"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 cla.s.s--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-sh.e.l.l has the same l.u.s.tre 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 pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.sion. 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.similating 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 n.o.bly 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, n.o.bility, 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 cla.s.s, 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 a.s.sured 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 _role_ 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 surpa.s.sed 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 a.s.serted 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.

"You've done wonderfully well," was the burden of his conversations with Roberts; "I should feel certain of success against any one but Gulmore.

And he seems to be losing his head--his perpetual abuse excites sympathy with you. If we win I shall owe it mainly to you."

But on this particular morning Lawyer Hutchings had something to say to his friend and helper which he did not like to put into plain words. He began abruptly:

"You've seen the 'Herald'?"

"Yes; there's nothing in it of interest, is there?"

"No; but 'twas foolish of your father to write that letter saying you had paid his Kentucky debts."

"I was sorry when I saw it. I know they'll say I got him to write the letter. But it's only another incident."

"It's true, then? You did pay the money?"

"Yes; I was glad to."

"But it was folly. What had you to do with your father's debts? Every house to-day should stand on its own foundation."

"I don't agree with you; but in this case there was no question of that sort. My father very generously impoverished himself to send me to Europe and keep me there for six years. I owed him the five thousand dollars, and was only too glad to be able to repay him. You'd have done the same."

"Would I, indeed! Five thousand dollars! I'm not so sure of that." The father's irritation conquered certain grateful memories of his younger days, and the admiration which, in his heart, he felt for the Professor's action, only increased his annoyance. "It must have nearly cleaned you out?"

"Very nearly."

"Well, of course it's your affair, not mine; but I think you foolish.

You paid them in full, I suppose? Whew!

"Do you see that the 'Herald' calls upon the University authorities to take action upon your lecture? 'The teaching of Christian youth by an Atheist must be stopped,' and so forth."

"Yes; but they can do nothing. I'm not responsible to them for my religious opinions."

"You're mistaken. A vote of the Faculty can discharge you."

"Impossible! On what grounds?"

"On the ground of immorality. They've got the power in that case. It's a loose word, but effective."