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—"