The Flower Brides (37 page)

“Ah, poor wee thing! Poor wee thing!” she murmured again softly as she trotted back and put the large sheaf of crimson roses in water. Strange and sad and significant that both these floral tokens had come in one evening! Then, her work done, Maggie stood with her hands on her hips surveying the flowers, and her mind reverted to a tiny crystal vase she had seen upstairs in Diana’s room.

“
Those
flowers?’” she said meditatively, interrogatively. “Where did those flowers come from?” And her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Ah! The poor wee thing!” she said with another sigh. “What would her bonnie mother say if she knew it?”

D
own at the little stone cottage by the big iron gates, the “poor wee buddy” who was the new tenant was welcoming her son back after the day’s absence.

“You’re late, Gordon. I’ve been worried about you. I was afraid something had happened. I’m always worried when you go off on those long motor trips with someone else driving. I was sure you had had an accident. You’ve always been so good about telephoning when you’re late.”

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry. We had a flat tire away out in the country where we couldn’t get word to a garage, and we had to fix it ourselves with inadequate tools. It’s strange to me what risks some men take, when a few little tools would put one on the safe side. There wasn’t a telephone near us, and when we got to a town if we had stopped to telephone I should have missed my bus out from the city. And I knew you’d rather I’d hurry on and catch it than have to wait up till all hours looking for me, as you always will even if I telephone.”

“Yes,” said the mother half sheepishly. “I like to, you know, dear son.”

“Yes, I know you do,” said the son, stooping and giving her an affectionate kiss, “and I ought not to find fault with you. I’d be mighty lonely if you weren’t here to watch for me. I’m pretty fortunate to have a mother that likes to watch for me, I know. But say, you didn’t have the forethought to save a bite of dinner for me, did you? I’m starved. We had lunch at twelve o’clock, and not a minute nor a place to stop to eat again. I just barely caught the bus as it was.”

“Of course I saved the dinner, Son. You didn’t think I’d forget how you love home-cooked dinners, did you? Go wash up, and I’ll have it on the table by the time you get down again.”

She hurried away eagerly, a soft roseleaf flush on her cheeks like a girl, her eyes alight, a glad look of relief on her face. She really had been worried. She had been so worried that she had been praying about it.

So presently her tall son returned just as she was setting a steaming silver platter down in front of his plate.

“Mother!” he exclaimed. “Chicken! Are we celebrating something tonight? And I don’t believe you’ve eaten a bite of it! Mother! And it’s all of nine o’clock! Two legs, two wings, a whole breast”—he leaned forward with the carving knife in his hand and pretended to count the members of the bird. “Why, Mother, even the neck and the back and the gizzard are here. Now, Mother, that won’t do! You’ll get sick going without your food so long. You’ve got to stop doing this way.”

She smiled. “Oh, I had a cup of tea and a biscuit just to stay my stomach till you came. Besides, when you’re anxious it’s not so good to eat, you know.”

“There you are, little Mother MacCarroll, what’n all am I going to have to do with you? And I can’t help being late sometimes no matter how hard I try. Sometimes it’s impossible even to telephone.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” said the mother with a happy smile. “You always get home eventually, and then we have such happy times! It’s worth waiting for!”

“But not worrying for, Mother dear! I thought you had faith in your heavenly Father! Why can’t you trust me in His care?”

“Well, I do!” laughed the mother. “I always trust you there. I was just bearing you up in prayer.”

A tender look came over the young man’s face.

“And where would I be, Mother, if you didn’t do that?” he said with a smile like a benediction.

He bowed his head then reverently prayed, “Lord, we thank Thee for each other, and for Thyself, and for this food which Thou has furnished us tonight.”

There was chicken with dumplings, light as feathers. How she managed it none could say, unless she had an uncanny intuition just when to put them in or some trick about not uncovering the pot until they were ready to be taken out and eaten; but there they were, not a soggy one among them. And mashed potatoes, too; not sulking as mashed potatoes know how to do when they have to wait too long to be eaten. There was plenty of gravy and little white onions creamed and a quivering mound of currant jelly left over from last winter, with sugar cookies and coffee to top off. It was a supper fit for a king.

And when they had both been served and were seated enjoying everything, Gordon said, “Well, Mother, what’s been going on at our estate today?”

It was a joke between them when they took this tiny, beautiful little cottage on the edge of the wide lawn that the whole was their estate, and they spoke of the people at the “mansion” house as “their family.” They hadn’t met any of them, of course. The cottage was rented through an agent, and the new tenants had moved in without the family in the big house even knowing they were there until they chanced to notice a light in the windows one evening and remarked about it. So for some little time they did not know who were the inmates of the house, and most assuredly did not know them except by the general term of
tenants
. All of which, however, did not hinder the tenants from being deeply interested to know who lived in the big, beautiful house and to watch everyone who came and went with eager interest and a kind of possessiveness, as one would watch the scenery around a new home to become familiar with it and grow to love it. So the MacCarrolls watched and talked over their landlord’s house and felt as if they somehow had a landed right in them, and so Gordon asked his mother, “What’s been going on at our estate today?”

“Well,” said the mother, smiling, “not much. The little lady took her customary walk early in the day, but she came back earlier than usual, and I couldn’t help thinking she had a worried look. But maybe that was just my imagination. She didn’t come out again all day, though I kept a watchful eye out. I hope it wasn’t because she was sick that she didn’t come. I thought maybe I’d see the Scotch woman who came down the night we moved in, but never a sight of her did I get. If the little lady isn’t out tomorrow, I’ll maybe make an excuse to run up with some jelly and inquire after her.”

“Well, that would be friendly,” the son said, smiling. “Oh, you’ll get to know her yet, I’m sure. No one can resist you when you once take a liking to anybody. And what did she look like this morning when she went by? Did she look pale that you should think she was ill?”

“Well, no,” the mother said with a smile, carrying out the little farce they played together to keep from being lonely in this strange land to which they had come, away from their many friends. “No, I wouldn’t say pale. Perhaps just a little absorbed, as if she had something on her mind. But she was pretty and bright as ever. And she was wearing a little green dress I’ve never seen her wear before, a sort of knit garment that made her look like a part of the woods as she came out of them, a nymph, perhaps. It was very pretty, a mossy green, with a little green cap to match, and she carried a flower in her hand.”

“A flower?” said the young man. “What sort of a flower?” He seemed unusually interested in his plate as he carefully cut a delicate bit of the breast of the chicken.

“It was a pink flower,” said the mother. “I couldn’t quite be sure, but it looked like a carnation. A pink carnation. She held it up to her lips as she walked along, smelling it probably, and the soft pinkness of it was like the delicate rose in her cheeks. No, I don’t think she looked sick at all, only—it might be a good excuse to go up to the house and ask. But perhaps it’s too soon yet to try and make acquaintance. Perhaps it’s better to wait and see if she’ll come here. Though maybe she wouldn’t think of it. Maybe she’d think people in a cottage at the gate wouldn’t be the kind she would want to know.”

“Well, and how do we know that she’s the kind we want to know?” the son said, smiling a bit haughtily. “If she would scorn people in a porter’s lodge just because they lived in a cottage, we would rather not know her, wouldn’t we? Perhaps you’d better bide a wee, Mother, and give her a chance to take the initiative. Personally I’d rather not know her and think she was lovely than to get well acquainted and find out she was not. Wouldn’t you?”

“Well,” said the mother speculatively, “I’m not sure. Isn’t that just two kinds of the same pride, after all?”

“Perhaps,” said the son, with a grin. “Do you want me to understand that you are calling
me
proud, too, little Mother?”

“If the shoe fits, put it on,” responded the mother quickly.

“Well, on the other hand, Mother, we’re playing a great game, and I’d hate to do anything to spoil it, wouldn’t you? At least until we get acquainted somewhere and have some real friends, we’d better not find out too much about the make-believe ones, had we?”

“Probably not,” said the mother, passing the second cup of coffee, “but all the same I hope she comes out to walk tomorrow. I’ll not feel quite easy in my mind about her if she doesn’t.”

The son looked up with an engaging grin.

“Mother, if this game of ours is only giving you someone else to worry about,” he said with an undertone of real earnestness in his voice, “we’d better stop right here and now and think up some other form of amusement.”

The mother laughed. “You silly boy. It’s you who are always worrying about me. Eat your dinner and listen to the rest of my story. She had a young man caller tonight. He wasn’t much to look at, too short and dumpy with a round, red face. He came before it was really dark, and he brought a big box. It looked like a florist’s box. And he had a fine, big shiny car. I think perhaps he’s up there yet. I haven’t heard him drive out again. And then about a half hour after he came, a florist’s car drove in and out again. I think he left flowers, too. He stayed about long enough. She must be pretty popular. Two boxes of flowers in one evening, don’t you think?”

“It would seem that way,” said the son gravely. “But Mother, Mother, I’m afraid you’re getting to be a seasoned spy. You’ll be telling me gossip next if I don’t look out.”

“Listen!” said Mrs. MacCarroll. “That must be his car now. He’s staying a long time. I was at the window watching for you when he came. And it’s almost eleven now. He must be some very special friend.”

“Yes, probably,” said Gordon MacCarroll grimly. “She’ll be getting married on us next, and then what’ll we do for our romance? Come, Mother, it’s high time I got you to bed. No, you sit still and I’ll put these things away. You’ve done enough for today and it’s my turn. If things keep on as well as they have today, the hope is I’ll be able to get you a servant to look after the heavy work.”

“Oh, Gordon,” she said eagerly, “tell me about your day. How did your work go?”

He told her in detail all that he had been doing and the bright prospects that seemed to be opening up before him in his chosen profession, and she listened as eagerly as any girl would have done, following his day step-by-step, watching his face as he talked. Her boy! Her precious, wonderful boy!

When they finally went upstairs, and before Gordon lit that light that Diana had seen from her window, he went and stood several minutes looking out on the grassy stretch between the cottage and the mansion and then up at the starry sky speculatively.

“Of course,” he said to himself, “I suppose I’m a fool.” But whether it was about his work or his mother or what, he did not say, even to himself.

W
hen Diana awoke the next morning, the first thing her eyes looked upon was the crystal vase containing the three pink carnations. A sparkle came to her face as she remembered that it was a new day and there would be the possibility of another flower waiting for her. With eagerness she sat up in her bed and reached out for the flowers, drawing a deep breath of their fragrance. Then suddenly memory came on the breath of perfume and—
bang!
—the joy went out of her heart and the large dark cloud loomed over her head again. Her father was getting married to Cousin Helen, and they would be coming back tomorrow night! Cousin Helen was coming to stay
always
!

The sorrow settled down around her once more, beyond the power of the mysterious blossoms to cheer. She looked around her room and marveled that the draperies could be so pleasant a color and the sun could shine as it had in the past when such sorrow was so near. And then she remembered several things she had planned last night to be done this morning, and she sprang up and began to dress. There was no time to waste. There were still many precious treasures to be put out of sight and packed carefully where they could not be harmed. The menu must be made out for tomorrow night’s dinner; things had to be ordered. Father must be pleased, whether Helen was pleased or not. But the worst of it was to remember that if Helen was pleased that was the thing just now that would most please Father! And oh, that must go on all through life! If life was really going on under such terrible conditions. It didn’t seem as if it could.

The next two days seemed eons long to Diana, and yet she kept finding so many things she needed to put away or change that they grew frantically short as Wednesday evening drew nearer and she went around breathlessly making the house over to be ready for an enemy. Hour by hour she had continued to hope for another message from her father, but none came. Evidently he was not going to risk even another conversation with her over the telephone. And yet he must know she was suffering, was fairly frantic! How could he do a thing like this to her, without at least talking it over with her and trying to reconcile her to it? Not that she could ever have been really reconciled to it, of course, but it would not have hurt so much if she could have felt that he was thinking a little about her in it all, that he had not just cast the thought of her, his only child, aside as if she didn’t matter in the least. And every time she thought of him the hurt of his stern, angry tones as he had talked over the phone went through her heart again with a wrench that was actual pain. Oh, now added to all the unfairness and indignities of the past, here was this appalling loss staring her in the face. Helen was about to steal her father!