The Flower Brides (36 page)

She rose hastily, deposited the box of flowers in her chair, and fairly flew to the kitchen.

“Was that Father calling?” she asked Maggie breathlessly.

“No, it was just some person had the wrong number,” said Maggie, vexed that Diana had not trusted her. “Go you back to yon lad. I’ll call you if you’re wanted on the phone.”

So Diana, weak from excitement and disappointment, went back to Bobby and her flowers, and presently Maggie came with a vase of water and she could busy her shaking fingers placing the flowers while Bobby talked on, dully enjoying his own conversation and feasting his eyes on the lovely girl. Bobby was having the time of his life. Diana was shying away from him as she usually did, and he wasn’t perceptive enough to know she simply wasn’t even listening to him.

For a new thought had occurred to Diana. Perhaps her father would come back tonight to talk it over with her. He had said he couldn’t, but perhaps he had thought it over and decided to come anyway. If so, it was about time for his train, and he might arrive at any minute.

But Bobby was only flattered at the sweet attention she seemed to be giving him. That distant look in her eyes seemed to him to be real interest. A new interest that he had never been able to stir in her before. He took new heart of hope and went on to further relate an incident of his boyhood, rejoicing in the dreamy smile with which she fixed her eyes upon his face, while Diana, all tense, sat and listened for the sound of her father’s step.

Then, startlingly, the doorbell rang, and Diana jumped a little and caught her breath, her eyes suddenly seeking the hall door. He had come perhaps—! He might have left his key at home by mistake. He often did that.

She started to her feet, but Bobby motioned her to sit down.

“You don’t need to go,” he said blandly. “Maggie is coming. I hear her.”

And Diana dropped back into her chair again, weakly, now beset with a new idea. What if they were married already and had come ahead of the time planned? That would be like her father to hurry to her when he knew she was in distress. But oh, if he brought Helen—now—! Her eyes sought beseechingly the round, bland face of her caller. She would have to tell him! Father would bring his new wife in, perhaps, and introduce her. Then Bobby would tell it all over the countryside. Bobby never could keep a secret. And the world would have to know, and then all would be over. Oh, if Father would just come first and let her talk it out with him! But if he waited until they were married it would be too late!

Over and over like a chant it rang through her brain during that extended period while Maggie was walking the length of the hall to the front door. Then a breathless moment during which Bobby occupied the air with his incessant talk and she had to strain her ears to hear the low voice at the front door. Diana caught the words, “Sign here!” and her heart gave a leap. A telegram, perhaps. Her father might be calling her to come to the wedding. In which case she would go—not to the wedding but to her father—and try with all her might to get him to give up this terrible idea of marriage!

She sat with her hand on her heart and her eyes fixed fearfully upon the doorway as if she saw a ghost.

Bobby stopped in the middle of a sentence and followed her gaze, and they both saw Maggie come by the door with a large florist’s box in her arms.

“Maggie!” Diana called, unable to maintain her silence any longer. But her voice was faint and frightened.

“It’s just some more flowers, Miss Disston,” said Maggie formally, and it must be owned a bit importantly. “Would you like me ta open them an’ put them in the water?”

Then a wild idea seized Diana. Perhaps her father had sent flowers. It would comfort her greatly if he had. But, if so, she wanted to open them herself.

“No, you needn’t mind, Maggie,” she said, trying to put up a tone of indifference. “I have lovely flowers here enough for the present. It won’t hurt them to leave them in the box.”

Bobby looked at her gratefully, a sudden effulgence of joy in his round, red face. His flowers were enough for her. She was wanting him to know that she was especially pleased with his flowers. He took heart of hope and bloomed into good cheer.

“I’m glad you like them, Diana,” he said in a tone of exuberance.

“They are lovely!” said Diana again, wondering just how many times she had used that phrase that evening with regard to those gardenias.

But Bobby seemed well pleased. He was not critical. He felt that suddenly fate had turned the sunny side of life to him, and he came over and pulled a chair up closer to her. “Diana, I came over very especially to ask you to go out with me Wednesday evening,” he began, puffing a little in his excitement. Before this Diana had always managed to evade his invitations on one score or another, but now he meant to press his vantage while she seemed to be favorable to him. He gave her no opportunity to reply but hurried on. “I’ve tickets for a very fine concert in the city, and I thought we’d go in early and have dinner together. I know it is short notice, but I wasn’t sure I could get tickets until tonight.”

But a frightened look was coming into Diana’s face. Wednesday night! That was when they were coming home—if Father really did as he had said he would!

For an instant she considered the idea of going with Bobby anyway. Even Bobby’s company would be better than that awful meeting with a stepmother for the first time, and such a stepmother! Then almost instantly she knew it would not do. Her father would consider it an affront to both of them. He would never forgive it. No, she could not do that. Not the
first
night, anyway. And perhaps, perhaps there was a chance—oh, she didn’t dare think of what the chance might be—but she could not pledge herself to be away until she knew. Her eyes clouded and a troubled pucker came in her brow, and instantly Bobby’s face froze into disappointment. He had so often met with disappointment before, just when he had hoped to gain a little with her.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” she said, “I’m afraid Father has planned something else…” her voice trailed off into silence. She couldn’t tell Bobby that Father was marrying Cousin Helen, not just yet anyway. It seemed too awful for words when she came to consider actually telling it. Bobby knew Cousin Helen. Bobby would be shocked, for Cousin Helen had always been rude to Bobby. She had laughed at his round face. She had laughed almost to his face! Bobby would be offended on his own account. He might not understand Diana’s situation. She felt instinctively that he would not be able to appreciate her horror and sorrow, nor to tenderly comfort her, but he would be indignant that a respected neighbor like her father had married a young woman who had practically insulted him on more than one occasion, and he would be so filled with his own part in the matter that he would fail to appreciate hers. No, there would be no relief in taking on a husband, certainly not if he had to be Bobby. Oh, why did she have to consider such awful problems? Marrying! Why should marrying create such sorrow?

And then she knew that she could not tell Bobby. She must not tell anyone until all possibility that it was not true had passed. Surely yet there would be some word from her father or he would arrive on the early morning train. Never before in all her life had he failed her when he knew she was in trouble. Surely, surely he would not do this terrible thing!

Then she realized that her caller had asked her a question.

“You weren’t listening!” he charged her crossly. “I asked you if I might not see your father and talk it over with him. I’m quite sure he would be willing to let me have you for Wednesday evening. You don’t go out half enough. I’ve heard several of your friends say that. Won’t you call him, Diana, and let me ask him?”

“He isn’t here,” said Diana. “He’s not coming back till Wednesday sometime. And no, I can’t reach him by telephone now, not unless he calls up. I don’t know where he is tonight. But, you see, he called up this morning and—gave me directions. He’s—bringing someone—a lady—home to dinner. That is, he thought he might—and, of course, you know I would have to be here.”

“Not necessarily!” said Bobby, quite vexed now. “Don’t you have the least idea where I could call him?”

“No,” said Diana, “I don’t.”

“Well, will you let me know as soon as you find out whether you can go?” persisted Bobby.

“I could do that,” said Diana, with a troubled look. Oh, why did she have to be bothered with Bobby now?

But at last he took himself away, having extracted a promise that she would let him know as soon as her father came home if there was any chance that she could go with him, and she drew a sigh of relief, reflecting that she could send him a note as soon as she was sure, and she meant to be sure one way or another that she could not go. She was definitely certain that marrying Bobby Watkins would be no way out for her. If she could not endure him for one short evening, how would she ever get through a lifetime in his company?

As soon as Bobby was gone, Diana flew to the box of flowers and opened them. She did not look at the flowers themselves but pulled out the little envelope and looked at the card it contained, hoping against hope that it would bear some message from her beloved father. But no, it bore the card of Arthur McWade, another of the young men who from time to time came to call upon her and occasionally asked her to some party or entertainment with them. He was a nice, kind man, but very formal in spite of his brilliant intellect. Diana always felt rather overpowered in his company.

She pulled the wax paper aside and glanced at the wealth of red roses he had sent. They were beautiful, yes, and with a deep, musky perfume. She ought to enjoy them, but somehow she had no heart tonight. She did not even bend her head to get a whiff of their perfume. They didn’t interest her tonight. She drew a deep sigh and went off upstairs to her room, leaving the abandoned roses to Maggie’s tender mercies. If only her father had sent them! But somehow she felt Cousin Helen’s hand in all this. With keen intuition she knew that he had probably reluctantly admitted to her that his daughter was not pleased, and she had likely advised him to let her alone, promising that she, like the proverbial sheep of little Bo-Peep would soon come home wagging her tail behind her. She could almost see the naughty gleam in Cousin Helen’s eye as she said it to Father. Strange, Father never seemed to understand what that sinister gleam meant. He trusted her so. That was the hopelessness of it. Helen would tell him a cheery version of anything that happened and he would trust her beyond his own daughter! How was life ever going to be endurable again?

She went into her dark room and found her way to the window that looked out across the lawn and down to the hedged highway. Off to the right she could see the twinkling lights in the stone cottage through the trees. There was a light upstairs in the gable room, and she could see someone moving around. It was pleasant to have lights in the cottage again, it had been closed so long, since they could not afford to have a servant occupying it anymore. These people were a mother and son, Maggie said. She had sent Maggie down with coffee and sandwiches the day they moved in, and Maggie had come home delighted. The people were Scotch like herself. They were from Edinburgh and knew the street where she used to live. Maggie said they were quality folks and said she wished Diana would call on the “poor wee buddy” as she called the mother. “The son, he’s got some kind of a job in the city and he goes back and forth every day,” Maggie had said, “and she’s that lonesome, the poor wee mother! She’s live a’ her life in Scotland, an’ it’s a’ quite strange here for her!” And Diana had promised and meant to go that very day had not this terrible catastrophe befallen her. But now—well, the “poor wee buddy” would have to get along as best she could in the company of her son. At least she had her son. She wasn’t all alone as she, Diana, was. The thought brought a sudden gush of tears. Would she ever be able to think a continuous thought again without crying?

But then like a flash she remembered that probably that son would get married like all the rest of the benighted earth, and then where would the poor mother be? She felt a quiver of pity for the unknown mother. Oh life, life, how cruel everything was! But she had no time now to think of calling on strange, lonely people. Her heart was too heavy for comforting strangers now. Down there across the dark lawn among the trees where twinkled pleasant lights of friendly folk, how many of them all had some deep, new sorrow such as she had to bear? How many of them knew that feeling of being stricken by some happening that seemed worse than death? Oh yes, there were things in life far more bitter than death.

Diana drew nearer to the windowpane, and the little crystal vase with its three carnations swayed and would have fallen if Diana had not caught them. Some of the water splashed out, and the flowers slid out and brushed her hand as they fell. She gathered them up and laid them against her burning eyelids and then against her lips and let them once more typify comfort and understanding, as if behind them were a rare human love.

The flowers downstairs, the roses and gardenias, were richly beautiful, probably far costlier than these three single blossoms, but somehow they didn’t comfort her like these mysterious flowers that had come to her so impersonally that they almost seemed like the breath of heaven, as if they might have been dropped from an angel’s hands as he passed on his way to some sad heart.

If these had come from either Arthur McWade or Bobby, she knew she wouldn’t want to put her lips against them. But it wasn’t conceivable that either of them would have dropped them on her casual path as she had found these. She liked to think that it was without intention, just a happening, and yet the one who had dropped them had become in an indefinable sense a friend, and the only friend in whom she would care to confide her troubles.

So she laid her lips against the delicate fringes of the petals and breathed her sorrow into them.

Downstairs, Maggie had come upon the abandoned flowers and stood for a minute looking down at their rich beauty.

“Ah! Poor wee thing!” she murmured, brushing away the quick tears with the corner of her apron. Then she trotted away into the living room and glanced at the gardenias in their silver bowl in state on a polished table, abandoned also. Neither suitor could divert her from her trouble.