Chapter 15

Jane colored and lowered her head. "I--I never thought of that before," she said humbly.

Selma's anger suddenly dissolved. "I'm ashamed of myself," she cried. "Forgive me."

What she had said about the automobile had made an instant deep impression upon Jane, who was honestly trying to live up to her aspirations--when she wasn't giving up the effort as hopelessly beyond her powers and trying to content herself with just aspiring. She was not hypocritical in her contrition. The dust disfiguring the foliage, streaking Selma's face and hair, was forcing the lesson in manners vigorously home. "I'm much obliged to you for teaching me what I ought to have learned for myself," she said. "I don't blame you for scorning me. I am a pretty poor excuse. But"--with her most charming smile--"I'll do better--all the faster if you'll help me."

Selma looked at her with a frank, dismayed contrition, like a child that realizes it has done something very foolish. "Oh, I'm so horribly impulsive!" she cried. "It's always getting me into trouble. You don't know how I try Victor Dorn's patience--though he never makes the least sign." She laughed up at Jane. "I wish you'd give me a whipping. I'd feel lots better."

"It'd take some of my dust off you," said Jane. "Let me take you to the house in the auto--you'll never see it going at that speed again, I promise. Come to the house and I'll dust you off--and we'll go for a walk in the woods."

Selma felt that she owed it to Jane to accept. As they were climbing the hill in the auto, Selma said:

"My, how comfortable this is! No wonder the people that have autos stop exercising and get fat and sick and die. I couldn't trust myself with one."

"It's a daily fight," confessed Jane. "If I were married and didn't have to think about my looks and my figure I'm afraid I'd give up."

"Victor says the only time one ought ever to ride in a carriage is to his own funeral."

"He's down on show and luxury of every kind--isn't he?" said Jane.

"No, indeed," replied Selma. "Victor isn't 'down on' anything. He thinks show and luxury are silly. He could be rich if he wished, for he has wonderful talent for managing things and for making money. He has refused some of the most wonderful offers--wonderful in that way. But he thinks money-making a waste of time. He has all he wants, and he says he'd as soon think of eating a second dinner when he'd just had one as of exchanging time that could be LIVED for a lot of foolish dollars."

"And he meant it, too," said Jane. "In some men that would sound like pretense. But not in him. What a mind he has--and what a character!"

Selma was abruptly overcast and ominously silent. She wished she had not been turned so far by her impulse of penitence--wished she had held to the calm and deliberate part of her resolve about Jane--the part that involved keeping aloof from her. However, Jane, the tactful--hastened to shift the conversation to generalities of the softest kinds--talked about her college life--about the inane and useless education they had given her--drew Selma out to talk about her own education--in the tenement--in the public school, at night school, in factory and shop. Not until they had been walking in the woods nearly two hours and Selma was about to go home, did Victor, about whom both were thinking all the time, come into the conversation again. It was Jane who could no longer keep away from the subject--the one subject that wholly interested her nowadays. Said she:

"Victor Dorn is REALLY almost well, you think?"

After a significant pause Selma said in a tone that was certainly not encouraging, "Obviously."

"I was altogether wrong about Doctor Charlton," said Jane. "I'm convinced now that he's the only really intelligent doctor in town. I'm trying to persuade father to change to him."

"Well, good-by," said Selma. She was eager to get away, for she suddenly felt that Jane was determined to talk about Victor before letting her go.

"You altered toward me when I made that confession--the night of the riot," said Jane abruptly. "Are you in love with him, too?"

"No," said Selma.

"I don't see how you could help being," cried Jane.

"That's because you don't know what it is to be busy," retorted Selma. "Love--what you call love--is one of the pastimes with your sort of people. It's a lazy, easy way of occupying the thoughts."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do," said Jane. Her expression fascinated Selma--and made her more afraid than ever.

Impulsively Selma took Jane by the arm. "Keep away from us," she said. "You will do no good. You can only cause unhappiness--perhaps most of all to yourself."

"Don't I know that!" exclaimed Jane. "I'm fighting it as hard as I can. But how little control one has over oneself when one has always been indulged and self-indulgent."

"The man for you is David Hull," said Selma.

"You could help him--could make a great deal of a person out of him."

"I know it," replied Jane. "But I don't want him, and he--perhaps you didn't know that he is in love with you?"

"No more than you are with Victor Dorn," said Selma. "I'm different from the women he has known, just as Victor is different from the men you meet in your class. But this is a waste of time."

"You don't believe in me at all," cried Jane. "In some ways you are very unjust and narrow, Selma."

Selma looked at her in that grave way which seemed to compel frankness. "Do YOU believe in yourself?" she asked.

Jane's glance shifted.

"You know you do not," proceeded Selma. "The women of your class rarely have sincere emotions because they do not lead sincere lives. Part of your imaginary love for Victor Dorn is desire to fill up idle hours. The rest of it is vanity--the desire to show your power over a man who seems to be woman-proof." She laughed a little, turned away, paused. "My mother used to quote a French proverb--'One cannot trifle with love.' Be careful, Jane--for your own sake. I don't know whether you could conquer Victor Dorn or not. But I do know IF you could conquer him it would be only at the usual price of those conquests to a woman."

"And what is that?" said Jane.

"Your own complete surrender," said Selma.

"How wise you are!" laughed Jane. "Who would have suspected you of knowing so much!"

"How could I--a woman--and not unattractive to men--grow up to be twenty-one years old, in the free life of a working woman, without learning all there is to know about sex relations?"

Jane looked at her with a new interest.

"And," she went on, "I've learned--not by experience, I'm glad to say, but by observation--that my mother's proverb is true. I shall not think about love until I am compelled to. That is a peril a sensible person does not seek."

"I did not seek it," cried Jane--and then she halted and flushed.

"Good-by, Jane," said Selma, waving her hand and moving away rapidly. She called back--"On ne badine pas avec l'amour!"

She went straight to Colman's cottage--to Victor, lying very pale with his eyes shut, and big Tom Colman sitting by his bed. There was a stillness in the room that Selma felt was ominous. Victor's hand--strong, well-shaped, useful-looking, used-looking--not ABUSED-looking, but USED-looking-was outside the covers upon the white counterpane. The fingers were drumming softly; Selma knew that gesture--a certain sign that Victor was troubled in mind.

"You've told him," said Selma to Colman as she paused in the doorway.

Victor turned his head quickly, opened his eyes, gave her a look of welcome that made her thrill with pride. "Oh--there you are!" he exclaimed. "I was hoping you'd come."

"I saw David Hull just after it was done," said Selma. "And I thanked him for you."

Victor's eyes had a look of amusement, of mockery. "Thank you," he said.

She, the sensitive, was on the alert at once. "Didn't you want me to thank him?"

Victor did not answer. In the same amused way he went on: "So they carried him on their shoulders--him and that other defender of the rights of the people, Hugo Galland? I should like to have seen. It was a memorable spectacle."

"You are laughing at it," exclaimed the girl. "Why?"

"You certainly are taking the news very queer, Victor," said Colman. Then to Selma, "When I told him he got white and I thought I'd have to send for Doctor Charlton."

"Well--joy never kills," said Victor mockingly. "I don't want to keep you, Tom--Selma'll sit with me."

When they were alone, Victor again closed his eyes and resumed that silent drumming upon the counterpane. Selma watched the restless fingers as if she hoped they would disclose to her the puzzling secret of Victor's thoughts. But she did not interrupt.

That was one lesson in restraint that Victor had succeeded in teaching her--never to interrupt. At last he heaved a great sigh and said:

"Well, Selma, old girl--we've probably lost again. I was glad you came because I wanted to talk--and I can't say what's in my mind before dear old Tom--or any of them but my sister and you."

"You didn't want those injunctions and indictments out of the way?" said Selma.

"If they had stood, we'd have won--in a walk," replied Victor. "As the cards lie now, David Hull will win. And he'll make a pretty good show mayor, probably--good enough to fool a large majority of our fellow citizens, who are politically as shallow and credulous as nursery children. And so--our work of educating them will be the harder and slower. Oh, these David Hulls!--these good men who keep their mantles spotless in order to make them the more useful as covers for the dirty work of others!" Suddenly his merry smile burst out. "And they carried Hugo Galland on their shoulders?"

"Then you don't think Hull's motives were honorable?" inquired Selma, perplexed and anxious.

"How could I know his motives?--any man's motives?" replied Victor. "No one can read men's hearts. All I ever consider is actions. And the result of his actions is probably the defeat of the League and the election of Dick Kelly."

"I begin to understand," said Selma thoughtfully. "But--I do believe his motive was altogether good."

"My dear girl," said Victor, "the primer lesson in the life of action is: 'Never--NEVER look at motives. Action--only actions--always actions.' The chief reason the human race is led patiently round by the nose is its fondness for fussing about motives. We are interested only in men's actions and the results to our cause. Davy Hull's motives concern only himself--and those who care for him." Victor's eyes, twinkling mischievously, shot a shrewd glance at Selma. "You're not by any chance in love with Davy?"

Selma colored high. "Certainly not!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Why not? Why not?" teased Victor. "He's tall and handsome--and superbly solemn--and women always fancy a solemn man has intellect and character. Not that Davy is a fool--by no means. I'd be the last man to say that--I whom he has just cleverly checkmated in one move."

"You intended not to give bail! You intended to go to jail!" exclaimed Selma abruptly. "I see it all! How stupid I was! Oh, I could cry, Victor! What a chance."

"Spilt milk," said Victor. "We must forget it, and plan to meet the new conditions. We'll start the paper at once. We can't attack him. Very clever of him--very clever! If he were as brave as he is shrewd, I'd almost give up hope of winning this town while he was in politics here. But he lacks courage. And he daren't think and speak honestly. How that does cripple a man!"

"He'll be one of us before very long," said Selma. "You misjudge him, Victor."

Dorn smiled. "Not so long as his own class gratifies his ambitions," replied Victor. "If he came with us it'd be because his own class had failed him and he hoped to rise through and upon--ours."

Selma did not agree with him. But as she always felt presumptuous and even foolish in disagreeing with Victor, she kept silent. And presently Victor began to lay out her share in the task of starting up the New Day. "I shall be all right within a week," said he, "and we must get the first number out the week following." She was realizing now that Hull's move had completely upset an elaborate plan of campaign into which Victor had put all his intelligence and upon which he had staked all his hopes. She marvelled as he talked, unfolding rapidly an entirely new campaign, different in every respect from what the other would have been. How swiftly his mind had worked, and how well! How little time he had wasted in vain regrets! How quickly he had recovered from a reverse that would have halted many a strong man.

And then she remembered how they all, his associates, were like him, proof against the evil effects of set-back and defeat. And why were they so? Because Victor Dorn had trained them to fight for the cause, and not for victory. "Our cause is the right, and in the end right is bound to win because the right is only another name for the sensible"--that had been his teaching. And a hardy army he had trained. The armies trained by victory are strong; but the armies schooled by defeat--they are invincible.

When he had explained his new campaign--as much of it as he deemed it wise at that time to withdraw from the security of his own brain--she said:

"But it seems to me we've got a good chance to win, anyhow."

"A chance, perhaps," replied he. "But we'll not bother about that. All we've got to do is to keep on strengthening ourselves."

"Yes, that's it!" she cried. "One added here--five there--ten yonder. Every new stone fitted solidly against the ones already in place."

"We must never forget that we aren't merely building a new party," said Dorn. "We're building a new civilization--one to fit the new conditions of life. Let the Davy Hulls patch and tinker away at trying to keep the old structure from falling in. We know it's bound to fall and that it isn't fit for decent civilized human beings to live in. And we're getting the new house ready. So--to us, election day is no more important than any of the three hundred and sixty-five."

It was into the presence of a Victor Dorn restored in mind as well as in body that Jane Hastings was shown by his sister, Mrs. Sherrill, one afternoon a week or so later.

All that time Jane had been searching for an excuse for going to see him. She had haunted the roads and the woods where he and Selma habitually walked. She had seen neither of them. When the pretext for a call finally came to her, as usual, the most obvious thing in the world. He must be suspecting her of having betrayed his confidence and brought about the vacating of those injunctions and the quashing of the indictments. She must go to him and clear herself of suspicion.

She felt that the question of how she should dress for this crucial interview, this attempt to establish some sort of friendly relations with him, was of the very highest importance. Should she wear something plain, something that would make her look as nearly as might be like one of his own class? HIS class!

No--no, indeed. The class in which he was accidentally born and bred, but to which he did not belong. Or, should she go dressed frankly as of her own class--wearing the sort of things that made her look her finest and most superior and most beautiful? Having nothing else to do, she spent several hours in trying various toilets. She was not long in deciding against disguising herself as a working woman. That garb might win his mental and moral approval; but not by mental and moral ways did women and men prevail with each other. In plain garb--so Jane decided, as she inspected herself--she was no match for Selma Gordon; she looked awkward, out of her element. So much being settled, there remained to choose among her various toilets. She decided for an embroidered white summer dress, extremely simple, but in the way that costs beyond the power of any but the very rich to afford. When she was ready to set forth, she had never looked so well in her life. Her toilet SEEMED a mere detail. In fact, it was some such subtlety as those arrangements of lines and colors in great pictures, whereby the glance of the beholder is unconsciously compelled toward the central figure, just as water in a funnel must go toward the aperture at the bottom. Jane felt, not without reason, that she had executed a stroke of genius. She was wearing nothing that could awaken Victor Dorn's prejudices about fine clothes, for he must have those prejudices. Yet she was dressed in conformity with all that centuries, ages of experience, have taught the dressmaking art on the subject of feminine allure. And, when a woman feels that she is so dressed, her natural allure becomes greatly enhanced.

She drove down to a point in Monroe Avenue not far from the house where Victor and his family lived. The day was hot; boss-ridden Remsen City had dusty and ragged streets and sidewalks. It, therefore, would not do to endanger the freshness of the toilet. But she would arrive as if she had come all the way on foot. Arrival in a motor at so humble a house would look like ostentation; also, if she were seen going through that street afoot, people would think she was merely strolling a little out of her way to view the ruins of the buildings set on fire by the mob. She did pause to look at these ruins; the air of the neighborhood still had a taint of burnt wood and paper. Presently, when she was sure the street was clear of people of the sort who might talk--she hastily entered the tiny front yard of Victor's house, and was pleased to find herself immediately screened from the street by the luxuriant bushes and creepers.

There was nothing in the least pretentious about the appearance of the little house. It was simply a well built cottage--but of brick, instead of the usual wood, and the slate roof descended at attractive angles. The door she was facing was superior to the usual flimsy-looking door. Indeed, she at once became conscious of a highly attractive and most unexpected air of substantiality and good taste. The people who lived here seemed to be permanent people--long resident, and looking forward to long residence. She had never seen such beautiful or such tastefully grouped sun flowers, and the dahlias and marigolds were far above the familiar commonplace kitchen garden flowers.

The door opened, and a handsome, extremely intelligent looking woman, obviously Victor's sister, was looking pleasantly at her. Said she: "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. But I was busy in the kitchen. This is Miss Hastings, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Jane, smiling friendlily.

"I've heard my brother and Selma talk of you." (Jane wondered WHAT they had said.) "You wish to see Victor?"

"If I'd not be interrupting," said Jane.

"Come right in. He's used to being interrupted. They don't give him five minutes to himself all day long--especially now that the campaign's on. He always does his serious work very early in the morning."

They went through a hall, pleasantly odorous of baking in which good flour and good butter and good eggs were being manufactured into something probably appetizing, certainly wholesome. Jane caught a glimpse through open doors on either side of a neat and reposeful little library-sitting room, a plain delightfully simple little bedroom, a kitchen where everything shone. She arrived at the rear door somehow depressed, bereft of the feeling of upper-class superiority which had, perhaps unconsciously, possessed her as she came toward the house. At the far end of an arbor on which the grape vines were so trellised that their broad leaves cast a perfect shade, sat Victor writing at a table under a tree. He was in his shirt sleeves, and his shirt was open at the throat. His skin was smooth and healthily white below the collar line. The forearms exposed by his rolled up sleeves were strong but slender, and the faint fair hair upon them suggested a man, but not an animal.

Never had she seen his face and head so fine. He was writing rapidly, his body easily erect, his head and neck in a poise of grace and strength. Jane grew pale and trembled--so much so that she was afraid the keen, friendly eyes of Alice Sherrill were seeing. Said Mrs. Sherrill, raising her voice:

"Victor--here's Miss Hastings come to see you." Then to Jane: "Excuse me, please. I don't dare leave that kitchen long."

She departed. Jane waited while Victor, his pencil reluctantly slackening and his glance lingeringly rising from the paper, came back to sense of his surroundings. He stared at her blankly, then colored a little. He rose--stiff, for him formal. Said he:

"How d'you do, Miss Hastings?"

She came down the arbor, recovering her assurance as she again became conscious of herself, so charmingly dressed and no doubt beautiful in his eyes. "I know you're not glad to see me," said she. "But I'm only stopping a very little minute."

His eyes had softened--softened under the influence of the emotion no man can ever fail to feel at least in some degree at sight of a lovely woman. "Won't you sit?" said he, with a glance at the wooden chair near the other side of the table.

She seated herself, resting one gloved hand on the prettily carved end of her white-sunshade. She was wearing a big hat of rough black straw, with a few very gorgeous white plumes. "What a delightful place to work," exclaimed she, looking round, admiring the flowers, the slow ripening grapes, the delicious shade. "And you--how WELL you look!"

"I've forgotten I was ever anything but well," said he.

"You're impatient for me to go," she cried laughing. "It's very rude to show it so plainly."

"No," replied he. "I am not impatient for you to go. But I ought to be, for I'm very busy."

"Well, I shall be gone in a moment. I came only to tell you that you are suspecting me wrongly."

"Suspecting you?--of what?"

"Of having broken my word. I know you must think I got father to set Davy Hull on to upsetting your plans."

"The idea never entered my head," said he. "You had promised--and I know you are honest."

Jane colored violently and lowered her eyes. "I'm not--not up to what you say," she protested. "But at least I didn't break my promise. Davy thought of that himself."

"I have been assuming so."

"And you didn't suspect me?"

"Not for an instant," Victor assured her. "Davy simply made the move that was obviously best for him."

"And now he will be elected," said Jane regretfully.

"It looks that way," replied Victor. And he had the air of one who has nothing more to say.

Suddenly Jane looked at him with eyes shining and full of appeal.

"Don't send me away so quickly," she pleaded. "I've not been telling the exact truth. I came only partly because I feared you were suspecting me. The real reason was that--that I couldn't stay away any longer. I know you're not in the least interested in me----"

She was watching him narrowly for signs of contradiction. She hoped she had not watched in vain.

"Why should you be?" she went on. "But ever since you opened my eyes and set me to thinking, I can do nothing but think about the things you have said to me, and long to come to you and ask you questions and hear more."

Victor was staring hard into the wall of foliage. His face was set. She thought she had never seen anything so resolute, so repelling as the curve of his long jaw bone.

"I'll go now," she said, making a pretended move toward rising.

"I've no right to annoy you."

He stood up abruptly, without looking at her. "Yes, you'd better go," he said curtly.

She quivered--and it was with a pang of genuine pain.

His gaze was not so far from her as it seemed. For he must have noted her expression, since he said hurriedly: "I beg your pardon. It isn't that I mean to be rude. I--I--it is best that I do not see you."