Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "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.
[Illustration]
Miss Primrose.
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CHAPTER.
I. THEIR POSITION
II. HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN
III. MR. RUDGE
IV. "SOMETHING TO DO"
V. RAIN! RAIN!
VI. TO-DAY OR TO-MORROW
VII. THE LETTER
VIII. THE RESOLVE
IX. TO TOWN
X. A QUESTION OF AGES
XI. MR. OGILVIE'S OLD FRIEND
XII. THE REAL MISS PRIMROSE
XIII. DULL LETTERS.
XIV. STILL AMONG PERPLEXITIES
XV. "MR. AND MRS. RUDGE"
A Strange Will.
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CHAPTER.
I. MAKING A WILL
II. A STRANGE DIFFICULTY
III. "MISS HARVEY"
IV. "A COUNTER-PROPOSAL"
V. THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS
VI. NATHANAEL PLUNKETT
VII. BROKEN ICE
VIII. A RESCUE
IX. WASTE PAPER
MISS PRIMROSE.
[Illustration]
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—"