The Flower Brides (58 page)

She was on her way out at last when the manager stood up from his table where he was counting a heap of small change and tapped her on the shoulder.

“You done purty good, Jane, for a first try.”

She thanked him wearily and, with his words of commendation in her ears, went on her way.

The breath of her flowers smote across her consciousness as she entered her room. Poor flowers, condemned to brighten this dim room alone. Yet the very consciousness that they were here in this quiet place that was all hers made it possible for her to keep on through the day. She stopped to caress them, and the healing balm of them as always soothed her. But she was too weary even to think about them tonight. She flung off her garments and got into bed, drowsing even in the act. She had never before known what it was to be so tired, and the blessedness of sleep came down upon her like a curtain. She roused only to wind her alarm clock, mindful even in the weariness of the ugly warnings those other girls had received at being even a second tardy.

Morning came with the sharp, insistent shriek of the little imp of a clock by her side, and she roused to the bitterness of her new life, languid, sore in heart and muscle, then dragged herself up to go through another day like the first one. Was it humanly possible for her to keep this up? Her gains through tips the first day had been so pitifully little, less than a dollar all told, and the starvation wage would not come until the week was up. That was the whip her new employer held over the heads of his help. Of course, she had food, such as it was, but no appetite for it. It seemed to her sick senses as if it was something that her soul had wallowed in for centuries when she came to eat that food. Its strong, greasy, scorched aroma had filled her lungs and nostrils until they were sated. Why should anyone want to eat, anyway? Why should they have to?

Even Sunday brought only half-day relief, for the arrangement was that the girls took turns getting a full Sunday off. Jane was told that hers would come in four weeks, as she was a newcomer and must wait her turn. In consternation she looked forward to four steady weeks of this toil, broken only by that half-day once in seven! And when the seventh day came and she reached her room, she had no wish but to lie down and sleep again. She did not even stop to caress her drooping flowers. What did it matter? Someone had cared to send them, but she was too far gone in weariness to give them the attention they demanded. Well, they were dying and she would soon be dead, too, perhaps.

She had tried to read her Bible nights when she came home but found herself so utterly fatigued that she could not take in the meaning of the words. She was gradually comprehending the life a large part of the world was living, and she wondered if God cared. Did He truly care? Oh, she wanted to believe it, but somehow that first Sunday afternoon after she became a waitress in that awful restaurant she could not quite feel sure anymore. She was just sick with weariness. Perhaps, later, she would become accustomed to such hard work and wouldn’t mind it so much, she told herself as she put her head down upon the pillow that first Sunday afternoon without the ceremony of undressing and was immediately drenched with sleep.

It was Mrs. Lundy who wakened her, just at early evening, knocking on her door. She had a large box in her arms, and she was quite insistent. “These here come last night, but you wasn’t in yet. I told Lottie to bring ’em up when she heard you come in, but she didn’t bother, and when I come up this mornin’ you was gone. I guess it’s more flowers. Say, he must be a regular guy, sendin’ ’em once a week.”

Flowers? Diana looked up with her sleep-laden eyes. Her heart leaped up, and she came awake at once, a soft color stealing into her pale cheeks. The flowers! They had come again! Not just once, but at regular intervals, just as they had been at home, only now by boxes instead of by blossoms! Wonder of wonders! And she had doubted her God’s caring!

Of course, the Bible said nothing at all about God’s sending carnations to show His loving care, but somehow in spite of common sense those spirit-flowers seemed connected in some way with God.

“I said he must be a regular guy, sendin’ ’em once a week!” repeated the landlady, looking at her curiously.

“Oh, yes,” said Diana, a light coming into her eyes. “Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it?” And she swept an upward glance at the curious old woman with a smile that suddenly wiped away all the weariness from her face. “Yes, it does!” she lilted. “He must be!”

“Well, if he’s such a swell feller, why doesn’t he come across an’ give you enough to pay your rent on time?”

“Oh,” said Diana quickly, apologetically, a flush coming to her cheeks. “I have it right here, Mrs. Lundy. I meant to give it to you last night but it was so late, and your room seemed to be dark—and I was so tired—!”

Mrs. Lundy, with a mollified manner, swept her another curious glance.

“Seem like if he can afford to send a lotta flowers like that he might do somepin’ to keep you from workin’ so hard!”

Diana cast her a superior smile from a cool distance.

“But, you see, I wouldn’t let anyone do that, Mrs. Lundy!” she said proudly.

“Oh!” said the woman significantly, and then after a pause, “Well, some does that way, o’ course, but I say it don’t pay to be too pertikelar in these days! You gotta live, you know!”

“I’m not so sure,” said Diana, counting out the change, and Mrs. Lundy went on her way.

Then Diana locked her door and turned back to her box, thoroughly awake now, her cheeks flaming crimson, her breath coming quickly as if she had been running, and her eyes starry bright.

They had come again! Her mysterious flowers. She did not care where they came from, they had come. God had let them come. Perhaps she would never find out who sent them, but she knew they came from God.

She opened the box and suddenly saw a white envelope bearing her name, lying right on the top of the wax paper that veiled the flowers, and her breath almost stopped. She sat back staring at it for a full minute before she put out her hand to touch it.

Was that the same handwriting that had been on the outside of the first box? No, it wasn’t! She reached down in the corner and picked up the first box where she had hidden it behind the bureau. No, it was a different hand! It was a fine, clear, strong hand. A man’s hand? Or—could it be a woman’s? No, not possibly, and yet some women—nowadays—wrote in quite a masculine way. But the woman, if it was a woman, who would conceive the idea of putting flowers in the way of a troubled girl would never be one who would write a masculine hand. It wasn’t thinkable.

These thoughts raced through her brain while she sat staring at the envelope, quite forgetful of the flowers whose perfume reached delicately out to enwrap her soul again.

How silly she was to sit here staring when she had only to open that envelope and the secret would be revealed, likely, the mystery solved. Yet she dreaded knowing the truth, now that it seemed within her grasp. She could not bear to have her one little romance stripped of its mystery and brought out in the open commonplace of day.

Then at once she could stand it no longer, and she opened the envelope with trembling hands and read what was within:

That was all! No name signed, no address or date or anything!

And the mystery was still unsolved, yet very precious, but now there was a definite person connected with them, with a real intention of sending them.

She arose with her flowers, knelt as before, and thanked God for sending them. Then she arranged them in a lovely jar and sat down before them to enjoy their beauty and fragrance and think over and over again the words of that message.

“I found your precious note.”
Precious—! It thrilled her just to think it over. Precious! Somebody cared! God cared, at least. And He must have let
somebody
else care, too, but not in any foolish way. In a wonderfully tender way, with more of heaven than earth in its quality.

Flowers!
Precious
flowers!

A
t the Disston mansion the servants had reigned for a week only, ordering what they liked and keeping high carnival. Helen had not bothered to look up their references. She said they were smart-looking and knew their way around. She wanted them because they had served in fashionable circles, or professed to have done so. But when she chose to insist upon weekends at the shore or mountains and spoke of whole weeks away, with the house running and ready for immediate occupancy, they looked forward to time on their hands and carte blanche to do as they liked. If the master of the house protested at such waste, Helen silenced him at once with the suggestion that Diana might choose to come home at any time, and he wouldn’t want her to find a closed house, would he? And the master said no more.

He was more and more worried about Diana, waiting daily, expectantly, for word from her, which did not arrive, depressed beyond rallying after the mail would come and still no word.

He and Helen had come home at his insistence. He must look after his business, he said. And, indeed, it had been sadly neglected, his mind being on other things. There were plenty of things about his business to worry about if he had only chosen to remember it.

They came home about the middle of the morning just after the mail had arrived, and then trouble descended upon them.

Helen looked up brightly from her sheaf of letters and invitations.

“Listen!” she cried, an open letter in her hand. “Max Copley has invited us to a house party! It’s to be the end of this week. Isn’t that swanky? I must get a couple of new dresses for it. I might go in town this afternoon and look around.”

“No!” said her husband sharply. “Not with any idea of going to a party at
that
man’s house. I want nothing to do with him or any crowd in which he moves. He isn’t fit for you to speak to!”

“Oh really?” said Helen, with lifted brows. “Now that poisonous mind and tongue of yours is going to give another exhibition, is it? What a veritable old crab you are getting to be, and so soon after we are married! Well, I supposed it wouldn’t last, but I didn’t think you would change so soon. However, do as you like for yourself. I’m
going
! Get me? You can’t tie
me
down to your age!”

The gray look that was getting to be habitual on Mr. Disston’s face suddenly descended.

“Not my age, perhaps, Helen, but to my station at least, surely.”

“No, not to your station, either, not if you are determined to live in a past generation. I’m stepping out, and you can go with me or stay behind for all I care. It’s entirely up to you, darling. But you can’t tie me down, for I won’t be tied! And I’m going into town to get a few new clothes! I’d like some money, if you don’t mind. You’d better give it to me now so I won’t be delayed about it after lunch. I want to get an early start.”

A still grayer look came over Mr. Disston’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he said after an instant’s hesitation. “I can’t give you any now. In fact, I’m afraid I can’t give you any more till the first of the month. We’ve been spending a good deal more than usual, and I find I am running a little short.” He said it in an apologetic tone, but Helen’s face flushed red.

“Really?” she said with a touch of scorn on her lips. “Well, you certainly have gone to the end of your resources in a hurry. We haven’t been doing very much for a honeymoon. Just a few weekends.”

“We’ve been to the best hotels always, and you’ve wanted all the extras. Besides, we’ve had a great deal of company. You’ve no idea how that adds up. Of course, you haven’t had much experience in housekeeping yet.”

“Oh, I suppose your model daughter would have done better!” flashed Helen angrily.

“I didn’t say that, Helen,” said Mr. Disston sadly, “but, of course, those new servants you got did bring the bills up a great deal. I was rather appalled at the bills. They all came to the office yesterday. And coming just now when business is at the very lowest ebb it makes it pretty hard.”

Helen stared at him with vexed eyes and then flounced up from her chair, letting fall a sheaf of letters to the floor, and went and looked out the window.

“Oh well,” she said, still offended, “of course, I can always charge things, but I hate to be hampered this way. When you are married you naturally consider that you can have a few things the way they ought to be. Well”—with a sigh—“never mind, I can charge things.”

Disston glanced up with a look in his eyes that was almost frightened.

“No, Helen, please don’t do that, either. I’ve had several insistent letters from the places where you have been buying. It seems you have already been charging things, and I thought I had given you money enough in all reason for the things you said you wanted to buy.”

“Oh, my goodness!” snapped Helen. “Have I got to be watched and spied on? I hate a spy! And I hate a tightfisted man. I supposed, of course, you wanted your wife to appear as well as she could. I only got what I absolutely had to have.”

“Helen, you distress me, dear. Come and sit down, and let me explain to you.”

“You distress me, too,” said Helen bitterly. But she came and sat down.

“Well, it’s just this way. I don’t want to trouble you with my business affairs any more than is necessary, but just this last week a situation has arisen which makes it necessary that I save every penny possible, for a short time at least. You will remember that I have been much away from the office during the past month, and it seems a number of critical situations arose during my absence that had to be met by my subordinates. They did the best they knew, but it was not what I would have done if I had been there, and therefore things have got into a serious tangle. Of course, I am hoping that I shall be able to right matters soon, and all will yet go well, but just for the present, until I tell you further, I shall have to ask you to spend just as little as possible. You must know that this is mortifying to me, just after our marriage, to have to say this to you, but I am sure you will cooperate with me in this matter until we have clear sailing before us again.”