Grace Harlowe\'s Problem
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Jessie Graham Flower >> Grace Harlowe\'s Problem
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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 Miss Wharton'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 directly after 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 and baby 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, my child," 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 wish _all_ my 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 Overton for 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 XX
THE 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 accomplishment of 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, the Phi 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
worn stone 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-morrow morning 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 want _you_ to 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 spring
And 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 joy of Browning's exquisite
lines from "Pippa Passes" cut into her very soul. All was not right with
_her_ world. 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 XXI
KATHLEEN 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 from Emma, 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 way to 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 there _is_ something 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 that stood 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 was thinking 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."
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