"So it is--so it is--lovely hair. I'm very fond of that child. I hope she has not caught cold. I fancied she was a little hoarse to-night, quite likely if she runs about like this in such a heavy dew. I think I'll come in now, Farr, if you will kindly carry Charles' basket."
CHAPTER XIV
"If anybody dies, it'll be her,"
said Hughie
It must have been about a week after that when Hughie, passing by Pamela's door with a view to making himself tidy for lunch, heard a sound of stifled sobbing. He stood still, quite shocked. Here was an unprecedented state of things, and one outside his experience, because Pam was a cheerful interested person, always busy, never morbid. It was horrible.
Hughie had been in "the cave" since breakfast and was on his way to his room rather "delicately" like King Agag, because he knew his mother would wish him to be out of doors, and he had shirked the boat and the bay to finish some particular job of his own devising. Meanwhile something had been happening, obviously. But what?
He opened the door which was not locked, and put his head into the room. Pamela was lying on her bed face downwards, crying bitterly.
Hughie shut the door, then he walked close up to the bed, and very very gently pulled the heavy plait of hair that fell across her shoulders and on to the counterpane. Immediately there was a change in the tone of the sobs. A choke--then silence--then a faint cough, then a sigh--Pamela changed her position a little, and felt for a lost handkerchief. Hughie, noting the missing article on the pillow, put it into her hand. A minute after that she raised herself into a sitting posture, and looked at him; her pretty eyes were heavy and swelled, and her lips trembled.
"Pam," said Hughie, cut to the heart yet reserved, "I expect it's that woman?"
Pamela nodded and blew her nose.
"Well, what's she been doing now?" To show that he was come to stop, Hughie dropped noiselessly to the floor and sat cross-legged, clasping an ankle in either hand.