The Flower Brides (44 page)

“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 upstairs.

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.

She paused a minute thoughtfully and then suddenly searched in her suitcase for her writing case, and sitting in the window seat in the fading light, she wrote hurriedly:

She slipped the note into a small envelope, addressed it “To the Flower Person,” and put it in her handbag.

Then suddenly she heard the sound of a motor, and hurrying to the front window, she saw the lights of a taxi coming swiftly up the drive. They had come and she was still there!

Panic seized her. She could not meet them! She must get away! She must be gone when they entered the house, and the taxi was almost at the door! Could she make it?

She snatched up her bags, gave one last wistful frantic look around her denuded room, and fled down the hall to the back stairs.

She appeared in the kitchen like a wraith, her face white, her eyes dark with excitement.

“They’ve come, Maggie. Here’s the letter for Father! Good-bye, you dear! And I’ll write you in care of your sister!”

She flashed out of the kitchen even as the front door opened letting in the householders. She slipped swiftly across the back lawn to a wide group of shrubs, disappearing into the midst of their friendly branches. The twilight was kind and hid her going, the shrubs were thick and formed a perfect screen. Maggie had rushed after her to the kitchen door, crying out in subdued protest, “But you mustn’t go away alone. I was goin’ down the road with you—!”

But Diana was not there. Then Maggie realized that the next act was hers, and she was holding the letter in her hand. She hid it quickly behind the bib of her ample apron and went back to her cooking, assuming an air of indifference toward the world but keeping a weather ear open to all developments, while her heart cried out for the girl who had fled. She had meant to give her all sorts of cautions, and now it was too late! But she could not run after her. That would be to give the whole matter away.

So the master and the new mistress walked into the house and went upstairs with no one to interrupt their progress.

Helen went up the stairs like a victor who had taken a city and meant to behead the former ruler. She marched straight to the master bedroom and flung open the door. She wanted to see if her commands had been obeyed. Then she stood staring for an instant at the prim, immaculate neatness that prevailed. Dominated by the fine old walnut furniture that had belonged to its former mistress, bare only of the little feminine and artistic touches and its lovely portrait, it had a forbidding look. As she stared, a fury grew in her face not pretty to see.

“She hasn’t touched it!” she said aloud in a tone meant to reach to the lower hall.

She paused an instant, head bent in a listening attitude, then she flounced around and flung open the door across the hall. There stood Diana’s room stark and bare!

She made a sound such as is generally associated with the snorting of a war horse preparatory to battle. She stepped into the room and snapped on the light. Its brilliance flung out the curtainless window and penetrated the dense shrubbery that traveled more or less irregularly from the kitchen garden down the far side of the drive toward the entrance gate. Diana was slowly progressing toward the gate as she waited for the taxi to get out of sight before she made her dash across the open to the dense growth of trees that hid the cottage. So Diana knew that the secret of her moving was discovered. She had hoped to be farther away before they found it out.

Helen walked determinedly across the bare floor and flung the closet doors wide. Everything was gone, the room cleaned. Not even a box or a paper on the empty shelf!

She ran out in the hall and up the third-story stairs, with an eye that boded no good to her enemy. The light snapped on at the foot of the stairs, and Diana saw that, too, and dashed across in the twilight to the spot behind the trees, her trysting place with the flowers. But she was not thinking of the flowers now, nor looking for them. She was crouching down beneath a huge hemlock, its lacy branches brushing her face. She was parting the branches and looking back to the house. She could see a figure walking by the hall window. That would be Helen. She was looking in every room, for each window blazed out in turn. She was finding out that her new stepdaughter had not done anything she had told her to do!

Well, there was a moment’s time, perhaps. The front door was still closed. Diana searched out the letter from her handbag and, stooping, laid it in the very place where the carnation had lain the night before and this morning. She caught her breath in a little sob. There would be no more carnations for her. If one lay there in the morning, she would not be there to find it! She was leaving everything, home and love and even her bit of mystery and romance.

Then she turned a quick look back to the house and saw the front door flung wide, the light streaming out, and Helen standing slim and vibrant looking out into the darkness.

Diana shrank and, catching up her bags, fled out of the gateway and down the road, pausing in the shadow of the tall hedge to wait and listen breathlessly. It was not likely that Helen would pursue her out into the darkness on foot, but yet, there was never any telling what Helen would do. It would be hard to run from pursuit and carry all that baggage, but still it could be done. However, perhaps if she saw them coming it would be better to push the bags around the hedge and come back for them later. She considered that an instant, then peering through the thick hedge she saw the light of the doorway shut off and distinctly heard the closing of the front door. Helen would likely have gone to consult Maggie, and it would take her some time to get anything out of Maggie if Maggie chose to be stupid and not understand.

Diana relaxed against the hedge and found herself terribly weary. There would be a bus along soon. If she might only sit down on the grass, lie down, close her eyes, and rest. But, of course, she couldn’t. She was thankful, however, for the momentary ease against the strong resilient arms of the old hedge. She put her head back. She could almost go to sleep here. She resolutely put away from her all thoughts of what might be going on at the house behind her. She could not think of it now. She could not bear it. The tears would come if she did, and one could not get into a public bus weeping. She took a deep breath and shut her lips with determination.

Then behind her she became aware of a voice—or was it voices?—speaking low and gently—a voice, it was a voice speaking to someone. She could not hear the first words, they were very low and gentle, just behind her within that open window of the cottage. She turned instinctively and looked at the square of light that was the cottage window, screened by sheer muslin curtains moving softly in the breeze and thickly sheltered by the tall hedge. It was as safely private as a bird’s nest in a tall tree. Pedestrians did not creep within the shelter of hedges as she was doing. An ordinary passerby would never have heard that voice, so reverent, so tender. She found herself soothed by the very tone.

And then the voice grew more distinct: “We thank Thee for the care of the day and for these gifts for our refreshment.”

He was saying grace at the evening meal! Father used to do that while Mother was living, but of late it had become a mumbled formality. Who was this person? The voice was grave but not old. She had understood from Maggie that the woman who had taken the cottage was elderly. Perhaps after all her husband was living. Maggie had only spoken of a woman and her boy. But perhaps this was some relative having supper with them.

The voice rose again just a little so that she heard the words: “And, Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house. Perhaps some of them are sad. Lord, give them comfort. Perhaps they need guidance. Do Thou send Thy light—”

And then suddenly the bus rumbled up to the curb to let off a passenger. The bus would never have stopped at all if it hadn’t been for that passenger, for Diana had been back in the shadow out of sight. But now she came back to herself with a start, caught up her bags, and hurried forward into the bus. She was whirled away, but she turned wondering eyes toward the quiet cottage with its cozy light shining softly through the tall hedge and forgot entirely to look back at the home she was leaving until it was too late to see anything but the long streaks of light that streamed down across the lawn from the front windows. Her mind was wholly occupied with what she had heard. It seemed so extraordinary. She would never forget it. She said it over to herself silently, conning it like a lesson of which she must not lose one precious word. “Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house. Perhaps some of them are sad. Lord, give them comfort. Perhaps they need guidance. Do Thou send Thy light—”