pgw.uneasymoney-第16部分

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land。　She　had　adjusted　her　brain　to　the　situation　while　he　was　still　gaping。
　'Well；　Bill？'
　This　speech　in　itself　should　have　been　enough　to　warn　Lord　Dawlish　of　impending　doom。　As　far　as　love；　affection；　and　tenderness　are　concerned；　a　girl　might　just　as　well　hit　a　man　with　an　axe　as　say　'Well；　Bill？'　to　him　when　they　have　met　unexpectedly　in　the　moonlight　after　long　separation。　But　Lord　Dawlish　was　too　shattered　by　surprise　to　be　capable　of　observing　_nuances_。　If　his　love　had　ever　waned　or　faltered；　as　conscience　had　suggested　earlier　in　the　day；　it　was　at　full　blast　now。
　'Claire！'　he　cried。
　He　was　moving　to　take　her　in　his　arms；　but　she　drew　back。
　'No；　really；　Bill！'　she　said；　and　this　time　it　did　filter　through　into　his　disordered　mind　that　all　was　not　well。　A　man　who　is　a　good　deal　dazed　at　the　moment　may　fail　to　appreciate　a　remark　like　'Well；　Bill？'　but　for　a　girl　to　draw　back　and　say；　'No；　really；　Bill！'　in　a　tone　not　exactly　of　loathing；　but　certainly　of　pained　aversion；　is　a　deliberately　unfriendly　act。　The　three　short　words；　taken　in　conjunction　with　the　movement；　brought　him　up　with　as　sharp　a　turn　as　if　she　had　punched　him　in　the　eye。
　'Claire！　What's　the　matter？'
　She　looked　at　him　steadily。　She　looked　at　him　with　a　sort　of　queenly　woodenness；　as　if　he　were　behind　a　camera　with　a　velvet　bag　over　his　head　and　had　just　told　her　to　moisten　the　lips　with　the　tip　of　the　tongue。　Her　aspect　staggered　Lord　Dawlish。　A　cursory　inspection　of　his　conscience　showed　nothing　but　purity　and　whiteness；　but　he　must　have　done　something；　or　she　would　not　be　staring　at　him　like　this。
　'I　don't　understand！'　was　the　only　remark　that　occurred　to　him。
　'Are　you　sure？'
　'What　do　you　mean？'
　'I　was　at　Reigelheimer's　RestaurantAh！'
　The　sudden　start　which　Lord　Dawlish　had　given　at　the　opening　words　of　her　sentence　justified　the　concluding　word。　Innocent　as　his　behaviour　had　been　that　night　at　Reigelheimer's；　he　had　been　glad　at　the　time　that　he　had　not　been　observed。　It　now　appeared　that　he　had　been　observed；　and　it　seemed　to　him　that　Long　Island　suddenly　flung　itself　into　a　whirling　dance。　He　heard　Claire　speaking　a　long　way　off：　'I　was　there　with　Lady　Wetherby。　It　was　she　who　invited　me　to　e　to　America。　I　went　to　the　restaurant　to　see　her　danceand　I　saw　you！'
　With　a　supreme　effort　Bill　succeeded　in　calming　down　the　excited　landscape。　He　willed　the　trees　to　stop　dancing；　and　they　came　reluctantly　to　a　standstill。　The　world　ceased　to　swim　and　flicker。
　'Let　me　explain；'　he　said。
　The　moment　he　had　said　the　words　he　wished　he　could　recall　them。　Their　substance　was　right　enough；　it　was　the　sound　of　them　that　was　wrong。　They　sounded　like　a　line　from　a　farce；　where　the　erring　husband　has　been　caught　by　the　masterful　wife。　They　were　ridiculous。　Worse　than　being　merely　ridiculous；　they　created　an　atmosphere　of　guilt　and　evasion。
　'Explain！　How　can　you　explain？　It　is　impossible　to　explain。　I　saw　you　with　my　own　eyes　making　an　exhibition　of　yourself　with　a　horrible　creature　in　salmon…pink。　I'm　not　asking　you　who　she　is。　I'm　not　questioning　you　about　your　relations　with　her　at　all。　I　don't　care　who　she　was。　The　mere　fact　that　you　were　at　a　public　restaurant　with　a　person　of　that　kind　is　enough。　No　doubt　you　think　I　am　making　a　great　deal　of　fuss　about　a　very　ordinary　thing。　You　consider　that　it　is　a　man's　privilege　to　do　these　things；　if　he　can　do　them　without　being　found　out。　But　it　ended　everything　so　far　as　I　am　concerned。　Am　I　unreasonable？　I　don't　think　so。　You　steal　off　to　America；　thinking　I　am　in　England；　and　behave　like　this。　How　could　you　do　that　if　you　really　loved　me？　It's　the　deceit　of　it　that　hurts　me。'
　Lord　Dawlish　drew　in　a　few　breaths　of　pure　Long　Island　air；　but　he　did　not　speak。　He　felt　helpless。　If　he　were　to　be　allowed　to　withdraw　into　the　privacy　of　the　study　and　wrap　a　cold；　wet　towel　about　his　forehead　and　buckle　down　to　it；　he　knew　that　he　could　draft　an　excellent　and　satisfactory　explanation　of　his　presence　at　Reigelheimer's　with　the　Good　Sport。　But　to　do　it　on　the　spur　of　the　moment　like　this　was　beyond　him。
　Claire　was　speaking　again。　She　had　paused　for　a　while　after　her　recent　speech；　in　order　to　think　of　something　else　to　say；　and　during　this　pause　had　e　to　her　mind　certain　excerpts　from　one　of　those　admirable　articles　on　love；　by　Luella　Delia　Philpotts；　which　do　so　much　to　boost　the　reading　public　of　the　United　States　into　the　higher　planes。　She　had　read　it　that　afternoon　in　the　Sunday　paper；　and　it　came　back　to　her　now。
　'I　may　be　hypersensitive；'　she　said；　dropping　her　voice　from　the　accusatory　register　to　the　lower　tones　of　pathos；　'but　I　have　such　high　ideals　of　love。　There　can　be　no　true　love　where　there　is　not　perfect　trust。　Trust　is　to　love　what'
　She　paused　again。　She　could　not　remember　just　what　Luella　Delia　Philpotts　had　said　trust　was　to　love。　It　was　something　extremely　neat；　but　it　had　slipped　her　memory。
　'A　woman　has　the　right　to　expect　the　man　she　is　about　to　marry　to　regard　their　troth　as　a　sacred　obligation　that　shall　keep　him　as　pure　as　a　young　knight　who　has　dedicated　himself　to　the　quest　of　the　Holy　Grail。　And　I　find　you　in　a　public　restaurant；　dancing　with　a　creature　with　yellow　hair；　upsetting　waiters；　and　staggering　about　with　pats　of　butter　all　over　you。'
　Here　a　sense　of　injustice　stung　Lord　Dawlish。　It　was　true　that　after　his　regrettable　collision　with　Heinrich；　the　waiter；　he　had　discovered　butter　upon　his　person；　but　it　was　only　one　pat。　Claire　had　spoken　as　if　he　had　been　festooned　with　butter。
　'I　am　not　angry　with　you；　only　disappointed。　What　has　happened　has　shown　me　that　you　do　not　really　love　me；　not　as　I　think　of　love。　Oh；　I　know　that　when　we　are　together　you　think　you　do；　but　absence　is　the　test。　Absence　is　the　acid…test　of　love　that　separates　the　base　metal　from　the　true。　After　what　has　happened；　we　can't　go　on　with　our　engagement。　It　would　be　farcical。　I　could　never　feel　that　way　toward　you　again。　We　shall　always　be　friends；　I　hope。　But　as　for　lovelove　is　not　a　machine。　It　cannot　be　shattered　and　put　together　again。'
　She　turned　and　began　to　walk　up　the　drive。　Hanging　over　the　top　of　the　gate　like　a　wet　sock；　Lord　Dawlish　watched　her　go。　The　interview　was　over；　and　he　could　not　think　of　one　single　thing　to　say。　Her　white　dress　made　a　patch　of　light　in　the　shadows。　She　moved　slowly；　as　if　weighed　down　by　sad　thoughts；　like　one　who；　as　Luella　Delia　Philpotts　beautifully　puts　it；　paces　with　measured　step　behind　the　coffin　of　a　murdered　heart。　The　bend　of　the　drive　hid　her　from　his　sight。
　About　twenty　minutes　later　Dudley　Pickering；　smoking　sentimentally　in　the　darkness　hard　by　the　porch；　received　a　shock。　He　was　musing　tenderly　on　his　Claire；　who　was　assisting　him　in　the　process　by　singing　in　the　drawing…room；　when　he　was　aware　of　a　figure；　the　sinister　figure　of　a　man　who；　pressed　against　the　netting　of　the　porch；　stared　into　the　lighted　room　beyond。
　Dudley　Pickering's　first　impulse　was　to　stride　briskly　up　to　the　intruder；　tap　him　on　the　shoulder；　and　ask　him　what　the　devil　he　wanted；　but　a　second　look　showed　him　that　the　other　was　built　on　too　ample　a　scale　to　make　this　advisable。　He　was　a　large；　fit…looking　intruder。
　Mr　Pickering　was　alarmed。　There　had　been　the　usual　epidemic　of　burglaries　that　season。　Houses　had　been　broken　into；　valuable　possessions　removed。　In　one　case　a　negro　butler　had　been　struck　over　the　head　with　a　gas…pipe　and　given　a　headache。　In　these　circumstances；　it　was　unpleasant　to　find　burly　strangers　looking　in　at　windows。
　'Hi！'　cried　Mr　Pickering。
　The　intruder　leaped　a　foot。　It　had　not　occurred　to　Lord　Dawlish；　when　in　an　access　of　wistful　yearning　he　had　decided　to　sneak　up　to　the　house　in　order　to　increase　his　anguish　by　one　last　glimpse　of　Claire；　that　other　members　of　the　household　might　be　out　in　the　grounds。　He　was　just　thinking　sorrowfully；　as　he　listened　to　the　music；　how　like　his　own　position　was　to　that　of　the　hero　of　Tennyson's　_Maud_a　poem　to　which　he　was　greatly　addicted；　when　Mr　Pickering's　'Hi！'　came　out　of　nowhere　and　hit　him　like　a　torpedo。
　He　turned　in　agitation。　Mr　Pickering　having　prudently　elected　to　stay　in　the　shadows；　there　was　no　one　to　be　seen。　It　was　as　if　the　voice　of　conscience　had　shouted　'Hi！'　at　him。　He　was　just　wondering　if　he　had　imagined　the　whole　thing；　when　he　perceived　the　red　glow　of　a　cigar　and　beyond　it　a　shadowy　form。
　It　was　not　the　fact　that　he　was　in　an　equivocal　position；　staring　into　a　house　which　did　not　belong　to　him；　with　his　feet　on　somebody　else's　private　soil；　that　caused　Bill　to　act　as　he　did。　It　was　the　fact　that　at　that　moment　he　was　not　feeling　equal　to　conversation　with　anybody　on　any　subject　whatsoever。　It　did　not　occur　to　him　that　his　behaviour　might　strike　a　nervous　stranger　as　suspicious。　All　he　aimed　at　was　the　swift　removal　of　himself　from　a　spot　infested　by　others　of　his　species。　He　ran；　and　Mr　Pickering；　having　followed　him　with　the　eye　of　fear；　went　rather　shakily　into　the　house；　his　brain　whirling　with　professional　cracksmen　and　gas　pipes　and　assaulted　butlers；　to　relate　his　adventure。
　'A　great；　hulking；　ruffianly　sort　of　fellow　glaring　in　at　the　window；'　said　Mr　Pickering。　'I　shouted　at　him　and　he　ran　like　a　rabbit。'
　'Gee！　Must　have　been　one　of　the　gang　that's　been　working　down　here；'　said　Roscoe　Sherriff。　'There　might　be　a　quarter　of　a　column　in　that；　properly　worked；　but　I　guess　I'd　better　wait　until　he　actually　does　bust　the　place。'
　'We　must　notify　the　police！'
　'Notify　the　police；　and　have　them　butt　in　and　stop　the　thing　and　kill　a　good　story！'　There　was　honest　amazement　in　the　Press…agent's　voice。　'Let　me　tell　you；　it　isn't　so　easy　to　get　publicity　these　days　that　you　want　to　go　out　of　your　way　to　stop　it！'
　Mr　Pickering　was　appalled。　A　dislike　of　this　man；　which　had　grown　less　vivid　since　his　scene　with　Claire；　returned　to　him　with　redoubled　force。
　'Why；　we　may　all　be　murdered　in　our　beds！'　he　cried。
　'Front…page　stuff！'　said　Roscoe　Sherriff；　with　gleaming　eyes。　'And　three　columns　at　least。　Fine！'
　It　might　have　consoled　Lord　Dawlish　somewhat；　as　he　lay　awake　that　night；　to　have　known　that　the　man　who　had　taken　Claire　from　himthough　at　present　he　was　not　aware　of　such　a　man's　existencealso　slept　ill。
　
　13
　Lady　Wetherby　sat　in　her　room；　writing　letters。　The　rest　of　the　household　were　variously　employed。　Roscoe　Sherriff　was　prowling　about　the　house；　brooding　on　campaigns　of　publicity。　Dudley　Pickering　was　walking　in　the　grounds　with　Claire。　In　a　little　shack　in　the　woods　that　adjoined　the　high…road；　which　he　had　converted　into　a　temporary　studio；　Lord　Wetherby　was　working　on　a　picture　which　he　proposed　to　call　'Innocence'；　a　study　of　a　small　Italian　child　he　had　discovered　in　Washington　Square。　Lady　Wetherby；　who　had　been　taken　to　see　the　picture；　had　suggested　'The　Black　Hand's　Newest　Recruit'　as　a　better　title　than　the　one　selected　by　the　artist。
　It　is　a　fact　to　be　noted　that　of　the　entire　household　only　Lady　Wetherby　could　fairly　be　described　as　happy。　It　took　very　little　to　make　Lady　Wetherby　happy。　Fine　weather；　good　food；　and　a　plete　abstention　from　classical　dancinggive　her　these　and　she　asked　no　more。　She　was；　moreover；　delighted　at　Claire's　engagement。　It　seemed　to　her；　for　she　had　no　knowledge　of