There was a window directly behind the broad shelf where the pans stood, and its outside sill and overhang were deep and heavy with snow. Daryl couldn’t help looking out and was aghast.
“Oh, Lance. It’s awful, isn’t it?” she said, appalled. “I don’t see how anybody can drive in that! I don’t see how even Ruth is going to get here! Our Christmas is going to be all spoiled!” Her tone was full of dismay.
“Ruth will get here!” said Lance firmly. “Don’t worry about her. And our Christmas isn’t going to be spoiled. It’s going to be great. Be your age, Daryl, and rise above this. Everything is going to be fine!”
Daryl looked at him dubiously.
“Oh, yes?” she said dejectedly.
“Well, it will, you’ll see! There! There goes the telephone! You go! I’ll finish this!”
Daryl hurried into the other room, but came back almost at once, her face excited, her eyes bright with worry.
“It was Ruth,” she explained. “She was afraid you were coming after her, and she says you mustn’t. She says Bill Gates has just telephoned over from the garage to the church to tell her that your car is finished, and that he is sending it over to the church for her, but she is not to start till he gets there with the snowplow. He has been ordered out with the plow and they are coming up this way in about an hour. She is to follow right after the plow, and he will look after her.”
Lance set down the empty pail with a troubled look.
“It’s almost four o’clock,” he said. “I think I ought to go for her.”
“No, she doesn’t want you to. She says there’s no sense in your having that long hard walk for nothing, and she will be here soon. Go talk to her. She’s on the phone still.”
Lance hurried to the telephone. After he had hung up, Daryl, as she returned to the front of the house, heard him calling up Bill at the garage.
“Well, Bill says he’ll be here in less than an hour,” said Lance, coming back, “so I guess she will be all right. She made me promise not to come. But I’ll be on the lookout and if they aren’t here on time I’ll go anyway. Now, come on. I have a few minutes’ reprieve. Where’s the stepladder? I’ll put on a few icicles at the top. Turn the lights on the tree, Daryl. Gosh, listen to that wind! I certainly will be relieved when R—when our guests get here!”
“Yes,” said Daryl in a small, tired, worried voice, and cast her anxious glance out the window.
It was just at that moment that Alan Monteith came to a sudden stop in front of the house, and the tree lights flashed out to meet him.
“Oh, there he is now!” cried Daryl with a lilt in her voice, and rushed to press her face against the windowpane.
“How do you know it isn’t Ruth?” said Lance, descending the ladder with a bound and coming to look out over her shoulder.
“It’s a man!” said Daryl excitedly. “He got out! See! My! I never realized how tall Harold was! Go open the door, Lance, and tell him to come in the driveway. The snow is so blinding he won’t be able to find the walk.”
“Open the door, nothing!” said Lance in a suddenly aloof tone. “Don’t you know if I’d open the door all outdoors would rush right in and freeze us? Wait till he’s up on the porch and then we’ll haul him in. He’s supposed to be a man, isn’t he? Well, I guess if he has come this far he can make it up to the porch!”
Daryl’s joy shriveled within her at his tone, and then she rallied to thrill over the thought that Harold had really come! In all this storm he had come, to be with her!
They watched the tall figure in the fading light, bending over his engine, then saw him shut the hood quickly and turn struggling toward the house.
“Poor devil! He’s having a hard time at that!” said Lance, relenting.
Daryl’s heart had time to leap up again with relief at her brother’s friendly tone, and then the door flung wide and the storm burst in, with a great swirl of wind that tore through the hall and into the living room like a hurricane, swinging the branches of the Christmas tree and making the crystal prisms on the candle sconces over the mantel shiver and tinkle as it searched the corners of the room and swung out into the dining room, waking up the two sleepers in sudden alarm.
Just an instant. Then Lance reached out and pulled in the baffled creature striving to gain a foothold on the drifted porch, and slammed the door shut. With a sound like a sigh the noise ceased inside and the house settled to its usual warm peace again, with the firelight on the hearth and the Christmas light from the tree.
The man shook the snow from his eyelashes, shook the snow from his coat to the linoleum of the hall, took off his battered snow-laden hat and stood forth—a stranger!
Chapter 3
Demeter Cass arrived at Wyndringham Ledge on the mountain at midmorning, while the snow was just beginning.
Snow! Of course that was right for a festival season like this. One almost expected it to be on order when one thought of Christmas parties in the mountains. But there was something serious and sinister in the look of the sky in spite of the flakes that Demeter did not like. Such a storm was only interesting when there was a large party, a wide open fire, plenty of music to drown the sound of a possible wind and banish the thought of cold and suffering and peril outside.
Demeter had arrived early, contrary to her usual custom, partly for her own ulterior motives and partly because she had a curious foreboding that if she didn’t go early she wouldn’t be able to get there at all. There were so many reservations in the voices of servants around the holidays, and her chauffeur was no exception to this rule. He wanted to spend Christmas with his family. It was most annoying. If a man was a chauffeur he ought not to expect to spend Christmas with his family, ought he? He was a chauffeur, not a man, to the mind of Demeter Cass, for Demeter Cass was a self-centered creature, with very few thoughts for others. But because she saw a certain look in her chauffeur’s eyes, and a familiar set of his jaws that told her he would go anyway, whether she allowed it or not, she gave in and started on her way early, that he might take her to her destination and then get to his as best he could, returning for her after the holiday.
She had tried to induce Alan Monteith to accompany her. She had done her best for a whole evening to convince him that she needed his protection on the journey, but he had told her that he was not sure that he could get away to go at all yet, as he had an important law matter that must be arranged before he could leave the city. So she had gone on her way alone, through the increasing storm, with her grim chauffeur silently driving in the front seat.
It was not that she could not have had other company, for Demeter Cass was not usually begging for company, but it did not suit her plans just now to have anyone hindering her movements. She had planned out a campaign for this holiday and wanted to be sure just how the land lay.
So she arrived at The Ledge three hours ahead of even her host and hostess, the Wyndringhams, and had the house and its servants to herself, incidentally getting her pick of the guest rooms, and establishing herself so thoroughly that any contrary plans of her hostess would be futile.
Restlessly she roved from room to room. She hunted up the butler and narrowing her green eyes keenly, asked him, “Has the count arrived yet?” When he replied in the negative she commanded, “Let me know as soon as he comes!” Finally she went to the telephone, a frequent employee of hers.
First she called up Alan Monteith’s apartment, and after a long wait with prolonged ringing was answered by the janitor of the building.
No, Mr. Monteith was not there—No, he was not coming back until after Christmas—No, he had not left any address where he could be called—Yes, he had said he was leaving the city—No, he did not know how far—The party had better call the office. His partner might be there.
Demeter Cass called Alan Monteith’s city office and was answered by Alan Monteith’s secretary, who had come in to attend to some mail that must go out that morning. Yes, she said, Mr. Monteith had been in the office that morning earl
y, but had gone and would not return until after Christmas. “Who is calling, please?”
Demeter Cass was clever. The secretary might or might not know her voice, but she gave her no satisfaction.
“Just a friend of Mr. Monteith who is a fellow guest where he is going,” she answered in honeyed tones. “I reached here an hour ago and discovered that I had left a small leather case at home that I very much need, and I was wondering if Mr. Monteith would be so good as to stop at my home and bring it for me, in case he was not started yet. I understood that he was not leaving the city till somewhere near noon.”
She understood nothing of the kind of course for Alan Monteith hadn’t mentioned noon. But she had nothing on the secretary; she knew her voice. She had heard it often enough to know it.
“I’m sorry, Miss Cass,” she said cooly, “I really don’t know whether Mr. Monteith has left the city or not. He certainly has left his office, and I would not know where to look for him.”
“Oh, really?” said Demeter Cass in a hurt tone. “That’s most unfortunate for me! It was my jewel case I left behind, and you know one really needs one’s jewels at a place like this.”
“I suppose one does,” said the secretary dryly, smiling to herself. Her employer was much too nice for this selfish, lazy, intriguing woman.
“I hate to send my chauffeur all the way back in the storm if I can possibly locate anyone coming up who could bring it.”
“I suppose you would,” said the secretary coldly. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Well, I suppose there’s no use,” sighed Demeter Cass, with no notion yet of giving up, for she was a clever little detective. “You don’t know whether Mr. Monteith had an errand before he left the city? There wasn’t any place at all where he might have stopped off for a few minutes? What did he come to the office for this morning? Don’t you know? That might give me some clue to follow. Excuse me, but this is a very important matter to me. Do you know what he came for?”
The secretary was getting angry, yet she dared not show it. She had no right to rebuke Alan Monteith’s friends or acquaintances. She tried to answer patiently.
“He came for some papers he had left in the safe. It wouldn’t help you in the least, Miss Cass. He was stopping for just a moment to leave them with a man who was taking a train this morning. He wouldn’t be there now. He was in a hurry!”
“Oh, really?” Demeter’s voice brightened. “And who was the man? He might happen to know where I could locate Mr. Monteith. Just tell me his name and I won’t bother you more. I can see you are impatient to hang up. I shall be sure to let Mr. Monteith know how helpful you have been.”
There was cold rebuke in the voice and a hint of something vindictive. The secretary drew a deep breath and tried to steady her voice.
“It was Dr. Sargent, Miss Cass. Dr. Malcolm Sargent. But I’m quite sure it wouldn’t do you any good to call Dr. Sargent for Mr. Monteith told me that he was leaving for the west this morning. He must be gone by this time. It was fully two hours ago that Mr. Monteith left here.”
“Thank you!” said Demeter Cass acridly. “I shall be sure to tell Mr. Monteith how helpful you have been.”
There were angry tears in the secretary’s eyes as she hung up. But what could she do? Miss Cass often came to the office to see her employer. He looked after her legal business for her. And of course there couldn’t be any harm in giving Dr. Sargent’s name. He would be gone anyway.
But Demeter Cass lost no time in calling Dr. Sargent’s office.
Dr. Sargent was gone, but the nurse, Miss Rice, was still in the office. She answered with her usual quiet courtesy. Yes, this was Dr. Sargent’s office but Dr. Sargent was not in. He had left on the train a few minutes ago for the west. Yes, Mr. Monteith had been in that morning, but only for a very few minutes. He had left over two hours ago. Why, yes, she did happen to know his immediate destination. He was taking some medicine to a very sick patient in the mountains for Dr. Sargent. He was on his way somewhere else but she didn’t know where. Yes, she could give the name of the patient, but Mr. Monteith would hardly be there yet. It was a three-hour drive.
Demeter Cass thanked the informer graciously, representing her necessity for contacting Mr. Monteith as most important, and hung up the receiver with a glitter of triumph in her eye.
So, Alan Monteith had delayed himself to go on a fool’s errand for some doctor or other, when he knew perfectly well that she had gone ahead early, and would be there with several perfect hours to spend alone with him if he chose to come. Well, he would do foolish philanthropic things like that! It was vexing but it was like him. Perhaps he wouldn’t be half so attractive if he weren’t like that. And then of course everybody had to have some faults, and she felt sure she could cure him of that if she chose to exert herself.
So Demeter Cass waited a little while and then she called up the house on the other mountain where a woman lay fighting death and waiting for the medicine that was to bring her help.
A servant answered the telephone. She had never heard of Mr. Monteith. She consulted the other servants, but none of them knew him. Dr. Sargent? Oh, yes, Dr. Sargent came up yesterday to see a sick lady; but they had never heard of Mr. Monteith.
Demeter Cass was persistent. She asked if the doctor was not to send some medicine, and at last she got hold of the nurse, and learned that the medicine was to come, but they did not know who was bringing it, perhaps Dr. Sargent himself.
At intervals during the remainder of that restless, boresome day, Demeter Cass retired to the telephone and called up the home where the woman lay between life and death, to know if Alan Monteith had not arrived yet, but the answer was always, he had not arrived. Demeter looked out on the snowy world that seemed more and more a menace to her plans and drew her delicate brows in a frown. Then by and by she called again, and yet again, until the sick woman’s husband grew annoyed and alarmed by turns, and still the medicine had not come.
But Demeter was cunning. She had not left her name or her location. She wanted to talk with Alan herself, not to leave him a mere message. She wanted to make sure she got him, and that he was coming. She suspected him of being able to evade her if she only left a message. If he did not want to come he might pay no attention to her request to call her up.
So Demeter turned her main attention to what she should put on for the evening, in case he did finally arrive.
But Alan Monteith was not thinking of Demeter Cass just then. He was standing in a long homelike room, with big beams in the ceiling, a great fire blazing on the hearth, and a Christmas tree draped with silver fringe and twinkling lights, that had their counterpart in miniature, in tinkling crystal prisms over the mantel. He was looking down into a girl’s eyes, astonishingly lovely eyes, fringed with the longest, darkest, curling lashes he had ever seen. They seemed like great blue stars shining out through the depths of the pleasant room, twin stars that somehow were a part of Christmas, the tree and the lights and the prisms and the firelight flicker. He blinked the clinging snow from his own eyes and stared down at her for an instant, not yet breathing easily after his wrestle with the storm.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” he gasped, with a winning smile that tried to take in the others in the room as well as this lovely girl. “I’m a pilgrim on my way and something has happened to my car. I couldn’t make out in the blinding snow what is the matter. Would you mind if I telephoned to a garage and asked for help? I’m on a very important errand, and my time is short.”
“Sure, you can use the telephone,” said Lance, “but I’m afraid it will be slow work getting anybody up from the village. They’re crazy-busy, I imagine. A man is coming out in about an hour, though, with a snowplow. Better sit down and warm up till he gets here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t wait an hour. I must get on as quickly as possible. It is most important.”
“All right. I’ll get on my togs and go out and have a look.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of taking you out in
to the storm,” protested Alan. “I’m so sorry to intrude. If you’ll just let me telephone.”
“Sure, go ahead! There’s the phone. Call Gates’s Garage. Number’s 92. But I’ll get my high boots on and be ready.”
So Alan Monteith went to the telephone, and the family in the shadows of the room furtively watched his broad shoulders and trim, shapely head, silhouetted against the window. They liked his courteous, troubled voice, and pitied him in this interval of their waiting for their own guests.
But the stranger turned from the phone with a real anxiety in his voice.
“He says they can’t spare anyone now. They have trouble enough. He says he doesn’t know how long it will be. And I must get on at once!” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to the family in the shadowy corners of the room, but Lance appeared, fastening his leather jacket.
“I guess we’ll need a light,” he said, taking down a long powerful-looking flashlight from the hall closet shelf. “Come on. We’ll see what’s the matter. If it’s fixable I’ll do my best.”
“You’re awfully good!” said Alan. “I can’t bear to be making all this trouble. If it were just for myself I shouldn’t allow it, but—”
They were outside now with the door slammed behind them, and suddenly Alan Monteith’s words were snatched from his lips and cast from him into the roaring seething storm.
Lance plunged across the drifted lawn, seeming to know by instinct where to set his foot for sure step, and they arrived wallowing and lurching at the side of the car.
Lance got in and turned on the ignition. Grimly he worked for several minutes, trying to start the car, listening to its helplessness with an experienced ear. Then suddenly he turned off the switch and shook his head at the unfortunate stranger.
“No good!” he shouted in his ear. “You’ve stripped the teeth from the gears in the differential. That’s easy to do with chains on in a snow like this. Come on in and we’ll see what can be done.”
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