The Conflict [82]
Jane opened the door of the limousine, descended, said to her chauffeur: ``Follow us, please.'' She advanced to Selma with a timid and deprecating smile. ``You'll let me walk with you?'' she said.
``I am thinking out a very important matter,'' replied Selma, with frank hostility. ``I prefer not to be interrupted.''
``Selma!'' pleaded Jane. ``What have I done to turn you against me?''
Selma stood, silent, incarnation of freedom and will. She looked steadily at Jane. ``You haven't done anything,'' she replied. ``On impulse I liked you. On sober second thought I don't. That's all.''
``You gave me your friendship,'' said Jane. ``You've no right to withdraw it without telling me why.''
``You are not of my class. You are of the class that is at war with mine--at war upon it. When you talk of friendship to me, you are either false to your own people or false in your professions to me.''
Selma's manner was rudely offensive--as rude as Jane's dust, to which it was perhaps a retort. Jane showed marvelous restraint. She told herself that she felt compassionate toward this attractive, honest, really nice girl. It is possible, however, that an instinct of prudence may have had something to do with her ultra- conciliatory attitude toward the dusty little woman in the cheap linen dress. The enmity of one so near to Victor Dorn was certainly not an advantage. Instead of flaring up, Jane said:
``Now, Selma--do be human--do be your sweet, natural self. It isn't my fault that I am what I am. And you know that I really belong heart and soul with you.''
``Then come with us,'' said Selma. ``If you think the life you lead is foolish--why, stop leading it.''
``You know I can't,'' said Jane mournfully.
``I know you could,'' retorted Selma. ``Don't be a hypocrite, Jane.''
``Selma--how harsh you are!'' cried Jane.
``Either come with us or keep away from us,'' said the girl inflexibly. ``You may deceive yourself--and men--with that talk of broad views and high aspirations. But you can't deceive another woman.''
``I'm not trying to deceive anybody,'' exclaimed Jane angrily. ``Permit me to say, Selma, that your methods won't make many converts to your cause.''
``Who ever gave you the idea that we were seeking converts in your class?'' inquired Selma. ``Our whole object is to abolish your class--and end its drain upon us--and its bad example--and make its members useful members of our class, and more contented and happier than they are now.'' She laughed--a free and merry laugh, but not pleasant in Jane's ears. ``The idea of US trying to induce young ladies and young gentlemen with polished finger nails to sit round in drawing-rooms talking patronizingly of doing something for the masses! You've got a very queer notion of us, my dear Miss Hastings.''
Jane's eyes were flashing. ``Selma, there's a devil in you to-day. What is it?'' she demanded.
``There's a great deal of dust from your automobile in me and on me,'' said Selma. ``I congratulate you on your good manners in rushing about spattering and befouling your fellow beings and threatening their lives.''
Jane colored and lowered her head. ``I--I never thought of that before,'' she said humbly.
Selma's anger suddenly dissolved. ``I'm ashamed of myself,'' she cried. ``Forgive me.''
What she had said about the automobile had made an instant deep impression upon Jane, who was honestly trying to live up to her aspirations--when she wasn't giving up the effort as hopelessly beyond her powers and trying to content herself with just aspiring. She was not hypocritical in her contrition. The dust disfiguring the foliage, streaking Selma's face and hair, was forcing the lesson in manners vigorously home. ``I'm much obliged to you for teaching me what I ought to have learned for myself,'' she said. ``I don't blame you for scorning me. I am a pretty poor excuse. But''--with her most charming smile-- ``I'll do better--all the faster if you'll help me.''
Selma looked at her with a frank, dismayed contrition, like