"As one imprisoned that hath lain alone
And dreamed of sunlight where no vagrant gleam
Of sunlight pierces, being freed, must deem
This too but dreaming, and must dread the sun
Whose glory dazzles,--even as such-an-one
Am I whose longing was but now supreme
For this high hour, and, now it strikes, esteem
I do but dream long dreamed-of goals are won.
"Phyllis, I am not worthy of thy love.
I pray thee let no kindly word be said
Of me at all, for in the train thereof,
Whenas yet-parted lips, sigh-visited,
End speech and wait, mine when I will to move,
Such joy awakens that I grow afraid."
THOMAS ROWLAND. _Triumphs of Phyllis_.
I
They passed with incredible celerity, those next ten days--those
strange, delicious, topsy-turvy days. To Rudolph Musgrave it seemed
afterward that he had dreamed them away in some vague Lotus Land--in a
delectable country where, he remembered, there were always purple eyes
that mocked you, and red lips that coaxed you now, and now cast gibes at
you.
You felt, for the most part of your stay in this country, flushed and
hot and uncomfortable and unbelievably awkward, and you were mercilessly
bedeviled there; but not for all the accumulated wealth of Samarkand and
Ind and Ophir would you have had it otherwise. Ah, no, not otherwise in
the least trifle. For now uplifted to a rosy zone of acquiescence, you
partook incuriously at table of nectar and ambrosia, and noted abroad,
without any surprise, that you trod upon a more verdant grass than
usual, and that someone had polished up the sun a bit; and, in fine, you
snatched a fearful joy from the performance of the most trivial
functions of life.
Yet always he remembered that it could not last; always he remembered
that in the autumn Patricia was to marry Lord Pevensey. She sometimes
gave him letters to mail which were addressed to that nobleman. He
wondered savagely what was in them; he posted them with a vicious shove;
and, for the time, they caused him acute twinges of misery. But not for
long; no, for, in sober earnest, if some fantastic sequence of events
had made his one chance of winning Patricia Stapylton dependent on his
spending a miserable half-hour in her company, Rudolph Musgrave could
not have done it.
As for Miss Stapylton, she appeared to delight in the cloistered,
easy-going life of Lichfield. The quaint and beautiful old town fell
short in nothing of her expectations, in spite of the fact that she had
previously read John Charteris's tales of Lichfield,--"those effusions
which" (if the _Lichfield Courier-Herald_ is to be trusted) "have
builded, by the strength and witchery of record and rhyme, romance and
poem, a myriad-windowed temple in Lichfield's honor--exquisite,
luminous, and enduring--for all the world to see."
Miss Stapylton appeared to delight in the cloistered easy-going life of
Lichfield,--that town which was once, as the outside world has
half-forgotten now, the center of America's wealth, politics and
culture, the town to which Europeans compiling "impressions" of America
devoted one of their longest chapters in the heyday of Elijah Pogram and
Jefferson Brick. But the War between the States has changed all that,
and Lichfield endures to-day only as a pleasant backwater.
Very pleasant, too, it was in the days of Patricia's advent. There were
strikingly few young men about, to be sure; most of them on reaching
maturity had settled in more bustling regions. But many maidens remained
whom memory delights to catalogue,--tall, brilliant Lizzie Allardyce,
the lovely and cattish Marian Winwood, to whom Felix Kennaston wrote
those wonderful love-letters which she published when he married
Kathleen Saumarez, the rich Baugh heiresses from Georgia, the Pride
twins, and Mattie Ferneyhaugh, whom even rival beauties loved, they say,
and other damsels by the score,--all in due time to be wooed and won,
and then to pass out of the old town's life.
Among the men of Rudolph Musgrave's generation--those gallant oldsters
who were born and bred, and meant to die, in Lichfield,--Patricia did
not lack for admirers. Tom May was one of them, of course; rarely a
pretty face escaped the tribute of at least one proposal from Tom May.
Then there was Roderick Taunton, he with the leonine mane, who spared
her none of his forensic eloquence, but found Patricia less tractable
than the most stubborn of juries. Bluff Walter Thurman, too, who was
said to know more of Dickens, whist and criminal law than any other man
living, came to worship at her shrine, as likewise did huge red-faced
Ashby Bland, famed for that cavalry charge which history-books tell you
that he led, and at which he actually was not present, for reasons all
Lichfield knew and chuckled over. And Courtney Thorpe and Charles
Maupin, doctors of the flesh and the spirit severally, were others among
the rivals who gathered about Patricia at decorous festivals when,
candles lighted, the butler and his underlings came with trays of
delectable things to eat, and the "nests" of tables were set out, and
pleasant chatter abounded.
And among Patricia's attendants Colonel Musgrave, it is needless to
relate, was preëminently pertinacious. The two found a deal to talk
about, somehow, though it is doubtful if many of their comments were of
sufficient importance or novelty to merit record. Then, also, he often
read aloud to her from lovely books, for the colonel read admirably and
did not scruple to give emotional passages their value. _Trilby_,
published the preceding spring in book form, was one of these books, for
all this was at a very remote period; and the _Rubaiyat_ was another,
for that poem was as yet unhackneyed and hardly wellknown enough to be
parodied in those happy days.
Once he read to her that wonderful sad tale of Hans Christian Andersen's
which treats of the china chimney-sweep and the shepherdess, who eloped
from their bedizened tiny parlor-table, and were frightened by the
vastness of the world outside, and crept ignominiously back to their fit
home. "And so," the colonel ended, "the little china people remained
together, and were thankful for the rivet in grandfather's neck, and
continued to love each other until they were broken to pieces."
"It was really a very lucky thing," Patricia estimated, "that the
grandfather had a rivet in his neck and couldn't nod to the
billy-goat-legged person to take the shepherdess away into his cupboard.
I don't doubt the little china people were glad of it. But after
climbing so far--and seeing the stars,--I think they ought to have had
more to be glad for." Her voice was quaintly wistful.
"I will let you into a secret--er--Patricia. That rivet was made out of
the strongest material in the whole universe. And the old grandfather
was glad, at bottom, he had it in his neck so that he couldn't nod and
separate the shepherdess from the chimney-sweep."
"Yes,--I guess he had been rather a rip among the bric-à-brac in his day
and sympathized with them?"
"No, it wasn't just that. You see these little china people had forsaken
their orderly comfortable world on the parlor table to climb very high.
It was a brave thing to do, even though they faltered and came back
after a while. It is what we all want to do, Patricia--to climb toward
the stars,--even those of us who are too lazy or too cowardly to attempt
it. And when others try it, we are envious and a little uncomfortable,
and we probably scoff; but we can't help admiring, and there is a rivet
in the neck of all of us which prevents us from interfering. Oh, yes,
we little china people have a variety of rivets, thank God, to prevent
too frequent nodding and too cowardly a compromise with
baseness,--rivets that are a part of us and force us into flashes of
upright living, almost in spite of ourselves, when duty and inclination
grapple. There is always the thing one cannot do for the reason that one
is constituted as one is. That, I take it, is the real rivet in
grandfather's neck and everybody else's."
He spoke disjointedly, vaguely, but the girl nodded. "I think I
understand, Olaf. Only, it is a two-edged rivet--to mix metaphors--and
keeps us stiffnecked against all sorts of calls. No, I am not sure that
the thing one cannot do because one is what one is, proves to be always
a cause for international jubilations and fireworks on the lawn."