PAMELA'S HUSBAND.

Mataura Ensign, Issue 856, 21 February 1901, Page 3

PAMELA'S HUSBAND.

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BY ADELINE SERGEANT.

As a ship's doctor, I, Rupert TJrquhart, nave known some curious experiences, nnd seen many kinds of men and women gome of them striking and interesting, land some decidedly the reverse. Bnt oi nil the women I ever saw, none struck Ime as so interesting—perhaps I should say so charming—as Pamela Laurence, 'when I first perceived her on the deck oi a great steamer on its way to England from Singapore.

I did not know her then as *• Pamela," *>f course. I did not even know her jname. She had not been with us during the earlier period of our voyage; she en me on board at Alexandria, where we stopped to coal, and to take up a few extra passengers. I took her for quite a young girl as she came towards me on the long white deck; she was dressed entirely in black, with a big black hat and feather on her shapely little head. She was small and slight, but held herself very well, with that suggestion of alert nessand bird-like grace which we moif customarily see in American than in English girls. In fact, I took her to be an American, at first; partly because of her clothes, which at hough black, were Parisian in cut and somewhat costly in texture -you must remember that my life on board ship had made me rather more aware of the characteristics of the modem woman's dress than I might otherwise have been ! She was not American, as I soon found cut, but she had been abroad for some time and had got her frocks made in Paris.

But it. was her face, and not her clothes, that attracted me. What a dainty mignor.ne little face it was The finely outlined eyebrows, the big eyelids that had a trick of crumpling up with sudden laughter until the brown ;.yes beneath them almost disappeared, the soft, pale cheeks, the delioate, slightly retrousse nose, the deeply dimpled chin, gavean immediate suggestion or a kitten's face, full of mirth and mischief; yet when one looked into the dark eyes, one felt that they were touched with sadneßS and might even have known the extremes of sorrow and ol joy.

She came up to me in a perfectly untembarassed, straightforward way, and said,. " Dr. TJrquhart, I think ? " I bowed, and she continued in a rapid, but well modulated voice, which I thought very musical. "My mother and f have just come from Cairo, and I really do not know whether she is fit to travel or not. 1 wanted her to stay at Alexandria for the next boat; but she says she is longing for England. Would you be so very kind as to come and see her. and tell me whether you think she ought to go on ? "

" She has been ill ? " I asked, as 1 followed her to the remote corner of the saloon, where »'>e had established the invalid.

•' She had fever in Cairo ; Bhe is very: weak ; I think that is all. Mamma,' dear, this is Dr. Urquhart, My mother Dr. Urquhart—Mre, Verinder." Mrs. Verinder raised her head from her cushions, and bowed slightly. I saw at once that she was of a different type from her daughter. She was much taller and larger in every way, and had been an extremely handsome woman, but her aquiline features were wasted and worn, and her nervous debility seemed so great that it was with difficulty she answ.ered the simple questions I put to her. I did not, however, And traces of any dangerous state of health ; and I fancied, without quite knowing why, that she exaggerated her physical weakness in order to hide some mental Iworry or agitation with which she did jnot wish her daughter io become acquainted.

" I think you may safely proceed to England," I said at last. " The voyage is likely to do you good, not harm. But of course, you must be careful, and attend to my directions."

" I'll make her do that.Dr. TJrquhart," Baid the pretty daughter, warmly. " You'll do all I tell you won't you, mammy, dear ? "

But when we had left the saloon, she placed her hand upon my arm with some new earnestness of manner. " You are sure it won't hurt mamma P Yon don't think she is seriously ill P "

'' Certainly not. Please do not alarm yourself about her. I think I may safely say that the change to England will do her ail the good in the world." " Oh, thank you. And yon will always tell me what to do—and if you see «y reason itor alarm-—"

"If I see any reaßCn for alarm—and I am sure there will be none—l will tell you at once Miss Verinder."

Suddenly the pale, soft face flashed deeply. " Not Miss Verinder, please," she corrected me. " Mrs. Laurence."

" Mrs. Laurence ! " this child-like, slender cirl with the innocent brow and the kittenish contour of face, was a manied woman! I was so muoh amazed that I could only stammer out an apology as she moved away. But she looked scarcely more than sixteen ! I attended Mrs. Verinder for the next few days.but the balmy air of the Meditteranean did more for her than my drugs could have done. She was soon wei! enough to come on deck, and to sit in a comfortable corner iuthe cool ahade cf the awning while her daughter read aloud to her or simply sat at her side without speaking. Mrs. Laurence, as I was obliged to call her (always with a thrill of impatient surprise), seemed able to sit for hours in the same attitude with her eye» fixed pensively upon the ever-ohanging, ever-fieeting light and shadows of the sea. But her mother was more restless; she would look at her daughter from time to time, then look away again ; she would move her fingers nervously and tap her foot on the boards of the deck, always with the Bame expression of suppressed misery upon her pale baudsome face. I didn't know how it was, but I came very soon to the conclusion that Mrs. Verinder had Something upon het miDj. She allowed some maccußtomed •friendliness for me-.„aierally she avoided entering into conversation with ipyone—and on the second day of our Voyage she honoured me by giving me a ijbmewhat detailed account of her own •nd her daughter's history. I am afraid ji did not hear much of her own ; I only muted to that of Pamela. *MMW* iMI" th* Matte said*

'sortly, foflowta with her eyes the Hs» some ficnw H Mack that moved about the deck. n She has suffered bo much ! I am Bometinies afraid that her sorrowwill undermine her health at last j she is a delicate creature, and has had a great deal to bear—"

" Mrs. Lauience looks Dale, but quite healthy, - ' I said, in my most professional tone. The clear cameo-like whiteness of Pamela's cheek—l raged inwardly that I was obliged to speak of it bo coldly ! From the moment I first saw her, I had a peculiar sen»e of proprietorship in Mrs. Verinder's daughter; I never could look at her ; speak to her, quite as if she were an ordinary human being. To tell the truth I believe it was e case of love at first sight—although I did not know whether her husband was alive or dead. But Mrs. Vetinder went on to give me information at which my heart rejoiced.

" She was married when she was eighteen," said the mother, with a curious side glance at me—did she want to ascertain if I doubted her statements cr not '(— "and when she had been married barely six months, her husband died suddenly—from the effect* of a gun accident. It was a great shock to her, as you can imagine." " Was that—long ago P " I asked rather awkwardly. " Two years," said Mrs. Verinder, touching 'her eyes delicately with her handkerchief.. " The poor child ! To be a widow before she was twenty—and a widow who will not even believe that her husband i 3 dead! " •' What!"loried. "It is true. Pamela was not allowed to Bee her husband's dead body ; he was so frightfully mutilated. Dr. TJrquhartl —and she took the line of actually refusing to believe that he was dead ! He had been implicated in some troublesmoney troubles—before he died ; and she insists on it that he has only absented himself for a time, and will return when he thinks that it is safe to do so. Almost like—an hallucination, is it not, doctor ? " I was silent for a moment or two. I felt an icy coldness at my heart. I loved Pamela—or at least I felt that I could love her if she were free to love and to be loved ; and I had thought for some few blissful seconds that she was free. Then I spoke without reflection, out of my own despair. "Isit an hallucination P " I asked. " Are you sure that she is not right P " It was quite an aimless question but it seemed to send a shaft straight into Mrs. Verinder's heart. She turned lead colour, gasped, and lay back in her ohair, as if she were about to faint. I sprang up and called out for stimulants, whioh were brought by one of the stewards. Mrs. Laurence hastened up to her mother's side and the interview was at an end. On her way tc her cabin, Mrs. Verinder passed me with a bow which was distinctly frigid, and I felt sure that in some occult manner I had offended her. But what had I done ? How could it harm hei if 1 suggested that Pamela's husband might be still alive ? "

I saw nothing of mother or daughter for the next day or two ; and although I heard that Mrs. Verinder was unwell, I was not summoned to her cabin. And in the meantime something occurred to distract my mind a little from the consideration of Pamela Laurence's perfections.

One of the officers spoke to me, indicating the Captain with a wink of his left eye, '• Old man's bothered," lie murmured in my ear. " A stowaway's turned up, and he can't even have the pleasure of ragging the man. because the poor chap's too ill to understand." "Eh P If it's a case of illness why is it not reported to me ? "

'• Oh, they say the man's shamming. I heard somebody proposing to pour a buck of water over him. I think they'll kill hini if they do. You might go down casually, doctor, and have a look at him."

I needed no second hint. I made my way at onoo to the forecastle, and found agioupof brawny armed sailors roaring with laughter at the " antics," as they termed the struggles of a ragged, dis-reputable-looking object on the floor—the unfortunate fellow who had concealed himself on board the steamer at Alexandria. A stowaway always meets with some rough treatment; but on this occasion, a glance at the man's livid countenance convinced me that he was really ill and not shamming illness at all.

" field hard, my men," 1 said, " I think you'd better leave him tc me." They drew back somewhat disconcerted ; and. kneeling beside the prostrate figure, which was now rigid and motionless, I felt the man's pulse and examined his eyeball. There was no doubt about it—he was dangerously ill, and his brain was seriously affected. I gave orders that he should be installed in an empty bunk in the quiPtest place that I could find ; but it seemed to me very unlikely that he would recover, for the constant noise and bustle on board a great steamer are not favourable to a patient suffering from brain disease. But as I looked to the man's welfare, I was struck by the fact that his tongue babbled continually, yet seemed to repeat only one word. So indistinct was his utterance, so dry his tongue, that I could not all at once distinguish the word he said. At last, by careful listening, I managed to make it out. It was the name, " Pamela."

Was it a coincidence, merely ? Waß it possible that this ragged, wasted, broken-down vagabond, the miserable Btowaway from Alexandria could have anything in common with the beautiful girl whom I knew by this sweet, oldfashioned name P " Pameia ! Pamela I Pamela ! " Would he never cease P " Pamela—" and then with a sudden transition to connected speech—" Pamela, help me ! Come with me ! Dou't leave me alone ! " The accent was that of an educated man I glanced at his hands ; they were long, thin,delicately shaped; his clothes now in rags, had once been costly and well cut—so much 1 could ascertain by a closer inspection of the soiled garments that, had been taken from him, My heart sank a little. I was afraid of something that I could net yet put into words. The man was dyhj£; and—he had loved a woman whoße name was Pamela : was his name Laurence, and was he the husband of the Pamela that I loved P "

I would not question further. I acted on impulse, without stopping to consider whether my action weft wise qr foolish. I bade the sailors lay the stowaway in my own berth ; I arranged everything for his comfort, as though ho had been the most important passenger on board ; then I sat down by him and waited—waited for Pamela's name.

My eabin was in a remcte oorner,rather away from the passengers' berth, and I had my patient jtery muoh to myself. His delirium, -of which I had been afraid, had subsided into a low muttering, and I could not catch any special word or name.

J could bear the suspense no longer. I administered a potion of which I well knew the value, to steady the brain and nerves. It would do him no harm in the condition to which he was reduced. Then, with my hand upon his pulse, 1 spoke clearly.though soffiy in his ear : " Your name," 1 slid, " is Laurence P" " A gleam of light oame into the fading eyes. . " Jim Laurence," he said. " And your wife's name—* "Pamela." he answered. " Pajnela,

! ttainela—" I checked his cry upon her name by another question. " When did y«u sea her last P " Then 1 had my answer. He looked at me with the piteous expression of a child who only half understands what he ia expected to reply, but he answered with perfect correctness : "On the quay—at Alexandria—three days ago." " And then you hid yourself on the ship, in order to see her ? " ; " Yes, yes," he gasped. " She thinks lam dead. Pamela—" " If I bring her to you, will you try to be quiet and do everything that you are told 't" " Anything—everything," he said. :" She—she has not forgotten me?" : " She has never forgotten you," 1 said. And from my heart I thanked God that she bad not. t left him in the care of the steward, and went in search of Pamela. Bv good fortune I found her alone; I diciw my chair up to hers and went straight to the point. " Mrs. Laurence," t said, " I have a sick passenger in whom I think you are interested. " If" she said. The weariuess of her tone seemed to show that there was nothing in the world to interest her again. " You," I answered. " And—he has been calling fcr you in his delirium. Ho wants you to go to him. He says it is two years since he saw you last, and that hi 3 name is Jim—Jim—" 1 never finished the sentence. The rapture in her great brown eyes was wonderful to see. " Take me to hiiu," she said.opening her armH as though she wished to clasp him at once to her heart ; and 1 took her down to my cabin with a word of caution, which, however, I thought was quite unnecessary. I heard her cry of " Jim ! my lim ! " as I closed the cabin door, and his '* Pamela " in return. i They were happy, poor things, for the jlittle time of their reunion. James Laurence, who had suffered for the sins pi others rather than for bis own, confessed that he had been led by the representations of Mrs. Verinder to deceive Pamela with a report of his death ; he had disgraced himself, she said, and had better henceforth be dead to htr. So he had effaced himself but had sunk lower and lower in the social scale, and was , well advanced in illness caused cliiclly by want and exposure, when a chance sight of Pamela at Alexandria had made the longing to speak to her too terrible to be borne. He hid himself on the vessel, trusting his entire future to her reception of the news that he was still alive ; and it was indeed quite possible that he might have died without obtaining his heart's desire. But he lived to reach England, to rejoice in his wife's tenderness, and to know that his name was cleared. It all happened years ago. Pamela has never fogotten her husband and love of her earlier days. I think that my ttrßt charm on her affection arose from the fact that, for a time at least. I had restored him to her arms. She loved me for this, even as she almost ceased to love her mother for the part that Mrs. Verinder hud played in days gone by. But—as I said—it is long ago, and lam Pamela's husband now.