Part 7

“Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——”

“Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t care who you tell, but——”

“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me. Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature I should have saved my breath.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?”

“Do you admit the evil?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!”

“But it’s in the age,” said Pauncefote. “We’re over-civilized. Money and civilization have emasculated Things. Our crowd’s never up against it. We don’t comfort each other because we don’t need comforting; and gradually we’re losing the art. If you don’t use your arm, it’ll wither away. There’s no ‘stern stuff’ in our lives, and how can you lug it in? For years we’ve all been fightin’ to wash it out—to make Life into a song-an’-dance show; and now we’ve done it. Well, an odd weddin’-chime isn’t going to turn it back into Eden.” He thrust the chair out of his way and began to pace the floor. Jean, smiling lazily, watched him with half-closed eyes. “Once the man hunted—for food; and the woman kept the cave—against his coming. And when he came, she fed him—bathed his wounds—took his head in her lap. And he was her man. . . . And she was his woman. . . . They didn’t want any Service to tell them that. But now the wheel’s swung round to the other extreme. Hardship and peril are out, and luxury’s in. Nature’s been swamped by Art. Emotion’s a branch of Nature, and it’s withered away. . . . If ever the man was late, the woman wept for joy to see him alive. You don’t do that because you assume I’ve stopped somewhere to have a drink.”

“Why did I dress to-night to please Pat Lafone?”

Oliver hesitated. Then—

“Because,” he said sharply, “because you must have a thrill. The man and the woman were thankful to be alive. Between the wolves and the weather their lives were exciting enough. But ours—ours run on greased wheels. We have to devise our excitement. And the easiest, most satisfying way is to rob an orchard.” He stopped still there and flung up his head. “And there’s the honest value of marriage to-day. When you marry you merely add a tree to the common or garden orchard of forbidden fruit.”

Propped on a white elbow, his wife regarded him.

“Good for you,” she said. “You’ve put it uncommonly well. You see—right down at bottom you feel as I do. I had an idea you did, and I’m rather glad. We may be a couple of wasters, but at least in the security of our own bedroom we’ve the daring to admit the fact.”

Oliver opened a window and stood for a moment staring upon the silent dignity of the _Place Vendôme_.

“That’s not much to be glad of,” he said slowly. “What d’you suggest we should do?”

“Nothing,” said Jean. “My dear, I’m purely destructive. I can see the rot and I’ve made you confess you can see it: but I can’t stop it. . . . If you cared, perhaps I should care. If I cared, perhaps you would. But I can’t swing my propeller, and you can’t swing yours. That’s Fate’s job. The age has produced our crowd—a crowd of wasters, run by a sort of Baal that they’ve set up. The worship of Baal consists in sailing close to the wind. The closer you sail, the better worshipper you are—other things being equal, of course. I mean, you must do it neatly. . . . And as someone’s constantly sailing a point closer than anyone’s ever sailed before, the standard of worship is rising. It’s higher this year, for instance, than it was last. If you want a good example, look at the way we dress. Frankly, can you beat it? . . . Well, why do we do it? Why don’t we turn it down? I’ll tell you. Because the penalty for non-worship is rather worse than death. It’s not ostracism: it’s not even social extinction. _You just become a mug._ And that’s a fate no waster can ever face.”

“We could break away,” said Oliver gloomily. “Clear right out, I mean.”

“And be bored to death in a week. My dear, we’ve tasted blood. That’s one of the rites. . . . No. Don’t you worry, me lad. We’re tied tight enough. So long as we’ve money to burn——”

Oliver gave a short laugh.

“Six weeks ago,” he said, “we were worth sixty thousand pounds. I shoved the lot into francs at a hundred and ten. To-morrow my cheque’ll be cleared at sixty-six. . . . There’s another forty thousand quid for the coffers of Baal.”

“That’s right,” said Jean. “If you’d lost it instead, we might have had a chance. Necessity knows no law—not even that of Baal. As it is . . .” She swung her legs off the bed and slid to her feet. “As it is, we’re doomed. I’m doomed to disappointment, and you—what are you doomed to?”

Oliver closed the window before replying.

“I may be wrong,” he said, “but I think you put it too high. It’s perfectly true—we lead a poisonous life. But there’s no reason why, if you care——”

“I don’t. I’ve told you so. I’ve nothing to make me.”

Pauncefote swallowed.

“At least,” he said, “we’ve got the same point of view.”

“What you mean is we both see the rot,” said Jean, preparing to fight her way out of her dress. “But I regret it. You only deplore it, you know. You said you were comfortable.”

“I said I cared,” said her husband. “And—and so I do.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Jean, slipping into a dressing-gown. “The trouble is that I don’t. You’re quite all right, you know. I’ve no complaints—either.”

She took her seat at the table and began to loosen her hair.

“I beg your pardon,” said Pauncefote. “I—I’m very fortunate.”

“Don’t!” cried Jean sharply. “Don’t!” The man started at her tone, and their eyes met in the glass. “Don’t!” she repeated fiercely. “I can’t bear it. Once—yes. A year ago. . . . But now it’s too late. Besides, I made you say it. I dragged the words out of your mouth: and so they’re worthless. Worse. They’re a travesty—that’s how they talked in Eden. But we’re in a song-and-dance show—don’t forget that. We’re under contract to Baal. Of course you _can_ ‘pot’ Eden, but I—I couldn’t play Eve. I know I don’t care, but I’m just—just soppy enough not—not to want to pretend.” Her voice broke there, but she plugged the hole with a laugh. “And there’s some real sob-stuff for you. Never mind. You won’t hear it again. It’s the swan-song of my mughood—the last flare-up of the lamp of a foolish virgin, who thought—thought . . .”

She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.

Oliver flashed to her side, fell upon one knee and slid an arm round her waist.

She shook him off—savagely.

* * * * *

Jean Pauncefote might have been a great lady.

Had she lived seven centuries ago, she would certainly have been fought for, probably have been chosen Queen of Beauty and Love at several tournaments and possibly have made history as, in the absence of her lord, a chatelaine _sans peur et sans reproche_.

But Fate was against her.

In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights of the week. Such a _début_ at such a moment into such a world would have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted to swim against the stream.

After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a contagious breath.’

_What is love? ’tis not hereafter;_ _Present mirth hath present laughter;_ _What’s to come is still unsure. . . ._

She had no money: yet might, I think, have married anyone. But rank and riches to Jean meant nothing at all. She married Oliver Pauncefote because she liked the man, found him a gentleman, firmly believed that he would not let her down.

Herein she was right.

Pauncefote had been through the War and was out to forget. With eighty thousand pounds behind him, he began to forget very well. Feste’s doctrine suited him down to the ground.

_In delay there lies no plenty;_ _Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,_ _Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

But he never forgot that he was a gentleman.

The two were lovely and pleasant in their lives.

Tall, straight, limber, Jean’s form was superb. Her beautiful features, her fearless grey eyes, her magnificent golden hair and her exquisite skin were straight from Malory. Her mouth was proud. Her charm of manner was notable. Jean had a quick brain and a gay heart. She made a wonderful waster, adorning even that sumptuous, flashing world in which she moved. That it was not her setting is rather painfully clear. If a fountain must run with wine, there are just as good-looking liquors as old Falernian.

Oliver Pauncefote looked what in fact he was—a soldier taking his ease. Tall, fair, fresh-faced, his was a lazy air. The man might well have been handsome; but Achilles with his feet up would not have made an Iliad. The strength was there in his face, but it was always off duty. An easy smile sat on his fine mouth; his clear eyes were half veiled; he spoke with a drawl. His manners were delightful. At his worst, he was easy-going; at his best, debonair. And that was a pity. A head that can carry a casque should not wear nothing but a bycocket.

Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote lived soft.

Finding their income insufficient, they spent their capital freely, proposing by happy speculation to replenish their hoard. The deal which Oliver was just completing was, of course, a coup phenomenal. To do him justice, it would not have been so phenomenal if it had not been so daring. Fortunes are not made at chuck-farthing. They are won by pitching fortunes upon the table.

So also are they lost.

When, seated at breakfast in their _salon_ some seven hours after Jean had burst into tears, Oliver read in the paper that _Plaisir et Cie_, Bankers, had suspended payment, he put a hand to his head. . . .

For a full minute he sat, staring. . . .

Then the door was opened, and Jean came into the room.

Oliver laid down the paper and buttered some bread.

“Well, old lady,” he said, “what’s the programme to-day?”

“Lunch with the Bostocks,” said Jean, selecting a roll. “Then to Molyneux with Maisie. Dinner with Pat Lafone. It’s his birthday, he says, and he swears we’ll light such a candle——”

“Let’s call it off,” said Pauncefote, “an’ keep the day to ourselves.”

Jean lifted her beautiful head.

“For Heaven’s sake—why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. “Only—only it’s our weddin’-day”—Jean frowned—“and I think perhaps we might mark it. You know. Just draw in our horns.”

“‘In loving memory’?”

“If you like,” said Pauncefote. “Let’s—let’s go for a walk in the _Bois_.”

Jean gave a little shriek of laughter.

“My dear Oliver,” she said, “your efforts to play the mug are too good to be true. Now eat your bread-and-butter like a good little boy and tell me what won the Church Congress—I mean, the Two Thousand. Where was Fire Guard?”

“Don’t know,” said her husband shortly. “But I mean what I say. I want to talk things over.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Jean. “I had my bust last night—my final bust. The incident’s closed. Besides, in the cold light of day——”

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Pauncefote.

His wife’s eyes flashed.

“Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you saw?”

“No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat Lafone.”

Jean raised her eyebrows.

“It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?”

Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly.

The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . .

Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he continued slowly.

“You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so long as we’d money——”

“One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most bitterly.”

Oliver passed a hand across his forehead.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——”

“You quoted what you said were my words.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”

“Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your wife.”

“I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.”

“Well?”

“Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——”

He stopped there.

His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes.

“I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss the whimper of a maudlin girl.”

Pauncefote regarded her steadily.

The lash had recovered his nerve.

“No doubt,” he said dryly, “no doubt. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” The light of attack in Jean’s eyes slid into a stare. “What I was trying to do was to temper the wind. . . . We’re broke, my good lady. Bust. We haven’t a bean. Our hundred thousand’s gone.” Jean started back, and a hand went up to her mouth. “Plaisir and Co. have failed.”

“Oliver!”

“It’s been done before,” said her husband carelessly. He stepped to one side and past her and flung himself into a chair. “But the point I wish to make is that this is where we get off. I’ve about twelve hundred in England, but that won’t pay our debts. We shall get a bit on your pearls and the Rolls and other things, but you’re always stung to glory when you’ve got to realize quick.” He paused to inhale comfortably. “Can you get packed in time for the two o’clock train? It’s no good staying here.”

Jean pulled herself together.

“But, Oliver, what shall we do?”

“I’ve no idea. I must try to get work, of course. If you had money, or I had any to give you, we could each go our own way. As it is, I’m afraid your only immediate hope is to stick to me. What work I can get I don’t know. A soldier’s not much good outside his own job. . . . By the way, I’m extremely sorry I’ve let you down. I should never have put the lot into one concern. I’m afraid you’ll find it pretty thick.”

“What about you?”

Pauncefote shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t imagine I shall like it, but that’s neither here nor there. The first thing we’ve got to do is to fade away. Again, we must be in London. We must be on the spot. We must pay up what we owe, but if I can stop any orders—well, we might be glad of the dust. I ordered three suits at Brandon’s before we came away. I told him he needn’t hurry, so there’s just a chance they’re not cut. An’ Whippy’s makin’ a saddle, an’ Hardy a rod, an’—an’ . . .”

He caught his breath sharply and let the sentence go, sitting still in his chair with fixed, unseeing eyes.

The stabbing thought that never again would he hear the whimper of hounds in the soft, sweet-smelling burthen of a November day ripped and tore at Oliver Pauncefote’s heart. Memories came with a rush to rub salt in the wound—a tremendous day with the Cottesmore—a check at Garter Spinney, when the birches had looked like fountains and Sir Barnaby Shrew had come up and asked him to Stomacher Place—Mandarin’s joyous fly-jumps and the swift tremor of his ears—a burst up Sweeting Valley, when hounds were running mute and Fantasy jumped the Chaffer as though it were a garden-path. . . .

“Oliver! Oliver!”

Jean was beside him on her knees, with an arm round his neck.

Pauncefote put her aside and rose to his feet.

“Don’t let’s pretend,” he said quietly. “It’s hardly worth it. Besides, to tell you the truth, reach-me-down sympathy never cut very much ice with me. Finally, you’ll need all you’ve got for yourself before we’re through. I’ve let you down badly, I know. But God knows I’ve got my punishment. . . . And I’ll do my very best to break your fall.” Jean sat back on her heels and stared at the floor. “When you feel most sore—murderous, please try to remember the intolerable position I’m in. If we meant anything to each other, it would have been less odious. As it is—well, obviously, I’d rather have died by torture than let you down.”

He passed to the door of the _salon_. With his fingers about the handle, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder.

“Can you manage the two o’clock train?”

Jean never moved.

“I’ll—I’ll be ready,” she said.

* * * * *

Three ghastly months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.

Their liabilities had proved higher than they had feared: their personal effects had fetched even less than they had expected. Cars, jewels, clothing—everything had been sold to pay their debts. The two were determined to keep their memory clean. The mighty had fallen, but at least their stalls should be left swept and garnished. What they owed they paid to the uttermost farthing. By the time the last cheque had been signed, Destitution had crept very close.

_Plaisir et Cie_ had paid nothing. Whether they would ever pay anything seemed doubtful indeed. That they would never pay anything to Pauncefote was painfully clear. The man was powerless. He was out of touch. To employ a Parisian lawyer was beyond his means. Remembering a recent threat to transfer his deposit account, his English Bank wagged familiar forefingers and ‘advised’ him to lodge his claim and ‘wait and see.’ Pauncefote did so, as well as he could, and received no reply.

The two lived in rooms in a mean street and boarded themselves. Pauncefote went from pillar to post, seeking work ceaselessly and finding none. Jean raked the newspapers, cursed her own uselessness and watched the grey creep into her husband’s hair. She also found that food was far cheaper at stalls than it was in shops. . . . Neither complained of their lot. They walked a good deal together, avoiding familiar neighbourhoods, breaking new and unlovely ground. They never referred to the old days. Their relations were desperately strained, but the strain was always masked. They laughed little, hid their misery somehow, respected each other’s reserve as a sacred thing. Under it all, their hearts yearned upon each other. . . .

With infinite precaution against detection, each sought by hook or by crook to smooth the other’s path. So often as he was abroad, Oliver went without food—and swore he had lunched at Lyons’ and done himself well. Jean crept to the basement and cleaned her husband’s shoes—and let him commend the slut that stole their food. Awakened one night by pain in a game knee, the man lay still till daylight for fear of disturbing her rest. Jean bargained for hot shaving-water—and got it too. It cost her one set of exquisite underclothes every month. They came to cherish each other as they had never cherished themselves. . . .

And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were down to seven pounds.

There was no work in London.

Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the registry office from which six months ago their servants had come.

They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with tightened lips.

As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place.

“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. “But we thought, as we knew you——”

“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is here.”

He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose.

Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer.

“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, perhaps. . . .”

“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——”

“I’ll get over that, sir.”

They rose to their feet.

Jean stammered something about a booking-fee.

The man inclined his head.

“There is nothing to pay, madam.”

He came with them to the door and bowed them out.

The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . .

Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply.

_For two months certain . . . a country house in Wiltshire . . . one mile from the village . . . servants’ hall and bathroom . . . wages—three guineas a week, fuel and light . . . sole charge. . . ._

The note concluded—

_As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._

The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day.

* * * * *

Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine like an old hound.

It was the quiet hour.

The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day.

The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the postman.

“Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.”

“Yes,” said his wife, “we have.”

“We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us then.”

Jean shook her beautiful head.

“We never had more,” she said, “to be thankful for. We never had half so much. Still, we might have been grateful.”

“We had more, really,” said Oliver, “but we didn’t appreciate it. Now that we’ve been through the mill——”

“I never had more,” said Jean.

There was a silence.

At length—

“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.