Miss Primrose

[and]

[A Strange Will]

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"OLD COMRADES," "WON AT LAST," "LIFE-TANGLES," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," ETC.

NEW EDITION.

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.

Publishers 3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

CONTENTS.

Miss Primrose. ————————

CHAPTER.

I. THEIR POSITION

II. HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN

III. MR. RUDGE

IV. "SOMETHING TO DO"

V. RAIN! RAIN!

VI. TO-DAY OR TO-MORROW

VII. THE LETTER

VIII. THE RESOLVE

IX. TO TOWN

X. A QUESTION OF AGES

XI. MR. OGILVIE'S OLD FRIEND

XII. THE REAL MISS PRIMROSE

XIII. DULL LETTERS.

XIV. STILL AMONG PERPLEXITIES

XV. "MR. AND MRS. RUDGE"

A Strange Will. ————————

CHAPTER.

I. MAKING A WILL

II. A STRANGE DIFFICULTY

III. "MISS HARVEY"

IV. "A COUNTER-PROPOSAL"

V. THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS

VI. NATHANAEL PLUNKETT

VII. BROKEN ICE

VIII. A RESCUE

IX. WASTE PAPER

MISS PRIMROSE.

CHAPTER I.

THEIR POSITION.

"IN our position, Pauline,—"

It was a phrase often in Mr. Ogilvie's mouth. He said the words slowly, as he stood in the window, a tall thin man, narrow-shouldered, with a reedy inclination to stoop, looking this way and that way, manifestly wishing to escape.

"Yes, father," she answered sharply.

Mr. Ogilvie did not finish the sentence. He only hung his head, with its limited brow, its pinched aquiline nose, its weak though kind eyes. The worst feature in the face was his mouth, a loose orifice, the upper lip long, the lower jaw disposed to drop.

Pauline was a contrast to her father. No manner of weakness could be detected in the outlines of her neat trim figure. She made the most of her little height by carrying herself resolutely erect like a dart; and nobody ever saw Pauline lounge. Her nose was as much too short as his was too long, and she bore it through the world in an assertive fashion, sometimes mistaken for conceit, but Pauline was not conceited. She was only keen-eyed, quick-witted, energetic, and somewhat intolerant.

"In our position, my dear,—"

Mr. Ogilvie came to another helpless break. He seemed to be vainly trying to frame an apology for something or somebody.

"Yes. In our position—?" she said, by way of helping him. "Go on, please."

"My dear, you interrupt me. You confuse my ideas. You are too hasty, Pauline, my dear."

Pauline had a neat small button of a mouth; the prettiest feature in a face not otherwise good-looking. She pressed her compact lips together, as if to shut in something which might be said.

They were looking out upon a deserted parade, with a grey sea beyond. The sky above was grey to match; indeed, the match was so perfect that one would have found it difficult to say where the clouds ended and the water began. The whole made one indefinite grey shield, cutting off the horizon. A thick driving rain had fallen continuously for hours, and as yet showed no sign of abatement.

"You were going to say something about 'our position,'" Pauline remarked presently, as no further utterance came from her father. "What was it? Something about 'our position.'"

"My dear, you interrupted me, and drove what I had to say out of my head," Mr. Ogilvie murmured plaintively.

"It is not a very pleasant position, father,—ours."

Mr. Ogilvie cast a longing glance at the parade.

"You promised me to settle something, weeks and weeks ago. Nothing is settled yet. And I have waited patiently enough, I am sure—nobody can say I have not. But patience will not keep us going much longer. Patience will not pay our bills."

"We have to come to a decision, of course. But matters cannot be settled hastily—in our position."

"The most remarkable thing about our position is that we never settle anything."

"You do not understand, Pauline,—of course you do not. Women never do. But pray, don't get excited. It makes me quite nervous when you speak in that tone. There is no hurry."

"Father, shall I show you a list of the bills that are owing?"

"There is no need, I assure you. I am quite content to leave all housekeeping questions in your hands. I have entire trust in your capabilities."

Pauline moved impatiently. "My capabilities don't go to the extent of paying bills out of an empty purse!" she said.

"My dear, I am aware of that. I do not form unreasonable expectations. It is not needful to speak so loud," said Mr. Ogilvie, with a victimised expression.

Pauline dropped her voice several notes. "I have exactly eight shillings in hand."

"Not more? But of course you have managed rightly. Money will be coming in soon."

"About half enough to meet over-due local bills, not to speak of current expenses to come. It is not my fault," she said, looking him straight in the face. "How can I manage differently, when—"

"Well, well; there is no use in talking, Pauline. Manage any way you like, only I really cannot stand this sort of discussion. We must consider what must be done. Of course, it is impossible to go on so. But I cannot decide anything in a hurry. And Nessie will be at home now; we shall not have the pull of Nessie's schooling. That will make a very considerable difference."

He would have moved away, but Pauline held him fast, against his will, with her steady gaze.

"You have not written yet to your friend—what is her name?—The old lady whom you used to know. I have not heard her name."

"I will write—yes—certainly—some day soon."

"Why not to-day—now? I have pen and paper here. Why put off?"

Her impulsive manner grated on Mr. Ogilvie's fastidious languor. He rubbed his narrow forehead slowly, with a purposeless hand.

"My dear, I cannot possibly write at this moment. I must consider what to say—and I have something to do out-of-doors first."

"Always something to do except what needs to be done!"

Pauline emphasized the words by a slight shake of her shoulders.

"Yes, my dear, yes. I'll write, Pauline, I'll write, but pray, don't get so excited. It makes me quite nervous and agitated, dear, when you speak like that—it does indeed."

"You always say you will write, father, and you never do it. Three weeks ago you promised to get the letter off 'to-morrow,' and it was never done. We are just as vague now in our plan as before we came to Singleton; and the little extra money we have had is vanishing fast. We can't go on so. There has been too much delay already. I don't know in the least what claim you have on this particular old lady, nor how she is to help us, but if nothing can be arranged without a letter to her, the letter ought to be written at once."

Mr. Ogilvie began to pull on his gloves.

"You do not really think of going out in such weather?" she protested.

"I must, my dear. There is a—a paper which I must procure—a magazine. The rain is not likely to stop. Probably it will not hurt me. I am not made of salt."

He laughed faintly, not cheerfully, for he was by no means a cheerful man. Since the death of his wife, he had been like ivy bereft of its sustaining oak. Pauline inherited much of her mother's vigour, but she lacked self-control, and her energetic ways worried him, not being softened by sympathy.

"Cannot you put off your walk till to-morrow, and stay in now to write to your old lady? You will come back tired and wet, and another day will be lost. Nessie comes home to-morrow, and I want it done before she arrives."

Mr. Ogilvie's lips moved deprecatingly.

"My dear, I cannot do things in such a hurry. It is not my way. I must have time. Nessie coming home to-morrow! Yes—I forgot—I thought it was the day after."

"But all that you need say will be written in ten minutes. See how the rain is pelting. You can't start yet. Here is your writing-case."

Pauline had a certain power over her father. He sat down at length with a resigned air, pen in hand. Pauline stood near, unconscious how her gaze paralysed his thoughts.

"Can't you begin? 'My dear'— What is her name?"

No answer.

"Is it a secret?"

Mr. Ogilvie traced slowly two words—"My Dear Miss—," and there he stopped.

"Dear Miss what?" Pauline's curiosity was getting the better of her tact. Hitherto she had refrained from direct questions on the subject.

Mr. Ogilvie pushed the paper away. "I cannot do it—I really cannot. I have not made up my mind what to say!"

"Is that so difficult?" Pauline planted her trim little figure exactly opposite to him, with the table between. "It depends on what sort of person she is, I suppose, partly, but after all you have not much choice. We are in money-troubles, and we want help. That is the gist of the matter. You only have to smooth down and round off. If you are so anxious that I should not see you write her name, I will stand in the window with my back turned—though why you should make such a mystery of it all—"

CHAPTER II.

HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN.

"HER name is Primrose," faltered Mr. Ogilvie, like a schoolboy brought to book.

"Primrose! Is that it? Nothing very distinguished, after all. Well, now you can write 'Dear Miss Primrose.' Then you can refer to our troubles—to my mother's death, if she does not know it, and to the loss of our money. Tell her we have been living on in the old house, till we could sell it. I suppose it would be better not to say that we have been recklessly using what was left of our capital, and that it is nearly all gone. You might explain that we have been for six weeks in this poky place, without a notion what brought us here, and that we are at our wits' end what to do next. Then you can ask her whether she could not possibly help you or me to some sort of work just to bring in something extra, if it were only fifty pounds a year. Only do begin, father, one way or another. Tell her frankly how we stand, and ask her advice."

Pauline confused Mr. Ogilvie with her eager and rapid utterances. He listened in a troubled manner, as if vainly trying to fix his thoughts.

"I cannot do it, I really cannot," he said again. "Not at this moment, I mean. My head feels bewildered. You shall tell me by-and-by what to say—only not quite so fast, my dear—and then I shall be able to take it in."

"Mr. Rudge has promised to spend the evening with us."

"Has he? Ah, yes, I remember. But I shall be in long before then. There is plenty of time."

"And you promise to write to Miss Primrose when you come back?"

"I will see about it."

"Father, if you find the letter such a trouble, why should I not write instead? Why not?"

"My dear, it would not do. It would not do at all," Mr. Ogilvie looked fretted. "Pray do not think of such a thing."

"Thinking isn't much use, for I have not her address," Pauline responded. "But I don't see why I should not write. Something ought to be done."

Mr. Ogilvie made his escape at last, Pauline going with him to the front door. When she turned back she was confronted by a young man, a gentleman, who had just come downstairs. He was, perhaps, about thirty, with a fair reddish complexion, and light hair. A certain wishy-washyness which sometimes goes with such colouring was in his case obviated by a broad-chested figure, over medium height, and by darker eyebrows and moustache. The effect was curious, not unpleasant, and he had a particularly genial smile.

"Wet day, Miss Ogilvie."

"Very." Pauline retreated before him into the sitting-room, as if it were a matter of course that he should follow, and follow he did. "I have been trying to persuade my father to stay in, but he won't hear reason."

"Men never do, I believe!"

"Not often," laughed Pauline. She stood by the fireplace in her usual erect attitude, the short nose so lifted as to point slightly upwards. It was an attitude which always gave the impression of a struggle after increased height. Pauline certainly was short, quite under medium height for women. And she looked shorter than usual beside her present companion, who gained extra "bigness" from his large enveloping cloak.

He stood looking down on Pauline with a good-humoured, interested expression. And Pauline gazed up at him with her usual self-assertiveness, into which, however, a tinge of softness had crept.

"Especially when the reason flows from feminine lips!"

"You are making out a bad case for yourselves. A man ought to be willing to hear reason from any and every quarter, if he is such a reasonable animal as he is supposed to be."

"That's rather cutting! You won't exercise your logic to keep me in, I hope, for duty calls me out. I never go against the calls of duty. And you are not my father."

He laughed outright. "No, not quite. Not quite that."

Pauline coloured vividly. "I mean—you are younger. You have not his health. Besides—" after a pause—"I suppose I ought to confess that I was not thinking so much of his health. I wanted him to write a business letter."

"Ah! Horrible things, business letters! By-the-by, did you not say that your sister was coming home this afternoon? I have to go to the station presently. Could I be any help as to meeting her? The weather is so bad—for you, I mean. I would gladly put her into a fly—or—"

"Thanks. We can't afford the luxury of a fly, and Nessie does not arrive till to-morrow."

Pauline spoke the words rather stiffly. She was not anxious to throw Mr. Rudge and Nessie together more than need be. Of course they would and must meet—but still—Well, Nessie was undeniably pretty, and Pauline was not pretty at all. Pauline knew this, and did not mince matters with herself. In a general way she was not jealous. She loved and was proud of Nessie. But still—!

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.

CHAPTER IV.

"SOMETHING TO DO."