Enchanted Spring (5 page)

Carey thanked her with weary politeness and after a moment Margaret took herself off. Carey sat huddled in her chair until John came to announce dinner. There was a curiously avid look in John’s eyes, but she was too tired to tell him anything or ask any questions. She asked for food to be brought to her here in the library before the open fire, and John went away.

The telephone rang, but she made no move to answer it until she was summoned. As she moved to the telephone, new life flowed through her; it would be Ronnie, of course; he was coming to dinner; he’d heard the news; he would comfort her.

The voice that spoke in her ears was strange for a moment until it identified itself, “This is Michael, Miss Carey — the head chauffeur. Mr. Norris has called for that car — the one he brought over yesterday. Shall I let him have it?”

Carey set her teeth hard for a moment before she could say quietly, “Ask Mr. Norris to come to the phone, Michael.”

A moment later Ronnie was saying curtly, “I’m in rather a hurry, Carey — terribly sorry about the news and all that. But of course I know now that you don’t want the car — ”

“And Ann Paige does?” said Carey, and was surprised that her voice sounded so steady and even a little amused.

“Well, as a matter of fact, she does,” answered Ronnie.

“Then by all means see that she gets it,” Carey said dryly. “And — goodbye, Ronnie. Of course I know this
is
goodbye.”

“I am afraid so, Carey,” Ronnie acknowledged grimly.

She managed a slightly unsteady laugh. “You know, of course, Ronnie, there’s only one creature people always speak of as leaving a sinking ship?”

She heard him swear under his breath, and her ear rang with the force with which he flung the receiver back on the hook. She had faint satisfaction out of the memory. She knew he
was
a rat — but that crazy, rebellious heart of hers rose up on its hind legs and howled like a forlorn puppy at the thought that they were through — that she’d never see him again. She ought to be glad, of course — and her common sense was. But common sense isn’t a great help when the very beat of your heart is quickened by the sight and sound of a man like Ronnie Norris.

CAREY STOOD on the platform of the little yellow pill-box of a railroad station that marked the “downtown center” of Midvale and looked about her, trying desperately to keep her heart from sliding down into the very heels of her smart suede slippers. It was five o’clock of an early winter day. Not crisp and cold and still, as Carey told herself a self-respecting winter day should be; but with a thin, dispirited drizzle of cool rain, falling from leaden clouds that hung so low one might almost stand on tiptoe and touch them. Only a few lights showed here and there through the thickening dusk surrounding a dreary little town.

She was startled out of her unhappy absorption by a voice at her elbow, and she looked up to see Joel Hunter smiling down at her, pleasant and friendly.

“Would you rather ride in the ambulance with your father or in my car? The nurse will ride in the ambulance, of course, and I thought you might be more comfortable in my car.”

“Thank you. You — you’re kind,” said Carey, and swallowed a sob as he guided her down the cindery, muddy steps and to his car. It was a dark coupe of an inexpensive make, but it was warm and comfortable inside.

“I’m not kind at all,” said Joel as he settled himself beside her. “Though I hope you’ll let me be. I think it’s pretty fine of you to come down here and practically bury yourself with your father.”

“What else was there for me to do?” demanded Carey, her chin tilted a trifle defiantly. “I happen to adore my father, though you probably find that difficult to believe.”

There was definite hostility in her tone and she knew that through the wet darkness Joel gave her a sharp, swift glance. And then he nodded grimly. “I see you haven’t forgotten that I dared to scold you about neglecting him.”

“How could I possibly have suspected — all this?” Carey stammered hotly.

“You couldn’t, of course,” Joel agreed. “It was only that I felt sure you must be pretty fond of him, and I thought maybe if I warned you about him — well, I’m sorry. Just skip it, will you?”

“I’ll be glad to,” she told him curtly.

She knew she was behaving like a spoiled child. But she was so tired; so heartsick; so appalled by all that had happened so suddenly. She was already desperately homesick for the old carefree life. At this time of the day Fifth Avenue would be aglow with lights and her friends would be racing about making plans for the evening — having fun, going places. And yesterday Ronnie had sailed aboard the Paige yacht with a party of ten who were going to spend the next six or eight weeks cruising in the Caribbean. At the thought she set her teeth hard and clenched her hands so tightly that the seams of her gloves strained a little.

The car slid and bounced along over an unpaved road, sticky with mud and strewn thickly with rocks. Joel drove and gave his attention to that, making no effort to talk to her, as though he realized the futility of trying to carry on a conversation with her in her present mood.

She was startled from her thoughts at last when the car turned from the highway along a narrow, winding lane. She could see the dark bulk of a house with lighted windows glowing from top to bottom. There was something queer about that light. At least to Carey’s eyes, accustomed to the white radiance of electricity, there was something odd about that soft, mellow amber, though she did not grasp its significance until the car came to a halt and Joel said curtly: “Well, here we are! May I say ‘welcome home’?”

“Home? This is my father’s place?”

“Yes.”

“But — who are these people? Why are there so many lights?” she demanded as the door burst open and she saw a dozen or more people grouped in the wide, old-fashioned hall.

“These are some neighbors, Miss Winslow, who felt that it would be an unhappy homecoming for your father if he came to a cold, dark, empty house. They’ve been here since early this morning, cleaning and dusting and building fires — and cooking.”

“But — but — I don’t know any of these people. Are they friends of my father’s?”

“I doubt if there’s a man or woman in that house who ever set eyes on your father,” Joel said dryly. “It’s simply the custom — the
neighborly
custom. Shall we get out now? I’m sure you could do with a bit of food and drink, to say nothing of warmth.”

He helped her out and up the steps of an old-fashioned porch to the open door through which spilled a flood of yellow lamplight. She understood now why the light had looked yellow and soft; it was the light from half a dozen old-fashioned oil-lamps. One or two of them were elaborately shaded by painted glass globes, but most of them wore nothing but plain glass chimneys through which the yellow tongues of flame showed cheerfully.

“Come in, child — you must be near frozen,” said a friendly voice. Then a stout, middle-aged woman, who wore a clean snowy apron over her rustling black frock, bustled out of the group about the door and seemed literally to envelop Carey in her warm, friendly welcome. “These folks are all neighbors of yours, but ‘twouldn’t do a mite o’ good for me to introduce ‘em all now. You couldn’t remember all the names, anyway. Just take it that they’re friends and welcome you home. And come and have some supper. I know you must be mighty near starved.”

And without a chance to say a word, Carey felt herself drawn into the wide, old-fashioned hall, where a huge fire roared up a wide chimney. She saw smiling faces all about her; heard murmurs of friendly voices; was drawn into a vast dining room where a long table had been spread with a spotless cloth and where plates had been laid for more than a dozen. Carey’s eyes widened as she saw the food on the table; three elaborate cakes beautifully iced; dozens of small bowls and jars of pickles and preserves and jellies; a platter of cold roast ham; another of hot fried chicken, a vast bowl of thick cream gravy, plates of piping hot biscuits — she had never seen so much food at one time or in one place in her life.

“Sit down, dearie,” said the friendly woman who was obviously the self-elected head of the welcoming committee. She took Carey’s gray coat and helped the girl into a chair. “Everybody find places and set. I know this child is starved. There ain’t no diner on that train they was on until six o’clock, and they ain’t had a mouthful of victuals since noon.”

There was a general rustling and movement as the others found chairs. Then Joel and the nurse came in, supporting between them an eager, excited Silas.

“I tried to put him to bed,” Joel explained to Carey, “but he threatened to run a temperature on me if I did.”

“I insist on seeing my neighbors,” Silas said eagerly. “And by the way, I never before realized how beautiful that old word was. And I don’t know how to thank you for — this welcome home.”

“Well, sakes alive,” said the self-elected head of the welcoming committee, “it’d be a fine thing if Midvale’s most famous citizen come home to a cold, empty house and with no food on the table.”

She studied Silas for a long moment and then she grinned impishly, a grin that made her look years younger as she said, “You ain’t changed much, Si, since the days when I used to switch your little legs for running away from home to go swimming in the creek.”

Silas stared at her and suddenly he cried,
“Ellen!
But it can’t be — not Ellen Watkins, who was the prettiest girl in town — ” He caught himself up and colored painfully, then said awkwardly, “I — well, Ellen, it’s good to see you again.”

Ellen grinned cheerfully. “Ellen Watkins that was, Si,” she told him comfortably. “Ellen Hogan that is. I was sixteen when I worked for your mother that summer, mostly keeping you from getting drowned in the creek. I married Bob Hogan the next fall.”

Silas looked swiftly about the table and said, “But where is Ed?”

“He — died nearly nine years ago, Si,” Ellen said after the faintest possible hesitation.

Carey set her teeth hard against the resentment that swept over her at hearing her father called by any such ridiculous name. She was worn out, nervous, strained — and she felt as though she hated these people. She didn’t want to be welcomed and warmed and fed and surrounded by a lot of middle-aged strangers whose eyes were friendly and warm — but avid with sharp curiosity, too. She felt as though their eyes were prying, prodding, trying to ferret out her innermost secrets. She wanted nothing in the world but to be let alone.

She shivered as she looked about her. The dining room was a big, square room. Its walls were of unpainted pine that had merely darkened and mellowed with age without acquiring the slightest shred of charm. The huge fireplace, in which a great fire of logs blazed, was built of rough, cheap brick. There were two windows against which the wet, cold night pressed sullenly between hideous curtains of stringy-looking “lace.” Altogether it seemed to Carey the dreariest, most cheerless room she had ever seen.

“Don’t look so tragic,” said a low-pitched voice beside her. “After all, you’re tired. Things will look much brighter tomorrow.”

She would not look at Joel Hunter. She felt she knew exactly the expression that would be on his face. He despised her and she loathed him, and if they were thrown into contact for the next hundred years, she told herself passionately, she’d go right on loathing him. Only her loathing would grow deeper and more blistering with the years, she promised herself savagely.

The seemingly interminable meal was over at last. Carey found that these amazing neighbors grouped about were treating her as though she were a guest in their home, instead of the reverse. She was ushered off upstairs to her own room by Ellen Hogan, while the nurse and Joel got her father away from his friends and to his room opposite the dining room.

Ellen had carried a lamp high in her hand, lighting Carey’s stumbling feet up the stairs and along a bleak, echoing corridor to a door which Ellen pushed open.

“I thought you’d like this room better than one at the front,” Ellen said cheerfully. “For one thing it’s right above the kitchen and so there’s a place for a small heating stove. I had ‘em put one up for you and built you a fire. After all, you city girls are used to being a heap more comfortable than country folks.”

She was busily turning down the covers on a huge bed where the pillows looked to Carey larger than her mattress back home. The covers were thick-looking, gaily colored patchwork quilts, and sheets that were coarse but spotlessly clean. Carey had never seen so puffy a bed or one that looked quite so inviting to her weary body.

“Where is the bath?” she asked as she opened her overnight case and brought out a chiffon nightgown, a matching negligee and frivolous, feather-trimmed mules.

She looked up when Ellen did not answer her and caught the woman’s eyes on the contents of the overnight case. There was such hunger in Ellen’s tired, middle-aged eyes that for a moment Carey was startled and touched with pity. Then Ellen caught herself up, looked at Carey and said gently:

“Heavens, child, there ain’t no bathroom. There’s no waterworks here. But I brought up a fresh pitcher of water for you, and I can get you some hot water off the stove. It won’t be a mite of trouble.”

Without waiting for Carey to answer she bustled out, and Carey looked about her, winking back the tears. The room was large like all the rest of the house she had seen. It was a corner room, as gaunt-looking, as barnlike, as the ones downstairs.

Ellen came back while Carey still stood with the cobwebby nightgown in her hand, an almost frightened look in her eyes as she took in the place about her.

“Here’s your hot water, child,” Ellen said cheerfully. “Shall I stay and tuck you in?”

“Oh, no — thank you very much, but I’m quite capable of putting myself to bed.”

She hadn’t meant to sound curt or unfriendly. But she was tired and heartsick and she felt that if this woman didn’t go and leave her alone to her unhappy thoughts, she’d scream.

Ellen seemed to understand. For a moment she hesitated and then she seemed to think better of whatever it was that she had been about to say. So she said quietly, “Don’t take things so hard, child. After all — whatever it is that hurts you — it can’t last. Nothing ever does. We sort of outgrow things — heartache and despair, and all the rest of it. After you’ve had a good night’s sleep you’ll feel much better.”