I
THE Convention gathered. It was an event signal enough to make an impress even on the great city. Convention Week was recognized by every one, hotel men, shop keepers, railroad men, newspapers, pickpockets, police, students in the great universities at the city’s gates, and the great subordinate multitude which read the newspapers and accepted the ruling of politics or commerce, as to which days should be held apart—Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Convention Week.
The streets were hung with banners, great, swinging canvas pieces of propaganda, bearing crude likenesses of candidates and still cruder catchwords supposed to represent their opinions or those of their opinions likely to excite popular pleasure. In the hotel lobbies men swarmed. Desk clerks, sated with patronage, gave smiling and condescending negations to those who applied for rooms. The girls at the cigar counters and newspaper stands worked steadily, throwing back saucy rejoinders to the occasional impudences of the men.
It was mostly a gathering of men, a smoky, hot, sweating collection of men who had a certain kind of training in this game of conventions and politics. They flung themselves into their parts, gossiping, joking, occasionally forceful, immensely knowing. No one of them was there who did not feel himself a commissioned prophet—perhaps not as to ultimate but as to tendencies anyhow. They spoke the great names with a jesting respect, the lesser ones with camaraderie or a fillip of scorn—but for any suggestion of political idealists or of women they had a smile. They admitted the fact that women had been put in the show but it wasn’t going to change the show any. They knew.
Here and there in the hotels were groups of women, well dressed for the most part, some of them handsome, all of them more alert, less careless than the men—talking wisely too but with more imagination, with a kind of excited doubt as to the outcome, and despite themselves showing a delighted naïveté in their bearing towards the whole event. That was on the first day before the heat had really lowered over the city.
Helen and Margaret had been well provided for. They had long before engaged rooms in one of the most comfortable hotels where previous patronage made Helen able to choose her accommodations. Gage who had come after all, had no reservations anywhere and apparently no particular worry about them. He could always get in somewhere and he had no intention of staying at the same hotel with Helen and Margaret. He breakfasted with them on the train and enjoyed it in spite of himself, enjoyed being able to watch Helen and to bait Margaret with political pessimism and a jocular scorn as to the effect of women on the Convention. When they arrived he saw them to their hotel and left Helen to her “glory” he said, a little mockingly.
“It’s hot,” he said. “Don’t try to make over the whole Party to-day, my dear.”
“I won’t,” said Helen. Her eyes met his. For thirty-six hours every glance, every gesture towards him had been unreal, mechanically controlled. She was not apparently angry—nor cold. It was rather as if when she spoke to him she had no feeling. Deep in himself, Gage was frightened. He guessed the fact that anger is often a denial of loss of illusion and that in Helen’s utter lack of response there was something deadly, ominous. A glimmer of respect for her work came as he first saw her, the morning after their catastrophic night, not moping or storming, but studying notes for her seconding speech. But the glimmer faded. It was because she really didn’t care. Shallow feelings, easy to suppress, he told himself. She had probably told Margaret about the whole thing and Margaret had tipped her off as to how to behave. That thought struck him and made him curdle with anger again.
If it had not been for Helen there was no doubt that he would have regarded the women with a kind of tolerance and with some speculation regarding their usefulness. There was a chance that they might be useful. But the intensity of his feelings, starting from his invaded love for his wife, from that sense of exterior influences over which he had no control and which he did not trust coming into the privacy of their relations, mauling those delicacies by weighing, appraising emotions and loyalties, chipping off a bit here and a bit there, bargaining, discussing, leaving a great imprint of self-consciousness of the whole, had spoiled all that. Gage was confused. He was in revolt against a hundred, a thousand things, and that he was not quite sure of the justice of his revolt made it none the easier for him.
He was in the lobby of the Congress Hotel, turning away from the cigar counter, alone for the minute, when he felt a touch on his arm and turned to see Mrs. Thorstad. She was dressed in a neat dark suit and a tan sailor hat, rimmed precisely with white daisies, looking very competent and attractive.
“How do you do, Mr. Flandon?” she asked.
He gazed down at her, smiling. She amused him and intrigued him. When he watched Mrs. Thorstad he felt convinced that all his protest against the progress of women was somehow justified. It was his quarrel with Margaret and the foundation of his dislike of her that he could not get the same feeling with her and had to build it up with anger.
“I hope you’re well,” he answered, as he shook hands with her.
“I want to thank you for all your kindness to Freda. You’ve given her a great opportunity to find herself.”
Word slinging, thought Gage. What did she mean by “finding herself?”
“She’s a great addition to my office force.” He wondered what this little person would say if she knew, as she so obviously did not, of the tumultuous marriage of her daughter, of the ugly stream of gossip that was pouring about her feet.
“I have the greatest respect for the woman in business,” went on Mrs. Thorstad. “Of course I confess I had hoped that Freda would interest herself in something possibly a little more humanitarian, something perhaps a little more idealistic—oh, I don’t mean to decry the law, Mr. Flandon, but we can’t help feeling that the business world lacks certain great ideals—”
Gage grinned, looking like a great humorous puppy.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse me, if you will. I see a man over there I must speak to.”
Mrs. Thorstad smiled in acquiescence, leaving her chair herself. She sent a dutiful postal to Mr. Thorstad and went out on the Avenue in front of the hotel. She had calls to make. The galling sense of the fact that her impress on the Convention must be a slight one was undoubtedly under her gallant, moral little smile. To be sure she had come to the Convention, she had a seat reserved, she was, as she always would be, taking what she could get, but if Margaret Duffield had not come West it might have been more.
None the less she called on Miss Duffield and Mrs. Flandon. She found them at their hotel where congregated a brilliant circle. Harriet Thompson, renowned from coast to coast as a leader of women, was there. She was a rather plain woman of forty-five, lean faced with good brown eyes and a rather disconcerting way of seeming to leap at you intimately to discover what sort of person you were. And there were Grace Hawlett, the novelist, and the wives and sisters of famous politicians. It was a gay, knowledgeable group. Most of the women knew Margaret and were instantly attracted by Helen’s beauty and charm of manner. Margaret introduced Mrs. Thorstad as “one of the best woman organizers in the Middle West,” and they were all cordial. Mrs. Thompson took the Mohawk leader aside for a little talk. It was astonishing how much Mrs. Thompson knew about the situation in St. Pierre—how she had her finger on the strength of the women and the strength of the organization in the entire state. She put rapid questions to Mrs. Thorstad and checked her a little abruptly in the middle of some generalities.
“How did you all like Miss Duffield?” she asked.
“Very much indeed,” answered Mrs. Thorstad, with the slightest pursing of lips. The keen brown eyes looked at her for a minute. It was not the answer usually made to a question about Margaret Duffield.
Mrs. Thorstad departed to find her own kind. She knew she was not at home in that particular group which while it awed her by its sparkle of mind and personality, yet left her resentful, and she went on the round of her further calls. She found women with petty lobbying to do, with little reputations which they wished to secure, airing their platitudes and generalities to each other in heavy agreement, talking of the new day and denouncing the vagaries of modernity with a fervor that was half jealous, half fearful.
Harriet Thompson looked at Margaret after Mrs. Thorstad had left them. She always liked to look at Margaret. The serenity in her calm face, the touch of austerity which kept it from becoming placid, pleased her. She crossed to where she was sitting.
“What did you do to that little person, Margaret?”
“I? I didn’t do anything. She rather wanted to be delegate at large in Helen’s place, I think. Don’t speak of it to Helen. I told Helen there was no one else even willing to do it.”
“Your Mrs. Flandon is a lovely person.”
She wondered, as she said that, at the soft flush of enthusiasm which came over Margaret’s face.
“Isn’t she? She’s just what you want, too. I hope she keeps interested.”
“Isn’t she very much interested?”
“Yes—but it’s not too easy for her. Her husband’s rather opposed—makes it difficult.”
“Odd that a woman like that should be married to a reactionary.”
“He isn’t at all an ordinary reactionary,” said Margaret. “He’s a politician, without any illusions. Hates all the publicity she gets. I think he wants her to himself you see—most awfully in love.”
“He’ll never have her to himself if she gets into this game. She’s the sort of woman, from the little I’ve seen of her that we need. Brains and personality—not a wild woman or an old fashioned suffragist. Did she reconcile the husband?”
“Not a bit. He’s here. You ought to meet him. But better carry a weapon.”
“He might be rather interesting.”
“He is all of that.”
“After all, Margaret, it is rather hard on some of these men. I’ve seen it before. They suddenly have so little of their wives to themselves. It affects them like the income tax. They hate to give up so large a share of their property.”
“To a government they distrust. That’s it with Gage. He doesn’t mind Helen doing any amount of music. But he hates all kinds and forms of modern feminism. Thinks it’s shameless and corrupting.”
“It is pretty shameless and sometimes a little corrupting. There’s a lot in the man’s point of view that you never saw, Margaret. They’re fighting for themselves of course but they’re fighting for the sex too. It’s all right, too. Man is, I sometimes think, the natural preserver of sex. Women get along very well without it, or with enough of it to decently populate the earth. But men are the real sentimentalists. A woman’s ruthless when she begins to houseclean her sentiments. A man never likes to throw anything away, you know, according to the tradition. He doesn’t like to throw away sex. He’s used it badly, spotted it up and all that—in his lucid moments he’ll even admit it. But none the less it’s very often the one thing which can excite his tenderness and reverence and when he sees us invade the home, as he says, it isn’t that he’s afraid the dishes won’t get washed. He says that, but what he is afraid of is that we’ll find the secret places of his sentiment and ravish them. I’m awfully sorry for some of the men. They’re going through a lot just now. They seem to feel so left out, under all their loud jocosity and foolish talk—you know,” she ended a little weakly.
“I know. I’ve been sorry for Gage myself. Terribly sorry for him. But I don’t see how one can make concessions. What I’m afraid of is that in his bitterness he’ll break Helen down. And she might give in but she’d never forgive him now.”
“You’ve done some speedy work, haven’t you? Smashed up homes and everything. What happened to your own pet Sinn Feiner?”
“He’s lecturing somewhere or other.”
“Is that all off?”
“It never was on.”
“You couldn’t get absorbed in his enthusiasm because you’ve got one of your own, haven’t you?”
“I have yours.”
Mrs. Thompson patted her affectionately on the arm. Her contacts were all warm and intimate. With men and women alike, she seemed to get inside their minds and look out on the world as they saw it.
“You’re a dear girl,” she told her, “but you must remember that humanity is a bigger thing even than feminism, Margaret. Be a little more tender towards the poor men. After all, they can’t all be transported.”
All afternoon the crowds swelled. In the evening the great hotel dining-rooms were filled with people who represented almost everything—power, wealth, notoriety, ambition. Headquarters were established. Newspaper men idled to and fro, joking, prophesying, gossiping. Underneath the fatuousness of much of the pretense that this was a great popular meeting, most of the people knew that the rules were already laid down and things would take their course—must take their course. And yet there was a certain amount of fair speculation as to whether in some way the great leaders might not be outwitted after all—whether some new element might not show sudden strength, whether the unorganized, half formulated hopes and ideals of millions of ordinary people might this time put themselves across and lead instead of follow. The Convention, like the world, was attuned to surprises, revolts, inexplicable overturnings.
Helen was more than excited. A little less than two days ago she had felt that she could not go on with this—that the personal agony had to be fought out first. To her amazement she found that Margaret had been right. Helen had always agreed with her that women were really not dependent on emotion but that had been because Margaret’s contention seemed reasonable and to take the other side hardly worthy. An inner feeling had persisted that after all Margaret was unmarried and didn’t—couldn’t know the strength of the emotional pull. But now she found herself breaking through personal emotional wreckage to impersonal interest—or if not impersonal interest at least interest in which sex played no part. She had at first kept up the signs of control because she must. Now she no longer needed the signs. She thought of Gage almost dispassionately. Now and then the tragedy of the ruined feeling between them shook her violently. But she could see their situation spread out before her. She could see it in relation to the children, to other work. She could see where things must be stopped in that they did not improve. And most of the time she hardly thought of Gage at all. She was responding to all the excitement and interest and admiration around her. She felt part of a great organization about to act in ways which would affect the world. The great sensibility of her woman’s imagination, undulled by much experience in the direction of things beyond her contact, was played upon by a vision of great power which she might help direct.
For the first time she understood what Margaret meant by the freedom of women and why she was not content with the formal letting down of the gates. She understood what some of the others meant when they talked of the easy contemporary victories as obscuring the real things which women needed.
The best of them did not talk the lingo of the “new day.” They knew that any day was not new long enough to get used to its title. They talked of adjustment of contemporary circumstances to an evolution as old as that of civilization, as old as that of man—merged with male development and yet distinct from it again. They avoided catch words and the flattery which was sprinkled so thickly, avoided it not pedantically but with humorous knowledge of its purpose.
They dined with Mrs. Thompson and three other women and held a kind of informal court afterwards in one of the parlors of the hotel. Every notable man who came into the hotel seemed to want a word with Mrs. Thompson. She had a way with them that they all liked, a kind of keen camaraderie, especially effective in a woman who, like Mrs. Thompson, could never be accused of trying out any arts of sex attraction. They liked her company and her brisk tongue and there was added interest in finding such company in a woman. Helen met the Senators—the men whose names the party conjured with and handled them as she handled most people—skillfully.
It was a little after nine when Helen saw Gage at the end of the room. She had been talking with a gray haired, affable Senator who was telling her what a beneficent influence the women were to have on the Convention and she was excited, amused and sparkling. She was wearing a dinner dress of black lace that Gage had always liked and as she caught his eyes on her that was the first thought which flashed through her mind. It was followed by a quick appraisal of Gage himself. He was looking a little untidy and showing clearly the signs of recent strain and worry.
He did not make his way to her at once. He stopped to talk casually to some men whom he knew. Helen thought suddenly that Gage was not a big man politically. He did not have nearly as much prestige as Mrs. Thompson of course, not nearly as much strength as she herself might have—. She saw Margaret introducing him to Mrs. Thompson. His manners were bad. He had none of the easy pleasant way with which the other men had come up to her. He must be making an extremely bad impression. It humiliated her somewhat. They were still too close for her not to feel that.
She joined the group where were Gage and Mrs. Thompson and Margaret.
“Have you had a good day, Gage? I called up the house and the children are fine. Not a trace of their colds, Esther said.”
He nodded gravely. Their eyes met, denying any intimacies of exchange, coldly, a little cruelly.
“I hear your wife is to make the prize seconding speech to-morrow, Mr. Flandon,” said Harriet Thompson, bending towards him.
“I have no doubt of it,” said Gage.
“Do your views agree?” asked the older woman lightly.
“Very seldom,” answered Gage. He had not made it light. It was like the flick of a whip.
Margaret interposed.
“Gage doesn’t believe in women’s progress, Harriet—don’t get him started, please.”
“I wish he would get started. There are plenty of times when I think we’re all talking balderdash and it would be a relief to hear some one give testimony against us. What is the matter with women, Mr. Flandon?”
Gage’s tired, half-haunted eyes looked at her as if he suspected mockery but he found none.
“According to most belief, there is nothing the matter with them. They are supremely successful. They’ve got what they wanted. If they don’t like the taste of their little mess of pottage as they eat it, it will be unfortunate.”
“You don’t think they will like it?”
“I may be mistaken. It may suit their taste.”
“I’m afraid it won’t but it’s the best food we’re able to provide so far. Perhaps we’ve overpaid for it.”
“You have.”
He stopped, abruptly conscious of being drawn into discussion in public. Margaret and Helen had been listening to the brief dialogue, and he stiffened to the sense of their presence.
“I can’t stay, Helen—I’ve an appointment. Is there anything I can do?”
She walked with him to the end of the room, impelled by a desire to preserve what she could of appearances but more by an unexpected pain at having him leave her. She did not want him to stay—she was clear about that, but she hated to have him go away in that lonely fashion. The gentleness that welled up only lasted for a moment. He was ugly still. She could tell by the set of his lips. It brought back her terribly painful memories.
“Good night, Gage.”
That was all. Towards morning Gage went to bed. He had been drinking other people’s whisky and he was ill enough to suspect it had not been good stuff.