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Updated: June 12, 2025
To have been his wife was her one claim on estimation. And, for the rest, it is inadequate to love the memory of a martyr. Worship is demanded; and so the wife became the priestess. Into Colonel Musgrave's mental processes during this period it will not do to pry too closely.
For religion, as the colonel would have told you sedately, was not a thing to be reasoned about. Attempting to do that, you became in Rudolph Musgrave's honest eyes regrettably flippant. Meanwhile Cousin Lucy Fentnor was taking care of the colonel and little Roger.
His headquarters, he said, were at Barnet, since tanning and leather-dressing, necessary to his work, though a separate guild, literally stank in the nostrils of the citizens of London. To these were added Sir Giles Musgrave's twenty archers, making a very fair troop, wherewith to proceed, and the Prioress decided on not going to York.
But he was regarding her half in wonder and one-half in worship. She, too, was silent. Presently she nodded. He kissed her as one does a very holy relic. It was a moment to look back upon always. There was no period in Rudolph Musgrave's life when he could not look back upon this instant and exult because it had been his.
And then she fell to reckoning how old the boys would be now and how big, until suddenly she caught herself laughing through tears at that cruel pang of her own when, after submitting to be the victim of Harry Musgrave's electrical experiments, he had neglected to reward her with the anticipated kiss. "I wonder whether he remembers? girls remember such silly things."
There are times when the very fact of suffering actively keeps people alive. It was that with her." He spoke briefly, almost harshly, and immediately turned from the subject. "I suppose you were very anxious about your cousin?" "Poor Blake Grange? Of course I was. But I was anxious horribly anxious about you all." There was a quiver of deep feeling in Mrs. Musgrave's voice.
No one came to see her from the Forest after that rash escapade of Harry Musgrave's. Her eighteenth birthday passed, and she was still kept at school both in school-time and holidays. Madame Fournier, the genial canon, the kind curé, a few English acquaintances at Caen, a few French acquaintances at Bayeux, were very good to her. Especially she liked her visits to the canon's house in summer.
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.
Two Kaffirs were killed; and when the proprietor himself was extricated from the debris of blue clay which held him down, he was found to have a broken arm, besides other serious injuries. "Don't let on to her," he managed to gasp out to his rescuers, wishing to spare Miss Musgrave's nerves a shock.
Is it possible that he has already some faint and shadowy suspicion of the truth some vague conjecture concerning it, as something in his manner seems to say? But no! it is absolutely impossible! Who, with the best will in the world, could have told him? Is not the tale safely buried in the deep grave of Musgrave's and my two hearts? I raise my head, and twice essay to speak. Twice I stop, choked.
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