The Eagle's Shadow Part 9

"No," said Margaret, with decision, "I don't--not in the _least_."

"Peggy," Mr. Woods commanded, "look at me!"

"You have had your answer, I think," Miss Hugonin indifferently observed.

Billy caught her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "Peggy, do you--care?" he asked, softly.

And Margaret looked into his honest-seeming eyes and, in a panic, knew that her traitor lips were forming "yes."

"That would be rather unfortunate, wouldn't it?" she asked, with a smile. "You see, it was only an hour ago I promised to marry Mr.

Kennaston."

"Kennaston!" Billy gasped. "You--you don't mean that you care for _him_, Peggy?"

"I really can't see why it should concern you," said Margaret, sweetly, "but since you ask--I do. You couldn't expect me to remain inconsolable forever, you know."

Then the room blurred before her eyes. She stood rigid, defiant.

She was dimly aware that Billy was speaking, speaking from a great distance, it seemed, and then after a century or two his face came back to her out of the whirl of things. And, though she did not know it, they were smiling bravely at one another.

"--and so," Mr. Woods was stating, "I've been an even greater a.s.s than usual, and I hope you'll be very, very happy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growing in his countenance."]

"Thank you," she returned, mechanically, "I--I hope so."

After an interval, "Good-night, Peggy," said Mr. Woods.

"Oh--? Good-night," said she, with a start.

He turned to go. Then, "By Jove!" said he, grimly, "I've been so busy making an a.s.s of myself I'd forgotten all about more--more important things."

Mr. Woods picked up the keys and, going to the desk, unlocked the centre compartment with a jerk. Afterward he gave a sharp exclamation.

He had found a paper in the secret drawer at the back which appeared to startle him.

Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growing in his countenance. Then for a moment Margaret's golden head drew close to his yellow curls and they read it through together. And in the most melodramatic and improbable fashion in the world they found it to be the last will and testament of Frederick R. Woods.

"But--but I don't understand," was Miss Hugonin's awed comment. "It's exactly like the other will, only--why, it's dated the seventeenth of June, the day before he died! And it's witnessed by Hodges and Burton--the butler and the first footman, you know--and they've never said anything about such a paper. And, then, why should he have made another will just like the first?"

Billy pondered.

By and bye, "I think I can explain that," he said, in a rather peculiar voice. "You see, Hodges and Burton witnessed all his papers, half the time without knowing what they were about. They would hardly have thought of this particular one after his death. And it isn't quite the same will as the other; it leaves you practically everything, but it doesn't appoint any trustees, as the other did, because this will was drawn up after you were of age. Moreover, it contains these four bequests to colleges, to establish a Woods chair of ethnology, which the other will didn't provide for. Of course, it would have been simpler merely to add a codicil to the first will, but Uncle Fred was always very methodical. I--I think he was probably going through the desk the night he died, destroying various papers.

He must have taken the other will out to destroy it just--just before he died. Perhaps--perhaps--" Billy paused for a little and then laughed, unmirthfully. "It scarcely matters," said he. "Here is the will. It is undoubtedly genuine and undoubtedly the last he made.

You'll have to have it probated, Peggy, and settle with the colleges.

It--it won't make much of a hole in the Woods millions."

There was a half-humorous bitterness in his voice that Margaret noted silently. So (she thought) he had hoped for a moment that at the last Frederick R. Woods had relented toward him. It grieved her, in a dull fashion, to see him so mercenary. It grieved her--though she would have denied it emphatically--to see him so disappointed. Since he wanted the money so much, she would have liked for him to have had it, worthless as he was, for the sake of the boy he had been.

"Thank you," she said, coldly, as she took the paper; "I will give it to my father. He will do what is necessary. Good-night, Mr. Woods."

Then she locked up the desk in a businesslike fashion and turned to him, and held out her hand.

"Good-night, Billy," said this perfectly inconsistent young woman.

"For a moment I thought Uncle Fred had altered his will in your favour. I almost wish he had."

Billy smiled a little.

"That would never have done," he said, gravely, as he shook hands; "you forget what a sordid, and heartless, and generally good-for-nothing chap I am, Peggy. It's much better as it is."

Only the tiniest, the flimsiest fiction, her eyes craved of him. Even now, at the eleventh hour, lie to me, Billy Woods, and, oh, how gladly I will believe!

But he merely said "Good-night, Peggy," and went out of the room. His broad shoulders had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.

Margaret was glad. Of course, she was glad. At last, she had told him exactly what she thought of him. Why shouldn't she be glad? She was delighted.

So, by way of expressing this delight, she sat down at the desk and began to cry very softly.

XIII

Having duly considered the emptiness of existence, the unworthiness of men, the dreary future that awaited her--though this did not trouble her greatly, as she confidently expected to die soon--and many other such dolorous topics, Miss Hugonin decided to retire for the night.

She rose, filled with speculations as to the paltriness of life and the probability of her eyes being red in the morning.

"It will be all his fault if they are," she consoled herself.

"Doubtless he'll be very much pleased. After robbing me of all faith in humanity, I dare say the one thing needed to complete his happiness is to make me look like a fright. I hate him! After making me miserable, now, I suppose he'll go off and make some other woman miserable. Oh, of course, he'll make love to the first woman he meets who has any money. I'm sure she's welcome to him. I only pity any woman who has to put up with _him_. No, I don't," Margaret decided, after reflection; "I hate her, too!"

Miss Hugonin went to the door leading to the hallway and paused.

Then--I grieve to relate it--she shook a little pink-tipped fist in the air.

"I detest you!" she commented, between her teeth; "oh, how _dare_ you make me feel so ashamed of the way I've treated you!"

The query--as possibly you may have divined--was addressed to Mr.

Woods. He was standing by the fireplace in the hallway, and his tall figure was outlined sharply against the flame of the gas-logs that burned there. His shoulders had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.

Billy was reading a paper of some kind by the firelight, and the black outline of his face smiled grimly over it. Then he laughed and threw it into the fire.

"Billy!" a voice observed--a voice that was honey and gold and velvet and all that is most sweet and rich and soft in the world.

Mr. Woods was aware of a light step, a swishing, sibilant, delightful rustling--the caress of sound is the rustling of a well-groomed woman's skirts--and of an afterthought of violets, of a mere reminiscence of orris, all of which came toward him through the dimness of the hall. He started, noticeably.

"Billy," Miss Hugonin stated, "I'm sorry for what I said to you. I'm not sure it isn't true, you know, but I'm sorry I said it."

"Bless your heart!" said Billy; "don't you worry over that, Peggy.

That's all right. Incidentally, the things you've said to me and about me aren't true, of course, but we won't discuss that just now. I--I fancy we're both feeling a bit f.a.gged. Go to bed, Peggy! We'll both go to bed, and the night will bring counsel, and we'll sleep off all unkindliness. Go to bed, little sister!--get all the beauty-sleep you aren't in the least in need of, and dream of how happy you're going to be with the man you love. And--and in the morning I may have something to say to you. Good-night, dear."

And this time he really went. And when he had come to the bend in the stairs his eyes turned back to hers, slowly and irresistibly, drawn toward them, as it seemed, just as the sunflower is drawn toward the sun, or the needle toward the pole, or, in fine, as the eyes of young gentlemen ordinarily are drawn toward the eyes of the one woman in the world. Then he disappeared.

The mummery of it vexed Margaret. There was no excuse for his looking at her in that way. It irritated her. She was almost as angry with him for doing it as she would have been for not doing it.