Pamela rose the next morning with a dumb anger in her heart. She had
passed a sleepless night,--a night of anguish, such as she had not
experienced since the time following her discovery of the existence of
Arnott's wife. She did not know how to act. She needed advice sorely,
and knew of no one to whom she could turn in her trouble. The delicacy
of her position made it impossible for her to seek outside help.
Whatever difficulty arose through her relations with Arnott, she must
face it alone.
On one thing she was resolved; the night's reflection had confirmed her
on this point; Blanche must go at once. Arnott's insistence that the
girl should remain weighed with her very lightly, and failed to shake
her determination.
She went downstairs with her decision arrived at, with no intention of
discussing the matter again. There was no one to discuss it with she
found on descending; Arnott had breakfasted and left the house, taking a
small amount of luggage with him. This, she realised, was his way of
evading unpleasantness. Possibly the recognition that he dared not
further assert his authority, coupled with a dislike for admitting
defeat had moved him to this course as the only dignified way out of a
dilemma. He left her to act on her own responsibility.
Pamela breakfasted alone. For the first time since their marriage she
experienced a relief in his absence. She lingered over the meal,
encouraging a sense of independence which this solitariness gave her.
Had she known that he had gone away for ever it would not have troubled
her at the moment. She did not wish him back. Realising this with a
faint touch of surprise, she set herself to analyse her feelings in
regard to him. It caused her something of a shock to discover from this
analysis that in three years her love for him had shrunk to
inconsiderable dimensions. She was conscious of a feeling of contempt
for him which came dangerously near to repulsion. The scene of the
previous night had killed her respect for him finally. Further, it had
convinced her that he had ceased entirely to care for her. This man of
uncontrolled passions had wearied of her, as doubtless he had wearied of
his first wife. Possibly, if she had left him three years ago before
his passion had begun to wane, his love would have endured longer. With
men of Arnott's temperament the inaccessible is always the most desired.
When she had finished breakfast she went upstairs to the nursery for her
difficult interview with the governess. She had expected Miss Maitland
to come down with the children. It was past the hour for their morning
walk. To her amazement, when she entered the nursery, Maggie was in
sole charge, endeavouring with the willing incapacity of her type to get
the children into their walking things. Pamela was helping her by
amusing the boy while she fitted his cap over the unruly curls. At
sight of his mother the boy fought vigorously to go to her, while Pamela
darted gleefully forward with the news that there was no Miss Maitland
anywhere; she had looked in the bed and under the bed, and Maggie had
hunted too. But Miss Maitland had gone, and her clothes had gone. Some
one had come quite early and carried her trunk away.
"Perhaps," Pamela ended cheerfully, "some one came and fetched her away
in the night."
Her mother turned white while she listened to the child's excited
explanation. She took the boy from Maggie, and while she proceeded with
his dressing, asked in a low voice what the girl knew about the matter.
Maggie's information was not more lucid than the child's. No one, it
appeared, had seen Miss Maitland leave; but a strange boy had come for
her luggage at seven, and John had carried it downstairs. The strange
boy had left a note for the missis. Pamela asked for the note. Maggie
had not seen it, but she believed it had been left in the hall.
Pamela finished dressing the children, and led little David downstairs.
She told Maggie to take them in the garden and let them play in the
shade; she would come out later and join them. Then she turned back,
white and trembling, an ugly doubt haunting her mind, and searched for
the note that had been left for her. Would the note, she wondered,
explain this horrible mystery, or merely increase her doubt? It was
lying where the boy had left it on the hall table, and it was addressed,
she saw, in Blanche's handwriting. She opened it and read it where she
stood. The writer had omitted the formality of the customary mode of
address, she had also omitted to sign her name at the end.
"When you read this," she had written, "you will probably have heard of
my departure, and you will feel less surprise at the abrupt manner of my
leaving when I say that I was an unwilling listener to what passed
between you and Mr Arnott after I left the drawing-room last night.
For the sake of my reputation I could not remain beneath your roof an
hour longer than was necessary. I made my preparations last night and
left early this morning. I warn you, by the knowledge I possess, to be
careful how you discuss me and my actions. If my reputation suffers I
shall know where to attach the blame."
Pamela folded the note carefully, and carried it with her into the
sitting-room, and sat down to think. This girl held the dangerous
knowledge of her false position as Arnott's wife. She meant to make use
of the knowledge if at any time it suited her to use it. The thought
was bitterly humiliating. For the time it swamped every other
consideration, even the doubt which had haunted her before reading the
note was lost sight of in the shock of this discovery.
She tried to recall what had been said on the previous evening that had
revealed their secret to this girl, who from her own admission had been
eavesdropping. But of that interview no clear recollection remained.
She could not recall the scraps of actual talk; only the bitterness of
that monstrous duologue lingered in her memory, and the insults Herbert
had flung at her in his anger, and her own threat to leave him.
Reviewing the scene now, the sordidness of it gripped her, disgusted
her. And to think that a third person should have deliberately listened
to that painful, miserable interview. The thought of Blanche's
duplicity enraged her; the veiled threat conveyed in the note angered
her more than it alarmed her. How dared she threaten her with the
disclosure of her infamously acquired knowledge?
She read the note carefully a second time. There was no suggestion in
it that the writer's flight were in any sense connected with Arnott's
sudden departure. And yet that veiled threat at the end...
Pamela pondered over this doubt for a long while; and the longer she
considered it the greater the doubt grew. It occurred to her that
Blanche had had some motive in penning those offensive words. Could it
be possible that after his angry exit last night Herbert had gone to
this girl and arranged with her the manner of her leaving? Pamela
wished she knew. Better the ugly truth than the horror of this
uncertainty. At least she would know how to act if she knew the worst.
Possibly he would write, she reflected. He could scarcely behave so
outrageously as to leave home in this secret fashion and tender no
explanation of his whereabouts, or his purpose in leaving. There was
nothing for it but to wait and see what the days brought forth. But
this waiting in utter ignorance was galling. It forced home to her to
the full the degradation of her false position. Had it not been for the
children she would have quitted his home finally. But, as Arnott had
reminded her, the children were her first consideration; she had
forfeited the right to consider herself.
She allowed an hour to slip by in these unprofitable and bitter
reflections before she recollected her promise to the children, and
rising, went out into the garden to join them. It caused her a shock of
dismay to discover Mrs Carruthers sitting under the trees with them--a
puzzled, perturbed Mrs Carruthers, fully informed by Pamela, the
younger, of the governess' mysterious disappearance. She looked up when
Pamela came towards them, rose, and advanced to meet her.
"My dear," she said, "you look worried. Whatever is this I've been
hearing from Pamela? She tells me Blanche has gone."
It was impossible, Pamela realised, to keep Mrs Carruthers in ignorance
of obvious domestic events; but she would have preferred to delay
talking over these disturbing matters until she was better prepared. It
had not occurred to her, until confronted with the actual difficulty,
that she would be called upon to discuss with any interested inquirer
the mysterious details of the absconding of her children's governess,
which, in conjunction with Arnott's unexpected departure on the same
day, might very easily give rise to gossip. Arnott's interest in the
governess had aroused attention at Muizenberg, as Pamela was perfectly
aware. She could only hope to avert scandal in regard to this event by
the caution with which she explained it. So far as Mrs Carruthers was
concerned she felt that she could rely upon her absolute discretion; she
was the one woman she knew in whom she could have confided, had it been
possible to confide in any one. But the nature of her trouble sealed
her lips; it was too sordid and shameful a story to impart to other
ears.
"Yes; she has gone," she answered.
"But why?" demanded Mrs Carruthers, who felt, through having
recommended Blanche, in a sense responsible for the girl.
"She ran away," piped Pamela junior's shrill treble.
"Go and play," said Pamela. "Mummy wants to talk business."
"But you said you'd come and play too," the child protested.
"So I will presently. Run away now, like a good girlie."
Mrs Carruthers drew a hand through Pamela's arm and strolled with her
along the path.
"I don't understand," she said. "Why should Blanche leave you in this
manner? It's such a mad thing to do. What can the girl have been
thinking of? It ruins her prospects. One couldn't recommend her after
such extraordinary behaviour. Maggie tells me she went before any one
was up. But why, Pamela? She must have had a reason."
"I suppose she had," Pamela agreed. "The only thing I can think of is
that she knew I was going to dismiss her and simply forestalled me."
Mrs Carruthers looked perplexed.
"I thought you were entirely satisfied with her," she remarked.
"No," Pamela returned. "In many respects she was admirable. But I
never cared much for her; and as you know I found her system in the
nursery very trying. She had too much authority. I meant to try a
nurse again."
"Well, I am astonished," Mrs Carruthers exclaimed. "I believed she was
a perfect treasure. But the fact of your intention to dismiss her is no
warrant for her extraordinary behaviour. To run away like that! My
dear Pamela, it's absurd. What does Mr Arnott think about it?"
At this sudden and wholly unforeseen question Pamela's composure forsook
her. She flushed red, and then went so very pale that Mrs Carruthers,
watching her, could not fail to detect her agitation. She did not know
what to make of these signs of distress. Had Pamela been guilty of
making away with the governess she could not have appeared more
conscience-stricken. Her eyes refused to meet Mrs Carruthers' steady
gaze: they shifted uneasily and sought the gravel of the path.
"I don't know," she stammered.
The answer, as much as her manner of uttering it, sounded disingenuous
even in her own ears. She made an effort to collect her scattered wits,
conscious that she was conveying a suggestion to her friend's mind of
the very suspicions she was anxious to avert.
"Herbert had left before we knew about Blanche," she explained with
nervous haste. "He went away this morning immediately after breakfast.
You see," she looked at Mrs Carruthers quickly, with wide apprehensive
eyes which appealed mutely for sympathy, "that makes it so much more
difficult for me,--his not being here to advise me. Oh! Connie, I am
so bothered. I don't know how to act."
"That's awkward," said Mrs Carruthers, feeling too bewildered to detect
that the remark was scarcely tactful.
She thought for a moment.
"I'll ask Dickie when he gets home this evening what he thinks you ought
to do. He'll come in and have a chat with you, if you like. After all,
it isn't your business to bother about the girl if she chooses to serve
you such a trick. I should put her out of my mind, if I were in your
place. I am disappointed in that girl."
Suddenly tears rose in Pamela's eyes. She tried hard to blink them away
unseen; but they welled bigger and bigger until they overflowed and
rolled down her white cheeks. Mrs Carruthers slipped an arm about her
waist.
"You poor dear!" she said.
"It's stupid of me," murmured Pamela apologetically. "But I'm so
worried. I feel all unstrung. It seems so odd for Blanche to have gone
away like that. It's so difficult to explain."
"I shouldn't attempt explanations," Mrs Carruthers advised. "When do
you expect Mr Arnott home?" she asked.
Again the distressing change of colour showed in Pamela's face, and
again her embarrassed, reluctant admission that she did not know when to
expect him puzzled her listener anew. The whole business was
incomprehensible.
Mrs Carruthers' knowledge of the Arnott's affairs was greater than
Pamela realised. Being fairly astute, her perception had led her to
detect more of the breach than was obvious to the ordinary observer.
Had she not already suspected it, Pamela's manner would have convinced
her that the governess' flight was not alone responsible for her present
distress. A more personal trouble could alone account for the unhinged
state of her mind. To avoid adding to her embarrassment, she left the
subject with the reflection that dwelling on annoyances merely
aggravated them, and proposed joining the children.
But Pamela's face haunted her for the rest of the day. Despite a strong
disinclination to allow the suspicion, the belief that Arnott's absence
and the girl's flight were in some way connected, and not merely
coincident, as his wife had so lamely endeavoured to convey, was
difficult to banish. Pamela's very anxiety to disprove the connection
suggested to the unbiassed mind that the connection was there. Mrs
Carruthers did not like Arnott. She threw that fact into the balance of
her judgment, and resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt.