when Morris described the protective measures that had been adopted, he
merely nodded. In fact, one would have inferred from his manner that he
had had nothing whatever to do with the contest, and took no interest
in it. The only thing that appeared to trouble him was Loo's absence and
the fear lest she should have been “fussed;” but when Morris declared
that neither his wife nor Loo knew what was going on, and Bancroft
announced his intention of driving over to fetch her, he seemed to be
satisfied.
“Jack, I reckon, has had enough,” he said to his boarder. “You'd better
take the white mare; she's quiet.”
On their way home in the buggy, Bancroft told Loo how her father had
defied the United States troops, and with what unconcern he had taken
his victory:
“I think he's a great man, a hero. And if he had lived in another time,
or in another country, poets would have sung his courage.”
“Really,” she observed. Her tone was anything but enthusiastic, though
hope stirred in her at his unusual warmth. “Perhaps he cares for me
after all,” she thought.
“What are you thinking about, Loo?” he asked, surprised at her silence.
“I was just wonderin',” she answered, casting off her fit of momentary
abstraction, “how father made you like him. It appears as if I couldn't,
George,” and she turned towards him while she spoke her wistful eyes
seeking to read his face.
There was a suggestion of tears in her voice, and her manner showed
a submission and humility which touched Bancroft deeply. All his good
impulses had been called into active life by his admiration of the
Elder. He put his disengaged arm round her and drew her to him as he
replied:
“Kiss me, Loo dear, and let us try to get on better together in future.
There's no reason why we shouldn't,” he added, trying to convince
himself. The girl's vain and facile temperament required but little
encouragement to abandon itself in utter confidence. In her heart
of hearts she was sure that every man must admire her, and as her
companion's manner and words gave her hope, she chattered away in the
highest spirits till the homestead was reached. Her good-humour and
self-satisfaction made the evening pass merrily. Everything she said
or did delighted the Elder, Bancroft saw that clearly now. Whether she
laughed or talked, teased Jake, or mimicked the matronly airs of Mrs.
Morris, her father's eyes followed her with manifest pleasure and
admiration. On rising to go to bed the Elder said simply:
“It has been a good day--a good day,” he repeated impressively, while he
held his daughter in his arms and kissed her.
The next morning Bancroft was early afoot. Shortly after sunrise he went
down to the famous cornfield and found a couple of youths on watch. They
had been there for more than an hour, they said, and Seth Stevens and
Richards had gone scouting towards Wichita. “Conklin's corner's all
right,” was the phrase which sent the schoolmaster to breakfast with
a light heart. When the meal was over he returned to the centre of
excitement. The Elder had gone about his work; Mrs. Conklin seemed as
helplessly indifferent as usual; Loo was complacently careless; but
Bancroft, having had time for reflection, felt sure that all this was
Western presumption; General Custer could not accept defeat so easily.
At the “corner” he found a couple of hundred youths and men assembled.
They were all armed, but the general opinion was that Custer would do
nothing. One old farmer summed up the situation in the phrase, “Thar
ain't nothin' for him to do, but set still.”
About eight o'clock, however, Richards raced up, with his horse in a
lather, and announced that Custer, with three hundred men, had started
from Wichita before six.
“He'll be hyar in half an hour,” he concluded.
Hurried counsel was taken; fifty men sought cover behind the stooks of
corn, the rest lined the skirting woods. When all was in order, Bancroft
was deputed to go and fetch the Elder, whom he eventually discovered at
the wood pile, sawing and splitting logs for firewood.
“Make haste, Elder,” he cried, “Morris has sent me for you, and there's
no time to be lost. Custer, with three hundred men, left Wichita at six
o'clock this morning, and they'll be here very soon.”
The Elder paused unwillingly, and resting on his axe asked: “Is Morris
alone?”
“No!” replied Bancroft, amazed to think the Elder could have forgotten
the arrangements he had heard described the evening before. “There
are two hundred men down there in the corner and in the woods,” and he
rapidly sketched the position.
“It's all right then, I guess,” the Elder decided. “They'll get along
without me. Tell Morris I'm at my chores.” Beginning his work again, he
added, “I've something to _do_ hyar.”
From the old man's manner Bancroft was convinced that solicitation would
be a waste of time. He returned to the corner, where he found Morris
standing inside the fence.
“I guessed so,” was Morris's comment upon the Elder's attitude; “we'll
hev to do without him, I reckon. You and me'll stay hyar in the open;
we don't want to shoot ef we kin avoid it; there ain't no reason to as I
kin see.”
Ten minutes afterwards the cavalry crossed the bridge two deep, and
wound snake-like towards the corner. With the first files came General
Custer, accompanied by half-a-dozen officers, among whom Bancroft
recognized the young lieutenant. Singling Morris out, the General rode
up to the fence and addressed him with formal politeness:
“Mr. Conklin?”
“No,” replied Morris, “but I'm hyar fer him, I guess--an' about two
hundred more ef I'm not enough,” he added drily, waving his hand towards
the woods.
With a half-turn in his saddle and a glance at the line of trees on his
flank, General Custer took in the situation. Clearly there was nothing
to do but to retreat, with some show of dignity.
“Where shall I find Mr. Conklin? I wish to speak to him.”
“I'll guide you,” was Morris's answer, “ef you'll come alone; he
mightn't fancy so many visitors to onc't.”
As Morris and Bancroft climbed over the fence and led the way towards
the homestead, some of the armed farmers strolled from behind the stocks
into the open, and others showed themselves carelessly among the trees
on the bank of the creek. When the Elder was informed that General
Custer was at the front door, he laid down his axe, and in his
shirtsleeves went to meet him.
“Mr. Conklin, I believe?”
“That's my name, General.”
“You've resisted United States troops with arms, and now, it seems,
you've got up a rebellion.”
“I guess not, General; I guess not. I was Union all through the war; I
came hyar as an Abolitionist. I only want to keep my fences up as long
as they'll stand, an' cut my corn in peace.”
“Well,” General Custer resumed, after a pause, “I must send to
Washington for instructions and state the facts as I know them, but if
the Federal authorities tell me to carry out the law, as I've no doubt
they will, I shall be compelled to do so, and resistance on your part
can only cause useless bloodshed.”
“That's so,” was the quiet reply; but what the phrase meant was not
very clear save to Bancroft, who understood that the Elder was unable or
unwilling to discuss a mere hypothesis.
With a curt motion of his hand to his cap General Custer cantered off to
rejoin his men, who shortly afterwards filed again across the bridge on
their way back to camp.
When the coast was clear of soldiers some of the older settlers went up
to Conklin's to take counsel together. It was agreed to collect from all
the farmers interested two dollars a head for law expenses, and to send
at once for Lawyer Barkman of Wichita, in order to have his opinion
on the case. Morris offered to bring Barkman next day about noon to
Conklin's, and this proposal was accepted. If any other place had been
fixed upon, it would have been manifestly impossible to secure the
Elder's presence, for his refusal again to leave the wood pile had
converted his back-stoop into the council-chamber. Without more ado the
insurgents dispersed, every man to his house.
On returning home to dinner next day Bancroft noticed a fine buggy
drawn up outside the stable, and a negro busily engaged in grooming two
strange horses. When he entered the parlour he was not surprised to find
that Morris had already arrived with the lawyer. Barkman was about forty
years of age; above the medium height and very stout, but active. His
face was heavy; its outlines obscured by fat; the nose, however, was
thin and cocked inquisitively, and the eyes, though small, were restless
and intelligent. He was over-dressed; his black frockcoat was brand
new; the diamond stud which shone in the centre of a vast expanse of
shirt-front, was nearly the size of a five-cent piece--his appearance
filled Bancroft with contempt. Nevertheless he seemed to know his
business. As soon as he had heard the story he told them that an action
against the Elder would lie in the Federal Courts, and that the damages
would certainly be heavy. Still, something might be done; the act of
rebellion, he thought, would be difficult to prove; in fine, they must
wait on events.
At this moment Mrs. Conklin accompanied by Loo came in to announce that
dinner was ready. It was manifest that the girl's beauty made a deep
impression on Barkman. Before seeing her he had professed to regard the
position as hopeless, or nearly so; now he was ready to reconsider his
first opinion, or rather to modify it. His quick intelligence appeared
to have grown keener as he suddenly changed his line of argument, and
began to set forth the importance of getting the case fully and fairly
discussed in Washington.
“I must get clear affidavits from all the settlers,” he said, “and then,
I guess, we'll show the authorities in Washington that this isn't a
question in which they should interfere. But if I save you,” he went
on, with a laugh intended to simulate frank good-nature, “I s'pose I may
reckon on your votes when I run for Congress.”
It was understood at once that he had pitched upon the best possible
method of defence. Morris seemed to speak for all when he said:
“Ef you'll take the trouble now, I guess we'll ensure your election.”
“Never mind the election, that was only a jest,” replied the lawyer
good-humouredly; “and the trouble's not worth talkin' about. If Miss
Conklin,” and here he turned respectfully towards her, “would take a
seat in my buggy and show me the chief settlers' houses, I reckon I
could fix up the case in three or four days.”
The eyes of all were directed upon Loo. Was it Bancroft's jealousy that
made him smile contemptuously as he, too, glanced at her? If so, the
disdain was ill-timed. Flushing slightly, she answered, “I guess I'll be
pleased to do what I can,” and she met the schoolmaster's eyes defiantly
as she spoke.
* * * * *
With the advent of Barkman upon the scene a succession of new
experiences began for Bancroft. He was still determined not to be
seduced into making Loo his wife. But now the jealousy that is born of
desire and vanity tormented him, and the mere thought that Barkman
might marry and live with her irritated him intensely. She was worthy of
better things than marriage with such a man. She was vain, no doubt, and
lacking in the finer sensibilities, the tremulous moral instincts which
are the crown and glory of womanhood; but it was not her fault that her
education had been faulty, her associates coarse--and after all she was
very beautiful.
On returning home one afternoon he saw Barkman walking with her in the
peach orchard. As they turned round the girl called to him, and came
at once to meet him; but his jealousy would not be appeased. Her
flower-like face, framed, so to speak, by the autumn foliage, only
increased his anger. He could not bear to _see_ her flirting. Were she
out of his sight, he felt for the first time, he would not care what she
did.
“You were goin' in without speakin',” she said reproachfully.
“You have a man with you whose trade is talk. I'm not needed,” was his
curt reply.
Half-incensed, half-gratified by his passionate exclamation, she drew
back, while Barkman, advancing, said:
“Good day, Mr. Bancroft, good day. I was just tryin' to persuade Miss
Conklin to come for another drive this evenin' in order to get this
business of ours settled as soon as possible.”
“Another drive.” Bancroft repeated the words to himself, and then
steadying his voice answered coolly: “You'll have no difficulty, lawyer.
I was just telling Miss Conklin that you talked splendidly--the result
of constant practice, I presume.”
“That's it, sir,” replied the lawyer seriously; “it's chiefly a matter
of practice added to gift--natural gift,” but here Barkman's conceit
died out as he caught an uneasy, impatient movement of Miss Conklin,
and he went on quietly with the knowledge of life and the adaptability
gained by long experience: “But anyway, I'm glad you agree with me, for
Miss Conklin may take your advice after rejectin' mine.”
Bancroft saw the trap, but could not restrain himself. With a
contemptuous smile he said:
“I'm sure no advice of mine is needed; Miss Conklin has already made up
her mind to gratify you. She likes to show the country to strangers,” he
added bitterly.
The girl flushed at the sarcasm, but her spirit was not subdued.
“Wall, Mr. Barkman,” she retorted, with a smiling glance at the lawyer,
“I guess I must give in; if Mr. Bancroft thinks I ought ter, there's no
more to be said. I'm willin'.”
An evening or two later, Barkman having gone into Wichita, Bancroft
asked Loo to go out with him upon the stoop. For several minutes he
stood in silence admiring the moonlit landscape; then he spoke as if to
himself:
“Not a cloud in the purple depths, no breath of air, no sound nor stir
of life--peace absolute that mocks at man's cares and restlessness.
Look, Loo, how the ivory light bathes the prairie and shimmers on the
sea of corn, and makes of the little creek a ribband of silver....
“Yet you seem to prefer a great diamond gleaming in a white shirt-front,
and a coarse, common face, and vulgar talk.
“You,” and he turned to her, “whose beauty is like the beauty of nature
itself, perfect and ineffable. When I think of you and that coarse
brute together, I shall always remember this moonlight and the hateful
zig-zagging snake-fence there that disfigures and defiles its beauty.”
The girl looked up at him, only half understanding his rhapsody, but
glowing with the hope called to life by his extravagant praise of her.
“Why, George,” she said shyly, because wholly won, “I don't think no
more of Lawyer Barkman than the moon thinks of the fence--an' I guess
that's not much,” she added, with a little laugh of complete content.
The common phrases of uneducated speech and the vulgar accent of what
he thought her attempt at smart rejoinder offended him. Misunderstanding
her literalness of mind, he moved away, and shortly afterwards
re-entered the house.
Of course Loo was dissatisfied with such incidents as these. When she
saw Bancroft trying to draw Barkman out and throw contempt upon him, she
never dreamed of objecting. But when he attacked her, she flew to her
weapons. What had she done, what was she doing, to deserve his sneers?
She only wished him to love her, and she felt indignantly that every
time she teased him by going with Barkman, he was merciless, and
whenever she abandoned herself to him, he drew back. She couldn't bear
that; it was cruel of him. She loved him, yes; no one, she knew, would
ever make him so good a wife as she would. No one ever could. Why,
there was nothin' she wouldn't do for him willingly. She'd see after
his comforts an' everythin'. She'd tidy all his papers an' fix up his
things. And if he ever got ill, she'd jest wait on him day and night--so
she would. She'd be the best wife to him that ever was.
Oh, why couldn't he be good to her always? That was all she wanted, to
feel he loved her; then she'd show him how she loved him. He'd be happy,
as happy as the day was long. How foolish men were! they saw nothin'
that was under their noses.
“P'r'aps he does love me,” she said to herself; “he talked the other
evenin' beautiful; I guess he don't talk like that to every one, and
yet he won't give in to me an' jest be content--once for all. It's their
pride makes 'em like that; their silly, stupid pride. Nothin' else. Men
air foolish things. I've no pride at all when I think of him, except I
know that no one else could make him as happy as I could. Oh my!” and
she sighed with a sense of the mysterious unnecessary suffering in life.
“An' he goes on bein' mad with Lawyer Barkman. Fancy, that fat old man.
He warn't jealous of Seth Stevens or the officer, no; but of him. Why,
it's silly. Barkman don't count anyway. He talks well, yes, an' he's
always pleasant, always; but he's jest not in it. Men air foolish
anyway.” She was beginning to acknowledge that all her efforts to gain
her end might prove unsuccessful.
Barkman, with his varied experience and the cooler blood of forty,
saw more of the game than either Bancroft or Loo. He had learnt that
compliments and attention count for much with women, and having studied
Miss Conklin he was sure that persistent flattery would go a long way
towards winning her. “I've gained harder cases by studying the jury,”
he thought, “and I'll get her because I know her. That schoolmaster
irritates her; I won't. He says unpleasant things to her; I'll say
pleasant things and she'll turn to me. She likes to be admired; I guess
that means dresses and diamonds. Well, she shall have them, have all
she wants.... The mother ain't a factor, that's plain, and the father's
sittin' on the fence; he'll just do anythin' for the girl, and if he
ain't well off--what does that matter? I don't want money;” and his
chest expanded with a proud sense of disinterestedness.
“Why does the schoolmaster run after her? what would he do with such a
woman? He couldn't even keep her properly if he got her. It's a duty to
save the girl from throwin' herself away on a young, untried man like
that.” He felt again that his virtue ought to help him to succeed.
“What a handsome figure she has! Her arms are perfect, firm as marble;
and her neck--round, too, and not a line on it, and how she walks! She's
the woman I want--so lovely I'll always be proud of her. What a wife
she'll make! My first wife was pretty, but not to be compared to her.
Who'd ever have dreamt of finding such a beauty in this place? How lucky
I am after all. Yes, lucky because I know just what I want, and go for
it right from the start. That's all. That's what luck means.
“Women are won little by little,” he concluded. “Whoever knows them
and humours them right along, flattering their weak points, is sure to
succeed some time or other. And I can wait.”
He got his opportunity by waiting. As Loo took her seat in the buggy one
afternoon he saw that she was nervous and irritable. “The schoolmaster's
been goin' for her--the derned fool,” he said to himself, and at once
began to soothe her. The task was not an easy one. She was cold to him
at first and even spiteful; she laughed at what he said and promised,
and made fun of his pretensions. His kindly temper stood him in good
stead. He was quietly persistent; with the emollient of good-nature
he wooed her in his own fashion, and before they reached the first
settler's house he had half won her to kindliness. Here he made his
victory complete. At every question he appealed to her deferentially for
counsel and decision; he reckoned Miss Conklin would know, he relied on
her for the facts, and when she spoke he guessed that just settled the
matter; her opinion was good enough for him, and so forth.
Wounded to the soul by Bancroft's persistent, undeserved contempt, the
girl felt that now at last she had met some one who appreciated her, and
she gave herself up to the charm of dexterous flattery.
From her expression and manner while they drove homewards, Barkman
believed that the game was his own. He went on talking to her with the
reverence which he had already found to be so effective. There was no
one like her. What a lawyer she'd have made! How she got round the wife
and induced the husband to sign the petition--'twas wonderful! He had
never imagined a woman could be so tactful and winning. He had never met
a man who was her equal in persuading people.
The girl drank in the praise as a dry land drinks the rain. He meant
it all; that was clear. He had shown it in his words and acts--there,
before the Croftons. She had always believed she could do such
things; she didn't care much about books, and couldn't talk fine about
moonlight, but the men an' women she knew, she understood. She was sure
of that. But still, 'twas pleasant to hear it. He must love her or he
never could appreciate her as he did. She reckoned he was very clever;
the best lawyer in the State. Every one knew that. And he had said no
man was equal to her. Oh, if only the other, if only George had told her
so; but he was too much wrapped up in himself, and after all what was he
anyway? Yet, if he had--
At this point of her musings the lawyer, seeing the flushed cheeks and
softened glance, believed his moment had come, and resolved to use it.
His passion made him forget that it was possible to go too fast.
“Miss Conklin,” he began seriously, “if you'd join with me there's
nothin' we two couldn't do, nothin'! They call me the first lawyer in
the State, and I guess I'll get to Washington soon; but with you to
help me I'd be there before this year's out. As the wife of a Member of
Congress, you would show them all the way. I'm rich already; that is, I
can do whatever you want, and it's a shame for such genius as yours, and
such talent, to be hidden here among people who don't know how to value
you properly. In New York or in Washington you'd shine; become a social
power,” and as the words “New York” caused the girl to look at him with
eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching
triumph: “Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice
everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful
than any young man, and,” here he slipped his arm round her waist, “I
guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you,
Loo, as my wife?”
The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a
buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to
her the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she
answered, it was with full self-possession:
“I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to
marry--anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to
live in New York; but--I can't make up my mind all at once. You must
wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard.”
“Yes, it's hard,” Barkman replied, “very hard to feel uncertain of
winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,”
he added, after a pause, “I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just
what you wish.”
“Well, then,” she resumed, mollified by his humility, “you'll go back
to Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return,
the day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?” and she
smiled up in his face.
“Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect,” he acknowledged. “Hope
from you is better than certainty from any other woman.” In this mood
they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow
Barkman even to get down; he was to go right off at once, but when he
returned she'd meet him. With a grave respectful bow he lifted his
hat, and drove away. On the whole, he had reason to be proud of his
diplomacy; reason, too, for saying to himself that at last he had got on
“the inside track.” Still, all the factors in the problem were not seen
even by his keen eyes.