A Spoil of Office Part 38

There was something in his voice which made the hearts of his hearers ache. Ida glanced up at Bradley now and then, at the most dramatic points, and they seemed to grow nearer together in their sympathy.

"There's the schoolhouse," said the driver joyously, pointing at a dim red light ahead. They had been riding for nearly an hour across the treeless swells of prairie, and the wind had penetrated their very blood. Ida was s.h.i.+vering, and Bradley was suffering with her out of sympathy. He longed to fold her close in his arms and s.h.i.+eld her from the wind.

Suddenly the schoolhouse loomed upon their eyes. It was a bare little box, set on the wind-swept crest of a hill, not a tree to shelter it from the winds of winter or the sun of summer. Teams were hitched about at the fences, and others could be heard on the hard ground, clattering along the lanes. Men coming across the fields on foot could be heard talking. The plain seemed cold and desolate and illimitable.

Bradley helped Ida to alight, and hurried her towards the open door, from which the hum of talk came forth. They found the room crammed with men and women--the women all on one side of the room and the men as decorously on the other, or standing about the huge cannon stove, that was filled with soft coal, and sending out a flood of heat and gas.

They stopped talking when they saw the strangers enter, and gazed at them curiously.

Then a tall man, with a military cut of beard, pushed his way forward.

"Good-evenin', Sisto' Wilboo, I'm right glad to see you."

"I am glad to see you, Brother Barker."

"I must apologize fo' not coming myself."

"This is Mr. Talcott," Ida interrupted, introducing Bradley.

"Glad to meet you, Brotho' Talcott. As I was sayin', Sisto' Wilboo, I was late, and so I sent Brotho' Williams. I am ver' sawry"--

"Oh, no matter; we got here."

Colonel Barker introduced them to the people who stood near. The crowded condition of the room did not allow of a general introduction, although they all looked longingly at Ida, whom they knew by reputation.

At first glance the effect was unpromising. Most of the men had their hats on. All of them were fresh from the corn-fields, and their hands were hard as leather, and cracked and seamed, and lumpy with great muscles. Every man wore cots upon his fingers, which were rasped to the quick with husking. Everyone had a certain unkempt look, and everywhere color was in low tones: browns, grays, drabs; nothing light and gay about dress or bearing. Bradley noticed a few girls in the middle seats, but only a few.

It looked like an uncouth audience for Ida to address.

Colonel Barker called the meeting to order, and made an astonis.h.i.+ngly able and dignified speech. He then asked Brother Williams to say a word.

Brother Williams was a middle-aged farmer with unkempt hair. His clothes were faded to a russet brown; his collarless neck was like wrinkled leather, and his fingers were covered with cots; but he was a most impressive orator. His words were well chosen, and his gestures dignified and appropriate. He spoke in a conversational way, but with great power and sincerity. He ended by introducing "Sister Wilbur."

Ida began to speak in a low voice, as if talking to friends: "Brothers and sisters, this is not the first time I've driven across the Western prairies in a wagon to speak at such a meeting as this, and it isn't the last time. I expect to continue to speak just as long as there is a wrong to be righted, just as long as it does you good to have me come."

"That will be while you live," said the colonel gallantly.

"I hope not," she replied quickly. "I hope to see our reforms established before the gray comes into my hair. If we are true to ourselves; if our leaders are true to themselves; if they do not become spoils of office"--she looked at Bradley, and the others followed her glance; she saw her mistake, and colored a little as she went on--"if they are true to their best convictions, and speak the new thoughts that come to them, poverty will not increase her dominion."

She closed by saying: "We have with us tonight a very distinguished young Congressman from Iowa,--the Honorable Mr. Talcott. I hope he will feel like saying something to you."

While the people stamped and clapped hands, Ida went over to Bradley and said: "You _must_ talk to them. Tell them just what you think."

Bradley rose. He would have done more had she asked it. He began by speaking of the Grange and its decline, and of the apparent hopelessness of expecting the farmers to remain united.

"I am not quite convinced the time has come for a political movement.

If I were, I'd join it, even though some of the planks in your platform were objectionable, for I am a farmer. My people for generations have been tillers of the soil. They have always been poor. All the blood in my heart goes out, therefore, towards the farmer and the farmers'

movement. It seems a hopeless thing to fight the privileged cla.s.ses, with all their power and money. It can be done, but it can be done only by union among all the poor of every cla.s.s. Since coming to your State, since day before yesterday, my mind has been changed. If I thought--if I could believe--" As he paused he caught Ida's eyes s.h.i.+ning into his, and at the moment the one thing in all the world worth doing was to follow her wish. "I do believe, and I'm with you from this time forward." He ended there, but he stood for a moment numb, and tingling with emotion. He had uttered a resolution which changed the course of his life.

The people seemed to realize the importance of this confession on the part of the speaker. There was a vibrant intensity in the tone of his voice, which every listener felt, and they broke out in wild applause as he abruptly ended and sat down.

Ida, with her eyes s.h.i.+ning and wet, reached forward over the seat, and clasped his hand and held it. "Glorious! Now you're with us, heart and soul!" In their exaltation it did not occur to either of them what a strange place this little schoolhouse was for such a far-reaching compact.

Out under the coruscating skies again, into the crisp air! Bradley turned and looked back upon the little schoolhouse, packed to suffocation; it would always remain a memorable place in this wide land.

"Oh, you've done them good--more than you can tell!" Ida said.

"I begin to believe it is the beginning of the greatest reform movement in history," he said at last. "They are searching for the truth; and whenever any great body of men search for the truth, they find it, and the finding of it is tremendous. Its effect reaches every quarter of the earth."

They mounted to their perilous seat once more, and moved out into the night. The wind seemed to have gone down. There was a deep hush in the air, as if the high stars listened in their illimitable s.p.a.ces. The plain seemed as lonely and as unlighted as the Arctic Ocean. Even the barking of a farm-yard dog had a wolfish and savage suggestiveness.

They rode in silence. Ida sighed deeply. At last she said: "It's only an incident with us. We go back to our pleasant and varied lives; they go back to their lonely homes, and to their bleak corn-fields."

"But you have given them something to hope for, something to think of,"

Bradley said, seeking to comfort her.

"Yes, that is the only consolation I can get out of it. This movement has come into their lives like a new religion. It _is_ a new religion--the religion of humanity. It does help them to forget mud and rain and cold and monotony."

Again Bradley's arm seemed necessary to her safety, but this time it closed around her, strong and resolute, yet he dared not say a word. He was not sure of her. It seemed impossible that this wonderful, beautiful, and intellectual woman should care for him; and yet, when he was speaking, her eyes had pleaded for him.

The driver talked on about the meeting, but his pa.s.sengers were silent.

Under cover of listening they were both dreaming. Bradley was forecasting his life, and wondering how much she would make up of it; wondering if she would make more of it than she had of his past life.

How far off she had always seemed to him, and yet she had always been a part of his inner life. Now she sat beside him, in the circle of his arm, and yet she seemed hopelessly out of his reach. She liked him as a friend and brother reformer--that was all. Besides, he had no right to hope now, when his fortunes had become failures.

She was thinking of him. She was deeply gratified to think he had entered the great movement, and that she had been instrumental in converting him. Her heart warmed to him strangely for his honesty and his sincerity; and then he was so fine and earnest and strong-limbed!

The pressure of his arm at her side moved her, and she smiled at herself. Unlike Bradley, she was self-a.n.a.lytical; she knew what all these things meant.

"There's the station," the driver broke out, indicating some colored lights in the valley below them. "We're 'most home."

At his word a vision of the plain, and the significance of its life, rushed over Ida--the serene majesty of the stars, the splendor and unused wealth of the prairies, the barriers to their use, the limitless robbery of the poor, in both city and country, the pathetic _homes_ of the renter.

"Oh, the pathos, the tragedy of it all! Nature is so good and generous, and poverty so universal. Can it be remedied? It _must_ be remedied.

Every thinking, sympathizing soul must help us."

Bradley's voice touched Ida deeply as he said, slowly: "Henceforward I shall work for these people and all who suffer. My life shall be given to this work."

A great, sudden resolution flashed into Ida's eyes. She lifted her face to his and laid her hand on his and clasped it hard. There was a little pause, in which, as if by some occult sense, their minds read each other.

"We'll work _together_, Bradley," she said; and the driver did not see the timid caress which Bradley put upon her lips as a sign of his unspeakable great joy.

x.x.xII.

CONCLUSION.