CHAPTER XIV.

_STILL AMONG PERPLEXITIES._

HOME once more! Pauline felt as if she had been away from Singleton for months. If only she could banish "him" from her thoughts, she might reconcile herself to the life of a companion. But how could this be? Mr. Rudge seemed to meet her at every turn. Of course it must be Viola that attracted him. Why else should he come down and find lodgings for Mrs. Palmer? But how could she bear to live near him? The thought stuck in her throat, and try as she would, even money matters scarcely interested her.

"I am so thankful that we can meet some of our liabilities," said Pauline, with an effort, as she sat with her sister on the evening of her return home. "Father thinks everything will turn out right in the end, and it is so difficult to make him take definite action. Even now he hesitates which bills should be paid, and ten pounds is so little."

"Oh, leave money matters to-night, Pauline. The Primroses and Mr. Rudge are only here for a few days; let's have some enjoyment. The monotony of this place fairly killed me while you were away."

"If only we could get free and live within our means, there would be no need—" Pauline stopped. "I mean we must think and plan to be economical. There's the money we have in hand. It might be good enough to balance some difficulties." Then she thought again of Mr. Rudge. "We shall see," she said slowly. "Wait till to-morrow."

"So that girl who looked out of the carriage window was Miss Primrose?"

"Yes."

"She's pretty, I suppose. But I don't care for dark women. I like dark men and fair women."

"She is lovely—much more than merely pretty."

"Well, Mr. Rudge seemed to think so, by the way he went off with her. He has been careering over the whole place to-day looking for rooms. I suppose he has found them. Singleton is empty enough. We shall see nothing of him now Miss Primrose is here, of course."

"Yes, we are to have an excursion to-morrow—all of us together—to a cove two miles off. Cowe's Cove, I think it is called. Father and you and I, and Miss Primrose and Mr. Rudge. If Mrs. Palmer is well enough, she will have a fly, and drive anybody there who doesn't care for the walk."

"I don't mind that. We haven't had anything in the shape of a picnic for ages. Are we to have tea on the shore?"

"No; lunch. A boy and donkey will take the provisions. I told them you and I could manage the walk, but not father, perhaps."

* * * * * * *

The proposed excursion came off, as it was likely to do if set going by Viola Primrose, weather proving propitious.

After much cogitation it was decided that Mr. Ogilvie, Mr. Rudge, and the three young ladies, should all walk to the Cove. And that Mrs. Palmer should drive to the spot after lunch, ready to give a homeward lift to any who were unequal to further exertion. Mr. Ogilvie showed an unlooked-for readiness to exert himself, and Nessie did not mind fatigue when it became a question of amusement.

For awhile they walked all five abreast, holding general conversation. When the nature of the path rendered this impossible, Pauline did her best to slip behind with her father and Nessie, but she was not allowed. Viola seemed to her most unselfish, Rudge most polite, and somehow—she hardly knew how—she herself was soberly walking with Rudge, while Viola followed with Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie. Pauline felt the state of things to be wrong, and the pleasure was a painful one. She grew absent and sad under the struggle, asking herself again and again whether it would not be needful and right to sever utterly all connection with him, till she should have mastered her heart.

"I'm afraid it has been rather too far for you," Rudge said in a concerned tone, when they had scrambled down a rough path into the pretty cove, where the sandstone cliffs hung over, and the waves played soft music. "You must sit on the shingle, and keep quiet for awhile. The rest of us will see to lunch. What! Miss Nessie fatigued too!"—as Nessie, with an injured air, dropped to the ground. "Then Viola and I will undertake it."

Pauline protested, and was ordered to keep still. While Nessie, finding it dull to be left with a silent sister, thought better of her condition, and joined the others.

It would have been hard for Pauline to say whether she was actually tired, bodily tired, or not. She only knew that she had to submit for the moment, and that everything was very perplexing. The fascination of Leonard Rudge's presence was so complete that it was joy to be cared for by him. And yet she felt that, if she had been Viola, she could not have approved such a manner to another. She could not understand Viola's perfect ease and gaiety. Something was wrong somewhere: but Pauline could not endure to say, even to herself, that Rudge was wrong.

The bitter sweetness of the day was getting to be too much for her; and the bitterness was fast overmastering the sweet. Seated there alone, under the overhanging cliff, she came to one clear conviction. Whatever else might be involved, she could not go to live with Mrs. Palmer. It would not be right. She had to conquer this unbidden love; and to place herself within easy reach of Rudge was not the way to conquer.

"Any place rather than Wokingholme for me," she told herself firmly.

A spot was fixed upon, not far from the cliffs, and lunch was spread. Pauline presently joined the merry group, protesting that she was quite well and not tired, though Viola accused her of being pale still. She did her best to laugh and talk like the rest.

The "bill of fare" included sandwiches and meat-patties, rolls and butter, tartlets, cakes and lemonade,—enough to satisfy even appetites sharpened by a long walk in sea-air.

Pauline alone dallied with her food, and disposed of little.

"Try something else. That doesn't suit, evidently," Rudge said, smiling, and offering a meat-patty.

"Oh, it is as nice as possible. I only forgot," Pauline answered, with a blush. "I'm eating—any amount."

"Pauline always has such a good appetite," said Nessie complacently.

Lunch over, plates and knives were packed in baskets, to be once more consigned to the donkey-boy.

The last basket was the heaviest, and Rudge helped the boy to carry it up the steep path. Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie had strolled to the water's edge at some little distance, perhaps to escape the trouble of packing. Viola and Pauline stood where the lunch-cloth had lain, near but not close together, watching the ascent of the basket. Having deposited it on the top, Rudge turned, and came down swiftly.

"What an active man he is!" Viola remarked, smiling.

Pauline only said, "Yes."

"I've known him all my life, you know—not merely as a cousin, but more as a brother, and he has always been the same. Always ready to do any kindness for anybody. Everybody likes Leonard."

"You do, of course," thought Pauline.

"I wonder if you will think his brother at all like him."

Pauline was by this time aware that a younger brother did exist. She could not but be aware of the fact, since she had seen at least a dozen photographs of him, and since Viola was always talking of "Percy." Viola spoke of "Percy" much oftener than of "Leonard," and this seemed to Pauline quite natural. It was not Pauline's way to talk most of the things or people she most cared for.

"Are they alike?" she asked. Hitherto she had rigidly adhered to her resolution to ask no needless questions about Rudge or his belongings.

"Some say yes: some say no. I see a likeness. Pauline, when I am married—"

Pauline unconsciously drew a pace or two farther away.

"Are you in a hurry to go? I wanted particularly to say something to you, about—"

A shout from Rudge interrupted them, a sharp loud cry, as of warning. He was descending the path, when he stopped to utter this shout, throwing up his arms with a wild gesticulation.

"What can he mean?" exclaimed Viola, turning to look in his direction.

Pauline saw all. A large block of stone was in the act of detaching itself—in the act of falling towards them. So far as could be judged in one instantaneous glance, Viola, standing between Pauline and the distant Leonard Rudge, standing with her back to Pauline and her face to Mr. Rudge, was exactly in the line of its descent. While Pauline's last move, a little to the left, had placed her nearly, if not quite, out of that line. A further retreat in the same direction would ensure safety to Pauline. But Viola!

It might seem that there was no time for Pauline to think, yet in a time of emergency thought is wonderfully rapid. Pauline was quite collected, and in that fraction of a second she knew that if she fled away from Viola to the left, she would escape. But if she crossed the path of the coming danger, she and Viola might both escape. True, in the latter case, both might be struck down, yet it was only a might be. In the former case her own safety was not more assured than Viola's injury. For Viola did not understand the peril. She stood with her back to Pauline, gazing with innocent surprise at Rudge. If Pauline fled the opposite way, there was no possibility of making her understand.

All this came to Pauline in one flash. Words were not formed in her mind, but resolution was co-incident with action. She saw, felt, and did, in the same moment—the same part of a moment. Succession of ideas no doubt there was, but a mental microscope would have been needed to make the succession apparent even to her own mental vision.

"Run! Run!" she shrieked, as she sprang towards Viola, and Viola fled in advance of her, terrified at she knew not what.

The block fell, and was shattered into fragments, which bounded seaward. Viola escaped unhurt, but a large lump flung Pauline to the ground.