Chapter VIII: Part 8

Now if anybody is thinking that the trouble at Champles Farm began and ended with poor Pamela's anxious efforts, "he is deceived by his own vanity", as Mrs. Jeep would have said. The day was not ended before that worthy woman sent in a message by Keziah to know whether she could speak to mistress for a few moments. Mrs. Romilly departed to the housekeeper's room, and presently left that comfortable sanctum more confused in mind than ever.

It appeared that Mrs. Jeep considered it her duty to mention what "they" were saying about Miss Pamela. It was "all over the village" that Miss Pamela had removed the hurdle and had caused Mr. Badger's sheep to wander like the Israelites in the desert: some having been found at Peterock, one been run over on the main road to the station, and several still lost. That Miss Pamela had opened the gates at both ends of Spill land--the senseless name of the field in which the mare and the heifers were pastured--and let the animals out.

"They will have it as Badger's mare is so bad with the colic that she won't get over it. Green corn's shocking food for a horse--well, serve her right, the greedy creature--but the heifers, five of them, have trampled the field he'd laid by for hay something cruel. I'm repeating what they say, ma'am--there may be an ounce of truth to a barrel of lies--we know how they talk. But anyway, it's laid to Miss Pamela. In my opinion, that Badger's trying to make a case for himself. He thinks he knows where the money lays! I don't hold with that Badger, ma'am; never did, he's too free with his gossip. What I say is, Miss Pamela knows the rights of a field just as well as them Badgers. She was never one for mischief--not from a child. It's silly nonsense, that's what it is, ma'am, but I thought I'd tell you in case that feller comes round making out a case for damage."

Mrs. Jeep stayed, breathless; she had been fighting the family battles since the milk came from Paramore's in the morning. It was the milkman that first brought the tale; followed shortly by the postman and the baker. Hennery Doe had "known ove night", he admitted, but, as he disapproved of gossip just as decidedly as of eight-hour days, the story had remained with him.

"Oh dear, oh _dear_," said Mrs. Romilly, "it really is too absurd. Poor little Pamela seems to be in the wars all round. What is the matter? Why are people so hopelessly idiotic?"

Mrs. Jeep sympathized respectfully. She intended to uphold the family whatever turn the matter took, though in her secret heart she thought it not an impossible contingency that Pamela might have left a gate open.

"Unluckily she was there--in the evening," allowed Mrs. Romilly; "if only I could say she was at home!"

There it was.

Mr. Badger first of all wrote a letter to Mrs. Romilly. This he followed up by a visit, next morning, and poor Pamela was sent for to the library. She was pale and worried; there was an anxious look in her grey-blue eyes, for the situation was so entirely new to all her experiences that she felt like a convict.

Mrs. Romilly said:

"Pam dear, tell Mr. Badger what you saw, and what you did."

Pamela told, in rather a breathless way, and one strong point in her favour was her visit to Champles to fetch the eggs that were always welcome at the Bell House. Mr. Badger admitted that she had reached Champles before seven o'clock--about a quarter to seven in fact. Badger's contention seemed to be that she had opened the gates before that--soon after six, because witnesses had seen sheep wandering at half-past six.

"I didn't go that way, Mr. Badger," said Pamela with decision; "I began to climb up from the creek somewhere about six, and went straight to Champles. I came _back_ round the farm and the field where the mare was. No one was about, and I tried for an hour to get the animals home--the mare couldn't have eaten a great deal; I got her out, but the calves wouldn't go."

"I dunno," said Mr. Badger, with a twinkling eye fixed on the cornice--_one_ on the cornice, that is, _one_ on Mrs. Romilly--"I dunno as I can save that mare; she's a turrable loss. If she dies the foal's sure to foller; he's full young. As for the hay, an' them sheep----"

Mr. Badger believed he had a strong case. He said he could bring witnesses to swear that they saw Pamela about six o'clock going through the Spill land. The witnesses were vague rumour, really, but supposed to be people walking out from Peterock to Bell Ridge and back--these people "had passed a remark" on the subject when the sheep were all over the roads, and remembered a young lady in blue with a long tail of hair, walking in the direction of Peterock.

"How could _I_ be going to Peterock, Mother? You _do_ see how improbable it is, don't you?"

Mrs. Romilly was firmer than Mr. Badger had hoped. He had planned a "walk over", and pictured himself returning home with a cheque for at least twenty pounds in his pocket! The fact is that Mrs. Romilly was so convinced of Pamela's truth herself that she refused to be shaken.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Badger," she said; "at the same time, if, as you allow, people were walking out from Peterock to the ridge and back why should not one of them have left your gate insecure? Strangers are careless, we know. As for the young lady in blue with long hair whom they say they saw on the spot--the story is not convincing. They had heard the description of my daughter, and are shielding themselves behind it. I don't think we need say any more."

Mr. Badger went, dismissed icily by Keziah, who upheld the honour of the Bell House as first lieutenant to Mrs. Jeep; at the same time she remarked, in privacy:

"I've no opinion of Badger, Mrs. Jeep, as you know, but it takes some explaining to see why ever Mr. Adrian and Miss Pamela tell such different tales. Mr. Adrian's ever so gruff, won't hardly speak to Miss Pamela, nor Miss Christobel neither, so far as I can see. He _is_ put out."

Keziah spoke truly, for Christobel could get no opinion from her brother either way. He refused to discuss Badger, or his woes. When Christobel said it was all a story--a fairy tale of gossip--didn't he think so? Adrian said:

"My dear Crow, did we see Pamela, or did we not see Pamela! You know what we did, and you know what she did? Well, what's the good of talking."

It was conclusive enough to drive Crow into her own room and a consultation with her own mind as to the best course. There was still that suggestion of Pam's about Miss Lasarge. Crow sat in her wicker armchair and gazed up the carriage drive, on which Adrian still declared he had seen the younger pair at four o'clock in the morning. Madness--of course, yet, what about that queer invasion of the yawl? The whole thing was delirium of improbabilities; the more Christobel thought about it, the simpler it seemed to go and ask Miss Anne for advice.

So, about four o'clock on the day of Mr. Badger's visit, Christobel announced she was going for a walk, and "made tracks" for Fuchsia Cottage. Miss Anne was at home; she usually was at that hour; and she received the girl with pleasure visible in every line of her small pale face.

"Now of course you'll have tea with me, Crow; do you know, I was just beginning to pity myself for being all alone, and so you've saved me from a contemptible state of mind. I'll tell Lizzie--and what about the lawn?"

Christobel said it was rather windy; she did not want tea out of doors, it was too public. That settled it, because Miss Lasarge understood.

Everything went as is usual until the middle of the meal, when outside subjects of conversation had been exhausted; then Crow said:

"Little Pilgrim, I'm come really to ask you to help us----"

"_Us?_" questioned Miss Anne, undisturbed.

"Well, it affects us all, so I'd sooner say us. We are in a strange kind of morass--I don't know what to call it. We've never had such a horrible state of things in the family before; you know how happy we are?"

"I know," agreed Miss Anne; "and so something has happened to spoil it! Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me. 'Trouble shared is trouble spared', isn't it?"

"I'm trying to remember when this trouble actually started," said Christobel, leaning her head back on the cushion, and gazing at the flowers on the table with unseeing eyes.

"It was about the time Mollie went. The first we knew of it was when Pam saved little Ensor. She said, and they said, that she did it alone--you remember. Adrian said it was impossible. Some days afterwards he went to look at the place, and he found a most lovely diamond brooch with two 'A's' for initials and a coronet over them----"

Miss Anne stirred in her chair. Crow paused.

"Go on dear," said Miss Anne.

Crow went on, she told the whole story of the brooch, with scrupulous accuracy, adding one after the other the appearances of Pamela in places where she should not have been at such hours. She went on, without interruption, through the very strange story of Adrian's vision at four in the morning, and the even stranger relation of the condition in which the yawl and the dinghy were found. Finally there was the discovery of the handkerchief on board the yawl, and _this_ latest affair of the picnic at Champles Creek and Pamela's amazing behaviour, followed so quickly by Badger's accusation.

Crow was very deliberate; she did not forget the episode of Timothy Batt even, bringing the whole relation up to the present moment, as it were. Then she ceased to speak.

Miss Anne was leaning her cheek on her hand, and her elbow on the arm of the chair; she did not look at Christobel, but very intently out at the lawn and flowers.

"What do _you_ think, Crow?" she presently asked. "Have you any interpretation of your own?"

Christobel shook her head rather despondently; then she said:

"Anyway, I'm absolutely sure Pamela hasn't done anything dishonourable. I don't understand what's happening, but I do know Pam, and I've sometimes thought she might be aiming at some--well--some rather cranky sort of noble deed----" Crow flushed and looked at her companion in a deprecating manner. "She's simply wild about the Girl Guide business; she's only waiting till she gets to school to be one. She reads it up, and soaks it in, and she's awfully set on doing a good deed every day, and helping people whatever it costs. Don't you see how it might lead to--to things, perhaps? One can't tell how, exactly."

"She might be shielding somebody?" suggested Miss Lasarge.

"Yes; if there was anybody to shield. Besides," added Christobel in a more matter-of-fact tone, "a lot of it is sheer muddle--the Badger business, I mean, _that's_ sinful nonsense."

Miss Anne laughed; the fierceness in Crow's way of saying "sinful nonsense" pleased her very much.

After that they talked it all over quietly, and the upshot was that one thing especially seemed to puzzle Miss Lasarge, namely the surprising vision Adrian saw at four o'clock in the morning.

"He could hardly have been mistaken in Hughie," she said.

"Or in Pam," added Crow.

To that Miss Anne made no reply.

When Christobel had taken her leave, greatly comforted, though nothing had happened so far to lift the burden, Miss Lasarge looked at the clock; it was half-past five. She hesitated, then made up her mind--and a very firm mind too--because though Miss Anne was small and pale she had a great soul in that small body, and she realized that she must help innocent folk who were suffering through no fault of their own.

She put on a grey cloak and little close bonnet with a grey veil, and slipped across the road to Woodrising gates like a grey shadow. It was a cloudy day, and the very young new moon was "lying on her back", as country folk say, which is a sign of tiresome weather. Miss Anne, looking up, saw the silver sickle, pale and slim, for the first time.

Mrs. Trewby opened the gate, sighing; she was more bilious than usual by reason of Mrs. Chipman's company, and a large housekeeping allowance. Mrs. Chipman liked what she called "a good table", meaning, of course, the things on it, not the table. Therefore, in doing her best to keep Mrs. Chipman in countenance, Mrs. Trewby had upset herself for weeks, probably months. It was a pity, because it made her very unhappy and darkened her life.

"I wish to see the Countess, Mrs. Trewby," said Miss Anne.

"Well, miss, I dunno'----"

"It's very important," continued Miss Anne, quietly passing inside; "I will answer to Sir Marmaduke."

When Miss Lasarge spoke in that voice she was always obeyed, and so she presently found herself within the hall, and Mrs. Chipman discussing the matter with many creakings of the tight bodice.

"I assure you, Miss Lasarge, that I have agitated in vain," cried Mrs. Chipman; "coercion has been attempted in vain; the temperament of the Countess is opposed to isolation, therefore----"

"I am afraid we cannot discuss that, Mrs. Chipman; the point is that Sir Marmaduke left orders which must be carried out. Now, if you please, I wish to see the Countess."

Mrs. Chipman was for the time suppressed--like the guinea-pigs in _Alice in Wonderland_--she was rather like a guinea-pig when you come to think of it. She ushered Miss Lasarge into the drawing-room where Pamela had seen the Countess, but nobody was there, and Miss Anne detected in a moment that Mrs. Chipman really was not sure whether she could produce her very self-willed charge. It was a matter of luck!

In that moment they both saw the girl in question going swiftly across the lawn towards a shrubbery lower down. Miss Anne did not hesitate; she opened the window--which was of the "French" kind--passed out quickly, and called.

The girl stopped, and stood looking to see who had summoned her; saw Miss Lasarge and remained, hesitating. Had it been Mrs. Chipman she would have walked away, that was obvious.

Miss Anne went over the grass towards her.

"I want to have a little talk with you, Countess," she said, without the least asperity. "Won't you come back and entertain me?"

They came back together, into the drawing-room, and Miss Anne shut the window, because she preferred to keep the conversation private.

She did not find this task at all easy, chiefly because the girl's attitude--in every sense--was so antagonistic.

Sir Marmaduke Shard had given her and Major Fraser a sort of partnership as watch-dogs over this girl--chiefly because one was a first-class hospital nurse, and the other a doctor--yet they had no actual authority, only moral authority. He wanted someone on the spot to oversee Mrs. Chipman, and be ready supposing her charge should be ill. He fancied that he had arranged for every contingency in a most complete manner, but being a man as well as a great lawyer, he had of course missed entirely the main points--the practical points--with results already shown.

Miss Anne and Major Fraser both had a reason for helping; this came to light afterwards; but even so they would probably have declined all association with the business had they realized how perfectly untamable Sir Marmaduke's ward was going to be.

Things had come to a head, though, and Miss Lasarge felt herself on firm ground when she began to talk. She told the girl that she knew everything--including the brooch business and the wanderings over the countryside.

The Countess watched her shrewdly--to see how much she really did know--and quickly realized that nothing was said about the night visit to the yawl. Miss Anne did not mention it, because she could not make up her mind about that. How could little Hughie be connected with this girl in such an excursion? It was not possible to understand it, and the Countess decided she did not know, and triumphed.

She excused herself about the brooch, saying it was her own; she had dropped it on the cliffs.

"When you met Pamela Romilly?" suggested Miss Anne.

"Was there any wickedness in helping to carry the farm boy?" said the Countess.

"Of course not, my dear; but you should not have been out. You promised Sir Marmaduke in my hearing that you would keep to these grounds for the short time you are staying--you break your word, and, if I am not mistaken, you induced Pamela Romilly to keep your secret, and so have involved her in all sorts of grief and misunderstanding."

"She need not keep her promise," said the Countess, with a little smile.

"But she would, of course. And you knew she would, didn't you?"

The girl gave that little shrug with which she met objections she despised, and, as Miss Anne looked at her handsome face and her arrogant supercilious expression, she found herself wondering how, when, and where it would ever be possible to teach this untaught soul a code of honour.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*The Trick*

Miss Anne's visit at Woodrising lasted nearly an hour, which annoyed the Countess extremely, but she made little way on the road she had hoped to gain. She tried to awaken some sympathy for Pamela, but the girl appeared to find amusement in Pam's trouble. Because she had been brave over the cliff affair, Miss Anne hoped she felt for little Reuben, but she was in no wise interested, the farm people were "common".

At the end of the hour Miss Lasarge realized that the chief hold she had was in the fact that the Countess was afraid of Sir Marmaduke--of anyone in power, perhaps. It was a weapon Miss Anne could not bear to use, but she had to protect her beloved children at the Bell House.

"Well," she said, "then I'll say good night, and you will be wiser, my child, if you do as Sir Marmaduke wishes. You are making a mistake in acting as you do. I am obliged to say that I shall tell him if it does not cease."

The Countess looked down at the little grey person who presumed to interfere with her amusement. It did not occur to her that she could not shield herself behind a lie. It would be quite easy to tell Sir Marmaduke that the girl who ran about in the evenings was Pamela Romilly. He would believe her, of course. She recalled with satisfaction that Miss Ashington was sure she had been visited by Pamela. There was nothing--nothing to prove in any single instance that it had not been Pamela Romilly. Mrs. Chipman would be silent for her own sake.

As the little grey lady stood watching her face she read the thought. Perhaps the Countess did not try to conceal it; perhaps she was not so well practised in deceit as to hide it all--after all, fourteen years is not a long time. In either case Miss Anne saw it quite plainly, and she said:

"You might deny all sorts of things, but you would have to explain to Sir Marmaduke how you came to leave your handkerchief on his yacht--on Tuesday night. It is a thing that cannot be denied."

The girl stiffened, and stood rigidly still.

Then she said suddenly.

"It is a lie--you invent it to frighten me."

"No," answered Miss Anne, looking at her with the clear grey gaze that seemed the essence of truth, "it is quite true. My dear child, you know it is true. There is your initial, and the little coronet--quite unmistakable. Now good night again--be wise, and be good, and you will be happy too. I tell you frankly that _I_ have your handkerchief, but I shall not use any evidence against you unless you make me."

Seldom in her life had the grey lady felt so much pain as when she left the Countess standing in the Woodrising drawing-room with that expression of fear and anger together on her pretty face. Miss Anne had been used to girls as friends always, and had started by treating this girl in the same way as others. The Countess on her part started by pretending friendliness, and cheated! That was the difficulty--kindness, in her eyes, was weakness.

Miss Lasarge went home, and on the way made up her mind to write to Sir Marmaduke if there was any further trouble, but she did not wish to bother him needlessly, because she knew he was very busy at work on a Government Commission. Also, it did seem rather absurd that several women could not keep one girl of fourteen within bounds.

Left alone, the Countess sat down with some force and cried furious tears. Then she took her hat off and threw it on the floor--flung her gloves one way and her shoes another. Then she rang the bell violently, ordered Mrs. Chipman to pick the things up--and marched upstairs in her stockings with high held chin.

She would not go out--to-night--or to-morrow--perhaps not for one or two more days, but _wait_. She had plenty of money; she would not be trammelled by these common people--after all what could they do to her? That was the point naturally--what they could do that mattered? She had been in England a long time. Quite long enough to understand that nobody would hurt her, whatever she did; but not long enough to appreciate kindness at its true value--which was sad, in many ways. Therefore she settled her own plan, in her own way, went to bed and slept soundly.

At the Bell House life assumed something of the old peace. Nothing happened in the Badger line--having cast his bolt, the wily master of Champles Farm was not quite certain what to do next.

Christobel smiled on Pamela, who in her turn summoned up courage to ask what she had done with that handkerchief.

"Gave it to the Little Pilgrim," said Crow.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't she say one word? Didn't she know _anything_?" persisted poor Pam, disappointed.

"She looked at the initial, and I don't think she was surprised. I don't know why, but my feeling said she wasn't surprised. I told her about the brooch and--and a few things I'd noticed," went on Crow, turning a little pink under her sister's anxious gaze. "She nodded, and listened--that was all; but one felt she'd do something--quietly, without fuss! I don't know why one should always expect her to, but one does."

Pamela was thinking: "She'll help. She _knows_----"

Her face cleared a little.

"Pam," began Christobel with a sudden impulse to get nearer this isolated little sister, "I don't like asking if you don't--I mean if you've something private. But do you mind telling me if you went on the yawl that Tuesday night--before our sail?"

Pamela looked startled, hesitated a moment, and then said:

"No--I was never out of bed."

Christobel, seeing a disturbed look in her eyes, answered with a questioning:

"Truly, Pam?"

"On my honour, Crow. Honour bright! I was asleep, and I never knew anything about it. I didn't know things had been disarranged, till afterwards."

"But Hughie?" Christobel brought out the two words as half exclamation, half question.

"I'd rather you didn't ask me about anyone else, Crow," said Pam imploringly; "I can only tell you that you needn't think Midget naughty. He is absolutely _wonderful_. His pluck and his sense too. I don't believe there's a child to equal him in England! If you only----" she checked herself, and added in rather a choky tone, "Least said soonest mended, I suppose! 'Wait till the clouds roll by', dear old thing; they will, some day."

The weather began to be tiresome just about now, never two days alike, never morning and afternoon alike. Probably the old saying about an intoxicated moon had something to do with it. The crew of the _Messenger_ were not deterred, however; they sailed in fits and starts, gaining excellent experience of management and a lot of good exercise and salt air.

"Sooner them than me," said Keziah, shivering ostentatiously as she closed a rain-spattered casement with a bang. "Every man to his taste, but however anybody can look to a sailor's life----"

"_I_'m going to be a sailor," said Hughie from a kneeling position before a chair, on the seat of which he was preparing a diminutive brush, and equally small pot of varnish for use upon "blocks" no bigger than young green peas. "It's as good as any other way of living, Keziah. If you're drowned you can't be smashed in a railway accident, or die of small-pox. Even soldiers have to be buried--we don't. It's much the tidiest way."

Keziah departed in haste with a "Go on, Master Hughie, tidy indeed!" and told Mrs. Jeep that "the sayings of that child were past all knowledge".

Hughie chuckled to himself, well aware he had shocked Keziah, and went upstairs to wash his hands for lunch. He was looking forward to an afternoon after his own heart--nasty weather out of doors, and peaceful hours in the cave, finishing "rigging".

Pamela was rather distraite at lunch. After days of peace and ordinary "old-fashioned" life, as she called things as they were, a little letter had reached her that morning, not by hand--not thrown in at the window--posted the day before in Bell Bay probably, postmark Ramsworthy, the nearest office.

It was from the Countess. Its tone was kind, was friendly, was even a little humble. She was very lonely and unhappy, she had no one to speak to, and would Pamela please meet her for only ten minutes in the wood behind Crown Hill next day? She suggested half-past five--allowing time for Pamela's tea, she said--and declared that she would go in any case, just in the hope of seeing Pamela. She asked if Pam would wait till six o'clock if no one appeared, because it wasn't always easy to get out. Finally she asserted that she had been very patient and very miserable for a long, long time--nearly two weeks--and it couldn't hurt anybody if Pamela came and talked to her for ten minutes.

There is small doubt, perhaps, that Pam should not have considered such a proposition. But it must be remembered that she knew nothing at all about Miss Anne's strict injunction, or the importance of the rules set for the Woodrising household.

It was true that the Countess had remained a quiet prisoner through nearly a fortnight of dreary, windy, gusty, sunless weather, and Pamela's soft heart was melted towards her. After all, she was only fourteen, there was such an odd bond in the likeness and the age. Again, no one had been told but Pam that her father was killed, and she had been bandied about from house to house like a portmanteau of clothes left behind. Pamela did not know who she was, but guessed her of considerable importance, not that that mattered in her eyes, but it accounted for things. Pam's theory was that somehow "Government was responsible", in which belief she was "very warm", as people say in hide-and-seek. That explained Sir Marmaduke, who was always on Commissions, and cloaked in official secrecy--and blindness.

Anyway it would not matter if she met the girl once; she would soon see if the Countess was "getting nicer", as Pamela said to herself. So she decided to go, and talk to her for ten minutes, also, to tell no one, as she was adjured in the letter; no one, not even Hughie.

From that moment dated a most amazing adventure, one that might easily have cost the lives of several people, including this weighty charge of the great K.C.

Adrian and Christobel went out for a short sail as usual, came back, moored the yawl--she was safe enough on her strong holding ground--pulled up the dinghy, and appeared at tea saying the weather looked beastly.

There had been over a fortnight of this horrible broken-up outlook, and according to Adrian there might be a month. Long sails had been abandoned. The persistent pair got a run out and back most days, either morning or afternoon, for two hours at the outside just for experience and exercise, as has been said already. They had never once remained out to tea; hardly ever for lunch. It was not tempting enough. They came in, on this particular day, before four o'clock, having gone out at two.

"No good," said Adrian; "silly ass the weather is. I say, Crow, why not racquets in the garage after tea--there is no car as it's gone to be done up--we shan't hurt the walls. Ask Mother."

Mrs. Romilly agreed placidly; she preferred it to sails in ugly weather, even if the plaster came down!

Hughie retreated again to the cave.

Pamela disappeared by herself. That was just about ten minutes past five.

One hour later Pamela was still up in the wood beyond Crown Hill park. She had gone through the grounds, reached the copse about the time fixed, and waited, sitting on a fallen tree in the glade. The place was sheltered from wind and all sound but the far away murmur of surf on rocks. Pamela waited at first in a strained sort of way, rather nervous, and wondering how she and the Countess would get on together after their one and only meeting at Woodrising. Then, when the girl did not come, she guessed there must have been some obstacle, and stayed from minute to minute, because she pictured the Countess arriving breathless, having run all the way, and being dreadfully disappointed at finding the place empty and chance lost. Pamela strolled up and down and gazed through the leafy tree-tops at the drifting clouds. They seemed to be going surprisingly fast, and there was a lot of vapour about; the intoxicated moon was invisible, but where she might be was a tiny misty patch, and away low down in the west was a veiled eye with a ring round it.

Presently Pamela realized that it was after half-past six; she could not wait. She went along in the Woodrising direction for some little way; no one appeared. She turned back and went off on the homeward track, looking over her shoulder every few moments just to see if the Countess was arriving at the eleventh hour.

Out of the wood she came, through Crown Hill park, down the drive to the lodge, and reached the gate at the bottom of the slope on to the horn above the bay. The road turned sharply here, of course, almost dropping to the sea-wall and Bell House lawns, but on the rugged exposed bit of cliff was Mainsail Cottage, Penberthy's domicile, which had once been the coast-guard station. Part of this was let to Major Fraser, who was at the moment away in London.

Mrs. Penberthy, a little vague woman rather like "Mrs. Jellaby", was standing behind the white low wall of the wind-blown garden, looking out to sea with hands shielding her eyes. She was alone; no doubt Penberthy was working overtime at Crown Hill as usual. As Pamela reached the corner, the elbow of the turn, she forgot Mrs. Penberthy's interest in the sea, and stood looking down puzzled--very puzzled indeed.

On the sea-wall terrace, leaning over, stood Mrs. Romilly, with a handkerchief tied over her blowing hair; beside her was Mrs. Jeep, stout and dignified in starched cap.

Down on the edge of the rocks was a group: Hughie, Miss Chance, and Keziah--all staring out to sea with hands shielding eyes from the drizzly gusts that blew into the bay, not with violence, but nastily. The evening had closed in surprisingly early for seven o'clock; it might almost have been nine. So far as Pamela could see, there was not a sail in sight, yet at moments she thought she saw something grey and ragged rise and fall, far out.

Then she started off running down the hill, and half-way was checked by a cry from her mother. Pamela stopped and stared--they were waving--all were waving and calling out! _Why_? She waved back, and went on running, noting as she got nearer and nearer what an extraordinary state of excitement seemed to prevail. She remembered also that Adrian, Crow, and the yawl were not there.

Somehow or other she had not seen that in the first surprise. Now that she did see it, it came as a shock--a shock with dismay. But even now she did not in the least realize what had happened.

She hurried to her mother, and was greeted with--"_Oh_, my little Pam!" and an almost passionate clasp of arms.

"Mummy darling, what _is_ the matter? Why is everybody----"

"I can*not* understand," Mrs. Romilly interrupted, urgently talking. "I am worried about the others, of course, but the yacht is nice and solid--one feels they are really all right--but who on earth? It's like witchcraft!"

"What is?" demanded Pamela, looking to Hughie, who had come up with Keziah, and was the only person not chattering.

"_You_, in the dinghy!" said Hughie, returning her inquiring gaze with eyes so full of meaning that gradually a dawning dread took possession of her mind. She turned to Mrs. Romilly.

"Mother, I never went in the dinghy."

"Dear child, I see now, of course, but we all thought you'd gone off in her."

"Gone off in her! At this time! In such beastly weather--why?"

"But, Pam, we saw you go!"

"Saw me go!" Pamela echoed the words almost stupidly.

"To be strictly accurate, dear, no one saw you put off," said the Floweret; "had we done so, of course, we should have interfered, realizing how very unsuitable all conditions are. But Keziah saw you rowing out of the bay in the dinghy, and came running down--she was turning down the beds in yours and Hughie's room----"

"You could have knocked me down with a _touch_, I was so taken up," put in Keziah. "I screeked out, 'It's never Miss Pamela', and off I went. Mr. Adrian'd come in by then, so I banged on his door and I said----"

"Where _is_ Addie?" put in Pamela anxiously.

"Darling, they are gone after you; you see--" said Mrs. Romilly, trying to smile in a scared sort of way--"the thing is, I don't understand. They'll be all right, of course. They were out after lunch to-day and came back to tea, as you know. The thing that startles me so is----"

"But how did they get on to _Messenger_ without a boat?" demanded Pamela. "I beg your pardon, Mummy--how rude of me to cut in--but I really am so awfully surprised."

"_Swam_," announced Hughie, with a spring that landed him side-saddle on the top of the sea-wall; then he laughed.

Pamela looked from one to the other with wide eyes; then she suddenly remembered Hughie's plan for catching the Countess.

"Who thought of it?" she asked quickly; "was it you, Midget?"

"Well, you see," explained that young person, "when Addie came down and saw you right out there in the dinghy, he said, 'How in thunder am I to get to the yawl?' and Crow said nothing at all, and I said '_Swim_'. Then Addie thought and thought and said 'How's that?' to Crow, and Crow rushed up home to get a bathing-dress----"

"Oh but, Mother," cried Pamela in distress, "what on earth can Crow do on the yawl with no dress--she hasn't got any clothes on board."

"No, but Addie has, dear. Crow will do all right. Addie has two sets of flannels on the yacht always, often more. Crow will have one set and Addie the other, and they've got the oilskins, you see. Really," reasoned poor Mrs. Romilly, trying to pretend it was all very amusing--"really, it is quite an adventure--and an awfully good idea of Midget's. I don't think Addie would have thought of it himself, somehow. It is very--well--unusual."

"Horribly cold and rough," said Pamela, shivering as she looked at the grey water surging restlessly in the pretty bay.

"Rough water isn't always cold," said Mrs. Romilly; she was using every possible argument to make herself think this business was nothing.

Pamela asked how long ago the yawl had started, and was told that she sailed about half an hour since. Of course the swim, the dressing, and the start had all taken time. When had they seen the boat leaving the cove? Nobody seemed very sure. All that was mazy. The excitement had been so great, and the fear about Pamela so acute, that time had not been counted or noticed. Probably it was somewhere about six o'clock when the retreating dinghy was first seen.

A feeling of intense indignation gripped Pamela body and soul. She had never been so angry in her sweet-tempered life.

It was vile, it was treacherous!

The Countess had written that perfidious letter to draw her safely away and out of sight. That was all--not one word of honesty in the pretended loneliness and friendly overture. Pamela saw through the move clearly, now it was too late.

The girl calculated that she could pass down through Bell Bay grounds to the cove, and reach the dinghy without interference--under the guise of her double--Pamela. If the servants saw her on the beach no one would trouble.

Pamela realized also that she had satisfied herself of the fact that the yawl went out for short runs and back--her chances of finding the dinghy, and no one about, on such a day was a hundred to one, therefore--and as for the one chance against her, had Adrian been on the yawl and the dinghy in use, she would have strolled off--pretending to be Pamela--and tried again another day, no doubt.

Having been baulked in her plan of hiding on the _Messenger_, she had stolen the dinghy. Ignorant of weather conditions outside, no doubt she thought she could get to Peterock--anywhere.

Time went on. Eight o'clock. Nine. Ten. Then Pamela begged her mother to send for Miss Anne. _She_ would have to explain; perhaps it would take off Mrs. Romilly's mind from the agony of waiting for the yawl.

Nobody went to bed. Every hour the wind grew stiffer--it had backed down into the south-west and settled to blow--dark as pitch, with horribly squally gusts. Pamela remembered that awful night as long as she lived, and the grey dawn that followed--when the wind screamed in the chimneys, and spray blew up the valley.

*CHAPTER XX*

*The "Messenger" to the Rescue*

When Christobel came back to the shore after getting ready for that strange swim, she felt as though she was in a dream and the events happening to somebody else. To be starting out in such uncanny fashion when the day was closing in and night--very threatening night--begun, seemed too unnatural. She did not like the notion of sailing into that uneasy grey waste beyond the cliff gates of the cove, but apart from the discomfort she was hardly afraid. Both she and Adrian had become practised in the last two weeks of choppy sea and gusty breezes.

The predominating idea, though, was the madness of Pamela.

Both Crow and her mother were absolutely dazed by this amazing act on the part of the younger girl. Why? _Why_? What was the use and what was the sense? Could it be anything to do with Badger? She had seemed so happy during this fortnight past. At tea-time there was no appearance of worry.

"Well, Mummy--I'm not sure. She was very quiet and absent at tea."

"So she was--yes----" Then Mrs. Romilly went over the whole ground again, tearing her own heart with doubts, dreads, and misgivings.

But the upshot of the whole thing seemed to be that Pamela was demented. No sane girl would go off at that hour, and in such a sea, rowing an open dinghy with small sculls.

The swim was nothing--rather jolly in fact. Adrian climbed up first and let down the short white steps for her.

"What's the tide doing?" asked Crow, and she stood a moment on the counter looking round.

"On the turn, I think; however, considering we don't know which way she's gone----"

"No; but won't she be forced to go the way the tide goes?" suggested Crow from the companion-way.

"I suppose so. What raving insanity it all is! I can't see a glimpse of her anywhere. You see, we don't know how long a start she had."

"Keziah said----"

"Oh, I know--but Keziah's an idiot. Did you ever know her tell you a thing accurately?"

It will be seen that Adrian was cross. He was, very. Expecting a wet night, he had housed the mainsail and the mizzen in their covers, and now all was to undo, and do over again. It really was maddening. Also he had made up his mind to tell Pamela his opinion when they found her. Having restrained his tongue on the Champles Creek event, he believed it was now time to let go.

When the two were ready, they looked very business-like and fit sailor-men. Crow in flannels and oilskins, with sou'-wester tied down, and steady grey eyes looking from beneath the peak of it, was a most alluring personality. Addie looked big and square, and very much in earnest.

The first question to answer was, how much sail should be allowed. They had gone out that day with one reef down; the weather demanded that. Adrian now decreed two reefs down, foresail and storm jib, no mizzen. The jib had to be changed, and reefs taken down; they both worked, but it took a little time, as everyone knows who has done these nail-breaking jobs in the circumstances that usually attend them--namely, drizzly rain, salt spray, and wind in aggravating gusts.

"We shall have to have the lights," said Adrian, groaning.

"If only it were morning instead of seven in the evening," murmured Crow.

"My good girl, what _is_ the use----"

Crow laughed.

"No use, Addie, only for goodness' sake let's buck up. We've got to go and search the briny main, so we may as well be cheerful. By the way, I believe Mother is going to send a messenger somewhere, too."

"How do you mean _somewhere_?"

"Ramsworthy."

"No earthly use. What could they do? I believe there is an old crank----"

"The lighthouse men have a boat, haven't they?"

"Daresay--yes, believe they have. But you're not going to get them out ploughing the coast vaguely. They _might_ go to pick someone off a wreck they could see, or hear. Mum might just as well save her trouble. Too late to wire. No one to wire to! It's up to _us_, old lady; we've got the only thing that's any chance--a sound, fast, sailing boat. There, that's done."

It was the last reef.

Then the mainsail went up, jerking and rattling, looking absurdly small, and quite useless. Also the wrong shape.

"We shan't capsize, anyway," said Crow, inwardly pleased at the small amount of canvas showing.

"No, but we might be pooped."

"Waves aren't big enough, child."

"You _wait_!" Adrian gave a "hollow" laugh; he noticed it himself. "I've often wondered what a 'hollow laugh' was, in books," he said; "now I've done it myself! Next time I shan't jeer at the miserable chaps who do it when they are hanging by one finger-nail to a crag five thousand feet above a torrent."

"_They_ don't," corrected Crow; "_they_ set their teeth till their jaws look like granite rocks. The person who gives the 'hollow laugh' is the villain who lured them to the crag, and is peeping over just before he goes back to marry the best girl."

Both laughed, not a "hollow one".

"Right-o," said Adrian; "let's sing the 'Marseillaise', Crow, and run up the White Ensign--we've no earthly right, but no one will dispute with us just now. I'll batten the fore-hatch, then 'Westward ho, with a rumbillo--and it's----'" Adrian gave a shout that could be heard right up the valley and made Crow jump, ending with "'my mariners all--O----'" in a fantastic falsetto.

Then he cast off the mooring-buoy.

Hand-waving from the shore and the sea-wall wished them success. The white yawl, lying down to her work in a steady-going fashion, looked very business-like--no frills at all, sheer labour.

Christobel was steering, while Adrian watched the sails; the red and green lights made rays on wave-tops sometimes, and then the situation took on an eerie kind of feeling, very dramatic.

"I feel as though we were doing a film play," said Crow; "one might, you know, but it would be desperately difficult."

So they talked, and the _Messenger_ ploughed her way, out and out, making a long tack, really for want of a better idea. Christobel hoped they would presently see the dinghy. The tide appeared to be rising--that would be going towards Salterne--but the wind was strongly from the south-west; consequently this went some way to nullify the force of the tide, and a small light boat might be expected to be affected much by the wind.

"What would she do; row, or drift?" said Crow.

"To tell the honest truth, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she had landed at Champles," answered Adrian.

"Could she?"

"Why not? The tide is rising, and wind on the shore. She's the sense to know that the creek is sheltered by the Bell cliff."

"But, Addie, _why_ go out, and then go back to Champles?"

"Don't ask me any more riddles, my dear child. Why go at all? The point seems to be that, as the whole proceeding is insane, we've got to calculate with perfectly impossible proceedings."

After this they talked in low voices, sitting close together in the well. Reasonably sheltered, comfortable after a fashion, but anxious and strained; going out and out, and always watching. At least once every few minutes one or other of them thought they saw something dark--on a wave--in a hollow--against a creaming smother of foam; yet always it was nothing.

They heard the thump of engines on the wind coming from the thick distance, and thought they saw a long trail of black smoke blowing forwards, as a steamer went out west by north. Also they certainly saw an old barque, close hauled, jamming away into the heart of the dirt.

"Evidently tide is rising," reasoned Adrian. "That old thing wouldn't be going up if it wasn't; she's tacking. They always use tides, whatever the weather is. Ripping sailors those fellows are."

About an hour from then it was dark as possible; the wind was fairly hard, and kept the rain off, of course. Christobel tried not to think of her mother. The point was to get Pamela, and the likelihood pointed to the swamping of the dinghy. It sickened Crow to remember how probable that was, and to hearten herself she called up the memory of the little boat on the day of the big thunderstorm--whether towed or free, she had _lived_, anyway--and was this sea any worse? Christobel thought it was about the same, "Much of a muchness," she murmured; and Adrian asked: "What's that you are saying?" Crow told him what she was thinking.

"Oh, _this_ is worse," said Adrian decisively; "we've had ten days of ups and downs to ruffle it, and the wind you get in a thunderstorm isn't the same as a bad turn like this. Crow, I'll get the night-glass. We might see something." Christobel gripped his arm, and suggested a change of direction.

If they made a course towards Peterock, they would have a fair wind, strong--but a tough tide against them. That would keep them from getting too fast--to nowhere in particular. Keep them neutral, as it were.

Adrian liked the idea, also said he: "Please remember we've had nothing to eat, my dear girl. I'm hollow, dying of hunger."

"So am I," agreed Crow, "and our strength must be kept up, whatever happens. Addie, why not lie-to?"

Adrian laughed, because he knew this was always the end and aim of Crow's manoeuvres in bad weather, and especially at food-times. The comfort of being able to do things while your craft managed herself was indescribable.

"I'll have a look round first," he said.

He had got out the night-glass, to which he was not well accustomed, and the result of using it was that he felt sure he saw something to leeward--something dark and small showing up on the foam.

They let out the mainsail and jib, kept the yawl away, and ran off in the direction indicated. _Messenger_ strained through the tossing water, dipping her bowsprit till the little jib was drenched.

It was fruitless. Whatever it was, it had gone. After that they went on again in pursuit of another delusion, and, by the time a third black patch had disappointed them, Crow believed there was something the matter with the glass. Perhaps there was. Anyway, these things were snares.

About that time they really were very hungry and tired. Neither would betray anxiety, and both spoke of Pamela and the dinghy with calm certainty, as though the latter was an ironclad. Christobel would not confess her real handicap, because Addie laughed at such things. It was sheer fright of the _depth_ and _power_ of the water in such circumstances. On fine, sunny days this is forgotten and enjoyment reigns, because you feel that you are not helpless--but when darkness is added, and tossing, hungry wave-crests go and come everlastingly under gleams of red or green light, the dread is apt to grow and grow till it becomes overwhelming. The victim begins to feel about as small and utterly useless as a spent match, and imagination forces her to realize the acres and fathoms, the miles of green, awful depth, cold, heavy, and supremely terrible, that, shifting always, and always, lie below the coppered keel.

"I won't think about it," Crow was saying to herself, and went on thinking all the time; so, of course, the best thing was to get busy over commonplace things, and she requested Adrian to haul the foresail across and prepare to wait awhile.

Just about then the siren from the lighthouse began to shriek. The regular "hoots", short and long, came across the wild waste in husky screams--immensely distant, so it seemed, to the brother and sister. They had expected the winking light, but had not seen it, no doubt because of the thick dark, which could only be pierced for a certain radius. The wail of the siren made everything more fearsome, and the only way to revive drooping courage was with food and hot cocoa.

They went below, trying to forget the outside horrors in the warmth and glow of the little saloon.

Crow was on tenterhooks, dragged all ways by anxiety and thoughts of her mother, but she tried not to show it, though she realized that Adrian's manner had changed in the last hour. He was feeling the same--and would not show it.

Suddenly an impulse to rush on deck seized Christobel. A thrill of excitement ran through her veins; she set her cup down and listened.

"What's the matter?" asked Adrian, watching her.

"Didn't you hear a--wait a bit, Addie, I must----" She was up and through the door with a swift run. Adrian followed, not understanding.

The blackness seemed to strike their eyes at the instant--blackness and grey shapes moving up and down--across and across--flashes of white foam and with that douches of cold spray.

Christobel was up on the counter holding to the mizzen, and trying to see; the stem of the yacht rose and fell in nasty pitches.

"Come down, Crow," called Adrian; "you'll slip!"

The answer was an excited cry from his sister:

"Addie, Addie, _quick_--the boathook! Get her, get her, don't let the boat go--it's _Pam_!"

Adrian saw--to leeward of the yawl--quite close, too, something dark rise on a wave from under the stern almost. Someone gave a call which was blown away by the wind, only a faint echo of it reaching them.

Christobel held on to the mizzen and shouted directions.

"Row, _row_, Pam--come up to the red light; we'll get you--don't be afraid."

Adrian hurled himself forward with the boathook, and dropped the steps into the hooks.

The figure in the boat was pulling. They could see a white patch of face, and--the hair.

Two minutes, and they had got hold of her.

Christobel did not know what she was saying; she was sobbing--yet not crying--a perfect frenzy of joy in feeling, actually _feeling_ Pamela's arm--not a dream, a solid flesh and blood arm--and dragging her up the steps. She was drenched and speechless, and clung to Crow's hands with a frantic clutch.

"Oh, Pam--darling old Pam--it's all right now--don't be afraid--it's all right--you're safe!"