On the morning before Pauline's birthday Guy received a letter from
Michael Fane announcing abruptly his engagement and adding that on
account of worldly opposition he had been persuaded into a postponement
of his marriage for two months. Guy was rather ironically amused by the
serious manner in which Michael took so brief a delay, and he could not
help thinking how unreasonably impatient of trifles people with ample
private means often showed themselves. Michael wrote that he would like
to spend some of his probation at Plashers Mead, and alluded to the
"luck" of his friend in being so near his Pauline.
Guy wrote a letter of congratulation, and then he put Michael's news out
of his mind in order to examine the two complete sets of the proofs on
his poems which had also arrived that morning. He was engaged in the
task of making a rather clumsy binding for them out of a piece of
stained vellum when Richard Ford came round to Plashers Mead. Guy
welcomed him gladly, for besides the personal attraction he felt towards
this lean and silent engineer, he perceived in the likelihood of
Richard's speedy marriage an earnest of his own. Somehow that marriage
was going to break the spell of inactivity to which at the Rectory all
seemed to be subject, and from which Guy was determined to keep Richard
free, even if it were necessary to shake him as continuously as tired
wanderers in the snow are shaken out of a dangerous sleep.
"I came round to consult with you about my present to Pauline
to-morrow," said Richard, very solemnly. "I've brought round one or two
little things, so that you could give me your advice."
"Why, of course I will," said Guy.
"They're down-stairs in the hall. I had some difficulty in explaining to
your housekeeper that I wasn't a peddler."
In the hall was stacked a pile completely representative of the bazar:
half a dozen shawls, the model of a temple, a carved table, some inlaid
stools, every sort of typical Oriental gewgaw; in fact, an agglomeration
that seemed to invite the smell of cheap incense for its effective
display.
"Godbold drove them over," Richard explained, as he saw Guy's
astonishment. "Now look here, what's the best present for Pauline? You
see, I'm not at all an artistic sort of chap, and I don't want to hoick
forward something that's going to be more of a nuisance than anything
else."
"It's really awfully difficult to choose," said Guy, rather ambiguously.
Then he discovered a simple ivory paper-knife which he declared was just
the thing, having the happy thought that he would not cut the set of
proofs he was binding for Pauline, so that to-morrow Richard could have
the pleasure of beholding his gift put to immediate use.
"You've chosen the smallest thing of the lot," said the disappointed
donor. "You don't think a shawl as well?" he asked, holding up yards of
gaudy material.
"Well, candidly, I think Pauline's too fair for that color scheme, don't
you?"
"All right, the paper-knife. You don't mind if I leave these things here
till Godbold can fetch them away, and ... er.... I wish you'd choose
something for yourself. I've always taken a kind of interest in this
house, don't you know, and I've often thought about it in India."
"I'd like a gong," said Guy at once, and Richard was obviously
gratified by his quick choice, and still further gratified when Guy
suggested they should sound it immediately outside the kitchen door.
Solemnly Richard held it up in the passage, while Guy crashed forth a
glorious clamor, at the summons of which Miss Peasey came rushing out.
"Good gracious!" she gasped. "I thought that dog Bob had jumped through
the window."
"This is a present for us from India," Guy shouted.
"Oh, that's extremely handsome, isn't it? Well now, I shall expect you
to be punctual in future for your meals. Dear me, yes, quite a variety,
I'm sure, after that measly bell."
The gong was given a prominent position in the bare hall, and Guy
invited Richard up to his own room. After the question of the presents
had been solved Richard was shy and silent again, and Guy found it very
hard to make conversation. Several times his visitor seemed on the point
of getting something off his mind, but when he was given an opportunity
for speech he never accepted it. Desperate for a topic, Guy showed him
the proofs of the poems, and explained that he was binding them roughly
as his present to Pauline to-morrow.
"That's something I can't understand," said Richard, intensely.
"Writing! It beats me!"
"Bridges would beat me," said Guy.
Richard looked quite cheerful at this notion and under the influence of
the encouragement he had received seemed at last on the point of getting
out what he wanted to say, but he could manage nothing more confidential
than a tug at his bristled fair mustache.
"When are you and Margaret going to be married?" Guy asked, abruptly,
for, of course, he had guessed that it was Margaret's name which was
continually on the tip of his tongue.
"By Jove! there you are! I'm rather stumped," said Richard, gloomily.
"You see, the thing is ... well ... I suppose you know that when I
started off to India last June year, Margaret and I were sort of engaged
... at least I was certainly engaged to her, only she hadn't absolutely
made up her mind about me ... and, of course, that's just what you'd
expect would happen to a chap like me ... dash it all! Hazlewood, I'm
afraid to ask her again!"
"I don't think you need be," said Guy. "Of course we haven't discussed
you, except very indirectly," he hastily added, "but I'm positive that
Margaret is only waiting for you to ask her to marry her on some
definite day; on some definite day, Ford, that's the great thing to
remember."
"You mean I ought to say, 'Margaret, will you marry me on the twelfth of
August, or the first of September? That's your notion, is it?"
Guy nodded.
"By gad! I'll ask her to-day," said Richard.
"And you'll be engaged to-morrow," Guy prophesied.
"When are you and Pauline going to be married?"
Guy looked up quickly to see if the solid Richard were laughing at him,
but there was nothing in those steel-blue eyes except the most
benevolent inquiry.
"That's the question," said Guy. "Writing is not quite such a certainty
as bridge-building."
"You mean there's the difficulty of money? By Jove! that's bad luck,
isn't it? Still, you know, I expect that having the good fortune to have
Pauline in love with you.... Well, I expect, you've got to expect a bit
of difficulty somewhere, you know. You know, Pauline was...." he stopped
and blinked at the window.
"Pauline's awfully fond of you," Guy said, encouragingly.
"Hazlewood, that kid's been.... Well, I can't express myself, you know,
but I'd.... Well, I really can't talk about her."
"I understand, though," said Guy. "Look here, you'll stay and have
lunch with me, and then we can go across to the Rectory afterwards."
Emotional subjects were tacitly put on one side to talk of the birds and
butterflies that one might expect to find round Wychford, of Miss Verney
and Godbold and other local characters, or of the prospects of the
cricket team that year. After lunch Guy put the unbound set of proofs in
his pocket and, launching the canoe, they floated down to the Rectory
paddock. Mrs. Grey and the girls were all in the garden picking purple
tulips, and Guy, taking Pauline aside, told her on what momentous quest
Richard was come, suggesting that he should occupy the Rector's
attention, while Pauline lured away her mother and Monica.
The Rector was sitting in the library, hard at work rubbing the fluff
from the anemone seeds with sand.
"And what can I do for you, sir?" he asked.
"I thought you'd like to see the proofs of my poems," said Guy.
He laid the duplicates on the dusty table, and tried to thank his patron
for what he had done. The Rector waved a clay pipe deprecatingly.
"You must thank Constance ... you must thank my wife, if you thank
anybody. But if I were you I shouldn't thank anybody till you find out
for certain that she's done you a service," he recommended, with a
twinkle.
Guy laughed.
"Worrall doesn't want to publish until the Autumn."
The Rector made a face.
"All that time to wait for the verdict?"
"Time seems particularly hostile to me," Guy said.
"You'll have to tweak his forelock pretty hard."
"That's what I've come to consult you about. Do you think I ought to go
to Persia with Sir George Gascony? Mrs. Grey thought I oughtn't to take
so drastic a step until I had first tested my poems in public. But I've
been reading them through, and they don't somehow look quite as
important in print as they did in manuscript. I can't help feeling that
I ought to have a regular occupation. What do you really advise me to
do, Mr. Grey?"
The Rector held up his arms in mock dismay.
"Gracious goodness me, don't implicate a poor country parson in such
affairs! I can give you advice about flowers and I can pretend to give
you advice about your soul, but about the world, no, no."
"I think perhaps I'll get some journalistic work in town," Guy
suggested.
"Persia or journalism!" commented the Rector. "Well, well, they're both
famous for fairy tales. I recommend journalism as being nearer at hand."
"Then I'll take your advice."
"Oh, dear me, you must not involve me in such a responsibility. Now, if
you were a nice rational iris I would talk to you, but for a talented
young man with his life before him I shouldn't even be a good quack.
Come along, let's go out and look at the tulips."
"You _will_ glance through my poems?" Guy asked, diffidently.
The Rector stood up and put his hand on the poet's shoulder.
"Of course I will, my dear boy, and you mustn't be deceived by the
manner of that shy old boor, the Rector of Wychford. Do what you think
you ought to do, and make my youngest daughter happy. We shall be having
her birthday before we know where we are."
"It's to-morrow!"
"Is it indeed? May Day. Of course. I remember last year I managed to
bloom _Iris lorteti_. But this year, no! That wet May destroyed _Iris
lorteti_. A delicate creature. Rose and brown. A delicate, lovely
creature."
Guy and the Rector pored over the tulips awhile, where in serried
borders they displayed their somber sheen of amaranth and amethyst; then
Guy strolled off to hear what was the news of Margaret and Richard.
Pauline came flying to meet him down one of the long, straight garden
paths.
"Darling, they are to be married early in August," she cried.
He caught her to him and kissed her, lest in the first poignant
realization of other people's joy she might seem to be escaping from him
utterly.
Guy had a few minutes with Margaret before he went home that evening,
and they walked beside the tulip borders, she tall and dark and
self-contained in the fading light, being strangely suited by
association with such flowers.
"Dear Margaret," he said, "I want to tell you how tremendously I like
Richard. Now that sounds patronizing. But I'm speaking quite humbly.
These sort of Englishmen have been celebrated enough, perhaps, and
lately there's been a tendency to laugh at them, but, my God! what is
there on earth like the Richards of England? Margaret, you once very
rightly reproved me for putting Pauline in a silver frame, do let me
risk your anger and beg you never to put yourself in a silver frame from
which to look out at Richard."
"You do rather understand me, don't you?" she said, offering him her
hand.
"Help Pauline and me," he begged.
"Haven't I always helped you?"
"Not always, but you will now that you yourself are no longer uncertain
about your future. The moment you find yourself perfectly happy you'll
be longing for every one else to be the same."
"But how haven't I helped you?" she persisted.
"It would be difficult to explain in definite words. But I don't think
my idea of your attitude towards us could have been entirely invented by
my fancy."
"What attitude? What do you mean, Guy?"
He shook his head.
"My dear, if you aren't conscious of it, I'm certainly not going to
attempt to put it into words and involve myself in such a net."
"How tantalizing you are!"
"No, I'm not. If you have the least inclination to think I may be right,
then you know what I mean and you can do what I ask. If you haven't the
least notion of what I mean, then it was all my fancy, and I'm certainly
not going to give my baseless fancies away."
"This is all too cryptic," she murmured.
"Then let it remain undeciphered," he said, smiling; and he led the
conversation more directly towards their marriage and the strangeness of
the Rectory without Margaret.
Richard spent the night at Plashers Mead, and Guy heard the halting
account of two years' uncertainty, of the bungalow that had been taken
and embowered against Margaret's coming, and of the way in which his
bridge had spanned not merely the river, but the very ocean, and even
time itself.
Pauline's birthday morning was cloudless, and Guy, though to himself he
was inclined to blame the action as weak, went to church and knelt
beside her. Then afterwards there was the scene of breakfast on the lawn
that already, with only this first repetition, wore for him an
immemorial air, so that he could no longer imagine a May Day that was
not thus inaugurated. The presentation of his poems in proof had not a
bit less wonderful effect than he had hoped, for Pauline could never
finish turning over the pages and loving the ludicrously tumble-down
binding.
"Oh, it's so touching! I wish they could all be bound like this. And how
I adore Richard's paper-knife."
The four lovers disappeared after breakfast to enjoy the flashing May
Day, and Monica, left alone with her mother, looked a little sad, she,
the only one of those three lovely daughters of the Rectory still
undisturbed by the demands of the invading world.
May that year was like the fabled Spring of poets; and Guy and Pauline
were left free to enjoy the passionate and merry month as perhaps never
before had they enjoyed any season, not even that dreamed-away fortnight
at Ladingford last year. They had ceased for a while with the engagement
of Richard and Margaret to be the central figures of the Rectory,
whether for blame or commendation, and, desiring nothing better than to
be left without interference, they were lost in apple-blossom to
every-day existence. Guy, with the prospect of his poems appearing in
the Autumn, felt that he was justified in forgetting responsibilities
and, having weathered the financial crisis of the March quarter, he had
now nothing to worry him until Midsummer. That was the date he had fixed
upon in his mind as suitable for making a determined attempt upon
London. He had planned to shut up Plashers Mead and to take a small room
in Chelsea, whence he would conquer in a few months the material
obstacles that prevented their marriage. The poems, now that they were
in print, seemed a less certain talisman to fame; but they would serve
their purpose, indeed they had served their purpose already, for this
long-secluded time would surely counterbalance the too easy victories of
journalism. He would surely by now have lost that spruce Oxford
cleverness, and might fairly expect to earn his living with dignity. The
least success would justify his getting married, and Pauline would enjoy
two years spent high in some London attic within the sound of chirping
sparrows and the distant whispers of humanity. They would perhaps be
able to afford to fly for magic weeks to Plashers Mead, pastoral
interludes in that crowded life which lay ahead. How everything had
resolved itself latterly, and how the gift of glorious May should be
accepted as the intimate and dearest benefaction to their love! He and
Pauline were together from earliest morn to the last minute of these
rich and shadowy eves. They wreathed their boat with boughs of
apple-blossom and went farther up the river than they had ever gone.
The cuckoo was still in tune, and still the kingcups gilded all that
hollow land; there was not yet the lush growth of weeds and reeds that
indolent June would use to delay their dreaming progress; and still all
the trees and all the hedges danced with that first sharp green of
Spring, that cold and careless green of Spring.
Then when the hawthorn came into prodigal bloom, and all the rolling
country broke in endless waves of blossom, Pauline in her muslin dress
seemed like an airy joy sustained by all these multitudinous petals,
dancing upon this flowery tide, this sweet foam of May.
"My flower, my sweet, are you indeed mortal?" he whispered.
The texture of her sleeve against his was less tangible than the light
breeze that puffed idly from the south to where they sat enraptured upon
the damasked English grass. Apple-blossom powdered her lap and starred
her light-brown hair, and around them like a Circean perfume drowning
the actual world hung the odorous thickets of hawthorn.
The month glided along until the time of ragged-robins came round again,
and as if these flowers were positively of ill omen to Guy and Pauline,
Mrs. Grey suddenly took it into her head again that they were seeing too
much of each other.
"I said you could see Pauline every day," she told Guy. "But I did not
say all day."
"But I shall be going away soon," he said; "and it seems a pity to lose
any of this lovely month."
"I'm sure I'm right ... and I did not know you had really decided to go
away.... I'm sure, yes, I'm positive I'm right.... Why don't you be more
like Margaret and Richard?... They aren't together all day long ... no,
not all day."
"But Pauline is so different from Margaret," Guy argued.
"Yes, I know ... that's the reason ... she is too impulsive.... Yes,
it's much better not to be together all the time.... I'm glad you've
settled to go to London ... then perhaps you can be married next
year...."
A rule came into force again, and Guy began to feel the old exasperation
against the curb upon youth's leisure. Rather unjustly he blamed
Margaret, because he felt that the spectacle of her sedate affection
made his for Pauline appear too wild, and Pauline herself beside
Margaret seem completely distraught with love.
It pleased Guy rather, and yet in a way it rather annoyed him, that
Michael Fane should choose this moment to announce his intention of
spending some time at Plashers Mead. Perhaps a little of the doubt was
visible in his welcome, because Michael asked rather anxiously if he
were intruding upon the May idyll; Guy laughed off the slight
awkwardness and asked why Michael had not yet managed to get married.
They talked about the evils of procrastination, but Guy could not at all
see that Michael had much to complain of in a postponement of merely two
months. His friend, however, was evidently rather upset, and he could
not resist expatiating a little on his own grief with what Guy thought
was the petulance of the too fortunate man. The warm May nights lulled
them both, and they used to pass pleasant evenings leaning over the
stream while the bats and fern-owls flew across the face of the
decrescent moon; yet for Guy all the beauty of the season was more than
ever endowed with intolerable fugacity.
Pauline with Michael's arrival began to be moody again; would take no
kind of interest in Michael's engagement; would only begin to see again
the endless delays that hung so heavily round their marriage. Michael
was not at all in the way, for he spent all the time writing to his
lady-love, of whom he had told Guy really nothing; or he would sit in
the lengthening grass of the orchard and read books of poetry, the pages
of which used to wink with lucid reflection caught from the leaves of
the fruit-trees overhead.
Guy looked over his shoulder and saw that he was reading "The Statue and
the Bust":
So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam
The glory dropped from their youth and love,
And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;
"That poem haunts me," exclaimed Guy, with a shudder.
Where is the use of the lip's red charm,
The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,
And the blood that blues the inside arm--
Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,
The earthly gift to an end divine?
"And yet I can't stop reading it," he sighed.
How do their spirits pass, I wonder,
Nights and days in the narrow room?
Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder
What a gift life was, ages ago,
Six steps out of the chapel yonder.
On this Summer morning the words wrote themselves in fire across his
brain.
"They light the way to dusty death," he sputtered, over and over again,
when he had left Browning to Michael and flung himself face downward in
the orchard grass.
In despair of what a havoc time was making of their youth and their
love, that very afternoon he begged Pauline to meet him again now in
these dark nights of early Summer, now when soon he would be going away
from her.
"Going away?" she echoed in alarm. "I suppose that's the result of your
friend's visit."
Guy, however, was not going to surrender again, and he insisted that
when a month had passed he would indeed be gone from Plashers Mead. It
was nothing to do with Michael Fane; it was solely his own determination
to put an end to his unprofitable dalliance.
"But your poems? I thought that when your poems were published
everything would be all right."
"Oh, my poems," he scoffed. "They're valueless!"
"Guy!"
"They're mere decoration. They are trifles."
"I don't understand you."
"I care for nothing but to be married to you. For nothing, do you hear?
Pauline, everything is to be subordinate to that. I would even write and
beg my father to take me as a junior usher at Fox Hall for that. We must
be married soon. I can't bear to see Richard and Margaret sailing along
so calmly and quietly towards happiness."
In the end he persuaded her to make all sorts of opportunities to meet
him when no one else knew they were together. Even once most recklessly
on a warm and moonless night of May's languorous decline to June, he
took her in the canoe far away up the river; and when they floated home
dawn was already glistening on the banks and on the prow of their
ghostly canoe. Through bird-song and rosy vapors she fled from him to
her silent room, while he stood in a trance and counted each dewy
footstep that with silver traceries marked her flight across the lawn.