order to recover from her agitation, and to remove all traces of it. She
was an only child, and had accordingly a sense of her own importance,
which happened to be uncorrected by physical deficiencies. Not that
she was astonishingly beautiful, but she was tall and just good-looking
enough to allow her to consider herself a beauty. Her chief attraction
was her form, which, if somewhat flat-chested, had a feline flexibility
rarer and more seductive than she imagined. She was content to believe
that nature had fashioned her to play the part in life which, she knew,
was hers of right. Her name, even, was most appropriate--dignified. Ida
should be queen-like, stately; the oval of her face should be long, and
not round, and her complexion should be pallid; colour in the cheeks
made one look common. Her dark hair, too, pleased her; everything, in
fact, save her eyes; they were of a nameless, agate-like hue, and she
would have preferred them to be violet. That would have given her face
the charm of unexpectedness, which she acknowledged was in itself a
distinction. And Miss Ida loved everything that conduced to distinction,
everything that flattered her pride with a sense of her own superiority.
It seemed as if her mother's narrowness of nature had confined and shot,
so to speak, all the passions and powers of the father into this one
characteristic of the daughter. That her father had risen to influence
and riches by his own ability did not satisfy her. She had always felt
that the Hutchingses and the society to which they belonged, persons who
had been well educated for generations, and who had always been more or
less well off, formed a higher class. It was the longing to become one
of them that had impelled her to study with might and main. Even in
her school-days she had recognized that this was the road to social
eminence. The struggle had been arduous. In the Puritan surroundings of
middle-class life her want of religious training and belief had almost
made a pariah of the proud, high-tempered girl, and when as a clever
student of the University and a daughter of one of the richest and most
powerful men in the State, she came into a circle that cared as little
about Christian dogmas as she did, she attributed the comparative
coolness with which her companions treated her, to her father's want of
education, rather than to the true cause, her own domineering temper. As
she had hated her childish playmates, who, instructed by their mothers,
held aloof from the infidel, so she had grown to detest the associates
of her girlhood, whose parents seemed, by virtue of manners and
education, superior to hers. The aversion was acrid with envy, and had
fastened from the beginning on her competitor as a student and her rival
in beauty, Miss May Hutchings. Her animosity was intensified by the fact
that, when they entered the Sophomore class together, Miss May had made
her acquaintance, had tried to become friends with her, and then, for
some inscrutable reason, had drawn coldly away. By dint of working twice
as hard as May, Ida had managed to outstrip her, and to begin the Junior
year as the first of the class; but all the while she was conscious that
her success was due to labour, and not to a larger intelligence. And
with the coming of the new professor of Greek, this superiority, her one
consolation, was called in question.
Professor Roberts had brought about a revolution in the University. He
was young and passionately devoted to his work; had won his Doctor's
degree at Berlin _summa cum laude_, and his pupils soon felt that
he represented a standard of knowledge higher than they had hitherto
imagined as attainable, and yet one which, he insisted, was common
in the older civilization of Europe. It was this nettling comparison,
enforced by his mastery of difficulties, which first aroused the ardour
of his scholars. In less than a year they passed from the level of
youths in a high school to that of University students. On the best
heads his influence was magical. His learning and enthusiasm quickened
their reverence for scholarship, but it was his critical faculty which
opened to them the world of art, and nerved them to emulation.
“Until one realizes the shortcomings of a master,” he said in a lecture,
“it is impossible to understand him or to take the beauty of his works
to heart. When Sophocles repeats himself--the Electra is but a feeble
study for the Antigone, or possibly a feeble copy of it--we get near the
man; the limitations of his outlook are characteristic: when he
deforms his Ajax with a tag of political partisanship, his servitude to
surroundings defines his conscience as an artist; and when painting by
contrasts he poses the weak Ismene and Chrysothemis as foils to their
heroic sisters, we see that his dramatic power in the essential was
rudimentary. Yet Mr. Matthew Arnold, a living English poet, writes that
Sophocles 'saw life steadily and saw it whole.' This is true of no man,
not of Shakespeare nor of Goethe, much less of Sophocles or Racine. The
phrase itself is as offensively out of date as the First Commandment.”
The bold, incisive criticism had a singular fascination for his hearers,
who were too young to remark in it the crudeness that usually attaches
to originality.
Miss Hutchings was the first of the senior students to yield herself to
the new influence. In the beginning Miss Gulmore was not attracted by
Professor Roberts; she thought him insignificant physically; he was neat
of dress too, and ingenuously eager in manner--all of which conflicted
with her ideal of manhood. It was but slowly that she awoke to a
consciousness of his merits, and her awakening was due perhaps as much
to jealousy of May Hutchings as to the conviction that with Professor
Roberts for a husband she would realize her social ambitions. Suddenly
she became aware that May was passing her in knowledge of Greek, and was
thus winning the notice of the man she had begun to look upon as worthy
of her own choice. Ida at once addressed herself to the struggle with
all the energy of her nature, but at first without success. It was
evident that May was working as she had never worked before, for as the
weeks flew by she seemed to increase her advantage. During this period
Ida Gulmore's pride suffered tortures; day by day she understood more
clearly that the prize of her life was slipping out of reach. In
mind and soul now she realized Roberts' daring and charm. With the
intensified perceptions of a jealous woman, she sometimes feared that he
sympathized with her rival. But he had not spoken yet; of that she was
sure, and her conceit enabled her to hope desperately. A moment arrived
when her hatred of May was sweetened by contempt. For some reason or
other May was neglecting her work; when spoken to by the Professor her
colour came and went, and a shyness, visible to all, wrapped her in
confusion. Ida felt that there was no time to be lost, and increased
her exertions. As she thought of her position she determined first
to surpass her competitor, and then in some way or other to bring
the Professor to speech. But, alas! for her plans. One morning she
demonstrated her superiority with cruel clearness, only to find that
Roberts, self-absorbed, did not notice her. He seemed to have lost the
vivid interest in the work which aforetime had characterized him,
and the happiness of the man was only less tell-tale than the pretty
contentment and demure approval of all he said which May scarcely tried
to conceal. Wild with fear, blinded by temper, Ida resolved to know the
truth.
One morning when the others left the room she waited, busying herself
apparently with some notes, till the Professor returned, as she knew he
would, in time to receive the next class. While gathering up her books,
she asked abruptly:
“I suppose I should congratulate you, Professor?”
“I don't think I understand you.”
“Yes, you do. Why lie? You are engaged to May Hutchings,” and the girl
looked at him with flaming eyes.
“I don't know why you should ask me, or why I should answer, but we have
no motive for concealment--yes, I am.”
His words were decisive; his reverence for May and her affection had
been wounded by the insolent challenge, but before he finished speaking
his manner became considerate. He was quick to feel the pain of others
and shrank from adding to it--these, indeed, were the two chief articles
of the unformulated creed which directed his actions. His optimism was
of youth and superficial, but the sense of the brotherhood of human
suffering touched his heart in a way that made compassion and tenderness
appear to him to be the highest and simplest of duties. It was Ida's
temper that answered his avowal. Still staring at him she burst into
loud laughter, and as he turned away her tuneless mirth grew shriller
and shriller till it became hysterical. A frightened effort to regain
her self-control, and her voice broke in something like a sob, while
tears trembled on her lashes. The Professor's head was bent over
his desk and he saw nothing. Ida dashed the tears from her eyes
ostentatiously, and walked with shaking limbs out of the room. She would
have liked to laugh again scornfully before closing the door, but she
dared not trust her nerves. From that moment she tried to hate Professor
Roberts as she hated May Hutchings, for her disappointment had been very
sore, and the hurt to her pride smarted like a burn. On returning home,
she told her father that she had taken her name off the books of the
University; she meant to be an actress, and a degree could be of no use
to her in her new career. Her father did not oppose her openly; he was
content to postpone any decisive step, and in a few days she seemed to
have abandoned her project. But time brought no mitigation of her spite.
She was tenacious by nature, and her jealous rage came back upon her in
wild fits. To be outdone by May Hutchings was intolerable. Besides, the
rivalry and triumphs of the class-room had been as the salt of life to
her; now she had nothing to do, nothing to occupy her affections or give
object to her feverish ambition. And the void of her life she laid to
the charge of Roberts. So when the time came and the temptation, she
struck as those strike who are tortured by pain.
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?”