The Flower Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Yes, you must,” said Mrs. Chrystie reservedly. “There are a good many sad things in the world for a nurse to see, aren’t there?”

  “I should say there are!” said Miss York with emphasis. “The more I go about and see, the more I’m glad I’m free and single. Still, when it comes to a pretty girl like Camilla, I’d sort of like to see her get a good man to take care of her. She’s so sweet and kind and tries so hard to take care of everybody that the world is apt to take advantage of her. And then Mr. Wainwright is so good-looking!”

  “Looks are not always dependable,” said Mrs. Chrystie with gravity.

  “That’s so, they aren’t,” said Miss York. “I learned that lesson under sad circumstances when I was a good deal younger than I am today. Now, Mrs. Chrystie, will you have your beef broth? It’s almost twelve o’clock.”

  So the day sped by, and Camilla arrived at home half an hour ahead of schedule, her cheeks glowing and her eyes bright with excitement.

  “There is a box here from the florist’s for you,” said Miss York, appearing in the dining room door, carrying a chubby, square white box.

  “Flowers!” gasped Camilla, casting a half-frightened glance toward her smiling mother.

  “Yes, isn’t that nice, dear! Open them quick. I want to see if they’ll go with your outfit!”

  Camilla gave a little excited laugh.

  “Almost anything would do that, wouldn’t it? Weeds, even!” she giggled nervously.

  Then she undid the string and took off the cover, folding back the wax paper.

  “Mother!” she said, lifting her dark eyes lit with wonder. “Mother! They’re white orchids!”

  “How lovely!” said her mother with satisfaction in her voice.

  “But, Mother, what—what shall I do with them?”

  “Why of course you’ll wear them, Camilla,” said the nurse. “He expects you to wear them.”

  “But, wear white orchids—me, wear white orchids, just to go out to dinner? And with those old clothes! Oh, Mother, isn’t it funny?” And Camilla suddenly sat down in a chair with the box on her lap and laughed hysterically.

  “No,” said her mother, “it isn’t a bit funny. It’s very lovely. The flowers will have just the touch you needed. White orchids, two-dollar pearls, and new white gloves. Your dress is only the background. You are going to look very nice!” There was deep satisfaction in the mother’s tone.

  But Camilla suddenly sobered down.

  “Gloves!” she said. “I forgot all about gloves. I haven’t any that are fit to wear!”

  “No, but Miss York didn’t forget them,” said the mother, with a pleased twinkle in her eye. “Just go look on my bed where Miss York has spread all your things out and see what she bought for you.”

  Camilla put her orchids down on the couch and flew into her mother’s bedroom.

  “Oh, Miss York, you dear!” She came flying back with the gloves in her hand and flung her arms around the pleased nurse’s neck, giving her a hug and kiss on her embarrassed red cheek. “You shouldn’t have done it, of course, but I’m so pleased!” she said. “Such lovely, soft gloves!”

  “Look! She’s put down her wonderful flowers to rave over my poor little gloves!” said Miss York, rubbing the mist out of her eyes.

  And then Camilla flew back to her orchids and stood in awe before them, her cheeks rosy again.

  “But come,” said her mother presently, “you mustn’t spend so much time mooning over your things. This isn’t Christmas. You’re going out to dinner, child, and the time is flying.”

  “But I’m having such a good time now,” said Camilla. “I don’t really need to go out to dinner.”

  Laughing, she went away to get ready, and her mother hung over the lovely, strange flowers that seemed almost human and prayed again. Oh, God, keep my child! Let no harm come to her through this venture.

  Camilla looked very lovely when she was ready. The cheap little black crepe dress was really very well cut for a “bargain” garment. The long-suffering satin shoes looked quite respectable now with their beautiful bright buckles. The pearls shone as lustrous around the slender white neck as if they had been real, and the sheen of the burnished gold hair was wonderful under the smart little velvet cap.

  She fitted on her new gloves proudly, and Miss York stood in the doorway watching eagerly, as pleased as if she really belonged to this sweet girl.

  “And now your orchids!” she said.

  “Oh, must I really wear them?” said Camilla, standing over them with that look of awe on her face again. “It seems almost like presumption to wear things like that. As if I should put on a diamond tiara! Or an ermine wrap!”

  “Nonsense, child!” her mother said, smiling. “They are God’s flowers. They don’t belong exclusively to the social world, even if society has taken them up as about the finest thing in flowers. God made them!”

  “Of course!” said Camilla, lifting them up with that look of awe still in her eyes. “But knowing how the world rates them, I am afraid I’m going to be terribly self-conscious.”

  “How silly!” laughed Mrs. Chrystie indulgently. “You didn’t steal them. Wear them gladly. They are yours. You have a right to them.”

  “You look like a million dollars!” said Miss York as she helped Camilla to fasten the beautiful corsage in place.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Camilla with a little nervous laugh. “Million-dollar orchids and a five-and-ten outfit!”

  “It’s not like that at all, child,” said her mother quickly. “You really look very lovely, and quiet and refined in the bargain. I am perfectly satisfied with your outfit.”

  “Then it must be all right, precious Mother,” said Camilla, stooping to kiss her mother’s forehead and hide a sudden feeling of tears.

  “It couldn’t be better!” said Miss York wistfully, watching the look of love between mother and daughter.

  “But what would it all be without gloves?” laughed Camilla, suddenly giving the nurse another kiss.

  And just then the doorbell rang.

  Chapter 6

  Late that afternoon Stephanie Varrell had called up Jeffrey Wainwright’s private telephone. She had been calling all day more or less, ever since she had read the morning papers that came up on her breakfast tray, but this time she got him.

  Her eyes were narrowed and speculative as she settled back in an easy chair with a triumphant look on her face and prepared to talk with him. She was dressed most becomingly. She had been ready all afternoon for him to call on her, and he had not come. There was a hint of alarm, too, in her manner, though it did not manifest itself in her voice, which was honey-sweet as she recognized his.

  “Oh, Jeff!” she said in soft tones. “It is really you at last! I read in the paper this morning that you were back from your hunting trip, and I’ve cancelled two delightful engagements and been looking for you to call.”

  “Oh, hullo, Stephanie!” said Wainwright. “How are you? Yes, I got back yesterday afternoon, but I’ve been busy all day. Meant to look you up sometime pretty soon, you know. How have you been?”

  “Oh, fine!” said Stephanie, with an angry toss of her chin. “Haven’t had time to miss you at all, but now that you’re home you can take me out tonight and we’ll have a good old talk. I’ve plenty to tell you!”

  “Sorry,” said Wainwright, “not tonight. I have another engagement tonight. I can’t make it tomorrow morning, either. I’ve promised Dad to go over some important papers with him and can’t tell how long it may take.”

  “Oh!” said Stephanie coldly, her chin going up again, her eyes smoldering. An engagement! With whom? A date with his dad! That sounded improbable. Was he still sore about Myles Meredith? He needed to be brought down a peg or two, perhaps.

  “Well, what a pity!” she drawled as if it mattered very little. “I can’t say tomorrow morning or afternoon either, for that matter. Every minute is taken. Nothing I can change! And tomorrow evening—I have a partia
l dinner engagement.”

  She waited for him to suggest her calling it off, but he answered quite casually and pleasantly, “Sorry. Well, I’ll be seeing you soon!”

  “Oh, very well!” said Stephanie in honey-sweet tones, her eyes snapping dull-gold fire as she hung up the receiver.

  Wainwright waited a moment, hesitated with his hand on the instrument to call her back, then laughed and hung up.

  “A little longer wait won’t do her any harm!” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve got to get my bearings before I go back to her!”

  Then Stephanie rose, slammed down the instrument on its stand, put on her war paint, and set herself in battle array.

  Stephanie had unusual eyes. Her hair was rather lighter than Camilla’s, lighter gold and more unnatural, but her eyes were a peculiar red-gold where Camilla’s were dark brown, flecked with golden lights, like a topaz. Wainwright had always thought of Stephanie’s eyes as being like a jacinth stone, because of their almost orange lights that could soften and lure and thrill with a look. Yet when she was angry they contracted to tiny pinpoints, and then their orange became dull gold in color and not good to see.

  Wainwright was thinking about those eyes now as he hung up the receiver. He knew the siren was angry now, knew it by sharp experience in the past, knew it by the very honey-sweetness of her voice, knew just exactly how those jacinth eyes were looking, with gold fire playing through them, and suddenly he remembered another pair of eyes, framed around by golden hair, eyes whose deep brown depths were the very essence of truth, whose golden lights reflected clearness of vision, unselfishness of living.

  He stood there for a full minute with that telephone in his hand thinking about those two pairs of beautiful eyes, startled at his own thoughts. Was it possible that he had always been afraid of something in Stephanie’s eyes, those eyes that had first attracted him to her? Was that why he had never yet actually been at peace about sharing his life with her?

  And tonight he was going out with the other girl. Just a plain little girl he had picked up in the dark by accident. What was he doing, anyway? Well, perhaps tonight would tell him. He had seen her so far only under the extremity of her mother’s illness. She had seemed lovely. Even after an absence of two weeks, she had stirred him. Could it be that it was her likeness to Stephanie that interested him? Could it be that she reminded him of the girl he thought he loved? He must go carefully. He must not confuse two personalities. Life was a strange mix-up. Two girls who had some of the same charm might yet be very different.

  When Wainwright entered the little Chrystie living room and saw Camilla ready and waiting for him, wearing his flowers, he paused in amazement, wondering if his eyes had not misinformed him. To his eyes, she was garbed as smartly as any girl in his own circle of friends. The effect was charming, and even the watchful mother and nurse with jealous eyes fixed on his face were satisfied with the distinct admiration they found in his expression.

  She has a truly distinguished air about her! thought Wainwright as he smiled upon her.

  “You’re looking wonderful tonight!” was what he said in low, admiring tones that pleased, while it frightened a trifle, the watchful mother.

  He helped her into the car with deference just as he might have helped that girl on the sled in the newspaper. And now that she was started out into the night, with Wainwright still looking at her with that deep, admiring glance, which she felt even in the dark little street, she was just a bit apprehensive.

  She was going out of her world into his, just the edge of it, probably, but she wondered why she had consented.

  Then he spoke.

  “I thought you said you had nothing to wear,” he reproached.

  “It’s still true,” said Camilla, laughing. “I haven’t a new thing on except the gloves, and they were a present from Miss York. This is the very same dress and coat I wore yesterday to the office, and the hat I made out of a piece of black velvet I had. It’s your wonderful flowers that have glorified my old garments. White orchids would glorify anything.”

  “On you, perhaps!” He spoke in low, reverent tones. He was filled with admiration. “Did I understand you to say that you made your hat?”

  “Yes,” said Camilla humbly. Somehow she wanted him to know the worst about her as she entered his world for a brief glimpse. She wanted no illusions.

  “But I didn’t know that—ordinary—that is to say—girls could make hats. Not hats like that. It looks to me quite charming!”

  “Almost anybody can make things if they have to,” said Camilla. “I saw one in a shop window the other day and admired it, and when I found this velvet I just twisted it up like the other one as nearly as I could remember. I’m glad you like it.”

  “I certainly do!” he said fervently. “You must be very clever.”

  “Oh, no!” laughed Camilla. “It’s just that I’ve usually had to contrive things or go without them. You can’t think how wonderful it is to me to be wearing real orchids. I never dreamed of having any, and it seems to me almost as if I had stolen into some other girl’s place.”

  Wainwright looked at her, startled, and remembered how Stephanie had commanded him to bring her white orchids. He had never taken Stephanie white orchids. Somehow they didn’t seem to belong to her. But on this girl the white orchids seemed regal. Even with what she called her shabby garments.

  He answered her slowly, after a pause.

  “No,” he said, deliberately, “you haven’t. I’ve never given any other girl white orchids. I almost did once, but—I’m glad I didn’t!”

  She caught her breath over that and wondered with a throb in her throat just what he meant by it. His saying it had thrilled her, it seemed so very beautiful and sincere. But she must remember that she was out in the world for only this one evening.

  She couldn’t think what to answer to that, and they rode along in silence for a long time, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t seem to mind. It was as if they had known one another for a long, long time, almost as if they had grown up together and understood each what the other was thinking. She couldn’t understand why that should be. And it was a pity, because he was not of her world. She was sure he was not, and she must not forget it. She kept reminding herself over and over all the evening, saying it like a charm that she must repeat to keep her safe.

  When the lights of the more crowded part of the city came into view, it seemed like Fairyland. She had been out very little in that part of the city at night and had not realized how beautiful it was, the millions of multicolored lights flashing on and off like many Christmases massed into one. It seemed as if this display was something Wainwright had ordered for her special delight, though, of course, she knew better. But she would never forget it. It would be always associated with her going out with him for the first time, and with the orchids, and that feeling she had of being well dressed and having his approval. It put her very much at her ease.

  Yet she was a bit frightened again when they stopped before an imposing place that she recognized as one of the haunts of the rich and favored. Yesterday evening at this time she would have protested, have begged him to take her to some quieter place for dinner, but the orchids and his admiration had given her confidence, and she found herself entering the spacious dining room with only a little quickening of her natural heartbeats.

  A person in uniform had taken his car away; uniformed servants bowed deferentially and gave her looks of approval as she entered on Wainwright’s arm. Long mirrors were everywhere she looked, and they reflected a girl with gold hair in a fetching velvet hat, a girl she did not recognize at first as herself. Well, if that was the way she looked to his world, all right, she could hide behind that other girl for the evening and just have a good time. It wasn’t her plain little self at all, but if he was satisfied, she needn’t worry. And she certainly did look, at least from a distance, as well as most of the people she saw. Of course, there were some with low-backed dresses and ermine capes and glittering things in the
ir hair, but there were plenty, too, in street garb, as he had said. It made her feel quite comfortable and ready to enjoy her outing.

  As they passed among the tables, here and there people spoke to him and cast courteous, inquiring glances at her. The headwaiter was leading them to a far, quiet table, as if they were especially invited, expected guests. He had arranged about that beforehand, of course. It was all so strange, just for herself! Yet she rather enjoyed the whole thing, this masquerading harmlessly as a girl she was not and never could be. Just a costume and an escort, and there she was.

  Wainwright even paused beside one table where an elderly opulent couple sat, an old man with white wavy hair and florid complexion and a stunning woman in black velvet and diamonds, and introduced her.

  “Aunt Fan, Uncle Warren, I want you to know my friend, Miss Chrystie. Mr. and Mrs. Warren Wainwright, Camilla!”

  There it was again! He had called her by her first name, as easily as if he had always done it. And these were his rich relatives, and they would wonder what poor little church mouse he had found and befriended. But because of those orchids and the quite composed glimpse she caught of herself in a far mirror, she found herself smiling and speaking quite easily to the imposing couple. And they were very cordial to her. But, of course, they were only looking at his orchids and didn’t realize how really plain and insignificant she was.

  “You have an inferiority complex!” she told herself. “You have it badly. Stop it! You are God’s child, and it doesn’t matter what anybody thinks!”

  But that little old inferiority complex attended her nevertheless, slinking in to be on hand whenever she lost sight of real values and other-worldliness.

  So Camilla sat down at a table, lovely with linen and lace and silver and crystal and flowers, and looked around her at the vast gorgeous room, took in the quiet air of refinement and beauty, the softly shaded candles, the flowers, the perfume, the soft tinkling of a fountain somewhere beyond a bower, and then the wonderful stringed music that broke upon her senses like soothing balm on a tired heart, and she felt as if she had almost reached heaven.