Guy and Pauline Part 21

Pauline danced with delight behind the Rector's back.

"He thinks I'm twenty-one," she whispered. "Oh, Guy, isn't he sweet? And he called you Guy. Oh, Francis," she cried. "Do let me kiss you."

There was a short debate on the probability of the rain's coming before breakfast was done, but it was decided, thanks to Birdwood's optimism, to accept the risk of interruption by sitting down outside. The table was on the lawn, Pauline's presents lying in a heap at the head. As one by one she opened the packets, everybody stood round her, not merely her mother and father and sisters and Guy, but also Birdwood and elderly Janet and Mrs. Unger the cook and Polly who helped Mrs. Unger.

"Oh, I'm so excited," said Pauline. "Oh, I do hope it won't rain. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Unger. What a beautiful frame!"

"I hope yaw'll find someone to put in it, miss," said Mrs. Unger with a glance of stately admiration toward her present and a triumphant side look at Janet, who after many years' superintendence of Pauline's white fastness had brought her bunches of lavender and woodruff tied up with ribbons. All the presents were now undone, among them Guy's green volume, a paste buckle from Margaret, a piece of old embroidery from Monica and from Richard in India a pair of carved bellows, at the prodigal ingenuity of whose pattern Margaret looked a little peevish.

When all the other presents had been examined, Birdwood stepped forward and with the air of a conjuror produced from under his coat a pot of rose-coloured sweet-peas that exactly matched the frail hue of Pauline's cheeks.

Breakfast was eaten, with everybody's eyes watching the now completely grey sky. How many such birthday breakfasts had been eaten on this cool lawn by these people who in their simplicity were akin to the birds in their shrubberies and the flowers in their borders; and Guy thought of an old photograph taken by an uncle of Pauline's tenth birthday breakfast, when the table was heaped high with dolls and toys and Pauline in the middle of them, while Monica and Margaret with legs as thin as thrushes' stood shy and graceful in the background. He sighed to himself with amazement at the fortune which like a genie had whisked him into this dear a.s.semblage.

Breakfast was over just as the rain began to fall with the tinkling whisper that forebodes determination. There was not a leaf in the garden that was not ringing like an elfin bell to these silver drops; but, alas, the unrelenting windless rain gave no hope to Guy and Pauline of that long walk together they had expected all a fortnight. There was nothing to do but sit in the nursery and wonder if it would ever stop.

"I used to love rain when it kept me here," said Guy. "Now it has become our enemy."

Worse was to come, for it rained every day faster and faster, and there were no journeys for Guy's new canoe. He and Pauline scarcely had ten minutes to themselves, since when they were kept in the house all the family treated them with that old proprietary manner. The unending rain began to fret them more sharply because Spring's greenery was in such weather of the vividest hue and was reproaching them perpetually for the waste of this lovely month of May.

The river was rising. Already Guy's garden was sheened with standing moisture, and the apple-blossom lay ruined. People vowed there had never been such rain in May, and still it rained. The river was running swiftly, level with the top of its banks, and many of the meadows were become gla.s.sy firmaments. Very beautiful was this green and silver landscape, but oh, the rain was endless. Guy grew much depressed and Miss Peasey got rheumatism in her ankles. Then in the middle of the month, when Guy was feeling desperate and when even Pauline seemed sad for the hours that were being robbed from them, it cleared up.

Guy had been to tea, and after tea he and Pauline had sat watching the weather. Margaret had stayed with them all the afternoon, but had left them alone now, when it was half-past six and nearly time for Guy to go.

The clouds, which all day had spread their pearly despair over the world, suddenly melted in a wild transplendency of gold.

"Oh, do let's go for a walk before dinner," said Guy. "Don't let's tell anybody, but let's escape."

"Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere. Anywhere. Out in the meadows by the edge of the water. Let's get sopping wet. Dearest, do come. We're never free. We're never alone."

So Pauline got ready; and they slipped away from the house, hoping that n.o.body would call them back and hurrying through the wicket into the paddock where the irises hung all sodden. They walked along the banks of a river twice as wide as it should be, and found they could not cross the bridge. But it did not matter, for the field where they were walking was not flooded, and they went on toward the mill. Here they crossed the river and, hurrying always as if they were pursued, such was their sense of a sudden freedom that could not last, they made a circuit of the wettest meadows and came to the hill on the other side. Everywhere above them the clouds were breaking, and all the West was a fiery mist of rose and gold.

The meadow they had found was crimsoned over with ragged robins that in this strange light glowered angrily like rubies. Pauline bent down and gathered bunches of them until her arms were full. Her skirt was wet, but still she plucked the crimson flowers; and Guy was gathering them too, knee-deep in soaking gra.s.s. What fever was in the sunset to-night?

"Pauline," he cried flinging high his bunch of ragged robins to scatter upon the incarnadined air. "I have never loved you, as I love you now."

Guy caught her to him; and into that kiss the fiery sky entered, so that Pauline let fall her ragged robins and they lay limp in the gra.s.s and were trodden under foot.

"Pauline, I have a ring for you," he whispered. "Will you wear it when we are alone?"

She took the thin circlet set with a crystal, and put it on her finger.

Then with pa.s.sionate arms she held him to her heart: the caress burned his lips like a flaming torch: the crystal flashed with hectic gleams, a basilisk, a perilous orient gem.

"We must go home," she whispered. "Oh, Guy, I feel frightened of this evening."

"Pauline, my burning rose," he whispered.

And all the way back into the crimson sunset they talked still in whispers, and of those rain-drenched ragged robins there was not one they carried home.

_'La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!'_

_'La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!'_

_'La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!'_

The words did not cool Guy's pillow that night, but they led him by strange ways into a fevered sleep.

SUMMER

_June_

When Pauline reached the Rectory dinner had already begun in the mixture of candlelight and rosy dusk that seemed there more than anything to mark Summer's instant approach, and as with flushed cheeks she took her place at table, she was conscious of an atmosphere that was half disapproval, half anxiety; or was it that she disapproving of herself expected criticism? Positively there was an emotion of being on her defence; she felt propitiatory and apologetic; and for the first time she was sharply aware of herself and her family as two distinct facts.

It was to dispel this uneasy sense of potential division that she took up her violin with a faintly exaggerated willingness and that, instead of dreaming of Guy in a corner of the room, she played all the evening in the same spirit of wanting to please.

Her mother asked if she had enjoyed her walk, and Pauline had positively to fight with herself before she could answer lightly enough that the walk had been perfect. Why was her heart beating like this, and why did her sisters regard her so gravely? It must be her fancy, and almost defiantly she continued:

"There was no harm in my going out with Guy, was there? We've not been together at all lately."

"Why should there be any particular harm this evening?" Monica enquired.

"Of course not, Monica," and again her heart was beating furiously. "I only asked because I thought you all seemed angry with me for being a little late for dinner."

"I don't know why we should suddenly be sensitive about punctuality in this house," said Margaret.

Pauline had never thought her own white fastness offered such relief and shelter as to-night; and yet, she a.s.sured herself, n.o.body had really been criticizing her. It must have been entirely her fancy, that air of reproach, those insinuations of cold surprize. People in this house did not understand what it meant to be as much in love as she. It was all very well for Margaret and Monica to lay down laws for behaviour, Margaret who did not know whether she loved or not, Monica who disapproved of anything more directly emotional than a Gregorian chant.

Yet they had not theorized to-night, nor had they propounded one rule of behaviour; it was she who was rus.h.i.+ng to meet their postulates and observations, arming herself with weapons of offence before the attack had begun. Yet why had neither Monica nor Margaret, nor even her mother, come to say good-night to her? They did not understand about love, not one of them, not one of them.

"Pauline?"

It was her mother's voice outside her door, who coming in seemed perfectly herself.

"Not undressed yet? What's the matter, darling Pauline? You look quite worried, sitting there in your chair."

"I'm not worried, Mother. Really, darling, I'm not worried. I thought you were cross with me."

Now she was crying and being petted.

"I don't know why I'm crying. Oh, I'm so foolish. Why am I crying? Are you cross with me?"

"Pauline, what is the matter? Have you had a quarrel with Guy?"

"Good gracious, no! What makes you ask that? We had an exquisite walk, and the sunset was wonderful, oh, so wonderful! And we picked ragged robins--great bunches of them. Only I forgot to bring them home. How stupid of me. Monica and Margaret aren't angry with me, are they? They were so cold at dinner. Why were they? Mother, I do love you so. You do understand me, don't you? You do sympathize with love? Mother, I do love you so."