Love Lies Dreaming

by C. S. Forester

  The day came, and like all bridegrooms for centuries past, I turned up at the church with my groomsman ten minutes too early, and hung about uncomfortably by the chancel railings while the growing mob behind me commented on the decorations of the church and told each other that Constance could have done better for herself or that I could, or that they did not know which of us two to pity the more, until at last the organ suddenly changed its tune and Constance came drifting up the aisle with her bridesmaids behind her, and the fatal words were said just before the church clock struck three.

  Then the rest of the business. Mild and utterly irritating jests in the vestry over the signing of the register; tears from Constance’s mother; more tears from her aunts; buffoonery from my best man, who tried to kiss Constance before my very eyes; deluges of rice at the church porch; photographs by pressmen and amateurs as we struggled through to the car; five minutes peace on the way home, and then the long-drawn horror of the reception.

  Neither Constance nor I could discover why ninety of the hundred people present should think it the last word in wit to address Constance as “Mrs. Trevor.” It began to pall after about the thirty-fourth repetition. And young men and uncles came up and made witty remarks about perambulators, rarely for my sole benefit, but generally with a half-glance sidelong at some blushing damsel or even occasionally at Constance, until I would cheerfully have gone through the whole business all over again if in return I could have the satisfaction of seeing the whole crew of them boiled in oil.

  Constance stood beside me (I guessed she had been standing most of the day as it was) smiling bravely at the good wishes bestowed upon us, and she made a bold effort to eat some of her own wedding cake (one of the joys of Constance’s normal existence is almond icing, and it was significant that she ate none at all) until at last her mother permitted her to retire along with the adoring bridesmaids and be rigged out in her “going away dress.”

  We were nearly free now. I, too, was permitted to depart and climb out of my morning coat and silk hat and put on clothes a little more comfortable, and then every one turned out to see us off in the car. More tears from Constance’s mother and from the aunts. Broad jests flew thick as Vallombrosa leaves. White slippers hung all over the car, and chalked messages—“Just married” and the like—marred the brilliance of the enamel. I could have shrieked, and Constance nearly did. We broke away, and, at a safe distance, we were able to stop and remove from the public gaze all the indications to a maddening public the fact that we were newly wedded. Then the driver climbed back into the car, and, with his face discreetly glued to the front, put his foot on the accelerator pedal and we were at last together.

  Yet we were not really happy. Despite the excitement and the bustle (more probably because of them) and despite the wonderful June sunshine, the hand which I sought and held was cold and passive. Constance was, frankly and obviously, so tired that she could not even pretend to take an interest in her surroundings. I did my best. I tried to make conversation, but my dithering attempts were only answered by faint monosyllables. Not even when the glorious view of the river, radiant in the evening sunshine, broke upon us, and revealed Windsor Castle triumphant on its height beside the river did Constance utter a word. We swept past the castle, on to Maidenhead bridge with its tantalizing hint of Cliveden Reach just out of sight higher up, and then through the lane to our destination.

  We had chosen a riverside hotel for our honeymoon. Largely it was my choice, for Constance had, months ago, contentedly left that part of the business to me, and I had decided that the little lonely hotel I had passed once or twice in my upriver wanderings, with the gigantic slopes of Winter Hill and the perfect beauties of Quarry Woods and Cliveden Reach and the stretch of river above Marlow all within reach, would meet the needs of the case. Constance and I had had many happy days on the river—and somehow I could not get out of my mind Spenser’s Prothalamium, with its haunting refrain of—

  “Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.”

  A fortnight before, one day when Constance was busy and I was not, I had sneaked over to Marlow and I had walked along the river bank until I had found myself opposite that hotel, and had pictured to myself the happy time Constance and I would enjoy there together, and I had visualized us exploring the river together, and lazing in the little backwaters just below Marlow Lock in the shadow of Quarry Wood, and I had imagined to myself the look on Constance’s face when she would turn to me somewhere there with her hand seeking mine and her lips parting to my kisses; and with that a fierce realization of the responsibility I was assuming surged up in me, and I swore to myself grimly that never by word or deed would I cause Constance to regret the step she was taking in her implicit trust in me.

  Nevertheless, when we arrived there and our luggage was being carried in, I experienced a dull helpless feeling that she was regretting it already. We stood mutely by while the bags were being carried in; we followed mutely when we were led to be shown our room, and we stood mutely gazing at each other when we found ourselves left alone in that room. The bed with its quilt and coverlet seemed to bulge obviously all over the room; it seemed to look sidelong at us in the same fashion as those men had employed with their dirty little jokes at the reception after the wedding; and Constance was looking very tired and helpless. I kissed her—I could not help doing so—but she gave me only a passive cheek.

  “Goin’ to wash and all that sort of thing?” I said with an attempt at unembarrassed joviality. (I always lose my final g’s when I am feeling uncomfortable.)

  “I suppose so,” said Constance spiritlessly.

  “Carry on then,” I said. “I’ll have the other bathroom. See you downstairs if not before. Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour, they said.”

  So we parted, and, as I more than half expected, we did not meet again until Constance came down to the dining-room an hour later, where I sat fidgeting.

  I had only to glance at her, then, to see how pale she was and how weary; there were marks under her eyes that showed she had slept badly the night before (so had I, but I am more used to it) and there was something spiritless and pathetic about her demeanor which worried me. It was then that I found myself regretting the fact that I had not chosen for our honeymoon a blatant seaside hotel with the largest and noisiest band imaginable, and the largest and most gilded dining-hall, and the largest and gayest crowd of inmates. (As a matter of fact, I know now that had I done so Constance would have screamed before dinner was half over.) I thought for the moment that she merely wanted cheering up. That dull dining-room, lit by candles, was not a cheerful place for any one determinedly uncheerful. The other guests, at least a dozen of them, had finished dinner before Constance came down, and were now sitting in the veranda talking to each other in unnecessarily cheerful voices.

  Constance sat wearily opposite me and dinner was served. It was a nightmare meal. The food was good, the waiter discreet, the service accurate. But Constance sent back each of her plates in turn hardly touched, and in sympathy with her I found I could eat nothing either. We could talk of nothing. To my endeavors Constance only made listless replies, and when I tried to be funny I found that the atmosphere was vastly unsympathetic toward humorous sallies. The meal came to a precipitate end when a careless movement of my arm shot my coffee cup across the tablecloth.

  I scraped back my chair and rose.

  “For God’s sake let’s get out of this,” I said, “let’s get somewhere where we can talk in decent comfort.”

  The waiter came bustling up with fresh coffee for me and an overwhelming anxiety that we should not cut our meal short because of the mess I had made.

  “No, no, no,” I stormed. “I don’t want any coffee. I don’t want another table.”

  I think that in another moment I should have lost my badly tried temper altogether had not Constance quietly left the room. I trailed after her, up the stairs that led to our room—our room. I followed Constance in, and shut the door. She stood passive
ly in the middle of the room, and the brilliant eiderdown on the bed seemed to be leering at us again. The look on her face warned me that I must be careful if there was to be no serious and permanent harm done to our love that night. I took her hands and stood opposite her. Her head was bowed and she was very, very, weary. I felt sick at heart at the thought of my responsibility.

  “Dear,” I said, and I think that my love told its story in my voice, “dear, are you very tired?”

  She nodded her head a little.

  “Too tired?”

  She nodded again.

  My own passionate anxiety made me ask the next question.

  “It’s not that—that you wish you hadn’t—?”

  This time Constance actually smiled, and though the hand she raised to my shoulder fell again to her side almost at once, she shook her head.

  “Constance, sweetheart,” I said, “of course you’re tired, and of course this giddy wedding business has put you off a bit. But it doesn’t matter. I—I can wait. Everything’s all right, dear.”

  It was then that the tears which Constance had been struggling against bravely for hours came at last. One corner of her mouth went down, and she would not meet my eyes. She even leaned forward toward me so as not to meet them.

  “It’s not only that,” she said, pitiful hands fumbling forward to hold the lapels of my coat. “It’s not only that, dear. I—I’m afraid.”

  I have never ceased thanking my guardian angel, who at that moment held me dumb and stopped me from saying something hearty.

  “I know it’s silly,” sobbed Constance. “I’ve talked about it lots of times to other girls, and mother gave me a book to read, and I know all about it, but still I’m afraid. And I read that book years and years ago, when I was at school, and I’ve always thought—but it’s different like this.”

  One single gesture of Constance’s hand took in the all depressing immediate present, and the gaudy eiderdown, and the jests of the uncles at the wedding party, and her general feeling of distaste for life, and her pitiful sense of starting on a new life with only me for company.

  God knows what I said to her. I don’t expect, as a matter of fact, that I said anything with any meaning at all. I probably mouthed and stuttered and made silly noises, but somehow it was effective. The little pitiful sobs that tore my heartstrings came to a moist end.

  “All better now?” I asked. Constance tried to smile. “Then it’s time for bed. Hop in, old thing. I’ll be up in a few minutes to see that you’re all right.”

  And so downstairs I went again. The first thing I wanted was a drink, and I wanted that pretty badly, but no sooner had the waiter brought it to me than I remembered that there was perhaps a chance that Constance would kiss me before she went to sleep, and I could imagine nothing more unpleasant to a bride than a husband smelling of whisky. So I put the drink beside me and engaged the waiter in conversation. Doing well? Oh yes, very well, every room in the place was taken, and they were booked up heavily for all the season. Fishing people mainly—but some young couples, said the waiter with a grin. That was a bit of a shock. I would not have minded so much coming downstairs at ten o’clock and demanding another room for myself if there had been any chance of getting one, but I would not tolerate the idea of starting all the inevitable gossips among the hotel servants by asking for an arrangement which would permit me to sleep apart from my wife and still be disappointed. A few minutes’ further conversation convinced me that the waiter was speaking the truth. When at length he went his way I poured my drink into a palm tub and climbed the stairs again.

  A very subdued little voice told me to come in when I knocked at the door. Constance was in bed, and I could see very little of her (I think she took good care of that) and the room was almost in darkness. I came across to her. One little hand came out of the bedclothes to me. The lifting of her head told me that she expected to be kissed, and I thanked my stars that my drink had gone to fertilize the palm.

  I sat gingerly beside Constance and we talked in low tones for a few minutes. Yet even in that dim light and in that state of anxiety of mind I found myself noting subconsciously that all Constance’s clothes had been tidily put away, and that her dressing-gown was hung carefully over the chair concealing something which I immediately diagnosed as the honeymoon underclothes on which Constance’s mother had spent such anxious thought. So we talked, just for a few minutes, and then there was another good night kiss, a very sleepy and tired one, and Constance snuggled down comfortably into bed. I was not so comfortable. I spent the night in the wicker bedroom armchair, and it was horribly cold, even with my dressing gown over my knees. I tried to comfort myself by telling myself that any real lover would have found the pleasure of listening all through the night to Constance’s placid breathing—with no trace of a sob in it now—make up for all his troubles. I did not find it so.

  All night I sat in that infernal wicker chair, which creaked and crashed loud enough (to my worried senses) to wake the dead whenever I tried to ease myself of the cramps which assailed me. All night long, thirsting wildly for that drink I had cast aside, emptying my cigarette case as I struggled to pass the time, until at last a gray dawn crept through the closed curtains, and dull sounds in the corridors told me that the hotel was beginning to wake to life. As I finished my last cigarette, I crept stiffly out of the room and downstairs. Some hardy spirits were bathing from the hotel landing stage. Back I went; Constance still slept. Creeping in like a burgler, I grabbed my costume, stole forth, and changed furtively in a bathroom. Three delicious plunges from the landing stage, a mad effort to cross the river with the crawl stroke which leaves me helpless after twenty yards, and a bold plunger to fetch up a handful of pebbles from the bottom of the river washed away the cobwebs effectively enough. By a miracle the bathroom was still untaken, and I was able to dry and get some clothes on without having to wait dripping outside the door until the occupant condescended to complete his ablutions. Back again to the bedroom—and Constance still slept. To the bathroom once more, dressing case in hand. I shaved luxuriously and once more with a clean face and a clear eye I came back to the bedroom. Constance still slept. Downstairs again. Breakfast. Kidneys, bacon, acres of toast, quarts of coffee, a perfect cigarette. Back again to the bedroom. Constance still slept.

  But she was sleeping much more lightly, for even as I bent over her she moved a little, and her eyelids flickered. I pulled back the curtains and turned again to the bedside. For several seconds Constance looked at me uncomprehendingly. Then at last she smiled at me, even through the clouds of her mazedness and muzziness. That hand crept out again from between the sheets, and it pressed mine with a little warm friendliness. I received my first good morning kiss. But I vow and declare that it was not until I uttered the word “breakfast” that Constance showed any real sign of animation.

  “Breakfast?” said Constance, sitting up in bed. But she did not sit up long; that honeymoon nightdress of hers was designed more for revelation than for concealment.

  “Yes, breakfast,” I said. “Magic word, isn’t it?”

  “Ooh, yes,” said Constance.

  I went across to the bell, but Constance checked me.

  “Don’t ring,” said she.

  I stood and dithered with my fingers twitching at the bell-push.

  “Go and order it,” said Constance. I went.

  When I returned I found another Constance, a Constance gorgeously arrayed in boudoir cap and dressing jacket, eating kidneys and bacon and drinking coffee in bed as though she had done nothing else in all her life.

  I could sit on the foot of the bed and take things in calmly. I had not yet reached the point of claiming the foot of the bed as my inalienable privilege whenever Constance chose to breakfast in bed, and the situation was a novel one.

  It was this feeling of strangeness which had struck me as familiar, and which had started me off thinking in the first place.

  That day was a sequence of ups and downs, wherein, sad
to relate, the downs more than counterbalanced the ups. The morning was wonderful, broad, smiling sunshine, a wonderful walk over Winter Hill and through Quarry Woods, with the river at its best and all the world just right. Constance could chatter again, and she could slip her hand through my arm as we stood on the brow of Winter Hill gazing up toward Henley, and she could take an interest in the boats of the sailing club as they darted whitewinged in the sunshine back and forward on the river three hundred feet below.

  But the freshness of the morning wore away, and instead came stifling heat, the hottest day of the hottest June in human memory. Some—a good deal—of Constance’s fatigue returned as we toiled back over the baking meadows to the hotel. I thought that perhaps lunch would revive her, but it lamentably failed to do so. The reason was not far to seek. A little wind arose while we had our lunch, and the sky grew gloomy, but there was no relief from the heat. There was a prickling feeling under my clothes which told me what was coming. Thunder! And thunder always upsets Constance. She is not afraid, of course; it upsets her and gives her a headache. There was nothing for it but to curse my lot and escort her upstairs and draw the curtains as she lay on the bed, see that she had eau-de-Cologne, and everything else that she wanted, and then, at her urgent command, to leave her to it.