THE WOOD OF STRANGE MEETINGS.
"Pamela!"
He had come back, and his eyes and his voice were full of fire.
"Pamela! What have you done to yourself, my sweetheart? You are not the Pamela I left."
She had turned towards him as irresistibly as the needle to the pole. But at his words a quick shiver ran through her. Her eyes turned from him and darkened. Her head drooped.
"You have come too late," she said, almost under her breath; and her voice was cold.
"Look at me, Pam. I have so much to tell you that you must hear. You must not be angry with me. We have been cheated and tricked. I wrote to your father to say I would come and ask for you, Pam, the road being clear."
"He never had your letter."
"It was not posted, Pamela. I must tell you, Pam, though it is hard. You have a right to know. My mother intercepted the letter."
"She detested me. I knew it from the first moment her cold eyes rested upon me."
"She does not like me, Pam, much. But that will not part us."
"Ah!" said Pam, and her voice was almost a cry. "But we are parted. She could not do it, but I have done it by my own act."
His foot knocked against the heap of trinkets on the moss.
"What are these, Pam?" he asked wonderingly.
"Give them to me," she implored. "They are mine. And you must go away, Sir Anthony, and never come again."
"Why, I see"—holding the jewels in his hand—"they are his gifts. But you have thrown them off!"
His eyes blazed suddenly.
"It is an omen, Pam. Let him follow his jewels. What right has he to buy you? You had given yourself to me."
"Ah!" cried Pam, still stretching out her hands for the jewels. "You don't know what you are talking about. He is the best man in all the world; and our wedding-day is fixed, and my wedding-dress is ordered."
The young man flung the jewels on the ground.
The young man flung the jewels on the ground.
"There," he said, "let them lie where I found them. Why should we think of them? It is all a bad dream, Pamela, but not so bad as it might have been—not so bad as it might have been. Why, you are talking folly, Pam, about wedding-days and wedding-dresses. It is our wedding-day you must think of, and the wedding-dress you will wear for me."
He held out his arms to her imploringly, and for a moment, with a dazed look, she seemed as if she must come. Then she pushed him off with a gesture of her two hands.
"No," she said. "Love is not everything—love is not everything. There is honour, there is loyalty, there is faith. And you,—you have your cousin to think about. She is sweet and lovely. I felt it, though I——"
She broke off suddenly.
"Though you loved me and were jealous"; and he laughed masterfully. "All wrong, my Pam! I never cared for Kitty in that way, nor she for me. She is going to marry my chum, Jack Leslie. They have been in love with each other for years."
"Your mother told me——"
His face darkened.
"I know. I shall forgive her when you have yielded your will to mine."
"That will never be."
"Never, Pam? Ah! yes, it will. If I had come here and found that you loved this other man, I could have done nothing but leave you. I came full of anger and fury. All through the journey I had been goading myself to a jealous madness; but the minute I saw you here beside the well where I told you I loved you, I knew you were mine. I can afford to forgive Lord Glengall."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I shall go to the house and explain to your father about the missing letter. I was on my way there when I turned aside to the Wishing Well and found you."
"My father loves Lord Glengall."
"He loves you better, Pam. He will not want you to marry him, loving me."
"You take too much for granted."
"Oh, no, I don't, Pam! You are not the girl to love me seven months ago and love another man to-day. And your eyes betray you, darling!"
"And if my father chooses Lord Glengall before you?"
"Then I will tell him the choice does not rest with him. I will go to Lord Glengall himself."
"And if he should refuse to listen to you?"
"Then I will come to you, Pamela, my beloved."
She suddenly turned on him her beautiful, stormy eyes, and her face was full of tragedy.
"And I shall send you away," she said. "It is no question of loving. I shall not see you any more, Tony"—using the familiar name unconsciously—"never, I hope, after to-day. And I love you; I do love you, and if I might love you for ever I should be the happiest woman on earth. No, don't come near me, for I am saying good-bye to you. I decline to purchase my happiness, and even yours, at the cost of unhappiness to the best man I ever knew. Ah! go now, my love, and do not tempt me any more. You will soon forget me."
She turned as if to go, but before Anthony Trevithick could make any effort to detain her, a quiet voice spoke beside them.
"I came to meet you, Pamela. I expected to find you alone. Who is this gentleman?"
Pamela turned quickly, and put her hand into the hand of her betrothed.
"It is Sir Anthony Trevithick, Lord Glengall."
The two men bowed coldly.
"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall, drawing her hand through his arm. "I am grateful to you for having taken care of her."
"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall.
The two stood looking at each other, and the air was as if charged with a storm.
"I am staying in the neighbourhood," said Sir Anthony stiffly. "I shall hope to see your lordship later on."
"Come," whispered Pamela to her betrothed, "come away. I will explain to you."
She stole one glance at the hot and angry face of her young lover. Then, without a word, she passed out of his sight down one of the wood paths, still clinging to Lord Glengall's arm.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then she lifted her eyes to her companion's sad face.
"You heard what I said," she half-whispered. "I am not afraid of you; I was loyal."
"Yes, you were loyal, Pam, in the spirit, but loyalty without love is poor comfort. It is not enough for me."
"I do love you."
"I believe you do, Pam, but there are different kinds of love. Is this that other you once told me about?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. You have had few opportunities for meeting men in your quiet life. This is the lad who was your father's pupil?"
"The son of his old friend, Sir Gerald Trevithick."
"I ought to have met him when he was here. But I was finishing up in Australia. He is honest, Pam—is he?"
"I am sure he is—now. Before I thought he was false."
"How did it come that he went away like that, having made you love him?"
"He was called away to a sick uncle. He wrote to father to explain, but the letter never reached him."
"You are sure he wrote?"
"Yes, he has told me. His mother——You saw her once?"
"A frozen-looking woman, dressed like an empress, who came one day. She was so haughty to me that I very soon removed myself."
"That was her."
"My poor little Pam!—that was the woman you went to visit afterwards? I had not realised it. I never thought of her after that day."
"She made me very unhappy. From the first she had a quiet way of making me feel not of her world, and afterwards she was horrid—about papa. She told me—falsehoods, too."
"Why didn't you come home, Pam?"
"I wouldn't let them know that the visit had been so horrible. Papa was pleased for me to go. Then he fell ill, and I came away."
"What did she tell you, Pam?"
"She told me Sir Anthony was engaged to his cousin. It was she who intercepted his letter to papa, in which he said he would come back."
"Ah! there are such women. But why didn't he speak fully and frankly before he went?"
"I do not know. There was some reason. He spoke of something that stood in the way."
Lord Glengall frowned, with his eyes on the ground.
"I shall find out the reason," he said.
"Ah! no," cried Pamela, clinging to his arm. "Let it be. I have told him he must go away. I belong to you, and not to him."
A little spasm of pain passed over the irregular features.
"Don't try me too much, Pamela, or I might take you at your word."
"I want you to take me at my word."
"I am sure you do—at this moment."
"Now and always."
"My little Pam! Still mine till I give you up of my own free will. You will trust me to do what is for the best?"
"I will trust you for ever. You are not going to give me up?"
Again his face contracted.
"Not unless I ought to, Pam. Not unless the lad is straight and can prove himself worthy of you. If I feel he can make you happier than I can, I will give you to him. If not, I will keep you in spite of yourself, and trust to my love to make you forget him."
"I think that might easily come true."
"Don't make it hard for me, Pam, if I have to cede my right to another. Pamela"—she had lifted her hands to him in her emotion—"where is your ring?"
Pamela wrung her hands in her trouble.
"Do not be angry with me," she entreated. "I took it off in the wood, there where you found me. It is there still."
"Pamela," his voice was stern. "Did he remove your ring?"
"No, no. A thousand times, no! How could you think I would let him?"
"Forgive me, child—I ought to have known you better. But why did you take off the ring?"
She looked to left and right, as though seeking a way of escape, and answered nothing.
"I see," said Lord Glengall, and his face had a look of suffering. "You took it off because it irked you to wear it. You wanted to be free."
"It was only a mood."
"A bad mood for me, child. Why could you not have trusted me, and have told me I had asked too much? It would have been kinder."
"I shall never forgive myself," cried Pam.
"I am going back for the ring, Pam. Run away home now, and I shall bring it. Run now—I can keep you in sight till I see you within the door of Carrickmoyle. I shall not be long."
"The ring is on the ground, by the well," said Pamela, her head hanging like the head of a sensitive child caught in the act of wrongdoing. "You will find it there, and my necklet and bracelet also."
Her voice stumbled as she made her full confession.
"Poor Pam!" said Lord Glengall.
"Ah!" she said, "if you would only forget about it. There was never any man like you. If I do not love you now, it is only because he came first. I shall love you in time. I could not help it."
"Kiss me, Pam, before you go. I have not asked you for kisses when I might."
"I have done nothing but hurt you," she cried, conscience-stricken. Then she lifted her face for his kiss.
"I have done nothing but hurt you," she said.
"And I have been hurting you, quite unconsciously, all the time. It is the old story of May and December. But, thank God! it is not too late."
He lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic of him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on his hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired.
Then Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he stood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back down the wood path.
As he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him. He looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind, hunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their trail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy.
Lord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head.
"I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow," he said.
Pat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into his face.
"She has gone home," said Lord Glengall in answer, "and I should be a bad substitute."
But Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany this friend of his back into the woods.
"Ah! good little beast," said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. "It is good to have a dog sorry for one, Pat."
[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]
Illustrated from Photographs.