Chapter 18

"Oh, I like to hear you young fellows talk," said Martin. "You'll sing a different song when you're as old as I am and have found out what a lot of damn fools the human race is."

"As I told you before," said Charlton, "it's conditions that make the human animal whatever it is. It's in the harness of conditions--the treadmill of conditions--the straight jacket of conditions. Change the conditions and you change the animal."

When he was swinging his big powerful form across the lawns toward the fringe of woods, Jane and her father looking after him, Jane said:

"He's wonderfully clever, isn't he?"

"A dreamer--a crank," replied the old man.

"But what he says sounds reasonable," suggested the daughter.

"It SOUNDS sensible," admitted the old man peevishly. "But it ain't what _I_ was brought up to call sensible. Don't you get none of those fool ideas into your head. They're all very well for men that haven't got any property or any responsibilities--for flighty fellows like Charlton and that there Victor Dorn. But as soon as anybody gets property and has interests to look after, he drops that kind of talk."

"Do you mean that property makes a man too blind or too cowardly to speak the truth?" asked Jane with an air of great innocence.

The old man either did not hear or had no answer ready. He said:

"You heard him say that Davy Hull was going to win?"

"Why, he said Victor Dorn was going to win," said Jane, still simple and guileless.

Hastings frowned impatiently. "That was just loose talk. He admitted Davy was to be the next mayor. If he is--and I expect Charlton was about right--if Davy is elected, I shouldn't be surprised to see him nominated for governor next year. He's a sensible, knowing fellow. He'll make a good mayor, and he'll be elected governor on his record."

"And on what you and the other men who run things will do for him," suggested Jane slyly.

Her father grinned expressively. "I like to see a sensible, ambitious young fellow from my town get on," said he. "And I'd like to see my girl married to a fellow of that sort, and settled."

"I think more could be done with a man like Victor Dorn," said Jane. "It seems to me the Davy Hull sort of politics is--is about played out. Don't you think so?"

Jane felt that her remark was a piece of wild audacity. But she was desperate. To her amazement her father did not flare up but kept silent, wearing the look she knew meant profound reflection.

After a moment he said:

"Davy's a knowing boy. He showed that the other day when he jumped in and made himself a popular hero. He'd never 'a' been able to come anywheres near election but for that. Dorn'd 'a' won by a vote so big that Dick Kelly wouldn't 'a' dared even try to count him out.... Dorn's a better man than Davy. But Dorn's got a foolish streak in him. He believes the foolishness he talks, instead of simply talking it to gain his end. I've been looking him over and thinking him over. He won't do, Jinny."

Was her father discussing the matter abstractly, impersonally, as he seemed? Or, had he with that uncanny shrewdness of his somehow penetrated to her secret--or to a suspicion of it? Jane was so agitated that she sat silent and rigid, trying to look unconcerned.

"I had a strong notion to try to do something for him," continued the old man. "But it'd be no use. He'd not rise to a chance that was offered him. He's set on going his own way."

Jane trembled--dared. "I believe _I_ could do something with him," said she--and she was pleased with the coolness of her voice, the complete absence of agitation or of false note.

"Try if you like," said her father. "But I'm sure you'll find I'm right. Be careful not to commit yourself in any way. But I needn't warn you. You know how to take care of yourself. Still, maybe you don't realize how set up he'd be over being noticed by a girl in your position. And if you gave him the notion that there was a chance for him to marry you, he'd be after you hammer and tongs. The idea of getting hold of so much money'd set him crazy."

"I doubt if he cares very much--or at all--about money," said Jane, judicially.

Hastings grinned satirically. "There ain't nobody that don't care about money," said he, "any more than there's anybody that don't care about air to breathe. Put a pin right there, Jinny."

"I hate to think that," she said, reluctantly, "but I'm afraid--it's--so."

As she was taking her ride one morning she met David Hull also on horseback and out for his health. He turned and they rode together, for several miles, neither breaking the silence except with an occasional remark about weather or scenery. Finally Davy said:

"You seem to be down about something, too?"

"Not exactly down," replied Jane. "Simply--I've been doing a lot of thinking--and planning--or attempt at planning--lately."

"I, too," said Davy.

"Naturally. How's politics?"

"Of course I don't hear anything but that I'm going to be elected. If you want to become convinced that the whole world is on the graft, take part in a reform campaign. We've attracted every broken-down political crook in this region. It's hard to say which crowd is the more worthless, the college amateurs at politics or these rotten old in-goods who can't get employment with either Kelly or House and, so, have joined us. By Jove, I'd rather be in with the out and out grafters--the regulars that make no bones of being in politics for the spoils. There's slimy hypocrisy over our crowd that revolts me. Not a particle of sincerity or conviction. Nothing but high moral guff."

"Oh, but YOU'RE sincere, Davy," said Jane with twinkling eyes.

"Am I?" said Davy angrily. "I'm not so damn sure of it." Hastily, "I don't mean that. Of course, I'm sincere--as sincere as a man can be and get anywhere in this world. You've got to humbug the people, because they haven't sense enough to want the truth."

"I guess, Davy," said Jane shrewdly, "if you told them the whole truth about yourself and your party they'd have sense enough--to vote for Victor Dorn."

"He's a demagogue," said Davy with an angry jerk at his rein. "He knows the people aren't fit to rule."

"Who is?" said Jane. "I've yet to see any human creature who could run anything without making more or less of a mess of it. And--well, personally, I'd prefer incompetent honest servants to competent ones who were liars or thieves."

"Sometimes I think," said Davy, "that the only thing to do is to burn the world up and start another one."

"You don't talk like a man who expected to be elected," said Jane.

"Oh--I'm worrying about myself--not about the election," said Hull, lapsing into sullen silence. And certainly he had no reason to worry about the election. He had the Citizen's Alliance and the Democratic nominations. And, as a further aid to him, Dick Kelly had given the Republican nomination to Alfred Sawyer, about the most unpopular manufacturer in that region. Sawyer, a shrewd money maker, was an ass in other ways, was strongly seized of the itch for public office. Kelly, seeking the man who would be the weakest, combined business with good politics; he forced Sawyer to pay fifty thousand dollars into the "campaign fund" in a lump sum, and was counting confidently upon "milking" him for another fifty thousand in installments during the campaign. Thus, in the natural order of things, Davy could safely assume that he would be the next mayor of Remsen City by a gratifyingly large majority. The last vote of the Workingmen's League had been made fifteen hundred. Though it should quadruple its strength at the coming election--which was most improbable--it would still be a badly beaten second. Politically, Davy was at ease.

Jane waited ten minutes, then asked abruptly:

"What's become of Selma Gordon?"

"Did you see this week's New Day?"

"Is it out? I've seen no one, and haven't been down town."

"There was a lot of stuff in it against me. Most of it demagoguing, of course, but more or less hysterical campaigning. The only nasty article about me--a downright personal attack on my sincerity--was signed 'S.G.'"

"Oh--to be sure," said Jane, with smiling insincerity. "I had almost forgotten what you told me. Well, it's easy enough to bribe her to silence. Go offer yourself to her."

A long silence, then Davy said: "I don't believe she'd accept me."

"Try it," said Jane.

Again a long pause. David said sullenly: "I did."

Selma Gordon had refused David Hull! Half a dozen explanations of this astounding occurrence rapidly suggested themselves. Jane rejected each in turn at a glance. "You're sure she understood you?"

"I made myself as clear as I did when I proposed to you," replied Davy with a lack of tact which a woman of Jane's kind would never forget or forgive.

Jane winced, ignored. Said she: "You must have insisted on some conditions she hesitated to accept."

"On her own terms," said Davy.

Jane gave up trying to get the real reason from him, sought it in Selma's own words and actions. She inquired: "What did she say? What reason did she give?"

"That she owed it to the cause of her class not to marry a man of my class," answered Hull, believing that he was giving the exact and the only reason she assigned or had.

Jane gave a faint smile of disdain. "Women don't act from a sense of duty," she said.

"She's not the ordinary woman," said Hull. "You must remember she wasn't brought up as you and I were--hasn't our ideas of life. The things that appeal to us most strongly don't touch her. She knows nothing about them." He added, "And that's her great charm for me."

Jane nodded sympathetically. Her own case exactly. After a brief hesitation she suggested:

"Perhaps Selma's in love with--some one else." The pause before the vague "some one else" was almost unnoticeable.

"With Victor Dorn, you mean?" said Davy. "I asked her about that. No, she's not in love with him."

"As if she'd tell you!"

Davy looked at her a little scornfully. "Don't insinuate," he said. "You know she would. There's nothing of the ordinary tricky, evasive, faking woman about her. And although she's got plenty of excuse for being conceited, she isn't a bit so. She isn't always thinking about herself, like the girls of our class."

"I don't in the least wonder at your being in love with her, Davy," said Jane sweetly. "Didn't I tell you I admired your taste--and your courage?"

"You're sneering at me," said Davy. "All the same, it did take courage--for I'm a snob at bottom--like you--like all of us who've been brought up so foolishly--so rottenly. But I'm proud that I had the courage. I've had a better opinion of myself ever since. And if you have any unspoiled womanhood in you, you agree with me."

"I do agree with you," said Jane softly. She reached out and laid her hand on his arm for an instant. "That's honest, Davy."

He gave her a grateful look. "I know it," said he. "The reason I confide things to you is because I know you're a real woman at bottom, Jane--the only real person I've ever happened across in our class."

"It took more courage for you to do that sort of thing than it would for a woman," said Jane. "It's more natural, easier for a woman to stake everything in love. If she hasn't the man she wants she hasn't anything, while a man's wife can be a mere detail in his life. He can forget he's married, most of the time."

"That isn't the way I intend to be married," said Davy. "I want a wife who'll be half, full half, of the whole. And I'll get her."

"You mean you haven't given up?"

"Why should I? She doesn't love another man. So, there's hope. Don't you think so?"

Jane was silent. She hastily debated whether it would be wiser to say yes or to say no.

"Don't you think so?" repeated he.

"How can I tell?" replied Jane, diplomatically. "I'd have to see her with you--see how she feels toward you."

"I think she likes me," said Davy, "likes me a good deal."

Jane kept her smile from the surface. What a man always thought, no matter how plainly a woman showed that she detested him. "No doubt she does," said Jane. She had decided upon a course of action. "If I were you, Davy, I'd keep away from her for the present--give her time to think it over, to see all the advantages. If a man forces himself on a queer, wild sort of girl such as Selma is, he's likely to drive her further away."

Davy reflected. "Guess you're right," said he finally. "My instinct is always to act--to keep on acting until I get results. But it's dangerous to do that with Selma. At least, I think so. I don't know. I don't understand her. I've got nothing to offer her--nothing that she wants--as she frankly told me. Even if she loved me, I doubt if she'd marry me--on account of her sense of duty. What you said awhile ago--about women never doing things from a sense of duty--that shows how hard it is for a woman to understand what's perfectly simple to a man. Selma isn't the sheltered woman sort--the sort whose moral obligations are all looked after by the men of her family. The old-fashioned woman always belonged to some man--or else was an outcast. This new style of woman looks at life as a man does."

Jane listened with a somewhat cynical expression. No doubt, in theory, there was a new style of woman. But practically, the new style of woman merely TALKED differently; at least, she was still the old-fashioned woman, longing for dependence upon some man and indifferent to the obligations men made such a fuss about--probably not so sincerely as they fancied. But her expression changed when Davy went on to say:

"She'd look at a thing of that sort much as I--or Victor Dorn would."

Jane's heart suddenly sank. Because the unconscious blow had hurt she struck out, struck back with the first weapon she could lay hold of. "But you said a minute ago that Victor was a hypocritical demagogue."

Davy flushed with confusion. He was in a franker mood now, however. "I'd like to think that," he replied. "But I don't honestly believe it."

"You think that if Victor Dorn loved a woman of our class he'd put her out of his life?"

"That's hardly worth discussing," said Davy. "No woman of our class--no woman he'd be likely to look at--would encourage him to the point where he'd presume upon it."

"How narrow you are!" cried Jane, derisive but even more angry.

"It's different--entirely different--with a man, even in our class. But a woman of our class--she's a lady or she's nothing at all. And a lady couldn't be so lacking in refinement as to descend to a man socially beneath her."

"I can see how ANY woman might fall in love with Victor Dorn."

"You're just saying that to be argumentative," said Davy with conviction. "Take yourself, for example."

"I confess I don't see any such contrast between Victor and you--except where the comparison's altogether in his favor," said Jane pleasantly. "You don't know as much as he does. You haven't the independence of character--or the courage--or the sincerity. You couldn't be a real leader, as he is. You have to depend on influence, and on trickery."

A covert glance at the tall, solemn-looking young man riding silently beside her convinced her that he was as uncomfortable as she had hoped to make him.

"As for manners--and the things that go to make a gentleman," she went on, "I'm not sure but that there, too, the comparison is against you. You always suggest to me that if you hadn't the pattern set for men of our class and didn't follow it, you'd be absolutely lost, Davy, dear. While Victor--he's a fine, natural person, with the manners that grow as naturally out of his personality as oak leaves grow out of an oak."

Jane was astonished and delighted by this eloquence of hers about the man she loved--an eloquence far above her usual rather commonplace mode of speech and thought. Love was indeed an inspirer! What a person she would become when she had Victor always stimulating her. She went on:

"A woman would never grow tired of Victor. He doesn't talk stale stuff such as all of us get from the stale little professors and stale, dreary text-books at our colleges."

"Why don't you fall in love with him?" said Davy sourly.

"I do believe you're envious of Victor Dorn," retorted Jane.

"What a disagreeable mood you're in to-day," said Davy.

"So a man always thinks when a woman speaks well of another man in his presence."

"I didn't suspect you of being envious of Selma. Why should you suspect me of feeling ungenerously about Victor? Fall in love with him if you like. Heaven knows, I'd do nothing to stop it."

"Perhaps I shall," said Jane, with unruffled amiability. "You're setting a dangerous example of breaking down class lines."

"Now, Jane, you know perfectly well that while, if I married Selma she'd belong to my class, a woman of our class marrying Victor Dorn would sink to his class. Why quarrel about anything so obviously true?"

"Victor Dorn belongs to a class by himself," replied Jane. "You forget that men of genius are not regarded like you poor ordinary mortals."

Davy was relieved that they had reached the turning at which they had to separate. "I believe you are in love with him," said he as a parting shot.

Jane, riding into her lane, laughed gayly, mockingly. She arrived at home in fine humor. It pleased her that Davy, for all his love for Selma, could yet be jealous of Victor Dorn on her account. And more than ever, after this talk with him--the part of it that preceded the quarrel--she felt that she was doing a fine, brave, haughtily aristocratic thing in loving Victor Dorn. Only a woman with a royal soul would venture to be thus audacious.

Should she encourage or discourage the affair between Davy and Selma? There was much to be said for this way of removing Selma from her path; also, if a man of Davy Hull's position married beneath him, less would be thought of her doing the same thing. On the other hand, she felt that she had a certain property right in David Hull, and that Selma was taking what belonged to her. This, she admitted to herself, was mean and small, was unworthy of the woman who was trying to be worthy of Victor Dorn, of such love as she professed for him. Yes, mean and small. She must try to conquer it.

But--when she met Selma in the woods a few mornings later, her dominant emotions were anything but high-minded and generous. Selma was looking her most fascinating--wild and strange and unique. They caught sight of each other at the same instant. Jane came composedly on--Selma made a darting movement toward a by-path opening near her, hesitated, stood like some shy, lovely bird of the deep wilderness ready to fly away into hiding.

"Hello, Selma!" said Jane carelessly.

Selma looked at her with wide, serious eyes.

"Where have you been keeping yourself of late? Busy with the writing, I suppose?"

"I owe you an apology," said Selma, in a queer, suppressed voice. "I have been hating you, and trying to think of some way to keep you and Victor Dorn apart. I thought it was from my duty to the cause. I've found out that it was a low, mean personal reason."

Jane had stopped short, was regarding her with eyes that glowed in a pallid face. "Because you are in love with him?" she said.

Selma gave a quick, shamed nod. "Yes," she said--the sound was scarcely audible.

Selma's frank and generous--and confiding--self-sacrifice aroused no response in Jane Hastings. For the first time in her life she was knowing what it meant to hate.

"And I've got to warn you," Selma went on, "that I am going to do whatever I can to keep you from hindering him. Not because I love him, but because I owe it to the cause. He belongs to it, and I must help him be single-hearted for it. You could only be a bad influence in his life. I think you would like to be a sincere woman; but you can't. Your class is too strong for you. So--it would be wrong for Victor Dorn to love and to marry you. I think he realizes it and is struggling to be true to himself. I intend to help him, if I can."

Jane smiled cruelly. "What hypocrisy!" she said, and turned and walked away.

VIII

In America we have been bringing up our women like men, and treating them like children. They have active minds with nothing to act upon. Thus they are driven to think chiefly about themselves. With Jane Hastings, self-centering took the form of self-analysis most of the time. She was intensely interested in what she regarded as the new development of her character. This definite and apparently final decision for the narrow and the ungenerous. In fact, it was no new development, but simply a revelation to herself of her own real character. She was seeing at last the genuine Jane Hastings, inevitable product of a certain heredity in a certain environment. The high thinking and talking, the idealistic aspiration were pose and pretense. Jane Hastings was a selfish, self-absorbed person, ready to do almost any base thing to gain her ends, ready to hate to the uttermost any one who stood between her and her object.

"I'm certainly not a lovely person--not a lovable person," thought she, with that gentle tolerance wherewith we regard our ownselves, whether in the dress of pretense or in the undress of deformed humanness. "Still--I am what I am, and I've got to make the best of it."

As she thought of Selma's declaration of war she became less and less disturbed about it. Selma neither would nor could do anything sly. Whatever she attempted in the open would only turn Victor Dorn more strongly toward herself. However, she must continue to try to see him, must go to see him in a few days if she did not happen upon him in her rides or walks. How poorly he would think of her if he knew the truth about her! But then, how poor most women--and men, too--would look in a strong and just light. Few indeed could stand idealizing; except Victor, no one she knew. And he was human enough not to make her uncomfortable in his presence.

But it so happened that before she could see Victor Dorn her father disobeyed Dr. Charlton and gave way to the appetite that was the chief cause of his physical woes. He felt so well that he ate the family dinner, including a peach cobbler with whipped cream, which even the robust Jane adventured warily. Martha was dining with them. She abetted her father. "It's light," said she. "It couldn't harm anybody."

"You mustn't touch it, popsy," said Jane.

She unthinkingly spoke a little too commandingly. Her father, in a perverse and reckless mood, took Martha's advice. An hour later Dr. Charlton was summoned, and had he not arrived promptly----

"Another fifteen or twenty minutes," said he to the old man when he had him out of immediate danger, "and I'd have had nothing to do but sign a certificate of natural death."

"Murder would have been nearer the truth," said Martin feebly. "That there fool Martha!"

"Come out from behind that petticoat!" cried Charlton. "Didn't I spend the best part of three days in giving you the correct ideas as to health and disease--in showing you that ALL disease comes from indigestion--ALL disease, from falling hair and sore eyes to weak ankles and corns? And didn't I convince you that you could eat only the things I told you about?"

"Don't hit a man when he's down," groaned Hastings.

"If I don't, you'll do the same idiotic trick again when I get you up--if I get you up."

Hastings looked quickly at him. This was the first time Charlton had ever expressed a doubt about his living. "Do you mean that?" he said hoarsely. "Or are you just trying to scare me?"