EAGLE'S SHADOW (continued 3)

ear-tickling jingle. And while it is true that scientists have any

number of plausible and interesting explanations for this same

feeling, I am sorry to say I have forgotten them.

I am compelled, then, to fall back upon those same unreliable,

irresponsible rhymesters, and to insist with them that a maid waiting

in the springtide for the man she loves is necessarily happy and very

rarely puzzles her head over the scientific reason for it.

XXI

But ten minutes later she saw Mr. Woods in the distance striding

across the sunlit terraces, and was seized with a conviction that

their interview was likely to prove a stormy one. There was an ominous

stiffness in his gait.

"Oh, dear, dear!" Miss Hugonin wailed; "he's in a temper now, and

he'll probably be just as disagreeable as it's possible for any one

to be. I do wish men weren't so unreasonable! He looks exactly like a

big, blue-eyed thunder-cloud just now--just now, when I'm sure he has

every cause in the

world

to be very much pleased--after all

I've done for him. He makes me awfully tired. I think he's

very ungrateful

. I--I think I'm rather afraid."

In fact, she was. Now that the meeting she had anticipated these

twelve hours past was actually at hand, there woke in her breast an

unreasoning panic. Miss Hugonin considered, and caught up her skirts,

and whisked into the summer-house, and there sat down in the darkest

corner and devoutly wished Mr. Woods in Crim Tartary, or Jericho, or,

in a word, any region other than the gardens of Selwoode.

Billy came presently to the opening in the hedge and stared at the

deserted bench. He was undeniably in a temper. But, then, how becoming

it was! thought someone.

"Miss Hugonin!" he said, coldly.

Evidently (thought someone) he intends to be just as nasty as

possible.

"Peggy!" said Mr. Woods, after a little.

Perhaps (thought someone) he won't be

very

nasty.

"Dear Peggy!" said Mr. Woods, in his most conciliatory tone.

Someone rearranged her hair complacently.

But there was no answer, save the irresponsible chattering of the

birds, and with a sigh Billy turned upon his heel.

Then, by the oddest chance in the world, Margaret coughed.

I dare say it was damp in the summer-house; or perhaps it was caused

by some passing bronchial irritation; or perhaps, incredible as it may

seem, she coughed to show him where she was. But I scarcely think so,

because Margaret insisted afterward--very positively, too--that she

didn't cough at all.

XXII

"Well!" Mr. Woods observed, lengthening the word somewhat.

In the intimate half-light of the summer-house, he loomed prodigiously

big. He was gazing downward in careful consideration of three fat

tortoise-shell pins and a surprising quantity of gold hair, which was

practically all that he could see of Miss Hugonin's person; for that

young lady had suddenly become a limp mass of abashed violet ruffles,

and had discovered new and irresistible attractions in the mosaics

about her feet.

Billy's arms were crossed on his breast and his right hand caressed

his chin meditatively. By and bye, "I wonder, now," he reflected,

aloud, "if you can give any reason--any possible reason--why you

shouldn't be locked up in the nearest sanatorium?"

"You needn't be rude, you know," a voice observed from the

neighbourhood of the ruffles, "because there isn't anything you can do

about it."

Mr. Woods ventured a series of inarticulate observations. "But why?"

he concluded, desperately. "But why, Peggy?--in Heaven's name, what's

the meaning of all this?"

She looked up. Billy was aware of two large blue stars; his heart

leapt; and then he recalled a pair of gray-green eyes that had

regarded him in much the same fashion not long ago, and he groaned.

"I was unfair to you last night," she said, and the ring of her odd,

deep voice, and the richness and sweetness of it, moved him to faint

longing, to a sick heart-hunger. It was tremulous, too, and very

tender. "Yes, I was unutterably unfair, Billy. You asked me to marry

you when you thought I was a beggar, and--and Uncle Fred

ought

to

have left you the money. It was on account of me that he didn't, you

know. I really owed it to you. And after the way I talked to you--so

long as I had the money--I--and, anyhow, its very disagreeable and

eccentric and

horrid

of you to object to being rich!" Margaret

concluded, somewhat incoherently.

She had not thought it would be like this. He seemed so stern.

But, "Isn't that exactly like her?" Mr. Woods was demanding of his

soul. "She thinks she has been unfair to me--to me, whom she doesn't

care a button for, mind you. So she hands over a fortune to make up

for it, simply because that's the first means that comes to hand! Now,

isn't that perfectly unreasonable, and fantastic, and magnificent, and

incredible?--in short, isn't that Peggy all over? Why, God bless her,

her heart's bigger than a barn-door! Oh, it's no wonder that fellow

Kennaston was grinning just now when he sent me to her! He can afford

to grin."

Aloud, he stated, "You're an angel, Peggy that's what you are. I've

always suspected it, and I'm glad to know it now for a fact. But in

this prosaic world not even angels are allowed to burn up wills for

recreation. Why, bless my soul, child, you--why, there's no telling

what trouble you might have gotten into!"

Miss Hugonin pouted. "You needn't be such a grandfather," she

suggested, helpfully.

"But it's a serious business," he insisted. At this point Billy began

to object to her pouting as distracting one's mind from the subject

under discussion. "It--why, it's----"

"It's what?" she pouted, even more rebelliously.

"Crimson," said Mr. Woods, considering--"oh, the very deepest,

duskiest crimson such as you can't get in tubes. It's a colour was

never mixed on any palette. It's--eh? Oh, I beg your pardon."

"I think you ought to," said Margaret, primly. Nevertheless, she had

brightened considerably.

"Of course," Mr. Woods continued with a fine colour, "I can't take the

money. That's absurd."

"Is it?" she queried, idly. "Now, I wonder how you're going to help

yourself?"

"Simplest thing in the world," he assured her. "You see this match,

don't you, Peggy? Well, now you're going to give me that paper I see

in that bag-thing at your waist, and I'm going to burn it till it's

all nice, soft, feathery ashes that can't ever be probated. And then

the first will, which is practically the same as the last, will be

allowed to stand, and I'll tell your father all about the affair,

because he ought to know, and you'll have to settle with those

colleges. And in that way," Mr. Woods submitted, "Uncle Fred's last

wishes will be carried out just as he expressed them, and there

needn't be any trouble--none at all. So give me the will, Peggy?"

It is curious what a trivial matter love makes of felony.

Margaret's heart sank.

However, "Yes?" said she, encouragingly; "and what do you intend doing

afterward?--"

"I--I shall probably live abroad," said Billy. "Cheaper, you know."

[Illustration: "Miss Hugonin pouted. 'You needn't be such a

grandfather,' she suggested, helpfully"]

And here (he thought) was an excellent, an undreamed-of opportunity to

inform her of his engagement. He had much better tell her now and have

done. Mr. Woods opened his mouth and looked at Margaret, and closed

it. Again she was pouting in a fashion that distracted one's mind.

"That would be most unattractive," said Miss Hugonin, calmly. "You're

very stupid, Billy, to think of living abroad. Billy, I think you're

almost as stupid as I am. I've been very stupid, Billy. I thought I

liked Mr. Kennaston. I don't, Billy--not that way. I've just told him

so. I'm not--I'm not engaged to anybody now, Billy. But wasn't it

stupid of me to make such a mistake, Billy?"

That was a very interesting mosaic there in the summer-house.

"I don't understand," said Mr. Woods. His voice shook, and his hands

lifted a little toward her and trembled.

Poor Billy dared not understand. Her eyes downcast, her foot tapping

the floor gently, Margaret was all one blush. She, too, was trembling

a little, and she was a little afraid and quite unutterably happy; and

outwardly she was very much the tiny lady of Oberon's court, very much

the coquette quintessentialised.

It is pitiable that our proud Margaret should come to such a pass. Ah,

the men that you have flouted and scorned and bedeviled and mocked at,

Margaret--could they see you now, I think the basest of them could

not but pity and worship you. This man is bound in honour to another

woman; yet a little, and his lips will open--very dry, parched lips

they are now--and he will tell you, and your pride will drive you mad,

and your heart come near to breaking.

"Don't you understand--oh, you silly Billy!" She was peeping at him

meltingly from under her lashes.

"I--I'm imagining vain things," said Mr. Woods. "I--oh, Peggy, Peggy,

I think I must be going mad!"

He stared hungrily at the pink, startled face that lifted toward his.

Ah, no, no, it could not be possible, this thing he had imagined for a

moment. He had misunderstood.

And now just for a little (thought poor Billy) let my eyes drink in

those dear felicities of colour and curve, and meet just for a little

the splendour of those eyes that have the April in them, and rest just

for a little upon that sanguine, close-grained, petulant mouth; and

then I will tell her, and then I think that I must die.

"Peggy----" he began, in a flattish voice.

"They have evidently gone," said the voice of Mr. Kennaston; "yes,

those beautiful, happy young people have foolishly deserted the very

prettiest spot in the gardens. Let us sit here, Kathleen."

"But I'm not an eavesdropper," Mr. Woods protested, half angrily.

I fear Margaret was not properly impressed.

"Please, Billy," she pleaded, in a shrill whisper, "please let's

listen. He's going to propose to her now, and you've no idea how

funny he is when he proposes. Oh, don't be so pokey, Billy--do let's

listen!"

But Mr. Woods had risen with a strange celerity and was about to leave

the summer-house.

Margaret pouted. Mrs. Saumarez and Mr. Kennaston were seated not

twenty feet from the summer-house, on the bench which Miss Hugonin had

just left. And when that unprincipled young woman finally rose to her

feet, it must be confessed that it was with a toss of the head and

with the reflection that while to listen wasn't honourable, it would

at least be very amusing. I grieve to admit it, but with Billy's

scruples she hadn't the slightest sympathy.

Then Kennaston cried, suddenly: "Why, you're mad, Kathleen! Woods

wants to marry

you

! Why, he's heels over head in love with Miss

Hugonin!"

Miss Hugonin turned to Mr. Woods with a little intake of the breath.

No, I shall not attempt to tell you what Billy saw in her countenance.

Timanthes-like, I drape before it the vines of the summer-house. For

a brief space I think we had best betake ourselves outside,

leaving Margaret in a very pitiable state of anger, and shame, and

humiliation, and heartbreak--leaving poor Billy with a heart that

ached, seeing the horror of him in her face.

XXIII

Mrs. Saumarez laughed bitterly.

"No," she said, "Billy cared for me, you know, a long time ago. And

this morning he told me he still cared. Billy doesn't pretend to be

a clever man, you see, and so he can afford to practice some of the

brute virtues, such as constancy and fidelity."

There was a challenging flame in her eyes, but Kennaston let the stab

pass unnoticed. To do him justice, he was thinking less of himself,

just now, than of how this news would affect Margaret; and his face

was very grave and strangely tender, for in his own fashion he loved

Margaret.

"It's nasty, very nasty," he said, at length, in a voice that was

puzzled. "Yet I could have sworn yesterday----" Kennaston paused and

laughed lightly. "She was an heiress yesterday, and to-day she is

nobody. And Mr. Woods, being wealthy, can afford to gratify the

virtues you commend so highly and, with a fidelity that is most

edifying, return again to his old love. And she welcomes him--and the

Woods millions--with open arms. It is quite affecting, is it not,

Kathleen?"

"You needn't be disagreeable," she observed.

"My dear Kathleen, I assure you I am not angry. I am merely a little

sorry for human nature. I could have sworn Woods was honest. But

rogues all, rogues all, Kathleen! Money rules us in the end; and now

the parable is fulfilled, and Love the prodigal returns to make merry

over the calf of gold. Confess," Mr. Kennaston queried, with a smile,

"is it not strange an all-wise Creator should have been at pains to

fashion this brave world about us for little men and women such as

we to lie and pilfer in? Was it worth while, think you, to arch the

firmament above our rogueries, and light the ageless stars as candles

to display our antics? Let us be frank, Kathleen, and confess that

life is but a trivial farce ignobly played in a very stately temple."

And Mr. Kennaston laughed again.

"Let us be frank!" Kathleen cried, with a little catch in her voice.

"Why, it isn't in you to be frank, Felix Kennaston! Your life is

nothing but a succession of poses--shallow, foolish poses meant

to hoodwink the world and at times yourself. For you do hoodwink

yourself, don't you, Felix?" she asked, eagerly, and gave him no time

to answer. She feared, you see, lest his answer might dilapidate the

one fortress she had been able to build about his honour.

"And now," she went on, quickly, "you're trying to make me think you a

devil of a fellow, aren't you? And you're hinting that I've accepted

Billy because of his money, aren't you? Well, it is true that I

wouldn't marry him if he were poor. But he's very far from being poor.

And he cares for me. And I am fond of him. And so I shall marry him

and make him as good a wife as I can. So there!"

Mrs. Saumarez faced him with an uneasy defiance. He was smiling oddly.

"I have heard it rumoured in many foolish tales and jingling verses,"

said Kennaston, after a little, "that a thing called love exists in

the world. And I have also heard, Kathleen, that it sometimes enters

into the question of marriage. It appears that I was misinformed."

"No," she answered, slowly, "there is a thing called love. I think

women are none the better for knowing it. To a woman, it means to take

some man--some utterly commonplace man, perhaps--perhaps, only an idle

poseur

such as you are, Felix--and to set him up on a pedestal, and

to bow down and worship him; and to protest loudly, both to the world

and to herself, that in spite of all appearances her idol really

hasn't feet of clay, or that, at any rate, it is the very nicest clay

in the world. For a time she deceives herself, Felix. Then the idol

topples from the pedestal and is broken, and she sees that it is all

clay, Felix--clay through and through--and her heart breaks with it."

Kennaston bowed his head. "It is true," said he; "that is the love of

women."

"To a man," she went on, dully, "it means to take some woman--the

nearest woman who isn't actually deformed--and to make pretty speeches

to her and to make her love him. And after a while--" Kathleen

shrugged her shoulders drearily. "Why, after a while," said she, "he

grows tired and looks for some other woman."

"It is true," said Kennaston--"yes, very true that some men love in

that fashion."

There ensued a silence. It was a long silence, and under the tension

of it Kathleen's composure snapped like a cord that has been stretched

to the breaking point.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she cried, suddenly; "that is how I have loved you

and that is how you've loved me, Felix Kennaston! Ah, Billy told me

what happened last night! And that--that was why I--" Mrs. Saumarez

paused and regarded him curiously. "You don't make a very noble

figure, just now, do you?" she asked, with careful deliberation. "You

were ready to sell yourself for Miss Hugonin's money, weren't you? And

now you must take her without the money. Poor Felix! Ah, you poor,

petty liar, who've over-reached yourself so utterly!" And again

Kathleen began to laugh, but somewhat shrilly, somewhat hysterically.

"You are wrong," he said, with a flush. "It is true that I asked Miss

Hugonin to marry me. But she--very wisely, I dare say--declined."

"Ah!" Kathleen said, slowly. Then--and it will not do to inquire too

closely into her logic--she spoke with considerable sharpness: "She's

a conceited little cat! I never in all my life knew a girl to be quite

so conceited as she is. Positively, I don't believe she thinks there's

a man breathing who's good enough for her!"

Kennaston grinned. "Oh, Kathleen, Kathleen!" he said; "you are simply

delicious."

And Mrs. Saumarez coloured prettily and tried to look severe and

could not, for the simple reason that, while she knew Kennaston to be

flippant and weak and unstable as water and generally worthless, yet

for some occult cause she loved him as tenderly as though he had been

a paragon of all the manly virtues. And I dare say that for many of us

it is by a very kindly provision of Nature that all women are created

capable of doing this illogical thing and that most of them do it

daily.

"It is true," the poet said, at length, "that I have played no heroic

part. And I don't question, Kathleen, that I am all you think me. Yet,

such as I am, I love you. And such as I am, you love me, and it is I

that you are going to marry, and not that Woods person."

"He's worth ten of you!" she cried, scornfully.

"Twenty of me, perhaps," Mr. Kennaston assented, "but that isn't the

question. You don't love him, Kathleen. You are about to marry him for

his money. You are about to do what I thought to do yesterday. But you

won't, Kathleen. You know that I need you, my dear, and--unreasonably

enough, God knows--you love me."

Mrs. Saumarez regarded him intently for a considerable space, and

during that space the Eagle warred in her heart with the one foe

he can never conquer. Love had a worthless ally; but Love fought

staunchly.

By and bye, "Yes," she said, and her voice was almost sullen; "I love

you. I ought to love Billy, but I don't. I shall ask him to release me

from my engagement. And yes, I will marry you if you like."

He raised her hand to his lips. "You are an angel," Mr. Kennaston was

pleased to say.

"No," Mrs. Saumarez dissented, rather forlornly; "I'm simply a fool.

Otherwise, I wouldn't be about to marry you, knowing you as I do for

what you are--knowing that I haven't one chance in a hundred of any

happiness."

"My dear," he said, and his voice was earnest, "you know at least that

what there is of good in me is at its best with you."

"Yes, yes!" Kathleen cried, quickly. "That is so, isn't it, Felix?

And you do care for me, don't you? Felix, are you sure you care for

me--quite sure? And are you quite certain, Felix, that you never cared

so much for any one else?"

Mr. Kennaston was quite certain. He proceeded to explain his feelings

toward her at some length.

Kathleen listened with downcast eyes and almost cheated herself into

the belief that the man she loved was all that he should be. But at

the bottom of her heart she knew he wasn't.

I think we may fairly pity her.

Kennaston and Mrs. Saumarez chatted very amicably for some ten

minutes. At the end of that period, the twelve forty-five express

bellowing faintly in the distance recalled the fact that the morning

mail was in, and thereupon, in the very best of humours, they set

out for the house. I grieve to admit it, but Kathleen had utterly

forgotten Billy by this, and was no more thinking of him than she was

of the Man in the Iron Mask.

She was with Kennaston, you see; and her thoughts, and glances, and

lips, and adoration were all given to his pleasuring, just as her life

would have been if its loss could have saved him from a toothache. He

strutted a little, and was a little grateful to her, and--to do

him justice--received the tribute she accorded him with perfect

satisfaction and equanimity.

XXIV

Margaret came out of the summer-house, Billy Woods followed her, in a

very moist state of perturbation.

"Peggy----" said Mr. Woods.

But Miss Hugonin was laughing. Clear as a bird-call, she poured forth

her rippling mimicry of mirth. They train women well in these matters.

To Margaret, just now, her heart seemed dead within her. Her lover was

proved unworthy. Her pride was shattered. She had loved this clumsy

liar yonder, had given up a fortune for him, dared all for him, had

(as the phrase runs) flung herself at his head. The shame of it was a

physical sickness, a nausea. But now, in this jumble of miseries, in

this breaking-up of the earth and the void heavens that surged about

her and would not be mastered, the girl laughed; and her laughter was

care-free and half-languid like that of a child who is thinking of

something else. Ah, yes, they train women well in these matters.

At length Margaret said, in high, crisp accents: "Pardon me, but I

can't help being amused, Mr. Woods, by the way in which hard luck

dogs your footsteps. I think Fate must have some grudge against you,

Mr. Woods."

"Peggy----" said Mr. Woods.

"Pardon me," she interrupted him, her masculine little chin high in

the air, "but I wish you wouldn't call me that. It was well enough

when we were boy and girl together, Mr. Woods. But you've developed

since--ah, yes, you've developed into such a splendid actor, such a

consummate liar, such a clever scoundrel, Mr. Woods, that I scarcely

recognise you now."

And there was not a spark of anger in the very darkest corner of

Billy's big, brave heart, but only pity--pity all through and through,

that sent little icy ticklings up and down his spine and turned his

breathing to great sobs. For she had turned full face to him and he

could see the look in her eyes.

I think he has never forgotten it. Years after the memory of it would

come upon him suddenly and set hot drenching waves of shame and

remorse surging about his body--remorse unutterable that he ever hurt

his Peggy so deeply. For they were tragic eyes. Beneath them her

twitching mouth smiled bravely, but the mirth of her eyes was

monstrous. It was the mirth of a beaten woman, of a woman who has

known the last extreme of shame and misery and has learned to laugh at

it. Even now Billy Woods cannot quite forget.

"Peggy," said he, brokenly, "ah, dear, dear Peggy, listen to me!"

"Why, have you thought of a plausible lie so soon?" she queried,

sweetly. "Dear me, Mr. Woods, what is the use of explaining things? It

is very simple. You wanted to marry me last night because I was rich.

And when I declined the honour, you went back to your old love. Oh,

it's very simple, Mr. Woods! It's a pity, though--isn't it?--that all

your promptness went for nothing. Why, dear me, you actually managed

to propose before breakfast, didn't you? I should have thought that

such eagerness would have made an impression on Kathleen--oh, a most

favourable impression. Too bad it hasn't!"

"Listen!" said Billy. "Ah, you're forcing me to talk like a cad,

Peggy, but I can't see you suffer--I can't! Kathleen misunderstood

what I said to her. I--I didn't mean to propose to her, Peggy. It was

a mistake, I tell you. It's you I love--just you. And when I asked you

to marry me last night--why, I thought the money was mine, Peggy.

I'd never have asked you if I hadn't thought that. I--ah, you don't

believe me, you don't believe me, Peggy, and before God, I'm telling

you the simple truth! Why, I hadn't ever seen that last will, Peggy!

It was locked up in that centre place in the desk, you remember.

Why--why, you yourself had the keys to it, Peggy. Surely, you

remember, dear?" And Billy's voice shook and skipped whole octaves as

he pleaded with her, for he knew she did not believe him and he could

not endure the horror of her eyes.

But Margaret shook her head; and as aforetime the twitching lips

continued to laugh beneath those tragic eyes. Ah, poor little lady of

Elfland! poor little Undine, with a soul wakened to suffering!

"Clumsy, very clumsy!" she rebuked him. "I see that you are accustomed

to prepare your lies in advance, Mr. Woods. As an extemporaneous liar

you are very clumsy. Men don't propose by mistake except in farces.

And while we are speaking of farces, don't you think it time to drop

that one of your not knowing about that last will?"

"The farce!" Billy stammered. "You--why, you saw me when I found it!"

"Ah, yes, I saw you when you pretended to find it. I saw you when you

pretended to unlock that centre place. But now, of course, I know it

never was locked. I'm very careless about locking things, Mr. Woods.

Ah, yes, that gave you a beautiful opportunity, didn't it? So, when

you were rummaging through my desk--without my permission, by the way,

but that's a detail--you found both wills and concocted your little

comedy? That was very clever. Oh, you think you're awfully smooth,

don't you, Billy Woods? But if you had been a bit more daring, don't

you see, you could have suppressed the last one and taken the money

without being encumbered by me? That was rather clumsy of you, wasn't

it?" Suave, gentle, sweet as honey was the speech of Margaret as she

lifted her face to his, but her eyes were tragedies.

"Ah!" said Billy. "Ah--yes--you think--that." He was very careful in

articulating his words, was Billy, and afterward he nodded his head

gravely. The universe had somehow suffered an airy dissolution like

that of Prospero's masque--Selwoode and its gardens, the great globe

itself, "the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn

temples" were all as vanished wraiths. There was only Peggy left--

Peggy with that unimaginable misery in her eyes that he must drive

away somehow. If that was what she thought, there was no way for him

to prove it wasn't so.

"Why, dear me, Mr. Woods," she retorted, carelessly, "what else could

I think?"

Here Mr. Woods blundered.

"Ah, think what you will, Peggy!" he cried, his big voice cracking and

sobbing and resonant with pain. "Ah, my dear, think what you will, but

don't grieve for it, Peggy! Why, if I'm all you say I am, that's no

reason you should suffer for it! Ah, don't, Peggy! In God's name,

don't! I can't bear it, dear," he pleaded with her, helplessly.

Billy was suffering, too. But her sorrow was the chief of his, and

what stung him now to impotent anger was that she must suffer and he

be unable to help her--for, ah, how willingly, how gladly, he would

have borne all poor Peggy's woes upon his own broad shoulders.

But none the less, he had lost an invaluable opportunity to hold his

tongue.

"Suffer! I suffer!" she mocked him, languidly; and then, like a

banjo-string, the tension snapped, and she gave a long, angry gasp,

and her wrath flamed.

"Upon my word, you're the most conceited man I ever knew in my life!

You think I'm in love with you! With you! Billy Woods, I wouldn't wipe

my feet on you if you were the last man left on earth! I hate you, I

loathe you, I detest you, I despise you! Do you hear me?--I hate you.

What do I care if you

are

a snob, and a cad, and a fortune-hunter,

and a forger, and--well, I don't care! Perhaps you haven't ever

forged anything yet, but I'm quite sure you would if you ever got an

opportunity. You'd be delighted to do it. Yes, you would--you're just

the sort of man who

revels

in crime. I love you! Why, that's the

best joke I've heard for a long time. I'm only sorry for you, Billy

Woods--

sorry

because Kathleen has thrown you over--sorry, do you

understand? Yes, since you're so fond of skinny women, I think it's a

great pity she wouldn't have you. Don't talk to me!--she

is

skinny.

I guess I know. She's as skinny as a beanpole. She's skinnier than I

ever imagined it possible for anybody--

anybody

--to be. And she

pads and rouges till I think it's disgusting, and not half--not

one-half

--of her hair belongs to her, and that half is dyed. But,

of course, if you like that sort of thing, there's no accounting for

tastes, and I'm sure I'm very sorry for you, even though personally I

don't

care for skinny women. I hate 'em! And I hate you, too, Billy

Woods!"

She stamped her foot, did Margaret. You must bear with her, for her

heart is breaking now, and if she has become a termagant it is because

her shamed pride has driven her mad. Bear with her, then, a little

longer.

Billy tried to bear with her, for in part he understood.

"Peggy," said he, very gently, "you're wrong."

"Yes, I dare say!" she snapped at him.

"We won't discuss Kathleen, if you please. But you're wrong about the

will. I've told you the whole truth about that, but I don't blame you

for not believing me, Peggy--ah, no, not I. There seems to be a curse

upon Uncle Fred's money. It brings out the worst of all of us. It has

changed even you, Peggy--and not for the better, Peggy. You've become

distrustful. You--ah, well, we won't discuss that now. Give me the

will, my dear, and I'll burn it before your eyes. That ought to show

you, Peggy, that you're wrong." Billy was very white-lipped as he

ended, for the Woods temper is a short one.

But she had an arrow left for him. "Give it to you! And do you think

I'd trust you with it, Billy Woods?"

"Peggy!--ah, Peggy, I hadn't deserved that. Be just, at least, to me,"

poor Billy begged of her.

Which was an absurd thing to ask of an angry woman.

"Yes, I

do

know what you'd do with it! You'd take it right off and

have it probated or executed or whatever it is they do to wills, and

turn me straight out in the gutter. That's just what you're

longing

to do this very moment. Oh, I know, Billy Woods--I know what a temper

you've got, and I know you're keeping quiet now simply because you

know that's the most exasperating thing you can possibly do. I

wouldn't have such a disposition as you've got for the world. You've

absolutely

no

control over your temper--not a bit of it. You're

vile

, Billy Woods! Oh, I

hate

you! Yes, you've made me cry, and I

suppose you're very proud of yourself.

Aren't

you proud? Don't stand

staring at me like a stuck pig, but answer me when I talk to you!

Aren't you

proud

of making me cry? Aren't you? Ah, don't talk to

me--don't talk to

me

, I tell you! I don't wish to hear a word you've

got to say. I

hate

you. And you shan't have the money, that's flat."

"I don't want it," said Billy. "I've been trying to tell you for the

last, half-hour I don't want it. In God's name, why can't you talk

like a sensible woman, Peggy?" I am afraid that Mr. Woods, too, was

beginning to lose his temper.

"That's right--swear at me! It only needed that. You do want the

money, and when you say you don't you're lying--lying--

lying

, do you

understand? You all want my money. Oh, dear,

dear

!" Margaret wailed,

and her great voice was shaken to its depths and its sobbing was the

long, hopeless sobbing of a violin, as she flung back her tear-stained

face, and clenched her little hands tight at her sides; "why

can't

you let me alone? You're all after my money--you, and Mr. Kennaston,

and Mr. Jukesbury, and all of you! Why

can't

you let me alone? Ever

since I've had it you've hunted me as if I'd been a wild beast. God

help me, I haven't had a moment's peace, a moment's rest, a, moment's

quiet, since Uncle Fred died. They all want my money--everybody wants

my money! Oh, Billy, Billy, why

can't

they let me alone?"

"Peggy----" said he.

But she interrupted him. "Don't talk to

me

, Billy Woods! Don't you

dare

talk to me. I told you I didn't wish to hear a word you had to

say, didn't I? Yes, you all want my money. And you shan't have it.

It's mine. Uncle Fred left it to me. It's mine, I tell you. I've got

the greatest thing in the world--money! And I'll keep it. Ah, I hate

you all--every one of you--but I'll make you cringe to me. I'll make

you

all

cringe, do you hear, because I've got the money you're ready

to sell your paltry souls for! Oh, I'll make you cringe most of all,

Billy Woods! I'm rich, do you hear?--rich--

rich

! Wouldn't you be

glad to marry the rich Margaret Hugonin, Billy? Ah, haven't you

schemed hard for that? You'd be glad to do it, wouldn't you? You'd

give your dirty little soul for that, wouldn't you, Billy? Ah, what a

cur you are! Well, some day perhaps I'll buy you just as I would any

other cur. Wouldn't you be glad if I did, Billy? Beg for it, Billy!

Beg, sir! Beg!" And Margaret flung back her head again, and laughed

shrilly, and held up her hand before him as one holds a lump of sugar

before a pug-dog.

In Selwoode I can fancy how the Eagle screamed his triumph.

But Billy's face was ashen.

"Before God!" he said, between his teeth, "loving you as I do, I

wouldn't marry you now for all the wealth in the world! The money has

ruined you--ruined you, Peggy."

For a little she stared at him. By and bye, "I dare say it has," she

said, in a strangely sober tone. "I've been scolding like a fishwife.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Woods--not for what I've said, because I meant

every

word

of it, but I beg your pardon for saying it. Don't come

with me, please."

Blindly she turned from him. Her shoulders had the droop of an old

woman's. Margaret was wearied now, weary with the weariness of death.

For a while Mr. Woods stared after the tired little figure that

trudged straight onward in the sunlight, stumbling as she went. Then a

pleached walk swallowed her, and Mr. Woods groaned.

"Oh, Peggy, Peggy!" he said, in bottomless compassion; "oh, my poor

little Peggy! How changed you are!"

Afterward Mr. Woods sank down upon the bench and buried his face in

his hands. He sat there for a long time. I don't believe he thought

of anything very clearly. His mind was a turgid chaos of misery; and

about him the birds shrilled and quavered and carolled till the air

was vibrant with their trilling. One might have thought they choired

in honour of the Eagle's triumph, in mockery of poor Billy.

Then Mr. Woods raised his head with a queer, alert look. Surely he had

heard a voice--the dearest of all voices.

"Billy!" it wailed; "oh, Billy,

Billy

!"

XXV

For at the height of this particularly mischancy posture of affairs

the meddlesome Fates had elected to dispatch Cock-eye Flinks to serve

as our

deus ex machina

. And just as in the comedy the police turn

up in the nick of time to fetch Tartuffe to prison, or in the tragedy

Friar John manages to be detained on his journey to Mantua and thus

bring about that lamentable business in the tomb of the Capulets, so

Mr. Flinks now happens inopportunely to arrive upon our lesser stage.

Faithfully to narrate how Cock-eye Flinks chanced to be at Selwoode

were a task of magnitude. That gentleman travelled very quietly; and

for the most part, he journeyed incognito under a variety of aliases

suggested partly by a fertile imagination and in part by prudential

motives. For his notions of proprietary rights were deplorably vague,

and his acquaintance with the police, in consequence, extensive. And

finally, that he was now at Selwoode was not in the least his fault,

but all the doing of an N. and O. brakesman, who had in uncultured

argument, reinforced by a coupling-pin, persuaded Mr. Flinks to

disembark from the northern freight on the night previous.

Mr. Flinks, then, sat leaning against a tree in the gardens of

Selwoode, some thirty feet from the wall that stands between Selwoode

and Gridlington, and nursed his pride and foot, both injured in that

high debate of last evening, and with a jackknife rounded off the top

of a substantial staff designed to alleviate his present lameness.

Meanwhile, he tempered his solitude with music, whistling melodiously

the air of a song that pertained to the sacredness of home and of a

white-haired mother.

Subsequently to Cock-eye Flinks (as the playbill has it), enter a

vision in violet ruffles.

Wide-eyed, she came upon him in her misery, steadily trudging toward

an unknown goal. I think he startled her a bit. Indeed, it must be

admitted that Mr. Flinks, while a man of undoubted talent in his

particular line of business, was, like many of your great geniuses, in

outward aspect unprepossessing and misleading; for whereas he looked

like a very shiftless and very dirty tramp, he was as a matter of fact

as vile a rascal as ever pawned a swinish soul for whiskey.

"What are you doing here?" said Margaret, sharply. "Don't you know

this is private property?"

To his feet rose Cock-eye Flinks. "Lady," said he, with humbleness,

"you wouldn't be hard on a poor workingman, would you? It ain't my

fault I'm here, lady--at least, it ain't rightly my fault. I just

climbed over the wall to rest a minute--just a minute, lady, in the

shade of these beautiful trees. I ain't a-hurting nobody by that,

lady, I hope."

"Well, you had no business to do it," Miss Hugonin pointed out, "and

you can just climb right back." Then she regarded him more intently,

and her face softened somewhat. "What's the matter with your foot?"

she demanded.

"Brakesman," said Mr. Flinks, briefly. "Threw me off a train. He

struck me cruel hard, he did, and me a poor workingman trying to make

my way to New York, lady, where my poor old mother's dying, lady, and

me out of a job. Ah, it's a hard, hard world, lady--and me her only

son--and he struck me cruel, cruel hard, he did, but I forgive him for

it, lady. Ah, lady, you're so beautiful I know you're got a kind, good

heart, lady. Can't you do something for a poor workingman, lady, with

a poor dying mother--and a poor, sick wife," Mr. Flinks added as a

dolorous afterthought; and drew nearer to her and held out one hand

appealingly.

Petheridge Jukesbury had at divers times pointed out to her the evils

of promiscuous charity, and these dicta Margaret parroted glibly

enough, to do her justice, so long as there was no immediate question

of dispensing alms. But for all that the next whining beggar would

move her tender heart, his glib inventions playing upon it like a

fiddle, and she would give as recklessly as though there were no

such things in the whole wide world as soup-kitchens and organised

charities and common-sense. "Because, you know," she would afterward

salve her conscience, "I

couldn't

be sure he didn't need it, whereas

I was

quite

sure I didn't."

Now she wavered for a moment. "You didn't say you had a wife before,"

she suggested.

"An invalid," sighed Mr. Flinks--"a helpless invalid, lady. And six

small children probably crying for bread at this very moment. Ah,

lady, think what my feelings must be to hear 'em cry in vain--think

what I must suffer to know that I summoned them cherubs out of Heaven

into this here hard, hard world, lady, and now can't do by 'em

properly!" And Cock-eye Flinks brushed away a tear which I, for one,

am inclined to regard as a particularly ambitious flight of his

imagination.

Promptly Margaret opened the bag at her waist and took out her purse.

"Don't!" she pleaded. "Please don't! I--I'm upset already. Take this,

and please--oh,

please

, don't spend it in getting drunk or gambling

or anything horrid," Miss Hugonin implored him. "You all do, and it's

so selfish of you and so discouraging."

Mr. Flinks eyed the purse hungrily. Such a fat purse! thought Cock-eye

Plinks. And there ain't nobody within a mile of here, neither. You are

not to imagine that Mr. Flinks was totally abandoned; his vices were

parochial, restrained for the most part by a lively apprehension of

the law. But now the spell of the Eagle was strong upon him.

"Lady," said Mr. Flinks, twisting in his grimy hand the bill she had

given him--and there, too, the Eagle flaunted in his vigour and

heartened him, "lady, that ain't much for you to give. Can't you do a

little better than that by a poor workingman, lady?"

A very unpleasant-looking person, Mr. Cock-eye Flinks. Oh, a

peculiarly unpleasant-looking person to be a model son and a loving

husband and a tender father. Margaret was filled with a vague alarm.

But she was brave, was Margaret. "No," said she, very decidedly, "I

shan't give you another cent. So you climb right over that wall and go

straight back where you belong."

The methods of Mr. Flinks, I regret to say, were somewhat more crude

than those of Mesdames Haggage and Saumarez and Messieurs Kennaston

and Jukesbury.

"Cheese it!" said Mr. Flinks, and flung away his staff and drew very

near to her. "Gimme that money, do you hear!"

"Don't you dare touch me!" she panted; "ah, don't you

dare

!"

"Aw, hell!" said Mr. Flinks, disgustedly, and his dirty hands were

upon her, and his foul breath reeked in her face.

In her hour of need Margaret's heart spoke.

"Billy!" she wailed; "oh, Billy,

Billy

!"

* * * * *

He came to her--just as he would have scaled Heaven to come to her,

just as he would have come to her in the nethermost pit of Hell if she

had called. Ah, yes, Billy Woods came to her now in her peril, and

I don't think that Mr. Flinks particularly relished the look upon

Billy's face as he ran through the gardens, for Billy was furiously

moved.

Cock-eye Flinks glanced back at the wall behind him. Ten feet high,

and the fellow ain't far off. Cock-eye Flinks caught up his staff, and

as Billy closed upon him, struck him full on the head. Again and again

he struck him. It was a sickening business.

Billy had stopped short. For an instant he stood swaying on his feet,

a puzzled face showing under the trickling blood. Then he flung out

his hands a little, and they flapped loosely at the wrists, like

wet clothes hung in the wind to dry, and Billy seemed to crumple up

suddenly, and slid down upon the grass in an untidy heap.

"Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Flinks. He drew back and stared stupidly at that

sprawling flesh which just now had been a man, and was seized with

uncontrollable shuddering. "Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Flinks, very quietly.

And Margaret went mad. The earth and the sky dissolved in many

floating specks and then went red--red like that heap yonder. The

veneer of civilisation peeled, fell from her like snow from a shaken

garment. The primal beast woke and flicked aside the centuries' work.

She was the Cave-woman who had seen the death of her mate--the brute

who had been robbed of her mate.

"Damn you!

Damn

you!" she screamed, her voice high, flat, quite

unhuman; "ah, God in Heaven damn you!" With inarticulate bestial cries

she fell upon the man who had killed Billy, and her violet fripperies

fluttered, her impotent little hands beat at him, tore at him. She was

fearless, shameless, insane. She only knew that Billy was dead.

With an oath the man flung her from him and turned on his heel. She

fell to coaxing the heap in the grass to tell her that he forgave

her--to open his eyes--to stop bloodying her dress--to come to

luncheon...

A fly settled on Billy's face and came in his zig-zag course to the

red stream trickling from his nostrils, and stopped short. She brushed

the carrion thing away, but it crawled back drunkenly. She touched it

with her finger, and the fly would not move. On a sudden, every nerve

in her body began to shake and jerk like a flag snapping in the wind.

XXVI

Some ten minutes afterward, as the members of the house-party sat

chatting on the terrace before Selwoode, there came among them a mad

woman in violet trappings that were splotched with blood.

"Did you know that Billy was dead?" she queried, smilingly. "Oh, yes,

a man killed Billy just now. Wasn't it too bad? Billy was such a nice

boy, you know. I--I think it's very sad. I think it's the saddest

thing I ever knew of in my life."

Kathleen Saumarez was the first to reach her. But she drew back

quickly.

"No, ah, no!" she said, with a little shudder. "You didn't love Billy.

He loved you, and you didn't love him. Oh, Kathleen, Kathleen, how

could

you help loving Billy? He was such a nice boy. I--I'm rather

sorry he's dead."

Then she stood silent, picking at her dress thoughtfully and still

smiling. Afterward, for the first and only time in history, Miss

Hugonin fainted--fainted with an anxious smile.

Petheridge Jukesbury caught her as she fell, and began to blubber like

a whipped schoolboy as he stood there holding her in his arms.

XXVII

But Billy was not dead. There was still a feeble, jerky fluttering in

his big chest when Colonel Hugonin found him. His heart still moved,

but under the Colonel's hand its stirrings were vague and aimless as

those of a captive butterfly.

The Colonel had seen dead men and dying men before this; and as he

bent over the boy he loved he gave a convulsive sob, and afterward

buried his face in his hands.

Then--of all unlikely persons in the world--it was Petheridge

Jukesbury who rose to meet the occasion.

His suavity and blandness forgotten in the presence of death, he

mounted with confident alacrity to heights of greatness. Masterfully,

he overrode them all. He poured brandy between Billy's teeth. Then he

ordered the ladies off to bed, and recommended to Mr. Kennaston--when

that gentleman spoke of a clergyman--a far more startling destination.

For, "It is far from my intention," said Mr.

Jukesbury, "to appear lacking in respect to the cloth, but--er--just

at present I am inclined to think we are in somewhat greater need of a

mattress and a doctor and--ah--the exercise of a little common-sense.

The gentleman is--er--let us hope, in no immediate danger."

"How dare you suggest such a thing, sir?" thundered Petheridge

Jukesbury. "Didn't you see that poor girl's face? I tell you I'll be

damned if he dies, sir!"

And I fancy the recording angel heard him, and against a list of wordy

cheats registered that oath to his credit.

It was Petheridge Jukesbury, then, who stalked into Mrs. Haggage's

apartments and appropriated her mattress as the first at hand, and

afterward waddled through the gardens bearing it on his fat shoulders,

and still later lifted Billy upon it as gently as a woman could have.

But it was the hatless Colonel on his favourite Black Bess ("Damn your

motor-cars!" the Colonel was wont to say; "I consider my appearance

sufficiently unprepossessing already, sir, without my arriving in

Heaven in fragments and stinking of gasoline!") who in Fairhaven town,

some quarter of an hour afterward, leaped Dr. Jeal's garden fence, and

subsequently bundled the doctor into his gig; and again yet later it

was the Colonel who stood fuming upon the terrace with Dr. Jeal on his

way to Selwoode indeed, but still some four miles from the mansion

toward which he was urging his staid horse at its liveliest gait.

Kennaston tried to soothe him. But the Colonel clamoured to the

heavens. Kennaston he qualified in various ways. And as for Dr. Jeal,

he would hold him responsible--"personally, sir"--for the consequences

of his dawdling in this fashion--"Damme, sir, like a damn' snail with

a wooden leg!"

"I am afraid," said Kennaston, gravely, "that the doctor will be of

very little use when he does arrive."

There was that in his face which made the Colonel pause in his

objurgations.

"Sir," said the Colonel, "what--do--you--mean?" He found articulation

somewhat difficult.

"In your absence," Kennaston answered, "Mr. Jukesbury, who it

appears knows something of medicine, has subjected Mr. Woods to an

examination. It--it would be unkind to deceive you----"

"Come to the point, sir," the Colonel interrupted him. "What--do

you--mean?"

"I mean," said Felix Kennaston, sadly, "that--he is afraid--Mr. Woods

will never recover consciousness."

Colonel Hugonin stared at him. The skin of his flabby, wrinkled old

throat was working convulsively.

Then, "You're wrong, sir," the Colonel said. "Billy

shan't

die. Damn

Jukesbury! Damn all doctors, too, sir! I put my trust in my God, sir,

and not in a box of damn' sugar-pills, sir. And I tell you, sir,

that boy is not going to die

."

Afterward he turned and went into Selwoode defiantly.

XXVIII

In the living-hall the Colonel found Margaret, white as paper, with

purple lips that timidly smiled at him.

"Why ain't you in bed?" the old gentleman demanded, with as great an

affectation of sternness as he could muster. To say the truth, it was

not much; for Colonel Hugonin, for all his blustering optimism, was

sadly shaken now.

"Attractive," said Margaret, "I was, but I couldn't stay there. My--my

brain won't stop working, you see," she complained, wearily. "There's

a thin little whisper in the back of it that keeps telling me about

Billy, and what a liar he is, and what nice eyes he has, and how

poor Billy is dead. It keeps telling me that, over and over again,

attractive. It's such a tiresome, silly little whisper. But he is

dead, isn't he? Didn't Mr. Kennaston tell me just now that he was

dead?--or was it the whisper, attractive?"

The Colonel coughed. "Kennaston--er--Kennaston's a fool," he declared,

helplessly. "Always said he was a fool. We'll have Jeal in presently."

"No--I remember now--Mr. Kennaston said Billy would die very soon. You

don't like people to disagree with you, do you, attractive? Of course,

he will die, for the man hit him very,

very

hard. I'm sorry Billy is

going to die, though, even if he is such a liar!"

"Don't!" said the Colonel, hoarsely; "don't, daughter! I don't know

what there is between you and Billy, but you're wrong. Oh, you're very

hopelessly wrong! Billy's the finest boy I know."

Margaret shook her head in dissent.

"No, he's a very contemptible liar," she said, disinterestedly, "and

that is what makes it so queer that I should care for him more than I

do for anything else in the world. Yes, it's very queer."

Then Margaret went into the room opening into the living-hall, where

Billy Woods lay unconscious, pallid, breathing stertorously. And the

Colonel stared after her.

"Oh, my God, my God!" groaned the poor Colonel; "why couldn't it have

been I? Why couldn't it have been I that ain't wanted any longer?

She'd never have grieved like that for me!"

And indeed, I don't think she would have.

For to Margaret there had come, as, God willing, there comes to every

clean-souled woman, the time to put away all childish things, and all

childish memories, and all childish ties, if need be, to follow one

man only, and cleave to him, and know his life and hers to be knit up

together, past severance, in a love that death itself may not affright

nor slay.

XXIX

She sat silent in one corner of the darkened room. It was the bedroom

that Frederick R. Woods formerly occupied--on the ground floor of

Selwoode, opening into the living-hall--to which they had carried

Billy.

Jukesbury had done what he could. In the bed lay Billy Woods, swathed

in hot blankets, with bottles of hot water set to his feet. Jukesbury

had washed his face clean of that awful red, and had wrapped bandages

of cracked ice about his head and propped it high with pillows. It

was little short of marvellous to see the pursy old hypocrite going

cat-footed about the room on his stealthy ministrations, replenishing

the bandages, forcing spirits of ammonia between Billy's teeth,

fighting deftly and confidently with death.

Billy still breathed.

The Colonel came and went uneasily. The clock on the mantel ticked.

Margaret brooded in a silence that was only accentuated by that

horrible wheezing, gurgling, tremulous breathing in the bed yonder.

Would the doctor never come!

She was curiously conscious of her absolute lack of emotion.

But always the interminable thin whispering in the back of her head

went on and on. "Oh, if he had only died four years ago! Oh, if he had

only died the dear, clean-minded, honest boy I used to know! When that

noise stops he will be dead. And then, perhaps, I shall be able to

cry. Oh, if he had only died four years ago!"

And then

da capo

. On and on ran the interminable thin whispering as

Margaret waited for death to come to Billy. Billy looked so old now,

under his many bandages. Surely he must be very, very near death.

Suddenly, as Jukesbury wrapped new bandages about his forehead, Billy

opened his eyes and, without further movement, smiled placidly up at

him.

"Hello, Jukesbury," said Billy Woods, "where's my armour?"

Jukesbury, too, smiled. "The man is bringing it downstairs now," he

answered, quietly.

"Because," Billy went on, fretfully, "I don't propose to miss the

Trojan war. The princes orgulous with high blood chafed, you know, are

all going to be there, and I don't propose to miss it."

Behind his fat back, Petheridge Jukesbury waved a cautioning hand at

Margaret, who had risen from her chair.

"But it is very absurd," Billy murmured, in the mere ghost of a voice,

"because men don't propose by mistake except in farces. Somebody told

me that, but I can't remember who, because I am a misogynist. That is

a Greek word, and I would explain it to Peggy, if she would only give

me a chance, but she can't because she has those seventeen hundred

and fifty thousand children to look after. There must be some way to

explain to her, though, because where there's a will there is always

a way, and there were three wills. Uncle Fred should not have left so

many wills--who would have thought the old man had so much ink in him?

But I will be a very great painter, Uncle Fred, and make her sorry for

the way she has treated me, and

then

Kathleen will understand I was

talking about Peggy."

His voice died away, and Margaret sat with wide eyes listening for it

again. Would the doctor never come!

Billy was smiling and picking at the sheets.

"But Peggy is so rich," the faint voice presently complained--"so

beastly rich! There is gold in her hair, and if you will look very

closely you will see that her lashes were pure gold until she dipped

them in the ink-pot. Besides, she expects me to sit up and beg for

lumps of sugar, and I

never

take sugar in my coffee. And Peggy

doesn't drink coffee at all, so I think it is very unfair, especially

as Teddy Anstruther drinks like a fish and she is going to marry him.

Peggy, why won't you marry me? You know I've always loved you, Peggy,

and now I can tell you so because Uncle Fred has left me all his

money. You think a great deal about money, Peggy. You said it was the

greatest thing in the world. And it must be, because it is the only

thing--the

only

thing, Peggy--that has been strong enough to keep

us apart. A part is never greater than the whole, Peggy, but I will

explain about that when you open that desk. There are sharks in it.

Aren't there, Peggy?--

aren't

there?"

His voice had risen to a querulous tone. Gently the fat old man

restrained him.

"Yes," said Petheridge Jukesbury; "dear me, yes. Why, dear me, of

course."

But his warning hand held Margaret back--Margaret, who stood with big

tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Dearer than life itself," Billy assented, wearily, "but before God,

loving you as I do, I wouldn't marry you now for all the wealth in the

world. I forget why, but all the world is a stage, you know, and they

don't use stages now, but only railroads. Is that why you rail at me

so, Peggy? That is a joke. You ought to laugh at my jokes, because I

love you, but I can't ever, ever tell you so because you are rich. A

rich man cannot pass through a needle's eye. Oh, Peggy, Peggy, I love

your eyes, but they're so

big

, Peggy!"

So Billy Woods lay still and babbled ceaselessly. But through all his

irrelevant talk, as you may see a tributary stream pulse unsullied

in a muddied river, ran the thought of Peggy--of Peggy, and of her

cruelty, and of her beauty, and of the money that stood between them.

And Margaret, who could never have believed him in his senses,

listened and knew that in his delirium, the rudder of his thoughts

snapped, he could not but speak truth. As she crouched in the corner

of the room, her face buried in an arm-chair, her gold hair half

loosened, her shoulders monotonously heaving, she wept gently,

inaudibly, almost happily.

Almost happily. Billy was dying, but she knew now, past any doubting,

that he loved her. The dear, clean-minded, honest boy had come

back to her, and she could love him now without shame, and there was

only herself to be loathed.

[Illustration: "Regarded them with alert eyes."]

Then the door opened. Then, with Colonel Hugonin, came Martin Jeal--a

wisp of a man like a November leaf--and regarded them from under his

shaggy white hair with alert eyes.

"Hey, what's this?" said Dr. Jeal. "Eh, yes! Eh--yes!" he meditated,

slowly. "Most irregular. You must let us have the room, Miss Hugonin."

In the hall she waited. Hope! ah, of course, there was no hope! the

thin little whisper told her.

By and bye, though--after centuries of waiting--the three men came

into the hall.

"Miss Hugonin," said Dr. Jeal, with a strange kindness in his voice,

"I don't think we shall need you again. I am happy to tell you,

though, that the patient is doing nicely--very nicely indeed."

Margaret clutched his arm. "You--you mean----"

"I mean," said Dr. Jeal, "that there is no fracture. A slight

concussion of the brain, madam, and--so far as I can see--no signs of

inflammation. Barring accidents, I think we'll have that young man out

of bed in a week. Thanks," he added, "to Mr.--er--Jukesbury here whose

prompt action was, under Heaven, undoubtedly the means of staving off

meningitis and probably--indeed, more than probably--the means

of saving Mr. Woods's life. It was splendid, sir, splendid! No

doctor--why, God bless my soul!"

For Miss Hugonin had thrown her arms about Petheridge Jukesbury's neck

and had kissed him vigorously.

"You beautiful child!" said Miss Hugonin.

"Er--Jukesbury," said the Colonel, mysteriously, "there's a little

cognac in the cellar that--er--" The Colonel jerked his thumb across

the hallway with the air of a conspirator. "Eh?" said the Colonel.

"Why--er--yes," said Mr. Jukesbury. "Why--ah--yes, I think I might."

They went across the hall together. The Colonel's hand rested

fraternally on Petheridge Jukesbury's shoulder.

XXX

The next day there was a general exodus from Selwoode, and Margaret's

satellites dispersed upon their divers ways. Selwoode, as they

understood it, was no longer hers; and they knew Billy Woods well

enough to recognise that from Selwoode's new master there were no

desirable pickings to be had such as the philanthropic crew had

fattened on these four years past. So there came to them, one and all,

urgent telegrams or insistent letters or some equally unanswerable

demand for their presence elsewhere, such as are usually prevalent

among our guests in very dull or very troublous times.

Miss Hugonin smiled a little bitterly. She considered that the scales

had fallen from her eyes, and flattered herself that she was by way of

becoming a bit of a misanthrope; also, I believe, there was a note

concerning the hollowness of life and the worthlessness of society in

general. In a word, Margaret fell back upon the extreme cynicism and

world-weariness of twenty-three, and assured herself that she despised

everybody, whereas, as a matter of fact, she never in her life

succeeded in disliking anything except mice and piano-practice, and,

for a very little while, Billy Woods; and this for the very excellent

reason that the gods had fashioned her solely to the end that she

might love all mankind, and in return be loved by humanity in general

and adored by that portion of it which inhabits trousers.

But, "The rats always desert a sinking ship," said Miss Hugonin, with

the air of one delivering a particularly original sentiment. "They

make me awfully tired, and I don't care for them in the least. But

Petheridge Jukesbury is a

dear

, and I may be poor now, but I

did

try to do good with the money when I had it, and

anyhow

, Billy is

going to get well."

And, after all, that was the one thing that really mattered, though of

course Billy would always despise her. He would be quite right, too,

the girl thought humbly.

But the conventionalities of life are more powerful than even youthful

cynicism and youthful heart-break. Prior to devoting herself to a

loveless life and the commonplaces of the stoic's tub, Miss Hugonin

was compelled by the barest decency to bid her guests Godspeed.

And Adèle Haggage kissed her for the first time in her life. She had

been a little awed by Miss Hugonin, the famous heiress--a little

jealous of her, I dare say, on account of Hugh Van Orden--but now she

kissed her very heartily in farewell, and said, "Don't forget you are

to come to us as soon as

possible

," and was beyond any question

perfectly sincere in saying it.

And Hugh Van Orden almost dragged Margaret under the main stairway,

and, far from showing any marked abhorrence to her in her present

state of destitution, implored her with tears in his eyes to marry him

at once, and to bring the Colonel to live with them for the rest of

his natural existence.

For, "It's damned impertinent of me, of course," Mr. Van Orden readily

conceded, "and I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for mentioning it,

but I

do

love you to a perfectly unlimited extent. It's playing the

very deuce with my polo, Miss Hugonin, and as for my appetite--why,

if you won't have me," cried Hugh, in desperation, "I--I really, you

know, I don't believe I'll

ever

be able to eat anything!"

When Margaret refused him--for the sixth time, I think--I won't swear

that she didn't kiss him under the dark stairway. And if she did, he

was a nice boy, and he deserved it.

And as for Sarah Ellen Haggage, that unreverend old parasite brought

her a blank cheque signed with her name, and mentioned quite a goodly

sum as the extent to which Margaret might go for necessary expenses.

"For you'll need it," she said, and rubbed her nose reflectively.

"Moving is the very deuce for wasting money, because so many little

things keep cropping up. Now, remember, a quarter is quite enough to

give

any

man for moving a trunk. And there's no earthly sense in

your taking a cab, Margaret--the street-car will bring you within a

block of our door. These little trifles count, dear. And don't let

Célestine pack your things, because she's abominably careless. Let

Marie do it--and don't tip her. Give her an old hat. And if I were

you, I would certainly consult a lawyer about the legality of that

idiotic will. I remember distinctly hearing that Mr. Woods was very

eccentric in his last days, and I haven't a doubt he was raving mad

when, he left all his money to a great, strapping, long-legged young

fellow, who is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Getting

better, is he? Well, I suppose I'm glad to hear it, but he'd much

better have stayed in Paris--where, I remember distinctly hearing, he

led the most dissipated and immoral life, my dear--instead of coming

over here and upsetting everything." And again Mrs. Haggage rubbed her

nose--indignantly.

"He

didn't

!" said Margaret. "And I

can't

take your money,

beautiful! And I don't see how we can possibly come to stay with you."

"Don't you argue with me!" Mrs. Haggage exhorted her. "I'm not in any

temper to be argued with. I've spent the morning sewing bias

stripes in a bias skirt--something which from a moral-ruining and

resolution-overthrowing standpoint simply knocks the spots off Job.

You'll take that money, and you'll come to me as soon as you can,

and--God bless you, my dear!"

And again Margaret was kissed. Altogether, it was a very osculatory

morning for Miss Hugonin.

Mr. Jukesbury's adieus, however, were more formal; and--I am sorry to

say it--the old fellow went away wondering if the rich Mr. Woods might

not conceivably be very grateful to the man who had saved his life and

evince his gratitude in some agreeable and substantial form.

Mrs. Saumarez and Mr. Kennaston, also, were somewhat unenthusiastic in

their parting. Kennaston could not feel quite at ease with Margaret,

brazen it as he might with devil-may-carish flippancy; and Kathleen

had by this an inkling as to how matters stood between Margaret and

Billy, and was somewhat puzzled thereat, and loved the former in

consequence no more than any Christian female is compelled to love the

woman who, either unconsciously or with deliberation, purloins her

ancient lover. A woman rarely forgives the man who has ceased to care

for her; and rarelier still can she pardon the woman who has dared

succeed her in his affections.

And besides, they were utterly engrossed with one another, and utterly

happy, and utterly selfish with the immemorial selfishness of lovers,

who cannot for a moment conceive that the whole world is not somehow

benefited by their happiness and does not await with breathless

interest the outcome of their bickerings with the blind bow-god, and

from this providential delusion derive a meritorious and comfortable

glow. So Mrs. Saumarez and Mr. Kennaston parted from Margaret with

kindness, it is true, but not without awkwardness.

And that was the man that almost she had loved! thought Margaret, as

she gazed on the whirl of dust left by their carriage-wheels. Gone

with a few perfunctory words of sympathy!

And for my part, I think that the base Indian who threw a pearl away

worth more than all his tribe was, in comparison with Felix Kennaston,

a shrewd and long-headed man. If you had given

me

his chances,

Margaret ... but this, however, is highly digressive.

The Colonel, standing beside her, used language that was unrefined.

His aspirations as to the future of Mr. Kennaston and Mr. Jukesbury,

it appeared, were both lurid and unfriendly.

"But why, attractive?" queried his daughter.

"May they be qualified with such and such adjectives!" desired the

Colonel, fervently. "They tried to lend me money--wouldn't hear of

my not taking it! In case of necessity.' Bah!" said the Colonel, and

shook his fist after the retreating carriages. "May they be qualified

with such and such adjectives!"

How happily she laughed! "And you're swearing at them!" she pouted.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, how hard you are on all my little friends!"

"Of course I am," said the Colonel, stoutly. "They've deprived me of

the pleasure of despising 'em. It was worth double the money, I tell

you! I never objected to any men quite so much. And now they've gone

and behaved decently with the deliberate purpose of annoying me! Oh!"

cried the Colonel, and shook an immaculate, withered old hand toward

the spring sky, "may they be qualified with such and such adjectives!"

And that, so far as we are concerned, was the end of Margaret's

satellites.

My dear Mrs. Grundy, may one point the somewhat obvious moral? I thank

you, madam, for your long-suffering kindness. Permit me, then, to

vault toward my moral over the shoulders of a greater man.

Among the papers left by one Charles Dickens--a novelist who is

obsolete now because he "wallows naked in the pathetic" and was

frequently guilty of a very vulgar sort of humour that actually made

people laugh, which, as we now know, is not the purpose of humour--a

novelist who incessantly "caricatured Nature" and by these inartistic

and underhand methods created characters that are more real to us than

the folk we jostle in the street and (God knows!) far more vital and

worthy of attention than the folk who "cannot read Dickens"--you will

find, I say, a note of an idea which he never afterward developed,

running to this effect: "Full length portrait of his lordship,

surrounded by worshippers. Sensible men enough, agreeable men enough,

independent men enough in a certain way; but the moment they begin

to circle round my lord, and to shine with a borrowed light from

his lordship, heaven and earth, how mean and subservient! What a

competition and outbidding of each other in servility!"

And this, with "my lord" and "his lordship" erased to make way for the

word "money," is my moral. The folk who have just left Selwoode were

honest enough as honesty goes nowadays; kindly as any of us dare

be who have our own way to make among very stalwart and determined

rivals; generous as any man may venture to be in a world where

the first of every month finds the butcher and the baker and the

candlestick-maker rapping at the door with their little bills: but

they cringed to money. It was very wrong of them, my dear lady, and in

extenuation I can only plead that they could no more help cringing to

money than you or I can help it.

This is very crude and very cynical, but unfortunately it is true.

We always cringe to money; which is humiliating. And the sun always

rises at an hour when sensible people are abed and have not the least

need for its services; which is foolish. And what you and I, my dear

madam, are to do about rectifying either one of these vexatious

circumstances, I am sure I don't know.

We can, at least, be honest. Let us, then, console ourselves at will

with moral observations concerning the number of pockets in a shroud

and the difficulty of a rich man's entering into the kingdom of

Heaven; but with an humble and reverent heart, let us admit that, in

the world we know, money rules. Its presence awes us. And if we are

quite candid we must concede that we very unfeignedly envy and admire

the rich; we must grant that money confers a certain distinction on a

man, be he the veriest ass that ever heehawed a platitude, and that we

cannot but treat him accordingly, you and I.

You are friendly, of course, with your poor cousins; you are delighted

to have them drop in to dinner, and liberal enough with the claret

when they do; but when the magnate comes, there is a magnum of

champagne, and an extra lamp in the drawing-room, and--I blush to

write it--a far more agreeable hostess at the head of the table. Dives

is such good company, you see. And speaking for my own sex, I defy any

honest fellow to lay his hand upon his waistcoat and swear that it

doesn't give him a distinct thrill of pleasure to be seen in public

with a millionaire. Daily we truckle in the Eagle's shadow--the shadow

that lay so heavily across Selwoode. With the Eagle himself and with

the Eagle's work in the world--the grim, implacable, ruthless work

that hourly he goes about--our little comedy has naught to do;

Schlemihl-like, we deal but in shadows. Even the shadow of the Eagle

is a terrible thing--a shadow that, as Felix Kennaston has told you,

chills faith, and charity, and independence, and kindliness, and

truth, and--alas--even common honesty.

But this is both cynical and digressive.

XXXI

Dr. Jeal, better than his word, had Billy Woods out of bed in five

days. To Billy they were very long and very dreary days, and to

Margaret very long and penitential ones. But Colonel Hugonin enjoyed

them thoroughly; for, as he feelingly and frequently observed, it is

an immense consolation to any man to reflect that his home no longer

contains "more damn' foolishness to the square inch than any other

house in the United States."

On all sides they sought for Cock-eye Flinks. But they never found

him, and to this day they have never found him. The Fates having

played their pawn, swept it from the board, and Cock-eye Flinks

disappeared in Clotho's capacious pocket.

All this time the young people saw nothing of one another. On this

point Jeal was adamantean.

"In a sick-room," he vehemently declared, "a woman is well enough, but

the

woman is the devil and all. I've told that young man plainly,

sir, that he doesn't see your daughter till he gets well--and, by

George, sir, he'll get well now just in order to see her. Nature is

the only doctor who ever cures anybody, Colonel; we humans, for

all our pill-boxes and lancets, can only prompt her--and devilish

demoralising advice we generally give her, too," he added, with a

chuckle.

"Peggy!"

This was the first observation of Mr. Woods when he came to his

senses. He swore feebly when Peggy was denied to him. He pleaded. He

scolded. He even threatened, as a last resort, to get out of bed and

go in immediate search of her; and in return, Jeal told him very

affably that it was far less difficult to manage a patient in a

straight-jacket than one out of it, and that personally nothing would

please him so much as a plausible pretext for clapping Mr. Woods into

one of 'em. Jeal had his own methods in dealing with the fractious.

Then Billy clamoured for Colonel Hugonin, and subsequently the Colonel

came in some bewilderment to his daughter's rooms.

"Billy says that will ain't to be probated," he informed her, testily.

"I'm to make sure it ain't probated till he gets well. You're to give

me your word you'll do nothing further in the matter till Billy gets

well. That's his message, and I'd like to know what the devil this

infernal nonsense means. I ain't a Fenian nor yet a Guy Fawkes,

daughter, and in consequence I'm free to confess I don't care for all

this damn mystery and shilly-shallying. But that's the message."

Miss Hugonin debated with herself. "That I will do nothing further in

the matter till Billy gets well," she repeated, reflectively. "Yes, I

suppose I'll have to promise it, but you can tell him for me that I

consider he is

horrid

, and just as obstinate and selfish as he can

possibly

be. Can you remember that, attractive?"

"Yes, thank you," said the Colonel. "I can remember it, but I ain't

going to. Nice sort of message to send a sick man, ain't it? I don't

know what's gotten into you, Margaret--no, begad, I don't! I think

you're possessed of seventeen devils. And now," the old gentleman

demanded, after an awkward pause, "are you or are you not going to

tell me what all this mystery is about?"

"I can't," Miss Hugonin protested. "It--it's a secret, attractive."

"It ain't," said the Colonel, flatly--"it's some more damn

foolishness." And he went away in a fret and using language.

XXXII

Left to herself, Miss Hugonin meditated.

Miss Hugonin was in her kimono.

And oh, Madame Chrysastheme! oh, Madame Butterfly! Oh, Mimosa San, and

Pitti Sing, and Yum Yum, and all ye vaunted beauties of Japan! if you

could have seen her in that garb! Poor little ladies of the Orient,

how hopelessly you would have wrung your henna-stained fingers! Poor

little Ichabods of the East, whose glory departed irretrievably when

she adopted this garment, I tremble to think of the heart-burnings and

palpitations and hari-karis that would have ensued.

It was pink--the pink of her cheeks to a shade. And scattered about it

were birds, and butterflies, and snaky, emaciated dragons, with backs

like saw-teeth, and prodigious fangs, and claws, and very curly tails,

such as they breed in Nankeen plates and used to breed on packages of

fire-crackers--all done in gold, the gold of her hair. Moreover, one

might catch a glimpse of her neck--which was a manifest favour of the

gods--and about it mysterious, lacy white things intermingling with

divers tiny blue ribbons. I saw her in it once--by accident.

And now I fancy, as she stood rigid with indignation, her cheeks

flushed, it must have been a heady spectacle to note how their

shell-pink repeated the pink of her fantastic garment like a chromatic

echo; and how her sunny hair, a thought loosened, a shade dishevelled,

clung heavily about her face, a golden snare for eye and heart; and

how her own eyes, enormous, cerulean--twin sapphires such as in the

old days might have ransomed a brace of emperors--grew wistful like a

child's who has been punished and does not know exactly why; and how

her petulant mouth quivered and the long black lashes, golden at the

roots, quivered, too--ah, yes, it must have been a heady spectacle.

"

Now

," she announced, "I see plainly what he intends doing. He is

going to destroy that will, and burden me once more with a large and

influential fortune. I don't want it, and I won't take it, and he

might just as well understand that in the very beginning. I don't care

if Uncle Fred did leave it to me--I didn't ask him to, did I? Besides,

he was a very foolish old man--if he had left the money to Billy

everything

would have been all right. That's always the way--my

dolls are invariably stuffed with sawdust, and I

never

have a dear

gazelle to glad me with his dappled hide, but when he comes to know me

well he falls upon the buttered side--or something to that effect. I

hate poetry, anyhow--it's so mushy!"

And this from the Miss Hugonin who a week ago was interested in the

French

decadents

and partial to folk-songs from the Romaic! I think

we may fairly deduce that the reign of Felix Kennaston is over. The

king is dead; and Margaret's thoughts and affections and her very

dreams have fallen loyally to crying, Long live the king--his Majesty

Billy the First.

"Oh!" said Margaret, with an indignant gasp, what time her eyebrows

gesticulated, "I think Billy Woods is a meddlesome

piece

!--that's

what I think! Does he suppose that after waiting all this time for the

only man in the world who can keep me interested for four hours on

a stretch and send my pulse up to a hundred and make me feel those

thrilly thrills I've always longed for--does he suppose that now

I'm going to pay any attention to his silly notions about wills and

things? He's abominably selfish! I shan't!"

Margaret moved across the room, shimmering, rustling, glittering like

a fairy in a pantomime. Then, to consider matters at greater ease, she

curled up on a divan in much the attitude of a tiny Cleopatra riding

at anchor on a carpeted Cydnus.

"Billy thinks I want the money--bless his boots! He thinks I'm a

stuck-up, grasping, purse-proud little pig, and he has every right

to think so after the way I talked to him, though he ought to have

realised I was in a temper about Kathleen Saumarez and have paid no

attention to what I said. And he actually attempted to reason with

me! If he'd had

any

consideration for my feelings, he'd have simply

smacked me and made me behave--however, he's a man, and all men are

selfish, and

she's

a skinny old thing, and I

never

had any use for

her. Bother her lectures! I never understood a word of them, and I

don't believe she does, either. Women's clubs are

all

silly, and I

think the women who belong to them are

all

bold-faced jigs! If

they had any sense, they'd stay at home and take care of the babies,

instead of messing with philanthropy, and education, and theosophy,

and anything else that they can't make head or tail of. And they call

that being cultured! Culture!--I hate the word! I don't want to be

cultured--I want to be happy."

This, you will observe, was, in effect, a sweeping recantation of

every ideal Margaret had ever boasted. But Love is a canny pedagogue,

and of late he had instructed Miss Hugonin in a variety of matters.

"Before God, loving you as I do, I wouldn't marry you for all the

wealth in the world," she repeated, with a little shiver. "Even in his

delirium he said that. But I

know

now that he loves me. And I know

that I adore him. And if this were a sensible world, I'd walk right in

there and explain things and ask him to marry me, and then it wouldn't

matter in the least who had the money. But I can't, because it

wouldn't be proper. Bother propriety!--but bothering it doesn't do

any good. As long as I have the money, Billy will never come near me,

because of the idiotic way I talked to him. And he's bent on my taking

the money simply because it happens to belong to me. I consider that

a very silly reason. I'll

make

Billy Woods take the money, and

I'll make him see that I'm

not

a little pig, and that I trust him

implicitly. And I think I'm quite justified in using a little--we'll

call it diplomacy--because otherwise he'd go back to France or some

other objectionable place, and we'd both be

very

unhappy."

Margaret began to laugh softly. "I've given him my word that I'll

do nothing further in the matter till he gets well. And I won't.

But

----"

Miss Hugonin rose from the divan with a gesture of sweeping back her

hair. And then--oh, treachery of tortoise-shell! oh, the villainy of

those little gold hair-pins!--the fat twisted coils tumbled loose

and slowly unravelled themselves, and her pink-and-white face,

half-eclipsed, showed a delectable wedge between big, odourful,

crinkly, ponderous masses of hair. It clung about her, a heavy cloak,

all shimmering gold like the path of sunset over the June sea. And

Margaret, looking at herself in the mirror, laughed, and appeared

perfectly content with what she saw there.

"But," said she, "if the Fates are kind to me--and I sometimes think

I

have

a pull with the gods--I'll make you happy, Billy Woods, in

spite of yourself."

The mirror flashed back a smile. Margaret was strangely interested in

the mirror.

"She has ringlets in her hair," sang Margaret happily--a low,

half-hushed little song. She held up a strand of it to demonstrate

this fact.

"There's a dimple in her chin"--and, indeed, there was. And a dimple

in either cheek, too.

For a long time afterward she continued to smile at the mirror. I am

afraid Kathleen Saumarez was right. She was a vain little cat, was

Margaret.

But, barring a rearrangement of the cosmic scheme, I dare say maids

will continue to delight in their own comeliness so long as mirrors

speak truth. Let us, then, leave Miss Hugonin to this innocent

diversion. The staidest of us are conscious of a brisk elation at

sight of a pretty face; and surely no considerate person will deny its

owner a portion of the pleasure that daily she accords the beggar at

the street-corner.

XXXIII

We are credibly informed that Time travels in divers paces with divers

persons--the statement being made by a lady who may be considered to

speak with some authority, having triumphantly withstood the ravages

of Chronos for a matter of three centuries. But I doubt if even the

insolent sweet wit of Rosalind could have devised a fitting simile for

Time's gait at Selwoode those five days that Billy lay abed. Margaret

could not but marvel at the flourishing proportion attained by the

hours in those sunlit spring days; and at dinner, say, her thoughts

harking back to luncheon, recalled it by a vigorous effort as an

affair of the dim yester-years--a mere blurred memory, faint and vague

as a Druidical tenet or a Merovingian squabble.

But the time passed for all that; and eventually--it was just before

dusk--she came, with Martin Jeal's permission, into the room where

Billy was. And beside the big open fireplace, where a wood fire

chattered companionably, sat a very pallid Billy, a rather thin Billy,

with a great many bandages about his head.

You may depend upon it, Margaret was not looking her worst that

afternoon. By actual count, Célestine had done her hair six times

before reaching an acceptable result.

And, "Yes, Célestine, you may get out that pale yellow dress. No,

beautiful, the one with the black satin stripes on the bodice--because

I don't want my hair cast completely in the shade, do I? Now, let me

see--black feather, gloves, large pompadour,

and

a sweet smile. No,

I don't want a fan--that's a Lydia Languish trade-mark. And

two

silk

skirts rustling like the deadest leaves imaginable. Yes, I think that

will do. And if you can't hook up my dress without pecking and pecking

at me like that, I'll probably go stark,

staring

crazy, Célestine,

and then you'll be sorry. No, it isn't a bit tight--are you perfectly

certain there's no powder behind my ears, Célestine? Now,

please

try

to fasten the collar without pulling all my hair down. Ye-es, I think

that will do, Célestine. Well, it's very nice of you to say so, but I

don't believe I much fancy myself in yellow, after all."

Equipped and armed for conquest, then, she came into the room with a

very tolerable affectation of unconcern. Altogether, it was a quite

effective entrance.

"I've been for a little drive, Billy," she mendaciously informed him.

"That's how you happen to have the opportunity of seeing me in all my

nice new store-clothes. Aren't you pleased, Billy? No, don't you dare

get up!" Margaret stood across the room, peeling off her gloves and

regarding him on the whole with disapproval. "They've been starving

you," she pensively reflected. "As soon as that Jeal person goes away,

I shall have six little beefsteaks cooked and see to it personally

that you eat every one of them. And I'll cook a cherry pie--quick as

a cat can wink her eye--won't I, Billy? That Jeal person is a decided

nuisance," said Miss Hugonin, as she stabbed her hat rather viciously

with two hat-pins and then laid it aside on a table.

Billy Woods was looking up at her forlornly. It hurt her to see the

love and sorrow in his face. But oh, how avidly his soul drank in the

modulations of that longed-for voice--a voice that was honey and gold

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

"Peggy," said he, plunging at the heart of things, "where's that

will?"

Miss Hugonin kicked forward a little foot-stool to the other side of

the fire, and sat down and complacently smoothed out her skirts.

"I knew it!" said she. "I never saw such a one-idea'd person in my

life. I knew that would be the very first thing you would ask for,

Billy Woods, because you're such an obstinate, stiffnecked

donkey

.

Very well!"--and Margaret tossed her head--"here's Uncle Fred's will,

then, and you can do

exactly

as you like with it, and

now

I hope

you're satisfied!" And Margaret handed him the long envelope which lay

in her lap.

Mr. Woods promptly opened it.

"That," Miss Hugonin commented, "is what I term very unladylike

behaviour on your part."

"You evidently don't trust me, Billy Woods. Very well! I don't care!

Read it carefully--very carefully, and make quite sure I haven't been

dabbling in forgery of late--besides, it's so good for your eyes, you

know, after being hit over the head," Margaret suggested, cheerfully.

Billy chuckled. "That's true," said he, "but I know Uncle Fred's fist

well enough without having to read it all. Candidly, Peggy, I

had

to

look at it, because I--well, I didn't quite trust you, Peggy. And

now we're going to burn this interesting paper, you and I." "Wait!"

Margaret cried. "Ah, wait, just a moment, Billy!"

He glanced up at her in surprise, the paper still poised in his hand.

She sat with head drooped forward, her masculine little chin thrust

out eagerly, her candid eyes transparently appraising him.

"Why are you going to burn it, Billy?"

"Why?" Mr. Woods, repeated, thoughtfully. "Well, for a variety of

reasons. First is, that Uncle Fred really did leave his money to you,

and burning this is the only way of making sure you get it. Why, I

thought you wanted me to burn it! Last time I saw you--"

"I was in a temper," said Margaret, haughtily. "You ought to have seen

that."

"Yes, I--er--noticed it," Mr. Woods admitted, with some dryness; "but

it wasn't only temper. You've grown accustomed to the money. You'd

miss it now--miss the pleasure it gives you, miss the power it gives

you. You'd never be content to go back to the old life now. Why,

Peggy, you yourself told me you thought money the greatest thing in

the world! It has changed you, Peggy, this--ah, well!" said Billy, "we

won't talk about that. I'm going to burn it because that's the only

honourable thing to do. Ready, Peggy?"

"It may be honourable, but it's

extremely

silly," Margaret

temporised, "and for my part, I'm very, very glad God had run out of a

sense of honour when He created the woman."

"Phrases don't alter matters. Ready, Peggy?"

"Ah, no, phrases don't alter matters!" she assented, with a quick lift

of speech. "You're going to destroy that will, Billy Woods, simply

because you think I'm a horrid, mercenary, selfish

pig

. You think I

couldn't give up the money--you think I couldn't be happy without it.

Well, you have every right to think so, after the way I've behaved.

But why not tell me that is the real reason?"

Billy raised his hand in protest. "I--I think you might miss it," he

conceded. "Yes, I think you would miss it."

"Listen!" said Margaret, quickly. "The money is yours now--by my act.

You say you--care for me. If I am the sort of woman you think me--I

don't say I am, and I don't say I'm not--but thinking me that sort of

woman, don't you think I'd--I'd marry you for the asking if you kept

the money? Don't you think you're losing every chance of me by burning

that will? Oh, I'm not standing on conventionalities now! Don't you

think that, Billy?"

She was tempting him to the uttermost; and her heart was sick with

fear lest he might yield. This was the Eagle's last battle; and

recreant Love fought with the Eagle against poor Billy, who had only

his honour to help him.

Margaret's face was pale as she bent toward him, her lips parted a

little, her eyes glinting eerily in the firelight. The room was dark

now save in the small radius of its amber glow; beyond that was

darkness where panels and brasses blinked.

"Yes," said Billy, gravely--"forgive me if I'm wrong, dear, but--I

do think that. But you see you don't care for me, Peggy. In the

summer-house I thought for a moment--ah, well, you've shown in a

hundred ways that you don't care--and I wouldn't have you come to me,

not caring. So I'm going to burn the paper, dear."

Margaret bowed her head. Had she ever known happiness before?

"It is not very flattering to me," she said, "but it shows that

you--care--a great deal. You care enough to--let me go. Ah--yes. You

may burn it now, Billy."

And promptly he tossed it into the flames. For a moment it lay

unharmed; then the edges caught and crackled and blazed, and their

heads drew near together as they watched it burn.

There (thought Billy) is the end! Ah, ropes, daggers, and poisons!

there is the end! Oh, Peggy. Peggy, if you could only have loved me!

if only this accursed money hadn't spoiled you so utterly! Billy was

quite properly miserable over it.

But he raised his head with a smile. "And now," said he--and not

without a little, little bitterness; "if I have any right to advise

you, Peggy, I--I think I'd be more careful in the future as to how I

used the money. You've tried to do good with it, I know. But every

good cause has its parasites. Don't trust entirely to the Haggages and

Jukesburys, Peggy, and--and don't desert the good ship Philanthropy

because there are a few barnacles on it, dear."

"You make me awfully tired," Miss Hugonin observed, as she rose to her

feet. "How do you suppose I'm going to do anything for Philanthropy or

any other cause when I haven't a penny in the world? You see, you've

just burned the last will Uncle Fred ever made--the one that left

everything to me. The one in your favour was probated or proved or

whatever they call it a week ago." I think Billy was surprised.