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.