The Conflict [38]
one who comes here. His digestion's bad, and the least thing makes him ill, and--'' she smiled charmingly at him-- ``I HATE nursing. It's too much like work to suit an upper-class person.''
There was no resisting such an appeal as that. Victor sat silent and ate, and let the old man talk on and on. Jane saw that it was a severe trial to him to seem to be assenting to her father's views. Whenever he showed signs of casting off his restraint, she gave him a pleading glance. And the old man, so weazened, so bent and shaky, with his bowl of crackers and milk, was--or seemed to be--proof that the girl was asking of him only what was humane. Jane relieved the situation by talking volubly about herself--her college experiences, what she had seen and done in Europe.
After dinner Hastings said:
``I'll drive you back to town, young man. I'm going in to work, as usual. I never took a vacation in my life. Can you beat that record?''
``Oh, I knock off every once in a while for a month or so,'' said Dorn.
``The young fellows growing up nowadays ain't equal to us of the old stock,'' said Martin. ``They can't stand the strain. Well, if you're ready, we'll pull out.''
``Mr. Dorn's going to stop a while with me, father,'' interposed Jane with a significant glance at Victor. ``I want to show him the grounds and the views.''
``All right--all right,'' said her father. He never liked company in his drives; company interfered with his thinking out what he was going to do at the office. ``I'm mighty glad to know you, young man. I hope we'll know each other better. I think you'll find out that for a devil I'm not half bad--eh?''
Victor bowed, murmured something inarticulate, shook his host's hand, and when the ceremony of parting was over drew a stealthy breath of relief--which Jane observed. She excused herself to accompany her father to his trap. As he was climbing in she said:
``Didn't you rather like him, father?''
Old Hastings gathered the reins in his lean, distorted hands. ``So so,'' said he.
``He's got brains, hasn't he?''
``Yes; he's smart; mighty smart.'' The old man's face relaxed in a shrewd grin. ``Too damn smart. Giddap, Bet.''
And he was gone. Jane stood looking after the ancient phaeton with an expression half of amusement, half of discomfiture. ``I might have known,'' reflected she, ``that popsy would see through it all.''
When she reappeared in the front doorway Victor Dorn was at the edge of the veranda, ready to depart. As soon as he saw her he said gravely: ``I must be off, Miss Hastings. Thank you for the very interesting dinner.'' He extended his hand. ``Good day.''
She put her hands behind her back, and stood smiling gently at him. ``You mustn't go--not just yet. I'm about to show you the trees and the grass, the bees, the chickens and the cows. Also, I've something important to say to you.''
He shook his head. ``I'm sorry, but I must go.''
She stiffened slightly; her smile changed from friendly to cold. ``Oh--pardon me,'' she said. ``Good-by.''
He bowed, and was on the walk, and running rapidly toward the entrance gates.
``Mr. Dorn!'' she called.
He turned.
She was afraid to risk asking him to come back for a moment. He might refuse. Standing there, looking so resolute, so completely master of himself, so devoid of all suggestion of need for any one or anything, he seemed just the man to turn on his heel and depart. She descended to the walk and went to him. She said:
``Why are you acting so peculiarly? Why did you come?''
``Because I understood that your father wished to propose some changes in the way of better hours and better wages for the men,'' replied he. ``I find that the purpose was--not that.''
``What was it?''
``I do not care to go into that.''
He was about to go on--on out of her life forever, she felt. ``Wait,'' she cried. ``The men will get better hours and wages. You don't understand father's ways. He was really discussing that very thing--in his own mind. You'll see. He has a great
There was no resisting such an appeal as that. Victor sat silent and ate, and let the old man talk on and on. Jane saw that it was a severe trial to him to seem to be assenting to her father's views. Whenever he showed signs of casting off his restraint, she gave him a pleading glance. And the old man, so weazened, so bent and shaky, with his bowl of crackers and milk, was--or seemed to be--proof that the girl was asking of him only what was humane. Jane relieved the situation by talking volubly about herself--her college experiences, what she had seen and done in Europe.
After dinner Hastings said:
``I'll drive you back to town, young man. I'm going in to work, as usual. I never took a vacation in my life. Can you beat that record?''
``Oh, I knock off every once in a while for a month or so,'' said Dorn.
``The young fellows growing up nowadays ain't equal to us of the old stock,'' said Martin. ``They can't stand the strain. Well, if you're ready, we'll pull out.''
``Mr. Dorn's going to stop a while with me, father,'' interposed Jane with a significant glance at Victor. ``I want to show him the grounds and the views.''
``All right--all right,'' said her father. He never liked company in his drives; company interfered with his thinking out what he was going to do at the office. ``I'm mighty glad to know you, young man. I hope we'll know each other better. I think you'll find out that for a devil I'm not half bad--eh?''
Victor bowed, murmured something inarticulate, shook his host's hand, and when the ceremony of parting was over drew a stealthy breath of relief--which Jane observed. She excused herself to accompany her father to his trap. As he was climbing in she said:
``Didn't you rather like him, father?''
Old Hastings gathered the reins in his lean, distorted hands. ``So so,'' said he.
``He's got brains, hasn't he?''
``Yes; he's smart; mighty smart.'' The old man's face relaxed in a shrewd grin. ``Too damn smart. Giddap, Bet.''
And he was gone. Jane stood looking after the ancient phaeton with an expression half of amusement, half of discomfiture. ``I might have known,'' reflected she, ``that popsy would see through it all.''
When she reappeared in the front doorway Victor Dorn was at the edge of the veranda, ready to depart. As soon as he saw her he said gravely: ``I must be off, Miss Hastings. Thank you for the very interesting dinner.'' He extended his hand. ``Good day.''
She put her hands behind her back, and stood smiling gently at him. ``You mustn't go--not just yet. I'm about to show you the trees and the grass, the bees, the chickens and the cows. Also, I've something important to say to you.''
He shook his head. ``I'm sorry, but I must go.''
She stiffened slightly; her smile changed from friendly to cold. ``Oh--pardon me,'' she said. ``Good-by.''
He bowed, and was on the walk, and running rapidly toward the entrance gates.
``Mr. Dorn!'' she called.
He turned.
She was afraid to risk asking him to come back for a moment. He might refuse. Standing there, looking so resolute, so completely master of himself, so devoid of all suggestion of need for any one or anything, he seemed just the man to turn on his heel and depart. She descended to the walk and went to him. She said:
``Why are you acting so peculiarly? Why did you come?''
``Because I understood that your father wished to propose some changes in the way of better hours and better wages for the men,'' replied he. ``I find that the purpose was--not that.''
``What was it?''
``I do not care to go into that.''
He was about to go on--on out of her life forever, she felt. ``Wait,'' she cried. ``The men will get better hours and wages. You don't understand father's ways. He was really discussing that very thing--in his own mind. You'll see. He has a great