Elder Conklin and Other Stories by Frank Harris

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Alone in her room, she justified to herself what she had done. She
thought with pleasure of Professor Roberts' approaching defeat and
punishment. "He deserves it, and more! He knows why I left the
University; drew myself away from him for ever. What does he care for my
suffering? He can't leave me in peace. I wasn't good enough for him, and
my father isn't honest enough. Oh, that I were a man! I'd teach him that
it was dangerous to insult the wretched.

"How I was mistaken in him! He has no delicacy, no true manliness of
character. I'm glad he has thrown down the challenge. Father may not be
well-educated nor refined, but he's strong. Professor Roberts shall find
out what it means to attack _us_. I hope he'll be turned out of the
University; I hope he will. Let me think. I have a copy of that lecture
of his; perhaps there's something in it worse than I remembered. At any
rate, the report will be proof."

She searched hurriedly, and soon found the newspaper account she wanted.
Glancing down the column with feverish eagerness, she burst out: "Here
it is; this will do. I knew there was something more."

"... Thus the great ones contribute, each his part, towards the
humanization of man. Christ and Buddha are our teachers, but so also,
and in no lower degree, are Plato, Dante, Goethe, and Shakespeare....

"But strange to say, the _Divina Commedia_ seems to us moderns more
remote than the speculations of Plato. For the modern world is founded
upon science, and may be said to begin with the experimental philosophy
of Bacon. The thoughts of Plato, the 'fair humanities' of Greek
religion, are nearer to the scientific spirit than the untutored
imaginings of Christ. The world to-day seeks its rule of life in exact
knowledge of man and his surroundings; its teachers, high-priests in the
temple of Truth, are the Darwins, the Bunsens, the Pasteurs. In the
place of God we see Law, and the old concept of rewards and punishments
has been re-stated as 'the survival of the fittest.' If, on the other
hand, you need emotions, and the inspiration of concrete teaching, you
must go to Balzac, to Turgenief, and to Ibsen...."

"I think that'll do," said the girl half-aloud as she marked the above
passages, and then sent the paper by a servant to her father's office.
"The worst of it is, he'll find another place easily; but, at any rate,
he'll have to leave this State.... How well I remember that lecture. I
thought no one had ever talked like that before. But the people disliked
it, and even those who stayed to the end said they wouldn't have come
had they known that a professor could speak against Christianity. How
mad they made me then! I wouldn't listen to them, and now--now he's with
May Hutchings, perhaps laughing at me with her. Or, if he's not so base
as that, he's accusing my father of dishonesty, and I mean to defend
him. But if, ah, if--" and the girl rose to her feet suddenly, with
paling face.

* * * * *

The house of Lawyer Hutchings was commodious and comfortable. It was
only two storeys high, and its breadth made it appear squat; it was
solidly built of rough, brown stone, and a large wooden verandah gave
shade and a lounging-place in front. It stood in its own grounds on the
outskirts of the town, not far from Mr. Gulmore's, but it lacked the
towers and greenhouse, the brick stables, and black iron gates, which
made Mr. Gulmore's residence an object of public admiration. It had,
indeed, a careless, homelike air, as of a building that disdains show,
standing sturdily upon a consciousness of utility and worth. The study
of the master lay at the back. It was a room of medium size, with two
French windows, which gave upon an orchard of peach and apple-trees
where lush grass hid the fallen fruit. The furniture was plain and
serviceable. A few prints on the wall and a wainscoting of books showed
the owner's tastes.

In this room one morning Lawyer Hutchings and Professor Roberts sat
talking. The lawyer was sparely built and tall, of sympathetic
appearance. The features of the face were refined and fairly regular,
the blue eyes pleasing, the high forehead intelligent-looking. Yet--
whether it was the querulous horizontal lines above the brows, or the
frequent, graceful gestures of the hands--Mr. Hutchings left on one an
impression of weakness, and, somehow or other, his precise way of
speaking suggested intellectual narrowness. It was understood, however,
that he had passed through Harvard with honours, and had done well in
the law-course. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that when he
went West, he went with the idea that that was the shortest way to
Washington. Yet he had had but a moderate degree of success; he was too
thoroughly grounded in his work not to get a good practice, but he was
not the first in his profession. He had been outdone by men who fought
their cases, and his popularity was due to affable manners, and not to
admiration of his power or talents. His obvious good nature had got with
years a tinge of discontent; life had been to him a series of
disappointments.

One glance at Professor Roberts showed him to be a different sort of a
man, though perhaps harder to read. Square shoulders and attenuated
figure--a mixture of energy and nervous force without muscular strength;
a tyrannous forehead overshadowing lambent hazel eyes; a cordial
frankness of manner with a thinker's tricks of gesture, his nervous
fingers emphasizing his words.

Their talk was of an article assailing the Professor that had appeared
that morning in "The Republican Herald."

"I don't like it," Mr. Hutchings was saying. "It's inspired by Gulmore,
and he always means what he says--and something more."

"Except the suggestion that my father had certain good, or rather bad,
reasons for leaving Kentucky, it seems to me merely spiteful. It's very
vilely written."

"He only begins with your father. Then he wonders what the real motives
are which induce you to change your political creed. But the affectation
of fairness is the danger signal. One can't imagine Gulmore hesitating
to assert what he has heard, that you have no religious principles.
Coming from him, that means a declaration of war; he'll attack you
without scruple--persistently. It's well known that he cares nothing for
religion--even his wife's a Unitarian. What he's aiming at, I don't
know, but he's sure to do you harm. He has done me harm, and yet he
never gave me such a warning. He only went for me when I ran for office.
As soon as the elections were over, he left me in peace. He's eminently
practical, and rather good-natured. There's no small vicious malice or
hate in him; but he's overbearing and loves a fight. Is it worth your
while to make an enemy of him? We're sure to be beaten."

"Of course it isn't worth my while in that sense, but it's my duty, I
think, as you think it yours. Remark, too, that I've never attacked Mr.
Gulmore--never even mentioned him. I've criticised the system, and
avoided personalities."

"He won't take it in that way. He is the system; when you criticise it,
you criticise him. Every one will so understand it. He makes all the
appointments, from mayor down to the boy who sweeps out an office; every
contract is given to him or his appointees; that's how he has made his
fortune. Why, he beat me the second time I ran for District Court Judge,
by getting an Irishman, the Chairman of my Committee, to desert me at
the last moment. He afterwards got Patrick Byrne elected a Justice of
the Peace, a man who knows no law and can scarcely sign his own name."

"How disgraceful! And you would have me sit down quietly under the
despotism of Mr. Gulmore? And such a despotism! It cost the city half a
million dollars to pave the streets, and I can prove that the work could
have been done as well for half the sum. Our democratic system of
government is the worst in the world, if a tenth part of what I hear is
true; and before I admit that, I'll see whether its abuses are
corrigible. But why do you say we're sure to be beaten? I thought you
said--"

"Yes," Mr. Hutchings interrupted, "I said that this railway extension
gives us a chance. All the workmen are Irishmen, Democrats to a man,
who'll vote and vote straight, and that has been our weak point. You
can't get one-half the better classes to go to the polls. The negroes
all vote, too, and vote Republican--that has been Gulmore's strength.
Now I've got the Irishmen against his negroes I may win. But what I feel
is that even if I do get to be Mayor, you'll suffer for it more than I
shall gain by your help. Do you see? And, now that I'm employed by the
Union Pacific I don't care much for city politics. I'd almost prefer to
give up the candidature. May'll suffer, too. I think you ought to
consider the matter before going any further."

"This is not the time for consideration. Like you I am trying to put an
end to a corrupt tyranny. I work and shall vote against a venal and
degrading system. May and I will bear what we must. She wouldn't have me
run away from such adversaries. Fancy being governed by the most
ignorant, led on by the most dishonest! It's incomprehensible to me how
such a paradoxical infamy can exist."

"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. The book would not
advance, and what she wrote did not seem to her wonderful--not inspired
and fascinating as it ought to have been. Her reading had given her some
slight critical insight. She then showed parts of it to her admirers,
hoping thus to justify vanity, but they used the occasion to pay
irrelevant compliments, and so disappointed her--all, save Will
Thornton, who admitted critically that "it was poetic" and guessed "she
ought to write poetry." Accordingly she wrote some lyrics, and one on
"Vanished Hopes" really pleased her. Forthwith she read it to Will, who
decided "'twas fine, mighty fine. Tennyson had written more, of course,
but nothing better--nothing easier to understand." That last phrase killed
her trust in him. She sank into despondence. Even when Ida Gulmore, whom
she had learned to dislike, began to outshine her in the class, she made
no effort. To graduate first of her year appeared a contemptible
ambition in comparison with the dreams she had foregone. About this
period she took a new interest in her dress; she grew coquettish even,
and became a greater favourite than ever. Then Professor Roberts came to
the University, and with his coming life opened itself to her anew,
vitalized with hopes and fears. She was drawn to him from the first, as
spirit is sometimes drawn to spirit, by an attraction so imperious that
it frightened her, and she tried to hold herself away from him. But in
her heart she knew that she studied and read only to win his praise. His
talents revealed to her the futility of her ambition. Here was one who
stood upon the heights beyond her power of climbing, and yet, to her
astonishment, he was very doubtful of his ability to gain enduring
reputation. Not only was there a plane of knowledge and feeling above
the conventional--that she had found out by herself--but there were also
table-lands where teachers of repute in the valley were held to be blind
guides. Her quick receptivity absorbed the new ideas with eagerness; but
she no longer deluded herself. Her practical good sense came to her aid.
What seemed difficult or doubtful to the Professor must, she knew, be
for ever impossible to her. And already love was upon her, making her
humility as sweet as was her admiration. At last he spoke, and life
became altogether beautiful to her. As she learned to know him
intimately she began to understand his unworldliness, his scholar-like
idealism, and ignorance of men and motives, and thus she came to self-
possession again, and found her true mission. She realized with joy, and
a delightful sense of an assured purpose in life, that her faculty of
observation and practical insight, though insufficient as "bases for
Eternity," would be of value to her lover. And if she now and then fell
back into the part of a nineteenth-century Antigone, it was but a
momentary relapse into what had been for a year or so a dear familiar
habit. The heart of the girl grew and expanded in the belief that her
new _rôle_ of counsellor and worldly guide to her husband was the
highest to which any woman could attain.

A few days later Mr. Hutchings had another confidential talk with
Professor Roberts, and, as before, the subject was suggested by an
article in "The Republican Herald." This paper, indeed, devoted a column
or so every day to personal criticism of the Professor, and each attack
surpassed its forerunner in virulence of invective. All the young man's
qualities of character came out under this storm of unmerited abuse. He
read everything that his opponents put forth, replied to nothing, in
spite of the continual solicitation of the editor of "The Democrat," and
seemed very soon to regard "The Herald's" calumnies merely from the
humorous side. Meanwhile his own speeches grew in knowledge and vigour.
With a scholar's precision he put before his hearers the inner history
and significance of job after job. His powers of study helped him to
"get up his cases" with crushing completeness. He quickly realized the
value of catch-words, but his epigrams not being hardened in the fire of
life refused to stick. He did better when he published the balance-sheet
of the "ring" in pamphlet form, and showed that each householder paid
about one hundred and fifty dollars a year, or twice as much as all his
legal taxes, in order to support a party organization the sole object of
which was to enrich a few at the expense of the many. One job, in
especial, the contract for paving the streets, he stigmatized as a
swindle, and asserted that the District Attorney, had he done his duty,
would long ago have brought the Mayor and Town Council before a criminal
court as parties to a notorious fraud. His ability, steadfastness, and
self-restraint had had a very real effect; his meetings were always
crowded, and his hearers were not all Democrats. His courage and
fighting power were beginning to win him general admiration. The public
took a lively though impartial interest in the contest. To critical
outsiders it seemed not unlikely that the Professor (a word of good-
humoured contempt) might "whip" even "old man Gulmore." Bets were made
on the result and short odds accepted. Even Mr. Hutchings allowed
himself to hope for a favourable issue.

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