The conversation split up. Kimberly, unruffled, turned to Alice and
went on in an undertone: "I am going to tell you Francis's views on the
subject anyway. He has the most intense way of expressing himself and
the pantomime is so contributing. 'Suicide, Mr. Kimberly,' he said to
me one day, 'is no good. What would a man look like going back to God,
carrying his head in his hand? "Well, I am back, and here are the
brains you gave me." "What did you do with them?" "I blew them out
with a bullet!" That is a poor showing I think, Mr. Kimberly, for
business. Suicide is _no_ good.'"
"But who is this Brother Francis," asked Alice, "whom I hear so much of?
Tell me about him."
"He is one of the fixtures at The Towers. A religious phenomenon whom I
personally think a great deal of; an attendant and a nurse. He is an
Italian with the courtesy of a gentleman worn under a black gown so
shabby that it would be absurd to offer it to a second-hand man."
"Does the combination seem so odd?"
"To me he _is_ an extraordinary combination."
"How did you happen to get him?"
"That also is curious. The Kimberlys are cantankerous enough when well;
when ill they are likely to be insupportable. Not only that, but
kindness and faithfulness are some of the things that money cannot buy;
they give themselves but never sell themselves. When my uncle fell ill,
after a great mental strain, we hired nurses for him until we were
distracted--men and women, one worse than another. We tried all colors
and conditions of human kind without finding one that would suit Uncle
John. I began to think of throwing him into the lake--and told him so.
He cried like a child the day I had the set-to with him. To say the
truth, the old gentleman hasn't many friends left anywhere, but early
impressions are a great deal to us, you know, and I remember him when he
was a figure in the councils of the sugar world.
"I recall," continued Kimberly, "a certain Black Friday in our own
little affairs when the wolves got after us. The banks were throwing
over our securities by the wagon-load, and this old man who sits and
swears and shakes there, alone, upstairs, was all that remained between
us and destruction. He stood in our down-town office with fifty men
fighting to get at him--struggling, yelling, screaming, and cursing, and
some who couldn't even scream or curse, livid and pawing the air.
"He stood behind his desk all day like a field-marshal, counselling,
advising, ordering, buying, steadying, reassuring, juggling millions in
his two hands like conjuror's balls. I could never forget that. I am
not answering your question----"
"But do go on!" There were no longer tears in Alice's eyes. They were
alive with interest. "That," she exclaimed, "was splendid!"
"He won out, and then he set himself on vengeance. That was the end of
our dependence on other people's banks. Most people learn sooner or
later that a banking connection is an expensive luxury. He finally
drove off the street the two institutions that tried to save themselves
at our expense. The father of Cready and Frank Hamilton, Richard
Hamilton, a rank outsider, helped Uncle John in that crisis and Uncle
John made Richard Hamilton to pillow his head on tens of millions.
Since that day we have been our own bankers; that is, we own our own
banks. And I this is curious, never from that day to this has Uncle
John completely trusted any man--not even me--except this very man we
are talking about."
"Brother Francis?"
"Brother Francis. You asked how I got him; it is not uninteresting; a
sort of sermon on good deeds. Just before this big school in the valley
was started, the order to which he belongs had been expelled from
France--it was years ago; the reformers over there needed their
property. Half a dozen of the Brothers landed down here in the village
with hardly a coat to their backs. But they went to work and in a few
years had a little school. The industry of these people is
astonishing."
"One day they came to The Towers for aid. Old Brother Adrian, the head
Brother, came himself--as he long afterward told me--with a heavy heart,
indeed, with fear and trembling. The iron gates and the Krupp eagles
frightened him, he said, when he entered the grounds. And when he asked
for the mistress of the house, he could hardly find voice to speak. My
mother was away, so Aunt Lydia appeared--you have seen her portrait,
haven't you?"
"No."
"You must; it is not unlike you. Aunt Lydia and my mother were two of
the loveliest women I have ever known. When she came down that day,
Brother Adrian supposing it was my mother begged a slight aid for the
work they had undertaken in the valley. Aunt Lydia heard him in
silence, and without saying a word went upstairs, wrote out a cheque and
brought it down. He glanced at the figures on it--fifty--thanked her,
gave it to the young Brother with him, and with some little compliment
to the beauty of The Towers, rose to go.
"While they were moving toward the door the young Brother, studying the
cheque grew pale, halted, looked at it again and handed it to his
superior. Brother Adrian looked at the paper and at the young Brother
and stood speechless. The two stared a moment at each other. Aunt Lydia
enjoyed the situation. Brother Adrian had thought the gift had been
fifty dollars--it was fifty thousand.
"He fainted. Servants were hurried in. Even when he recovered, he was
dazed--he really for a year had not had enough to eat. Aunt Lydia
always delighted in telling how the young Brother helped him down the
avenue after he could walk. This is a tediously long story."
"Do go on."
"When he again reached the big iron gates he turned toward the house and
with many strange words and gestures called down the mercies of Heaven
on that roof and all that should ever sleep under it----"
"How beautiful!"
"He blessed us right and left, up and down, fore and aft--he was a fine
old fellow, Adrian. When my mother heard the story she was naturally
embarrassed. It looked something like obtaining blessings under false
pretences. The only thing she could do to ease her conscience was to
send over a second cheque."
"Princely!"
"It came near killing Brother Adrian. It seems odd, too, compared with
the cut-and-dried way in which we solemnly endow institutions nowadays,
doesn't it? They all three are dead, but we have always stood, in a
way, with Adrian's people.
"The young man that made the exciting call with him is now the superior
over there, Brother Edmund. After the trouble we had with Uncle John,
in finding some one he could stand and who could stand him, I went one
day in despair to Brother Edmund. I allowed him to commit himself
properly on what they owed to Aunt Lydia's goodness and the rest, and
then began to abuse him and told him he ought to supply a nurse for my
uncle. He told me theirs was a teaching order and not a nursing order.
I redoubled my harshness. 'It is all very well when _you_ need
anything,' I said, 'when _we_ need anything it is different. Did those
women,' I thundered, 'ask what you were, when you were starving here?'
"It wasn't precisely logical, but abuse should be vigorous rather than
logical, anyway, and I tried to be vigorous. They got very busy, I can
tell you. They held a conclave of some sort and decided that Uncle John
must be taken care of. If he were a common pauper, they argued, they
would not refuse to take care of him; should they refuse because he was
a pauper of means? They concluded that it was a debt they owed to Aunt
Lydia and by Heaven, next morning over came this sallow-faced, dark-eyed
Brother Francis, and there he is still with Uncle John."