_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.