Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College Part 12

"You mean the girl you speak of as Eleanor?" asked Elfreda curiously.

Grace nodded. "She is one of my dearest friends and belongs to our sorority at home. At one time she was my bitterest enemy," she continued reminiscently. "She was so self-willed and domineering that none of us could endure her. She entered the junior cla.s.s in high school when Miriam, Anne and I did. For a year and a half she made life miserable for all of us, then something happened and she turned out gloriously.

I'll tell you all about it some other time."

"Was she worse than the Anarchist?" asked Elfreda sceptically.

"There is no comparison," replied Grace promptly. "Still, the Anarchist may have possibilities of which we know nothing."

"I wish she would give a demonstration of them to-night then," muttered Elfreda. "I suppose I'll have to get busy and look her up. It is dangerous to leave her to her own devices. She may have offended half the company by this time." Elfreda strolled off in search of her troublesome charge. Grace crossed the gymnasium, her keen eyes darting from the floor, where groups of daintily gowned girls stood exchanging gay badinage, and resting after the last waltz, to the chairs and divans placed at intervals against the walls that were for the most part unoccupied.

Everyone seemed to be dancing. Grace remembered with a start that she had seen nothing of Ruth Denton. She had waved to Arline across the room on entering the gymnasium, and had not caught a glimpse of her since. "I must find Ruth," she reflected, "and tell her about to-morrow. Perhaps Anne has told her. She promised she would." Espying Mildred Taylor, Grace remembered with sudden contrition that she had not asked the little freshman to dance. "I suppose she hasn't a single dance left,"

murmured Grace regretfully. "At any rate, I'll ask her now." Approaching Mildred she said in her frank, straightforward fas.h.i.+on, "I'm so sorry I overlooked you, Miss Taylor. I intended asking you to dance first of all."

The "cute" little freshman turned her head away from Grace's apologetic gray eyes. "It doesn't matter," she answered in a queer, strained voice.

"My card was full long ago."

"I hope you are not hurt or offended at my seeming neglect," insisted Grace anxiously.

"Not in the least," was the almost curt rejoinder. "I do not think I shall stay much longer. I have a headache."

"I'm so sorry," said Grace sympathetically. "Can I do anything for you?"

Mildred Taylor did not answer. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them angrily away, saying with a petulance entirely foreign to her, "Please don't trouble yourself about me."

"Very well," replied Grace, in proud surprise. "Shall I tell Miss Pierson that you are ill?"

"No," muttered Mildred.

Grace walked away, puzzled and self-accusing. "I hurt her feelings by not asking her to dance," was the thought that sprang instantly to her mind. Then she suddenly recollected that she had not yet found Ruth. A little later she discovered her in earnest conversation with Gertrude Wells at the extreme end of the room.

"Dance this with me, Ruth," called Grace, as she neared her friend. Ruth glanced at her card. "I have this one free," she said. A moment later they were gliding over the smooth floor to the inspiriting strains of a popular two step. Long before the end of the dance they stopped to rest and talk. "I suppose we ought to devote ourselves strictly to the freshmen," said Grace. "They all appear to be dancing, though. Where have you been keeping yourself, Ruth?"

"I've been busy," replied Ruth evasively.

"Will you be too busy to have dinner with us at Vinton's to-morrow night?" persisted Grace.

"No-o-o," said Ruth slowly. "At what time?"

"Half-past six," returned Grace. "We'll meet you there. I must leave you now to look after Miss Evans. I brought her here to-night."

It was late when the notes of the last waltz sounded, and still later when the gay partic.i.p.ants left the gymnasium in twos, threes and little crowds trooping down the broad stone steps to where they were to take their carriages. The rain was now falling heavily, and to walk even across the campus was out of the question. Every public automobile and carriage in Overton had been pressed into service, and many who had braved the fine rain early in the evening and walked were obliged to negotiate with the drivers for a return of their vehicles. The carriages to Wayne Hall carried six girls instead of four, and the merry conversation that was kept up during the short drive showed plainly that the evening had been a success. Even the Anarchist indulged in an occasional stiff remark with a view toward being gracious. When Elfreda humorously bowed her to her door and wished her an elaborate good night, an actual gleam of fun appeared in her stormy eyes, and forgetting her dignity she replied almost cordially that she had enjoyed her evening.

"I am surprised to think she did after the way she made remarks about people," commented Elfreda to Miriam, who was busily engaged in unhooking the stout girl's gown and listening in amus.e.m.e.nt to Elfreda's recital. "She has as much tact as a guinea hen. You know how tactful they are?"

In the meantime Anne and Grace were discussing the night's festivity in their own room. Grace had slipped into a kimono and stood brus.h.i.+ng her long hair before the mirror. Suddenly she paused, her brush suspended in the air. "Anne," she said so abruptly that Anne looked at her in surprise, "did you notice anything peculiar about Miss Taylor? You were her escort, you know."

"No," responded Anne, knitting her brows in an effort to remember. "I can't say that I noticed anything."

"Then I am right," decided Grace. "She is angry with me because in some way I missed asking her to dance."

"She said nothing to me," was Anne's quick reply.

"She is offended, I know she is," said Grace. "I'm sorry, of course. I didn't pa.s.s her by intentionally. I didn't know she was so sensitive. I think I'll ask her to go to Vinton's for luncheon on Sat.u.r.day."

But when Grace delivered her invitation at the breakfast table the next morning it was curtly refused. Mildred Taylor's att.i.tude, if anything, was a shade more hostile than it had been the night before. From her manner, it was evident that the little freshman, whom Grace had hastened to befriend on that first doleful morning when she found her roomless and in tears on the big oak seat in the hall, had quite forgotten all she owed to the girl she now appeared to be trying to avoid.

Finding her efforts at friendliness repulsed, Grace proudly resolved to make no more overtures toward the sulking freshman. She had done everything in her power to make amends for what had been an unintentional oversight on her part, and her self respect demanded that she should allow the matter to drop. She decided that if, later on, Mildred showed a disposition to be friendly, she would meet her half way, but, until that time came, she would take no notice of her or seek further to ascertain the cause of her grievance.

CHAPTER XI

THE FINGER OF SUSPICION

That very morning as Grace was about to leave Miss Duncan's cla.s.s room she heard her name called in severe tones. Turning quickly, she met the teacher's blue eyes fixed suspiciously upon her.

"Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Duncan?" Grace asked.

"Yes," answered Miss Duncan shortly. She continued to look steadily at Grace without speaking.

Grace waited courteously for the teacher's next words. She wondered a little why Miss Duncan had detained her.

"Miss Harlowe," began the teacher impressively, "I have always entertained a high opinion of you as an honor girl. Your record during your freshman year seemed to indicate plainly that you had a very clear conception of what const.i.tutes an Overton girl's standard of honor.

Within the past week, however, something has happened that forces me to admit that I am deeply disappointed in you." Miss Duncan paused.

Grace's expressive face paled a trifle. A look of wonder mingled with hurt pride leaped into her gray eyes. "I don't understand you, Miss Duncan," she said quietly. "What have I done to disappoint you?"

Miss Duncan picked up a number of closely written sheets of folded paper and handed them to Grace, who unfolded them, staring almost stupidly at the sheet that lay on top. A wave of crimson flooded her recently pale cheeks. "Why--what--where did you get this?" she stammered. "It is my theme."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It Is My Theme."]

"You mean it is the original from which you copied yours," put in Miss Duncan dryly. "Is that your hand-writing?"

"No," replied Grace, in a puzzled tone.

"Is this your writing?" questioned Miss Duncan, suddenly producing another theme from the drawer of her desk.

"Yes," was Grace's prompt answer. "I handed it in to you instead of putting it in the collection box. You remember I told you I had lost the first one I wrote and asked for more time."

"I remember perfectly," was the significant answer. "Is this theme,"

pointing to the one Grace still held, "the one you say you lost?"

"The one I say I lost," repeated Grace, a glint of resentment darkening her eyes. "What do you mean, Miss Duncan?"

Her bold question caused the instructor's lips to tighten. "You have not answered my question, Miss Harlowe," she said icily.

"No, this is not my theme," answered Grace; "that is, it is not in my hand-writing. I do not recognize the writing." Grace ceased speaking and stared at the theme in sudden consternation. "Some one found my theme and copied it." Her voice sank almost to a whisper. A flush of shame for the unknown culprit dyed her cheeks anew.