THE BLOTTED ESCUTCHEON
But Grace was destined to receive another shock before the long day was
done. The shadows of early twilight were beginning to blot out the short
winter day when she let herself into Harlowe House. Stepping into her
office she reached eagerly for the pile of mail lying on the sliding
shelf of her desk. The handwriting on the first letter of the pile was
Tom's. Grace eyed it gloomily. It was not warranted to lighten her
present unhappy mood. She opened it slowly, almost hesitatingly. Unlike
Tom's long, newsy letters, there was but one sheet of paper. Then she
strained her eyes in the rapidly failing daylight and read:
"DEAR GRACE:
"When you receive this letter I shall be out at sea and on my way
to South America. I have resigned my position with the Forestry
Department to go on an expedition up the Amazon River with Burton
Graham, the naturalist. He is the man who collected so many rare
specimens of birds and mammals for the Smithsonian Institute while
in Africa, two years ago. It is hard to say when I shall return,
and, as it takes almost a month for a letter to reach the United
States, you are not likely to hear often from me.
"Aunt Rose is deeply grieved at my going. Still she understands
that, for me, it is best. When last I saw you in Oakdale I had no
idea of leaving civilization for tropical wildernesses. Mr.
Graham's invitation to join his expedition was wholly unexpected,
and I was not slow to take advantage of it.
"I would ask you to write me, but, unfortunately, I can give you no
forwarding address. Mr. Graham's plans as to location are a little
uncertain. Perhaps, until I can bring myself to think of you in the
way you wish me to think, silence between us will be happiest for
us both. God bless you, Grace, and give you the greatest possible
success in your work. With best wishes,
"Your friend,
"TOM."
Grace stared at the sheet of paper before her, with tear-blurred eyes.
She hastily wiped her tears away, but they only fell the faster. Miss
Wharton's injustice, Jean Brent's selfishness, together with the sudden
shock of Tom's departure out of the country and out of her life, were
too much for her high-strung, sensitive nature. Dropping into the chair
before her desk, she bowed her head on the slide and wept
unrestrainedly.
Her overflow of feelings was brief, however. Given little to tears,
after her first outburst she exerted all her will power to control
herself. The girls were dropping in by ones and twos from their classes,
the maid would soon come into the living room to turn on the lights, and
at almost any moment some one might ask for her. She would not care to
be discovered in tears.
Grace picked up the rest of her mail, lying still unopened, and went
upstairs to her room with the proud determination to cry no more. She
was quite sure she would not have cried over Tom's letter had all else
been well. It was her interview with Miss Wharton that had hurt her so
cruelly. Yet, with the reading of Tom's farewell message, deep down in
her heart lurked a curiously uncomfortable sense of loss. It was as
though for the first time in her life she had actually began to miss
Tom. She had not expected fate to cut him off so sharply from her. She
knew that her refusal to marry him had been the primary cause of his
going away. Mrs. Gray would perhaps blame her. These expeditions were
dangerous to say the least. More than one naturalist had died of fever
or snakebite, or had been killed by savages. Suppose Tom were never to
come back. Grace shuddered at the bare idea of such a calamity. And he
did not intend to write to her, so she could only wonder as the days,
weeks and months went by what had befallen him. She would never know.
While she was sadly ruminating over Tom's unexpected exit from her
little world, Emma Dean's brisk step sounded outside. The door swung
open. Emma gave a soft exclamation as she saw the room in darkness.
Pressing the button at the side of the door, she flooded the room with
light, only to behold Grace standing in the middle of the floor, still
wearing her outdoor wraps, an open letter in her hand.
"Good gracious, Gracious, how you startled me! What is going on? Tell
your worthless dog of a servant, what means this studied pose in the
middle of the room in the dark? Not to mention posing in your hat and
coat. And, yes," Emma drew nearer and peered into her friend's face with
her kind, near-sighted eyes, "you've been crying. This will never do.
Tell me the base varlet that hath caused these tears," she rumbled in a
deep voice, "and be he lord of fifty realms I'll have his blood.
'Sdeath! Odds bodkins! Let me smite the villain. I could slay and slay,
and be a teacher still. Provided the faculty didn't object, and I wasn't
arrested," she ended practically.
Grace's woe-be-gone face brightened at Emma's nonsense. "You always
succeed in making me smile when I am the bluest of the blue," she said
fondly.
"I can't see why such strongly dramatic language as I used should make
you laugh. It was really quite Shakespearian. You see I have 'the bard'
on the brain. We have been taking up Elizabethan English in one of my
classes, and once I become thoroughly saturated with Shakespearian verse
I am likely to quote it on all occasions. Don't be surprised if I burst
forth into blank verse at the table or any other public place. But here
I've been running along like a talking machine when you are 'full fathom
five' in the blues. Can't you tell your aged and estimable friend, Emma,
what is troubling you?"
"You were right, Emma. The summons came." Grace's voice was husky. "I've
just had a session with Miss Wharton."
"About Miss Brent?"
"Yes. She sent for both of us. She asked Miss Brent to explain certain
things which she could, but would not, explain. I was in Miss Brent's
confidence. As you know, she told me about herself after I came back
from the Thanksgiving holiday. It entirely changed my opinion of her. I
wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. I gave her my word of
honor that I would keep her secret. But, to-day, when she saw how
unjustly Miss Wharton reprimanded me I thought she might have strained a
point and told Miss Wharton her story. Still I don't know that it would
have helped much." Grace sighed wearily. "Miss Wharton is not Miss
Wilder. She is a hard, narrow-minded, cruel woman," Grace's dispirited
tones gathered sudden vehemence, "and she would misjudge Miss Brent just
as she misjudged me. She is going to send for us again in a few days,
and she declares that, if I do not tell her everything, she will take
measures to have me removed from my position here." Grace turned tragic
eyes to her friend.
"The idea!" rang out Emma's indignant cry. "Just as though she could.
Why, Harlowe House was named for you. If Mrs. Gray knew she even hinted
such thing she'd be so angry. I believe she'd turn Indian giver and take
back her gift to Overton."
"Oh, no, she wouldn't do quite that, Emma." Heartsick though she was,
Grace smiled faintly. "She would be angry, though. She must never know
it. It made her so happy to give Harlowe House to Overton. She would be
so hurt, for my sake, that she would never again take a particle of
pleasure in it. When Miss Wharton sends for me I shall ask her
point-blank if she really intends to try to have me removed from my
position by the Board. If she says 'yes,' I'll resign, then and there."
"Grace Harlowe, you don't mean it? You've always fought valiantly for
other girls' rights, why won't you fight for your own? The whole affair
is ridiculous and unjust. If worse comes to worst you can go before the
Board and defend yourself. The members will believe you."
Grace shook her head sadly, but positively. "I'd never do that, Emma. If
it comes to a point where I must fight to be house mother here, then I'd
much rather resign. I couldn't bear to have the story creep about the
college that I had even been criticized by the Board. I've loved my work
so dearly, and I've tried so hard to do it wisely that I'd rather give
it up and go quietly away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best,
than to fight and win at last nothing but a blotted escutcheon. You
understand how it is with me, dear old comrade."
"Grace, it breaks my heart to hear you say such things! You mustn't talk
of going away." Emma sprang from the chair into which she had dropped
and drew Grace into her protecting embrace. Grace's head was bowed for a
moment on Emma's shoulder.
"Don't cry, dear," soothed Emma.
"I'm not crying, Emma. See, I haven't shed a tear. I did all my crying a
while ago." Grace raised her head and regarded Emma with two dry eyes
that were wells of pain. "I have had another shock, too, since I came
home. Tom Gray has resigned his position with the Forestry Department at
Washington, and has sailed for South America.
I--never--thought--he'd--go--away. He isn't even going to write to me,
Emma, and I don't know when he will come back. Perhaps never. You know
how dangerous those South American expeditions are?"
"Poor Gracious," comforted Emma, "you have had enough sorrows for one
day. You need a little cheering up. You and I are not going to eat
dinner at Harlowe House to-night. We are going to let Louise Sampson
look after things while we go gallivanting down to Vinton's for a high
tea. I'm going to telephone Kathleen and Patience. There will be just
four of us, and no more of us to the tea party. They will have to come,
engagements or no engagements."
"I don't care to see any one to-night, Emma," pleaded Grace.
"You only think you don't. Seeing the girls will do you good. If you
stay here you'll brood and grieve all evening."
"All right, I'll go; just to please you. I must see Louise and tell her
we are going."
"You stay here. I'll do all the seeing. Take off your hat and bathe your
face. You'll feel better." Emma hurried out of the room and up the next
flight of stairs to Louise Sampson's room, thinking only of Grace and
how she might best comfort her. She was more aroused than she cared to
let Grace see over Miss Wharton's harsh edict. She made a secret vow
that if Grace would not fight for her rights _she_, Emma Dean, would.
Then she remembered Grace's words, "I'd rather give it up and go quietly
away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best, than to fight and,
at last, win nothing but a blotted escutcheon." No, she could not take
upon herself Grace's wrongs, unless Grace bade her do so, and that would
never happen.
Fortunately Kathleen and Patience were both at home. Better still,
neither had an engagement for that evening, and at half-past six o'clock
the four faithful friends were seated at their favorite mission alcove
table at Vinton's, ordering their dinner, while Grace tried earnestly to
put away her sorrow and be her usual sunny self.
But while Grace had been passing through the Valley of Humiliation,
there was another person under the same roof who was equally unhappy.
That person was Jean Brent. On leaving Grace she had gone directly to
Harlowe House. Ascending the stairs to her room with a dispirited step,
she had tossed aside her wraps and seated herself before the window. She
sat staring out with unseeing eyes, remorseful and sick at heart.
Grace's bitter words, "If you had obeyed me I would not be leaving Miss
Wharton's office this afternoon, under a cloud," still rang in her ears.
How basely she had repaid Miss Harlowe, was her conscience-stricken
thought. Miss Harlowe had advised and helped her in every possible way.
She had taken her into Harlowe House on trust. She had sympathized with
her when Jean had told her her secret, and she had brought upon herself
the dean's disapproval, would perhaps leave Harlowe House, rather than
betray the girl who had confided in her. Jean's conscience lashed her
sharply for her stubbornness and selfish ingratitude. If only she had
been frank in the beginning. Miss Harlowe would have explained all to
Miss Wilder, and Miss Wilder would have been satisfied. Then she would
have had no sale of her wardrobe, and Miss Harlowe would have been
spared all this miserable trouble.
What a failure she had made of her freshman year? She had made few
friends except Althea and her chums. They were shallow and selfish to a
fault. She had held herself aloof from the Harlowe House girls, who,
notwithstanding their good nature, showed a slight resentment of her
proud attitude toward them and her absolute refusal to join in the work
of the club. Since the day when Evelyn had taken her to task for
disobeying Grace the two girls had exchanged no words other than those
which necessity forced them to exchange. Evelyn had not forgiven Jean
for her passionate advice to her to mind her own affairs. Jean, knowing
Evelyn's resentment to be just, cloaked herself in defiance and ignored
her roommate. Little by little, however, the cloak dropped away and Jean
began to long for Evelyn's companionship. The yellow crêpe gown and the
beautiful evening coat still lay in the bottom of Jean's trunk. In her
own mind she knew that she had begun to hope for the time when she and
Evelyn would settle their differences. She would then give Evelyn the
belated Christmas gift. She grew daily more unhappy over their
estrangement, and heartily wished for a reconciliation. Yet she was
still too proud to make the first advances.
It was hardly likely that Evelyn would make the first sign. Her pride
was equal to, if not greater, than Jean's. She, who abhorred prying and
inquisitiveness, had been accused by Jean of meddling in her affairs.
Evelyn vowed inwardly never to forgive Jean. So these two young girls,
each stiff-necked and implacable, dressed, studied and slept in the same
room in stony silence, passing in and out like two offended shadows.
Gradually this strained attitude became so intolerable to Jean that she
longed for some pretext on which to make peace. As she sat at the window
wondering what she could do to atone for her fault the door opened and
Evelyn entered the room. A swift impulse seized Jean to lift the veil of
resentment that hung between them. She half rose from her chair as
though to address Evelyn. The latter turned her head in Jean's
direction. Her blue eyes rested upon the other girl with the cold,
impersonal gaze of a stranger. Beneath that maddening, ignoring glance
Jean's good intentions curled up and withered like leaves that are
touched by frost, and her aching desire for reconciliation was once more
driven out of her heart by her pride.