Colonel Musgrave was, in a decorous fashion, the happiest of living
persons....
As a token of this he devoted what little ready money he possessed to
renovating Matocton, where he had not lived for twenty years. He rarely
thought of money, not esteeming it an altogether suitable subject for a
gentleman's meditations. And to do him justice, the reflection that old
Stapylton's wealth would some day be at Rudolph Musgrave's disposal was
never more than an agreeable minor feature of Patricia's entourage
whenever, as was very often, Colonel Musgrave fell to thinking of how
adorable Patricia was in every particular.
Yet there were times when he thought of Anne Charteris as well. He had
not seen her for a whole year now, for the Charterises had left
Lichfield shortly after the Pendomer divorce case had been settled, and
were still in Europe.
This was the evening during which Roger Stapylton had favorably received
his declaration; and Colonel Musgrave was remembering the time that he
and Anne had last spoken with a semblance of intimacy--that caustic
time when Anne Charteris had interrupted him in high words with her
husband, and circumstances had afforded to Rudolph Musgrave no choice
save to confess, to this too-perfect woman, of all created beings, his
"true relations" with Clarice Pendomer.
Even as yet the bitterness of that humiliation was not savorless....
It seemed to him that he could never bear to think of the night when
Anne had heard his stammerings through, and had merely listened, and in
listening had been unreasonably beautiful. So Godiva might have looked
on Peeping Tom, with more of wonder than of loathing, just at first....
It had been very hard to bear. But it seemed necessary. The truth would
have hurt Anne too much....
He noted with the gusto of a connoisseur how neatly the dénouement of
this piteous farce had been prepared. His rage with Charteris; Anne's
overhearing, and misinterpretation of, a dozen angry words; that old
affair with Clarice--immediately before her marriage (one of how many
pleasurable gallantries? the colonel idly wondered, and regretted that
he had no Leporello to keep them catalogued for consultation)--and
George Pendomer's long-smoldering jealousy of Rudolph Musgrave: all
fitted in as neatly as the bits of a puzzle.
It had been the simplest matter in the world to shield John Charteris.
Yet, the colonel wished he could be sure it was an unadulterated desire
of protecting Anne which had moved him. There had been very certainly an
enjoyment all the while in reflecting how nobly Rudolph Musgrave was
behaving for the sake of "the only woman he had ever loved." Yes, one
had undoubtedly phrased it thus--then, and until the time one met
Patricia.
But Anne was different, and in the nature of things must always be a
little different, from all other people--even Patricia Stapylton.
Always in reverie the colonel would come back to this,--that Anne could
not be thought of, quite, in the same frame of mind wherein one
appraised other persons. Especially must he concede this curious
circumstance whenever, as to-night, he considered divers matters that
had taken place quite long enough ago to have been forgotten.
It was a foolish sort of a reverie, and scarcely worth the setting down.
It was a reverie of the kind that everyone, and especially everyone's
wife, admits to be mawkish and unprofitable; and yet, somehow, the next
still summer night, or long sleepy Sunday afternoon, or, perhaps, some
cheap, jigging and heartbreaking melody, will set a carnival of old
loves and old faces awhirl in the brain. One grows very sad over it, of
course, and it becomes apparent that one has always been ill-treated by
the world; but the sadness is not unpleasant, and one is quite willing
to forgive.
Yes,--it was a long, long time ago. It must have been a great number of
centuries. Matocton was decked in its spring fripperies of burgeoning,
and the sky was a great, pale turquoise, and the buttercups left a
golden dust high up on one's trousers. One had not become entirely
accustomed to long trousers then, and one was rather proud of them. One
was lying on one's back in the woods, where the birds were astir and
eager to begin their house-building, and twittered hysterically over the
potentialities of straws and broken twigs.
Overhead, the swelling buds of trees were visible against the sky, and
the branches were like grotesque designs on a Japanese plate. There was
a little clump of moss, very cool and soft, that just brushed one's
cheek.
One was thinking--really thinking--for the first time in one's life;
and, curiously enough, one was thinking about a girl, although girls
were manifestly of no earthly importance.
But Anne Willoughby was different. Even at the age when girls seemed
feckless creatures, whose aimings were inexplicable, both as concerned
existence in general, and, more concretely, as touched gravel-shooters
and snowballs, and whose reasons for bursting into tears were recondite,
one had perceived the difference. One wondered about it from time to
time.
Gradually, there awoke an uneasy self-conscious interest as to all
matters that concerned her, a mental pricking up of the ears when her
name was mentioned.
One lay awake o' nights, wondering why her hair curled so curiously
about her temples, and held such queer glowing tints in its depths when
sunlight fell upon it. One was uncomfortable and embarrassed and
Briarean-handed in her presence, but with her absence came the
overwhelming desire of seeing her again.
After a little, it was quite understood that one was in love with Anne
Willoughby....
It was a matter of minor importance that her father was the wealthiest
man in Fairhaven, and that one's mother was poor. One would go away into
foreign lands after a while, and come back with a great deal of
money,--lakes of rupees and pieces of eight, probably. It was very
simple.
But Anne's father had taken an unreasonable view of the matter, and
carried Anne off to a terrible aunt, who returned one's letters
unopened. That was the end of Anne Willoughby.
Then, after an interval--during which one fell in and out of love
assiduously, and had upon the whole a pleasant time,--Anne Charteris had
come to Lichfield. One had found that time had merely added poise and
self-possession and a certain opulence to the beauty which had caused
one's voice to play fantastic tricks in conference with Anne
Willoughby,--ancient, unforgotten conferences, wherein one had pointed
out the many respects in which she differed from all other women, and
the perfect feasibility of marrying on nothing a year.
Much as one loved Patricia, and great as was one's happiness, men did
not love as boys did, after all....
"'Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,'" said Colonel Musgrave, in
his soul. "And now let's think of something sensible. Let's think about
the present political crisis, and what to give the groomsmen, and how
much six times seven is. Meanwhile, you are not the fellow in _Aux
Italiens_, you know; you are not bothered by the faint, sweet smell of
any foolish jasmine-flower, you understand, or by any equally foolish
hankerings after your lost youth. You are simply a commonplace,
every-day sort of man, not thoroughly hardened as yet to being engaged,
and you are feeling a bit pulled down to-night, because your liver or
something is out of sorts."
Upon reflection, Colonel Musgrave was quite sure that he was happy; and
that it was only his liver or something which was upset. But, at all
events, the colonel's besetting infirmity was always to shrink from
making changes; instinctively he balked against commission of any action
which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or
persons. It was very like Rudolph Musgrave that even now, for all the
glow of the future's bright allure, his heart should hark back to the
past and its absurd dear memories, with wistfulness.
And he found it, as many others have done, but cheerless sexton's work,
this digging up of boyish recollections. One by one, they come to
light--the brave hopes and dreams and aspirations of youth; the ruddy
life has gone out of them; they have shriveled into an alien, pathetic
dignity. They might have been one's great-grandfather's or Hannibal's or
Adam's; the boy whose life was swayed by them is quite as dead as these.
Amaryllis is dead, too. Perhaps, you drop in of an afternoon to talk
over old happenings. She is perfectly affable. She thinks it is time you
were married. She thinks it very becoming, the way you have stoutened.
And, no, they weren't at the Robinsons'; that was the night little
Amaryllis was threatened with croup.
Then, after a little, the lamps of welcome are lighted in her eyes, her
breath quickens, her cheeks mount crimson flags in honor of her lord,
her hero, her conqueror.
It is Mr. Grundy, who is happy to meet you, and hopes you will stay to
dinner. He patronizes you a trifle; his wife, you see, has told him all
about that boy who is as dead as Hannibal. You don't mind in the least;
you dine with Mr. and Mrs. Grundy, and pass a very pleasant evening.
Colonel Musgrave had dined often with the Charterises.