"Dear Stanley:"After our talk last evening I am quite certain that I could never be happy as your wife. It has shown me clearly that our aims and viewpoints are so entirely different that it would be useless even to dream of spending the remainder of our lives together. It is hard to write this, but I feel that no matter what it may cost me I must be true to myself. I am therefore returning your ring and letters by express. You may do as you think best in regard to returning the letters I have written you."With a sincere wish for your future happiness,"Yours sincerely,"Arline Thayer."
"Dear Stanley:
"After our talk last evening I am quite certain that I could never be happy as your wife. It has shown me clearly that our aims and viewpoints are so entirely different that it would be useless even to dream of spending the remainder of our lives together. It is hard to write this, but I feel that no matter what it may cost me I must be true to myself. I am therefore returning your ring and letters by express. You may do as you think best in regard to returning the letters I have written you.
"With a sincere wish for your future happiness,
"Yours sincerely,
"Arline Thayer."
Tardily realizing that she had unwittingly perused a communication not intended for her eyes, Grace lost no time in writing an apologetic letter to Arline in which she enclosed the fateful missive of rejection. How Arline had come to mail it to her was a matter for speculation.
But she had only set eyes on the beginning of a drama as she was soon destined to learn. Late the next afternoon, while seated on the front veranda with her mother, she viewed with mingled emotions a taxicab which had come to a full stop before the house. Out of it stepped a small, golden-haired young woman whose smart pongee traveling coat and bulging leather bag proclaimed that she had come from afar.
"Arline Thayer!" cried Grace, running down the steps to meet the newcomer as she passed through the gateway. "Why, Daffydowndilly! Thisisa surprise! You are the last person I had dreamed of seeing." Grace caught the dainty little girl in a warm embrace.
"I know I should have telegraphed you," apologized Arline, "but—well—I didn't. I made up my mind all in an instant to come to you, and here I am. Ever since I received your letter you've been constantly in my thoughts. I replied at once. Of course you received it?"
"Let me take your luggage, Daffydowndilly." Grace evaded Arline's implied interrogation for the moment. "Come and pay your respects to Mother, then we'll go upstairs to your room and you can rest a little before dinner. You must be very tired after your long ride. Then, too, we can exchange confidences. I have something to say to you about the letter you just mentioned." Grace could not refrain from smiling a little. She suspected that Arline had made a mistake, the precise result of which was yet to be revealed.
"What is the matter, Grace?" was Arline's quick question. She had instantly detected the unusual in her friend's enigmatic smile and evasive speech.
Their progress to the veranda, where Mrs. Harlowe waited to greet the unexpected but heartily-welcome arrival, prevented Grace's reply. It was not until Arline had been ushered into one of the large, airy upper chambers which Grace took so much pleasure in reserving for the use of her frequent guests, that the former again repeated her question in tones of deepening anxiety.
"I will tell you when you have made yourself comfortable," stipulated Grace. Assisting Arline in removing her hat and coat, she applied herself assiduously to the comfort of her friend.
"You are a truly ideal hostess, Grace," was Arline's tribute as she finally settled herself in a deep willow chair. "Now I am ready to hear what you have been keeping from me."
"You asked me if I had received your letter," began Grace as she dropped into a nearby chair. "Yesterday morning Ididreceive a letter you wrote, but it was not for me. The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter—I read it before I realized that I hadn't that right—was written to Mr. Stanley Forde. I wrote you an apology, enclosed the other letter with it and mailed them to you."
"Oh!" Arline gave a horrified gasp. "How perfectly dreadful! How in the world did I happen to make such a mistake! This is awful!"
"Then you wrote to me at the same time and confused the two letters? I was afraid of that. But it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you." Grace tried to put on an air of kindly unconcern. Secretly it saddened her a trifle to know that a stranger had received even an inkling of her private affairs. Undoubtedly Arline's letter to herself had contained an expression of sympathy which could not fail to put Mr. Stanley Forde in possession of certain painful facts relating to her own trouble.
"But it matters a great deal!" exclaimed Arline, flushing deeply. "In that letter to you I said that I could never be thankful enough that I had had such a wonderful talk with you. I said, too, that you had made me see things in a different light and that I knew now that what I had believed was love wasn't love at all. Worse still, I said that if it had not been for you I would never have had the courage to break my engagement, but would have failed to be true to myself. Now, Stanley has that letter!" Arline made a despairing gesture. "I don't care what he thinks aboutme, but what will he think aboutyou?"
Grace was not prepared to answer this pertinent question from the jilted Stanley's viewpoint. Personally she had a disagreeably clear idea of what he was quite likely to think. Yet she was too sturdily honest by nature to regret the advice she had given Arline in good faith. "I am sorry this has happened," she returned slowly, "but I am not sorry for what I said to you. I meant it. I would have said as much to Mr. Forde had an occasion risen which demanded plain speaking."
"You are Loyalheart, through and through," came impulsively from Arline. "You would stand by your colors to the death. I couldn't blame you if you were terribly angry with me for mixing you up so miserably in my affairs. I should have been more careful, but I was dreadfully upset when I wrote those letters. You see, Stanley came to my home on the evening of the day he returned from Oregon. As you know, I had decided to have a plain talk with him. It began pleasantly enough, but before it ended we were both very angry. He declared point-blank that after we were married I would positivelyhaveto give up my settlement work. He said a great many hateful, sneering things about the poor people I've been trying to help. I was going to give him back his ring then, but I remembered what you advised about not being too hasty. So I told him I wouldn't discuss the subject with him any more that evening.
"After that he was very pleasant. I suppose he thought he had won me over to his point of view. When he had gone I sat for a long time on the veranda thinking hard. Then I went upstairs to my room and wrote him, breaking our engagement. Of course I cried a little. I was so unhappy. Then I thought of you and felt like writing you about it. After I had written both letters, I read them over; first the one to him, then yours. It was after midnight and I was so tired. I suppose that is how I happened to make the mistake of putting your address on his letter and vice versa. He will be simply furious. I only hope that he doesn't write you a hateful letter. If he writes to me, I'll send the letter back unopened. You'd better do the same."
"No; I couldn't do that. It is perfectly proper for you to do so, but it would appear cowardly on my part. Let us hope he doesn't bother to write me. Does he know my surname and where I live?"
"Yes; I've told him of you a great many times. I wish now that I hadn't. I am sure he will write you. It's a shame. I came to Oakdale to comfort you and be comforted. Now I've landed both of us in a nice muddle." Arline lifted a pair of mournful blue eyes to Grace.
In the presence of impending tragedy a sudden sense of the ridiculous swept the two girls. Their eyes meeting, they began to laugh. It was the first genuine mirth that had stirred Grace Harlowe since the day on which she had left the Briggs' cottage to return to Oakdale.
"One ought not laugh over such a serious matter," apologized Arline, with a half hysterical chuckle. "But I can't help thinking how surprised you must have been to receive that letter to Stanley, and how wrathful he must be by this time."
"I'd rather laugh over it than cry," smiled Grace. "Don't worry, Daffydowndilly. I'm not afraid of any letter that Mr. Stanley Forde may choose to send me. You had better write him another letter at once, though, and explain matters. You owe him that, at least."
"I will," sighed Arline. "There's just one thing more I have to say. I shallnever, neverfall in love again. It's fatal to one's peace of mind. Now that I've fallen out of love, I feel about a hundred years younger. I'm going to be a nice, kind, spinster and found a home for poor children."
Grace smiled at this naïve announcement. She was unselfishly glad that Arline could thus lightly cast her burden from her dainty shoulders. Perhaps she, too, would have known greater content, had love not entered her heart. Yet in the same instant she put away the thought as unworthy of herself. Come what might she was intensely sure that she had chosen the better part.
Arline Thayer had entered Grace's home life at a moment when the latter most needed the inspiring companionship of an intimate friend. Quickly recovering from her own woes, it was borne upon Arline that she must exert herself to the utmost to cheer up the girl who had never failed her. The blithsome joy of living which, formerly, Grace had seemed to radiate had entirely disappeared. Although she went about the house, feigning desperately to maintain a cheerful attitude, a subdued air of wistfulness clung to her that filled Arline with a fierce resentment against the circumstances that had risen so unexpectedly to rob Grace of her happiness. She frequently wondered how it was possible for Grace to keep up so bravely in the face of such crushing adversity. Given the same sinister conditions, Arline admitted inwardly that she could never have maintained the remarkable composure which Grace daily exhibited.
She was thinking of this when, on the afternoon of her third day's sojourn with the Harlowes, the two young women had just left Haven Home behind them, Grace having asked Arline to accompany her on one of her frequent pilgrimages to her beautiful House Behind the World. Usually it was Nora Wingate who went with her. Occasionally Mrs. Harlowe bore her daughter company.
Grace never visited Haven Home empty-handed. Always she carried some new treasure designed by herself or her friends to adorn the stately habitation in which she felt sure that some day would indeed mean Haven Home to herself and Tom. Before he had left her to make the journey that had resulted in his complete disappearance, she had promised him that the finishing labors at Haven Home should go steadily forward. Those who knew her most intimately could readily testify that she was unfalteringly keeping her word. In moments of darkest depression she wondered from whence came the strength that enabled her to go on with these visits, each in itself a separate agony. She had been plunged for a moment in one of these painful reveries when Arline asked with an inflection of wonderment, "How can you be so brave, Grace?"
"I'm not very brave," she answered, her eyes wistful. "Not so brave as I wish I were. I have to struggle continually to make myself believe that whatever happens must be for the best. I often feel bitter and resentful and wonder why this sorrow should have been visited upon me rather than on some one else. Of course, that is wrong. No one ought to wish their troubles shifted to other folks' shoulders. Thousands of persons have greater griefs than I. Take Aunt Rose, for instance, who lost her husband and daughter so many years ago. Tom was the light of her life; her greatest pride. Think what she is suffering! We had such high hopes that David Nesbit would find Tom. Yet, thus far, he hasn't met with even a clue. Poor little Fairy Godmother says she has only one thing for which to be thankful. No one in Oakdale knows about Tom, barring a few trusted friends. She had been in constant fear lest the newspaper reporters should get hold of it. Of course it would be a severe shock to her to pick up some day a paper and read, 'Mysterious Disappearance of Tom Gray,' or 'Young Man Mysteriously Disappears on the Eve of His Wedding Day,' or some cruel scarehead of the kind. I don't quite know how I should feel about it."
"But suppose he never came back," cut in Arline, her usual tact deserting her. "Forgive me, Grace," she added penitently. "I should not have said that."
"Why not?" Only the sudden tightening of her lips betrayed that Arline's thoughtless inquiry had struck home. "I faced that long ago. If we continue to be without news of him, sooner or later his disappearancemustbecome known. But Aunt Rose prefers to keep it secret as long as possible. Her constant prayer is that he will return before any such thing comes to pass. Sometimes I think it would be better if it were generally known. I hate secrecy."
During the drive to Mrs. Gray's, both girls were unusually silent. After leaving the roadster in the Gray garage, they went up to the house to spend an hour with the lonely old lady, whose pitiful efforts to be cheerfully hospitable cut them both to the heart. Promising to come again on the following day they left her, the forlorn little chatelaine of a big house, grown oppresively empty since robbed of Tom's genial presence.
As they neared Grace's home, both glimpsed in the same instant a taxicab standing in the street directly opposite to the house.
"That taxicab is from the station!" exclaimed Grace. "Hurry, Arline, it may be—" She broke off short, her heart thumping madly. She dared not voice the hope that perhaps her weary waiting was over.
Arriving on the veranda, Grace made a hasty entrance through the open hall door. Pausing in the hall, deep masculine tones, issuing from the drawing room, caused her to speed toward the sound, Arline at her heels. The voice was not Tom's, yet her first wild conjecture as she viewed the stranger seated in a chair near the door, was that he might be Mr. Blaisdell, the investigator, with news of Tom.
A faint cry of, "Stanley Forde!" from Arline sent over her a sickening wave of disappointment. As they entered, the young man rose, looking the reverse of amiable as he stepped forward, grim purpose in every feature. Ignoring Grace he addressed himself to Arline with the stiff rebuke:
"I have been waiting for you for some time."
"I did not expect you." Arline's blue eyes flashed forth her displeasure. Merely touching the hand he offered her, she said, "Mr. Forde, this is myfriend, Grace Harlowe."
The young man acknowledged the introduction with an ironical smile in which Grace read trouble ahead for herself. She met him with a frank, kindly courtesy that betrayed nothing of her inner mind. Personally, she was not impressed in his favor.
"You will pardon my leaving you, Mr. Forde?" Mrs. Harlowe had also risen. She now addressed the young man with a distant politeness which Grace recognized as disapproval. From Arline she had learned of the broken engagement. It seemed evident that she also had not been favorably impressed with her guest's ex-fiancé.
"Certainly. Very pleased to have met you," bowed the unwelcome caller. Again Grace caught faint sarcasm in the speech.
Hardly had Mrs. Harlowe disappeared when he turned to Grace, his heavy brows meeting in a decided frown. "I believe I am indebted to you, Miss Harlowe, for a great disappointment which has recently come to me. Your unkind interference has caused Arline to reconsider her promise to become my wife. It is fortunate that she made the mistake of sending the letter she wrote you to me. It has put me in complete possession of the facts of the case. I——"
"You have no right to come here uninvited and insult Grace Harlowe in her own house," cut in Arline in a low, furious voice. "You shall not accuse her of interfering. I won't allow it. It is——"
"Please allow Mr. Forde to say whatever he wishes, Arline." Grace's interruption came with gentle dignity. Her gaze resting untroubled on the angry man, she said: "I had no wish to interfere in your affairs, Mr. Forde."
"Then why did you do it?" came the bitter retort. "What grudge could you possibly have against a man you had never even met?"
"None whatever," was the soft answer.
"But you interfered. This letter proves as much." Triumphantly he jerked the misdirected letter from a coat pocket.
Grace was silent. She did not wish to say that Arline had appealed to her for advice, neither was she anxious to remain in the room as a third party.
"I'll tell you the reason," volunteered Arline sharply. "I asked Grace's advice." Her pretty face pale with resentment, Arline poured forth a rapid outline of her talk with Grace. "That's the reason," she ended. "If you had met me fairly when I tried to talk to you about my work this would never have happened. I am glad now that it has. I don't love you and never have truly loved you. I am glad to be free. I shall never marry any one. All men are hateful! Now I wish you to go away, and never, never speak to me again as long as you live!"
But the unpleasant interview continued for another ten minutes despite Arline's pointed dismissal. Mr. Stanley Forde could not forgive Grace for what he rudely termed her "meddling." The idolized son of a too-adoring, snobbish mother, he had nothing in common with Grace's high ideals. Though she explained to him gently that she had only advised Arline to choose whichever course seemed wisest, remembering only that nothing counted so much as being true to herself, her lofty precepts merely tended further to infuriate him.
"You are one of those empty-headed idealists who go about creating disturbances for sensible persons," was the scathing criticism he delivered the moment she ceased speaking. "You will regret this interference in my affairs. Now that you know my opinion of you, will you kindly leave us? I wish to talk privately with Arline."
"I don't wish to talk to you at all," flared Arline hotly. "Please don't leave me, Grace. Whatever Mr. Forde has to say he must say in your presence."
"I am sorry, Arline, but I must ask you to excuse me from remaining longer in the room. Mr. Forde has come a long way to see you. I think you should grant his request for a private talk with you. Good afternoon, Mr. Forde. I regret that you should have so entirely misunderstood my motives." The finality of her words robbed the disagreeable caller of a ready reply. Before he could rally a further relay of rude sarcasm to his aid, Grace had left the room.
If it is indeed true that actions speak louder than words, the distinctly belligerent manner in which, ten minutes later, Mr. Stanley Forde stormed down the walk to the waiting taxicab, gave glaring proof of the dire result of his untimely call. From the garden, where Grace had fled to recover from the irritation of having been so grossly misunderstood, she saw the boorish young man depart. Privately she marveled that Arline should have so deceived herself in regard to her feelings for him. He was undoubtedly handsome, yet his regular features indicated a certain lack of strength and nobility which she thought totally marred his claim to good looks. His large black eyes had a trick of narrowing unpleasantly, and the set of his mouth betokened tyranny.
Her sympathy going out to Arline, she passed slowly among the winding garden paths, lined with colorful summer flowers, and entered the house. The sight of a pathetic little figure crumpled in a disconsolate heap on a broad settee aroused her pity afresh.
"Don't cry, Daffydowndilly," she soothed, sitting down beside her. "He isn't worth it. You were wise in breaking your engagement. Some day real love will come knocking at your door. You were never intended to be a sedate spinster and live out your days in single blessedness. I'm sorry for Mr. Forde. He loves you, I think. But not in the unselfish way you deserve to be adored."
Grace paused, her hand straying gently over the curly head against her shoulder. All of a sudden she felt very aged and very tired. The unpleasant scene with Arline's disgruntled suitor had shaken her severely. She was living out the Golden Summer, that had promised so much, in a fashion far different from the glorious realization of it for which she and Tom had hoped and planned. Yet she had been mercifully spared the pain of beholding a cherished ideal shatter itself at her feet. God had granted her the priceless boon of a true man's true love. Though she and Tom had but briefly glimpsed their Golden Summer, the remembrance of his unselfish devotion would keep it alive forever.
Two days elapsed, following the call of the belligerent Stanley Forde, before Arline ended her visit to Grace. Once she had departed, Grace missed her sorely. Her coming had been a timely break in the now sad routine which Grace daily pursued. Many of her Oakdale acquaintances and friends were still vacationing at the seashore or in the mountains. Had they been at home, she would not have sought them for companionship. Aside from the many hours she spent with Mrs. Gray, she clung desperately to Nora and Hippy Wingate. Even jovial Hippy was considerably less lively than of yore. His affection for Tom Gray was only second to his devoted friendship for Reddy Brooks, who had been his childhood's chum. Among the four young men, Tom, David, Hippy and Reddy, an ideal comradeship had ever existed, unfaltering and unchangeable. Tom's sudden and still unexplained removal had cast a pall over the remaining trio that was likely to linger indefinitely.
On the afternoon of the next day after Arline's departure, a highly-excited young man, whose plump, genial face wore an expression of angry concern, hurried up the walk to the Harlowe's veranda.
"Why, Hippy Wingate, what are you doing here so early?" demanded Nora, from the porch swing. "You can't have your dinner yet. It's only four o'clock. When you're invited to six o'clock dinner you mustn't arrive two hours beforehand. Didn't you know that?" This wifely counsel was accompanied by a teasing smile that belied its harshness.
"Don't pay any attention to her, Hippy," called Grace mischievously. "Come up on the veranda where it's nice and cool. I give you permission to sit in the porch swing beside the haughty Mrs. Wingate. Better still, I'll bring you some fruit lemonade and a whole plate of those fat little chocolate cakes you like so much."
"Now I hope you understand at last how much other people appreciate me," rebuked Hippy, as he plumped himself down in the swing with an energy that set it swaying wildly. "I shan't give you a single cake."
"I don't want any. I've had four already. I hopeyouunderstand that you've made me prick my finger," retorted Nora, dropping her embroidery to hold up the injured member for inspection.
"Too bad," mourned Hippy, applying the familiar remedy of the devoted. "Did you really lacerate your itty bitty finger? I don't see any signs of it."
"Only the blind can't see," flung back Nora. "All joking aside, what brought you here so early?"
Hippy cast an uneasy glance toward the doorway through which Grace had just vanished. "This," he returned soberly. Unfolding a New York City newspaper, he pointed to a black headline which read, "Young Man Mysteriously Disappears."
Nora drew a sharp breath of dismay as her startled glance traveled down the column. "Where—how—" she stammered.
"I don't know." Hippy glared savagely at the offending newspaper. "I've got to show it to Grace," he deplored. "I'd rather be shot. Some one broke a confidence. It's outrageous in who ever broke it."
"I should say so," agreed Nora. "You'd better—Here she comes now."
Grace stepped into view, carrying a quaint Japanese tray laden with delectable cheer. In her crisp dotted swiss gown of white, her sensitive face a trifle thinner than of yore, she looked hardly older than in her freshman days at high school. "Here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly. "Eat, drink and be merry."
Hippy groaned inwardly as he sprang from the swing to relieve her of the tray. "Grace," he began with grave affection, "I have something not in the least pleasant to tell you. I don't——"
"About Tom?" Grace's question rang out sharply on the drowsy air.
"It's not bad news of him," Hippy hastily assured, "but it's about him."
"Then tell me quickly." Grace braced herself for the shock, her gray eyes riveted on Hippy.
"Here it is." Hippy handed her the fateful newspaper. "I wanted to be the first to let you know it," he added in sympathetic apology. "I am afraid some one has played you false."
Grace focused her gaze on the flaring headline. Sinking into the nearest porch chair she read on, apparently lost to her surroundings. Raising her eyes at last from the printed sheet she astonished both Hippy and Nora with a quiet, "I am glad of this."
"Glad?" rose the inquiring chorus.
"Yes; glad. During the last two weeks I've felt very queer about keeping Tom's disappearance a secret. At first I dreaded to have any one know, on account of Fairy Godmother's horror of gossip and on my own account, too. She was afraid that some malicious person might start the story that he had purposely dropped out of sight. We know that could not be so, yet others might not share our belief in him. But lately I've been seeing matters differently. So long as the affair is kept a secret, he will never be found. With the news of his disappearance spread abroad by the newspapers, some one may come to light who has seen him or heard of him in some way. I am going to try to regard the public as friends who would like to help us all they can."
"I think you are right about that," emphasized Hippy. "You are true blue, Grace. You have carried yourself through this nightmare summer like a soldier and a gentleman. That's the highest praise I can offer. No wonder you annexed the name 'Loyalheart' at college."
"Grace, have you any idea who furnished the copy for this?" Nora pointed a disapproving finger at the newspaper. "Do you—that is—do you suppose one of the girls—I thought—perhaps——"
"No, Kathleen West would never break her word." Grace smiled whimsically. "You were thinking of her?"
"Yes; I knew she was connected with a newspaper," admitted Nora, coloring.
"None of the girls to whom I wrote about Tom had anything to do with this. I trust them as fully as I trust you. This information found its way into the newspapers through a different channel."
"Then you know who—" began Nora.
"Yes, I know," Across Grace's brain flashed the vision of an angry face, lighted by two narrowing black eyes. She mentally heard a threatening voice predict vindictively, "You will regret this interference in my affairs." The misdirected letter had again created trouble. She recalled having feared this when Arline had explained her blunder in confusing the two letters. Undoubtedly in writing to Grace, Daffydowndilly had mentioned Tom Gray's name and, in expressing her sympathy, had practically gone over the information contained in Grace's letter to her regarding the postponement of her marriage.
"I should like to tell you, children," she continued, "but I can't, because the telling would involve a certain person whose confidence I hold. I will say this much. It was petty spite which prompted the deed." Grace's lips curved in faint scorn. Stanley Forde was truly a person of small soul and less honor. Such despicable retaliation against a woman was the last touch needed to prove his unfitness to protect the welfare of loyal little Daffydowndilly.
"Oh, don't think of us," hastily assured Hippy. "We wouldn't listen to you if you tried to tell us. We understand. All the more credit to you for behaving like a clam. That's a compliment. Perhaps I had better explain. You notice I didn't say youlookedlike a clam." Hippy tried to infuse a little humor into the situation.
Grace flashed him an amused smile. "'I thank the gods for a saving sense of humor,'" she quoted. Her face instantly sobering she said: "We ought to see Aunt Rose at once about this newspaper affair. Perhaps the three of us ought to go up to her house before dinner. We shall have time."
"Are you sure you would rather not go alone?" Nora put the question in her usual direct fashion.
"No; I wish you and Hippy to go with me. But first, Hippy, you must eat your cakes and drink your lemonade." Grace picked up the well-filled tray which Hippy had temporarily set aside and held it out to him. "Don't let this queer new turn in my affairs drive away your desire for cakes."
"You are the eighth wonder, Grace. If the universe were to turn upside down I believe you'd forget your own jolts and fly to the rescue of the other human nine-pins." Hippy looked his admiration of Grace's sturdy stand under the buffets of misfortune. "I will eat every last one of these alluring tidbits and drink two glasses of lemonade just to show you that I know hospitality when I meet it on a veranda."
"See that you do. Now excuse me. I must show this newspaper to Mother. When I come back we'd better go to see Fairy Godmother."
The confidential session between mother and daughter lasted not more than ten minutes, yet before it ended Grace crept silently into the shelter of her mother's arms to shed a few tears on her all-comforting shoulder. It was not the printed article relating to Tom which prompted them. It was poignant sorrow for his long unexplained absence from her that brought brief faltering.
When she returned to the veranda, where Hippy was busy with the last of the cakes and his second glass of lemonade, her sensitive features bore no sign of her moment of weakness.
"I have kept my vow." Hippy pointed significantly to the empty plate. "Nothing remains but a few discouraged crumbs." Suddenly changing his light tone, he raised his glass of lemonade and said with solemn intensity: "Here's to Tom Gray; a speedy and safe return. I can't help feeling that it will be so."
"Thank you, Hippy." The faint color in Grace's cheeks deepened. A gleam of new hope kindled in her eyes. "You said a while ago that you wondered at my being so calm about Tom. I can't be anything else, because I never allow myself to think that he won't come back. If I did, I'd be utterly miserable. You thought this article in the newspaper might hurt me. Two weeks ago it would have done so. But now! Somehow it seems to me to be the first definite link in the chain that stretches between him and me. It's the beginning of the end, and just as surely as I stand here I believe something good will come of it."
The three bearers of the news, which they had reason to believe would prove so disturbing to Mrs. Gray, were doomed to disappointment. They reached her home on Chapel Hill only to find that she had been summoned early that afternoon to the bedside of an old friend who was very ill, and would not return until late in the evening.
Grace was relieved at being thus able to postpone the detailing of the disagreeable news. She was in a quandary regarding loyalty to Arline and loyalty to her Fairy Godmother. She was of the opinion, however, that it was the latter's right to know all, even at the expense of breaking the confidence Arline had reposed in her. She had little doubt that Arline would not object to such an action on her part, yet such was her nature that she found it difficult to accept this view of the subject.
After Hippy and Nora had gone home that evening she wrote a long letter to Arline, setting the matter frankly before her. She knew that before the letter reached her friend, she would have already told all to Mrs. Gray. Still she reflected that she had at least behaved fairly.
But the following morning brought with it the knowledge that Arline had already taken the initiative. Special delivery was responsible for a letter from an incensed Daffydowndilly, which fairly sputtered with indignation. Grace was obliged to smile as seeking its contents she saw:
"Dearest Grace:"That horrible, hateful old Stanley Forde is the most despicable person in the whole world. I was simply furious when I read that article about your fiancé, Tom Gray. I called Stanley on the telephone and accused him of giving the story to the newspapers. Of course I knew in a minute it was he. I remembered all I had said in that letter to you which I sent him by mistake. He actually laughed and said that he did it to pay you for meddling. I told him he would be held responsible for giving the story to that newspaper, but he said that as long as it was true, as he could prove by my letter, that the editor of the newspaper had a perfect right to use it if he wished. He pointed out that it was nothing against Mr. Gray's character and therefore legitimate news."Then he had the unspeakable temerity to ask me if he might call on me. You can imagine what I said. Thank goodness and you that I found him out in time. I would be happier with a blind, deaf and dumb man who couldn't walk than to be married to such a person. I amsoangry. I have written another letter to dear Mrs. Gray explaining the whole thing. She was so sweet to me when in Oakdale that I felt it my duty to tell her everything. Will you go to her and explain even more fully? You can fill in any gaps which my letter to her may contain. Tell her every single thing about me. I wish her to know it. I am sending her letter by special delivery also. Must hurry and post both letters, so I will close. Write to me soon."Faithfully,"Daffydowndilly Thayer("To the end of the chapter.")
"Dearest Grace:
"That horrible, hateful old Stanley Forde is the most despicable person in the whole world. I was simply furious when I read that article about your fiancé, Tom Gray. I called Stanley on the telephone and accused him of giving the story to the newspapers. Of course I knew in a minute it was he. I remembered all I had said in that letter to you which I sent him by mistake. He actually laughed and said that he did it to pay you for meddling. I told him he would be held responsible for giving the story to that newspaper, but he said that as long as it was true, as he could prove by my letter, that the editor of the newspaper had a perfect right to use it if he wished. He pointed out that it was nothing against Mr. Gray's character and therefore legitimate news.
"Then he had the unspeakable temerity to ask me if he might call on me. You can imagine what I said. Thank goodness and you that I found him out in time. I would be happier with a blind, deaf and dumb man who couldn't walk than to be married to such a person. I amsoangry. I have written another letter to dear Mrs. Gray explaining the whole thing. She was so sweet to me when in Oakdale that I felt it my duty to tell her everything. Will you go to her and explain even more fully? You can fill in any gaps which my letter to her may contain. Tell her every single thing about me. I wish her to know it. I am sending her letter by special delivery also. Must hurry and post both letters, so I will close. Write to me soon.
"Faithfully,
"Daffydowndilly Thayer
("To the end of the chapter.")
Grace laid down this energetic communication with a faintly glad sigh. This snarl at least had righted itself. Suppose it were an omen? "The beginning of the end," she had said. It was a little thing, but in some indefinable fashion her heart grew lighter. As Arline's letter had come to her in time of need, perhaps out of the vast unknown would come some sign of or from the lost one.
Her straight brows arched themselves in surprise as she devoted herself to the reading of a letter from Miriam Nesbit.
"Beloved Loyalheart:"Can you, your father and mother come to New York City at once? Everett and I are to be married on Friday evening at eight o'clock, then take a night train for California. So my well-laid plans for a grand wedding the last of October will have to end in mere announcement cards. But I'll explain. You know I told you of those wonderful open-air performances of Greek plays that have been going on at a spot not far from Ravenwood, the motion picture studio where Everett and Anne filmed Hamlet and Macbeth. To go back to the Greek plays—they will end next week. They have proved so successful that the management wishes to follow them with a series of Shakesperian performances, as they have had requests for them from all sides. To come directly to the point, the stellar honors have been offered Everett, therefore I am about to sacrifice pomp and ceremony on the altar of true love."We are to be married in the Little Church Around the Corner where so many professionals have taken their sacred vows. Only my nearest and dearest are to be there. There will be neither a best man nor a bridesmaid and I shall be married in a traveling gown and turn my cherished trousseau into prosaic wardrobe. Even my wedding gown will have to be used afterward, minus the veil, of course, as an evening frock. I have telegraphed David and hope he can come. If he does, he will go back to his search the day after my marriage. Poor Loyalheart, I cannot write you all I feel for you. I'll try to tell you when I see you. Don't disappoint me. I cannot bear to think of going on this new pilgrimage without your being present to wish me godspeed. With my dearest love and sympathy,"Miriam.""P. S. I hope Fairy Godmother will come, too. I have written her."
"Beloved Loyalheart:
"Can you, your father and mother come to New York City at once? Everett and I are to be married on Friday evening at eight o'clock, then take a night train for California. So my well-laid plans for a grand wedding the last of October will have to end in mere announcement cards. But I'll explain. You know I told you of those wonderful open-air performances of Greek plays that have been going on at a spot not far from Ravenwood, the motion picture studio where Everett and Anne filmed Hamlet and Macbeth. To go back to the Greek plays—they will end next week. They have proved so successful that the management wishes to follow them with a series of Shakesperian performances, as they have had requests for them from all sides. To come directly to the point, the stellar honors have been offered Everett, therefore I am about to sacrifice pomp and ceremony on the altar of true love.
"We are to be married in the Little Church Around the Corner where so many professionals have taken their sacred vows. Only my nearest and dearest are to be there. There will be neither a best man nor a bridesmaid and I shall be married in a traveling gown and turn my cherished trousseau into prosaic wardrobe. Even my wedding gown will have to be used afterward, minus the veil, of course, as an evening frock. I have telegraphed David and hope he can come. If he does, he will go back to his search the day after my marriage. Poor Loyalheart, I cannot write you all I feel for you. I'll try to tell you when I see you. Don't disappoint me. I cannot bear to think of going on this new pilgrimage without your being present to wish me godspeed. With my dearest love and sympathy,
"Miriam."
"P. S. I hope Fairy Godmother will come, too. I have written her."
As Grace read the signature, the letter fluttered to the floor unheeded. Her generous soul rejoiced at Miriam's happiness, yet never before had the gloom of her own situation struck her so sharply. One by one her trusted comrades were placing their lives in the care of the chosen men of their hearts. Only a little while before she had been of them all perhaps the most buoyant. Her engagement to Tom, after months of harrowing indecision, had always been a matter of reverent wonder to her. She had looked eagerly forward to attending Miriam's wedding. Now she dreaded the thought. She felt that she could have better borne with attending an elaborate and formal wedding than to mingle with the intimate few who would be present at the Little Church Around the Corner. Yet she had no choice in the matter.
Seeking her mother, Grace gave her Miriam's letter. A short consultation in which it was decided that Grace must represent her family at Miriam's wedding, and she was speeding upstairs to pack a steamer trunk. The mere glance at a huge cedar chest in which reposed her own wedding gown sent a chill to her heart. Listlessly she made her preparations for the flitting. She would take the noon train which would reach New York at nine o'clock that evening, provided her Fairy Godmother should decide not to go to the wedding. Should she do so, then they would probably wait until the following morning. At all events she would be ready.
Her labor of packing accomplished, Grace set off for her interview with Mrs. Gray. She found the lonely old lady raised to the nth power of indignation over the deplorable newspaper notice. Anger at that "detestable Forde person" had electrified her into a semblance of her formerly vivacious self. Grace was delighted at the change, but had considerable difficulty in reconciling her wrathful Fairy Godmother to her own point of view.
"I dare say you may be right, child," she reluctantly conceded, after Grace had held forth at length. "That villainous young man may possibly have done us a good turn, unawares. It was sweet in little Arline to write me so beautifully. What a narrow escape she has had, to be sure! If Tom were anything like this miserable man, Forde, I should not care whether or not he ever came back. The publicity of this has upset my nerves completely. We shall have to weather it, I suppose, now that the mischief is done."
"I am glad you can look at it in that light," was Grace's earnest response. "Are you going to New York to see Miriam married, dear?"
"Bless me, I had quite forgotten Miriam's wedding. When is it to be?"
"Then you haven't received her letter!" Grace cried out in dismay.
"I haven't looked at any of my mail, except this letter from Arline. It was first on the pile. Jane gave me the newspaper when I returned last night. She had already seen the article about Tom. Would you mind sorting the mail? Miriam's letter is probably among the others. I have tried to pay special attention to my mail since my poor boy vanished, for fear of missing something I ought to know. But this morning my mind was on Arline's letter and that newspaper. I think I shall have to engage a secretary. You know I've never had one since Anne gave up the position."
Grace, whose fingers and eyes had been busy while Mrs. Gray talked, held up a square white envelope. "Here is Miriam's letter."
"I think we had better go to-day," decided Mrs. Gray, when at her request Grace had read her Miriam's letter. "This is Wednesday. That will give us two days with the Nesbits. As it is only half-past ten we can catch that 12.30 train, provided you are ready. Ring for Jane. She can quickly pack whatever I need to take with me. It is lucky that I bought Miriam's wedding gift some time ago. I really think this little trip will benefit me, though the very idea of attending a wedding gives me the horrors. Still Miriam is one of my adopted children. I hope David can come. I am anxious to talk with him. Strange that he can find out nothing about Tom."
Roused from the listless apathy which had so persistently preyed upon her, Mrs. Gray rattled on with a new and surprising cheerfulness which delighted Grace. Perhaps this was another link in the invisible chain. The sudden upheaval of Miriam's plans for a magnificent wedding had at least benefited one person. Then, too, they would perhaps see David and learn more definitely of the territory which Tom had invaded to his sorrow.
Waiting only long enough to see Mrs. Gray deep in her preparations for the coming journey, Grace hurried home to don a traveling gown, say a fond farewell to her mother and leave a loving good-bye message for her father. A telephone call left with her mother for her during her absence informed her that Nora had heard from Miriam, too. She and Hippy would take the evening train for New York.
"We are rallying to Miriam's standard," Grace declared with a flash of her former enthusiasm, when her mother had repeated Nora's message. "If Jessica and Reddy can manage the trip, then—" She stopped, the smile faded from her face. She had been about to say that the Eight Originals would all be there. Turning abruptly she walked from the living-room, the sentence unfinished. For a brief instant she had forgotten that unless the unknown suddenly yielded up its prey, one loved face would be missing from the Eight Originals.
As the twilight of a perfect September day deepened into purple night, a little company of persons crossed the threshold of the quaint Little Church Around the Corner. Though few in number it was a gathering strongly fortified by warm affection. The several passers-by who chanced to see this small procession enter the unpretentious sanctuary had no difficulty in divining their purpose or singling out the chief participants in the affair. The face of the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, gowned in a smart tailored coat suit of brown, wore the shy radiance of a bride. The tall, distinguished-looking man who accompanied her was easily identified as the happy party of the second part.
Though destiny had taken an unexpected hand in Miriam Nesbit's wedding plans, she was perhaps better satisfied to make her vows of life-long devotion in the presence of only those she had known best. Miss Southard, Mrs. Nesbit, David, Anne, Grace, Hippy, Nora and Mrs. Gray were present, as Miriam's nearest, and undoubtedly her dearest. Second in her regard were J. Elfreda Briggs, Arline Thayer, Kathleen West and Mabel Ashe, whose residence in or near New York made their attendance possible. Greatly to the regret of all concerned, Jessica and Reddy had been unable to come to the wedding. Though a decided air of informality permeated the little assemblage, the always impressive ceremony of marriage had never seemed more sacred to the chosen few. At Miriam's earnest request they grouped themselves about her, a fond guard, while the minister, Everett Southard's comrade of long standing, spoke the simple, beautiful words that linked two lives together, "for better or for worse, through good and evil report."
From the moment she entered the Little Church until, the ceremony over, she found herself being helped into the Nesbits' automobile, Grace was as one in a dream. She had noted in absent wonder the play of more than one handkerchief as her friends wiped away the furtive tears that are always as sure to fall in the presence of a great happiness, as when the occasion is one of grief. But she had no tears to shed. Weeks of silent suffering had bereft her of that relief. Her sensitive face grew a trifle more wistful as she listened to the sonorous voice intoning the sacred words, but her brooding gray eyes remained dry. She alone knew the agony of dull pain which clutched persistently at her heart.
During the ceremony more than one pair of sympathetic eyes strayed from Miriam and Everett Southard to the slender, white-clad girly whose grave, sweet mouth and unfaltering glance told of a strength that came from within. In the thick of the congratulations which followed, there was not one of those who adored Grace who did not yearn to turn to her and comfort her. Yet her very composure made consolation impossible. They realized that she was sufficient unto herself.
On the way to the station, where the Southards were to entrain almost immediately for the West, she talked in her usual cheerful strain to Mrs. Nesbit, Mrs. Gray and Elfreda Briggs, who shared an automobile with her. David and Anne were in the Southards' limousine with Miss Southard and the newly wedded pair, while the other members of the party had followed in a larger automobile. Secretly, Grace and Mrs. Gray were longing to talk with David Nesbit. He had arrived from the north only an hour before the wedding, thus giving them no chance for an interview. Both were imbued with but one thought and that thought centered on Tom Gray.
When the last hearty words of good will and farewell had been said and the train bearing the Southards westward had chugged out of the station, Grace was still obliged to possess her soul in patience while the remainder of the wedding party, minus the chief participants, repaired to the Nesbits' home for an informal supper in honor of the occasion. During its progress, however, she and David managed to exchange a few words regarding Tom. David had canvassed the region of the camp as thoroughly as was possible during the time he had been North, but thus far he had met with no clue to Tom's whereabouts.
It was after eleven o'clock when Hippy, Nora, Anne, David, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Nesbit, Grace and Elfreda Briggs, whom Grace had begged to remain with her, settled themselves in the library to hear David's account of his northern explorations.
"I am all broken up because I have no news for you," he began. "Good old Tom's disappearance is the most baffling problem I've ever dealt with. Blaisdell is completely discouraged. He and I have tramped through those woods for days from daylight until dark. So far as we know, no one saw Tom after he left the village. I found one little boy who insists that he saw Tom that day, but he saw him just before he entered the woods, so that doesn't help much. But I won't give up. I shall have to remain in New York for a day, then I am going back to stay until I find him."
"Mr. Blaisdell has written me that he must go to Cincinnati for a week or two," sighed Mrs. Gray. "A case he was working on, before he took up mine, needs his immediate attention."
"Yes; he told me," nodded David. "He is a splendid man, but he's handicapped in Tom's case by not being a thorough-going woodsman. His work has lain a great deal in large cities. If one of us had disappeared in such a wild region, instead of Tom, I'd say the very man to do the trailing would be Tom Gray himself. What I can't understand is how an expert woodsman like Tom could come to grief in the wilds."
"Tom was always venturesome and reckless of danger," replied Mrs. Gray with an ominous shake of her head. "I wish he had gone into some commercial enterprise rather than to have become interested in forestry. You know that the station master told him a storm was brewing, but he paid no attention to the warning."
"That storm was the cause of Tom's vanishing," broke in Grace almost dramatically. "I've always felt it. It made him lose his way, then——Who knows what happened then?"
"I wish I could go with you, David," declared Hippy earnestly. "I would, too, if I weren't tied up with a law suit which an irate traction company is waging against the city of Oakdale. Although I am not a woodsman, still I know the difference between a tree and a stump, and during my long and useful career I have killed numbers of slimy, slithery snakes."
"At least, that's something to be proud of," lauded Elfreda Briggs, favoring Hippy with an amused smile. The stout young man's remarks were quite in accord with her own distinct sense of humor. Hitherto she had listened without comment, absorbing all she heard and mentally appraising it in her shrewd fashion. She had chosen to break into the conversation at that moment because of an idea that was slowly taking shape in her fertile brain.
"I suppose," she continued nonchalantly, "that as David has just said, it takes a woodsman to trail a woodsman." Her round eyes fastened themselves on Grace. Knowing Elfreda as she did, Grace flashed the speaker a curiously startled glance. Something of signal import to her was about to fall from Elfreda's lips.
"I was just thinking of the story of Ruth Denton's father and old Jean, the hunter, who used to live in Upton Wood. Don't you remember, you told me about how he was hurt and Mr. Denton nursed him back to health! You told me, too, that this same Jean had hunted all over the United States and Canada. There's a woodsman for you! If he's still in Oakdale, why don't you ask him to go and look for Tom?" Elfreda leaned back in her chair, well pleased with herself. The expressions mirrored on her friends' faces told her that she had scored.
"Why did we never think of Jean before?" wondered Grace in a hushed voice.
"Good old Jean!" Hippy sprang to his feet and performed a joyful dance about the room. "Why, of course he's the very man!"
"It was unforgivably stupid in me never to have thought of Jean," admitted David, looking deep disgust at his own defection.
"The reason none of us thought of Jean was because I made such a point of keeping Tom's disappearance a secret," acknowledged Mrs. Gray ruefully. "Did Grace tell you that a New York newspaper had published an account of it?"
"Miriam sent me a copy of the newspaper," returned David. "Who gave out the news?"
Mrs. Gray cast an interrogatory glance toward Grace, who met it with an assuring smile. "It's all right, Aunt Rose," she nodded. "I have Arline's permission to answer. She wishes me to tell anyone whom I think ought to know it. She said so to-day." With this explanation Grace continued: "I wrote Arline about the postponement of my marriage to Tom. She answered, but confused her letter with another which she had written to someone else. That person proved unfriendly to both of us, and so the mystery of poor Tom came into print."
"So that's the way it happened," mused David. Delicacy forbade him to ask further questions. He understood, as did the others, that Grace's explanation had been purposely sketchy. "Personally, I'm not sorry it's now generally known. It may be the means of bringing Tom into the land of the living again. I don't mean that I think he's dead. I can't and won't think that."
"Nor I," Grace cried out sharply. "I've never let myself believe that for an instant. We ought to give Elfreda special vote of grateful thanks for suggesting Jean. That was a master stroke."
Grace's suggestion brought out a volley of acclamation in Elfreda's direction.
"Oh, forget it," she muttered, unconsciously relapsing into her old-time use of slang. "Old Jean just happened to pop into my head. That's all."
"Just the same, it takes an outsider to show the Oakdalites a few things," warmly accorded Hippy. "I am proud to claim you as a colleague, Elfreda. Some day we may yet grapple together with the intricacies of the law. 'Wingate and Briggs, Lawyer and Lawyeress. Daring Deeds Perpetrated While You Wait,' would look nice on a sign."
"I can see that you are making fun of a poor defenseless lawyeress," retorted Elfreda good-humoredly. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Nesbit? You've been listening to all of us without saying a word. Now we'd like to hear your views on whether or not Wingate and Briggs, etc., would set the world on fire as a law firm."
"I have little doubt of the glorious future of such a combination," agreed Mrs. Nesbit, smiling. There was an absent look in her eyes, however. Her thoughts had been traveling persistently into the past as she sat listening to the interesting discussion over the missing Tom. Was it possible that Miriam, her little girl of yesterday, had actually stepped out on the highway of married life? And Grace Harlowe, the care-free torn-boy who had run races and flown kites with David, was now a tragic-eyed young woman from whose hand fate had roughly snatched the cup of happiness. There were Nora and Hippy, too, a veritable Darby and Joan, despite their love for playful squabbling. Could it be that these alert, self-reliant young men and women were once the children who had romped and frisked about on her lawn, or played house under the tall hollyhocks in the garden?
"You are tired out, Mrs. Nesbit," suggested Grace with concern. She had noted the brooding light in the older woman's gentle face and quickly attributed the cause. "I think it is time to sound taps. We can continue our session in the morning, can't we, Fairy Godmother?"
"Yes. I am not nearly as young as I wish I were. This trouble about Tom has made me realize it," returned Mrs. Gray somberly. "But Elfreda has given us a valuable piece of advice. I am inclined to hope with Grace that we have reached the beginning of the end of our weary waiting."
"I've a favor to ask of you," stated Elfreda mysteriously, when, a little later, she and Grace entered the sleeping room which they were to occupy together.
"It is granted." Grace passed an affectionate arm about Elfreda's plump shoulders.
"All right. I don't need to ask, then. I'll just remark that I'm going home with you to Oakdale."
"Elfreda!" Grace brought both arms into play in an energetic hug of the stout girl. "Will you truly come home with me!"
"I will," asserted Elfreda.
"But what about your work?"
"Let the law take its course—without me," was the unconcerned response. "I wouldn't miss seeing old Jean for anything. But that's not my reason for inviting myself to go home with you. I can see that you need a comforter. Do I get the job?"
"You do," laughed Grace, but the laugh ended in a sob against Elfreda's shoulder. It had been a trying day for poor Loyalheart and the inevitable reaction had set in. "You—understand—don't—you?" she murmured brokenly.
"Yes; I know how brave you've been to-day." Elfreda's soothing tones were a trifle unsteady, as she added in tender whimsicality, "I could see."
Returned to Oakdale, Grace's first step was toward finding Jean, whose long residence in the snug cabin in Upton Wood had made him seem like a part of the forest itself. Greatly to her dismay, old Jean was not to be found. Nora, Hippy, Elfreda and herself made a trip to the cabin only to find it locked. On a bit of paper tacked to the door, appeared the laboriously written notice: "Gone way June 2. Come back som day."
It was a tragic downfall to the new hope that Grace had been confidently nursing, and it took all the fortitude she could summon to recover even in a measure from her bitter disappointment. Where to look for Jean she had not the remotest notion. She knew only too well that "som day" was quite likely to mean next winter. Jean was one of those rare persons who can follow the dictates of his own pleasure. The whole woodland universe was his to roam at will. His life-long communion with Nature had taught him to supply his simple wants with the ease with which the prehistoric denizens of the forest had attended to theirs, and life was to him one glorious succession of light-hearted wayfaring.
Every now and then, however, he would descend upon his lonely cabin, laden with the spoils of the chase, which found a ready market in Oakdale. After one of these jaunts he was always sure to find plenty of work awaiting him, for aside from his prowess as a hunter, he was a veritable Jack of all trades whose services were always in keen demand.
J. Elfreda Briggs was also downcast over the fact that her suggestion could not be immediately carried out. Determined not to be balked, she asked Grace's permission to mail "personals" addressed to Jean to a number of newspapers published in various large cities of the United States. But these notices brought no reply from the old hunter, who, it seemed, had vanished from the busy world as completely as had Tom Gray.
In the meantime the Wingates, Elfreda and Grace made it a point to institute a vigorous inquiry throughout Oakdale, in the hope of finding someone who could give them some definite information regarding where Jean had gone. From several persons who had talked with the old hunter before his departure, they learned only that he had announced his intention to go away on a long expedition, but had neglected to state what part of the country he intended to traverse.
Contrary to Mrs. Gray's and her own expectation that the news of Tom's unexplained dropping-out of his own particular world of friends and acquaintances would create disturbing gossip, Grace was supremely touched by the sympathetic loyalty of her townspeople. Until visited by adversity, she had never even suspected that she ranked so high in their esteem. Each day brought her some fresh proof of consideration and sympathy from the good-hearted residents of the little city of her birth. Not one slighting or detrimental comment against either herself or Tom came to her ears. It was as though the entire populace had risen to her standard in the name of friendship. She was now wholly content that the sad affair was no longer a secret.
Yet even the undivided consideration of her townspeople could not serve to throw a ray of light on the mystery. It was now the latter part of September and not a word of encouragement had come from David Nesbit, who had returned to the lumber country to pursue his lonely search until Mr. Blaisdell should again join him. True, David kept the anxious watchers fully informed of his movements, but the burden of his messages was always, "Nothing new about poor Tom has come to light."
During these days of dreary uncertainty, Elfreda proved herself a comforter indeed. Although a week had elapsed since she had taken up her residence under the Harlowe's hospitable roof, she calmly announced her intention to stay on and await developments. Her repeated cheery assertion, "Everything will come out all right yet," did much to help Grace maintain the hopeful stand she had forced herself to take. She could hardly bear to have Elfreda out of her sight, so greatly had she come to rely on her. On the other hand, Elfreda was supremely satisfied with her rôle of guardian angel. She regarded Grace as the direct inspiration to every good deed she had ever performed, and humbly congratulated herself on being for once granted an opportunity to make some small return for the countless favors she had received at Grace's hands.
To Elfreda herself, however, it appeared that she had been able to do very little. This thought was troubling her one hazy autumn afternoon as the two girls silently ascended the steps to Haven Home, whither they had walked through Upton Wood, to spend an hour or two. Elfreda was not fond of these frequent visits to the House Behind the World. They were invariably fraught with melancholy. Grace was always fairly cheerful at the start, yet the moment her gray eyes glimpsed Haven Home the old, wistful shadow crept into them.
Once inside the stately old house, her depression became even more apparent. Haven Home was now in complete order, even to the little personal touches which greatly enhanced the beauty of the tasteful furnishings. The color schemes for the various rooms had been decided upon by Tom and Grace during those first happy hours of possession. How energetically they had entered into even the smallest details, and how enthusiastically they had engrossed themselves with the joyful labor of planning the arrangement of the furniture and the countless appointments. Both had agreed that everything in the house should signify comfort rather than elegance, in order that, when the last triumphant touch had been given to it, Haven Home should be a home indeed.
To carry on bravely the work which she and Tom had begun had been an excruciating torture to Grace, made endurable only by the thought that at least she was fulfilling Tom's wishes. She was ever urged on to her sorrowful task by the one consolation that when the blessed day of Tom's return dawned, and she believed that it must, he would find that she had been loyal to his interests. She had not sat down to mourn, her hands idle. She had faithfully labored to make their dream of home come true. Though the winter of sorrow held her in its icy grip, the Golden Summer of love still bloomed fresh and fragrant in her heart.
"I don't think you ought to come here so much, Grace." Elfreda's matter-of-fact tones roused Grace from the somber reverie which had obsessed her as she stood in the center of the living-room, her absent gaze on a painting which Tom had especially fancied. It represented a young man in the dress of a cavalier and a beautiful girl in a simple high-waisted gown of white, strolling through a field of starry daisies. On both faces was the rapt expression of complete absorption that betokened the knowledge of their great love for each other. Looming up, a trifle in their rear, a gigantic black-robed figure, with a terrifying face, was hurrying, with great strides, across the blossoming meadow to overtake the absorbed pair. One had only to glance at the painting to realize that in simply naming it "Fate" the artist had rightly suited the legend to his conception.
"Why not?" asked Grace, her attention still on the painting.
"Because it's not good for you," protested Elfreda sturdily. "It isn't as though the house needed your attention. It's in perfect order and the prettiest, most comfortable place I ever set foot in. You've done everything here that can be done. Now if I were you I'd hold up my right hand and swear not to come here again until I stepped over the threshold with Tom Gray. Every time, after we pay our respects to Haven Home, you go away from it with the expression in your eyes of an early Christian martyr going to the stake. Not that you ever complain. If you went around weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth, I'd be better satisfied. But you don't. Your face simply takes on a hurt, despairing look that makes me sick at heart."
"I know it isn't good for me to come here," was Grace's frank admission. "Each time I say, 'This must be the last,' and yet somehow I can't stay away. My whole heart is bound up in Haven Home. It's the most wonderful and at the same time the saddest place in the world to me. And this picture! It fascinates me. When Tom and I chose it, we didn't dream that Fate was hurrying to overtake us."
"I'd turn it toward the wall," counseled Elfreda gruffly. "It's beautiful, but it gives me the creeps. It upsets you more than anything else in this house. Every time you come here, I've noticed you go straight to it. I can see that it's a Jonah. Do you give me leave to do the reversing act?" Elfreda grinned boyishly, yet her round blue eyes were purposeful. It would have given her infinite pleasure to summarily bundle the offending painting into Upton Wood, leaving it to the mercy of the elements.
"You may turn it toward the wall if you like." Grace sighed as she tore her gaze from the painting. "It's rather heavy, though, and you will have a hard time reaching up to it."
"Oh, that's nothing. There's a step ladder on the back porch. I noticed it the last time we were over here." Elfreda hurried from the room to wrest the ladder from its lowly haunt. Returning she set it in place before the painting and climbed the four steps to the top with joyful alacrity.
Grace followed the movements of her energetic companion with moody interest. She was glad yet sorry to watch the change Elfreda was about to make.
"I can't reverse it up here," grumbled Elfreda. "I'm afraid of dropping it. I'll have to get down from the ladder with it, then turn it around."
Carefully descending, she laid the so-called Jonah face down on the top step of the ladder, paused for an instant before completing her task.
"Oh, look!" Grace cried out, staring hard at the back of the picture. Standing out on it in letters of blue a single sentence had been pencilled.
Elfreda peered curiously at the writing. "True love laughs at Fate," she read. "That's odd! Who in the world wrote that?"
"It was Tom." Grace drew a long breath. "Seeing his writing gave me a queer thrill for a minute. It was just as though out of the silence he had suddenly spoken. Then I remembered. When the painting was unwrapped we stood looking at it. Tom had a blue pencil in one hand. He had been checking off a list of our belongings. I said that the painting was beautiful but sinister, and that I hoped that no such terrible figure of Fate would ever overtake us. Tom laughed and said he would put a spell on the picture. So he took the blue pencil and scribbled that sentence on the back of it. Then he hung it on the wall. I never recalled the incident until this moment. I'm glad you suggested reversing 'Fate,' Elfreda. I'd rather have it so. The very sight of his handwriting is a comfort."
"It's an omen," Elfreda declared solemnly, her plump face alive with superstition. "Yes, sir; it's an omen. I can see that it's a fore-runner of good luck."