CHAPTER VIII
DIMBIE COMFORTS ME
Dimbie went very white when I told him. He walked to the window and stared for some time at the gathering darkness. I had chosen this hour, knowing my face would be in shadow. It is so much easier to control one's voice than one's features. Jumbles rubbed his face against my shoulder. I could hear Amelia singing, "Her golden hair is hanging down her back." She sounded cheerful and happy. Nurse had gone to the village to post a letter. She would be back soon to "settle" me for the night. Why didn't Dimbie speak—say something? I wanted to be comforted as only Dimbie could comfort me.
A little sigh broke from me, and in a second his arms were round me and I was held very closely.
"My poor little girl," he murmured. "I am sorry for her."
"Oh, Dimbie," I whispered, clinging to him, "can you bear with me if I have a little grumble? I meant to be so brave to you, to put on such a bright face, not to let you hear one word of repining; but I want to let it all out, oh, so badly. You only can understand how I feel, because you know and love me best. And after to-night I will try never to speak of it again."
For answer he pillowed my head on his shoulder and kissed my eyes and hair and lips.
"You see," I said, looking across the garden, which was shadowy and mysterious, to the frog-pond field, "I don't think I should have felt it quite so much if it had been next year. We should have been an old married couple by then, and have got used to everything—to all the wonderfulness of being together alone, I mean without mother and Peter."
"I shall never get used to that," said Dimbie with emphasis.
"Yes, you will," and I assumed an old married woman's air. "It seems incredible now, when we have been husband and wife for only five months. How do you feel when you say, 'My wife'?"
"Thrill all over."
"So do I," I laughed, "when I say, 'My husband.' I feel quite shy, and imagine people must be laughing at me. But—have you ever seen Peter getting excited over those two words, 'My wife'?"
"Never," said Dimbie. "But," indignantly, "you are not surely going to compare me with Peter?"
"I am not going to compare you with anyone. But just think of all the couples you know who have been married, say—longer than two years."
"Shan't."
I laughed and kissed his ear. Then I became grave.
"Now listen to my words of wisdom. I am going to speak for some time, tell you all my thoughts, and you mustn't interrupt. You and I love each other very much, and we are always going to love each other very much—at least we hope so. But this would have been our one wonderful year. This would have been the year when we should have walked upon the heights very close to the sun and stars. This would have been our year of enchantment, when the weeds on the wayside would have blossomed as the rose, and the twitter of every common sparrow would have been to us as the liquid note of the nightingale. This would have been the year when we should have wandered down dewy lanes, and, looking into each other's eyes, would have found a something there which would have caused our hearts to swell and our pulses to beat.
"On June evenings we should have gathered little wild roses and plunged our faces into fragrant meadow-sweet, and laughed at the croaking of the frogs in the pond and had supper in the garden under the apple tree, loth to leave the sweetness of a summer night. In July we should have sat in the bay or gathered moon daisies; and I, forgetting I was Marguerite married, would have whispered, 'He loves me, he loves me not;' and you, flinging down, your hat on to the grass, would have knelt in front of me and behaved in a manner most foolish and yet most delightful. In August we should have had our first holiday together. What scanning of maps and reading of guide-books! Cromer, we would settle—poppy land. We would laze on the heather at Pretty Corner and look at the blue sea. Too many people we would remember, and fix on the Austrian Tyrol. Baedekers would be bought, trains looked up, only to find that when we had paid Amelia's wages and the poor rate our bank balance was very small. And finally we should have found our way to some old-world Cornish fishing village, where we should have bathed and walked, and fished from an old boat. In September we should have cycled along beautiful autumn-scented lanes, dismounting at Oxshott, and wading ankle-deep through the pine woods, would have silently thanked Cod for the flaming beauty of the birches silhouetted against the quiet sky. In November we should have tidied up our garden and planted our bulbs for the spring—crocuses and daffodils, especially daffodils, for do we not love them best of all the spring flowers? And then Xmas would have come, with its merry-making and festivities, and our beautiful year would have ended on a night when with clasped hands and full hearts we should have listened to the tolling of the bell for its passing—the dear, kind old year which had brought us such joy, such complete contentment."
I finished with a break in my voice, and, forgetting all my brave resolutions, two big tears dropped on to Dimbie's hand which held my own.
"Poor little sweetheart! My own dear wife," he said, "I am sorry for you, so sorry I cannot express it. But why shouldn't such a year as you picture be ours when you are strong and well once more? This first year of our marriage shall be an indoor year. You shall be Marguerite-sit-by-the-fire, knitting and making fine embroidery, and later on you shall be my Marguerite of the fresh air, of the sun and the wind, and we will still have our wonderful year."
I shook my head.
"It could never be the same," I replied. "I may sound sentimental, Dimbie, but I am a woman and know. Men are very ignorant about love, only women know. Men imagine that romance will last beyond the first year as well as love, but women know better. Besides, men don't care about its lasting, it tires them, bores them; but women care, oh, so much. They can't help it, they are born that way. Men are tremendously keen on gaining the object of their affection, and when they have got it they regard it calmly, affectionately, unemotionally. It is a possession: they are glad for it to be there, and almost annoyed when it is absent—not exactly because they miss the possession's companionship, but it has no right to be anywhere but at its own fireside. Men go to golf, tennis, race meetings, fishing on their Saturdays, Sundays and holidays. They are quite surprised at the possession being a little sorry and hurt at first at their not wanting to go about with her as they did in that first wonderful year. The possession is unreasonable, exacting; she wants to tie her husband to her apron strings. She has no right to be lonely—there are the children, and if there are no children she must make interests of her own; or—she might even take to golf so long as she isn't extravagant and ambitious, and expect to play with Haskells or her own husband.
"All these are platitudes, you will say; but there never were truer platitudes. Ah, if husbands would only realise and accept the fact that woman is the other half of man, but diverse, how much happiness there would be. Diverse! He loved her for her feminine attributes before marriage—for her weaknesses if you like to call them such. Why doesn't he after? A true, good woman doesn't want a great deal. A gentle word, a caress, a look of love and understanding from the man she loves are far more to her than coronets. A woman likes to be wanted, and I don't think it is vanity. Watch her smile if her husband marks her out of a large crowd for a little attention. The other women there may be young and beautiful; she is little and old and faded, and wears a shabby gown—but her husband wants her. Women are never happier than when they are wanted. And how quick they are, how instantly they divine when an act of courtesy is performed for them from duty only and not from affection. I once heard a man curse when his wife asked him to hold her umbrella on a wet night when she was struggling with the train of her gown and her slippers. They were dining out, and couldn't afford cabs. She was frail, and he was big and strong. She just caught at her breath. Through the years she had learnt wisdom, a greater wisdom than Solomon could ever teach. She realised that this man would stand by her in a tight place, and with that she must be content. It was unreasonable of her to hanker after the little words of love and kindness which make life so sweet. He was faithful to her, he didn't drink or gamble or go to clubs. He gave her £25 a year for her clothes, and he 'kept' her. What more could she possibly want? And if he swore at her, and told her she looked old, and why couldn't she dress like other women, it was only his little way, and didn't mean anything."
I paused.
"And so, and so that is why I am grieved at the loss of our first year."
Dimbie sat in silence for a moment, and when he moved and gently placed my head on the pillow I was startled by the expression of his face.
"You speak from your experience of the manner in which your father has treated your mother," he said at length slowly, "and that is a little hard on other men. Do you think I shall ever cease to want you, Marguerite?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"Yes, you do." His voice was stern.
"I cannot answer for the future."
"You have no faith in me?"
"You see, I shall be a helpless log, a useless invalid for twelve months or even longer," I said. "It will be a great strain on your love."
He dropped my hand and made to go away.
"Don't go," I cried.
"Do you think my love would stand the test of your being an invalid for even twenty years?"
I did not answer.
"Do you?" he said, dropping on to his knees and looking into my eyes. "Do you, Marguerite, wife?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"Thank God for that!" he said. "I was beginning to think—I was afraid you did not understand me; that you were fearful at having given yourself to me; that you did not love me, in fact, as I love you, for where there is love there is no fear." He laid his cheek to mine, murmuring, "Marguerite! Marguerite!" and so we sat till the darkness fell and nurse came in.