The Flower Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Was this the thing they called falling in love, and was she after all her careful teaching, after her most heartfelt convictions, to lose her head and become engulfed in a love affair with a man who did not belong to her world? No, no, no! A thousand times no! This must be the end. She would tell him so. She must make him understand!

  But perhaps he, too, felt that this was the end. Perhaps that had been the real meaning of that kiss, a kind of wistful, sorrowful farewell. For he must see that she was not of his class, no matter how much he might say or think about her being to the manor born. He could see she was unsophisticated. He must understand that there could be nothing more between them than the friendliness which had been that first night when he went out of his way to help her in distress.

  Beating this over and over in her mind, she sank at last to sleep, with the hope that somehow the tangle would unravel and all would yet be simple and normal with her as it always had been. But in the night there came a dream, which carried on all the joy of her evening and none of the fears, and when she awoke in the morning it was with a tender memory of his lips upon hers that made her glad in her secret heart that she had had that one beautiful moment when he had said good night to her. It would be something to remember all through the years if love came never nearer to her than it had last night. It would be a way to be sure what love might be between two souls who were rightly mated.

  But it was late when she awoke, and she could see the eagerness in the eyes of the two who had so willingly helped her to be ready last night. She knew that somehow she must give them their reward of joy in her outing, for they had done all in their power to make her happy. This might be the end of things for her, but they deserved their bit of description, their glimpse of the excitement and beauty of it all.

  So while she dressed and hurriedly ate a few bites to satisfy their anxiety for her, she gave vivid word pictures of her evening, omitting all that had troubled her and omitting that precious kiss at the end. She gave them a fair sense of her own excitement and joy in the scene; she even managed a few bright, funny descriptions of people she had seen; and she described Wainwright’s uncle and aunt gravely and briefly, made plain their cordiality and friendliness, until she found Miss York’s eyes fixed on her in eager speculation and her mother’s eyes filled with mingled pride and anxiety.

  So Camilla made much of the gorgeousness of the famous restaurant, spoke of how stylish she felt with her new gloves, and thanked Miss York for putting her orchids in water on the table where she could see them while she ate. But she utterly refused to wear them to the office.

  “No,” she said decidedly. “They don’t belong down there, and I don’t wish to give false impressions.”

  Then with a good-bye to Miss York, who was to leave that afternoon, and an earnest invitation for her to come back and visit them whenever she could, she kissed her mother and was gone.

  She felt as she walked to the nearest trolley-car line that she had suddenly grown a great deal older since last evening. It was a relief, too, to be away from the dear, kind eyes that loved her and searched her face so keenly.

  Nevertheless, as she went her way into another part of the city and threaded through traffic from one car line to another and then to a bus, she found she was hugging to herself every pleasant thing that had happened last night, every look and tone and smile and kindly word. Wainwright had told her that her car would be ready in a couple of days, and she realized what a wonderful thing he had done for her in looking after the repairs on that. She was sure if it had been left to her own engineering she would never have had that little old car again. But he had assured her it would be good as new. And to think he had arranged it for her so that she would not have to pay a cent! Well, that was something to let her heart sing about, anyway, even if she must not let herself think about the young man.

  And she mustn’t! She had got to conquer this thing! She looked into the pleasant sunny morning and drew a deep breath, forced a smile, and decided that she was just going to be happy and not worry about anything. Think of her mother who was well again! Able to help clear off the table that morning! Think how her car would soon be repaired, which would carry her so much more quickly, yes, and cheaply, too, to her office! Think that she had a job to go to and with careful economy a prospect of paying both nurse and doctor before long! Think that there were orchids still at home! No, she must not think about those darling orchids! They would inevitably lead to other thoughts, which must be taboo for her or she would presently find herself in deep waters like any other silly girl!

  Yet when she finally arrived at her office, just in time, and went to hang up her coat and hat, she found her heart singing, singing, singing! Why? Silly heart that would sing in spite of depression and thoughts she must not think!

  That night her mother asked a lot of questions, and she answered them glibly. She had been schooling herself all day and did very well, even under those keen, loving eyes.

  “And what did you think of the young man, Camilla, after spending a whole evening in his company?” asked the mother at last, watching the sweet, transparent face of the girl.

  “Oh, just what I thought of him before!” answered Camilla with a trifling little laugh. “Charming, of course! Mother, it does make a difference to be brought up with lovely things around you. I’m sure it does. He is so much more gracious and courteous than most of the men in the office, for instance! But then, of course, he belongs to a different world.”

  Camilla caught up the tray full of dishes and hurried back into the kitchen, feeling that she had done very well under inspection.

  When she came back for the rest, her mother went on. “You still feel that, do you, Camilla?” There was just the hint of a little sigh at the end of the words and the girl caught it. She was sensitive to her mother’s very thoughts.

  “Oh yes.” She laughed lightly again. “I knew that at once when I first met him. But—” She paused for some causal ending to her sentence. “It is nice to know him. It is broadening, don’t you think, Mother, to have at least one really cultured friend outside the family?”

  Her mother smiled at the glib way she spoke of him, so formally, as if he were some kind of a specimen. She knew she had not gotten down to the heart of the matter yet, but she was wise enough to say nothing more about it.

  “I suppose it is,” she agreed with a smile. “Well, child, dear, don’t lose your heart to him!” But she said it with the least hint of another sigh. It would be nice to have a friend for Camilla like that one who was fine and right in every way, a real true man—if he was all that! She dreaded the thought that she might be called away from earth someday soon and Camilla be left alone. She knew she had been very near the borderland in her last illness.

  But Camilla, even while she was finishing the dishes and putting back into place the articles of furniture and bedding that had been rearranged to accommodate the nurse during her mother’s illness, found her heart on the alert for a step at the door or a tap on the old iron knocker, and caught herself looking wistfully toward the telephone for a ring that did not come. He had said when he parted from her that he would be seeing her soon. Yet the first night and the second night passed with no sign from him, not even a phone call, and then indeed her heart began to sink. She hated herself for the feeling, but it was there, a sorrow that he had not come. A deep-seated conviction that he would not come. That it had really been the end!

  But when she reached home the third evening and opened the front door, a subtle fragrance greeted her at the very threshold—the perfume of hothouse roses! Her heart leaped up with hope. Was it hope or joy? She didn’t stop to analyze it. She went at once to the source of that fragrance, the big bowl of golden roses on the little mahogany stand in the front room, like a bee to the honey, and buried her face in their sweetness.

  Glad, glad, glad! Yes, it was joy! Pure joy!

  Her mother came in a moment later, a knife and spoon in her hand and a smudge of flour on her cheek.


  “Too bad you couldn’t have got home early tonight,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “He’s been gone only about ten minutes. He stayed as late as he dared. He had to catch a train! But he’s left a note for you.”

  “A note?”

  Camilla accepted it as if it had been gold and treasures. She dropped down just where she was without taking off her hat or coat and read it, a glow on her cheeks and a tumult in her heart. Her mother watched her furtively from the hall, lingering with a wistful smile upon her face, trying to read the heart of her girl through the flush on her cheek and the glint in her eyes.

  Dear Camilla:

  I’m sorry to have missed you. I’ve been hungering for a long talk ever since I left you, but I had to help Dad with some important business, and now Mother’s had a bad case of bronchitis and has been ordered south at once. Dad can’t get away yet so Mother has commandeered me. I hope to return in a few days but can’t be sure how soon. Meantime, keep in mind what we were talking about, and don’t forget me.

  Yours,

  Jeff

  Your car will be back tomorrow sometime.

  Camilla sat still, studying that note, trying to subdue the surge of happiness that went over her, trying to act casual, trying to feel casual. Now, just what was there in that note to make her feel so glad, so light and relieved? It was a perfectly commonplace note, wasn’t it? Anybody might have written it to anyone else? And yet all the heaviness of the past three days was lifted. Why? Well, he hadn’t forgotten her, and she had fully persuaded herself that he had, and at least to him this wasn’t the end—not yet. That in itself was a song of thanksgiving. For since she had made up her mind that it was the end, there seemed to be many reasons why she wanted to see him again. For one thing, she wanted to be sure that he did not think less of her because she had allowed that sweet kiss. She wanted to look into his face and read what he had meant by it. Not that she was at all in doubt about the impossibility of any further growth of their friendship, but that she wanted to read fineness and cleanness of purpose in his face and always be able to think well of him when she remembered him.

  Presently she looked up and caught a glimpse of her mother’s questioning face, and her own broke into a smile. “Did he come in, Mother?”

  “Yes, and waited three-quarters of an hour. We had a nice talk together. He has great charm.”

  “Yes,” said Camilla dreamily, going over to the roses and burying her face in their sweetness again, closing her eyes while she drew in a long, delicious breath. “Yes, he has charm. I suppose all people of the world have charm, haven’t they, Mother? I haven’t met so many of them, you know.”

  “No!” said the mother sharply. “Not all of them. In fact, I have known many who had none. Their money and position seemed to have made them hard and sharp and disagreeable. Is the letter about your car?” Mrs. Chrystie hesitated, her eyes on the paper held close in her daughter’s hand. Was her precious girl in danger? If she could only see that folded note she might be able to read between the lines.

  Camilla opened her note again and read it over, the color coming softly into her cheeks. Then with a lingering smile she suddenly held it out to her mother.

  “It’s nothing, Mother,” she said with her most casual air. “Read it if you like! Just a friendly apology because he couldn’t come down yesterday or day before as he promised, to—tell me about the car.”

  Her mother gave her a steady look then read the note slowly, while Camilla hurried about singing a soft little excited song, trying to seem disinterested.

  But her mother came straight to the point. “What had you been talking about, Camilla, that he wants you to keep in mind?”

  “Oh,” said Camilla, airily, her cheeks growing a trifle redder, “just, why—as nearly as I can remember, something about being to the manor born!”

  Her mother looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Oh!” she said, and she handed the note back.

  They were very happy that night eating supper together, the first supper the mother had cooked, for Miss York had made up several dishes that would last for a day or two until the invalid was used to being quite on her own again.

  “Everything tastes so good, Mother!” said Camilla, looking up with happy eyes.

  Somehow it seemed as if she had had a reprieve. She didn’t have to keep her conscience constantly awatch over her thoughts. He was away at least for a few days, and she might get rested and think it over at her leisure. And just for this evening, at least, she meant to enjoy home and Mother.

  Her mother brought the roses and set them in the middle of the table as they sat down, and there they were in their beauty to remind of the giver.

  They had a cheery meal and a happy time putting the kitchen in order, and the mother wisely said no more about the young man. But after the lights were out she did much praying. It was a situation that she did not feel herself able to judge aright, so she prayed for guidance that her girl might not be tempted into anything that would bring her sorrow.

  It was the next day that the little old reconstructed car came shining home in a new coat of paint and looking as if it were brand-new throughout. And when the wondering girl started its engine, it purred as silkily as if it were finer than it had been originally.

  A few days later life settled down into the old routine. The roses had faded, and Camilla was becoming accustomed to the newness of her old car. The accident and all that had followed it had been softened into the semblance of a dream, and except that she could not look at her mother without continually giving thanks for her renewed strength, all things seemed as they were before her mother’s illness. Even Wainwright had become for the time being only a dream-hero who had appeared to relieve her necessity and then vanished into oblivion, and she was able to forget him hours together and sometimes to go to sleep without recalling his farewell. She congratulated herself that she had come back to sanity.

  She did not see a taxi containing a handsome, dark, foreign-looking man following her little car home one night. She noticed him no more than anyone else in traffic. She did not notice the same man hovering in her street the next morning when she left for the office, nor notice another taxi following her to her parking place and the same man trailing her to the office door. She was wholly unconscious of it all and settled to her work as usual that winter morning, thankful that she had a warm woolen dress that was respectable without having to buy a new one before the doctor and nurse were paid. She looked down at herself proudly, smoothed the skirt, and noticed how well the blouse looked in spite of home cleaning and blocking, and then she settled down at her desk and to work, steadily refusing to let her mind even hint at the thought that time was going on and Wainwright might be coming home soon. It wasn’t a thought she had a right to think, and she wasn’t going to allow it. She was proud of herself for having conquered her foolish interest in a passing stranger.

  Chapter 8

  It happened just after her employer had come through from his private office and gone down in the elevator for his lunch hour. Marietta Pratt, the other girl who occupied the desk opposite Camilla’s, had gone to lunch also. Camilla had chosen to let her go first today because of some letters she wanted to finish for the afternoon mail. She was trying to have them ready for Mr. Whitlock to sign when he came back from lunch.

  She was working away like a whirlwind, her mind intent on what she was doing, her fingers flying over the typewriter keys with a skill and rapidity beautiful to watch. She had a feeling that she could work better when the other girl was gone, because she was a fidgeter and a fusser, always coming over and interrupting to ask a question.

  Suddenly as Camilla worked she became aware of the presence of someone in the room and, looking up, startled, she saw a girl standing in the open door, her hand still upon its knob, looking at her with scorn and anger. A girl with gold hair, ghastly red lips in a chalk-white face, and eyes that seemed to be strange, evil, red-gold stones, yet stones
that could pulsate and flame with a kind of hidden fire.

  Camilla, even as a child, had always been strangely calm in a time of crisis, so now, even as she took in the identity of this other girl and realized that she had come to wreak some kind of vengeance upon herself, the startled look went out of her eyes and her face became a well-controlled mask filled only with a polite business inquiry. Her hands had half dropped, poised over the keyboard of her machine, and her expression showed no sign of recognition. The intruder was nothing more to her apparently than any other stranger who might have chanced to come to the office on business.

  She looked up and waited an instant, as if expecting the visitor to speak, but the other girl only stared at her speculatively, appraisingly, still scornfully, with white fury in her gaze.

  Camilla lifted her lovely chin a trifle, with a pride she had received by inheritance, and let her eyes coolly appraise the visitor. Then she spoke in a tone as of one in authority.

  “Did you wish to see Mr. Whitlock?” she asked, and her voice carried all the generations of cultured, educated people who had been her forebears. “He has gone out to lunch. He will not be back until half past two.”

  The beauty stared indignantly.

  “No, I didn’t come to see Mr. Whitlock nor anybody else but you!” she said haughtily. “And you needn’t think you can hide behind anyone. I came here to talk to you, and I mean to do it.”

  “Why, certainly,” said Camilla courteously, whirling around from her typewriter and facing the stranger. “Won’t you sit down? I’m sure I don’t know why I should wish to hide from you.”

  “Well, you probably will before I get done with you,” said Stephanie Varrell vehemently, “and you needn’t put on that sanctimonious look. I’ve had a hard enough time finding you, and you needn’t think I’ll let you off easily, either. I’ve had to employ three men and a taxi two days to locate you, but I did it! I’ve come to tell you where to get off, and you probably know what that means. If you don’t heed what I’m going to tell you I’ll find ways to put you out of the running somehow.”