The Flower Brides (31 page)

In the train at last, Ethan caring for her.

“We’re going right into the diner,” he said as he surrendered his coat to the porter of the Pullman and tossed his hat into the rack above their chairs. “You ought to have some dinner right away. I seem to feel that you’re all in.” He smiled tenderly down at her.

“Not anymore!” said Marigold, giving him a bright glance.

People were coming into the car now, chattering about which chairs were theirs. Marigold felt proud of her escort. It seemed so wonderful that this was to be her lot now, a companion like this for her lifetime, and not just for a single hour or two. Oh, God had been good to her!

“I like that hat!” said Ethan as he sat opposite her in the diner presently and looked across the table admiringly. “And that pretty red dress. And the fur coat. They all suit you wonderfully.”

“It’s a very old coat, and quite shabby,” said Marigold, looking down at it ruefully. “But I didn’t dare come without it in this cold weather.”

“It doesn’t look shabby. It looks homey, as if it belonged. When it wears out, I shall get you another just like it. It is wonderful on you, makes you look like a princess. It’s going to be great to have someone to buy pretty things for.”

“Oh!” said Marigold, pink cheeked and shining eyed at the preciousness of his words.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’re going to get the prettiest ring they have in Washington!” And then he grinned at the sweet confusion of her face.

Such a happy meal, Ethan ordering almost everything on the menu and insisting on her eating. Such joy! And only last night—!

Ethan saw the shadow cross her eyes.

“You’re not sorry?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh no!” she said fervently, with such a look in her eyes that he was satisfied. “I was only thinking of some dreadful things that I’ve escaped.” And she gave a little shiver at the thought. “There are a great many things I have to tell you. I’ve been having a pretty hard time since I went home—!”

“Well, we’ll talk them over tomorrow and get them out of the way. But don’t let’s spoil tonight with any shadow. You are tired. Just forget all the hard things and be happy. We’ll work everything out together after this, shall we?”

“That will be wonderful!” said Marigold. “Oh, God has been so good to me! You don’t realize—!”

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps you’d better let me tell you how good I think He has been to me. You don’t know how hard I worked on the way up here, trying to get you out of my thoughts, because I thought there was someone else ahead of me.”

“I’d better tell you all about it right away,” said Marigold with sudden resolve. “Then you’ll know there’s nothing to worry about.”

“All right, if you feel you’d like to get it out of the way. But personally, since you’ve told me you love me, I’m trusting you all the way, and I’m not worrying about it anymore. If any other poor fish tries to barge in, I’ll take him out and whale him. But eat your supper first.”

So when they went back to the Pullman, Ethan turned their chairs so they could talk together quietly without being overheard, and Marigold told the story of her acquaintance with Laurie Trescott. But she found it to be astonishingly short after all, for the things she had thought important seemed all too trivial to waste many words upon when Ethan was so near, looking so strong and dependable. So when she reached the account of her last night and her terrible ride, she found it did not take long. Ethan, watching her quietly, caught more of the picture from the little shudder she gave as she described her terror and from the sudden darkening of her eyes than from the words she used. He had no trouble in filling in where she left description unfinished. He could see just what kind of a weak, attractive, selfish creature Laurie was.

“Now I
know
I will whale that fellow sometime!” he exclaimed as she finished. “
Really
whale him, I mean!” he added vehemently.

“I don’t believe you need to,” said Marigold thoughtfully. “He’s married a terrible little creature. Married while he was drunk! I expect life will give him all the whaling he needs now. That was what that telephone message was about just as we left the apartment. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why I was so long coming down. Miss Trescott phoned me. She thought I ought to know before it came out in the papers.”

“Who is Miss Trescott, and what did she know about it?”

“Oh,” said Marigold, laughing, “that is another story. I haven’t told you about my two callers yet, and why I was so long opening the door for you. I was afraid you would be another member of the family come to plead with me.”

Then she told him the whole story, and he listened, a big grin growing slowly on his nice, understanding face.

“So that’s what I walked in on, is it?” he said when she had finished. And then he threw his head back and laughed so heartily that some of the bored passengers at the other end of the car looked over the tops of their evening papers and wondered what those two good-looking young people had found to laugh at that was so funny; looked enviously at them when they saw the joy in their faces and thought of their own youth and bright spots that had relieved the tedium of the way.

“Well, now that’s out of the way,” said Ethan, when they had laughed together over the two callers. “I still think I’ll whale him sometime, though I might try to help him get saved, too. He certainly needs saving, and I guess you’ve got a commission toward that aunt of his, too, sometime. I’m glad you got in a word about the Way before she left. You might not get another chance, you know, and she was ready for it then. You may never know the result in this life, but perhaps she’ll meet you over There! And now, I guess we’re getting into the city. Shall I help you on with your coat?”

And there was the dome of the dear old Capitol looming on the night sky. But now it was no longer simply the seat of her country’s government, but it stood also for the memory of a great love that had come to her there!

Marigold watched it for a minute with shining eyes. Then Ethan put her into her old fur coat and buttoned it up to her chin, giving her a loving smile and a little surreptitious pat on her shoulder, utterly aware of the eyes at the other end of the car watching the pretty romance in their two faces.

“I think I hear a taxi,” said Aunt Marian suddenly. “Did you turn the porch light on?”

“Yes. It’s on.”

“Shall I go down and open the door?” asked Marigold’s mother eagerly.

“No, Ethan has a key.”

So they sat quite still, knitting and dropping stitches irresponsibly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was about to happen, and it seemed that the next three minutes were unconscionably long.

Then came Ethan’s glad voice booming up the stairs: “I brought her, folks! I told you I would!”

Something in his voice, perhaps, kept them very quiet, waiting for them to come.

They came slowly up the stairs, his arm around her and their hands clasped, and into the room that way, standing in the doorway, looking from one to the other.

“Well, Mothers, we’ve discovered that we love one another,” said Ethan with an exultant voice. “Do you mind?”

The anticlimax came the next week when Maggie arrived one day for work lugging a big pasteboard box.

“My girl, Viola May, is gonna be married next week,” she announced, with a radiant face, “an I done bring her weddin’ dress along ta show you-all.”

“It’s somethin’ grand,” she said as she untied the box. “We couldn’t a bought it ourselves noways. One o’ their company up ta the Trosset house give it to me for takin’ home her laundry ta wash. She was a mighty hateful piece herself, awful high-an’-mighty, but I gotta give her credit for bein’ real generous once. She said this dress was worth a heap mor’n the work I done for her, but she didn’t want the dress no more. You see, she’d spilled some kinda wine all down the front. But I took yella soap an’ a piece of an ole’ turkey towel, and I just washed it out. Ain’t nothin’ like yella soap an’ water ta get stains outta things, an’ it don’t show no more, only a dear little bit, but I figure ta take a stitch or two on them red floaters on the sash an’ catch ’em down over the spot, so Viola May can get married in it. An’ then it ’curred ta me, Miss Marigold, you-all could do them stitches so much better’n I could! Would you mind? I’d stay an hour extra an’ clean that there bookcase in the livin’ room if you would. See! Ain’t it purty? Just like some heavenly robe! I never did see such a purty dress. Never thought my child would be married in a dress like that!”

Marigold unfolded the dress and shook it out. Marigold’s grand white dress with the scarlet sash! Poor crumpled dress, its velvet streamers limp and dejected, its grandeur draggled and stained and dingy with one night’s frivolity!

As Marigold bent over it to put in the few stitches Maggie asked, her heart was murmuring:
Father, I thank You that You didn’t let me keep this dress!

D
iana Disston stood at the window watching for the postman. Before her the wide, velvety lawn sloped to the tall hedge, which hid the highway from view. A smooth graveled driveway circled the lawn and swept down to the arched gateway where a little stone cottage, formerly the porter’s lodge, nestled among the trees. It was up that driveway the postman would come.

Beside her in the wide window, just between the parting of the delicate lace curtains, stood a little table bearing a tall crystal bud vase with three pink carnations. Their fragrance filled the room. The girl turned and looked at them whimsically, an almost tender light coming into her eyes, her lips parted in a wistful smile, reminding one of a child dreaming over a fairy tale. Suddenly she stopped and took a deep breath of their fragrance, closing her eyes, and half shyly touching her lips to their fringed petals then laying her cheek softly against their delicate coolness.

Then, laughing half ashamedly, she straightened up and took another look down the road. No postman yet! She glanced at the tall old clock in the hall beyond the arched doorway. It was fully five minutes beyond the time he usually came. Why should he be so late this particular morning when she wanted especially to know just how to plan for the day? There would surely be a letter. Or if there wasn’t a letter, she would know her father would be at home in an hour.

If her father was coming, she wanted to dress and be ready to meet him. Perhaps he would suggest that she should go down to the office with him, and they would have lunch somewhere together. That was what he often did when he had had to be away for a day or two and leave her alone in the house with Maggie. Lately, though, he had always seemed so busy or so absent-minded when he got back from a business trip. She puckered her brows with the worry that had disturbed her more or less ever since he had been away. Somehow he didn’t seem just as he had been after her mother’s death. He had been so thoughtful of her, so almost tender in his treatment of her. He understood how desolate she was without her precious mother. And, of course, he was desolate, too! Dear Father! It must be terribly, terribly lonesome for him. Such a wonderful woman for his wife, and to lose her! But, of course, Father was reticent. He never said much about his own sorrow. He was just thoughtful for her.

And yet, what was this haunting thing that troubled her? Surely it could not be business cares that worried him, for when they had sold off such a large portion of the estate, dismissed a retinue of servants, cut off a good many unnecessary expenses, and even rented the little cottage at the gateway, he had told her that all his debts were paid and they had enough to live on quite comfortably for the rest of their lives, provided, of course, they did not go into any great extravagances for a few years while his business was picking up. Investments were doing well, and there was no reason for him to worry. He had given her a larger allowance and told her to get herself some new clothes. No, it could not be money.

And yet, was it really anything? Was it not perhaps merely her own imagination? She had been so close to him during the first intensity of her sorrow that now that he was getting back into his usual habits of life she had grown too sensitive. That was it, of course, and she simply must put it out of her mind. When he came,
if
he came this morning, she would not let herself think of such a thing. She would rush out and meet him as she always had done, and she would show him how glad she was to have him back again, but she would not let him suspect that she had been worried about anything. She was silly, of course, to allow imaginings to return and make her uneasy.