concealing some white object in the hollow of a log that lay by the river. A little later, Musgrave came out upon the beach, and found Charteris seated upon the same log, an open book upon his knees, and looking back over his shoulder wonderingly.
'Oh,' said John Charteris, 'so it was you, Rudolph? I could not imagine who it was that called.'
'Yes—I wanted a word with you, Jack.'
Now, there are five little red-and-white bath-houses upon the beach at Matocton; the nearest of them was some thirty feet from Mr. Charteris. It might have been either imagination or the prevalent breeze, but Musgrave certainly thought he heard a door closing. Moreover, as he walked around the end of the log, he glanced downward as in a casual manner, and perceived a protrusion which bore an undeniable resemblance to the handle of a parasol. Musgrave whistled, though, at the bottom of his heart, he was not surprised; and then, he sat down upon the log, and for a moment was silent.
'A beautiful evening,' said Mr. Charteris.
Musgrave lighted a cigarette.
'Jack, I have something rather difficult to say to you—yes, it is deuced difficult, and the sooner it is over the better. I—why, confound it all, man! I want you to stop making love to my wife.'
Mr. Charteris's eyebrows rose. 'Really, Colonel Musgrave——.' he began, coolly.
'Now, you are about to make a scene, you know,' said Musgrave, raising his hand in protest, 'and we are not here for that. We are not going to tear any passions to tatters; we are not going to rant; we are simply going to have a quiet and sensible talk. We don't happen to be characters in a romance; for you aren't Lancelot, you know, and I am not up to the part of Arthur by a great deal. I am not angry, I am not jealous, nor do I put the matter on any high moral grounds. I simply say it won't do—no, hang it, it won't do!'
'I dare not question you are an authority in such matters,' said John Charteris, sweetly—'since among many others, Clarice Pendomer is near enough to be an obtainable witness.'
Colonel Musgrave grimaced. 'But what a gesture!' he thought, half-enviously. Jack Charteris, quite certainly, meant to make the most of the immunity Musgrave had purchased for him. None the less, Musgrave had now his cue. Patricia must be listening.
And so what Colonel Musgrave said was: 'Put it that a burnt child dreads the fire—is that a reason he should not warn his friends against it?'
'At least,' said Charteris at length, 'you are commendably frank. I appreciate that, Rudolph. I honestly appreciate the fact you have come to me, not as the husband of that fiction in which kitchen-maids delight, breathing fire and speaking balderdash, but as one sensible man to another. Let us be frank, then; let us play with the cards upon the table. You have charged me with loving your wife; and I answer you frankly—I do. She does me the honor to return this affection. What, then, Rudolph?'
Musgrave blew out a puff of smoke. 'I don't especially mind,' he said, slowly. 'According to tradition, of course, I ought to spring at your throat with a smothered curse. But, as a matter of fact, I don't see why I should be irritated. No, in common reason,' he added, upon consideration, 'I am only rather sorry for you both.'
Mr. Charteris sprang to his feet, and walked up and down the beach. 'Ah, you hide your feelings well,' he cried, and his laughter was a trifle unconvincing and a bit angry. 'But it is unavailing with me. I know! I know the sick and impotent hatred of me that is seething in your heart; and I feel for you the pity you pretend to entertain toward me. Yes, I pity you. But what would you have? Frankly, while in many ways an estimable man, you are no fit mate for Patricia. She has the sensitive, artistic temperament, poor girl; and only we who are cursed with it can tell you what its possession implies. And you—since frankness is the order of the day, you know—well, you impress me as being a trifle inadequate. It is not your fault, perhaps, but the fact remains that you have never amounted to anything personally. You have simply traded upon the accident of being born a Musgrave of Matocton. In consequence you were enabled to marry Patricia's money, just as the Musgraves of Matocton always marry some woman who is able to support them. Ah, but it was her money you married, and not Patricia! Any community of interest between you was impossible, and is radically impossible. Your marriage was a hideous mistake, just as mine was. For you are starving her soul, Rudolph, just as Anne has starved mine. And now, at last, when Patricia and I have seen our single chance of happiness, we cannot—no! we cannot and we will not—defer to any outworn tradition or to fear of Mrs. Grundy's narrow-minded prattle!'
Charteris swept aside the dogmas of the world with an indignant gesture of somewhat conscious nobility; and he turned to his companion in an attitude of defiance.
Musgrave was smiling. He smoked and seemed to enjoy his cigarette.
The day was approaching sunset. The sun, a glowing ball of copper, hung low in the west over a rampart of purple clouds, whose heights were smeared with red. A slight, almost imperceptible, mist rose from the river, and, where the horizon should have been, a dubious cloudland prevailed. Far to the west were orange-colored quiverings upon the stream's surface, but, nearer, the river dimpled with silver-tipped waves; and, at their feet, the water grew transparent, and splashed over the sleek, brown sand, and sucked back, leaving a curved line of bubbles which, one by one, winked, gaped and burst. There was a drowsy peacefulness in the air; behind them, among the beeches, were many stealthy wood-sounds; and, at long intervals, a sleepy, peevish twittering went about the nested trees.
In Colonel Musgrave's face, the primal peace was mirrored.
'May I ask,' said he at length, 'what you propose doing?'
Mr. Charteris answered promptly. 'I, of course, propose,' said he, 'to ask Patricia to share the remainder of my life.'
'A euphemism, as I take it, for an elopement. I hardly thought you intended going so far.'
'Rudolph!' cried Charteris, drawing himself to his full height—and he was not to blame for the fact that it was but five-feet-six—'I am, I hope, an honorable man! I cannot eat your salt and steal your honor. So I loot openly, or not at all.'
The colonel shrugged his shoulders.
'I presuppose you have counted the cost—and estimated the necessary breakage?'
'True love,' the novelist declared, in a hushed, sweet voice, 'is above such considerations.'
'I think,' said Musgrave slowly, 'that any love worthy of the name will always appraise the cost—to the woman. It is of Patricia I am thinking.'
'She loves me,' Charteris murmured. He glanced up and laughed. 'Upon my soul, you know, I cannot help thinking the situation a bit farcical—you and I talking over matters in this fashion. But I honestly believe the one chance of happiness for any of us hinges on Patricia and me chucking the whole affair, and bolting.'
'No! it won't do—no, hang it, Jack, it will not do!' Musgrave glanced toward the bath-house, and he lifted his voice. 'I am not considering you in the least—and under the circumstances, you could hardly expect me to. It is of Patricia I am thinking. I haven't made her altogether happy. Our marriage was a mating of incongruities—and possibly you are justified in calling it a mistake. Yet, day in and day out, I think we get along as well together as do most couples; and it is wasting time to cry over spilt milk. Instead, it rests with us, the two men who love her, to decide what is best for Patricia. It is she and only she we must consider.'
'Ah, you are right!' said Charteris, and his eyes grew tender. 'She must have what she most desires; and all must be sacrificed to that.' He turned and spoke as simply as a child. 'Of course, you know, I shall be giving up a great deal for love of her, but—I am willing.'
Musgrave looked at him for a moment. 'H'm doubtless,' he assented. 'Why, then, we won't consider the others. We will not consider your wife, who—who worships you. We won't consider the boy. I, for my part, think it is a mother's duty to leave an unsullied name to her child, but, probably, my ideas are bourgeois. We won't consider Patricia's relatives, who, perhaps, will find it rather unpleasant. In short, we must consider no one save Patricia.'
'Of course, one cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.'
'No; the question is whether it is absolutely necessary to make the omelet. I say no.'
'And I,' quoth Charteris smiling gently, 'say yes.'
'For Patricia,' Musgrave went on, as in meditation, but speaking very clearly, 'it means giving up—everything. It means giving up her friends and the life to which she is accustomed; it means being ashamed to face those who were formerly her friends. We, the world, our world of Lichfield, I mean—are lax enough as to the divorce question, heaven knows, but we can't pardon immorality when coupled with poverty. And you would be poor, you know. Your books are tremendously clever, Jack, but—as I happen to know—the proceeds from them would not support two
