A FAMILY CONFERENCE
With the coming of the rain, the peals of thunder had grown less
violent, and the wind had fallen; but those who had sought the
reception room for safety found in Fran's presence something as
startling, and as incomprehensible, as the most vivid lightning.
Of the group, it was the secretary who first claimed Fran's attention.
In a way, Grace Noir dominated the place. Perhaps it was because of
her splendidly developed body, her beauty, her attitude of unclaimed
yet recognized authority, that she stood distinctly first.
As for Mrs. Gregory, her mild aloofness suggested that she hardly
belonged to the family. Hamilton Gregory found himself instinctively
turning to Grace, rather than to his wife. Mrs. Gregory's face did,
indeed, ask why Fran was there; but Grace, standing at the foot of the
stairs, and looking at Gregory with memory of her recent dismissal,
demanded explanations.
Mrs. Gregory's mother, confined by paralysis to a wheel-chair,
fastened upon the new-comer eyes whose brightness seventy years or
more had not dimmed. The group was completed by Mrs. Gregory's
bachelor brother, older than his sister by fifteen years. This
brother, Simon Jefferson, though stockily built and evidently well-
fed, wore an air of lassitude, as if perennially tired. As he leaned
back in a hall chair, he seemed the only one present who did not care
why Fran was there.
Gregory broke the silence by clearing his throat with evident
embarrassment. A peal of thunder offered him reprieve, and after its
reverberations had died away, he still hesitated. "This," he said
presently, "is a--the orphan--an orphan--one who has come to me from--
She says her name is Frances."
"Fran," came the abrupt correction; "just Fran."
There was a general feeling that an orphan should speak less
positively, even about her own name--should be, as it were, subdued
from the mere fact of orphanhood.
"An orphan!" Simon Jefferson ejaculated, moving restlessly in his
effort to find the easiest corner of his chair. "I hope nothing is
going to excite me. I have heart-disease, little girl, and I'm liable
to topple off at any moment. I tell you, I must _not_ be excited."
"I don't think," replied Fran, with cheerful interest in his malady,
"that orphans are very exciting."
Hamilton Gregory resumed, cautiously stepping over dangerous ground,
while the others looked at Fran, and Grace never ceased to look at
him. "She came here to-night, after the services at the Big Tent. She
came here and, or I should say, to request, to ask--Miss Grace saw her
when she came. Miss Grace knew of her being here." He seized upon this
fact as if to lift himself over pitfalls.
Grace's eyes were gravely judicial. She would not condemn him unheard,
but at the same time she let him see that her knowledge of Fran would
not help his case. It did not surprise Mrs. Gregory that Grace had
known of the strange presence; the secretary usually knew of events
before the rest of the family.
Gregory continued, delicately picking his way: "But the child asked to
see me alone, because she had a special message--a--yes, a message to
deliver to me. So I asked Miss Grace to leave us for half an hour.
Then I heard the girl's story, while Miss Grace waited up-stairs."
"Well," Simon Jefferson interposed irritably, "Miss Grace is accounted
for. Go on, brother-in-law, go on, if we must have it."
"The fact is, Lucy--" Gregory at this point turned to his wife--for at
certain odd moments he found real relief in doing so--"the fact is--
the fact is, this girl is the--er--daughter of--of a very old friend
of mine--a friend who was--was a friend years ago, long before I moved
to Littleburg, long before I saw you, Lucy. That was when my home was
in New York. I have told you all about that time of my youth, when I
lived with my father in New York. Well, before my father died, I was
acquainted with--this friend. I owed that person a great debt, not of
money--a debt of--what shall I say?"
Fran suggested, "Honor."
Gregory mopped his brow while all looked from Fran to him. He resumed
desperately: "I owed a great debt to that friend--oh, not of money, of
course--a debt which circumstances prevented me from paying--from
meeting--which I still owe to the memory of that--er--of that dead
friend. The friend is dead, you understand, yes, dead."
Mrs. Gregory could not understand her husband's unaccustomed
hesitancy. She inquired of Fran, "And is your mother dead, too, little
girl?"
That simple question, innocently preferred, directed the course of
future events. Mr. Gregory had not intentionally spoken of his friend
in such a way as to throw doubt upon the sex. Now that he realized how
his wife's misunderstanding might save him, he had not the courage to
undeceive her.
Fran waited for him to speak. The delay had lost him the power to
reveal the truth. Would Fran betray him? He wished that the thunder
might drown out the sound of her words, but the storm seemed holding
its breath to listen.
Fran said quietly, "My mother died three years ago."
Mrs. Gregory asked her husband, "Did you ever tell me about this
friend? I'd remember from his name; what was it?"
It seemed impossible for him to utter the name which had sounded from
his lips so often in love. He opened his lips, but he could not say
"Josephine". Besides, the last name would do.
"Derry," he gasped.
"Come here, Fran Derry," said Mrs. Gregory, reaching out her hand,
with that sweet smile that somehow made Fran feel the dew of tears.
Hamilton Gregory plucked up spirits. "I couldn't turn away the
daughter of my old friend. You wouldn't want me to do that. None of
you would. Now that I've explained everything, I hope there'll be no
objection to her staying here in the house--that is, if she wants to
stay. She has come to do it, she says--all the way from New York."
Mrs. Gregory slipped her arm about the independent shoulders, and drew
the girl down beside her upon a divan. "Do you know," she said gently,
"you are the very first of all his New York friends who has come into
my life? Indeed, I am willing, and indeed you _shall_ stay with us,
just as long as you will."
Fran asked impulsively, as she clasped her hands, "Do you think you
could like me? Could--you?"
"Dear child"--the answer was accompanied by a gentle pressure, "you
are the daughter of my husband's friend. That's enough for me. You
need a home, and you shall have one with us. I like you already,
dear."
Tears dimmed Fran's eyes. "And I just love you," she cried. "My! What
a woman you are!"
Grace Noir was silent. She liked Fran less than ever, but her look was
that of a hired secretary, saying, "With all this, I have nothing to
do." Doubtless, when alone with Hamilton Gregory, she would express
her sincere conviction that the girl's presence would interfere with
his work--but these others would not understand. They dwelt entirely
apart from her employer's philanthropic enterprises, they did not
sympathize with his religious activities, or even read his weekly
magazine. Nobody understood him as she did.
Fran's unconventionality had given to Mrs. Gregory's laugh a girlish
note, but almost at once her face resumed its wonted gravity. Perhaps
the slight hollows in the cheeks had been pressed by the fingers of
care, but it was rather lack of light than presence of shadow, that
told Fran something was missing from the woman-heart.
In the meantime old Mrs. Jefferson had been looking on with absorbed
attention, desperately seeking to triumph over her enemy, a deaf demon
that for years had taken possession of her. Now, with an impatient
hand, she sent her wheel-chair to her daughter's side and proffered
her ear-trumpet.
"Mother," Mrs. Gregory called through this ebony connector of souls,
"this is Fran Derry, the daughter of Mr. Gregory's dear friend, one he
used to know in New York, many years before he came to Littleburg.
Fran is an orphan, and needs a home. We have asked her to live with
us."
Mrs. Jefferson did not always hear aright, but she always responded
with as much spirit as if her hearing were never in doubt. "And what
_I'd_ like to know," she cried, "is what you are asking her to give
_us_."
Grace Noir came forward with quiet resolution. "Let me speak to your
mother," she said to Mrs. Gregory.
Mrs. Gregory handed her the tube, somewhat surprised, since Grace made
it a point of conscience seldom to talk to the old lady. When Grace
Noir disapproved of any one, she did not think it right to conceal
that fact. Since Mrs. Jefferson absolutely refused to attend religious
services, alleging as excuse that she could not hear the sermon,
refusing to offer up the sacrifice of her fleshly presence as an
example to others,--Grace disapproved most heartily.
Mrs. Jefferson held her head to the trumpet shrinkingly, as if afraid
of getting her ear tickled.
Grace spoke quietly, but distinctly, as she indicated Fran--"You know
how hard it is to get a good servant in Littleburg." Then she returned
the trumpet. That was all she had to say.
Fran looked at Mr. Gregory.
He bit his lip, hoping it might go at that.
The old lady was greatly at sea. Much as she disliked the secretary,
her news was grateful. "Be sure to stipulate," she said briskly,
"about wheeling me around in the garden. The last one wasn't told in
the beginning, and had to be paid extra, every time I took the air.
There's nothing like an understanding at the beginning."
"I'd like a beginning of my sleep," Simon Jefferson announced. "The
thunder and lightning's stopped, and the sound of this rain is just
what I need, if the house will get quiet." He rose, gnawing his
grizzled beard with impatience.
Fran walked up to Grace Noir and shook back her hair in the way that
Grace particularly disliked. She said: "Nothing like an understanding
at the beginning; yes, the old lady's right. Good thing to know what
the trouble is, so we'll know how it'll hit us. I guess I'm the
trouble for this house, but I'm going to hit it as the daughter of an
old friend, and not as a servant. I'm just about as independent as
Patrick Henry, Miss Noir. I'm not responsible for being born, but it's
my outlook to hold on to my equality."
"Fran!" exclaimed Mrs. Gregory, in mild reproof.
Grace looked at Mr. Gregory and nothing could have exceeded the
saintliness of her expression. Insulted, she was enjoying to the full
her pious satisfaction of martyrdom.
"Dear Mrs. Gregory," said Fran kindly, "I'm sorry to have to do this,
but it isn't as if you were adopting a penniless orphan. I'm adopting
a home. I want to belong to somebody, and I want people to feel that
they have something when they have me."
"I reckon they'll know they've got something," remarked Simon
Jefferson, shooting a dissatisfied glance at Fran from under bushy
brows.
Fran laughed outright. "I'm going to like _you_, all right," she
declared. "You are so human."
It is exceedingly difficult to maintain satisfaction in silent
martyrdom. Grace was obliged to speak, lest any one think that she
acquiesced in evil. "Is it customary for little girls to roam the
streets at night, wandering about the world alone, adopting homes
according to their whims?"
"I really don't think it customary," Fran replied politely, "but I'm
not a customary girl." At that moment she caught the old lady's eye.
It was sparkling with eloquent satisfaction; Mrs. Jefferson supposed
terms of service were under discussion. Fran laughed, grabbed the ear-
trumpet and called, "Hello. How are you?"
When an unknown voice entered the large end of the tube, half its
meaning was usually strained away before the rest reached the yearning
ear. Mrs. Jefferson responded eagerly, "And will you wheel me around
the garden at least twice a day?"
Fran patted the thin old arm with her thin young hand, as she shouted,
"I'll wheel you twenty times a day, if you say so!"
"But I do _not_ see-saw," retorted the old lady with spirit.
"This is going to agitate my heart," interposed Simon Jefferson, as
there came a louder dash of rain against the windows. "I ought to be
getting the benefits of this soothing sound, in my bed. When is this
company going to break up?"
Gregory, finding Grace's eyes fixed on him searchingly, felt himself
pushed to the wall. "Of course," he said coldly, "it is understood
that the daughter of--er--my friend, comes here as a--as an equal." As
he found himself forced into definite opposition to his secretary, his
manner grew more assured. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was, in
a way, atoning for the past.
"As an equal, yes!" exclaimed his wife, again embracing Fran. "How
else could it be?"
"This is going to be a good thing for you, if you only knew it," Fran
said, looking into her face with loving eyes.
Hamilton Gregory was almost able to persuade himself that he had
received the orphan of his own free choice, thus to make reparation.
"It is my duty," he said; "and I always try to do my duty, as I see
it."
"Would you like to know more about me?" Fran asked confidentially of
Mrs. Gregory.
Gregory turned pale. "I don't think it is neces--"
"Do tell me!" exclaimed his wife.
"Oh, Lord!" murmured Simon Jefferson, sinking back into the hall
chair.
"Father and mother married secretly," Fran said, solely addressing
Mrs. Gregory, but occasionally sending a furtive glance at her
husband. "He was a college-student, boarding with his cousin, who was
one of the professors. Mother was an orphan and lived with her half-
uncle,--a mighty crusty old man, Uncle Ephraim was, who didn't have
one _bit_ of use for people getting married in secret. Father and
mother agreed not to mention their marriage till after his graduation;
then he'd go to _his_ father and make everything easy, and come for
mother. So he went and told him--father's father was a millionaire
on Wall Street. Mother's uncle was pretty well fixed, too, but he
didn't enjoy anything except religion. When he wasn't at church--he
went 'most all the time--he was reading about it. Mother said he was
most religious in Hebrew, but he enjoyed his Greek verbs awfully."
Grace Noir asked remotely, "Did you say that your parents eloped?"
"They didn't run far," Fran explained; "they were married in the
county, not far from Springfield--"
"I thought you said," Grace interrupted, "that they were in New York."
"Did you?" said Fran politely. "So father graduated, and went away to
tell his father all about being married to Josephine Derry. I don't
know what happened then, as he didn't come back to tell. My mother
waited and waited--and I was born--and then Uncle Ephraim drove mother
out of his house with her tiny baby--that's me--and I grew to be--as
old as you see me now. We were always hunting father. We went all over
the United States, first and last--it looked like the son of a
millionaire ought to be easy to find. But he kept himself close, and
there was never a clue. Then mother died. Sometimes she used to tell
me that she believed him dead, that if he'd been alive he'd have come
for her, because she loved him with all her soul, and wrecked her
whole life because of him. She was happiest when she thought he was
dead, so I wouldn't say anything, but I was sure he was alive, all
right, as big and strong as you please. Oh, _I_ know his kind. I've
had lots of experience."
"So I'd suppose," said Grace Noir quietly. "May I ask--if you don't
mind--if this traveling about the United States didn't take a great
deal of money?"
"Oh, we had all the money we wanted," Fran returned easily.
"Indeed? And did you become reconciled to your mother's uncle?"
"Yes--after he was dead. He didn't leave a will, and there wasn't
anybody else, and as mother had just been taken from me, the money
just naturally came in my hands. But I didn't need it, particularly."
"But before that," Grace persisted; "before, when your mother was
first disinherited, how could she make her living?"
"Mother was like me. She didn't stand around folding her hands and
crossing her feet--she used 'em. Bless you, I could get along wherever
you'd drop me. Success isn't in the world, it's in me, and that's a
good thing to know--it saves hunting."
"Do you consider yourself a 'success'?" inquired the secretary with a
chilly smile.
"I had everything I wanted except a home," Fran responded with
charming good-humor, "and now I've got that. In a New York paper, I
found a picture of Hamilton Gregory, and it told about all his
charities. It said he had millions, and was giving away everything. I
said to myself, 'I'll go there and have him give me a home'--you see,
I'd often heard mother speak of him--and I said other things to
myself--and then, as I generally do what I tell myself to do--it keeps
up confidence in the general manager--I came."
"Dear child," said Mrs. Gregory, stroking her hair, "your mother dead,
your father--that kind of a man--you shall indeed find a home with us,
for life. And so your father was Mr. Gregory's friend. It seems--
strange."
"My father," said Fran, looking at Mr. Gregory inscrutably, "was the
best friend you ever had, wasn't he? You loved him better than anybody
else in the world, didn't you?"
"I--I--yes," the other stammered, looking at her wildly, and passing
his agitated hand across his eyes, as if to shut out some terrible
vision, "yes, I--I was--er--fond of--him."
"I guess you were," Fran cried emphatically. "You'd have done anything
for him."
"I have this to say," remarked Simon Jefferson, "that I may not come
up to the mark in all particulars, and I reckon I have my weaknesses;
but I wouldn't own a friend that proved himself the miserable
scoundrel, the weak cur, that this child's father proved himself!"
"And I agree with you," declared Grace, who seldom agreed with him in
anything. How Mr. Gregory, the best man she had ever known, could be
fond of Fran's father, was incomprehensible. Ever since Fran had come
knocking at the door, Grace's exalted faith in Mr. Gregory had been
perplexed by the foreboding that he was not altogether what she had
imagined.
Hamilton Gregory felt the change in her attitude. "That friend," he
said quickly, "was not altogether to be censured. At least, he meant
to do right. He wanted to do right. With all the strength of his
nature, he strove to do right."
"Then why didn't he _do_ right?" snapped Simon Jefferson. "Why didn't
he go back after that young woman, and take care of her? Huh? What was
holding him?"
"He did go back," exclaimed Gregory. "Well--not at first, but
afterward. He went to tell his father, and his father showed him that
it would never do, that the girl--his wife--wasn't of their sphere,
their life, that he couldn't have made her happy--that it wouldn't--
that it just wouldn't do. For three years he stayed in the mountains
of Germany, the most miserable man in the world. But his conscience
wouldn't let him rest. It told him he should acknowledge his wife. So
he went back--but she'd disappeared--he couldn't find her--and he'd
never heard--he'd never dreamed of the birth of a--of the--of this
girl. He never knew that he had a daughter. Never!"
"Well," said Simon Jefferson, "he's dead now, and that's one comfort.
Good thing he's not alive; I'd always be afraid I might come up with
him and then, afterward, that I might not get my sentence commuted to
life-imprisonment."
"Who is exciting my son?" demanded the old lady from her wheel-chair.
Simon Jefferson's red face and starting eyes told plainly that his
spirit was up. There was silence out of respect for his weak heart,
but there was a general feeling of surprise that Gregory should so
determinedly defend his friend.
"After all," said Fran cheerfully, "we are here, and needn't bother
about what's past. My mother wasn't given her chance, but she's dead
now, blessed soul--and my father had his chance, but it wasn't in him
to be a man. Let's forget him as much as we can, and let's have
nothing but sweet and peaceful thoughts about mother. That's all over,
and I'm here to take my chance with the rest of you. We're the world,
while our day lasts."
"What a remarkable child!" murmured Grace Noir, as they prepared to
separate. "Quite a philosopher in short dresses."
"They used to call me a prodigy," murmured Fran, as she obeyed Mrs.
Gregory's gesture inviting her to follow up-stairs. "Now it's stopped
raining," Simon Jefferson complained, as he wheeled his mother toward
the back hall.
"That's a good omen," said Fran, pressing Mrs. Gregory's hand. "The
moonlight was beautiful when I was on the bridge--when I first came
here."
"But we need rain," said Grace Noir reprovingly. Her voice was that of
one familiar with the designs of Providence. As usual, she and
Hamilton Gregory were about to be left alone.
"Who needs it?" called the unabashed Fran, looking over the banisters.
"The frogs?"
"Life," responded the secretary somberly.