Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer Part 8

Grace's remarkable announcement drove the business of letter-writing to the winds. A bevy of sympathetic girls gathered about her, sending up a concerted lament. Yet none ventured to inquire into the cause of her departure, or to ask her to reconsider her decision to depart at once.

Loyal to the core, her wish was their law. Each eagerly offered her services in behalf of the love they bore her. Torn though she was by the shock of this new sorrow, Grace could not help thinking as she stood there, how gloriously worthy were these staunch comrades to bear the name Semper Fidelis.

CHAPTER X

THE SHADOW DEEPENS

"Oh, Fairy G.o.dmother, what does it mean?" The tall, slender girl, who had been obsequiously ushered into Mrs. Gray's stately, old-fas.h.i.+oned house on Chapel Hill, darted down the hall and straight into a pair of arms outstretched to receive her.

"I--don't--know--my dear. I wish I--" Mrs. Gray's broken utterance ended in a sob, as she laid her silvery head on Grace's breast. Until that moment she had remained calm. The sight of one who was equally enveloped in the shadow that had dropped down upon her, proved too much for her.

Clinging to Grace, she sobbed heart-brokenly.

"There, there, dear Fairy G.o.dmother. You mustn't cry so!" Grace's own voice was husky with emotion. "You have me with you now to comfort you.

Cheer up. I am sure that everything will turn out all right.

It's--dreadful--of course--not--to hear from Tom," Grace faltered briefly, "but I--we must keep thinking he is safe and well and that we may receive a letter from him at any minute. I didn't wait to go home. I knew you needed me, so I came straight from the train here. Mother doesn't even know yet that I am in town. Come into the library and sit down in your own favorite chair." Bravely stifling her own heavy anxiety, Grace wrapped an affectionate arm about the dainty little old lady and drew her into the long room which had been the scene of so many of their confidential talks.

"There you are!" she nodded, striving to smile. "Just a moment until I get rid of my hat and coat and I'll curl up on the floor at your feet.

Then we can talk things over and find out what's to be done."

"You are a dear good child," quavered Mrs. Gray. Under the white glow of the electric lamp, her Dresden-shepherdess face looked pinched and wan.

Fear and uncertainty had robbed her small features of that look of perennial youth which so individualized her. "It was thoughtful in you to telegraph me that you were coming. I knew then that you hadn't heard from Tom, but I knew, too, that you would soon be here."

"I hated to telegraph you, knowing you'd worry even more. Still it seemed best." Now ensconced at Mrs. Gray's feet, Grace possessed herself of the older woman's hand. "Please feel that whatever you may ask of me, I will cheerfully try to perform it."

"I don't know which way to turn," was the distracted answer. "I had so hoped that you would be able to tell me that Tom was safe in camp. It's a rather delicate matter, my child. Coming as it does so near your wedding day, it is very necessary that Tom should be located at once.

I've already written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom, but as yet he has not answered my letter. Something dreadful has happened to my poor boy. I feel it."

Grace privately agreed with her, yet she would not say so. She knew as well as did Mrs. Gray that only actual mishap would have caused Tom to fail in his duty to his aunt and to herself. "I think we had better telegraph Mr. Mackenzie," she suggested, her voice ringing with new-born purpose. "Then--if he knows nothing of Tom's whereabouts we had better organize a search. First of all we must know if he reached the camp. If not--" Grace stopped, overmastered for an instant by a silent spasm of dread that cut lines of pain in her fine face.

"I don't like to send a telegram from Oakdale," demurred Mrs. Gray.

"These small town operators are not always to be trusted. If the story were to creep about that Tom Gray had disappeared, so shortly before his wedding day, it would be very painful for both you and me. I could, of course, consult a private investigator in New York, yet I shrink from doing so until I know definitely that Tom has disappeared. It is such an intimate, personal matter. I don't fancy turning it over even to my lawyer. You can understand that."

"Yes." Grace had grown very pale at the possibility of the tender romance of her Golden Summer being held up even to the little world of Oakdale as a subject for gossip and possibly harsh criticism. Seized with a blessed thought she said: "There is one person at least whom I think we ought to take into our confidence. That person is David Nesbit.

He and Tom have always been like brothers. He will help us. I'll write him now, before I go home, and ask _him_ to telegraph Mr. Mackenzie. A telegram sent from New York will never give cause for gossip here."

Rising to seek her traveling bag which she had deposited in the hall, she hastily rummaged in it for her fountain pen. The sight of Mrs.

Gray's pitiful face had completely aroused her to the need for prompt action. Re-entering the library she approached the ma.s.sive writing table with the quick a.s.sured step, so characteristic of the brave spirit with which she had always faced adversity. From a drawer of the table she selected note paper and an envelope to match and seating herself, prepared to plunge intrepidly into the writing of the most difficult letter she had ever been called upon to pen.

"Dear David:" she wrote, then groped about in her mind for the words which would best convey to Tom's chum the sorry message she was fated to deliver. It was not a long letter, yet she knew that the recipient would read between the lines and fully comprehend the serious situation which confronted herself and Mrs. Gray. When she had finished writing it and signed her name, she next devoted her attention to the wording of a telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, setting it down on a separate sheet of paper.

"Please read them, Fairy G.o.dmother," she requested, tendering the fruits of her painful effort to Mrs. Gray.

"You are right in believing David to be the best possible confidant,"

sighed the old lady as she returned the letter and telegraphic message to Grace. "We can rely on him absolutely."

"I must go now. It is after nine o'clock. I will hurry to the nearest drug store for a special delivery stamp and mail the letter at once. I wish I might stay with you longer, but I feel as though I ought to go home. You don't mind if I tell Mother and Father? It is within their right to know."

"Of course it is," readily agreed Mrs. Gray. "I only deferred telling them until I had talked with you, Grace. I can't begin to tell you how much having you here has comforted me. I feel a trifle more cheerful already. Perhaps, after all, we have been running out to meet calamity.

To-morrow may bring us word that Tom is safe and well." Rising from her chair, Mrs. Gray embraced Grace tenderly.

"I hope so." Forcing herself to smile encouragingly down at the wan little figure beside her, Grace bent and kissed the old lady's cheek.

For a moment the two clung together, their mutual devotion deepened by their common sorrow. Gently disengaging herself from Mrs. Gray's arms, Grace donned her hat and coat and, with a last fond word of cheer, soberly sought the door and stepped out into the starlit night.

Alone with her sorrow, her late attempt at cheerfulness fell away from her like a cloak. Deep dejection settled down upon her as she walked down Chapel Hill toward home. The very beauty of the fragrant, starry night hurt her. She wondered if those some far-off stars, twinkling so remotely aloft, held the knowledge of Tom Gray for which she mournfully yearned. Why had this dreadful uncertainty intruded itself into the very heart of her Golden Summer? Had she boasted of her happiness only to see it s.n.a.t.c.hed rudely from her life? Suppose Tom were never to return?

Suppose even the knowledge of his fate were to be denied her? Over and over again she had read in the newspapers of the strange disappearances of persons, the mystery of which defied solution. The horror of her gloomy apprehensions sent a chill to her heart that caused it for an instant to stand still, or so it seemed to her.

"I mustn't think of such frightful things," she breathed. "Tom is all right. I must make myself believe it. Now is the time to be brave; to go on steadily without faltering. Tom will come back to me. Wherever he is or whatever has happened to him, he will come back. I know it."

CHAPTER XI

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 a.s.sistance? 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 a.s.surance 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 G.o.dmother 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 G.o.dmother!" 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 comrades.h.i.+p, 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.