Part 30 (1/2)

”I don't believe you're competent to treat the case, Ted. It's not a thing to be laughed out of, you see. The thing for you to remember is which bunch of trilliums you are to give Mrs. Stephen Gray from me.”

”This one.” Ted waved his left arm.

”Not a bit of it. The left one is yours.”

”No, because mine was a little the biggest, and you see this right one is.”

”You are mistaken,” Richard a.s.sured him positively. ”You give Mrs.

Stephen the right one, and I'll take the consequences.”

”Did yours have a red one in?”

”Has that right one?”

”No, the left one has. I remember seeing you pick it.”

”But afterward I threw it out. You picked one and left it in. The right is mine.”

”You've got me all mixed up,” vowed Ted discontentedly, at which his companion laughed, delight in his eye. The left-hand bunch was unquestionably his own, but if he could only convince Ted of the contrary he should at least have the satisfaction of knowing that the flowers he had plucked had reached his lady, though they would have no significance to her. When the lad jumped out of the car at his own rear gate he had agreed that the bunch with the one deep red trillium was to go to Roberta.

Ted turned to wave both white cl.u.s.ters at his friend as the car went on, then he proceeded straight to his sister's room. Finding her absent, he laid one great white-and-green ma.s.s in a heap upon her bed and went his way with the other to Mrs. Stephen's room. Here he found both Roberta and Rosamond playing with little Gordon and Dorothy, whom their nurse had just brought in from an airing.

”Here's some trilliums for you, Rosy,” announced Ted. ”Mr. Kendrick sent 'em to you. I left yours on your bed, Rob. I picked yours; at least I think I did. He was awfully particular that his went to Rosy, but we got sort of mixed up about which picked which, so I can't be sure. I don't see any use of making such a fuss about a lot of trilliums, anyhow.”

Roberta and Rosamond looked at each other. ”I think you are decidedly mixed, Ted,” said Rosamond. ”It was Rob Mr. Kendrick meant to send his to.”

Ted shook his head positively. ”No, it wasn't. He said something about you that I told him I was going to tell Steve, only--I don't know as I can remember it. Something about his admiring you a whole lot.”

”Delightful! And he didn't say anything about Rob?”

”Not very much. Said she was afraid of something. I said she wasn't afraid of anything, and he said she was--of one thing. I tried to make him say what it was, because I knew he was all off about that, but he wouldn't tell.”

”Evidently you and Mr. Kendrick talked a good deal of nonsense,” was Roberta's comment, on her way from the room.

She found the ma.s.s of green and white upon her bed and stood contemplating it for a moment. The one deep red trillium glowed richly against its snowy brethren, and she picked it out and examined it thoughtfully, as if she expected it to tell her whereof Richard Kendrick thought she was afraid. But as it vouchsafed no information she gathered up the whole ma.s.s and disposed it in a big crystal bowl which she set upon a small table by an open window.

”If I thought that really was the bunch he picked,” said she to herself, ”I should consider he had broken his promise and I should feel obliged to throw it away. Perhaps I'd better do it anyhow. Yet--it seems a pity to throw away such a beautiful bowlful of white and green, and--very likely they were of Ted's picking after all. But I don't like that one red one against all the white.”

She laid fingers upon it to draw it out. But she did not draw it out. ”I wonder if that represents the one thing I'm afraid of?” she considered whimsically. ”What does his majesty mean--himself? Or--myself?

Or--of--of--Yes, I suppose that's it! Am I afraid of it?”

She stood staring down at the one deep red flower, the biggest, finest bloom of them all. It really did not belong there with the others in their cool, chaste whiteness. Quite suddenly she drew it out. She made the motion of throwing it out the window, but it seemed to cling to her fingers.

”Poor little flower,” said she softly, ”why should you have to go?

Perhaps you're sorry because you're not white like the rest. But you can't help it; you were made that way.”

If Richard Kendrick could have seen her standing there, staring down at the flower he had picked, he would have found it harder than ever to go on his appointed course. For this was what she was thinking:

”I ought--I ought--to like best the white flowers of intellect--and ability--and training--and every sort of fitness. I try and try to like them best. But, oh!--they are so white--compared with this red, red one.