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.