"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, Krazinksi 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...."

Presently Mrs. Gulmore put away her work and left the room. Taking up the thread of a conversation that had been broken off by his wife's presence, Mr. Gulmore began:

"I don't say Roberts'll win, Ida. The bettin' 's the other way; but I'm not sure, for I don't know the crowd. He may come out on top, though I hev noticed that young men who run into their first fight and get badly whipped ain't likely to fight desperate the second time.--Grit's half trainin'!"

"I wish I could be there to _see_ him beaten!" Ida had tried to turn her wounded pride into dislike, and was succeeding. "I hate to feel he's in the same town with us--the coward!"

At this moment Mrs. Gulmore reentered the room.

"To think of it! Sal left the gas-stove flarin'. I made her get up and come downstairs to put it out. That'll learn her! Of all the careless, shiftless creatures, these coloured people are the worst. Come, Ida, it's long after nine, and I'm tired. You can read in your bedroom if you want to."

After the usual "good night" and kisses, Ida went upstairs. While Mrs. Gulmore busied herself putting "things straight," Mr. Gulmore sat thinking:

"She takes after her mother in everythin', but she has more pride. It's that makes her bitter. She's jest like her--only prettier. The same peaky nose, pointed chin, little thin ears set close to her head, fine hair--the Yankee school-marm. First-rate managin' women; the best wives in the world to keep a house an' help a man on. But they hain't got sensuality enough to be properly affectionate."

On the following afternoon Roberts stopped before the door of his house and looked back towards the University. There on the crest of the hill stood the huge building of bluish-grey stone with the round tower of the observatory in the middle--like a mallet with a stubby handle in the air.

While gazing thus a shrill voice reached him, the eager treble of a newsboy:

"Great Scandal!" he heard--and then "Scandal in the University! Full Report! Only five cents! Five cents for the 'Herald's' Special!"

He hastened to the gate and beckoned to the little figure in the distance. His thoughts were whirling. What did it mean? Could the "Herald" have issued a special edition with the report of the meeting?

Impossible! there wasn't time for that. Yet, he had walked leisurely with Krazinski, and newspapers did wonders sometimes. Wonders! 'twould be a breach of confidence. There was an honourable understanding that no one should divulge what took place in a Faculty meeting. "Honourable"

and Gulmore--the two words wouldn't go together. Could it be?

A glance at the contents-bill brought a flush to his face. He gave a quarter for the sheet, and as the boy fumbled for change he said, taking hold of the bill:

"I want this too; you can keep the rest of the money," and hurried into the house.

May met him at the door of the sitting-room, but did not speak, while he opened out the paper, and in silence showed her the six columns, containing a verbatim report of the meeting.

"What do you think of that?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer he spread the contents-bill upon the table.

"This is better," he went on, bitterly. "Read this!" And she read:

Ructions in Learning's Home. The President's Flank Attack.

Fours to a Pair. The Pagan retires and the Pole.

"Oh, the brutes! How could they?" May exclaimed. "But what does it mean?"

"You have it all there," he said, touching the bill; "all in two or three lines of cheerful insult, as is our American fashion. In spite of the opinion of every leading lawyer in the State, sixteen--fanatics, to give them the benefit of the doubt, voted that a disbelief in Christian dogma was the same thing as 'open immorality.' The Father of Lies made such men!"

"Did no one vote for you?"

"Two, Krazinski and some one else, I think 'twas little Black, and two papers were blank. But fancy the President speaking against me, though he has a casting-vote. All he could say was that the parents were the only proper judges of what a student should be taught. Let us grant that; I may have been mistaken, wrong, if you like; but my fault was not 'open immorality,' as specified in the Statute. They lied against me, those sixteen."

May sympathized too keenly with his indignation to think of trying to allay it; she couldn't help asking, "What did you do after the voting?"

"What could I do? I had had enough of such opponents. I told them that if they dismissed me I'd take the case into the courts, where at the worst their reading of the words 'open immorality' would be put upon record, and my character freed from stain. But, if they chose to rescind their vote I said I was willing to resign."

"They accepted that?"

"Krazinski forced them to. He told them some home-truths. They dared not face the law courts lest it should come out that the professorships were the rewards of sectarian bigotry. He went right through the list, and ended by resigning his position.

"Then Campbell got up and regretted his speech. It was uncalled-for and--you know the sort of thing. My colleagues, he said, would have preferred to retain my services if I had yielded to the opinion of the parents. Under the circ.u.mstances there was no course open but to accept my resignation. They would not enter the vote upon the minutes; they would even write me a letter expressing regret at losing me, etc. So the matter ended.