“Why,” said Patricia slowly, “why did you put so much on? Four hundred
on an outsider’s the bet of a desperate man.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Simon, regarding his feet. “I suppose one goes
mad now and then. Wonderful shoes Stoop makes. D’you know he made me
these before the War?”
“Why did you put so much on?”
The man made fast a shoe-lace before replying.
Then he looked up.
“Pat,” he said quietly, “I’m not going to tell you why.”
“You needn’t,” said Patricia. “I know.”
She took the letter from her dress and put it into his hand.
“Read that,” she said. “And see how minds think alike.”
_July 27th._
_MY DARLING_,
_I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My
gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has
given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them
off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms._
_Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our
glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been
mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was
nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in
your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die.
Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never
die. That can starve, but never to death. . . ._
_I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to
dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring
the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I
can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s
to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone._
_Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak.
Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by
writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed,
that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and
I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and
live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I
live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . .
you. . . ._
_Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy,
Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well,
I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to
do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve
never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon.
Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?_
_We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we
could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they
wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes._
_I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t
break yours, you’ll break my heart._
_Oh, Simon, I love you so._
_PATRICIA._
Simon dropped the letter and covered his face.
Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now.
She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In
his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands.
Suddenly Simon turned.
“Oh, Pat—my lady . . . could you bear it?”
His voice was shaking: his eyes, the eyes of a man looking into the
promised land.
“I couldn’t bear anything else,” said Patricia Bohun.
“No cars, no servants, no clothes——”
“No cares,” said Patricia tremulously. “I’m getting all excited.
Besides, I’ve had my whack. And——”
“But, Pat, think. We’ll be beggars. With that ten thousand behind us we
might have put up a show, but——”
“You only wanted it, dear, to spend upon me. And now—you’ve had your
wish. Besides, I don’t care a damn. I want to be poor. . . . But, Simon
dear, how like you to turn that money down! When he offered to give it
back. Only a giant could have done a thing like that. But, then, you are
a giant.”
“My dear,” said Simon, “I’m the weakest——”
“You’re not weak at all,” said Patricia. “Neither am I. We’ve played a
splendid game. _It happened to be the wrong one_, but we were so mad to
play it that we never saw that. . . . We’re a couple of shorn lambs,
Simon—and that’s the truth. We sheared each other that dreadful night
at Breathless—and went out into the cold. I was a fool, and you who
knew better—you wouldn’t open my eyes. And then the wind blew—a wind
like a knife. . . . That was to cure us of our folly. And now the good
God has tempered the wind. . . .”
“That’s right,” said Simon slowly. “You’ve driven the nail, Pat. We put
up a show all right, but we were trying to play an impossible game. It
was when I realized that that I decided to put the money on. I didn’t
know how you felt, but I wanted to have it ready—in case you moved.”
“In case I moved?” said Patricia, knitting her brows. Suddenly she sat
up. “D’you mean you’d ’ve waited on me?”
“Of course,” said Simon. “Even with the money behind me, I couldn’t ’ve
given tongue. I love you better, Pat, than heaven and earth, and I
wouldn’t give you up now for fifty rolling worlds—but if you hadn’t
spoken I couldn’t have opened my mouth. But then you did speak, lady.
You wrote me the sweetest letter that ever—— What is it, Pat?”
Patricia put a hand to her head.
“This,” she said faintly. “If that letter hadn’t been stolen, it
wouldn’t ’ve gone.”
“_Pat!_”
The girl nodded.
“I hadn’t the heart to destroy it: but I’d locked it away and thrown the
key into the garden, because—I was so anxious . . . to play the game.”
* * * * *
Six months had gone by, and Simon Beaulieu had earned three hundred
pounds.
The little flat at Chartres was becoming a luxurious apartment. Now that
the tiles were down, the tiny bathroom alone was a flashing chapel of
ease. . . .
Sitting at work at his table, Simon looked out of the window with a
thankful heart.
“I’m one franc out,” murmured Mrs. Beaulieu. Pencil to lip, she regarded
the cornice thoughtfully. “Now what did I spend that on?”
Her husband surveyed her profile with some emotion. He may be forgiven.
Its beauty was really startling.