Beauty for Ashes Read online

  © 2013 by Grace Livingston Hill

  Print ISBN 978-1-62416-321-0

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62836-295-4

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62836-296-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  1930s New England

  The Sutherland home sat like some royal palace at the top of a grassy eminence, nestled about by dark pines and hemlocks, its lawn sloping softly down to the highway where tall iron grillwork surrounded the estate and stone pillars made a stately entrance for the driveway. Thick clustering rhododendrons did their best to hide the place from the casual gazer, and glossy laurel branches filled spaces here and there. An avenue of trees gave mystery to the driveway as it disappeared into the thickly shrouded entrance and wound around till it reached the dwelling that stood like a white, gleaming jewel at the top of the rise, not quite hidden from view, tantalizingly beautiful in the morning sun.

  Behind the house were terraces down to a blue-tiled swimming pool, and a smaller pool where lilies floated lazily, and below that a sunken garden. Beyond, a small native woodland with old forest trees carefully tended gave background to the setting.

  Off to the right of the house on another eminence not quite so high, well hidden by trees and shrubbery, and somewhat farther back from the highway, another stone dwelling was fast nearing completion. It was called by the architect and the family “the bungalow,” but it might have been but another, somewhat smaller palace, so complete and wide-spreading it was. Gloria Sutherland was to be married next week to Stanwood Asher, and this bungalow, a wedding gift from her father, was to be her new home.

  The Ashers lived on another hilltop across the town of Roselands, in a mansion of fine old Norman architecture, and were the moving spirits in the social life of the place. What the Ashers and Sutherlands did set the pace for the rest of the set, and even the humbler residents of Roselands turned to look when Nancy Asher rode through town on her fine-blooded mare or her brother Stanwood shot by in his fabulous-priced high-powered car, and they stood to admire when either Gloria or Vanna Sutherland were driven by in the handsome Sutherland limousine. Both Gloria and Vanna were worth a second look as well, being the very most charming girls of the younger, smart set of Roselands and wearing clothes straight from the most noted creators of Europe.

  It was a bright, beautiful morning in spring. There were daffodils in golden banks here and there along the borders of the driveway, and the terraces behind the house were a marvelous broidery of color in crocuses, hyacinths, and tulips. Great forsythia bushes shed brightness against the dark pines effectively, like sudden bursts of sunshine, a flame of red tulips picked out a scallop below the white stone wall, and out on the edge of the woods pink and white dogwood had decked themselves in blossoms. It was a morning that went well in one’s mind with the thought of weddings; large, priceless weddings where money was lavished without stint.

  Gloria Sutherland had arisen at an hour that she called early. It was ten o’clock. She had breakfasted, mainly on orange juice and coffee, in her room, and in her yellow velvet robe went straight to the sewing room where the fitter awaited who had come up from one of the city shops to make an alteration in an orchid satin evening frock.

  She looked like a daffodil herself as she entered the sewing room and stood by the open window with the sunlight falling on her mop of yellow curls. The yellow velvet gown coming down softly to the little green satin shoes she was wearing completed the illusion of a yellow flower. She stood and basked in the sunshine, and the sunlight on the velvet cast a golden glow over her piquant face. The seamstress, who was no longer young and never had been beautiful, looked at her with a wistful admiration and sighed enviously to think what a charmed life this beautiful creature led.

  Gloria threw the golden garment aside and allowed herself to be carefully arrayed in the delicate orchid satin. She stood in front of the long pier glass and watched the seamstress as she deftly put in a pin here, smoothed out a pucker there, gave just a little different sweep to the deep flounce that half circled the curiously fashioned skirt, and spread out the line of the long train.

  “It is a lovely dress, isn’t it?” said Gloria childishly, joyously. That was one thing about Gloria that made everybody like her—she was so natural and childlike and happy. Her wealth and beauty had not spoiled her or made her snobbish.

  “She is like her father,” the servants whispered among themselves.

  After the pinning was complete, Gloria gave herself another look and walked the length of the room and back, watching the sweep of the train as she walked.

  “I want Vanna to see this before I take it off!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I wonder if she has come in yet. I thought I heard a car. She was away at a house party last night, but she said she’d be home early. Just wait a minute, and I’ll run down and see if she has come yet.”

  Lightly Gloria caught up the gleaming train, ran down the deeply carpeted stairs to the floor below, and then paused to listen. Someone had just come in the door. Yes, that was Vanna’s voice. She was talking to Brandon, their younger brother home from school for the weekend. Her tone was wildly excited as she said, “Oh, Brand! Have you seen the paper?”

  “No,” growled Brandon, “I just came downstairs. Anything the matter? You look like last year’s tax bills. What’s happened?”

  “Plenty!” said Vanna tragically. “Stan Asher’s been killed!”

  “Killed!” said Brandon, echoing her word stupidly. “How? When?”

  “Shot!” said Vanna with a gasp of her breath. “Shot in a nightclub in New York last night! Shot with a dancing girl he had with him. They’re both dead! They’ve arrested the girl’s lover. He didn’t make any attempt to get away!”

  “Good night!” said Brandon in a shocked voice as if he had suddenly grown up.

  “We mustn’t tell Gloria!” said Vanna breathlessly. “Not yet! Not till Dad comes! He’ll be sure to be here soon. He’ll see it in the paper. He’ll come to her right away! Better go hide the paper. It says awful things about Stan. She mustn’t ever see it!”

  “She’ll have to know pretty soon if Dad doesn’t get here!” said the boy gravely. “And if Mother finds out—”

  “Is Mother down yet?”

  “I don’t think so. Her door was shut when I came by. What if we
phone down to the office to see if Dad has got it yet? He went to New York yesterday, didn’t he? You sure he was coming back today?”

  “No, but you know he’ll come when he sees this. And he can’t help seeing it. It’s in all the papers, great big headlines: STANWOOD ASHER, WEALTHY HEIR TO MILLIONS, SHOT DOWN WITH CHORUS GIRL BY JEALOUS LOVER IN NOTORIOUS NIGHTCLUB! Oh, it’s awful! To think anything like that could come to our family!”

  Vanna caught her breath in a great sob and then suddenly held her breath and looked up the stairs, her eyes large with horror, for there stood Gloria in her lovely orchid dress with her gold hair aflame and her eyes wide pools of dark blue horror in a white, white face.

  “Vanna! What is it? I’m not a child! Tell me everything! Quick!”

  Vanna gave her young brother a frightened glance and sped up the stairs.

  “It’s about Stan, dear!” she said, trying to make her voice sound steady. “It’s bad news!”

  “Yes! I heard!” said Gloria. “Tell it over again slowly, just as you said it!”

  Vanna gave a little gasp like a sob as she spoke the words, “Stan was killed in a nightclub in New York last night, dear.”

  “And the girl?” said Gloria, fixing her sister with a keen glance.

  Vanna caught another little sob in her throat.

  “She was killed, too. By a jealous lover!”

  Gloria reached out and caught hold of the stair railing.

  “Brand!” she called to the brother who lingered in blank horror below. “Bring me that paper! Yes, please—!” as she saw Vanna shake her head. “I’ve got to know everything right away! Bring it, Brand! Vanna, won’t you please help me off with this terrible dress?”

  Vanna drew her sister into Gloria’s own room and began to unfasten the hooks with fingers that trembled.

  “There—couldn’t be a mistake, could there Vanna?” asked Gloria, casting an imploring glance her way as the dress was lifted over her head.

  “No, there couldn’t be a mistake,” said Vanna sadly. “I telephoned Nance! She said her father went up on the early morning train. He phoned about ten minutes ago. It’s all true!”

  Vanna looked around for Gloria’s robe.

  “No,” said Gloria sharply, as her sister brought out a blue silk robe. “No, I’ve got to have a dress on!”

  “You ought to lie down, dear!” soothed Vanna. “You don’t realize yet! You need to lie down and take it quietly!”

  “No,” said Gloria, “I must do something! I don’t know what, but there’ll be things to do. I must have a dress on and be ready.”

  Vanna searched helplessly in the closet for something appropriate. What would one wear on an occasion like this? Mourning? If Gloria was dressed, people would be likely to see her, and they would criticize whatever she had on. Clothes had always played such a large part in Vanna’s life that they seemed important even now.

  But Gloria pulled out a drawer and snatched up a brown and tan knitted dress she had worn the day before and flung it on.

  “Just anything! It doesn’t matter what,” she said as her sister looked askance at the dress. “Brand, is that you with the paper? And please, Brand, will you take this orchid dress up to the sewing room and tell the fitter it is perfectly all right just as it is, and she can just hang it up there when she has finished? Tell her I won’t be able to come up again today.”

  Vanna looked at her sister in admiration. She seemed so cool, so collected, yet there was something terrifying in her eyes. Vanna put her hand to her throat and tried to still the stifling sensation that threatened to overwhelm her. Oh, it seemed just impossible that this tragedy was really happening in their family. Stan, the handsome brother-in-law, dead! Just a week before the wedding!

  Then she began to realize.

  There would be no wedding!

  Over there in the green guest room closet were hanging the bridesmaids’ dresses, soft spring pastel shades of chiffon, with silver shoes and lovely big garden hats wreathed in spring blossoms. Back in the apricot guest room, the bridal array was waiting and there would be no wedding!

  Three long connecting rooms to the left were cleared and furnished with long draped tables on which already a goodly array of costly glitter was set out, and the presents were pouring in every hour! And there would be no wedding!

  But Gloria went steadily on arranging her dress, smoothing her rumpled curls, putting her brush away, as coolly as if nothing had happened. Didn’t she realize what it all meant? Why wasn’t she lying on her bed sobbing? Why wasn’t she breaking her heart? Stan dead, Stan whom Gloria adored, and Gloria going about with a quiet, stony look in her eyes! Vanna was frightened.

  “Does Mother know?” asked Gloria suddenly in that quiet, capable tone that was so new to her, as if she had certain things to go through and just so much strength with which to go through them.

  “No,” said Vanna, “she hasn’t gone downstairs yet.”

  “Does Mrs. Asher know?”

  “Yes, Nance said she was in hysterics. They had sent for the doctor,” said Vanna.

  “Poor thing!” said Gloria with a terrible trembling sigh.

  Vanna stared. She knew Gloria was not especially fond of Stan’s mother, and yet here she was without a tear for herself, pitying Stan’s mother.

  Gloria dropped into a chair and began to read the paper, her white face growing even whiter as she read. Once she groaned aloud, and once she looked up and said, though more as if she were stating a fact to herself than speaking to her sister, “He’d known that girl for a long time. There had been trouble before. Two years ago! That was before—before we were—engaged!” She looked at the paper again. “No—it was after! Two months after! Oh—!” The sound she made was not a sob. It was more like a wounded animal getting to cover.

  Vanna was silent, filled with misery for the sister who had always been so much a part of herself. She was feeling what Gloria was going through. Neither of these girls had had any sorrow in their lives before beyond a broken doll or a lost kitten. Never any trouble before that money could not mend.

  From where she sat, Vanna could see the gleam of the tiled roof that was her sister’s new home. What would Gloria do now with that house? Would Dad have it torn down? Would they all move or go to Europe or something? How everything had been upheaved and made impossible in a single night! A bullet gone home, a heart stilled, and two families were plunged into dismay, their world collapsed!

  Vanna began to think of the young set that made up their social life. How could they bear to go among them again? How could Gloria ever enjoy the crowd and all its doings with Stan gone! And gone in such a terrible way!

  Suddenly she caught her breath and put her head down on the arm of the chair where she sat, the tears coming like a tempest over which she had no control.

  “Vanna! You mustn’t!” said Gloria, looking at her out of those stony eyes. “We’ve got to keep up!”

  “Why?” said Vanna tempestuously. “Why? You ought to cry too, Glory! It’ll help you a lot. You’ll break down if you don’t cry.”

  “I can’t!” said Gloria. “The tears are all locked inside! They can’t get out! Vanna, do you think I ought to go and see Mrs. Asher?”

  “No,” said Vanna vehemently. “Nance said she was wild. They had given her a sleeping powder. She wouldn’t see you if you went. Nance said the doctor said they must get her quieted down.”

  Gloria sank back in her chair again and looked hungrily down at the paper whose flaring headlines had been followed by very little other information concerning the tragedy. Gloria had read every word over twice already, yet she took up the paper and searched earnestly for one more little word. Oh, if there was only so much as a hint of denial that that girl had been anything before to Stan! But there it all was printed out cruelly, just two or three lines, but each word ripe to stimulate the imagination, hints that were worse than the truth could possibly be!

  Then suddenly the mother was among them, standing at the doo
r, a look of generalship upon her.

  “Gloria! My poor child!” she mourned. “To think that this should have happened to you and just now before the wedding! It makes it so awkward for you! But child dear, you should go right to bed. You mustn’t think of being up. A trouble like this drains one’s strength. Besides, it is so much easier to excuse you to any mistaken friends who might think they had to call if we can just say you are resting. Get to bed right away, honey dear, and conserve your strength.”

  “No, Mother,” said Gloria, “I’m not going to bed. I’d go wild in bed!”

  Gloria got up and began to pace up and down her room. Her mother watched her with a puzzled look.

  “You’re a strange girl!” she said almost disapprovingly. “If you take it that way, we shall have you sick on our hands before”— she hesitated for the fraction of a second and Gloria shivered as if a cold draught had struck her—“before this is over,” the mother finished.

  “It will never be over!” said Gloria in a hollow, terrible, young voice.

  “Oh, yes, it will!” said her mother quickly. “Of course you can’t see that now, but it’s a merciful thing that sorrows don’t engulf people forever. However, it’s much better just to give way naturally to your grief and not try to keep up and hide your feelings.”

  Gloria looked at her mother as if she did not hear her and went on walking up and down her room.

  The mother gave her another hopeless look and turned as if she would go out, then looked back to say, “We’ll all have to have some black clothes of course. What a pity in the spring of the year! I’ll go and call up Sampson’s and have them send out some things on approval. That’s another reason, Gloria, why you ought to lie down now. You’ll have to try on you know, and that’s almost as wearing as having to go downtown shopping for clothes.”

  Gloria turned in consternation. “Mother! I’m not going to try on clothes today! No, nor any of these days! One doesn’t have to dress for the part to suffer! I’ll wear something I’ve got, anything! But I won’t have anything to do with clothes at such a time as this!”