Sensitiveness

Desire and Delight — By F. E. Penny

She was known at the hospital in Poona as Nurse Mary, and nobody but Jimmy Dumbarton, the young surgeon-in-charge, knew that her real name was Rosemary Eden-hope, and that she was a married woman. This was her story. At the beginning of the war, at her lover's calling, she had come out to India with ‘a wedding costume complete with veil and orange blossom,’ to find, on the morning of her arrival, that her beloved is ordered to start for Egypt the very afternoon of that day. Why can't they go to the Cathedral straight away? ‘She had to be informed there were still certain preliminaries that must be effected before the marriage could take place.’

‘My own love! I must go!’

A year passes. To tide over the waiting she turns hospital nurse. Then he returns—but not the handsome, well set-up, clean-shaven officer to whom she had clung in her ‘abandonment of love and grief’; a gaunt bearded man, with haggard face and semi-scorched eyes, stood before her. But, bravely believing that it is only fatigue, she tells him she has arranged for their marriage on the morrow, and for their honeymoon in the hills. But the change is more than beard deep. Maurice is silent, page 82 sombre, giving her no return for her kisses, waking to animation only to wonder whether lunch is ready. After a gloomy lunch, afternoon, and dinner, she asks him if he would like to postpone to-morrow's ceremony.

Her sweetness and love, her readiness to sacrifice herself for him, should have been an irresistible appeal. It left him colder than ever.

Nevertheless, his answer is ‘No, no!’ And so she takes him to the church, finds Jimmy Dumbarton to give her away, sees that he is married to her, buys his railway ticket for him, and starts him off on their honeymoon to the bungalow called ‘Desire and Delight.’

All that a loving, brave, right-minded young woman could do Rosemary has done, but the poor wretch continues woe-begone and dreary, moving like a man in a dream. What can have happened to him? Could a year at Gallipoli spent among the dead and dying account for it? His eyes had definitely altered. … ‘Other eyes had looked into his with the coming of death, and seemed to have left their reflection.’ And when the adoring Rosemary asks him if he would like the bungalow re-arranged (for there are two single bedrooms at present), pinched, haggard and listless, he signifies ‘No.’ She bears it for a month. Then:

‘You are a wicked man and I hate you! I hate you! … I would have given you my life as I gave you my love. … I go out of your life, bearing your hated name, thanking you for nothing, and cursing you for having spoiled my life.’

They part at this, and she resumes her V.A.D. work, where she finds ‘scope for the generous sympathy and warm affection towards suffering humanity that was her second nature.’

Another interval—we are not told how long—and the news comes that Maurice Edenhope is appointed commandant of the hospital where she is working. What page 83 shall she do? How shall she meet him? Has she forgiven him? Does a woman ever forgive such a blow to her—pride. Jimmy Dumbarton puts off the uncomfortable day for her. In the same hospital there is a fine young native officer whose convalescence is retarded by his longing for his young wife. Nurse Mary is appointed to take him home to his palace and to stay with him until he is well, and her disaster with Edenhope is almost forgotten in her heroic attempts to overcome the intrigues of the harem and to bring the ardent young man and his bride together. Alone, single-handed, she fights the superstitions, powers, poisons, mock-tigers, attempts at murder, which are her daily portion, and at last succeeds, and has the satisfaction of hearing the door bolted and barred upon the fortunate ones. But their bliss looks in her face; its name is Might-have-been. And when Colonel Edenhope calls to inquire after nurse and patient, though, of course, her love is still quite, quite dead, she overdoes her free-and-easy indifference. The beard has gone, too. He is soigné as of old, and full of that vitality which once upon a time compelled her. He, on his side, is more attracted than ever. ‘She was the embodiment of perfect womanhood upon whom no man could look without admiration and no husband or lover without desire.’ ‘Sweetest woman on earth … Am I going to have any luck? It won't be a walk-over….’

Yes. For in an expansive moment he confides in Jimmy Dumbarton the history of his illness caused by his awful sufferings in Gallipoli, and how he had been driven half mad and was cured by open-air treatment in Scotland. Books, the latest novels, flowers and kindness, have failed to soften Rosemary, but this tale melts her. And he kisses her to ‘Maurice! husband I kiss me! again! again! I am starving for want of your love.’

Back once more to the bungalow, and this time there has been an alteration in the arrangement of the rooms with Colonel Edenhope's most ardent approval.

Throughout this novel the author is at great pains to page 84 assurers of the heroine's charm. She is the best type of young English womanhood; it is, indeed, she, and women like her, who have made the British Empire what it is. Women like Rosemary, once they have secured their Edenhope, will send him off to the wars without a murmur, hear of his being wounded with a thrill of pride, and confide in their best friend that ‘even if Maurice died I suppose I should just have to carry on.’ They might, also, nurse in hospitals for months on end, and mark the terrible things that happen to a man's mind as well as his body, and still be capable of acting towards another as this newly-wedded wife acted. Why not? Surely love is stronger than war-shock? Surely, faced by a fine blooming young woman, a man should be able to forget everything else?

‘Her sensitive nature,’ says Mrs. Penny. But, no! That we cannot allow. She is as true to life as you like; as common, as popular; we are ready to believe she may be found any day in Society Faces or the Lady's Magazine. But sensitive—never! Pray take away the word, Mrs. Penny. For her strength depends upon her denial of it.