Part 7 (1/2)

Pamela made no reply for a moment or two. Then she patted her horse's head, and said softly--

”Not without a reason.” She admitted his contention frankly. She did more, for she turned in her saddle towards him and, looking straight into his face, said--

”I was not giving you advice at the time. But, had I been, I should have said just those words. I say them again now.”

”Why?”

Tony put his question very earnestly. He held Pamela in a great respect, believing her clear-sighted beyond her fellows. He was indeed a little timid in her presence as a rule, for she overawed him, though all unconsciously. Nothing of this timidity, however, showed now.

”That was what I came out to ask you. Why?”

Again Pamela attempted no evasion.

”I can't tell you,” she said quietly.

”You promised.”

”I break the promise.”

Tony looked wistfully at his companion. That the perplexing words had been spoken with a definite meaning he had felt sure from the moment when he had remembered them. And her refusal to explain proved to him that the meaning was a very serious one--one indeed which he ought to know and take into account.

”I ask you to explain,” he urged, ”because I _am_ going away, and I _am_ leaving Millie behind.”

Pamela was startled. She turned quickly towards him.

”Must you?” she said, and before he could answer she recovered from her surprise. ”Never mind,” she continued; ”shall we ride on?” and she put her horse to a trot. It was not her business to advise or to interfere. She had said too much already. She meant to remain the looker-on.

Stretton, however, was not upon this occasion to be so easily suppressed. He kept level with her, and as they rode he told her something of the life which Millie and he had led in the big lonely house in Berkeley Square; and in spite of herself Pamela was interested. She had a sudden wish that Alan Warrisden was riding with them too, so that he might hear his mystery resolved; she had a sudden vision of his face, keen as a boy's, as he listened.

”I saw Millie and you a few nights ago. I was at a dance close by, and I was surprised to see you. I thought you had left London,” she said.

”No; but I am leaving,” Stretton returned; and he went on to describe that idyllic future which Millie and he had allotted to themselves.

The summer sunlight was golden in the air about them; already it seemed that new fresh life was beginning. ”I shall breed horses in Kentucky. I was recommended to it by an East End parson called Chase, who runs a mission on Stepney Green. I used to keep order in a billiard room at his mission one night a week, when I was quartered at the Tower. A queer sort of creature, Chase; but his judgment's good, and of course he is always meeting all sorts of people.”

”Chase?” Pamela repeated; and she retained the name in her memory.

”But he doesn't know Millie,” said Stretton, ”and you do. And so what you said troubles me very much. If I go away remembering your words and not understanding them, I shall go away uneasy. I shall remain uneasy.”

”I am sorry,” Pamela replied. ”I broke a rule of mine in saying what I did, a rule not to interfere. And I see now that I did very wrong in breaking it. I will not break it again. You must forget my words.”

There was a quiet decision in her manner which warned Tony that no persuasions would induce her to explain. He gave up his attempt and turned to another subject.

”I have something else to ask--not a question this time, but a favour.

You could be a very staunch friend, Miss Mardale, if you chose. Millie will be lonely after I have gone. You were a great friend of hers once--be a friend of hers again.”

Pamela hesitated. The promise which he sought on the face of it no doubt looked easy of fulfilment. But Tony Stretton had been right in one conjecture. She had spoken the words which troubled him from a definite reason, and that reason a.s.sured her now that this promise might lay upon her a burden, and a burden of a heavy kind. And she shrank from all burdens. On the other hand, there was no doubt that she had caused Tony much uneasiness. He would go away, on a task which, as she saw very clearly, would be more arduous by far than even he suspected--he would go away troubled and perplexed. That could not be helped. But she might lighten the trouble, and make the perplexity less insistent, if she granted the favour which he sought. It seemed churlish to refuse.

”Very well,” she said reluctantly. ”I promise.”