Guy and Pauline Part 38

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 surprizingly 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 upstairs 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 G.o.dbold 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, a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sured herself she never would. It was corulean 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 spoilt.

"For I've been rus.h.i.+ng 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 smelt fresh and the gra.s.s 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 only seen for 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 colour shall the binding be?"

"What colour 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 a.s.surance 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."