She paused a minute thoughtfully and then suddenly searched in her suitcase for her writing case, and sitting in the window seat in the fading light, she wrote hurriedly:
Dear Flower Person,
I am going away and will not be able to come and find any more of your lovely carnations, but I had to let you know how they have helped and comforted me during a very hard time. I shall probably never know who put the flowers in my path, nor even if they were really meant for me, but I shall never forget them. Thank you and good-bye.
She slipped the note into a small envelope, addressed it “To the Flower Person,” and put it in her handbag.
Then suddenly she heard the sound of a motor, and hurrying to the front window, she saw the lights of a taxi coming swiftly up the drive. They had come and she was still there!
Panic seized her. She could not meet them! She must get away! She must be gone when they entered the house, and the taxi was almost at the door! Could she make it?
She snatched up her bags, gave one last wistful frantic look around her denuded room, and fled down the hall to the back stairs.
She appeared in the kitchen like a wraith, her face white, her eyes dark with excitement.
“They’ve come, Maggie. Here’s the letter for Father! Good-bye, you dear! And I’ll write you in care of your sister!”
She flashed out of the kitchen even as the front door opened letting in the householders. She slipped swiftly across the back lawn to a wide group of shrubs, disappearing into the midst of their friendly branches. The twilight was kind and hid her going, the shrubs were thick and formed a perfect screen. Maggie had rushed after her to the kitchen door, crying out in subdued protest, “But you mustn’t go away alone. I was goin’ down the road with you—!”
But Diana was not there. Then Maggie realized that the next act was hers, and she was holding the letter in her hand. She hid it quickly behind the bib of her ample apron and went back to her cooking, assuming an air of indifference toward the world but keeping a weather ear open to all developments, while her heart cried out for the girl who had fled. She had meant to give her all sorts of cautions, and now it was too late! But she could not run after her. That would be to give the whole matter away.
So the master and the new mistress walked into the house and went upstairs with no one to interrupt their progress.
Helen went up the stairs like a victor who had taken a city and meant to behead the former ruler. She marched straight to the master bedroom and flung open the door. She wanted to see if her commands had been obeyed. Then she stood staring for an instant at the prim, immaculate neatness that prevailed. Dominated by the fine old walnut furniture that had belonged to its former mistress, bare only of the little feminine and artistic touches and its lovely portrait, it had a forbidding look. As she stared, a fury grew in her face not pretty to see.
“She hasn’t touched it!” she said aloud in a tone meant to reach to the lower hall.
She paused an instant, head bent in a listening attitude, then she flounced around and flung open the door across the hall. There stood Diana’s room stark and bare!
She made a sound such as is generally associated with the snorting of a war horse preparatory to battle. She stepped into the room and snapped on the light. Its brilliance flung out the curtainless window and penetrated the dense shrubbery that traveled more or less irregularly from the kitchen garden down the far side of the drive toward the entrance gate. Diana was slowly progressing toward the gate as she waited for the taxi to get out of sight before she made her dash across the open to the dense growth of trees that hid the cottage. So Diana knew that the secret of her moving was discovered. She had hoped to be farther away before they found it out.
Helen walked determinedly across the bare floor and flung the closet doors wide. Everything was gone, the room cleaned. Not even a box or a paper on the empty shelf!
She ran out in the hall and up the third-story stairs, with an eye that boded no good to her enemy. The light snapped on at the foot of the stairs, and Diana saw that, too, and dashed across in the twilight to the spot behind the trees, her trysting place with the flowers. But she was not thinking of the flowers now, nor looking for them. She was crouching down beneath a huge hemlock, its lacy branches brushing her face. She was parting the branches and looking back to the house. She could see a figure walking by the hall window. That would be Helen. She was looking in every room, for each window blazed out in turn. She was finding out that her new stepdaughter had not done anything she had told her to do!
Well, there was a moment’s time, perhaps. The front door was still closed. Diana searched out the letter from her handbag and, stooping, laid it in the very place where the carnation had lain the night before and this morning. She caught her breath in a little sob. There would be no more carnations for her. If one lay there in the morning, she would not be there to find it! She was leaving everything, home and love and even her bit of mystery and romance.
Then she turned a quick look back to the house and saw the front door flung wide, the light streaming out, and Helen standing slim and vibrant looking out into the darkness.
Diana shrank and, catching up her bags, fled out of the gateway and down the road, pausing in the shadow of the tall hedge to wait and listen breathlessly. It was not likely that Helen would pursue her out into the darkness on foot, but yet, there was never any telling what Helen would do. It would be hard to run from pursuit and carry all that baggage, but still it could be done. However, perhaps if she saw them coming it would be better to push the bags around the hedge and come back for them later. She considered that an instant, then peering through the thick hedge she saw the light of the doorway shut off and distinctly heard the closing of the front door. Helen would likely have gone to consult Maggie, and it would take her some time to get anything out of Maggie if Maggie chose to be stupid and not understand.
Diana relaxed against the hedge and found herself terribly weary. There would be a bus along soon. If she might only sit down on the grass, lie down, close her eyes, and rest. But, of course, she couldn’t. She was thankful, however, for the momentary ease against the strong resilient arms of the old hedge. She put her head back. She could almost go to sleep here. She resolutely put away from her all thoughts of what might be going on at the house behind her. She could not think of it now. She could not bear it. The tears would come if she did, and one could not get into a public bus weeping. She took a deep breath and shut her lips with determination.
Then behind her she became aware of a voice—or was it voices?—speaking low and gently—a voice, it was a voice speaking to someone. She could not hear the first words, they were very low and gentle, just behind her within that open window of the cottage. She turned instinctively and looked at the square of light that was the cottage window, screened by sheer muslin curtains moving softly in the breeze and thickly sheltered by the tall hedge. It was as safely private as a bird’s nest in a tall tree. Pedestrians did not creep within the shelter of hedges as she was doing. An ordinary passerby would never have heard that voice, so reverent, so tender. She found herself soothed by the very tone.
And then the voice grew more distinct: “We thank Thee for the care of the day and for these gifts for our refreshment.”
He was saying grace at the evening meal! Father used to do that while Mother was living, but of late it had become a mumbled formality. Who was this person? The voice was grave but not old. She had understood from Maggie that the woman who had taken the cottage was elderly. Perhaps after all her husband was living. Maggie had only spoken of a woman and her boy. But perhaps this was some relative having supper with them.
The voice rose again just a little so that she heard the words: “And, Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house. Perhaps some of them are sad. Lord, give them comfort. Perhaps they need guidance. Do Thou send Thy light—”
And then suddenly the bus rumbled up to the curb to let
off a passenger. The bus would never have stopped at all if it hadn’t been for that passenger, for Diana had been back in the shadow out of sight. But now she came back to herself with a start, caught up her bags, and hurried forward into the bus. She was whirled away, but she turned wondering eyes toward the quiet cottage with its cozy light shining softly through the tall hedge and forgot entirely to look back at the home she was leaving until it was too late to see anything but the long streaks of light that streamed down across the lawn from the front windows. Her mind was wholly occupied with what she had heard. It seemed so extraordinary. She would never forget it. She said it over to herself silently, conning it like a lesson of which she must not lose one precious word. “Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house. Perhaps some of them are sad. Lord, give them comfort. Perhaps they need guidance. Do Thou send Thy light—”
How she longed to know what was to have followed that half-finished sentence. Why had she not stayed to hear? Another bus would have been only a half hour longer and left plenty of time to catch her train. She glanced at her watch. Yes, she could have waited, but it was too late to go back now. It was too far to walk with her bags, and she was much too tired.
Then she said the words over again, “And, Lord, we would ask Thy mercy and tenderness and leading for the people up at the great house.” Was it conceivable that the person meant the Disston house? It was the way a servant would speak of a master’s family. Perhaps the reference was to some former master’s family, just being tenderly remembered in prayer, the way Maggie would do. How the words throbbed and thrilled along her sore, tired heart! Here was someone who believed in God, believed that God was interested in individuals, even interested in individuals who were not especially interested in Him. Could he be speaking of God’s interest in her father’s house by individuals? Was it really her father’s house? Of course, it might be some other house far away. But it soothed and rested Diana to think it was the house of Disston the voice meant.
She was too tired now to question why, it was just enough to have someone care, even in a quiet, impersonal way, and pray for them. Oh, how they needed praying for—that is, if prayer did any good. At least it was comforting to think that someone cared to try. She put her head back against the window frame and closed her eyes on the hot tears that tried to struggle to the lashes and squeeze through. She thought of the flowers in her bag and the prayer in her heart and was glad she had heard those few words. They helped her, anyway, even if they were not meant for her. Perhaps there was a God who cared after all, instead of just a mere impersonal Creator. If one soul could speak like that as if he knew Him, he must have had some experience to make him sure God was like that. If she ever went back to her home—it was not conceivable tonight that she would, but if she ever did—she would try to seek out the people who lived in the cottage and get to know them and see if she could find out what it was that they had that would explain the tenderness of a prayer like that.
Presently she got out her pencil and a bit of card from her handbag and wrote down the words as well as she could remember them. She must not forget that prayer. She must hide it in her heart and memory. It was like the flowers.
She went on into the city to take her train. It seemed a very long ride tonight, longer than usual. She hoped the train would be ready soon. She wanted to lie down.
She hadn’t bothered to look up the time of the train. There was usually one along toward midnight going in the direction of the city where Aunt Harriet lived, an hour or two more or less either way didn’t matter. She forgot that she had had no dinner and very little lunch. She was not hungry; she only wanted to lie down. She felt that she was too tired even to cry.
As she neared the city and got away more and more from thoughts of home and tragedy that made her going necessary, she began to review wearily the few arrangements she had made. She had plenty of money with her for her journey, for it just happened that her father had given her her generous allowance in cash the day he went away for his trip, and she had carelessly neglected to put it in the bank, so she had not had to take time to look after that. She had fastened part of her money inside her dress, but she had enough in her bag to pay her fare and some over. There was nothing about that to worry over. Also, she had paid a month’s storage on her goods with the privilege of refund if she decided to take them out sooner. Somehow all these details seemed so unimportant. They had been merely things to fill this awful day until she was gone. None of them seemed to be of as much importance as the few words of the prayer, which she had had the privilege of hearing. How those words seemed to float around her like a sweet protection as the bus rumbled along into the city and the country was left behind.
Meanwhile, back at the great house, Helen had come rushing down the stairs, searching vainly in the rooms for Diana, hoping to find her at once while her wrath was hot. There was more satisfaction in serving wrath piping hot than after it had a chance to get lukewarm. But no Diana was to be found.
Then Helen arrived magnificently in the kitchen with all the air of a full-fledged mistress of the house.
“Maggie, where is Diana?” she demanded, with something in her voice that suggested that Maggie might have hidden her somewhere.
“She’s away!” stated Maggie crustily.
“Away?” said Helen in an annoyed tone, as if it were all Maggie’s fault. “Where has she gone?”
“She didn’t say!” said Maggie, shoving the iron frying pan across the top of the stove with a great clatter.
“She didn’t say!” repeated Helen in an outraged tone. “When did she go?”
“Awhile back,” said Maggie laconically.
“But didn’t she tell you where she was going? Didn’t you ask her?”
“It was none of my business, why should I ask?” snapped Maggie.
“But didn’t she say when she was coming back?”
“She didn’t mention comin’ back. She said she’d be payin’ visits for some while.”
“It was very rude of her to treat us that way. I wouldn’t have thought she would have dared do that to her father.”
Maggie was silent, her face very red, her deep blue eyes angry with sparks in them.
“Well, what did she do with the furniture she had taken out of her room, and—other things—that I miss, around the house?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Maggie in a belligerent tone. “I try to mind my own business around a place where I’m workin’, Miss Helen, as much as I’m let be.”
Helen looked at her haughtily.
“You will call me Mrs. Disston after this!” she said icily.
“Oh, will I?” said Maggie, rolling the words out with satisfaction. “I’ll not be callin’ you anythin’ very long. I’m leavin’ tonight after the kitchen is redd up. You can get someone to call you any name in the dictionary if you like, but I wouldn’t work for the likes of you for any wages.”
“I’ll have Mr. Disston speak to you,” said Helen furiously. “You can’t leave a place like that without any notice.”
“Oh, I can’t, can’t I? Well, I’ll have you to know that I’ve worked in this house before you was born, an’ I’ll leave when I like, an’ not a day later.”
“You’ll not get your wages, then. I’ll tell Mr. Disston not to give you a cent.”
“Wages or no wages, I’m goin’ tonight. But the master is not like that. You don’t know him very well if you think he is. The master is a silly fool sometimes, I’ll admit, but he’s honest! The master may be blind as a bat sometimes, but he’s a good man in spite of it, an’ he’s honest as the day is long. I’ll leave my case in the master’s hands, an’ wages or no wages I’m leavin’ the house tonight!”
Helen gave her a baleful look and turned away furious, going in search of her husband. Maggie went on calmly preparing her dinner.
“The dinner’s ready,” she called after the mistress, “an you’d best eat it now unless you want to wash
up afterwards. I’m not stayin’ late, so you’d best come at once.”
Chapter 9
Down in the stone cottage about half an hour before the taxi bearing the master and mistress of the great house reached the door and Diana made her hasty exit from the kitchen, Gordon MacCarroll arrived home from his long day’s trip. He stabled his car in the old barn and came in to greet his mother.
He had been away since dawn on a longer journey than any his new connection in the business world had demanded of him yet, and he had been greatly successful. There was a light of victory in his face as he stooped to kiss his mother and a keen delight in getting home again after a hard day’s work. He was tired and hungry and glad to get back where he could rest. The dinner was beginning to send out a delectable aroma from the oven where something delicious and spicy was in preparation, and the little cozy house looked good to him.
“Well, how is everything, Mother?” he asked as he went to the sink and washed his hands, wiping them on the spick-and-span roller towel. He was just like a boy with a playmate when he got home to his mother. There was a lovely comradeship between them.
But the mother’s face clouded over a trifle.
“Oh, do you know, I’m afraid there’s some trouble up at the great house,” she said, turning from the celery she was washing and placing in a narrow crystal dish. “The little lady came by this morning just as usual, or maybe a bit earlier, and she was carrying a flower again— Isn’t that curious? I wonder if they have a greenhouse up there! This is twice she’s carried flowers— But, Gordon, she was crying!”
“Oh, Mother! You must have been mistaken!” The young man frowned and looked at her intently.
“No, I was not mistaken. I saw her quite distinctly, though she didn’t see me. I had just gone out the back door to hang out the dishcloths for a good sunning, and I saw her coming through the trees. She was running along, and she stooped to pick something up—perhaps she had dropped her flower. I saw her just as she was rising from stooping over, and she bent her head down over the flower. I saw her chin tremble and then her face went down right into the flower, and she was crying hard, as if she was terribly grieved. And she caught her breath in one little sob. It sounded so piteous I wanted to rush out and put my arms around the sweet child and comfort her. But I didn’t stir. I even held my breath, lest she would spy me and know I had heard, and somehow I felt that would hurt her still more to know anyone had seen her. I was behind the bushes, and I felt like a thief seeing her there when she wouldn’t have wanted me to, but I couldn’t get away. And even if I had closed my eyes, I couldn’t help hearing that sob. The poor sweet child. I’m afraid she is in some real trouble. I’ve been wondering if it is connected with some of those young men we’ve seen driving in occasionally. Poor child without any mother! I must really try to get acquainted somehow and see if I can’t win her confidence. My heart goes out to her.”