Part 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just before she lifted little Reuben she said to him:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pamela was getting very warm indeed!

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

The Floweret, and Hughie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hughie made no remark. Miss Chance asked many questions.

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

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

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

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

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

The parties met and stopped for explanations.

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

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

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

Pamela avoided the look of shrewd inquiry.

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

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

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

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

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

What was she keeping back, and why?

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, _very_."

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

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

"Shan't you try sailing any more then?" asked Pamela in rather an innocent voice.

"No, dear, I think not," answered Miss Chance with fervour.

"But where is _Messenger_?" went on Pam, "I can see they dropped you at the Ramsworthy Cove, but what are they doing? Coming home, or going back?"

"They'll come home if they can," informed Hughie, speaking for the first time; "but Addie thought the tide mightn't last out. If it doesn't, I'm to tell Mum not to bother, because they'll just run back to the harbour and anchor inside the bar. It would be ripping. I wish I could have stayed."

"Mother might have worried about your being on the yawl, anchored out," said Pamela.

"She needn't," said Hughie rather sorrowfully--then he went on with more vigour, "some day I shall anchor in all sorts of places. In the Nile, and in the Zambesi, and in the Lawrence, and in the Danube, and crowds besides. It's only just waiting till then. I don't much care."

In a spirit of philosophy he lapsed into silence, opening the gate on to the Bell House lawn with an absent air.

There was so much to tell Mrs. Romilly that her attention was distracted from the possible troubles of the yawl; besides, Miss Chance was so very sincere in her assurances about the calm.

Pamela added that it was as safe inside the bar of Salterne river as at the bridge.

"Much safer than Bell Bay."

"Addie says they'll come on the very early tide and be here by seven o'clock," Hughie repeated his message with care. "He says there is always a breeze in the very earliest morning."

"Did he tell you to tell me that, darling?" asked his mother, looking into the earnest eyes that held hers.

"He told me, because Miss Chance was so awfully sick that she couldn't listen," answered Hughie.

Pamela said she would go to bed when Hughie did, and as Major Fraser's order was definite, she had the soup and went. About that part of the adventures related to her, the point most tragic, in Mrs. Romilly's opinion, was Reuben's injured foot. She was deeply distressed about Mrs. Ensor, and made plans for sending up in the morning--inquiries and dainties.

"How fortunate we are to have such a doctor as Major Fraser resting here," she said to Miss Chance, "how thankful I am dear Pam heard the child. He might have died. I don't know the Beak, Miss Chance, is it very steep?"

The Floweret opined that it was certainly steep, she also mentioned the detail of the petticoat sling.

"Pamela told me that was how she managed to get the boy up, it was a most original idea you know, Mrs. Romilly, but Pam is so full of resource, dear child--it is wonderful. When we met Major Fraser he was in a hurry, but he asked questions. I rather fancied he was surprised she was able to do it, and you know I could not well mention the means she employed, it would not have been quite nice, I thought."

"I'll tell him," said Mrs. Romilly, "if he is puzzled. Of course, he would be interested to know when you consider Pam's age and limits. It's not like a man. Reube is a tiny boy for his age, but they are all fairly sturdy, and if it was very steep--Oh, my poor little Pam--I wish I'd been there! Yes, she is clever, and so plucky."

Meanwhile the person who was "clever and so plucky" had undressed in the shortest time possible, got into bed and fallen asleep almost before she laid her head down. For once in a way Pamela was worn out; not only had the long strain and hard physical exertion tried her, but she was in a mental fog about her mysterious double.

What to do about it! What to do----

Ought she to tell her mother? Did it matter? If it did not matter, why was Sir Marmaduke so secret, and why did the girl herself refuse to go into Clawtol Farm, and lurk about in this queer way? An ordinary seaside visitor would come to the shore; why then did she never appear in the cove or among the rocks?

All these questions chased each other through her mind while she undressed and brushed out her long hair. Then, just before she lay down, came the realization of one fact. This strange girl appeared only very early, or late--never when Bell Bay was busy with ordinary life. Mollie saw her quite early. Hughie saw her in the evening. Crow and Adrian saw her after dark, very late indeed. Finally Pamela had seen her in late afternoon, but then there was such a thick fog that she could elude anyone.

"Oh, bother it all," thought Pam, "no good worrying any way, one can't do any more to-night."

Then she was asleep.

*CHAPTER XI*

*In which Adrian holds a decided opinion about Pam*

No one should count on anything. We say that often, yet we do the opposite. Pamela thought no one could bother her again that night, yet she was wakened about two hours after she fell asleep by the cautious opening of her door.

There was moonlight still, of course. The moon rose later, and was veiled by fog still, but grey light made things in her room visible.

"Pam!" it was Hughie's voice; he slid round the edge of the door, closed it after him, and came towards the bed on tiptoes, a quaint little figure in blue-and-white striped pyjamas.

"Well?" answered Pamela, not in the least realizing that no cause but an important matter would have made Hughie do this. She was hardly awake.

Hughie seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked at her.

"Are you awake, Pam, now?" he inquired.

"Yes, I am--now----"

"Well, look here----"

"Look here what? Why did you come?" Pam was still confused.

"A person threw a thing into my window. It went whack on the floor--not a bump--just a teeny whack. Then I got up and found it. See----" Hughie stretched out his hand.

Pamela gathered her wits together and sat up. Then she bent forward to look, and took the something from his hand. She turned it over with caution, surprised, and still befogged.

"What on earth!" she murmured, and stopped.

"I'll light your candle," said Hughie.

Pamela glanced up.

"Get my torch, Midget, and snap it on while I look. We don't want a candle, it might be seen outside--or inside, for that matter; we don't need an audience."

Hughie did as he was asked, and stood by her side, bringing the little bright light to bear on the parcel she held. It was very small. A longish foreign envelope, containing apparently some little heavy things of irregular size that felt like pebbles. Pamela tore it open. Certainly pebbles, little gravel ones not even washed, were in the envelope, and a folded bit of paper.

Within the note were these words, written in a pointed narrow hand, not like that usual with schoolgirls.

"I wish to speak with you. Come to the Clawtol wood at 8.30 to-morrow."

There was no signature.

Pamela read it twice, then she said in a very wideawake tone:

"_Cheek!_"

Hughie watched her with interest. He was not able to master handwriting yet, but his wits were keen.

"Is it the other girl, Pam?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Who is she, then?"

"Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her friends know best. _I_ know nothing at all, yet."

"Does she want you to do something, then?"

"My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coolly _orders_ me to meet her at 8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad, prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply isn't decent."

Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the envelope.

"She put those in to weight the letter, of course--but why your window?"

"She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie.

"Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs. Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her."

"Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain this time."

Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned.

"I wish she'd leave me alone, Midget. I've a feeling in my bones that she'll get me into a mess before she's done. I don't believe she has a shred of consideration, now she knows we are alike."

"Has she seen you, Pam?" asked Hughie with keen interest.

"Seen me! Why, I perfectly forgot I've never told you a thing. Here, climb on the foot of the bed, and I'll tell you exactly what happened to-day. I was so fearfully tired, and so busy warding off all the idiotic questions, that I never remembered I hadn't told you."

Hughie climbed up as suggested, packing himself like an Indian idol as usual, and listened to the true and complete version of the rescue on the Beak cliff.

When it was ended he said:

"Well, I thought it was fearfully funny that you got up Reube all alone. I've been down there----"

"You have," interrupted Pamela with sharp disapproval, "then you're not to do it again, Midget. Swear you won't."

Silence.

"Well--look here," Pamela compromised, "if you won't promise, will you tell me when you go and let me come too. Honestly, it isn't safe for you. Reube slipped and was nearly killed. Only my going saved him."

"I'll tell you, Pam," agreed Hughie, impressed by her anxious tones.

"That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to grip."