CHAPTER XIIn which Adrian holds a decidedopinion about PamNo one should count on anything. We say that often, yet we do the opposite. Pamela thought no one could bother her again that night, yet she was wakened about two hours after she fell asleep by the cautious opening of her door.There was moonlight still, of course. The moon rose later, and was veiled by fog still, but grey light made things in her room visible."Pam!" it was Hughie's voice; he slid round the edge of the door, closed it after him, and came towards the bed on tiptoes, a quaint little figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas."Well?" answered Pamela, not in the least realizing that no cause but an important matter would have made Hughie do this. She was hardly awake.Hughie seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked at her."Are you awake, Pam, now?" he inquired."Yes, I am--now----""Well, look here----""Look here what? Why did you come?" Pam was still confused."A person threw a thing into my window. It went whack on the floor--not a bump--just a teeny whack. Then I got up and found it. See----" Hughie stretched out his hand.Pamela gathered her wits together and sat up. Then she bent forward to look, and took the something from his hand. She turned it over with caution, surprised, and still befogged."What on earth!" she murmured, and stopped."I'll light your candle," said Hughie.Pamela glanced up."Get my torch, Midget, and snap it on while I look. We don't want a candle, it might be seen outside--or inside, for that matter; we don't need an audience."Hughie did as he was asked, and stood by her side, bringing the little bright light to bear on the parcel she held. It was very small. A longish foreign envelope, containing apparently some little heavy things of irregular size that felt like pebbles. Pamela tore it open. Certainly pebbles, little gravel ones not even washed, were in the envelope, and a folded bit of paper.Within the note were these words, written in a pointed narrow hand, not like that usual with schoolgirls."I wish to speak with you. Come to the Clawtol wood at 8.30 to-morrow."There was no signature.Pamela read it twice, then she said in a very wideawake tone:"Cheek!"Hughie watched her with interest. He was not able to master handwriting yet, but his wits were keen."Is it the other girl, Pam?" he asked."Yes.""Who is she, then?""Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her friends know best.Iknow nothing at all, yet.""Does she want you to do something, then?""My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coollyordersme to meet her at 8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad, prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply isn't decent."Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the envelope."She put those in to weight the letter, of course--but why your window?""She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie."Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs. Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her.""Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain this time."Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned."I wish she'd leave me alone, Midget. I've a feeling in my bones that she'll get me into a mess before she's done. I don't believe she has a shred of consideration, now she knows we are alike.""Has she seen you, Pam?" asked Hughie with keen interest."Seen me! Why, I perfectly forgot I've never told you a thing. Here, climb on the foot of the bed, and I'll tell you exactly what happened to-day. I was so fearfully tired, and so busy warding off all the idiotic questions, that I never remembered I hadn't told you."Hughie climbed up as suggested, packing himself like an Indian idol as usual, and listened to the true and complete version of the rescue on the Beak cliff.When it was ended he said:"Well, I thought it was fearfully funny that you got up Reube all alone. I've been down there----""You have," interrupted Pamela with sharp disapproval, "then you're not to do it again, Midget. Swear you won't."Silence."Well--look here," Pamela compromised, "if you won't promise, will you tell me when you go and let me come too. Honestly, it isn't safe for you. Reube slipped and was nearly killed. Only my going saved him.""I'll tell you, Pam," agreed Hughie, impressed by her anxious tones."That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to grip.""Major Fraser was thinking about it while he talked to us," remarked Hughie dryly, "hewas wondering, I saw him.""Well, he'll have to wonder," answered Pamela shortly, "I'm getting fed up with this girl. By the way, Midget, her face isn't like mine. She's frightfully pretty.""So are you," said her brother with firmness.Pamela turned pink."Oh no--not pretty. I may be interesting--I hope I am. And I know my hair's decent. But really and honestly this girl is lovely--and yet--she didn't exactly draw one. Some people make you love them on the spot.""Like Miss Lasarge," said Hughie."Yes, she's simply adorable--and that reminds me of an idea that came on me at supper. I can't go into it now--but remember to remind me, would you, I might forget with all this rush of confusion. Oh dear! How tiresome people are sometimes--what was I saying?""You said the girl was pretty, and she didn't draw you," reminded Hughie with painstaking care, "was she nice, Pam?""I couldn't say. She's clever. It was she thought of the petticoat. She climbs like a cat; she isn't a bit nervous--somehow she has a look of being used to it. There's something about her that impresses one--her nose is a bit hooky." Pamela paused and considered the matter, Hughie watched her intently; then she began again:"She's only told me one thing, Midget, and that came up by accident. Somehow brothers and fathers happened to be mentioned, and she saidherfather was killed in the war. Just that. She looked so queer when she said it, kind of fierce. She's got funny eyes--dark eyes, but not black--or hazel, there's a sort of tinge of red in them, and when she told me that, the red shone."There was another pause, then Hughie remarked:"Wedidsee you, Pam.""Who did?""Why don't you remember Miss Chance said that we saw you in the mist against the sky, and thought it was two Pams carrying something.""I'd forgotten. Yes, you must have.""I didn't say a word. She just thought she was mistaken afterwards. But I did rather wonder about it--especially when I felt pretty sure you couldn't have got up the Beak."Pamela laughed."You have sense, Midget--heaps. Now, look here, you'd better go to bed, I'm sleepy."Hughie slid off the bed."Shall you go to Clawtol Wood?" he asked."I don't know. I'm not sure. Besides, how can I tell which 8.30 she means?""She can't mean breakfast-time," suggested her brother with reason. "They'd tell her we have it at half past eight, and usually wait about till nine in holidays. Besides, it's a bad time for hiding oneself considering everybody in Bell Bay is going back to work.""So it is. Well, I must say going to meet people at 8.30 in the evening is rather a vulgar sort of action," Pamela lay down as she gave this distinctly sensible opinion. "I don't care about going. I don't think I will, Midget.""I wouldn't," remarked Hughie decidedly, and went off--silently as he entered.The crew of the yawl was good as its word, and turned up at breakfast-time--half past eight. Indeed they were in the cove much earlier, and riding on the moorings like a white swan on a pond. It was calm and fresh as fairyland. Mist seemed to have lasted most of the night, but cleared with sunrise, leaving a wonderful feeling of cleanness.Christobel and Adrian were in high spirits, they had done what they most wished; anchored out all night, and slept on board--on their own responsibility, and they felt entirely satisfied with the experience, also, anxious to do it again. The more they did, the more they might be allowed to do without bother or question, for when Mrs. Romilly understood that they were as safe as in Penberthy's day, she would cease to trouble about them.Addie shouted up to her window, and imparted news in cheerful tones. Crow went in to have a bath and do her hair before the bell rang.There was a general stir of excitement.In the middle of breakfast Adrian said:"Pam was up as early as we were. I congratulate you, my dear girl--never saw anything so athletic in my life! Talk about our risks! They were jolly small compared to your plan of speeding about all over the Beak at sunrise--jolly slippy hour too."Pamela sat up with a sort of a start, and sat staring at the speaker while a flush of colour crept over her face, saying nothing at first."No good you saying you were in bed--this time," continued Adrian with a good-natured emphasis on the last two words, "we saw you, as plain as we saw the old Beak--ripping it looked, too--didn't we, Crow?""We saw a girl climbing down the Beak--who looked exactly like Pam----""Well, who else could it bebutPam," interrupted Adrian, "need we haggle over a thing like that? If we were in London, or even Peterock, one might see a few samples of girls, but not in Bell Bay."Everyone was looking at Pamela, and for one wild moment she contemplated saying she was the person seen, just to stop the conversation. Then she remembered that nothing is so silly--apart from wrong--as a fib, even a harmless fib, because you are bound to tangle yourself up in a network of bother, and afterwards, when you do tell the truth, people will not believe."I wasn't on the Beak this morning," she said; "I didn't get up till nearly eight."There was silence of a tense kind. Adrian raised his eyebrows and looked at Christobel. Christobel winced, gazed at her plate and turned pink. Mrs. Romilly glanced from one face to the other, puzzled.Hughie came to the rescue."Pam got up soon before eight. I know, because when she opened her door I heard."Poor Pamela cast a grateful look towards her faithful ally.Then the Floweret--faintly conscious of uneasiness, but believing in everybody's good faith, as usual--burst into the conversation."I call that quite an odd coincidence--don't you, dear Mrs. Romilly? To think that Pamela should have risked her life to save that of another, on the Beak last evening, while we were all in ignorance. And that this morning when she was not there, Adrian should fancy she was! Most strange, is it not?"Nobody entered into argument as to the strangeness of the Floweret's "coincidence", but Crow demanded eagerly what was the story about Pam.She was told--by everybody except Pamela, who sat listening. Christobel was intensely interested; Adrian asked many questions. Finally, it was decided that someone must go up to Clawtol and inquire about Reuben; then the party dispersed, the decision having been reached that Crow and Adrian would go up that morning, carrying certain delicacies for Reube; and Mrs. Romilly would go herself to see Mrs. Ensor later in the afternoon, probably after tea.Nothing particular happened to the elder pair as they walked up, taking the shorter and easier way through Crown Hill park, except that Adrian gave it as his assured conviction--first, that Pamela had been on the Beak that morning; secondly, that she had not rescued Reube Ensor."Addie, howcanyou!" said Crow, almost tearful, "besides, it's silly. Hughie heard her get up; and how could she be telling a story about the Beak? Reube was brought up by someone--there he is, badly hurt. I think you carry things too far sometimes.""My dear friend," pronounced Adrian weightily, "I assure you on my honour that it would take every inch of muscleI'vegot to haul that child up the Beak.""But, Addie, Pam is as active as a cat!""She may be, but she can't do impossible things. That cliff is fairly precipitous, and the mist makes the whole show as greasy as butter. I tell you, Crow----""Perhaps she didn't come up the worst bit," urged Christobel eagerly."The place we saw her on this morning is the worst bit--well, as bad as any. It's all bad. What did she tell that lie for, Crow, I ask you?Isaw her. You saw her. Rum thing is she must have seen us. She was there the whole time we took getting from opposite the lighthouse to the north of the Beak. Just crawling up and down, and moving along. Why, the thing was patent. It was blazing. I swear I don't understand what Pamela is up to."Christobel was on the point of suggesting a lame excuse; because she certainly had seen Pamela, when they became aware of a lady wandering over the grass in the wake of a King Charles spaniel whose nose was buttoned up so high that it seemed miraculous he could live upside down, as it were. He was attached to a long lead, and as he ran round tree trunks the lady became a fixture at unexpected moments, because she never let go whatever happened. She did not see the Romillys because she was as short-sighted as the spaniel.Christobel hurried towards her, with a cry of "Good morning, Auntie A.," unwound the dog and the lady, and started them again on a clear space."My dear children," said Auntie A., beaming, "how nice to see you both, and looking so well too, but surely it is not summer holidays yet--what? Ah, I should have remembered. I saw you last week I believe, dear Adrian, before Mollie went. I miss her so much, especially in the matter of Charles and his exercise--I do assure you he sets me at defiance. Indeed he does. The spirit of the age, is it not? So sad! Excuse me, dear Christobel, but is my veil on my hat, I believe Dickens put it there when I came out, I feel certain she must have done so, yet I cannot find it.""It is under your chin, Auntie A.," said Crow gently and unsmiling, "I expect it got crooked and you pulled it down. Shall I undo it, and start again?""If you would, dear, I should be most grateful," said Miss Ashington, beaming, and she stood still while Christobel undid the veil, took it off, and put it on again neatly over the brim of her wide hat. She stood still, but she talked earnestly all the time about land girls and farming, which was her special hobby at the moment.Adrian teased the King Charles. He hated it, and its way of making snuffling noises and barks like coughs. Auntie A. never noticed that the dog was being teased, but she heard the coughing barks, and said she must go home and give poor Charles some tea made from stewed herbs. She had invented the cure herself. She and Charles drank it--at least it was forced down the spaniel's throat when he became extra snuffly."I really think he ought to have something, Miss Ashington," said Adrian gravely, "he sounds as though he'd got congestion of the lungs, or bronchitis, doesn't he, Crow?"Christobel said: "Oh no, I don't think it's as bad as that," reproachfully, but Miss Ashington turned homeward; she was pulling the edge of her veil--already it was coming slowly down."Of course you want to know about poor little what's-his-name," she said, drifting on from the farm questions. "I sent to inquire, because the milk boy told Mrs. Homer about the affair. Dear Pamela seems to have rescued the child in a most heroic manner. So difficult to climb up cliff's with a boy on your back----""On her back," echoed Christobel in a surprised tone."Mrs. Ensor--or somebody--Oh yes, little Joe said she was carrying the child on her back, and he was unconscious. Really, you know, my dear children, I think steps should be taken to obtain the Humane Society's medal for dear Pamela.""Isn't that to do with drowning, though?" murmured Crow."Well, dear, the childwouldhave been drowned had he fallen from the Beak. It is practically the same thing. I will write to my brother and put the matter before him--something really must be done. I feel that we ought not to lose sight of your sister's courageous act. Sir Marmaduke would, I am certain, be the first to insist----"She was stopped suddenly by finding herself entangled in the lead. Charles had gone twice round a tree stem."Really," murmured Auntie A., "really, this ismost----" the rest of the protest was lost in the folds of the veil which was coming off the brim of her hat again.Adrian picked up Charles and, walking backwards twice round the tree trunk, set the confusion clear.Miss Ashington did not laugh--she had not the faintest sense of humour, but a very large heart. She beamed with gratitude from a space between the veil and the hat."Thank you, dear Adrian, how good of you. We must go home. I feel convinced poor Charles is not himself."Charles was not himself, if his normal condition was good temper. He was enraged with his persecutor and the worst of it was that he found it impossible to explain, except in snuffles, which did not count."Rosemary tea," murmured Aunt A., jerking the string, "or was it sage?""I should give him laurel water, Miss Ashington," said Adrian in a serious tone, "it has the most lasting effect on dogs of that breed.""Laurel water! Really, I must remember that. Thank you, dear Adrian--come, Charles, come----"She went--with the veil round her shoulders, and Charles coughing defiance at the enemy. Charles had heard the parting advice and knew perfectly well that "laurel water" was only a polite name for prussic acid."How could you, Addie?" Christobel expostulated."Oh, it does them good--they both enjoy it," said her brother, "you heard what she said about Pamela."Christobel nodded. She was pleased. There was no doubt in the world that Pam had behaved like a heroine, yet Addie was trying to make her out something of a criminal! The matter was still more decided when the two reached Clawtol. They were overwhelmed with gratitude and honour by little Mrs. Ensor in the first place, and Ensor himself in the second.These two had removed their son from Pamela's shoulders, and referred several times to his disconnected recollections of that awful time on the cliff front."They 'adn't a drop of water, sir," said Mrs. Ensor to Adrian, her eyes full of tears, "if I'd a known, my cup o' tea would 'ave choked me. And boy says--Miss Pam takes 'er handkercher, and lays it on the grass--to get misty like, then she puts it in 'is mouth. 'Suck that, Reube,' says she 'an I wish I could do better for you.' Wonderful I call it.Wonderful. And she nobbut a child 'erself when it comes to years. He's asleep now, missie, or you could see him."Ensor came to the gate with his visitors. There was quite a ceremonial of respect in his manner. Christobel gave the message that Mrs. Romilly would call in the evening, and the two went off home by the cliff road.Adrian said nothing much till they reached the much-discussed summit. Then he went out over the ground, slowly descending, looking about as he went."Don't, Addie," protested Crow, following, "it's simply beastly. Just look!" She stood still.After some minutes her brother came back."No time now," he said, "but I shall have a try later. In any case though, I shall stick to my opinion. I bet you everything I possess, old girl, that Pamela couldn't have done that job alone."CHAPTER XIIIn which Pam defies the CountessPamela was growing angry. This seldom happened with her, because though she had a temper "of her own", as Mrs. Jeep declared, it was well under control. She had a great contempt for people who are angry in a "senseless" way, that is to say, without adequate reason. In the present situation she considered she had reason, and therefore indignation was brewing up into serious anger."Why can't people leave other people's affairs alone," said Pamela to herself. What business had this handsome strange girl to mix up in Romilly affairs? She melted occasionally when she remembered the affair of the cliff. It was well never to forget that the cool courage of this inconvenient "double" had saved her from tortures indescribable, and probably death. One must never forget gratitude, and a debt of honour like that; at the same time poor Pamela was grievously hurt at Adrian's suspicions and scepticism.The worst of it was, they were true.Addie knew, of course, she could not have done the work alone. Yet she dare not speak. She had heard what the stranger said to Reube--Sir Marmaduke Shard was at the back of this mystery, he was a great K.C. and a person of untold wisdom; if she talked she might set on foot a whole host of mischief; she might offend the Shards and endanger the present joys of the yawl. She might destroy the friendship between the Bell House and Crown Hill.Pamela's imagination saw herself a perfect outcast, scorned by both families, because she had not been able to hold her tongue for a brief period.The conditions were quite distinct to her eyes. Sir Marmaduke, having brought down the girl in secrecy--telling no one, not even Mrs. Romilly or his own daughter--must intend it to remain a secret, for the present anyway. And to prove it came the girl's warning to Reube.It was plain that she went out early or late. She had been on the Beak again that morning at seven o'clock. Now was that by permission? Pamela believed it was not. She believed that her double gave the keepers at Woodrising a most anxious time."She would," muttered Pam, with her head against the window frame, "she would--she hasn't got that nose for nothing. She may trample on that wretched Chipman, and give Mrs. Trewby jaundice, but she shan't trample on me. I can't help looking like her, but there it ends--no human power shall turn me into a door-mat--to be ordered about by that nose."These metaphors were confused certainly, but the intention was very distinct. Pamela had made up her mind about that message thrown into Hughie's window. She was going to proceed on direct lines--and at once. There, in the window-seat of her room, she had reasoned it out and come to the conclusion that she must take decided action.Nothing should make her meet the girl in secret. She would go to Woodrising after tea, ask to see her, and tell her so, once for all.Hughie asked no questions that day, he was a tactful child. Miss Chance had a headache, and the two elders were going out in the dinghy to fish for whiting, taking their tea. Pamela felt a pang when Crow said: "Won't you ever come in the boat, Pam?" It looked as though she had private concealments, and the horrible part was that she had--only they were honourable and with excellent intentions.She excused herself with such anxious humility that Christobel's sympathy was with her entirely. Adrian said nothing.Mrs. Romilly started for Clawtol escorted by Hughie. Then Pamela Romilly made preparations to put her foot down with credit to her family.She brushed her long hair, changed her blouse, and put on a different hat, a shady one. She got out clean washed gauntlet gloves, and polished her brown shoes. Then she went up to Woodrising.She met no one by the way, and all the time was conscious of surprise at her own boldness--for no one can deny it was bold.Arrived outside the carriage-gate in the wall she found it was locked. There was a pair of big gates with little spikes along the top, and in one of these was a small gate."Anyone would think it was a lunatic asylum," thought the girl, and from that sprang a sudden amazing question: "Was it? Was this strange girl a 'funny person'? She did not look 'cracked'," as Pam breathlessly put it, but one never knows!The only thing to do was to summon Mrs. Trewby by the gate bell. So she rang it. As she stood waiting, she recalled that Mrs. Trewby had told Mrs. Jeep she always kept the gate locked, because of tramps and trippers."Anybody wouldn't believe how folk make free with a person's property," Mrs. Trewby had said. "Here, there, and everywhere--and to sweep up after them is not what I'm paid to do." So the gate was kept locked because of excursionists, not lunatics.Mrs. Trewby came with slow steps, and Pamela heard her sigh as she undid the chain. The small gate opened, and the two looked at each other through the opening."Good afternoon," said Pamela politely, "could I see the young lady who is staying here?"Mrs. Trewby looked as though someone had fired a squib in her ear. Her sallow face and melancholy eyes became distracted and rather frightened."Young lady," she echoed, and moved the gate a few inches as though to close it."Yes. We needn't pretend, need we, Mrs. Trewby. I've seen her, and she sent me a note last evening asking me to meet her. I must speak to her.""Sent you a note, miss!" Mrs. Trewby repeated these words in a startled manner. "Who ever brought it? If it was boy----"In this way Mrs. Trewby let the cat quite out of the bag, and made it impossible to deny the presence of the young lady at Woodrising."She brought it herself," said Pamela, "if you want to know how she gave it in, you'd better ask her, I'm not here to tell things; I'm here to speak to her, it's important."Mrs. Trewby stood in awe of the Romillys, and at that moment she was almost afraid of Pamela."Well, miss," she conceded, "if you'll step inside, I'll tell Mrs. Chipman. She will be in a way, but I can ask her. It's no business of mine--what I say is 'attend to your own business, it'll take all your time'--nobody can say I've put myself forward to interfere; it's not my nature; I never was one for forwardness, that I will say."These comments on her own character were made by Mrs. Trewby as she shut the gate, locked it, and led the way across the gravel sweep to the square white porch in the square white house-front. Here again was a double-locked door she opened, and Mrs. Trewby led Pamela into the dim hall; then, with a murmured assertion that it was not her fault, she melted into some back passage.In the briefest time, and before Pamela had time to do more than take in the fact that the hall ran through the house to a glass door at the end, and that there seemed to be several rooms, Mrs. Chipman burst upon her sight.She was a little woman, stout, and extremely bustling and buxom. She wore the style of garment that used to be called a habit bodice--tight and firm, and bristling with bead trimming and buttons. Her neck was short, but she had a beaded collar fastened by a brooch. Nothing on earth could have been more respectable and farther from any idea of mystery than Mrs. Chipman."Good evening, Miss Pamela," she said in a quick bustling voice, suppressed to a low note, "I find Mrs. Trewby's communication difficult of comprehension. Do I understand that you have a message for--me?""I wish to see the young lady who is staying here, Mrs. Chipman, and to make things clear I may as well say that I've spoken to her. And she sent me a note--I've really come about the note.""Excuse me, Miss Pamela, might I request----" Mrs. Chipman motioned towards a door with a flourish of her fat hand, and then led the way to it, flung it open and let Pamela pass in, then she shut the door and practically stood with her back to it, thus barring the way out.Pamela glanced round expecting to find the person she wanted, but there was no one in the room but themselves. It was apparently a dining-room, comfortably furnished in a very solid manner, and having a window at the end looking over the lawns.Mrs. Chipman swept on without taking breath."I realized some such demand from words conveyed by Mrs. Trewby, but the mental capacity of persons dwelling in the country--as a permanency--being to a great extent limited, I believed she had mistaken your words. I am loath indeed to deny any member of the family what would appear a most reasonable request, but I assure you, Miss Pamela, I stand in a position of trust--nay, more--a position of great responsibility, and therefore I grieve to say that I could not accede--that is to say if there is a young lady at all. To begin with I cannot admit that there is a young lady----""Then you must be sillier than people think, Mrs. Chipman," said Pamela blandly, "we've all seen her--only the others take her for me----""That is so--the case with many----""Well, I don't like it then," Pamela cut her short with raised tone. "I don't like it, and I won't bear the burden of the things she does. So farIam the only person who has spoken to her--in our family--but unless you let me see her now, and speak to her, and settle things up, I will tell them all--every one."Mrs. Chipman tried to speak. Pamela continued firmly,"I don't want to be the least rude, but if you are responsible and all the rest of it, why don't you look after her? Do you know she threw a note into my brother's window last night about eleven, or half-past ten?"Mrs. Chipman gave a squeak like a trapped mouse, then she pressed a hand to her tight bodice."Surely, surely, miss--I cannot credit----""It was Hughie's window, the next to mine," went on Pamela, "hebrought it in to me, because it was addressed to me. How she knew our rooms I can't say--but that doesn't matter--the point is, what was she doing in our grounds at that time?"Then flashed into Pamela's mind the power of the whip she held--she went on:"What would Sir Marmaduke say, Mrs. Chipman? If you won't let me see her, I shall certainly askhimif I may--and explain matters."Mrs. Chipman was "taken all aback", like a full-rigged ship up in the wind. She hesitated."Far be it from me, Miss Pamela, to place obstacles----""That's all right then," said Pam, "can I see her now?"At that moment a bell pealed somewhere in the house. Really pealed, with the jangling force of a violently pulled bell."If you will excuse me, miss," said Mrs. Chipman, visibly perturbed. She opened the door, and hurried out into the hall, Pamela following closely with interest very wide awake.Again the bell was rung, more forcefully than ever."Dear, oh dear!" muttered Mrs. Chipman, increasing her pace.Pamela giggled.But the bell-puller was unreasonably impatient. A door on the right hand of the hall--same side as the room they had quitted, but the last door--opened sharply, and the girl under discussion appeared. She wore no hat, and held a book in her hand."I rang twice," she said, "I heard voices, and----"Pamela came forward. Drawn up to her full height, her carriage and manner were at least as haughty as those of the other girl."Iwas talking to Mrs. Chipman," she said. "As a matter of fact I came to see you, and she was doubtful about it; so I told her I insisted.""Excuse me, Countess," burst in Mrs. Chipman, "but I must protest now, and once for all against irregular conduct. I stand in the position of guardian. The grounds are open to you, and you have the option of gravitation to any portion of the wood, orchards, or gardens--there is no excuse----""You talk too much," said the girl irritably, "be silent. You are not a guardian, you are my maid--Sir Marmaduke is my guardian, for the time. Come into this room, Miss Romilly, I will receive you here."She turned round and went back into the drawing-room, leaving Mrs. Chipman blown out like an angry bird with feathers on end.Pamela followed--thinking hard, "receive me! Cheek!" and the other revelation--"So Countess wasn't a dog! I wonder what sort of Countess!"In the drawing-room with the door closed, the two girls faced each other standing. And Pamela was again struck by the beauty and imperious style of this odd "double". Also, she had to admit how wonderfully alike they were in general effect.Pamela began the conversation."I've come about your--note," she said with a little gesture of her hand towards her skirt pocket, "I suppose you don't realize that you mistook the room and threw it into my brother's window?""Oh, the little boy's room. He gave it to you?""Yes.""Did he read it?""I don't understand you," said Pam frowning."Did he open it when he picked it up in his room?""Naturally not," Pamela stiffened, "you don't seem to understand. No decent people open other people's letters."Countess shrugged her shoulders."Just so. That is well then. But if you received my note why did you not come to the wood?""Come! When?""The hour that I appointed. 8.30."Pamela raised her eyebrows."So you expected me to go to Clawtol at half-past eight this morning, because you wished it! Doesn't it occur to you that you are--well--rather presumptuous? Why--on--earth--should I?"Pamela fired off each word, as it were, with a separate emphasis.The girl seemed a little taken aback by this way of looking at things."Wretched creature," thought Pamela suddenly, with the broad instinct of fair play natural to girls of her upbringing, "she's always had her own way. She thinks herself a little tin god! She doesn't understand!""Can I sit down?" she said aloud, and without waiting for an answer took her seat on a big sofa, near the window.The other girl moved a step or two nearer, and sat down at the other end of the same sofa."Well, look here," went on Pamela, "let's understand each other, if you don't mind, then there won't be any bother.""Is there some bother?" asked the other girl.Pamela controlled her temper with effort. The assumption of superiority was so aggravating."There will be a good deal of bother, if you do unreasonable things," she went on, trying to be indifferent. "If you want to send notes would you kindly leave them at the front door, because----""Impossible," interrupted the Countess decidedly, "you see I am not supposed to go outside these grounds. If I were to walk to your house openly I should betray myself. I do not stay in the grounds of course, because I wish to go outside. But I employ my own means."Pamela looked at her with a frustrated feeling. If only the girl were not so horribly "cock-sure"!"Well, look here," she began at another point, "will you tell me your name? I find it a bit difficult to talk without knowing it."A sort of glint flashed in the stranger's eyes. And Pamela's natural perceptions caused her to read the thought behind that glint on the instant.The girl imagined she was fishing for information!"You can call me 'Countess', if you wish to give me a name," she answered, "I have eight names, but I do not tell them to people in this place. You heard my maid say 'Countess'. Very well, then, you can also say Countess.""Oh, thanks--that's very obliging of you," said Pamela, quite unimpressed, "it's as you please, of course. And after that, to get to the reason of my visit. I naturally supposed that you meant me to meet you at 8.30 to-night.""Oh--to-night will do," allowed the Countess quite amiably, "I wished this morning, because I was in a hurry, but to-night will do as you have misunderstood my meaning.""Neitherwould do, simply because I've no intention of meeting you anywhere, or at any time. It is just as well you should understand."There was a pause. Then Pamela took up her parable again--rather enjoying herself."As I said to you a few minutes ago, why on earth should I?Idon't want to be bothered with meeting anybody on the sly--we don't do it in our family. The others would soon notice and think I was doing a low-down thing. I don't know you--I don't know your name. You are no business of mine. I don't care what you've got to say if it is secret--if it isn't, well, be open. That's the whole position, please understand I came here because I wish to be open, and to tell you honestly."The Countess sat still with her eyes gazing at the carpet, her glance had dropped from Pamela's expressive face and large clear eyes."You are unkind," she said, after a moment of silence. "I have no one--no one."She clasped her hands together rigidly on her lap, and Pam saw that they shook. The corners of her proud mouth twitched a little. But she held herself severely in check, and controlled evident emotion.Thiswas worse than anything to a girl with a heart like Pamela's."I'm sorry," she said, "awfully sorry--but, what did you want me for?"She was annoyed with herself for asking, it was a weakness, she felt that.Countess raised her eyes to meet Pam's. There was a something the least bit softer over their hard brightness."I am troubled," she said, "and wished to ask advice from you. When we carried that boy up the cliff yesterday I dropped my brooch--it was a safety pin of rather large size, of gold, and with my first letter and the crown in diamonds. My mother gave it to me on my birthday when I was twelve years old--I would not lose it for the world.--It was in my blouse--here, you see," she touched the opening of her silk shirt. "I don't know what I should do, I cannot find it--but I cannot offer a reward--what shall I do?""You were on the cliff this morning looking for it, weren't you?" asked Pamela, full of sympathy, and realizing the reason for Adrian's attack on herself.Countess nodded."Oh, for a long while, everywhere.""My brother saw you. They were coming back from Salterne in the yawl, and passed under the Beak about seven o'clock. They thought it wasI, you see," Pamela made a little grimace of disgust, "and said what was I doing there? I said I wasn't there.""Did they believe you?" asked Countess, with a sudden interest that made her seem more girlish."Crow did.""'Crow'!""I beg your pardon, I mean Christobel, my elder sister. She is Mollie Shard's friend, and she's going to be presented fairly soon--she's done with school--but we are awfully good chums.Shebelieved me, of course. She'd sooner mistrust her own eyes than my word, because we both know we wouldn't tell each other crammers.""Is that lies?""Yes. She knows I wouldn't.Youwouldn't tell your sister lies when you knew she trusted you, would you?"Countess shrugged her shoulders with a faint air of amusement."I have no sister, so--well! But I should tell any person what I like, and whatever suited me to say. No one is bound to incriminate themselves. It is not 'lies', as you call it--that is business, and common-sense.""Can't agree with you at all," said Pamela icily. "'Business and common-sense to tell lies when it paid'. Nice sort of ideas!"She sat silent for a moment, then she asked:"Are you at school?""Since I was ten years old, I have stayed--with a family--in England.""Oh, then you are notEnglish?" Pamela felt a sense of relief, though she always tried hard not to be narrow."No," said the Countess, adding, after a moment's pause, "I was to go to school next term after the summer holidays.""Shall you now?""I don't know. I dare say not. I went for a while, it was horrible. I left soon; I don't know about anything.""No wonder she left soon," thought Pamela, "her talk is simply full of 'I's', never heard anyone say so many." Again there was silence, because it was not easy to keep up conversation; the situation was so cramped and artificial to a girl of "open-air" temperament. Pamela began wondering if it would not be better to go now; she had said her say, and wanted to end it all."Well, I'm awfully sorry about your brooch," she pulled up her gloves, and made a move to stand up. "If I hear that anyone has found it, what shall I do? I can't claim it. Shall I give it to the Police--or what about Miss Ashington?""Who is Miss Ashington? Don't go yet--I want to talk to you--I want to know things."Pamela settled down rather uneasily, for the Countess had laid a restraining hand on her arm."Oh, Miss Ashington is Lady Shard's sister," she answered the first question simply."Yes, of course, but I forgot. Chipman told me that, I remember now. No, how could I tell her, it would betray me, since the brooch is lost on the cliff, or the road. I cannot tell what I shall do--besides this Miss Ashington knows nothing of me--no one knows."Again she conveyed an impression to Pamela that she was not telling the truth. Whether it was a true impression or not, it stiffened Pamela's resolution."I'm afraid I can't think of anything, then," she said, "if you don't know anyonereally, and you won't let Mrs. Chipman offer a reward. If I find it, I'll leave it at the door with Mrs. Trewby. And now I must go, really and honestly.""But you will come and see me," protested the Countess."How can I? You say yourself that Sir Marmaduke has put you here, and wishes no one to know. There must be some good reason for him to arrange that--he's an awfully kind, nice man, we all love him," said Pamela warmly. "I won't do sly things against his wish. Why, he's letting us use his lovely yacht now.""That white yacht is his?" asked the other girl.Pamela assented."And you go out on it when he is away?""He is allowing us to use her all the summer till he comes in September--it's awfully kind.""Then who goes with you?" demanded the Countess; she seemed interested."No one, we manage her ourselves. There used to be a man, but they want him in the gardens at Crown Hill, so we go quite alone.""Go where?""Oh, anywhere along the coast here. This morning Adrian and Christobel were coming from Salterne. They got caught in that thunderstorm the other day, and ran in there up to the harbour, left the yacht, and came back by train. Yesterday they went by train to fetch her, and came back early this morning."Pamela was feeling a little more friendly as she talked about theMessenger. Memories rushed into her mind of the evening of the thunderstorm day and how the others had mistaken the Countess for her."That reminds me," she said, "on the evening of the thunderstorm day did you go out--to Folly Ho, on the Peterock Road, and come home late, quite late--half-past nine. Oh, nearly ten?"The other girl considered. Not as though she did not remember, but as though she was not sure whether she would tell or no.Pamela got up from her seat and walked a few steps; they walked together to the middle of the room, and paused there to say good-bye."Yes, no doubt I went out. I often do," said the Countess rather cautiously."Well, Addie and Crow--the others I mean--saw you. They were coming from the station. Didn't he whistle?""If you say so, I expect he did. I think I heard a whistle one night.""He said you looked round and then ran. They thought it was I, and they were cross with me."At this moment Pamela noticed that the other girl's attention was fixed upon a long mirror on the wall opposite She also looked, and saw the two full-length figures, each with its long tail of beautiful bright hair. The same height! The same figure! The same dress!"Oh!" ejaculated Pam in startled dismay.The Countess laughed, for the first time.Afterwards, as Pamela hurried home with rather a perturbed mind, thinking puzzled thoughts, the picture of that pair of girls was distinct, and tiresome. She did not like it.
CHAPTER XI
In which Adrian holds a decidedopinion about Pam
No one should count on anything. We say that often, yet we do the opposite. Pamela thought no one could bother her again that night, yet she was wakened about two hours after she fell asleep by the cautious opening of her door.
There was moonlight still, of course. The moon rose later, and was veiled by fog still, but grey light made things in her room visible.
"Pam!" it was Hughie's voice; he slid round the edge of the door, closed it after him, and came towards the bed on tiptoes, a quaint little figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas.
"Well?" answered Pamela, not in the least realizing that no cause but an important matter would have made Hughie do this. She was hardly awake.
Hughie seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked at her.
"Are you awake, Pam, now?" he inquired.
"Yes, I am--now----"
"Well, look here----"
"Look here what? Why did you come?" Pam was still confused.
"A person threw a thing into my window. It went whack on the floor--not a bump--just a teeny whack. Then I got up and found it. See----" Hughie stretched out his hand.
Pamela gathered her wits together and sat up. Then she bent forward to look, and took the something from his hand. She turned it over with caution, surprised, and still befogged.
"What on earth!" she murmured, and stopped.
"I'll light your candle," said Hughie.
Pamela glanced up.
"Get my torch, Midget, and snap it on while I look. We don't want a candle, it might be seen outside--or inside, for that matter; we don't need an audience."
Hughie did as he was asked, and stood by her side, bringing the little bright light to bear on the parcel she held. It was very small. A longish foreign envelope, containing apparently some little heavy things of irregular size that felt like pebbles. Pamela tore it open. Certainly pebbles, little gravel ones not even washed, were in the envelope, and a folded bit of paper.
Within the note were these words, written in a pointed narrow hand, not like that usual with schoolgirls.
"I wish to speak with you. Come to the Clawtol wood at 8.30 to-morrow."
There was no signature.
Pamela read it twice, then she said in a very wideawake tone:
"Cheek!"
Hughie watched her with interest. He was not able to master handwriting yet, but his wits were keen.
"Is it the other girl, Pam?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Who is she, then?"
"Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her friends know best.Iknow nothing at all, yet."
"Does she want you to do something, then?"
"My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coollyordersme to meet her at 8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad, prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply isn't decent."
Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the envelope.
"She put those in to weight the letter, of course--but why your window?"
"She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie.
"Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs. Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her."
"Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain this time."
Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned.
"I wish she'd leave me alone, Midget. I've a feeling in my bones that she'll get me into a mess before she's done. I don't believe she has a shred of consideration, now she knows we are alike."
"Has she seen you, Pam?" asked Hughie with keen interest.
"Seen me! Why, I perfectly forgot I've never told you a thing. Here, climb on the foot of the bed, and I'll tell you exactly what happened to-day. I was so fearfully tired, and so busy warding off all the idiotic questions, that I never remembered I hadn't told you."
Hughie climbed up as suggested, packing himself like an Indian idol as usual, and listened to the true and complete version of the rescue on the Beak cliff.
When it was ended he said:
"Well, I thought it was fearfully funny that you got up Reube all alone. I've been down there----"
"You have," interrupted Pamela with sharp disapproval, "then you're not to do it again, Midget. Swear you won't."
Silence.
"Well--look here," Pamela compromised, "if you won't promise, will you tell me when you go and let me come too. Honestly, it isn't safe for you. Reube slipped and was nearly killed. Only my going saved him."
"I'll tell you, Pam," agreed Hughie, impressed by her anxious tones.
"That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to grip."
"Major Fraser was thinking about it while he talked to us," remarked Hughie dryly, "hewas wondering, I saw him."
"Well, he'll have to wonder," answered Pamela shortly, "I'm getting fed up with this girl. By the way, Midget, her face isn't like mine. She's frightfully pretty."
"So are you," said her brother with firmness.
Pamela turned pink.
"Oh no--not pretty. I may be interesting--I hope I am. And I know my hair's decent. But really and honestly this girl is lovely--and yet--she didn't exactly draw one. Some people make you love them on the spot."
"Like Miss Lasarge," said Hughie.
"Yes, she's simply adorable--and that reminds me of an idea that came on me at supper. I can't go into it now--but remember to remind me, would you, I might forget with all this rush of confusion. Oh dear! How tiresome people are sometimes--what was I saying?"
"You said the girl was pretty, and she didn't draw you," reminded Hughie with painstaking care, "was she nice, Pam?"
"I couldn't say. She's clever. It was she thought of the petticoat. She climbs like a cat; she isn't a bit nervous--somehow she has a look of being used to it. There's something about her that impresses one--her nose is a bit hooky." Pamela paused and considered the matter, Hughie watched her intently; then she began again:
"She's only told me one thing, Midget, and that came up by accident. Somehow brothers and fathers happened to be mentioned, and she saidherfather was killed in the war. Just that. She looked so queer when she said it, kind of fierce. She's got funny eyes--dark eyes, but not black--or hazel, there's a sort of tinge of red in them, and when she told me that, the red shone."
There was another pause, then Hughie remarked:
"Wedidsee you, Pam."
"Who did?"
"Why don't you remember Miss Chance said that we saw you in the mist against the sky, and thought it was two Pams carrying something."
"I'd forgotten. Yes, you must have."
"I didn't say a word. She just thought she was mistaken afterwards. But I did rather wonder about it--especially when I felt pretty sure you couldn't have got up the Beak."
Pamela laughed.
"You have sense, Midget--heaps. Now, look here, you'd better go to bed, I'm sleepy."
Hughie slid off the bed.
"Shall you go to Clawtol Wood?" he asked.
"I don't know. I'm not sure. Besides, how can I tell which 8.30 she means?"
"She can't mean breakfast-time," suggested her brother with reason. "They'd tell her we have it at half past eight, and usually wait about till nine in holidays. Besides, it's a bad time for hiding oneself considering everybody in Bell Bay is going back to work."
"So it is. Well, I must say going to meet people at 8.30 in the evening is rather a vulgar sort of action," Pamela lay down as she gave this distinctly sensible opinion. "I don't care about going. I don't think I will, Midget."
"I wouldn't," remarked Hughie decidedly, and went off--silently as he entered.
The crew of the yawl was good as its word, and turned up at breakfast-time--half past eight. Indeed they were in the cove much earlier, and riding on the moorings like a white swan on a pond. It was calm and fresh as fairyland. Mist seemed to have lasted most of the night, but cleared with sunrise, leaving a wonderful feeling of cleanness.
Christobel and Adrian were in high spirits, they had done what they most wished; anchored out all night, and slept on board--on their own responsibility, and they felt entirely satisfied with the experience, also, anxious to do it again. The more they did, the more they might be allowed to do without bother or question, for when Mrs. Romilly understood that they were as safe as in Penberthy's day, she would cease to trouble about them.
Addie shouted up to her window, and imparted news in cheerful tones. Crow went in to have a bath and do her hair before the bell rang.
There was a general stir of excitement.
In the middle of breakfast Adrian said:
"Pam was up as early as we were. I congratulate you, my dear girl--never saw anything so athletic in my life! Talk about our risks! They were jolly small compared to your plan of speeding about all over the Beak at sunrise--jolly slippy hour too."
Pamela sat up with a sort of a start, and sat staring at the speaker while a flush of colour crept over her face, saying nothing at first.
"No good you saying you were in bed--this time," continued Adrian with a good-natured emphasis on the last two words, "we saw you, as plain as we saw the old Beak--ripping it looked, too--didn't we, Crow?"
"We saw a girl climbing down the Beak--who looked exactly like Pam----"
"Well, who else could it bebutPam," interrupted Adrian, "need we haggle over a thing like that? If we were in London, or even Peterock, one might see a few samples of girls, but not in Bell Bay."
Everyone was looking at Pamela, and for one wild moment she contemplated saying she was the person seen, just to stop the conversation. Then she remembered that nothing is so silly--apart from wrong--as a fib, even a harmless fib, because you are bound to tangle yourself up in a network of bother, and afterwards, when you do tell the truth, people will not believe.
"I wasn't on the Beak this morning," she said; "I didn't get up till nearly eight."
There was silence of a tense kind. Adrian raised his eyebrows and looked at Christobel. Christobel winced, gazed at her plate and turned pink. Mrs. Romilly glanced from one face to the other, puzzled.
Hughie came to the rescue.
"Pam got up soon before eight. I know, because when she opened her door I heard."
Poor Pamela cast a grateful look towards her faithful ally.
Then the Floweret--faintly conscious of uneasiness, but believing in everybody's good faith, as usual--burst into the conversation.
"I call that quite an odd coincidence--don't you, dear Mrs. Romilly? To think that Pamela should have risked her life to save that of another, on the Beak last evening, while we were all in ignorance. And that this morning when she was not there, Adrian should fancy she was! Most strange, is it not?"
Nobody entered into argument as to the strangeness of the Floweret's "coincidence", but Crow demanded eagerly what was the story about Pam.
She was told--by everybody except Pamela, who sat listening. Christobel was intensely interested; Adrian asked many questions. Finally, it was decided that someone must go up to Clawtol and inquire about Reuben; then the party dispersed, the decision having been reached that Crow and Adrian would go up that morning, carrying certain delicacies for Reube; and Mrs. Romilly would go herself to see Mrs. Ensor later in the afternoon, probably after tea.
Nothing particular happened to the elder pair as they walked up, taking the shorter and easier way through Crown Hill park, except that Adrian gave it as his assured conviction--first, that Pamela had been on the Beak that morning; secondly, that she had not rescued Reube Ensor.
"Addie, howcanyou!" said Crow, almost tearful, "besides, it's silly. Hughie heard her get up; and how could she be telling a story about the Beak? Reube was brought up by someone--there he is, badly hurt. I think you carry things too far sometimes."
"My dear friend," pronounced Adrian weightily, "I assure you on my honour that it would take every inch of muscleI'vegot to haul that child up the Beak."
"But, Addie, Pam is as active as a cat!"
"She may be, but she can't do impossible things. That cliff is fairly precipitous, and the mist makes the whole show as greasy as butter. I tell you, Crow----"
"Perhaps she didn't come up the worst bit," urged Christobel eagerly.
"The place we saw her on this morning is the worst bit--well, as bad as any. It's all bad. What did she tell that lie for, Crow, I ask you?Isaw her. You saw her. Rum thing is she must have seen us. She was there the whole time we took getting from opposite the lighthouse to the north of the Beak. Just crawling up and down, and moving along. Why, the thing was patent. It was blazing. I swear I don't understand what Pamela is up to."
Christobel was on the point of suggesting a lame excuse; because she certainly had seen Pamela, when they became aware of a lady wandering over the grass in the wake of a King Charles spaniel whose nose was buttoned up so high that it seemed miraculous he could live upside down, as it were. He was attached to a long lead, and as he ran round tree trunks the lady became a fixture at unexpected moments, because she never let go whatever happened. She did not see the Romillys because she was as short-sighted as the spaniel.
Christobel hurried towards her, with a cry of "Good morning, Auntie A.," unwound the dog and the lady, and started them again on a clear space.
"My dear children," said Auntie A., beaming, "how nice to see you both, and looking so well too, but surely it is not summer holidays yet--what? Ah, I should have remembered. I saw you last week I believe, dear Adrian, before Mollie went. I miss her so much, especially in the matter of Charles and his exercise--I do assure you he sets me at defiance. Indeed he does. The spirit of the age, is it not? So sad! Excuse me, dear Christobel, but is my veil on my hat, I believe Dickens put it there when I came out, I feel certain she must have done so, yet I cannot find it."
"It is under your chin, Auntie A.," said Crow gently and unsmiling, "I expect it got crooked and you pulled it down. Shall I undo it, and start again?"
"If you would, dear, I should be most grateful," said Miss Ashington, beaming, and she stood still while Christobel undid the veil, took it off, and put it on again neatly over the brim of her wide hat. She stood still, but she talked earnestly all the time about land girls and farming, which was her special hobby at the moment.
Adrian teased the King Charles. He hated it, and its way of making snuffling noises and barks like coughs. Auntie A. never noticed that the dog was being teased, but she heard the coughing barks, and said she must go home and give poor Charles some tea made from stewed herbs. She had invented the cure herself. She and Charles drank it--at least it was forced down the spaniel's throat when he became extra snuffly.
"I really think he ought to have something, Miss Ashington," said Adrian gravely, "he sounds as though he'd got congestion of the lungs, or bronchitis, doesn't he, Crow?"
Christobel said: "Oh no, I don't think it's as bad as that," reproachfully, but Miss Ashington turned homeward; she was pulling the edge of her veil--already it was coming slowly down.
"Of course you want to know about poor little what's-his-name," she said, drifting on from the farm questions. "I sent to inquire, because the milk boy told Mrs. Homer about the affair. Dear Pamela seems to have rescued the child in a most heroic manner. So difficult to climb up cliff's with a boy on your back----"
"On her back," echoed Christobel in a surprised tone.
"Mrs. Ensor--or somebody--Oh yes, little Joe said she was carrying the child on her back, and he was unconscious. Really, you know, my dear children, I think steps should be taken to obtain the Humane Society's medal for dear Pamela."
"Isn't that to do with drowning, though?" murmured Crow.
"Well, dear, the childwouldhave been drowned had he fallen from the Beak. It is practically the same thing. I will write to my brother and put the matter before him--something really must be done. I feel that we ought not to lose sight of your sister's courageous act. Sir Marmaduke would, I am certain, be the first to insist----"
She was stopped suddenly by finding herself entangled in the lead. Charles had gone twice round a tree stem.
"Really," murmured Auntie A., "really, this ismost----" the rest of the protest was lost in the folds of the veil which was coming off the brim of her hat again.
Adrian picked up Charles and, walking backwards twice round the tree trunk, set the confusion clear.
Miss Ashington did not laugh--she had not the faintest sense of humour, but a very large heart. She beamed with gratitude from a space between the veil and the hat.
"Thank you, dear Adrian, how good of you. We must go home. I feel convinced poor Charles is not himself."
Charles was not himself, if his normal condition was good temper. He was enraged with his persecutor and the worst of it was that he found it impossible to explain, except in snuffles, which did not count.
"Rosemary tea," murmured Aunt A., jerking the string, "or was it sage?"
"I should give him laurel water, Miss Ashington," said Adrian in a serious tone, "it has the most lasting effect on dogs of that breed."
"Laurel water! Really, I must remember that. Thank you, dear Adrian--come, Charles, come----"
She went--with the veil round her shoulders, and Charles coughing defiance at the enemy. Charles had heard the parting advice and knew perfectly well that "laurel water" was only a polite name for prussic acid.
"How could you, Addie?" Christobel expostulated.
"Oh, it does them good--they both enjoy it," said her brother, "you heard what she said about Pamela."
Christobel nodded. She was pleased. There was no doubt in the world that Pam had behaved like a heroine, yet Addie was trying to make her out something of a criminal! The matter was still more decided when the two reached Clawtol. They were overwhelmed with gratitude and honour by little Mrs. Ensor in the first place, and Ensor himself in the second.
These two had removed their son from Pamela's shoulders, and referred several times to his disconnected recollections of that awful time on the cliff front.
"They 'adn't a drop of water, sir," said Mrs. Ensor to Adrian, her eyes full of tears, "if I'd a known, my cup o' tea would 'ave choked me. And boy says--Miss Pam takes 'er handkercher, and lays it on the grass--to get misty like, then she puts it in 'is mouth. 'Suck that, Reube,' says she 'an I wish I could do better for you.' Wonderful I call it.Wonderful. And she nobbut a child 'erself when it comes to years. He's asleep now, missie, or you could see him."
Ensor came to the gate with his visitors. There was quite a ceremonial of respect in his manner. Christobel gave the message that Mrs. Romilly would call in the evening, and the two went off home by the cliff road.
Adrian said nothing much till they reached the much-discussed summit. Then he went out over the ground, slowly descending, looking about as he went.
"Don't, Addie," protested Crow, following, "it's simply beastly. Just look!" She stood still.
After some minutes her brother came back.
"No time now," he said, "but I shall have a try later. In any case though, I shall stick to my opinion. I bet you everything I possess, old girl, that Pamela couldn't have done that job alone."
CHAPTER XII
In which Pam defies the Countess
Pamela was growing angry. This seldom happened with her, because though she had a temper "of her own", as Mrs. Jeep declared, it was well under control. She had a great contempt for people who are angry in a "senseless" way, that is to say, without adequate reason. In the present situation she considered she had reason, and therefore indignation was brewing up into serious anger.
"Why can't people leave other people's affairs alone," said Pamela to herself. What business had this handsome strange girl to mix up in Romilly affairs? She melted occasionally when she remembered the affair of the cliff. It was well never to forget that the cool courage of this inconvenient "double" had saved her from tortures indescribable, and probably death. One must never forget gratitude, and a debt of honour like that; at the same time poor Pamela was grievously hurt at Adrian's suspicions and scepticism.
The worst of it was, they were true.
Addie knew, of course, she could not have done the work alone. Yet she dare not speak. She had heard what the stranger said to Reube--Sir Marmaduke Shard was at the back of this mystery, he was a great K.C. and a person of untold wisdom; if she talked she might set on foot a whole host of mischief; she might offend the Shards and endanger the present joys of the yawl. She might destroy the friendship between the Bell House and Crown Hill.
Pamela's imagination saw herself a perfect outcast, scorned by both families, because she had not been able to hold her tongue for a brief period.
The conditions were quite distinct to her eyes. Sir Marmaduke, having brought down the girl in secrecy--telling no one, not even Mrs. Romilly or his own daughter--must intend it to remain a secret, for the present anyway. And to prove it came the girl's warning to Reube.
It was plain that she went out early or late. She had been on the Beak again that morning at seven o'clock. Now was that by permission? Pamela believed it was not. She believed that her double gave the keepers at Woodrising a most anxious time.
"She would," muttered Pam, with her head against the window frame, "she would--she hasn't got that nose for nothing. She may trample on that wretched Chipman, and give Mrs. Trewby jaundice, but she shan't trample on me. I can't help looking like her, but there it ends--no human power shall turn me into a door-mat--to be ordered about by that nose."
These metaphors were confused certainly, but the intention was very distinct. Pamela had made up her mind about that message thrown into Hughie's window. She was going to proceed on direct lines--and at once. There, in the window-seat of her room, she had reasoned it out and come to the conclusion that she must take decided action.
Nothing should make her meet the girl in secret. She would go to Woodrising after tea, ask to see her, and tell her so, once for all.
Hughie asked no questions that day, he was a tactful child. Miss Chance had a headache, and the two elders were going out in the dinghy to fish for whiting, taking their tea. Pamela felt a pang when Crow said: "Won't you ever come in the boat, Pam?" It looked as though she had private concealments, and the horrible part was that she had--only they were honourable and with excellent intentions.
She excused herself with such anxious humility that Christobel's sympathy was with her entirely. Adrian said nothing.
Mrs. Romilly started for Clawtol escorted by Hughie. Then Pamela Romilly made preparations to put her foot down with credit to her family.
She brushed her long hair, changed her blouse, and put on a different hat, a shady one. She got out clean washed gauntlet gloves, and polished her brown shoes. Then she went up to Woodrising.
She met no one by the way, and all the time was conscious of surprise at her own boldness--for no one can deny it was bold.
Arrived outside the carriage-gate in the wall she found it was locked. There was a pair of big gates with little spikes along the top, and in one of these was a small gate.
"Anyone would think it was a lunatic asylum," thought the girl, and from that sprang a sudden amazing question: "Was it? Was this strange girl a 'funny person'? She did not look 'cracked'," as Pam breathlessly put it, but one never knows!
The only thing to do was to summon Mrs. Trewby by the gate bell. So she rang it. As she stood waiting, she recalled that Mrs. Trewby had told Mrs. Jeep she always kept the gate locked, because of tramps and trippers.
"Anybody wouldn't believe how folk make free with a person's property," Mrs. Trewby had said. "Here, there, and everywhere--and to sweep up after them is not what I'm paid to do." So the gate was kept locked because of excursionists, not lunatics.
Mrs. Trewby came with slow steps, and Pamela heard her sigh as she undid the chain. The small gate opened, and the two looked at each other through the opening.
"Good afternoon," said Pamela politely, "could I see the young lady who is staying here?"
Mrs. Trewby looked as though someone had fired a squib in her ear. Her sallow face and melancholy eyes became distracted and rather frightened.
"Young lady," she echoed, and moved the gate a few inches as though to close it.
"Yes. We needn't pretend, need we, Mrs. Trewby. I've seen her, and she sent me a note last evening asking me to meet her. I must speak to her."
"Sent you a note, miss!" Mrs. Trewby repeated these words in a startled manner. "Who ever brought it? If it was boy----"
In this way Mrs. Trewby let the cat quite out of the bag, and made it impossible to deny the presence of the young lady at Woodrising.
"She brought it herself," said Pamela, "if you want to know how she gave it in, you'd better ask her, I'm not here to tell things; I'm here to speak to her, it's important."
Mrs. Trewby stood in awe of the Romillys, and at that moment she was almost afraid of Pamela.
"Well, miss," she conceded, "if you'll step inside, I'll tell Mrs. Chipman. She will be in a way, but I can ask her. It's no business of mine--what I say is 'attend to your own business, it'll take all your time'--nobody can say I've put myself forward to interfere; it's not my nature; I never was one for forwardness, that I will say."
These comments on her own character were made by Mrs. Trewby as she shut the gate, locked it, and led the way across the gravel sweep to the square white porch in the square white house-front. Here again was a double-locked door she opened, and Mrs. Trewby led Pamela into the dim hall; then, with a murmured assertion that it was not her fault, she melted into some back passage.
In the briefest time, and before Pamela had time to do more than take in the fact that the hall ran through the house to a glass door at the end, and that there seemed to be several rooms, Mrs. Chipman burst upon her sight.
She was a little woman, stout, and extremely bustling and buxom. She wore the style of garment that used to be called a habit bodice--tight and firm, and bristling with bead trimming and buttons. Her neck was short, but she had a beaded collar fastened by a brooch. Nothing on earth could have been more respectable and farther from any idea of mystery than Mrs. Chipman.
"Good evening, Miss Pamela," she said in a quick bustling voice, suppressed to a low note, "I find Mrs. Trewby's communication difficult of comprehension. Do I understand that you have a message for--me?"
"I wish to see the young lady who is staying here, Mrs. Chipman, and to make things clear I may as well say that I've spoken to her. And she sent me a note--I've really come about the note."
"Excuse me, Miss Pamela, might I request----" Mrs. Chipman motioned towards a door with a flourish of her fat hand, and then led the way to it, flung it open and let Pamela pass in, then she shut the door and practically stood with her back to it, thus barring the way out.
Pamela glanced round expecting to find the person she wanted, but there was no one in the room but themselves. It was apparently a dining-room, comfortably furnished in a very solid manner, and having a window at the end looking over the lawns.
Mrs. Chipman swept on without taking breath.
"I realized some such demand from words conveyed by Mrs. Trewby, but the mental capacity of persons dwelling in the country--as a permanency--being to a great extent limited, I believed she had mistaken your words. I am loath indeed to deny any member of the family what would appear a most reasonable request, but I assure you, Miss Pamela, I stand in a position of trust--nay, more--a position of great responsibility, and therefore I grieve to say that I could not accede--that is to say if there is a young lady at all. To begin with I cannot admit that there is a young lady----"
"Then you must be sillier than people think, Mrs. Chipman," said Pamela blandly, "we've all seen her--only the others take her for me----"
"That is so--the case with many----"
"Well, I don't like it then," Pamela cut her short with raised tone. "I don't like it, and I won't bear the burden of the things she does. So farIam the only person who has spoken to her--in our family--but unless you let me see her now, and speak to her, and settle things up, I will tell them all--every one."
Mrs. Chipman tried to speak. Pamela continued firmly,
"I don't want to be the least rude, but if you are responsible and all the rest of it, why don't you look after her? Do you know she threw a note into my brother's window last night about eleven, or half-past ten?"
Mrs. Chipman gave a squeak like a trapped mouse, then she pressed a hand to her tight bodice.
"Surely, surely, miss--I cannot credit----"
"It was Hughie's window, the next to mine," went on Pamela, "hebrought it in to me, because it was addressed to me. How she knew our rooms I can't say--but that doesn't matter--the point is, what was she doing in our grounds at that time?"
Then flashed into Pamela's mind the power of the whip she held--she went on:
"What would Sir Marmaduke say, Mrs. Chipman? If you won't let me see her, I shall certainly askhimif I may--and explain matters."
Mrs. Chipman was "taken all aback", like a full-rigged ship up in the wind. She hesitated.
"Far be it from me, Miss Pamela, to place obstacles----"
"That's all right then," said Pam, "can I see her now?"
At that moment a bell pealed somewhere in the house. Really pealed, with the jangling force of a violently pulled bell.
"If you will excuse me, miss," said Mrs. Chipman, visibly perturbed. She opened the door, and hurried out into the hall, Pamela following closely with interest very wide awake.
Again the bell was rung, more forcefully than ever.
"Dear, oh dear!" muttered Mrs. Chipman, increasing her pace.
Pamela giggled.
But the bell-puller was unreasonably impatient. A door on the right hand of the hall--same side as the room they had quitted, but the last door--opened sharply, and the girl under discussion appeared. She wore no hat, and held a book in her hand.
"I rang twice," she said, "I heard voices, and----"
Pamela came forward. Drawn up to her full height, her carriage and manner were at least as haughty as those of the other girl.
"Iwas talking to Mrs. Chipman," she said. "As a matter of fact I came to see you, and she was doubtful about it; so I told her I insisted."
"Excuse me, Countess," burst in Mrs. Chipman, "but I must protest now, and once for all against irregular conduct. I stand in the position of guardian. The grounds are open to you, and you have the option of gravitation to any portion of the wood, orchards, or gardens--there is no excuse----"
"You talk too much," said the girl irritably, "be silent. You are not a guardian, you are my maid--Sir Marmaduke is my guardian, for the time. Come into this room, Miss Romilly, I will receive you here."
She turned round and went back into the drawing-room, leaving Mrs. Chipman blown out like an angry bird with feathers on end.
Pamela followed--thinking hard, "receive me! Cheek!" and the other revelation--"So Countess wasn't a dog! I wonder what sort of Countess!"
In the drawing-room with the door closed, the two girls faced each other standing. And Pamela was again struck by the beauty and imperious style of this odd "double". Also, she had to admit how wonderfully alike they were in general effect.
Pamela began the conversation.
"I've come about your--note," she said with a little gesture of her hand towards her skirt pocket, "I suppose you don't realize that you mistook the room and threw it into my brother's window?"
"Oh, the little boy's room. He gave it to you?"
"Yes."
"Did he read it?"
"I don't understand you," said Pam frowning.
"Did he open it when he picked it up in his room?"
"Naturally not," Pamela stiffened, "you don't seem to understand. No decent people open other people's letters."
Countess shrugged her shoulders.
"Just so. That is well then. But if you received my note why did you not come to the wood?"
"Come! When?"
"The hour that I appointed. 8.30."
Pamela raised her eyebrows.
"So you expected me to go to Clawtol at half-past eight this morning, because you wished it! Doesn't it occur to you that you are--well--rather presumptuous? Why--on--earth--should I?"
Pamela fired off each word, as it were, with a separate emphasis.
The girl seemed a little taken aback by this way of looking at things.
"Wretched creature," thought Pamela suddenly, with the broad instinct of fair play natural to girls of her upbringing, "she's always had her own way. She thinks herself a little tin god! She doesn't understand!"
"Can I sit down?" she said aloud, and without waiting for an answer took her seat on a big sofa, near the window.
The other girl moved a step or two nearer, and sat down at the other end of the same sofa.
"Well, look here," went on Pamela, "let's understand each other, if you don't mind, then there won't be any bother."
"Is there some bother?" asked the other girl.
Pamela controlled her temper with effort. The assumption of superiority was so aggravating.
"There will be a good deal of bother, if you do unreasonable things," she went on, trying to be indifferent. "If you want to send notes would you kindly leave them at the front door, because----"
"Impossible," interrupted the Countess decidedly, "you see I am not supposed to go outside these grounds. If I were to walk to your house openly I should betray myself. I do not stay in the grounds of course, because I wish to go outside. But I employ my own means."
Pamela looked at her with a frustrated feeling. If only the girl were not so horribly "cock-sure"!
"Well, look here," she began at another point, "will you tell me your name? I find it a bit difficult to talk without knowing it."
A sort of glint flashed in the stranger's eyes. And Pamela's natural perceptions caused her to read the thought behind that glint on the instant.
The girl imagined she was fishing for information!
"You can call me 'Countess', if you wish to give me a name," she answered, "I have eight names, but I do not tell them to people in this place. You heard my maid say 'Countess'. Very well, then, you can also say Countess."
"Oh, thanks--that's very obliging of you," said Pamela, quite unimpressed, "it's as you please, of course. And after that, to get to the reason of my visit. I naturally supposed that you meant me to meet you at 8.30 to-night."
"Oh--to-night will do," allowed the Countess quite amiably, "I wished this morning, because I was in a hurry, but to-night will do as you have misunderstood my meaning."
"Neitherwould do, simply because I've no intention of meeting you anywhere, or at any time. It is just as well you should understand."
There was a pause. Then Pamela took up her parable again--rather enjoying herself.
"As I said to you a few minutes ago, why on earth should I?Idon't want to be bothered with meeting anybody on the sly--we don't do it in our family. The others would soon notice and think I was doing a low-down thing. I don't know you--I don't know your name. You are no business of mine. I don't care what you've got to say if it is secret--if it isn't, well, be open. That's the whole position, please understand I came here because I wish to be open, and to tell you honestly."
The Countess sat still with her eyes gazing at the carpet, her glance had dropped from Pamela's expressive face and large clear eyes.
"You are unkind," she said, after a moment of silence. "I have no one--no one."
She clasped her hands together rigidly on her lap, and Pam saw that they shook. The corners of her proud mouth twitched a little. But she held herself severely in check, and controlled evident emotion.
Thiswas worse than anything to a girl with a heart like Pamela's.
"I'm sorry," she said, "awfully sorry--but, what did you want me for?"
She was annoyed with herself for asking, it was a weakness, she felt that.
Countess raised her eyes to meet Pam's. There was a something the least bit softer over their hard brightness.
"I am troubled," she said, "and wished to ask advice from you. When we carried that boy up the cliff yesterday I dropped my brooch--it was a safety pin of rather large size, of gold, and with my first letter and the crown in diamonds. My mother gave it to me on my birthday when I was twelve years old--I would not lose it for the world.--It was in my blouse--here, you see," she touched the opening of her silk shirt. "I don't know what I should do, I cannot find it--but I cannot offer a reward--what shall I do?"
"You were on the cliff this morning looking for it, weren't you?" asked Pamela, full of sympathy, and realizing the reason for Adrian's attack on herself.
Countess nodded.
"Oh, for a long while, everywhere."
"My brother saw you. They were coming back from Salterne in the yawl, and passed under the Beak about seven o'clock. They thought it wasI, you see," Pamela made a little grimace of disgust, "and said what was I doing there? I said I wasn't there."
"Did they believe you?" asked Countess, with a sudden interest that made her seem more girlish.
"Crow did."
"'Crow'!"
"I beg your pardon, I mean Christobel, my elder sister. She is Mollie Shard's friend, and she's going to be presented fairly soon--she's done with school--but we are awfully good chums.Shebelieved me, of course. She'd sooner mistrust her own eyes than my word, because we both know we wouldn't tell each other crammers."
"Is that lies?"
"Yes. She knows I wouldn't.Youwouldn't tell your sister lies when you knew she trusted you, would you?"
Countess shrugged her shoulders with a faint air of amusement.
"I have no sister, so--well! But I should tell any person what I like, and whatever suited me to say. No one is bound to incriminate themselves. It is not 'lies', as you call it--that is business, and common-sense."
"Can't agree with you at all," said Pamela icily. "'Business and common-sense to tell lies when it paid'. Nice sort of ideas!"
She sat silent for a moment, then she asked:
"Are you at school?"
"Since I was ten years old, I have stayed--with a family--in England."
"Oh, then you are notEnglish?" Pamela felt a sense of relief, though she always tried hard not to be narrow.
"No," said the Countess, adding, after a moment's pause, "I was to go to school next term after the summer holidays."
"Shall you now?"
"I don't know. I dare say not. I went for a while, it was horrible. I left soon; I don't know about anything."
"No wonder she left soon," thought Pamela, "her talk is simply full of 'I's', never heard anyone say so many." Again there was silence, because it was not easy to keep up conversation; the situation was so cramped and artificial to a girl of "open-air" temperament. Pamela began wondering if it would not be better to go now; she had said her say, and wanted to end it all.
"Well, I'm awfully sorry about your brooch," she pulled up her gloves, and made a move to stand up. "If I hear that anyone has found it, what shall I do? I can't claim it. Shall I give it to the Police--or what about Miss Ashington?"
"Who is Miss Ashington? Don't go yet--I want to talk to you--I want to know things."
Pamela settled down rather uneasily, for the Countess had laid a restraining hand on her arm.
"Oh, Miss Ashington is Lady Shard's sister," she answered the first question simply.
"Yes, of course, but I forgot. Chipman told me that, I remember now. No, how could I tell her, it would betray me, since the brooch is lost on the cliff, or the road. I cannot tell what I shall do--besides this Miss Ashington knows nothing of me--no one knows."
Again she conveyed an impression to Pamela that she was not telling the truth. Whether it was a true impression or not, it stiffened Pamela's resolution.
"I'm afraid I can't think of anything, then," she said, "if you don't know anyonereally, and you won't let Mrs. Chipman offer a reward. If I find it, I'll leave it at the door with Mrs. Trewby. And now I must go, really and honestly."
"But you will come and see me," protested the Countess.
"How can I? You say yourself that Sir Marmaduke has put you here, and wishes no one to know. There must be some good reason for him to arrange that--he's an awfully kind, nice man, we all love him," said Pamela warmly. "I won't do sly things against his wish. Why, he's letting us use his lovely yacht now."
"That white yacht is his?" asked the other girl.
Pamela assented.
"And you go out on it when he is away?"
"He is allowing us to use her all the summer till he comes in September--it's awfully kind."
"Then who goes with you?" demanded the Countess; she seemed interested.
"No one, we manage her ourselves. There used to be a man, but they want him in the gardens at Crown Hill, so we go quite alone."
"Go where?"
"Oh, anywhere along the coast here. This morning Adrian and Christobel were coming from Salterne. They got caught in that thunderstorm the other day, and ran in there up to the harbour, left the yacht, and came back by train. Yesterday they went by train to fetch her, and came back early this morning."
Pamela was feeling a little more friendly as she talked about theMessenger. Memories rushed into her mind of the evening of the thunderstorm day and how the others had mistaken the Countess for her.
"That reminds me," she said, "on the evening of the thunderstorm day did you go out--to Folly Ho, on the Peterock Road, and come home late, quite late--half-past nine. Oh, nearly ten?"
The other girl considered. Not as though she did not remember, but as though she was not sure whether she would tell or no.
Pamela got up from her seat and walked a few steps; they walked together to the middle of the room, and paused there to say good-bye.
"Yes, no doubt I went out. I often do," said the Countess rather cautiously.
"Well, Addie and Crow--the others I mean--saw you. They were coming from the station. Didn't he whistle?"
"If you say so, I expect he did. I think I heard a whistle one night."
"He said you looked round and then ran. They thought it was I, and they were cross with me."
At this moment Pamela noticed that the other girl's attention was fixed upon a long mirror on the wall opposite She also looked, and saw the two full-length figures, each with its long tail of beautiful bright hair. The same height! The same figure! The same dress!
"Oh!" ejaculated Pam in startled dismay.
The Countess laughed, for the first time.
Afterwards, as Pamela hurried home with rather a perturbed mind, thinking puzzled thoughts, the picture of that pair of girls was distinct, and tiresome. She did not like it.