Love Lies Dreaming (20 page)

Confounded impertinence! But I could hardly be deliberately rude to him under those circumstances. It would look very bad if I were to quarrel with Dewey before those assembled people. I might enjoy it, but it would not be fair to Constance. Instead, I only answered:

“You'd better try it yourself, at any rate.”

“No thanks, old man. Nearly did, once, you know. Dam' sure it wouldn't suit me. ‘Better times for bachelors' is my motto. I know when I'm well off.”

“Well, it's a useful thing to know.”

“I should say so. But you know, it's jolly queer meeting Connie again after all this long time. Can't help thinking of the old days while I'm dancing with her. Hullo, they're starting again. D'you know where she is, old man? I want this one with her.”

With that he went off, having trodden on every one of my favorite corns.

I know that seemingly frank pose. I have employed
it myself, on occasions. It will even deceive fathers. Display keen interest and nothing more, and you will not be suspected of anything more. It pays better than to try to simulate indifference. Dewey has evidently learned that lesson, even as I did once.

When there is a buffet supper at a dance, Constance's young men are useful. They will plunge into the seething mob around the buffet to obtain supper; they will plunge in again and again, if necessary, emerging each time loaded with what you have requested them to obtain. They save me an immense amount of trouble. But at supper this evening Dewey sat with us, and frightened the young men away.

“I want,” said Constance to me, “I want all the
nice
things you can get hold of. Those little caviare sandwiches, and a
vol-au-vent
, and that sort of thing. And the claret cup's beastly—I've tried it. Get something else instead.”

Dewey made no attempt to move, and I dived unassisted into the crowd. I emerged at length, laden with everything I could find which Constance might like. Some clumsy ass had spilled some of the maligned claret cup over the shoulder of my dress-coat. I tottered
up to our table and dumped my burdens upon it.

“Thanks, old man,” said Dewey, helping himself. I could only hope that those sandwiches would give him botulism, or something. And I regretted that, thanks to my dexterity, he was not compelled to drink claret cup.

It was shortly after supper that Constance said to me, suddenly:

“Let's go home.”

I could only stare at her, for she was so obviously enjoying herself.

“I mean it,” said Constance “Your tummy's upset, or something, isn't it? Anyway, you're fed up. Let's go home and then you can sleep it off.”

But I did not want to take Constance away before she wanted to go.

“Oh, no,” I said, “I'm all right. Really I am. Let's stay a bit longer; I want to see if you could ever get tired through dancing.”

“Just as you like,” said Constance, “but remember—‘he who will not when he may'—”

And at that she was gone, for at that very moment arrived one of the young men to claim her. But—but
—there was a look in Constance's eye as she said those last few words. There might be some additional significance, to Constance's mind, in that quotation. It worried me.

Constance even seemed the least, smallest bit disappointed at my refusal to fall in with her suggestion; she might even be said to look a little hurt. But the brilliance of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks certainly seemed to prove that she was enjoying the dance.

It was toward the end of the evening that I had my worst shock. We were sitting together—Constance, Dewey and I. For some minutes conversation had languished. Then, suddenly, as if after considerable weighing of pros and cons, Constance invited Dewey to dinner.

“You really
must
come,” said she. “We haven't been able to talk
nearly
enough this evening.”

“I'd love to,” said Dewey, hesitatingly, “but”—he dived into the pocket of his dress waistcoat and produced a tiny diary—“I seem to be rather full up for some time to come. There's only—let me see—there's only to-morrow during the next three weeks.”

“To-morrow?” said Constance. “To-morrow? To-morrow
will do beautifully. Come to-morrow—eight o'clock.”

“Thanks very much,” said Dewey, putting away his diary. “You don't want me to dress, I suppose?”

“Not we,” said Constance, “we're plebeian folk. We even dressed for this affair
after
we had dined. I believe this husband of mine is uncomfortable if he knows he has to take special care to keep the soup off his waistcoat.”

Dewey guffawed. As for me, I was struck dumb, paralyzed. What the devil did Constance want this hulking underbred fellow to dinner for? There was only one reason that I could see—and that reason was one I did not wish to contemplate. For a few moments I contemplated telling Constance that I had a long-settled engagement for the evening, but I put the project aside. Constance would be quite capable of dining tête-à-tête with Dewey, if she analyzed my motives successfully. And Constance is well able to analyze my motives; and I did not want Dewey to find her alone. It would put ideas into his head (if they were not there already) and it might put ideas into Constance's head as well. I relapsed deeper into
morose silence; the world seemed bleak and inconceivably cruel.

I did not recover on the way home. We took a cab—I wanted to reach home as quickly as we might so that, by myself, and away from all this din and sparkle, I could consider all these unpleasant circumstances. Constance tried to talk. She snuggled up to me in the darkness of the cab, exactly as would some naughty spoiled child.

“You haven't enjoyed yourself a bit, have you, old thing?” she said, and I knew that her hand was seeking mine—but I kept mine in my pocket.

“But you've enjoyed yourself, old thing,” said I, “so what does it matter?”

“I don't know that I have,” said Constance, dolefully. So dolefully, in fact, that I nearly turned to her to put my arm about her. Only nearly. I checked myself in time. I had said I would wait till Saturday, and, of course, I must. Besides, the last time I tried to comfort Constance in that way she had checked me.

I wanted to ask Constance why she had invited Dewey to the flat, but somehow I could not. It is never an easy matter for me to mention him to her,
and at the moment it seemed doubly difficult. My hesitation devoured the period during which the threepences clicked up on the taximeter. Long before I expected it, the cab drew up outside our home. I helped Constance out, and she ran up the steps to open the door while I settled with the driver. When I got in Constance had turned on the light and was leaning against the back of a chair.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I'm so tired and
so
sleepy. And I've got to be
so
careful getting out of this frock.”

“Poor old thing,” I said. I was dog-tired, myself. Constance was drooping against the chair back like a wilting flower. But there was still some color and light in her face, and she smiled to me bravely.

“I'm sorry you've had such a wretched evening, dear,” she said, gathering up her cloak and moving slowly past me out of the room. At the door she said:

“Good night—good night, old thing.”

“Good night,” I answered. She was clearly too tired for me to keep her up any longer to discuss things. I let her go. She called “Good night” to me
again from her room, in a very tired, weary little voice. What with Dewey and the others, she must have been under considerable emotional strain this evening, poor little child.

If this were a novel I was writing I would be delighted with the progress I am making. Last night before I went to bed, tired though I was, I was able to finish a whole chapter. I must have worked at a speed comparable to Scott's, when he wrote
Waverley
in three weeks. This recording of emotions and impression is fast becoming a passion with me—and considering that never before have I kept any sort of diary I ought to be pleased with myself. Of course, the writing habit is grained into me by this time. And this diary has become a sort of confidant to me; it is some sort of substitute for confiding in Constance.

It will make queer reading for me in the future, however that future results. And the immediate, pressing future will perhaps affect it more than any other period in my life. I have two hours here for writing before Dewey arrives for dinner. I wonder what my next chapter will be about? I wonder. Perhaps
I am only making a fool of myself by worrying like this. Perhaps—I wonder. I wonder.

I don't think that any one who knows me—barring Constance, of course—would possibly guess that there was anything wrong. My friends at my clubs, and the men about the office, even my little typist girl, who hangs on my lips because I am the author of
Mary-round-the-Corner
, have made no comment. Outsiders are apparently unable to guess that for days past my happiness has been hanging in the balance. It is a strange situation; I wonder if parallels to it occur in any other families? I expect that to most people it would appear absurd for me to write to Constance as I did two days ago, and still more absurd that we should rigidly leave the subject undiscussed until the day I suggested—Saturday. Yet to me, and I dare say to Constance, such an arrangement is most sane and natural; at the same time it is intensely anxious. It is difficult for me to endure till Saturday, and yet now that I have named Saturday it would not be fair to Constance suddenly to ask her to make up her mind now.

Nevertheless, when I made the arrangement I did not know that Constance and Dewey were to meet last
night, and I certainly did not know that Constance would ask him to dinner this evening. That makes me more anxious than ever. Dewey may be a flamboyant vulgarian, but in the present state of stress he is more likely than not to find that useful if he is in pursuit of Constance. Constance would not have to worry about his feelings, whereas I must get on her nerves atrociously most of the time. If Constance and I were both like Dewey we should never have got into this trouble at all. As it is, I am tortured with anxiety in case Constance is as worried about things as I am. And I would give a great deal to know what I shall be writing in this book after Dewey has gone this evening.

Perhaps this is some sort of poetic revenge on me. Often and often in my books have I worked up to some carefully concealed dénouement, keeping my readers in suspense (as well as I was able) and delighting in the thought that they might be worrying about what was going to happen. Now it is I who is worrying about the dénouement; and it is hardly fair, for a man reading a book, if the worst comes to the worst and he can not bear the suspense, can always turn over and read the last chapter—and I can not, Besides, annoying
though it is, I can not stop my author's instinct from exerting itself, and from trying to work out what would be the most artistic ending. There might be the same happy ending, suitable for weekly magazines, wherein all the troubles blow over and Constance receives me happily into her arms. Or there could be the caveman soft of ending—a pitched battle between Dewey and myself, in which the better man wins, and after which Constance comes obediently to the call of the victor. The victor might either be Dewey or myself. Conveniently, I would be the victor, because (I suppose) I am the hero of this diary. At any rate, I am the only man who appears continuously in its pages. But the convention is dying out; artistically, it would not be a bad ending for Dewey to strike me down, and to bear Constance away with him, leaving me blinded and heart-broken—very deserving, of course, but unsuccessful—writhing on the floor of the flat. Constance would look at me with momentary pity, but Dewey's iron hand would be on her arm, and she would be carried away by his triumphant passion, out of my life, and with hardly a thought or a regret for the poor devil left behind.

Not a bad ending, but that would be precious poor consolation for me.

To come back to hard facts, a battle between Dewey and myself might be well worth seeing. He can give me an inch in height, and maybe a stone in weight, but I doubt if he is in good condition, and his brute strength would probably leave him early in the fray. And I think my mad rage would aid my skill, instead of discounting it. I have only to think of the struggle to feel within me that cold violence which carried me through the day at Paschendaele, for instance, when the finest division in the British army was torn to bloody rags on the uncut wire, and when the bayonets of the hundred survivors of my battalion ran red to the rifle muzzles. We took no prisoners that day; that is how I feel toward Dewey at the moment. Nine years have not altered me, it seems; yet I was barely nineteen when I took a platoon into action at Paschendaele, and brought seven men out.

I suppose it is typical of an author to plan a way out of his own difficulties by brute force. For his own job a particular dexterity and finesse and low cunning are called for; he has to get his characters into situations
and out of them; he has to make love vicariously to all sorts and conditions of women; he has to play upon passion like a violinist upon a violin. Above all, he must be able to use words; his effects entirely depend upon the choice and order of words. Yet no sooner does he find himself in a mess than he is hopeless. The words which flow luxuriously from his fountain pen dry up inconsequently on his tongue; the delicate tact and incredible sympathy with which he treats his heroine vanish utterly when he approaches his wife. With pen and paper before him he is a man of the world, marvelously omniscient, able to deal with any situation which arises, an authority on medicine and the law as well as on the petty complications of the human soul, but take that author and put him in face of the most ordinary and commonplace situation in real life and he degenerates promptly into a frightened child whose only resource is to kick and struggle. I can only hope that if it comes to struggling I shall struggle to good purpose against Dewey.