The victory of Allen Rutledge : a tale of the Middle West

Front matter

% VICTORY <§T ALLAN RUTLEDGE

ALEXANDER. CORKEY

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Preface

In our American literature the wonderful Middle West has been strangely neglected. Few books portray the intensely interesting drama of life that is being enacted on the fertile plains of the Mississippi and Missouri Valleys.

My book is an humble contribution to the long and noble list of American fiction which describes our modern American life. My only claim to notice is that I have endeavored to picture the throbbing life of this world in the Middle West, where the nations of Europe are mingling to form one of the grandest types of humanity ever seen on the face of our globe.

This tale of the Middle West is the result of many years of observation and grows out of vital personal experiences as my own life is being lived in this fa- 1 vored part of the United States.

As a student, a business man, a minister, a professor, and a lecturer, I have had wide opportunities of knowing the varied experiences which go to make up the common life of the corn-belt.

PREFACE

If my story shall be able to show, in part, at least, the magnificent progress and the splendid possibilities of the great Mississippi valley, I shall feel repaid for all my labor in gathering the material and in writing my "Tale of the Middle West."

Alexander Coekey.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

L WELLINGTON'S TRAGEDY 11

n. THE NEW MINISTER ARRIVES 21

Chapter I. Wellington's Tragedy

"For God's sake, come quick, doctor!"

A boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age was standing, bare-headed and breathless, one warm July day, at the door of the parsonage in Wellington, as he gasped out these words to Rev. Dr. Anning. The white-haired pastor was at the door, having hurried from his study to answer the loud rapping of the excited youth.

"What's the matter, Frank, what's the matter?" hastily inquired the minister.

"Viola's dead. She's been killed," said the boy, and, bursting into tears, he ran down the street in the direction of his home near the railroad tracks.

"Dead!" echoed the minster, gazing in astonishment after the fleeing form of the boy. "Dead!" he repeated, and then he went on speaking to himself: "Poor girl, I must hurry down to the home. Alas! I fear the worst."

He seized his hat and walked rapidly toward the little Bohemian settlement on the edge of Wellington. Wellington was a typical city of the Middle West, a county seat, with a mixed population, including Americans from the Eastern

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12 THE VICTORY OR

States and foreigners from Sweden, Germany, France and Bohemia.

Most of the Bohemians were utterly godless, but one family, the Antols, had been reached by the church of which Dr. Anning was pastor. The two children, Viola and Frank, had been members of the Sunday school for some years, and Dr. Anning had often reflected that a start had been made through this family in the Christianizing and Americanizing of these Bohemian immigrants. Viola was just past eighteen, a lovely girl ,of much promise. She was now a member of the church choir as well as the Sunday school.

The word her brother had brought him of Viola's violent death stunned the minister like a blow. He had seen her pass that very morning in the bloom of health. As he neared the Antol cottage, it was evident something tragic had happened. A crowd was standing around, awe-struck and silent. Cries of grief came from within the house.

The crowd, mostly Bohemians, silently made way for the aged minister, whom all recognized. Many of them had only curses for the church of which Dr. Anning was pastor, and for the religion which he professed, but all had a respect for this good, white-haired man, who had shown himself a friend to all in trouble for many years.

Dr. Anning knocked gently, and then opened the door himself and entered.

The room was half full of weeping women, who motioned him to the door of the bedroom.

Just as he reached the door, the doctor came out. "She's dead," said the physician to the minister. "She has been dead over an hour. They found her alongside the railroad track at the bend in the woods, with a revolver at her side and a bullet in her brain."

"Saviour, help me!" groaned the good man in his heart, as he came in, and sat down quietly in a vacant chair beside the bed.

The father, with bowed head, was moaning in helpless agony. The mother sat gazing in stony grief at the silent form that lay on the bed. The doctor had just covered it with a sheet. Already a crimson stain over the face showed the dreadful cause of all the grief and agony. On the floor lay Frank, Viola's brother, his strong, young form convulsed with sobs. Dr. Anning sat in silence for a few moments, not knowing what it was best for him to do.

Suddenly the mother gave a shriek and threw herself on the bed, crying in the Bohemian tongue: Viola, Viola, my child, Viola; come back, come back!"

In the paroxysm of her grief she pulled the sheet from her daughter's blood-stained face. Tears flowed down Dr. Anning's cheeks, as he gently raised the hapless mother from the bed and led her to another room.

"Mr. Antol," he said to the stricken father, "go and comfort your wife. Let us care for Viola."

The man rose as in a dream, and Dr. Anning led him out also. A woman came in and took out the sobbing boy.

When Dr. Anning returned to the bedroom, he stood for a moment gazing down at the beautifful face of Viola, stained with her life-blood. He drew up the sheet again, and murmured to himself: "My God is this all the church has done for Viola?" What he meant only he himself understood. The unutterable pain in his heart was not simply because a young life had been taken out of the world. A horrible feeling that it was association with his church that was accountable for this awful crime made him sick at heart.

The coroner soon arrived and made a hasty examination.

'We will hold an inquest this evening," he said to the minister, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I shall have the city physician, Dr. Lucas, make a complete examination at once."

Dr. Lucas came, and after a half hour's examination of poor Viola's body he came out of the room, looking very serious.

Dr. Anning, who had remained until now at the home, put on his hat, and accompanied the physician down the street.

"Dr, Lucas," said the minister, "were there any other wounds or bruises on the body?"

"No, Dr. Anning," said the doctor, who was a close friend of the minister's and an officer of his church. "No but something was wrong. I am shocked beyond expression. I always thought Viola was a good, pure girl, but evidently she went astray."

Dr. Anning staggered and would have fallen, had not his companion grasped his arm.

"I am afraid it was suicide," continued Dr. Lucas, thinking the minister had merely stumbled, and not noticing the pallor of his face. "She could not have hidden her shame much longer."

"It was not suicide!" exclaimed the aged minister, so fiercely that the doctor started. "It was not suicide. That pure, innocent child has been betrayed and murdered."

"I am grieved and shocked beyond measure," replied the physician, thinking the awful tragedy had unnerved his pastor. Dr. Lucas was a faithful member of the church and a devout Christian. "Of course," he went on, "I know that, under the surface of our quiet society in Wellington, much evil exists, undreamt of by the world. My profession enables me to see constantly the downfall of our young people through ignorance and unrestrained passion, but Viola — I never could have suspected Viola — she was so sincere, so gentle, so innocent"

The minister said no more. He could not trust himself to speak. He was afraid he had said too much already.

A little farther on they separated and Dr. Anning walked slowly back to his parsonage. "I knew it, I knew it," he said to himself. "That cursed hypocrite is at the bottom of it all. But I am helpless. I have no absolute proof. Even if I had, it would wreck our church if I exposed him. I must preserve the peace and harmony of Christ's church. God forgive me!" he cried in his agony, "is it Christ's church? But for our church that girl would be alive and happy to-day."

Dr. Anning was not the only one who had suspicions in regard to Viola's fate. A young man had been paying some attention to her who was believed by some to know something about the tragedy. This young man was Frederick Markley, the leader of the church choir, and the son of the leading officer in the Wellington church. Young Markley's father, William Markley, had been an officer in the church for over thirty years. He was a hard, grasping, covetous man, and had few friends, but he was a power in the Wellington church. He was a pioneer in that part of Iowa, and had used all his superior knowledge and education to grind as much money as he could out of the foreigners who had settled around Wellington. These foreigners came from Germany, France, Sweden, Bohemia, and other European countries. They came in large numbers to find a new home in the great Western land.

Markley looked on these immigrants, ignorant of American customs, as his lawful prey, and he had amassed a fortune through his dealings with them. He used all kinds of methods. He was in the land business; he loaned money; he had a store. Lately, he had become a manufacturer and employed many hands, nearly all foreigners.

His Christianity was shown in his attendance at the morning service in the Wellington church every Sunday, and in his contribution to the minister's salary. Apart from these two things, he might as soon have been judged a Mohammedan, or Jew, or even an Atheist, as a Christian.

He was an officer in the church, but he ignored the duties of this office until some attempt was made to depart from the old formal, antiquated methods of church work. Then he became active long enough to effectually stop any such enterprise.

Dr. Anning had meekly submitted to Markley's control, and so he had remained pastor of the Wellington church for many years ; but as a factor in promoting true Christianity no one knew better than Dr. Anning that his church was a failure.

That fatal afternoon he saw his church was more than a failure. It was a moral cancer in the community. Through association with his church a pure, innocent, foreign girl had been betrayed and murdered. Others might be suspicious, but he knew the damning secret.

Although the community regarded Frederick Markley as a fast young man, of loose morals, the church accepted him as one of its youthful leaders. He had charge of the choir. His influence over the young people of the church was paramount. Among the students of Wellington College he was regarded as a hero.

Poor Dr. Anning knew that this influence of his in the church and college was largely used to lead the young people into doubtful habits. Markley was an inveterate card player, and it was rumored he gambled heavily. He arranged a dance at the college every month, and often these dances were reported to be altogether too free for a Christian college. No one denied that he drank freely.

Dr. Anning often thought of making a protest against this young man's leadership in the church, but he knew such a protest would mean a war with the senior Markley, and so, for the peace and harmony of the church, he endured in silence.

Dr. Anning had seen young Markley's attentions to the beautiful young Bohemian, and, knowing Markley's character, he had trembled for Viola. Just the week before, Dr. Anning happened to be in the officers' room of the church one evening after supper. It was choir practise night, but fully an hour before the time when the choir assembled. The minister was astonished, therefore, to hear footsteps and voices in the church. He recognized Viola's voice at once, with its slight Bohemian accent.

"Frederick," she was saying, "I am beginning to think you are deceiving me. Unless you keep your promise, I must, I will, tell Dr. Anning."

"If you do I will kill you," he heard Markley hiss.

It was Dr. Anning's first thought at the time to open the door and confront the young people, and how he wished he had done so, as he thought of it all afterward. But he thought of the elder Markley; he thought of the peace and harmony of the church, and he kept still.

The young people passed on to the choir room, and Dr. Anning was left with an awful secret on his soul.

Through a little hole the interior of a vast building can be easily seen. By one small act a man's character can be disclosed. So, through these few sentences Dr. Anning saw, clear as day, the tragedy of Viola's life.

After coming from the sight of Viola's murdered body Dr. Arming felt he must speak out. What Dr. Lucas told him about the unfortunate girl made him grind his teeth in rage. But again he thought of the peace of the church. Again he resolved to be silent.

At the inquest, which was short, few new facts were elicited. None had seen anyone accompany the girl down the track. The revolver belonged to Mr. Antol, although he declared he had not seen it in the house for some months. A verdict of suicide while temporarily insane was given, and the incident was closed.

At the funeral many noticed how strangely Dr. Anning acted. He did not seem himself. At first it was thought that his grief for the sad fate of one of his young church members had unnerved him. But, as the days and weeks went by, it was apparent to all that Dr. Anning was a broken man. In his pulpit he was like a man in a dream, and sometimes his utterances were almost unintelligible.

His guilty silence kept the church in peace and harmony, but it kept his soul in awful turmoil day and night. Sleep fled. His reason faltered. A few weeks after Viola's funeral Dr. Anning tottered into his grave, bearing his awful secret with him.

Some of the community suspected young Markley knew something of Viola's tragic end, but no one had any proof, and the talk about him died out. Viola was forgotten. Her wrongs were unavenged. Frederick Markley became more dissipated than ever. The young people of Wellington became more reckless.

But One above knew well the secret that Dr. Anning had refused to disclose, and strange things were yet to happen in Wellington.

Chapter II. The New Minister Arrives

Three months after Dr. Arming's death the fast train was rushing along through Illinois from Chicago to Omaha. These two mighty cities of the Middle West are united by a number of trunk lines which rush passengers from one city to the other during the daylight of a summer's day. There is no richer country in the world than these fertile prairies of Illinois and Iowa.

A young man sat in the luxurious palace car of the Limited and gazed out on the passing scenes. The fields were laden with the golden corn, for which the Middle West is famed. The modern farmhouses flew by. The train roared through little villages, without even hesitating. But the young man was not interested in the passing panorama. He was lost in deep meditation. A noble-looking youth, his age seemed about twenty-five, and with his coal-black hair, dark, piercing eyes and ruddy cheeks, he was a picture of health and strength. His brow was smooth and high. His appearance would have attracted attention ii> any crowd.

"Why, Mr. Rutledge, I thought it was you. Do you remember me?"

The young man started out of his day dream and came back quickly to earth. As he turned toward the aisle of the car to see who owned the sweet, musical voice which had addressed him, he gazed into the fair young face of a beautiful girl, with light flaxen hair and lustrous blue eyes. She was dressed in a brown traveling suit, in exquiste taste, and she had the carriage of a true young American woman.

"I am glad to see you again," responded the young man, after the first glance.

Rising from his seat, he shook her hand warmly. "Sit down, Miss Grayson," he continued. "Let me see? It is over four years since we last met in Des Moines. How did you remember me?"

"How did you remember me?" asked the young lady, in return.

"I could never forget you," said Allan Rutledge, for this was the young man's name.

Mabel Grayson blushed at Allan's earnest remark, and as the rosy hue of her cheeks deepened, and her blue eyes sparkled, she made a lovely picture.

"Where have you been all this time since your graduation?" she asked.

While these young people are renewing their i acquaintance in this way, let us go back in their history a few years.

Four and a half years previous Allan Rutledge had graduated at Des Moines *Uollege. The lad was Iowa born and bred and he was proud of his native State. His parents had been pioneers and their home was on a large farm on the banks of the Des Moines River. Allan had received all his general education in the Hawkeye State, as the natives term Iowa. On the morning of his graduation from college in Des Moines, Iowa's capital city, an event occurred that had an influence on Allan's entire career. He was approaching the 'hall in which the graduating exercises were to be held. A number of carriages and automobiles were concentrating on this same hall, bringing the college trustees and patrons to the exercises.

Judge Grayson, president of the board of trustees of the college, and his young daughter, Mabel, were approaching in a carriage. The driver was new and awkward and the horses high-spirited and excited. An automobile dashed past, the chauffeur tooting his horn wildly. The horses became frightened and began to back and rear. The coachman lost his self-control and pulled violently on the reins, only increasing the fright of the mettled steeds. An accident seemed imminent.

Like a flash the young graduate was in the road, and, leaping up, had grasped both horses by the bridles. It was a dangerous attempt, but in a trice the youth was master of the situation. He pulled the frightened animals to the ground, spoke gently to them and, at his word and touch, the panic left them.

Lifting his hat to Judge Grayson and his daughter, 'he disappeared in the crowd. <

During the graduation exercises Allan sat on the platform with the rest of the class. He caught the eye of Miss Grayson, seated beside her father near the front, as he rose to deliver his oration.

His subject was "Self-mastery." He began with a quotation from Tennyson: "Self-reverence, selfknowledge, self-control, these three alone, lead life to sovereign power." His oration was a noble effort and held the vast audience spellbound. He closed with a quotation from Walter Foss:

"I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life, The men that press on with the ardor of hope

And the men that are faint in the strife. And I turn not away from their smiles or their tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan. Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

And be a friend to man."

As he sat down, a hush crept over the audience for a brief second. Then a deafening roar of applause showed that Allan was the hero of the day.

Mabel Grayson whispered to her father: "That is the young man who caught our horses. I recognized him at once."

Thus it happened that at the close of the graduation exercises on that eventful day Allan almost lost his own self-mastery when Mabel Grayson came forward and said simply:

"Thank you, very much, Mr. Rutledge, for saving us from an accident this morning, and I want to congratulate you on your oration. It was splendid."

Allan blushed and stammered, as he answered, "Thank you, Miss Grayson. I did nothing. I am glad you were pleased with my oration."

The Judge also warmly thanked him and praised his oration as a masterpiece.

Allan Rutledge and Mabel Grayson had not met again until this morning, as both were journeying on the Limited Express from Chicago.

During these four years Allan had been preparing himself for his lifework as a minister of the Gospel by a three years' course at a Boston theological institution and a year's study in Germany.

He had just received a unanimous call to the Wellington church in Iowa, and he was on his way to Wellington that morning. Naturally he had been absorbed in deep thought, as it meant the real beginning of his lifework.

Mabel Grayson had also completed her studies, graduating from an Eastern college.

As Allan conversed with the happy, vivacious, cultured daughter of Judge Grayson, he threw off his heavy weight of care and his sense of coming responsibility. He did not mention Wellington to her at all. He told her of his European trip, of the places of interest which he had visited, and of the famous men he had met. Miss Grayson was delighted to hear of his travels, and sincerely interested in his studies for his sacred profession, as she was an earnest Christian girl.

The time passed rapidly. The great Mississippi* father of waters, was crossed, and the train rolled into the grand old State of Iowa.

"I am glad to be back in Iowa," said Allan, as he watched the cornfields fly past. "I have seen no ,land like it in all Europe."

"It is a grand State," said Miss Grayson. "I was never ashamed at Mount Holyoke to tell the girls I was a native of Iowa."

"Yes," continued Allan, "I am anxious to make Iowa my home the rest of my life. My old home on the Des Moines River surpasses to me any palace I ever saw in the Old World."

"I am going to stop at Wellington to-day," said Miss Grayson. "I am to visit there for a few weeks with the Markleys, who are distant relatives of my father's."

"Wellington!" exclaimed Allan. "I am going to Wellington, too. I expect to live there awhile."

"To live there," said Mabel Grayson, in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"I have been invited to become pastor of the Wellington Church and I have accepted," answered Allan.

"I congratulate you most sincerely," said the girl. "It is a splendid church. I knew Dr. Aiming very well. He was often in our home in Des Moines. Poor man," she added, with a sigh, "he broke down suddenly. How glad papa will be to know you are his successor. He has often spoken of your graduating oration. He said you were a born 'friend to man.' "

"At least," answered Allan gallantly, "I am a friend to his daughter. I think I have heard of your relatives there, the Markleys. Some such name was among those signing my call."

"Yes," said Mabel, "uncle, as I call him, is one of the leaders in your church, but papa does not think he is a very religious man. His son is the leader of the choir, but I have not been in Wellington for several years."

"Wellington the next stop," shouted the brakeman of the train.

The engine gave a long, shrill whistle, and the cars began to slow down, as the scattering houses on the outskirts of Wellington darted past.

Allan took Miss Grayson's baggage and his own and led the way to the platform. When he had placed the suit cases on the ground, he turned and gracefully assisted Miss Grayson to alight. As they stood together, they presented a striking appearance, and many turned to look, and to inquire who they were.

Tall, strong, manly and handsome, Allan looked every inch a man, while Miss Grayson's fair complexion, beautiful features and sparkling blue eyes made a charming picture of budding womanhood.

"How are you, my cousin," said a rich, deep voice; and both Allan and Miss Grayson turned and met a young man of Allan's own age. He was decidedly dark like Allan, but otherwise the two men were in marked contrast. There were marks of dissipation on the face of the newcomer, and ihis eyes had a hard, cynical expression. He was (dressed in the height of fashion, but rather too loud to be in good taste.

"Why, Frederick, you have come to meet us," said Mabel Grayson pleasantly, and then turning to Allan, she introduced him to the stranger. "Mr. Rutledge," she said, "I want you to meet my cousin, Frederick Markley."

The young men looked at each other for a moment, as though each measured the other's strength, and then they shook hands without a word. There was no warmth in the greeting on either side.

Markley knew that Rutledge was the new pastor of the Wellington Church, but a minister was not a person held in high regard by him. Because he was a preacher Markley felt a kind of contempt for Allan, but because he saw in him manliness and authority he could not but acknowledge his superiority.

Allan saw into Markley's character at a glance. The loud style of clothing, the cynical glance, the dissipated look, all proclaimed a young man void of character and principle. It seemed to Allan unfortunate that he should meet such a church member on his arrival at Wellington.

"Deacon Stanford is waiting for you in his carriage at the end of the depot," said Markley, at last, adding in a slighting tone of voice, "You're the new preacher, arn't you?"

"My name is Allan Rutledge," said Allan shortly.

He turned and cordially bade Mabel Grayson good-by.

As Markley saw the light in Mabel's eyes, as she followed Allan's manly form with her glance, he muttered under his breath: "Damn a preacher, anyhow."

Since Mr. Frederick Markley was the leading young man in the Wellington Church, and the director of its worship in praise, his reception of his new pastor, Rev. Allan Rutledge, was not very auspicious for the future peace and harmony of the church. Anything at all likely to disturb these two prime essentials in a church, peace and harmony, would have caused Dr. Anning to hazard his very soul, but Allan Rutledge was a different type of minister. He had a passion in his soul, something for which he hungered and thirsted, but it was not a passion for merely peace and harmony. He believed the wisdom from above was "first pure — then peaceable." Like America's great war President, Allan Rutledge was ready to fight for righteousness, and fight for it even if it cost him his life.

When Allan reached the end of the station platform, he found Deacon Stanford, one of the officers of the church, awaiting him with a carriage. Introducing himself, Allan stepped into the vehicle and was soon passing over the newly paved streets of Wellington.

"We are glad you have come, Mr. Rutledge," said Deacon Stanford warmly, as they drove along. "We feel sure God has sent you among us."

The sincerity of his tone cheered Allan and helped to efface the discouragment which he felt after this brief meeting with Frederick Markley.

"I will do my duty in Wellington," said Allan quietly, "and I hope I shall be of real service to the church and to the community."

"You will," said the older man, in deep earnest. "I know you will do us all good. We need a revival of religion here and I am sure you can help us."

Allan's spirit began to rise, and soon he and Mr. Stanford were on intimate terms. Wellington's new minitser had come, but Wellington little realized at first what this would mean.

Chapter III. In Markley's Factory

The whistle had just blown at the close of the noon hour and the men were hurrying to their places in Markley's factory. It was midwinter, just two months after Rev. Allan Rutledge arrived in Wellington.

The various farm implements which Markley manufactured had a wide sale in the agricultural States of Iowa, Illinois, Missouri and Nebraska, and the factory was a paying concern. It gave steady employment to the hands, but the larger share of the profits went into Markley's coffers. He was noted for paying the lowest possible wages. Most of his employees were foreigners, who were more docile than- American workmen.

A group of men entered the paint shop on the second floor on this particular day. They were an interesting group from an ethic viewpoint, and presented one of the most fascinating sights to a student of America's destiny. In this paint shop, as in all our Church and State, educational and commercial life, various races were being blended into one American type,

"Time's noblest offspring and the last." 31

S2 THE VICTORY OF

The foreman of this room in the factory was Robert McGregor, a sturdy Scotchman.

A German, Luther Schneider, was the head 'painter, who performed the work requiring special skill with the brush.

A little Dutchman, Jake Borner, was the second painter.

Pat McGinnis presided at the "dipping vat.'' This was a long tank, filled with paint, into which parts of implements were dipped, a quick and sure method of painting.