"You'll have to speak to her about it, Mr. Hazlenut."
Birdwood had never learned to give Guy his proper name, and there had been many jokes between him and Pauline about this and many vows by Guy that one day he would address the gardener as Birdseed. How far away such foolish little jokes were seeming now.
"It's been a tiring Spring," said Guy. "The East wind...."
"Her cheeks isn't nothing like so rosy as they was," said the gardener. "You'll excuse the liberty I'm taking in mentioning them, but having known Miss Pauline since she couldn't walk ... why I happen to mention it is that there was a certain somebody up in the town who passed the remark to me and, I having to give him a piece of my mind pretty sharp on account of him talking so free, it sort of stuck in my memory and ... you don't think she's middling?"
"Oh, no, I think she's quite well," said Guy.
"Well, as long as you aren't worrited, I don't suppose I've got any call to be worrited; only anyone can't help it a bit when they see witches' cheeks on a young lady. She certainly does look middling, but maybe, as you say, it is this unnatural East wind."
Birdwood touched his cap and retired, but his words had struck at Guy remorsefully while he walked away to a corner of the orchard, reading Pauline's letter. The starlings were piping a sweet monotony of Spring, and daffodils, that he and she had planted last Summer when they came back from Ladingford, haunted his path.
My darling,
Why haven't you been to see me this morning? Why weren't you in the orchard? I stayed such a long while in the churchyard, but you never came. If I said anything yesterday that hurt your feelings, forgive me. You mustn't think that I was angry with you because perhaps I spoke angrily. Darling, darling Guy, I adore you so, and nothing else but you matters to my happiness. I should not have spoken about religion—I don't know how we came to argue about it. It was unkind of me to be depressed and sad when my dearest was sad. Truly, truly I am so anxious about your poems only because I want you to be happy. Sometimes I must seem selfish, but you know that before anything it is your work I think of. I'm not really a bit worried about our being married. I have these fits of depression which are really very wrong. I'm not worried about anything really, only I had a dream about you last month which frightened me. Oh, Guy, come this afternoon and tell me you're not angry. I promise you that I won't make you miserable with my stupid depression. Guy, if I could only tell you how I love you. If you only knew how never, never for an instant do I care for anything but your happiness. You don't really want me to give up believing in anything do you? It doesn't really make you angry, does it? Come and tell me this afternoon that you've forgiven
Your
Pauline.