The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “Miss Courtenay!” finally came from the lips of the girl on the platform.

  “Miss Thursdale!” murmured Anne, reaching out to support herself against the bumper. Other words failed to come for the time being. In sheer despair, neither could accomplish more than a pallid smile. To the reader is left the privilege of analysing the thoughts which surged through the brains of the bewildered young women,—the fears, the doubts, the resentments.

  “Where—where have you been?” at last fell from Miss Thursdale’s lips.

  “Been?” repeated Miss Courtenay, vaguely. “Oh, yes; I’ve been taking a walk—a constitutional. I always do.”

  Eleanor stared harder than ever. “All this distance?” she murmured.

  “Down the track for half a mile, Miss Thursdale.”

  “Are—were you on this train?” ejaculated Eleanor.

  “Yes—but I—I—” stammered Anne, her face growing red with rising resentment. “I did not think this of you.”

  “What do you mean? It is—May I ask why you are here, Miss Courtenay? It is most extraordinary.”

  “It is very easily explained,” said Miss Courtenay, after a moment’s battle with veracity. “My aunt is very ill in Vancouver.” To herself she was saying: “I must keep her from really seeing Harry. She knows what he has done—in heaven’s name, how could she have found it out?—and she is waiting to catch us if she can. She has followed us! Thank goodness, I’ve seen her first.”

  Eleanor was not blessed with the possibility of such an explanation for Anne’s presence; she could only believe that the governess had been suddenly called to the bedside of her aunt—a real person, she happened to know, and very rich. But how was she to account for her own astonishing departure from home? Miss Courtenay had seen her at dinner; nothing had been said regarding “an unexpected journey.” In truth, Eleanor remembered with inflexible accuracy that she had announced her intention to go to bed with a headache. Then, what must Miss Courtenay be thinking at this very instant?

  An inspiration came to her like a flash. “I—I am running away, Miss Courtenay,” she cried, with a brave attempt to appear naive.

  “I don’t understand,” murmured poor Anne.

  “Of course you don’t,” said Eleanor, inspiration heaping itself up within her. “Not really, you know, but just for a few days’ rest. Mother thinks I’m looking wretchedly. We didn’t say anything about it—except to Mr. Windomshire, of course. He knows. Perhaps he will run up to Omegon in a day or two to see me. It’s very quiet there, and I’ll get a good rest. The hotel is delightful—facing the lake. And the bathing’s good. Dear me, I’m so sorry about your aunt.” Miss Courtenay’s eyes actually blinked with perplexity. This was a most staggering bit of news. Eleanor flushed painfully under the gaze of the other; utter rout followed. She stammered some flimsy excuse and dashed back into the car. To herself she was crying: “I must find Joe and tell him to keep out of sight. Oh, how awful this is!”

  Just inside the door she met her porter.

  “There’s nobody named Dauntless on the train, miss. A gentleman who said he was his friend thinks he missed the train perhaps.”

  “He—he—oh, I see!” said Eleanor, suddenly perceiving method in Joe’s reluctance to answer to his own name. “Thank you. That’s all.” Then, to herself: “He has seen Miss Courtenay, and she hasn’t seen him,—that’s plain.” She handed the porter a coin.

  “I went to the berth you mentioned, ma’am, and I asked through the curtains: ‘Is Mr. Dauntless in here?’ There was a lady in the upper, miss, an’—an’—well, I’ll never forget what she said to me.” Eleanor had gone before he concluded, determined to unearth her cautious lover, if possible.

  Anne caught the porter before he could follow.

  “See here, porter,” she whispered softly, “go to Car 5, section 6, and call its occupant. Tell him not to get up. Do you understand? not to get up!”

  It goes without saying, of course, that all efforts, secret or otherwise, failed to locate the missing men. The distracted brides, each trying to run away from the other in a way, were in a state of collapse, necessarily subdued but most alarming. The Rev. Henry Derby, a nice-looking young fellow, who looked more like a tennis player than a minister of the gospel, eventually identified his old friend’s ladye faire, and introduced himself with a discreetness that proved him to have been in college at the proper period and in a somewhat different class from that which he now sought to lead. In the privacy of her drawing-room the bewitching but distressed young woman discussed the situation with the man who had been chosen to perform the clandestine ceremony in the far-away town of Omegon. Derby, coming on from his eastern home in loyal acquiescence to his friend’s request, had designedly taken this train, it being understood that Dauntless would board it at Fenlock with his fair conspirator. We all know why Dauntless failed to perform his part of the agreement; Derby, with the perspicuity of a college man, finally advanced a reason for his inexplicable failure to appear. Eleanor had begun tearfully to accuse him of abandoning her at the last moment; Mr. Derby indignantly scouted the idea. When she related their chase in the motor and their escape from Windomshire, he formed his conclusions, and they were in the main remarkably correct.

  “I’m afraid, Miss Thursdale, that your disappointed lover, our ancient enemy, the Englishman, was not to be overcome so neatly. Has it occurred to you that he may have reached Fenlock before the train left, and that he is the explanation for Joe’s non-appearance?”

  “You—you don’t mean that he has killed—” she was gasping, growing whiter and whiter. He hastened to reassure her.

  “Oh, no; not so bad as that. But it is possible and quite probable that he—if, as you say, he was on to your—I should say, aware of your flight, it is probable that he succeeded in detaining Joe in Fenlock. That would—” “Impossible! Joe wouldn’t let him!” she cried indignantly.

  “Perhaps Joe couldn’t help himself. Such things happen. At any rate, you’ll understand, the despised enemy could have—”

  “Mr. Windomshire is not a despised enemy. He’s a very nice man, Mr. Derby,” she interrupted.

  “Certainly, Miss Thursdale. What I meant to say was, that he was morally sure of preventing the wedding if he could only keep you far enough apart. Now that is probably what he has done. You can’t marry Joe in Omegon or anywhere else unless he is there and not in Fenlock.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll go back to Fenlock!” she exclaimed emphatically, a little line of determination and stubbornness settling about the erstwhile trembling lips.

  “I admire your loyalty,” he said warmly. “Just at present, however, we are water-bound here, and we’ve got to make the best of it. I fancy Joe will telegraph before long.”

  “If—if he hasn’t been hurt. Oh, Mr. Derby, they may have fought. It would be just like them. It may be dreadfully serious. You don’t know as much about men as I do. They’re terribly—”

  “Please don’t worry, Miss Thursdale,” he said, smiling in recollection of his football days. “You’ll find there’s been nothing bloody about all this. The delay is vexatious, but only temporary, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll marry Joe Dauntless now if it has to be delayed a hundred years,” she cried, her eyes flashing.

  During the next half-hour poor Derby ran errands, carried messages and complaints to every one of the train men, finally administering smelling salts when it occurred to Eleanor that Joe might have fallen off the train during the night.

  In the meantime Anne Courtenay was having a sad half-hour of it. She had no one to turn to, no one to think it all out for her; she was alone and in great despair. The porter had failed to find the tall Englishman; the conductor had been equally unsuccessful; she herself had searched in vain. His trunks and hers were in the baggage car, she found, but there was no sign of the man himself. She was a self-reliant, sensible young woman, accustomed to the rigours of the world, but this was quite too overwhelming. The presence on the train of t
he girl that she had, to all intents and purposes, cruelly deceived, did not add to her comfort. As a matter of fact, she was quite fond of Eleanor; they were warm friends despite the vagaries of love. Miss Courtenay, among other things, began to wonder, as she sat in her tumbled berth, if retribution had more to do with this than chance.

  “Could he have fallen off the train?” she wondered, with a sudden chill of apprehension. The next instant she was calling to the porter. “Send the conductor to me at once. My friend has fallen off the train—out of his window, perhaps. I am quite sure of it. I want an engine to go back and look for him. Hurry, please! don’t stand there grinning.”

  The Pullman conductor came up at that moment.

  “Are you the young lady who was asking for Mr. Dauntless?” he asked.

  “Dauntless?” she murmured. “No, I’m asking for an engine. Have you—”

  “There’s another young lady asking for an engine, too, madam. It’s impossible.”

  “Am I to understand that I shall have to walk?—Oh,” with a sudden start, “is—is there a Mr. Dauntless missing too?”

  “Seems so. He’s gone.”

  Anne dropped the curtains in his face, and then stared at them for a long time. Gradually she began to comprehend. A panic of fear came over her.

  “They have met somewhere and quarrelled! Mr. Dauntless was jealous—terribly so. He may have—good Heavens!—he may have killed him in the mistaken idea that Harry was running away with Eleanor. She’s on this very train! It’s perfectly natural. Porter,” she called, “there has been foul play!”

  “Gee, miss! That’s what the other lady is saying!”

  “The other—then it is a double murder! Don’t laugh! It’s—it’s—”

  “Don’t cry, miss; it’s all right.” She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then smiled at the absurdity of her conjecture.

  A tousled head came from between the curtains of the upper berth opposite, and a sleepy, hoarse voice demanded:

  “How long will we be here? What’s the latest?”

  “We’re on time, sah,” replied the porter, from sheer force of habit.

  “The devil we are! Say, I’ve got to be in Omegon by ten o’clock. I’ll sue this infernal road,” snarled the irascible party, snapping the curtains together. It transpired that he was an agent for a medical college, travelling to Omegon on a most unwholesome but edifying mission. He was going up to take possession of the body of a man who had willed his carcass to the school. As the poor chap was not yet dead, but hopelessly ill, the desire for haste on the part of the agent may be misunderstood. It seems, however, that there was some talk of interference by relatives—and the disquieting prospect of a new will.

  “If I were you, miss,” counselled the porter, “I’d go out and take a little walk. The sun is up, an’ it’s fine. The relief train will be here ’fore long—an’ you all will be rowed acrost the river. Don’t worry.”

  “But I want to go back the way I came,” expostulated Anne, feebly. “I can’t go on without—until I know what has happened to—to Mr. Windomshire.” She took his advice, however, and made her way to the rear platform.

  A number of disgruntled passengers were now abroad, and complaining bitterly of the delay. There was no hope of breakfast until the train reached Omegon, where a dining car was waiting. She stood on the platform and looked gloomily back over the long stretch of roadbed.

  “Isn’t that an engine coming?” some one asked excitedly at her side. She turned and found Miss Thursdale, attended by a gentleman, to whom the question was addressed.

  “I believe—yes, it is, Miss Thursdale.”

  “Then—then we’ll all be taken back to the city,” she said dejectedly.

  “I fancy not. It’s probably bringing relief.”

  “They—they may be bringing bad news,” Eleanor groaned. “Oh, Miss Courtenay, how do you do—again? How is your—your grandmother, wasn’t it?”

  “I—I—yes, I think so—I mean, I think she’s no better. They may be bringing his body!” said the other girl, her eyes fixed on the distant locomotive.

  “Oh!” almost screamed Eleanor, and stared wildly without words.

  A brakeman far down the track was flagging the locomotive; it came to a stop, and several men were seen climbing down from the cab. Two of them eventually disengaged themselves from the little group and hurried forward. One was carrying a suitcase, and both walked as though they were either in pain or attended by extreme old age.

  “Why—why—” gasped Eleanor, “it’s Joe!”

  “And—yes, thank God, it’s Har—Mr. Windomshire,” almost shrieked Anne.

  Then they turned and looked at each other in confusion. Neither had the courage to carry out the desire to fly to the arms of the man she longed to see more than all else in the world. They felt themselves to be caught red-handed.

  CHAPTER IV

  MRS. VAN TRUDER INTRUDES

  None but the most eager, loving eyes could possibly have recognised the newcomers. It is not unlikely that the remaining passengers mistook them for tramps. The rivals, morbidly suspicious of each other, taciturn to the point of unfriendliness, had indeed chartered a locomotive—not jointly by intention, but because of provoking necessity. There was but one engine to be had. It is safe to say that while they travelled many sore and turbulent miles in close proximity to each other, neither felt called upon to offer or to demand an explanation.

  Five hours in the tender of an engine had done much to reduce them to the level of the men in the cab, so far as personal appearance was concerned. They were still wearing their raincoats, much crumpled and discoloured; their faces were covered with coal dust; they were wet, bedraggled, and humble to the last degree. The American, naturally, was the one who clung to his suitcase; he had foreseen the need for a change of linen. They came toward the train with hesitating, uncertain steps. If their souls were gladdened by the sight of the two young women, general appearances failed to make record of it. It was noted by those who watched their approach that once both of them stopped short and seemed to waver in their determination to advance. That was when each became suddenly aware of the presence of an unexpected girl. Naturally, the Englishman was seriously staggered. The unexplained Eleanor appeared before his very eyes as an accusing nemesis; it is no wonder that his jaw dropped and his befuddled brain took to whirling.

  The girls, less regardful of appearances, climbed down from the platform and started forward to meet their knights-errant. The reader may readily appreciate the feelings of the quartette. Not one of them knew just precisely how much or how little the others knew; they were precariously near to being lost in the labyrinth. Something intangible but regular urged Windomshire to be politic; he advanced to meet Eleanor as if it were her due. Anne fell back, perplexed and hurt.

  “Hang it all,” thought Joe, rage in his heart, “he beat me to her, after all. He’ll be enough of a damned ass to try to kiss her before all these people, too.” Whereupon, he closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them, Miss Courtenay was walking beside him and asking questions about the weather. Her cheeks were very pink. Windomshire had awkwardly clasped the hand of Miss Thursdale, muttering something not quite intelligible, even to himself. Eleanor was replying with equal blitheness.

  “How nice of you to come. Where are you going?”

  “Surprised, are you?” he was floundering. “Charmed. Ha, ha! By Jove, Eleanor—er—I heard you were booked by this train and I—I tried to catch it for a bit of a ride with you. I missed it, don’t you know. I’ll—I’ll wager you don’t know what I did in my desperation.”

  “I couldn’t guess,” she said, trying to catch Joe’s eye.

  “I hired a private engine, ’pon my word, and then telegraphed ahead to stop this train!”

  “Di—did you do that?” she gasped, forgetting that the bridge was out.

  Dauntless, meantime, was trying to explain to Miss Courtenay. She already had told him that her aunt was ill in Vancou
ver, and he had smiled politely and aimlessly.

  “I’m on my way to M——. Sudden trip, very important,” he was saying. “Missed the train—I dare say it was this one—so I took an engine to follow up. Had to ride in the tender.”

  “It must have been important,” she ventured.

  “It was. I—” then with an inspired plunge—”I was due at a wedding.”

  “How unfortunate! I hope you won’t miss it altogether.”

  Joe caught his breath and thought: “Now what the devil did she mean by that? Has Eleanor told her the whole story?”

  It must not be supposed that these young persons were lacking in the simpler gifts of intelligence; they were, individually, beginning to put two and two together, as the saying goes. They were grasping the real situation—groping for it, perhaps, but with a clear-sightedness and acumen which urged that a cautious tongue was expedient. If the duplicity was really as four-handed as it seemed, there could be no harm in waiting for the other fellow to blunder into exposure. Nothing could be explained, of course, until the conspirators found opportunity to consult privately under the new order of assignment.

  “How romantic!” Eleanor said, as she walked stiffly ahead with her uncomfortable fiance.

  “Eh?” was his simple remark. He was suddenly puzzled over the fact that he had caught up to the train. There was something startling in that. “Oh—er—not at all romantic, most prosaic. Couldn’t get a coach. Been here long?”

  “Since five o’clock.”

  “I—I suppose you got up to see the sunrise.”

  “No, to see the river rise,” she replied. “The bridge is gone.” He was silent for twenty paces, trying to recall what he had said about telegraphing ahead.

  “You don’t mean it! Then I daresay they haven’t got my telegram stopping the train.”

  “How annoying!”

  Dauntless had just said to Anne, in a fit of disgust: “Windomshire’s got a lot of nerve. That was my engine, you know. I hired it.”

  Windomshire went on to say, careful that Joe was quite out of hearing: “Mr. Dauntless was quite annoying. He got into my engine without an invitation, and I’m hanged if he’d take a hint, even after I hired a stoker to throw a spadeful of coal over him. I don’t know why he should be in such a confounded hurry to get to—what’s the name of the place? I—er—I really think I must go and speak to Miss Courtenay, Eleanor. She—er—looks ill.”