The Flower Brides (55 page)

She drew a breath of relief as she settled this matter in her mind and climbed into the nearest bus that would land her at her friend’s new home. She did not notice the man who stealthily slipped into the crowded bus behind her and kept in the shadow with his hat brim down, nor notice that when she got out, he dropped off into the darkness also. She even approached him a moment later as he stood in the shadow of a hedge and asked which way the numbers ran on that street and where would be number 372. He pointed indefinitely off to his right and shuffled away in the darkness like a wraith. She went on her way, presently finding that he had been wrong in his direction, but arriving at her destination safely in spite of it and meeting a warm and eager welcome.

Just for one day she would forget!

T
hat same evening at the Disston mansion a party was going on. It was not of the master’s bidding, but he was there figuring in the capacity of happy bridegroom, albeit with a weary look and a heavy heart. If Diana had started out to punish her father for what he had done, she could have taken no quicker or more effective way. Though Diana would have been aghast if she had known how heartbroken he was. Diana was only hurt. She never dreamed what her going would do to her undemonstrative father.

Secretly for several days he had been going about silently, cautiously as a sleuth, while his wife was off somewhere shopping, playfully resenting the pressing business he professed to have.

He had telegraphed to Aunt Harriet, and when he found no trace of his missing daughter, even though he carefully hunted out and telephoned a number of friends, he was really frightened.

Then he had tried to find Diana’s list of correspondents, but all Diana’s personal belongings were gone. He had contacted every person he could think of to find out if she was visiting them, doing it cautiously and skillfully lest they should discover that her own father did not know her whereabouts, just a casual telephone message to know if she were calling there, because he wished to speak to her about an important matter, but nothing came of it. He had written scores of letters, some addressed to her friends in various places and some to herself in their care, but had found no trace of her. He could not eat nor sleep as the days went by and there was still no word from her. His imagination pictured her in all sorts of predicaments and perils, until it seemed to him that he would lose his mind.

Through all this Helen watched him warily, a little amused twinkle in her eyes and a sweetly sympathetic note in her voice. At last, having possessed herself cleverly of the facts about how much money Diana likely had with her and how much more she could get hold of without applying to her father, she asked just how much power the father had over Diana’s inheritance. Then she suggested cautiously, almost deprecatingly, as if she did not wish to intrude into affairs not her own, that her husband cut off his daughter’s income for a time. That would bring her back in a short time she felt sure. Ah, she went about it all in a masterly way, hesitating and yet insistent, making it quite plain that Diana must eventually apply to him for money. And the poor man caught at the suggestion as a drowning man might catch at a straw. Indeed, he insisted on telephoning his banker at once, though it was quite late at night when Helen suggested it.

The banker had been surprised, a little shocked, Mr. Disston felt. He did not try to explain except to say that Diana had gone away visiting and had not chosen to say where she was. He was taking this method of finding her. “You know young people today are getting a little highhanded and independent,” he added as his sole explanation. But it had hurt him to say such a thing about his girl, who had never been anything but docile and loving to him before in her life, and he had suffered acutely ever since. He had waited all day with tense body and agonizing mind. His little girl, Diana! What would her mother think of him for having gotten Diana into a position like this?

He had heard nothing from the banker until late in the afternoon, and he had not been able to settle down to just waiting for some word. But the word when it came did not give him much comfort. Mr. Dunham reported that Diana had just been in to see him about getting some of her next month’s money ahead of time, and when she heard that her father had cut off her allowance had walked out like a thoroughbred with her chin in the air, without even cashing the few dollars that remained in her own account though he told her there would be no objection to that.

“I think she’ll come around pretty soon, I really do, Mr. Disston,” added his friend, the banker. “I hated like sin to tell her what you said I should, too. Pretty little kid. Real thoroughbred! But, of course, I was certain when she got up to leave my office that she meant to go right home. I never had a question until I saw her turn and walk out, and then something in her manner made me uneasy. I got to thinking over what she had said, and I realized she hadn’t actually
said
she was going home at all, just walked out on me and left me to think what I would. Then I went to the door to see if she cashed her check, and she wasn’t there. She must have gone out the side door opposite my office, I guess, but when I looked out that, she wasn’t in sight anywhere. You say she hasn’t come yet? Oh, but I’m sure she will soon. Sorry, no, I didn’t think to ask her address. I tell you I supposed, of course, she meant to go right home. But I’m sure she’ll turn up tonight or tomorrow. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. She looks as if she could take care of herself. And, of course, she’s proud. She wouldn’t be your daughter if she wasn’t.”

“That’s the trouble,” said the father anxiously. “I’m afraid she’ll never come back for money, not if she starves to death. She’s terribly proud. Just what did you say to her?”

“Well now, look here, Disston,
I
didn’t think this up,” said the banker. “I said to her just what you asked me to say!” And the banker went carefully over again the conversation he had had with Diana. But somehow Diana’s father shrank from the words as if they had been blows dealt upon his own heart, for now suddenly he saw how they must have seemed to Diana, and he wondered why he had been willing to send her a word like that. Why hadn’t he known how those words would hurt her? Yet when Helen had suggested them, the whole thing sounded so right and reasonable and kind! And now it seemed so brutal! The father hung up the receiver at last and sat back groaning in spirit. Then he remembered his position as host at a party and hastily slipped out into the other room and took up his duties again, aware subconsciously of Helen’s dissatisfied eyes watching him, aware that some of the guests were looking at him and Helen, comparing their ages and wondering how she came to marry him. Of course, this lovely house—and he could see them look about upon the luxury, which even in these few days since Helen had come there to reign had become almost garish. He felt very old indeed that night.

The evening finished disturbingly for the master of the house. Some of the guests were too hilarious for his liking. Helen, too, was more boisterous than he had ever seen her before, her face a sparkle of pleasure and interest, in contrast to his own haughty expression. He looked around at the guests Helen had assembled and decided that he didn’t like any of them. He would introduce Helen to his friends, of course, and gradually wean her from such companions. Poor child, she had not had a mother or father to guide her for years, and, of course, she wasn’t wise in discerning character. But she would listen to him. She always had.

But when the last guests had left and they turned back to the quiet of the home again, Helen made the first attack.

“Well, and is that the way you are going to treat my friends when I have a party?” she asked in a biting voice. “If I had supposed you were going to act like an old grouch, I certainly wouldn’t have invited them. What do you suppose they thought of you?”

He turned upon her with dignity. He had meant to be very tender in his remonstrance with her, but her stinging tones roused his tormented spirit.

“I didn’t like the people you had here!” he said sternly. “They were coarse and ill-bred. They are not the kind of people with whom I want my wife to associate!”

“Oh really?” said Helen petulantly. “So you are going to hide your own behavior behind a grievance, are you? Well that won’t get you anywhere. You remember you told me I might have a party, and you gave me permission to have it just as I wanted it. You said you didn’t care who I invited, and now you’re objecting. If you think that is being fair, I don’t. As to my friends, if you don’t like them you know what you can do, don’t you? Just stay away from my parties! For I give you my word I’m not going to give up my friends! All the people I know are like that, high-spirited and free and easy.”

“Then it’s high time you knew another class of people,” said Mr. Disston sternly. Then his voice softened a trifle. “I suppose you haven’t always had the opportunity to know the right kind of people, dear, but now that you are my wife I shall want you to know my friends and move in the best circles. It’s your right as my wife.”

“Indeed!” said Helen, flashing her beautiful eyes. “I prefer to move in circles of my own choosing. I’m not an old fogy yet, if you are, and I want to see a little fun and life. I don’t want to sit by the fire in beautiful domesticity and go to bed at nine o’clock. If that’s your idea of married bliss, you can count me out!” And Helen flounced out of the room and upstairs, closing and locking the door to their room.

Then the master of the house turned out all the lights and locked himself into the dark library and sat down by himself and groaned in spirit. Was this the married bliss he had expected to have? He sat there until the morning dawned. He then came to breakfast alone and was told his wife did not wish to be disturbed, so he went his way to the office in deep sadness of heart.

To Diana it was almost like entering heaven from the darkness of the pit to enter that bright home of luxury. It was as if some magic had touched her with a fairy wand and she were Cinderella at the party.

The door swung wide, and well-trained servants took charge of her suitcase and overnight bag. She was led to a chamber bright with airy organdy hangings and frills of delicate lace and ribbon, costly trifles scattered everywhere with lavish hand. Softly shaded lamps of unusual design, a picture or two that caught the eye, just a lovely homelike room. It almost took Diana’s breath away, that first glimpse; it reminded her of her own sweet home, a little more lavish, perhaps, but still with the touches that spoke of taste and culture and plenty.

As Diana entered she had a swift vision of Mrs. Lundy’s rooming house and the third-story back where her own treasured furnishings were waiting. The contrast brought quick tears to her eyes. Oh, if she might just take them and go home again to the place that had always been home to her!

Then came Edith rushing with open arms to greet her. Edith in bright rosy garments and her hair done in the latest thrill, jewels sparkling around her neck and wrists.

It was delightful to have to hurry and get dressed for dinner and put away all unpleasant thoughts. That was what she had resolved to do—not to think of her own troubles, neither past nor future. It would be the only way she could possibly get through this evening without everybody knowing that she was in some great trouble. And that must never happen. She simply must carry this off and never let anyone, even Edith, suspect.

So Diana put on a diaphanous dress of delicate green, almost the shade of the taffeta of years ago that Helen had so gracelessly borrowed. It was a color that Diana’s mother had loved on her, and the dress was one she had ordered during her illness, with loving eagerness to have her girl go out among her friends.

While she was getting into it, she was recalling little things her mother had said about the dress and how it became her. Precious things, but she put them away in her heart, for the tears were too near the surface to trust such thoughts and she must hurry. Edith had said that dinner was about to be served.

She looked at herself in the mirror when she was ready, startled to see herself looking so well. She had been through so much during the past two weeks that it seemed to her that her brow must be seamed with care and her eyes dull with weeping.

But the excitement of the moment had brought a soft flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes, and she scarcely knew herself. As a last thought she remembered her flowers and took them from their wax paper wrappings, fastening a lovely mass of them at her shoulder, then turning her face toward them and touching her lips to their fringes caressingly. Dear flowers. They seemed somehow to give her a kind of moral support—or background, perhaps it was background. They had come from home, somewhere, somehow. When she looked at them she could think of the tall pines standing guard among cool shadows and a single blossom smiling up at her from the dewy grass. It seemed as if those flowers acted as ballast to keep her soul steady during these hours that were before her, as if just touching them with her cheek, breathing in their perfume, would calm her and give her courage if it all seemed too much for her.