THE LAST CHANCE
Despite her midnight vigil, Grace rose before seven o'clock the next
morning. On the previous afternoon Jean had stated that he would come
early to Mrs. Gray's the following morning to bid them farewell before
starting on his search for Tom. Eight o'clock found herself and Elfreda
Briggs walking rapidly up Chapel Hill. They found the old hunter had
stolen a march on them, however. When they entered the library he was
already there, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Gray.
"I hav' wait for you," he said, after bidding them a quaint _bon jour_.
"But now the time grow short. The train, she run at nine o'clock. It is
now that we must say the _au revoir_. Not long an' I see the camp and
M'sieu' David. It is good that you hav' telegraph the young man. Ol'
Jean will do his best. _Le bon Dieu_ will do the rest." The hunter
reverently crossed himself.
"I have a letter for you, Jean, to give to Tom." Grace was wearing her
most hopeful face as she gave the cherished letter into the old man's
keeping. "When you have found Tom, and I know that you will, tell him
that I am waiting for him and give--him--this--letter."
[Illustration: "When You Have Found Tom, Give Him This Letter."]
"It shall be of a sacred trust," Jean assured, crossing himself again.
"Be of the brav' heart, Mam'selle. For you and M'sieu' Tom the 'appiness
is near. Now it is time to go."
Warmly shaking hands with the two for whom he was about to "do his
best," Jean turned to Elfreda and offered his hand with: "I am the lucky
man to hav' meet such good frien' to Mam'selle Grace."
"Thank you, Jean." Elfreda colored with pleasure at the sincere tribute.
"Some day, when Tom Gray has been found and you are back again in
Oakdale, we'll pay a visit to your cabin. Then I'll tell you what a
splendid friend Grace Harlowe has been to me."
"It shall be as Mam'selle says," responded Jean gallantly. Accompanied
as far as the veranda by the three women, Jean made his final adieus and
strode down the pebbled drive to the gate, a sturdy, purposeful figure,
despite his years. To the three who watched him almost out of sight, the
determined set of his broad shoulders in itself seemed to presage the
success of his mission.
"It was certainly nice in Jean to say what he did to me about my being
your friend," was Elfreda's abrupt comment when, after saying good-bye
to Mrs. Gray, the two young women started down Chapel Hill toward home.
"It was the highest compliment that he could pay me. If there had been
time I'd have liked to tell him a few of the reasons for it. I guess he
would have understood then that I had special cause to be loyal to you.
I don't mean by that that anybody would have to have special cause to be
_your_ friend. One would only have to meet you once, Grace Harlowe, to
know that your friendship would be the kind worth having. That is, if
one had any sense. That time I plumped myself down in your seat when we
were bound for Overton College to begin our freshman year, I was too
much wrapped up in myself to know how lucky I was. Isn't it queer,
though, how things like that are often the means by which we begin the
staunchest friendships?"
"Yes, it _is_ strange. If we hadn't met on the train that day in that
way, you might have decided to go to another boarding place instead of
taking up with Mrs. Elwood's offer to you to share Miriam's room. Then,
very likely, we might never have become well acquainted. There were ever
so many girls at Overton College during the six years that I spent
there, whom I never came to know really well." Grace looked regretful.
"But they all knew you," was the staunch retort. "You are as much of an
institution there now as Harlowe House is. Your name has become a
household word at Overton College. Emma and I were speaking of that very
thing at the reunion. She said that if she were manager of Harlowe House
for the next twenty years she'd never come to be known as well there as
you were in the time you spent at Overton."
"Emma is a wily old flatterer and so are you," laughed Grace. "Just
because you girls like me you think the whole world ought to fall in
line and worship me." Her bantering tone changing to seriousness she
continued, "Not that I don't appreciate your affection, and love you
with all my heart for it. Neither of you ever stops to think how much
credit you both deserve. Sometimes I wonder what I ever did to bring me
so many true friends. I never properly realized their worth until this
summer. Living in the shadow has taught me a great deal.
"The very fact that all my friends have stood by me so firmly has made
me see that I owe it to them to be strong and steadfast through all. It
has taught me, too, that I can't afford to be selfish. When Tom first
went away I used to think that, if he never came back, there wouldn't be
anything worth living for, ever again. But it came to me by degrees that
such a viewpoint was utterly selfish; that I had a great deal to live
for. Father and Mother, first of all; then Mrs. Gray and my friends. So
I made up my mind that if worse came to worst, I would devote myself to
them more than ever and thus try to make up for my own loss."
"Of course you would," agreed Elfreda, with a ready tenderness that
arose from the emotion that had welled up within her at Grace's
unconscious revelation of unselfishness. "No one knows that better than
I know it."
"I wonder what the postman has brought us this morning?" Grace had
decided that it was high time to lead the talk away from herself. She
had spoken to Elfreda with utter frankness of her inner resolve, yet she
could not bear to continue longer on the subject. It presented too
vividly the possibility of Tom's non-return, and she had schooled
herself not to dwell upon such a contingency.
"We'll soon know." They were now within a short distance of the
Harlowe's home. "I hope Ma hasn't decided that I ought to go back to law
school and written me to that effect," grumbled Elfreda. "Now I am here,
I'd like to keep on being here until----" She paused.
"Until we hear good news," finished Grace softly. "I wish you would stay
with me as long as you can, Elfreda. When the good news comes, I'd like
you to be here to share it."
"Oh, I'll stay," assured Elfreda, "provided I can win Ma over to my
views. It will be the same as using my powers of eloquence to convince a
doubtful jury that the prisoner is innocent. There is nothing like
practice," she reminded, her wide, boyish grin in mischievous evidence.
"Have we a heavy mail this morning, Mother?" was Grace's eager inquiry
as she and Elfreda came up the front steps to the veranda. Established
in a wide-armed rocking chair, her eyes busy with the reading of her own
mail, Mrs. Harlowe looked up smilingly as she said, "Heavy enough to
keep you both busy for a while. I didn't count your letters. They are on
the library table in the living-room. I sorted them into two piles.
Elfreda's was the highest."
"Thank you, dear." Blowing a gay little kiss to her mother, Grace made
for the living-room, with Elfreda close behind her.
"I ought to receive a few dozen letters," commented Elfreda. "Nearly
every one of my correspondents have been lagging and languishing."
Running hastily over the stack of letters bearing her name, she
separated one of them from the rest. "Here's the letter from Ma. Now
we'll see whether its back to law school for J. Elfreda."
"Oh, here's one from Miriam." Having been equally busy with her own
mail, Grace drew up a chair before the table. Slipping into it she soon
became absorbed in what Miriam had written her.
Seated opposite her, Elfreda perused the letter from her mother with the
anxious eye of one about to receive sentence. In the middle of it she
uttered a cluck of satisfaction. "Excuse me for interrupting you, but I
just wanted to tell you that Ma is a wingless angel. I don't have to do
the convincing act at all. She says I may stay with you until I either
wear out my welcome or get ready to come home. Isn't that a glorious
message? Hooray!" Elfreda waved her maternal parent's unexpected missive
of leniency on high.
"Glorious indeed." Finishing the short but interesting letter from
Miriam, Grace shoved it across the table to Elfreda. "Read it," she
commanded. "I know Miriam would be willing that you should. As her
roommate of long standing you are entitled to special privileges."
"Thank you." Elfreda pounced upon the proffered letter with avidity,
while Grace continued with her own correspondence. Counting her letters
over, she found she had received nine. As was her usual custom, she had
begun with the top one, which was from Miriam, and read them in the
order in which they were stacked. Elfreda on the contrary, scattered
broadcast on the table the whole ten letters she had received. She
picked and chose with the air of a connoisseur, keeping up a running
fire of ridiculous remarks between letters, that moved Grace to frequent
laughter, but did not distract her attention to any degree from her own
affairs. She had become too familiar with Elfreda's always entertaining
methods of doing things to be other than amused by them.
The contents of her own mail filled her with a quiet joy. One and all,
so far as she had read, her friends breathed undying friendship and deep
devotion to herself. There was a long letter from Eleanor Savelli, who
was summering in Colorado with her father and aunt. It held the glad
tidings that Miss Nevin and herself intended to come to Oakdale for the
winter. Her father's concert tour would soon begin. She did not expect
to travel with him that winter. She was anxious to come back to
"Heartsease" for a long rest. Much in the letter was of a deeply
sympathetic nature, relating to Grace's misfortune. She begged Grace to
inform her at once should matters take a happier turn and hoped before
long to be with her.
There was also a letter from Mabel Allison confiding the news of her
engagement to Arnold Evans. She was very happy, she declared. Formal
announcement of her betrothal to Arnold had not yet been made, but Grace
would soon receive a card to that effect. Mabel Ashe wrote much
sympathy, her letter fairly bristling with her lovable, vivid
personality. She ended with the jubilant news that she had sold the
novel on which she had worked so long and patiently to complete, to a
well-known book publishing firm. She had named it, "the Guardian of the
Flame." She styled it as "the story of a woman's heart," and her
publishers believed it would be very successful.
The Emerson twins sent her a funny little epistle, in which they had
taken turns in the writing of its many paragraphs. It had evidently been
gotten up with a view to cheering her and she read between the lines the
kindliness which had prompted the joint authors to the deed. Jessica and
Anne came next with loving letters that proved how completely one they
were with her in spirit. A colorful account of the doings of the Harlowe
House girls at Overton College as set down by Evelyn Ward brought a
smile of pleasure to Grace's face.
One of the two remaining envelopes bore Arline's mark. Grace's smile
deepened as she opened it and saw:
"DEAREST LOYALHEART:
"You owe me a letter, but never mind. I am of a patient and
forgiving disposition, so I'll overlook it. I have a very funny bit
of news to write. Stanley Forde, the hateful old tyrant, has gone
and engaged himself to be married again. Just like that! Don't
think this is a case of sour grapes. I am de-lighted. I am sorry
for the poor party of the second part, though. I know her well. She
is a pretty but foolish young person who was in love with Stanley
ages before he became betrothed to me. Of course he did it to spite
Daffydowndilly, but I'm not a bit 'spited.' I feel as though I
ought to go to the girl in the case and tell her what I know about
him. But it's useless to think of doing so."
Arline devoted further space to affectionate inquiry regarding Grace's
troubles and ended with the naïve announcement:
"The other day I met a perfectly delightful young man at a dinner
dance. He is as much interested in settlement work as I am, and is
as nice as Stanley Forde is horrid. To-morrow he and Father and I
are going to motor out to the fresh air home Father founded. He is
anxious to see what we have done. Isn't that sweet in him? I do
hope appearances aren't deceitful. I'll tell you more about him
after I have met him a few more times. It's not wise, you know, to
rush into friendships.
"With much love. You owe me two letters.
"Cautiously,
"DAFFYDOWNDILLY."
The last letter on the pile was from Emma Dean. Hastily running over the
first page, Grace laughed outright. "Listen to this, Elfreda," she
commanded, her eyes dancing.
"DEAREST AND BEST-LOVED GRACIOUS:
"Hark to the lamentations of a Dean from darkest Deanery, now
transported to the Grace-haunted region of Overton! When first I
set foot in this desolate waste, my primary impulse was to lift my
venerable voice in a piercing wail of anguish. Only my overwhelming
respect for the powers which sit sternly in Overton Hall, and a
well-founded fear that I might be bundled off the campus to some
fell institution for the demented, prompted me to refrain from
howling. But the desire to howl still lingers, and some fine day I
shall meander moodily to Hunter's Rock and there, upon its lonely
height, startle the murmuring river below with my frantic cries. I
shall stand well back from the edge of that perilous platform,
however, as I have no malicious desire to deprive Overton of the
best teacher in English Overton ever had, known to the
English-speaking world as Emily Elizabeth Dean, who has now become
a manageress (see Dean Vocabulary).
"Confidentially speaking, I should not have minded so much leaving
darkest Deanery for this Grace-less wilderness if it had not been
for the thought that your dear face would be missing in the
picture. Do not rashly misjudge me by jumping to the conclusion
that I parted with joy from the estimable Deans of whom I am which.
Bitterly did I regret leaving my sorrowing parents. It was not lack
of filial devotion to them that made me yearn for Overton. A
terrible shadow, or rather several shadows, had hovered over
hapless Deanery for a week before I packed my belongings and fled.
Our humble home had been turned over to an aggregation of ruthless
individuals who paint houses for a living. Darkest Deanery was once
a timid shade of brown that grew even more retiring with years. Now
it is a dazzling white, with still more dazzling gray trimmings. I
can never forget that harmonious combination of gray and white, as
I have annexed copious samples of it to most of my meager wardrobe.
"If only I had had the forethought to design a simple burlap
costume with bag-like lines, and putting away false pride, worn it
on all occasions during that last sad week at home, I should not
now be spending my leisure hours experimenting to discover the most
efficacious paint eradicator on the market. Every time I hopefully
remove a prized garment from my trunk, I am confronted by the
unhappy recollection that darkest Deanery has been freshly painted.
It's positively maddening!
"Knowing my fatal leaning toward the absent-minded, you can put two
and two together. They don't make four. They make 'paint.' Oh, the
supreme tragedy of that week! How well I remember the afternoon
when I sat down confidingly on the freshly-furbished porch rail in
my best pongee dress. I was about to go to a luncheon. I went, but
was late. There was a reason. By the time the front porch became a
sticky, glistening wonder, I thoughtfully dropped my nice seal
handbag in the middle of it. The irate painter remonstrated. Not
because I had ruined my cherished possession, but because of the
horrifying blank left where paint had lately flaunted itself. By
the time it had dawned upon me that the back entrance to the house
was the entrance for me, it had also become a trap for the unwary.
There were frequent other accidental collisions with the aforesaid
paint, all equally disastrous to poor me. Some of them were known
to me at the time; some were among the things that were revealed
thereafter. I began to feel that the whole vast universe was
chiefly composed of paint. So I fled to the greater ill of an
Overton without Grace Harlowe.
"As I have suffered deeply and shall continue to suffer until I can
look my modest wardrobe in the face and say, 'presentable at last,'
I am certain that I deserve a special boon of consolation. In plain
English, to which I still cling, despite the fact that I dream of
some day establishing a marvelous vocabulary of my own, won't you
and Elfreda come to Overton to see me, if only for a day? I have
thought things over carefully before asking you. It is not entirely
selfishness that prompts the request. I think it would cheer you to
come again for a visit to Harlowe House. Though I have replaced you
as manager, I can never replace you in the hearts of the girls
here. I understand why you may not wish to come. As always, my
heart goes out to you. If you write 'no' as an answer, I shall
accept it in the best possible spirit. But if you feel that you can
drop in on me, even for a day, then I shall surely shriek with joy,
right here at Harlowe House, and abide by the consequences. I have
written Elfreda, too. If both letters reach you at the same time,
and I shall mail them together, then you can shake hands and
congratulate yourselves that you have both been invited.
"Yours hopefully,
"EMMA."
"I'd love to go." Grace hesitated. "Do you think it would be disloyal in
me to leave Oakdale now, even for a day? I thought it over seriously
before I went to Miriam's wedding. That was really a duty, you know. But
since Jean has taken up Tom's case, it seems as though I am likely to
hear something important within a few days."
"You mustn't be too sure," counseled Elfreda wisely. "You might be
disappointed. It may take even Jean a long time to find out anything.
I'm not saying that to be cruel."
"You don't need to tell me that. I know I mustn't expect too much, even
of Jean. Yet I can't help thinking that if _he_ doesn't find Tom, no one
else ever will."