“Oh, Simon dear,” said Patricia, “why aren’t you rich?”
“If it comes to that,” said Simon ruefully, “why are you poor? You’ve
less excuse than I have. At least, your mother was an American.”
“Yes, but she married for love—and got cut off for it. Which is why her
poor little girl must marry money.”
Simon Beaulieu regarded the firmament. This was arrayed in black and
silver. There was no moon: only the countless stars at all lightened the
darkness, their dim, peculiar radiance turning the countryside into a
kingdom of dreams. As though to indorse such witchcraft, the strains of
a distant valse stole in and out of earshot, rising and falling into the
trough of Silence, intoning a love-sick litany and rendering exquisitely
the mystery of the hour. The air was magically still and quick with the
sweet perfume of new-mown hay. Midsummer Night had come to Castle
Breathless in all her glory.
“You know,” said Simon, extracting a cigarette, “I dare say it’s just as
well. We think we’re suited, but we probably aren’t. If we joined up, we
should probably scrap like hell.”
“I doubt it,” said Patricia, slipping a bare arm through his. “You’ve
got your faults, of course: and so have I. But they’re—they’re quite
bearable, Simon.”
“It isn’t a question of faults,” said Simon slowly. “I love your faults,
Pat. . . . It’s a question of temperament. You know. Everything in the
garden looks lovely—so long as you’re outside. If we got in, it might
be a very different shout. Supposing you didn’t like the colour of my
vests.”
“I’m sure I should,” said Patricia solemnly. “And if I didn’t, they
could easily be dyed.”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t want them dyed. You see? You’d say you couldn’t
stick them, and I should retort that I had to wear the swine, an’ before
we knew where we were we should be in over our knees.”
Patricia Bohun frowned.
“What colour are they?” she demanded.
“A warm biscuit,” said Simon.
“You must look maddening,” said Patricia. “And I like biscuit very much.
So you see it’s all nonsense to say we shouldn’t get on.”
“Yes, I knew that was coming,” said Simon. “That was easy. But you know
what I mean, Pat. Life’s rather like a film, and a friendship like ours
is like a jolly good act. But marriage is a ‘close-up.’ Well, I don’t
say ours wouldn’t ’ve come off: but there are plenty that don’t.”
“D’you honestly think that our marriage would have been less successful
than those we propose to make?”
“I don’t propose——”
“Yes, you do. Simon, you can’t let me down. You’re going to marry
Estelle.”
“I can’t bear it,” said Simon. “She’s so—so fidgety. Always chucking
herself about. You’re so calm, Pat. . . . Besides, she wouldn’t look at
me.”
“Well, she’s looked at you pretty hard for the last twelve months,” said
Patricia sagely. “Besides, you can but try. If she says ‘No,’ well,
then, you’ve done your bit. But it’d make it easier for me. I’d like to
feel we were both in the same old boat. I know I’ve got your love, but
then I’d have your understanding too. I’d feel you knew what it meant. I
don’t want you to be unhappy, Simon dear: but I think you’d be less
unhappy if you were married. And—and it’d be putting two hedges between
us, instead of only one. . . . You see, when I marry George—as I
suppose I shall: we’re supping together, and you know what that
means. . . . Well, when I marry George, that won’t wash you out. I’ll be
bound to think of you. And if I think of you single,
unmarried—_available_, Simon, it’ll be ten times as hard to chase you
out of my mind. And I want to play the game. One may have to marry for
money, but at least one can honour one’s bond. . . . And I think,
perhaps, it’d be the same for you. You _needn’t_ marry money, because
you’re a man: but three hundred a year isn’t much, and it’s growing
less. And in these days. . . . Well, Estelle’s got fifteen thousand.
Besides, she’s awfully nice. And if you were married, you’d have a game
to play. D’you see, Simon?”
“Yes,” said Simon Beaulieu. “You mean that in love, as in everything
else in the world, the positive’s easier to deal with than the negative.
Better a Dead Sea apple than only forbidden fruit.”
“And you say we shouldn’t get on!” said Patricia deliberately.
There was a silence.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two stood still as statuary, looking into the
night. For such an exercise their coign of vantage was superb. The
balustrade before them severed the gardens from the park. This for the
most part was walled with rising woods, but here the ground fell sharply
into a valley which ran like a giant gutter, straight and clean, to the
jaws of Peering Gap. Such was the darkness that the gap was not to be
seen, but a starlit scallop of sky showed where it lay.