Part 16

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".