The Winter People

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Don’t touch anything! I want it left exactly as it is. I’m moving into this room today. All Glynis’s things belong to me now. That is the way she would have wanted it.”

  I think not even Colton wished this, but there could be no opposing Glen in a mood that was almost as stormy as those his sister used to indulge. Colton turned away, his face tight with strain as he held back any remonstrance. This room carried too many memories for him.

  Glen stopped him. “Father—you might as well know that I’ve countermanded the order you gave for an inscription on the headstone for the grave. I’m going to carve it myself. No one else is going to do that last thing for her.”

  Colton nodded stiffly and went out of the room.

  Nomi made a little dusting motion with her two hands as if she dismissed all notions she’d had of dismantling the room, even though she was obviously not pleased with Glen. Then she had gone, too, leaving me to face him, to speak any sensible plea that might be offered. I did not want to stay. I had no confidence in my ability to change his mind. Yet what he was doing was wrong—the worst possible thing he could do, so I had to try.

  “You’ll only make yourself increasingly miserable,” I said. “Isn’t Nomi’s way better—to put Glynis aside for a while until everything eases a little?”

  All his new dislike for me looked out of his eyes. “What do you know of what’s good or bad—for me? What has happened is your fault. It was your fault from the beginning when you shattered the alabaster head. And now you’ve brought about Glynis’s death. What bad luck it was when I walked into the museum that day. Go away, will you, and leave me alone.”

  The shock of his words left me shaken, and I made no further attempt to change his mind. To get away from the house and all it hid, I dressed warmly and went outside. I suppose that I must still love Glen, but I did not really know. Did love which blossomed so quickly die with equal speed? Or was it just that I had grown numb and unfeeling? Perhaps after a time all my deadened wounds would begin to throb and torment me. Then I would come to life and long for a love that was lost and over. But even while I walked down the hillside toward the lake, this seemed an irrational thing. I did not want Glen any more, yet I might still be in love with the gay, exuberant, demanding man who had swept me off my feet in New York. A man who did not exist. As his sister had died, so had Glen.

  Halfway down through the woods I met Trent coming up the hill. His smile warmed me. I had not known how cold I was until he smiled at me.

  “I was coming to see you,” he said.

  I could only shake my head helplessly. “Don’t come now. We—everyone—is so upset. And—and Glen—” I broke off because there was nothing I could tell him. Indeed, I had the horrid unreasoning feeling that if Trent knew about the scarf and that I had gone off and left Glynis without pulling her in, he might blame me too. I could not bear any more blame.

  “I won’t come to the house if you’d rather I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I only wanted to thank you for what you did for Keith the night of the fire in the inn.”

  I could only stare at him. “But I thought you were angry with me for trying to protect him. You were both angry with me.”

  “What you wanted to do was foolish,” he said. “But it was because of you that he stood up like a man and faced what had to be faced. We had a long talk, that night, and perhaps I got through to him a little. Certainly you did. Whatever you said to him earlier made him stop and think. Not that he feels any differently about his mother, except that for a time he was furiously angry with her. You stirred him to that, at least. I think he’s aware of the monstrous thing Glynis prompted him to do by using that picture she had painted—getting him to destroy his grandmother’s property. So perhaps he will behave differently from now on. Pandora doesn’t know. She may guess, but I’m not going to tell her. It isn’t necessary now.”

  Trent still did not know what Keith had done in obeying Glynis about the alabaster head, but this I still could not tell him. Perhaps Keith had been angry with his mother on that score too—I could only hope so.

  “I’m glad you reached him,” I said. “I was afraid of what you might do while you were angry.”

  “I know. I saw the fear in your face. That’s what sobered me and brought me up short in what I said to him. So thank you, young Bernardina.”

  “Young?” I repeated wryly. “Oh, no. Not any more. I feel older than Nomi now. Older than anyone.”

  He shook his head. “You’re very young and you’ll be happy again.” He came close to me and put his hand beneath my chin, tilted my head and kissed my mouth—lightly, swiftly, “I keep wanting to do that,” he said. “I can’t think of you as Glen’s wife.”

  I wasn’t Glen’s wife—not any more—and for an instant I yearned toward him, wanted to go into his arms and be comforted. But he could not be my love, and I stepped away.

  “I’ve brought you your Christmas present,” he said. “I meant to give it to you Christmas Day, but after what happened there was no chance.” He pulled a flat, narrow box from his lumber jacket pocket and gave it to me. The bright wrapping and gift ribbon looked incongruous now—our Christmas had been so very far from merry—but I was touched that he should have thought of me and I found that tears had come into my eyes.

  “Don’t open it now,” he said quickly. “Take it to your room and open it when you’re alone.” He started away from me, and then stopped, turning back. “Are you all right, Bernardina?”

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I’m all right now.”

  “You’ve only to call if you want me,” he said.

  I already knew that and the assurance was comforting to me. I turned away and climbed the hill toward the house, carrying my package. Once when I stopped and looked back I found him still standing there, watching me go. I waved to him, comforted and just a little braver because Trent McIntyre cared what happened to me.

  In the house I ran quickly upstairs and shut the door of my room. Then I untied the ribbon, opened my gift. Inside the box was a packet of letters and a note from Trent; “—because I thought these would mean even more to you than they do to me.”

  Folded inside were all the letters my father had written to Trent over the years, from the time when he had been a young man just out of college, until he had come to our house before my father’s death. There were not a great many, but Trent had kept every one, and I sat down then and there to read them.

  It was a warmly moving experience. Not only did my father come into the room and sit beside me, but Trent came more alive for me too. I could know him better through these letters than I ever had. By what my father wrote to him I could tell how much he valued him, trusted him, and wanted great things for his future. There were bits about my mother and me too in these letters, and all our warm, satisfying family life came back to me as it had not for a long while. Now the bits of philosophy with which my father had so often flavored his talk had meaning for me as never before. It was almost as if he broke the long silence of death because I needed him so very much. This was why Trent had given me the letters.

  There was one simple statement that struck home to me especially. John Blake had been an essentially simple man. He had never made much out of little. “Courage,” he had written Trent, “is often no more than the ability to keep going ahead. Those who don’t have it turn aside, or quit altogether.”

  To keep going ahead. That was the advice I needed now. To keep going from one day to the next, no matter how hard life at High Towers became for me, no matter how darkly Glen looked at me. There had to be an end. I must keep going and know there was daylight somewhere, on there ahead.

  Nevertheless, on New Year’s Eve, when we all sat together in the drawing room, I wondered how I could endure the waiting for a new year to begin. Once I had looked forward eagerly to this time. Until a week ago I had been ready to greet the new year with hope, no matter what Glynis said or did. I had not yet come to the place where the relationship between Glen
and me seemed hopeless and over, as it seemed now. Even in death Glynis had defeated me and the courage prompted by my father’s letters began to waver at times, like the uncertain flame of a candle. I was coming to the conclusion that for me courage might well lie in getting away from High Towers, not in staying here.

  At least all the frivolous Christmas decorations were gone from the house, and the Christmas tree had been taken down, so that outward reminders of Christmas morning were few. Yet the reminders were still there. When I closed my eyes I could see Glynis exclaiming over the golden medallion with its leopard’s head that Glen had given her. In fact, I hardly needed to close my eyes because tonight, on New Year’s Eve, Glen wore the chain she had given him—though he had put away my gift of the silk sweater. If anything, the resemblance between him and his twin was more marked than ever. It was as though, in his grief, Glen had taken on the very stamp of Glynis’s expression. Now one saw for the first time that his face resembled her black marble image.

  With the snow blowing outside and the gilt clock on the mantel ticking relentlessly on toward another year, Nomi sat close to the fire, knitting quietly, calmly. Sometimes I watched her fingers in fascination. Only a little while ago they had been weaving a streak of pink lightning into a scarf for me. Now they knitted a sweater for Glen—a heavy winter sweater with an intricate Norwegian design. I sensed that she worked at this because she had to; because if her fingers were busy her thoughts would let her be for a time.

  But in spite of our silence, there was no real quiet among us on this New Year’s Eve, and I, perhaps, was the most restless one of all. For the third time I jumped up and stood at one of the French windows watching snow falling softly over the drive. It was not deep yet. A car with snow tires could easily get down the hill.

  I wished that I could take Glen’s car and drive away. Away anywhere. Away at least as far as the McIntyres’ across the lake. How would they be awaiting the New Year tonight? Tragedy had touched them too. Glynis had once been Trent’s wife. She was Keith’s mother—and Keith had worshiped her with a sort of love that was doomed to eventual disillusionment. Perhaps that disillusionment had already begun before her death. Perhaps, though he could not realize this now, her sudden dying was a boon to Keith. Now his suffering would be sharp and clean. His love would not linger on into disintegration, as he found that what he loved was not worth his suffering. As it was with me? As my love had disintegrated so swiftly? The skyrocket plummeting to earth!

  The porch light was on, and snowflakes danced toward earth, each feathery and clearly defined in the glow of yellow light. I could see some distance along the drive. Once I thought something moved far along in the shadows. I stood very still, watching.

  Behind me Colton spoke to his son. “When are you going to get back to work, Glen?”

  “Work?” Glen echoed the word as if he did not know what it meant.

  “Of course. You must throw yourself into something new—that’s the only cure for pain. I had to learn that when your mother died.”

  “Throw myself into what?” Glen asked bitterly.

  “You used Dina before,” Colton said. “Do her again. She’s here—available. Put her into wood this time.”

  “But I don’t feel—” Glen broke off, perhaps because I stood at the window and he was not yet utterly callous.

  “You don’t have to feel anything to get started,” Colton assured him. “Every creative worker must learn that. If the feeling is lacking you nevertheless begin. Give it time, let your interest catch at something in your work, and you’re on your way. Why not start with her hair? You’ve always been intrigued by the mystery of her hair. Capture it now in the wood. Get it out of those spinsterish rounds over her ears and let it float on her shoulders. Wood can be airier than stone.”

  The last thing I wanted now was to pose for Glen. Yet if it would help him, if it would cause him to look at me with less hatred in his eyes … I turned from the window.

  “I don’t want to try!” His cry was almost violent.

  Nomi put aside her knitting in the chair beside her with an air of joining the fray. “Yes, Glen. This is the answer. Begin and let it come. Your father is right.”

  I was looking out the window again, unwilling to offer my help. It was fine with me if I never had to pose for Glen again.

  Out on the drive a tall figure climbed the hill approaching the house. The figure of a boy—Keith. He seemed to be burdened with a load that he was carrying.

  “Here comes Keith,” I said. “He’s bringing something up to the house.”

  Nomi rose and went to the door. We could hear her speaking to Keith, inviting him in, telling him to put his load down in the hall. Then she brought him to the door of the drawing room.

  “Keith wants to speak to you, Colton,” she said.

  Colton did not move from his comfortable chair. “Come in, boy, come in! What has brought you out on New Year’s Eve? Anything wrong over at your place?”

  Keith shook his head. “I walked out,” he said. “I left. I want to stay here, Grandfather.”

  We looked at the boy in astonishment. For one thing, in spite of being Glynis’s son, he was not, strictly speaking, one of the Chandlers. For another, he had never, within my hearing, called his grandfather by that name. Colton disliked being called “father” or “grandfather,” and Glynis had followed the same pattern with Keith, not allowing him to call her “Mother.” But while he called his mother “Glynis” readily enough, Keith avoided calling Colton by that name. Now he had used “grandfather” boldly, placing himself among us, perhaps reminding Colton of his responsibility.

  “Come in, Keith,” Nomi said. “Take off your wet jacket. Here, let me have your things.”

  He got awkwardly out of his jacket, gave it to her with his cap, and ambled uncertainly into the room to the straight chair she offered him.

  Colton had recovered from his first surprise. “What’s wrong, Keith? You’d better tell us. We can’t take you in against your father’s wishes unless we know what’s wrong.”

  The boy threw me a quick, hostile look that I did not understand, and left his chair to approach his grandfather. “I don’t want to talk about it. They don’t care what happens to me at home. They hated Glynis. I can’t stay there any more. If you’ll let me come here, I’ll work around the place. I’ll help Aunt Nomi. And I’ll be going back to school day after tomorrow, so I won’t be much in the way. I can sleep any place—I don’t have to have a room. A cot in the attic—or anything.”

  Colton seemed more at a loss than I’d ever seen him. He had not been strongly himself since his daughter’s death. “Have you told your father and grandmother you were coming here?”

  Keith shook his head. “I just packed up some things and walked out. They probably know where I’d come.”

  “Let him stay,” Glen said. “He’s Glynis’s son and he’s better off raised as a Chandler than over there. He’s more one of us than he is one of them.”

  “Feuds!” Nomi said scornfully. “Don’t talk like that, Glen.”

  It was still Colton’s decision to make, but before he came to a conclusion the telephone rang, and Nomi went into the hall to answer it. In a few moments she was back.

  “That was Trent. He wanted to know if the boy had come here. He wants to talk to us, Colton. I told him to come.”

  Colton set his book of Spanish castles aside. “We’ll have to see him, of course. Do you want to stay and listen to what he says, Keith?”

  “No, sir. I know what he’ll say.” Again the hostile look was flung my way, leaving me puzzled and troubled.

  “Then you’d better go upstairs with Nomi,” Colton told him. “A cot in the attic will do for the moment.”

  “Come along,” Nomi said. “Bring your suitcase, Keith, and that dreadful picture you’ve toted over here. There’s already a cot up there, and you can help me fix up a corner for yourself.”

  No one was paying any attention to me, and I went out of the
room and slipped upstairs. There I put on my coat and came quietly down, so no one would hear me. I opened the front door and stepped out onto the snowy veranda. The night seemed utterly quiet. There was no wind and the trees stood straight and stark under their rimming of white. Even without a moon or stars the night seemed bright, and the snow came down softly, thickly, without dancing in the air as it fell.

  I could see Trent’s headlights from afar. As he turned up the drive a tree flashed brightly into view, then turned dark again as he passed. When he was almost opposite the house, I went down the steps through soft wet snow and walked toward the car.

  He saw me coming and braked near the house, swung open the car door.

  “I have to talk to you,” I said and slid into the seat beside him. “Thank you for giving me my father’s letters. I couldn’t have had a finer present.”

  He took my cold hands and held them. “What has happened now? Something’s very wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” When I nodded flecks of snow flew from my hair. “Everything is over for me at the Chandlers’. I must go away soon. Glen doesn’t want me there now.”

  Trent’s hands tightened about mine. “I’d like to tell him—but never mind. You can come and stay with us, if you like.”

  “No. Thank you, but I need to get a long way off from Gray Rocks Lake. I—I have some things to—to figure out. I can’t think here. I don’t know what to think, or how I feel with them around me. But I can’t leave yet.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  I drew my hands gently away. “Because of the scarf that I tied to the stump of a tree out in the lake. I gave Glynis the end of it to hold onto.”

  I told him then—everything. About how Colton said there was no scarf there. About the voice I had heard shouting to Glynis. Someone had been there. Someone had unknotted the scarf and pulled it from her hands, left her to drown. I had to know who. I had to know before I left. The only thing I did not tell him was what Glynis had intended. There was no use in talking about that now.