Chapter 10 No.10

In the living-hall of Selwoode Miss Hugonin paused. Undeniably there

were the accounts of the Ladies' League for the Edification of the

Impecunious to be put in order; her monthly report as treasurer

was due in a few days, and Margaret was in such matters a careful,

painstaking body, and not wholly dependent upon her secretary; but she

was entirely too much out of temper to attend to that now.

It was really all Mr. Kennaston's fault, she assured a pricking

conscience, as she went out on the terrace before Selwoode. He had

bothered her dreadfully.

There she found Petheridge Jukesbury smoking placidly in the

effulgence of the moonlight; and the rotund, pasty countenance he

turned toward her was ludicrously like the moon's counterfeit in muddy

water. I am sorry to admit it, but Mr. Jukesbury had dined somewhat

injudiciously. You are not to stretch the phrase; he was merely

prepared to accord the universe his approval, to pat Destiny upon

the head, and his thoughts ran clear enough, but with Aprilian

counter-changes of the jovial and the lachrymose.

"Ah, Miss Hugonin," he greeted her, with a genial smile, "I am indeed

fortunate. You find me deep in meditation, and also, I am sorry to

say, in the practise of a most pernicious habit. You do not object?

Ah, that is so like you. You are always kind, Miss Hugonin. Your

kindness, which falls, if I may so express myself, as the gentle rain

from Heaven upon all deserving charitable institutions, and daily

comforts the destitute with good advice and consoles the sorrowing

with blankets, would now induce you to tolerate an odour which I am

sure is personally distasteful to you."

"But really I don't mind," was Margaret's protest.

"I cannot permit it," Mr. Jukesbury insisted, and waved a pudgy hand

in the moonlight. "No, really, I cannot permit it. We will throw

it away, if you please, and say no more about it," and his glance

followed the glowing flight of his cigar-end somewhat wistfully. "Your

father's cigars are such as it is seldom my privilege to encounter;

but, then, my personal habits are not luxurious, nor my private

income precisely what my childish imaginings had pictured it at this

comparatively advanced period of life. Ah, youth, youth!--as the poet

admirably says, Miss Hugonin, the thoughts of youth are long, long

thoughts, but its visions of existence are rose-tinged and free from

care, and its conception of the responsibilities of manhood--such

as taxes and the water-rate--I may safely characterise as extremely

sketchy. But pray be seated, Miss Hugonin," Petheridge Jukesbury

blandly urged.

Common courtesy forced her to comply. So Margaret seated herself on

a little red rustic bench. In the moonlight--but I think I have

mentioned how Margaret looked in the moonlight; and above her golden

head the Eagle, sculptured over the door-way, stretched his wings to

the uttermost, half-protectingly, half-threateningly, and seemed to

view Mr. Jukesbury with a certain air of expectation.

"A beautiful evening," Petheridge Jukesbury suggested, after a little

cogitation.

She conceded that this was undeniable.

"Where Nature smiles, and only the conduct of man is vile and

altogether what it ought not to be," he continued, with unction--"ah,

how true that is and how consoling! It is a good thing to meditate

upon our own vileness, Miss Hugonin--to reflect that we are but worms

with naturally the most vicious inclinations. It is most salutary.

Even I am but a worm, Miss Hugonin, though the press has been pleased

to speak most kindly of me. Even you--ah, no!" cried Mr. Jukesbury,

kissing his finger-tips, with gallantry; "let us say a worm who has

burst its cocoon and become a butterfly--a butterfly with a charming

face and a most charitable disposition and considerable property!"

Margaret thanked him with a smile, and began to think wistfully of the

Ladies' League accounts. Still, he was a good man; and she endeavoured

to persuade herself that she considered his goodness to atone for his

flabbiness and his fleshiness and his interminable verbosity--which

she didn't.

Mr. Jukesbury sighed.

"A naughty world," said he, with pathos--"a very naughty world, which

really does not deserve the honour of including you in its census

reports. Yet I dare say it has the effrontery to put you down in the

tax-lists; it even puts me down--me, an humble worker in the vineyard,

with both hands set to the plough. And if I don't pay up it sells

me out. A very naughty world, indeed! I dare say," Mr. Jukesbury

observed, raising his eyes--not toward heaven, but toward the Eagle,

"that its conduct, as the poet says, creates considerable distress

among the angels. I don't know. I am not acquainted with many angels.

My wife was an angel, but she is now a lifeless form. She has been for

five years. I erected a tomb to her at considerable personal expense,

but I don't begrudge it--no, I don't begrudge it, Miss Hugonin. She

was very hard to live with. But she was an angel, and angels are rare.

Miss Hugonin," said Petheridge Jukesbury, with emphasis, "you are an

angel."

"Oh, dear, dear!" said Margaret, to herself; "I do wish I'd gone to

bed directly after dinner!"

Above them the Eagle brooded.

"Surely," he breathed, "you must know what I have so long wanted to

tell you--"

"No," said Margaret, "and I don't want to know, please. You make me

awfully tired, and I don't care for you in the least. Now, you let

go my hand--let go at once!"

He detained her. "You are an angel," he insisted--"an angel with a

large property. I love you, Margaret! Be mine!--be my blushing bride,

I entreat you! Your property is far too large for an angel to look

after. You need a man of affairs. I am a man of affairs. I am

forty-five, and have no bad habits. My press-notices are, as a rule,

favourable, my eloquence is accounted considerable, and my dearest

aspiration is that you will comfort my declining years. I might add

that I adore you, but I think I mentioned that before. Margaret, will

you be my blushing bride?"

"No!" said Miss Hugonin emphatically. "No, you tipsy old beast--no!"

There was a rustle of skirts. The door slammed, and the philanthropist

was left alone on the terrace.