A TAMER OF LIONS
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! _You_ go 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 marry _him!"_
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't _care!"_ 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 for _me."_
"For--" she began abruptly, then added in an odd whisper, "for
_you?"_
"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 love _him,_ 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 that _you_ understand--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--_you_ shall
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 be
Nearer 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 a
Christian."
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 of _her--"_ 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."