“You have chosen; and I cry content thereto,
  And cry your pardon also, and am reproved
  In that I took you for a woman I loved
  Odd centuries ago, and would undo
  That curious error.  Nay, your eyes are blue,
  Your speech is gracious, but you are not she,
  And I am older-and changed how utterly!-
  I am no longer I, you are not you.

  “Time, destined as we thought but to befriend
  And guerdon love like ours, finds you beset
  With joys and griefs I neither share nor mend
  Who am a stranger; and we two are met
  Nor wholly glad nor sorry; and the end
  Of too much laughter is a faint regret.”

R.E.  TOWNSEND. Sonnets for Elena.

I

Next morning Rudolph Musgrave found the world no longer an impassioned place, but simply a familiar habitation,-no longer the wrestling-ground of big emotions, indeed, but undoubtedly a spot, whatever were its other pretensions to praise, wherein one was at home.  He breakfasted on ham and eggs, in a state of tolerable equanimity; and mildly wondered at himself for doing it.

The colonel was deep in a heraldic design and was whistling through his teeth when Patricia came into the Library.  He looked up, with the outlines of a frown vanishing like pencilings under the india-rubber of professional courtesy,-for he was denoting or at the moment, which is fussy work, as it consists exclusively of dots.

Then his chair scraped audibly upon the floor as he pushed it from him.  It occurred to Rudolph Musgrave after an interval that he was still half-way between sitting and standing, and that his mouth was open....

He could hear a huckster outside on Regis Avenue.  The colonel never forgot the man was crying “Fresh oranges!”

“He kissed me, Olaf.  Yes, I let him kiss me, even after he had asked me if he could.  No sensible girl would ever do that, of course.  And then I knew-”

Patricia was horribly frightened.

“And afterwards the jackass-fool made matters worse by calling me ’his darling.’  There is no more hateful word in the English language than ‘darling.’  It sounds like castor-oil tastes, or a snail looks after you have put salt on him.”

The colonel deliberated this information; and he appeared to understand.

“So Parkinson has gone the way of Pevensey,-. and of I wonder how many others?  Well, may Heaven be very gracious to us both!” he said.  “For I am going to do it.”

Then composedly he took up the telephone upon his desk and called Roger Stapylton.

“I want you to come at once to Dr. Rabbet’s,-yes, the rectory, next door to St. Luke’s.  Patricia and I are to be married there in half an hour.  We are on our way to the City Hall to get the license now....  No, she might change her mind again, you see....  I have not the least notion how it happened.  I don’t care....  Then you will have to be rude to him or else not see your only daughter married....  Kindly permit me to repeat, sir, that I don’t care about that or anything else.  And for the rest, Patricia was twenty-one last December.”

The colonel hung up the receiver.  “And now,” he said, “we are going to the City Hall.”

“Are you?” said Patricia, with courteous interest.  “Well, my way lies uptown.  I have to stop in at Greenberg’s and get a mustard plaster for the parrot.”

He had his hat by this.  “It isn’t cool enough for me to need an overcoat, is it?”

“I think you must be crazy,” she said, sharply.

“Of course I am.  So I am going to marry you.”

“Let me go-!  Oh, and I had thought you were a gentleman-.”

“I fear that at present I am simply masculine.”  He became aware that his hands, in gripping both her shoulders, were hurting the girl.

“Come now,” he continued, “will you go quietly or will I have to carry you?”

She said, “And you would, too-.”  She spoke in wonder, for Patricia had glimpsed an unguessed Rudolph Musgrave.

His hands went under her arm-pits and he lifted her like a feather.  He held her thus at arm’s length.

“You-you adorable whirligig!” he laughed.  “I am a stronger animal than you.  It would be as easy for me to murder you as it would be for you to kill one of those flies on the window-pane.  Do you quite understand that fact, Patricia?”

“Oh, but you are an idiot-.”

“In wanting you, my dear?”

“Please put me down.”

She thoroughly enjoyed her helplessness.  He saw it, long before he lowered her.

“Why, not so much in that,” said Miss Stapylton, “because inasmuch as I am a woman of superlative charm, of course you can’t help yourself.  But how do you know that Dr. Rabbet may not be somewhere else, harrying a defenseless barkeeper, or superintending the making of dress-shirt protectors for the Hottentots, or doing something else clerical, when we get to the rectory?”

After an irrelevant interlude she stamped her foot.

“I don’t care what you say, I won’t marry an atheist.  If you had the least respect for his cloth, Olaf, you would call him up and arrange-Oh, well! whatever you want to arrange-and permit me to powder my nose without being bothered, because I don’t want people to think you are marrying a second helping to butter, and I never did like that Baptist man on the block above, anyhow.  And besides,” said Patricia, as with the occurrence of a new view-point, “think what a delicious scandal it will create!”

II

Patricia spoke the truth.  By supper-time Lichfield had so industriously embroidered the Stapylton dinner and the ensuing marriage with hypotheses and explanations and unparented rumors that none of the participants in the affair but could advantageously have exchanged reputations with Benedict Arnold or Lucretia Borgia, had Lichfield believed a tithe of what Lichfield was repeating.

A duel was of course anticipated between Mr. Parkinson and Colonel Musgrave, and the colonel indeed offered, through Major Wadleigh, any satisfaction which Mr. Parkinson might desire.

The engineer, with garnishments of profanity, considered dueling to be a painstakingly-described absurdity and wished “the old popinjay” joy of his bargain.

Lichfield felt that only showed what came of treating poor-white trash as your equals, and gloried in the salutary moral.

III

Meanwhile the two originators of so much Lichfieldian diversion were not unhappy.

But indeed it were irreverent even to try to express the happiness of their earlier married life ...

They were an ill-matched couple in so many ways that no long-headed person could conceivably have anticipated-in the outcome-more than decorous tolerance of each other.  For apart from the disparity in age and tastes and rearing, there was always the fact to be weighed that in marrying the only child of a wealthy man Rudolph Musgrave was making what Lichfield called “an eminently sensible match”-than which, as Lichfield knew, there is no more infallible recipe for discord.

In this case the axiom seemed, after the manner of all general rules, to bulwark itself with an exception.  Colonel Musgrave continued to emanate an air of contentment which fell perilously short of fatuity; and that Patricia was honestly fond of him was evident to the most impecunious of Lichfield’s bachelors.

True, curtains had been lifted, a little by a little.  Patricia could hardly have told you at what exact moment it was that she discovered Miss Agatha-who continued of course to live with them-was a dipsomaniac.  Very certainly Rudolph Musgrave was not Patricia’s informant; it is doubtful if the colonel ever conceded his sister’s infirmity in his most private meditations; so that Patricia found the cause of Miss Agatha’s “attacks” to be an open secret of which everyone in the house seemed aware and of which by tacit agreement nobody ever spoke.  It bewildered Patricia, at first, to find that as concerned Lichfield at large any over-indulgence in alcohol by a member of the Musgrave family was satisfactorily accounted for by the matter-of-course statement that the Musgraves usually “drank,”-just as the Allardyces notoriously perpetuated the taint of insanity, and the Townsends were proverbially unable “to let women alone,” and the Vartreys were deplorably prone to dabble in literature.  These things had been for a long while just as they were to-day; and therefore (Lichfield estimated) they must be reasonable.

Then, too, Patricia would have preferred to have been rid of the old mulatto woman Virginia, because it was through Virginia that Miss Agatha furtively procured intoxicants.  But Rudolph Musgrave would not consider Virginia’s leaving.  “Virginia’s faithfulness has been proven by too many years of faithful service” was the formula with which he dismissed the suggestion ...  Afterward Patricia learned from Miss Agatha of the wrong that had been done Virginia by Olaf’s uncle, Senator Edward Musgrave, the noted ante-bellum orator, and understood that Olaf-without, of course, conceding it to himself, because that was Olaf’s way-was trying to make reparation.  Patricia respected the sentiment, and continued to fret under its manifestation.

Miss Agatha also told Patricia of how the son of Virginia and Senator Musgrave had come to a disastrous end-“lynched in Texas, I believe, only it may not have been Texas.  And indeed when I come to think of it, I don’t believe it was, because I know we first heard of it on a Monday, and Virginia couldn’t do the washing that week and I had to send it out.  And for the usual crime, of course.  It simply shows you how much better off the darkies were before the War,” Miss Agatha said.

Patricia refrained from comment, not being willing to consider the deduction strained.  For love is a contagious infection; and loving Rudolph Musgrave so much, Patricia must perforce love any person whom he loved as conscientiously as she would have strangled any person with whom he had flirted.

And yet, to Patricia, it was beginning to seem that Patricia Musgrave was not living, altogether, in that Lichfield which John Charteris has made immortal-“that nursery of Free Principles” (according to the Lichfield Courier-Herald) “wherein so many statesmen, lieutenants-general and orators were trained to further the faith of their fathers, to thrill the listening senates, draft constitutions, and bruise the paws of the British lion.”

IV

It may be remembered that Lichfield had asked long ago, “But who, pray, are the Stapyltons?” It was characteristic of Colonel Musgrave that he went about answering the question without delay.  The Stapletons-for “Stapylton” was a happy innovation of Roger Stapylton’s dead wife-the colonel knew to have been farmers in Brummell County, and Brummell Courthouse is within an hour’s ride, by rail, of Lichfield.

So he set about his labor of love.

And in it he excelled himself.  The records of Brummell date back to 1750 and are voluminous; but Rudolph Musgrave did not overlook an item in any Will Book, or in any Orders of the Court, that pertained, however remotely, to the Stapletons.  Then he renewed his labors at the courthouse of the older county from which Brummell was formed in 1750, and through many fragmentary, evil-odored and unindexed volumes indefatigably pursued the family’s fortune back to the immigration of its American progenitor in 1619,-and, by the happiest fatality, upon the same Bona Nova which enabled the first American Musgrave to grace the Colony of Virginia with his presence.  It could no longer be said that the wife of a Musgrave of Matocton lacked an authentic and tolerably ancient pedigree.

The colonel made a book of his Stapyltonian researches which he vaingloriously proclaimed to be the stupidest reading within the ample field of uninteresting printed English.  Patricia was allowed to see no word of it until the first ten copies had come from the printer’s, very splendid in green “art-vellum” and stamped with the Stapylton coat-of-arms in gold.

She read the book.  “It is perfectly superb,” was her verdict.  “It is as dear as remembered kisses after death and as sweet as a plaintiff in a breach-of-promise suit.  Only I would have preferred it served with a few kings and dukes for parsley.  The Stapletons don’t seem to have been anything but perfectly respectable mediocrities.”

The colonel smiled.  At the bottom of his heart he shared Patricia’s regret that the Stapylton pedigree was unadorned by a potentate, because nobody can stay unimpressed by a popular superstition, however crass the thing may be.  But for all this, an appraisal of himself and his own achievements profusely showed high lineage is not invariably a guarantee of excellence; and so he smiled and said: 

“There are two ends to every stick.  It was the Stapletons and others of their sort, rather than any soft-handed Musgraves, who converted a wilderness, a little by a little, into the America of to-day.  The task was tediously achieved, and without ostentation; and always the ship had its resplendent figure-head, as always it had its hidden, nay! grimy, engines, which propelled the ship.  And, however direfully America may differ from Utopia, to have assisted in the making of America is no mean distinction.  We Musgraves and our peers, I sometimes think, may possibly have been just gaudy autumn leaves which happened to lie in the path of a high wind.  And to cut a gallant figure in such circumstances does not necessarily prove the performer to be a rara avis, even though he rides the whirlwind quite as splendidly as any bird existent.”

Patricia fluttered, and as lightly and irresponsibly as a wren might have done, perched on his knee.

“No! there is really something in heredity, after all.  Now, you are a Musgrave in every vein of you.  It always seems like a sort of flippancy for you to appear in public without a stock and a tarnished gilt frame with most of the gilt knocked off and a catalogue-number tucked in the corner.”  Patricia spoke without any regard for punctuation.  “And I am so unlike you.  I am only a Stapylton.  I do hope you don’t mind my being merely a Stapylton, Olaf, because if only I wasn’t too modest to even think of alluding to the circumstance, I would try to tell you about the tiniest fraction of how much a certain ravishingly beautiful half-strainer loves you, Olaf, and the consequences would be deplorable.”

“My dear--” he began.

“Ouch!” said Patricia; “you are tickling me.  You don’t shave half as often as you used to, do you?  No, nowadays you think you have me safe and don’t have to bother about being attractive.  If I had a music-box I could put your face into it and play all sorts of tunes, only I prefer to look at it.  You are a slattern and a jay-bird and a joy forever.  And besides, the first Stapleton seems to have blundered somehow into the House of Burgesses, so that entitles me to be a Colonial Dame on my father’s side, too, doesn’t it, Olaf?”

The colonel laughed.  “Madam Vanity!” said he, “I repeat that to be descended of a line of czars or from a house of emperors is, at the worst, an empty braggartism, or, at best-upon the plea of heredity-a handy palliation for iniquity; and to be descended of sturdy and honest and clean-blooded folk is beyond doubt preferable, since upon quite similar grounds it entitles one to hope that even now, ’when their generation is gone, when their play is over, when their panorama is withdrawn in tatters from the stage of the world,’ there may yet survive of them ’some few actions worth remembering, and a few children who have retained some happy stamp from the disposition of their parents.’”

Patricia-with eyes widened in admiration at his rhetoric,-had turned an enticing shade of pink.

“I am glad of that,” she said.

She snuggled so close he could not see her face now.  She was to all appearances attempting to twist the top-button from his coat.

“I am very glad that it entitles one to hope-about the children-Because-”

The colonel lifted her a little from him.  He did not say anything.  But he was regarding her half in wonder and one-half in worship.

She, too, was silent.  Presently she nodded.

He kissed her as one does a very holy relic.

It was a moment to look back upon always.  There was no period in Rudolph Musgrave’s life when he could not look back upon this instant and exult because it had been his.

Only, Patricia found out afterward, with an inexplicable disappointment, that her husband had not been talking extempore, but was freely quoting his “Compiler’s Foreword” just as it figured in the printed book.

One judges this posturing, so inevitable of detection, to have been as significant of much in Rudolph Musgrave as was the fact of its belated discovery characteristic of Patricia.

Yet she had read this book about her family from purely normal motives:  first, to make certain how old her various cousins were; secondly, to gloat over any traces of distinction such as her ancestry afforded; thirdly, to note with what exaggerated importance the text seemed to accredit those relatives she did not esteem, and mentally to annotate each page with unprintable events “which everybody knew about”; and fourthly, to reflect, as with a gush of steadily augmenting love, how dear and how unpractical it was of Olaf to have concocted these date-bristling pages-so staunch and blind in his misguided gratitude toward those otherwise uninteresting people who had rendered possible the existence of a Patricia.

V

Matters went badly with Patricia in the ensuing months.  Her mother’s blood told here, as Colonel Musgrave saw with disquietude.  He knew the women of his race had by ordinary been unfit for childbearing; indeed, the daughters of this famous house had long, in a grim routine, perished, just as Patricia’s mother had done, in their first maternal essay.  There were many hideous histories the colonel could have told you of, unmeet to be set down, and he was familiar with this talk of pelvic anomalies which were congenital.  But he had never thought of Patricia, till this, as being his kinswoman, and in part a Musgrave.

And even now the Stapylton blood that was in her pulled Patricia through long weeks of anguish.  Surgeons dealt with her very horribly in a famed Northern hospital, whither she had been removed.  By her obdurate request-and secretly, to his own preference, since it was never in his power to meet discomfort willingly-Colonel Musgrave had remained in Lichfield.  Patricia knew that officious people would tell him her life could be saved only by the destruction of an unborn boy.

She never questioned her child would be a boy.  She knew that Olaf wanted a boy.

“Oh, even more than he does me, daddy.  And so he mustn’t know, you see, until it is all over.  Because Olaf is such an ill-informed person that he really believes he prefers me.”

“Pat,” her father inconsequently said, “I’m proud of you!  And-and, by God, if I want to cry, I guess I am old enough to know my own mind!  And I’ll help you in this if you’ll only promise not to die in spite of what these damn’ doctors say, because you’re mine, Pat, and so you realize a bargain is a bargain.”

“Yes-I am really yours, daddy.  It is just my crazy body that is a Musgrave,” Patricia explained.  “The real me is an unfortunate Stapylton who has somehow got locked up in the wrong house.  It is not a desirable residence, you know, daddy.  No modern improvements, for instance.  But I have to live in it!...  Still, I have not the least intention of dying, and I solemnly promise that I won’t.”

So these two hoodwinked Rudolph Musgrave, and brought it about by subterfuge that his child was born.  At most he vaguely understood that Patricia was having rather a hard time of it, and steadfastly drugged this knowledge by the performance of trivialities.  He was eating a cucumber sandwich at the moment young Roger Musgrave came into the world, and by that action very nearly accomplished Patricia’s death.

VI

And the gods cursed Roger Stapylton with such a pride in, and so great a love for, his only grandson that the old man could hardly bear to be out of the infant’s presence.  He was frequently in Lichfield nowadays; and he renewed his demands that Rudolph Musgrave give up the exhaustively-particularized librarianship, so that “the little coot” would be removed to New York and all three of them be with Roger Stapylton always.

Patricia had not been well since little Roger’s birth.

It was a peaked and shrewish Patricia, rather than Rudolph Musgrave, who fought out the long and obstinate battle with Roger Stapylton.

She was jealous at the bottom of her heart.  She would not have anyone, not even her father, be too fond of what was preeminently hers; the world at large, including Rudolph Musgrave, was at liberty to adore her boy, as was perfectly natural, but not to meddle:  and in fine, Patricia was both hysterical and vixenish whenever a giving up of the Library work was suggested.

The old man did not quarrel with her.  And with Roger Stapylton’s loneliness in these days, and the long thoughts it bred, we have nothing here to do.  But when he died, stricken without warning, some five years after Patricia’s marriage, his will was discovered to bequeath practically his entire fortune to little Roger Musgrave when the child should come of age; and to Rudolph Musgrave, as Patricia’s husband, what was a reasonable income when judged by Lichfield’s unexacting standards rather than by Patricia’s anticipations.  In a word, Patricia found that she and the colonel could for the future count upon a little more than half of the income she had previously been allowed by Roger Stapylton.

“It isn’t fair!” she said.  “It’s monstrous!  And all because you were so obstinate about your picayune Library!”

“Patricia-” he began.

“Oh, I tell you it’s absurd, Olaf!  The money logically ought to have been left to me.  And here I will have to come to you for every penny of my money.  And Heaven knows I have had to scrimp enough to support us all on what I used to have-Olaf,” Patricia said, in another voice, “Olaf! why, what is it, dear?”

“I was reflecting,” said Colonel Musgrave, “that, as you justly observe, both Agatha and I have been practically indebted to you for our support these past five years-”

VII

It must be enregistered, not to the man’s credit, but rather as a simple fact, that it was never within Colonel Musgrave’s power to forget the incident immediately recorded.

He forgave; when Patricia wept, seeing how leaden-colored his handsome face had turned, he forgave as promptly and as freely as he was learning to pardon the telling of a serviceable lie, or the perpetration of an occasional barbarism in speech, by Patricia.  For he, a Musgrave of Matocton, had married a Stapylton; he had begun to comprehend that their standards were different, and that some daily conflict between these standards was inevitable.

And besides, as it has been veraciously observed, the truth of an insult is the barb which prevents its retraction.  Patricia spoke the truth:  Rudolph Musgrave and all those rationally reliant upon Rudolph Musgrave for support, had lived for some five years upon the money which they owed to Patricia.  He saw about him other scions of old families who accepted such circumstances blithely:  but, he said, he was a Musgrave of Matocton; and, he reflected, in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed is necessarily very unhappy.

He did not mean to touch a penny of such moneys as Roger Stapylton had bequeathed to him; for the colonel considered-now-it was a man’s duty personally to support his wife and child and sister.  And he vigorously attempted to discharge this obligation, alike by virtue of his salary at the Library, and by spasmodic raids upon his tiny capital, and-chief of all-by speculation in the Stock Market.

Oddly enough, his ventures were through a long while-for the most part-successful.  Here he builded a desperate edifice whose foundations were his social talents; and it was with quaint self-abhorrence he often noted how the telling of a smutty jest or the insistence upon a manifestly superfluous glass of wine had purchased from some properly tickled magnate a much desiderated “tip.”

And presently these tips misled him.  So the colonel borrowed from “Patricia’s account.”

And on this occasion he guessed correctly.

And then he stumbled upon such a chance for reinvestment as does not often arrive.  And so he borrowed a trifle more in common justice to Patricia....

VIII

When those then famous warriors, Colonel Gaynor and Captain Green, were obstinately fighting extradition in Quebec; when in Washington the Senate was wording a suitable resolution wherewith to congratulate Cuba upon that island’s brand-new independence; and when Messieurs Fitzsimmons and Jeffries were making amicable arrangements in San Francisco to fight for the world’s championship:-at this remote time, in Chicago (on the same day, indeed, that in this very city Mr. S.E.  Gross was legally declared the author of a play called Cyrano de Bergerac), the Sons of the Colonial Governors opened their tenth biennial convention.  You may depend upon it that Colonel Rudolph Musgrave represented the Lichfield chapter.

It was two days later the telegram arrived.  It read: 

  Agatha very ill come to me roger in perfect health.
  PATRICIA.

He noted how with Stapyltonian thrift Patricia telegraphed ten words precisely....

And when he had reached home, late in the evening, the colonel, not having taken his bunch of keys with him, laid down his dress-suit case on the dark porch, and reached out one hand to the door-bell.  He found it muffled with some flimsy, gritty fabric.  He did not ring.

Upon the porch was a rustic bench.  He sat upon it for a quarter of an hour-precisely where he had first talked with Agatha about Patricia’s first coming to Lichfield....  Once the door of a house across the street was opened, with a widening gush of amber light wherein he saw three women fitting wraps about them.  One of them was adjusting a lace scarf above her hair.

“No, we’re not a bit afraid-Just around the corner, you know-Such a pleasant evening--” Their voices carried far in the still night.

Rudolph Musgrave was not thinking of anything.  Presently he went around through the side entrance, and thus came into the kitchen, where the old mulattress, Virginia, was sitting alone.  The room was very hot....  In Agatha’s time supper would have been cooked upon the gas-range in the cellar, he reflected....  Virginia had risen and made as though to take his dress-suit case, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol’s.

“No-don’t bother, Virginia,” said Colonel Musgrave.

He met Patricia in the dining-room, on her way to the kitchen.  She had not chosen-as even the most sensible of us will instinctively decline to do-to vex the quiet of a house wherein death was by ringing a bell.

Holding his hand in hers, fondling it as she talked, Patricia told how three nights before Miss Agatha had been “queer, you know,” at supper.  Patricia had not liked to leave her, but it was the night of the Woman’s Club’s second Whist Tournament.  And Virginia had promised to watch Miss Agatha.  And, anyhow, Miss Agatha had gone to bed before Patricia left the house, and anybody would have thought she was going to sleep all night.  And, in fine, Patricia’s return at a drizzling half-past eleven had found Miss Agatha sitting in the garden, in her night-dress only, weeping over fancied grievances-and Virginia asleep in the kitchen.  And Agatha had died that afternoon of pneumonia.

Even in the last half-stupor she was asking always when would Rudolph come?  Patricia told him....

Rudolph Musgrave did not say anything.  Without any apparent emotion he put Patricia aside, much as he did the dress-suit case which he had forgotten to lay down until Patricia had ended her recital.

He went upstairs-to the front room, Patricia’s bedroom.  Patricia followed him.

Agatha’s body lay upon the bed, with a sheet over all.  The undertaker’s skill had arranged everything with smug and horrible tranquillity.

Rudolph Musgrave remembered he was forty-six years old; and when in all these years had there been a moment when Agatha-the real Agatha-had not known that what he had done was self-evidently correct, because otherwise Rudolph would not have done it?

“I trust you enjoyed your whist-game, Patricia.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it.  I’m not running a sanitarium.  I wasn’t responsible for her eternal drinking.”

The words skipped out of either mouth like gleeful little devils.

Then both were afraid, and both were as icily tranquil as the thing upon the bed.  You could not hear anything except the clock upon the mantel.  Colonel Musgrave went to the mantel, opened the clock, and with an odd deliberation removed the pendulum from its hook.  Followed one metallic gasp, as of indignation, and then silence.

He spoke, still staring at the clock, his back turned to Patricia.  “You must be utterly worn out.  You had better go to bed.”

He shifted by the fraction of an inch the old-fashioned “hand-colored” daguerreotype of his father in Confederate uniform.  “Please don’t wear that black dress again.  It is no cause for mourning that we are rid of an encumbrance.”

Behind him, very far away, it seemed, he heard Patricia wailing, “Olaf--!”

Colonel Musgrave turned without any haste.  “Please go,” he said, and appeared to plead with her.  “You must be frightfully tired.  I am sorry that I was not here.  I seem always to evade my responsibilities, somehow-”

Then he began to laugh.  “It is rather amusing, after all.  Agatha was the most noble person I have ever known.  The-this habit of hers to which you have alluded was not a part of her.  And I loved Agatha.  And I suppose loving is not altogether dependent upon logic.  In any event, I loved Agatha.  And when I came back to her I had come home, somehow-wherever she might be at the time.  That has been true, oh, ever since I can remember-”

He touched the dead hand now.  “Please go!” he said, and he did not look toward Patricia.  “For Agatha loved me better than she did God, you know.  The curse was born in her.  She had to pay for what those dead, soft-handed Musgraves did.  That is why her hands are so cold now.  She had to pay for the privilege of being a Musgrave, you see.  But then we cannot always pick and choose as to what we prefer to be.”

“Oh, yes, of course, it is all my fault.  Everything is my fault.  But God knows what would have become of you and your Agatha if it hadn’t been for me.  Oh! oh!” Patricia wailed.  “I was a child and I hadn’t any better sense, and I married you, and you’ve been living off my money ever since!  There hasn’t been a Christmas present or a funeral wreath bought in this house since I came into it I didn’t pick out and pay for out of my own pocket.  And all the thanks I get for it is this perpetual fault-finding, and I wish I was dead like this poor saint here.  She spent her life slaving for you.  And what thanks did she get for it?  Oh, you ought to go down on your knees, Rudolph Musgrave-!”

“Please leave,” he said.

“I will leave when I feel like it, and not a single minute before, and you might just as well understand as much.  You have been living off my money.  Oh, you needn’t go to the trouble of lying.  And she did too.  And she hated me, she always hated me, because I had been fool enough to marry you, and she carried on like a lunatic more than half the time, and I always pretended not to notice it, and this is my reward for trying to behave like a lady.”

Patricia tossed her head.  “Yes, and you needn’t look at me as if I were some sort of a bug you hadn’t ever seen before and didn’t approve of, because I’ve seen you try that high-and-mighty trick too often for it to work with me.”

Patricia stood now beneath the Stuart portrait of young Gerald Musgrave.  She had insisted, long ago, that it be hung in her own bedroom-“because it was through that beautiful boy we first got really acquainted, Olaf.”  The boy smiles at you from the canvas, smiles ambiguously, as the colonel now noted.

“I think you had better go,” said Colonel Musgrave.  “Please go, Patricia, before I murder you.”

She saw that he was speaking in perfect earnest.

IX

Rudolph Musgrave sat all night beside the body.  He had declined to speak with innumerable sympathetic cousins-Vartreys and Fentons and Allardyces and Musgraves, to the fifth and sixth remove-who had come from all quarters, with visiting-cards and low-voiced requests to be informed “if there is anything we can possibly do.”

Rudolph Musgrave sat all night beside the body.  He had not any strength for anger now, and hardly for grief, Agatha had been his charge; and the fact that he had never plucked up courage to allude to her practises was now an enormity in which he could not quite believe.  His cowardice and its fruitage confronted him, and frightened him into a panic frenzy of remorse.

Agatha had been his charge; and he had entrusted the stewardship to Patricia.  Between them-that Patricia might have her card-game, that he might sit upon a platform for an hour or two with a half-dozen other pompous fools-they had let Agatha die.  There was no mercy in him for Patricia or for himself.  He wished Patricia had been a man.  Had any man -an emperor or a coal-heaver, it would not have mattered-spoken as Patricia had done within the moment, here, within arm’s reach of the poor flesh that had been Agatha’s, Rudolph Musgrave would have known his duty.  But, according to his code, it was not permitted to be discourteous to a woman....

He caught himself with grotesque meanness wishing that Agatha had been there,-privileged by her sex where he was fettered,-she who was so generous of heart and so fiery of tongue at need; and comprehension that Agatha would never abet or adore him any more smote him anew.

And chance reserved for him more poignant torture.  Next day, while Rudolph Musgrave was making out the list of honorary pall-bearers, the postman brought a letter which had been forwarded from Chicago.  It was from Agatha, written upon the morning of that day wherein later she had been, as Patricia phrased it, “queer, you know.”

He found it wildly droll to puzzle out those “crossed” four sheets of trivialities written in an Italian hand so minute and orderly that the finished page suggested a fly-screen.  He had so often remonstrated with Agatha about her penuriousness as concerned stationery.

“Selina Brice & the Rev’d Henry Anstruther, who now has a church in Seattle, have announced their engagement.  Stanley Haggage has gone to Alabama to marry Leonora Bright, who moved from here a year ago.  They are both as poor as church mice, & I think marriage in such a case an unwise step for anyone.  It brings cares & anxieties enough any way, without starting out with poverty to increase and render deeper every trouble....”

Such was the tenor of Agatha’s last letter, of the last self-expression of that effigy upstairs who (you could see) knew everything and was not discontent.

Here the dead spoke, omniscient; and told you that Stanley Haggage had gone to Alabama, and that marriage brought new cares and anxieties.

“I cannot laugh,” said Rudolph Musgrave, aloud.  “I know the jest deserves it.  But I cannot laugh, because my upper lip seems to be made of leather and I can’t move it.  And, besides, I loved Agatha to a degree which only You and I have ever known of.  She never understood quite how I loved her.  Oh, won’t You make her understand just how I loved her?  For Agatha is dead, because You wanted her to be dead, and I have never told her how much I loved her, and now I cannot ever tell her how much I loved her.  Oh, won’t You please show me that You have made her understand? or else have me struck by lightning? or do anything....?”

Nothing was done.

X

And afterward Rudolph Musgrave and his wife met amicably, and without reference to their last talk.  Patricia wore black-and-white for some six months, and Colonel Musgrave accepted the compromise tacitly.  All passed with perfect smoothness between them; and anyone in Lichfield would have told you that the Musgraves were a model couple.

She called him “Rudolph” now.

“Olaf is such a silly-sounding nickname for two old married people, you know,” Patricia estimated.

The colonel negligently said that he supposed it did sound odd.

“Only I don’t think Clarice Pendomer would care about coming,” he resumed,-for the two were discussing an uncompleted list of the people Patricia was to invite to their first house-party.

“And for heaven’s sake, why not?  We always have her to everything.”

He could not tell her it was because the Charterises were to be among their guests.  So he said:  “Oh, well-!”

“Mrs. C.B.  Pendomer, then”-Patricia wrote the name with a flourish.  “Oh, you jay-bird, I’m not jealous.  Everybody knows you never had any more morals than a tom-cat on the back fence.  It’s a lucky thing the boy didn’t take after you, isn’t it?  He doesn’t, not a bit.  No, Harry Pendomer is the puniest black-haired little wretch, whereas your other son, sir, resembles his mother and is in consequence a ravishingly beautiful person of superlative charm-”

He was staring at her so oddly that she paused.  So Patricia was familiar with that old scandal which linked his name with Clarice Pendomer’s!  He was wondering if Patricia had married him in the belief that she was marrying a man who, appraised by any standards, had acted infamously.

“I was only thinking you had better ask Judge Allardyce, Patricia.  You see, he is absolutely certain not to come-”

This year the Musgraves had decided not to spend the spring alone together at Matocton, as they had done the four preceding years.

“It looks so silly,” as Patricia pointed out.

And, besides, a house-party is the most economical method,-as she also pointed out, being born a Stapylton-of paying off your social obligations, because you can always ask so many people who, you know, have made other plans, and cannot accept.

“So we will invite Judge Allardyce, of course,” said Patricia.  “I had forgotten his court met in June.  Oh, and Peter Blagden too.  It had slipped my mind his uncle was dead....”

“I learned this morning Mrs. Haggage was to lecture in Louisville on the sixteenth.  She was reading up in the Library, you see-”

“Rudolph, you are the lodestar of my existence.  I will ask her to come on the fourteenth and spend a week.  I never could abide the hag, but she has such a-There!  I’ve made a big blot right in the middle of ‘darling,’ and spoiled a perfectly good sheet of paper!...  You’d better mail it at once, though, because the evening-paper may have something in it about her lecture.”

XI

Rudolph-”

“Why-er-yes, dear?”

This was after supper, and Patricia was playing solitaire.  Her husband was reading the paper.

“Agatha told me all about Virginia, you know-”

Here Colonel Musgrave frowned.  “It is not a pleasant topic.”

“You jay-bird, you behave entirely too much as if you were my grandfather.  As I was saying, Agatha told me all about your uncle and Virginia,” Patricia hurried on.  “And how she ran away afterwards, and hid in the woods for three days, and came to your father’s plantation, and how your father bought her, and how her son was born, and how her son was lynched-”

“Now, really, Patricia!  Surely there are other matters which may be more profitably discussed.”

“Of course.  Now, for instance, why is the King of Hearts the only one that hasn’t a moustache?” Patricia peeped to see what cards lay beneath that monarch, and upon reflection moved the King of Spades into the vacant space.  She was a devotee of solitaire and invariably cheated at it.

She went on, absently:  “But don’t you see?  That colored boy was your own first cousin, and he was killed for doing exactly what his father had done.  Only they sent the father to the Senate and gave him columns of flubdub and laid him out in state when he died-and they poured kerosene upon the son and burned him alive.  And I believe Virginia thinks that wasn’t fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“I honestly believe Virginia hates the Musgraves.  She is only a negro, of course, but then she was a mother once-Oh, yes! all I need is a black eight-” Patricia demanded, “Now look at your brother Hector-the awfully dissipated one that died of an overdose of opiates.  When it happened wasn’t Virginia taking care of him?”

“Of course.  She is an invaluable nurse.”

“And nobody else was here when Agatha went out into the rain.  Now, what if she had just let Agatha go, without trying to stop her?  It would have been perfectly simple.  So is this.  All I have to do is to take them off now.”

Colonel Musgrave negligently returned to his perusal of the afternoon paper.  “You are suggesting-if you will overlook my frankness-the most deplorable sort of nonsense, Patricia.”

“I know exactly how Balaam felt,” she said, irrelevantly, and fell to shuffling the cards.  “You don’t, and you won’t, understand that Virginia is a human being.  In any event, I wish you would get rid of her.”

“I couldn’t decently do that,” said Rudolph Musgrave, with careful patience.  “Virginia’s faithfulness has been proven by too many years of faithful service.  Nothing more strikingly attests the folly of freeing the negro than the unwillingness of the better class of slaves to leave their former owners-”

“Now you are going to quote a paragraph or so from your Gracious Era.  As if I hadn’t read everything you ever wrote!  You are a fearful humbug in some ways, Rudolph.”

“And you are a red-headed rattlepate, madam.  But seriously, Patricia, you who were reared in the North are strangely unwilling to concede that we of the South are after all best qualified to deal with the Negro Problem.  We know the negro as you cannot ever know him.”

“You!  Oh, God ha’ mercy on us!” mocked Patricia.  “There wasn’t any Negro Problem hereabouts, you beautiful idiot, so long as there were any negroes.  Why, to-day there is hardly one full-blooded negro in Lichfield.  There are only a thousand or so of mulattoes who share the blood of people like your Uncle Edward.  And for the most part they take after their white kin, unfortunately.  And there you have the Lichfield Negro Problem in a nutshell.  It is a venerable one and fully set forth in the Bible.  You needn’t attempt to argue with me, because you are a ninnyhammer, and I am a second Nestor.  The Holy Scriptures are perfectly explicit as to what happens to the heads of the children and their teeth too.”

“I wish you wouldn’t jest about such matters-”

“Because it isn’t lady-like?  But, Rudolph, you know perfectly well that I am not a lady.”

“My dear!” he cried, in horror that was real, “and what on earth have I said even to suggest-”

“Oh, not a syllable; it isn’t at all the sort of thing that your sort says ...  And I am not your sort.  I don’t know that I altogether wish I were.  But if I were, it would certainly make things easier,” Patricia added sharply.

“My dear-!” he again protested.

“Now, candidly, Rudolph”-relinquishing the game, she fell to shuffling the cards-“just count up the number of times this month that my-oh, well!  I really don’t know what to call it except my deplorable omission in failing to be born a lady-has seemed to you to yank the very last rag off the gooseberry-bush?”

He scoffed.  “What nonsense!  Although, of course, Patricia-”

She nodded, mischief in her brightly-colored tiny face.  “Yes, that is just your attitude, you beautiful idiot.”

“-although, of course-now, quite honestly, Patricia, I have occasionally wished that you would not speak of sacred and-er, physical and sociological matters in exactly the tone in which-well! in which you sometimes do speak of them.  It may sound old-fashioned, but I have always believed that decency is quite as important in mental affairs as it is in physical ones, and that as a consequence, a gentlewoman should always clothe her thoughts with at least the same care she accords her body.  Oh, don’t misunderstand me!  Of course it doesn’t do any harm, my dear, between us.  But outside-you see, for people to know that you think about such things must necessarily give them a false opinion of you.”

Patricia meditated.

She said, with utter solemnity, “Anathema maranatha! oh, hell to damn! may the noses of all respectable people be turned upside down and jackasses dance eternally upon their grandmothers’ graves!”

“Patricia-!” cried a shocked colonel.

“I mean every syllable of it.  No, Rudolph; I can’t help it if the vinaigretted beauties of your boyhood were unabridged dictionaries of prudery.  You see, I know almost all the swearwords there are.  And I read the newspapers, and medical books, and even the things that boys chalk up on fences.  In consequence I am not a bit whiteminded, because if you use your mind at all it gets more or less dingy, just like using anything else.”

He could not help but laugh, much as he disapproved.  Patricia fluttered and, as a wren might have done, perched presently upon his knee.

“Rudolph, can’t you laugh more often, and not devote so much time to tracing out the genealogies of those silly people, and being so tediously beautiful and good?” she asked, and with a hint of seriousness.  “Rudolph, you don’t know how I would adore you if you would rob a church or cut somebody’s throat in an alley, and tell me all about it because you knew I wouldn’t betray you.  You are so infernally respectable in everything you do!  How did you come to bully me that day at the Library?  It seems almost as if those two were different people... doesn’t it, Rudolph?”

“My dear,” the colonel said whimsically, “I am afraid we are rather like the shepherdess and the chimney-sweep of the fable I read you very long ago.  We climbed up so far that we could see the stars, once, very long ago, Patricia, and we have come back to live upon the parlor table.  I suppose it happens to all the little china people.”

She took his meaning.  Each was aware of an odd sense of intimacy.  “Everything we have to be glad for now, Rudolph, is the rivet in grandfather’s neck.  It is rather a fiasco, isn’t it?”

“Eh, there are all sorts of rivets, Patricia.  And the thing one cannot do because one is what one is, need not be necessarily a cause for grief.”

XII

It was excellent to see Jack Charteris again, as Colonel Musgrave did within a few days of this.  Musgrave was unreasonably fond of the novelist and frankly confessed it would be as preposterous to connect Charteris with any of the accepted standards of morality as it would be to judge an artesian-well from the standpoint of ethics.

Anne was not yet in Lichfield.  She had broken the journey to visit a maternal grand-aunt and some Virginia cousins, in Richmond, Charteris explained, and was to come thence to Matocton.

“And so you have acquired a boy and, by my soul, a very handsome wife, Rudolph?”

“It is sufficiently notorious,” said Colonel Musgrave.  “Yes, we are quite absurdly happy.”  He laughed and added:  “Patricia-but you don’t know her droll way of putting things-says that the only rational complaint I can advance against her is her habit of rushing into a hospital every month or so and having a section or two of her person removed by surgeons.  It worries me,-only, of course, it is not the sort of thing you can talk about.  And, as Patricia says, it is an unpleasant thing to realize that your wife is not leaving you through the ordinary channels of death or of type-written decrees of the court, but only in vulgar fractions, as it were-”

“Please don’t be quite so brutal, Rudolph.  It is not becoming in a Musgrave of Matocton to speak of women in any tone other than the most honeyed accents of chivalry.”

“Oh, I was only quoting Patricia,” the colonel largely said, “and-er-Jack,” he continued.  “By the way, Jack, Clarice Pendomer will be at Matocton-”

“I rejoice in her good luck,” said Charteris, equably.

“-and-well!  I was wondering-?”

“I can assure you that there will be no-trouble.  That skeleton is safely locked in its closet, and the key to that closet is missing-more thanks to you.  You acted very nobly in the whole affair, Rudolph.  I wish I could do things like that.  As it is, of course, I shall always detest you for having been able to do it.”

Charteris said, thereafter:  “I shall always envy you, though, Rudolph.  No other man I know has ever attained the good old troubadourish ideal of domnei-that love which rather abhors than otherwise the notion of possessing its object.  I still believe it was a distinct relief to a certain military officer, whose name we need not mention, when Anne decided not to marry you.”

The colonel grinned, a trifle consciously.  “Well, Anne meant youth, you comprehend, and all the things we then believed in, Jack.  It would have been decidedly difficult to live up to such a contract, and-as it were-to fulfil every one of the implied specifications!”

“And yet”-here Charteris flicked his cigarette-“Anne ruled in the stead of Aline Van Orden.  And Aline, in turn, had followed Clarice Pendomer.  And before the coming of Clarice had Pauline Romeyne, whom time has converted into Polly Ashmeade, reigned in the land-”

“Don’t be an ass!” the colonel pleaded; and then observed, inconsequently:  “I can’t somehow quite realize Aline is dead.  Lord, Lord, the letters that I wrote to her!  She sent them all back, you know, in genuine romantic fashion, after we had quarreled.  I found those boyish ravings only the other day in my father’s desk at Matocton, and skimmed them over.  I shall read them through some day and appropriately meditate over life’s mysteries that are too sad for tears.”

He meditated now.

“It wouldn’t be quite equitable, Jack,” the colonel summed it up, “if the Aline I loved-no, I don’t mean the real woman, the one you and all the other people knew, the one that married the enterprising brewer and died five years ago-were not waiting for me somewhere.  I can’t express just what I mean, but you will understand, I know-?”

“That heaven is necessarily run on a Mohammedan basis?  Why, of course,” said Mr. Charteris.  “Heaven, as I apprehend it, is a place where we shall live eternally among those ladies of old years who never condescended actually to inhabit any realm more tangible than that of our boyish fancies.  It is the obvious definition; and I defy you to evolve a more enticing allurement toward becoming a deacon.”

“You romancers are privileged to talk nonsense anywhere,” the colonel estimated, “and I suppose that in the Lichfield you have made famous, Jack, you have a double right.”

“Ah, but I never wrote a line concerning Lichfield.  I only wrote about the Lichfield whose existence you continue to believe in, in spite of the fact that you are actually living in the real Lichfield,” Charteris returned.  “The vitality of the legend is wonderful.”

He cocked his head to one side-an habitual gesture with Charteris-and the colonel noted, as he had often done before, how extraordinarily reminiscent Jack was of a dried-up, quizzical black parrot.  Said Charteris: 

“I love to serve that legend.  I love to prattle of ‘olé Marster’ and ‘olé Miss,’ and throw in a sprinkling of ‘mockin’-buds’ and ‘hants’ and ‘horg-killing time,’ and of sweeping animadversions as to all ’free niggers’; and to narrate how ’de quality use ter cum’-you spell it c-u-m because that looks so convincingly like dialect-’ter de gret hous.’  Those are the main ingredients.  And, as for the unavoidable love-interest-” Charteris paused, grinned, and pleasantly resumed:  “Why, jes arter dat, suh, a hut Yankee cap’en, whar some uv our folks done shoot in de laig, wuz lef on de road fer daid-a quite notorious custom on the part of all Northern armies-un Young Miss had him fotch up ter de gret hous, un nuss im same’s he one uv de fambly, un dem two jes fit un argufy scanlous un never spicion huccum dey’s in love wid each othuh till de War’s ovuh.  And there you are!  I need not mention that during the tale’s progress it is necessary to introduce at least one favorable mention of Lincoln, arrange a duel ‘in de low grouns’ immediately after day-break, and have the family silver interred in the back garden, because these points will naturally suggest themselves.”

“Jack, Jack!” the colonel cried, “it is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.”

“But, believe me, I don’t at heart,” said Charteris, in a queer earnest voice.  “There is a sardonic imp inside me that makes me jeer at the commoner tricks of the trade-and yet when I am practising that trade, when I am writing of those tender-hearted, brave and gracious men and women, and of those dear old darkies, I very often write with tears in my eyes.  I tell you this with careful airiness because it is true and because it would embarrass me so horribly if you believed it.”

Then he was off upon another tack.  “And wherein, pray, have I harmed Lichfield by imagining a dream city situated half way between Atlantis and Avalon and peopled with superhuman persons-and by having called this city Lichfield?  The portrait did not only flatter Lichfield, it flattered human nature.  So, naturally, it pleased everybody.  Yes, that, I take it, is the true secret of romance-to induce the momentary delusion that humanity is a superhuman race, profuse in aspiration, and prodigal in the exercise of glorious virtues and stupendous vices.  As a matter of fact, all human passions are depressingly chicken-hearted, I find.  Were it not for the police court records, I would pessimistically insist that all of us elect to love one person and to hate another with very much the same enthusiasm that we display in expressing a preference for rare roast beef as compared with the outside slice.  Oh, really, Rudolph, you have no notion how salutary it is to the self-esteem of us romanticists to run across, even nowadays, an occasional breach of the peace.  For then sometimes-when the coachman obligingly cuts the butler’s throat in the back-alley, say-we actually presume to think for a moment that our profession is almost as honest as that of making counterfeit money....”

The colonel did not interrupt his brief pause of meditation.  Then the novelist said: 

“Why, no; if I were ever really to attempt a tale of Lichfield, I would not write a romance but a tragedy.  I think that I would call my tragedy Futility, for it would mirror the life of Lichfield with unengaging candor; and, as a consequence, people would complain that my tragedy lacked sustained interest, and that its participants were inconsistent; that it had no ordered plot, no startling incidents, no high endeavors, and no especial aim; and that it was equally deficient in all time-hallowed provocatives of either laughter or tears.  For very few people would understand that a life such as this, when rightly viewed, is the most pathetic tragedy conceivable.”

“Oh, come, now, Jack! come, recollect that your reasoning powers are almost as worthy of employment as your rhetorical abilities!  We are not quite so bad as that, you know.  We may be a little behind the times in Lichfield; we certainly let well enough alone, and we take things pretty much as they come; but we meddle with nobody, and, after all, we don’t do any especial harm.”

“We don’t do anything whatever in especial, Rudolph.  That would be precisely the theme of my story of the real Lichfield if I were ever bold enough to write it.  There seems to be a sort of blight upon Lichfield.  Oh, yes! it would be unfair, perhaps, to contrast it with the bigger Southern cities, like Richmond and Atlanta and New Orleans; but even the inhabitants of smaller Southern towns are beginning to buy excursion tickets, and thereby ascertain that the twentieth century has really begun.  Yes, it is only in Lichfield I can detect the raw stuff of a genuine tragedy; for, depend upon it, Rudolph, the most pathetic tragedy in life is to get nothing in particular out of it.”

“But, for my part, I don’t see what you are driving at,” the colonel stoutly said.

And Charteris only laughed.  “And I hardly expected you to do so, Rudolph-or not yet, at least.”