Guy and Pauline Part 46

When Guy was back at home and thought about his behaviour, he began to wonder if he had committed himself to Persia too finally. The prospect, except so far as it would affect Pauline, had not really sunk into his mind yet, but now as he read the letter over he began to think that he really would like to go. It might mean a separation of two years but it would reconcile him to his father and it would a.s.sure his marriage at the end of the time. Persia might easily be almost as interesting as it sounded, and how remote from debts looked Baghdad. If last year he had been able practically to settle to be a schoolmaster, how much more easily could this resolution be taken. Dreamily he let his imagination play round the notion of Persia, dreamily and rather pleasantly it would solve so many difficulties and it held the promise of so much active romance.

Next morning Mrs. Grey sent round to ask if Guy would come to lunch early enough to have a talk with her first.

"Yes ... charming.... I really wanted us to have a little talk together," she said in nervous welcome, as she led the way to her own sitting-room that with its red lacquer and its screen painted with birds of paradise hid itself away in a corner of the house. Ordinarily Guy would have accepted it as a sign of the highest favour to be brought to her small room, but this morning it seemed to imprison him.

"Yes ... charming ... a little talk," said Mrs. Grey; and Guy while he waited for her to begin, watched the mandarins that moved in absurd reduplications all about her armchair's faded green pattern.

"Of course it was rather a surprize to us all last night ... yes ... I expect it was a surprize to you. And you really think you ought to go?"

"I'm getting rather discouraged about poetry," Guy confessed. "I'm beginning to think that what I've written isn't much good and that if I am ever going to write anything worth while, it will be because I've learnt to be less self-conscious about it. If I went to Persia with Sir George Gascony I should probably be kept fairly busy and if there was any poetry left in me after that, well, it might be good stuff."

"But you've not seen yet what people think of what you have written ...

no ... you see the poems haven't been published yet, which is very vexing ... and so I thought ... I mean the Rector thought that if there was any difficulty he would like to help you to publish them ... yes ...

rather than go away to Persia ... you know ... yes ... poor little Pauline was crying nearly all night and I don't think you ought to go away suddenly like this ... no ... and we couldn't find an atlas anywhere!"

"You think I ought not to go?" said Guy, and he realized as he spoke that he was disappointed.

"I do think that after all these months of hoping for your poems to be a success that you ought at least to try them first, and then afterwards we can talk about Persia. I'm afraid you think I've been too strict about Pauline ... perhaps I have ... yes ... and so I think that now Spring is here you can go out every day ... yes ... charming ... now that the weather is getting better...."

But now every day, thought Guy bitterly, there would be recriminations between them.

"Of course if you think I ought not to go, I won't," he said. "I'll write to Comeragh and refuse."

"I'm sure you're glad, aren't you?"

"Oh, rather."

"We all understood why you thought you ought to go, and now I've another plan ... yes ... charming.... I'm going to send Pauline away for a month ... with Miss Verney ... yes ... charming, charming plan ... and you must make arrangements at once about your poems ... and then perhaps you could give them to Pauline for her birthday...."

"But I don't think the Rector ought to pay for them," Guy objected.

"The Rector wants to pay for them. But of course he won't say anything about it, and you will have to make the arrangements yourself."

"You're all so good to me, and I feel such a fraud," said Guy.

"You'd better make arrangements with the man you sent them to first ...

and Pauline needn't know anything about it ... and I shan't say I've persuaded you not to go to China ... or else she will be worried ...

she's looking rather pale ... I think two or three weeks by the seaside ... Lyme Regis perhaps or Cromer ... Lyme Regis, I think, because the trains to Folkestone have been torn out ... yes ... charming, charming."

After lunch Guy told Pauline in the garden that he had decided not to accept the post he had been offered, and she was so obviously overjoyed at his decision, that he no longer had the heart to feel the slightest disappointment.

"Guy, I've been so stupid," she told him. "I've depressed you without any reason, but I will come back from Scarborough quite well."

Guy began to laugh.

"Oh, why are you laughing?"

"Dearest, because I cannot make out where you really are going."

"Scarborough, because Miss Verney has chosen Scarborough."

They talked for a while of the letters that each would write to the other and of what a Summer should follow that short parting, when every day they would be together and when perhaps even such days as those at Ladingford might come again.

"And you won't worry about anything all this time you're away?" Guy asked.

"I won't, indeed I won't."

Guy went home to find a telegram from Comeragh saying that Sir George Gascony had got appendicitis and would not be going to Persia for a month or two at least. Yet he did not mention this telegram at the Rectory when next day he came to say good-bye to Pauline, because he was anxious to preserve the idea of his having vainly attempted to do something, and when he sat alone in his orchard the same afternoon, he had an emotion of something very near to relief that for a while there would be no more heart-searchings and stress, no more misgivings and reproaches and despairs. He was perfectly happy, sitting by himself in the orchard and staring at the blackthorn by the margin of the stream.

_April_

Miss Verney was so droll at Scarborough and enjoyed herself so much that Pauline in her pleasure at the success of what the old maid called their 'jaunt' really was able to put aside for the present her own perplexities. The sands were empty at this season and the Spa unpopulous except for a few residents. The wind blew inland from a sparkling sea, while Miss Verney with bonnet all awry sitting in a draughty shelter declared that somehow like this she pictured the Riviera; and when the weather was too bad even for Miss Verney's azure dreams Pauline and she sat cosily among the tropic sh.e.l.ls and Berlin wool of their lodgings.

Long letters used to come every day from Guy, and long letters had to be written by Pauline to him; while perpetually Miss Verney tinkled on with marine tales that if no doubt nautically inaccurate had nevertheless a fine flavour of salt water.

"I remember I was sitting in the parlour window at Southsea when a regiment.... I remember a Captain in the Royal Marines.... I remember how anxious my father was that I should have been a boy."

"Oh, dear Miss Verney, you can't remember that."

"Oh, yes, he invariably spoke of me as the Midshipman, I remember. I would then have been about eight years of age ... pray give my very kind regards to Mr. Guy and say how well we are both looking and what a benefit this fine air is to be sure, and don't forget our little expedition to the theatre. You must tell Mr. Guy the story of the piece.

He will certainly enjoy hearing about that very nice-mannered convict who ... ah dear! how my poor father used to revel in the play."

Miss Verney's conversation scarcely ever stopped, and while Pauline was writing letters it was always particularly brisk, but she used to enjoy the accompaniment as she would have enjoyed the twittering of a bird. It seemed to inspire her letters with the equable gaiety that Guy was so glad to think was coming back to her. His own letters were invariably cheerful, and Pauline began to count the days to the time when she would see him again. Easter had gone by, and the weather was so steadily fine that it was a pity not to be together. He wrote of primroses awaiting her footsteps in the forest, of blue dog-violets and cowslips in the hollows of Wychford down, of all the birds that were now arrived in England, of the cuckoo's first call and of the first swallow seen.

_Come back soon, my own, my sweet,_ he wrote. _Come back and let this winter be all forgotten. I climbed up to the top of the church tower to-day, and oh, the tulips in your garden and oh, the emptiness of that garden notwithstanding! Come back, my Pauline, for you'll see the iris buds in the paddock and you've no idea of the way in which that river of ours sparkles on these April mornings. I wish I could tell you how remote this Winter already has grown. It has crept out of memory like a dejected nightmare at breakfast. You are never to think again about the stupid things I've said about religion: think only, my dearest, that I hope always for your faith. It would be dishonest of me to say that I believe now exactly as you believe, but I want to believe like that. Perhaps I'm illogical in writing this: perhaps all the time I do believe. Forget too what I said about Confession. I would almost go myself to prove my penitence (to you!), but I just can't bring myself to do that, because for me it really would be useless and would turn me against everything you count as holy. Forget all that has cast a shadow on our love. Count it all as my heedlessness and be confident that I alone was to blame. I would write more, but letters are such impossible things for intimacy. Some people can pour out their souls on paper: I can't. That's really what my poems suffer from. I have been working at them again since you were away, and they have a kind of coldness, a sort of awkward youthful reserve. Perhaps that's better than youthful exuberance, and yet I don't know. One can prune the too prodigal growth, but one can't always be sure of having the prodigality when one has the maturity.

The metaphors seem to be getting rather tied up, and you must be bored by now with my chattering criticism._

_Your mother came to tea yesterday and brought Monica. Margaret is rather in seclusion at present on account of Richard's arrival, I fancy. She's obviously dreading other people's notice. It is rather a self-conscious business, this waiting for the arrival of someone whom everybody expects is going to play such an important part in her life. If we were separated now for two years, it would be different; but I can see that Margaret is dreadfully afraid that now, having at last made up her mind to marry Richard, she may not care for him as much as she did. He must be a fine fellow. I'm looking forward tremendously to his coming. Monica was perfectly delightful yesterday, and grew quite excited in her nun-like way over the ultimate decoration of Plashers Mead. Dear me, what taste you all have got, and what a very great deal you've taught me! You must most of all forget that I ever said a word against your sisters. They have really equipped me in a way with a point of view toward art. I tried to tell Monica so yesterday afternoon. In fact we got on very well together. In a way, you know, she almost appreciates you more than Margaret does. You represent her hope, her ideal of the world. Worldly one, I must say good-night. Tell Miss Verney with my love that all her cats send their best respects and compliments and that Bellerophon particularly requests that his mistress will bring back whatever fish is in season at Scarborough.

Oh, the funniest thing I've forgotten to tell you! Miss Peasey was chased by some bullocks across the big field behind the orchard!

She was too priceless about it when she got home._

Pauline began to think it was impossible for her ever to have had the least worry in the course of her engagement. This was the first time she had been parted from Guy for more than a week during the whole of a year, and there was something very rea.s.suring in such an opportunity to regard him like this so disinterestedly, to find that the separation was having the traditional effect and to be positive that she was going to meet him again at the end of April more in love than ever. Nevertheless she was always aware of being grateful for the repose from problems, and she did once or twice play with the idea of having perhaps made a mistake in objecting to his going abroad. It was on occasions of doubt like this that Pauline would try to impress Miss Verney with what existence had already meant to her.

"I'm feeling so old, Miss Verney."

"Old, my dear? Oh, that cannot be true," exclaimed her friend.

"Falling very much in love does make one feel old," Pauline declared.

"Let me see," Miss Verney went on, "let me try to remember how I felt.

My impression is _now_ that when I was in love I felt much younger that I do at present, but perhaps that is natural, for it is very nearly thirty years ago since William and I parted."

"Is he still alive?"

"Oh, yes, he is still alive, but I have never seen him and he must be wonderfully altered. Sometimes I think of all the days that have gone by since we parted. It seems so strange to think of our lives being able to go on, when once it seemed to both of us that life could not go on at all if we were not together. It seems so strange to think of him eating his lunch somewhere at the same time that somewhere else I am eating my lunch. Who knows if he ever thinks of me, who knows indeed?"