Uneasy Money by P. G. Wodehouse (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

snakily as he could. Nature had shaped him more for stability than for snakiness, but he did his best. He tingled with the excitement of the chase, and endeavored to creep through the undergrowth like one of those intelligent Indians of whom he had read so many years before in the pages of Mr. Fenimore Cooper. In those days Dudley Pickering had not thought very highly of Fenimore Cooper, holding his work deficient in serious and scientific interest; but now it seemed to him that there had been something in the man after all, and he resolved to get some of his books and go over them again. He wished he had read them more carefully at the time, for they doubtless contained much information and many hints which would have come in handy just now. He seemed, for example, to recall characters in them who had the knack of going through forests without letting a single twig crack beneath their feet. Probably the author had told you how this was done. In his unenlightened state it was beyond Mr. Pickering. The wood seemed carpeted with twigs. Whenever he stepped he trod on one and whenever he trod on one it cracked beneath his feet. There were moments when he felt gloomily that he might just as well be firing a machine gun.

Bill, meanwhile, Elizabeth following close behind him, was plowing his way onward. From time to time he would turn to administer some encouraging remark, for it had come home to him by now that encouraging remarks were what she needed very much in the present crisis of her affairs. She was showing him a new and hitherto unsuspected side of her character. The Elizabeth whom he had known⁠—the valiant, self-reliant Elizabeth⁠—had gone, leaving in her stead someone softer, more appealing, more approachable. It was this that was filling him with strange emotions as he led the way to their destination.

He was becoming more and more conscious of a sense of being drawn very near to Elizabeth, of a desire to soothe, comfort and protect her. It was as if tonight he had discovered the missing key to a puzzle or the missing element in some chemical combination. Like most big men, his mind was essentially a protective mind; weakness drew out the best that was in him. And it was only tonight that Elizabeth had given any sign of having any weakness in her composition. That clear vision which had come to him on his long walk came again now, that vivid conviction that she was the only girl in the world for him.

He was debating within himself the advisability of trying to find words to express this sentiment, when Mr. Pickering, the modern Chingachgook, trod on another twig in the background and Elizabeth stopped abruptly with a little cry.

“What was that?” she demanded breathlessly.

Bill had heard a noise too. It was impossible to be within a dozen yards of Mr. Pickering, when on the trail, and not hear a noise. The suspicion that someone was following them did not come to him, for he was a man rather of common sense than of imagination, and common sense was asking him bluntly why the deuce anybody should want to tramp after them through a wood at that time of night. He caught the note of panic in Elizabeth’s voice, and was soothing her.

“It was just a branch breaking. You hear all sorts of rum noises in a wood.”

“I believe it’s the man with the pistol following us!”

“Nonsense. Why should he? Silly thing to do!”

He spoke almost severely.

“Look!” cried Elizabeth.

“What?”

“I saw someone dodge behind that tree.”

“You mustn’t let yourself imagine things. Buck up!”

“I can’t buck up. I’m scared.”

“Pull yourself together.”

“I can’t.”

“Which tree did you think you saw someone dodge behind?”

“That big one there.”

“Well, listen. I’ll go back and⁠—”

“If you leave me for an instant I shall die in agonies.” She gulped. “I never knew I was such an awful coward before. I’m just a worm.”

“Nonsense. This sort of thing might frighten anyone. I read a story once⁠—”

“Don’t!”

Bill found that his heart had suddenly begun to beat with unaccustomed rapidity. The desire to soothe, comfort and protect Elizabeth became the immediate ambition of his life. It was very dark where they stood. The moonlight which fell in little patches round them did not penetrate the thicket which they had entered. He could hardly see her. He was merely aware of her as a presence, an appealing and feminine presence.

An excellent idea occurred to him.

“Hold my hand,” he said.

It was what he would have said to a frightened child, and there was much of the frightened child about Elizabeth then. The Eustace mystery had given her a shock which subsequent events had done nothing to dispel, and she had lost that jauntiness and self-confidence which was her natural armor 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 treetops 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 happened, something 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. The fellow seemed to be babbling.

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 favorite of his. Until that moment childish