pgw.uneasymoney-第29部分

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and　mused　pleasantly。　He　was　alone。　Elizabeth　was　walking　up　the　drive　on　her　way　to　the　house　to　tell　the　news　to　Nutty。　James；　the　cat；　who　had　e　down　from　the　roof　of　the　outhouse；　was　sharpening　his　claws　on　a　neighbouring　tree。　After　the　whirl　of　excitement　that　had　been　his　portion　for　the　past　few　hours；　the　peace　of　it　all　appealed　strongly　to　Bill。　It　suited　the　mood　of　quiet　happiness　which　was　upon　him。
　Quietly　happy；　that　was　how　he　felt　now　that　it　was　all　over。　The　white　heat　of　emotion　had　subsided　to　a　gentle　glow　of　contentment　conducive　to　thought。　He　thought　tenderly　of　Elizabeth。　She　had　turned　to　wave　her　hand　before　going　into　the　house；　and　he　was　still　smiling　fatuously。　Wonderful　girl！　Lucky　chap　he　was！　Rum；　the　way　they　had　e　together！　Talk　about　Fate；　what？
　He　stooped　to　tickle　James；　who　had　finished　stropping　his　claws　and　was　now　enjoying　a　friction　massage　against　his　leg；　and　began　to　brood　on　the　inscrutable　way　of　Fate。
　Rum　thing；　Fate！　Most　extraordinary！
　Suppose　he　had　never　gone　down　to　Marvis　Bay　that　time。　He　had　wavered　between　half　a　dozen　places；　it　was　pure　chance　that　he　had　chosen　Marvis　Bay。　If　he　hadn't　he　would　never　have　met　old　Nutbe。　Probably　old　Nutbe　had　wavered　between　half　a　dozen　places　too。　If　they　hadn't　both　happened　to　choose　Marvis　Bay　they　would　never　have　met。　And　if　they　hadn't　been　the　only　visitors　there　they　might　never　have　got　to　know　each　other。　And　if　old　Nutbe　hadn't　happened　to　slice　his　approach　shots　he　would　never　have　put　him　under　an　obligation。　Queer　old　buster；　old　Nutbe；　leaving　a　fellow　he　hardly　knew　from　Adam　a　cool　million　quid　just　because　he　cured　him　of　slicing。
　It　was　at　this　point　in　his　meditations　that　it　suddenly　occurred　to　Bill　that　he　had　not　yet　given　a　thought　to　what　was　immeasurably　the　most　important　of　any　of　the　things　that　ought　to　be　occupying　his　mind　just　now。　What　was　he　to　do　about　this　Lord　Dawlish　business？
　Life　at　Brookport　had　so　accustomed　him　to　being　plain　Bill　Chalmers　that　it　had　absolutely　slipped　his　mind　that　he　was　really　Lord　Dawlish；　the　one　man　in　the　world　whom　Elizabeth　looked　on　as　an　enemy。　What　on　earth　was　he　to　do　about　that？　Tell　her？　But　if　he　told　her；　wouldn't　she　chuck　him　on　the　spot？
　This　was　awful。　The　dreamy　sense　of　well…being　left　him。　He　straightened　himself　to　face　this　problem；　ignoring　the　hint　of　James；　who　was　weaving　circles　about　his　legs　expectant　of　more　tickling。　A　man　cannot　spend　his　time　tickling　cats　when　he　has　to　concentrate　on　a　dilemma　of　this　kind。
　Suppose　he　didn't　tell　her？　How　would　that　work　out？　Was　a　marriage　legal　if　the　cove　who　was　being　married　went　through　it　under　a　false　name？　He　seemed　to　remember　seeing　a　melodrama　in　his　boyhood　the　plot　of　which　turned　on　that　very　point。　Yes；　it　began　to　e　back　to　him。　An　unpleasant　bargee　with　a　black　moustache　had　said；　'This　woman　is　not　your　wife！'　and　caused　the　dickens　of　a　lot　of　unpleasantness；　but　there　in　its　usual　slipshod　way　memory　failed。　Had　subsequent　events　proved　the　bargee　right　or　wrong？　It　was　a　question　for　a　lawyer　to　decide。　Jerry　Nichols　would　know。　Well；　there　was　plenty　of　time；　thank　goodness；　to　send　Jerry　Nichols　a　cable；　asking　for　his　professional　opinion；　and　to　get　the　straight　tip　long　before　the　wedding　day　arrived。
　Laying　this　part　of　it　aside　for　the　moment；　and　assuming　that　the　thing　could　be　worked；　what　about　the　money？　Like　a　chump；　he　had　told　Elizabeth　on　the　first　day　of　his　visit　that　he　hadn't　any　money　except　what　he　made　out　of　his　job　as　secretary　of　the　club。　He　couldn't　suddenly　spring　five　million　dollars　on　her　and　pretend　that　he　had　forgotten　all　about　it　till　then。
　Of　course；　he　could　invent　an　imaginary　uncle　or　something；　and　massacre　him　during　the　honeymoon。　Something　in　that。　He　pictured　the　thing　in　his　mind。　Breakfast：　Elizabeth　doling　out　the　scrambled　eggs。　'What's　the　matter；　Bill？　Why　did　you　exclaim　like　that？　Is　there　some　bad　news　in　the　letter　you　are　reading？'
　'Oh；　it's　nothingonly　my　Uncle　John's　died　and　left　me　five　million　dollars。'
　The　scene　worked　out　so　well　that　his　mind　became　a　little　above　itself。　It　suggested　developments　of　serpentine　craftiness。　Why　not　get　Jerry　Nichols　to　write　him　a　letter　about　his　Uncle　John　and　the　five　millions？　Jerry　liked　doing　that　sort　of　thing。　He　would　do　it　like　a　shot；　and　chuck　in　a　lot　of　legal　words　to　make　it　sound　right。　It　began　to　be　clear　to　Bill　that　any　move　he　tookexcept　full　confession；　at　which　he　jibbedwas　going　to　involve　Jerry　Nichols　as　an　ally；　and　this　discovery　had　a　soothing　effect　on　him。　It　made　him　feel　that　the　responsibility　had　been　shifted。　He　couldn't　do　anything　till　he　had　consulted　Jerry；　so　there　was　no　use　in　worrying。　And；　being　one　of　those　rare　persons　who　can　cease　worrying　instantly　when　they　have　convinced　themselves　that　it　is　useless；　he　dismissed　the　entire　problem　from　his　mind　and　returned　to　the　more　congenial　occupation　of　thinking　of　Elizabeth。
　It　was　a　peculiar　feature　of　his　position　that　he　found　himself　unable　to　think　of　Elizabeth　without　thinking　of　Claire。　He　tried　to；　but　failed。　Every　virtue　in　Elizabeth　seemed　to　call　up　the　recollection　of　a　corresponding　defect　in　Claire　It　became　almost　mathematical。　Elizabeth　was　so　straight　on　the　level　they　called　it　over　here。　Claire　was　a　corkscrew　among　women。　Elizabeth　was　sunny　and　cheerful。　Querulousness　was　Claire's　besetting　sin。　Elizabeth　was　such　a　pal。　Claire　had　never　been　that。　The　effect　that　Claire　had　always　had　on　him　was　to　deepen　the　conviction；　which　never　really　left　him；　that　he　was　a　bit　of　an　ass。　Elizabeth；　on　the　other　hand；　bucked　him　up　and　made　him　feel　as　if　he　really　amounted　to　something。
　How　different　they　were！　Their　very　voicesElizabeth　had　a　sort　of　quiet；　soothing；　pleasant　voice；　the　kind　of　voice　that　somehow　suggested　that　she　thought　a　lot　of　a　chap　without　her　having　to　say　it　in　so　many　words。　Whereas　Claire's　voicehe　had　noticed　it　right　from　the　beginningClaire's　voice
　While　he　was　trying　to　make　clear　to　himself　just　what　it　was　about　Claire's　voice　that　he　had　not　liked　he　was　granted　the　opportunity　of　analysing　by　means　of　direct　observation　its　failure　to　meet　his　vocal　ideals；　for　at　this　moment　it　spoke　behind　him。
　'Bill！'
　She　was　standing　in　the　road；　her　head　still　covered　with　that　white；　filmy　something　which　had　mended　itself　to　Mr　Pickering's　eyes。　She　was　looking　at　him　in　a　way　that　seemed　somehow　to　strike　a　note　of　appeal。　She　conveyed　an　atmosphere　of　softness　and　repentance；　a　general　suggestion　of　prodigal　daughters　revisiting　old　homesteads。
　'We　seem　always　to　be　meeting　at　gates；　don't　we？'　she　said；　with　a　faint　smile。
　It　was　a　deprecating　smile；　wistful。
　'Bill！'　she　said　again；　and　stopped。　She　laid　her　left　hand　lightly　on　the　gate。　Bill　had　a　sort　of　impression　that　there　was　some　meaning　behind　this　action；　that；　if　he　were　less　of　a　chump　than　Nature　had　made　him；　he　would　at　this　point　receive　some　sort　of　a　revelation。　But；　being　as　Nature　had　made　him；　he　did　not　get　it。
　He　was　one　of　those　men　to　whom　a　girl's　left　hand　is　simply　a　girl's　left　hand；　irrespective　of　whether　it　wears　rings　on　its　third　finger　or　not。
　This　having　bee　evident　to　Claire　after　a　moment　of　silence；　she　withdrew　her　hand　in　rather　a　disappointed　way　and　prepared　to　attack　the　situation　from　another　angle。
　'Bill；　I've　e　to　say　something　to　you。'
　Bill　was　looking　at　her　curiously。　He　could　not　have　believed　that；　even　after　what　had　happened；　he　could　face　her　with　such　plete　detachment；　that　she　could　so　extraordinarily　not　matter。　He　felt　no　resentment　toward　her。　It　was　simply　that　she　had　gone　out　of　his　life。
　'Bill；　I've　been　a　fool。'
　He　made　no　reply　to　this　for　he　could　think　of　no　reply　that　was　sufficiently　polite。　'Yes？'　sounded　as　if　he　meant　to　say　that　that　was　just　what　he　had　expected。　'Really？'　had　a　sarcastic　ring。　He　fell　back　on　facial　expression；　to　imply　that　he　was　interested　and　that　she　might　tell　all。
　Claire　looked　away　down　the　road　and　began　to　speak　in　a　low；　quick　voice：
　'I've　been　a　fool　all　along。　I　lost　you　through　being　a　fool。　When　I　saw　you　dancing　with　that　girl　in　the　restaurant　I　didn't　stop　to　think。　I　was　angry。　I　was　jealous。　I　ought　to　have　trusted　you；　butOh；　well；　I　was　a　fool。'
　'My　dear　girl；　you　had　a　perfect　right'
　'I　hadn't。　I　was　an　idiot。　Bill；　I've　e　to　ask　you　if　you　can't　forgive　me。'
　'I　wish　you　wouldn't　talk　like　thatthere's　nothing　to　forgive。'
　The　look　which　Claire　gave　him　in　answer　to　this　was　meek　and　affectionate；　but　inwardly　she　was　wishing　that　she　could　bang　his　head　against　the　gate。　His　slowness　was　maddening。　Long　before　this　he　should　have　leaped　into　the　road　in　order　to　fold　her　in　his　arms。　Her　voice　shook　with　the　effort　she　had　to　make　to　keep　it　from　sharpness。
　'I　mean；　is　it　too　late？　I　mean；　can　you　really　forgive　me？　Oh；　Bill'she　stopped　herself　by　the　fraction　of　a　second　from　adding　'you　idiot''can't　we　be　the　same　again　to　each　other？　Can't　wepretend　all　this　has　never　happened？'
　Exasperating　as　Bill's　wooden　failure　to　play　the　scene　in　the　spirit　in　which　her　imagination　had　conceived　it　was　to　Claire；　several　excuses　may　be　offered　for　him：　He　had　opened　the　evening　with　a　shattering　blow　at　his　faith　in　woman。　He　had　walked　twenty　miles　at　a　rapid　pace。　He　had　heard　shots　and　found　a　corpse；　and　carried　the　latter　by　the　tail　across　country。　Finally；　he　had　had　the　stunning　shock　of　discovering　that　Elizabeth　Boyd　loved　him。　He　was　not　himself。　He　found　a　difficulty　in　concentrating。　With　the　result　that；　in　answer　to　this　appeal　from　a　beautiful　girl　whom　he　had　once　imagined　that　he　loved；　all　he　could　find　to　say　was：　'How　do　you　mean？'
　Claire；　never　an　adept　at　patience；　just　succeeded　in　swallowing　the　remark　that　sprang　into　her　mind。　It　was　incredible　to　her　that　a　man　could　exist　who　had　so　little　intuition。　She　had　not　anticipated　the　necessity　of　being　pelled　to　put　the　substance　of　her　meaning　in　so　many　blunt　words；　but　it　seemed　that　only　so　could　she　make　him　understand。
　'I　mean；　can't　we　be　engaged　again；　Bill？'
　Bill's　overtaxed　brain　turned　one　convulsive　hand