Elder Conklin and Other Stories Part 22

After the closing of the polls he returned to the Central Rooms. They were filled with an enthusiastic crowd, most of whom professed to believe that the Democratic party had won all along the line. Roberts found it hard to bear their self-gratulation and the exuberance of their triumph, but when Simpson began to take the liberties of comradeship with him, the cup ran over. He cut the man short with a formally polite phrase, and betook himself to his house. He would not think even of May; her image brought him face to face with her father; and he wanted rest.

In the morning the Professor awoke with a feeling of utter depression.

Before he opened the paper he was sure that his hopelessness had been justified. He was right--Gulmore had carried his whole ticket, and Simpson had been beaten by a majority of more than a thousand. The Democratic organ did not scruple to ascribe the defeat to the fact that Lawyer Hutchings had sold his party. The simulated indignation of the journalist found expression in phrases which caricatured the simplicity of sincere condemnation. "Never did shameless corruption...." Roberts could not read the stuff. Yet the feigned pa.s.sion and tawdry rhetoric in some way stirred up his bile; he would see Hutchings and--but if he unpacked his heart's bitterness upon her father, he would hurt May. He must restrain himself; Hutchings would understand from his manner, and May would be sympathetic--as she always was.

Another thought exasperated him afresh. His idealism had made him ridiculous in the eyes of the townsfolk. He had spent money he could ill spare in a hopeless cause, which was not even a worthy one. And now everybody was laughing at him or sneering--he grew hot with shame. That his motives were honourable only heightened the ludicrousness of his action: it seemed as if he had made a fool of himself. He almost wished that he had left the Democrats to their own devices. But no! he had done the right, and that was the main point. The sense of failure, however, robbed him of confidence in regard to the future. How should he act?

Since high motives were ineffectual, Quixotic, ought he to discard them and come down to the ordinary level? 'Twould be better not to live at all. The half-life of a student, a teacher, dwelling apart from the world, would be preferable to such degradation; but----

The situation appeared to him to be so difficult that as soon as he had taken his breakfast he went out for a walk away from the town in order to avoid importunate visits, and to decide upon a course of conduct. The air and exercise invigorated him; the peace and solitude of the prairie, the beauty of earth and sky, the unconsciousness of nature consoled him, reduced his troubles to relative unimportance, and allowed him to regain his equanimity.

Even his ideas in regard to Hutchings underwent a change. After all it was not his part to condemn; his indignation owed its heat to baffled egotism and paltry vanity. When the personal element was abstracted from the causes of his vexation, what remained? Were Hutchings a figure in history, would he judge him with the same intolerance? No; weakness, corruptibility even, would then excite no harsher feeling than a sort of amused contempt. The reflection mitigated his anger. He began to take an intellectual pleasure in the good-humoured acceptance of the wrong inflicted upon him. Plato was right, it was well to suffer injustice without desiring to retaliate. He had yet to learn that just as oil only smoothes the surface of waves, so reason has merely a superficial effect upon character.

Early in the afternoon he made his way to May's home. According to his habit he pa.s.sed by the servant-girl and entered the study--to find himself face to face with the lawyer.

The shock of disappointment and a certain latent antagonism caused him to speak with a directness which was in itself discourteous.

"Is Miss May in? I wished to see her." After a momentary pause he added, with a tinge of sarcasm, "Your illness wasn't serious, I see."

Mr. Hutchings was not taken by surprise; he had prepared for this meeting, and had resolved to defend himself. The task, he believed, would be easy. He had almost persuaded himself that he had acted in the Professor's interest. Roberts was singularly unworldly; he might accept the explanation, and if he didn't--what did it matter? His own brighter prospects filled him with a sense of triumph; in the last three days his long-repressed vanity had shot up to self-satisfaction, making him callous to what Roberts or any one else might think. But the sneer in his visitor's words stung him, induced him to throw off the mask of illness which he had intended to a.s.sume. He replied with an indifference that was defiant:

"No; I wasn't well yesterday, but I'm better now, though I shall keep indoors for a day or two. A chill, I suppose."

Receiving no answer, he found relief in complete boldness.

"You see my prediction as to the result of the election has been justified?"

"You might even say _pars magna fui_."

The retort slipped out. The impudent challenge had to be met. The Professor did not realize how contemptuously he spoke.

The womanish weakness in Hutchings sprang to hurried attack.

"At any rate you've no cause for reproach. I resigned chiefly to shield you. I told you long ago that I didn't want particularly to be Mayor, and the a.s.sault upon your position in the University decided me. There was no way to save your place except by giving Gulmore the victory he wanted. You're engaged to May, and May is fond of you: I'm not rich, and a post of three thousand dollars a year is not often to be found by a young man. What would you do if you were dismissed? I had to--sacrifice myself. Not that it matters much, but I've got myself into a fuss with the party, injured myself all round on your account, and then you talk as if you had some reason to be offended. That's hardly right, Professor." The lawyer was satisfied with his case; his concluding phrase built a bridge for a magnanimous reconciliation.

"You wish me to believe that you resigned at the last moment without telling me of your intention in order to further my interests?" Mr.

Hutchings was disagreeably shocked by the disdainful, incredulous question; Roberts was harder to blind than he had supposed; his indignation became more than half sincere.

"I didn't make up my mind till the last minute--I couldn't. It wasn't easy for me to leave the party I've fought with for ten years. And the consequences don't seem likely to be pleasant to me. But that doesn't signify. This discussion is useless. If you'll take my advice you'll think of answering the charge that will be brought against you in the Faculty meeting, instead of trying to get up a groundless accusation against me." The menace in the words was not due solely to excitement and ill-temper. Mr. Hutchings had been at pains to consider all his relations with the Professor. He had hoped to deceive him, at least for the moment, and gain time--postpone a painful decision. He had begun to wish that the engagement between Roberts and May might be broken off. In six months or a year he would have to declare himself on Gulmore's side; the fact would establish his complicity, and he had feared what he now knew, that Roberts would be the severest of critics--an impossible son-in-law. Besides, in the East, as the daughter of a Member of Congress, May might command a high position--with her looks she could marry any one--while Roberts would be dismissed or compelled to resign his post. A young man without a career who would play censor upon him in his own house was not to be thought of. The engagement must be terminated. May could be brought to understand....

The Professor did not at once grasp the situation in so far as he himself was concerned. But he divined the cause of the lawyer's irritability, and refrained from pushing the argument further. The discussion could, indeed, serve no purpose, save to embitter the quarrel. He therefore answered quietly:

"I didn't come here to dispute with you. I came to see May. Is she in?"

"No, I think not. I believe she went out some time ago."

"In that case I'll go home. Perhaps you'll tell her I called. Good day."

"Good day!"

As the Professor left the house his depression of the morning returned upon him. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had intended to show no anger, no resentment, and, nevertheless, his temper had run away with him. He recognized that he had made a grave mistake, for he was beginning to foresee the consequences of it. Trained to severe thinking, but unaccustomed to a.n.a.lyze motives, the full comprehension of Hutchings' att.i.tude and its probable effects upon his happiness only came to him gradually, but it came at length so completely that he could remember the very words of the foregoing conversation, and recall the tones of the voices. He could rebuild the puzzle; his understanding of it, therefore, must be the true one. The irrationality of the defence was a final proof that the lawyer had played him false. "Hutchings sold himself--most likely for place. He didn't fear a quarrel with me--that was evident; perhaps he wishes to get rid of me--evident, too. He believes that I shall be dismissed, or else he wouldn't have laid stress upon the importance of my keeping my position. When I spoke of May he was curt. And the explanation? He has wronged me. The old French proverb holds true, 'The offender seldom forgives.' He'll probably go on to harm me further, for I remind him of his vileness. This, then, is life, not as I imagined it, but as it is, and such creatures as Hutchings are human beings. Well, after all, it is better to know the truth than to cheat oneself with a mirage. I shall appreciate large natures with n.o.ble and generous impulses better, now that I know how rare they are."

In his room he found May awaiting him. Across his surprise and joy there came an intense admiration of her, a heart-pang of pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude.

As she moved towards him her incommunicable grace of person and manner completed the charm. The radiant gladness of the eyes; the outstretched hands; the graceful form, outlined in silver-grey; the diadem of honey-coloured hair; something delicate yet courageous, proud yet tender in her womanhood remained with him ever afterwards.

"Ah, May!" The word seemed to bring joy and tingling life to his half-numbed heart. He seized her hands and drew her to him, and kissed her on the hair, and brows, and eyes with an abandonment of his whole nature, such as she had never before known in him. All her shyness, her uneasiness vanished in the happiness of finding that she had so pleased him, and mingled with this joy was a new delightful sense of her own power. When released from his embrace she questioned him by a look. His emotion astonished her.

"My love," he said, kissing her hands, "how good of you to come to me, how sweet and brave you are to wait for me here! I was growing weak with fear lest I should lose you, too, in the general wreck. And you came and sat here for me patiently--Darling!"

There was a mingling of self-surrender and ruffled pride in her smiling reproach:

"Lose me? What do you mean? I waited for you last night, sir, and all this weary morning, till I could wait no longer; I had to find you. I would have stayed at home till you came; I meant to, but father startled me: he said he was afraid you'd lose your place as Professor in spite of all he had done for you. 'Twas good of him, wasn't it, to give up running for Mayor, so as not to embitter Gulmore against you? I was quite proud of him. But you won't lose your post, will you? Has anything serious happened?--Dear!"

He paused to think, but he could not see any way to avoid telling her the truth. Disappointments had so huddled upon him, the insight he had won into human nature was so desolating that his heart ached for sympathy and affection. He loved her; she was to be his wife; how could he help winning her to his side? Besides, her words voiced his own fears--her father had already begun to try to part them. She must know all and judge. But how? Should he give her "The Tribune" to read? No--it was vindictive.

"Come and sit down, May, and I'll tell you what happened yesterday. You shall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong."

He told her, point by point, what had occurred. May listened in silence till he stopped.

"But why did he resign? What could he gain by that?"

While she was speaking a thought crimsoned her cheeks; she had found the key to the enigma. Three nights before her father had talked of Washington and the East with a sort of exultation. At the time she had not paid much attention to this, though it had struck her as very different from his habit. Now the peculiarity of it confirmed her suspicion. In some way or other his action in resigning was connected with his inexplicable high spirits. A wave of indignation swept over her. Not that she felt the disgust which had sickened the Professor when he first heard of the traitorism. He had condemned Mr. Hutchings on the grounds of public morality; May's anger was aroused because her father had sought to deceive _her_; had tried by lying suggestion to take credit to himself, whereas--

"I wouldn't have believed it," she murmured, with the pa.s.sionate revolt of youth against mean deceit. "I can never forgive him or trust him again."

"Don't let us talk of it any more, dear. I wouldn't have told you only I was afraid that he would try to separate us. Now I know you are on my side I wouldn't have you judge him harshly."

"On your side," she repeated, with a certain exaltation of manner. "On your side always in spite of everything. I feel for you more intensely than for myself." In a lower voice and with hesitating speech she added: "Did he--did he tell you that he resigned on your account?"

He nodded.

"And you're not angry?"

"No." He smiled slightly. "I understand men better now than I did yesterday. That's all."

"Oh, but you ought to be mad. I am. How can you--"

"Let us talk, dear, of what concerns us more. Have you heard anything?

From what your father said I half fear that the meeting to-morrow may go against me. Has no one called?"

"Professor Krazinski. I saw his card on the table when I came in. You think it's a bad sign that he's the only one?"

"I'm afraid so. It may be merely anxiety, but I'm growing suspicious of every one now. I catch myself attributing low motives to men without reason. That electioneering has infected me. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it; I loathe the self-seeking and the vileness. I'd rather not know men at all than see them as they've shown themselves lately.

I want to get away and rinse my mouth out and forget all about it--away somewhere with you, my sweet love."

"But you mustn't let them condemn you without an effort." While speaking she put her hand on his shoulder and moved close to him. "It might injure us later. And you know you can persuade them if you like. No one can listen to you without being won over. And I want you to keep your post; you love teaching and you're the best teacher in the world, ah--"

He put his arms round her, and she bowed her head on his neck, that he might not see the gathering tears.

"You're right, dear. I spoke hastily. I'll do my best. It won't be as bad as we think. My colleagues are men of some education and position.

They're not like the crowd of ignorant voters and greedy place-hunters; they'll listen to reason, and"--half bitterly--"they've no motive to do me wrong. Besides, Krazinski has called, and I scarcely know him; perhaps the others didn't think of coming. It was kind of him, wasn't it? I'm very grateful to him. He must be a good fellow."