“We mightn’t,” said Simon doggedly.
“I mightn’t get on with George. Or you with Estelle.”
“You won’t,” said Simon Beaulieu. “Neither shall I. There won’t be any
question of getting on. Our respective unions will be marriages of
convenience, business deals. They’ll proceed mechanically, like a couple
of cars. Now and again some slight adjustment’ll be made, but, in the
ordinary way, so long as they’re watered and fed, they’ll go right on.
The chauffeur’ll do his bit and the car’ll do hers. No understanding
will be necessary—there’ll be nothing to understand. If you stick to
your book of instructions, it’s a fool-proof show. But ours—our
marriage would have been like a man on a horse, journeying over the
world day in day out, sharing fair weather and foul and getting to know
each other inside out. Well, they get on or they don’t—a man and his
horse. It’s a question of temperament. And there ain’t no book of the
rules for dealin’ with temperaments.”
Patricia laid her head against Simon’s shoulder.
“Yes, there is, dear,” she said. “I’ve studied yours so often. You carry
it in your eyes. I wonder if Estelle will be able to read it. I don’t
think so. And mine. . . . Haven’t you ever read mine?”
“Pat,” said Simon gently, “don’t make things worse. We agreed to wash
Sentiment out.”
“I know, I know. But don’t say we shouldn’t get on. Leave me my pretty
dream.”
“All right, lady. I—I dare say we should. But you never can tell,” he
added, “and I don’t know that dreams aren’t rather dangerous things.”
“D’you mean that I mustn’t dwell on what might have been?”
“I think you should try not to. I mean, it’s unsettling. After all,
we’re not madly in love. I don’t stop breathing when you go out of the
room, and you don’t come over queer when I come in.”
“I feel all pleased, Simon.”
“That’s more fellow-feeling than love. I’m a congenial soul. We’ve
fitted in very well, and that’s as much as you can say. We don’t give up
things for one another. I haven’t pawned my boots to buy you a
wrist-watch or soaked in money on flowerets. When I’ve given you
dinner——”
“I’ve chosen the place and the play. And you always give me melon
because I like it so. And why have you asked me so many, many times?”
“To please myself. You’re a congenial soul.”
Patricia turned and lifted a beautiful leg.
“Can you see?” she demanded, pointing.
“I see your ankle, Pat, and your little foot.”
The girl leaned back against the stone balustrade.
“I dress to please you,” she said. “Even to-night. I put on light
stockings to-night, when I should have worn dark. I like dark better,
and I’d ’ve been more in the mode. But you like me in light stockings,
Simon, and so I put them on. . . . I may be only congenial. I hope to
God I am. You’ll get off lighter then. But . . . Well, Simon, it’s
pretty obvious that I love you.”
The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek pressed tight against hers.
“Pat, Pat, my precious, you know I’ve been covering up. You know I’m mad
about you and always have been. And you know that whatever happens
there’ll never be anyone else as long as I live.”
He breathed the words rather than spoke them. His tone, touch, frame
were vibrant as any wire.
The girl slid her arms round his neck and held him close.
“I know,” she whispered.
Caress and word seemed to relieve the strain. The man relaxed sensibly.
After a moment’s silence he turned and kissed her mouth.
“I blame myself,” he said quietly enough. “I’m older than you, and I
shouldn’t have let it go on. I know we’d an understanding—a blessed,
faithful agreement, faithfully kept. There never was, I believe, such
natural sympathy. But these things bank up, Pat: and, if we weren’t to
marry, we should never have been engaged. . . . It was defying Nature.
In a way it was our affair, but it was out of joint. It’s
been—perfect. . . . But it was out of joint. Well, now that dislocation
has got to be reduced. Very good. We knew it must come. Our eyes were
open. That was the basis of our understanding—that sooner or later it
must end. But I think we forgot—the adhesions . . . the seals that
Nature sets upon things that are out of joint. They take some
breaking—adhesions. . . . And—they’ve—got to be broken—to-night.”
With a sharp sob Patricia drew in her breath; then she let it go pelting
and drooped her head. “We’ve played about so far. You know we have.
Feinting, ducking, side-stepping, covering up. Well, now we’ve got to
mix it and knock Things out.”
The girl clung to him desperately.
“Oh, Simon, I can’t, I can’t. Not all at once like this. I know they’ve
got to be broken, but they needn’t be torn. Just once or twice we can be
alone again. I shan’t be married at once. Let’s break them gradually,
darling. Then I’ll have something to look for—to buoy me up to-night.
Life looks so terribly dark, Simon. Let me have just a ray of light.
Just once or twice—that’s all. You know. Just a word and a kiss. Don’t
smash my world to-night. Even the torturers, Simon, never did things
like that. They worked by degrees—gradually, so that the torture could
be borne.”
The man smiled into her eyes.
As a moment ago her touch had soothed him, so now her weakness seemed to
have made him strong.
“Pat, this isn’t like you. We must keep troth. If we didn’t end it
to-night and go down smiling, we should spoil everything. Together we
planted the prettiest little flower: and it’s grown so lovely, Pat, and
smelled so very sweet: and now—it’s time to pick it. . . . Well, we
must pick it properly—not drag it up piecemeal. And then—for ever,
think what a memory we’ll have—that we weren’t afraid to pick our
pretty flower . . . when it was in full bloom. We’ll be so proud and
happy to remember that. It won’t have faded or died. It’ll ’ve been just
perfect—all the time. . . . And we must pick it smiling, Pat—just for
each other’s sake.”
“Oh, Simon, Simon, I shall break. It’s like Death. I can’t face it.”
“You can with me. We can face anything. What’s death to us, so long as
we go out well?”
Patricia lifted her head.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “We—we must go out well.” For a
moment her eyes wandered over the heaven. Then they returned to his. She
put up a little hand and touched his hair, setting it back from his
temples and patting it as she pleased. Then she smiled very tenderly.
“Let’s pick our flower now, darling.”
The man smiled back.
For a minute they kissed and clung—while the world rocked. . . . Then
he loosened his hold, and she fell away.
He picked up her hand and kissed her finger-tips.
“My beautiful darling,” he said. “My sweet, my sweet.”
Then he leaned back against the stone-work and took out a cigarette.
For a moment he fingered this, smiling thoughtfully.
Then he looked up.
“Pat,” he said, “what about a glass of champagne? Between you and me, I
think we’ve earned it.”
“My dear,” said Patricia Bohun, “your brain’s in your head.” They
started to stroll towards the mansion. “By the way, did I tell you to
back Grey Ruby for the Stewards’ Cup?”
“Who gave you that?” said Beaulieu.
“No one,” said Patricia. “I dreamed it. I dreamed I saw the
posters—STEWARDS’ CUP RESULT. I was wondering what had won when I woke
to see Matilda with my letters and tea. The first letter I opened was
from a girl called Ruby Grey.”
Simon grunted.
“I should have a bit on _sans doute_,” he said lightly. “But these ’ere
indications are treacherous things. Look at poor Barley McFinn. Two
nights before the St. Leger he dreamed he was giving bananas to a
baboon; and as fast as he gave them the brute kept shaking its head and
slinging them back. Well, Barley woke up and rushed off and put his
binder on Monkey Nut. . . . Well, I don’t know where Monkey Nut
finished, but a horse called Peelam won. Barley couldn’t see it for
weeks.”
Patricia laughed gaily.
“You’re not a bit like your namesake, Simon,” she said. “He would have
plunged. And yet . . .”
“Yet what?”
“In a way you are. I mean . . . Never mind. I’ll leave it there. What’s
this they’re playing?”
Conversing evenly, they came to the flagged walk and the windows
belching ragtime and blazing lights.
By one consent they turned and looked back into the night.
Then they passed up the steps and joined the carnival.
* * * * *
Let who will throw a stone at Patricia Bohun.
She certainly promised to marry a man whom she did not love. But if
George Persimmon believed that such a lady would consent to bear his
name for any earthly or heavenly reason other than to share his riches,
then he deserved to be confined. But George was no fool. You may take it
from me, Sirs, she did her neighbour no wrong. Whether a woman should
sell herself is another matter. From the age of twelve Patricia had been
schooled—cleverly schooled to take that unpleasant fence. Her aunt,
Lady Coblow of Breathless, had not only shown her that she must marry
money, but had taken care to surround her with the paraphernalia of
wealth. From the age of twelve Patricia had lived and lain soft.
Footmen, tiled bathrooms, French cooking, sables, limousines helped to
create the atmosphere in which she moved. Use of that sort holds hard.
By the time she was twenty-two she had come to regard the idea of
parting with Luxury much as she looked upon that of committing
suicide—a step taken only by the temporarily insane.
That Beaulieu’s outlook was different is natural enough.
He had no patron to pave his path with gold, and it was all he could do
to keep his head above water. The man had gone hungry. Had he stepped
out of his world, he might have waxed fat and kicked. But that would
have meant leaving every friend that he had—including Patricia Bohun.
He worked hard, driving a promising pen, but the promise was shadowy
stuff, and his earnings were fitful and slight. It follows that while he
perceived the extreme desirability of riches, he knew that they were not
essential to life and more than suspected that happiness could be found
without them.
Marriage itself Patricia and Simon viewed in much the same light.
Wedlock for them was an earthy business, the Solemnization of Matrimony
differing but a little from the conveyance of land. In the actual
service they saw a fine old tradition well worth preserving in these
degenerate days. Had they been bidden to witness a Livery of Seisin they
would have gone in the same spirit. I do not know that I blame them. Few
of the unions with which they were brought in contact were made in
heaven; some were patently home-made; many were fearfully and
wonderfully made; while one and all were discussed as worldly
engagements the letter of which should not be flagrantly dishonoured. To
them the plighting of troth was a common or garden contract and nothing
more. It is to their credit that it was nothing less. What lifted them
out of the ruck was that to their way of thinking all common or garden
contracts were sacred things. Their word once passed must be religiously
kept. With the letter they were not concerned; the spirit was the thing.
The game _had_ to be played.
Simon did not ask Estelle to become his wife. Had she asked him, he
would, I believe, have consented to become her husband. But then,
somehow, the doctrine of _caveat emptor_ would have applied. It would
have been her look-out. Whereas, if he approached her, his very approach
would suggest a regard which he did not feel. Besides . . .
A month limped by.
Patricia and Simon were meeting continually—by chance. From their easy,
casual fellowship no one would ever have dreamed that they were in love.
But then no one ever had suspected anything. They were just carrying
on—with hearts of lead.
Presently the date of Miss Bohun’s wedding was announced and invitations
were issued.
Then two things happened—simultaneously.
The first was that Castle Breathless was entered by burglars while the
household was at meat. The burglars, however, were disturbed and made
good their escape. A footman was knocked down and a maid-servant
frightened to death. Apparently Miss Bohun’s bedroom was the only room
which had been entered. There a drawer had been forced and a gold bag
taken. Curiously enough, the thieves overlooked what they were
undoubtedly seeking. This was a magnificent rope of pearls, ‘the gift of
the bridegroom,’ which was lying where Miss Bohun had left it upon a
bureau.
The second was that Simon in some excitement began to do sums.
For the sake of brevity, let us look over his shoulder.
_Unearned Income_ £300 _a year_
_Earned_ ” £250 ”
_Grey Ruby_ £450 ”
————
_Total_ £1000 _a year_
You see, now, what was in the man’s mind.
That morning had brought him a cheque for seven pounds and a request to
be shown the next tale that he wrote. Simon reckoned that he could write
three tales a month.
So much for _Earned Income_.
Simon had just been left three hundred pounds. The money lay at the
Bank. If he put it all on Grey Ruby at thirty-three to one and
Patricia’s dream came true, Simon would win nine thousand nine hundred
pounds.
So much for _Grey Ruby_.
As for the total, the man shall speak for himself.
“A thousand a year. It isn’t too much, but supposing we lived abroad.
Say, Paris. I think she could stick it all right. I think she’d be
happy. I believe, in a way, she’d find it rather fun. Of course she’d
miss all the show—flunkeys and cars and the rest. We might run to a
Citroën. And she could have half a maid. Clothes’d be the snag. We
couldn’t put up a fight where clothes were concerned. But if she could
rule them out—I don’t think she really cares about anything else. The
idea of Life without luxury’s never entered her head. It doesn’t follow
that if it did she’d fire it out. I don’t think she would. I don’t think
Patricia’s that sort. If it weren’t for the clothes question . . .”
Simon rose to his feet and fell to pacing the room.
“One thing’s clear—a thousand’s the rock-bottom figure. I must make up
my mind to that. Under a thousand a year it can’t be done. It _could_
be, of course. We shouldn’t _starve_ on five hundred. But . . . No, a
thousand’s the lowest possible. With a thousand I could temper the wind.
Unless Grey Ruby comes up and unless I can get thirty-threes . . .
“What’s the alternative? The alternative’s plain hell—for me, any way.
I suppose I can plough through, but face it I can’t. I’ve tried and I
can’t—can’t pretend to . . . if she was in love with Persimmon, if she
was going to be happy—happier than with me—well, I could stomach that.
As it is . . . I don’t know why I didn’t see it that night at
Breathless. I came pretty near, too. I said we’d defied Nature. But for
some fool’s reason I assumed the adhesions could be torn. That that was
further defiance I never saw. I suppose I was exalted, drunk with a sort
of heroism. That’s all right to die on, because you’re dead before it
wears off. You can take a life-sentence with a laugh: but you don’t
laugh much when you’re in prison, and after the first month. . . .
“The point is I may _have_ to go on. No, it isn’t. The point is I may
have a chance—a chance of being happy and making her happy too. I wish
to God she and I could thrash this out. But that’s impossible. For one
thing, her opinion’s valueless. Whether she’d be happy, poor, she hasn’t
the faintest idea. And so I’ve got to decide for both of us. . . .
“‘Got to decide’? The point mayn’t ever arise. Unless she makes a move,
everything goes by the board. And as like as not she won’t. . . . Well,
then—finish. If she can get through, I must. She’s free to change her
mind, but I can’t do another man down. I can’t reopen things. That’s
plain. Heaven or burning hell, my mouth’s shut and locked, unless and
until she speaks. If she says she can’t go on, an’ if . . .”
He passed to the open window and stood looking down upon the fading
street and men as trees walking and lamps beginning to come into their
own.
After a little he laughed.
“I’ve lost my balance, I think—leapin’ about like this before I come to
the ditch. The first thing I’ve got to do is to raise the wind.”
He sat down then and there and acknowledged his cheque. Then he
rough-hewed the themes of another two tales. Finally, he retired—to lie
awake until dawn.
That morning he visited a firm of bookmakers.
Grey Ruby, however, was being mentioned. They would not lay him more
than twenty-five sovereigns to one.
After a little reflection, Simon wrote them a cheque for four hundred
pounds—an act which reduced his balance to eleven pounds ten.
* * * * *
Goodwood was looking superb.
It was a perfect day, airy yet cloudless. Rain had fallen in the night
and, stopping at cock-crow, left everything refreshed. Distance was
clean-cut. For such as had eyes, the sheep grazing in the valleys made
sharp white dots upon the green, the Isle of Wight rode like a ship at
anchor between earth and heaven. Background, indeed, had much to answer
for, lending the meeting the air of the old prize-ring, rigged like
lightning, deep in some unsuspecting dingle of the suspected
countryside. The artifice of gardens and playgrounds, jealously kept
against the builder’s hand, had here no place. Time had stepped back
into an England where men passed out of doors on to the open road and,
lifting up their eyes, beheld more meads than bricks and woods than
mortar, where parishes were worlds and London Town was half a
fairy-tale.
After a last look at Grey Ruby, Beaulieu strolled out of the Paddock and
back to the Lawn. There he encountered Miss Bohun almost at once.
“Where’s George?” he said, taking her hand.
“In bed with a touch of the sun. It’s nothing serious. I want to go to
the Paddock. Will you come with me?”
The man hesitated before complying.
Patricia knew him so well that, unless he could smother his feelings as
never before, she would be certain to see that something unusual was
afoot. Then she would question him: and Beaulieu did not want to be
questioned—till after the Cup had been won.
He need have felt no concern.