CHAPTER XII.

_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."