The Conflict [84]
Hull,'' said Selma.
``You could help him--could make a great deal of a person out of him.''
``I know it,'' replied Jane. ``But I don't want him, and he--perhaps you didn't know that he is in love with you?''
``No more than you are with Victor Dorn,'' said Selma. ``I'm different from the women he has known, just as Victor is different from the men you meet in your class. But this is a waste of time.''
``You don't believe in me at all,'' cried Jane. ``In some ways you are very unjust and narrow, Selma.''
Selma looked at her in that grave way which seemed to compel frankness. ``Do YOU believe in yourself?'' she asked.
Jane's glance shifted.
``You know you do not,'' proceeded Selma. ``The women of your class rarely have sincere emotions because they do not lead sincere lives. Part of your imaginary love for Victor Dorn is desire to fill up idle hours. The rest of it is vanity--the desire to show your power over a man who seems to be woman-proof.'' She laughed a little, turned away, paused. ``My mother used to quote a French proverb--`One cannot trifle with love.' Be careful, Jane--for your own sake. I don't know whether you could conquer Victor Dorn or not. But I do know IF you could conquer him it would be only at the usual price of those conquests to a woman.''
``And what is that?'' said Jane.
``Your own complete surrender,'' said Selma.
``How wise you are!'' laughed Jane. ``Who would have suspected you of knowing so much!''
``How could I--a woman--and not unattractive to men--grow up to be twenty-one years old, in the free life of a working woman, without learning all there is to know about sex relations?''
Jane looked at her with a new interest.
``And,'' she went on, ``I've learned--not by experience, I'm glad to say, but by observation--that my mother's proverb is true. I shall not think about love until I am compelled to. That is a peril a sensible person does not seek.''
``I did not seek it,'' cried Jane--and then she halted and flushed.
``Good-by, Jane,'' said Selma, waving her hand and moving away rapidly. She called back--``On ne badine pas avec l'amour!''
She went straight to Colman's cottage--to Victor, lying very pale with his eyes shut, and big Tom Colman sitting by his bed. There was a stillness in the room that Selma felt was ominous. Victor's hand--strong, well-shaped, useful-looking, used-looking--not ABUSED- looking, but USED-looking-was outside the covers upon the white counterpane. The fingers were drumming softly; Selma knew that gesture--a certain sign that Victor was troubled in mind.
``You've told him,'' said Selma to Colman as she paused in the doorway.
Victor turned his head quickly, opened his eyes, gave her a look of welcome that made her thrill with pride. ``Oh--there you are!'' he exclaimed. ``I was hoping you'd come.''
``I saw David Hull just after it was done,'' said Selma. ``And I thanked him for you.''
Victor's eyes had a look of amusement, of mockery. ``Thank you,'' he said.
She, the sensitive, was on the alert at once. ``Didn't you want me to thank him?''
Victor did not answer. In the same amused way he went on: ``So they carried him on their shoulders --him and that other defender of the rights of the people, Hugo Galland? I should like to have seen. It was a memorable spectacle.''
``You are laughing at it,'' exclaimed the girl. ``Why?''
``You certainly are taking the news very queer, Victor,'' said Colman. Then to Selma, ``When I told him he got white and I thought I'd have to send for Doctor Charlton.''
``Well--joy never kills,'' said Victor mockingly. ``I don't want to keep you, Tom--Selma'll sit with me.''
When they were alone, Victor again closed his eyes and resumed that silent drumming upon the counterpane. Selma watched the restless fingers as if she hoped they would disclose to her the puzzling secret of Victor's thoughts. But she did not interrupt.
That was one lesson in restraint that Victor had succeeded in teaching her--never to interrupt. At last he heaved a great
``You could help him--could make a great deal of a person out of him.''
``I know it,'' replied Jane. ``But I don't want him, and he--perhaps you didn't know that he is in love with you?''
``No more than you are with Victor Dorn,'' said Selma. ``I'm different from the women he has known, just as Victor is different from the men you meet in your class. But this is a waste of time.''
``You don't believe in me at all,'' cried Jane. ``In some ways you are very unjust and narrow, Selma.''
Selma looked at her in that grave way which seemed to compel frankness. ``Do YOU believe in yourself?'' she asked.
Jane's glance shifted.
``You know you do not,'' proceeded Selma. ``The women of your class rarely have sincere emotions because they do not lead sincere lives. Part of your imaginary love for Victor Dorn is desire to fill up idle hours. The rest of it is vanity--the desire to show your power over a man who seems to be woman-proof.'' She laughed a little, turned away, paused. ``My mother used to quote a French proverb--`One cannot trifle with love.' Be careful, Jane--for your own sake. I don't know whether you could conquer Victor Dorn or not. But I do know IF you could conquer him it would be only at the usual price of those conquests to a woman.''
``And what is that?'' said Jane.
``Your own complete surrender,'' said Selma.
``How wise you are!'' laughed Jane. ``Who would have suspected you of knowing so much!''
``How could I--a woman--and not unattractive to men--grow up to be twenty-one years old, in the free life of a working woman, without learning all there is to know about sex relations?''
Jane looked at her with a new interest.
``And,'' she went on, ``I've learned--not by experience, I'm glad to say, but by observation--that my mother's proverb is true. I shall not think about love until I am compelled to. That is a peril a sensible person does not seek.''
``I did not seek it,'' cried Jane--and then she halted and flushed.
``Good-by, Jane,'' said Selma, waving her hand and moving away rapidly. She called back--``On ne badine pas avec l'amour!''
She went straight to Colman's cottage--to Victor, lying very pale with his eyes shut, and big Tom Colman sitting by his bed. There was a stillness in the room that Selma felt was ominous. Victor's hand--strong, well-shaped, useful-looking, used-looking--not ABUSED- looking, but USED-looking-was outside the covers upon the white counterpane. The fingers were drumming softly; Selma knew that gesture--a certain sign that Victor was troubled in mind.
``You've told him,'' said Selma to Colman as she paused in the doorway.
Victor turned his head quickly, opened his eyes, gave her a look of welcome that made her thrill with pride. ``Oh--there you are!'' he exclaimed. ``I was hoping you'd come.''
``I saw David Hull just after it was done,'' said Selma. ``And I thanked him for you.''
Victor's eyes had a look of amusement, of mockery. ``Thank you,'' he said.
She, the sensitive, was on the alert at once. ``Didn't you want me to thank him?''
Victor did not answer. In the same amused way he went on: ``So they carried him on their shoulders --him and that other defender of the rights of the people, Hugo Galland? I should like to have seen. It was a memorable spectacle.''
``You are laughing at it,'' exclaimed the girl. ``Why?''
``You certainly are taking the news very queer, Victor,'' said Colman. Then to Selma, ``When I told him he got white and I thought I'd have to send for Doctor Charlton.''
``Well--joy never kills,'' said Victor mockingly. ``I don't want to keep you, Tom--Selma'll sit with me.''
When they were alone, Victor again closed his eyes and resumed that silent drumming upon the counterpane. Selma watched the restless fingers as if she hoped they would disclose to her the puzzling secret of Victor's thoughts. But she did not interrupt.
That was one lesson in restraint that Victor had succeeded in teaching her--never to interrupt. At last he heaved a great