Grace Harlowe\'s Problem

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Mrs. Gray, who was to give the bride away, wore a gown of her favorite
lavender satin, and bustled cheerfully about the Piersons' living room,
in which the feminine half of the bridal party had gathered until time
to drive to the church, where Anne was to play the leading part in a new
and infinitely wonderful drama. Anne's mother had insisted that it
should be Mrs. Gray, rather than herself, who gave Anne into David
Nesbit's keeping. Always a shy, retiring woman, she had shrunk from the
idea of appearing prominently before a church full of persons, many of
whom were strangers to her. Dearly as she loved her talented daughter,
she preferred to sit quietly beside Mary, her older daughter, in the
place of honor reserved for the members of the families of the bridal
party. She and Mrs. Gray had discussed the matter at length, and she had
been so insistent that the former, as Anne's friend and benefactor,
should give away the bride that Mrs. Gray, secretly delighted, had
consented to her request.

"Anne makes a darling bride, doesn't she?" praised Nora, lifting a fold
of the veil of exquisite lace, Mrs. Gray's wedding veil, by the way, and
peering lovingly into her friend's faintly flushed face.

Anne smiled and reached out a slim little hand to Nora. She was
occupying the center of the living room while her four friends, Mrs.
Gray, her mother, Miss Southard and Mary Pierson hovered solicitously
about her.

"How dear you all are to me." She held out her arms as though to clasp
her friends in one loving embrace. "I am so glad now that I am going to
have a real church wedding. I thought at first it would be nicer to be
quietly married and slip away without fuss and feathers, but now I know
that it is my sacred duty to my friends and to David to play my new
part, as I've always played my other parts, in public."

"I always knew that Anne and David would be married some day," declared
Grace wisely. "I believe David fell in love with Anne the very first
time he saw her. Don't you remember Anne, we met him outside the high
school, and he asked us to come to his aeroplane exhibition?"

"I remember it as well as though it happened yesterday," Anne's musical
voice vibrated with a tenderness called forth by the memory of that
girlhood meeting with the man of men.

"Those days seem very far away to me now," remarked Miriam Nesbit. "I
feel as though I'd been grown up for ages."

"I don't feel a bit grown up. It seems only yesterday since I ran races
and tore about our garden with Captain, our good old collie," laughed
Grace. "I'm like Peter Pan. I don't want to, and can't, grow up. And I
shall never marry." She glanced about her circle of friends with an
almost challenging air. She looked so radiantly young and pretty in her
dainty frock that simultaneously the thought occurred to them all, "Poor
Tom." Yet in their hearts, even to Mrs. Gray, they could find no fault
with Grace's straightforward words. If she were almost cruelly
indifferent to Tom as a lover, she had the virtue at least of being
absolutely honest. Even Mrs. Gray admired and respected her candor.

"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than Anne's and Miriam's
bouquets?" broke in Miss Southard, with the intent of leading away from
a not wholly happy subject.

Miriam held her bouquet at arm's length and eyed it with admiration. It
was composed of pale yellow orchids and lilies of the valley, while
Anne's was a shower of orange blossoms and the same delicate lilies.

"If you are determined never to marry, Grace, you won't try to catch
Anne's bouquet," smiled Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, yes, I shall," nodded Grace. "I must do it because it's hers. I
always try to catch the bouquets at weddings. It's good sport. So far,
however, I've never secured one."

"I shall throw this one directly at you," promised Anne.

"Anne, child, the carriages are here," broke in her mother's gentle
voice.

Anne laid her bouquet on the centre table. "Come and kiss Anne Pierson
for the last time, girls." She opened her arms. One by one they folded
her in the embrace of friendship. Her sister and mother came last. As
the arms that had held her in babyhood closed about her, Anne drew
nearer to her mother in this, her hour of supreme happiness, than ever
before, if that were possible.

It was not a long drive to the church. On the way there they stopped to
pick up the two flower girls, Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell, two
pretty and interesting children who lived next door to Grace, and of
whom she and Anne had always been very fond. The little flower maidens
were dressed in white embroidered chiffon frocks with pale yellow satin
sashes and hair ribbons. They wore white silk stockings and white kid
slippers and carried overflowing baskets of yellow and white roses.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe," cried Anna May, when she and Elizabeth were safely
settled in the carriage, one of them on the seat beside Grace, the other
on the opposite side with Anne, "this is about the happiest day
Elizabeth and I ever had. I do hope I won't be scared. Just think, we
have to walk into that great big church, the very first ones, with all
those people looking at us."

"I'm not the least bit scared," was Elizabeth's bold declaration.
"Nobody is going to hurt us. Why, all the people are Miss Anne's
_friends!_ I'm going to think that when I walk up the aisle, and I
shan't be a bit scared. I know I shan't."

"Well, I'm not exactly _scared_," asserted Anna May, greatly impressed
with Elizabeth's valiant declaration. "I guess I'll think that, too."

"Oh, Miss Anne, you look too sweet for anything." Elizabeth clasped her
small hands in rapture. "When I grow up I shall certainly be married,
and have a dress like yours, and just the same kind of a bouquet, and be
married in the church where every one can see me."

"You can't get married unless some one asks you," informed Anna May
wisely.

"Some one will," predicted Elizabeth. "Won't they, Miss Harlowe?"

"I haven't the least doubt of it," was Grace's laughing assurance.
"Still I wouldn't worry about it for a good many years yet, if I were
you. It's just as nice to be a little girl and play games and dress
dolls."

Anne smiled faintly. Grace was again unconsciously voicing her views on
the marriage question.

The two little flower girls kept up a lively conversation during the
ride. They were divided between the fear of facing a church full of
people and the rapture of being really, truly flower girls at the
wedding of such a wonderful person as their Miss Anne.

It was precisely half-past seven o'clock when two tiny flower maidens,
their childish faces grave with the importance of their office, walked
sedately down the broad church aisle toward the flower-wreathed altar.
Following them came a dazzling vision in gold tissue that caused at
least one's man's heart to beat faster. To Everett Southard Miriam was
indeed the fabled fairy-tale princess. Then came the bride, feeling
strangely humble and diffident in this new part she had essayed to play,
while behind her, single file, in faithful attendance, walked the three
girls who had kept perfect step with her through the eventful years of
her school life.

Mrs. Gray, who had preceded the wedding party to the altar, was waiting
there with the bridegroom and his best man, Tom Gray. There was a buzz
of admiration went the round of the church at the beautiful spectacle
the bridal party presented. Then followed an intense hush as the voice
of the minister took up the solemn words of God's most holy ordinance.

Perhaps no one person present at that impressive ceremony realized as
did Tom Gray what the winning of Anne, for his wife, meant to David. On
that June night, almost two years previous, when Hippy and Reddy had, in
turn, made announcement of their betrothal to Nora and Jessica in the
presence of Mrs. Gray and her Christmas children, David's fate as a
lover had been uncertain. Now David had joined the ranks of happy
benedicts. Tom alone was left.

As the minister's voice rang out deeply, thrillingly, "I pronounce you
man and wife," involuntarily Tom's glance rested on Grace, who was
watching Anne with the rapt eyes of friendship. The words held no
significance for her beyond the fact that two of her dearest friends had
joined their lives. Her changeful face bore no sign of sentiment. As
usual, her interest in love and marriage was purely impersonal.

The reception following the wedding was held at Anne's home, and long
before it was over Anne and David had slipped away to take the night
train for New York City. Anne's honeymoon was to be limited to one week
which they had decided to spend at Old Point Comfort. Anne and Mr.
Southard were to open a newly built New York theatre in Shakespearian
repetoire the following week. Their real honeymoon was to be deferred
until the theatrical season closed in the spring, and was to comprise an
extended western trip.

True to her promise, Anne had aimed accurately, and Grace had received
the bridal bouquet full in the face. It dropped to the floor. She
picked it up and commented on her lack of skill in catching it. Tom's
face had brightened as he saw the girl he loved holding the fragrant
token to her breast. It was a good omen.

"I'm going to take you home in my car, Grace," he said masterfully, as
the guests were leaving that night.

"All right," returned Grace calmly. "We can take Anna May and Elizabeth
with us. It's awfully late for them. I promised Mrs. Angerell I'd take
good care of them. They absolutely refused to go when Father and Mother
went."

Tom could not help looking his disappointment. Nevertheless the two
little girls were favorites of his, so he forgave them for being the
innocent means of frustrating his intention of having Grace to himself.

"I'm going back to Washington to-morrow night, Grace," he said, as he
took her hand for a moment in parting. "May I come to see you to-morrow
afternoon?"

"Yes, of course, Tom." Grace could not refuse the plea of his gray eyes.

"All right. I'll drop in about four o'clock."

"Very well. Good night, Tom." Grace could not repress a little impatient
sigh. "He's going to ask me again," was her reflection, "but there is
only one answer that I can ever give him."

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST WORD

While Anne Pierson's wedding day had dawned with a light snow on the
ground, the weather underwent a considerable change during the night,
and the next morning broke, gray and threatening. Heavy, sullen clouds
dropped low in the sky, and by four o'clock that afternoon a raw,
dispiriting winter rain had set in, accompanied by a moaning wind that
made the day seem doubly dreary. Promptly at four o'clock Grace saw Tom
swing up the walk without an umbrella. His black raincoat, buttoned up
to his chin, was infinitely becoming to his fair Saxon type of good
looks, and Grace could not repress a tiny thrill of satisfaction that
this strong, handsome man cared for her. The next second she dismissed
the thought as unworthy. She welcomed Tom, however, with a gentle
friendliness, partly due to his good looks, that caused his eyes to
flash with new hope. Perhaps Grace cared a little after all. He had
rarely seen her so kind since their carefree days of boy and girl
friendship, when there had been no barrier of unrequited love between
them.

"Come and sit by the fire, Tom," invited Grace. "I love an open fire on
a dark, rainy day like this." She motioned him to a chair opposite her
own at the other side of the fireplace. Tom seated himself, and the two
began to talk of the wedding, Oakdale, their friends, everything in fact
that led away from the thoughts that lay nearest the young man's heart.
Grace skilfully kept the conversation on impersonal topics. By doing so
she hoped to make Tom understand that she did not wish to discuss what
had long been a sore subject between them. So the two young people
talked on and on, while outside the rain fell in torrents, and the dark
day began to merge into an early twilight.

With the coming of the dusk Grace began to feel the strain. Tom's pale
face had taken on a set look in the fitful glow of the fire. Suddenly he
leaned far forward in his chair. "It's no use, Grace. I know you've
tried to keep me from saying what I came here to-day to say, but I'm
going to tell you again. I love you, Grace, and I need you in my life.
Why can't you love me as I love you?"

Grace's clean-cut profile was turned directly toward Tom. She reached
forward for the poker and began nervously prodding the fire. Tom caught
the hand that held the poker. Unclasping her limp fingers from about
it, he set it impatiently in place. "Look at me, Grace, not at the
fire," he commanded.

Grace raised sorrowful eyes to him. Then she made a little gesture of
appeal. "Why must we talk of this again, Tom? Why can't we be friends
just as we used to be, back in our high-school days?"

"Because it's not in the nature of things," returned Tom, his eyes full
of pain. "I am a man now, with a man's devoted love for you. The whole
trouble lies in the sad fact that you are just a dreaming child, without
the faintest idea of what life really means."

"You are mistaken, Tom." There was a hint of offended dignity in Grace's
tones. "I _do_ understand the meaning of life, only it doesn't mean
_love_ to me. It means _work_. The highest pleasure I have in life is my
work."

"You think so now, but you won't always think so. There will come a time
in your life when you'll realize how great a power for happiness love
is. All our dearest friends have looked forward to seeing you my wife.
Your parents wish it. Aunt Rose loves you already as a dear niece. Even
Anne, your chum, thinks you are making a mistake in choosing work
instead of love. Of course I know that what your friends think can make
no difference in what _you_ think. Still I believe if you would once
put the idea away of being self-supporting you'd see matters in a
different light. You aren't obliged to work for your living. Why not
give Harlowe House into the care of some one who is, and marry me?"

"But you don't understand me in the least, Tom." A petulant note crept
into Grace's voice. "It's just because I'm not obliged to support myself
that I'm happy in doing so. I feel so free and independent. It's my
freedom I love. I don't love you. There are times when I'm sorry that I
don't, and then again there are times when I'm glad. I shall always be
fond of you, but my feeling toward you is just the same as it is for
Hippy or David or Reddy. There! I've hurt you. Forgive me. Must we say
anything more about it? Please, please don't look so hurt, Tom."

Grace's eyes were fastened on Tom with the sorrowing air of one who has
inadvertently hurt a child. Usually so delicate in her respect for the
feelings of others, she seemed fated continually to wound this loyal
friend, whose only fault lay in the fact that his boyish affection for
her had ripened into a man's love. Saddest of all, an unrequited love.

[Illustration: "Look at Me, Grace."]

"Of course I forgive you, Grace." Tom rose. He looked long and
searchingly into the face of the girl who had just hurt him so cruelly.
"I--I think I'd better go now. I hope you'll find all the happiness in
your work that you expect to find. I'm only sorry it had to come first.
I don't know when I'll see you again. Not until next summer, I suppose.
I can't come to Oakdale for Easter this year. I wish you'd write to
me--that is, if you feel you'd like to. Remember, I am always your old
friend Tom."

"I _will_ write to you, Tom." Grace's gray eyes were heavy with unshed
tears. She winked desperately to keep them back. She would not cry.
Luckily the dim light of the room prevented Tom from seeing how near she
was to breaking down. It was all so sad. She had never before realized
how much it hurt her to hurt Tom. She followed him into the hall and to
the door in silence.

"Good-bye, Grace," he said again, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye, Tom," she faltered. He turned abruptly and hurried down the
steps into the winter darkness. He did not look back.

Grace stood in the open door until the echo of his footsteps died out.
Then she rushed into the living room and, throwing herself down on the
big leather sofa, burst into bitter tears.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SUMMONS

"There are Deans and _deans_," observed Emma Dean with savage emphasis,
"but the Deans, of whom I am which, are, in my humble opinion,
infinitely superior to the dean person stalking about the halls of dear
old Overton."

"What do you mean, Emma?" asked Grace. The dry bitterness of her
friend's outburst regarding deans in general was too significant to be
allowed to pass unquestioned.

It was the evening of Grace Harlowe's return from the Christmas holiday
she had spent with her dear ones at Oakdale. Grace and Emma were in
their room. Despite the one sad memory which time alone could efface,
Grace was experiencing a peace and comfort which always hovered about
her for many days after her visits home. Next to home, however, Overton
was, to her, the place of places, and she had returned to her work with
fresh energy and enthusiasm. She believed that she had definitely put
behind her forever all that unhappy part of her life regarding Tom Gray.
It had been hard indeed, and had brought tears to the eyes so
unaccustomed to weeping. Still Grace was glad that she had faced the
inevitable and seen clearly. Tom would, in time, forget her and perhaps
marry some one else. She wished with all her heart that he might be
happy, and her one regret was that she had caused him pain.

In reality Grace had exhibited toward her old friend a hardness of
purpose quite at variance with her usually sweet nature. She wondered a
little that she could have been so inexorable in her decision, yet she
believed herself to be wholly justified in the course she had taken.
Already she was beginning to commend herself inwardly for her loyalty to
her work, and Emma's blunt arraignment of the dean of Overton College
acted like a dash of cold water upon her half-fledged self-content.

"All day I've been tempted to tell you a few things, Gracious," began
Emma, "but I hated to disturb you. I know just how you feel when you
come back from that blessed little town of yours. So I've been keeping
still while you told me all about Anne's wedding and the good times you
had. It was one glorious succession of good times, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Grace was silent for a brief space of time. Then she said
gravely, "There was only one flaw, Emma. I refused again, and for the
last time, to marry Tom Gray. I was sorry, but I couldn't help it. I
don't love him."

"I'm sorry, too, that you couldn't find it in your heart to care for
him. I liked him best of those four young men."

"Every one likes him. My friends all hoped that we would marry." Grace
sighed. "Still one's friends can't decide such matters for one. One must
solve that particular problem alone."

"Just so," agreed Emma. "Although no one ever asked my hand in holy
matrimony except a callow youth whom I tutored in algebra last summer.
He had failed in his June examination and had to pass in September or be
forever labeled a dunce by his fond family. Now you see why I can
understand the psychology of saying 'no' to a proposal. This stripling,
who was at least five years my junior, proposed to me out of sheer
gratitude. I actually succeeded in drumming quadratic equations into his
stupid head, and he offered me his hand by the way of reward."

Grace's sad expression had by this time vanished. She was regarding Emma
with a smiling face. "Really and truly, Emma, did that happen to you?"

"It did, indeed," averred Emma solemnly. "You aren't half so amazed as I
was. I felt as though one of my Sunday-school class of little boys had
suddenly exhibited signs of the tender passion. I labored long and
earnestly to convince him that I was not his fate, and in due season he
passed his examination and promptly forgot me. I did not weep and wail
at being forgotten, either. Still there was a grain of satisfaction in
being sought. If I go down to my grave in single blessedness I shall at
least have the satisfaction of knowing that some one yearned for my
life-long society." She beamed owlishly at Grace, and laughter routed
the sorrowful face she had turned to Emma only a moment before.

But Emma was only trying to prepare Grace for unpleasant news. Now that
she had put her in a lighter frame of mind, she said: "I might as well
tell you about Miss Wharton, Grace."

Grace's eyes were immediately fixed on her in mute question.

"The news of the sale traveled to Miss Wharton, as I was afraid it
would," began Emma. "Miss Brent wasn't here when first the dean heard of
it. She had gone home with Miss Parker for Christmas. Evelyn Ward wasn't
here, either. She and Kathleen West and Mary Reynolds went to New York.
Mary and Kathleen to work on the paper, and Evelyn to work for two weeks
in that stock company of Mr. Forrest's. You knew about that, of course.
It was the day after Christmas that Miss Wharton heard about the sale.
She sent for Miss Brent and was greatly displeased to find her gone.
However, she had had permission from the registrar, a fact that Miss
Wharton couldn't overlook. Then Miss Wharton sent for me. She said the
sale was a disgrace to Overton, and that she was amazed to think you
allowed such a proceeding. I explained to her that you knew nothing of
it, that you were away at the time it took place, and she said you had
acted most unwisely in placing your responsibilities on the shoulders of
others even for a day. Your place was at Harlowe House every day of the
college year. You had no business to assume such a responsible position
if you did not intend to live up to it.

"That's about the extent of all she said. I was so angry I could
scarcely control myself, but I managed to say quietly that President
Morton and Miss Wilder had never questioned your absences from Harlowe
House, and that I was sure you would lose no time in taking up the
matter with her when you returned. Now you know what you may expect. I
don't know whether she has sent for Miss Brent since she came from New
York. If she hasn't, then mark my words, the summons will come
to-morrow."

Emma proved to be a true prophet. The nine o'clock mail next morning
brought two letters written on the stationery used by the Overton
faculty. One was addressed to Grace, the other to Jean Brent. If the two
young women had compared them they would have discovered that each one
contained the same curt summons to the dean's office. Both appointments
were for half-past four o'clock that afternoon.

Grace stopped at Jean's table at luncheon that day and said softly.
"Will you come to my office after you have finished your luncheon, Miss
Brent?"

Jean turned very pale. She bowed her acquiescence, and Grace went on to
her own place.

"I have been requested to call on Miss Wharton at half-past four o'clock
this afternoon, Miss Brent," informed Grace as, later, Jean stood before
her. "I noted that you also received a letter written on the business
stationery of Overton. Am I right in guessing that you have received the
same summons?"

For answer Jean opened the book she held under her arm and took from it
an envelope. In silence she drew from it a letter, spread it open and
handed it to Grace.

"Just as I thought." Grace returned the letter. "Miss Wharton has
learned of your sale, Miss Brent. She is very indignant. Are you
prepared to tell her what you confided to me?" Grace eyed the girl
squarely.

"Why should I, Miss Harlowe?" burst forth Jean. "No; I will tell Miss
Wharton nothing."

"Nor will I," was Grace's quiet rejoinder. "Whatever she learns must
come from you. I wrote to Miss Lipton and received a letter from her
assuring me that you are not at fault in the matter that made your
advent into Overton College a mystery to me. I need no further
assurance. Miss Lipton's school is known to the public as being one of
the finest preparatory schools in the United States. If it were Miss
Wilder instead of Miss Wharton I should advise you to tell her all. I am
so sorry you did not tell us in the beginning. You must do whatever your
conscience dictates. If necessary I will show Miss Wharton my letter
from Miss Lipton, but I shall not betray your confidence unless you
sanction my speaking."

"Please don't tell her," begged Jean.

"It shall be as you ask," returned Grace, but she was secretly
disappointed at what might be either Jean's selfishness or her pure
inability to see the unpleasantness of the position in which she was
placing the young woman who had befriended her.

When Grace entered the familiar office and saw Miss Wharton's dumpy
figure occupying her dear Miss Wilder's place she felt a distinct
sinking of the heart. The dean surveyed her out of cold blue eyes, that
seemed to Grace to contain a spark of deliberate malice.

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