Books: Uneasy Money
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P.G. Wodehouse >> Uneasy Money
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It would seem that a schoolgirl in these advanced days would know
what to do when she found that a man worth millions was in love
with her; yet there were factors in the situation which gave
Claire pause. Lord Dawlish, of course, was one of them. She had
not mentioned Lord Dawlish to Mr Pickering, and--doubtless lest
the sight of it might pain him--she had abstained from wearing her
engagement ring during the voyage. But she had not completely lost
sight of the fact that she was engaged to Bill. Another thing that
caused her to hesitate was the fact that Dudley Pickering, however
wealthy, was a most colossal bore. As far as Claire could
ascertain on their short acquaintance, he had but one subject of
conversation--automobiles.
To Claire an automobile was a shiny thing with padded seats, in
which you rode if you were lucky enough to know somebody who owned
one. She had no wish to go more deeply into the matter. Dudley
Pickering's attitude towards automobiles, on the other hand, more
nearly resembled that of a surgeon towards the human body. To him
a car was something to dissect, something with an interior both
interesting to explore and fascinating to talk about. Claire
listened with a radiant display of interest, but she had her
doubts as to whether any amount of money would make it worth while
to undergo this sort of thing for life. She was still in this
hesitant frame of mind when she entered Reigelheimer's Restaurant,
and it perturbed her that she could not come to some definite
decision on Mr Pickering, for those subtle signs which every woman
can recognize and interpret told her that the latter, having paved
the way by talking machinery for a week, was about to boil over
and speak of higher things.
At the very next opportunity, she was certain, he intended to
propose.
The presence of Lady Wetherby acted as a temporary check on the
development of the situation, but after they had been seated at
their table a short time the lights of the restaurant were
suddenly lowered, a coloured limelight became manifest near the
roof, and classical music made itself heard from the fiddles in
the orchestra.
You could tell it was classical, because the banjo players were
leaning back and chewing gum; and in New York restaurants only
death or a classical speciality can stop banjoists.
There was a spatter of applause, and Lady Wetherby rose.
'This,' she explained to Claire, 'is where I do my stunt. Watch
it. I invented the steps myself. Classical stuff. It's called the
Dream of Psyche.'
It was difficult for one who knew her as Claire did to associate
Polly Wetherby with anything classical. On the road, in England,
when they had been fellow-members of the Number Two company of
_The Heavenly Waltz_, Polly had been remarkable chiefly for a
fund of humorous anecdote and a gift, amounting almost to genius,
for doing battle with militant landladies. And renewing their
intimacy after a hiatus of a little less than a year Claire had
found her unchanged.
It was a truculent affair, this Dream of Psyche. It was not so much
dancing as shadow boxing. It began mildly enough to the accompaniment
of _pizzicato_ strains from the orchestra--Psyche in her training
quarters. _Rallentando_--Psyche punching the bag. _Diminuendo_--Psyche
using the medicine ball. _Presto_--Psyche doing road work. _Forte_--The
night of the fight. And then things began to move to a climax. With
the fiddles working themselves to the bone and the piano bounding
under its persecutor's blows, Lady Wetherby ducked, side-stepped,
rushed, and sprang, moving her arms in a manner that may have been
classical Greek, but to the untrained eye looked much more like the
last round of some open-air bout.
It was half-way through the exhibition, when you could smell the
sawdust and hear the seconds shouting advice under the ropes, that
Claire, who, never having seen anything in her life like this
extraordinary performance, had been staring spellbound, awoke to
the realization that Dudley Pickering was proposing to her. It
required a woman's intuition to divine this fact, for Mr Pickering
was not coherent. He did not go straight to the point. He rambled.
But Claire understood, and it came to her that this thing had
taken her before she was ready. In a brief while she would have to
give an answer of some sort, and she had not clearly decided what
answer she meant to give.
Then, while he was still skirting his subject, before he had
wandered to what he really wished to say, the music stopped, the
applause broke out again, and Lady Wetherby returned to the table
like a pugilist seeking his corner at the end of a round. Her face
was flushed and she was breathing hard.
'They pay me money for that!' she observed, genially. 'Can you
beat it?'
The spell was broken. Mr Pickering sank back in his chair in a
punctured manner. And Claire, making monosyllabic replies to her
friend's remarks, was able to bend her mind to the task of finding
out how she stood on this important Pickering issue. That he would
return to the attack as soon as possible she knew; and the next
time she must have her attitude clearly defined one way or the
other.
Lady Wetherby, having got the Dance of Psyche out of her system,
and replaced it with a glass of iced coffee, was inclined for
conversation.
'Algie called me up on the phone this evening, Claire.'
'Yes?'
Claire was examining Mr Pickering with furtive side glances. He
was not handsome, nor, on the other hand, was he repulsive.
'Undistinguished' was the adjective that would have described him.
He was inclined to stoutness, but not unpardonably so; his hair
was thin, but he was not aggressively bald; his face was dull, but
certainly not stupid. There was nothing in his outer man which his
millions would not offset. As regarded his other qualities, his
conversation was certainly not exhilarating. But that also was
not, under certain conditions, an unforgivable thing. No, looking
at the matter all round and weighing it with care, the real
obstacle, Claire decided, was not any quality or lack of qualities
in Dudley Pickering--it was Lord Dawlish and the simple fact that
it would be extremely difficult, if she discarded him in favour of a
richer man without any ostensible cause, to retain her self-respect.
'I think he's weakening.'
'Yes?'
Yes, that was the crux of the matter. She wanted to retain her
good opinion of herself. And in order to achieve that end it was
essential that she find some excuse, however trivial, for breaking
off the engagement.
'Yes?'
A waiter approached the table.
'Mr Pickering!'
The thwarted lover came to life with a start.
'Eh?'
'A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone.'
'Oh, yes. I was expecting a long-distance call, Lady Wetherby, and
left word I would be here. Will you excuse me?'
Lady Wetherby watched him as he bustled across the room.
'What do you think of him, Claire?'
'Mr Pickering? I think he's very nice.'
'He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That's why I wanted
you to come over on the same ship with him.'
'Polly! I had no notion you were such a schemer.'
'I would just love to see you two fix it up,' continued Lady
Wetherby, earnestly. 'He may not be what you might call a genius,
but he's a darned good sort; and all his millions help, don't
they? You don't want to overlook these millions, Claire!'
'I do like Mr Pickering.'
'Claire, he asked me if you were engaged.'
'What!'
'When I told him you weren't, he beamed. Honestly, you've only got
to lift your little finger and--Oh, good Lord, there's Algie!'
Claire looked up. A dapper, trim little man of about forty was
threading his way among the tables in their direction. It was a
year since Claire had seen Lord Wetherby, but she recognized him
at once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion of
side-whiskers, small, pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, the
smoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it was
difficult to believe that hair had ever grown there. Although his
evening-dress was perfect in every detail, he conveyed a subtle
suggestion of horsiness. He reached the table and sat down without
invitation in the vacant chair.
'Pauline!' he said, sorrowfully.
'Algie!' said Lady Wetherby, tensely. 'I don't know what you've
come here for, and I don't remember asking you to sit down and put
your elbows on that table, but I want to begin by saying that I
will not be called Pauline. My name's Polly. You've got a way of
saying Pauline, as if it were a gentlemanly cuss-word, that makes
me want to scream. And while you're about it, why don't you say
how-d'you-do to Claire? You ought to remember her, she was my
bridesmaid.'
'How do you do, Miss Fenwick. Of course, I remember you perfectly.
I'm glad to see you again.'
'And now, Algie, what is it? Why have you come here?' Lord
Wetherby looked doubtfully at Claire. 'Oh, that's all right,' said
Lady Wetherby. 'Claire knows all about it--I told her.'
'Then I appeal to Miss Fenwick, if, as you say, she knows all the
facts of the case, to say whether it is reasonable to expect a man
of my temperament, a nervous, highly-strung artist, to welcome the
presence of snakes at the breakfast-table. I trust that I am not
an unreasonable man, but I decline to admit that a long, green
snake is a proper thing to keep about the house.'
'You had no right to strike the poor thing.'
'In that one respect I was perhaps a little hasty. I happened to
be stirring my tea at the moment his head rose above the edge of
the table. I was not entirely myself that morning. My nerves were
somewhat disordered. I had lain awake much of the night planning a
canvas.'
'Planning a what?'
'A canvas--a picture.'
Lady Wetherby turned to Claire.
'I want you to listen to Algie, Claire. A year ago he did not know
one end of a paint-brush from the other. He didn't know he had any
nerves. If you had brought him the artistic temperament on a plate
with a bit of watercress round it, he wouldn't have recognized it.
And now, just because he's got a studio, he thinks he has a right
to go up in the air if you speak to him suddenly and run about the
place hitting snakes with teaspoons as if he were Michelangelo!'
'You do me an injustice. It is true that as an artist I developed
late--But why should we quarrel? If it will help to pave the way
to a renewed understanding between us, I am prepared to apologize
for striking Clarence. That is conciliatory, I think, Miss
Fenwick?'
'Very.'
'Miss Fenwick considers my attitude conciliatory.'
'It's something,' admitted Lady Wetherby, grudgingly.
Lord Wetherby drained the whisky-and-soda which Dudley Pickering
had left behind him, and seemed to draw strength from it, for he
now struck a firmer note.
'But, though expressing regret for my momentary loss of self-control,
I cannot recede from the position I have taken up as regards the
essential unfitness of Clarence's presence in the home.'
Lady Wetherby looked despairingly at Claire.
'The very first words I heard Algie speak, Claire, were at
Newmarket during the three o'clock race one May afternoon. He was
hanging over the rail, yelling like an Indian, and what he was
yelling was, "Come on, you blighter, come on! By the living jingo,
Brickbat wins in a walk!" And now he's talking about receding from
essential positions! Oh, well, he wasn't an artist then!'
'My dear Pau--Polly. I am purposely picking my words on the
present occasion in order to prevent the possibility of further
misunderstandings. I consider myself an ambassador.'
'You would be shocked if you knew what I consider you!'
'I am endeavouring to the best of my ability--'
'Algie, listen to me! I am quite calm at present, but there's no
knowing how soon I may hit you with a chair if you don't come to
earth quick and talk like an ordinary human being. What is it that
you are driving at?'
'Very well, it's this: I'll come home if you get rid of that
snake.'
'Never!'
'It's surely not much to ask of you, Polly?'
'I won't!'
Lord Wetherby sighed.
'When I led you to the altar,' he said, reproachfully, 'you
promised to love, honour, and obey me. I thought at the time it
was a bit of swank!'
Lady Wetherby's manner thawed. She became more friendly.
'When you talk like that, Algie, I feel there's hope for you after
all. That's how you used to talk in the dear old days when you'd
come to me to borrow half-a-crown to put on a horse! Listen, now
that at last you seem to be getting more reasonable; I wish I
could make you understand that I don't keep Clarence for sheer
love of him. He's a commercial asset. He's an advertisement. You
must know that I have got to have something to--'
'I admit that may be so as regards the monkey, Eustace. Monkeys as
aids to publicity have, I believe, been tested and found valuable
by other artistes. I am prepared to accept Eustace, but the snake
is worthless.'
'Oh, you don't object to Eustace, then?'
'I do strongly, but I concede his uses.'
'You would live in the same house as Eustace?'
'I would endeavour to do so. But not in the same house as Eustace
and Clarence.'
There was a pause.
'I don't know that I'm so stuck on Clarence myself,' said Lady
Wetherby, weakly.
'My darling!'
'Wait a minute. I've not said I would get rid of him.'
'But you will?'
Lady Wetherby's hesitation lasted but a moment. 'All right, Algie.
I'll send him to the Zoo to-morrow.'
'My precious pet!'
A hand, reaching under the table, enveloped Claire's in a loving
clasp.
From the look on Lord Wetherby's face she supposed that he was
under the delusion that he was bestowing this attention on his
wife.
'You know, Algie, darling,' said Lady Wetherby, melting completely,
'when you get that yearning note in your voice I just flop and take
the full count.'
'My sweetheart, when I saw you doing that Dream of
What's-the-girl's-bally-name dance just now, it was all I could
do to keep from rushing out on to the floor and hugging you.'
'Algie!'
'Polly!'
'Do you mind letting go of my hand, please, Lord Wetherby?' said
Claire, on whom these saccharine exchanges were beginning to have
a cloying effect.
For a moment Lord Wetherby seemed somewhat confused, but, pulling
himself together, he covered his embarrassment with a pomposity
that blended poorly with his horsy appearance.
'Married life, Miss Fenwick,' he said, 'as you will no doubt
discover some day, must always be a series of mutual compromises,
of cheerful give and take. The lamp of love--'
His remarks were cut short by a crash at the other end of the
room. There was a sharp cry and the splintering of glass. The
place was full of a sudden, sharp confusion. They jumped up with
one accord. Lady Wetherby spilled her iced coffee; Lord Wetherby
dropped the lamp of love. Claire, who was nearest the pillar that
separated them from the part of the restaurant where the accident
had happened, was the first to see what had taken place.
A large man, dancing with a large girl, appeared to have charged
into a small waiter, upsetting him and his tray and the contents
of his tray. The various actors in the drama were now engaged in
sorting themselves out from the ruins. The man had his back toward
her, and it seemed to Claire that there was something familiar
about that back. Then he turned, and she recognized Lord Dawlish.
She stood transfixed. For a moment surprise was her only emotion.
How came Bill to be in America? Then other feelings blended with
her surprise. It is a fact that Lord Dawlish was looking
singularly uncomfortable.
Claire's eyes travelled from Bill to his partner and took in with
one swift feminine glance her large, exuberant blondeness. There
is no denying that, seen with a somewhat biased eye, the Good
Sport resembled rather closely a poster advertising a revue.
Claire returned to her seat. Lord and Lady Wetherby continued to
talk, but she allowed them to conduct the conversation without her
assistance.
'You're very quiet, Claire,' said Polly.
'I'm thinking.'
'A very good thing, too, so they tell me. I've never tried it
myself. Algie, darling, he was a bad boy to leave his nice home,
wasn't he? He didn't deserve to have his hand held.'
8
It had been a great night for Nutty Boyd. If the vision of his
sister Elizabeth, at home at the farm speculating sadly on the
whereabouts of her wandering boy, ever came before his mental eye
he certainly did not allow it to interfere with his appreciation
of the festivities. At Frolics in the Air, whither they moved
after draining Reigelheimer's of what joys it had to offer, and at
Peale's, where they went after wearying of Frolics in the Air, he
was in the highest spirits. It was only occasionally that the
recollection came to vex him that this could not last, that--since
his Uncle Ira had played him false--he must return anon to the
place whence he had come.
Why, in a city of all-night restaurants, these parties ever break
up one cannot say, but a merciful Providence sees to it that they
do, and just as Lord Dawlish was contemplating an eternity of the
company of Nutty and his two companions, the end came. Miss
Leonard said that she was tired. Her friend said that it was a
shame to go home at dusk like this, but, if the party was going to
be broken up, she supposed there was nothing else for it. Bill was
too sleepy to say anything.
The Good Sport lived round the corner, and only required Lord
Dawlish's escort for a couple of hundred yards. But Miss Leonard's
hotel was in the neighbourhood of Washington Square, and it was
Nutty's pleasing task to drive her thither. Engaged thus, he
received a shock that electrified him.
'That pal of yours,' said Miss Leonard, drowsily--she was
half-asleep--'what did you say his name was?'
'Chalmers, he told me. I only met him to-night.'
'Well, it isn't; it's something else. It'--Miss Leonard
yawned--'it's Lord something.'
'How do you mean, "Lord something"?'
'He's a lord--at least, he was when I met him in London.'
'Are you sure you met him in London?'
'Of course I'm sure. He was at that supper Captain Delaney gave at
Oddy's. There can't be two men in England who dance like that!'
The recollection of Bill's performance stimulated Miss Leonard
into a temporary wakefulness, and she giggled.
'He danced just the same way that night in London. I wish I could
remember his name. I almost had it a dozen times tonight. It's
something with a window in it.'
'A window?' Nutty's brain was a little fatigued and he felt
himself unequal to grasping this. 'How do you mean, a window?'
'No, not a window--a door! I knew it was something about a house.
I know now, his name's Lord Dawlish.'
Nutty's fatigue fell from him like a garment.
'It can't be!'
'It is.'
Miss Leonard's eyes had closed and she spoke in a muffled voice.
'Are you sure?'
'Mm-mm.'
'By gad!'
Nutty was wide awake now and full of inquiries; but his companion
unfortunately was asleep, and he could not put them to her. A
gentleman cannot prod a lady--and his guest, at that--in the ribs
in order to wake her up and ask her questions. Nutty sat back and
gave himself up to feverish thought.
He could think of no reason why Lord Dawlish should have come to
America calling himself William Chalmers, but that was no reason
why he should not have done so. And Daisy Leonard, who all along
had remembered meeting him in London, had identified him.
Nutty was convinced. Arriving finally at Miss Leonard's hotel, he
woke her up and saw her in at the door; then, telling the man to
drive to the lodgings of his new friend, he urged his mind to
rapid thought. He had decided as a first step in the following up
of this matter to invite Bill down to Elizabeth's farm, and the
thought occurred to him that this had better be done to-night, for
he knew by experience that on the morning after these little
jaunts he was seldom in the mood to seek people out and invite
them to go anywhere.
All the way to the flat he continued to think, and it was
wonderful what possibilities there seemed to be in this little
scheme of courting the society of the man who had robbed him of
his inheritance. He had worked on Bill's feelings so successfully
as to elicit a loan of a million dollars, and was just proceeding
to marry him to Elizabeth, when the cab stopped with the sudden
sharpness peculiar to New York cabs, and he woke up, to find
himself at his destination.
Bill was in bed when the bell rang, and received his late host in
his pyjamas, wondering, as he did so, whether this was the New
York custom, to foregather again after a party had been broken up,
and chat till breakfast. But Nutty, it seemed, had come with a
motive, not from a desire for more conversation.
'Sorry to disturb you, old man,' said Nutty. 'I looked in to tell
you that I was going down to the country to-morrow. I wondered
whether you would care to come and spend a day or two with us.'
Bill was delighted. This was better than he had hoped for.
'Rather!' he said. 'Thanks awfully!'
'There are plenty of trains in the afternoon,' said Nutty. 'I
don't suppose either of us will feel like getting up early. I'll
call for you here at half-past six, and we'll have an early dinner
and catch the seven-fifteen, shall we? We live very simply, you
know. You won't mind that?'
'My dear chap!'
'That's all right, then,' said Nutty, closing the door. 'Good
night.'
9
Elizabeth entered Nutty's room and, seating herself on the bed,
surveyed him with a bright, quiet eye that drilled holes in her
brother's uneasy conscience. This was her second visit to him that
morning. She had come an hour ago, bearing breakfast on a tray,
and had departed without saying a word. It was this uncanny
silence of hers even more than the effects--which still lingered--of
his revels in the metropolis that had interfered with Nutty's
enjoyment of the morning meal. Never a hearty breakfaster, he had
found himself under the influence of her wordless disapproval
physically unable to consume the fried egg that confronted him. He
had given it one look; then, endorsing the opinion which he had
once heard a character in a play utter in somewhat similar
circumstances--that there was nothing on earth so homely as an
egg--he had covered it with a handkerchief and tried to pull
himself round with hot tea. He was now smoking a sad cigarette and
waiting for the blow to fall.
Her silence had puzzled him. Though he had tried to give her no
opportunity of getting him alone on the previous evening when he
had arrived at the farm with Lord Dawlish, he had fully expected
that she would have broken in upon him with abuse and recrimination
in the middle of the night. Yet she had not done this, nor had she
spoken to him when bringing him his breakfast. These things found
their explanation in Elizabeth's character, with which Nutty, though
he had known her so long, was but imperfectly acquainted. Elizabeth
had never been angrier with her brother, but an innate goodness of
heart had prevented her falling upon him before he had had rest and
refreshment.
She wanted to massacre him, but at the same time she told herself
that the poor dear must be feeling very, very ill, and should have
a reasonable respite before the slaughter commenced.
It was plain that in her opinion this respite had now lasted long
enough. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that she had
closed the door, then leaned a little forward and spoke.
'Now, Nutty!'
The wretched youth attempted bluster.
'What do you mean--"Now, Nutty"? What's the use of looking at a
fellow like that and saying "Now, Nutty"? Where's the sense--'
His voice trailed off. He was not a very intelligent young man,
but even he could see that his was not a position where righteous
indignation could be assumed with any solid chance of success. As
a substitute he tried pathos.
'Oo-oo, my head does ache!'
'I wish it would burst,' said his sister, unkindly.
'That's a nice thing to say to a fellow!'
'I'm sorry. I wouldn't have said it--'
'Oh, well!'
'Only I couldn't think of anything worse.'
It began to seem to Nutty that pathos was a bit of a failure too.
As a last resort he fell back on silence. He wriggled as far down
as he could beneath the sheets and breathed in a soft and wounded
sort of way. Elizabeth took up the conversation.
'Nutty,' she said, 'I've struggled for years against the
conviction that you were a perfect idiot. I've forced myself,
against my better judgement, to try to look on you as sane, but
now I give in. I can't believe you are responsible for your
actions. Don't imagine that I am going to heap you with reproaches
because you sneaked off to New York. I'm not even going to tell
you what I thought of you for not sending me a telegram, letting
me know where you were. I can understand all that. You were
disappointed because Uncle Ira had not left you his money, and I
suppose that was your way of working it off. If you had just run
away and come back again with a headache, I'd have treated you
like the Prodigal Son. But there are some things which are too
much, and bringing a perfect stranger back with you for an
indefinite period is one of them. I'm not saying anything against
Mr Chalmers personally. I haven't had time to find out much about
him, except that he's an Englishman; but he looks respectable.
Which, as he's a friend of yours, is more or less of a miracle.'
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