IX
It was an hour or two later when the moon, drifting tardily up fromthe south, found Miss Hugonin and Mr. Kennaston chatting amicablytogether in the court at Selwoode. They were discussing the deplorabletendencies of the modern drama.
The court at Selwoode lies in the angle of the building, the groundplan of which is L-shaped. Its two outer sides are formed by coveredcloisters leading to the palm-garden, and by moonlight--the nightbland and sweet with the odour of growing things, vocal with plashingfountains, spangled with fire-flies that flicker indolently among aglimmering concourse of nymphs and fauns eternally postured in flightor in pursuit--by moonlight, I say, the court at Selwoode is perhapsas satisfactory a spot for a _tete-a-tete_ as this transitory worldaffords.
Mr. Kennaston was in vein to-night; he scintillated; he was also alittle nervous. This was probably owing to the fact that Margaret,leaning against the back of the stone bench on which they both sat,her chin propped by her hand, was gazing at him in that peculiar,intent fashion of hers which--as I think I have mentioned--caused youfatuously to believe she had forgotten there were any other trouseredbeings extant.
Mr. Kennaston, however, stuck to apt phrases and nice distinctions.The moon found it edifying, but rather dull.
After a little Mr. Kennaston paused in his boyish, ebullient speech,and they sat in silence. The lisping of the fountains was veryaudible. In the heavens, the moon climbed a little further andregistered a manifestly impossible hour on the sun-dial. It alsobrightened.
It was a companionable sort of a moon. It invited talk of aconfidential nature.
"Bless my soul," it was signalling to any number of gentlemen at thatmoment, "there's only you and I and the girl here. Speak out, man!She'll have you now, if she ever will. You'll never have a chance likethis again, I can tell you. Come, now, my dear boy, I'm shining fullin your face, and you've no idea how becoming it is. I'm not like thatgarish, blundering sun, who doesn't know any better than to let hersee how red and fidgetty you get when you're excited; I'm an old handat such matters. I've presided over these little affairs since Babylonwas a paltry village. _I'll_ never tell. And--and if anything shouldhappen, I'm always ready to go behind a cloud, you know. So, speakout!--speak out, man, if you've the heart of a mouse!"
Thus far the conscienceless spring moon.
Mr. Kennaston sighed. The moon took this as a promising sign andbrightened over it perceptibly, and thereby afforded him an excellentgambit.
"Yes?" said Margaret. "What is it, beautiful?"
That, in privacy, was her fantastic name for him.
The poet laughed a little. "Beautiful child," said he--and that, undersimilar circumstances, was his perfectly reasonable name forher--"I have been discourteous. To be frank, I have been sulking asirrationally as a baby who clamours for the moon yonder."
"You aren't really anything but a baby, you know." Indeed, Margaretalmost thought of him as such. He was so delightfully naif.
He bent toward her. A faint tremor woke in his speech. "And so," saidhe, softly, "I cry for the moon--the unattainable, exquisite moon. Itis very ridiculous, is it not?"
But he did not look at the moon. He looked toward Margaret--pastMargaret, toward the gleaming windows of Selwoode, where the Eaglebrooded:
"Oh, I really can't say," Margaret cried, in haste. "She was kind toEndymion, you know. We will hope for the best. I think we'd better gointo the house now."
"You bid me hope?" said he.
"Beautiful, if you really want the moon, I don't see the _least_objection to your continuing to hope. They make so many littleairships and things nowadays, you know, and you'll probably find itonly green cheese, after all. What _is_ green cheese, I wonder?--itsounds horribly indigestible and unattractive, doesn't it?" MissHugonin babbled, in a tumult of fear and disappointment. He was aboutto spoil their friendship now; men were so utterly inconsiderate. "I'ma little cold," said she, mendaciously, "I really must go in."
He detained her. "Surely," he breathed, "you must know what I have solong wanted to tell you--"
"I haven't the _least_ idea," she protested, promptly. "You can tellme all about it in the morning. I have some accounts to cast upto-night. Besides, I'm not a good person to tell secrets to.You--you'd much better not tell me. Oh, really, Mr. Kennaston," shecried, earnestly, "you'd much better not tell me!"
"Ah, Margaret, Margaret," he pleaded, "I am not adamant. I am only aman, with a man's heart that hungers for you, cries for you, clamoursfor you day by day! I love you, beautiful child--love you with apoet's love that is alien to these sordid days, with a love that ishalf worship. I love you as Leander loved his Hero, as Pyramus lovedThisbe. Ah, child, child, how beautiful you are! You are fairest ofcreated women, child--fair as those long-dead queens for whose smilesold cities burned and kingdoms were lightly lost. I am mad for love ofyou! Ah, have pity upon me, Margaret, for I love you very tenderly!"
He delivered these observations with appropriate fervour.
"Mr. Kennaston," said she, "I am sorry. We got along so nicely before,and I was _so_ proud of your friendship. We've had such good timestogether, you and I, and I've liked your verses so, and I've likedyou--Oh, please, _please_, let's keep on being just friends!" Margaretwailed, piteously.
"Friends!" he cried, and gave a bitter laugh. "I was never friendswith you, Margaret. Why, even as I read my verses to you--thosepallid, ineffectual verses that praised you timorously under variednames--even then there pulsed in my veins the riotous paean of love,the great mad song of love that shamed my paltry rhymes. I cannot befriends with you, child! I must have all or nothing. Bid me hope orgo!"
Miss Hugonin meditated for a moment and did neither.
"Beautiful," she presently queried, "would you be very, very muchshocked if I descended to slang?"
"I think," said he, with an uncertain smile, "that I could endure it."
"Why, then--cut it out, beautiful! Cut it out! I don't believe a wordyou've said, in the first place; and, anyhow, it annoys me to have youtalk to me like that. I don't like it, and it simply makes me awfully,awfully tired."
With which characteristic speech, Miss Hugonin leaned back and sat upvery rigidly and smiled at him like a cherub.
Kennaston groaned.
"It shall be as you will," he assured her, with a little quaver in hisspeech that was decidedly effective. "And in any event, I am not sorrythat I have loved you, beautiful child. You have always been a powerfor good in my life. You have gladdened me with the vision of a beautythat is more than human, you have heartened me for this petty businessof living, you have praised my verses, you have even accorded mecertain pecuniary assistance as to their publication--though I mustadmit that to accept it of you was very distasteful to me. Ah!" FelixKennaston cried, with a quick lift of speech, "impractical child thatI am, I had not thought of that! My love had caused me to forget thegreat barrier that stands between us."
He gasped and took a short turn about the court.
"Pardon me, Miss Hugonin," he entreated, when his emotions were undera little better control, "for having spoken as I did. I had forgotten.Think of me, if you will, as no better than the others--think of me asa mere fortune-hunter. My presumption will be justly punished."
"Oh, no, no, it isn't that," she cried; "it isn't that, is it?You--you would care just as much about me if I were poor, wouldn'tyou, beautiful? I don't want you to care for me, of course," Margaretadded, with haste. "I want to go on being friends. Oh, that money,that _nasty_ money!" she cried, in a sudden gust of petulance. "Itmakes me so distrustful, and I can't help it!"
He smiled at her wistfully. "My dear," said he, "are there no mirrorsat Selwoode to remove your doubts?"
"I--yes, I do believe in you," she said, at length. "But I don't wantto marry you. You see, I'm not a bit in love with you," Margaretexplained, candidly.
Ensued a silence. Mr. Kennaston bowed his head.
"You bid me go?" said he.
"No--not exactly," said she.
He
indicated a movement toward her.
"Now, you needn't attempt to take any liberties with me," Miss Hugoninannounced, decisively, "because if you do I'll never speak to youagain. You must let me go now. You--you must let me think."
Then Felix Kennaston acted very wisely. He rose and stood aside, witha little bow.
"I can wait, child," he said, sadly. "I have already waited a longtime."
Miss Hugonin escaped into the house without further delay. It was veryflattering, of course; he had spoken beautifully, she thought, andnobly and poetically and considerately, and altogether there wasabsolutely no excuse for her being in a temper. Still, she was.
The moon, however, considered the affair as arranged.
For she had been no whit more resolute in her refusal, you see, thanbecomes any self-respecting maid. In fact, she had not refused him;and the experienced moon had seen the hopes of many a wooer thrive,chameleon-like, on answers far less encouraging than that whichMargaret had given Felix Kennaston.
Margaret was very fond of him. All women like a man who can do apicturesque thing without bothering to consider whether or not he bemaking himself ridiculous; and more than once in thinking of him shehad wondered if--perhaps--possibly--some day--? And always these vagueflights of fancy had ended at this precise point--incinerated, if youwill grant me the simile, by the sudden flaming of her cheeks.
The thing is common enough. You may remember that Romeo was not theonly gentleman that Juliet noticed at her debut: there was the youngPetruchio; and the son and heir of old Tiberio; and I do not questionthat she had a kind glance or so for County Paris. Beyond doubt, therewere many with whom my lady had danced; with whom she had laughed alittle; with whom she had exchanged a few perfectly affable words andlooks--when of a sudden her heart speaks: "Who's he that would notdance? If he be married, my grave is like to prove my marriage-bed."In any event, Paris and Petruchio and Tiberio's young hopeful can gohang; Romeo has come.
Romeo is seldom the first. Pray you, what was there to prevent Julietfrom admiring So-and-so's dancing? or from observing that SignorSuch-an-one had remarkably expressive eyes? or from thinking of Tybaltas a dear, reckless fellow whom it was the duty of some good woman torescue from perdition? If no one blames the young Montague for sendingRosaline to the right-about--Rosaline for whom he was weeping andrhyming an hour before--why, pray, should not Signorina Capulet havehad a few previous _affaires du coeur_? Depend upon it, she had; forwas she not already past thirteen?
In like manner, I dare say that a deal passed between Desdemona andCassio that the honest Moor never knew of; and that Lucrece wasprobably very pleasant and agreeable to Tarquin, as a well-bredhostess should be; and that Helen had that little affair with Theseusbefore she ever thought of Paris; and that if Cleopatra died for loveof Antony it was not until she had previously lived a great while withCaesar.
So Felix Kennaston had his hour. Now Margaret has gone into Selwoode,flame-faced and quite unconscious that she is humming under her breaththe words of a certain inane old song:
"Oh, she sat for me a chair; She has ringlets in her hair; She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother"--
Only she sang it "father." And afterward, she suddenly frowned andstamped her foot, did Margaret.
"I _hate_ him!" said she; but she looked very guilty.