The Conflict [121]
I was in earnest, he would act very differently. Very shrewd of him!''
Did she believe this? Certainly not. But she convinced herself that she believed it, and so saved her pride. From this point she proceeded by easy stages to doubting whether, if Victor had taken her at her word, she would have married him. And soon she had convinced herself that she had gone so far only through her passion for conquest, that at the first sign of his yielding her good sense would have asserted itself and she could have retreated.
``He knew me better than I knew myself,'' said she-- not so thoroughly convinced as her pride would have liked, but far better content with herself than in those unhappy hours of humiliation after her last talk with him.
From the beginning of her infatuation there had been only a few days, hardly more than a few hours, when the voice of prudence and good sense had been silenced. Yes, he was right; they were not suited to each other, and a marriage between them would have been absurd. He did belong to a different, to a lower class, and he could never have understood her. Refinement, taste, the things of the life of luxury and leisure were incomprehensible to him. It might be unjust that the many had to toil in squalor and sordidness while the few were privileged to cultivate and to enjoy the graces and the beauties; but, unjust or in some mysterious way just, there was the fact. Her life was marked out for her; she was of the elect. She would do well to accept her good fortune and live as the gods had ordained for her.
If Victor had been different in that one respect! . . . The infatuation, too, was a fact. The wise course was flight--and she fled.
That winter, in Chicago and in New York, Jane amused herself--in the ways devised by latter day impatience with the folly of wasting a precious part of the one brief life in useless grief or pretense of grief. In Remsen City she would have had to be very quiet indeed, under penalty of horrifying public sentiment. But Chicago and New York knew nothing of her grief, cared nothing about grief of any kind. People in deep mourning were found in the theaters, in the gay restaurants, wherever any enjoyment was to be had; and very sensible it was of them, and proof of the sincerity of their sorrow--for sincere sorrow seeks consolation lest it go mad and commit suicide--does it not?
Jane, young, beautiful, rich, clever, had a very good time indeed--so good that in the spring, instead of going back to Remsen City to rest, she went abroad. More enjoyment--or, at least, more of the things that fill in the time and spare one the necessity of thinking.
In August she suddenly left her friends at St. Moritz and journeyed back to Remsen City as fast as train and boat and train could take her. And on the front veranda of the old house she sat herself down and looked out over the familiar landscape and listened to the katydids lulling the woods and the fields, and was bored and wondered why she had come.
In a reckless mood she went down to see Victor Dorn. ``I am cured,'' she said to herself. ``I must be cured. I simply can't be small and silly enough to care for a country town labor agitator after all I've been through --after the attentions I've had and the men of the world I've met. I'm cured, and I must prove it to myself .''
In the side yard Alice Sherrill and her children and several neighbor girls were putting up pears and peaches, blackberries and plums. The air was heavy with delicious odors of ripe and perfect fruit, and the laughter, the bright healthy faces, the strong graceful bodies in all manner of poses at the work required made a scene that brought tears to Jane's eyes. Why tears she could not have explained, but there they were. At far end of the arbor, looking exactly as he had in the same place the year before, sat Victor Dorn, writing. He glanced up, saw her! Into his face came a look of welcome that warmed her chilled heart.
``Hel-LO!'' he cried, starting up. ``I AM glad to see you.''
``I'm mighty glad
Did she believe this? Certainly not. But she convinced herself that she believed it, and so saved her pride. From this point she proceeded by easy stages to doubting whether, if Victor had taken her at her word, she would have married him. And soon she had convinced herself that she had gone so far only through her passion for conquest, that at the first sign of his yielding her good sense would have asserted itself and she could have retreated.
``He knew me better than I knew myself,'' said she-- not so thoroughly convinced as her pride would have liked, but far better content with herself than in those unhappy hours of humiliation after her last talk with him.
From the beginning of her infatuation there had been only a few days, hardly more than a few hours, when the voice of prudence and good sense had been silenced. Yes, he was right; they were not suited to each other, and a marriage between them would have been absurd. He did belong to a different, to a lower class, and he could never have understood her. Refinement, taste, the things of the life of luxury and leisure were incomprehensible to him. It might be unjust that the many had to toil in squalor and sordidness while the few were privileged to cultivate and to enjoy the graces and the beauties; but, unjust or in some mysterious way just, there was the fact. Her life was marked out for her; she was of the elect. She would do well to accept her good fortune and live as the gods had ordained for her.
If Victor had been different in that one respect! . . . The infatuation, too, was a fact. The wise course was flight--and she fled.
That winter, in Chicago and in New York, Jane amused herself--in the ways devised by latter day impatience with the folly of wasting a precious part of the one brief life in useless grief or pretense of grief. In Remsen City she would have had to be very quiet indeed, under penalty of horrifying public sentiment. But Chicago and New York knew nothing of her grief, cared nothing about grief of any kind. People in deep mourning were found in the theaters, in the gay restaurants, wherever any enjoyment was to be had; and very sensible it was of them, and proof of the sincerity of their sorrow--for sincere sorrow seeks consolation lest it go mad and commit suicide--does it not?
Jane, young, beautiful, rich, clever, had a very good time indeed--so good that in the spring, instead of going back to Remsen City to rest, she went abroad. More enjoyment--or, at least, more of the things that fill in the time and spare one the necessity of thinking.
In August she suddenly left her friends at St. Moritz and journeyed back to Remsen City as fast as train and boat and train could take her. And on the front veranda of the old house she sat herself down and looked out over the familiar landscape and listened to the katydids lulling the woods and the fields, and was bored and wondered why she had come.
In a reckless mood she went down to see Victor Dorn. ``I am cured,'' she said to herself. ``I must be cured. I simply can't be small and silly enough to care for a country town labor agitator after all I've been through --after the attentions I've had and the men of the world I've met. I'm cured, and I must prove it to myself .''
In the side yard Alice Sherrill and her children and several neighbor girls were putting up pears and peaches, blackberries and plums. The air was heavy with delicious odors of ripe and perfect fruit, and the laughter, the bright healthy faces, the strong graceful bodies in all manner of poses at the work required made a scene that brought tears to Jane's eyes. Why tears she could not have explained, but there they were. At far end of the arbor, looking exactly as he had in the same place the year before, sat Victor Dorn, writing. He glanced up, saw her! Into his face came a look of welcome that warmed her chilled heart.
``Hel-LO!'' he cried, starting up. ``I AM glad to see you.''
``I'm mighty glad