“Say yes, Pam, and it shall be managed; I am quite sure that it can be done, because of the number of witnesses we have here. Or if a longer notice is really necessary, then I will get Mrs. Buckle to stay with you until we can be married,” he urged, and with his arm holding her up, his strength between her and the trouble which shadowed her days, Pam felt as if she must give way, and take the short cut out of the muddle. Then she remembered that she had come as the pioneer, to make the way easy for the others, and it was not herself that she should be thinking of at this time. Her head was aching so badly from the blow which had stunned her that it was difficult to think and act coherently. She felt bruised and battered, a perfect wreck; all the flavour had gone from the day’s festivity, and she was conscious only of a great weariness, and a longing to creep away out of sight, and to be done with it all.
“I can’t do it, Don, really, I can’t!” she faltered, and her eyes were wistful in their pleading when she raised them to his face. “I must go on as I am doing now, until I know where Grandfather is, or until he comes back again.”
“He may be dead; just think how easy it is for anyone to drop out without other people knowing it,” urged Don. But there was something in the resolute set of Pam’s white face that warned him he would not find it easy to turn her from the course on which she had set her mind.
“That is what I tell myself,” she said, and her tone was deeply troubled. “All the same, we have no proof, and so we are bound to go on as usual. Oh, I am sorry to have been so silly, and to have spoiled everyone’s pleasure in such a fashion. I can walk now, thank you, and I am not hurt at all, except that my head is so sore where I banged it into the tree-trunk when I caught my foot and fell.”
Don urged her no further, seeing the uselessness of it. He helped her back to the house, explained the situation to the others, and made it easy for her to slip away to her room to lie down for a rest. Then he got the fun started in good earnest, and with the help of Jack succeeded in keeping the whole company in a state of bubbling satisfaction. The bride and bridegroom were driven to Hunt’s Crossing for the down-river boat and the first stage of the long journey to the far west, and then by twos and threes, in wagons, in carts, and on foot, the company dispersed. Most of them would have “chores” to do when they reached home, and all would need to go to bed with the sun, since the next day’s work would call them from their rest at dawn.
Don drove his father home, for the Doctor was glad to rest his horse when he could, and his son mostly drove good cattle, which got over the ground in fine style. They took the corners rather more smartly than the older man approved, but young things have a tendency to be reckless, and so far Don had always contrived to keep clear of accidents.
To-night Don had only secondary attention for his horses, for he was telling his father of Pam’s state of mind regarding the possible return of the old grandfather, and he was insisting that the Doctor should write to Mrs. Walsh, and tell her it was her plain duty to come back to her old home.
“It will be some time yet before the law will permit the old man’s death to be assumed, especially as he was seen at the lumber camp,” said Don.
“It is not clear to my mind that he was seen at that camp,” replied the Doctor. “When I wrote to the foreman of the camp, he said they had had no one of the name of Wrack Peveril there, nor did he remember anyone who answered to the description I gave him of the old man.”
“The trouble is that we can’t prove he was not there.” Don shook his head with a bothered air, then went on: “In any case, it should be Mrs. Walsh who is in command at Ripple. She is the old man’s daughter, and her duty is here. You will write, Father, and you will put it strongly, please. Pam is at the point where every nerve is strained almost to breaking point. She has got Jack, I know; but he is younger than she is, and she needs someone older.”