Miss Primrose

"I'm very much in ignorance about my father's friend. I fancy she is elderly—and plain."

"Ah!" with slow emphasis. "But 'my' Miss Primrose is young and beautiful."

"Really beautiful?"

"That is a term used in various senses. Perhaps you would call her 'lovely.'"

Pauline had a sense of dismay, a sense also that she did not greatly care to make the acquaintance of Mr. Rudge's Miss Primrose. The train came in before she had decided what to say next. The possessive sound of that "'My' Miss Primrose" sent an unpleasant shock through her.

"Which class?" asked Rudge.

Pauline was in a dream, actually forgetting to take her seat.

"Oh—third, please," she said.

Rudge found an empty compartment, and placed her therein, stowing away her belongings.

"Box in luggage-van ahead," he remarked. "You will be off directly. No long waiting here."

"She cannot be the same," murmured Pauline.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean—'your' Miss Primrose. She can't be my father's old friend."

"Hard to reconcile the two descriptions, certainly. But different people see with different eyes."

"I hope Nessie will not forget to order dinner to-morrow."

"That is a catastrophe not likely to occur often. The consequences are too disastrous."

The whistle sounded, and Pauline put out her hand, not with her usual confidence.

"T wish it were over! I wish I were back!" she said.

A guard came along, slamming open doors.

"Stand back, sir," he said, and passed on.

Rudge did not stand back. He bent towards Pauline, keeping her hand for one moment. "Don't be afraid," he said. "You are doing what is right. It will all turn out well. Keep up a brave heart, and—God bless you! God 'will' bless you."

Then the train was off, leaving him behind. But the warmth of those parting words remained with Pauline, and she was strongly stirred. The two little closing sentences had for her all the force of a prayer, followed by a promise.

"It will turn out well," she repeated. "I shall be helped. It is right to go. I am sure it is right."

Then she settled down, and knitted herself into her usual staid condition of mind.

CHAPTER X.

A QUESTION OF AGES.

PADDINGTON STATION at last, after changes and waitings diverse. Pauline secured a porter, and went with him after her trunk—in a hurry, of course, though no special cause for hurry existed. Everybody is in a hurry on arrival at a station, and Pauline proved no exception to the rule. When her trunk had been extracted from the piles of luggage, she saw a young footman stroll up and take a negligent glance at the name upon it. Then he followed it and the porter to where Pauline stood.

"For Miss Primrose?" he asked.

"Yes," Pauline answered.

"This way, if you please. The brougham is waiting."

Pauline's previous imaginings had somehow failed to include brougham or footman. She had looked upon the rattling London cab as inevitable.

"But this is much more comfortable," she told herself when off.

Within a reasonable time the brougham stopped at a good-sized solid house, tall in proportion to its breadth, after the wont of town buildings. A balcony well filled with flowers caught Pauline's glance. That did not look like lodgings. Had Miss Primrose a town house, as well as a country house?

"Miss Primrose was out—unavoidably," the footman said, as Pauline entered. "She would be in presently. Would Miss Ogilvie like to go to her own room?"

Miss Ogilvie did like, and a maid was summoned to escort her thither. Plainly this was the best guest-chamber, handsomely furnished, with a bow-window.

"I don't feel yet as if I was acting 'humble companion,'" Pauline said aloud. "But that has to come. I'm only on inspection now."

She had time to unpack and put away her belongings, in the midst of which operation a maid appeared to offer assistance. Pauline, being of an independent temperament, declined, and the maid vanished. Nobody else came. A clock struck five, and Pauline's inner woman was proclaiming the need for afternoon tea.

"I think I'll go downstairs," she said.

She met no living creature by the way, and the drawing-room was deserted still. Tea stood upon a basket-table, ready for use.

"I wish somebody would appear," murmured Pauline, who was addicted to audible soliloquies when alone. "I'm desperately hungry . . . I wonder if I might venture to steal a biscuit! Is it allowable? No, I'm afraid not. Miss Primrose is a stranger to me."

Pauline roved round the room, looking at photographs and ornaments.

"That's a nice likeness of an old lady. Miss Primrose herself, most likely. She looks tolerably agreeable. Well, I suppose the next stage of affairs will be that I shall pick up stitches in her knitting. If that is the hardest part of my duties, I shall not need to complain . . . Dear me, I should be glad of a cup of tea. I wish I might help myself."

"Why don't you?" asked a soft voice, and a girl came forward from the further door, which Pauline had scarcely noticed.

She was quite a girl, younger than Pauline, with laughing eyes, and little curls and waves of brown hair above a small oval face, whose bright bloom contrasted with unusual fairness. A very, very pretty creature, Pauline saw at a glance—of medium height, beautifully proportioned, and full of grace. Could this possibly be Miss Primrose? Pauline stood more upright than usual, unconsciously tilting her nose.

"Is Miss Primrose at home yet? I have come—she sent for me to see if I should do as a companion." Pauline was determined to begin on no false pretences. "I think the servants have made a mistake, and put me into the wrong room."

"O no, it is all right. That is our spare room," said the girl. "My aunt is not able to come down, I am sorry to say."

"Your aunt, Miss Primrose?" Then this was a niece, a guest.

"May I give you some tea? I am afraid you are hungry?" with a slight flash of fun.

"Did you hear me? It is so stupid. I always talk aloud when I am alone. Were you there long?"

"At the door? Only a few seconds. It was so charming, I couldn't resolve to come forward directly. Pray sit down."

Pauline obeyed, and the pretty creature proceeded to pull off a handsome cosy.

"Some cream? Some sugar?" she asked. "Do help yourself to bread-and-butter. You must be half starved. Such a shame that you have had to wait!"

"Are you Miss Primrose's niece?" asked Pauline presently.

"No, my aunt is Mrs. Palmer. I live with her, but my own name is Primrose."

"You are not Miss Primrose?" uttered Pauline.

"Strangers generally call me so. My home-name is Viola."

Pauline gave a startled look over her tea-cup, her worst fears realised. "My Miss Primrose is young and beautiful," Mr. Rudge had said. Then this "was" Mr. Rudge's Miss Primrose—this charming girl, who might be called either beautiful or lovely according to taste. Talk of Nessie's prettiness! The limp and listless attractions of Nessie faded into nothingness beside the glow and sparkle of—Miss Primrose.

"Did you expect me to be different?" asked the girl.

Pauline murmured some incoherent words, then rallied her scattered forces.

"But there is some mistake. There must be some mistake. You cannot be the real Miss Primrose—my father's old friend?"

"Are you sure?"—as soberly as a judge. "Did he ever tell you the age of his friend?"

Pauline could not say that he had exactly. She only knew—yes, certainly she knew—that her father had been acquainted with Miss Primrose more than twenty-five years before—in her own babyhood, in fact. And she stated as much, confusedly.

"Ah, yes. It will all fit in soon," said Miss Primrose gently. "It's wonderful how things fit in, when one knows all about them, however puzzling they seemed before. But sometimes the ins and outs take a little time to master—like the details of a new science, you know. We'll go into the question more closely some day soon, when we know one another. That is the first thing. You are going to be my companion, and I'm going to learn all I can about you."

"Then—am I to be your companion? Not your aunt's?"

"Why, yes! My aunt has her nurse; and I've nobody to go about with, in London. People say I ought not to go about alone. When I'm married, it won't matter, of course," with a smile.

So she was engaged to be married!

"Then was it you, or was it your aunt, who wrote the card to my father?"

"Auntie dictated, and I wrote."

"But—his letter was not to you?"

"You want to grasp everything at once. And I would rather you should not," declared Miss Primrose, sweetly. "Isn't it good for us sometimes not to understand? We're a little apt to get conceited, you know, and to think too much of our own powers." This was in a tone of soft moralising. "Will you have some more tea? No! Then would you like to rest?"

"I must write home," said Pauline.

"You will find paper and stamps at the side table here. Perhaps it would be as well not to puzzle your father with the question of ages till you understand them better. But do just as you like. I want you to feel at home. Tell him, at all events, that I will do my best to give you a pleasant month in town."

"That is all very well. But what are to be my duties?" asked Pauline.

CHAPTER XI.

MR. OGILVIE'S OLD FRIEND.

PAULINE'S question was left unanswered for the moment, and she decided not to push it that day. Better to wait and see what was expected of her.

Seemingly she was expected to be agreeable, and to have an unfailing fund of conversation at command. Miss Primrose talked all dinner-time, and nearly all the evening, never oppressively, always charmingly. Pauline was not gifted in the conversational line, but she felt that the best part of her was being drawn out by this sparkling creature. It was impossible not to be at ease, impossible not to converse.

If she were indeed Mr. Rudge's Miss Primrose—but that was the question. Pauline tried to find out, and failed. Three times she led the talk to Mr. Rudge; and three times Miss Primrose led it away before her end was attained. What could Pauline do but submit?

Certain particulars slipped out in the course of conversation. It became evident that Miss Primrose was an orphan, and had lived, at least for some little time, with her aunt. Conditions not unlike those of Mr. Fudge, Pauline remembered. It was also apparent that either she or her aunt was extremely well off, that they spent part of the year in this town house, and a larger part in their country house.

"We ought to be there now," Miss Primrose said, "but auntie's illness has made the journey impossible just yet."

Though Miss Primrose revealed little to Pauline, Pauline revealed much to Miss Primrose. She had not often so sympathetic a listener. She told about her own home occupations, about her father's losses, about Nessie's return from school, and about the need to find "something to do" for herself, as a means of keeping the other two afloat.

"And now you have found it," said Miss Primrose.

"I don't see what I have to do yet."

Miss Primrose left the room and returned with a confused tangle of grey knitting. "I wonder if you could possibly manage to put this right," she said. "It is past my powers. For the 'old lady,' you know."

"I don't think you will forget my talking aloud," said Pauline, half vexed.

"Do you mind? Then I will not speak of it again!"

And Pauline was ashamed of her own vexation. "Could I not help you with your aunt?" she asked. "I mean—help to amuse her, or read aloud?"

"She has not seen anyone yet since her attack, and a stranger's face too soon might flurry her, but she talks of a visit from you soon."

Pauline was fain to accept the state of things, and to go on, not understanding. Despite some confusion of ideas, she passed a pleasant evening. And it would have been more than pleasant, really delightful, but for a haunting dread about "Mr. Rudge's Miss Primrose." For if this were she, then indeed Pauline's hopes sank far below zero. How could any man be expected to turn from such a Miss Primrose to look at her ordinary little self.

She lay long awake at night, and came down in the morning resolved to find out more. But the resolve was baffled, Pauline could not tell how. And when another night came, she was still perplexed.

A week passed thus, agreeably enough, but mysteriously. Pauline had determined to submit, and to await Miss Primrose's pleasure. Meantime she was very comfortable, treated not as a "humble companion," but as an honoured guest, taken hither and thither to London sights, pictures, music, and aught else that she liked. Pauline wondered at herself sometimes for not being more "spoilt" by all this ease and enjoyment, but she took the whole soberly. Her heart was at Singleton, and the craving to return was sometimes unendurable.

"I don't know what to say to my father," she broke out at length one day, a full week after she had come.

The morning had been spent in work and reading; the afternoon in a gallery of pictures and Park crowds. Now she was endeavouring, before dinner, to answer home letters, and she found herself in difficulties.

"Can I help you?" asked Miss Primrose.

"I suppose you could, but I don't mean to bother you with questions, if it is too soon."

"Ask any questions you like. You really have been a model of patience."

"It is about Miss Primrose—not you, but my father's friend. He and Nessie say I tell them nothing, and they want to know more about her. Am I to say that I have not even seen her, and don't know whether she exists—that it is all a mistake, in fact?"

"I don't think you need be quite so sweeping. What do you mean by—'it all'?"

"I mean that you, of course, are not the Miss Primrose he knew twenty-seven years ago."

"I'm afraid—hardly—since I'm only twenty-five years old."

"You don't look so much."

"No? But my name really is Viola Primrose."

"Some relation, of course. The question is, What has become of my father's Miss Primrose? I believe you know."

"And if I do?"

"Hasn't the time come for me to understand?"

"Perhaps it has. The other Miss Primrose is upstairs—my old aunt. So you are right about the relationship."

"But you said her name—"

"Is Mrs. Palmer. She married Captain Palmer two years ago, and lost her husband in three months. It was just a little interlude in a life of old-maidhood."

"And my father never heard it?"

"I suppose not. I don't know why he should. There has not been much intercourse; and one may so easily pass over the newspaper notice."

"Did Miss Primrose—I mean Mrs. Palmer—ever talk to you of having known my father?"

CHAPTER XII.

THE REAL MISS PRIMROSE.

PAULINE'S question, "Did Miss Primrose—I mean Mrs. Palmer—ever talk to you of having known my father?" brought the rejoinder—

"I have heard his name—and a little about him—lately."

Pauline sat thinking, and then with some abruptness put another query: "Do you know Mr. Rudge?"

"I have known him all my life,"—her colour deepening suspiciously.

"When he spoke of you as 'his Miss Primrose,'—I mean when he spoke of somebody—he meant you, of course."

"Very cool of him!" murmured Miss Primrose, her cheeks like two roses. "Did he say that—to you?"

"Yes. I told him that my father's Miss Primrose must be elderly and plain. And he said, '"My" Miss Primrose is young and beautiful!'"

"I'm very much obliged to him! Now we have settled all that—haven't we?—and you have asked no end of questions. Our next move is to go upstairs. I'll show you the real Miss Primrose of your father's youthful days. Come."

"Is she well enough?"

"Yes—I meant to take you in to-morrow at the latest."

Pauline followed the light steps of Viola Primrose into a bedroom, where sat an invalid lady, well bolstered up with pillows. She was in appearance older than Mr. Ogilvie, and markedly plain, with large features, including a big crooked nose and prominent teeth. Undoubtedly, Miss Primrose Senior could never have been beautiful. The grey knitting in her hands was familiar to Pauline's eyes, since every day she had disentangled the chaos of dropped stitches, pulling out all that Mrs. Palmer did, and replacing the same with fresh work.

Viola went forward, and kissed the invalid's faded cheek. "Auntie, here we are," she said. "This is my new friend, Pauline Ogilvie. Daughter of your old friend, Mr. Ogilvie."

Mrs. Palmer smiled somewhat vaguely, and held out a hand. "How do you do?" she said. "I am glad to see you. Is this the young lady who puts my work to rights? She is cleverer than you, Viola, and much cleverer than nurse. Nurse is very stupid about my knitting. Has she gone downstairs, by-the-by?—ah, that is right! Miss Pauline Ogilvie, you say? Dear me, yes, I remember her father—years and years and years ago."

"You and he were great friends, were you not?" said Viola, motioning Pauline to a seat.

"Why, yes—we were engaged." So Nessie's surmise had been right. "A foolish affair, no doubt,—very foolish! I was older than he; eight years older. That doesn't do at all, and I ought to have known better. He was caught by a pretty face before we married, and broke it off. I don't think he could help himself."

"He ought to have helped himself," Pauline said, with severity.

"Ah, but I doubt if he could, my dear. He was always rather a weak sort of nature, you know. I'm sure he was very sorry, and he would have married me still if I had been willing. Let me see, the girl's name was—oh, Pauline, of course. But you are not like her—not in the least. She was fair and nice-looking. Poor Pauline! Oh, I didn't bear her any grudge, my dear. It was so natural. I never was handsome, and men think everything of that."

"Now, auntie!" protested Viola.

"It's true, my dear, as you'll find. You will never be at a loss for husbands," said Mrs. Palmer, with a fond glance.

Viola echoed the plural noun under her breath.

"But it was quite natural that he should get tired of me. I told him so, and I made him promise, if he should be in any trouble, to let me know, and I would help him if I could—just to show I didn't bear any grudge, you know. When he wrote the other day, he reminded me of that promise. I'm afraid I had pretty nearly forgotten it, but I was glad enough to be reminded."

Evidently the romance of the old love-story had long since died out. Mrs. Palmer was more interested in her grey stocking than in the fortunes of her quondam fiancé, though kindly pleased to help him if she could. She paused at intervals to count her rows, and she drew her brows together more seriously over a dropped stitch than over her long past disappointment. A thousand interests lay between those days and these. Pauline wondered whether, a quarter of a century later, she would be able to look back with equal composure to the Mr. Rudge of her youth.

"When you write to your father, you must be sure to give him my very kind recollections. Or—yes, Viola will tell you what to say. I get a little confused, and Viola manages everything. My dear, how many rows ought I to make here?"

"May I show you?" asked Pauline, moving nearer.

Upon which Viola smiled, and went away.

"It was very good of you to send for me," she said, when the work was proceeding.

"Viola settled it, my dear; Viola does everything. I don't know, I am sure, how I shall manage when she is married."

"Is that likely to be soon?"

"As soon as things can be arranged. She would not leave me before, but that cannot go on, of course. I will not have her sacrificed for me—it would not be fair. A useless old woman!"

"Miss Primrose would not agree with you, I am sure."

"Viola is the sweetest girl that ever lived. But of course she must think of Mr. Rudge."

No one could have told from Pauline's face the utter sinking of her heart. Then—it was true!

"Yes," was all she said.

"It wouldn't be fair to him to go on putting off. If I could persuade him to live with me, then it would be all right. But he's an odd sort of man, and he doesn't seem to fancy it. Mind you don't say a word of this to Viola. I wouldn't have her worried."

"You will have to find a companion to take her place," said Pauline, with a kind of dead calm.

"Yes, that's what Leonard Rudge says. But I don't see it at all. I never got on with strangers in any comfort."

"Now, I think your knitting will go beautifully," said Pauline, standing up. "I mustn't stay too long, or you will be tired, but I can help you again—any time."

She went quietly away to her own room, locked the door, and stood looking out upon the street: not a beautiful and interesting heroine in distress, but a matter-of-fact little being, resolute and brave in heart.

"So now I know," she said aloud. "Now I understand. Now there can be no mistake. Leonard Rudge! The full name. And he is engaged to Miss Primrose! Well, it isn't surprising. She is sweet enough for anything, and I will not let myself love her less because she is to be so happy. I don't quite see why—why he was so kind—so good to me!" A lump rose in Pauline's throat, and two or three big tears struggled out. "But after all, it was only kindness, only politeness. I never had any real reason to think more—only my own foolish fancies. I understand now. He liked my father, and he thought I might do as a companion for Mrs. Palmer when—when he should marry Viola. So natural! I look like the 'humble companion'—that exactly. I've got to the bottom of things now. And he just stayed on at Singleton to study me as his old aunt's future companion. Odd, that 'she' should be my father's old friend all the time. I don't mean to ask any more questions now of any kind. I've been a goose, and nobody shall find it out."

CHAPTER XIII.

DULL LETTERS.

   "YOU certainly do manage to send most dreadfully dull letters," complained Nessie, by post a fortnight later. "Anybody else spending a month in London would have no end of things to tell, but you give us nothing except a dry list of the places you go to—park, picture-gallery, museum; museum, picture-gallery, park—that's about all. And I believe it is pretty much the same to you whether you go out or stay in, and whether you look at pictures or pull out the old lady's knitting.

   "Mrs. Palmer must be a most prosy individual. And as for Miss Viola Primrose, I don't suppose I should think her so desperately pretty. You are always admiring some hideous person. I believe you thought Mr. Rudge handsome, and he is as ugly a man as one can come across.

   "So he is engaged to Viola Primrose. I wish them joy, each of the other. He may be getting a pretty wife, but she won't be getting a handsome husband. Daddy and I did laugh over your prosaic way of stating the fact, just as if you had been expecting it all along. You needn't have made such a fuss, begging and imploring us not to repeat it. Who is there to repeat it to? I'm not likely to go to Mr. Rudge and say:

   "'Pauline says you're engaged to Miss Primrose.'

   "Besides, I couldn't if I wished, for he has vanished. Gone home, I believe. He is coming back, I suppose, some time, for he has the rooms overhead still, and he has left a lot of things littered about, so the landlady says. But she doesn't know when he will come, and I am sure it doesn't matter. I can't think, for my part, why he stays at Singleton at all. He ought to be where Viola Primrose is; 'I' shouldn't like it if I were she.

   "When are you coming back? Father says he can't settle any plans till you do, and it is over three weeks since you went. Is Mrs. Palmer paying you anything? It seems to me that you are just amusing yourself. Do pray, write and say something. Singleton in horribly dull, and my father's clothes are all going into holes, and the weekly bills are higher than when you were with us. I can't help it. I don't know how to manage differently. So make haste and come; there's a dear.

"Your affectionate sister,

"NESSIE."

Pauline pondered long over her answer to this letter. She had felt herself impelled to mention Rudge's engagement to Viola, fearing lest Nessie's fancy might be captivated. And she had done so in the briefest and driest mode, requesting that the news might not be repeated. Nessie's answer was satisfactory as regarded that particular item of information, though not satisfactory in other respects. It spoke too plainly of the younger girl's indolent and self-gratifying habit of mind. After much consideration, Pauline wrote as follows:—

   "DEAR NESSIE,

   "I am sorry my letters are so uninteresting, but you know I never was good at description. Yes, I have been more than three weeks away now, and I began to wonder what I was expected to do, as nobody said anything. But yesterday evening—before your letter came—Mrs. Palmer gave me a ten-pound note, which she said I was to do what I liked with. I suppose she meant it as a sort of payment. So now we can pay off a few bills.

   "Mrs. Palmer is so much better that she talks of going into the country next week. Have I told you that her country house is at Wokingholme? That explains about Mr. Rudge and Miss Primrose—I mean, it would explain, if I didn't know now all about things. Mrs. Palmer and Miss Primrose live only about two miles off from Mr. Rudge, which isn't much. And years ago, when Miss Primrose wasn't an orphan, Mrs. Palmer lived with Mr. Rudge—only 'she' was 'Miss Primrose' then.

   "I am afraid you will say that all this is confused. However, Wokingholme is only a few stations from Singleton, so on Monday we are all going to Singleton for two or three nights. I shall come home, but, I am afraid, not to stay. Mrs. Palmer is very anxious to take me home with her. I suppose the idea is that I am to be her permanent companion when Viola Primrose marries. She says I suit her so well. It isn't what I should choose, for many reasons, but one cannot always do exactly what one would choose."

Little dreamt Nessie, when reading these simple words, of the pain that lay behind them, of how Pauline's whole being cried out against the prospect of a home so near that of Leonard Rudge, when he should be married to another. Yet, if it were her duty—!

   "One cannot always do exactly what one would choose," wrote Pauline bravely: "though I do assure you, Nessie, I would much rather be at home with you and my father. It is quite as hard for me as it is for you. But I am sure these things are arranged for us, and if it is right—I don't mean to preach, but you know what I mean. One has to be willing to do what is right, even against one's own will, if one is to be worth anything in life. Sometimes I suppose one is glad, later on. Dear Nessie, I do want you to try to be courageous, and to take care of my father, and to make things comfortable for him. It does need trying, but I am sure you can learn. Anybody can; it only needs willingness. The beginning is always a little hard. You see, we can't possibly live all together on our present income; and I don't think you would like to go out; so I must.

   "Mrs. Palmer and Miss Primrose want to talk things over, I believe, with my father, but they don't say much. I asked if you should find lodgings, but they say a friend will be there on Monday to look out for them. I fancy they mean Mr. Rudge.

   "Now you must forgive me for writing so plainly; and believe me,

"Your affectionate sister,

"PAULINE OGILVIE."

CHAPTER XIV.

STILL AMONG PERPLEXITIES.

HOME once more! Pauline felt as if she had been away from Singleton for months. If only she could banish "him" from her thoughts, she might reconcile herself to the life of a companion. But how could this be? Mr. Rudge seemed to meet her at every turn. Of course it must be Viola that attracted him. Why else should he come down and find lodgings for Mrs. Palmer? But how could she bear to live near him? The thought stuck in her throat, and try as she would, even money matters scarcely interested her.

"I am so thankful that we can meet some of our liabilities," said Pauline, with an effort, as she sat with her sister on the evening of her return home. "Father thinks everything will turn out right in the end, and it is so difficult to make him take definite action. Even now he hesitates which bills should be paid, and ten pounds is so little."

"Oh, leave money matters to-night, Pauline. The Primroses and Mr. Rudge are only here for a few days; let's have some enjoyment. The monotony of this place fairly killed me while you were away."

"If only we could get free and live within our means, there would be no need—" Pauline stopped. "I mean we must think and plan to be economical. There's the money we have in hand. It might be good enough to balance some difficulties." Then she thought again of Mr. Rudge. "We shall see," she said slowly. "Wait till to-morrow."

"So that girl who looked out of the carriage window was Miss Primrose?"

"Yes."

"She's pretty, I suppose. But I don't care for dark women. I like dark men and fair women."

"She is lovely—much more than merely pretty."

"Well, Mr. Rudge seemed to think so, by the way he went off with her. He has been careering over the whole place to-day looking for rooms. I suppose he has found them. Singleton is empty enough. We shall see nothing of him now Miss Primrose is here, of course."

"Yes, we are to have an excursion to-morrow—all of us together—to a cove two miles off. Cowe's Cove, I think it is called. Father and you and I, and Miss Primrose and Mr. Rudge. If Mrs. Palmer is well enough, she will have a fly, and drive anybody there who doesn't care for the walk."

"I don't mind that. We haven't had anything in the shape of a picnic for ages. Are we to have tea on the shore?"

"No; lunch. A boy and donkey will take the provisions. I told them you and I could manage the walk, but not father, perhaps."

*******

The proposed excursion came off, as it was likely to do if set going by Viola Primrose, weather proving propitious.

After much cogitation it was decided that Mr. Ogilvie, Mr. Rudge, and the three young ladies, should all walk to the Cove. And that Mrs. Palmer should drive to the spot after lunch, ready to give a homeward lift to any who were unequal to further exertion. Mr. Ogilvie showed an unlooked-for readiness to exert himself, and Nessie did not mind fatigue when it became a question of amusement.

For awhile they walked all five abreast, holding general conversation. When the nature of the path rendered this impossible, Pauline did her best to slip behind with her father and Nessie, but she was not allowed. Viola seemed to her most unselfish, Rudge most polite, and somehow—she hardly knew how—she herself was soberly walking with Rudge, while Viola followed with Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie. Pauline felt the state of things to be wrong, and the pleasure was a painful one. She grew absent and sad under the struggle, asking herself again and again whether it would not be needful and right to sever utterly all connection with him, till she should have mastered her heart.

"I'm afraid it has been rather too far for you," Rudge said in a concerned tone, when they had scrambled down a rough path into the pretty cove, where the sandstone cliffs hung over, and the waves played soft music. "You must sit on the shingle, and keep quiet for awhile. The rest of us will see to lunch. What! Miss Nessie fatigued too!"—as Nessie, with an injured air, dropped to the ground. "Then Viola and I will undertake it."

Pauline protested, and was ordered to keep still. While Nessie, finding it dull to be left with a silent sister, thought better of her condition, and joined the others.

It would have been hard for Pauline to say whether she was actually tired, bodily tired, or not. She only knew that she had to submit for the moment, and that everything was very perplexing. The fascination of Leonard Rudge's presence was so complete that it was joy to be cared for by him. And yet she felt that, if she had been Viola, she could not have approved such a manner to another. She could not understand Viola's perfect ease and gaiety. Something was wrong somewhere: but Pauline could not endure to say, even to herself, that Rudge was wrong.

The bitter sweetness of the day was getting to be too much for her; and the bitterness was fast overmastering the sweet. Seated there alone, under the overhanging cliff, she came to one clear conviction. Whatever else might be involved, she could not go to live with Mrs. Palmer. It would not be right. She had to conquer this unbidden love; and to place herself within easy reach of Rudge was not the way to conquer.

"Any place rather than Wokingholme for me," she told herself firmly.

A spot was fixed upon, not far from the cliffs, and lunch was spread. Pauline presently joined the merry group, protesting that she was quite well and not tired, though Viola accused her of being pale still. She did her best to laugh and talk like the rest.

The "bill of fare" included sandwiches and meat-patties, rolls and butter, tartlets, cakes and lemonade,—enough to satisfy even appetites sharpened by a long walk in sea-air.

Pauline alone dallied with her food, and disposed of little.

"Try something else. That doesn't suit, evidently," Rudge said, smiling, and offering a meat-patty.

"Oh, it is as nice as possible. I only forgot," Pauline answered, with a blush. "I'm eating—any amount."

"Pauline always has such a good appetite," said Nessie complacently.

Lunch over, plates and knives were packed in baskets, to be once more consigned to the donkey-boy.

The last basket was the heaviest, and Rudge helped the boy to carry it up the steep path. Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie had strolled to the water's edge at some little distance, perhaps to escape the trouble of packing. Viola and Pauline stood where the lunch-cloth had lain, near but not close together, watching the ascent of the basket. Having deposited it on the top, Rudge turned, and came down swiftly.

"What an active man he is!" Viola remarked, smiling.

Pauline only said, "Yes."

"I've known him all my life, you know—not merely as a cousin, but more as a brother, and he has always been the same. Always ready to do any kindness for anybody. Everybody likes Leonard."

"You do, of course," thought Pauline.

"I wonder if you will think his brother at all like him."

Pauline was by this time aware that a younger brother did exist. She could not but be aware of the fact, since she had seen at least a dozen photographs of him, and since Viola was always talking of "Percy." Viola spoke of "Percy" much oftener than of "Leonard," and this seemed to Pauline quite natural. It was not Pauline's way to talk most of the things or people she most cared for.

"Are they alike?" she asked. Hitherto she had rigidly adhered to her resolution to ask no needless questions about Rudge or his belongings.

"Some say yes: some say no. I see a likeness. Pauline, when I am married—"

Pauline unconsciously drew a pace or two farther away.

"Are you in a hurry to go? I wanted particularly to say something to you, about—"

A shout from Rudge interrupted them, a sharp loud cry, as of warning. He was descending the path, when he stopped to utter this shout, throwing up his arms with a wild gesticulation.

"What can he mean?" exclaimed Viola, turning to look in his direction.

Pauline saw all. A large block of stone was in the act of detaching itself—in the act of falling towards them. So far as could be judged in one instantaneous glance, Viola, standing between Pauline and the distant Leonard Rudge, standing with her back to Pauline and her face to Mr. Rudge, was exactly in the line of its descent. While Pauline's last move, a little to the left, had placed her nearly, if not quite, out of that line. A further retreat in the same direction would ensure safety to Pauline. But Viola!

It might seem that there was no time for Pauline to think, yet in a time of emergency thought is wonderfully rapid. Pauline was quite collected, and in that fraction of a second she knew that if she fled away from Viola to the left, she would escape. But if she crossed the path of the coming danger, she and Viola might both escape. True, in the latter case, both might be struck down, yet it was only a might be. In the former case her own safety was not more assured than Viola's injury. For Viola did not understand the peril. She stood with her back to Pauline, gazing with innocent surprise at Rudge. If Pauline fled the opposite way, there was no possibility of making her understand.

All this came to Pauline in one flash. Words were not formed in her mind, but resolution was co-incident with action. She saw, felt, and did, in the same moment—the same part of a moment. Succession of ideas no doubt there was, but a mental microscope would have been needed to make the succession apparent even to her own mental vision.

"Run! Run!" she shrieked, as she sprang towards Viola, and Viola fled in advance of her, terrified at she knew not what.

The block fell, and was shattered into fragments, which bounded seaward. Viola escaped unhurt, but a large lump flung Pauline to the ground.

CHAPTER XV.

"MR. AND MRS. RUDGE."

"PAULINE—my dearest!"

It was like a dream to Pauline. She came to herself quickly, conscious of pain somewhere, but not yet able to localise it. Distant cries in Nessie's voice reached her first; then a sob close at hand; then a deep masculine utterance of wonderful words—"My dearest!" And she opened her eyes to see the ruddy face she so well knew bending over her, almost colourless.

"You are not hurt! Tell me," he implored hoarsely.

"It's nothing. I'll get up," said Pauline, and she actually pulled herself to a sitting posture. There she had to pause and lean against Viola, very white. "I'm a little—stunned, I think." she murmured. "Is nobody else hurt?"

"Nobody else,—you dear, brave girl," said Viola. "Nessie is only frightened. She won't come near, or let your father come."

"And Viola is safe!" Pauline looked at Rudge, smiling her congratulation. "I've saved her—for you!" she said. Then remembrance came of those words, "Pauline—my dearest!" And a sharp pain darted somewhere,—she had to pause and think where. "My—arm, I believe," she said.

"Only the arm,—nothing worse?"

Viola was feeling the arm gently. "Not broken, I hope," she said. "But what are we to do? The carriage will come directly. We must get her up the cliff, and take her home. She cannot walk, Leonard."

"O yes, I can!" and "Certainly not!" came together.

"Why, Pauline, my dear,—how is this?" demanded the uncertain tones of Mr. Ogilvie, coming near. "Not really hurt, I hope? Poor dear! Nessie is so alarmed. Don't you think we ought to get out of the way? A further fall might take place. How did it all happen?"

"It happened that she saved me at risk to herself," Viola said, with full eyes.

"Really!" uttered Mr. Ogilvie incredulously. He was so used to think of Pauline as only a useful mender of stockings, that any touch of the heroic in her life came as a surprise,—hardly even a pleasant surprise, for people do not like to find themselves mistaken in their estimates of others.

"Nothing else could have saved Viola," said Mr. Rudge, hoarse still with strong emotion.

Pauline believed it to be an emotion of thankfulness for Viola's escape, and yet—had she heard those words aright?—And if so, what did they mean?

"Yes, we should get out of the cove as fast as possible," Rudge continued. "I had no idea it was such an unsafe spot. Will you see to your younger daughter, Mr. Ogilvie? I shall carry Pauline—Miss Ogilvie, I mean—up the cliff. She cannot walk: no, certainly not."

Pauline protested, and found her feet slowly, every movement meaning pain to the injured arm. "I would much rather walk," she said. "I am only a little shaken—and bruised, I think."

She might as well have argued with a stone wall. "There is no time to be lost," he said authoritatively. "Another fall of stone may take place at any moment. Viola, get away as fast as possible. Look out and see if the carriage is coming." Then without further ado, he lifted Pauline, as if she had been a feather, and bore her swiftly over the crunching shingle.

Nessie had already reached the foot of the path, which she ascended with Viola; and Mr. Ogilvie followed alone some little way in the rear of Leonard Rudge. Burdened as the latter was, he could not overtake the girls, if indeed he meant to do so. Half-way up he paused, and Pauline said,—"I wish you would let me walk. I would 'much,' rather."

"If it will make you happy. We are out of danger now, and need not hurry."

"Thanks." Pauline was glad to find herself in a normal position. She stood still to smooth her ruffled plumage, and winced.

"Ah, the pain is bad, I'm afraid."

"Yes. I suppose the stone came against that arm."

"No; the stone must have spent most of its force. It merely knocked you down; and you fell upon your arm. You are not fit to walk, Miss Ogilvie—or—" a pause—"will you give me the right to call you 'Pauline?'"

He had a startled look in answer. Pauline's was not usually a very expressive face, but there was no mistaking its expression at that moment.

"Is it too much to ask?" he asked, his face falling. "I have hoped—"

"But—but—Viola!" she said.

"Viola!" He stood still, looking down at Pauline's upturned face. "Is it possible that you—was that what you meant just now? Surely you know that Viola is engaged to my brother Percy!"

A flood of light was poured over Pauline, illuminating her past, her present, her future. Of course! How stupid she had been. Anybody else must have seen and understood. Perplexities fell to the ground.

"No—I had not heard," she said. "At least—I didn't understand. I—I thought—"

"Thought Viola was engaged to me!" in astonished accents.

It was not Pauline's way to cry easily, but between disturbed nerves, pain, and mental agitation, she was on the verge of tears. To escape such a catastrophe, she hurried bluntly into speech, saying the first words which came to mind,—"Oh, but you know—you did call her—'your' Miss Primrose."

"In contradistinction to your father's Miss Primrose. To be sure,—ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Rudge, but the laugh had a forced sound. "Well; and she is mine—my cousin now, my sister to be. What matters that? She could never be anything nearer—even if—"

"Even if—?" repeated Pauline enquiringly.

"Even if I had never met Pauline Ogilvie!"

After that, little more needed to be said, yet the saying of it occupied some time. Never was a cliff more slowly ascended than by those two. Mr. Ogilvie overtook them and passed by unnoticed. Wisely, he made no remarks. Before Leonard Rudge landed Pauline at the summit, he and she were promised, each to the other.

"You dear little goose, not to understand!" Viola exclaimed, when the state of affairs was revealed. "Aunt Viola said she had told you, so of course I didn't explain, and you asked no questions. But I'm sure I must have talked of Percy a hundred times."

"Yes—and hardly ever of—Mr. Rudge," said Pauline. "I thought you were shy."

"Shy! Ah, you don't know me, do you? Pauline, have you really, truly, honestly believed all along that you were destined for my aunt's companion?"

"Honestly," Pauline could aver.

"And you never saw through my little dodges? You never dreamt that I guessed what Leonard was after down here, and that I wanted to see what manner of choice he was making? Dear innocent old boy—he didn't understand, of course? Don't be angry, Pauline, for he is wonderfully innocent—and yet, I must confess, one never is quite sure how far he does see, with those good-humoured eyes. Anyway, he lent himself to my little schemes, and betrayed 'nothing to nobody!' A man can be circumspect when he chooses, there's no doubt—and I don't believe he half knew his own mind, till you were out of reach."

"I don't think I understand yet what made you and Mrs. Palmer send for me."

"I'm not sure that I understand it fully myself," Viola answered merrily. "One does a lot of things from sheer impulse. But anyhow, I'm not sorry."

Nor could Pauline regret it. She was very happy. Things had indeed "turned out well" for her, as foretold by Leonard Rudge a month earlier—"well," not alone actually, but also apparently.

Had she shirked her plain duty, and remained at the seaside to be near Rudge, results might have been different. At that time Leonard Rudge had been, to say the least, uncertain as to his own feelings and desires. Pauline's departure, the manner of their goodbye interview, his sensations of loneliness in a dull watering-place without her, and a succession of enthusiastic letters from warm-hearted Viola, all had had a marked share in bringing him to the point.

Lastly, that point was attained through the accident on the beach, which called out the heroic side of Pauline's nature, and finally revealed to Rudge that he could not be happy without her. True, the same accident entailed on Pauline some weeks of suffering in the twisted arm, but it may well be believed that she would not have given up the joy to escape ten times as much pain.

Before many months had passed, there was a double wedding: Pauline becoming Mrs. Rudge of Wokingholme, Viola becoming Mrs. Percival Rudge. Since a Miss Primrose no longer existed, my story naturally ends here. It may, however, be added that Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie found a home near Mrs. Palmer; that Nessie, under the pressure of necessity, developed certain new and useful qualities, and that she grew in time to be a prime favourite with the old lady, her father's friend, the quondam "Miss Primrose."