The Conflict Part 49

"Fresh, impudent--conceited. And he looks like a prize fighter."

"At some angles--yes," conceded Jane. "At others, he's almost handsome."

"The other day, when I called at the hospital and they wouldn't take my name in to you--" David broke off to vent his indignation--"Did you ever hear of such impertinence!"

"And you the governor-elect," laughed Jane. "Shall I tell you what Doctor Charlton said? He said that a governor was simply a public servant, and anything but a public representative--usually a public disgrace. He said that a servant's business was attending to his own job and not hanging round preventing his fellow servants from attending to their jobs."

"I knew he had low and vulgar views of public affairs," said David.

"What I started to say was that I saw him talking to you that day, across the court, and you seemed to be enjoying his conversation."

"ENJOYING it? I love it," cried Jane. "He makes me laugh, he makes me cold with rage, he gives me a different sensation every time I see him."

"You LIKE--him?"

"Immensely. And I've never been so interested or so happy in my life."

She looked steadily at him. "Nothing could induce me to give it up.

I've put everything else out of my mind."

Since the dismal end of his adventure with Selma Gordon, David had become extremely wary in his dealings with the female s.e.x. He never again would invite a refusal; he never again would put himself in a position where a woman might feel free to tell him her private opinion of him. He reflected upon Jane's words. They could have but the one meaning. Not so calmly as he would have liked, but without any embarra.s.sing constraint, he said:

"I'm glad you've found what suits you, at last. It isn't exactly the line I'd have thought a girl such as you would choose. You're sure you are not making a mistake?"

"Quite," said Jane.

"I should think you'd prefer marriage--and a home--and a social circle--and all that," ventured David.

"I'll probably not marry."

"No. You'd hardly take a doctor."

"The only one I'd want I can't get," said Jane.

She wished to shock David, and she saw with pleasure that she had succeeded. Indeed so shocked was he that in a few minutes he took leave. And as he pa.s.sed from her sight he pa.s.sed from her mind.

Victor Dorn described Davy Hull's inaugural address as "an uninteresting sample of the standard reform brand of artificial milk for political infants." The press, however, was enthusiastic, and substantial people everywhere spoke of it as having the "right ring,"

as being the utterance of a "safe, clean man whom the politicians can't frighten or fool." In this famous speech David urged everybody who was doing right to keep on doing so, warned everybody who was doing wrong that they would better look out for themselves, praised those who were trying to better conditions in the right way, condemned those who were trying to do so in the wrong way. It was all most eloquent, most earnest. Some few people were disappointed that he had not explained exactly what and whom he meant by right and by wrong; but these carping murmurs were drowned in the general acclaim. A man whose fists clenched and whose eyes flashed as did David Hull's must "mean business"--and if no results came of these words, it wouldn't be his fault, but the machinations of wicked plutocrats and their political agents.

"Isn't it disgusting!" exclaimed Selma, reading an impa.s.sioned paragraph aloud to Victor Dorn. "It almost makes me despair when I see how people--our sort of people, too--are taken in by such guff. And they stand with their empty picked pockets and cheer this man, who's nothing but a stool pigeon for pickpockets."

"It's something gained," observed Victor tranquilly, "when politicians have to denounce the plutocracy in order to get audiences and offices.

The people are beginning to know what's wrong. They read into our friend Hull's generalities what they think he ought to mean--what they believe he does mean. The next step is--he'll have to do something or they'll find him out."

"He do anything?" Selma laughed derisively. "He hasn't the courage--or the honesty."

"Well--'patience and shuffle the cards,' as Sancho Panza says. We're winning Remsen City. And our friends are winning a little ground here, and a little there and a little yonder--and soon--only too soon--this crumbling false politics will collapse and disappear. Too soon, I fear. Before the new politics of a work-compelling world for the working cla.s.s only is ready to be installed."

Selma had been only half attending. She now said abruptly, with a fluttering movement that suggested wind blowing strongly across open prairies under a bright sky:

"I've decided to go away."

"Yes, you must take a vacation," said Victor. "I've been telling you that for several years. And you must go away to the sea or the mountains where you'll not be hara.s.sed by the fate of the human race that you so take to heart."

"I didn't mean a vacation," said Selma. "I meant to Chicago--to work there."

"You've had a good offer?" said Victor. "I knew it would come. You've got to take it. You need the wider experience--the chance to have a paper of your own--or a work of your own of some kind. It's been selfishness, my keeping you all this time."

Selma had turned away. With her face hidden from him she said, "Yes, I must go."

"When?" said Victor.

"As soon as you can arrange for some one else."

"All right. I'll look round. I've no hope of finding any one to take your place, but I can get some one who will do."

"You can train any one," said Selma. "Just as you trained me."

"I'll see what's to be done," was all he said.

A week pa.s.sed--two weeks. She waited; he did not bring up the subject.

But she knew he was thinking of it; for there had been a change in his manner toward her--a constraint, a self-consciousness theretofore utterly foreign to him in his relations with any one. Selma was wretched, and began to show it first in her appearance, then in her work. At last she burst out:

"Give that article back to me," she cried. "It's rotten. I can't write any more. Why don't you tell me so frankly? Why don't you send me away?"

"You're doing better work than I am," said he. "You're eager to be off--aren't you? Will you stay a few days longer? I must get away to the country--alone--to get a fresh grip on myself. I'll come back as soon as I can, and you'll be free. There'll be no chance for vacations after you're gone."

"Very well," said she. She felt that he would think this curtness ungracious, but more she could not say.

He was gone four days. When he reappeared at the office he was bronzed, but under the bronze showed fatigue--in a man of his youth and strength sure sign of much worry and loss of sleep. He greeted her almost awkwardly, his eyes avoiding hers, and sat down to opening his acc.u.mulated mail. Although she was furtively observing him she started when he abruptly said:

"You know you are free to go--at any time."

"I'll wait until you catch up with your work," she suggested.

"No--never mind. I'll get along. I've kept you out of all reason....

The sooner you go the better. I've got to get used to it, and--I hate suspense."

"Then I'll go in the morning," said Selma. "I've no arrangements to make--except a little packing that'll take less than an hour. Will you say good-by for me to any one who asks? I hate fusses, and I'll be back here from time to time."

He looked at her curiously, started to speak, changed his mind and resumed reading the letter in his hand. She turned to her work, sat pretending to write. In fact she was simply scribbling. Her eyes were burning and she was fighting against the sobs that came surging. He rose and began to walk up and down the room. She hastily crumpled and flung away the sheet on which she had be scrawling; he might happen to glance at her desk and see. She bent closer to the paper and began to write--anything that came into her head. Presently the sound of his step ceased. An uncontrollable impulse to fly seized her. She would get up--would not put on her hat--would act as if she were simply going to the street door for a moment. And she would not return--would escape the danger of a silly breakdown. She summoned all her courage, suddenly rose and moved swiftly toward the door. At the threshold she had to pause; she could not control her heart from a last look at him.

He was seated at his table, was staring at its litter of letters, papers and ma.n.u.scripts with an expression so sad that it completely transformed him. She forgot herself. She said softly:

"Victor!"

He did not hear.