THE UNFORESEEN HAPPENS
So here I had reached the goal of my desires in a surprisingly short
space of time. Truly the gods had been good to me, and in the most
unexpected manner I had won the love of the sweetest woman in the
world. And the mysterious murder of Anne Caldershaw--gruesome as it
may seem--had been the main circumstance to bring about my triumph.
But for the crime I should not have seen the portrait of my beloved,
and but for her innocent connection with the same--whereby I was
enabled to prove my honesty and good faith--I should never have gained
her confidence. But to trust me she had to study my character closely,
and having done so, had unconsciously fallen in love. When I offered
to come forward as her champion my conquest was complete, and
therefore Gertrude yielded. Truly an odd wooing.
For the next two or three days we were completely happy. Mr. Monk,
having departed, could no longer interrupt us at inauspicious moments,
so we had all the golden hours to ourselves. Also the weather
unexpectedly changed from autumnal greyness to a springlike delicacy
of sunshine in a blue sky. It was more like May than the end of
September, and the singing of the birds was echoed by our joyful
hearts. We scarcely said a word about the Mootley crime, as we had
tacitly agreed to abandon any search for the criminal. And indeed
there remained no clue to lead to the discovery of the assassin. At
times I had doubts about the mysterious person whose name Gertrude had
so steadily refused to tell me. I felt sure that she was shielding
someone, and could not think of any reason strong enough to make her
do so. But I put the doubt from me when she smiled into my eyes and
surrendered myself entirely to the happiness of the magic hour.
Whether Miss Destiny guessed the truth I cannot say. She never came
near The Lodge, as she only haunted it when Mr. Monk appeared on the
scene, and then merely for the sake of getting what she could out of
him. But as Lucinda was always shopping in the village, and the
dwellers in Burwain were born gossips, Miss Destiny must have heard
that her niece was receiving me at all hours and in all places.
Knowing my infatuation, she would put two and two together, and the
resultant four would prove to her suspicious mind that we had come to
an understanding. But if she did arrive at this knowledge she made no
sign. Perhaps she was content to wait events so long as her half of
the fifty thousand pounds was safe. At all events she lay snug in the
jungle which surrounded her tin hovel, like the malignant fairy she
was.
But the golden days came to an end, as golden days will, since an
everlasting Paradise is impossible on earth. I was forced to keep my
promise to Cannington and seek London, else he would certainly have
put in an inopportune appearance. Of course in spite of his title and
looks, and the possible support of Mr. Walter Monk--always supposing
the two met--he could do nothing now, as Gertrude had solemnly
promised to be my wife. All the same I did not want Cannington to come
stumbling into Love's garden. Later on, when the first ecstasy of
delight had passed away, I promised myself that he should be formally
presented to my newly-captured Diana. But at the moment a duet was
better than a trio, so I explained matters to Gertrude and put the
Rippler in order for a spin to London.
"But you won't remain long away, dear?" she asked me. "Promise me,
promise me."
I did promise her, with many a kiss, on the bare road between Burwain
and Tarhaven. So far I had taken her in my car, and now it was
necessary that she should return. Only the birds and sheep, the
sailing clouds and the all-beholding sun, saw our embrace, so we gave
ourselves up fully to the delight. The parting indeed was "sweet
sorrow," as Shakespeare says, and only at the golden moment did I
fully understand the feelings of Romeo.
The day was balmy and sunny, the roads were dry, and the Rippler was
on her best behavior, so the journey to London was extremely pleasant.
I reached my West Kensington flat early in the afternoon. As I had
telegraphed the probable time of my arrival to the caretaker's wife,
who usually looked after my rooms, I found everything in good order.
There was a brisk fire, a good meal, and a warm bath awaiting me, so I
spent the next hour very pleasantly. Cannington had already been
informed that I would call at Lady Denham's Grosvenor Square house
about five o'clock, therefore I had ample time to get ready for the
visit.
After writing a few letters, and looking into my bankbook, I arrayed
myself in the purple and fine linen of the West End--that is, I
assumed a frock coat, grey trousers, patent leather boots, and all the
paraphernalia of society. Then I sallied forth, and--giving the
Rippler a rest--jumped into a taxi-cab. After the perfect quietness of
the country the bustle and roar of the many-colored life in London
streets rather appealed to me. I was quite sorry when the vehicle
stopped at my destination.
A stately footman took my hat and gloves, and showed me into the
smoking-room, where Lord Cannington awaited me. The boy sprang to his
feet and rushed forward to shake hands.
"I'm so glad to see you, Vance," he said breathlessly; "how jolly well
you look. I suppose"----He began to laugh, and could get no further.
"Well," said I, sitting down and accepting a cigarette, "I presume
your laugh means that I am engaged."
"Good Lord, no! I don't go so far as that. But you went in search of
the original of the photograph, and having found her, I can see that
love has proved to be the elixir of life."
"You are quite poetical, Cannington, and excessively complimentary."
"Oh, rot! I'm only speaking the truth. You looked as hard as nails."
I laughed. "I don't know, but what I am as soft as butter, so far as
the heart is concerned."
"Ah, that's the effect of love," said Cannington wisely; "that is, if
you really are in love. I say, old chap, are you in earnest?"
"So much so that I am engaged."
"Engaged! Good Lord!"
"Engaged to Gertrude Monk, who loves me as much as I love her."
"Good Lord!" said Cannington again, and rose to his feet to say it. "I
say, you haven't lost much time, have you?"
"No. Circumstances precipitated matters."
"But are you sure that you are wise, Vance. Remember. 'Marry in haste
and repent at leisure.'"
I laughed again. It seemed so strange that the boy should advise an
elderly person such as I was. "It's all right, Cannington, I know what
I'm about. You shall be best man."
"Delighted, and--I say--you don't mind me having said what I did say.
We're old friends, you know."
"That's all right, boy. Sit down, and I'll tell you everything that
has taken place since we parted at Murchester. But I must ask you to
be secret."
Cannington flushed. "As if I'd be such a bounder as to talk of your
love affairs," he growled.
"The love affairs in this case are merely a side issue, although
important enough to me, boy. What I wish to explain is what I have
discovered with regard to Mrs. Caldershaw's death."
"Oh!" Cannington jumped up again, greatly excited. "Are you prying
into that still?"
"Yes. It is that case which led me into the engagement with Gertrude.
But I have given up searching further."
"Why?"
"Because I see no clue to follow. Moreover, Gertrude wishes me to stop
looking into the matter. And after all, it is no use sullying our love
with the sordid details of this crime. Yet, yet"--I rose in my
earnestness--"Cannington, although you are years younger than I am, I
intend to ask your advice."
"Yes--that's all right. What is it?"
"I shall tell you all I know, and then you can judge what I mean."
The boy looked puzzled, but sat down again and lent an attentive ear
to my recital. I walked up and down the room, telling everything in
detail, for I really did wish to hear what he thought. Cannington was
young, but shrewd, and took a common-sense view of things. Gertrude's
refusal to tell me the name of the person who had driven her from the
shop lingered in my mind, as I knew we could never be completely happy
if there were secrets between us. Nevertheless, I could not reveal
what she had said on this point to Cannington, as it was a matter
entirely between ourselves. But I intended to tell him everything
else, and then ask him what he thought of the position of affairs. He
waited with a grave face.
I therefore related all that I had discovered, beginning with the
finding of the white cloak in the field, and ending with an account of
the interview between Gertrude and myself, suppressing, as I have
said, the fact that she withheld the name of the mysterious person.
Cannington, with his eyes on my face, listened intently, and without
interruption. He was acute enough to put his finger on the weak spot.
"Who was the person who entered the shop when Miss Monk went away?"
"I don't know," said truthfully, and glided into an easy explanation
to preserve my secret. "Mrs. Caldershaw wished Miss Monk to leave
without seeing the person, and therefore sent her out by the back door
so hurriedly that she forgot the cloak and one of her hat-pins."
"That's unfortunate," muttered Cannington, his eyes on the carpet;
"perhaps this person killed Mrs. Caldershaw."
I had Gertrude's assertion that this was not the case, but for obvious
reasons could not impart the information to Cannington. "We can't be
sure of that," I said smoothly.
"We can't be sure of anything," insisted the boy thoughtfully, "still
Miss Monk evidently left someone with Mrs. Caldershaw, and when you
arrived on the scene Mrs. Caldershaw was dead. It seems to be that the
lady killed her."
"The lady? Why do you think that this person was a lady?"
"Well, a woman, a female, what you will," he said impatiently. "She
assumed the white cloak which was left behind in the kitchen, and ran
off with your motor car."
"And with the eye?"
"Ah, I can't say I'm sure on that point," said Cannington musingly.
"You see the eye turned up--so you say--at the Burwain house. I
think----" He paused.
"Yes; go on," said I encouragingly.
He shook his head. "I don't know what to think, Vance. The whole
matter is most mysterious and perplexing. Give me a night to think
about the matter. It is strange," he said suddenly, "that Miss Monk
wants you to leave the matter alone."
"It is strange," I assented, and winced; "but there it is."
"Well, let it remain so until to-morrow," said Cannington hastily.
"To-morrow, when I've had a good think, I'll give you my opinion."
I guessed what was in his mind, although delicacy prevented him from
speaking plainly to me. Gertrude's conduct was suspicious, and he, not
being in love with her saw the position more clearly than I did. I
don't say he suspected her, but he apparently believed that she knew
more than she chose to tell, and thus desired me to leave the case
alone. In point of fact, Cannington fancied that Gertrude feared what
I might discover if I pried further into the matter. Had he known, as
I did, that she was withholding the name of the person who had called
to see Mrs. Caldershaw, he might even have taken a blacker view of the
matter. Of course, being Gertrude's devoted lover, and believing in
her absolutely, I said nothing. All the same I felt a trifle uneasy
myself, especially when I guessed what Cannington was thinking about.
"The Queen of Hearts can do no wrong": so I amended the old saying.
Nevertheless I fervently wished that Gertrude would be more frank with
me. Only on perfect confidence would perfect love and perfect peace be
established, to say nothing of perfect happiness.
After a pause Cannington, having promised to give me his opinion
to-morrow, said no more, but began to talk of Lady Mabel. It seemed
that Mr. Wentworth Marr had returned to London, and was more attentive
than ever. "He's coming here to-day to afternoon tea," said
Cannington, glancing at his watch, "in half-an-hour, I expect he'll
turn up. Aunt Lucy and Mab will be here also, and Dicky Weston."
"Oh, Weston is attentive also?"
"Well, he is. In some way he got an inkling that Marr was paying court
to Mabel, so he suddenly appeared, and has been here morning, noon,
and night. I shouldn't be surprised if he proposed soon."
"Will Lady Mabel accept him?"
"Oh Lord! who knows what girls will do? I think she will, and yet Marr
is a fascinating sort of tame-cat man, with heaps of money, so you may
be inclined to go 'nap' on him."
"I shouldn't think a tame-cat man would suit your sister," I said
dryly.
"Wait till you see him," said Cannington with a yawn; "he's not my
style, I must confess. By the way, Dicky's getting on splendidly with
his airship and wants some quiet place to put it together."
"To put it together. What do you mean, boy?"
"It's in bits," explained Cannington, "and he wishes to cart the
several parts to some peaceful part of the country where the putting
together won't be overlooked. What about Burwain?"
"Oh, you know it, Cannington. It's a dull little village between
Gattlingsands and Tarhaven. Weston will find all the quiet he wants
there. I suppose, like all inventors, he fears lest his especial
secret for flying should be discovered."
"Something like that. And yet he told me heaps about his airship. It
seems to be a clever sort of business, although it has a gas bag. I
believe in the heavier-than-air business myself."
"What the dickens do you mean?"
"Aeroplanes, you know!" and Cannington entered into a long
disquisition on the difference between navigable balloons and those
machines which strive to fly, birdlike, by power of wing alone. In the
middle of his lecture--which I confess bored me--the footman entered
to announce that we were wanted in the drawing-room. Thither we
repaired, and were welcomed by Mabel, Lady Denham, and by a dark,
untidy little man, in whom I recognized Dick Weston.
Lady Denham was a stout, fair-haired, phlegmatic-looking person, who
never troubled herself about anyone if she could help it. Therefore
she allowed her niece to pour out the tea, and allowed Cannington and
myself to hand round the bread and butter, which latter business, of
course, was right enough. She aroused herself so far as to say that I
was looking well, and reminded her of my poor dear mother. After that
she relapsed into meditation, and devoted herself to making a regular
substantial meal. There was nothing fairylike about Lady Denham.
Weston was quiet also, and sat near Mabel, haunched up in his chair
like a little gnome, but with eyes full of intelligence. He was not
handsome, and being devoted to science--I suppose one would call
airships science, although I can't be sure--his manner was preoccupied
and dry. I wondered that a lively girl like Mabel could love such an
uninteresting personage, but she did. I saw the flash of her eyes when
they rested on his uncomely face and figure. But Weston was a decent
little fellow, in spite of his exterior, and there was something in
his dark face which always attracted animals and children.
Nevertheless Lady Mabel, handsome, titled, and lively, seemed to be
the last person to make him a desirable wife. I managed to get her
into a corner after we had eaten and drunk sufficient. "Mabel, tell
me, which one of your suitors do you intend to take?"
"I can't say," she whispered back, and her lively face grew sad. "Of
course I have known Dicky all my life, and he's a dear. But Mr. Marr
is really a charming man. He will be here soon, and then you can judge
for yourself."
"Marry Dicky, Mabel. I'm sure you love him," I advised.
"Yes, I do, and I really believe that he loves me. But I can't accept
him unless he proposes. He's always in the clouds. Just look at him
talking airships to Cannington instead of amiable nonsense to me."
"Do you think you will be happy with him?"
"Certainly. We get on capitally together."
"But he's a solitary inventor, and you are fond of society. Isn't it
rather the coupling of the quick and the dead."
"What horrid things you say!" she retorted heatedly. "Of course, if I
marry Dicky I shall shake him into a more companionable person. He's
got plenty of money, and I daresay when he finishes this airship he'll
come out of his shell. The only way I can make him talk is by making
him jealous, so I am waiting for Mr. Marr to flirt with."
"Then you are really using Mr. Marr as a stalking-horse to secure
Dicky?"
"Well, I am, in a way. But if Dicky will go on being so silly, and
sitting as mum as an owl, I shall marry the stalking horse."
"No, Mabel, don't do that; marry for love."
"I can't afford to, you silly man. Cannington and I haven't sixpence
between us. And what do you know about love?"
"I know all about it," I whispered proudly. "I'm engaged."
"Oh, Cyrus!" Her eyes shone like stars, and she gasped. "Who is she?"
"A lady called Miss Gertrude Monk, who lives at Burwain."
Before Mabel could ask further questions, Cannington's sharp ear
caught the name, and he called out to me. "Vance, I have just been
talking to Dicky here about Burwain, and he thinks it will be the very
place to establish his workshop. Come and tell him all about it."
"Bother!" murmured Lady Mabel "when I want to hear all about your love
affair. Is she pretty?"
"More than pretty. She is an angel."
"Oh, all men say that of a girl before marriage: all except Dicky,
that is. I have never managed to get him enthusiastic enough to call
_me_ an angel."
"Perhaps he thinks it goes without speaking, Mabel, and----"
"Vance! Vance!" called out Cannington impatiently, and I had to obey
the summons. Lady Mabel pouted and betook herself to the tea-table as
Lady Denham requested, at the eleventh hour, a fresh cup.
"Tell me all about Burwain, Vance," commanded Dicky in his pleasant
voice.
I did my best, and drew as vivid a word picture as I was able. When
Weston heard of the absence of a railway station, of large tracts of
common, and of the sparsity of population, he rubbed his hands. "It's
capital," he remarked. "I shall go down next week and lease a portion
of the common, outside the village. Then I shall run up a high fence,
and take down by rail all the parts of my machine. It won't take long
to put together. Then we can all take a fly to the moon."
"Not me," said Mabel firmly. "I don't want to be smashed up."
"That isn't a compliment to my invention," said Dicky hotly, "but I
suppose you'll come down and see me start?"
"That means I shall come down to say good-bye," she replied smiling.
"Oh, Dicky, you're a dear boy when you are sensible: but this airship
rubbish----"
"Mabel, I thought you admired my airship?" he expostulated
indignantly.
"How can I, when I have never seen it. Besides, a woman never admires
anything that takes the attention of a man off herself."
"What nonsense! I'm always thinking of you." Mabel blushed and laughed
skeptically. "Am I to believe that, Dicky?"
"Of course," and then Dicky, in spite of the presence of three other
people, might have gone on to say much more--for he really seemed to
be warming to a proposal--when Lady Denham sat up and sighed.
"You boys will have to go away," she said in her soft, slow voice; "we
have to go out to dinner to-night and to the theatre afterwards, and
then to an At Home. I'm sure I would much rather rest in my bed."
"Then why don't you, Aunt Lucy?" asked Cannington bluntly.
"My dear boy," she said reprovingly, "I must take Mabel out and give
her some entertainment. Besides, I have made up my mind to get her
married."
"Married," cried Dicky indignantly.
"Of course. Mabel isn't cut out for an old maid."
"Perhaps Dicky thinks that I am," said Mabel, looking slyly at the
untidy inventor; "that is, if he ever thinks of anything but
airships."
"I think of no end of things," said Weston rather crossly, "and I
don't see why you are in such a hurry to get married."
"I am not in a hurry."
"Really," said Cannington uneasily, "this conversation is growing
personal."
"We all belong to the family here," said Lady Denham wearily. "I look
on Cyrus as a son. His mother and I were at school together. A very
charming girl she was, too."
"Is Dicky one of the family?" asked Mabel, with a glance at the
inventor.
"Of course I am," he said hotly, for Mabel seemed to be rousing him
out of his absent-mindedness, "haven't I known you and Cannington for
years?"
"I don't think we have ever known you," said Cannington with a laugh,
"you are always in the clouds."
"As an airship inventor should be," said I pointedly. "Airship," said
Lady Mabel teasingly, "it's nothing but a gas balloon."
"It isn't," snapped Dicky, jumping up, greatly excited by this insult
to his pet invention; "when the works are established at Burwain you
come down and you will see exactly what I mean."
"Oh, I shall come to Burwain with pleasure," said Mabel, sending a
look in my direction. "I am very anxious to go to Burwain."
"Really," said Weston, and his cheeks flushed. After all, it appeared
as though Cannington had overrated Dicky's absent-mindedness, for he
was singularly alert and watchful. In my opinion he looked upon Lady
Mabel Wotton as his own especial property, and therefore was not
troubling himself to make a too impulsive proposal. Perhaps he was
waiting to launch his airship before launching himself on the sea of
matrimonial troubles. But he said no more, although the flush spoke
volumes, for Lady Denham struck in quietly, in her placid voice.
"I thought Mr. Marr was coming to tea," she said, looking round
slowly.
"I believe he's entering the house now," said Cannington, with the air
of a listener. "I heard a motor drive up."
"A charming man," said Lady Denham lazily, "and devoted to Mabel."
"Oh, is he?" growled Weston, darting an angry look at the girl, which
she sustained with a sweetly unconscious air. "He must----"
Weston appeared to be doomed to interruption, for just as he was
beginning a diatribe on his rival, the door opened and a footman
announced: "Mr. Wentworth Marr" in grandiloquent tones.
A man entered, and I gasped, as well I might. Mr. Wentworth Marr of
London was none other than Mr. Walter Monk of Burwain.