Gulmore, The Boss | Page 9

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 passion. 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 passion. 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 glass 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