Uneasy Money · Chapter 22 (2/2)

“I will tell you what would happen to me if I didn’t send you away. Remember I heard what that girl was saying last night. Remember that you hated the thought of depriving me of Uncle Ira’s money so much that your first act was to try to get me to accept half of it. The quixotic thing is the first that it occurs to you to do, because you’re like that, because you’re the straightest, whitest man I’ve ever known or shall know. Could anything be more likely, looking at it as I should later on, than that you should have hit on the idea of marrying me as the only way of undoing the wrong you thought you had done me? I’ve been foolish about obligations all my life. I’ve a sort of morbid pride that hates the thought of owing anything to anybody, of getting anything that I have not earned. By and by, if I were to marry you, a little rotten speck of doubt would begin to eat its way farther and farther into me. It would be the same with you. We should react on each other. We should be watching each other, testing each other, trying each other out all the time. It would be horrible, horrible!”

He started to speak, then, borne down by the hopelessness of it, stopped. Elizabeth stood up. They did not look at each other. He strapped the suitcase and picked it up. The end of all things was at hand.

“Better to end it all cleanly, Bill,” she said in a low voice. “It will hurt less.”

He did not speak.

“I’ll come down to the gate with you.”

They walked in silence down the drive. The air was heavy with the torpor of late summer. The sun beat down on them, turning her hair to burnished gold. They reached the gate.

“Goodbye, Bill, dear.”

He took her hand dully.

“Goodbye,” he said.

Elizabeth stood at the gate, watching. He swung down the road with long strides. At the bend he turned and for a moment stood there, as if waiting for her to make some sign. Then he fell into his stride again and was gone. Elizabeth leaned on the gate. Her face was twisted, and she clutched the warm wood as if it gave her strength.

The grounds were very empty. The spirit of loneliness brooded on them. Elizabeth walked slowly back to the house. Nutty was coming toward her from the orchard.

“Hello!” said Nutty.

He was cheerful and debonair. His little eyes were alight with the glow of contentment. He hummed a tune.

“Where’s Dawlish?” he said.

“He has gone.”

Nutty’s tune failed in the middle of a bar. Something in his sister’s voice startled him. The glow of contentment gave way to a look of alarm.

“Gone? How do you mean⁠—gone? You don’t mean⁠—gone?”

“Yes.”

“Gone away?”

“Gone away.”

They had reached the house before he spoke again.

“You don’t mean⁠—gone away?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean⁠—gone away?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going to marry him?”

“No.”

The world stood still. The noise of the crickets and all the little sounds of summer smote on Nutty’s ear in one discordant shriek.

“Oh, gosh!” he exclaimed faintly, and collapsed on the front steps like a boned fish.