“Time was I coveted the woes they rued
  Whose love commemorates them,-I that meant
  To get like grace of love then!-and intent
  To win as they had done love’s plenitude,
  Rapture and havoc, vauntingly I sued
  That love like theirs might make a toy of me,
  At will caressed, at will (if publicly)
  Demolished, as Love found or found not good.

  “To-day I am no longer overbrave. 
  I have a fever,-I that always knew
  This hour was certain!-and am too weak to rave,
  Too tired to seek (as later I must do)
  Tried remedies-time, manhood and the grave-
  To drug, abate and banish love of you.” 
ALLEN ROSSITER. A Fragment.

I

When Patricia and Charteris had left the beach, Colonel Musgrave parted the underbrush and stepped down upon the sand He must have air-air and an open place wherein to fight this out.

Night had risen about him in bland emptiness.  There were no stars overhead, but a patient, wearied, ancient moon pushed through the clouds.  The trees and the river conferred with one another doubtfully.

He paced up and down the beach....

Musgrave laughed in the darkness.  His heart was racing, racing in him, and his thoughts were blown foam.  He raised his hat and bowed fantastically in the darkness, because the colonel loved his gesture.

“Signor Lucifer, I present my compliments.  You have discoursed with me very plausibly.  I honor your cunning, signor, but if you are indeed a gentleman, as I have always heard, you will now withdraw and permit me to regard the matter from a standpoint other than my own.  For the others are weak, signor; as you have doubtless discovered, good women and bad men are the weakest of their sex.  I am the strongest among them, for all that I am no Hercules; and the outcome of this matter must rest with me.”

So he sat presently upon the log, where Charteris had sat when Musgrave came to this beach at sunset.  Very long ago that seemed now.  For now the colonel was tired-physically outworn, it seemed to him, as if after prolonged exertion-and now the moon looked down upon him, passionless, cold, inexorable, and seemed to await the colonel’s decision.

And it was woefully hard to come to any decision.  For, as you know by this, it was the colonel’s besetting infirmity to shrink from making changes; instinctively he balked-under shelter of whatever grandiloquent excuse-against commission of any action which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or persons.  To guide events was never his forte, as he forlornly knew; and here he was condemned perforce to play that uncongenial rôle, with slender chances of reward.

Yet always Anne’s face floated in the darkness.  Always Anne’s voice whispered through the lisping of the beeches, through the murmur of the water....

He sat thus for a long while.

II

Musgrave was, not unnaturally, late for supper.  It is not to be supposed that at this meal the colonel faltered in his duties as a host, for, to the contrary, he narrated several anecdotes in his neatest style.  It was with him a point of honor always to be in company the social triumph of his generation.  He observed with idle interest that Charteris and Patricia avoided each other in a rather marked manner.  Both seemed a trifle more serious than they were wont to be.

After supper, Tom Gelwix brought forth a mandolin, and most of the house-party sang songs, sentimental and otherwise, upon the front porch of Matocton.  Anne had disappeared somewhere.  Musgrave subsequently discovered her in one of the drawing-rooms, puzzling over a number of papers which her maid had evidently just brought to her.

Mrs. Charteris looked up with a puckered brow.  “Rudolph,” said she, “haven’t you an account at the Occidental Bank?”

“Hardly an account, dear lady,-merely a deposit large enough to entitle me to receive monthly notices that I have overdrawn it.”

“Why, then, of course, you have a cheque-book.  Horrible things, aren’t they?-such a nuisance remembering to fill out those little stubs.  Of course, I forgot to bring mine with me-I always do; and equally, of course, a vexatious debt turns up and finds me without an Occidental Bank cheque to my name.”

Musgrave was amused.  “That,” said he, “is easily remedied.  I will get you one; though even if-Ah, well, what is the good of trying to teach you adorable women anything about business!  You shall have your indispensable blank form in three minutes.”

He returned in rather less than that time, with the cheque.  Anne was alone now.  She was gowned in some dull, soft, yellow stuff, and sat by a small, marble-topped table, twiddling a fountain-pen.

“You mustn’t sneer at my business methods, Rudolph,” she said, pouting a little as she filled out the cheque.  “It isn’t polite, sir, in the first place, and, in the second, I am really very methodical.  Of course, I am always losing my cheque-book, and drawing cheques and forgetting to enter them, and I usually put down the same deposit two or three times-all women do that; but, otherwise, I am really very careful.  I manage all the accounts; I can’t expect Jack to do that, you know.”  Mrs. Charteris signed her name with a flourish, and nodded at the colonel wisely.  “Dear infant, but he is quite too horribly unpractical.  Do you know this bill has been due-oh, for months-and he forgot it entirely until this evening.  Fortunately, he can settle it to-morrow; those disagreeable publishers of his have telegraphed for him to come to New York at once, you know.  Otherwise-dear, dear! but marrying a genius is absolutely ruinous to one’s credit, isn’t it, Rudolph?  The tradespeople will refuse to trust us soon.”

Involuntarily, Musgrave had seen the cheque.  It was for a considerable amount, and it was made out to John Charteris.

“Beyond doubt,” said Musgrave, in his soul, “Jack is colossal!  He is actually drawing on his wife for the necessary expenses for running away with another woman!”

The colonel sat down abruptly before the great, open fireplace, and stared hard at the pine-boughs which were heaped up in it.

“A penny,” said she, at length.

He glanced up with a smile.  “My dear madam, it would be robbery!  For a penny, you may read of the subject of my thoughts in any of the yellow journals, only far more vividly set forth, and obtain a variety of more or less savory additions, to boot.  I was thinking of the Lethbury case, and wondering how we could have been so long deceived by the man.”

“Ah, poor Mrs. Lethbury!” Anne sighed, “I am very sorry for her, Rudolph; she was a good woman, and was always interested in charitable work.”

“Do you know,” said Colonel Musgrave, with deliberation, “it is she I cannot understand.  To discover that he had been systematically hoodwinking her for some ten years; that, after making away with as much of her fortune as he was able to lay hands on, he has betrayed business trust after business trust in order to-to maintain another establishment; that he has never cared for her, and has made her his dupe time after time, in order to obtain money for his gambling debts and other even less reputable obligations-she must realize all these things now, you know, and one would have thought no woman’s love could possibly survive such a test.  Yet, she is standing by him through thick and thin.  Yes, I confess, Amelia Lethbury puzzles me.  I don’t understand her mental attitude.”

Musgrave was looking at Anne very intently as he ended.

“Why, but of course,” said Anne, “she realizes that it was all the fault of that-that other woman; and, besides, the-the entanglement has been going on only a little over eight years-not ten, Rudolph.”

She was entirely in earnest; Colonel Musgrave could see it plainly.

“I admit I hadn’t looked on it in that light,” said he, at length, and was silent for a moment Then, “Upon my soul, Anne,” he cried, “I believe you think the woman is only doing the natural thing, only doing the thing one has a right to expect of her, in sticking to that blackguard after she has found him out!”

Mrs. Charteris raised her eyebrows; she was really surprised.  “Naturally, she must stand by her husband when he is in trouble; why, if his own wife didn’t, who would, Rudolph?  It is just now that he needs her most.  It would be abominable to desert him now.”

Anne paused and thought.  “Depend upon it, she knows a better side of his nature than we can see; she knows him, possibly, to have been misled, or to have acted thoughtlessly; because otherwise, she would not stand by him so firmly.”  Having reached this satisfactory conclusion, Anne began to laugh-at Musgrave’s lack of penetration, probably.  “So, you see, Rudolph, in either case, her conduct is perfectly natural.”

“And this,” he cried, “this is how women reason!”

“Am I very stupid?  Jack says I am a bit illogical at times.  But, Rudolph, you mustn’t expect a woman to judge the man she loves; if you call on her to do that, she doesn’t reason about it; she just goes on loving him, and thinking how horrid you are.  Women love men as they do children; they punish them sometimes, but only in deference to public opinion.  A woman will always find an excuse for the man she loves.  If he deserts her, she is miserable until she succeeds in demonstrating to herself it was entirely her own fault; after that, she is properly repentant, but far less unhappy; and, anyhow, she goes on loving him just the same.”

The colonel pondered over this.  “Women are different,” he said.

“I don’t know.  I think that, if all women could be thrown with good men, they would all be good.  Women want to be good; but there comes a time to each one of them when she wants to make a certain man happy, and wants that more than anything else in the world; and then, of course, if he wants-very much-for her to be bad, she will be bad.  A bad woman is always to be explained by a bad man.”

Anne nodded, very wisely; then, she began to laugh, but this time at herself.  “I am talking quite like a book,” she said.  “Really, I had no idea I was so clever.  But I have thought of this before, Rudolph, and been sorry for those poor women who-who haven’t found the right sort of man to care for.”

“Yes.”  Musgrave’s face was alert.  “You have been luckier than most, Anne,” he said.

“Lucky!” she cried, and that queer little thrill of happiness woke again in her rich voice.  “Ah, you don’t know how lucky I have been, Rudolph!  I have never cared for any one except-well, yes, you, a great while ago-and Jack.  And you are both good men.  Ah, Rudolph, it was very dear and sweet and foolish, the way we loved each other, but you don’t mind-very, very much-do you, if I think Jack is the best man in the world, and by far the best man in the world for me?  He is so good to me; he is so good and kind and considerate to me, and, even after all these years of matrimony, he is always the lover.  A woman appreciates that, Rudolph; she wants her husband to be always her lover, just as Jack is, and never to give in when she coaxes-because she only coaxes when she knows she is in the wrong-and never, never, to let her see him shaving himself.  If a husband observes these simple rules, Rudolph, his wife will be a happy woman; and Jack does.  In consequence, every day I live I grow fonder of him, and appreciate him more and more; he grows upon me just as a taste for strong drink might.  Without him-without him-” Anne’s voice died away; then she faced Musgrave, indignantly.  “Oh, Rudolph!” she cried, “how horrid of you, how mean of you, to come here and suggest the possibility of Jack’s dying or running away from me, or doing anything dreadful like that!”

Colonel Musgrave was smiling, “I?” said he, equably.  “My dear madam! if you will reconsider,-”

“No,” she conceded, after deliberation, “it wasn’t exactly your fault.  I got started on the subject of Jack, and imagined all sorts of horrible and impossible things.  But there is a sort of a something in the air to-night; probably a storm is coming down the river.  So I feel very morbid and very foolish, Rudolph; but, then, I am in love, you see.  Isn’t it funny, after all these years?” Anne asked with a smile;-“and so you are not to be angry, Rudolph.”

“My dear,” he said, “I assure you, the emotion you raise in me is very far from resembling that of anger.”  Musgrave rose and laughed.  “I fear, you know, we will create a scandal if we sit here any longer.  Let’s see what the others are doing.”

III

That night, after his guests had retired, Colonel Musgrave smoked a cigarette on the front porch of Matocton.  The moon, now in the zenith, was bright and chill.  After a while, Musgrave raised his face toward it, and laughed.

“Isn’t it-isn’t it funny?” he demanded, echoing Anne’s query ruefully.

“Eh, well! perhaps I still retained some lingering hope; in a season of discomfort, most of us look vaguely for a miracle.  And, at times, it comes, but, more often, not; life isn’t always a pantomime, with a fairy god-mother waiting to break through the darkness in a burst of glory and reunite the severed lovers, and transform their enemies into pantaloons.  In this case, it is certain that the fairy will not come.  I am condemned to be my own god in the machine.”

Having demonstrated this to himself, Musgrave went into the house and drugged his mind correcting proofsheets-for the Lichfield Historical Association’s Quarterly Magazine-and brought down to the year 1805 his “List of Wills Recorded in Brummell County.”

IV

The night was well advanced when Charteris stepped noiselessly into the room.  The colonel was then sedately writing amid a host of motionless mute watchers, for at Matocton most of the portraits hang in the East Drawing-room.

Thus, above the great marble mantel,-carved with thyrsi, and supported by proud deep-bosomed caryatides,-you will find burly Sebastian Musgrave, “the Speaker,” an all-overbearing man even on canvas.  “Paint me among dukes and earls with my hat on, to show I am in all things a Republican, and the finest diamond in the Colony shall be yours,” he had directed the painter, and this was done.  Then there is frail Wilhelmina Musgrave-that famed beauty whose two-hundred-year-old story all Lichfield knows, and no genealogist has ever cared to detail-eternally weaving flowers about her shepherd hat.  There, too, is Evelyn Ramsay, before whose roguish loveliness, as you may remember, the colonel had snapped his fingers in those roseate days when he so joyously considered his profound unworthiness to be Patricia’s husband.  There is also the colonial governor of Albemarle-a Van Dyck this-two Knellers, and Lely’s portrait of Thomas Musgrave, “the poet,” with serious blue eyes and flaxen hair.  The painting of Captain George Musgrave, who distinguished himself at the siege of Cartagena, is admittedly an inferior piece of work, but it has vigor, none the less; and below it hangs the sword which was presented to him by the Lord High Admiral.

So quietly did Charteris come that the colonel was not aware of his entrance until the novelist had coughed gently.  He was in a dressing-gown, and looked unusually wizened.

“I saw your light,” he said.  “I don’t seem to be able to sleep, somehow.  It is so infernally hot and still.  I suppose there is going to be a thunderstorm.  I hate thunderstorms.  They frighten me.”  The little man was speaking like a peevish child.

“Oh, well-! it will at least clear the air,” said Rudolph Musgrave.  “Sit down and have a smoke, won’t you?”

“No, thanks.”  Charteris had gone to the bookshelves and was gently pushing and pulling at the books so as to arrange their backs in a mathematically straight line.  “I thought I would borrow something to read-Why, this is the Tennyson you had at college, isn’t it?  Yes, I remember it perfectly.”

These two had roomed together through their college days.

“Yes; it is the old Tennyson.  And yonder is the identical Swinburne you used to spout from, too.  Lord, Jack, it seems a century since I used to listen by the hour to The Triumph of Time and Dolores!”

“Ah, but you didn’t really care for them-not even then.”  Charteris reached up, his back still turned, and moved a candlestick the fraction of an inch.  “There is something so disgustingly wholesome about you, Rudolph.  And it appears to be ineradicable.  I can’t imagine how I ever came to be fond of you.”

The colonel was twirling his pen, his eyes intent upon it.  “And yet-we were fond of each other, weren’t we, Jack?”

“Why, I positively adored you.  You were such a strong and healthy animal.  Upon my word, I don’t believe I ever missed a single football game you played in.  In fact, I almost learned to understand the game on your account.  You see-it was so good to watch you raging about with touzled hair, like the only original bull of Bashan, and the others tumbling like ninepins.  It used to make me quite inordinately proud.”

The colonel smoked.  “But, Lord! how proud I was when you got medals!”

“Yes-I remember.”

“Even if I did bully you sometimes.  Remember how I used to twist your arm to make you write my Latin exercises, Jack?”

“I liked to have you do that,” Charteris said, simply.  “It hurt a great deal, but I liked it.”

He had come up behind the colonel, who was still seated.  “Yes, that was a long while ago,” said Charteris.  “It is rather terrible-isn’t it?-to reflect precisely how long ago it was.  Why, I shall be bald in a year or two from now.  But you have kept almost all your beautiful hair, Rudolph.”

Charteris touched the colonel’s head, stroking his hair ever so lightly once or twice.  It was in effect a caress.

The colonel was aware of the odor of myrrh which always accompanied Charteris and felt that the little man was trembling.

“Isn’t there-anything you want to tell me, Jack?” the colonel said.  He sat quite still.

There was the tiniest pause.  The caressing finger-tips lifted from Musgrave’s head, but presently gave it one more brief and half-timid touch.

“Why, only au revoir, I believe.  I am leaving at a rather ungodly hour to-morrow and won’t see you, but I hope to return within the week.”

“I hope so, Jack.”

“And, after all, it is too late to be reading.  I shall go back to bed and take more trional.  And then, I dare say, I shall sleep.  So good-by, Rudolph.”

“Good-night, Jack.”

“Oh, yes-!  I meant good-night, of course.”

The colonel sighed; then he spoke abruptly: 

“No, just a moment, Jack.  I didn’t ask you to come here to-night; but since you have come, by chance, I am going to follow the promptings of that chance, and strike a blow for righteousness with soiled weapons.  Jack, do you remember suggesting that my father’s correspondence during the War might be of value, and that his desk ought to be overhauled?”

“Why, yes, of course.  Mrs. Musgrave was telling me she began the task,” said Charteris, and smiled a little.

“Unluckily; yes-but-well! in any event, it suggested to me that old letters are dangerous.  I really had no idea what that desk contained.  My father had preserved great stacks of letters.  I have been going through them.  They were most of them from women-letters which should never have been written in the first place, and which he certainly had no right to keep.”

“What! and is ‘Wild Will’s’ love-correspondence still extant?  I fancy it made interesting reading, Rudolph.”

“There were some letters which in a measure concern you, Jack.”  The colonel handed him a small packet of letters.  “If you will read the top one it will explain.  I will just go on with my writing.”

He wrote steadily for a moment or two....  Then Charteris laughed musically.

“I have always known there was a love-affair between my mother and ’Wild Will.’  But I never suspected until to-night that I had the honor to be your half-brother, Rudolph-one of ‘Wild Will’s’ innumerable bastards.”  Charteris was pallid, and though he seemed perfectly composed, his eyes glittered as with gusty brilliancies.  “I understand now why my reputed father always made such a difference between my sister and myself.  I never liked old Alvin Charteris, you know.  It is a distinct relief to be informed I have no share in his blood, although of course the knowledge comes a trifle suddenly.”

“Perhaps I should have kept that knowledge to myself.  I know it would have been kinder.  I had meant to be kind.  I loathe myself for dabbling in this mess.  But, in view of all things, it seemed necessary to let you know I am your own brother in the flesh, and that Patricia is your brother’s wife.”

“I see,” said Charteris.  “According to your standards that would make a great difference.  I don’t know, speaking frankly, that it makes much difference with me.”  He turned again to the bookshelves, so that Musgrave could no longer see his face.  Charteris ran his fingers caressingly over the backs of a row of volumes.  “I loved my mother, Rudolph.  I never loved anyone else.  That makes a difference.”  Then he said, “We Musgraves-how patly I catalogue myself already!-we Musgraves have a deal to answer for, Rudolph.”

“And doesn’t that make it all the more our duty to live clean and honest lives? to make the debt no greater than it is?” Both men were oddly quiet.

“Eh, I am not so sure.”  John Charteris waved airily toward Sebastian Musgrave’s counterfeit, then toward the other portraits.  “It was they who compounded our inheritances, Rudolph-all that we were to have in this world of wit and strength and desire and endurance.  We know their histories.  They were proud, brave and thriftless, a greedy and lecherous race, who squeezed life dry as one does an orange, and left us the dregs.  I think that it is droll, but I am not sure it places us under any obligation.  In fact, I rather think God owes us an apology, Rudolph.”

He spoke with quaint wistfulness.  The colonel sat regarding him in silence, with shocked, disapproving eyes.  Then Charteris cocked his head to one side and grinned like a hobgoblin.

“What wouldn’t you give,” he demanded, “to know what I am really thinking of at this very moment while I talk so calmly?  Well, you will never know.  And for the rest, you are at liberty to use your all-important documents as you may elect.  I am John Charteris; whatever man begot my body, he is rotten bones to-day, and it is as such I value him.  I was never anybody’s son-or friend or brother or lover,-but just a pen that someone far bigger and far nobler than John Charteris writes with occasionally.  Whereas you-but, oh, you are funny, Rudolph!” And then, “Good-night, dear brother,” Charteris added, sweetly, as he left the room.

And Rudolph Musgrave could not quite believe in the actuality of what had just happened.  In common with most of us, he got his general notions concerning the laws of life from reading fiction; and here was the material for a Renaissance tragedy wasted so far as any denouement went.  Destiny, once more, was hardly rising to the possibilities of the situation.  The weapon chance had forged had failed Rudolph Musgrave utterly; and, indeed, he wondered now how he could ever have esteemed it formidable.  Jack was his half-brother.  In noveldom or in a melodrama this discovery would have transformed their mutual dealings; but as a workaday world’s fact, Musgrave would not honestly say that it had in any way affected his feelings toward Jack, and it appeared to have left Charteris equally unaltered.

“I am not sure, though.  We can only guess where Jack is concerned.  He goes his own way always, tricky and furtive and lonelier than any other human being I have ever known.  It is loneliness that looks out of his eyes, really, even when he is mocking and sneering,” the colonel meditated.

Then he sighed and went back to the tabulation of his lists of wills.

V

The day was growing strong in the maple-grove behind Matocton.  As yet, the climbing sun fired only the topmost branches, and flooded them with a tempered radiance through which birds plunged and shrilled vague rumors to one another.  Beneath, a green twilight lingered-twilight which held a gem-like glow, chill and lucent and steady as that of an emerald.  Vagrant little puffs of wind bustled among the leaves, with a thin pretense of purpose, and then lapsed, and merged in the large, ambiguous whispering which went stealthily about the grove.

Rudolph Musgrave sat on a stone beside the road that winds through the woods toward the railway station, and smoked, nervously.  He was disheartened of the business of living, and, absurdly enough, as it seemed to him, he was hungry.

“It has to be done quietly and without the remotest chance of Anne’s ever hearing of it, and without the remotest chance of its ever having to be done again.  I have about fifteen minutes in which to convince Patricia both of her own folly and of the fact that Jack is an unmitigated cad, and to get him off the place quietly, so that Anne will suspect nothing.  And I never knew any reasonable argument to appeal to Patricia, and Jack will be a cornered rat!  Yes, it is a large contract, and I would give a great deal-a very great deal-to know how I am going to fulfil it.”

At this moment his wife and Mr. Charteris, carrying two portmanteaux, came around a bend in the road not twenty feet from Musgrave.  They were both rather cross.  In the clean and more prosaic light of morning an elopement seemed almost silly; moreover, Patricia had had no breakfast, and Charteris had been much annoyed by his wife, who had breakfasted with him, and had insisted on driving to the station with him.  It was a trivial-seeming fact, but, perhaps, not unworthy of notice, that Patricia was carrying her own portmanteau, as well as an umbrella.

The three faced one another in the cool twilight.  The woods stirred lazily about them.  The birds were singing on a wager now.

“Ah,” said Colonel Musgrave, “so you have come at last.  I have been expecting you for some time.”

Patricia dropped her portmanteau, sullenly.  Mr. Charteris placed his with care to the side of the road, and said, “Oh!” It was perhaps the only observation that occurred to him.

“Patricia,” Musgrave began, very kindly and very gravely, “you are about to do a foolish thing.  At the bottom of your heart, even now, you know you are about to do a foolish thing-a thing you will regret bitterly and unavailingly for the rest of time.  You are turning your back on the world-our world-on the one possible world you could ever be happy in.  You can’t be happy in the half-world, Patricia; you aren’t that sort.  But you can never come back to us then, Patricia; it doesn’t matter what the motive was, what the temptation was, or how great the repentance is-you cannot ever return.  That is the law, Patricia; perhaps, it isn’t always a just law.  We didn’t make it, you and I, but it is the law, and we must obey it.  Our world merely says that, leaving it once, you cannot ever return:  such is the only punishment it awards you, for it knows, this wise old world of ours, that such is the bitterest punishment which could ever be devised for you.  Our world has made you what you are; in every thought and ideal and emotion you possess, you are a product of our world.  You couldn’t live in the half-world, Patricia; you are a product of our world that can never take root in that alien soil.  Come back to us before it is too late, Patricia!”

Musgrave shook himself all over, rather like a Newfoundland dog coming out of the water, and the grave note died from his voice.  He smiled, and rubbed his hands together.

“And now,” said he, “I will stop talking like a problem play, and we will say no more about it.  Give me your portmanteau, my dear, and upon my word of honor, you will never hear a word further from me in the matter.  Jack, here, can take the train, just as he intended.  And-and you and I will go back to the house, and have a good, hot breakfast together.  Eh, Patricia?”

She was thinking, unreasonably enough, how big and strong and clean her husband looked in the growing light.  It was a pity Jack was so small.  However, she faced Musgrave coldly, and thought how ludicrously wide of the mark were all these threats of ostracism.  She shudderingly wished he would not talk of soil and taking root and hideous things like that, but otherwise the colonel left her unmoved.  He was certainly good-looking, though.

Charteris was lighting a cigarette, with a queer, contented look.  He knew the value of Patricia’s stubbornness now; still, he appeared to be using an unnecessary number of matches.

“I should have thought you would have perceived the lack of dignity, as well as the utter uselessness, in making such a scene,” Patricia said.  “We aren’t suited for each other, Rudolph; and it is better-far better for both of us-to have done with the farce of pretending to be.  I am sorry that you still care for me.  I didn’t know that.  But, for the future, I intend to live my own life.”

Patricia’s voice faltered, and she stretched out her hands a little toward her husband in an odd gust of friendliness.  He looked so kind; and he was not smiling in that way she never liked.  “Surely that isn’t so unpardonable a crime, Rudolph?” she asked, almost humbly.

“No, my dear,” he answered, “it is not unpardonable-it is impossible.  You can’t lead your own life, Patricia; none of us can.  Each life is bound up with many others, and every rash act of yours, every hasty word of yours, must affect to some extent the lives of those who are nearest and most dear to you.  But, oh, it is not argument that I would be at!  Patricia, there was a woman once-She was young, and wealthy, and-ah, well, I won’t deceive you by exaggerating her personal attractions!  I will serve up to you no praises of her sauced with lies.  But fate and nature had combined to give her everything a woman can desire, and all this that woman freely gave to me-to me who hadn’t youth or wealth or fame or anything!  And I can’t stand by, for that dear dead girl’s sake, and watch your life go wrong, Patricia!”

“You are just like the rest of them, Olaf”-and when had she used that half-forgotten nickname last, he wondered.  “You imagine you are in love with a girl because you happen to like the color of her eyes, or because there is a curve about her lips that appeals to you.  That isn’t love, Olaf, as we women understand it.”

And wildly hideous and sad, it seemed to Colonel Musgrave-this dreary parody of their old love-talk.  Only, he dimly knew that she had forgotten John Charteris existed, and that to her this moment seemed no less sardonic.

Charteris inhaled, lazily; yet, he did not like the trembling about Patricia’s mouth.  Her hands, too, opened and shut tight before she spoke.

“It is too late now,” she said, dully.  “I gave you all there was to give.  You gave me just what Grandma Pendomer and all the others had left you able to give.  That remnant isn’t love, Olaf, as we women understand it.  And, anyhow, it is too late now.”

Yet Patricia was remembering a time when Rudolph’s voice held always that grave, tender note in speaking to her; it seemed a great while ago.  And he was big and manly, just like his voice, Rudolph was; and he looked very kind.  Desperately, Patricia began to count over the times her husband had offended her.  Hadn’t he talked to her in the most unwarrantable manner only yesterday afternoon?

“Too late!-oh, not a bit of it!” Musgrave cried.  His voice sank persuasively.  “Why, Patricia, you are only thinking the matter over for the first time.  You have only begun to think of it.  Why, there is the boy-our boy, Patricia!  Surely, you hadn’t thought of Roger?”

He had found the right chord at last.  It quivered and thrilled under his touch; and the sense of mastery leaped in his blood.  Of a sudden, he knew himself dominant.  Her face was red, then white, and her eyes wavered before the blaze of his, that held her, compellingly.

“Now, honestly, just between you and me,” the colonel said, confidentially, “was there ever a better and braver and quainter and handsomer boy in the world?  Why, Patricia, surely, you wouldn’t willingly-of your own accord-go away from him, and never see him again?  Oh, you haven’t thought, I tell you!  Think, Patricia!  Don’t you remember that first day, when I came into your room at the hospital and he-ah, how wrinkled and red and old-looking he was then, wasn’t he, little wife?  Don’t you remember how he was lying on your breast, and how I took you both in my arms, and held you close for a moment, and how for a long, long while there wasn’t anything left of the whole wide world except just us three and God smiling down upon us?  Don’t you remember, Patricia?  Don’t you remember his first tooth-why, we were as proud of him, you and I, as if there had never been a tooth before in all the history of the world!  Don’t you remember the first day he walked?  Why, he staggered a great distance-oh, nearly two yards!-and caught hold of my hand, and laughed and turned back-to you.  You didn’t run away from him then, Patricia.  Are you going to do it now?”

She struggled under his look.  She had an absurd desire to cry, just that he might console her.  She knew he would.  Why was it so hard to remember that she hated Rudolph!  Of course, she hated him; she loved that other man yonder.  His name was Jack.  She turned toward Charteris, and the reassuring smile with which he greeted her, impressed Patricia as being singularly nasty.  She hated both of them; she wanted-in that brief time which remained for having anything-only her boy, her soft, warm little Roger who had eyes like Rudolph’s.

“I-I-it’s too late, Rudolph,” she stammered, parrot-like.  “If you had only taken better care of me, Rudolph!  If-No, it’s too late, I tell you!  You will be kind to Roger.  I am only weak and frivolous and heartlesss.  I am not fit to be his mother.  I’m not fit, Rudolph!  Rudolph, I tell you I’m not fit!  Ah, let me go, my dear!-in mercy, let me go!  For I haven’t loved the boy as I ought to, and I am afraid to look you in the face, and you won’t let me take my eyes away-you won’t let me!  Ah, Rudolph, let me go!”

“Not fit?” His voice thrilled with strength, and pulsed with tender cadences.  “Ah, Patricia, I am not fit to be his father!  But, between us-between us, mightn’t we do much for him?  Come back to us, Patricia-to me and the boy!  We need you, my dear.  Ah, I am only a stolid, unattractive fogy, I know; but you loved me once, and-I am the father of your child.  My standards are out-of-date, perhaps, and in any event they are not your standards, and that difference has broken many ties between us; but I am the father of your child.  You must-you must come back to me and the boy!” Musgrave caught her face between his hands, and lifted it toward his.  “Patricia, don’t make any mistake!  There is nothing you care for so much as that boy.  You can’t give him up!  If you had to walk over red-hot ploughshares to come to him, you would do it; if you could win him a moment’s happiness by a lifetime of poverty and misery and degradation, you would do it.  And so would I, little wife.  That is the tie which still unites us; that is the tie which is too strong ever to break.  Come back to us, Patricia-to me and the boy.”

“I-Jack, Jack, take me away!” she wailed helplessly.

Charteris came forward with a smile.  He was quite sure of Patricia now.

“Colonel Musgrave,” he said, with a faint drawl, “if you have entirely finished your edifying and, I assure you, highly entertaining monologue, I will ask you to excuse us.  I-oh, man, man!” Charteris cried, not unkindly, “don’t you see it is the only possible outcome?”

Musgrave faced him.  The glow of hard-earned victory was pulsing in the colonel’s blood, but his eyes were chill stars.  “Now, Jack,” he said, equably, “I am going to talk to you.  In fact, I am going to discharge an agreeable duty toward you.”

Musgrave drew close to him.  Charteris shrugged his shoulders; his smile, however, was not entirely satisfactory.  It did not suggest enjoyment.

“I don’t blame you for being what you are,” Musgrave went on, curtly.  “You were born so, doubtless.  I don’t blame a snake for being what it is.  But, when I see a snake, I claim the right to set my foot on its head; when I see a man like you-well, this is the right I claim.”

Thereupon Rudolph Musgrave struck his half-brother in the face with his open hand.  The colonel was a strong man, physically, and, on this occasion, he made no effort to curb his strength.

“Now,” Musgrave concluded, “you are going away from this place very quickly, and you are going alone.  You will do this because I tell you to do so, and because you are afraid of me.  Understand, also-if you will be so good-that the only reason I don’t give you a thorough thrashing is that I don’t think you are worth the trouble.  I only want Patricia to perceive exactly what sort of man you are.”

The blow staggered Charteris.  He seemed to grow smaller.  His clothes seemed to hang more loosely about him.  His face was paper-white, and the red mark showed plainly upon it.

“There would be no earthly sense in my hitting you back,” he said equably.  “It would only necessitate my getting the thrashing which, I can assure you, we are equally anxious to avoid.  Of course you are able to knock me down and so on, because you are nearly twice as big as I am.  I fail to see that proves anything in particular.  Come, Patricia!” And he turned to her, and reached out his hand.

She shrank from him.  She drew away from him, without any vehemence, as if he had been some slimy, harmless reptile.  A woman does not like to see fear in a man’s eyes; and there was fear in Mr. Charteris’s eyes, for all that he smiled.  Patricia’s heart sickened.  She loathed him, and she was a little sorry for him.

“Oh, you cur, you cur!” she gasped, in a wondering whisper.  Patricia went to her husband, and held out her hands.  She was afraid of him.  She was proud of him, the strong animal.  “Take me away, Rudolph,” she said, simply; “take me away from that-that coward.  Take me away, my dear.  You may beat me, too, if you like, Rudolph.  I dare say I have deserved it.  But I want you to deal brutally with me, to carry me away by force, just as you threatened to do the day we were married-at the Library, you remember, when the man was crying ‘Fresh oranges!’ and you smelt so deliciously of soap and leather and cigarette smoke.”

Musgrave took both her hands in his.  He smiled at Charteris.

The novelist returned the smile, intensifying its sweetness.  “I fancy, Rudolph,” he said, “that, after all, I shall have to take that train alone.”

Mr. Charteris continued, with a grimace:  “You have no notion, though, how annoying it is not to possess an iota of what is vulgarly considered manliness.  But what am I to do?  I was not born with the knack of enduring physical pain.  Oh, yes, I am a coward, if you like to put it nakedly; but I was born so, willy-nilly.  Personally, if I had been consulted in the matter, I would have preferred the usual portion of valor.  However! the sanctity of the hearth has been most edifyingly preserved-and, after all, the woman is not worth squabbling about.”

There was exceedingly little of the mountebank in him now; he kicked Patricia’s portmanteau, frankly and viciously, as he stepped over it to lift his own.  Holding this in one hand, John Charteris spoke, honestly: 

“Rudolph, I had a trifle underrated your resources.  For you are a brave man-we physical cowards, you know, admire that above all things-and a strong man and a clever man, in that you have adroitly played upon the purely brutal traits of women.  Any she-animal clings to its young and looks for protection in its mate.  Upon a higher ground I would have beaten you, but as an animal you are my superior.  Still, a thing done has an end.  You have won back your wife in open fight.  I fancy, by the way, that you have rather laid up future trouble for yourself in doing so, but I honor the skill you have shown.  Colonel Musgrave, it is to you that, as the vulgar phrase it, I take off my hat.”

Thereupon, Mr. Charteris uncovered his head with perfect gravity, and turned on his heel, and went down the road, whistling melodiously.

Musgrave stared after him, for a while.  The lust of victory died; the tumult and passion and fervor were gone from Musgrave’s soul.  He could very easily imagine the things Jack Charteris would say to Anne concerning him; and the colonel knew that she would believe them all.  He had won the game; he had played it, heartily and skilfully and successfully; and his reward was that the old bickerings with Patricia should continue, and that Anne should be taught to loathe him.  He foresaw it all very plainly as he stood, hand in hand with his wife.

But Anne would be happy.  It was for that he had played.

VI

They came back to Matocton almost silently.  The spell of the dawn was broken; it was honest, garish day now, and they were both hungry.

Patricia’s spirits were rising, as a butterfly’s might after a thunderstorm.  Since she had only a few months to live, she would at least not waste them in squabbling.  She would be conscientiously agreeable to everybody.

“Ah, Rudolph, Rudolph!” she cooed, “if I had only known all along that you loved me!”

“My dear,” he protested, fondly, “it seemed such a matter of course.”  He was a little tired, perhaps; the portmanteau seemed very heavy.

“A woman likes to be told-a woman likes to be told every day.  Otherwise, she forgets,” Patricia murmured.  Then her face grew tenderly reproachful.  “Ah, Rudolph, Rudolph, see what your carelessness and neglect has nearly led to!  It nearly led to my running away with a man like-like that!  It would have been all your fault, Rudolph, if I had.  You know it would have been, Rudolph.”

And Patricia sighed once more, and then laughed and became magnanimous.

“Yes-yes, after all, you are the boy’s father.”  She smiled up at him kindly and indulgently.  “I forgive you, Rudolph,” said Patricia.

He must have shown that pardon from Patricia just now was not unflavored with irony, for she continued, in another voice:  “Who, after all, is the one human being you love?  You know that it’s the boy, and just the boy alone.  I gave you that boy.  You should remember that, I think-”

“I do remember it, Patricia-”

“I bore the child.  I paid the price, not you,” Patricia said, very quiet.  “No, I don’t mean the price all women have to pay-” She paused in their leisurely progress, and drew vague outlines in the roadway with the ferrule of her umbrella before she looked up into Rudolph Musgrave’s face.  She appraised it for a long while and quite as if her husband were a stranger.

“Yes, I could make you very sorry for me, if I wanted to.”  Her thoughts ran thus.  “But what’s the use?  You could only become an interminable nuisance in trying to soothe my dying hours.  You have just obstinately squatted around in Lichfield and devoted all your time to being beautiful and good and mooning around women for I don’t know how many years.  You make me tired, and I have half a mind to tell you so right now.  And there really is no earthly sense in attempting to explain things to you.  You have so got into the habit of being beautiful and good that you are capable of quoting Scripture after I have finished.  Then I would assuredly box your jaws, because I don’t yearn to be a poor stricken dear and weep on anybody’s bosom.  And I don’t particularly care about your opinion of me, anyway.”

Aloud she said:  “Oh, well! let’s go and get some breakfast.”

VII

And thus the situation stayed.  Patricia told him nothing.  And Rudolph Musgrave, knowing that according to his lights he had behaved not unhandsomely, was the merest trifle patronizing and rather like a person speaking from a superior plane in his future dealings with Patricia.  Moreover, he was engrossed at this time by his scholarly compilation of Lichfield Legislative Papers prior to 1800, which was printed the following February.

She told him nothing.  She was a devoted mother for two days’ space, and then candidly decided that Roger was developing into the most insufferable of little prigs.

“And, besides, if he had never been born I would quite probably have lived to keep my teeth in a glass of water at night.  And I can’t help thinking of that privilege being denied me whenever I look at him.”

She told Rudolph Musgrave nothing.  She was finding it mildly amusing to note how people came and went at Matocton, and to appraise these people disinterestedly, because she would never see them again.

Patricia was drawing her own conclusions as to Lichfield’s aristocracy.  These people-for the most part a preposterously handsome race-were the pleasantest of companions and their manners were perfection; but there was enough of old Roger Stapylton’s blood in Patricia’s veins to make her feel, however obscurely, that nobody is justified in living without even an attempt at any personal achievement.  The younger men evinced a marked tendency to leave Lichfield, to make their homes elsewhere, she noted, and they very often attained prominence; there was Joe Parkinson, for instance, who had lunched at Oyster Bay only last Thursday, according to the Lichfield Courier-Herald.  And, meanwhile, the men of her husband’s generation clung to their old mansions, and were ornamental, certainly, and were, very certainly, profoundly self-satisfied; for they adhered to the customs of yesterday under the comfortable delusion that this was the only way to uphold yesterday’s ideals.  But what, in heaven’s name, had any of these men of Rudolph Musgrave’s circle ever done beyond enough perfunctory desk-work, say, to furnish him food and clothes?

“A hamlet of Hamlets,” was Patricia’s verdict as to Lichfield-“whose actual tragedy isn’t that their fathers were badly treated, but that they themselves are constitutionally unable to do anything except talk about how badly their fathers were treated.”

No, it was not altogether that these men were indolent.  Rudolph and Rudolph’s peers had been reared in the belief that when any manual labor became inevitable, you as a matter of course entrusted its execution to a negro; and, forced themselves to labor, they not unnaturally complied with an ever-present sense of unfair treatment, and, in consequence, performed the work inefficiently.  Lichfield had no doubt preserved a comely manner of living; but it had produced in the last half-century nothing of real importance except John Charteris.

VIII

For Charteris was important.  Patricia was rereading all the books that Charteris had published, and they engrossed her with an augmenting admiration.

But it is unnecessary to dilate upon the marvelous and winning pictures of life in Lichfield before the War between the States which Charteris has painted in his novels.  “Even as the king of birds that with unwearied wing soars nearest to the sun, yet wears upon his breast the softest down,”-as we learn from no less eminent authority than that of the Lichfield Courier-Herald-“so Mr. Charteris is equally expert in depicting the derring-do and tenderness of those glorious days of chivalry, of fair women and brave men, of gentle breeding, of splendid culture and wholesome living.”

Patricia was not a little puzzled by these books.  The traditional Lichfield, she decided in the outcome, may very possibly have been just the trick-work of a charlatan’s cleverness; but, even in that event, here were the tales of life in Lichfield-ardent, sumptuous and fragrant throughout with the fragrance of love and roses, of rhyme and of youth’s lovely fallacies; and for the pot-pourri, if it deserved no higher name, all who believed that living ought to be a uniformly noble transaction could not fail to be grateful eternally.

Esthetic values apart-and, indeed, to all such values Patricia accorded a provisional respect-what most impressed her Stapyltonian mind was the fact that these books represented, in a perfectly tangible way, success.  Patricia very heartily admired success when it was brevetted as such by the applause of others.  And while to be a noted stylist, and even to be reasonably sure of annotated reissuement for the plaguing of unborn schoolchildren, was all well enough, in an unimportant, high-minded way, Patricia was far more vividly impressed by the blunt figures which told how many of John Charteris’s books had been bought and paid for.  She accepted these figures as his publishers gave them forth, implicitly; and she marveled over and took odd joy in these figures.  They enabled her to admire Charteris’s books without reservation.

By this time Mrs. Ashmeade had managed, in the most natural manner, to tell Patricia a deal concerning Charteris.  No halo graced the portrait Mrs. Ashmeade painted....  But, indeed, Patricia now viewed John Charteris, considered as a person, without any particular bias.  She did not especially care-now-what the man had done or had omitted to do.

But the venerable incongruity of the writer and his work confronted her intriguingly.  A Charteris writes In Old Lichfield; a Cockney drug-clerk writes The Eve of St. Agnes; a genteel printer evolves a Lovelace; and a cutpurse pens the Ballad of Dead Ladies in a brothel.  It is manifestly impossible; and it happens.

So here, then, was a knave who held, somehow, the keys to a courtlier and nobler world.  These tales made living seem a braver business, for all that they were written by a poltroon.  Was it pure posturing?  Patricia, at least, thought it was not.  At worst, such dexterous maintenance of a pose was hardly despicable, she considered.  And, anyhow, she preferred to believe that Charteris had by some miracle put the best of himself into these books, had somehow clarified the abhorrent mixture of ability and evil which was John Charteris; and the best in him she found, on this hypothesis, to be a deal more admirable than the best in Rudolph Musgrave.

“It is a part of Jack,” she fiercely said.  “It is, because I know it is.  All this is part of him-as much a part of him as the cowardice and the trickery.  So I don’t really care if he is a liar and a coward.  I ought to, I suppose.  But at the bottom of my heart I admire him.  He has made something; he has created these beautiful books, and they will be here when we are all dead.  He doesn’t leave the world just as he found it.  That is the only real cowardice, I think-especially as I am going to do it--”

And later she said, belligerently:  “If I had been a man I could have at least assassinated somebody who was prominent.  I do wish Rudolph was not such a stick-in-the-mud.  And I wish I liked Rudolph better.  But on the whole I prefer the physical coward to the moral one.  Rudolph simply bores me stiff with his benevolent airs.  He just walks around the place forgiving me sixty times to the hour, and if he doesn’t stop it I am going to slap him.”

Thus Patricia.

IX

The world knows how Charteris was killed in Fairhaven by Jasper Hardress-the husband of “that flighty Mrs. Hardress” Anne had spoken of.

“And I hardly know,” said Mrs. Ashmeade, “whether more to admire the justice or the sardonic humor of the performance.  Here after hundreds of entanglements with women, John Charteris manages to be shot by a jealous maniac on account of a woman with whom-for a wonder-his relations were proven to be innocent.  The man needed killing, but it is asking too much of human nature to put up with his being made a martyr of.”

She cried a little, though.  “It-it’s because I remember him when he was turning out his first mustache,” she explained, lucidly.

But with the horror and irony of John Charteris’s assassination the biographer of Rudolph Musgrave has really nothing to do save in so far as this event influenced the life of Rudolph Musgrave.

It was on the day of Charteris’s death-a fine, clear afternoon in late September-that Rudolph Musgrave went bass-fishing with some eight of his masculine guests.  Luncheon was brought to them in a boat about two o’clock, along with the day’s mail.

“I say-!  But listen, everybody!” cried Alfred Chayter, whose mail included a morning paper-the Lichfield Courier-Herald, in fact.

He read aloud.

“I wish I could be with Anne,” thought Colonel Musgrave.  “It may be I could make things easier.”

But Anne was in Lichfield now....

He had just finished dressing for supper when it occurred to him that since their return from the river he had not seen Patricia.  He was afraid that Patricia, also, would be upset by this deplorable news.

As he crossed the hall Virginia came out of Patricia’s rooms.  The colonel raised his voice in speaking to her, for with age Virginia was growing very deaf.

“Yaas, suh,” she said, “I’m doin’ middlin’ well, suh, thank yeh, suh.  Jus’ took the evenin’ mail to Miss Patricy, like I always do, suh.”  She went away quietly, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol’s.

He went into Patricia’s bedroom.  Patricia had been taking an afternoon nap, and had not risen from the couch, where she lay with three or four unopened letters upon her breast.  Two she had opened and dropped upon the floor.  She seemed not to hear him when he spoke her name, and yet she was not asleep, because her eyes were partly unclosed.

There was no purple glint in them, as once there had been always.  Her countenance, indeed, showed everywhere less brightly tinted than normally it should be.  Her heavy copper-colored hair, alone undimmed, seemed, like some parasitic growth (he thought), to sustain its beauty by virtue of having drained Patricia’s body of color and vitality.

There was a newspaper in her right hand, with flamboyant headlines, because to Lichfield the death of John Charteris was an event of importance.

Patricia seemed very young.  You saw that she had suffered.  You knew it was not fair to hurt a child like that.

But, indeed, Rudolph Musgrave hardly realized as yet that Patricia was dead.  For Colonel Musgrave was thinking of that time when this same Patricia had first come to him, fire-new from the heart of an ancient sunset, and he had noted, for the first time, that her hair was like the reflection of a sunset in rippling waters, and that her mouth was an inconsiderable trifle, a scrap of sanguine curves, and that her eyes were purple glimpses of infinity.

“This same Patricia!” he said, aloud.