_December_
In the first elation of having been able to prove to Guy how exclusively
she loved him, Pauline had no misgivings about the effect upon herself
of that dark descent into the garden. It was only when Guy, urging the
success of what almost seemed disturbingly to state itself as an
experiment, begged her to go farther and take the negligible risk of
coming out with him on the river at night, that she began to doubt if
she had acted well in yielding that first small favour. The problem,
that she must leave herself to determine without a hint of its existence
to anyone outside, stuck unresolved at the back of her conscience,
whence in moments of depression it would, as it were, leap forth to
assail her peace of mind. She was positive, however, that the precedent
had been unwise from whatever point of view regarded, and for a while
she resisted earnestly the arguments Guy evoked about the privileges
conferred on lovers by the customary judgment of the world. Nevertheless
in the end she did surrender anew to his persistence, and on two nights
of dim December moonlight she escaped from the house and floated with
him unhappily upon the dark stream, turning pale at every lean branch
that stretched out from the bank, at every shadow, and at every sound of
distant dogs' barking.
Guy would not understand the falseness of this pleasure and, treating
with scorn her alarm, he used to invent excuses by which she would be
able to account for the emptiness of the room in the event of her
absence being discovered. The mere prospect of such deceit distressed
Pauline, and when she realized that even already by doing what she had
done deceit had been set on foot, she told him she could not bear the
self-reproach which followed. It was true, as she admitted, that there
was really nothing to regret except the unhappiness the discovery of her
action would bring to her family, but of course the chief effect of this
was that Guy became even more jealous of her sisters' influence. The
disaccord between him and them was making visible progress, and much of
love's joy was being swallowed up in the sadness this brought to her.
She wished now that she had said nothing about the rebuke she had earned
for that unfortunate afternoon in the Abbey. Margaret and Monica had
both tried hard ever since to atone for the part they played, and having
forgiven them and accepted the justice of their point of view, Pauline
was distressed that Guy should treat them now practically as avowed
enemies. She might have known that happiness such as hers could not
last, and she reproached herself for the many times she had triumphed in
the thought of the superiority of their love to any other she had
witnessed. She deserved this anxiety and this doubt as a punishment for
the way in which she had often scoffed at the dulness of other people
who were in love. Marriage, which at first had been only a delightful
dream the remoteness of which did not matter, was now appearing the only
remedy for the ills that were gathering round Guy and her. As soon as
she had set her heart upon this panacea she began to watch Guy's work
from the point of view of its subservience to that end. She was anxious
that he should work particularly hard and she became very sensitive to
any implication of laziness in the casual opinion that Margaret or
Monica would sometimes express. Guy was obviously encouraged by the
interest she took, and for a while in the new preoccupation of working
together as it were for a common aim the strain of their restricted
converse was allayed.
One day early in December Guy announced that really he thought he had
now enough poems to make a volume, news which roused Pauline to the
greatest excitement and which on the same evening she triumphantly
announced to her family at dinner.
"My dears, his book is finished! And, Father, he has translated some
poems of that man--that Latin creature you gave him on his birthday."
"Propertius is difficult," said the Rector. "Very difficult."
"Oh, but I'm so glad he's difficult, because that will make it all the
more valuable if Guy ... or won't it? Oh, don't let me talk nonsense:
but really, darlings, aren't you all glad that his book is finished?"
"We'll drink the poet's health," said the Rector.
"Oh, Father, I must kiss you ... aren't you pleased Guy appreciated your
present?"
"Now, Pauline, you're sweeping your napkin down on the floor...."
"Oh, but Mother, I must kiss Francis for being so sweet."
"He promised to show me the poems," said Margaret. "But Guy doesn't like
me any more."
"Oh, yes, Margaret, he does. Oh, Margaret, he really does. And if you
say that, I shall have to break a secret. He's written two poems about
you."
Margaret flushed.
"Has he? Well, he must certainly show them to me first or I shall veto
the publication."
"Oh, darlings," Pauline cried. "I am happy to-night! The famousness of
Guy presently ... and oh, I forgot to tell you something so touching
that happened this morning. What do you think? Miss Verney consulted me
as to whether I thought it was time she began to wear caps."
"Guy ought to write a poem about that," said Monica.
"Oh, no, Monica, you're not to laugh at poor Miss Verney. I must tell
her to-morrow morning about Guy's book. She so appreciates greatness."
It was a delightful evening, and Pauline in her contentment felt that
she was back in the heart of that old Rectory life, so far did the
confidence in Guy's justification of himself enable her to leave behind
the shadows of the past two months, and most of all those miserable
escapades in the watery December moonlight.
"A book, dear me, how important," said Miss Verney, when next morning
Pauline was telling her the news. "Quite an important event for
Wychford, I'm sure. I must write to the Stores and order a copy at once
... or perhaps, as a local celebrity ... yes, I think, it would be
kinder to patronize our Wychford stationer."
"But, Miss Verney, it's not published yet, you know. We expect it won't
be published before March at the earliest."
"I don't think I ever met an author," said Miss Verney meditatively.
"You see, my father being a sailor ... really, an author in Wychford,
... dear me, it's quite an important occasion."
Pauline thought she would devote the afternoon to writing the good news
to Richard, and Margaret hearing of her intention, announced
surprizingly that Richard was coming back in April for two or three
months.
"Oh, Margaret, and you never told me."
"Well, I didn't think you took much interest in Richard nowadays. He
asked what had happened to you."
"I am glad he's coming back, Margaret. But oh, do tell me if you are
going to marry him."
Margaret would not answer, but Pauline, all of whose hopes were roseate
to-day, decided that Margaret had really made up her mind at last, and
she went upstairs full of penitence for her neglect of Richard, but
determined to make up for it by the good news she would send both of
herself and of him.