The Conflict Part 22

"I see that," said Davy. "I'm willing to admit that I've misjudged you, Mr. Kelly--that the better cla.s.ses owe you a heavy debt--and that you are one of the men we've got to rely on chiefly to stem the tide of anarchy that's rising--the attack on the propertied cla.s.ses--the intelligent cla.s.ses."

"I see your eyes are being opened, my boy," said Kelly in a kindly tone that showed how deeply he appreciated this unexpected recognition of his own notion of his mission. "You young silk stocking fellows up at the University Club, and the Lincoln and the Jefferson, have been indulging in a lot of loose talk against the fellows that do the hard work in politics--the fellows that helped your fathers to make fortunes and that are helping you boys to keep 'em. If I didn't have a pretty level head on me, I'd take my hands off and give Dorn and his gang a chance at you. I tell you, when you fool with that reform nonsense, you play with fire in a powder mill."

"But I--I had an idea that you wanted me to go ahead," said Davy.

"Not the way you started last spring," replied Kelly. "Not the way you'd 'a gone if I hadn't taken hold. I've been saving you in spite of yourselves. Thanks to me, your party's on a sound, conservative basis and won't do any harm and may do some good in teaching a lesson to those of our boys that've been going a little too far. It ain't good for an organization to win always."

"Victor Dorn seemed to be sure--absolutely sure," said Hull. "And he's pretty shrewd at politics--isn't he?"

"Don't worry about him, I tell you," replied Kelly.

The sudden hardening of his voice and of his never notably soft face was tribute stronger than any words to Dorn's ability as a politician, to his power as an antagonist. Davy felt a sinister intent--and he knew that d.i.c.k Kelly had risen because he would stop at nothing. He was as eager to get away from the boss as the boss was to be rid of him. The intrusion of a henchman, to whom Kelly had no doubt signaled, gave him the excuse. As soon as he had turned from the City Hall into Morton Street he slackened to as slow a walk as his length of leg would permit. Moving along, absorbed in uncomfortable thoughts, he startled violently when he heard Selma Gordon's voice:

"How d'you do, Mr. Hull? I was hoping I'd see you to-day."

She was standing before him--the same fascinating embodiment of life and health and untamed energy; the direct, honest glance.

"I want to talk to you," she went on, "and I can't, walking beside you.

You're far too tall. Come into the park and we'll sit on that bench under the big maple."

He had mechanically lifted his hat, but he had not spoken. He did not find words until they were seated side by side, and then all he could say was:

"I'm very glad to see you again--very glad, indeed."

In fact, he was the reverse of glad, for he was afraid of her, afraid of himself when under the spell of her presence. He who prided himself on his self-control, he could not account for the effect this girl had upon him. As he sat there beside her the impulse Jane Hastings had so adroitly checked came surging back. He had believed, had hoped it was gone for good and all. He found that in its mysterious hiding place it had been gaining strength. Quite clearly he saw how absurd was the idea of making this girl his wife--he tall and she not much above the bend of his elbow; he conventional, and she the incarnation of pa.s.sionate revolt against the restraints of cla.s.s and form and custom which he not only conformed to but religiously believed in. And she set stirring in him all kinds of vague, wild longings to run amuck socially and politically--longings that, if indulged, would ruin him for any career worthy of the name.

He stood up. "I must go--I really must," he said, confusedly.

She laid her small, strong hand on his arm--a natural, friendly gesture with her, and giving no suggestion of familiarity. Even as she was saying, "Please--only a moment," he dropped back to the seat.

"Well--what is it?" he said abruptly, his gaze resolutely away from her face.

"Victor was telling me this morning about his talk with you," she said in her rapid, energetic way. "He was depressed because he had failed.

But I felt sure--I feel sure--that he hasn't. In our talk the other day, Mr. Hull, I got a clear idea of your character. A woman understands better. And I know that, after Victor told you the plain truth about the situation, you couldn't go on."

David looked round rather wildly, swallowed hard several times, said hoa.r.s.ely: "I won't, if you'll marry me."

But for a slight change of expression or of color Davy would have thought she had not heard--or perhaps that he had imagined he was uttering the words that forced themselves to his lips in spite of his efforts to suppress them. For she went on in the same impetuous, friendly way:

"It seemed to me that you have an instinct for the right that's unusual in men of your cla.s.s. At least, I think it's unusual. I confess I've not known any man of your cla.s.s except you--and I know you very slightly. It was I that persuaded Victor to go to you. He believes that a man's cla.s.s feeling controls him--makes his moral sense--compels his actions. But I thought you were an exception--and he yielded after I urged him a while."

"I don't know WHAT I am," said Hull gloomily. "I think I want to do right. But--what is right? Not theoretical right, but the practical, workable thing?"

"That's true," conceded Selma. "We can't always be certain what's right. But can't we always know what's wrong? And, Mr. Hull, it is wrong--altogether wrong--and YOU know it's wrong--to lend your name and your influence and your reputation to that crowd. They'd let you do a little good--why? To make their professions of reform seem plausible.

To fool the people into trusting them again. And under cover of the little good you were showily doing, how much mischief they'd do! If you'll go back over the history of this town--of any town--of any country--you'll find that most of the wicked things--the things that pile the burdens on the shoulders of the poor--the ma.s.ses--most of the wicked things have been done under cover of just such men as you, used as figureheads."

"But I want to build up a new party--a party of honest men, honestly led," said Davy.

"Led by your sort of young men? I mean young men of your cla.s.s. Led by young lawyers and merchants and young fellows living on inherited incomes? Don't you see that's impossible," cried Selma. "They are all living off the labor of others. Their whole idea of life is exploiting the ma.s.ses--is reaping where they have not sown or reaping not only what they've sown but also what others have sown--for they couldn't buy luxury and all the so-called refinements of life for themselves and their idle families merely with what they themselves could earn. How can you build up a really HONEST party with such men? They may mean well. They no doubt are honest, up to a certain point. But they will side with their cla.s.s, in every crisis. And their cla.s.s is the exploiting cla.s.s."

"I don't agree with you," said Davy. "You are not fair to us."

"How!" demanded Selma.

"I couldn't argue with you," replied Hull. "All I'll say is that you've seen only the one side--only the side of the working cla.s.s."

"That toils without ceasing--its men, its women, its children--" said the girl with heaving bosom and flas.h.i.+ng eyes--"only to have most of what it earns filched away from it by your cla.s.s to waste in foolish luxury!"

"And whose fault is that?" pleaded Hull.

"The fault of my cla.s.s," replied she. "Their ignorance, their stupidity--yes, and their foolish cunning that overreaches itself. For they tolerate the abuses of the present system because each man--at least, each man of the ones who think themselves 'smart'--imagines that the day is coming when he can escape from the working cla.s.s and gain the ranks of the despoilers."

"And you ask ME to come into the party of those people!" scoffed Davy.

"Yes, Mr. Hull," said she--and until then he had not appreciated how lovely her voice was. "Yes--that is the party for you--for all honest, sincere men who want to have their own respect through and through. To teach those people--to lead them right--to be truthful and just with them--that is the life worth while."

"But they won't learn. They won't be led right. They are as ungrateful as they are foolish. If they weren't, men like me trying to make a decent career wouldn't have to compromise with the Kellys and the Houses and their masters. What are Kelly and House but leaders of your cla.s.s? And they lead ten to Victor Dorn's one. Why, any day Dorn's followers may turn on him--and you know it."

"And what of that?" cried Selma. "He's not working to be their leader, but to do what he thinks is right, regardless of consequences. Why is he a happy man, as happiness goes? Why has he gone on his way steadily all these years, never minding setbacks and failures and defeats and dangers? I needn't tell you why."

"No," said Hull, powerfully moved by her earnestness. "I understand."

"The finest sentence that ever fell from human lips," Selma went on, "was 'Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.' Forgive them--forgive us all--for when we go astray it is because we are in the dark. And I want you to come with us, Mr. Hull, and help to make it a little less dark. At least, you will then be looking toward the light--and every one turned in that direction counts."

After a long pause, Hull said:

"Miss Gordon, may I ask you a very personal question?"

"Yes," said she.

"Are you in love with Victor Dorn?"

Selma laughed merrily. "Jane Hastings had that same curiosity," said she. "I'll answer you as I answered her--though she didn't ask me quite so directly. No, I am not in love with him. We are too busy to bother about those things. We have too much to do to think about ourselves."

"Then--there is no reason why I should not ask you to be my wife--why I should not hope--and try?"

She looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Yes, there is a very good reason. I do not love you, and I shall not love you. I shall not have time for that sort of thing."

"Don't you believe in love?"

"I don't believe in much else," said she. "But--not the kind of love you offer me."

"How do you know?" cried he. "I have not told you yet how I feel toward you. I have not----"

"Oh, yes, you have," interrupted she. "This is the second--no, the third time you have seen me. So, the love you offer me can only be of a kind it is not in the least flattering to a woman to inspire. You needn't apologize," she went on, laughingly. "I've no doubt you mean well. You simply don't understand me--my sort of woman."

"It's you that don't understand, Selma," cried he. "You don't realize how wonderful you are--how much you reveal of yourself at once. I was all but engaged to another woman when I saw you. I've been fighting against my love for you--fighting against the truth that suddenly came to me that you were the only woman I had ever seen who appealed to and aroused and made strong all that is brave and honest in me. Selma, I need you. I am not infatuated. I am clearer-headed than I ever was in my life. I need you. You can make a man of me."

She was regarding him with a friendly and even tender sympathy. "I understand now," she said. "I thought it was simply the ordinary outburst of pa.s.sion. But I see that it was the result of your struggle with yourself about which road to take in making a career."