“What do you mean?” said Oliver.
“I mean I’ve got down to the ale.”
There was another silence.
“I’m afraid it’s been rather bitter, dear,” said Oliver.
“Ale is bitter sometimes, but it warms the blood. I think I count with
you now. Why, I don’t know, but you talked in your sleep once. . . .”
“What did I say?”
“It was the night of my birthday—six weeks ago. You seemed worried to
death. ‘I want her to have some flowers,’ you kept on saying. ‘I want
her to have some flowers—my . . . darling . . . wife.’ And then you
said, ‘It’s too late now’—over and over again. And then you laughed
terribly and said, ‘A present from Eden.’”
Oliver sat upright and put out his hand.
“That’s why you never had them,” he said. “I was afraid . . . they’d
seem a travesty . . . because they were—too late.”
Jean put her hand in his.
“You called me ‘your darling wife.’ You. After what I’d said and done.
Remembered my rotten birthday—wanted to give me blossoms when you
couldn’t afford to smoke.”
“Do I count with you, Jean—now?”
“You always counted, Oliver; but, because it wasn’t the fashion, I
covered it up. I broke out that night to see if I counted with you. And
when I found I didn’t, I made up my mind to kill my love for you.”
“You did count, dear,” said Oliver. “Down at the bottom of things. But I
think I’d rather have died than let it appear. It seems very silly now,
but—I was ashamed. When I was alone in the room, I used to kiss your
gloves; but when you came in—well, I didn’t so often kiss you. Even
that night at the _Rhin_, with all the openings you gave me——”
“You saw them?”
“Yes. But I couldn’t step in. It was Balaam’s ass over again, with
Sentiment full in the way with a drawn sword. I think—I believe I could
have done it if we’d been in the dark. As it was, I was on the
edge. . . . And then you landed me one—a regular stinger. . . . You
said you kissed other men, and you mentioned—Pat Lafone.”
Jean nodded.
“I did it to get a rise,” she said quietly. “It—it wasn’t true.”
Oliver’s grasp tightened.
“When we were engaged,” he said, “I heard two women talking—talking of
you and me. I cleared out as soon as I’d tumbled, but I’d heard a thing
first that stuck. They said there was only one man on earth who could
take you away from me . . . and they mentioned . . . his name.”
Jean gave a tremulous laugh.
“Good lord,” she said. “Why, I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.”
“I didn’t know that, Jean. It—it looked the other way. And—and I sort
of came unbuttoned at the thought of losing you. I let out, if you
remember, about ‘forbidden fruit.’”
“Yes,” said Jean slowly. “I remember. I never got it, of course. I
couldn’t see anything except the blinding fact that you didn’t care. And
. . . all the time . . . you did.”
Oliver got to his knees and put her hand to his lips.
“I worship you, Jean,” he said. “I always have. I worship your glorious
body and I worship your darling ways. I love your laughter and your
precious, blessed voice. I love your footfalls and the breath of your
parted lips. But that was always . . . Now I’ve got something more,
something to kneel to. . . . You’re made of the stuff that queens are
made of, Jean. I let you down—most terribly. I know I never meant to,
but that’s no defence. You left the finance to me, and I broke up your
life. . . . Well, women don’t like their lives being broken up, even by
accident. But never once, by word or deed or look, have you so much as
hinted that I might have taken more care. . . . More. You’ve never
complained, you’ve never murmured once—and it’s been far harder for
you. Instead, you’ve stood beside me, quiet, steadfast. If you’ve wept,
I’ve never seen it. If you’d liked to make it _your_ trouble, you’d
every right. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even let it be _our_
trouble. _It hasn’t been ‘trouble’ at all._ You’ve charmed it into just
an incident . . . an incident in _our_ life. . . .”
Jean stood up and took his face in her hands.
“It’s the ale, my darling,” she said. “The ale I spoke of. So long as we
drink it together. . . .”
Oliver rose to his feet and took her in his arms.
“‘And he was her man,’” whispered Jean.
“‘And she was his woman.’”
They looked up to see the postman ten paces away.
“There now,” he said. “I thought this was ’Allatrow ’All. An’ lo! and
be’old, if it ain’t the Garden of Eden.”
“Don’t say you’re the serpent,” said Oliver, laughing.
“Oh, shame!” said the postman, producing a letter. “Never min’. ’Ere’s a
napple.”
They laughed with him, gave him their letters in exchange and watched
him tramp down the avenue under the rook-ridden elms.
“Hullo, it’s for me,” said Oliver. “Oh, I know. It’s from the _Rhin_.”
“The _Rhin_?” said Jean, peering. “How have they got our address?”
“’Member those wires we never paid for? And I was always going to send
the porter a cheque? Well, when we got here I remembered, and, as we
weren’t so tied up, I sent him five bob.”
He ripped the envelope open, to find another inside.
This had been sent from London some time in May.
“Ancient history,” said Pauncefote, and broke the seal.
_COLD’S BANK LIMITED._
_PALL MALL BRANCH._
_London, S.W._
_May 7th._
_Capt. O. Pauncefote,_
_Hôtel du Rhin,_
_Place Vendôme,_
_Paris._
_Private and Confidential._
_SIR,_
_A week ago you sent us a cheque on Plaisir et Cie for 6,600,000
francs, with instructions to clear at 66 or better and place
upon deposit to your account._
_Two days ago the rumour that Plaisir et Cie were in
difficulties reached me from a very secret but highly reliable
source._
_I at once endeavoured to communicate with you, but found that
you were in Paris._
_It was manifest that, if action was to be taken at all, it must
be taken instantly, and, believing that, if I could have advised
you, you would have told me to clear at any cost, I sold your
cheque within the hour for ninety-two thousand pounds._
_Particularly in view of the fact that this is your first
transaction with us, I need hardly say that I am greatly
relieved to see from the evening papers that our disregard of
your instructions was apparently justified._
_I am, Sir,_
_Your obedient servant,_
_E.S. NIELD,_
_Manager._
For a long time neither spoke.
Presently Jean touched Oliver on the arm and pointed to the old grey
house.
“It’s for sale, isn’t it?” she faltered.
Oliver nodded. He dared not trust his voice.
“Shall we—— Would you like to live here?”
Oliver’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers.
“Jean, my darling, my darling.”
“I mean,” said Jean, with a little half-laugh, half-sob, “it seems—a
pity—to leave—the Garden of Eden.”