The Flower Brides (93 page)

With that threat she closed the door and tiptoed away to prowl around and see what she could do to make the house more livable.

She found two big baskets of dishes wrapped in newspapers and set to work putting them on the cabinet shelves, putting away knives and forks and spoons in the drawers. The kitchen utensils had come in with the first load, also, and before Camilla returned Nurse York had the kitchen in fair order, as far as things that had arrived, for Mrs. Chrystie, with careful foresight, had sent in the first load what would be needed first.

Back at the old home Camilla telephoned Mr. Glyndon according to previous arrangement, and before long he arrived, paid the movers, and gave Camilla a check for the rest of the money promised. She stood looking at the check in a kind of daze. It seemed so strange to her that so suddenly she had been lifted out of the appalling debt that had hung over her and threatened to engulf her and been put into ease and freedom, with a better house to live in, and for her mother the companionship at times of Miss York. She hadn’t known how she was going to get along, and now it was all fixed. Of course, she wasn’t rolling in wealth yet, but it seemed luxury just to be out of debt and have the rent ahead for a few months so that she could have a chance to lay up a little for a time of emergency. How good God had been to her!

Then as she heard the movers coming back to get another piece of furniture, she folded the check quickly, put it in her purse, and hurried off upstairs to make sure that nothing had been forgotten.

As she came downstairs again and looked down upon the emptiness and desolation in the little front hall, a sudden sadness came over her. Something brought back that night that her mother was so very sick and Wainwright had proved such a tower of strength.

There was nothing left down there now in the living room but a few chairs and the old piano. She could seem to see Wainwright’s evening coat lying across the top. And the old Morris chair! She remembered how she had found him that next morning, asleep in the Morris chair in the hall, his long dark lashes lying on his cheeks, his beautiful hair tossed back in disorder from his handsome forehead. How good and dear he had looked to her! And the orchids! Beautiful, delicate creatures! And his pleasant grin! It gave her a distinct pang to realize that she would never likely see him again. He would never appear at the door of this house and ask for her! And he wouldn’t know where else to look for her!

Suddenly she was appalled to think that she was so absolutely cutting herself off from him and there wasn’t any way she could leave a clue to herself. Her mother had duly written her note of thanks for the oranges but there had come no answer, and she had no excuse for writing again. And even if she had, she wouldn’t, of course. No, he was gone into the unknown world of people, even as he had come, and he would never be in her life again. And it was right that it should be so! But oh, how it hurt! For there still was that sharp, sweet memory of the kiss he had given her, the kiss that seemed to seal something precious between them. To think that she, Camilla Chrystie, should have to have a memory of such a thing, a kiss that could still burn and humiliate, and yet could be so precious! She, who had always prided herself on her carefulness where men were concerned, her cool reticence, and her ability to protect herself.

And suddenly she realized that she had been counting on his coming back sometime in spite of it all. And God, knowing that, had cut her off from any such possibility! God was helping her against her own weakness. Well, she should be thankful that she was going away where she would not be constantly reminded of him. How unheard of! Just a few days with a stranger and something had come into her life of which she could not rid herself! She
must
! She
would
!

When she finally locked the door and handed the key to Mr. Glyndon she felt as if she were shutting the door on one of the brightest experiences of her life, and she was rather glad that Mr. Glyndon was there, saying courteous things about regretting he had had to hurry her and hoping the new home would be all right. There really wasn’t any time to be sentimental about leaving that doorstep, that sordid little grimy doorstep where Wainwright and she had stood together a few short weeks before, and she was glad with a kind of moral approval that it was so.

Back in her car again, speeding ahead of the moving van, she reflected on life. Why did one young man have to get such a hold on her thoughts above all other young men she had ever met? Was it just the halo of romance, meeting him in the street in the dark that way and having his help in her time of need? Was it because of his wealth and position, his personal attraction, his courteous manner, his white orchids?

Why, for instance, couldn’t she be as interested in Mr. Whitlock? He was good-looking, too. He probably had plenty of wealth and social position, if one knew the whole story. And he certainly was courteous and a delightful escort. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask her to go out with him anymore, but if he did she ought to be glad to put some new thoughts and experiences into her mind. That was probably the problem—she had been too much to herself. She just worked too hard and never went anywhere. That must be why the first fascinating stranger held her thoughts so long and so exclusively.

Well, the new home in the new place might give her new friends and erase morbid longings for something that was never really hers.

So she arrived at the new house and realized that she was terribly tired. Such a long day with so many responsibilities. She just must stop thinking about herself and give herself to the duties before her. She had to direct the placing of all the rest of the things before she could think of getting to bed. And there was the kitchen. She ought to get things in shape for a breakfast.

So she drove into the tiny corrugated iron garage at the back of the tiny lot and shut her car in for the night, thankful that there was a garage and she didn’t have to leave the car with its new paint out in the open, for it looked as if there was going to be more snow.

But when she opened the door, there was Miss York still holding the fort and the dishes in shining rows on the shelves. A sense of comfort and peace came upon her.

“I brought over my electric toaster,” said Miss York, indicating her arrangements on the shelf of the cabinet. “You can make toast in no time in the morning, and you’re not to get up any earlier than usual. Jinny is coming over in the morning to work and see that your mother doesn’t. I found the bread box had a loaf of bread in it, and I hunted the coffee. Also, the woman next door put a note in her milk bottle to ask her milkman to leave you some cream in the morning. I started some oatmeal, and it will keep cooking a little all night on the pilot light in that double boiler. If that isn’t breakfast enough for you the first morning you can get more in the city.”

For answer Camilla flung her arms around Miss York’s neck and gave her a kiss.

“You dear angel-guardian!” she cried. “What should we have done without you?”

“There, there, now, no sob-stuff!” said the nurse, turning pink at the caress. “Hurry up and get done with those movers so I can tuck you into bed before I go.”

“But it’s almost eleven o’clock. You ought to go home at once! I don’t like you running around so late alone.”

The nurse stared and then laughed.

“Don’t you know I’ve been used to taking care of myself for thirty years? Don’t you worry about me.”

“Well, if you’re going to worry about me,” declared Camilla, “then I’m going to worry about you. Come now, please put your hat on and go, and I’ll promise, honor bright, to get into bed the minute the movers are gone.”

The movers were not long in getting the last load placed. They had their pay and were anxious to get home to their beds. But Miss York managed to stay around until they were gone. She was used to having her way.

So presently Camilla found herself sinking away to sleep and feeling like a traveler just set sail upon new seas toward strange unexplored lands.

S
tephanie Varrell was reading a telegram just received from her lawyer.

She sat on the end veranda of the hotel that looked off toward the sea, but she did not see the water. On her face was the smile of the cat who has just licked the cream off the pan of milk or the frosting off the sponge cake. The telegram read as follows:

Stephanie read it through several times carefully, the cat-and-cream expression still on her face. Then she took her little gold pencil out of her purse and wrote rapidly on the back of the telegram:

When Mr. Glyndon received that message, he smiled, amused.

“The divine Stephanie must hate somebody pretty badly just now,” he said to himself.

Stephanie had sent that message on its way and then had left the view of the leaping, dancing, golden sea and searched diligently until she had discovered Jeff’s mother in one of her usual knitting haunts in the windless corner where her carefully sculpted hairdo would not be disturbed. Stephanie dropped down to exclaim over the beauty of the knitting she was doing.

Madame Wainwright gave her a keen glance and ignored her, and presently Stephanie, in honeyed words, asked about Jeff.

“He’s having a wonderful time, isn’t he?” she gushed. “They say that trip is great if you can stand the insects and the serpents.”

“There are a good many kinds of insects—and serpents,” remarked Jeffrey Wainwright’s mother dryly, but gave no further information.

“But I thought he told me he had to be back in the north before this,” lied Stephanie, with narrowed jacinth eyes on her victim.

“Perhaps he did,” said Jeffrey’s mother calmly. “He probably changed his plans.”

“He went with his younger brother, didn’t he? I don’t blame you for being nervous about the little fellow down in an awful place like that, although it must be perfectly fascinating.”

“He went because he chose to,” said Mrs. Wainwright calmly, beginning to count her stitches. “There was no reason why I should be nervous about Sam. He’s quite capable of looking out for himself, even if there hadn’t been a competent man in charge of the boys.”

“Then you think Jeffrey may return in time for the tennis tournament Saturday?” cunningly asked the girl. “It would be too bad for him to miss that. He’s practically a champion now, isn’t he?”

“I really don’t know what my son’s plans are, Miss Varrell,” said Jeffrey’s mother coldly.

“But at least you don’t think he’ll go back north yet, do you?” persisted the girl.

“That will depend entirely on whether his father needs him,” said the woman haughtily. “Excuse me, I’ve got to count these stitches again. I think I’ve made a mistake.”

But Stephanie had found out what she wanted. Jeff hadn’t gone back north yet, that was pretty sure. She had been afraid he had slipped away home already, but she had taken a chance and caught his mother unaware. Women like Mrs. Wainwright could evade, but they didn’t deliberately lie. Jeffrey was still in the South, and if Mr. Glyndon did his duty, there would be no house left on Vesey Street when Jeffrey got back home. She walked to the other end of the veranda and looked off to sea, and her jacinth eyes glinted gold with triumph. She would win out for a few more days anyway, perhaps. She meant to crush that other gold-haired, deep-eyed girl like an eggshell under her foot if she got in her way again. And perhaps the longer Jeff stayed in the forest, the quicker he would forget the other girl and whatever it was she said to him that night they had all met.

Meantime, there were other pleasant things she could do besides worry over her hates and desires. There were other fish in the sea as good as those that had been caught, or nearly caught, and she was pretty sure that Jeff was safe for a time. Why not enjoy herself?

So she garbed herself scantily and dropped down to the beach with her best golden lure.

Twenty-four hours later workmen arrived at 125 Vesey Street and began to roll up the tin roof of the little old shabby house like a scroll; unbrick its wall; pull out its windows like old teeth; and tear up the cheap, worn floors and the two stubby wooden steps where Camilla had stood to say good night to Jeffrey Wainwright the last time she saw him. And surely if intangible things can haunt, the ghost of that kiss he laid upon her lips that night must have fled the neighborhood in utter rout.