JUST THIRTY MINUTES
During the weeks spent by Robert Clinton in search of Fran's life-
secret, a consciousness of absence and its cause was like a hot iron
branding Gregory's brain. What a mocking fatality, that it should have
been Grace to send Robert on his terrible errand,--an errand which
must result in ruin! Whenever Gregory tried to anticipate results, he
stood appalled; hour by hour his mind was ever darting forward into
the future, trying to build it of related parts of probabilities.
Mrs. Gregory would be pitied when it became known how she had been
deceived; Fran would be pitied because she was a disowned daughter;
Grace would be pitied for trusting in the integrity of her employer,--
but Gregory, who of all men needed pity most, would be utterly
despised. He did not think of himself alone, but of his works of
charity--they, too, would fall, in his disgrace, and Walnut Street
church--even religion itself--would be discredited because of an
exposure that could avail nothing.
Gregory had been too long proclaiming the living God not to feel Him
as a Presence, and in this Presence he felt a shuddering fear that
could suggest no relief but propitiation. He as well as Abbott Ashton
had kept himself informed of Robert's movements as far as they were
known to Miss Sapphira, hence the day of Robert's return found his
thought of atonement at its most frenzied stage.
As evening wore on, he made up his mind to the fatal step.
Before Robert could expose him, Gregory would confess. It had seemed
inevitable since learning of the school-director's mission; but he
could not shorten, by one hour, the sweet comradeship in the library.
Now that the last hour had come, he sought his wife, reeling like a
sick man as he descended the hall stairs.
Mrs. Gregory was softly playing an old hymn, when he discovered her
presence in the brilliantly lighted parlor. Grace was expecting a
visit from Clinton and had made the room cheerful for his coming, and
Mrs. Gregory, looking in and finding no one present, had sunk upon the
stool before the piano. She did not see her husband, for her face was
bent low as she feelingly played, _I Need Thee Every Hour_.
Gregory, well-nigh overwhelmed with the realization of what he meant
to do, grasped the door for support. Presently he spoke, brokenly,
"Lucy, how true that is--we do, indeed, need Him every hour."
She did not start at his voice, though his presence had been
unsuspected. She raised her serious eyes, and observed his haggard
face. "Mr. Gregory, you are ill."
"No--the light hurts my eyes." He turned off the lights and drew a
chair near her. The room was partly revealed by an electric arc that
swung at the street corner--its mellowed beams entered the open
window. "Lucy, I have something very important to say to you."
Her fingers continued to wander among the keys, making the hymn barely
audible, then letting it die away, only to be revived. She supposed it
was the old matter of her going to church--but since her name had been
taken "off the book", what was left to be said?
"Lucy, I have never spoken of this before, but it has seemed to me for
a long time that we have wandered rather far apart--yes, very far
apart. We sit close together, alone, our hands could touch, but our
souls live in different worlds. Do you ever feel that way?"
She ceased playing abruptly, and answered almost in a whisper, "Yes."
"Perhaps it is my fault," said Gregory, "although I know that if you
had taken more interest in what interests me, if you had been true to
the Faith as I have tried to be--"
"I have been true to you," said Mrs. Gregory.
"Of course--of course--there is no question of our being true to each
other. But it's because you have alienated yourself from what I look
upon as the only duty in life, that we have drifted--and you could
have prevented that. I feel that I am not wholly to blame, Lucy, it
has been my fault and it has been your fault--that is how I look at
it."
There was silence, then she said, "There seems nothing to be done."
"How do you mean? You speak as if our love were dead and buried--"
She rose abruptly, saying, "And its grave unmarked."
"Sit down, Lucy--I haven't told you what I came to tell--you must
listen and try to see it as I see it. Let us be reasonable and discuss
the future in a--in a sensible and matter-of-fact way. If you will
agree--"
"I will not agree to it," she answered firmly. "Let me go, Mr.
Gregory, there is no need ever to bring up that subject."
He had risen, and now in blank amazement, he stared at her, repeating,
"You will not agree to it? To what? You are unreasonable. What subject
have I brought up?"
"It is very true that we have drifted too far apart to be as we were
in the beginning. But there is still something left to me, and this
something I shall cling to as long as I can. I mean to avoid the
publicity, the open exposure, the shame of--of--a neglected wife."
"My God!" whispered Gregory, falling back, "then somebody has told you
about Springfield--it was Fran!"
"I don't know what you mean," she returned, apparently without
emotion. "What _I_ mean is, that I shall never consent to a divorce."
"A divorce? Good heavens, Lucy, are you mad? Do you think I want a
separation because you disown the church? What have I ever done to
make you imagine such an absurdity?"
She answered gently, "Yes, it seems I misunderstood. But you said you
wanted me to discuss the future in a matter-of-fact way, and I
couldn't think of the future as having any other matter-of-fact
solution."
Gregory was hotly indignant. "Lucy, if that is meant as an insinuation
against--"
Mrs. Gregory raised her hand compellingly. "Do not speak any name,"
she said, looking at him steadily. "I can endure much," she went on,
in a milder tone, finding him silent; "I often wonder if many women
could endure as silently--but there must never be a name mentioned
between us."
Her manner was so unwontedly final, that he stood looking at her, not
knowing how to resume the pressing subject of his past. They were in
that same silent attitude when Grace Noir came in from the hall.
Grace turned up the lights, and then--"Oh!" It was impossible to
prevent an unpleasant compression of the mouth at discovering Gregory
so near his wife. "Am I in the way? I am looking for company, and I
heard the door-bell--please excuse me!" she added, biting off the
words.
"Of course you are not in the way," Gregory returned desperately.
"Company, you say? And you heard the door-bell--is Bob Clinton--" He
grew white. "My eyes are bad, for some reason," he muttered, and
switched off the lights again.
"How very dark you have it in here!" said Grace reprovingly. "Of
course Mr. Clinton has been shown in the back-parlor, where it is
light. I will go to him there, and leave you two--" she paused
irresolutely, but neither spoke.
Grace had no sooner gone than Gregory with an effort found his voice.
"Lucy, my conscience has tormented me until it will not let me rest--
about you. It's your right to know something more about my life than I
have ever told--"
"Right in there," said the maid's voice, from the hall, and Abbott
Ashton and Robert Clinton entered the half-light.
While Robert was greeting Mrs. Gregory with exaggerated pleasure, in
order to escape facing her husband, Abbott spoke to the other with an
odd sense of meanness, as if he partook, by mere nearness, of the
other's cowardice. "I wish to speak to you for a few minutes, Mr.
Gregory."
Gregory, like an animal brought to bay, said, "I suppose you've some
excuse about playing cards with Fran."
"More important than playing cards," Abbott returned. He could not
meet the eyes of this man he had once highly venerated--it was like
beholding an ideal divested of imagined beauty, shivering in the shame
of its nakedness.
Gregory fought off the inevitable: "If you refer to losing your
position at the public school--"
"No. Clinton has come home from Springfield, and we have a matter--"
"It's pressing business," spoke up Robert, who all this time had been
asking Mrs. Gregory if her mother was well, if Simon Jefferson was no
worse, if Fran was hearty, if Grace Noir was at home--"and private
business."
Abbott looked warningly at his friend to remind him of his promise not
to utter a word. Robert, remembering, tightly compressed his lips, and
marched over to the piano. He leaned upon it heavily.
"I have no business," Mr. Gregory exclaimed, in fear, "that my wife
need not know."
"This is--" cried Robert. Then remembering, he struck the keys a
resounding chord.
Mrs. Gregory was about to leave the room.
"No, no!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory, starting to the door to intercept
her, "I want you to stay. I'll have no secrets from you, Lucy. I want
you to hear what these gentlemen have to say." He glared at Abbott as
if daring him to speak the words that must destroy his wife's last
feeble hold on her position.
"I hope Mrs. Gregory will excuse us," said Abbott, smiling at her as
cheerfully as he could, "but she knows that there are matters of
business that women don't understand, or care to learn. This is
something that relates merely to you, Mr. Gregory, and ourselves."
"Of course I understand you, Abbott," said Mrs. Gregory gently, "and
Mr. Gregory is wrong to insist on my interrupting--women are always in
the way--" She smiled, and, slipping around Gregory, had reached the
door, when she came face to face with Grace Noir, entering. At sight
of her--for Grace did not pause, but went over to the piano--Mrs.
Gregory apparently reconsidered, and stepped to her husband's side.
"So you did come," Grace said, smiling at Robert. "Shall we go into
the other room?"
Robert reveled in her beauty, and to that extent his anger against
Gregory flamed higher. "Pretty soon," he said, "pretty soon, Miss
Grace--in just twenty minutes--" he looked at his watch, then at
Abbott.
"I must tell you, Mr. Gregory," Abbott began rapidly, "that I had just
thirty minutes to consummate the matter with you,--just half an hour,
when we came here, and ten minutes are already gone. Only twenty
minutes are left."
"What do you mean by your twenty minutes being left?" Gregory
blustered.
Abbott spoke carefully, at the same time drawing a little farther away
from the man he despised: "Bob has been to Springfield about that
matter, you understand."
"No, I don't," cried Gregory. "Or if I do--tell it out--all of it."
"He has been to Springfield," Abbott went on, "and he got on the
inside of the business, and the interests are determined that--that
they will retaliate on you for your successes in the past, and at the
same time be a help to Bob."
"I don't understand," Gregory gasped blankly.
"Me neither," muttered Robert.
"It's very simple," Abbott maintained. "The Springfield interests want
to give you a blow, and give Bob a helping hand. Therefore, you are to
transfer your secretary to his store, where a bookkeeper is needed."
"Oh, indeed," interposed Grace Noir icily. "I am a mere pawn, I
presume, to be sent where I am wanted. But I would like to ask Mr.
Clinton if he found out anything about Fran, while he was in
Springfield?"
"Fran is all she claims to be," Robert declared bluntly.
"All? You can prove she's no fraud?"
"My pockets are full of proofs," Robert exclaimed, looking
significantly at Gregory.
"Dear Fran!" murmured Mrs. Gregory with a sweet smile of reminiscence.
"Abbott," Mr. Gregory gasped, as he began to realize the compromise
that was offered, "you have always been my friend--and you have been
interested in my charities--you know how important my secretary is to
my work. It is true that I did wrong, years ago--very wrong--it is
true that I bitterly--what shall I say?--antagonized the interests at
Springfield. But that was so long ago. Am I to be punished now--"
"Mr. Gregory," said Abbott, clearly and forcibly, "I have nothing to
do with any punishment, I have nothing to do with demanding the
release of your secretary. I am a mere agent of the interests, sent to
you to demand that your secretary be dismissed in the morning; and if
you can not see your way to promise me now that you will dismiss her,
my office is ended. If you can promise to send her away, I give you my
word the transactions shall be for ever hushed up, so far as we are
concerned. If you can not promise, all will be revealed at once."
"In just ten minutes," said Robert Clinton, consulting his watch.
Grace stood looking at Gregory as if turned to stone. She had listened
intently to every word as it fell from Abbott's lips, but not once had
she turned her head to look at him.
"You are cruel," Gregory flared out, "you are heartless. If I send
away the only one who is in perfect knowledge and sympathy with my
work--"
"Then you refuse?"
"Of course I refuse. I'll not permit the work of years to perish
because of an unreasonable and preposterous demand. You wouldn't
exchange your position here for Bob's grocery, would you, Miss Grace?"
he ended appealingly.
"Yes--if you dismiss me," Grace answered, her eyes smoldering.
"Lucy"--Gregory was almost beside himself--"tell her she must stay--
tell these men we can not go on with our work, without her."
Not for worlds would Mrs. Gregory have betrayed eagerness for Grace to
go, but for no consideration would she have asked her to stay. "Mr.
Gregory," she responded, "I can not conceive of your being in the
power of business interests to such an extent as to drive you to do
anything that seems like taking your heart's blood."
"I refuse!" cried Gregory, again. "Of course I refuse."
"Very well," said Abbott, turning.
"But what are you going to do?" Gregory asked shrinkingly.
"I shall go now; my endeavor to straighten out things--or rather to
keep everything peaceful and forgotten--comes to nothing, it seems.
Good evening, Mrs. Gregory."
"But wait! Wait! Let us discuss this alone--"
"It is useless now, for the time has expired."
"That's right," Clinton confirmed; clicking to his watch.
"And all of it is going to be told? Everything?"
"Unless you will dismiss your secretary."
"But you insult Miss Grace to speak in that way. Good heavens, Abbott,
what are you doing? How can you insult that--the best woman in the
world?"
There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Gregory turned to her husband
and said quietly, "If Miss Noir is the best woman in the world, you
should be the last man in the world to say so."
He covered his face with his hands. "Everybody has turned against me,"
he complained. "I am the most miserable man on earth because for mere
caprice, for mere spite, for no earthly good, it is the determination
of people who have lost positions and the like, to drive me wild."
Robert Clinton thumped the keys of the piano with one hand.
"Why, hello, Mr. Bob!" cried Fran, dancing into the room. "So you're
back, are you?" She shook hands breezily.
"Come back, Abbott, come back!" called Gregory, discovering that the
young man was indeed going, "You know what I _must_ do, if you drive
me to the wall. I am obliged to do what you say. State the condition
again if you have the courage to say it aloud."
"The past will be forgotten," said Abbott solemnly, "if you give your
word that your secretary shall go in the morning."
"And you'll take me in her place," spoke up Fran decidedly.
"The time is up," said Clinton harshly, "It's too late now, for I
shall tell--"
"I promise, I promise!" Gregory cried out, in an agony of fear. "I
promise. Yes, I'll dismiss her. Yes, she shall go! Yes, let Fran
_have_ the place."
"Do I understand you to dismiss me, Mr. Gregory?" asked Grace, in a
low concentrated tone, leaning slightly forward.
Fran turned on the lights to their fullest extent, and looked about
with an elfish smile.
Hamilton Gregory was mute.
"I have your promise," said Abbott, bowing gravely. "That is enough."
"Yes," groaned Gregory, "but it is infamous."
Fran looked at Abbott inscrutably. "Third time's the charm," she said,
in a whisper. "I'm proud of you this time, Abbott."
Grace turned with cold dignity, and moved slowly toward the hall door.
Fran slipped between Clinton and the piano, and began to play softly,
carelessly with one hand, while she watched the retreating figure.
In a very short time, Gregory found himself alone in the parlor.
Abbott and Clinton had withdrawn rather awkwardly, Mrs. Gregory had
melted away unobtrusively, and Fran, last of all, had given the piano
a final bang, and darted out of the house.
Gregory stood pale and miserable. It seemed as if all the world had
deserted him. The future without Grace would be as dreary as now
seemed his past with Fran's mother. He suffered horribly. Was
suffering all that life had left for him? Perhaps he was reaping--but
is there no end to the harvest? One sows in so brief a time; is the
garnering eternal?
A bell rang, but he was not curious. Voices sounded at the front door,
footsteps passed, then silence once more--silence and despair. Gregory
went to the open window, and leaned heavily on the sill, taking great
breaths, staring dully.
Footsteps were heard again! They were near by. They stopped at the
door--they were _hers._ Gregory started up with a low cry of
reanimated hope. Whatever happened--he was about to see Grace Noir
once more.