The Eagle's Shadow · Chapter 9Eagle's Shadow (9)
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peculiarly unpleasant-looking person to be a model son and a loving
husband and a tender father. Margaret was filled with a vague alarm.
But she was brave, was Margaret. "No," said she, very decidedly, "I
shan't give you another cent. So you climb right over that wall and go
straight back where you belong."
The methods of Mr. Flinks, I regret to say, were somewhat more crude
than those of Mesdames Haggage and Saumarez and Messieurs Kennaston
and Jukesbury.
"Cheese it!" said Mr. Flinks, and flung away his staff and drew very
near to her. "Gimme that money, do you hear!"
"Don't you dare touch me!" she panted; "ah, don't you
dare
!"
"Aw, hell!" said Mr. Flinks, disgustedly, and his dirty hands were
upon her, and his foul breath reeked in her face.
In her hour of need Margaret's heart spoke.
"Billy!" she wailed; "oh, Billy,
Billy
!"
* * * * *
He came to her--just as he would have scaled Heaven to come to her,
just as he would have come to her in the nethermost pit of Hell if she
had called. Ah, yes, Billy Woods came to her now in her peril, and
I don't think that Mr. Flinks particularly relished the look upon
Billy's face as he ran through the gardens, for Billy was furiously
moved.
Cock-eye Flinks glanced back at the wall behind him. Ten feet high,
and the fellow ain't far off. Cock-eye Flinks caught up his staff, and
as Billy closed upon him, struck him full on the head. Again and again
he struck him. It was a sickening business.
Billy had stopped short. For an instant he stood swaying on his feet,
a puzzled face showing under the trickling blood. Then he flung out
his hands a little, and they flapped loosely at the wrists, like
wet clothes hung in the wind to dry, and Billy seemed to crumple up
suddenly, and slid down upon the grass in an untidy heap.
"Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Flinks. He drew back and stared stupidly at that
sprawling flesh which just now had been a man, and was seized with
uncontrollable shuddering. "Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Flinks, very quietly.
And Margaret went mad. The earth and the sky dissolved in many
floating specks and then went red--red like that heap yonder. The
veneer of civilisation peeled, fell from her like snow from a shaken
garment. The primal beast woke and flicked aside the centuries' work.
She was the Cave-woman who had seen the death of her mate--the brute
who had been robbed of her mate.
"Damn you!
Damn
you!" she screamed, her voice high, flat, quite
unhuman; "ah, God in Heaven damn you!" With inarticulate bestial cries
she fell upon the man who had killed Billy, and her violet fripperies
fluttered, her impotent little hands beat at him, tore at him. She was
fearless, shameless, insane. She only knew that Billy was dead.
With an oath the man flung her from him and turned on his heel. She
fell to coaxing the heap in the grass to tell her that he forgave
her--to open his eyes--to stop bloodying her dress--to come to
luncheon...
A fly settled on Billy's face and came in his zig-zag course to the
red stream trickling from his nostrils, and stopped short. She brushed
the carrion thing away, but it crawled back drunkenly. She touched it
with her finger, and the fly would not move. On a sudden, every nerve
in her body began to shake and jerk like a flag snapping in the wind.
XXVI
Some ten minutes afterward, as the members of the house-party sat
chatting on the terrace before Selwoode, there came among them a mad
woman in violet trappings that were splotched with blood.
"Did you know that Billy was dead?" she queried, smilingly. "Oh, yes,
a man killed Billy just now. Wasn't it too bad? Billy was such a nice
boy, you know. I--I think it's very sad. I think it's the saddest
thing I ever knew of in my life."
Kathleen Saumarez was the first to reach her. But she drew back
quickly.
"No, ah, no!" she said, with a little shudder. "You didn't love Billy.
He loved you, and you didn't love him. Oh, Kathleen, Kathleen, how
could
you help loving Billy? He was such a nice boy. I--I'm rather
sorry he's dead."
Then she stood silent, picking at her dress thoughtfully and still
smiling. Afterward, for the first and only time in history, Miss
Hugonin fainted--fainted with an anxious smile.
Petheridge Jukesbury caught her as she fell, and began to blubber like
a whipped schoolboy as he stood there holding her in his arms.
XXVII
But Billy was not dead. There was still a feeble, jerky fluttering in
his big chest when Colonel Hugonin found him. His heart still moved,
but under the Colonel's hand its stirrings were vague and aimless as
those of a captive butterfly.
The Colonel had seen dead men and dying men before this; and as he
bent over the boy he loved he gave a convulsive sob, and afterward
buried his face in his hands.
Then--of all unlikely persons in the world--it was Petheridge
Jukesbury who rose to meet the occasion.
His suavity and blandness forgotten in the presence of death, he
mounted with confident alacrity to heights of greatness. Masterfully,
he overrode them all. He poured brandy between Billy's teeth. Then he
ordered the ladies off to bed, and recommended to Mr. Kennaston--when
that gentleman spoke of a clergyman--a far more startling destination.
For, "It is far from my intention," said Mr.
Jukesbury, "to appear lacking in respect to the cloth, but--er--just
at present I am inclined to think we are in somewhat greater need of a
mattress and a doctor and--ah--the exercise of a little common-sense.
The gentleman is--er--let us hope, in no immediate danger."
"How dare you suggest such a thing, sir?" thundered Petheridge
Jukesbury. "Didn't you see that poor girl's face? I tell you I'll be
damned if he dies, sir!"
And I fancy the recording angel heard him, and against a list of wordy
cheats registered that oath to his credit.
It was Petheridge Jukesbury, then, who stalked into Mrs. Haggage's
apartments and appropriated her mattress as the first at hand, and
afterward waddled through the gardens bearing it on his fat shoulders,
and still later lifted Billy upon it as gently as a woman could have.
But it was the hatless Colonel on his favourite Black Bess ("Damn your
motor-cars!" the Colonel was wont to say; "I consider my appearance
sufficiently unprepossessing already, sir, without my arriving in
Heaven in fragments and stinking of gasoline!") who in Fairhaven town,
some quarter of an hour afterward, leaped Dr. Jeal's garden fence, and
subsequently bundled the doctor into his gig; and again yet later it
was the Colonel who stood fuming upon the terrace with Dr. Jeal on his
way to Selwoode indeed, but still some four miles from the mansion
toward which he was urging his staid horse at its liveliest gait.
Kennaston tried to soothe him. But the Colonel clamoured to the
heavens. Kennaston he qualified in various ways. And as for Dr. Jeal,
he would hold him responsible--"personally, sir"--for the consequences
of his dawdling in this fashion--"Damme, sir, like a damn' snail with
a wooden leg!"
"I am afraid," said Kennaston, gravely, "that the doctor will be of
very little use when he does arrive."
There was that in his face which made the Colonel pause in his
objurgations.
"Sir," said the Colonel, "what--do--you--mean?" He found articulation
somewhat difficult.
"In your absence," Kennaston answered, "Mr. Jukesbury, who it
appears knows something of medicine, has subjected Mr. Woods to an
examination. It--it would be unkind to deceive you----"
"Come to the point, sir," the Colonel interrupted him. "What--do
you--mean?"
"I mean," said Felix Kennaston, sadly, "that--he is afraid--Mr. Woods
will never recover consciousness."
Colonel Hugonin stared at him. The skin of his flabby, wrinkled old
throat was working convulsively.
Then, "You're wrong, sir," the Colonel said. "Billy
shan't
die. Damn
Jukesbury! Damn all doctors, too, sir! I put my trust in my God, sir,
and not in a box of damn' sugar-pills, sir. And I tell you, sir,
that boy is not going to die
."
Afterward he turned and went into Selwoode defiantly.
XXVIII
In the living-hall the Colonel found Margaret, white as paper, with
purple lips that timidly smiled at him.
"Why ain't you in bed?" the old gentleman demanded, with as great an
affectation of sternness as he could muster. To say the truth, it was
not much; for Colonel Hugonin, for all his blustering optimism, was
sadly shaken now.
"Attractive," said Margaret, "I was, but I couldn't stay there. My--my
brain won't stop working, you see," she complained, wearily. "There's
a thin little whisper in the back of it that keeps telling me about
Billy, and what a liar he is, and what nice eyes he has, and how
poor Billy is dead. It keeps telling me that, over and over again,
attractive. It's such a tiresome, silly little whisper. But he is
dead, isn't he? Didn't Mr. Kennaston tell me just now that he was
dead?--or was it the whisper, attractive?"
The Colonel coughed. "Kennaston--er--Kennaston's a fool," he declared,
helplessly. "Always said he was a fool. We'll have Jeal in presently."
"No--I remember now--Mr. Kennaston said Billy would die very soon. You
don't like people to disagree with you, do you, attractive? Of course,
he will die, for the man hit him very,
very
hard. I'm sorry Billy is
going to die, though, even if he is such a liar!"
"Don't!" said the Colonel, hoarsely; "don't, daughter! I don't know
what there is between you and Billy, but you're wrong. Oh, you're very
hopelessly wrong! Billy's the finest boy I know."
Margaret shook her head in dissent.
"No, he's a very contemptible liar," she said, disinterestedly, "and
that is what makes it so queer that I should care for him more than I
do for anything else in the world. Yes, it's very queer."
Then Margaret went into the room opening into the living-hall, where
Billy Woods lay unconscious, pallid, breathing stertorously. And the
Colonel stared after her.
"Oh, my God, my God!" groaned the poor Colonel; "why couldn't it have
been I? Why couldn't it have been I that ain't wanted any longer?
She'd never have grieved like that for me!"
And indeed, I don't think she would have.
For to Margaret there had come, as, God willing, there comes to every
clean-souled woman, the time to put away all childish things, and all
childish memories, and all childish ties, if need be, to follow one
man only, and cleave to him, and know his life and hers to be knit up
together, past severance, in a love that death itself may not affright
nor slay.
XXIX
She sat silent in one corner of the darkened room. It was the bedroom
that Frederick R. Woods formerly occupied--on the ground floor of
Selwoode, opening into the living-hall--to which they had carried
Billy.
Jukesbury had done what he could. In the bed lay Billy Woods, swathed
in hot blankets, with bottles of hot water set to his feet. Jukesbury
had washed his face clean of that awful red, and had wrapped bandages
of cracked ice about his head and propped it high with pillows. It
was little short of marvellous to see the pursy old hypocrite going
cat-footed about the room on his stealthy ministrations, replenishing
the bandages, forcing spirits of ammonia between Billy's teeth,
fighting deftly and confidently with death.
Billy still breathed.
The Colonel came and went uneasily. The clock on the mantel ticked.
Margaret brooded in a silence that was only accentuated by that
horrible wheezing, gurgling, tremulous breathing in the bed yonder.
Would the doctor never come!
She was curiously conscious of her absolute lack of emotion.
But always the interminable thin whispering in the back of her head
went on and on. "Oh, if he had only died four years ago! Oh, if he had
only died the dear, clean-minded, honest boy I used to know! When that
noise stops he will be dead. And then, perhaps, I shall be able to
cry. Oh, if he had only died four years ago!"
And then
da capo
. On and on ran the interminable thin whispering as
Margaret waited for death to come to Billy. Billy looked so old now,
under his many bandages. Surely he must be very, very near death.
Suddenly, as Jukesbury wrapped new bandages about his forehead, Billy
opened his eyes and, without further movement, smiled placidly up at
him.
"Hello, Jukesbury," said Billy Woods, "where's my armour?"
Jukesbury, too, smiled. "The man is bringing it downstairs now," he
answered, quietly.
"Because," Billy went on, fretfully, "I don't propose to miss the
Trojan war. The princes orgulous with high blood chafed, you know, are
all going to be there, and I don't propose to miss it."
Behind his fat back, Petheridge Jukesbury waved a cautioning hand at
Margaret, who had risen from her chair.
"But it is very absurd," Billy murmured, in the mere ghost of a voice,
"because men don't propose by mistake except in farces. Somebody told
me that, but I can't remember who, because I am a misogynist. That is
a Greek word, and I would explain it to Peggy, if she would only give
me a chance, but she can't because she has those seventeen hundred
and fifty thousand children to look after. There must be some way to
explain to her, though, because where there's a will there is always
a way, and there were three wills. Uncle Fred should not have left so
many wills--who would have thought the old man had so much ink in him?
But I will be a very great painter, Uncle Fred, and make her sorry for
the way she has treated me, and
then
Kathleen will understand I was
talking about Peggy."
His voice died away, and Margaret sat with wide eyes listening for it
again. Would the doctor never come!
Billy was smiling and picking at the sheets.
"But Peggy is so rich," the faint voice presently complained--"so
beastly rich! There is gold in her hair, and if you will look very
closely you will see that her lashes were pure gold until she dipped
them in the ink-pot. Besides, she expects me to sit up and beg for
lumps of sugar, and I
never
take sugar in my coffee. And Peggy
doesn't drink coffee at all, so I think it is very unfair, especially
as Teddy Anstruther drinks like a fish and she is going to marry him.
Peggy, why won't you marry me? You know I've always loved you, Peggy,
and now I can tell you so because Uncle Fred has left me all his
money. You think a great deal about money, Peggy. You said it was the
greatest thing in the world. And it must be, because it is the only
thing--the
only
thing, Peggy--that has been strong enough to keep
us apart. A part is never greater than the whole, Peggy, but I will
explain about that when you open that desk. There are sharks in it.
Aren't there, Peggy?--
aren't
there?"
His voice had risen to a querulous tone. Gently the fat old man
restrained him.
"Yes," said Petheridge Jukesbury; "dear me, yes. Why, dear me, of
course."
But his warning hand held Margaret back--Margaret, who stood with big
tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Dearer than life itself," Billy assented, wearily, "but before God,
loving you as I do, I wouldn't marry you now for all the wealth in the
world. I forget why, but all the world is a stage, you know, and they
don't use stages now, but only railroads. Is that why you rail at me
so, Peggy? That is a joke. You ought to laugh at my jokes, because I
love you, but I can't ever, ever tell you so because you are rich. A
rich man cannot pass through a needle's eye. Oh, Peggy, Peggy, I love
your eyes, but they're so
big
, Peggy!"
So Billy Woods lay still and babbled ceaselessly. But through all his
irrelevant talk, as you may see a tributary stream pulse unsullied
in a muddied river, ran the thought of Peggy--of Peggy, and of her
cruelty, and of her beauty, and of the money that stood between them.
And Margaret, who could never have believed him in his senses,
listened and knew that in his delirium, the rudder of his thoughts
snapped, he could not but speak truth. As she crouched in the corner
of the room, her face buried in an arm-chair, her gold hair half
loosened, her shoulders monotonously heaving, she wept gently,
inaudibly, almost happily.
Almost happily. Billy was dying, but she knew now, past any doubting,
that he loved her. The dear, clean-minded, honest boy had come
back to her, and she could love him now without shame, and there was
only herself to be loathed.
[Illustration: "Regarded them with alert eyes."]
Then the door opened. Then, with Colonel Hugonin, came Martin Jeal--a
wisp of a man like a November leaf--and regarded them from under his
shaggy white hair with alert eyes.
"Hey, what's this?" said Dr. Jeal. "Eh, yes! Eh--yes!" he meditated,
slowly. "Most irregular. You must let us have the room, Miss Hugonin."
In the hall she waited. Hope! ah, of course, there was no hope! the
thin little whisper told her.
By and bye, though--after centuries of waiting--the three men came
into the hall.
"Miss Hugonin," said Dr. Jeal, with a strange kindness in his voice,
"I don't think we shall need you again. I am happy to tell you,
though, that the patient is doing nicely--very nicely indeed."
Margaret clutched his arm. "You--you mean----"
"I mean," said Dr. Jeal, "that there is no fracture. A slight
concussion of the brain, madam, and--so far as I can see--no signs of
inflammation. Barring accidents, I think we'll have that young man out
of bed in a week. Thanks," he added, "to Mr.--er--Jukesbury here whose
prompt action was, under Heaven, undoubtedly the means of staving off
meningitis and probably--indeed, more than probably--the means
of saving Mr. Woods's life. It was splendid, sir, splendid! No
doctor--why, God bless my soul!"
For Miss Hugonin had thrown her arms about Petheridge Jukesbury's neck
and had kissed him vigorously.
"You beautiful child!" said Miss Hugonin.
"Er--Jukesbury," said the Colonel, mysteriously, "there's a little
cognac in the cellar that--er--" The Colonel jerked his thumb across
the hallway with the air of a conspirator. "Eh?" said the Colonel.
"Why--er--yes," said Mr. Jukesbury. "Why--ah--yes, I think I might."
They went across the hall together. The Colonel's hand rested
fraternally on Petheridge Jukesbury's shoulder.
XXX
The next day there was a general exodus from Selwoode, and Margaret's
satellites dispersed upon their divers ways. Selwoode, as they
understood it, was no longer hers; and they knew Billy Woods well
enough to recognise that from Selwoode's new master there were no
desirable pickings to be had such as the philanthropic crew had
fattened on these four years past. So there came to them, one and all,
urgent telegrams or insistent letters or some equally unanswerable
demand for their presence elsewhere, such as are usually prevalent
among our guests in very dull or very troublous times.
Miss Hugonin smiled a little bitterly. She considered that the scales
had fallen from her eyes, and flattered herself that she was by way of
becoming a bit of a misanthrope; also, I believe, there was a note
concerning the hollowness of life and the worthlessness of society in
general. In a word, Margaret fell back upon the extreme cynicism and
world-weariness of twenty-three, and assured herself that she despised
everybody, whereas, as a matter of fact, she never in her life
succeeded in disliking anything except mice and piano-practice, and,
for a very little while, Billy Woods; and this for the very excellent
reason that the gods had fashioned her solely to the end that she
might love all mankind, and in return be loved by humanity in general
and adored by that portion of it which inhabits trousers.
But, "The rats always desert a sinking ship," said Miss Hugonin, with
the air of one delivering a particularly original sentiment. "They
make me awfully tired, and I don't care for them in the least. But
Petheridge Jukesbury is a
dear
, and I may be poor now, but I
did
try to do good with the money when I had it, and
anyhow
, Billy is
going to get well."
And, after all, that was the one thing that really mattered, though of
course Billy would always despise her. He would be quite right, too,
the girl thought humbly.
But the conventionalities of life are more powerful than even youthful
cynicism and youthful heart-break. Prior to devoting herself to a
loveless life and the commonplaces of the stoic's tub, Miss Hugonin
was compelled by the barest decency to bid her guests Godspeed.
And Adèle Haggage kissed her for the first time in her life. She had
been a little awed by Miss Hugonin, the famous heiress--a little
jealous of her, I dare say, on account of Hugh Van Orden--but now she
kissed her very heartily in farewell, and said, "Don't forget you are
to come to us as soon as
possible
," and was beyond any question
perfectly sincere in saying it.
And Hugh Van Orden almost dragged Margaret under the main stairway,
and, far from showing any marked abhorrence to her in her present
state of destitution, implored her with tears in his eyes to marry him
at once, and to bring the Colonel to live with them for the rest of
his natural existence.
For, "It's damned impertinent of me, of course," Mr. Van Orden readily
conceded, "and I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for mentioning it,
but I
do
love you to a perfectly unlimited extent. It's playing the
very deuce with my polo, Miss Hugonin, and as for my appetite--why,
if you won't have me," cried Hugh, in desperation, "I--I really, you
know, I don't believe I'll
ever
be able to eat anything!"
When Margaret refused him--for the sixth time, I think--I won't swear
that she didn't kiss him under the dark stairway. And if she did, he
was a nice boy, and he deserved it.
And as for Sarah Ellen Haggage, that unreverend old parasite brought
her a blank cheque signed with her name, and mentioned quite a goodly
sum as the extent to which Margaret might go for necessary expenses.
"For you'll need it," she said, and rubbed her nose reflectively.
"Moving is the very deuce for wasting money, because so many little
things keep cropping up. Now, remember, a quarter is quite enough to
give
any
man for moving a trunk. And there's no earthly sense in
your taking a cab, Margaret--the street-car will bring you within a
block of our door. These little trifles count, dear. And don't let
Célestine pack your things, because she's abominably careless. Let
Marie do it--and don't tip her. Give her an old hat. And if I were
you, I would certainly consult a lawyer about the legality of that
idiotic will. I remember distinctly hearing that Mr. Woods was very
eccentric in his last days, and I haven't a doubt he was raving mad
when, he left all his money to a great, strapping, long-legged young
fellow, who is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Getting
better, is he? Well, I suppose I'm glad to hear it, but he'd much
better have stayed in Paris--where, I remember distinctly hearing, he
led the most dissipated and immoral life, my dear--instead of coming
over here and upsetting everything." And again Mrs. Haggage rubbed her
nose--indignantly.
"He
didn't
!" said Margaret. "And I
can't
take your money,
beautiful! And I don't see how we can possibly come to stay with you."
"Don't you argue with me!" Mrs. Haggage exhorted her. "I'm not in any
temper to be argued with. I've spent the morning sewing bias
stripes in a bias skirt--something which from a moral-ruining and
resolution-overthrowing standpoint simply knocks the spots off Job.
You'll take that money, and you'll come to me as soon as you can,
and--God bless you, my dear!"
And again Margaret was kissed. Altogether, it was a very osculatory
morning for Miss Hugonin.
Mr. Jukesbury's adieus, however, were more formal; and--I am sorry to
say it--the old fellow went away wondering if the rich Mr. Woods might
not conceivably be very grateful to the man who had saved his life and
evince his gratitude in some agreeable and substantial form.
Mrs. Saumarez and Mr. Kennaston, also, were somewhat unenthusiastic in
their parting. Kennaston could not feel quite at ease with Margaret,
brazen it as he might with devil-may-carish flippancy; and Kathleen
had by this an inkling as to how matters stood between Margaret and
Billy, and was somewhat puzzled thereat, and loved the former in
consequence no more than any Christian female is compelled to love the
woman who, either unconsciously or with deliberation, purloins her
ancient lover. A woman rarely forgives the man who has ceased to care
for her; and rarelier still can she pardon the woman who has dared
succeed her in his affections.
And besides, they were utterly engrossed with one another, and utterly
happy, and utterly selfish with the immemorial selfishness of lovers,
who cannot for a moment conceive that the whole world is not somehow
benefited by their happiness and does not await with breathless
interest the outcome of their bickerings with the blind bow-god, and
from this providential delusion derive a meritorious and comfortable
glow. So Mrs. Saumarez and Mr. Kennaston parted from Margaret with
kindness, it is true, but not without awkwardness.
And that was the man that almost she had loved! thought Margaret, as
she gazed on the whirl of dust left by their carriage-wheels. Gone
with a few perfunctory words of sympathy!
And for my part, I think that the base Indian who threw a pearl away
worth more than all his tribe was, in comparison with Felix Kennaston,
a shrewd and long-headed man. If you had given
me
his chances,
Margaret ... but this, however, is highly digressive.
The Colonel, standing beside her, used language that was unrefined.
His aspirations as to the future of Mr. Kennaston and Mr. Jukesbury,
it appeared, were both lurid and unfriendly.
"But why, attractive?" queried his daughter.
"May they be qualified with such and such adjectives!" desired the
Colonel, fervently. "They tried to lend me money--wouldn't hear of
my not taking it! In case of necessity.' Bah!" said the Colonel, and
shook his fist after the retreating carriages. "May they be qualified
with such and such adjectives!"
How happily she laughed! "And you're swearing at them!" she pouted.
"Oh, my dear, my dear, how hard you are on all my little friends!"
"Of course I am," said the Colonel, stoutly. "They've deprived me of
the pleasure of despising 'em. It was worth double the money, I tell
you! I never objected to any men quite so much. And now they've gone
and behaved decently with the deliberate purpose of annoying me! Oh!"
cried the Colonel, and shook an immaculate, withered old hand toward
the spring sky, "may they be qualified with such and such adjectives!"
And that, so far as we are concerned, was the end of Margaret's
satellites.
My dear Mrs. Grundy, may one point the somewhat obvious moral? I thank
you, madam, for your long-suffering kindness. Permit me, then, to
vault toward my moral over the shoulders of a greater man.
Among the papers left by one Charles Dickens--a novelist who is
obsolete now because he "wallows naked in the pathetic" and was
frequently guilty of a very vulgar sort of humour that actually made
people laugh, which, as we now know, is not the purpose of humour--a
novelist who incessantly "caricatured Nature" and by these inartistic
and underhand methods created characters that are more real to us than
the folk we jostle in the street and (God knows!) far more vital and
worthy of attention than the folk who "cannot read Dickens"--you will
find, I say, a note of an idea which he never afterward developed,
running to this effect: "Full length portrait of his lordship,
surrounded by worshippers. Sensible men enough, agreeable men enough,
independent men enough in a certain way; but the moment they begin
to circle round my lord, and to shine with a borrowed light from
his lordship, heaven and earth, how mean and subservient! What a
competition and outbidding of each other in servility!"
And this, with "my lord" and "his lordship" erased to make way for the
word "money," is my moral. The folk who have just left Selwoode were
honest enough as honesty goes nowadays; kindly as any of us dare
be who have our own way to make among very stalwart and determined
rivals; generous as any man may venture to be in a world where
the first of every month finds the butcher and the baker and the