CHAPTER V.

_RAIN! RAIN!_

PAULINE stood on the station platform looking out for Nessie's train. Her waterproof cloak was as limp and nearly soaked as a waterproof can be, and her closed umbrella formed a puddle near her feet. A second pelting day had followed the first; and she had walked to the station for economy's sake. Nessie would arrive directly, so no need to remove the draggle-tailed cloak. She gave it a shake, flapped the umbrella, and set herself to renewed waiting.

"Thanks for an artificial shower," a voice said at her side.

Pauline twisted sharply round, chilly and wet no longer in imagination, whatever her outer woman might be. "You here, Mr. Rudge!"

"Seems like it."

"Did I sprinkle you? I thought nobody was near."

"Merely a small shower-bath!"

"I'm sorry, but,—You had business at the station yesterday!" with meaning stress on the last word.

"Undeniably true."

"And to-day too?"

"To-day too!" He looked impenetrable. "Are you anxious to know what the business is?"

"Of course it is not my concern—but—"

"I have a big parcel to get home."

"You had not that yesterday?"

"I beg your pardon, I had. But the day was so wet."

"And to-day is so fine!"

"That's just it! We may have this lovely weather for a month, and I want my parcel. So I chartered a cab."

"Wouldn't the railway people send it for you?"

"I didn't ask them. The cab is there, secured and waiting. Room inside for you and your sister."

"Oh, there's no need, thanks. We can easily walk."

"I haven't a doubt of that. The question is, whether you couldn't more easily be driven."

Pauline looked dubious, not as to her own liking, but as to the requirements of the case.

Rudge did not weaken his point by disputation. "Don't stand still," he said. "The air is wringing wet. And, pardon me, you must take off that cloak. We'll give it to the driver. So—and your umbrella." He had them both by this time. "I meant to save you the wet walk, as I had to come, but when I'd got the cab, you were gone."

"I had some shopping to do by the way. When one can't keep dry, one may as well be any amount wet," said Pauline. "I don't know why you should bother yourself in this way," she added, to hide an inward glow of pleasure.

"I don't know either, if it is a bother."

He stopped at the bookstall and purchased a "Punch."

"There's a cartoon that I want your father to see. Well, did he arrive in time for the business letter yesterday? Somehow I failed to find him."

"It was not written. Inclination was wanting, not time."

"I wonder whether inclination is ever otherwise than wanting in the case of a business letter. Miss Ogilvie, is this letter one of great importance—to you?"

"Yes. I don't know why, but it is. We can't go on as we are doing now. That is the reason," she said frankly, though not usually disposed to frankness about family affairs. "Our plans ought to be settled; and my father seems able to settle nothing without reference to Miss Primrose. I don't know why."

"The said settlement of affairs might involve a move from Singleton?" inquiringly.

"I suppose so. We have no idea of living here. What I want is to find some work—something to add a little to our income. And, of course, a home in some place where we can economise."

"Miss Primrose is an old friend of your father's, you say?"

"They must have been friends before I was born."

"Ah!"

"More than a quarter of a century ago."

"Yes!" in a rather odd voice. "There comes the train. What is your sister like?"

"Nessie! Oh, tall and pretty—a school-girl. Light hair and eyes."

The train drew up. Pauline grew flushed, and began to run, but Rudge checked her.

"No hurry," he said, with amused eyes. He took the matter coolly himself, glanced to right and left, then approached a third-class compartment, in the doorway of which stood a slight creature, girlish but not school-girlish, with fluffy fair hair and sky-blue eyes. Rudge singled her out as if he had known her all his life.

"Miss Nessie Ogilvie?" he asked. "Here is your sister. How many trunks?"

Nessie stooped from her superior height to kiss Pauline, and then drew up, repelled by the indignant "Nessie! In public!"

Rudge saw, heard, and laughed inwardly. He had the luggage together in a trice, ordered a man to convey it to the cab, and ushered the sisters in the same direction, impervious to Pauline's conscientious efforts after resistance.

Pauline felt herself managed, and gave in.

When he disappeared in search of a parcel, Nessie seized the opportunity to ask, "Who's that?"

"Mr. Rudge. He has lodgings in the same house. Father likes him."

"He's ugly—but not disagreeable, I should think."

"Ugly!" Pauline could have protested, yet she did not wish Nessie to admire Mr. Rudge.

Once off through the persistent downpour, Pauline began to realise the pleasantness of being so conveyed.

"Easier than walking, isn't it?" Rudge said, smiling.

"Yes. You must let me share the fly with you."

"I thought we were sharing it already."

Pauline was conscious of being worsted, and she let the matter drop.

Rudge was studying Nessie at intervals, with evident interest. Pauline had expected this, for Nessie was decidedly pretty. She had a taking little face, small-featured, with soft blue eyes, and short hair of pale straw-colour in a fashionable confusion of waves and half-curls. Nessie was only seventeen, just ten years younger than Pauline. There had been three sisters between the two, none of whom had lived beyond infancy. Pauline loved Nessie dearly, counting herself well able to play a mother's part. Perhaps her rôle had been a little too maternal as to authority, since a mother's tenderness had been lacking. Nessie could scarcely be said to return, measure for measure, the elder sister's affection.

But then, the said affection was not commonly visible in manner. This makes all the difference. Pauline had a sharp manner of speaking to Nessie, as to others, and sharpness does not win love. All the practical kindness in the world, shown by one friend to another, or by one sister to another, will not undo the effects of a sharp and argumentative tone.

Pauline knew herself to have failed somehow in that quarter, but she did not exactly understand how. She was not great in self-knowledge.

Reaching the house, Rudge handed both sisters out. He marked, with his dry little smile, the difference between Pauline's impetuous descent on the pavement and Nessie's soft slow movements. Two sisters could hardly have been more unlike. Nessie had not her father's features, the long thin nose, the long weak upper lip, or the long limp chin, but her languid gentle manner was distinctly inherited from him. She had none of Pauline's air of being moved by springs, of acting in jerks.

"Well, Pauline! So you were prudent and took a cab, after all! Well, Nessie!"

It was easy to see which daughter lay nearest to the father's heart. Not that Nessie was more estimable or more useful than Pauline. She was only more soft and winning. Practical worth and usefulness by themselves are not lovable.

Nessie dropped quietly into Mr. Ogilvie's arms, and held him fast, secure of no rebuff here, and heedless of Pauline's propriety notions. "Nessie!" the latter muttered, but in vain.

Mr. Ogilvie and his youngest went into the dining-room, clinging still each to the other.

Rudge stood, with his big parcel, looking at Pauline.

"How much is my share, please?" she asked.

"Your share?"

"Of the cab."

"Two seats," said Rudge, with a bow. "All right!" he called, and the cab drove off.

"But—you have not paid him."

The remark was passed over. Rudge looked again at Pauline over his parcel, and said, "Hardly a child! Charmingly pretty."

"Nessie! Yes, she always was pretty." Pauline forgot the cab question.

"The prettiest creature I have seen for a long while."

"Everybody thinks so, of course." Pauline went upstairs without more ado to change her draggled skirt. "Like the rest of the world," she murmured to herself. "Nothing but a pretty face is worth thinking of. I should have thought 'he' could be above that. But I see how it will be."