Mystery Flowers E-Book

Grace Livingston Hill

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

After her mother died, lovely Diana sought comfort in prayer and in the single flower a mysterious person dropped daily on her pathway.
Touched by anonymous gifts of flowers, Diana wonders who the mystery giver is. Can it be that he knows of her despair… and wants to help her?

Leseprobe

Grace Livingston Hill

MYSTERY FLOWERS

Copyright

First published in 1936

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

1930s

Diana Disston stood at the window watching for the postman. Before her the wide, velvety lawn sloped to the tall hedge, which hid the highway from view. A smooth graveled driveway circled the lawn and swept down to the arched gateway where a little stone cottage, formerly the porter’s lodge, nestled among the trees. It was up that driveway the postman would come.

Beside her in the wide window, just between the parting of the delicate lace curtains, stood a little table bearing a tall crystal bud vase with three pink carnations. Their fragrance filled the room. The girl turned and looked at them whimsically, an almost tender light coming into her eyes, her lips parted in a wistful smile, reminding one of a child dreaming over a fairy tale. Suddenly she stopped and took a deep breath of their fragrance, closing her eyes, and half shyly touching her lips to their fringed petals then laying her cheek softly against their delicate coolness.

Then, laughing half ashamedly, she straightened up and took another look down the road. No postman yet! She glanced at the tall old clock in the hall beyond the arched doorway. It was fully five minutes beyond the time he usually came. Why should he be so late this particular morning when she wanted especially to know just how to plan for the day? There would surely be a letter. Or if there wasn’t a letter, she would know her father would be at home in an hour.

If her father was coming, she wanted to dress and be ready to meet him. Perhaps he would suggest that she should go down to the office with him, and they would have lunch somewhere together. That was what he often did when he had had to be away for a day or two and leave her alone in the house with Maggie. Lately, though, he had always seemed so busy or so absent-minded when he got back from a business trip. She puckered her brows with the worry that had disturbed her more or less ever since he had been away. Somehow he didn’t seem just as he had been after her mother’s death. He had been so thoughtful of her, so almost tender in his treatment of her. He understood how desolate she was without her precious mother. And, of course, he was desolate, too! Dear Father! It must be terribly, terribly lonesome for him. Such a wonderful woman for his wife, and to lose her! But, of course, Father was reticent. He never said much about his own sorrow. He was just thoughtful for her.

And yet, what was this haunting thing that troubled her? Surely it could not be business cares that worried him, for when they had sold off such a large portion of the estate, dismissed a retinue of servants, cut off a good many unnecessary expenses, and even rented the little cottage at the gateway, he had told her that all his debts were paid and they had enough to live on quite comfortably for the rest of their lives, provided, of course, they did not go into any great extravagances for a few years while his business was picking up. Investments were doing well, and there was no reason for him to worry. He had given her a larger allowance and told her to get herself some new clothes. No, it could not be money.

And yet, was it really anything? Was it not perhaps merely her own imagination? She had been so close to him during the first intensity of her sorrow that now that he was getting back into his usual habits of life she had grown too sensitive. That was it, of course, and she simply must put it out of her mind. When he came, if he came this morning, she would not let herself think of such a thing. She would rush out and meet him as she always had done, and she would show him how glad she was to have him back again, but she would not let him suspect that she had been worried about anything. She was silly, of course, to allow imaginings to return and make her uneasy.

She turned her eyes once more to the flowers and touched them lightly with her hand. Sweet flowers! So mysterious and lovely! Coming in such a magical way. If she only knew who dropped them, one every morning in her path just where she went down the driveway to take her daily walk. And so fresh and perfect they were! Not old ones that had stood in a vase in a warm room. Not as if they had been thrown away after having been pinned to a coat. A single, perfect bloom lying in almost the same spot every morning! It couldn’t have happened. Not three times just alike!

And if it had, if somebody had been carrying an armful of them and it could just happen three times that one slipped out and fell right in that spot, where would the person carrying them be coming from? Where would he—they—she be going? That driveway belonged to the Disston house, and nobody would have any business going down it every morning. Not since the butler was gone, and the other servants, and only Maggie in the house. Of course, there was the milkman and the grocery boy, but they always came in at the back entrance, never the front, and what would milkmen and grocery men be doing with pale pink carnations early in the morning? They certainly wouldn’t be throwing them away one at a time, nor dropping them carelessly. Diana reasoned that young men who delivered milk and groceries would not have so many hothouse flowers that they would be careless about them, anyway, certainly not three days in succession. What could be the explanation of the mystery? Probably it had some quite commonplace explanation, but Diana dreamily touched the petals of the flowers again and smiled. She preferred to think there was some delightful romantic magic about it. And since an explanation seemed quite out of normal expectation, why not indulge her dreams? At least it would be fun to see whether a fourth carnation lay on the drive tomorrow. If it did, there would be a real mystery, and she would have to begin investigations. But perhaps it would stop at three times, and then she could just cherish her dreams and not worry herself by the troublesome suggestion of her conscience that perhaps she ought not to have picked them up. They had lain there in the drive, fresh and sweet, demanding to be rescued from a chance passing wheel, and just in the one spot she could not possibly see from the windows of the house, because a big clump of rhododendrons spread out gorgeously and hid the road.

Well, at least she could find out one thing. She could get up very early and see that no one went down the drive from the direction of the house. Or could she? Might not the flowers have been placed in the drive before dawn? Her eyes melted into the dreaminess of speculation.

If Father came this morning, perhaps she would tell him about the flowers. Would she? Or should she take them up to her room and wait to see if another would come tomorrow morning?

Then suddenly she saw the postman carrying a single letter in his hand that he had just taken out of his pack. She sprang to the door to meet him, her eager eyes on the letter. Oh, would he be coming this morning, or would she have to wait another day or two? She sighed at the thought of continued loneliness. And then as she took the letter, recognized the handwriting, and saw how unusually thick it was, her heart sank. He could not be coming or he would not have written so long a letter!

She flung an absent-minded smile at the postman in answer to his good morning and went in with the letter in her hand.

Diana was in a peculiarly lonely position just at present. Her mother had been dead only a little over a year, and for two years before that she had been more or less of an invalid. Diana had delighted to be with her constantly, as much as her school duties would allow. She had attended a nearby college for a couple of years until the invalid needed her more and more, and so, dropping out of her classes for what at the time had seemed to be only a temporary absence, she had dropped out of the lives of her young friends and become more or less of a recluse. After her mother’s death she found herself left out of the youthful merriment of which she had been a part in her high school and early college days, and without a strong desire to enter it again.

It was not that she was too shy or gloomy, it was just that the precious last days of her companionship with her beloved mother had somehow set her apart from the little world where she had moved so happily when she was a child and a growing girl, and had made her more thoughtful, more particular, perhaps, about her friendships than she might have been without the refining experience of sorrow.

Oh, there were a few of her old companions who came dutifully out to call. Some of them had even tried to drag her back into young society again. Others had written her lovely notes and sent flowers, but somehow her place among them seemed gone. They were interested in new things—some of them were married, most of the rest engaged—chattering about social affairs in which she had no part and almost no interest, and she hadn’t felt eager to follow them back.

Later their mothers had called, and there had been quite a good many invitations recently. Diana had accepted some of them and found a strange distaste for the life she had once so enjoyed. The conversation seemed to her vapid, the activities sometimes almost stupid, and the excesses in which some of her former companions now indulged did not tempt her. She found herself revolted at the way some of them talked; the way they drank at their parties, just as a matter of course; and the way so many of them spoke of sacred things, lightly, flippantly. Was she growing morbid, she wondered, or was this just growing up? Certainly her old friends had changed. Perhaps they had grown up and she had just stayed a little girl. But she was twenty, and she had become rather close with death and sorrow. Still death and sorrow were not meant to sour one on life, to make one a recluse. So, from day to day she had tried to reason it out and had forced herself to go more and more among her acquaintances.

There were several of her young men friends who had begun to come to the house of late, but none of them especially interested her. They were nice boys, she told herself, some of them were quite grown up and dependable. There were even a couple who did not drink—at least not much, just politely. But she had never thought seriously about any of them. She told herself that it would make little difference to her if they all stayed away, though she smiled whimsically as she said it and realized that she would probably feel forsaken if nobody ever came. It was a significant thing that in puzzling over the carnations she had never questioned if any of them could possibly have dropped those flowers in the drive for her. It was a thought that her mind rejected when it was first presented as a solution to the pleasant mystery. There were several who might have sent flowers formally, a whole box full, but not just a single blossom dropped on her pathway daily.

So Diana came in with her letter, intending to sit down by the window and read it. Then suddenly she wanted to take it to her room. Perhaps some premonition warned her that she would want to be uninterrupted as she read, would not even want Maggie coming in for the orders of the day. As she turned back toward the hall, she paused and picked up the crystal vase, carrying it with her up to her room.

She put the vase on a table in her own pretty room, a room whose windows looked out on the same sweep of lawn and drive and nestling cottage among the trees, where she had just been watching for the postman. She sat down beside the table to read her letter, but even as she tore the envelope open, again a premonition warned her. This was such a thick letter! Was he having to stay another week and leave her alone? Her heart sank. And then she began to read.

My dear daughter,

Somehow the words seemed more formal than his usual, “Dear Di,” or “Dear little girl.” How silly she was. It must be true that she was growing morbid! Then she read on.

I have something to tell you which may surprise you, and perhaps will even shock you a little at first, but which I hope will prove in the end to be a great happiness to you, as it is to me.

Diana lifted frightened eyes and looked quickly around at the familiar beauty of her own room—the sweet room that her mother had planned for her before she went away—as if to reassure herself that nothing could hurt her, nothing destroy the home and the steady things of life that the years had built up around her. She gave a little gasp and closed her eyes as if she were afraid to read on then drew a deep breath, taking in the spicy perfume of the flowers before she went on with her letter.

I have had this in mind for some time, and several times have thought to tell you, but the way did not open and it seemed rather a delicate subject to talk about—

Ah! Then there was something! There had been something that had worried him. It had not been her imagination after all! Oh, was it money, in spite of what he had said? Well, if it was money, she would just be thankful that it was nothing worse. Even if both of them had to go out and do hard manual labor and be very poor, she would not care. They would have each other. She drew another deep breath and tried to take courage as she read on.

And so I have thought it better to write it to you before I come home that you may get used to the thought of it and be ready to be glad with me—

Her trembling hands suddenly dropped the letter into her lap, and she relaxed in her chair. Oh, would he never come to the point? Must there be this long preamble before she knew the worst? Yes, the worst! She felt sure now it was going to be something terrible, or else why would he not have enjoyed telling her face-to-face? Her eyes went back to the letter.

How words could stab! She felt she never would forget the sharpness of the pain that came as she read the next words.

It is just this, Diana, I am going to be married again. I hope it is going to be as happy a change for you as it is for me. I have felt for a long time that our loneliness had been too great to endure. I am sure I have seen this in you also. Your mother would never have wanted us to go on alone—

Alone! Did they not have each other?

Diana steadied herself tensely to take in this awful, cataclysmic thought. Her father was going to put another woman in her mother’s place! How could he? Oh, how could he!

This couldn’t be true! She was dreaming!

Her eyes wildly sought the letter again to extract some word of hope somewhere from what yet remained to be read.

And so, Diana, I am doing what I feel is best both for you and for me. And now, you needn’t get excited and think I am trying to make you accept a stranger in place of your mother, because the best part of this is that the woman who has honored me by promising to be my wife is more nearly your companion than mine. She is only a very little older than you are, and will therefore, I hope, be most congenial to you. And we shall have a delightful home together. I am sure that you will be glad that she is not a stranger to you—

Diana wildly began to go over the list of their acquaintances, rejecting each one as impossible, while she swept the sudden tears away that blinded her eyes so that she could not read the rest. Then, desperately she read on.

In a sense she really belongs to us because there is a distant relationship, though very distant, of course, and that only by marriage. I am marrying your mother’s cousin, Helen Atherton, my dear, and I hope you will rejoice with me and make her most welcome in our home and life, and that we shall all be very happy together—

But suddenly the letter dropped from Diana’s nerveless fingers and she gave a terrible, wild little cry, the tears pouring down in a torrent!

“Cousin Helen! Oh, not Cousin Helen!” she gasped aloud in quivering sobs, shuddering as she wept. “Oh, he can’t, he can’t—he wouldn’t do that! My f–f–father—w–w–would–n’t—do thha–at!”

The great house was still and only echoed back her piteous cries hollowly. Suddenly she was aware how empty the home had become—and how dear it was! And now her father was going to destroy this home for her forever, destroy it so fully that she would not even want to think of it or its pleasant memories because it would be so desecrated!

She staggered to her bedside and dropped down upon her knees. Not that she was thinking to pray, only that she must weep out her horror over this new calamity that had befallen her.

Kneeling there and weeping in her first abandoned grief, she seemed hardly to be able to think. “Oh, God!” she cried again and again, until it seemed that God must be there somewhere listening, though she hadn’t been conscious of Him before. Yet it seemed somehow to comfort her to think that perhaps God might listen to her trouble.

There were no words in her frenzy, but scene after scene in her girlhood in which this cousin Helen had figured went whirling through her mind, as if she were presenting pictures of what happened for God to see and remember, to remind Him how unbearable a situation it would be with Cousin Helen in her mother’s place.

“Oh, Father doesn’t understand!” she sobbed out. “He never knew how hateful she was!”

Instance after instance of unfortunate contact unfolded before her frightened brain, beginning with little things in her childhood, too petty perhaps to notice now, since they were both grown up. She had been only a baby when Cousin Helen took her precious best doll and singed her hair all off with her curling iron. It had been a desecration of something precious to the little girl. But the fourteen-year-old cousin had laughed impishly and flung the doll aside, breaking its lovely face, and then had run away laughing.

Diana, even in the midst of her weeping, recognized that it would not be fair to judge the woman by an act of a partly grown girl. But there had been so many ugly things. Every time she had come to visit, each day had been full of trial and torture to the finely strung child.

There was the time she hid Diana’s essay that she was to have read in school that afternoon. She let the whole household search for it frantically, and Diana finally had to go and read from scraps of paper on which it had been written, only to find the neat manuscript lying on her desk on her return from school with a placard beside it scrawled in Helen’s most arrogant handwriting, “April Fool!” Diana had been fourteen then, and Cousin Helen old enough to know better. Cousin Helen had left for home that morning before Diana got back from school. Diana’s father had taken her into the city to the train. He had missed the whole excitement about the essay. Perhaps no one had ever told him the outcome. So he didn’t understand. Diana’s wild thoughts glided over dozens of other unhappy times when Cousin Helen had cheerfully, almost demoniacally, committed some selfish depredation upon something Diana counted precious.

There was the affair of the green taffeta dress, Diana’s first real party dress. How her mother and she had delighted in it, selecting the smooth, shimmering silk with care, having it made in the style most becoming to her slender form; how happy she had been when she tried it on the last time before the party. Mother loved it so, and she felt as she looked at herself in Mother’s long mirror as if she were a child in a fairy tale. A great part of the anticipation of that party had been in the thought of the lovely dress she was to wear, her first really long dress.

And then Cousin Helen had arrived! On the very morning of the party day she had arrived. She had a way of arriving at inopportune times like that, and it always annoyed Mother. Though Mother never had said a word about it, Diana somehow knew that Mother did not enjoy Cousin Helen’s visits. She wondered now—was it—could it have been that Cousin Helen so often absorbed Father’s time and interest when she happened to have no other admirer near? Somehow Diana’s eyes were being opened quickly to several things that had happened in the past.

But not even Cousin Helen’s advent had quite dimmed the thought of that wonderful party. And so the day had slipped by in glad anticipation until it was time to dress.

Cousin Helen had gone upstairs immediately after dinner, telling them someone was coming to take her to the country club that evening for a party. She had been dressed for evening when she came down to dinner, but while Diana was in her mother’s room getting something done to her hair that only Mother could rightly do, Cousin Helen had suddenly appeared in the doorway with a rustle and called out nonchalantly, “Well, folks, how do you like me? Don’t I look delicious? I found this up in a closet and liked it so much better than my own that I put it on. Hope you don’t mind!”

And there stood Cousin Helen in Diana’s lovely green taffeta party dress, smiling impishly, her eyes showing that she had full knowledge of the confusion she was occasioning.

Diana remembered her own indignation, how she had cried out in horror: “Oh, that’s my party dress! I’m going to wear it to a party tonight! You can’t wear that, Cousin Helen!”

And Mother had turned quickly, the brush in her hand, and protested firmly: “I’m sorry, Helen, but you couldn’t wear that—”

And Cousin Helen had just given a laugh, whirled around, and flung back: “Sorry, kitten, it’s too late now. You’ll have to wear something else. My boyfriend is downstairs waiting for me! Ta-ta!” and was halfway down the stairs before they could get to the door.

Mother had followed her indignantly to the head of the stairs and called down sharply, “Helen! Come back here! You can’tdo that! You really can’t!”

But Helen only laughed and called back, “Can’t I? See if I can’t!” and went out the front door, slamming it after her. They could hear the sound of a motor starting before they fully comprehended what had happened. That was Cousin Helen! And Father was going to marry her!

There had been other depredations as she grew older, acts utterly disloyal to her family when she was their guest, borrowings from others, unasked, of things far more important than dresses. Diana recalled dimly discussions between her father and mother concerning intense flirtations with other women’s husbands in which Cousin Helen had utterly alienated some of Mother’s best friends because of her calm way of taking possession of their husbands.

Diana suddenly remembered that, most unaccountably, Father had always taken Cousin Helen’s part in these discussions. He said she was only a kid and was “a cute little piece” and “a pretty child,” and insisted that she had no idea she was doing anything to hurt anybody. Insisted that she was entirely guileless and only having a good time.

Even in the matter of the green taffeta he hadn’t been able to see that there was anything more than an innocent prank.

“What’s one dress?” he said amusedly. “Let Diana wear something else. She has plenty of clothes, hasn’t she?” They couldn’t seem to make him understand that she hadn’t any real party dress that would be suitable for the occasion. That this had been her first really grown-up dress, and it had meant so much to her. He had smoothed her head caressingly when she had dissolved in tears and refused to go to the party at all and told her she was silly to stay at home just because she couldn’t wear a certain dress. Also he had insisted that nothing should be said to Cousin Helen.

Even when Cousin Helen came home with a tear in one of the taffeta ruffles and a large spot on the front of the skirt where she had spilled ice cream, and no apology by a laugh, Father dismissed the whole matter as a trifle. Oh, had Cousin Helen even then begun to get her hands on dear Father to pull the wool over his eyes? She had that faculty whenever she chose to use it. She had never bothered to do it with Mother and herself.

There had been many times later when Cousin Helen had demanded a great deal of Father’s attention. And it was all done so prettily. Father was always gallant to every woman, though he had ever been most devoted to Diana’s mother. But the girl remembered now those evenings when Helen had dragged Father off to an entertainment she was bent on seeing. Diana more than once on such an occasion found her mother in her darkened room in tears. Mother said she had a headache, or something of the sort. But now Diana began to have a feeling that Cousin Helen had a lot to do with those headaches. Helen would steal a man’s heart as easily as she would borrow a party dress!

And Father hadn’t realized it. No, Father wasn’t one of those men who enjoyed going off with other women, no matter how pretty and young they were. Father loved Mother deeply always. But now that Mother was gone—! Oh—! And now Helen made him think he ought to marry her! Oh, he mustn’t! He mustn’t! She must stop it somehow! She must save him from Cousin Helen! He didn’t know! He didn’t realize! She must do something about it at once. Even if she had to tell him all the little, silly, annoying things from her childhood up, she must make him understand what a calamity it would be if he married Cousin Helen!

She picked up the letter again and began to read once more. She must find out if he was coming home that morning.

So she read on.

We are to be married at once and will come right home for a few days before we go on a wedding trip. Helen feels that there are changes she will want made in the house and those could be made while we are absent—different furnishings and decorations. But I am writing to you now to make a few suggestions about our homecoming. You will want to have a nice dinner ready, of course, and the rooms in order. Perhaps Maggie will want some help about special cleaning. You will know how to look after that.

But there are a few little things that you can do for me before I get there. Please go through my room and take away anything you feel might be annoying to Helen. Your mother’s picture and any little things that were especially hers. Just put them away out of sight. You have nice tact, and I’m sure you will understand what to do. Helen has a very sensitive nature, you know, and might feel it if anything were left around to remind her of the past.

Helen seems to think you would rather not be present at the wedding, and being a woman, of course, she probably knows how you would feel about that, so I will not suggest that you come. In fact, by the time this letter reaches you it would be too late for you to start. But I am sure you will understand that I have refrained wholly for your sake from asking that you come. And, of course, when we get home, we’ll all have good times together—!

Diana caught her breath in a great sob. Good times! Would there ever be any good times again? A panic seized her! She must get in touch with her father right away! She must not waste another minute. She must somehow stop this terrible catastrophe that was about to happen to herself and her father!

She glanced at the letterhead to get the name of the hotel at which he was staying and hurried to the telephone. Oh, would he be there? Would she be able to talk to him if he were? What should she say? How should she begin?

Chapter 2

It was two full hours before Mr. Disston was finally located in the distant city hotel to which she telephoned, and Diana spent those two hours alternately walking the floor in desperation and flinging herself on her bed to weep her heart out, then springing up again to listen for the telephone.

During that two hours, every tantalizing deed of Cousin Helen Atherton’s came back in vivid form to torture her imagination. When she finally heard her father’s beloved voice over the telephone she was almost too worked up to speak.

“Oh, Father!” she cried with a great sob in her voice. “Don’t, don’t do this dreadful thing! Don’t marry that terrible woman!”

“Why, Diana!” said her father sternly. “You don’t realize what you are saying!”

“Yes, I do, I do! Oh, Father, I do! She is terrible! You don’t know! We never told you everything. We thought it would annoy you. But Mother almost hated her. I’m sure she did!”

“Stop!” said Diana’s father in a tone she never had heard him use to her since she was a little child and had been guilty of extreme naughtiness. “Diana, I cannot believe my senses! To think that you should speak such words! To think that you should charge your lovely, sweet mother with ever having hated anybody, much less one who has often been an honored guest in our home!”

“Oh, Father! You do not understand. Helen is deceitful! She does the meanest, most underhanded things and just laughs, and you have to stand whatever she does! She doesn’t care how she hurts you! She doesn’t care what she ruins or how she spoils other people’s plans! She often made Mother cry. And she used to take my things and wear my clothes without even asking if she might, and—”

“Oh, now, Diana,” said her father in a soothing voice, “you have gotten yourself all excited over the memory of some of those childish things that happened when Helen was a mere child herself. You can’t forget that foolish party dress! I know that was a little hard for you to bear, but you were a mere baby yourself, and, of course, you must realize that she is grown up now. I didn’t think you had it in your sweet nature to hold a grudge so long about such a trifling thing as a dress. Of course, I expected you to be a little surprised, perhaps even somewhat startled. But I never dreamed that you would allow your lips to utter such bitter words about another fellow creature, let alone the woman you know your father is going to marry—”

But Diana’s spirit was goaded again into a frenzy. “That’s it, Father! You mustn’t marry her! Oh Father, Fath-er, please don’t do it! Anyway, wait until you can come home and let me tell you all about her. It isn’t alone for my sake I’m asking this. It’s for yours. If you knew how hateful she can be you wouldn’t want to marry her! Why, Father dear, even before Mother was gone she tried to get you away from Mother!”

“Diana!” Her father’s voice was angry now. “Don’t attempt to say another word to me! You are beside yourself! I certainly did not foresee any such demonstration as this or I should have prepared you beforehand for what I have been contemplating for some time. I am sure when you get by yourself and have a chance to think over what you have said you will be ashamed of yourself and be quite ready to apologize. In the meantime, it is not good to talk about these things over the telephone. We won’t say any more about it! Just please remember, when you come to your senses, what I have asked you to do, and if I do not find it done, and well done, as I know you can do it, I shall consider that you have given me a personal affront. You know, Diana, I am really making this move partly for your sake, that you may have a richer, fuller life, and it ill becomes you to carry on like this even for the first few minutes until you get used to the idea. Now, child, just go and calm yourself, do the things I have asked of you, and let us say no more about it. Certainly not over the telephone!”

“But, Father—!” Diana’s voice was full of desperation. “I must talk to you. I must tell you something—Father, dear! Won’t you come home even for a few minutes? Won’t you take the next train and come to me quick? I must see you!”

Her father’s voice was cold and displeased as he answered. It made her shiver to listen to him. “That is quite impossible, Diana! My plans are made, and I have no time to take the long journey home just now. Be sensible and forget your former little jealousies and prejudices. Believe me, we are going to have a very happy time now if you do your part.”

“No! No!” protested Diana, the tears raining down her cheeks. “No, Father! I could never stay here in this home if you brought Helen here. I couldn’t! And she would not want me! You’ll find out! Oh Daddy, Daddy! Don’t do this!”

“Diana, would you want your father to be lonely the rest of his life?” came the question after a brief pause. His tone was almost placating, gentle.

“Daddy, you wouldn’t be any more lonesome than I would. We would have each other.” The tone was very sweet and pleading.

“But, little Di, you don’t realize that pretty soon you’ll be getting married yourself, and then where would I be?”

Diana recognized Helen’s fine strategy in that argument.

“I? Getting married? Who would I marry, Daddy? There isn’t anybody in the world I would rather be with than you. There isn’t anybody I care for. I’ll promise never to get married if you won’t. I’ll stay with you always. And we’ll have such a happy home!”

The man’s voice was sharp with almost a hint of sudden pain as he replied. “Diana, stop this nonsense. Get hold of your self-control and put these wild opinions out of your mind. You think you won’t get married now, but you don’t realize that such ideas change—”

“Oh, Father! Father!” sobbed Diana, feeling the utter futility of what she was trying to do. “Please don’t marry her. If you must marry somebody, get somebody else, not Helen. I know Mother would tell you so if she were here.”

“That’s enough, Diana!” said the father angrily. “Your mother would be the first one to advise me to marry. In fact, we talked about that once. She did not want me to be lonely—”

“But not Helen! Oh, not Helen, Father dear!”

“It is time to end this discussion,” said the father sternly. “I am marrying Helen tomorrow, and we’ll be home the next evening for dinner. By that time I hope you will have some control over your silly feelings and be ready to meet us in the proper manner as a true daughter should do. Till then, good-bye!”

The receiver hung up with a click, and Diana felt her heart sinking down, down, until it seemed that she could not stand up any longer. Slowly she hung up her receiver and sank down in a chair, feeling as if the worst thing that life could ever bring had happened to her. Her own father, speaking to her in that tone! Utterly refusing to hear her pleading! Determined to bring in this separating element into their lives! It seemed too horrible to be true. Her young, frightened spirit fought and struggled within itself, rebelling utterly against what had happened.

Suddenly she heard the sound of the dining room door opening from the butler’s pantry, and she knew Maggie must be coming. Swiftly, silently she rose and flew up the stairs. She did not want Maggie asking her questions. Not yet. She would have to tell her, of course, if this awful thing were really true, but not yet—not until—well, at least until she could think it out and get some degree of composure. Not until she had given her father time to think over how cruel he had been. Not until there was no more chance that he would call her up again and say he would come home and talk it over. Oh, something, something would surely happen to change the terrible fear into calm and peace again. It could not be that such a horrible happening could come to her, Diana Disston! It had been so hard to lose her mother, to try to get along for life with Mother gone. She had thought that she would never be able to take an interest in life again after her mother was gone. She thought that she had suffered the ultimate sorrow when death came; but now she saw there was something infinitely worse than death, and her young heart gazed into her future appalled.

But a peremptory tap on the door interrupted her sorrowful meditations. Maggie announced that the milkman had come for his money. “And what’s for dinner the night, Miss Diana? We’ll need ta be gettin’ the orders, especially if your father is comin’ the day.”

Diana suddenly revived from her seclusion, summoned the self-control that had been the habit of her life before others, and answered, though with a somewhat shaky voice: “Yes, Maggie, I’ll give you the money. Just a minute. And I’ll be down very soon about the orders.”

Maggie was a canny woman. She heard the shaky voice, and she peered keenly at Diana as the girl opened the door a crack to hand out the money.

“You’d best come at once,” she said shortly. “We’ll not get the best cuts o’ the meat if we don’t get our orders in soon.”

“All right,” said Diana, drawing a deep breath and trying to sound cheerful. She went to the washstand and dashed cold water over her face to erase the signs of tears.

In a few minutes she was downstairs trying to wear a nonchalant air, but the canny old servant saw through her subterfuge.

“Father won’t be home today.” Diana spoke slowly, steadily, as if she were addressing her own soul. “He—won’t be here till—Wednesday night—!”

But suddenly her lip quivered, and without warning the tears brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks. She turned instantly away from the room and stared hard out the window, trying to hide her tears from Maggie. But it was too late. Maggie had known her since she was a child. She could not be deceived when something was troubling her bairn.

“There, there, child!” she said in sudden tenderness. “You’re not ta grieve because of a couppla days. The day and the day’s day will pass that quick you’ll not meet it before it’s gone.”

But the sound of sympathy completely broke Diana’s self-control, and she put her head down on the window seat and gave herself over to weeping for the moment. Then suddenly she gained control again and raised her head, fiercely brushing away the tears.

“Oh, but Maggie, you don’t know the half,” she said with a long, shuddering sob that shook her whole young frame. “Father’s going to be married again, Maggie!”

There was an ominous silence while Maggie took in this new disaster, and a view of her kindly old face would have shown a number of emotions chasing themselves across her countenance like clouds and storm and sunshine across a summer sky. Storm first—a fury of angry clouds that the father of a girl like this and the husband of the wife he had married could be willing to put another in his dead wife’s place; compassion for the girl; then a search for comfort, for sunshine in the dark view.

“Aw, but perhaps it won’t be so bad, my bonnie dear!” she said pitifully. “Perhaps he’ll bring you a nice, good woman who’ll mother you and make it homelike again. Don’t take it so hard, my dearie. Your father’s a good man. Seems like he would pick a good woman. Look who he picked the first time!”

Maggie ventured a cheery little rising inflection to her voice.

But the girl shook her head.

“No, Maggie, that’s the worst of it. He won’t. Maggie, it’s Cousin Helen Atherton!”

Maggie’s blue eyes blazed at Diana in amazement, and her cheeks flamed redder than their usual apple red.

“That hussy!” she exclaimed, her eyes beginning to snap. “You can’t mean it, Miss Diana! Your father wouldn’t do the like o’ that to you!”

“It’s not his fault!” sobbed Diana. “I know it’s not his fault. He doesn’t understand! He just doesn’t know what she’s like. Helen never did those horrid things when Father was around!”

Maggie’s eyes held inscrutable thoughts, and her thin lips were pursed incredulously.

“Mebbe not!” she said in a noncommittal tone, though her eyes belied her tone. “Aw, but these men is that stupid when it comes ta judgin’ a pretty woman, especially if she has a bright way with her and knows how ta work her eyes. Ah! But the poor man’ll rue the day he ever saw her if he ties up ta that hussy! You no think you can try ta tell him, my lamb?”

“Oh, I have, I have, Maggie! I’ve just been talking to him over the telephone. I’ve begged him to come home and let me tell him everything, Maggie, and he was really very displeased with me. And oh, I don’t know what to do!”

Maggie suddenly came over to the girl like a little protective hen, every feather bristling, to guard a chick, and laid a work-roughened hand on Diana’s bright bowed head.

“There, there! You poor little lamb!” she crooned gently. Diana suddenly turned and flung her arms around the servant’s neck and put her face on her shoulder, weeping with all her might. For a moment the Scotch woman held her in her arms, her own tears falling upon the girl’s head. “There, there!” crooned the woman, patting the heaving shoulders gently. “Mebbe it won’t be so bad as you think! Mebbe your father’ll be able to manage her rampaging ways when he gets to know what she is!”

“No,” said Diana sadly, “he won’t find out.” There was a hopeless ring to her voice. “You know what she is, Maggie. You know how she’ll go about it. She’ll tell him everything in her own way and make it appear that it is all my fault. She always did that, and now I won’t have a chance in the world to make him see the truth. She’s begun to pull the wool over his eyes already. She’s told him I wouldn’t want to be at the wedding!”

“The hussy!” breathed Maggie under her breath. “She would! But he’ll find out, poor man! Give him time an’ he’ll see what a mistake he’s made!”

“But that’ll be too late!” wailed Diana.

“Mebbe not. Mebbe you won’t find things so hard. You must just stand up for your rights, child, and not let her get the upper hand. Remember, you’re a woman grown now!”

“But I haven’t any rights here now, Maggie,” said the little stricken voice of the girl. “She’ll be the mistress here!”

“You’ve the rights of the daughter of the house!” said the servant grimly. “You mustn’t forget that. You’ll have to let her see that you don’t mean to give up your rights as a daughter in this house. You’ve a right to the same place you had when your own mother was alive!”

“But I couldn’t stay here, Maggie! Not with her! You know life would be unbearable! You know what she does to everybody around her!”

“Would you let a thing like her bein’ here drive you out of your own home, Miss Diana? I’m surprised at the way you’re talkin’. You was here first, an’ it’s here you belong!”

Diana shook her head and lifted a hopeless, tear-stained face.

“You know I won’t be long when she gets here, Maggie. You know what she’ll do, what she always has done, just put me in the wrong at every turn. No, Maggie, I’ll have to go. It’s probably what she has planned.”

“Aw, my lamb! I can’t think that! You’ll mebbe make out ta get along for a wee bit while till something turns. And you’ll be gettin’ married soon an’ have a home of your own, you know. She can’t touch you then!”

“Married!” said Diana bitterly. “Who would I marry? I don’t want to marry anyone, and no one wants to marry me!”

“Don’t be so sure, child!” said the woman, trying to speak brightly. “There’s many a lad would be glad to if you’d give him half a chance. There’s that young Tommy Watrous that’s been comin’ of late; what’s the matter of him? He’s well fixed, and what would he come for if he’s not thinkin’ of askin’ you, my lamb?”

“Oh, Maggie!” cried Diana with a little shiver of dislike. “He’s got a mouth like a fish! Would you want to wish any such fate on me as to marry him?”

“Well, child, he’s not the only one. There’s young Arthur McWade. I hear he’s doin’ very well in the law, an’ he certainly is a fine, upstanding man. He ’minds me of your father sometimes, he’s that grave and quiet.”

“Yes,” said Diana with asperity, “he’s like an old man, and he’s awfully set in his ways.”

“But mebbe it’s a good way, child, and he seems dependable. But then there’s that Bobby Watkins. He seemed that disappointed when you weren’t home last week. They do say he’ll inherit his uncle’s estate, and there’s none better in these parts. He’s that cheerful and witty, you must admit that, dear child.”

Diana turned wearily away. “Oh, don’t let’s talk about marrying now, Maggie; I’m not wanting to get married. Not now, anyway. Marrying makes a lot of trouble. Oh, Maggie! How can I bear it?”

But suddenly the grocery boy arrived at the kitchen door with an order that had been given the day before, and Maggie had to answer his knock. Diana made a quick escape up the back stairs to her room again, and Maggie wisely left her alone for a little while.

But the interval, and the opportunity to speak her heart to another human being, had helped Diana so that she could face her immediate problems more sanely. And there was her father’s request about putting away her mother’s things! She must attend to it at once and get it over. It would be the hardest thing she had to do. She turned with swift steps and crossed the hall to her father’s room, the room that had been her mother’s also through all the years. How terrible it was going to be to have Cousin Helen have the right to be there in her mother’s place! Her heart contracted with a sickening thud as she stood in the doorway looking across at the lovely portrait of her mother by Sargent that her father had had hung there where he could look at it in his first waking moments.

And now he was willing to have it stored away out of sight! Oh, what had Cousin Helen been able to do with him already! Ah, she would wind him around her slender little finger and give that amused smile to his tortured daughter, and that would be all!

Diana went and stood beneath the portrait and looked up into the calm, serene eyes.

“Oh Mother, Mother, Mother,” she sobbed softly. “Do you know what is happening to Father and me? Do you know? And don’t you care anymore? Is everything so wonderful where you are now that you don’t care anymore? Or perhaps in heaven you can see so much more and understand so much more widely than we do down here that it doesn’t seem as dreadful to you as it does to me. Oh, but Mother, I know you understand how I feel—”

Diana raised her arms and lifted the frame from its hanging, holding it close in her arms and looking into the painted eyes with tender yearning, her own brimming over until the tears splashed down the length of the portrait. She laid the painting down upon the bed and tenderly dabbed the tears away from it, as if their saltiness had been a desecration.

Then came the pain of the thought of putting the picture away out of sight. Must she? How could her father be willing to put her precious mother’s picture away out of his room and his life, that picture of which he had been so proud, which had seemed to be such a comfort to him in the early days of his bereavement? But then, what should make him willing to bring another—and such another—into his beloved’s place? Well, it was all a terrible mystery that she could not solve.

She wondered if she dared to hang the picture in her own room. How she would love to have it there, and very likely her father would love to have it there, also. It was the natural place for it now, of course. Then suddenly there came a rush of memories. The broken doll; a fragile cup lying in fragments on the hearth where Helen had thrown it in pettishness because she had spilled some of its contents on her hand and scalded it; a precious book that her mother treasured and loved to read, slashed from start to finish, every page disfigured, and Helen’s only explanation: “Because I didn’t like it! Because it was a silly book. It was too goody-goody!”

In sudden terror, Diana took the picture in her arms once more and carried it to her own room. If she should leave that picture around and Helen should take a dislike to it she would not hesitate to take a carving knife and slash its painted canvas as she had done the pages of her Mother’s devotional book. Diana’s face grew hard. Her eyes flashed. That should never happen! She would do something with the picture to make it safe.

Swiftly she went to work, laying a sheet of cardboard from among her drawing materials over the painted surface, soft cotton above that, and then wrapping the whole thing in a big old quilt and tying it securely. And where should she hide it that it could not be found? She pondered the question anxiously as she went back to the big pleasant room across the hall that had been her father and mother’s all her young life. How empty it looked now with Mother’s picture gone. The blank space on the wall seemed to reproach her as she entered and looked around, bringing bitter tears to her eyes again.

But there was need that she act quickly. There was much to be done, and now her work began to assume proportions that she had not realized at first.

She hid the picture back in the dark end of her closet with garment bags hanging in front of it. That would do for the present, though she was by no means satisfied with its safety. Then she went to work in good earnest, gathering out the precious things from her father’s room until she was satisfied there was not a thing left to remind of her mother. She was standing in the doorway surveying the finished work. There was not even an embroidered bureau scarf nor a delicate satin pincushion to speak of the former occupant. Then suddenly she was aware of Maggie standing grimly behind her in the hall holding a broom and a dust cloth in her hands.

“I’ll just finish redding up now,” she said with an air of authority. “You get you to your room and rest yourself awhile.”

Maggie’s sandy eyelashes were wet with recently shed tears, and her lips were set thinly, defiantly, but she would do her duty to the end.

Diana turned with a start.

“Oh, thank you, Maggie,” she said wearily, “that will help a lot. But I can’t lie down now, I’ve a lot to do. I’ve other things to—” she hesitated ashamedly and added, “put away.”

“Yes,” assented Maggie, “you can’t be too careful. Mind your mother’s pearls! And her brooch! The diamond brooch.”

Diana gave her a startled look.

“Oh!” she gasped sorrowfully. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought.”

“She’ll be after the pearls,” the old servant commented sagaciously. “I mind her coaxin’ your mommy once ta let her wear ’em.”

“She never did let her have them?” Diana asked the question half fearfully, as if she would discover a precedent that might give her courage.

“Not she!” said Maggie. “She knew her well, that Helen. The pearls would never have come back if she’d once got her hand on them.”

Diana hurried away and hunted up a little chamois jewel bag in which she deposited the precious jewels, strung it on a slender chain around her neck, and dropped it inside her dress. Then with a light of battle in her eyes, she went through the house to cull out and gather into safety all precious things for which she feared.

There were a few fine paintings that had been her mother’s delight, small ones done by good artists. There were some bits of statuary, a few pieces of carved ivory and crystal. They were curios associated especially with her mother. Her father would not think of them nor notice their absence if they were gone, but they might incite the new mistress of the house to destroy them if she at all suspected that they were precious to either Diana or her mother.

When Diana was through with her work the house bore a bare, severe air as if all feminine trifles were done away with forever. She stared around in dismay. How was she going to live with so much gone that had made a great part of the background of her childhood’s home? And yet, they were only trifles she was carrying away, just a small basket full of pretty trifles.