Winsome Winnie and other New Nonsense Novels | Page 8

and chased the bulls out of the park.
They have six children, so far, and are respected, honoured and revered
in the countryside far and wide, over a radius of twenty miles in
circumference.

II
JOHN AND I
OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND
(Narrated after the approved fashion of the best Heart and Home
Magazines)

II.--John and I; or, How I Nearly Lost My Husband.
It was after we had been married about two years that I began to feel
that I needed more air. Every time I looked at John across the
breakfast-table, I felt as if I must have more air, more space.
I seemed to feel as if I had no room to expand. I had begun to ask
myself whether I had been wise in marrying John, whether John was
really sufficient for my development. I felt cramped and shut in. In
spite of myself the question would arise in my mind whether John
really understood my nature. He had a way of reading the newspaper,
propped up against the sugar-bowl, at breakfast, that somehow made
me feel as if things had gone all wrong. It was bitter to realize that the
time had come when John could prefer the newspaper to his wife's
society.
But perhaps I had better go back and tell the whole miserable story
from the beginning.
I shall never forget--I suppose no woman ever does--the evening when
John first spoke out his love for me. I had felt for some time past that it

was there. Again and again, he seemed about to speak. But somehow
his words seemed to fail him. Twice I took him into the very heart of
the little wood beside Mother's house, but it was only a small wood,
and somehow he slipped out on the other side. "Oh, John," I had said,
"how lonely and still it seems in the wood with no one here but
ourselves! Do you think," I said, "that the birds have souls?" "I don't
know," John answered, "let's get out of this." I was sure that his
emotion was too strong for him. "I never feel a bit lonesome where you
are, John," I said, as we made our way among the underbrush. "I think
we can get out down that little gully," he answered. Then one evening
in June after tea I led John down a path beside the house to a little
corner behind the garden where there was a stone wall on one side and
a high fence right in front of us, and thorn bushes on the other side.
There was a little bench in the angle of the wall and the fence, and we
sat down on it.
"Minnie," John said, "there's something I meant to say----"
"Oh, John," I cried, and I flung my arms round his neck. It all came
with such a flood of surprise.
"All I meant, Minn----" John went on, but I checked him.
"Oh, don't, John, don't say anything more," I said. "It's just too perfect."
Then I rose and seized him by the wrist. "Come," I said, "come to
Mother," and I rushed him along the path.
As soon as Mother saw us come in hand in hand in this way, she
guessed everything. She threw both her arms round John's neck and
fairly pinned him against the wall. John tried to speak, but Mother
wouldn't let him. "I saw it all along, John," she said. "Don't speak.
Don't say a word. I guessed your love for Minn from the very start. I
don't know what I shall do without her, John, but she's yours now; take
her." Then Mother began to cry and I couldn't help crying too. "Take
him to Father," Mother said, and we each took one of John's wrists and
took him to Father on the back verandah. As soon as John saw Father
he tried to speak again--"I think I ought to say," he began, but Mother
stopped him. "Father," she said, "he wants to take our little girl away.

He loves her very dearly, Alfred," she said, "and I think it our duty to
let her go, no matter how hard it is, and oh, please Heaven, Alfred, he'll
treat her well and not misuse her, or beat her," and she began to sob
again.
Father got up and took John by the hand and shook it warmly.
"Take her, boy," he said. "She's all yours now, take her."
So John and I were engaged, and in due time our wedding day came
and we were married. I remember that for days and days before the
wedding day John seemed very nervous and depressed; I think he was
worrying, poor boy, as to whether he could really make me happy