Uneasy Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  22

  When Bill woke next morning it was ten o'clock; and his firstemotion, on a day that was to be crowded with emotions of variouskinds, was one of shame. The desire to do the fitting thing isinnate in man, and it struck Bill, as he hurried through histoilet, that he must be a shallow, coarse-fibred sort of person,lacking in the finer feelings, not to have passed a sleeplessnight. There was something revolting in the thought that, incircumstances which would have made sleep an impossibility formost men, he had slept like a log. He did not do himself thejustice to recollect that he had had a singularly strenuous day,and that it is Nature's business, which she performs quietly andunromantically, to send sleep to tired men regardless of theirprivate feelings; and it was in a mood of dissatisfaction with thequality of his soul that he left his room.

  He had a general feeling that he was not much of a chap and thatwhen he died--which he trusted would be shortly--the world wouldbe well rid of him. He felt humble and depressed and hopeless.

  Elizabeth met him in the passage. At the age of eleven orthereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handledifficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages toachieve somewhere in the later seventies. Except for a pallorstrange to her face and a drawn look about her eyes, there wasnothing to show that all was not for the best with Elizabeth in abest of all possible worlds. If she did not look jaunty, she atleast looked composed. She greeted Bill with a smile.

  'I didn't wake you. I thought I would let you sleep on.'

  The words had the effect of lending an additional clarity andfirmness of outline to the picture of himself which Bill hadalready drawn in his mind--of a soulless creature sunk in hoggishslumber.

  'We've had breakfast. Nutty has gone for a walk. Isn't hewonderful nowadays? I've kept your breakfast warm for you.'

  Bill protested. He might be capable of sleep, but he was not goingto sink to food.

  'Not for me, thanks,' he said, hollowly.

  'Come along.'

  'Honestly--'

  'Come along.'

  He followed her meekly. How grimly practical women were! They letnothing interfere with the essentials of life. It seemed allwrong. Nevertheless, he breakfasted well and gratefully, Elizabethwatching him in silence across the table.

  'Finished?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  She hesitated for a moment.

  'Well, Bill, I've slept on it. Things are in rather a muddle,aren't they? I think I had better begin by explaining what led upto those words you heard Nutty say last night. Won't you smoke?'

  'No, thanks.'

  'You'll feel better if you do.'

  'I couldn't.'

  A bee had flown in through the open window. She followed it withher eye as it blundered about the room. It flew out again into thesunshine. She turned to Bill again.

  'They were supposed to be words of consolation,' she said.

  Bill said nothing.

  'Nutty, you see, has his own peculiar way of looking at things,and it didn't occur to him that I might have promised to marry youbecause I loved you. He took it for granted that I had done it tosave the Boyd home. He has been very anxious from the first that Ishould marry you. I think that that must have been why he askedyou down here. He found out in New York, you know, who you were.Someone you met at supper recognized you, and told Nutty. So, asfar as that is concerned, the girl you were speaking to at thegate last night was right.'

  He started. 'You heard her?'

  'I couldn't help it. She meant me to hear. She was raising hervoice quite unnecessarily if she did not mean to include me in theconversation. I had gone in to find Nutty, and he was out, and Iwas coming back to you. That's how I was there. You didn't see mebecause your back was turned. She saw me.'

  Bill met her eyes. 'You don't ask who she was?'

  'It doesn't matter who she was. It's what she said that matters.She said that we knew you were Lord Dawlish.'

  'Did you know?'

  'Nutty told me two or three days ago.' Her voice shook and a flushcame into her face. 'You probably won't believe it, but the newsmade absolutely no difference to me one way or the other. I hadalways imagined Lord Dawlish as a treacherous, adventurer sort ofman, because I couldn't see how a man who was not like that couldhave persuaded Uncle Ira to leave him his money. But after knowingyou even for this short time, I knew you were quite the opposite ofthat, and I remembered that the first thing you had done on cominginto the money had been to offer me half, so the information thatyou were the Lord Dawlish whom I had been hating did not affect me.And the fact that you were rich and I was poor did not affect meeither. I loved you, and that was all I cared about. If all this hadnot happened everything would have been all right. But, you see,nine-tenths of what that girl said to you was so perfectly true thatit is humanly impossible for you not to believe the other tenth,which wasn't. And then, to clinch it, you hear Nutty consoling me.That brings me back to Nutty.'

  'I--'

  'Let me tell you about Nutty first. I said that he had always beenanxious that I should marry you. Something happened last night toincrease his anxiety. I have often wondered how he managed to getenough money to enable him to spend three days in New York, andlast night he told me. He came in just after I had got back to thehouse after leaving you and that girl, and he was very scared. Itseems that when the letter from the London lawyer came telling himthat he had been left a hundred dollars, he got the idea ofraising money on the strength of it. You know Nutty by this time,so you won't be surprised at the way he went about it. He borroweda hundred dollars from the man at the chemist's on the security ofthat letter, and then--I suppose it seemed so easy that it struckhim as a pity to let the opportunity slip--he did the same thingwith four other tradesmen. Nutty's so odd that I don't know evennow whether it ever occurred to him that he was obtaining moneyunder false pretences; but the poor tradesmen hadn't any doubtabout it at all. They compared notes and found what had happened,and last night, while we were in the woods, one of them came hereand called Nutty a good many names and threatened him withimprisonment.

  'You can imagine how delighted Nutty was when I came in and toldhim that I was engaged to you. In his curious way, he took it forgranted that I had heard about his financial operations, and wasdoing it entirely for his sake, to get him out of his fix. Andwhile I was trying to put him right on that point he began toconsole me. You see, Nutty looks on you as the enemy of thefamily, and it didn't strike him that it was possible that Ididn't look on you in that light too. So, after being delightedfor a while, he very sweetly thought that he ought to cheer me upand point out some of the compensations of marriage with you.And--Well, that was what you heard. There you have the fullexplanation. You can't possibly believe it.'

  She broke off and began to drum her fingers on the table. And asshe did so there came to Bill a sudden relief from all the doubtsand black thoughts that had tortured him. Elizabeth was straight.Whatever appearances might seem to suggest, nothing could convincehim that she was playing an underhand game. It was as if somethingevil had gone out of him. He felt lighter, cleaner. He couldbreathe.

  'I do believe it,' he said. 'I believe every word you say.'

  She shook her head.

  'You can't in the face of the evidence.'

  'I believe it.'

  'No. You may persuade yourself for the moment that you do, butafter a while you will have to go by the evidence. You won't beable to help yourself. You haven't realized what a crushing thingevidence is. You have to go by it against your will. You see,evidence is the only guide. You don't know that I am speaking thetruth; you just feel it. You're trusting your heart and not yourhead. The head must win in the end. You might go on believing fora time, but sooner or later you would be bound to begin to doubtand worry and torment yourself. You couldn't fight against theevidence, when once your instinct--or whatever it is that tellsyou that I am speaking the truth--had begun to weaken. And itwould weaken. Think what it would have to be fighting all thetime. Think of the case your intelli
gence would be making out, dayafter day, till it crushed you. It's impossible that you couldkeep yourself from docketing the evidence and arranging it andabsorbing it. Think! Consider what you know are actual facts!Nutty invites you down here, knowing that you are Lord Dawlish.All you know about my attitude towards Lord Dawlish is what I toldyou on the first morning of your visit. I told you I hated him.Yet, knowing you are Lord Dawlish, I become engaged to you.Directly afterwards you hear Nutty consoling me as if I weremarrying you against my will. Isn't that an absolutely fairstatement of what has happened? How could you go on believing mewith all that against you?'

  'I know you're straight. You couldn't do anything crooked.'

  'The evidence proves that I did.'

  'I don't care.'

  'Not now.'

  'Never.'

  She shook her head.

  'It's dear of you, Bill, but you're promising an impossibility.And just because it's impossible, and because I love you too muchto face what would be bound to happen, I'm going to send youaway.'

  'Send me away!'

  'Yes. It's going to hurt. You don't know how it's going to hurt,Bill; but it's the only thing to do. I love you too much to livewith you for the rest of my life wondering all the time whetheryou still believed or whether the weight of the evidence hadcrushed out that tiny little spark of intuition which is all thatmakes you believe me now. You could never know the truth forcertain, you see--that's the horror of it; and sometimes you wouldbe able to make yourself believe, but more often, in spite of allyou could do, you would doubt. It would poison both our lives.Little things would happen, insignificant in themselves, whichwould become tremendously important just because they added alittle bit more to the doubt which you would never be able to getrid of.

  'When we had quarrels--which we should, as we are both human--theywouldn't be over and done with in an hour. They would stick inyour mind and rankle, because, you see, they might be proofs thatI didn't really love you. And then when I seemed happy with you,you would wonder if I was acting. I know all this sounds morbidand exaggerated, but it isn't. What have you got to go on, asregards me? What do you really know of me? If something like thishad happened after we had been married half a dozen years andreally knew each other, we could laugh at it. But we arestrangers. We came together and loved each other because there wassomething in each of us which attracted the other. We took thatlittle something as a foundation and built on it. But what hashappened has knocked away our poor little foundation. That's all.We don't really know anything at all about each other for certain.It's just guesswork.'

  She broke off and looked at the clock.

  'I had better be packing if you're to catch the train.'

  He gave a rueful laugh.

  'You're throwing me out!'

  'Yes, I am. I want you to go while I am strong enough to let yougo.'

  'If you really feel like that, why send me away?'

  'How do you know I really feel like that? How do you know that Iam not pretending to feel like that as part of a carefully-preparedplan?'

  He made an impatient gesture.

  'Yes, I know,' she said. 'You think I am going out of my way tomanufacture unnecessary complications. I'm not; I'm simply lookingahead. If I were trying to trap you for the sake of your money,could I play a stronger card than by seeming anxious to give youup? If I were to give in now, sooner or later that suspicion wouldcome to you. You would drive it away. You might drive it away ahundred times. But you couldn't kill it. In the end it would beatyou.'

  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  'I can't argue.'

  'Nor can I. I can only put very badly things which I know aretrue. Come and pack.'

  'I'll do it. Don't you bother.'

  'Nonsense! No man knows how to pack properly.'

  He followed her to his room, pulled out his suitcase, the symbolof the end of all things, watched her as she flitted about, thesun shining on her hair as she passed and repassed the window. Shewas picking things up, folding them, packing them. Bill looked onwith an aching sense of desolation. It was all so friendly, sointimate, so exactly as it would have been if she were his wife.It seemed to him needlessly cruel that she should be playing onthis note of domesticity at the moment when she was barring forever the door between him and happiness. He rebelled helplesslyagainst the attitude she had taken. He had not thought it all out,as she had done. It was folly, insanity, ruining their two liveslike this for a scruple.

  Once again he was to encounter that practical strain in thefeminine mind which jars upon a man in trouble. She was holdingsomething in her hand and looking at it with concern.

  'Why didn't you tell me?' she said. 'Your socks are in an awfulstate, poor boy!'

  He had the feeling of having been hit by something. A man has nota woman's gift of being able to transfer his mind at will fromsorrow to socks.

  'Like sieves!' She sighed. A troubled frown wrinkled her forehead.'Men are so helpless! Oh, dear, I'm sure you don't pay anyattention to anything important. I don't believe you ever botheryour head about keeping warm in winter and not getting your feetwet. And now I shan't be able to look after you!'

  Bill's voice broke. He felt himself trembling.

  'Elizabeth!'

  She was kneeling on the floor, her head bent over the suitcase.She looked up and met his eyes.

  'It's no use, Bill, dear. I must. It's the only way.'

  The sense of the nearness of the end broke down the numbnesswhich held him.

  'Elizabeth! It's so utterly absurd. It's just--chucking everythingaway!'

  She was silent for a moment.

  'Bill, dear, I haven't said anything about it before but don't yousee that there's my side to be considered too? I only showed youthat you could never possibly know that I loved you. How am I toknow that you really love me?'

  He had moved a step towards her. He drew back, chilled.

  'I can't do more than tell you,' he said.

  'You can't. And there you have put in two words just what I'vebeen trying to make clear all the time. Don't you see that that'sthe terrible thing about life, that nobody can do more than tellanybody anything? Life's nothing but words, words, words; and howare we to know when words are true? How am I to know that youdidn't ask me to marry you out of sheer pity and an exaggeratedsense of justice?'

  He stared at her.

  'That,' he said, 'is absolutely ridiculous!'

  'Why? Look at it as I should look at it later on, when whatever itis inside me that tell me it's ridiculous now had died. Just atthis moment, while we're talking here, there's something strongerthan reason which tells me you really do love me. But can't youunderstand that that won't last? It's like a candle burning on arock with the tide coming up all round it. It's burning brightlyenough now, and we can see the truth by the light of it. But thetide will put it out, and then we shall have nothing left to seeby. There's a great black sea of suspicion and doubt creeping upto swamp the little spark of intuition inside us.

  'I will tell you what would happen to me if I didn't send youaway. Remember I heard what that girl was saying last night.Remember that you hated the thought of depriving me of Uncle Ira'smoney so much that your first act was to try to get me to accepthalf of it. The quixotic thing is the first that it occurs to youto do, because you're like that, because you're the straightest,whitest man I've ever known or shall know. Could anything be morelikely, looking at it as I should later on, than that you shouldhave hit on the idea of marrying me as the only way of undoing thewrong you thought you had done me? I've been foolish aboutobligations all my life. I've a sort of morbid pride that hatesthe thought of owing anything to anybody, of getting anything thatI have not earned. By and by, if I were to marry you, a littlerotten speck of doubt would begin to eat its way farther andfarther into me. It would be the same with you. We should react oneach other. We should be watching each other, testing each other,trying each other out all the time. It would be horrible,horrible!'

  He started to spe
ak; then, borne down by the hopelessness of it,stopped. Elizabeth stood up. They did not look at each other. Hestrapped the suitcase and picked it up. The end of all things wasat hand.

  'Better to end it all cleanly, Bill,' she said, in a low voice.'It will hurt less.'

  He did not speak.

  'I'll come down to the gate with you.'

  They walked in silence down the drive. The air was heavy with the torporof late summer. The sun beat down on them, turning her hair to burnishedgold. They reached the gate.

  'Good-bye, Bill, dear.'

  He took her hand dully.

  'Good-bye,' he said.

  Elizabeth stood at the gate, watching. He swung down the road withlong strides. At the bend he turned and for a moment stood there,as if waiting for her to make some sign. Then he fell into hisstride again and was gone. Elizabeth leaned on the gate. Her facewas twisted, and she clutched the warm wood as if it gave herstrength.

  The grounds were very empty. The spirit of loneliness brooded onthem. Elizabeth walked slowly back to the house. Nutty was comingtowards her from the orchard.

  'Halloa!' said Nutty.

  He was cheerful and debonair. His little eyes were alight withcontentment. He hummed a tune.

  'Where's Dawlish?' he said.

  'He has gone.'

  Nutty's tune failed in the middle of a bar. Something in hissister's voice startled him. The glow of contentment gave way to alook of alarm.

  'Gone? How do you mean--gone? You don't mean--gone?'

  'Yes.'

  'Gone away?'

  'Gone away.'

  They had reached the house before he spoke again.

  'You don't mean--gone away?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you mean--gone away?'

  'Yes.'

  'You aren't going to marry him?'

  'No.'

  The world stood still. The noise of the crickets and all thelittle sounds of summer smote on Nutty's ear in one discordantshriek.

  'Oh, gosh!' he exclaimed, faintly, and collapsed on the frontsteps like a jelly-fish.