The Flower Brides (26 page)

When at last the train was called, she hurried out and got into a day coach, taking a seat at the rear of the car where she would not be seen and where she could keep her own watch. Now and then she would cast a glance at the window, but the world outside was a whirl of white and the windows were plastered with snow so thickly that they were perfectly opaque. She drew a long breath of relief. She was on the last lap of her journey now. She could count herself to have escaped. But she felt such an utter weariness that it seemed as if she would like to die.

Why had God let this dreadful thing happen to her? Especially just now when she was beginning to know Him in a new way. She couldn’t understand it. She had asked to be shown—but wait! Wasn’t that just what this had been for, that she might be shown? Quickly and definitely shown just what to do about Laurie? Well, she had the answer to her prayer. Not for anything in life would she want further fellowship with Laurie. Oh, there might be excuses for him. It might not be all his fault. Doubtless others had influenced him, and his home surroundings had not given him the background to resist drinking. But after all had been said for him, Laurie was himself to blame, of course. And even if he tried to reform, she could never trust him. She had been well taught concerning the hold that drinking has on its victims. She wanted no dealings with men who drank. She had had her lesson. She could forgive, and perhaps—she
hoped
—she could forget sometime, but she could never marry a man who thought there was no harm in taking a drink.

The experience had done something more for her also. It had shown Laurie apart from the life he led, the pleasant nothings he was doing, the vista of pleasure that his companionship always opened for her. She had seen what it would be to be bound to Laurie for life, to be in his power. She had seen him to be weak, selfish, hard, unprincipled. Of course, some of that was due to the effect of the liquor. But Laurie would never more in her eyes be the perfect creature that she had imagined.

And more than that, Laurie was not a child of God!

She had known that. She had felt when she came home that she was going to have to give him up. But she had expected sore heartbreak. And now God had shown her what he was in such a way that the heartbreak was gone!

Oh, it had been a shock when the illusions were torn away, but it had left her astonishingly whole, uninjured. There would doubtless be times when she would feel lonely and wish for a comrade to while away an idle hour with her, but just tonight she was glad to be lonely. To have that fearful ride ended and to be safe and quiet and alone. With no wild, red eyes glaring into hers; no hoarse, thick words flung at her; no madman trying to embrace her as they rode along at breakneck speed knowing not if the next moment would be the last. Oh, it was good,
good
, to have escaped, and God
had
answered her prayer and shown her without the shadow of a doubt what she ought to do—or rather what she ought
not
to do.

When they were almost to Philadelphia, she dropped off to sleep for a few minutes but started awake as the train pulled into the station.

It was still snowing hard when she got into a taxi and they drove out the familiar way. She looked at the old landmarks with welcome. Even the ugly houses that she had always disliked looked good to her. Oh, it was wonderful to be home and safe!

There was no sign of Laurie anywhere around. And now the snow would hide her footprints and perhaps Mrs. Waterman would not know how late she came in.

She slipped into the house and up the stairs with great caution and at last was safe in her own room with her door locked.

She did not turn on the light. She had a feeling that its radiance might somehow shine beneath the crack of the door and advertise her presence to Mrs. Waterman, advertise to the neighborhood that she was just now home.

Then she knelt and thanked God for saving her.

She undressed rapidly in the dark and was soon sound asleep, her little alarm clock set and ticking away beside her like a faithful watchdog on guard.

M
arigold awoke startled in the morning to the tune of her prompt little clock screaming at her over and over again. She didn’t wake quickly enough to turn it off at its first sound as she usually did.

And then, suddenly, as she came fully awake, the whole awful night was spread before her, and she had a quick, sick feeling that all her world had gone wrong and her troubles were by no means over.

When she had tumbled into her bed at four o’clock, she could only be thankful that she was safely at home and her troubles were past. But now in the light of the morning, it came over her that she was by no means so safe and out of danger. For if Laurie were alive and not too drunk to forget, he would certainly be raving somewhere and trying to find her, perhaps still angry enough and still under the influence of liquor to be determined to pay her back for having run away from him. She recalled how angry he had been the morning after she had gone from the rink and left him. But this offense was still greater. She had deserted him on what he was pleased to consider the eve of her marriage with him.

She shuddered even here in her warm bed to think of the things he had said. And now as she lay for a minute trying to get her full senses, she realized that there was no telling what he might undertake to do that day. And if he was still in the mood he had been when she left him, it was conceivable that he might take some drastic method to punish her. Kidnap her, perhaps!

She stared across at the wall in the morning light, and grim fear came and mocked her.

Suddenly she remembered.

“
Surely he shall deliver thee
—” And He had delivered! He had brought her home safely. Could she not trust Him for the rest? “
Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him
.” There was nothing she could do but go through her duty for the day and perhaps be unusually alert to keep out of Laurie’s way for the future. She must trust the Lord who had brought her this far!

She slipped out of bed to her knees. A quick cry for help! Then her next act was to fling a warm bathrobe around her and call up her mother.

“Mother, dear! I was afraid you would be worrying.”

How her mother’s heart thrilled when she heard her voice!

“Did you call? Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t go right home from school. I went in another direction. I expected to call you, but there was no opportunity, and when I got home it was quite late and I was afraid of waking Aunt Marian. Yes, I was out last night. I haven’t time to tell you about it now, for I’m going to be late to school, I’m afraid. What? Did I have a good time? Well no, not exactly, but I guess it was rather good for me. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it later. Oh yes, indeed, I’m all right. Are you? No, don’t you think of coming home until Elinor and her husband get back. No, I won’t hear of it. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll get along beautifully. Bye-bye, and I’ll call you again tonight.”

She gave a little shiver as she hung up. That had been hard, to talk lightly of that awful experience and not have Mother suspect. She felt she had done very well. Of course, she mustn’t ever let Mother know what an awful time she had been through—at least not now. Not until it was so far in the past that there would never be any more worry about it, for her precious mother, anyway.

As she turned from the telephone, she had a sick longing to crawl back into bed and sleep, just stay there all day and sleep. But she knew she could not do that. She had a job and must get to it. She was not a child to lie in bed when she was weary.

A quick shower while the coffee prepared itself, toast made while she dressed, breakfast eaten a bite at a time as she prepared for the day.

The dress she had worn yesterday was mussed and dejected-looking after the ride in the train. A glance in the mirror showed her face looking gray and weary. She must keep up her appearance and not have everybody asking if she was sick. She slipped into a little knitted dress of bright cherry color edged narrowly with black. It was her one cherished afternoon dress and very attractive, but one must do something to brighten up a day after the night she had spent.

She hunted up her galoshes, put on her old fur coat and a gray felt hat that matched the squirrel of her coat, and started out.

Mrs. Waterman poked her head out her door across the hall as Marigold came out. “Well, upon my word! Are you here? I didn’t hear you come in last night at all. Weren’t you awful late? I didn’t see you come home from school at all.”

Marigold smiled engagingly.

“Yes, I was pretty late,” she admitted brightly. “You see, I didn’t come home right after school. I had to go somewhere else. And then when I started home, I got on the wrong bus and went out of my way and had a tiresome time getting back again. It was snowing very hard or I probably would have seen my mistake sooner. But I got home all right. I’m glad I didn’t disturb you coming in. Isn’t it grand that it has cleared off this morning? I didn’t think last night it would. I thought we were in for a blizzard.”

“Yes, it is clear again. But I guess the walks are pretty bad. People haven’t had time to get them shoveled yet. You better be awful careful not to get flu while your mother’s away. Have you got your galoshes on? I guess at that you’ll have to be careful. The snow’s pretty deep.”

“Well, I have a taxi coming for me, and there it comes now, I guess. Didn’t he ring? I must go.”

She hurried away, glad to escape further questioning, almost gleeful that she had gotten by the house gossip so easily. She put her head back and closed her eyes for a brief respite before she reached the school. How she longed to go to sleep. How was she going to get through the day, after such a night?

But the day rushed by with its round of inevitable duties, and Marigold had no time to indulge her desire to close her eyes for just a little minute. The children were filled with a fine frenzy of glee over the snow, and to control them was like trying to rein in a lot of little wild hyenas. Marigold, in desperation, finally finished the afternoon by reading them a story about a wolfhound in the far northland, until at last the bell rang, and they all rushed out to pelt one another with snow and fill the air with the melodious glee of young voices.

Then quickly, sudden fear descended upon her, the fear of what might be coming next. Just twenty-four hours ago she had started on that terrible compulsory ride. Was Laurie even now preparing some new torture to repay her for having escaped him?

It was the first time she had let herself think of Laurie all day, and now it came to her all at once to wonder what had become of him. It scarcely seemed possible that he could be alive if he kept on with his wild driving, drunk as he was. She shuddered as she glanced out an upper window from behind a curtain and searched the street all around the school. There was no sign of Laurie’s car.

She called a taxi, giving instructions for it to come to the back steps at the schoolhouse, and she did not go out until she saw it arrive and had scanned the neighborhood carefully. All the way back home, she watched most carefully. Now, in a few short minutes, she would be at home, and she would lock herself in and let no one enter. She would make herself some hot soup and then she would go to sleep and sleep all night. What luxury! And yet, somehow there seemed to be a thought of terror in it all because she couldn’t seem to believe that Laurie might not turn up again.

But God had protected her so far. He would see her through.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the house, she noticed an elegant limousine parked near, with a sedate chauffeur in uniform. The limousine was flashy with much chrome, and there was an air of ostentation about it as if this car were well cared for, like an overfed pet dog. But this was not Laurie’s car. He never came with a chauffeur. She drew a breath of relief and hurried into the house, wondering who in the neighborhood had such stylish visitors.

But once inside the door, she encountered Mrs. Waterman, lying in wait and speaking in a penetrative, confidential whisper.

“You’ve got a caller!” she declared, speaking into Marigold’s shrinking face and gesticulating energetically with a long bony finger. “She’s a real lady!” she apostrophized. “She came in that big car out there with a chauffeur to ring the bell for her and help her out, and she’s got a real chinchilla coat! What do you think of that? It’s real, I know, for I had a muff of it once when I was young; my great-aunt gave it to me. She was wealthy and had all sorts of nice things and was real generous, so I know good things when I see them.”

“Who is she?” Marigold managed to insert the question in a very low murmur.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Waterman. “She didn’t give her name but just said she’d wait. She asked for you, and I said you’d soon be in, I guessed. So she said she’d wait, and I was real embarrassed not to have your key to let her into your apartment. I couldn’t take her into mine because I’m getting ready for the paper hanger. So I just brought out my great-grandmother’s rosewood chair for her to sit in, and she’s up there in the hall. I thought I’d come down and let you know she was there, so you wouldn’t have to go up unprepared. But I’ve been kind of worried because she’s smoking cigarettes up there, and if she should burn a hole in that sweet old plush I’d never forgive myself for not getting her a chair from my kitchenette!”

Something cold and dreadfully foreboding gripped Marigold by the throat, but she flung away from this avalanche of words and went up to interview the interloper.

The caller had pulled the chair over by the window, and she was puffing away on a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

Marigold had rushed up the stairs breathlessly, her eyes bright with worried excitement, her cheeks suddenly grown pink. The old squirrel coat she was wearing was unfastened and showed her bright knitted dress. The jaunty old gray felt was perched like a bird of passage on her bright hair. She flashed before the astonished vision of her caller with startling unexpectedness amid the drab surroundings. She drew herself up with her best school-ma’am manner, and the afternoon sun, which had a concession of only about five minutes a day shining into that hall window, suddenly crept in and blazed forth, lighting up Marigold’s face and figure, throwing her into relief against the bareness of the desolate hall.