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.