else in life.
'Oh, well, I am just a common, ordinary, garden-sort of fool. The Musgraves always are, in one fashion or another,' he sulkily concluded.
And now the demigod was merely Rudolph Musgrave again, and she was not afraid any longer, but only inexpressibly fordone.
'Isn't that like a woman?' he presently demanded of the June heavens. 'To drag something out of a man with inflexibility, monomania and moral grappling-irons, and
She did not say anything. A certain new discovery obsessed her like a piece of piercing music.
Then Rudolph Musgrave gave the tiniest of gestures downward. 'And I have told you this, in chief, because we two remember him. He wanted you. He took you. You are his. You will always be. He gave you just a fragment of himself. That fragment was worth more than everything I had to offer.'
Anne very carefully arranged her roses on the ivy-covered grave. 'I do not know—meanwhile, I give these to our master. And my real widowhood begins to-day.'
And as she rose he looked at her across the colorful mound, and smiled, half as with embarrassment. A lie, he thought, might ameliorate the situation, and he bravely hazarded a prodigious one. 'Is it necessary to tell you that Jack loved you? And that the others never really counted?'
He rejoiced to see that Anne believed him. 'No,' she assented, 'no, not with him. Oddly enough, I am proud of that, even now. But—don't you see?—I never loved him. I was just his priestess—the priestess of a stucco god! Otherwise, I would know it wasn't his fault, but altogether that of—the others.'
He grimaced and gave a bantering flirt of his head. He said, with quizzing eyes:
'Would it do any good to quote Lombroso, and Maudsley, and Gall, and Krafft-Ebing, and Flechsig, and so on? and to tell you that the excessive use of one brain faculty must necessarily cause a lack of nutriment to all the other brain-cells? It would be rather up-to-date. There is a deal I could tell you also as to what poisonous blood he inherited; but to do this I have not the right.' And then Rudolph Musgrave said in all sincerity: ''A wild, impetuous whirlwind of passion and faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly
She had put aside alike the drolling and the palliative suggestion, like flimsy veils. 'I think it wouldn't do any good whatever. When growing things are broken by the whirlwind, they don't, as a rule, discuss the theory of air- currents as a consolation. Men such as he was take what they desire. It isn't fair—to us others. But it's true, for all that—'
Their eyes met warily; and for no reason which they shared in common they smiled together.
'Poor little Lady of Shalott,' said Rudolph Musgrave, 'the mirror is cracked from side to side, isn't it? I am sorry. For life is not so easily disposed of. And there is only life to look at now, and life is a bewilderingly complex business, you will find, because the laws of it are so childishly simple—and implacable. And one of these laws seems to be that in our little planet, might makes right—'
He stayed to puff his cigarette.
'Oh, Rudolph dear, don't—don't be just a merry-Andrew!' she cried impulsively, before he had time to continue, which she perceived he meant to do, as if it did not matter.
And he took her full meaning, quite as he had been used in the old times to discourse upon a half-sentence. 'I am afraid I am that, rather,' he said, reflectively. 'But then Clarice and I could hardly have weathered scandal except by making ourselves particularly agreeable to everybody. And somehow I got into the habit of making people laugh. It isn't very difficult. I am rather an adept at telling stories which just graze impropriety, for instance. You know, they call me the social triumph of my generation. And people are glad to see me because I am 'so awfully funny' and 'simply killing' and so on. And I suppose it tells in the long run—like the dyer's hand, you know.'
'It does tell.' Anne was thinking it would always tell. And that, too, would be John Charteris's handiwork.
Ensued a silence. Rudolph Musgrave was painstakingly intent upon his cigarette. A nestward-plunging bird called to his mate impatiently. Then Anne shook her head impatiently.
'Come, while I'm thinking, I will drive you back to Lichfield.'
'Oh, no; that wouldn't do at all,' he said, with absolute decision. 'No, you see I have to return the boy. And I can't quite imagine your carriage waiting at the doors of 'that Mrs. Pendomer.''
'Oh,' Anne fleetingly thought, '
She said this with an inhalation of the breath; but she did not look at him.
'Take care!' he said, with an unreasonable harshness. 'For I forewarn you I am imagining vain things.'
'I'm not afraid, somehow.' But Anne did not look at him.
He saw as with a rending shock how like the widow of John Charteris was to Anne Willoughby; and unforgotten pulses, very strange and irrational and dear, perplexed him sorely. He debated, and flung aside the cigarette as an out-moded detail of his hobbling part.
'You say I did a noble thing for you. I tried to. But quixotism has its price. To-day I am not quite the man who did that thing. John Charteris has set his imprint too deep upon us. We served his pleasure. We are not any longer the boy and girl who loved each other.'
She waited in the rising twilight with a yet averted face. The world was motionless, ineffably expectant, as it seemed to him. And the disposition of all worldly affairs, the man dimly knew, was very anciently prearranged by an illimitable and, upon the whole, a kindly wisdom.
So that, 'My dear, my dear!' he swiftly said: 'I don't think I can word just what my feeling is for you. Always my view of the world has been that you existed, and that some other people existed—as accessories—'
Then he was silent for a heart-beat, appraising her. His hands lifted toward her and fell within the moment, as if it were in impotence.
Anne spoke at last, and the sweet voice of her was very glad and proud and confident.
'My friend, remember that I have not thanked you. You have done the most foolish and—the manliest thing I ever knew a man to do, just for my sake. And I have accepted it as if it were a matter of course. And I shall always do so. Because it was your right to do this very brave and foolish thing for me. I know you joyed in doing it. Rudolph … you cannot understand how glad I am you joyed in doing it.'
Their eyes met. It is not possible to tell you all they were aware of through that moment, because it is a knowledge so rarely apprehended, and even then for such a little while, that no man who has sensed it can remember afterward aught save the splendor and perfection of it.
And yet Anne looked back once. There was just the tall, stark shaft, and on it 'John Charteris.' The thing was ominous and vast, all colored like wet gravel, save where the sunlight tipped it with clean silver very high above their reach.
'Come,' she quickly said to Rudolph Musgrave; 'come, for I am afraid.'
VI
And are we then to leave them with glad faces turned to that new day wherein, above the ashes of old errors and follies and mischances and miseries, they were to raise the structure of such a happiness as earth rarely witnesses? Would it not be, instead, a grateful task more fully to depicture how Rudolph Musgrave's love of Anne won finally to its reward, and these two shared the evening of their lives in tranquil service of unswerving love come to its own at last?
Undoubtedly, since the espousal of one's first love—by oneself—is a phenomenon rarely encountered outside of popular fiction, it would be a very gratifying task to record that Anne and Rudolph Musgrave were married that autumn; that subsequently Lichfield was astounded by the fervor of their life-long bliss; that Colonel and (the second) Mrs. Musgrave were universally respected, in a word, and their dinner-parties were always prominently
