What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be—and in all life, within doors and without—when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand!
Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.
It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.
‘Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,’ she says, when I smile; ‘but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it.
Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!’
‘That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.’
‘Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me!
When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we?
And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?’
‘Yes, we will, and have some happy days.
So you must make haste to get well, my dear.’
‘Oh, I shall soon do that!
I am so much better, you don’t know!’
It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me.
We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face.
I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day.
‘Doady!’
‘My dear Dora!’
‘You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield’s not being well?
I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.’
‘I will write to her, my dear.’
‘Will you?’
‘Directly.’
‘What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm.
Indeed, my dear, it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!’
‘I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.’
‘You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?’ Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck.
‘How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?’
‘My empty chair!’ She clings to me for a little while, in silence.
‘And you really miss me, Doady?’ looking up, and brightly smiling.
‘Even poor, giddy, stupid me?’
‘My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?’
‘Oh, husband!
I am so glad, yet so sorry!’ creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms.
She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy.
‘Quite!’ she says.
‘Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.’
‘Except to get well again, Dora.’
‘Ah, Doady!
Sometimes I think—you know I always was a silly little thing!—that that will never be!’
‘Don’t say so, Dora!
Dearest love, don’t think so!’
‘I won’t, if I can help it, Doady.
But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife’s empty chair!’
It is night; and I am with her still.
Agnes has arrived; has been among us for a whole day and an evening.
She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together.
We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful.
We are now alone.
Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me?