_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."
"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.