stab; Margaret smiled with an innocence that would have seemed
overdone in an angel.
Then, in an instant, she had the grace to be abjectly ashamed of
herself. Billy's face had gone white. His mouth was set, mask-like,
and his breathing was a little perfunctory. It stung her, though, that
he was not angry. He was sorry.
"I--I see," he said, very carefully. "You think I--want the money.
Yes--I see."
"And why not?" she queried, pleasantly. "Dear me, money's a very
sensible thing to want, I'm sure. It makes a great difference, you
know."
He looked down into her face for a moment. One might have sworn this
detected fortune-hunter pitied her.
"Yes," he assented, slowly, "it makes a difference--not a difference
for the better, I'm afraid, Peggy."
Ensued a silence.
Then Margaret tossed her head. She was fast losing her composure.
She would have given the world to retract what she had said, and
accordingly she resolved to brazen it out.
"You needn't look at me as if I were a convicted criminal," she said,
sharply. "I won't marry you, and there's an end of it."
"It isn't that I'm thinking of," said Mr. Woods, with a grave smile.
"You see, it takes me a little time to realise your honest opinion
of me. I believe I understand now. You think me a very hopeless
cad--that's about your real opinion, isn't it, Peggy? I didn't know
that, you see. I thought you knew me better than that. You did once,
Peggy--once, a long time ago, and--and I hoped you hadn't quite
forgotten that time."
The allusion was ill chosen.
"Oh, oh,
oh
!" she cried, gasping. "
You
to remind me of that
time!--you of all men. Haven't you a vestige of shame? Haven't you
a rag of honour left? Oh, I didn't know there were such men in the
world! And to think--to think--" Margaret's glorious voice broke, and
she wrung her hands helplessly.
Then, after a little, she raised her eyes to his, and spoke without
a trace of emotion. "To think," she said, and her voice was toneless
now, "to think that I loved you! It's that that hurts, you know. For I
loved you very dearly, Billy Woods--yes, I think I loved you quite as
much as any woman can ever love a man. You were the first, you see,
and girls--girls are very foolish about such things. I thought you
were brave, and strong, and clean, and honest, and beautiful, and
dear--oh, quite the best and dearest man in the world, I thought you,
Billy Woods! That--that was queer, wasn't it?" she asked, with a
listless little shiver. "Yes, it was very queer. You didn't think of
me in quite that way, did you? No, you--you thought I was well enough
to amuse you for a while. I was well enough for a summer flirtation,
wasn't I, Billy? But marriage--ah, no, you never thought of marriage
then. You ran away when Uncle Fred suggested that. You refused
point-blank--refused in this very room--didn't you, Billy? Ah,
that--that hurt," Margaret ended, with a faint smile. "Yes, it--hurt."
Billy Woods raised a protesting hand, as though to speak, but
afterward he drew a deep, tremulous breath and bit his lip and was
silent.
She had spoken very quietly, very simply, very like a tired child;
now her voice lifted. "But you've hurt me more to-night," she said,
equably--"to-night, when you've come cringing back to me--to me, whom
you'd have none of when I was poor. I'm rich now, though. That makes
a difference, doesn't it, Billy? You're willing to whistle back the
girl's love you flung away once--yes, quite willing. But can't you
understand how much it must hurt me to think I ever loved you?"
Margaret asked, very gently.
She wanted him to understand. She wanted him to be ashamed. She prayed
God that he might be just a little, little bit ashamed, so that she
might be able to forgive him.
But he stood silent, bending puzzled brows toward her.
"Can't you understand, Billy?" she pleaded, softly. "I can't help
seeing what a cur you are. I must hate you, Billy--of course, I must,"
she insisted, very gently, as though arguing the matter with herself;
then suddenly she sobbed and wrung her hands in anguish. "Oh, I can't,
I can't!" she wailed. "God help me, I can't hate you, even though I
know you for what you are!"
His arms lifted a little; and in a flash Margaret knew that what she
most wanted in all the world was to have them close about her, and
then to lay her head upon his shoulder and cry contentedly.
Oh, she did want to forgive him! If he had lost all sense of shame,
why could he not lie to her? Surely, he could at least lie? And,
oh, how gladly she would believe!--only the tiniest, the flimsiest
fiction, her eyes craved of him.
But he merely said "I see--I see," very slowly, and then smiled.
"We'll put the money aside just now," he said. "Perhaps, after a
little, we--we'll came back to that. I think you've forgotten, though,
that when--when Uncle Fred and I had our difference you had just
thrown me over--had just ordered me never to speak to you again?
I couldn't very well ask you to marry me, could I, under those
circumstances?"
"I spoke in a moment of irritation," a very dignified Margaret pointed
out; "you would have paid no attention whatever to it if you had
really--cared."
Billy laughed, rather sadly. "Oh, I cared right enough," he said. "I
still care. The question is--do you?"
"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 ass than
usual, and I hope you'll be very, very happy."
image020.jpg
[Illustration: "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 ass 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