The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 4Eagle's Shadow (4)
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of Antony it was not until she had previously lived a great while with
Cæsar.
So Felix Kennaston had his hour. Now Margaret has gone into Selwoode,
flame-faced and quite unconscious that she is humming under her breath
the words of a certain inane old song:
"Oh, she sat for me a chair;
She has ringlets in her hair;
She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother"--
Only she sang it "father." And afterward, she suddenly frowned and
stamped her foot, did Margaret.
"I
hate
him!" said she; but she looked very guilty.
X
In the living-hall of Selwoode Miss Hugonin paused. Undeniably there
were the accounts of the Ladies' League for the Edification of the
Impecunious to be put in order; her monthly report as treasurer
was due in a few days, and Margaret was in such matters a careful,
painstaking body, and not wholly dependent upon her secretary; but she
was entirely too much out of temper to attend to that now.
It was really all Mr. Kennaston's fault, she assured a pricking
conscience, as she went out on the terrace before Selwoode. He had
bothered her dreadfully.
There she found Petheridge Jukesbury smoking placidly in the
effulgence of the moonlight; and the rotund, pasty countenance he
turned toward her was ludicrously like the moon's counterfeit in muddy
water. I am sorry to admit it, but Mr. Jukesbury had dined somewhat
injudiciously. You are not to stretch the phrase; he was merely
prepared to accord the universe his approval, to pat Destiny upon
the head, and his thoughts ran clear enough, but with Aprilian
counter-changes of the jovial and the lachrymose.
"Ah, Miss Hugonin," he greeted her, with a genial smile, "I am indeed
fortunate. You find me deep in meditation, and also, I am sorry to
say, in the practise of a most pernicious habit. You do not object?
Ah, that is so like you. You are always kind, Miss Hugonin. Your
kindness, which falls, if I may so express myself, as the gentle rain
from Heaven upon all deserving charitable institutions, and daily
comforts the destitute with good advice and consoles the sorrowing
with blankets, would now induce you to tolerate an odour which I am
sure is personally distasteful to you."
"But
really
I don't mind," was Margaret's protest.
"I cannot permit it," Mr. Jukesbury insisted, and waved a pudgy hand
in the moonlight. "No, really, I cannot permit it. We will throw
it away, if you please, and say no more about it," and his glance
followed the glowing flight of his cigar-end somewhat wistfully. "Your
father's cigars are such as it is seldom my privilege to encounter;
but, then, my personal habits are not luxurious, nor my private
income precisely what my childish imaginings had pictured it at this
comparatively advanced period of life. Ah, youth, youth!--as the poet
admirably says, Miss Hugonin, the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts, but its visions of existence are rose-tinged and free from
care, and its conception of the responsibilities of manhood--such
as taxes and the water-rate--I may safely characterise as extremely
sketchy. But pray be seated, Miss Hugonin," Petheridge Jukesbury
blandly urged.
Common courtesy forced her to comply. So Margaret seated herself on
a little red rustic bench. In the moonlight--but I think I have
mentioned how Margaret looked in the moonlight; and above her golden
head the Eagle, sculptured over the door-way, stretched his wings to
the uttermost, half-protectingly, half-threateningly, and seemed to
view Mr. Jukesbury with a certain air of expectation.
"A beautiful evening," Petheridge Jukesbury suggested, after a little
cogitation.
She conceded that this was undeniable.
"Where Nature smiles, and only the conduct of man is vile and
altogether what it ought not to be," he continued, with unction--"ah,
how true that is and how consoling! It is a good thing to meditate
upon our own vileness, Miss Hugonin--to reflect that we are but worms
with naturally the most vicious inclinations. It is most salutary.
Even I am but a worm, Miss Hugonin, though the press has been pleased
to speak most kindly of me. Even you--ah, no!" cried Mr. Jukesbury,
kissing his finger-tips, with gallantry; "let us say a worm who has
burst its cocoon and become a butterfly--a butterfly with a charming
face and a most charitable disposition and considerable property!"
Margaret thanked him with a smile, and began to think wistfully of the
Ladies' League accounts. Still, he was a good man; and she endeavoured
to persuade herself that she considered his goodness to atone for his
flabbiness and his fleshiness and his interminable verbosity--which
she didn't.
Mr. Jukesbury sighed.
"A naughty world," said he, with pathos--"a very naughty world, which
really does not deserve the honour of including you in its census
reports. Yet I dare say it has the effrontery to put you down in the
tax-lists; it even puts me down--me, an humble worker in the vineyard,
with both hands set to the plough. And if I don't pay up it sells
me out. A very naughty world, indeed! I dare say," Mr. Jukesbury
observed, raising his eyes--not toward heaven, but toward the Eagle,
"that its conduct, as the poet says, creates considerable distress
among the angels. I don't know. I am not acquainted with many angels.
My wife was an angel, but she is now a lifeless form. She has been for
five years. I erected a tomb to her at considerable personal expense,
but I don't begrudge it--no, I don't begrudge it, Miss Hugonin. She
was very hard to live with. But she was an angel, and angels are rare.
Miss Hugonin," said Petheridge Jukesbury, with emphasis, "
you
are an
angel."
"Oh, dear,
dear
!" said Margaret, to herself; "I do wish I'd gone to
bed directly after dinner!"
Above them the Eagle brooded.
"Surely," he breathed, "you must know what I have so long wanted to
tell you--"
"No," said Margaret, "and I don't want to know, please. You make me
awfully tired, and I don't care for you in the
least
. Now, you let
go my hand--let go at once!"
He detained her. "You are an angel," he insisted--"an angel with a
large property. I love you, Margaret! Be mine!--be my blushing bride,
I entreat you! Your property is far too large for an angel to look
after. You need a man of affairs. I am a man of affairs. I am
forty-five, and have no bad habits. My press-notices are, as a rule,
favourable, my eloquence is accounted considerable, and my dearest
aspiration is that you will comfort my declining years. I might add
that I adore you, but I think I mentioned that before. Margaret, will
you be my blushing bride?"
"No!" said Miss Hugonin emphatically. "No, you tipsy old beast--no!"
There was a rustle of skirts. The door slammed, and the philanthropist
was left alone on the terrace.
XI
In the living-hall Margaret came upon Hugh Van Orden, who was
searching in one of the alcoves for a piece of music that Adèle
Haggage wanted and had misplaced.
The boy greeted her miserably.
"Miss Hugonin," he lamented, "you're awfully hard on me."
"I am sorry," said Margaret, "that you consider me discourteous to a
guest in my own house." Oh, I grant you Margaret was in a temper now.
"It isn't that," he protested; "but I never see you alone. And I've
had something to tell you."
"Yes?" said she, coldly.
He drew near to her. "Surely," he breathed, "you must know what I have
long wanted to tell you--"
"Yes, I should think I
did
!" said Margaret, "and if you dare tell
me a word of it I'll never speak to you again. It's getting a little
monotonous. Good-night, Mr. Van Orden."
Half way up the stairs she paused and ran lightly back.
"Oh, Hugh, Hugh!" she said, contritely, "I was unpardonably rude. I'm
sorry, dear, but it's quite impossible. You are a dear, cute little
boy, and I love you--but not that way. So let's shake hands, Hugh, and
be friends! And then you can go and play with Adèle." He raised her
hand to his lips. He really was a nice boy.
"But, oh, dear!" said Margaret, when he had gone; "what horrid
creatures men are, and what a temper I'm in, and what a vexatious
place the world is! I wish I were a pauper! I wish I had never been
born! And I wish--and I wish I had those League papers fixed! I'll
do it to-night! I'm sure I need something tranquillising, like
assessments and decimal places and unpaid dues, to keep me from
screaming
. I hate them all--all three of them--as badly as I do
him!
"
Thereupon she blushed, for no apparent reason, and went to her own
rooms in a frame of mind that was inexcusable, but very becoming. Her
cheeks burned, her eyes flashed with a brighter glow that was gem-like
and a little cruel, and her chin tilted up defiantly. Margaret had a
resolute chin, a masculine chin. I fancy that it was only at the last
moment that Nature found it a thought too boyish and modified it with
a dimple--a very creditable dimple, by the way, that she must have
been really proud of. That ridiculous little dint saved it, feminised
it.
Altogether, then, she swept down upon the papers of the Ladies' League
for the Edification of the Impecunious with very much the look of a
diminutive Valkyrie--a Valkyrie of unusual personal attractions, you
understand--
en route
for the battle-field and a little, a very
little eager and expectant of the strife.
Subsequently, "Oh, dear,
dear
!" said she, amid a feverish rustling
of papers; "the whole world is out of sorts to-night! I never
did
know how much seven times eight is, and I hate everybody, and I've
left that list of unpaid dues in Uncle Fred's room, and I've got to go
after it, and I don't want to! Bother those little suitors of mine!"
Miss Hugonin rose, and went out from her own rooms, carrying a bunch
of keys, across the hallway to the room in which Frederick R. Woods
had died. It was his study, you may remember. It had been little
used since his death, but Margaret kept her less important papers
there--the overflow, the flotsam of her vast philanthropic and
educational correspondence.
And there she found Billy Woods.
XII
His back was turned to the door as she entered. He was staring at a
picture beside the mantel--a portrait of Frederick R. Woods--and his
eyes when he wheeled about were wistful.
Then, on a sudden, they lighted up as if they had caught fire from
hers, and his adoration flaunted crimson banners in his cheeks, and
his heart, I dare say, was a great blaze of happiness. He loved her,
you see; when she entered a room it really made a difference to this
absurd young man. He saw a great many lights, for instance, and heard
music. And accordingly, he laughed now in a very contented fashion.
"I wasn't burglarising," said he--"that is, not exactly. I ought to
have asked your permission, I suppose, before coming here, but I
couldn't find you, and--and it was rather important. You see," Mr.
Woods continued, pointing to the great carved desk. "I happened to
speak of this desk to the Colonel to-night. We--we were talking of
Uncle Fred's death, and I found out, quite by accident, that it hadn't
been searched since then--that is, not thoroughly. There are secret
drawers, you see; one here," and he touched the spring that threw
it open, "and the other on this side. There is--there is nothing of
importance in them; only receipted bills and such. The other drawer is
inside that centre compartment, which is locked. The Colonel wouldn't
come. He said it was all foolishness, and that he had a book he wanted
to read. So he sent me after what he called my mare's nest. It isn't,
you see--no, not quite, not quite," Mr. Woods murmured, with an odd
smile, and then laughed and added, lamely: "I--I suppose I'm the only
person who knew about it."
Mr. Woods's manner was a thought strange. He stammered a little in
speaking; he laughed unnecessarily; and Margaret could see that his
hands trembled. Taking him all in all, you would have sworn he was
repressing some vital emotion. But he did not seem unhappy--no, not
exactly unhappy. He was with Margaret, you see.
"Oh, you beauty!" his meditations ran.
He had some excuse. In the soft, rosy twilight of the room--the study
at Selwoode is panelled in very dark oak, and the doors and windows
are screened with crimson hangings--her parti-coloured red-and-yellow
gown might have been a scrap of afterglow left over from an unusually
fine sunset. In a word, Miss Hugonin was a very quaint and colourful
and delectable figure as she came a little further into the room. Her
eyes shone like blue stars, and her hair shone--there must be pounds
of it, Billy thought--and her very shoulders, plump, flawless,
ineffable, shone with the glow of an errant cloud-tatter that is just
past the track of dawn, and is therefore neither pink nor white, but
manages somehow to combine the best points of both colours.
"Ah, indeed?" said Miss Hugonin. Her tone imparted a surprising degree
of chilliness to this simple remark.
"No," she went on, very formally, "this is not a private room; you owe
me no apology for being here. Indeed, I am rather obliged to you, Mr.
Woods, for none of us knew of these secret drawers. Here is the key to
the central compartment, if you will be kind enough to point out the
other one. Dear, dear!" Margaret concluded, languidly, "all this is
quite like a third-rate melodrama. I haven't the least doubt you will
discover a will in there in your favour, and be reinstated as the
long-lost heir and all that sort of thing. How tiresome that will be
for me, though."
She was in a mood to be cruel to-night. She held out the keys to
him, in a disinterested fashion, and dropped them daintily into his
outstretched palm, just as she might have given a coin to an unusually
grimy mendicant. But the tips of her fingers grazed his hand.
That did the mischief. Her least touch was enough to set every nerve
in his body a-tingle. "Peggy!" he said hoarsely, as the keys jangled
to the floor. Then Mr. Woods drew a little nearer to her and said
"Peggy, Peggy!" in a voice that trembled curiously, and appeared to
have no intention of saying anything further.
Indeed, words would have seemed mere tautology to any one who could
have seen his eyes. Margaret looked into them for a minute, and her
own eyes fell before their blaze, and her heart--very foolishly--stood
still for a breathing-space. Subsequently she recalled the fact
that he was a fortune-hunter, and that she despised him, and also
observed--to her surprise and indignation--that he was holding her
hand and had apparently been doing so for some time. You may believe
it, that she withdrew that pink-and-white trifle angrily enough.
"Pray don't be absurd, Mr. Woods," said she.
Billy caught up the word. "Absurd!" he echoed--"yes, that describes
what I've been pretty well, doesn't it, Peggy? I
was
absurd when I
let you send me to the right-about four years ago. I realised that
to-day the moment I saw you. I should have held on like the very
grimmest death; I should have bullied you into marrying me, if
necessary, and in spite of fifty Anstruthers. Oh, yes, I know that
now. But I was only a boy then, Peggy, and so I let a boy's pride come
between us. I know now there isn't any question of pride where you
are concerned--not any question of pride nor of any silly
misunderstandings, nor of any uncle's wishes, nor of anything but just
you, Peggy. It's just you that I care for now--just you."
"Ah!" Margaret cried, with a swift intake of the breath that was
almost a sob. He had dared, after all; oh, it was shameless, sordid!
And yet (she thought dimly), how dear that little quiver in his voice
had been were it unplanned!--and how she could have loved this big,
eager boy were he not the hypocrite she knew him!
She'd
show him! But somehow--though it was manifestly what he
deserved--she found she couldn't look him in the face while she did
it.
So she dropped her eyes to the floor and waited for a moment of tense
silence. Then, "Am I to consider this a proposal, Mr. Woods?" she
asked, in muffled tones.
Billy stared. "Yes," said he, very gravely, after an interval.
"You see," she explained, still in the same dull voice, "you phrased
it so vaguely I couldn't well be certain. You don't propose very well,
Mr. Woods. I--I've had opportunities to become an authority on such
matters, you see, since I've been rich. That makes a difference,
doesn't it? A great many men are willing to marry me now who wouldn't
have thought of such a thing, say--say, four years ago. So I've had
some experience. Oh, yes, three--three
persons
have offered to marry
me for my money earlier in this very evening--before you did, Mr.
Woods. And, really, I can't compliment you on your methods, Mr. Woods;
they are a little vague, a little abrupt, a little transparent, don't
you think?"
"Peggy!" he cried, in a frightened whisper. He could not believe, you
see, that it was the woman he loved who was speaking.
And for my part, I admit frankly that at this very point, if ever in
her life, Margaret deserved a thorough shaking.
"Dear me," she airily observed, "I'm sure I've said nothing out of the
way. I think it speaks very well for you that you're so fond of your
old home--so anxious to regain it at
any
cost. It's quite touching,
Mr. Woods."
She raised her eyes toward his. I dare say she was suffering as much
as he. But women consider it a point of honour to smile when they
stab; Margaret smiled with an innocence that would have seemed
overdone in an angel.
Then, in an instant, she had the grace to be abjectly ashamed of
herself. Billy's face had gone white. His mouth was set, mask-like,
and his breathing was a little perfunctory. It stung her, though, that
he was not angry. He was sorry.
"I--I see," he said, very carefully. "You think I--want the money.
Yes--I see."
"And why not?" she queried, pleasantly. "Dear me, money's a very
sensible thing to want, I'm sure. It makes a great difference, you
know."
He looked down into her face for a moment. One might have sworn this
detected fortune-hunter pitied her.
"Yes," he assented, slowly, "it makes a difference--not a difference
for the better, I'm afraid, Peggy."
Ensued a silence.
Then Margaret tossed her head. She was fast losing her composure.
She would have given the world to retract what she had said, and
accordingly she resolved to brazen it out.
"You needn't look at me as if I were a convicted criminal," she said,
sharply. "I won't marry you, and there's an end of it."
"It isn't that I'm thinking of," said Mr. Woods, with a grave smile.
"You see, it takes me a little time to realise your honest opinion
of me. I believe I understand now. You think me a very hopeless
cad--that's about your real opinion, isn't it, Peggy? I didn't know
that, you see. I thought you knew me better than that. You did once,
Peggy--once, a long time ago, and--and I hoped you hadn't quite
forgotten that time."
The allusion was ill chosen.
"Oh, oh,
oh
!" she cried, gasping. "
You
to remind me of that
time!--you of all men. Haven't you a vestige of shame? Haven't you
a rag of honour left? Oh, I didn't know there were such men in the
world! And to think--to think--" Margaret's glorious voice broke, and
she wrung her hands helplessly.
Then, after a little, she raised her eyes to his, and spoke without
a trace of emotion. "To think," she said, and her voice was toneless
now, "to think that I loved you! It's that that hurts, you know. For I
loved you very dearly, Billy Woods--yes, I think I loved you quite as
much as any woman can ever love a man. You were the first, you see,
and girls--girls are very foolish about such things. I thought you
were brave, and strong, and clean, and honest, and beautiful, and
dear--oh, quite the best and dearest man in the world, I thought you,
Billy Woods! That--that was queer, wasn't it?" she asked, with a
listless little shiver. "Yes, it was very queer. You didn't think of
me in quite that way, did you? No, you--you thought I was well enough
to amuse you for a while. I was well enough for a summer flirtation,
wasn't I, Billy? But marriage--ah, no, you never thought of marriage
then. You ran away when Uncle Fred suggested that. You refused
point-blank--refused in this very room--didn't you, Billy? Ah,
that--that hurt," Margaret ended, with a faint smile. "Yes, it--hurt."
Billy Woods raised a protesting hand, as though to speak, but
afterward he drew a deep, tremulous breath and bit his lip and was
silent.
She had spoken very quietly, very simply, very like a tired child;
now her voice lifted. "But you've hurt me more to-night," she said,
equably--"to-night, when you've come cringing back to me--to me, whom
you'd have none of when I was poor. I'm rich now, though. That makes
a difference, doesn't it, Billy? You're willing to whistle back the
girl's love you flung away once--yes, quite willing. But can't you
understand how much it must hurt me to think I ever loved you?"
Margaret asked, very gently.
She wanted him to understand. She wanted him to be ashamed. She prayed
God that he might be just a little, little bit ashamed, so that she
might be able to forgive him.
But he stood silent, bending puzzled brows toward her.
"Can't you understand, Billy?" she pleaded, softly. "I can't help
seeing what a cur you are. I must hate you, Billy--of course, I must,"
she insisted, very gently, as though arguing the matter with herself;
then suddenly she sobbed and wrung her hands in anguish. "Oh, I can't,
I can't!" she wailed. "God help me, I can't hate you, even though I
know you for what you are!"
His arms lifted a little; and in a flash Margaret knew that what she
most wanted in all the world was to have them close about her, and
then to lay her head upon his shoulder and cry contentedly.
Oh, she did want to forgive him! If he had lost all sense of shame,
why could he not lie to her? Surely, he could at least lie? And,
oh, how gladly she would believe!--only the tiniest, the flimsiest
fiction, her eyes craved of him.
But he merely said "I see--I see," very slowly, and then smiled.
"We'll put the money aside just now," he said. "Perhaps, after a
little, we--we'll came back to that. I think you've forgotten, though,
that when--when Uncle Fred and I had our difference you had just
thrown me over--had just ordered me never to speak to you again?
I couldn't very well ask you to marry me, could I, under those
circumstances?"
"I spoke in a moment of irritation," a very dignified Margaret pointed
out; "you would have paid no attention whatever to it if you had
really--cared."
Billy laughed, rather sadly. "Oh, I cared right enough," he said. "I
still care. The question is--do you?"
"No," said Margaret, with decision, "I don't--not in the
least
."
"Peggy," Mr. Woods commanded, "look at me!"
"You have had your answer, I think," Miss Hugonin indifferently
observed.
Billy caught her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "Peggy,
do you--care?" he asked, softly.
And Margaret looked into his honest-seeming eyes and, in a panic, knew
that her traitor lips were forming "yes."
"That would be rather unfortunate, wouldn't it?" she asked, with a
smile. "You see, it was only an hour ago I promised to marry Mr.
Kennaston."
"Kennaston!" Billy gasped. "You--you don't mean that you care for
him
, Peggy?"
"I really can't see why it should concern you," said Margaret,
sweetly, "but since you ask--I do. You couldn't expect me to remain
inconsolable forever, you know."
Then the room blurred before her eyes. She stood rigid, defiant.
She was dimly aware that Billy was speaking, speaking from a great
distance, it seemed, and then after a century or two his face came
back to her out of the whirl of things. And, though she did not know
it, they were smiling bravely at one another.
"--and so," Mr. Woods was stating, "I've been an even greater ass than
usual, and I hope you'll be very, very happy."
[Illustration: "Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growing
in his countenance."]
"Thank you," she returned, mechanically, "I--I hope so."
After an interval, "Good-night, Peggy," said Mr. Woods.
"Oh--? Good-night," said she, with a start.
He turned to go. Then, "By Jove!" said he, grimly, "I've been so busy
making an ass of myself I'd forgotten all about more--more important
things."
Mr. Woods picked up the keys and, going to the desk, unlocked the
centre compartment with a jerk. Afterward he gave a sharp exclamation.
He had found a paper in the secret drawer at the back which appeared
to startle him.
Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growing in his
countenance. Then for a moment Margaret's golden head drew close to
his yellow curls and they read it through together. And in the most
melodramatic and improbable fashion in the world they found it to be
the last will and testament of Frederick R. Woods.
"But--but I don't understand," was Miss Hugonin's awed comment. "It's
exactly like the other will, only--why, it's dated the seventeenth
of June, the day before he died! And it's witnessed by Hodges and
Burton--the butler and the first footman, you know--and they've never
said anything about such a paper. And, then, why should he have made
another will just like the first?"
Billy pondered.
By and bye, "I think I can explain that," he said, in a rather
peculiar voice. "You see, Hodges and Burton witnessed all his papers,
half the time without knowing what they were about. They would hardly
have thought of this particular one after his death. And it isn't
quite the same will as the other; it leaves you practically
everything, but it doesn't appoint any trustees, as the other did,
because this will was drawn up after you were of age. Moreover, it
contains these four bequests to colleges, to establish a Woods chair
of ethnology, which the other will didn't provide for. Of course, it
would have been simpler merely to add a codicil to the first will,
but Uncle Fred was always very methodical. I--I think he was probably
going through the desk the night he died, destroying various papers.
He must have taken the other will out to destroy it just--just before
he died. Perhaps--perhaps--" Billy paused for a little and then
laughed, unmirthfully. "It scarcely matters," said he. "Here is the
will. It is undoubtedly genuine and undoubtedly the last he made.
You'll have to have it probated, Peggy, and settle with the colleges.
It--it won't make much of a hole in the Woods millions."
There was a half-humorous bitterness in his voice that Margaret noted
silently. So (she thought) he had hoped for a moment that at the last
Frederick R. Woods had relented toward him. It grieved her, in a dull
fashion, to see him so mercenary. It grieved her--though she would
have denied it emphatically--to see him so disappointed. Since he
wanted the money so much, she would have liked for him to have had it,
worthless as he was, for the sake of the boy he had been.
"Thank you," she said, coldly, as she took the paper; "I will give it
to my father. He will do what is necessary. Good-night, Mr. Woods."
Then she locked up the desk in a businesslike fashion and turned to
him, and held out her hand.
"Good-night, Billy," said this perfectly inconsistent young woman.
"For a moment I thought Uncle Fred had altered his will in your
favour. I almost wish he had."
Billy smiled a little.
"That would never have done," he said, gravely, as he shook
hands; "you forget what a sordid, and heartless, and generally
good-for-nothing chap I am, Peggy. It's much better as it is."
Only the tiniest, the flimsiest fiction, her eyes craved of him. Even
now, at the eleventh hour, lie to me, Billy Woods, and, oh, how gladly
I will believe!
But he merely said "Good-night, Peggy," and went out of the room. His