Chapter 7

The tone was so easy and natural and so sympathetic--the tone of Selma Gordon--the tone of all natural persons not disturbed about themselves or about others--that Jane felt no embarrassment whatever. "I've heard you were very clever," said she, advancing. "So, I wanted to have the advantage of knowing you a little better at the outset than you would know me."

"But Selma Gordon has told me all about you," said he--he had risen as she advanced and was shaking hands with her as if they were old friends. "Besides, I saw you the other day--in spite of your effort to prevent yourself from being seen."

"What do you mean?" she asked, completely mystified.

"I mean your clothes," explained he. "They were unusual for this part of the world. And when anyone wears unusual clothes, they act as a disguise. Everyone neglects the person to center on the clothes."

"I wore them to be comfortable," protested Jane, wondering why she was not angry at this young man whose manner ought to be regarded as presuming and whose speech ought to be rebuked as impertinent.

"Altogether?" said Dorn, his intensely blue eyes dancing.

In spite of herself she smiled. "No--not altogether," she admitted.

"Well, it may please you to learn that you scored tremendously as far as one person is concerned. My small nephew talks of you all the time--the 'lady in the lovely pants.'"

Jane colored deeply and angrily. She bent upon Victor a glance that ought to have put him in his place--well down in his place.

But he continued to look at her with unchanged, laughing, friendly blue eyes, and went on: "By the way, his mother asked me to apologize for HIS extraordinary appearance. I suppose neither of you would recognize the other in any dress but the one each had on that day. He doesn't always dress that way. His mother has been ill. He wore out his play-clothes. If you've had experience of children you'll know how suddenly they demolish clothes. She wasn't well enough to do any tailoring, so there was nothing to do but send Leonard forth in his big brother's unchanged cast-offs."

Jane's anger had quite passed away before Dorn finished this simple, ingenuous recital of poverty unashamed, this somehow fine laying open of the inmost family secrets. "What a splendid person your sister must be!" exclaimed she.

She more than liked the look that now came into his face. He said: "Indeed she is!--more so than anyone except us of the family can realize. Mother's getting old and almost helpless. My brother-in-law was paralyzed by an accident at the rolling mill where he worked. My sister takes care of both of them--and her two boys--and of me--keeps the house in band-box order, manages a big garden that gives us most of what we eat--and has time to listen to the woes of all the neighbors and to give them the best advice I ever heard."

"How CAN she?" cried Jane. "Why, the day isn't long enough."

Dorn laughed. "You'll never realize how much time there is in a day, Miss Jane Hastings, until you try to make use of it all. It's very interesting--how much there is in a minute and in a dollar if you're intelligent about them."

Jane looked at him in undisguised wonder and admiration. "You don't know what a pleasure it is," she said, "to meet anyone whose sentences you couldn't finish for him before he's a quarter the way through them."

Victor threw back his head and laughed--a boyish outburst that would have seemed boorish in another, but came as naturally from him as song from a bird. "You mean Davy Hull," said he.

Jane felt herself coloring even more. "I didn't mean him especially," replied she. "But he's a good example."

"The best I know," declared Victor. "You see, the trouble with Davy is that he is one kind of a person, wants to be another kind, thinks he ought to be a third kind, and believes he fools people into thinking he is still a fourth kind."

Jane reflected on this, smiled understandingly. "That sounds like a description of ME," said she.

"Probably," said Victor. "It's a very usual type in the second generation in your class."

"My class?" said Jane, somewhat affectedly. "What do you mean?"

"The upper class," explained Victor.

Jane felt that this was an opportunity for a fine exhibition of her democracy. "I don't like that," said she. "I'm a good American, and I don't believe in classes. I don't feel--at least I try not to feel--any sense of inequality between myself and those--those less--less--fortunately off. I'm not expressing myself well, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean," rejoined Victor. "But that wasn't what I meant, at all. You are talking about social classes in the narrow sense. That sort of thing isn't important. One associates with the kind of people that pleases one--and one has a perfect right to do so. If I choose to have my leisure time with people who dress a certain way, or with those who have more than a certain amount of money, or more than a certain number of servants or what not--why, that's my own lookout."

"I'm SO glad to hear you say that," cried Jane. "That's SO sensible."

"Snobbishness may be amusing," continued Dorn, "or it may be repulsive--or pitiful. But it isn't either interesting or important. The classes I had in mind were the economic classes--upper, middle, lower. The upper class includes all those who live without work--aristocrats, gamblers, thieves, preachers, women living off men in or out of marriage, grown children living off their parents or off inheritances. All the idlers."

Jane looked almost as uncomfortable as she felt. She had long taken a secret delight in being regarded and spoken of as an "upper class" person. Henceforth this delight would be at least alloyed.

"The middle class," pursued Victor, "is those who are in part parasites and in part workers. The lower class is those who live by what they earn only. For example, you are upper class, your father is middle class and I am lower class."

"Thank you," said Jane demurely, "for an interesting lesson in political economy."

"You invited it," laughed Victor. "And I guess it wasn't much more tiresome to you than talk about the weather would have been. The weather's probably about the only other subject you and I have in common."

"That's rude," said Jane.

"Not as I meant it," said he. "I wasn't exalting my subjects or sneering at yours. It's obvious that you and I lead wholly different lives."

"I'd much rather lead your life than my own," said Jane. "But--you are impatient to see father. You came to see him?"

"He telephoned asking me to come to dinner--that is, lunch. I believe it's called lunch when it's second in this sort of house."

"Father calls it dinner, and I call it lunch, and the servants call it IT. They simply say, 'It's ready.'"

Jane went in search of her father, found him asleep in his chair in the little office, one of his dirty little account books clasped in his long, thin fingers with their rheumatic side curve. The maid had seen him there and had held back dinner until he should awaken. Perhaps Jane's entrance roused him; or, perhaps it was the odor of the sachet powder wherewith her garments were liberally scented, for he had a singularly delicate sense of smell. He lifted his head and, after the manner of aged and confirmed cat-nappers, was instantly wide awake.

"Why didn't you tell me Victor Dorn was coming for dinner?" said she.

"Oh--he's here, is he?" said Hastings, chuckling. "You see I took your advice. Tell Lizzie to lay an extra plate."

Hastings regarded this invitation as evidence of his breadth of mind, his freedom from prejudice, his disposition to do the generous and the helpful thing. In fact, it was evidence of little more than his dominant and most valuable trait--his shrewdness. After one careful glance over the ruins of his plan, he appreciated that Victor Dorn was at last a force to be reckoned with. He had been growing, growing--somewhat above the surface, a great deal more beneath the surface. His astonishing victory demonstrated his power over Remsen City labor--in a single afternoon he had persuaded the street car union to give up without hesitation a strike it had been planning--at least, it thought it had been doing the planning--for months. The Remsen City plutocracy was by no means dependent upon the city government of Remsen City. It had the county courts--the district courts--the State courts even, except where favoring the plutocracy would be too obviously outrageous for judges who still considered themselves men of honest and just mind to decide that way. The plutocracy, further, controlled all the legislative and executive machinery. To dislodge it from these fortresses would mean a campaign of years upon years, conducted by men of the highest ability, and enlisting a majority of the voters of the State. Still, possession of the Remsen City government was a most valuable asset. A hostile government could "upset business," could "hamper the profitable investment of capital," in other words could establish justice to a highly uncomfortable degree. This victory of Dorn's made it clear to Hastings that at last Dorn was about to unite the labor vote under his banner--which meant that he was about to conquer the city government. It was high time to stop him and, if possible, to give his talents better employment.

However, Hastings, after the familiar human fashion, honestly thought he was showing generosity, was going out of his way to "give a likely young fellow a chance." When he came out on the veranda he stretched forth a graciously friendly hand and, looking shrewdly into Victor's boyishly candid eyes, said:

"Glad to see you, young man. I want to thank you for ending that strike. I was born a working man, and I've been one all my life and, when I can't work any more, I want to quit the earth. So, being a working man, I hate to see working men make fools of themselves."

Jane was watching the young man anxiously. She instinctively knew that this speech must be rousing his passion for plain and direct speaking. Before he had time to answer she said: "Dinner's waiting. Let's go in."

And on the way she made an opportunity to say to him in an undertone: "I do hope you'll be careful not to say anything that'll upset father. I have to warn every one who comes here. His digestion's bad, and the least thing makes him ill, and--" she smiled charmingly at him--"I HATE nursing. It's too much like work to suit an upper-class person."

There was no resisting such an appeal as that. Victor sat silent and ate, and let the old man talk on and on. Jane saw that it was a severe trial to him to seem to be assenting to her father's views. Whenever he showed signs of casting off his restraint, she gave him a pleading glance. And the old man, so weazened, so bent and shaky, with his bowl of crackers and milk, was--or seemed to be--proof that the girl was asking of him only what was humane. Jane relieved the situation by talking volubly about herself--her college experiences, what she had seen and done in Europe.

After dinner Hastings said:

"I'll drive you back to town, young man. I'm going in to work, as usual. I never took a vacation in my life. Can you beat that record?"

"Oh, I knock off every once in a while for a month or so," said Dorn.

"The young fellows growing up nowadays ain't equal to us of the old stock," said Martin. "They can't stand the strain. Well, if you're ready, we'll pull out."

"Mr. Dorn's going to stop a while with me, father," interposed Jane with a significant glance at Victor. "I want to show him the grounds and the views."

"All right--all right," said her father. He never liked company in his drives; company interfered with his thinking out what he was going to do at the office. "I'm mighty glad to know you, young man. I hope we'll know each other better. I think you'll find out that for a devil I'm not half bad--eh?"

Victor bowed, murmured something inarticulate, shook his host's hand, and when the ceremony of parting was over drew a stealthy breath of relief--which Jane observed. She excused herself to accompany her father to his trap. As he was climbing in she said:

"Didn't you rather like him, father?"

Old Hastings gathered the reins in his lean, distorted hands. "So so," said he.

"He's got brains, hasn't he?"

"Yes; he's smart; mighty smart." The old man's face relaxed in a shrewd grin. "Too damn smart. Giddap, Bet."

And he was gone. Jane stood looking after the ancient phaeton with an expression half of amusement, half of discomfiture. "I might have known," reflected she, "that popsy would see through it all."

When she reappeared in the front doorway Victor Dorn was at the edge of the veranda, ready to depart. As soon as he saw her he said gravely: "I must be off, Miss Hastings. Thank you for the very interesting dinner." He extended his hand. "Good day."

She put her hands behind her back, and stood smiling gently at him. "You mustn't go--not just yet. I'm about to show you the trees and the grass, the bees, the chickens and the cows. Also, I've something important to say to you."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I must go."

She stiffened slightly; her smile changed from friendly to cold. "Oh--pardon me," she said. "Good-by."

He bowed, and was on the walk, and running rapidly toward the entrance gates.

"Mr. Dorn!" she called.

He turned.

She was afraid to risk asking him to come back for a moment. He might refuse. Standing there, looking so resolute, so completely master of himself, so devoid of all suggestion of need for any one or anything, he seemed just the man to turn on his heel and depart. She descended to the walk and went to him. She said:

"Why are you acting so peculiarly? Why did you come?"

"Because I understood that your father wished to propose some changes in the way of better hours and better wages for the men," replied he. "I find that the purpose was--not that."

"What was it?"

"I do not care to go into that."

He was about to go on--on out of her life forever, she felt. "Wait," she cried. "The men will get better hours and wages. You don't understand father's ways. He was really discussing that very thing--in his own mind. You'll see. He has a great admiration for you. You can do a lot with him. You owe it to the men to make use of his liking."

He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he said: "I'll have to be at least partly frank with you. In all his life no one has ever gotten anything out of your father. He uses men. They do not use him."

"Believe me, that is unjust," cried Jane. "I'll tell you another thing that was on his mind. He wants to--to make reparation for--that accident to your father. He wants to pay your mother and you the money the road didn't pay you when it ought."

Dorn's candid face showed how much he was impressed. This beautiful, earnest girl, sweet and frank, seemed herself to be another view of Martin Hastings' character--one more in accord with her strong belief in the essential goodness of human nature.

Said he: "Your father owes us nothing. As for the road--its debt never existed legally--only morally. And it has been outlawed long ago--for there's a moral statute of limitations, too. The best thing that ever happened to us was our not getting that money. It put us on our mettle. It might have crushed us. It happened to be just the thing that was needed to make us."

Jane marveled at this view of his family, at the verge of poverty, as successful. But she could not doubt his sincerity. Said she sadly, "But it's not to the credit of the road--or of father. He must pay--and he knows he must."

"We can't accept," said Dorn--a finality.

"But you could use it to build up the paper," urged Jane, to detain him.

"The paper was started without money. It lives without money--and it will go on living without money, or it ought to die."

"I don't understand," said Jane. "But I want to understand. I want to help. Won't you let me?"

He shook his head laughingly. "Help what?" inquired he. "Help raise the sun? It doesn't need help."

Jane began to see. "I mean, I want to be helped," she cried.

"Oh, that's another matter," said he. "And very simple."

"Will YOU help me?"

"I can't. No one can. You've got to help yourself. Each one of us is working for himself--working not to be rich or to be famous or to be envied, but to be free."

"Working for himself--that sounds selfish, doesn't it?"

"If you are wise, Jane Hastings," said Dorn, "you will distrust--disbelieve in--anything that is not selfish."

Jane reflected. "Yes--I see," she cried. "I never thought of that!"

"A friend of mine, Wentworth," Victor went on, "has put it wonderfully clearly. He said, 'Some day we shall realize that no man can be free until all men are free.'"

"You HAVE helped me--in spite of your fierce refusal," laughed Jane. "You are very impatient to go, aren't you? Well, since you won't stay I'll walk with you--as far as the end of the shade."

She was slightly uneasy lest her overtures should be misunderstood. By the time they reached the first long, sunny stretch of the road down to town she was so afraid that those overtures would not be "misunderstood" that she marched on beside him in the hot sun. She did not leave him until they reached the corner of Pike avenue--and then it was he that left her, for she could cudgel out no excuse for going further in his direction. The only hold she had got upon him for a future attempt was slight indeed--he had vaguely agreed to lend her some books.

People who have nothing to do get rid of a great deal of time in trying to make impressions and in speculating as to what impressions they have made. Jane--hastening toward Martha's to get out of the sun which could not but injure a complexion so delicately fine as hers--gave herself up to this form of occupation. What did he think of her? Did he really have as little sense of her physical charm as he seemed? No woman could hope to be attractive to every man. Still--this man surely must be at least not altogether insensible. "If he sends me those books to-day--or tomorrow--or even next day," thought Jane, "it will be a pretty sure sign that he was impressed--whether he knows it or not."

She had now definitely passed beyond the stage where she wondered at herself--and reproached herself--for wishing to win a man of such common origin and surroundings. She could not doubt Victor Dorn's superiority. Such a man as that didn't need birth or wealth or even fame. He simply WAS the man worth while--worth any woman's while. How could Selma be associated so intimately with him without trying to get him in love with her? Perhaps she had tried and had given up? No--Selma was as strange in her way as he was in his way. What a strange--original--INDIVIDUAL pair they were!

"But," concluded Jane, "he belongs with US. I must take him away from all that. It will be interesting to do it--so interesting that I'll be sorry when it's done, and I'll be looking about for something else to do."

She was not without hope that the books would come that same evening. But they did not. The next day passed, and the next, and still no books. Apparently he had meant nothing by his remark, "I've some books you'd be interested to read." Was his silence indifference, or was it shyness? Probably she could only faintly appreciate the effect her position, her surroundings produced in this man whose physical surroundings had always been as poor as her mental surroundings--those created by that marvelous mind of his--had been splendid.

She tried to draw out her father on the subject of the young man, with a view to getting a hint as to whether he purposed doing anything further. But old Hastings would not talk about it; he was still debating, was looking at the matter from a standpoint where his daughter's purely theoretical acumen could not help him to a decision. Jane rather feared that where her father was evidently so doubtful he would follow his invariable rule in doubtful cases.

On the fourth day, being still unable to think of anything but her project for showing her prowess by conquering this man with no time for women, she donned a severely plain walking costume and went to his office.

At the threshold of the "Sanctum" she stopped short. Selma, pencil poised over her block of copy paper and every indication of impatience, albeit polite impatience, in her fascinating Cossack face, was talking to--or, rather, listening to--David Hull. Like not a few young men--and young women--brought up in circumstances that surround them with people deferential for the sake of what there is, or may possibly be, in it--Davy Hull had the habit of assuming that all the world was as fond of listening to him as he was of listening to himself. So it did not often occur to him to observe his audience for signs of a willingness to end the conversation.

Selma, turning a little further in her nervousness, saw Jane and sprang up with a radiant smile of welcome.

"I'm SO glad!" she cried, rushing toward her and kissing her. "I've thought about you often, and wished I could find time to come to see you."

Jane was suddenly as delighted as Selma. For Selma's burst of friendliness, so genuine, so unaffected, in this life of blackness and cold always had the effect of sun suddenly making summer out of a chill autumnal day. Nor, curiously enough, was her delight lessened by Davy Hull's blundering betrayal of himself. His color, his eccentric twitchings of the lips and the hands would have let a far less astute young woman than Jane Hastings into the secret of the reason for his presence in that office when he had said he couldn't "afford" to go. So guilty did he feel that he stammered out:

"I dropped in to see Dorn."

"You wished to see Victor?" exclaimed the guileless Selma. "Why didn't you say so? I'd have told you at once that he was in Indianapolis and wouldn't be back for two or three days."

Jane straightway felt still better. The disgusting mystery of the books that did not come was now cleared up. Secure in the certainty of Selma's indifference to Davy she proceeded to punish him. "What a stupid you are, Davy!" she cried mockingly. "The instant I saw your face I knew you were here to flirt with Miss Gordon."

"Oh, no, Miss Hastings," protested Selma with quaint intensity of seriousness, "I assure you he was not flirting. He was telling me about the reform movement he and his friends are organizing."

"That is his way of flirting," said Jane. "Every animal has its own way--and an elephant's way is different from a mosquito's."

Selma was eyeing Hull dubiously. It was bad enough for him to have taken her time in a well-meaning attempt to enlighten her as to a new phase of local politics; to take her time, to waste it, in flirting--that was too exasperating!

"Miss Hastings has a sense of humor that runs riot at times," said Hull.

"You can't save yourself, Davy," mocked Jane. "Come along. Miss Gordon has no time for either of us."

"I do want YOU to stay," she said to Jane. "But, unfortunately, with Victor away----" She looked disconsolately at the half-finished page of copy.

"I came only to snatch Davy away," said Jane.

"Next thing we know, he'll be one of Mr. Dorn's lieutenants."

Thus Jane escaped without having to betray why she had come. In the street she kept up her raillery. "And a WORKING girl, Davy! What would our friends say! And you who are always boasting of your fastidiousness! Flirting with a girl who--I've seen her three times, and each time she has had on exactly the same plain, cheap little dress."