The Project Gutenberg eBook of Miss Primrose
Title: Miss Primrose
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: July 19, 2025 [eBook #76528]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd, 1896
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
"Is this the young lady who puts my work to rights?"
Miss Primrose
[and]
[A Strange Will]
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"OLD COMRADES," "WON AT LAST," "LIFE-TANGLES,"
"FLOSS SILVERTHORN," ETC.
NEW EDITION.
John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.
Publishers
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.
CONTENTS.
Miss Primrose.
————————
CHAPTER.
II. HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN
A Strange Will.
————————
CHAPTER.
CHAPTER I.
THEIR POSITION.
"IN our position, Pauline,—"
It was a phrase often in Mr. Ogilvie's mouth. He said the words slowly, as he stood in the window, a tall thin man, narrow-shouldered, with a reedy inclination to stoop, looking this way and that way, manifestly wishing to escape.
"Yes, father," she answered sharply.
Mr. Ogilvie did not finish the sentence. He only hung his head, with its limited brow, its pinched aquiline nose, its weak though kind eyes. The worst feature in the face was his mouth, a loose orifice, the upper lip long, the lower jaw disposed to drop.
Pauline was a contrast to her father. No manner of weakness could be detected in the outlines of her neat trim figure. She made the most of her little height by carrying herself resolutely erect like a dart; and nobody ever saw Pauline lounge. Her nose was as much too short as his was too long, and she bore it through the world in an assertive fashion, sometimes mistaken for conceit, but Pauline was not conceited. She was only keen-eyed, quick-witted, energetic, and somewhat intolerant.
"In our position, my dear,—"
Mr. Ogilvie came to another helpless break. He seemed to be vainly trying to frame an apology for something or somebody.
"Yes. In our position—?" she said, by way of helping him. "Go on, please."
"My dear, you interrupt me. You confuse my ideas. You are too hasty, Pauline, my dear."
Pauline had a neat small button of a mouth; the prettiest feature in a face not otherwise good-looking. She pressed her compact lips together, as if to shut in something which might be said.
They were looking out upon a deserted parade, with a grey sea beyond. The sky above was grey to match; indeed, the match was so perfect that one would have found it difficult to say where the clouds ended and the water began. The whole made one indefinite grey shield, cutting off the horizon. A thick driving rain had fallen continuously for hours, and as yet showed no sign of abatement.
"You were going to say something about 'our position,'" Pauline remarked presently, as no further utterance came from her father. "What was it? Something about 'our position.'"
"My dear, you interrupted me, and drove what I had to say out of my head," Mr. Ogilvie murmured plaintively.
"It is not a very pleasant position, father,—ours."
Mr. Ogilvie cast a longing glance at the parade.
"You promised me to settle something, weeks and weeks ago. Nothing is settled yet. And I have waited patiently enough, I am sure—nobody can say I have not. But patience will not keep us going much longer. Patience will not pay our bills."
"We have to come to a decision, of course. But matters cannot be settled hastily—in our position."
"The most remarkable thing about our position is that we never settle anything."
"You do not understand, Pauline,—of course you do not. Women never do. But pray, don't get excited. It makes me quite nervous when you speak in that tone. There is no hurry."
"Father, shall I show you a list of the bills that are owing?"
"There is no need, I assure you. I am quite content to leave all housekeeping questions in your hands. I have entire trust in your capabilities."
Pauline moved impatiently. "My capabilities don't go to the extent of paying bills out of an empty purse!" she said.
"My dear, I am aware of that. I do not form unreasonable expectations. It is not needful to speak so loud," said Mr. Ogilvie, with a victimised expression.
Pauline dropped her voice several notes. "I have exactly eight shillings in hand."
"Not more? But of course you have managed rightly. Money will be coming in soon."
"About half enough to meet over-due local bills, not to speak of current expenses to come. It is not my fault," she said, looking him straight in the face. "How can I manage differently, when—"
"Well, well; there is no use in talking, Pauline. Manage any way you like, only I really cannot stand this sort of discussion. We must consider what must be done. Of course, it is impossible to go on so. But I cannot decide anything in a hurry. And Nessie will be at home now; we shall not have the pull of Nessie's schooling. That will make a very considerable difference."
He would have moved away, but Pauline held him fast, against his will, with her steady gaze.
"You have not written yet to your friend—what is her name?—The old lady whom you used to know. I have not heard her name."
"I will write—yes—certainly—some day soon."
"Why not to-day—now? I have pen and paper here. Why put off?"
Her impulsive manner grated on Mr. Ogilvie's fastidious languor. He rubbed his narrow forehead slowly, with a purposeless hand.
"My dear, I cannot possibly write at this moment. I must consider what to say—and I have something to do out-of-doors first."
"Always something to do except what needs to be done!"
Pauline emphasized the words by a slight shake of her shoulders.
"Yes, my dear, yes. I'll write, Pauline, I'll write, but pray, don't get so excited. It makes me quite nervous and agitated, dear, when you speak like that—it does indeed."
"You always say you will write, father, and you never do it. Three weeks ago you promised to get the letter off 'to-morrow,' and it was never done. We are just as vague now in our plan as before we came to Singleton; and the little extra money we have had is vanishing fast. We can't go on so. There has been too much delay already. I don't know in the least what claim you have on this particular old lady, nor how she is to help us, but if nothing can be arranged without a letter to her, the letter ought to be written at once."
Mr. Ogilvie began to pull on his gloves.
"You do not really think of going out in such weather?" she protested.
"I must, my dear. There is a—a paper which I must procure—a magazine. The rain is not likely to stop. Probably it will not hurt me. I am not made of salt."
He laughed faintly, not cheerfully, for he was by no means a cheerful man. Since the death of his wife, he had been like ivy bereft of its sustaining oak. Pauline inherited much of her mother's vigour, but she lacked self-control, and her energetic ways worried him, not being softened by sympathy.
"Cannot you put off your walk till to-morrow, and stay in now to write to your old lady? You will come back tired and wet, and another day will be lost. Nessie comes home to-morrow, and I want it done before she arrives."
Mr. Ogilvie's lips moved deprecatingly.
"My dear, I cannot do things in such a hurry. It is not my way. I must have time. Nessie coming home to-morrow! Yes—I forgot—I thought it was the day after."
"But all that you need say will be written in ten minutes. See how the rain is pelting. You can't start yet. Here is your writing-case."
Pauline had a certain power over her father. He sat down at length with a resigned air, pen in hand. Pauline stood near, unconscious how her gaze paralysed his thoughts.
"Can't you begin? 'My dear'— What is her name?"
No answer.
"Is it a secret?"
Mr. Ogilvie traced slowly two words—"My Dear Miss—," and there he stopped.
"Dear Miss what?" Pauline's curiosity was getting the better of her tact. Hitherto she had refrained from direct questions on the subject.
Mr. Ogilvie pushed the paper away. "I cannot do it—I really cannot. I have not made up my mind what to say!"
"Is that so difficult?" Pauline planted her trim little figure exactly opposite to him, with the table between. "It depends on what sort of person she is, I suppose, partly, but after all you have not much choice. We are in money-troubles, and we want help. That is the gist of the matter. You only have to smooth down and round off. If you are so anxious that I should not see you write her name, I will stand in the window with my back turned—though why you should make such a mystery of it all—"
CHAPTER II.
HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN.
"HER name is Primrose," faltered Mr. Ogilvie, like a schoolboy brought to book.
"Primrose! Is that it? Nothing very distinguished, after all. Well, now you can write 'Dear Miss Primrose.' Then you can refer to our troubles—to my mother's death, if she does not know it, and to the loss of our money. Tell her we have been living on in the old house, till we could sell it. I suppose it would be better not to say that we have been recklessly using what was left of our capital, and that it is nearly all gone. You might explain that we have been for six weeks in this poky place, without a notion what brought us here, and that we are at our wits' end what to do next. Then you can ask her whether she could not possibly help you or me to some sort of work just to bring in something extra, if it were only fifty pounds a year. Only do begin, father, one way or another. Tell her frankly how we stand, and ask her advice."
Pauline confused Mr. Ogilvie with her eager and rapid utterances. He listened in a troubled manner, as if vainly trying to fix his thoughts.
"I cannot do it, I really cannot," he said again. "Not at this moment, I mean. My head feels bewildered. You shall tell me by-and-by what to say—only not quite so fast, my dear—and then I shall be able to take it in."
"Mr. Rudge has promised to spend the evening with us."
"Has he? Ah, yes, I remember. But I shall be in long before then. There is plenty of time."
"And you promise to write to Miss Primrose when you come back?"
"I will see about it."
"Father, if you find the letter such a trouble, why should I not write instead? Why not?"
"My dear, it would not do. It would not do at all," Mr. Ogilvie looked fretted. "Pray do not think of such a thing."
"Thinking isn't much use, for I have not her address," Pauline responded. "But I don't see why I should not write. Something ought to be done."
Mr. Ogilvie made his escape at last, Pauline going with him to the front door. When she turned back she was confronted by a young man, a gentleman, who had just come downstairs. He was, perhaps, about thirty, with a fair reddish complexion, and light hair. A certain wishy-washyness which sometimes goes with such colouring was in his case obviated by a broad-chested figure, over medium height, and by darker eyebrows and moustache. The effect was curious, not unpleasant, and he had a particularly genial smile.
"Wet day, Miss Ogilvie."
"Very." Pauline retreated before him into the sitting-room, as if it were a matter of course that he should follow, and follow he did. "I have been trying to persuade my father to stay in, but he won't hear reason."
"Men never do, I believe!"
"Not often," laughed Pauline. She stood by the fireplace in her usual erect attitude, the short nose so lifted as to point slightly upwards. It was an attitude which always gave the impression of a struggle after increased height. Pauline certainly was short, quite under medium height for women. And she looked shorter than usual beside her present companion, who gained extra "bigness" from his large enveloping cloak.
He stood looking down on Pauline with a good-humoured, interested expression. And Pauline gazed up at him with her usual self-assertiveness, into which, however, a tinge of softness had crept.
"Especially when the reason flows from feminine lips!"
"You are making out a bad case for yourselves. A man ought to be willing to hear reason from any and every quarter, if he is such a reasonable animal as he is supposed to be."
"That's rather cutting! You won't exercise your logic to keep me in, I hope, for duty calls me out. I never go against the calls of duty. And you are not my father."
He laughed outright. "No, not quite. Not quite that."
Pauline coloured vividly. "I mean—you are younger. You have not his health. Besides—" after a pause—"I suppose I ought to confess that I was not thinking so much of his health. I wanted him to write a business letter."
"Ah! Horrible things, business letters! By-the-by, did you not say that your sister was coming home this afternoon? I have to go to the station presently. Could I be any help as to meeting her? The weather is so bad—for you, I mean. I would gladly put her into a fly—or—"
"Thanks. We can't afford the luxury of a fly, and Nessie does not arrive till to-morrow."
Pauline spoke the words rather stiffly. She was not anxious to throw Mr. Rudge and Nessie together more than need be. Of course they would and must meet—but still—Well, Nessie was undeniably pretty, and Pauline was not pretty at all. Pauline knew this, and did not mince matters with herself. In a general way she was not jealous. She loved and was proud of Nessie. But still—!
CHAPTER III.
MR. RUDGE.
THE truth was, a new factor had come into Pauline's life,—a new element altogether, in the shape of Leonard Rudge.
Pauline had reached the age of twenty-seven without a love affair. She had always declared stoutly that she did not want to marry, that she did not care for men, that she preferred a single life. This was all very well, so far as it went. Most sensible women do prefer a single life, until they meet with the one individual who alone can make married life preferable. Pauline was so long before she met the said individual, that she had made up her mind he did not exist. Then, suddenly, he appeared.
During six weeks past, she and her father had been in Singleton. Pauline would have found it hard to state why they had first come. After leaving the home of her childhood, she had not greatly cared where they went next, all the world looking equally forlorn. And Singleton had seemed to offer economical advantages—a prime consideration. Mr. Ogilvie suggested the name first, in his hesitating way. He had known the little watering-place in his youth, and he had a wish to see it again. Pauline acquiesced somewhat indifferently. It was not a fashionable watering-place, and what season it possessed was not in May or June. The spot might do as well as any other for a while, till they had formed some more definite plans for their future. Once installed, they stayed on, week after week, and plans remained as indefinite as ever.
Nobody knew exactly how acquaintance began between the Ogilvies and their fellow-lodger. A lifted hat, a kind word, some little help when needed—these were the first stages. And then the acquaintanceship ripened fast. Pauline did not like strangers generally, and she was apt to give them a cold shoulder. She liked Mr. Rudge, however, and she made no objection whatever when her father asked him in to "high tea" and a game of chess. Mr. Ogilvie was a good chess-player, and he found his match in Rudge. Yet chess-playing did not take up all the time. Rudge found leisure for divers little chats with Pauline.
He was a pleasant young man, no doubt, well-informed, frank, and agreeable. Nobody knew anything about his antecedents or his intended future. Nobody knew why he was down here, who were his relatives, or what were his circumstances. When Pauline and her father arrived, Rudge, who arrived a day earlier, had spoken to his landlady about "a fortnight's holiday," but six weeks had flown, and still he remained. He was always meeting the Ogilvies, always making opportunities for intercourse. He seemed to be growing quite fond of the dreamy and incapable elder man. As for Pauline—
That was the question! As for Pauline? He could not be said to definitely seek her; yet he and she had perpetual encounters. His manner might not be that of a lover, but it was that of a cordial friend. There could not be the slightest doubt that he liked Pauline more or less; only the doubt was, how much more, or how much less? There could not be any doubt that he was interested in Pauline; nevertheless, the kind and degree of his interest might be difficult to define.
She was not in the least good-looking, and never had been. Beyond the possession of a trim figure and a neat button-mouth, she could lay no pretensions to personal charms. Men often do fall in love with much plainer women than Pauline, but such women have, also often, the redeeming qualities of lovableness, sweetness, or, at the least, of soft and winning manners.
Pauline's manner was neither soft nor winning. It was downright and dogmatic. Such amount of softness as she could display did come to the surface in Leonard Rudge's presence, but at its best it was not much. Nor could she be called, by any stretch of politeness, a lovable person. She was true and reliable, and practically unselfish, but by no means sweet or lovable. She had many angles, and they were apt to knock against people in her near neighbourhood.
With some women twenty-seven is a very charming age. The freshness of girlhood has lessened, but the more finished and mellowed charms of womanhood have developed. But Pauline had lost her early freshness without gaining any new charms. She was as curt and blunt at twenty-seven as at seventeen.
Despite all this, she exercised to some extent an attractive power over Mr. Rudge. He laughed at her often, yet she interested him, and touched him.
She was so little, and she had so much on her hands. That big limp helpless father, who was good at nothing in the world except chess, leant upon her absolutely. Nothing could be done, nothing could be arranged, without reference to Pauline. And Pauline accepted the burden so uncomplainingly, did everything for him so willingly, acted so careful and motherly a part to the younger sister at school! These things took a certain hold upon Rudge. In his strong manhood, he thought pityingly of one so small, with so much to do.
On the part of Pauline there was no hesitancy, no slowness. Before she had been a fortnight in Singleton, she knew Leonard Rudge to be the one man living who could make life radiant to her. And she imagined—was it surprising?—that she might be the one woman who could perform the same office for him. Why else should he stay on in this dull place, week after week? Why else should he be always trying to see her, always doing little kindnesses? Of course, reasons unknown to her, and apart from herself, might keep him. Of course, many of their meetings were accidental. Many were distinctly initiated by Mr. Ogilvie. And of course little kindnesses are natural to any polite and kindhearted man. Still, the condition of things was not quite ordinary.
An outsider would have found it as difficult to judge from Pauline's manner as from that of Mr. Rudge, exactly how the land lay. She was not demonstrative. Her usual air was self-constrained, not to say prosy. Her eyes were not given to betraying what she felt. An unwonted tinge of softness in her manner might have meant much to one who knew her well, but Rudge, perhaps, did not know her very well. When he was present, the softness came, extending itself to others as well as to himself. And when he was not present—but, of course, Rudge never saw her then, so he could not possibly mark the difference. She had also an odd dry way of veiling her thoughts by talking of Singleton as "a poky place," and wondering how anybody could choose to stay there; all of which meant nothing, though it might well take people in.
CHAPTER IV.
"SOMETHING TO DO."
THE Ogilvies occupied the ground-floor dining-room, and two bedrooms at the top of the house. Rudge had the upstairs drawing-room, and the best bedroom behind it, which looked like a sufficiency of means—as also did the cut of his coat, and the gentlemanly finish of his Gladstone bag, visible on the landing. But Pauline knew nothing about his circumstances, further than she might conjecture from such signs.
When Nessie's name was mentioned, she took a seat, and plunged into the intricacies of a grey stocking, which grew fast under her capable fingers. Rudge stood at the table, big and broad and good-humoured, watching the fingers, as they moved with lightning rapidity. He did not know that this was her excitement vent, but, doubtless, he noticed that the motions of the said fingers were not graceful. They partook of Pauline's general angularity.
"I thought you told me that your little sister would arrive to-day. My mistake, no doubt."
"No, not till to-morrow. One can hardly call her 'little.' She is much taller than I am—only, such a child still."
"How long do the holidays last?"
"They are to be interminable. She will not go back to school."
"Ah—home education."
"I suppose she will read a little. She ought, but girls don't always do what they ought. Seventeen is too young to leave off lessons."
"She is seventeen?"
"Just that—ten days ago."
"Anything I can do for you out-of-doors?"
"Unless you meet my father—"
"And if I do?"
"Send or bring him back to write a business letter."
"I'll remember. Business letters are of importance."
"This one is. If Miss Primrose—"
An odd change passed over her companion's face.
"Yes! If Miss Primrose—?"
"I forgot. He did not seem to like me to know her name, so I ought not to have repeated it. But, after all, I don't see that the thing signifies. A prosaic name enough."
"Flowery, rather. What were you going to say about Miss Primrose?"
"I don't know. My father has talked for weeks of writing to an old friend—"
"An 'old' friend! Yes?"
"Do you know her?" asked Pauline, struck with his stress on the adjective.
"I've seen a lady of that name. I shouldn't have called her old. However—no need to say anything to your father."
"He never told me her name till to-day, and then it came out. He knew her years and years ago, I believe, when he was young, so she can't be very juvenile. It is just a matter of business. I don't know why I should not explain. My father or I must get something to do, to keep us going."
She tilted her nose a little higher than usual, and looked up at him with the grey eyes which rather veiled than expressed her feelings, while the grey stocking grew fast. Meaning enough was expressed in the motions of her fingers could Rudge have read it.
"Something to do!"
"Something or anything. I don't care what. My father would care, I suppose: gentlemen are so particular! I can't break stones on the road, and I couldn't well undertake washing or ironing, but anything within my powers—We lost money lately," she went on. "Most of what we had. That is why we have left our old home. Don't you know so much?"
Rudge had gathered "so much," but he had not gathered that they were in actual difficulties still.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't suppose—"
"My father seems to have known Miss Primrose long ago, but he certainly has not seen her for ages. I don't know why he has never mentioned her name. I don't know why he expects her to help us. But he will come to no decision without writing to her, and he will not write. By 'helping us,' I mean finding us something to do in the way of work. One need never be ashamed to work."
"No, indeed. I should have thought you had enough on your hands already."
"It's always the case of the willing horse, you know."
"I'm afraid that's just it. If I meet your father, I shall be sure to remind him that he is wanted."
Rudge vanished, but apparently he did not meet Mr. Ogilvie.
The latter's return was long delayed. And when at length he appeared, he was far too dripping and miserable for letters.
Pauline urged the necessity in vain.
Mr. Ogilvie changed his wet clothes, made himself comfortable in an easy chair, and declined to exert brain or fingers.
"Quite impossible," he said. "To-morrow would do as well."
Then Rudge came in, according to agreement: and tea and chess had sway. No allusion was made to Miss Primrose. The evening hours passed swiftly to Pauline, in a maze of quiet happiness. Not much conversation took place, but what did it matter? Enough for her to sit at the table, plying her needles, watching the game, stealing glances at the strong broad shoulders and the good-humoured reddish face, which had taken so strong a hold upon her being. An occasional glance in her direction was all she needed.
If only things might go on so, always! But Nessie would come home on the morrow: and that might mean differences.
CHAPTER V.
RAIN! RAIN!
PAULINE stood on the station platform looking out for Nessie's train. Her waterproof cloak was as limp and nearly soaked as a waterproof can be, and her closed umbrella formed a puddle near her feet. A second pelting day had followed the first; and she had walked to the station for economy's sake. Nessie would arrive directly, so no need to remove the draggle-tailed cloak. She gave it a shake, flapped the umbrella, and set herself to renewed waiting.
"Thanks for an artificial shower," a voice said at her side.
Pauline twisted sharply round, chilly and wet no longer in imagination, whatever her outer woman might be. "You here, Mr. Rudge!"
"Seems like it."
"Did I sprinkle you? I thought nobody was near."
"Merely a small shower-bath!"
"I'm sorry, but,—You had business at the station yesterday!" with meaning stress on the last word.
"Undeniably true."
"And to-day too?"
"To-day too!" He looked impenetrable. "Are you anxious to know what the business is?"
"Of course it is not my concern—but—"
"I have a big parcel to get home."
"You had not that yesterday?"
"I beg your pardon, I had. But the day was so wet."
"And to-day is so fine!"
"That's just it! We may have this lovely weather for a month, and I want my parcel. So I chartered a cab."
"Wouldn't the railway people send it for you?"
"I didn't ask them. The cab is there, secured and waiting. Room inside for you and your sister."
"Oh, there's no need, thanks. We can easily walk."
"I haven't a doubt of that. The question is, whether you couldn't more easily be driven."
Pauline looked dubious, not as to her own liking, but as to the requirements of the case.
Rudge did not weaken his point by disputation. "Don't stand still," he said. "The air is wringing wet. And, pardon me, you must take off that cloak. We'll give it to the driver. So—and your umbrella." He had them both by this time. "I meant to save you the wet walk, as I had to come, but when I'd got the cab, you were gone."
"I had some shopping to do by the way. When one can't keep dry, one may as well be any amount wet," said Pauline. "I don't know why you should bother yourself in this way," she added, to hide an inward glow of pleasure.
"I don't know either, if it is a bother."
He stopped at the bookstall and purchased a "Punch."
"There's a cartoon that I want your father to see. Well, did he arrive in time for the business letter yesterday? Somehow I failed to find him."
"It was not written. Inclination was wanting, not time."
"I wonder whether inclination is ever otherwise than wanting in the case of a business letter. Miss Ogilvie, is this letter one of great importance—to you?"
"Yes. I don't know why, but it is. We can't go on as we are doing now. That is the reason," she said frankly, though not usually disposed to frankness about family affairs. "Our plans ought to be settled; and my father seems able to settle nothing without reference to Miss Primrose. I don't know why."
"The said settlement of affairs might involve a move from Singleton?" inquiringly.
"I suppose so. We have no idea of living here. What I want is to find some work—something to add a little to our income. And, of course, a home in some place where we can economise."
"Miss Primrose is an old friend of your father's, you say?"
"They must have been friends before I was born."
"Ah!"
"More than a quarter of a century ago."
"Yes!" in a rather odd voice. "There comes the train. What is your sister like?"
"Nessie! Oh, tall and pretty—a school-girl. Light hair and eyes."
The train drew up. Pauline grew flushed, and began to run, but Rudge checked her.
"No hurry," he said, with amused eyes. He took the matter coolly himself, glanced to right and left, then approached a third-class compartment, in the doorway of which stood a slight creature, girlish but not school-girlish, with fluffy fair hair and sky-blue eyes. Rudge singled her out as if he had known her all his life.
"Miss Nessie Ogilvie?" he asked. "Here is your sister. How many trunks?"
Nessie stooped from her superior height to kiss Pauline, and then drew up, repelled by the indignant "Nessie! In public!"
Rudge saw, heard, and laughed inwardly. He had the luggage together in a trice, ordered a man to convey it to the cab, and ushered the sisters in the same direction, impervious to Pauline's conscientious efforts after resistance.
Pauline felt herself managed, and gave in.
When he disappeared in search of a parcel, Nessie seized the opportunity to ask, "Who's that?"
"Mr. Rudge. He has lodgings in the same house. Father likes him."
"He's ugly—but not disagreeable, I should think."
"Ugly!" Pauline could have protested, yet she did not wish Nessie to admire Mr. Rudge.
Once off through the persistent downpour, Pauline began to realise the pleasantness of being so conveyed.
"Easier than walking, isn't it?" Rudge said, smiling.
"Yes. You must let me share the fly with you."
"I thought we were sharing it already."
Pauline was conscious of being worsted, and she let the matter drop.
Rudge was studying Nessie at intervals, with evident interest. Pauline had expected this, for Nessie was decidedly pretty. She had a taking little face, small-featured, with soft blue eyes, and short hair of pale straw-colour in a fashionable confusion of waves and half-curls. Nessie was only seventeen, just ten years younger than Pauline. There had been three sisters between the two, none of whom had lived beyond infancy. Pauline loved Nessie dearly, counting herself well able to play a mother's part. Perhaps her rôle had been a little too maternal as to authority, since a mother's tenderness had been lacking. Nessie could scarcely be said to return, measure for measure, the elder sister's affection.
But then, the said affection was not commonly visible in manner. This makes all the difference. Pauline had a sharp manner of speaking to Nessie, as to others, and sharpness does not win love. All the practical kindness in the world, shown by one friend to another, or by one sister to another, will not undo the effects of a sharp and argumentative tone.
Pauline knew herself to have failed somehow in that quarter, but she did not exactly understand how. She was not great in self-knowledge.
Reaching the house, Rudge handed both sisters out. He marked, with his dry little smile, the difference between Pauline's impetuous descent on the pavement and Nessie's soft slow movements. Two sisters could hardly have been more unlike. Nessie had not her father's features, the long thin nose, the long weak upper lip, or the long limp chin, but her languid gentle manner was distinctly inherited from him. She had none of Pauline's air of being moved by springs, of acting in jerks.
"Well, Pauline! So you were prudent and took a cab, after all! Well, Nessie!"
It was easy to see which daughter lay nearest to the father's heart. Not that Nessie was more estimable or more useful than Pauline. She was only more soft and winning. Practical worth and usefulness by themselves are not lovable.
Nessie dropped quietly into Mr. Ogilvie's arms, and held him fast, secure of no rebuff here, and heedless of Pauline's propriety notions. "Nessie!" the latter muttered, but in vain.
Mr. Ogilvie and his youngest went into the dining-room, clinging still each to the other.
Rudge stood, with his big parcel, looking at Pauline.
"How much is my share, please?" she asked.
"Your share?"
"Of the cab."
"Two seats," said Rudge, with a bow. "All right!" he called, and the cab drove off.
"But—you have not paid him."
The remark was passed over. Rudge looked again at Pauline over his parcel, and said, "Hardly a child! Charmingly pretty."
"Nessie! Yes, she always was pretty." Pauline forgot the cab question.
"The prettiest creature I have seen for a long while."
"Everybody thinks so, of course." Pauline went upstairs without more ado to change her draggled skirt. "Like the rest of the world," she murmured to herself. "Nothing but a pretty face is worth thinking of. I should have thought 'he' could be above that. But I see how it will be."
CHAPTER VI.
TO-DAY OR TO-MORROW.
"FATHER, you have not written to Miss Primrose yet."
"No, my dear."
"Who is Miss Primrose?" demanded Nessie.
"An old lady! A friend of father's. I don't know much about her. Father has to write and get advice."
"Not this evening! I'm only just come home."
"Yes, this evening. Nessie, you must not hinder father. The letter has to be written. We cannot go on like this."
"Go on like what?"—and Nessie opened her sleepy blue eyes wider than usual. She was lounging on the sofa, in an attitude which would have been ungraceful in anyone less young and fair; and her short hair was ruffled by contact with the cushions. She sat up slowly, gazing at Pauline. "What has happened?"
"Nothing new. Nothing that you don't know. Only that we have not money to spend as we are spending, and nobody will believe the fact."
"Father is the best judge," said Nessie, as if she at once scented blame in that direction. She went across the rug, and twined an arm in Mr. Ogilvie's. "But we are used to being kept in order by Pauline, aren't we daddy?"
Mr. Ogilvie patted the soft little hand, greatly comforted. Pauline had a way of making him feel himself in the wrong, and it was comfortable to have somebody near who would help him for once to feel that Pauline was in the wrong.
Nessie sat down on the arm of his chair, and laid her cheek against his.
"Who is Miss Primrose, and where does she live? Why have we never seen her, or heard about her?"
"My dear, it has not happened—" Mr. Ogilvie coughed away the rest of his sentence. He always had a cough ready for emergencies.
"But why hasn't it happened? Are you such old friends?"
"I knew her—yes—very well—"
"When, daddy?"
"My dear, years ago."
"When you were young?"
"Well, yes—" with a faint laugh.
"What makes Pauline so bent on getting up the acquaintance again?"
"It is not on my own account, Nessie. I am bent on knowing what we are to do."
"I don't see what that has to do with this. Does Miss Primrose live alone, father?"
"She may—probably."
"Is she handsome?"
"I have not seen her for—for more than twenty-five years. Not since Pauline was a baby. She was—rather pleasant-looking."
"Rather pleasant-looking, twenty-seven years ago. Oh, she must be a regular old fogie."
"When you are a quarter of a century older, I wonder how you will like to be spoken of so!" said Pauline.
"I can't imagine myself a quarter of a century older."
"But you must come to it if—"
"Oh, well, we all know that lots of things must happen. I shouldn't think I need have a moral lecture, the very moment I get home. Was Miss Primrose pretty, father, all those years ago?"
"She was—nice-looking, I believe."
"Only 'nice-looking,' you believe!' Is that all? At any rate you weren't in love with her, daddy."
Mr. Ogilvie reddened slightly, yes, actually reddened, and made an uneasy movement.
"'I' shouldn't like to be only 'nice-looking.' I'd rather be ugly outright—as ugly as Mr. Rudge. I do admire a fair woman, but fair men I detest. Father, did Miss Primrose—Where are you going?"
"I have something to attend to, my dear."
"That is always the way," declared Pauline, as her father vanished. "He never will go into business, or tell us about Miss Primrose. He runs away if one tries to make him."
"You worry him so about her. Why can't you leave him in peace?" asked Nessie, as if forgetting that her own questions this time had driven him off the field.
"Because—Nessie, you are a baby, or you would understand. We can't afford to 'live in peace,' as you call it. We haven't the requisite funds. That is why. It would be a mere fool's paradise for us—ending by-and-by in a crash. There is not money enough in our possession for us to live as we are living now, yet I can't get my father to see it. If you help him and fight against me, you will just make things worse."
"I can't see why. I'm sure the way we live is simple enough. And even, if we have to make changes, there is no such desperate hurry. A week or two more or less can't make such a lot of difference."
"You are my father over again. It is always 'no hurry' with him, and so we go on, frittering away all we have. The money will soon be at an end."
"Not his annuity."
"We shall get down to that, and that only, before long. One hundred and ten pounds a year."
"Well, it can't be helped." Nessie laid her fluffy head against the cushion. "I don't see any use in worrying."
"So you and he always say. If we had done all in our power, then I would agree with you, but not till then. It's very easy to shirk worry by putting off all responsibility on another person, but somebody has to 'worry,' as you call it, somebody has to think and plan, or nothing would ever get done. I wonder what sort of state you two would fall into, if you had not me to look after you both."
"A delicious state. I should lie in bed till noon, and nobody would ever talk about money."
"That's charming, of course, when there is enough money not to need talking about. Unfortunately, the less there is, the more one has to discuss its uses. People who have to earn a livelihood can't lie in bed till noon; and we are coming fast to that stage. However, if I go out as a companion to some old lady, you will be able to try your plan. Experience isn't a bad teacher."
Pauline spoke sharply, as if wounded. She toiled much for her father and sister. And it was, to say the least, dispiriting to find no particular gratitude felt in return.
Nessie's perceptions were by no means keen, but she was conscious of something wrong. "Go out as a companion!" she said wonderingly.
"I don't see what else is to be done. Father will never find any work to his taste, and somebody must do something. I should be off his hands then—provided with house-room and food; and I should make at least enough for my own clothes."
"But we couldn't manage without you! And I don't know anything about ordering dinner."
"You would have to learn," said Pauline, not greatly flattered by the estimate of her uses. "Everybody can learn."
"I am sure I couldn't. I hate that sort of bother. Oh, you mustn't go, of course. I didn't mean what I said just now. We could never get on without you."
CHAPTER VII.
THE LETTER.
"IT'S done."
"What is done?"
"Father has written to Miss Primrose!"
"What has he said?"
"I don't know exactly. He did not let me see."
"I hope you are satisfied now. You have given him no peace since I came home."
"Nessie, if you will not understand how things are, I can't make you."
"I do understand, but there are different ways of doing things."
Pauline might have retorted, with equal truth, that there are also different ways of not doing things. She was hardly in spirits for a retort, however, unless it was an ill-tempered one; and she was doing her best not to give way to ill-temper.
"Where have you been?" asked Nessie, gaping.
"Only to the corner—to see father post his letter."
"I shouldn't have thought two people were needed for that task. Couldn't you trust him to go alone? Or couldn't you do it for him?"
"I couldn't trust him not to change his mind before he reached the pillar, and he would not give the letter to me. I might have seen the address."
"Well—if you had! Why should he mind?"
"I don't know. He does mind."
"It's some antique love affair, Pauline."
"Nonsense!"
Yet Pauline wondered whether Nessie's guess might have hit the mark.
"And the letter is gone—after all this fuss! It seems queer to be begging help of a stranger."
"Not a stranger to father, and not begging help. Only asking if she can advise me where to get work. That's what I want. No use to think of work for him. He has always taken life easily, and when one is getting old, one can't change."
"I mean to take life easily. Suppose no answer comes from Miss Primrose?"
"Then I hope my father will see that we have to decide for ourselves."
Nessie sank into a brown study, lounging among the cushions. She was a very indolent young lady, fond of limp postures, not easy to dislodge from a comfortable corner, and not addicted to needless exertion. Mr. Ogilvie called her "delicate," and sympathised, being himself of the same lymphatic temperament. Pauline called her "lazy," and tried the routing plan, without much success. Possibly both were true statements, but the one had not much to do with the other. Nessie might have been delicate without laziness, or lazy without delicacy. Many most delicate people are full of energy, free from ease-loving indolence; and many people in good health are overburdened with it. Delicacy and indolence may co-exist in one person, but they are quite as often separated. Mr. Ogilvie's plea for Nessie is, however, the common plea put forth by laziness.
Four days passed, and no answer arrived. Mr. Ogilvie grew restless, and fell into a nervous tremor whenever the postman became visible. He was plainly disappointed.
After a spell of rain, fine weather had come, and Rudge was often out-of-doors. Pauline had not seen nearly so much of him since Nessie's return. And the last few days, she had scarcely seen him at all. She tried for a while to cheat herself out of an acknowledgment of the fact, but this could not continue. Nobody guessed how that prosaic little being watched for his coming and going, how she listened for his footsteps overhead.
Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie only found her rather more tart than usual.
"What are we to do next, if Miss Primrose doesn't write?" she asked, after lunch, on the fourth day of waiting.
"Miss Primrose is sure to write."
"Yes, so one may say. But if she does not?" A pause. "She may not be alive even. How can you tell, if you have not heard from her lately?"
Mr. Ogilvie stood up to escape, as usual.
"If anything had happened, I should have heard," he said. "Is no one going for a walk this fine day?"
"I can't. I have all this mending to do." Pauline pointed to a pile.
"I'll go," volunteered Nessie. "Pauline is glued to her patches and darns."
Pauline made no defence. She did not wish to move, brightly though the sun shone. She knew that Rudge was indoors, and he might chance to come to the downstairs sitting-room for a word. He had often done so, just at this hour, to ask if he could do any little thing for her out-of-doors. She could not afford to risk absence. All this was not definitely acknowledged to herself, but the motive underlay her resolute clinging to the pile of work.
Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie vanished, and Pauline sat alone, busy with fingers and mind. The door had been left rather more than ajar, and she did not rise to shut it.
A quick step crossed the room overhead, almost immediately after the shutting of the front door, and an odd question came up—Had he seen Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie start? Pauline quashed the suggestion at once, but it obtruded itself again. For Rudge was hurrying downstairs. Would he put his head in, and—?
No; he did nothing of the kind. Pauline could not see him pass where she sat, but he did not so much as turn his head towards the dining-room door. Had he done so, he must have caught a glimpse of Pauline. He went along the passage swiftly, straight to the front door, and was gone, walking briskly in the same direction as that taken by her father and sister.
Pauline's needle lay idle for awhile, as she sat questioning with herself. What could it mean? That had not been his wont lately. Till Nessie came home, he had made or accepted constant little opportunities for intercourse with Pauline: such opportunities as this which he had now flung away. Had anything come between him and her? Had Pauline herself been too frank about the family circumstances? Had Nessie said or done aught to turn him from her? Pauline answered the last question at once in the negative. Nessie was very vain, and not very brilliant, perhaps even a little dull mentally, but nobody could accuse her of malice.
Then—was it that Rudge had been fascinated at first sight by Nessie's prettiness?
This at least was not impossible. Pauline had not lived twenty-seven years without gaining some notion of masculine susceptibility to looks.
If Rudge were changed, a cause, of course, existed; and Pauline felt sure he was changed. She looked at the matter resolutely, accepting this as a fact, forgetting how easily one may be deceived.
One or two hot tears were distilled, and then she braced herself up, determined that nobody should guess her trouble—Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie least of all.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RESOLVE.
WHEN they returned from their stroll, she was sewing diligently, as if no thought save of household repairs had crossed her mind during the interim.
"Oh, dear, I'm so tired," Nessie as usual declared, dropping on the sofa. "I do want my tea. No letter from that old lady, I suppose? We've had a walk on the Parade with Mr. Rudge, all this time!"
"Really!" said Pauline.
"He overtook us before we got there. I suspect he saw us start, and came on purpose," laughed Nessie.
"Where is he now?"
"Oh, he didn't come back—had something to do, but he stayed on the Parade as long as we stayed. He's nice, I think—rather. I like him better than I did at first: if only he were better-looking. Perhaps he isn't quite so ugly when you get to know him, but nobody in the world can call him handsome."
Pauline could have done so, but of course she would not. Her heart sank low. If she had but left her mending, and gone out! To have missed such a pleasure! Yet would it have been a pleasure, if in truth his aim had been—Nessie?
"Well, I suppose you both want some tea?" she said, getting up.
"Awfully," yawned Nessie.
Then, after a break—
"Mr. Rudge has been telling us lots about himself. He lives at a place called Wokingholme. It's in the country, not a great many stations off from here. He must be the squire there, I fancy. That's why he never seems to have anything particular to do. And I dare say he is rich. He and father got upon land improvements, and there was a lot of talk about turnips and mangold-wurzel. I hate farm talk, and I almost ran away. Didn't Mr. Rudge ever tell you before where he lived?"
"I never asked him."
"I don't see why you shouldn't. There's no harm in asking, if one wants to know. I found out something else too. He's an orphan, and he was brought up by an aunt. Father wanted him to come in to tea, but he said he couldn't; he had a heap of letters to write."
"Then squires have something to do, I suppose, after all?"
"Oh, letters—yes, but not regular hard work."
"Some people seem to think letters the hardest work of all," murmured Pauline.
Then the postman's knock sounded. Singleton was not one of those watering-places where the knocker has given place to the bell. Nessie looked lazily at Pauline, and Pauline went out.
"A postcard for father," she said, returning.
Mr. Ogilvie was embarrassed between a full cup and crumbling cake. "Postcard! Is that all?" he asked, "Some advertisement. Read it aloud, my dear."
Pauline obeyed promptly.
"Letter received. Quite right. Glad to hear again. Send your eldest daughter here day after to-morrow. Companion wanted for a month or so, while in town. May lead to something more permanent. Please say which train, and she shall be met.—V. Primrose!"
After the first two words, Mr. Ogilvie held out a feeble hand to check Pauline, but she went resolutely on to the end.
"Miss Primrose must be an oddity," she commented. "What does V. stand for? 'Violet'! Was that your friend's name? Do you suppose she lives in Kensington now? This is from Kensington."
"Let me see the address," said Mr. Ogilvie. He gazed at the card with troubled eyes. "No; she has a country home. Number twenty-seven—I can't make out the name of the street. It is not a name I know."
"I'll look it out with the directory."
"Pauline can't go off for a month, like that," observed Nessie. "What nonsense! We can't spare her."
"If it is right, you will have to spare me," said Pauline.
She spoke with the more decision, because she found herself utterly adverse to the plan. At any other time she would have cared less, though her objection to strangers was proverbial, and she had a dislike to London. It would have come as a simple duty, and would have been accepted as such. But to leave Singleton at this moment, to cut herself adrift from Rudge, just when he had begun to fall under the sway of Nessie's attractions—this did seem hard. A month away at so critical a juncture would probably settle matters. If the slightest hope remained that Rudge could care for her, that hope would be slain by her going. And even if she should return at the month's end—even if he and Nessie should not become engaged meantime—she could not expect to find him still at Singleton. She might never see him again.
All these thoughts came before Pauline's mental vision, and a voice within her cried wildly—"I cannot go! I will not go!"
But another voice spoke no less clearly. Pauline, with all her faults, was no helpless victim to self-pleasing. She had too often put self aside to be easily vanquished now. If it were right, go she would; and Pauline felt that it was right. In the face of her reluctant dread, she asked quietly—
"Which train shall I name?"
"My dear, we must consider: it might be best to enquire further," hesitated Mr. Ogilvie.
"Why? What is there to enquire? You know Miss Primrose; and I am old enough to take care of myself. We can't afford to throw aside such a chance."
Mr. Ogilvie stroked his chin, and murmured, "You can hardly be ready by to-morrow."
"I shall pack to-night. I will take one trunk—a small one—and leave a second ready to be sent, if I should need it. I must go, of course," she said, smothering down the revolt within.
"Pauline always does what she likes, and never thinks about other people," complained Nessie.
"Of course!" Pauline would not betray the sting of this injustice, for how could she, without betraying the injustice itself? "I must look out trains, now, and then I must pack. The thing has to be done, Nessie, so fretting will do no good. You will find it much easier to manage than you expect."
"I daresay! While you are taking your pleasure away in London!" pouted Nessie.
CHAPTER IX.
TO TOWN.
IT was a wet day, so nobody went with Pauline to the station. Why should anybody? Pauline always took care of herself and of everybody else—the said "everybody" being personified chiefly by Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie. Those two liked comfort, ease, and reposeful chairs; and they were not fond of wind or rain unless in pursuit of their own pleasures.
"Pauline never minded," they said complacently. And Pauline, as usual, acquiesced.
Nevertheless, when she trudged off alone on her pilgrimage, with a porter and truck to carry her moderate amount of luggage, she did feel that it would have been pleasant to have had somebody on the platform who belonged to her—somebody just to smile a farewell, and to wish her "God-speed."
For, brave as Pauline was accounted, she did not always feel so brave below. Fearless as she might seem, she had sometimes a sense of shrinking, hidden by the uplifted nose and confident air. Nobody looking on Pauline could have counted her nervous, yet she knew what certain nervous sensations were—as who does not?—only she was not mastered by them.
She was going into an unknown land, with unknown possibilities ahead. Some slight heart-sinking was surely permissible.
And—there was Mr. Rudge! She was leaving him and Nessie behind—Nessie to look pretty and languishing; Rudge to be caught, as men are caught, by a pair of soft eyes and a pair of rosy lips.
"They are all alike," sighed Pauline, as she stood waiting, a bedraggled and wet little figure, on the platform. "It isn't a question of what one is, or what one is worth; it is just a question of shape and colouring. A painted doll has the best chance any day, so long as it is nicely painted . . . I'm not a doll, that is certain, and I'm not pretty. But I think I can do more than Nessie to make other people happy."
A touch of bitterness came into the words. She had not even seen Rudge for a word of farewell. She knew that he knew of her going, but he had made no effort after a parting handshake.
"Give me that bundle, Miss Ogilvie. The train isn't due for ten minutes."
Pauline turned, inwardly glowing, outwardly cool.
"Good morning," she said. "I am off to London."
"So I heard. Wasn't it a work of supererogation to start so early? I strolled down stairs for a final interview, and found you had vanished."
"It's best to be in good time."
"Much the best. How long do you expect to stay away?"
"A month. Miss Primrose has sent for me."
"Ah! Your father's friend?"
"Yes. She is in London, and wants a companion; and she says this may lead to something permanent. I suppose that means, if she likes me. I don't see what I could do except go," said Pauline, in appeal. "Nessie does not like it, but—It isn't that I want to leave them, but—"
"I am sure you are right—quite right. Greatest possible mistake to have refused."
Pauline's doubts and hesitations fell away like dead leaves; and even her own distaste faded. If Mr. Rudge approved, she was content. He had taken possession by this time of her umbrella, her cloak, and her inevitable "roll" or bundle of wraps. Now he stood looking down on the little figure with a twinkle in his eyes; and Pauline had the "protected" sensation which is so specially delightful to those who are always taking care of others.
"I am so glad you think so," she said earnestly. "It seemed almost cruel to go away—but if it has to be—"
"People may just as well learn independence before twenty as after thirty."
"Yes. I am not afraid that they will not manage. One always 'can,' I suppose, if one must. That was how I learnt. I wish I might ask you a question."
"So you may."
"But—if you do not wish to answer—"
"Then I'll tell you so."
"About Miss Primrose. Did you once say that you knew her?"
"I think I confessed to knowing a Miss Primrose. Whether she is identical with your father's friend is another question."