It was a quite idiotic performance. I set it
down to the snares of Spring—to her insidious,
delightful snares of scent and sound and colour that—for
the moment, at least—had trapped these young
people into loving life infinitely.
But I wonder who is responsible for that tatter of
rhyme and melody that had come to them from nowhere
in particular? Mr. Woods, as he sat up at the
conclusion of the singing vigorously to applaud, would
have shared his last possession, his ultimate crust,
with that unknown benefactor of mankind. Indeed,
though, the heart of Mr. Woods just now was full of
loving kindness and capable of any freakish magnanimity.
For—will it be believed?—Mr.
Woods, who four years ago had thrown over a fortune
and exiled himself from his native land, rather than
propose marriage to Margaret Hugonin, had no sooner
come again into her presence and looked once into
her perfectly fathomless eyes than he could no more
have left her of his own accord than a moth can turn
his back to a lighted candle. He had fancied himself
entirely cured of that boy-and-girl nonsense; his
broken heart, after the first few months, had not
interfered in the least with a naturally healthy appetite;
and, behold, here was the old malady raging again in
his veins and with renewed fervour.
And all because the girl had a pretty face! I
think you will agree with me that in the conversation
I have recorded Margaret had not displayed any great
wisdom or learning or tenderness or wit, nor, in fine,
any of the qualities a man might naturally look for
in a helpmate. Yet at the precise moment he handed
his baggage-check to the groom, Mr. Woods had made
up his mind to marry her. In an instant he had
fallen head over ears in love; or to whittle accuracy
to a point, he had discovered that he had never fallen
out of love; and if you had offered him an empress
or fetched Helen of Troy from the grave for his delectation
he would have laughed you to scorn.
In his defense, I can only plead that Margaret was
an unusually beautiful woman. It is all very
well to flourish a death’s-head at the feast,
and bid my lady go paint herself an inch thick, for
to this favour she must come; and it is quite true
that the reddest lips in the universe may give vent
to slander and lies, and the brightest eyes be set
in the dullest head, and the most roseate of complexions
be purchased at the corner drug-store; but, say what
you will, a pretty woman is a pretty woman, and while
she continue so no amount of common-sense or experience
will prevent a man, on provocation, from alluring,
coaxing, even entreating her to make a fool of him.
We like it. And I think they like it, too.
So Mr. Woods lost his heart on a fine spring morning
and was unreasonably elated over the fact.
And Margaret? Margaret was content.
They talked for a matter of a half-hour in the fashion
aforetime recorded—not very wise nor witty
talk, if you will, but very pleasant to make.
There were many pauses. There was much laughter
over nothing in particular. There were any number
of sentences ambitiously begun that ended nowhere.
Altogether, it was just the sort of talk for a man
and a maid.
