The Conflict [75]
why you let me in to-day--because you wanted to get that promise from me.''
``That was one of the reasons,'' confessed he. ``In fact, it was the chief reason.'' He smiled at her. ``There's nothing I'm so afraid of as of enthusiasm. I'm going to be still more cautious and exact another promise from you. You must not tell any one that you have promised not to interfere.''
``I can easily promise that,'' said Jane.
``Be careful,'' warned Victor. ``A promise easily made is a promise easily forgotten.''
``I begin to understand,'' said Jane. ``You want them to attack you as savagely as possible. And you don't want them to get the slightest hint of your plan.''
``A good guess,'' admitted Victor. He looked at her gravely. ``Circumstances have let you farther into my confidence than any one else is. I hope you will not abuse it.''
``You can rely upon me,'' said Jane. ``I want your friendship and your respect as I never wanted anything in my life before. I'm not afraid to say these things to you, for I know I'll not be misunderstood.''
Victor's smile thrilled her again. ``You were born one of us,'' he said. ``I felt it the first time we talked together.''
``Yes. I do want to be somebody,'' replied the girl. ``I can't content myself in a life of silly routine . . . can't do things that have no purpose, no result. And if it wasn't for my father I'd come out openly for the things I believe in. But I've got to think of him. It may be a weakness, but I couldn't overcome it. As long as my father lives I'll do nothing that would grieve him.
Do you despise me for that?''
``I don't despise anybody for anything,'' said Victor. ``In your place I should put my father first.'' He laughed. ``In your place I'd probably be a Davy Hull or worse. I try never to forget that I owe everything to the circumstances in which I was born and brought up. I've simply got the ideas of my class, and it's an accident that I am of the class to which the future belongs--the working class that will possess the earth as soon as it has intelligence enough to enter into its kingdom.''
``But,'' pursued Jane, returning to herself, ``I don't intend to be altogether useless. I can do something and he--my father, I mean--needn't know. Do you think that is dreadful?''
``I don't like it,'' said Victor. But he said it in such a way that she did not feel rebuked or even judged.
``Nor do I,'' said she. ``I'd rather lead the life I wish to lead--say the things I believe--do the things I believe in--all openly. But I can't. And all I can do is to spend the income of my money my mother left me-- spend it as I please.'' With a quick embarrassed gesture she took an envelope from a small bag in which she was carrying it. ``There's some of it,'' she said. ``I want to give that to your campaign fund. You are free to use it in any way you please--any way, for everything you are and do is your cause.''
Victor was lying motionless, his eyes closed.
``Don't refuse,'' she begged. ``You've no right to refuse.''
A long silence, she watching him uneasily. At last he said, ``No--I've no right to refuse. If I did, it would be from a personal motive. You understand that when you give the League this money you are doing what your father would regard as an act of personal treachery to him?''
``You don't think so, do you?'' cried she.
``Yes, I do,'' said he deliberately.
Her face became deathly pale, then crimson. She thrust the envelope into the bag, closed it hastily. ``Then I can't give it,'' she murmured. ``Oh--but you are hard!''
``If you broke with your father and came with us-- and it killed him, as it probably would,'' Victor Dorn went on, ``I should respect you--should regard you as a wonderful, terrible woman. I should envy you having a heart strong enough to do a thing so supremely right and so supremely relentless. And I should be glad you were not of my blood--should think you hardly human. Yet that is what you ought to do.''
``I am not up to it,'' said Jane.
``Then you mustn't
``That was one of the reasons,'' confessed he. ``In fact, it was the chief reason.'' He smiled at her. ``There's nothing I'm so afraid of as of enthusiasm. I'm going to be still more cautious and exact another promise from you. You must not tell any one that you have promised not to interfere.''
``I can easily promise that,'' said Jane.
``Be careful,'' warned Victor. ``A promise easily made is a promise easily forgotten.''
``I begin to understand,'' said Jane. ``You want them to attack you as savagely as possible. And you don't want them to get the slightest hint of your plan.''
``A good guess,'' admitted Victor. He looked at her gravely. ``Circumstances have let you farther into my confidence than any one else is. I hope you will not abuse it.''
``You can rely upon me,'' said Jane. ``I want your friendship and your respect as I never wanted anything in my life before. I'm not afraid to say these things to you, for I know I'll not be misunderstood.''
Victor's smile thrilled her again. ``You were born one of us,'' he said. ``I felt it the first time we talked together.''
``Yes. I do want to be somebody,'' replied the girl. ``I can't content myself in a life of silly routine . . . can't do things that have no purpose, no result. And if it wasn't for my father I'd come out openly for the things I believe in. But I've got to think of him. It may be a weakness, but I couldn't overcome it. As long as my father lives I'll do nothing that would grieve him.
Do you despise me for that?''
``I don't despise anybody for anything,'' said Victor. ``In your place I should put my father first.'' He laughed. ``In your place I'd probably be a Davy Hull or worse. I try never to forget that I owe everything to the circumstances in which I was born and brought up. I've simply got the ideas of my class, and it's an accident that I am of the class to which the future belongs--the working class that will possess the earth as soon as it has intelligence enough to enter into its kingdom.''
``But,'' pursued Jane, returning to herself, ``I don't intend to be altogether useless. I can do something and he--my father, I mean--needn't know. Do you think that is dreadful?''
``I don't like it,'' said Victor. But he said it in such a way that she did not feel rebuked or even judged.
``Nor do I,'' said she. ``I'd rather lead the life I wish to lead--say the things I believe--do the things I believe in--all openly. But I can't. And all I can do is to spend the income of my money my mother left me-- spend it as I please.'' With a quick embarrassed gesture she took an envelope from a small bag in which she was carrying it. ``There's some of it,'' she said. ``I want to give that to your campaign fund. You are free to use it in any way you please--any way, for everything you are and do is your cause.''
Victor was lying motionless, his eyes closed.
``Don't refuse,'' she begged. ``You've no right to refuse.''
A long silence, she watching him uneasily. At last he said, ``No--I've no right to refuse. If I did, it would be from a personal motive. You understand that when you give the League this money you are doing what your father would regard as an act of personal treachery to him?''
``You don't think so, do you?'' cried she.
``Yes, I do,'' said he deliberately.
Her face became deathly pale, then crimson. She thrust the envelope into the bag, closed it hastily. ``Then I can't give it,'' she murmured. ``Oh--but you are hard!''
``If you broke with your father and came with us-- and it killed him, as it probably would,'' Victor Dorn went on, ``I should respect you--should regard you as a wonderful, terrible woman. I should envy you having a heart strong enough to do a thing so supremely right and so supremely relentless. And I should be glad you were not of my blood--should think you hardly human. Yet that is what you ought to do.''
``I am not up to it,'' said Jane.
``Then you mustn't