XII
His back was turned to the door as she entered. He was staring at apicture beside the mantel--a portrait of Frederick R. Woods--and hiseyes when he wheeled about were wistful.
Then, on a sudden, they lighted up as if they had caught fire fromhers, and his adoration flaunted crimson banners in his cheeks, andhis heart, I dare say, was a great blaze of happiness. He loved her,you see; when she entered a room it really made a difference to thisabsurd young man. He saw a great many lights, for instance, and heardmusic. And accordingly, he laughed now in a very contented fashion.
"I wasn't burglarising," said he--"that is, not exactly. I ought tohave asked your permission, I suppose, before coming here, but Icouldn't find you, and--and it was rather important. You see," Mr.Woods continued, pointing to the great carved desk. "I happened tospeak of this desk to the Colonel to-night. We--we were talking ofUncle Fred's death, and I found out, quite by accident, that it hadn'tbeen searched since then--that is, not thoroughly. There are secretdrawers, you see; one here," and he touched the spring that threwit open, "and the other on this side. There is--there is nothing ofimportance in them; only receipted bills and such. The other drawer isinside that centre compartment, which is locked. The Colonel wouldn'tcome. He said it was all foolishness, and that he had a book he wantedto read. So he sent me after what he called my mare's nest. It isn't,you see--no, not quite, not quite," Mr. Woods murmured, with an oddsmile, and then laughed and added, lamely: "I--I suppose I'm the onlyperson who knew about it."
Mr. Woods's manner was a thought strange. He stammered a little inspeaking; he laughed unnecessarily; and Margaret could see that hishands trembled. Taking him all in all, you would have sworn he wasrepressing some vital emotion. But he did not seem unhappy--no, notexactly unhappy. He was with Margaret, you see.
"Oh, you beauty!" his meditations ran.
He had some excuse. In the soft, rosy twilight of the room--the studyat Selwoode is panelled in very dark oak, and the doors and windowsare screened with crimson hangings--her parti-coloured red-and-yellowgown might have been a scrap of afterglow left over from an unusuallyfine sunset. In a word, Miss Hugonin was a very quaint and colourfuland delectable figure as she came a little further into the room. Hereyes shone like blue stars, and her hair shone--there must be poundsof it, Billy thought--and her very shoulders, plump, flawless,ineffable, shone with the glow of an errant cloud-tatter that is justpast the track of dawn, and is therefore neither pink nor white, butmanages somehow to combine the best points of both colours.
"Ah, indeed?" said Miss Hugonin. Her tone imparted a surprising degreeof chilliness to this simple remark.
"No," she went on, very formally, "this is not a private room; you oweme no apology for being here. Indeed, I am rather obliged to you, Mr.Woods, for none of us knew of these secret drawers. Here is the key tothe central compartment, if you will be kind enough to point out theother one. Dear, dear!" Margaret concluded, languidly, "all this isquite like a third-rate melodrama. I haven't the least doubt you willdiscover a will in there in your favour, and be reinstated as thelong-lost heir and all that sort of thing. How tiresome that will befor me, though."
She was in a mood to be cruel to-night. She held out the keys tohim, in a disinterested fashion, and dropped them daintily into hisoutstretched palm, just as she might have given a coin to an unusuallygrimy mendicant. But the tips of her fingers grazed his hand.
That did the mischief. Her least touch was enough to set every nervein his body a-tingle. "Peggy!" he said hoarsely, as the keys jangledto the floor. Then Mr. Woods drew a little nearer to her and said"Peggy, Peggy!" in a voice that trembled curiously, and appeared tohave no intention of saying anything further.
Indeed, words would have seemed mere tautology to any one who couldhave seen his eyes. Margaret looked into them for a minute, and herown eyes fell before their blaze, and her heart--very foolishly--stoodstill for a breathing-space. Subsequently she recalled the factthat he was a fortune-hunter, and that she despised him, and alsoobserved--to her surprise and indignation--that he was holding herhand and had apparently been doing so for some time. You may believeit, that she withdrew that pink-and-white trifle angrily enough.
"Pray don't be absurd, Mr. Woods," said she.
Billy caught up the word. "Absurd!" he echoed--"yes, that describeswhat I've been pretty well, doesn't it, Peggy? I _was_ absurd when Ilet you send me to the right-about four years ago. I realised thatto-day the moment I saw you. I should have held on like the verygrimmest death; I should have bullied you into marrying me, ifnecessary, and in spite of fifty Anstruthers. Oh, yes, I know thatnow. But I was only a boy then, Peggy, and so I let a boy's pride comebetween us. I know now there isn't any question of pride where youare concerned--not any question of pride nor of any sillymisunderstandings, nor of any uncle's wishes, nor of anything but justyou, Peggy. It's just you that I care for now--just you."
"Ah!" Margaret cried, with a swift intake of the breath that wasalmost a sob. He had dared, after all; oh, it was shameless, sordid!And yet (she thought dimly), how dear that little quiver in his voicehad been were it unplanned!--and how she could have loved this big,eager boy were he not the hypocrite she knew him!
_She'd_ show him! But somehow--though it was manifestly what hedeserved--she found she couldn't look him in the face while she didit.
So she dropped her eyes to the floor and waited for a moment of tensesilence. Then, "Am I to consider this a proposal, Mr. Woods?" sheasked, in muffled tones.
Billy stared. "Yes," said he, very gravely, after an interval.
"You see," she explained, still in the same dull voice, "you phrasedit so vaguely I couldn't well be certain. You don't propose very well,Mr. Woods. I--I've had opportunities to become an authority on suchmatters, you see, since I've been rich. That makes a difference,doesn't it? A great many men are willing to marry me now who wouldn'thave thought of such a thing, say--say, four years ago. So I've hadsome experience. Oh, yes, three--three _persons_ have offered to marryme for my money earlier in this very evening--before you did, Mr.Woods. And, really, I can't compliment you on your methods, Mr. Woods;they are a little vague, a little abrupt, a little transparent, don'tyou think?"
"Peggy!" he cried, in a frightened whisper. He could not believe, yousee, that it was the woman he loved who was speaking.
And for my part, I admit frankly that at this very point, if ever inher life, Margaret deserved a thorough shaking.
"Dear me," she airily observed, "I'm sure I've said nothing out of theway. I think it speaks very well for you that you're so fond of yourold home--so anxious to regain it at _any_ cost. It's quite touching,Mr. Woods."
She raised her eyes toward his. I dare say she was suffering as muchas he. But women consider it a point of honour to smile when theystab; Margaret smiled with an innocence that would have seemedoverdone in an angel.
Then, in an instant, she had the grace to be abjectly ashamed ofherself. Billy's face had gone white. His mouth was set, mask-like,and his breathing was a little perfunctory. It stung her, though, thathe 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 verysensible thing to want, I'm sure. It makes a great difference, youknow."
He looked down into her face for a moment. One might have sworn thisdetected fortune-hunter pitied her.
"Yes," he assented, slowly, "it makes a difference--not a differencefor 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, andaccordingly 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
opinionof me. I believe I understand now. You think me a very hopelesscad--that's about your real opinion, isn't it, Peggy? I didn't knowthat, 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 quiteforgotten that time."
The allusion was ill chosen.
"Oh, oh, _oh!_" she cried, gasping. "_You_ to remind me of thattime!--you of all men. Haven't you a vestige of shame? Haven't youa rag of honour left? Oh, I didn't know there were such men in theworld! And to think--to think--" Margaret's glorious voice broke, andshe wrung her hands helplessly.
Then, after a little, she raised her eyes to his, and spoke withouta trace of emotion. "To think," she said, and her voice was tonelessnow, "to think that I loved you! It's that that hurts, you know. For Iloved you very dearly, Billy Woods--yes, I think I loved you quite asmuch 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 youwere brave, and strong, and clean, and honest, and beautiful, anddear--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 alistless little shiver. "Yes, it was very queer. You didn't think ofme in quite that way, did you? No, you--you thought I was well enoughto 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 marriagethen. You ran away when Uncle Fred suggested that. You refusedpoint-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, butafterward he drew a deep, tremulous breath and bit his lip and wassilent.
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, whomyou'd have none of when I was poor. I'm rich now, though. That makesa difference, doesn't it, Billy? You're willing to whistle back thegirl's love you flung away once--yes, quite willing. But can't youunderstand 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 prayedGod that he might be just a little, little bit ashamed, so that shemight 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 helpseeing 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 Iknow you for what you are!"
His arms lifted a little; and in a flash Margaret knew that what shemost wanted in all the world was to have them close about her, andthen 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 flimsiestfiction, 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 alittle, 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 justthrown 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 thosecircumstances?"
"I spoke in a moment of irritation," a very dignified Margaret pointedout; "you would have paid no attention whatever to it if you hadreally--cared."
Billy laughed, rather sadly. "Oh, I cared right enough," he said. "Istill 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 indifferentlyobserved.
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, knewthat her traitor lips were forming "yes."
"That would be rather unfortunate, wouldn't it?" she asked, with asmile. "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 remaininconsolable 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 greatdistance, it seemed, and then after a century or two his face cameback to her out of the whirl of things. And, though she did not knowit, they were smiling bravely at one another.
"--and so," Mr. Woods was stating, "I've been an even greater ass thanusual, and I hope you'll be very, very happy."
"Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growingin 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 busymaking an ass of myself I'd forgotten all about more--more importantthings."
Mr. Woods picked up the keys and, going to the desk, unlocked thecentre compartment with a jerk. Afterward he gave a sharp exclamation.He had found a paper in the secret drawer at the back which appearedto startle him.
Billy unfolded it slowly, with a puzzled look growing in hiscountenance. Then for a moment Margaret's golden head drew close tohis yellow curls and they read it through together. And in the mostmelodramatic and improbable fashion in the world they found it to bethe last will and testament of Frederick R. Woods.
"But--but I don't understand," was Miss Hugonin's awed comment. "It'sexactly like the other will, only--why, it's dated the seventeenthof June, the day before he died! And it's witnessed by Hodges andBurton--the butler and the first footman, you know--and they've neversaid anything about such a paper. And, then, why should he have madeanother will just like the first?"
Billy pondered.
By and bye, "I think I can explain that," he said, in a ratherpeculiar voice. "You see, Hodges and Burton witnessed all his papers,half the time without knowing what they were about. They would hardlyhave thought of this particular one after his death. And it isn'tquite the same will as the other; it leaves you practicallyeverything, but it doesn't appoint any trustees, as the other did,because this will was drawn up after you were of age. Moreover, itcontains these four bequests to colleges, to establish a Woods chairof ethnology, which the other will didn't provide for. Of course, itwould have been simpler merely to add a codicil to the first will,but Uncle Fred was always very methodical. I--I think he was probablygoing through the desk the night he died, destroying various papers.He must have taken the other will out to destroy it just--just beforehe died. Perhaps--perhaps--" Billy paused for a little and thenlaughed, unmirthfully. "It scarcely matters," said he. "Here is thewill. 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 notedsilently. So (she thought) he had hoped for a moment that at the lastFrederick R. Woods had relented toward him. It grieved her, in a dullfashion, to see him so mercenary. It grieved her--though she wouldhave denied it emphatically--to see him so disappointed. Since hewanted 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 itto my father. He will do what is necessary. Good-night, Mr. Woods."
Then she locked up the de
sk in a businesslike fashion and turned tohim, 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 yourfavour. I almost wish he had."
Billy smiled a little.
"That would never have done," he said, gravely, as he shookhands; "you forget what a sordid, and heartless, and generallygood-for-nothing chap I am, Peggy. It's much better as it is."
Only the tiniest, the flimsiest fiction, her eyes craved of him. Evennow, at the eleventh hour, lie to me, Billy Woods, and, oh, how gladlyI will believe!
But he merely said "Good-night, Peggy," and went out of the room. Hisbroad shoulders had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.
Margaret was glad. Of course, she was glad. At last, she had told himexactly what she thought of him. Why shouldn't she be glad? She wasdelighted.
So, by way of expressing this delight, she sat down at the desk andbegan to cry very softly.