Guy could have laughed on his own account, but the notion of Pauline's being dragged into the chatter made him furious. Yet what could he do? If he went frequently to the Greys' house, he must be engaged according to Wychford. And if he did not go....
"I suppose they'll be saying next that the engagement has been broken off," he enquired with cold sarcasm.
"Oh, they have said it. Depend upon it, Mr. Hazlewood, it undoubtedly has been said."
It began to appeal to Guy as extremely undignified—the way in which he had let Godbold chatter on like this.
"I'm afraid I must be getting back to my work," he said curtly.
"That's right. Work's the best answer to talk. Did you feel it much here in that rainy spell?"
"The meadows were a bit splashy of course, but the water never got anywhere near the house."
"But it will. Don't you make any mistake. It will. Only of course we've had a dry autumn. Why, last June year Miss Peasey could have been fishing for minnows in her kitchen. Now that seems a nice upstanding sort of woman. A Wesleen, they tell me? I haven't seen her in church that I can remember, and which would account for it. But I never talk to the chapel folk, they being that uncivilized. She's rather deaf, isn't she?"
"Yes, and therefore cannot gossip," Guy snapped.
"Well, I don't know," said Godbold doubtfully. "Some of the most unnatural scandals I ever heard were made by deaf women. Though that doesn't mean I'm saying Miss Peasey is a talker."
"I'm sure she isn't," Guy agreed. "Good-night, Mr. Godbold."
"Good-night, Mr. Hazlewood, don't you be discouraged by the gossip in Wychford. I always say, if you believe nothing you hear, next to nothing of what you read, and only half of what you see, no one can touch you. Good-night once more, sir. And don't you fret over what people say. I remember they once said I tried to work a horse which had the blind staggers, and Mrs. Godbold was that aggravated she went and washed a shirt of mine twice over, worrying herself. Good-night, Mr. Hazlewood."
This time the red-bearded carrier of Wychford (not an inappropriate profession for him) really departed, leaving Guy in a state of considerable resentment at the thought of the Wychford commentary.
That night the raw drizzle turned to snow; and when he looked out of his window next morning, it was lying thick over the country and was making his bedroom seem as grey as the loaded clouds above. That exhilaration of a new landscape which comes with snow drove away some of Guy's depression, and after breakfast he went out, curious to contemplate its effect upon the Abbey. In the black frost the great pile had seemed to possess scarcely more substance than a shredded leaf; and when it lay sodden beneath the dripping trees, a manifest decay had made extinction infamous with the ooze of a rotting fungus. The weather now had brought a strange restoration to the abandoned house, and so completely had the covering of snow hidden most of the signs of dissolution that Wychford Abbey seemed no longer dead, but asleep in the quiet of a winter morning. The lawn in front stretched before it in decent whiteness, and the veiling of the ragged unhealthy grass took away from the front of the house that air of wan caducity, endowing the stones by contrast with tinted warmth and richness. The decrepit roof was hidden, and Wychford Abbey dreamed under its weight of snow with all the placid romance of a house on a Christmas card. The dark plantation was deprived of its gloom, and what was usually a kind of haunted stillness was now aspectful peace. Guy went over the crinching ground and strolled down the broad walk through the shrubbery. Everywhere the snow glistened with the footprints of many birds, but not a single call broke a silence which was cold and absolute except for the powdery whisper of the snow where it was sliding from the holly leaves.
When Guy reached the bottom of the shrubbery, he sat down on a fallen trunk by a backwater, which dried up here in the drift of dead leaves; and he watched the surface of it glazing perceptibly, yet not so fast but that the faint motion of the freezing air could write upon the smoothness a tremulous reticulation. He had not been resting long when he saw Margaret coming toward him down the walk, and with so light a tread that in her white coat she might have been a figment created for his fancy by the snow. He wondered if a sense of the added beauty her presence gave the scene were in her mind. Probably it was, for Margaret had a discreet vanity that would never gratify itself so well as when she was alone; and plainly she must suppose herself alone, since here on this snowy morning she would not have expected to meet anybody. Guy thought it would be considerate to draw aside without spoiling her dream whatever the subject of the meditation. However, as he rose from the log to take the narrow path along the back-water and so turn homeward across the fields by the river, Margaret saw him and waved with a feathery gesture. As Guy went up the path to greet her, he was thinking how much her hair was like a dark leaf that had shaken off the snow, so easily might her blanched attire have fallen upon her from the clouds; then, as he came close, every charming fancy was suddenly spoilt by a remembrance of Wychford gossip, and he turned hastily round to see if there were prying glances in the laurels.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"A squirrel," said Guy quickly. He would not have had his absence from the Rectory ascribed to any fear of gossip; moreover, since a meeting with Margaret did not make his conscience the thrall of public opinion, he would not have her discreet vanity at all impaired. Therefore it was a squirrel he saw.
"We've been wondering what has become of you," she said.
"Well, I've been working rather hard; and as a matter of fact I was going to the Rectory this afternoon. Isn't the snow jolly after the rain? Especially here, don't you think?"
She nodded.
"I've got to go and visit an old woman who lives almost in Little Fairfield, and I thought I'd avoid as much as I could of the high road."
"Shall I come with you?" asked Guy, but in so doubtful a voice that Margaret laughingly declared she was sure he was in a state of being offended with the Rectory.
"Oh, Margaret, don't be absurd. Offended?"
"Over the curtains?" she asked.
"Why if it wouldn't betray a gross insensibility to your opinion, I should tell you I thought no more about what you said. Besides, we've had reconciling Christmas since then."
"Ah, but you see, Pauline is always impressing on Monica and me our cruelty to you, and by this time Mother has been talked into believing in our hard and impenitent hearts."
"Pauline is...." Guy broke off and saw another squirrel. He could not trust himself to speak of Pauline, for in this stillness of snow he felt that the lightest remark would reveal his love; and there was in nature this morning a sort of suspense that seemed to rebuke unuttered secrets.
"Well, as you're walking with me to Fairfield—or nearly to Fairfield—your neglect of us shall be forgiven," Margaret promised. "Here we are out of the warm trees already. I'm glad I came this way, though I think it was rather foolish. Look how deep the snow seems on that field we've got to cross."
"It isn't really," said Guy, vaulting over the fence that ran round the confines of the Abbey wood.
"Ah, now you've spoilt it," she exclaimed. But Margaret did not pause a moment to regret the ruffling of that sheeted expanse and they walked on silently, watching the toes of their boots juggle with the snow.
"It generally is a pity," said Guy after a while.
"What?"
"Impressing one's existence on so lovely and inviolate a thing as this." He indicated the untrodden field in front of them.
"But look behind you," said Margaret. "Don't you think our footprints look very interesting?"
"Interesting, perhaps," Guy admitted. "Yet footprints in snow never seem to be going anywhere."
"Now I know quite well what you're doing," Margaret protested. "You're making that poor little wobbly track of ours try to bear all sorts of mysterious and symbolic intensities of meaning. Just because you're feeling annoyed with a sonnet, footprints in the snow mustn't lead anywhere. Why, Guy, if I told you what sentimental import my 'cello sometimes gives to a simple walk before lunch.... I mean of course when I've been playing badly."
She sighed, and Guy wondered if the violoncello had been used with as little reference as a sonnet to the real cause of the mood.
"Why did you sigh just now?" he asked after another minute or two of silent progress.
"I wonder whether I'll tell you. No, I don't think I will. And yet...."
"And yet perhaps after all you will," said Guy eagerly. "And if you do, I'll tell you something in turn."
"That's no bribe," said Margaret laughing. "You foolish creature, don't you think I know what you'll tell me?"
Guy shook his head.
"I don't think you do. You may suspect. But for that matter, so may I. Isn't what you might have told me something that might most suitably be told on the way to Fairfield?"
"You've been talking about me to Pauline," said Margaret angrily.
"Never," he declared. "But you don't suppose you can have all these mysterious allusions to Richard without my guessing that his father is Vicar of Fairfield. Dear Margaret, forgive me for guessing and tell me what you were going to tell."
"Have you heard I was engaged to Richard Ford?" she asked.
"I heard he was in love with you."
"Oh he is, he is," she murmured, and Guy thinking of Richard in India wondered if he ever dreamed of Margaret walking like this in a snowy England. The clock in Fairfield church struck eleven with an icy tinkle that on the muted air sounded very thinly. "But the problem for me," Margaret went on, "is whether I'm in love with him, or if Richard is merely the nicest person who has been in love with me so far."
"Well, if you'd asked me that three months ago," Guy said, "I would have answered decidedly that you weren't in love with him if you had one doubt. But now ... well, you know really now I'm rather in the state of mind that wants everybody to be in love. And why do you think you're not in love with him?"
"I haven't really explained well," said Margaret. "What I'm sure of is that I'm not as much in love with him as I want to be in love."
"You're living opposite a looking-glass," said Guy. "That's what is the matter."
They had reached the stile leading over into the high road, and Margaret gazed back wistfully at the footprints in the snow, before they crossed it and went on their way.
"Yes," she said. "I am conceited. But my conceit is really cowardice. I long for admiration, and when I am admired I despise it. I lie in bed thinking how well I play the 'cello, and when I have the instrument by me I don't believe I can play even moderately well. I am really fond of him, but the moment I think that anybody else is thinking about my being fond of him I almost hate his name. I can't bear the idea of going to live in India and I detest bridges—you know he builds bridges—and yet I couldn't possibly write to him and say that he must think no more about me. I'm really a mixture of Monica and Pauline, and so I'm not as happy as either of them."
"Yes, I suppose Pauline is very happy," said Guy in a depressed voice.
"What am I to do?" Margaret asked.
"I'm sure you're much more in love than you think," he declared quickly, for he had the ghost of a temptation to tell her she was foolish to think any more of a love so uncertain as hers. There was enough jealousy of his standing at the Rectory to give him the impulse to rob Richard of his foothold, but the meanness destroyed itself on this virginal morning almost before Guy realized it had tried to exist. "Yes, I'm sure you're really in love," he repeated. "I think I can understand what you feel."
"Do you?" said Margaret shaking her head a little sadly. "I'm afraid it's only a very willing sympathy on your part, for I'm sure I don't understand myself. That's why I'm conceited, perhaps. I'm trying to build up a Margaret Grey for other people to look at, which I admire like any pretty thing one makes oneself, and perhaps why I can't fall really in love is because I'm afraid of someone's understanding me and showing me to myself."
"You'd have to be very clever to disappoint that person," said Guy. "And why shouldn't Richard Ford be the one?"
"Oh, he'll never discover me," said Margaret. "That's what's so dull."
"Aren't you a little unreasonable?" Guy asked.
"Of course I am. Now don't let's talk about me any more: I'm really not worth discussing—only just because my family is so exquisite and because I adore them, I never talk about Richard to them. Here's the old woman's cottage. I shan't be more than a few minutes."
Guy felt honoured by Margaret's confidence, but his heart was so full of Pauline that he transferred all the substance of what she had been saying to suit his own case. Would Pauline never know if she were in love? Would he be doomed to the position of Richard? Or worse, would Pauline fly from his love in terror of anything so disturbing to the perfection of her life at present? On the whole he was inclined to think that this was exactly what she would do; and he felt he would never have the courage to startle her with the question. When he thought of the girls to whom in the past of long vacations he had made protestations of devotion that were light as the thistledown in the summery meadows where they were uttered, it was incredible that the asking of Pauline should speed his heart like this. With other girls he had always imagined them slightly in love with him, but for Pauline to be in love with him seemed hopeless, though he qualified his humility by assuring himself that she could be in love with nobody. Did Margaret really have a suspicion that he was in love with Pauline? If she had, why had she not drawn his confidence before she gave her own? She came out from the cottage as he propounded this, and he told her, when their faces were set towards Wychford and a chilly wind that was rising, how he had been thinking about her confidence all the while she was in the cottage. Moreover, he was under the impression this was the truth.
"But don't think about me any more," she commanded.
"Never?"
"Not until I speak first. Isn't it cold? You must have been frozen waiting for me."
They hurried along talking mostly, though how the topic arose Guy never knew, about whether Alice in Wonderland were better than Alice Through the Looking-glass or not. The quotations that went to sustain the argument were so many that they arrived back very quickly, it seemed, at the stile leading into the snowy field.
"Will you go home the same way?" Guy suggested. "Look, nobody has spoilt our tracks. They're jollier than ever, and do you see those rooks farther down the field? It will snow again this afternoon and our footprints will vanish."
By the time they reached the Abbey wood Guy had made up his mind that as they walked up through the shrubbery, unless people were listening there, he would tell Margaret how deeply he was in love with Pauline. The resolution taken, his throat seemed to close up with nervousness, and vaulting over the fence he tripped and fell in a snow drift.
"Why this violent activity all of a sudden?" Margaret asked.
He laughed gloomily and vowed it was the exhilarating weather. Up the broad walk they went slowly, and every yard was bringing them dreadfully nearer to Wychford High Street and the profanation of this snowy silence. Abruptly a robin began to sing from a bough almost overhead; and, Guy realizing half-unconsciously that unless he told Margaret now, his words would die upon that robin's rathe melody, said:
"Margaret, you'll probably be angry, but I must tell you that I'm in love with your sister."
He drove his stick deep into the snow to give his eyes the excuse of looking down.
"With Pauline," she said softly.
He congratulated himself upon the cunning with which he had at least thrown something on Margaret of the responsibility, as he almost called it. Had she said Monica, it would have killed his hope at once.
"Of course I know it must sound ridiculous, but...."
"Is she in love with me?" asked Margaret with tender mockery. "Well, I think she may be. Perhaps I'm almost sure she is."
"Margaret," said Guy seizing her hand. "I hope you'll be the happiest person in the world always. You know, don't you, that I'm dying for you to be happy."
There may have been tears in her eyes as she responded with faintest pressure of her hand to his affection.
"And you won't forget all about me and take no more interest in what will seem my maddening indecision, when you and Pauline are happy?"
"My dear, as if I could," he exclaimed.
"Lovers can forget very easily," said Margaret. "You see I've thought such a lot about being in love that I've got everyone else's conduct clearly mapped out in my mind."
Guy stopped dead; and, as he stopped, the robin now far behind them ceased his song, and even the flute of the wind sounding on distant hollows and horizons cracked in the frost so that the stillness was sharp as ice itself.
"Margaret, what makes you think Pauline cares for me? How dare I be so fortunate?"
"Because you know you are fortunate," said Margaret, nor could falling snow have touched his arm more lightly than she. "Why do you suppose I told you about Richard if it was not because I thought you appreciated Pauline?"
"Ah, how I shall always love the snow," Guy exclaimed, grinding the slippery ball upon his heel to powder.
"But now I've got a disappointment for you," said Margaret. "Pauline and Monica are going into Oxford to-day for a week."
"You won't tell anybody what I've told you?" he begged.
"Of course not. Secrets are much too fascinating not to be kept as long as possible."
He opened the wicket, and presently they parted in the High Street.
"I shall come in this afternoon," he called after her. "Unless you're bored with me."
She invited him with her muff and seemed to float out of sight. Suddenly Guy remembered that sometime this morning (it seemed as long ago as when Wychford Abbey was alive) Bob had been with him. He was glad of an excuse to go back and look for the dog in those now consecrated arbours. There the robin still sang his rather pensive tune; and there from a high ash-bough a missel-thrush, wearing full ermine of the Spring, saluted the vestal day.
February
PAULINE started to Oxford with Monica, feeling rather disappointed she had not seen Guy before she went; for Margaret had come home with news of having walked with him to Fairfield, and it was tantalizing, indeed a little disturbing, to leave him behind with Margaret.
"Nothing is said to Margaret," Pauline protested at lunch, "when she goes out for a walk with Guy. Father, don't you think it's unfair?"
"Well, darling Pauline," interrupted Mrs. Grey with an anxious glance towards her second daughter. "You see, Margaret is in a way engaged."
"I'm not engaged," Margaret declared.
"But I'm asking Father," Pauline persisted. "Father, don't you think it's unfair?"
The Rector was turning over the pages of a seed-catalogue and answered Pauline's question with that engaging irrelevancy to which his family and parish were accustomed.
"It's disgraceful for these people to offer seeds of Incarvillea Olgae. My dears, you remember that anaemic magenta brute, the colour of a washed-out shirt? Ah," he sighed, "I wish they'd get that yellow Incarvillea over. I am tempted to fancy it might be as good as Tecoma Smithii, and of course coming from that Yang-tse-kiang country, it would be hardy."
"Francis dear!" Pauline cried. "Don't you think it's unfair?"
"Pauline," said her mother. "You must not call your father Francis in the dining-room."
The Rector oblivious of everything continued to turn slowly the pages of his catalogue.
"Oh, bother going to Oxford," said Monica looking out of the window to where Janet with frozen breath listened for the omnibus under gathering snow clouds.
"Now, really," Pauline exclaimed, diverted from her complaint of Margaret's behaviour by another injustice. "Isn't Monica too bad? She's grumbling, though it was she who made the plan to stay with the Strettons. And though they're her friends and not mine, I've been made to go too."
"Well, I hate staying with people," Monica explained.
"So do I," said Pauline. "And you accepted the invitation for me that day you were in Oxford buying Christmas presents, when you forgot to buy the patience-cards I wanted to give poor Miss Verney, so that I had to give her a horrid little china dog though she hates dogs."
"Now I'm sure it'll be charming, yes, charming, when you get there," Mrs. Grey affirmed hopefully.
"Oh, how glad I am I'm not going," said Margaret.
"I think you ought to go instead of me," Pauline told her.
"They're not my friends," Margaret replied with a shrug.
"No, but they're more your friends than mine," Pauline argued. "Because you're nearer to Monica. They're four years off being my friends and only two from being yours."
"Miss Monica," said Janet coming into the room. "The bus has come out from the King's Head yard, and you'll be late."
There was instantly a confusion of preparation by Mrs. Grey and Pauline, while Monica sighed at the trouble of departure and Margaret with exasperating indifference sat warm and triumphant by the fire.
"Good gracious," the Rector exclaimed, flinging the catalogue down and speaking loud enough to be heard over the feverish search for Pauline's left glove. "These people have the impudence to advertize Penstemon Lobbii as a novelty when it's really our old friend Breviflorus. What on earth is to be done with these scoundrels?"
The horn of the omnibus sounded at the end of Rectory Lane; and the fat guard was marching through the snow with the girls' luggage. The good-byes were all said; and presently Pauline with her muff held close to her cheeks against the North wind was sitting on top of the omnibus that was toiling up the Shipcot road. As she caught sight of Plashers Mead etched upon the white scene, she wished she had left a message with Margaret to say in what deep disgrace Guy was. On they laboured across five miles of snow-stilled country with sparse flakes melting upon the horses' flanks and never a wayfarer between Wychford and Shipcot to pause and stare at them.
On the second night of their stay with the Strettons, Monica, when she and Pauline were going to bed, suddenly turned round from the dressing-table and demanded in rhetorical dismay why they had come.
"Never mind," said Pauline. "We've only got five more evenings."
"Well, that's nearly a week," Monica sighed. "And I'm tired to death of Olive already."
"But I'm much worse off," Pauline declared dolefully. "Because I have to sit next to the Professor, who does frighten me so. You see, he will include me in the conversation. Last night at dinner, after he'd been talking to that don from Balliol who knew Guy and whom I was dying to ask ... to talk to myself, I mean, he turned round to me and said, 'I am afraid, Miss Pauline, that Aramaic roots are not very interesting to you.' Well, of course I got muddled between Aramaic and aromatic, and said that Father had just been given a lot which were very poisonous."
Monica laughed that sedate laugh of hers, which always seemed to Pauline like a clock striking, so independent was it of anybody's feelings.
"Monica darling, I don't want to be critical," said Pauline. "But you know sometimes your laugh sounds just a little—a very little self-satisfied."
"I think I am rather self-satisfied," Monica agreed, combing her golden hair away from her high pale forehead. "And Margaret is conceited, and you're twice as sweet as both of us put together."
"Oh, no I'm not, oh, no, no, Monica dearest, I'm not," Pauline contradicted hurriedly. "No, really I'm very horrid. And, you know, when I'm bored I'm sure I show it. Oh dear, I hope the Strettons didn't notice I was bored. Mrs. Stretton was so touching with the things they had brought back from Madeira, and I do hate things people bring back from places like Madeira."
"And when you're not bored with anybody," said Monica, "you're rather apt to make that too obvious also."
"Monica, why are you saying that?" Pauline asked with wide-open eyes.
"Even supposing Guy is in love with you," said Monica, slowly blowing out the candles on the dressing-table as she spoke, so that nothing was left but the rosy gas, "I don't think it's necessary to show him quite so clearly that you're in love with him.
"Monica!"
"Darling little sister, I do so want you ... oh, how can I put it? Well, you know, when you break the time in a trio, as you sometimes do...."
"But I'm not in love with Guy," Pauline interrupted. "At least, oh, Monica, why do you choose a house like this to tell me such things?" she asked with tears and blushes fighting in her countenance.
"Pauline, it's only that I want you to keep in time."
"I can't possibly stay with the Strettons another five days," declared Pauline in deepest gloom. "You ought not to say things like that here."
She was looking round this strange bedroom for the comfort of familiar pictures, but there was nothing on these pink walls except a view of the Matterhorn. Monica was kneeling to say her prayers, and in the stillness the frost outside seemed to be pressing against the window-panes. Pauline thought it was rather unfair of Monica to fade like this into unearthly communications; and she knelt down to pray somewhat vagrant prayers into the quilted eiderdown that symbolized the guest-room's luxurious chill. She longed to look up in aspiration and behold Saint Ursula in that tall bed of hers or cheerful Tobit walking with his dog in the angel's company, and in the corner her own desk that was full of childish things. She rose from her knees at the same moment as Monica, who at once began to talk lightly of the tiresome people at dinner and seemed utterly unconscious of having wounded Pauline's thoughts. Yet when the room was dark, for a long while these wounded thoughts danced upon the wintry air that breathed of Wychford. 'Even supposing Guy is in love with you.' It was curious that she could not feel very angry with Monica. 'Even supposing Guy is in love with you.' It really seemed a pity to fall asleep: it was like falling asleep when music was being played.
The subject of Guy was not mentioned again, but during the days that remained of the visit, Pauline scarcely felt that she was living in the Strettons' house, and was so absent in her demeanour that Monica was disturbed into what was for her a positive sociableness to counteract Pauline's appearance of inattention. To consummate the vexation of the visit there came a sudden thaw two days before they left, and Oxford was ankle-deep in slush. Finally Pauline and Monica were dragged through the very nadir of depression when on their last night they were taken out to dinner in trams and goloshes through such abominable conditions of weather.
"Fancy not ordering a cab," whispered Monica with cold disapproval.
"Perhaps they can't afford it," Pauline suggested.
"They can afford to go to Madeira," answered Monica, "and buy all those stupid knick-knacks."
"Well, Monica, they are your friends, you know," said Pauline.
However, the first of February arrived next morning, and Oxford was left behind. Pauline sighed with relief when they were seated in the train, and the twenty miles of country to Shipcot that generally seemed so dull were as green and welcome as if they were returning from a Siberian exile.
"You know, Monica, I really don't think we ought to stay with people. I don't think it's honest to spend such a hateful week as that in being pleasant," she declared.
"I didn't notice that you were taking much trouble to hide your boredom," said Monica. "It seems to me that I was always in a state of trying to steer people round your behaviour."
"Oh, but Professor Stretton loves me," said Pauline.
She was trying not to appear excited as the omnibus swished and slapped through the mud towards Wychford. She was determined that in future she would lead that enclosed and so serene life which she admired in her eldest sister. Nobody could criticize Monica except for her coldness, and Pauline knew that herself would never be able to be really as cold as that however much she might assume the effect.
"Grand weather after the snow," said the driver.
The roofs of Wychford were sparkling on the hillside, and earth seemed to be turning restlessly in the slow winter sleep.
"This mud'll all be gone with a week of fine days like to-day," said the driver.
Plashers Mead was in sight now, but it was Monica who pointed to where Guy and his dog were wandering across the meadows that were so vividly emerald after the snow.
"I think it is," agreed Pauline indifferently.
In the Rectory garden a year might have passed, so great was the contrast between now and a week ago. Now the snowdrops were all that was left of the snow; and a treasure of aconites as bright as new guineas were scattered along the borders. Hatless and entranced the Rector was roaming from one cohort of green spears to another, each one of which would soon be flying the pennons of Spring. Pauline rushed to embrace him, and he without a word led her to see where on a sunny bank Greek anemones had opened their deep-blue stars.
"Blanda," he whispered. "And I've never known her so deep in colour. Dear me, poor old Ford tells me he hasn't got one left. I warned him she must have sun and drainage, but he would mix her with Nemorosa just to please his wife, which is ridiculous—particularly as they are never in bloom together."
He bent over and with two long fingers held up a flower full in the sun's eye, as he might have stooped to chuck under the chin a little girl of his parish.
Monica had brought back a new quartet, which they practised all that Candlemas Eve. When it was time to go to bed Mrs. Grey observed in a satisfied voice that after all it must have been charming at the Strettons.
"Oh, no, Mother, it was terribly dull," Pauline protested.
"Now, dear Pauline, how could it have been dull, when you've brought back this exquisite Schumann quartet?"
Margaret came to Pauline's room to say good-night, sat with her while she undressed and tucked her up so lovingly that Pauline was more than ever delighted to be back at home.
"Oh, Margaret, how sweet you are to me. Why? Is it because you really do miss me when I go away?"
"Partly," said Margaret.
"Why are you smiling so wisely? Have you put something under my pillow?" Pauline began to search.
"There's nothing under your pillow, except all the thoughts I have to-night for you."
Once more Margaret leaned over and kissed her, and Pauline faded into sleep upon the happiness of being at home again.
Next day after lunch her mother and sisters went to pay a long postponed call upon a new family in the neighbourhood, because Margaret insisted they must take advantage of this glorious weather which would surely not last very long.
Pauline spent the early afternoon with the Rector and Birdwood, writing labels while they sowed a lot of new sweet-peas which had been sent to the Rector for an opinion upon their merits. The clock was striking four when Guy strolled into the garden. Somehow Pauline's labels were not so carefully written after his arrival, and at last the Rector advised her to take Hazlewood and show him Anemone Blanda. They left the big wall-garden and went across the lawn in front of the house to the second wall-garden, where most of the Rector's favourites grew as it pleased them best.
"Oh, they've all gone to bed," said Pauline.
Guy knelt down, and opened the petals of one.
"They're exactly the colour of your eyes," he said looking up at her.
Pauline was conscious that the simple statement was fraught with a significance far greater than anything which had so far happened in her life. It was ringing in her ears like a bugle-call that sounded some far-flung advance, and involuntarily she drew back and began to talk nonsense breathlessly, while Guy did not speak. Nor must she let him speak, she told herself, for behind that simple comparison how many questions were trembling.
"Oh, I wonder if the others are back yet," she finally exclaimed, and forthwith hurried from the garden toward the house. She wished she must not look back over her shoulder to see Guy following her so gravely. Of course, when they were standing in the hall, the others had not come back; and the house in its silence was a hundred times more portentous than the garden. And what would Guy be thinking of her for bringing him back to this voicelessness in which she could not any longer talk nonsense? Here the least movement, the slightest gesture, the most ordinary word would be weighted for both of them with an importance that seemed unlimited. For the first time the Rectory was strangely frightening; and when through the silent passages they were walking toward the nursery, it was the exploration of a dream. Yet, however undiscoverable the object that was leading them, she was glad to see the nursery door, for there within would surely come back to her the ease of an immemorial familiarity. Yet in that room of childhood, that room the most bound up with the simple progress of her life, she found herself counting the birds, berries and daisies upon the walls, as if she were beholding them vaguely for the first time. Why was she unpicking Margaret's work or folding into this foolish elaboration of triangles Monica's music? And why did Guy behave so oddly, taking up all sorts of unnatural positions, leaning upon the rickety mantelshelf, balancing himself upon the fender, pleating the curtains and threading his way with long legs in and out, in and out of the chairs?
"Pauline!"
He had stopped abruptly by the fireplace and was not looking at her when he spoke. Oh, he would never succeed in lifting even from the floor that match which with one foot he was trying to lift on to the other foot.
"Pauline!"
Now he was looking at her; and she must be looking at him, for there was nothing on this settee which would give her a good reason not to look at him. The room was so still that beyond the closed door the hoarse tick of the cuckoo-clock was audible; and what was that behind her which was fretting against the window-pane? And why was she holding with each hand to the brocade, as if she feared to be swept altogether out of this world?
"Pauline!"
Was it indeed her voice on earth that said 'yes'?
"Pauline, I suppose you know I love you?"
And she was saying 'yes.'
"Pauline, do you love me?"
And again she had said 'yes.'
Outside in the corridor the cuckoo snapped the half-hour: then it seemed to tick faster and a thousand times faster. She must turn away from Guy, and as she turned she saw that what had been fretting the window-pane was a spray of yellow jasmine. Upon the cheek that was turned from him the dipping sun shed a warm glow, but the one nearer was a flame of fire.
"Pauline!"
He had knelt beside her in that moment; and leaning over to his nearness, Pauline looked down at her hand in his, as if she were gazing at a flower which had been gathered.
SPRING
March
THE doubts and the joys of the future broke upon Guy with so wide and commingled a vision, that before the others got home and even before Janet came in with tea he hurried away from that nursery, where over the half-stilled echoes of childhood he had heard the sigh of Pauline's assent. The practical side of what he had done could be confronted to-morrow, and with a presage of hopelessness the word might have lain heavily upon his mind, if on the instant of sinking it had not been radiantly winged with the realization of the indestructible spirit that would henceforth animate all the to-morrows of time. No day could now droop for him, whatever the difficulties it brought, whatever the hazards, when he had Pauline and Pauline's heart: and like disregarded moments the years of their life went tumbling down into eternity, as the meaning of that sighed out assent broke upon his conscience with fresh glory.
"You'll tell your mother to-night?" he asked. "I think Margaret will know when she sees your shining eyes."
"Are my eyes shining?"
"Ah, don't you know they are, when you look into mine?"
Guy could have proclaimed that he and she were stars flashing to one another across a stupendous night; but there were no similes that did not seem tawdry when he threw them round Pauline.
"Child, child, beloved child," he whispered; and his voice faltered for the pitiful inadequacy of anything that he could call her. What words existed, with whatever tenderness uttered, with whatever passion consecrated by old lovers, that would not still be words, when they were used for Pauline? Guy watched for a moment the cheek that was closer to his lips write in crimson the story of her love. He wished he could tell his love for her with even the hueless apograph of such a signal; and yet, since anything he said was only worthy of utterance in so far as she by this ebb and flow of response made it worthy, why should he trouble that cheek which, sentient now as a rose of the sun, hushed all but wonder.
"Good-bye."
He bent over and touched her hand with his lips. Then the Rectory stairs had borne him down like a feather: the Rectory door had assumed a kind of humanity, so that the handle seemed to relinquish his grasp with an affectionate unwillingness. Out in the drive, where the purple trees were washed by the February dusk, he stood perplexed at himself because in a wild kiss he had not crushed Pauline to his heart. Had it been from some scruple of honour in case her father and mother should not countenance his love? Had it sprung out of some impulse to postpone for a while a joy that must be the sharpest he would ever know? Or was it that in the past he had often kissed too lightly so that now, when he really loved, he could not imagine the kiss unpassionate and fierce that would seal her immortally to love, yet leave her still a child?
As he paused in that golden February dusk, Guy rejoiced he had told his love in such an awe of her girlhood; and when from the nursery window Pauline blew one kiss and vanished like a fay at mortal trespassing, he floated homeward upon the airy salute, weighing no more than a seed of dandelion to his own sense of being. Upon his way he observed nothing, neither passer-by nor carts in the muddy roads. As he crossed the bridge, the roar of the water into the mill-pool was inaudible, nor did he hear his melodious garden ways. And when Miss Peasey came to his room with the lamp, he could not realize for a moment who she was or what she was talking about. The hour or two before dinner went by as one tranced minute; in a dream he went down to dinner; in a dream he began to carve; in a dream the knife remained motionless in the joint, so that Miss Peasey coming to enquire after his appetite thought it was stuck in a skewer. Upstairs in the library again, he dreamed the evening away; and when the lamp hummed slowly and oilily to extinction he still sat on, till at last the fire perished and from complete darkness he roused himself and went to bed.
Guy was under the cloud of a reaction when he rang the Rectory bell on the morning after. The door looked less amicable, and the dragon-headed knocker stared balefully while he was waiting to be let in. He wondered for whom of the family he ought to ask, but Mrs. Grey came nervously into the hall and invited him into the drawing-room.
"Pauline has gone over to Fairfield," she began in jerky sentences. "Charming ... yes, charming, you came this morning."
The sun had not yet reached the oriel of the drawing-room, that with shadows and fragrance was welcoming Guy where he sat in a winged armchair beside the fire. Time was seeming to celebrate the momentousness of his visit by standing still as in a picture, and he knew that every word and every gesture of Mrs. Grey would in his memory rest always enambered. He was glad, and yet in the captivating quiet a little sorry, that she began to speak at once:
"Of course Pauline told me about yesterday. And of course I would sooner she were in love with a man she loved than with a man who had a great deal of money. But of course you mustn't be engaged at once. At least you can be engaged; you are engaged. Oh, yes, of course, if you weren't engaged, I shouldn't allow you to see each other, and you shall see each other occasionally. Francis has not said anything. The Rector will probably be rather doubtful. Of course I told him; only he happened to be very busy about something in the garden. But he would want Pauline to be happy. Of course she is my favourite—at least I should not say that. I love all my daughters, but Pauline is—well, she has the most beautiful nature in the world. My darling Pauline!"
Mrs. Grey's eyes were wet, and Guy was so full of affectionate gratitude that it was only by blinking very hard at a small picture of Pauline hanging beside the mantelpiece he was able to keep his own dry.
"I have a nicer picture than that, which I will give you," Mrs. Grey promised. "The one that I am fondest of, the one I keep beside my bed. Perhaps you would like a picture of her when she was seventeen? She's just the same now, and really I think she'll always be the same."
"You are too good to me, Mrs. Grey," he sighed.
"We are all so fond of you ... even the Rector, though he is not likely to show it. Pauline is perhaps more like me. Her impulsiveness comes from me."
"Ought I to talk to the Rector about our engagement?" Guy asked.
"Oh, no, no ... it would disturb him, and I don't think he'll admit that you are engaged. In fact he said something about children: but I would rather ... at least, of course, you are children. But Margaret says you can't be quite a child or you would not be in love with Pauline. And now if you go along the Fairfield road, you'll meet her. But that is only an exception. Not often. I think to-day she might be disappointed if you didn't meet her. And come to lunch, of course. Poetry is a little precarious, but at any rate for the present we needn't talk about the future. I wish your mother were still alive. I think she would have loved Pauline."
"She would have adored her," said Guy fervently.
"And your father? Of course you'll bring him to tea, when he comes to stay with you. That will be charming ... yes, charming. Now hurry, or you'll miss her."
Guy had no words to tell Mrs. Grey of the devotion she had inspired; but all the way down the Fairfield road he blessed her and hoped that somehow the benediction would make itself manifest. Then, far away, coming over the brow of a hill he saw Pauline. It was one of those hills with a suggestion of the sea behind them, so sharply are they cut against the sky. This was one of those hills that in childhood had thrilled him with promise of the faintly imaginable; and even now he always approached such a hill with a dream and surmise of new beauty. Yet more wonderful than any dream was the reality of Pauline coming towards him over the glistening road. She was shy when he met her, and the answers she gave to his eager questions were so softly spoken that Guy was half afraid of having exacted too much from her yesterday. Did she regret already the untroublous time before she knew him? Yet it was better that she should walk beside him in still unbroken enchantment, that the declaration of his love should not have damaged the wings seeming always unfolded for flight from earth: so would he wish to keep her always, that never this Psyche should be made a prisoner by him. The elusive quality of Pauline which was shared in a slighter degree by her sisters kept him eternally breathless, for she was immaterial as a cloud that flushes for an instant far away from the sunset. And yet she was made with too much of earth's simple beauty to be compared with clouds. Her sisters had the ghostly serenity and remoteness that might more appropriately be called elusive. Pauline gave more the effect of an earthly thing that transcends by the perfection of its substance even spirit; and rather was she seeming, though poised for airy regions, still sweetly content with earth. She had not been more elusive than eglantine overarching a deep lane at Midsummer, for he had pulled down the spray, and it was the fear of a petal falling too soon from the tremulous flowers that gave him this sense of awe as he walked beside her.
Yet once again Guy found his comparisons poor enough when he looked at Pauline, and he exclaimed despairingly:
"There are no words for you. I wanted to say to your mother what I thought about you. Oh, she was so charming."
"She is a darling," said Pauline. "And so is Father."
They were come to the stile where he and Margaret had watched their footprints on the snow.
"And Margaret was very sympathetic, you know," he went on. "Really, if it hadn't been for her, I should never have dared to tell you I loved you. We talked about her and Richard...."
"Margaret does love him. She does," Pauline declared. "Only she will ask herself questions all the time."
How she changed when she was speaking of Richard, thought Guy a little jealously. Why could she not say out clearly like that her love for him?
"You do love me this morning?" he asked. She was standing on the step of the stile, and he offered his hand to help her down. "Won't you say 'I love you'?"
But only with her eyes could she tell him, and as, her finger-tips on his, she jumped from the step, she was imponderable as the blush upon her cheeks.
"In the summer," said Guy, "you and I will be on the river together. Will you be shy when Summer comes?"
"Monica says I'm not nearly shy enough."
"What on earth does Monica expect?"
They were under the trees of Wychford Abbey, and Guy told her of the days he had spent here, thinking of her and of the hopelessness of her loving him.
"I could not imagine you would love me. Why do you?"
She shook her head.
"One day we'll explore the inside of the house together, shall we?"
"Oh, no, I hate that place. Oh, no, Guy, we'll never go there. Come quickly, I hate that house. Margaret loves it and says I'm morbid to be afraid. But I shudder when I see it."
They hurried through the dark plantation; and Guy under the influence of Pauline's positive terror felt strangely as if, were he to look behind, he would behold the house leering at them sardonically.
People too eyed them, as they went down High Street and turned into Rectory Lane. Guy had a sensation of all the inhabitants hurrying from their business in the depths of their old houses to peer through the casements at Pauline and him; and he was glad when they reached the Rectory drive and escaped the silent commentary.
When she was at home again Pauline's spirits rose amazingly; and all through lunch she was so excited, that her mother and sisters were continually repressing her noisiness. Guy on the contrary felt woefully self-conscious and was wondering all the while with how deep a dislike the Rector was regarding him and if after lunch he would not call him aside and solemnly expel him from the house. As they got up from the table, the Rector asked if Guy were doing anything particular that afternoon and on receiving an assurance that he was not, the Rector asked if he would help with the sweet-peas that still wanted sorting. Guy in a bodeful gloom said he would be delighted.
"I shall be in the garden at two," said the Rector.
"Shall I come as well and help?" Pauline offered.
"No, I want you to take some things into the town for me," said the Rector.
Guy's heart sank at this confirmation of his fears. Out in the hall Margaret took him aside.
"Well, are you happy?"
"Margaret, you've been beyond words good to me."
"Always be happy," she said.
Even Monica whispered to him that he was lucky, and Guy was so deeply impressed at being whispered to by Monica that it gave him a little courage for his interview. He joined the Rector in the garden punctually at two, and worked hard with labels and classifications.
"A7," the Rector read out. "A lavender twice as big as Lady Grizel Hamilton. D21. An orange that will not burn. Humph! I don't believe it. Do you believe that, Birdwood?"
The gardener shook his head.
"There never was an orange as didn't burn like a house on fire the moment the sun set eyes on it."
"Of course it'll burn, and anyhow there's no such thing as an orange sweet-pea. If there is, it's Henry Eckford."
"Henry isn't orange," said Birdwood. "Leastways not an orange like you get at Christmas."
"More buff?"
"Buff as he can be," said Birdwood. "What do you think, Mr. Hazlenut?" he went on, turning to Guy and winking very hard.
"I really don't know him ... it...." said Guy.
"O5," the Rector began again. "A cream and rose picotee Spenser. Yes, I daresay," he commented. "And with about as much smell as distilled water."
So the business went on, with Guy on tenterhooks all the while for his own summing-up by the Rector. He thought the moment was arrived when Birdwood was sent off on an errand and when the Rector getting up from his kneeler began to shake the trowel at him impressively. But all he said was:
"Tingitana's plumping up magnificently. And we'll have some flowers in three weeks—the first I shall have had since the Diamond Jubilee. Sun! Sun!"
Guy jumped at the apostrophe, so nearly did it approximate to 'son-in-law.' But of this relation nothing was said, and now Pauline was calling out that tea was ready.
"Go in, my dear fellow," said the Rector. "I've still a few things to do in the garden. By the way was your father at Trinity, Oxford?"
"No, he was at Exeter."
"Ah, then, I didn't know him. I knew a Hazlewood at Trinity."
The Rector turned away to business elsewhere, and Guy was left to puzzle over his casual allusion. Perhaps he ought to have raised the subject of being in love with Pauline, for which purpose the Rector may have given him an opening. Or did this enquiry about his father portend a letter to him from the Rector about his son's prospects? He certainly ought to have said something to make the Rector realize how much tact would be necessary in approaching his father. Pauline called again from the nursery window, and Guy hurried off to join the rest of the family at tea.
In the drawing-room Mrs. Grey, Monica and Margaret all seemed anxious to show their pleasure in Pauline's happiness; and Guy in the assurance this old house gave him of a smooth course for his love ceased to worry any longer about parental problems and was content to live in the merry and intimate present. He realized how far he was advanced in his relation to the family when Brydone, the doctor's son, came in to call. Guy took a malicious delight in his stilted talk, as for half-an-hour he tried to explain to Monica, a grave and abstracted listener, how the pike would in March go up the ditches and the shallow backwaters and what great sport it was to snare them with a copper noose suspended from a long pole. There was, too, that triumphant moment he had long desired, when Brydone, rising to take his leave, asked if Guy were coming and when he was able to reply casually that he was not coming just yet.
After tea Guy and Pauline, as if by an impulse that occurred to both of them simultaneously, begged Margaret to come and talk in the nursery. She seemed pleased that they wanted her; and the three of them spent the time till dinner in looking at the old familiar things of childhood; at photographs of Monica and Margaret and Pauline in short frocks; at tattered volumes scrawled in by the fingers of little girls.
"I wish I'd known you when you were small," sighed Guy. "How wasted all these years seem."
The gong went suddenly, and Margaret said that of course to-night he would stay to dinner.
So once again he was staying to dinner and now on such terms as would make this an occasion difficult to forget. As he waited alone in the lamplit nursery, while Margaret and Pauline were dressing, he kissed Pauline in each faded picture stuck in those gay scrap-books of Varese. Nor did he feel the least ashamed of himself, although at Oxford his cynicism had been the admiration even of Balliol, where there had been no one like him for tearing sentiment into dishonoured rags. When the Rector came in to dinner, carrying with him a dusty botanical folio that swept all the glass and silver from his end of the table to huddle in the centre, Guy tried to make out if he were very much depressed by his not having yet gone home.
"Dear me," said the Rector. "I was sure I had seen it in here."
"Seen what, Francis?" asked his wife.
"A plant you wouldn't know. A Cilician crocus."
"Isn't Father sweet?" said Pauline. "Because of course Mother never knows any plant."
"What nonsense, Pauline. Of course I know a crocus."
Toward the end of dinner Mrs. Grey said rather nervously:
"Francis dear, wouldn't you like to drink Pauline's health?"
"Why, with pleasure," said the Rector. "Though she looks very well."
Pauline jumped in her chair with delight at this, but Mrs. Grey waved her into silence and said:
"And Guy's health too?"
The Rector courteously saluted him; but the guest feared there was an undernote of irony in the bow.
After dinner when Monica, Margaret and Pauline were preparing for a trio, Mrs. Grey said confidentially to Guy:
"You mustn't expect Francis—the Rector to realize at once that you and Pauline are engaged. And of course it isn't exactly an engagement yet. You mustn't see her too often. You're both so young. Indeed, as Francis said, children really."
Then the trio began, and Guy in the tall Caroline chair lived every note that Pauline played on her violin, demanding of himself what he had done to deserve her love. He looked round once at Mrs. Grey in the other chair, and marked her beating time while like his own her thoughts were all for Pauline. In the heart of that music Guy was able to say anything and he could not resist leaning over and whispering to Mrs. Grey:
"I adore her."
"So do I," said the mother, breaking not a bar in her beat and gazing with soft eyes at that beloved player.
When the music stopped, Guy felt a little embarrassed by the remembrance of his unreserved avowal; yet evidently it had seemed natural to Mrs. Grey, for when he was saying good-bye in the hall, she whispered to Pauline that she could walk with Guy a short way along the drive. His heart leapt to the knowledge that here at last was the final sanction of his love for her. Pauline flung round her shoulders that white frieze coat in which he had first beheld her under the moon, misty, autumnal, a dream within a dream; and now they were actually walking together. He touched her arm half-timidly, as if even so light a gesture could destroy this moment.
"Pauline, Pauline!"
He saw her clear eyes in the February starshine and folding her close he kissed her mouth. When he woke, he was at home; and for hours he sat entranced, knowing that never again for as long as he lived would he feel upon his lips as now the freshness of Pauline's first kiss.
The rest of that February went by with lengthening eves that died on the dusky riot of blackbirds in the rhododendrons. Here and there in mossy corners primroses were come too soon, seeming all aghast and wan to behold themselves out of the cloistral earth, while the buds of the daffodils were still upright and would not hang their heads till driven by the wooing of the windy March sun.
The grey-eyed virginal month, that is of no season and must as often bear the malice of Winter's retreat as the ruffianly onset of Spring, had now that very seriousness which suited Guy's troth.
Rules had been made with which neither he nor Pauline were discontented, and so through all that February Guy went twice a week to the Rectory and counted himself rich in Mrs. Grey's promise that he and Pauline should sometimes be allowed, when the season was full-fledged, to go for walks together. At present, however, the Rectory garden must be a territory large enough for their love.
These first encounters were endowed with perhaps not much more than the excitement of what were in a way superficial observations, since neither of them was yet attempting to sound any deeps in the other's character. Guy was engaged with driving a wedge into that past of the Rectory whose least events he now envied, and he was never tired of the talks about Pauline's childhood, so much of a fairy-tale she still seemed and fit for endless repetition. And if Guy was never tired of being told, her family was never tired of telling. Never, he thought, was lover so fortunate in an audience as he in the willingness with which he was accorded a confirmation of all his praises. Sometimes, indeed, he had to look reproachfully at Monica or Margaret when Pauline seemed hurt at being checked for some piece of demonstrativeness. If he did so, the sisters would always take an opportunity to draw him aside and explain that it was only Pauline's perfection which made them so anxious for its security. Indeed they guarded her perpetually and with such a high sense of the privilege of wardship that Guy always had to forgive them at once. Moreover, he was so conscious of their magnanimity in considering him as a lover that he was almost afraid to claim his right.
"Margaret," he said one day. "I don't know how you can bear to contemplate Pauline married. Why, when I think of myself, I'm simply dumb before the—what word is there—audacity is much too pale and, oh, what word is there?"
"I don't think I could contemplate her married to anybody but you," said Margaret.
"But why me?"
"Why, because you are young enough to make love beautiful and right," Margaret told him. "And yet you seem old enough to realize Pauline's exquisite nature. So that one isn't afraid of her being squandered for a young man's experience."
"But I'm not rich," said Guy, deliberately leading Margaret on to discuss for the hundredth time this topic of himself and Pauline.
"Pauline wouldn't be happy with riches. They would oppress her. She isn't luxurious like me."
So round and round, backward and forward, on and on the debate would go, until Margaret had arranged for Guy and Pauline a life so idyllic that Shelley would scarcely have found a flaw in her conception.
Pauline, however demonstrative in the presence of her family, was still shy when she was alone with her lover. Her mirth was turned to a whisper, and her greatest eloquence was a speech of drooping silences and of blushes rising and falling. Guy never tired of watching these flowery motions that were the response of her cheeks to his love. Each word he murmured was a wind to stir her countenance or ruffle her eyes, so that they too responded with cloudy deeps and shadows and sudden veilings.
Nothing more was mentioned of the practical side of the engagement, for Mrs. Grey, Monica and Margaret were all too delightfully enthralled with the progress of an idyll that was to each of them her own secret poem of Pauline in love; while as for the Rector he remained outwardly oblivious of the whole matter.
March came crashing into this peace without disturbing the simple pattern into which the existence of Guy and Pauline had now resolved itself—a pattern, moreover, that belonged to Pauline's mother and sisters for their own pleasure in embroidery, so that the lovers were, as it might be, carried about from room to room. Sometimes indeed, when Guy came to the Rectory, there was a pretence of leaving him and Pauline alone; but mostly they were in the company of the others, and Guy was now as deep in the family life as if he were a son of the house. Since he and Pauline never went for walks together, perhaps Wychford speculation had died down—at any rate there was no gossip to disturb Mrs. Grey; although, as she had by now given up the theory of a sort of engagement, yet without consenting to anything in the shape of a final announcement, it might not have mattered much.
Meanwhile, it began to dawn on Guy that the time was coming when he would have to make up his mind to do something definite, and on these bleak mornings of early March, as he watched the scanty snowflakes withering against the panes, he asked himself if there was any justification for staying on at Plashers Mead in the new circumstances of his life there. At night, however, when the wind piped and whistled round the house, he used to dream upon the firelight and shrink from the idea of abandoning all that Plashers Mead had stood for and all that now still more it must stand for in the future. If only a plan could be devised by which the house were secured against sacrilege; and half-fantastically he began to imagine a monastic academy for poets, of which he would be Warden. Perhaps Michael Fane would like this idea, and since he had money he might come forward with an offer of endowment. Then he and Pauline could be married; for £150 a year would be an ample income, if there were no rent to pay and no wages. He of course would earn his living as superintendent of the academic discipline; and really, as he dreamed over his plan, such an establishment would be an admirable corollary to Oxford. It might gain even a sort of official recognition from the University. Plainly some sort of institution was wanted where in these commercial days young writers could retreat to learn their craft less suicidally than by journalism. What should he call his academy? With marriage as the reason for inventing this economy he could hardly give it too monastic a complexion. The louder the wind beat against the house, the more feasibly in the lamplit quiet within did the scheme present itself; and Michael Fane, who was always searching for an object in life, would be the very person to involve in the materialization. He would say nothing to anybody else; not even would he mention the idea to Pauline herself. These sanguine dreams occupied his evenings prosperously enough, while March swept past with searing winds from Muscovy that skimmed the rich earth of the ploughlands with a dusty pallor, tarnished the daffodils and seemed to crack the very bird-song. Guy, however, with every day either a day nearer to seeing Pauline again or the day itself, did not care about the wind that blew, and he was as happy walking on the uplands as the spindleshanked hares that sported among the turfy mounds.
Later, the shrilling wind from the East surrendered to the booming of the equinox. Louder than before the weather beat against Guy's house from the opposite quarter. Chimneys groaned like broken horns, and after a desperate gale even deaf Miss Peasey complained that she had heard the wind once or twice in the night and that her bedroom had seemed a bit draughty. Guy discovered that several tiles had been blown from the roof, so that through the lath and plaster above her head there was a sound of demoniac fife-playing. Then the wind dropped: the rain poured down: but at last on Lady Day morning Guy woke up to see a rich sky between white magnificent clouds, a gentle breeze, and a letter from his father.