DEAR DEAD WOMEN

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue I, 5 July 1902, Page 6

DEAR DEAD WOMEN

by

Lady Arabella Romilly

PAST I. CYNTHIA. This is not a story of detail, or incident, it is merely the soul-jour-nal of part of my life —the story of mv life with two dear dead women. Dear Cynthia:—she was not quite voting. she had never been a brilliant woman of the world. She had been in. but not of. the world, but she was beautiful, with the white regular beauty of a statue. How well I remember our last evening together—after eight long years of intimate friendship — she knew she was dying, she had long known it. She was Iving on her sofa in her long gown of a mist-like grey, and her dark hair, closely wound round her head, accentuated the whiteness of her face. Her blue, sad eves looked at me tenderly: her slight white hands lay folded listlessly, as if the.' could never do any work again. I remember how she played with the violets at her side. She loved flowers; she loved all that was good am! pure and innocent. She knew little of evil, and what she knew she shuddered at. She had a horror of all that was material. as rhe ermine dreads a speck on its whiteness. Cynthia’s life was one of extreme lonelines. Since her husband had left her to join his regiment in India she had lived entirely in his little place in Scotland, with an old aunt to keep her company—a kind soul, who loved her. and who welcomed my visits as the only happiness of her life. When 1 came in that evening, she rose with a cry of welcome. "Oh. Lancelot, you have come! I did not think you would come so quickly.’ She was so weak, it was almost too much for her. I made her lie down again, and took her hand. "How could you doubt my coming, you sent for me?" I answered qui- tIv perhaps to.: quietly. She looked at me. tears w.re swimming in her "Lancelot. I feel much stronger sime you have come. I almost think I could walk one - round the garden I have not been off th- s fi for litr e days, and I wish to show yen the autumn flowers once again." Could yet; walk?" I said. "1.-t me push von in your chair." "No.” she answered. "I would rather walk. I don’t mind Iteing tired. I shall have svch a long rest soon nothing is too much for me now. ill i .ite same." ’. w rapped Iter long grey cloak ro .nd her how well 1 remember it fn-tened at the neck with a silver clasp, and falling hack from her slender wasted figure. I almost lifted her out of the door-window opening into the garden, and then she laid her head upon mv arm On.— < r twice she paused for breath, and t niched iter heart, as if she fell (tain there. She diil not speak much of herself and I did not ask her if she suffered Sometimes I have reproached myself much for saying so little. Why.'why do we not say more to the living when they are the living? When

they become the dead—too late—too late. Cynthia had an unquestioning faith. Even 1. her frit nd. to whom 1 had imparted all my doubts and perplexities, had not been able t<» shake her gentle faith, and to that faith she clung, and it carried her safely, if sadly, through life. That was a beautiful old garden where Cynthia and I walked that September evening. I had met her first in September, and it seemed to me as if her fate and mine were connected with that month. Beautiful old beeches, whose leaves were hardly turning colour, enclosed the trim Dutch garden. Through the high yew hedges were cut arch?d openings leading on and ever inl » winding paths and fountains upspringing. casting round them the sunset-tinted spray. Great beds of feathery chrysanthemums ami late sweet carnations were set about the garden and planted along the lower yew hedges, their brilliant colouring a relief to the sombreness of this old-world Cynthia led me to a seat within the yew hedge and close to a bed of violets and mignonette. A robin came boldly almost to 1 er feet, and then he flitted to a beech-tree branch above us and sang us his autumn song. Cynthia took off her hat and laid it on her knees, idly ;wining an ivy spiay round it. At last she -poke, in that clear voice which always suggests a spiritual nature in a woman.

“Lancelot. 1 like to tell you of my fancies. I want to have violets and forget-me-nots only planted by my grave. I may be forgotten by all the world, but not, I think, by you. I wish to be buried beside my little boys; I should like yon to have seen them. You came into my life when it was very desolate. You will never forget me. will you. Lancelot? she said, and she turned and looked at me wistfully. I held her hand eloser. I knew there were tears in my eyes. I knew life would be a teriible blank to me when 1 lost this woman’s love. 1 knew I should not strive to attain rhe good and the ideal when she left me; and yet. even then. I knew that there was another woman' who. if she held out her hand to me. would lay me at her feet. And I was not her lover, not even her friend, only one of her friends. Why did the vision of Veronica’s face eonte between us then?—a face not so classically beautiful as Cynthia’s. but with that I’ttle nameless bewitchment Cynthia’s had always lacked. And as the thought of Veronica’s face rose before me I hated her. and turned to Cynthia with a sort of remorseful passion f bad never felt before.

"Forget you. Cynthia? Forget you! Does a man so easily forget a wo man who has been all you have been to me for eight years?" "1 don’t know.” she said, softly "You often have told me I don’t understand men. A'on have other friends—one of them may take my place. Ob. promise me. promise me."

and both her hands clasped mine, "that you will never care for any woman again as you have cared for me. I am dying—l may dare to speak like this to you.’’ "Dear Cynthia, dearest friend,” I said, hardly less agitated than she "Oh. but promise. Sometimes 1 think 1 have wearied you —I have thought sometimes that you wished ro break the chain. The chain will soon be broken. Lancelot.” "Cynthia—-—” "No. let me speak. I know the truth. There is one woman. Y’on have never told me her name, but 1 know you will love her. She i s a woman a man must love if she cares at all for him. A heartless bad woman could not attract you. but this woman is not heartless or b id ’ "Cynthia.” I said, speaking as calmly as I could, "tell me her jtame.” "Don't ask me to say her name to you—l know it too well. I know about her, too, 1 have asked people. She is a strange. subtle woman, sweet as these violets, sympathetic gentle, and. above all. bewitching. Oh. Lancelot! I know she has already taken hold c.f your fanev. though not your heart as yet. Promise me.” Her face was white with the anguish of her soul. At "that supreme moment of her life—it was a cruel moment for us both —I turned to her—l bent down and kissed her. "Promise,” she murmured. "Cynthia,” I said, “how can I refuse you? I promise you no other woman shall take your place in mv heart.” I meant what 1 said then

and vet why did two sweet halfclosed eyes haunt me? I shivered. I seemed already to be sitting with a spirit—the coldness of the dead was around me. Against mv will I seemed to turn with a human longing to the smile. the warm, small hands of Veronica. Why did you eome then? Why did yon not leave me alone for a little moment with my dying Cynthia? (And yet. Veronica, forgive me for writing so of you.) "Now we will go home.’* Cynthia said. "Thank God for your promise. If I am allowed 1 will come to you in your dreams. 1 shall be waiting for you there, with the little boys. I shall snow you my children. Lancelot." and she smiled. "But you have made up for all—for everything." I had bound myself for life to a woman about to die—a woman who could not be my wife —a woman who was not the passion of mv life- -though deep friendship had grown into affection and love! (Looking back all these long years. I thank God I did give Cynthia the only solace of her sad life, and 1 found in her a friend such as I should never find again. And had the love been passionate could it have lasted for eight long years?) She was so tired, she could speak no more. She leF me lead her from the garden home again. I arranged her cushions and gave her her tea. and waited on her very tenderly. It was our last evening together. That night she died.

T did not know that I felt anything but a stunned grief at Cynth ; a‘s death.

Men do not. perhaps, understand so well as women the subtle analysis of the age. They do not try to unravel the meanings oi subtle sensations as women do. They understand human passionate love better than women, but they do not enter into all the strange paths of analysis—the tortuous. devious windings into which it leads those who onee listen to its enchanting call. Not being skilled in analysis. I cannot understand how it was that in this dark hour of my life l should have been torn in two with conflicting emotions. My God! why was V eronica’s little gentle laugh, her low voice, ever at mv ear. as I knelt hushed and outwardly calm by the bed of Cynthia ?—Cynthia, who lav so quietly and restfully! Do we rest ? Yes. Cynthia rested. I felt sure of it as 1 looked on her. Her hands were lying straightly down —I raised one in mine, and saw her weddingring gleaming on it. She had been a lonely wife. What would be feel when he heard of her death? Had he ever loved her? Perhaps for a year or two: but he was so coarse and unrefined that she had at last found her only happiness in my company. And what had lain heaviest on her heart was the fear that another woman should take her place with me. How I resented the bewitchment o* Veronva. and yet my human heart longed for her. In that long death chamber, in which I shuddered, my whole soul went out in longing for tlu-t dear living woman. PART IL CHAPTER I. "I seemed to know her well by her sweet air.” —Rossetti. I drove away after Cynthia's funeral with two white roses from the cross 1 nad laid on her grave. How 1 hate all connected with funerals and coffins and crosses! The disgust of it had seized me even as 1 knelt with bowed head, and heard the earth fall over that beautiful woman. But when 1 drove away on that September morning, glorious as September mornings can be in Scotland, and saw the long sunbeams glide along the grass, in and out among the shadows of the beeches, and watched the sudden flight of the partridges across the yellow corn, and looked up at the happy blue of the sky. a treat sense of relief came over me. and I thanked God for it. One piece of life was over. “Let the dead past bury its dead.”

No regrets can bring back Cynthia —and she was dead. I was alive. And there was Veronica, and there was a letter of Veronica’s lying in my pocket! It had been there all the time of Cynthia’s funeral, and unconsciously I had placed beside it a sprig of cypress tree overshadowing her grave. It had left a stain on Veronica s letter. And 1 felt 1 had in some mysterious way brought the shadow of death on Veronica, whom 1 was trying to hate. To hate Veronica! A man is never so near loving a woman as when he tries to Mate her! A clond came across the sky. and the cypress spray in my hand made

the shadow of the cross on Veronica’s letter. We are superstitious, after all, though we pretend to despise superstition in women. That cross shadow on Veronica’s letter seemed doomed to bring sorrow on her—and (terhaps on me. She asked me in her letter to come and see her. Poor Veronica! (I called her so to myself, her real name is Mrs Eastlake.) I was angry at her daring to ask me to come and see her in her friendly way so soon after Cynthia's death. 1 was unjust to her. She could not know what Cynthia and my story had been. I was cruel to her in my thoughts. I was suspicious about her. 1 knew her to be a woman much loved and sought after. It seemed to me in my injustice as if Veronica were trying to steal me away from Cynthia. Cynthia, to whom I had been the only friend on earth! Sometimes during the long months that followed after Cynthia’s death after staying at my Scottish home and when I came back to London, the longing came over me to go and see Veronica. But I lingered—l faltered. My deep grief for Cynthia—grief just tinged with the suspicion of remorse an<i the promise of that evening—made me shun society. Then I almost reproached her sometimes, as I sat alone, leaning my aching head on my

hand, and groaned aloud. I was delta rred from love. I was debarred from sympathy, and from the society of the most sympathetic of women, Veronica East lake—l was cut off from a sympathy 1 had lost with Cynthia. I felt at that lonely, storm• tossed moment of my life how soothing Vercniea's presence would be. I said to myself. “There is nothing mi earth so calming as the friendship of a gentle. spiritual woman.” Perhaps 1 had forgotten that something human looked out of her eves like grey toned passion flowers; something of human nature in the smile of her curved lips. Cue evening, lying bark in my chair.

in those l.ouis of the night when the soul seems most awake. I went over those j>ast years since I had first met Cynthia St. John and Veronica Eastlake. I remembered how I had met Cynthia in a great country house in Scotland. She came down the staircase <lressed in silvery grey and diamond stars in her dark hair and a few roses in her hand. “Who is that beautiful woman!*’ I isked my host. “Mrs St. John: that is her husband following her. He is a good, rough sort of fellow, but I don’t fancy he and his wife are very well suited to each other. It is rather a case of Beauty and the Beast, is it not?” Mrs St. John sat next to me at dinner. She was pathetic ami sacf-toned in her manner. Her life seemed set in a minor kev. S< metimes she siuiled with an innocent gaiety which quickly died away. Both the pathos ami the gaiety were touching. I have

never met anyone so free from all the wiles and ways of a pretty woman. •fuietly patiently indifferent to etery thing-, looking as if happiness and health were alike unknown to her. 1 felt much drawn to her. 1 sat by her that evening. She was sympathetic to me. She was not even then quite young; she had been married ten years. Someone sang a heart-breaking song that evening. it was in Scotland, ano on Sunday, and was one of the songs admitted into the Sunday set—the song of the "Reaper and the ChilIren. Cynthia sat very still, her nno e ?t,"** re . C, ° Se,V locked son , " n" J r* d 11 is ‘oo sad a on f . she did not answer. Her eyes were swimming with tears. When it flde.. , .‘' erS ?V aid ’ in ,hat sudden conunder t J ??'•' ’’'•served natures he w m ’ She did not or she would not have sung It—both of •'entiv- ° f theni ” She got up d one noticed when she of the h r °° nK .? f terwards the lady of the house said, “I suppose Mrs St •ohn has a bad headache and has dav " bed ’ She has 'ooked ill all k ? heD ’ ,n a whisper. "She lost both her children two three

I said to Colonel St. John after wards. "I hope Mrs St. John will be badh r to , -^ht r .” W Head ach - Iv ‘’ "U ' f <be said, rather careless--irs st. John easily gets low about herself. I teU her /-. teriiuig away from me to his host, Inr ,' peak,n ? ,n a confidential aside, ut loud enough for me to hear—"l up a' li'tHe SHe W ° Uld ° Uly brisk , P a —go out more, mope < >he would not be always fancynig herself ill. Voll see . week T aPS i t l ,at did it ~ two in the k «- L ° rd ’ 1 " as cut U P enough at the time myself; but I tell her no •Tw fh b ..‘ ng them back a ? aia - Twas the Lord s will.” Here he blew his nose loudly, as if to conceal his emotion, drank down a glass of whisky and soda, and lit a large pipe. I do not think Colonel St. John knew that I had heard what he was saying to his host, but if ever I felt inclined to kick a man downstairs he was that man.

We were ten days together in that house in Scotland. A week draws two sympathetic souls closely to-gether-ten days is simply fatal. I hose last three days decide if it is to be only a pleasant, acquaintance or a continuing friendship. t olonel St. John took no dislike to me. nor did he seem in the least jealous of his wife. 1 found, through long vears of intimacy that followed, that Cynthia bt- John was not a woman who universally attracted men. If they began by admiring her they very soon found that their admiration was lost on her. She did not even notice it. Except to me. and to the memory of those dead boys, she was utterly cold—gentle and courteous—but always cold. I think at first I grew almost afraid of the elosene s of our friendship. I am very reckless, but I could never allow myself to be so where the honour of a woman was concerned. 1 found there were no fears. Cynthia was very circumspect. partly from the dread of our intimacy being put an end to. •List the last day of our visit in that Scotch house sin spoke to me, a very little, of her boys. "My heart lies tn their graves," she said- “1 do not like to be away from them." St. John asked me to go and stay with them in their little place in I erthshire. and there, year after year, her soul anil mine were “drawn a little nearer yet.” i To be continued.)