CHAPTER VIII.

_THE RESOLVE._

WHEN they returned from their stroll, she was sewing diligently, as if no thought save of household repairs had crossed her mind during the interim.

"Oh, dear, I'm so tired," Nessie as usual declared, dropping on the sofa. "I do want my tea. No letter from that old lady, I suppose? We've had a walk on the Parade with Mr. Rudge, all this time!"

"Really!" said Pauline.

"He overtook us before we got there. I suspect he saw us start, and came on purpose," laughed Nessie.

"Where is he now?"

"Oh, he didn't come back—had something to do, but he stayed on the Parade as long as we stayed. He's nice, I think—rather. I like him better than I did at first: if only he were better-looking. Perhaps he isn't quite so ugly when you get to know him, but nobody in the world can call him handsome."

Pauline could have done so, but of course she would not. Her heart sank low. If she had but left her mending, and gone out! To have missed such a pleasure! Yet would it have been a pleasure, if in truth his aim had been—Nessie?

"Well, I suppose you both want some tea?" she said, getting up.

"Awfully," yawned Nessie.

Then, after a break—

"Mr. Rudge has been telling us lots about himself. He lives at a place called Wokingholme. It's in the country, not a great many stations off from here. He must be the squire there, I fancy. That's why he never seems to have anything particular to do. And I dare say he is rich. He and father got upon land improvements, and there was a lot of talk about turnips and mangold-wurzel. I hate farm talk, and I almost ran away. Didn't Mr. Rudge ever tell you before where he lived?"

"I never asked him."

"I don't see why you shouldn't. There's no harm in asking, if one wants to know. I found out something else too. He's an orphan, and he was brought up by an aunt. Father wanted him to come in to tea, but he said he couldn't; he had a heap of letters to write."

"Then squires have something to do, I suppose, after all?"

"Oh, letters—yes, but not regular hard work."

"Some people seem to think letters the hardest work of all," murmured Pauline.

Then the postman's knock sounded. Singleton was not one of those watering-places where the knocker has given place to the bell. Nessie looked lazily at Pauline, and Pauline went out.

"A postcard for father," she said, returning.

Mr. Ogilvie was embarrassed between a full cup and crumbling cake. "Postcard! Is that all?" he asked, "Some advertisement. Read it aloud, my dear."

Pauline obeyed promptly.

"Letter received. Quite right. Glad to hear again. Send your eldest daughter here day after to-morrow. Companion wanted for a month or so, while in town. May lead to something more permanent. Please say which train, and she shall be met.—V. Primrose!"

After the first two words, Mr. Ogilvie held out a feeble hand to check Pauline, but she went resolutely on to the end.

"Miss Primrose must be an oddity," she commented. "What does V. stand for? 'Violet'! Was that your friend's name? Do you suppose she lives in Kensington now? This is from Kensington."

"Let me see the address," said Mr. Ogilvie. He gazed at the card with troubled eyes. "No; she has a country home. Number twenty-seven—I can't make out the name of the street. It is not a name I know."

"I'll look it out with the directory."

"Pauline can't go off for a month, like that," observed Nessie. "What nonsense! We can't spare her."

"If it is right, you will have to spare me," said Pauline.

She spoke with the more decision, because she found herself utterly adverse to the plan. At any other time she would have cared less, though her objection to strangers was proverbial, and she had a dislike to London. It would have come as a simple duty, and would have been accepted as such. But to leave Singleton at this moment, to cut herself adrift from Rudge, just when he had begun to fall under the sway of Nessie's attractions—this did seem hard. A month away at so critical a juncture would probably settle matters. If the slightest hope remained that Rudge could care for her, that hope would be slain by her going. And even if she should return at the month's end—even if he and Nessie should not become engaged meantime—she could not expect to find him still at Singleton. She might never see him again.

All these thoughts came before Pauline's mental vision, and a voice within her cried wildly—"I cannot go! I will not go!"

But another voice spoke no less clearly. Pauline, with all her faults, was no helpless victim to self-pleasing. She had too often put self aside to be easily vanquished now. If it were right, go she would; and Pauline felt that it was right. In the face of her reluctant dread, she asked quietly—

"Which train shall I name?"

"My dear, we must consider: it might be best to enquire further," hesitated Mr. Ogilvie.

"Why? What is there to enquire? You know Miss Primrose; and I am old enough to take care of myself. We can't afford to throw aside such a chance."

Mr. Ogilvie stroked his chin, and murmured, "You can hardly be ready by to-morrow."

"I shall pack to-night. I will take one trunk—a small one—and leave a second ready to be sent, if I should need it. I must go, of course," she said, smothering down the revolt within.

"Pauline always does what she likes, and never thinks about other people," complained Nessie.

"Of course!" Pauline would not betray the sting of this injustice, for how could she, without betraying the injustice itself? "I must look out trains, now, and then I must pack. The thing has to be done, Nessie, so fretting will do no good. You will find it much easier to manage than you expect."

"I daresay! While you are taking your pleasure away in London!" pouted Nessie.