Uneasy Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  20

  In the smoking-room of Lady Wetherby's house, chewing the deadstump of a once imposing cigar, Dudley Pickering sat alone withhis thoughts. He had been alone for half an hour now. Once LordWetherby had looked in, to withdraw at once coldly, with theexpression of a groom who has found loathsome things in theharness-room. Roscoe Sherriff, good, easy man, who could neverdislike people, no matter what they had done, had come for a whileto bear him company; but Mr Pickering's society was not for thetime being entertaining. He had answered with grunts thePress-agent's kindly attempts at conversation, and the latterhad withdrawn to seek a more congenial audience. And now MrPickering was alone, talking things over with his subconsciousself.

  A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks forthe greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hiddenaway, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the miseryof a miserable hour. Mr Pickering's rare interviews with hissubconscious self had happened until now almost entirely in thesmall hours of the night, when it had popped out to remind him, ashe lay sleepless, that all flesh was grass and that he was notgetting any younger. To-night, such had been the shock of theevening's events, it came to him at a time which was usually hishappiest--the time that lay between dinner and bed. Mr Pickeringat that point of the day was generally feeling his best. But to-nightwas different from the other nights of his life.

  One may picture Subconscious Self as a withered, cynical,malicious person standing before Mr Pickering and regarding himwith an evil smile. There has been a pause, and now SubconsciousSelf speaks again:

  'You will have to leave to-morrow. Couldn't possibly stop on afterwhat's happened. Now you see what comes of behaving like a boy.'

  Mr Pickering writhed.

  'Made a pretty considerable fool of yourself, didn't you, withyour revolvers and your hidings and your trailings? Too old forthat sort of thing, you know. You're getting on. Probably have atouch of lumbago to-morrow. You must remember you aren't ayoungster. Got to take care of yourself. Next time you feel animpulse to hide in shrubberies and take moonlight walks throughdamp woods, perhaps you will listen to me.'

  Mr Pickering relit the stump of his cigar defiantly and smoked inlong gulps for a while. He was trying to persuade himself that allthis was untrue, but it was not easy. The cigar became uncomfortablyhot, and he threw it away. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket andproduced a diamond ring, at which he looked pensively.

  'A pretty thing, is it not?' said Subconscious Self.

  Mr Pickering sighed. That moment when Claire had thrown the ringat his feet and swept out of his life like an offended queen hadbeen the culminating blow of a night of blows, the knock-outfollowing on a series of minor punches. Subconscious Self seizedthe opportunity to become offensive again.

  'You've lost her, all through your own silly fault,' it said. 'Howon earth you can have been such a perfect fool beats me. Runninground with a gun like a boy of fourteen! Well, it's done now andit can't be mended. Countermand the order for cake, send a wireputting off the wedding, dismiss the bridesmaids, tell theorganist he can stop practising "The Voice that Breathed O'erEden"--no wedding-bells for you! For Dudley Damfool Pickering,Esquire, the lonely hearth for evermore! Little feet patteringabout the house? Not on your life! Childish voices sticking up theold man for half a dollar to buy candy? No, sir! Not for D.Bonehead Pickering, the amateur trailing arbutus!'

  Subconscious Self may have had an undesirable way of expressingitself, but there was no denying the truth of what it said. Itswords carried conviction. Mr Pickering replaced the ring in hispocket, and, burying his head in his hands, groaned in bitternessof spirit.

  He had lost her. He must face the fact. She had thrown him over.Never now would she sit at his table, the brightest jewel ofDetroit's glittering social life. She would have made a stir inDetroit. Now that city would never know her. Not that he wasworrying much about Detroit. He was worrying about himself. Howcould he ever live without her?

  This mood of black depression endured for a while, and then MrPickering suddenly became aware that Subconscious Self wassneering at him. 'You're a wonder!' said Subconscious Self.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Why, trying to make yourself think that at the bottom of yourheart you aren't tickled to death that this has happened. You knowperfectly well that you're tremendously relieved that you haven'tgot to marry the girl after all. You can fool everybody else, butyou can't fool me. You're delighted, man, delighted!' The meresuggestion revolted Mr Pickering. He was on the point of indignantdenial, when quite abruptly there came home to him the suspicionthat the statement was not so preposterous after all. It seemedincredible and indecent that such a thing should be, but he couldnot deny, now that it was put to him point-blank in this way, thata certain sense of relief was beginning to mingle itself with hisgloom. It was shocking to realize, but--yes, he actually wasfeeling as if he had escaped from something which he had dreaded.Half an hour ago there had been no suspicion of such an emotionamong the many which had occupied his attention, but now heperceived it clearly. Half an hour ago he had felt like Luciferhurled from heaven. Now, though how that train of thought hadstarted he could not have said, he was distinctly conscious of thesilver lining. Subconscious Self began to drive the thing home.

  'Be honest with yourself,' it said. 'You aren't often. No man is.Look at the matter absolutely fairly. You know perfectly well thatthe mere idea of marriage has always scared you. You hate makingyourself conspicuous in public. Think what it would be like,standing up there in front of all the world and getting married.And then--afterwards! Why on earth do you think that you wouldhave been happy with this girl? What do you know about her exceptthat she is a beauty? I grant you she's that, but are you aware ofthe infinitesimal part looks play in married life? My dear chap,better is it for a man that he marry a sympathetic gargoyle than aVenus with a streak of hardness in her. You know--and you wouldadmit it if you were honest with yourself--that this girl is hard.She's got a chilled-steel soul.

  'If you wanted to marry some one--and there's no earthly reasonwhy you should, for your life's perfectly full and happy with yourwork--this is the last girl you ought to marry. You're a middle-agedman. You're set. You like life to jog along at a peaceful walk.This girl wants it to be a fox-trot. You've got habits whichyou have had for a dozen years. I ask you, is she the sort of girlto be content to be a stepmother to a middle-aged man's habits? Ofcourse, if you were really in love with her, if she were yourmate, and all that sort of thing, you would take a pleasure inmaking yourself over to suit her requirements. But you aren't inlove with her. You are simply caught by her looks. I tell you, youought to look on that moment when she gave you back your ring asthe luckiest moment of your life. You ought to make a sort ofanniversary of it. You ought to endow a hospital or something outof pure gratitude. I don't know how long you're going to live--ifyou act like a grown-up man instead of a boy and keep out of woodsand shrubberies at night you may live for ever--but you will neverhave a greater bit of luck than the one that happened to youto-night.'

  Mr Pickering was convinced. His spirits soared. Marriage! What wasmarriage? Slavery, not to be endured by your man of spirit. Lookat all the unhappy marriages you saw everywhere. Besides, you hadonly to recall some of the novels and plays of recent years to getthe right angle on marriage. According to the novelists andplaywrights, shrewd fellows who knew what was what, if you talkedto your wife about your business she said you had no soul; if youdidn't, she said you didn't think enough of her to let her shareyour life. If you gave her expensive presents and an unlimitedcredit account, she complained that you looked on her as a meredoll; and if you didn't, she called you a screw. That wasmarriage. If it didn't get you with the left jab, it landed on youwith the right upper-cut. None of that sort of thing for DudleyPickering.

  'You're absolutely right,' he said, enthusiastically. 'Funny Inever looked at it that way before.'

  Somebody was turning the door-handle. He hoped it was RoscoeSherriff
. He had been rather dull the last time Sherriff hadlooked in. He would be quite different now. He would be gay andsparkling. He remembered two good stories he would like to tellSherriff.

  The door opened and Claire came in. There was a silence. She stoodlooking at him in a way that puzzled Mr Pickering. If it had notbeen for her attitude at their last meeting and the manner inwhich she had broken that last meeting up, he would have said thather look seemed somehow to strike a note of appeal. There wassomething soft and repentant about her. She suggested, it seemedto Mr Pickering, the prodigal daughter revisiting the oldhomestead.

  'Dudley!'

  She smiled a faint smile, a wistful, deprecating smile. She waslooking lovelier than ever. Her face glowed with a wonderfulcolour and her eyes were very bright. Mr Pickering met her gaze,and strange things began to happen to his mind, that mind which amoment before had thought so clearly and established so definite apoint of view.

  What a gelatine-backboned thing is man, who prides himself on hisclear reason and becomes as wet blotting-paper at one glance frombright eyes! A moment before Mr Pickering had thought out thewhole subject of woman and marriage in a few bold flashes of hiscapable brain, and thanked Providence that he was not as those menwho take unto themselves wives to their undoing. Now in an instanthe had lost that iron outlook. Reason was temporarily out ofbusiness. He was slipping.

  'Dudley!'

  For a space Subconscious Self thrust itself forward.

  'Look out! Be careful!' it warned.

  Mr Pickering ignored it. He was watching, fascinated, the glow onClaire's face, her shining eyes.

  'Dudley, I want to speak to you.'

  'Tell her you can only be seen by appointment! Escape! Bolt!'

  Mr Pickering did not bolt. Claire came towards him, still smilingthat pathetic smile. A thrill permeated Mr Pickering's entire onehundred and ninety-seven pounds, trickling down his spine like hotwater and coming out at the soles of his feet. He had forgottennow that he had ever sneered at marriage. It seemed to him nowthat there was nothing in life to be compared with that beatificstate, and that bachelors were mere wild asses of the desert.

  Claire came and sat down on the arm of his chair. He movedconvulsively, but he stayed where he was.

  'Fool!' said Subconscious Self.

  Claire took hold of his hand and patted it. He quivered, butremained.

  'Ass!' hissed Subconscious Self.

  Claire stopped patting his hand and began to stroke it. MrPickering breathed heavily.

  'Dudley, dear,' said Claire, softly, 'I've been an awful fool, andI'm dreadful, dreadful sorry, and you're going to be the nicest,kindest, sweetest man on earth and tell me you've forgiven me.Aren't you?'

  Mr Pickering's lips moved silently. Claire kissed the thinningsummit of his head. There was a pause.

  'Where is it?' she asked.

  Mr Pickering started.

  'Eh?'

  'Where is it? Where did you put it? The ring, silly!'

  Mr Pickering became aware that Subconscious Self was addressinghim. The occasion was tense, and Subconscious Self did not minceits words.

  'You poor, maudlin, sentimental, doddering chunk of imbecility,'it said; 'are there no limits to your insanity? After all I saidto you just now, are you deliberately going to start the oldidiocy all over again?'

  'She's so beautiful!' pleaded Mr Pickering. 'Look at her eyes!'

  'Ass! Don't you remember what I said about beauty?'

  'Yes, I know, but--'

  'She's as hard as nails.'

  'I'm sure you're wrong.'

  'I'm not wrong.'

  'But she loves me.'

  'Forget it!'

  Claire jogged his shoulders.

  'Dudley, dear, what are you sitting there dreaming for? Where didyou put the ring?'

  Mr Pickering fumbled for it, located it, produced it. Claireexamined it fondly.

  'Did she throw it at him and nearly break his heart!' she said.

  'Bolt!' urged Subconscious Self. 'Fly! Go to Japan!'

  Mr Pickering did not go to Japan. He was staring worshippingly atClaire. With rapturous gaze he noted the grey glory of her eyes,the delicate curve of her cheek, the grace of her neck. He had notime to listen to pessimistic warnings from any Gloomy Gus of aSubconscious Self. He was ashamed that he had ever even for amoment allowed himself to be persuaded that Claire was not allthat was perfect. No more doubts and hesitations for DudleyPickering. He was under the influence.

  'There!' said Claire, and slipped the ring on her finger.

  She kissed the top of his head once more.

  'So there we are!' she said.

  'There we are!' gurgled the infatuated Dudley.

  'Happy now?'

  'Ur-r!'

  'Then kiss me.'

  Mr Pickering kissed her.

  'Dudley, darling,' said Claire, 'we're going to be awfully,awfully happy, aren't we?'

  'You bet we are!' said Mr Pickering.

  Subconscious Self said nothing, being beyond speech.