GRACE CAPTURES THE OUTPOSTS
The next evening there was choir practice at the Walnut Street church.
Abbott Ashton, hesitating to make his nightly plunge into the dust-
clouds of learning, paused in the vestibule to take a peep at Grace.
It always rested him to look at her; he meant to drink her in, as it
were, to cool his parched soul, then make a dash at his stack of
examination-papers. He knew she never missed a choir practice, for
though she could neither sing, nor play the organ, she thought it her
duty to set an example of regular attendance that might be the means
of bringing those who could do one or the other.
Abbott was not disappointed; but he was surprised to see Mrs.
Jefferson in her wheel-chair at the end of the pew occupied by the
secretary, while between them sat Mrs. Gregory. His surprise became
astonishment on discovering Fran and Simon Jefferson in the choir
loft, slyly whispering and nibbling candy, with the air of soldiers
off duty--for the choir was in the throes of a solo.
Abbott, as if hypnotized by what he had seen, slowly entered the
auditorium. Fran's keen eyes discovered him, and her face showed
elfish mischief. Grace, following Fran's eyes, found the cause of the
odd smile, and beckoned to Abbott. Hamilton Gregory, following Grace's
glance--for he saw no one but her at the practices, since she inspired
him with deepest fervor--felt suddenly as if he had lost something; he
had often experienced the same sensation on seeing Grace approached by
some unattached gentleman.
Grace motioned to Abbott to sit beside her, with a concentration of
attention that showed her purpose of reaching a definite goal
unsuspected by the other. On account of the solo, there were the
briefest of whispered greetings to Mrs. Gregory, and merely a wave to
old Mrs. Jefferson.
"I'm so glad Fran has taken a place in the choir," Abbott whispered to
Grace. "And look at Simon Jefferson--who'd have thought it!"
Grace looked at Simon Jefferson; she also looked at Fran, but her
compressed lips and reproving eye expressed none of Abbott's gladness.
However, she responded with--"I am so glad _you_ are here, Professor
Ashton, for I'm in trouble, and I can't decide which way it is my duty
to turn. Will you help me? I am going to trust you--it is a matter
relating to Mr. Gregory."
Abbott was pleased that she should think him competent to advise her
respecting her duty; at the same time he regretted that her confidence
related to Mr. Gregory. It came vaguely to his mind that it was always
like that--which was natural, though, since he was her employer.
"Professor Ashton," she said softly, "does my position as hired
secretary to Mr. Gregory carry with it the obligation to warn him of
any misconduct in his household?"
The solo was dying away, and, sweet and low, it fell from heaven like
manna upon his soul, blending divinely with the secretary's voice. Her
expression "hired" sounded like a tragic note--to think of one so
beautiful, so meek, so surrounded by mellow hymn-notes, being hired!
He had lost the vision of his career in mists of an attenuated Grace
Noir. As the material skirts of the spiritual Grace Noir brushed his
leg, it was as if, for a moment, his veins ran muslin and pink
ribbons.
"You hesitate to advise me, before you know all," she said, "and you
are right. In a moment the choir will be singing louder, and we can
all talk together. Mrs. Gregory should be consulted, too."
Grace, conscious of doing all that one could in consulting Mrs.
Gregory, "too", looked toward the choir loft, and smiled into Hamilton
Gregory's eyes. How his baton, inspired by that smile, cut magic runes
in the air! An anthem rose buoyantly, covering the ensuing
conversation with its mantle of sound.
"Mrs. Gregory," Grace said in a low voice, "I suppose Professor Ashton
is so surprised at seeing you in church--it has been more than five
months, hasn't it?...that I'm afraid he isn't thinking about what
I'm saying." She paused as if to ask why the other was there,--as if
she were an interloper, who, having by absence forfeited her rights,
now came in her arrogance to claim them. Not only Grace's tone, but
her very attitude seemed to ask, "Why is this woman here?"
Mrs. Gregory could not help feeling in the way, because her husband
seemed to share Grace's feeling. Instinctively she turned to her
mother and laid her hand on the invalid's arm.
"They ain't bothering me, Lucy," said the old lady, alertly. "I can't
hear their noise, and when I shut my eyes I can't see their motions."
"I have something to tell you both," Grace said solemnly. "Last night,
I couldn't sleep, and that made me sensitive to noises. I thought I
heard some one slipping from the house just as the clock struck half-
past eleven. It seemed incredible, for I knew if it were any one, it
was that Fran, and I didn't think even she would do _that."_
It was as if Abbott had suddenly raised a window in a raw wind. His
temperature descended. The other's manner of saying "That Fran!"
obscured his glass of the future.
Mrs. Gregory said quickly, "Fran leave the house at half-past eleven?
Impossible."
Grace smiled unpleasantly. Believing Fran, possibly an impostor,
certainly a disturbing element, it was her duty to drive her from her
employer's house; but however pure and noble her disapproval, Grace
could not speak of the orphan without a tone or look suggesting mere
spite.
"How do you know," Abbott asked, "that Fran left the house at such a
time of the night?" The question was unfair since it suggested denial,
but his feeling for Fran seemed to call for unfairness to Grace.
"I will tell you," Grace responded, with the distinctness of one in
power. "At the time, I told myself that even Fran would not do _that._
But, a long time afterward, I heard another sound, from the yard. I
went to my window. I looked out. The moon was bright, but there was a
very dark shadow about the front gate. I heard voices. One was that of
Fran. The other was the voice of--" her tone vibrated in its
intensity--"the voice of a man!"
"It was not Fran's voice," Mrs. Gregory declared earnestly.
"What man was it?" Abbott inquired, rather resentfully.
"I do not know. I wish now, that I had called out," responded Grace,
paying no heed to Mrs. Gregory. "That is where I made my mistake. The
man got away. Fran came running into the house, and closed the door as
softly as she could--after she'd unlocked it _from the outside!_ I
concluded it would be best to wait till morning, before I said a word.
So this morning, before breakfast, I strolled in the yard, trying to
decide what I had better do. I went to the gate, and there on the
grass--what do you suppose I found?"
Abbott was bewildered. What serious consequences was Grace about to
evolve from the bridge-romance?
Mrs. Gregory listened, pale with apprehension.
"It was a _card_," Grace said, with awful significance, "a gambling
card! As long as I have lived in the house, nobody ever dared to bring
a card there. Mrs. Gregory will tell you the same. But that Fran....
She had been playing cards out there at midnight--and with a man!"
"I can not think so," said Mrs. Gregory firmly.
"After making up my mind what to do," continued Grace evenly, "I took
her aside. I told her what I had seen and heard. I gave her back her
card. But how can we be sure she will not do it again? That is what
troubles me. Oughtn't I to tell Mr. Gregory, so a scandal can be
avoided?"
Abbott looked blankly at Fran, who was singing with all her might. She
caught his look, and closed her eyes. Abbott asked weakly, "What did
she say?"
Grace answered, "She denied it, of course--said she hadn't been
playing cards with anybody, hadn't dropped the card I found, and
wouldn't even admit that she'd been with a man. If I tell Mr. Gregory
about her playing cards with a man at that hour, I don't believe he
will think he ought to keep her longer, even if she _does_ claim to be
his friend's daughter."
"But you tell us," Mrs. Gregory interposed swiftly, "that she said she
hadn't been playing cards."
_"She said!"_ Grace echoed unpleasantly, _"she said!"_
"That card you found," began Abbott guiltily, "was it the King of
Hearts?" Possibly he had dropped it from his pocket when leaning over
the gate to--But why had he leaned over the gate?
Grace coldly answered, "I do not know one card from another."
"Let me try to describe it."
"I hope _you_ can not describe the card I found," said Grace, the
presentiment that she was on the eve of discoveries giving her eyes a
starlike directness. Abbott felt himself squirming under the heel of a
higher order of being.
"I suspect I dropped that card over the fence," he confessed, "for I
had the King of Hearts, and last night, about that time I was standing
at the gate--"
"Oh," Grace exclaimed, disagreeably surprised. "I did not know that
_you_ play cards, Professor Ashton. Do you also attend the dances? I
had always thought of you as one of the most faithful members of the
Walnut Street church--one who is always there, when you can come--not
like _some_ members whose names are on the book. Surely you haven't
been dancing and playing cards _very long?"_
"Not for a great while," responded Abbott, with the obstinacy of a
good conscience wrongfully accused.
The secretary no longer held him under her foot--the last icicle-prick
of her tongue had liberated him.
"Only since Fran came, I am sure," she said, feeling him escaping. She
looked at him with something like scorn, inspired by righteous
indignation that such as he could be influenced by Fran. That look
wrought havoc with the halo he had so long blinked at, as it swung
above her head.
"Does that mean," he inquired, with a steady look, "that you imagine
Fran has led me into bad habits?"
"I trust the habits are not fixed," rather contemptuously. "I hardly
think you mean to desert the church, and lose your position at school,
for the sake of--of that Fran."
"I hardly think so, either," returned Abbott. "And now I'd better go
to my school-work."
"Fran is imprudent," said Mrs. Gregory, in distress, "but her heart is
pure gold. I don't know what all this means, but when I have had a
talk with her--"
"Don't go, Professor Ashton," interposed Grace, as he started up,
"until you advise me. Shall I tell Mr. Gregory? Or shall I conceal it
on the assurances that it will never happen again?"
Abbott seated himself with sudden persuasiveness. "Conceal it, Miss
Grace, conceal it!" he urged.
"If you will frankly explain what happened--here before Mrs. Gregory,
so she can have the real truth, we will never betray the secret. But
if you can not tell everything, I shall feel it my duty--I don't know
how Mrs. Gregory feels about it--but _I_ must tell Mr. Gregory."
"I would rather wait," said Mrs. Gregory, "and talk to Fran. She will
promise me anything. I trust you, Abbott; I know you would never lead
my little girl into wrong-doing. She is wild and untrained, and I
suspect you were trying to help her, last night. Leave it all to me. I
will have a good talk with Fran."
"And," said Abbott eagerly, "if we both solemnly promise--"
Grace bit her lip. His "we" condemned him.
"I don't ask you to hide the affair on my account," he said, holdingup
his head. "I don't want Fran put in an unjust light. She isn't to
be judged like other people."
"Oh," murmured Grace, "then you think there is more than one standard
of right? I don't. There's one God and one Right. No, I can not
consent; what might satisfy Mrs. Gregory might not seem best to me.
No, Professor, if you feel that you can not explain what I saw, last
night, I shall feel obliged to tell Mr. Gregory as soon as the choir
practice ends."
"Didn't Fran refuse to tell?" Abbott temporized.
"Yes," was the skilful response; "but her reticence must have been to
save you, for the girl never seems ashamed of anything _she_ does. I
imagine she hated to get you into trouble."
"Miss Grace, you have heard Mrs. Gregory say that she trusts me--and
she is Fran's guardian. I ask you to do the same."
"I must consider my conscience."
That answer closed all argument.
"You had better tell her," said Mrs. Gregory, "for she is determined
to know."
"I was taking a walk to rest my mind," Abbott said slowly, proceeding
as if he would have liked to fight his ground inch by inch, "and it
was rather late. I was strolling about Littleburg. Yesterday was a
pretty hard day, getting ready for Commencement--my mind was tired
out."
"Did you get your mind rested?" Grace permitted herself the slight
relaxation of a sarcasm.
"Yes, At last I found myself at the new bridge that leads to the camp-
meeting grounds, when ahead of me, there was--I saw Fran. I was much
surprised to find her out there, alone."
"I can understand that," said Grace quietly, "for I should have been
surprised myself."
Mrs. Gregory turned upon Grace. "Let him go on!" she said with a flash
that petrified the secretary.
"When I came up to the bridge, she was sitting there, with some cards
--all alone. She had some superstition about trying fortunes on a new
bridge at midnight, and that explains the lateness of the hour. So I
persuaded her to come home, and that is all."
Mrs. Gregory breathed with relief. "What an odd little darling!" she
murmured, smiling.
"What kind of fortune was she telling?" Grace asked.
"Whatever kind the new bridge would give her."
"Oh, then the cards stood for _people,_ didn't they! And the card you
dropped in the yard was _your_ card, of course."
"Of course."
"And did Fran--have a card to represent herself, perhaps?"
"I have told you the story," said Abbott, rising.
"That means she did. Then she wanted to know if you and she would...
Mrs. Gregory, I have always felt that Fran has deceived us about her
age! She is older than she pretends to be!"
"I believe this concludes our bargain," said Abbott, rising.
Mrs. Gregory was calm. "Miss Grace, Fran told me long ago that she is
eighteen years old; she came as a little girl, because she thought we
would take her in the more readily, if we believed her a mere child."
"Does Mr. Gregory know that?"
"I haven't told him; I don't know whether Fran has or not."
"You haven't told him!" Grace was speechless. "You knew it, and
haven't told him? What ought _I_ to do?"
"You ought to keep your promise," Abbott retorted hotly.
"Sitting on that bridge at midnight, alone, telling people's fortunes
by cards....Professor Ashton--Mrs. Gregory!" Grace exclaimed, with
one of those flashes of inspiration peculiar to her sex, "that Fran
_is a show-girl!" _
Abbott started, but said nothing.
Mrs. Gregory rose, and spoke through her mother's ear-trumpet, "Shall
we go home, now?"
"That Fran," repeated Grace, "is a show-girl! She is eighteen or
nineteen years old, and she is a show-girl!"
"Wouldn't it be best for you to ask her?"
"Ask her? _Her? No,_ I ask you!"
"Let me push the chair," said Abbott, stepping to Mrs. Gregory's side.
He read in the troubled face that she had known this secret, also.
The secretary gazed at him with a far-away look, hardly conscious that
he was beating retreat, so absorbed was she in this revelation. Now,
indeed, it was certain that Fran, the girl of eighteen or nineteen,
Fran, the show-girl, was an impostor! Her age proved that Mr. Gregory
must have known her "father" when he was attending college in
Springfield, whereas, believing her much younger, it had all the time
been taken for granted that they had been companions in New York.
It would be necessary for some one to go to Springfield to make
investigations. Grace had for ever alienated Abbott Ashton, but there
was always Robert Clinton. He would obey her every wish; Robert
Clinton should go. And when Robert had returned with a full history of
Hamilton Gregory's school-days at Springfield, and those of Gregory's
intimate friend, Fran, with the proofs of her conspiracy spread before
her, should be driven forth, never again to darken the home of the
philanthropist.