“He said he would,” replied Dauntless, his spirits in the clouds. “We must get away from these people, Nell. I’ll go crazy in another minute. There’s Derby waiting for instructions. Dear old Darb—he’s a brick. My cousin Jim is a deacon or something in the village church, dear, and he has promised to let us in. I suppose he has a key. He and his wife will be the only witnesses. By George, nothing can stop us now, dear, if you have the nerve to—Where the dickens is Jim? Confound him, I don’t see him on the platform.”
He looked about the station platform—first anxiously, then impatiently, then—with consternation! His cousin was nowhere in sight. Cold with apprehensiveness, he dashed over to a citizen who wore a star upon his coat, almost dragging Eleanor after him.
“Is Jim Carpenter here? Have you seen him? Do you know him?” he demanded.
“He was here, mister. ’Bout two hours ago, I reckon. I guess you must be the fellow he was to meet—”
“Yes, yes,—where is he now?”
“I don’t know, mister. His wife’s got pneumonia, an’ he told me to tell you he couldn’t wait. He took the doctor right out to—”
“Good Lord!” exploded Joe. The citizen jumped a few inches into the air. “He’s gone?”
“Yep. But he told me to tell you to go over to the Somerset an’ wait till you hear from him.”
“Wait—till—I hear—from—him?” groaned Dauntless, wild-eyed but faint. He and Eleanor looked at each other in despair.
“Go—to—the—hotel?” she murmured, her heart in her boots. “I never can do that,” she continued. Her voice was full of tears.
Mrs. Van Truder bore down upon them like an angry vulture. They saw her coming, but neither had the strength of purpose to move.
Before they really knew how it happened, she was leading Eleanor to the hotel ’bus and he was limply following, lugging both bags with a faithfulness that seemed pathetic. Two minutes later they were in the ’bus, touching knees with the equally dazed and discomfited English people.
Back on the platform the elongated medical gentleman, Mr. Hooker, was talking loudly, wrathfully to the station agent. His voice rang in their ears long after the ’bus rolled away on its “trip” to the big summer hotel.
“You say old man Grover ain’t dead yet?” Mr. Hooker was growling resentfully, even indignantly.
“He ain’t expected to live till night, sir, poor old man,” replied the agent.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” roared Mr. Hooker. “I don’t see any sense in a man of his age hanging on like this. He’s eighty-three. My time is valuable”—looking at his big silver watch—”and I can’t afford to hang around here if he’s going to act like this.” The agent stared after him as if he were looking at a maniac. Mr. Hooker set off in the direction of old Mr. Grover’s house, which had been pointed out to him by a gaping small boy. “I’ll go up and see about it,” he remarked, as he stepped across a wide rivulet in the middle of the main street. The Somerset Hotel was situated on the most beautiful point of land touching that trim little lake which attracted hundreds of city people annually by its summer wiles. It was too sedate and quiet to be fashionable; the select few who went there sought rest from the frivolities of the world. Eleanor Thursdale had spent one tiresome but proper season there immediately after the death of her father. She hated everything in connection with the place except the little old-fashioned church at the extreme end of the village street, fully half a mile from the hotel. She had chosen it, after romantic reflection, as the sanctuary in which she should become the wife of the man she loved, spurning the great church in town and one of its loveless matches.
The forenoon is left to the imagination of the reader,—with all of its unsettled plans, its doubts and misgivings, its despairs and its failures, its subterfuges and its strategies, its aggravations and complaints. Bell-boys carried surreptitious notes from room to room; assurances, hopes, and reassurances passed one another in systematic confusion. Love was trying to find its way out of the maze.
Immediately after luncheon Dauntless set out to discover his faithless cousin. Eleanor kept close to her room, in readiness for instant flight. The necessary Mr. Derby had his instructions to remain where he could be found without trouble. Mrs. Van Truder, taking up Eleanor’s battles, busied herself and every one else in the impossible task of locating the young woman’s trunks, which, according to uncertain reports, had gone mysteriously astray. Moreover, she had prepared a telegram to the young lady’s mother, assuring her that she was quite safe; but Mr. Dauntless boldly intercepted Mr. Van Truder on his way to the desk.
“Allow me,” he remarked, deliberately taking the despatch from the old gentleman. “I’ll send it from the station. Don’t bother about it, Mr. Van Truder.” He drove through the village, but did not stop at the station; his instructions to the driver did not include a pause anywhere. It is not necessary to relate what took place when he descended upon the unfortunate Jim; it is sufficient to say that he dragged him from his sick wife’s bedside and berated him soundly for his treachery. Then it was all rearranged,—the hapless Jim being swept into promises which he could not break, even with death staring his wife in the face. The agitated Mr. Dauntless drove back to the hotel with a new set of details perfected. This time nothing should go wrong.
His first action was to acquaint Derby with the plans, and then to send a note of instructions to Eleanor, guarding against any chance that they might not be able to communicate with each other in person.
“It’s all fixed,” he announced to Derby, in a secluded corner of the grounds. “Tonight at nine we are to be at the church down the road there—see it? Nobody is on to us, and Jim has a key. He will meet you there at a quarter of nine. But, hang it all, his wife can’t act as a witness. We’ve got to provide one. He suggested the postmaster, but I don’t like the idea; it looks too much like a cheap elopement. I’d just as soon have the cook or the housemaid. I’ll get Eleanor there if I have to kill that Van Truder woman. Now, whom shall we have as the second witness?”
“Windomshire, I’m afraid,” lamented Derby. “You won’t be able to get rid of him.”
“Hang him!” groaned Dauntless, his spirits falling, but instantly reviving. “But he’s dead in love with Miss Courtenay. It’s pitiful, old man. He feels that he’s got to marry Nell, but it’s not in his heart to do it. Now if we could only shunt him off on to Miss Courtenay this evening! Her train leaves at nine, they say. He might be forced to take her to the station if you will only get busy and make him jealous.”
“Jealous? I?”
“Certainly. It won’t be much of an effort for you, and it will help me immensely. Make love to her this afternoon, and when you suggest taking her to the station this evening he’ll be so wrought up that he won’t stand for it. See what I mean?”
“Now see here, Joe, I’m willing to do a great deal for you, but this is too much. You forget that I am a minister of the gospel. It’s—”
“I know, old man, but you might do a little thing like this for—By Jove, I’ve got it! Why not have old Mr. Van Truder for the other witness?”
Mr. Van Truder was crossing the lawn, picking his way carefully.
“Good afternoon,” greeted Dauntless.
“Afternoon,” responded Mr. Van Truder. “Is this the hotel?”
“No, sir; the hotel is about ten feet to your left. By the way, Mr. Van Truder, would you mind doing me a favour this evening?”
“Gladly. Who are you?”
“Joe Dauntless.”
“Anything, my dear Joe.”
“Well, it’s a dead secret.”
“A secret? Trust me,” cried the old man, joyfully.
“First, let me introduce my friend, the Rev. Mr. Derby. He’s in the secret. It will go no farther, I trust, Mr. Van Truder.”
“My wife says I can’t keep a secret, but I’ll show her that I can. Trust me, my boy.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you can’t keep this one,” said J
oe, inspired.
“Done!”
“Well,” bravely but cautiously, “I’m going to be married tonight. Be careful now! Look out! Don’t explode! Remember the bet!” The old gentleman repressed his feelings.
“Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations, my boy.”
“Now for the favour. I want you to act as a witness. It’s to be a very quiet affair.” Dauntless explained as much of the situation to him as he thought necessary, omitting the lady’s name. Mr. Van Truder bubbled over with joy and eagerness. He promised faithfully to accompany Mr. Derby, pooh-hooing the suggestion that he could not slip away from the hotel without his wife being aware of the fact.
“Trust me, my boy. Don’t worry. I’m always Johnny-on-the-spot. Where did you say the hotel was? I’ll go up and get ready. Oh, by the way, who is the young lady?”
“She’s a friend of Mr. Dauntless’s,” said Mr. Derby.
“To be sure; I might have known. Silly question.”
The young men watched him enter the hotel, but they did not see him fall into the clutches of his wife just inside the door.
“Where have you been?” demanded Mrs. Van Truder.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, my dear,” he said, almost whimpering. “I’ve got a grand secret, but I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me!”
“Is it a wedding?” she demanded sternly.
“Dear me! Do you know it too?” he cried, bewildered. “But that’s not the real secret; it’s only part of it. Joe is going to marry some friend of his tonight—but that’s as far as I’ll go. I’ll not betray the secret.” He hurried away to avoid questions, muttering to himself as he went: “She’s dying to know. But a secret’s a secret. She sha’n’t know that I am to be a witness.”
Mrs. Van Truder pondered long and deeply, but she was not well enough acquainted with all of the facts to hazard a guess as to who the girl might be. It came to her memory that Dauntless had been with Miss Courtenay all morning, however, and she wondered not a little. Windomshire was approaching in search of Anne, who was to have met him as if by accident in a corner of the reading-room.
“Oh, Mr. Windomshire,” exclaimed Mrs. Van Truder, darting toward him.
“How do, Mrs. Van Truder? How are you today?” he asked, scarcely able to hide his annoyance.
“That is the tenth time you’ve asked me that question. I must repeat: I am quite well.”
“Oh, pardon my inquisitiveness. It has been a very long day, you know.”
“I want you and Miss Thursdale to dine with me at eight this evening. I think I’ll have a little surprise for you,” she said mysteriously. Windomshire glared, and then managed to give a provisional acceptance. It all depended on the hour for leaving for the train. As he hurried off to find Anne he was groaning to himself: “How the deuce can I go to a dinner and run off again with Anne? I’ve got everything arranged. I can’t let a beastly dinner interfere. I won’t go, hang me if I do.” He came upon Anne in the corner of the library—the most unfrequented corner.
“Well?” she questioned eagerly. He clasped her hands, beaming once more.
“I’ve seen him, dear. It’s all right. My word, I’ve had no end of a busy day. The confounded fellow was out making calls on the congregation, as they say, and I had to pursue him from house to house, always missing him, by Jove.”
“But you did find him?” anxiously.
“Of course. He will be at the church at nine tonight—sharp. He understands that no one is to know about it. His fee is ten pounds—quite a bit for a chap like him. I found him calling upon a fellow who is about to die—a Mr. Grover. He sent out word I’d have to wait as the old gentleman was passing away. By Jove, do you know I was that intense that I sent in word that the old gentleman would have to wait a bit—I couldn’t. The pastor came out and—well, it seems that the fee for helping a chap to get married is more substantial than what he gets for helping one to die. And, as luck would have it, I found a fellow who will act as one of the witnesses to the ceremony at this same house,—a Mr. Hooker, Anne. He came down on the train with us. Tall, dark, professional looking man. He was sitting on Mr. Grover’s front steps when I got there. The other witness—must have two, you know—is the head-waiter in the dining-room here—”
“The—head-waiter?” she gasped.
“He’s a very decent sort of chap, my dear—and, besides, we can’t be choosers. Waiters are most discreet fellows, too. He’s to get two pounds for his trouble. By Jove, I think I’ve done rather well. I’m sorry if you don’t approve,” he lamented.
“But I do approve, Harry,” she cried bravely. “It’s lovely!”
“Good! I knew you would. Now all we have to do is to slip away from here this evening, and—Oh, I say, hang it all! Mrs. Van Truder has asked me to dine with them this evening.”
“Isn’t she running you a bit?” cried Anne, indignantly. “She had you for breakfast and luncheon and now it’s dinner. I daresay she’ll have you for tea too.”
“But I’m not going to her confounded dinner. That’s settled. I can’t do it, you know, and be on time for the wedding. Deuce take it, what does she take a fellow for? Hello, here comes the chap that Dauntless introduced to us this morning.” Derby was approaching with a warm and ingratiating smile. “What’s his name? Confound him.”
“Mr. Derby, I think. Why can’t they give us a moment’s peace?” she pouted. Derby came up to them, his eyes sparkling with a fire which they could not and were not to understand. He had surveyed them from a distance for some time before deciding to ruthlessly, cruelly break in upon the tranquil situation.
“She’s a pretty girl,” he reflected, unconsciously going back to his college days, and quite forgetting his cloth—which, by the way, was a neat blue serge with a tender stripe. Consoling himself with the thought that he was doing it to accommodate an old friend, the good-looking Mr. Derby boldly entered the lists for the afternoon. He felt, somehow, that he had it in his power to make Mr. Windomshire quite jealous—and at the same time do nothing reprehensible. What he did succeed in doing, alas, was to make two young people needlessly miserable for a whole afternoon—bringing on grievous headaches and an attack of suppressed melancholia that savoured somewhat of actual madness.
True to his project, he laboured hard and skilfully for hours. Windomshire moved about in solitude, gnashing his teeth, while Derby unceremoniously whisked the dazed Anne off for pleasant walks or held her at bay in some secluded corner of the parlours. By dinner-time, encouraged by Joe’s wild but cautious applause, he had driven Windomshire almost to distraction. A thing he did not know, however,—else his pride might have cringed perceptibly,—was that Anne Courtenay was growing to hate him as no one was ever hated before.
“Well,” he said to the nervous Mr. Dauntless at seven o’clock that evening, having arrived at what he called the conclusion of his day’s work, “I think I’ve done all that was expected, haven’t I?”
“You’ve got him crazy, old boy. Look at him! It’s the first minute he’s had since half-past two. Say, what do you think of this cursed weather? It’s raining again—and muddy! Great Scot, old man! it’s knee deep, and we don’t dare take a carriage to the church. One can’t sneak worth a cent in a cab, you know. See you later! There’s Eleanor waiting to speak to me. By George, I’m nervous. You won’t fail us, old man?”
“I’ll do my part, Joe,” said Derby, smiling.
“Well, so long, if I don’t see you before nine. You look out for old Mr. Van Truder, will you? See that he sneaks out properly. And—”
“Don’t worry, old chap. Go to Miss Thursdale. She seems nervous.”
CHAPTER VI
THE ROAD TO PARADISE
Night again—and again the mist and the drizzle; again the country lane, but without the warm club-house fire, the cheery lights, the highball, and the thumping motor car. Soggy, squashy mud instead of the clean tonneau; heavy, cruel wading through unknown by-ways in place of the thrilling rush to Fenloc
k. Not twenty-four hours had passed, and yet it seemed that ages lay between the joyous midnight and the sodden, heart-breaking eve that followed.
The guests at the Somerset kept close indoors,—that is, most of them did. It is with those who fared forth resolutely into the night that we have to do; the rest of the world is to be barred from any further connection with this little history. It is far out in the dreary country lane and not inside the warm hotel that we struggle to attain our end. First one, then another stealthy figure crept forth into the drizzle; before the big clock struck half-past eight, at least six respectable and supposedly sensible persons had mysteriously disappeared. Only one of our close acquaintances remained in the hotel,—Mrs. Van Truder. It was not to be long, however, before she, too, would be adventuring forth in search of the unknown.
By this it may be readily understood that Mr. Van Truder had succeeded in escaping from beneath her very nose, as it were.
The little village church stood at the extreme end of the street,—dark, dismal, quite awe-inspiring on a night like this. A narrow lane stretched from the hotel to the sanctuary and beyond. There is nothing at hand to show whether it is a Methodist, a Presbyterian, or a Baptist church. As the two young women most vitally concerned in this tale were professedly high church, it is therefore no more than right that, in the darkness, it should be looked upon as an Episcopalian church.
Two stumbling figures, pressing close to each other in the shelter of a single wobbly umbrella, forged their uncertain way through the muddy lane. Except for the brief instants when the dull flicker of lightning came to their relief, they were in pitch darkness.
“Beastly dark, isn’t it?” said one of the figures.
“And beastly muddy too,” said the other, in a high, disconsolate treble. “Oh, dear, where are we?”
“I don’t know, but I feel as though we were about to step off of something every moment. Do you know, Anne, it’s extraordinary that I shouldn’t know how to light one of these confounded lanterns.”
“Try it again, Harry dear. I’ll hold the umbrella.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 194