the conflict-第8节

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They　were　drawing　up　to　the　curb　before　the　Opera　House　where　were　the　assembly　rooms。　　‘‘There　he　is　now；''　cried　Hull。

Jane；　startled；　leaned　eagerly　forward。　　In　the　rain　beyond　the　edge　of　the　awning　stood　a　dripping　figure　not　unlike　that　other　which　had　so　disappointed　her。　　Underneath　the　brim　of　the　hat　she　could　see　a　smooth…　shaven　youngish　facealmost　boyish。　　But　the　rain　streaming　from　the　brim　made　satisfactory　scrutiny　impossible。

Jane　again　sank　back。　　‘‘How　many　carriages　before　us？''　she　said。

‘‘You're　disappointed　in　him；　too；　I　suppose；''　said　Hull。　　‘‘I　knew　you　would　be。''

‘‘I　thought　he　was　tall；''　said　Jane。

‘‘Only　middling；''　replied　Hull；　curiously　delighted。

‘‘I　thought　he　was　serious；''　said　Jane。

‘‘On　the　contrary；　he's　always　laughing。　　He's　the　best　natured　man　I　know。''

As　they　descended　and　started　along　the　carpet　under　the　middle　of　the　awning；　Jane　halted。　　She　glanced　toward　the　dripping　figure　whom　the　police　would　not　permit　under　the　shelter。　　Said　she：　　‘‘I　want　one　of　those　papers。''

Davy　moved　toward　the　drenched　distributor　of　strike　literature。　　‘‘Give　me　one；　Dorn；''　he　said　in　his　most　elegant　manner。

‘‘Sure；　Davy；''　said　Dorn　in　a　tone　that　was　a　subtle　commentary　on　Hull's　aristocratic　tone　and　manner。　　As　he　spoke　he　glanced　at　Jane；　she　was　looking　at　him。　　Both　smiledat　Davy's　expense。

Davy　and　Jane　passed　on　in；　Jane　folding　the　dodger　to　tuck　it　away　for　future　reading。　　She　said　to　him：　　‘‘But　you　didn't　tell　me　about　his　eyes。''

‘‘What's　the　matter　with　them？''

‘‘Everything；''　replied　sheand　said　no　more。



II


The　dance　was　even　more　tiresome　than　Jane　had　anticipated。　　There　had　been　little　pleasure　in　outshining　the　easily　outshone　belles　of　Remsen　City。　　She　had　felt　humiliated　by　having　to　divide　the　honors　with　a　brilliantly　beautiful　and　scandalously　audacious　Chicago　girl；　a　Yvonne　Herefordwhose　style；　in　looks；　in　dress　and　in　wit；　was　more　comfortable　to　the　standard　of　the　best　young　men　of　Remsen　Citya　standard　which　Miss　Hastings；　cultivated　by　foreign　travel　and　social　adventure；　regarded　as　distinctly　poor；　not　to　say　low。　　Miss　Hereford's　audacities　were　especially　offensive　to　Jane。　　Jane　was　audacious　herself；　but　she　flattered　herself　that　she　had　a　delicate　sense　of　that　baffling　distinction　between　the　audacity　that　is　the　hall　mark　of　the　lady　and　the　audacity　that　proclaims　the　not…lady。　　For　example；　in　such　apparently　trifling　matters　as　the　way　of　smoking　a　cigarette；　the　way　of　crossing　the　legs　or　putting　the　elbows　on　the　table　or　using　slang；　Jane　found　a　difference；　abysmal　though　narrow；　between　herself　and　Yvonne　Hereford。　　‘‘But　then；　her　very　name　gives　her　away；''　reflected　Jane。　　‘‘There'd　surely　be　a　frightfully　cheap　streak　in　a　mother　who　in　this　country　would　name　her　daughter　Yvonneor　in　a　girl　who　would　name　herself　that。''

However；　Jane　Hastings　was　not　deeply　annoyed　either　by　the　shortcomings　of　Remsen　City　young　men　or　by　the　rivalry　of　Miss　Hereford。　　Her　dissatisfaction　was　personalthe　feeling　of　futility；　of　cheapness；　in　having　dressed　herself　in　her　best　and　spent　a　whole　evening　at　such　unworthy　business。　　‘‘Whatever　I　am　or　am　not　fit　for；''　said　she　to　herself；　‘‘I'm　not　for　societyany　kind　of　society。　　At　least　I'm　too　much　grown…up　mentally　for　that。''　　Her　disdainful　thoughts　about　others　were；　on　this　occasion　as　almost　always；　merely　a　mode　of　expressing　her　self…scorn。

As　she　was　undressing　she　found　in　her　party　bag　the　dodger　Hull　had　got　for　her　from　Victor　Dorn。　　She；　sitting　at　her　dressing　table；　started　to　read　it　at　once。　　But　her　attention　soon　wandered。　　‘‘I'm　not　in　the　mood；''　she　said。　　‘‘To…morrow。''　　And　she　tossed　it　into　the　top　drawer。　　The　fact　was；　the　subject　of　politics　interested　her　only　when　some　man　in　whom　she　was　interested　was　talking　it　to　her。　　In　a　general　way　she　understood　things　political；　but　like　almost　all　women　and　all　but　a　few　men　she　could　fasten　her　attention　only　on　things　directly　and　clearly　and　nearly　related　to　her　own　interests。　　Politics　seemed　to　her　to　be　not　at　all　related　to　heror；　indeed；　to　anybody　but　the　men　running　for　office。　　This　dodger　was　politics；　pure　and　simple。　　A　plea　to　workingmen　to　awaken　to　the　fact　that　their　STRIKES　were　stupid　and　wasteful；　that　the　way　to　get　better　pay　and　decent　hours　of　labor　was　by　uniting；　taking　possession　of　the　power　that　was　rightfully　theirs　and　regulating　their　own　affairs。

She　resumed　fixing　her　hair　for　the　night。　　Her　glance　bent　steadily　downward　at　one　stage　of　this　performance；　rested　unseeingly　upon　the　handbill　folded　printed　side　out　and　on　top　of　the　contents　of　the　open　drawer。　　She　happened　to　see　two　capital　letters　S。　G。in　a　line　by　themselves　at　the　end　of　the　print。　　She　repeated　them　mechanically　several　times‘‘S。　G。　S。　G。S。　　G。''then　her　hands　fell　from　her　hair　upon　the　handbill。　　She　settled　herself　to　read　in　earnest。

‘‘Selma　Gordon；''　she　said。　　‘‘That's　different。''

She　would　have　had　some　difficulty　in　explaining　to　herself　why　it　was　‘‘different。''　　She　read　closely；　concentratedly　now。　　She　tried　to　read　in　an　attitude　of　unfriendly　criticism；　but　she　could　not。　　A　dozen　lines；　and　the　clear；　earnest；　honest　sentences　had　taken　hold　of　her。　　How　sensible　the　statements　were；　and　how　obviously　true。　　Why；　it　wasn't　the　writing　of　an　‘‘anarchistic　crank''　at　allon　the　contrary；　the　writer　was　if　anything　more　excusing　toward　the　men　who　were　giving　the　drivers　and　motormen　a　dollar　and　ten　cents　a　day　for　fourteen　hours'　work‘‘fourteen　hours！''　cried　Jane；　her　cheeks　burningyes；　Selma　Gordon　was　more　tolerant　of　the　owners　of　the　street　car　line　than　Jane　herself　would　have　been。

When　Jane　had　read；　she　gazed　at　the　print　with　sad　envy　in　her　eyes。　　‘‘Selma　Gordon　can　thinkand　she　can　write；　too；''　said　she　half　aloud。　　‘‘I　want　to　know　hertoo。''

That　‘‘too''　was　the　first　admission　to　herself　of　a　curiously　intense　desire　to　meet　Victor　Dorn。

‘‘Oh；　to　be　in　earnest　about　something！　　To　have　a　real　interest！

To　find　something　to　do　besides　the　nursery　games　disguised　under　new　forms　for　the　grown…up　yet　never　to　be　grown…up　infants　of　the　world。　　‘‘And　THAT　kind　of　politics　doesn't　sound　shallow　and　dull。　　There's　heart　in　itand　brainsreal　brainsnot　merely　nasty　little　self…seeking　cunning。''　　She　took　up　the　handbill　again　and　read　a　paragraph　set　in　bolder　type：

‘‘The　reason　we　of　the　working　class　are　slaves　is　because　we　haven't　intelligence　enough　to　be　our　own　masters；　let　alone　masters　of　anybody　else。　　The　talk　of　equality；　workingmen；　is　nonsense　to　flatter　your　silly；　ignorant　vanity。　　We　are　not　the　equals　of　our　masters。　　They　know　more　than　we　do；　and　naturally　they　use　that　knowledge　to　make　us　work　for　them。　　So；　even　if　you　win　in　this　strike　or　in　all　your　strikes；　you　will　not　much　better　yourselves。　　Because　you　are　ignorant　and　foolish；　your　masters　will　scheme　around　and　take　from　you　in　some　other　way　what　you　have　wrenched　from　them　in　the　strike。

‘‘Organize！　　Think！　　Learn！　　Then　you　will　rise　out　of　the　dirt　where　you　wallow　with　your　wives　and　your　children。　　Don't　blame　your　masters；　they　don't　enslave　you。　　They　don't　keep　you　in　slavery。　　Your　chains　　are　of　your　own　forging　and　only　you　can　strike　them　off！''

Certainly　no　tenement　house　woman　could　be　lazier；　emptier　of　head；　more　inane　of　life　than　her　sister　Martha。　　‘‘She　wouldn't　even　keep　clean　if　it　wasn't　the　easiest　thing　in　the　world　for　her　to　do；　and　a　help　at　filling　in　her　long　idle　day。''　　YetMartha　Galland　had　every　comfort　and　most　of　the　luxuries；　was　as　sheltered　from　all　the　hardships　as　a　hot…house　flower。　　Then　there　was　Hugoto　go　no　further　afield　than　the　family。　　Had　he　ever　done　an　honest　hour's　work　in　his　life？　　Could　anyone　have　less　brains　than　he？　　Yet　Hugo　was　rich　and　respected；　was　a　director　in　big　corporations；　was　a　member　of　a　first…class　law　firm。　　‘‘It　isn't　fair；''　thought　the　girl。　　‘‘I've　always　felt　it。　　I　see　now　why。　　It's　a　bad　system　of　taking　from　the　many　for　the　benefit　of　us　few。　　And　it's　kept　going　by　a　few　clever；　strong　men　like　father。　　They　work　for　themselves　and　their　families　and　relatives　and　for　their　classand　the　rest　of　the　people　have　to　suffer。''

She　did　not　fall　asleep　for　several　hours；　such　was　the　tumult　in　her　aroused　brain。　　The　first　thing　the　next　morning　she　went　down　town；　bought　copies　of　the　New　Dayfor　that　week　and　for　a　few　preceding　weeksand　retreated　to　her　favorite　nook　in　her　father's　grounds　to　read　and　to　thinkand　to　plan。　　She　searched　the　New　Day　in　vain　for　any　of　the　wild；　wandering　things　Davy　and　her　father　had　told　her　Victor　Dorn　was　putting　forth。　　The　four　pages　of　each　number　were　given　over　either　to　philosophical　articles　no　more　‘‘anarchistic''　than　Emerson's　essays；　not　so　much　so　as　Carlyle's；　or　to　plain　accounts　of　the　current　stealing　by　the　politicians　of　Remsen　City；　of　the　squalor　and　diseasedanger　in　the　tenements；　of　the　outrages　by　the　gas　and　water　and　street　car　companies。　　There　was　much　that　was　terrible；　much　that　was　sad；　much　that　was　calculated　to　make　an　honest　heart　burn　with　indignation　against　those　who　were　ch