Enchanted Spring (8 page)

“Now, what on earth would that be — at eight o’clock in the evening?” Silas wondered.

Carey wiped her hands on a towel and said lightly, “Unless I’ve been misinformed, we are about to have a party dropped smack into our laps. But we’re all supposed to be surprised right to our back teeth.”

“A surprise party? Good Heavens, how quaint!” gasped Margaret.

Carey didn’t bother to answer as she went along the hall and opened the front door. It seemed to her that a veritable wave of people swept in and over and around her, shouting “Merry Christmas! Surprise, surprise!” They were flushed with the cold, their arms filled with bright-colored packages, and the hubbub they made brought Silas and Margaret out into the hall.

It was a gay, friendly party, and Carey’s heart was warm with the knowledge that these people liked her and her father. But once or twice during the evening she caught Margaret’s eyes fixed on her, and in those eyes there was a hint of derision that made Carey set her teeth hard and clench her fists.

Later when the party was over and Silas, with the help of Joel, had been put to bed and comfortably settled for the night and Joel had gone, Carey found Margaret sitting before the open fire, a cigarette between her fingers.

“So that’s the wild hilarity and excitement of nightlife in Midvale!” Margaret commented dryly. “I don’t wonder that you’ve aged ten years, my lamb, and that your hands are like sandpaper! Heavens, child, how
could
you let yourself go like this?”

Carey drew a long, hard breath. She faced Margaret with her chin up, her eyes cold. “I don’t know why you came, Margaret,” she began, but Margaret, flicking her cigarette into the fire, cut in swiftly:

“Then you’re pretty stupid, Carey. I came to see Silas, of course. And the trip was worth everything. I — only live when I’m somewhere around him. That’s why I’ve come to stay.”

“You’ve — come to stay?” Carey stammered, so taken by surprise that she could not control the sharp protest in her voice.

“Exactly,” answered Margaret. “Look here, Carey, we might as well have this out here and now. There isn’t a cent left of your father’s estate. There will be, maybe, six hundred dollars a year from some stocks we thought were worthless. That’s all. I have no job now, but I’ve got an annuity — it pays me eighty dollars a month. I can’t live on that alone; you and your father can’t live here on approximately fifty dollars a month. But if we combine the two incomes, the three of us can get by on one-hundred and thirty dollars — that is, of course, until you marry.”

Carey ignored that and said thickly, “You are capable of earning a good salary, Margaret. Why should you want to bury yourself here?”

“Because Silas is here, of course. And I’d rather starve where Silas is than be fed on plover’s eggs and caviar where he isn’t,” Margaret said swiftly. “See here, Carey, we can make a go of it. He likes me. I amuse him and keep him interested. And I can do my share — more than my share — of the housework and cooking. Then you can get out and around and have some fun. You’ll want to marry — I saw the way Dr. Hunter looked at you — and when you do, your father will be completely alone. Unless you let me stay.”

“It’s — something we can’t decide — all of a sudden like this,” Carey said after a moment. “We’ll have to talk things over with Dad. Meanwhile — we’d better get some sleep, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course, Carey — and we won’t say anything more about things until after Christmas. Shall we just sort of keep it in mind?”

In bed that night, Carey thought of what a thorn in her side Margaret would be. But Margaret had given up a good deal to be in this barren spot with the man she loved.

Ronnie Norris. Carey wondered what it would be like to share a place like this with Ronnie Norris. And knew that Ronnie would see to it that he was never in such a spot.

Joel Hunter, now. There was an entirely different sort of person. Joel — well, there wasn’t anybody quite like him, she told herself comfortably, and jerked herself painfully awake from the first drowsiness of the evening, startled at the way her heart had stirred at the thought of Joel. High time, she told herself severely, that she forgot about Joel Hunter before she had a brainstorm and believed herself in love with him, And found herself married to him and chained to Midvale for life.

IT WAS LATER than usual when Carey woke up. She lay still for a moment, looking at the sunlight that spilled into the room. And then, she swung herself out of bed, shivering, clutching for her clothes, her teeth chattering as she dressed hurriedly, her eyes on the clock. It was after seven — and poor Pops was hungrily awaiting his breakfast.

But she paused at the head of the stairs, sniffing. A strange but delicious odor crept up to her; coffee, of course; and the scent of crisping bacon. And then she heard her father laugh, a startled, light-hearted shout of laughter such as she had not heard him give in months.

She heard Margaret’s voice as she went along the hall and, as she pushed open the kitchen door, Margaret was just sliding a golden brown waffle from the smoking iron to her father’s plate. They both looked up, welcoming Carey with almost guilty glances.

“Hullo, kitten — did we wake you?” Her father sounded very gay. “Margaret insisted we let you sleep. You’ve had a pretty hard pull of it these last few weeks.”

Margaret said nothing but her smile, her manner, most of all that almost pleading look in her dark eyes, begged Carey to let her stay.

“You’ll have a waffle, Carey, won’t you?” she asked eagerly.

“A
waffle? She’ll have half a dozen of them, after she tastes the first one. Carey, you wouldn’t believe anything could be so good,” Silas said happily, and sloshed cane syrup over his plate.

Carey said something meant to be gay. But she was remembering the breakfasts she had cooked so awkwardly, but so lovingly, for her father. She watched while Margaret picked up the old, blackened coffee-pot and poured a cup that was golden brown, steaming hot, gloriously fragrant.

“Strange — that looks like coffee, doesn’t it, Pops?” Carey tried hard to sound cheery. “But if this is coffee — then what’s that stuff I’ve been making us drink all these weeks?”

“Making coffee in a pot like this, Carey, would stump the best of cooks,” Margaret said hurriedly. “I just happened to grow up on this sort of coffee. But you wait until I unpack. I brought along one of those glass bubble percolator things that can be used on a stove like this, and we’ll have some real coffee!”

She was so anxious to be conciliatory; there was nothing spiteful or malicious or triumphant about her now. And, Carey told herself, Margaret was almost pretty this morning. She almost spoke aloud. “Migosh — she’s dyed her hair!”

The gay, frivolous frock, the silly but vastly becoming print apron, the new hair color, the permanent wave, all hinted loudly of Margaret’s determination. She was going to make herself so necessary to Silas’s happiness and well-being that Carey, Silas’s adoring daughter, simply couldn’t send her away.

Carey was a little relieved when Joel arrived with his usual clamorous assault on the backsteps as he knocked the mud from his shoes.

There was sherry at noon, and dinner, served at two o’clock, was quite as marvellous as Margaret had threatened. It was a feast fit for a king to which the four sat down.

After dinner, Joel insisted on helping with the dishes and there was more laughter and good-natured banter. At four o’clock Joel reluctantly prepared to tear himself away. He had a couple of calls to make, for people were still sick, even though it was Christmas.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to drive with me?” he suggested to Carey. “I’ve a couple of calls, and after we’ve finished we’ll go for a walk to the top of the hill on the Pickens’ place — very well spoken of for the beauty of its winter sunsets.”

Carey caught the look in Margaret’s eyes. Margaret wanted her to go. Margaret wanted a quiet hour or so with Silas. And the force of the jealousy that shook her frightened Carey a little so that, ashamed of herself and of that unworthy emotion, she accepted Joel’s invitation.

It was cold but clear; a damp cold that made her shiver a little. But when they had finished the calls and had climbed the low hill on the Pickens’ place and were seated comfortably on the old split-rail fence, she breathed deeply with delight. There was a wonderful scent to the air; a fragrance of wood and earth.

She turned to say something to Joel and caught the look in his eyes. Instantly she was afraid and sought wildly for something to say. “What do you think of Margaret, now that you know her a little better?” she managed finally.

“You needn’t be afraid of me, Carey — nor of anything I may want to say,” Joel said gravely, ignoring the question she had asked. “I shall never say anything again, I promise you, that you don’t really want to hear. Is that quite clear?”

“I — why — I don’t know what you mean,” stammered Carey.

“Don’t lie,” Joel ordered sternly, though there was the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not a very patient guy, Carey — but I can wait for what I want.”

He chuckled at the way her pretty chin tilted and then he said, “Oh, yes, we were speaking of Margaret, weren’t we? She seems completely subdued today. Did you two have a battle last night? She was rather uppity, it seemed to me, when she first got here.”

“That, I’ve always been led to believe,” Carey told him frankly, “is the genuine Margaret. The one you saw today is — well, it’s a sort of trick done with mirrors. She — she wants to stay on.”

Joel looked puzzled. “But why should she? I mean — well, after all, your father scarcely needs a secretary nowadays.”

“Margaret seems to feel he needs a wife. She’s in love with him, of course. Anybody with half an eye could see that.”

“And you’d rather your father didn’t marry her?”

“Oh, but — goodness, he wouldn’t think of such a thing — ” Carey stammered miserably.

“No? Then you haven’t happened to see the look in your father’s eyes when she’s around? See here, Carey, stop being an ostrich. Take your pretty head out of the sand and look facts squarely in the face. Why shouldn’t your father marry Margaret if he wants to?”

“But nobody has any proof he wants to. Just because Margaret happens to be in love with him, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s in love with her,” Carey retorted.

“And after all,” Joel went on gravely, as though she had not spoken, “you’ll be wanting to get married some day.”

For an instant Carey was still. She felt as though a trap had been slowly but surely closing in upon her. Here and now was her chance to rid herself of that trap once and for all.

“But I shan’t marry — oh, not for years and years. What chance would I have of finding the sort of man I’d want to marry in this benighted section of the country?”

The dusk was thickening now so that she could only guess at the expression on his face as they trudged back to the car.

EARLY IN January Carey discovered through a letter from a friend that Ronnie and Ann Paige were married. “Darling,” the friend wrote, “you simply wouldn’t know the Ann who is now Mrs. Ronnie Norris. She’s streamlined within an inch of her life and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say she is beautiful, I will have to admit that she’s the most sophisticated looking thing you ever saw. It’s an open secret that Ronnie stage-managed the whole transformation. If ever Ronnie gets tired of being Ann’s lap-dog he could make himself a fortune, opening a salon to show other too-plump, homely ladies the road to beauty — if not health. Ann’s cracking beneath the strain — the rigid diet, the exercise, and all the rest of it. You should see her at a luncheon or tea-fight, my dear. The look in her eyes is absolutely wolfish. And one night last week at the Marshalls’ buffet supper for the bridal party of Heather Gordon and her beau, I saw Ann gobble a chicken patty while looking fearfully around hoping to dodge Ronnie’s eagle eye. She didn’t, poor devil. He came up behind her and my ears burned at the things he said. Not many, not loud, but all the more bitterly stinging for all that. As for Ronnie — well, my dear, perhaps you can fancy what being the husband of a girl as rich as Ann is doing to him — he’s expanding in all directions!”

Carey read the letter twice and then very carefully fed it to the flames in the kitchen stove. Donning her hat and coat, she went for a long walk. Something deep within her hurt at the thought of Ronnie married to Ann; of Ann, plump and ruddy and domineering, supreme egotist that she was, superbly and arrogantly sure that her millions entitled her to the best of everything the world had to offer —

“But she didn’t get much when she got Ronnie,” Carey tried to tell herself. Only to stand stockstill beneath the chill January sun, her hands clenched tightly in her pockets, her eyes closed, sick with remembering a certain afternoon when Ronnie had held her close against him and she had felt the burning demand of his mouth on hers.

She stood at the old rail fence that separated the Winslow property from Ellen Hogan’s hard-worked acres and looked about her. She noted the dead-looking, blackened tree branches against a thin gray-white sky; the inevitable red mud; the rolling meadow, bare and brown and ugly; the thin line of leafless willows outlining the little brook at the foot of the hill. Yes, this Carey Winslow was the same as that other! Only a few months separated them — yet she felt as though she had lived half a lifetime in between!

When her father went to bed that night and she and Margaret were toasting their toes in front of the living room fire before making that cold dash through the big hall to their respective and very chilly bedrooms, Margaret said unexpectedly:

“Carey, I’ve been thinking. There’s really no reason why we should live in a place that looks and feels like a barn. It wouldn’t take much money to remodel this place, put in electric lights and a water system and some new draperies and things. I’ll bet it would make a terrific difference.”

“You mean we might as well admit that we have to spend the rest of our lives here?” Carey demanded shakily, and there was a look on her face that told Margaret something of her shock and desolation at the thought.