The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 2Eagle's Shadow (2)
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cousin was undeniably very attentive to Margaret; and in the natural
course of events they would have made it up before the week was out
had not Frederick R. Woods selected this very moment to interfere in
the matter.
Ah,
si vieillesse savait
!
The blundering old man summoned Billy into his study and ordered him
to marry Margaret Hugonin, precisely as the Colonel might have ordered
a private to go on sentry-duty. Ten days earlier Billy would have
jumped at the chance; ten days later he would probably have suggested
it himself; but at that exact moment he would have as willingly
contemplated matrimony with Alecto or Medusa or any of the Furies.
Accordingly, he declined. Frederick R. Woods flew into a pyrotechnical
display of temper, and gave him his choice between obeying his
commands and leaving his house forever--the choice, in fact, which he
had been according Billy at very brief intervals ever since the boy
had had the measles, fifteen years before, and had refused to take the
proper medicines.
It was merely his usual manner of expressing a request or a
suggestion. But this time, to his utter horror and amaze, the boy took
him at his word and left Selwoode within the hour.
Billy's life, you see, was irrevocably blighted. It mattered very
little what became of him; personally, he didn't care in the least.
But as for that fair, false, fickle woman--perish the thought! Sooner
a thousand deaths! No, he would go to Paris and become a painter of
worldwide reputation; the money his father had left him would easily
suffice for his simple wants. And some day, the observed of all
observers in some bright hall of gaiety, he would pass her coldly by,
with a cynical smile upon his lips, and she would grow pale and totter
and fall into the arms of the bloated Silenus, for whose title she had
bartered her purely superficial charms.
Yes, upon mature deliberation, that was precisely what Billy decided
to do.
Followed dark days at Selwoode. Frederick R. Woods told Margaret of
what had occurred; and he added the information that, as his wife's
nearest relative, he intended to make her his heir.
Then Margaret did what I would scarcely have expected of Margaret.
She turned upon him like a virago and informed Frederick R. Woods
precisely what she thought of him; she acquainted him with the fact
that he was a sordid, low-minded, grasping beast, and a miser, and
a tyrant, and (I think) a parricide; she notified him that he was
thoroughly unworthy to wipe the dust off his nephew's shoes--an
office toward which, to do him justice, he had never shown any marked
aspirations--and that Billy had acted throughout in a most noble and
sensible manner; and that, personally, she wouldn't marry Billy Woods
if he were the last man on earth, for she had always despised him; and
she added the information that she expected to die shortly, and she
hoped they would both be sorry
then
; and subsequently she clapped
the climax by throwing her arms about his neck and bursting into tears
and telling him he was the dearest old man in the world and that she
was thoroughly ashamed of herself.
So they kissed and made it up. And after a little the Colonel and
Margaret went away from Selwoode, and Frederick R. Woods was left
alone to nourish his anger and indignation, if he could, and to hunger
for his boy, whether he would or not. He was too proud to seek him
out; indeed, he never thought of that; and so he waited alone in his
fine house, sick at heart, impotent, hoping against hope that the boy
would come back. The boy never came.
No, the boy never came, because he was what the old man had made
him--headstrong, and wilful, and obstinate. Billy had been thoroughly
spoiled. The old man had nurtured his pride, had applauded it as a
mark of proper spirit; and now it was this same pride that had robbed
him of the one thing he loved in all the world.
So, at last, the weak point in the armour of this sturdy old Pharisee
was found, and Fate had pierced it gaily. It was retribution, if you
will; and I think that none of his victims in "the Street," none of
the countless widows and orphans that he had made, suffered more
bitterly than he in those last days.
It was almost two years after Billy's departure from Selwoode that his
body-servant, coming to rouse Frederick R. Woods one June morning,
found him dead in his rooms. He had been ailing for some time. It
was his heart, the doctors said; and I think that it was, though not
precisely in the sense which they meant.
The man found him seated before his great carved desk, on which his
head and shoulders had fallen forward; they rested on a sheet of
legal-cap paper half-covered with a calculation in his crabbed old
hand as to the value of certain properties--the calculation which he
never finished; and underneath was a mass of miscellaneous papers,
among them his will, dated the day after Billy left Selwoode, in which
Frederick R. Woods bequeathed his millions unconditionally to Margaret
Hugonin when she should come of age.
Her twenty-first birthday had fallen in the preceding month. So
Margaret was one of the richest women in America; and you may depend
upon it, that if many men had loved her before, they worshipped her
now--or, at least, said they did, and, after all, their protestations
were the only means she had of judging. She might have been a
countess--and it must be owned that the old Colonel, who had an honest
Anglo-Saxon reverence for a title, saw this chance lost wistfully--and
she might have married any number of grammarless gentlemen, personally
unknown to her, whose fervent proposals almost every mail brought in;
and besides these, there were many others, more orthodox in their
wooing, some of whom were genuinely in love with Margaret Hugonin, and
some--I grieve to admit it--who were genuinely in love with her money;
and she would have none of them.
She refused them all with the utmost civility, as I happen to know.
How I learned it is no affair of yours.
For Miss Hugonin had remarkably keen eyes, which she used to
advantage. In the world about her they discovered very little that she
could admire. She was none the happier for her wealth; the piled-up
millions overshadowed her personality; and it was not long before she
knew that most people regarded her simply as the heiress of the Woods
fortune--an unavoidable encumbrance attached to the property, which
divers thrifty-minded gentlemen were willing to put up with. To put up
with!--at the thought, her pride rose in a hot blush, and, it must be
confessed, she sought consolation in the looking-glass.
She was an humble-minded young woman, as the sex goes, and she saw no
great reason there why a man should go mad over Margaret Hugonin. This
decision, I grant you, was preposterous, for there were any number of
reasons. Her final conclusion, however, was for the future to regard
all men as fortune-hunters and to do her hair differently.
She carried out both resolutions. When a gentleman grew pressing in
his attentions, she more than suspected his motives; and when she
eventually declined him it was done with perfect, courtesy, but the
glow of her eyes was at such times accentuated to a marked degree.
Meanwhile, the Eagle brooded undisturbed at Selwoode. Miss Hugonin
would allow nothing to be altered.
"The place doesn't belong to me, attractive," she would tell her
father. "I belong to the place. Yes, I do--I'm exactly like a little
cow thrown in with a little farm when they sell it, and
all
my
little suitors think so, and they are very willing to take me on those
terms, too. But they shan't, attractive. I hate every single solitary
man in the whole wide world but you, beautiful, and I particularly
hate that horrid old Eagle; but we'll keep him because he's a constant
reminder to me that Solomon or Moses, or whoever it was that said all
men were liars, was a person of
very
great intelligence."
So that I think we may fairly say the money did her no good.
If it benefited no one else, it was not Margaret's fault. She had a
high sense of her responsibilities, and therefore, at various times,
endeavoured to further the spread of philanthropy and literature and
theosophy and art and temperance and education and other laudable
causes. Mr. Kennaston, in his laughing manner, was wont to jest at
her varied enterprises and term her Lady Bountiful; but, then, Mr.
Kennaston had no real conception of the proper uses of money. In
fact, he never thought of money. He admitted this to Margaret with a
whimsical sigh.
Margaret grew very fond of Mr. Kennaston because he was not mercenary.
Mr. Kennaston was much at Selwoode. Many people came there
now--masculine women and muscleless men, for the most part. They had,
every one of them, some scheme for bettering the universe; and if
among them Margaret seemed somewhat out of place--a butterfly among
earnest-minded ants--her heart was in every plan they advocated, and
they found her purse-strings infinitely elastic. The girl was pitiably
anxious to be of some use in the world.
So at Selwoode they gossiped of great causes and furthered the
millenium. And above them the Eagle brooded in silence.
And Billy? All this time Billy was junketing abroad, where every
year he painted masterpieces for the Salon, which--on account of a
nefarious conspiracy among certain artists, jealous of his superior
merits--were invariably refused.
Now Billy is back again in America, and the Colonel has insisted that
he come to Selwoode, and Margaret is waiting for him in the dog-cart.
The glow of her eyes is very, very bright. Her father's careless words
this morning, coupled with certain speeches of Mr. Kennaston's last
night, have given her food for reflection.
"He wouldn't dare," says Margaret, to no one in particular. "Oh, no,
he wouldn't dare after what happened four years ago."
And, Margaret-like, she has quite forgotten that what happened four
years ago was all caused by her having flirted outrageously with Teddy
Anstruther, in order to see what Billy would do.
IV
The twelve forty-five, for a wonder, was on time; and there descended
from it a big, blond young man, who did not look in the least like a
fortune-hunter.
Miss Hugonin resented this. Manifestly, he looked clean and honest for
the deliberate purpose of deceiving her. Very well! She'd show him!
He was quite unembarrassed. He shook hands cordially; then he shook
hands with the groom, who, you may believe it, was grinning in a most
unprofessional manner because Master Billy was back again at Selwoode.
Subsequently, in his old decisive way, he announced they would walk to
the house, as his legs needed stretching.
The insolence of it!--quite as if he had something to say to Margaret
in private and couldn't wait a minute. Beyond doubt, this was a young
man who must be taken down a peg or two, and that at once. Of course,
she wasn't going to walk back with him!--a pretty figure they'd cut
strolling through the fields, like a house-girl and the milkman on a
Sunday afternoon! She would simply say she was too tired to walk, and
that would end the matter.
So she said she thought the exercise would do them both good.
They came presently with desultory chat to a meadow bravely decked in
all the gauds of Spring. About them the day was clear, the air bland.
Spring had revamped her ageless fripperies of tender leaves and
bird-cries and sweet, warm odours for the adornment of this meadow;
above it she had set a turkis sky splashed here and there with little
clouds that were like whipped cream; and upon it she had scattered
largesse, a Danaë's shower of buttercups. Altogether, she had made of
it a particularly dangerous meadow for a man and a maid to frequent.
Yet there Mr. Woods paused under a burgeoning maple--paused
resolutely, with the lures of Spring thick about him, compassed with
every snare of scent and sound and colour that the witch is mistress
of.
Margaret hoped he had a pleasant passage over. Her father, thank you,
was in the pink of condition. Oh, yes, she was quite well. She hoped
Mr. Woods would not find America--
"Well, Peggy," said Mr. Woods, "then, we'll have it out right here."
His insolence was so surprising that--in order to recover
herself--Margaret actually sat down under the maple-tree. Peggy,
indeed! Why, she hadn't been called Peggy for--no, not for four whole
years!
"Because I intend to be friends, you know," said Mr. Woods.
And about them the maple-leaves made a little island of sombre green,
around which more vivid grasses rippled and dimpled under the fitful
spring breezes. And everywhere leaves lisped to one another, and birds
shrilled insistently. It was a perilous locality.
I fancy Billy Woods was out of his head when he suggested being
friends in such a place. Friends, indeed!--you would have thought from
the airy confidence with which he spoke that Margaret had come safely
to forty year and wore steel-rimmed spectacles!
But Miss Hugonin merely cast down her eyes and was aware of no reason
why they shouldn't be. She was sure he must be hungry, and she thought
luncheon must be ready by now.
In his soul, Mr. Woods observed that her lashes were long--long beyond
all reason. Lacking the numbers that Petrarch flowed in, he did not
venture, even to himself, to characterise them further. But oh, how
queer it was they should be pure gold at the roots!--she must have
dipped them in the ink-pot. And oh, the strong, sudden, bewildering
curve of 'em! He could not recall at the present moment ever noticing
quite such lashes anywhere else. No, it was highly improbable that
there were such lashes anywhere else. Perhaps a few of the superior
angels might have such lashes. He resolved for the future to attend
church more regularly.
Aloud, Mr. Woods observed that in that case they had better shake
hands.
It would have been ridiculous to contest the point. The dignified
course was to shake hands, since he insisted on it, and then to return
at once to Selwoode.
Margaret Hugonin had a pretty hand, and Mr. Woods, as an artist, could
not well fail to admire it. Still, he needn't have looked at it as
though he had never before seen anything quite like it; he needn't
have neglected to return it; and when Miss Hugonin reclaimed it, after
a decent interval, he needn't have laughed in a manner that compelled
her to laugh, too. These things were unnecessary and annoying, as they
caused Margaret to forget that she despised him.
[Illustration: "Then, for no apparent reason, Margaret flushed, and
Billy ... thought it vastly becoming"]
For the time being--will you believe it?--she actually thought he was
rather nice.
"I acted like an ass," said Mr. Woods, tragically. "Oh, yes, I did,
you know. But if you'll forgive me for having been an ass I'll forgive
you for throwing me over for Teddy Anstruther, and at the wedding I'll
dance through any number of pairs of patent-leathers you choose to
mention."
So that was the way he looked at it. Teddy Anstruther, indeed! Why,
Teddy was a dark little man with brown eyes--just the sort of man she
most objected to. How could any one ever possibly fancy a brown-eyed
man? Then, for no apparent reason, Margaret flushed, and Billy, who
had stretched his great length of limb on the grass beside her, noted
it with a pair of the bluest eyes in the world and thought it vastly
becoming.
"Billy," said she, impulsively--and the name having slipped out once
by accident, it would have been absurd to call him anything else
afterward--"it was horrid of you to refuse to take any of that money."
"But I didn't want it," he protested. "Good Lord, I'd only have done
something foolish with it. It was awfully square of you, Peggy, to
offer to divide, but I didn't want it, you see. I don't want to be a
millionaire, and give up the rest of my life to founding libraries and
explaining to people that if they never spend any money on amusements
they'll have a great deal by the time they're too old to enjoy it. I'd
rather paint pictures."
So that I think Margaret must have endeavoured at some time to make
him accept part of Frederick R. Woods's money.
"You make me feel--and look--like a thief," she reproved him.
Then Billy laughed a little. "You don't look in the least like one,"
he reassured her. "You look like an uncommonly honest, straightforward
young woman," Mr. Woods added, handsomely, "and I don't believe you'd
purloin under the severest temptation."
She thanked him for his testimonial, with all three dimples in
evidence.
This was unsettling. He hedged.
"Except, perhaps--" said he.
"Yes?" queried Margaret, after a pause.
However, she questioned him with her head drooped forward, her brows
raised; and as this gave him the full effect of her eyes, Mr. Woods
became quite certain that there was, at least, one thing she might be
expected to rob him of, and wisely declined to mention it.
Margaret did not insist on knowing what it was. Perhaps she heard it
thumping under his waistcoat, where it was behaving very queerly.
So they sat in silence for a while. Then Margaret fell a-humming to
herself; and the air--will you believe it?--chanced by the purest
accident to be that foolish, senseless old song they used to sing
together four years ago.
Billy chuckled. "Let's!" he obscurely pleaded.
Spring prompted her.
"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy?"
queried Margaret's wonderful contralto,
"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?"
She sang it in a low, hushed voice, just over her breath. Not looking
at him, however. And oh, what a voice! thought Billy Woods. A voice
that was honey and gold and velvet and all that is most sweet and rich
and soft in the world! Find me another voice like that, you
prime
donne
! Find me a simile for it, you uninventive poets! Indeed, I'd
like to see you do it.
But he chimed in, nevertheless, with his pleasant throaty baritone,
and lilted his own part quite creditably.
"I've been to seek a wife,
She's the joy of my life;
She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother"--
Only Billy sang it "father," just as they used to do.
And then they sang it through, did Margaret and Billy--sang of the
dimple in her chin and the ringlets in her hair, and of the cherry
pies she achieved with such celerity--sang as they sat in the
spring-decked meadow every word of that inane old song that is so
utterly senseless and so utterly unforgettable.
It was a quite idiotic performance. I set it down to the snares of
Spring--to her insidious, delightful snares of scent and sound and
colour that--for the moment, at least--had trapped these young people
into loving life infinitely.
But I wonder who is responsible for that tatter of rhyme and melody
that had come to them from nowhere in particular? Mr. Woods, as he sat
up at the conclusion of the singing vigorously to applaud, would have
shared his last possession, his ultimate crust, with that unknown
benefactor of mankind. Indeed, though, the heart of Mr. Woods just now
was full of loving kindness and capable of any freakish magnanimity.
For--will it be believed?--Mr. Woods, who four years ago had thrown
over a fortune and exiled himself from his native land, rather than
propose marriage to Margaret Hugonin, had no sooner come again into
her presence and looked once into her perfectly fathomless eyes than
he could no more have left her of his own accord than a moth can turn
his back to a lighted candle. He had fancied himself entirely cured
of that boy-and-girl nonsense; his broken heart, after the first few
months, had not interfered in the least with a naturally healthy
appetite; and, behold, here was the old malady raging again in his
veins and with renewed fervour.
And all because the girl had a pretty face! I think you will agree
with me that in the conversation I have recorded Margaret had not
displayed any great wisdom or learning or tenderness or wit, nor,
in fine, any of the qualities a man might naturally look for in a
helpmate. Yet at the precise moment he handed his baggage-check to the
groom, Mr. Woods had made up his mind to marry her. In an instant he
had fallen head over ears in love; or to whittle accuracy to a point,
he had discovered that he had never fallen out of love; and if you had
offered him an empress or fetched Helen of Troy from the grave for his
delectation he would have laughed you to scorn.
In his defense, I can only plead that Margaret was an unusually
beautiful woman. It is all very well to flourish a death's-head at the
feast, and bid my lady go paint herself an inch thick, for to this
favour she must come; and it is quite true that the reddest lips in
the universe may give vent to slander and lies, and the brightest eyes
be set in the dullest head, and the most roseate of complexions be
purchased at the corner drug-store; but, say what you will, a pretty
woman is a pretty woman, and while she continue so no amount of
common-sense or experience will prevent a man, on provocation, from
alluring, coaxing, even entreating her to make a fool of him. We like
it. And I think they like it, too.
So Mr. Woods lost his heart on a fine spring morning and was
unreasonably elated over the fact.
And Margaret? Margaret was content.
V
They talked for a matter of a half-hour in the fashion aforetime
recorded--not very wise nor witty talk, if you will, but very pleasant
to make. There were many pauses. There was much laughter over nothing
in particular. There were any number of sentences ambitiously begun
that ended nowhere. Altogether, it was just the sort of talk for a man
and a maid.
Yet some twenty minutes later, Mr. Woods, preparing for luncheon in
the privacy of his chamber, gave a sudden exclamation. Then he sat
down and rumpled his hair thoroughly.
"Good Lord!" he groaned; "I'd forgotten all about that damned money!
Oh, you ass!--you abject ass! Why, she's one of the richest women in
America, and you're only a fifth-rate painter with a paltry thousand
or so a year!
You
marry her!--why, I dare say she's refused a
hundred better men than you! She'd think you were mad! Why, she'd
think you were after her money! She--oh, she'd only think you a
precious cheeky ass, she would, and she'd be quite right. You
are
an
ass, Billy Woods! You ought to be locked up in some nice quiet stable,
where your heehawing wouldn't disturb people. You need a keeper, you
do!"
He sat for some ten minutes, aghast. Afterward he rose and threw back
his shoulders and drew a deep breath.
"No, we aren't an ass," he addressed his reflection in the mirror, as
he carefully knotted his tie. "We're only a poor chuckle-headed moth
who's been looking at a star too long. It's a bright star, Billy, but
it isn't for you. So we're going to be sensible now. We're going to
get a telegram to-morrow that will call us away from Selwoode. We
aren't coming back any more, either. We're simply going to continue
painting fifth-rate pictures, and hoping that some day she'll find the
right man and be very, very happy."
Nevertheless, he decided that a blue tie would look better, and was
very particular in arranging it.
At the same moment Margaret stood before her mirror and tidied her
hair for luncheon and assured her image in the glass that she was a
weak-minded fool. She pointed out to herself the undeniable fact that
Billy, having formerly refused to marry her--oh, ignominy!--seemed
pleasant-spoken enough, now that she had become an heiress. His
refusal to accept part of her fortune was a very flimsy device; it
simply meant he hoped to get all of it. Oh, he did, did he!
Margaret powdered her nose viciously.
She
saw through him! His honest bearing she very plainly perceived
to be the result of consummate hypocrisy. In his laughter her keen ear
detected a hollow ring; and his courteous manner she found, at bottom,
mere servility. And finally she demonstrated--to her own satisfaction,
at least--that his charm of manner was of exactly the, same sort that
had been possessed by many other eminently distinguished criminals.
How did she do this? My dear sir, you had best inquire of your mother
or your sister or your wife, or any other lady that your fancy
dictates. They know. I am sure I don't.
And after it all--
"Oh, dear, dear!" said Margaret; "I
do
wish he didn't have such nice
eyes!"
VI
On the way to luncheon Mr. Woods came upon Adèle Haggage and Hugh Van
Orden, both of whom he knew, very much engrossed in one another, in a
nook under the stairway. To Billy it seemed just now quite proper that
every one should be in love; wasn't it--after all--the most pleasant
condition in the world? So he greeted them with a semi-paternal smile
that caused Adèle to flush a little.
For she was--let us say, interested--in Mr. Van Orden. That was
tolerably well known. In fact, Margaret--prompted by Mrs. Haggage,
it must be confessed--had invited him to Selwoode for the especial
purpose of entertaining Miss Adèle Haggage; for he was a good match,
and Mrs. Haggage, as an experienced chaperon, knew the value of
country houses. Very unexpectedly, however, the boy had developed a
disconcerting tendency to fall in love with Margaret, who snubbed him
promptly and unmercifully. He had accordingly fallen back on Adèle,
and Mrs. Haggage had regained both her trust in Providence and her
temper.
In the breakfast-room, where luncheon was laid out, the Colonel
greeted Mr. Woods with the enthusiasm a sailor shipwrecked on a desert
island might conceivably display toward the boat-crew come to rescue
him. The Colonel liked Billy; and furthermore, the poor Colonel's
position at Selwoode just now was not utterly unlike that of the
suppositious mariner; were I minded to venture into metaphor, I should
picture him as clinging desperately to the rock of an old fogeyism
and surrounded by weltering seas of advanced thought. Colonel Hugonin
himself was not advanced in his ideas. Also, he had forceful opinions
as to the ultimate destination of those who were.
Then Billy was presented to the men of the party--Mr. Felix Kennaston
and Mr. Petheridge Jukesbury. Mrs. Haggage he knew slightly; and
Kathleen Saumarez he had known very well indeed, some six years
previously, before she had ever heard of Miguel Saumarez, and when
Billy was still an undergraduate. She was a widow now, and not
well-to-do; and Mr. Woods's first thought on seeing her was that a man
was a fool to write verses, and that she looked like just the sort of
woman to preserve them.
His second was that he had verged on imbecility when he fancied he
admired that slender, dark-haired type. A woman's hair ought to be an
enormous coronal of sunlight; a woman ought to have very large, candid
eyes of a colour between that of sapphires and that of the spring
heavens, only infinitely more beautiful than either; and all
petticoated persons differing from this description were manifestly
quite unworthy of any serious consideration.
So his eyes turned to Margaret, who had no eyes for him. She had
forgotten his existence, with an utterness that verged on ostentation;
and if it had been any one else Billy would have surmised she was in a
temper. But that angel in a temper!--nonsense! And, oh, what eyes she
had! and what lashes! and what hair!--and altogether, how adorable she
was, and what a wonder the admiring gods hadn't snatched her up to
Olympus long ago!
Thus far Mr. Woods.
But if Miss Hugonin was somewhat taciturn, her counsellors in divers
schemes for benefiting the universe were in opulent vein. Billy heard
them silently.
"I have spent the entire morning by the lake," Mr. Kennaston informed
the party at large, "in company with a mocking-bird who was practising
a new aria. It was a wonderful place; the trees were lisping verses to
themselves, and the sky overhead was like a robin's egg in colour,
and a faint wind was making tucks and ruches and pleats all over
the water, quite as if the breezes had set up in business as
mantua-makers. I fancy they thought they were working on a great sheet