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Bill made his way along the swaying train to the smoking-car,which was almost empty. It had come upon him overwhelmingly thathe needed tobacco. He was in the mood when a man must either smokeor give up altogether the struggle with Fate. He lit his pipe, andlooked out of the window at Long Island racing past him. It wasonly a blur to him.
The conductor was asking for tickets. Bill showed his mechanically,and the conductor passed on. Then he settled down once more to histhoughts. He could not think coherently yet. His walk to the stationhad been like a walk in a dream. He was conscious of a great, dullpain that weighed on his mind, smothering it. The trees and housesstill moved past him in the same indistinguishable blur.
He became aware that the conductor was standing beside him, sayingsomething about a ticket. He produced his once more, but this didnot seem to satisfy the conductor. To get rid of the man, who wasbecoming a nuisance, he gave him his whole attention, as far asthat smothering weight would allow him to give his whole attentionto anything, and found that the man was saying strange things. Hethought that he could not have heard him correctly.
'What?' he said.
'Lady back there told me to collect her fare from you,' repeatedthe conductor. 'Said you would pay.'
Bill blinked. Either there was some mistake or trouble had turnedhis brain. He pushed himself together with a supreme effort.
'A lady said I would pay her fare?'
'Yes.'
'But--but why?' demanded Bill, feebly.
The conductor seemed unwilling to go into first causes.
'Search me!' he replied.
'Pay her fare!'
'Told me to collect it off the gentleman in the grey suit in thesmoking-car. You're the only one that's got a grey suit.'
'There's some mistake.'
'Not mine.'
'What does she look like?'
The conductor delved in his mind for adjectives.
'Small,' he said, collecting them slowly. 'Brown eyes--'
He desisted from his cataloguing at this point, for, with a loudexclamation, Bill had dashed away.
Two cars farther back he had dropped into the seat by Elizabethand was gurgling wordlessly. A massive lady, who had entered thetrain at East Moriches in company with three children and a cat ina basket, eyed him with a curiosity that she made no attempt toconceal. Two girls in a neighbouring seat leaned forward eagerlyto hear all. This was because one of them had told the other thatElizabeth was Mary Pickford. Her companion was sceptical, butnevertheless obviously impressed.
'My God!' said Bill.
The massive lady told the three children sharply to look at theirpicture-book.
'Well, I'm hanged!'
The mother of three said that if her offspring did not go rightalong to the end of the car and look at the pretty trees troublemust infallibly ensue.
'Elizabeth!' At the sound of the name the two girls leaned back,taking no further interest in the proceedings.
'What are you doing here?'
Elizabeth smiled, a shaky but encouraging smile.
'I came after you, Bill.'
'You've got no hat!'
'I was in too much of a hurry to get one, and I gave all my moneyto the man who drove the car. That's why I had to ask you to paymy fare. You see, I'm not too proud to use your money after all.'
'Then--'
'Tickets please. One seventy-nine.'
It was the indefatigable conductor, sensible of his duty to thecompany and resolved that nothing should stand in the way of itsperformance. Bill gave him five dollars and told him to keep thechange. The conductor saw eye to eye with him in this.
'Bill! You gave him--' She gave a little shrug of her shoulders.'Well, it's lucky you're going to marry a rich girl.'
A look of the utmost determination overspread Bill's face.
'I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going to marry you.Now that I've got you again I'm not going to let you go. You canuse all the arguments you like, but it won't matter. I was a foolever to listen. If you try the same sort of thing again I'm justgoing to pick you up and carry you off. I've been thinking it oversince I left you. My mind has been working absolutely clearly.I've gone into the whole thing. It's perfect rot to take theattitude you did. We know we love each other, and I'm not going tolisten to any talk about time making us doubt it. Time will onlymake us love each other all the more.'
'Why, Bill, this is eloquence.'
'I feel eloquent.'
The stout lady ceased to listen. They had lowered their voices andshe was hard of hearing. She consoled herself by taking up hercopy of Gingery Stories and burying herself in the hecticadventures of a young millionaire and an artist's model.
Elizabeth caught a fleeting glimpse of the cover.
'I bet there's a story in there of a man named Harold who was tooproud to marry a girl, though he loved her, because she was richand he wasn't. You wouldn't be so silly as that, Bill, would you?'
'It's the other way about with me.'
'No, it's not. Bill, do you know a man named Nichols?'
'Nichols?'
'J. Nichols. He said he knew you. He said he had told you aboutUncle Ira leaving you his money.'
'Jerry Nichols! How on earth--Oh, I remember. He wrote to you,didn't he?'
'He did. And this morning, just after you had left, he called.'
'Jerry Nichols called?'
'To tell me that Uncle Ira had made another will before he died,leaving the money to me.'
Their eyes met.
'So I stole his car and caught the train,' said Elizabeth, simply.
Bill was recovering slowly from the news.
'But--this makes rather a difference, you know,' he said.
'In what way?'
'Well, what I mean to say is, you've got five million dollars andI've got two thousand a year, don't you know, and so--'
Elizabeth tapped him on the knee.
'Bill, do you see what this is in my hand?'
'Eh? What?'
'It's a pin. And I'm going to dig it right into you wherever Ithink it will hurt most, unless you stop being Harold at once.I'll tell you exactly what you've got to do, and you needn't thinkyou're going to do anything else. When we get to New York, I firstborrow the money from you to buy a hat, and then we walk to theCity Hall, where you go to the window marked "Marriage Licences",and buy one. It will cost you one dollar. You will give yourcorrect name and age and you will hear mine. It will come as ashock to you to know that my second name is something awful! I'vekept it concealed all my life. After we've done that we shall goto the only church that anybody could possibly be married in. It'son Twenty-ninth Street, just round the corner from Fifth Avenue.It's got a fountain playing in front of it, and it's a little bitof heaven dumped right down in the middle of New York. And afterthat--well, we might start looking about for that farm we'vetalked of. We can get a good farm for five million dollars, andleave something over to be doled out--cautiously--to Nutty.
'And then all we have to do is to live happily ever after.'
Something small and soft slipped itself into his hand, just as ithad done ages and ages ago in Lady Wetherby's wood.
It stimulated Bill's conscience to one last remonstrance.
'But, I say, you know--'
'Well?'
'This business of the money, you know. What I mean to say is--Ow!'
He broke off, as a sharp pain manifested itself in the fleshy partof his leg. Elizabeth was looking at him reprovingly, her weaponpoised for another onslaught.
'I told you!' she said.
'All right, I won't do it again.'
'That's a good child. Bill, listen. Come closer and tell me allsorts of nice things about myself till we get to Jamaica, and thenI'll tell you what I think of you. We've just passed Islip, soyou've plenty of time.'
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Uneasy Money Page 25
