“Mind?” said Daryl. “Why, that’s lovely. Of course not.”
His eyes lingered on hers. For an instant. And then he wrote swiftly and handed the card back to her to pin on the stocking.
“Now, where do we go from here?”
Daryl gave a real genuine little laugh and led the way to the fireplace where four other stockings of various lengths and sizes swayed gracefully in the firelight.
Daryl instructed him how to hang it by the loop, and he made great ceremony of the act, patting it as it hung long and limp at the end of the row.
“There, little stocking, hang still and don’t be filled with great expectations. You know you only belong to a substitute guest and can’t expect much, an apple or a few grains of corn perhaps, but don’t let your fancy fly to toy horses and soldiers and that sort of thing. We weren’t expected, you know, and therefore aren’t in the running. I’ll maybe steal in here when Santa is gone and stuff you out with a newspaper I have in my suitcase so you’ll look like the others, but don’t let on it’s a newspaper. You’ve got to be polite, for it’s very nice of them to let us spend Christmas with them at all, you understand. Now good night, and mind you be a good stocking till I come back to get you in the morning.”
They shouted with laughter over his comical tone, and then they hurried the weary young men away to their rest, with injunctions not to wake up in the morning until they really felt rested and ready.
So Mother Devereaux went to perform a last little rite or two over the turkey, Father to make sure the hens and Chrystobel were really comfortable in the barn, and the girls went laughing up to Daryl’s room where they were sleeping together tonight. And the storm raged on, white, white, white, everywhere deep and drifting.
Alan found a bright fire burning in the fireplace, and a nice hot water bag in his bed under the covers. Gratefully he climbed into the warm flannel pajamas he found laid out on the bed, not even considering his own fine silk ones in the suitcase, and got into the big soft bed that smelled of lavender and was plentifully supplied with blankets. He lay there looking happily out at the wide comfortable room in the flickering firelight, thinking what the other fellow whose place he was taking had missed, and why he was willing to miss it; wondering if he wouldn’t turn up in the morning and spoil it all; wondering if the girl with the lovely eyes really cared so very much; trying to recall her shocked voice earlier in the afternoon as she answered the telephone.
Then sweet drowsiness stole over him, and he fancied he was out somewhere in the storm again, battling his way to this lovely quiet haven, where Christmas was real, nothing seemed hard or artificial, and God still reigned in His heaven.
Chapter 8
Demeter Cass was clever. She should have been a detective. And she never gave up until she got what she wanted.
However, her operations with regard to Alan Monteith were somewhat interrupted by the arrival of her hosts and an influx of guests, which necessitated dressing for dinner. It was half past nine when dinner was over, and then there was dancing and several new men whom she wanted to try out, and it was not until after midnight that she remembered that she had not yet got in touch with Alan, and that he had not arrived or telephoned.
They had danced the Christmas in with an odd, barbaric sort of dance, having costumed themselves in red with jingling bells and grotesque masks, though many of them didn’t need those, having quite artificial ones of their own. They had danced with their right arms curved over their heads, shaking little carved ivory rattles with tiny silver bells, and had sung “Good King Wenceslas” and the few other Christmas songs they could remember. They had ushered the day in with a riot, by drinking more than usual. And suddenly Demeter felt that it was time to do something more about Alan.
Carefully she questioned the servants to find if he had telephoned or arrived quietly, but found he had not, so she went to the telephone again.
It mattered not to her that it was long past one o’clock and that she knew the house to which she was telephoning had serious illness. Nothing ever mattered to Demeter except what she personally wanted, so she put in her call.
She got the whole Farley-Watt household out of bed, servants and householders, and disturbed the nurse and even the patient, who woke suddenly and cried out to know what was the matter. And then questioning the frightened old man, who had feared he didn’t know what when he heard that shrill ring in the middle of the night, she demanded to know why Mr. Alan Monteith had not called her.
Mr. Watt was too bewildered and weary at first to get it all straight and find out what she wanted, but when she finally made him understand he admitted that Mr. Monteith had come and that he didn’t believe anybody had remembered to tell him the message that she had left several times earlier in the afternoon.
Demeter Cass minced no words in telling him what she thought of that, and paid no heed to his dignified explanation that his wife was seriously ill, and that their anxiety was such that they hadn’t remembered anything else. She went on to demand that Alan come to the telephone at once, and when she was told he wasn’t there, had been gone several hours, she declaimed over that. What were they thinking of to let him go out in such a storm? And where did he go? Where was he now? She must get in touch with him at once. It was a most important matter! She made it appear that it might be even a matter of life and death.
“I am sorry,” said the old man. “We tried to keep the young men all night, but they refused to stay. They seemed to be anxious to get away at once. We loaned them snowshoes—”
“Well, where were they going?” demanded Demeter.
“Well, I can’t exactly say,” he answered thoughtfully. “I assumed that they were going to the home of the other young man.”
“What other young man? What was his name? Where did he live?”
“If you will excuse me a minute I will get the address,” answered Mr. Watt. “I took both of their names and addresses. They were most kind to us in our distress, coming so far in the storm, leaving their own affairs—”
Demeter cut him short.
“Hurry, won’t you! I can’t wait here all night!” she snapped sharply. “I’m not interested in your affairs. I want to get in touch with Mr. Monteith.”
The old man felt as if he had been slapped in the face, but he only blinked and hurried away in his bare feet to get his notebook. When he came back, drawing his bathrobe over his shivering shoulders, he made his statements haughtily.
“The name of the young man with Mr. Monteith was Mr. Devereaux, Lance Devereaux. He lives in the village at the foot of our mountain. The servant tells me that he heard Mr. Devereaux call his home and he wrote down the number. It is Collamer 23-R-2. That is all the information I have. Good night!” And he hung up.
But Demeter Cass did not even know she was reproved. She had all the information she wanted, or if she hadn’t she could call Mr. Watt again and ask for more. She rang vigorously for the operator and demanded Collamer 23-R-2.
And so—it was something after two o’clock on Christmas morning—just as Alan Monteith was drifting off into peaceful sleep, conscious of warmth and rest and peace and well-being, he suddenly heard the sound of the telephone just outside his door. It somehow blended with his thoughts before he slept, or his dreams as he drifted into unconsciousness, and it seemed to him it must be that Harold person once more. But as the ringing persisted he came broadly awake, with the unpleasant conclusion that Harold had come himself and had started out in the storm to come to the farm, and perhaps he was in distress and needed someone to come to his rescue.
He prodded his weary thoughts until he had reasoned it out. If that Harold had got himself into trouble and someone had to go to his rescue, it would have to be himself. Certainly Lance must not go again with his lame ankle. Obviously the old man could not go or the girls. It would have to be himself! And could he get himself together and face that storm again? Yet he must if there was a need. The man might not be worth rescuing, but the girl with
the lovely eyes was troubled about him, and that was enough. Something would have to be done. And yet, how could he? It would require a superhuman effort just to raise himself from that warm bed, just to get his tired limbs into motion again and get his clothes!
All the while the telephone bell continued, and he began to think perhaps he should go and answer it himself. Then he heard a soft stirring above, and padded slippers stole down the stairs. The receiver was lifted off, and Daryl’s quiet voice answered. It had a frightened note in it. She expected it to be the Harold person, too, and she was afraid! He recalled the drunken voice that had shrilled out to the girl early in the afternoon and listened for it again. He felt a wrath rising in his soul for any brute who would treat such a girl like that! He felt he would really enjoy, tired as he was, getting up and giving that fellow a good sound thrashing! Brute! So he listened for the voice again. He would be able to tell from a few words what had happened, and would get up and slip on some garments and be ready in case the fellow was in trouble and needed assistance.
But it was not a man’s voice that shrilled out on the quiet house. It was a woman’s, high and petulant, and strangely familiar.
“Is this Collamer 23-R-2?”
Daryl’s voice was very low and guarded as she answered, “Yes.” It seemed to the listener that it also sounded somewhat relieved.
“Well, is Mr. Alan Monteith there?”
“Yes,” said Daryl, still more softly. He knew she was trying not to wake him up.
“Well, won’t you call him to the phone at once?”
There was the smallest perceptible hesitation, and then Daryl answered pleasantly in almost a whisper, “I’m sorry. He has gone to bed.”
“That doesn’t make any difference!” said the imperious voice on the telephone. “Tell him it is Crag Mountain calling, the Wyndringhams’ place, the Ledge. He’ll understand. Call him quickly, please. I’m in a hurry. I’ve been trying to find him all day.”
Daryl’s voice was still quiet, but very decided.
“I really couldn’t wake Mr. Monteith tonight,” she said. “He has had a very exhausting tramp through the mountains in the storm, and barely escaped with his life. If you will give me a message I will tell him to call you in the morning, but he mustn’t be disturbed now!”
“Well, really!” said Demeter Cass. “Who are you, anyway? An operator?”
“No,” giggled Daryl softly, “I’m Miss Devereaux.”
“I never heard of you!” said Demeter Cass. “What right have you to judge whether I shall speak with Mr. Monteith or not? I guess you don’t know who I am.”
“No,” said Daryl with sweet dignity, “but it wouldn’t make any difference. Mr. Monteith must not be disturbed tonight. Nor for anything.”
“Well, you’re fortunately not in a position to judge. Will you call Mr. Monteith at once? Tell him Miss Cass is calling. Demeter Cass. You’ll see what he thinks of you for hindering me from talking with him.”
Then Daryl, very gravely, very quietly said, “Miss Cass, you do not understand. Mr. Monteith has been for six hours struggling through almost impassable drifts, on foot, lost on the mountain and in great danger. He and my brother nearly lost their lives in this storm. They were almost on the verge of unconsciousness when they finally reached here, and it would not be safe to disturb Mr. Monteith tonight.”
“And what business did your brother have leading him off on the mountain in all this snow, I should like to know?” Demeter Cass had a nasty snarl in her voice. “If your brother chose to go on a fool’s errand taking medicine to an old woman, what right had he to drag Mr. Monteith into it? I think this should be looked into. Mr. Monteith had an appointment with us, and was on his way here when your brother held him up to go on this crazy expedition. I understand—!”
Daryl’s voice suddenly interrupted the tirade on the wire.
“You understand wrongly, Miss Cass. My brother went along with Mr. Monteith to show him the way. He had nothing whatever to do with the errand. And now, if you will excuse me I will get some sleep. In the morning I will tell Mr. Monteith. Good night!” Daryl hung up the receiver with a decided little click, and Alan Monteith heard little soft scurrying slippers going up the stairs.
Alan Monteith lay still, and in a moment the telephone bell began to ring again. It rang and rang several times but he lay there in the darkness, with the flicker of the dying fire on the opposite wall and grinned. Every time the bell rang he grinned again. But no more slippered feet came down the stairs and finally the telephone rang no more.
So! This was a side of Demeter Cass he had not seen before.
Demeter Cass on his trail in this out-of-the-way place! How had she found him? He lay and considered it. His mind seemed to have awakened suddenly. He had not heard all she said, of course, but he had heard enough.
Demeter Cass! And that Harold person! What was he to Daryl?
Wyndringham Ledge and the house party! How far away it seemed! How much more desirable this warm, sweet room and the sheets that smelled of lavender and the row of stockings hanging downstairs, with his name pinned to one of them. “The Substitute Guest”! Would “Harold” come in the morning and spoil it all? And somehow he would have to face Demeter Cass over the telephone the next day! She would be sure to start on his track again. But there was one thing, she wouldn’t call early. He knew her well enough for that. She wouldn’t wake up after a bout such as they likely had tonight until eleven at the earliest, or maybe not until noon. He would have time to make a glib excuse for not trying to come over for the next two days. Or perhaps the storm would be excuse enough. The storm and his broken-down car. He would have the morning, at least, undisturbed, and after that the storm would still be his protection from an onslaught from the crowd. They couldn’t come over impassable roads of course.
He fell to thinking of what the morning would be like, those stockings hanging in a row around a bright warm fire! What could he put in those other stockings that companioned the one bearing his signature? He had gifts in his suitcase, extravagant glittering gifts, bought in a rather desultory way, in a sort of wholesale order to the salesman who waited upon him in one of the exclusive shops of the city. He had spent more money on them than he wanted to spend, but he felt he had to. One had to do as the rest did if one went to a party at Wyndringham Ledge. It was the expected thing. And most of the gifts he had bought were for people he did not know personally. A heterogeneous collection of costly trinkets, scarcely considered. Only a very few of the things had he really picked out himself, the rest had been the suggestion of the salesman. The ones he had selected had satisfied his own taste, and he had vaguely hoped there might be someone among the crowd who would appreciate them. Yet he had felt even when he was considering them, that none of them would be just the thing for Demeter Cass. She would be pleased with something exotic, something weird and extremely modern, even something outlandishly ugly, if it were ugly enough to be distinguished. And such things he could not bring himself to buy and present to her. He had been trying to think that Demeter Cass was higher and finer than she allowed herself to seem to be. He wasn’t sure himself just which of a number of things he had bought he intended to give her. And now he was glad it was settled for him. If he wasn’t there at the party he wouldn’t have to give her anything, and he found to his astonishment that he was immensely relieved not to have to decide about her at all now. He was content just to rest and enjoy this quiet room, this haven in the midst of storm, and think of the pleasant family he was to meet in the morning. Yes, he must think over those gifts and find something suitable for each one, and then he must slip out in the morning before anybody was up and put one in each stocking. Five stockings to help fill! A real old-fashioned Christmas! There must be something among that whole suitcase of gifts that would do! But somehow he felt himself drifting away again. He really mustn’t go to sleep yet until he had thought what to put in the stockings!
But sleep came down upon him and enveloped him
with peace, and he slept in spite of his best resolves.
It was still snowing when he awoke. He could hear the soft plash against the window pane now and again, but the wind had gone down. The wild roar of it had ceased. There was a quiet sense of being shut in that gave security and a new kind of peace. He wasn’t going to feel bad if he had to stay the day out here among these delightful, sincere people. He had a feeling as he woke that he was a little boy again waking on Christmas morning, with the thrill of anticipation that he used to feel as a child. It was great. He lay still for a little just to keep that delightful sense of expectance.
Then he became aware of another sound in the room. The soft burning of the fire, the falling down of a stick that had burned through to a heart of glowing coals. Just out of curiosity he had to open his eyes to look at that fire. Surely it had not kept all night! Not the same fire that was there when he went to sleep! No, it was a big, bright, lively fire. Someone had been in while he slept and made it up. The room was quite warm. The flicker of the fire was over the walls rosily, playing over the sheer white curtains, dancing over the cretonne roses on the big wing chair and the rocker. It was all invitingly pleasant to get up and dress, and suddenly he felt wide awake and remembered that he had to get things ready to put in those stockings out there.
The house was very still. Only the crackling of the fire accompanied the occasional soft plashing of the snow against the upper part of the windowpanes not already vested with it. It must be that the family was not up yet, unless perhaps they were keeping quiet so they wouldn’t disturb him. But who could have fixed the fire? The splendid old father likely. Surely Lance wouldn’t have woken up early after his strenuous trip in the snow. And with his strained ankle he wouldn’t have tried to make fires yet. Well, he must get up and get active. He seemed to have a strange apathy toward moving. He tested his limbs cautiously, but beyond a stiffness in his joints and an inclination to lie still, he found himself not very much the worse for his exposure in the storm. Of course his muscles were lame and sore, and he felt as if every movement was an effort, but he was alive and safe, and why growl at sore muscles. He had suffered as much and more after a stiff football game in college.
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