Yet--Martha Galland had every comfort and most of the luxuries, was as sheltered from all the hardships as a hot-house flower.
Then there was Hugo--to go no further afield than the family.
Had he ever done an honest hour's work in his life? Could anyone have less brains than he? Yet Hugo was rich and respected, was a director in big corporations, was a member of a first-class law firm.``It isn't fair,'' thought the girl.``I've always felt it.I see now why.It's a bad system of taking from the many for the benefit of us few.And it's kept going by a few clever, strong men like father.They work for themselves and their families and relatives and for their class--and the rest of the people have to suffer.''
She did not fall asleep for several hours, such was the tumult in her aroused brain.The first thing the next morning she went down town, bought copies of the New Day--for that week and for a few preceding weeks--and retreated to her favorite nook in her father's grounds to read and to think--and to plan.She searched the New Day in vain for any of the wild, wandering things Davy and her father had told her Victor Dorn was putting forth.The four pages of each number were given over either to philosophical articles no more ``anarchistic'' than Emerson's essays, not so much so as Carlyle's, or to plain accounts of the current stealing by the politicians of Remsen City, of the squalor and disease--danger in the tenements, of the outrages by the gas and water and street car companies.There was much that was terrible, much that was sad, much that was calculated to make an honest heart burn with indignation against those who were cheerily sacrificing the whole community to their desire for profits and dividends and graft, public and private.But there was also a great deal of humor--of rather a sardonic kind, but still seeing the fantastic side of this grand game of swindle.
Two paragraphs made an especial impression on her:
``Remsen City is no worse--and no better--than other American cities.It's typical.But we who live here needn't worry about the rest of the country.The thing for us to do is to CLEAN UPAT HOME.''
``We are more careful than any paper in this town about verifying every statement we make, before we make it.If we should publish a single statement about anyone that was false even in part we would be suppressed.The judges, the bosses, the owners of the big blood-sucking public service corporations, the whole ruling class, are eager to put us out of existence.Don't forget this fact when you hear the New Day called a lying, demagogical sheet.''
With the paper beside her on the rustic bench, she fell to dreaming--not of a brighter and better world, of a wiser and freer race, but of Victor Dorn, the personality that had unaided become such a power in Remsen City, the personality that sparkled and glowed in the interesting pages of the New Day, that made its sentences read as if they were spoken into your very ears by an earnest, honest voice issuing from a fascinating, humor-loving, intensely human and natural person before your very eyes.But it was not round Victor Dorn's brain that her imagination played.
``After all,'' thought she, ``Napoleon wasn't much over five feet.Most of the big men have been little men.Of course, there were Alexander--and Washington-- and Lincoln, but--how silly to bother about a few inches of height, more or less! And he wasn't really SHORT.Let me see--how high did he come on Davy when Davy was standing near him? Above his shoulder --and Davy's six feet two or three.He's at least as tall as I am--anyhow, in my ordinary heels.''
She was attracted by both the personalities she discovered in the little journal.She believed she could tell them apart.About some of the articles, the shorter ones, she was doubtful.But in those of any length she could feel that difference which enables one to distinguish the piano touch of a player in another room--whether it is male or female.Presently she was searching for an excuse for scraping acquaintance with this pair of pariahs--pariahs so far as her world was concerned.And soon she found it.The New Day was taking subscriptions for a fund to send sick children and their mothers to the country for a vacation from the dirt and heat of the tenements--for Remsen City, proud though it was and boastful of its prosperity, housed most of its inhabitants in slums--though of course that low sort of people oughtn't really to be counted--except for purposes of swelling census figures-- and to do all the rough and dirty work necessary to keep civilization going.
She would subscribe to this worthy charity--and would take her subscription, herself.Settled--easily and well settled.She did not involve herself, or commit herself in any way.Besides, those who might find out and might think she had overstepped the bounds would excuse her on the ground that she had not been back at home long and did not realize what she was doing.
What should she wear?
Her instinct was for an elaborate toilet--a descent in state--or such state as the extremely limited resources of Martin Hastings'
stables would permit.The traps he had ordered for her had not yet come; she had been glad to accept David Hull's offer of a lift the night before.Still, without a carriage or a motor she could make quite an impression with a Paris walking dress and hat, properly supported by fashionable accessories of the toilet.
Good sense and good taste forbade these promptings of nature.
No, she would dress most simply--in her very plainest things--taking care to maintain all her advantages of face and figure.If she overwhelmed Dorn and Miss Gordon, she would defeat her own purpose--would not become acquainted with them.
In the end she rejected both courses and decided for the riding costume.The reason she gave for this decision-- the reason she gave herself--was that the riding costume would invest the call with an air of accident, of impulse.The real reason.
