say an encumbrance – as a check, as a limiting fact, as a difficulty which of necessity barred her from ordering her doings just as she might have liked to order them. Now he proposed suddenly to become a fact, a presence, a part of her again, and stole a hearing for this proposal in the insidious disguise of a friend's handwriting. How he chose his time too! In wild fancy she imputed to him a knowledge of the curious appositeness of his letter's arrival. It came just when she was unhappy, torn with doubts, feeling low, yes, and feeling guilty; just after the revelation of Alice Muddock's feelings, just after the day in the country, just while she was saying that, for weal or woe, she could not send Ashley Mead away. At such a moment she would not have opened the letter had she known it for his; but he had had an accident to his hand and the unknown writing had gained him access.

Janet came in again.

"Your dinner is ready, ma'am," she said, and went on, "These have come for you, ma'am," laying a nosegay of roses on the little table beside the portrait in the silver frame, and the letter from Bridgeport, Conn.

Ora nodded; there was no need to ask whence the roses came; they were of the colour she had declared her favourite by the river bank on Sunday. "I'll come to dinner directly," she said, and seeing Janet's eye on the letter, she forgot that it was in a friend's handwriting and pushed it under the nosegay till the roses hid it. There was nothing to be seen on the table now but the roses of the colour she loved, and the picture in its silver frame.

To toy with material symbols of immaterial realities is pretty enough work for the fancy or the pen. The symbols are docile and amenable; the letter can be pushed under the roses till their blooms utterly conceal it, and neither you nor anybody else can see that it is there. The picture you do not care about can be locked away in the drawer, the one you love placed on the little table by your elbow as you sit in your favourite seat. Unhappily this artistic arrangement of the symbols makes no difference at all to the obstinate realities. They go on existing; they insist on remaining visible or even obtrusive; audible and even clamorous. The whole thing is a profitless trick of the fancy or the pen. Although the letter was pushed under the roses, Jack Fenning was alive in Bridgeport, Conn., with a desire to see his wife in his heart, and his passage money across the Atlantic in his pocket.

As Ora drove down to the theatre that night, she moaned, "How am I to play with all this worrying me?" But she played very well indeed. And she was sorry when the acting was over and she had to go back to her little house in Chelsea, to the society of the letter and the roses. But now there was another letter: "I am coming to-morrow at 3. Be at home. A. M."

"What in the world am I to do?" she asked with woeful eyes and quivering lip. It seemed to her that much was being laid on the shoulders of a poor young woman who asked nothing but to be allowed to perfect her art and to enjoy her life. It did not occur to her that the first of these aims is accomplished by few people, that at any rate a considerable minority fail in the second, and that the fingers of two hands may count those who in any generation succeed in both. The apparent modesty of what she asked of fortune entirely deceived her. She sat in her dressing-gown and cried a little before she got into bed.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LEGITIMATE CLAIMANT

Ashley Mead did not take the week's consideration which Sir James had pressed on him. The same evening he wrote a letter decisively declining to assume a place at the helm in Buckingham Palace Road. Sir James, receiving the letter and handing it to Alice, was disappointed to meet with no sympathy in his expressed views of its folly. He was nearly angry with his daughter and frankly furious against Ashley. He was proud of his daughter and proud of his business; the refusal left him very sore for both. As soon as he reached his office he gave vent to his feelings by summoning Bertie Jewett to his presence and offering him the position to whose attractions Ashley had been so culpably blind.

Here there was no refusal. A slim, close-built, dapper little fellow, with a small fair moustache and small keen blue eyes, full of self-confidence, perfectly self-controlled, almost sublimely industrious, patiently ambitious, Bertie turned away from no responsibilities and let slip no opportunities. He knew himself Bob Muddock's superior in brains; he had known of, and secretly chafed against, the proposed intrusion of Ashley Mead. Now he was safe, and fortune in his hands. But to Bertie the beauty of firm ground was not that you can stand still on it and be comfortable, but that it affords a good "take-off" when you want to clear an obstacle which lies between you and a place even more desirable in your eyes. Sir James explained the arrangements he proposed to make, his big share, Bob's moderate share, Bertie's small share; the work, as is not unusual, was to be in an inverse ratio to the share. Then the old man approached the future. When he was gone there was a sum of money and a big annuity for Lady Muddock; subject to that, Bob was to have two-fifths of his father's share to add to his own; the rest was to be Alice's. In that future time Alice's share would be nearly as big as Bob's; the addition of another small share would give it preponderance. Bertie's blue eye was very keen as he examined the nature of the ground he had reached and its capacities in the way of "take-off." But on going forth from Sir James' office, he could at first do little but marvel at the madness of Ashley Mead; for he knew that Ashley might have taken what he had just received, and he suspected that the great jump he had begun to meditate would have been easy to Ashley. For incontestably Alice had shown favour to Ashley – and had not shown favour to Bertie Jewett.

Bob and Bertie lunched together at Bob's club that day, the occasion allowing a little feasting and relaxation from toil. The new project touching Alice was not even distantly approached, but Bertie detected in Bob a profound dissatisfaction with Ashley Mead. Ashley's refusal seemed to Bob a slur on the business, and concerning the business he was very sensitive. He remarked with mingled asperity and satisfaction that Ashley had "dished himself all round." The "all round" indicated something besides the big block in Buckingham Palace Road, and so was significant and precious to Bertie Jewett.

"Naturally we aren't pleased," Bob said, assuming to express the collective views of the family. "Fact is, Ashley's got a bit too much side on, you know."

Bertie Jewett laughed cautiously.

"He doesn't like the shop, I suppose!" Bob pursued sarcastically.

"I'm sorry Sir James is so much annoyed about it," remarked Bertie with apparent concern.

"He'll see what a fool he's made of himself some day," said Bob. Alice was in his mind, but went unmentioned.

Bob's opinion was shared in its entirety by Irene Kilnorton, who came over to express it to Alice as soon as the news reached her through Bowdon. Bowdon had heard it from Ashley himself, they being together on the business of the Commission. Irene was amazed to find Alice on Ashley's side and would allow no merit to her point of view.

"Oh, no, it's all wrong," she declared. "It would have been good for him in every way; it would have settled him."

"I don't want him settled," said Alice. "Oh, if you knew how tired I get of the business sometimes! Besides it will make Mr. Jewett so happy. He takes Ashley's place, you know, though father won't give him as big a share as he'd have given Ashley."

"Well, I shall tell Mr. Mead what I think of him." She paused, hesitating a moment as to whether she should say a disagreeable thing or not. But she was annoyed by Alice's attitude and decided to say it. "Not that he'll care what I say or what anybody says, except Ora Pinsent," she ended.

"Won't he?" asked Alice. She felt bound to interject something.

"What a creature she is!" cried Irene. "When I went to see her this morning, I found her in tears. What about? Oh, I don't know. But I spoke to her sensibly."

"Poor Miss Pinsent!"

"I said, 'My dear Ora, I suppose you've done something silly and now you're sorry for yourself. For goodness' sake, though, don't ask me to be sorry for you.'"

"Had she asked you?" said Alice with a smile. Lady Kilnorton took no notice of the question.

"I suppose," she went on scornfully, "that she wanted to be petted. I wasn't going to pet her."

"I think I should have petted her. She'd be nice to pet," Alice remarked thoughtfully.

Irene seemed to lose patience.

"You don't mean to say that you and she are going to make friends?" she exclaimed. "It would be too absurd."

"Why shouldn't we? I liked her rather; at least I think so."

"I wish to goodness that husband of hers would come back and look after her. What's more, I said so to her; but she only went on crying more and more."

"You don't seem to have been very pleasant," Alice observed.

"I suppose I wasn't," Irene admitted, half in remorse. "But that sort of person does annoy me so. As I was saying to Frank, you never know where to have them. Oh, but Ora doesn't mind it from me."

"Then why did she cry more and more?"

"I don't know – unless it was because I reminded her of Mr. Fenning's existence. I think it's a good thing to do sometimes."

"Perhaps. I'm not sure, though, that I shouldn't leave it to Mr. Fenning himself."

"My dear, respectability goes for something. The man's alive, after all."

Alice knew that he was alive and in her heart knew that she was glad he was alive; but she was sorry that Ora should be made to cry by being invited to remember that he was alive. Irene was, presumably, happy with the man she had chosen; it was a good work leaning towards supererogation (if such were possible) when she took Ora's domestic relations under her wing. She hinted something of this sort.

"Oh, that's what Ashley Mead says; we all know why he says it," was Irene's mode of receiving the good advice.

A pause followed; Irene put her arm through Alice's and they began to walk about the garden. Lady Muddock was working at her embroidery at the open window; she was pronouncedly anti-Ashleyan, taking the colour of her opinions from her husband and even more from Bob.

"Where's Lord Bowdon?"

"Oh, at his tiresome Commission. He's coming to tea afterwards. I asked Mr. Mead, but he won't come."

"You'll be happier alone together."

Irene Kilnorton made no answer. She looked faintly doubtful and a trifle distressed. Presently she made a general remark.

"It's an awful thing," she said, "to undertake – to back yourself, you know – to live all your life with a man and never bore him."

"I'm sure you couldn't bore anybody."

"Frank's rather easily bored, I'm afraid."

"What nonsense! Why, you're making yourself unhappy just in the same way that Miss Pinsent – "

"Oh, do stop talking about Ora Pinsent!" cried Irene fervently. Then she gave a sudden apprehensive glance at her companion and blushed a little. "I simply meant that men wanted such a lot of amusing," she ended.

In recording her interview with Ora, Irene had somewhat exaggerated her brutality, just as in her reflexions about her friend she exaggerated her own common-sense. Ora drove her into protective measures; she found them in declaring herself as unlike to Ora as possible. In reality common-sense held no disproportionate or disagreeable sway in her soul; if it had, she would have been entirely content with the position which now existed, and with her relations towards Bowdon. There was nothing lacking which this vaunted common-sense could demand; it was stark sentimentality, and by consequence such folly as Ora herself might harbour and drop tears about, which whispered in her heart, saying that all was nothing so long as she was not for her lover the first and only woman in the world, so long as she still felt that she had seized him, not won him, so long as the mention of Ora's name still brought a look to his face and a check to his talk. It was against herself more than against Ora that she had railed in the garden; Ora had exasperated her because she knew in herself a temper as unreasonable as Ora's; she harped on Ora's husband ill-naturedly – as she went home, she confessed she had been ill-natured – because he who was to be her husband had dreamt of being Ora's lover. Even now he dared not speak her name, he dared not see her, he could not trust himself. The pledge his promised bride had wrung from him was safe so long as he did not see or let himself think of Ora. It was thus that Irene read his mind.

She read it rightly – to his own sorrow and remorse – rightly. He was surprised too. About taking the decisive step he had hesitated; except for circumstances rather accidentally provocative, perhaps he would not have taken it. But its virtue and power, if and when taken, he had not doubted. He had thought that by binding his actions with the chain of honour he would bind his feelings with the chain of love, that when his steps could not wander his fancy also would be tethered, that he could escape longing by abstinence, and smother a craving for one by committing himself to seem to crave for another. The maxims of that common-sense alternately lauded and reviled by Irene had told him that he would be successful in all this; he found himself successful in none of it. Ora would not go; her lure still drew him; as he sat at his Commission opposite to his secretary at the bottom of the table, he was jealous of his secretary. Thus he was restless, uncomfortable, contemptuous of himself. But he was resolute too. He was not a man who broke faith or took back his plighted word. Irene was to be his wife, was as good as his wife since his pledge was hers; he set himself to an obstinate fulfilment of his bargain, resolved that she should see in him nothing but a devoted lover, ignorant that she saw in him the thing which above all he wished to hide. Such of Ora's tears as might be apportioned to the unhappiness she caused to others were just now tolerably well justified, whatever must be thought of those which she shed on her own account. Here was Bowdon restless and contemptuous of himself, Irene bitter and ashamed, Alice with no surer, no more honest, comfort than the precarious existence of Mr. Fenning, Sir James Muddock (Ora was no doubt partly responsible here also) grievously disappointed and hurt; while the one person who might be considered to owe her something, Mr. Bertie Jewett, was as unconscious of his debt as she of his existence; both would have been surprised to learn that they had anything in the world to do with one another. But after all most of Ora's tears were for herself. Small wonder in face of that letter from Bridgeport, Connecticut!

Bowdon wished to be married very soon; why wait, he asked; he was not as young as he had been; it would be pleasant to go to the country in August man and wife. In fine the chain of honour gave signs of being strained, and he proposed to tie up the other leg with the fetters of law; he wanted to make it more and more impossible that he should give another thought to anybody except his affianced wife. In marriage attachment becomes a habit, daily companionship strengthens it; surely that was so? And in the country, or, better still, on a yacht in mid-ocean, how could anything remind him of anybody else? But Irene would not hasten the day; she gave many reasons to countervail his; the one she did not give was a wild desire that he should be her lover before he became her husband. So on their feigned issues they discussed the matter.

"The end of July?" he suggested. It was now mid-June.

"Impossible, Frank!" she cried. "Perhaps November."

In September and October Ora would be away. Two months with Ora away, absolutely away, perhaps forgotten! Irene built hopes high on these two months.

"Not till November!" he groaned. The groan sounded well; but it meant "Don't leave me free all that time. Tie me up before then!"

"Ashley Mead seems obstinate in his silly refusal of Sir James Muddock's offer," she said, anxious to get rid of the conflict.

"Why should he take it?" asked Bowdon. "He can get along very well without it; I don't fancy him at the counter."

"Oh, it's so evidently the sensible thing."

"I've heard you tell him yourself not to go and sell ribbons."

How exasperating are these reminders!

"I've grown wiser in ever so many ways lately," she retorted with a smile.

There was an opening for a lover here. She gave it him with a forlorn hope of its acceptance.

"Yes; but I'm not sure it's a good thing to grow so very wise," he said. Then he came and sat by her.

"You mustn't be sentimental," she warned him. "Remember we're elderly people."

He insisted on being rather sentimental; with a keen jealousy she assessed his sincerity. Sometimes he almost persuaded her; she prayed so hard to be convinced; but the wish begot no true conviction. Then she was within an ace of throwing his pledge back in his face; but still she clung to her triumph with all its alloy and all its incompleteness. She had brought him to say he loved her; could she not bring him in very truth to love? Why had Ora but to lift a finger while she put out all her strength in vain? It would not have consoled her a whit had she been reminded of Ora's tears. Like most of us, she would have chosen to win and weep.

As Bowdon strolled slowly back through the Park, repeating how charming Irene was and how wise and fortunate he himself was, he met Ashley Mead. Ashley was swinging along at a good pace, his coat-tails flying in the wind behind him. When Bowdon first saw him he was smiling and his lips were moving, as though he were talking to himself in a pleasant vein. In response to his friend's hail, he stopped, looked at his watch, and announced that he had ten minutes to spare.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked Bowdon. Ashley looked openly happy; he had an air of being content with life, of being sure that he could make something satisfactory out of it, and of having forgotten, for the time being at all events, any incidental drawbacks which might attend on it. Bowdon was smitten with an affectionate envy, and regarded the young man with a grim smile.

"Going to see a lady," said Ashley.

"You seem to be making a day of it," observed Bowdon. "In the morning you refuse a fortune, in the afternoon – "

"Oh, you've heard about the fortune, have you? I've just been down to Buckingham Palace Road, to congratulate young Jewett on being in – and myself on being out. Now, as I mentioned, Lord Bowdon – "

"Now you're on your way to see Miss Pinsent?"

"Right; you've guessed it, my lord," laughed Ashley.

"You don't seem to be ashamed of yourself."

"No, I'm not."

"You know all about Mr. Fenning?"

"Well, as much as most of us know about him. But I don't see why I shouldn't take tea with Miss Ora Pinsent."

Bowdon turned and began to walk slowly along beside Ashley; Ashley looked at his watch again and resigned himself to another five minutes. He owed something to Bowdon; he could spare him five of Ora's minutes; to confess the truth, moreover, he was a little early, although he had made up his mind not to be.

"Jewett's the ablest little cad, I know," said Ashley. "At least I think he's a cad, though I can't exactly tell you why."

"Of course he's a cad," said Bowdon, who had dined with Bob Muddock to meet him.

"There's no salient point you can lay hold of," mused Ashley; "it's pervasive; you can tell it when you see him with women, you know; that brings it out. But he's got a head on his shoulders."

"That's more than can be said for you at this moment, my friend."

"I'm enjoying myself very much, thank you," said Ashley with a radiant smile.

"You won't be for long," retorted Bowdon, half in sorrow, half in the involuntary malice so often aroused by the sight of gay happiness.

"Look here, you ought to be idiotic yourself just now," Ashley remonstrated. Then out came his watch again. The sight of it relieved Bowdon from the fear that he had betrayed himself; evidently he occupied no place at all in his companion's thoughts.