EAGLE'S SHADOW (continued 2)

"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

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

him--"not really, you know"--having argued the point out at some

length the night before, and reaching her conclusion by a course of

reasoning peculiar to herself.

Mr. Woods, as you may readily conceive, was sunk in the Slough of

Despond deeper than ever plummet sounded. Margaret thought this very

nice of him; it was a delicate tribute to her that he ate nothing;

and the fact that Hugh Van Orden and Petheridge Jukesbury--as she

believed--acted in precisely the same way for precisely the same

reason, merely demonstrated, of course, their overwhelming conceit and

presumption.

So sitting in the great Eagle's shadow, she ate a quantity of

marmalade--she was wont to begin the day in this ungodly English

fashion--and gossiped like a brook trotting over sunlit pebbles. She

had planned a pulverising surprise for the house-party; and in due

time, she intended to explode it, and subsequently Billy was to

apologise for his conduct, and then they were to live happily ever

afterward.

She had not yet decided what he was to apologise for; that was his

affair. His conscience ought to have told him, by this, wherein he had

offended; and if his conscience hadn't, why then, of course, he would

have to apologise for his lack of proper sensibility.

After breakfast she went, according to her usual custom, to her

father's rooms, for, as I think I have told you, the old gentleman was

never visible until noon. She had astonishing news for him.

What time she divulged it, the others sat on the terrace, and Mr.

Kennaston read to them, as he had promised, from his "Defense of

Ignorance." It proved a welcome diversion to more than one of the

party. Mr. Woods, especially, esteemed it a godsend; it staved off

misfortune for at least a little; so he sat at Kathleen's side in

silence, trying desperately to be happy, trying desperately not to see

the tiny wrinkles, the faint crow's feet Time had sketched in her face

as a memorandum of the work he meant to do shortly.

Billy consoled himself with the reflection that he was very fond of

her; but, oh (he thought), what worship, what adoration he could

accord this woman if she would only decline--positively--to have

anything whatever to do with him!

I think we ought not to miss hearing Mr. Kennaston's discourse. It is

generally conceded that his style is wonderfully clever; and I have

no doubt that his detractors--who complain that his style is mere

word-twisting, a mere inversion of the most ancient truisms--are

actuated by the very basest jealousy. Let us listen, then, and be duly

edified as he reads in a low, sweet voice, and the birds twitter about

him in the clear morning.

"It has been for many years," Mr. Kennaston began, "the custom of

patriotic gentlemen in quest of office to point with pride to the fact

that the schoolmaster is abroad in the land, in whose defense they

stand pledged to draw their salaries and fight to the last gasp

for reelection. These lofty platitudes, while trying to the lungs,

doubtless appeal to a certain class of minds. But, indeed, the

schoolmaster is not abroad; he is domesticated in every village in

America, where each hamlet has its would-be Shakespeare, and each

would-be Shakespeare has his 'Hamlet' by heart. Learning is rampant in

the land, and valuable information is pasted up in the streetcars so

that he who rides may read.

"And Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is forsaken by a

generation that clamours for the truth. And what value, pray, has this

Truth that we should lust after it?"

He glanced up, in an inquiring fashion. Mr. Jukesbury, meeting his

eye, smiled and shook his head and said "Fie, fie!" very placidly.

To do him justice, he had not the least idea what Kennaston was

talking about.

"I am aware," the poet continued, with an air of generosity, "that

many pleasant things have been said of it. In fact, our decade has

turned its back relentlessly upon the decayed, and we no longer read

the lament over the lost art of lying issued many magazines ago by

a once prominent British author. Still, without advancing any Wilde

theories, one may fairly claim that truth is a jewel--a jewel with

many facets, differing in appearance from each point of view.

"And while 'Tell the truth and shame the Devil' is a very pretty

sentiment, it need not necessarily mean anything. The Devil, if there

be a personal devil--and it has been pointed out, with some show of

reason, that an impersonal one could scarcely carry out such enormous

contracts--would, in all probability, rather approve than otherwise of

indiscriminate truth-telling. Irritation is the root of all evil; and

there is nothing more irritating than to hear the truth about one's

self. It is bad enough, in all conscience, to be insulted, but the

truth of an insult is the barb that prevents its retraction. 'Truth

hurts' has all the pathos of understatement. It not only hurts, but

infuriates. It has no more right to go naked in public than any one

else. Indeed, it has less right; for truth-telling is natural to

mankind--as is shown by its prevalence among the younger sort, such as

children and cynics--and, as Shakespeare long ago forgot to tell us, a

touch of nature makes the whole world embarrassed."

At this point Mrs. Haggage sniffed. She considered he was growing

improper. She distrusted Nature.

"Truth-telling, then, may safely be regarded as an unamiable

indiscretion. In art, the bare truth must, in common gallantry, be

awarded a print petticoat or one of canvas, as the case may be, to

hide her nakedness; and in life, it is a disastrous virtue that we

have united to commend and avoid. Nor is the decision an unwise one;

for man is a gregarious animal, knowing that friendship is, at best,

but a feeble passion and therefore to be treated with the care due an

invalid. It is impossible to be quite candid in conversation with a

man; and with a woman it is absolutely necessary that your speech

should be candied.

"Truth, then, is the least desirable of acquaintances.

"But even if one wished to know the truth, the desire could scarcely

be fulfilled. Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a prominent lawyer of

Elizabeth's time, who would have written Shakespeare's plays had his

other occupations not prevented it, quotes Pilate as inquiring, 'What

is Truth?'--and then not staying for an answer. Pilate deserves all

the praise he has never received. Nothing is quite true. Even Truth

lies at the bottom of a well and not infrequently in other places. No

assertion is one whit truer than its opposite."

A mild buzz of protest rose about him. Kennaston smiled and cocked his

head on one side.

"We have, for example," he pointed out, "a large number of proverbs,

the small coin of conversation, received everywhere, whose value no

one disputes. They are rapped forth, like an oath, with an air of

settling the question once and forever. Well! there is safety in

quotations. But even the Devil can cite Shakespeare for his purpose.

'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day' agrees ill with

'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof'; and it is somewhat

difficult to reconcile 'Take care of the pence, and the pounds will

take care of themselves' with the equally familiar 'Penny-wise,

pound-foolish.' Yet the sayings are equally untrue; any maxim is,

perforce, a general statement, and therefore fallacious, and therefore

universally accepted. Art is long, and life is short, but the

platitudes concerning them are both insufferable and eternal. We must

remember that a general statement is merely a snap-shot at flying

truth, an instantaneous photograph of a moving body. It may be the way

that a thing is; but it is never the way in which any one ever saw

that thing, or ever will. This is, of course, a general statement.

"As to present events, then, it may be assumed that no one is either

capable or desirous of speaking the truth; why, then, make such

a pother about it as to the past? There we have carried the

investigation of truth to such an extreme that nowadays very few of us

dare believe anything. Opinions are difficult to secure when a quarter

of an hour in the library will prove either side of any question.

Formerly, people had a few opinions, which, if erroneous, were at

least universal. Nero was not considered an immaculate man. The Flood

was currently believed to have caused the death of quite a number of

persons. And George Washington, it was widely stated, once cut down

a cherry-tree. But now all these comfortable illusions have been

destroyed by 'the least little men who spend their time and lose their

wits in chasing nimble and retiring truth, to the extreme perturbation

and drying up of the moistures.'"

Kennaston looked up for a moment, and Billy Woods, who had counted

seven wrinkles and was dropping into a forlorn doze, started

violently. His interest then became abnormal.

"There are," Mr. Kennaston complained, rather reproachfully, "too many

inquiries, doubts, investigations, discoveries, and apologies. There

are palliations of Tiberius, eulogies of Henry VIII., rehabilitations

of Aaron Burr. Lucretia Borgia, it appears, was a grievously

misunderstood woman, and Heliogabalus a most exemplary monarch; even

the dog in the manger may have been a nervous animal in search of

rest and quiet. As for Shakespeare, he was an atheist, a syndicate, a

lawyer's clerk, an inferior writer, a Puritan, a scholar, a

nom de plume

, a doctor of medicine, a fool, a poacher, and another man of

the same name. Information of this sort crops up on every side. Even

the newspapers are infected; truth lurks in the patent-medicine

advertisements, and sometimes creeps stealthily into the very

editorials. We must all learn the true facts of history, whether we

will or no; eventually, the writers of historical romance will not

escape.

"So the sad tale goes. Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is

forsaken by a generation that clamours for the truth. The

earnest-minded person has plucked Zeus out of Heaven, and driven the

Maenad from the wood, and dragged Poseidon out of his deep-sea palace.

The conclaves of Olympus, it appears, are merely nature-myths;

the stately legends clustering about them turn out to be a rather

elaborate method of expressing the fact that it occasionally rains.

The heroes who endured their angers and jests and tragic loves are

delicately veiled allusions to the sun--surely, a very harmless topic

of conversation, even in Greece; and the monsters, 'Gorgons and Hydras

and Chimæras dire,' their grisly offspring, their futile opponents,

are but personified frosts. Mythology--the poet's necessity, the

fertile mother of his inventions--has become a series of atmospheric

phenomena, and the labours of Hercules prove to be a dozen weather

bulletins.

"Is it any cause for wonder, that under this cheerless influence our

poetry is either silent or unsold? The true poet must be ignorant, for

information is the thief of rhyme. And it is only in dealing with--"

Kennaston paused. Margaret had appeared in the vestibule, and behind

her stood her father, looking very grave.

"We have made a most interesting discovery," Miss Hugonin airily

announced to the world at large. "It appears that Uncle Fred left all

his property to Mr. Woods here. We found the will only last night. I'm

sure you'll all be interested to learn I'm a pauper now, and intend to

support myself by plain sewing. Any work of this nature you may

choose to favour me with, ladies and gentlemen, will receive my most

earnest

attention."

She dropped a courtesy. The scene appealed to her taste for the

dramatic.

Billy came toward her quickly.

"Peggy," he demanded of her, in the semi-privacy of the vestibule,

"will you kindly elucidate the meaning of this da--this idiotic

foolishness?"

"Why, this," she explained, easily, and exhibited a folded paper. "I

found it in the grate last night."

He inspected it with large eyes. "That's absurd," he said, at length.

"You know perfectly well this will isn't worth the paper it's written

on."

"My dear sir," she informed him, coldly, "you are vastly mistaken. You

see, I've burned the other one." She pushed by him. "Mr. Kennaston,

are you ready for our walk? We'll finish the paper some other time.

Wasn't it the strangest thing in the world--?" Her dear, deep, mellow

voice died away as she and Kennaston disappeared in the gardens.

Billy gasped.

But meanwhile, Colonel Hugonin had given the members of his daughter's

house-party some inkling as to the present posture of affairs. They

were gazing at Billy Woods rather curiously. He stood in the vestibule

of Selwoode, staring after Margaret Hugonin; but they stared at him,

and over his curly head, sculptured above the door-way, they saw the

Eagle--the symbol of the crude, incalculable power of wealth.

Mr. Woods stood in the vestibule of his own house.

XVII

"By gad!" said Colonel Hugonin, very grimly, "anybody would think

you'd just lost a fortune instead of inheriting one! Wish you joy of

it, Billy. I ain't saying, you know, we shan't miss it, my daughter

and I--no, begad, for it's a nice pot of money, and we'll miss it

damnably. But since somebody had to have it, I'd much rather it was

you, my boy, than a set of infernal, hypocritical, philanthropic

sharks, and I'm damn' glad Frederick has done the square thing by

you--yes, begad!"

The old gentleman was standing beside Mr. Woods in the vestibule of

Selwoode, some distance from the other members of the house-party,

and was speaking in confidence. He was sincere; I don't say that

the thought of facing the world at sixty-five with practically

no resources save his half-pay--I think I have told you that the

Colonel's diversions had drunk up his wife's fortune and his own like

a glass of water--I don't say that this thought moved him to hilarity.

Over it, indeed, he pulled a frankly grave face.

But he cared a deal for Billy; and even now there was balm--soothing,

priceless balm--to be had of the reflection that this change in

his prospects affected materially the prospects of those cultured,

broad-minded, philanthropic persons who had aforetime set his daughter

to requiring of him a perusal of Herbert Spencer.

Billy was pretty well aware how monetary matters stood with the old

wastrel; and the sincerity of the man affected him far more than the

most disinterested sentiments would have done. Mr. Woods accordingly

shook hands, with entirely unnecessary violence.

"You're a trump, that's what you are!" he declared; "oh, yes, you are,

Colonel! You're an incorrigible, incurable old ace of trumps--the

very best there is in the pack--and it's entirely useless for you to

attempt to conceal it."

"Gad----!" said the Colonel.

"And don't you worry about that will," Mr. Woods advised. "I--I can't

explain things just now, but it's all right. You just wait--just wait

till I've seen Peggy," Billy urged, in desperation, "and I'll explain

everything."

"By gad----!" said the Colonel. But Mr. Woods was half-way out of the

vestibule.

Mr. Woods was in an unenviable state of perturbation.

He could not quite believe that Peggy had destroyed the will; the

thing out-Heroded Herod, out-Margareted Margaret. But if she had,

it struck him as a high-handed proceeding, entailing certain

vague penalties made and provided by the law to cover just such

cases--penalties of whose nature he was entirely ignorant and didn't

care to think. Heavens! for all he knew, that angel might have let

herself in for a jail sentence.

Billy pictured that queen among women! that paragon! with her glorious

hair cropped and her pink-tipped little hands set to beating hemp--he

had a shadowy notion that the lives of all female convicts were

devoted to this pursuit--and groaned in horror.

"In the name of Heaven!" Mr. Woods demanded of his soul, "what

possible

reason could she have had for this new insanity? And in the

name of Heaven, why couldn't she have put off her

tête-à-tête

with

Kennaston long enough to explain? And in the name of Heaven, what does

she see to admire in that putty-faced, grimacing ass, any way! And in

the name of Heaven, what am I to say to this poor, old man here? I

can't explain that his daughter isn't in any danger of being poor, but

merely of being locked up in jail! And in the name of Heaven, how

long does that outrageous angel expect me to remain in this state of

suspense!"

Billy groaned again and paced the vestibule. Then he retraced his

steps, shook hands with Colonel Hugonin once more, and, Kennaston or

no Kennaston, set out to find her.

XVIII

But when he came out upon the terrace, Sarah Ellen Haggage stopped

him--stopped him with a queer blending of diffidence and resolve in

her manner.

The others, by this, had disappeared in various directions, puzzled

and exceedingly uncertain what to do. Indeed, to congratulate Billy

in the Colonel's presence would have been tactless; and, on the other

hand, to condole with the Colonel without seeming to affront the

wealthy Mr. Woods was almost impossible. So they temporised and

fled--all save Mrs. Haggage.

She, alone, remained to view Mr. Woods with newly opened eyes; for

as he paused impatiently--the sculptured Eagle above his head--she

perceived that he was a remarkably handsome and intelligent young man.

Her motherly heart opened toward this lonely, wealthy orphan.

"My dear Billy," she cooed, with asthmatic gentleness, "as an old,

old friend of your mother's, aren't you going to let me tell you how

rejoiced Adèle and I are over your good fortune? It isn't polite, you

naughty boy, for you to run away from your friends as soon as they've

heard this wonderful news. Ah, such news it was--such a manifest

intervention of Providence! My heart has been fluttering, fluttering

like a little bird, Billy, ever since I heard it."

In testimony to this fact, Mrs. Haggage clasped a stodgy hand to an

exceedingly capacious bosom, and exhibited the whites of her eyes

freely. Her smile, however, remained unchanged and ample.

"Er--ah--oh, yes! Very kind of you, I'm sure!" said Mr. Woods.

"I never in my life saw Adèle so deeply affected by

anything

," Mrs.

Haggage continued, with a certain large archness. "The sweet child

was always so fond of you, you know, Billy. Ah, I remember distinctly

hearing her speak of you many and many a time when you were in that

dear, delightful, wicked Paris, and wonder when you would come back

to your friends--not very grand and influential friends, Billy, but

sincere, I trust, for all that."

Mr. Woods said he had no doubt of it.

"So many people," she informed him, confidentially, "will pursue you

with adulation now that you are wealthy. Oh, yes, you will find that

wealth makes a great difference, Billy. But not with Adèle and

me--no, dear boy, despise us if you will, but my child and I are not

mercenary. Money makes no difference with us; we shall be the same to

you that we always were--sincerely interested in your true welfare,

overjoyed at your present good fortune, prayerful as to your brilliant

future, and delighted to have you drop in any evening to dinner. We do

not consider money the chief blessing of life; no, don't tell me that

most people are different, Billy, for I know it very well, and many is

the tear that thought has cost me. We live in a very mercenary world,

my dear boy; but

our

thoughts, at least, are set on higher things,

and I trust we can afford to despise the merely temporal blessings of

life, and I entreat you to remember that our humble dwelling is always

open to the son of my old, old friend, and that there is always a jug

of good whiskey in the cupboard."

Thus in the shadow of the Eagle babbled the woman whom--for all her

absurdities--Margaret had loved as a mother.

Billy thanked her with an angry heart.

"And this"--I give you the gist of his meditations--"this is Peggy's

dearest friend! Oh, Philanthropy, are thy protestations, then, all

void and empty, and are thy noblest sentiments--every one of 'em--so

full of sound and rhetoric, so specious, so delectable--are these,

then, but dicers' oaths!"

Aloud, "I'm rather surprised, you know," he said, slowly, "that you

take it just this way, Mrs. Haggage. I should have thought you'd have

been sorry on--on Miss Hugonin's account. It's awfully jolly of you,

of course--oh, awfully jolly, and I appreciate it at its true worth, I

assure you. But it's a bit awkward, isn't it, that the poor girl will

be practically penniless? I really don't know whom she'll turn to

now."

Then Billy, the diplomatist, received a surprise.

"She'll come with me, of course," said Mrs. Haggage.

Mr. Woods made an--unfortunately--inaudible observation.

"I beg your pardon?" she queried. Then, obtaining no response, she

continued, with perfect simplicity: "Margaret's quite like a daughter

to me, you know. Of course, she and the Colonel will come with us--at

least, until affairs are a bit more settled. Even afterward--well, we

have a large house, Billy, and I don't see that they'd be any better

off anywhere else."

Billy's emotions were complex.

"You big-hearted old parasite," his own heart was singing. "If you

could only keep that ring of truth that's in your voice for your

platform utterances--why, in less than no time you could afford to

feed your Afro-Americans on nightingales' tongues and clothe every

working-girl in the land in cloth of gold! You've been pilfering from

Peggy for years--pilfering right and left with both hands! But you've

loved her all the time, God bless you; and now the moment she's in

trouble you're ready to take both her and the Colonel--whom, by the

way, you must very cordially detest--and share your pitiful, pilfered

little crusts with 'em and--having two more mouths to feed--probably

pilfer a little more outrageously in the future! You're a

sanctimonious old hypocrite, you are, and a pious fraud, and a

delusion, and a snare, and you and Adèle have nefarious designs on me

at this very moment, but I think I'd like to kiss you!"

Indeed, I believe Mr. Woods came very near doing so. She loved Peggy,

you see; and he loved every one who loved her.

But he compromised by shaking hands energetically, for a matter of

five minutes, and entreating to be allowed to subscribe to some of her

deserving charitable enterprises--any one she might mention--and so

left the old lady a little bewildered, but very much pleased.

She decided that for the future Adèle must not see so much of Mr.

Van Orden. She began to fear that gentleman's views of life were not

sufficiently serious.

XIX

Billy went into the gardens in pursuit of Margaret. He was almost

happy now and felt vaguely ashamed of himself. Then he came upon

Kathleen Saumarez, who, indeed, was waiting for him there; and his

heart went down into his boots.

He realised on a sudden that he was one of the richest men in America.

It was a staggering thought. Also, Mr. Woods's views, at this moment,

as to the advantages of wealth, might have been interesting.

Kathleen stood silent for an instant, eyes downcast, face flushed. She

was trembling.

Then, "Billy," she asked, almost inaudibly, "do--do you still

want--your answer?"

The birds sang about them. Spring triumphed in the gardens. She looked

very womanly and very pretty.

To all appearances, it might easily have been a lover and his lass met

in the springtide, shamefaced after last night's kissing. But Billy,

somehow, lacked much of the elation and the perfect content and the

disposition to burst into melody that is currently supposed to seize

upon rustic swains at such moments. He merely wanted to know if at

any time in the remote future his heart would be likely to resume the

discharge of its proper functions. It was standing still now.

However, "Can you ask--dear?" His words, at least, lied gallantly.

The poor woman looked up into Billy's face. After years of battling

with the world, here for the asking was peace and luxury and wealth

incalculable, and--as Kathleen thought--a love that had endured since

they were boy and girl together. Yet she shrunk from him a little and

clinched her hands before she spoke.

"Yes," Kathleen faltered, and afterward she shuddered.

And here, if for the moment I may prefigure the Eagle as a sentient

being, I can imagine his chuckle.

"Please God," thought poor Billy, "I will make her happy. Yes, please

God, I can at least do that, since she cares for me."

Then he kissed her.

"My dear," said he, aloud, "I'll try to make you happy. And--and you

don't mind, do you, if I leave you now?" queried this ardent lover.

"You see, it's absolutely necessary I should see--see Miss Hugonin

about this will business. You don't mind very much, do you--darling?"

Mr. Woods inquired of her, the last word being rather obviously an

afterthought.

"No," said she. "Not if you must--dear."

Billy went away, lugging a heart of lead in his breast.

Kathleen stared after him and gave a hard, wringing motion of her

hands. She had done what many women do daily; the thing is common and

sensible and universally commended; but in her own eyes, the draggled

trollop of the pavements was neither better nor worse than she.

At the entrance of the next walkway Billy encountered Felix

Kennaston--alone and in the most ebulliently mirthful of humours.

XX

But we had left Mr. Kennaston, I think, in company with Miss Hugonin,

at the precise moment she inquired of him whether it were not the

strangest thing in the world--referring thereby to the sudden manner

in which she had been disinherited.

The poet laughed and assented. Afterward, turning north from the front

court, they descended past the shield-bearing griffins--and you may

depend upon it that each shield is adorned with a bas-relief of the

Eagle--that guard the broad stairway leading to the formal gardens

of Selwoode. The gardens stretch northward to the confines of Peter

Blagden's estate of Gridlington; and for my part--unless it were that

primitive garden that Adam lost--I can imagine no goodlier place.

On this particular forenoon, however, neither Miss Hugonin nor Felix

Kennaston had eyes for its comeliness; silently they braved the

griffins, and in silence they skirted the fish-pond--silver-crinkling

in the May morning--and passed through cloistral ilex-shadowed walks,

and amphitheatres of green velvet, and terraces ample and mellow

in the sunlight, silently. The trees pelted them with blossoms;

pedestaled in leafy recesses, Satyrs grinned at them apishly, and the

arrows of divers pot-bellied Cupids threatened them, and Fauns piped

for them ditties of no tone; the birds were about shrill avocations

overhead, and everywhere the heatless, odourful air was a caress; but

for all this, Miss Hugonin and Mr. Kennaston were silent and very

fidgetty.

Margaret was hatless--and the glory of the eminently sensible spring

sun appeared to centre in her hair--and violet-clad; and the gown,

like most of her gowns, was all tiny tucks and frills and flounces,

diapered with semi-transparencies--unsubstantial, foam-like, mere

violet froth. As she came starry-eyed through the gardens, the

impudent wind trifling with her hair, I protest she might have been

some lady of Oberon's court stolen out of Elfland to bedevil us poor

mortals, with only a moonbeam for the changeable heart of her, and

for raiment a violet shadow spirited from the under side of some big,

fleecy cloud.

They came presently through a trim, yew-hedged walkway to a

summer-house covered with vines, into which Margaret peeped and

declined to enter, on the ground that it was entirely too chilly

and gloomy and

exactly

like a mausoleum; but nearby they found a

semi-circular marble bench about which a group of elm-trees made a

pleasant shadow splashed at just the proper intervals with sunlight.

On this Margaret seated herself; and then pensively moved to the other

end of the bench, because a slanting sunbeam fell there. Since it

was absolutely necessary to blast Mr. Kennaston's dearest hopes,

she thoughtfully endeavoured to distract his attention from his own

miseries--as far as might be possible--by showing him how exactly like

an aureole her hair was in the sunlight. Margaret always had a kind

heart.

Kennaston stood before her, smiling a little. He was the sort of man

to appreciate the manoeuver.

"My lady," he asked, very softly, "haven't you any good news for me on

this wonderful morning?"

"Excellent news," Margaret assented, with a cheerfulness that was

not utterly free from trepidation. "I've decided not to marry you,

beautiful, and I trust you're properly grateful. You see, you're very

nice, of course, but I'm going to marry somebody else, and bigamy is

a crime, you know; and, anyhow, I'm only a pauper, and you'd never be

able to put up with my temper--now, beautiful, I'm quite sure you

couldn't, so there's not a bit of use in arguing it. Some day you'd

end by strangling me, which would be horribly disagreeable for me, and

then they'd hang you for it, you know, and that would be equally

disagreeable for you. Fancy, though, what a good advertisement it would

be for your poems!"

[Illustration: "'My lady,' he asked, very softly, 'haven't you any

good news for me on this wonderful morning?'"]

She was not looking at him now--oh, no, Margaret was far too busily

employed getting the will (which she had carried all this time) into

an absurd little silver chain-bag hanging at her waist. She had no

time to look at Felix Kennaston. There was such scant room in the bag;

her purse took up so much space there was scarcely any left for the

folded paper; the affair really required her closest, undivided

attention. Besides, she had not the least desire to look at Kennaston

just now.

"Beautiful child," he pleaded, "look at me!"

But she didn't.

She felt that at that moment she could have looked at a gorgon, say,

or a cockatrice, or any other trifle of that nature with infinitely

greater composure. The pause that followed Margaret accordingly

devoted to a scrutiny of his shoes and sincere regret that their owner

was not a mercenary man who would be glad to be rid of her.

"Beautiful child," spoke the poet's voice, sadly, "you aren't--surely,

you aren't saying this in mistaken kindness to me? Surely, you aren't

saying this because of what has happened in regard to your money

affairs? Believe me, my dear, that makes no difference to me. It

is you I love--you, the woman of my heart--and not a certain, and

doubtless desirable, amount of metal disks and dirty paper."

"Now I suppose you're going to be very noble and very nasty about it,"

observed Miss Hugonin, resentfully. "That's my main objection to

you, you know, that you haven't any faults I can recognise and feel

familiar and friendly with."

"My dear," he protested, "I assure you I am not intentionally

disagreeable."

At that, she raised velvet eyes to his--with a visible effort,

though--and smiled.

"I know you far too well to think that," she said, wistfully. "I

know I'm not worthy of you. I'm tremendously fond of you, beautiful,

but--but, you see, I love somebody else," Margaret concluded, with

admirable candour.

"Ah!" said he, in a rather curious voice. "The painter chap, eh?"

Then Margaret's face flamed in a wonderful glow of shame and happiness

and pride that must have made the surrounding roses very hopelessly

jealous. A quaint mothering look, sacred, divine, Madonna-like,

woke in her great eyes as she thought--remorsefully--of

how unhappy Billy must be at that very moment and of how big he was

and of his general niceness; and she desired, very heartily, that this

fleshy young man would make his scene and have done with it. Who was

he, forsooth, to keep her from Billy? She wished she had never heard

of Felix Kennaston.

Souvent femme varie

, my brothers.

However, "Yes," said Margaret..

"You are a dear," said Mr. Kennaston, with conviction in his voice.

I dare say Margaret was surprised.

But the poet had taken her hand and had kissed it reverently, and then

sat down beside her, twisting one foot under him in a fashion he had.

He was frankly grateful to her for refusing him; and, the mask of

affectation slipped, she saw in him another man.

"I am an out-and-out fraud," he confessed, with the gayest of smiles.

"I am not in love with you, and I am inexpressibly glad that you are

not in love with me. Oh, Margaret, Margaret--you don't mind if I call

you that, do you? I shall have to, in any event, because I like you so

tremendously now that we are not going to be married--you have no idea

what a night I spent."

"I consider it most peculiar and unsympathetic of my hair not to have

turned gray. I thought you were going to have me, you see."

Margaret was far to much astonished to be angry.

"But last night!" she presently echoed, in candid surprise. "Why, last

night you didn't know I was poor!"

He wagged a protesting forefinger. "That made no earthly difference,"

he assured her. "Of course, it was the money--and in some degree the

moon--that induced me to make love to you. I acted on the impulse of

the moment; just for an instant, the novelty of doing a perfectly

sensible thing--and marrying money is universally conceded to come

under that head--appealed to me. So I did it. But all the time I was

in love with Kathleen Saumarez. Why, the moment I left you, I began to

realise that not even you--and you are quite the most fascinating and

generally adorable woman I ever knew, Margaret--I began to realise, I

say, that not even you could ever make me forget that fact. And I

was very properly miserable. It is extremely queer," Mr. Kennaston

continued, after an interval of meditation, "but falling in love

appears to be the one utterly inexplicable, utterly reasonless thing

one ever does in one's life. You can usually think of some more or

less plausible palliation for embezzlement, say, or for robbing a

cathedral or even for committing suicide--but no man can ever explain

how he happened to fall in love. He simply did it."

Margaret nodded sagely. She knew.

"Now you," Mr. Kennaston was pleased to say, "are infinitely more

beautiful, younger, more clever, and in every way more attractive than

Kathleen. I recognise these things clearly, but it does not appear,

somehow, to alter the fact that I am in love with her. I think I have

been in love with her all my life. We were boy and girl together,

Margaret, and--and I give you my word," Kennaston cried, with his

boyish flush, "I worship her! I simply cannot explain the perfectly

unreasonable way in which I worship her!"

He was sincere. He loved Kathleen Saumarez as much as he was capable

of loving any one--almost as much as he loved to dilate on his own

peculiarities and emotions.

Margaret's gaze was intent upon him. "Yet," she marvelled, "you made

love to me very tropically."

With unconcealed pride, Mr. Kennaston assented. "Didn't I?" he said.

"I was in rather good form last night, I thought."

"And you were actually prepared to marry me?" she asked--"even after

you knew I was poor?"

"I couldn't very well back out," he submitted, and then cocked

his head on one side. "You see," he added, whimsically, "I was

sufficiently a conceited ass to fancy you cared a little for me. So,

of course, I was going to marry you and try to make you happy. But how

dear--oh, how unutterably dear it was of you, Margaret, to decline

to be made happy in any such fashion!" And Mr. Kennaston paused to

chuckle and to regard her with genuine esteem and affection.

But still her candid eyes weighed him, and transparently found him

wanting.

"You are thinking, perhaps, what an unutterable cad I have been?" he

suggested.

"Yes--you are rather by way of being a cad, beautiful. But I can't

help liking you, somehow. I dare say it's because you're honest

with me. Nobody--nobody," Miss Hugonin lamented, a forlorn little

quiver in her voice, "

ever

seemed to be honest with me except you,

and now I know you weren't. Oh, beautiful, aren't I ever to have any

real friends?" she pleaded, wistfully.

Kennaston had meant a deal to her, you see; he had been the one

man she trusted. She had gloried in his fustian rhetoric, his glib

artlessness, his airy scorn of money; and now all this proved mere

pinchbeck. On a sudden, too, there woke in some bycorner of her heart

a queasy realisation of how near she had come to loving Kennaston. The

thought nauseated her.

"My dear," he answered, kindly, "you will have any number of friends

now that you are poor. It was merely your money that kept you from

having any. You see," Mr. Kennaston went on, with somewhat the air of

one climbing upon his favourite hobby, "money is the only thing

that counts nowadays. In America, the rich are necessarily our only

aristocracy. It is quite natural. One cannot hope for an aristocracy

of intellect, if only for the reason that not one person in a thousand

has any; and birth does not count for much. Of course, it is quite

true that all of our remote ancestors came over with William the

Conqueror--I have sometimes thought that the number of steerage

passengers his ships would accommodate must have been little short of

marvellous--but it is equally true that the grandfathers of most of

our leisure class were either deserving or dishonest persons--who

either started life on a farm, and studied Euclid by the firelight and

did all the other priggish things they thought would look well in a

biography, or else met with marked success in embezzlement. So money,

after all, is our only standard; and when a woman is as rich as you

were yesterday she cannot hope for friends any more than the Queen

of England can. You could have plenty of flatterers, toadies,

sycophants--anything, in fine, but friends."

"I don't believe it," said Margaret, half angrily--"not a word of it.

There

must

be some honest people in the world who don't consider

that money is everything. You know there must be, beautiful!"

The poet laughed. "That," said he, affably, "is poppycock. You are

repeating the sort of thing I said to you yesterday. I am honest now.

The best of us, Margaret, cannot help being impressed by the power of

money. It is the greatest power in the world, and we cannot--cannot

possibly--look upon rich people as being quite like us. We must

toady to them a bit, Margaret, whether we want to or not. The Eagle

intimidates us all."

"I

hate

him!" Miss Hugonin announced, with vehemence.

Kennaston searched his pockets. After a moment he produced a dollar

bill and showed her the Eagle on it.

"There," he said, gravely, "is the original of the Woods Eagle--the

Eagle that intimidates us all. Do you remember what Shakespeare--one

always harks back to Shakespeare to clinch an argument, because not

even our foremost actors have been able to conceal the fact that he

was, as somebody in Dickens acutely points out, 'a dayvilish clever

fellow'--do you remember. I say, what Shakespeare observes as to this

very Eagle?"

Miss Hugonin shook her little head till it glittered in the sunlight

like a topaz. She cared no more for Shakespeare than the average woman

does, and she was never quite comfortable when he was alluded to.

"He says," Mr. Kennaston quoted, solemnly:

"The Eagle suffers little birds to sing,

And is not careful what they mean thereby,

Knowing that with the shadow of his wing

He can at pleasure still their melody."

"That's nonsense," said Margaret, calmly. "I haven't the

least

idea

what you're talking about, and I don't believe you have either."

He waved the dollar bill with a heroical gesture. "Here," he asserted,

"is the Eagle. And by the little birds, I have not a doubt he meant

charity and independence and kindliness and truth and the rest of the

standard virtues. That is quite as plausible as the interpretation of

the average commentator. The presence of money chills these little

birds--ah, it is lamentable, no doubt, but it is true."

"I don't believe it," said Margaret--quite as if that settled the

question.

But now his hobby, rowelled by opposition, was spurred to loftier

flights.

"Ah, the power of these great fortunes America has bred is monstrous,"

he suddenly cried. "And always they work for evil. If I were ever to

write a melodrama, Margaret, I could wish for no more thorough-paced

villain than a large fortune." Kennaston paused and laughed grimly.

"We cringe to the Eagle!" said he. "Eh, well, why not? The Eagle is

very powerful and very cruel. In the South yonder, the Eagle has

penned over a million children in his factories, where day by day he

drains the youth and health and very life out of their tired bodies;

in sweat-shops, men and women are toiling for the Eagle, giving their

lives for the pittance that he grudges them; in countless mines and

mills, the Eagle is trading human lives for coal and flour; in

Wall Street yonder, the Eagle is juggling as he will with life's

necessities--thieving from the farmer, thieving from the consumer,

thieving from the poor fools who try to play the Eagle's game, and

driving them at will to despair and ruin and death: look whither you

may, men die that the Eagle may grow fat. So the Eagle thrives, and

daily the rich grow richer and the poor grow poorer, and the end----"

Kennaston paused, staring into vacancy. "Eh, well," said he, with a

smile and a snap of his fingers, "the end rests upon the knees of

the gods. But there must need be an end some day. And meanwhile, you

cannot blame us if we cringe to the Eagle that is master of the world.

It is human nature to cringe to its master; and while human nature

is not always an admirable thing, it is, I believe, rather widely

distributed."

Margaret did not return the smile. Like any sensible woman, she never

tolerated opinions that differed from her own.

So she waved his preachment aside. "You're trying to be eloquent," was

her observation, "and you've only succeeded in being very silly and

tiresome. Go away, beautiful. You make me awfully tired, and I don't

care for you in the least. Go and talk to Kathleen. I shall be

here--on this very spot," Margaret added, with commendable precision

and an unaccountable increase of colour, "if--if any one should happen

to ask."

Then Kennaston rose and laughed merrily.

"You are quite delicious," he commented. "It will always be a

grief and a puzzle to me that I am not mad for love of you. It is

unreasonable of me," he complained, sadly, and shook his head, "but I

prefer Kathleen. And I am quite certain that somebody will ask where

you are. I shall describe to him the exact spot--"

Mr. Kennaston paused, with a slight air of apology.

"If I were you," he suggested, pleasantly, "I would move a

little--just a little--to the left. That will enable you to obtain to

a fuller extent the benefit of the sunbeam which is falling--quite

by accident, of course--upon your hair. You are perfectly right,

Margaret, in selecting that hedge as a background. Its sombre green

sets you off to perfection."

He went away chuckling. He felt that Margaret must think him a devil

of a fellow.

She didn't, though.

"The

idea

of his suspecting me of such unconscionable vanity!" she

said, properly offended. Then, "Anyhow, a man has no business to know

about such things," she continued, with rising indignation. "I believe

Felix Kennaston is as good a judge of chiffons as any woman. That's

effeminate, I think, and catty and absurd. I don't believe I ever

liked him--not really, that is. Now, what would Billy care about

sunbeams and backgrounds, I'd like to know! He'd never even notice

them. Billy is a

man

. Why, that's just what father said yesterday!"

Margaret cried, and afterward laughed happily. "I suppose old people

are right sometimes--but, dear, dear, they're terribly unreasonable at

others!"

Having thus uttered the ancient, undying plaint of youth, Miss Hugonin

moved a matter of two inches to the left, and smiled, and waited

contentedly. It was barely possible some one might come that way; and

it is always a comfort to know that one is not exactly repulsive in

appearance.

Also, there was the spring about her; and, chief of all, there was a

queer fluttering in her heart that was yet not unpleasant. In fine,

she was unreasonably happy for no reason at all.

I believe the foolish poets call this feeling love and swear it

is divine; however, they will say anything for the sake of an