CHAPTER XIXTHE SWORD OF SUSPENSE
When Miss Wharton sent Jean Brent and Grace Harlowe from her office with the threat of dismissal hanging over them she fully intended to keep her word. From the moment she had first beheld Grace Harlowe she had conceived for her a rooted dislike such as only persons of strong prejudices can entertain. Her whole life had been lived narrowly, and with repression, therefore she was not in sympathy with youth or its enthusiasm. According to her belief no young woman of Grace’s age and appearance was competent to assume the responsibility of managing an establishment like Harlowe House. She had again delivered this opinion most forcefully in Miss Wilder’s presence after Grace had left the office on the afternoon of their first meeting, and Miss Wilder’s earnest assurances to the contrary served only to deepen Miss Wharton’s disapproval of the bright-faced, clear-eyed girl whose quiet self-possession indicated a capability of managing her own affairs that was a distinct affront to the woman who hoped to discover in her such faults as would triumphantlybear out her unkind criticism.
Miss Wharton had held the position of dean in an unimportant western college, and it was at the solicitation of a cousin, a member of the Board of Trustees, that she had applied for the office of dean at Overton, and had been appointed to it with the distinct understanding that it was to be for the present college year only. Should Miss Wilder be unable to resume her duties the following October, Miss Wharton would then be reappointed for the entire year. The importance of being the dean of Overton College, coupled with the generous salary attached to the office, were the motives which caused Miss Wharton to resign her more humble position, assured as it was, for an indefinite period of years, for the one of greater glory but uncertain length.
Possessed of a hard, unsympathetic nature, she secretly cherished the hope that Miss Wilder would not return to Overton the following year. She also resolved to prove her own worth above that of the kindly, efficient dean whom the Overton girls idolized, and began her campaign by criticizing and finding fault with Miss Wilder’s methods whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. At first her unfair tactics bade fair to meet with success. The various members of the Board, and even Dr. Morton,wondered vaguely if, after all, too much confidence had been reposed in Miss Wilder.
Wholly intent on establishing herself as a fixture at Overton College, Miss Wharton allowed the matter concerning Jean Brent and Grace to rest while she attended to what she considered vastly more important affairs. The thought that she was keeping both young women in the most cruel suspense did not trouble her in the least. On the contrary she decided that they deserved to be kept in a state of uncertainty as to what she intended to do with them, and deliberately put over their case until such time as suited her convenience.
Both Jean and Grace went about, however, with the feeling that a sword was suspended over their heads and likely to descend at any moment. Grace expected, daily, to be summoned to Miss Wharton’s office, there to refuse to divulge Jean Brent’s secret and then ask the pertinent question, “Do you intend to lay this matter before the Board?” If she received an affirmative answer, then she planned to return to Harlowe House, write her formal resignation as manager of it and mail it to President Morton. But day followed day, and week followed week, and still the dread summons did not come. Grace discussed frequently the possible cause of Miss Wharton’s negligence in thematter with Emma, her one confidante. Emma was of the opinion that, in trying to fill Miss Wilder’s position, Miss Wharton had her hands full. Although Emma was apt to clothe the most serious happenings in the cloak of humor, she was a shrewd judge of human nature.
“Just let me tell you one thing, Gracious,” she remarked one blustering March evening as the two young women fought their way across the campus against a howling wind. They were returning from an evening spent with Kathleen West and Patience Eliot. “Miss Wharton is no more fitted for the position of dean at Overton College than I am for the presidency of the United States. She may have been successful in some little, out-of-the-way academy in a jerkwater town, but she’s sadly out of place here. She has about as much tact as a rhinoceros, and possesses the æsthetic perceptions of a coal shoveler. I’m just waiting for these simple truths to dawn upon the intellects of our august Board. I understand that cadaverous-looking man with the wall eyes and the spade-shaped, beard, who walks about as though he cherished a grudge against the human race, and rejoices in the euphonious name of Darius Dutton, is responsible for this crime against Overton. He recommended her appointment to the Board. It seems that he is Miss Wharton’s cousin.Thank goodness he isn’t mine, or Miss Wharton either.”
Grace laughed at Emma’s sweeping denunciation of Miss Wharton and the offending Daniel Dutton. Then her face grew sober. “You mustn’t allow my grievances to imbitter you, Emma, toward any member of the Board.”
“Oh, my only grudge against Darius D. so far is his having such detestable relatives and foisting them upon an innocent, trusting college,” retorted Emma with spirit, “but my grudge against Miss Wharton is a very different matter. It’s an active, lively grudge. I’d like to write to Miss Wilder and Mrs. Gray, and interview Dr. Morton, and then see what happened. It would not be Grace Harlowe who resigned; but it might be a certain hateful person whose name begins with W. I won’t say her name outright. Possibly you’ll be able to guess it.”
Grace’s hand found Emma’s in the dark as they came to the steps of Harlowe House. The two girls paused for an instant. Their hands clung loyally. “Remember, Emma, you’ve promised to let me have my own way in this,” reminded Grace wistfully.
“I’ll keep my promise,” answered Emma, but her voice sounded husky.
“I know,” continued Grace, “that MissWharton’s attitude toward me is one of personal prejudice. From the moment she saw me she disliked me. I know of only one other similar case. When Anne Pierson and I were freshmen in Oakdale High School we recited algebra to a teacher named Miss Leece, who behaved toward Anne in precisely the same way that Miss Wharton has behaved toward me, simply because she disliked her. But come on, old comrade, we mustn’t stand out here all night with the wind howling in our ears. Let us try and forget our troubles. What is to be, will be. I am nothing, if not a fatalist.” Grace forced herself to smile with her usual brightness, and the two girls entered the house arm in arm, each endeavoring, for the sake of the other to stifle her unhappiness.
It was not yet ten o’clock and the lights were still burning in the living room. Gathered about the library table were six girls, deep in conversation. One of them glanced toward the hall at the sound of the opening door.
“Oh, Miss Harlowe,” she called, “You are the very person we have been wishing for.” It was Cecil Ferris who spoke. Nettie Weyburn, Louise Sampson, Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward and Hilda Moore made up the rest of the sextette. “We are wondering if it wouldn’t be a good plan to give our grand revue directlyafter the Easter vacation. It will be our last entertainment this year, because after Easter the weather begins to grow warm and the girls like to be outdoors. If you would help us plan it, then those of us who live here, and are going to take part in it, can be studying and rehearsing during the vacation. Of course, Evelyn won’t be with us, but she will help us before she goes to New York. When she comes back she can give us the finishing touches. Here is the programme as far as we have planned it. We are awfully short of features.”
Cecil handed Grace a sheet of paper on which were jotted several items. There was a sketch written by Mary Reynolds, “The Freshman on the Top Floor,” a pathetic little story of a lonely freshman. Gertrude Earle, a demure, dreamy-eyed girl, the daughter of a musician, was down for a piano solo. There was to be a sextette, a chorus and a troupe of dancing girls. Kathleen West had written a clever little playlet “In the Days of Shakespeare,” and Hilda Moore, who could do all sorts of queer folk dances, was to busy her light feet in a series of quick change costume dances, while Amy Devery was to give an imitation of a funny motion-picture comedian who had made the whole country laugh at his antics.
“How would you like some imitations andbaby songs?” asked Grace, forgetting for the moment the shadow that hung over her. “I have two friends who would be delighted to help you.”
“How lovely!” cried Louise Sampson. “Now if only we had some one who could sing serious songs exceptionally well.”
“Miss Brent has a wonderful voice,” said Evelyn rather reluctantly.
“Then we must ask her to sing,” decided Louise. “You ask her to-night, Evelyn.”
But Evelyn shook her head. “I’d rather you would ask her, Louise. Won’t you, please?”
“All right, I will,” said Louise good-naturedly, who had no idea of the strained relations existing between the two girls, and consequently thought nothing of Evelyn’s request.
“Much as I regret tearing myself away from this representative company of beauty and brains, I have themes that cry out to be corrected,” declared Emma Dean, who had been listening in interested silence to the plans for the coming revue.
“You can’t hear them cry out clear down here, can you?” asked Mary Reynolds flippantly.
A general giggle went the round of the sextette.
“Not with my everyday ordinary ears, mychild,” answered Emma, quite undisturbed. “It is that inner voice of duty that is making all the commotion. I would much rather bask in the light of your collected countenances than listen to those frenzied shrieks. But what of my trusting classes, who delight in writing themes and passing them on to me to be corrected?”
“Oh, yes; we all delight in writing themes,” jeered Nettie Weyburn, to whom theme writing was an irksome task. “My inner voice of duty is screaming at me this very minute to go and write one, but I’m so deaf I can’t hear it.”
“If you can’t hear it, how do you know it is screaming?” questioned Emma very solemnly.
“My intuition tells me,” retorted Nettie with triumphant promptness.
“Then I wishallmy pupils in English had such marvelous intuitions,” sighed Emma.
“My inner voice of duty is wailing at me to go upstairs and finish my letter to my mother,” interposed Grace, rising. Her face had regained its usual brightness. She could not be sad in the presence of these light-hearted, capable girls, whose sturdy efforts to help themselves made them all so inexpressibly dear to her. She would help them all she could with their entertainment. She would write Arline and Elfreda to come to Overtonfor a few days and take part in the revue.
It was not until she had finished her letter to her mother and begun one to Elfreda that the sinister recollection again darkened her thoughts. She was living in the shadow of dismissal. Would it be wise to invite Arline and Elfreda to Harlowe House for a visit while she was so uncertain of what the immediate future held in store for her? If she tendered her resignation she intended it should take effect without delay. Once she had surrendered her precious charge she could not and would not remain at Harlowe House. Still she had promised her girls that she would help them. She had volunteered Arline’s and Elfreda’s services, knowing they would willingly leave their own affairs to journey back to Overton.
Grace laid down her pen. Resting her elbows on the table she cradled her chin in her hands, her vivid, changeful face overcast with moody thought. At last she raised her head with the air of one who has come to a decision, and, picking up her pen, went on with her letter to J. Elfreda Briggs. If worse came to worst and she resigned before the girls’ entertainment she would courageously put aside her own feelings and remain, at least, until afterward. It should be her last act of devotion to Harlowe House and her work.
CHAPTER XXTHE AWAKENING
The sword which hung over poor Grace’s head still dangled threateningly above her when she left Overton for Oakdale, on her Easter vacation. Miss Wharton had made no sign. Whether she had, for the time being, forgotten her words of that unhappy morning of several weeks past, or was coolly taking her own time in the matter, well aware of the discomfort of her victims, Grace could not know. She determined to lay aside all bitterness of spirit and lend herself to commemorate the anniversary of the first Easter with a reverent and open mind. But there was one ghost which she could not lay, and that was the the memory of Tom Gray’s face as he said good-bye to her on that memorable rainy afternoon. Just when it began to haunt her Grace could scarcely tell. She knew only that Tom’s farewell letter had awakened in her mind a curious sense of loss that made her wish he had not cut himself off from her so completely. When on their last afternoon together he had pleaded so earnestly for her love Grace had been proudly triumphant in the successful accomplishmentof what she believed to be her life work. From the lofty pinnacle of achievement she had looked down on Tom pityingly, but with no adequate realization of what she had caused him to suffer.
It was not until she herself had been called upon to prepare to give up that which meant most to her in life that she began to appreciate dimly what it must have cost Tom Gray to put aside his hopes of years and go away to forget. A belated sympathy for her girlhood friend sprang to life in her heart, and in the weeks of suspense that preceded her return to Oakdale for Easter she found herself thinking of him frequently. She wondered if he were well, and tried to imagine him in his new and dangerous environment. She began to cherish a secret hope that, despite his belief that silence between them was best, he would write to her.
Her holiday promised to be a little lonely as far as her friends were concerned. Mrs. Gray had gone to New York City to spend Easter with the Nesbits. Nora and Hippy had gone to visit Jessica and Reddy in their Chicago home. Anne and David were in New York. Eleanor Savelli was in Italy. Even Marian Barber, Eva Allen and Julia Crosby had married and gone their separate ways. Of the Eight Originals Plus Two, and of their old sorority, thePhi Sigma Tau, she was the only one left in Oakdale. To be sure she had plenty of invitations to spend Easter with her chums and her many friends, but it was a sacred obligation with her always to be at home during the Easter holidays. She was quite content to do this, and yet even her father’s and mother’s love could not quite still the longing for the gay voices of those dear ones with whom she had kept pace for so long.
There was one source of consolation, however, which during the first days at home she had quite overlooked, and that source was none other than Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell. The two little girls had by no means overlooked the fact that their Miss Harlowe was “the very nicest person in the whole world except papa and mamma,” and proceeded to monopolize her whenever the opportunity offered itself.
Grace went for long walks with them. She helped them dress their dolls, and ran races and played games with them in their big sunny garden. She initiated them into the mysteries of making fudge and penuchi, while they obligingly taught her the ten different ways they knew of skipping the rope, and how to make raffia baskets. They followed her about like two adoring, persistent little shadows, until imbued with their carefree spirit of childhood,Grace, in a measure, forgot her woes and joined in their innocent fun with hearty good will.
“Really, Grace, I hardly know which is older, you or Anna May,” smiled her mother one afternoon as Grace came bounding into the living room with, “Mother, do you know where my blue sweater is? Anna May and Elizabeth and I are going for a walk as far as the old Omnibus House.”
“It is hanging in that closet off the sewing room,” returned her mother.
“Thank you.” Dropping a hasty kiss on her mother’s cheek, Grace was off.
Mrs. Harlowe watched her go down the walk, holding a hand of each little girl, with wistful eyes. Grace had not been at home three days before her mother divined that all was not well with her beloved daughter. Yet to ask questions was not her way. Whatever Grace’s cross might be, she knew that, in time, Grace would confide in her.
On the way to the Omnibus House Grace was as gay and buoyant as her two little friends. It was not until they had reached there and Anna May and Elizabeth had run off to the nearest tree to watch a pair of birds which were building a nest and keeping up a great chirping meanwhile, that a frightful feeling of loneliness swept over Grace. She sat down on the wornstone steps sadly thinking of Tom Gray and the good times the Eight Originals had had at this favorite haunt.
But why did the memory of Tom Gray continue to haunt her? Grace gave her shoulders an impatient twitch. How foolish she was to allow herself to grow retrospective over Tom. She had deliberately sent him away because she did not, nor never could, love him. Still she wished that the memory of him would not intrude upon her thoughts so constantly. “It’s only because he’s associated with the good times the Eight Originals have had,” she tried to tell herself, but deep in her heart was born a strange fear that she fought against naming or recognizing.
After having watched the noisy, but successful, builders to their hearts’ content, the children ran over to where Grace sat and challenged her to a game of tag. But she was in no mood for play, and suggested they had better be starting home. She felt that she could not endure for another instant this house of memories. She tried to assume the joyous air with which she had started out, but even the two little girls were not slow to perceive that their dear Miss Harlowe didn’t look as happy as when they had begun their walk.
“I think we’d better go and see her to-morrowmorning and take her a present,” decided Anna May, after Grace had left them at their own gate. “She laughed like everything when we started on our walk, but she looked pretty sad when we were coming back and didn’t say hardly a thing. I’m going to give her my bottle of grape juice that Mother made specially for me.”
“I guess I’ll give her that pen wiper I made. It’s ever so pretty.” Elizabeth was not to be outdone in generosity.
“We’ll take Snowball’s new white puppy to show her,” planned Anna May. “She hasn’t seen it yet. And a real French poodle puppy is too cute for anything.”
“And we’ll sing that new verse we learned in school for her,” added Elizabeth.
True to their word, the next morning the two little girls marched up to the Harlowes’ front door laden with their gifts. Anna May bore with proud carefulness the cherished bottle of grape juice while Elizabeth cuddled a fat white ball in her arms, the pen wiper lying like a little blanket on the puppy’s back.
“We came to call as soon as we could this morning, because we thought you looked sad yesterday,” was Anna May’s salutation as Grace opened the door. “Here’s a bottle of grape juice. Mother made it specially for me,but I wantyouto have it,” the child said. Grace ushered her guests into the living room.
“I hope you’ll like this pen wiper, too. I cut it out and sewed it and everything,” burst forth Elizabeth, holding out her offering. “I hope you’ll always use it when you write letters.”
“Thank you, girls. You are both very good to me,” smiled Grace, “and I’m so glad to see you this morning.”
“We thought you would be,” returned Anna May calmly. “We brought Snowball’s puppy to show you. We named him this morning for a perfectly splendid person that we know. You know him, too. The puppy’s name is Thomas.”
“That’s Mr. Gray’s real name, isn’t it?” put in Elizabeth anxiously. “Every one calls him Tom, but Thomas sounds nicer. Don’t you think it does?”
“We like Mr. Gray better than any grown-up man we know,” confided Anna May enthusiastically. “He’s the handsomest, nicest person ever was. Do you think he’d be pleased to have us name our puppy for him?”
“I’m sure he would.” Grace stifled her desire to laugh as she took the fluffy white ball in her arms and stroked the tiny head. Then the amused look left her eyes. Perhaps Tom would never know of his little white namesake. He might never come back from South America.Suppose she were never to hear of him again. In the past she had, during moments of vexation toward him, almost wished it, but of a sudden it dawned upon her that she would give much to look into his honest gray eyes again and feel the clasp of his strong, friendly hand.
“Miss Harlowe, shall we sing for you?” Anna May wisely noted that Miss Harlowe had begun to look “sad” again.
“We learned such a pretty new song in school,” put in Elizabeth. “Anna May can play it on the piano, too. Would you like us to sing it, Miss Harlowe?”
“Yes, do sing it,” urged Grace, but her thoughts were far from her obliging visitors.
The children trotted over to the piano, and after a false start or two, Anna May played the opening bars of the song. Then the two childish voices rang out:
“The year’s at the springAnd day’s at the morn:Morning’s at seven;The hillside’s dew-pearled;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn:God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world!”
“The year’s at the springAnd day’s at the morn:Morning’s at seven;The hillside’s dew-pearled;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn:God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world!”
Grace listened with a sinking heart. The joyof Browning’s exquisite lines from “Pippa Passes” cut into her very soul. All was not right withherworld. Everything had gone wrong. She had chosen work instead of love, and what it brought her? She had believed that in rejecting Tom’s love for her work she had definitely and forever solved her problem. Now it confronted her afresh. She understood too well the meaning of that strange fear which had obsessed her ever since her return home. Now she knew why the memory of Tom had so persistently haunted her, and why her friendly interest in his welfare had grown to be a heavy anxiety as to whether all was well with him. Wholly against her will she had done that which she had insisted she could never do. She had fallen in love with Tom. But her awakening had come too late. Tom had gone away to forget her. He would never know that she loved him, for she could never, never tell him. On the night of Jessica’s wedding, when they had strolled up the walk to the house in the moonlight, he had said with an air of conviction, which then made her smile, that there would come a time when even work could not crowd out love. His prophecy had come true, but it meant nothing to either she or Tom now, for it had come true too late.
CHAPTER XXIKATHLEEN WEST MAKES A PROMISE
On Grace’s return to Overton and Harlowe House from her Easter vacation she plunged into her work with feverish energy. She wished, if possible, to free herself of this strange, unbidden love for Tom which seemed to grow and deepen with every passing day, and which made her utterly miserable. Then, too, she did not know when the dreaded summons might come from Miss Wharton, and she longed to do as much as she could for her girls while the opportunity was yet hers. It was with this spirit that she entered into the plans for their revue, which was to be given in Greek Hall, and from the number of tickets already sold promised to be a sweeping success.
Arline and Elfreda had accepted their invitations with alacrity, promising to come to Overton several days beforehand for the purpose of making Grace a visit. The girls who were to take part in the revue were using every spare moment to perfect themselves in their parts and specialties, and every night the living room was the scene of much rehearsing.
According to information received fromEmma, Miss Wharton was not filling Miss Wilder’s place with signal success. She had shown herself to be not only extremely narrow-minded, but quarrelsome as well. She had antagonized more than one member of the faculty by either tactlessly criticising their methods of instruction, or seeking to force them into open dispute. Being only human, those whom she sought to humble retaliated by taking advantage of her recent assumption of the duties of dean to make her college path as thorny as circumstances would admit, and Miss Wharton was obliged to put aside all else, including the judgment she intended to pass upon Grace, in a powerful contention for supremacy over those who had worsted her in sundry college matters.
Grace did not flatter herself that this state of affairs could last; she was certain that, sooner or later, the blow would fall, but she wisely resolved to put the whole unhappy business from her mind and make hay while her brief college sun still shone.
The arrival of Elfreda Briggs and Arline Thayer three days before the date set for the entertainment made things seem like old times.
“It certainly does you a world of good to have Elfreda and Arline here, Gracious,” observed Emma Dean as she stopped in the doorway of Grace’s little office on her wayto her room from her morning recitations.
“I can’t bear to think of their leaving me,” smiled Grace, looking up from the account book on her desk. Her face had partially regained its former light and sparkle. “They are coming here to luncheon to-day. Did you know it?”
“Yes, I saw J. Elfreda on my way across the campus this morning. They ought to be here soon now.”
A ring of the bell, answered by the maid, and the sound of Arline’s clear tones, mingled with Elfreda’s deeper ones, proclaimed the arrival of the two Sempers. The luncheon bell rang almost directly afterward, so the four friends had time only to exchange salutations before going to the table.
“Do you know, girls, I can’t get used to Overton without Miss Wilder,” declared Arline Thayer as they seated themselves at Grace’s table, which had been set for four. “I keep looking about me, expecting to meet her at any minute. You must miss her dreadfully, Grace.”
“I do miss her more than I can say,” replied Grace briefly. The haunting shadow lurked for an instant in her gray eyes, then she began to talk with forced vivacity of the coming revue.
But one pair of keen eyes had seen that shadow, and that pair of eyes belonged to J. Elfreda Briggs. “I wonder what ails Grace?”was her thought, “It’s something about Miss Wilder’s not being here, I’m pretty certain.” She resolved to make inquiries concerning the new dean and made an excuse to accompany Emma across the campus after luncheon, leaving Arline and Grace together.
“What’s the matter with Grace?” was her abrupt question the instant they had left Harlowe House behind them. “I could see that she wasn’t quite her old self at luncheon to-day.”
“I believe you ‘could see’ in the dark or with your eyes shut or even if you had no eyes,” teased Emma.
“Then thereissomething bothering her,” said Elfreda triumphantly. “I knew it.”
“Yes, there is. I wish I might tell you,” returned Emma slowly, “but I am in Grace’s confidence. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to ask her, though. If she would tell you, you might be able to suggest something helpful. I’ll just say this much. It’s very serious.”
“All right, I’ll ask her. If she tells me, I’ll talk things over with you afterward. If she doesn’t, then forget that I asked you about it.”
It was not until late that afternoon that she found her opportunity to question Grace. Arline had left her to make a call upon Myra Stone, now a senior, and Elfreda and Grace sat side by side on Grace’s favorite bench thatstood under the giant elm at one end of the campus.
“Grace,” Elfreda’s matter-of-fact tones broke a brief silence that had fallen upon the two young women. “What has happened to hurt you?”
Grace started slightly. Her color receded, leaving her very pale. Then she said simply, “I suppose you ‘could see,’ Elfreda.”
“Yes; I’ve been ‘seeing’ ever since I came. I wish you would tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you.”
Grace shook her head. “No one can help me. I’ll just say this. Don’t be surprised at anything you may hear a little later. But please remember one thing, Elfreda. Whatever I have done since I became the manager of Harlowe House I have done always with the highest interests of my girls at heart.”
“I guess we all know that,” retorted Elfreda. “I’ll remember what you say, though. I’m sorry I can’t help you. You didn’t mind my asking, did you?”
“You know I didn’t. It was affection that prompted the question.” Grace reached out to pat her friend’s hand. J. Elfreda caught Grace’s hand in hers.
Again silence reigned. They sat gazing across the campus, their hands still joined. Grace wasthinking that she could not endure telling even Elfreda of the cloud that hung over her, while J. Elfreda Briggs was registering a vow to find some means of helping Grace in spite of herself.
“I must go, Elfreda,” said Grace at last, rising from the seat. “I am anxious to have dinner over a little earlier to-night on account of the dress rehearsal in Greek Hall. Let me see, who is the person to be favored with your company at dinner?”
“I’m going to take dinner at Wayne Hall with Kathleen. We’ll meet at the dress rehearsal.” Elfreda rose, and the two sauntered across the campus to the point where their paths diverged.
After stopping for a little chat with Mrs. Elwood, Elfreda climbed the stairs to the room at the end of the hall, where she received a most vociferous welcome from Kathleen and Patience. But the moment they settled down to conversation Elfreda said solemnly, “Girls, something is breaking Grace Harlowe’s proud heart. Emma knows, but she is Grace’s only confidante. I asked Grace point blank, this afternoon, to tell me, but she wouldn’t. It has something to do with that Miss Wharton, the new dean. Whatever it is, you know, as well as I, that Grace isn’t likely to be in the wrong. If I were going to stay here at Overton,a little longer, I’d find out all about it.”
“You could see,” murmured Patience.
“Yes, I could,” declared Elfreda with a good-natured grin. “But so long as I can’t be here to see, I’m going to pass the job along to you, Kathleen. I’m sure that if any one can find out the cause of poor Grace’s woes it will be you. Go after it and run it down just as you would a big story, and if you can find and kill the wicked monster and make the princess happy again, well, there isn’t anything that J. Elfreda Briggs won’t do for you.”
“I’ll do it,” vowed Kathleen, setting her sharp little chin at a resolute angle.
“You can’t lose much time, either. College closes the second week in June,” reminded Elfreda.
“Trust me to find out before that time.”
Having disposed of this important matter, J. Elfreda’s gravity vanished and she became her usual funny self again. The three girls had a merry time together and set off for the dress rehearsal in high spirits.
When they reached Greek Hall they found that Grace and Arline had already arrived and were sitting far back in the hall watching a sextette of girls in smart white linen skirts, blue serge coats and straw hats, banded with blue ribbon, who were down on the programme for asong entitled “Our Fraternity Friends,” the number ending with a gay little dance taught them by Hilda Moore.
“Aren’t they clever?” asked Grace eagerly, turning to Kathleen. The three young women had made their way to where she was seated. “They only began practicing that dance last week. Miss Moore taught them. She dances beautifully.”
The rehearsal proceeded without a hitch. Arline and Elfreda, being sure of themselves, did not take part in it. Kathleen West’s clever one-act play, “In the Days of Shakespeare,” was worthy of her genius. It presented the scene from the “Taming of the Shrew,” where Petruchio ridicules Katherine’s gown and berates the tailor. This scene was enacted in accordance with the Elizabethan age, when the nobility were permitted to take seats on the stage with the actors, the latter being obliged to step around and over that part of the audience in order to make their entrances and exits. These favored nobles had also the privilege of expressing freely their opinions of the merits of the long-suffering mummers, which they usually did in a loud voice. Kathleen had made a careful study of the conditions prevailing in the theatre at that period, and the little play was most mirth provoking from beginning to end.
Mary Reynolds had also scored in the pathetic playlet, “The Freshman on the Top Floor,” depicting a lonely little girl whose poverty and diffidence kept her out of the carefree college life that went on in the house where she lived. Cecil Ferris essayed the role of the freshman.
The last number on the programme was Jean Brent’s solo. After considerable coaxing Louise had persuaded her to sing, and Gertrude Earle accompanied her on the piano. Grace felt her brief resentment against the girl vanish as she listened to her glorious voice which had a suspicion of tragedy in it.
There was a certain amount of lingering on the part of the performers to talk over the success of the dress rehearsal, but at last they all trooped across the campus to Harlowe House.
By curious chance Evelyn Ward found herself walking directly behind Jean Brent. She had been greatly affected by her singing. Obeying a sudden impulse, she leaned forward and touched Jean’s arm. “Can’t we be friends again, Jean,” she said wistfully. “I—I love your voice, and I care so much for you. There isn’t much of the year left and——”
Jean’s blue eyes grew strangely soft. “It was all my fault,” she said huskily. “Let’s begin over again, Evelyn.” And under the stars they made a new and truer covenant.
CHAPTER XXIIFIGHTING LOYALHEART’S BATTLE
The revue was an unqualified success. Greek Hall was filled to overflowing, and the money fairly poured into the box office for the Harlowe House fund. There was a general rejoicing the next day among the performers, and the same night a social session was held in the living room at Harlowe House. To Grace it seemed as though she had been wafted back once more to the dear dead days when the Sempers had held forth. The presence of Arline and Elfreda was the last touch needed to complete the illusion, and she went about her work feeling happier than she had for a long time. Even the shadow cast upon her heart by Tom’s absence seemed less gloomy.
But on the heels of her brief elation trod disaster. Miss Wharton had chosen to become highly incensed because she had not been consulted in regard to the holding of the entertainment, and the long-suspended sword fell. The revue had been given on Wednesday evening, and on Friday morning Jean had received a note summoning her to Miss Wharton’s office. This time Miss Wharton intended to interviewthe two young women separately. She believed that Jean would reveal what she had hitherto kept a secret if Grace were not present. With unreasonable prejudice she chose to place the brunt of Jean’s refusal to speak upon Grace’s shoulders.
Jean obeyed the summons and came away from Overton Hall with a white, set face. Almost the first person she encountered on the campus was Evelyn, who was hurrying to one of her classes, and in her anguish of mind she poured forth the whole bitter story to her roommate.
“Oh, Jean, why didn’t you tell me this before,” cried Evelyn. “I never knew until the night of the dress rehearsal that things were not going smoothly for Miss Harlowe. Kathleen West told me in confidence that something was wrong, and asked me to find out anything I could concerning it and let her know. We must go straight to her and tell her everything. She can help us if any one can. Just for once I’ll cut my English recitation. Come on. Oh, I do hope Kathleen is at home.”
But Kathleen was not at Wayne Hall, and after some parleying the two girls concluded to wait until she returned from her classes to her luncheon. It was ten o’clock when they rang the bell of the college house where Grace hadspent four happy years, and for the next hour and a half they waited in an agony of suspense. When Kathleen arrived they hurried her off to her room and proceeded to acquaint her with all the facts in their possession concerning the misfortune so soon to overtake Grace.
Kathleen listened to them without comment. When they had finished talking she asked one sharp question, “Do you know Miss Wilder’s address?”
Neither girl knew it, but Evelyn was seized with a bright idea. “Hilda Moore knows it. I am sure she does.”
“Then hurry to Overton Hall and get it from her,” ordered Kathleen. “I’m going to send a telegram. Are you sure Miss Wharton hasn’t sent for Grace yet?”
“Yes, yes. She said she intended to send for Miss Harlowe to-morrow morning. Evidently she has a reason of her own for not sending for her to-day,” was Jean’s eager response. “But she is going to report us to President Morton and the Board within the next day or so.”
“Good-bye. I’ll be back directly.” Evelyn dashed out of the room and down the stairs on her errand.
Twenty minutes later she returned. “Here it is,” she handed it to the newspaper girl.
Kathleen had not taken off her hat since herarrival at Wayne Hall. “Come on, girls,” she said. “You must go home and have your luncheon. Just leave everything to me. I think I can promise Miss Wharton a surprise.”
“What did she say to you, Jean?” asked Evelyn as they left Kathleen at the corner, headed for the telegraph office, and went on to Harlowe House.
“What didn’t she say. She is going to send me away if she can. I told her everything, but it only made matters worse. I said over and over again that Miss Harlowe was not to blame, but she grew harder every minute. How I despise her.” Jean shuddered with disgust. “All this is merely an excuse to oust Miss Harlowe. Why she doesn’t like her, goodness knows. What is Miss West going to do, I wonder?”
“Telegraph Miss Wilder for one thing. Still, she can’t write or come here in time to save Miss Harlowe,” declared Evelyn. “Hilda knows about it. She said Miss Wharton dictated a perfectly horrid letter to Mrs. Gray, too, about Miss Harlowe this morning.”
“Oh, dear,” half sobbed Jean. “It’s dreadful, and it’s all my fault.”
Evelyn did not answer. She could not help feeling that Jean deserved this bitter moment.
“Shall you tell Miss Harlowe?” asked Evelynas they hurriedly ascended the steps.
Jean nodded.
When they entered the dining room, for luncheon they learned to their utter consternation that Grace had gone for the day to visit a classmate in Westbrook and would not return until after dinner that night. In the meantime Kathleen West had hurried to the telegraph office and despatched the following message to Miss Wilder. “Wire President Morton, delay action, charges made by Miss Wharton against Grace Harlowe, until word from you. Letter will follow. Answer. Kathleen West.”
“There,” she chuckled when she heard the tap of the operator’s machine, “that will help a little. Never mind the expense.”
She was late to luncheon, and therefore missed Patience, but toward the close of the afternoon they met, and Kathleen took her into her confidence. All evening the two girls remained in the living room listening intently for the ring of the bell that might mean an answer to Kathleen’s urgent message. At ten minutes to nine Kathleen said wearily. “It’s too late to hear to-night. The telegraph office closes at nine o’clock. The answer will come in the morning.” Even as she spoke, the door bell rang loudly. Pale and trembling with suspense, she herself answered the door. Hastily signing themessenger boy’s book she closed the door on his retreating back and returned to the living room, nervously tearing open the envelope as she walked. Then she cried out in surprise.
“What is it?” questioned Patience in alarm.
Kathleen held out to her the disquieting bit of yellow paper. “Don’t be frightened. It’s good news. See.” Patience read over her shoulder. “Start east to-day. Recovered. Don’t write. Reach Overton Friday week. Keep secret. Telegraphed president. Katherine Wilder.”
“Hurrah, we’ve saved the day,” rejoiced Kathleen.
“And Kathleen West and Evelyn Ward have left milestones worth leaving along College Lane,” reminded Patience with a smile that was very near to tears.
Grace returned to Harlowe House from Westbrook at a little after eight o’clock in the evening. She found Jean Brent anxiously awaiting her arrival, and at Jean’s request they went at once to her room, where Jean acquainted her with the bad news.
Grace listened with compressed lips, saying nothing.
Jean wound up her narration with, “I know it is all my fault, Miss Harlowe, but truly I tried to make things come right for you. I told MissWharton all about myself and tried to make her understand that you weren’t in the least to blame for my misdeeds. But I only made matters worse. She is contemptible.” Jean’s voice vibrated with bitter scorn.
“I thank you for defending me.” Grace spoke unemotionally. “I hope that President Morton will overlook the charge against you. I must go now. I wish to be alone. I must decide what I am to do. Good night.” She had remained standing near the door during Jean’s recital, now she opened it and walked slowly down the hall to her own door.
She entered her pretty room as one might enter a chamber of death. So the end had come. Well, she would meet it with a stout heart and a clear conscience. But she would not wait for Miss Wharton to charge her with being unfit for the trust Mrs. Gray had reposed in her. She stepped to the library table and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of her own monogrammed stationery and an envelope. Seating herself at the table, she took her pen from its rack. After a little thought she began writing in the clear, strong hand that characterized her. Her letter consisted of not more than a dozen lines. When she had finished she sealed, stamped, and addressed it to President Morton with a firm, unfaltering hand.
Wrapping a light scarf about her shoulders, she stole softly downstairs and outdoors without being observed by the knot of girls in the living room. Crossing the campus, she dropped her letter into the post box at the farther side, nearest the street. Then she walked slowly back, stopping at her favorite bench under the giant elm. The moon, almost at the full, flooded the wide green stretch with her pale radiance. The fringed arms of the old elm waved her a gentle welcome.
Grace sank upon the rustic seat racked with many emotions. How often she had sat there and dreamed of what her work was to be, and now, just as she had begun to reap the glory of it, it was to be snatched from her.
The soft beauty of the spring night coupled with the ordeal through which she had just passed filled her with an unspeakable sadness. She bowed her head upon her hands, but her thoughts lay too deep for tears. Yet even while she sat for the last time in the spot she loved so dearly, Kathleen West and Patience Eliot were standing side by side reading the telegram that was to bring light out of darkness.