The Vanishing of Betty Varian - Carolyn Wells

Carolyn Wells

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.

Cant 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 its great! Mrs Blackwood disagreed with him. So picturesque

You know, if you say picturesque up here, youll be excommunicated. The thing is all right, but the word is taboo.

All right, then, chromoesque.

But it isnt that, Clark objected; its 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, its like a

Speak it right out! cried Ted Landon, irrepressibly, like a picture postcard!

It cant 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 wouldnt be a work of art. Why, the architects blueprints of that house would come a good deal nearer art than lots of watercolors Ive seen in exhibitions. Im keen on the place.

Who isnt? 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.