_December_
The rain which began the day after the Greys' visit to Plashers Mead
went on almost without a break for a whole week. December with what it
could bring of deadness, gloom and moisture came drearily down on
Wychford, and Pauline as she sat high in her window-seat lamented the
interminable soak.
"I can't think why Guy hasn't been near the Rectory lately," she
grumbled.
"I expect he's tired of us," said Margaret.
"You don't really think so," Pauline contradicted. "You're much much
_much_ too conceited to think so really."
Margaret laughed.
"You don't mind a bit when I call you conceited," Pauline went on,
challenging her sister. "I believe you're so conceited that you're proud
even of being conceited. Why doesn't Guy come and see us, I wonder."
"Why should he come?" Monica asked rather severely. "Perhaps he's doing
some work for a change."
"I believe he's hurt," Pauline declared.
"Hurt?" repeated her sisters.
"Yes, because you were both so frightfully critical of his room. Oh, I
_am_ glad that Mother and I aren't critical."
"Well, if he's hurt because I said he oughtn't to have an image of Our
Lady on his mantelshelf," said Monica, "I really don't think we need
bother any more about him. Was I to encourage him in such stupid little
Gothic affectations?"
"Oh, oh," cried Pauline. "I think he's frightened of you, Monica dear,
and of your long sentences, for I'm sure I am."
"He wasn't at all frightened of me," Monica asserted. "Didn't you hear
him call me Monica?"
"And surely," Margaret put in, "you didn't really like those stupid mock
mediaeval curtains. No design, just a lot of meaningless fleurs-de-lys
looking like spots. It's because I think Guy has got a glimmering of
taste that I gave him my honest opinion. Otherwise I shouldn't have
bothered."
"No, I didn't like the curtains," Pauline admitted. "But I thought they
were rather touching. And, oh, my dears, I can't tell you how touching I
think the whole house is, with that poor woman squeezing her way about
that enormous kitchen-furniture!"
Pauline looked out of the window as she spoke, and there at last was Guy
standing on the lawn with her father, who was explaining something about
a root which he held in his hand. On the two of them the rain poured
steadily down. Pauline threw up the sash and called out that they were
to come in at once.
"I am glad he's ... why what's the matter, Margaret?" she asked, as she
saw her sister looking at her with an expression of rather emphatic
surprize.
"Really," commented Margaret. "I shouldn't have thought it was necessary
to soothe his ruffled feelings by giving him the idea that you've been
watching at the window all the week for his visit."
"Oh, Margaret, you are unkind," and, since words would all too soon have
melted into tears, Pauline rushed from the nursery away to her own white
fastness at the top of the house. She did not pause in her headlong
flight to greet her mother in the passage; nor even when she entangled
herself in Janet's apron could she say a word.
"Good gracious, Miss Pauline," gasped Janet. "And only just now the cat
went and run between my legs in the hall."
Pauline's bedroom was immediately over the nursery; but so roundabout
was the construction of the Rectory that, to reach the one from the
other, all sorts of corridors and twisting stairways had to be passed;
and when finally she flung herself down in her small armchair she was
breathless. Soon, however, the tranquillity of the room restored her.
The faded blue linen so cool to her cheeks quieted all the passionate
indignation. On the wall Saint Ursula asleep in her bed seemed
inconsistent with a proud rage; nor did Tobit laughing in the angel's
company encourage her to sulk. Therefore almost before Guy had taken off
his wet overcoat, Pauline had rushed downstairs again; had kissed
Margaret; and had put three stitches in the tail of the scarlet bird
that occupied her tambour-frame. Certainly when he came into the
drawing-room she was as serene as her two sisters, and much more serene
than Mrs. Grey, who had just discovered that she had carefully made the
tea without a spoonful in the pot, besides mislaying a bottle of
embrocation she had spent the afternoon in finding for an old
parishioner's rheumatism.
Pauline, however, soon began to worry herself again because Guy was
surely avoiding her most deliberately, and not merely avoiding her but
paying a great deal of attention to Margaret. Of course she was glad for
him to like Margaret, but Richard out in India must be considered. She
could not forget that promise she had made to Richard last June, when
they were paddling upstream into the sunset. Guy was charming; in a way
she could be almost as fond of him as of Richard, but what would she say
to Richard if she let Guy carry off Margaret? Besides, it was unkind not
to have a word for her when she was always such a good listener to his
tales of Miss Peasey, and when they could always laugh together at the
same absurdities of daily life. Perhaps he had felt that Margaret, who
had been so critical over his curtains, must be propitiated--and yet now
he was already going without a word to herself: he was shaking hands
with her so formally that, though she longed to teaze him for wearing
silk socks with those heavy brogues, she could not. He seemed to be
angry with her ... surely he was not angry because she had hailed him
from the window.
"What was the matter with Guy?" she asked when he was gone, and when
everybody looked at her sharply, Pauline felt herself on fire with
blushes; made a wild stitch in the tail of the scarlet bird; and then
rushed away to look for the lost embrocation, refusing to hear when they
called after her that Mother had been sitting on it all the afternoon.
The windows along the corridors were inky blue, almost turning black, as
she stared at them, half frightened in the unlighted dusk: outside, the
noise of the rain was increasing every moment. She would sit up in her
bedroom till dinner-time and write a long letter to India. By
candlelight she wrote to Richard, seated at the small desk that was full
of childish things.