POSTPONING HAPPINESS
But Tom Gray did not come back. Neither by word nor sign did those who
feverishly awaited news of him receive even the faintest intimation of
his whereabouts. Added to the heavy strain that Mrs. Gray and Grace were
laboring under, they were destined to grapple with the question: Why had
David Nesbit not responded to their plea for assistance? After three
weary days of waiting, Grace wrote to Miriam Nesbit asking if David were
in New York City. Miriam's prompt reply stated that business had called
David to Chicago. She expected that he would return to New York that
very day. The information brought the comforting assurance that once the
letter had come into his possession David would not fail them.
On the evening following the receipt of Miriam's letter, an anxious-eyed
young man swung off the eight o'clock train into Oakdale, and hailing a
taxicab was whirled away from the station toward the Harlowe's home.
"David!" was all Grace could find words for, when, entering the
living-room, her girlhood friend sprang forward to meet her with
outstretched hand of sympathy.
"I'm more sorry than I can say, Grace," David burst forth, as, motioning
him to a chair, Grace sat down opposite him. "I was delayed in Chicago
and didn't reach New York until this morning. My mail wasn't forwarded
to me, so I didn't get your letter until then. I sent your telegram to
Mr. Mackenzie, then caught the first train for Oakdale. Did you get my
wire?"
"Yes. I've been anxiously watching for you. It's dreadful--David."
Grace's voice trailed away into a stifled sob. Brave as she had tried to
be, David's belated presence was almost too much for her composure.
"I should say it was." David looked utter concern over the sad errand
that had brought him to Grace. "Tell me everything, Grace. I must know
the facts if I am to be of real service to you."
Fighting for self-control, Grace narrated briefly the little she knew
concerning Tom's strange disappearance. "Mrs. Gray had written Mr.
Mackenzie about Tom before I wrote you. I explained to you in my letter
that he was ill. That was Tom's reason for going away up there to that
dreadful camp. Mr. Mackenzie writes that Tom never arrived. He was very
much upset over it as he had been depending upon Tom to look after
things until he was well again. Poor Aunt Rose is nearly distracted. She
has put the matter in the hands of a private investigator. He hasn't had
time to reach the camp yet so, of course, we haven't heard from him.
Fairy Godmother has forbidden him to telegraph her at Oakdale. She is
afraid some one may find out about Tom and gossip." The sickness of hope
deferred lay in Grace's eyes as she finished speaking.
"I'm going up to that camp, Grace," announced David with strong
determination. "I'll catch the next train for New York and arrange my
business to-morrow morning. By afternoon I'll be on the way to Tom. If
he is to be found, I shall find him. Who is the man Mrs. Gray has
engaged to clear up the mystery?"
Grace named a man whose professional standing in his particular field
ranked high.
"A very clever man," commented David. "He ought to do something toward
straightening out this snarl."
"We can only hope that he will," was Grace's sad response. "Excuse me,
David, until I call Mother. She is so anxious to see you. Then we had
better go to Aunt Rose. You will find her greatly changed. This trouble
has aged her. She looks 'years old,' rather than 'years young.' That
wonderful spirit of youth has deserted her. It could hardly be
otherwise."
"Poor little Fairy Godmother!" sympathized David. "It's a shame that
trouble like this had to come when all three of you were so happy. I
can't make myself believe that it is good old Tom who's among the
missing. A sturdy, fearless fellow like him can usually be trusted to
take care of himself anywhere. Why, he's tramped all over this country
and never met with any accident that I can remember. You and I know that
something serious has happened this time, though. Tom would never
neglect those he cares for, even in the most trifling matters."
"I am sure of that. Still it's good to hear you say what I know to be
true. Nothing could shake my faith in Tom. It is absolute." Grace spoke
with the frank simplicity of perfect love and trust.
During the short walk that lay between the Harlowe's residence and that
of Mrs. Gray, David cast more than one covert but admiring glance at the
tall, slender girl at his side who bore her difficulties with such
signal sweetness and courage. "What a splendid girl Grace is," was his
thought. Looking back on their earlier days of comradeship, he recalled
gratefully what a power for good she had always been. She had valiantly
steered Anne through the breakers that more than once had threatened
engulfment. Through Grace, his own sister, Miriam had been shown the way
to sincerity and well-doing. Mabel Allison, Ruth Denton, Eleanor Savelli
and countless other girls owed the greatest joys that had come to them
to this high-principled, impulsive, kindly girl who had lavishly
scattered the flowers of generosity and good-will along the pathway of
life. Now, at last, there was something which he could do for Grace.
David vowed within himself to leave no stone unturned which might be the
means of restoring to her the happiness which she so richly merited.
The visit to Mrs. Gray proved a severe trial to both young people. Her
usual optimistic viewpoint had long since deserted her, leaving her a
wan little ghost of the vivacious Fairy Godmother who had once entered
so merrily into the doings of her Christmas children. A fixed air of
melancholy had dropped down on her which even David's hearty assurances
that Tom would soon be found failed to lift.
"If any one can find Tom it will be you, David," was the nearest
approach toward hopefulness which she could muster.
"I'll find him, never fear," predicted David with an air of cheerful
certainty that brought faint smiles to both women's somber faces. "I
must leave you soon, though, in order to make that late train for New
York. Before I go, I'll devise a secret code so that I can telegraph you
here at Oakdale if anything good comes to pass."
Grace supplying him with pencil and paper, David jotted down several
sentences which he was most likely to need in sending messages, then
substituted different words to be used in place of the originals. This
bit of thoughtfulness on his part was eminently cheering, and when soon
afterward he took hasty leave of Grace and Mrs. Gray the latter appeared
to be in a less lugubrious frame of mind.
After he had gone, Grace followed Mrs. Gray into the library, the old
lady's favorite room in the big house, and, drawing a chair opposite to
that of her near-aunt, began rather hesitatingly, "Now that David has
left us, there are several things, dear Fairy Godmother, that I must say
to you. They are mainly about--our wedding day. Only the Eight Originals
and a few of the 'Sempers' know that the time was actually set for the
tenth of September. They are all intimate friends, tried and true. I
think it is only right that I should explain matters to them. Not one of
them would break a confidence.
"If I am not married to Tom on the tenth, naturally they will wonder. It
would be dreadful for me to have to say to any one of them, 'I can't
explain why the wedding must be postponed.' They love me and I love
them. We've always shared our joys and sorrows. It doesn't seem fair to
leave them in the dark. Naturally it will hurt me a great deal to
explain, but it will hurt me far more not to. I have talked with Mother
and Father about it. They both feel that the decision must rest with
you. It's too bad to bother you with this new perplexity, but I must
know one way or the other. I can't endure the suspense."
At the beginning of Grace's earnest plea that her closest friends be put
into possession of the knowledge that Tom Gray was among the missing,
his aunt's delicate face showed unmistakable signs of disapproval. Swept
along by the girl's fervent earnest words, Mrs. Gray felt her brief
abhorrence of the idea vanish in an overwhelming flood of admiration for
the dauntless spirit in which Grace bore the torturing dread that had
been thrust upon her.
"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Grace," she faltered. "While I've
been nursing my own selfish grief you have been putting aside your
sorrow to think of others. After all, you have more at stake than I. My
life has been practically lived, while yours is only at its dawn. I have
known the bitterness of losing those I loved. It should have taught me
to face the future more courageously. When you spoke just now of letting
others know of our trouble, it seemed for a moment as though I could
never consent to it. But I have changed my mind. It would not be fair
either to you or my poor boy, wherever he may be, to place you in a
false position. I have only one stipulation. Wait a little longer before
telling your friends of this dreadful disruption of our plans. If within
the next three days we have not heard from Mr. Blaisdell, the
investigator, then write to your friends and let them know the exact
circumstances."
"It breaks my heart to hear you say such things of yourself," was
Grace's passionate cry. Springing to her feet she knelt before the older
woman and wrapped two shielding arms about her. "You've always thought
of others. I won't let you say that you are selfish, or that your life
has been almost lived. You've been as brave as a lion ever since this
terrible trouble came to us. You have just as much at stake as I. We
must stand together, even more firmly than before, waiting and hoping
that all will be well. Before Tom went away he often said that he hoped
our life together would always be one long Golden Summer. I'm not going
to let winter overtake me now when my Golden Summer's hardly begun. This
is just a brief cloud that hides the sun. It will pass and we'll all be
happy together again. Just because our plans have all gone awry is no
sign that they always will. Postponing our wedding day doesn't mean
saying good-bye to happiness. It's only a brief postponement of
happiness, too."