GRACE SOLVES HER PROBLEM
Grace waited impatiently for an answer to her letter of resignation. She
expected hourly a summons to President Morton's office, but it did not
come. It was now six days since Jean Brent's interview with Miss
Wharton. Surely the dean had long since executed her threat to humiliate
and depose Grace from the position of which she had been so proud. Then
why did not President Morton take action at once and end this torturing
suspense? Grace could not answer this question. She could only wonder
and wait.
But while she wondered and waited Kathleen West was leaving no stone
unturned. In the championing of Grace's rights she did nothing by
halves. The very next morning after receiving Miss Wilder's telegram she
marched boldly into President Morton's office for a private interview
with that dignified gentleman. Her newspaper experience had taught her
how to gain an audience with the most difficult persons. She had little
trouble in obtaining admittance to the president's private office. It
was a long interview, lasting, at least, a half hour, and when Kathleen
rose to go President Morton shook her hand and bowed her out in his most
amiable manner.
From Overton Hall she went directly to the telegraph office and sent
another telegram. This time it was addressed to Mrs. Rose Gray, Oakdale,
N.Y., and read: "Come to Overton, but fix arrival Friday. Grace needs
you. Serious. Wire train. Meet you. Kathleen West."
By five o'clock that afternoon she had received this answer: "Arrive
Friday, 9.20 P.M. Arrange for me, Tourraine. Rose Gray," and was
triumphantly showing it to Patience Eliot and planning her work of
vindication in Grace's behalf.
But while her friends were busying themselves in her cause Grace was
engaged in packing her two trunks and arranging her affairs at Harlowe
House. So far as she knew, Emma Dean and Jean Brent, alone, were aware
of what was about to happen. Jean, whose fate still hung in the balance,
went about looking pale and forlorn. Being in Kathleen's confidence,
Evelyn had not informed her roommate of the secret work that was being
done in behalf of Grace. She understood that Jean was suffering acutely,
and longed to tell her that all promised well for Grace, but not for
worlds would she have betrayed Kathleen's confidence.
Emma Dean had learned of the mailing of Grace's resignation from Grace
herself when she had returned to Harlowe House late that same evening.
For once her flow of cheer had failed her, and she had broken down and
cried disconsolately. For the next two days she had been unconsolable.
Her bitterness against Miss Wharton was so great that it distressed
Grace, who sought in vain to comfort her. But on Monday afternoon she
returned from her classes in a lighter, more cheerful frame of mind. In
fact as the week progressed she appeared to have thrown off her sorrow
and was as funny as ever.
Grace tried to be honestly glad that Emma's sorrow had been so
short-lived, but she could not help feeling a little hurt to think that
Emma, of all persons, should forget so quickly. Once or twice Emma
caught the half reproachful gaze of her gray eyes, and had hard work to
refrain from telling Grace that the hateful shadow was soon to be
lifted. For Emma and Kathleen West had had a private confab, during
which both girls had laughed and cried and laughed again in a most
irrational manner.
So the week wore away, and Friday came and went, leaving Grace still
waiting and dreading. If she had happened to pass the Hotel Tourraine at
twenty-five minutes to ten on Friday evening she would have seen a
taxicab drive up to the entrance and a sprightly, little old lady step
out of it, assisted by a keen-faced, black-eyed young woman, who took
her by the arm and hurried her into the hotel. And if she had been on
the station platform when the 11.40 train from the west pulled in she
would have eagerly welcomed the stately dark-eyed woman who signaled a
taxicab and drove off up College Avenue.
Saturday morning dawned, clear and radiant. The glad light of early
summer streamed in upon Grace. For a brief space she forgot her sorrows
as she knelt at the open window and drank in the pure morning air. Then
one by one they came back. She wondered whether the same sun were
shining on Tom, far away in the jungle, and if he were well, and
sometimes thought of her. How happy she might have made him and herself
if only she had not been so blind. Through the bitterness of being found
wanting she had come to realize what a wonderful thing it was to be
truly loved. Never had the love of her parents and friends for her
seemed so sacred. And how beautiful, how steadfast, Tom's affection for
her had been! With a sigh she turned her thoughts away from that lost
happiness. Now came the old torturing question, "Would the summons come
to-day?"
She was still brooding over it when she went downstairs to breakfast.
Stopping in her office, she hastily went over her mail. It was with a
sense of desperate relief that she separated an envelope, bearing the
letter head of Overton College from the little pile of letters on the
slide of her desk, and opened it. It was from President Morton, and
merely stated that he wished her to call at his office at eleven o'clock
that morning.
With the letter in her hand, Grace entered the dining-room. She intended
to show it to Emma, but the latter, who had risen early on account of
some special work she wished to do, had eaten a hasty breakfast and
departed. Grace slipped the letter into her blouse and made a pretense
of eating breakfast. But she had lost all appetite for food. After
sipping part of a cup of coffee she rose from the table and, returning
to her office, opened the rest of her mail.
Under any circumstances but those of the present her letters would have
delighted her. There was one from Eleanor Savelli, written from her
father's villa in Italy, a long lively one from Nora, containing a
breezy account of Oakdale doings, and a still longer letter from Anne.
There was one from Julia Crosby, and an extremely funny note from J.
Elfreda Briggs, describing a visit she had recently made to the night
court.
One by one she read them, then laid them aside with an indifference born
of suffering. If only there had been one for her in Tom's clear, bold
handwriting. But it was useless to linger, even for a moment, over what
might have been. Grace gathered up her letters and, locking them in her
desk, went upstairs, with slow, dragging steps, to dress for her call
upon President Morton.
It was three minutes to eleven when a slim, erect figure walked up the
steps of Overton Hall. Grace wore a smartly tailored suit of white
serge, white buckskin shoes, white kid gloves and a white hemp hat
trimmed with curved white quills. The lining of the hat bore the name of
a famous maker. She had taken a kind of melancholy pride in her toilet
that morning, and the result was all that she could have wished.
Unconsciously the immaculate purity of her costume bespoke the pure,
high, steadfast soul which looked out from her gray eyes. As she paused
at the door for a moment, her hand on the knob, she experienced
something of the thrill of a martyr, about to die for a sacred cause.
Then she opened the door.
For an instant she stood as though transfixed. Was she dreaming, or
could she actually believe her own eyes? A sudden faintness seized her.
Everything turned dark. She swayed slightly, then with a little sobbing
cry of, "Fairy Godmother! Miss Wilder!" she ran straight into Mrs.
Gray's outstretched arms.
That throbbing, wistful cry brought the tears to Miss Wilder's eyes,
while President Morton took off his glasses and wiped them with his
handkerchief. Great tears were rolling down Mrs. Gray's cheeks which she
made no effort to hide. "My little girl," she said brokenly. "How dared
that dreadful woman treat you so shabbily?"
It was at least ten minutes before the three women could settle down to
the exchanging of questions and explanations. President Morton, the soul
of old-fashioned courtesy, beamed his approval on them.
"Now my dear," said Miss Wilder at last, "I wish you to begin at the
very beginning of this affair, and tell us just what has happened."
Grace began with the coming of Jean Brent to Overton and of her refusal
to be frank concerning her affairs. Then she went on to the sale of her
wardrobe which Jean had conducted in her absence and her final
revelation of her secret to Grace after the latter had commanded it.
Then she told of her promise to Jean not to betray her secret and of the
summons sent them by Miss Wharton, to come to her office.
"But what was this secret, Grace?" questioned Miss Wilder gravely. "We
have the right to know."
The color flooded Grace's pale face. She hesitated, then with an
impulsive, "Of course you have the right to know," she went on, "Jean
Brent's father and mother died when she was a child. She was brought up
by an aunt who is very rich. This aunt gave her everything in the world
she wanted but one thing. She would not allow Jean to go to college. She
did not believe in the higher education for girls. She believed that a
young girl should learn French, music and deportment at a boarding
school. Then when she was graduated she must marry and settle down. One
of the friends of Jean's aunt had a son who was in love with Jean. He
had been babied by his mother until he had grown to be a hateful,
worthless young man, and Jean despised him. Her aunt told her that she
could take her choice between marrying this young man or leaving her
house forever. She gave Jean a week to decide. Then she went into the
country to spend a week end with this young man's mother at their
country place. She thought because Jean was utterly dependent upon her
that she would not dare to defy her.
"Jean had a little money of her own, so she packed her trunks while her
aunt was away and went to Grafton to talk things over with Miss Lipton,
who has known her since she was a baby. She was a dear friend of Jean's
mother. As Jean was of age she had the right to choose her own way of
life. Miss Lipton knew all about Overton College and Harlowe House, so
she wrote me and applied for admission for Miss Brent. I had room for
one more girl, and I considered Miss Lipton's recommendation sufficient
to admit Miss Brent to Harlowe House. Naturally I was displeased when
she disobeyed me and held the sale. Still I do not consider that her
offense warrants dismissal."
"Miss Brent will _not_ be expelled from college," emphasized President
Morton.
"What I cannot understand is Miss Wharton's unjust attitude toward you.
Surely she could readily see that you were not at fault," cried Mrs.
Gray in righteous indignation.
Miss Wilder, too, shook her head in disapproval of Miss Wharton's course
of action. President Morton looked stern for a moment. Then his face
relaxed. He turned to Grace with a reassuring smile that told its own
story.
"Miss Harlowe," he said, looking kindly at Grace, "it has always been my
principle to uphold the members of the faculty in their decisions for
or against a student, if these decisions are fair and just. I am
convinced, however, that you have received most unjust treatment at Miss
Wharton's hands. Therefore I am going to tell you in strict confidence
that Miss Wharton has not filled the requirements for dean demanded by
the Overton College Board. On the day I received your letter of
resignation I wrote Miss Wharton, asking for her resignation at the
close of the college year. I had received a letter from Miss Wilder
stating that she would be able to resume her position as dean of this
college next October. I had determined to send for you to inquire into
your reason for wishing to resign the position you have so ably filled,
when I received Miss Wilder's telegram. At her request I delayed matters
until her arrival. Miss West also called at my office in your behalf. I
take great pleasure in assuring you that I was prepared to accept any
explanation you might make of the charges which Miss Wharton made
against you and Miss Brent. In all my experience as president of this
institution of learning I have never known a young woman who has carried
out so faithfully the traditions of Overton College."
Grace listened to the president's words with a feeling of joy so deep as
to be akin to pain. The shadow had indeed lifted. In the eyes of those
whose good opinion she valued so greatly she was worthy of her trust.
She never forgot that wonderful morning in President Morton's office.
When at last she left the president and Miss Wilder, to accompany Mrs.
Gray back to the Tourraine, she said with shining eyes, "Dear Fairy
Godmother, would you mind if we stopped at Wayne Hall. I _must_ see
Kathleen West."
"Of course you must," agreed Mrs. Gray briskly. "I should like to see
her myself. My opinion of that young woman is very high."
It seemed to Grace as though she could hardly wait until their taxicab
drew up in front of Wayne Hall. Mrs. Elwood herself answered the bell.
"Oh, Mrs. Elwood," cried Grace, "is Kathleen in?"
"Yes; she came in only a little while ago."
"I'll wait for you in the living room, Grace. Bring that blessed little
newspaper girl down stairs with you," directed Mrs. Gray.
As Grace hurried up the stairs and down the hall to the end room the
memory of another day, when she had sought Kathleen West to do her
honor, returned to her. Her face shone with a great tenderness as she
turned the knob and walked straight into the room without knocking. An
instant and she had folded in her arms the alert little figure that
sprang to meet her. "Kathleen, dear girl," she cried. "How can I ever
thank you?"
"Don't try," smiled Kathleen, her black eyes looking unutterable loyalty
at Grace. "I had to leave a milestone, you know, and I couldn't have
left it in a better cause. I enlisted long ago under the banner of
Loyalheart. So you see it was my duty to fight for her."
* * * * *
It was after three o'clock when Grace left Mrs. Gray at the Tourraine
and went back to Harlowe House. At Mrs. Elwood's urgent invitation they
had remained at Wayne Hall for luncheon, and with Patience added to
their number had held a general rejoicing over the way things had turned
out. Mrs. Gray's last words to Grace on saying good-bye to her at the
hotel were, "Grace, I am coming over to see you this evening."
Grace walked home, her heart singing a song of thanksgiving and
happiness. As she entered the house the maid met her with, "There's a
lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. She just came."
Grace stepped into the living room. A tall, gray-haired woman of perhaps
sixty, very smartly gowned, and of commanding appearance, rose to meet
her. "Are you Miss Harlowe?" was her abrupt question. Then before Grace
had time to do more than bow in the affirmative, she said with a
brusqueness intended to hide emotion, "My name is Brent. Jean Brent is
my niece. Tell me, is she with you still? I could not bring myself to
ask the maid. I was afraid she might say that my niece was not here." In
her anxiety, her voice trembled.
Grace's hand was stretched forth impulsively. "I am so glad," she said
eagerly. "Jean needs you. She will soon be home from her classes. Would
you like to go to her room?"
The woman returned Grace's hand clasp with a fervor born of emotion. She
was trying to hide her agitation, but Grace could see that she was
deeply stirred. Once in Jean's room she gave one curious glance about
her, then sank heavily into a chair and began to cry. "I have been a
stubborn, foolish woman," she sobbed. "I drove my little girl away from
me because I was determined to make her marry a man whom I now know to
be worthless. Oh, I am afraid she will never forgive me."
Grace was touched by the proud woman's tearful remorse, but she doubted
if Jean Brent would forgive her aunt. She had spoken most bitterly
against her. Grace tried to think of something comforting to say. But
before she could put her thoughts into words the door was suddenly
opened and Jean walked into the room. At sight of the familiar figure
she turned very pale. Her blue eyes gleamed with anger. She took a step
forward.
"What brought _you_ here?" she asked tensely.
"Jean, my child, won't you forgive me?" pleaded the woman holding out
her arms.
Grace waited to hear no more. But as she turned to leave the room she
caught one look at Jean's face. The sudden anger in it had died out.
Grace believed that all would be well, but whatever passed between aunt
and niece was not for her ears. She went directly to her room to wait
there until Emma came from her classes. She had so much to say to her
faithful comrade.
In due season Emma appeared with a cheery, "Hello, Gracious. How is
everything?"
"Everything is lovely. Emma Dean, you dear old humbug. No wonder you
couldn't look sad when I talked about leaving Harlowe House. Now,
confess. You were in the secret, weren't you?" Grace stood with her
hands on Emma's shoulders, looking into her face.
"The Deans of whom I am which, have always been advocates of the truth,"
solemnly declared Emma, "therefore I will follow their illustrious
example and answer 'I was.' You tied _my_ hands and _my_ tongue so I
couldn't fight for you, Gracious, but you couldn't tie Kathleen's."
"Oh, Emma, I have so much to tell you. I hardly know where to begin. I'm
so happy. It's wonderful to feel once more that I am considered worthy
of my work. You and I will have many more seasons of it, together."
"I wish we might," returned Emma, but a curious wistfulness crept into
her eyes that Grace failed to note.
The two friends talked on until dinner time and went downstairs
together, arm in arm. After dinner Emma pleaded an engagement with Miss
Duncan, Grace's former teacher of English, and left the house at a
little after seven o'clock. Grace slipped into her little office and
seated herself at her desk. How glad she was that all was well again.
Yes, she and Emma would, indeed, spend many more seasons together. Yet,
somehow, the thought of her work did not give her the same thrill of
satisfaction that it once had. Try as she might she could not keep
thoughts of Tom from creeping into her mind. Where was he to-night? Had
he forgotten her? Mrs. Gray had not once mentioned his name to her, and
she had not dared to ask for news of him. Her somber reflections were
interrupted by Jean Brent and her aunt. A complete reconciliation had
taken place. Miss Brent was now anxious to thank Grace for all she had
done in her niece's behalf. They lingered briefly, then went on to the
Hotel Tourraine, where Miss Brent had registered. They had not been gone
long when the ringing of the door bell brought Grace to her feet. Mrs.
Gray had arrived. She hurried to the door to open it for her Fairy
Godmother. Then she drew back with a sharp exclamation. The tall,
fair-haired young man who towered above her bore small resemblance to
dainty little Mrs. Gray.
[Illustration: Tom's Strong Hands Closed Over Hers.]
"Grace!" said a voice she knew only too well.
"Tom," she faltered. Then both her hands went out to him. His own strong
hands closed over them. The two pairs of gray eyes met in a long level
gaze.
"Come into my office, Tom." She found her voice at last. "I--I thought
you were thousands of miles away in a South American jungle."
"So I was, but I didn't go very deeply into it. Professor Graham met
with a serious accident and we had to turn back to civilization. He fell
and hurt his spine and we had to carry him to the nearest village, two
hundred miles, in a litter. Naturally that broke up the expedition, and
when he became better we decided to sail for home. Reached New York City
last week. I telegraphed Aunt Rose, and she wired me to meet her in
Overton. I came in on that 5.30 train. Of course I was anxious to see
you, so Aunt Rose told me to run along ahead. She'll be here in a
little while."
Once seated opposite each other in the little office, an awkward silence
fell upon the two young people.
"I am so glad nothing dreadful happened to you, Tom." Grace at last
broke the silence. "Those expeditions are very hazardous. I thought of
you often and wondered if you were well." There was a wistful note in
her voice of which she was utterly unconscious, but it was not lost on
Tom.
"Grace," he said tensely, "did you really miss me?" He leaned forward,
his face very close to hers. His eager eyes forced the truth.
"More than I can say, Tom," she answered in a low tone.
Tom caught her hands in his. She did not draw them away. "How much does
that mean, Grace? I know I vowed never to open the subject to you again,
but I never saw that look in your eyes before, and you never let me hold
your hands like this. Which is to be, dear; work or love?"
"Love," was the half-whispered answer. And the gate of happiness, so
long barred to Tom Gray, was opened wide.