"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 tremendously pink with vexation, and Pauline looked at
her in surprise. 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 sha'n'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 demeanor 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 color 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 pause. "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 towards 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 inquire the very first thing about the mystery of the
inscription on the window. Oh, but how she hoped that 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 awaiting
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 inquire 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 up-stream 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-pond while
Pauline held her breath. Then the banks closed in upon their canoe and
Guy fought his way against the swifter running of the water, 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
horrible things.... I was dreadfully to blame. Yes, of course I was."
She flushed like a carnation at dawn; and when Guy put his arm around
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.