Chapter IV: Part 4

"If she'd been with us the other day, in the thunderstorm, she wouldn't have wanted to go again," said the boy darkly, "she'd have been in fits."

"But, darling, I thought you said it was lovely?" this, from his mother in an expostulating voice.

Christobel warned, with raised eyebrows, and headshakes.

"So it was when the storm was over," said Adrian, refusing to see the signals, "but she wouldn't have enjoyed the process of working through it. Of course we did," he added quickly, "we enjoy anything, no matter how beastly--but when it comes to being drenched, and battered, and shaken up, Miss Chance mightn't. And you see, Mum, we can't put her ashore--that's flat. If she comes, she must come. I can't undertake to land people."

"You landed Hughie one day."

"That was a dead calm."

"Well, but supposing there is a calm to-morrow?"

"If there is we shall go straight back to Salterne, that's all--and sleep on the boat," announced Adrian desperately; "surely Miss Chance would find it pretty uncomfortable to have to sleep on the yawl with four other people, and not even a toothbrush among the lot."

The unfortunate part of this episode was that it did not achieve its object, but only succeeded in making Mrs. Romilly firmer on the contested point. She did not believe in the discomforts Adrian had mentioned--which were perfectly true, of course--because they had been kept from her before.

She thought the young ones did not want Miss Chance to go--they certainly did not, but the reasons put forward were strictly facts.

She was sweet and sympathetic, but her mind was made up.

"Please make it as nice and easy for her as possible, dear children," she said; "I depend on you, Crow; after all she has never yet been on the yacht."

There was no more to be said of course. Christobel gave way without another word. Adrian was silent, but when they were saying "good-night" he suggested quite amiably:

"We'll give the Floweret as good a time as we know how, Mum, and by the way, it's only fair to remember it isn't our fault she's never been out in the _Messenger_--she's always been away in the holidays when we did all the sailing--and Sir Marmaduke was here."

Mrs. Romilly protested that she knew all this. The yawl had never been at their service in term-time before--Adrian being absent.

"Perhaps this is the beginning of good times," she said; "perhaps she will make a first-rate sailor."

Brother and sister looked at each other speechless, when they got outside. Then Crow whispered:

"Are we downhearted?" and sped away to her room, head turned over her shoulder with her lips forming a very decided "No--o--o."

Adrian stood at his window presently looking out at the sweet breathless night. There was no air, the stars were clear. "If it's a calm she'll be sick," he thought, "poor old Blossom"--and peace descended on his soul.

So the matter was settled, and, in order to give Miss Chance time for her shopping, the young Romillys went by an earlier train from Five Trees. They did not mind that at all. Adrian wanted to get to his beloved _Messenger_--the sooner the better.

The party consisted of four--because Hughie was included. Pamela simply declined. She wouldn't say why or wherefore. She looked at the others during breakfast remarking that four was an even number.

"All agog to dash through thick and thin," she murmured, "Crow can shop with Miss Chance and Hughie can go with Addie to the yawl. Three people jostling each other in front of shop windows is never comfortable, and I hate sitting on a hot deck at anchor. Home is nicer."

They all went off gaily, Miss Chance carrying a string bag besides her bag-purse, to Crow's annoyance. She could not bear "walking with a string bag," she said. However Miss Chance could not be parted from it. The necessary food was to be bought in Salterne, and they were to start back after lunch, and come home with the tide.

It sounded perfectly charming, not a hitch. Mrs. Romilly was well pleased. She and Pamela had lunch together, and the peace of the house was balm. The day held fine--very fine. About two o'clock there was about as much air as you would expect under a vacuum bell.

Pamela called her mother's attention to it.

"Oh, I expect they've got some wind even if we haven't," said Mrs. Romilly; "I shan't worry, and, Pam dear, tea at half-past four, for you and me--and after that will you go up to Clawtol and get some eggs from Mrs. Ensor? A dozen or two dozen even--we eat such a lot now Addie has taken to demanding hard-boiled ones for the yacht. If I can't get enough from Clawtol, we must try the Badgers at Champles to-morrow or next day."

Pamela did not mind in the least. She had a plan in fact. Why not come back by Woodrising? A basket of eggs would prove her business. She need not do anything--at the same time she felt she could not rest till she obtained some knowledge of her "double". Having settled that the girl did not exist, she had been shaken out of that security by Christobel's surprising questions and confusion of her identity. It was not possible to pass it over. Fate had sent her another free day, clear of "family"; she must have one more attempt at Woodrising.

She and her mother followed the thought of _Messenger's_ return with interest.

"If there had been a good wind they might have reached the lighthouse by now," said Pamela, spreading her bread and butter with a thankful heart, "as it is----"

"What? 'As it _is_'" asked Mrs. Romilly.

"Well, Mummy dear, no wind. What can they do? They'll be coming down the estuary about now--perhaps crossing the bar. Miss Chance won't feel the swell till they get really out--a good way."

"Are they bound to feel the swell?"

"Mummy, they are. I can assure you it's the sort of heaving that makes one try hard _not_ to think of bacon grease. If you do, you're sorry."

"Poor Miss Chance," said Mrs. Romilly, and laughed.

Pamela looked at her with eyes that were grey-green--sometimes they were blue, sometimes grey--it depended on the sky and the atmosphere.

"I'm rather afraid," she remarked, "that a bit of bad luck is coming to those poor ones. There is a mist. You know how it begins. Bits of ragged chiffon seem to float past one, going nowhere in particular. There isn't a breath of air, and yet a cold kind of draught has arrived."

"I _am_ sorry," said Mrs. Romilly, with feeling, "but a fog won't prevent their getting home. If they keep close in, the cliffs are so very obvious."

Pamela made no comment on this; she simply said it certainly would not prevent her walk to Clawtol for the eggs, while through her mind ran the idea that nothing could be better than a good thick white mist--such as they got in perfection at Bell Bay--for her mystery hunting expedition.

She kissed her mother and went, feeling joyous and independent. Her plan was cut and dried, so to speak, all settled--and when plans are like that they are very apt to turn topsy-turvy, and land people where they least expected to be.

Pamela went the usual way, across the lawns, out by the wicket that led to the beach, and very slowly up the steep cliff road past Crown Hill lodge gates and on up to Hawksdown. A sea fog has the effect of producing a feeling of loneliness. It cuts you off, and it makes voices and distant noises sound different. She went on till she reached the summit, and arriving there, went along cautiously towards the cliff edge, to see if the _Messenger_ might be within sight.

The land on top of the Beak was very wild, desolate even; as it sloped very slightly downward to the cliff edge it behoved a wanderer to go cautiously. The Beak was not perpendicular. It could be climbed by an expert, or even an agile, clear-headed person like Pamela, but as she said to herself, "It was not the sort of thing you'd pick out to do, unless you had a very strong mood on."

She thought that as she looked over, and out to sea. No sail was within her vision. The water was visible, but through a fluff of thick white haze, that moved with the ceaseless shift of a kaleidoscope. Very dazzling. It made her giddy to watch the curious floating rags of it--coming, coming, ever thicker. If the yawl were close she could not be seen.

Of course it will be understood that the bluff of a headland is not a narrow point. It is a long stretch of wild high land that juts out to sea. There are such things as actual peaks sticking out to seaward, but these are rock, sheer, bare rock, to be found--some at any rate--in the Channel Islands, where you see most kinds of rocky headland in every weird shape.

But the Beak on which Pamela stood was a very blunt beak. The lighthouse lay perhaps half a mile to the south--invisible from the top--and Bell Bay was certainly half a mile to the north; all between was wild cliff trending outward like a huge bent elbow.

Pamela sat down on a gorsy hump, and looked towards Ramsworthy and Netheroot sands. She could not see them because of the fog. Nor could she see any sail. It was profoundly lonely, except for the sea-birds which kept up a constant wailing cry. They had noticed a human being appear on the scene, and instantly rose in whity-grey clouds, crying and screaming, circling round and round uneasily. When nothing happened they settled down, and presently there was silence again--complete silence except for one bird, that wailed distressfully at short intervals. From the sound, Pamela thought it was young--or very old--or wounded. It was not quite like the others. However, it was impossible to distinguish, as when it cried all the others rose up and began again.

She sat there perhaps ten minutes, then she went off back to the road, and presently, at the turning, away down to the farm.

Mrs. Ensor was leaning over the gate with the baby in her arms. She greeted Pamela with some satisfaction and said she had plenty of eggs. They went in together to the dairy, and Mrs. Ensor, putting the baby down, proceeded to pick out eggs by dates pencilled on them. Meanwhile she talked.

"Suppose you don't happen to have met with our Reube--which way did you come, Missie?"

Pamela explained.

"I'm afraid he's more like to be Ramsworthy way or, for all that comes to, Folly Ho. Mischeevious young monkey he is to be sure," she sighed, but smiled also with conscious pride in the "mischeevious" one. "For ever up to something--and for _looks_, why there--you'd think he only wanted a pair o' wings to fly to Heaven."

"He's a dear little boy," said Pamela, "I like Reuben; he's only six, though, isn't he?"

Mrs. Ensor said he was six, but had "double the years of naughtiness in him". It appeared that he had detached himself from the party of children coming from Ramsworthy school, said he'd got enough dinner left to do for his tea, and departed all alone.

"There wasn't one of them with 'thority to make him do as he was told you see, Missie," said the anxious mother, "he knows I want him for all sorts. He's ever such a help. But there, once in a while off he'll go; he never come for his tea, because he know'd I should catch him."

Pamela sympathized secretly with "young Reube". When she said good-bye, she promised to look out for him, and urge upon him to return home speedily. Mrs. Ensor was very grateful.

"That's a weight off me, Missie," she declared. "Six ain't no age when it comes to that, and these sea mists do seem to worrit anybody, sort of squeezing you in."

Pamela departed, carrying her eggs carefully, and pursued her way towards Crown Hill, planning to cut through the park by a foot-track they were allowed to use, and go down into Bell Bay at the back of the valley, thus returning via Woodrising "according to plan". The last thing she saw of the farmer's family was a general action, so to speak, amongst the children and animals in the "muck yard". Into this Mrs. Ensor dived, dispersing the contending arms, and restoring order.

"I'm glad I shan't have to be a farmer's wife," thought Pamela, "it's funny how happy they are." She remembered Reube; then she sat down on a felled log by the edge of the road to think, for a curious conviction had awakened in her mind and, as she stopped, seemed to fill every bit of her brain. Most people understand that feeling of _certainty_ about a thing they know nothing about. It comes of itself and stays. Nothing will argue it away, yet there is no reason why it should be there.

Now the conviction that had taken possession of Pamela's mind was this:

"Young Reube" was in serious trouble on the rugged point of the Beak. And the queer intermittent cry, that she had noted as distinguished from the other bird cries, was the despairing voice of the child calling faintly.

There was no reason at all for this conviction except that Reube had not come back to tea, yet Pamela was convinced it was exactly as she pictured. She sat on for a few minutes thinking. She did not want to give up her plan at all. It was, in fact, a blow--then the danger of going down the Beak was considerable. Pam reviewed the idea of going to Bell Bay and trying to find a man. There was Major Fraser--he would have gone, but he was still lame. Adrian would have gone, but he was on the sea.

Suddenly she remembered that the first duty of a Girl Guide was to help anyone in distress, danger unconsidered. "Little Friend of all the World" was the very pith of the whole matter, "Be prepared" the motto, and secret sign.

Most surely there was only one thing to be done and that was to go and see, and take immediate action if necessary.

As she came to this conclusion, she straightened her shoulders and sat upright. She had been leaning forward with elbows on knees, chin in hands. And, as she moved, she heard a noise close by, and looked round.

By the roadside, a little farther down, was an open-front cart-shed, the sort that has a rickety roof on plank walls and shelters not only carts, but farm machines of various kinds. Pamela got up and walked a yard or two down to look. It might of course be "young Reube" hiding, which would clear her difficulties at once. There was no one in the shed. She went round the side to the back, called softly, "Reuben--Reuben--come out, I want to tell you something." She knew he would come if he were there. No answer, but a hen walked slowly out from the bushes clucking.

"Oh, you idiot!" said Pamela, annoyed. It must have been the hen. She walked slowly back to her basket, picked it up, and went off the way she had come.

*CHAPTER IX*

*The Strange Adventure of the
Curlew's Call*

Pamela went back steadily the way she had come, and reached the branching of the road with a full appreciation of the work she had set herself to do--supposing that "curlew" cry should be the desperate appeal of poor little Reuben.

The fog was thicker, she could but just see the water at the cliff foot; sometimes not that, because the mist shifted in patches--unequal patches. She sat down to listen, feeling as though she could hear better so. Her only guide would be the cry. Of course her return had caused a perfect bedlam of dismay among the birds, so she had to wait till they were reassured; then, when all was still except the everlasting wash of the water on the rocks, she heard the one wail again.

Listening for it with a new idea in her mind, she wondered that she had ever been deceived into thinking it was a curlew. She tried to place it, and the stillness of the atmosphere helped her. A little to the south of the central point, and down--certainly down.

If Mrs. Romilly could have seen her daughter at that moment she might have been excused for a nervous collapse. Pamela looked about for a safe place in which to dispose of the egg basket, finally planting it between two sturdy tussocks of coarse grass and heather. Then she pulled her little close hat tighter down, shifting the holding pin; looked to her shoe ties; and started onward slowly down the preliminary incline. There was no edge to drop over, instead, a very deceptive slope, that grew steeper and steeper until it became dangerous.

She fully realized what the child had done, and how he had been led astray by the apparent easiness of the first part. Probably some idea of birds' eggs had drawn him on--though it was too late in the season--or it might have been simply adventure. Pamela thought about it as she went on, and wondered why he stayed where he was instead of coming back. It was likely that he had hurt himself.

One of the dangers of this business was starting too fast. In some ways a cliff edge to get over would be less of a snare, because you went over with the full knowledge of your risks.

When she looked back, after perhaps five minutes of cautious descent, it was astonishing to note how a "cliff" had risen up behind her. She seemed to be a long way down, and the height at her back looked amazingly steep too. The time was near when she would have to take to her hands and knees, and crawl--then after a while she would be letting herself down by rock points, strong grass, and the rugged, uneven surface of the real cliff--but there were cracks, and little gullies made by rain and softer soil; these would help.

Every now and then she waited, listening intently, but there was a longish pause in the crying. It occurred to her that she might get an answer by calling--and moreover set at rest any lingering doubt. She called:

"Reuben, Reube, Reube--where are you?" Her voice was clear and pretty, a sweet voice, the sound of it comforting in a way.

Quickly came an answer on a different note to the despairing wail of the earlier call.

"Here--Miss----"

The question was very surely decided. Reuben knew who it was by the politeness of the "miss"--even in extremity. He recognized Pamela's voice. But the "here", was rather baffling! Where was "here"? She would have to find out, and anyway she knew it was Reuben, that was all that mattered much. Pamela started on down once more. Down, and along at the same time, partly because the call suggested it as the right direction, partly because it was easier.

She had to cross a most horrible slope of burned grass--very steep, yet smooth. It gave her some uncommonly ugly moments, but she forced herself not to look down, and on no account to increase her speed. She went by inches, digging her toes and fingers in and resolutely thinking of Reuben and the business in hand--not of possibilities.

"After this comes a nice broken-up bit," she said aloud, to keep herself sensible, "when I go up again, I'll try farther along. These slippery bits are no use."

Having reached the nice broken-up bit aforesaid, she cautiously turned over, and sitting on a big tufty ledge, looked about her.

A little smile flickered round her mouth.

"One in the eye for Addie," she said, "he declared I couldn't get up or down the Beak; and it's worse in a mist."

The mist was distinctly thick now. So much so that the top of the headland was out of sight, and the sea was invisible. She was like a very lonely bird in the middle of an ocean of drifting film. Probably this was what the eagles felt like--high, high up on a rocky peak in the clouds. She was not nervous--it was all so very exciting--but it was important to locate the lost one as soon as possible, because time was going rather fast.

"Hullo, Reube, call again!" cried Pamela.

There was no answer--there had been no cry, she thought, since the "miss" in the beginning. She waited a moment and then tried again. "Reube--I'm close by--I'm come to help you--where are you?"

All the birds started to shriek and scream with delirious riot. They rose in a cloud, and circled round and round. It was maddening.

"Oh you silly idiots," said Pamela.

As the clatter died down into isolated screams, she heard a voice say:

"I bean't afeard o' birds, Miss."

"That's right, Reube," she spoke in a hearty manner, because the words came in a detached weak tone, as though the speaker made an effort to say them.

He must be quite close, she thought.

Down she went again, with infinite care, because the surface of everything was greasy with mist that thickened continually. Down and down, and ever the mutter and wash of waves on rock grew more distinct.

Then the voice called, with more life in it.

"Here, Miss! You do be going too far."

Pamela checked and looked round eagerly. _Above_ her, but more to the Ramsworthy side, in the loneliest and most inaccessible bit of the Beak, was a dark heap, a very little heap; and, small as it was, the great part of it consisted of a hump of coarse grass. On the ledge where this grew clung the human part of the heap.

"_I_ see you," said Pamela, in a cheerful tone.

It was an heroic effort on her part, for, looking at the whole situation, up, down, and round, it was distinctly terrifying. After nearly ten minutes cautious climbing, she came within arm's length of the child.

He was lying on his face, arms grasping a snag of rock at the back of the grass bunch. He had never looked so small to Pamela, and, in an instant, she saw by his face what he had suffered; it was pinched and drawn--stained with tears and dirt.

She laughed. Not because she felt like laughter, but because she had neither water nor food, and something must be done to rouse the failing courage--_if_ they were to get up the fog-shielded height that towered above them.

"I was mortal glad--when I heard you," volunteered Reube, gazing at her with sunken eyes: "I was pretty near asleep."

"Not at all a nice place for a doze;" said Pam, "now what on earth made you come here, young man?"

Reube said: "I dunno, Miss." He did not, of course. He had just started climbing down in a spirit of adventure, and found himself forced to go on in order to find a way up again. Here was the difficulty. Pamela saw that it would not be possible to go straight up from here. A cold thrill of dismay ran through her veins. They _must_ move--they must start moving at once, there was no time to be lost. And she must find out the way of least resistance, so to speak; that way only could she get on with the exhausted child. And she could not see!

The mist dazzled her, wetting every grass blade with a glitter of tiny shining powder. She would have to move upward, even though difficulties forced her to go along the cliff face also. That was all that seemed perfectly clear. Also, and first of all, there was the condition of Reube.

He remained passive, his white face resting on his arm, his hands gripping the grass tussock. There seemed no sort of spring in him, and Pamela looked uneasily at his closed eyes. She realized that he was injured as well as exhausted, and said:

"What's the matter, Reube--where are you hurt?" in very gentle tones.

Reube opened his eyes and tried to pull his scattered wits together.

"It's me leg, Miss--and I'm that _dry_----" he ceased.

Pamela felt acutely that water was impossible. Then an idea occurred to her--very inadequate, but still something. She spread her handkerchief on the grass--saw that it began to get damp at once--and so left it for a minute, weighted with a little lump of soil, while she looked at the leg.

The obvious injury was a swollen and bruised knee, very blue, and growing bluer. But what she feared more was the appearance of the ankle. The child was wearing rather clumsy laced boots, too large for him, probably his brother's boots. It was probable that the boot had twisted, wrenching the ankle. Pamela hoped that it was only a bad sprain--not a break or a dislocation, but she did not know. The foot certainly looked queer. She wondered if she ought to take the boot off. But the laces were knotted in more than one place, and a terror of interfering seized her.

"If only I knew first aid," she thought miserably.

The moment she got a chance she would learn the whole thing. Therein lay another immense advantage of being a real Guide. She would have known exactly what to do. But ignorant handling might make things very much worse. She moved the foot cautiously, Reube shrank and winced.

She was sure it looked all wrong. Suppose it was broken--what awful pain!

Pamela returned to examination of her handkerchief. It was quite wet--really wet. She pressed it between the child's lips, feeling hopeful.

"Suck it, Reube," she said, "it isn't much, but it might make you feel a wee bit better."

Then she remembered that soldiers sucked pebbles when they were very hard put to it from thirst in front-line trenches. She considered the advisability of giving Reube a wet pebble to suck--if she could find one--there seemed to be none in the least suitable. After all, suppose Reube swallowed the pebble in a moment of half consciousness! That would be worse than anything. She returned to a very settled conviction that _the_ important thing in life was to know first aid, and belong to the Girl Guides, when you would be armed with practical knowledge of what to do in all circumstances.

Reuben seemed the least bit revived. Whether it was the result of her company or of the handkerchief one could not tell, but the time seemed to have come to make a real start, if they were ever to get up the mist-veiled height above them.

From then on--for possibly twenty minutes, when she was completely played out--poor Pam remembered afterwards as a nightmare of the worst kind.

She started by climbing up two feet, and then grasping Reube by the arm, pulled him up to her. She urged him to use his sound foot, and just drag the other. The slowness of the process was exasperating; the difficulty grew and grew, because the climb was steeper and more slippery. She persevered, Reube made heroic efforts--but at the end of fifteen to twenty minutes, he lay a dead weight.

He had fainted.

Pamela felt pretty desperate. They had come up some distance, but much of the time had been spent in going a long round, that was bound to be, because she was forced to pick the best foothold. Not much useful progress had been made, and what now? She could not revive the child. He might even be dead!

Pamela spoke aloud to herself.

"Well, dead or alive, I've got to get him up;" her teeth were set in this determination.

After resting for a few minutes she took sure footing, tested her position, and then, putting an arm around Reube's waist, heaved up the small body to a place perhaps a foot higher. This process she repeated six times. She had gained perhaps eight feet, but she was very tired. The child remained inert, with closed eyes.

Pamela rested again. This time her lips trembled just a little, and she blinked her eyes as she stared fixedly along that awful slope. It was so fearfully steep, and the foothold more and more slippery. If only someone would come! She had not called, because she knew there was no one about on the top of the cliff, and it seemed waste of breath and strength. She understood the curious stolidity of villagers. Supposing anyone passed along the road at the top he would take no notice of cries--probably would not hear.

Had there been no fog, Addie might have seen her and climbed up. Surely the yawl must be somewhere below, cut off from vision by that mass of elusive shifting whiteness. Then she remembered that there was also a calm, a dead breathless calm. Perhaps the yacht had not passed Heggadon, and might have to go back to Salterne when the tide turned.

Everything was against her, and against being found, because all the attention would be for the yawl and not for herself; it would be taken for granted she was safe on land. She remembered that the Floweret would certainly have said: "Where _can_ dear Pamela have gone to! Surely she is very late." That might have drawn people's attention, but even the Floweret was lost to her now. There was positively no hope of help. Reuben's life, and her own too, for that matter, depended on her own unaided efforts.

She took a long breath, thought of all sorts of things in a queer rush of resolution to do what hundreds--thousands--of brave men and women had done in the fighting years. After all this adventure was not unlike getting a wounded comrade into safety from the lonely perils of No Man's Land. If a wounded man could do it for another one worse wounded--surely she, who was sound, could do it for this little creature.

That was about the reasoning of her mind if it were analysed--but, of course, it all passed like a flash of realization, she did not reason. Then she began again, and had gone up in the same way another five feet, hardly more, when a sick feeling of fright seemed to choke her--she could not get higher. She had come to a place that was so steep as to be practically a wall. It was like that for some ten feet, after which it looked easier--but just here it was sheer. She must try and get round it, as it were--shift herself and the boy along. To that end it would be better to explore alone first--find out where her best road lay and come back for Reube? The question was dare she leave him, would he move if he returned to consciousness, and roll down into the sea.

She was considering her position, when she heard a call--actually a human call.

A wave of passionate thankfulness swept over her--nearly as possible she burst out crying from sheer relief. Who--who could it be?

Then she saw.

Rather above, and a good deal to her left, was a figure making towards them in a swift and capable manner.

Pamela was just going to answer with a cry of welcome, when a sense of dazed confusion checked her, and for several moments she remained just staring with an uneasy suspicion that she might have "gone off her head" from the strain.

For the person coming down towards her was the double of herself. No less, apparently.

Pamela looked away--shut her eyes, opened them and stared down at the sea, moving everlastingly through the shifting haze of the white fog. Everything was the same. Reube was still unconscious. She glanced at the poor foot, it still seemed the wrong way round. Then she looked back at the girl, and saw--certainly herself--to all appearance.

A tall slim creature in a blue serge skirt, tan stockings, tan shoes, a Japanese silk blouse, and chamois leather gauntlet gloves. It was almost a relief to realize that she wore a dark knitted tam-o'-shanter--which Pam was not wearing that day, though she often wore one. Over the shoulder of this double hung a thick plait of lovely bright hair. Pamela glanced down at her own plait to compare them, and her sudden thought was--

"Hers is lighter."

Pausing at a distance of some yards, the stranger stared hard at Pamela, and Pamela was so absorbed in staring at her in return that she nearly slid down the Beak into the sea.

"What is the matter?"

That was the first thing the double asked, and her voice was a little unexpected. It was rather deep, and she spoke slowly--carefully--with the least touch of something different in the accent.

Pamela cleared her throat; she felt nervous, she felt the least bit as though nothing were real.

"It's little Reube Ensor," she said, "he's hurt."

"Reube Ensor!" repeated the other girl with care, "how did he come upon this cliff?"

"He's only six. He got away from the other children coming from school. I suppose he wanted to climb. Anyway, he's hurt his foot awfully. I've been trying to get him up for ages, but it's appallingly difficult, because he's fainted and he can't do a thing for himself, you see."

She rushed the words with a sort of friendliness, yet all the while she was quite absorbed in the girl and hardly knew what it was she said.

"I shall help you," said the stranger; and came along in an active, sure-footed way, glancing about as she came.

Pamela crossed over Reube's small body to the right side, to make room for the other girl who, kneeling, looked at him, at his leg and foot--Pamela meanwhile looking at her.

"This is the boy of the farm on this hill," said the girl, and raised her eyes, meeting Pamela's. They stared straight at each other, and the original Pam--so to speak--was conscious rather thankfully that this interloping "Pam" was not like her in the face.

She was handsomer. She was very handsome, but she had not Pamela's elusive charm and daintiness of outline.

Her skin was fair and untanned; but her eyes were dark, long shaped, and of a red-brown colour, with dark lashes; her eyebrows were long and cleanly pencilled, set rather high above her eyes. Her nose was the least bit aquiline, and she had those cut-upward nostrils that give a curiously disdainful air; it was a beautiful nose. Her mouth was beautiful too, very well shaped, but with rather thin lips, and her chin was round and full.

She was certainly a very handsome girl, especially if you added her hair to the catalogue. It was golden--shades lighter than Pam's--a real bright gold colour, thick and long.

She sat down sideways--all her attitudes were graceful, like Pamela's.

"Why did you come for him?" she asked, making a sign towards Reube.

"Why did you come after me?" retorted Pamela; she _felt_ instinctively something the least bit supercilious in the look and manner of the other.

"I was near the shed where carts are put, and I saw you. I have seen you before, and I wished to know----" she paused, then went on, skipping what she "wished to know", "I saw you put your basket on the cliff and go down. So I waited to know why you climbed in such bad weather. After a while I came after you to see what happened. If you had called I should have come more quickly."

Pamela in return told why she had come back. She related what Mrs. Ensor had said. "When I got to that cart-shed, it rushed over me all in one instant that the crying sea-gull was Reube. I _had_ to come back. Don't you have those sort of convictions sometimes--you know--when there's no earthly sense in a thing yet you're perfectly sure it must be."

The other girl shook her head.

"Oh no. I don't feel like that," she said, "I do what I choose, when I wish to do it, that's all."

Then she glanced up at the cliff just above them and went on with decision.

"We cannot take him by that way. It is less steep the path I came down. We must go along--then up. See, now, he is very small and light, we can carry him between us, it will be easy for two."

*CHAPTER X*

*Life or Death on the Beak Cliff*

Afterwards, Pamela found she had rather an indistinct recollection of that journey to the cliff top. One thing was certain, she could not have done it without the help of her double. They carried Reube in a sort of sling made by their own cotton petticoats. It was the strange girl's notion, and proved quite practical. Each girl wore a petticoat. One supported the boy's head and shoulders, and one his legs--any other method would have been impossible, because of the injured foot, that is to say, without causing terrible pain to Reuben.

He came to himself while he was being trussed into this amateur sling, and stared at the new girl with such interest that Pamela felt it was as good as "burnt feathers" for curing faintness.

"Hullo, Reube," she said, laughing, "now we shan't be long--shall we?"

"No, Miss," agreed Reube in a weak voice.

"Hold on this," ordered the stranger.

"Yes, Miss, I'll 'old to it," he gazed from one girl to the other with interest.

That was the beginning. The end was on the top resting near the egg basket--with Reube like a mummy flat on the grass, and the pair of girls taking breath.

"I'm awfully obliged to you," said Pamela, "really grateful beyond words. I should have had to stay there all night."

"All night, why?" asked the other, turning her head to look curiously at the speaker. In that moment Pam found herself wondering if the girl was really as supercilious as she looked--or whether the expression was caused by her disdainful eyebrows.

"Why! But you wouldn't leave a person like that, would you?" Pamela opened her big, grey-blue eyes as she answered with this question.

"Oh, yes. If it seemed to be the most sensible thing to do. I should put him in the safest place possible--then I would go and find help."

"He would have fallen down," said Pamela decidedly, "he wasn't conscious, and he couldn't hold on. One daren't be responsible for leaving him."

The other girl shrugged her shoulders slightly.

"Oh, well--where is the sense to kill two people instead of one? You are the most important."

"_I!_ Not so sure," Pam laughed. "I'm only a woman, and this child will be a man some day. We've got too many women in England as it is--heaps too many, and we want all the boys we can get, they are fearfully important."

"Oh, for that perhaps! I was thinking of birth. You are Pamela Romilly, and your family is distinguished; he is but a common child."

Pamela was veritably startled by such an odd remark. The "common child" appeared to have much the same feeling, to judge by his round eyes. He looked at Pam--to whom he was devoted--anything she said was right, but he did not understand much about it anyway.

"That sounds rather like the Middle Ages--or the people of the French Court before the big Revolution, doesn't it?" she said cautiously, not wishing to offend this young person of strange views who had helped her so grandly out of a tight corner; "you see we don't have that sort of opinions nowadays. At least one never hears them--especially since the war. It brought us all close together. Our brother fought--and Mrs. Ensor's brother fought, and there you are. We've all got on the same ground and we want to stay like that--you can't put people back when they've done ripping things, can you?"

Reube closed his eyes. These were the sentiments he was used to from Romillys, Shards, Ensors, and Badgers, and all the rest of the valley folk; he could understand that.

"Did your brother fight?" asked the strange girl quickly.

"Oh, yes--Royal Navy--he's Lieutenant on the destroyer _Spite_. Dad's a sailor, you know, he commands the battleship _Medusa_, one of the new ones."

There was a pause, then the other girl rose to her feet.

"My father was killed," she said in a sort of fierce, stifled voice.

Pamela jumped up also. She was shocked through all her sensitive being.

"Oh," she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so horribly sorry. I oughtn't to have talked about the war, one never knows. How splendid--how utterly splendid!"

The other girl said nothing at all, but made a move to pick up Reuben. Pamela took her share--and the egg basket, and the two of them started off with the chrysalis slung between them. It was easy enough going through the longish coarse grass which was now so wet, and the drifting mist that still held. Pamela was thinking hard, but she did not speak, that last sentence spoken by the strange girl had been such a shock that she wanted her to do the talking. Perhaps matters would be explained later.

The hour was nearer seven than six o'clock, for all these doings had taken up time.

One after another questions rose in Pamela's mind. She was tired and strained without knowing it, so the questions seemed to be dropped without answers. They went on down the long lane between the gorsy banks. As the strange girl was leading she had command of the procession; she made for the cart-shed, went in, and stopped.

"Take your petticoat," she ordered, "then I will put this child on your back, and open the gate. You may take him to the farm."

"Oh--but----" began Pamela, disturbed and puzzled.

"I shall not come into the farm, if that is what you wish. It is not possible," the other cut her short in a peremptory manner; "quick now--we cannot stand here; someone may come and that would be annoying."

Pamela found herself swept along in spite of herself. She mechanically did as she was told. The other girl was so strong and decided.

Just before she lifted little Reuben she said to him:

"Please say nothing to your family about me. Do you understand? It is better for everyone that people do not talk. If you talk Sir Marmaduke Shard will be angry with you."

"Yes, Miss," murmured Reube, awestricken and confused. A moment after he knew nothing, because when he was lifted he fainted.

Pamela wanted to get the business over as quickly as possible. The boy was a great anxiety. Also she felt as though her brain were entirely confused, and she wanted to set it in order again. She passed through the farm-gate--the dog began to bark furiously--then she called. On the other side of the stack-yard she saw a man hurrying, it was Ensor, the farmer; then Mrs. Ensor appeared, and immediately she found herself the centre of a small crowd, and heard herself saying that they ought to send for a doctor at once because the foot was very bad.

"It mayn't be broken, but it's all wrong," she said.

Ensor did not talk, he was a silent man; everybody else did, and Pamela had to urge quiet and warm milk at once.

"I had nothing to give him and he was so thirsty, poor mite."

"You look bad enough yourself, Missie. Down the Beak! Whoever heard tell the like. Naughty boy----"

"Don't scold him, Mrs. Ensor, he really has been through an awful lot," protested Pamela. "No, I won't stay a moment. I must get back as soon as possible, or my mother will be anxious. If you like I'll tell Major Fraser at Mainsail Cottage, probably he's in now."

But Mrs. Ensor would not have that--she had, as she told her husband, "a better notion of what was becoming", so the eldest boy was despatched--running--with a good deal of elbow action--and Pamela took her leave then, and went soberly surrounded by an atmosphere of intense loving gratitude. It was hardly spoken--it was in the air.

She felt as though she had small right to it, because, had it not been for the stranger, she must have been still on the face of that awful cliff--with dusk coming on, and the fog so chill. She shivered an instant, but at the same time almost her heart gave a little bound of excitement.

She had met the other girl; her own double! And who was she? What was her story? Where had she come from?

"I'll ask her," thought Pam, "she will be waiting in the cart-shed."

But no one was in the cart-shed. The place was bleak and shadowy, full of mist. The girl was gone.

It was a blow. Freed from the burden and care of the rescued Reube, Pamela had pictured that she and the girl would walk "home"--she did not know where that was, but believed it to be Woodrising--they would talk. She would learn the girl's name, and hear where she came from and why she was at Woodrising.

This break off was very irritating, because there was such a great deal of mystery, and it has been said that Pamela was inquisitive, or at anyrate always eager to know the "why" of puzzling things. Then, suddenly, a few words spoken rushed to her mind. The girl had told Reube that if he talked Sir Marmaduke Shard would be angry. Well, that settled it from one point of view. Sir Marmaduke had brought someone secretly to Bell Bay; this was the person he had brought--he was behind the mystery!

"Woodrising is his house--they must have gone there, I thought that in the beginning. Now I wonder if that silly little Chipman creature is taking care of this girl."

Pamela frowned as she reasoned it out. There is a game in which people hunt for hidden things and are told whether they are getting "warmer", as they come near it, or "colder", as they get farther away.

Pamela was getting very warm indeed!

Just at that moment she saw someone in front of her. It was past the turn into the cliff road, and she was making straight for the steep drop into Bell Bay. Clouds and the persistent fog together were making an evening much too dull for the date, now days were lengthening out so much. For a moment or two Pamela was uncertain, then she realized who they were. Two figures--one tall, with the unmistakable walk of a flat-footed person who turns her toes in; the other small, very dapper and neatly made, walking with short steps.

The Floweret, and Hughie.

She was startled almost into calling; then it occurred to her to shirk persistent questions by keeping behind till they got home. However, that did not present itself as the right course to a member of the Romilly family, so Pamela decided that first thoughts were best and she shouted cheerfully.

Hughie stopped short, and checked his companion, who looked in every direction but the right one before she became aware of Pamela's slim figure speeding down towards them. Then she waved both her basket and her waterproof cloak, and in so doing knocked Hughie's hat off, while some of the contents of the basket fell on the road.

Hughie salved them, miraculously unbroken, and replaced them in the basket with precision.

"How delightful, dear Pamela!" cried Miss Chance beaming. "Now where do you spring from? Do you know the most odd thing happened a short time ago! As Hughie and I were coming slowly up from the cove at Ramsworthy--very slowly--I was quite convinced that I saw _you_ and another girl exactly your height, you seemed to be carrying something. Just for one moment I saw you in the mist, against the sky line, as it were. But fog is so terribly deceptive that I mistrusted my own eyes. It was only for an instant--you seemed to be just on the top of the cliff--then you disappeared."

"Well," said Pam, not at all afraid of the Floweret's acuteness--because it did not exist, "I was on the cliff top, and I was carrying something. The fact is, Miss Chance, I've had a pretty lively adventure, and it's a bit of a mercy--it's a real big mercy, when one comes to think of it, that I'm here to tell my tale."

She walked on with them, carrying her eggs, and recounted her story, very briskly--simply leaving out her double.

She told how she went over the cliff, because of the oddness of the sea-bird scream, found little Reuben, and hauled him out of danger. She said very little, laying no stress on the terrible difficulty and danger of the feat.

Hughie made no remark. Miss Chance asked many questions.

"Dear Pamela," she cried, "I can't bear to think of it! How did you manage to lift him if his foot was injured?"

Pamela said she used her petticoat as a sort of sling.

"_Petticoat_--Oh!" gasped the Floweret horror-stricken, and pursued the matter no further in that direction. "We cannot be thankful enough that you are spared," she concluded.

"I gave him to the Ensors," went on Pamela, skating lightly over the interval. "Ensor was in the stack-yard--just going off to hunt--he'd never have found Reube, I'm certain. They sent off Joey to get Doctor Fraser--look there they come--I'm so glad."

This created a diversion. Miss Chance was thrilled also because she adored Major Fraser--and all brave men, for that matter--she was an excellent woman with high ideals, though her feet were flat.

The parties met and stopped for explanations.

"What's this story about little Reube found by you on the Beak, Miss Pam?" asked the Major, "Joey is a bit tongue-tied! Here, young man, run on and tell your mother I'm coming at once."

This order he gave in parenthesis, and then said to Pamela again:

"It seems to be a miraculous happening all round. Lucky for the child that you heard him call--and still greater luck that you were able to get him to the top! But I suppose it was not the worst part of the Beak?"

Pamela avoided the look of shrewd inquiry.

"It wasn't precipitous, of course," she said, "we should be having tea with the mermaids if it had been."

"Didn't the fog make it slippery?" asked Major Fraser.

"Oh yes, rather. However, we did it," then meeting his eyes she went on: "I shall learn first aid after this, Major Fraser. Do you know I hadn't a notion what to do with his foot. He fainted, poor tiny mite, and I hadn't a drain of water except mist on my handkerchief! It was simply beastly. I do hope you won't find his foot broken, but really it did seem to me quite the wrong way round."

"Well, I must get on and see to this wounded man--as for you, Miss Pam, perhaps Miss Chance will kindly act deputy for me and see that you have some strong soup and go to bed early."

He went on, thinking as he walked--not about Reuben Ensor. He was certain Pamela had kept back some important detail of her adventure. He knew the Beak. He knew the physical powers of a girl like Pamela, and the dead weight of a boy of six years old.

What was she keeping back, and why?

Meanwhile Pamela, having had quite enough of questions, and being heartily sick of giving answers with a reserve behind, changed the subject completely by demanding explanation from Miss Chance as to why and wherefore she was--where she was? Also what had become of the boat.

The Floweret fell into the trap all standing--never seeing that it was intended to draw her mind from the Beak question. She had a very pallid countenance. Pamela had noticed that when they met; and she proceeded to explain it by the story of the day's sail.

Salterne, she said, was delightful. She had shopped to her heart's content; all the parcels were on the yawl. The sail down the river too was perfectly charming.

"Do you know, dear Pamela," said poor Miss Chance, "I felt quite sure I should prove a most competent sailor, and become quickly inured to the ups and downs of sea-life. Indeed, I told dear Adrian that I hoped to enrol myself as one of the crew of the _Messenger_ now that Sir Marmaduke has lent her to the family. Adrian did not say much, and I must admit that when I got outside--I mean when the yacht was really at sea--it became a different matter."

"Were you bad--sick, I mean?" asked Pamela.

"Oh, _very_."

"How wretched for you. I am so sorry, Miss Chance, but you know one does get like that--when it is jumpy, and when it's very calm too. You mustn't mind about it. Nelson used to be sick, didn't he?"

"The great sailor Collingwood was martyr to _mal de mer_. Yes, dear, one must comfort oneself with such examples. And really," added Miss Chance with a touch of very earnest feeling, "I feel rather thankful that, unlike them, my duty does not oblige me to pursue the experiment. My work lies on land, and I think I shall remain on terra firma in future."