The Eagle's Shadow, James Branch Cabell [best manga ereader txt] 📗

and joyous-hearted, as he
had known her long ago. Since then, the poor woman had eaten of the
bread of dependence and had found it salt enough; she had paid for it
daily, enduring a thousand petty slights, a thousand petty insults,
and smiling under them as only women can. But she had forgotten now
that shrewd Kathleen Saumarez who must earn her livelihood as best she
might. She smiled frankly--a purely unprofessional smile.

"I was sorry when I heard you were coming," she said, irrelevantly,
"but I'm glad now."

Mr. Woods--I grieve to relate--was still holding her hand in his.
There stirred in his pulses the thrill Kathleen Eppes had always
wakened--a thrill of memory now, a mere wraith of emotion. He was
thinking of a certain pink-cheeked girl with crinkly black-brown
hair and eyes that he had likened to chrysoberyls--and he wondered
whimsically what had become of her. This was not she. This was
assuredly not Kathleen, for this woman had a large mouth--a humorous
and kindly mouth it was true, but undeniably a large one--whereas,
Kathleen's mouth had been quite perfect and rather diminutive than
otherwise. Hadn't he rhymed of it often enough to know?

They stood gazing at one another for a long time; and in the back of
Billy's brain lines of his old verses sang themselves to a sad little
tune--the verses that reproved the idiocy of all other poets, who had
very foolishly written their sonnets to other women: and yet, as the
jingle pointed out,

 Had these poets ever strayed
 In thy path, they had not made
 Random rhymes of Arabella,
 Songs of Dolly, hymns of Stella,
 Lays of Lalage or Chloris--
 Not of Daphne nor of Doris,
 Florimel nor Amaryllis,
 Nor of Phyllida nor Phyllis,
 Were their wanton melodies:
 But all of these--
 All their melodies had been
 Of thee, Kathleen.

Would they have been? Billy thought it improbable. The verses were
very silly; and, recalling the big, blundering boy who had written
them, Billy began to wonder--somewhat forlornly--whither he, too,
had vanished. He and the girl he had gone mad for both seemed rather
mythical--legendary as King Pepin.

"Yes," said Mrs. Saumarez--and oh, she startled him; "I fancy they're
both quite dead by now. Billy," she cried, earnestly, "don't laugh
at them!--don't laugh at those dear, foolish children! I--somehow, I
couldn't bear that, Billy."

"Kathleen," said Mr. Woods, in admiration, "you're a witch. I wasn't
laughing, though, my dear. I was developing quite a twilight mood over
them--a plaintive, old-lettery sort of mood, you know."

She sighed a little. "Yes--I know." Then her eyelids flickered in a
parody of Kathleen's glance that Billy noted with a queer tenderness.
"Come and talk to me, Billy," she commanded. "I'm an early bird this
morning, and entitled to the very biggest and best-looking worm I can
find. You're only a worm, you know--we're all worms. Mr. Jukesbury
told me so last night, making an exception in my favour, for it
appears I'm an angel. He was amorously inclined last night, the tipsy
old fraud! It's shameless, Billy, the amount of money he gets out of
Miss Hugonin--for the deserving poor. Do you know, I rather fancy he
classes himself under that head? And I grant you he's poor enough--but
deserving!" Mrs. Saumarez snapped her fingers eloquently.

"Eh? Shark, eh?" queried Mr. Woods, in some discomfort.

She nodded. "He is as bad as Sarah Haggage," she informed him, "and
everybody knows what a bloodsucker she is. The Haggage is a disease,
Billy, that all rich women are exposed to--'more easily caught than
the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad.' Depend upon it,
Billy, those two will have every penny they can get out of your
uncle's money."

"Peggy's so generous," he pleaded. "She wants to make everybody
happy--bring about a general millenium, you know."

"She pays dearly enough for her fancies," said Mrs. Saumarez, in a
hard voice. Then, after a little, she cried, suddenly: "Oh, Billy,
Billy, it shames me to think of how we lie to her, and toady to her,
and lead her on from one mad scheme to another!--all for the sake of
the money we can pilfer incidentally! We're all arrant hypocrites, you
know; I'm no better than the others, Billy--not a bit better. But
my husband left me so poor, and I had always been accustomed to the
pretty things of life, and I couldn't--I couldn't give them up, Billy.
I love them too dearly. So I lie, and toady, and write drivelling
talks about things I don't understand, for drivelling women to
listen to, and I still have the creature comforts of life. I pawn my
self-respect for them--that's all. Such a little price to pay, isn't
it, Billy?"

She spoke in a sort of frenzy. I dare say that at the outset she
wanted Mr. Woods to know the worst of her, knowing he could not fail
to discover it in time. Billy brought memories with him, you see; and
this shrewd, hard woman wanted, somehow, more than anything else in
the world, that he should think well of her. So she babbled out the
whole pitiful story, waiting in a kind of terror to see contempt and
disgust awaken in his eyes.

But he merely said "I see--I see," very slowly, and his eyes were
kindly. He couldn't be angry with her, somehow; that pink-cheeked,
crinkly haired girl stood between them and shielded her. He was only
very, very sorry.

"And Kennaston?" he asked, after a little.

Mrs. Saumarez flushed. "Mr. Kennaston is a man of great genius," she
said, quickly. "Of course, Miss Hugonin is glad to assist him in
publishing his books--it's an honour to her that he permits it. They
have to be published privately, you know, as the general public isn't
capable of appreciating such dainty little masterpieces. Oh, don't
make any mistake, Billy--Mr. Kennaston is a very wonderful and very
admirable man."

"H'm, yes; he struck me as being an unusually nice chap," said Mr.
Woods, untruthfully. "I dare say they'll be very happy."

"Who?" Mrs. Saumarez demanded.

"Why--er--I don't suppose they'll make any secret of it," Billy
stammered, in tardy repentance of his hasty speaking. "Peggy told me
last night she had accepted him."

Mrs. Saumarez turned to rearrange a bowl of roses. She seemed to have
some difficulty over it.

"Billy," she spoke, inconsequently, and with averted head, "an honest
man is the noblest work of God--and the rarest."

Billy groaned.

"Do you know," said he, "I've just been telling the roses in the
gardens yonder the same thing about women? I'm a misogynist this
morning. I've decided no woman is worthy of being loved."

"That is quite true," she assented, "but, on the other hand, no man is
worthy of loving."

Billy smiled.

"I've likewise come to the conclusion," said he, "that a man's love is
like his hat, in that any peg will do to hang it on; also, in that the
proper and best place for it is on his own head. Oh, I assure you,
I vented any number of cheap cynicisms on the helpless roses! And
yet--will you believe it, Kathleen?--it doesn't seem to make me feel a
bit better--no, not a bit."

"It's very like his hat," she declared, "in that he has a new one
every year." Then she rested her hand on his, in a half-maternal
fashion. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked, softly. "You're always
so fresh and wholesome. I don't like to see you like this. Better
leave phrase-making to us phrase-mongers."

Her voice rang true--true, and compassionate, and tender, and all that
a woman's voice should be. Billy could not but trust her.

"I've been an ass," said he, rather tragically. "Oh, not an unusual
ass, Kathleen--just the sort men are always making of themselves. You
see, before I went to France, there was a girl I--cared for. And I let
a quarrel come between us--a foolish, trifling, idle little quarrel,
Kathleen, that we might have made up in a half-hour. But I was too
proud, you see. No, I wasn't proud, either," Mr. Woods amended,
bitterly; "I was simply pig-headed and mulish. So I went away. And
yesterday I saw her again and realised that I--still cared. That's
all, Kathleen. It isn't an unusual story." And Mr. Woods laughed,
mirthlessly, and took a turn on the terrace.

Mrs. Saumarez was regarding him intently. Her cheeks were of a deeper,
more attractive pink, and her breath came and went quickly.

"I--I don't understand," she said, in a rather queer voice.

"Oh, it's simple enough," Billy assured her. "You see, she--well, I
think she would have married me once. Yes, she cared for me once. And
I quarreled with her--I, conceited young ass that I was, actually
presumed to dictate to the dearest, sweetest, most lovable woman on
earth, and tell her what she must do and what she mustn't. I!--good
Lord, I, who wasn't worthy to sweep a crossing clean for her!--who
wasn't worthy to breathe the same air with her!--who wasn't worthy to
exist in the same world she honoured by living in! Oh, I was an ass!
But I've paid for it!--oh, yes, Kathleen, I've paid dearly for it,
and I'll pay more dearly yet before I've done. I tried to avoid her
yesterday--you must have seen that. And I couldn't--I give you my
word, I could no more have kept away from her than I could have spread
a pair of wings and flown away. She doesn't care a bit for me now; but
I can no more give up loving her than I can give up eating my dinner.
That isn't a pretty simile, Kathleen, but it expresses the way I feel
toward her. It isn't merely that I want her; it's more than that--oh,
far more than that. I simply can't do without her. Don't you
understand, Kathleen?" he asked, desperately.

"Yes--I think I understand," she said, when he had ended. "I--oh,
Billy, I am almost sorry. It's dear of you--dear of you, Billy, to
care for me still, but--but I'm almost sorry you care so much. I'm not
worth it, boy dear. And I--I really don't know what to say. You must
let me think."

Mr. Woods gave an inarticulate sound. The face she turned to him
was perplexed, half-sad, fond, a little pleased, and strangely
compassionate. It was Kathleen Eppes who sat beside him; the six years
were as utterly forgotten as the name of Magdalen's first lover. She
was a girl again, listening--with a heart that fluttered, I dare
say--to the wild talk, the mad dithyrambics of a big, blundering boy.

The ludicrous horror of it stunned Mr. Woods.

He could no more have told her of her mistake than he could have
struck her in the face.

"Kathleen--!" said he, vaguely.

"Let me think!--ah, let me think, Billy!" she pleaded, in a flutter of
joy and amazement. "Go away, boy dear!--Go away for a little and
let me think! I'm not an emotional woman, but I'm on the verge of
hysterics now, for--for several reasons. Go in to breakfast, Billy!
I--I want to be alone. You've made me very proud and--and sorry, I
think, and glad, and--and--oh, I don't know, boy dear. But please go
now--please!"

Billy went.

In the living-hall he paused to inspect a picture with peculiar
interest. Since Kathleen cared for him (he thought, rather forlornly),
he must perjure himself in as plausible a manner as might be possible;
please God, having done what he had done, he would lie to her like a
gentleman and try to make her happy.

A vision in incredible violet ruffles, coming down to breakfast, saw
him, and paused on the stairway, and flushed and laughed deliciously.

Poor Billy stared at her; and his heart gave a great bound and then
appeared to stop for an indefinite time.

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Woods, in his soul. "And I thought I was an ass
last night! Why, last night, in comparison, I displayed intelligence
that was almost human! Oh, Peggy, Peggy! if I only dared tell you what
I think of you, I believe I would gladly die afterward--yes, I'm sure
I would. You really haven't any right to be so beautiful!--it isn't
fair to us, Peggy!"

But the vision was peeping over the bannisters at him, and the
vision's eyes were sparkling with a lucent mischief and a wonderful,
half-hushed contralto was demanding of him:

 "Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy?
  Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?"

And Billy's baritone answered her:

 "I've been to seek a wife--"

and broke off in a groan.

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Woods.

It was a ludicrous business, if you will. Indeed, it was vastly
humorous--was it not?--this woman's thinking a man's love might by any
chance endure through six whole years. But their love endures, you
see; and the silly creatures have a superstition among them that love
is a sacred thing, stronger than time, victorious over death itself.
Let us laugh, then, at Kathleen Saumarez--those of us who have learned
that love is only