The Eagle's Shadow

This is the story of Margaret Hugonin and of the Eagle. And with your

permission, we will for the present defer all consideration of the

bird, and devote our unqualified attention to Margaret.

I have always esteemed Margaret the obvious, sensible, most

appropriate name that can be bestowed upon a girl-child, for it is a

name that fits a woman--any woman--as neatly as her proper size in

gloves.

Yes, the first point I wish to make is that a woman-child, once

baptised Margaret, is thereby insured of a suitable name. Be she grave

or gay in after-life, wanton or pious or sullen, comely or otherwise,

there will be no possible chance of incongruity; whether she develop a

taste for winter-gardens or the higher mathematics, whether she take

to golf or clinging organdies, the event is provided for. One has only

to consider for a moment, and if among a choice of Madge, Marjorie,

Meta, Maggie, Margherita, Peggy, and Gretchen, and countless

others--if among all these he cannot find a name that suits her to a

T--why, then, the case is indeed desperate and he may permissibly

fall back upon Madam or--if the cat jump propitiously, and at his own

peril--on Darling or Sweetheart.

The second proof that this name must be the best of all possible names

is that Margaret Hugonin bore it. And so the murder is out. You may

suspect what you choose. I warn you in advance that I have no part

whatever in her story; and if my admiration for her given name appear

somewhat excessive, I can only protest that in this dissentient world

every one has a right to his own taste. I knew Margaret. I admired

her. And if in some unguarded moment I may have carried my admiration

to the point of indiscretion, her husband most assuredly knows all

about it, by this, and he and I are still the best of friends. So you

perceive that if I ever did so far forget myself it could scarcely

have amounted to a hanging matter.

I am doubly sure that Margaret Hugonin was beautiful, for the reason

that I have never found a woman under forty-five who shared my

opinion. If you clap a Testament into my hand, I cannot affirm that

women are eager to recognise beauty in one another; at the utmost they

concede that this or that particular feature is well enough. But when

a woman is clean-eyed and straight-limbed, and has a cheery heart,

she really cannot help being beautiful; and when Nature accords her

a sufficiency of dimples and an infectious laugh, I protest she is

well-nigh irresistible. And all these Margaret Hugonin had.

And surely that is enough.

I shall not endeavour, then, to picture her features to you in any

nicely picked words. Her chief charm was that she was Margaret.

And besides that, mere carnal vanities are trivial things; a gray

eye or so is not in the least to the purpose. Yet since it is the

immemorial custom of writer-folk to inventory such possessions of

their heroines, here you have a catalogue of her personal attractions.

Launce's method will serve our turn.

Imprimis, there was not very much of her--five feet three, at the

most; and hers was the well-groomed modern type that implies a

grandfather or two and is in every respect the antithesis of that

hulking Venus of the Louvre whom people pretend to admire. Item, she

had blue eyes; and when she talked with you, her head drooped forward

a little. The frank, intent gaze of these eyes was very flattering

and, in its ultimate effect, perilous, since it led you fatuously to

believe that she had forgotten there were any other trousered beings

extant. Later on you found this a decided error. Item, she had a quite

incredible amount of yellow hair, that was not in the least like gold

or copper or bronze--I scorn the hackneyed similes of metallurgical

poets--but a straightforward yellow, darkening at the roots; and she

wore it low down on her neck in great coils that were held in place

by a multitude of little golden hair-pins and divers corpulent

tortoise-shell ones. Item, her nose was a tiny miracle of perfection;

and this was noteworthy, for you will observe that Nature, who is an

adept at eyes and hair and mouths, very rarely achieves a creditable

nose. Item, she had a mouth; and if you are a Gradgrindian with a

taste for hairsplitting, I cannot swear that it was a particularly

small mouth. The lips were rather full than otherwise; one saw in them

potentialities of heroic passion, and tenderness, and generosity, and,

if you will, temper. No, her mouth was not in the least like the pink

shoe-button of romance and sugared portraiture; it was manifestly

designed less for simpering out of a gilt frame or the dribbling of

stock phrases over three hundred pages than for gibes and laughter

and cheery gossip and honest, unromantic eating, as well as another

purpose, which, as a highly dangerous topic, I decline even to

mention.

There you have the best description of Margaret Hugonin that I am

capable of giving you. No one realises its glaring inadequacy more

acutely than I.

Furthermore, I stipulate that if in the progress of our comedy she

appear to act with an utter lack of reason or even common-sense--as

every woman worth the winning must do once or twice in a

lifetime--that I be permitted to record the fact, to set it down in

all its ugliness, nay, even to exaggerate it a little--all to the end

that I may eventually exasperate you and goad you into crying out,

"Come, come, you are not treating the girl with common justice!"

For, if such a thing were possible, I should desire you to rival even

me in a liking for Margaret Hugonin. And speaking for myself, I can

assure you that I have come long ago to regard her faults with the

same leniency that I accord my own.

We begin on a fine May morning in Colonel Hugonin's rooms at Selwoode,

which is, as you may or may not know, the Hugonins' country-place.

And there we discover the Colonel dawdling over his breakfast, in an

intermediate stage of that careful toilet which enables him later in

the day to pass casual inspection as turning forty-nine.

At present the old gentleman is discussing the members of his

daughter's house-party. We will omit, by your leave, a number of

picturesque descriptive passages--for the Colonel is, on occasion, a

man of unfettered speech--and come hastily to the conclusion, to the

summing-up of the whole matter.

"Altogether," says Colonel Hugonin, "they strike me as being the most

ungodly menagerie ever gotten together under one roof since Noah

landed on Ararat."

Now, I am sorry that veracity compels me to present the Colonel

in this particular state of mind, for ordinarily he was as

pleasant-spoken a gentleman as you will be apt to meet on the

longest summer day.

[Illustration: "'Altogether,' says Colonel Hugonin, 'they strike me as

being the most ungodly menagerie ever gotten together under one roof

since Noah landed on Ararat.'"]

You must make allowances for the fact that, on this especial morning,

he was still suffering from a recent twinge of the gout, and that his

toast was somewhat dryer than he liked it; and, most potent of all,

that the foreign mail, just in, had caused him to rebel anew against

the proprieties and his daughter's inclinations, which chained him to

Selwoode, in the height of the full London season, to preside over a

house-party every member of which he cordially disliked. Therefore,

the Colonel having glanced through the well-known names of those at

Lady Pevensey's last cotillion, groaned and glared at his daughter,

who sat opposite him, and reviled his daughter's friends with point

and fluency, and characterised them as above, for the reason that he

was hungered at heart for the shady side of Pall Mall, and that their

presence at Selwoode prevented his attaining this Elysium. For, I am

sorry to say that the Colonel loathed all things American, saving his

daughter, whom he worshipped.

And, I think, no one who could have seen her preparing his second cup

of tea would have disputed that in making this exception he acted with

a show of reason. For Margaret Hugonin--but, as you know, she is

our heroine, and, as I fear you have already learned, words are very

paltry makeshifts when it comes to describing her. Let us simply say,

then, that Margaret, his daughter, began to make him a cup of tea, and

add that she laughed.

Not unkindly; no, for at bottom she adored her father--a comely

Englishman of some sixty-odd, who had run through his wife's fortune

and his own, in the most gallant fashion--and she accorded his

opinions a conscientious, but at times, a sorely taxed, tolerance.

That very month she had reached twenty-three, the age of omniscience,

when the fallacies and general obtuseness of older people become

dishearteningly apparent.

"It's nonsense," pursued the old gentleman, "utter, bedlamite

nonsense, filling Selwoode up with writing people! Never heard of such

a thing. Gad, I do remember, as a young man, meeting Thackeray at a

garden-party at Orleans House--gentlemanly fellow with a broken nose--

and Browning went about a bit, too, now I think of it. People had 'em

one at a time to lend flavour to a dinner--like an olive; we didn't

dine on olives, though. You have 'em for breakfast, luncheon, dinner,

and everything! I'm sick of olives, I tell you, Margaret!" Margaret

pouted.

"They ain't even good olives. I looked into one of that fellow

Charteris's books the other day--that chap you had here last week.

It was bally rot--proverbs standing on their heads and grinning

like dwarfs in a condemned street-fair! Who wants to be told that

impropriety is the spice of life and that a roving eye gathers

remorse? You may call that sort of thing cleverness, if you like; I

call it damn' foolishness." And the emphasis with which he said this

left no doubt that the Colonel spoke his honest opinion.

"Attractive," said his daughter patiently, "Mr. Charteris is very,

very clever. Mr. Kennaston says literature suffered a considerable

loss when he began to write for the magazines."

And now that Margaret has spoken, permit me to call your attention to

her voice. Mellow and suave and of astonishing volume was Margaret's

voice; it came not from the back of her throat, as most of our women's

voices do, but from her chest; and I protest it had the timbre of a

violin. Men, hearing her voice for the first time, were wont to stare

at her a little and afterward to close their hands slowly, for always

its modulations had the tonic sadness of distant music, and it

thrilled you to much the same magnanimity and yearning, cloudily

conceived; and yet you could not but smile in spite of yourself at the

quaint emphasis fluttering through her speech and pouncing for the

most part on the unlikeliest word in the whole sentence.

But I fancy the Colonel must have been tone-deaf. "Don't you make

phrases for me!" he snorted; "you keep 'em for your menagerie Think!

By gad, the world never thinks. I believe the world deliberately

reads the six bestselling books in order to incapacitate itself for

thinking." Then, his wrath gathering emphasis as he went on: "The

longer I live the plainer I see Shakespeare was right--what

fools these mortals be, and all that. There's that Haggage

woman--speech-making through the country like a hiatused politician.

It may be philanthropic, but it ain't ladylike--no, begad! What has

she got to do with Juvenile Courts and child-labour in the South, I'd

like to know? Why ain't she at home attending to that crippled boy

of hers--poor little beggar!--instead of flaunting through America

meddling with other folk's children?"

Miss Hugonin put another lump of sugar into his cup and deigned no

reply.

"By gad," cried the Colonel fervently, "if you're so anxious to spend

that money of yours in charity, why don't you found a Day Nursery for

the Children of Philanthropists--a place where advanced men and women

can leave their offspring in capable hands when they're busied with

Mothers' Meetings and Educational Conferences? It would do a thousand

times more good, I can tell you, than that fresh kindergarten scheme

of yours for teaching the children of the labouring classes to make a

new sort of mud-pie."

"You don't understand these things, attractive," Margaret gently

pointed out. "You aren't in harmony with the trend of modern thought."

"No, thank God!" said the Colonel, heartily.

Ensued a silence during which he chipped at his egg-shell in an

absent-minded fashion.

"That fellow Kennaston said anything to you yet?" he presently

queried.

"I--I don't understand," she protested--oh, perfectly unconvincingly.

The tea-making, too, engrossed her at this point to an utterly

improbable extent.

Thus it shortly befell that the Colonel, still regarding her under

intent brows, cleared his throat and made bold to question her

generosity in the matter of sugar; five lumps being, as he suggested,

a rather unusual allowance for one cup.

Then, "Mr. Kennaston and I are very good friends," said she, with

dignity. And having spoiled the first cup in the making, she began on

another.

"Glad to hear it," growled the old gentleman. "I hope you value his

friendship sufficiently not to marry him. The man's a fraud--a flimsy,

sickening fraud, like his poetry, begad, and that's made up of botany

and wide margins and indecency in about equal proportions. It ain't

fit for a woman to read--in fact, a woman ought not to read anything;

a comprehension of the Decalogue and the cookery-book is enough

learning for the best of 'em. Your mother never--never--"

Colonel Hugonin paused and stared at the open window for a little. He

seemed to be interested in something a great way off.

"We used to read Ouida's books together," he said, somewhat wistfully.

"Lord, Lord, how she revelled in Chandos and Bertie Cecil and those

dashing Life Guardsmen! And she used to toss that little head of hers

and say I was a finer figure of a man than any of 'em--thirty

years ago, good Lord! And I was then, but I ain't now. I'm only a

broken-down, cantankerous old fool," declared the Colonel, blowing

his nose violently, "and that's why I'm quarrelling with the dearest,

foolishest daughter man ever had. Ah, my dear, don't mind me--run your

menagerie as you like, and I'll stand it."

Margaret adopted her usual tactics; she perched herself on the arm

of his chair and began to stroke his cheek very gently. She

often wondered as to what dear sort of a woman that tender-eyed,

pink-cheeked mother of the old miniature had been--the mother who had

died when she was two years old. She loved the idea of her, vague as

it was. And, just now, somehow, the notion of two grown people reading

Ouida did not strike her as being especially ridiculous.

"Was she very beautiful?" she asked, softly.

"My dear," said her father, "you are the picture of her."

"You dangerous old man!" said she, laughing and rubbing her cheek

against his in a manner that must have been highly agreeable. "Dear,

do you know that is the nicest little compliment I've had for a long

time?"

Thereupon the Colonel chuckled. "Pay me for it, then," said he, "by

driving the dog-cart over to meet Billy's train to-day. Eh?"

"I--I can't," said Miss Hugonin, promptly.

"Why?" demanded her father.

"Because----" said Miss Hugonin; and after giving this really

excellent reason, reflected for a moment and strengthened it by

adding, "Because----"

"See here," her father questioned, "what did you two quarrel about,

anyway?"

"I--I really don't remember," said she, reflectively; then continued,

with hauteur and some inconsistency, "I am not aware that Mr. Woods

and I have ever quarrelled."

"By gad, then," said the Colonel, "you may as well prepare to, for

I intend to marry you to Billy some day. Dear, dear, child," he

interpolated, with malice aforethought, "have you a fever?--your

cheek's like a coal. Billy's a man, I tell you--worth a dozen of your

Kennastons and Charterises. I like Billy. And besides, it's only right

he should have Selwoode--wasn't he brought up to expect it? It

ain't right he should lose it simply because he had a quarrel with

Frederick, for, by gad--not to speak unkindly of the dead, my

dear--Frederick quarrelled with every one he ever knew, from the woman

who nursed him to the doctor who gave him his last pill. He may have

gotten his genius for money-making from Heaven, but he certainly

got his temper from the devil. I really believe," said the Colonel,

reflectively, "it was worse than mine. Yes, not a doubt of it--I'm a

lamb in comparison. But he had his way, after all; and even now poor

Billy can't get Selwoode without taking you with it," and he caught

his daughter's face between his hands and turned it toward his for a

moment. "I wonder now," said he, in meditative wise, "if Billy will

consider that a drawback?"

It seemed very improbable. Any number of marriageable males would have

sworn it was unthinkable.

However, "Of course," Margaret began, in a crisp voice, "if you advise

Mr. Woods to marry me as a good speculation--"

But her father caught her up, with a whistle. "Eh?" said he. "Love in

a cottage?--is it thus the poet turns his lay? That's damn' nonsense!

I tell you, even in a cottage the plumber's bill has to be paid, and

the grocer's little account settled every month. Yes, by gad, and

even if you elect to live on bread and cheese and kisses, you'll find

Camembert a bit more to your taste than Sweitzer."

"But I don't want to marry anybody, you ridiculous old dear," said

Margaret.

"Oh, very well," said the old gentleman; "don't. Be an old maid, and

lecture before the Mothers' Club, if you like. I don't care. Anyhow,

you meet Billy to-day at twelve-forty-five. You will?--that's a good

child. Now run along and tell the menagerie I'll be down-stairs as

soon as I've finished dressing."

And the Colonel rang for his man and proceeded to finish his toilet.

He seemed a thought absent-minded this morning.

"I say, Wilkins," he questioned, after a little. "Ever read any of

Ouida's books?"

"Ho, yes, sir," said Wilkins; "Miss 'Enderson--Mrs. 'Aggage's maid,

that his, sir--was reading haloud hout hof 'Hunder Two Flags' honly

last hevening, sir."

"H'm--Wilkins--if you can run across one of them in the servants'

quarters--you might leave it--by my bed--to-night."

"Yes, sir."

"And--h'm, Wilkins--you can put it under that book of Herbert

Spencer's my daughter gave me yesterday. Under it, Wilkins--and,

h'm, Wilkins--you needn't mention it to anybody. Ouida ain't cultured,

Wilkins, but she's damn' good reading. I suppose that's why she ain't

cultured, Wilkins."

And now let us go back a little. In a word, let us utilise the next

twenty minutes--during which Miss Hugonin drives to the neighbouring

railway station, in, if you press me, not the most pleasant state of

mind conceivable--by explaining a thought more fully the posture of

affairs at Selwoode on the May morning that starts our story.

And to do this I must commence with the nature of the man who founded

Selwoode.

It was when the nineteenth century was still a hearty octogenarian

that Frederick R. Woods caused Selwoode to be builded. I give you the

name by which he was known on "the Street." A mythology has grown

about the name since, and strange legends of its owner are still

narrated where brokers congregate. But with the lambs he sheared, and

the bulls he dragged to earth, and the bears he gored to financial

death, we have nothing to do; suffice it, that he performed these

operations with almost uniform success and in an unimpeachably

respectable manner.

And if, in his time, he added materially to the lists of inmates in

various asylums and almshouses, it must be acknowledged that he bore

his victims no malice, and that on every Sunday morning he confessed

himself to be a miserable sinner, in a voice that was perfectly

audible three pews off. At bottom, I think he considered his relations

with Heaven on a purely business basis; he kept a species of running

account with Providence; and if on occasions he overdrew it somewhat,

he saw no incongruity in evening matters with a cheque for the church

fund.

So that at his death it was said of him that he had, in his day, sent

more men into bankruptcy and more missionaries into Africa than any

other man in the country.

In his sixty-fifth year, he caught Alfred Van Orden short in Lard,

erected a memorial window to his wife and became a country gentleman.

He never set foot in Wall Street again. He builded Selwoode--a

handsome Tudor manor which stands some seven miles from the village of

Fairhaven--where he dwelt in state, by turns affable and domineering

to the neighbouring farmers, and evincing a grave interest in the

condition of their crops. He no longer turned to the financial reports

in the papers; and the pedigree of the Woodses hung in the living-hall

for all men to see, beginning gloriously with Woden, the Scandinavian

god, and attaining a respectable culmination in the names of Frederick

R. Woods and of William, his brother.

It is not to be supposed that he omitted to supply himself with a

coat-of-arms. Frederick R. Woods evinced an almost childlike pride in

his heraldic blazonings.

"The Woods arms," he would inform you, with a relishing gusto, "are

vert, an eagle displayed, barry argent and gules. And the crest is

out of a ducal coronet, or, a demi-eagle proper. We have no motto,

sir--none of your ancient coats have mottoes."

The Woods Eagle he gloried in. The bird was perched in every available

nook at Selwoode; it was carved in the woodwork, was set in the

mosaics, was chased in the tableware, was woven in the napery, was

glazed in the very china. Turn where you would, an eagle or two

confronted you; and Hunston Wyke, who is accounted something of a

wit, swore that Frederick R. Woods at Selwoode reminded him of "a

sore-headed bear who had taken up permanent quarters in an aviary."

There was one, however, who found the bear no very untractable

monster. This was the son of his brother, dead now, who dwelt at

Selwoode as heir presumptive. Frederick R. Woods's wife had died long

ago, leaving him childless. His brother's boy was an orphan; and so,

for a time, he and the grim old man lived together peaceably enough.

Indeed, Billy Woods was in those days as fine a lad as you would wish

to see, with the eyes of an inquisitive cherub and a big tow-head,

which Frederick R. Woods fell into the habit of cuffing heartily, in

order to conceal the fact that he would have burned Selwoode to the

ground rather than allow any one else to injure a hair of it.

In the consummation of time, Billy, having attained the ripe age of

eighteen, announced to his uncle that he intended to become a famous

painter. Frederick R. Woods exhorted him not to be a fool, and packed

him off to college.

Billy Woods returned on his first vacation with a fragmentary mustache

and any quantity of paint-tubes, canvases, palettes, mahl-sticks, and

such-like paraphernalia. Frederick R. Woods passed over the mustache,

and had the painters' trappings burned by the second footman. Billy

promptly purchased another lot. His uncle came upon them one morning,

rubbed his chin meditatively for a moment, and laughed for the first

time, so far as known, in his lifetime; then he tiptoed to his own

apartments, lest Billy--the lazy young rascal was still abed in the

next room--should awaken and discover his knowledge of this act of

flat rebellion.

I dare say the old gentleman was so completely accustomed to having

his own way that this unlooked-for opposition tickled him by its

novelty; or perhaps he recognised in Billy an obstinacy akin to his

own; or perhaps it was merely that he loved the boy. In any event, he

never again alluded to the subject; and it is a fact that when

Billy sent for carpenters to convert an upper room into an atelier,

Frederick R. Woods spent two long and dreary weeks in Boston in order

to remain in ignorance of the entire affair.

Billy scrambled through college, somehow, in the allotted four years.

At the end of that time, he returned to find new inmates installed at

Selwoode.

For the wife of Frederick R. Woods had been before her marriage one of

the beautiful Anstruther sisters, who, as certain New Yorkers still

remember--those grizzled, portly, rosy-gilled fellows who prattle

on provocation of Jenny Lind and Castle Garden, and remember

everything--created a pronounced furor at their début in the days of

crinoline and the Grecian bend; and Margaret Anstruther, as they

will tell you, was married to Thomas Hugonin, then a gallant cavalry

officer in the service of Her Majesty, the Empress of India.

And she must have been the nicer of the two, because everybody who

knew her says that Margaret Hugonin is exactly like her.

So it came about naturally enough, that Billy Woods, now an Artium

Baccalaureus_, if you please, and not a little proud of it, found the

Colonel and his daughter, then on a visit to this country, installed

at Selwoode as guests and quasi-relatives. And Billy was twenty-two,

and Margaret was nineteen.

* * * * *

Precisely what happened I am unable to tell you. Billy Woods claims

it is none of my business; and Margaret says that it was a long, long

time ago and she really can't remember.

But I fancy we can all form a very fair notion of what is most likely

to occur when two sensible, normal, healthy young people are thrown

together in this intimate fashion at a country-house where the

remaining company consists of two elderly gentlemen. Billy was forced

to be polite to his uncle's guest; and Margaret couldn't well be

discourteous to her host's nephew, could she? Of course not: so

it befell in the course of time that Frederick R. Woods and the

Colonel--who had quickly become a great favourite, by virtue of his

implicit faith in the Eagle and in Woden and Sir Percival de Wode of

Hastings, and such-like flights of heraldic fancy, and had augmented

his popularity by his really brilliant suggestion of Wynkyn de Worde,

the famous sixteenth-century printer, as a probable collateral

relation of the family--it came to pass, I say, that the two gentlemen

nodded over their port and chuckled, and winked at one another and

agreed that the thing would do.

This was all very well; but they failed to make allowances for the

inevitable quarrel and the subsequent spectacle of the gentleman

contemplating suicide and the lady looking wistfully toward a nunnery.

In this case it arose, I believe, over Teddy Anstruther, who for a

cousin was undeniably very attentive to Margaret; and in the natural

course of events they would have made it up before the week was out

had not Frederick R. Woods selected this very moment to interfere in

the matter.

Ah, si vieillesse savait!

The blundering old man summoned Billy into his study and ordered him

to marry Margaret Hugonin, precisely as the Colonel might have ordered

a private to go on sentry-duty. Ten days earlier Billy would have

jumped at the chance; ten days later he would probably have suggested

it himself; but at that exact moment he would have as willingly

contemplated matrimony with Alecto or Medusa or any of the Furies.

Accordingly, he declined. Frederick R. Woods flew into a pyrotechnical

display of temper, and gave him his choice between obeying his

commands and leaving his house forever--the choice, in fact, which he

had been according Billy at very brief intervals ever since the boy

had had the measles, fifteen years before, and had refused to take the

proper medicines.

It was merely his usual manner of expressing a request or a

suggestion. But this time, to his utter horror and amaze, the boy took

him at his word and left Selwoode within the hour.

Billy's life, you see, was irrevocably blighted. It mattered very

little what became of him; personally, he didn't care in the least.

But as for that fair, false, fickle woman--perish the thought! Sooner

a thousand deaths! No, he would go to Paris and become a painter of

worldwide reputation; the money his father had left him would easily

suffice for his simple wants. And some day, the observed of all

observers in some bright hall of gaiety, he would pass her coldly by,

with a cynical smile upon his lips, and she would grow pale and totter

and fall into the arms of the bloated Silenus, for whose title she had

bartered her purely superficial charms.

Yes, upon mature deliberation, that was precisely what Billy decided

to do.

Followed dark days at Selwoode. Frederick R. Woods told Margaret of

what had occurred; and he added the information that, as his wife's

nearest relative, he intended to make her his heir.

Then Margaret did what I would scarcely have expected of Margaret.

She turned upon him like a virago and informed Frederick R. Woods

precisely what she thought of him; she acquainted him with the fact

that he was a sordid, low-minded, grasping beast, and a miser, and

a tyrant, and (I think) a parricide; she notified him that he was

thoroughly unworthy to wipe the dust off his nephew's shoes--an

office toward which, to do him justice, he had never shown any marked

aspirations--and that Billy had acted throughout in a most noble and

sensible manner; and that, personally, she wouldn't marry Billy Woods

if he were the last man on earth, for she had always despised him; and

she added the information that she expected to die shortly, and she

hoped they would both be sorry then; and subsequently she clapped

the climax by throwing her arms about his neck and bursting into tears

and telling him he was the dearest old man in the world and that she

was thoroughly ashamed of herself.

So they kissed and made it up. And after a little the Colonel and

Margaret went away from Selwoode, and Frederick R. Woods was left

alone to nourish his anger and indignation, if he could, and to hunger

for his boy, whether he would or not. He was too proud to seek him

out; indeed, he never thought of that; and so he waited alone in his

fine house, sick at heart, impotent, hoping against hope that the boy

would come back. The boy never came.

No, the boy never came, because he was what the old man had made

him--headstrong, and wilful, and obstinate. Billy had been thoroughly

spoiled. The old man had nurtured his pride, had applauded it as a

mark of proper spirit; and now it was this same pride that had robbed

him of the one thing he loved in all the world.

So, at last, the weak point in the armour of this sturdy old Pharisee

was found, and Fate had pierced it gaily. It was retribution, if you

will; and I think that none of his victims in "the Street," none of

the countless widows and orphans that he had made, suffered more

bitterly than he in those last days.

It was almost two years after Billy's departure from Selwoode that his

body-servant, coming to rouse Frederick R. Woods one June morning,

found him dead in his rooms. He had been ailing for some time. It

was his heart, the doctors said; and I think that it was, though not

precisely in the sense which they meant.

The man found him seated before his great carved desk, on which his

head and shoulders had fallen forward; they rested on a sheet of

legal-cap paper half-covered with a calculation in his crabbed old

hand as to the value of certain properties--the calculation which he

never finished; and underneath was a mass of miscellaneous papers,

among them his will, dated the day after Billy left Selwoode, in which

Frederick R. Woods bequeathed his millions unconditionally to Margaret

Hugonin when she should come of age.

Her twenty-first birthday had fallen in the preceding month. So

Margaret was one of the richest women in America; and you may depend

upon it, that if many men had loved her before, they worshipped her

now--or, at least, said they did, and, after all, their protestations

were the only means she had of judging. She might have been a

countess--and it must be owned that the old Colonel, who had an honest

Anglo-Saxon reverence for a title, saw this chance lost wistfully--and

she might have married any number of grammarless gentlemen, personally

unknown to her, whose fervent proposals almost every mail brought in;

and besides these, there were many others, more orthodox in their

wooing, some of whom were genuinely in love with Margaret Hugonin, and

some--I grieve to admit it--who were genuinely in love with her money;

and she would have none of them.

She refused them all with the utmost civility, as I happen to know.

How I learned it is no affair of yours.

For Miss Hugonin had remarkably keen eyes, which she used to

advantage. In the world about her they discovered very little that she

could admire. She was none the happier for her wealth; the piled-up

millions overshadowed her personality; and it was not long before she

knew that most people regarded her simply as the heiress of the Woods

fortune--an unavoidable encumbrance attached to the property, which

divers thrifty-minded gentlemen were willing to put up with. To put up

with!--at the thought, her pride rose in a hot blush, and, it must be

confessed, she sought consolation in the looking-glass.

She was an humble-minded young woman, as the sex goes, and she saw no

great reason there why a man should go mad over Margaret Hugonin. This

decision, I grant you, was preposterous, for there were any number of

reasons. Her final conclusion, however, was for the future to regard

all men as fortune-hunters and to do her hair differently.

She carried out both resolutions. When a gentleman grew pressing in

his attentions, she more than suspected his motives; and when she

eventually declined him it was done with perfect, courtesy, but the

glow of her eyes was at such times accentuated to a marked degree.

Meanwhile, the Eagle brooded undisturbed at Selwoode. Miss Hugonin

would allow nothing to be altered.

"The place doesn't belong to me, attractive," she would tell her

father. "I belong to the place. Yes, I do--I'm exactly like a little

cow thrown in with a little farm when they sell it, and all my

little suitors think so, and they are very willing to take me on those

terms, too. But they shan't, attractive. I hate every single solitary

man in the whole wide world but you, beautiful, and I particularly

hate that horrid old Eagle; but we'll keep him because he's a constant

reminder to me that Solomon or Moses, or whoever it was that said all

men were liars, was a person of very great intelligence."

So that I think we may fairly say the money did her no good.

If it benefited no one else, it was not Margaret's fault. She had a

high sense of her responsibilities, and therefore, at various times,

endeavoured to further the spread of philanthropy and literature and

theosophy and art and temperance and education and other laudable

causes. Mr. Kennaston, in his laughing manner, was wont to jest at

her varied enterprises and term her Lady Bountiful; but, then, Mr.

Kennaston had no real conception of the proper uses of money. In

fact, he never thought of money. He admitted this to Margaret with a

whimsical sigh.

Margaret grew very fond of Mr. Kennaston because he was not mercenary.

Mr. Kennaston was much at Selwoode. Many people came there

now--masculine women and muscleless men, for the most part. They had,

every one of them, some scheme for bettering the universe; and if

among them Margaret seemed somewhat out of place--a butterfly among

earnest-minded ants--her heart was in every plan they advocated, and

they found her purse-strings infinitely elastic. The girl was pitiably

anxious to be of some use in the world.

So at Selwoode they gossiped of great causes and furthered the

millenium. And above them the Eagle brooded in silence.

And Billy? All this time Billy was junketing abroad, where every

year he painted masterpieces for the Salon, which--on account of a

nefarious conspiracy among certain artists, jealous of his superior

merits--were invariably refused.

Now Billy is back again in America, and the Colonel has insisted that

he come to Selwoode, and Margaret is waiting for him in the dog-cart.

The glow of her eyes is very, very bright. Her father's careless words

this morning, coupled with certain speeches of Mr. Kennaston's last

night, have given her food for reflection.

"He wouldn't dare," says Margaret, to no one in particular. "Oh, no,

he wouldn't dare after what happened four years ago."

And, Margaret-like, she has quite forgotten that what happened four

years ago was all caused by her having flirted outrageously with Teddy

Anstruther, in order to see what Billy would do.