Love Lies Dreaming

  “Topping,” said Constance, “let’s try another.”

  Boredom and anxiety! Was there ever such an irritating combination? Dewey fumbled for his watch.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Constance hastily. “I’m watching the time for you. It’s only half past ten.” A glance at the clock reassured Dewey.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “What shall it be?” The duet was as successful as the preceding one.

  “And now a chorus to end up with,” said Constance. “John Peel, or something. Come on, old thing.”

  So I was haled from my chair to blend my discordant baritone with the golden tenor and the silver soprano.

  “And now I’ve got to push off,” said Dewey, heaving himself off the music stool at last. “Jolly sorry, too. I’ve had a topping evening.”

  “A drink before you go?” said I. Though it is more than I am able to work out how I managed to show that last sign of hospitality. My whole instinct was to bundle Dewey into his hat and coat and hurl him from the door.

  “Thanks,” said Dewey, and I mixed it for him.

  He drank half and gazed at the clock on the mantelpiece again. Mechanically he pulled out his watch for confirmation.

  “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, astonished. “It’s eleven-fifteen already.”

  The mantelpiece clock said ten-forty-five; my wrist watch (at which I had not looked all the evening) said eleven-fifteen and confirmed Dewey’s watch.

  “My train leaves Victoria at eleven-fifteen,” said Dewey, blankly. “And it’s the last. That clock of yours needs attention.”

  He seemed annoyed about the new turn of affairs—but his annoyance in no way equaled mine. It meant further delay in getting rid of him.

  “How funny!” said Constance. “I’ve never known that clock to do that before.”

  “Jolly funny, I must say,” said Dewey. “I suppose it means a hotel for me or something, tonight. Can’t go and get hold of young Freddie Burns again. But—but—perhaps—?”

  The unvoiced request was obvious, and the answer equally so. Yet I did not want to invite Dewey to stop the night. Quite apart from having had too much of his society already, we have only two bedrooms in the flat And they were both needed. I looked dumbly at him and Constance. He looked dumbly at us.

  “I suppose you’d better spend the night here,” said Constance, slowly—very, very, slowly.

  “Thank you very much,” said Dewey promptly—very, very promptly.

  In despair I gazed round the drawing-room—a silly thing to do, seeing that I know every item of furniture therein. There was no couch on which Dewey could sleep, and I knew there was none in the dining-room either. Unless Dewey was to sleep on the floor, he must have one of the two beds. Then Constance and I must share the other. The main thought in my mind was that it was very hard luck for Constance to have a decision forced upon her unexpectedly like this. None of us said anything for the moment, until Constance broke the silence with:

  “I’ll bunk and change the sheets for you,” Dewey might have asked Constance not to go to that much trouble, but he said nothing.

  “Can I be of any help, old thing?” I asked.

  “No, you stay and entertain Cecil,” replied Constance, vanishing.

  Dewey finished his drink meditatively.

  “Have another?”

  “Thanks, old man, I think I will.”

  I let Dewey help himself; I did not want to have to talk to him, and the operation would fill a little of the yawning gap between now and the time when Constance was due to return from preparing Dewey’s bed for him. I hated the thought of Constance doing this latter; I wanted to get away from Dewey to ask her what I could do to help her out of the difficulty that had arisen; I was mortally afraid in case the sudden change in circumstances had upset her. In consequence I said no word to Dewey, but paced up and down the room while he sipped his whisky. I could hear Constance bustling about in my study.

  “Very good of you to put me up like this, old man,” said Dewey.

  “It isn’t me, it’s Constance who is put to whatever trouble there is,” I answered, and added, grudgingly, “It’s always a pleasure to have you, of course. You’ve cheered Constance up no end this evening.”

  “Nothing like a bit of music, sometimes. Pity you don’t play or sing or anything, old man.”

  It was at least five minutes after this that Constance returned.

  “It’s all ready,” she said. “And I’ve found some pajamas for you, and brushes and things.”

  “Thanks,” said Dewey. “It’s about time some one came to change the subject. Trevor’s made two whole remarks to me since you left us.”

  “I expect he’s tired. Late night last night, you know. In fact we all were up late.”

  “A wink’s as good as a nod,” said Dewey. “I suppose I’d better make myself scarce. I thought, though, you might have given us another song.”

  Constance shook her head.

  “Too tired tonight, Cecil,” she answered, shortly.

  “Right-ho. I’ll say good night, then.”

  Then he was gone at last. Perfunctorily I accompanied him to his door, and saw he had all he needed. Then I shut the door upon him. I could have sighed with relief if it had not been for the further complications awaiting me. Yet Constance did not seem to be aware of any complications. Stoically, she was ignoring them, and I admired her for it. Constance is a brave child.

  “Well, I’m off, too,” she said, trying to yawn. “Going to lock up?”

  When I returned from bolting the door (a ritual which greatly comforts Constance, although appearing totally unnecessary to me) the dining-room was empty. Constance had gone to her bedroom, without a word of good night. I suppose she couldn’t face that.

  I had made up my mind as to what I was to do. I must wait a while. An hour perhaps, so that she could be asleep or at least pretending to be. Then my arrival would not bother her. I looked round for a book, found one, and wearily sat down to read the time away, as well as I could in my disturbed frame of mind. The words conveyed nothing to my mind as my eyes ran over them. I felt an additional grudge against Dewey in that he was ensconced in my study and I was there-by prevented from writing up these notes. Indulgence in the habit might have brought me some relief.

  It must have been only a few minutes before a sound at the door made me look up. Constance was there, adorable in kimono and cap.

  “Well!” said Constance. “What on earth do you want to read for?”

  “I—I—well, I just thought I’d like a few minutes.”

  “But aren’t you coming to bed?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “But don’t you want to come to bed? Weren’t you up late enough last night?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake come along then, and don’t make a silly of yourself.”

  The vision vanished. Blindly I let my book fall, and walked slowly across the room, and followed the retreating fairy figure across the hall into her bedroom. Blindly, slowly, timidly.

  Chapter XVI

  Constance was sitting in her armchair at the end of the room. She had switched on the electric fire and the orange glow therefrom was illuminating all one side of her; the rest of the room was barely lit by her heavily rose-shaded bedside lamp on the table at the head of the bed. As she sat, her kimono had fallen apart in its lower half; beneath it was apparent her very best nightdress, and beneath that, and also apparent owing to the extreme tenuity of the material of the nightdress, was Constance herself. Constance has the most delightful legs in all the world.

  She held her mirror in her hand, and she was coquettishly regarding this while she arranged her hair under her cap—or rather, arranging the hair which escaped from her cap, and which was straying across her forehead. And she smiled, and she turned her head this way and that, and was obviously most entirely pleased with the result. There was a queer little pain within me as I looked at her; I was so penetratingly re
minded of our honeymoon; of those mornings when Constance would stand and admire herself at the bedroom mirror, so openly and simply that I could never stay myself from tiptoeing up behind her to slip my arms round her—and then we would be late for breakfast and our waiter would struggle with a smile.

  It was only with an effort that I tore my dull eyes away from her, and wordlessly began to wrestle with my collar. I could not trust myself to speak to her. So obviously was she making the best of a bad job—disregarding the present confusion of plans, and treating everything as a matter of course, so as to make things easier for me until Saturday, and relieve me of embarrassment. Yet I was enormously happy at the thought that through the night I would hear Constance’s child-like breathing beside me; only the happiness was clouded at the knowledge that circumstances were forcing my company upon her when she had had no time to prepare herself. I was sick with fear in case she was suffering.

  My collar was only half undone when Constance laughed. It was a little light laugh that seemed to decorate the room with fairy tracings. It seemed to fill every corner of the room with dancing points of sunlight.

  “What a stupid you are,” said Constance. “Stupid—but you’re rather a dear, aren’t you, dear?”

  My hands ceased from battling with my recalcitrant collar stud.

  “Yes, you’re rather a dear, dear.” Constance had left her arm-chair and had put down her mirror, and she had come across the room to me. Her lips were smiling, and they were trembling, too, trembling with tenderness as she looked up into my face. She put up her hands mechanically, and began to smoothe my coat.

  “So you didn’t guess even when I came and called you out of the drawing-room?”

  “Guess—what?” I asked, with dry lips.

  But Constance’s answer was not more coherent, although it was perfectly intelligible. She put up her lips to mine; and it was some time before either of us said a sensible word. The words we used, though, were eminently satisfactory to both of us—although they would be of no interest to a third person. At last Constance said:

  “You didn’t guess? You really didn’t?”

  “No,” I said, “…and if this my reward I’m jolly glad.”

  Constance laughed. Then she tried to hold away from me for a moment, with her hands on my shoulders.

  “You didn’t guess anything at all? I’d better tell you, dear. I think—you’ll be pleased.”

  I carried her across to the arm-chair, and settled comfortably in it, with Constance on my breast. She perched her feet up on the empty fireplace, with the electric fire cosily within the sweep of her nightdress. Not the attitude a really perfect lady would adopt, perhaps, but comfortable, and, seen from above at least, not too unrespectable.

  “There!” said Constance. “And now you know it was me who put the clock back.”

  “I didn’t till now,” I said—“and I’m blowed if I know now why you did.”

  “This is why,” said Constance, with her face on my shoulder.

  “God bless my soul,” said I.

  “Yes, you blind old thing. You didn’t see it yesterday, nor the day before. And this evening, when Cecil said that about his train, I just couldn’t resist the temptation. If he had to spend the night here, you would have to come to me. And so I did it. But you jolly near caught me doing it.”

  “So I remember, now,” I said.

  “I felt I couldn’t—I couldn’t ask you, dear. But I suppose it’s just as bad telling you all this now.” But I held Constance too close to me to allow any room for regret.

  “But blow it all,” I said. “You didn’t know about his train when you asked Dewey to dinner?”

  “No. I—I didn’t want him to dinner very much. But I thought if I could let you see what he really is like, then—And it happened that this was his only evening, and when he came it was all so convenient—and—and—I thought you’d like it better still if I made use of him in this way.”

  For the first time that day I had a glimmering of understanding and sympathy. Ruthlessly I put my hand under Constance’s chin and made her look me in the eyes.

  “Now, young woman,” I said, “there is more in this even than meets the eye. Tell me all—and more. Confess.”

  “Oh,” said Constance, “so you’re guessing that as well now? I thought you’d have guessed that a week ago. Of course I’ve read all that funny old diary of yours, every day, the day after you wrote it.”

  “I don’t see any of course about it,” I said, with high disdain.

  “You do,” said Constance. “I can see you do. How do you think I was going to go all that time with you slaving away in there”—here she nodded in the direction of the study, where Dewey was sleeping the sleep of the self-satisfied—“without knowing what it was you were working out. I was so worried about you, dear. And I’ve read all your books bit by bit as you wrote them, haven’t I? I couldn’t miss one.”

  “Umph,” I said. “I hope you took well to heart one passage I can remember writing. The one where I said I thought you were diabolically inspired.”

  “I took it all to heart. Every bit. And lots and lots of times I wanted to stick in things of my own, but that would have spoiled it, of course. You’d have known I was reading it.”

  “That might perhaps have been as well. Am I permitted to know what things you wanted to put in?”

  “All the little things you left out. Do you know, dear, you haven’t put your Christian name anywhere in the whole book? The book’s like me—never able to call you anything.”

  I was silent.

  “Yes,” went on Constance. “Just think. I’ve been married to you for four years, and before that we were engaged for six months, and I haven’t been able to call you anything except ‘dear’ and that sort of thing all that time.”

  “I don’t think you would want anything better than ‘dear’ to call me by,” said I, uncomfortably.

  “You’re trying to get out of it. You did have the decency to say why you always call me ‘Constance.’ That was because Cecil always called me ‘Connie.’ But you didn’t say the other thing. Just because your name is Cecil, too, you wouldn’t have me call you by it. I’ve had to call you ‘dear’ and ‘old thing’ for nearly five years because for three weeks I was engaged to a man called Cecil the same as you. It would have served you right if I’d called you ‘hubby.’”

  “Oh, horrors!” I said. “And I’ve never said a word about not wanting you to call me ‘Cecil’”

  “You’re right, dear. You never have. But if I were to wait always until you spoke about things, I’d have to wait ages. You don’t say a word. You just look things. Until just lately, when you’ve written ’em in your diary instead. I’m sorry I told you I’d read it, now. It might have been useful later on.”

  “I’ll never write another word in it in the future, anyway.”

  “Oh, you must, dear. You must finish it, of course. You mustn’t waste a whole book when you’ve got a wife dependent on your earnings.”

  “A book?”

  “Why, yes, dear. It’s a book, of sorts.”

  “It’d just about serve you right if I were to publish it.”

  “I hope you will,” said Constance, demurely. “I should like to have a book published that is all about me. And, oh my dear, I nearly died when I read what you had written about that letter Pip Masters sent me. That was useful, too. Because when Kitty Fisher called and I found you’d been up to something in town that day without telling me, I’d have been as cross as anything, except that I knew that sooner or later I’d read all about it in the diary. Aren’t you a dear old stupid to get all tied up that way?”

  “That settles it. I will publish it. You’ll meet with your just deserts for once, by having the truth written about you.”

  “But it’s not the truth, dear,” said Constance. “It’s only what you think is the truth about me. I—I wish it were the truth.”

  I kissed her hands.

  “That makes me fee
l proud,” said Constance, “just as the book did.”

  And a second later Constance said:

  “Don’t squeeze the life out of me—not yet, dear.” Then she gurgled. “Dear,” she said, “will you put that in the book, too? I don’t see why you shouldn’t, and yet—If a husband can’t squeeze his own wife I should like to know who can squeeze whom. The book’s all about kissing me when it isn’t about quarrelling with me and being jealous about me. Any one would think we never did anything else. And we do, sometimes, don’t we? Yes, and I don’t think any nice woman would like to have all this described in print. But I don’t mind. I suppose I’m not a nice woman,”

  My contradiction of this last statement was wordless, but it took some time. After it Constance was pulling my hair and regarding me back and forth.

  “What a dissipated wreck you do look with your collar half undone like that,” said she. “But I like you. I really like you. I—love you.” With her cheek to mine Constance whispered something:

  “Dear, I wasn’t being spiteful when I said that about not having anything to call you by all this time. And I’ve thought of a nice name for you, now.”

  “What is that?” I asked, softly.

  Constance’s head drooped lower.

  “Father,” she whispered.

  I crushed her against me.

  “But—but—you don’t want to go all through that again?” I whispered.

  “I don’t mind, dear. I—I should like to—for you. And the first thing I asked after—after Baby John came, dear, was whether it would make any difference—later. And they said it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t happen again.”

  I did not know that Constance had asked that; of course she had, though. I had asked the same, and had received the same answer.

  “Dear,” said Constance to me, “I’m feeling shy.”

  She wriggled herself out of my grasp, pattered across the floor, scrambled into bed, and hid herself beneath the sheets. But, struck with a better idea, she re-emerged and stretched out her arm to the bedside lamp. There was a click, and I was plunged into darkness—battling with my collar.