Love Lies Dreaming

by C. S. Forester

  Now he was back again in our circle, apparently. And he would see Constance—Constance, whom he still had the impertinence to call “Connie.” It seemed the result of a plot by a malign fate that they should be thrown together again just when all was not entirely well between Constance and myself.

  “Good evening,” I said, lamely enough, and we shook hands.

  “Connie here this evening?” asked Dewey.

  “She is.”

  “Good man! I should like to see her again—I’ve often wondered how she was getting along and all that sort of thing. I haven’t heard of any little Trevors yet—there aren’t any, I suppose?”

  “None,” said I. I could willingly have killed Dewey at that moment.

  Out of the cloakroom again, to meet a dazzling, radiant, bewildering Constance; dazzling solely by contrast, for her frock was black and plain to the last degree, now that I came to notice it. But it was the sort of plainness which doubles the price—even in my present preoccupied state of mind I made that observation to myself. Clearly Constance had spared no pains to be at her best this evening. I refused to allow myself to think that she had any definite motive for so doing—that she had any foreknowledge that Dewey was to be at the dance as well.

  Constance saw that I was depressed about something. Constance would—of course, she would. She put her hand in my arm as we made our way through the crowd into the ballroom, and she whispered:

  “What’s gone wrong, old thing?” And then, as we sat down, she saw Dewey, tall and handsome and heavily built, entering the room.

  “Oh, I know,” said Constance, pressing my arm. “Stupid!”

  Sometimes it is comforting to be called “stupid” by one’s wife.

  But the comfort soon evaporated. Dewey made straight for us. “Hullo, Connie!” “Hullo, Cecil!” “I really think you have grown.” “Well, it’s long enough, isn’t it?”

  Of course, it was sheer idiocy on my part to be jealous. Hang it all, Constance couldn’t call Dewey anything else but Cecil, seeing that was all she had ever called him since she could remember. And Dewey was surely entitled to call Constance “Connie,” on the same ground. Neither Constance nor Dewey—thank God—knows that the reason why I always call Constance by her full name without abbreviation is because “Connie” was employed by Dewey at the period when I knew Constance first. No one besides myself has ever called her Constance. That is a gratifying thing to think about—although, of course, it is perfectly absurd to be pleased about it.

  And Dewey was saying, “I’m in luck meeting you this evening. There’s such lots to talk about. You’ll give me some dances, won’t you?” Constance had the grace to hesitate, and to glance inquiringly at me. Naturally I could only smile and give her a free hand. Apparent jealousy is an insult to one’s wife. And I know that Dewey is a much better dancer than I am—and, after all, Constance loves dancing. Dewey proceeded to take an option on all odd numbers up to midnight.

  After Dewey came the others of the motley horde which follows Constance wherever she goes. Undergraduates with red hands and large feet. Very young men in city offices, magnificently brilliantined. Elderly beaux who knew her when she was in short frocks—shorter even than she wears them now. They came trooping up, all eager for the treat, like the young oysters. To some few she granted dances—only a few. Pip Masters was the man with whom Constance usually danced, and this evening Pip was absent—he was enjoying alien charms. Normally Constance gives half her time at dances to Pip Masters, one quarter to me, and the remaining quarter to the fringe of the crowd. This evening Dewey seemed to be granted Pip Master’s share—and—he would stand in sharp contrast to the memory of the faithless Pip, and to the angular youthfulness of the others.

  Seemingly by brute force Constance tore herself away from the circle which had formed round us, and put herself in my arms. She smiled up at me as we went down the room, brilliant, daring, and wonderful. Not for a long time could I remember her in such high spirits. Certainly not during the last week and more. I smiled back at her as gladly as I might. Somewhere within there was a hideous, rankling suspicion. For what reason could there be for this overflowing brightness, except Dewey’s presence? There could be no other—none at all. Certainly it was not I—I could be sure of that.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy myself this evening,” said Constance.

  “Your train seems to be present in force, at any; rate,” I replied.

  “And isn’t it nice seeing Cecil again,” Constance went on, “he’s such a beautiful dancer, and as far as I can see he hasn’t got any special partner here at all.”

  “M’yes,” said I. There was that in my tone which must have warned Constance that she was on dangerous ground.

  “I’ll call him Mr. Dewey, if you like,” said Constance, reproachfully, “but it’s absolutely balmy.”

  “Of course; you can call him what you like, old thing,” I said. And I honestly meant it.

  “Thank you,” said Constance, demurely. Our dance together was hardly a success.

  For me, indeed, the whole evening was a failure. Jealousy is a curious affliction. I never thought I would succumb to it; I always thought I had too much faith in Constance. My faith in Constance is unaltered. I know that she would never dream of deceiving me. But—If ever Constance decided she loved another man better than me, I should be the last to stand in her way. I know that I would take a strange perverse interest in allowing the affair to develop without hindrance. Partly it would be a genuine desire to make Constance happy, but only partly. The rest would be—“if she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be?” And I know that a married woman in the midst of a tiff with her husband is sometimes easy prey. I have preyed that way myself, before now. So has Dewey. Dewey has splendid good looks and a silver tongue and a conscience which must be as much an asset in his way of life as his looks or his gift of gab; besides he knew a great deal about Constance once upon a time. Does a woman kiss a man more readily because she has kissed him before? My experience goes to show that she does; I wish to God I had never had any experience.

  Half-way through the dance I was wondering whether I should not simply take Constance away, there and then. I could tell her that I would prefer her not to see Dewey again. Most probably she would fall in with my wishes. She would be at no pains to conceal her amusement at my anxiety, and I would fall a good many points in her estimation. And—it would certainly stimulate her interest in Dewey, should she by any chance refuse. I discarded the idea, heavy with anxiety.

  Normally when I accompany Constance to dances I am only too glad to have her off my hands as much as possible. There are many better dancers than I, and I like her to enjoy herself. Besides, although a twenty-mile walk would leave me barely fatigued and Constance quite exhausted, Constance can outstay me with ease when it comes to dancing. I like a rest of at least one in four, while I smoke a cigarette without interruption. It would be like Purgatory to Constance to sit out one in four. And, to tell the truth, I am usually intensely gratified to see the young men cutting swathes through their young affections.

  But not this evening. I stood at the end of the room and watched the dancers eddying past me. Constance was among them—Constance and Dewey. He is a tall man, and Constance has to look up in his face to talk to him, as much as she does with me. She was smiling and chattering gaily, and he was smiling back with the flash in his dark eyes which has found its way to so many girls’ hearts. He was talking, too, fluently, and masterfully. And I was bitterly, horribly jealous.

  I danced a few dances with Constance. It was she who suggested the first.

  “Have you one to spare?” I asked in reply—and the question was only half sarcastic.

  “Of course, I have, silly,” said Constance. “I like dancing with you, you know.”

  We talked very little while we danced or in the intervals. Constance wanted to talk; she was so full of high spirits. But I did not want to be treated in the same way as Dewey; I did not want
her to chatter away to me unless she had not been chattering to any one else. My replies dwindled away to monosyllables. And always, as the interval ended, Dewey would come striding up, head erect and obviously conscious of his power, attracting the attention of every eye in the room. “It’s ours this time, isn’t it?” he would say, and Constance would rise and give me half a smile (the other half for Dewey) and drift away from me in his arms.

  At one interval Dewey and I found ourselves standing together. “Connie’s looking fine this evening, old man, isn’t she?” said Dewey.

  I nearly said, “Damn your impudence,” but I checked myself and replied, “I’ll tell her you said so,” as politely as I could.

  “No need, old man. I’ve told her so already.”

  Dewey would, of course.

  “She’s come on wonderfully since I saw her last,’ Dewey went on. “I suppose married life suits her.”

  Confounded impertinence! But I could hardly be deliberately rude to him under those circumstances. It would look very bad if I were to quarrel with Dewey before those assembled people. I might enjoy it, but it would not be fair to Constance. Instead, I only answered:

  “You’d better try it yourself, at any rate.”

  “No thanks, old man. Nearly did, once, you know. Dam’ sure it wouldn’t suit me. ‘Better times for bachelors’ is my motto. I know when I’m well off.”

  “Well, it’s a useful thing to know.”

  “I should say so. But you know, it’s jolly queer meeting Connie again after all this long time. Can’t help thinking of the old days while I’m dancing with her. Hullo, they’re starting again. D’you know where she is, old man? I want this one with her.”

  With that he went off, having trodden on every one of my favorite corns.

  I know that seemingly frank pose. I have employed it myself, on occasions. It will even deceive fathers. Display keen interest and nothing more, and you will not be suspected of anything more. It pays better than to try to simulate indifference. Dewey has evidently learned that lesson, even as I did once.

  When there is a buffet supper at a dance, Constance’s young men are useful. They will plunge into the seething mob around the buffet to obtain supper; they will plunge in again and again, if necessary, emerging each time loaded with what you have requested them to obtain. They save me an immense amount of trouble. But at supper this evening Dewey sat with us, and frightened the young men away.

  “I want,” said Constance to me, “I want all the nice things you can get hold of. Those little caviare sandwiches, and a vol-au-vent, and that sort of thing. And the claret cup’s beastly—I’ve tried it. Get something else instead.”

  Dewey made no attempt to move, and I dived unassisted into the crowd. I emerged at length, laden with everything I could find which Constance might like. Some clumsy ass had spilled some of the maligned claret cup over the shoulder of my dress-coat. I tottered up to our table and dumped my burdens upon it.

  “Thanks, old man,” said Dewey, helping himself. I could only hope that those sandwiches would give him botulism, or something. And I regretted that, thanks to my dexterity, he was not compelled to drink claret cup.

  It was shortly after supper that Constance said to me, suddenly:

  “Let’s go home.”

  I could only stare at her, for she was so obviously enjoying herself.

  “I mean it,” said Constance “Your tummy’s upset, or something, isn’t it? Anyway, you’re fed up. Let’s go home and then you can sleep it off.”

  But I did not want to take Constance away before she wanted to go.

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m all right. Really I am. Let’s stay a bit longer; I want to see if you could ever get tired through dancing.”

  “Just as you like,” said Constance, “but remember—‘he who will not when he may’—”

  And at that she was gone, for at that very moment arrived one of the young men to claim her. But—but —there was a look in Constance’s eye as she said those last few words. There might be some additional significance, to Constance’s mind, in that quotation. It worried me.

  Constance even seemed the least, smallest bit disappointed at my refusal to fall in with her suggestion; she might even be said to look a little hurt. But the brilliance of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks certainly seemed to prove that she was enjoying the dance.

  It was toward the end of the evening that I had my worst shock. We were sitting together—Constance, Dewey and I. For some minutes conversation had languished. Then, suddenly, as if after considerable weighing of pros and cons, Constance invited Dewey to dinner.

  “You really must come,” said she. “We haven’t been able to talk nearly enough this evening.”

  “I’d love to,” said Dewey, hesitatingly, “but”—he dived into the pocket of his dress waistcoat and produced a tiny diary—“I seem to be rather full up for some time to come. There’s only—let me see—there’s only to-morrow during the next three weeks.”

  “To-morrow?” said Constance. “To-morrow? To-morrow will do beautifully. Come to-morrow—eight o’clock.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Dewey, putting away his diary. “You don’t want me to dress, I suppose?”

  “Not we,” said Constance, “we’re plebeian folk. We even dressed for this affair after we had dined. I believe this husband of mine is uncomfortable if he knows he has to take special care to keep the soup off his waistcoat.”

  Dewey guffawed. As for me, I was struck dumb, paralyzed. What the devil did Constance want this hulking underbred fellow to dinner for? There was only one reason that I could see—and that reason was one I did not wish to contemplate. For a few moments I contemplated telling Constance that I had a long-settled engagement for the evening, but I put the project aside. Constance would be quite capable of dining tête-à-tête with Dewey, if she analyzed my motives successfully. And Constance is well able to analyze my motives; and I did not want Dewey to find her alone. It would put ideas into his head (if they were not there already) and it might put ideas into Constance’s head as well. I relapsed deeper into morose silence; the world seemed bleak and inconceivably cruel.

  I did not recover on the way home. We took a cab—I wanted to reach home as quickly as we might so that, by myself, and away from all this din and sparkle, I could consider all these unpleasant circumstances. Constance tried to talk. She snuggled up to me in the darkness of the cab, exactly as would some naughty spoiled child.

  “You haven’t enjoyed yourself a bit, have you, old thing?” she said, and I knew that her hand was seeking mine—but I kept mine in my pocket.

  “But you’ve enjoyed yourself, old thing,” said I, “so what does it matter?”

  “I don’t know that I have,” said Constance, dolefully. So dolefully, in fact, that I nearly turned to her to put my arm about her. Only nearly. I checked myself in time. I had said I would wait till Saturday, and, of course, I must. Besides, the last time I tried to comfort Constance in that way she had checked me.

  I wanted to ask Constance why she had invited Dewey to the flat, but somehow I could not. It is never an easy matter for me to mention him to her, and at the moment it seemed doubly difficult. My hesitation devoured the period during which the threepences clicked up on the taximeter. Long before I expected it, the cab drew up outside our home. I helped Constance out, and she ran up the steps to open the door while I settled with the driver. When I got in Constance had turned on the light and was leaning against the back of a chair.

  “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I’m so tired and so sleepy. And I’ve got to be so careful getting out of this frock.”

  “Poor old thing,” I said. I was dog-tired, myself. Constance was drooping against the chair back like a wilting flower. But there was still some color and light in her face, and she smiled to me bravely.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had such a wretched evening, dear,” she said, gathering up her cloak and moving slowly past me out of the room. At the door she said:
<
br />   “Good night—good night, old thing.”

  “Good night,” I answered. She was clearly too tired for me to keep her up any longer to discuss things. I let her go. She called “Good night” to me again from her room, in a very tired, weary little voice. What with Dewey and the others, she must have been under considerable emotional strain this evening, poor little child.

  Chapter XIV

  If this were a novel I was writing I would be delighted with the progress I am making. Last night before I went to bed, tired though I was, I was able to finish a whole chapter. I must have worked at a speed comparable to Scott’s, when he wrote Waverley in three weeks. This recording of emotions and impression is fast becoming a passion with me—and considering that never before have I kept any sort of diary I ought to be pleased with myself. Of course, the writing habit is grained into me by this time. And this diary has become a sort of confidant to me; it is some sort of substitute for confiding in Constance.

  It will make queer reading for me in the future, however that future results. And the immediate, pressing future will perhaps affect it more than any other period in my life. I have two hours here for writing before Dewey arrives for dinner. I wonder what my next chapter will be about? I wonder. Perhaps I am only making a fool of myself by worrying like this. Perhaps—I wonder. I wonder.

  I don’t think that any one who knows me—barring Constance, of course—would possibly guess that there was anything wrong. My friends at my clubs, and the men about the office, even my little typist girl, who hangs on my lips because I am the author of Mary-round-the-Corner, have made no comment. Outsiders are apparently unable to guess that for days past my happiness has been hanging in the balance. It is a strange situation; I wonder if parallels to it occur in any other families? I expect that to most people it would appear absurd for me to write to Constance as I did two days ago, and still more absurd that we should rigidly leave the subject undiscussed until the day I suggested—Saturday. Yet to me, and I dare say to Constance, such an arrangement is most sane and natural; at the same time it is intensely anxious. It is difficult for me to endure till Saturday, and yet now that I have named Saturday it would not be fair to Constance suddenly to ask her to make up her mind now.