The Eagles Shadow | Page 5

by gad--not to speak unkindly of the dead, my dear--Frederick
quarrelled with every one he ever knew, from the woman who nursed
him to the doctor who gave him his last pill. He may have gotten his

genius for money-making from Heaven, but he certainly got his temper
from the devil. I really believe," said the Colonel, reflectively, "it was
worse than mine. Yes, not a doubt of it--I'm a lamb in comparison. But
he had his way, after all; and even now poor Billy can't get Selwoode
without taking you with it," and he caught his daughter's face between
his hands and turned it toward his for a moment. "I wonder now," said
he, in meditative wise, "if Billy will consider that a drawback?"
It seemed very improbable. Any number of marriageable males would
have sworn it was unthinkable.
However, "Of course," Margaret began, in a crisp voice, "if you advise
Mr. Woods to marry me as a good speculation--"
But her father caught her up, with a whistle. "Eh?" said he. "Love in a
cottage?--is it thus the poet turns his lay? That's damn' nonsense! I tell
you, even in a cottage the plumber's bill has to be paid, and the grocer's
little account settled every month. Yes, by gad, and even if you elect to
live on bread and cheese and kisses, you'll find Camembert a bit more
to your taste than Sweitzer."
"But I don't want to marry anybody, you ridiculous old dear," said
Margaret.
"Oh, very well," said the old gentleman; "don't. Be an old maid, and
lecture before the Mothers' Club, if you like. I don't care. Anyhow, you
meet Billy to-day at twelve-forty-five. You will?--that's a good child.
Now run along and tell the menagerie I'll be down-stairs as soon as I've
finished dressing."
And the Colonel rang for his man and proceeded to finish his toilet. He
seemed a thought absent-minded this morning.
"I say, Wilkins," he questioned, after a little. "Ever read any of Ouida's
books?"
"Ho, yes, sir," said Wilkins; "Miss 'Enderson--Mrs. 'Aggage's maid,
that his, sir--was reading haloud hout hof 'Hunder Two Flags' honly last

hevening, sir."
"H'm--Wilkins--if you can run across one of them in the servants'
quarters--you might leave it--by my bed--to-night."
"Yes, sir."
"And--h'm, Wilkins--you can put it under that book of Herbert
Spencer's my daughter gave me yesterday. Under it, Wilkins--and, h'm,
Wilkins--you needn't mention it to anybody. Ouida ain't cultured,
Wilkins, but she's damn' good reading. I suppose that's why she ain't
cultured, Wilkins."

III
And now let us go back a little. In a word, let us utilise the next twenty
minutes--during which Miss Hugonin drives to the neighbouring
railway station, in, if you press me, not the most pleasant state of mind
conceivable--by explaining a thought more fully the posture of affairs
at Selwoode on the May morning that starts our story.
And to do this I must commence with the nature of the man who
founded Selwoode.
It was when the nineteenth century was still a hearty octogenarian that
Frederick R. Woods caused Selwoode to be builded. I give you the
name by which he was known on "the Street." A mythology has grown
about the name since, and strange legends of its owner are still narrated
where brokers congregate. But with the lambs he sheared, and the bulls
he dragged to earth, and the bears he gored to financial death, we have
nothing to do; suffice it, that he performed these operations with almost
uniform success and in an unimpeachably respectable manner.
And if, in his time, he added materially to the lists of inmates in various
asylums and almshouses, it must be acknowledged that he bore his
victims no malice, and that on every Sunday morning he confessed
himself to be a miserable sinner, in a voice that was perfectly audible

three pews off. At bottom, I think he considered his relations with
Heaven on a purely business basis; he kept a species of running account
with Providence; and if on occasions he overdrew it somewhat, he saw
no incongruity in evening matters with a cheque for the church fund.
So that at his death it was said of him that he had, in his day, sent more
men into bankruptcy and more missionaries into Africa than any other
man in the country.
In his sixty-fifth year, he caught Alfred Van Orden short in Lard,
erected a memorial window to his wife and became a country
gentleman. He never set foot in Wall Street again. He builded
Selwoode--a handsome Tudor manor which stands some seven miles
from the village of Fairhaven--where he dwelt in state, by turns affable
and domineering to the neighbouring farmers, and evincing a grave
interest in the condition of their crops. He no longer turned to the