Chapter 11

"Victor was telling me this morning about his talk with you," she said in her rapid, energetic way. "He was depressed because he had failed. But I felt sure--I feel sure--that he hasn't. In our talk the other day, Mr. Hull, I got a clear idea of your character. A woman understands better. And I know that, after Victor told you the plain truth about the situation, you couldn't go on."

David looked round rather wildly, swallowed hard several times, said hoarsely: "I won't, if you'll marry me."

But for a slight change of expression or of color Davy would have thought she had not heard--or perhaps that he had imagined he was uttering the words that forced themselves to his lips in spite of his efforts to suppress them. For she went on in the same impetuous, friendly way:

"It seemed to me that you have an instinct for the right that's unusual in men of your class. At least, I think it's unusual. I confess I've not known any man of your class except you--and I know you very slightly. It was I that persuaded Victor to go to you. He believes that a man's class feeling controls him--makes his moral sense--compels his actions. But I thought you were an exception--and he yielded after I urged him a while."

"I don't know WHAT I am," said Hull gloomily. "I think I want to do right. But--what is right? Not theoretical right, but the practical, workable thing?"

"That's true," conceded Selma. "We can't always be certain what's right. But can't we always know what's wrong? And, Mr. Hull, it is wrong--altogether wrong--and YOU know it's wrong--to lend your name and your influence and your reputation to that crowd. They'd let you do a little good--why? To make their professions of reform seem plausible. To fool the people into trusting them again. And under cover of the little good you were showily doing, how much mischief they'd do! If you'll go back over the history of this town--of any town--of any country--you'll find that most of the wicked things--the things that pile the burdens on the shoulders of the poor--the masses--most of the wicked things have been done under cover of just such men as you, used as figureheads."

"But I want to build up a new party--a party of honest men, honestly led," said Davy.

"Led by your sort of young men? I mean young men of your class. Led by young lawyers and merchants and young fellows living on inherited incomes? Don't you see that's impossible," cried Selma. "They are all living off the labor of others. Their whole idea of life is exploiting the masses--is reaping where they have not sown or reaping not only what they've sown but also what others have sown--for they couldn't buy luxury and all the so-called refinements of life for themselves and their idle families merely with what they themselves could earn. How can you build up a really HONEST party with such men? They may mean well. They no doubt are honest, up to a certain point. But they will side with their class, in every crisis. And their class is the exploiting class."

"I don't agree with you," said Davy. "You are not fair to us."

"How!" demanded Selma.

"I couldn't argue with you," replied Hull. "All I'll say is that you've seen only the one side--only the side of the working class."

"That toils without ceasing--its men, its women, its children--" said the girl with heaving bosom and flashing eyes--"only to have most of what it earns filched away from it by your class to waste in foolish luxury!"

"And whose fault is that?" pleaded Hull.

"The fault of my class," replied she. "Their ignorance, their stupidity--yes, and their foolish cunning that overreaches itself. For they tolerate the abuses of the present system because each man--at least, each man of the ones who think themselves 'smart'--imagines that the day is coming when he can escape from the working class and gain the ranks of the despoilers."

"And you ask ME to come into the party of those people!" scoffed Davy.

"Yes, Mr. Hull," said she--and until then he had not appreciated how lovely her voice was. "Yes--that is the party for you--for all honest, sincere men who want to have their own respect through and through. To teach those people--to lead them right--to be truthful and just with them--that is the life worth while."

"But they won't learn. They won't be led right. They are as ungrateful as they are foolish. If they weren't, men like me trying to make a decent career wouldn't have to compromise with the Kellys and the Houses and their masters. What are Kelly and House but leaders of your class? And they lead ten to Victor Dorn's one. Why, any day Dorn's followers may turn on him--and you know it."

"And what of that?" cried Selma. "He's not working to be their leader, but to do what he thinks is right, regardless of consequences. Why is he a happy man, as happiness goes? Why has he gone on his way steadily all these years, never minding setbacks and failures and defeats and dangers? I needn't tell you why."

"No," said Hull, powerfully moved by her earnestness. "I understand."

"The finest sentence that ever fell from human lips," Selma went on, "was 'Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.' Forgive them--forgive us all--for when we go astray it is because we are in the dark. And I want you to come with us, Mr. Hull, and help to make it a little less dark. At least, you will then be looking toward the light--and every one turned in that direction counts."

After a long pause, Hull said:

"Miss Gordon, may I ask you a very personal question?"

"Yes," said she.

"Are you in love with Victor Dorn?"

Selma laughed merrily. "Jane Hastings had that same curiosity," said she. "I'll answer you as I answered her--though she didn't ask me quite so directly. No, I am not in love with him. We are too busy to bother about those things. We have too much to do to think about ourselves."

"Then--there is no reason why I should not ask you to be my wife--why I should not hope--and try?"

She looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Yes, there is a very good reason. I do not love you, and I shall not love you. I shall not have time for that sort of thing."

"Don't you believe in love?"

"I don't believe in much else," said she. "But--not the kind of love you offer me."

"How do you know?" cried he. "I have not told you yet how I feel toward you. I have not----"

"Oh, yes, you have," interrupted she. "This is the second--no, the third time you have seen me. So, the love you offer me can only be of a kind it is not in the least flattering to a woman to inspire. You needn't apologize," she went on, laughingly. "I've no doubt you mean well. You simply don't understand me--my sort of woman."

"It's you that don't understand, Selma," cried he. "You don't realize how wonderful you are--how much you reveal of yourself at once. I was all but engaged to another woman when I saw you. I've been fighting against my love for you--fighting against the truth that suddenly came to me that you were the only woman I had ever seen who appealed to and aroused and made strong all that is brave and honest in me. Selma, I need you. I am not infatuated. I am clearer-headed than I ever was in my life. I need you. You can make a man of me."

She was regarding him with a friendly and even tender sympathy. "I understand now," she said. "I thought it was simply the ordinary outburst of passion. But I see that it was the result of your struggle with yourself about which road to take in making a career."

If she had not been absorbed in developing her theory she might have seen that Davy was not altogether satisfied with this analysis of his feelings. But he deemed it wise to hold his peace.

"You do need some one--some woman," she went on. "And I am anxious to help you all I can. I couldn't help you by marrying you. To me marriage means----" She checked herself abruptly. "No matter. I can help you, I think, as a friend. But if you wish to marry, you should take some one in your own class--some one who's in sympathy with you. Then you and she could work it out together--could help each other. You see, I don't need you--and there's nothing in one-sided marriages.... No, you couldn't give me anything I need, so far as I can see."

"I believe that's true," said Davy miserably.

She reflected, then continued: "But there's Jane Hastings. Why not marry her? She is having the same sort of struggle with herself. You and she could help each other. And you're, both of you, fine characters. I like each of you for exactly the same reasons.... Yes--Jane needs you, and you need her." She looked at him with her sweet, frank smile like a breeze straight from the sweep of a vast plateau. "Why, it's so obvious that I wonder you and she haven't become engaged long ago. You ARE fond of her, aren't you?"

"Oh, Selma," cried Davy, "I LOVE you. I want YOU."

She shook her head with a quaint, fascinating expression of positiveness. "Now, my friend," said she, "drop that fancy. It isn't sensible. And it threatens to become silly." Her smile suddenly expanded into a laugh. "The idea of you and me married--of ME married to YOU! I'd drive you crazy. No, I shouldn't stay long enough for that. I'd be of on the wings of the wind to the other end of the earth as soon as you tried to put a halter on me."

He did not join in her laugh. She rose. "You will think again before you go in with those people--won't you, David?" she said, sober and earnest.

"I don't care what becomes of me," he said boyishly.

"But _I_ do," she said. "I want to see you the man you can be."

"Then--marry me," he cried.

Her eyes looked gentle friendship; her passionate lips curled in scorn. "I might marry the sort of man you could be," she said, "but I never could marry a man so weak that, without me to bolster him up, he'd become a stool-pigeon."

And she turned and walked away.

V.

A few days later, after she had taken her daily two hours' walk, Selma went into the secluded part of Washington Park and spent the rest of the morning writing. Her walk was her habitual time for thinking out her plans for the day. And when it was writing that she had to do, and the weather was fine, that particular hillside with its splendid shade so restful for the eyes and so stimulating to the mind became her work-shop. She thought that she was helped as much by the colors of grass and foliage as by the softened light and the tranquil view out over hills and valleys.

When she had finished her article she consulted the little nickel watch she carried in her bag and discovered that it was only one o'clock. She had counted on getting through at three or half past. Two hours gained. How could she best use them. The part of the Park where she was sitting was separated from the Hastings grounds only by the winding highroad making its last reach for the top of the hill. She decided that she would go to see Jane Hastings--would try to make tactful progress in her project of helping Jane and David Hull by marrying them to each other. Once she had hit upon this project her interest in both of them had equally increased. Yes, these gained two hours was an opportunity not to be neglected.

She put her papers into her shopping bag and went straight up the steep hill. She arrived at the top, at the edge of the lawn before Jane's house, with somewhat heightened color and brightened eyes, but with no quickening of the breath. Her slim, solid little body had all the qualities of endurance of those wiry ponies that come from the regions her face and walk and the careless grace of her hair so delightfully suggested. As she advanced toward the house she saw a gay company assembled on the wide veranda. Jane was giving a farewell luncheon for her visitors, had asked almost a dozen of the most presentable girls in the town. It was a very fashionable affair, and everyone had dressed for it in the best she had to wear at that time of day.

Selma saw the company while there was still time for her to draw back and descend into the woods. But she knew little about conventionalities, and she cared not at all about them. She had come to see Jane; she conducted herself precisely as she would have expected any one to act who came to see her at any time. She marched straight across the lawn. The hostess, the fashionable visitors, the fashionable guests soon centered upon the extraordinary figure moving toward them under that blazing sun. The figure was extraordinary not for dress--the dress was plain and unconspicuous--but for that expression of the free and the untamed, the lack of self-consciousness so rarely seen except in children and animals. Jane rushed to the steps to welcome her, seized her extended hands and kissed her with as much enthusiasm as she kissed Jane. There was sincerity in this greeting of Jane's; but there was pose, also. Here was one of those chances to do the unconventional, the democratic thing.

"What a glorious surprise!" cried Jane. "You'll stop for lunch, of course?" Then to the girls nearest them: "This is Selma Gordon, who writes for the New Day."

Pronouncing of names--smiles--bows--veiled glances of curiosity--several young women exchanging whispered comments of amusement. And to be sure, Selma, in that simple costume, gloveless, with dusty shoes and blown hair, did look very much out of place. But then Selma would have looked, in a sense, out of place anywhere but in a wilderness with perhaps a few tents and a half-tamed herd as background. In another sense, she seemed in place anywhere as any natural object must.

"I don't eat lunch," said Selma. "But I'll stay if you'll put me next to you and let me talk to you."

She did not realize what an upsetting of order and precedence this request, which seemed so simple to her, involved. Jane hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. "Why, certainly," said she. "Now that I've got you I'd not let you go in any circumstances."

Selma was gazing around at the other girls with the frank and pleased curiosity of a child. "Gracious, what pretty clothes!" she cried--she was addressing Miss Clearwater, of Cincinnati. "I've read about this sort of thing in novels and in society columns of newspapers. But I never saw it before. ISN'T it interesting!"

Miss Clearwater, whose father was a United States Senator--by purchase--had had experience of many oddities, male and female. She also was attracted by Selma's sparkling delight, and by the magnetic charm which she irradiated as a rose its perfume. "Pretty clothes are attractive, aren't they?" said she, to be saying something.

"I don't know a thing about clothes," confessed Selma. "I've never owned at the same time more than two dresses fit to wear--usually only one. And quite enough for me. I'd only be fretted by a lot of things of that kind. But I like to see them on other people. If I had my way the whole world would be well dressed."

"Except you?" said Ellen Clearwater with a smile.

"I couldn't be well dressed if I tried," replied Selma. "When I was a child I was the despair of my mother. Most of the people in the tenement where we lived were very dirty and disorderly--naturally enough, as they had no knowledge and no money and no time. But mother had ideas of neatness and cleanliness, and she used to try to keep me looking decent. But it was of no use. Ten minutes after she had smoothed me down I was flying every which way again."

"You were brought up in a tenement?" said Miss Clearwater. Several of the girls within hearing were blushing for Selma and were feeling how distressed Jane Hastings must be.

"I had a wonderfully happy childhood," replied Selma. "Until I was old enough to understand and to suffer. I've lived in tenements all my life--among very poor people. I'd not feel at home anywhere else."

"When I was born," said Miss Clearwater, "we lived in a log cabin up in the mining district of Michigan."

Selma showed the astonishment the other girls were feeling. But while their astonishment was in part at a girl of Ellen Clearwater's position making such a degrading confession, hers had none of that element in it. "You don't in the least suggest a log cabin or poverty of any kind," said she. "I supposed you had always been rich and beautifully dressed."

"No, indeed," replied Ellen. She gazed calmly round at the other girls who were listening. "I doubt if any of us here was born to what you see. Of course we--some of us--make pretenses--all sorts of silly pretenses. But as a matter of fact there isn't one of us who hasn't near relatives in the cabins or the tenements at this very moment."

There was a hasty turning away from this dangerous conversation. Jane came back from ordering the rearrangement of her luncheon table. Said Selma:

"I'd like to wash my hands, and smooth my hair a little."

"You take her up, Ellen," said Jane. "And hurry. We'll be in the dining-room when you come down."

Selma's eyes were wide and roving as she and Ellen went through the drawing-room, the hall, up stairs and into the very prettily furnished suite which Ellen was occupying. "I never saw anything like this before!" exclaimed Selma. "It's the first time I was ever in a grand house. This is a grand house, isn't it?"

"No--it's only comfortable," replied Ellen. "Mr. Hastings--and Jane, too, don't go in for grandeur."

"How beautiful everything is--and how convenient!" exclaimed Selma. "I haven't felt this way since the first time I went to the circus." She pointed to a rack from which were suspended thin silk dressing gowns of various rather gay patterns. "What are those?" she inquired.

"Dressing gowns," said Ellen. "Just to wear round while one is dressing or undressing."

Selma advanced and felt and examined them. "But why so many?" she inquired.

"Oh, foolishness," said Ellen. "Indulgence! To suit different moods."

"Lovely," murmured Selma. "Lovely!"

"I suspect you of a secret fondness for luxury," said Ellen slyly.

Selma laughed. "What would I do with such things?" she inquired. "Why, I'd have no time to wear them. I'd never dare put on anything so delicate."

She roamed through dressing-room, bedroom, bath-room, marveling, inquiring, admiring. "I'm so glad I came," said she. "This will give me a fresh point of view. I can understand the people of your class better, and be more tolerant about them. I understand now why they are so hard and so indifferent. They're quite removed from the common lot. They don't realize; they can't. How narrow it must make one to have one's life filled with these pretty little things for luxury and show. Why, if I lived this life, I'd cease to be human after a short time."

Ellen was silent.

"I didn't mean to say anything rude or offensive," said Selma, sensitive to the faintest impressions. "I was speaking my thoughts aloud.... Do you know David Hull?"

"The young reformer?" said Ellen with a queer little smile. "Yes--quite well."

"Does he live like this?"

"Rather more grandly," said Ellen.

Selma shook her head. A depressed expression settled upon her features. "It's useless," she said. "He couldn't possibly become a man."

Ellen laughed. "You must hurry," she said. "We're keeping everyone waiting."

As Selma was making a few passes at her rebellious thick hair--passes the like of which Miss Clearwater had never before seen--she explained:

"I've been somewhat interested in David Hull of late--have been hoping he could graduate from a fake reformer into a useful citizen. But--" She looked round expressively at the luxury surrounding them--"one might as well try to grow wheat in sand."

"Davy is a fine fraud," said Ellen. "Fine--because he doesn't in the least realize that he's a fraud."

"I'm afraid he is a fraud," said Selma setting on her hat again. "What a pity? He might have been a man, if he'd been brought up properly." She gazed at Ellen with sad, shining eyes. "How many men and women luxury blights!" she cried.

"It certainly has done for Davy," said Ellen lightly. "He'll never be anything but a respectable fraud."

"Why do YOU think so?" Selma inquired.

"My father is a public man," Miss Clearwater explained. "And I've seen a great deal of these reformers. They're the ordinary human variety of politician plus a more or less conscious hypocrisy. Usually they're men who fancy themselves superior to the common run in birth and breeding. My father has taught me to size them up."

They went down, and Selma, seated between Jane and Miss Clearwater, amused both with her frank comments on the scene so strange to her--the beautiful table, the costly service, the variety and profusion of elaborate food. In fact, Jane, reaching out after the effects got easily in Europe and almost as easily in the East, but overtaxed the resources of the household which she was only beginning to get into what she regarded as satisfactory order. The luncheon, therefore, was a creditable and promising attempt rather than a success, from the standpoint of fashion. Jane was a little ashamed, and at times extremely nervous--this when she saw signs of her staff falling into disorder that might end in rout. But Selma saw none of the defects. She was delighted with the dazzling spectacle--for two or three courses. Then she lapsed into quiet and could not be roused to speak.

Jane and Ellen thought she was overwhelmed and had been seized of shyness in this company so superior to any in which she had ever found herself. Ellen tried to induce her to eat, and, failing, decided that her refraining was not so much firmness in the two meals-a-day system as fear of making a "break." She felt genuinely sorry for the silent girl growing moment by moment more ill-at-ease. When the luncheon was about half over Selma said abruptly to Jane:

"I must go now. I've stayed longer than I should."

"Go?" cried Jane. "Why, we haven't begun to talk yet."

"Another time," said Selma, pushing back her chair. "No, don't rise." And up she darted, smiling gayly round at the company. "Don't anybody disturb herself," she pleaded. "It'll be useless, for I'll be gone."

And she was as good as her word. Before any one quite realized what she was about, she had escaped from the dining-room and from the house. She almost ran across the lawn and into the woods. There she drew a long breath noisily.

"Free!" she cried, flinging out her arms. "Oh--but it was DREADFUL!"

Miss Hastings and Miss Clearwater had not been so penetrating as they fancied. Embarrassment had nothing to do with the silence that had taken possession of the associate editor of the New Day.

She was never self-conscious enough to be really shy. She hastened to the office, meeting Victor Dorn in the street doorway. She cried:

"Such an experience!"

"What now?" said Victor. He was used to that phrase from the ardent and impressionable Selma. For her, with her wide-open eyes and ears, her vivid imagination and her thirsty mind, life was one closely packed series of adventures.

"I had an hour to spare," she proceeded to explain. "I thought it was a chance to further a little scheme I've got for marrying Jane Hastings and David Hull."

"Um!" said Victor with a quick change of expression--which, however, Selma happened not to observe.