Джеймс Хилтон: Morning Journey

George went on to the Fulton-Griffins’, where the party was already in full swing and where every new arrival from the Critics’ Dinner was being asked what had really happened. George took pleasure in lowering the temperature. “No,” he kept on saying, “there were NO blows traded— NOBODY got hurt—it wasn’t half as exciting as you think. Saffron made a silly speech, that’s all.”

“But he insulted Miss Arundel, didn’t he?”

“No. All he said was that Morning Journey was the worst picture he’d ever made, which by implication of course wasn’t so very kind to—”

“But didn’t he say she was a bad actress and couldn’t do a thing without him as director?”

“That was afterwards—and anyhow, that wasn’t what he said at all. As a matter of fact he defended her—he said she was enchanting —”

But George knew that rumour could never be overtaken by fact. He broke off with a shrug: “Ask someone else. I wasn’t the only one there.”

But he also knew that others who had been asked, or would be before the evening was out, were less trained than he in the reporting of evidence, as well as possibly less ethical. He edged away from the crowd and found his usual comfortable corner with a drink which he could make last a long time, and with enough people to enjoy talking to among those who would look for him. He kept thinking of Carey and wondering how soon the twists and exaggerations of what had happened would get to her ears. Several people he talked to mentioned her sympathetically; during the short time she had been on the Coast she seemed to have made herself generally liked. Saffron, by contrast, was in the special dog-house reserved for those whose unpopularity has somehow not deprived them of stature. Diagnosis of him veered from the surly genius to the psychopathic charlatan; anecdotes in proof or disproof were in steady supply as argument grew livelier. An actor who had had a small part in Morning Journey remembered that Miss Arundel had once quarrelled bitterly with Saffron in one of the studio dressing-rooms during the making of the picture.

George acquired for a moment his court-room air. “You heard this quarrel yourself?”

“One of the prop men told me—seems it was the lunch time when nobody else was around. He said Saffron had a gun and was threatening her with it.”

“Why didn’t the prop man do something?”

“Aw, why should he get mixed up in what wasn’t his business? That’s what he said.”

“Even if a man’s threatening a woman with a gun?”

“Apparently she wasn’t hurt.”

“And she didn’t complain?”

“I guess not.”

“And they both went on with the picture after lunch as if nothing had happened?”

“I know—it’s hard to believe. But so was tonight hard to believe —unless you were there.”

“But I WAS there. And already the whole thing’s inflated out of all relation to the truth.”

But again it was no use. George settled down to enjoying himself as a guest at a party; why work for nothing?

Towards midnight someone brought him news which at first he could only think was another rumour—that Carey Arundel had actually arrived at the party. At that stage of the evening, with two or three hundred persons overflowing from a large house into flood-lit gardens, the presence or absence of any individual was not easy to determine outside the range of sight, and George recollected that he was probably the only person to whom Carey’s intention of not coming to the Fulton-Griffin party had been definitely stated only a few hours before. So he doubted the report until he saw her approaching him.

The first thing he noticed was an almost astonishing radiance about her, as if she had given herself some central glow to match the exterior lighting of beauty. She had also changed into another dress much more startling than the one she had worn at the dinner; it had an austere simplicity of line that permitted a special drama of colour and texture. George would say afterwards “a sort of crimson velvet” and leave it at that.

“Hello, Mr. Hare,” she said, smiling.

“Well, Miss Arundel, this IS a surprise. You changed your mind?”

“I often do.”

“So we CAN finish our talk. That’s good.”

“Yes, but let’s go outside. The gardens are lovely.”

He led her through the French windows on to a terrace that stepped down to the swimming-pool where a fair-sized crowd had congregated. He found a side-path leading through a grove of eucalyptus trees.

“I felt I had to come,” she said, “just to show I don’t feel all the things people are thinking I feel.”

“You’re very wise,” he answered, taking her arm. “What Saffron did say, as opposed to all the talk of what he said, wasn’t really against YOU. Therefore there’s nothing for you to be hurt or humiliated about.”

“I’m so glad you think that.”

“Just stupid of him and in bad taste.”

“Oh yes, oh yes, I know it was.”

“Rather odd—coming just after you’d told me his speeches sometimes made you nervous.”

“Yes, wasn’t it odd?”

“You must have had a lot of experience of him.”

She said quietly: “Well, we were married, once.”

He could not conceal the measure of his surprise. “You WERE?”

“Didn’t you know?’

“I didn’t, and as everybody else here must, it’s rather astonishing nobody happened to mention it to me. I suppose they assumed I knew.”

“So you’ve been talking about me to people?”

“A few people have been talking about you to me.”

“What do they say?”

“They like you—and they don’t like him.”

“They don’t have to couple us together any more.”

“Except that you were in the picture together.”

“Yes—for a special reason, but that’s a long story—I might tell you some time, if you’re interested.”

Some men and girls were approaching.

“Maybe tomorrow? Don’t forget you have a date at my office. Make it eleven-thirty and I’ll take you to lunch.”

“Fine.” And she added as they walked back towards the house: “He didn’t show up here tonight, did he?”

“No. I’m sure I’d have known if he had. Did you think he might?”

“He’s capable of it. If he’d been here I’d have wanted to leave—I couldn’t stand any more.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m just about at the limit of what I can stand, to be frank.”

“You probably need that holiday in Ireland you talked about. But why Ireland?”

“I was born there. Where were you born?”

“Vermont… on a farm.”

“So was I. In County Kildare. The greenest fields, and my father rode the wildest and most beautiful horses…” She paused as if some secret recollection had stolen her away; George watched her, till she caught his look. She smiled embarrassedly. “Oh, I guess we all feel that about where we were born. Vermont is beautiful too.”

“Yes, very…” The people who were approaching had voices he recognized; he said hastily: “There’s just time for one more question before the mob finds you again… a rather personal question, so don’t be startled… Did Saffron ever—in a dressing-room at the studio while the picture was being made—did he ever quarrel with you and threaten you with a gun?”

She looked amazed, then laughed. “Good heavens, no. Who on earth made that one up?”

They separated inside the house, and soon afterwards George left; it was already long past his usual bedtime. A few hours later (nine, to be exact) he was telling his secretary he would see Miss Arundel as soon as she arrived. But she did not arrive, and about noon he found out where she lived and telephoned. It was a fashionable apartment hotel and the desk informed him she was out. He thought she was probably on her way, but after a late lunch alone he was concerned enough to telephone Randolph at the studio. Randolph said she had not only not been there, but they had been trying for hours to find where she was and why she had broken an appointment to see some publicity people. It was not like her, Randolph said, to be either forgetful or unco-operative and already he was a little worried. “The hotel people were cagey at first about what time she got home, but finally they said it was about one o’clock.”