pgw.uneasymoney-第30节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


jauntiness　and　self…confidence　which　was　her　natural　armour　against　the　more　ordinary　happenings　of　life。
　Something　small　and　soft　slid　gratefully　into　his　palm；　and　there　was　silence　for　a　space。　Bill　said　nothing。　Elizabeth　said　nothing。　And　Mr　Pickering　had　stopped　treading　on　twigs。　The　faintest　of　night　breezes　ruffled　the　tree…tops　above　them。　The　moonbeams　filtered　through　the　branches。　He　held　her　hand　tightly。
　'Better？'
　'Much。'
　The　breeze　died　away。　Not　a　leaf　stirred。　The　wood　was　very　still。　Somewhere　on　a　bough　a　bird　moved　drowsily　'All　right？'
　'Yes。'
　And　then　something　happenedsomething　shattering；　disintegrating。　It　was　only　a　pheasant；　but　it　sounded　like　the　end　of　the　world。　It　rose　at　their　feet　with　a　rattle　that　filled　the　universe；　and　for　a　moment　all　was　black　confusion。　And　when　that　moment　had　passed　it　became　apparent　to　Bill　that　his　arm　was　round　Elizabeth；　that　she　was　sobbing　helplessly；　and　that　he　was　kissing　her。　Somebody　was　talking　very　rapidly　in　a　low　voice。
　He　found　that　it　was　himself。
　'Elizabeth！'
　There　was　something　wonderful　about　the　name；　a　sort　of　music。　This　was　odd；　because　the　name；　as　a　name；　was　far　from　being　a　favourite　of　his。　Until　that　moment　childish　associations　had　prejudiced　him　against　it。　It　had　been　inextricably　involved　in　his　mind　with　an　atmosphere　of　stuffy　schoolrooms　and　general　misery；　for　it　had　been　his　misfortune　that　his　budding　mind　was　constitutionally　incapable　of　remembering　who　had　been　Queen　of　England　at　the　time　of　the　Spanish　Armadaa　fact　that　had　caused　a　good　deal　of　friction　with　a　rather　sharp…tempered　governess。　But　now　it　seemed　the　only　possible　name　for　a　girl　to　have；　the　only　label　that　could　even　remotely　suggest　those　feminine　charms　which　he　found　in　this　girl　beside　him。　There　was　poetry　in　every　syllable　of　it。　It　was　like　one　of　those　deep　chords　which　fill　the　hearer　with　vague　yearnings　for　strange　and　beautiful　things。　He　asked　for　nothing　better　than　to　stand　here　repeating　it。
　'Elizabeth！'
　'Bill；　dear！'
　That　sounded　good　too。　There　was　music　in　'Bill'　when　properly　spoken。　The　reason　why　all　the　other　Bills　in　the　world　had　got　the　impression　that　it　was　a　prosaic　sort　of　name　was　that　there　was　only　one　girl　in　existence　capable　of　speaking　it　properly；　and　she　was　not　for　them。
　'Bill；　are　you　really　fond　of　me？'
　'Fond　of　you！'
　She　gave　a　sigh。　'You're　so　splendid！'
　Bill　was　staggered。　These　were　strange　words。　He　had　never　thought　much　of　himself。　He　had　always　looked　on　himself　as　rather　a　chumpwell…meaning；　perhaps；　but　an　awful　ass。　It　seemed　incredible　that　any　oneand　Elizabeth　of　all　peoplecould　look　on　him　as　splendid。
　And　yet　the　very　fact　that　she　had　said　it　gave　it　a　plausible　sort　of　sound。　It　shook　his　convictions。　Splendid！　Was　he？　By　Jove；　perhaps　he　was；　what？　Rum　idea；　but　it　grew　on　a　chap。　Filled　with　a　novel　feeling　of　exaltation；　he　kissed　Elizabeth　eleven　times　in　rapid　succession。
　He　felt　devilish　fit。　He　would　have　liked　to　run　a　mile　or　two　and　jump　a　few　gates。　He　wished　five　or　six　starving　beggars　would　e　along；　it　would　be　pleasant　to　give　the　poor　blighters　money。　It　was　too　much　to　expect　at　that　time　of　night；　of　course；　but　it　would　be　rather　jolly　if　Jess　Willard　would　roll　up　and　try　to　pick　a　quarrel。　He　would　show　him　something。　He　felt　grand　and　strong　and　full　of　beans。　What　a　ripping　thing　life　was　when　you　came　to　think　of　it。
　'This；'　he　said；　'is　perfectly　extraordinary！'　And　time　stood　still。
　A　sense　of　something　incongruous　jarred　upon　Bill。　Something　seemed　to　be　interfering　with　the　supreme　romance　of　that　golden　moment。　It　baffled　him　at　first。　Then　he　realized　that　he　was　still　holding　Eustace　by　the　tail。
　Dudley　Pickering　had　watched　these　proceedingsas　well　as　the　fact　that　it　was　extremely　dark　and　that　he　was　endeavouring　to　hide　a　portly　form　behind　a　slender　bush　would　permit　himwith　a　sense　of　bewilderment。　A　ic　artist　drawing　Mr　Pickering　at　that　moment　would　no　doubt　have　placed　above　his　head　one　of　those　large　marks　of　interrogation　which　lend　vigour　and　snap　to　modern　ic　art。　Certainly　such　a　mark　of　interrogation　would　have　summed　up　his　feelings　exactly。　Of　what　was　taking　place　he　had　not　the　remotest　notion。　All　he　knew　was　that　for　some　inexplicable　reason　his　quarry　had　e　to　a　halt　and　seemed　to　have　settled　down　for　an　indefinite　stay。　Voices　came　to　him　in　an　indistinguishable　murmur；　intensely　irritating　to　a　conscientious　tracker。　One　of　Fenimore　Cooper's　Indiansnotably　Chingachgook；　if；　which　seemed　incredible；　that　was　really　the　man's　namewould　have　crept　up　without　a　sound　and　heard　what　was　being　said　and　got　in　on　the　ground　floor　of　whatever　plot　was　being　hatched。　But　experience　had　taught　Mr　Pickering　that；　superior　as　he　was　to　Chingachgook　and　his　friends　in　many　ways；　as　a　creeper　he　was　not　in　their　class。　He　weighed　thirty　or　forty　pounds　more　than　a　first…class　creeper　should。　Besides；　creeping　is　like　golf。　You　can't　take　it　up　in　the　middle　forties　and　expect　to　pete　with　those　who　have　been　at　it　from　infancy。
　He　had　resigned　himself　to　an　all…night　vigil　behind　the　bush；　when　to　his　great　delight　he　perceived　that　things　had　begun　to　move　again。　There　was　a　rustling　of　feet　in　the　undergrowth；　and　he　could　just　see　two　indistinct　forms　making　their　way　among　the　bushes。　He　came　out　of　his　hiding　place　and　followed　stealthily；　or　as　stealthily　as　the　fact　that　he　had　not　even　taken　a　correspondence　course　in　creeping　allowed。　And　profiting　by　earlier　mistakes；　he　did　succeed　in　making　far　less　noise　than　before。　In　place　of　his　former　somewhat　elephantine　method　of　progression　he　adopted　a　species　of　shuffle　which　had　excellent　results；　for　it　enabled　him　to　brush　twigs　away　instead　of　stepping　flatfootedly　on　them。　The　new　method　was　slow；　but　it　had　no　other　disadvantages。
　Because　it　was　slow；　Mr　Pickering　was　obliged　to　follow　his　prey　almost　entirely　by　ear。　It　was　easy　at　first；　for　they　seemed　to　be　hurrying　on　regardless　of　noise。　Then　unexpectedly　the　sounds　of　their　passage　ceased。
　He　halted。　In　his　boyish　way　the　first　thing　he　thought　was　that　it　was　an　ambush。　He　had　a　vision　of　that　large　man　suspecting　his　presence　and　lying　in　wait　for　him　with　a　revolver。　This　was　not　a　forting　thought。　Of　course；　if　a　man　is　going　to　fire　a　revolver　at　you　it　makes　little　difference　whether　he　is　a　giant　or　a　pygmy；　but　Mr　Pickering　was　in　no　frame　of　mind　for　nice　reasoning。　It　was　the　thought　of　Bill's　physique　which　kept　him　standing　there　irresolute。
　What　would　Chingachgookassuming；　for　purposes　of　argument；　that　any　sane　godfather　could　really　have　given　a　helpless　child　a　name　like　thathave　done？　He　would；　Mr　Pickering　considered；　after　giving　the　matter　his　earnest　attention；　have　made　a　_detour_　and　outflanked　the　enemy。　An　excellent　solution　of　the　difficulty。　Mr　Pickering　turned　to　the　left　and　began　to　advance　circuitously；　with　the　result　that；　before　he　knew　what　he　was　doing；　he　came　out　into　a　clearing　and　understood　the　meaning　of　the　sudden　silence　which　had　perplexed　him。　Footsteps　made　no　sound　on　this　mossy　turf。
　He　knew　where　he　was　now；　the　clearing　was　familiar。　This　was　where　Lord　Wetherby's　shack…studio　stood；　and　there　it　was；　right　in　front　of　him；　black　and　clear　in　the　moonlight。　And　the　two　dark　figures　were　going　into　it。
　Mr　Pickering　retreated　into　the　shelter　of　the　bushes　and　mused　upon　this　thing。　It　seemed　to　him　that　for　centuries　he　had　been　doing　nothing　but　retreat　into　bushes　for　this　purpose。　His　perplexity　had　returned。　He　could　imagine　no　reason　why　burglars　should　want　to　visit　Lord　Wetherby's　studio。　He　had　taken　it　for　granted；　when　he　had　tracked　them　to　the　clearing；　that　they　were　on　their　way　to　the　house；　which　was　quite　close　to　the　shack；　separated　from　it　only　by　a　thin　belt　of　trees　and　a　lawn。
　They　had　certainly　gone　in。　He　had　seen　them　with　his　own　eyesfirst　the　man；　then　very　close　behind　him；　apparently　holding　to　his　coat；　the　girl。　But　why？
　Creep　up　and　watch　them？　Would　Chingachgook　have　taken　a　risk　like　that？　Hardly；　unless　insured　with　some　good　pany。　Then　what？　He　was　still　undecided　when　he　perceived　the　objects　of　his　attention　emerging。　He　backed　a　little　farther　into　the　bushes。
　They　stood　for　an　instant；　listening　apparently。　The　man　no　longer　carried　the　sack。　They　exchanged　a　few　inaudible　words。　Then　they　crossed　the　clearing　and　entered　the　wood　a　few　yards　to　his　right。　He　could　hear　the　crackling　of　their　footsteps　diminishing　in　the　direction　of　the　road。
　A　devouring　curiosity　seized　upon　Mr　Pickering。　He　wanted；　more　than　he　had　wanted　almost　anything　before　in　his　life；　to　find　out　what　the　dickens　they　had　been　up　to　in　there。　He　listened。　The　footsteps　were　no　longer　audible。　He　ran　across　the　clearing　and　into　the　shack。　It　was　then　that　he　discovered　that　he　had　no　matches。
　This　needless　infliction；　ing　upon　him　at　the　crisis　of　an　adventurous　night；　infuriated　Mr　Pickering。　He　swore　softly。　He　groped　round　the　walls　for　an　electric…light　switch；　but　the　shack　had　no　electric…light　switch。　When　there　was　need　to　illuminate　it　an　oil　lamp　performed　the　duty。　This　occurred