The Flower Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  She sat down a bit formally with a pleasant smile on her face and tried to look as impersonal as a cucumber, and all the while her heart was thumping in the most jubilant way and crying out until she thought he would hear her, “He has come back! He has come back!”

  “You fool!” said her practical, sensible self. “They always come back until they are tired of it, don’t they? And anyway, even if he has come back, he does not belong to your world!”

  But what was this he was saying?

  “I wonder if I may take you out tomorrow evening?” he was asking. “You can spare her for a few hours now, can’t you, Mrs. Chrystie?” He gave Camilla’s mother a vivid look.

  “Oh, that’s kind of you,” Camilla heard her own voice replying as her jubilant heart sunk low, “but I couldn’t possibly be spared. You see, Miss York is going away—”

  “Not until the day after tomorrow!” broke in the diplomatic nurse, who had been delightedly hovering nearby. “You can go just as well as not, Miss Chrystie. It will do you good. You’ve been so tied down here and in the office, you need a bit of change.”

  “But—I may have to work late at the office tomorrow night,” said Camilla in a frightened tone, turning appealing eyes to her mother. “I really don’t think I ought to promise. And I’m quite all right. I’m fine now that Mother is improving so fast.”

  “But it won’t hurt you to have a change,” said the young man, studying her face with a puzzled expression. Had he been mistaken? Didn’t she really want to go with him? “I could pick you up at your office if you have to work late, you know, and then we’d go somewhere and have some dinner, and—well, I’m not just sure yet. I haven’t been back long enough in the city to look up the attractions.” He smiled with that clear, admiring, speculative look. He thought how different she was from Stephanie Varrell when she declined an invitation. And then it struck him that in some ways she resembled Stephanie. Somehow he didn’t like the thought, and he didn’t quite know why. He realized, too, that the idea would make Stephanie tremendously angry.

  But Camilla was looking up with troubled eyes now.

  “I really don’t think I should go,” she said, and she turned toward her mother as if to seek an excuse there.

  “She means,” explained her mother gently, “that she hasn’t any festive garments for going out in the evening.”

  Camilla’s cheeks were rosy red now, but she faced the young man bravely and tried to smile. It was as good an excuse as any, she thought, although it hadn’t occurred to her yet. Her mind had been filled with a deeper matter altogether.

  Wainwright studied her with a dawning understanding in his eyes.

  “She looks very nice now,” he said with a satisfied grin. “What’s the matter with what you are wearing now? Plenty of people wear street clothes in the evening.”

  Camilla looked down at herself and considered. Then she looked up.

  “You couldn’t possibly think I look all right this way.” She grinned back a challenge. “I’ve seen you in evening dress, you remember, and I’m positive you know better.”

  His eyes sobered.

  “No, really,” he said gravely, “I like you the way you are. It’s not clothes I want to take out, it’s you.” There was something in the way he looked at her, reverently almost, that made her catch her breath and took all excuses away. She felt all her resolutions slipping and turned her troubled eyes toward her mother again.

  But her mother was smiling. “Well, if Mr. Wainwright doesn’t mind your being a bit shabby, why don’t you go, dear? I think you should. I’d like to have you have a little relaxation after the hard time you’ve been through. Yes, go, Camilla! It will please me.”

  After that there seemed nothing more that Camilla could say, except to thank the young man, all the time aware of the flutter of joy in her heart.

  “Well, just for this one time,” she told herself. “But don’t count on it. He’s not your kind, and you’ll probably find it out tomorrow night, so don’t dare be glad!”

  “That’s great!” said Wainwright. “Then shall I call for you at the office? What time? Or do you have to come home first? I could stop for you any time you say and bring you home and then wait for you till you were ready?”

  “Oh no,” said Camilla hastily, “I wouldn’t know just when I would be through. At least—well, it might happen I would be early, you know. I’d better just come home as usual. I’ll do my best not to be late.”

  “Very well, then, shall we say half past seven, or would eight be better?” Camilla perceived that his ideas of dinner hours were different from her own, also. Eight o’clock for dinner! Somehow the whole occasion frightened her.

  When he was gone her mother watched her silently as she went about putting her hat and coat away, watched her with puzzled eyes. She felt her mother’s eyes upon her now and then while they were eating dinner, the simple little dinner that Miss York had prepared.

  Chapter 5

  Afterward when the dishes were washed and put away and Miss York had gone out for a brisk evening walk, Camilla came into the living room where her mother sat.

  “Why didn’t you want to go, Camilla?” she asked. “Was it just because of clothes?”

  “Partly,” said Camilla evasively.

  Camilla was quite still a minute, and then she said slowly, “I’m not just sure, Mother.”

  Her mother considered that for a little and then asked, “How long have you known Mr. Wainwright, dear?”

  Camilla was standing by the ugly little painted iron mantel, leaning her head over, looking down into the fire on the hearth. The flickering flames rested and shimmered over her gold hair and showed the big soft waves as they swept around her shapely young head. Her voice was hesitant and almost shamed as she spoke. “Not long, Mother. Only since the night you were sick.”

  “Is he a friend of the doctor’s? Did the doctor introduce him?”

  “No, Mother. Nobody introduced him. At least—he introduced himself.”

  “You mean, Camilla, that he is someone down at your office?”

  “No, Mother. He is no one that I ever knew before. He was just a stranger who came to help me the night you were so sick, when the doctor had to send me to his house for medicine in a hurry—there was no one else—and my car wouldn’t work—at least it got—it had—something the matter with it.” Camilla was talking fast now, trying to cover her confusion, trying to make her story unalarming, feeling her way along word by word. “It wouldn’t go,” she added, “and I didn’t know what in the world to do! The doctor had told me that every minute counted, and this man—Mr. Wainwright—was right behind me and saw I was—in difficulty—and he got out and offered to take me to where I was going in his car.”

  Camilla drew a breath of relief and looked up to see her mother’s startled face.

  “You mean,” said her mother, after a pause, thoughtfully, “that you got into a stranger’s car, that you rode out to a suburb with a man you had never met before?”

  “I had to, Mother,” said Camilla, feeling again the desperation that had been hers the night of the accident. “You don’t understand! It meant your life, Mother! I couldn’t wait to find somebody I had been introduced to.”

  Her mother was silent, pondering.

  “Of course,” she said quietly, “I understand there are times when one does not stand on ceremony. Go on, Camilla, what was the rest?”

  “He took me to the doctor’s, we got the medicine and came back, then he went and got Miss York, and after that he stayed all night and helped the doctor, went on errands for him. He was wonderful, Mother! He is a gentleman!”

  “I can see that, Camilla,” said her mother thoughtfully. “But why then do you not want to go to dinner with him, since he really seems to want you to?”

  Camilla was still a long time, then she lifted her golden head and looked straight at her mother and said stormily, “Because, Mother, he doesn’t belong to my world. He wears gardenias on his lapel an
d has house parties at an estate and—well, he is—different.”

  “You mean he belongs to the world?” asked her mother. “You mean you would not have the same ideas and beliefs and standards, Camilla?”

  “Yes,” said the girl a bit sadly, “that’s it.”

  After another long pause her mother asked, “Do you dislike him, Camilla? Because if you do, of course it’s not too late to ask him to excuse you.”

  “Oh no!” said Camilla rosily. “Oh no, Mother, I don’t dislike him.”

  “Then, child, surely one dinner in his company is not going to harm you. There is always a chance that you may have been sent to witness, you know.”

  Camilla was very silent, looking into the fire for a long time, wondering what it would be like to try to witness of Jesus Christ before a young man of the world.

  “Mother, I’m not sure I could,” she faltered at last. “I wouldn’t know how to talk to a man of the world, I’m sure.”

  “Witnessing is not always given by words, dear.”

  “I know,” said Camilla with a sigh, “but I think it’s more likely this is some kind of a testing of me, rather than a chance to witness.”

  “It might be both, you know, dear.”

  Camilla thought about that, too, and her mother watched her tenderly and finally said in a brisker tone, “Now, dear, let’s think about the clothes question and have that out of the way. You’ll need a new hat and some shoes. You know, these are the really important things about an outfit. You can likely find them cheap this time of year, and your black crepe will be quite all right if you have the right accessories. I’m glad your coat is black. Black is always good-looking, and the lines of both your dress and coat are good. They are well cut. You’ll be able to get out and buy the hat and shoes at your lunch hour, won’t you?”

  “Not possibly!” said Camilla, whirling around with decision. “There isn’t a cent to spare for finery, or even for necessity just now. I’ll go as I am or I’ll not go at all. If I have to mortgage the future to buy a new hat and shoes for this occasion, nothing doing!”

  “You mustn’t talk that way, darling child. A little hat would probably be very cheap at this time of year, and you ought to have shoes.”

  “Any price would not be cheap for me just now when you need so many things to help you get your strength. Positively, I will not spend a cent! But don’t worry. Aren’t there some pieces of black transparent velvet somewhere? Up in that drawer in the storeroom? I thought so. I’ll make a ducky little velvet hat and put my rhinestone pin on it. Just you wait! It won’t take long, just a twist here, and fold there, and it’ll be done. And as for shoes, Mother dear, a smudge of ink on that worn spot in the toe, and the old black satin shoes will be all right. I’ll shine up the silver buckles, too, and look as brave as any lady present.”

  Camilla ran upstairs for the velvet and her mother brushed away a tear and sighed, “Dear child!” under her breath, and then sat and looked into the fire and wondered whether she was doing right to let her precious child go out even for one evening with a total stranger, no matter how harmless he looked.

  Camilla was back very soon, the square of supple velvet in her hand and the two little shabby satin shoes with their tarnished silver buckles tucked under her arm. Her face was interested and eager.

  “I found it, Mother dear,” she chirruped, “and there’s plenty.”

  So she set to work with pins and scissors, standing before the long mirror and draping the velvet around her head, and presently had evolved a charming little hat so like a distinctive imported one she had seen in a shop window that one could scarcely have told them apart. Set on her golden hair, the bright little pin glittering perkily over the right eye, the effect was most becoming. Her mother was both satisfied and delighted. Then Camilla set to work on the shoes, inking the shabby places and polishing up the buckles.

  By the time Miss York came back from her walk, the problem of Camilla’s attire for the next evening was fairly solved.

  “Put them all on, Camilla,” commanded her mother, “and let Miss York get the effect. She goes around a good deal among stylish people. She’ll know if there is anything wrong about you.”

  So Camilla donned her plain black silk crepe that she had bought at a bargain and already, in a pinch, worn several times to the office when her other dress was being cleaned or mended. She put on her rejuvenated satin shoes and the saucy little black velvet hat and stood up to be surveyed.

  Miss York looked her over carefully and pronounced everything perfect.

  “I can’t see a thing wrong with you,” she said with satisfaction, letting her eyes rest in admiration on the lovely golden head crowned with the chic little hat. “You wear your clothes so well, Camilla, that’s half of it, of course. It isn’t every girl with expensive clothes who can wear them so well. You have a fine form, and that dress has really good lines. As for the hat, it is delightful. You couldn’t have a prettier one. All you need is a string of beads to finish you off. Haven’t you got some?”

  “Why yes, your pearls, Camilla. Get them. They’re only cheap ones, of course, but they have a really good color,” said her mother.

  “I’m sorry, Mother, but they need restringing. I broke them the last time I wore them, and I just haven’t had time since to restring them.”

  “I’ll do it in the morning!” said Miss York briskly. “I’ll have lots of time. I can run out to the shop around the corner and get a bead needle and thread, and they will be all ready for you when you come back to dress. Now, what coat are you going to wear?”

  Camilla drew a deep breath of determination and set her lips firmly.

  “Just my black, everyday one,” she said with a proud little tilt of her chin. “Lucky thing it’s black. It will go with the rest of the things and perhaps won’t be noticed. I never liked it very well, but it will have to pass muster. It’s clean and it fits well, and the silver fox collar is rather good yet. I might comb it out a little.”

  “Put it on!” ordered her mother.

  Camilla put it on and surveyed herself in the long mirror. She really looked very stylish and pretty.

  “It’s very good!” said the nurse. “I was going to offer you mine, but I’m larger than you, and it wouldn’t fit you so well. You look very smart all in black!”

  “Yes, Camilla, you look all right!” said her mother in a pleased tone.

  Suddenly they came to their senses and realized that it was getting late. They hustled the invalid off to bed summarily, and Camilla hung up her dress and laid the little hat in the bureau drawer with a comfortable feeling that she was as ready for tomorrow night’s festivity as she could be under the circumstances. When she finally lay down for the night on her bed in the front room, she was too excited and pleased to reproach herself with any questions of whether she ought to be going with Wainwright or not. It was settled now that she was going and too late to bring the matter up again. It might be the one and only time she would ever go anywhere with him—probably would be—but she was going this one time and going to enjoy it as much as possible. She might never see him again, perhaps, but she was going to have this one evening. She sent up a prayer that she might keep her witness true and stand her testing, if either was in question.

  All the next day Camilla worked with a subdued excitement upon her. Not since her father died, their lovely home and practically all their money had gone through the failure of his partner, and they had moved to this strange city had Camilla been out for the evening with a young man. She could not but be thrilled by the thought, though she worked hard and left no duty undone.

  Twice in the elevator that day she met the elderly typist with gray bobbed hair and too youthful lipstick who worked down the hall.

  “What’s the matter with you today, Miss Chrystie?” she asked the second time they met. “You look as if you’d made your fortune overnight. I never saw your cheeks look so pink. Is it a new kind of rouge?”

  But Camilla only laugh
ed.

  “I am happy, Miss Townsend. My mother is so much better than she was!”

  “Humph!” said Miss Townsend jealously, still eyeing her with suspicion. She had neither beauty nor youth nor living mother, sick or well. She doubted if that was sufficient reason for such a look of radiance and such a lilt in a voice.

  All day the mother thought about her child, thrilling at the simple pleasure in store for her and yet praying for her often silently when she was alone, wondering if she had done right to encourage her going. Oh, God, keep her! He is such an attractive-looking man! Don’t let any sorrow come to her through this! If I have made a mistake, overrule it, undo it, prevent it, dear Lord, for Thy name’s sake!

  Miss York was as eager over the hastily assembled outfit as was Camilla’s mother. As soon as the few dishes were out of the way and Mrs. Chrystie dressed for the day, she hurried out to the little utility shop around the corner for the bead needle and cord. She came back with more than a cord. She had bought a pair of soft white gloves.

  “I looked through her things and saw she hadn’t any white ones,” she apologized as she displayed them to the pleased mother, “so I bought these for her. I wanted to have some part in this. I hope they fit. She told me the other night she wore sixes.”

  “Yes, that’s her number,” said the mother. “She’ll be so pleased.”

  “She’s a dear girl!” said Miss York by and by, after she had finished stringing the beads. “One just loves to do things for her!”

  “She is a dear child!” agreed the mother with a smile.

  “And Mr. Wainwright seems so nice,” Miss York rambled on. “I liked him the minute I saw him.” Then after a pause, “Are they engaged?”

  “Oh, no!” said Camilla’s mother in quick alarm. “He’s a comparatively new friend, in fact, almost a stranger.”

  “Well, I didn’t know. He seemed so careful of her that first night I came, and then the white orchids and all. I sort of hoped they were. He seems so dependable. I like a girl like your daughter to get the right man. It’s such a gamble, getting husbands, you know. I’ve often been glad I hadn’t any. Going about the way I do, I see a lot, of course.”