LEISURE TO REPENT

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 208, 3 September 1938, Page 13 (Supplement)

LEISURE TO REPENT

ByUrsula Parrott

erial Story

SYNOPSIS.

Wealthy Gilbert Wlndon loved and married beautiful Denis® Rendaie, who really loved and was loved by playboy Keith Sheldie, with whom she was piqued for his unwillingness to wed her ihrough fear of disinheritance, W.th s;x months of their prearranged year of marriage over, (pent in wanderings m Europe, Denise is prostrated by news that Keith and her sister, Felicia, who is married to rich Eustace Dayne, were seriously injured in a car smash when leaving a hotel where the* had spent three days together. Gilbert makes a business trip, alone, to F * Uc 'a leaves her nusband tjstace to join Denise in Sussex, and requests her sister's aid in bringing fl,t=„. reC ' J! L era *-' n9 Keith •"<»• the and hi * *«ther become m»? ? Eustace goes to Me* Mex co to tans up a horse-training ion ,or a new-rich gangster, holidaying in Europe and the East. Eustace and Keiih meet and part without farewells. I -il'i\ 9<^ S s H SEex : Gilbert returns | conndent of Denise's affection, is met by an inwardly raging Felicia—finds pemse in the garden, Keith's head in her lap. Tenseness in-the air; stiff Felicia's ,1 ets and oology to Denise then Gilbert proclaims mysterious bad news from the telephone. The MB% n t„ sw, . tch «* abruptly to New Mexico, wncre Eustace works and thinks among*t his horses. CHAPTER XVII. rEN the blazing sunset died, when the silver dawn came up, he took Dark Lad riding every evening, every early morning. A small flock of days went by, one like another. His foreman came riding in one afternoon, with the mail and some Eastern newspapers. "You know, our boss is a racketeer, like me and the boys thought. Look:" The newspaper account was that the owner of the ranch had been arrested on his return from Europe, and was to he tried for non-payment of income-tax. There followed an account of his various "interests." When Eustace saw a line about u an organisation of bookmakers which he is supposed to he knew where" those fine horses came from. Some poor devil that he'd fleeced of his last cent had to give him his string of horses too. Probably it had been one of his concepts of grandeur to send racehorses West for his friends to ride when he should have time to entertain on his new ranch. The foreman said, shrewdly: "Suppose when the boss gets through paying his lawyers, he'll have lost this place, and well be looking for jobs." "Suppose so," said Eustace. Well, he would manage to keep Dark Lad somehow." He was growing a little careless about the places he took that horse, who had been bred for racing. Actually, he was philosophical about it. As he himself seemed to have come to a dead end in a place' remote from all of his life as he'd planned it, so had Dark Lad. They would have to make , the attempt together. From Feßefei he had no word, nor from his people. W hen grief for her tore at Idm, and danger and despair, he mounted and galloped cross-country, witfe the horse under him as wild as himself. There was a curving trail, halfway irp a hillside, with a vista of moun' tails and mountains piled beyond, and below, « sharp drop to a canyon always misty in. the dawn or in the gathering dark when he rode there. The slope upward was very easy. Dark Lad whinnied with delight when he raced up to it. And sometimes Eustace said to him» "Not bad, is it? Travel it fast enough, and youll leave behind all vour possible regrets for smooth green turf, and jockeys and silks, and the crowds applauding."

Rode to 2'*js at Ml And when fie rode fast enough, he could sometimes, ride. beyond memory of Her warm lips, , her flaming-hair. So one morning he rode in a elear after a brief desert storm, up that path with the great" mountains beyond, and a mist in the canyon below bun. Where the path curved, the storm had loosened a foot or two of bank, on the canyon's edge. They raine fart, the tall blonde man, the great black horse, the cool dawn wind * blowing them, stirring the mists m the f* W There was an instant when Dark Lads hoofs clutched at moving eartt. A* instant long enough, surely, for a ma£ who h# only loved one woman in °is iTfl to remember h*r face, perhap. even to remember that some. one, f*r away, had promised to take care ofher. Then man and horse went over, down through In* found them later. » waa elear that instantly against the rock* at the bottom Eustace homethe mail had arrived. to* a Jitter that said "Return to Gilbert' Wind, with a New York addre**. After some hesitation the foreman decided to open * He read a great many papers. He was quit® familiarwrthtbe rtory of Eustace Dayne, h» vnf* Felicia, owl a man named Keith Sheldie, though he had always been too polite to ten Eustace that he knew tte etopr. An he even remembered that Gilbert W was the brother-in-law. The letter offered Eustace work in Vancouver and gave an address in fcuaaex, England, -which of course you know, since Felicia's with us," as "the best place to write. _ -I shall be there with Demse another month." . The foreman had neve* made a longdistance call in his life, much Icm a transatlantic call. But he knew there was a transatlantic telephone. It seemed to him that Gilbert Wind on was the best pern on to reach to tell Mr. Daynes P°or wife. She would be grieved now, for all her folly! . ' . Be got Mr- Windon on the telephone by one o'clock, which was nine- o'clock inthe evening in England. * ...... Always afterward Denisp l was to remember that drawing room, the dresses of herself and Felicia, tha light on Fefieia's hair, her face, utterlp immobile, Gilbert's face, grave —and a liltle puzzled, like the face of one confrontiug an incredible and stupid accident. : She remembered the order oftbe things they did; that Felicia seated herself on a low green sofa by a coffee tableland that she sat very erect, her hands light against the chair arms, that, the ruffled skirt of her ]Ale yellow'organdie frock spread like a fan. " ' Then, after a little hesitation *pd a glance at Gilbert, she hereelf down in « small chair facing Felicia diagonallyThat Gilbert strode up and down the room once. When she looked up shesaw ■ihat Keith had followed them, was standing in the dorway, his scarred,

handsome face faintly ironic, as if there were something entertaining in the fact that they had forgotten him. Then the butler came in with coffee. E\er afterwards it was as if those moments did not recede as other moments, but remained a small complete interval frozen in time, between evervthing that had gone before in life and everything that could happen after. A \ery short interval it was. between the inyta'nt w:;en Fe:icia sat down and the moment wnen the butler brouaht in their c-off-e. Gilbert spoke to Felicia. ''That telephone call was about Eustace/' He stopped. She moved one of her long hands slightly, forward and back, along the chair arm. The fingers of that^hand tightened, loosened again. She said, in a shadow of her vivid voice: ' You want to tell me that Eustace is dead." Denise said. "No. no. no!'' and was silent, watching Gilbert's lips start to frame w..r<ls, '"Yes, Felicia."

"He killed himself!" Felicia's voire was shaking then. "It is not at all certain. It is possible. He and his horse plunged into a canon from a high path on the edge." He paused again. But Felicia told him: "Go oil. Tell , JUfi aII the rest." Denise made some small sound of protest, leaned toward her sister, -who said. "Quite all right, thank you, Denise," in a tone that stopped any gesture of symapthy she might have made. She said again hut louder; "Tell me the rest." He told her. "The job he'd found was about finished. His people never communicated with him m far as any one j knows. The letter I -wrote him arrived —afterward. He had taken that path very often, and was familiar with it. On the other hand, there had been a storm, and the path was softer and more slippfery than usual." His tone changed suddenly. "Denise, pour Felicia some black coffee, and brandy, if there is any on the tray." ■Like an " automaton, Penisfc poured coffee, poured a liqueur glass of oognac. Keith moved quickly, took the glass and cup from her, brought them to Felicia. Felicia drank the coffee, set the cup down, drank the brandy, set the glass down, folded her hands and looked at Keith. "It leaves me rather on your hands, doesn't it His voice matched hers in matter-of-factness. "I don't object." Denise spoke furiously,. m Gilbert had never heard her speak, except on that night months past, when he had prevented her sailing to those two.

Stop it, Felicia- You too, Keith! Stop pretending." They looked at her then, and so did her husband-s-Stop pretending that yon are so modem you must be flippant even about death. Have the grace of tears, at least, though they're pretended too. I have lo\ ed you both. I have loved von. Keith, so much that remembrance of daughter between us, and dance music we shared and the feelnjg of your arm about my waist, has seemed more to be cherished than my husband, who's worth ten of you. I've loved you, Felicia, enough to believe that you were sure where I was uncertain, wise where I was stupid, daring where I was a coward. Not any more." She causht her breath. Felicia said evenly: "You are beine a little hysterical. Afterward vou'll lee! rather silly. Don't you think that you'd better go to your room, or out in to the fresh air 5" But Denise rushed on as if she had not heard her: "A man who was named Eustace Gardiner Dayne is dead. Eustace! I was maid of honour at your wedding to him. though y >u thought 1 was too vouncr. Eustace said: "Let the child dress up. arid march up the aisle and stand in the receiving line. She'll enjoy it so.'" "He was my brother-in-law, of whom I was fond. Absurd, vague word. fond.

He was not specially clever or witty; he was just old-fashioned and simple and honourable. Now he's dead." "I can't stand this," Felicia said. She rose and caught Keith's arm. "Run away from it, then, both of you, as you've been running away from everything all our lives! If you sflkv in this room you'll have to listen." They stood immobile then; and Gilbert, for an instant, thought of interrupting. Then he did not. This way or another,

Deaise had to stumble into reality at ] last. If she spoke her thoughts, to her and to him who had been so dreadfully important to her, she would know her thoughts afterward. He had been furious with her that day. had considered that scene in the garden — trivial it seemed now—outrageous in i:s imi'iK-at'oa;. Ever since, until live te?;*;>hone rang, he had said to himself furiously: "She might have the taste to remain loyal to me in my own establishment. in sight of my own servants, at lea-t."' But all that suddenly did no: matter. Nor did he care about the effects of her words on her sister and Keith Sheldie. He suddenly judged them himself. One way or another, they had killed a dec-ent man l*tween them. And he knew they would survive even that, would buttress themselves with light words, with pretence that nothing had happened, until they could almost disbelieve that this hour had been. So they could survive anything his young wife, on her desperate way to learning her own soul, would say to them. She was saying now: '"Eustace dead — I nothing either of you two do will hurt any more. He's free and I expect he's i glad. I expect it was the only thing you lett him to be glad about."' Keith said: "Will you stop. Denise! It doesn't matter what you say to me; but for Felicia's sake— She answered that steadily: '"'lt doesn't matter what I say to either of you ever again. You say 'for Felicia's sake' now. You would not have thought of Felicia five minutes any time these last weeks that I chose to show you you could have me. whom you wanted first. I came near showing you, because my old love for you made me blind—blind to the important things, that you are nothing, and have nothing for me but my own old stupid belief in you." Felicia said to Keith softly: "Shall "we go now, my dear?" "Xo; let "her finish.™ "For that matter," Denise said. "Felicia wouldn't have thought of you five minutes, either, if any specially attractive young Britisher had turned up who didn't happen to know about the scandal in which she was involved. . . . You will suit each other very well, Keith and Felicia, better than any two people I know."

"Nice of you, my dear," her sister said. Denise Who Found Herself Denise's "words began to stumble a little. '"Maybe you were not always as you are now, either of you. Maybe years of thinking first what you would get out of anything you did, and behaving as if life were just a candy box, and you were children choosing the best pieces greedily—made you as you are. You always did just what you wanted." "Put that on our epitaphs then, and excuse us now, Denise. Will you excuse us. too. Gilbert! Must say you don't have much control of your wife." Gilbert- did not answer that, because he saw that tears were streaming down Denise's pretty cheeks. And he saw her sister, seeing those tears, stop on her way out of the room beside Keith. Felicia said: "Now I'm curious enough to say. Why are you weeping, Denise? If I don't, I shall always wonder." 'Tin weeping because I used to love you both, and never shall any more." Gilbert saw something move in Keith's face at those quiet words. Bat Felicia, still mocking, said: "I hope the consciousness of virtue will suffice you, my dear. You'll have missed a lot, never* doing what you wanted. Are you sure the reason, these last weeks, was not just that you did not dare?" All the anger was gone from Denise now. She answered, patiently, as if she were speaking to a child who asked unimportant questions: "You both made me sufficiently like yourselves so that I dared; but not sufficientlv like yourselves so that I could reallv convince myself that to be dishonest was to be superior." There was silence, after she said that. Gilbert thought: "Too merciless, that, because she's reacting too sharply. When she's a little older, she'll be tolerant again, but wisely tolerant, not just tolerant out of her qwn uncertainties." "When she's a little older—" He thought those words, and the years for him and Denise stretched out ahead, rich years of companionship, of love, of sureness of each other. Triumph surged over him; then a kind of grief for that poor devil for whom it was all ended on the rocks at the

foot of * canyon,—cren grief for his lovely wife, who would never be able to break through her own veneer to face herself again.—stopped his triumph. "Have you finished with us yet. Denise ?" Keith asked. TT?« drawn face was looking 10 years older. Gilbert knew too well how he was feeling. He had come sufficiently near losing Denise himself. Jio use to prolong itHe moved, put his arm round his wife s slim waist, and said: "Say good night now, Denise dear." Her blue eyes with their wet thick | lashes, turned to him. "Whatever yon j want. Gilbert, always, after this But j ! let me finish now what I have begun i I don't want to say good night to you. ■Felicia, or you Keith. I want to "say - gin *jbye. Xot because Fib razing with I you now. That went past quickly, j "But we haven't anything to "sav to J one another. We shall all live throueh j this dreadful hour. In a long time we i -hall be all more or less ai" we were ! before. I suppose, though now that seems j incredible to me. After that long time, perhaps I can remember that you were my dear sister Felicia, and Keith sons? one with whom I was young and happv long ago. Yet —if you don't go awav. now. to-night—l can't—l can't— ~ Keith helped her. "You can't beein to go on with your own life, in which we shall have no part. Well, Feli-ia. 1 will you drive me to London in the roadster ?*' She looked from face to face. She smiled at Keith. "At once, my dear/ She went out of the room, her hgud mi his arm. Felicia Who Also is Found But on the dark London road driving steadily northward, Felicia thought not of him at all but of Eustace, for whom she would never outwardly grieve, because she had no right, having done what she had done. She thought of the silliest things—the click, clack of Eustace's riding boots in the hall outside her doorwav, that sound which, had grown familiar through the thousand mornings of her married life. Sound which had made her so impatient, though she could not remember why—except that she thought it would go on forever and ever click, clack in her life It would not go on forever. Now that he was dead, his family would take charge, would bury Eustace Gardiner Dayne, and put nothing on his tombstone that would tell that he had ever preferred & red-haired wife and given her undemanding loyalty rather than take all they could give him but details of his death, ft would be just "a riding accident" in the Philadelphia papers, made to sound as respectable as if it happened at Old Westbury or Meadowbrook. They would never tell his wife any details. She wept for Eustace then, in the darkness of the road. Beside her Keith pretended not to notice the tears, but said: "TO drive for you Felicia, if you're tired." She stopped. They changed seats, and went on again in silence, while he thought of how far those tears had brought him back. ... He did then the bravest thing in his life. He said to Felicia in a voice warm as —as it could have been if he had been telling the truth to Denise: "You must be always sure, because it's so, that it's you I love." She leaned against h» shoulder then, just lightly. He thought: "When we get to London, I must convince father of the same thing!!*

And keep Felicia sure, an the long years, which 'would be harder! '•Promise jne you'll take ear® of Felicia!" Yes, he could keep that promise now. There was nothing else left. Eustace by dying had made so many people safe besides Felicia! When Felicia and Keith went out of that drawing room, it seemed to Gilbert that several things had to be done about them, but be extremely resented the necessity. There stood Denise, and there had arrived a moment for which he had waited months that seemed, in retrospect, endless. And yet—one glance at her white face warned him that if he snatched at the moment, he could lose it stilL He said gently: "Go upstairs, Denise. 11l conje up later to see you." And he went on with the practical details of sending a maid to help Felicia pack, and a man to Keith, of ordering the roadster to be filled with gasoline. Keith came downstairs first. Gilbert offered him a highball and cigarettes, asking him if be mould like to hare a cheque cashed. Keith said no to the cheque res to the highball and cigarette. He and Gilbert seemed about equally eager to avoid any significant coarersation— until they" both saw Felicia, Classed for travelling, at the top of the staircase. Then Keith said quickly: "I'm taking her to Dorchester House. My father's there. You can reach us through him in case her parents—" Gilbert said: "Thanks." He was glad to know. He'd forgotten that he yet had to give them a summary of this evening. That wouldn't be pleasant. Brightly, Felicia said, "Well, Gilbert! Nice to have seen you," in the precise tones of someone leaving a house where she'd had tea. She held out her hand. He had never felt more inadequate in his life; and vet, except for her, Denise probably would not be waiting for him now. Ho managed: "Let me know if there's anything we can do, Felicia." She said, "Thank you," with no meaning in the words. And he went out to the car with them. When they were gone, he stood staring after them. Out of his life at last, the woman he so com pletely distrusted, and the , man to whom Denise had given first love—that emotion so fragile, lovely and perhaps altogether inconsequential when it has ended. He heard car wheel* moving up the drive. His parents-in-law! He must he careful in telling them. He took a long time about it. His own presence, supposedly a day early, had to be explained first. He told them the truth about that, and then went on to the rest, finally keeping back nothing that he knew of Euatace'e death, because their quiet, grieved face® demanded honesty at least. Afteruar's h»- rej-.ised that in the telling he had lat therm know more about his mtrrinse

they had ever known, though he ; had not mentioned Denise and Keith in j the srarden at the moment of his arrival home. When he had finished, he saw nothing but liking for himself, and trust, in their fa-:-es: and by his gratitude, knew how io&ely he been this long time. * _ j "111 go to Denise," her mother said. _ j Gilbert was surprised at his relief. l Xo. he did not want to tee his wife now. He had waited so long, he could wait a little while still, if she would onlv tell him, when the waiting was done, that she wanted to live her. life with him. ... j He slept that night the drowned of exhaustion, and woke late, to a bright morning. When he was dressed, he knocked on Denise's door. She was having breakfast in bed, her bright hair tumbled, her eyas sleepy, as he had seen her many times. She thought of that, too. She said: "This is like Russia- Gilbert- Where shall we go sightseeing to-day?" "On the downs, to walk 10 miles." They walked a long way, speakin* to each other of some bit of scenery, of the sheep-dogs watching their flocks, of nothing beyond the moment, the sunlight upon tbrt. the salt air against their cheeks. They lunched in a fold in the downs, by a dew pond, a mood upon them such as they'd known before. When they came near home, tke shadows were long across the downs, and that steady fresh breere was rising, when her footsteps lagged. He asked: "Tired, Denise?" "Xot really. I could walk on forever in this breeze blowing. It blows away so many things. Old foolish intensities and bitterness." "What does it leave?" "The feeling of being glad to be alive. Poor Eustace!" "I don't think he would have wanted life much without Felicia." And he thought: "As I shouldn't care about the sun and the clear wind without you." She stretched her thin young arms out to the sky, the sea, the blue downs. "Good-bye, Eustace, whom I liked very much! Good-bye, Keith and Felicia, whom I loved, and all the yesterdays happy and unhappy when I knew you." A gesture, a speech, extravagant, young, tender, a little wistful. Gilbert waited, breathless. She walked on ahead, then turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. "Denise." Gilbert said after a moment, "you said once that you wanted to know what vou wanted." "Yes, Gilbert," "Do you know?" "Yes, Gilbert." She was laughing nojr. "Tell me." She still walked a little ahead of Mm. Her laughter rippled back softly. "It will take a long time to tell you." But she stopped then, and looked up at him, her eyes grave. He looked at her without touching her. "Do we have a long time, Denise?" She repeated his words—"A long time. All the years. To be busy, even to be

a little useful if possible, and always to love each other." She held up her face altogether serene for his kiss. In the instant his arms tightened round her shoulder, she remembered, far away, some one younger who had said, after a minute that might have been like this and never was: "End of Denise Ben-dale and Keith SheMie.* 5 That minnte that never was. went far, far beyond remembrance down the clear wind, when Gilbert kissed her now. So she never quite knew, any more t>»»ri Gilbert did. way the first thing she said afterward was: '"This is the beginning, really, of Denise and Gilbert WLndon.~ They were sometime secure in that beginning by their first wedding anniversary. They were back in Xew York, furnishing their house. "A house." she'd j said. *~not a penthouse. I don't know exactly way."

Because F«Sdi and Keith were & insr in Maryland. she never saw them, and ««b seldom reminded of them. So she did not remember FeScia saving: ""Why does anyone want a house, whei a penthouse is so much easier?" She just thought: *1 want a hoc* A house is mnch more fun for children.* On the morning of her wedding anni versary her husband waked her by say ing: darling—we've been married a year now—the trial year yoc wanted. And I suppose we did marry i* relative haste, so you've had youi leisure to repent. Tell me, have yoa repented ?** Why on earth was Gilbert wakin| her to talk about repentence? Sleepily replied: "IVarest, deai^ est —many happy returns; only that 1 ! for birthdays, isn't it?" Then she waked rally, •understood what he had said, and laughed and laughed. (The End)