"Yes!" cried Abbott sharply. "Fran, you are right. I have been—all of us have been—clinging to appearances. Yes, I know what you mean."
"You'll keep Bob Clinton from telling that secret, won't you? He's to go to-night, on the long journey—to-night, after the board meeting. It'll take him three or four days. Then he'll come back…"
"But he'll never tell the secret," Abbott declared. His mouth closed as by a spring.
Fran snatched up the whip, and leaned over as if to lash the empty shafts. She had suddenly become the child again. "We must drive out of Sure-Enough Country, now. Time to get back to the Make-Believe World. You know it isn't best to stay long in high altitudes. I've been pretty high—I feel like I've been breathing pretty close to—heaven." She stood up, and the lap-robe fell about her like green waves from which springs a laughing nymph.
Abbott still felt stunned. The crash of an ideal arouses the echo—"Is there no truth in the world?" But yes—Fran was here, Fran the adorable.
"Fran," he pleaded,"don'tdrive out of Sure-Enough Country. Wait long enough for me to tell you what you are to me."
"I know what I am to you," Fran retorted—"Git ap!"
"But what am I to you? Don't drive so fast—the trees are racing past like mad. I won't leave Sure-Enough Country until I've told you all—"
"You shall! No, I'll not let you take this whip—"
"I will take it—let go—Fran! Blessed darling Fran—"
She gripped the whip tightly. He could not loosen her hold, but he could keep her hand in his, which was just as well. Still, a semblance of struggling was called for, and that is why the sound of approaching wheels was drowned in laughter.
"Here we are!" Fran cried wickedly—"Make-Believe World of Every-Day, and some of its inhabitants…"
A surrey had come down the seldom-used road—had Miss Sapphira followed Abbott in order to discover him with Fran? The suspicion was not just, but his conscience seemed to turn color—or was it his face? In fact, Fran and Abbott were both rather red—caused, possibly, by their struggle over the whip.
On the front seat of the surrey were Miss Sapphira and Bob Clinton. On the back seat was Simon Jefferson whose hairy hand gripped a halter fastened to a riderless horse: the very horse which should have been between the shafts of the Gregory buggy.
Miss Sapphira stared at Abbott, speechless. Sothisis what he had meant by wanting the air unstrained by window-screens. Studying, indeed! Abbott, in his turn, stared speechlessly at the led horse.
Bob Clinton drew rein, and grasped his hay-colored mustache, inadequate to the situation. He glanced reproachfully at Abbott; the young fellow must know that his fate was to be decided this very night.
Abbott could not take his fill of the sight of Simon Jefferson whom he had fancied not far away, eyes glued on cork, hands in pockets to escape mosquitoes, sun on back, serenely fishing. He had supposed the horse grazing near by, enjoying semi-freedom with his grass. Now it seemed far otherwise. Miss Sapphira had even had him telephone to Bob to bring her hither. With his own hands he had dug his pitfall.
Fran, suddenly aware of her ridiculous attitude, sat down and began to laugh.
Bob Clinton inquired, "Taking a drive, Abb?"
Miss Sapphira set her heavy foot upon her brother's unseemly jocularity. "Unfortunately," said Miss Sapphira, speaking with cold civility, "Mr. Jefferson had to come clear to town before he could recapture the horse. We were giving him a lift, and had no idea—noideathat we should find—should come upon—We are sorry to intrude." Had her life depended on it, Miss Sapphira could not have withheld a final touch—"Possibly you were not looking for Mr. Jefferson to come backso soon."
"Why," answered Abbott, stepping to the ground, "hardly so soon." At any rate, he felt that nothing was to be gained by staying in the buggy. "Is that the horse that belongs to this buggy? Let me hitch it up, Mr. Simon."
"This has been a terrible experience for me," growled Simon. All the same, he let Abbott do the work, but not as if he meant to repay him with gratitude.
"What was the matter with your horse, anyway?" Abbott cheerfully inquired.
Simon looked at him sourly. "Didn't Fran tell you that the horse got scared at her throwing rocks at my cork, and broke from the tree where I'd fastened it, and bolted for town?"
"Mr. Simon," said Fran innocently, "I don't believe the horse was mentioned once, while you were gone."
"It would be interesting to know what was," remarked Robert with humor so dry that apparently it choked him; he fell to coughing huskily.
Miss Sapphira gave him a look while he was struggling in his second paroxysm. It healed him by suggestion.
"Turn," said Miss Sapphira with becoming gravity. Robert, still under the influence of her thought-wave, solemnly drove her from the scene.
When the last buckle was clasped—"I came out here for a quiet peaceable fishing," said Simon.
"I've spent my time hunting horses, and being afraid something might happen to Fran."
"Mr. Ashton took care of me," Fran said reassuringly.
Simon cried explosively, "And who took care ofhim?"He climbed in beside Fran and begrudgingly offered Abbott the imaginary space of a third occupant; but Abbott declared his preference for strolling.
"This has been a hard day for my heart," Simon grumbled, as he snatched up the whip vindictively.
The buggy rolled away.
"Mine, too," Abbott called after them emphatically.
Fran looked back at him, from over the lowered top. He saw her hand go to her bosom, then something fluttered in the air and fell in the grassy road. He darted after it as if it were a clue, showing the way to the princess' castle.
Perhaps it was. He pounced upon it—it was the Queen of Hearts.
The life of a household progresses, usually by insensible gradations, toward some great event, some climax, for the building of which each day has furnished its grain of sand. To-day, Hamilton Gregory and Grace Noir were in the library, with nothing to indicate the approach of the great moment in their lives. It was Grace's impatience to drive Fran away even before Robert Clinton should bring the secret from Springfield, that precipitated matters.
Grace might have been prompted in part by personal antipathy, but she believed herself acting from a pure sense of duty. Those who absented themselves from the house of worship were goats; those who came were sheep. In vain might you delude yourself that you were a camel, horse, or bird of plumage; to Grace's thinking, there were no such animals in the religious world—her clear eye made nothing of hump, flowing mane, or gaudy feathers; that eye looked dispassionately for the wool upon your back—or the beard under your chin.
"May I speak to you, Mr. Gregory?" She rose from the typewriter, slightly pale from sudden resolution. He noted the pallor, and it seemed to him that in that spiritual face his faith became visible. One hand rested upon the keys of the typewriter as if to show how little she needed substantial support.
Gregory never missed a movement of his secretary, but now he lifted his head ostensibly, to make his observation official.
"It's about Mr. Clinton," said Grace in a low voice, feeling her way to "that Fran".
He laid down his pen with a frown. Suddenly his missions in New York and Chicago became dead weights. Why Grace's "Mr. Clinton" instead of her customary "Brother Clinton"? It seemed to equip the school- director with formidable powers. Gregory hastened to put him where he belonged.
"Oh! Something about Bob?" he asked casually.
Her look was steady, her voice humble: "Yes."
Her humility touched him profoundly. Knowing how unshakable were her resolutions, he made a desperate attempt to divert her mind: "That is settled, Miss Grace, and it's too late now to alter the decision, for the school-board has already voted us a new superintendent—he has been sent his notification. Abbott Ashton is out of it, and it's all his fault Bob was the only one to stand up for him, but he wasn't strong enough to hold his friend above the wave of popular opinion. Don't ask me to interview Bob for Abbott Ashton."
Grace calmly waited for this futility to pass; then with an air suggesting, "Now, shall we talk sensibly?" she resumed: "I approve the action of the school-board. It did well in dismissing Professor Ashton. May I speak about Mr. Clinton? He urges me to marry him at once."
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed.
"It is not nonsense," Grace calmly responded. "He thinks I could make him a better man. We would work among the very poor in the Chicago settlements; maybe in one of your own missions, I often wonder if I couldn't do more good by personal contact with evil, than I can here, with a person like Fran always clogging my efforts."
He started up. "Grace!Yougo away?—And—and leave me and my work?"
"Let Fran fill my position. You think she's the daughter of your boyhood friend—it would give her position and independence."
"No one can ever fill your place," Gregory exclaimed, with violence. His cheeks burned, lambent flames gleamed in his brown eyes. The effect was startlingly beautiful. At such exalted moments, thinking no evil because ceasing to think, grown all feeling, and it but an infinite longing, the glow of passion refined his face, always delicately sensitive. The vision of Grace, in giving herself to another, like a devouring fire consumed those temporary supports that held him above the shifting sands of his inner nature.
"Grace! But Grace! You wouldn't marryhim!"
Because she found his beauty appealing to her as never before, her voice was the colder: "Any one's place can be filled."
"You don'tcare!"he cried out desperately.
"For Mr. Clinton? Yes, I admire his persistence in seeking God, and his wish to work for mankind. God comes easier to some than to others, and I believe I could help—"
Gregory, aghast at her measured tone, interrupted: "But I mean that you don't care—don't care forme."
"For—" she began abruptly, then added in an odd whisper, "foryou?"
"Yes, for me…don't care how much I suffer, or whether I suffer at all—I mean my work, if it suffers. If I lose you, Grace—"
"Oh, you will always have Fran."
"Fran!" he ejaculated. "So you don't care, Grace…It seems incredible because I care so much. Grace!" His accent was that of utter despair. "How can I lose you since you are everything? What would be left to live for? Nobody else sympathizes with my aims. Who but you understands? Oh, nobody will ever sympathize—ever care—"
"But, Mr. Gregory!" she began, confused. Her face had grown white.
"Grace!" he caught her hand, expecting it to be snatched away—the hand he had hourly admired at its work; he could feel its warmth, caress its shapeliness—and it did not resist. It trembled. He was afraid to press it at first, lest it be wrenched free; and then, the next moment, he was clasping it convulsively. For the first time in her life, Grace did not meet his eyes.
"Grace!" he panted, not knowing what he was saying, "you care, I see you care for me—don't you?"
"No," she whispered. Her lips were dry, her eyes wide, her bosom heaving. Boundaries hitherto unchangeable, were suddenly submerged. Desperately, as if for her life, she sought to cling to such floating landmarks as Duty, Conscience, Virtue—but they were drifting madly beyond reach.
"But you can't lovehim,can you?" Gregory asked brokenly.
Grace, with closed eyes, shook her head—what harm could there be in that confession? After his voice ceased, she still heard the roaring as of a shell, as if she might be half-drowned in mere sound.
"You won't go away, will you, Grace?" he pleaded, drawing her closer.
She shook her head, lips still parted, eyes still closed.
"Speak to me, Grace. Tell me you will never leave me."
Her lips trembled, then he heard a faint "Never!" Instantly neck and brow were crimsoned; her face, always superb, became enchanting. The dignity of the queen was lost in the woman's greater charm.
"Because you love me!" cried Gregory wildly. "I know you do, now, I know you do!" His arm was about her. "You will never leave me because you love me. Look at me, Grace!"
It seemed that her eyelids were held down by tyrannous thumbs. She tried to lift them, and tried again. Her face was irradiated by the sunrise glow of a master passion. Swiftly he kissed her lips, and as she remained motionless, he kissed her again and again.
Suddenly she exclaimed blindly, "Oh, my God!" Then she threw her arms about him, as he drew her to his bosom.
It was at that moment, as if Fate herself had timed the interruption, that Fran entered.
There was a violent movement of mutual repulsion on the part of Hamilton Gregory and his secretary. Fran stood very still, the sharpness of her profile defined, with the keenness of eyes and a slight grayness about the lips that made her look oddly small and old.
Fran was a dash of water upon raging fire. The effect was not extinguishment, but choking vapors. Bewildered, lost to old self- consciousness, it was necessary for Grace to readjust herself not only to these two, but to herself as well.
Fran turned upon her father, and pointed toward his desk. "Stand there!" she said, scarcely above a whisper.
Gregory burst forth in blind wrath: "How dare you enter the room in this manner? You shall leave this house at once, and for ever….I should have driven you out long ago. Do you hear me? Go!"
Fran's arm was still extended. "Stand there!" she repeated.
Quivering in helpless fury, he stumbled to his desk, and leaned upon it. His face burned; that of Grace Noir was ghastly white.
"Now,you"said Fran, her voice vibrating as she faced the secretary, "go to your typewriter!"
Grace did not move.
Fran's eyes resembled cold stones with jagged points as her steady arm pointed: "Go! Stand where I tell you to stand. Oh, I have tamed lions before to-day. You needn't look at me so—I'm not afraid of your teeth."
Grace's fear was not inspired by dread of exposure, but by the realization that she had done what she could not have forgiven in another. But for the supreme moment she might never have realized the real nature of her feeling for her employer. She stood appalled and humiliated, yet her spirit rose in hot revolt because it was Fran who had found her in Gregory's arms. She glared at her defiantly. "Yes," said Fran somberly, "that's my profession, lion-taming. I'm the 'World-Famous Fran Nonpareil'. Go to your typewriter, Grace Noir, I say—Go!"
Grace could not speak without filling every word with concentrated hate: "You wicked little spy, your evil nature won't let you see anything but evil in the fruits of your eavesdropping. You misjudge simply because it would be impossible for you to understand."
"I see by your face thatyouunderstand—pity you hadn't waked up long ago." Fran looked from one to the other with a dark face. Whether justly or not, they reminded her of two lions in a cage; she stood between, to keep them apart, lest, combining their forces, they spring upon her.
"I understand nothing of what you imagine you know," Grace said stammeringly. "I haven't committed a crime. Stop looking at me as if I had—do you hear?" Her tone was passionate: "I am what I have always been-" Did she say that to reassure herself? "What do you mean, Fran? I command you to put your suspicions in words."
"I have had them roar at me before to-day," cried Fran. "What I mean is that you're to leave the house this day."
"I shall not leave this house, unless Mr. Gregory orders it. It would be admitting that I've done wrong, and I am what I have always been. What you saw…I will say this much, that it shall never happen again. But nothing has happened that you think, little impostor, with your evil mind…I am what I have always been. And I'm going to prove that you are an impostor in a very short time."
Fran turned to Hamilton Gregory. "Tell her to go," she said threateningly. "Tell her she must. Order it. You know what I mean when I say she must go, and she needn't show her claws at me. I don't go into the cage without my whip. Tell her to go."
He turned upon Fran, pushed to utter desperation. "No—youshall go!" he said between clenched teeth.
"Yes!" exclaimed Grace. It was a hiss of triumphant hate.
Fran lost control over herself. "Do you think, knowing what I know, that I'll stand quietly by and see you disgrace your wife as you disgraced…Do you think I'll let you have this Grace Noir for your…to be the third—Do you think I've come out of your past life to fold my hands? I tell you plainly that I'll ruin you with that secret before I'll let you have this woman."
Gregory beheld the awful secret quivering upon her lips. The danger drove him mad."You devil!"he shouted, rushing upon her.
Fran stood immovable, her eyes fastened on his. "Don't strike me," she said tensely, "don't strike me, I warn you, unless you kill at the first blow."
[Illustration: "Don't strike me; I warn you."]
He staggered back as if her words possessed physical impact. He shrunk in a heap in the library chair and dropped his head upon his arms. To prevent Grace from learning the truth, he could have done almost anything in that first moment of insane terror; but he could not strike Fran.
In the meantime, Mrs. Gregory had been ascending the stairs. They could hear her now, as she softly moved along the hall. No one in the library wished, at that moment, to confront the wife, and absolute silence reigned in the apartment. They heard her pause, when opposite the door, doubtless to assure herself that the typewriter was at work. If she did not hear the clicking of the keys, she might conclude that Grace was absent, and enter.
Gregory raised his haggard head with an air suggesting meditated flight. Even Grace cowered back instinctively. Swift as a shadow, Fran darted on tiptoe to the typewriter, and began pounding upon it vigorously.
Mrs. Gregory passed on her way, and when she reached the farther end of the hall, an old hymn which she had been humming, broke into audible words. Fran snatched the sheet from the typewriter, and bent her head to listen. The words were soft, full of a thrilling faith, a dauntless courage—
"Still all my song shall beNearer my God to Thee,Nearer—"
A door closed. She was gone. Gregory dropped his head with a groan.
It seemed to Fran that the voice of this wife who was not a wife, lingered in the room. The hymn, no longer audible, had left behind it a fragrance, as sometimes lingers the sweet savor of a prayer, after its "amen" has, as it were, dropped back into the heart whence it issued. Fran instinctively held out both arms toward the direction of the door just closed, as if she could see Mrs. Gregory kneeling behind it.
"Almost," she said, in a solemn undertone, "thou persuadest me to be aChristian."
Had any one but Mrs. Gregory been singing that hymn, had any one but Fran been the one to intrude upon the library scene, Grace must have been overwhelmed. As it was, she stood quite untouched, resolving to stay in order to prove herself, and to show Gregory that they must sacrifice their love for conscience' sake.
Gregory, however, was deeply touched by Fran's yearning arms. He rose and stood before her.
"Fran, child, we promise that what you saw shall never happen again. But you mustn't tell about it. I know you won't tell. I can't send Grace away, because I need her. She will not go because she knows herself to be strong. We are going to hide our souls. And you can't tell what you've seen, on account ofher—"He pointed in the direction of his wife.
Fran knew very well what he meant. If she told the secret, it would disgrace Mrs. Gregory. The revelation might drive Grace away, though Fran did not think so, but certainly whether Grace went, or stayed, it would break the heart of the one she loved best in that home. Gregory was right; Fran could never betray him.
She turned blindly upon Grace: "Then have you no conscience?—you are always talking about one. Does no sense of danger warn you away? Can't you feel any shame?"
Grace did not smile contemptuously. She weighed these words at their real value, and soberly interrogated herself. "No," she declared with deliberation, "I feel no sense of danger because I mean to guard myself after this. And my conscience bids me stay, to show that I have not really done anything—" But she could not deny the feeling of shame, for the burning of her cheeks proved the recollection of hot kisses.
"But suppose I tell what I have seen."
"Well," said Grace, flashing out defiantly, "and suppose you do!"
Gregory muttered, "Who would believe you?"
Fran looked at him."Then"she said, "the coward spoke." She added, "I guess the only way is for you to make her leave. There's nothing in her for me to appeal to."
"I will never tell her to go," he assured her defiantly.
"While, on the contrary," said Grace, "I fancy you will be put to flight in three or four days."
Fran threw back her head and laughed silently while they stared at her in blank perplexity.
Fran regained composure to say coolly, "I was just laughing." Then she stepped to her father's chair and handed him the sheet she had drawn from the typewriter. The upper part was an unfinished letter to the Chicago mission, just as Grace had left it in her haste to get rid of Fran. At odd variance with its philanthropic message were the words Fran had pounded out for the deception of Mrs. Gregory.
Hamilton Gregory glared at them at first uncomprehendingly, then in growing amazement. They read—
"Ask her why she sent Bob Clinton to Springfield."
He started up. "What is this?" he exclaimed wildly, extending the paper toward Grace.
She read it, and smiled coldly. "Yes," she said, "the little spy has even ferreted that out, has she! Very well, she won't be so cool when Mr. Clinton returns from Springfield."
"From Springfield!" echoed Gregory, aghast. "From Springfield. Mr. Gregory, I have made the discovery that this Fran, whom you imagine only about sixteen years old, and the daughter of an old friend, is really of age. She's nothing but a circus-girl. You thought her joking when she called herself a lion-tamer; that's the way she meant for us to take it—but she can't deceive me. She's nothing but a show-girl pretending to come from Springfield. But I know better. So I've sent Mr. Clinton there to find out all about the family of your friend, and in particular about the girl that this Fran is impersonating."
"You sent Bob Clinton to Springfield!" gasped Gregory, as if his mind could get no further than that. Then he turned savagely upon Fran— "And did you tell her about Springfield?"
Fran smiled her crooked smile.
Grace interposed: "You may be sure she didn't! Do you think she wanted her history cleared up? Mr. Gregory, you have been blind all the time; this girl never saw Springfield. She's a complete fraud. Since you are so blinded by what she says that you won't investigate her claims, I decided to do this for your sake. When Mr. Clinton comes back, it's good-by to this circus-girl!"
Fran looked at her father inscrutably. "I believe, after this," she said, "it will be safe to leave you two together."
Fran had expected Robert Clinton's return in four or five days, as had Grace Noir, but secrets that have been buried for many years are not picked up in a day. However, had the chairman of the school-board returned the day after his departure, Abbott Ashton would have met him at the station. Twice, in the opinion of Fran, the young man had failed her by allowing Grace's mind to flash to important discoveries along the path of his insulated remarks about the weather. This third test was more equal, since he was to deal with no Grace Noir—merely with a man.
As Littleburg had only one railroad, and it a "branch", it was not difficult to meet every train; moreover, Miss Sapphira's hasty notes from her brother kept Abbott advised. At first, Miss Sapphira said, "It will be a week;" later—"Ten days more—and the business left like this!" Then came the final bulletin: "I may come to-morrow. Look for me when you see me."
What the secret was that Abbott must prevent Clinton from divulging, he did not care to guess; doubtless the picture of Gregory's past, with its face to the wall, might be inscribed, "Some other woman." For surely Grace Noir was some other woman. Having admitted the truth to himself, he wondered that all the world did not see—or was it that all the world needed a Fran to open eyes willfully blind?
With these thoughts, Abbott met the evening train, to see Robert Clinton hastily emerge from the solitude he had endured in the midst of many.
Robert was in no pacific mood, and when he found himself almost in the arms of Abbott, his greeting was boisterous because impatient at being stopped. Abbott, knowing that Robert was not ordinarily effusive, thought, "He has the secret!"
Robert shook hands without delaying progress toward the waiting hack, bearing Abbott along on waves of greeting.
"But surely you are not going toride!"Abbott expostulated.
"Business—very pressing—see you later."
"But I have business with you, Mr. Clinton, that can't wait. Come, walk with me to town and I'll explain; it'll delay you only a few minutes."
Like a restive horse on finding himself restrained, Robert Clinton lifted a leg without advancing. "Oh, very well," he agreed. "In fact, I've something important foryou,old fellow, and I'll explain before I—before the—yes,before,"he ended, turning his back upon the hack with a smothered growl.
They penetrated the silent by-streets of the outskirts of Littleburg, Robert going as fast as he could drag his companion, and Abbott walking as slowly as he could hold back the other.
"Lucky I was at the station," Abbott exclaimed, "since you've something to tell me, Bob. What is it?" In thus addressing his old friend as "Bob" the young man was officially declaring that their relationship as teacher and school-director was for ever at an end, and they stood as man to man.
Clinton spoke rapidly, with his wonted bruskness: "Guess you know I've been knocking about the country for the last three or four weeks—saw a good many old friends—a fellow can't go anywhere without meeting somebody he knows—curious, isn't it? Well, I've got an opening for you. You know how sorry I am because we had to plump another teacher on to your job, but don't you worry if Frandidhold your hand—just you keep your hands in your pockets after this, when there's danger— Say! I've got something lots better for you than Littleburg. School out in Oklahoma—rich—private man behind it—he owns the whole plant, and he's determined to run it to suit the new ideas. This rich man— chum of mine—went West, bought land, sat on it, got up with his jeans full of money. Wants you to comeatonce."
Abbott was elated. "What kind of new ideas, Bob?" he asked joyously.
"Oh, that impractical nonsense of teaching life instead of books—I guess it's as much an advance over the common thing, as teaching words instead of a, b, c's. You know what I mean, but I don't thinkIdo. Don't worry about it now—something terrible's on my mind—just awful! I can't think of anything else. What you want to do is to scoot out to Tahlelah, Oklahoma, to this address—here's his card—tell 'em Bob sent you—" He looked at Abbott feverishly, as if almost hoping Abbott would bolt for Tahlelah then and there. His broad red face was set determinedly.
"This news is splendid!" Abbott declared enthusiastically. "I had already applied for a country school; I was afraid I had lost out a whole year, on account of—everything. I must thank—"
"Abbott, I don't want to be thanked, I haven't got time to be thanked. Yonder's Hamilton Gregory's house and that's where I'm bound—good night—"
"But, Bob, I haven't told you my business—"
"I'll hear it later, old fellow—dear old fellow—I think a heap of you, old Abb. But I must go now—"
"No, you mustn't. Before you go into that house, we must have a little talk. We can't talk here—people are coming and going—"
"Idon't want to talk here, bless you! I want to go in that house. My business is private and pressing." The gate was but a few yards away; he looked at it fixedly, but Abbott held his hand upon the agitated arm.
"Bob, what I have to tell you can't wait, and that's all about it. I won't keep you long, just turn down this alley with me, for it's a matter of life and death."
"Confound your life and death!Mybusiness is life and death, too."
At that moment, a light was turned on in Gregory's library, and GraceNoir was seen to pass the window.
Abbott's hand tightened on the other's arm, as he urged, "Down that alley, a nice dark place for talking—"
"'Nice dark', be hanged!" growled Robert. "What business can you have with me that wouldn't wait till morning? Look here, I'm desperate!"
"So am I," retorted Abbott. "Bob, you've been to Springfield."
Robert Clinton snatched open the yard-gate, muttering, "That's my business."
"Miss Noir sent you to unearth a secret."
"Oh!" exclaimed Robert, in an altered tone, stopping in the gateway, "didshetell you about it?"
"No—but you've brought back that secret, and you must not tell it toMiss Noir."
"Not tell her? That's funny!" Robert produced a sound which he expected to pass as laughter. "So that's what you wanted to tell me, is it? Do you know what the secret is?"
"I do not. But you mustn't tell it."
"However, that's what I'm going to do, as soon as I reach that door— take your hand off, man, my blood's up, by George! Can't you see my blood's up? It's a-boiling, that's what it's doing! So all you want is to ask me not to tell that secret?"
"Not exactly all."
"Well, well—quick! What else?"
"To see that you don't tell it."
"How do you mean to 'see' that I don't tell it?"
"You will listen to reason, Bob," said Abbott persuasively.
"No, I won't!" cried Robert. "Not me!No, sir!I'm going to tell this minute."
"You shall not!" said Abbott, in a lower and more compelling tone. His manner was so absolute, that Robert Clinton, who had forced his way almost to the porch-steps, was slightly moved.
"See here, Abbott—say! Fran knows all about it, and you pretend to think a good deal of her. Well, it's to her interests for the whole affair to be laid open to the world."
"I think so much of Fran," was the low and earnest rejoinder, "that if I were better fixed, I'd ask her to marry me without a moment's delay. And I think enough of her, not to ask her to marry me, until I have a good position. Now it was Fran who asked me to see that you didn't betray the secret. And I think so much of her, that I'm going to see that you don't!"
For a moment Clinton was silent; then he said in desperation: "Where is your nice dark alley? Come on, then, let's get in it!"
When they were safe from interruption, Clinton resumed: "You tell me that Fran wants that secret kept? I'd think she'd want it told everywhere. This secret is nothing at all but the wrong that was done Fran and her mother. And since you are so frank about how you like Fran, I'll follow suit and say that I have asked Grace Noir to marry me, and I know I'll stand a better show by getting her out of the hypnotic spell of that miserable scoundrel who poses as a bleating sheep—"
Abbott interrupted: "The wrong done Fran? How do you mean?"
"Why, man, that—that hypocrite in wool, that weed that infests the ground, that—"
"In short, Mr. Gregory? But what about the wrong done Fran?"
"Ain't I telling you? That worm-eaten pillar of the church that's made me lose so much faith in religion that I ain't got enough left worth the postage stamp to mail it back to the revival meeting where it come from—"
"For heaven's sake, Bob, tell me what wrong Mr. Gregory did Fran!"
"Didn't he marry Fran's mother when he was a college chap in Springfield, and then desert her? Didn't he marry again, although his first wife—Fran's mother—was living, and hadn't been divorced? Don't he refuse to acknowledge Fran as his daughter, making her pass herself off as the daughter of some old college chum? That's what he did, your choir-leader! I'd like to see that baton of his laid over his back; I'd like to lay it, myself."
It was impossible for Abbott to receive all this as a whole; he took up the revelations one at a time. "Is it possible that Fran is Mr. Gregory'sdaughter?"
"Oh, she's his, all right, only child of his only legal wife—that's why she came, thinking her father would do the right thing, him that's always praying to be guided aright, and balking whenever the halter's pulled straight."
"Then," Abbott stammered, "Mrs. Gregory is…"
"Yap;iswith a question mark. But there's one thing she isn't; she isn't the legal wife of this pirate what's always a-preying upon the consciences of folks that thinks they're worse than him."
"As for Mr. Gregory," Abbott began sternly—
Robert pursued the name with a vigorous expletive, and growled, "One thing Mr. Gregoryhasdone for me, he's opened the flood-gates that have been so long dammed—yes, I say dammed—I say—"
"Bob," Abbott exclaimed, "don't you understand Fran's object in keeping the secret? It's on account of Mrs. Gregory. Ifshefinds it out—that she's not legally married—don't you see? Of course it would be to Fran's interests—bless her heart! What a—what a Nonpareil!"
"'Tain't natural," returned Clinton, "for any girl to consult the interests of the woman that's supplanted her mother. No, Fran's afraid to have it told for fear she'd be injured by your cut-glass paragon, your religion-stuffed pillow that calls itself a man."
"Fran afraid? That's a joke! I tell you, she's thinking only of Mrs.Gregory."
"I'm sorry for Mrs. Gregory," Robert allowed, "but Grace Noir is more to me than any other woman on earth. You don't see the point. When I think of a girl like Grace Noir living under the same roof with that— that—"
"Mr. Gregory," Abbott supplied.
"—And she so pure, so high, so much above us….It makes me crazy. And all the time she's been breathing the same air, she's thought him a Moses in the Wilderness, and us nothing but the sticks. Think of her believing in that jelly pulp, that steel engraving in a Family Bible! No, I mean to open her eyes, and get her out of his spider's web."
"I see your point of view."
"You do if you have eyes. Think of that perfect angel—but just sayGrace Noirand you've called all the virtues. And her in his house!—"
"You still believe in angels?" inquired Abbott gravely.
"Yap; and devils with long sort-of-curly hair, and pretty womanish faces, and voices like molasses."
"But Fran wants Mrs. Gregory spared—"
"Abbott, when I think of Grace Noir spending one more night under the roof of that burrowing mole, that crocodile with tears in his eyes and the rest of him nothing but bone and gristle—"
"Bob, if I assure you that Miss Noir will never spend another day under his roof, will you agree to keep this discovery to yourself?"
"You can't make no such assurance. If she ain't put wise to what branch of the animal kingdom he twigs to, she'll not leave his roof."
"Bob, if she leaves that house in the morning, for ever, won't you agree to silence, for Mrs. Gregory's sake—and because Fran asks it?"
"Fran's another angel, bless her heart! But you can't work it."
"Leave it to me, Bob. I'll be guided by the spur of the moment."
"I need a bookkeeper at my store," Robert said, ruminating.
"I promise you that Miss Noir will soon be open to offers."
"See here, Abbott, I can't afford to lose any chances on this thing. I'm going into that house before this night passes, and I'm going to see the feathers fly. No—I don't want Mrs. Gregory to learn about it, any more than you or Fran; but I'll limit the thing to Grace—"
"She'd tell Mrs. Gregory."
"Don't you say anything against Grace Noir, Abbott, for though you are my friend—"
"I say nothing against her; I say only that she's a woman."
"Well," Clinton reluctantly agreed, "I reckon she is. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go with you into that wolf's den, and I'll let you do all the talking; and if you can manage things in half an hour—just thirty minutes by my watch—so that Grace leaves there to-morrow, I'll leave you to steer things, and it's mum for keeps. But I'm going to be present, though I don't want to say one word to that—that—But if he don't crawl out of his wool far enough to suit the purpose, in short, if he don't cave, and in half an hour—"
"Half an hour will do the business," said Abbott stoutly. "Come!"
"Be sure to call for Mr. Gregory by himself," said Robert, as they walked swiftly back to the Gregory residence. "If Grace comes into the room while we're talking, or Mrs. Gregory—"
"If they do," Abbott said quickly, "you are not to utter one word,not one,about Springfield—you understand? It's the bargain, and I shall hold you to your word of honor."
"For half an hour I won't say a word," Clinton declared, "unless it's some word just drawn out of my bosom by the sight of that villain. Come!"
During the weeks spent by Robert Clinton in search of Fran's life- secret, a consciousness of absence and its cause was like a hot iron branding Gregory's brain. What a mocking fatality, that it should have been Grace to send Robert on his terrible errand,—an errand which must result in ruin! Whenever Gregory tried to anticipate results, he stood appalled; hour by hour his mind was ever darting forward into the future, trying to build it of related parts of probabilities.
Mrs. Gregory would be pitied when it became known how she had been deceived; Fran would be pitied because she was a disowned daughter; Grace would be pitied for trusting in the integrity of her employer,— but Gregory, who of all men needed pity most, would be utterly despised. He did not think of himself alone, but of his works of charity—they, too, would fall, in his disgrace, and Walnut Street church—even religion itself—would be discredited because of an exposure that could avail nothing.
Gregory had been too long proclaiming the living God not to feel Him as a Presence, and in this Presence he felt a shuddering fear that could suggest no relief but propitiation. He as well as Abbott Ashton had kept himself informed of Robert's movements as far as they were known to Miss Sapphira, hence the day of Robert's return found his thought of atonement at its most frenzied stage.
As evening wore on, he made up his mind to the fatal step.
Before Robert could expose him, Gregory would confess. It had seemed inevitable since learning of the school-director's mission; but he could not shorten, by one hour, the sweet comradeship in the library. Now that the last hour had come, he sought his wife, reeling like a sick man as he descended the hall stairs.
Mrs. Gregory was softly playing an old hymn, when he discovered her presence in the brilliantly lighted parlor. Grace was expecting a visit from Clinton and had made the room cheerful for his coming, and Mrs. Gregory, looking in and finding no one present, had sunk upon the stool before the piano. She did not see her husband, for her face was bent low as she feelingly played,I Need Thee Every Hour.
Gregory, well-nigh overwhelmed with the realization of what he meant to do, grasped the door for support. Presently he spoke, brokenly, "Lucy, how true that is—we do, indeed, need Him every hour."
She did not start at his voice, though his presence had been unsuspected. She raised her serious eyes, and observed his haggard face. "Mr. Gregory, you are ill."
"No—the light hurts my eyes." He turned off the lights and drew a chair near her. The room was partly revealed by an electric arc that swung at the street corner—its mellowed beams entered the open window. "Lucy, I have something very important to say to you."
Her fingers continued to wander among the keys, making the hymn barely audible, then letting it die away, only to be revived. She supposed it was the old matter of her going to church—but since her name had been taken "off the book", what was left to be said?
"Lucy, I have never spoken of this before, but it has seemed to me for a long time that we have wandered rather far apart—yes, very far apart. We sit close together, alone, our hands could touch, but our souls live in different worlds. Do you ever feel that way?"
She ceased playing abruptly, and answered almost in a whisper, "Yes."
"Perhaps it is my fault," said Gregory, "although I know that if you had taken more interest in what interests me, if you had been true to the Faith as I have tried to be—"
"I have been true to you," said Mrs. Gregory.
"Of course—of course—there is no question of our being true to each other. But it's because you have alienated yourself from what I look upon as the only duty in life, that we have drifted—and you could have prevented that. I feel that I am not wholly to blame, Lucy, it has been my fault and it has been your fault—that is how I look at it."
There was silence, then she said, "There seems nothing to be done."
"How do you mean? You speak as if our love were dead and buried—"
She rose abruptly, saying, "And its grave unmarked."
"Sit down, Lucy—I haven't told you what I came to tell—you must listen and try to see it as I see it. Let us be reasonable and discuss the future in a—in a sensible and matter-of-fact way. If you will agree—"
"I will not agree to it," she answered firmly. "Let me go, Mr.Gregory, there is no need ever to bring up that subject."
He had risen, and now in blank amazement, he stared at her, repeating, "You will not agree to it? To what? You are unreasonable. What subject have I brought up?"
"It is very true that we have drifted too far apart to be as we were in the beginning. But there is still something left to me, and this something I shall cling to as long as I can. I mean to avoid the publicity, the open exposure, the shame of—of—a neglected wife."
"My God!" whispered Gregory, falling back, "then somebody has told you about Springfield—it was Fran!"
"I don't know what you mean," she returned, apparently without emotion. "WhatImean is, that I shall never consent to a divorce."
"A divorce? Good heavens, Lucy, are you mad? Do you think I want a separation because you disown the church? What have I ever done to make you imagine such an absurdity?"
She answered gently, "Yes, it seems I misunderstood. But you said you wanted me to discuss the future in a matter-of-fact way, and I couldn't think of the future as having any other matter-of-fact solution."
Gregory was hotly indignant. "Lucy, if that is meant as an insinuation against—"
Mrs. Gregory raised her hand compellingly. "Do not speak any name," she said, looking at him steadily. "I can endure much," she went on, in a milder tone, finding him silent; "I often wonder if many women could endure as silently—but there must never be a name mentioned between us."
Her manner was so unwontedly final, that he stood looking at her, not knowing how to resume the pressing subject of his past. They were in that same silent attitude when Grace Noir came in from the hall.
Grace turned up the lights, and then—"Oh!" It was impossible to prevent an unpleasant compression of the mouth at discovering Gregory so near his wife. "Am I in the way? I am looking for company, and I heard the door-bell—please excuse me!" she added, biting off the words.
"Of course you are not in the way," Gregory returned desperately. "Company, you say? And you heard the door-bell—is Bob Clinton—" He grew white. "My eyes are bad, for some reason," he muttered, and switched off the lights again.
"How very dark you have it in here!" said Grace reprovingly. "Of course Mr. Clinton has been shown in the back-parlor, where it is light. I will go to him there, and leave you two—" she paused irresolutely, but neither spoke.
Grace had no sooner gone than Gregory with an effort found his voice. "Lucy, my conscience has tormented me until it will not let me rest— about you. It's your right to know something more about my life than I have ever told—"
"Right in there," said the maid's voice, from the hall, and AbbottAshton and Robert Clinton entered the half-light.
While Robert was greeting Mrs. Gregory with exaggerated pleasure, in order to escape facing her husband, Abbott spoke to the other with an odd sense of meanness, as if he partook, by mere nearness, of the other's cowardice. "I wish to speak to you for a few minutes, Mr. Gregory."
Gregory, like an animal brought to bay, said, "I suppose you've some excuse about playing cards with Fran."
"More important than playing cards," Abbott returned. He could not meet the eyes of this man he had once highly venerated—it was like beholding an ideal divested of imagined beauty, shivering in the shame of its nakedness.
Gregory fought off the inevitable: "If you refer to losing your position at the public school—"
"No. Clinton has come home from Springfield, and we have a matter—"
"It's pressing business," spoke up Robert, who all this time had been asking Mrs. Gregory if her mother was well, if Simon Jefferson was no worse, if Fran was hearty, if Grace Noir was at home—"and private business."
Abbott looked warningly at his friend to remind him of his promise not to utter a word. Robert, remembering, tightly compressed his lips, and marched over to the piano. He leaned upon it heavily.
"I have no business," Mr. Gregory exclaimed, in fear, "that my wife need not know."
"This is—" cried Robert. Then remembering, he struck the keys a resounding chord.
Mrs. Gregory was about to leave the room.
"No, no!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory, starting to the door to intercept her, "I want you to stay. I'll have no secrets from you, Lucy. I want you to hear what these gentlemen have to say." He glared at Abbott as if daring him to speak the words that must destroy his wife's last feeble hold on her position.
"I hope Mrs. Gregory will excuse us," said Abbott, smiling at her as cheerfully as he could, "but she knows that there are matters of business that women don't understand, or care to learn. This is something that relates merely to you, Mr. Gregory, and ourselves."
"Of course I understand you, Abbott," said Mrs. Gregory gently, "and Mr. Gregory is wrong to insist on my interrupting—women are always in the way—" She smiled, and, slipping around Gregory, had reached the door, when she came face to face with Grace Noir, entering. At sight of her—for Grace did not pause, but went over to the piano—Mrs. Gregory apparently reconsidered, and stepped to her husband's side.
"So you did come," Grace said, smiling at Robert. "Shall we go into the other room?"
Robert reveled in her beauty, and to that extent his anger againstGregory flamed higher. "Pretty soon," he said, "pretty soon, MissGrace—in just twenty minutes—" he looked at his watch, then atAbbott.
"I must tell you, Mr. Gregory," Abbott began rapidly, "that I had just thirty minutes to consummate the matter with you,—just half an hour, when we came here, and ten minutes are already gone. Only twenty minutes are left."
"What do you mean by your twenty minutes being left?" Gregory blustered.
Abbott spoke carefully, at the same time drawing a little farther away from the man he despised: "Bob has been to Springfield about that matter, you understand."
"No, I don't," cried Gregory. "Or if I do—tell it out—all of it."
"He has been to Springfield," Abbott went on, "and he got on the inside of the business, and the interests are determined that—that they will retaliate on you for your successes in the past, and at the same time be a help to Bob."
"I don't understand," Gregory gasped blankly.
"Me neither," muttered Robert.
"It's very simple," Abbott maintained. "The Springfield interests want to give you a blow, and give Bob a helping hand. Therefore, you are to transfer your secretary to his store, where a bookkeeper is needed."
"Oh, indeed," interposed Grace Noir icily. "I am a mere pawn, Ipresume, to be sent where I am wanted. But I would like to ask Mr.Clinton if he found out anything about Fran, while he was inSpringfield?"
"Fran is all she claims to be," Robert declared bluntly.
"All? You can prove she's no fraud?"
"My pockets are full of proofs," Robert exclaimed, looking significantly at Gregory.
"Dear Fran!" murmured Mrs. Gregory with a sweet smile of reminiscence.
"Abbott," Mr. Gregory gasped, as he began to realize the compromise that was offered, "you have always been my friend—and you have been interested in my charities—you know how important my secretary is to my work. It is true that I did wrong, years ago—very wrong—it is true that I bitterly—what shall I say?—antagonized the interests at Springfield. But that was so long ago. Am I to be punished now—"
"Mr. Gregory," said Abbott, clearly and forcibly, "I have nothing to do with any punishment, I have nothing to do with demanding the release of your secretary. I am a mere agent of the interests, sent to you to demand that your secretary be dismissed in the morning; and if you can not see your way to promise me now that you will dismiss her, my office is ended. If you can promise to send her away, I give you my word the transactions shall be for ever hushed up, so far as we are concerned. If you can not promise, all will be revealed at once."
"In just ten minutes," said Robert Clinton, consulting his watch.
Grace stood looking at Gregory as if turned to stone. She had listened intently to every word as it fell from Abbott's lips, but not once had she turned her head to look at him.
"You are cruel," Gregory flared out, "you are heartless. If I send away the only one who is in perfect knowledge and sympathy with my work—"
"Then you refuse?"
"Of course I refuse. I'll not permit the work of years to perish because of an unreasonable and preposterous demand. You wouldn't exchange your position here for Bob's grocery, would you, Miss Grace?" he ended appealingly.
"Yes—if you dismiss me," Grace answered, her eyes smoldering.
"Lucy"—Gregory was almost beside himself—"tell her she must stay— tell these men we can not go on with our work, without her."
Not for worlds would Mrs. Gregory have betrayed eagerness for Grace to go, but for no consideration would she have asked her to stay. "Mr. Gregory," she responded, "I can not conceive of your being in the power of business interests to such an extent as to drive you to do anything that seems like taking your heart's blood."
"I refuse!" cried Gregory, again. "Of course I refuse."
"Very well," said Abbott, turning.
"But what are you going to do?" Gregory asked shrinkingly.
"I shall go now; my endeavor to straighten out things—or rather to keep everything peaceful and forgotten—comes to nothing, it seems. Good evening, Mrs. Gregory."
"But wait! Wait! Let us discuss this alone—"
"It is useless now, for the time has expired."
"That's right," Clinton confirmed; clicking to his watch.
"And all of it is going to be told? Everything?"
"Unless you will dismiss your secretary."
"But you insult Miss Grace to speak in that way. Good heavens, Abbott, what are you doing? How can you insult that—the best woman in the world?"
There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gregory turned to her husband and said quietly, "If Miss Noir is the best woman in the world, you should be the last man in the world to say so."
He covered his face with his hands. "Everybody has turned against me," he complained. "I am the most miserable man on earth because for mere caprice, for mere spite, for no earthly good, it is the determination of people who have lost positions and the like, to drive me wild."
Robert Clinton thumped the keys of the piano with one hand.
"Why, hello, Mr. Bob!" cried Fran, dancing into forgotten—comes to nothing, it seems. Good evening, Mrs. Gregory."
"But wait! Wait! Let us discuss this alone—""It is useless now, for the time has expired."
"That's right," Clinton confirmed; clicking to his watch.
"And all of it is going to be told? Everything?"
"Unless you will dismiss your secretary."
"But you insult Miss Grace to speak in that way. Good heavens, Abbott, what are you doing? How can you insult that—the best woman in the world?"
There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gregory turned to her husband and said quietly, "If Miss Noir is the best woman in the world, you should be the last man in the world to say so."
He covered his face with his hands. "Everybody has turned against me," he complained. "I am the most miserable man on earth because for mere caprice, for mere spite, for no earthly good, it is the determination of people who have lost positions and the like, to drive me wild."
Robert Clinton thumped the keys of the piano with one hand.
"Why, hello, Mr. Bob!" cried Fran, dancing into the room. "So you're back, are you?" She shook hands breezily.
"Come back, Abbott, come back!" called Gregory, discovering that the young man was indeed going, "You know what Imustdo, if you drive me to the wall. I am obliged to do what you say. State the condition again if you have the courage to say it aloud."
"The past will be forgotten," said Abbott solemnly, "if you give your word that your secretary shall go in the morning."
"And you'll take me in her place," spoke up Fran decidedly.
"The time is up," said Clinton harshly, "It's too late now, for I shall tell—"
"I promise, I promise!" Gregory cried out, in an agony of fear. "I promise. Yes, I'll dismiss her. Yes, she shall go! Yes, let Franhavethe place."
"Do I understand you to dismiss me, Mr. Gregory?" asked Grace, in a low concentrated tone, leaning slightly forward.
Fran turned on the lights to their fullest extent, and looked about with an elfish smile.
Hamilton Gregory was mute.
"I have your promise," said Abbott, bowing gravely. "That is enough."
"Yes," groaned Gregory, "but it is infamous."
Fran looked at Abbott inscrutably. "Third time's the charm," she said, in a whisper. "I'm proud of you this time, Abbott."
Grace turned with cold dignity, and moved slowly toward the hall door.
Fran slipped between Clinton and the piano, and began to play softly, carelessly with one hand, while she watched the retreating figure.
In a very short time, Gregory found himself alone in the parlor. Abbott and Clinton had withdrawn rather awkwardly, Mrs. Gregory had melted away unobtrusively, and Fran, last of all, had given the piano a final bang, and darted out of the house.
Gregory stood pale and miserable. It seemed as if all the world had deserted him. The future without Grace would be as dreary as now seemed his past with Fran's mother. He suffered horribly. Was suffering all that life had left for him? Perhaps he was reaping—but is there no end to the harvest? One sows in so brief a time; is the garnering eternal?
A bell rang, but he was not curious. Voices sounded at the front door, footsteps passed, then silence once more—silence and despair. Gregory went to the open window, and leaned heavily on the sill, taking great breaths, staring dully.
Footsteps were heard again! They were near by. They stopped at the door—they werehers.Gregory started up with a low cry of reanimated hope. Whatever happened—he was about to see Grace Noir once more.