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The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 10Eagle's Shadow (10)

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candlestick-maker rapping at the door with their little bills: but

they cringed to money. It was very wrong of them, my dear lady, and in

extenuation I can only plead that they could no more help cringing to

money than you or I can help it.

This is very crude and very cynical, but unfortunately it is true.

We always cringe to money; which is humiliating. And the sun always

rises at an hour when sensible people are abed and have not the least

need for its services; which is foolish. And what you and I, my dear

madam, are to do about rectifying either one of these vexatious

circumstances, I am sure I don't know.

We can, at least, be honest. Let us, then, console ourselves at will

with moral observations concerning the number of pockets in a shroud

and the difficulty of a rich man's entering into the kingdom of

Heaven; but with an humble and reverent heart, let us admit that, in

the world we know, money rules. Its presence awes us. And if we are

quite candid we must concede that we very unfeignedly envy and admire

the rich; we must grant that money confers a certain distinction on a

man, be he the veriest ass that ever heehawed a platitude, and that we

cannot but treat him accordingly, you and I.

You are friendly, of course, with your poor cousins; you are delighted

to have them drop in to dinner, and liberal enough with the claret

when they do; but when the magnate comes, there is a magnum of

champagne, and an extra lamp in the drawing-room, and--I blush to

write it--a far more agreeable hostess at the head of the table. Dives

is such good company, you see. And speaking for my own sex, I defy any

honest fellow to lay his hand upon his waistcoat and swear that it

doesn't give him a distinct thrill of pleasure to be seen in public

with a millionaire. Daily we truckle in the Eagle's shadow--the shadow

that lay so heavily across Selwoode. With the Eagle himself and with

the Eagle's work in the world--the grim, implacable, ruthless work

that hourly he goes about--our little comedy has naught to do;

Schlemihl-like, we deal but in shadows. Even the shadow of the Eagle

is a terrible thing--a shadow that, as Felix Kennaston has told you,

chills faith, and charity, and independence, and kindliness, and

truth, and--alas--even common honesty.

But this is both cynical and digressive.

XXXI

Dr. Jeal, better than his word, had Billy Woods out of bed in five

days. To Billy they were very long and very dreary days, and to

Margaret very long and penitential ones. But Colonel Hugonin enjoyed

them thoroughly; for, as he feelingly and frequently observed, it is

an immense consolation to any man to reflect that his home no longer

contains "more damn' foolishness to the square inch than any other

house in the United States."

On all sides they sought for Cock-eye Flinks. But they never found

him, and to this day they have never found him. The Fates having

played their pawn, swept it from the board, and Cock-eye Flinks

disappeared in Clotho's capacious pocket.

All this time the young people saw nothing of one another. On this

point Jeal was adamantean.

"In a sick-room," he vehemently declared, "a woman is well enough, but

the

woman is the devil and all. I've told that young man plainly,

sir, that he doesn't see your daughter till he gets well--and, by

George, sir, he'll get well now just in order to see her. Nature is

the only doctor who ever cures anybody, Colonel; we humans, for

all our pill-boxes and lancets, can only prompt her--and devilish

demoralising advice we generally give her, too," he added, with a

chuckle.

"Peggy!"

This was the first observation of Mr. Woods when he came to his

senses. He swore feebly when Peggy was denied to him. He pleaded. He

scolded. He even threatened, as a last resort, to get out of bed and

go in immediate search of her; and in return, Jeal told him very

affably that it was far less difficult to manage a patient in a

straight-jacket than one out of it, and that personally nothing would

please him so much as a plausible pretext for clapping Mr. Woods into

one of 'em. Jeal had his own methods in dealing with the fractious.

Then Billy clamoured for Colonel Hugonin, and subsequently the Colonel

came in some bewilderment to his daughter's rooms.

"Billy says that will ain't to be probated," he informed her, testily.

"I'm to make sure it ain't probated till he gets well. You're to give

me your word you'll do nothing further in the matter till Billy gets

well. That's his message, and I'd like to know what the devil this

infernal nonsense means. I ain't a Fenian nor yet a Guy Fawkes,

daughter, and in consequence I'm free to confess I don't care for all

this damn mystery and shilly-shallying. But that's the message."

Miss Hugonin debated with herself. "That I will do nothing further in

the matter till Billy gets well," she repeated, reflectively. "Yes, I

suppose I'll have to promise it, but you can tell him for me that I

consider he is

horrid

, and just as obstinate and selfish as he can

possibly

be. Can you remember that, attractive?"

"Yes, thank you," said the Colonel. "I can remember it, but I ain't

going to. Nice sort of message to send a sick man, ain't it? I don't

know what's gotten into you, Margaret--no, begad, I don't! I think

you're possessed of seventeen devils. And now," the old gentleman

demanded, after an awkward pause, "are you or are you not going to

tell me what all this mystery is about?"

"I can't," Miss Hugonin protested. "It--it's a secret, attractive."

"It ain't," said the Colonel, flatly--"it's some more damn

foolishness." And he went away in a fret and using language.

XXXII

Left to herself, Miss Hugonin meditated.

Miss Hugonin was in her kimono.

And oh, Madame Chrysastheme! oh, Madame Butterfly! Oh, Mimosa San, and

Pitti Sing, and Yum Yum, and all ye vaunted beauties of Japan! if you

could have seen her in that garb! Poor little ladies of the Orient,

how hopelessly you would have wrung your henna-stained fingers! Poor

little Ichabods of the East, whose glory departed irretrievably when

she adopted this garment, I tremble to think of the heart-burnings and

palpitations and hari-karis that would have ensued.

It was pink--the pink of her cheeks to a shade. And scattered about it

were birds, and butterflies, and snaky, emaciated dragons, with backs

like saw-teeth, and prodigious fangs, and claws, and very curly tails,

such as they breed in Nankeen plates and used to breed on packages of

fire-crackers--all done in gold, the gold of her hair. Moreover, one

might catch a glimpse of her neck--which was a manifest favour of the

gods--and about it mysterious, lacy white things intermingling with

divers tiny blue ribbons. I saw her in it once--by accident.

And now I fancy, as she stood rigid with indignation, her cheeks

flushed, it must have been a heady spectacle to note how their

shell-pink repeated the pink of her fantastic garment like a chromatic

echo; and how her sunny hair, a thought loosened, a shade dishevelled,

clung heavily about her face, a golden snare for eye and heart; and

how her own eyes, enormous, cerulean--twin sapphires such as in the

old days might have ransomed a brace of emperors--grew wistful like a

child's who has been punished and does not know exactly why; and how

her petulant mouth quivered and the long black lashes, golden at the

roots, quivered, too--ah, yes, it must have been a heady spectacle.

"

Now

," she announced, "I see plainly what he intends doing. He is

going to destroy that will, and burden me once more with a large and

influential fortune. I don't want it, and I won't take it, and he

might just as well understand that in the very beginning. I don't care

if Uncle Fred did leave it to me--I didn't ask him to, did I? Besides,

he was a very foolish old man--if he had left the money to Billy

everything

would have been all right. That's always the way--my

dolls are invariably stuffed with sawdust, and I

never

have a dear

gazelle to glad me with his dappled hide, but when he comes to know me

well he falls upon the buttered side--or something to that effect. I

hate poetry, anyhow--it's so mushy!"

And this from the Miss Hugonin who a week ago was interested in the

French

decadents

and partial to folk-songs from the Romaic! I think

we may fairly deduce that the reign of Felix Kennaston is over. The

king is dead; and Margaret's thoughts and affections and her very

dreams have fallen loyally to crying, Long live the king--his Majesty

Billy the First.

"Oh!" said Margaret, with an indignant gasp, what time her eyebrows

gesticulated, "I think Billy Woods is a meddlesome

piece

!--that's

what I think! Does he suppose that after waiting all this time for the

only man in the world who can keep me interested for four hours on

a stretch and send my pulse up to a hundred and make me feel those

thrilly thrills I've always longed for--does he suppose that now

I'm going to pay any attention to his silly notions about wills and

things? He's abominably selfish! I shan't!"

Margaret moved across the room, shimmering, rustling, glittering like

a fairy in a pantomime. Then, to consider matters at greater ease, she

curled up on a divan in much the attitude of a tiny Cleopatra riding

at anchor on a carpeted Cydnus.

"Billy thinks I want the money--bless his boots! He thinks I'm a

stuck-up, grasping, purse-proud little pig, and he has every right

to think so after the way I talked to him, though he ought to have

realised I was in a temper about Kathleen Saumarez and have paid no

attention to what I said. And he actually attempted to reason with

me! If he'd had

any

consideration for my feelings, he'd have simply

smacked me and made me behave--however, he's a man, and all men are

selfish, and

she's

a skinny old thing, and I

never

had any use for

her. Bother her lectures! I never understood a word of them, and I

don't believe she does, either. Women's clubs are

all

silly, and I

think the women who belong to them are

all

bold-faced jigs! If

they had any sense, they'd stay at home and take care of the babies,

instead of messing with philanthropy, and education, and theosophy,

and anything else that they can't make head or tail of. And they call

that being cultured! Culture!--I hate the word! I don't want to be

cultured--I want to be happy."

This, you will observe, was, in effect, a sweeping recantation of

every ideal Margaret had ever boasted. But Love is a canny pedagogue,

and of late he had instructed Miss Hugonin in a variety of matters.

"Before God, loving you as I do, I wouldn't marry you for all the

wealth in the world," she repeated, with a little shiver. "Even in his

delirium he said that. But I

know

now that he loves me. And I know

that I adore him. And if this were a sensible world, I'd walk right in

there and explain things and ask him to marry me, and then it wouldn't

matter in the least who had the money. But I can't, because it

wouldn't be proper. Bother propriety!--but bothering it doesn't do

any good. As long as I have the money, Billy will never come near me,

because of the idiotic way I talked to him. And he's bent on my taking

the money simply because it happens to belong to me. I consider that

a very silly reason. I'll

make

Billy Woods take the money, and

I'll make him see that I'm

not

a little pig, and that I trust him

implicitly. And I think I'm quite justified in using a little--we'll

call it diplomacy--because otherwise he'd go back to France or some

other objectionable place, and we'd both be

very

unhappy."

Margaret began to laugh softly. "I've given him my word that I'll

do nothing further in the matter till he gets well. And I won't.

But

----"

Miss Hugonin rose from the divan with a gesture of sweeping back her

hair. And then--oh, treachery of tortoise-shell! oh, the villainy of

those little gold hair-pins!--the fat twisted coils tumbled loose

and slowly unravelled themselves, and her pink-and-white face,

half-eclipsed, showed a delectable wedge between big, odourful,

crinkly, ponderous masses of hair. It clung about her, a heavy cloak,

all shimmering gold like the path of sunset over the June sea. And

Margaret, looking at herself in the mirror, laughed, and appeared

perfectly content with what she saw there.

"But," said she, "if the Fates are kind to me--and I sometimes think

I

have

a pull with the gods--I'll make you happy, Billy Woods, in

spite of yourself."

The mirror flashed back a smile. Margaret was strangely interested in

the mirror.

"She has ringlets in her hair," sang Margaret happily--a low,

half-hushed little song. She held up a strand of it to demonstrate

this fact.

"There's a dimple in her chin"--and, indeed, there was. And a dimple

in either cheek, too.

For a long time afterward she continued to smile at the mirror. I am

afraid Kathleen Saumarez was right. She was a vain little cat, was

Margaret.

But, barring a rearrangement of the cosmic scheme, I dare say maids

will continue to delight in their own comeliness so long as mirrors

speak truth. Let us, then, leave Miss Hugonin to this innocent

diversion. The staidest of us are conscious of a brisk elation at

sight of a pretty face; and surely no considerate person will deny its

owner a portion of the pleasure that daily she accords the beggar at

the street-corner.

XXXIII

We are credibly informed that Time travels in divers paces with divers

persons--the statement being made by a lady who may be considered to

speak with some authority, having triumphantly withstood the ravages

of Chronos for a matter of three centuries. But I doubt if even the

insolent sweet wit of Rosalind could have devised a fitting simile for

Time's gait at Selwoode those five days that Billy lay abed. Margaret

could not but marvel at the flourishing proportion attained by the

hours in those sunlit spring days; and at dinner, say, her thoughts

harking back to luncheon, recalled it by a vigorous effort as an

affair of the dim yester-years--a mere blurred memory, faint and vague

as a Druidical tenet or a Merovingian squabble.

But the time passed for all that; and eventually--it was just before

dusk--she came, with Martin Jeal's permission, into the room where

Billy was. And beside the big open fireplace, where a wood fire

chattered companionably, sat a very pallid Billy, a rather thin Billy,

with a great many bandages about his head.

You may depend upon it, Margaret was not looking her worst that

afternoon. By actual count, Célestine had done her hair six times

before reaching an acceptable result.

And, "Yes, Célestine, you may get out that pale yellow dress. No,

beautiful, the one with the black satin stripes on the bodice--because

I don't want my hair cast completely in the shade, do I? Now, let me

see--black feather, gloves, large pompadour,

and

a sweet smile. No,

I don't want a fan--that's a Lydia Languish trade-mark. And

two

silk

skirts rustling like the deadest leaves imaginable. Yes, I think that

will do. And if you can't hook up my dress without pecking and pecking

at me like that, I'll probably go stark,

staring

crazy, Célestine,

and then you'll be sorry. No, it isn't a bit tight--are you perfectly

certain there's no powder behind my ears, Célestine? Now,

please

try

to fasten the collar without pulling all my hair down. Ye-es, I think

that will do, Célestine. Well, it's very nice of you to say so, but I

don't believe I much fancy myself in yellow, after all."

Equipped and armed for conquest, then, she came into the room with a

very tolerable affectation of unconcern. Altogether, it was a quite

effective entrance.

"I've been for a little drive, Billy," she mendaciously informed him.

"That's how you happen to have the opportunity of seeing me in all my

nice new store-clothes. Aren't you pleased, Billy? No, don't you dare

get up!" Margaret stood across the room, peeling off her gloves and

regarding him on the whole with disapproval. "They've been starving

you," she pensively reflected. "As soon as that Jeal person goes away,

I shall have six little beefsteaks cooked and see to it personally

that you eat every one of them. And I'll cook a cherry pie--quick as

a cat can wink her eye--won't I, Billy? That Jeal person is a decided

nuisance," said Miss Hugonin, as she stabbed her hat rather viciously

with two hat-pins and then laid it aside on a table.

Billy Woods was looking up at her forlornly. It hurt her to see the

love and sorrow in his face. But oh, how avidly his soul drank in the

modulations of that longed-for voice--a voice that was honey and gold

and velvet and all that is most sweet and rich and soft in the world.

"Peggy," said he, plunging at the heart of things, "where's that

will?"

Miss Hugonin kicked forward a little foot-stool to the other side of

the fire, and sat down and complacently smoothed out her skirts.

"I knew it!" said she. "I never saw such a one-idea'd person in my

life. I knew that would be the very first thing you would ask for,

Billy Woods, because you're such an obstinate, stiffnecked

donkey

.

Very well!"--and Margaret tossed her head--"here's Uncle Fred's will,

then, and you can do

exactly

as you like with it, and

now

I hope

you're satisfied!" And Margaret handed him the long envelope which lay

in her lap.

Mr. Woods promptly opened it.

"That," Miss Hugonin commented, "is what I term very unladylike

behaviour on your part."

"You evidently don't trust me, Billy Woods. Very well! I don't care!

Read it carefully--very carefully, and make quite sure I haven't been

dabbling in forgery of late--besides, it's so good for your eyes, you

know, after being hit over the head," Margaret suggested, cheerfully.

Billy chuckled. "That's true," said he, "but I know Uncle Fred's fist

well enough without having to read it all. Candidly, Peggy, I

had

to

look at it, because I--well, I didn't quite trust you, Peggy. And

now we're going to burn this interesting paper, you and I." "Wait!"

Margaret cried. "Ah, wait, just a moment, Billy!"

He glanced up at her in surprise, the paper still poised in his hand.

She sat with head drooped forward, her masculine little chin thrust

out eagerly, her candid eyes transparently appraising him.

"Why are you going to burn it, Billy?"

"Why?" Mr. Woods, repeated, thoughtfully. "Well, for a variety of

reasons. First is, that Uncle Fred really did leave his money to you,

and burning this is the only way of making sure you get it. Why, I

thought you wanted me to burn it! Last time I saw you--"

"I was in a temper," said Margaret, haughtily. "You ought to have seen

that."

"Yes, I--er--noticed it," Mr. Woods admitted, with some dryness; "but

it wasn't only temper. You've grown accustomed to the money. You'd

miss it now--miss the pleasure it gives you, miss the power it gives

you. You'd never be content to go back to the old life now. Why,

Peggy, you yourself told me you thought money the greatest thing in

the world! It has changed you, Peggy, this--ah, well!" said Billy, "we

won't talk about that. I'm going to burn it because that's the only

honourable thing to do. Ready, Peggy?"

"It may be honourable, but it's

extremely

silly," Margaret

temporised, "and for my part, I'm very, very glad God had run out of a

sense of honour when He created the woman."

"Phrases don't alter matters. Ready, Peggy?"

"Ah, no, phrases don't alter matters!" she assented, with a quick lift

of speech. "You're going to destroy that will, Billy Woods, simply

because you think I'm a horrid, mercenary, selfish

pig

. You think I

couldn't give up the money--you think I couldn't be happy without it.

Well, you have every right to think so, after the way I've behaved.

But why not tell me that is the real reason?"

Billy raised his hand in protest. "I--I think you might miss it," he

conceded. "Yes, I think you would miss it."

"Listen!" said Margaret, quickly. "The money is yours now--by my act.

You say you--care for me. If I am the sort of woman you think me--I

don't say I am, and I don't say I'm not--but thinking me that sort of

woman, don't you think I'd--I'd marry you for the asking if you kept

the money? Don't you think you're losing every chance of me by burning

that will? Oh, I'm not standing on conventionalities now! Don't you

think that, Billy?"

She was tempting him to the uttermost; and her heart was sick with

fear lest he might yield. This was the Eagle's last battle; and

recreant Love fought with the Eagle against poor Billy, who had only

his honour to help him.

Margaret's face was pale as she bent toward him, her lips parted a

little, her eyes glinting eerily in the firelight. The room was dark

now save in the small radius of its amber glow; beyond that was

darkness where panels and brasses blinked.

"Yes," said Billy, gravely--"forgive me if I'm wrong, dear, but--I

do think that. But you see you don't care for me, Peggy. In the

summer-house I thought for a moment--ah, well, you've shown in a

hundred ways that you don't care--and I wouldn't have you come to me,

not caring. So I'm going to burn the paper, dear."

Margaret bowed her head. Had she ever known happiness before?

"It is not very flattering to me," she said, "but it shows that

you--care--a great deal. You care enough to--let me go. Ah--yes. You

may burn it now, Billy."

And promptly he tossed it into the flames. For a moment it lay

unharmed; then the edges caught and crackled and blazed, and their

heads drew near together as they watched it burn.

There (thought Billy) is the end! Ah, ropes, daggers, and poisons!

there is the end! Oh, Peggy. Peggy, if you could only have loved me!

if only this accursed money hadn't spoiled you so utterly! Billy was

quite properly miserable over it.

But he raised his head with a smile. "And now," said he--and not

without a little, little bitterness; "if I have any right to advise

you, Peggy, I--I think I'd be more careful in the future as to how I

used the money. You've tried to do good with it, I know. But every

good cause has its parasites. Don't trust entirely to the Haggages and

Jukesburys, Peggy, and--and don't desert the good ship Philanthropy

because there are a few barnacles on it, dear."

"You make me awfully tired," Miss Hugonin observed, as she rose to her

feet. "How do you suppose I'm going to do anything for Philanthropy or

any other cause when I haven't a penny in the world? You see, you've

just burned the last will Uncle Fred ever made--the one that left

everything to me. The one in your favour was probated or proved or

whatever they call it a week ago." I think Billy was surprised.

She stood over him, sharply outlined against the darkness, clasping

her hands tightly just under her chin, ludicrously suggestive of a

pre-Raphaelitish saint. In the firelight her hair was an aureole; and

her gown, yellow with multitudinous tiny arabesques of black velvet,

echoed the glow of her hair to a shade. The dancing flames made of her

a flickering little yellow wraith. And oh, the quaint tenderness of

her eyes!--oh, the hint of faint, nameless perfume she diffused! thus

ran the meditations of Billy's dizzied brain.

"Listen! I told you I burned the other will. I started to burn it. But

I was afraid to, because I didn't know what they could do to me if I

did. So I put it away in my little handkerchief-box--and if you'd had

a

grain

of sense you'd have noticed the orris on it. And you made me

promise not to take any steps in the matter till you got well. I knew

you would. So I had already sent that second will--sent it before I

promised you--to Hunston Wyke--he's my lawyer now, you know--and I've

heard from him, and he has probated it."

Billy was making various irrelevant sounds.

"And I brought that other will to you, and if you didn't choose to

examine it more carefully I'm sure it wasn't my fault. I kept my word

like a perfect gentleman and took no step

whatever

in the matter.

I didn't say a word when before my eyes you stripped me of my entire

worldly possessions--you know I didn't. You burned it up yourself,

Billy Woods--of your own free will and accord--and now Selwoode and

all that detestable money belongs to

you

, and I'm sure I'd like to

know what you are going to do about it. So

there

!"

Margaret faced him defiantly. Billy was in a state of considerable

perturbation.

"Why have you done this?" he asked, slowly. But a lucent

something--half fear, half gladness--was wakening in Billy's eyes.

And her eyes answered him. But her tongue was far less veracious.

"Because you thought I was a

pig

! Because you couldn't make

allowances for a girl who for four years has seen nothing but money

and money-worshippers and the power of money! Because I wanted

your--your respect, Billy. And you thought I couldn't give it up! Very

well!" Miss Hugonin waved her hand airily toward the hearth. "Now I

hope you know better.

Don't you dare get up, Billy Woods

!"

But I think nothing short of brute force could have kept Mr. Woods

from her.

"Peggy," he babbled--"ah, forgive me if I'm a presumptuous ass--but

was it because you knew I couldn't ask you to marry me so long as you

had the money?"

She dallied with her bliss. Margaret was on the other side of the

table.

"Why--why, of course it wasn't!" she panted. "What nonsense!"

"Look at me, Peggy!"

"I don't want to! You look like a fright with your head all tied up."

"Peggy ... this exercise is bad for an invalid."

"I--oh, please sit down!

Please

, Billy! It is bad for you."

"Not until you tell me----"

"But I

don't

!... Oh, you make me

awfully

tired."

"Peggy, don't you dare stamp your foot at me!... Peggy!"

"

Please

sit down! Now ... well, there's my hand, stupid, if you

will

be silly. Now sit down here--so, with your head leaned back on

this nice little cushion because it's good for your poor head--and

I'll sit on this nice little footstool and be quite, quite honest. No,

you must lean back--I don't care if you can't see me, I'd much rather

you couldn't. Well, the truth is--no, you

must

lean back--the truth

is--I've loved you all my life, Billy Woods, and--no, not

yet

,

Billy--and if you hadn't been the stupidest beautiful in the universe

you'd have seen it long ago. You--you needn't--lean back--any longer,

Billy ... Oh, Billy, why

didn't

you shave?"

"She

is

skinny, isn't she, Billy?"

"Now, Peggy, you mustn't abuse Kathleen. She's a friend of mine."

"Well, I know she's a friend of yours, but that doesn't prevent her

being skinny, does it?"

"Now, Peggy--"

"Please, Billy!

Please

say she's skinny!"

"Er--well, she's a bit thin, perhaps."

"You angel!"

"And you're quite sure you've forgiven me for doubting you?"

"And you've forgiven

me

?"

"Bless you, Peggy, I never doubted you! I've been too busy loving

you."

"It seems to me as if it had been--

always

."

"Why, didn't we love one another in Carthage, Peggy?"

"I think it was in Babylon, Billy."

"And will love one another----?"

"Forever and ever, dear. You've been to seek a wife, Billy boy."

"And oh, the dimple in her chin..."

* * * * *

Ah, well! There was a deal of foolish prattle there in the

firelight--delectable prattle, irresponsible as the chattering of

birds after a storm. And I fancy that the Eagle's shadow is lifted

from Selwoode, now that Love has taken up his abode there.

THE END