Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer Part 7

"Now we can be perfectly happy!" exulted Grace. "You are the last touch needed to complete the reunion."

"I am always a blessing," returned Emma modestly. "To-night I happened to be one in disguise. But I yearn to cast aside my sable robes of prophesy and emerge from my room in gala garments. Lead me to my trunk, J. Elfreda. The night is yet young and I'm anxious to make the most of it."

"I never once thought of Emma Dean in connection with Elfreda's fortune-teller," confessed Kathleen West ruefully. "I am afraid I'm losing my nose for news."

"Neither did I," admitted Anne. "But you guessed it, didn't you, Miriam?" Recalling the latter's inspiration of that afternoon, Anne turned to her sister-in-law.

"Yes. It flashed across me all of a sudden. You know Elfreda said Emma might descend upon us when we least expected her. That's what set me to thinking."

"I ought to have guessed," mourned Sara Emerson. "All the glory of the discovery goes to my twin sister. How did you find her out, Julia?"

"It was what she said. You know how funny Emma is. When we were at Overton she was forever saying 'Now I perceive.' The minute I heard it to-night I began to perceive, too."

When presently Emma joined her friends on the lawn, all traces of the fabled Seeress of the Seven Veils had vanished. In a simple white evening frock, eye-gla.s.ses firmly astride her nose, she was her usual jolly self. Although Grace Harlowe was undoubtedly the best-loved member of Semper Fidelis, Emma held an individual place in their hearts.

Wherever she walked, fun and laughter followed at her heels. Grace was their inspiration to n.o.ble deeds; Emma their spirit of good cheer. One and all they gathered about her and marshalled her to the veranda where a hilarious hour ensued, followed by a concerted invasion on the living-room, where they proceeded to entertain Mr. and Mrs. Briggs, who had tactfully declined to intrude upon the dinner party, with an evening of the old, familiar stunts with which they had so often lightened their student days at Overton College.

It was well after midnight when, by common consent, the will to retire for the night claimed them. Knowing the deep regard that existed between Grace and Emma, Elfreda had arranged matters so that they might room together. Although Anne was Grace's oldest friend, she had cheerfully resigned her claim on Grace to Emma for the week.

"Well, Gracious, how is everything?" were Emma's first words when at last they had shut themselves in their room for the night. "I can't begin to tell you how dreadfully I've missed you. It gives me the blues every time I think of Overton next year without you. But I know you are happy, and that's at least one consolation."

"It's a mutual miss, Emma," a.s.sured Grace. "I have thought of you a great deal and wished you were with me at home. Aside from not being able to have my dearest friends with me all the time, my happiness has been so complete this summer that I feel as though I ought to walk very softly, for fear of losing some part of it."

"I understand. It's always so. One wonders if it's even wise to mention it for fear of breaking the spell," mused Emma. "I suppose the best way to do is to plod steadily along and not think much about anything but the day's events. By the way, are you very sleepy?"

Grace shook her head. "Not a bit. On the contrary, I'm wide awake."

"Then let's doff our festival garb, clothe our magnificent selves in kimonos and have a talking-bee," proposed Emma joyfully. "I'll give you a faithful account of affairs in darkest Deanery, if you will agree to furnish me with an equally detailed account of Harloweville doings. Is it a go?"

"It is," acceded Grace with equal heartiness.

A little later, seated Turk fashion on Grace's bed, the two tried comrades indulged in one of the protracted talks that had invariably ended their day's work when together at Harlowe House. It was an extremely confidential session, yet there was one bit of information which Grace could not find it in her heart to divulge. Though it had been over a week since she had said good-bye to Tom Gray, aside from a brief letter written to her on the train just before his arrival at a little town some miles from the lumber camp, she had received no further communication from him. Within herself she argued that she had really no cause for alarm. No doubt Tom had been too busy to write. Perhaps he had written her, but, due to the isolation of the camp, had encountered difficulty in mailing a letter to her. She would have liked to put the situation before Emma, yet loyalty to love forbade her to speak of it even to this trusted friend.

CHAPTER IX

THE MEANING OF SEMPER FIDELIS

Father Time has an unfortunate habit of scudding along at a tremendously rapid pace over the delightful roads of life. It is only when the ways are rough and stony that he is p.r.o.ne to lag and linger. To the reunionists the prospect of a week spent together had offered limitless possibilities. Once that coveted period of time had become theirs, it proceeded to vanish in an alarming fashion. On Monday they had congratulated themselves and one another that six glorious days were still theirs. By Wednesday they had begun to mourn that only four were left them.

Life at the Briggs' cottage offered a ceaseless succession of wholesome pleasures. Early morning invariably found the reunionists strengthening their acquaintance with the ocean. Breakfast over, a bathing suit procession to the nearby beach became the usual order of things. They spent long sunny hours playing about in the surf, or stretched at ease on the white sand, exchanging an apparently exhaustless flow of light-hearted conversation relating to almost everything under the sun.

Imbued with tireless energy, their afternoons brought them fresh entertainment in the way of long automobile rides to various points of interest, followed by jolly little teas or dinners along the way. The annual excursion to Picnic Hollow, which claimed the greater part of a whole day, was also a memorable occasion. Evening, however, usually overtook them at the cottage. By common consent they tabooed the more formal social entertainment which the various hostelries at Wildwood offered. Only on one occasion did they diverge from their clannish programme in order to attend an informal hop given by Elfreda's friend, Madge Morton, at her father's cottage.

During their stay at the Briggs' cottage the previous summer, they had been given the opportunity of meeting this charming young girl. Shortly after their arrival she had come over from the Morton cottage to pay them a friendly call. Greatly attracted to her, on first meeting they had greeted her warmly and invited her to share their good times.

Madge and Grace had a bond in common in that while Grace was preparing to be married to Tom Gray, Madge was trying to decide whether or not she should pledge herself to marry Tom Curtis. Before the week ended she had confided her problem to Grace and the two girls discussed the subject long and earnestly. Yet despite such friendly counsel as Grace felt privileged to give, Madge could come to no definite decision.

Though five days of smiling sunshine had added immeasurably to the welfare of the devoted company, Sat.u.r.day morning dawned gray and threatening. Before breakfast was over the ominous prediction of storm was fulfilled. Amid reverberating peals of thunder, heavy raindrops began to fall. They were merely the prelude to a furious downpour which descended in silvery sheets, and fairly overflowed the discouraged landscape. A strong wind rose, lashing the leaden expanse of sea into a white-capped fury quite foreign to its. .h.i.therto deceitfully dimpled aspect.

"It's a horrible day," conceded Elfreda Briggs gloomily. "We can't do any of the things we've planned. No bathing, no motor trip, either, unless this deluge stops, which doesn't seem likely."

"Oh, it may clear up," comforted Emma Dean. "I've seen worse days than this suddenly brace up and smile. Let's possess our souls in patience.

Incidental to the process we might restore the shattered faith of some of our deluded correspondents. During the past six days it has pained me to observe the postman arrive, full-handed, to turn away, alas, empty-handed. I ask you as man to man--why this thusness? Now that we are about to depart, it might be well to apprise our neglected families of the fact."

"Emma, you are a n.o.ble woman," declared Miriam with deep conviction. "I may not have noticed it before, but better late than never. I move that we organize a writing school in the living-room for the purpose of squaring ourselves with our too-trusting families and friends."

"What's the use in writing home now?" demanded Julia Emerson. "Sara and I would get there almost as soon as our letters. We have to go to-morrow, you know."

"I know." Emma held her handkerchief ostentatiously to her eyes. "Never mind. You may write to _me_. You know I have always admired your nice vertical handwriting. It takes me back to my first-reader days."

"Sorry I can't oblige you," giggled Julia, "but I'm not in the mood for letter writing. I'm going to pack my trunk and send it to the station before Sara has a chance to stuff half of her belongings into it."

"Such sisterly devotion," murmured Emma.

"Oh, I don't mind," was Sara's cheerful comment. "I've already packed my sweater and two dresses in Julia's trunk. You'd better leave them there, Julia, I haven't an inch of room left in my trunk to squeeze them into.

It is already jammed so full that you'll have to sit on the lid when I get ready to lock it."

"Stung!" was Julia's inelegant comment. "This is what comes of being a twin. I think I'd better hurry and gobble up the small trunk s.p.a.ce that is left me; otherwise I may have to carry a large part of my wardrobe home in a bundle." Dread of such a contingency sent her fleeing up the stairs in hot pursuit of her own welfare, oblivious to the pleasantries which Emma and Sara called after her as she ran.

Seated around the long library table in the living-room, the correspondence party made an attractive picture as, with earnest faces, they bent themselves to the arduous task of letter-writing. With the exception of Grace, all present were soon hard at work. One hand resting lightly on a sheet of the monogrammed paper which Elfreda had provided in profusion, with her other hand Grace nervously gripped her fountain pen. Should she or should she not write to Tom? Although she owed the usual amount of letters to various correspondents, she now thought only of writing to the man for whose strange silence she could not account.

It was Tom's place to write her. She had answered his first letter. Yet she could not believe that carelessness was responsible for his silence.

Something must have happened to him. But what? She knitted her brows in an agony of indecision, then giving her pen an energetic shake that betokened definite purpose, she began:

"DEAR TOM:

"It is now over a week since last I heard from you. What----"

The loud ring of the doorbell caused her to break off abruptly the sentence she had begun. With that curious intuition which sometimes manifests itself unbidden, she was seized with the startled conviction that the bell had conveyed the news of an arrival important to herself.

Listening with an anxiety she could not yet understand, she heard a man's deep tones raised in inquiry. Then came the lighter voice of the maid who had answered the door. Then----

"Miss Harlowe," the maid had entered the living-room and addressed her, "there's a special delivery letter come for you. Will you please sign for it?"

"Thank you, Alice." Grace sprang to her feet and hurried into the hall.

The messenger handed her a letter and shoved his book toward her, indicating the place for her signature. Hastily signing and returning the book, Grace dismissed the man, and sank to the oak settee in the hall, her heart thumping wildly. She had already recognized the handwriting on the envelope, not as Tom's familiar flowing hand, but as the spidery, wavering script of Mrs. Gray. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope and read:

"DEAR GRACE:

"Have you heard from Tom? I am dreadfully worried. I have only received the one letter from him of which you already know. It is not in the least like him to thus put off writing me. He knew before he went that I should be uneasy about him, and promised faithfully to write me every other day. For the sake of your anxious and bewildered Fairy G.o.dmother, will you come to me as soon as possible, if you have not heard from him? If so, then telegraph me to that effect and I shall rest easier. I have put off writing you from day to day, in the hope that I might receive news of my boy, and also because I could not bear to spoil your pleasure. But as it is now Friday and you will receive this on Sat.u.r.day, I know that if you have received no word from him, you will not mind coming home a day earlier than you had planned. Once we are together again, we can decide on some method of action. Thus far I have done nothing. Believe me, my dear, only my great anxiety compels me to ask you to make this sacrifice.

"Yours lovingly,

"ROSE GRAY."

The letter sliding from her nerveless fingers, Grace saw her surroundings through a swirling mist. For a moment or two she yielded to the terror that clutched at her heart. Her st.u.r.dy nature rea.s.serting itself, she rose, recovered the letter and walked slowly into the living-room.

"Girls," she said, her voice a trifle unsteady, "I must leave you at once. I--Mrs. Gray needs me and has sent for me. I am sorry I can't tell you the reason. I am sure you will understand that I am giving you as much of my confidence as I can." She paused, her gray eyes looking utter affection on the startled group about the table. "I want you to promise to finish the reunion just as happily as though I were with you. Later, perhaps I can tell you what I mayn't tell you now. It is not yet eleven o'clock, so I am sure I can catch the noon express."