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 Fenlock. 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."
"Oh, I see! By Jove, one has to open the thing, don't you know. Ah,
there we are! That's better," he said, after he had succeeded in
finally lighting the wick. He held the lantern up close to her face and
they looked at each other for a moment. "Anne, I do love you!" he
exclaimed. Then he kissed her. "That's the first time I've had a chance
to kiss you in thirty-six hours."
They plodded onward, closer together than ever, coming at last to the
little gate which opened into the churchyard. Before them stood the
black little building with its steeple, but the windows were as dark as
Erebus. They stopped in consternation. He looked at his watch.
"Confound him, he's not here!" growled Windomshire.
"Perhaps we are early," suggested Anne, feebly.
"It's a quarter to nine," he said. "I suppose there is nothing left for
us to do but to wait. I'll look around a bit, dear. Perhaps the
witnesses are here somewhere."
"Oo-oo-ooh! Don't leave me!" she almost shrieked. "Look! There is a
graveyard! I won't stay here alone!" They were standing at the foot of
the rough wooden steps leading up to the church door.
"Pooh! Don't be afraid of tombstones," he scoffed; but he was conscious
of a little shiver in his back. "They can't bite, you know. Besides,
all churches have graveyards and crypts and--"
"This one has no crypt," she announced positively. "Goodness, I'm mud
up to my knees and rain down to them. Why doesn't he come?"
"I'll give the signal; we had to arrange one, you know, for the sake of
identity." He gave three loud, guttural coughs. A dog in the distance
howled mournfully, as if in response. Anne crept closer to his side.
"It sounded as if some one were dying," she whispered. "Look, isn't
that a light?--over there among the gravestones!" A light flickered for
an instant in the wretched little graveyard and then disappeared as
mysteriously as it came. "It's gone! How ghostly!"
"Extraordinary! I don't understand. By Jove, it's beginning to rain
again. I'm sure to have tonsilitis. I feel it when I cough." He coughed
again, louder than before.
Suddenly the steady beam of a dark lantern struck their faces squarely;
a moment later the cadaverous Mr. Hooker was climbing over the
graveyard fence.
"Am I late?" he asked, as he came forward.
"I say, turn that beastly light the other way," complained Windomshire,
half blinded. "I thought no one but robbers carried dark lanterns."
"The darker the deed, the darker the lantern," said Mr. Hooker,
genially. "Good-evening, madam. Are we the only ones here?" He was very
matter-of-fact and business-like; Anne loathed him on the instant.
"We're all here but the minister and the other witness. I'll cough
again--although it hurts me to do it."
He coughed thrice, but instead of a response in kind, three sharp
whistles came from the trees at the left.
"What's that?" he gasped. "Has he forgotten the signal?"
"Maybe he is trying to cough," said Hooker, "and can't do any better
than wheeze. It's this rotten weather."
"No, it was a whistle. Good Heavens, Anne--it may be detectives."
"Detectives!" exclaimed Mr. Hooker, hoarsely. "Then this is no place
for me. Excuse me, I'll just step around the corner." As he scurried
off, he might have been heard to mutter to himself: "They've been
hounding me ever since that job in the Cosgrove cemetery. Damn 'em, I
wonder if they think I'm up here to rob the grave of one of these
jays." From which it may be suspected that Mr. Hooker had been employed
in the nefarious at one time or another.
"Detectives, Harry?" gasped Anne. "Why should there be detectives?
We're not criminals."
"You can't tell what Mrs. Thursdale may have done when she
discovered--Hello! There's a light down the road! 'Gad, I'll hide this
lantern until we're sure." He promptly stuck the lantern inside his big
raincoat and they were in darkness again. A hundred yards to the left a
light bobbed about, reminding them of childhood's will-o'-the-wisp.
Without a word Windomshire drew her around the church, stumbling over a
discarded pew seat that stood against the wall. Groaning with pain, he
urged her to crouch down with him behind the seat. All the while he
held the umbrella manfully over her devoted head.
Voices were heard, drawing nearer and nearer--one deep and cheery, the
other high and querulous.
"It--it--oh, Harry, it's that Mr. Derby!" she whispered. "I'd know his
voice in a thousand."
"The devil!" he whispered intensely, gripping her hand.
Mr. Derby was saying encouragingly: "There is the church, Mr. Van
Trader. Brace up. We seem to be the first to arrive."
"It's much farther away than you think," growled Mr. Van Truder. "I
can't see the lights in the window."
"There are no lights yet. We are ahead of them. I'll try the door."
The young minister kicked the mud from his shoes as he went up the
steps with the lantern. He tried the door vigorously, and then, holding
the lantern high, surveyed the surroundings. Mr. Van Truder, bundled up
like a motorman, stood below shivering--but with joy.
"This is a great night for an affair of this kind," he quaked. "By
George, I feel twenty years younger. I believe I could turn
handsprings."
"I wouldn't if I were you. Don't forget your somersault over that log
back there, and your splendid headspin in the mud puddle. It's past
nine o'clock. Joe's cousin was to be here at 8.45. Wonder what keeps
him. Joe will be here himself in a jiffy. Dear me, what a dreadful
night they have chosen for a wedding!"
Windomshire whispered in horror to the girl beside him: "Good Lord,
Anne, they're following us."
"Please, Harry," she whispered petulantly, "hold the umbrella still.
The water from the rainspout is dripping down my back."
"By George, I wish Mrs. Van Truder could see me now," came valiantly
from the old gentleman around the corner. "Say, whistle again." Derby
gave three sharp, shrill whistles. In silence they waited a full minute
for the response. There was not a sound except the dripping of the rain.
"I'm afraid something is wrong," said Derby. Just at that instant
Windomshire, despite most heroic efforts to prevent the catastrophe,
sneezed with a violence that shook his entire frame. "Sh! don't speak,"
hissed the startled minister. "We are being watched. That was
unmistakably a sneeze."
"I can't see any one," whispered Mr. Van Trader, excitedly. "I see just
as well in the dark as I do in the light, too."
"Some one is coming. See! There's a light down the road. Let's step out
of sight just for a moment."
Windomshire sneezed again, as if to accelerate the movements of the two
men.
"Hang it all!" he gurgled in despair. Mr. Derby had blinded his lantern
and was hurrying off into the grove with his companion.
"I can't help laughing, Harry," whispered Anne, giggling softly. "You
sneeze like an elephant."
"But an elephant has more sense than to sneeze as I do. I knew I'd take
cold. Anne, they're after us. It's old Mrs. Van Truder's work. What are
they up to?"
"Whatever it is, dear, they're just as much mystified as we are. Did
you hear him whistle? It is a signal."
"I say, Anne, it's a beastly mess I've got you into," groaned he.
"Dear old Harry, it is but the beginning of the mess you're getting
yourself into. I love this--every bit of it."
"You're ripping, Anne; that's what you are. I--Great Scotland! Here
comes the head-waiter, but we don't dare show ourselves. Did you ever
know such beastly luck?"
"There's another man too, away back there. And, look! Isn't that a
light coming through the trees back of the gravestones? Good Heavens,
Harry, we can't be married in a public thoroughfare. Everybody is
walking with lanterns. It's awful."
"Let's go around to the rear of the church," he exclaimed suddenly.
"Perhaps we can get our brains to work on a plan of action. But, look
here, Anne, no matter who they are or what they want, I'm going to
marry you to-night if I have to do it in the face of the entire crowd."
As they scurried off through the tall wet grass to a less exposed
station, a solitary figure came haltingly through the little gate. It
was the head-waiter, and, as he carried no lantern, he was compelled to
light matches now and then; after getting his bearings he would dart
resolutely on for a dozen paces before lighting another. Stopping in
front of the church door, he nervously tried to penetrate the gloom
with an anxious gaze; then, suddenly bethinking, he gave three timid
little coughs. Getting no immediate response, he growled aloud in his
wrath:
"I've coughed my head off in front of every house between here and the
hotel, and I'm gettin' darned tired of it. I don't like this business;
and I never could stand for graveyards. Good Lord! what's that?"
Three sharp whistles came to his alert ears, coming, it seemed, from
the very heart of some grim old gravestone. A man strode boldly across
the yard from the gate, his walk indicating that he was perfectly
familiar with the lay of the land.
"Who coughed?" he demanded loudly. "Is there no one here? What the
dickens does it mean? Joe Dauntless! Where are you? No fooling now; my
wife's worse, and I can't stay here all night." He whistled again, and
the head-waiter coughed in a bewildered reply. "That's queer. Nothing
was said about coughing."
"Hello!" called the head-waiter. "Is it you, sir?"
Joe Dauntless's cousin held his lantern on high and finally discovered
the waiter near the pile of cordwood, ready to run at a moment's notice.
"Who are you?" demanded Mr. Carpenter.
"Gustave. But you ain't the man."
"I ain't, eh? Didn't you whistle a minute ago?"
"I ain't supposed to. I cough. Say, do you know if a wedding has taken
place here? I am a witness."
"Oh, I see. He said he'd bring one. Are you alone?"
"I don't know. It feels like a crowd every time I cough. Are you the
preacher?"
"No, I'm the bridegroom's cousin. We've got to get in through a window.
I couldn't find my key. Would you mind giving me a leg?"
"A leg? Nothing was said about legs," said the waiter, moving away.
Carpenter laughed.
"I mean a boost up to the window."
"Oh! Sure."
"There's one in the rear I can smash. We'll get inside and light up. I
can open the door from that side, too. Come on--follow me." They turned
the corner and followed the path so lately taken by Windomshire and
Anne. As they came to the back of the church they were startled and not
a little alarmed by the sound of sudden scurrying and a well-defined
imprecation, but it was too dark for them to distinguish any one. While
they were trying to effect an entrance through one of the windows,
other mystified participants in the night's affairs were looking on
from secret and divers hiding-places. Far out in the little grove Derby
and his old companion watched the operations of the church-breakers,
the sickly glare of Carpenter's lantern as it stood upon the edge of
the rain barrel affording an unholy light for the occasion. Windomshire
and Anne, crouching behind a stack of old benches, looked on in
amazement. Mr. Hooker, whose conscience was none too easy, doubtless
for excellent reasons, peered forth from behind a tall tombstone. He
had arrived at the conclusion that he was being hounded down as a
body-snatcher.
"This is a devil of a mess," he muttered dolefully. "If they catch me
in this graveyard, I'll have a hard time proving an alibi. What an
idiot I was to get into this thing! I guess I'll get out of it. He's
got plenty of witnesses and I've got his ten dollars." He began
sneaking off toward the extreme west end of the graveyard, bent on
finding the road to town. "Holy smoke!" stopping short. "Another bunch
of them coming! I'm surrounded!" He dropped down behind a weed-covered
mound and glared straight ahead. Almost directly in his path a lantern
wobbled and reeled slowly, finally bringing its bearer to the fence
between the burying-ground and the churchyard. A man carried the light
and half carried the form of a woman besides.
"Brace up, Nell dear," Mr. Hooker heard the newcomer say as tenderly as
his exertions would allow. "The worst is over. Here's the church. Good
Heavens, just think of being lost in a graveyard!"
"And climbing four fences and a tree," moaned Eleanor Thursdale. They
had come up through the graveyard by mistake.
"It wasn't a tree; it was a fence post. Great Scot! There's no light in
the church. What's up? Wait here, dear, and I'll investigate."
"Alone? Never!" she cried. They climbed their fifth fence,
notwithstanding the fact that a gate was near at hand.
"This is an awful pickle I've got you into. You ought to hate me--" he
was groaning, but she checked him nobly.
"Hush, Joe, I LOVE it," she cried.
"You just wait and see how happy I'll make you for this." He was about
to kiss her rapturously, but the act was stayed by the sound of a
shrill whistle, thrice given. "There's Jim Carpenter and Derby," he
exclaimed, and whistled in response. A moment later Derby strolled up
from the grove, followed by the chattering Mr. Van Truder.
"That you, Joe?"
"Hello, Darb. Good! Where's Jim?"
Some one whistled sharply off to the left, and then Jim Carpenter came
hurrying up, the head-waiter close behind.
"Hello, Joe. Say, has either of you been coughing?" demanded Carpenter,
his hair ready to stand on end.
"I should say not," said Joe. "I've scarcely been breathing."
"Then some ghost is having a hemorrhage," said the head-waiter,
dismally.
[Illustration: "Hush, Joe, I LOVE it," she cried.]
"Hello, Mr. Dauntless, are you a witness too?"
"Say, Joe," said his cousin, quickly, "there's something strange going
on. The whole place is full of people. I went back there to open a
window and at least two men coughed--one of 'em sneezed. We're being
watched. This man says he heard a woman back there, and I saw a funny
kind of light in the graveyard."
"Hang 'em!" growled Joe. "We can't stop now. Open up the church, Jim."
"Can't. Lost my key. Is this Miss Thursdale? Glad to meet you. The
window's the only way and they're surely watching back there."
"Mamma has sent the officers after us," wailed Eleanor.
"Let's go home," said the waiter. "I didn't agree to stay out all
night."
"Agree? Aha, I see. You are a spy!" cried Joe.
"A spy? I guess not. I'm a witness."
"It's the same thing," cackled Mr. Van Truder. "You're a spy witness."
"Joe, isn't this fellow your witness?" demanded Carpenter.
"I should say not. Mr. Van Truder is mine."
"By George, I don't understand--"
"Never mind, Jim, break into the church and let's have it over with.
It's going to rain again."
"Oh, I'm so tired," moaned the poor bride, mud-spattered, wet, and very
far from being the spick and span young woman that fashionable society
knew and loved.
"By Jove!" came suddenly from the darkness, startling the entire
party--a masculine voice full of surprise and--yes, consternation. Then
there strode into the circle of light a tall figure in a shimmering
mackintosh, closely followed by a young, resolute woman.
"Windomshire!" gasped Dauntless, leaping in front of Eleanor, prepared
to defend her with his life.
"Miss Courtenay, too," murmured Eleanor, peeking under his arm.
"Yes, by Jove," announced the harassed Englishman, at
bay,--"Windomshire and Miss Courtenay." There was a long silence--a
tableau, in fact. "Well, why doesn't some one say something? You've got
us, don't you know."
Eleanor Thursdale was the first to find words. She was faint with
humiliation, but strong with the new resolve. Coming forth from behind
Dauntless, she presented herself before the man her mother had chosen.
"So you have found me out, Mr. Windomshire," she said pleadingly, a wry
little smile on her lips. "You know all about it?"
"I--er--by Jove, this is quite beyond me. Found you out? My word, you
don't mean to say--"
"I say, old man," said Dauntless, manfully, "let me explain. We've
always loved each other. It isn't that she--"
"Hang it all, man, I knew that," expostulated Windomshire. "It was a
mistake all around. I love Anne, don't you know. There's no real harm
done, I'm sure. But what puzzles me is this: why does Miss Thursdale
persist in pursuing us if she loves you and doesn't care to marry me?"
"The deuce! I like that," cried Dauntless. "You'd better begin by
asking questions at home."
"I take it," interposed Mr. Derby, with rare tact and discernment,
"that both of you expect to be married, but not to each other as
originally planned." Both Eleanor and Windomshire signified eager
affirmation in more ways than one. "Then it seems to me a simple case
of coincidence, which may be explained later on. Why discuss it now? I
am in reality a minister, Miss Courtenay, and I am here to unite Miss
Thursdale and Mr. Dauntless in the holy bonds of matrimony. I trust we
may expect no interference on the part of Mr. Windomshire?"
"Good Lord! No!" almost shouted Windomshire, clasping Anne's hand in a
mighty grasp. "That's what we are here for ourselves--to be
married--but the damned parson has deceived us." Jim Carpenter came out
of his trance at this. "Say, are you the fellow Rev. Smith was to
marry? Well, he won't be here. There's a surprise pound party at his
house and the whole town is there. He couldn't leave to save his soul.
It's the way he gets his living."
"Oh, Anne!" cried Windomshire, in real despair.
Anne slipped into the breach with rare old English fortitude. She
addressed herself sweetly to Mr. Derby.
"Mr. Derby, do you remember saying this afternoon that you'd do
anything in the world for me?" Mr. Derby blushed and looked most
unworthy of his calling, but managed to say that he WOULD do anything
in the world for her. "Then, please take the place of the minister who
couldn't come."
"Good!" cried Dauntless, almost dancing.
"I will, Miss Courtenay," said Derby. Windomshire grasped him by the
hand, speechless with joy and relief.
"I don't understand all this," complained Mr. Van Truder, vainly trying
to see the excited, jubilant quartette. He only knew that they were all
talking at once, suddenly without restraint. "I wish my wife were here;
she'd understand."
Jim Carpenter at last came to his senses and, dragging the head-waiter
after him, sped to the rear of the church. A few minutes later lights
flashed in the windows and then the front door swung open. Carpenter
and Gustave stood smiling upon the threshold.
"Enter!" called out the former. As the group quickly passed through the
doorway, a long figure climbed down from the fence hard by and ventured
up to the portal. It was Mr. Hooker, his face the picture of
bewilderment.
"Well, this beats me!" he ejaculated, leaning against the door jamb;
none of those at the altar heard his remark. He stood there listening
until the last words of the service which united two couples were
uttered. Then he turned sorrowfully away and started across the yard.
The sound of a wedding march played upon the wheezy cabinet organ by
Jim Carpenter followed him into the gloom; above the gasp of the organ
was lifted the unmistakable chatter of joyous voices.
As he passed through the gate a great vehicle rolled up and stopped. It
was drawn by two steaming horses, and the wagon lanterns told him that
it was the Somerset Hotel 'bus. "I'll ride back with 'em," he thought
comfortably.
Some one climbed down from the rear of the 'bus, assisted by two young
men in brass buttons. Mr. Hooker made way for a corpulent, puffing old
lady. She stopped in front of him and demanded in hot, strident tones:
"Where is my husband?"
"Your husband?" repeated Mr. Hooker, politely. "Madam, you can search
me. There's a whole churchful of husbands up there."
"You--you---" she sputtered. "Am I too late? Support me, you fools,"
she cried to the two bell-boys. They hurried across the churchyard, Mr.
Hooker following. At the doorway she stopped, glaring hard at the
well-lighted interior. "Mr. Van Truder! Mr. Van Truder!" she called out
angrily, but her joyful other half did not hear her. He was trying at
that moment to organise the company into a wedding procession.
"Say," said Mr. Hooker, "maybe you'd better cough three times."