The Flower Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Then suddenly she started back, stopped, and looked down at her feet, for there lay another carnation, sweet and pink and fresh, just like all the rest. She gasped in astonishment and looked furtively around her. What could it mean? It was fully two hours before her usual time to walk that way, and yet there it lay smiling up at her.

  Then she stopped and picked it up. As she touched it to her lips, the tears came rushing down again, and she sobbed softly to herself as she went on her way. It certainly was strange and uncanny, and somehow it seemed as if somebody like her mother were doing this. She almost believed for an instant that the flower actually fell from heaven at her feet. It seemed so wonderful to have it come just when she so needed comfort, and she hugged it to her lips and kissed it, sobbing softly as she hurried on. As she passed the end of the cottage and neared the street, she paused to brush away the tears. She must not cry in the street! And she must hurry on or she would perhaps miss the mover for the day, and those things must leave the house before Helen got back or they would never leave, that was certain.

  She could hear Helen’s laughter now if she should come even while they were being moved, and knew as well as if it had happened before her eyes how quickly she would have her father persuaded that it was absurd for them to go. Oh, Helen would never let the things go out of the house until she had investigated every one, that was certain. And she would save some of them for the pleasure of destroying them. No one who hadn’t seen Helen work would probably believe that. If Diana had not suffered from her methods many times, perhaps she would not have believed it herself. But she was taking no chances. The things she loved would go out of the house before Helen got there if she had to drag them out one by one herself and hide them in the barn or the back meadow.

  Such thoughts hurried her feet until she reached the village drugstore and went in to telephone. Even then she had to try three storage places before she found one that would promise to come that afternoon. Diana found she was trembling when she hung up the receiver.

  She waited only to get a few trifling things she would need in packing, and then she hurried back.

  On her way home her thoughts were leaping ahead, planning what she would do first, counting up different matters that must be attended to before the movers arrived. In imagination she took down her pictures and curtains, folded her garments into drawers and trunks, gathered out her books from the library, tabulated on her fingers the boxes and furniture stored away in attic and cellar that must not be forgotten. It seemed as if the thoughts in her mind were like bees buzzing around in confusion to be sorted out and marshaled in orderly array. She was fairly running the last lap of the way and arrived at home quite out of breath. Maggie had to draw her by sheer force to the dining room.

  “Sit you down,” she said, vexed. “Here have I kept breakfast waiting all this time. You cannot work on an empty stomach. Come, eat a good breakfast, or I’ll not help you a stroke. Your porridge first. I do not hold with the folks that puts sour fruit juices in on an empty stomach. It heartens you to get a good fill of porridge first, nice an’ hot! And there are scones to come with strawberry jam. Mind your milk, too. You cannot keep up unless you eat. I’ll wager you na slept the night much. You must eat if you cannot sleep. You do not want to give her a chance to have you sick on her hands.”

  So Diana ate a sketchy breakfast.

  “I haven’t time,” she protested as she hurriedly buttered a scone. “I’m sending my things away, Maggie, the things she would smash or take away. I can’t leave them here for her to destroy, and I won’t let her have my precious furniture that Mother got for me.”

  “But where will you send them, child?”

  “To storage. At least for a while till I know what to do.”

  Maggie looked startled. “Won’t that cost you a lot? You mightta sent them to my sister’s house, only it’s such a wee bit housie I don’t mind where she could put them.”

  “No,” said Diana firmly. “I’m not going to involve you and your sister in my troubles. She’d just go there and get them if she found out. No, Maggie, this is the best way. It doesn’t cost so much, and I can get them out any time I like, of course. They’ll be protected in storage and be insured. I have a little money of my own, you know. I’m quite sure this is the only way to do it.”

  “Then come!” said the servant determinedly. “We’ll get it off your mind. I’ll take down the draperies and brush them. Do you put away your pretties in the drawers.”

  They set to work in silence, and in due time the room that had been so sweet and homelike was reduced to bare walls and desolate furniture standing around. Even the pretty bed was wearing only its springs now, the mattress being trussed around, covered with an old sheet, and neatly tied with rope by the capable hands of Maggie.

  Suddenly Diana turned around and surveyed the place, and a great desolation swept over her.

  “I can’t stay here, Maggie,” she cried with a soft little wail in her voice. “I couldn’t stand living in the third story and having her take my pretty room and put herself or her guests here, the kind of guests she always has when she has her way. Am I wicked, Maggie, that I feel I can’t stay here? Not even my Mother would want me to, I’m sure. I couldn’t stay and have her always putting me in the wrong before Father! It wouldn’t do him any good, and it would make endless trouble. I couldn’t, Maggie, could I? I must go!”

  She bent her head, and the tears gushed out as she stood with pitiful clasped hands and let the tears splash down on the rug at her feet.

  “But where would you go?” asked Maggie, lifting her face and discovering the slow tears that for some time had been coursing over her honest, sorrowful face. “What can you do, my wee birdling?”

  Diana stood silent for a minute, then she lifted her face, and her eyes were dark and tragic as she looked at Maggie.

  “I can make some visits!” she said bravely, drawing a deep breath. “I thought it all out on the way home. Maggie, I’ve got to be gone before they come home tonight. They’ll likely be here for dinner, and I must be gone before they come. I couldn’t meet her—them—again, not now with Father feeling as he does against me. I’ve got to go. There’s Aunt Harriet, a great many miles away. I can take the sleeper at midnight and be there in the morning. And there are those girls that invited me to house parties. They’ll all be glad to have me visit them a few days each. I’ll write them that I’m coming their way and will stop off a few days if it’s convenient. And by that time I’ll get settled in my mind and know what I want to do.”

  “But what if your Aunt Harriet isn’t at home?” queried Maggie anxiously.

  “She’s always at home. She’s an invalid, you know,” said Diana. “She’s often invited me.”

  “You better send her a wee wire, then, sayin’ you’re comin’.”

  “No,” said Diana, “I’ll just go. I can’t explain things in a wire, and I haven’t time for a letter.”

  “Aw, my wee lamb! If I only had a place of my own, I’d share it with you! I’d not let you stray around the world this way. If I only hadn’t of let my sister’s husband borrow my earnings to buy his house! To be sure, I’m that welcome, an’ I doubt not he’d take you in, too, if I’d asked him.”

  “No, Maggie!” said Diana. “You’re very kind, but I want to get farther away. But we mustn’t stand here and talk; there’s so much to do. It’s almost twelve o’clock and the van will be here at two. I’ve all my clothes to pack. I’ll take a suitcase and the big Gladstone bag, that’ll be all I’ll need for visiting. The rest of my things I’ll pack in the bureau drawers.”

  They went silently to work again, like two who had just read a death warrant, speaking no words that were not necessary, furtive tears slipping down their cheeks, which each ignored.

  At last the work was done, and Maggie insisted on Diana’s lying down a little while on a bed she had fixed for her in the guest room.

  “I’ll just run down the stair an’ get you a bite to eat an’
a cup o’ tea whilst you sleep,” said Maggie.

  “Oh no, Maggie,” protested the girl. “I can’t sleep now till it’s over. Wait till the things are gone. Then we’ll have lunch and rest.”

  “You’d best drink a sip o’ tea!” admonished the woman and hurried down to get it. Then Diana sat down at her little desk where she had spent so many happy hours of her life studying and writing, and penned a letter to her father. It had to be done quickly, for the men would come and the desk must go, and she couldn’t think of writing that letter anywhere else but at her own desk. It seemed as if another desk or another room might somehow snatch the meaning of her letter and turn it to a traitor use. She must write it here with her pen dipped in the love and agony of her heart, here in the four walls of her dismantled room before they became alien walls, sheltering her enemy. And she must write it rapidly, too, because her heart might weaken if she took a long time and weighed her words too well. She would just tell briefly what were the facts.

  And so with her own fountain pen that had been her father’s gift on her last birthday, her initials set in green-and-gold enamel in its barrel, she wrote. Oh, she had never, never thought when he gave it to her that she would write such words as she was writing now with that cherished pen.

  Chapter 8

  Dear Father,

  I must go away. If you knew everything, you would fully understand and would think that I am right. It would only make terrible trouble for all of us if I were to stay. Things can never be as they were before, and you would soon see it yourself.

  At first I thought I could stay until you found this out and then I could talk it over with you and plan for my going in the way that you thought was best, but several things last night showed me that that would be impossible. There would be no way now for you and me to talk together alone, and I could not talk it over with Helen. So I see that I must go at once without waiting for you to come back.

  You need not worry about me, for I shall be visiting for a while, and I will write and let you know my plans as soon as I have had a chance to decide what I am going to do. I shall write you at your office. And meanwhile, you can just say that I am visiting friends and relatives.

  I have not taken anything with me that did not belong to me personally, except things that you yourself suggested should be put away. If I have taken too many, you can just let me know and I will have them sent back. They are in a perfectly safe place, and insured, so I hope you will think I did right about them.

  And now, dear Father, I want you to know that I love you very dearly, but I could not stay here under the circumstances. And it is too late to talk about it, so I will just say again I love you, and good-bye.

  Your little girl,

  Diana

  The movers arrived just as she was writing the last word, and Diana hastily sealed her letter, addressed it to her father, and swallowed the tea that Maggie had brought her. Then she went down to meet the movers and show them what things had to go.

  How ruthlessly those stalwart men marshaled the few household articles, which had seemed so many only a few minutes before, and dropped them into the depths of that yawning van. Diana rushed from cellar to attic to make sure everything was gone that she had intended. Then she directed that a trunk containing part of her wardrobe should be put where it would be accessible if needed while the other things were in storage.

  They stood in the doorway together, the servant and the girl, watching the big van rattle off jauntily down the drive and disappear, carrying with it a part of what had once been the furnishings of an unusually happy home. The old servant had her lips set in a grim line, and she was sniffing back a stray tear.

  “Well,” she said with a heavy sigh, “at least they’ll be safe. An’ now,” she said, turning back to Diana, “come! I’ve got a bit lunch ready. Sit you down now an’ eat. Yes, you’re not to wait. It’s nice an’ hot, an’ I’m not lettin’ you leave it to get cold.”

  “If you’ll sit down with me, Maggie,” said Diana with a catch in her voice. “I can’t sit down and eat alone, this last time.”

  “It’s not the last meal in your home, bairnie,” said Maggie fiercely. “I feel it in my bones the day will come when you’ll be back an’ happier than ever. An’ it’s not fittin’ that a servant should eat with her mistress, but I’ll bide in the room while you eat, an’ we’ll talk a bit.”

  But Diana would have it that she should eat with her.

  “You’re the only friend I’ve got left, Maggie!” she pleaded, and so the old servant reluctantly yielded and sat down, every mouthful a protest against her sense of the fitness of things.

  “Maggie, I’ve written a letter to Father, and I want you to see that he gets it when he’s alone. I don’t want her to know I’ve written it. At least, not until he’s read it. Will you give it to him?”

  Maggie was silent a moment.

  “I wasn’t thinkin’ of stayin’ after you was gone, my bairn,” said Maggie slowly, “but yes, I’ll stay to give it to him, anyway.”

  “Oh, Maggie!” wailed the girl. “I’m doing you out of a job!”

  “It’s not you, you poor wee lamb,” said the woman. “It’s her. That Helen! You don’t think I could stomach the likes of her, do you? I was studyin’ what I should do, for I couldn’t bear to leave you alone with that hussy. But I knew she an’ I’d be two people from the start. We never did get along when she was only visitin’, and I’d never take orders from her.”

  “No,” said Diana sadly, “I suppose you couldn’t. Oh, I’m so sorry for Father! He’ll miss your cooking so much!”

  “It’s nobody’s fault but his own, poor silly man! An’ he’ll find out good and soon, I’m thinkin’. But I’ll stay an’ deliver your letter, an’ I’ll see she don’t get her hands on it till he’s read it through, so don’t you worry. An’ now, you better get a bit o’ rest before you get back to work. Aren’t you almost done?”

  “No, there’s quite a lot of things yet. I haven’t packed my bags, and there are some boxes of letters I’ve got to look over and burn. I don’t want her to be reading my letters.” Diana sighed wearily and turned away.

  As she passed the door of the living room, she looked wistfully on the piano, her mother’s piano! Helen wouldn’t want it and would probably try to sell it or relegate it to the attic, for Helen couldn’t play. But several of her friends were musicians, or called themselves so, though the music they played was modern stuff that Diana hated. They would probably play on her mother’s piano—unless Helen could coax her father to buy a new one. Oh, the piano ought to have gone with the other things to storage, but she dared not take it away without consulting her father. Well, perhaps the fact that she had not taken it would work in its favor. Perhaps Helen would simply not think about it at all.

  She stepped into the living room and sat down at the instrument, touching the keys tenderly, softly, recalling how her mother had sat there playing evening after evening all during the happy years, how she had received her own first lessons there from her mother. She remembered how happy she had been when she had succeeded in playing her first little piece perfectly. How her father and mother had stood there with shining eyes watching and commending her. How that piano was connected with all the pleasant happenings of life! And now she must leave it, probably forever! The tears began to gather again, and she put her head down on the music rack and pressed her hands against her eyes. She must not cry again, it unnerved her so. And she had still much to do.

  At last she gathered strength to lift her head, giving the old instrument one more caressing touch, her fingers sweeping the keys softly, tenderly. Then she closed the lid. She wished she dared lock it, but that would be only to rouse Helen’s ire, and she really had no right to lock it even if she knew where the key was. She had no memory that the piano had ever been locked. So she lingered a moment more moving her hands softly over the polished surface of the case, like a last handclasp with a friend, and then she turned and quickly went upst
airs.

  It was almost dark when she finished with her packing and dressing. The late summer twilight seemed to come unusually soon, but Diana, looking at her watch, discovered that it was almost time for the travelers to arrive if they came on the shore train, which they would be likely to take. She could tell by the fragrance that came up from the region of the kitchen that dinner was in process of preparation. Maggie would have a good dinner for her last one in the old house.

  Diana put on her hat, gathered up her coat and gloves, and stood for a moment gazing around her empty room, her room that her mother had planned for her. And now she was leaving it forever. Her glance swept its empty walls and lingered on the wide window seats where she had so often sat among cushions reading some favorite book. It had all been so dear, and now she would see it no more!

  Then she saw the crystal vase with its seven lovely flowers standing alone in the other window seat, forgotten! How had she forgotten them? She must not leave those behind. They had been her comfort during this tragic hour, and there would be no more of them. Seven mystery flowers! A perfect number. No, they must not be left behind!

  She took them out of the vase and dried it, found some cotton and tissue paper, and wrapping it carefully, stowed it in her bag. There was a piece of wax paper in the closet also, and she put the flowers in that. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped them, too, in the bag. There was space for them, but she felt as if she were smothering children as she laid them in.