Love Lies Dreaming

  The floodgates of Constance’s troubles were opened. As I tried to draw her to me she resisted a little, feebly, holding back from me.

  “I didn’t know before that,” she said. “Before he began to come I thought you wanted him. If I’d dreamed you didn’t I wouldn’t ever have wanted him. I wouldn’t have wanted him even if I did want him ever so much. But that morning when you asked me and I told you that he was coming and you weren’t pleased—I knew you weren’t pleased, although you said you were—it hurt me, dear. I wanted to be so glad and happy, and I cried all day after you had gone, because you weren’t glad too. And then I thought you’d changed, and we were both so happy, and now you start saying that he’ll wish he had never been born, and that we oughtn’t to have had him, and—and—all that sort of thing. You say it as if you didn’t mean it, but I never know, never, never. And—I don’t think I love you any more.”

  The tears trickled down her woebegone cheeks, and went on trickling even after I had tried to wipe them away with my pocket-handkerchief. They only stopped trickling after I had whispered to her all I could tell her of what was in my heart, hopes and fears and jealousies. And as I told her I cursed the fate that made me tongue-tied in the presence of my wife. Six books to my name, for two years the youngest author in the Literary Year Book, a facile scribbler about love of all sorts, and yet I was unable to tell my wife how I loved her! But this time she understood.

  That tiny incident was the only fleck of eight months of supreme happiness. The books—even my own, I fear—talk about living happily ever after. Yet never even in books has there been happiness comparable to ours, fleck or no fleck. On Judgment Day when my fate goes into the balance it will not be my books or my good deeds that will turn the scale in my favor. It will be the fact that I have given happiness to Constance. It is that which justifies my existence; I am proud that I have been able to do so.

  Eight happy, dreaming placid months. There were sources of irritation that both Constance and I were able to ignore. Constance’s mother, for instance, is an admirable woman, but from the way she behaved it might almost have been thought that Baby John was her child, not Constance’s. All the women we knew who had children—and even some of the older ones who had not—adopted toward her a proprietorial air which under other circumstances I would have found maddening. I, of course, dropped out of the picture to their minds altogether. I think it was merely typical of the mass of self-deception among women which induces them to believe that the masculine share in the production of the next generation is a mere formality. They act as though they believe that, sometimes.

  Even Mrs. Rundle began to treat me with a pitying air of patronage. When I tried to assert myself I was received with a withering disdain which tore my self-respect from me and left me as a bolster robbed of its stuffing. I found consolation in the fact that she bore herself toward Constance, in domestic matters, in much the same way as she would have borne herself toward a twelve-year-old daughter of the house—tempering her apparent respect with apparent amusement, and flavoring the blend with complete disregard for instructions. Constance and I might as well have been a pair of children as the prospective father and mother of a family. But Constance found an infallible method of reducing her to immediate solicitude and subordination. She had only to hint for a moment that she felt tired, or a little out of sorts, for Mrs. Rundle’s attitude to change immediately. She would proffer respectful yet garrulous advice; she would even manage to call her “ma’am” (Mrs. Rundle found usually that it came more naturally to her lips to call Constance “Miss”); and then it would only need two words from Constance to launch forth upon a sea of reminiscence regarding every one of her numerous confinements.

  Eight happy, happy months. That was the period during which I wrote Mary-round-the-Corner, which is my best book, and always will be, whatever the critics say. Quiet months, happy months, hopeful months.

  A hundred yards from home was the nursing home to which Constance betook herself when the time came. She did not go without many misgivings; she could not believe me capable of looking after myself for four consecutive weeks. It was quite an effort for me to convince her that Mrs. Rundle would not let me starve, although I was forced to admit that at the same time she was quite capable of letting me start for the office in the morning with an unbrushed coat collar.

  Mrs. Rundle was to devote all day to looking after me, so Constance decided. What on earth she would find to do passed my comprehension, but Constance was very much afraid in case my dinners when I arrived home should not be all they ought to be. I pointed out to Constance that for five-and-twenty years previous to our marriage I had managed to struggle through life without her ministrations, but the most effective argument was that she would be seeing me every day and would thus have ocular assurance of my well-being. With less than a hundred yards dividing us, seeing me every day, and with the telephone to connect us at will, Constance might just as well, I pointed out, be in the next room. I hope that comforted her; at the nursing home I had caught a whiff of anesthetic—and that had turned me sick with fear now that the full realization of the fact that Constance would shortly be in peril of her life was forced home to me.

  So Constance was at “The Laurels,” and when I reached home in the evenings there was no one to meet me in the hall, no one to ask how she had gone through the day. Instead there was Mrs. Rundle’s untidy head thrust round the kitchen door with her inevitable question, “Will you ’ave it now, sir?” I always did ’ave it now, and scampered through the meal so as to hurry off to “The Laurels.” And there the time flew by although we said little. We had already worked out John’s future career in all its possible aspects. We knew just what he would look like, whose nose he would have and whose eyes. We knew that his bringing up would be exemplary, and that his feeding would be beautifully regular, and that no amount of wailing on his part would advance his mealtimes by one second before the ordained moment. Not that he would cry much—he would be too good a baby, and the routine would be too well adapted to his internal economy. And his weight would progress steadily, and at the seventh month he could cut his first incisor, and at nine months he would be weaned and would show no objection. We decided on his school, but I don’t think we had come to any irrevocable decision as to his profession, except that I had mentally decided that if he showed any tendency toward literature I would endeavor reasonably to persuade him not to devote himself voluntarily to an existence where the kicks far outnumbered all the ha’pence brought in by a fifteen per cent. royalty. But I expected he would be self-willed and headstrong, and persist in the ambition—and write those books which I should like to write and which I shall never achieve. Constance was far more interested in whom he was going to marry. I am nearly sure that she was placidly confident and happy—nearly sure. But even if Constance were afraid at times she would not show it to me. And I don’t think Constance knew of my fear.

  It was fairly early in the morning when the telephone bell rang. They said it would be as well if I were to come—and they said nothing else over the telephone despite my questionings. A cold, iron-gray morning in early February. And even when I reached “The Laurels” I was thrust into the waiting-room to pass the minutes in cold anxiety. I tried to convince myself that all the bustle and hurryings that I heard were due to the ordinary routine of the beginning of the nursing home day, and I told myself many times that there were a dozen other patients in the home besides Constance, and that the worried atmosphere which I sensed when I spoke to the matron for a moment was due to some other one and not to Constance.

  Later, when the matron came to me again, I grasped at her meaning, although afterward I was unable to recall more than a word or two of what she said. There was something about “hip presentation,” “impossible to diagnose beforehand,” and “very unfortunate.” She showed evident sympathy when in an agony I asked after Constance. But sympathy was unavailing in the face of her obvious reserve. And with her halting permission to see
Constance for a few moments there was a nervous stress upon the need to do and say nothing to excite her in the least.

  There was still a reek of ether in the room where Constance lay very still and very white. One hand was just outside the bedclothes for me to touch, and the thin fingers clasped mine with heart-breaking weakness. Yet even then Constance made a brave effort to smile lightly at my dumb distress. Only a whispered word or two, while all that was mortal of Baby John lay lonely in the next room; then they sent me out again, and home, with instructions not to move out of reach of the telephone. I had not been able to utter one single word of comfort or of love—I failed in my duty, and Constance was still in peril of her life, bearing her trouble unshared.

  Mrs. Rundle had arrived when I reached home. She had found me gone, and had guessed whither. At the sound of my key in the door there was no untidy head thrust out of the kitchen. Instead she came bustling forth with a smile, a smile that vanished as soon as she saw my face, and her eager questionings grew mute.

  Later she brought in my breakfast, as I sat in torment by the unlighted fire. I did not move toward it; she must have expected me to have no interest in breakfast at that moment. With never a word spoken she poured out a cup of tea and brought it across to me, and as she stood at my side waiting for me to take it her free arm touched my elbow. It may have been my involuntary movement that moved her. However it was, I found myself holding that cup of tea, and sipping from it, too, with my charwoman patting me on the shoulder and murmuring silly little words of comfort. Silly little words, and there was no doubt at all that it was an unheard-of thing for a charwoman to pat her employer on the shoulder, but a lonely and desolate man takes comfort from all sorts of strange things.

  Yet no later than the next morning did I think Mrs. Rundle heartless, despite the fact that “The Laurels” had announced that Constance was much better, and that my last fear might not be realized. Mrs. Rundle came to me and asked for an advance on her wages, not due for another three days. I gave it to her; it was not a matter to argue about at a time like that, but I caught myself wondering whether Constance would approve, and also feeling a slight irritation that Mrs. Rundle should bother me about that sort of thing at a time when I had other troubles.

  For I had to arrange with a ghoulish man, hard of eye and oily of mouth, about Baby John’s first and last, ride through London streets. Baby John and I, alone in a carriage together, while Constance struggled back to health in that disinfectant-scented room at “The Laurels.” Baby John and I, while the errand boys snatched off their cap as we passed, and the horses reined up to let us through—such of them as had drivers of any courtesy. Baby John and I; and he would never, much as I had looked forward to it, point wonderingly at the horses and the big, red omnibuses, never dribble excitedly at the pageant of the streets, never, never, never. February, and we passed half a dozen trees glorious in almond blossom, mocking the hopes I had built upon so slight a foundation. But with Baby John there rode fresh spring flowers, scented and wonderful. That was why Mrs. Rundle had asked for that advance payment of wages. A drunken husband left her no money at mid-week for flowers for Baby John.

  And the horses’ hoofs drummed out one persistent, half-remembered phrase.

  “If blood be the price of admiralty—

  If blood be the price of admiralty—

  If blood be the price of admiralty—

  Lord God, we have paid for all.”

  Meaningless words, for Constance had paid in blood and agony for much less than admiralty.

  It was a bleak and drear place to which Baby John and I took our only ride together, and there was a bleak wind. Then homeward, by myself, all alone, with the almond blossom nagging at me as I passed it.

  Chapter V

  It is a pity that this last day of Mrs. Rundle’s should come on a wet Saturday. Of course I am a coward to wish myself out of the house on this occasion; I will even admit it; I am annoyed and bothered that it is raining too hard and determinedly for me to plead the possibility of its stopping so that I can slip away to the golf club and escape Mrs. Rundle’s quiet acceptance of the inevitable—and the reproach in Constance’s eyes. The three of us are all being obstinately logical and as miserable as the devil. It is a pity, too, that I let myself think about Baby John and Mrs. Rundle yesterday. It makes me all the more miserable. It seems Judas-like to dismiss her after that, and yet if every one allowed the fact that a person was in his service at the time of the death of his only child to influence him in his employment of that person the world would be the less efficiently run. And although with me efficiency is only an ideal, yet it ought to be an ideal.

  Since I wrote that last paragraph Mrs. Rundle has gone. The flat has been cleaned and polished up to a state of transcendent perfection all ready to impress Mrs. Rundle’s successor when she comes on Monday. At least, Constance says it is in a state of perfection. I find it very difficult to see any difference.

  At twelve o’clock I heard the two women whispering together outside by study door. Then there was a knock.

  “Come in,” I said. Enter Mrs. Rundle.

  “I just want to say good-by, sir,” said she.

  What the devil was I to say? How does one bid farewell to a retiring charwoman—especially one who knows as much about one as does Mrs. Rundle. Shamefacedly I mumbled something about “the best of luck.” Then, as she turned to go, I dived for my pocketbook.

  “Here,” I said, “half a minute.”

  My fingers seemed all thumbs as I tugged the thing open and scrabbled for its contents.

  “Mind you keep that you yourself. Don’t let that husband of yours know you’ve got it,” I said. Then I dived for the typewriter and started it rattling tremendously, without any paper in it, while Mrs. Rundle withdrew, defeated in her efforts to thank me. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that young Tommy Rundle will not go short of bread and butter for a week or two to come.

  I don’t know how Constance guessed about it. Mrs. Rundle may have told her, or she may have seen the notes in her hand. My own personal opinion is that she listened at the door, for Constance would have no morals at all about a thing like that under those circumstances. If I were to tax her with it she would be perfectly brazen, and admit it too charmingly for me to be able to take any further action.

  But she knows, and I think it has counted in my favor. At lunch she was friendlier to me than ever—I had been anticipating that tete-a-tete meal with apprehension. It is a curious sensation to woo one’s wife all over again. Somehow I was transported back over nearly five years, to the time when one of Constance’s smiles meant a victory—another niche cut in the difficult ascent that lay before me. today Constance smiled at me across the table with a brilliance that dazzled me, just as it used to do in the old days, before I grew spoiled. Constance is delicious and most tantalizingly inaccessible. She doesn’t seem in the least degree to be my wife. I feel much more like a relieved widower making my first advances to number two.

  After lunch I gazed regretfully out of the window at the streaming rain.

  “Only tennis for you this week-end, my lad,” said Constance.

  Our unvoiced arrangement is that I play golf at the club on a Saturday, and tennis with Constance on Sunday. Constance (who has the profoundest contempt for golf) says that that gives me a chance to gossip on Saturday and some healthy exercise on Sunday. There is always unblushing triumph in Constance’s demeanor on a wet Saturday.

  “If I did the right and proper thing a husband ought to do,” I said (I felt extraordinarily daring at using the word “husband”), “I’d shake you until you said you were sorry I’m missing my golf.”

  “Poop!” said Constance, “you wouldn’t dare. Besides, it’ll do you good to stop at home for once and entertain your wife.”

  There was half a look and half a gesture when Constance uttered the word “wife” that made me perfectly certain that Constance’s thoughts had been following the same lines as had my own.
She was teasing me. Constance flirts rather nicely.

  “Haven’t you anything better to do?” I asked, countering. “There’s no tennis, I admit. But aren’t there any women you want to go and gossip with over the teacups? No young men anxious to console a golf widow?”

  The last question actually called forth a blush. Constance only blushes when there is nothing particular to blush about.

  “Not today,” said Constance. “If there were, do you think I’d trouble about you?”

  I allowed Constance to have the last word. It is the easier plan. I reached for the paper and pretended to read it. It can not be said that I studied it attentively. I was too busy deciding mentally that there was much to be said for the harem system. If there were nobody to interfere, no Mrs. Rundles to make nuisances of themselves, there would not have been the little sting that Constance’s last sentence had carried with it—not that she meant anything stinging. For the moment I wanted to be alone with Constance out of the world, where perhaps there would not be any misunderstandings. A desert island, for instance.

  Constance interrupted my meditation.

  “You men!” said Constance.

  “What have we done now?” I asked, looking up from the paper I had not been reading.

  “I believe there’s only one thing you ever think about.”

  “It’s good news to hear that there’s even one. What is it that we single out for so much honor?”

  “Don’t try to wriggle out of it that way. You know what I mean. I don’t mean just one thing in particular. I mean—I mean one set of things.”

  “Well, that’s a bit kinder. And this set of things, as you call it, is—?”

  “You can sit there with that paper in front of you, staring at it for ten minutes without stopping, and then try to make out you don’t know what I’m talking about?”