Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer Part 16

"Yes, it _is_ strange. If we hadn't met on the train that day in that way, you might have decided to go to another boarding place instead of taking up with Mrs. Elwood's offer to you to share Miriam's room. Then, very likely, we might never have become well acquainted. There were ever so many girls at Overton College during the six years that I spent there, whom I never came to know really well." Grace looked regretful.

"But they all knew you," was the staunch retort. "You are as much of an inst.i.tution there now as Harlowe House is. Your name has become a household word at Overton College. Emma and I were speaking of that very thing at the reunion. She said that if she were manager of Harlowe House for the next twenty years she'd never come to be known as well there as you were in the time you spent at Overton."

"Emma is a wily old flatterer and so are you," laughed Grace. "Just because you girls like me you think the whole world ought to fall in line and wors.h.i.+p me." Her bantering tone changing to seriousness she continued, "Not that I don't appreciate your affection, and love you with all my heart for it. Neither of you ever stops to think how much credit you both deserve. Sometimes I wonder what I ever did to bring me so many true friends. I never properly realized their worth until this summer. Living in the shadow has taught me a great deal.

"The very fact that all my friends have stood by me so firmly has made me see that I owe it to them to be strong and steadfast through all. It has taught me, too, that I can't afford to be selfish. When Tom first went away I used to think that, if he never came back, there wouldn't be anything worth living for, ever again. But it came to me by degrees that such a viewpoint was utterly selfish; that I had a great deal to live for. Father and Mother, first of all; then Mrs. Gray and my friends. So I made up my mind that if worse came to worst, I would devote myself to them more than ever and thus try to make up for my own loss."

"Of course you would," agreed Elfreda, with a ready tenderness that arose from the emotion that had welled up within her at Grace's unconscious revelation of unselfishness. "No one knows that better than I know it."

"I wonder what the postman has brought us this morning?" Grace had decided that it was high time to lead the talk away from herself. She had spoken to Elfreda with utter frankness of her inner resolve, yet she could not bear to continue longer on the subject. It presented too vividly the possibility of Tom's non-return, and she had schooled herself not to dwell upon such a contingency.

"We'll soon know." They were now within a short distance of the Harlowe's home. "I hope Ma hasn't decided that I ought to go back to law school and written me to that effect," grumbled Elfreda. "Now I am here, I'd like to keep on being here until----" She paused.

"Until we hear good news," finished Grace softly. "I wish you would stay with me as long as you can, Elfreda. When the good news comes, I'd like you to be here to share it."

"Oh, I'll stay," a.s.sured Elfreda, "provided I can win Ma over to my views. It will be the same as using my powers of eloquence to convince a doubtful jury that the prisoner is innocent. There is nothing like practice," she reminded, her wide, boyish grin in mischievous evidence.

"Have we a heavy mail this morning, Mother?" was Grace's eager inquiry as she and Elfreda came up the front steps to the veranda. Established in a wide-armed rocking chair, her eyes busy with the reading of her own mail, Mrs. Harlowe looked up smilingly as she said, "Heavy enough to keep you both busy for a while. I didn't count your letters. They are on the library table in the living-room. I sorted them into two piles.

Elfreda's was the highest."

"Thank you, dear." Blowing a gay little kiss to her mother, Grace made for the living-room, with Elfreda close behind her.

"I ought to receive a few dozen letters," commented Elfreda. "Nearly every one of my correspondents have been lagging and languis.h.i.+ng."

Running hastily over the stack of letters bearing her name, she separated one of them from the rest. "Here's the letter from Ma. Now we'll see whether its back to law school for J. Elfreda."

"Oh, here's one from Miriam." Having been equally busy with her own mail, Grace drew up a chair before the table. Slipping into it she soon became absorbed in what Miriam had written her.

Seated opposite her, Elfreda perused the letter from her mother with the anxious eye of one about to receive sentence. In the middle of it she uttered a cluck of satisfaction. "Excuse me for interrupting you, but I just wanted to tell you that Ma is a wingless angel. I don't have to do the convincing act at all. She says I may stay with you until I either wear out my welcome or get ready to come home. Isn't that a glorious message? Hooray!" Elfreda waved her maternal parent's unexpected missive of leniency on high.

"Glorious indeed." Finis.h.i.+ng the short but interesting letter from Miriam, Grace shoved it across the table to Elfreda. "Read it," she commanded. "I know Miriam would be willing that you should. As her roommate of long standing you are ent.i.tled to special privileges."

"Thank you." Elfreda pounced upon the proffered letter with avidity, while Grace continued with her own correspondence. Counting her letters over, she found she had received nine. As was her usual custom, she had begun with the top one, which was from Miriam, and read them in the order in which they were stacked. Elfreda on the contrary, scattered broadcast on the table the whole ten letters she had received. She picked and chose with the air of a connoisseur, keeping up a running fire of ridiculous remarks between letters, that moved Grace to frequent laughter, but did not distract her attention to any degree from her own affairs. She had become too familiar with Elfreda's always entertaining methods of doing things to be other than amused by them.

The contents of her own mail filled her with a quiet joy. One and all, so far as she had read, her friends breathed undying friends.h.i.+p and deep devotion to herself. There was a long letter from Eleanor Savelli, who was summering in Colorado with her father and aunt. It held the glad tidings that Miss Nevin and herself intended to come to Oakdale for the winter. Her father's concert tour would soon begin. She did not expect to travel with him that winter. She was anxious to come back to "Heartsease" for a long rest. Much in the letter was of a deeply sympathetic nature, relating to Grace's misfortune. She begged Grace to inform her at once should matters take a happier turn and hoped before long to be with her.

There was also a letter from Mabel Allison confiding the news of her engagement to Arnold Evans. She was very happy, she declared. Formal announcement of her betrothal to Arnold had not yet been made, but Grace would soon receive a card to that effect. Mabel Ashe wrote much sympathy, her letter fairly bristling with her lovable, vivid personality. She ended with the jubilant news that she had sold the novel on which she had worked so long and patiently to complete, to a well-known book publis.h.i.+ng firm. She had named it, "the Guardian of the Flame." She styled it as "the story of a woman's heart," and her publishers believed it would be very successful.

The Emerson twins sent her a funny little epistle, in which they had taken turns in the writing of its many paragraphs. It had evidently been gotten up with a view to cheering her and she read between the lines the kindliness which had prompted the joint authors to the deed. Jessica and Anne came next with loving letters that proved how completely one they were with her in spirit. A colorful account of the doings of the Harlowe House girls at Overton College as set down by Evelyn Ward brought a smile of pleasure to Grace's face.

One of the two remaining envelopes bore Arline's mark. Grace's smile deepened as she opened it and saw:

"DEAREST LOYALHEART:

"You owe me a letter, but never mind. I am of a patient and forgiving disposition, so I'll overlook it. I have a very funny bit of news to write. Stanley Forde, the hateful old tyrant, has gone and engaged himself to be married again. Just like that! Don't think this is a case of sour grapes. I am de-lighted. I am sorry for the poor party of the second part, though. I know her well. She is a pretty but foolish young person who was in love with Stanley ages before he became betrothed to me. Of course he did it to spite Daffydowndilly, but I'm not a bit 'spited.' I feel as though I ought to go to the girl in the case and tell her what I know about him. But it's useless to think of doing so."

Arline devoted further s.p.a.ce to affectionate inquiry regarding Grace's troubles and ended with the nave announcement:

"The other day I met a perfectly delightful young man at a dinner dance. He is as much interested in settlement work as I am, and is as nice as Stanley Forde is horrid. To-morrow he and Father and I are going to motor out to the fresh air home Father founded. He is anxious to see what we have done. Isn't that sweet in him? I do hope appearances aren't deceitful. I'll tell you more about him after I have met him a few more times. It's not wise, you know, to rush into friends.h.i.+ps.

"With much love. You owe me two letters.

"Cautiously,

"DAFFYDOWNDILLY."

The last letter on the pile was from Emma Dean. Hastily running over the first page, Grace laughed outright. "Listen to this, Elfreda," she commanded, her eyes dancing.

"DEAREST AND BEST-LOVED GRACIOUS:

"Hark to the lamentations of a Dean from darkest Deanery, now transported to the Grace-haunted region of Overton! When first I set foot in this desolate waste, my primary impulse was to lift my venerable voice in a piercing wail of anguish. Only my overwhelming respect for the powers which sit sternly in Overton Hall, and a well-founded fear that I might be bundled off the campus to some fell inst.i.tution for the demented, prompted me to refrain from howling. But the desire to howl still lingers, and some fine day I shall meander moodily to Hunter's Rock and there, upon its lonely height, startle the murmuring river below with my frantic cries. I shall stand well back from the edge of that perilous platform, however, as I have no malicious desire to deprive Overton of the best teacher in English Overton ever had, known to the English-speaking world as Emily Elizabeth Dean, who has now become a manageress (see Dean Vocabulary).

"Confidentially speaking, I should not have minded so much leaving darkest Deanery for this Grace-less wilderness if it had not been for the thought that your dear face would be missing in the picture. Do not rashly misjudge me by jumping to the conclusion that I parted with joy from the estimable Deans of whom I am which.

Bitterly did I regret leaving my sorrowing parents. It was not lack of filial devotion to them that made me yearn for Overton. A terrible shadow, or rather several shadows, had hovered over hapless Deanery for a week before I packed my belongings and fled.

Our humble home had been turned over to an aggregation of ruthless individuals who paint houses for a living. Darkest Deanery was once a timid shade of brown that grew even more retiring with years. Now it is a dazzling white, with still more dazzling gray tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. I can never forget that harmonious combination of gray and white, as I have annexed copious samples of it to most of my meager wardrobe.

"If only I had had the forethought to design a simple burlap costume with bag-like lines, and putting away false pride, worn it on all occasions during that last sad week at home, I should not now be spending my leisure hours experimenting to discover the most efficacious paint eradicator on the market. Every time I hopefully remove a prized garment from my trunk, I am confronted by the unhappy recollection that darkest Deanery has been freshly painted.

It's positively maddening!

"Knowing my fatal leaning toward the absent-minded, you can put two and two together. They don't make four. They make 'paint.' Oh, the supreme tragedy of that week! How well I remember the afternoon when I sat down confidingly on the freshly-furbished porch rail in my best pongee dress. I was about to go to a luncheon. I went, but was late. There was a reason. By the time the front porch became a sticky, glistening wonder, I thoughtfully dropped my nice seal handbag in the middle of it. The irate painter remonstrated. Not because I had ruined my cherished possession, but because of the horrifying blank left where paint had lately flaunted itself. By the time it had dawned upon me that the back entrance to the house was the entrance for me, it had also become a trap for the unwary.

There were frequent other accidental collisions with the aforesaid paint, all equally disastrous to poor me. Some of them were known to me at the time; some were among the things that were revealed thereafter. I began to feel that the whole vast universe was chiefly composed of paint. So I fled to the greater ill of an Overton without Grace Harlowe.

"As I have suffered deeply and shall continue to suffer until I can look my modest wardrobe in the face and say, 'presentable at last,'

I am certain that I deserve a special boon of consolation. In plain English, to which I still cling, despite the fact that I dream of some day establis.h.i.+ng a marvelous vocabulary of my own, won't you and Elfreda come to Overton to see me, if only for a day? I have thought things over carefully before asking you. It is not entirely selfishness that prompts the request. I think it would cheer you to come again for a visit to Harlowe House. Though I have replaced you as manager, I can never replace you in the hearts of the girls here. I understand why you may not wish to come. As always, my heart goes out to you. If you write 'no' as an answer, I shall accept it in the best possible spirit. But if you feel that you can drop in on me, even for a day, then I shall surely shriek with joy, right here at Harlowe House, and abide by the consequences. I have written Elfreda, too. If both letters reach you at the same time, and I shall mail them together, then you can shake hands and congratulate yourselves that you have both been invited.

"Yours hopefully,

"EMMA."

"I'd love to go." Grace hesitated. "Do you think it would be disloyal in me to leave Oakdale now, even for a day? I thought it over seriously before I went to Miriam's wedding. That was really a duty, you know. But since Jean has taken up Tom's case, it seems as though I am likely to hear something important within a few days."

"You mustn't be too sure," counseled Elfreda wisely. "You might be disappointed. It may take even Jean a long time to find out anything.

I'm not saying that to be cruel."

"You don't need to tell me that. I know I mustn't expect too much, even of Jean. Yet I can't help thinking that if _he_ doesn't find Tom, no one else ever will."

CHAPTER XXI

THE CALL OF THE ELF'S HORN

Jean, however, had no intention of failing those who so strongly relied upon him. He approached his difficult task with a confidence in his own powers which long years of the free, independent life of the great outdoors had given him. He knew the secrets of the wilderness as few men knew them. He had little doubt that much which had remained obscure to those already engaged in the search for Tom Gray would be made clear to him. Alone in the world, Jean had long since come to regard the Eight Originals as "his folks." Of the four girls, Grace Harlowe had always been his favorite. Of the four boys, Tom Gray had held first place in his heart. The young man's frank, delightful personality, coupled with his intense love of Nature, had served signally to endear him to the old hunter.

As Jean had reverently a.s.sured Grace, it was indeed, to him, a sacred mission on which he was now setting forth, and he longed impatiently for the moment to come when he might leave the narrow confines of the railway train and set foot in the little village nearest to the lumber camp. Mrs. Gray had insisted on providing him liberally with the funds she deemed necessary for the continuance of the search. Jean had stoutly protested against this liberality. Overruled, he had given in somewhat reluctantly, consoling himself with the thought that when M'sieu' Tom was found he would give back the greater part of the money which had been thus thrust upon him. His st.u.r.dy soul rose in revolt at the very idea of tucking himself away in a Pullman berth, even for a night. Such cubby-holes were not for him, he disdainfully reflected. He preferred to sit up all night and amuse himself by watching the fleeting, indistinct landscape through which the train was pursuing its steady run toward the vast northern region that jealously concealed the mystery of Tom Gray's fate.

As he had already informed Grace and Mrs. Gray, the territory for which he was bound was to him a fairly familiar one. True he had not hunted in it for several years, although once or twice he had skirted it in making his slow, deliberate marches to and from Canada. He a.s.sured himself that naturally he would discover some changes in the heavy forest growth, stretching for many miles north and west of the lumber camp for which Tom Gray had headed. Yet Jean was not in the least dismayed by the magnitude of his task. More than once he had served as tracer of persons lost in the trackless wildernesses. More than once he had wandered about in the dense, pathless forests, a lost man.