Love Lies Dreaming

by C. S. Forester

  “What for?” I asked at length. The question must have escaped from me without my volition, and I think I guessed her answer before she replied.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “can’t you see? Or have I got to tell you. It’s just curiosity—silly, blind, ridiculous curiosity. That’s all. Tell me, dear.”

  But delicate statements of that nature were quite beyond my power to make at that moment, and I could only hesitate and mumble.

  “You see, dear,” said Constance, trying to help me out, “of course, you told me before we were married, in a general sort of way, and it was very nice of you, too, but do you think that would be any good at all? Do you think that would satisfy any woman—let alone me? I wanted to know who they were, and what they looked like, just to see why you preferred me to them. It was a compliment to me, in a backhanded sort of way, you know. And, of course, I knew more about it than you thought I did. There were one or two girls who came to me just as soon as they heard that we were going to be married, and told me—things.”

  Cold shudders ran down my spine, and I made some inarticulate sort of noise.

  “Oh, it’s quite all right,” said Constance. “Of course, I wouldn’t listen to them at all, really. I poked my nose in the air and told them that all that was stale and I’d heard it all before. I hadn’t, of course, and I was simply bursting to ask them about it, but I wouldn’t let myself. But they’d told me lots before I shut them up, although they didn’t know they had, and then after I got married I heard things, too, because the married women would talk to me more. But a lot of it was lies, I knew.”

  In that case, I found myself hoping that Constance had heard nothing but the truth.

  “But I wanted to know, dear. I simply had to. There was that tobacconist girl in the hotel at Brighton during the war. Winnie told me about that—you know, Dick was in your battalion—and when we stopped there for lunch that day two years ago I noticed you wouldn’t go in, but insisted on going to another hotel. Do you remember? And after lunch I told you I was going to powder my nose, but I didn’t. I bunked straight out of the hotel and along the front to the other one and went and bought some cigarettes just to see what she was like. But it mightn’t have been the same one. This one was very pretty, though, with dark hair and brown eyes and she would have had freckles if she hadn’t used so much powder. Was it the same one?”

  I scratched my head. For the life of me I could not remember what that tobacconist girl was like, and Connie gurgled happily.

  “It doesn’t matter much if it wasn’t,” she said. “I expect they choose them all of the same type, and this was a nice girl—or had been once.”

  It was about this moment that I was at last able to swallow the mouthful which had occupied me at the time when Constance asked her first question. The situation was easier now.

  “I don’t know what I would have done,” said Constance, “if I had found that they had been women of the kind I don’t like. Or if I’d found that you’d treated them badly. If I’d found you were that sort of man, old thing, I should have—murdered you, or something. It wouldn’t have been very nice for me, would it, if I found after you’d married me that you had a taste for the wrong sort of girl. But as far as I can see, you picked the best that were going.”

  That was something, anyway.

  “But this Cookson woman,” said Constance, and I groaned in spirit, “how long ago was it? Was it—after you knew me?”

  A difficult question to answer. I knew the truth would please Constance (actually I had met Messalina before I had met Constance, and the incident came to a rather abrupt end as soon as that happened) but for some ridiculous reason I didn’t like to tell her the truth. I merely continued to mumble in huge embarrassment.

  “No, do tell me, dear. When did it start?”

  “Six or seven years ago,” I answered sullenly. Constance made a mental calculation.

  “Even if it were only six,” she announced at length’, “that would make it a bit before you knew me. And after all, I was engaged to some one else then, so there’s lots of excuses for you.”

  Constance doesn’t fully appreciate even now the way her casual references to those black months when she was engaged to that man Dewey stab me right through. I know how ridiculous it is to be jealous of the past, but I remain jealous.

  “Six years ago!” exclaimed Constance, apparently having employed the interval in further calculations. “How old was she then?”

  “About the same as she is now,” I said.

  “M’m. I suppose so. She looks like that. She’s more than ten years older than I am, anyway.”

  In my opinion it was nearer fifteen, but I did not tell Constance so. It is a hideous sensation trying to be loyal to two women at once, especially when one of them is your wife.

  “For God’s sake, Constance, old thing,” I said, “have we got to talk about this? It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Please do, dear, just for a minute or two longer. Now that we’ve got started on it we may as well finish it off cleanly. There are such lots of things I’ve wanted to know.”

  I resigned my unfinished beef to the waiter and my soul to the inevitable. I suppose I deserved this.

  “Did—did you like her very much?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did she throw you over?”

  “No.”

  “You threw her over?”

  “Yes. If the truth must be told, I didn’t treat her any too well.”

  “I thought you didn’t. I could see it in her face this evening.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean anything like that. She wasn’t eying you as if she hated you, or anything. Rather the other way.”

  “But—”

  “Any one could see she’d suffered, poor old thing. I don’t expect it was really your fault. That sort of thing has to come to an end sooner or later, doesn’t it—at least, they say it must.”

  “It generally does.”

  “How old were you when it started?”

  “Twenty-one—twenty-two—something like that.”

  “And she was—thirty?”

  “About that.” Charity is kind.

  “And she was very fond of you.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Constance—”

  “That means ‘yes,’ doesn’t it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh!” Constance’s face fell. “Do speak the truth, old thing, just for a little while longer. You’ve been so good up to now. Was she fond of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is still,” said Constance with decision.

  “Oh, hang it—”

  “It’s no use arguing with me about that, old thing,” said Constance, with a queer smile, “I know the symptoms.”

  She was silent for a moment. Her lips looked as if she wanted to smile, and her eyes looked as if she wanted to cry. “You’ve never let her know you’re sorry for her, have you, dear?” she asked at length.

  “No.”

  “I’m so glad, old thing. She’d hate it. But you are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes—I suppose so.”

  “So am I. How she’d hate to hear me say so!” Then her expression changed to an intensity which scared me. “Oh, but I hate her—hate her. She’s too fine a woman.”

  “Dear,” I said, wracked with anxiety, leaning toward her across the table. “It was never my doing that you met; I would have given anything to prevent it.”

  “I know.” Constance was silent for a further space. Then—“Just one thing more, dear, and then you can eat your ice. It won’t all be melted even then.”

  I regarded the flabby wreck in its dish under my nose with entire disinterest.

  “Now look at me, dear—straight at me. Has there been any one else, since Mrs. Cookson?—Since you met me?”

  My nails cut into my palms as my fists clenched under the table. I would have given my soul to be able to lie then. But the truth came instead.

&nb
sp; “Yes.” I said. “Once.”

  And Constance changed once more to utter contrition.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “I oughtn’t to have asked you that. I—I knew the answer, and it wasn’t fair to ask you.”

  The black misery of that time came flooding back to me. By accident I had seen Constance kissing Dewey good night at her door. The other details—the walk to try to forget—the raging feeling of power-lessness—the meeting with—some one else—who, by blind coincidence, was also trying to forget something, and who, as she told me, “liked me just a little”—and the inevitable ending. It is the incident of my life of which I am most ashamed, for the seduction of decent girls who do not deserve it is not a habit of mine.

  “Yes,” said Constance, “I knew about it. And I think I know the reason.”

  I could see she did, when I managed to meet her eyes.

  “Let’s clear out from here,” said Constance, suddenly.

  And we did, leaving our ices melted in their saucers, and our coffee cold in its pot. The cold air of the street was like a breath of Paradise.

  On our homeward walk we passed a hospital. The black gates were locked and forbidding. But one lamp shone dully—shone on the squat black shape of the slotted collecting box fastened there, the mute slit dumbly imploring alms.

  “Just a minute,” said Constance.

  She fumbled in her handbag, and in the end she produced a one pound note—the note she had received from Mrs. Cookson. And with a gesture of finality she thrust it into the slot. It was a gesture which cost her half a crown, for she had given that sum to Mrs. Cookson as change. But it was not a propitious moment for cynical remarks to that effect.

  Chapter IX

  Generally both Constance and I are singularly free from any trace of a Monday feeling. I believe in my case it is due to the fact that Constance makes me do so much over the week end that I greet a return to the placid routine of the office with a sort of relief—a relief short enough lived, it is true, but enough to tide me over that bleak and unsympathetic hour which lies between the realization that it is Monday morning and the commencement of the digestion of Monday’s breakfast. But this Monday began gloomily and inauspiciously.

  To begin with, both Constance and I overslept ourselves. I was awakened out of a stuffy and dispiriting sleep by a commotion outside my bedroom door. Bangings and clatterings. I was three parts awake when the door opened and Constance entered.

  “For goodness’ sake wake up,” she said, snappily. “It’s half-past eight and Mrs. Black is knocking.”

  “Mrs. Black?” I growled. I had a bloodshot voice and a dark blue taste in my mouth.

  “Yes. Oh, you know—the new woman, stupid. Go and open the door. I won’t have her see me like this the first morning.”

  I mumbled something about it being far more important that she should not see the master of the house in his night attire, but Constance only clenched her fists and danced with rage. So I blindly stumbled out of bed, clutched a dressing gown to me, and staggered out to the door.

  Mrs. Black’s disapproval was immediately and harshly evident. As she entered she eyed me with disgusted distrust. I was wearing an unfortunate combination of colors, I admit—green pajamas piped and frogged with red, with a terra-cotta dressing-gown on top—but that was no excuse for her.

  “Carry on,” I said to her, as she sidled past me through the door without taking her suspicious glance from my shrinking form. “You know where the kitchen is, don’t you? For God’s sake light the gas under a few kettles and things. Your mistress will be along in half a minute.”

  Mrs. Black sniffed an affirmative. That sniff alone, could it have been reproduced as evidence in court, would have justified me in committing assault and battery. But I was feeling too soulless to delight in assault and battery at that moment, and instead I bent my weary steps toward the bathroom and lighted the geyser and began shaving. My razor was blunt.

  It was nearly nine when I entered the dining-room, and two minutes after that Constance came in with the final ingredients of the breakfast. Without a word she placed them on the table, poured out my coffee, and relapsed into Monday morning-ness. I dived for shelter behind the paper. When I peered round it she was looking so darkly preoccupied that I thought it would be as well to risk an explosion by trying to divert her thoughts.

  “Any letters, dear?” I asked.

  “Haven’t looked. Don’t care if there are.”

  That was enough for me. But if Constance was not interested in the post, I was. I receive odd letters from publishers, and even odder ones from folk who have read my books; sometimes there are even checks in the letters I receive—although so far I have never found one in any letter from any of my readers, And checks do not come on Monday mornings—they come at sixmonthly intervals, of which every month seems like a year. A regular check arriving on Monday mornings would be a vastly beneficial institution, Nevertheless, after I had passed my cup for my second go of coffee I went out to the door and examined the contents of the letterbox. There was only one letter there, and that was for Constance. I could hardly help noticing that it was addressed to her in the handwriting of one of her youthful train—a lad who has occasionally escorted her to dances. I took it in to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking it from me without any sign of recovery from her dreary preoccupation. I fell, discomfited, into the welcoming embraces of the paper.

  It was a queer sound from Constance which called me back to Monday morning. A queer sound, half squawk and half giggle; altogether a most unusual noise for Constance. I looked up from the paper. Constance was sitting staring at the letter I had brought her. First she held it under her nose, and then she held it at arm’s length. Then she turned her, attention to the envelope, and scrutinized the postmark.; Then she caught my eye turned on her, and was at once palpably embarrassed. For a second she made gestures indicative of a desire to conceal the letter, but she realized obviously that that was impossible. Then, equally obviously, she decided to brazen it out.

  “Just look at that!” she said, tossing the missive over to me. I picked it up and began to read it, but before I had well begun it Constance had come round to my side of the table and was re-reading it over my shoulder. This is what I read:

  “Dearest Woman on Earth.

  “There are such lots of things which I want to say to you that I simply can’t stop myself from writing this letter to you, although perhaps you will say that I ought not do so until things are more settled. But now that I have sat down with my pen and paper I feel that I can only write ‘I love you’ over and over again. Perhaps you won’t like it when I tell you that I only knew it a little time ago, but now that it has happened it is the most wonderful thing I have ever known. Long in coming, dear, so that it will last long, too, for ever and ever.

  “A few days ago I tried to write to you, but I was afraid, and tore the letter up in case you would laugh at me, but this time you will see that I have more courage—unless I do not post it.

  “Dearest, you will trust me, I know, until I can break through the difficulties that lie between us. It is cruel that a wretched question of money should be allowed to interfere with love, but if you will be patient, dearest, as I know you can be, I will soon have the money that will enable us to be together all our lives. Please let me hear from you, dear, even if I don’t see you, soon. And don’t laugh at me for writing this letter—I am not very clever yet at writing love letters, although if only you will let me, I shall get more into practise.

  “Your lover (nothing can stop me from signing myself that at least),

  “Pip.”

  When I had finished reading this extraordinary epistle I could only sit and try to think, although my whirling brain made the exercise difficult.

  “Say something, dear, for goodness’ sake, or I shall scream or something quite soon,” said Constance.

  “I can’t say anything,” I said. “It’s too near the beginning of the week. What d
o you want me to say? Do you want me to criticize it or something?”

  “You can, if you like, for all I care,” said Constance.

  “Right-ho, I’ll see what I can do,” I said. I scanned the letter closely.

  “Let’s start with the more circumstantial evidence,” I said. “In the first place, he wasn’t drunk when he wrote this. Any one could guess that from the writing. On the other hand, he must have been jolly careful over it. There isn’t a single word misspelled. And from what I know of young Pip Masters that means he looked every blessed word up in a dictionary.”

  “What a pig you are!” said Constance. She tried to grab the letter back again, but I was on my guard.

  “Let us continue,” I said. Long experience has told me that Constance is powerless when I hold her two wrists with one hand, and good fortune had given me this hold at once. “From internal evidence we can deduce that despite his protestations he has written dozens of letters like this before. He protests too much. Probably he has lured scores of unfortunate females to their ruin by the aid of just such letters and protestations as these. You should beware, Constance, of a man like this. He is either a bad lot or a dirty dog—conceivably both at once.”

  “He isn’t. I’m sure he isn’t.”

  “The final conclusion at which I arrive,” I said, judicially, “a conclusion to which I am led, I admit, more by my personal knowledge of Mr. Masters than by any indication in this letter, is that he must have received some encouragement.”

  I said it lightly. God knows, I tried to feel light-hearted about it, too. But I was half afraid, and ashamed of being afraid, at the same time.

  “Pig! Pig! Pig!” said Constance. “As if I would!”

  I was reassured. The hateful doubt vanished almost as soon as it came. But Constance must have had an extraordinary effect on that young man, to stimulate him to go round making love to other men’s wives. I never thought he would have the initiative—although I realized (it was this which had been the cause of my fear) that if once stimulated he would write rather nice love letters. Just the sort of boy Constance likes and—and—she might have been foolish for a moment or two.