Elder Conklin, Frank Harris [life books to read .TXT] 📗

“I think it’ll become comprehensible to you before this election’s over. I’ve done my best for years to alter it, and so far I’ve not been very successful. You don’t seem to understand that where parties are almost equal in strength, a man who’ll spend money is sure to win. It has paid Gulmore to organize the Republican party in this city; he has made it pay him and all those who hold office by and through him. ‘To the victors, the spoils.’ Those who have done the spoiling are able to pay more than the spoiled—that’s all.”

“Yes, but in this case the spoilers are a handful, while the spoiled are the vast majority. Why should it be impossible to convince the majority that they’re being robbed?”

“Because ideas can’t get into the heads of negroes, nor yet into the heads of illiterate Irishmen. You’ll find, too, that five Americans out of every ten take no interest in ordinary politics, and the five who do are of the lowest class—a Boss is their natural master. Our party politics, my friend, resembles a game of faro—the card that happens to be in the box against the same card outside—and the banker holding the box usually manages to win. Let me once get power and Gulmore’ll find his labour unremunerative. If it hadn’t been for him I’d have been in Congress long ago. But now I’ll have to leave you. Talk it over with May and—you see that Gulmore challenges you to prove the corruption or else withdraw the imputation? What do you mean to do?”

“I’ll prove it, of course. Long before I spoke I had gone into that paving contract; it was clearly a fraud.”

“Well, I’d think, if I were you, before I acted, though you’re a great help to me; your last speech was very powerful.”

“Unfortunately I’m no speaker, but I’ll do as well as I can, and you may rely on me to go on to the end. The rich at least must be forced to refrain from robbing the poor…. That malicious sneer at my father hurts me. It can only mean that he owed money in Kentucky. He was always careless in money matters, too careless, but he’s very generous at heart. I owe him everything. I’ll find out about it at once, and if it is as I fear, the debt shall be paid. That’ll be one good result of Mr. Gulmore’s malice. As for me, let him do his worst. At any rate I’m forewarned.”

“A poor satisfaction in case—but here’s May, and I must go. I’ve stayed too long already. You should look through our ticket; it’s strong, the men are all good, I think—anyway, they’re the best we can get. Teach him to be careful, May; he’s too bold.”

“I will, father,” replied a clear, girlish voice; “it’s mother who spoils him,” and then, as the door shut, she moved to her lover, and holding out both her hands, with a little air of dignity, added, “He tries to spoil me. But, dear, what’s the matter? You seem annoyed.”

“It’s nothing. An article in that paper strikes at my father, and hurts me; but it can be made right, and to look at you is a cure for pain.”

“Let me read it—no, please! I want to help you, and how can I do that if I don’t know what pains you?” The girl took the “Herald” and sat down to read it.

May Hutchings was more than good-looking, were it only by reason of a complexion such as is seldom given even to blondes. The inside of a sea-shell has the same lustre and delicacy, but it does not pale and flush as did May’s cheeks in quick response to her emotions. Waves of maize-coloured hair with a sheen of its own went with the fairness of the skin, and the pretty features were redeemed from a suspicion of insipidity by large violet eyes. She was of good height and lissom, with small feet and hands, but the outlines of her figure were Southern in grace and fulness.

After reading the article, she put down the paper without saying a word.

“Why, May, you seem to take it as seriously as your father does. It’s nothing so very terrible, is it?”

“What did father say?”

“That it was inspired by Gulmore, and that he was a dangerous man; but I don’t see much in it. If my father owed money in Kentucky it shall be repaid, and there the matter ends.”

“‘Tisn’t that I’m troubling about; it’s that lecture of yours. Oh, it was wonderful! but I sat trembling all the time. You don’t know the people. If they had understood it better, they’d have made a big fuss about it. I’m frightened now.”

“But what fuss can they make? I’ve surely a right to my own opinions, and I didn’t criticise any creed offensively.”

“That’s it—that’s what saved you. Oh, I wish you’d see it as I do! You spoke so enthusiastically about Jesus, that you confused them. A lot of them thought, and think still, that you’re a Christian. But if it’s brought up again and made clear to them—Won’t you understand? If it’s made quite clear that Jesus to you was only a man, and not superior even to all other men, and that you believe Christianity has served its purpose, and is now doing harm rather than good in the world, why, they’d not want to have you in the University. Don’t you know that?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” returned the Professor thoughtfully. “You see I wasn’t brought up in any creed, and I’ve lived in so completely different an atmosphere for years past, that it’s hard to understand such intolerant bigotry. I remember enough, though, to see that you are right. But, after all, what does it matter? I can’t play hypocrite because they’re blind fanatics.”

“No, but you needn’t have gone quite so far—been quite so frank; and even now you might easily—” She stopped, catching a look of surprise in her lover’s face, and sought confusedly to blot out the effect of her last words. “I mean—but of course you know best. I want you to keep your place; you love the work, and no one could do it so well as you. No one, and—”

“It doesn’t matter, May. I’m sure you were thinking of what would be best for both of us, but I’ve nothing to alter or extenuate. They must do as they think fit, these Christians, if they have the power. After all, it can make no difference to us; I can always get work enough to keep us, even if it isn’t such congenial work. But do you think Gulmore’s at the bottom of it? Has he so much influence?”

“Yes, I think so,” and the girl nodded her head, but she did not give the reasons for her opinion. She knew that Ida Gulmore had been in love with him, so she shrank instinctively from mentioning her name, partly because it might make him pity her, and partly because the love of another woman for him seemed to diminish her pride of exclusive possession. She therefore kept silence while seeking for a way to warn her lover without revealing the truth, which might set him thinking of Ida Gulmore and her fascinating because unrequited passion. At length she said:

“Mr. Gulmore has injured father. He knows him: you’d better take his opinion.”

“Your father advises me to have nothing more to do with the election.” He didn’t say it to try her; he trusted her completely. The girl’s answer was emphatic:

“Oh, that’s what you should do; I’m frightened for you. Why need you make enemies? The election isn’t worth that, indeed it isn’t. If father wants to run for Mayor, let him; he knows what he’s about. But you, you should do great things, write a great book; and make every one as proud of you as I am.” Her face flushed with enthusiasm. She felt relieved, too; somehow she had got into the spirit of her part once more. But her lover took the hot face and eager speech as signs of affection, and he drew her to him while his face lit up with joy.

“You darling, darling! You overrate me, dear, but that does me good: makes me work harder. What a pity it is, May, that one can’t add a cubit to his stature. I’d be a giant then…. But never fear; it’ll be all right. You wouldn’t wish me, I’m sure, to run away from a conflict I have provoked; but now I must see my father about those debts, and then we’ll have a drive, or perhaps you’d go with me to him. You could wait in the buggy for me. You know I have to speak again this evening.”

The girl consented at once, but she was not satisfied with the decision her lover had come to. “It’s too plain,” she thought in her clear, common-sense way, “that he’s getting into a ‘fuss’ when he might just as well, or better, keep out of it.”

May was eminently practical, and not at all as emotional as one might have inferred from the sensitive, quick-changing colour that at one moment flushed her cheeks and at another ebbed, leaving her pallid, as with passion. Not that she was hardhearted or selfish. Far from it. But her surroundings had moulded her as they do women. Her mother had been one of the belles of Baltimore, a Southerner, too, by temperament. May had a brother and a sister older than herself (both were now married), and a younger brother who had taken care that she should not be spoiled for want of direct personal criticism. It was this younger brother, Joe, who first called her “Towhead,” and even now he often made disparaging remarks about “girls who didn’t weigh 130”—in Joe’s eyes, a Venus of Rubens would have seemed perfect. May was not vain of her looks; indeed, she had only come to take pleasure in them of recent years. As a young girl, comparing herself with her mother, she feared that she would always be “quite homely.” Her glass and the attentions of men had gradually shown her the pleasant truth. She did not, however, even now, overrate her beauty greatly. But her character had been modified to advantage in those schoolgirl days, when, with bitter tears, she admitted to herself that she was not pretty. Her teacher’s praise of her quickness and memory had taught her to set her pride on learning. And indeed she had been an intelligent child, gifted with a sponge-like faculty of assimilating all kinds of knowledge—the result, perhaps, of generations of educated forbears. The admiration paid to her looks did not cause her to relax her intellectual efforts. But when at the University she found herself outgrowing the ordinary standards of opinion, conceit at first took possession of her. It seemed to her manifest that she had always underrated herself. She was astonished by her own excessive modesty, and keenly interested in it. She had thought herself ugly and she was beautiful, and now it was evident that she was a genius as well. With soul mightily uplifted by dreams of all she would do and the high part she would play in life, always nobly serious, yet with condescension of exquisite charming kindliness, taking herself gravely for a perfect product of the race and time, she proceeded to write the book which should discover to mankind all her qualities—the delicacy, nobility, and sweetness of an ideal nature.

During this period she even tried to treat Joe with sweet courtesy, but Joe told her not to make herself “more of a doggoned fool” than she was. And soon the dream began to lose its brightness.