The Conflict [30]
had never travelled, his notions of rank and position all centred about Remsen City. Had he realized the extent of the world, he would have regarded his ambition for a match between the daughter and granddaughter of a farm hand and the son and grandson of a Remsen City aristocrat as small and ridiculous. But he did not realize.
Davy saw him and sprang to his feet.
``No--no--don't disturb yourselves,'' cried the old man. ``I've got some things to 'tend to. You and Jenny go right ahead.''
And he was off to his own little room where he conducted his own business in his own primitive but highly efficacious way. A corps of expert accountants could not have disentangled those crabbed, criss-crossed figures; no solver of puzzles could have unravelled the mystery of those strange hieroglyphics. But to the old man there wasn't a difficult--or a dull--mark in that entire set of dirty, dog-eared little account books. He spent hours in poring over them. Just to turn the pages gave him keen pleasure; to read, and to reconstruct from those hints the whole story of some agitating and profitable operation, made in comparison the delight of an imaginative boy in Monte Cristo or Crusoe seem a cold and tame emotion.
David talked on and on, fancying that Jane was listening and admiring, when in fact she was busy with her own entirely different train of thought. She kept the young man going because she did not wish to be bored with her own solitude, because a man about always made life at least a little more interesting than if she were alone or with a woman, and because Davy was good to look at and had an agreeable voice.
``Why, who's that?'' she suddenly exclaimed, gazing off to the right.
Davy turned and looked. ``I don't know her,'' he said. ``Isn't she queer looking--yet I don't know just why.''
``It's Selma Gordon,'' said Jane, who had recognized Selma the instant her eyes caught a figure moving across the lawn.
``The girl that helps Victor Dorn?'' said Davy, astonished. ``What's SHE coming HERE for? You don't know her--do you?''
``Don't you?'' evaded Jane. ``I thought you and Mr. Dorn were such pals.''
``Pals?'' laughed Hull. ``Hardly that. We meet now and then at a workingman's club I'm interested in--and at a cafe' where I go to get in touch with the people occasionally--and in the street. But I never go to his office. I couldn't afford to do that. And I've never seen Miss Gordon.''
``Well, she's worth seeing,'' said Jane. ``You'll never see another like her.''
They rose and watched her advancing. To the usual person, acutely conscious of self, walking is not easy in such circumstances. But Selma, who never bothered about herself, came on with that matchless steady grace which peasant girls often get through carrying burdens on the head. Jane called out:
``So, you've come, after all.''
Selma smiled gravely. Not until she was within a few feet of the steps did she answer: ``Yes--but on business.'' She was wearing the same linen dress. On her head was a sailor hat, beneath the brim of which her amazingly thick hair stood out in a kind of defiance. This hat, this further article of Western civilization's dress, added to the suggestion of the absurdity of such a person in such clothing. But in her strange Cossack way she certainly was beautiful--and as healthy and hardy as if she had never before been away from the high, wind-swept plateaus where disease is unknown and where nothing is thought of living to be a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five. Both before and after the introduction Davy Hull gazed at her with fascinated curiosity too plainly written upon his long, sallow, serious face. She, intent upon her mission, ignored him as the arrow ignores the other birds of the flock in its flight to the one at which it is aimed.
``You'll give me a minute or two alone?'' she said to Jane. ``We can walk on the lawn here.''
Hull caught up his hat. ``I was just going,'' said he. Then he hesitated, looked at Selma, stammered: ``I'll go to the edge of the lawn and
Davy saw him and sprang to his feet.
``No--no--don't disturb yourselves,'' cried the old man. ``I've got some things to 'tend to. You and Jenny go right ahead.''
And he was off to his own little room where he conducted his own business in his own primitive but highly efficacious way. A corps of expert accountants could not have disentangled those crabbed, criss-crossed figures; no solver of puzzles could have unravelled the mystery of those strange hieroglyphics. But to the old man there wasn't a difficult--or a dull--mark in that entire set of dirty, dog-eared little account books. He spent hours in poring over them. Just to turn the pages gave him keen pleasure; to read, and to reconstruct from those hints the whole story of some agitating and profitable operation, made in comparison the delight of an imaginative boy in Monte Cristo or Crusoe seem a cold and tame emotion.
David talked on and on, fancying that Jane was listening and admiring, when in fact she was busy with her own entirely different train of thought. She kept the young man going because she did not wish to be bored with her own solitude, because a man about always made life at least a little more interesting than if she were alone or with a woman, and because Davy was good to look at and had an agreeable voice.
``Why, who's that?'' she suddenly exclaimed, gazing off to the right.
Davy turned and looked. ``I don't know her,'' he said. ``Isn't she queer looking--yet I don't know just why.''
``It's Selma Gordon,'' said Jane, who had recognized Selma the instant her eyes caught a figure moving across the lawn.
``The girl that helps Victor Dorn?'' said Davy, astonished. ``What's SHE coming HERE for? You don't know her--do you?''
``Don't you?'' evaded Jane. ``I thought you and Mr. Dorn were such pals.''
``Pals?'' laughed Hull. ``Hardly that. We meet now and then at a workingman's club I'm interested in--and at a cafe' where I go to get in touch with the people occasionally--and in the street. But I never go to his office. I couldn't afford to do that. And I've never seen Miss Gordon.''
``Well, she's worth seeing,'' said Jane. ``You'll never see another like her.''
They rose and watched her advancing. To the usual person, acutely conscious of self, walking is not easy in such circumstances. But Selma, who never bothered about herself, came on with that matchless steady grace which peasant girls often get through carrying burdens on the head. Jane called out:
``So, you've come, after all.''
Selma smiled gravely. Not until she was within a few feet of the steps did she answer: ``Yes--but on business.'' She was wearing the same linen dress. On her head was a sailor hat, beneath the brim of which her amazingly thick hair stood out in a kind of defiance. This hat, this further article of Western civilization's dress, added to the suggestion of the absurdity of such a person in such clothing. But in her strange Cossack way she certainly was beautiful--and as healthy and hardy as if she had never before been away from the high, wind-swept plateaus where disease is unknown and where nothing is thought of living to be a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five. Both before and after the introduction Davy Hull gazed at her with fascinated curiosity too plainly written upon his long, sallow, serious face. She, intent upon her mission, ignored him as the arrow ignores the other birds of the flock in its flight to the one at which it is aimed.
``You'll give me a minute or two alone?'' she said to Jane. ``We can walk on the lawn here.''
Hull caught up his hat. ``I was just going,'' said he. Then he hesitated, looked at Selma, stammered: ``I'll go to the edge of the lawn and