The Flower Brides (54 page)

Then suddenly she came to herself. No,
any
thing would not be better than this! It would not be better in any way to go back home and have to live with Helen. She had come away from something infinitely worse than just an ugly room with an ignorant landlady. This was really a haven, and she must be glad for it. She must! She must ignore the poor creature downstairs and live above it all. She must have courage and trust. She would go and get a job in some little dirty restaurant if that was all there was to get. She would do anything, but she would not let circumstances conquer her. That was what Helen had thought would happen, that circumstances would be too much for her and she would come meekly home and succumb to her will, and it
should not be
! Besides, there
was
Someone who cared. She had determined to believe that little tract, and it had seemed almost as if it was so, until she lost her job. But she would not let go so soon. She would trust in the One who had suffered Himself and understood.

Suddenly she sat up and wiped her eyes, looking around her room.

She could dimly see the parcel there on the chair where she had dropped it when she came in, and all at once an overwhelming curiosity came over her to know what it was and where it came from. Of course, it couldn’t be flowers. Who would send her flowers? Even Bobby Watkins didn’t know her address. This was probably a parcel belonging to someone else, and it might be anything but flowers. She ought to have looked at the address carefully before she came up. Now she would likely have to drag it downstairs and take it back to the post office.

She got up and turned on her glaring bulb that, with all its unblinking blaze, barely made light enough to read by.

Yes, there was her name written clearly, but not by any hand she knew. Bobby Watkins wrote in a round, childish script as if he had never grown up. Moreover, the address was written in a different hand from the name. Ah! The address was probably in the postmaster’s writing. It must have been forwarded from home, and now that she thought of it, she had not as yet received any mail since she had sent the postmaster her address. But what on earth could this be? It couldn’t be anything from her father; it wasn’t his writing. Nor Helen’s, either. And that was a florist’s label on the outside of the box. The landlady had some ground for one of her assertions at least. Well, if she found Bobby Watkins’s card inside, she would throw the flowers down in the alley. Even if they were gardenias!

And what was more, if Bobby Watkins had found out where she was, she would move tomorrow morning even if she had to go and leave her things behind her. No, she couldn’t do that! She could not leave her beloved things. But she would find a way to get them out of this house at once. She would, even if she had to mortgage the job she hadn’t gotten yet to move them!

With a hysterical little laugh, she picked up the parcel and tore open its wrappings.

Yes, it was a florist’s box, a florist back in the home suburb!

She found her fingers trembling as she lifted the cover of the box and turned back the wax paper wrapping. Ah! A breath from a heavenly land was wafted into her face, and her weary senses drew it in with sheer delight! Suddenly the sorrows of the last two weeks dropped away from her, and a soothing perfume wrapped around her. She looked, and her eyes were wide with wonder. Carnations. Myriads of them! Her mystery flowers had come to find her!

For a moment her eyes swam with tears, and she saw the delicate seashell pink of the blossoms as if they were in a heavenly vision. She bowed her head, buried her face in their loveliness, and drew in deep breaths of their perfume. It satisfied her heartbreak and loneliness as a life-giving draught will quench a great thirst. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. All her joy in the single flowers that she had found upon her pathway back at home rushed over her, and more. There was something deeper than mere sentimentality. It was not a fancied lover, casting admiration in her way; it was an overwhelming love offered to a soul that was starving and alone. It did not seem to matter who had sent these. It was not Bobby Watkins, she was sure of that. Bobby had no delicate, sensitive romance about him. Bobby brought his flowers himself and gloated over you while you opened them. Bobby could never forget himself long enough to drop a flower anonymously, for genuine love, one that cares to bless without receiving recognition or praise. It might be some woman, old or young—whoever it was it seemed like an angel to her now more than ever, a messenger from God.

Presently she lifted her face to search for a card, almost dreading lest she should find one, yet longing, too. She could not bear to have her delight destroyed, her illusion dispelled by cold facts. She wanted to feel that it was a gift from one who knew God.

But there was no card. Just those dear flowers, so fresh and lovely that it was almost unbelievable they had not been picked only an hour before.

When she had satisfied herself that there was no message she put her face down to the flowers again and began to talk to them softly. “You lovely things! You beautiful mystery flowers! God sent you! No matter how He got you here I am going to believe God sent you to show me that He is caring for me!”

Then softly she slipped down upon her knees, the flowers still in her arms, and with her lips against the fringes of one big blossom, she began to pray. “Oh, God, I believe You
do
care. I don’t see why You would, but I
believe
You do. You wouldn’t have sent me these flowers just when I needed them so badly if You didn’t care a little bit. Dear God, it doesn’t matter who You told to send them, I believe they came from You. And if it was anybody like Bobby Watkins You used, please don’t let me find it out. Please let it seem just You unless it was somebody
dear
.”

She knelt there for some time, her face among the flowers, and then as memory went back to the cool, quiet, shadowed spot where she had found those other single blossoms, slowly she began to remember. She stood once more against the tall hemlock hedge, leaning against the resilient boughs, thinking of their perfume, hugging the thought of them to her sad heart, and a voice spoke again. How long ago it seemed since she heard that voice praying. What were those words? How the days that had come between had almost blotted them out. She had written them down. What were they? Then they came flocking back like birds to her call.

“We thank Thee for the care of the day and for these gifts for our refreshment.”
How the words fit her own case! She paused to wonder, and then memory went on:

“And, Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house.”

Had that prayer been for her father’s house? If it was, had it been at all answered? Mercy and tenderness and leading. Had she had those since she had left home? Would the blessings have followed her away from the house? Mercy and tenderness and leading. Perhaps there had been a degree of all. Terrible things might have happened to her. It had seemed that they did, but now she wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps there was a degree of leading in it all.

“Perhaps some of them are sad,”
went on that unseen voice,
“Lord, give them comfort.”

Well, here were the flowers, right out of the blue, and they did seem in a degree to soothe her soul.

“Perhaps they need guidance.”

Ah, didn’t she?

“Do Thou send Thy light—!”

Oh, why hadn’t she stayed to hear the end, stayed at any cost?

Yet the memory of the prayer was there fresh in her heart. Perhaps the answer was following her around. Perhaps these flowers had come to foreshadow some kind of light. They were comfort. Oh, for the light—!

Then at once it came to her that the light might be found in her little tract and in the Bible to which it had directed her. Was that possible? If she would diligently seek, would she find the light and some way out of this dark maze in which she had lost her way?

If she only could find the person whose voice had uttered that prayer! How many questions she would ask him! Perhaps in some church there would be a minister who was like that one. If she went the rounds of all the churches, she might find one to whom she would dare go and seek advice. But no—that would not do. She would see old friends, perhaps; they would ask her uncomfortable questions. She could not face the old world in which she had moved. She would seem to be criticizing her father; yet she could not explain her absence from home in any other way. No, she could not go searching among the churches. But she would search in her Bible, and now that the flowers were here they would help her. They would comfort her. She was beginning to have assurance in her heart that God cared. Dear flowers, dear mystery flowers!

Her job was gone, but she had the flowers! The flowers would rest her, and tomorrow she could go out and get herself a job!

The morning brought her letters, just a few, and her heart leaped up. Perhaps there would be one to explain the flowers! And yet she almost dreaded lest there would be. If it should be that they came from some commonplace source, would it destroy her newfound faith that God cared?

She hurried back upstairs to read them before she went out. If she sat down in the hall to do so, that terrible landlady would come out and question her again. She was so glad that she had met the postman just at the door.

Two of the letters proved to be bills for small purchases made at the little local stores at home. One was an advertisement of an entertainment to be given in the village, one was a brief and disagreeable note from Bobby Watkins asserting that it was high time she apologized for her strange actions the night he called, and the fourth was a short note from an old schoolmate who lived in a suburb of the city.

Edith Maythorn had never known Diana in her home surroundings, only in college. Her home, until a few months ago, had been in a far city from which she had occasionally written Diana, who for a short time had been her roommate. She had only recently come to this city to live and was not acquainted with Diana’s circle of friends. The letter was an invitation to spend the weekend with her at her new home and attend a small house party among whom were two girls who had been in college with them. When Diana read it first she shrank away from the thought of attending such a festivity. Then it occurred to her that these people did not know her circumstances at all and were not likely to come into touch with her old friends. Why not go? It was only over Sunday, and as others were to be present there would be little time for intimate talks with questionings. Why couldn’t she go and get a little breath of real living again? She had plenty of pretty clothes, and no one need know that she was contemplating taking a job in a cheap restaurant. None of these girls frequented restaurants of that sort. Why not just have a little relief from the strain of sorrow and loneliness? Incidentally, she would save money on her meals for two days, and that meant a great deal. Her cheeks burned as she remembered what sordid thoughts and impulses had come to move her now. But it was an item worth considering. And, of course, it was supposable that sometime in the future she might again be in a position to ask Edith to visit her somewhere, somehow. Monday morning she could quietly say good-bye and drift out of Edith’s ken again and that would be that, but it would give her a much-needed rest and wholesome food without cost.

As she hurried down the street in search of that job, she was weighing the possibilities, pro and con. Of course, if she went she should call up and accept. Yet suppose she found a job and had to go on duty at once? Well, in that case she would just have to call it off, of course.

But strangely enough she came on a little eating place late in the afternoon that wanted a waitress to come on Monday morning. It wasn’t a cheerful place, nor overly clean, and the food as she swept the room with a comprehensive glance did not look attractive, but she was deadly tired, and it was a job. Perhaps she could do better later. It gave her such a panicky feeling to have no job and her money melting like snow on a hot day that she was ready to take anything no matter how unattractive. She would have her board here and an infinitesimal wage, together with tips—how her soul loathed the thought of them—but she was in no situation to be fussy about such matters. She took the place, dropped into a chair by a vacant table to eat an unattractive sandwich and drink a cup of tea, and then she went to the telephone with sudden resolve and called up Edith. She would go to Edith’s house party and have one day of friendliness and enough to eat before she started at her obnoxious job in that odious little restaurant. The girls needn’t even know that she had left home. Edith knew only that her mother was dead, and if she told her that she had been away when her invitation came, that would be excuse enough for her delay in replying.

So she called her friend and found an eager, welcoming voice at the other end of the line, which warmed her heart and helped her to keep her resolve not to think about that awful restaurant until Monday morning.

As she unlocked her door, the breath of the carnations met her, and she felt a sudden reluctance to leave them. But it was too late now; she had given her word that she would come, and she could wear a good big sheaf of the flowers and put the rest safely in their box sprinkled and find them quite fresh and nice on her return.

So she hurried with her dressing, put some of her prettiest things in her overnight bag, fastened on some flowers, and departed.

It was dark as she went out the door, and she hurried a little as she noticed a skulking figure across the road in the shadows. Diana found it hard to get used to her surroundings and was just the least little bit afraid every time she went out into the dark, ugly street alone at night. She wished she had gotten started earlier. Well, she was off for a whole day, and she wouldn’t remember that Monday was coming and she would have to serve smelly meals to a throng of coarse people. She would try to feel happy like other girls just for one day at least. After that she would have to disappear, drop out of sight. Her job would claim her inexorably. She must remember that in talking with whomever she met tonight; she must be exceedingly hazy about her future. She had engagements that would keep her away from home indefinitely—that would be a good explanation to give—and she wasn’t quite sure where she would be, but the home address would reach her.