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.
image026.jpg
[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