Spring Always Comes, page 3
Connie smiled. “So far. What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“Remember that story about how Abraham Lincoln didn’t like a certain man because of his face? And another fellow said that, after all, the poor man wasn’t responsible for his face. And old Abe, who always hit the nail on the head, said no young person was responsible for his face but everyone over forty was, because by then the face mirrored all that the person had thought and felt and been up to then. He had made his own face, like it or not.”
“What a terrifying thought! Has Nick come down yet?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “You know Nick. He’ll probably sleep until noon.”
Connie glanced at Jeff, her brows arched, and he answered her mute question by shaking his head slightly. He hadn’t told Mrs. Kennedy about that appalling and terrifying experience at the airport. He intended to remain silent for Nick’s sake. Again her heart sank. This time Nick was in terrible trouble.
“Is Dad awake yet?”
“Not yet. He sleeps a lot. Best thing for him, of course.”
“Then I think — until he wakes up — I’ll take a walk.”
“May I go with you?” Jeff asked.
For a moment she hesitated, aware of how comforting it would be to have him at her side. Then she remembered the vow she had made to herself.
“Do you mind if I go alone? Oh, I forgot, I have a message for you.”
“A message?” He was surprised.
“Sandra Kent sent you her love.”
A shadow passed over his face. Then he said, “That was very nice of her.”
Hands thrust deep in the pockets of the heavy plaid woodsman’s jacket she had found in the hall closet, Connie strolled through the woods, her feet sinking into the soft bed of pine needles. She walked steadily until she was tired and then sat down on a log. For a long time she breathed in the aromatic air, smelling of balsam and pine, feeling the deep stillness of the forest first as a healing balm, then as something more vitally real than anything she had ever known. Her feet were solidly planted on the rich earth.
She caught her breath in delight as a fox stole out from the underbrush and stood with the sun turning its coat red, nose pointed upwards, sniffing for danger. Then it disappeared as silently as it had come.
This was the world her father loved, the world that had filled him with such vast contentment, that had taught him not only to value life but to accept death as naturally as he accepted the change of seasons. Why, she wondered, have I always felt so alien here? She realized abruptly that she had not looked at Maine through her own eyes but through her mother’s. She had accepted her mother’s feelings as her own.
The immemorial peace of the woods filled her heart. This is where I belong, she thought in profound surprise. I have come home.
She got up from the log, brushed a golden leaf off her skirt, and started back to the lodge. While her courage was still high she went quickly up the stairs and tapped on the half-open door, smiling.
“Hello, Dad.”
Three
Will Wyndham, propped high on pillows in the big, old-fashioned bed, turned away from the window and held out his arms.
“Welcome home, dear! How lovely you’ve grown but how metropolitan and sophisticated. You’ve become more Park Avenue than Stony Brook.”
“Don’t you believe it!”
His thin arms closed round her, he brushed her cheek with his lips and then released her, smiling. “At least nothing has changed those clear, steady eyes of yours.” He turned his head toward the window. “Look at that little fellow, Connie. I’ve been watching him. Isn’t he a beauty?”
Connie looked from the familiar and beloved face, unchanged except for its thinness, to the bird feeder hung outside the window on a long branch of a maple tree, and saw the bird beside it.
“Of course,” Wyndham boasted with his old grin, “I set a darned good table for those birds.”
She laughed as she kissed him and settled down on the side of the bed. “I’ve been for a walk,” she said gaily, “looking at all the improvements you’ve made at Stony Brook since I’ve been away.”
“About Stony Brook,” her father began. Stopped. “I’ve left the place to you, Connie.” He put out a thin hand to check the words on her lips. “I’d like to talk about it,” he assured her. “There must not be any more mistakes.”
“Mistakes?” she echoed in surprise.
He nodded. “I’ve always loved the Maine woods. It seems to me the only real life. But, looking back now, I wonder if I was justified. Don’t misunderstand me. It was what I wanted. I’ve been a happy man always. But there are other ways of life, more important, perhaps; more useful, no doubt; certainly” — and a faint smile flickered across his mouth — “more remunerative. Half a dozen times I was offered jobs that would take me down to the cities, give me a good income, but I always said no. I’d found my rightful place here, the life, at least, that was the right one for me.”
“Then what worries you?” Connie reached for his hand, held it clasped in both of hers.
“Your mother. She was never happy here. I can see that now. She would have preferred the glamour of the city but she stayed here because she felt it was her duty.”
“She loved you,” Connie said softly.
“Love should not have to become a sacrifice. That is why I wanted to talk to you about Stony Brook. As I said, I have left it to you. Nick wouldn’t have it as a gift except for what he could get out of it. Anyhow, my son has had more than his share, far more, and at the expense of my daughter.” As Connie started to interrupt he said, “I know you have never complained about what I did for Nick. But your generosity should not be taken advantage of. It wouldn’t be honest of me to permit it.
“What I want you to understand clearly is this, Connie. It’s true I used to hope that either you or Nick would want to live here, but it’s a long time since I’ve known that Nick hates everything about the place.
“So far as you are concerned, if you don’t like it, really like it, I’d rather you sold out. There’s a lot of acreage. Perhaps some rustic cabins could be built and the place turned into a really profitable lodge for summer people or hunters. But don’t do anything hasty. John Kent will advise you. The place should bring enough to carry you for a few years, at least, if you decide to sell.”
Seeing her expression, realizing how close she was to breaking down, he brightened with an effort. “Well, that’s enough about that,” he said cheerfully. “All over and done with and we won’t mention it again. Now let me tell you about the wonderful thing that has happened to me.”
Connie caught her breath. How could a man who had heard his death sentence speak like that?
“If you’ll open the middle drawer of my desk, dear, you’ll find a large package.”
While Connie set it on the bed where her father could reach it easily, he went on, “You know how stamp collectors are.” He stopped to laugh at himself. “But of course you don’t. Anyhow, a correspondence frequently springs up with a fellow collector; less frequently some spark is struck out of those letters and a friendship develops. I have made at least three such friendships with men whom I have never met, but we have exchanged views for so many years that in some ways we know each other better than we do people we meet every day. And, of course, this is how I first came to know John Kent.
“Well, one of my correspondents was a charming Mexican, Tomas Nuñoz, a widower like myself, except that he had lost not only his wife but his children. It’s a queer thing, Connie, how it came about. Here I am, a guide in the Maine woods. There he was, a great landowner and aristocrat, a man who had traveled widely and had been educated at a great university. You would think we had nothing in common. And we turned out to have just about everything in common. Everything that counts.”
His fingers were fumbling with the cords that tied the package and Connie, vowing not to mention that Nick already knew about the Nuñoz collection, got scissors, cut the string, removed the wrapping paper, took out the stamp album and placed it where he could reach it without effort.
“Nuñoz had a bad heart,” Wyndham went on. “One day I got a letter, written by his nurse, in answer to one of mine. She said he was very ill. I didn’t hear again for some weeks. Then I was informed by the executor of his estate that Nuñoz had died and had left me his stamp collection. Only a few days ago this package reached me and I haven’t even opened it yet.”
He turned the pages eagerly. “Look at this, a Guatemalan stamp, showing a quetzal bird. Now the original value of that stamp when it was printed in 1881 was two centavos. Today, it would be worth about fifty cents. But some printer put the die together wrong and stood the poor bird on his head. Technically, that is called an inverted center. And because of the error, the stamp is now worth about fifty dollars.”
For a few moments he sat staring at the stamp without seeing it. Then he said abruptly, “Connie, I’d like you to give my stamp collection, including this windfall from my old friend Nuñoz, to John Kent. You don’t care for stamps and he does. Anyhow, it came to me from a good friend. I’d like it to be passed on to another. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course,” she said huskily.
“Then I’ll dictate the letter and you write it so that I can sign it, will you? I don’t think I ought to put things off too long.” He closed the album wearily and Connie took it away.
When she went down to lunch she found Nick lounging in the living room, flipping the pages of an illustrated magazine. He seemed to have recovered from his shock and terror of the night before.
“Picture of your friend Alexandra Kent,” he said. “Heiress to thirty million. Thirty million! The man who gets her will be sitting pretty. She could be a lot less attractive than she is and still be worth having.”
“You barely know her,” Connie said angrily. “You have no right to speak of her like that, as though she had no qualities of her own.”
“Okay. Okay. Don’t get excited. How’s Dad?” He made no attempt to conceal his indifference.
“He’s very weak but he is wonderful, Nick. He has been talking and laughing, just as cheerful as can be, acting as gay as though he didn’t have a single trouble in the world. He even told me about his stamp collection.”
“Stamp collection?” Nick looked up alertly, tossing the magazine aside. “Did he mention Tomas Nuñoz?”
“Yes, and he started looking through the stamps Señor Nuñoz bequeathed him, but he was too tired to go on. How did you know about it, Nick?”
“A friend of mine is a stamp dealer. He read about the Nuñoz collection, an article saying a lot of collectors had hoped it would come on the open market so they could bid for it. but he had left it intact to a fellow enthusiast, no less than William Wyndham of Stony Brook.”
“Dad is terribly excited about it.”
“He should be. Know what that collection is valued at? Thousands and thousands of dollars.”
“For heaven’s sake! I don’t think Dad has any idea of its financial value.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He hasn’t had a chance to look at it,” Connie said defensively.
“Well, at least,” Nick said in a tone of satisfaction, “it will be something.”
Connie’s face stiffened. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
Nick looked at her, looked away, avoiding the challenge, the accusation in her eyes. “There’s no sense in not being practical, Connie. There’s nothing unfeeling in thinking ahead. We have ourselves to consider. About all Dad has to leave us is Stony Brook and that ought to be called Stony Broke, if you ask me. We’ll be lucky to get fifteen thousand out of it, maybe not more than ten. But with this stamp collection we’ll have something with a real commercial value.”
“Dad intends to leave it to Mr. Kent.”
“Kent!” Nick shouted.
“Quiet. Keep your voice down or you’ll disturb Dad. He has every right to do as he pleases with his own property.”
“Kent!” Nick raged, though he lowered his voice. “That guy has millions and we have peanuts. I’m not going to sit back and let that money go without a fight, I can tell you right now.”
“It isn’t your money. You won’t do anything to upset Dad or his wishes.” For once the full strength of her jaw was in evidence. “You’ve hurt him enough. Things are going to be done exactly the way he wants them done.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said softly, “so that’s it. You are going to play along with Kent, are you? Maybe you are smart, at that. But just remember one thing: you’ve got to count me in. Or else.”
Outside the living room door Mrs. Kennedy said, “Oh, there you are, Mr. Gray. I was just ready to call you for lunch.”
Nick’s eyes leaped to Connie’s in alarm. How long had Jefferson Gray been outside the door? How much had he overheard?
ii
On a crisp cold day, three weeks later, the minister concluded his moving words and sprinkled a handful of earth over the open grave.
Connie was aware of the unexpectedly large crowd that had assembled to pay its last respects to Bill Wyndham and of Jefferson Gray’s comforting hand on her arm as he led her away from the cemetery.
He helped her into his car. “It will be warm in a few minutes.” He turned to Nick, who had climbed into the back seat. “You still intend to go down to New York on the afternoon train?”
“I’ve got my luggage right here,” Nick informed him. “There’s nothing to keep me in this neck of the woods.”
“There’s Connie,” Jeff reminded him. “It’s going to be lonely for her here. And, of course, if you leave I can’t very well stay on.”
Nick laughed. “That’s your lookout. And from what I overheard of that telephone conversation you had with Kent a week ago, I’d think you had overstayed your leave of absence and then some. All those explanations for hanging around up here, week after week, didn’t seem to be going down very well. And as far as Connie is concerned, she has proved that she can look out for herself. Dad disinherited me and left everything to — guess who? If she’s lonely at the lodge that’s her headache.”
Connie saw the anger in Jeff’s face, saw him struggle for control. When he spoke his voice was impersonal. “There’s another thing, Nick. You’ve avoided every effort I’ve made to discuss it, but I’ve got to say something now.”
“What’s that?” Nick asked tightly.
“That man at the airport, the one with the revolver, meant real trouble. Watch yourself.”
“I never saw him before in my life,” Nick said.
“How do you know?” Jeff asked softly. “It was dark on the field after the plane took off. Very dark. Except when my car headlights were directly on you, I could see you and Connie only as shadows. And you had your back turned to the man.”
“Don’t interfere in my affairs,” Nick said. “I mean that, Gray.”
Without further comment Jeff drove to the station. “Here you are, Nick. You’ll have quite a wait but I want to get Connie back to Stony Brook as soon as I can. She’s had all she can take.”
Nick leaned forward, touched Connie’s shoulder. She turned around, her face white, her eyes enormous, her lips quivering. Something in her expression checked him in what he had been about to say.
“Well, take care of yourself, Connie. Don’t hang around the woods too long or you might be snowed in for the winter, and how you’d hate that!” He started to get out of the car and added casually, as though it were merely an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, what did you do with the stamps?”
“Stamps?”
“Yes, stamps,” he said impatiently. “Dad’s collection and the Nuñoz lot.”
“I put them out of the way somewhere. After that one time, Dad was never able to look at them again, and Dad’s lawyer told me not to send them to Mr. Kent until the estate is settled.”
Nick’s fingers tightened cruelly on her shoulder. “Remember what I told you, Connie. Don’t try any tricks or you’ll be one very, very sorry girl. That’s fair warning.” He picked up his suitcase and went into the station without a backward look.
“Some day,” Jeff said, “I’m going to bring one right up from the floor and lay out that dear brother of yours. If he ever tries to make trouble for you, Connie, just leave him to me.”
The car moved off slowly. Little by little, as it grew warmer, Connie relaxed. For three weeks she had rested little, rarely leaving her father’s bedside. His collapse occurred the very morning after she had had her long talk with him but he had lingered on, day after day, sometimes conscious, more often sunk in a deep sleep.
Once Jeff put his foot on the brake as a deer leaped across the road. Otherwise the landscape was empty, gray and empty, the bare branches of trees reaching into the leaden sky from which scattered snowflakes were drifting. Already the dark days were on them and the light was fading from the sky though it was barely four-thirty.
“How desolate it is!” she exclaimed suddenly. “How bleak and sad now that the wonderful foliage is gone.”
“At least,” Jeff said, “when the leaves fall, the evergreens come into their own. Isn’t that hemlock a beauty?”
“You sound like Dad,” Connie said, and caught her breath on a sob.
Beside her Jeff moved, his gloved hand covered hers, held it comfortingly. During the past days Connie had, without realizing it, come more and more to rely on this pleasant young man with his unstressed charm and his quiet way of relieving her of responsibility, of being on hand when he was needed, of effacing himself when she preferred to be alone. Absorbed in her father’s needs, she had given him little thought. Now she looked up and met the steady look in his eyes.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jeff. Nick — well —”
“Forget about Nick,” he said brusquely.
“I can’t forget about him. Dad was his father, too. Jeff, what’s wrong with him? He has never let me speak about that terrible man at the airport. He walks out of the room or just tells me to forget it. But he — that gun —”
