XI

           AsGlennard,intherawFebruarysunlight,mountedtheroadtothecemetery,hefeltthebeatitudethatcomeswithanabruptcessationofphysicalpain.Hehadreachedthepointwhereself-analysisceases;theimpulsethatmovedhimwaspurelyintuitive.Hedidnotevenseekareasonforit,beyondtheobviousonethathisdesiretostandbyMargaretAubyn’sgravewaspromptedbynoattemptatasentimentalreparation,butratherbythevagueneedtoaffirminsomewaytherealityofthetiebetweenthem.

           TheironicalpromiscuityofdeathhadbroughtMrs.Aubynbacktosharethenarrowhospitalityofherhusband’slastlodging;butthoughGlennardknewshehadbeenburiednearNewYorkhehadnevervisitedhergrave.Hewasoppressed,ashenowthreadedthelongavenues,byachillingvisionofherreturn.Therewasnofamilytofollowherhearse;shehaddiedalone,asshehadlived;andthe“distinguishedmourners”whohadformedtheescortofthefamouswriterknewnothingofthewomantheywerecommittingtothegrave.Glennardcouldnotevenrememberatwhatseasonshehadbeenburied;buthismoodindulgedthefancythatitmusthavebeenonsomesuchdayofharshsunlight,theincisiveFebruarybrightnessthatgivesperspicuitywithoutwarmth.Thewhiteavenuesstretchedbeforehiminterminably,linedwithstereotypedemblemsofaffliction,asthoughalltheplatitudeseverutteredhadbeenturnedtomarbleandsetupovertheunresistingdead.