Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“Carey, STOP it. I don’t know what you’re driving at. What about Austen in all this? Of course I’m not surprised if you haven’t been hitting it off too well with HIM—he didn’t seem to me your kind of man at all— “

“On the contrary, I hit it off with him very well indeed. I find it rather easy to hit it off with men. I’m a sensual woman, I sometimes think.”

“Oh, God, Carey, why are you talking like this?”

“Does it shock you? I had an idea you might be—at least— amused.”

“It—it makes me—it makes me feel—I don’t understand you—any more.”

He said that so pathetically that she got up and pulled him to the couch beside her. “And you don’t, darling, in several little ways. But why bother?” The absurd little play was over. Perhaps, if he had known it was a play, he could have put on his mantle of infallibility and understood, but she had caught him with an unfair test—like expecting Paavo Nurmi to sprint for a bus. She did not blame him. She went on with half-chiding affection: “Paul, Paul, don’t look so black, I’ve been acting—as you did when you were rehearsing me in Desdemona and you pretended to suspect me with Harry Foy… Can’t I have my own little act too?”

“But why? There was a reason for that, but THIS… I still don’t get it…”

“I know. There’s a hair’s-breadth of no-man’s-land between us. Only a hair’s-breadth. Woman’s-land, let’s call it. Oh boy, what dialogue!”

He muttered something, but she could see he was relieved, and the look of pathetic puzzlement changed to one of mere glumness. “When are they due back from the South American trip?” he asked after mopping his forehead.

“I don’t know.”

“I suppose you’ll want to be in New York to meet them?”

“I don’t know.”

“But won’t they expect you to?”

“I don’t know that either… I don’t know anything. I can’t see the future at all.”

He pondered this for a moment, then suddenly became emphatic. “Got an idea. Why DON’T you do another picture?”

“WHAT?”

“It’s the solution, Carey. Randolph would sign you up tomorrow, I’m certain. You’ve made a big reputation almost overnight—you’ve got a ready-made audience for the next thing you do, no matter what it is. And even with someone else directing you’d soon find how work would take your mind off things… Carey, why not? Let me get hold of Randolph right now…”

“No, no, Paul. Please don’t… I won’t talk to him… Paul, put that phone down…”

“You’d prefer Michaelson to handle it from his end? Well, maybe that’s smarter—”

“Paul… can’t you understand that just now I’d rather die than face another day in a studio?… I’m TIRED. Don’t you realize that? Things have piled up on me… I’m TIRED.”

For the first time he seemed to take her seriously. He said simply: “I wish I could help you.”

“You have—a little—just by saying that. But you can’t —really. There’s not a thing anybody can do. It’s in myself. But I can manage. I shall, I know. You don’t need to worry about me.”

He looked increasingly concerned. “Maybe you should take some time off. Carmel’s a good place—Greg likes it there. Six months, maybe… How’s your heart, by the way?”

“‘Tis broke,” she answered, so promptly that she startled herself. Then when he stared without smiling she went on: “Don’t you remember that— the time we first met—me driving down that hill in Kingstown with my leg under me and you asking what was the matter with it?”

He smiled then, but she couldn’t tell whether he did remember or not. Then she lost all control. She kept crying “‘Tis broke—‘Tis broke— ” and Paul was helpless at her side, genuinely distressed but knowing nothing of any way to console her. Presently the tears spent themselves and she shook herself free of grief. “I’m sorry, Paul. That was very silly. I’m really ashamed of myself.”

She let him fill up her glass, though she did not drink again, and the conversation after that became casual and unimportant. About three o’clock she left, for she wanted a long rest before the dinner.

At her apartment an air-mail letter awaited her from Austen’s lawyer, Herbert Walsh, in New York. She had met him only once or twice and was surprised to hear from him. The letter said merely:

“DEAR MRS. BOND—I plan to be in your part of the country the 21st to the 25th and should like to discuss with you a certain matter. I hope, therefore, you will not be out of town, or if so, perhaps you would be good enough to let me know where I can contact you. My address will be…”

The letter gave her a chill as she read it. She had noticed lately that a great many small matters affected her in this way if they contained any element of uncertainty—a message that someone whose name she did not know had been trying to reach her on the telephone, some anonymous scurrilous letter (such as every movie personality receives occasionally), even the headlights of a car that seemed to be following her at night but was only waiting for a chance to overtake. It was a symptom of her nervous condition, she imagined, due partly to the strain of the picture-making; she was still detached enough in mind to diagnose and smile at her own foolishness. This letter from Mr. Walsh, however, put her in a state of mental spasm. She paced up and down the living-room of the apartment, reading it over and over as if the words themselves were hard to understand, then she crumpled it in sudden reasonless consternation. If someone were trying to torture her, this was the way. A minute later she was at the telephone, the note smoothed out beside the instrument as she read from it Walsh’s number. Action had quieted her. But it was too late—six-thirty in New York; Walsh had already left his office and his secretary said she had strict orders not to give anyone his home number.

Carey, still a little distraught, found a groove of relief in the memory of all the stage telephone scenes she had played—controlled emotion in voice, but an utmost betrayal to the eye—how easy it was, and how difficult audiences always thought it!… She said: “Perhaps YOU can help me then. I got a letter today from Mr. Walsh—”

“Yes, Mrs. Bond. I remember sending it. He’s going out to visit you.”

“You mean—just—just to visit ME?”

“I think so.”

“But—but if it’s so important I—I feel I can’t wait to know what it is… I MUST know… It’s not fair to have to think of these things for days ahead… Do YOU know what it’s about? I’m sure you must do —”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bond—perhaps if you were to telephone Mr. Walsh personally tomorrow… well, no, I oughtn’t to say that—he probably wouldn’t care to talk over the telephone—”

“So you DO know what it’s about?”

“No, Mrs. Bond, Mr. Walsh doesn’t discuss his cases with me.”

“CASES?” Her heart felt as if it were being lifted out of her body for a solo exhibition. “WHAT case? I’m not in any case… at least I… none that I know of…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bond. There’s really nothing more I can say. I’m sure when Mr. Walsh gets out to see you—”

“I see, I see… Yes, I understand… I’ll wait… Goodbye…”

For a time after that she thought she would be unable to attend the dinner. But that disturbed her even more; she disliked causing commotion, and had always harboured a slight contempt for last-minute cancellers. Paul had once told her understudy: “You’re in a hopeless job. Carey goes on if she can crawl.” Somehow the recollection of that tribute gave her power now to face the evening ahead, and once the decision was made she could even raise a mild excitement. It might be fun to have people applauding her again, real live people applauding HER instead of her photographs.