_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.