AN INNOCENT MEDDLER
Arline Thayer had entered Grace's home life at a moment when the latter
most needed the inspiring companionship of an intimate friend. Quickly
recovering from her own woes, it was borne upon Arline that she must
exert herself to the utmost to cheer up the girl who had never failed
her. The blithsome joy of living which, formerly, Grace had seemed to
radiate had entirely disappeared. Although she went about the house,
feigning desperately to maintain a cheerful attitude, a subdued air of
wistfulness clung to her that filled Arline with a fierce resentment
against the circumstances that had risen so unexpectedly to rob Grace of
her happiness. She frequently wondered how it was possible for Grace to
keep up so bravely in the face of such crushing adversity. Given the
same sinister conditions, Arline admitted inwardly that she could never
have maintained the remarkable composure which Grace daily exhibited.
She was thinking of this when, on the afternoon of her third day's
sojourn with the Harlowes, the two young women had just left Haven Home
behind them, Grace having asked Arline to accompany her on one of her
frequent pilgrimages to her beautiful House Behind the World. Usually it
was Nora Wingate who went with her. Occasionally Mrs. Harlowe bore her
daughter company.
Grace never visited Haven Home empty-handed. Always she carried some new
treasure designed by herself or her friends to adorn the stately
habitation in which she felt sure that some day would indeed mean Haven
Home to herself and Tom. Before he had left her to make the journey that
had resulted in his complete disappearance, she had promised him that
the finishing labors at Haven Home should go steadily forward. Those who
knew her most intimately could readily testify that she was
unfalteringly keeping her word. In moments of darkest depression she
wondered from whence came the strength that enabled her to go on with
these visits, each in itself a separate agony. She had been plunged for
a moment in one of these painful reveries when Arline asked with an
inflection of wonderment, "How can you be so brave, Grace?"
"I'm not very brave," she answered, her eyes wistful. "Not so brave as I
wish I were. I have to struggle continually to make myself believe that
whatever happens must be for the best. I often feel bitter and resentful
and wonder why this sorrow should have been visited upon me rather than
on some one else. Of course, that is wrong. No one ought to wish their
troubles shifted to other folks' shoulders. Thousands of persons have
greater griefs than I. Take Aunt Rose, for instance, who lost her
husband and daughter so many years ago. Tom was the light of her life;
her greatest pride. Think what she is suffering! We had such high hopes
that David Nesbit would find Tom. Yet, thus far, he hasn't met with even
a clue. Poor little Fairy Godmother says she has only one thing for
which to be thankful. No one in Oakdale knows about Tom, barring a few
trusted friends. She had been in constant fear lest the newspaper
reporters should get hold of it. Of course it would be a severe shock to
her to pick up some day a paper and read, 'Mysterious Disappearance of
Tom Gray,' or 'Young Man Mysteriously Disappears on the Eve of His
Wedding Day,' or some cruel scarehead of the kind. I don't quite know
how I should feel about it."
"But suppose he never came back," cut in Arline, her usual tact
deserting her. "Forgive me, Grace," she added penitently. "I should not
have said that."
"Why not?" Only the sudden tightening of her lips betrayed that Arline's
thoughtless inquiry had struck home. "I faced that long ago. If we
continue to be without news of him, sooner or later his disappearance
_must_ become known. But Aunt Rose prefers to keep it secret as long as
possible. Her constant prayer is that he will return before any such
thing comes to pass. Sometimes I think it would be better if it were
generally known. I hate secrecy."
During the drive to Mrs. Gray's, both girls were unusually silent. After
leaving the roadster in the Gray garage, they went up to the house to
spend an hour with the lonely old lady, whose pitiful efforts to be
cheerfully hospitable cut them both to the heart. Promising to come
again on the following day they left her, the forlorn little chatelaine
of a big house, grown oppresively empty since robbed of Tom's genial
presence.
As they neared Grace's home, both glimpsed in the same instant a taxicab
standing in the street directly opposite to the house.
"That taxicab is from the station!" exclaimed Grace. "Hurry, Arline, it
may be--" She broke off short, her heart thumping madly. She dared not
voice the hope that perhaps her weary waiting was over.
Arriving on the veranda, Grace made a hasty entrance through the open
hall door. Pausing in the hall, deep masculine tones, issuing from the
drawing room, caused her to speed toward the sound, Arline at her heels.
The voice was not Tom's, yet her first wild conjecture as she viewed the
stranger seated in a chair near the door, was that he might be Mr.
Blaisdell, the investigator, with news of Tom.
A faint cry of, "Stanley Forde!" from Arline sent over her a sickening
wave of disappointment. As they entered, the young man rose, looking the
reverse of amiable as he stepped forward, grim purpose in every feature.
Ignoring Grace he addressed himself to Arline with the stiff rebuke:
"I have been waiting for you for some time."
"I did not expect you." Arline's blue eyes flashed forth her
displeasure. Merely touching the hand he offered her, she said, "Mr.
Forde, this is my _friend_, Grace Harlowe."
The young man acknowledged the introduction with an ironical smile in
which Grace read trouble ahead for herself. She met him with a frank,
kindly courtesy that betrayed nothing of her inner mind. Personally, she
was not impressed in his favor.
"You will pardon my leaving you, Mr. Forde?" Mrs. Harlowe had also
risen. She now addressed the young man with a distant politeness which
Grace recognized as disapproval. From Arline she had learned of the
broken engagement. It seemed evident that she also had not been
favorably impressed with her guest's ex-fiancé.
"Certainly. Very pleased to have met you," bowed the unwelcome caller.
Again Grace caught faint sarcasm in the speech.
Hardly had Mrs. Harlowe disappeared when he turned to Grace, his heavy
brows meeting in a decided frown. "I believe I am indebted to you, Miss
Harlowe, for a great disappointment which has recently come to me. Your
unkind interference has caused Arline to reconsider her promise to
become my wife. It is fortunate that she made the mistake of sending the
letter she wrote you to me. It has put me in complete possession of the
facts of the case. I----"
"You have no right to come here uninvited and insult Grace Harlowe in
her own house," cut in Arline in a low, furious voice. "You shall not
accuse her of interfering. I won't allow it. It is----"
"Please allow Mr. Forde to say whatever he wishes, Arline." Grace's
interruption came with gentle dignity. Her gaze resting untroubled on
the angry man, she said: "I had no wish to interfere in your affairs,
Mr. Forde."
"Then why did you do it?" came the bitter retort. "What grudge could you
possibly have against a man you had never even met?"
"None whatever," was the soft answer.
"But you interfered. This letter proves as much." Triumphantly he jerked
the misdirected letter from a coat pocket.
Grace was silent. She did not wish to say that Arline had appealed to
her for advice, neither was she anxious to remain in the room as a third
party.
"I'll tell you the reason," volunteered Arline sharply. "I asked Grace's
advice." Her pretty face pale with resentment, Arline poured forth a
rapid outline of her talk with Grace. "That's the reason," she ended.
"If you had met me fairly when I tried to talk to you about my work this
would never have happened. I am glad now that it has. I don't love you
and never have truly loved you. I am glad to be free. I shall never
marry any one. All men are hateful! Now I wish you to go away, and
never, never speak to me again as long as you live!"
But the unpleasant interview continued for another ten minutes despite
Arline's pointed dismissal. Mr. Stanley Forde could not forgive Grace
for what he rudely termed her "meddling." The idolized son of a
too-adoring, snobbish mother, he had nothing in common with Grace's high
ideals. Though she explained to him gently that she had only advised
Arline to choose whichever course seemed wisest, remembering only that
nothing counted so much as being true to herself, her lofty precepts
merely tended further to infuriate him.
"You are one of those empty-headed idealists who go about creating
disturbances for sensible persons," was the scathing criticism he
delivered the moment she ceased speaking. "You will regret this
interference in my affairs. Now that you know my opinion of you, will
you kindly leave us? I wish to talk privately with Arline."
"I don't wish to talk to you at all," flared Arline hotly. "Please don't
leave me, Grace. Whatever Mr. Forde has to say he must say in your
presence."
"I am sorry, Arline, but I must ask you to excuse me from remaining
longer in the room. Mr. Forde has come a long way to see you. I think
you should grant his request for a private talk with you. Good
afternoon, Mr. Forde. I regret that you should have so entirely
misunderstood my motives." The finality of her words robbed the
disagreeable caller of a ready reply. Before he could rally a further
relay of rude sarcasm to his aid, Grace had left the room.
If it is indeed true that actions speak louder than words, the
distinctly belligerent manner in which, ten minutes later, Mr. Stanley
Forde stormed down the walk to the waiting taxicab, gave glaring proof
of the dire result of his untimely call. From the garden, where Grace
had fled to recover from the irritation of having been so grossly
misunderstood, she saw the boorish young man depart. Privately she
marveled that Arline should have so deceived herself in regard to her
feelings for him. He was undoubtedly handsome, yet his regular features
indicated a certain lack of strength and nobility which she thought
totally marred his claim to good looks. His large black eyes had a trick
of narrowing unpleasantly, and the set of his mouth betokened tyranny.
Her sympathy going out to Arline, she passed slowly among the winding
garden paths, lined with colorful summer flowers, and entered the house.
The sight of a pathetic little figure crumpled in a disconsolate heap on
a broad settee aroused her pity afresh.
"Don't cry, Daffydowndilly," she soothed, sitting down beside her. "He
isn't worth it. You were wise in breaking your engagement. Some day real
love will come knocking at your door. You were never intended to be a
sedate spinster and live out your days in single blessedness. I'm sorry
for Mr. Forde. He loves you, I think. But not in the unselfish way you
deserve to be adored."
Grace paused, her hand straying gently over the curly head against her
shoulder. All of a sudden she felt very aged and very tired. The
unpleasant scene with Arline's disgruntled suitor had shaken her
severely. She was living out the Golden Summer, that had promised so
much, in a fashion far different from the glorious realization of it for
which she and Tom had hoped and planned. Yet she had been mercifully
spared the pain of beholding a cherished ideal shatter itself at her
feet. God had granted her the priceless boon of a true man's true love.
Though she and Tom had but briefly glimpsed their Golden Summer, the
remembrance of his unselfish devotion would keep it alive forever.