Elder Conklin and Other Stories by Frank Harris

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He was still lingering over this prospect when the servant came to tell
him that some gentlemen were waiting for him, and he found in the
sitting-room half-a-dozen of his favourite students. One of the Seniors,
named Cartrell, a young man of strong figure, and keen, bold face,
remarked, as he shook hands, that they had come to accompany him--
"Elections are sometimes rough, and we know the ropes." Roberts thanked
them warmly, and they set off.

The Committee Rooms of the Democratic party were situated near the Court
House, in what had been once the centre, but was now the edge of the
town. The little troop had to pass through the negro quarter--small
frame-houses, peppered over grassless, bare lots, the broken-down fences
protesting against unsociable isolation. The Rooms, from the outside,
reminded one of a hive of angry bees. In and out of the door men were
hurrying, and a crowd swarmed on the side-walk talking in a loud,
excited hum. As soon as the Professor was recognized, a silence of
astonishment fell upon the throng. With stares of curiosity they drew
aside to let him enter. Slightly surprised by the reception, the
Professor passed into the chief room. At a table in the middle a man was
speaking in a harsh, loud voice--one Simpson, a popular orator, who had
held aloof from the meetings of the party. He was saying:

"It's a put-up game between them, but the question is, who's to go on
the ticket in--"

As Simpson's eyes met those of Roberts he stopped speaking.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Please continue, Mr. Simpson; I hope I'm not
interrupting you."

The Professor did not like Mr. Simpson. The atrabilious face, the
bitter, thin lips, and grey eyes veined with yellow, reminded him
indefinably of a wild beast. Mr. Simpson seemed to take the courteous
words as a challenge. Drawing his wiry figure up he said, with insult in
voice and manner:

"Perhaps you've come to nominate a Mayor; we'd all like to know your
choice."

"I don't understand you."

The Professor's tone was frank, his sincerity evident, but Simpson went
on:

"Don't ye? Perhaps Hutchin's has sent you to say, as he's sick it'd be
well to run Robinson on both tickets--eh?"

"I don't know what you mean. I expected to meet Mr. Hutchings here. Is
he ill?"

"He'll get well soon, I reckon; but after taking a perscription from
Gulmore, he's mighty bad and can't leave the house."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Hutchings has withdrawn his candidature as Mayor. I mean
that the 'Herald' has the announcin' of it. I mean it's a put-up job
between him and Gulmore to ruin the Democratic party in this town. I
mean--"

As the Professor drew back in amazement, young Cartrell stepped in front
of him and addressed Simpson:

"What proof have you of what you say?"

"Proof! Proof enough. Does an honest man resign a candidature on the
morning of an election, and give the other side the news before his own
party?"

The interruption had given Roberts time for reflection. He felt that
Simpson's facts must be right. It was characteristic of him that his
first thought was, Had Hutchings withdrawn in order to save him from
further attacks? No. If he had he'd have told him before the event. A
sort of nausea overpowered him as he remembered that Hutchings had
related how Gulmore had bought Patrick Byrne--and now he, too, had sold
himself. As in a flash Hutchings' weakness of fibre was laid bare to
him. "That's the reason I couldn't find him yesterday." His heart sank
within him. "How could Hutchings have been so--?" With the belief in the
lawyer's guilt came the understanding that he too was concerned,
suspected even. Disgust of traitorism, conscious innocence impelled him
to clear himself--but how? To his surprise he found that companionship
with these men had given him some insight into their character. He put
the question to Simpson:

"Can anything be done now?"

The steadiness of the tone, the resolve in his face, excited a certain
curiosity. Shrugging his shoulders, Simpson replied:

"We've not got a candidate. It's too late to get the party together. New
tickets'd have to be printed. I--"

"Will you accept the candidature?" Reading the man at once, Roberts
turned to the others: "Gentlemen, I hope some one will second me; I
nominate Mr. Simpson as Mayor, and propose that his name should be
substituted for that of Mr. Hutchings. To show that I'm in earnest I'll
contribute five hundred dollars towards the expense of printing the
tickets."

The Professor's offer of money seemed to exercise a magical influence
upon the crowd; the loud tones, the provocative rudeness of speech and
bearing, disappeared at once; the men began to show him the respect of
attention, and Mr. Simpson was even quicker than the rest in changing
his attitude--perhaps because he hoped to gain more than they did.

"I had no idee," he began, "but if the Committee thinks I oughter run
I've no objection. I hain't ever cared for office, but I'm a party-man,
an' what the party wants me to do I'll do every time. I'm a Democrat
right through. I guess Lawyer Hutchin's has gone back on us, but that's
not your fault, Professor, and five hundred dollars--an' your work will
do a pile. The folk all like you an'--respect you an'--"

Roberts looked at the man; his offer had been a movement of indignant
contempt, and yet it had succeeded. He could have laughed; the key to
the enigma was in his hands; these men answered to the motive of self-
interest as a ship answers to the helm, and yet--how revolting it all
was! The next moment he again banished reflection.

"I'll go and get the money, and return as soon as possible. In the
meantime, perhaps you, Mr. Simpson, will see that the printing is begun
without delay. Then if you'll tell us what polling-stations need
superintendence, my friends and I will do our best."

The appeal found an immediate response--in a few minutes order and
energetic work had taken the place of the former angry excitement and
recrimination.

To Professor Roberts the remainder of the day was one whirl of restless
labour; he hastened from one polling-station to another, and when the
round was completed drove to the Central Rooms, where questions had to
be answered, and new arrangements made without time for thought. Then he
was off again on his hurried round as canvasser. One incident, however,
made a definite impression upon him. Returning for the second or third
time to the Central Rooms he found himself in a crowd of Irish labourers
who had come in deference to priestly bidding to record their votes. Mr.
Hutchings' retirement had excited their native suspiciousness; they felt
that they had been betrayed, and yet the peremptory orders they had
received must be followed. The satisfaction of revolt being denied to
them, their anger became dangerous. Professor Roberts faced them
quietly; he soon saw that they were sincere, or were playing the part of
sincerity; he therefore spoke for the cause, for the party to which they
belonged; surely they wouldn't abandon the struggle because a leader had
deserted them! His words and manner; his appeal to their combativeness;
his earnestness and good temper were successful. The storm of invective
gradually subsided, and although one or two, for the sake of a row,
sought to insult him, they did not go to extremes in face of the
resolute disapprobation of the American party-leaders. Loyalty to their
shibboleth was beginning to draw them, still grumbling and making use of
expressive imprecations, on the way to the nearest polling-station, when
one of their leaders drew Professor Roberts aside, and asked him:

"Are the bhoys to have nothin' for their throuble? Half a day they'll
lose, so they will--a dollar each now would be no more than fair--"

The Professor shook his head; he was not rich, he said, and had already
spent more money in the contest than he could afford.

"Be gob, it's poor worruk this talkin' an' votin' for us that gets
nothin' by it"--the phrase stuck in his memory as illustrating the
paltry baseness of the whole affair. It was with a sense of relief that
he threw himself again into the turmoil that served to deaden thought.
As the day wore towards evening he became conscious of fatigue, a
weariness that was not of the body alone, but of the head and heart.
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 passion 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 passed 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 assume. 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 assault 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 analyze motives, the full comprehension of
Hutchings' attitude 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 noble
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 passionate gratitude.
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 passionate 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."

"What has he done so wonderful? Oh, my!"--and she turned her face up to
his with half-laughing deprecation--"I'm afraid I'm deteriorating too. I
can't hear you praise any one now without feeling horribly jealous. Yes,
he must be good. But don't be too grateful to him, or--I must be going
now, and, oh! what a long time it'll be until to-morrow! I shall have
grown old before--to-morrow."

"Sweetheart! You'll come here and wait for me in the afternoon, won't
you? I shall want to see you so much."

"Yes, if you like; but I intended to go up to the University--mayn't I?
It'll seem ages--aeons--waiting here by myself."

"The meeting will not last long, and I'll come to you as soon as it's
over. Darling, you don't know how much you have helped me. You have given
me courage and hope," and he folded her in his arms.

* * * * *

Mr. Gulmore liked to spend his evenings with his wife and daughter. It
amused him to hear what they had been doing during the day. Their gossip
had its value; sentimental or spiteful, it threw quaint sidelights upon
character. On the evening before the Faculty meeting Ida was bending
over a book, while Mr. Gulmore smoked, and watched her. His daughter was
somewhat of a puzzle to him still, and when occasion offered he studied
her. "Where does she get her bitterness from? I'm not bitter, an' I had
difficulties, was poor an' ignorant, had to succeed or go under, while
she has had everythin' she wanted. It's a pity she ain't kinder...."

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