A Woman for Mayor: A Novel of To-day

by Helen M. Winslow

All through the Monday preceding the debate Gertrude Van Deusen worked in her library, to prepare her speech for the evening. She had become familiar enough with her own voice so that she spoke easily and well to audiences of all sizes and degrees of intelligence, but this evening was to witness a trial of strength, a matching of wits which put her on her mettle. For John Allingham was a fine speaker, with a magnetic presence, clear logic, and a control of his audience that made him a powerful opponent, and Gertrude Van Deusen, although she would have died rather than own it, trembled secretly at the coming contest.

At six she ate her dinner with as much calmness as was possible under the circumstances, and proceeded to dress for the evening. She was one of the women who realize that appearances count with an audience, as well as words, and she put on her most becoming array. At half-past seven her maid came up from the door:

"They've sent for you," she announced. "An automobile is at the door."

"Why, I didn't know the committee was going to send for me," said Miss Van Deusen. "I ordered the carriage for a quarter to eight. Go down and ask the chauffeur—no, never mind. It's all right, no doubt. I'll go with him. Call up Thomas and tell him he needn't take the horses out tonight. But first hand me my fur coat and put on my over-shoes."

The maid obeyed and in five minutes more Gertrude Van Deusen was being tucked into the electric cab, by a chauffeur well wrapped up and muffled to his ears. The glass doors were closed tightly, Gertrude congratulating herself that she was shut away from the cold, clear January air, and that her horses might stand in their comfortable stalls. And then they whizzed away.

It was some moments before she noticed that they were going up the street instead of down it; but immediately she remembered that the city was repaving one of the streets between her home and the hall where she was to appear, and since they were evidently going to take the "longer way around" she settled back in her seat and began, once more, to rehearse the carefully-prepared speech for the evening. She had gone nearly through with it when she noticed that the streets, instead of being more thickly settled as they approached her intended destination, were wider, with scattered residences along the way; and that they were going at a rapid pace, over the smooth ground. It was a bright moonlit night, and there was a clear sky twinkling with stars. The onrush of the cab made no impression of a wind against her cheek, because she was so well shut away from the outside world, but through the glass windows she noted the beautiful, quiet night, and saw that they were fast leaving the city behind and gliding into the country.

Through the glass she could see the chauffeur sitting, almost immovable, intent upon his machine, and turning neither to the right or left, and a feeling of terror seized upon her as she realized that she was being carried away she knew not where, and that she was quite alone and helpless. She called to the chauffeur, but he paid no attention whatever to her cries. She shook the doors to her cab-prison, but she could not open them; she rapped on the glass front close to the driver's ears, but for all the notice he took of her she might have been a moth fluttering in the background of the night. And all the time they were rushing on, on, on, into the great calm of the moonlit night, beyond the glare of electric lights, beyond the suburban dwellings, beyond the cheerful farmhouses, and into the wooded roads which she recognized as belonging to a neighboring town, at least fifteen miles from Roma. She called again and again; she pounded the glass-front with the silver top of her purse—the only thing in her possession which could make a noise, but still the chauffeur sat motionless as if he were entirely alone. She rose in her seat and called to the driver of a team as they passed it; she tried to get the attention of a solitary foot-passenger, but the car flew too fast, and if the men saw her she was out of their reach before they could answer.

Then she settled back, exhausted. She realized now, that she was the victim of some trick of the opposition party. She looked at her watch. A quarter of nine. By now she should have made her speech. John Allingham was having everything his own way now, beyond a doubt. Possibly—probably, he was behind this attempt to kidnap her—afraid to meet a woman on a public platform; for that was it, disguise the thing as they might by saying he would not debate with a woman. Contemptible!

And still they flew on into the shining, moonlight night, out from the fine old wood road, along the river-way, miles and miles away.

If they were unwilling to match wits with a woman, why did they not say so? Why condescend to kidnaping a woman and running away with her from the fight? If this was the kind of a man John Allingham was—