IN THE VAGUE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue XV, 11 October 1902, Page 902

IN THE VAGUE

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued). 1 thought, relations having become so strained between Diane and me, it would be better to announce my intention next morning of going back to Wales immediately. Colonel Lacy was seriously grieved. "1 had so hoped, Venetia, you would have stayed much longer with us. 1 thought at least you would have been with us through the shooting party. You would be of such delightful assistance to Diane.” I smiled at the old-fashioned courtesy of his language, smiled with a tear at the back of it. ”1 think Diane can manage very well without me. Lucian too will be here, 1 think he could make any party go off well.” “He is very efficient,” Colonel Lacy said. “He is indeed,” 1 said, fervently, so fervently, that the Colonel looked at me for explanation. “You like Lucian?” he said. "1 believe he is certainly charming, and as you say efficient.” "Ah! Could nothing induce you to stay a little longer, Venetia?” "No, 1 am afraid nothing.” “You must not let yourself,” he said, "be discouraged by Diane's reserve. She is strangely reserved even to me, her husband.” 1 felt an answer was impossible; 1 saw he had something on his mind. "1 had her permission, however, on hearing that you insisted on leaving us so soon, to tell you our joyful news. She only announced it to me yesterday. You can guess, oh, dear Venetia, think what this is to me, after all these years, to know that I shall have a child of my own. A child to come after me, Venetia,” he said brokenly. “I know you will sympathise with me?” T do sympathise with you, with all mv heart.”

“But you don't look surprised; perhaps, is it possible, you had some suspicions. Women understand these things.” "They do indeed,” I answered. My voice trembled. He mistook my emotion for tender envy of a blessing that had not been given to me. He grew even kinder, even gentler. “But you have always been so good; borne your great trouble so nobly, that I feel God must comfort you some day. A good man’s love, Venetia, perhaps, who knows! You have been so true to Godfrey’s memory, but you are young, and beautiful, and most love worthy.” Then a smile brightened his kind face. “It is an idle dream, of course, but, if you could ever think of—we need not name names. It would be a great happiness to me. He reminds me of Godfrey. He has the Lacy look except that his eyes are blue.”

They are very blue, Lucian’s eyes, blue as faith and forget-me-nots and all the beautiful things that he had been false to, led astray by that serpentine woman. I held up my hands, deprecating. "Dear Uncle Arthur, don’t, it hurts me.” He felt for me. “So true, so constant, dear Venetia. God bless you. Forgive me, if I havj hurt you. It is only my love for you makes me long that you should be happy, as I am happy. And yet, believe me. I wish our dear Godfrey back, and he was as the son of my youth.” "This child,” he said, after a pause, “will be the child of old age.” “And of youth,” I said. “Ah, yes! She is young, very young.” His eyes grew full of tender dreaming as he thought of his lovely Diane. He was wise, he realised that we two women, both dear to him, though in such widely differing degrees, had not suited each other, had not “hit it off.” And his idolised Diane's scarcely

concealed dislike of me, did not in the least detract from his affection. He was mildly superior to the little ins and outs of women’s caprices. To him, each caprice the more, was a charm the more. To each, her own caprices made her individually charming. . He was of the old fashioned type, who looks at woman in the abstract, as “lovely woman,” “dear delightful creatures.” Lucian and I went out t gether after tea, that last evening at Lacy Court. It was already twilight. A warm soft evening- We had had tea in the library, which opened on to the terrace. Diane had gone to her room to rest; Lucian and I were alone. “Come out, Mrs Godfrey, the tobacco plants smell so sweet in the evening.” It was certainly sweet. The tender charm of an autumn twilight, touched my heart. Perhaps Lucian’s too. who knows? “Never mind about a hat,” he said, as he picked up a little fur cloak of Diane’s and put it round my shoulders. It smelt of violets and sandal wood and other vague perfumes. The sky was still reddened with the remnants of the sunset. Pale, calm, cold steel blue, faint yellow and blood red gleams. One purple streak across the yellow. The colour of passion renunciated. “How beautiful your eyes are in the twilight.”

I roused myself from a reverie. "Oh, Lucian,” I said, “at least be loyal to one. His honour rooted in dishonour stood. Haven't you read Tennyson. At any rate be true to your untruth.” He turned pale. “Don’t reproach me.” he said. "God knows, I don't. But is is too late, be warned, go away.” Not for anything would I have let him suspect that 1 suspected him. Talk of eyes, Lucian's were like blue stars. I know human nature fairly well. I have not been a beautiful woman for nothing! I know how the most loyal lovers can be tempted by emotions, stirred by sunsets, sweet flowers, and gardens, and the ephemeral charm of a woman.

"Lucian,” I said, “ you are young and Diane is young, and her husband trusts you. Once I was here as the heir’s wife. Now all things are changed. I have not found favour in Diane’s eyes- Perhaps it is my own fault. I am full of faults, as full nearly as anyone can be; but I have one virtue. I am loyal. I can hold my tongue while my heart is bursting, breaking, doing everything a heart can. When I like anyone. I like them, their faults are immaterial to me! I do not like Diane, and if she had every virtue and though she is as beautiful as possible, it makes no difference. I like you, and so I ask you to justify my liking by being true and loyal; but whether you are or not won’t affect my feel-

ing for you. It is because of that feeling I appeal to you.” I wonder I had the courage to speak to him as I did. Perhaps it was the pending parting, perhaps it was the twilight, perhaps it was my knowledge of how hopeless my own ease was, that gave me courage.

I was determined he should not guess, I guessed! Who can explain attraction? Lucian was everything a man should not be, he loved a woman, and that woman his cousin’s wife; and he loved “not wisely but too well.” At that moment they were conspiring to deceive the best and most trusting of men; and yet, and yet. I have sometimes thought it was the wonderful blueness of Lucian’s eyes, which made me so lenient.

Diane eame to my room that last evening; a little friendliness I had not yet received from her. Who knows, she may have felt some natural yearning for feminine sympathy. She stood by the fire, her gown lifted, showing one perfect foot- She looked so young, and so lovely, that my woman's heart melted; momentarily. What was the situation to me? It was best to accept itIf only I could have imagined it all, dreamed it all. I felt tempted to speak out. but that would have oeen useless, and I had loyalty to my dear host. "N enetia,” she said. She had never called me by my name before. “I wish you had had a happier time here.” “It was Fates fault, not yours or mine that I sprained my ankle.” “Yes,” doubtfully, but I don't think it was your ankle that mattered. I am afraid it was me.” I pulled out my hairpins slowly, sitting by the fire. My hair fell in shining clouds below my waist, almost to my knees. Diane looked at it with a reluctant admiration. “What hair!” she said. "Yes, the hair of a Mary Magda-

lene, but quite wasted on me in that character.” „ “Have you no sins to repent of. she said wistfully. “Plenty, but not of the sort, to which long 1 golden hair typically oelongs.” . “We don’t know for certain Mary Magdalene’s hair was golden-” “No,” I said, “we don’t, and sometimes the darker the locks the deeper the sin.” “How enigmatic you are!” “Not enigmatic- to one who knows how to read between the lines.” “Tell me,” she asked suddenly, “do you like Lucian?” “I am sorry for him,” I said. “Sorry! Why?” “Because it is bad for a man to be an heir-presumptive. However that fear is now removed by what you tell me, by what Colonel Lacy -.ells me. He is no longer the heir. Well, Diane, I wish Colonel Lacy and you all luck, and I don’t think Lucian has any right to complain of your child ousting him from his presumptive position. Presumptive heirs must always be prepared for these contingencies.” She bent forward as if to kiss me for good night then changing her mind drew back. I took her hand gently, abhorring her treachery and her sin, my heart went out for a moment to the mother whose anguish lay ahead of her. “Dear,” I said, “perhaps we shall never meet again. Remember. I wish you no ill, to you, or your child.” She looked at me with wondering eyes. I could not kiss her because of her disloyalty, but I could not curse the mother of an unborn child. That night there was no light iu the cupboard. All was silence. Next morning early, I took my last look round that little room. I looked at it, and wondered had it all been a dream. Had I slept and dreamed and awoke. Had I never overheard that terrible conversation? Was Diane guiltless? Was Lucian not only love-worthy, but honour-worthy? I longed to believe it all a dream, but even if I had tried so to delude myself, I knew the futility of it all: and as I lay on the settee, my eyes fell on something bright on the floor beside me. It was one of Diane's diamond earrings. Colonel Lacy had noticed she wore no earrings yesterday, and she had said—wonderful woman—without any confusion of manner, that the small diamond from which the larger one hung, had become loose, and she had to send it to the jeweller to be mended. I put the earring safely away in my jewel case, for I felt the time was not yet. There was something pathetic in Colonel Lacy’s good bye next morning. Diane sent love and good bye, but she was not very well or able to come down that morning.” “Good bye. dear Venetia: don't forget you have always been as dear ns a daughter.” He kissed me and said good bye. 1 have never known whether he was really happy with Diane, or if he bore his fate as a brave man should. My maid and luggage were sent on and Lucian drove me in a pony cart the four miles drive to the station. We drove through sweet pine woods, where autumn’s fingers had touched the undergrowth ferns with a wan russet gold- The narrow road ran between banks of sand, and above the sky was blue. So blue that similes fail. Blue as itself, and blue reflected in those dear disloyal eyes beside me. “I shall never drive along this road again,” I said. "Go slowly, there is plenty of time.” “Why never? I won’t be so trite as to say never is a long word.” “Never in this case is an eternal word.” I hardly knew in this fair autumn day if my dead Godfrey or the living Lueian were beside me. “This is my good-bye to Lacy Court, and to you,” I said. We were walking slowly up a hill. He let the reins go slack and turned round to look at me. We were alone. He could not turn away. Slowly, very slowly. I felt a film of unbidden tears fall over my eyes. I hoped my veil hid them.

"Venetia, shall 1 say it just this once.” “If,” I said, “you say it carefully.” “Do you know what I want to say ? “1 am not sure, but I am almost sure you must never say it. You must abide by your choice. Am I right?” “You are always right. I have never seen such a right woman in all mv life.” “I wish,” I said sadly, “and not altogether for my own sake, you had seen me long before. It might have saved vou from—folly—I think I could have been a mother” —he smiled a little forlorn smile at this —“or a sister to von.”

“Venetia, will you kiss me once, as if you were my sister?” Then in the pine wood, just as we reached the top of the hill. I kissed him. once as —if I were his sister. But 1 would not let him kiss me back as if he were my brother. Poor Lucian, sin did not come easily or sit lightly upon him. as it appeared to do on his fellow-sinner. I know that on Lucian’s life lay the burden of a great remor. e; and the eternal shadow of a useless sin. CHAPTER V. It. was all over, the suspicions, the excitement, the bitterness of the visit. My sister found me uncommunicative. I longed to unburden myself of my secret to someone, but could not. 1 heard now and again from Colonel Lacy, never from Diane, never from Lucian. As the winter wore on 1 grew more and more to look back on it all as a dream that is told. I must not forget to say that I returned the diamond earring in a registered parcel, posting it from London. My sister and I went to London towards the middle of February. 1 heard incidentally that the Lacys had taken a house till after Easter. I wondered how Diane's plan would work. What doctor would attend th - '

birth of the child who was to be called premature? Towards the middle of February the spring begins to assert itself; there is a stirring, quickening feeling in the air, small birds chirp and quiver, and mating and nesting days are near. White narcissus ano hyacinths and arums and anemones brighten the street corners. When one is young spring stirs also in the human blood, and one dreams of nestings too. Later on, in life, it brings intenser melancholy than the autumn days. Leaving my sister to an hour or two of shopping. I walked across the Park, passing away from the people

and the noise of carriages, to the comparative stillne»s of Kensington Gardens. Strolling slowly along, my eyes fell on another figure approaching me. It was Lucian. The hot blood rushed to his face, even my cheeks grew warmer. He almost ran to meet me. clasping both my hands. “Oh! Venetia. have you heard. Why are you here?" “Heard, heard what?” I said. His eyes were full of tears. “Speak quickly, is Diane dead?” “Diane! Diane, oh no! Colonel Lacy, he went to Lacy Court last Monday on business, and would drive the little chestnut mare —you remember—there was an accident, he was killed this morning. I have been to ask after her? I have not seen her. Won’t you go to her? She is terribly upset. terribly ill.”

1 sank down trembling on the nearest bench. It was a relief to burst into tears, a passion of tears, for the dear old man, the kindest, loyalest, friend. After the first shock came the blessed feeling ot relief that he need never be made unhappy by suspicions that he died believing in his joy. I did not ask to see Diane, though I drove at once to enquire after her, nor was the world surprised any more than I was, at the birth a few days afterwards, of a little daughter. Lucian came to see me at once and again he did not care to speak of Diane or the child. He told me that he had seen her, looking very delicate and beautiful, and that she and her baby were going abroad for some months with her mother. Diane did not ask to see me. Why should she? But to my surprise she wrote and asked me to be god-mother. She wrote coldly, but not unkindly, saying she was obeying her husband's express wishes in doing so. "1 am naming her Lucia after her god-father Lucian.” I was reading this letter when Lucian came in. It was no use concealing her well-known writing. I told him of her request. Will you be my god-daughter’s godmother,” he said. “I don’t think I can be god-mother to your god-daughter,” I said, “to Diane’s child.” He looked grievously disappointed. Had he known that I knew all, he could never have asked me to be godmother. “Don’t ask me to, Lucian; it is better not." His eyes were full of request. “Dear Venetia. for my sake be Lucia’s god-mother?” “Is it right, when I do not love her mother?” “No, you don’t love her mother,” he said sadly. “But you,” he paused. I finished the sentence, “Loved her father. Yes. Well, Lucian, for her father’s sake I accept.” 1 am glad to think that Lucian had no suspicions. He believed it was for Colonel Lacy's sake. And so in one way it was. Lacy Court was left to Diane for her life; and soon after my visit there Colonel Lacy had added in his will a large sum to Lucian Lacy. He had not forgotten me, and his bequest was a generous one. All this happened a few years ago; how few or how many need not be recorded. Just a year after her husbands death Diane married Lucian Lacy. No one blamed her. though a few people thought she ought to have waited longer. I always said that it was onlj- natural she should marry quickly, being young and finding the responsibilities too great and too heavy to bear alone. Very lately I was staying in the country with some new friends one among them anxious to share my lonely life, and being very lonely I had not quite said “No.” I was told the evening of my arrival that- Mr and Mrs Lacy were coming to stay with them the next day. “Some distant connection of yours I suppose," one said. “Very distant but I met them long ago in her first husband’s life “be always think there must have been some romance, they married so soon afterwards. They had met constantly just before his death.” "Are they happy?” I asked. “She is very beautiful, but she is very cold, and he—” Why people say they would not recognise again the old Lucian!” “He was full of life, and vivacity, and charm,” I said. “Charm, yes, is left; but no vivacity.” They were waiting in the hall before dinner when I came down.

Diane was unchanged; her beauty was even more startling, but Lucian! His bright hair was streaked with grey and his blue eyes were stern and sad. They lit up when they recognised me. We had no opportunity of speaking before dinner. Afterwards I, sitting a little apart from the other women, wondered would he come. We did not say much when he found his way to my corner. We turned and looked at each other full in the eyes. We found ourselves somehow in the heart of a talk that was not all words. We somehow understood without saying how the years had fared with both of us. We did not speak of Diane. Yet I knew that the years had not brought sweetness. “And the little child?” I asked. “She is very dear to me, I eould .lot love her more” —he paused. “Is she pretty?” “She is thought like—the Lacy’s,” he said, and changed the subject. “You have no child?” I asked. “No. Lucia is the only child of the house. Perhaps it is better as it is, my wife does not care for children. As it is, lam glad to take care of the place for my little step daughter.” and he said again, emphatically, “T love her very much.” he added quietly, “I am very glad you were her god-mother.” “I told you,” I said, “I accepted for her father’s sake.” He looked at me, and for the first time I saw a questioning look in his eyes.

I would not answer the question. “Oh, Yenetia! is yours ignorance? Do you remember long ago how I told you you were the most right woman I had ever met.. You are that and the most wise.” Diane’s low mocking laughing voice joined in. Neither Lucian nor I had heard her approaching. Noiselessly in her long soft velvet gown, she had come to where we sat and overheard our words. “Some people are very fond of jumping to conclusions,” she said. “Jumping down to conclusions,” I answered. “And that reminds me of a curious story of a dream.” I spoke lightly and easily. Our host had by this time joined us, he had come to ask for music. His sister, who was our hostess came up to join in his entreaty. “Oh but tell us the curious dream first.” she said. “Tell it,” said Diane, with languid interest. Lucian, bored by the interruption to our little talk, leant back gloomily in his chair. Then the impulse came to me to iet this proud Diane know what she owed to my mercy. “Did you dream it?” she asked. “It was not my dream.” I said, “I only tell a story as it was told to me.” “The woman dreamt she was alone at night in a great dark room, feeling restless, you understand only in

her dream, and cold, very cold; for in the dream the window was open, and wild winds blew about the room; she stole to a cupboard door, and far in the end she saw a little light. Then she pushed open a door at the end of a cupboard, you know how detailed everything is in a dream, and it was all light. She fell she could not guess how far, and in dreams the end of a fall is said to be death. In her case she did not die, but went on dreaming. She says she shall never forget the look of the little room into which she fell. A dome-shaped ceiling, walls covered with striped green and white silk, or something that shone like silk; over the white chimney-piece a picture of a boy in green. There were two other pictures, one of a shepherdess leading a lamb, and the other of a lady with powdered curls and a rose in her hand. She also noticed that this picture was a door, through which she had fallen in her dream. “Why, there must be such a room somewhere,” my host said, “the dream was so vivid. Are you sure she was dreaming?” “She says she was,” I said. “But she does not often care to speak of that dream. She heard voices, and her impulse was to fly. Light seemed all about and around her, and terror of she knew not what. In dreams the impossible happens, and she was again in her dark room clasping a bright diamond in her hand. You know it is unlucky to dream of diamonds.” “I have heard,” said one of the guests, interrupting me, “it foretells the birth of children. I hope the lady was married and her dream came true.” “I don’t think the dream had anything to do with her except indirectly, but she often wonders if she will see that little room in real life. She said she could never forget the terror that overcame her as she found herself falling, falling into space, and then the little room, whose every detail was stamped on her memory, and the voices, coming nearer, nearer, no forms, only voices.” “Only voices?” someone asked. “She only heard voices. But ever afterwards she was haunted by the certainty that somewhere there exists such a room; somewhere. “Where?” asked Lucian brokenly. He was as white as death; his breath coming in short gasps. Diane’s face was white, too, but expressed no remorse. She looked at Lucian with a supreme disdain. “Where, where?” he said again, hurriedly, under his breath. “Oh!” I said, “where all dreams are —in the vague.” (The End.)