Substitute Guest

  “Oh, my dear!” he said, and knew not what he had said. “Are you hurt?”

  Daryl, startled and shaken, could scarcely get her breath to reply. So there he stood in the dark with her in his arms, suddenly conscious that she was very sweet and precious.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again more anxiously, and his lips touched her forehead. He felt her soft hair in his face, and the dearness of it thrilled him.

  And Daryl, hearing those words my dear in her ear lay still in wonder for just an instant, filled with a sweet bliss. It seemed that something wonderful, something holy and beautiful, had come upon them and put both their hearts in a joyous tumult. For just that little space of time while the darkness lasted it seemed that heaven had come down to them. As if they scarcely dared breathe lest they would interrupt the precious moment.

  Then suddenly the shades of two voices on the telephone swept harshly into their consciousness, the echoes of Demeter Cass’s possessive demands, and that drunken voice calling out “Darling!”

  And just then Father Devereaux, going into the living room with the butternuts, discovered their absence and hurried back to correct his error by snapping on the light.

  The lamp just over their heads blazed forth garishly, even as those ghostly voices on the wire rang in their ears, and they came to themselves suddenly.

  Daryl gave a little gasp and tried to laugh.

  “Oh, I’m quite all right,” she burbled.

  He set her down gently, slowly, reluctant to give her up, his arm still lingering around her supportingly.

  “You are sure?” he said, and looked at her earnestly. He had a sudden longing to fold her in his arms again and lay his lips upon hers. Instead he stooped and began to pick up the apples. And Daryl helped too. Once or twice they reached for the same apple there in the shadows of the cellar floor, and their hands touched. They laughed like children as they scrambled after one that rolled away from before their feet until at last they had them all and started for the stairs, Alan reaching for her hand and holding it in a warm clasp.

  “I’ll have to hold on to you,” he laughed. “I can’t have you falling again.”

  She let her hand lie in his for the moment until they reached the stairs and went up slowly, keeping step. Daryl reproached herself for the thrill that his touch gave her. He meant nothing by it of course but common courtesy. He was just solicitous because she had fallen, as any gentleman would have been, and that “Oh, my dear!” was just a frightened exclamation when he thought she was really hurt. It didn’t mean a thing! Look at the way people called each other darling today when they were just common acquaintances. What was she to make so much of all this? She, who had looked forward to Harold’s coming, to imagine things like this! Her nerves had been shaken, that was all, by that sharp blow across her shins when she fell. It had unnerved her, made her hysterical. It was nothing more of course. Alan Monteith belonged to Demeter Cass, or at least her voice had made it seem that way; and she at least for the present, was somewhat obligated to be considering Harold Warner and her relation to him. This sweet strange thing that had come to her down there in the cellar was a figment of her excited imagination. It hadn’t happened! It was only in her thoughts. It wasn’t real at all, and she would not think of it again. Like an evil thought she would stamp it out and put it from her.

  They arrived at the head of the stairs, still hand in hand. Daryl snapped the light out and closed the door behind them. Then Alan turned and looked frankly in her eyes, as if he was challenging her to recognize what had just come to them. After that deep look he softly pressed her fingers; then, carrying the apples, he followed her into the living room.

  Daryl’s cheeks were bright, and her eyes a little starry in spite of her best efforts. She meant to take herself in hand at once, but she could not quickly put away the memory of those strong fingers clasping hers.

  Daryl tried to cover her tumult with joking her father for turning the light out on them, and they settled down to their jigsaw puzzle again, everybody eating apples and nuts and doughnuts.

  But Alan as he worked silently was casting furtive glances at Daryl, noticing the lovely color in her cheeks and the soft hair disarranged over her forehead, framing her face so sweetly.

  And then, suddenly, the doorbell pealed out in several loud rings, one upon the other, and the knocker began to clatter as if the visitor couldn’t depend upon just one summons.

  “Who in the world?” said Daryl, starting up and looking wildly toward the door, her face suddenly growing white. “At this time of night!”

  “That’s probably Warner!” said Lance, rising and giving his sister a quick searching look. “He’s done well if he’s gotten here through this storm!” His tone was like one who was doing his best to give the devil his due.

  But a pall fell upon the little company that had been so happy together until this moment, and they sat back from the table and waited while Lance went to the door.

  Chapter 11

  But it was not the debonair Harold whom Lance brought in out of the cold outside world. It was only a farmer boy who lived on a neighboring farm and worked winters in Collamer. He came stamping and puffing in, bringing the breath of the storm with him, and bearing an enormous box in his arms that obviously came from a florist’s.

  “There she is!” he exclaimed as he handed it over to Lance. “Flowers fer your sister! I didn’t know one time as I was goin’ ta make it. There was a drift in the way mighty near as high as my head, and I didn’t see as any doggone flowers was wuth my bargin’ inta it, but I mosied around an’ found a place where the wind had swep’ it clear, and I managed it; but say, ef I had ta do it over again I would tell Mr. Blaine ‘nothing’ doin’.’ ’Course he offered me two bucks to bring ’em, an’ course it was right on my way home, but it was hard enough navigatin’ myself, ’thout carryin’ a great enormous baby like that along! Blaine he said the man what ordered ’em made him promise he’d get ’em here afore the day was done, an’ he’d been tryin’ all day ta find somebody would tackle ’em, till I come along, so I’m glad I got ’em here at last, even though I am most froze.”

  They brought him up to the fire and fed him. Mother Devereaux made him a turkey sandwich, and Daryl hurried out to make hot coffee. They dried his mittens, and Father Devereaux suggested he had better stay there all night.

  “That ’ud be okay with me ef it want fer my mother. She’s alone over there on the farm an’ she ain’t sa well, an’ I ain’t sa sure she’s got ’nough wood cut ta keep her good an’ warm all night. Guess I better toddle on. Thanks jus’ the same! But, say, ain’t ya goin’ ta open up them babies, after I brung ’em all this way?”

  Daryl’s face suddenly flamed, but she tried to smile.

  “Why, of course, Bud,” she said, “and you shall have the first one. Ruth, you open them, won’t you, while I run up and get Bud a dry pair of socks. Those he has on are steaming. He’ll freeze his feet if he goes out with wet socks on.” And she turned and hurried upstairs.

  Now what did she do that for? Alan pondered it as he watched Ruth shyly cutting the strings and opening up the great red Christmas roses. They were wonderful roses. There was no question of that. They exclaimed over them as Daryl came back with the socks.

  “See, Daryl, aren’t they wonderful? And to come out of a storm like that and not be hurt! Whoever picked those out has good taste.”

  “Yes,” said Daryl coolly, “Mr. Blaine has wonderful taste in roses!”

  “Yes,” said Bud, taking another large, sugary bite of doughnut, “Blaine said the fella ordered pink; he said he was very pertickiler they should be pink, but he didn’t have none left. Anyhow he figgered red was more ’propriate fer Christmas, an’ he wasn’t goin’ ta lose the ten bucks the fella promised ef he got um here afore the day was over, so he sent these. I guess you like ’em just as good, dontcha?”

  “Yes, indeed! Better!” said Daryl enthusiastically. “Now, Bud, put these warm stockings on. And don
’t you want to telephone your mother to say you are coming?”

  “Sure thing, ef ya don’t mind.”

  “Yes, and when you get home you call us just so we’ll know you’re all right!” said Father Devereaux.

  “Okay,” said Bud cheerfully.

  Daryl snatched up a handful of the lovely rosebuds and a sheet of the green wax paper, wrapping them quickly.

  “Here, Bud,” she said brightly, “if anybody deserves some of these flowers you do. Take them home to your mother.”

  And that was all the attention she paid to the wonderful roses that had come to her through the storm!

  Bud grinned and buttoned them inside his coat and started out again.

  The moon was coming out from behind a weak cloud as Lance opened the outside door for Bud. There seemed to be only a few flakes skimming down the silver night. The backbone of the storm was broken!

  Daryl had gone back to the jigsaw puzzle with her back turned to the roses as they lay open in their box on the big table near the tree.

  They sat down to the puzzle and began to speculate as to how soon the roads would be passable after the snow ceased. They spoke of Bud and his widowed mother, and his cheerful willingness to breast the storm again for her sake.

  “But aren’t you going to put your flowers in water?” asked Ruth apprehensively.

  “Oh, I guess I’ll just leave them in their box tonight,” said Daryl. “They’ve stood so much, I guess they’ll be all right.”

  She had cast the little envelope containing the card on the table after a mere glance. Alan wondered what this indifference meant. Lance looked at her now and then and wondered also. After all, Harold had sent the flowers. He had tried to do something nice! Lance was always fair to everybody.

  They finished the picture and stood together admiring it. Then Ruth turned to the piano and began to play “Silent Night,” and they all gathered around and sang Christmas carols for a while, but still the roses lay in their open box on the table unnoticed. They were there yet when Daryl went upstairs with Ruth, and after all it was Mother Devereaux who went to them at last, bent her head to get a lovely breath from their crimson muskiness, folded them softly in the wax wrapping, and took the box into the cool pantry for the night.

  Alan went to the quiet guest room and lay watching the flicker of the fire on the wall, and thinking. What a day he had had! What a Christmas! Strange how he had started out the day before wishing for a real Christmas and then had driven straight into one, the best ever! There hadn’t been a minute all day when it had not been delightful. He thought it over from the early morning. The tree and the stockings, and the dear friendliness that had taken him right in as if he were really one of them. He was even glad for the terrible experience of the night before that had showed him the strong, true dependability, the generous heartiness of the young man whom he was going to be so proud to call his friend!

  He let his thoughts hover over the high spots of the day, little things that had touched his heart, a word of Mother Devereaux’s, the heartiness in Father Devereaux’s voice, the twinkle in Lance’s eyes when he got off some comical phrase, the shy look of Ruth as she watched Lance with loving pride—and then, the loveliness of Daryl!

  He came to that last because he was fighting shy of the memory of that moment down in the cellar when he had had such a revelation of himself, such a vision in the darkness of the girl he had held for an instant! Since those beastly roses arrived he had been afraid even to think of it, lest somehow the glory of that moment would shine from his face and be seen. And he knew it was something that must never be seen. The fact that the roses had arrived almost as soon as they got upstairs again, was a sign that he ought not to harbor any thoughts about that girl in his heart. She belonged to another man! Hadn’t Lance as much as said they were engaged? Well, he had implied that. Hadn’t he himself seen the shadow in her eyes? Hadn’t he heard her eager voice when she talked over the telephone? He wasn’t worthy of her, of course, a fellow that would disappoint her for any boss’s party, Christmas, too, and then telephone her when he was drunk! Even drunken men had a little sense.

  And it wasn’t in the least likely that his being drunk would permanently separate them. Girls were such fools. They always believed a man when he promised he wouldn’t drink! Of course she was angry now! He could tell by her voice last night that she had been shocked, and the shock hadn’t worn off. Even the roses hadn’t made her forget that thick, incoherent speech! But it would pass. The roses would eventually do their work, as the rascal had known they would. And later when it was convenient, he would arrive and call her darling a few times, and it would all be healed! His blood boiled as he thought it over. A girl like that! And he tried to forget how it had thrilled him when he held her in his arms. It had been almost as if he held an angel there! Wonderful! That delicate, sweet girl, with her lovely eyes. To be tied up to a drunken fool! How did things like that come about? How could a rare girl like that be deceived and give her heart to such a man, a trifler?

  Then it came to him to wonder if he had not been on the verge of doing something of the same sort himself with Demeter Cass. Yet he was half startled to realize that the thought of Demeter and the perplexing problems she had hinted at over the telephone had grown strangely dim and meaningless since afternoon.

  Somehow he could look at his own case in a very cool-headed way tonight. He had never seen things quite so clearly, except the night when he had first met Demeter at a dinner at the home of one of his clients, and had come home and dreamed his mother came and put her cool hand on his forehead and said quietly, “Not that girl, my son! She is not for you!” And he had waked and thought it over and decided to have nothing more to do with her. But Demeter Cass, or fate, had willed otherwise, and more and more he had been drawn into situations where he had to meet her, until he had actually started for that house party yesterday with the idea of considering whether he wouldn’t ask her to share his life! Well, why didn’t he feel that way tonight? Why was it that he had had even a passing annoyance when she had interrupted the program at dinnertime by insisting on a long telephone conversation when he wanted to get back to the table? Was it just because he was hungry? Why was it that he had laid aside all idea of going to that house party even tomorrow, supposing it should clear and the roads be passable? He had to admit to himself that he really did not want to go now. And why was that? Was it because of that moment in the cellar when he had held that precious girl in his arms, and heaven’s gate seemed to open just a tiny bit and let out some of its joy?

  Because if it was that it would be better for him to get right up now and wade out in that snow and go and find Demeter Cass than to let any such ideas get into his head about a girl who was promised to another man!

  Of course it was all wrong for a girl like that to marry a man who wasn’t worthy of her, and when he thought of it, it was like stabbing a sword into his heart and twisting it in the wound. Nevertheless it was not for him to interfere between even an unworthy man and his girl! He despised himself at the expense of another, even if the other were unworthy.

  And who was he to count himself worthy of her? Oh, he didn’t drink, of course; he didn’t do a lot of the things that men of the world did today. He had his mother to thank for that! But did that make him any more worthy of a girl like Daryl? No, his honesty told him promptly that he was as much of another world from hers as this Harold who seemed to have won her. Perhaps even Harold might be a nominal churchman. There were such, outwardly observing Christian forms but under testing weak to resist temptations. If that was so she would forgive and forgive and go on loving him.

  But as far as the atmosphere of her life was concerned he himself was no more fit to marry her than the other man. What did he know of her Bible and her God?

  He thought of the atmosphere of reverence that pervaded her home. The background of sanctity that seemed to set the keynote for everything that was said and done. Not that he had been irreverent toward God
and the Bible. He had simply not thought of them at all. They hadn’t been a factor with which to be reckoned. He believed in a God in a way, because he knew his mother had done so, but how active her belief had been he did not know. She left him when he was barely out of his childhood, and the years of school life had not helped to deepen any impression of religion she might have left him. But he hadn’t been arrogant toward God or actively hostile to religion. He had even gone to church on occasion when he was in the company of those who did. But he just had not had time for anything outside his scheduled plan for his life, and that schedule had been preparing him to be a success in his chosen profession and getting for himself as much happiness as was consistent with that ambition. The fact that his idea of happiness had been fairly sane and clean and did not include many of the things that the world today professed to enjoy, did not blind his eyes to the difference between his standards and those of the Devereux family. He knew that even if Daryl were free, he was not the ideal man who ought to be her companion through life. But—couldn’t he change? Couldn’t he become the kind of man she could love? That would involve something deeper than perhaps he now understood, but it seemed well worth looking into. On the other hand, was he even as much fitted to be a mate for Demeter Cass? Looking squarely into the eyes of truth there in the middle of the night he was forced to admit that her background was as much alien to his own as this Christian household where he was now a guest. The daily round of the Demeter Cass crowd was not in the least to his taste. How had he supposed he could ever bind himself to a program of eating and drinking and merriment? He wouldn’t enjoy that. How then had he dared consider Demeter as the one to be closer to him than anyone else in the world? Was it that he wanted her merely to help him get on into the success he coveted, wanted to wear her as his, like a ring upon his finger, that the world might see him a success as it counted success? Or had he in his secret heart hoped that he might be able to change her, to bring her to desire the things he desired, a quiet home and family, little children’s voices, and something to come back to from the world of work?