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 favor. The problem, that
she must leave herself to determine without a hint of its existence to
any one 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 dullness 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
surprisingly 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 up-stairs 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.
WYCHFORD RECTORY, OXON,
_December_.
MY DEAR RICHARD,--I am sorry that I've not written to you for so
long, but I know you'll forgive me, because I have to think about
so many things. Margaret has just told me you are coming back in
April. Be sure it is April, because my birthday is on the first of
May, you know, and you must be in England for my birthday.
Margaret looked very happy when she said you were coming home.
Richard, I am sure that everything will be _perfect_. Guy's book
is finished, and perhaps it will be published in March. If it's
published early in March, I will send you a copy so that you can
read it on the steamer coming home. There are two poems about
Margaret, who was very sympathetic with Guy over me! That's one of
the reasons why I'm sure that everything will be perfect for you.
Guy wants to meet you very much. He says he admires action. That's
because I told him about your bridge. Your father and mother are
always very sweet to us when we go and have tea with them. Miss
Verney is going to wear caps. Birdwood asked if you would bring
him back a Goorcha's--is that the way to spell it?--a Goorcha's
knife because Godbold won't believe something he told him.
Birdwood said you were a grand young chap and were wasted out in
India. Father won a prize at Vincent Square for a yellow
gladiolus. It's been christened--now I've forgotten what, but
after somebody who had a golden throat. Guy's dog is a lamb. A
merry Christmas, and lots of love from
Your loving
PAULINE.
Pauline looked forward to Richard's return because she hoped that if
Margaret married him her own marriage to Guy would begin to appear more
feasible, it being at present almost too difficult to imagine anything
like marriage exploding upon the quietude of the Rectory. The return of
Richard, from the moment she eyed it in relation to her own affairs,
assumed an importance it had never possessed before when it was only an
ideal of childish sentiment, and Pauline made of it a foundation on
which she built towering hopes.
Guy, as soon as he had decided to publish his first volume, instantly
acquired doubts about the prudence of the step, and he rather hurt
Pauline's feelings by wanting Michael Fane to come and give him the
support of his judgment.
"I told you I should never be enough," she said, sadly.
He consoled her with various explanations of his reliance upon a
friend's opinion, but he would not give up his idea of getting him, and
he wrote letter after letter until he was able to announce that for a
week-end in mid-December Michael was actually pledged.
"And I do want you to like him," said Guy, earnestly.
Pauline promised that of course she would like him, but in her heart she
assured herself she never would. It was cerulean Winter weather when the
friend arrived, and Pauline, who had latterly taken up the habit of
often coming into the churchyard to talk for a while with Guy across the
severing stream, abandoned the churchyard throughout that week-end. Guy
was vexed by her withdrawal and vowed that in consequence all the
pleasure of the visit had been spoiled.
"For I've been rushing in and out all the time to see if you were not in
sight, and I'm often absolutely boorish to Fane, who, by the way, loves
your Rectory bedroom so much."
"Has he condescended to let your book appear?" asked Pauline.
"Oh, rather; he says that everything I've included is quite all right.
In fact, he's a much less severe critic than I am myself."
Pauline had made up her mind, if possible, to avoid a meeting with
Michael, but on Monday she relented, and they were introduced to each
other. The colloquy on that turquoise morning, when the earth smelled
fresh and the grass in the orchard was so vernally green, did not help
Pauline to know much about Michael Fane, save that he was not so tall as
Guy, and that somehow he gave the impression of regarding life more
like a portrait by Vandyck than a human being. He was cold, she settled,
and she, as usual shy and blushful, could only have seemed stupid to
him.
That afternoon, when the disturbing friend had gone, Pauline and Guy
went for a walk.
"He admired you tremendously."
"Did he?" she made listless answer.
"He said you were a fairy's child, and he also said you really were a
wild rose."
"What an exaggerated way of talking about somebody whom he has seen for
only a moment."
"Pauline," said Guy, affectionately rallying her, "aren't you being
rather naughty--rather wilful, really? Didn't you like Michael?"
"Guy, you can't expect me to know whether I liked him in a minute. He
made me feel shyer than even most people do."
"Well, let's talk about the book instead," said Guy, "What color shall
the binding be?"
"What color did he suggest?"
"I see you're determined to be horrid about my poor, harmless Michael."
"Well, why must he be brought down like this to approve of your book?"
"Oh, he has good taste, and besides he's interested in you and me."
"What did you tell him about us?" Pauline asked, sharply.
"Nothing, my dearest, nothing," said Guy, flinging his stick for Bob to
chase over the furrows. "At least," he added, turning and looking down
at her with eyebrows arched in pretended despair of her
unreasonableness, "I expect I bored him to death with singing your
praises."
Still Pauline could not feel charitable, and still she could not smile
at Guy.
"Ah, my rose," he said, tenderly. "Why will you droop? Why will you
care about people who cannot matter to us? My own Pauline, can't you see
that I called in a third person because I dare not trust myself now. All
the day long, all the night long you are my care. I'm so dreadfully
anxious to justify myself; I long for assurance at every step; once I
was self-confident, but I can't be self-confident any longer. Success is
no responsibility in itself, but now...."
"It's my responsibility," cried Pauline, melting to him. "Oh, forgive me
for being jealous. Darling boy, it's just my foolish ignorance that
makes me jealous of some one who can give you more than I."
"But no one can!" he vowed. "I only asked Michael's advice because you
are too kind a judge. My success is of such desperate importance to us
two. What would it have mattered before I met you? Now my failure
would.... Oh, Pauline, failure is too horrible to think of!"
"As if you could fail," she chided, gently. "And if you did fail, I
would almost be glad, because I would love you all the more."
"Pauline, would you?"
"Ah no, I wouldn't," she whispered. "Because I could not love you more
than I do now."
The dog, with a sigh, dropped his stick; he was become accustomed to
these interludes.
"Bob gives us up as hopeless," Guy laughed.
"I'm not a bit sympathetic, you jealous dog," she said. "Because you
have your master all day long."
The next time Guy came to the Rectory he brought with him the
manuscript, so that Pauline could seal it for luck; and they sat in the
nursery while Guy, for the last enumeration, turned over the pages one
by one.
"It represents so much," he said, "and it looks so little. My father
will be rather surprised. I told him I should wait another year. I
wonder if I ought to have waited."
"Oh no," said Pauline. "Everything else is waiting and waiting. It
makes me so happy to think of these pages flying away like birds."
"I hope they won't be like homing-pigeons," said Guy. "It will be rather
a blow if William Worrall rejects them."
"Oh, but how could he be so foolish?"
"I don't think he will, really," said Guy. "After all, a good many
people have indorsed the first half, and I'm positive that what I've
written here is better than that. I rather wish I'd finished the
Eclogues, though. Do you think perhaps I'd better wait, after all?"
"Oh no, Guy, don't wait."
So, very solicitously the poems were wrapped up, and when they were tied
and sealed and the parcel lay addressed upon the table, Mrs. Grey with
Monica and Margaret came in. They were so sympathetic about the possible
adventures in sight for that parcel, and Guy was so much his rather
self-conscious self, that the original relation between him and the
family seemed perfectly restored. Pauline was glad to belong to them,
and in her pride of Guy's achievement she basked in their simple
affection, thrilling to every word or look or gesture that confirmed her
desire of the cherished accord between Guy and the others.
"Now I'm sure you'd both like to go and post Guy's poems," Mrs. Grey
exclaimed. "Yes ... charming ... to go and post them yourselves."
Pauline waited anxiously for a moment, because of late Guy had often
seemed impatient of these permissions granted to him by her mother, but
this afternoon he was himself and full of the shy gratitude that made
her wonder if indeed nearly a year could have flown by since their love
had been declared. Dusk was falling when they reached the post-office.
"Will you register it, Mr. Hazlewood?" asked the post-mistress.
Guy nodded, and the parcel left their hands; in silence they watched it
vanish into the company of other parcels that carried so much less;
then back they came through the twilight to tea at the Rectory, both
feeling as if the first really important step towards marriage had been
taken.
"You see," said Guy, "if only these poems of mine are well received, my
father must acknowledge my right to be here, and if he once admits that,
what barrier can there be to our wedding?"
Pauline told him how much during the last month the distant prospect of
their marriage had begun to weigh upon her, but now since that parcel
had been left at the post-office, she said she would always talk of
their wedding because that was such a much less remote word than
marriage.
"Come out to-night," said Guy, suddenly.
She put her hand on his arm.
"Guy, don't ask me again."
He was penitent at once, and full of promises never to ask her again to
do anything that might cause an instant's remorse. They had reached the
hall of the Rectory, and in the shadows Pauline held him to her heart,
suddenly caught in the flood of tenderness that a wife might have for a
husband to whose faults she could be indulgent by the measure of his
greater virtues kept, as it might be, for her alone.