CHAPTER III.

_MR. RUDGE._

THE truth was, a new factor had come into Pauline's life,—a new element altogether, in the shape of Leonard Rudge.

Pauline had reached the age of twenty-seven without a love affair. She had always declared stoutly that she did not want to marry, that she did not care for men, that she preferred a single life. This was all very well, so far as it went. Most sensible women do prefer a single life, until they meet with the one individual who alone can make married life preferable. Pauline was so long before she met the said individual, that she had made up her mind he did not exist. Then, suddenly, he appeared.

During six weeks past, she and her father had been in Singleton. Pauline would have found it hard to state why they had first come. After leaving the home of her childhood, she had not greatly cared where they went next, all the world looking equally forlorn. And Singleton had seemed to offer economical advantages—a prime consideration. Mr. Ogilvie suggested the name first, in his hesitating way. He had known the little watering-place in his youth, and he had a wish to see it again. Pauline acquiesced somewhat indifferently. It was not a fashionable watering-place, and what season it possessed was not in May or June. The spot might do as well as any other for a while, till they had formed some more definite plans for their future. Once installed, they stayed on, week after week, and plans remained as indefinite as ever.

Nobody knew exactly how acquaintance began between the Ogilvies and their fellow-lodger. A lifted hat, a kind word, some little help when needed—these were the first stages. And then the acquaintanceship ripened fast. Pauline did not like strangers generally, and she was apt to give them a cold shoulder. She liked Mr. Rudge, however, and she made no objection whatever when her father asked him in to "high tea" and a game of chess. Mr. Ogilvie was a good chess-player, and he found his match in Rudge. Yet chess-playing did not take up all the time. Rudge found leisure for divers little chats with Pauline.

He was a pleasant young man, no doubt, well-informed, frank, and agreeable. Nobody knew anything about his antecedents or his intended future. Nobody knew why he was down here, who were his relatives, or what were his circumstances. When Pauline and her father arrived, Rudge, who arrived a day earlier, had spoken to his landlady about "a fortnight's holiday," but six weeks had flown, and still he remained. He was always meeting the Ogilvies, always making opportunities for intercourse. He seemed to be growing quite fond of the dreamy and incapable elder man. As for Pauline—

That was the question! As for Pauline? He could not be said to definitely seek her; yet he and she had perpetual encounters. His manner might not be that of a lover, but it was that of a cordial friend. There could not be the slightest doubt that he liked Pauline more or less; only the doubt was, how much more, or how much less? There could not be any doubt that he was interested in Pauline; nevertheless, the kind and degree of his interest might be difficult to define.

She was not in the least good-looking, and never had been. Beyond the possession of a trim figure and a neat button-mouth, she could lay no pretensions to personal charms. Men often do fall in love with much plainer women than Pauline, but such women have, also often, the redeeming qualities of lovableness, sweetness, or, at the least, of soft and winning manners.

Pauline's manner was neither soft nor winning. It was downright and dogmatic. Such amount of softness as she could display did come to the surface in Leonard Rudge's presence, but at its best it was not much. Nor could she be called, by any stretch of politeness, a lovable person. She was true and reliable, and practically unselfish, but by no means sweet or lovable. She had many angles, and they were apt to knock against people in her near neighbourhood.

With some women twenty-seven is a very charming age. The freshness of girlhood has lessened, but the more finished and mellowed charms of womanhood have developed. But Pauline had lost her early freshness without gaining any new charms. She was as curt and blunt at twenty-seven as at seventeen.

Despite all this, she exercised to some extent an attractive power over Mr. Rudge. He laughed at her often, yet she interested him, and touched him.

She was so little, and she had so much on her hands. That big limp helpless father, who was good at nothing in the world except chess, leant upon her absolutely. Nothing could be done, nothing could be arranged, without reference to Pauline. And Pauline accepted the burden so uncomplainingly, did everything for him so willingly, acted so careful and motherly a part to the younger sister at school! These things took a certain hold upon Rudge. In his strong manhood, he thought pityingly of one so small, with so much to do.

On the part of Pauline there was no hesitancy, no slowness. Before she had been a fortnight in Singleton, she knew Leonard Rudge to be the one man living who could make life radiant to her. And she imagined—was it surprising?—that she might be the one woman who could perform the same office for him. Why else should he stay on in this dull place, week after week? Why else should he be always trying to see her, always doing little kindnesses? Of course, reasons unknown to her, and apart from herself, might keep him. Of course, many of their meetings were accidental. Many were distinctly initiated by Mr. Ogilvie. And of course little kindnesses are natural to any polite and kindhearted man. Still, the condition of things was not quite ordinary.

An outsider would have found it as difficult to judge from Pauline's manner as from that of Mr. Rudge, exactly how the land lay. She was not demonstrative. Her usual air was self-constrained, not to say prosy. Her eyes were not given to betraying what she felt. An unwonted tinge of softness in her manner might have meant much to one who knew her well, but Rudge, perhaps, did not know her very well. When he was present, the softness came, extending itself to others as well as to himself. And when he was not present—but, of course, Rudge never saw her then, so he could not possibly mark the difference. She had also an odd dry way of veiling her thoughts by talking of Singleton as "a poky place," and wondering how anybody could choose to stay there; all of which meant nothing, though it might well take people in.