It was the evening of Grace Harlowe’s return from the Christmas holiday she had spent with her dear ones at Oakdale. Grace and Emma were in their room. Despite the one sad memory which time alone could efface, Grace was experiencing a peace and comfort which always hovered about her for many days after her visits home. Next to home, however, Overton was, to her, the place of places, and she had returned to her work with fresh energy and enthusiasm. She believed that she had definitely put behind her forever all that unhappy part of her life regarding Tom Gray. It had been hard indeed, and had brought tears to the eyes so unaccustomed to weeping. Still Grace was glad that she had faced the inevitable and seen clearly. Tom would, in time, forget her and perhaps marry some one else. She wished with all her heart that he might be happy, and her one regret was that she had caused him pain.
In reality Grace had exhibited toward her old friend a hardness of purpose quite at variance with her usually sweet nature. She wondered a little that she could have been so inexorable in her decision, yet she believed herself to be wholly justified in the course she had taken. Already she was beginning to commend herself inwardly for her loyalty to her work, and Emma’s blunt arraignment of the dean of Overton College acted like a dash of cold water upon her half-fledged self-content.
“All day I’ve been tempted to tell you a few things, Gracious,” began Emma, “but I hated to disturb you. I know just how you feel when you come back from that blessed little town of yours. So I’ve been keeping still while you told me all about Anne’s wedding and the good times you had. It was one glorious succession of good times, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Grace was silent for a brief space of time. Then she said gravely, “There was only one flaw, Emma. I refused again, and for the last time, to marry Tom Gray. I was sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I don’t love him.”
“I’m sorry, too, that you couldn’t find it in your heart to care for him. I liked him best of those four young men.”
“Every one likes him. My friends all hoped that we would marry.” Grace sighed. “Still one’s friends can’t decide such matters for one. One must solve that particular problem alone.”
“Just so,” agreed Emma. “Although no one ever asked my hand in holy matrimony except a callow youth whom I tutored in algebra last summer. He had failed in his June examination and had to pass in September or be forever labeled a dunce by his fond family. Now you see why I can understand the psychology of saying ‘no’ to a proposal. This stripling, who was at least five years my junior, proposed to me out of sheer gratitude. I actually succeeded in drumming quadratic equations into his stupid head, and he offered me his hand by the way of reward.”
Grace’s sad expression had by this time vanished. She was regarding Emma with a smiling face. “Really and truly, Emma, did that happen to you?”
“It did, indeed,” averred Emma solemnly. “You aren’t half so amazed as I was. I felt as though one of my Sunday-school class of little boys had suddenly exhibited signs of the tender passion. I labored long and earnestly to convince him that I was not his fate, and in due season he passed his examination and promptly forgot me. I did not weep and wail at being forgotten, either. Still there was a grain of satisfaction in being sought. If I go down to my grave in single blessedness I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that some one yearned for my life-long society.” She beamed owlishly at Grace, and laughter routed the sorrowful face she had turned to Emma only a moment before.
But Emma was only trying to prepare Grace for unpleasant news. Now that she had put her in a lighter frame of mind, she said: “I might as well tell you about Miss Wharton, Grace.”