GAGE FINISHES IT
The Convention went on as Gage had predicted. It held few surprises.
Here and there a wave of new sentiment was perceptible but the old rules
held good. The tremendous heat was a factor. It made many of the
delegates relapse very easily into the political fatalism which is the
breath of life to party control.
To the women it was more interesting and more disappointing than it was
to the men. They were interested because it was all new. They were
disappointed because every one seemed to give in to the obvious so
readily. Harriet Thompson and her group were somewhat grim--humorous
enough. They had not expected anything else really.
It was an exhausting week. There was a threat that the Convention might
go over into the succeeding week but that was unfulfilled. Saturday
night Margaret and Helen went back to St. Pierre too tired and worn to
even talk much to each other, thoughtful, depressed a little and
revolving new enthusiasms at the same time. But now that they were
emerging from the impersonal world in which they had been they felt the
pressure of the personal responsibilities they both were speeding
toward, perhaps, for they sat in silence in their compartment, each full
of her own reflections. Younger and less experienced women would have
welcomed the egotism of their own visions--the anticipations of scenes
in which they would be central. Helen and Margaret, fresh from the lift
of experience which was largely intellectual, did not look
anticipative, or particularly happy.
Helen had wired Gage that she was coming and he met her at the station.
One glance at his dark face told her all she needed to know of his mood.
He took her bags, not offering to kiss her and she and Margaret, oddly
constrained, got into the waiting car. Margaret was dropped at her
apartment and there, at the door, Gage vouchsafed his only conversation.
He asked them briefly if they “were satisfied with the show” and his
voice was heavy with ridicule.
“I think we were,” said Helen, “we didn’t expect as much as you did,
perhaps, Gage.”
A light answer, ringing sharply. Margaret went into her room and flung
open the windows to air it. At the window she looked down the street but
the Flandon motor had disappeared.
Helen kept wishing that it were not Sunday. Sunday was such a long,
intimate, family day. She meant to have been very definite with herself
about what her mode of approach to Gage would be. She found herself
floundering again. Of course there could be no compromise now. This
business with this girl had to be sifted through, admitted--faced. She
supposed there was nothing at all left of any feeling for Gage. He had
been outrageous and, even as she thought that, she worried about him. He
did look so very badly. Other people must be noticing it too.
He said nothing. At the house he helped her out and went into the house
with her. She sought the children. They were delightful and welcoming,
full of questions, of tales about the fun they had while she was away,
eager for presents. Helen kept the children with her, nervously,
postponing the encounter with Gage, wishing he would go down to the
city. But he did not. He hung about, ominous, smoking, reading, yet not
reading with absorption, suddenly throwing book or paper aside and
restlessly trying some new one, watching Helen.
She was pent up. There was such a contrast between the easy interchange
of yesterday and the constraint of to-day. The house didn’t seem big
enough to hold her and Gage. She went about her work trying to be
normal, directing the maids, playing with the children, unpacking her
bags. All the time she felt him watching her even if she were not in the
same room, felt his brooding concentration on her, knew he was wondering
what she thought about, whether she was glad to be back, what she was
going to do about Freda Thorstad. For the first time in her married
life, she had the sense of marriage as a trap. It had never been that.
There were times when she had been a little restive, but she had always
been building on a rock of belief in marriage, joy in it. It was
different to-day. She felt as if she had come in out of the fresh air of
clean discourse, free intercourse, into a narrow room where she was shut
up with a growling man--a room heavy with discord, enmity, suspicion.
The morning passed somehow. They had finished dinner and she was waiting
for Gage to propose something. He usually took the children for country
drives on Sunday. They were in the big sunroom, shady now with its
awnings let down, and Helen was stretched out on a white willow chaise
longue trying to believe she was ridiculous and making mountains out of
molehills when a maid came in to announce a caller.
“There’s a lady and gentleman to see Mr. Flandon.”
“You hear, Gage?”
“Who is it?” asked Gage.
“I think it’s a lady who’s been here before.”
Gage’s face was interested. He rose from his chair and followed the
maid. Helen heard a brief colloquy of voices then Gage saying, “Come
out here where my wife is, Mrs. Thorstad.”
He reappeared through the French doors with the little Mohawk lady
behind him, and behind her a man, a rather stooping, pleasant-faced
gentleman with well poised head and an air of mingled anxiety and
embarrassment. His manner was unlike that of his wife which was
definite, sharp, assertive, even before she spoke. As she saw them Helen
had the quick perception of a crisis. The parents of this girl here
together could mean only complications of trouble. Her mind stiffened
itself for whatever might be coming, as she rose and greeted Mrs.
Thorstad with easy cordiality and accepted the introduction to her
husband graciously.
“Did you enjoy the convention? I didn’t see you again after Wednesday.”
“No,” answered Mrs. Thorstad, “I came up to St. Pierre on Friday night.”
She seated herself in the chair Gage brought for her, a little uneasily,
with a righteous wriggle of her thin body. Her husband and Gage stood
together exchanging a few commonplace remarks. The air was electric.
Surprisingly, it was Mr. Thorstad who began.
“We are sorry to intrude upon you on this Sunday afternoon but our
errand is pressing and it will be best to make it clear at once. My
daughter has been employed in your office, Mr. Flandon.”
“Yes?”
“My wife came from Chicago to pay her a brief visit. She found that
Freda had gone away, leaving no address with any one. We are very much
concerned--greatly disturbed. My wife went at once to your office and
there saw your partner--Mr. Sable, is it?” Gage inclined his head--“You
were not there. I believe Freda was directly in your employ. Mr. Sable
tells my wife that Freda resigned her place on Friday morning.
Questioning him we find that she was asked to resign--that,” he paused
and spoke with difficulty, though still calmly, “that rumors subversive
to her character have been afloat. She has disappeared, Mr. Flandon.”
The stoop in his shoulders had somehow straightened. He was as tall as
Gage as he looked at him with restraint and yet with indictment. “Do you
know where my daughter is, Mr. Flandon?”
He stopped. Mrs. Thorstad edged to the side of her chair, foot tapping
nervously on the floor, eyes on Gage. Helen’s eyes were on him too,
though there was no change in her attitude. She had not paled or
flushed. It might have been the most casual of conversations.
The second before Gage’s answer weighed on all of them. He looked as if
he were pondering something--then back at Mr. Thorstad. His voice was
even and controlled.
“No, Mr. Thorstad, I don’t know where your daughter is.”
“Why did she leave your office?”
“She was discharged by my partner in my absence, most unjustly, for
preposterous suspicions. I shall do my best to reinstate her.”
“It will not be necessary, sir.”
Mrs. Thorstad could bear it no longer.
“And what were these suspicions?” She waited for no answer, turning
quickly on Helen. “I went to see Mrs. Brownley to find out if she could
tell me and her attitude is most peculiar--most peculiar. She insinuated
that I should give up my work to keep watch over my daughter. She cast
reflections on me as a mother. I told her that I had always upheld the
strictest doctrines of the home and the family, that I had always
insisted on a moral purity before everything else. That I should be so
treated amazed me! My daughter has always had the strictest upbringing.
What ideas of modern license she had absorbed from contact with this
Miss Duffield I am sure I don’t know. I always objected to that woman. I
asked Miss Duffield about it this morning. She doesn’t know where Freda
is--at least, she says she doesn’t. Well--who does? You took her into
your office, Mr. Flandon, you exposed her to this gossip--”
“Please, Adeline--”
“I need not tell you, Mr. Thorstad, that this unwarranted action of my
partner has incensed me beyond measure. I have the greatest respect for
your daughter.”
Mr. Thorstad inclined his head a little.
“We wish to find her, Mr. Flandon. We are greatly disturbed. My daughter
went away of her own free will, according to a letter I had from her.
She was evidently drawn by some enthusiasm of emotion.”
“She wrote you that?”
“To that effect.”
Mrs. Thorstad broke in again.
“Even before your wife, Mr. Flandon, I think we should tell you that we
know that your name has been coupled with our daughter’s name. Mr. Sable
let us infer it. I’m sorry, Mrs. Flandon--”
She did not look sorry. She looked vindictive.
“I know,” said Helen, “I believe, Gage, that you could throw some light
on all this. I don’t _know_ that you could but Miss Thorstad’s parents
should be relieved of anxiety if possible.”
Gage looked at his wife. Her eyes met his levelly, seemingly void of
feeling, empty even of anger. Her resistance to pain woke
admiration--then cruelty. So that was all she cared, was it? New
woman--modern stuff!
“I do not know where Miss Thorstad is,” he repeated, “I think, however,
that a girl with her strength and control is safe wherever she may be.
She may think it best to keep her plans to herself for the time being--”
“You speak with curious confidence, Mr. Flandon,” said Mrs. Thorstad
sharply. “This matter involves my daughter’s reputation.”
“From what I have seen of your daughter she is above gossip,” answered
Gage. He turned to the other man. “I am sorry I cannot help you. I am
more sorry than I can say that she was treated unfairly in my office and
I shall do my best to adjust that. If I should hear from her of course
you will be informed.”
Mr. Thorstad looked a little tired. He had perhaps keyed himself to this
encounter and found it exhausting to have it end in futility.
“I shall pursue my inquiries, of course. It is not a matter which we
care to have handled through any ordinary channels of search as we are
informed by her that she left voluntarily. It may be that she will
communicate with me to-morrow.”
An embarrassed pause came.
“Come, Adeline,” said her husband, still initiative.
Mrs. Thorstad felt and looked frustrated. She frowned at him, tight lips
compressed. It was clear that she was neither pleased nor satisfied,
that she wished to ferret further and the presence of her husband
restrained her.
“The affair shall be probed,” she said somewhat absurdly.
“You mustn’t go out in this heat without a cool drink. Let me give you a
glass of lemonade, won’t you?”
Helen rang the bell before Mrs. Thorstad could protest.
“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Flandon,” she subsided, stiffly.
Gage seized his opportunity.
“I’ll get you a real drink, Thorstad. Come out in the dining-room, won’t
you?”
Mr. Thorstad, on the point of refusal, checked himself. Gage’s face was
significant. He wanted to see him alone.
In the dining-room they were out of earshot. Gage poured two small
glasses of whisky, his companion’s restraining hand dictating the
amount. Even then Mr. Thorstad waited. He raised his glass perfunctorily
but did not drink.
“I’m sorry for this mess, Thorstad. I don’t believe in taking notice of
gossip ordinarily and you can’t help what a lot of small people think.
But I saw something of your daughter in my office. I admired her
character, her idealism immensely. I--am not involved in any way with
her. I believe wherever she is that she is happy--and safe.”
“Did she leave the city because of that dismissal from your office?”
Gage strode up and down the room.
“That’s it! I don’t know. It might be. I was in Chicago. My partner took
it on himself to let her go. How deeply he wounded her I don’t know. I
was appalled when I heard what he had done. I am going to make
reparation to her in some way, I assure you. It’s the sort of thing that
is hard to repair but I shall do my best when I know where she is.”
“Why did they talk about her in connection with you, Flandon, if there’s
nothing to it?”
“Fools. I shan’t contradict them.”
“It might be wise to contradict them.”
“No.” A gleam of hysteria was in Gage’s smile. “Let them say what they
please as long as it doesn’t hurt Miss Thorstad.”
“It may do that.”
“Then we stop it. But there’s no point in statements now that there is
no possible connection between our names. The thing is to find her if
you feel she ought not to be left alone.”
“Why should she be left alone? She may be in distress.”
“I don’t think so,” Gage was guarding Freda’s secret as best he could
and trying to reassure her father who so inspired sympathy and respect.
“She is so controlled--so high minded that she would act wisely, I’m
sure.”
Mr. Thorstad looked at him curiously.
“Then you have no further information?”
“No--only I hope you’ll take my word that I’m not involved.”
“I am inclined to do so.” Mr. Thorstad put down his untasted glass on
the table and accepted Gage’s outstretched hand. “I do not feel exactly
as her mother does about the matter. Of course Mrs. Thorstad is actuated
by a mother’s great anxiety. I am a little more inclined to trust to
Freda’s judgments. She is, as you say, not a person to be the victim of
any easy emotion or to yield to any false persuasion. She has great
perception of the alliance between true things and beautiful things.”
“I saw that,” said Gage. “You’re very wise, Mr. Thorstad. It’s too bad
she can’t be left alone to work this out.”
“Personally,” went on the other, “the scandal doesn’t perturb me at all.
It is for her mother’s sake that I feel obliged to overstep my own
inclination to let Freda have her own time to make her confidence. I
felt it necessary to trace any possible connection you might have with
her disappearance. I--I am apt to take the word of a gentleman as truth,
Mr. Flandon.”
“You are very good,” said Gage. “Very good. I am deeply grateful.”
“Shall we return to the others?”
The two women were sitting silently, making no pretense at casual talk,
their curiosity as to what the two men had said to each other
indisguisable.
“We must go now, Adeline.”
She rose, evidently torn by a desire to be easy and complaisant and a
disgruntled lack of satisfaction in the interview.
“Very well,” she said, “I’m sure I shall not be able to rest for a
second until my daughter is safe and with me once more.”
They were courteous to the little outbreak of melodrama but not too
responsive.
Helen and Gage accompanied their visitors to the door and saw them walk
down the street, the sunlight bringing out the shiny seams in Mr.
Thorstad’s coat, beating unmercifully on the defiant little daisies in
his wife’s hat.
Helen turned to her husband.
“Why didn’t I hear of this?”
“I didn’t know you’d be interested. You’ve been so interested in
national affairs I couldn’t suppose you had time for little local
troubles.”
She set her lips in anger.
“You gain nothing by viciousness, Gage. Where is that girl?”
“Haven’t I said I didn’t know?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s quite in line with your other theories of wifely conduct.”
“I’m not interested in quarreling with you, Gage. I simply want to know
for my own protection what is going on. Is it true that George Sable
discharged that girl while you were away?”
“Quite true.”
“For what reason?”
Gage lighted a swaggering cigarette.
“His mind runs along with yours, Helen. He had the same delicate ideas
you have.”
“Where did the girl go?”
“Didn’t you hear me say I didn’t know?”
“Has she run away from you too? Have you got that girl into trouble?”
“I always hated that phrase,” answered Gage, nonchalantly.
“Why did you come back from Chicago so soon?”
“Why should I stay? A fifth wheel? The entirely superfluous husband of
one of the great feminist successes?”
“I asked you why you came back.” She framed each word with an artificial
calmness.
“You haven’t taken so much interest in me for years, Helen. It’s true,
isn’t it? All a man has to do is to get involved in a scandal to have
the women after him.”
She pressed her hand to her face as if to shut out the sight of him.
“You’re a madman, Gage.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Then she dropped into a chair, weeping long sobs, drawn from emotion
controlled beyond her strength.
“Why do you torture me so, Gage? What devil possesses you?”
He had always had a horror of seeing her weep. He took a step towards
her.
“I’m tired--I’m tired,” sobbed Helen.
Gage stiffened. “And why are you tired? Because you’ve been running
around Chicago. I didn’t tire you. You tire yourself. Then you come back
exhausted and blame me because you are exhausted. If you were more a
wife--less a public character--”
She had risen and stood looking at him angrily again, eyes wide with
hurt and disappointment.
“You jealous fool--you’re on the point of becoming a degenerate. If even
Sable has to watch over your actions--publicly reprove you--”
“He won’t do it again,” said Gage, “not again. I am severing my
connection with the upright Sable. He’ll never pry into my business
again. I’ll tell you that for certain.”
She stopped considering the personal trouble in sheer amazement.
“You’re not going to break with Sable?”
“I told him yesterday I was through. In fact I told him cordially to go
to hell. He can’t play the black mammy to me, you know.”
“But--what are you to do?”
“Oh, I’ll do something. I’ll show him whether I have to sit and take
dictation from him.”
“You’re going to practice by yourself?”
“When my plans are ready, you’ll hear them, Helen.”
She shivered.
“I wonder if you’re headed for destruction.”
“You told me I was a degenerate. Well, we’ll see.”
Looking at him she saw, underneath the mask of tawdry control, the
agitation he was in and the ravages of nervousness. His eyes were not
steady--they were too bright and he had a way of biting at his lower lip
which she could not remember.
She straightened her hair mechanically and went past him toward the
sunroom. As she went she heard him return to the dining-room and stood
with clenched hands trying not to interfere until she had thought things
out.
Lying down in the same chair she had occupied before she tried to get
some order into her thoughts. The problem of Freda, so overwhelmingly
great a moment ago, was matched if not overcome by her realization that
Gage was going from bad to worse--that he seemed to be on the loose
mentally--tearing from catastrophe to catastrophe. The significance of a
quarrel with Sable grew upon her--the probability of all the financial
trouble that Gage might be letting himself in for. And the thing that
she came back to time after time as her thoughts went around in circles
was that Gage did not seem to care any more--that he was so recklessly
indifferent to what she thought--to what was wise for the children and
for her.
For the moment she had passed beyond the point of thinking of rights and
wrongs. She was concentrated on immediate necessities. She almost forgot
the complication of Freda and was shocked at herself when that came back
to her.
She heard the sound of Gage’s car starting down the driveway. He was
going out then. All her feelings, her thoughts bore on one question.
Where was he going?