The Eagle's Shadow
XVI
Breakfast Margaret enjoyed hugely. I regret to confess that the factthat every one of her guests was more or less miserable moved thishard-hearted young woman to untimely and excessive mirth. Only Mrs.Saumarez puzzled her, for she could think of no reason for that lady'smanifest agitation when Kathleen eventually joined the others.
But for the rest, the hopeless glances that Hugh Van Orden cast towardher caused Adele to flush, and Mrs. Haggage to become despondent andspeechless and astonishingly rigid; and Petheridge Jukesbury's vaguelyapologetic attitude toward the world struck Miss Hugonin as infinitelydiverting. Kennaston she pitied a little; but his bearing towardher ranged ludicrously from that of proprietorship to that ofsupplication, and, moreover, she was furious with him for havinghinted at various times that Billy was a fortune-hunter.
Margaret was quite confident by this that she had never believedhim--"not really, you know"--having argued the point out at somelength the night before, and reaching her conclusion by a course ofreasoning peculiar to herself.
Mr. Woods, as you may readily conceive, was sunk in the Slough ofDespond deeper than ever plummet sounded. Margaret thought this verynice of him; it was a delicate tribute to her that he ate nothing;and the fact that Hugh Van Orden and Petheridge Jukesbury--as shebelieved--acted in precisely the same way for precisely the samereason, merely demonstrated, of course, their overwhelming conceit andpresumption.
So sitting in the great Eagle's shadow, she ate a quantity ofmarmalade--she was wont to begin the day in this ungodly Englishfashion--and gossiped like a brook trotting over sunlit pebbles. Shehad planned a pulverising surprise for the house-party; and in duetime, she intended to explode it, and subsequently Billy was toapologise for his conduct, and then they were to live happily everafterward.
She had not yet decided what he was to apologise for; that was hisaffair. His conscience ought to have told him, by this, wherein he hadoffended; and if his conscience hadn't, why then, of course, he wouldhave to apologise for his lack of proper sensibility.
After breakfast she went, according to her usual custom, to herfather's rooms, for, as I think I have told you, the old gentleman wasnever visible until noon. She had astonishing news for him.
What time she divulged it, the others sat on the terrace, and Mr.Kennaston read to them, as he had promised, from his "Defense ofIgnorance." It proved a welcome diversion to more than one of theparty. Mr. Woods, especially, esteemed it a godsend; it staved offmisfortune for at least a little; so he sat at Kathleen's side insilence, trying desperately to be happy, trying desperately not to seethe tiny wrinkles, the faint crow's feet Time had sketched in her faceas a memorandum of the work he meant to do shortly.
Billy consoled himself with the reflection that he was very fond ofher; but, oh (he thought), what worship, what adoration he couldaccord this woman if she would only decline--positively--to haveanything whatever to do with him!
I think we ought not to miss hearing Mr. Kennaston's discourse. It isgenerally conceded that his style is wonderfully clever; and I haveno doubt that his detractors--who complain that his style is mereword-twisting, a mere inversion of the most ancient truisms--areactuated by the very basest jealousy. Let us listen, then, and be dulyedified as he reads in a low, sweet voice, and the birds twitter abouthim in the clear morning.
"It has been for many years," Mr. Kennaston began, "the custom ofpatriotic gentlemen in quest of office to point with pride to the factthat the schoolmaster is abroad in the land, in whose defense theystand pledged to draw their salaries and fight to the last gaspfor reelection. These lofty platitudes, while trying to the lungs,doubtless appeal to a certain class of minds. But, indeed, theschoolmaster is not abroad; he is domesticated in every village inAmerica, where each hamlet has its would-be Shakespeare, and eachwould-be Shakespeare has his 'Hamlet' by heart. Learning is rampant inthe land, and valuable information is pasted up in the streetcars sothat he who rides may read.
"And Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--is forsaken by ageneration that clamours for the truth. And what value, pray, has thisTruth that we should lust after it?"
He glanced up, in an inquiring fashion. Mr. Jukesbury, meeting hiseye, smiled and shook his head and said "Fie, fie!" very placidly.
To do him justice, he had not the least idea what Kennaston wastalking about.
"I am aware," the poet continued, with an air of generosity, "thatmany pleasant things have been said of it. In fact, our decade hasturned its back relentlessly upon the decayed, and we no longer readthe lament over the lost art of lying issued many magazines ago bya once prominent British author. Still, without advancing any Wildetheories, one may fairly claim that truth is a jewel--a jewel withmany facets, differing in appearance from each point of view.
"And while 'Tell the truth and shame the Devil' is a very prettysentiment, it need not necessarily mean anything. The Devil, if therebe a personal devil--and it has been pointed out, with some show ofreason, that an impersonal one could scarcely carry out such enormouscontracts--would, in all probability, rather approve than otherwise ofindiscriminate truth-telling. Irritation is the root of all evil; andthere is nothing more irritating than to hear the truth about one'sself. It is bad enough, in all conscience, to be insulted, but thetruth of an insult is the barb that prevents its retraction. 'Truthhurts' has all the pathos of understatement. It not only hurts, butinfuriates. It has no more right to go naked in public than any oneelse. Indeed, it has less right; for truth-telling is natural tomankind--as is shown by its prevalence among the younger sort, such aschildren and cynics--and, as Shakespeare long ago forgot to tell us, atouch of nature makes the whole world embarrassed."
At this point Mrs. Haggage sniffed. She considered he was growingimproper. She distrusted Nature.
"Truth-telling, then, may safely be regarded as an unamiableindiscretion. In art, the bare truth must, in common gallantry, beawarded a print petticoat or one of canvas, as the case may be, tohide her nakedness; and in life, it is a disastrous virtue that wehave united to commend and avoid. Nor is the decision an unwise one;for man is a gregarious animal, knowing that friendship is, at best,but a feeble passion and therefore to be treated with the care due aninvalid. It is impossible to be quite candid in conversation with aman; and with a woman it is absolutely necessary that your speechshould be candied.
"Truth, then, is the least desirable of acquaintances.
"But even if one wished to know the truth, the desire could scarcelybe fulfilled. Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a prominent lawyer ofElizabeth's time, who would have written Shakespeare's plays had hisother occupations not prevented it, quotes Pilate as inquiring, 'Whatis Truth?'--and then not staying for an answer. Pilate deserves allthe praise he has never received. Nothing is quite true. Even Truthlies at the bottom of a well and not infrequently in other places. Noassertion is one whit truer than its opposite."
A mild buzz of protest rose about him. Kennaston smiled and cocked hishead on one side.
"We have, for example," he pointed out, "a large number of proverbs,the small coin of conversation, received everywhere, whose value noone disputes. They are rapped forth, like an oath, with an air ofsettling the question once and forever. Well! there is safety inquotations. But even the Devil can cite Shakespeare for his purpose.'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day' agrees ill with'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof'; and it is somewhatdifficult to reconcile 'Take care of the pence, and the pounds willtake care of themselves' with the equally familiar 'Penny-wise,pound-foolish.' Yet the sayings are equally untrue; any maxim is,perforce, a general statement, and therefore fallacious, and thereforeuniversally accepted. Art is long, and life is short, but theplatitudes concerning them are both insufferable and eternal. We mustremember that a general statement is merely a snap-shot at flyingtruth, an instantaneous photograph of a moving body. It may be the waythat a thing is; but it is never the way in which any one ever sawthat thing, or ever will. This is, of course, a general statement.
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"As to present events, then, it may be assumed that no one is eithercapable or desirous of speaking the truth; why, then, make sucha pother about it as to the past? There we have carried theinvestigation of truth to such an extreme that nowadays very few of usdare believe anything. Opinions are difficult to secure when a quarterof an hour in the library will prove either side of any question.Formerly, people had a few opinions, which, if erroneous, were atleast universal. Nero was not considered an immaculate man. The Floodwas currently believed to have caused the death of quite a number ofpersons. And George Washington, it was widely stated, once cut downa cherry-tree. But now all these comfortable illusions have beendestroyed by 'the least little men who spend their time and lose theirwits in chasing nimble and retiring truth, to the extreme perturbationand drying up of the moistures.'"
Kennaston looked up for a moment, and Billy Woods, who had countedseven wrinkles and was dropping into a forlorn doze, startedviolently. His interest then became abnormal.
"There are," Mr. Kennaston complained, rather reproachfully, "too manyinquiries, doubts, investigations, discoveries, and apologies. Thereare palliations of Tiberius, eulogies of Henry VIII., rehabilitationsof Aaron Burr. Lucretia Borgia, it appears, was a grievouslymisunderstood woman, and Heliogabalus a most exemplary monarch; eventhe dog in the manger may have been a nervous animal in search ofrest and quiet. As for Shakespeare, he was an atheist, a syndicate, alawyer's clerk, an inferior writer, a Puritan, a scholar, a _nom deplume_, a doctor of medicine, a fool, a poacher, and another man ofthe same name. Information of this sort crops up on every side. Eventhe newspapers are infected; truth lurks in the patent-medicineadvertisements, and sometimes creeps stealthily into the veryeditorials. We must all learn the true facts of history, whether wewill or no; eventually, the writers of historical romance will notescape.
"So the sad tale goes. Ignorance--beautiful, divine Ignorance--isforsaken by a generation that clamours for the truth. Theearnest-minded person has plucked Zeus out of Heaven, and driven theMaenad from the wood, and dragged Poseidon out of his deep-sea palace.The conclaves of Olympus, it appears, are merely nature-myths;the stately legends clustering about them turn out to be a ratherelaborate method of expressing the fact that it occasionally rains.The heroes who endured their angers and jests and tragic loves aredelicately veiled allusions to the sun--surely, a very harmless topicof conversation, even in Greece; and the monsters, 'Gorgons and Hydrasand Chimaeras dire,' their grisly offspring, their futile opponents,are but personified frosts. Mythology--the poet's necessity, thefertile mother of his inventions--has become a series of atmosphericphenomena, and the labours of Hercules prove to be a dozen weatherbulletins.
"Is it any cause for wonder, that under this cheerless influence ourpoetry is either silent or unsold? The true poet must be ignorant, forinformation is the thief of rhyme. And it is only in dealing with--"
Kennaston paused. Margaret had appeared in the vestibule, and behindher stood her father, looking very grave.
"We have made a most interesting discovery," Miss Hugonin airilyannounced to the world at large. "It appears that Uncle Fred left allhis property to Mr. Woods here. We found the will only last night. I'msure you'll all be interested to learn I'm a pauper now, and intend tosupport myself by plain sewing. Any work of this nature you maychoose to favour me with, ladies and gentlemen, will receive my most_earnest_ attention."
She dropped a courtesy. The scene appealed to her taste for thedramatic.
Billy came toward her quickly.
"Peggy," he demanded of her, in the semi-privacy of the vestibule,"will you kindly elucidate the meaning of this da--this idioticfoolishness?"
"Why, this," she explained, easily, and exhibited a folded paper. "Ifound it in the grate last night."
He inspected it with large eyes. "That's absurd," he said, at length."You know perfectly well this will isn't worth the paper it's writtenon."
"My dear sir," she informed him, coldly, "you are vastly mistaken. Yousee, I've burned the other one." She pushed by him. "Mr. Kennaston,are you ready for our walk? We'll finish the paper some other time.Wasn't it the strangest thing in the world--?" Her dear, deep, mellowvoice died away as she and Kennaston disappeared in the gardens.
Billy gasped.
But meanwhile, Colonel Hugonin had given the members of his daughter'shouse-party some inkling as to the present posture of affairs. Theywere gazing at Billy Woods rather curiously. He stood in the vestibuleof Selwoode, staring after Margaret Hugonin; but they stared at him,and over his curly head, sculptured above the door-way, they saw theEagle--the symbol of the crude, incalculable power of wealth.
Mr. Woods stood in the vestibule of his own house.