Love Lies Dreaming (19 page)

“And what, young man,' she asked, “and what the devil do
you
want?”

“I want nothing,' said I. “I seem to be in Paradise already.”

My attention was suddenly called to the large, wet, dripping sponge in Constance's right hand.

“If you stay and annoy me any more,” said she, “I shall chuck this sponge at you, and hit you right on that nice pique waistcoat. Then you'll have to change your shirt and your waistcoat and your collar and your tie. Buck up. There's not much water left in the bath, and I'm getting cold.”

I went. I did not want to go—and Constance knew it. And Constance knew I knew she knew.

Little pink and white, sleek little Constance! At that moment, as at all others during the evening, I was
hungrily, vilely anxious to take her in my arms again. The thought of her wet body, incredibly slender and lissom, set the pulses beating in my throat with a dull urgency. I wanted Constance very badly; but infinitely more did I want a hint of some friendliness other than the kind she offered me. Constance is adorable when she is sisterly, or motherly, or cousinly, or when, as at the present moment, she is platonically wifely. But I wanted her otherwise. If I could only be sure that Constance still loved me, she could be as platonic as she wished to be—at least, so I think at present. I suppose I would change my mind fast enough if put to the test.

And more than once in my books have I condemned my hero to a life where his aching heart is concealed behind a smiling countenance. It is a very popular situation—the brave, strong man, who lets no one guess (until the last few pages) the wound from which he suffers, and goes through life with a jest and a kind word for every one. I am neither brave nor strong (no one ever could be as brave and as strong as a novel hero), and Constance is perfectly well aware of what is the wound from which I am suffering. But all the
same I have got to conceal it for the time being. I said Saturday in my letter, and Saturday it must be—Constance would never forgive me now if I let my impatience overmaster me. Besides, she might not be ready—ready for whatever course of action she ma' take next Saturday. But Constance and I must talk together till then. We must talk, and so we talk with a laugh on our lips and apprehension in our eyes. I am afraid that Constance has ceased to love me.

Constance came into the room more beautiful than ever.

“Well,” said she, “do you like the new frock?”

I did. I said so. I devoured her with my eyes—dear, radiant Constance.

“It looks topping,” I said. “First rate. And what the devil is it going to cost me?”

Constance for the moment did not answer me.

“Turn your back,” said Constance. “Now tell me what color the frock is—no,
don't
try to look—tell me without looking.”

Of course I could not. I confessed as much, miserably. No one except a Boy Scout or
costumier
or an
anchorite could possibly note the color of a frock when Constance was inside it—partly inside it.

“Now do you think,” said Constance, when I had turned back again, “now do you think that you have any right whatever to ask the price of a frock whose color you didn't even notice?”

Constance is an adept at the counter-offensive. For once I could find nothing to say in reply—and Constance took advantage of the fact to go on to say:

“Just maintain your soul in patience, then, and when the bill comes—write your check in patience.”

So to the dance. Once more I was reminded of my pre-married days—so much so that no sooner were we outside the door than I found myself stopping a taxicab and helping Constance in. For years now Constance and I have relied upon 'buses to take us to dances and theaters; tonight it was a taxicab. And Constance made no remark upon it—for which I loved her more dearly than ever. But there was a look in her eyes—as far as I could see; for her lids drooped demurely—which told me that the phenomenon had not passed unnoticed.

It was in the cloakroom that I first had notice that
the evening was to be utterly spoiled for me. Some one slapped me on the shoulder. A musical voice said:

“Hullo, Trevor, old man. Haven't seen you for years. How's things—how's Connie?”

It was Dewey. It took me some time to answer him. For the moment I could only look at him—could only notice the splendid, close-cut curling hair waving back from the broad forehead, and the sparkle in the dark eyes, and the flush on the dark cheeks. Dewey is easily the handsomest man I know, and there had been a time when Constance loved him. They had even been betrothed. But since our marriage, and for some period, length unknown, before then, she had not seen him. We had heard about him, though—at least, I had. I do not know whether Constance had; we do not mention Dewey to each other. And what I had heard about Dewey was not to his advantage—although the rumors showed definitely enough that he had not lost his old attractiveness for women.

Now he was back again in our circle, apparently. And he would see Constance—Constance, whom he still had the impertinence to call “Connie.” It seemed the result of a plot by a malign fate that they should
be thrown together again just when all was not entirely well between Constance and myself.

“Good evening,” I said, lamely enough, and we shook hands.

“Connie here this evening?” asked Dewey.

“She is.”

“Good man! I should like to see her again—I've often wondered how she was getting along and all that sort of thing. I haven't heard of any little Trevors yet—there aren't any, I suppose?”

“None,” said I. I could willingly have killed Dewey at that moment.

Out of the cloakroom again, to meet a dazzling, radiant, bewildering Constance; dazzling solely by contrast, for her frock was black and plain to the last degree, now that I came to notice it. But it was the sort of plainness which doubles the price—even in my present preoccupied state of mind I made that observation to myself. Clearly Constance had spared no pains to be at her best this evening. I refused to allow myself to think that she had any definite motive for so doing—that she had any foreknowledge that Dewey was to be at the dance as well.

Constance saw that I was depressed about something. Constance would—of course, she would. She put her hand in my arm as we made our way through the crowd into the ballroom, and she whispered:

“What's gone wrong, old thing?” And then, as we sat down, she saw Dewey, tall and handsome and heavily built, entering the room.

“Oh, I know,” said Constance, pressing my arm. “Stupid!”

Sometimes it is comforting to be called “stupid” by one's wife.

But the comfort soon evaporated. Dewey made straight for us. “Hullo, Connie!” “Hullo, Cecil!” “I really think you have grown.” “Well, it's long enough, isn't it?”

Of course, it was sheer idiocy on my part to be jealous. Hang it all, Constance couldn't call Dewey anything else but Cecil, seeing that was all she had ever called him since she could remember. And Dewey was surely entitled to call Constance “Connie,” on the same ground. Neither Constance nor Dewey—thank God—knows that the reason why I always call Constance by her full name without abbreviation is because
“Connie” was employed by Dewey at the period when I knew Constance first. No one besides myself has ever called her Constance. That is a gratifying thing to think about—although, of course, it is perfectly absurd to be pleased about it.

And Dewey was saying, “I'm in luck meeting you this evening. There's such lots to talk about. You'll give me some dances, won't you?” Constance had the grace to hesitate, and to glance inquiringly at me. Naturally I could only smile and give her a free hand. Apparent jealousy is an insult to one's wife. And I know that Dewey is a much better dancer than I am—and, after all, Constance loves dancing. Dewey proceeded to take an option on all odd numbers up to midnight.

After Dewey came the others of the motley horde which follows Constance wherever she goes. Undergraduates with red hands and large feet. Very young men in city offices, magnificently brilliantined. Elderly beaux who knew her when she was in short frocks—shorter even than she wears them now. They came trooping up, all eager for the treat, like the young oysters. To some few she granted dances—only a
few. Pip Masters was the man with whom Constance usually danced, and this evening Pip was absent—he was enjoying alien charms. Normally Constance gives half her time at dances to Pip Masters, one quarter to me, and the remaining quarter to the fringe of the crowd. This evening Dewey seemed to be granted Pip Master's share—and—he would stand in sharp contrast to the memory of the faithless Pip, and to the angular youthfulness of the others.

Seemingly by brute force Constance tore herself away from the circle which had formed round us, and put herself in my arms. She smiled up at me as we went down the room, brilliant, daring, and wonderful. Not for a long time could I remember her in such high spirits. Certainly not during the last week and more. I smiled back at her as gladly as I might. Somewhere within there was a hideous, rankling suspicion. For what reason could there be for this overflowing brightness, except Dewey's presence? There could be no other—none at all. Certainly it was not I—I could be sure of that.

“I think I'm going to enjoy myself this evening,” said Constance.

“Your train seems to be present in force, at any; rate,” I replied.

“And isn't it nice seeing Cecil again,” Constance went on, “he's such a beautiful dancer, and as far as I can see he hasn't got any special partner here at all.”

“M'yes,” said I. There was that in my tone which must have warned Constance that she was on dangerous ground.

“I'll call him Mr. Dewey, if you like,” said Constance, reproachfully, “but it's absolutely balmy.”

“Of course; you can call him what you like, old thing,” I said. And I honestly meant it.

“Thank you,” said Constance, demurely. Our dance together was hardly a success.

For me, indeed, the whole evening was a failure. Jealousy is a curious affliction. I never thought I would succumb to it; I always thought I had too much faith in Constance. My faith in Constance is unaltered. I know that she would never dream of deceiving me. But—If ever Constance decided she loved another man better than me, I should be the last to stand in her way. I know that I would take a strange perverse interest in allowing the affair to develop without hindrance.
Partly it would be a genuine desire to make Constance happy, but only partly. The rest would be—“if she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be?” And I know that a married woman in the midst of a tiff with her husband is sometimes easy prey. I have preyed that way myself, before now. So has Dewey. Dewey has splendid good looks and a silver tongue and a conscience which must be as much an asset in his way of life as his looks or his gift of gab; besides he knew a great deal about Constance once upon a time. Does a woman kiss a man more readily because she has kissed him before? My experience goes to show that she does; I wish to God I had never had any experience.

Half-way through the dance I was wondering whether I should not simply take Constance away, there and then. I could tell her that I would prefer her not to see Dewey again. Most probably she would fall in with my wishes. She would be at no pains to conceal her amusement at my anxiety, and I would fall a good many points in her estimation. And—it would certainly stimulate her interest in Dewey, should she by any chance refuse. I discarded the idea, heavy with anxiety.

Normally when I accompany Constance to dances I am only too glad to have her off my hands as much as possible. There are many better dancers than I, and I like her to enjoy herself. Besides, although a twenty-mile walk would leave me barely fatigued and Constance quite exhausted, Constance can outstay me with ease when it comes to dancing. I like a rest of at least one in four, while I smoke a cigarette without interruption. It would be like Purgatory to Constance to sit out one in four. And, to tell the truth, I am usually intensely gratified to see the young men cutting swathes through their young affections.

But not this evening. I stood at the end of the room and watched the dancers eddying past me. Constance was among them—Constance and Dewey. He is a tall man, and Constance has to look up in his face to talk to him, as much as she does with me. She was smiling and chattering gaily, and he was smiling back with the flash in his dark eyes which has found its way to so many girls' hearts. He was talking, too, fluently, and masterfully. And I was bitterly, horribly jealous.

I danced a few dances with Constance. It was she who suggested the first.

“Have you one to spare?” I asked in reply—and the question was only half sarcastic.

“Of course, I have, silly,” said Constance. “I like dancing with you, you know.”

We talked very little while we danced or in the intervals. Constance wanted to talk; she was so full of high spirits. But I did not want to be treated in the same way as Dewey; I did not want her to chatter away to me unless she had not been chattering to any one else. My replies dwindled away to monosyllables. And always, as the interval ended, Dewey would come striding up, head erect and obviously conscious of his power, attracting the attention of every eye in the room. “It's ours this time, isn't it?” he would say, and Constance would rise and give me half a smile (the other half for Dewey) and drift away from me in his arms.

At one interval Dewey and I found ourselves standing together. “Connie's looking fine this evening, old man, isn't she?” said Dewey.

I nearly said, “Damn your impudence,” but I checked myself and replied, “I'll tell her you said so,” as politely as I could.

“No need, old man. I've told her so already.”

Dewey would, of course.

“She's come on wonderfully since I saw her last,' Dewey went on. “I suppose married life suits her.”