DEAR DEAD WOMEN

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue IV, 26 July 1902, Page 196

DEAR DEAD WOMEN

By

Lady Arabella Romilly

PART IV. AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT. “Even, so, where Heaven holds breath and hears The beating heart of Love’s own breast; Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest, How shall my soul stand rapt and awed; When by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once; And knows the silence there for God. “Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile and meet the day’s decline. Till other eyes shall look from it. Eyes of the Spirit s Palestine, Even than the old gaze tenderer; While hopes and aims long Jost with her Stand round her image side by side lake tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre.’’ D. G. ROSETTE Two years passed before I met Veronica Eastlake. 1 had nothing more just then to do with her life- We were parted, and if sometimes the shadow of my sorrows seemed to cloud my pathway I tried to live as a man should, who was worthy of the love, the friendship of Veronica. Surely it could not be counted as a slight sacrifice to have renounced the joy of seeing that sweet woman? 1 forgot, in looking back, how short our deep intimacy and friendship had been. It seemed to me as if we had always been each other's heart-friend.

For in life there is always one who is the wife-friend, and whether she is only friend, or whether she is wedded wife, it is the only true marriage in the w-orld.

Veronica left England with her husband and chiliren and lived entirelv abroad.

Once I wrote to her, “Tell me about yourself. My heart aches for news of you. May I come to Egypt and see you?—and, oh! do not wear the 'witch’s eyes.’ I am trying to live as your friend should, but it is very hard sometimes, and I long for the smile of reward. Only tell me you are better.”

In a little while she wrote back to me: “I am no better, and never shall oe better. Do not ask to see me, I am not strong enough. I am not one of the strong, nrave women who can steer safely through this difficult world. But I like to feel that though very far apart, we are climbing the same narrow s’air together, and we may meet at last there. Meanwhile, I rest a great deal: there is still much on earth left for me to do. My children I cling to —so soon to part, that is the hardest pang of all! It is for so short a time that I may sign myself. Yours for ever, Veronica.”

1 thought with a passion of longing of that Egypt, whose very name seems to call up mysterious dreams and longings— The Nile—the palms Veronica! — her life ebbing fast away from the heart that loved her best in the world.

There are some places on earth whose names one cannot bear to hear, because the longing to be there with the beloved is intense even to pain. Venice—Rome the Campagna —the Nile wild fjords in Norway those pine forests where Shelley

wandered —oh to be there with just

“one fair form,” and only earth and sky for company! I know how women dream, too. these dreams, and how seldom, if ever on earth, they become realities- I think the real Heaven will be the fruition of hopes, the satisfaction of infinite longings.

Sometimes I heard of Veronica indirectly from my sister, who loved her. She was one of those women who inpsired intense devotion, and my sister, who had never smiled on Cynthia, in the earlier days when she and St. John stayed at ray house, had taken Veronica to her heart. After a year had gone by I left Lochseye in my sister’s . and the factor’s hands, and wandered away into foreign lands.

I knew that life had completelyaltered for me. and that the parting

from Veronica, and the loss of the companionship of so many years, had killed the best of life for me and I wished to find some interest and occupation. I knew I should be unworthy of her if I idled my life awayIt must be work, incessant work, of head and hand. I wrote, I looked after my place, I did all sit ply for the sake of my dear lady, so that in the next life she might hold out her hand to me and say: “My knight, you have done well!”

1 found a letter waiting for me at Geneva. I had been travelling about the world for just a year, and asked that no letters should be forwarded. I did not wish to know if she were dead. If I had heard it, how could 1 have borne my life and fitted myself for coming to do my duty at home again. I found a letter from my sister waiting for me at the Poste Restante at Geneva.

She said—what she said more 1 never have known- "Mrs Eastlake has come back to London. They say she. is in a dying state—her husband’s

death was a great shock to her at the time. I have often wondered if they were happy. But she is now verycalm. I hear, and is too ill to see people. He died from a fall from his horse at Cairo. There are stories told of how he neglected her in her illness, and how she tried to do too much for his sake. But one never knows the truth of stories. I have heard she is still beautiful.” Why did my sister add that? To me she would have been always beautiful, for the love I bore her was unchanging.

I hastened home to London, and at onee went to her house. I chose a late hour in the afternoon, for I thought 1 should have more chance of seeing her then.

The butler said “No,” and when I i nsisted:

“Sir Lancelot, Mrs Eastlake sees hardly anyone now; you know she is very, very ill.” Then he went upstairs to enquire, and I, sure of my welcome, followed him into the little blue panelled room where we had last parted. She was lying on the sofa, and I saw the little head was turned away. She seemed asleep. As 1 knelt by her sofa and kissed her wasted hands the “witch’s eyes” gleamed on me with a malignant glare. I saw she wore over it a little

serpent ring I had given her long ago. with a diamond head. It seemed to me all earth was contained in that quiet room. Her own flowers were about her—heliotropes, beloved flowers, children of the sun, violets and some tall sunflowers stood in an Oriental jar behind her. “Veronica,” I said, gently.

She turned her head and saw me. Her smile lit up her wan, white face; the soft, fair hair was ruffled on her forehead. She just looked a moment at my face; she spoke very softly.

"You have come back to me —you are the same as when we parted. Ah. Sir Lancelot, the time has been very long.” I dared to lay my arms around her. She did not move, but I felt that the heart-beats quickened, and the blush

which made her young and beautiful, deepened on her cheek.

“You knew I dare not stay,” I answered. “1 knew you were a white star of light; I knew that honour, like an impassable barrier, lay between us. I have tried to live worthily of you—if that could be. Dear love, let me speak.” “It is too late,” she said, “too late.” She let her tired head, rest against my shoulder and sighed.

“They say 1 can only live two or three months now. I am glad you

went; I had begun to care too much for you, and life was hard. Now I may. say it. For a time, when that great shock came into my life, weak with the pain of losing you, I lost all sense of thought and power; then it all came again—the love—the pain. Did you ever forget?” “Never, love, never!” I drew her closer to me. In her long white gown, her slight bare arms where the sleeves fell back, she was ethereally lovely.

“It is three years since you came into my life—three years ago we began to be an interest to each other.” “You love me!” I said. “Oh, say it again, Veronica!” There was a little questioning look in her face.

"Do you want me to wait for you?” she asked, “or is there another? She spoke with a smile. “There was another once,” she said. “Yes,” I said, “there was another once.”

Then her two arms, like clinging doves, wound themselves around my neck. "Where is she?” Veronica asked, tenderly; “in Heaven, waiting, too?”

“I think she is in Heaven—l be lieve it.”

“And you have been my faithful knight.” she said, “all these years?” ■Very quietly I laid her on her cushions and watched beside her till late in the evening. Then she promised me at last that if it would make me happier she would be my wife, so that I cou'd watch over her to the last.

The doctors said that if she chose to go so long a journey she might be taken to Lochseye. She wished to die in my home. We were married in her own room, for she was too ill to go to church. She wore by my wish a white shad-ow-like gown and veronica flowers, those blue purple veronicas which grow by the sea.

She was half sitting up, at her back 1 had placed a great lilac-hued cushion as support. Her little son and daughters knelt by her, dressed in white. The clergyman was her brother, and he loved her dearly. His voice faltered as he wished her happiness. Just before the ceremony began I noticed she still wore her wedding ring and the witch’s eyes. I told her to take them off. She shook her head and whispered to me : “No, no. Arthur was their father,” pointing to the children; “you would not have me show his memory such d i srespect-.”

I understood and loved her more for this. But she took off the witch’s eyes and placed it on her right hand.

"Let it stay there,” she said, “it l as brought me a blessing.”

So she had her wish, as those who wear this ring must ever have.

Next day we set out on our long journey to Lochseye. She was very tired and ill as we drove through the glen to Lochseye. We arrived very quietly; no one was to know of our arrival. I carried her through the hall and to her own sitting-room. She never spoke, she only smiled. As 1 placed her on the sofa she took my hand: “1 have never been so happy in my life before.” And there in that room, which had been my mother’s, I watched by my wife. She was the gentlest being: she could never speak much, and often through the long nights I used to hold her up in my’ arms fearing she would never see the dawn again. How we learnt to know and love each other during those ealm beautiful weeks.

The oak panelled room had been arranged all to her wish and will. She liked to lie looking out over the old Scotch park, and watch the sunset behind the great fir trees. She worked with slight, tired fingers, her last piece of needlework, a satin cuilt, thick and soft like the materials of long ago. and wove into it many dark leaves and violets; and w hen at last it was finished she worked in the corner, “ Veronica Bindsay. her last work.” But she never finished the last wool and the needle still hangs to the violet thread. She was very happy. Often when reading or writing by her. 1 would look up and find her eyes watching me with a look of infinite

tenderness. But the shade of Death was always beside us, though for a lutle while he lingered before he claimed her.

Her picture hangs on the wall where I write, above the sofa, where she always lay, white and spirit-like, with the eyes grown too large for the face, smaller than the faces of iier children. She was painted lying on her sofa, propped up by those heliotrope cushions, the pearly-blue work lying on her knees, and the white gown she always wore. “It is seldom.” I said, “darling, that two are allowed to be so absolutely happy on earth.” 1 spoke cheerfully, but I seemed tc see the presence of Death already in the room. “ Yes,” she answered, softly, “we two have found the Ideal, and the finding of the Ideal means death. Lancelot, you live in the presence of death. Your mother, your friends, and now- your wife.”

But what were the other deaths compared to this?” I answered, and as 1 spoke, a knife seemed to pass through my’ very soul. " Ah. Lancelot! dear husband of heart and soul, it will be long for you, and long for me —*—” On very sunny warm afternoons, v rapped in furs, I would take her round the w-alks and paths and garden so that she should know her home, however slightly’.

“ Dear Lancelot! ” she would say. looking at me with tears on her eye lashes. “ can’t you understand why we are never given lasting happiness? Heaven would be such a wearinr ss alone after this. Still, still! there will be the Lord of Life and Death. Will He make up for all that I am leaving? ” She used sometimes to see the cottage people, the oldest favourites of the village, who had known my mother.

“Her ladyship is a lovely lady, but she is dying fast, that is sure." I heard afterwards they used to say. One November morning the sun shone so warmly that she asked me to take her out once again. She was covered from neck to foot with her sealskin cloak, and that, too, was fnr-

lined, so we ventured to take her out in a pony chair for a little. “Now let me wait a little.”

I have never loved my home as I did that day. The old castle stood up high over the deep, dark blue loch - great fir trees protected us from the sea winds, but they were sea winds of the southern coast. Below the house lay the flower garden, but no flowers were there, except the violets below the warmest wall.

On Veronica’s knee lay a great nosegay of hot-house flowers I had gathered her as we went through the garden. Never your garden, beloved. The inexpressible glory of a winter morning lay over all. the feeling of frost through the brilliant sunshine. “Lancelot, I love our home, and I like to think I shall lie here through ages as Veronica Lindsay.” I knew she was taking her last look all round. The children came round the corner of the garden, happy, loving creatures. They all came to her and kissed her. very care-

fully and tenderly. Even Arthur, whe was going to school at Christmas, was very soft and gentle to her.

That evening late as I sat beside her. I saw her face more ashen white, and the look of death creep over her face.

"There is no jealousy of Cynthia now,” she said to me. “I shall be nearest to you as your wife perhaps, and yet. who knows? If you belong to her I shall know it is right. But we shall sometimes remember these days together. Soon. very. soon. 1 shall know what is the Hereafter. If I meet Cynthia I will speak of you—there is no marrying or giving in marriage there, as we understand it. only spiritual love and peace.”

How lovely she was as she lay look ing at me; this was a painless hour For the rest, it was suffering an speakable.

"These have been days of such happiness.” she said. “Even for a little while in this life we have been recompensed for putting away the human and seeking the divine in my married days. Now the reward is great beyond words.”

I could not speak; she laid her hand on my head, my face was buried in her cushions.

"Leaving you, leaving you, beloved —yes—but we must meet.” Her soul and mine were one, her being and mine were one. "Death, that heeds not sob or sigh,” was standing by us. He eame very quietly—her lips on mine, my’ arms around her. When I laid her back on her pillow Death had taken away the soul of Veronica. They had covered her all over with the blue veronica flowers, but inside her sweet hand I had hidden a spray of heliotrope. “So hush, I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! There, that is our secret, go to sleep. You will wake, remember, and understand." I kissed her just before they laid down the lid—l was a little while alone by her, and all her little children cried outside. Through her had come my suffering, through her had come my erown—my crown on eartls and. God grant His grace, in the A fter-life. I knew. I felt, I heard the voice of my wife saying to me: "1 am with you, my Lancelot.” The beautiful body of Veronica lies in my old churchyard, and her children are as mine. I still sit here and wait, and I am growing old. The violets cluster round her grave, in spring and autumn days, and I know she is waiting for me. and the time is long for both. In the long evenings, when Veronica’s children, those who remain with me. have gone away and left me alone, in the midnight hours, I dream over my past life and sometimes the angel Cynthia, and often the beloved wife, come to me, and in their radiant eyes I read that both are in Paradise. Only in Cynthia s eyes there is nothing’ but the spiritual peace and rest of one whose soul is satisfied, of one who has found Him Whom on earth she sought always, if from afar. But in the eyes of my Veronica, in whose grave my heart sleeps, there is just the touch of wistfulness as of one who waits. (The End.)