CHAPTER XV.

_"MR. AND MRS. RUDGE."_

"PAULINE—my dearest!"

It was like a dream to Pauline. She came to herself quickly, conscious of pain somewhere, but not yet able to localise it. Distant cries in Nessie's voice reached her first; then a sob close at hand; then a deep masculine utterance of wonderful words—"My dearest!" And she opened her eyes to see the ruddy face she so well knew bending over her, almost colourless.

"You are not hurt! Tell me," he implored hoarsely.

"It's nothing. I'll get up," said Pauline, and she actually pulled herself to a sitting posture. There she had to pause and lean against Viola, very white. "I'm a little—stunned, I think." she murmured. "Is nobody else hurt?"

"Nobody else,—you dear, brave girl," said Viola. "Nessie is only frightened. She won't come near, or let your father come."

"And Viola is safe!" Pauline looked at Rudge, smiling her congratulation. "I've saved her—for you!" she said. Then remembrance came of those words, "Pauline—my dearest!" And a sharp pain darted somewhere,—she had to pause and think where. "My—arm, I believe," she said.

"Only the arm,—nothing worse?"

Viola was feeling the arm gently. "Not broken, I hope," she said. "But what are we to do? The carriage will come directly. We must get her up the cliff, and take her home. She cannot walk, Leonard."

"O yes, I can!" and "Certainly not!" came together.

"Why, Pauline, my dear,—how is this?" demanded the uncertain tones of Mr. Ogilvie, coming near. "Not really hurt, I hope? Poor dear! Nessie is so alarmed. Don't you think we ought to get out of the way? A further fall might take place. How did it all happen?"

"It happened that she saved me at risk to herself," Viola said, with full eyes.

"Really!" uttered Mr. Ogilvie incredulously. He was so used to think of Pauline as only a useful mender of stockings, that any touch of the heroic in her life came as a surprise,—hardly even a pleasant surprise, for people do not like to find themselves mistaken in their estimates of others.

"Nothing else could have saved Viola," said Mr. Rudge, hoarse still with strong emotion.

Pauline believed it to be an emotion of thankfulness for Viola's escape, and yet—had she heard those words aright?—And if so, what did they mean?

"Yes, we should get out of the cove as fast as possible," Rudge continued. "I had no idea it was such an unsafe spot. Will you see to your younger daughter, Mr. Ogilvie? I shall carry Pauline—Miss Ogilvie, I mean—up the cliff. She cannot walk: no, certainly not."

Pauline protested, and found her feet slowly, every movement meaning pain to the injured arm. "I would much rather walk," she said. "I am only a little shaken—and bruised, I think."

She might as well have argued with a stone wall. "There is no time to be lost," he said authoritatively. "Another fall of stone may take place at any moment. Viola, get away as fast as possible. Look out and see if the carriage is coming." Then without further ado, he lifted Pauline, as if she had been a feather, and bore her swiftly over the crunching shingle.

Nessie had already reached the foot of the path, which she ascended with Viola; and Mr. Ogilvie followed alone some little way in the rear of Leonard Rudge. Burdened as the latter was, he could not overtake the girls, if indeed he meant to do so. Half-way up he paused, and Pauline said,—"I wish you would let me walk. I would 'much,' rather."

"If it will make you happy. We are out of danger now, and need not hurry."

"Thanks." Pauline was glad to find herself in a normal position. She stood still to smooth her ruffled plumage, and winced.

"Ah, the pain is bad, I'm afraid."

"Yes. I suppose the stone came against that arm."

"No; the stone must have spent most of its force. It merely knocked you down; and you fell upon your arm. You are not fit to walk, Miss Ogilvie—or—" a pause—"will you give me the right to call you 'Pauline?'"

He had a startled look in answer. Pauline's was not usually a very expressive face, but there was no mistaking its expression at that moment.

"Is it too much to ask?" he asked, his face falling. "I have hoped—"

"But—but—Viola!" she said.

"Viola!" He stood still, looking down at Pauline's upturned face. "Is it possible that you—was that what you meant just now? Surely you know that Viola is engaged to my brother Percy!"

A flood of light was poured over Pauline, illuminating her past, her present, her future. Of course! How stupid she had been. Anybody else must have seen and understood. Perplexities fell to the ground.

"No—I had not heard," she said. "At least—I didn't understand. I—I thought—"

"Thought Viola was engaged to me!" in astonished accents.

It was not Pauline's way to cry easily, but between disturbed nerves, pain, and mental agitation, she was on the verge of tears. To escape such a catastrophe, she hurried bluntly into speech, saying the first words which came to mind,—"Oh, but you know—you did call her—'your' Miss Primrose."

"In contradistinction to your father's Miss Primrose. To be sure,—ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Rudge, but the laugh had a forced sound. "Well; and she is mine—my cousin now, my sister to be. What matters that? She could never be anything nearer—even if—"

"Even if—?" repeated Pauline enquiringly.

"Even if I had never met Pauline Ogilvie!"

After that, little more needed to be said, yet the saying of it occupied some time. Never was a cliff more slowly ascended than by those two. Mr. Ogilvie overtook them and passed by unnoticed. Wisely, he made no remarks. Before Leonard Rudge landed Pauline at the summit, he and she were promised, each to the other.

"You dear little goose, not to understand!" Viola exclaimed, when the state of affairs was revealed. "Aunt Viola said she had told you, so of course I didn't explain, and you asked no questions. But I'm sure I must have talked of Percy a hundred times."

"Yes—and hardly ever of—Mr. Rudge," said Pauline. "I thought you were shy."

"Shy! Ah, you don't know me, do you? Pauline, have you really, truly, honestly believed all along that you were destined for my aunt's companion?"

"Honestly," Pauline could aver.

"And you never saw through my little dodges? You never dreamt that I guessed what Leonard was after down here, and that I wanted to see what manner of choice he was making? Dear innocent old boy—he didn't understand, of course? Don't be angry, Pauline, for he is wonderfully innocent—and yet, I must confess, one never is quite sure how far he does see, with those good-humoured eyes. Anyway, he lent himself to my little schemes, and betrayed 'nothing to nobody!' A man can be circumspect when he chooses, there's no doubt—and I don't believe he half knew his own mind, till you were out of reach."

"I don't think I understand yet what made you and Mrs. Palmer send for me."

"I'm not sure that I understand it fully myself," Viola answered merrily. "One does a lot of things from sheer impulse. But anyhow, I'm not sorry."

Nor could Pauline regret it. She was very happy. Things had indeed "turned out well" for her, as foretold by Leonard Rudge a month earlier—"well," not alone actually, but also apparently.

Had she shirked her plain duty, and remained at the seaside to be near Rudge, results might have been different. At that time Leonard Rudge had been, to say the least, uncertain as to his own feelings and desires. Pauline's departure, the manner of their goodbye interview, his sensations of loneliness in a dull watering-place without her, and a succession of enthusiastic letters from warm-hearted Viola, all had had a marked share in bringing him to the point.

Lastly, that point was attained through the accident on the beach, which called out the heroic side of Pauline's nature, and finally revealed to Rudge that he could not be happy without her. True, the same accident entailed on Pauline some weeks of suffering in the twisted arm, but it may well be believed that she would not have given up the joy to escape ten times as much pain.

Before many months had passed, there was a double wedding: Pauline becoming Mrs. Rudge of Wokingholme, Viola becoming Mrs. Percival Rudge. Since a Miss Primrose no longer existed, my story naturally ends here. It may, however, be added that Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie found a home near Mrs. Palmer; that Nessie, under the pressure of necessity, developed certain new and useful qualities, and that she grew in time to be a prime favourite with the old lady, her father's friend, the quondam "Miss Primrose."

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_A Strange Will._

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A STRANGE WILL.

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