Diana brought startled eyes down to the bit of paper the other girl held out, and a shade of the Disston pride stiffened her features. Then she turned her glance to the girl who offered it, saw the gentleness in the girl’s face, and her own eyes softened.
The stranger was plainly dressed, even poorly, in the cheapest kind of garments, with a little hat that might have come from a bargain counter in the ten-cent store, and her hands were cased in cheap, ill-fitting cotton gloves; that is, one was, though the other was bare, showing that though delicately formed it was rough and hardened with work. Her shoes were shabby, and her dress of common dark cotton, ill-cut and not at all attractive. Yet there shone in the girl’s face a light and joy that made her noticeable anywhere, and looking into her clear, sweet eyes, Diana could not help but trust her.
She put out her hand to take the little paper offered, and as she did so the other girl’s face lit with a joy inexpressible, as if it gave her real pleasure to have the stranger accept her gift.
“What is it?” Diana asked wonderingly, looking at the paper and then up at the girl.
“It’s something wonderful. I can’t stay to explain. My train’s called, and I have to hurry, but you read it. You trust it! It helped me, and I know it’ll help you. Good-bye!” The girl started away but, pausing, turned back and said in a low, sweet voice, “I’ll be praying that you’ll get what I got!”
Then she was gone.
Diana watched her threading her way swiftly through the throngs, hurrying through the gate, her newspaper bundle gripped in one arm, her ticket in the other hand. One bright look she cast back and then was gone. Diana stood wondering, the little paper trembling in her hand, her thoughts utterly turned away from herself for the first time that day. This was a poor girl, hard-working, thin, and not well-fed apparently. There was a look in her eyes of suffering endured, and yet how they lit up with real joy! There was even a sparkle in her voice! Diana stood, wondering, staring at the gate where the girl had disappeared until suddenly a trainman came up and slammed open the steel gate that led to her own train and called it out, reaching out his punch to her ticket, and Diana was roused to her own situation again.
She followed the porter down the steps to the train and up into the car then down the aisle to her compartment in a sort of daze, still holding in her hand the tiny fluttering paper, gripping it as if it were something precious. And when she had paid the porter and settled down in her seat with a weary sigh of relief, she sat still holding that bit of paper, staring out the window and thinking about the look in that other girl’s face.
It was not until the train was finally moving that she turned her eyes to the paper and began to read with deepening interest.
HE UNDERSTANDS!
In large letters it stood out as the title to the tiny message. Startled, she read on, as if it had been written by someone she knew and sent to her as a special message in her need. It would not have been any more startling if a telegraph boy had come through the train and handed it to her, and she had found Maggie’s or her mother’s name attached to it.
No matter what problem or sorrow is in your life today, there is Someone who understands and cares.
That was all that was on that little front page, standing out clearly from the paper in large type, as if a voice were speaking it to her soul. Diana was almost afraid to turn the tiny page lest the spell would be broken and she would find it merely the advertisement of some trickster, some beauty parlor, or new product. Then her mind became impatient, and she turned the leaf tremblingly, so much she wanted it to be some real help for her need.
One reason why the Son of God came to earth and took a human body was so that He might suffer and understand and help us in our grief.
Diana read that over twice, wondering if that could really be true and how the writer knew that. This, then, was religion, and she had been brought up to respect religion, although it had never meant anything practical to her. But these were arresting sentences, and her need was very great. Her soul seemed to be clutching for the bit of a message and seeking to draw the truth from its pages. She read on.
There is no kind of sorrow He does not know, even to having His beloved Father turn His back on Him for a time.
Oh! Was that true? How had that been? Had God really turned His back on Christ? And why? There were two references below in tiny type. Diana wished she had a Bible that she might look them up. Perhaps the references would explain the statement. But how wonderful that her very situation should be described! For her father had in reality turned his back on her. She remembered that gesture of impatience when she had flung her arms around him and cried on his shoulder. How he had pushed her away and gone and stood by the mantel with his back half turned away.
The tears sprang into her eyes unbidden, and she had to dash them away before she could go on reading. It seemed to her nothing short of miraculous that this little message should have fallen into her hands tonight, of all nights, when she so much needed it, this message that exactly fitted and understood her heart’s cry.
For as He has Himself felt the pain of temptation and trial, He is able also to help those who are tempted and tried.
There were more references here, and then the last little page went on in big letters again:
In the darkest hour of your life, remember He is a living, loving Savior.
Then more small lines of references again. That was all. How she wished again for a Bible! She had not brought hers with her. It had never been a vital part of her life. It had not occurred to her to take it with her in her suitcase, and she could not even remember if she had packed it with the other books that were in storage. She was not sure when she had seen it last. Well, no matter, it was just a small fine-print copy, anyway, and she could surely get one anywhere. Didn’t they have them in hotel rooms? It seemed to her that she remembered having seen one there the last time she and her father took a trip together. Well, when she got somewhere she would get a Bible and look up the references and see if there was really anything in it to give her comfort. She could not afford to pass by any chance, no matter how frail, of finding something to ease her pain.
She read the little tract over again slowly, before she prepared for the night. As she lay down she had a vision of that stranger girl in the station, her bright, earnest face and the words she had called back in leaving. She had promised to pray for her! What a strange thing for a stranger to do. And yet, if it were all true, perhaps that was the way the children of God ought to do with one another. Another time such interference by an utter stranger would have roused her scorn, would have repelled her. But now her heart felt strangely warmed toward another human creature who had suffered herself and therefore had rightly read her own suffering.
Finally she closed her eyes and tried to think of God as looking down on her and caring what became of her and how this matter of her life turned out.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, softly like a prayer, “if You really know and care, won’t You show me how to find You, for I need You very greatly.”
She fell asleep at last with the little paper held tightly in her hand.
Chapter 12
About that same time Gordon MacCarroll arrived home at the cottage, put away his little car for the night, and came in to get the belated supper that his mother was keeping warm and delicious for him.
“Soup!” he said, giving a pleased sniff at the atmosphere as he entered. “Good old beef soup and plenty of potatoes and dumplings. There’s nothing better than that.”
“Yes,” said his mother, with a pleased smile, “it’s best when you don’t know how long you have to wait to serve it. It always keeps well. Now, sit down right away. I know you must be starved.”
“Well, all but—” said the son. “And say, I’m tired tonight! I had a lot of difficulty finding my location today and difficulty with that man after I found him, but I won out and got my contract signed, so it doesn’t matter,” he said as he passed his plate.
>
“That’s good! Tell me all about it,” said the mother with satisfaction, watching the light of content play over her boy’s face.
So while they dallied restfully with the soup, and more soup, they talked about Gordon’s business, he telling little details of the day, describing the scenery along the way he had driven, the people he had met. Gordon was a great mimic, and his mother was a good audience. She enjoyed to the full every bit of character sketch he gave and followed his delight in the woods and trees and sky effects. They were good company for one another, these two.
It was not until the delicious apple pie, delicate of crust and transparent with dripping jellied fruit, was brought in with its accompanying velvety cheese that Mrs. MacCarroll remembered.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, “I’ve news for you about the big house. I had a caller today!”
“A caller?” said Gordon, his eyes lighting. “Someone from the village?”
“No, no one from the village yet, Son; what could you expect? We haven’t been in the cottage a month yet and people haven’t discovered us. Besides, we’ve been traveling around from one church to another on Sundays trying to find out where we belong, so people don’t know where to place us yet. Another thing, too, we’re among big estates, and we’re neither one nor the other. We’re not servants nor mansion owners, and how would anybody call on us yet till they know us?”
“Well, I don’t care, Mother, only for your sake. I know you miss the hosts of friends you left in Edinburgh.”
“That’s all right, Gordon. I miss them, of course, but real friends like the friends of a lifetime aren’t made in a day. Don’t be in such a rush. I’m content.”
“You’re wonderful, little mother,” said the son with a tender light in his eyes. “You wouldn’t complain if you didn’t have any friends, I know. But I do want you to have a few right away so you won’t be lonely when I have to be away. But I interrupted you. Who was your caller? You don’t mean to tell me it was the little lady?”
“No,” the mother said, smiling and shaking her head with a flitting of sadness in her eyes. “I wish it had been. No, it was only the servant woman, Maggie, as she said I was to call her. She came to bring me the recipe for that pudding she promised the other day and to bid me good-bye. She’s gone.”
“You mean the whole family is moving away?” asked Gordon, with dismay in his face. “They haven’t sold the house, have they?”
“No,” said his mother, with a look of having more news. “No, but the woman, Maggie, is leaving. It seems there have been great doings up at our estate, and Maggie can’t stand them. The master has married again and neither the daughter nor the servant like the new mistress, and they have both left, so we won’t see our little lady anymore. Isn’t that a pity? That must have been what she was crying about when she went by.”
“You don’t say!” said the young man, dropping his fork suddenly and then recovering it again and taking a long time to cut the next translucent bite of pastry.
“Yes,” said his mother sympathetically as she poured another cup of coffee for Gordon. “I feel sorry for her. Maggie says she’s a wonderful girl and that this new stepmother is a perfect tartar, really malicious, you know, doing mean things just for the sake of doing them and then laughing at her victim.”
“Still,” said the young man thoughtfully while taking a slow bite of cheese, “you can’t always tell about a servant’s gossip, you know. She is probably prejudiced.”
“Well,” said the mother, lifting her brows meditatively, “she doesn’t just seem to be the ordinary servant. She’s a Christian woman, I should say, and she loved her former mistress a great deal. She’s been telling me about how lovely she was, and it does seem strange that a man who had such a lovely wife should have no better judgment—”
“That’s it, Mother, he probably has, and this is just prejudice—”
“But, Gordon, listen, if she speaks the truth—and I think she does, she seems like an honest woman—this new mistress is something of a freak, rather young, you know, and exercising her wiles over an older man, flattering him and torturing his daughter behind his back, yet making it appear that the girl has done it all!”
Gordon frowned. Then after a moment’s thought he said, as if he was thinking it out, arguing with himself, “But this woman shouldn’t have told you these things, of course! We’re practically strangers, and a really loyal servant wouldn’t have told the troubles of her master’s home. If she isn’t loyal, she probably isn’t true.”
“No,” said the mother thoughtfully, “I don’t believe that is the case with this woman. She didn’t mean to tell me anything. She was quite proper when she came in with the recipe and told me most formally that she wouldn’t be here again and that the young lady had sent word she couldn’t make the promised call after all, as she had been obliged to go away in a hurry. But when I said it would be all right for her to come when she returned and that I would be looking forward to it, the woman turned sharply as if she were going away. And then I saw that she was crying, and I said: ‘Why, is anything the matter, my dear? Isn’t she coming back?’ and she just stood there and sobbed silently into her handkerchief for a full minute. And then she got out the words: ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
“I didn’t quite know what to say, and I didn’t like to ask any more questions, but in a minute she wiped her eyes and turned around and said in quite a dignified tone: ‘You see, ma’am, the master is marryin’ again, and my little lady feels she can’t bide in the house.’
“‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s too bad! But maybe she’ll change her mind and come back later. Those things are hard to bear when they first happen, you know, but time heals almost everything. Maybe something will happen that they’ll get to know one another better, and then perhaps she’ll be glad to come back to her lovely home.’ But the woman shook her head. ‘No,’ she said most decidedly, ‘she’ll not come. It was that hard for her to go, but she’ll not return. She knows the woman full well already. She’s her cousin three times removed, and many’s the time she’s suffered under a visit from her. She’s a hussy, and that’s true as truth! I am that shamed to be sayin’ it, but it’s true! It’s why I’m not stayin’ myself. Nobody could bide in the same house with her. She’s a trollop! A wicked trollop! And I couldn’t blame the poor wee bairn for leavin’.’”
The young man listened with growing sympathy.
“But doesn’t her father do anything about it?” he asked sharply. “Or didn’t she say anything about him?”
“Oh yes,” laughed the mother, “she said plenty after she got warmed up and started. And yet you could see she was trying to be loyal to him, too. She said he was ‘that fey about the hussy that he couldn’t see straight.’ She said he was ‘a good man but blind as a bat,’ and she went on to include all mankind in a general statement that all men were more or less ‘feckless when it came to judgment about lassies.’”
“But what about his own daughter? Isn’t she a lassie?” said Gordon, and there was a sharpness in his tone as if he were arguing with the father in question. His mother looked up with surprise in her eyes then laughed again.
“Oh, she says the father is sure the daughter will come around by and by and be as much in love with her new stepmother as he is.” But Gordon did not smile. Instead, he ate his last bite of pie thoughtfully, almost seriously.
“It seems odd,” he said almost savagely, “that a man who has lived his life up to the time when his daughter is grown up shouldn’t be able to forget himself enough to think of her. It’s selfishness, with a daughter like that. I can’t help thinking he is to blame.”
“But you don’t know either of them,” said his mother, surprised. “You can’t tell what the daughter is, really. She looks very pretty seeing her go by, and very sweet, but you can’t ever be sure.”
“Can’t I? Well, how long is it since you were saying almost the same thing about her, Mother mine?”
“Yes, I know, but st
ill—we don’t really know!”
“Well, just in general, then, no man has a right to bring a second mother on the scene unless his children are happy about it.”
“But, Gordon, you know there are some lovely stepmothers…” protested his mother. “There was Aunt Genevieve! And there was Mrs. Stacey. There couldn’t have been happier homes, and those children all adored those stepmothers.”
“Of course there are exceptions,” said Gordon. “I grant that, but they all knew and loved the stepmothers before they became their stepmothers.”
“And there was Mrs. McCorkle and Mrs. Reamer and that dear Mrs. Bowman in Edinburgh.”
“But the children were mere babes in all three of those cases and didn’t know the difference, and besides, Mother, you know every one of those women were saints. This woman, you say, is a hussy!”
“I know”—the mother laughed—“and I can’t help being sorry for the girl, Gordon. She must feel it terribly!”
“I guess they all need sympathy,” said the young man, “and I suppose all the business we have with it is to pray for them.”
“Yes,” said his mother. “I have been praying all day—for the daughter. I can’t get her out of my mind as she went by sobbing yesterday with that flower pressed close to her cheek. I can’t help thinking, what if she were my little girl out in the world alone? And the world is such a very dreadful place in these days, too.”
The young man did not answer. He was carefully gathering a few crumbs from the tablecloth into a neat little heap and then scattering them again. Presently the mother rose and began to gather up the dishes, and Gordon shoved back his chair and helped her. Afterward Gordon went out to the garage and walked around among the trees, thinking, and once he looked belligerently up toward the great house, studying the lit windows. The right-hand front window was all dark tonight.
But back in the library of the great house the master and the new mistress were talking. They had just returned from dinner in town because the bride had declined to prepare dinner at home and the bridegroom had declined to call up an agency in the city and have a cook and butler and a waitress sent out from town. The dishes from the breakfast that the master of the house had made—a breakfast of grapefruit, dry cereal, toast, and coffee, with soft boiled eggs, all on a tray for the bride and carried up to her room dutifully—were still lying stacked in the sink unwashed. Helen said she would ruin her hands if she should attempt to wash them, and besides, the excitement of the night before had “unfitted” her for such strenuous labor. “You wouldn’t want me to wash dishes, would you, not just now when I’m supposed to be at my very best? The first few days I’m a bride? Suppose we have callers and they find me washing the dishes! My first day in the house! You wouldn’t want that, would you, dear?”
The Flower Brides Page 37