Part 17

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.