"That's to-day! Then Michael must be here. What an extraordinary
thing!"
Guy looked round the room for any sign of his friend; but there was
nothing except the Shakesperean record of his presence. Pauline felt
hurt that he should be so much interested in a friend, when but a moment
ago he had brought her here as if her presence were the only thing that
counted for his evening's pleasure.
"I must find out where he is," exclaimed Guy.
Now he wanted to be rid of her, thought Pauline, and for the first time,
when he had kissed her, she kissed him coldly in response. More bitter
still was the thought that he did not remonstrate: he had not noticed.
Pauline said she must hurry away, and Guy did not persuade her to stop.
Oh, how she hated this friend of his; she had no one in whom she would
be even mildly interested when she was with Guy. He took her home in the
canoe, speculating all the way about Michael Fane's whereabouts; and as
Pauline went across the Rectory paddock there were tears of
mortification in her eyes that sometimes burnt as hotly even as with
jealousy's rage.
Her mother was on the lawn, when she got back, and Pauline blinked her
eyes a good deal to throw the blame of tears upon the sun.
"Ah, you're back. Let's take a little walk round the garden," said Mrs.
Grey in the nervous manner that told of something on her mind.
They went into the larger wall-garden and walked along the wide
herbaceous borders through a blaze of snapdragons that here all day had
been swallowing the sunshine.
"Where did you go with Guy?" her mother asked.
"We went down the river, and they're cutting the grass in the big meadow
and then afterwards...."
"Oh, Pauline, afterwards you went into Guy's house with him?"
Pauline nodded.
"I know. I was just going to tell you."
"Pauline, how could you do such a thing?"
"I only went to say good-night. I wasn't there five minutes."
Why should an action so simple be vexing her mother?
"Are you angry with me for going?"
"You must never do such a thing again," said Mrs. Grey more crossly than
Pauline had ever heard her. "Monica saw you go in as she was walking
down Shipcot hill, and she has just this moment come and told me."
"But why shouldn't I go in and say good-night?" Pauline asked. "There
were people in the churchyard. I thought it was better to say good-night
in the house."
Her mother was tremulously pink with vexation, and Pauline looked at her
in surprize. It was really unaccountable that such a trifling incident
as going into Guy's house could have made her as angry as this. She must
have offended her in some other way.
"Mother, what have I done to annoy you?"
"I can't think what made you do anything so stupid as that. I can't
think. I can't think. So many people may have seen you go in."
"Well, Mother darling, surely by this time," said Pauline, "everybody
must know we are really engaged."
Her mother stood in an access of irritation.
"And don't you understand how that makes it all the worse? Please never
do such an inconsiderate thing again. You can imagine how much it upset
Monica, when she ran back to tell me."
"Why didn't she come in and fetch me?" asked Pauline. "That would have
been much easier. I think she thoroughly enjoyed making a great fuss
about nothing. Everybody has been criticizing me lately. I know you all
disapprove of anybody's being in love."
"Pauline, when you are to blame, you shouldn't say such unkind things
about Monica."
"I have to say what I think sometimes," Pauline replied rebelliously.
"And as for Guy," Mrs. Grey went on, "I am astonished at his
thoughtlessness. I can't understand how he could dream of letting you
come into his house. I can't understand it."
"Yes, but why shouldn't I go in?" Pauline persisted. "Darling Mother,
you go on being angry with me, but you don't tell me why I shouldn't go
in."
"Can't you understand what the Wychford people might think?"
Pauline shook her head.
"Well, I shan't say any more about it," Mrs. Grey decided. "But you must
promise me never never to do such a foolish thing again."
"I'll promise you never to go to Guy's house," said Pauline. "But I
can't promise never to do foolish things, when such perfectly ordinary
things are called foolish."
Mrs. Grey looked helplessly round her, but as neither of her two elder
daughters was present she had nothing to say; and Pauline, who thought
that all the fuss was due to nothing but Monica's unwarranted
interference, had nothing to say either; so they walked along the
herbaceous borders each with a demeanour of reproach for the other's
failure to understand. The snapdragons lolled upon the sun with
gold-bloomed anthers, and drank more and still more colour until they
were drenched beyond the deepest dyes of crimson, extinguishing the
paler hues of rose and chrome which yet at moth-time would show like
lamps when the others had dulled in the discouragement of twilight.
"You mustn't think anything more about it," said her mother after a long
silence. "I'm sure it was only heedlessness. I don't think you can say
I'm too strict with you and Guy. Really, you know, you ought to have had
a very happy June. You've been together nearly all the time."
"Darling," said Pauline utterly penitent for the least look that could
have wounded her mother's feelings. "You're sweet to us. And Guy loves
you nearly as much as I do."
The gong sounded upon the luteous air of the evening; and Pauline with
her arm closely tucked into her mother's arm walked with her across the
lawn toward the house.
"It's no good looking crossly at me," she said when like a beautiful
ghost Monica came into the dining-room. "I've explained everything to
Mother."
"I'm very glad you have," Monica answered austerely; and because she
would not fall in with her own forgiving mood, Pauline took the gentle
revenge of not expostulating with her that evening when there was an
opportunity. Nor would she let Margaret refer to the subject. Her
sisters were very adorable, but they knew nothing about love and it
would only make them more anxious to lay down laws if she showed that
she was aware of their disapproval. She would be particularly charming
to them both this evening, but her revenge must be never to mention the
incident to either.
The principal result of her mother's rebuke had been to drive away
Pauline's anger with Guy and the jealousy of his friend. All she thought
now was of the time when next they would meet and when she would be able
to laugh with him over the absurdity of other people pretending to know
anything about the ways of love or of lovers like themselves. She
decided also that, as a penance for having been angry with Guy, she
would take care to enquire the very first thing about the mystery of the
inscription on the window. Oh, but how she hoped his friend had not come
to stay at Plashers Mead, for that would surely spoil this Summer of
theirs.
The next afternoon, when Pauline went into the paddock, Guy was waiting
for her on the mill-stream, her place in the canoe all ready as usual.
"Have you found your friend?" she asked, faithful to her resolution.
"Not a sign of him," said Guy. "What on earth he came for, I can't
think. Miss Peasey never saw him and of course she never heard him. He
must have been bicycling. However, don't let's waste time in talking
about Michael Fane."
Pauline smiled at him with all her heart. How wonderful Guy was to
reward her so richly for the little effort it had cost to enquire about
his friend.
"I've been prospecting this morning," he announced as they shot along in
the direction of the bridge. "They haven't started to make hay on the
other side, so I'm going to paddle you furiously upstream until we find
some secret and magical meadow where we can hide and forget about
yesterday's fiasco."
They glided underneath the bridge and left it quivering in the empty
sunlight behind them; they swept silently over the mill-pool while
Pauline held her breath. Then the banks closed in upon their canoe and
Guy fought his way against the swifter running of the river, on and on,
on and on between the long grasses of the uncut meadows, on and on, on
and on past the waterfall where the Abbey stream joined the main stream
and gave it a wider and easier course.
"Phew, it's hot," Guy exclaimed. "Sprinkle me with water."
She splashed him laughing; and he seized her hand to kiss her dabbled
fingers.
"Laugh, my sweet sweet heart," he said. "It was your laugh I heard
before I ever heard your voice, that night when I stood and looked at
you and Margaret as if you were two silver people who had fallen down
from the moon."
Again she sprinkled him laughing, and again he seized her hand and
kissed her dabbled fingers.
"They're as cool as coral," he said. "Why are you wrinkling your nose at
me? Pauline, your eyes have vanished away!"
He plucked speedwell flowers and threw them into her lap.
"When I haven't got you with me," he said, "I have to pretend that the
speedwells are your eyes, and that the dog-roses are your cheeks."
"And what is my nose?" she asked, clapping her hands because she was
sure he would not be able to think of any likeness.
"Your nose is incomparable," he told her: and then he bent to his paddle
and made the canoe fly along so that the water fluted to right and left
of the bows. Ultimately they came to an island where all the afternoon
they sat under a willow that was pluming with scanty shade a thousand
forget-me-nots.
Problems faded out upon the languid air, for Pauline was too well
content with Guy's company to spoil the June peace. At last, however,
she disengaged herself from his caressing arm and turned to him a
serious and puzzled face. And when she was asking her question she knew
how all the afternoon it had been fretting the back of her mind.
"Why was Mother angry with me yesterday because I came into Plashers
Mead to say good-night to you?"
"Was she angry?" asked Guy.
"Well, Monica saw us and got home before me and told her, and she was
worried at what people would think. What would they think?"
Guy looked at her: then he shook his fist at the sky.
"Oh, God, why must people try...."
She touched his arm.
"Guy, don't swear. At least not ... you'll call me superstitious and
foolish," she murmured dismayfully, "but really it hurts me to hear you
say that."
"I don't think you anything but the most lovely and perfect thing on
earth," he vowed passionately. "And it drives me mad that people should
try to spoil your naturalness ... but still ... it was thoughtless of
me."
"But why, why?" she asked. "That's the word Mother used about you. Only,
why, why? Why shouldn't I go and say good-night?"
"Dear, there was no harm in that. But you see, village people might say
horrid things.... I was dreadfully to blame. Yes, of course I was."
She flushed like a carnation at dawn; and when Guy put his arms round
her, she drew away.
"Oh, Guy," she said brokenly. "I can't bear to think of being alone
to-night. I shall be asking questions all the night long, I know I
shall. It's like that horrid mill-pool."
"Mill-pool?" he echoed, looking at her in perplexity.
She sighed and stared sadly down at the forget-me-nots.
"You wouldn't understand: you'd think I was hysterical and stupid."
Silently they left the island, and silently for some time they floated
down the stream: then Pauline tossed her head bravely.
"Love's rather cruel in a way."
Guy looked aghast.
"Pauline, you don't regret falling in love with me?"
"No, of course not, of course not. Oh, I love you more than I can say."
When Guy's arms were round her again, Pauline thought that love could be
as cruel as he chose; she did not care for his cruelty.
_July_
Guy had been conscious ever since that rose-gold evening of the ragged
robins of new elements having entered into his and Pauline's love for
each other. All this month, however, June creeping upon them with
verdurous and muffled steps had plotted to foil the least attempt on
Guy's part to face the situation. Now the casual indiscretion of
yesterday brought him sharply against it, and, as in the melancholy of
the long Summer evening he contemplated the prospect, it appeared
disquieting enough. In nine months he had done nothing: no quibbling
could circumvent that deadly fact. For nine months he had lived in a
house of his own, had accepted paternal help, had betrothed himself; and
with every passing month he had done less to justify any single one of
the steps. What were the remedies? The house might be sub-let: at any
rate his father's bounty came to an end this quarter: engaging himself
formally to Pauline, he could throttle the Muse and become a
schoolmaster, and in two years perhaps they could be married. It would
be a wrench to abandon poetry and the hope of fame, indeed it would
stagger the very foundations of his pride; but rather than lose Pauline
he would be content to remain the obscurest creature on earth.
Literature might blazon his name: but her love blazoned his soul. Poetry
was only the flame of life made visible, and if he were to sacrifice
Pauline what gasping and ignoble rushlight of his own would he offer to
the world?
Yet could he bear to leave Pauline herself? The truth was he should have
gone in March when she was in a way still remote and when like a star
she would have shone as brightly upon him absent or present. Now that
star was burning in his heart with passionate fires and fevers and with
quenchless ardours. It would be like death to leave her now; were she
absent from him her very name would be as a draught of liquid fire. More
implacable, too, than his own torment of love might be hers. If he had
gone in March, she would have been gently sad, but in those first months
she still had other interests; now if he parted from her she would
merely all the time be growing older and they would have between them
and their separation the intolerable wastage of their youth. Pauline had
surrendered to love all the simple joys which had hitherto occupied her
daily life; and if she were divided from him, he feared for the fire
that might consume her. It was he who had kindled it upon that
rosaureate evening of mid-May, and it was he who was charged with her
ultimate happiness. The accident of yesterday had reminded him sharply
how far this was so, and a sense of the tremendous responsibility
created by his love for her lay heavily upon Guy. He must never again
give her family an occasion to remonstrate with her: he had been the one
to blame, and he wished Mrs. Grey had spoken to him without saying
anything to Pauline. How sad this long evening was, with reluctant day
even now at half-past-nine o'clock still luminous in the West.
Next morning there was a letter for Guy from his father.