A Canadian Farm Mystery; Or, Pam the Pioneer
by Bessie Marchant · English · Gutenberg #48372 · 514,411 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Canadian Farm Mystery; Or, Pam the Pioneer
Author: Bessie Marchant
Illustrator: Cyrus Cuneo
Release date: February 27, 2015 [eBook #48372]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48372
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http://www.pgdpcanada.net.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN FARM MYSTERY; OR, PAM THE PIONEER ***
[Illustration: “WHAT IS THAT?” WHISPERED SOPHY SHARPLY,
AND PAM’S HEART GAVE A SUDDEN LEAP]
A
Canadian Farm Mystery
Or, Pam the Pioneer
BY
BESSIE MARCHANT
Author of “The Unknown Island”
“Joyce Harrington’s Trust”
“A Girl and a Caravan”
“Molly Angel’s Adventures”
&c. &c.
_Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo_
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
Zenith Library
_BOYS_
=In the Great White Land.= Gordon Stables.
=The Disputed V.C.= Frederick P. Gibbon.
=The First Mate.= Harry Collingwood.
=The Boy Castaways.= H. Taprell Dorling.
“=Quills.=” Walter C. Rhoades.
_GIRLS_
=A Canadian Farm Mystery.= Bessie Marchant.
=The Youngest Sister.= Bessie Marchant.
=A Princess of Servia.= Bessie Marchant.
=A True Cornish Maid.= G. Norway.
=Meriel’s Career.= Mary B. Whiting.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
Contents
I. HER GREAT IDEA
II. BUSINESS ENTERPRISE
III. THE SURPRISE PARTY
IV. WHAT THEY FOUND
V. THE NEXT DAY
VI. WHERE HAS HE GONE?
VII. SEARCHING
VIII. THE FIRST SNOW
IX. MAKING THE BEST OF IT
X. SOMEONE’S DESPERATE PLIGHT
XI. WHO WAS IT?
XII. SUGARING
XIII. JUST A DOUBT!
XIV. FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER
XV. PAM’S BIG ADVENTURE
XVI. WHY DID HE GO?
XVII. WHAT REGGIE SUSPECTS
XVIII. MET ON THE TRAIL
XIX. THE STRANGER’S ERRAND
XX. WEDDING PLANS
XXI. HOW IT WAS DONE
XXII. GOOD NEWS
XXIII. THE MYSTERY CLEARED
XXIV. THE END
Illustrations
I. “WHAT IS THAT?” WHISPERED SOPHY SHARPLY,
AND PAM’S HEART GAVE A SUDDEN LEAP
II. THE DOG AND THE UNKNOWN FURY WERE ROLLING
OVER IN THE DEADLIEST OF COMBATS
III. PAM WAS DRAGGED UP AND TUGGED HERE AND
PULLED THERE
A Canadian Farm Mystery
Or, Pam the Pioneer
* * * * *
CHAPTER I
Her Great Idea
“Jack, Jack, I have had a truly wonderful inspiration!” cried Pam as she
came dashing down the stairs like a whirlwind.
Unfortunately Barbara, the little maid-of-all-work, was at that moment
toiling upwards with the soup tureen and a pile of plates on a tray. She
was near the top, too, and very much out of breath. She had no strength
to stand against the violent impact, but went down before it, being
brought up in a heap at the turn of the stairs while tray, tureen, and
plates went careering to the bottom, accompanied by a stream of soup.
“Now you’ve done it!” exclaimed Jack, with an ominous growl in his
voice, as, leaning on his stick, he came limping from the kitchen to
survey the ruins.
“Oh, haven’t I just!” cried Pam in heartfelt contrition. Then she
gasped: “Whatever will Mother say?”
The afflicted Barbara, who still lay at the bend of the stairway where
she had fallen, burst into noisy crying at this. She had been dismissed
from her last place for ravages among the crockery, and if she had to
leave the house of Mrs. Walsh for a similar cause, where would her
character be?
“Dry up!” burst out Jack impatiently. “We have too much moisture here
already by the look of it.” As he spoke he hopped aside to let a rivulet
of soup go past him. Such good soup it had been too! The savoury odours
steamed up under his nose, and as he was desperately hungry the waste
was all the more exasperating.
Just at this moment the green baize door at the top of the stairs opened
smartly, and Greg called down: “Jack, Mother says don’t let Barbara
bring up the soup for another ten minutes, because Colonel Seaford has
’phoned to say that he can’t be here till then.”
“What luck!” exclaimed Pam. “Come along, Barbara, we can make a fresh
lot of soup in ten minutes, and we will serve it in a salad bowl and
porridge plates. Dear me, nothing is ever so bad that it might not be
worse!”
“You can’t make soup out of nothing, and there is not a teacupful of
stock in the house,” growled Jack.
“Wait and see!” laughed Pam, as she lightly sprang over the ruins at the
bottom of the stairs, dodged brown rivulets of soup that meandered along
the floor, and darted in at the kitchen door. “Come along, Barbara!
England expects, &c.”
“If you had done your duty and looked where you were going, the soup
would not have been spilled,” growled Jack, but Pam was too busy to heed
him.
Seizing the empty soup saucepan, she half-filled it with hot water from
the boiler and set it over the fire. Then she darted to the table, where
she stood busily stirring, mixing, and pounding, calling all the time
for a succession of things which Barbara was quick to supply. “There,
that will do, I think,” she exclaimed in great satisfaction. “Corn
flour, tomato powder, salt, pepper—a good lot of that—Worcester sauce,
burnt sugar, and a dash of shrimp sauce just by way of piquancy. Very
nice to look at, and interesting to taste; not very nourishing, perhaps,
but that will not matter for once.”
The hot water was poured on the concoction, the stuff was returned to
the saucepan and brought to the boil; then, the ten minutes being up,
Pam carried the emergency soup to the dining-room herself, while Barbara
collected the fragments of broken earthenware and swabbed up the river
of soup with a grubby mop.
“Well, you take the cake, and no mistake about it, in rising to the
occasion!” admitted Jack with grudging admiration, as he limped about
the kitchen, getting ready for the fish course, and seeing that other
things were keeping in a state of readiness.
Pam’s merry laugh rang out. “It is a mercy I can do so much, for it is
my fate to be always creating situations that call for dispatch and
skill in the managing.”
Jack looked at her in silent wonder. Somehow he always was wondering at
Pam. It was barely more than half an hour by the clock since she had
been drowned in tears because of that curt letter from Lady Dalby, who
had written to say that as she could not have Miss Walsh when she needed
her so much, she had secured another governess. Pam’s salary had not
been much, but in poverty like theirs every little counts. There was the
doctor’s bill for Muriel’s illness, with all the other bills which had
sprung from the same source, while winter was coming on. But it was of
no use to “grouse” over things, it did not make them the least bit
better. So he left off speculating about Pam, and ordered Barbara round
in fine style for the next twenty minutes, and the courses of the dinner
went up one by one until it was all over.
When coffee had been taken to the drawing-room, Greg and Sid cleared the
dinner-table, and then came down to their supper in the breakfast-room,
which opened out of the kitchen. Pam, who had rushed upstairs to see if
Muriel was comfortably asleep, came hurrying back to help in washing up
the silver and glass.
Then, “What is your great idea?” asked Jack, who was seated on a high
stool at the table, and was rapidly polishing the spoons and forks which
Pam had washed.
She glanced round, saw that the door of the scullery, where Barbara was
washing plates and dishes, was a little way open, and darting across the
room closed it softly.
“Jack!” she cried, with positive rapture in her tone, as she plunged her
hands into the soapy water again, “Jack, I am going to ask Mother to let
me go to Grandfather!”
“You can’t go alone—you are only a girl!” he exclaimed, dropping a
handful of spoons with a clatter because he was so amazed at the daring
and audacity of Pam’s great idea.
She laughed softly; it always amused her to hear Jack talk in this
fashion. She was four years older than he was, and although she lacked
his steadiness and balance, she knew that she was vastly ahead of him
when it came to dealing with an emergency. “You are a dear, Jack, but
you have your limitations. You are quite early Victorian in your ideas
of what girls should or should not do. But you have got to widen your
outlook a bit before Mother comes down from the drawing-room, because
you must back me up in this. We can always influence Mother when we
stand solid, and my great idea is for the general good.”
“For instance?” Jack had retrieved the fallen spoons, and was polishing
vigorously. Pam had a good many great ideas of one sort and another, but
he had a cautious streak, and was not going to back her up in any wild
scheme just because she wanted him to do so.
“Grandfather told Mother to send one of us out to him, and he promised
to pay a salary. He said one of the children, but he did not mention
whether it was a boy or a girl that he would prefer.” Pam put out her
facts with a calm decision, and Jack nodded approvingly. “Very well, you
can’t go. It will be another month before you can walk without a stick,
and when you can, there is your work at Gay & Grainger’s waiting for
you, while until you go back they are paying you——”
“A mere pittance—half a crown a week, accident insurance!” he groaned.
“If only I had been over sixteen I could have had the proper State
Insurance. It is a rotten shame, and the grossest injustice!”
“Be quiet, and let me talk!” Pam lifted an impatient hand to stay the
tide of his eloquence, sprinkling him with soapy water in the process.
“You have this pittance, and work waiting for you, but I have nothing.
You also are twice the help to Mother that I am. Don’t interrupt!
Compliments are not necessary at this juncture; we are out for facts
without trimmings, and don’t you forget it. Suppose that you had gone
out to Grandfather this month. Mother says the winters in New Brunswick
are dreadfully cold. Being a boy, you would naturally have had to work
out of doors, and if there is no woman in the house, you would have had
little comfort when you came in. Now, if I go, the dear little old man
can hardly send me out into the forest chopping trees down when the
temperature is miles below zero, but I can make him so comfortable in
the house that by the spring he will be wanting the lot of us.”
“Query as to that.” Jack shook his head, and reached for the plate
basket to put away his spoons.
“Oh, but he will. I shall lay myself out to win his heart; then when he
has got so fond of me that he simply can’t bear me out of his sight, I
shall turn home-sick. I shall refuse my food, and tell him that I am
pining for my family, that I can bear the cruel separation no longer. He
will soften towards Mother then, and write her an imperative letter to
sell up and come out to him without a moment’s unnecessary delay. Oh, I
can manage him, I have no doubt of it at all!”
“I don’t think that I have either, if you go straight at it,” admitted
Jack, who spoke from experience, knowing himself to be weak as water in
the hands of Pam when she had really made up her mind to influence him.
“The question in my mind is whether Mother and he will hit it off
comfortably when they live together. She is mistress here, and does as
she likes; but it would not be happy for her if the old man took to
ordering her round as I do Barbara.”
“Indeed, no; but I tell you he can be managed, he must be managed for
his own good,” she said earnestly. “If he is very happy and comfortable,
he will not want to be tiresome. Think how good it will be for Muriel to
have a country life for the next few years. Think, too, what it will do
for the boys. Greg is growing much too fast. He ought to have quiet
evenings, and to be in bed by eight o’clock, instead of which he and Sid
are working hard until after nine on most evenings, waiting at table and
clearing away, qualifying for posts as footmen and butlers, but missing
all the free and easy life of boyhood that they ought to have.”
Jack drew a long breath which ended in a whistle.
“My word, if you talk to the old man like that, he will be sending for
us all by the next boat! I will back you up for all I am worth, see if I
don’t. Three cheers for Pam the Pioneer, the intrepid and the brave! Of
all the great ideas you ever had, this is the greatest!”
Pam flushed with pleasure. Jack had the balance and steadiness which she
lacked; he was apt to sit in judgment on her, and that sort of thing is
rather unbearable as a rule. Her mother was always holding Jack before
her eyes as a model to be studied and copied, which, of course, was more
unbearable still; so that the present moment was sweet indeed,
compensating for many a bad quarter of an hour which had come before.
“I must hurry up to Muriel now,” she said, ten minutes later, when they
had discussed the scheme in all its bearings. “Be sure you stick by me,
Jack, when it comes to the arguments, for you know I do not shine
there.”
“Oh, I’ll stick by you, never fear,” he answered in a cheery tone. “I
would do a good deal to see a way out of this boarding-house business.
This stewing and grilling down here every night, to give those people
upstairs a chance to overfeed themselves, gets on my nerves. The folks
who are so keen on big dinners at eight o’clock at night ought to have
to cook for themselves; then they would soon be cured of the habit.”
“I daresay they would, but think what a crowd of people would suffer
from loss of income.” Pam laughed as she gave him a bear-like hug by way
of showing her gratitude. “Think, too, what a slump there would be in
the medical business, for Dr. Scott said yesterday that it was the
people who ate too much who provided the doctors with a living.”
But Jack only grunted by way of answer, and then, taking his stick,
limped out to the scullery to see if Barbara had fastened up for the
night.
CHAPTER II
Business Enterprise
Galena Gittins had her hair screwed up tightly in curling-pins. Reggie
Furness was late in coming to do “chores” that morning, and so he had
crept in by way of the milk-room door with as little ostentation as
possible. He had found by experience that it was not wise to attract
attention to himself when he was behind time. Directly he noticed the
curling-pins his courage revived. The fair Galena was never hard to live
with when there was a festivity to the fore.
She was dashing round at such a rate that she even failed to notice his
silent entrance. He picked up the milk-buckets and scurried away to the
barn, well pleased at his escape, but actively curious as to the sort of
frolic to which Galena was bound that day.
“There’s no one dead, so it can’t be a funeral,” he muttered, as he tied
the white cow’s leg to a post to prevent her kicking while he milked.
“It isn’t a wedding either, or else I should have been bound to hear
about it. Her aunt has gone to Fredericton, so she ain’t going there.”
He was so absorbed in his meditations that he did not notice that the
rope had come unfastened, until the cow by an adroit movement knocked
him sprawling. He was used to her pranks by this time, and he contrived
to keep the bucket from being kicked over, so his own upset did not
count; and as he always pretended to himself that the white cow was a
playful creature, instead of, as was actually the case, a bad-tempered
animal, his feelings were not ruffled by his being rolled over and
having his head thumped against a post.
When he carried the milk-buckets in to the little chamber that was
scooped out from the side of the hill, he heard signs of unusual bustle
in the kitchen, and poking his head cautiously round the post of the
door, he was amazed to see a big baking in progress.
“Is that you, Reggie Furness?” called the voice of Miss Galena, who was
darting here and there, apparently trying to do three things at once.
“Step lively, will you, and help me here. I want eggs whisked, and
currants washed, sugar rolled, and a dozen things done all nearly at
once. You can’t have a sitting-down breakfast this morning. But none of
us have had that. You will have to be content to feed as you run about.”
“I don’t care how I have my breakfast as long as I do have one,” said
Reggie, who had got hold of the whisker, and was turning it at a great
rate, while the eggs churned into yellow foam under his active
exertions.
Galena laughed at the broadness of the hint, but she had not had six
brothers without knowing that boys were the hungriest creatures under
the sun; so she brought him a great wedge of pumpkin pie, just to keep
him from starving, and promised him some hot cookies as soon as they
were out of the oven. The pie was fragrant with spice and black with
currants. Reggie was in clover for once in his life. Breakfast, which
was part of his wage, consisted in a usual way of buckwheat or oatmeal
porridge drowned out with skim milk. There was no porridge pot visible
this morning, so plainly there was something very unusual on hand.
“Please, are you going to be married to-day?” he asked, his eyes fairly
bulging with curiosity. The ham boiler was on the stove, and it was
beginning to bubble, while delicious odours filled the kitchen and made
their way out through the open door. His question was only a wild
hazard. He had never heard that Miss Galena had any views with regard to
matrimony, but he guessed that in any case it would please her to be
asked, and so he would be the more likely to find out what he wanted to
know so badly. He was through with the whisking by now, and Miss Galena
had set him rolling sugar. He would not have taken any, of course, being
irreproachably honest so far as he understood what honesty meant; but he
saw no harm in continually licking his fingers as he drew the sugar in a
lump for the rolling-pin. It was good! He would have enjoyed rolling
sugar all day long.
Galena burst into a great laugh of derision, but she was not ill-pleased
at the suggestion.
“Dear me, no; I am not going to be married yet, though you never can
tell what may happen.” She lifted her head and tried to look sprightly,
but she was so worn with hard work and much dyspepsia that the attempt
was rather a failure.
Reggie looked disappointed. If the festivity were not a wedding or a
funeral, he did not see what it could be. No church functions were in
progress this month, for the parson was away on holiday, and it would
not have been considered in good taste to have a church frolic in his
absence.
Galena’s eyes sparkled. She was aching for someone to talk things over
with. The men were always in a hurry when they came in from the field,
and there was not another woman within half a mile of the place. She
hesitated, and was lost.
“We are going to have a great frolic to-night; it was only decided late
last night, that is why I am so driven with cooking this morning. We are
going to have a big surprise party at old Wrack Peveril’s; you know
where he lives—over the Ridge at Ripple. They say he is a most
fearfully disagreeable old man. He lives quite alone, and has done so
for more years than you have been alive. I have heard he made a vow that
no woman should enter his house, on account of his only daughter having
run away from him to get married. Don’t you expect it will make him sit
up when all the lot of us go walking in?”
“Suppose he won’t let you inside the door?” Reggie stared at her with
bulging eyes. He was thinking of what had happened at his own poor home
two winters before, when he and Mose had gone to bed, and had been
hounded out of it by a surprise party that threatened to pull the
shingles off the roof if they were not admitted. Mose had been furious
at the invasion, for the cupboard was empty, and the stark poverty of
the home had been all laid bare to the laughing, careless crowd who had
taken the place by storm.
“Suppose he can’t keep us out!” she mocked. “I just love surprise
parties when there is a spice of mischief in them. When we go to
parson’s and take more food than we could eat in a month, and leave it
all behind for him and Mrs. White, it is most as tame as going to church
on Sunday, or having a missionary meeting and giving money to convert
the heathen; but when we go to surprise someone who does not want to see
us, why, that is where the fun begins.”
Reggie nodded in token of understanding, but he was spared the necessity
of reply by the entrance of Nathan Gittins, the eldest brother of
Galena, who ran the farm and the saw-mill, all the four brothers in
between having left New Brunswick for the Far West when they came to
man’s estate.
All the way to school that morning Reggie fumed over the injustice to
old Wrack Peveril in forcing a surprise party, mostly of women, upon him
when he had said that no woman should enter his house.
Reggie had not had much to do with women since his mother died. He had
been only a shaver of five years old then, and he had been “dragged up”
ever since by his step-brother, Mose Paget, who owned a long strip of
rather unfertile land running parallel with the creek, but separated
from the water by Sam Buckle’s quarter-section of water frontage. All
through morning school Reggie debated the matter with so much absorption
that he had no attention to give to mischief, and in consequence earned
the good-conduct mark, to his great amazement.
Directly school was out he set off to climb the Ridge, not going by the
ordinary trail that led past Ripple, but taking a bee-line through the
woods and up over the gap where the forest fire had been two years
before. He had serious business on hand, while his conscience troubled
him a little, because he was going to betray the confidence of Galena.
He had made up his mind to warn Wrack of what was impending, so that the
old man should have a chance of doing as he liked about being at home
when the visitors came.
The day was very hot although it was October. The maples on the Ridge
were aflame with their autumn splendours, and the scarlet of the oaks at
Cumberland Crossing was a sight to see. But Reggie had scant attention
for the beauties of nature, for he was in a hurry. Make the best speed
he could, it would still be almost impossible for him to get back to the
schoolhouse before afternoon school began, and if he had no satisfactory
excuse for being late he would have the cane. To be late at morning
school was a forgivable offence, because of the long distances the
scholars had to come and the heaviness of the morning “chores” at most
of the homes; but there was no excuse for being late in the afternoon,
because no one went home then, and it did not take long to eat the
noon-piece each scholar brought in his or her school bag.
From the top of the Ridge to Ripple was easy going, downhill all the
way. Reggie crashed through the undergrowth at a great rate. He had no
watch, and could only guess at the time. Every minute gained would make
one stroke of the cane the less, for the rule was one stroke for every
minute late, so it was necessary to use dispatch.
When he emerged at the clearing in front of the house he saw the old man
doing something to a gun, in front of the chiphouse door. Quickening his
pace, Reggie was making straight towards him, but before he could
clamber through the hole in the garden fence a quavering shout reached
him.
“Now, then, stay where you are, boy! If you come a step nearer I will
set the dog at you.” Wrack’s aspect was so threatening that Reggie
decided it to be the best part of valour to stay where he was,
especially as a powerful dog which had been lying on the ground rose at
this moment and growled in a menacing fashion.
“I’ve come to tell you something that you will be glad to know,” called
Reggie.
“Tell it, then, and be off. I don’t want a lot of loafers on these
premises,” growled the old man. And enraged though he was, Reggie’s face
twitched in a grin of amusement. One small and perspiring boy who had
run all the way from the schoolhouse could hardly be described as a lot
of loafers.
“Gittins’s folks and a lot of women are going to have a surprise party
here to-night. They are going to bring supper, and dance to an accordion
afterwards,” called out Reggie in clear tones which carried amazingly in
the hot, still air. If he had been able to whisper the information it
would not have seemed so bad, but to be obliged to shout out what in
honour he ought to have kept silent about made him so angry that he
hated the old man he had come so far to serve.
Wrack gave a scornful, cackling laugh, and the dog growled in sympathy.
“If the surprise party come here it is likely they may find themselves a
bit surprised,” the old man called back, then went on cleaning his gun
as if no one were there.
“Ain’t you going to give me nothing for coming all this way to tell
you?” demanded Reggie in a shrill tone of indignation. It was past
believing that this disagreeable old man should actually refuse to
reward him for all his trouble.
“I’ll give you the stick if you don’t clear out of this sharp,” the old
man retorted with a snarl, and he looked as if he meant it.
Reggie was insistent, and inclined to clamour for what he deemed his
rights, so he burst into noisy abuse after the manner of his kind.
“Think I’m going to put up with that sort of treatment, do you? A
regular old skin-flint you are, and no mistake. I hope the surprise
party will come, scores of ’em, and I hope they will dance and dance
till your carpets are in rags, and they have worn holes in your floors.”
“Here, dog, after him!” exclaimed the old man, swinging his hand with an
air of exasperation in Reggie’s direction. But Reggie was not going to
stay on the chance of a mauling. The dog was a big animal, and he was
only rather a small boy; so he fled away with the speed of a hunted fox,
and the dog, having pursued him to the end of the cleared ground, gave
up the chase, returning towards the house at a languid trot, as if the
exertion was too much on such a hot day.
There was no slackening of Reggie’s speed until he was well on his way;
then, as the ascent of the Ridge grew steeper, he dropped into a walk.
There was black hate in his heart for the old man who had treated him so
badly, and he was meditating all manner of wildly impossible schemes for
getting the better of him as he toiled over the Ridge, then broke into a
trot again where the ground sloped to the schoolhouse.
He would be late, he was sure of it, and he would have the cane. He had
broken a confidence reposed in him, and he had gained nothing by it. No
wonder he was furious. As he turned to enter the school door he shook
his fist in impotent rage at the wooded ridge he had just crossed.
CHAPTER III
The Surprise Party
Pam stepped off the boat at Hunt’s Crossing. There was a curious sense
of unreality all about her. She felt as if she were walking in her
sleep, and she half-expected to wake presently and find herself back in
the top bedroom of the boarding-house in London, which she had shared
with her mother and Muriel.
The forest had been pushed back a little at Hunt’s Crossing. There were
three wooden houses and several barns grouped near the river, but they
all had a ragged, unfinished look which jarred on Pam, and forced her to
the realization of being in a strange land. If she had been merely
dreaming these things would not have troubled her.
There was no one to meet her; she had not expected there would be. Her
mother, once she had agreed to Pam’s plan, had told her all about the
road from Hunt’s Crossing to Ripple. The trail wound sharply round past
Bond’s store, which was the Post Office, curved round the angle of the
hill, and then stretched in a straight line for three miles and a half
to Ripple. There were cross trails here and there, but there was no
mistaking the way. Pam even felt as if she had been here before when she
saw the cluster of houses near to the river, the tumbledown barns, and
the various trails that converged at the crossing.
She went into the store and arranged for her heavy baggage to be kept
there until she could send or come for it; then, carrying her bag, her
umbrella, and a waterproof, she set her face to the trail.
Curious glances followed her as she left the little cluster of houses.
It was so rarely that a stranger of the softer sex left the river boats
at this point. Men there were in plenty who came and went, intent on
selling something, or looking for something to buy. But a well-dressed
girl, who arranged for her baggage to be left at the store and then went
marching along the forest trails as if she had lived there all her life,
was, indeed, something to speculate over. Life moved fairly easily with
the people at Hunt’s Crossing, so they were able to lean over their
front fences and continue their speculations without any serious upset
to the day’s work.
It was late in the afternoon, and the October sunshine had a mellow
tinge, as if the reflected glories of the crimson and gold of the oaks
and maples had somehow coloured the glow of the sunshine to a warmer
tint. Pam kept bursting into “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” of pleasure as she trod
the trail with a sprightly step, and gazed on all the wealth of colour
with which the forest was painted on that sunny autumn afternoon.
Accustomed as her eyes had been to the soft neutral tints of London, and
fresh as she was from a week of gazing on the grey Atlantic, all this
flaming beauty of the woodland affected her senses, making her giddy.
For a mile or more she went ahead at a brisk pace, but her bag was
heavy, her coat was hot, and presently, sitting down for a brief rest,
she found herself so comfortable that she fell asleep. It was a foolish
thing to do, of course, but who can expect fully-fledged wisdom and
hoary-haired discretion in a girl of twenty? Pam awoke with a start
after a delicious dream of her grandfather’s warm welcome at the end of
the journey; she thought he was telling her with tears in his tired old
eyes that he was sure she would be the joy of his life and the solace of
his lonely days, but that he would know no real happiness until her
mother and the other children came to live with him also.
The glory had faded from the forest, and a cool wind stirred among the
rustling leaves. The sun had dropped out of sight, and with a sharp
exclamation of dismay Pam rose to her feet to continue her journey. How
idiotic she had been to fall asleep in this fashion when she should have
been marching straight on! By the way, in which direction did she
require to go? Straight on—but now she was not sure which direction was
straight on, or which led back to Hunt’s Crossing. If by ill luck she
took the wrong way darkness would overtake her, and she would have to
ask for a night’s lodging at one of the three houses there. Even if she
went forward on the right road she would still have difficulty in
reaching Ripple by the time it grew dark, for now she was finding one
foot very sore where her boot had rubbed it. She limped along the trail
for a few hundred yards, gazing to right and left in a perfect fever of
anxiety. There was forest on either side. Cedar, birch, beech, oak, and
ash jostled each other, or stood singly or in groups, with wide
stretches of lesser growth. It looked so exactly like the way she had
been traversing before she went to sleep that after ten minutes or so
Pam became convinced that she had turned round and was going back by the
way she had come.
“Oh, I am in a hopeless muddle!” she murmured in a rueful tone, and
turning back on her tracks she limped along as fast as she could go.
Darkness dropped so suddenly on the forest that she was not prepared for
its coming, and panic seized her in its grip. She could have screamed
from sheer terror; but it was of no use to scream if there was no one to
hear.
Suddenly a sound struck her ear—a sound of singing—voices in unison.
Whatever could it be? Pam stood motionless in the middle of the trail,
straining her ears to listen, while her heart beat so loudly that it
seemed to stop her from catching the words that were sung. It was an old
negro melody, and presently the words came to her through the clear air
of the evening with quite startling distinctness:
Mother, rock me in the cradle all the day.
You may lay me down to sleep, my mother dear,
But rock me in the cradle all the day.
Pam had never heard anything like it before. The haunting sweetness of
the melody, joined to the words, made her so fearfully home-sick that
she had the greatest difficulty to keep from crying like a baby. But the
singers were coming nearer, and her position of being lost on a straight
trail was quite sufficiently ridiculous without her making herself look
more absurd by being found in tears; so she stiffened her back and
clenched her fists tightly.
Suddenly the singers changed their tune and broke into a rollicking,
lilting melody:
I’m so glad the angels brought the tidings down,
I’m hunting for a home.
You’ll not get lost in the wilderness,
Hunting for a home.
Pam could hear the measured trot of horses now. The party were coming
nearer and nearer. There were the voices of girls mingling with the
deeper tones of men, and a sudden wave of confidence surged into her
heart, for she knew that she would not be afraid to trust these people.
“Stop, will you please stop, I have lost my way!” Her voice sounded
strange and shrill in her own ears as she ran out to the middle of the
trail and held up her arms to stop the first wagon. By this time she had
gathered that there were two wagons, and that they were very near
together. The rising moon sent a pale shaft of light down among the
forest trees, falling on Pam, lighting her face with an unearthly
brilliance, and turning her fair hair into a mass of gleaming gold. The
horses were startled by the sudden apparition in the track. They stopped
short, tried to rear, and veering round would have bolted but for the
firm hand on the lines and the reassuring shouts of the driver in their
ears.
“Whoa, there! Steady, Tom and Firefly! What possesses you to cut capers
like unbroken colts every time you meet a lady on the trail?”
“A lady, is it? I declare I thought it was a ghost!” cried another
voice. “What eyes you have, Don! You are a perfect bat to see like that
in the dark!”
The singing came to an abrupt end, and a perfect babel of questions
broke out from both wagons.
The driver of the first, a young man with broad shoulders and a
determined manner, jumped down from the high seat and, approaching Pam,
who had retreated to the side of the trail through fear of being run
over, asked her politely:
“What can we do for you? Have you lost your way?”
“Yes,” admitted Pam, and now she was tingling all over with
mortification. “I am going to Ripple, and I am not sure that I am on the
right trail.”
“You are going away from Ripple at this moment, as straight away from it
as possible,” said the young man. Then he asked the question which Pam
had expected would come. “Where have you come from? Excuse my curiosity,
but this trail only leads to Ripple, you see, so it is passing wonderful
that you failed to find it.”
The stupidity of the situation struck Pam then. Oh, what an idiot she
had been! How these people would laugh at her! But it could not be
helped, and so she began by laughing at herself.
“Would you believe it? I was going to Ripple from Hunt’s Crossing, but
the afternoon was hot and I sat down to rest, then went so fast asleep
that when I woke I did not know which was forward and which was back to
the river. I went as I thought forward, then it looked so much like the
trail I had been following before I sat down that I turned round and
took the other way; then it got dark, and I was just beginning to be
frightened nearly out of my senses when along you came, and the sound of
your singing brought my courage back.”
“Poor little girl!” The young man spoke as if she were about ten years
old, and Pam coloured hotly with indignation because he had so little
discernment.
“I am old enough to take care of myself,” she retorted, with quite
crushing dignity.
“I do not doubt it.” He was frankly laughing at her now, but his manner
was so kind that she did not care. Then the people in the second wagon
shouted to know when the first lot were going to get a move on, and the
young man said hurriedly: “We are going to Ripple; won’t you get up in
our wagon and come with us? That is my sister Sophy on the front
seat—Sophy Grierson. I am Don Grierson.”
A tremendous load was lifted from the heart of Pam. She would not have
to walk the dark forest trail alone.
“Thank you, I shall be glad to ride,” she answered, keeping her voice
steady with an effort.
“Up you get, then. Move along a bit farther, will you, Sophy? There will
be room for this young lady between us if I sit a bit on the side. Ah,
steady there! Where have you been raised? It looks as if you don’t know
how to board a wagon.” The young man caught Pam in his arms as she
stumbled in climbing, and his quickness saved her from a nasty fall.
“I can board a motor bus when it is moving, but this is different,” she
said with a gasp when she was fairly settled between Sophy and Don, and
the horses had started forward again. “I come from London, and I have
never been in the country except for a holiday.”
“And then to set out to walk a forest trail for the first time alone,
and to go to sleep on the way! What next, I wonder?” Don flourished his
whip in the air to express all the things he could not put into
language, but the horses took it as a hint to go faster, and they tore
along at such a pace that Pam was breathless and giddy from being shaken
and bumped.
“Old Wrack Peveril will sit up when we come walking in upon him, I
guess,” said a girl with a loud voice who was sitting at the rear of the
wagon.
“He will sit up still more when he sees the supper we have brought him,”
replied Galena Gittins, who was sitting just behind Pam. “Folks say the
old man never has a decent meal, because he is too mean to spend money
on proper food, the wretched old skin-a-flint!”
Pam wrenched herself round with a violence which all but upset Sophy
Grierson, who was rather cramped for room.
“It is not fair to talk like that before me,” she said explosively. “Mr.
Wrack Peveril is my grandfather, and I have come all the way from
England to live with him. I don’t believe he is so mean, but I am afraid
that he is poor, and he sent the money to pay my passage, so perhaps he
has not been able to buy things for himself.”
“Are you Nancy Peveril’s girl?” cried a stout woman who sat on the seat
with Galena Gittins, and as she asked the question she leaned forward
and gripped the shoulder of Pam in the friendliest fashion imaginable.
“I am Pamela Walsh, and my mother was Nancy Peveril before she married
my father,” replied Pam with great dignity, and then her shoulder was
gripped more heartily than before by the excitable stout woman.
“Dear, dear, how time flies! I declare it makes me feel quite old to
think of Nancy having a grown-up daughter. My dear, we are ever so glad
to see you; but I don’t think your mother should have let you come all
this way alone to live with an old man like Wrack Peveril, who won’t
have a woman inside his doors.”
“He won’t be able to help himself to-night!” chuckled the girl with the
loud voice.
Pam caught her breath in a gasp of dismay. Her mother had written to
Ripple to say that Pam was coming instead of Jack, but there had been no
time for an answer to that letter. It was the very first time since she
had left England that a doubt of her welcome assailed her. Now she was
suddenly afraid, and she cowered closer against Sophy Grierson, while
she wondered what sort of a greeting she would get when Ripple was
reached.
“We are going to have a surprise party at your grandfather’s house
to-night,” said Galena Gittins, leaning forward and speaking over the
shoulder of Pam in a very friendly fashion. “We’ve got a jolly good
supper here in the wagons with us, and there is another wagon coming
from over the Ridge. That lot will bring a fiddle and a melodeon with
them, so we shall have some music, and be able to dance all night. I
just love surprise parties, don’t you?”
“I have never been to one,” answered Pam. After a brief hesitation she
asked: “Will Grandfather like a lot of folks coming along unexpected
like this? And to stay all night, too?”
“I guess he won’t!” broke in the stout woman with a jolly, rollicking
laugh. “But, my dear, it is the good of the many that we have to study
in this part of the world; and what would become of the young people if
there was no fun going at all? For myself, I’d nearly as soon stay at
home o’ nights now as go racketing round and losing my night’s rest. But
well I know it is good for the boys and girls to have someone to mother
them a bit at their play, so I don’t shy at a frolic, even though it
takes me a week to get over it.”
“The folks don’t have to suffer when we go round surprising them, Miss
Walsh,” said Don, who had not spoken for some time save to shout at the
horses, the trail at this part being very difficult and dark; tall trees
stood in serried ranks on either side of the way, and the moonlight had
no chance at all. “We always take about twice as many provisions as we
can possibly eat; and if we upset a house a bit, we always put
everything straight before we leave. You should see how glad they are to
have us at some places.”
“I don’t care for a surprise party where the folks like to have us. I
would rather go where we were not wanted,” broke in the girl with the
loud voice, whom the others called Sissy. “What fun we did have that
time we surprised Mose Paget, and he would not get up to let us in until
we threatened to break the door down! Do you remember that night,
Galena? You had that pink blouse on, and Mose was most insulting in what
he said about the way you had dressed up.”
“That is Ripple, Miss Walsh.” The quiet voice of Don broke in upon
Sissy’s loud-toned reminiscences, and Pam gave a start of surprise as
the dim outlines of a big timber house came into view. It stood in a
clearing with a background of lofty trees, and the light of the rising
moon fell full upon the long brown front.
“It looks so different from what I expected, and yet I have known it all
my life,” said Pam eagerly, and she leaned forward to get a better view.
Then she cried out sharply: “But there is no one at home, and it looks
like a dead house. Don’t you think so?”
CHAPTER IV
What They Found
Don drew his horses up with a jerk and sprang to the ground.
“The other lot from over the Ridge have not got here yet, so we are
first,” he remarked cheerfully, and then he held out his arms to Pam, so
that she might descend with safety. But she drew back with a sudden
shyness.
“You go first, please, and show me the way,” she said to Sophy, who
laughed, and then dropped into the strong arms of her brother, which was
certainly the easiest mode of descent.
“Come, Miss Walsh, I promise not to drop you, and I don’t expect that
you are heavier than Sophy.” Don had turned to the wagon again, and now
Pam had no excuse for holding back; so, dropping as she had seen Sophy
do, she was speedily standing on the ground by her side and looking at
the blank windows of the house that was to be her home. She could not
repress a shiver as she thought how angry her grandfather would probably
be when he found the sort of company in which she had arrived.
“Let us go and knock at the door while the others are unloading,”
suggested Sophy, who seemed to understand Pam’s secret fear, and was
anxious to reassure her.
Pam moved forward on unsteady feet. There was a queer sensation all
about her that she was walking in a dream; nothing seemed real, least of
all the girl with the kindly face and the quiet voice who stood at her
side, gently encouraging and wholly sympathetic. The outlines of the
house were vaguely familiar. Mrs. Walsh had talked so often to her
children of her childhood’s home that Pam would never feel strange at
Ripple; she had known it at second-hand for so long.
“I wish you would knock,” she said in a low voice, shrinking back behind
Sophy as they stood before the heavy door. They were quite alone now,
for all the others were busy about the wagons, taking out the supper
baskets, and talking excitedly about something that was missing.
“What are you afraid of?” asked Sophy, when she had beat upon the door
with her fists and they stood waiting for it to be opened.
Pam shivered, for she was genuinely scared. In the background a dog was
barking in angry protest, but the house itself was absolutely deserted,
to all appearance. She did not answer Sophy, but remembering that she
was in a manner at home, whilst these others were only outsiders, she
laid her hand on the door and tried to open it. Of course it was fast,
and after a little more time spent in knocking at the door she turned to
Sophy, asking: “What will you do? There does not seem to be anyone at
home.”
“The men will find a way to get in, they always do,” replied Sophy
laughing softly. Then she called to her brother: “Don, come here. There
seems to be no one at home. How will you get in?”
“I will go and see if I can find a way. Don’t let the others start
beating the door in until I have tried what I can do,” he said with a
backward wag of his head in the direction of the noisy group by the
wagon, who were still wrangling over the problem of a missing basket.
Then came quite a long wait, or so it seemed to Pam, who was trying to
form little sentences of explanation so that she might appease her
grandfather if he should suddenly arrive upon the scene to demand the
reason of her arrival with such a turbulent company.
“Here comes Don!” cried Sophy, as a step sounded inside the house, and
there was a noise of a bolt being dragged back. “How did you get in?”
she asked, as the heavy door came open, and Don with a lantern in his
hand appeared on the threshold.
“The old fellow went away in a hurry, and forgot to shut the pantry
window,” said Don, laughing as he stood back to let the others enter the
house. Then he held the lantern high above his head to show them the
way.
Pam went in first. A sudden sense of proprietorship had come to her; it
was as if this were her own house and all that turbulent company outside
were her guests. They might not be quite all that she would wish them to
be, but she would make the best of them. There was a lamp standing on a
small table near the stove, and she turned at once to light it.
“Don’t you think we ought to go over the house to see if he is at home?”
she asked. “He might be ill, you see. I am sure we ought to do that
first, before the others come in.”
“So am I,” Sophy agreed quickly. “Don, do you light the fire in the
stove while we are gone; there are kindlings lying in that corner. Come
along, Miss Walsh; the others will be here directly, so we must make
haste!”
Sophy had taken the lantern from Don, and she handed it to Pam,
instinctively taking her place in the rear, for this girl who was a
stranger in a strange country moved with the assured air of one who was
at home.
Pam held the lantern high, looking about her with absorbed interest.
This was the living-room, and the outer door opened right into it, and
that door in the corner would lead into the kitchen. She knew it well,
for her mother had shown Jack how to draw a plan of the house. The door
on the other side led to a sitting-room, the best room, which was only
used on state occasions; a dreary place, so her mother had said. Beyond
it was the bedroom where her grandfather slept, the very room in which
her mother had been born. That was where she expected to find her
grandfather if he was in the house. The best room had an unwholesome
smell, as of a place never used and never aired. There was no carpet on
the floor, but there was a couch, a cabinet, some chairs, and a table.
Even in walking across the room with the lantern in her hand, Pam
noticed that the stove was red with rust, and she wondered if there had
been a fire there in all the years since her mother had run away from
home to get married.
At the inner door she paused and knocked; then, as there was no reply,
and the door stood ajar, she pushed it open and went in. It was a wide
chamber, like the others, and being a corner room it had windows on two
sides. It was even more airless and stuffy than the sitting-room. A heap
of rugs and a mattress on the bed were a sign that someone slept there,
while there was a heap of ashes before the stove which showed that,
early in the autumn as it was, the old man had begun having a fire at
nights. He was not there. Pam made quite sure of that, even pausing to
lift the heap of tumbled rugs on the bed as if she expected to find him
tucked away underneath. Sophy came to help her, and they peered under
the bed, and in the old press which stood in the corner.
“He is not here, we must go upstairs,” said Pam, who was breathing hard,
as if she had been running.
“Is there any upstairs to the house?” asked the other. She had not
observed the outlines of the house particularly when they arrived, and
it was the first time she had ever been to Ripple.
“Yes, there are three rooms,” Pam replied, and turning, she led the way
back across the dreary sitting-room, and out to the living-room, where
by this time Don had a fire roaring in the stove. Galena Gittins, the
woman named Sissy, and one or two others were busy bringing in the
supper baskets, but she took no notice of them. Crossing the floor, she
went out by the door on the other side of the stove to the wide kitchen,
or out-place, whence a narrow wooden stair led to the three bedrooms in
the roof. These also were wide chambers, but only one of them had any
furniture. This had been her mother’s old bedroom, as Pam recognized at
the very first glance. There was a big press of red pine, which smelled
like cedar, and was just as good at keeping away moths. There was the
little bed with the carved head-board, the work of her
great-grandfather, and the table that her great-uncle Zach had carved.
There were even some old garments hanging on pegs behind the door, and
she wondered if they had hung there ever since her mother went away.
What a Rip-van-Winkle kind of business it was! Perhaps the room had
hardly been entered for twenty years; it smelled stuffy enough.
“There is no one here,” said Sophy softly. She stood just behind Pam and
looked about her in wonder. She did not understand how it was that this
stranger from across the sea was so at home in this deserted house.
“No, he is not here,” said Pam. “He is not in the house, unless he is in
the cellar. We ought to look there at once, before that lot downstairs
start making a noise. Oh, pardon me, I forgot they are your friends, and
of course they mean well.”
Sophy made a wry face, for the unconscious reproach in the voice of Pam
made her wince.
“Yes, they—we mean all right,” she answered. She hesitated a moment,
and then burst out: “It would have been rather horrid for you if you had
come straight here, and found no one at all.”
“Indeed it would, and I am properly grateful down underneath,” replied
Pam, and then she led the way towards the cellar, while Sophy followed
behind. The cellar stretched right under the whole length of the house,
as is common in New Brunswick, the severity of the winters making it
essential to have a good storage that frost cannot touch.
But downstairs the merry crowd had been augmented by the other wagonload
of people from over the Ridge; these were all presented to Pam in due
course, and she found herself thrust, whether she would or no, into the
position of hostess. It was in her to rise to the occasion, and she did
it right royally, only there was all the time that feeling in her heart
that she must search in the cellar before she allowed herself to be
drawn into any merry-making. She slipped away with Sophy while the
others were all busy trying to make the supper-table bigger by the
addition of boards laid across the backs of chairs, and holding her
lantern high above her head, she went carefully down the ladder-like
stairs, while Sophy came close behind.
“Take care, there should be a very bad place about half-way down,” said
Pam, who was breathing in little gasps again, for she was tremendously
excited. “Ah, here it is! Mother has told me that she sprained her ankle
over that step at three different times. Don’t you wonder what some
people are made of, to leave necessary things neglected for so long?”
Sophy stumbled, nearly fell, and recovered herself with an effort; and
steadying herself with a hand on Pam’s shoulder she answered with a
laugh:
“Wait until you have lived at Ripple for a year before you pass
judgment. Our summers are a fierce rush to do the things that must be
done, and in the winter we are more or less torpid.”
“I shall not be torpid,” cried Pam in merry defiance. Then she paused
and cried out in rapturous delight, as, reaching the bottom step, she
came in sight of shelves piled with apples—bushels and bushels of them,
some quite enormous in size, some so rosy and tempting to look at that
she wanted to stretch out her hand and start eating then and there.
Others were green and hard, as if they would not be mellow enough to eat
for months to come. “What can my grandfather do with so much fruit?” she
asked in surprise, as the flashing light of her lantern showed shelf
after shelf piled with apples, while of pumpkins, squashes, and the
harder sort of melons there was a goodly array.
“One needs a good lot of provisions to face a winter that is seven
months long,” replied Sophy, who was also peering about with great
interest, for she was of a housewifely turn. “But really, for an old man
living alone, your grandfather has stored a considerable lot of apples.
I suppose he has not lifted his potatoes yet, or we should smell them.”
“The potatoes always went into the inner cellar, so Mother said. Here
they are, and what a lot! I shall live on roasted apples and potatoes
this winter, I think. They will be easy to cook, and that will give me
time for other things. Do you think I ought to take some of these apples
up for the surprise party, or would Grandfather object to my making free
with his property?”
“We have brought apples in plenty,” said Sophy. “If you are asked out to
a surprise party yourself this fall (autumn), you might bring along some
of those yellow ones over there; I don’t think there is another tree of
that variety in the district. Mother has sent over here to buy some
every winter since I can remember, and ever so many folks have asked to
have scions from the tree, but Mr. Peveril would neither give nor sell
them.”
“Poor Grandfather; I am afraid he is rather disobliging sometimes!” Pam
murmured with wistful regret in her tone.
When they had thoroughly inspected the cellar, as they had done the rest
of the house, they went back to the living-room, where the fun was now
uproarious. The young men were making coffee, while the girls set the
table, and the older women unpacked the food. There were even one or two
middle-aged men, but Pam noticed that these withdrew into a corner,
where they sat talking, quite heedless of the confusion all around them.
They were much too tired to care for anything in the way of festivity
which entailed any labour, but a chance to exchange opinions with a
neighbour, and to hear a little gossip, was inducement sufficient to
bring them long distances, and make them willing to be all night out of
bed.
Old Wrack Peveril’s supply of lamps was limited, but the resourceful
surprise party had succeeded in getting a fine illumination
notwithstanding. A generous supply of pine knots had been brought along
in a basket, and these, tossed on the fire a few at a time, lighted the
big room with a vivid, flashing glare. There were also several lanterns,
and these were hung in the outer kitchen, in the dreary best
sitting-room, and even in the old man’s bedroom. This surprise party was
not going to do things by halves, and they wanted room in which to
spread themselves. A supply of candles eked out the lanterns, but these,
being home-made, were not very brilliant, and they guttered fearfully in
the liberal draughts.
Pam was not allowed to lift a finger to do anything. She was of the
family, they told her, even though she had arrived with the company.
Failing her grandfather, she was hostess. Entering into the spirit of
the thing, some of the girls rushed out of doors and gathered great
boughs of foliage by moonlight; these they wreathed in the back of a
ponderous arm-chair, and dragging it to the head of the supper-table,
installed Pam there in regal state.
“Oh, I cannot take the head of the table; it is not my house!” she
cried. “My grandfather might be angry with me if he came back and found
that I was taking his place in such a fashion, and it would be dreadful
to start with him in that way.”
“I don’t fancy he will be back before to-morrow,” said Mrs. Morse, the
stout woman who had known Pam’s mother. “It is awkward travelling the
forest trails at night, and the moon will soon be down. We mostly stay
where sundown finds us, and let travelling wait until daylight comes
again. That is what your grandfather is going to do, I expect, so you
might as well get all the fun you can. We are only young once, and there
is no sense in being dismal when you can have the time of your life.”
“If the old man happens along we will square him somehow, Miss Walsh,
don’t you be afraid,” put in Don Grierson, who, having undertaken the
work of head coffee-maker, was busy at the stove.
Pam yielded then, and really it would have been silly to protest. She
was excited, too, and the whole affair had taken on the character of an
adventure. She permitted herself to be placed in the great chair, she
let the girls take her hat off and twine a wreath of yellow maple leaves
for her hair, and she sat at the head of the long table, a veritable
queen of the ceremonies. Her face was flushed, her eyes were shining,
and she entered into the fun with an abandon that surprised even
herself.
The supper was very good, and she was so hungry that she could have
devoured almost anything. Never, never had she tasted such chicken pie,
or such delicious cake. They had given her an earthenware plate—cracked
it is true, and browned with having been put in the oven, but it was a
plate—and as there were only about three others this was a distinction
indeed. Mrs. Morse, sitting at her side, was placidly eating from an old
baking-tin, while Galena Gittins, farther down the table, had a saucepan
lid by way of plate. These small drawbacks did but add to the fun,
however, and gales of laughter resounded through the wide room, which
must have been silent for so many years.
Suddenly Pam felt something pressing against her, and looking down she
saw the shaggy head of a big dog pressed against her knee, while two
wistful eyes looked into hers, and an eager tail thumped the floor.
“A dog, and such a dear! Where did it come from?” she asked, stooping to
pat the shaggy head, and then sharing a liberal bit of pie with the
hungry animal.
“It is old Wrack’s dog, and was going to eat us all when we took our
horses into the barn; but a mouthful of food soon brought it to a better
frame of mind,” said a young man, edging a little nearer for a chance of
talking to Pam. She was having a triumph in a small way, and the
surprise party were feeling that they themselves had had a very charming
surprise at Ripple that night, for it is always the unexpected that
appeals to people.
“If it is Grandfather’s dog, then it belongs to me in a way, and we must
be friends, of course.” Pam stooped over the animal again, feeding it
with morsels from her plate, and doing her very best to win the
creature’s liking. Perhaps if the dog loved her, the old man would also
find it easy to care for her. That was how she argued the matter to
herself, as she sat at the head of the table playing hostess in a house
she had never before entered, to a company of people she had never
before seen.
“Funny the old man did not take his dog along with him where he has
gone. Folks say that he is never seen without the beast,” remarked the
young man who had just been talking to Pam, and for want of some one
better he addressed his remark to Mrs. Morse.
“The old man knew his own business best, I guess,” rejoined the stout
woman tartly. “It is likely he left the critter here to guard the place
a bit. But it does seem a bit strange to me that the old fellow should
have gone out for the night, and he expecting his granddaughter at any
time, as you might say. Now you suppose what the situation would have
been for that poor girl, if we had not taken it into our heads to
surprise old Wrack to-night! I declare it fairly makes my flesh creep to
think about it.”
“Then don’t think about it, Mrs. Morse,” said Pam, who had overheard the
remark. “Grandfather would not have meant to treat me badly, I am sure;
perhaps he has even gone some part of the way to meet me, and by ill
fortune we missed each other.”
The company looked at each other, as much as to say that was about the
most unlikely thing to have happened, but no one ventured to say so.
There was not one present in the room who would have said or done
anything to sadden Pam or put any foreboding as to her future into her
heart. When supper was over, the food remaining—a goodly pile—was
carefully stacked out of the way, the table was dragged to one side of
the room, and then the fun began. One of the party had brought a fiddle,
and one had a melodeon, and with these for orchestra, dancing went on
with great spirit. Sir Roger de Coverley was first favourite, and they
danced it over and over again until they were fairly tired out, and
subsided on to chairs and forms to play General Post. This entailed so
many forfeits, and so much hilarity in the paying of them, that midnight
was long past before anyone even thought of wanting any fresh amusement.
Singing was called for then, and chorus after chorus rang round the
heavy timbers of the ceiling. Pam noticed that it was all sacred music,
chorales, anthems, and sonorous fugues which had been learned at church,
and which matched with the sombre grandeur of the leagues on leagues of
forest surrounding Ripple on every side.
“Won’t you sing something?” Sophy asked, coming over to Pam, whose face
was wearing a rather awed expression.
“I can’t sing—not by myself, I mean. I am not accomplished really,
though I can play the piano enough to teach young children,” Pam
answered, thinking of the governess life which she had left so far
behind.
“Ah, the piano is rather out of it here. The useful instrument is one
that can be carried about, like the violin or the melodeon,” Sophy said.
She went on to tell Pam that so far as she knew there was only one piano
in the township, and that was broken.
“I shall learn to play the jews’ harp; I am sure that I could manage it,
for I could perform quite creditably with a comb and a piece of paper.”
Pam laughed at her own small wit, then suddenly grew serious, for the
night was wearing, and with the first streaks of dawn to light the
forest trails these lively people would be gone, and she would be left
alone to face whatever might come.
“Could you stay with me, just until my grandfather comes back? Would it
be asking too much?” There was such a wistful look in the eyes she
turned to Sophy as betrayed the heart-shrinking that was behind.
“I think so, but I will ask Don what he thinks. Mother is not very
strong, but I know she will do her best to let me help you,” Sophy said.
She made her way across to Don, who was just going to start making
coffee again: a minute of consultation and she was back by the side of
Pam. “Don says he is sure that I ought to stay, and that he will drive
over for me this afternoon, unless Father happens to have a round in
this direction. Father is the township doctor, you know, so he is all
over the place, and we never know where he will have to go next. If I
stay here with you we will do the clearing up after the company are
gone. That will please them all, because, you see, it is proper for them
to do it.”
CHAPTER V
The Next Day
Dawn was only faintly creeping up through the avenues of the forest when
the last wagon, filled with tired merrymakers, drove away from Ripple.
The silence which dropped when they had gone was so appalling that Pam
turned to Sophy with actual consternation in her eyes.
“Is it always as deadly quiet as this?” she asked, and now it was hard
work to keep her voice from quavering. She did not realize that she was
worn out with all the excitement she had gone through.
“You don’t think of the quiet when you are used to it,” Sophy answered.
“At least, I never think about it; but of course our house is not so
remote as this. The fact is, you are so tired that you can hardly stand
on your two feet. Suppose you lie down for a little rest before your
grandfather comes back, and I will do the clearing up.”
“As if I should even dream of letting you work while I take my ease!”
cried Pam in a shocked tone. “I am quite sure that you must be as tired
as I am, only you are made of better stuff and will not cry out about
it. Let us do what is necessary as quickly as we can, then we will just
lie down and sleep the worst of it off. I wonder when Grandfather will
come back, and what he will say when he finds that I have come?”
“He ought to say how sorry he is that he was not here to give you a
welcome,” replied Sophy, as she moved to and fro straightening the
furniture, picking up bits of paper, and restoring the room to the
condition in which they had found it. The house door stood wide open,
and presently they heard the sound of a cow mooing in the barn.
“There are the animals to be fed, and if you are a London girl you will
not know much about milking.” Sophy had paused in her work of clearing
and was standing still with a frown on her face. She did not know very
much about it herself, for in the doctor’s household there were always
men or boys to do that sort of work. But she was going to help Pam all
she could, and if it entailed milking a cow, well, she did not intend to
be beaten at the business. She had seen cows milked often enough, the
operation looked fairly easy, and she was not afraid of the animals.
“I know that milk comes from cows—and coconuts, and that is about all,”
said Pam, shrugging her shoulders as she realized the extent of her
ignorance.
“Come and have your first lesson in milking, then.” Sophy caught up the
cleanest bucket she could find, and tied a towel over her best frock.
“We may have to feed pigs if there are any in the barn. If I had thought
about the live stock I should certainly have asked one of the menfolks
to stay and see us through with the morning chores. As it is, we must
just do the best we can until your grandfather comes home again.”
“You never know what you can do until you try,” exclaimed Pam, as she,
too, tied a towel over her frock in imitation of Sophy. The two stepped
out into the keen, crisp air of the morning, and went across grass which
sparkled with frost to the barn. They were closely followed by the dog.
The creature had apparently decided that Pam was one of the family, and
meant to treat her accordingly.
There were pigs and poultry to be fed, there was a cow to be milked and
turned into a little paddock, which sloped like a wedge into the forest.
There were half a score of sheep in the paddock also, but Sophy said
these would not need feeding, as they were quite able to get their own
living. When the “chores” were all done Pam went back to the house
feeling as if her education had taken great strides since the previous
day, and she envied the ease with which Sophy tackled all the mysteries
of milking and feeding.
The two were just deciding that, now the “chores” were done, they were
free to lie down and take a rest, when from the open door they caught
the sounds of horses approaching. A moment later two men in police
uniform rode up to the front of the house and dismounted.
“The police!” cried Sophy, and her face went as white as her blouse.
“Courage, Pam! I am afraid something must have happened to your
grandfather.”
Pam caught her breath in a little sobbing gasp, and clung to Sophy as
the men rode up and dismounted before the door of the house.
“Is Mr. Peveril at home?” demanded the elder of the two, and at the
question Pam’s courage instantly rose, for of course if the old man had
been found injured or dead the police would not ask if he were at home.
Putting Sophy gently in the background Pam came forward, flushing a
little as she looked into the strong, weather-beaten face of the
policeman. Her voice was quite steady as she answered:
“My grandfather is not at home just now, and we do not know when he will
be back, but we are expecting him at any minute.”
“Is Mr. Peveril your grandfather? I did not know he had any relatives,”
said the officer, and Pam noticed with exceeding dismay that he looked
as if he were sorry for her.
“Mr. Peveril has a daughter, my mother, who lives in England, and I have
come from there to live with Grandfather and take care of him,” she
said. Now there was defiance in her tone, for she was telling herself
that she did not want this man’s pity. Why should people pity her for
coming to live with her grandfather? It was horrid! Moreover, it was a
slur on his character, and because blood is thicker than water every
instinct of affection and defence of which Pam was capable rallied to
champion the old man.
The officer nodded. “What time did Mr. Peveril leave here yesterday?” he
asked. Then, suddenly recognizing Sophy, who had remained in the
background where Pam had thrust her, he said: “Good morning, Miss
Grierson; I am afraid we worked the Doctor rather hard last night.”
“Was Father called out last night?” cried Sophy in dismay. “Oh, I am
sorry for Mother, for Don and I were both away. I do hate for her to be
left alone like that. What time was Father called?”
“Between seven and eight o’clock. He was called to attend Sam Buckle,
whose wife had found him lying near the fence that divides his
quarter-section from Ripple. He was most fearfully battered, but just
alive. I fear there is not much hope of his recovery, he is so badly
knocked about.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, how truly dreadful!” gasped Sophy, and Pam, whose
senses were by this time quite abnormally acute, noticed that she turned
a glance full of pity upon herself.
“What time did Mr. Peveril leave here yesterday?” demanded the officer,
turning to Pam once more, and now his voice had a more peremptory ring.
“I do not know; he was not here when we came last night,” she faltered.
A chill dismay was creeping over her, and she was wondering why Sophy
looked so distressed, and why she had so carefully averted her face.
“What time did you come?” asked the officer sharply.
This time it was Sophy who answered.
“It must have been about half an hour, perhaps three-quarters, after
sundown. We came for a surprise party. We were in two wagons coming
along the trail when we met Miss Walsh, who in walking here from Hunt’s
Crossing had lost her way. We took her into our wagon and brought her
along with us. We found the house deserted, and stayed all night
enjoying ourselves. When the others went at dawn I remained with Miss
Walsh, who is a stranger and a city girl, so she would have been hard
put to it alone. That is all we know.”
“Can you remain here with Miss Walsh still, Miss Grierson? I will tell
your father you are here.”
“Oh, yes, I will stay, of course. I could not leave Miss Walsh alone at
such a time!” exclaimed Sophy, and there was such a thrill in her tone
that Pam’s face blanched with a sudden terror. What was the hidden
meaning of this compassion, and what had Sam Buckle’s accident to do
with her or her grandfather? But she could not ask the officer. Indeed,
she had no chance. Staying only to give a few instructions to Sophy, and
saying that he would probably look round that way later in the day, the
officer rode away accompanied by his companion, and the silence settled
down again.
All desire to sleep seemed to have vanished from both girls. Directly
they were alone, Pam turned to Sophy.
“Why did that man seem to pity me so much? Why should he come here to
know where Grandfather is?” she demanded.
Sophy put her hand up in protest.
“It may be nothing, of course; but when such things happen people always
jump to conclusions. Your grandfather and Sam Buckle have quarrelled
about that fence ever since I was a small girl; as often as Sam has put
it up your grandfather has broken it down. Maybe Sam had been putting
the fence up before he was found so badly hurt.”
A long moment of silence passed. Pam was staring at Sophy with dilated
eyes, and such a feeling of terror in her heart as she had never
experienced before. Then finally she found her tongue.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she asked, “that you think Grandfather injured
that poor man so dreadfully?”
Sophy put her arms about Pam in protecting wise, and her voice was kind
and soothing when she spoke.
“Dear,” she said, “Mr. Peveril was very likely nowhere near the place
where Sam Buckle was found, and when he comes back he will be able to
tell people where he has been; but until then you have this hard thing
to bear, and you will have to be as brave as ever you can.”
“Suppose he never does come back?” Pam shuddered violently, and then hid
her face in her hands, feeling that the trouble was really more than she
could bear.
“He will surely come back unless something has happened to him,” said
Sophy soothingly; then she bent over Pam’s bowed head and comforted her
as best she could. She succeeded so well that presently Pam suffered
herself to be persuaded into lying down. She promptly fell asleep then,
and lay wrapped in profound slumber while the hours of the hot, sunny
noon came and passed. Sophy slept too, but fitfully; there was a sense
of responsibility on her that kept her wakeful and alert. The house door
was open, and the big dog slumbered on the threshold. The creature
seemed to share Sophy’s wakefulness, for it kept lifting an uneasy head.
Once or twice it growled, although apparently there was nothing anywhere
near to growl at, except the chipmunks darting to and fro, busy in the
collection of their winter store of nuts.
Then far away along the trail from the westward came the faint beat of a
horse’s hoofs. Immediately the dog rose to its feet and stood growling,
while Sophy, who had been drifting into deeper slumber, also rose and
rubbed her eyes to get the sleepiness out of them.
“Pam,” she called softly, “Pam, dear, there is someone coming; you had
better wake up.”
But Pam was so sound asleep that it was hard work to rouse her. The
horseman was very near, indeed, before she had come to a real
understanding of what Sophy was saying. Then she stood for some seconds
swaying to and fro, more asleep than awake.
“There is water in the out-kitchen. Run, dip your face in the bucket,
you will feel better then!” urged Sophy, and Pam moved slowly away,
found the bucket of water and a coarse towel, dipped her face, and,
rubbing it vigorously, at once began to feel better. “Why, it is
Father!” Sophy fairly shouted with delight as a grey-haired man mounted
on a powerful black horse rode into view and lifted his whip in
salutation. He rode up to the doorstep, slid from his horse, and Sophy
rushed into his arms.
“The police told me that I should find you here, so I rode round this
way,” said Dr. Grierson, as he held his daughter with one hand and
lifted his hat to Pam with the other. “Is this Miss Walsh, of whom I
have been hearing? I am very pleased to meet you, but I am real sorry
that you should have been pitchforked, as it were, into such a peck of
trouble, my dear. I have heard of your mother very often. Quite the
belle of these parts she was, I should imagine, but more than a bit
headstrong. Do you take after her?”
“I don’t know,” answered Pam, a little dubiously, for she thought the
Doctor was making fun of her. “I am not so wise as my mother, and I am
always getting into muddles.”
“So did she, according to all accounts, so doubtless you are a chip off
the old block,” he said with a laugh; then he asked if Wrack Peveril had
come back.
“No; we have seen nothing of him,” Pam replied; and Sophy immediately
asked how Sam Buckle was.
“He is very bad indeed.” The Doctor’s tone was curt, a sure sign, as
Sophy knew, that there was not much hope. The Doctor simply hated having
his patients die, and he always behaved as if it were a personal affront
when they showed signs of slipping out of life.
“Has he said anything about—about who hurt him?” asked Pam. She was
determined to know all there was to be known, and she feared they would
hide things from her unless she asked right out.
“He has not said much of anything that we can understand except to
mutter over and over again that ‘it is his right, it is his right’,”
said the Doctor; and Pam suddenly felt a great sinking of heart, for why
should the injured man say words like those unless he were living over
again the quarrel with his neighbour?
“He is such a fearfully disagreeable man!” exclaimed Sophy, as if she
read the thought in the heart of Pam, and would give her comfort if she
could. “I never knew anyone yet who really liked Mr. Buckle; even his
own wife admits that he is a dreadfully hard man to live with. Father,
you will never get your money for attending him; he will say that he did
not call you himself, and so there is no obligation to pay you. That was
how he served you the time the tree fell on him and nearly killed him;
don’t you remember it?”
“Some people are made that way,” said the Doctor. “But I guess that I
shall be no poorer in the long run for doing my duty by my fellow
creatures. Would you two like Don to come and stay the night here with
you? It is a lonesome place for two girls.”
“We shall not mind, I think,” put in Sophy hastily. She was thinking of
her mother, and how Mrs. Grierson hated to be left at home at night with
the younger children only.
“Oh, no, we shall not mind!” cried Pam, who understood perfectly the
reason why Sophy did not want Don to come. She, for her own part, was
anxious to get used to being alone at Ripple. If her grandfather failed
to come back, she would have to do as best she could until her family
came out from England to live with her, so it was just as well to get
used to things. “We have the dog, and there are two guns in the
sitting-room; that is one each, and I don’t think we need more than
that.”
“If you take my advice you will leave the guns severely alone,” broke in
the Doctor hastily. “There is nothing so dangerous as fire-arms in the
hands of people who know nothing about them. We don’t want any more
tragedies in the neighbourhood just now.”
“Keep your mind easy, Dad,” said Sophy with a laugh. “The guns are here
right enough, but so far as I have been able to find there is not a dust
of powder or any shot on the place.”
“Hush, don’t talk of it!” cried Pam, holding up her finger in warning.
“All the time no one knows that we have no ammunition the guns will
serve their purpose. If we pointed the things full at any intruder he
would be properly scared, of course, and we should be in no danger, so
it would be quite right.”
“You will do!” said the Doctor heartily, patting Pam on the shoulder as
if she were a little schoolgirl. “Now I must go, but I will look along
to-morrow and let you know how Sam Buckle is getting on. Have you got
enough clothes, Sophy, or would you like Don to bring some over for you
this evening?”
“I have nothing but what I have on, and this is my best frock,” she
answered in a rueful tone, for her best frocks had to last a long time,
and this was only about the third time of wearing that one. “I would
spend the time I am here in helping Pam to clean this house down—very
needful work, too—but what can one do in a best frock?”
“I will ask your mother to put some things in a bag for you, then Don
shall ride over with them,” said the Doctor, who was in a hurry to mount
and ride away, for he was needed in another direction.
“Sophy, I am haunted by the thought that poor Grandfather may have met
with an accident somewhere out in the woods or the fields,” said Pam
when the last echoes of the Doctor’s horse had died away. “Could we not
go and look to see if we can find him?”
“We might, but it would be awkward if he came back while we were away,”
answered Sophy.
“We will leave a paper here on the table to say that we have gone to
look for him, and we can shut the dog indoors to take care of the
place.” Pam had rummaged a pencil and a piece of paper from her bag, and
writing her message, she left it lying in a prominent place on the
table, with a blue mug standing on the edge of the paper to keep it from
being blown away by any draught from the door. The dog was coaxed in and
left to guard the place, and then the two set forth on their quest.
Sophy had never been at Ripple before. Pam also was a stranger in a
sense, and yet she knew so much more of the place from hearsay as to
seem quite at home.
“We will go right round the cleared land first,” she said to Sophy, who
had naturally fallen into the second place and was following Pam’s lead.
“There does not seem to be much cleared land,” Sophy remarked, gazing
round at the crowding forest trees. Here and there a little field had
been made, but even in these great stumps were still standing.
“We will go round all the fields first, and then we will search in the
forest.” A little sob came up in Pam’s throat as she added: “I must find
him somehow, the poor lonely old man!”
CHAPTER VI
Where has He Gone?
It was quite late in the afternoon when the two girls reached the house
again. They were both of them tired out, for the day was fiercely hot.
They had come upon no trace of the old man, but of one thing they had
made quite certain: he was not lying in a dying or dead condition in any
of his fields, which was, as Pam said, a comfort of a sort.
They heard the dog barking wildly as they reached the house, and a man
was turning away from the door as if he had been trying to get admission
and had failed.
“Who is that?” cried Pam. At the first sight of the man she had jumped
to the conclusion that it was her grandfather, but a second glance had
shown her that this man was young, or comparatively young.
“It is Mose Paget,” Sophy whispered hurriedly, and there was so much
disapproval in her tone that Pam gathered the arrival was something of a
detrimental. And indeed he looked it, from the torn brim of his
weather-beaten hat to the burst boots on his feet.
“Good afternoon!” said Pam politely. She would have supposed the man to
be a tramp, only her companion knew his name, and so far as she knew
tramps had no names, or if they had no one knew them. To her surprise
the man swept off his ragged hat with a flourish, and he spoke like an
educated man when he returned her greeting, and asked if Mr. Wrack
Peveril was at home.
Pam’s face clouded. She had hoped that the man had come to give her news
of her grandfather, and here he was asking where he was, just like all
the other folks! She would have poured out the story of their long
search that afternoon, only Sophy’s hand dropped with a warning touch on
her arm, and instead of being confidential she merely said:
“I do not think that he has come back yet. If you will wait a moment I
will go into the house and see.”
The man nodded, then leaned against the fence very much at his ease,
while Pam, with Sophy at her side, walked to the door of the house and
opened it. With a howl of rage the dog burst out, but seeing it was the
two girls who were there the creature at once mended its manners, the
growls died in its throat, and it came to fawn upon them with every
appearance of joyfulness. Then, catching sight of the shabby figure
leaning on the fence, it began growling again, and would have dashed
away to do the man a serious injury, only Pam caught it round its neck
and held it fast.
One glance into the room showed her that it was just as they had left
it. The paper still lay on the table. No one had been there, and the old
man had not returned.
“My grandfather has not come home yet. Is there any message you would
like to leave for him?” she asked, raising her voice a little so that it
might reach the man who leaned against the fence. The dog still
struggled in her grasp, being plainly anxious to rend the man if only it
could reach him.
“Well, no, I can’t say that I have,” he answered. As he spoke he drew
himself erect from his leaning posture, and there was so much relief in
his face that both girls noticed it and wondered. “Perhaps I shall meet
him at The Corner in a day or two, or I may be round this way again
soon. It ain’t no sort of consequence. Good afternoon!”
“Didn’t you think he seemed very glad to find that Grandfather was not
at home?” said Pam, turning to Sophy as the retreating figure of Mose
Paget was hid by the winding of the trail. She was still gripping the
dog, and that sagacious beast was being nearly choked with its own
growls. Plainly the man did not appeal to the dog, or perhaps the wise
animal had some past grudge against him.
“Yes, I think that his wanting to see Mr. Peveril was only an excuse. It
was a good thing we left the dog shut in the house, or we might have
found the place had been ransacked while we were away. Mose Paget has
not much of a reputation, though folks do say he is very kind to his
half-brother, Reggie Furness.”
“A man would have to be very bad indeed if he had no good points,”
remarked Pam, as the two turned into the house. Then she asked: “Do you
suppose that there would be anything here worth stealing?”
“Not by the look of the place,” said Sophy, gazing round the wide, bare
room. The solid furniture was mostly home-made, very clumsy, and only
worth firewood price, which in that part of the world would not be worth
consideration. Of household plenishing of the more movable sort, such as
plate, glass, and cutlery, there was almost nothing; in fact, it was the
most hopeless wilderness, from the point of view of a burglar, that
could be imagined. “But Mose Paget might have heard that your
grandfather was not at home, and so just happened round to see if there
were any money to be picked up. When a man lives in the fashion Mr.
Peveril has done people are apt to think that there must be money hidden
somewhere close at hand, and to be had for the finding; and it is these
people who find it almost impossible to believe that it is poverty and
not miserliness which accounts for the barren look of things.”
Pam nodded, and was conscious of some secret sinking of heart. Sophy had
spoken of the old man’s poverty by way of reassuring Pam, who might have
been afraid to be compelled to guard the secret hoards of a miser.
Besides, everyone believed that Wrack Peveril was very poor, and even in
the wilderness people can make a very fair guess at the business of
their neighbours. If Pam’s grandfather were so poor, it would be madly
impracticable for her mother to give up the London boarding-house and
come to the old home in New Brunswick. But Pam was longing for her
family, and feeling that she could never be really happy while the wide
Atlantic rolled between herself and them.
The two girls did the evening “chores” between them, only to-night it
was Pam who sat on the stool and milked the cow under the able tuition
of Sophy, whose best frock was still the barrier to happiness in work.
Pam had to learn, however, and there was no time like the present, for
without doubt Sophy was a more patient teacher than the old man would be
when he came back; and Pam made up her mind to imbibe as much
information as was possible in the time. The pigs and the poultry had
fed themselves with the harvest of field and forest, but they had to be
shut up because of the nocturnal marauders, to whom a chicken, or even a
small porker, would not come amiss.
“We are all farmers more or less,” exclaimed Sophy, when Pam openly
wondered at her cleverness and the extent of her knowledge. “That is to
say, there is land under cultivation round most of the houses; and so we
all grow our own milk and butter, and rear our own pigs and poultry.”
“I feel so dreadfully ignorant now that I am here, for the sort of
knowledge I possess seems of no use at all,” said Pam, who had even to
be instructed in the art of lighting a fire with a back stick.[1] She
had never seen a cooking-stove of such a pattern before, and she would
have been very much at a loss in her new surroundings had it not been
for Sophy.
“You will soon pick up the ways of daily living that are most suited to
this part of the world,” Sophy said in a comforting tone. Then the two
proceeded to set supper. The food left over from the surprise party
would keep them supplied with provisions for several days to come, which
was just as well, for a house more bare of things to eat it would be
hard to imagine. There was no tea, no coffee, only a little dust of
sugar screwed up in a grimy paper bag, and a little meal in a tub. Pam
was ready to cry, thinking that her grandfather must have been on the
brink of starvation. Sophy reminded her of the cow, and pointed out
that, supposing he lived on new milk, with meal porridge, he would be
even better nourished than people who had tea, coffee, and all sorts of
groceries.
“Poor old man!” wailed Pam, as she inspected that bare house, “I feel as
if I could nearly break my heart over him. But if he comes back, and is
fearfully hard to live with, then I shall feel like breaking it from
another standpoint altogether.”
“Just so; and neither way will do any good, so it is much better to keep
cheerful,” said Sophy, who was of a very literal turn of mind. “Here
comes Don with some garments for me. Shall we ask him to stay for
supper, or do you think your grandfather would object?”
“Time enough to think about that when the dear old man shows up;
meanwhile we could not be so inhuman as to let anyone go away unfed.
Bring your brother in, and we will feed him on chicken pie and spiced
cake. What a good thing it is for me that the surprise party had such
liberal ideas with regard to food!” Pam whisked round to find another
plate as she spoke, but she left Sophy to go and invite the visitor in
to supper.
Don was looking very serious. He muttered to Sophy in that moment of
meeting that it was to be hoped old Wrack Peveril would not turn up in
the township just now, for the people were ready to rise and slay him,
because of the manner in which Sam Buckle had been knocked about.
“But they are not sure, are they, that Mr. Peveril did it?” gasped
Sophy, with a quick backward glance to make certain that Pam was nowhere
within earshot.
Don shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Who else was there to do it? The two were known to be at enmity. Sam
Buckle keeps muttering that it was his right, and everyone knows he
always declared it was his right to put a fence just there.”
“Sam Buckle is such a disagreeable old man that I cannot feel he is
worth much pity,” remarked Sophy with a scornful tilt of her nose, as
she laid her hand on the bag of clothes which her brother had brought
for her.
“I don’t feel any for him,” said Don quickly, “nor for old Wrack either;
the pair are about as amiable as a couple of old bull moose, and there
is nothing for it but to let them fight to a finish, that I can see. The
one that I am sorry for is that nice little girl in yonder, and whatever
her mother could have been thinking about to let her come so far with no
one to take care of her is more than I can imagine.”
“Oh, Pam can take care of herself, don’t you fret! She might be a
Canadian by the way she takes hold of life, and she does not seem to be
afraid of anything except the old mother-pig, and anyone might be
forgiven for being a bit scared at facing her, she looks so very
fierce.” Sophy was leading the way into the house as she spoke, and
looking back over her shoulder at her brother. She did not remember
having seen Don look so grave before, but she decided that gravity
certainly became him, for it gave him a dignity which was quite new to
him.
They were very merry at supper that night, despite the cloud which
overhung the house. Sophy had carried her bag upstairs, and had slipped
into a working frock. With her mind at ease about her clothes her
spirits had mounted at once. She made little jokes, and went off into
bursts of laughter about anything or nothing in a fashion which proved
so infectious that the other two were speedily laughing also.
Directly supper was over Don rose to go. Not having been in bed on the
previous night, and having been hard at work all day, he was so sleepy
that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Sophy would have besought him
to lie down on the settle in the living-room and have his sleep out
there, but she was so concerned that her mother should not be alone
another night that she would not even suggest his remaining at Ripple.
“Where are you two going to sleep to-night?” he asked, just as he was
going to mount his horse.
“In one of the upstairs rooms. We have had the bed out in the sun all
day,” said Sophy, and there was in her mind a swift wonder at his
concern.
“That is right. Look here, sis, if there is a bolt to the stairs door,
mind you shoot it when you go upstairs, and don’t come down in the night
whatever you may hear. I’m not afraid that anyone would harm either of
you—if you keep out of the way, that is. But I should not be surprised
if someone tried a bit of burgling on here, for there are plenty of
people silly enough to think that old Wrack was a miser, and not so
bed-rock poor as he looked.”
“We won’t come down, I promise you,” said Sophy. Then she added, with a
merry laugh: “Not even if another surprise party happens along this way,
and dances all night to the strains of a cornet and flute. Oh, I say,
wouldn’t it be weird!”
“I should think it would,” replied Don, and bothered though he was by
the lonely condition of the two, he could not forbear a chuckle of
amusement at the fancy picture his sister had called up. “Mose Paget is
the only man that can play the cornet in the township that I know of,
and he is going to help Mrs. Buckle with Sam to-night.”
It was very weird and still at Ripple when Don had ridden away. The
darkness dropped over the forest like a pall. It was cloudy to-night,
and the young moon had no chance at all against the billowy masses of
cloud that were piled along the horizon. It would rain before morning,
so Sophy said. If the weather broke it might even be dull and stormy for
a week or more, and she sighed, because she loved fine weather so much
the best. Pam sighed too, and her face was a little white and drawn when
she dropped the heavy bar of ironwood into the socket at the side of the
door. Sophy had told her that the nearest house was three miles away,
and she was trying to picture the situation. Brought up in London,
taught from her childhood to understand that there were bristling
dangers all around her, the solitude of Ripple seemed to put her almost
outside the world. She argued that if there were no people there could
be no danger, and then was surprised because she was scared at the
solitude.
The dog had attached itself to her with slavish devotion. The creature
accorded Sophy a bare tolerance, but there was perfect worship in the
gaze it turned on Pam, and she was tremendously flattered by its
preference. It even wanted to come up to bed with her that night when,
soon after Don had gone, they betook themselves to the upstairs room
where they intended to sleep. They humoured the animal, feeling that it
would really be a comfort to have it upstairs with them, and they did
not forget to bolt the door at the bottom of the stairs when they shut
it.
They were so tired that the night passed for both of them in dreamless
slumber, and they did not rouse until the dog woke them by whining to be
let out. It was Pam who, with a dressing-gown round her, came down to
open the house door that the creature might go free. She stood on the
doorstep for a moment sniffing the freshness and drinking in the beauty
of the morning. There was a chill in the air which made her shiver, for
the dressing-gown was thin and the sun was not up yet. It was the
magical beauty of the forest that was drawing her, the call of the wild
that was in her blood.
“I love it, I love it, I would not go back to England if I could!” she
whispered as she turned into the house again to go upstairs and dress.
Then it suddenly occurred to her to wonder what would happen if her
grandfather failed to return. “It is silly even to think of such a
thing. Of course he will come back!” she murmured as she went upstairs;
but she could not repress a little shiver, for the possibility would
haunt her despite her efforts to banish it.
The morning “chores” were done, breakfast was out of the way, and Sophy
was discussing with Pam what was the most necessary bit of work for them
to start that morning, when the Doctor rode up, and they both ran out to
greet him. The dog growled languidly. There had been so many people at
Ripple in the last two days that the creature plainly felt it was too
much fag to growl at everyone and so was indifferent about the business,
although when an arrival was a once-a-week or once-a-fortnight event it
had been ready to tear the new-comer to pieces.
“How is Mr. Buckle?” demanded Pam, giving Sophy no time to do the
asking, but shouting the question as she ran.
“He died at midnight,” replied the Doctor briefly, and Pam flung up her
hands in horror and consternation at the news. Of course she knew
yesterday that the poor man was very ill, but she had never thought that
he was going to die. Oh, it was too dreadful! Suppose her grandfather
really had hurt him, then the poor old man would not be able to come
home now, but would have to be a wanderer always, hiding from the
punishment which would await him if he were found.
“Father, you should not have told her so suddenly!” cried Sophy with
acute reproach in her tone as Pam turned and clung to her.
“So it seems,” replied the Doctor, as he slid from his horse and came to
help in the restoration of Pam. “But there are some things that do not
improve by keeping, and this is one of them. Miss Walsh, you have need
of every atom of courage you possess. I think you are made of good
stuff, and you have got to rise to the occasion somehow.”
“I will if I can!” whispered Pam, but she was white to the lips, and
there was such dismay in her heart that she was ready to sink with the
pain of it all.
“It is all very well to tell her to be brave, but think of the shock for
the poor girl! Why, I feel downright bad myself, and I am only an
outsider. Poor Pam! Whatever will become of her? Will she have to turn
round and go back to England?” Sophy was firing out a stream of
questions, for she was tremendously excited. Nothing like this had ever
come her way before, and she was a little thrown off her balance by it.
“I can’t go back to England, I have not money enough, and Mother cannot
afford to send me any either,” said Pam, recovering herself a little.
Then drawing away from Sophy she stood erect, though she was still white
and trembling. “I shall stay here and make the best of it!” she
declared.
“That is right!” The Doctor’s voice had such a ring of approval in it
that Pam began at once to feel better. “Nothing is proved against Mr.
Peveril, of course,” the Doctor went on. “He might not even have been
suspected of having hurt Sam Buckle but for his unaccountable absence.
As it is, people are disposed to think the very worst of him, and yet he
may be as innocent as you or I.”
“I believe he is. I cannot think that he would hurt anyone,” murmured
Pam, and the Doctor shook his head, but whether in agreement or dissent
did not appear.
“Will Pam have to live on here alone? Will she have to run the farm?”
demanded Sophy in a blaze of excitement. She was wondering whatever the
city girl would do alone in the wilderness with winter coming on.
For a moment the Doctor looked from one girl to the other as if he was
making up his mind, and then he spoke with brisk decision.
“No, she certainly cannot live alone; it is not to be thought of. You
will have to stay with her until some of her own people can come out to
her, or until she can find someone she likes better—that is, always
supposing her grandfather makes no sign.”
“I shall love to have Sophy with me, but I am afraid it is more than I
have any right to expect,” said Pam, striving to speak steadily. “I am
such an absolute stranger, and she has been so good to me.”
“We have to be good to each other out here in the backwoods, or we
should certainly get left every time there is trouble,” the Doctor
replied. He went on in a lighter tone: “You need not worry overmuch
about keeping Sophy. She is going to be married in the spring, and she
has mountains of sewing to do. At home she will never get time for it;
here she may.”
“Oh, and she never told me!” cried Pam, looking with new interest at
Sophy, whose face was covered with blushes, and a sight to see.
“Did she not? I thought girls always told such things,” said Doctor
Grierson with a glance of pride at his eldest daughter. Sophy had always
been his right hand ever since she had been old enough to do anything at
all. It was a piece of real self-sacrifice to spare her to stay with Pam
at Ripple, but the plight of the stranger girl was so serious that he
did not hesitate for a moment as to where his duty lay. He rode away in
a great hurry as usual, and when he had gone Pam for a time broke down
and cried.
Sophy, with rare wisdom, crept away and left her alone to have her cry
out. A moaning wind swept through the trees and sighed away in the
distance. Pam sobbed on until she had no more tears to shed, then she
gathered her courage to face what lay before her. She realized that she
was up against the hardest thing she had ever faced in her life; and she
was going to meet it boldly if she could. Her courage might feel like
water, but other people must not know it. For the sake of her
grandfather, who had so mysteriously disappeared, she must stay on at
Ripple and do her best. The thought of running a farm tickled her so
much that her tears were dry, and she was laughing when Sophy crept back
to see how it was with her.
“Well, you are a queer girl!” she exclaimed, and her opinion of Pam went
up by leaps and bounds.
-----
[1] A “back stick” is a fair-sized log of hard wood which is slow in
burning. It is lit in the stove of a Canadian house at bedtime, and
smoulders through the night, so that in the morning a fire may easily
enough be kindled from it.
CHAPTER VII
Searching
Days passed. The police came and went. Indeed, they might be said to
haunt Ripple at this time. The dog grew so used to strange faces and
visitors at all hours that it took no notice of them at all. It was
tired, too. Morning, noon, and night Pam was searching for some trace of
the old man whom she had come so far to live with, and yet had never
seen; and where she went the dog went too. It was a dead body she was
looking for now, and she had tramped the fields until she knew the land
literally foot by foot. Then she penetrated into the forest, going very
warily at first, for she had all a city girl’s dread of the unknown, and
who could tell what terrors might lurk unseen beneath the brambles and
the undergrowth?
She did not find anything. Sometimes the dog would stop suddenly, and
lifting its head, would howl in a manner calculated to make the warm
blood in her veins turn cold, for she believed herself on the brink of a
find; but always there was nothing.
While Pam was away searching, Sophy sat in the house and sewed. She was
to be married in the spring, as her father had said, and she had her own
ideas as to the amount of plenishing it was proper to take with her to
her husband. At home she was harassed and hurried between her duty and
her inclination. Here there was no duty to harass her, and she felt as
if she was having the best holiday she had known for years. Every
morning after the “chores” were done she and Pam cleaned a room; when
that was finished, Sophy sat down to her sewing, and Pam started out to
search. The house was beginning to look different already, and it had
lost the odour of exceeding fustiness which had struck them both on the
night of the surprise party.
Then the inevitable happened, and Pam lost her way in the forest one
day. She walked on and on, realizing that she was getting more
hopelessly bewildered every minute. Suddenly she remembered the dog, and
catching the creature round the neck, she told it all about her
difficulty, winding up by telling it in the most forcible language she
possessed to take her home.
“Woof! woof! woo-o-o-h!” The dog flung up its head and howled in such a
fearfully dismal fashion that Pam gave an involuntary cry.
“You must not make such an awful row, I simply cannot bear it!” she
exclaimed, seizing the creature round the neck and giving it a great
hug. “We are in trouble, both of us, but you must learn to keep yours to
yourself a bit, my friend; this sort of thing is past bearing. Now, take
me home, dear, and make haste about it, or Sophy will certainly have a
fit.”
The animal gave a short bark as if perfectly understanding what was
required of it, then started off along a cross-trail, going at a
businesslike trot, but looking round every few minutes as if to make
sure that Pam was following all right. The trail turned suddenly through
a belt of beechwood thick with foliage into a bare and desolate region,
which made Pam cry out in amazement. As far as she could see the forest
had been burned. Even the ground appeared to have been charred, and
there was hardly a vestige of green to be seen anywhere. The mighty
trunks had been the sport of the winter tempests since being ravaged by
fire, and here and there they were blown into heaps of gigantic
confusion. They lay in piles, or were bunched together in groups, while
heaps of cinders and charred fragments lay in all directions. The dog
went steadily on through this desolate region, and Pam saw that the
creature was following a well-defined trail. She was beginning to wonder
where she would find herself by and by, when her guide turned short
round into the living forest once more, the trail grew broader and
broader, and suddenly she was in a little clearing where there was a
long, low, brown house in front of her, and just beyond the shimmering
waters of the creek.
“Oh, how pretty!” she murmured to herself, for the autumn sunshine fell
full on the water, while a little wind was ruffling the surface, making
it catch a thousand sparkles that seemed to light the woodland and the
strip of brown field through which it ran.
An elderly woman came to the door of the house, and seeing Pam and the
dog, beckoned her to come nearer. Pam went at once, needing no second
invitation, for she was very anxious to know where she was, and how long
it would take her to reach home again. But the dog was growling and
growling, while a ridge of hair bristled erect along its spine.
“There, there, mend your manners, can’t you? Don’t you see that the lady
is a friend?” cried Pam, catching at the old strap which the dog wore
round its neck by way of a collar, for she was afraid that it was going
to fly at the woman who was smiling in such friendly welcome.
“Now, say, ain’t that Wrack Peveril’s dog? And I do believe you must be
his granddaughter! My dear, I do take it kind that you should have come
to see me so soon. Come in, come in, and don’t take no notice of the dog
growling. Because men fall out is no reason why women should be at
enmity, and it is glad I am to see you, my dear!”
Pam suddenly began to tremble, tried to speak and could not, then,
giving herself a shake, gasped out, “Are you Mrs. Buckle?”
“Why, yes, my dear, of course. Didn’t you know, and hadn’t you come to
see me?” There was so much disappointment in the woman’s face and manner
that Pam hastened to soothe her.
“I would have come before if I had had the faintest idea that you would
care to see me, but I naturally supposed that I was the very last person
you would want to have for a visitor.” To her exceeding dismay Pam found
herself on the verge of tears. It was dreadful to think that she should
have blundered into the presence of the woman whom of all others she
would have chosen to avoid.
“I should have come to Ripple myself to see you,” said Mrs. Buckle,
shaking hands with Pam in the friendliest fashion imaginable, and then
leading her into the house, and literally forcing her to sit in the big
cushioned chair that stood between the window and the stove. “But, you
see, the trouble is I haven’t got my widow’s bonnet made yet, and it
would not be honouring to poor Sam’s memory for me to go paying calls in
a hat with a blue feather, which is all the outdoor wear I’ve got at the
present. I went to the funeral in Mrs. O’Rafferty’s bonnet, a dreadfully
shabby affair, as you may guess, for her man has been gone nearly two
years, and she was never good at taking care of things. She is not too
clean either, and I did not fancy wearing her bonnet, I can tell you.
Miss Johnson, the milliner at The Corner, was quite out of widows’
crape—that is, the sort with the big tear-drops, you know—so I had to
wait until she had got a fresh lot in from St. John.”
“It was very kind of you to think of coming in to see me!” murmured Pam,
when Mrs. Buckle paused for want of breath. “I am so very, very sorry
for the trouble you have had, but I cannot think that my grandfather, an
old man himself, would have knocked Mr. Buckle about so cruelly.”
“Ah, you never knew my poor Sam!” cried Mrs. Buckle, shaking her head,
as she wiped away a tear to her husband’s memory. “He was the most
aggravating man that ever was, and I ought to know, seeing that I bore
with his infirmity for hard on twenty-nine years. And, my dear, if your
grandfather didn’t do it, poor man, why should his axe, with his name
branded on the handle, have been found lying on the ground close to the
broken fence?”
“Was it found there?” breathed Pam in a cold horror, and from that
moment the iron of a deep humiliation and disgrace entered into her very
soul.
“Why, yes. Didn’t they tell you?” asked Mrs. Buckle. “But, there! I
expect they kept it back just to spare your feelings, poor child!” The
kindly woman came nearer as she spoke, and her work-worn hand dropped in
a consoling fashion on to Pam’s arm. “But you must not blame the poor
old man too much, for doubtless he was angered past bearing. Everyone
knew that he had a violent temper, and he would be deaf and blind to the
consequences when once he began to lay on. It is well when people learn
to restrain themselves when they are young, for when they have come to
years they lose control over their passions. I wish your grandfather had
stayed to face the music, though. I am sure that the inquiry would have
brought in that there were extenuating circumstances, and so he would
have got off lighter. Now, he will have to face the very worst when they
find him.”
“Oh, I do not think they will find him alive; it is his dead body that I
am looking for!” said Pam, and her voice was sharp with pain.
Mrs. Buckle shook her head.
“You did not know your grandfather, and so you think of him as a feeble
old man; but he was not, he was strong and vigorous. I saw him once
knock Sam down as clean as if he were bowling a ninepin over, and I did
not pity Sam either, for that time, at least, I knew very well he
deserved all he got. From my heart I pity your grandfather now; it is
cruel hard that a man at his time of life should have to be a wanderer.”
“Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!” wailed Pam, hiding her face in her
hands. The trouble had been bearable when she thought of her grandfather
as dead, for then he at least would have been beyond the reach of hunger
and cold; but if he had done this terrible thing of beating a fellow-man
to death, and was forced by his crime to be a fugitive from justice, how
the poor old man would suffer! She would never be at peace now, but
would always be looking for him to come stealing back to his home for
money, for food, and for shelter.
“Child, you must not take on like that!” said Mrs. Buckle, whose own
tears were falling like rain. “You have just got to be bright and brave,
and to keep your end up as best you can. It is hard lines for you to be
pitchforked into a trouble of this sort, but just figure to yourself how
much worse it would have been for the poor old man if you had not been
at Ripple just now. The place would have been in the hands of strangers;
there would have been no one to look after his interests or to keep the
place going. Now he will most likely come creeping back some stormy
night this fall, for he will want money to help him get clear away from
parts where he is known. You must keep some handy for him when he comes.
Have you got any?”
“Only a few shillings—I mean, dollars,” replied Pam, who had constantly
to remind herself of the difference in currency.
“I thought as much!” muttered Mrs. Buckle. Telling Pam to sit still a
minute, she went away to an inner room, whence she returned a minute
later to thrust a bundle of dirty-looking papers into the girl’s hand.
“Take that, my dear, it is only twenty dollars, but it is all I have to
spare; and it may make the difference for him between starvation and
security, for he is a man that can do with very little, from having
lived alone so long.”
“But I cannot take your money, yours of all people’s, to help my
grandfather!” protested Pam, in a voice of awe, and she looked up at the
kindly old woman, trying to thrust back the little bundle of paper
money.
But Mrs. Buckle was obdurate.
“You must take it, please, my dear,” she insisted. “It is my right to
spare myself what suffering I can, for I have had enough to bear. I feel
that it would be the last straw to my endurance if the police were to
find your grandfather, and all that old trouble had to be raked up in a
court of justice. It is not likely I have many more years to live, and
they might as well be peaceful years, but I should never know another
happy hour if your grandfather were put in prison for wounding my
husband. I’ve no doubt that poor Sam’s aggravating ways were a sort of
infirmity, like a hare-lip or a crooked back, and I would rather leave
the punishment of the man who did him to death in the hands of Almighty
God; so you will please take the money and say no more about it. Only
you must keep it in a place where the poor old man can get it himself if
he happens along when there is no one about; for he may break into his
own house, don’t you see, because he won’t know how we feel about his
escaping.”
“The desk in his bedroom is locked,” said Pam faintly. She could protest
no more, and taking the roll of notes, she thrust it for security into
the front of her blouse.
“Try if you have got a key that will open it,” said Mrs. Buckle, who was
plainly a person of resource. “If not, perhaps I can pick it for you as
soon as I get my bonnet and can come to pay a call. Oh, it wouldn’t be
the first lock I have picked by a good many. When a woman has a husband
who keeps her as short as my man kept me, she is apt to do things that
won’t bear daylight; but he is dead now, and his faults ain’t going to
be talked about except in the way of stopping other people from having
to suffer for them. You are a dear good girl for coming to see me; it
has done me a power of good to have you to talk to. I feel better than I
have done since Sam was taken.”
“It is very sweet of you to feel like this, Mrs. Buckle, and I thank you
for myself and for my mother. But oh, I wish that I had some way of
repaying you for your kindness to us!” Pam’s eyes were wet with tears as
she leaned forward and warmly kissed Mrs. Buckle’s cheek.
“There is something that perhaps you may be able to do for me if you
have a mind,” said Mrs. Buckle slowly.
“Oh, tell me, please, what it is, and I will so gladly do it if it is in
my power.” Pam was thinking how she must in her own person expiate what
she could of her grandfather’s wrong-doing. She could not bring Sam back
to life again, but she might be able to do some service for the widow.
Mrs. Buckle hesitated. She was not a woman of fine feeling, and yet she
hated to tell this nice girl, with the straightforward, fearless gaze,
that the old man, her grandfather, was a thief. Yet there it was, and
although she might soften it down, the ugly fact remained the same.
Nervously she cleared her throat, and a hot flush crept over her kindly
old face as she burst into speech.
“Sam was found with his pockets cleared out. Some money he had on him, I
know, but whether it was much or little I can’t say, and of course I
shan’t ever know now; but what upset me more than the loss of the money
was that poor Sam’s watch had been taken. A good watch it was, and it
had belonged to my father, who gave it to Sam when he died. My word, but
I did value that watch! Of course I’m not saying that your grandfather
took it for the sake of stealing from the man he’d hurt so badly, but I
think perhaps, when he found that he had knocked the sense out of Sam,
he just took the money and the watch to make it look as if the whole
thing had been done by someone for the sake of stealing. If your
grandfather comes creeping back some night, and you see him, I want you
to ask him to give you back the watch. Tell him from me that he can keep
the money and welcome, for it is sorely he will need it, poor man, if he
has got to be a wanderer all through this bitter wintertime that lies
before us.”
“I will tell him, Mrs. Buckle; I will be sure not to forget,” answered
Pam, her eyes shining with earnestness. “But oh, since you have told me
of the robbery, I am quite sure that Grandfather did not do that. You
see, my mother has told us so much about Grandfather, and what an
upright man he was; hard and difficult to live with, but straight as a
die. I can understand that he might have quarrelled with Mr. Buckle, and
in the heat of anger might have beaten and injured him, but I am not
going to believe that Grandfather stole the money and the watch. Someone
must have come along afterwards and done that. Oh, what a fearful
business it is!”
“You are right, my dear; it is a fearful thing, and no mistake about
it!” cried Mrs. Buckle, following Pam to the door. Then she exclaimed
sharply, “Why, whatever are you hanging round here for, Mose Paget?” and
Pam saw the untidy figure of the man whom she had once taken for a tramp
leaning against the angle of the house. He was white and trembling, and
she was sorry that Mrs. Buckle felt it necessary to speak so harshly to
him.
“I’m bad!” the man said briefly. “I was working in my creek-lot when I
was took queer, so I came up here to see if you had anything you could
give me, something to stop the pain,” and he pointed vaguely at his
chest as if to indicate the seat of the trouble.
“Come straight in and sit down!” cried the widow heartily. “I wouldn’t
turn a sick dog from my door, and certainly I would not turn you away,
seeing how you helped me when my husband lay dying. I expect it is colic
that you have got, and I’ve a fine remedy for that, though it is a bit
nasty. No, Miss Walsh, you need not trouble to stop, for I do just know
that you are wanting to get away home. I have got Amanda Higgins here if
I want anyone; she is away down in the corner lot picking berries, and I
shall just whistle for her if I want her.”
Pam was glad to go. Mrs. Buckle had shown her the right trail to take,
telling her that she could make no mistake; nor did she, for, crossing
the creek on the log footbridge at the ford, she passed the fence which
had been the cause of all the trouble between her grandfather and Sam
Buckle, and was at once on their own land at Ripple.
Mrs. Buckle’s account of her grandfather’s axe having been found close
beside the injured man had been a great shock to Pam. She had refused to
let herself believe that her grandfather would hurt anyone so badly and
then disappear, and not a word had been said in her presence of the axe.
But when Mrs. Buckle had spoken of the robbery, a gleam of comfort had
stolen into her heart again. She was quite, quite sure that her
grandfather would not steal money and a watch. Disagreeable he was, and
so hard to live with that her mother had been glad to run away from him;
but he was bed-rock honest. He owed no man anything, and would rather
have lived on buckwheat porridge all the time than run up an account at
the store for groceries for which he could not pay. Perhaps he was
entirely innocent of this thing, although it did look so black against
him. But where was he hiding? And if he had done nothing to be ashamed
of, why was he hiding?
These questions, which she could not answer, brought Pam back to her old
theory of something having happened to him, and she reached the house at
Ripple thoroughly tired out with her search, but with courage unabated
to go on again. She told Sophy of her visit to Mrs. Buckle, and how that
kindly woman had given her money to supply her grandfather’s need if the
poor fugitive should come back; and Sophy dropped her sewing, and sat
with parted lips, staring at Pam as she listened to the extraordinary
story.
“Just to think of it! Why, Pam, Sam Buckle must have been a tyrant if
his widow can feel so kindly to the man who is believed to have caused
his death! If I thought all men were like that I should change my mind
about getting married. But I know that George is good and kind.”
“People are not all alike, of course,” said Pam, as she leaned back in
the big chair and fanned herself with her hat, for the day was hot. “I
think that even the very disagreeable ones would not be so bad if they
were properly handled. Take Grandfather, for instance. I know he was
hard to live with, but half of his disagreeableness came because he was
so upset at Mother wanting to marry Father, who was not particularly
hard-working, and I am afraid not too steady. Mother was wayward, she
would have her own way, but ah, how bitterly she has had to pay!” Pam
sighed as visions of her childhood rose up before her eyes.
Sophy nodded in perfect sympathy, but she asked no questions about those
old, sad memories. Pam’s past did not concern her, so why be curious
about it? Her needle went in and out of the white seam with such
soothing regularity, and the house in the forest was so quiet, that
presently Pam fell fast asleep, curled up in the big chair with the
tired dog at her feet.
CHAPTER VIII
The First Snow
Pam had been five weeks at Ripple. She was getting used to the forest
solitude. She was rosy and energetic, keenly resolved to do her very
best to keep the farm going until her grandfather came back or made some
sign. She was more puzzled than ever that he should have gone and never
left one word or sign. It was cruel to her, so she told herself
sometimes, because he knew that she was coming; and what a plight she
would have been in but for the Griersons! Mrs. Grierson, a kindly but
rather dreary woman, had been over once or twice to see the girls at
Ripple, and she had told Pam that Sophy should stay through the winter
with her. It was a solitary place for two girls alone, but farther down
the creek Mrs. Buckle was living with only little Amanda Higgins for
company. There was nothing to be afraid of except solitude, and people
had to get used to that. Pam was getting used to it, and she was so
occupied from morning to night that she had not much time to think about
herself.
The neighbours were kind, although they lived so far away. Galena
Gittins came over regularly every week, and it was she who was
instructing Pam in the mysteries of farmwork. Galena had a shrewd head
on her shoulders, and knew what had to be done and the best way to do
it, so Pam was rigorously put through her paces. She spent laborious
days in the forest with Galena gathering beech-nuts for the pigs, to be
stored against the time when the snow would prevent the creatures
foraging for themselves. She toiled over harvesting the roots that were
still in the fields, and with her own hands dragged the loads on a truck
to the house, where the capacious cellar received them and would keep
them safe from fear of being spoiled by frost. There was not a horse on
the place. Pam had wondered at first how her grandfather had managed
without a beast of burden, but Galena told her that a good many people
who had only a few cleared fields kept no horses, for the keep of the
animals was a big consideration in winter, and it was possible to hire a
man and a team when they were needed for purposes of cultivation.
“I am glad not to have a horse to look after, but it will seem rather
far to walk to The Corner or to Hunt’s Crossing every time I want to
post a letter when the snow comes,” said Pam, who was looking forward to
being snowbound with considerable dread, only she took good care that no
one should know it. She did not choose that these people, to whom the
forest was so well known and familiar, should ever guess how scared she
was at the thought of the long dark nights and the cheerless days which
would have to be faced before the summer came again.
[Illustration: THE DOG AND THE UNKNOWN FURY WERE ROLLING
OVER IN THE DEADLIEST OF COMBATS]
It was not in her nature to give up, and so much hung on her ability to
keep the place going through the winter. If her grandfather did not
return in a year, and if he gave no sign of being alive, it was probable
that the authorities would allow his death to be assumed. Then, in the
event of no will being found, his daughter would naturally take what was
left. It was the future of her mother and the other children that Pam
was guarding, and she was minded to do her very best.
Ah, how home-sick she was for them during those shortening days, while
the forest trees flamed through splendours of crimson and gold to the
brown and russet of dead leaves! But she would not speak of her pain,
she would not even grumble over her misery. It was when she was most
hilarious that Sophy guessed the home-sickness raged the fiercest.
There had been no need for Mrs. Buckle to practise her lock-picking
skill on the desk in Wrack Peveril’s sleeping-chamber. When Pam’s heavy
luggage was brought from Hunt’s Crossing she discovered that the key of
her writing-desk served also to open the desk which the old man had
used. This when opened had not been found to contain much. Some money
there was, but only a little. There was a small heap of letters well
worn with much reading. They were letters from Pam’s mother, and Pam
cried over them more bitterly than she had ever cried before, for they
revealed a side of her home life that she had only faintly guessed at.
Mrs. Walsh had not found her marriage a happy one, and she had poured
out her bitter disappointment and grief to the old man, her father, whom
she had set at naught and run away from in her desperate eagerness to
get her own way.
Those letters did not appear to have been answered. Indeed, almost every
one of them began with a reproach because the old man had not written.
Some of them begged for money to meet some pressing need. The babies had
come so fast, and the needs had been so great.
Pam wondered why the old man had not asked his daughter to come home
again after the death of her husband. But he had not. He had never even
hinted that he would like to see her again. It made Pam shiver to think
of it. She could not imagine being parted for years from her mother
without her mother wanting to see her again. But she was too just to
condemn the old man. Of course there was another side to the question,
her mother’s side. Without doubt Pam gained a greater insight to the
natural laws, the ethics of give and take between parent and child, in
that reading of the letters in her grandfather’s desk, than she would
have done from any other source.
Her grandfather must be found somehow; then, when she had found him, it
must be her work to bring about a reconciliation between him and her
mother. Then her mother must come home. Without doubt the place of Mrs.
Walsh was at Ripple. The children would love the wild free life of the
forest. The boys would grow into strong men here, and if the effort to
get an education was greater, the chances were that they would prize it
more.
It was this planning for the good of her family that kept Pam’s heart
warm in those shortening days of the fall. The mornings grew colder and
colder; the pond behind the barn which drained into the creek was
fringed with ice, and she had to use a long pole to keep a space of open
water for the animals. Later on that would not be possible, and she
would have to melt snow for them in the boiler that was built into the
out-shed which stood between the house and the barn. There was no snow
as yet, but it might come any day now. There would be an end to all
search for the old man when once the land was covered in its winter
mantle, so Pam took advantage of every day when she could spare the time
to take long tramps across the forest in every direction. Don Grierson
had brought her a pocket compass, and armed with this she found her way
back, however hopelessly she might get confused in trying to strike a
trail.
There came a day in early November when the dawn seemed as if it could
not penetrate through the cloud masses that brooded so closely down over
the forest trees. A grey, dreary day, which made Pam more home-sick than
ever, though apparently in the wildest of spirits. She rushed about
between the house and the barn, doing the morning “chores“, and as she
hurried to and fro she sang at the top of her voice, the sound of her
singing having a weird effect on that drear, cold morning.
Luke Dobson, from Hunt’s Crossing, came along about ten o’clock, and
wanted to know what was to be done about the lumber-felling. Her
grandfather had arranged for twenty acres of black spruce to be cut this
fall, and Luke Dobson wanted to know if the work was to be carried
through, or what was to be done in the matter.
“You say that Grandfather had settled price and everything?” asked Pam,
who was so terribly in the dark about business matters that she had to
rely on other people. It was a great comfort to her that this man looked
honest and respectable, and Sophy had told her that he did most of the
lumbering in the district this side of the Ridge.
“No. If the price had been settled and the contract signed there would
have been nothing for me to do but warn you of the transaction, and cut
the lumber at my own convenience,” said Mr. Dobson, who had rather a
bothered air. He did not like having to do business with women, for,
privately, he considered them lacking in common sense; and this one was
only a girl—a girl, moreover, with a skittish look, just for all the
world like a young colt, so he told himself, in severe disapproval of
Pam’s radiant good spirits and smiling face.
“How much did Grandfather want, and how much were you prepared to give?”
asked Pam, who had her own theories on the way to do business.
Mr. Dobson stated the price he was prepared to give and the sum for
which Wrack Peveril had stood out, a matter of only a few dollars in
reality. He was sufficiently straightforward to say that black spruce
was going up in price, and he was willing to make a small advance on his
first offer, if Pam was able to do business with him.
“Oh, I am quite willing to do business,” replied Pam in an airy tone.
Then she dropped suddenly into graver speech, while lines of care showed
on her face. “The trouble is to know what power I have to sell anything
belonging to my grandfather. Supposing I took your offer, and when you
had cut the lumber he came back and objected to the transaction, it
would be out of your power, or mine either, to put the trees back on
their stumps again; and what would be my position?”
Mr. Dobson shook his head and looked dubious, hesitated a minute, then
said rather uneasily:
“I take it that you are here to do your best for the old man, or if he
is dead, for your mother, who is his natural heir. You can leave that
lot of trees standing another year if you would prefer it. But if your
grandfather comes home, and the police get hold of him for the part he
is supposed to have had in the death of Sam Buckle, there will be the
expense of his defence, and all the other things that arise out of an
action at law, and you will be hard put to it perhaps to find ready
money when you most need it. If, on the other hand, he is dead, or is
never heard of again, your mother would agree that you had acted for the
best in selling, and your trees would be hard cash, and safe from any
danger of being destroyed in a forest fire.”
Pam shivered. She was thinking of that awfully desolate region that
spread over so many acres of forest near to where Mrs. Buckle lived. Her
grandfather’s black spruce would not be worth the trouble of lumbering
if a forest fire happened along that way. But she had a cautious streak
in her character, and she knew how dreadfully ignorant she was, so she
said frankly: “I should like to take your offer straight away, but I
think I ought just to ask the advice of someone outside. Dr. Grierson
will be round this way to-day or to-morrow; do you mind letting it stand
over until then?”
“That will suit me very well indeed, and I will wish you good morning,”
said Mr. Dobson, getting to his feet in a great hurry. But Pam had a
question to ask before he went—one that she had been wanting to ask all
the while Luke Dobson had been talking.
“Do you mind telling me where that twenty acres of black spruce is?” she
asked nervously. Of course she ought to know every bit of her
grandfather’s land by this time, and as a matter of fact she had
supposed that she did know it, but puzzle her head as she would she
could not remember any plantation of trees which would be twenty acres
in extent. What a lot of trees there would be on twenty acres of land—a
piece that was twice as big as the cleared field at the back of the
house! Don Grierson had told her that was ten acres—the ten-acre lot he
called it.
“Ah! you would have gone the round of the quarter-section boundary
posts,” said Luke Dobson slowly, and then he turned to a roughly-drawn
map that was nailed to the wall opposite the window and called Pam’s
attention to it. “You see this map, Miss Walsh? Well, this red line is
your grandfather’s boundary.” His broad finger was travelling slowly
round the red line for her benefit, but he paused where a thick black
line crossed the red. “This black line here shows the old tote road.”
“What is a tote road?” demanded Pam.
Luke Dobson rubbed his head in a rueful fashion.
“I don’t know. It has always been called the tote road ever since I can
remember, and I have lived about these parts all my life, but I never
heard anyone ask before.”
“I know!” cried Sophy, looking up from her work. “A tote road is so
called because it is the road along which people ‘tote’ things—that is,
carry them. That road leads straight away through the forest to the
river miles below Hunt’s Crossing. It is rarely used now, but I have
heard some of the old people say that is the way the lumber used to be
carried from these parts to be floated down river to Fredericton.”
“Well now, I shouldn’t wonder but what you are right!” exclaimed Mr.
Dobson, who was fairly amazed at such a reasonable solution of the
mystery.
“What a thing it is to be clever!” cried Pam, and then crossed the room
on purpose to give Sophy a little hug, just to show that she had no
intention of making fun of her.
“Your grandfather bought that lot cheap about fifteen years ago,” said
Luke Dobson, his big finger covering the small red-lined patch on the
farther side of the old tote road. “There was a half-breed lived up
there, a mighty hunter he was too. But he got caught napping one day and
was clawed by a b’ar, died of it, he did too, and his wife—she was a
white woman from St. John—she sold the land at what anyone would give
her for it, and cleared out sharp. They used to live in a bit of a shack
standing on the tote road; I expect it is standing there still, bits of
it, but no one has lived there since.”
“I am sure that I have not been in that direction yet, or I should have
seen the house,” said Pam, who was studying the map with close
attention. It was bewildering to her to get her bearings in the forest,
and she had not hitherto understood the significance of the
roughly-drawn map.
“You had better take a stroll round there before fixing up with me about
lumbering that bit,” Mr. Dobson advised her as he took his leave, and
Pam made up her mind that she would go right away.
The tote road ran on the side of her grandfather’s land farthest away
from the trail to Hunt’s Crossing. It was thick forest in that
direction, and Pam with the dog at her heels had to make her way by a
narrow trail that was really an old game path; but presently she emerged
on a wide avenue running in a straight line east and west, and looking
as if it stretched for miles and miles, as indeed it did. It was fast
being choked with rubbish, brambles and so forth, but it would not take
much trouble to make it fit for traffic once more, and the ground was
solid and level beneath her feet, very different from the mossy, marshy
trails which abounded in these parts.
“So this is the old tote road!” she murmured, as she stood surveying it.
But it was too cold to stand long, and she was anxious to start her
inspection of the lot of black spruce. She had learned all she could
about trees and lumber generally since she had been at Ripple, and her
education was so far advanced that she could tell black spruce when she
saw it, also cedar, ash, maple, birch, and oak. She was wise enough
already to understand that it was a really valuable lot of trees that
stood in serried rows bordering on the old tote road. Sophy had told her
that black spruce was valuable because it was so largely used for pulp
for paper-making. All those long lines of trees at which she was gazing
were potential newspapers, or novels, or perhaps hymn-books. How strange
it was to think that trees could be made into paper, a material that she
in her ignorance had always associated with rags and straw! She laughed
a little as she thought of all the wonders science had wrought, and the
dog at the sound of her voice crept closer to her side, pressing its
head against her knee with a whimper of affection.
She stooped to pat the shaggy head, for the love of the creature was
really precious to her. Suddenly the dog gave a low, savage growl, then
stood with its teeth bared, snarling, while a ridge of hair stood up
along its spine, sure sign indeed of something wrong.
“Have you heard someone about, or is it only a fancy that you have got
in your thick old head?” asked Pam; but although the dog wagged its tail
at the sound of her voice, it began to growl again the next moment, and
then went creeping forward, its teeth still bared, and looking so fierce
and ugly that Pam was more than half-afraid.
Then she caught sight of the angle of a shingled roof, and guessed that
she was close to the half-ruined shack that stood on her grandfather’s
land.
“Did the poor dear see a house, and didn’t the poor dear like it?” she
asked the dog, jumping at once to the conclusion that it was the
nearness to a dwelling-place that made the dog growl. It took no notice
of her this time, but crept forward with great caution, growling so low
down in its throat that it seemed to be swallowing its own voice.
A queer purring noise, such as a very big cat might make, broke on the
ears of Pam. The dog heard it too, and growled more fiercely than
before. Pam had a cold sensation, and her limbs seemed suddenly
paralysed. She lifted one foot by a great effort, took a step forward,
tried to lift the other, failed, and would have fallen, for she trembled
so badly, only she gripped at the slender stem of a young spruce growing
close to the edge of the tote road, and clung to it, quite helpless from
the overmastering terror that had seized upon her.
Without doubt it was that same terror which saved her life. If she had
not been so badly scared she would have moved forward when the dog went.
As it was, she clung to the trunk of the tree, the rough bark bruising
her bare hands, her heart beating so fast that it made her feel
downright sick.
The broken door of the shack was half-open. The dog was close to it now,
creeping and creeping, as if ready for a spring. The purring sound had
dropped to silence, and a minute passed which seemed to Pam as long as
hours. Then came an awful, ear-splitting yell, as a lithe grey creature
hurled itself out from the shattered door like an arrow from a bow
straight at the dog. Pam heard a shriek of pure terror, yet had no idea
that it was herself who had screamed. The dog swerved, the lithe grey
thing hit the ground beside it, and then dog and the unknown fury were
rolling over in the deadliest of combats.
The dog would be killed, Pam was sure of it, and she simply could not
stand by to see her dumb friend done to death. Instead of running away,
which under the circumstances would have been the highest discretion,
she dashed towards the door of the shack, intending to get hold of a
piece of wood which might do for a weapon. She had almost reached the
door when out bounded another creature, sinuous of body, grey of hue,
with a thick head, short ears, and fetid breath that seemed to smite her
like a poison blast as the beast bowled her over in its mad rush to get
away. Pam was somewhat stunned by her fall, for her head struck against
a stump, and she lay where she had been flung, too dazed to rise.
She came to her senses to find a weirdly dishevelled figure helping her
to her feet, a man with a familiar voice, but his face so smothered in
dirt and blood that it was not easy to remember where she had seen him
before. Then she recalled the man whom at the first she had supposed to
be a tramp. He was speaking to her, but she had difficulty in
understanding what he said, for he mumbled so, and his mouth was
bleeding.
“Did the beast claw you? Say, now, did it claw you?” he was asking with
desperate anxiety.
Pam put her hand to her head.
“It was a fearful bang I had where my head struck the tree, but I don’t
think I am hurt anywhere else. But you—oh, what will you do? You are
most fearfully wounded!” she cried, fairly appalled at his condition.
Mose Paget shook his head.
“I have a few scratches where the beast clawed me, but it isn’t worth
talking about. It is lucky, though, that I heard you scream, for it
might have gone hard with you and the dog if I had not been here.”
“Is the dog killed?” cried Pam, starting up to run back to the spot
where the plucky creature had been so mixed up in the fray with the
savage grey animal of the sinuous shape.
Mose stopped her with a gesture.
“No, it isn’t dead, but it is a bit clawed about, and it will be a week
or two before it is fit to walk again, I’m afraid. I am going to carry
it home for you, only I might as well fasten this door, so that those
beasts can’t take shelter here again.”
“What were they?” asked Pam. She was shaking horribly still, and she had
a feeling of nausea that was horrible.
“Canada lynx is their book name, but we call them Indian devils, and the
name fits them to a nicety,” he answered, as he put his head into the
tumbledown shack; but he hastily withdrew it, the odour from the animals
which had found a shelter there being unpleasantly overpowering. “They
are the cutest and wickedest beasts that are found anywhere in the
forests. They are very rare, though, and happily they are getting rarer.
I had an uncle who was so badly clawed by one that he carried the marks
to his grave; fifty years ago that must have been, and I have not heard
of any in this neighbourhood since.”
“I shall be afraid to venture into the forest alone after this,” cried
Pam, and again she shivered violently, feeling deadly sick, and not
understanding that the nausea was almost entirely due to the shock to
her nerves.
“No, you won’t,” Mose contradicted her harshly, then drew the broken
door close and fastened it, so that no wild creature could get inside.
“You won’t see that charming pair again, I’ll be bound. There will be a
score of men out hunting for them directly word goes round that they
have been seen, and it is not likely that you will see another pair if
you live in these parts until you are an old woman.”
“Oh, the poor dog!” cried Pam, as they reached the spot where the animal
lay. It was already feebly trying to lick its wounds—a good sign, Mose
told her, for if it had been mortally wounded it would have lain still
and not troubled at all. He lifted it carefully, as if it had been a
baby, and then went striding back on the way to Ripple, while Pam
stumbled along in the rear. He was bleeding from his numerous hurts, but
would not let her bind him up with her handkerchief, and he stalked on
ahead with the savage dignity which she had always connected with an
Indian chief.
It was beginning to snow, but not with the leisurely falling flakes to
which Pam had been accustomed in England. The air was suddenly full of a
white smother, fine as dust, which, filling eyes and nose and mouth all
at once, set up such a choking and confusion that Pam felt as if she
would be suffocated. The man in front grew into an indistinct blur,
although she was so close to him that by reaching out her hand she could
have gripped his coat. A fear seized her that they would be lost and
would both perish miserably. Her breath was beaten out of her by the
sting of that awful cold, and she cried out sharply.
Mose stopped so suddenly at the sound of her cry that she punted into
him without being able to help herself.
“What is wrong, miss; have you hurt yourself?” he asked in a jerky tone,
for the dog was heavy and he was short of breath.
“I—I thought we were lost, and this snow is awful!” Pam cried.
“You are close home now; here is the house!” he said in an encouraging
tone, just as one might speak to a frightened child.
Pam peered through the snow-blur, and there, just ahead, was the outline
of the house, as he had said. A moment later and the door was flung
open, and they staggered into the room, where Sophy fell upon them in
tearful thanksgiving that Pam had escaped with her life. The blizzard
had come on so suddenly that she had been frightened at the thought of
Pam exposed to its fury.
While Pam explained the situation in a hurried, incoherent fashion, Mose
Paget was caring for the dog. Calling for hot water, he washed its
wounds, and bound them so that the dirt could not get into them. Then he
made the animal as comfortable as possible on a bit of carpet and some
cushions at the back of the stove, called for milk, warm milk, and fed
it himself, taking as much care as if the creature had been a human
being. But when they wanted to bring him water and bandages for his own
hurts, he brushed them aside brusquely, declaring that there was nothing
needed for him.
“I want to get home for my gun; I must have a shot at that vermin if I
can,” he said hurriedly. “I am only sorry I could not do for the one the
dog had its teeth fixed in. Gee, but the critter had a grip on it, and
no mistake!”
“You cannot possibly go out in this storm; you will lose your way and
perish!” cried Pam.
“It is clearing, and I have faced worse weather,” he answered briefly.
He was so eager to be gone that Pam could not insist on his staying
longer, especially as Sophy was curiously silent on the matter.
Mose was quite right. The gloom was lifting and the snowfall was thinner
when he opened the door, and, shutting it with a bang, disappeared from
view. Not a cent would he accept for the work he had done, though Pam
had begged him to take some money, if only to pay for the time he had
wasted on her and the dog. He warned Pam to keep to the house for a day
or two, until the lynxes were either killed or driven away from the
neighbourhood, and then he was gone.
“It is dreadful to have him go like that, for I know he is badly hurt,
and he saved my life twice over. If I had escaped the lynx, I certainly
should have perished in the snow, it is so bewildering.” Pam was
distinctly tearful, for she was shaken by the nerve-wracking experience
she had gone through.
“Fancy Mose Paget turning out like that!” cried Sophy. “I thought he was
bad all through.”
“Even the worst people have streaks of good in places,” answered Pam.
CHAPTER IX
Making the Best of It
Quite a wave of excitement spread over the neighbourhood when the news
of Pam’s encounter with the lynxes got abroad. Hunting parties were
organized, and enthusiastic young men spent nights of watching in the
forest. When Nathan Gittins had three sheep mauled the excitement grew
to fever heat, everything else was let slide, and the district rose as
one man to rid the place of such a serious menace to property.
During these days neither Pam nor Sophy went beyond the few cleared
fields surrounding Ripple. Kindly neighbours visited them at intervals
of every two or three days to see that they wanted for nothing, bring
their mail, and take letters to post for them. The Doctor rode in that
direction when he had patients anywhere near, and Don showed a brotherly
devotion that set up some private wonders in the mind of Sophy. Of
course he had always been kind to her, and better than most brothers;
but she argued to herself that his conduct now was not according to
nature, and she was shrewd enough to guess that she was not the chief
reason of his many journeys across the forest from his father’s house at
The Corner. The Doctor lived at The Corner because it was the middle of
everything; and although it appeared to be misnamed, it had really been
so called because it stood at the angle or corner of the hill, just
where the creek went tearing down through a wooded defile to join the
river a little below Hunt’s Crossing.
At last the patience and perseverance of the hunters were rewarded, and
both of the great cats were killed. The dwellers at the lone farms lived
in peace after that, and children were able to go to school again. The
snow was thick in the forest now, and it was owing to their footmarks
that the wily animals had been tracked to their doom.
The day after the second lynx was killed a party of men, with Don
Grierson at their head, arrived at Ripple to bank the sides of the house
with snow. Pam enquired in a rather scared fashion of Sophy how much she
would be expected to pay for the work, but Sophy assured her that there
would be no charge. She might if she liked give them hot coffee all
round when the work was finished, but nothing else was either expected
or desired.
“Coffee and cakes it shall be, then!” exclaimed Pam, commencing to roll
her sleeves above her elbows. “I shall have to make the cakes, though,
for we have scarcely any in the house. I can manage it if I make haste.”
“Make soda-biscuit, that is the quickest,” said Sophy. “I will make up
the fire for you, and I can bring the things for you and wait upon you.
No, they won’t want you to help; it is hardly work for girls, and there
are enough of them to do the work comfortably. I see Nathan Gittins is
there, but I don’t think Mose Paget is among the lot. I wonder whether
he is better yet?”
“Is he ill? I had not heard.” Pam did not pause in her work, she was in
too much of a hurry for that; but she looked at Sophy with considerable
interest and some anxiety. She was remembering that she owed her life
twice over to the ragged, down-at-heel Mose Paget, who had the
reputation of being the very laziest man in the township.
“Mrs. Buckle told me that he was bad; that was when she was here the day
before yesterday. But of course she is such a kindly old soul that she
would say he was ill, even if it was only a lazy fit that was keeping
him from work.”
There was the sound of a crash outside at this minute, and Pam cried out
in alarm. But Sophy, who ran out to see what was the matter, came back
to say that it was nothing of great importance, only Don, who had been
on a ladder banking the snow, had taken a header into the drift he was
helping to pile higher. He was cut rather badly on the cheek, for he had
fallen on a shovel, and he came in to have his wound washed and
bandaged. Sophy cried out in dismay then, and she turned so white that
it was Pam who left her cake-making and ran to offer first aid.
“No, the sight of a cut does not frighten me very much,” she laughed, as
she dabbed the cut with a handkerchief dipped in warm water. “I have
three brothers, you see, so I have served an apprenticeship in looking
after cuts and hurts of all sorts.”
“It is a great pity that Mose Paget did not let you look after his hurts
a bit that time when the lynx clawed him.” Don winced as her hand came
down rather heavily on the wound, but she was too startled by what he
had said to notice that she had hurt him.
“Is Mose ill from his wounds, and is your father looking after him?” Her
eyes were anxious now, for she was in a measure responsible, or that was
how she felt.
“Mose has gone off to Fredericton, and he was going from there to St.
John, so Reggie Furness said this morning. Reggie is half-brother to
Mose, you know—a poor half-starved kid, who does chores for Miss
Gittins to earn his food. He told me this morning that Mose was real bad
from his hurts, and I guessed it was largely his own fault for not
keeping them clean.”
“We ought to have made him get them washed!” cried Pam in acute
distress. “He was so careful to clean the wounds of the dog, but he
would not hear of our doing anything for himself.”
“It was downright pig-headedness on his part; but he is like that, and
it is of no use to worry about it,” said Don, trying to put the best
face on the matter that he could.
Later on, when all the men came in and were gathered about the stove,
drinking coffee and eating the soda-biscuits hot from the oven, the talk
turned again to Mose Paget, and what his step-brother had said of his
condition.
“It would not be so serious if he had been better nourished and a
cleaner living man,” said Nathan Gittins, his voice sounding mumbled by
reason of his mouth being full of soda-biscuit. “But a whisky-drinking,
half-starved chap like that hasn’t a chance when it comes to a case of
blood-poisoning.”
“It is all my fault!” Pam’s voice was full of self-reproach. “I ought to
have insisted on his taking proper care. He saved my life twice on that
dreadful day, and I just let him alone when I might have looked after
him.”
“I should rather like to see the person who could make Mose Paget do
anything he did not want to do!” exclaimed Nathan with a great laugh,
which was promptly echoed by the other men. Then they proceeded to tell
Pam stories about the doings of Mose Paget, whose father had been a
mighty hunter, and had lost his life in an encounter with a bear.
“Mose has got courage of a sort,” said one man, between bites of hot
biscuit. “To me he always seems a good sort spoiled in the making. There
is what would have made a decent man, only so much laziness and
drunkenness is down underneath that it keeps coming up and spoiling
everything, don’t you see.”
The other men nodded in perfect accord with this pronouncement; then the
talk veered to other things—the latest news from Europe, the chances of
an extra severe winter, and the possibilities of grain-farming out west.
But Pam, darting to and fro waiting on these guests of hers who had come
to help her that day, kept repeating to herself that Mose had twice
saved her life in one day, and so deserved her warmest gratitude.
She went out later to see the effect of the snow-banking, and cried out
in dismay at the unsightly appearance of the house, which looked more
like a cutting by the side of a dug-out railway than anything.
“It is so dirty to look at!” she complained in confidence to Sophy, who
had followed her out.
“It will be all right next time it snows,” Sophy answered. “It is the
treading on it and the shovelling that make it look dirty. The frost
will not get in so easily, and a banked-up house is so much warmer than
one that is not banked. I think we ought to sleep downstairs at night
now, because of the stove. If you do not like to use your grandfather’s
room, we might put a bed in the best sitting-room.”
“We might use his room, then it would be aired if he should come back
suddenly,” Pam replied, then immediately thought how disastrous it would
be for him to come back with the responsibility of Sam Buckle’s death
hanging over him.
Sophy made no answer. She had tact and sympathy, and was too fond of Pam
to say or do anything which might add to the burden of her endurance.
There was a slow monotony about the days now, and the nights were so
long that some mornings it seemed as if the day would never dawn. The
outside work was very little now, for, acting on the advice of Nathan
Gittins, Pam had sold the sheep when the first snow came. It was not
wise to keep sheep through the winter in this forest district. If the
weather was very severe the wolves always gathered in bands, and a
sheepfold, however well protected, would offer no serious obstacles to
them. The pigs were also reduced in number, those that were left having
comfortable quarters at the end of the barn. The cow was in the barn for
a permanency during this bad weather, and the rooster with half a dozen
hens spent languid days in picking up crumbs at the door of the house,
or standing idly on one leg in the sunshine when there was any.
The money from the sale of the pigs had been lodged with the storekeeper
at The Corner. That was Sophy’s wisdom. The storekeeper had two prices
for everything, one rather high for the people who wanted credit, the
other very reasonable indeed for the people who were able to lodge money
with him at the beginning of the winter. The difference would mean the
saving of many dollars at the end of the winter. As she was there to
guard the interests of her grandfather, Pam felt justified in spending
so much of his money on necessaries. The money she was to receive for
the twenty acres of lumber would be banked for her grandfather’s use
should he come back to need it. Mrs. Buckle would not take back the
twenty dollars she had lent to Pam to meet the needs of the old man if
he should return, and that money was kept in the house to be handy if
required.
Pam spent laborious hours in the barn, sawing wood to keep the stoves
going. Never had she realized what a lot of wood one stove could consume
in twelve or fifteen hours, and when it became necessary to have a fire
at night also, wood-cutting bade fair to become her sole occupation. But
it was fine, healthy work, and it sent her to bed so tired that she
slept without dreams until morning, and that was surely worth while,
considering the unprotected condition of herself and Sophy.
It had been snowing for two days without stopping—not a raging
blizzard, but a steady downfall, which had piled a thick layer of the
most dazzling white all over the banked-up house, and had weighed down
the forest trees until the air was filled with the creaking, groaning,
and snapping of straining branches.
“Will anyone ever come near us again, do you expect? And were you ever
shut up in such a fashion before?” demanded Pam, as they sat down to
breakfast on the third morning of their isolation.
“I have had it worse that this,” Sophy answered. She was looking
radiantly content this morning. It was mail-day, and there would
probably be a letter for her from George Lester, who was serving in the
Mounted Police out in the wild Skeena country.
“Worse?” Pam’s eyebrows went up. To her it did not seem possible that
there could be anything worse than this white imprisonment, walled in on
every side, and with the silent but persistent fall of snow.
Sophy laughed, and nodded. “Two years ago I had to go over and keep
house for Aunt Marion while she went to Europe. She lives ever so far
from here, right away in the beech wood district beyond Selkirk. Her
husband, Uncle Horace, had to go to the town for stores. It came on to
snow as it has been doing these last two days, and he could not get
back, and I was alone with Leo and Winnie, the two children. Leo was
ten, and Winnie six. The worst of it was, our stores were nearly out. We
had so little kerosene that we had to creep to bed when it got dark, and
stay there until daylight came again. We had no sugar, the flour was
almost out, and it was nearly a week before anyone could get through to
help us.”
“What did you do?” gasped Pam.
“Oh, the best we could. We told each other things. I taught the children
how to spell, and we recited the multiplication table every day. Their
father said their education had taken great strides by the time he came
home. It was just a question of making the best of it, and not worrying.
Of course, it was horrid being short of provisions, but we had potatoes,
a pail of lard, and some bacon, so we might have been worse off.”
“Sophy, you are one of the world’s splendid women, and I am just proud
to know you!” Pam sprang up from her seat as she spoke, and swept Sophy
a low bow. They were both laughing over her exaggerated deference when
Don came gliding out from the forest on snow-shoes, and they rushed to
the door to give him a welcome.
“I tried to get here last night, but the strap of my shoe broke, and as
I sank in over my knees, I knew that it was not safe to try.” Don was
modestly apologetic, but Sophy cried out in horror that he should have
even thought of risking his life in such a fashion.
“Father was out,” said Don. “He was called to a woman who was very ill
on the other side of the Ridge. He did not get home until dawn this
morning, and then Nathan Gittins came for him to go over to their place
and have a look at that boy, Reggie Furness. Nearly starved the poor kid
has been, I should fancy, since Mose Paget has been away. He has been
living on in their shack alone—‘doing for himself’ he called it; ‘doing
without’ would be a better way of expressing it, I fancy. He fainted
whilst he was doing chores at Gittins’ place yesterday, and Galena put
him to bed there. He didn’t get better as she hoped, and was off his
head a good bit in the night, and she was so scared about him that she
sent Nathan to get Father first thing this morning.”
“When is Mose coming back?” asked Sophy, who was making fresh coffee for
her brother, whilst Pam fried bacon at the stove.
“When he is better, I suppose,” replied Don. “He has had a near squeak
for his life, I should fancy, and it will take him a little while to get
over it. Reggie will be all right now he is with the Gittins, and Galena
will not let him go until Mose comes home. She is real kind-hearted,
only I always find that a little of her goes a long way; but she means
all right, and that is the chief thing. Here is your letter, sis, and
such a fat one! An industrious fellow is George, though it beats me what
he can find to say!”
Sophy took the letter with a look of positive rapture on her face, and
retired to the bedroom, where the fire was not yet out, to read it in
peace. This was just what Don wanted, and had counted upon. He liked to
talk to Pam best when no one else was by. But this morning she was
abstracted and rather dull, a wonderful thing for her. Don thought
perhaps it was because there were no letters for her, and he hastened to
cheer her by saying he did not believe the English mail was in, for they
had said at the post office that no European letters had been received.
“I was not thinking of letters,” replied Pam, and her smile was rather
wan. “Mother may not write this mail—she has not much time, you know.
Indeed, I always used to write her letters for her, and I think she must
miss me so dreadfully at the business, for she always hated writing. I
am feeling so bad about that poor Reggie Furness. I have never seen him,
but I am constantly hearing about him, and in a way I am responsible for
his having been left in such a plight. If I had only insisted on
cleansing his brother’s wounds, they would not have done so badly, and
then the poor boy would not have been left to such hardship.”
“Why not go a bit farther back when you are at it?” said Don
impatiently. “If Mose had only been a clean-living fellow, he might not
have been so susceptible to blood-poisoning. If only he had had a
pleasanter manner he would have accepted your offer of water and washed
his hurts himself. Oh, I have no patience with all the sentimental
sympathy that is wasted on that miserable pair!”
“All the same, you need not allow it to colour all your behaviour when
you appear in polite society,” remarked Pam demurely, whereat Don glared
at her in downright anger for a moment. Then they both burst out
laughing, and the air cleared at once. He offered to teach her to walk
on snow-shoes, and Pam, delighted at the prospect of getting out of
doors, ran to wrap up warmly.
Sophy came too, and for the next two hours there was riotous fun on the
open space before the house. The snow was so soft that every spill meant
floundering in billowy clouds of white dust. Pam went down so many times
that at the end of the lesson she declared herself tired out. But she
had learned to stand erect, to pass one foot before the other, and then
to poise herself properly for the next step, so that she was fairly well
over the worst drudgery of learning to walk on snow-shoes.
“The snow will pack in a few days, then you will get on fine!” said Don,
who was proud of his pupil.
“Pack? Do you mean that it will go away?” she asked with a bewildered
air.
“It won’t go away under normal conditions before March or April. By
packing, we mean settling down in a close and firm mass. After a few
weeks it gets so hard anyone can walk on it without sinking in, even if
he has no snow-shoes. That is when life begins to get worth living in
these parts. We have parties nearly every night, and we contrive to see
more of each other than can be managed in all the rest of the year.” Don
found himself growing almost eloquent under the spell of Pam’s
interested face, and he launched into a vigorous account of the
pleasures of winter parties that lasted until he had to go.
“Your brother must think that I am made of queer stuff if he imagines
that I am going here and there enjoying myself this winter,” said Pam,
when Don had gone and the two girls were busy in the house again.
“I do not see that there is anything to prevent you from going round and
seeing folks when you have the chance,” Sophy answered, looking a little
surprised, for she knew what a social person Pam was, and she could not
understand the reason of her proposed abstinence from party-going.
“Do you think that people would care to have me at their parties when
they all know that my grandfather will have to stand his trial for
something that is next door to murder when he is found?” Pam’s tone was
very bitter. She had been musing a great deal during these days of
isolation, and the result was that deep down in her heart she was
getting absolutely scared at the thought of going about and seeing
people. Going to church at The Corner, once a fortnight, was bad enough,
but then it was possible to sit at the back and to leave early.
Church-going could not be called social intercourse either, and the less
she had to do with her neighbours while she was under a cloud the
better.
But Sophy only laughed, and putting her hands on Pam’s shoulders gave
her a gentle shake.
“As if anyone thought the worse of you for a thing you cannot help!
Besides, we all want to make much of you for the dear, plucky way in
which you have tackled a difficult situation. You will have to find a
better excuse than that if you want to be unsociable!”
CHAPTER X
Someone’s Desperate Plight
The weeks of winter wore on, and Christmas passed in quite a whirl of
hard work and social activities. There were packing bees, when everyone
worked with perspiring energy at packing apples in boxes and barrels for
sending to the cities. Pam liked that work; the apples reminded her of
summer, and they linked her up with warmth and sunshine. There were also
bees for making lard, but they were not so interesting. The fat portions
of several pigs were cut into small squares, and boiled down in great
pans, then strained. It was greasy, horrid work, but, like other
unpleasant tasks, it was very necessary, and, as no one else seemed to
mind the grease, Pam decided that it was of no use for her to make a
fuss about it either.
Christmas brought the most acute home-sickness for Pam, who had never
before been away from her family at the great festival. They wanted her
rather badly, too, which fact did but add to her pain. Greg was ill with
rheumatic fever—very ill, her mother wrote. Pam knew that the doctor’s
bill for Muriel’s illness was not all paid off yet, so it was ghastly to
think of another being piled on to it. Mrs. Walsh was in great trouble
about Pam, and she wrote that as soon as Greg was able to leave his bed
Jack would travel to New Brunswick to help her. It was this last piece
of information that gave Pam the courage to wear a smiling face, and to
hold her own at the gatherings with which the forest-dwellers beguiled
the winter nights.
It had been difficult to travel the forest ways after dark in the
summer-time and in the fall. Now, with snow on the ground and the trees
bare of leaves, it made little difference, while the moonlight nights
were almost as light as the days. Don Grierson had a sleigh with fur
robes made from the skins of animals he had shot himself—quite a
luxurious vehicle—and he would come driving along after dark to take
Sophy and Pam out to the various gatherings. The dog would be left to
guard the house, and the two went away feeling certain that all would be
right until they came back again.
The new year came in with raging storms, and these were followed at the
middle of the month by still colder weather, such cold as Pam had never
even dreamed of before. Then people began to talk of having heard wolves
howling round the lone farms at night. The children were not allowed to
go to school alone, and men traversing the forest after dark carried
fire-arms.
Even Pam carried an ancient but useful fowling-piece when she walked the
forest ways. She had learned to shoot, and she could manage to hit the
thing she aimed at. One day she contrived to shoot a hare, and although
she cried over it all the way home, she had to admit that it was
uncommonly good eating, and made a most agreeable change in their usual
food. Besides, as Sophy pointed out, the creature would probably have
fallen a victim to a wolf or a fox, or it might have perished miserably
of starvation.
“I will take the next hare I shoot to Mrs. Buckle; she is not very well,
Amanda told me.” Pam rose from her seat at table with largely increased
courage and determination; if there was a worse fate for hares than
being shot she might as well kill a few and help her neighbour.
“You had better go soon, it gets dark so early. I can do these dishes;
in fact, I shall be glad to move about a little, for I am nearly frozen
with sitting still.” Sophy shivered, for the day though bright was
intensely cold.
“I will be off at once, then.” Pam was wriggling into her coat with all
speed. “If I get anything I shall go straight to Mrs. Buckle before
coming back. Have you any message for her?”
“You can tell her that I have nearly finished mending those sheets, and
when they are done I will start at Amanda’s frock right away.” Sophy was
darting to and fro as she talked, intent on getting the noonday meal
cleared and the dishes washed, but she came out of the door to watch Pam
start, and to beg her to be careful with the gun, which had an
uncomfortable trick of kicking in unaccustomed hands.
Pam secured her hare without much trouble, and walking briskly across
the cleared fields and over the boundary line, where the broken fence
would never be repaired again, she walked in upon Mrs. Buckle and
bestowed the hare which had fallen to her gun. She delivered the message
also, and then turned back towards Ripple, quickening her steps a
little, for it was later than she had intended to be, and there were the
“chores” waiting to be done before dark.
She had almost reached the fence again when she saw a man moving towards
her along the trail; and her heart gave a great bound as she recognized
the slouching figure of Mose Paget. She had not seen him since the day
when he saved her life twice over, and now, seeing that he looked as if
he were going to avoid her by turning into a cross-trail, she shouted to
him to stop, and then ran to catch him up.
“Are you better?” she asked a trifle breathlessly. She was annoyed at
the man’s rudeness in turning away when she wanted to speak to him, but
that was just as he always treated people, Sophy had told her, and there
was nothing to be done save to ignore his rudeness as much as possible.
“Yes, thank you, Miss,” he replied, and then his hand went with a
grudging motion towards his cap, and he lingered awkwardly as if waiting
to see if she had any more to say to him.
“I was so very sorry to hear that you had been ill from the wounds you
got when you came to my help that day.” Pam’s colour was coming and
going; she felt that the man did not want to talk to her, and yet she
positively had to do something to let him know she was not ungrateful.
He shifted from one foot to the other in an uneasy manner.
“It ain’t nothing to worry about, Miss,” he said. “The Doctor told me
straight that I had only myself to thank for being so bad, and I suppose
he ought to know if anyone did. He was honest about it, too, and said
just what he thought. It would not have been much loss to anyone if I
had gone under, but I pulled through, as you see.”
“It would have been a very lasting regret to me,” said Pam with crushing
dignity. Then, because she did not know what to say, she asked if Reggie
were better, although Mrs. Buckle had told her only half an hour ago
that the boy was doing his work as usual.
“He is quite well again now, thank you, Miss,” said Mose. He moved as if
to go on, hesitated, stopped, then lowering his voice to a cautious
undertone, although probably there was no one within half a mile of
them, he said, “Do you know that the old man has been seen?”
“Grandfather, do you mean?” cried Pam, and the colour ebbed out of her
face, leaving her cheeks like ashes.
Mose Paget nodded, gave her a swift but furtive glance, and then his
gaze dropped to the ground.
“Where?” she cried. Her tone was imperious now; the man seemed so
unwilling to speak, but know she must.
“I ran up against a fellow in St. John who knew him. He said that he had
seen the old man at work in a lumber camp away in a back creek of the
Miramichi River.”
“Was the man quite sure?” Pam forced the question from her parched lips,
while her heart beat with sledge-hammer force.
“I don’t see how he could have been mistaken,” replied Mose. “The fellow
knew Wrack as well as I do. He said the old man did not seem to want to
be talked to, which was natural under the circumstances. You need not
look so scared, Miss; the man wouldn’t give him away to the police—we
none of us would do that. I shouldn’t have told you, only I thought you
would be glad to know the poor old man was alive.”
Pam nodded, for she could not speak. She felt nearly choked, and a
dreadful doubt had crept into her mind as to whether she was glad that
her grandfather was alive. She had sought tirelessly for his dead body,
and if she had found it she would have grieved for him, cut off
untimely, as it seemed to her. In such a case there would have been an
end of her fear; but now she would know no peace. She would always be
fearing that the police would find him, and that he would have to stand
his trial for being the cause of Sam Buckle’s death.
“We would not betray him to the police,” said Mose again in a tone more
emphatic than before. “It is his turn to-day, it might be ours
to-morrow, and I take it that we should do as we would be done by. Good
day, Miss!”
Lifting his cap he turned away abruptly and walked off, and Pam stood
staring after him with fearful dismay in her heart. To be linked even in
seeming with a man of this sort was dreadful. He would not betray her
grandfather to the police, because he might be in fear of being betrayed
himself another day. Her grandfather would be regarded as a “pal” by
this down-at-heels tramp. Oh, it was hateful! She stood with clenched
hands, staring at the trail by which the man had disappeared, until
warned by the cold that it was not wise to linger. As she went her way
home she debated with herself as to whether she would tell Sophy, but
she shrank in her hurt pride from the humiliation of such a confession,
and so decided that for the present she would keep the knowledge to
herself.
Reaching Ripple, she had to hurry over the evening “chores”, for she had
lingered longer with Mrs. Buckle than she should have done, and the
meeting with Mose on the way home had, of course, made her later still.
She looked so white and pinched when she came indoors to supper that
Sophy cried out in dismay at her appearance, thinking she must be ill.
“I am tired, that is all. We will go to bed early to-night,” Pam
answered, and strove to hide her aching heart under a brave show of good
spirits, until she could lie down and shut her eyes on her misery.
Sophy nodded, and said no more. She supposed that Pam was home-sick; she
understood the symptoms now, and never bothered or fussed when the
attack was extra severe. Pam’s conscience was a bit troubled about the
deception, for it was like defrauding Sophy of what it was her right to
know, to hide this news of the old man having been seen and recognized;
but she could not bring herself to talk of it.
They were getting to bed in the room which had been Wrack Peveril’s when
they were startled by a hideous howling all round the house.
“What is it?” asked Pam, her eyes wide with alarm. The dog was raging
and tearing round the kitchen, and barking fit to burst itself.
“Wolves!” murmured Sophy, and she looked so badly scared that Pam
rallied her own courage, and began to make fun of her.
“Suppose there are wolves outside, they cannot get inside, so what does
it matter? Of course, the poor dear old dog may have nervous breakdown
from too much barking, but otherwise I can’t see that we are to be much
the worse.”
“The noise is so weird. A wolf’s howl always does get on my nerves,”
faltered Sophy, who was white and trembling from fright.
Pam, who had been undressing, now began to put on her garments again
with quick, determined fingers.
“What are you going to do?” cried Sophy in dismay. “You are surely,
surely not going out of doors? Why, Pam, it would not be safe!”
“It would be rather silly to go out, seeing that there is nothing to be
gained by it,” said Pam. “I am not going out, but I am going upstairs to
see if I can get a shot at the creatures. Your brother cleaned that
rifle of Grandfather’s last week, and I might be able to kill one of
those singing beasties yonder; and just think how well it would sound in
one of my letters home!”
Sophy shivered, but uttered no further protest. At the worst Pam would
only catch a cold, and if she stopped the howling by scaring the wolves
away, she would have accomplished something well worth doing. She heard
Pam go upstairs, heard her tramping to and fro on the bare floors; there
was silence for a little, then came another burst of wolf music. A shot
rang out, and shortly after Pam came down, saying that she believed she
had driven the wolves away. The two went to bed then, sleeping without
disturbance until morning.
A brilliant day it was, with blazing sun and sparkling frost. The Doctor
drove up soon after breakfast, and for a wonder he had Mrs. Grierson
with him. They wanted to know if Pam and Sophy would like to go to a
lard-making bee at Hunt’s Crossing that night. Mindful of the howling of
the wolves last night, both Pam and Sophy declared that they would
rather be at home, so Mrs. Grierson was given a message for Don, telling
him not to come, as they had no fancy for lard-making just then.
The Doctor said a quiet word to Pam as he was going away.
“Have you heard the rumour there is going round just now that your
grandfather has been seen at work in a lumber camp on the Miramichi?”
“Yes, Mose Paget told me yesterday,” faltered Pam; and then she added in
an outburst of candour: “But I feel so bad about it. Why has he never
sent to see how it fares with his home? Why has he never come back for
the money he left behind? It was not much, but every little helps when a
man has to earn his daily bread. I have thought about it and thought
about it until I begin to wonder whether the person might not be
mistaken, and if the man he saw was not Grandfather at all.”
Dr. Grierson nodded thoughtfully.
“That was just my impression,” he agreed. “Still, seeing that the fellow
had nothing to gain by setting the story afloat, there seems no reason
beyond actual fact why he should have done so. There is nothing to be
done that I can see, except to await developments. If it is not true, it
is still very bothering that the rumour should have been started,
because it puts the assumption of the old man’s death farther away. I
mean that supposing he is not heard of again, you will have to take the
date at which this man says he saw him at the lumber camp as the last
time he was seen alive. That is three months later, don’t you see?”
Pam did see, and the seeing brought no comfort with it. She could not
tell the Doctor that she was deadly ashamed of being related to her own
grandfather; she could not explain that the disgrace and humiliation
that had come to her were almost too hard to be borne.
For the remainder of the day she chopped and sawed wood with great
vigour, working off the depression which threatened to break her down.
She had a sick longing for someone of her own to turn to, her mother or
Jack. As a matter of fact, she had never been in the habit of leaning on
her mother, and Jack was mostly sitting in judgment upon her, so that
the two had not been greatly in sympathy in those old days, which in
retrospect looked so sheltered and so dear. Not a word had she said to
Sophy as yet about her grandfather having been seen, and she did not
believe that the Doctor had spoken of it either. By and by she would
tell Sophy—indeed, it would be necessary for her to be warned, as the
old man might come home when he thought the search for him had died down
somewhat.
Very silent and absorbed was Pam that evening, and Sophy, thinking that
she was tired, suggested that they should go to bed early. There was no
probability of visitors to-night, everyone would be gone to the
lard-making frolic at Hunt’s Crossing. There was no reason at all why
they should sit up if they would be more comfortable in bed. When Sophy
proposed it Pam rose and stretched her arms above her head, declaring
that there was nothing that she would like better.
It was at that moment that the howl of a wolf sounded somewhere near the
house, and Pam’s sleepiness vanished as if it had never been.
“Those wretched creatures round the place again?” she cried. “The
uncanny beasts! I thought I had given them something to remember me by
last night. We won’t go to bed yet awhile, for I want to see if I can’t
bag one. If they come as close to the place as they did last night I
ought to be able to manage it.”
“You will get so cold!” objected Sophy.
“I will put my thick coat on. Honestly, I can’t stand that noise, and I
am going to end it somehow or know the reason why. Your mother said it
was the smell of the pigs that attracted them. But we cannot afford to
get rid of our pigs, so the only thing is to show the wolves that this
is not a healthy neighbourhood.”
Taking the gun, Pam went upstairs into the cold, unused bedrooms.
Putting her lamp on the table of the chamber in which she had slept on
first coming to Ripple, she passed into the next room, and, shutting the
door behind her, groped her way across the floor until she reached the
window. Softly opening the casement she peered out into the night. It
was most intensely cold. There was no moon, but the stars shone with a
hard brilliance, and the soft radiance of the snow made even distant
objects visible. Soon a long-drawn howl broke the stillness, and this
was promptly answered by another and yet another. The wolves seemed to
be all round the place, but Pam realized that they were by no means
close, and she was just going to draw in her head because of the
stinging quality of the cold when she caught sight of a figure gliding
in and out among the trees, which on that side grew quite close to the
house.
Her heart beat violently. Who was it that lurked yonder among the trees
instead of openly approaching the house? Was it her grandfather, who,
pressed by his necessities, had found his way back to his home? Her
sense of disgrace slipped from her as if it had never been. If her
grandfather was out there among the trees, then she must do her best to
induce him to come in and be sheltered from the cold. He would be quite
safe for that one night at least. He might even lie hidden for days in
that lone place without any outsider being the wiser.
“Grandfather!” she called. “Grandfather, is it you? Come to the door,
and I will run downstairs and let you in. It is quite safe.”
There was no answer to this, only to her straining eyes it seemed that
the figure gliding in and out among the trees waved to her, then sank
farther back into the shadows, becoming an indistinguishable blur in the
gloom.
“Grandfather, don’t be afraid, you will be quite safe!” she called
again, and not waiting this time to get an answer she shut the window,
and, groping her way to the door of the next room, picked up the lamp
and hurried down the stairs.
Sophy met her at the bottom wearing an anxious look.
“Pam, what is the matter? I heard your voice and I came to see if you
wanted me.”
“It is Grandfather out there in the cold, and I am trying to get him
inside. Think of it, Sophy, an old man like that and wandering without
shelter on such a night!”
“Your grandfather?” cried Sophy in amazement. “Pam, are you sure? Just
think, it is months ago since he was heard of, and we have thought him
dead.”
Pam groaned. If only she had told Sophy when she had heard the rumour!
It was so senseless to keep a thing like that to herself.
“He is not dead, he has been seen; the knowledge is all over the place,
but I was ashamed and silly and I would not tell you. Please forgive me,
dear, and help me all you can.” Pam was fumbling with the fastening of
the door as she spoke. She was so clumsy in her anxiety and distress
that she could not get it unfastened, and Sophy came to her help.
“Pam, you should have told me. I cannot help you if I do not know,” she
said in her quiet way, and that was all the reproach that Pam ever heard
from her. A heaven-sent friend for such a time of trouble!
The door was open at last, and Pam stood on the threshold peering out at
the night. The lamp which Sophy was holding in the background threw a
shaft of light that sharply outlined her figure, making its anxious pose
as plain as spoken words.
“Grandfather, where are you?” Breathlessly Pam waited for the answer to
her call. But none came, only presently the howl of a wolf sounded much
nearer than before. This was answered from another direction. Then all
was silent again. The two girls stood on the threshold, the keen cold
wrapping them round. Then suddenly Pam remembered that Sophy had only
her indoor garments on and might take a severe chill. “Go, dear, put a
coat on and a muffler; cover your head up or you will have bad toothache
to-morrow,” she said urgently; adding, as if by an afterthought: “I am
going over to those trees yonder to see if I can find the poor old man
and bring him into the house.”
“No, you do not, unless I come too,” burst out Sophy, with an explosive
vigour that showed how dead in earnest she was. “If you will not wait
until I can get a cloak I will come just as I am.”
“I will wait, only make haste.” Pam jerked the words out, for she was
feeling nearly desperate. She did not dare let the dog out, although the
creature was raging to and fro in the inner room. She was afraid that it
would go in pursuit of the wolves and be torn to pieces by them.
What a long time Sophy was! Pam felt that she could not wait another
minute, especially as a long-drawn howl close at hand told her that the
unpleasant beasts were getting much nearer to the house. Then Sophy came
out of the inner room wrapped to the eyes, and holding the dog by her
handkerchief slipped through its collar.
“Don’t let it loose, we shall never get it back again to-night,” said
Pam, and then she stepped out on to the snow, closely followed by Sophy
and the dog, which strained and whimpered in its efforts to get free.
“Grandfather, it is I, Pam Walsh! There is nothing to fear; you can come
into the house, at least for to-night!” Pam sent her voice out in a
reassuring shout which must have carried far in that lone place. But
there was no reply, although they lingered long, standing in the shadow
of the trees and hearing the howling of the wolves in the distance.
“What is that?” whispered Sophy sharply, and Pam’s heart gave a sudden
leap of dread. It was a faint cry for help that had reached their ears,
and at the sound the dog struggled to be free, tugging and tugging at
the lead just as if it understood.
“Come along, he is over there. I expect he has fallen and has hurt
himself,” cried Pam, dashing across the snow at a great rate, followed
by Sophy and the dog.
“Help! Help!” The cry was louder and more urgent now. The person in
trouble had a wavering, cracked voice like an old man’s, and there was
not a shadow of doubt in the mind of either girl that it was Wrack
Peveril who was calling for help. Why he should have been so close to
the place and then have gone away again puzzled Pam, but she put it down
to his natural fear of a police trap and his ignorance of what kind of
girl his granddaughter really was. They went on and on, answering the
call, searching and searching, yet never finding what they looked for.
Then suddenly they had an awful scare, for there came a scurrying rush
of feet, and an animal of some kind bounded past them, followed by some
four or five wolves in full cry. Pam lifted her rifle and fired wildly,
as there was no time to take aim, and at that moment the dog wrenched
itself free from Sophy’s grasp and tore away in mad pursuit.
“What was it, oh, what was it?” cried Pam.
“A young moose, I expect,” answered Sophy. Then she took hold of Pam,
saying urgently: “Come home, dear, we can do no good here!”
CHAPTER XI
Who was It?
Neither Pam nor Sophy had realized how far away they had wandered, when
they followed that faint cry for help. Indeed, just at the first Pam
could not think where they were, or which direction they ought to take
to find the house. The night was clouding over, the fine brilliance was
gone, and a chill wind moaned through the leafless trees.
The dog had not come back. Pam had whistled and called until she was
tired. Then she turned to help Sophy back, blaming herself bitterly
because she had followed that will-o’-the-wisp call for help, which had
given them such a fruitless chase.
“Ah!” The ejaculation was forced from Sophy as her foot slipped on an
upstanding root, and she went down with a crash.
“You poor thing! Oh, you poor thing!” cried Pam, who was more remorseful
than before.
“It was fearfully clumsy of me, and now I have hurt my foot. Pam,
whatever shall we do?” There was tragic dismay in Sophy’s tone, and it
found its echo in the heart of Pam, in whose ears the howling of the
wolves seemed to be still sounding.
“I will get you home somehow, if I have to carry you on my back,” she
cried valiantly. It seemed to be half the battle to be brave outwardly,
and indeed the sound of her own voice speaking cheerfully took away a
lot of her secret fear.
“I am quite sure that you cannot carry me, for I am as big as you, and
heavier,” said Sophy, and Pam knew this was true, for they had weighed
each other only two days before, when they were using the big scales
that were in the barn. “Perhaps I could hop on one foot like a robin if
you held me up.”
“I will hold you,” replied Pam. “Come along, it is much too chilly to
linger out here. I don’t want to be obliged to render first aid for
frost-bite. It will be quite as much as I can do to doctor your hurt
foot. I think it is going to snow again. Ah, that was a flake I felt on
my face! Sophy, we must make haste, no matter how it hurts you, dear! I
can’t find my way in the falling snow, it bewilders me so dreadfully,
and to lose our way means that we must perish miserably almost within
sight of home.”
“Clutch me tightly, and don’t take any notice if I groan,” muttered
Sophy, who was standing on one foot now, and steeling her courage to
endure. “I am not made of heroic stuff, but we have to get home, as you
say, no matter at what cost!”
A short distance was traversed: to Sophy it seemed like miles. She had
uttered no sound of pain, but what it cost her to put her hurt foot to
the ground no one but herself could know. But it was death to linger,
and pain did not count when compared with the greater terrors of the
forest at night. Then Pam called out in glad relief that she could see
the house, Sophy gathered up her courage to endure a little longer, and
they pressed forward at the best pace they could make.
“There is a light in our room; did we leave one there?” asked Pam in a
bewildered tone as she half-led, half-carried Sophy the remaining
distance to the door.
“I am sure that I did not, for I went into the room in the dark; at
least, there was no light except the glimmer from the stove.”
“Then Grandfather has come home,” announced Pam. “Unless, indeed, the
stove has somehow contrived to set the place on fire.”
“Go and see, go and see!” cried Sophy, wrenching herself free from Pam’s
supporting grip, and pushing her forward. “Don’t trouble about me, I can
manage. Hurry, Pam, hurry, or the house may be burned down, and think
how helpless we are!”
“I am not helpless, and I don’t think it is fire, it doesn’t flicker.
Most likely it is Grandfather. Oh, I do hope that he will be nice to
us!” Pam darted ahead as she spoke, and opening the door burst with
impetuous haste into the living-room. This appeared to be exactly as
they had left, it. The lamp was standing on the table, the stove was
sending out a cheerful glow, and the place was as cosy and comfortable
as any home could be. One rapid glance round Pam gave, then pushed open
the door into the best sitting-room. All was dark here, but she knew her
way too well to stumble over the furniture, and crossing the floor with
a brisk, determined tread, she pushed open the door of the inner room,
which they had been using as a bedroom.
The place was not on fire. Her first glance told her that. Her second
revealed the fact that no one was there; then all at once she realized
that someone had been there, someone who had lighted the lamp which
stood on the table by the window, and who had then been at the desk in
the corner and had wrenched open the lid.
A little inarticulate cry escaped her. She seemed to understand what had
happened so well. Her grandfather had doubtless been frightened from his
work in the lumber camp when he was recognized, and he had made his way
home, hard-pressed perhaps for money. But finding his home occupied, and
being afraid to make himself known to his granddaughter, who was of
course a stranger to him, he had hovered about the place, and had
beguiled them from the house, luring them away from the place on a false
trail. Then he must have hurried home, and, entering the house, have
gone straight to the desk in his own room, and pulled it open by force.
Great force he must have used, for it was a strong old desk, of the
home-made variety, and it would need a powerful wrench to get it open.
A hasty inspection showed her that the money was gone, not only the
amount which she had found there when she had opened the desk with her
own key, but also the twenty dollars which Mrs. Buckle had given her as
a loan, and had refused to take back.
Pam leaned against the rifled desk with a queer mixture of relief and
repulsion in her heart. She was thankful that the old man had not stayed
to be sheltered and hidden by her. It was humi
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