"When do you suppose they will be back?" asked Miss Chance.
Pamela explained that there was a strong tide, and a light wind, but
they'd said they would be back by tea-time--meaning six o'clock and
solid high tea, not the afternoon variety.
"How tiresome!" exclaimed the governess, "I do wish they would hurry."
"You can't hurry sailing-boats," suggested Pamela patiently, as she went
up the steps.
"I should have thought you could put up more sails, dear," said Miss
Chance, who had spent none of her valuable time in mastering the
intricacies of yachts and their habits, "it really is most annoying!"
"They don't know anybody wants them back before ten. I believe they've
gone up to Peterock; the tide served--Penberthy said so--besides
Salterne is too far; they didn't start till after lunch, you see, there
was a lot to do at Crown Hill, Mollie couldn't come before."
"Your mother wants a message taken to the station about the stores she
expects to-morrow," said Miss Chance, as they walked along the terrace,
"they may come to-night by the 9.20 from Salterne. She wants them sent
out specially at once, because there is too much, she thinks, for
Timothy Batt; besides, his cart won't go to the station again till
Saturday."
"Did she want Addie to go?" asked Pamela, waking to the situation. Then
she continued quickly: "He won't want to go after tea, Miss Chance, he's
arranged with Penberthy to do some painting on the yawl."
"He must put that off," said Miss Chance firmly.
"I'll go to the station--now, before tea," was Pamela's answer, "I
cleaned my bicycle this morning. It looks smart enough to go out
calling even on the station-master at Five Trees."
She said this so gravely that Miss Chance was a little uncertain as to
whether she herself was not being laughed at. You could not quite be
sure about Pamela, she was rather an inscrutable young person--tall and
slim like her lovely mother, with a small face, a square chin, and
firmly closing mouth. She owned a distinguishing nose also, very
delicately modelled and turning up the least bit in the world. The
family alluded to it as a "snub" at times, but there was nothing at all
snubby about it, and it was full of character. For the rest, she owned
a plaited rope of hair that fell below her waist, brown with more than a
hint of red in it. Hughie was like her, but the other three followed
rather faithfully in Captain Romilly's pattern, except that Adrian was
on the way to be tall--had outgrown his sixteen-year-old strength, in
fact, which was no doubt why the influenza fiend had driven him home in
term time.
"Well," Pamela concluded with a question, "will that do?"
Miss Chance thought it would. Mrs. Romilly, finishing letters in a
hurry for the 5.30 post, thought it would too. The stores were very
important, as Mrs. Jeep was "out" of nearly everything that made life
pleasing, and there was no fruit yet in the garden to help out puddings.
"Don't tire yourself, darling," murmured Mrs. Romilly, writing an
address.
"I shan't be back by six o'clock, Mummy--at least most likely
not--coming back is easy but going will be uphill most of the way."
"So it will." Mrs. Romilly spoke as though this was a new idea. Then
she turned her head and smiled at Pamela with serene large blue eyes, "I
dare say the _Messenger_ won't be punctual," she said, "so the others
will be late, and anyway, dear child, tea can be kept for you, so don't
hurry--and thank you so much for going."
Pamela wheeled the bicycle up the drive into the narrow road that ran up
and up close under a towering hill-side. All along it, hanging over the
road, were banks of fuchsia trees--in summer the whole track would be a
sheet of fallen fuchsia blossom. She passed the Temperance Inn on her
right, then the church upon the height among the fuchsias, and soon
after that the little fairy house called "Fuchsia Cottage", where lived
Miss Anne Lasarge, the small grey lady called "The Little Pilgrim" by
the Romilly family, because she was like a character in a book they
loved.
Miss Anne had done wonders during the War; she had been out in the
devastated regions of France working among the homeless peasants. She
had only been back since Christmas. Pamela looked at the cottage as she
passed. It was like a lovely toy--an ideal cottage--the atmosphere of
Miss Anne made a distinct sense of peace cling to it all the year round.
No one was in the garden, no one working on the three little terraces
bright with flowers, that rose one above another to the lattice-paned
bow window of Miss Anne's sitting-room.
Pamela was the least bit disappointed. There was perfect understanding
between her and Miss Anne--who possessed a genius for understanding
everybody, and everybody's worries. She knew that it was rather lonely
to be a middle person in a family--cut off above and below. Pamela
vaguely wondered where she was gone to; a natural conclusion being that
some one must be ill in one of the farms.
Wheeling the bicycle on up the clean even road she left all trace of
houses behind and came to the woods at the back of the valley. The road
ran between an over-shadowing height on one side, and thick woods on the
other--they bridged the centre of the deep to where the southern heights
towered up, covered with more woods.
Presently a white wall began, and the trees behind it thinned a good
deal. The wall was high and had broken glass along the top of it.
There was a distinct suggestion of rebuff to an inquiring public.
Pamela, looking at it, remembered Kipling's story in which "the invasion
of privacy" is spoken of as a danger. In this part of the far west land
there did not seem much need for walling yourself in, she thought.
Moreover, no one lived at Woodrising but Mrs. Trewby the pessimistic
caretaker, and it belonged to Sir Marmaduke, who wanted to let it, and
had wanted to let it ever since he bought it before the War. There was
the big square board--"To be let un-furnished". There were several
boards at different points, but no one took the house. It required much
money spent on the inside, and the large pretty gardens were neglected.
No one worked in them but Peter Cherry, son of Mrs. Rebecca Cherry, the
widow who ran the Temperance house in conjunction with her sister Mrs.
Paramore.
As Pamela passed the big double gates in the wall, she glanced up at the
house behind them. Little could be seen of it but slate roof and
chimneys. It was a square, white house of moderate size; not pretty,
but comfortable. There was smoke going up from four chimneys. Pamela
noticed this as she noticed most things, and deduced from it that Mrs.
Trewby was airing the rooms. She also decided that Sir Marmaduke must
find the house--still unlet--a great expense. People said he had bought
it because he did not want anyone in the valley of an uncongenial kind.
He and the Romilly family owned the whole place in present
circumstances. A third family--the sort that could afford a house and
grounds like Woodrising, might be in the way! That is what people said;
no one knew anything actually, because the great K.C. was not a man to
confide his affairs to the general public.
Pamela, having glanced at the chimneys went on her way still alongside
the white wall with glass on its top. She was walking in the road and
some impulse caused her to glance back at the gates when she had gone
some little distance. She could just see that one of them had opened
inwards, and within the opening stood two people in earnest
conversation. One was short and slight, the other was tall and leaned
on a stick. The short and slight person was Anne Lasarge, her grey
cloak and grey bonnet with white strings proved her; the other was Major
Hilton Fraser, the invalided army doctor, lodging at Mainsail Cottage,
with the Penberthys. He was lame from shell splinters in the thigh;
also four years spent in Mesopotamia and front-line dressing-stations in
France had left their mark. Major Fraser was the hero of the Romilly
family; Pamela could not mistake his figure. The question was: what
could he and the Little Pilgrim be at, meeting at Woodrising?
She paused to gaze, making sure. Then she went on her way, wondering
and interested. Pamela was always interested; some people called her
"inquisitive", which is not so pleasant an accusation to have tacked on
to one! But she could not help herself, for it was that which her nose
stood for, with its delicate, keen lines and sharp outline. Just
inquiry and the liveliest intuition.
"I daresay they are in love with each other," considered Pamela,
reviewing the situation mentally, "they ought to be, they've gone
through a lot together, but what has Woodrising to do with it, unless
they know somebody who wants to live there!"
This seemed to her a reasonable explanation. She decided that he had
friends who wished to take the house, and he had asked Miss Anne to come
and look at the rooms for him. He might find difficulty in measuring
rooms perhaps.
All the same he'd better not have depended on Miss Anne for that sort of
thing. "I'd sooner be nursed by that angel than any living soul,"
thought Pamela, "but I don't believe she knows about houses, and paint,
and carpets. She's perfectly vague and unpractical about prices. He'd
better have asked Miss Chance--or Jim Crow--she'd be better than
anybody. I wish he'd marry Jim Crow, then we could keep a hero in the
family."
Pamela sighed as she decided that there was no hope of this glorious
conclusion to friendship. "It's a pity she's too young--but he likes
her better than Mollie Shard."
She reached the top of the long hill at the back of the valley, and,
mounting, began the easier part of the journey--down and up, down and
up, over the loveliest scented moorland road--till presently she came in
sight of the miniature railway station, looking like a good-sized
hen-coop on its platform, and the shining rails stretching away north
and south as far as eye could see, until the hills swallowed them.
Nobody was in the hen-coop. The booking office was locked. The person
who did most things had gone off for some meal. There would be a train
from Salterne through to Peterock at 6.45, and then the last one at
9.20. No rush of trains let it be said, as of course the up trains from
Peterock did not count in this connection.
Pamela sat down on a seat to wait for a human being to appear. She
hoped they would not be long, because she was hungry, but she was not in
the least dull. She was always looking and thinking--years ago by
instinct, nowadays with intention; it was part of the Scout training.
She looked once at the shed of the platform opposite, then she shut her
eyes and counted mentally how many posts supported it, how many scallops
edged the roofing, how advertisements were hung within against the wall
behind, and what they were all about. It was good practice. Anything
could be used. The great idea, of course, was accuracy, and the power
of noticing every detail in the quickest time. Pamela loved doing it,
and she did not know yet, of course, that she had a special gift that
way.
Time passed. At 6.30 a man sauntered into view wiping his mouth.
Pamela went to him, and gave her instructions about the cases from
London in a concise and definite manner. Then she hurried off to her
bicycle, and made speed on the way home. She calculated that she should
be back before seven; the sooner the better, because sun had set, and a
veil of dusk was falling over the uplands--faint, sweet twilight.
Just at that moment the front tyre burst. There was a bit of broken
glass on the road. As Pamela picked it up and threw it aside into the
heather, she thought of Woodrising and that strongly-guarded wall--quite
irrelevant, but better than losing one's temper. It was maddening, but
there was nothing to do but walk home--about two miles from where she
stood.
First, however, she made a try at mending the rent, and it was while she
was at work--on what resulted in nothing but a waste of time--that a
motor-car passed. It was a large car and strange to Pamela, which was
not a surprising thing perhaps, though many cars paid visits in summer
to beautiful Bell Bay.
The car was showing lights, and hummed past the girl at a good pace, but
Pamela took in all details with her usual swift inclusion.
Luggage--a good deal. Certainly three people inside, and the window on
her side closed. It was a large car, but, she felt certain, a hired
one. The driver was no smart chauffeur, and the girl felt certain that
no gorgeous private touring-car would have been allowed to carry
miscellaneous trunks.
It was not the Shards' car. She knew that; it was a huge thing and
painted grey; besides, the Shards would have turned off seaward earlier,
for Crown Hill was reached by a road that went to Ramsworthy, the other
side of the southern heights. This road was the direct route to Bell
Bay, and though Peterock could be reached by turning off to the right
lower down, any car for that town would have followed a straight line
past the station and away northward.
Who could be coming to Bell Bay, then, in a big, hired car, laden with
luggage, at that hour?
Now here was a mystery, and if Pamela could have imagined all that was
to come out of it, she would have felt even more thrilled than she did.
*CHAPTER II*
*Mollie Departs, but Comes Back
at Breakfast Time*
Pamela failed to make anything of her repairing job, so, after fifteen
minutes loss of time, she started off to walk it, wheeling the bicycle,
for there was no place on the lonely way where she could leave it.
Dusk was now falling in earnest. Pam lighted her little lamp for
company and made all speed. She had lost time over the tyre, but felt
she was not far from home when the turn to Peterock was reached. From
the top of this height now she could see over the long stretch of the
Bell Bay valley, and the shimmer of grey sea beyond the trees--just a
peep between the great headlands, Bell Ridge on the north above her
home, and The Beak on the opposite side of the cove.
The evening was so still that the far-off mutter of the everlasting tide
on the rocks came up to her. She lifted her head and sniffed the faint
salt breath of the wind, and in that instant caught the throb of a
motor. She checked and listened. Then went on again quickly. There
was no doubt about it, a motor was coming up the long hill, out of the
valley shadows. Then it must have gone to Bell Bay, for she was
convinced it was the same car.
In a minute or two it passed her, going back to Salterne. The same
car--big and dark, with powerful lights. The luggage was gone from the
top where it had been placed, protected by a low fenced enclosure.
Pamela saw all that at a glance, but her attention was centred on the
occupant of the car--there must be someone inside there still, because
she could see an electric lamp alight within the carriage. She stopped
at the roadside, waiting for it, and as it went by fixed all her
attention on the person who was reading a newspaper by the light of the
brilliant lamp on the wall.
She saw the face distinctly--clean shaven, the powerful heavy features
so often associated with great lawyers. He was reading intently, and
his soft hat was pushed backward from his eyes. Pamela opened her lips
in a little gasp of astonishment. The last person in the world she had
thought of!
[Illustration: SHE SAW THE FACE DISTINCTLY]
It was Sir Marmaduke Shard. Alone. But he had not been alone when the
car passed her the first time.
Pamela stared after the receding car till it was lost in the dusk; then
she went on again at her best pace, very much surprised, for it would
really seem that the great Sir Marmaduke had actually brought someone to
Bell Bay, left them behind somewhere, and gone back to Salterne. It
really was exciting, because there was nowhere to come to except his own
house, and had he been going there he would surely have chosen the
direct road.
Moreover, to leave again at once, like this! Pamela could find no
answer to the riddle.
When she reached home, nobody questioned her lateness, because they were
all, so to speak, rather busy being low-spirited--a condition that
nearly always takes people's attention off others.
Poor Adrian was very sorry for himself; very sorry indeed; and there was
much excuse for him. It seemed likely that there would be no more
sailing in the beloved _Messenger_.
Christobel, on her part, was passionately sorry for Adrian. She
understood fully what such a blow meant to him who found more delight in
sailing than in anything else in life.
Mrs. Romilly was grieving for both of them, but as usual was most
absorbed in trying to think of a way out of the wood, and how to
substitute something that would do--nearly as well.
Finally, there was Miss Violet Chance--nicknamed the "Floweret" in
happier moments, by the way--who paralysed Mrs. Romilly's efforts and
made matters worse by bright endeavours at dispersing the cloud.
"After all," said the Floweret, "what _is_ a yacht? Surely we can find
something quite as jolly! What about rounders? Wouldn't it soon be good
weather for croquet?" She suggested to Adrian a collection of moths,
and asked him where he had put the stamps he had been so proud of the
year before last?
Adrian said:
"I've got them all, thank you, Miss Chance," in a voice that went to Jim
Crow's heart, because the suppressed torture in it was so acute.
Because, then, this gloomy company was assembled in the drawing-room,
Pamela found no one about, and going straight to the dining-room
proceeded to make a good tea; and Hughie, hearing her come in, entered
on the tips of his toes, sat down at a distance on the big leather sofa,
curled up his toes under him--till he looked like a small soapstone
"god"--and waited patiently.
"Why aren't you in bed?" asked Pamela, as she helped herself to some
fresh cocoa brought in for her.
"It isn't eight," said Hughie.
"My dear child, it's ten past!"
"Well," Hughie glanced at the clock unashamed, "they've forgotten me,
you see. That's why I came out here, for fear they should remember."
"Miss Chance won't forget," warned Pamela with conviction.
Hughie set that aside.
"They are in a state of miserableness, so nobody is remembering things,"
he said, "it's rather beastly, Pam, they can't sail the _Messenger_ any
more----"
"Who can't?" interrupted Pamela sharply, pausing with a glass of potted
meat in her hand.
"All of them--Mollie, and Jim Crow, and Addie, and the worst is that
Addie will be cross most of the time now, which is a fearful pity; he
won't help me do my rigging, because it will remind him of the yawl.
It's most unlucky for everybody."
"Why can't they sail the _Messenger_ any more?" asked Pamela, going on
with her supper. The thought flashed through her mind that the sudden
and brief appearance of Sir Marmaduke was going to be explained simply.
"Because the gardens at Crown Hill are in a mess," Hughie went on with
slow emphasis, "they are in a _fearful_ mess, and everything is growing
too fast, and Mr. Jordan can't do it, and there aren't any men, because
they're mostly dead in the War. Miss Ashington says Penberthy has got
to go in the gardens the whole while. Not a minute on the sea--and you
know they can't go without Penberthy, Sir Marmaduke won't let them."
"Beastly hard luck," said Pamela firmly.
"I expect it's Fate," Hughie suggested thoughtfully.
"Why can't they have Peter Cherry from Woodrising?" said Pamela,
ignoring fate.
"It isn't any good asking me," answered Hughie, "because, how can I
tell? But anyway Woodrising is simply bursting with weeds, and the more
there are, the more they come. He must stay and pull them out, and
plant greens for Mrs. Trewby. She eats greens, she told Mrs. Jeep she
_has_ to. He can't possibly go to Crown Hill, and Miss Ashington is
worried about the garden, Mollie says she is."
The door opened and Miss Chance looked round the edge of it.
"Ah, _there_ you are, little runaway!" she said with her usual
sprightliness, "I've found you."
"I wasn't lost, Miss Chance. I was only talking to Pam," remarked the
little runaway, letting himself drop over the back of the sofa in an
ingenious and complicated manner.
Miss Chance turned her attention to Pamela.
"You've come back, dear," she suggested, "I hope it's all right about
the Stores' cases; Mrs. Jeep will be so glad to have them."
Pamela explained her accident, mentioned that she had been obliged to
walk back, and gave the message from Five Trees, namely, that the cases
had not come, but should be sent on at once when they did. She added
that she was just going in to tell her mother. She said everything she
could think of to forestall the inevitable questions, and good Miss
Chance swept Hughie away to bed, remarking that it was late, but that
the days were getting longer, and the summer would soon be here.
"That's what will make it harder for poor old Addie, about the yawl,"
thought Pamela, as she got up from the table, and departed for the scene
of woe. She was very glad that Hughie's information had "put her wise",
as the folk of the far west say--it would have been so galling for
Adrian if she had plunged in, and asked what the matter was to start off
with. That was Pam's way of looking at it.
So she gave the story of her mishap; said she would have to send the
bicycle to Salterne, it must go in on Saturday by Timothy Batt's cart;
gave her message about the stores, and made talk of a mildly distracting
nature.
Adrian was gloomily turning a magazine; he looked up.
"It's all knocked on the head about our sailing, Pam," he said, "pretty
rotten! Fancy having to see the old _Messenger_ moored out there the
whole blessed summer, and have nothing but our dinghy to go out in!
It's enough to make a person of sense commit suicide."
"Hughie told me something when I got in," said Pamela with sympathy, "I
was awfully sorry; he said Penberthy is wanted at Crown Hill. Of course
the gardens are too much for Jordan--there used to be three men."
Adrian muttered something biting about gardens generally.
Christobel broke in.
"Mollie told us--she is most horribly disappointed herself--it cuts off
her fun too, but she says the gardens must come first, as Lady Shard
hates seeing things go--as they are; and men are so scarce, they want
every creature they can get on the farms, of course. Oh dear, I wish
one could get at Sir Marmaduke, he's always nice about the yawl."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" suggested Pamela.
Both the others began to answer together in their eagerness; then
Christobel dropped out, and Adrian went on.
"How can we, my good child? We can't exactly write letters to him
asking him to hand over his yawl to us! As for talking, we shan't meet
till goodness knows when--August at earliest."
Pamela suggested cautiously that Sir Marmaduke usually came for
week-ends in the summer.
"Well, he may have, once in a way," allowed Adrian gloomily, "but he
won't do it this year. Not a dreg of hope. He hasn't been down, and
he's not coming. Government has put him on one of these hundred and
fifty thousand commissions about miners' bath-rooms, or railway men's
sofa cushions! It makes one ill. I wish the whole lot were at the
bottom of Vesuvius. We can burn wood, and drive coaches, and go back to
decent life. Anyway there it is. We can't get at Sir Marmaduke.
Penberthy has got to do gardening----" his voice ceased in a sigh that
was a positive groan.
"One would almost think you three--I mean Mollie and Crow and you--would
do as well without Penberthy," said Pamela, "Penberthy does nothing ever
but talk, does he? Mollie is as good as any man, she's pretty well
trained her muscles on the land--and all that----" this was an allusion
to the heroic efforts of Miss Shard on the Ensors' farm at Hawksdown
during the holidays of two war years at least.
"Of _course_ she could, Pam," Christobel interrupted hastily, noting
Adrian's rising irritation, "but you see Mollie won't be here either."
"Mollie not here!" Pamela's face of startled dismay was satisfactory to
the distressed pair.
"You see," said Adrian, "things have pretty well tumbled about our ears
this afternoon! Well, the bottom has been knocked out of the whole
show."
Pamela looked from one to the other, she did not ask another question,
but her expression did, so Christobel answered:
"Mollie is going up to town this week-end to see her mother about crowds
of things. She believes they've taken a cottage on the river just
for--well, airing themselves. Mollie says Crown Hill is too far to come
for week-ends; it is a long way, we know. If they have a cottage they
can live out of London, and he can go up--I mean Sir Marmaduke can; he
can't get down here, Mollie says--not yet anyway. The only person who
will be here much will be Miss Ashington, and she'll look after things
for Lady Shard, who says she can't possibly live here and leave Sir
Marmaduke in London; besides she wants to present Mollie."
"Present Mollie!" echoed Pamela with awe. The world was simply changing
swiftly.
Mrs. Romilly folded the paper she was reading, and said in her even,
restful voice.
"I should have liked to have presented Crow at the same garden-party as
Mollie, but it isn't convenient this year, so we must wait till next
summer."
"When Hughie and I are at school," suggested Pamela, a little smile
quivering round her firm lips.
Her mother's eyes smiled back sympathy.
"It's unlucky for Mollie and Crow not to be together," she said, "but of
course Lady Shard wants Mollie and of course she can't leave Sir
Marmaduke alone, so we others must e'en put up with it all. Something
will turn up presently. I feel it in my bones," said Mrs. Romilly, "and
meanwhile don't let's cross bridges before we come to them. I _know_
nothing will be as bad as one fears, it never is."
She looked at Adrian, who made no response.
"Let's hope," said Crow.
"Has Mollie gone?" asked Pamela, suddenly thinking of an explanation for
the motor-car. She put her foot in it, of course.
"My good girl, do have a grain of sense," begged Adrian, "how could she
be gone, when she was out on the _Messenger_ with us till nearly seven
o'clock?"
"She goes to-morrow," explained Christobel, "not finally of course. She
comes back about Tuesday--she's got to pack and take up things Lady
Shard wants, you see. Then she'll go for good--I mean for about six
weeks--after that."
Pamela made no comment. She was trying to fit that car piled with
luggage into this sudden development of Bell Bay doings. Hitherto, the
great K.C. and his wife had been to and fro constantly winter as well as
summer. Miss Ashington--commonly called "Auntie A.", as her name was
Adelaide Ashington--had been in residence nearly always. She was Lady
Shard's sister, and a person positively made up of schemes--which never
seemed to come off, and were, as a rule, dropped in favour of something
more arresting. At present, the farming problem was her hobby, and she
was full of an idea for milking cows once a day at eleven o'clock in the
morning, so that land-girls need not get up so early, and farmers could
do with less labour. The trouble, though, seemed to be that the cows
would not agree to this excellent plan. However, Auntie A. did not
despair of bringing them also to a sense of duty, and meanwhile she
stayed at Crown Hill doing no one any harm, which was something to be
thankful for.
It appeared then a settled question that the Shards would not come to
Bell Bay until summer was well nigh through. Penberthy would no longer
be available, and the lovely yacht would be on her moorings--useless to
the Romilly party. It certainly was a sorrowful outlook for Adrian. As
Christobel said afterwards to Pamela: "If Addie had never been able to
use the yawl almost like his own it wouldn't have mattered." But he
had; and of course nothing could make up for it.
Pamela thought that week-end was one of the most dismal she had ever
spent. Indeed it was so gloomy that she forgot about the motor-car
mystery and surprising visit of Sir Marmaduke; all her mind and
efforts--hers and Crow's--were spent in trying to devise a new and
interesting way of passing time. Mrs. Romilly was willing to fall in
with any plan, even to the extent of hiring a sailing-boat of a size
suitable. She was ready to suppress her own feelings in the
matter--they would have been distinctly anxious--and let Adrian go to
Salterne and find something; an open boat with a sail.
However, on Monday, Adrian, as his manner was, shook himself free of
this weight of care and announced that no one was to bother about him
and his needs. The dinghy--which was bigger than the average dinghy
carried by an eight-ton yacht, and which belonged to the Romillys--would
do well enough for fishing, he said. And for the rest, he had made
various appointments with John Badger of Champles--the farm on the Down
above Bell House--connected with rats and young rabbits.
"Besides the lawn must be kept decent," he concluded; which was his way
of saying that the ancient gardener, "Hennery" Doe, could not be left to
bear what Mrs. Jeep called "the blunt" of the Bell House gardens.
So content was restored, and Mrs. Romilly wrote to her husband that "the
children were perfectly sweet"; they were certainly of the kind that has
a sense of responsibility very much awake.
On that day--Monday--Miss Lasarge came down to the Bell House, stayed to
tea, and was a joy to everybody--especially Hughie, who adored her--but
it struck Pamela that she was a little less talkative than usual;
perhaps even a little absent-minded. She went away early and said she
had gardening to do.
Nobody noticed this but Pam, and she, sitting at her window in the
evening looking straight across the sea-wall, the rocks, and the tide
rippling out over the golden sand, decided that the Little Pilgrim was
in love with Major Fraser. "Why don't people settle things comfortably
and be done with it," thought Pamela vexedly. "They are both nice, and
they could live at Fuchsia Cottage."
On Tuesday morning, so early as the nine-o'clock breakfast hour, came a
surprise.
It had been raining in the night, and was still drizzling, with an
inclination to clear up, when Mollie Shard burst upon the scene in an
atmosphere of wet wind and scent of salt.
She had not had breakfast. It appeared that Auntie A. was not down, and
as Miss Shard had something to communicate that refused to be kept back
till conventional hours she had left Crown Hill, in a "trench" coat and
no hat, racing down to the Bell House to see her friends, and tell her
tale.
Everybody was down and beginning, except Pamela, and the conversation
was a perfect rattle of questions and answers.
"Suppose," said Mrs. Romilly, "you let Mollie tell us what she has been
doing."
Mollie explained that what she had been doing was entirely
uninteresting. It was only what she expected--a little house on the
river near Weybridge. "Yes, the usual little cottagey thing--with a
lawn." Mollie liked it, and anyway it had to be because Dad couldn't
leave London for ages. "It'll have to be put up with," said Mollie,
"one must look forward to better times," but it seemed that was not the
matter that was causing all this bubble of excitement and beam of
smiles.
"Addie, I've got a message for you and Crow from Dad. Very special. You
can have the _Messenger_ to play with, till he wants her."
"_We_ can!" gasped Christobel.
Adrian murmured "My hat!" and flushed red all over his tanned face.
"Yes. That's why I came bursting down, because why shouldn't we go out
to-day? Do let's. I've got to do reams of packing, and I'm vowed to go
back with the goods, next Monday. Mother lets me off till Monday.
Well, anyway Dad says he sees that Crow and Adrian can manage the yawl
just as well as he can, and he trusts her to you--only he says if you
wreck her you'll have to give him another--that's all. Of course he
knows Penberthy isn't vital. Especially when he has lumbago. She's not
a heavy boat, and yawls are awfully convenient, Mrs. Romilly--aren't
they, Addie?"
"Rather," agreed Adrian ecstatically; his hands shook a little with the
thrill of the moment. Crow's grey eyes, so like her father's, seemed to
shine with an inner light.
"Well, then, that's all settled. No, don't thank. Dad hates
_Messenger_ being on the moorings, just wasting. Hullo, here's Pamela,
just in time to join in this jubilee. I say, Pam, why didn't you stop
when I called you?"
Pamela slipped into her chair, took an egg, realized the amazing news
from a few words of Crow's, looked from her mother's happy face to
Adrian's, then attended to Mollie's question.
"How do you mean--'stop'--stop when?"
"Why, just now--when I was coming down the bay drive from Crown Hill, I
was nearly at the end lodge, and you came down the road from Hawksdown,
went to the edge of the cliff above Penberthy's and stared down into the
cove. I called out to you, but you wouldn't answer, you must have
heard."
Everybody looked at Pamela, who went on eating her egg slowly.
"It was my wraith," she said, "it wasn't me."
"Jolly solid wraith," declared Mollie, laughing.
"Well, but where did I go?" demanded Pamela, half laughing. "I mean,
where did you think I went?"
"Don't know, my dear; I lost sight of you. It's for you to say where
you went."
Pamela shook her head, and helped herself to marmalade.
"Well, it wasn't me," she repeated.
"'_I_', Pamela dear, '_I_', please," put in Miss Chance urgently. And
everybody laughed.
*CHAPTER III*
*In which Hughie is Ill-used*
Some days after that joyous breakfast--Mollie being deeply engaged in
the arduous duty of packing--the Romilly crew took out the white yawl in
force.
Jim Crow was admittedly skipper. She was the eldest, and had a
"sailing" bent undoubtedly. Captain Romilly, in training his family to
understand the true inwardness of boats, had discovered the natural gift
in his elder daughter. Adrian loved it--and loved the sea, but he was
going to be a soldier in due course; Crow and Hughie were following
faithfully in the Romilly record.
On this warm still evening--for the day was drawing to a
close--_Messenger_ floated lazily on a heaving oily sea. The sky was
full of brassy clouds that seemed to have a copper lining; these,
drifting, with scarcely perceptible movement, from the north and east,
formed rather a serious barrier to getting home, because, given a good
strong tide running out also, what is the cleverest yacht to do?
Earlier in the day, with mainsail set as well as mizzen, with big jib
ballooning out in fine style, in fact, looking exactly what a well-kept
yawl should look, _Messenger_ had gone away down to the southwest
straight before the wind and with the tide. The skipper had acted on a
sound principle in this; but she was not very sure of her tides, and,
having decided that the tide should be in their favour for the homeward
run, was now disturbed and puzzled to find it had not turned yet--and
the hour was six o'clock or after.
"Of course," said Pam, leaning with her head back against the
deck-house, "of course that was where old Penberthy came in. He didn't
do anything. He was fearfully lazy, but he was a perfect clock for
tides."
"So shall we be, soon," murmured Adrian peacefully from under the brim
of a battered hat, "but anyway what does it matter! We shall be home
some day. Great Scot, isn't this A1!"
"It would be if I wasn't afraid Mother would worry. It's our first day
without anybody, you see----" Christobel suggested this in an
apologetic tone.
"My good Crow--what do you call anybody, might I ask? Old Pen was
simply luggage. And Mollie is only one more hand, naturally. I mean
she couldn't effect a rescue if we went to smash, could she?"
"Of course not, but Mother----"
"Mother is full of sense," said Adrian with decision, as he sat up and
looked about appreciatively. "I never in all my life saw anything more
perfect than the colours on the old Beak and Bell Ridge. I wouldn't
have missed this evening for--well--really, Crow, what does time matter?
It's as calm as a plate."
That was true, but the skipper's eye glanced uneasily towards the
dipping sun.
Hughie, sitting as usual like a small image of contemplation in a
comfortable corner of the well, had said nothing, but listened to the
argument.
"If I was at home I could say to Mum there's no wind," he suggested.
"But you're not at home; the Floweret can say so," said Adrian.
"She won't. She'll say 'dear Mrs. Romilly, don't be anxious'," remarked
Hughie with grave assurance.
It was so very true that the elders looked at each other and laughed.
Then Christobel said humbly:
"It's all my fault. I made sure the tide turned in our favour at five
o'clock. That seemed to give us heaps of time to pick up moorings and
make all snug by half-past seven."
"For any sake, Crow, don't be in a repentant mood," urged Adrian, "the
tide is keeping a pleasant surprise up its sleeve. At present it's
pretending it never comes in at all! Keep it in a good temper whatever
happens. It will get tired of the merry jest in two jiffs and remember
how jolly and warm the little bays are all along; then it'll go home in
a hurry! Oh, I say--what a coast this is! I don't believe you can beat
it round England anywhere."
Adrian thus refused to be roused into worry, but Pamela was sorry for
Crow. Crow had such a terribly tender conscience! She pulled herself
together and sat upright with a decisive little movement.
"Give me the dinghy," she said, "and I'll go ashore and carry a message.
Then, when you get back, the boat will be in the cove all right to take
you off. There's no difficulty about it--it's as simple as--as
anything."
"Pam, it's three miles! You can't possibly----" Christobel objected.
"Oh, my dear--it isn't. Not nearly three miles even from Bell Bay.
What are you thinking of? I don't believe we are a mile from the Beak.
It's nothing of a row. Just look----"
Christobel looked. First at the big headland, then at Adrian, who had
made no comment.
Pamela went on explaining her plan.
"Suppose you make a little tack in towards Ramsworthy and the
lighthouse. That will bring us quite near the easiest side of the Beak.
Then Hughie can come with me. I'll land him and he can go up the sloping
part into Ramsworthy, over Hawksdown, and into Bell Bay as quick as he
likes--how far is it? Only about a mile and a half. _I_'ll row the
dinghy along the shore. We'll just see which of us gets back first,
won't we, Hughie?"
"_I_ shall," answered the small person without hesitation.
"Depends on the tide," said Pamela, "if it turns pretty quick, I shall."
"My young friends, you are both in error," Adrian stretched amazingly as
he spoke, "we shall--if the tide turns. You others won't have a look
in."
"Well, if you do, you can pick up the moorings and wait for me to fetch
you off. And anyway Mother will see you from the windows so she will be
comfortable, and everybody will be comfortable," was Pamela's conclusion
of the whole matter, as she got up.
Christobel was not satisfied, though she had acted on the suggestion of
a tack in the direction of Ramsworthy Cove, to the right of the Beak
head--looking at it from the sea.
"I don't like to think of you and Hughie going ashore--all that
way--alone," she said.
"Crow, you are hatching difficulties," retorted Pamela, "what else can
we do? If Addie puts us ashore he'll have to leave you. Ought you to
be left all alone on the yawl? What do you think, Addie?"
Adrian cut the Gordian knot by a new division of labour and a very
decided opinion.
"Mother wouldn't like you and Hughie to go home--I mean, go ashore, from
here--by yourselves. We know she wouldn't, so it's no use arguing. I
vote Pam stays aboard with Crow while I put Hughie ashore at Ramsworthy
Cove. Hughie can cut away home over Hawksdown, and race us, because the
tide's turning already. When I've put him out I'll come back here.
That's all about it, come on, youngster."
Pamela was disappointed, but she said nothing. A sailing boat in a calm
is deadly dull most certainly, and Pamela objected strongly to dullness
and monotony. Her inquiring mind was always seeking new interests, and
she loved surprises--she was always trying to surprise herself, in small
ways. The idea of rowing Hughie ashore and then going along round the
headland to Bell Bay had appealed to her desire for adventure.
However--of course Adrian was right, Mrs. Romilly would not have been
pleased at such an independent excursion on the part of her younger
children.
The dinghy started, and the mile of sea between lazily floating
_Messenger_ and the shadowy bay beyond the lighthouse point was quickly
crossed. Adrian came back as quickly, and, as he sprang aboard and bent
to tie up the tow rope, announced that the tide was flowing strongly.
"Wind or no wind," he said, "we shall get back before old Hughie. What
a rum thing it is how that always happens. As long as you wait--you
don't get it. Start doing something else, and there you are! Moral
is--never wait. Always do something else. May as well tack,
Crow--here's the wind too; breeze getting up with the tide of course!"
So the white yawl, leaning over very gently, gathered speed, and
skimming through the smooth placid sea, made two tacks and picked up her
moorings easily in half an hour.
The interest of this event is--what happened to Hughie, the human
messenger.
Hughie, silent at all times, and almost as keen an observer as his
sister Pamela, said nothing when this arrangement was made. At the same
time he was well pleased to be put ashore with the responsibility of
this small excursion upon his own shoulders. It was an adventure, and
to Hughie, whose imagination was riotous, it might lead into all kinds
of strange happenings.
Adrian landed him in the tiny cove beyond the great headland, on the
point of which was a kind of fortress, walled and powerful--the
barricaded strength of the lighthouse, which faced Atlantic gales
through weather indescribable.
Outward and inner walls were white; all the low strong buildings were
white, and the tower itself stood at the outer guard, smooth, round, and
amazingly strong. Looking up at this as they rowed in Hughie felt a
thrill--next to being a sailor like his father, he would have wished to
be a lighthouse man--but this was a secret.
In the steep little cove lay the scattered bones of an old ship; weed
grew in the staring ribs, and the massive keel was sunk deep into the
sand. This was nothing new. The wreck had been there many years; it
was that kind of thing that made Government build such a lighthouse.
The Beak in old days had been one of the most relentless murderers of
all the western headlands.
"There you are, old chap. Cut along home now, and tell Mother we'll be
there before you," instructed Adrian as he pushed off, looking behind
him as he went.
Hughie nodded, picked his way over the strewn wreckage, and went up the
broken sloping steep at the back of the cove till he reached the road on
the top. This went from the small village, Ramsworthy, over
Hawksdown--which was the bare lovely height on the moor above the
lighthouse--and down into Bell Bay. Several roads branched off; one
went along the point to the lighthouse settlement; one led away back
across Ramsworthy moor to the station at Five Trees. Yet another went
to Clawtol, the Ensors' farm, and on past that and the principal lodge
of Crown Hill to join the main road from Salterne.
This was the way Pamela's mysterious motor-car should have come, had it
been behaving in a reasonable manner.
Hughie ran and walked alternately till he reached the top of Hawksdown.
Then he stopped to look round. The sun was dipping into the sea--far,
far out. Here and there upon the sea was a sailing vessel, looking like
a painted toy. Not distant a great way from the lighthouse was the
_Messenger_, a glistening model of perfection, with her white sails
drawing on this new breeze that rippled the water.
Hughie, gazing at the straining sail and the ripple, saw that they would
get home first if he waited, so he started off at a trot, making quite
straight across the moorland for the drop into Bell Bay between
Penberthy's cottage and the Crown Hill gate. It was the shortest way
home.
The sun had gone into the sea, and a purply shadow was creeping over the
land--the whole world was a happy hunting ground for adventures, and
Hughie would have asked nothing better than to follow one of the farm
tracks and go on till he met something surprising. At the crossroad to
Clawtol Farm he paused, and looked along it because it was pretty. It
dipped away from the high pitch of the moor and went down and down
between banks covered with gorse and heather. It was sheltered as well
as pretty, and was one way to Bell Bay, of course, though roundabout.
Hughie, stopping to look along this road, saw something immensely
surprising--about the last thing he dreamed of--indeed a dragon or a
giant would have been less astonishing, because he was always expecting
creatures of that kind. What he saw was his sister Pamela. She was
walking rather slowly between the gorsy banks in the direction of
Clawtol Farm. Even as he looked, she paused, went up the left-hand bank
two steps, picked some flower, jumped back into the road, and walked
slowly on.
Hughie stared at this vision. At first in unbelief; then with a rapid
calculation of time; then in amaze. It certainly was Pam; but she must
have been amazingly quick to get up there, though it was possible--well,
of course it was possible, because there she was! His mind reviewed
rapidly the idea that Addie must have gone back very quickly and taken
Pam off at once, and put her ashore on the home side of the Beak--you
could climb it, but it was an awful bit of cliff. Altogether that
explanation did not appeal to a reasoning mind. Then he remembered the
ripples on the sea, and the straining mainsail of the yawl as she
gathered speed on the homeward track. Of course that must be it. The
_Messenger_ had picked up her moorings and they had put Pam ashore to
come up and meet him, while they stowed the sails. That was what would
have been done--supposing they reached home first. Hughie concluded
that he must have taken too much time over his journey--it was a most
annoying conclusion to arrive at. Hughie shouted with vigour:
"Pam--I say--_Pam_!" and then stayed to watch the effect.
The tall, slim figure in neat skirt and jumper--such as Hughie connected
with both his sisters--went on at a steady pace. It seemed that the
headgear was a cap of the tam-o'-shanter kind. Pamela had one
undoubtedly, but her small brother could not quite remember whether she
had been wearing it this afternoon. Most likely she had. Anyway, the
long, thick plait of polished hair was very obvious, hanging to the
waist-line and below.
"Pam!" he shouted again, with greater energy.
The girl checked. She looked up and round, but not back. She seemed by
the movements of her head to be listening.
"Hullo-o-o!" hailed Hughie, with force.
Pamela stood still with a startled pull-up, and turned round and glanced
behind her. Hughie was conscious of surprise at the way she did it. He
could not have explained clearly perhaps what it was that shocked him
just a little in his sister's manner. His feeling was instinctive only.
She acted in a _guilty_ manner.
Now this sort of thing was not only foreign to Pamela, but to the entire
Romilly family. They did unexpected and independent things at times, of
course--and explained afterwards. They did not do things they were
ashamed to own up to, which was what Pamela appeared to be guilty of at
this moment. Hughie flushed at the thought of it. Why was she running
away; why wouldn't she make a sign?
He raised an arm, waved it round his head and started to catch her. She
seemed to hesitate. Then she also distinctly made a gesture of the
hand, and ran too. Away from him--in the direction of Clawtol.
Hughie had not a chance when Pamela ran. He knew that by long
experience. His sister was a real "sprinter"; her long legs, light
body, and excellent "wind" left him nowhere every time. At the same
time he had no intention of giving in, though he was angry. It was a
mean thing to do; especially after she had seen him and answered his
wave.
He ran on steadily, though he knew the distance between them must be
increasing fast, till he came in sight of Clawtol ricks and roofs, and
the hedge-row fencing that began at the turn of the road. The dog was
barking monotonously in that maddening way tied-up dogs do bark when
anything interests them, and Hughie reasoned that the dog had heard
Pamela run by along the road.
He stopped at the gate to see if there was a person about, and became
interested in the distant doings of Mrs. Ensor, who was trying to induce
several families of chickens--thoroughly mixed up among themselves--to
go to bed in correct parties. The open coops stood in a row; Hughie
looked through the gate, as it was a high one, and observed the
manoeuvres.
Mrs. Ensor was a short, dark woman, with pretty eyes and a distinct
moustache. Besides the moustache she owned six little boys, in ages
ranging from eight down to eighteen months. This last--an important
member of the Ensor family--was staggering about among the rebellious
chickens, like them, he had no particular bed-time, and fought against
it whenever it was decreed. As Hughie watched, drawn away from his
intention of questioning Mrs. Ensor about Pam, a small pig charged
through the melee, upset the Ensor baby, scattered the chickens and
caused an uproar that brought more little Ensors to the scene of action.
One of these saw Hughie, and pulled his mother's skirt to make her
notice the visitor. Hughie therefore pushed open the gate, and advanced
rather gingerly, because the noise was deafening and Mrs. Ensor was
shaking the baby--as an example to its brothers of what happens when
people are naughty enough to fall over a pig.
"Mother," urged Reube Ensor, who was six, and very small, "here be
Master Hughie."
The tumult ceased as by magic, and Mrs. Ensor advanced to meet her
visitor, with the baby surprised into silence.
Hughie shook hands politely. Then he asked if his sister had just been
to the farm.
"I thought I saw her," he explained, "she was in the road, and I thought
she might have come up for eggs."
This idea had occurred to him when he saw the hen-coops as a very
possible explanation for Pamela's conduct. Her gesture to him might
have meant that she was going on to Clawtol Farm in a hurry.
Mrs. Ensor had not seen anybody. Miss Pamela had not called for eggs.
She turned to the row of listening little boys and demanded of them,
"had anybody seen Miss Pamela?"
There was a certain amount of whispering and nudging, from which the
farmer's wife seemed to gather that Pamela had been seen. It was "young
Reube" who volunteered information, twisting his cap round and round in
very small nervous hands.
Hughie looked at him with shy sympathy. He liked Reube, but could not
explain why.
"Did you see my sister?" he asked gravely.
"Yes, I seen the young lady," admitted Reube.
"Where did she go?" asked Hughie again.
"She went down along Crown Hill. She was running."
That was all Reube said, or knew apparently. As he gave this answer he
looked from Hughie to his mother with a puzzled expression which neither
interpreted to mean anything but shyness.
"I think I'd better go home now, Mrs. Ensor," said the visitor rather
ceremoniously. "I shall be rather late for our tea, shan't I? I expect
my sister has gone to Crown Hill to see Miss Ashington, so I shan't go
that way--it's much longer."
Mrs. Ensor and family--with an inquisitive escort of chickens and little
pigs--came to the gate with Hughie and let him out.
"Good-night, Mrs. Ensor," said Hughie, and lifted his cap with
precision.
Young Reube stood in the background with a troubled expression on his
small dark face. After Hughie was gone he ran about and drove chickens
into coops, but all the while there was a sense of confusion in his
mind, because he had no power to explain--words do not come easily when
you are six!
Hughie raced back along the road to the top of Hawksdown. From there it
was not very far to the drop of the hill down into Bell Bay. At a turn
he came in full view of the lovely cove, and paused to look for the
white yawl. There she was on her moorings. Sails stowed too, and he
could see someone getting out of the dinghy on to the big flat rock
where they usually landed. There was not enough light for him to
distinguish persons, but seeing the _Messenger_ was safely back home
nothing else mattered.
He took to his heels and ran headlong down the steep road, past the
lodge gate of the cove road. To Crown Hill, round the corner, down, and
down, till he came to the sea-wall and gardens of the Bell House; and as
he ran he became increasingly angry, which was a rare state of mind with
Hughie. He considered himself swindled. He had been put ashore on
purpose to carry a message, and had felt the importance of the trust.
It was a small thing that the yawl should be home first, though, as he
had seen the dinghy coming ashore that would not have happened had he
not been tricked into turning aside by Pamela.
The thing was distinctly unfair. Pamela, his partner in many
interesting episodes, had gone back on him in this, she had treated him
meanly and put him in a silly position.
*CHAPTER IV*
*In which Pam Makes a Move*
The first thing people said to Hughie was, of course, "What a long time
you were!" It was exactly what he expected, and he felt extremely
bitter about it.
There was supper on this night, everybody was hungry, and they had so
much to tell Mrs. Romilly about the events of the day that no more than
that comment was made at the moment.
Mrs. Romilly had not been anxious. She had observed the calm, had
guessed the tides, and simply given orders that "high tea" would be
supper. She was rejoiced that this first attempt had been a success,
but decided that her youngest son was tired out--he was so silent. She
remembered the climb out of Ramsworthy Cove, the walk over
Hawksdown--thought of the long day of hot calm--and put no questions at
all about it. Indeed she diverted those that the rest of the crew would
have asked.
Pamela, as usual, came in rather late. Hughie looked at her. She sat
down, saw him, and said:
"I saw you running down the hill, aren't you hot, poor Midget? It is
stuffy as thunder, Mummy, and the wind is coming in little puffs over
Bell Ridge; presently there'll be a row--we shall hear the thunder tanks
come wheeling along over our heads! I _am_ hot!"
Hughie decided she had been running also. But he felt this was not the
time or place to go into the question. He ate his supper in silence,
and matured a telling and desperate plan for paying his sister back. He
would ignore her presence. He would not say good-night to her.
Thus when bed-time came, Hughie, busy as usual with some infinitely
small carpentering work connected with his latest boat, got up, put away
his tiny blocks, pulleys, and fine cord, and went to kiss his mother.
She was making sails for him--perfect sails with amazingly neat reefing
knots and cord-stiffened edges. Nobody could make model boat-sails like
Mrs. Romilly.
"Oh, Mum----" said Hughie very low, and smiled.
"Tired boy," answered 'Mum', also smiling, "go to bed and go to sleep,
and don't wake till eight."
Hughie said good-night to Adrian, Christobel, and the Floweret; then he
went off to bed, deliberately missing out Pam.
Nobody thought about it but Pam herself. The others were all busy,
Addie and Crow playing chess and too much absorbed, the Floweret reading
the newspaper to Mrs. Romilly. Pamela, very intently taking notes from
her precious handbook, had turned her head ready for Hughie's kiss. He
always kissed her as well as his mother. But Hughie walked down the
room with short quick steps, opened the door, shut it very softly, and
was gone.
This action was in no way lost on his sister. She not only saw it all,
but she realized that it was a case of extreme measures on Hughie's
part, and made up her mind to get to the bottom of the business.
Pamela's bedroom was a small one at the end of the house, and it looked
out over the sea-wall and into the rocky cove. Hughie's room was a pair
to it, farther along the little cross passage that barred the end of the
long corridor down the centre of the house. Hughie's window looked the
same way as Pamela's, and they were exactly alike--strong casements,
deep window seats, with a view passing description for peace and beauty.
At nine o'clock Pam went up to bed; but she walked by her own door, to
Hughie's, and without knocking, opened it softly and went in.
A young clear moon was rising up the purple sky, and there was light
enough to show any movements, especially as the blind was up. The owner
of the room was in bed, and no doubt ought to have been asleep, but the
excitements already narrated had kept him awake--combined with the
expectation of a visit from his sister.
He turned his head on the pillow and looked at her. Pamela closed the
door gently, came to the foot of the bed, and leaning her crossed arms
on the brass foot, said:
"What's the matter, Midget?"
Hughie was not the sort of person to pretend he did not know what she
was thinking of. He retorted by another question.
"Why didn't you stop when I called you, Pam?"
"Called me! Where? When?"
"On the top of Hawksdown--where the road goes to Clawtol," said Hughie.
"But _when_?"
"Why, this evening, when I was coming home, of course."
There was a pause. Pamela seemed to be thinking deeply. Hughie made
use of the interval to sit up in bed--indeed he sat on his pillow,
holding the small pyjama-clad ankles of his crossed legs in either hand.
He looked very much like an enlarged soapstone figure of an Indian god.
After a sufficiently long pause to make Hughie feel sure his sister was
very guilty in the matter, Pamela said:
"What was I doing?"
"I should think you ought to know," answered Hughie coldly.
"No, but tell me. I want to know just what you saw."
Hughie complied.
"So I waved--when I'd called; and you looked back and put up your hand.
And then you ran away. I ran too, but I couldn't catch you--I never
can--you know that perfectly well," he concluded.
He could see his sister's face quite plainly in the moonlight. She was
frowning with a sort of puzzled intentness, and her keen features looked
very sharp. Hughie, quick as she to observe, began to explain further.
He told how he went to Clawtol, and how he inquired from Mrs. Ensor and
her family.
"And Reube said he'd seen you," he ended.
"Reube said he'd seen _me_," echoed Pamela, "are you sure, Midget?"
Hughie considered; then he repeated carefully:
"Mrs. Ensor said 'did you see the young lady?' and Reube said 'yes'."
"Ah!" breathed Pamela, low, to herself. Then she left her position at
the bed foot, and moved about the room in a restless silent fashion, her
eyes on the ground. At last she came to a stand by the window.
Hughie made no remark; his eyes followed her, and he was much
interested; there was plainly something on foot not understandable at
first.
"How was I--she--dressed?" asked Pamela suddenly.
"Oh, your usual things--what you had on the boat," said Hughie vaguely.
"Brown shoes and stockings?" Pam demanded.
Hughie thought about it. Then he said he couldn't see so far.
"But I saw your pigtail hanging down. There was a bit of light on it,
and it shone."
Pamela went back to the foot of the bed, and leaned there.
"Look here, Hughie," she said seriously, "if I say a thing you'd believe
me, wouldn't you?"
Hughie gripped his ankles with either small brown hand and gazed back at
her thoughtfully.
"I should _believe_ you--if you said a true thing," he said.
"Well, I'm going to say a true thing. The girl you saw wasn't me--I
mean, I."
"Oh!" said Hughie, "who was she, then?"
"I don't know any more than you do, but I'd venture to bet a shilling
that she's the same girl Mollie Shard saw. Don't you remember when
Mollie said she saw _me_, out by Mainsail Cottage on Tuesday morning.
Well, I wasn't."
"Oh," murmured Hughie again--then, "I remember what Mollie said, but why
didn't you say it wasn't you, Pam?"
"I was thinking about something rather queer that I saw myself; kind of
adding them together."
"What did you see yourself?"
Pamela did not answer this question at once, her mind was searching
round for points, at last:
"One thing is plain;" she said, "there's a girl about who looks like me;
but goodness knows who she is, or where she comes from. Look here,
Hughie, will you keep your eyes open--now you know. I'll try and follow
it up too, and I promise I'll tell you what I find out even if I don't
tell other people."
"I see. Yes, all right, Pam," agreed the Midget with dignity. As a
matter of fact he was really not quite sure whether he did see. It was
all rather startling; why should there be a girl exactly like Pam--and
with the same pigtail even? However, there it was. He had said he
would believe what his sister told him.
"Well, good-night, Hughie; we shall see what happens next," said Pamela.
She was not laughing at all, her face wore the same keen look. "And
remember you promised not to say one word to a living soul, whatever
happens."
"All right. I promise. Good-night, Pam," and Hugh raised his face to
be kissed rather meekly. He felt as though all this was rather serious.
Pamela went away to her own room and sat down in the low window-seat to
puzzle out the position.
There was a girl in Bell Bay so like herself that two people who knew
her well had been completely deceived, yet nobody had arrived in the
cove--publicly. Indeed, there was no place for them to arrive at,
without the inhabitants being aware.
"The queer part is," thought Pamela, "that nobody is worrying with
curiosity, because whenever anyone sees her they think it's I, and
naturally they don't notice any more. Whatever that girl does will be
put on my shoulders, and I can't go and say she's there because I don't
know."
She looked at the silver, clear, clean moon, riding so gaily up and up,
and at the inky shadows of rocks away down on the white shining sand of
the cove. Everything was painted black and white, and the ripple of the
sea was a laughing whisper.
Pamela was used to this fairy scene in all sorts of phases, but
to-night--probably because of the Mystery Girl--she felt as though
something uncanny were abroad, and to shake herself free from the
feeling she opened her precious handbook, and proceeded to search
through it from end to end. "What should a person do--what would a
Patrol Captain, or any experienced Guide do, if she found she had a
'double'? Practical information about making jam tins into
candlesticks, or how to meet a mad dog! Splendid directions for camping
and tracking--_tracking_!"
Pamela paused and thought about that. She studied the means for finding
out a bicycle-track, what sort of bicycle--which way going. That might
be useful if the girl rode a bicycle. Footprints might be followed up
if she could be sure what sort of shoe the girl wore.
She shut up the book, and began to undress, gazing dreamily out at the
moonshine all the time, utterly unconscious what that moonshine was to
show her one night--in the near future.
Just before she went to sleep her mind fixed itself again on a previous
idea. This business had surely got to do with Woodrising--with the
strange motor-car--and with the secret visit of Sir Marmaduke Shard.
She had no proof that he went that night to Woodrising, but she was
perfectly certain he had done so. The first thing, of course, was to
find out if anybody had come to Woodrising.
The next morning, warm, lovely--and far removed from any sort of
mystery--arrived, in about five minutes. Mornings do arrive swiftly when
you are thirteen and have been out sailing nearly all day before.
Everything looked the same downstairs, and Pamela felt it difficult to
believe she had a "double" and Bell Bay was the innocent scene of a
surprising secret. She found that Christobel and Adrian were already
planning a sail of some importance, and was met by a pressing invitation
to go too.
"Where?" asked Pam lazily.
"Peterock. Addie wants his hair cut, and it can be cut at Peterock just
as easily as Salterne. Besides, it's much nearer."
Christobel said this with intent, for though nearness was nothing to her
and Adrian, she knew instinctively that her mother rather cherished the
thought of their "keeping near home". So many people who have no
experience of sailing believe that the safety is increased by keeping
near land, whereas it is just as possible to drown in one fathom of
water, as forty fathoms.
However, Christobel threw out the bait with purpose, and Mrs. Romilly,
smiling happily, said:
"That would be nice, darlings. Won't you want lunch and tea on board?
Ask Jeep for all you need."
Both Pam and Hughie excused themselves from this expedition. The day
promised to be unusually hot and breathless, and Pamela, knowing exactly
what it would be like, preferred a bathe and a book. Hughie wanted to
test the new sails to his model boat.
This division of forces was so often practised that Mrs. Romilly took no
notice. She was sure that the two elders could manage the yawl--and for
the rest, a day in which there seemed to be neither wind nor waves, was
very satisfying to her mind. Pamela liked being alone--she and Hughie
spent hours in the cove contented and harmless. All would be well.
The morning wore on in peace, and about midday the voyagers went down,
basket-laden, and very happy.
"It will be thunder," prophesied Pam, who was sitting on a low rock,
with her back against another, learning certain enthralling rules by
heart from a certain book, "it will be quite calm and oily, and
presently you'll have a cracking storm. I feel it in my head. Glad I'm
not going. Crow, do you remember the day when we couldn't get anywhere,
and we threw the slices of beef overboard and they went with us for
_miles_--sort of cheek by jowl, sitting on the sea."
"That was before the War," said Crow, evading the thought, "one doesn't
have slices of meat now, of anything, thank goodness. Beef and ham pies
would sink."
"Not before we've eaten them," put in Adrian calmly, "come along, Crow.
I say, Pam--supposing we don't get to Peterock, but go to somewhere down
coast beyond Ramsworthy, do you mind suggesting to Mother that we are
playing on the sands at Netheroot or Tamerton? Either would do, 'fraid
there'll be no wind for Salterne."
"Can you get your hair cut at Netheroot?" asked Pamela.
"No, don't suppose so; why?"
"Only because Mother likes to picture you on shore most of the time,
when you go sailing, I mean--it's so nice and dry; and the sea is wet as
wet can be! If there is a thunderstorm you'll go ashore, shan't you?"
"Like a shot," declared Adrian, as he pushed against the rocky landing
platform, and drove the dinghy dancing over the breaking ripples.
Pamela watched, sleepily, as the boat made for the white yawl. She
rejoiced that she had remained on land, when the sails went up under
Addie's strenuous hauling, yet admired wholeheartedly as the flop of the
moorings' buoy set free the yacht, and, leaning over very gently, she
drifted broadside on towards Bell Ridge--the northern headland.
Even as she drifted, silent as a shadow, the far faint rumble of summer
thunder murmured from inland, and Pam said "thought so" contentedly.
After that she shut her eyes and reviewed a succession of plans;
something ought to be done now she had a day to herself, or an afternoon
at any rate, no one to ask inconvenient questions either, for Hughie
being in the secret required but a hint. He was the most circumspect
person living.
Sitting there with her eyes closed Pamela arranged a practical plan.
She would go for a walk after lunch, on the pretext of taking her
bicycle to Timothy Batt's house at Folly Ho. Timothy was the carrier,
and lived with his old horse, at the very small hamlet on the Peterock
road beyond the turn to the station--and also, of course, beyond
Woodrising. She would leave the bicycle, and coming back she would take
stock of that empty house, going round the big grounds encircled by the
white wall. Surely something could be discovered that might help to
elucidate this mystery.
The plan was excellent; when Pam and Hughie went in to dinner, she asked
leave, and got it easily. Then came the thunderstorm--about which all
details will be given presently--not only the details, but the results
and consequences.
It was an exceedingly unusual and violent thunderstorm, frightening the
household not a little; all except Pamela and Hughie, who for their own
reasons did not mind in the least. Hughie wanted to test small boats in
the water that rushed, seething, into the big horse-trough in the yard,
and Pamela pictured footprints of a revealing nature, marking the wet
soil all round Woodrising.
Good may come out of anything. And surely advantages might be expected
from such rain as fell into Bell Bay on that afternoon.
Mrs. Romilly was certainly worried on account of the yawl, but Pamela
told her what Addie had said about Netheroot or Tamerton. Also when the
storm had passed she could see for herself that the water was hardly
more rough. There was nothing to suggest danger. Later on the telegram
came; but not till after Pamela had started off on her delayed walk.
She went after five-o'clock tea, into a wonderful washed world, where
every plant, bush and hedge seemed to have been touched with a magic
brush, and set in jewels. The sandy soil oozed beneath her feet, and
rills of water streamed down the hill in winding gullies.
Pamela whistled softly to herself as she went; it was good to be alive
on such an evening, and she felt very hopeful about her chances of
making discoveries, chiefly because she felt so buoyantly cheerful.
Folly Ho was perhaps a mile from Bell Bay. Timothy Batt promised--or
rather his wife promised for him--that the bicycle should go to Peterock
next day but one. Next day was station day. Alternate journeys--Five
Trees and Peterock.
"Pity we didn't have it this morning, missie, Batt's gone to Peterock
to-day."
Pamela said "never mind", and meant it. Her object was Woodrising.
She sped back along the wet road with eager haste, and checked not till
she came to the long hill, and the white wall enclosing those thickly
wooded grounds and white buildings. Then she did what she had planned
to do--got through the hedge on to the wooded hill above Woodrising,
made her way down slowly through the trees till she reached the barrier
wall, and then began to follow the course of the wall round the whole of
the little estate. She believed there would be some chance, which she
could make use of, either to get in, or see in, for surely there must be
outlets! Gates, or gaps, or ladders, or something that could be made
use of.
However, she went round two sides of it--the wall at the top, and the
long side wall down the hill--and found no opportunity. She knew too
that she must not count on the wall edging the road, because no burglar
even could attempt its slippery height. That was three sides! She was
thinking of this, and that she might never see more than the top
windows, slate roof, and chimneys of the tantalizing house, when she
came on a ladder--a short ladder set conveniently up against the
wall--positively inviting her to mount it.
She went up cautiously and looked over. It was at the corner, in the
angles of the side and lower walls, and she saw that within was a high
rubbish heap that obviously formed a bed for vegetable marrows.
Heaped-up straw mould, and softness--the easiest thing in the world to
jump down on to. But that was rather an extreme measure, so Pamela went
back down three steps and considered the question.
Then she observed that the glass at this point was crushed and scraped
till the wall top was smooth enough to pass with comfort. One might
have supposed that someone made a practice of getting over just here;
Pamela's mind leaped to the thought of Peter Cherry, the boy--it would
of course be his quickest way home to the Temperance Tea House. No
doubt a secret way.
She went up again and viewed the grounds. Immediately below were the
kitchen-gardens--beyond that vistas of long shrubbery walks--lawns,
fruit trees--every sort of tree, and everything overgrown and run riot.
There was a wild luxuriance about the whole place which was natural to
Bell Bay and its sheltered warmth. No one seemed to be about.
After a few minutes' hesitation, Pamela went "over the top" with a swift
movement, and jumped down on to the vegetable-marrow bed. It was damp
and soft. Pausing to reconnoitre she noticed two bricks missing in the
wall on the inner side. The holes had all the appearance of steps made
on purpose, and confirmed her opinion about Peter Cherry's short cut.
Then she went into the garden, making for the shelter of the nearest
shrubbery. Keeping out of sight of window view she followed the paths
in and out towards the house. Everywhere she looked for "tracks", for
footmarks in the wet soil, and was pleased when she found the trace of a
shortish square-toed boot with nail-studded sole. Certainly Peter
Cherry! She felt she was getting on in experience. So absorbed was she
that she confused the bush fringed paths, and got mixed up as to which
she had inspected. Then, she came on the neat, narrow print of a woman's
shoe, and stooped to examine it with intense interest. Here was a plain
track, and she followed it some yards between overhanging, very wet
apple-trees, till it turned the corner into a cross path. Pamela
stopped and looked up and down. Surely she had been this way before.
She looked back between the green walls and felt certain the look of it
was familiar. A thought struck her and she slipped off one of her own
shoes, and compared the sole to the shoe print. Either it was her own
track--which she was crossing unawares--or somebody else wore exactly
the same sized shoe. It was a maddening dilemma.
She was puzzling over this when she became aware of voices, not far
distant, and coming nearer--from the house. Somebody was talking in what
Pamela would have described as a "fussy voice". She stood listening,
and might have been caught on that instant if the talkers had glanced
down between the apple-trees, for two figures passed across the end of
the alley she was in, and went on towards the kitchen-garden.
Pamela made up her mind to see who they were, and looked about eagerly
for a safe shelter. She reasoned that they would go round the bottom of
the garden and back up the south side, so she hastened in the direction
of the house, where very thick-growing shrubberies offered screens, and
hid herself in the wettest possible bushes by the side of a direct path
homeward.
Certainly ten minutes passed before anyone drew near. Then she was
rewarded for her damp condition. Two women came along, talking. That
is to say, one talked--never ceased to talk. The other, the silent one,
was Mrs. Trewby, and she, looking as bilious and despondent as usual,
listened with respectful misery stamped on her sallow face.
The person who did the talking puzzled Pamela's sharp examination. She
was familiar, yet difficult to place. After they had passed, and the
fussy voice chattered on, growing less audible, Pamela suddenly
remembered who she was--Mrs. Chipman, Lady Shard's one-time lady's maid,
and a well-known person at Crown Hill for some years. Her name had been
Emily Baker in those days, when she was just as fussy and talkative.
She married the butler at the Albert Gate house in London, and kept a
lodging-house on the east coast. The War had done for the
lodging-house, and the butler was slain by sickness in India. She had a
pension and no doubt Lady Shard was kind to "my good Chipman", as she
called her.
Pamela could just remember her at Crown Hill; now, she looked fatter,
more dumpy, and more pompous, otherwise just the same. This discovery
was a blow, because it was a simple explanation of the visitor to
Woodrising--Chipman, sent down to stay with Mrs. Trewby, at the Shards'
expense. Of course, but how dull! The girl could have nothing on earth
to do with them.
As Pamela shook the wet off her skirt, she realized that she had been so
intent on trying to remember Chipman that she never listened to a word
she was saying. Rather depressed, she went back along the path to the
corner, and as she went she heard Mrs. Chipman
calling--"Countess--_Countess_."
"If they are going to let a _dog_ out I'd better run," thought Pamela;
and she went over the wall briskly, into the wooded meadow.
*CHAPTER V*
*The Adventures of the Yawl
and her Crew*
To go back to the start of the white yawl. After the mooring-buoy had
"plopped" into the smooth sea, the sails half-filled, and then, as the
pretty craft righted herself, they slackened again in a succession of
sleepy rattles. Then followed a period of drifting to leeward, the
dinghy drifting also, and bumping softly against the yacht's counter in
a stupid manner.
Adrian flung himself on the deck and mopped his forehead; he said:
"I wonder why Mother always rejoices when there is no wind. It doesn't
appeal to me as a desirable state of things. Pam looks jolly comfortable
over there--wish I was in her place! I say, Crow, don't say we're going
to play the fool like this all day."
"Why say anything in such a very short space of time, dear boy,"
retorted the skipper lazily; "we've hardly started--isn't that thunder,
hark?"
"It is thunder, my good woman," allowed Adrian, "which means growlings,
heat and stickiness immeasurable. Don't give way to optimistic hopes and
picture--first a gentle cooling shower, and then a sweet little breeze
that will waft us to Peterock without a tack."
Christobel, obstinately happy, lay back in a comfortable position with
one arm thrown over the tiller. Suddenly she sat up. A queer little
breeze had dropped upon them from the heights. The slack sails filled,
the yawl leaned gently to leeward and, with ever-increasing speed, began
to cut steadily through the glassy heaving sea. Straight out they
went--out and out into the world of blue--the cordage strained and
creaked, the hard sails pulled, and _Messenger_ sped through the water
with a delicious bubbling hiss.
"How's that, umpire?" demanded Crow, turning a smiling glance on Adrian,
"kindly remember next time occasion rises, that it's never worth while
looking on the dark side."
"The hot side, you mean," said Adrian unabashed, "where are we going
now?"
"Out," answered his sister briefly.
"Good. Let's get away from our native land for a bit--it's stuffy.
Besides I want to look at it from a distance, it enlarges one's mind."
So Christobel, like the master mariner in "The Wreck of the Hesperus",
"steered for the open sea", and Adrian, whose appetite was enlarging as
well as his mind, decided that dinner was of more importance than
anything else, and diving into the saloon began fetching up plates,
food, cups and lemonade; as _Messenger_ was on an even keel, and the
breeze held, the conditions were ideal and there was nothing to worry
about. As they ate, they planned the excursion with precision. They
were going out, but the ebbing tide was carrying them
northward--Peterock way, that is to say; presently they would tack, and
from a distance of some seven miles set a straight course on a
"soldier's wind" for the pretty town. They fixed the hour at which they
would arrive, how long they would stop, and how short a time it would
take them to get back--under the very satisfactory conditions of fair
tide and fair wind.
As a rule, this is the way of all ways to upset everything; and to-day
the rule held good.
First the wind dropped--dropped--and ceased. One moment the sails were
drawing with firm pressure; actually the next moment they hung limp--not
a cord stirring. At the same time, as Crow said, "someone blew the
candle out".
As it happened she gave an exclamation and looked up. A bank of dense
black cloud had covered the high sun that had shone upon them till then.
The sky was divided in two by a distinct line. To seaward, blue, clear,
exquisite. To landward and above the vivid broken coast hung massed
clouds of most fearsome appearance. Clouds above clouds--the lowest,
greyish battalions tearing along at headlong speed; above them others of
purple black, moving statelily at a different angle; above them again
piled heaps of strange shapes, shot and lined with coppery tints. These
were moving at a different pace, and in a different direction.
As far as eye could see over the hilly land was black. And the black was
devouring the sunny blue.
Christobel looked up, round, and landward. Then she said in rather a
small voice:
"How _horrid_!" and turned her eyes seaward.
Adrian contemplated the heavens with a frown, then he got up, saying one
might as well put away the things. He put them away, and incidentally
made everything snug inside; nothing was left loose to shift or roll.
Christobel heard him doing it and guessed that he expected it would be
necessary.
Presently he came up the short companion-way, put his head out and
stared at the sky again. The line of black was advancing swiftly over
the blue.
"We shall have big rain, old lady," he said. "I don't know how much
wind! Of course, it's only thunder, but----"
Low down over the hills shot out a succession of wicked fiery darts.
They stabbed downwards into the quiet land as though they would destroy
it. Deep ominous rumblings followed.
"I think I rather hate it," said Crow uneasily.
"I'll get the mackintoshes out of the fore lockers, expect we shall find
a use for them before we are through with this beano! You'll have to
put yours on," Adrian said, then he laughed. "When it comes, it'll
_come_."
Then they both laughed, and Christobel as usual found support and
comfort in her brother's matter-of-fact way of looking at things. She
was no coward. Her courage was of a high order, though she was not
aware of it, but certain conditions affected her imagination and made
icy thrills run all over her.
Adrian would have said "It's only a few clouds--what does that matter?"
Equally he would have said of a dark night and its mysteries, "If it
were daylight you wouldn't mind! What's the difference? There's
nothing there."
While she gazed at the towering masses that hung over sea and land with
dread in her eyes, Adrian thought about mackintoshes.
"When the rain comes I shan't mind," said Crow, "rain is only--well,
rain."
"How true," murmured Adrian, "and being rain it wets."
They both laughed again, and the skipper felt better.
But even Addie was quite silent before the wetting part came.
The land was invisible now, except when those stabs of flame tore splits
in the barrier; then the two watchers could see the dark breathless
combes and the big headlands showing black and rugged. But it seemed as
though there was no end to the piling weight of cloud that now almost
covered the sea, the vivid contrast of the blue space over the shining
horizon making it the darker. The growlings and rumblings had now
turned to crashes, the noise adding to the dread.
At this phase Adrian questioned whether it would not be well to get the
mainsail in--it would be so wet, he suggested, and they could do with
the mizzen well enough; but Christobel did not agree.
"If the wind is bad we can drop the peak," she said, "after all it's not
like a cutter mainsail--they are so huge. We've only just enough to send
us along nicely. Besides, once we stow it it will take ages to set
again. Let's risk it."
So they decided to "risk it", which was an instance of Crow's way of
looking at things. She was not afraid to face a possible gale--but she
was horribly afraid of the look--the influence--of that overwhelming
pile of gloomy cloud.
"I wonder how many 'volts' are playing skittles up there," remarked
Adrian thoughtfully, "great Scotland! If one knew how to box it all up
and use it for transport power--engines of every sort and kind! Why
can't I invent something! It ought to be a British monopoly--we could
switch it on to any nations that played the fool--and there we should
be---- Hullo--see that tender drop, Crow? A wash-hand basin would
hardly have held it--put this thing on."
"This thing" was, of course, the mackintosh.
The brother and sister were busy for a few seconds, then they sat down
again armoured--in sticky, shiny oilskins, and sou'westers well drawn
over their ears.
"Go inside, Addie, why should two swim?" said Crow, speaking loud
through the deafening riot of crashes.
"Oh no," shouted Adrian with weighty sarcasm, "I'll go to bed, and light
the stove, and tuck myself up with a hot-water bottle; better still, you
could leave the tiller and tuck me up! By the way, that reminds
me--aren't you about fed up with steering?"
Crow shook her head, and spread both hands out with a meaning
gesture--only her elbow stayed the tiller in place.
Adrian understood; it was just a question of waiting, so he varied the
monotony by going forward to batten down the forehatch, coil in loose
sheets, make fast the anchor, and see that the peak halyard was nowhere
hitched or encumbered. Then he returned aft and shut the door of the
main cabin, commenting still on the size of one or two splashes, which
he declared would have filled the kettle; the door slid along in grooves
and was proof against heavy seas or torrents of rain. Then he turned an
inventive eye on the dinghy, which was rocking sleepily under their
quarter, and suggested that she might be used as a "wind anchor" if she
filled up.
"Supposing we get a real howler," said Adrian, "we could make her fast
to the bowsprit, you see, and just ride."
It was while they were laughing over this brilliant idea that Crow saw
the grey wall coming, and sprang to attention as it were, standing
up--an alert grip on the tiller.
It seemed to reach from the bank of blackness to the sea, and shut off
the land like a blind. It was coming towards them--coming out to sea
ushered by a noise like the rush of rapids--an immense volume of rain
water, descending in lines straight as harp strings, and striking the
level sea. It was very amazing, and Christobel gazed with awe; she had
never seen anything quite like it, because a stretch of land has so many
interruptions that you cannot see the _line_ as you can on miles of
water. Besides, water striking water like that is a very wonderful
thing, foam fringes the edge of it all along, hissing like a boiler.
"This looks as though it meant to hurt our feelings--especially the
dinghy's," said Adrian cheerfully, "she isn't used to bad manners."
Crow shrank instinctively as the rush of the advancing thing enveloped
the yawl. They were battered by such rain as she had never experienced
before, yet once into it, all her dread was dispelled like a nightmare.
Rain fell on the deck like the rattle of bullets, and in a minute the
whole place was a wild wash of water pouring through scuppers, water
streaming into the well, water heaving and lifting everything that could
be pushed out of place. Crow held on to the tiller, but there was
nothing doing in the sailing way--yet--nothing but water which seemed to
nail them motionless by sheer weight. She glanced aside at the little
boat, and saw her filling up swiftly--"Oh, poor dinghy," she gasped
aloud--but there was no time to do anything, or even consider doing it,
for something was coming at the back of the rain that asked for all her
attention.