The Flower Brides

  But when the third call failed, she could not control her nervousness, and she said she guessed she would go to bed. Her sister watched her speculatively. She was older than Mrs. Brooke, had practically brought her up, and had learned through the years to read her face easily. She knew that her sister was worried about something.

  Marigold’s mother had been very surreptitious with her telephone calls. She had gone quite openly the first time and, coming back, said she guessed Marigold was out to supper with some of the other teachers. But when at nine o’clock she thought to try again, she waited until Sarah, the house servant, was talking to Mrs. Bevan about the next day’s ordering. The third time she had professed to go and get a clean handkerchief, but it took longer than was necessary and Marian Bevan studied her face when she returned. She was pretty sure what the trouble was but couldn’t quite think how to speak about it and so held her peace. She had a rare talent for holding her peace when many other women would have plunged in and torn away reservations and demanded an explanation. So she let her sister profess to be weary and retire to her room without asking what was the matter.

  However, she did not drop the matter from her own mind but took it to her usual refuge and began to pray about it.

  About two o’clock, Marigold’s mother could not stand it any longer, and sure that her sister was long asleep, she crept from her room, velvet shod, and went stealthily downstairs to the telephone. Having closed all the doors possible to the upper floor, she huddled over the telephone and made a prolonged effort once more to reach her child, becoming insistent, declaring that she knew someone was there, perhaps asleep, and please to keep ringing until she got her. But all to no purpose. The operator finally grew irate and said very crossly, “Madam, they do not answer! Your number does not answer!” And at last she desisted and crept silently back upstairs, with slow worried tears trickling down her cheeks. She was almost sick with worry.

  She had reached the upper hall and was cautiously moving past her sister’s open door, confident that she could not possibly be heard, when her sister’s voice spoke out clearly: “Mary, what is the matter? Why are you worried?”

  She paused for an instant and caught her breath. Then she stepped to the dark doorway.

  “Oh, my dear!” she said penitently. “Did I wake you? I’m so sorry! I just thought I would try again for Marigold. I was awake and thought I might be asleep in the morning and miss her before she goes out early to school. But I wouldn’t for the world have woken you.”

  “You didn’t wake me, dear! I haven’t been asleep yet. But, Mary, why are you worried? Don’t you trust Marigold? Come here and sit beside me. I’ve been wondering about it all evening. I saw you were worried, and I couldn’t quite understand. Your dear girl seems so dependable. I thought you trusted her fully.”

  “Oh I do, entirely,” Marigold’s mother hastened to say. “I trust her fully. But, Marian, I do not trust all those with whom she spends time. You see, I have called her up three times before this, and always the report is that the number does not answer. I have tried to put it out of my mind, but to save me I cannot help imagining all sorts of things.”

  “Yes? Such as—?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. Weird things that probably wouldn’t be at all likely to happen, but they happen like a flash in my mind, and then I cannot get rid of the thought.”

  “But you know, dear, the phone might be out of order.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Brooke crisply. “I’ve told myself that again and again. But it wasn’t out of order last night.”

  “Oh, but there may have been a storm that tore the wires down.”

  “Of course!” she said, still briskly.

  “But you still fear—?”

  “Yes, I still think all sorts of wild things.”

  “Well, suppose you get them off your mind by telling them to me. What’s first and greatest?”

  “Well, Laurie Trescott!” said Mrs. Brooke sharply. “I don’t trust him. He may have inveigled her into doing something, going somewhere—oh, I don’t know where nor what, only I’m afraid. He isn’t a bit discreet.”

  “Oh well, if that’s all, don’t fret. A little mess of gossip isn’t pleasant, but it can’t really harm her. Her friends know what she is, and perhaps it may serve to open her eyes a little. You don’t think the young man would do her any real harm, do you? He’s a gentleman, isn’t he?”

  “Y-e-s,” said Marigold’s mother uncertainly. “I suppose he is. I’ve always thought he was. He has lovely manners; he is courteous and quite charming. I sometimes think that is what has fascinated Marigold.”

  There was silence in the dark house. Nothing could be heard but the soft splashing of snowflakes on the window panes.

  “It’s snowing again,” said Mary Brooke anxiously, looking toward the window where even the streetlights wore a shroud of snow. “It may be a terrible storm up at home. It’s colder there than here, you know, and I think the storm is coming from the north. I’ve been thinking, if she’s out in it, it would be so easy to have an accident. A crash! And they lying dead somewhere, and we not knowing—!”

  “Mary, dear, you don’t trust your heavenly Father very much, do you?”

  “Oh yes I do, Marian, but when I hear those big snowflakes thud against the windowpanes, a little demon gets up on my shoulder and mocks me, and then I get to thinking how wild and reckless Laurie Trescott sometimes seems to me, and I forget I don’t have to run the universe.”

  She tried to laugh, but the anxiety was still there beneath her smile.

  “Yes, I know, dear. And He understands. ‘He knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.’”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you, dear!” sighed the mother. “But oh, I can’t help thinking, if Laurie were only more like your Ethan, how happy I would be. Ethan is wonderful! I felt fairly envious of you when he was here. He is a charming young fellow and seems so responsible and mature for his years. But then, of course, he’s a Christian, and Laurie isn’t!” She sighed deeply.

  “Yes, he’s a rather wonderful young Christian,” said his aunt warmly. “And he’s a dear boy! There is none better! Yes, I could fervently wish that your dear little girl might find a friend as strong and fine as he is. But now, my dear, you must just trust this with the Lord. You must get some sleep, and in the morning you will be shown. You and I will pray, and then sleep and trust! Good night, dear!”

  “I’m sorry I’ve kept you awake,” said Mary Brooke as she stooped to kiss her sister, “but you’ve been a wonderful comfort, as you always were.”

  And then she slipped away to her room to pray for her child.

  Chapter 16

  Marigold sat in her dim little corner of the bus while the agony of the moments dragged by. Car after car came dashing by, a long bright stream of light that shot past and left only the dim whiteness of the snow-filled air again. The snow was dense now. She watched beneath her lashes as the windshield wipers played a mad dance together on the glass. The driver’s outlook was like a half circle cut in a white blanket. Slower and slower lumbered the bus. Marigold could sense that the road was slippery. It deemed that nothing had ever gone as slowly before. A deadly contrast to the mad ride she had taken from her home. But oh, if she was followed, what chance had she at this snail’s pace to get away? And how much liquor did Laurie have with him? Would he keep on drinking until it was all gone?

  An hour dragged by. She stole a glance at her wristwatch, but it was too dark to tell the time accurately. She was thankful for the darkness and for the curtains of snow hung deeply at all the windows. It would not be easy through that for a driver outside to spot a traveler inside.

  Marigold’s sense of direction had deserted her for the moment, but after a little she had a feeling that she was not on her way to Philadelphia, and then she tried to reason it out. Of course, since they had passed by Laurie’s car, going in the same direction that his car had been pointed, they were going away from, not tow
ard Philadelphia. But where were they going? How could she find out? Not by questioning the driver or any one of her fellow travelers, she resolved. She must not draw attention to herself at all. She must act as if she were a perfectly normal traveler out for a chosen destination, not one who had merely taken refuge here and knew not where she was being taken.

  So she lifted her eyes to the dim walls to see if there was any sign of destination anywhere posted. There at the front, above the driver’s head, was a sign in colored glass, backward of course, for the benefit of the outside world. They who traveled inside were supposed to know where they were going. What a fool she had been not to read it as she stood in the alley waiting for the bus to be ready to start. But it was so clogged with snow it was impossible to be sure what it said. Was it Baltimore? She measured the space with her tired eyes, counting the letters. Yes, it must be Baltimore. Her heart leaped up. So near to Washington! How she longed to go on to her mother, fling herself down with her head in her mother’s lap, and sob out the whole dreadful story! For an instant she was tempted.

  But she couldn’t do that, of course. She had to be in school in the morning. It would be impossible to get back in time. And it would only alarm her mother beyond anything. She would never feel safe about her again. Besides, she was no longer a child. She must keep this terrible experience to herself, at least for the present. She must think what was the best thing to be done and do it.

  She was thankful that she had enough money with her to cover all necessities. She had debated that morning when dressing whether to leave in the apartment all but the change she usually carried in her purse and had decided against it. There would be no trouble about paying her fare. But if she were on her way to Baltimore, was it going to be necessary for her to go all the way? Wouldn’t it be possible for her to change to another bus at some halfway stop?

  Oh, but that would be to return on the same route, to go again through that awful town where she had left Laurie, where Laurie, by this time, might have raised a posse to hunt her. No, she mustn’t go back that way. Better to go on and take a train from Baltimore. There were always fast trains from Baltimore to Philadelphia, weren’t there? Every hour or so? She thought she remembered that. And a train would get there much quicker than a bus, especially in this storm.

  She tried to calculate what time it was and came to the conclusion that it must be somewhere around eight o’clock. She had come out of the school a little after five, and they certainly must have been nearly two hours on the way. She had no means of knowing just where they had gone, nor how far she was from Baltimore now. She could only guess. It seemed ages since she had come out into the winter dusk to find Laurie waiting for her grimly beside his car. He had been out there all afternoon, perhaps, waiting, drinking at intervals while he waited, and growing more and more frenzied with impatience. She turned away from the memory with a shiver. Could she ever forget that awful afternoon? But she must get back to her planning and forget everything else. Yes, if they should reach Baltimore at, say, nine o’clock, could she make a train at nine thirty, or ten? Surely by ten. That would bring her home by midnight or a little after. She could take a taxi home and get a reasonable amount of sleep for her next day’s work. She could doze on the train, too, and get a little rested.

  But presently another passenger made his way up to the front of the bus and asked questions of the driver.

  “What time you calculatin’ ta get ta Baltimore?”

  “Can’t say,” said the driver amusedly. “Due there at nine thirty, but at this rate it might be ten thirty ’fore we get in. Can’t make any headway at all with this here snow cloggin’ the atmosphere. It’s as bad as a fog. And this here slippery road is just one glare. I don’t dare go beyond a crawl. If you fellers was ta lean hard on the side o’ this here bus she might skid inta the middle o’ next week. I ain’t saying’ when we’ll get ta Baltimore. We’ll get there sometime tonight, likely, if we have good luck, but I ain’t sayin’ when. Not ’nless this here snow quits, which she don’t seem likely ta do at present.”

  Thereafter Marigold looked helplessly out the window, studying those slow-moving, lazy flakes as they came down, each one of mammoth size and thickness, and reflected how mighty were little flakes, if there were enough of them. Was it even thinkable that she might not be able to get back in time for school in the morning? And if so, how was she to explain her delay? She couldn’t tell that she had been kidnapped and driven away to be married. She couldn’t have them all know her private affairs. What kind of an explanation was she to give when she got home, if she was going to be later than midnight? There was Mrs. Waterman, too, always poking into her affairs and having remarks to make afterward. Well, she would just have to let that go and deal with it when the time came. Perhaps God would take care of that with all her other troubles.

  So she put her head back, and before she knew it she was asleep. In the face of all that trouble and excitement she had gone to sleep!

  When she awoke with a start, it was to realize that the bus had come to a halt and people were brushing by her getting out. Everybody was getting out. They were yawning and talking with a dreary, sleepy accent.

  Marigold didn’t realize where she was at first, until sitting up and staring around her, it suddenly all came back.

  This must be Baltimore! Would there be a train soon? Oh, to be at home in her own bed asleep.

  She paid her fare as she got out, handing out a ten-dollar bill. The driver seemed to understand where she got on, though she hadn’t known the name of the town herself, but he told her how much it was.

  When she got out, she gave a quick look around lest somehow Laurie would have followed and be waiting to take possession of her again. Would she ever get over the feeling that evening’s experience had given her? Was it going to be like that awful dream?

  Then she remembered. The dream had utterly gone. Strong arms had carried her away from that dream. She had a strong One with her always now, living in her; she had His power to carry her through.

  With a steady step she went to the ticket window and inquired about trains. She had just missed one. The next would bring her to Philadelphia around half past three in the morning! A taxi couldn’t get her to her apartment before four o’clock. What would Mrs. Waterman think? Could she possibly get in without being heard?

  Her ticket bought, she stole into an obscure corner of the station restaurant where she could watch the door and ordered a bowl of soup. She was chilled and faint, and it tasted good, but she ate it hurriedly. It was not beyond possibility that Laurie might have followed down here somewhere or, having sighted her in that bus, might have been cunning enough to telephone the police to watch for her. She felt he would stop at nothing in his present state of mind, and she must run no risks. She must get home as soon as possible.

  It seemed a long time to wait, and she dared not sleep. She was too nervous. She took refuge in the ladies’ waiting room in a sheltered corner, scanning alertly everyone who passed through the outer waiting room and watching the clock.

  When at last the train was called, she hurried out and got into a day coach, taking a seat at the rear of the car where she would not be seen and where she could keep her own watch. Now and then she would cast a glance at the window, but the world outside was a whirl of white and the windows were plastered with snow so thickly that they were perfectly opaque. She drew a long breath of relief. She was on the last lap of her journey now. She could count herself to have escaped. But she felt such an utter weariness that it seemed as if she would like to die.

  Why had God let this dreadful thing happen to her? Especially just now when she was beginning to know Him in a new way. She couldn’t understand it. She had asked to be shown—but wait! Wasn’t that just what this had been for, that she might be shown? Quickly and definitely shown just what to do about Laurie? Well, she had the answer to her prayer. Not for anything in life would she want further fellowship with Laurie. Oh, there might be excuses for him.
It might not be all his fault. Doubtless others had influenced him, and his home surroundings had not given him the background to resist drinking. But after all had been said for him, Laurie was himself to blame, of course. And even if he tried to reform, she could never trust him. She had been well taught concerning the hold that drinking has on its victims. She wanted no dealings with men who drank. She had had her lesson. She could forgive, and perhaps—she hoped—she could forget sometime, but she could never marry a man who thought there was no harm in taking a drink.

  The experience had done something more for her also. It had shown Laurie apart from the life he led, the pleasant nothings he was doing, the vista of pleasure that his companionship always opened for her. She had seen what it would be to be bound to Laurie for life, to be in his power. She had seen him to be weak, selfish, hard, unprincipled. Of course, some of that was due to the effect of the liquor. But Laurie would never more in her eyes be the perfect creature that she had imagined.

  And more than that, Laurie was not a child of God!

  She had known that. She had felt when she came home that she was going to have to give him up. But she had expected sore heartbreak. And now God had shown her what he was in such a way that the heartbreak was gone!

  Oh, it had been a shock when the illusions were torn away, but it had left her astonishingly whole, uninjured. There would doubtless be times when she would feel lonely and wish for a comrade to while away an idle hour with her, but just tonight she was glad to be lonely. To have that fearful ride ended and to be safe and quiet and alone. With no wild, red eyes glaring into hers; no hoarse, thick words flung at her; no madman trying to embrace her as they rode along at breakneck speed knowing not if the next moment would be the last. Oh, it was good, good, to have escaped, and God had answered her prayer and shown her without the shadow of a doubt what she ought to do—or rather what she ought not to do.