Pauline.__Guy and Pauline

_Do you like 'your own' better than 'your loving'?_

Guy went to bed very early and resolved to wake at dawn that he might

have the hours of the morning for thoughts of Pauline on her birthday.

It was after dawn when Guy woke, for he had fallen asleep very tired

after his week on the river; still it was scarcely six when he came down

into the orchard, and the birds were singing as Guy thought he had never

heard them sing before. The apple trees were already frilled with a foam

of blossom; and on quivering boughs linnets with breasts rose-burnt by

the winds of March throbbed out their carol. Chaffinches with flashing

prelude of silver wings flourished a burst of song that broke as with

too intolerable a triumph: then sought another tree and poured forth the

triumphant song again. Thrushes, blackbirds and warblers quired

deep-throated melodies against the multitudinous trebles of those

undistinguished myriads that with choric paean saluted May; and on

sudden diminuendoes could be heard the rustling canzonets of the

goldfinches, rising and falling with reedy cadences.

Guy launched his canoe, which crushed the dewy young grass in its track

and laded the morning with one more fragrance. He paddled down the

mill-stream and, landing presently in the Rectory paddock now in full

blow with white and purple irises, he went through the wicket into the

garden. When he reached the lily-pond the birds on the lawn flew away

and left it green and empty. He stood entranced, for the hush of the

morning lay on the house, and in the wistaria Pauline's window dreamed,

wide open. Deep in the shrubberies the birds still twittered

incessantly. Why was he not one of these birds, that he might light upon

her sill? Upon Guy's senses stole the imagination of a new fragrance,

that was being shed upon the day by that wide-open window; a fragrance

that might be of flowers growing by the walks of her dreams. And surely

in those flowery dreams he was beside her, since he had lost all sense

of being still on earth. A bee flew out from Pauline's room, an enviable

bee which had been booming with indefinite motion for how long round and

round the white tulips on her sill. Presently another bee flew in; and

Guy's fancy, catching hold of its wings hovered above Pauline where she

lay sleeping. So sharp was the emotion he had of entering with the bee,

that he was aware of brushing back her light brown hair to lean down and

kiss her forehead; and when the belfry-clock clanged he was startled to

find himself back upon this green and empty lawn. He must not stay here

in front of her window, because if she woke and came in her white

nightgown to greet the day, she would be shy to see him standing here.

Reluctantly Guy turned away and would have gone out again by the wicket

in the wall, if he had not come face to face with Birdwood.

"I think I'm a bit early," he said in some embarrassment.

"Yes, I think you are a bit early, sir," the gardener agreed.

"Breakfast won't be till about half past eight?" Guy suggested.

"And it's just gone the half of six," said Birdwood.

"Would you like to see my canoe?" Guy asked.

Birdwood looked round the lawn, seeming to imply that, such was Guy's

liberty of behaviour, he half expected to see it floating on the

lily-pond.

"Where is it then?" he asked.

Guy took him through the paddock to where the canoe lay on the

mill-stream.

"Handy little weapon," Birdwood commented.

"Well, I'll see you later, I expect," said Guy embarking again. "I'm

coming to breakfast at the Rectory."

"Yes, sir," the gardener answered cheerfully. "In about another hour and

a half I shall be looking for the eggs."

Guy waved his hand and shot out into midstream where he drifted idly.

Should he go to church this morning? Pauline must have wanted him to

come, or she would not have told him in her note that she was going.

They had never discussed the question of religion. Tacitly he had let it

be supposed he believed in her simple creed, and he knew his appearance

of faith had given pleasure to the family as well as to Pauline herself.

Was he being very honest with her or with them? Certainly when he knelt

at the back of the church and saw Pauline as he had seen her on Easter

Day, it was not hard to believe in divinity. But he did not carry away

Pauline's faith to cheer his own secret hours. The thought of herself

was always with him, but her faith remained as a kind of vision upon

which he was privileged to gaze on those occasions when, as it were, she

made of it a public confession. Had he really any right to intrude upon

such sanctities as hers would be to-day? No doubt every birthday morning

she went to church, and the strangeness of his presence seemed almost an

unhallowing of such rites. Even to attend her birthday breakfast began

to appear unjustifiable, as he thought of all the birthday breakfasts

that for so many years had passed by without him and without any idea

of there ever being any necessity for him. No doubt this morning he,

miserable and unworthy sceptic, would be dowered with the half of her

prayers, and in that consciousness could he bear to accept them,

kneeling at the back of the church, unless he believed utterly they were

sanctified by something more than her own maidenhood? Yet if he did not

go to church, Pauline would be disappointed, because she would surely

expect him. She would be like the blessed damozel leaning out from the

gold bar of Heaven and weeping because he did not come. There was no

gain from honesty, if she were made miserable by it. It were better a

thousand times he should kneel humbly at the back of the church and pray

for the faith that was hers. And why could he not believe as she

believed? If her faith were true, he suffered from injustice by having

no grace accorded to him. Or did there indeed lie between him and her

the impassable golden bar of Heaven? A cloud swept across the morning

sun, and Guy shivered. Then the church-bell began to clang and, urging

his canoe towards the churchyard, he jumped ashore and knelt at the back

of the church.

Guy had been aware during the service of the saintly pageant along the

windows of the clerestory slowly dimming, and he was not surprized, when

he came out, to see that clouds were dusking the first brilliance of the

day. Mrs. Grey, Monica and Margaret had prayed each in a different part

of the church; but now in the porch they fluttered about Pauline with an

intimate and happy awareness of her birthday, almost seeming to wrap her

in it, so that she in flushed responsiveness wore all her twenty years

like a bunch of roses. Guy was sensitive to the faint reluctance with

which her mother and sisters resigned her to him on this birthday

morning; but yet to follow them back from church with Pauline beside him

in a trepidation of blushes and sparkles was too dear a joy for him in

turn to resign. Half-way to the house Pauline remembered that her

father had been left alone. This was too wide a breach in her birthday's

accustomed ceremony, and much dismayed she begged Guy to go back with

her. At that moment the rest of the family had disappeared round a curve

in the walk, and Guy caught Pauline to him, complaining she had not

kissed him since he was home.

"Oh, but Father!" she said breathlessly tugging. "He'll be so hurt if

we've gone on without him."

Guy felt a stab of jealousy that even a father should intrude upon his

birthday kiss for her.

"Oh, very well," he said half coldly. "If to see me again after a

fortnight means so little...."

"Guy," said Pauline, "you're not cross with me? And Father was so sweet

about you. He said, 'Is Guy coming to breakfast?' Guy, you mustn't mind

if I think a lot about everybody to-day. You see, this is my first

birthday when there has been you."

"Oh, don't remind me of the years before we met," said Guy. "I hate them

all. No, I don't," he exclaimed in swift penitence. "I love them all.

Hurry, darling girl, or we shall miss him."

Pauline's eyes were troubled by a question, behind which lurked a

fleeting alarm.

"Kiss me," she murmured. "I was horrid."

A kind of austerity informed their kiss of reconciliation, an austerity

that suited the sky of impending rain under which they were standing in

the light of the last wan sunbeam. Then they hurried to the churchyard

where in the porch the Rector was looking vaguely round for the company

he expected.

"Lucky my friend Lorteti came out yesterday. This rain will ruin him.

You must take Guy to see that iris, my dear. Fancy, twenty-one to-day,

dear me! dear me! most remarkable!"

Pauline danced with delight behind the Rector's back.

"He thinks I'm twenty-one," she whispered. "Oh, Guy, isn't he sweet? And

he called you Guy. Oh, Francis," she cried. "Do let me kiss you."

There was a short debate on the probability of the rain's coming before

breakfast was done, but it was decided, thanks to Birdwood's optimism,

to accept the risk of interruption by sitting down outside. The table

was on the lawn, Pauline's presents lying in a heap at the head. As one

by one she opened the packets, everybody stood round her, not merely her

mother and father and sisters and Guy, but also Birdwood and elderly

Janet and Mrs. Unger the cook and Polly who helped Mrs. Unger.

"Oh, I'm so excited," said Pauline. "Oh, I do hope it won't rain. Oh,

thank you, Mrs. Unger. What a beautiful frame!"

"I hope yaw'll find someone to put in it, miss," said Mrs. Unger with a

glance of stately admiration toward her present and a triumphant side

look at Janet, who after many years' superintendence of Pauline's white

fastness had brought her bunches of lavender and woodruff tied up with

ribbons. All the presents were now undone, among them Guy's green

volume, a paste buckle from Margaret, a piece of old embroidery from

Monica and from Richard in India a pair of carved bellows, at the

prodigal ingenuity of whose pattern Margaret looked a little peevish.

When all the other presents had been examined, Birdwood stepped forward

and with the air of a conjuror produced from under his coat a pot of

rose-coloured sweet-peas that exactly matched the frail hue of Pauline's

cheeks.

Breakfast was eaten, with everybody's eyes watching the now completely

grey sky. How many such birthday breakfasts had been eaten on this cool

lawn by these people who in their simplicity were akin to the birds in

their shrubberies and the flowers in their borders; and Guy thought of

an old photograph taken by an uncle of Pauline's tenth birthday

breakfast, when the table was heaped high with dolls and toys and

Pauline in the middle of them, while Monica and Margaret with legs as

thin as thrushes' stood shy and graceful in the background. He sighed to

himself with amazement at the fortune which like a genie had whisked him

into this dear assemblage.

Breakfast was over just as the rain began to fall with the tinkling

whisper that forebodes determination. There was not a leaf in the garden

that was not ringing like an elfin bell to these silver drops; but,

alas, the unrelenting windless rain gave no hope to Guy and Pauline of

that long walk together they had expected all a fortnight. There was

nothing to do but sit in the nursery and wonder if it would ever stop.

"I used to love rain when it kept me here," said Guy. "Now it has become

our enemy."

Worse was to come, for it rained every day faster and faster, and there

were no journeys for Guy's new canoe. He and Pauline scarcely had ten

minutes to themselves, since when they were kept in the house all the

family treated them with that old proprietary manner. The unending rain

began to fret them more sharply because Spring's greenery was in such

weather of the vividest hue and was reproaching them perpetually for the

waste of this lovely month of May.

The river was rising. Already Guy's garden was sheened with standing

moisture, and the apple-blossom lay ruined. People vowed there had never

been such rain in May, and still it rained. The river was running

swiftly, level with the top of its banks, and many of the meadows were

become glassy firmaments. Very beautiful was this green and silver

landscape, but oh, the rain was endless. Guy grew much depressed and

Miss Peasey got rheumatism in her ankles. Then in the middle of the

month, when Guy was feeling desperate and when even Pauline seemed sad

for the hours that were being robbed from them, it cleared up.

Guy had been to tea, and after tea he and Pauline had sat watching the

weather. Margaret had stayed with them all the afternoon, but had left

them alone now, when it was half-past six and nearly time for Guy to go.

The clouds, which all day had spread their pearly despair over the

world, suddenly melted in a wild transplendency of gold.

"Oh, do let's go for a walk before dinner," said Guy. "Don't let's tell

anybody, but let's escape."

"Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere. Anywhere. Out in the meadows by the edge of the water. Let's

get sopping wet. Dearest, do come. We're never free. We're never alone."

So Pauline got ready; and they slipped away from the house, hoping that

nobody would call them back and hurrying through the wicket into the

paddock where the irises hung all sodden. They walked along the banks of

a river twice as wide as it should be, and found they could not cross

the bridge. But it did not matter, for the field where they were walking

was not flooded, and they went on toward the mill. Here they crossed the

river and, hurrying always as if they were pursued, such was their sense

of a sudden freedom that could not last, they made a circuit of the

wettest meadows and came to the hill on the other side. Everywhere above

them the clouds were breaking, and all the West was a fiery mist of rose

and gold.

The meadow they had found was crimsoned over with ragged robins that in

this strange light glowered angrily like rubies. Pauline bent down and

gathered bunches of them until her arms were full. Her skirt was wet,

but still she plucked the crimson flowers; and Guy was gathering them

too, knee-deep in soaking grass. What fever was in the sunset to-night?

"Pauline," he cried flinging high his bunch of ragged robins to scatter

upon the incarnadined air. "I have never loved you, as I love you now."

Guy caught her to him; and into that kiss the fiery sky entered, so that

Pauline let fall her ragged robins and they lay limp in the grass and

were trodden under foot.

"Pauline, I have a ring for you," he whispered. "Will you wear it when

we are alone?"

She took the thin circlet set with a crystal, and put it on her finger.

Then with passionate arms she held him to her heart: the caress burned

his lips like a flaming torch: the crystal flashed with hectic gleams, a

basilisk, a perilous orient gem.

"We must go home," she whispered. "Oh, Guy, I feel frightened of this

evening."

"Pauline, my burning rose," he whispered.

And all the way back into the crimson sunset they talked still in

whispers, and of those rain-drenched ragged robins there was not one

they carried home.

_'La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!'_

The words did not cool Guy's pillow that night, but they led him by

strange ways into a fevered sleep.