The Flower Brides

  Then it all came back like a flash what had happened to her, and she sat there shuddering with chill and fright as memory furnished each scene of the day with vivid flashes.

  But the brief respite had done her good, nevertheless, and she was able to think now more connectedly. She told herself that her door was locked and no harm could come to her. She must calm herself and try to think her way out.

  Her job was gone forever, of course. And she was glad, glad! It would have been wrong to give it up, just for sheer weariness, but this had been something she could not stand, not even if she starved to death! So now she might rejoice.

  But quickly there came the fear that that awful man might follow her, that manager! He had her address, and there was no telling what right an employer had over his employees who left without a week’s notice. Perhaps there was some law by which she could be made to go back to finish out her month! Well, she wouldn’t! Never! Not if she had to lie down and die, she wouldn’t! But perhaps she ought to get out of here and disappear where he couldn’t find her! Could she do that without money? It would cost a lot to move, especially if she put her goods in storage again. Storage would have to be paid in advance. And then where would she go? How would she live? Boarding was out of the question, anything she could afford. Afford? She laughed. She couldn’t afford anything. She had barely enough hidden away in her trunk to pay Mrs. Lundy, and this week’s wages would never be paid now because she would never go back for them. They were due tonight, but the manager would be so much wealthier. Even her fifty cents in her purse was gone. And her hat. Well, of course it didn’t matter about the hat. But what was she going to do now? Her way seemed blocked on every hand. And where would she find another place as cheap and tolerable as Mrs. Lundy’s? It was bad enough, but there were others worse, and she shuddered at the thought of going out to hunt one, and another job! Oh, did God care?

  Suddenly she slipped down upon her knees beside the bed and began to pray. “Oh, God! I’m yours. You died for me and I believe it, and I’m Yours. I take You as my Savior. Nobody else seems to care for me. Will You take care of me? I can’t take care of myself. I don’t know how. I’ve tried, and I’ve made a miserable failure. Now I’m going to trust You to look after me, to show me what to do. Guide me, please. Give me that light that other prayer spoke of. Please, I’ve nobody else, and I’m leaving me with You!”

  It was not like any prayer she had been taught, but she got up with a strange feeling of peace upon her. She had taken her trouble to God, and He would show her what to do. She was going to trust it with Him.

  She stood for a moment looking around her room, wondering how the Light would come, and then she went to work. She was not going to be afraid anymore. But she must get ready for whatever might be coming.

  Almost feverishly she began to put her things away in trunk and bureau drawers, just as if she had received definite word that she was moving. She gathered her pictures and small trinkets together and packed them carefully. She took down her garments from the closet and folded them into her trunk. Her fingers flew silently, rapidly, and in a short time her pretty room was stripped of its decorations. Quite definitely she locked them up, leaving out such things as she would need to wear away. She almost laughed at herself while she did it. Where was she going? She did not know. But at least she would be ready.

  There were tears on her cheeks while she worked, yet they were no more conquering her, and the weariness of the day had passed away in the excitement of the moment. She wondered, was it just her own spirit that had worked herself up to this pitch of a false peace, or was it really God who was there helping her?

  She paused beside the vase that held her carnations of a week. Their edges were brown now, and they would soon be gone. It was Saturday night, and no more had come. Was it too late? Were they perhaps downstairs as they had been once before? Should she go and see? She paused with her hand almost out to the door and then decided against it. She dreaded going out of that room again until she knew what to do. If the flowers were down there they would keep as they had done before. She hoped they would not come after she was gone. If they were God’s flowers He wouldn’t send them too late!

  Then she smiled at herself again. Was she losing her good sense, talking fairy tales to herself? Perhaps it was dear old Maggie who had sent them. Perhaps it had somehow been Maggie all the time. But anyhow, it was God.

  Suddenly she knew that she was very hungry. She had scarcely eaten anything all day. She ought to go out and get dinner. But to go down and out into the darkness of the street again tonight after all that had happened seemed an awful undertaking. No, she would rather stay hungry. She had taken off her old working dress and slipped into the one she had left out, but the outside world seemed too beset with enemies lurking in the dark.

  She went over to the tin cracker box on her windowsill where she kept her supplies. There were only two small salt crackers left in it and a tiny piece of cheese less than an inch square. Well, she would eat those. That would be plenty. She took the box and turned away from the window, and as she did so her profile was silhouetted for an instant delicately on the white window shade. And down in the alley a shadowy form looking up caught the vision and slid like a gaunt rat to a drugstore not far away. He slunk unobserved into the telephone booth and called a number. As soon as he recognized the voice at the other end of the line he spoke guardedly. “It’s okay by me now for the machine, Spike! Park her on the dark side the street. Say ten minutes to a half hour. S’long, buddy! I’ll be seein’ ya!”

  But up in her quiet room Diana sat sadly and ate her frugal meal, the dying flowers beside her on a little table, their withering beauty seeming to mock her, yet she closed her eyes on the tears that would persist in rolling down her cheeks and kept saying over and over to herself: “I will believe! I will believe!”

  Back in the stone cottage Mrs. MacCarroll had dinner started so that it could be served at a moment’s notice, but Gordon had not come. It was growing duskier all the time, and she kept going to the back window and gazing uneasily toward the great house, for still there was no light, and still she seemed to fancy there was something dark and bulky lying on the steps. That was purely fancy she told herself. She could not possibly see so far in this failing light. She had almost reached the point in her uneasiness where she was ready to venture up the dark drive alone, just to still her fears, when Gordon arrived.

  “Oh, Son, I’m so glad you’ve come!” she cried out with relief.

  “Why, Mother! You surely weren’t frightened about me tonight, were you? It’s not late.”

  “No, not about you, Gordon,” she said with a catch in her breath, “but I’ve been worried about things in the great house. Do you know—did you hear? No, of course you didn’t. You don’t get anywhere near a radio, do you?”

  “Well no, not exactly,” laughed Gordon. “I have more important things to do than listen to the radio, though I’m glad you’ve got one to while away the hours with. But what’s happened at the great house?”

  “Why, Gordon, the little lady’s been paged on the radio!”

  “What?”

  “Yes, this afternoon. It said how tall she was and how she was dressed, and the color of her hair and eyes, but it didn’t say what a lovely smile she has, nor how she walks like a feather in the breeze, nor any of the things that would make folks really know her when they saw her. But it made my heart stand still with horror to think what may have happened to her, dear child! I couldn’t help thinking what if she had been my child how worried I would be! And I thought of her poor father and wondered where he was. He’s come through a hard place to be willing to broadcast his troubles to the world! For he’s a proud man. You could see that just to look at him. And while I was pitying him he came walking in the drive. He’d got off the bus and almost fallen as he got out, and he looked old and sick. I almost ran out to offer him a cup of tea, and then I thought perhaps he wouldn’t like it just now. Perhaps he’d rather suffe
r alone. So I let him go on by. But I watched for him to go in the house. I saw him get to the door and reach over as if he was putting the key in the lock, and just then the telephone rang. And when I came back he wasn’t there anymore, and there seemed to be something bulky and dark lying on the step—only, of course, that must have been imagination. It was beginning to get dark, and I don’t trust my eyes anymore. But I’ve watched and watched and there hasn’t been a light yet.”

  Gordon’s eyes were fixed on his mother’s face with a disturbed, startled expression in them.

  “I’ll go right up and see, Mother,” he said.

  “Take your flashlight along and signal me if you want me to come,” she called after him as he turned toward the door.

  “Oh, it won’t be anything like that!” said the young man as if he were trying to convince himself. “But I’ll take it. It might come in handy.” She could see that he was worried, though he was trying to laugh it off to calm her fears.

  She stood by the window, watching him disappear into the darkness of the driveway, and then, before the sound of his footsteps had scarcely died away, there came a tap on the door, the back door. How strange! She hurried to open it, and there stood Maggie in her Sunday best, her blue eyes red and blurred with tears, her best hat awry because she had put it on so hastily, and her Scotch tongue fairly tumbling over itself in an attempt to talk while she was still out of breath from hurrying so fast.

  “I hope I didn’t fright ye,” she burst out, panting. “I glimpsed the light in the kitchen an’ guessed ye would be here. I’m that worried about the master’s family I had ta come an’ see. Did ye happen ta be listenin’ in on the radio? Did ye hear them callin’ for the little lady?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Mrs. MacCarroll. “And I’ve been worried ever since. But don’t you know where she is? I thought she promised to write you.”

  “Yes, she did, but I’ve had never a word yet,” said the old servant. “I was worried, but I thought, of course, she’d write to her father. Now it must be he’s never heard neither. I wonder if he’s up at the house. It seems ta be dark. I thought I’d just step in an’ see if you’d heard aught? It goes sour against me ta be seen there if the new mistress is home, but I’d go if I thought I could help the master any. You don’t happen to have noticed if he went in?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. MacCarroll said in an anxious voice. “I saw Mr. Disston go up the drive over half an hour ago, and I’ve been waiting ever since to see a light in the house, but there isn’t any yet, and my son just came so I sent him up to see if anything was the matter and—there! There he is now waving his flashlight! I promised to come right up if he gave the signal. You’d better come with me—!”

  The two hurried out the door and up the drive, walking so fast they could scarcely talk.

  “Is—the—hussy home?” puffed Maggie, taking two little quick steps to Mrs. MacCarroll’s one longer one.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said the older woman quietly. “I saw her go up the drive several days ago, but she came back within the hour and took a bus off. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “That’s good!” said Maggie fervently, puffing along.

  “There! There’s a light!” said Mrs. MacCarroll, hurrying on the faster as a light streamed out from the open front door.

  They rounded the drive beyond the last group of shrubbery and saw a dark form lying across the top step in front of the door.

  “Oh, it’s him!” cried Maggie with tears in her voice. “It’s the poor master! Oh, I knew I should never have left him ta that hussy’s care. I should have bided whatever she said. I mighta knowed she’d soon hang herself if I’d give her the rope. Oh, the poor man. The poor silly man! An’ I promised his first wife I’d look after him well.”

  It was a kind of croon she uttered as she brisked along panting, talking more to herself than to her companion.

  As they came up to the steps Gordon was lifting Mr. Disston in his arms.

  “He’s had a fall,” he explained to his mother. “I wish we knew who their doctor is. No—I think he’s only fainted. His pulse is weak, but it’s there.”

  “It’s Dr. Brownell,” panted Maggie. “I’ll just run in an’ phone him!”

  “This is Maggie, their old servant,” explained Mrs. MacCarroll.

  “That’s good!” breathed Gordon as he lifted the older man and bore him inside the house.

  “Lay him on the couch in the library,” said Maggie, capably swinging open the door and plumping up the pillows. Then she pattered away to the telephone in the hall. Mrs. MacCarroll entered the kitchen and brought water, and Maggie, coming away from the telephone, hurried to the medicine closet for medicine.

  “He’s comin’ at once!” she reported a moment later as she came puffing back with aromatic ammonia, her hat awry, her cheeks blazing red with excitement. There were still traces of tears on her cheeks.

  Their efforts were presently rewarded by a long drawn sigh from the sick man, and fluttering eyelids opened vaguely upon them.

  The two women retreated to the shadows of the hallway, leaving Gordon only for him to see.

  “You’re feeling better now, Mr. Disston?” said Gordon in his quiet voice of assurance. “You got a bit dizzy, didn’t you? I’m glad I was here. Take another sip of this water. That will help. The doctor will be here soon, and in a minute or two we’ll have a cup of tea for you. I suspect you didn’t take much time for lunch today and got a bit faint, but we’ll soon have you fixed up.”

  Stephen Disston looked at him gravely for an instant and tried to smile. Maggie hurried away for the cup of tea, and Mrs. MacCarroll was preparing a tray, knowing instinctively where to find the tea things.

  “Ach! The poor man!” said Maggie, brushing away another stray tear. “I just knew that feckless hussy would never give him the proper food.”

  “I wouldn’t try to get up just yet, Mr. Disston,” Gordon was saying, putting out a protesting hand. “The doctor will soon be here. He is on his way. Unless you would rather I carry you up to your bed? I can easily do that if you will like to be in bed before he gets here.”

  “Oh, no,” protested Stephen Disston, making another ineffectual effort to rise and falling back again, “I must get right up! There is need for haste!” And he lifted a crumpled paper held tight in his hand! “This—” he said and looked at Gordon with anguished eyes. “I’ve just had a letter— What time is it?” And his eyes sought the clock.

  “It’s not late,” said Gordon cheerfully, “but if I were you I wouldn’t try to do another thing tonight. Just rest. What is it you have to do? Couldn’t I do it?”

  Disston’s troubled eyes fixed on his face for an instant, and then he groaned.

  “No,” he said despairingly, “you couldn’t! Nobody could! I don’t see how I can do it myself, but I’ve got to somehow. I can’t let them murder my little girl!”

  “What?” said Gordon in a horrified tone. “What can you mean? Nobody is going to do anything like that!”

  “They’re threatening to,” said the sick man tonelessly. “They’ve kidnapped her and are holding her for ransom! They want fifty thousand dollars put under the stone in the spring house tonight—see!” And he lifted the paper again.

  With horror clutching at his heart Gordon took the ransom note and read it.

  Could this be possible? His heart went up in an instant prayer for needed strength and guidance. He needed to know what to say to this anguished father. And after an instant his voice was steady, and he spoke.

  “That may not be genuine, you know,” he said in a quiet businesslike tone. “And even if it is there will be a way to protect her.”

  “But I haven’t any money to put out there under the stone!” His voice was piteous. “And I don’t know where I can get any! I was going to telephone my bank president, but I’m afraid it’s too late to catch him now. He always—goes away—over weekends. And I’m not sure—he would do it for me—even if I got him. My—money is—gon
e! I’m on the verge of bankruptcy!”

  “Well, God isn’t!” said Gordon with assurance. “You lie there and pray to Him, and I’ll see what can be done. Where did you find this note?”

  “Tied to the doorknob as I was trying to fit in the key. I stopped to read it, and I must have got dizzy! I fell and struck my head.” He put his hand up feebly and Gordon, looking, found a lump and a gash where the blood was seeping out and matting the hair.

  “So you have! Well, we’ll soon look after that.” Gordon motioned to his mother, who came in just then. “Mother, we need some water and clean cloths. I wonder if you could rustle them together. Tea! That’s good. That will hearten you, Mr. Disston. Let me give you a few teaspoonfuls before you try to talk anymore.”

  “But I must get up!” said the sick man. “The time is going! I cannot stop to drink tea.”

  “Look here, Mr. Disston, will you trust me with this thing? I’ll do my best. I’ll do whatever you want done if you know what that is, but anyhow, I’ll do something. I’ll search for your daughter as if she were my—sister,” he added. “Now, drink this tea!”

  He slipped his arm under the man’s head and lifted him slightly so that he could drink from the cup he held.

  Stephen Disston drank and looked at his young comforter with his heart in his eyes.

  “You have been a good friend to me. I shall never forget it,” he murmured. “But I could not let you undertake all this for me. But, oh, I don’t know what to do! Where can I get the money? I never thought I would get to a place where I would have nothing, no means to rescue my child!”

  He covered his face with his hands for an instant, and then making a supreme effort he raised himself to a sitting posture and tried to rise to his feet. But suddenly he dropped back again, his face growing white.

  “I can’t—do—it—!” he said, and then, “but—I—must!”

  He tried to rise once more, but Gordon caught him and made him lie down again.