"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."
CHAPTER XII
THE BETTER PART
Although Grace had so sturdily asserted her claim on happiness, nevertheless she quailed secretly before the ordeal of writing to her friends regarding the change in her plans. Long she pondered before committing the gloomy information to paper. More than one anguished tear fell from her eyes as she relentlessly pursued her difficult task. Not so very long ago she had fondly dreamed of the time when she should happily send to those she loved the summons to come to her on her wedding day. But the pile of envelopes which eventually found their way to the nearest mail-box contained news of a vastly different character.
True to her promise she had conscientiously waited for the word from Mr. Blaisdell which Mrs. Gray had anticipated. At the end of three days of suspense she had sought her Fairy Godmother only to meet with a letter from the investigator which sent hope to the winds. In it he stated that aside from the station master at the lonely little railway station, he had encountered no one who recalled seeing a young man of the description of Tom Gray. He had learned from the former that Tom had halted him to inquire the way to the camp and to ascertain if he could obtain any means of conveyance on that day. As it was then four o'clock in the afternoon and no one from the camp had met the train, the station master had warned him that a storm was coming and advised him to wait over until the following morning, offering Tom the hospitality of his own home. The young man had politely declined his offer, saying that he must reach the camp that night and would walk. He had said good-bye and swung off toward the dense growth of forest that rose behind the straggling hamlet, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him.
Further inquiry at the camp, which Mr. Blaisdell had experienced considerable difficulty in reaching, had developed the alarming news that no such person as Tom Gray had been seen in that vicinity. He had gleaned, however, that the station master's prediction of bad weather had been verified and that a particularly heavy windstorm had swept that region early in the evening of the day on which he had talked with the young man. Torrents of rain had fallen and trees had been broken down and uprooted. It was possible that Tom had lost his way and been killed by a falling tree. Blaisdell did not believe this, however, as neither a dead nor injured man had been found by the various search parties of lumber men who had been sent out to cover the surrounding territory. So far as possible the search had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. He had not divulged Tom's name. As the camp was in an out of the way place, peopled by a taciturn set of men who asked few questions, it was not likely that any news would travel farther than its limits.