The Man Who Understood Women and Other Stories/A Reverie
A REVERIE
Rebecca is in the bedroom, dressing; and Lucy, who looked very sweet in her simple frock, has gone to some entertainment at her school. So I am alone. It's a comfortable chair; and the room is quiet, though overhead I hear my wife as she moves to and fro between the wardrobe and the toilet-table. She has heavy feet. I am glad she is going to the Jacobs's; it'll be a treat to me to spend the evening by myself. What a fine fire I've made up; and my cigar tastes better than usual! … Rebecca gets fatter every day. And she has such a silly laugh. But a good woman! Few women would have done so much as she did I ought to remember that. But, instead, I am always remembering
Quite clearly I can see the room I lived in, fifteen years ago, with Dora! How cheap it was—wonderful! But with its refinements too; she could make such pretty things. Why did I not marry Dora? My parents would have been horrified if I had married a Christian—I cannot think of any other reason. Unless it was because she didn't worry me with entreaties. She never spoke of it. … She had been so poor and friendless; she may have fancied that it would be ingratitude to ask for more than I had done? And the business was my father's in his lifetime; I could not afford to quarrel with him. She must have known that? She must have known I could not afford to quarrel with him, even if I had been anxious to marry her?
Fervently, though it is all past and the shrub that was planted on her grave has grown big beyond the railings, I hope she did not grieve! I have wondered many times—since. She was so gentle and so pure, that perhaps she often suffered, while she smiled and kissed me? … And she died and was buried. And the child—the baby Lucy—was given to strangers to be nursed. How long ago it seems—in another life. But I wish that Lucy might have called me "Papa!" … My cigar is out.
Rebecca: she was slimmer when her family made up the match between us. Yes, and good-looking. And my sorrow for Dora had faded—two or three years had passed. I was my own master then, and business was good. … I was happy with Rebecca. I gave her lots of diamonds, and the other women envied her; and at home we got on very well. If we had had children of our own—I wonder!
Lucy was four when Rebecca took her. She asked no questions; to this day she has never asked me anything. It shows a big heart. She is like a mother to Lucy. Shall I ever forget how grateful I was I The tears came to my eyes when she said "yes." She should be worshipped for such a generosity. But Lucy reminds me so of Dora!
Not at first—ah, no; just a little thing not able to talk plainly! It is recently that I see the resemblance. She is fourteen now, and with every move she brings back Dora before my eyes. She has the same features, the same trick of smiling sometimes with the mouth a little to one side; she grows more and more like Dora. I look at her across the table, when she and my wife and I sit at meals together, and my throat gets tight. The past is suddenly alive to me, and I want to spring up and throw my arms round her neck. But Rebecca might guess the truth, and it would pain her to the heart if she suspected. Yet it is true—and I can't help it—that in the child who reminds me of the dead so vividly my wife has a rival here in our home. It is the child that she consented to adopt who reminds me innocently that my wife is fat and silly; it is Lucy, who, as I watch her at her lessons, recalls to me the thoughtful face of the girl I used to love. And I regret! Ah, God forgive me, I regret with all my soul, and would be young once more, with Dora by my side; I would see her by my side to-day! … How hot it is! the window should be open such a night. … Rebecca has come downstairs. She wears her black satin, and powders her nose again before the mirror. She persuades me to accompany her; I shall be "dull alone"?
"My head aches. Otherwise By-by, enjoy yourself, my dearest!"