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The Sturdy Oak

S >> Samuel Merwin >> The Sturdy Oak




"Oh, can't I just? By Jove, it's things like that that make one wake up.
Now I know why women have a passion for suffrage. I never knew before,"
Penny went on, with more passion than logic. "You had a nerve to make that
statement of yours. You're a fine example of chivalry. You let loose a few
things when you wrote that fool statement, but you did a worse trick when
you fired Betty Sheridan. God, you're a pinhead--from the point of view of
mere tactics. Sometimes I wonder whether you've _any_ brain."

George had turned white with anger.

"That'll just about do," he remarked.

"Oh, no, it won't," said Penny. "It won't do at all. I'm not going to
remain in a firm where things like this can happen. I wouldn't risk my
reputation and my future. You're going to do the decent thing. You're going
to Betty Sheridan and tell her what you think of yourself. She won't come
back, I suppose, but you might ask her to do that, too. And now I'm going
out, to give you time to think this over. And tonight you can tell me what
you've decided. And then I'll tell you whether I'm going to dissolve our
partnership. Your temper's too bad to decide now. Maybe when you've done
that she won't treat me like an unsavory stranger."

He left, and George sat down to gloomy reflection.

To do him justice, the idea of apologizing to Betty had already occurred to
him. If he put off the day of reckoning, when the time came he would pay
handsomely. He realized that there was no use in wasting energy and being
angry with Penny. He looked over the happenings of the last few hours and
the part he had played in them, and what he saw failed to please him. He
saw himself being advised by Doolittle to concentrate on the Erie Oval.
He heard him urging him not to be what Doolittle called unneighborly. The
confiding words of Cousin Emelene rang in his ears.

He saw himself, in a fit of ill-temper, discharging Betty. He saw
Genevieve, lovely and scornful, urging him to be less pompous. All this, he
had to admit, he had brought on himself. Why should he have been so angry
at these questions? Again Emelene's remark echoed in his ear. He had only
to answer them--and he was going to concentrate on the Erie Oval!

There came a knock on the door, and a breezy young woman demanded,

"D'you want a stenographer?"

George wanted a stenographer, and wanted one badly. He put from him the
whole vexed question in the press of work, and by lunch time he made up his
mind to have it out with Betty. There was no use putting it off, and he
knew that he could have no peace with himself until he did. He felt very
tired--as though he had been doing actual physical work. He thought of
yesterday as a land of lost content. But he couldn't find Betty.

He bent his steps toward home, and as he did so affection for Genevieve
flooded his heart. He so wanted yesterday back--things as they had been. He
so wanted her love and her admiration. He wanted to put his tired head on
her shoulder. He couldn't bear, not for another moment, to be at odds with
her.

He wondered what she had been doing, and how she had spent the morning. He
imagined her crying her heart out. He leaped up the steps and ran up to his
room. In it was Alys Brewster-Smith. She started slightly.

"I was just looking for some cold cream," she explained.

"Where's Genevieve?" George asked.

"Oh, she's out," Alys replied casually. "She left a note for you."

The note was a polite and noncommittal line informing George that Genevieve
would not be back for lunch. He felt as though a lump of ice replaced his
heart. His disappointment was the desperate disappointment of a small boy.

He went back to the gloomy office and worked through the interminable day.
Late in the afternoon Mr. Doolittle lounged heavily in.

"Have some gum, George?" he inquired, inserting a large piece in his own
mouth.

He chewed rhythmically for a space. George waited. He knew that chewing gum
was not the ultimate object of Mr. Doolittle's visit.

"Don't women beat the Dutch?" he inquired at last. "Yes sir, mister; they
do!"

"What's up now?" George inquired. "The suffragists again?"

"Nope; not on the face of it they ain't. It's the Woman's Forum that's
doin' this. They've got a sweet little idea. 'Seein' Whitewater Sweat' they
call it.

"They're goin' around in bunches of twos, or mebbe blocks o' five, seein'
all the sights; an' you know women ain't reasonable, an' you can't reason
with them. They're goin' to find a pile o' things they won't like in this
little burg o' ours, all right, all right. An' they'll want to have things
changed right off. I want to see things changed m'self. I'd like to, but
them things take time, an' that's what women won't understand.

"Jimminee, I've heard of towns all messed up and candidates ruined just
because the women got wrought up over tenement-house an' fire laws an'
truck like that. Yes sir, they're out seein' Whitewater this minut, or
will be if you can't divert their minds. Call 'em off, George, if you can.
Get 'em fussy about sumpen else."

"Why, what have I to do with it?" George inquired.

"Well, I didn't know but what you might have sumpen," said Mr. Doolittle
mildly. "It's that young lady that works here, Miss Sheridan, an' your wife
what's organizin' it. Planning it all out to Thorne's at lunch they was,
an' Heally was sittin' at the next table and beats it to me. You can see
for yerself what a hell of a mess they'll make!"




CHAPTER IX

BY ALICE DUER MILLER


It was a relief to both men when at this point the door of the office
opened and Martin Jaffry entered.

Not since the unfortunate anti-suffrage statement of George's had Uncle
Martin dropped in like this. George, looking at him with that first swift
glance that often predetermines a whole interview, made up his mind
that bygones were to be bygones. He greeted his uncle with the warmest
cordiality.

"Well, George," said Uncle Martin, "how are things going?"

"I'm going to be elected, if that's what you mean," answered George.

Doolittle gave a snort. "Indeed, are ye?" said he. "As a friend and
well-wisher, I'm sure I'm delighted to hear the news." "Do I understand
that you have your doubts, Mr. Doolittle?" Jaffry inquired mildly.

"There's two things we need and need badly, Mr. Jaffry," said Doolittle.
"One's money--"

"A small campaign contribution would not be rejected?"

"But there's something we need more than money--and God knows I never
expected to say them words--and that's common sense."

"Good," said Uncle Martin, "I have plenty of that, too!"

"Then for the love of Mike pass some of it on to this precious nephew of
yours."

"What seems to be the matter?"

"It's them women," said Doolittle.

Uncle Martin turned inquiringly to George: "The tender flowers?" he
suggested.

"Look here, Uncle Martin," said George, who had had a good deal of this
sort of thing to bear, "I don't understand you. Do you believe in woman
suffrage?"

Uncle Martin contemplated a new crumpling of his long-suffering cap before
he answered. "Yes and no, George. I believe in it in the same way that
I believe in old age and death. I can't avoid them by denying their
existence."

"But you fight against them, and put them off as long as you can."

"But I yield a little to them, too, George. What is it? Has Genevieve
become a convert to suffrage?"

"Has Genevieve--has my wife----"

Then George remembered that his uncle was an older man and that chivalry is
not limited to the treatment of the weaker sex.

"No," he said with a calm hardly less magnificent than the tempest would
have been, "no, Uncle Martin, Genevieve has not become a suffragist."

"Well," said Doolittle rising, as if such things were hardly worth his
valuable time, "I fail to see the difference between a suffragette an' a
woman who goes pokin' her nose into what----"

"You're speaking of my wife, Mr. Doolittle," said George, with a
significant lighting of the eye.

"Speakin' in general," said Doolittle.

Uncle Martin was interested. "Has Genevieve been--well, we won't say poking
the nose--but taking a responsible civic interest where it would be better
if she didn't?"

"It seems," answered George, casting an angry glance at his campaign
manager, "that Mr. Doolittle has heard from a friend of his who overheard a
conversation between Betty Sheridan and my wife at luncheon. From this he
inferred that the two were planning an investigation of some of the city's
problems."

Uncle Martin looked relieved.

"Oh, your wife and your stenographer. That can be stopped, I suppose,
without undue exertion."

"Betty is no longer my stenographer."

"Left, has she?" said Jaffry. "I had an idea she would not stay with you
long."

This intimation was not agreeable to George. He would have liked to explain
that Miss Sheridan's departure had been dictated by the will of the head of
the firm; in fact he opened his mouth to do so. But the remembrance that
this would entail a long and wearisome exposition of his reasons caused
him to remain silent, and his uncle went on: "Well, anyhow, you can get
Geneviève to drop it."

If Doolittle had not been there, George would have been glad to discuss
with his uncle, who had, after all, a sort of worldly shrewdness, how far a
man is justified in controlling his wife's opinions. But before an audience
now a trifle unsympathetic, he could not resist the temptation of making
the gesture of a man magnificently master in his own house.

He smiled quite grandly. "I think I can promise that," he said.

Doolittle got up slowly, bringing his jaws together in a relentless bite on
the unresisting gum.

"Well," he said, "that's all there is to it." And he added significantly as
he reached the door, "If you kin _do_ it!"

When the campaign manager had gone, Uncle Martin asked very, very gently:
"You don't feel any doubt of being able to do it, do you, George?"

"About my ability to control--I mean influence, my wife? I feel no doubt at
all."

"And Penfield, I suppose, can tackle Betty? You won't mind my saying that
of the two I think your partner has the harder job."

A slight cloud appeared upon the brow of the candidate.

"I don't feel inclined to ask any favor of Penny just at present," he said
haughtily. "Has it ever struck you, Uncle Martin, that Penny has an unduly
emotional, an almost feminine type of mind?"

"No," said the other, "it hasn't, but that is perhaps because I have never
been sure just what the feminine type of mind is."

"You know what I mean," answered George, trying to conceal his annoyance at
this sort of petty quibbling. "I mean he is too personal, over-excitable,
irrational and very hard to deal with."

"Dear me," said Jaffry. "Is Geneviève like that?"

"Geneviève," replied her husband loyally, "is much better poised than most
women, but--yes,--even she--all women are more or less like that."

"All women and Penny. Well, George, you have my sympathy. An excitable
partner, an irrational stenographer, and a wife that's very hard to
deal with!"

"I never said Geneviève was hard to deal with," George almost shouted.

"My mistake--thought you did," answered his uncle, now moving rapidly away.
"Let me know the result of the interview, and we'll talk over ways and
means." And he shut the door briskly behind him.

George walked to the window, with his hands in his pockets. He always liked
to look out while he turned over grave questions in his mind; but this
comfort was now denied to him, for he could not help being distracted by
the voiceless speech still relentlessly turning its pages in the opposite
window.

The heading now was:

DOES THE FIFTY-FOUR-HOUR-A-WEEK LAW APPLY TO FLOWERS?

He flung himself down on his chair with an exclamation. He knew he had to
think carefully about something which he had never considered before, and
that was his wife's character.

Of course he liked to think about Geneviève--; of her beauty, her
abilities, her charms; and particularly he liked to think about her love
for him.

A week ago he would have met the present situation very simply. He would
have put his arm about her and said: "My darling, I think I'd a little
rather you dropped this sort of thing for the present." And that would have
been enough.

But he knew it would not be enough now. He would have to have a reason, a
case.

"Heavens," he thought, "imagine having to talk to one's wife as if she were
the lawyer for the other side."

He did not notice that he was reproaching Geneviève for being too
impersonal, too unemotional and not irrational enough.

When he went home at five, he had thought it out. He put his head into the
sitting-room, where Alys was ensconced behind the tea-kettle.

"Come in, George dear," she called graciously, "and let me give you a
really good cup of tea. It's some I've just ordered for you, and I think
you'll find it an improvement on what you've been accustomed to." George
shut the door again, pretending he had not heard; but he had had time
enough to note that dear little Eleanor was building houses out of his most
treasured books.

The memory of his quarrel with his wife had been partly obliterated by
memories of so many other quarrels during the day that it was only when he
was actually standing in her room that he remembered how very bitter their
parting had been.

He stood looking at her doubtfully, and it was she who came forward and put
her arms about him. They clung to each other like two children who have
been frightened by a nightmare.

"We mustn't quarrel again, George," she said. "I've had a real, true,
old-fashioned pain in my heart all day. But I think I understand better now
than I did. I lunched with Betty and she made me see."

"What did Betty make you see?" asked George nervously, for he had not
perfect confidence in Miss Sheridan's visions.

"That it was all a question of efficiency. She said that in business a
man's stenographer is just an instrument to make his work easier, and if
for any reason at all that instrument does not suit him he is justified in
getting rid of it, and in finding one that does."

"Betty is very generous," he said coldly. He wanted to hear his wife say
that she had not thought him pompous; it was very hard to be thankful for a
mere ethical rehabilitation.

Part of his thought-out plan was that Geneviève must herself tell him of
the Woman's Forum's investigation; it would not do for him to let her know
he had heard of it through a political eavesdropper. So after a moment he
added casually:

"And what else did Betty have to say?"

"Nothing much."

His heart sank. Was Geneviève becoming uncandid?

"Nothing else," he said. "Just to justify me in your eyes?"

She hesitated, "No, that was not quite all, but it is too early to talk
about it yet."

"Anything that interests you, my dear, I should like to hear about from the
beginning." Perhaps Geneviève was not so unemotional after all, for at this
expression of his affection, her eyes filled with tears.

"I long to tell you," she said. "I only hesitated on your account, but of
course I want all your help and advice. It's this: There seems to be no
doubt that the conditions under which women are working in our factories
are hideous--dangerous--the law is broken with perfect impunity. I know you
can't act on rumors and hearsay. Even the inspectors don't give out the
truth. And so we are going to persuade the Woman's Forum to abandon its old
policy of mere discussion.

"We--Betty and I--are going to get the members for once to act--to make an
investigation; so that the instant you come into the office you will have
complete information at your disposal--facts, and facts and facts on which
you can act."

She paused and looked eagerly at her husband, who remained silent. Seeing
this she went on:

"I know what you're thinking. I thought of it myself. Am I justified in
using my position in the Woman's Forum to further your political career?
Well, my answer is, it isn't your political career, only; it's truth and
justice that will be furthered."

Here in the home there was no voiceless speech to make the view
intolerable, and George moved away from his wife and walked to the window.
He looked out on his own peaceful trees and lawn, and on Hanna, like a
tiger in the jungle, stalking a competent little sparrow.

A temptation was assailing George. Suppose he did put his opposition to
this investigation on a high and mighty ground? Suppose he announced a
moral scruple? But no, he cast Satan behind him.

"Geneviève," he said, turning sharply toward her, "this question puts our
whole attitude to a test. If you and I are two separate individuals, with
different responsibilities, different interests, different opinions, then
we ought to be consistent; that ought to mean economic independence of
each other, and equal suffrage; it means that husband and wife may become
business competitors and political opponents.

"But if, as you know I believe, a man and woman who love each other are
one, are a unit as far as society is concerned, why then our interests are
identical, and it is simply a question of which of us two is better able to
deal with any particular situation."

"But that is what I believe, too, George."

"I hoped it was, dear; I know it used to be. Then you must let me act for
you in this matter."

"Yes, in the end; but an investigation--"

"My darling, politics is not an ideal; it is a practical human institution.
Just at present, from the political point of view, such an investigation
would do me incalculable harm."

"George!"

He nodded. "It would probably lose me the election."

"But why?"

"Geneviève, am I your political representative or not?"

"You are," she smiled at him, "and my dear love as well; but may I not even
know why?"

"If you dismissed the cook, and I summoned you before me and bade you give
me your reasons for such an action, would you not feel in your heart that I
was disputing your judgment?"

She looked at him honestly. "Yes, I should."

"And I would not do such a discourteous thing to you. In the home you are
absolute. Whatever you do, whatever you decide, is right. I would not dream
of questioning. Will you not give me the same confidence in my special
department?"

There was a short pause; then Geneviève held out her hand.

"Yes, George," she said, "I will, but on one condition----"

"_I_ did not make conditions, Geneviève."

"You do not have to, my dear. You know that I am really your representative
in the house; that I am really always thinking of your wishes. You must do
the same as my political representative. I mean, if I am not to do this
work myself, you must do it for me."

"Even if I consider it unwise?"

"Unwise to protect women and children?"

"Geneviève," he said seriously, as one who confides something not
always confided to women, "enforcing law sometimes does harm."

"But an investigation----"

"That's where you are ignorant, my dear. If an investigation is made,
especially if the women mix themselves up in it, then we shall have no
choice but enforcement."

She had sunk down on her sofa, but now she sprang up. "And you don't mean
to enforce the law" in respect of women? Is that why you don't want the
investigation?"

"Not at all. You are most unjust. You are most illogical, Geneviève. All
I am asking is that the whole question should not be taken up at this
moment--just before election."

"But this is the only moment when we can find out whether or not you are a
candidate who will do what we want."

"_We_, Geneviève! Who do you mean by 'we'?"

She stared for a second at him, her eyes growing large and dark with
astonishment.

"Oh, George," she gasped finally, "I think I meant women when I said 'we.'
George, I'm afraid I'm a _suffragist_. And oh," she added, with a sort of
wail, "I don't want to be, I don't want to be!"

"Damn Betty Sheridan," exclaimed George. "This is all her doing."

His wife shook her head. "No," she said, "it wasn't Betty who made me see."

"Who was it?"

"It was you, George."

"I don't understand you."

"You made me see why women want to vote for themselves. How can you
represent me, when we disagree fundamentally?"

"How can we disagree fundamentally when we love each other?"

"You mean that because we love each other, I must think as you do?"

"What else could I mean, darling?"

"You might have meant that you would think as I do."

George glanced at her in deep offense.

"We have indeed drifted far apart," he said.

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and the news was conveyed to
George that Mr. Evans was downstairs asking to see him.

"Oh dear," said Geneviève, "it seems as if we never could get a moment by
ourselves nowadays. What does Penny want?"

"He wants to tell me whether he intends to dissolve partnership or not."

Any fear that his wife had disassociated herself from his interests
should have been dispelled by the tone in which she exclaimed: "Dissolve
partnership! Penny? Well, I never in my life! Where would Penny be without
you, I should like to know! He must be crazy."

These words made George feel happier than anything that had happened to him
throughout this day. His self-esteem began to revive.

"I think Penny has been a little hasty," he said, judicially but not
unkindly. "He lost all self-control when he heard I had let Betty go."

"Isn't that like a man," said Geneviève, "to throw away his whole future
just because he loses his temper?"

George did not directly answer this question, and his wife went on.
"However, it will be all right. He has seen Betty this afternoon, and she
won't let him do anything foolish."

George glanced at her. "You mean that Betty will prevent his leaving the
firm?"

"Of course she will."

George walked to the door.

"I seem to owe a good deal to my former stenographer," he said, "my wife,
my partner; next, perhaps it will be my election."




CHAPTER X

BY ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD


Penny, pacing the drawing-room with pantheresque strides, came to a tense
halt as Remington entered.

"Well?" he said, his eyes hard, his unwelcoming hands thrust deep into his
pockets.

That identical "well" with its uptilt of question had been on George's
tongue. It was a monosyllable that demanded an answer. Penny had got ahead
of him, forced him, as it were, into the witness chair, and he resented it.

"Seems to me," he began hotly, "that you were the one who was going to
make the statements--' whether or no,' I believe, we were to continue in
partnership."

"Perhaps," retorted Penny, with the air of allowing no great importance to
that angle of the argument, "but what I want to know is, _are_ you going to
be a square man, and own up you were peeved into being a tyrant? And when
you've done that, are you going to tell Betty, and apologize?"

George hesitated, trapped between his irritation and the still small voice.

"Look here," he said, with that amiable suavity that had won him many a
concession, "you know well enough I don't want to hurt Betty's feelings. If
she feels that way about it, of course I'll apologize."

His partner looked at him in blank amazement.

"Gad!" he exclaimed as if examining a particularly fine specimen of some
rare beetle, "what a bounder."

"Meaning me?" snapped George.

"Don't dare to quibble. Look me in the eye."

There was a third degree fatality about the usually debonair Penny that
exacted obedience. George unwillingly looked him in the eye, and had a
ghastly feeling of having his suddenly realized smallness X-rayed.

"You know damned well you acted like a cad," Penny continued, "and I want
to know, for all our sakes, if you're man enough to own it?"

George's fundamental honesty mastered him. Anger died from his eyes. His
clenched hands relaxed and began an unconscious and nervous exploration for
a cigarette.

"Since you put it that way," he said, "and it happens that my conscience
agrees with you--I'll go you. I _was_ a cad, and I'll tell Betty so.
Confound it!" he growled, "I don't know _what's_ come over me these days.
I've got to get a grip on myself."

"You _bet_ you have," said Penny, hauling his fists from his trousers as if
with an effort. Then he grinned. "Betty said you would."

George's eyes darkened.

"And I'll tell you now," Penny went on, "since you've turned out at least
half-decent, Betty'll let you off that apology thing. _She_ wasn't the
one who was exacting it--not she. _I_ couldn't stand for your highfalutin
excuses for being--well, never mind--we all get our off days. But don't
you get off again like that if----" Penny hesitated. "If you want me for a
partner," which seemed the obvious conclusion, was tame. "If you want to
hang on to any one's respect," he finished.

"Say, though," he murmured, "Betty'll give me 'what for' for drubbing you.
She actually took your side--said--oh, never mind--tried to make me think
of her just as if she was any old Mamie--the stenog--tried to prune out
personal feeling."

"By Jove," he ruminated, "that girl's a corker!"

He raised forgiving eyes from his contemplation of the rug.

"Well, old man, blow me to a Scotch and soda, and I'll be going. Dinged if
it wouldn't have broken me all up to have busted with you, even if you are
a box of prunes. Shake."

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