Complete Story. Pamela’s Mistakes.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue XVI, 20 April 1901, Page 721

Complete Story. Pamela’s Mistakes.

By

BEATRICE HERON-MAXWELL.

“We all of hs make mistakes —even the youngest of us,” said Bobby, making his quotation as sententiously as though it were an original remark. “Quite true, Bobby,” said Pamela: “and the worst is, we don’t realise them until it is too late.” “I should think you hadn’t made many,” said Bobby generously, “although you are young enough, Pamela.” For, case-hardened middy as he is in respect of feminine wiles, he had fallen a victim, like all the rest of us, to the charm of this fresh-faced, freshnatured American girl, whom Providence hail sent down to enliven the rather dull Christmas-tide of a country rector’s family. Molly, our show-daughter —and really very decent-looking, though I, her eldest brother, say it “as shouldn’t” —had met Pamela Broughton in a brief visit to London, had been smitten with heroine-worship in its most acute form, and had never rested until she induced the pretty Bostonian to come down and dazzle the eyes and hearts of Wyeester. It had been a case of “she came, she was seen, and she conquered.” We were a trifle supercilious about Mollie’s geese-like swans and about Americans in general before Miss Broughton arrived, but half an hour of her first day saw that stage out. By that time she was Pamela to all of us, and Pamela spelt perfection.

“Confession is good for the soul,” continued Bobby. “Tell us the worst mistake you ever made in your life, and we’ll tell you how much wiser we should have been under the same circumstances. Make it as glaring as you can, Pamela.”

“Perhaps Miss Pamela is not accustomed to public confession,” interposed old Sorby. It had been a brilliant idea of mine to have old Sorby down at the same time as Pamela.

“The governor says he must come to stay sooner or later,” I observed, when the question of old Sorby was mooted, "because their fathers were school friends. Sorby is American, so is Miss Broughton. Let’s have them together, and get it over.” So, after indignant protest from Molly, it was arranged; and old Sorby certainly made as good a foil to Pamela as she could possibly desire.

“I can’t say I have tried it often,” said Pamela gaily; “but if you’ll help me, Mr Sorby, I’ll make the attempt in the public interest.” “Fire away,” said Bobby, audaciously sitting on the arm of the chair, “and do it ‘on your own.’ Mr Sorby can have next turn.”

The rivalry between these two showed itself in a polite difference of opinion on every subject. Pamela leant her head on her hand, and stared at the fire for a moment, as though she were forming a picture in her mind.

She made a very charming picture herself as she sat in the rector’s own

chair, her white dress and her aureole of bronze hair gleaming in the firelight against the background of faded dark green moreen, her dark eyelashes throwing soft shadows on thg may* b’iossom of her cheeks. If I had not felt so certain —though I had nothing but intuition to go upon —that Pamela’s heart was in some way forestalled and not for competition I should have had a try for it; but — well, anyhow, she was pleasant to look on as she sat there, her profile turned towards me, her sweet eyes glancing across to me now and then.

“It was three years ago,” she began softly, “three years, so I was rather young, Bobby, and you must.be lenient with me. I was coming over here from home, for the first time, I told father I must travel over Europe to complete my education, so he let me

eome away,” “What, all by your lone?” said Bobby, in scandalised accents. “1 had propriety with me in the form of Maria, the most immaculate lady help that ever crossed the Atlantic. Maria at least has, I am quite certain, never made a mistake.”

“Never mind Maria,” said Bobby, seeing that Pamela was beginning to gaze into the fire once more. “She is too plain to be interesting. Go on with yourself.” “It was at Geneva that it began,” said Pamela. “I had been to see the junction of the rivers—you know it’s the proper thing to do—and when I was walking home I lost my F way. So 1 asked a nice looking tourist kind of man, and he offered to show me the way, and we walked—well, quite half a mile together.” “H’m!” said Bobby, encouragingly, after a moment’s pause. “It wasn’t strictly correct, perhaps, but 1 don’t know that you can actually call it a mistake.”

“Oh, the mistake was not asking his name when we parted, at least that was the first mistake.”

“It would be unusual, surely,” pronounced old Sorby, “to ask a young man’s name because he had the civility to show you the road, especially if he were not a gentleman.” “But he wjas a gentleman,” said Pamela, “and good looking and—all that, and if we had never met again it would not have mattered, of course.” “So you did meet again,” exclaimed Bobby, “by accident on purpose, I suppose?” “Quite by accident,” Pamela replied, with dignity. “In fact, he does not know it to this day. It was on the steamer crossing from Calais to Dover. There had been a storm for two days, and the boats had stopped running. Then they started again, because of the mails, but no passengers would cross, excepting three —I and the most unwilling Maria and a man. It was too dark and blowing too hard to see his face, and I only knew thaf he was there by being blown up against him a few minutes after the boat started.” Bobby muttered something under his breath that sounded like: “I wish 1 had been there! Lucky dog!” “It was an awful storm,” continued Pamela, “and when at last we reached Dover Maria was an absolute wreck. I had to look after all the small packages myself. It was so dark, and the ship was rolling so, and there was such a noise, that I could not find anyone to help me; and I was staggering along laden with a dressing bag and a hold-all and all kinds of odds and ends, when the boat gave a violent lurch and everything went flying. I called out in dismay' and someone came to my assistance, collected my belongings and carried them across the gangway for me. I was very grateful, and I did not trouble to notice who it was. In faet, I made sure it was a porter, or a sailor, and I held out a florin to him. He did not seem to see it and turned away, so I called out rather impatiently to him and he came back slowly. The light of the lamp fell full on his face and 1 recognised him just as I pushed the florin into his hand. He said ‘No, thank you,’ and 1 never answered a word or took the coin, but just ran up the steps to the train. Maria stumbling after me.

“We were half way to London before I noticed something glinting just inside the strap of the hold-all, and when I picked it out it was— I’ll fetch it and show it to you,” she concluded, starting up suddenly and going out of the room. “Odd coincidence,” said Bobby, with an air of profound wisdom, as Pamela returned, “that chap turning up again on the boat. Looks queer. I expect he recognised you.” “Don’t say so!” she exclaimed. “I have always hoped he didn’t. Look!” She held out a ihissian leather card-

case with silver corners. “Anything inside?” I asked, and stopped, surprised at the expression on old Sorby's face. He was staring at the card-case intently. "That is the worst of it!” said “There is something inside.” She drew out a note for 100 dollars, wrapped inside a slip of paper and read the words inscribed thereon: “A parting gift to my graceless nephew. If you return at the end of the year with this doubled 1 will add 5000 dollars to it. If you squander it and come back penniless you shall never have another dollar from me as long as you live.” I thought old Sorby’s eyes would have started out of his head while Pamela was reading. “It is the young man's whole fortune, past, present and future,” said Pamela, wretchedly, “and I, in my selfishness, have ruined his career. If 1 had asked his name the first time I met him —if I had not been too absorbed to recognise him on the boat, or too stupid and ungrateful to run after him and then apologise for my mistake, everything would have been all right. None of you can possibly blame me more than I blame myself!” There was a gleam of tears in her eyes, and she was genuinely distressed. If anyone had attempted to blame her, the others would have rent that person, metaphorically. limb from limb. “That 100-dollar bill has cost me,” said Pamela, her voice sinking to tragedy, “about £SOO. I employed detectives for a year to trace that young man; I advertised in almost every English and American paper; I even went back to Geneva, and tried to get on his track there by inquiring at every hotel for a tourist answering to his description. I have followed up no end of false trails; I have corresponded with innumerable claimants, who turned out to be friends; and I have been obliged at last to own myself beaten, for not a single trace have I ever found of the man whose life I have wrecked.” There was a murmur of sympathy from everyone except old Sorby, whose condition now attracted universal attention. He seemed to be suffering from a severe mental shock, and Pamela turned quite pale when she looked at him. “What’s the matter, Mr Sorby?” she demanded. “Don’t tell me there's a new misfortune tacked on to this wretched cardcase!” He had stretched out a shaking hand for it, and when she handed it to him he nodded his head speechlessly as though words were beyond him. “You know the owner?” she cried excitedly. “Quick! tell me who he is?” He still stared stonily at her; but his lips uttered two words, and they fell amongst us like a bombshell: “My nephew!” “Your nephew!” echoed Pamela. “And it was you who wrote that—that deplorable message!” She was stammering with emotion, and old Sorby was shrinking for very shame before her. “I don’t believe he was graceless,”

continued Pamela. “I don’t believe he would have squandered. I believe he was just a kind-hearted, open-hand-ed fellow; and I ex|>ect he felt he would rather lie independent and ,K>or than take what you grudged him. Do you know where he is?” Old Sorby was quite crushed. An American woman can take the starch out of anything or anyone if she chooses to. “I'm not sure,” he said slowly, “I haven't seen him for two years. He came buck with 100 dollars in his pocket at the end of the year, and I asked him when the second 100 was. ‘This is the second,’ he said. ‘I have lost the first.’ ” “Well, that was quite true.” interrupted Pamela. ‘‘‘Lost it! Spent it. you mean!’ I said,” went on old Sorby. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘lost it, and in a good cause, too.’ ‘Then you have lost £SOOO with it,’ 1 answered, ‘and your place in my will besides. 1 don’t believe you, and I’ll have no more to do with you! You can go!’ So he went.” “And you had the heart to semi him away like that!” said Pamela sternly. “Had he anyone to go to—any friends —anywhere?” “No one. He and I are the last of our race.” “Is his name Sorby?” asked Pamela —a little wistfully, 1 thought. “No; his name is Gervoise Lambart. He is my sister’s boy!” There was a dead silence for a moment. The suddenness of this strange sequel had deprived even Bobby of speech. He was the first, however, to recover himself. “I tell you what it is,” he said, “Gervoise Lambert has got to be found. We don’t want him, any of us; we could get on better without him, in fact; but she does, and that’s enough.” “I heard,” said old Sorby mildly, “that he had gone back to New York.” “We’ll have him out of it!” said Bobby. “I'll guarantee to produce him by —let’s see. What’s to-night? Two days to Christmas. Well. byNew Year’s Day. But on one condition”—he looked solemnly at Sorby—“that you apologise to him and put him back in your will, sir!” “It’s the least, you can do,” I put in, “after doubting his word and treating him so badly all round.” “Oh, Bobby!” said Pamela, “how can you possibly find him? I’m afraid it’s too good to be true. I should feel as if I had a new lease of life if the weight of this card-case were taken off me. I’ll give you anything you ask if you keep your word.” Bobby extended his hand. “Shake on that!” he said. “I mean going through with this.” His plan was very simple, really. Bobby never troubled his head with elaborate details. He sent a cable addressed Gervoise Lambart, New York, or elsewhere, and containing this message: “Found card-case. Apply personally, this year, to Bobby Chisholme, Rectory, Wyeester, England.” His method deserved success, and it seemed as though it were going to meet with its merits; but Fate had not quite finished with Mr Gervoise Lambart. It had another mischance for him up its sleeve. When the answer to the cable ar-

rived, Bobby assumed an arrogant complacence that was annoying. “1 told you so!” he said. And was for claiming his reward then and there from Pamela; but she reminded him that this was a habeas corpus affair, and the conditions were not quite fulfilled. Still, she joined him in a dance of triumph, and they whirled round the old hall in a reckless waltz, until Bobby pulled up short under the mistletoe, when she boxed his ears and fled. The cable can:

“Will call December 31st. Thanks! —Gervoise Lambart, Michigan.”

So Bobby’s “elsewhere,” with its happy inconsequence, had found its mark.

Pamela looked very pale all that week, and her eyes were bright; I fancied she was getting quite feverish with waiting for this mistake of hers.

Old Sorby was by turns furious and grateful to Bobby, who took the high hand with him and lectured on the duties of uncles and nephews and the general responsibilities that riches impose. Molly was brimming over with excitement about the romance of the whole story; and the rest of us were more interested than we would acknowledge, and were counting the days to the denouement. The morning of the 31st brought with it a snowy sky, and presently light, feathery flakes began to fall, crisp and dry, growing thicker every half-hour.

It was not until long after noon that we realised we were in for the worst snowstorm there had been for half a century —a phenomenal fall that blocked the roads and stopped the trains, and isolated Wycester from all outside approach. “He can’t get here,” said Pamela, with clasped hands of despair. “He won’t be worth much if he doesn’t,” answered Bobby ly“But it’s impossible! Look ..t the road from the hill! It must be many feet deep already.” Bobby looked a little anxiously, but said nothing; and the day wore on. It was about five o’clock that he suddenly announced his determination to go out and see if he could make his way to the station. “You will be lost; you will perish in the snow, and I shall have another crime upon my soul! Not content with being a thief, you want to make me a murderer!” But Bobby was obdurate; he wanted to make sure for himself whether progress was practicable. We all opposed his going, but as no one could change his dets, iiination, it ended at last in several of us going with him. It was a dreary task. Five minutes from the rectory door werj sufficient to cut us off as though we were in the Arctic regions. The cold was intense, and the snow, still whirling down, blinded us and turned us into white heaps at once. We had almost reached the main road, when we saw ahead of us a dark mass amidst the whiteness and the glimmer of a lamp. In response to our shouts, however, we received no answer; and Bobby, pushing forward and straining his eyes, called out: “Jove! It’s a conveyance of sorts upset, and the poor devil of a horse buried alive! Where’s the driver, and where’s the fare?

He was diving frantically into the confused mass before us, and in another moment had pulled out a man, whose inert form had been lying protected by the half-overturned -logcart. “It’s our man!” shouted Bobby triumphantly. “I’m certain it’s Lambart! This is the Station Hotel cart, and he has been driving himself, and come to grief, not knowing the turn just here. Lend a hand, all of y>u; we’ll get him home somehow. I thought we never should get him home, all the same. With the best will in the world it took up a good hour to reach the rectory gate, and with the clang of the bell an eager voice sounded from the house-door; and Pamela, on the threshold, holding her hands above her head to keep the snow out of her eves, called out:

“Is that Bobby? Are you safe, Bobbv?”

“I’m safe enough,” shouted Bobby, “and I’ve got him, Pamela!” But when we got inside with our

still, inanimate burden, it looked as though Bobby were fulfilling his bond in the letter, but not in the spirit. He had produced Mr Gervoise Lambart within the appointed limit, certainly—for Pamela’s horified cry of recognition when We laid the insensible man down proved Bobby’s surmise correct—but it was a case of the grim old wording of writs: “Alive or dead!”

He must have been pitched on to his head when the horse came down, breaking its leg, poor beast, and concussion had ensued.

A few hours more or less of repose in the place where we found him, and he would have drifted over the harder altogether. As it was, we had a bar I tussle to pull him back on to our side. 1 he first words he said when his senses came back to him were:

“Do you think I am going to let a bit of snow stop me? I’ll drive it myself. Know the way ? Hanged if I do! but the gee will find it if he is worth his salt. I have an appointment to keep, I tell you!” Over and over again he reiterated his determination to get to the rectory and keep his appointment.

Then he got feverish, poor chap, and said many other things, to which old Sorby. hovering about him, listened remorsefully— for there were none of them discreditable —and Pamela, nursing him with patient care, wept over, because of the vicissitudes that they received, all attributable in her eyes to the one supreme mistake made by her at their first meeting. At last amidst the ramblings, came a woman's name, and Pamela shrank back, for the tone in which it was uttered —not onee, but many times—was one of fervent appeal. The little finale we had all, with mixed feelings, been arranging for Pamela’s story seemed to be going astray, after all.

Even if Lambart recovered, and was reinstated in his uncle’s favour, and acknowledged a debt of eternal gratitude to Pamela, the chances seemed to l>e in favour of his taking a graceful leave of her and returning to this lady, who had already monopolised his affections.

The thing began to fall, flat, and ?.folly’s enthusiasm alxmt nursing the stranger within our gates trailed off; though, to do Pamela justice, she stuck to her task with a devotion that was admirable.

The night that he was at his worst she said to old Sorby:

“Look here, Mr Sorby. your nephewmay not thank us if we bring him back to a life that is embittered and spoilt. It is touch and go with him now. Are you prepared to treat him well if we pull him through?”

And old Sorby assured her that he was.

So he pulled through, and struggled back to convalescence, and realised gradually all that had happened and was happening. Pamela was very gentle to him, but very distant, and seemed to have lost her interest in him now that the cardease was restored.

Even Bobby, the astute, was deceived by her manner, and began to calculate how long it would take him to reach man’s estate, get rapid promotion. and enter the lists definitely for Pamela.

T had my doubts, though; and if it had not been for this “Phyllis” of Lambart’s ravings, I should have felt the matter might still be settled in the orthodox way; but she was a stumbling block, without doubt. Poor Pamela! I really think she had woven this man into her thoughts and dreams until she had begun to feel that, should the owner of the card ease ever turn up. life would be more interesting than it had ever been before.

It was on the afternoon of Lambart's first day downstairs that Pamela made her third nnd last mistake, and the whole story came to a sudden conclusion.

I had been reading in the study by the firelight, and as a natural result had fallen asleep on the rug. with my bead resting against one of the arm chairs.

Two people entering the room in the twilight, with only the fire glow flicking about the r<»’in. failed to perceive me. nnd by this time the murmur of their voices penetrated my slumbers and roused me to a sense of my position.

They were approaching such a very interesting point in their duologue that I had not the moral courage to assert myself nnd make my unwelcome presence known.

“I can’t believe it!” Pamela was saying, when 1 became part of her audience. “Do you mean to say you actuallv came to the hotel we were staying at?”

Lambart’s voice signified that he had done this very thing, and more than onee.

“And travelled away from Geneva by the same train?” He assented. “And I never saw you,” she continued —“never saw you from the moment we parted at Geneva, after you had shown me the way, until I gave you that awful gratuity on Dover Pier!” “Here it is!”

He evidently produced it from his pocket, for she gave a little gasp. “You knew me, and you let me make a fool of myself!” she said. “Oh, how mean of you! Give it back to me, Mr Lambart!” He dissented.

“But I have given you back your property; you ought to give me back mine. Besides, your —your friends may not like your having it.” “My friends?”

“Yes. Anyone who is interested in you would not care to be reminded of the fact that you- ” “Were mistaken for a porter!” he finished, laughing. “It was one of the proudest, moments of my life, Miss Broughton. What friend could possibly object to it?” Pamela murmured something in a low voice.

“A lady!” he exclaimed, in puzzled tones. “One who is constantly in my

thoughts? Who?” -Again she spoke too softly for me to hear. “Phyllis!” he said. “How did you know I had a friend called Phyllis? Did I speak of her when I was ill? How foolish of me! May I tell you about her, Miss Broughton?” “Yes.” “We met quite by chance the first time, and something about her attracted me so much that I was never content after that without seeing her every day, and 1 was awfully sorry to part with her. Not that she gave me any encouragement; but still I hoped.” “And—and it came all right?” “No; if came all wrong.” “How?” “You see it was this way. I had never been properly introduced to her, and perhaps she resented my hanging about her. Anyhow, she never took any more notice of me after the first day until the last time we met, and then ” “Then?” Her voice sounded strange to me. I wondered what the thrill in it meant. “She made me a present,” he said, “and I have kept it ever since; but I have never been able to decide one question about it. Did she mistake me for someone else, or did she take this means of showing me that I was presumptuous? You see, she had ignored me so persistently, and perhaps she felt she must take some stronger measures than mere disregard. Can you help me to decide?” There was silence for a moment. Then Pamela said slowly: “You must show me the present first, Mr Lambart.” “There it is!” he said.

He evidently handed the florin to her.

“And you could think me such a cud,” she murmured, in a tone full of sorrowful indignation. Then suddenly, in bewilderment: “But what has this to do with Phyllis?” “You are Phyllis!” he said. And he moved nearer to her. “I only knew your initial, you see, so I had to invent a name; but I like the real name much better.”

At this point I became seriously alarmed at my involuntary eavesdropping, and, with a loud and demonstrative yawn, remarked that 1 supposed the book had sent me to sleep, wondered whether tea was ready, and made a dash for the door and liberty. It was an hour later—a good twenty minutes late for tea —when Pamela and Lanibart emerged from the study; and as they entered the draw-ing-room, and all eyes were bent upon them, their palpable confusion gave them away. Bobby turned pale with disappointment for one brief moment; then, rallying, gallantly rescued them. “Look here,” he said, “you two are abominably late for tea! Don’t apologise, unless you have a really good excuse—an interesting one that will atone for the past.” “You see, Bobby—-—” began Pamela, and looked at Lambart. It’s like this,” he said, cheerfully, “Pamela and I have been quarrelling over the card case, and the only way we could settle it and come to tea was by her consenting to keep the cardcase herself, and ” “And?” repeated Bobby blandly. “And its original owner, too!” “We all of us make mistakes,” exclaimed Bobby, “but Pamela is a perfect genius at it. She had better have taken me —or Sorby. Still, you are third best, I must own, Lambart.” And even old Sorby himself laughed —though a little consciously. “Well,” he said, holding out his hands to the happy pair, “here’s a welcome to you both; and you are a lucky fellow, Gervoise! So am I, in gaining such a charming niece!” “I should just think you were!” concluded Bobby. “Why, I would even change places with you myself under the circumstances!” “You must be married here!” declared Mollie.

“I shall consider it a favour,” said Lambart, “if Mr. Robert Grant will be best man on the most important occasion of my life.” Bobby bowed with stateliness; then, relapsing into his usual style, said: “Don’t mention it, old man! No trouble, but a pleasure. I’ll see you through.” So the scene closed in general rejoicing and goodwill; but I felt a little “dashed” myself. Still, everyone can’t be pleased. There is always an “odd man out,” and, after all, he has his mission. He can tell the story so much better than the others can.