The Flower Brides (79 page)

At last the evening was over and he took her home, his gracious, lovely manner just the same, his attractiveness and strength and the flash of his smile, even the way his voice said “Camilla,” were all hers, just as they had been when they started early in the evening. Just as if Camilla didn’t know in her heart that this was the end.

And he hadn’t yet referred once to what she had said.

Then, just as Camilla gave him her key to let him unlock the door for her, he took both of her hands in his and pressed them gently.

“Camilla,” he said, “you’re a great friend, and I’m glad I’ve found you; and someday pretty soon, when we can get time and a quiet place without too many people around, I want to talk more about what you were saying when we were interrupted.”

And right there on her own doorstep, with all the little, sordid, shabby brick houses up and down the street asleep, and not a soul in sight either way, he suddenly laid his lips on her trembling ones and kissed her.

“Good night, little girl!”

He unlocked the door for her and swung it softly open, for they had agreed to be quiet lest they waken her mother, and Camilla said a faltering, little, frightened good night and slipped inside the door, closing it softly behind her.

He was gone. She could hear his car driving away! And his kiss was burning on her lips!

Oh, Camilla! Camilla! What had she done? Let him kiss her and said not a word. Yes, and yielded her lips to his!

It was sweet, but it must be the end! Absolutely the end!

C
amilla locked the door silently and stole into the front room, stepping out of her satin shoes at once so that she should not disturb her mother and the nurse, although if she had only known it, both of them were wide awake and had been for the last hour, awaiting her coming. But each for the sake of the other lay quite still. The mother could not sleep because she had gone in imagination through every detail of the evening with her beloved child. She had lain almost without stirring because she did not want the nurse to scold her and give her hot milk or a tablet to make her sleep. She was enjoying every minute of this outing for her daughter who had so little to take her out of the round of hard work.

The nurse had gone to bed early and lain very quiet for her patient’s sake, but she, too, had been renewing her youth, full of excitement over the beautiful young girl and the man who had not only unusual attraction but wealth and charm besides. It seemed like a real romance to Eleanor York, and she lay there planning it out as if it had been a storybook she was reading.

So the two left at home were by no means asleep when Camilla came in and went about her preparations for bed with as few movements as possible.

Perhaps it would have been better for all three if Camilla had frankly wakened them and gushed a little bit about her evening. Certainly it would have taken her own mind from the things that disturbed her.

But she slid into her bed that stood waiting for her with its covers carefully turned back, flung the covers over her with one movement, and lay rigid, her conscience already beginning to grill her with the details of the evening, hauling out and displaying before her every disturbing element, until she felt like writhing.

Beginning with that kiss, that sweet, burning kiss that lingered hauntingly upon her lips, her mind traveled backward over each moment she had been away, sensing the preciousness of it all, even while she rejected it as something she must not have for her own.

Then back again from the moment she had left her home, down through each little thing; how clearly it was impressed upon her mind. Wainwright’s smile, the way his eyes had searched hers when he asked a question, the way their thoughts had seemed to travel together, the way they understood each other, his easy grace as he helped her out of the car and led her to the table, his pleasant compliments. Were they genuine, or did he say those things to every girl? She could not believe they were not genuine, not just for herself alone.

Ah! But there was that other girl! That girl with the jeweled gold hair and the mocking red lips who had called him “Jeff” and stared at her so insolently! The iron went deep into her soul as she thought of her! And there were all the other things that made up his world: the wine, the dance, and all the carefree frivolity that constituted the difference between his world and hers; the huge gulf fixed that might not be crossed; the gulf between Life and Death, light and darkness, unalterable and eternal. That he would ever accept the Life she possessed seemed as improbable as that a camel should go through the eye of a needle.

Yet how gentle he had been with her on the way home. Almost as if he understood that something had been a shock to her. Of course, he had blamed it on the way the other girl had acted. He wouldn’t have understood the other even if she tried to tell him. It was a spiritual thing and had to be spiritually discerned.

Yet he had a wonderfully fine human understanding and sympathy. She felt that instinctively, and she warmed to the remembrance of his manner toward her on the way home, and then—that kiss! If anyone had told her earlier in the day that she would have allowed a young man to kiss her, unrebuked, a strange young man at that, one to whom she had never really been even introduced, she would have been angry indeed. Yet, as the memory of that kiss came back to her, she could not seem to be indignant. It had not been given flippantly nor roughly. It had been reverent. Utterly so. It had not even seemed a liberty. And yet if some other girl had tried to explain such a thing away, Camilla would have curled a lip of scorn at her. No, according to her own confessed standards it was wrong; and yet, when she thought of it, in spite of all her theories and beliefs, even in spite of facts, she felt as if that kiss had been a sort of benediction, a tribute laid at the feet of her womanhood. It had been so reverent, so gentle. There had been nothing wanton about it.

Was this the thing they called falling in love, and was she after all her careful teaching, after her most heartfelt convictions, to lose her head and become engulfed in a love affair with a man who did not belong to her world? No, no, no! A thousand times no! This must be the end. She would tell him so. She must make him understand!

But perhaps he, too, felt that this was the end. Perhaps that had been the real meaning of that kiss, a kind of wistful, sorrowful farewell. For he must see that she was not of his class, no matter how much he might say or think about her being to the manor born. He could see she was unsophisticated. He must understand that there could be nothing more between them than the friendliness which had been that first night when he went out of his way to help her in distress.

Beating this over and over in her mind, she sank at last to sleep, with the hope that somehow the tangle would unravel and all would yet be simple and normal with her as it always had been. But in the night there came a dream, which carried on all the joy of her evening and none of the fears, and when she awoke in the morning it was with a tender memory of his lips upon hers that made her glad in her secret heart that she had had that one beautiful moment when he had said good night to her. It would be something to remember all through the years if love came never nearer to her than it had last night. It would be a way to be sure what love might be between two souls who were rightly mated.

But it was late when she awoke, and she could see the eagerness in the eyes of the two who had so willingly helped her to be ready last night. She knew that somehow she must give them their reward of joy in her outing, for they had done all in their power to make her happy. This might be the end of things for her, but they deserved their bit of description, their glimpse of the excitement and beauty of it all.

So while she dressed and hurriedly ate a few bites to satisfy their anxiety for her, she gave vivid word pictures of her evening, omitting all that had troubled her and omitting that precious kiss at the end. She gave them a fair sense of her own excitement and joy in the scene; she even managed a few bright, funny descriptions of people she had seen; and she described Wainwright’s uncle and aunt gravely and briefly, made plain their cordiality and friendliness, until she found Miss York’s eyes fixed on her in eager speculation and her mother’s eyes filled with mingled pride and anxiety.

So Camilla made much of the gorgeousness of the famous restaurant, spoke of how stylish she felt with her new gloves, and thanked Miss York for putting her orchids in water on the table where she could see them while she ate. But she utterly refused to wear them to the office.

“No,” she said decidedly. “They don’t belong down there, and I don’t wish to give false impressions.”

Then with a good-bye to Miss York, who was to leave that afternoon, and an earnest invitation for her to come back and visit them whenever she could, she kissed her mother and was gone.

She felt as she walked to the nearest trolley-car line that she had suddenly grown a great deal older since last evening. It was a relief, too, to be away from the dear, kind eyes that loved her and searched her face so keenly.

Nevertheless, as she went her way into another part of the city and threaded through traffic from one car line to another and then to a bus, she found she was hugging to herself every pleasant thing that had happened last night, every look and tone and smile and kindly word. Wainwright had told her that her car would be ready in a couple of days, and she realized what a wonderful thing he had done for her in looking after the repairs on that. She was sure if it had been left to her own engineering she would never have had that little old car again. But he had assured her it would be good as new. And to think he had arranged it for her so that she would not have to pay a cent! Well, that was something to let her heart sing about, anyway, even if she must not let herself think about the young man.

And she mustn’t! She had got to conquer this thing! She looked into the pleasant sunny morning and drew a deep breath, forced a smile, and decided that she was just going to be happy and not worry about anything. Think of her mother who was well again! Able to help clear off the table that morning! Think how her car would soon be repaired, which would carry her so much more quickly, yes, and cheaply, too, to her office! Think that she had a job to go to and with careful economy a prospect of paying both nurse and doctor before long! Think that there were orchids still at home! No, she must not think about those darling orchids! They would inevitably lead to other thoughts, which must be taboo for her or she would presently find herself in deep waters like any other silly girl!

Yet when she finally arrived at her office, just in time, and went to hang up her coat and hat, she found her heart singing, singing, singing! Why? Silly heart that would sing in spite of depression and thoughts she must not think!

That night her mother asked a lot of questions, and she answered them glibly. She had been schooling herself all day and did very well, even under those keen, loving eyes.

“And what did you think of the young man, Camilla, after spending a whole evening in his company?” asked the mother at last, watching the sweet, transparent face of the girl.

“Oh, just what I thought of him before!” answered Camilla with a trifling little laugh. “Charming, of course! Mother, it does make a difference to be brought up with lovely things around you. I’m sure it does. He is so much more gracious and courteous than most of the men in the office, for instance! But then, of course, he belongs to a different world.”

Camilla caught up the tray full of dishes and hurried back into the kitchen, feeling that she had done very well under inspection.

When she came back for the rest, her mother went on. “You still feel that, do you, Camilla?” There was just the hint of a little sigh at the end of the words and the girl caught it. She was sensitive to her mother’s very thoughts.

“Oh yes.” She laughed lightly again. “I knew that at once when I first met him. But—” She paused for some causal ending to her sentence. “It is nice to know him. It is broadening, don’t you think, Mother, to have at least one really cultured friend outside the family?”

Her mother smiled at the glib way she spoke of him, so formally, as if he were some kind of a specimen. She knew she had not gotten down to the heart of the matter yet, but she was wise enough to say nothing more about it.

“I suppose it is,” she agreed with a smile. “Well, child, dear, don’t lose your heart to him!” But she said it with the least hint of another sigh. It would be nice to have a friend for Camilla like that one who was fine and right in every way, a real true man—if he was all that! She dreaded the thought that she might be called away from earth someday soon and Camilla be left alone. She knew she had been very near the borderland in her last illness.

But Camilla, even while she was finishing the dishes and putting back into place the articles of furniture and bedding that had been rearranged to accommodate the nurse during her mother’s illness, found her heart on the alert for a step at the door or a tap on the old iron knocker, and caught herself looking wistfully toward the telephone for a ring that did not come. He had said when he parted from her that he would be seeing her soon. Yet the first night and the second night passed with no sign from him, not even a phone call, and then indeed her heart began to sink. She hated herself for the feeling, but it was there, a sorrow that he had not come. A deep-seated conviction that he would not come. That it had really been the end!

But when she reached home the third evening and opened the front door, a subtle fragrance greeted her at the very threshold—the perfume of hothouse roses! Her heart leaped up with hope. Was it hope or joy? She didn’t stop to analyze it. She went at once to the source of that fragrance, the big bowl of golden roses on the little mahogany stand in the front room, like a bee to the honey, and buried her face in their sweetness.

Glad, glad, glad! Yes, it was joy! Pure joy!

Her mother came in a moment later, a knife and spoon in her hand and a smudge of flour on her cheek.