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The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 5Eagle's Shadow (5)

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broad shoulders had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.

Margaret was glad. Of course, she was glad. At last, she had told him

exactly what she thought of him. Why shouldn't she be glad? She was

delighted.

So, by way of expressing this delight, she sat down at the desk and

began to cry very softly.

XIII

Having duly considered the emptiness of existence, the unworthiness of

men, the dreary future that awaited her--though this did not trouble

her greatly, as she confidently expected to die soon--and many other

such dolorous topics, Miss Hugonin decided to retire for the night.

She rose, filled with speculations as to the paltriness of life and

the probability of her eyes being red in the morning.

"It will be all his fault if they are," she consoled herself.

"Doubtless he'll be very much pleased. After robbing me of all faith

in humanity, I dare say the one thing needed to complete his happiness

is to make me look like a fright. I hate him! After making me

miserable, now, I suppose he'll go off and make some other woman

miserable. Oh, of course, he'll make love to the first woman he meets

who has any money. I'm sure she's welcome to him. I only pity any

woman who has to put up with

him

. No, I don't," Margaret decided,

after reflection; "I hate her, too!"

Miss Hugonin went to the door leading to the hallway and paused.

Then--I grieve to relate it--she shook a little pink-tipped fist in

the air.

"I detest you!" she commented, between her teeth; "oh, how

dare

you

make me feel so ashamed of the way I've treated you!"

The query--as possibly you may have divined--was addressed to Mr.

Woods. He was standing by the fireplace in the hallway, and his tall

figure was outlined sharply against the flame of the gas-logs that

burned there. His shoulders had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.

Billy was reading a paper of some kind by the firelight, and the black

outline of his face smiled grimly over it. Then he laughed and threw

it into the fire.

"Billy!" a voice observed--a voice that was honey and gold and velvet

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

Mr. Woods was aware of a light step, a swishing, sibilant, delightful

rustling--the caress of sound is the rustling of a well-groomed

woman's skirts--and of an afterthought of violets, of a mere

reminiscence of orris, all of which came toward him through the

dimness of the hall. He started, noticeably.

"Billy," Miss Hugonin stated, "I'm sorry for what I said to you. I'm

not sure it isn't true, you know, but I'm sorry I said it."

"Bless your heart!" said Billy; "don't you worry over that, Peggy.

That's all right. Incidentally, the things you've said to me and about

me aren't true, of course, but we won't discuss that just now. I--I

fancy we're both feeling a bit fagged. Go to bed, Peggy! We'll both

go to bed, and the night will bring counsel, and we'll sleep off all

unkindliness. Go to bed, little sister!--get all the beauty-sleep you

aren't in the least in need of, and dream of how happy you're going to

be with the man you love. And--and in the morning I may have something

to say to you. Good-night, dear."

And this time he really went. And when he had come to the bend in the

stairs his eyes turned back to hers, slowly and irresistibly, drawn

toward them, as it seemed, just as the sunflower is drawn toward the

sun, or the needle toward the pole, or, in fine, as the eyes of young

gentlemen ordinarily are drawn toward the eyes of the one woman in the

world. Then he disappeared.

The mummery of it vexed Margaret. There was no excuse for his looking

at her in that way. It irritated her. She was almost as angry with him

for doing it as she would have been for not doing it.

Therefore, she bent an angry face toward the fire, her mouth pouting

in a rather inviting fashion. Then it rounded slowly into a sanguine

O, which of itself suggested osculation, but in reality stood for

"observe!" For the paper Billy had thrown into the fire had fallen

under the gas-logs, and she remembered his guilty start.

"After all," said Margaret, "it's none of my business."

So she eyed it wistfully.

"It may be important," she considerately remembered. "It ought not to

be left there."

So she fished it out with a big paper-cutter.

"But it can't be very important," she dissented afterward, "or he

wouldn't have thrown it away."

So she looked at the superscripture on the back of it.

Then she gave a little gasp and tore it open and read it by the

firelight.

Miss Hugonin subsequently took credit to herself for not going into

hysterics. And I think she had some reason to; for she found the paper

a duplicate of the one Billy had taken out of the secret drawer, with

his name set in the place of hers. At the last Frederick R. Woods had

relented toward his nephew.

Margaret laughed a little; then she cried a little; then she did both

together. Afterward she sat in the firelight, very puzzled and very

excited and very penitent and very beautiful, and was happier than she

had ever been in her life.

"He had it in his pocket," her dear voice quavered; "he had it in his

pocket, my brave, strong, beautiful Billy did, when he asked me to

marry him. It was King Cophetua wooing the beggar-maid--and the beggar

was an impudent, ungrateful, idiotic little

piece

!" Margaret hissed,

in her most shrewish manner. "She ought to be spanked. She ought to go

down on her knees to him in sackcloth, and tears, and ashes, and all

sorts of penitential things. She will, too. Oh, it's such a beautiful

world--

such

a beautiful world! Billy loves me--really! Billy's a

millionaire, and I'm a pauper. Oh, I'm glad, glad,

glad

!"

She caressed the paper that had rendered the world such a goodly place

to live in--caressed it tenderly and rubbed her check against it. That

was Margaret's way of showing affection, you know; and I protest it

must have been very pleasant for the paper. The only wonder was that

the ink it was written in didn't turn red with delight.

Then she read it through again, for sheer enjoyment of those

beautiful, incomprehensible words that disinherited her. How

lovely

of Uncle Fred! she thought. Of course, he'd forgiven Billy; who

wouldn't? What beautiful language Uncle Fred used! quite prayer-booky,

she termed it. Then she gasped.

The will in Billy's favour was dated a week earlier than the one they

had found in the secret drawer. It was worthless, mere waste paper. At

the last Frederick R. Woods's pride had conquered his love.

"Oh, the horrid old man!" Margaret wailed; "he's left me everything he

had! How

dare

he disinherit Billy! I call it rank impertinence in

him. Oh, boy dear, dear,

dear

boy!" Miss Hugonin crooned, in an

ecstacy of tenderness and woe. "He found this first will in one of the

other drawers, and thought

he

was the rich one, and came in a great

whirl of joy to ask me to marry him, and I was horrid to him! Oh, what

a mess I've made of it! I've called him a fortune-hunter, and I've

told him I love another man, and he'll never, never ask me to marry

him now. And I love him, I worship him, I adore him! And if only

I were poor--"

Ensued a silence. Margaret lifted the two wills, scrutinised them

closely, and then looked at the fire, interrogatively.

"It's penal servitude for quite a number of years," she said. "But,

then, he really

couldn't

tell any one, you know. No gentleman would

allow a lady to be locked up in jail. And if he knew--if he knew I

didn't and couldn't consider him a fortune-hunter, I really believe he

would--"

Whatever she believed he would do, the probability of his doing it

seemed highly agreeable to Miss Hugonin. She smiled at the fire in the

most friendly fashion, and held out one of the folded papers to it.

"Yes," said Margaret, "I'm quite sure he will."

There I think we may leave her. For I have dredged the dictionary,

and I confess I have found no fitting words wherewith to picture this

inconsistent, impulsive, adorable young woman, dreaming brave dreams

in the firelight of her lover and of their united future. I should

only bungle it. You must imagine it for yourself.

It is a pretty picture, is it not?--with its laughable side, perhaps;

under the circumstances, whimsical, if you will; but very, very

sacred. For she loved him with a clean heart, loved him infinitely.

Let us smile at it--tenderly--and pass on.

But upon my word, when I think of how unreasonably, how outrageously

Margaret had behaved during the entire evening, I am tempted to

depose her as our heroine. I begin to regret I had not selected Adèle

Haggage.

She would have done admirably. For, depend upon it, she, too, had

her trepidations, her white nights, her occult battles over Hugh Van

Orden. Also, she was a pretty girl--if you care for brunettes--and

accomplished. She was versed in I forget how many foreign languages,

both Continental and dead, and could discourse sensibly in any one of

them. She was perfectly reasonable, perfectly consistent, perfectly

unimpulsive, and never expressed an opinion that was not countenanced

by at least two competent authorities. I don't know a man living,

prepared to dispute that Miss Haggage excelled Miss Hugonin in all

these desirable qualities.

Yet with pleasing unanimity they went mad for Margaret and had the

greatest possible respect for Adèle.

And, my dear Mrs. Grundy, I grant you cheerfully that this was all

wrong. A sensible man, as you very justly observe, will seek in a

woman something more enduring than mere personal attractions; he will

value her for some sensible reason--say, for her wit, or her learning,

or her skill in cookery, or her proficiency in Greek. A sensible man

will look for a sensible woman; he will not concern his sensible head

over such trumperies as a pair of bright eyes, or a red lip or so, or

a satisfactory suit of hair. These are fleeting vanities.

However--

You have doubtless heard ere this, my dear madam, that had Cleopatra's

nose been an inch shorter the destiny of the world would have been

changed; had she been the woman you describe--perfectly reasonable,

perfectly consistent, perfectly sensible in all she said and

did--confess, dear lady, wouldn't Antony have taken to his heels and

have fled from such a monster?

XIV

I regret to admit that Mr. Woods did not toss feverishly about his bed

all through the silent watches of the night. He was very miserable,

but he was also twenty-six. That is an age when the blind bow-god

deals no fatal wounds. It is an age to suffer poignantly, if you will;

an age wherein to aspire to the dearest woman on earth, to write her

halting verses, to lose her, to affect the

clichés

of cynicism, to

hear the chimes at midnight--and after it all, to sleep like a top.

So Billy slept. And kind Hypnos loosed a dream through the gates of

ivory that lifted him to a delectable land where Peggy was nineteen,

and had never heard of Kennaston, and was unbelievably sweet and dear

and beautiful. But presently they and the Colonel put forth to sea--on

a great carved writing-desk--fishing for sharks, which the Colonel

said were very plentiful in those waters; and Frederick R. Woods

climbed up out of the sea, and said Billy was a fool and must go to

college; and Peggy said that was impossible, as seventeen hundred and

fifty thousand children had to be given an education apiece, and they

couldn't spare one for Billy; and a missionary from Zambesi Land came

out of one of the secret drawers and said Billy must give him both

of his feet as he needed them for his working-girls' classes; and

thereupon the sharks poked their heads out of the water and began, in

a deafening chorus, to cry, "Feet, feet, feet!" And Billy then woke

with a start, and found it was only the birds chattering in the dawn

outside.

Then he was miserable.

He tossed, and groaned, and dozed, and smoked cigarettes until he

could stand it no longer. He got up and dressed, in sheer desperation,

and went for a walk in the gardens.

The day was clear as a new-minted coin. It was not yet wholly aired,

not wholly free from the damp savour of night, but low in the east the

sun was taking heart. A mile-long shadow footed it with Billy Woods

in his pacings through the amber-chequered gardens. Actaeon-like, he

surprised the world at its toilet, and its fleeting grace somewhat

fortified his spirits.

But his thoughts pestered him like gnats. The things he said to the

roses it is not necessary to set down.

XV

After a vituperative half-hour or so Mr. Woods was hungry. He came

back toward Selwoode; and upon the terrace in front of the house he

found Kathleen Saumarez.

During the warm weather, one corner of the terrace had been converted,

by means of gay red-and-white awnings, into a sort of living-room.

There were chairs, tables, sofa-cushions, bowls of roses, and any

number of bright-coloured rugs. Altogether, it was a cosy place,

and the glowing hues of its furnishings were very becoming to Mrs.

Saumarez, who sat there writing industriously.

It was a thought embarrassing. They had avoided one another

yesterday--rather obviously--both striving to put off a necessarily

awkward meeting. Now it had come. And now, somehow, their eyes met for

a moment, and they laughed frankly, and the awkwardness was gone.

"Kathleen," said Mr. Woods, with conviction, "you're a dear."

"You broke my heart," said she, demurely, "but I'm going to forgive

you."

Mrs. Saumarez was not striving to be clever now. And, heavens (thought

Billy), how much nicer she was like this! It wasn't the same woman:

her thin cheeks flushed arbutus-like, and her rather metallic voice

was grown low and gentle. Billy brought memories with him, you see;

and for the moment, she was Kathleen Eppes again--Kathleen Eppes in

the first flush of youth, eager, trustful, and joyous-hearted, as he

had known her long ago. Since then, the poor woman had eaten of the

bread of dependence and had found it salt enough; she had paid for it

daily, enduring a thousand petty slights, a thousand petty insults,

and smiling under them as only women can. But she had forgotten now

that shrewd Kathleen Saumarez who must earn her livelihood as best she

might. She smiled frankly--a purely unprofessional smile.

"I was sorry when I heard you were coming," she said, irrelevantly,

"but I'm glad now."

Mr. Woods--I grieve to relate--was still holding her hand in his.

There stirred in his pulses the thrill Kathleen Eppes had always

wakened--a thrill of memory now, a mere wraith of emotion. He was

thinking of a certain pink-cheeked girl with crinkly black-brown

hair and eyes that he had likened to chrysoberyls--and he wondered

whimsically what had become of her. This was not she. This was

assuredly not Kathleen, for this woman had a large mouth--a humorous

and kindly mouth it was true, but undeniably a large one--whereas,

Kathleen's mouth had been quite perfect and rather diminutive than

otherwise. Hadn't he rhymed of it often enough to know?

They stood gazing at one another for a long time; and in the back of

Billy's brain lines of his old verses sang themselves to a sad little

tune--the verses that reproved the idiocy of all other poets, who had

very foolishly written their sonnets to other women: and yet, as the

jingle pointed out,

Had these poets ever strayed

In thy path, they had not made

Random rhymes of Arabella,

Songs of Dolly, hymns of Stella,

Lays of Lalage or Chloris--

Not of Daphne nor of Doris,

Florimel nor Amaryllis,

Nor of Phyllida nor Phyllis,

Were their wanton melodies:

But all of these--

All their melodies had been

Of thee, Kathleen.

Would they have been? Billy thought it improbable. The verses were

very silly; and, recalling the big, blundering boy who had written

them, Billy began to wonder--somewhat forlornly--whither he, too,

had vanished. He and the girl he had gone mad for both seemed rather

mythical--legendary as King Pepin.

"Yes," said Mrs. Saumarez--and oh, she startled him; "I fancy they're

both quite dead by now. Billy," she cried, earnestly, "don't laugh

at them!--don't laugh at those dear, foolish children! I--somehow, I

couldn't bear that, Billy."

"Kathleen," said Mr. Woods, in admiration, "you're a witch. I wasn't

laughing, though, my dear. I was developing quite a twilight mood over

them--a plaintive, old-lettery sort of mood, you know."

She sighed a little. "Yes--I know." Then her eyelids flickered in a

parody of Kathleen's glance that Billy noted with a queer tenderness.

"Come and talk to me, Billy," she commanded. "I'm an early bird this

morning, and entitled to the very biggest and best-looking worm I can

find. You're only a worm, you know--we're all worms. Mr. Jukesbury

told me so last night, making an exception in my favour, for it

appears I'm an angel. He was amorously inclined last night, the tipsy

old fraud! It's shameless, Billy, the amount of money he gets out of

Miss Hugonin--for the deserving poor. Do you know, I rather fancy he

classes himself under that head? And I grant you he's poor enough--but

deserving!" Mrs. Saumarez snapped her fingers eloquently.

"Eh? Shark, eh?" queried Mr. Woods, in some discomfort.

She nodded. "He is as bad as Sarah Haggage," she informed him, "and

everybody knows what a bloodsucker she is. The Haggage is a disease,

Billy, that all rich women are exposed to--'more easily caught than

the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad.' Depend upon it,

Billy, those two will have every penny they can get out of your

uncle's money."

"Peggy's so generous," he pleaded. "She wants to make everybody

happy--bring about a general millenium, you know."

"She pays dearly enough for her fancies," said Mrs. Saumarez, in a

hard voice. Then, after a little, she cried, suddenly: "Oh, Billy,

Billy, it shames me to think of how we lie to her, and toady to her,

and lead her on from one mad scheme to another!--all for the sake of

the money we can pilfer incidentally! We're all arrant hypocrites, you

know; I'm no better than the others, Billy--not a bit better. But

my husband left me so poor, and I had always been accustomed to the

pretty things of life, and I couldn't--I couldn't give them up, Billy.

I love them too dearly. So I lie, and toady, and write drivelling

talks about things I don't understand, for drivelling women to

listen to, and I still have the creature comforts of life. I pawn my

self-respect for them--that's all. Such a little price to pay, isn't

it, Billy?"

She spoke in a sort of frenzy. I dare say that at the outset she

wanted Mr. Woods to know the worst of her, knowing he could not fail

to discover it in time. Billy brought memories with him, you see; and

this shrewd, hard woman wanted, somehow, more than anything else in

the world, that he should think well of her. So she babbled out the

whole pitiful story, waiting in a kind of terror to see contempt and

disgust awaken in his eyes.

But he merely said "I see--I see," very slowly, and his eyes were

kindly. He couldn't be angry with her, somehow; that pink-cheeked,

crinkly haired girl stood between them and shielded her. He was only

very, very sorry.

"And Kennaston?" he asked, after a little.

Mrs. Saumarez flushed. "Mr. Kennaston is a man of great genius," she

said, quickly. "Of course, Miss Hugonin is glad to assist him in

publishing his books--it's an honour to her that he permits it. They

have to be published privately, you know, as the general public isn't

capable of appreciating such dainty little masterpieces. Oh, don't

make any mistake, Billy--Mr. Kennaston is a very wonderful and very

admirable man."

"H'm, yes; he struck me as being an unusually nice chap," said Mr.

Woods, untruthfully. "I dare say they'll be very happy."

"Who?" Mrs. Saumarez demanded.

"Why--er--I don't suppose they'll make any secret of it," Billy

stammered, in tardy repentance of his hasty speaking. "Peggy told me

last night she had accepted him."

Mrs. Saumarez turned to rearrange a bowl of roses. She seemed to have

some difficulty over it.

"Billy," she spoke, inconsequently, and with averted head, "an honest

man is the noblest work of God--and the rarest."

Billy groaned.

"Do you know," said he, "I've just been telling the roses in the

gardens yonder the same thing about women? I'm a misogynist this

morning. I've decided no woman is worthy of being loved."

"That is quite true," she assented, "but, on the other hand, no man is

worthy of loving."

Billy smiled.

"I've likewise come to the conclusion," said he, "that a man's love is

like his hat, in that any peg will do to hang it on; also, in that the

proper and best place for it is on his own head. Oh, I assure you,

I vented any number of cheap cynicisms on the helpless roses! And

yet--will you believe it, Kathleen?--it doesn't seem to make me feel a

bit better--no, not a bit."

"It's very like his hat," she declared, "in that he has a new one

every year." Then she rested her hand on his, in a half-maternal

fashion. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked, softly. "You're always

so fresh and wholesome. I don't like to see you like this. Better

leave phrase-making to us phrase-mongers."

Her voice rang true--true, and compassionate, and tender, and all that

a woman's voice should be. Billy could not but trust her.

"I've been an ass," said he, rather tragically. "Oh, not an unusual

ass, Kathleen--just the sort men are always making of themselves. You

see, before I went to France, there was a girl I--cared for. And I let

a quarrel come between us--a foolish, trifling, idle little quarrel,

Kathleen, that we might have made up in a half-hour. But I was too

proud, you see. No, I wasn't proud, either," Mr. Woods amended,

bitterly; "I was simply pig-headed and mulish. So I went away. And

yesterday I saw her again and realised that I--still cared. That's

all, Kathleen. It isn't an unusual story." And Mr. Woods laughed,

mirthlessly, and took a turn on the terrace.

Mrs. Saumarez was regarding him intently. Her cheeks were of a deeper,

more attractive pink, and her breath came and went quickly.

"I--I don't understand," she said, in a rather queer voice.

"Oh, it's simple enough," Billy assured her. "You see, she--well, I

think she would have married me once. Yes, she cared for me once. And

I quarreled with her--I, conceited young ass that I was, actually

presumed to dictate to the dearest, sweetest, most lovable woman on

earth, and tell her what she must do and what she mustn't. I!--good

Lord, I, who wasn't worthy to sweep a crossing clean for her!--who

wasn't worthy to breathe the same air with her!--who wasn't worthy to

exist in the same world she honoured by living in! Oh, I

was

an ass!

But I've paid for it!--oh, yes, Kathleen, I've paid dearly for it,

and I'll pay more dearly yet before I've done. I tried to avoid her

yesterday--you must have seen that. And I couldn't--I give you my

word, I could no more have kept away from her than I could have spread

a pair of wings and flown away. She doesn't care a bit for me now; but

I can no more give up loving her than I can give up eating my dinner.

That isn't a pretty simile, Kathleen, but it expresses the way I feel

toward her. It isn't merely that I want her; it's more than that--oh,

far more than that. I simply can't do without her. Don't you

understand, Kathleen?" he asked, desperately.

"Yes--I think I understand," she said, when he had ended. "I--oh,

Billy, I am almost sorry. It's dear of you--dear of you, Billy, to

care for me still, but--but I'm almost sorry you care so much. I'm not

worth it, boy dear. And I--I really don't know what to say. You must

let me think."

Mr. Woods gave an inarticulate sound. The face she turned to him

was perplexed, half-sad, fond, a little pleased, and strangely

compassionate. It was Kathleen Eppes who sat beside him; the six years

were as utterly forgotten as the name of Magdalen's first lover. She

was a girl again, listening--with a heart that fluttered, I dare

say--to the wild talk, the mad dithyrambics of a big, blundering boy.

The ludicrous horror of it stunned Mr. Woods.

He could no more have told her of her mistake than he could have

struck her in the face.

"Kathleen--!" said he, vaguely.

"Let me think!--ah, let me think, Billy!" she pleaded, in a flutter of

joy and amazement. "Go away, boy dear!--Go away for a little and

let me think! I'm not an emotional woman, but I'm on the verge of

hysterics now, for--for several reasons. Go in to breakfast, Billy!

I--I want to be alone. You've made me very proud and--and sorry, I

think, and glad, and--and--oh, I don't know, boy dear. But please go

now--please!"

Billy went.

In the living-hall he paused to inspect a picture with peculiar

interest. Since Kathleen cared for him (he thought, rather forlornly),

he must perjure himself in as plausible a manner as might be possible;

please God, having done what he had done, he would lie to her like a

gentleman and try to make her happy.

A vision in incredible violet ruffles, coming down to breakfast, saw

him, and paused on the stairway, and flushed and laughed deliciously.

Poor Billy stared at her; and his heart gave a great bound and then

appeared to stop for an indefinite time.

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Woods, in his soul. "And I thought I was an ass

last night! Why, last night, in comparison, I displayed intelligence

that was almost human! Oh, Peggy, Peggy! if I only dared tell you what

I think of you, I believe I would gladly die afterward--yes, I'm sure

I would. You really haven't any right to be so beautiful!--it isn't

fair to us, Peggy!"

But the vision was peeping over the bannisters at him, and the

vision's eyes were sparkling with a lucent mischief and a wonderful,

half-hushed contralto was demanding of him:

"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?"

And Billy's baritone answered her:

"I've been to seek a wife--"

and broke off in a groan.

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Woods.

It was a ludicrous business, if you will. Indeed, it was vastly

humorous--was it not?--this woman's thinking a man's love might by any

chance endure through six whole years. But their love endures, you

see; and the silly creatures have a superstition among them that love

is a sacred thing, stronger than time, victorious over death itself.

Let us laugh, then, at Kathleen Saumarez--those of us who have learned

that love is only a tinkling cymbal and faith a sounding brass and

fidelity an obsolete affectation: but for my part, I honour and

think better of the woman who through all her struggles with the

world--through all those sordid, grim, merciless, secret battles where

the vanquished may not even cry for succour--I honour her, I say, for

that she had yet cherished the memory of that first love which is the

best and purest and most unselfish and most excellent thing in life.

XVI

Breakfast Margaret enjoyed hugely. I regret to confess that the fact

that every one of her guests was more or less miserable moved this

hard-hearted young woman to untimely and excessive mirth. Only Mrs.

Saumarez puzzled her, for she could think of no reason for that lady's

manifest agitation when Kathleen eventually joined the others.

But for the rest, the hopeless glances that Hugh Van Orden cast toward

her caused Adèle to flush, and Mrs. Haggage to become despondent and

speechless and astonishingly rigid; and Petheridge Jukesbury's vaguely

apologetic attitude toward the world struck Miss Hugonin as infinitely

diverting. Kennaston she pitied a little; but his bearing toward

her ranged ludicrously from that of proprietorship to that of

supplication, and, moreover, she was furious with him for having

hinted at various times that Billy was a fortune-hunter.

Margaret was quite confident by this that she had never believed