“So let us laugh, lest vain rememberings
  Breed, as of old, some rude bucolic cry
  Of awkward anguishes, of dreams that die
  Without decorum, of Love lacking wings
  Yet striving you-ward in his flounderings
  Eternally,-as now, even when I lie
  As I lie now, who know that you and I
  Exist and heed not lesser happenings.

  “I was.  I am.  I will be.  Eh, no doubt
  For some sufficient cause, I drift, defer,
  Equivocate, dream, hazard, grow more stout,
  Age, am no longer Love’s idolater,-
  And yet I could and would not live without
  Your faith that heartens and your doubts which spur.”

LIONEL CROCHARD. Palinodia.

I

So weeks and months, and presently irrevocable years, passed tranquilly; and nothing very important seemed to happen nowadays, either for good or ill; and Rudolph Musgrave was content enough.

True, there befell, and with increasing frequency, periods when one must lie abed, and be coaxed into taking interminable medicines, and be ministered unto generally, because one was of a certain age nowadays, and must be prudent.  But even such necessities, these underhanded indignities of time, had their alleviations.  Trained nurses, for example, were uncommonly well-informed and agreeable young women, when you came to know them-and quite lady-like, too, for all that in our topsy-turvy days these girls had to work for their living.  Unthinkable as it seemed, the colonel found that his night-nurse, a Miss Ramsay, was actually by birth a Ramsay of Blenheim; and for a little the discovery depressed him.  But to be made much of, upon whatever terms, was always treatment to which the colonel submitted only too docilely.  And, besides, in this queer, comfortable, just half-waking state, the colonel found one had the drollest dreams, evolving fancies such as were really a credit to one’s imagination....

For instance, one very often imagined that Patricia was more close at hand nowadays....  No, she was not here in the room, of course, but outside, in the street, at the corner below, where the letterbox stood.  Yes, she was undoubtedly there, the colonel reflected drowsily.  And they had been so certain her return could only result in unhappiness, and they were so wise, that whilst she waited for her opportunity Patricia herself began to be a little uneasy.  She had patrolled the block six times before the chance came.

And it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave, drowsily pleased by his own inventiveness, that Patricia was glad this afternoon was so hot that no one was abroad except the small boy at the corner house, who sat upon the bottom porch-step, and, as children so often do, appeared intently to appraise the world at large with an inexplicable air of disappointment.

“Now think how Rudolph would feel,”-the colonel whimsically played at reading Patricia’s reflection-“if I were to be arrested as a suspicious character-that’s what the newspapers always call them, I think-on his very doorstep!  And he must have been home a half-hour ago at least, because I know it’s after five.  But the side-gate’s latched, and I can’t ring the door-bell-if only because it would be too ridiculous to have to ask the maid to tell Colonel Musgrave his wife wanted to see him.  Besides, I don’t know the new house-girl.  I wish now we hadn’t let old Mary go, even though she was so undependable about thorough-cleaning.”

And it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave that Patricia was tired of pacing before the row of houses, each so like the other, and compared herself to Gulliver astray upon a Brobdingnagian bookshelf which held a “library set” of some huge author.  She had lost interest, too, in the new house upon the other side.

“If things were different I would have to call on them.  But as it is, I am spared that bother at least,” said Patricia, just as if being dead did not change people at all.

Then a colored woman, trim and frillily-capped, came out of the watched house.  She bore some eight or nine letters in one hand, and fanned herself with them in a leisurely flat-footed progress to the mailbox at the lower corner.

“She looks capable,” was Patricia’s grudging commentary, in slipping through the doorway into the twilight of the hall.  “But it isn’t safe to leave the front-door open like this.  One never knows-No, I can tell by the look of her she’s the sort that can’t be induced to sleep on the lot, and takes mysterious bundles home at night.”

II

And it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave, now in the full flow of this droll dream, that Patricia resentfully noted her front-hall had been “meddled with.”  This much alone might Patricia observe in a swift transit to the parlor.

She waited there until the maid returned; and registered to the woman’s credit the discreet soft closing of the front-door and afterward the well-nigh inaudible swish of the rear door of the dining-room as the maid went back into the kitchen.

“In any event,” Patricia largely conceded, “she probably doesn’t clash the knives and forks in the pantry after supper, like she was hostile armaments with any number of cutlasses apiece.  I remember Rudolph simply couldn’t stand it when we had Ethel.”

So much was satisfactory.  Only-her parlor was so altered!

There was-to give you just her instantaneous first impression-so little in it.  Broad spaces of plain color showed everywhere; and Patricia’s ideal of what a parlor should be, as befitted the chatelaine of a fine home in Lichfield, had always been the tangled elegancies of the front show-window of a Woman’s Exchange for Fancy Work.  The room had even been repapered-odiously, as she considered; and the shiny floor of it boasted just three inefficient rugs, like dingy rafts upon a sea of very strong coffee.

Patricia looked in vain for her grandiose plush-covered chairs, her immaculate “tidies,” and the proud yellow lambrequin, embroidered in high relief with white gardenias, which had formerly adorned the mantelpiece.  The heart of her hungered for her unforgotten and unforgettable “watered-silk” papering wherein white roses bloomed exuberantly against a yellow background-which deplorably faded if you did not keep the window-shades down, she remembered-and she wanted back her white thick comfortable carpet which hid the floor completely, so that everywhere you trod upon the buxomest of stalwart yellow roses, each bunch of which was lavishly tied with wind-blown ribbons.

Then, too, her cherished spinning-wheel, at least two hundred and fifty years old, which had looked so pretty after she had gilded it and added a knot of pink sarsenet, was departed; and gone as well was the mirror-topped table, with its array of china swan and frogs and water-lilies artistically grouped about its speckless surface.  Even her prized engraving of “Michael Angelo Buonarotti”-contentedly regarding his just finished Moses, while a pope tiptoed into the room through a side-door-had been removed, with all its splendors of red-plush and intricate gilt-framing.

Just here and there, in fine, like a familiar face in a crowd, she could discover some one of her more sedately-colored “parlor ornaments”; and the whole history of it-its donor or else its price, the gestures of the shopman, even what sort of weather it was when she and Rudolph found “exactly what I’ve been looking for” in the shop-window, and the Stapyltonian, haggling over the price with which Patricia had bargained-such unimportant details as these now vividly awakened in recollection....  In fine, this room was not her parlor at all, and in it Patricia was lonely....  Yes, yes, she would be nowadays, the colonel reflected, for he himself had never been in thorough sympathy with all the changes made by Roger’s self-assured young wife.

Thus it was with the first floor of the house, through which Patricia strayed with uniform discomfort.  This place was home no longer.

Thus it was with the first floor of the house.  Everywhere the equipments were strange, or at best arranged not quite as Patricia would have placed them.  Yet they had not any look of being recently purchased.  Even that hideous stair-carpet was a little worn, she noted, as noiselessly she mounted to the second story.

The house was perfectly quiet, save for a tiny shrill continuance of melody that somehow seemed only to pierce the silence, not to dispel it.  Rudolph-of all things!-had in her absence acquired a canary.  And everybody knew what an interminable nuisance a canary was.

She entered the front room.  It had been her bedroom ever since her marriage.  She remembered this as with a gush of defiant joy.

III

So it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave that Patricia came actually into the room that had been hers....

A canary was singing there, very sweet and shrill and as in defiant joy.  Its trilling seemed to fill the room.  In the brief pauses of his song the old clock, from which Rudolph had removed the pendulum on the night of Agatha’s death would interpose an obstinate slow ticking; and immediately the clock-noise would be drowned in melody.  Otherwise the room was silent.

In the alcove stood the bed which had been Patricia’s.  Intent upon its occupant were three persons, with their backs turned to her.  One Patricia could easily divine to be a doctor; he was twiddling a hypodermic syringe between his fingers, and the set of his shoulders was that of acquiescence.  Profiles of the others she saw:  one a passive nurse in uniform, who was patiently chafing the right hand of the bed’s occupant; the other a lean-featured red-haired stranger, who sat crouched in his chair and held the dying man’s left hand.

For in the bed, supported by many pillows, and facing Patricia, was a dying man.  He was very old, having thick tumbled hair which, like his two-weeks’ beard, was uniformly white.  His eyelids drooped a trifle, so that he seemed to meditate concerning something ineffably remote and serious, yet not, upon the whole, unsatisfactory.  You saw and heard the intake of each breath, so painfully drawn, and expelled with manifest relief, as if the man were very tired of breathing.  Yet the bedclothes heaved with his vain efforts just to keep on breathing.  And sometimes his parted lips would twitch curiously....  Rudolph Musgrave, too, could see all this quite plainly, in the mirror over the mantel.

The doctor spoke.  “Yes-it’s the end, Professor Musgrave,” he said.  For this lean-featured red-haired stranger to whom the doctor spoke, a pedagogue to his finger-tips, had once been Patricia’s dearly-purchased, chubby baby Roger.

And Rudolph Musgrave stayed motionless.  He knew Patricia was there; but that fact no longer seemed either very strange or even unnatural; and besides, it was against some law for him to look at her until Patricia had called him....  Meanwhile, just opposite, above the mirror, and facing him, was the Stuart portrait of young Gerald Musgrave.  This picture had now hung there for a great many years.  The boy still smiled at you in undiminished raillery, even though he smiled ambiguously, and with a sort of humorous sadness in his eyes.  Once, very long ago-when the picture hung downstairs-some one had said that Gerald Musgrave’s life was barren.  The dying man could not now recollect, quite, who that person was.

Rudolph Musgrave stayed motionless.  He comprehended that he was dying.  The greatest of all changes was at hand; and he, who had always shrunk from making changes, was now content enough....  Indeed, with Rudolph Musgrave living had always been a vaguely dissatisfactory business, a hand-to-mouth proceeding which he had scrambled through, as he saw now, without any worthy aim or even any intelligible purpose.  He had nothing very heinous with which to reproach himself; but upon the other side, he had most certainly nothing of which to be particularly proud.

So this was all that living came to!  You heard of other people being rapt by splendid sins and splendid virtues, and you anticipated that to-morrow some such majestic energy would transfigure your own living, and change everything:  but the great adventure never arrived, somehow; and the days were frittered away piecemeal, what with eating your dinner, and taking a wholesome walk, and checking up your bank account, and dovetailing scraps of parish registers and land-patents and county records into an irrefutable pedigree, and seeing that your clothes were pressed, and looking over the newspapers-and what with other infinitesimal avocations, each one innocent, none of any particular importance, and each consuming an irrevocable moment of the allotted time-until at last you found that living had not, necessarily, any climax at all....  And Patricia would call him presently.

Once, very long ago, some one had said that the most pathetic tragedy in life was to get nothing in particular out of it.  The dying man could not now recollect, quite, who that person was.

He wondered, vaguely, what might have been the outcome if Rudolph Musgrave had whole-heartedly sought, not waited for, the great adventure; if Rudolph Musgrave had put-however irrationally-more energy and less second-thought into living; if Rudolph Musgrave had not been contented to be just a Musgrave of Matocton....  Well, it was too late now.  He viewed his whole life now, in epitome, and much as you may see at night the hackneyed vista from your window leap to incisiveness under the lash of lightning.  No, the life of Rudolph Musgrave had never risen to the plane of dignity, not even to that of seeming to Rudolph Musgrave a connected and really important transaction on Rudolph Musgrave’s part.  Yet Lichfield, none the better for Rudolph Musgrave’s having lived, was none the worse, thank heaven!  And there were younger men in Lichfield-men who did not mean to fail as Rudolph Musgrave and his fellows all had failed....  Eh, yes, what was the toast that Rudolph Musgrave drank, so long ago, to the new Lichfield which these younger men were making?

“To this new South, that has not any longer need of me or of my kind.

“To this new South!  She does not gaze unwillingly, nor too complacently, upon old years, and dares concede that but with loss of manliness may any man encroach upon the heritage of a dog or of a trotting-horse, and consider the exploits of an ancestor to guarantee an innate and personal excellence.

“For to her all former glory is less a jewel than a touchstone, and with her portion of it daily she appraises her own doing, and without vain speech.  And her high past she values now, in chief, as fit foundation of that edifice whereon she labors day by day, and with augmenting strokes.”

Yes, that was it.  And it was true.  Yet Rudolph Musgrave’s life on earth was ending now-the only life that he would ever have on earth-and it had never risen to the plane of seeming even to Rudolph Musgrave a really important transaction on Rudolph Musgrave’s part....

Then Patricia spoke.  Low and very low she called to Olaf, and the dim, wistful eyes of Rudolph Musgrave lifted, and gazed full upon her standing there, and were no longer wistful.  And the man made as though to rise, and could not, and his face was very glad.

For in the dying man had awakened the pulses of an old, strange, half-forgotten magic, and all his old delight in the girl who had shared in and had provoked this ancient wonder-working, together with a quite new consciousness of the inseparability of Patricia’s foibles from his existence; so that he was incuriously aware of his imbecility in not having known always that Patricia must come back some day, not as a glorious, unfamiliar angel, but unaltered.

“I am glad you haven’t changed....  Why, but of course!  Nothing would have counted if you had changed-not even for the better, Patricia.  For you and what you meant to me were real.  That only was real-that we, not being demigods, but being just what we were, once climbed together very high, where we could glimpse the stars-and nothing else can ever be of any importance.  What we inherited was too much for us, was it not, my dear?  And now it is not formidable any longer.  Oh, but I loved you very greatly, Patricia!  And now at last, my dear, I seem to understand-as in that old, old time when you and I were glad together--”

But he did not say this aloud, for it seemed to him that he stood in a cool, pleasant garden, and that Patricia came toward him through the long shadows of sunset.  The lacy folds and furbelows and semi-transparencies that clothed her were now tinged with gold and now, as a hedge or a flower bed screened her from the level rays, were softened into multitudinous graduations of grays and mauves and violets.

They did not speak.  But in her eyes he found compassion and such tenderness as awed him; and then, as a light is puffed out, they were the eyes of a friendly stranger.  He understood, for an instant, that of necessity it was decreed time must turn back and everything, even Rudolph Musgrave, be just as it had been when he first saw Patricia.  For they had made nothing of their lives; and so, they must begin all over again.

“Failure is not permitted” he was saying....

“You’re Cousin Rudolph, aren’t you?” she asked....

And Rudolph Musgrave knew he had forgotten something of vast import, but what this knowledge had pertained to he no longer knew.  Then Rudolph Musgrave noted, with a delicious tingling somewhere about his heart, that her hair was like the reflection of a sunset in rippling waters-only many times more beautiful, of course-and that her mouth was an inconsiderable trifle, a scrap of sanguine curves, and that her eyes were purple glimpses of infinity.