With which exceedingly ungallant remark my husband again stumped out of the room, and again I lay and laughed and kissed the ugliest photo' of him in my possession, for which I have an unaccountable liking.
And so to-day I have lived more or less under a cloud—a cloud in the shape of a lowering frown on Dimbie's face. But I care not. I know most assuredly that it will disappear as Jane Fairbrother walks through the gate. He will like Miss Fairbrother, or Jane, as I always think of her now. He will not be able to help it. And into our days Jane will bring outside interests, a fresh, breezy atmosphere, new thoughts, new ideas, which I know will be good for both of us. Most fearful am I of becoming a self-centred invalid, thinking of myself only, of my ailments, of my weariness, of my sometimes suffering.
And if I am afraid for myself, still more desperately afraid am I of the invalid atmosphere for Dimbie. "It is not natural," my heart cries out, "that a man young and strong should be the silent witness of everlasting helplessness and weariness." When I am pretty well and able to be interested in all that goes on around me, and can smile and be happy, it matters not for him; but, oh, the days when I am too tired to do anything but lie with my eyes closed! And the nights, the long, long nights, when I am too restless to do anything but keep them wide open; when my head tosses and moves restlessly from one side of the pillow to the other, and when I long with an unspeakable longing to be able to move my helpless body in unison! That is not good for Dimbie to see; it cannot be good. He will stretch out strong, cool hands and gently lift me on to my side, or turn my pillow, or hold a cooling drink to my thirsty lips. He will speak cheerfully, he will even try to find a joking word; but, oh, the heartache that must be his, the weary heartache! And some day—as yet perhaps the burden is not too heavy, the yoke not too galling, because out of his great love for me he has learnt a great patience; but will not the day come when the burden will be too heavy, when he will falter or faint by the wayside? "O God, take me before that," I whisper out of the darkness, "take me before he gets tired of me!"
And so I look for the coming of Jane with a great thankfulness. The days in the garden, which I have feared will become long and monotonous to Dimbie, will be shared by one who, as I remember her with her vivid personality, was always engaging and interesting. I have searched the papers for the shipping intelligence, and for the date upon which the good steamship Irrawaddy is due. I have looked up every possible train by which she could come down to Pine Tree Valley. The spare room, Amelia tells me, is fit for the habitation of the Queen of England. And it is a pretty room, with its Indian matting floor coverings, soft green walls and rugs, wide, old-fashioned windows through which a white rose peeps, and airy, silken casement curtains. It seems a long time since I was in that room. Some day, perhaps, if I should get stronger, I will persuade Dimbie and Amelia to carry me upstairs, and it will be like exploring a long-forgotten country. That Amelia has flattened every piece of furniture (as much as you can flatten washstands and wardrobes) against the walls I feel pretty certain. She objects to corners and pretty angles disturbing her visual horizon. She likes furniture to be neat and orderly and placed like soldiers in a row. She looks at my bed, which I insist upon having in the window, and sighs heavily. I can see her fingers itching to bang me up against the wall. She suggests that I shall feel draughts and get a stiff neck, be bitten by earwigs taking a walk from the clematis which endeavours to climb through the window, be sun-struck in the morning, moon-struck at night, and be blown out of bed by the first gale which comes along. To all of which I say, "I don't care, Amelia"; and she, figuratively speaking, washes her hands of me, as sensible people do wash their hands of silly, contrary creatures who won't listen to reason.
Amelia really is no more pleased at the prospect of Jane's visit than Dimbie, although she has so thoroughly cleansed the spare room. She talks to me in this strain—
"Miss Fairbrother's not going to dress you, mum?"
"Of course not."
"And she won't be wanting to order the dinners?"
"I am sure she won't. Besides," with a sly smile, "I thought I ordered the dinners."
Amelia considered this, and with the wisdom of a diplomatist said—