the conflict-第7章

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‘‘I　told　you　he　isn't　fit　to　talk　about；''　said　Martha。　　‘‘Do　you　know；　they　say　now　that　he　is　carrying　on　with　that　shameless；　brazen　thing　who　writes　for　his　paper；　that　Selma　Gordon？''

‘‘Selma　Gordon；''　echoed　Jane。　　Her　brows　came　down　in　a　gesture　reminiscent　of　her　father；　and　there　was　a　disagreeable　expression　about　her　mouth　and　in　her　light　brown　eyes。　　‘‘Who's　Selma　Gordon？''

‘‘She　makes　speechesand　writes　articles　against　rich　peopleandoh；　she's　horrid。''

‘‘Pretty？''

‘‘Noa　scrawny；　black　thing。　　The　mensome　of　themsay　she's　got　a　kind　of　uncanny　fascination。　　Some　even　insist　that　she's　beautiful。''　　Martha　laughed。　　‘‘Beautiful！　　How　could　a　woman　with　black　hair　and　a　dark　skin　and　no　flesh　on　her　bones　be　beautiful？''

‘‘It　has　been　known　to　happen；''　said　Jane　curtly。　　‘‘Is　she　one　of　THE　Gordons？''

‘‘Mercy；　no！''　cried　Martha　Galland。　　‘‘She　simply　took　the　name　of　Gordonthat　is；　her　father　did。　　He　was　a　Russian　peasanta　Jew。　　And　he　fell　in　love　with　a　girl　who　was　of　noble　familya　princess；　I　think。''

‘‘Princess　doesn't　mean　much　in　Russia；''　said　Jane　sourly。

‘‘Anyhow；　they　ran　away　to　this　country。　　And　he　worked　in　the　rolling　mill　hereand　they　both　died　and　Selma　became　a　factory　girland　then　took　to　writing　for　the　New　Daythat's　Victor　Dorn's　paper；　you　know。''

‘‘How　romantic；''　said　Jane　sarcastically。　　‘‘And　now　Victor　Dorn's　in　love　with　her？''

‘‘I　didn't　say　that；''　replied　Martha；　with　a　scandal…　smile。

Jane　Hastings　went　to　the　window　and　gazed　out　into　the　garden。　　Martha　resumed　her　habitual　warm　day　existencesat　rocking　gently　and　fanning　herself　and　looking　leisurely　about　the　room。　　Presently　she　said：

‘‘Jane；　why　don't　you　marry　Davy　Hull？''

No　answer。

‘‘He's　got　an　independent　incomeso　there's　no　question　of　his　marrying　for　money。　　And　there　isn't　any　family　anywhere　that's　better　than　hismighty　few　as　good。　　And　he's　DEAD　in　love　with　you；　Jen。''

With　her　back　still　turned　Jane　snapped；　‘‘I'd　rather　marry　Victor　Dorn。''

‘‘What　OUTRAGEOUS　things　you　do　say！''　cried　Martha。

‘‘I　envy　that　black　Jewessthatwhat's　her　name？　that　Selma　Gordon。''

‘‘You　don't　even　know　them；''　said　Martha。

Jane　wheeled　round　with　a　strange　laugh。　　‘‘Don't　I？''　cried　she。

‘‘I　don't　know　anyone　else。''

She　strode　to　her　sister　and　tapped　her　lightly　on　the　shoulder　with　the　riding　stick。

‘‘Be　careful；''　cautioned　Martha。　　‘‘You　know　how　easily　my　flesh　marsand　I'm　going　to　wear　my　low　neck　to…night。''

Jane　did　not　heed。　　‘‘David　Hull　is　a　boreand　a　fraud；''　she　said。　　‘‘I　tell　you　I'd　rather　marry　Victor　Dorn。''

‘‘Do　be　careful　about　my　skin；　dear；''　pleaded　Martha。　　‘‘Hugo'll　be　SO　put　out　if　there's　a　mark　on　it。　　He's　very　proud　of　my　skin。''

Jane　looked　at　her　quizzically。　　‘‘What　a　dear；　fat　old　rotter　of　a　respectability　it　is；　to　be　sure；''　said　she　and　strode　from　the　room；　and　from　the　house。

Her　mood　of　perversity　and　defiance　did　not　yield　to　a　ten　mile　gallop　over　the　gentle　hills　of　that　lovely　part　of　Indiana；　but　held　on　through　the　afternoon　and　controlled　her　toilet　for　the　ball。　　She　knew　that　every　girl　in　town　would　appear　at　that　most　fashionable　party　of　the　summer　season　in　the　best　clothing　she　could　get　together。　　As　she　had　several　dresses　from　Paris　which　she　not　without　reason　regarded　as　notable　works　of　art；　the　opportunity　to　outshine　was　hers　the　sort　of　opportunity　she　took　pleasure　in　using　to　the　uttermost；　as　a　rule。　　But　to　be　the　best　dressed　woman　at　Mrs。　Bertram's　party　was　too　easy　and　too　commonplace。　　To　be　the　worst　dressed　would　call　for　courage　of　just　the　sort　she　prided　herself　on　having。　　Also；　it　would　look　original；　would　cause　talkwould　give　her　the　coveted　sense　of　achievement。

When　she　descended　to　show　herself　to　her　father　and　say　good　night　to　him；　she　was　certainly　dressed　by　the　same　pattern　that　caused　him　to　be　talked　about　throughout　that　region。　　Her　gown　was　mussed；　had　been　mended　obviously　in　several　places；　had　not　been　in　its　best　day　becoming。　　But　this　was　not　all。　　Her　hair　looked　stringy　and　dishevelled。　　She　was　delighted　with　herself。　　Except　during　an　illness　two　years　before　never　had　she　come　so　near　to　being　downright　homely。　　‘‘Martha　will　die　of　shame；''　said　she　to　herself。　　‘‘And　Mrs。　Bertram　will　spend　the　evening　explaining　me　to　everybody。''　　She　did　not　definitely　formulate　the　thought；　‘‘And　I　shall　be　the　most　talked　about　person　of　the　evening''；　but　it　was　in　her　mind　none　the　less。

Her　father　always　smoked　his　after…dinner　cigar　in　a　little　room　just　off　the　library。　　It　was　filled　up　with　the　plain　cheap　furniture　and　the　chromos　and　mottoes　which　he　and　his　wife　had　bought　when　they　first　went　to　housekeepingin　their　early　days　of　poverty　and　struggle。　　On　the　south　wall　was　a　crude　and　cheap；　but　startlingly　large　enlargement　of　an　old　daguerreotype　of　Letitia　Hastings　at　twenty…fourthe　year　after　her　marriage　and　the　year　before　the　birth　of　the　oldest　child；　Robert；　called　Dock；　now　piling　up　a　fortune　as　an　insider　in　the　Chicago　‘‘brave''　game　of　wheat　and　pork；　which　it　is　absurd　to　call　gambling　because　gambling　involves　chance。　　To　smoke　the　one　cigar　the　doctor　allowed　him；　old　Martin　Hastings　always　seated　himself　before　this　picture。　　He　found　it　and　his　thoughts　the　best　company　in　the　world；　just　as　he　had　found　her　silent　self　and　her　thoughts　the　best　company　in　their　twenty…one　years　of　married　life。　　As　he　sat　there；　sometimes　he　thought　of　herof　what　they　had　been　through　together；　of　the　various　advances　in　his　fortunehow　this　one　had　been　made　near　such　and　such　anniversary；　and　that　one　between　two　other　anniversariesand　what　he　had　said　to　her　and　what　she　had　said　to　him。　　Againperhaps　oftenerhe　did　not　think　of　her　directly；　any　more　than　he　had　thought　of　her　when　they　sat　together　evening　after　evening；　year　in　and　year　out；　through　those　twenty…one　years　of　contented　and　prosperous　life。

As　Jane　entered　he；　seated　back　to　the　door；　said：

‘‘About　that　there　Dorn　damage　suit''

Jane　started；　caught　her　breath。　　Really；　it　was　uncanny；　this　continual　thrusting　of　Victor　Dorn　at　her。

‘‘It　wasn't　so　bad　as　it　looked；''　continued　her　father。　　He　was　speaking　in　the　quiet　voicequiet　and　old　and　sadhe　always　used　when　seated　before　the　picture。

‘‘You　see；　Jenny；　in　them　days''also；　in　presence　of　the　picture　he　lapsed　completely　into　the　dialect　of　his　youth‘‘in　them　days　the　railroad　was　teetering　and　I　couldn't　tell　which　way　things'd　jump。　　Every　cent　counted。''

‘‘I　understand　perfectly；　father；''　said　Jane；　her　hands　on　his　shoulders　from　behind。　　She　felt　immensely　relieved。　　She　did　not　realize　that　every　doer　of　a　mean　act　always　has　an　excellent　excuse　for　it。

‘‘Then　afterwards；''　the　old　man　went　on；　‘‘the　family　was　getting　along　so　wellthe　boy　was　working　steady　and　making　good　money　and　pushing　aheadand　I　was　afeared　I'd　do　harm　instead　of　good。　　It's　mighty　dangerous；　Jen；　to　give　money　sudden　to　folks　that　ain't　used　to　it。　　I've　seen　many　a　smash…up　come　that　way。　　And　your　mashe　thought　so；　tookind　of。''

The　‘‘kind　of''　was　advanced　hesitatingly；　with　an　apologetic　side　glance　at　the　big　crayon　portrait。　　But　Jane　was　entirely　convinced。　　She　was　average　human；　therefore；　she　believed　what　she　wished　to　believe。

‘‘You　were　quite　right；　father；''　said　she。　　‘‘I　knew　you　couldn't　do　a　bad　thingwouldn't　deliberately　strike　at　weak；　helpless　people。　　And　now；　it　can　be　straightened　out　and　the　Dorns　will　be　all　the　better　for　not　having　been　tempted　in　the　days　when　it　might　have　ruined　them。''

She　had　walked　round　where　her　father　could　see　her；　as　she　delivered　herself　of　this　speech　so　redolent　of　the　fumes　of　collegiate　smugness。　　He　proceeded　to　examine　herwith　an　expression　of　growing　dissatisfaction。　　Said　he　fretfully：

‘‘You　don't　calculate　to　go　out；　looking　like　that？''

‘‘Out　to　the　swellest　blow…out　of　the　year；　popsy；''　said　she。

The　big　heavy　looking　head　wobbled　about　uneasily。　　‘‘You　look　too　much　like　your　old　pappy's　daughter；''　said　he。

‘‘I　can　afford　to；''　replied　she。

The　head　shook　positively。　　‘‘You　ma　wouldn't　'a　liked　it。　　She　was　mighty　partic'lar　h