Miss Verney was so droll at Scarborough and enjoyed herself so much,
that Pauline in her pleasure at the success of what the old maid called
their "jaunt" really was able to put aside for the present her own
perplexities. The sands were empty at this season, and the Spa
unpopulous except for a few residents. The wind blew inland from a
sparkling sea, while Miss Verney, with bonnet all awry, sitting in a
draughty shelter, declared that somehow like this she pictured the
Riviera; and when the weather was too bad even for Miss Verney's azure
dreams, Pauline and she sat cozily among the tropic shells and Berlin
wool of their lodgings. Long letters used to come every day from Guy,
and long letters had to be written by Pauline to him; while perpetually
Miss Verney tinkled on with marine tales that, if no doubt nautically
inaccurate, had nevertheless a fine flavor of salt water.
"I remember I was sitting in the parlor window at Southsea when a
regiment.... I remember a captain in the Royal Marines.... I remember
how anxious my father was that I should have been a boy."
"Oh, dear Miss Verney, you can't remember that."
"Oh yes, he invariably spoke of me as the Midshipman, I remember. I
would then have been about eight years of age.... Pray give my very kind
regards to Mr. Guy and say how well we are both looking, and what a
benefit this fine air is, to be sure, and don't forget our little
expedition to the theater. You must tell Mr. Guy the story of the piece.
He will certainly enjoy hearing about that very nice-mannered convict
who.... Ah dear! how my poor father used to revel in the play."
Miss Verney's conversation scarcely ever stopped, and while Pauline was
writing letters it was always particularly brisk, but she used to enjoy
the accompaniment as she would have enjoyed the twittering of a bird. It
seemed to inspire her letters with the equable gaiety that Guy was so
glad to think was coming back to her. His own letters were invariably
cheerful, and Pauline began to count the days to the time when she would
see him again. Easter had gone by, and the weather was so steadily fine
that it was a pity not to be together. He wrote of primroses awaiting
her footsteps in the forest, of blue dog-violets and cowslips in the
hollows of Wychford down, of all the birds that were now arrived in
England, of the cuckoo's first call, and of the first swallow seen.
Come back soon, my own, my sweet [he wrote]. Come back and let
this Winter be all forgotten. I climbed up to the top of the
church tower to-day, and oh, the tulips in your garden, and oh,
the emptiness of that garden notwithstanding! Come back, my
Pauline, for you'll see the iris buds in the paddock and you've no
idea of the way in which that river of ours sparkles on these
April mornings. I wish I could tell you how remote this Winter
already has grown. It has crept out of memory like a dejected
nightmare at breakfast. You are never to think again about the
stupid things I've said about religion: think only, my dearest,
that I hope always for your faith. It would be dishonest of me to
say that I believe now exactly as you believe, but I want to
believe like that. Perhaps I'm illogical in writing this: perhaps
all the time I do believe. Forget too what I said about
Confession. I would almost go myself to prove my penitence (to
you!), but I just can't bring myself to do that, because for me it
really would be useless and would turn me against everything you
count as holy. Forget all that has cast a shadow on our love.
Count it all as my heedlessness and be confident that I alone was
to blame. I would write more, but letters are such impossible
things for intimacy. Some people can pour out their souls on
paper: I can't. That's really what my poems suffer from. I have
been working at them again since you were away, and they have a
kind of coldness, a sort of awkward youthful reserve. Perhaps
that's better than youthful exuberance, and yet I don't know. One
can prune the too prodigal growth, but one can't always be sure of
having the prodigality when one has the maturity. The metaphors
seem to be getting rather tied up, and you must be bored by now
with my chattering criticism.
Your mother came to tea yesterday and brought Monica. Margaret is
rather in seclusion at present on account of Richard's arrival, I
fancy. She's obviously dreading other people's notice. It is a
rather self-conscious business, this waiting for the arrival of
some one whom everybody expects is going to play such an important
part in her life. If we were separated now for two years, it would
be different; but I can see that Margaret is dreadfully afraid
that now, having at last made up her mind to marry Richard, she
may not care for him as much as she did. He must be a fine fellow.
I'm looking forward tremendously to his coming. Monica was
perfectly delightful yesterday, and grew quite excited in her
nunlike way over the ultimate decoration of Plashers Mead. Dear
me, what taste you all have got, and what a very great deal you've
taught me! You must most of all forget that I ever said a word
against your sisters. They have really equipped me in a way with a
point of view towards art. I tried to tell Monica so yesterday
afternoon. In fact, we got on very well together. In a way, you
know, she almost appreciates you more than Margaret does. You
represent her hope, her ideal of the world. Worldly one, I must
say good night. Tell Miss Verney with my love that all her cats
send their best respects and compliments and that Bellerophon
particularly requests that his mistress will bring back whatever
fish is in season at Scarborough. Oh, the funniest thing I've
forgotten to tell you! Miss Peasey was chased by some bullocks
across the big field behind the orchard! She was too priceless
about it when she got home.
Pauline began to think it was impossible for her ever to have had the
least worry in the course of her engagement. This was the first time she
had been parted from Guy for more than a week during the whole of a
year, and there was something very reassuring in such an opportunity to
regard him like this so disinterestedly, to find that the separation was
having the traditional effect and to be positive that she was going to
meet him again at the end of April more in love than ever. Nevertheless,
she was always aware of being grateful for the repose from problems, and
she did once or twice play with the idea of having perhaps made a
mistake in objecting to his going abroad. It was on occasions of doubt
like this that Pauline would try to impress Miss Verney with what
existence had already meant to her.
"I'm feeling so old, Miss Verney."
"Old, my dear? Oh, that cannot be true," exclaimed her friend.
"Falling very much in love does make one feel old," Pauline declared.
"Let me see," Miss Verney went on, "let me try to remember how I felt.
My impression is now that when I was in love I felt much younger than I
do at present, but perhaps that is natural, for it is very nearly thirty
years ago since William and I parted."
"Is he still alive?"
"Oh yes, he is still alive, but I have never seen him and he must be
wonderfully altered. Sometimes I think of all the days that have gone by
since we parted. It seems so strange to think of our lives being able to
go on, when once it seemed to both of us that life could not go on at
all if we were not together. It seems so strange to think of him eating
his lunch somewhere at the same time that somewhere else I am eating my
lunch. Who knows if he ever thinks of me, who knows indeed?"
"If anything happened to prevent our marriage," began Pauline,
thoughtfully, and then was silent.
Miss Verney opened wide her pale-blue eyes.
"And what could happen?" she asked, grandly.
"I've no business to imagine such a thing, have I?"
"None whatever," said Miss Verney, decidedly.
But had Miss Verney's love-affair been complicated by anything more than
merely natural difficulties? Guy's debts and unsuccess were nothing in
comparison with other elements of disaccord ... and then Pauline pulled
herself up from brooding and resolutely forced her mind to contemplate a
happy Summer. Had she not just now been congratulating herself upon the
disappearance of all worries in this sea air?
The time at Scarborough drew to a close, and about a week before her
birthday came the news of Richard's arrival from India. She and Miss
Verney packed up and were home in Wychford two days before they were
expected.
"Richard, how lovely to see you again!" Pauline cried. "And, oh,
Richard, I'm sure you've grown. Don't you think he has grown?" she
demanded of everybody. "Richard, how clever of you to grow when you're
twenty-seven."
It was really like old times to go babbling on like this, while Richard
sat and smiled encouragingly and spoke never a word.
"Coming for a stroll?" he asked.
"Oh, but I ought to see Guy first," she said. "Richard, I hope you like
Guy."
He nodded.
"Do you think he looks like a poet?"
"Never saw a poet before," said Richard.
"Oh, but like your idea of a poet?"
"Never thought much about poets," said Richard. "So you aren't coming
for a stroll?"
"I will to-morrow, but I must spend the sunset with Guy."
Guy was waiting for her by the paddock, and they floated down-stream out
of reach of people. In their own peninsula they kissed away the absence
of twenty-two days.
"You look much better," said Guy, critically.
"I'm perfectly well."
"And happy?"
She answered him with her eyes.
"Why, Pauline, I believe you're quite shy of me!"
She blushed.
"I really am a little, you know," she whispered. "Did you like Richard?
Oh, Guy, I hope you did."
"Of course I did."
"And, Guy, you don't mind if I go for a walk with him to-morrow morning?
You see, I know he's longing to hear about Margaret and himself."
"But you'll come out with me in the afternoon?"
"Why, of course."
"Then Richard may have the morning," said Guy. "And I hope you'll
arrange everything between him and Margaret so successfully that he
won't steal any more hours from me."
When Pauline had left Guy that evening she thought how strangely it had
been like meeting him for the first time all over again. Or rather it
was as if they had walked a long way down the wrong road and were now
beginning to walk somewhat tentatively along what she hoped was surely
the right road at last. Her duty was above all to help Guy with the
material burdens; she must never again let him think that his debts or
his prospects had any power to worry her. Merely most tactfully must she
try to keep him from extravagance, and, oh dear, how she hoped that he
had not bought her an expensive birthday present. It was too late to say
anything about it now, but if Guy had been wisely economical how happy
she would be. How she hoped, too, that Richard had not brought home from
India a present that would annoy Margaret. Really, it was a most
oppressive business, this week before her coming of age, for between
Guy's extravagance and Richard's ... well, it was really not so much bad
taste as Indian taste. She would love anything he gave her, of course,
but perhaps he would consult beforehand with Margaret. Dear Richard, he
was so sweet and touching, and if only he had not brought her something
_very_ elaborately carved. She met him next morning half-way to
Fairfield, and two years were obliterated as she kept pace with his long
stride when they turned aside from the highroad and tramped upward over
the grassy wold.
"Richard, isn't it very hot in India?"
He nodded.
"And didn't you ever get used to walking a bit more slowly in India?"
He laughed.
"You lazy little thing. I thought you and Aunt Verney had been in
training at Scarborough? Come on, let's sit down then."
They sat down, and Richard drew with his stick in the close turf.
"Is that your bridge?" Pauline asked, with all the interest she could
put into her voice.
He laughed for a long time.
"Pauline, you villain, it's the beginning of Margaret's face!"
She clapped her hands.
"Oh, Richard, aren't I a villain? But, you know, it's not very
frightfully like anything, is it?"
"Pauline," he said, suddenly, in that sharp voice in which two years ago
he had intrusted his interests to her before he went away--"Pauline, is
Margaret going to marry me?"
"Why, of course she is, Richard!"
"Has she spoken to you about me?"
"But you know she never speaks about her own affairs and that she can't
bear anybody else to speak of them to her."
"Then how do you know?" he asked.
"Well, perhaps because I'm so much in love with Guy," Pauline
whispered.
"I don't see how that quite works. I'm a very dull sort of chap after
that Guy of yours."
"But you're not at all," Pauline declared. "And if you take my advice
you won't think you're dull. You'll make Margaret marry you. Really, I'm
sure that what she would like best is to be made to do something. You
see, she's a darling, but she is just a very tiny little bit spoiled.
You mustn't be so patient with her. But, Richard dear, I know she loves
you, because she practically told Guy that she did."
"Guy?" he echoed, looking rather indignant.
"Well, you must understand how sweet Margaret was to him about me. She
was so sympathetic, and really she practically brought about our
engagement. Oh, I do love her so, Richard, and I do want her to be
happy, and I do know so dreadfully well that you are the very person to
make her happy."
"Pauline, you are a pink brick," he avowed.
And scarcely another word did he say for the rest of their walk.
Pauline went to Margaret's room that night and, after fidgeting all the
while her sister was undressing, suddenly plunged down beside her bed
and caught hold of her hand.
"Margaret, you're not to snub me, because I absolutely must speak. I
must beg you not to keep Richard waiting any longer. Do, my darling,
darling Margaret, do be kind to him and not so cold. He simply adores
you, and.... Why, Margaret, you're crying!... Oh, let me kiss you, my
Margaret, because you were so wonderful about Guy, and I've been a beast
to you and you must, you must be happy."
"If I could only love him as you love Guy," Margaret sighed between her
tears.
"You do really ... at least perhaps not _quite_ as much. Oh, Margaret,
don't be angry with me if I whisper something to you; think how much you
would love him if you and he had ... Margaret, you know what I mean."
Pauline blew out the candle and rushed from the dark room; and lying
awake in her own bed, she fancied among the flowers of the Rectory such
fairy children for Margaret and herself, such fairy children dancing by
the margin of the river.