By CAROLYN WELLS
The Vanishing of Betty Varian
The Luminous Face
The Come Back
In the Onyx Lobby
The Man Who Fell Through the Earth
The Room with the Tassels
Faulkner’s Folly
The Bride of a Moment
Doris of Dobbs’ Ferry
The Book of Humorous Verse
Such Nonsense! _An Anthology_
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
THE VANISHING OF
BETTY VARIAN
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
_Author of “The Luminous Face,” “The Come Back,” “In the Onyx Lobby,”
“The Man Who Fell Through the Earth,” etc._
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Headland Harbor 9
II Betty Varian 24
III The Tragedy 39
IV The Search 54
V The Yellow Pillow 69
VI The Varian Pearls 84
VII Minna Varian 100
VIII Ransom 115
IX Poor Martha 130
X Pennington Wise 145
XI Clues 160
XII A Letter from Nowhere 175
XIII Where Is North? 190
XIV A Green Stain 205
XV Criminal or Victim? 220
XVI In Greenvale 236
XVII The Last Letter 250
XVIII The Trap 265
THE VANISHING OF
BETTY VARIAN
CHAPTER I
Headland Harbor
It is, of course, possible, perhaps even probable, that somewhere on this
green earth there may be finer golf links or a more attractive clubhouse
than those at Headland Harbor, but never hope to wring such an admission
from any one of the summer colony who spend their mid-year at that
particular portion of the Maine coast.
Far up above the York cliffs are more great crags and among the steepest
and wildest of these localities, a few venturesome spirits saw fit to
pitch their tents.
Others joined them from time to time until now, the summer population
occupied nearly a hundred cottages and bungalows and there was, moreover,
a fair sized and fairly appointed inn.
Many of the regulars were artists, of one sort or another, but also came
the less talented in search of good fishing or merely good idling. And
they found it, for the majority of the householders were people of brains
as well as talent and by some mysterious management the tone of the
social side of things was kept pretty much as it should be.
Wealth counted for what it was worth, and no more. Genius counted in the
same way, and was never overrated. Good nature and an amusing personality
were perhaps the best assets one could bring to the conservative little
community, and most of the shining lights possessed those in abundance.
To many, the word harbor connotes a peaceful, serene bit of blue water,
sheltered from rough winds and basking in the sunlight.
This is far from a description of Headland Harbor, whose rocky shores and
deep black waters were usually wind-swept and often storm-swept to a wild
picturesqueness beloved of the picture painters.
But there were some midsummer days, as now, one in late July, when the
harbor waters lay serene and the sunlight dipped and danced on the tiny
wavelets that broke into spray over the nearby rocks.
Because it was about the hour of noon, the clubhouse verandah was crowded
with members and guests waiting for the mail, which, as always, was late.
The clubhouse, a big, low building, with lots of shiny paint and
weathering shingles, was at the nearest spot consistent with safety to
the shore. From it could be had a magnificent view of the great headland
that named the place.
This gigantic cliff jutted out into the sea, and rising to a height of
three hundred feet, the mighty crag showed a slight overhang which
rendered it unscalable. The wet black rock glistened in the sunlight, as
spray from the dashing breakers broke half way up its sides.
The top was a long and narrow tableland, not much more than large enough
to accommodate the house that crowned the summit. There was a strip of
sparse lawn on either side the old mansion, and a futile attempt at a
garden, but vegetation was mostly confined to the weird, one-sided pine
trees that waved the branches of their lee sides in mournful, eerie
motions.
“Can’t see how any one wants to live up there in that God-forsaken
shack,” said John Clark, settling more comfortably in his porch rocker
and lighting a fresh cigarette.
“Oh, I think it’s great!” Mrs Blackwood disagreed with him. “So
picturesque——”
“You know, if you say ‘picturesque’ up here, you’ll be excommunicated.
The thing is all right, but the word is taboo.”
“All right, then, chromoesque.”
“But it isn’t that,” Clark objected; “it’s more like an old steel
engraving——”
“Oh, not with all that color,” said Lawrence North. “It is like an
engraving on a gray, cloudy day,—but today, with the bright water and
vivid sunshine, it’s like a——”
“Speak it right out!” cried Ted Landon, irrepressibly, “like a picture
postcard!”
“It can’t help being like that,” Mrs Blackwood agreed, “for the postcards
for sale in the office of the club are more like the reality than any
picture an artist has ever made of the Headland House.”
“Of course, photographs are truer than drawings,” North said, “and that
card that shows the cliff in a storm comes pretty near being a work of
art.”
“The difficulty would be,” Clark observed, “to get any kind of a picture
of that place that wouldn’t be a work of art. Why, the architect’s
blueprints of that house would come a good deal nearer art than lots of
watercolors I’ve seen in exhibitions. I’m keen on the place.”
“Who isn’t?” growled Landon, for most of the Headlanders resented the
faintest disparagement of their cherished masterpiece, a joint work of
nature and man.
The promontory was joined to the mainland by a mere narrow neck of rocky
land, and from that point a rough road descended, over and between steep
hills, reaching at last the tiny village and scattered settlement of
Headland Harbor.
Headland House itself was a modified type of old world architecture.
Built of rough gray stone, equipped with a few towers and turrets,
pierced by deep and narrow windows, it had some effects of a French
chateau and others that suggested an old English castle.
It was true to no school, it followed no definite type, yet perched on
its lonely height, sharply outlined against the sky, its majestic rock
foundations sweeping away from beneath it, it showed the grandeur and
sublimity of a well-planned monument.
And, partly because of their real admiration, partly because of a spirit
of ownership, the artist colony loved and cherished their Headland House
with a jealous sensitiveness to criticism.
“Stunning thing,—from here,” John Clark said, after a few moments of
further smoking and gazing; “all the same, as I stated, I shouldn’t care
to live up there.”
“Too difficult of access,” Claire Blackwood said, “but, otherwise all
right.”
Mrs Blackwood was a widow, young, attractive, and of a psychic turn of
mind. Not enough of an occultist to make her a bore, but possessing quick
and sure intuitions and claiming some slight clairvoyant powers. She
dabbled in water colors, and did an occasional oil. She was long-limbed,
with long fingers and long feet, and usually had a long scarf of some
gauzy texture trailing about her. Of an evening or even on a dressy
afternoon, she had a long panel or sash-end hanging below her short
skirt, and which was frequently trodden on by blundering, inattentive
feet.
Good-looking, of course, Claire Blackwood was,—she took care to be
that,—but her utmost care could not make her beautiful,—much to her own
chagrin. Her scarlet lips were too thin, and the angle of her jaw too
hard. Yet she was handsome, and by virtue of her personality and her
implicit belief in her own importance, she was the leader socially,
notwithstanding the fact that the colony disclaimed any society element
in its life.
“Tell us about the Headland House people, Claire. You’ve called, haven’t
you?”
This from Ted Landon, who by reason of his sheer impudence was forgiven
any unconventionality. No other man at the Harbor would have dreamed of
addressing Mrs Blackwood by her first name.
“Yes; I’ve called. They’re delightful people.” The words said more than
the tone.
“With reservations?” asked North.
“Oh, in a way. They’re quite all right,—it’s only that they’re not
picture mad,—as we all are.”
“Ignorant?”
“Oh, no,—not that. Well, I’ll sketch them for you. Mr Varian is a Wall
Street man,——”
“Magnate?”
“Yes, I daresay. Wealthy, anyway. He’s big and Vandyke-bearded. Well
mannered,—but a bit preoccupied,—if——”
“Yes, we get what you mean,” said the irrepressible Ted. “Go on,—what
about the daughter?”
“I haven’t come to her yet. The mother is due first. Mrs Varian is the
clingingest vine I ever saw. I only saw her on parade, of course, but I’m
positive that in curl-papers, she can whine and fret and fly into nervous
spasms! Her husband spoils her,—he’s far too good to her,——”
“What a lot you gathered at one interview,” murmured Lawrence North.
“That’s what I went for,” Mrs Blackwood returned, coolly. “Well. Mother
Varian is wrapped up in her blossom-child. Betty is a peach,—as I know
you boys will agree,—but I never saw greater idolatry in any mother than
Mrs Varian shows.”
“Betty worth it?” asked John Clark, idly.
“Rather!” Mrs Blackwood assured him. “She’s a dear thing. I don’t often
enthuse over young girls, but Betty Varian is unusual.”
“As how?”
“Prettier than most girls, more charm, better manners, and,—a suspicion
of brains. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to make it a pleasure to
talk to her. Moreover, she’s a wilful, spoiled, petted darling of two
worshipping parents, and it’s greatly to her credit that she isn’t an
arrogant, impossible chit.”
“Sounds good to me,” commented Ted; “when can I meet her?”
“I’ll introduce you soon. They want to meet some of our best people——”
“Of course. That lets me in at once. When will you take me?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. They’re having a small picnic and they asked me to
bring two amusing young men.”
“May I go?” asked Lawrence North.
“_Young_ men, I said,” and Mrs Blackwood looked at him calmly. “You are
old enough to be Betty Varian’s father!”
“Well, since I’m not, that needn’t prevent my meeting her.”
“So you shall, some time. But I’m to take two tomorrow, and,—what do you
think? I said I would bring Rodney Granniss, and Mr Varian said, ‘No,
he’d rather I asked some one in his place!’”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” cried Landon. “Rod’s our star performer.”
“Well, you see, they know him——”
“All the more reason——”
“Oh, it’s this way. Rod Granniss is already a beau of Betty’s,—and her
father doesn’t approve of the acquaintance.”
“Not approve of Granniss!” John Clark looked his amazement. “Mr Varian
must be an old fuss!”
“I think that’s just what he is,” assented Claire Blackwood, and then Ted
Landon urged,
“You haven’t described the siren yet. What’s she like to look at?”
“A little thing, sylphish, rather,—dainty ways, quick, alert motions, and
with the biggest gray eyes you ever saw,—edged with black.”
“Raving tresses?”
“No; very dark brown, I think. But the liveliest coloring.
Red-under-brown cheeks, scarlet lips and——”
“I know,—teeth like pearls.”
“No; good, sound, white teeth, and fluttering hands that emphasize and
illustrate all she says.”
“All right, she’ll do,” and Ted looked satisfied. “I can cut out old John
here, and if Granniss is barred, I’ll have a cinch!”
“You must behave yourself,—at first, anyway, because I am responsible for
you. Be ready to go up there with me at four tomorrow afternoon.”
“Leave here at four?”
“Yes, we’ll walk up. A bit of a climb, but motors can go only to the
lodge, you know, and that’s not worth while.”
The porter’s lodge belonging to Headland House was partly visible from
the clubhouse, and it guarded the gates that gave ingress to the estate.
There was no other mode of entrance, for a high wall ran completely
across the narrow neck that joined the headland to the main shore, and
all other sides of the precipitous cliff ran straight down to the sea.
From where they sat the group could discern the motor road as far as the
lodge; and here and there above that could be glimpsed the narrow,
tortuous path that led on to the house.
“Grim old pile,” Landon said, looking at Headland House. “Any spook
connected with its history?”
“I never heard of any,” said Mrs Blackwood. “Did you, Mr North?”
“Not definitely, but I’ve heard vague rumors of old legends or traditions
of dark deeds——”
“Oh, pshaw, I don’t believe it!” and Mrs Blackwood shook her head at him.
“You’re making that up to lend an added interest!”
North grinned. “I’m afraid I was,” he admitted, “but if there isn’t any
legend there surely ought to be. Let’s make one up.”
“No, I won’t have it. I hate haunted houses, and I shan’t allow a ghost
to be invented. The place is too beautiful to have a foolish, hackneyed
old ghost yarn attached to it. Just because you were up here last summer
and this is the first year for most of us, you needn’t think you can rule
the roost!”
“Very well,” Lawrence North smiled good-naturedly, “have it your own way.
But, truly, I heard rumors last year——”
“Keep them to yourself, then, and when you meet the Varians, as of course
you will, don’t say anything to them about such a thing.”
“Your word is law,” and North bowed, submissively. “Here comes the mail
at last, and also, here comes Granniss,—the disapproved one!”
A tall outdoorsy-looking young man appeared, and throwing himself into a
piazza swing, asked breezily, “Who’s disapproving of me, now? Somebody
with absolute lack of fine perception!”
“Nobody here,” began Landon, and then a warning glance from Claire
Blackwood prevented his further disclosures on the subject.
“Don’t make a secret of it,” went on Granniss, “own up now, who’s been
knocking poor little me?”
“I,” said Mrs Blackwood, coolly.
“Nixy, Madame Claire! You may disapprove of me, but you’re not the one I
mean. Who else?”
“Oh, let’s tell him,” North laughed; “he can stand the shock. They say,
Granniss, you’re _persona non grata_ up at the house on the headland.”
Rodney Granniss’ eyes darkened and he looked annoyed. But he only said,
“That’s a disapproval any one may obtain by the simple process of
admiring Miss Varian.”
“Really?” asked Claire Blackwood.
“Very really. To call twice is to incur the displeasure of one or both
parents; to venture a third time is to be crossed out of the guest book
entirely.”
“But, look here, old man,” Landon said, “they’ve only been in that house
about a week. Haven’t you been rushing things?”
“I knew them before,” said Granniss, simply. “I’ve met them in New York.”
“Oh, well, then their dislike of you is evidently well-founded!”
But this impudence of Landon’s brought forth no expression of resentment
from its victim. Granniss only winked at Ted, and proceeded to look over
his letters.
It was the first time in the memory of any of the present _habitués_ of
Headland Harbor, that the house on the rocks had been occupied. Built
long ago, it was so difficult of access and so high priced of rental that
no one had cared to live in it. But, suddenly, and for no known reason,
this summer it had been rented, late, and now, toward the end of July,
the new tenants were only fairly settled.
That their name was Varian was about all that was known of them, until
Mrs Blackwood’s call had been hospitably received and she brought back
favorable reports of the family.
It seems Betty was anxious to meet some young people and Mrs Varian was
glad to learn from her caller that small picnics were among the favored
modes of entertainment, and she decided to begin that way.
Next day, she explained, a few house guests would arrive, and if Mrs
Blackwood would bring two or three young men and come herself, perhaps
that would be enough for a first attempt at sociability.
This met Mrs Blackwood’s entire approval, and she proposed Rodney
Granniss’ name, all unsuspecting that he would not be welcomed.
“He’s all right, you understand,” Mrs Varian had said,—Betty not being
then present,—“but he’s too fond of my daughter. You can tell,—you
know,—and I want the child to have a good time, but I want her to have a
lot of young acquaintances, and be friendly with all, but not specially
interested in any one. Her father feels the same way,—in fact, he feels
more strongly about it even than I do. So, this time, please leave Mr
Granniss out of it.”
This was all plausible enough, and no real disparagement to Rodney, so
Mrs Blackwood agreed.
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked her hostess at parting. “Have you
everything you want? Are your servants satisfactory?”
“Not in every respect,”—Mrs Varian frowned. “But we’re lucky to keep them
at all. Only by the most outrageous concessions, I assure you. If they
get too overbearing, I may have to let some of them go.”
“Let me know, in that case, and I may be able to help you,” and with a
few further amenities, Claire Blackwood went away.
“But if I were one of her servants I shouldn’t stay with her!” she
confided later to a trusted friend. “I never saw a more foolishly
emotional woman. She almost wept when she told me about her cook’s
ingratitude! As if any one looked for appreciation of favors in a cook!
And when she talked about Betty, she bubbled over with such enthusiasm
that she was again moved to tears! It seems her first two little ones
died very young, and I think they’ve always feared they mightn’t raise
Betty. Hence the spoiling process.”
“And it also explains,” observed the interested friend, “why the parents
discountenance the attentions of would-be swains.”
“Of course,—but Betty is twenty, and that is surely old enough to begin
to think about such things seriously.”
“For the girl,—yes. And doubtless she does. But parents never realize
that their infants are growing up. It is not impossible that Rod Granniss
and Miss Betty have progressed much further along the road to Arcady than
her elders may suspect. Why did the Varians come here,—where Rod is?”
“I don’t suppose they knew it,—though, maybe Betty did. Young people are
pretty sharp. And you know, Rod was here in June, then he went away and
only returned after the Varians arrived. Yes, there must have been some
sort of collusion on the part of the youngsters.”
“Maybe not. I daresay Miss Betty has lots of admirers as devoted as young
Granniss. Can’t you ask me to the picnic?”
“Not this one. It’s very small. And there are to be some guests at the
house, I believe. The family interests me. They are types, I think. Betty
is more than an ordinary flutterbudget, like most of the very young girls
around here. And the older Varians are really worth while. Mr Varian is a
brooding, self-contained sort,—I feel sorry for him.”
“There, there, that will do, Claire! When you feel sorry for a man—I
remember you began by being sorry for Lawrence North!”
“I’m sorry for him still. He’s a big man,—in a way, a genius,—and yet
he——”
“He gets nowhere! That’s because he _isn’t_ a genius! But he’s a widower,
so he’s fair quarry. Don’t go to feeling sorry for married men.”
“Oh, there’s no sentiment in my sympathy for Mr Varian. Only he intrigues
me because of his restless air,—his restrained effect, as if he were
using every effort to keep himself from breaking through!”
“Breaking through what?”
“I don’t know! Through some barrier, some limit that he has fixed for
himself—I tell you I don’t _know_ what it’s all about. That’s why I’m
interested.”
“Curious, you mean.”
“Well, curious, then. And how he puts up with that hand-wringing
ready-to-cry wife! Yet, he’s fawningly devoted to her! He anticipates her
slightest wish,—he is worried sick if she is the least mite incommoded or
disturbed,—and I know he’d lie down and let her walk on him if she even
looked as if she’d care to!”
“What a lot you read into a man’s natural consideration for his wife!”
“But it’s there! I’m no fool,—I can read people,—you know that! I tell
you that man is under his wife’s thumb for some reason far more potent
than his love for her, or her demand for affection from him.”
“What _could_ be the explanation?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m curious. I’m going to find out, though, and
that without the Varians in the least suspecting my efforts. Wait till
you see her. She’s almost eerie, she’s so emotional. Not noisy or even
verbally expressive, but her face is a study in nervous excitement. She
seems to grab at the heartstrings of a mere passer-by, and play on them
until she tears them out!”
“Good gracious, you make her out a vampire!”
“I think she is,—not a silly vamp, that the girls joke about,—but the
real thing!”