Elder Conklin - Frank Harris (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) š
- Author: Frank Harris
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The Professor did not at once grasp the situation in so far as he himself was concerned. But he divined the cause of the lawyerās irritability, and refrained from pushing the argument further. The discussion could, indeed, serve no purpose, save to embitter the quarrel. He therefore answered quietly:
āI didnāt come here to dispute with you. I came to see May. Is she in?ā
āNo, I think not. I believe she went out some time ago.ā
āIn that case Iāll go home. Perhaps youāll tell her I called. Good day.ā
āGood day!ā
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 Hutchingsā 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. āHutchings sold himselfāmost likely for place. He didnāt fear a quarrel with meāthat was evident; perhaps he wishes to get rid of meāevident, too. He believes that I shall be dismissed, or else he wouldnāt 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, āThe offender seldom forgives.ā Heāll 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.ā
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.
āAh, May!ā 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.
āMy love,ā he said, kissing her hands, āhow 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 patientlyāDarling!ā
There was a mingling of self-surrender and ruffled pride in her smiling reproach:
āLose 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 youād lose your place as Professor in spite of all he had done for you. āTwas good of him, wasnāt it, to give up running for Mayor, so as not to embitter Gulmore against you? I was quite proud of him. But you wonāt lose your post, will you? Has anything serious happened?āDear!ā
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 fearsāher father had already begun to try to part them. She must know all and judge. But how? Should he give her āThe Tribuneā to read? Noāit was vindictive.
āCome and sit down, May, and Iāll tell you what happened yesterday. You shall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong.ā
He told her, point by point, what had occurred. May listened in silence till he stopped.
āBut why did he resign? What could he gain by that?ā
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; Mayās anger was aroused because her father had sought to deceive her; had tried by lying suggestion to take credit to himself, whereasā
āI wouldnāt have believed it,ā she murmured, with the passionate revolt of youth against mean deceit. āI can never forgive him or trust him again.ā
āDonāt let us talk of it any more, dear. I wouldnāt have told you only I was afraid that he would try to separate us. Now I know you are on my side I wouldnāt have you judge him harshly.ā
āOn your side,ā she repeated, with a certain exaltation of manner. āOn your side always in spite of everything. I feel for you more intensely than for myself.ā In a lower voice and with hesitating speech she added: āDid heādid he tell you that he resigned on your account?ā
He nodded.
āAnd youāre not angry?ā
āNo.ā He smiled slightly. āI understand men better now than I did yesterday. Thatās all.ā
āOh, but you ought to be mad. I am. How can youāā
āLet us talk, dear, of what concerns us more. Have you heard anything? From what your father said I half fear that the meeting tomorrow may go against me. Has no one called?ā
āProfessor Krazinski. I saw his card on the table when I came in. You think itās a bad sign that heās the only one?ā
āIām afraid so. It may be merely anxiety, but Iām 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 canāt help it; I loathe the self-seeking and the vileness. Iād rather not know men at all than see them as theyāve shown themselves lately. I want to get away and rinse my mouth out and forget all about itāaway somewhere with you, my sweet love.ā
āBut you mustnāt let them condemn you without an effort.ā While speaking she put her hand on his shoulder and moved close to him. āIt 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 youāre the best teacher in the world, ahāā
He put his arms round her, and she bowed her head on his neck, that he might not see the gathering tears.
āYouāre right, dear. I spoke hastily. Iāll do my best. It wonāt be as bad as we think. My colleagues are men of some education and position. Theyāre not like the crowd of ignorant voters and greedy place-hunters; theyāll listen to reason, andāāhalf bitterlyāātheyāve no motive to do me wrong. Besides, Krazinski has called, and I scarcely know him; perhaps the others didnāt think of coming. It was kind of him, wasnāt it? Iām very grateful to him. He must be a good fellow.ā
āWhat has he done so wonderful? Oh, my!āāand she turned her face up to his with half-laughing deprecationāāIām afraid Iām deteriorating too. I canāt hear you praise any one now without feeling horribly jealous. Yes, he must be good. But donāt be too grateful to him, orāI must be going now, and, oh! what a long time itāll be until tomorrow! I shall have grown old beforeātomorrow.ā
āSweetheart! Youāll come here and wait for me in the afternoon, wonāt you? I shall want to see you so much.ā
āYes, if you like; but I intended to go up to the Universityāmaynāt I? Itāll seem agesāaeonsāwaiting here by myself.ā
āThe meeting will not last long, and Iāll come to you as soon as itās over. Darling, you donāt know how much you have helped me. You have given me courage and hope,ā 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. āWhere does she get her bitterness from? Iām not bitter, anā I had difficulties, was poor anā ignorant, had to succeed or go under, while she has had everythinā she wanted. Itās a pity she aināt kinderā¦.ā
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 wifeās presence, Mr. Gulmore began:
āI donāt say Robertsāll win, Ida. The bettinās the other way; but Iām not sure, for I donāt 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 aināt likely to fight desperate the second time.āGritās half traininā!ā
āI wish I could be there to see him beaten!ā Ida had tried to turn her wounded pride into dislike,
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