MRS. GREGORY
The wind had suddenly increased in violence, and a few raindrops had
already fallen. Apprehensions of a storm caused hurried movements
throughout the house. Blinding flashes of lightning suggested a
gathering of the family in the reception-hall, where, according to
tradition, there was "less danger"; and as the unknown lady opened the
door of the front room, Fran heard footsteps upon the stairs, and
caught a glimpse of Grace Noir descending.
The lady closed the door behind her before she perceived Fran, so
intent was she upon securing from threatening rain some unfinished
silk-work lying on the window-sill. She paused abruptly, her honest
brown eyes opened wide.
Fran regarded her with that elfish smile which, to the secretary, had
suggested a fox. It was the coolest little smile, slyly playing upon
her twisted mouth.
The perspiration shone on Hamilton Gregory's forehead. "Just a
moment," he uttered incoherently--"wait--I'll be back when I make sure
my library window's closed...." He left the room, his brain in an
agony of indecision. How much must be told? And how would they regard
him after the telling?
"Who are you?" asked the lady of thirty-five, mildly, but with
gathering wonder.
The answer came, with a broken laugh, "I am Fran." It was spoken a
little defiantly, a little menacingly, as if the tired spirit was
bracing itself for battle.
The lady wore her wavy hair parted in the middle after that fashion
which perhaps was never new; and no impudent ribbon or arrogant
flounce stole one's attention from the mouth that was just sincere and
sweet. It was a face one wanted to look at because--well, Fran didn't
know why. "She's no prettier than I," was Fran's decision, measuring
from the natural standard--the standard every woman hides in her own
breast. The nose was too slight, but it seemed cut to Fran's liking.
Fran smiled in a different way--a smile that did not instantaneously
flash, but darted out of the corner of her eye, and slipped along the
slightly parted lips, as if afraid of being caught, and vanished,
leaving a wistful face.
"And who is Fran?" asked the mild voice. The lady smiled so tenderly,
it was like a mellow light stealing from a fairy rose-garden of
thornless souls.
Fran caught her breath while her face showed hardness--but not against
the other. She felt something like holy wrath as her presentment
sounded forth protestingly--"But who are _you?"_
"I am Mrs. Gregory."
"Oh, no," cried Fran, with violence, "no!" She added rather wildly,
"It can't be--I mean--but say you are not Mrs. Gregory."
"I am Mrs. Gregory," the other repeated, mystified.
Fran tried to hide her emotion with a smile, but it would have been
easier for her to cry, just because she of the patient brown eyes was
Mrs. Gregory.
At that moment Hamilton Gregory reentered the room, brought back by
the fear that Fran might tell all during his absence. How different
life would have been if he could have found her flown!--but he read in
her face no promise of departure.
His wife was not surprised at his haggard face, for he was always
working too hard, worrying over his extensive charities, planning
editorials for his philanthropic journal, devising means to better the
condition of the local church. But the presence of this stranger--
doubtless one of his countless objects of charity--demanded
explanation.
He loathed the necessity that confronted him, above all the
uncertainty of his situation. Hitherto the mistakes of his life had
passed over his head without dangerous explosions; he had gone away
from them, and they had seemed, somehow, to right themselves.
"Come," he said bruskly, addressing neither directly, "we needn't stop
here. I have some explanations to make, and they might as well be made
before everybody, once and for all..." He paused wretchedly, seeing
no outlook, no possible escape. Something must be told--not a lie, but
possibly not all the truth; that would rest with Fran. He was as much
in her power as if she, herself, had been the effect of his sin.
He opened the door, and walked with heavy step into the hall. Mrs.
Gregory followed, wondering, looking rather at Fran than at her
husband. Fran's keen eyes searched the apartment for the actual source
of Hamilton Gregory's acutest regrets.
Yes, there stood the secretary.