_THE REAL MISS PRIMROSE._
PAULINE'S question, "Did Miss Primrose—I mean Mrs. Palmer—ever talk to
you of having known my father?" brought the rejoinder—
"I have heard his name—and a little about him—lately."
Pauline sat thinking, and then with some abruptness put another query:
"Do you know Mr. Rudge?"
"I have known him all my life,"—her colour deepening suspiciously.
"When he spoke of you as 'his Miss Primrose,'—I mean when he spoke of
somebody—he meant you, of course."
"Very cool of him!" murmured Miss Primrose, her cheeks like two roses.
"Did he say that—to you?"
"Yes. I told him that my father's Miss Primrose must be elderly and
plain. And he said, '"My" Miss Primrose is young and beautiful!'"
"I'm very much obliged to him! Now we have settled all that—haven't
we?—and you have asked no end of questions. Our next move is to go
upstairs. I'll show you the real Miss Primrose of your father's
youthful days. Come."
"Is she well enough?"
"Yes—I meant to take you in to-morrow at the latest."
Pauline followed the light steps of Viola Primrose into a bedroom,
where sat an invalid lady, well bolstered up with pillows. She was
in appearance older than Mr. Ogilvie, and markedly plain, with
large features, including a big crooked nose and prominent teeth.
Undoubtedly, Miss Primrose Senior could never have been beautiful. The
grey knitting in her hands was familiar to Pauline's eyes, since every
day she had disentangled the chaos of dropped stitches, pulling out all
that Mrs. Palmer did, and replacing the same with fresh work.
Viola went forward, and kissed the invalid's faded cheek. "Auntie, here
we are," she said. "This is my new friend, Pauline Ogilvie. Daughter of
your old friend, Mr. Ogilvie."
Mrs. Palmer smiled somewhat vaguely, and held out a hand. "How do you
do?" she said. "I am glad to see you. Is this the young lady who puts
my work to rights? She is cleverer than you, Viola, and much cleverer
than nurse. Nurse is very stupid about my knitting. Has she gone
downstairs, by-the-by?—ah, that is right! Miss Pauline Ogilvie, you
say? Dear me, yes, I remember her father—years and years and years ago."
"You and he were great friends, were you not?" said Viola, motioning
Pauline to a seat.
"Why, yes—we were engaged." So Nessie's surmise had been right. "A
foolish affair, no doubt,—very foolish! I was older than he; eight
years older. That doesn't do at all, and I ought to have known better.
He was caught by a pretty face before we married, and broke it off. I
don't think he could help himself."
"He ought to have helped himself," Pauline said, with severity.
"Ah, but I doubt if he could, my dear. He was always rather a weak sort
of nature, you know. I'm sure he was very sorry, and he would have
married me still if I had been willing. Let me see, the girl's name
was—oh, Pauline, of course. But you are not like her—not in the least.
She was fair and nice-looking. Poor Pauline! Oh, I didn't bear her any
grudge, my dear. It was so natural. I never was handsome, and men think
everything of that."
"Now, auntie!" protested Viola.
"It's true, my dear, as you'll find. You will never be at a loss for
husbands," said Mrs. Palmer, with a fond glance.
Viola echoed the plural noun under her breath.
"But it was quite natural that he should get tired of me. I told him
so, and I made him promise, if he should be in any trouble, to let me
know, and I would help him if I could—just to show I didn't bear any
grudge, you know. When he wrote the other day, he reminded me of that
promise. I'm afraid I had pretty nearly forgotten it, but I was glad
enough to be reminded."
Evidently the romance of the old love-story had long since died out.
Mrs. Palmer was more interested in her grey stocking than in the
fortunes of her quondam fiancé, though kindly pleased to help him if
she could. She paused at intervals to count her rows, and she drew
her brows together more seriously over a dropped stitch than over her
long past disappointment. A thousand interests lay between those days
and these. Pauline wondered whether, a quarter of a century later, she
would be able to look back with equal composure to the Mr. Rudge of her
youth.
"When you write to your father, you must be sure to give him my very
kind recollections. Or—yes, Viola will tell you what to say. I get a
little confused, and Viola manages everything. My dear, how many rows
ought I to make here?"
"May I show you?" asked Pauline, moving nearer.
Upon which Viola smiled, and went away.
"It was very good of you to send for me," she said, when the work was
proceeding.
"Viola settled it, my dear; Viola does everything. I don't know, I am
sure, how I shall manage when she is married."
"Is that likely to be soon?"
"As soon as things can be arranged. She would not leave me before, but
that cannot go on, of course. I will not have her sacrificed for me—it
would not be fair. A useless old woman!"
"Miss Primrose would not agree with you, I am sure."
"Viola is the sweetest girl that ever lived. But of course she must
think of Mr. Rudge."
No one could have told from Pauline's face the utter sinking of her
heart. Then—it was true!
"Yes," was all she said.
"It wouldn't be fair to him to go on putting off. If I could persuade
him to live with me, then it would be all right. But he's an odd sort
of man, and he doesn't seem to fancy it. Mind you don't say a word of
this to Viola. I wouldn't have her worried."
"You will have to find a companion to take her place," said Pauline,
with a kind of dead calm.
"Yes, that's what Leonard Rudge says. But I don't see it at all. I
never got on with strangers in any comfort."
"Now, I think your knitting will go beautifully," said Pauline,
standing up. "I mustn't stay too long, or you will be tired, but I can
help you again—any time."
She went quietly away to her own room, locked the door, and stood
looking out upon the street: not a beautiful and interesting heroine
in distress, but a matter-of-fact little being, resolute and brave in
heart.
"So now I know," she said aloud. "Now I understand. Now there can be
no mistake. Leonard Rudge! The full name. And he is engaged to Miss
Primrose! Well, it isn't surprising. She is sweet enough for anything,
and I will not let myself love her less because she is to be so happy.
I don't quite see why—why he was so kind—so good to me!" A lump rose
in Pauline's throat, and two or three big tears struggled out. "But
after all, it was only kindness, only politeness. I never had any real
reason to think more—only my own foolish fancies. I understand now.
He liked my father, and he thought I might do as a companion for Mrs.
Palmer when—when he should marry Viola. So natural! I look like the
'humble companion'—that exactly. I've got to the bottom of things now.
And he just stayed on at Singleton to study me as his old aunt's future
companion. Odd, that 'she' should be my father's old friend all the
time. I don't mean to ask any more questions now of any kind. I've been
a goose, and nobody shall find it out."