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THE STURDY OAK
A COMPOSITE NOVEL OF AMERICAN POLITICS BY FOURTEEN AMERICAN AUTHORS
By Samuel Merwin, et al.
[Illustration] THE STURDY OAK
Other Authors:
SAMUEL MERWIN
HARRY LEON WILSON
FANNIE HURST
DOROTHY CANFIELD
KATHLEEN NORRIS
HENRY KITCHELL WEBSTER
ANNE O'HAGAN
MARY HEATON VORSE
ALICE DUER MILLER
ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
MARJORIE BENTON COOKE
WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE
MARY AUSTIN
LEROY SCOTT
THEME BY MARY AUSTIN
The chapters collected and (very cautiously) edited by ELIZABETH JORDAN
NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1917 [Blank-copyright info]
PREFACE
At a certain committee meeting held in the spring of 1916, it was agreed
that fourteen leading American authors, known to be extremely generous
as well as gifted, should be asked to write a composite novel.
As I was not present at this particular meeting, it was unanimously and
joyously decided by those who were present that I should attend to the
trivial details of getting this novel together.
It appeared that all I had to do was:
First, to persuade each of the busy authors on the list to write a
chapter of the novel.
Second, to keep steadily on their trails from the moment they promised
their chapters until they turned them in.
Third, to have the novel finished and published serially during the
autumn Campaign of 1917.
The carrying out of these requirements has not been the childish
diversion it may have seemed. Splendid team work, however, has made
success possible.
Every author represented, every worker on the team, has gratuitously
contributed his or her services; and every dollar realized by the serial
and book publication of "The Sturdy Oak" will be devoted to the Suffrage
Cause. But the novel itself is first of all a very human story of
American life today. It neither unduly nor unfairly emphasizes the
question of equal suffrage, and it should appeal to all lovers of good
fiction.
Therefore, pausing only to wipe the beads of perspiration from our
brows, we urge every one to buy this book!
ELIZABETH JORDAN.
NEW YORK.
_November_, 1917. CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. BY SAMUEL MERWIN
II. BY HARRY LEON WILSON
III. BY FANNIE HURST
IV. BY DOROTHY CANFIELD
V. BY KATHLEEN NORRIS
VI. BY HENRY KITCHELL WEBSTER
VII. BY ANNE O'HAGAN
VIII. BY MARY HEATON VORSE
IX. BY ALICE DUER MILLER
X. BY ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
XI. BY MARJORIE BENTON COOK
XII. BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE
XIII. BY MARY AUSTIN
XIV. BY LEROY SCOTT ILLUSTRATIONS
"Nobody ever means that a woman really can't get along without a man's
protection, because look at the women who do."
It was hard on the darling old boy to come home to Miss Emelene and the
cat and Eleanor and Alys every night!
"You mean because she's a suffragist? You sent her away for _that!_ Why,
really, that's _tyranny!_"
Across the way, Mrs. Herrington, the fighting blood of five generations
of patriots roused in her, had reinstated the Voiceless Speech.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
_George Remington_... Aged twenty-six; newly married. Recently returned
to his home town, New York State, to take up the practice of law.
Politically ambitious, a candidate for District Attorney. Opposed to
woman suffrage.
_Genevieve_... His wife, aged twenty-three, graduate of Smith. Devoted
to George; her ideal being to share his every thought.
_Betty Sheridan_... A friend of Genevieve. Very pretty; one of the first
families, well-to-do but in search of economic independence. Working as
stenographer in George's office; an ardent Suffragist.
_Penfield Evans_... Otherwise "Penny," George's partner, in love with
Betty. Neutral on the subject of Suffrage.
_Alys Brewster-Smith_... Cousin of George, once removed; thirty-three,
a married woman by profession, but temporarily widowed. Anti-suffragist.
One Angel Child aged five.
_Martin Jaffry_... Uncle to George, bachelor of uncertain age and
certain income. The widow's destined prey.
_Cousin Emelene_.... On Genevieve's side. Between thirty-five and forty,
a born spinster but clinging to the hope of marriage as the only career
for women. Has a small and decreasing income. Affectedly feminine and
genuinely incompetent.
_Mrs. Harvey Herrington_.... President of the Woman's Club, the
Municipal League, Suffrage Society leader, wealthy, cultured and
possessing a sense of humor.
_Percival Pauncefoot Sheridan_.... Betty's brother, fifteen, commonly
called Pudge. Pink, pudgy, sensitive; always imposed upon, always
grouchy and too good-natured to assert himself.
_E. Eliot_.... Real estate agent (added in Chapter VI by Henry Kitchell
Webster).
_Benjamin Doolittle_.... A leader of his party, and somewhat careless
where he leads it. (Added in Anne O'Hagan's Chapter).
_Patrick Noonan_.... A follower of Doolittle.
Time.... The Present.
Place.... Whitewater, N. Y. A manufacturing town of from ten to fifteen
thousand inhabitants.
THE STURDY OAK
CHAPTER I. BY SAMUEL MERWIN
Genevieve Remington had been called beautiful. She was tall, with brown
eyes and a fine spun mass of golden-brown hair. She had a gentle smile,
that disclosed white, even teeth. Her voice was not unmusical. She
was twenty-three years old and possessed a husband who, though only
twenty-six, had already shown such strength of character and such
aptitude at the criminal branch of the law that he was now a candidate
for the post of district attorney on the regular Republican ticket.
The popular impression was that he would be elected hands down. His
address on Alexander Hamilton at the Union League Club banquet at
Hamilton City, twenty-five miles from Whitewater (with which smaller
city we are concerned in this narrative), had been reprinted in full
in the Hamilton City _Tribune_; and Mrs. Brewster-Smith reported that
former Congressman Hancock had compared it, not unfavorably, with
certain public utterances of the Honorable Elihu Root.
George Remington was an inch more than six feet tall, with sturdy
shoulders, a chin that gave every indication of stubborn strength, a
frank smile, and a warm, strong handclasp. He was connected by blood (as
well as by marriage) with five of the eight best families in Whitewater.
Mr. Martin Jaffry, George's uncle and sole inheritor of the great Jaffry
estate (and a bachelor), was known to favor his candidacy; was supposed,
indeed, to be a large contributor to the Remington campaign fund. In
fact, George Remington was a lucky young man, a coming young man.
George and Genevieve had been married five weeks; this was their first
day as master and mistress of the old Remington place on Sheridan Road.
Genevieve, that afternoon, was in the long living-room, trying out
various arrangements of the flowers that had been sent in. There were a
great many flowers. Most of them came from admirers of George. The Young
Men's Republican Club, for one item, had sent eight dozen roses.
But Genevieve, still a-thrill with the magic of her five-weeks-long
honeymoon, tremulously happy in the cumulative proof that her husband
was the noblest, strongest, bravest man alive, felt only joy in his
popularity.
As his wife she shared his triumphs. "For better or worse, for richer
or poorer, in sickness and health..." the ancient phrases repeated
themselves so many times in her softly confused thought, as she moved
about among the flowers, that they finally took on a rhythm--
_"For better or worse,
For richer or poorer,
For richer or poorer,
For better or worse--"_
* * * * *
On this day her life was beginning. She had given herself irrevocably
into the hands of this man. She would live only in him. Her life would
find expression only through his. His strong, trained mind would be her
guide, his sturdy courage her strength. He would build for them both,
for the twain that were one.
She caught up one red rose, winked the moisture from her eyes, and
gazed--rapt, lips parted, color high--out at the close-clipped lawn
behind the privet hedge. The afternoon would soon be waning--in another
hour or so. She must not disturb him now.
In an hour, say, she would run up the stairs and tap at his door. And
he would come out, clasp her in his big arms, and she would stand on the
tips of her toes and kiss away the wrinkles between his brows, and they
would walk on the lawn and talk about themselves and the miracle of
their love.
The clock on the mantel struck three. She pouted; turned and stared at
it. "Well," she told herself, "I'll wait until half-past four."
The doorbell rang.
Genevieve's color faded. The slim hand that held the rose trembled a
very little. Her first caller! She decided that it would be best not
to talk about George. Not one word about George! Her feelings were her
secret--and his.
Marie ushered in two ladies. One, who rushed forward with outstretched
hand, was a curiously vital-appearing creature in black--plainly a
widow--hardly more than thirty-two or thirty-three, fresh of skin,
rather prominent as to eyeballs, yet, everything considered, a handsome
woman. This was Alys Brewster-Smith. The other, shorter, slighter,
several years older, a faded, smiling, tremulously hopeful spinster, was
Genevieve's own cousin, Emelene Brand.
"It's so nice of you to come--" Genevieve began timidly, only to be
swept aside by the superior aggressiveness and the stronger voice of
Mrs. Brewster-Smith.
"My _dear_! Isn't it perfectly delightful to see you actually mistress
of this wonderful old home. And"--her slightly prominent eyes swiftly
took in furniture, pictures, rugs, flowers,--"how wonderfully you
have managed to give the old place your own tone!" "Nothing has been
changed," murmured Genevieve, a thought bewildered.
"Nothing, my dear, but yourself! I am _so_ looking forward to a good
talk with you. Emelene and I were speaking of that only this noon. And
I can't tell you how sorry I am that our first call has to be on a
miserable political matter. Tell me, dear, is that wonderful husband of
yours at home?"
"Why--yes. But I am not to disturb him."
"Ah, shut away in his den?"
Genevieve nodded.
"It's a very important paper he has to write. It has to be done now,
before he is drawn into the whirl of campaign work."
"Of course! Of course! But I'm afraid the campaign is whirling already.
I will tell you what brought us, my dear. You know of course that
Mrs. Harvey Herrington has come out for suffrage--thrown in her whole
personal weight and, no doubt, her money. I can't understand it--with
her home, and her husband--going into the mire of politics. But that is
what she has done. And Grace Hatfield called up not ten minutes ago to
say that she has just led a delegation of ladies up to your husband's
office. Think of it--to his office! The first day!... Well, Emelene, it
is some consolation that they won't find him there."
"He isn't going to the office today," said Genevieve. "But what can they
want of him?"
"To get him to declare for suffrage, my dear."
"Oh--I'm sure he wouldn't do that!"
"Are you, my dear? Are you _sure_?"
"Well----"
"He has told you his views, of course?"
Genevieve knit her brows. "Why, yes--of course, we've talked about
things----"
"My dear, of course he is _against suffrage_."
"Oh yes, of course. I'm sure he is. Though, you see, I would no more
think of intruding in George's business affairs than he would think of
intruding in my household duties."
"Naturally, Genevieve. And very sweet and dear of you! But I'm sure you
will see how very important this is. Here we are, right at the beginning
of his campaign. Those vulgar women are going to hound him. They've
begun already. As our committee wrote him last week, it is vitally
important that he should declare himself unequivocally at once."
"Oh, yes," murmured Genevieve, "of course. I can see that."
The doors swung open. A thin little man of forty to fifty stood there,
a dry but good-humored man, with many wrinkles about his quizzical blue
eyes, and sandy hair at the sides and back of an otherwise bald head.
He was smartly dressed in a homespun Norfolk suit. He waved a cap of
homespun in greeting.
"Afternoon, ladies! Genevieve, a bachelor's admiration and respect! I
hope that boy George has got sense enough to be proud of you. But they
haven't at that age. They're all for themselves."
"Oh no, Uncle Martin," cried Genevieve, "George is the most
generous----"
Mr. Martin Jaffry flicked his cap. "All right. All right! He is." And
slowly retreated.
Mrs. Brewster-Smith, an eager light in her eyes, moved part way across
the room. "But we can't let you run away like this, Mr. Jaffry. Do sit
down and tell us about the work you are doing at the Country Club. Is it
to be bowling alley _and_ swimming pool----"
"Bowling alley _and_ swimming pool, yes. Tell me, chick, might a humble
constituent speak to the great man?"
Genevieve hesitated. "I'm sure he'd love to see you, Uncle Martin. But
he _did_ say----"
"Not to be disturbed by _any_body, eh?"
"Yes, Uncle Martin. It's a very important statement he has to prepare
before----"
"Good day, then. You look fine in the old house, chick!"
Mr. Jaffry donned his cap of homespun, ran down the steps and out the
front walk, hopped into his eight-cylinder roadster, and was off down
the street in a second. There was a sharp decisiveness about his exit,
and about the sudden speed of his machine; all duly noted by Mrs.
Brewster-Smith, who had gone so far as to move down the room to the
front window and watch the performance with narrowed eyes. The Jaffry
Building stands at the southwest corner of Fountain Square. It boasts
six stories, mosaic flooring in the halls, and the only passenger
elevator in Whitewater. The ground floor was given over to Humphrey's
drug store; and most of Humphrey's drug store was given over to the
immense marble soda fountain and the dozen or more wire-legged tables
and the two or three dozen wire chairs that served to accommodate the
late afternoon and evening crowd.
At the moment the fountain had but one patron--a remarkably fat boy of,
perhaps, fifteen, with plump cheeks and drooping mouth.... The row of
windows across the second floor front of the building, above Humphrey's,
bore, each, the legend--_Remington and Evans, Attorneys at Law_.
The fat boy was Percival Sheridan, otherwise Pudge. His sister, Betty
Sheridan, worked in the law offices directly overhead and possessed a
heart of stone.
Betty was rich, at least in the eyes of Pudge. For more than a
year (Betty was twenty-two) she had enjoyed a private income. Pudge
definitely knew this. She had money to buy out the soda fountain. But
her character, thought Pudge, might be summed up in the statement that
she worked when she didn't have to (people talked about this; even to
him!) and flatly refused to give her brother money for soda.
As if a little soda ever hurt anybody. She took it herself, often
enough. Within five minutes he had laid the matter before her--up in
that solemn office, where they made you feel so uncomfortable. She had
said: "Pudge Sheridan, you're killing yourself! Not one cent more for
wrecking your stomach!"
She had called him "Pudge." For months he had been reminding her that
his name was Percival. And he wasn't wrecking his stomach. That was
silly talk. He had eaten but two nut sundaes and a chocolate frappe
since luncheon. It wasn't soda and candy that made him so fat. Some
folks just were fat, and some folks were thin. That was all there was
_to_ it!
Pudge himself would have a private income when he was twenty-one. Six
years off... and Billy Simmons in his white apron, was waiting now, on
the other side of the marble counter, for his order--and grinning as
he waited. Six years! Why, Pudge would be a man then--too old for nut
sundaes and chocolate frappes, too far gone down the sober slope of life
to enjoy anything!
Pudge wriggled nervously, locked his feet around behind the legs of
the high stool, rubbed a fat forefinger on the edge of the counter, and
watched the finger intently with gloomy eyes.
"Well, what'll it be, Pudge?" This from Billy Simmons.
"My name ain't Pudge."
"Very good, Mister Sheridan. What'll it be?"
"One of those chocolate marshmallow nut sundaes, I guess, if--if----"
"If what, Mister Sheridan?"
"--if, oh well, just charge it."
Billy Simmons paused in the act of reaching for a sundae glass. The
smile left his face.
Pudge, though he did not once look up from that absorbing little
operation with the fat forefinger, felt this pause and knew that Billy's
grin had gone; and his own mouth drooped and drooped. It was a tense
moment.
"You see, Pudge," Billy began in some embarrassment, only to conclude
rather sharply, "I'll have to ask Mr. Humphrey. Your sister said we
weren't----"
"Oh, well!" sighed Pudge. Getting down from the stool he waddled slowly
out of the store.
It was no use going up against old Humphrey. He had tried that. He went
as far as the fire-plug, close to the corner, and sank down upon it.
Everybody was against him. He would sit here awhile and think it over.
Perhaps he could figure out some way of breaking through the conspiracy.
Then Mr. Martin Jaffry drove up to the curb and he had to move his legs.
Mr. Jaffry said, "Hello, Pudge," too. It was all deeply annoying.
Meantime, during the past half-hour, the law offices of Remington and
Evans were not lacking in the sense of life and activity. Things began
moving when Penny Evans (christened Penfield) came back from lunch. He
wore an air--Betty Sheridan noted, from her typewriter desk within the
rail--of determination. His nod toward herself was distinctly brusque; a
new quality which gave her a moment's thought. And then when he had
hung up his hat and was walking past her to his own private office, he
indulged in a faint, fleeting grin.
Betty considered him. She had known Penny Evans as long as she could
remember knowing anybody; and she had never seen him look quite as he
looked this afternoon.
The buzzer sounded. It was absurd, of course; nobody else in the
office. He could have spoken--you could hear almost every sound over the
seven-foot partitions.
She rose, waited an instant to insure perfect composure, smoothed down
her trim shirtwaist, pushed back a straying wisp of her naturally wavy
hair, picked up her notebook and three sharp pencils, and went quietly
into his office.
He sat there at his flat desk--his blond brows knit, his mouth firm, a
light of eager good humor in his blue eyes.
"Take this," he said... Betty seated herself opposite him, and was
instantly ready for work.
"... Memorandum. From rentals--the old Evans property on Ash Street, the
two houses on Wilson Avenue South, and the factory lease in the South
Extension, a total of slightly over $3600.
"New paragraph. From investments in bonds, railway and municipal, an
average the last four years of $2800.
"New paragraph. From law practice, last year, over $4500. Will be
considerably more this year. Total----"
"New paragraph?"
"No. Continue. Total, $10,900. This year will be close to $12,000. Don't
you think that's a reasonably good showing for an unencumbered man of
twenty-seven?"
"Dictation--that last?"
"No, personal query, Penny to Betty."
"Yes, then, it is very good. You want this in memorandum form. Any
carbons?"
"One carbon--in the form of a diamond--gift from Penny to Betty." Miss
Sheridan settled back in her chair, tapped her pretty mouth with her
pencil, and surveyed the blond young man. Her eyes were blue--frank,
capable eyes.
"Penny, I like my work here----"
"I should hope so----"
"And I don't want to give it up."
"Then don't."
"I shall have to, Penny, if you don't stop breaking your word. It was
a definite agreement, you know. You were not to propose to me, on any
working day, before seven P.M. This is a proposal of course----"
"Yes, of course, but I've just----"
"That makes twice this month, then, that you've broken the agreement.
Now I can go on and put my mind on my work, if you'll let me. Otherwise,
I shall have to get a job where they _will_ let me."
"But, Betty, I've just this noon sat down and figured up where I stand.
It has frightened me a little. I didn't realize I was taking in more
than ten thousand a year. And all of a sudden it struck me that I've
been an imbecile to wait, or make any agreement----"
"Then you broke it deliberately?"
"Absolutely. Betty--no fooling now; I'm in earnest----"
Studying him, she saw that he was intensely in earnest.
"You see, child, I've tried to be patient because I know how you were
brought up, what you're used to. Why, I wouldn't dream of asking you to
be my wife unless I could feel pretty sure of being able to give you
the comforts you've always had and ought to have. But hang it, Betty, I
_can_ do it right! I can give you a home that's worthy of you. Any time!
This year, even!"
"Penny, do you think I care what your income is--for one minute?"
"Why--why----"
"When I'm earning twenty dollars a week myself and prouder of it than--"
"But that's absurd, Betty--for you to be working--as a stenographer, of
all things! A girl with your looks and your gifts and all that's back of
you."
"You mean that I should make marriage my profession?"
"Well--well----"
"Probably that's why we keep missing each other, Penny. I've pinned my
flag to the principle of economic independence. You're looking for
a girl who will marry for a living. There are lots of them. Pretty,
attractive girls, too. Your difficulty is, you want that sort. You
really believe all girls are that sort at heart, and you think my
independence a fad--something I shall get over. Don't you, now?"
"Well, I'll confess I can't see it as the normal thing. Yes, I
believe--I hope--you will get over it."
"Well--" Miss Sheridan slammed her book shut and stood up--"I won't."
She stepped to the door.
"And the agreement stands. I want to keep on working. And I want to keep
on being fond of you. That agreement is necessary to both desires." She
opened the door, hesitated and a hint of mischief flashed across her
face. "I'll tell you just the person for you, Penny. Really. Marriage is
her profession. She's very experienced. Temporarily out of a job--Alys
Brewster-Smith."
He snatched a carnation from the glass on his desk and threw it at her.
It struck a closed door.
* * * * *
The outer door opened just then, and Mr. Martin Jaffry stepped in. He
nodded, with his little quizzical smile, to the composed young woman who
stood within the railing.
"Anybody here, Betty?"
A slight movement of her prettily poised head indicated the door marked
"Mr. Evans." And she said, "Penny's there."
"Is he shut up, too? His partner is too important to be seen today."
"Oh no," Betty replied, inscrutably sober, "he's not important."
Mr. Jaffry wrinkled up his eyes, chuckled softly, then stepped to the
door of the unimportant one. Before opening it, he turned. "Mrs. Harvey
Herrington been in?"
"Twice with a committee."
"Any idea what she wanted?"
Betty was aware that the whimsical and roundabout Mr. Jaffry knew
everything about everybody in Whitewater. She was further aware that he
had, undoubtedly, reasons of his own for questioning her. He was
always asking questions, anyway. Worse than a Chinaman. And for some
reason--perhaps because he was Martin Jaffry--you always answered his
questions.
"Yes," said Betty. "She wants to pledge him to suffrage."
"Umm! Yes, I see! You wouldn't be against that yourself, would you?"
"Naturally not. I'm secretary of the Second Ward Suffrage Club."
"Umm! Yes, yes!" With which illuminating comment, Mr. Jaffry tapped on
Penny Evans' door, opened it and entered.
"Spare a minute?" he inquired.
"Sure," said Penny; "two, ten! Take a chair."
"No," replied Mr. Jaffry, "I won't take a chair. Think better on
my feet. I'm in a bit of a quandary. Suppose you tell me what this
important paper is that George is drawing up. Do you know?"
"I do."
"Is he coming out against suffrage?"
"Flatly."
"Umm!" Mr. Jaffry flicked his cap about. "I want to see George. He
mustn't do that."
"Say, Mr. Jaffry, you haven't swung over----"
"Not at all. It's tactics. I ought to see him."
"Why not run out to his house----"
"Just been there. Ran away. Some one there I'm afraid of."
"Telephone?"
Mr. Jaffry shook his head and lowered his voice.
"With Betty hearing it at this end, and the committee from the Antis
sitting it out down there--the telephone's on the stair landing----"
He pursed his lips, waved his cap slowly to and fro and observed it
with a whimsical expression on his sandy face, then glanced out of the
window. He stepped closer, looking sharply down. A very fat boy with
pink cheeks and a downcast expression was sitting on a fire-plug. Mr.
Jaffry leaned out.
"Pudge," he called, "come up here a minute."
On the Remington and Evans stationery he penciled a note, which he
sealed. Then he scribbled another--to Mrs. George Remington, asking her
to hand George the inclosure the moment he appeared from his work. The
two he slipped into a large envelope. The very fat boy stood before him.
"Want to make a quarter, Pudge? Take this letter, right now, to Mrs.
George Remington. Give it to her personally. It's the old Remington
place, you know."
He felt in his change pocket. It was empty. He hesitated, turned to
Evans, then, reconsidering, produced a dollar bill from another pocket
and gave it to the boy.
"Now run," he said.
The boy, speechless, turned and moved out of the office. His sister
spoke to him, but he did not turn his head. He rolled down the stairs to
the street, stood a moment in front of Humphrey's, drew a sudden breath
that was almost a gasp, waddled into the store, advanced directly on the
soda fountain, and with a blazing red face and angrily triumphant eyes
confronted Billy Simmons.
"I'll take a chocolate marshmallow nut sundae," he said. "And you
needn't be stingy with the marshmallow, either!"
* * * * *
At ten minutes past four, the anxious Antis in the Remington living-room
heard the candidate for district attorney running down the stairs, and
even Mrs. Brewster-Smith was hushed. The candidate stopped, however,
on the landing. They heard him lift the telephone receiver. He called a
number. Then----
"_Sentinel_ office?... Mr. Ledbetter, please.... Hello, Ledbetter!
Remington speaking. I have that statement ready. Will you send a man
around?... Yes, right away. And I wish you'd put it on the wires.
Display it just as prominently as you can, won't you?... Thanks. That's
fine! Good-by."
He ran back upstairs.
But shortly he appeared, wearing the distrait, exalted expression of the
genius who has just passed through the creative act. He looked very tall
and strong as he stood before the mantel, receiving the congratulations
of Mrs. Brewster-Smith and the timid admiration of Cousin Emelene. His
few words were well chosen and were uttered with dignity.
"And now, dear Mr. Remington, I'm sure I don't need to ask you if you
are taking the right stand on suffrage." This from Mrs. Brewster-Smith.
The candidate smiled tolerantly.
"If unequivocal opposition is 'right'----"
"Oh, you dear man! I was sure we could count on you. Isn't it splendid,
Genevieve!"
The reporters came.
* * * * *
It was a busy evening for the young couple. There were relatives for
dinner. Other relatives and an old friend or two came later. Throughout,
George wore that quietly exalted expression, and carried himself with
the new dignity.
To the adoring Genevieve his chin had never appeared so long and strong,
his thought had never seemed so elevated, his quiet self-respect had
never been so commanding. He was no longer merely her George, he was now
a public figure. Soon he would be district attorney; then, very likely,
Governor; then--well, Senator; and finally--it was possible--some one
had to be--President of the United States. He had begun, this day, by
making a great decision, by stepping boldly out on principle, on moral
principle, and announcing himself a defender of the home, of the right.
At midnight, the last guest departed. George and Genevieve stepped out
into the summer moonlight and strolled arm in arm down the walk.
Waddling up the street appeared a very fat boy.
"Why, Pudge," cried Genevieve, "what on earth are you doing out at this
time of night!"
"I'm going home, I tell you!" muttered the boy, on the defensive. He
carried a large bag of what seemed to be chocolate creams, from which he
was eating.
As he passed, a twinge of memory disturbed him. He fumbled in his
pockets.
"I was to give you this," he said then; and leaving a crumpled envelope
in Genevieve's hand, he walked on as rapidly as he could.
A few minutes later, standing under the light in the front hall, George
Remington read this penciled note:
"I stood ready to contribute more than I promised--any amount to put
you over. But if you give out a statement against suffrage you're a damn
fool and I withdraw every cent. A man with no more political sense and
skill than that isn't worth helping. You should have advised me.
"M. J."