Read Love Lies Dreaming for Free Online Page A

of a statement made with such calm certitude I could argue no longer. I could only sit marveling at Constance’s immovable self-confidence.The matter seemed to be put beyond the pale of discussion—and there was a danger hint in Constance’s eyes which warned me that there was peril of hurting her. The debate seemed closed.
    At least a quarter of an hour later Constance suddenly put aside her sewing.
    â€œNow look straight at me,” she said.
    Naturally I did so. With the heralding of Baby John’s approach Constance had adopted a new manner toward me. She treated me as if I were a boy of fourteen. Quite a nice boy of fourteen, but only fourteen when all was said and done. The reason of this insufferable superiority was obvious.
I
had not been distinguished by the Powers that Be with the immeasurable privilege of maternity.
    Then all of a sudden Constance’s expression changed again. I had once more offered to me the sight of the small child I had married, instead of the wise and vastly experienced woman into whom that child had developed.
    â€œYou’ve been thinking,” said Constance.
    Naturally I had, but this was no time to make comments on the obviousness of the remark.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, dear?” went on Constance. “You’re worrying me. Are—are you beginning to wish you had never been born?”
    That brought me to attention on the spot; I think Constance’s lips were trembling, just a little.
    â€œOf course I’m not,” I said.
    â€œBut, dear,” said Constance, “I wish—I wish you’d tell me what it is you really think about—baby.”
    I was simply struck dumb by this sudden offensive.
    â€œYou don’t ever
say
,” said Constance, reaching blindly forward to me with the little white hands which I worship. “I know—I
know
you didn’t want him when I told you first that he was coming. You kissed me, and you said that you were glad, but you weren’t really. You know you weren’t.”
    I was still dumb with surprise. I had been confident that Constance had never guessed that.
    The floodgates of Constance’s troubles were opened. As I tried to draw her to me she resisted a little, feebly, holding back from me.
    â€œI didn’t know before that,” she said. “Before he began to come I thought you wanted him. If I’d dreamed you didn’t I wouldn’t ever have wanted him.I wouldn’t have wanted him even if I did want him ever so much. But that morning when you asked me and I told you that he was coming and you weren’t pleased—I
knew
you weren’t pleased, although you said you were—it hurt me, dear. I wanted to be so glad and happy, and I cried all day after you had gone, because you weren’t glad too. And then I thought you’d changed, and we were both so happy, and now you start saying that he’ll wish he had never been born, and that we oughtn’t to have had him, and—and—all that sort of thing. You say it as if you didn’t mean it, but I never know, never, never. And—I don’t think I love you any more.”
    The tears trickled down her woebegone cheeks, and went on trickling even after I had tried to wipe them away with my pocket-handkerchief. They only stopped trickling after I had whispered to her all I could tell her of what was in my heart, hopes and fears and jealousies. And as I told her I cursed the fate that made me tongue-tied in the presence of my wife. Six books to my name, for two years the youngest author in the Literary Year Book, a facile scribbler about love of all sorts, and yet I was unable to tell mywife how I loved her! But this time she understood.
    That tiny incident was the only fleck of eight months of supreme happiness. The books—even my own, I fear—talk about living happily ever after. Yet never even in books has there been happiness comparable to ours, fleck or no fleck.