When she came within sight of Wastewater’s walls the storm was upon them; the snow was falling rapidly and steadily now, and with a denseness that made a sort of twilight in the world. It fell dry, close, only slightly at an angle; Wastewater’s outbuildings were already furred deep, and John’s wife Etta was laughing as she backed the little car into the shed for shelter.
“This is a terror, Miss Gabrielle!” she shouted. “It’ll be a white Christmas, all right! I only hope that Miss Fleming and her company don’t get held up somewheres! I declare, you can’t see twenty feet in it!”
Gabrielle shouted back, fled upon her way about the big north wing, through a sort of tunnel of dry branches above an arbour already heavily powdered with white.
Her thoughts were all on the house, all intent upon reaching the side door, all upon the necessary stamping, shaking, disburdening herself of outer garments and her branches of snow; it was after four now, she must be ready in the velvet dress when Sylvia came at six——
Suddenly she stopped short in the lonely side garden, where the snow was falling so fast, recoiled, and heard her own choking exclamation of dismay. Something was moving in the snow, something bent and whitened with flakes—but human! Gabrielle’s heart almost suffocated her, and she felt her throat constrict with pure terror.
It was a child—it was a little old woman, doubled up with years, with wisps of white hair showing about a pallid old face that was scarcely a wholesomer colour than they, or than the falling snowflakes. She had her back half turned to Gabrielle, and was creeping along against a sort of hedge of tightly set firs, her old black cape or shawl topped with white, her thick shoes furred with it. She was muttering to herself as she went, and Gabrielle could hear her, now that the wind had died out and the silent, twisting curtains of snow muffled all other sounds.
Pity and concern for the forlorn old creature almost immediately routed the girl’s first wild, vague fears, and she dropped her branches and followed the wavering footsteps, laying a timid hand upon the woman’s shoulder. Instantly a yellowish ivory face and two wild eyes were turned upon her, and the stranger shrieked with a sound that was all the more horrible because so helpless and so weak. It was almost like the cry of a wind-blown gull, and here in the unearthly solitude and quiet of the storm it frightened Gabrielle with a sense of forlornness and horror. The house, only a few feet away, with fires and voices, seemed unattainable.
“Come in—come in!” cried Gabrielle, guiding her with a strong young arm. “You’ll die out here—it’s a terrible night! And you know it will be dark in ten minutes,” she added, half pushing and half dragging the old form, which was astonishingly light and made but a feeble resistance. “Daisy—Margret!” called Gabrielle, at last flinging open the side door upon the blessed security and warmth of the hall. “Call Mrs. Fleming, will you! This poor old woman’s gotten lost in the garden——”
“My God—what is this!” It was Flora’s voice, but not one that Gabrielle had ever heard before. The hallway was instantly filled with concerned and frightened women, unduly frightened, Gabrielle thought, for the last of her own terrors had disappeared under the first ray of lamplight. “It’s nothing, Gabrielle,” said Flora, choking, and with her face strangely livid, as she stood slightly above the level of the others, on the stairs, clutching her dressing gown together. “It’s some poor woman from Crowchester, Margret!” she stammered. “Come upstairs and dress, Gabrielle. Take her—take her to the kitchen, Hedda, and give her some tea, and I’ll be right down!”
“Imagine!” Gabrielle said, eagerly. “She might have died in the storm, the poor old thing!”