THE SWORD OF SUSPENSE
When Miss Wharton sent Jean Brent and Grace Harlowe from her office with
the threat of dismissal hanging over them she fully intended to keep her
word. From the moment she had first beheld Grace Harlowe she had
conceived for her a rooted dislike such as only persons of strong
prejudices can entertain. Her whole life had been lived narrowly, and
with repression, therefore she was not in sympathy with youth or its
enthusiasm. According to her belief no young woman of Grace's age and
appearance was competent to assume the responsibility of managing an
establishment like Harlowe House. She had again delivered this opinion
most forcefully in Miss Wilder's presence after Grace had left the
office on the afternoon of their first meeting, and Miss Wilder's
earnest assurances to the contrary served only to deepen Miss Wharton's
disapproval of the bright-faced, clear-eyed girl whose quiet
self-possession indicated a capability of managing her own affairs that
was a distinct affront to the woman who hoped to discover in her such
faults as would triumphantly bear out her unkind criticism.
Miss Wharton had held the position of dean in an unimportant western
college, and it was at the solicitation of a cousin, a member of the
Board of Trustees, that she had applied for the office of dean at
Overton, and had been appointed to it with the distinct understanding
that it was to be for the present college year only. Should Miss Wilder
be unable to resume her duties the following October, Miss Wharton would
then be reappointed for the entire year. The importance of being the
dean of Overton College, coupled with the generous salary attached to
the office, were the motives which caused Miss Wharton to resign her
more humble position, assured as it was, for an indefinite period of
years, for the one of greater glory but uncertain length.
Possessed of a hard, unsympathetic nature, she secretly cherished the
hope that Miss Wilder would not return to Overton the following year.
She also resolved to prove her own worth above that of the kindly,
efficient dean whom the Overton girls idolized, and began her campaign
by criticizing and finding fault with Miss Wilder's methods whenever the
slightest opportunity presented itself. At first her unfair tactics bade
fair to meet with success. The various members of the Board, and even
Dr. Morton, wondered vaguely if, after all, too much confidence had
been reposed in Miss Wilder.
Wholly intent on establishing herself as a fixture at Overton College,
Miss Wharton allowed the matter concerning Jean Brent and Grace to rest
while she attended to what she considered vastly more important affairs.
The thought that she was keeping both young women in the most cruel
suspense did not trouble her in the least. On the contrary she decided
that they deserved to be kept in a state of uncertainty as to what she
intended to do with them, and deliberately put over their case until
such time as suited her convenience.
Both Jean and Grace went about, however, with the feeling that a sword
was suspended over their heads and likely to descend at any moment.
Grace expected, daily, to be summoned to Miss Wharton's office, there to
refuse to divulge Jean Brent's secret and then ask the pertinent
question, "Do you intend to lay this matter before the Board?" If she
received an affirmative answer, then she planned to return to Harlowe
House, write her formal resignation as manager of it and mail it to
President Morton. But day followed day, and week followed week, and
still the dread summons did not come. Grace discussed frequently the
possible cause of Miss Wharton's negligence in the matter with Emma,
her one confidante. Emma was of the opinion that, in trying to fill Miss
Wilder's position, Miss Wharton had her hands full. Although Emma was
apt to clothe the most serious happenings in the cloak of humor, she was
a shrewd judge of human nature.
"Just let me tell you one thing, Gracious," she remarked one blustering
March evening as the two young women fought their way across the campus
against a howling wind. They were returning from an evening spent with
Kathleen West and Patience Eliot. "Miss Wharton is no more fitted for
the position of dean at Overton College than I am for the presidency of
the United States. She may have been successful in some little,
out-of-the-way academy in a jerkwater town, but she's sadly out of place
here. She has about as much tact as a rhinoceros, and possesses the
æsthetic perceptions of a coal shoveler. I'm just waiting for these
simple truths to dawn upon the intellects of our august Board. I
understand that cadaverous-looking man with the wall eyes and the
spade-shaped, beard, who walks about as though he cherished a grudge
against the human race, and rejoices in the euphonious name of Darius
Dutton, is responsible for this crime against Overton. He recommended
her appointment to the Board. It seems that he is Miss Wharton's
cousin. Thank goodness he isn't mine, or Miss Wharton either."
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.