Chapter I: At the Bronwleys’

I

Gage Flandon put his wife’s fur cloak around her and stood back, watching her as she took a final glance into the long mirror in the hall.

“I’m quite excited,” she said. “Margaret always excites me and I do want you to meet her. She really must come to stay with us, Gage.”

“If you like. I’m not so keen.”

“Afraid of strong-minded women?”

“It’s not their strong minds I’m afraid of, Helen.”

“Their alluring personalities?” She slipped an arm into his and led him to the door.

“Not even that. Their horrible consciousness--self-consciousness. Their nervousness. Their aggressiveness. Most of all, I hate the idea of their effect on you.”

“You sound as if whole cohorts of strong-minded rapacious women were storming the city instead of one old college friend of mine come to bolster up the fortunes of your own political party.”

Flandon helped her into the automobile.

“You know what I mean,” he said briefly.

He stayed silent and Helen Flandon left him to it. But even in the darkness of the car he could feel her excitement and his own irritation at it bothered him. There was no reason, he told himself, to have conceived this prejudice against this friend of Helen’s, this Margaret Duffield. Except that he had heard so much about her. Except that she was always being quoted to him, always writing clever letters to his wife, producing exactly that same nervous excitement which characterized her mood to-night. An unhealthy mood. He hated fake women, he told himself angrily, and was angry at himself for his prejudice.

“It’s too bad to drag you out to meet her. But I couldn’t go to the Brownleys’, of all places, alone, could I?”

“Of course not. I don’t mind coming. I want to see Brownley anyway. I don’t mind meeting your friend, Helen. Probably I’ll like her. But I don’t like to see you excited and disturbed as she always makes you. Even in letters.”

“Nonsense.”

“No--quite true. You’re not real. You begin by wondering whether you’ve kept up to the college standard of women again. You wonder if you’ve gone to seed and begin worrying about it. You get different. Even to me.”

“How foolish, Gage.”

Her voice was very sweet and she slipped along the seat of the car until she was pressed close beside him. He turned her face up to his.

“I don’t care what the rest of the fool women do, Helen. But I do so love you when you’re real--tangible--sweet.”

“I’m always real, about five pounds too tangible and invariably sweet.”

“You’re utterly unreliable, anyway. You promised me you’d keep clear of this political stuff at least for a while. You quite agreed with me that you were not the kind of person for it. Then along comes this Duffield woman to stir up things and you forget everything you said to me and are off in Mrs. Brownley’s train.”

“I’m not in anybody’s train, Gage.” Mrs. Flandon straightened up. “And I don’t intend to be in anybody’s train. But it’s a different thing to show decent interest in what other women are thinking and doing. Perhaps you don’t want me to read the newspapers either.”

“I merely want you to be consistent. I don’t want you to be one of these--”

“Fake women,” supplied his wife. “You repeat yourself badly, dear.”

Entering the Brownley drawing-room a few minutes after his wife, Gage found no difficulty in picking out the object of his intended dislike. She was standing beside Helen and looked at him straightly at his entrance with a level glance such as used to be the prerogative of men alone. He had only a moment to appraise her as he crossed the room. Rather prettier--well, he had been warned of that, she had carried the famous Daisy Chain in college,--cleverly dressed, like his own wife, but a trifle more eccentric perhaps in what she was wearing. Not as attractive as Helen--few women were that and they usually paled a little beside her charm. A hard line about her mouth--no, he admitted that it wasn’t hard--undeveloped perhaps. About Helen’s age--she looked it with a certain fairness--about thirty-one or two.

She met him with the same directness with which she had regarded him, giving him her hand with a charming smile which seemed to be deliberately purged of coquetry and not quite friendly, he felt, though that, he quickly told himself, must be the reflection of his own mood.

“And how do you find Helen?” he asked her.

“Very beautiful--very dangerous, as usual.”

“Dangerous?”

“Helen is always dangerous. She uses her power without directing it.”

He had a sense of relief. That was what he had been feeling for. That was the trouble with Helen. But on that thought came quickly irritation at the personal comment, at the divination of the woman he disapproved of.

“It is sometimes a relief,” he said, “to find some woman who is not deliberately directing her powers.”

“You make my idea crystallize into an ugly thought, Mr. Flandon. It’s hardly fair.”

There she was, pulling him into heavy argument. He felt that he had been awkward and that it was entirely her fault. He took refuge in the commonplaces of gallantry.

“Ugly thoughts are impossible in some company. You’re quite mistaken in my meaning.”

She smiled, a half amused smile which did not so much reject his compliment as show him how impervious she was to such things. Deliberately she turned to Helen who had been enveloped by the ponderous conversation of the host. Mr. Brownley liked to talk to Helen and Helen was giving him that absorbed attention which she usually gave to any man. Gage and Margaret joined them, and as if she wondered at the brevity of their initial exchange, Helen gave them a swift glance.

“Well,” she said, “have the feminist and the anti-feminist found peace in each other?”

“She refuses to be complimented,” grinned Gage, rather sheepishly, immensely grateful to Helen for making a joke of that momentary antagonism.

“Have women given up their liking for compliments?” Mr. Brownley beamed upon them beneficently, quite conscious of his ability to remain gallant in his own drawing-room. “Not these women surely.”

Gage flushed a little. It was almost what he himself had said. It had been his tone.

“We have been given so much more than compliments, Mr. Brownley,” said Margaret Duffield, “that they seem a little tasteless after stronger food.”

“Not tasteless to most of us. Perhaps to a few, like Margaret. But most of us, men and women, will like them as long as we have that passion for appearing to ourselves as we would like to be and not as we are.”

Over recovered ease of manner, Gage smiled at Helen. She had taken that up neatly. She had penetration, not a doubt of it. Why did she try then to subordinate herself to these other women, people like this Duffield girl, these arrogant spinsters? He greeted his hostess, who came from the library, where a group of people were already settled about the card tables.

“Will you make a fourth with the Stantons and Emily Haight, please, Gage? You like a good game and Emily can furnish it.”

Mrs. Brownley was a tall, elaborately marcelled woman of about fifty. Handsome, people said, as they do say it of a woman who commands their eyes even when the sex attraction has gone. She had the ease of a woman whose social position is of long standing, the graciousness of one who has nothing to gain and the slight aggressiveness of one who has much to bestow. Gage liked her. He remembered distinctly the time of her reign as one of the “younger matrons”--he had been a boy home from college when, at thirty-five, Mrs. Brownley, successfully the mother of two children, was dominating the gayety of the city’s social life. Just as now--her hair gray and marcelled, and her dancing vivacity cleverly changed into an eagerness of interest in “welfare work” or “civic activity”--she released energies more in keeping with her age.

“I’ll go anywhere you want me to,” he said, “I’ll play checkers or casino. I’ll do anything--except talk to feminist females.”

“Well, Emily’s surely no feminist--go along then--”

It was a very small party, a dinner of ten to which the Flandons had not been able to come because of a late afternoon meeting at Gage’s office. So he and Helen had come along later, informally, to meet the guest of honor, now sitting with Helen on a divan, out of the range of the card players.

“Have you begun operations yet?” Helen was asking.

“Oh, no. It’s a very vague job I have and you mustn’t expect too much. I am not supposed to interfere with any local activities--just lend a hand in getting new women interested, speaking a bit, that sort of thing, rousing up women like you who ought to be something more than agreeable dilettantes.”

“If I’m agreeable--” began Helen.

“I won’t be put off. You write that nonsense in your letters. Why aren’t you interested in all this?”

“I truly am. Very noticeably. I’m secretary to this and treasurer to that--all the women’s things in town. On boards of directors--no end.”

“And you care about them as much as your tone shows. Are you submerged in your husband then?”

“He’d love to hear you say that. Love you for the suspicion and hate you for the utterance. No--hardly submerged. He’s a very fascinating person and I’d go almost any lengths--but hardly submerged. Where did you get the word anyway? Ultra-modern for subjugated? Gage is good to me. Lets me go and come, unchallenged--doesn’t read my letters--”

“Stop being an idiot. I’m not insinuating things against Gage. What I’m trying to find out is what you are interested in.”

“I’m interested in so many things I couldn’t begin to tell you. Psychoanalysis--novels--penny lunches--you--Mrs. Brownley’s career as a politician--my beloved babies--isn’t that enough?”

“I’m not at all sure that it is enough.”

“Well, then you shall find me a new job and I’ll chuck the old ones. Tell me about yourself. I hardly had a chance to hear the other day. So the great Harriet Thompson sent you out to inspire the Middle West with love of the Republican party? It’s hardly like you, Margaret, to be campaigning for anything so shopworn as the Republican party.”

“I do that on the side. What I do primarily is to stir up people to believe in women--especially women in women.”

“Then you don’t believe in the G. O. P.”

“I’m not a campaign speaker, Helen. I’m an organizer. Of course I think I’d rather have the Republicans in than the Democrats for certain obvious reasons but if you mean that I think the Republican candidate will be a Messiah--I don’t. Gage is a Republican--how about you?”

“Half Republican--half Socialist.”

“The extent of your Socialism is probably a subscription to a couple of magazines.”

“About.”

“You ought to focus on something, I think.”

“Go on. It does me good. After years of hearing mouthing nonsense,” Helen spoke with sudden heat, “of hearing people say ‘How wonderful you are, Mrs. Flandon’ and ‘How do you manage to do so much, Mrs. Flandon?’ and all sorts of blithering compliments, it’s wonderful to listen to you. Though I’m not sure I could focus if I wanted to--at least for any definite period. I do, for a while, and then I swing back to being very desperately married or extremely interested in something else. You can’t put Gage in a corner like some husbands, you know, Margaret.”

“I should imagine not.”

“Suppose,” said Mrs. Brownley, coming up to them, now that her other guests were disposed of, “that we have a little talk while the others are busy and plan our work a little. You don’t really mean to carry Miss Duffield off, do you, Helen?”

“I must, Mrs. Brownley. I’ve been trying for years to get this young woman to visit me and, now that she is in the city, I couldn’t let her stay with any one else. I didn’t have any idea that she was going to be the organizer sent by the Women’s Republican Committee.”

“I wouldn’t have been sent either, if Mrs. Thompson hadn’t been dreadfully short of workers. But she was, and I know her very well and though she knows I only go with her part way, I promised to do the best I could to organize things for her and get the women interested, even if I couldn’t speak in behalf of the party and its candidates. You see, Mrs. Brownley, we’ve done so much organization for suffrage work among women that it comes pretty naturally to us to do this other work, just as it does to you.”

Mrs. Brownley nodded.

“You’ll be an immense help, Miss Duffield. What I had sketchily planned was a series of small meetings in the city, lasting over a period of a couple of weeks and then a big rally of all the women. You assure yourself of your audience for the big meeting by working up the small ones.”

“We must have some good speakers,” said Margaret, “I am sure the National Committee will send us those from time to time.”

“The heavy work will be in the country districts.”

“I suppose so. The women there will have to be rounded up and we should have some women of influence from the country districts to work with us. Can you find some?”

“There are some,” answered Mrs. Brownley, “who’ve done a good deal of club work. There’s a Mrs. Ellsmith and there’s a new district chairman for the Federated Clubs who seems to be a bright little woman--a Mrs. Eric Thorstad. She comes from Mohawk, about seventy miles out of the city. It’s a Normal School town, quite a little center for the surrounding villages. We might write to her.”

“We ought to see her,” answered Margaret, “it works better. The more personal contact you get with the women now, the better. Why can’t we go to Mohawk--is that what you called it?--and some of the surrounding towns and do a little rounding up?”

“We could--very easily. Mr. Brownley would let us have the Etta--that’s the special car on his railroad which runs through all that country.”

“I think it would be better not. That identifies us too much, if you don’t mind my saying it, with the railroad. No--let’s take the regular trains. And make this person come with us to do a little talking.” She indicated Helen with a laugh.

“I’ll come,” said Helen, “of course.”

She sat back, as Margaret Duffield went on talking in her deft, sure way, outlining the work to be done. It seemed to Helen that Margaret had hardly changed in eight years. She had been just like this in college, eager, competent, doing things for suffrage, talking feminism. Well, so had Helen, herself. But something had changed her point of view subtly. Was it being married, she wondered? She couldn’t rouse her enthusiasms really over all this woman business any more. Was it laziness? Was it lack of inspiration? Had she been making too many concessions to Gage’s ideas? She must have Margaret at her house. She wanted to see her and Gage in action. How they would row! She laughed a little to herself, thinking of Gage. The warm little feeling crept over her that always returned as she thought of him. How foolish Margaret was to miss all that--living with a man. Suddenly she felt expanded, experienced. She wanted to do something to show that all her discontents had vanished. She had been nervous and dissatisfied since Margaret had come. Well, she had come, and Helen had measured herself up beside her, fearful of shrinkage in her own stature. What was it that to-night had reassured her, made her feel that Margaret had not really gone beyond her, that she was not really jealous of Margaret’s kind of life?

The others were still talking of projected trips into the country. “Let’s go then,” said Helen, leaning forward, “and get them so stirred up that we leave all the old farmers gasping. Let’s start a rebellion of country women. Let’s get them thinking!”

Margaret stared at her.

“That sounds more like you!” she exclaimed.

“I’m full of energy,” said Helen, on her feet now. “Margaret, you must come to my house within three days or I’ll send a policeman for you. And now I’m going to break up Gage’s bridge game.”

She could break it up. Gage was immediately conscious of her. As she sat beside him, pretending quiet and interest, he could feel that she was neither quiet nor interested. He was pleased that she had broken away from the Duffield girl to come to him. He wanted to acknowledge it. To throw down his cards and put his arms about her. Since he couldn’t do that he kept on thinking of it.

“You bring us bad luck, Mrs. Flandon,” said Gage’s partner, with a flavor of tartness.

She rose again, laying her hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder.

“Driven away from the serious minded everywhere. If I go into the music room and shut the door tightly, may I play?”

That she knew would disturb Gage too. And she couldn’t help disturbing him. She would play the things that held especial meanings for him and her. She would play the things which she had used to play in college for Margaret on Sunday evenings, set her by the ears too, startle her out of her seriousness as she had used to startle her. She would arouse in Margaret some of those emotions which couldn’t be dead. She would find out if she had those emotions still.

Then over the first notes she forgot what she meant to do. She was alone with herself--she had forgotten the others. And because she had forgotten, the things happened to the others as she had meant them to happen. Gage, bidding deliberately to make his hand the dummy, left the card table and outside the door of the music room found Margaret, also listening. They took refuge in immediate conversation.

“So she keeps up her music,” said Margaret.

“Yes. She works several hours a day. And we have an excellent teacher out here in the wilderness.”

With a formal excuse, he returned to his bridge game.

II

At midnight Mrs. Brownley broke up the bridge by summoning the players to the dining room where there were iced drinks and sandwiches. Mrs. Brownley did that sort of thing extremely well. Men used to say with gratitude that she knew enough not to keep them up all night, and her informal buffet suppers closed the evening comfortably for them. It was a “young” crowd to-night--not young according to the standards of the débutante Brownleys but people between thirty and forty. The Stantons, whom everybody had everywhere because they were good company and perfectly fitting in any group. Emily Haight, who had become ash-blond and a little caustic with the decreasing possibilities of a good marriage but whom every one conceded had a good mind, who “read everything” and played a master hand of bridge. She had sat next to Walter Carpenter at dinner, as she inevitably was placed when they were in the same company, because they had known each other so well and long and because it seemed to be in the back of people’s mind that steady propinquity ought to produce results in emotion. He was quite the person for Emily--about her age, well-to-do, popular, keen-minded. But to-night at dinner he had devoted himself almost pointedly to Margaret Duffield. They had rallied him afterwards at the card table about his sudden interest in feminism and he had smiled his self-controlled smile and let them have their joke. He had played cards with Jerrold Haynes, another of Mrs. Brownley’s “intellectuals,” who had written a book once, and had it published (though never another), and who managed to concoct, with the help of Helen Flandon, almost all the clever remarks which were au courant in their particular circle. He and Carpenter had tried to make Margaret play bridge but she had told them that she couldn’t, reducing them to a three-handed game which they were ready to abandon at twelve o’clock.

Jerrold went as usual to Helen’s side. There was a friendship between them which bathed in a kind of half-serious worship on his part and a bantering comradeship on hers. They sat together in a corner of the long, oak-paneled dining room and made conversation about the others, conversation for the sake of clever words.

“Walter has made his way to the candle flame again. He seems to have been captured,” said Jerrold.

Helen looked across the room curiously. Gage and Walter were both talking to Margaret who was standing in a little glow of electric candle light. Helen remembered that in college Margaret had done her hair that same way, in a loose knot modeled after some sculptured Psyche.

“Don’t you think she is lovely?” she asked more in comment than question.

“Do you mean beautiful?”

“Well--what do you think?”

“I don’t quite think of her as a woman.”

“Silly stuff--”

“No, truly. Most women you sense. They either try to use their sex to allure or impress you or else they repress it for any one of a dozen reasons. She--somehow seems to lack it.”

“It’s not so easy as that, Jerrold, you phrase-maker. I’ve known her a long while and I have no idea whether she’s in love, has been in love, yearns after or fights against it. You guess boldly, but probably not well.”

“Maybe not. You must tell me if I am right and you find it out.”

There was a sound of motors in the drive outside, then high pitched voices, and Mrs. Brownley went out into the hall.

“Isn’t this early for the youngsters?” asked Gage.

They all laughed but though the conversation went on as before, an anticipation rested on them all. Against the background of the chattering voices in the hall, they seemed a little subdued, waiting.

Allison Brownley pushed her escort in. He seemed to be reluctant but she had her hands on his back and he came through the door, stumbling.

“We can come to the high brow party, can’t we?” cried Allison. “Can’t we have some food? We’re perfectly starved and there wasn’t a table to be had at the Rose Garden.”

“I knew you must have been driven out of everywhere to come home this early,” called Gage, “though of course young men in the banking business might benefit by somewhat earlier hours.”

The young man laughed awkwardly. He was a rather pale, small young man, badly dwarfed by Gage’s unusual bulk and suggesting a consciousness of it when he tried to draw Allison to the other end of the room. But she preferred Gage for the moment. She was not a pretty girl though she made that negligible. What was important about her was her vigor and her insolent youngness. Her hair was cut just below her ears and curled under in an outstanding shock and her scarlet evening dress and touches of rouge made Margaret, as she stood beside her, seem paler, older, without vigor. But she stood there only a moment, poised. Then the others, six of them, had invaded the dining room. Giggling, spurting into noisy laughter at unrevealed jokes, eating greedily, separating from the older people as if nothing in common could be conceived among them, they went to the farther end of the room, Allison with some youthfully insolent remark hurled back at Gage.

The others seemed suddenly conscious that it was midnight--the time when only extreme youth had a right to be enjoying itself. They took upon themselves the preliminary airs of departure. But Helen, separating herself from the group, went down the room to the young people.

They had settled into chairs and began to rise a little awkwardly but she did not let them, sitting down herself on the arm of Allison’s chair and bending to talk to them all. They burst into gales of laughter at something she said. Gage and Jerrold watched her from the other end of the room.

It was wonderful, thought Gage, how even beside those young faces, her beauty stood out as more brilliant. How her hair shone under those soft lights! How golden, mellow, she was in every gesture!

Jerrold, in need of some one to whom to comment, isolated Margaret.

“Watch your amazing friend,” he said, “those children made us feel old and stiff muscled. See how she is showing us that they are raw and full of angles.”

“Is it important?” asked Margaret.

“I suppose not. Except that it is a time when youth seems to be pretty securely on the throne of things. And I like to see it get a jolt.”

III

All the way home, Gage had wanted to say something to his wife, something in appreciation of her beauty, something to still somehow the desire to express his love. As they stood for a moment in their hallway he sought for but could not find the words. There was in him a conflicting, a very definite enmity to her consciousness of her powers. He did not want to increase it. It seemed to him that to have her know her charm meant that she would lose it. He had seen her lose it so. When he felt that she was deliberate--

“You were very charming to-night, dearest.”

“The first duty of a woman,” she laughed, “is to be charming, if she can.”

There it was. She had set him back. He felt it cruelly. Why hadn’t she simply turned and thanked him, given him the caress he was waiting for? Why had she made it all what he suspected? She had planned every move. Probably planning now--he became stubborn, thwarted, angry.

“I didn’t care much for your friend,” he said, lighting his cigarette.

“No? But you won’t mind my having her here.”

“Well, as you know, I’d much prefer not. I don’t think that sort of woman a healthy influence.”

“And yet you know, Gage, I might be getting a little tired of merely healthy influences. The change might set me up.”

She too was strangely angry. She had been thrilled all evening by the thought of this home-coming. She had been saving up emotions to throw her into Gage’s arms. She wanted to feel--to tell him she loved him. He was making it impossible.

They stood there, longing for each other, yet on guard mentally, afraid of the other’s thrust, the other’s mockery.

“Of course I can’t refuse to let you have any friend of yours here at the house. Only if she comes, I do wish you’d excuse me as much as possible. I do not want to be rude and I certainly shall be if she involves me in these feminist arguments.”

“I don’t believe Margaret would argue with you, Gage.” She said it lightly, her insinuation that he was beyond the pale of argument flicking him with a little sting.

“Possibly not. However, I should not care to waste her time. And as I said to you to-night I don’t like her effect on you.”

“I am not particularly under her influence, Gage. I have my own ideas. What you probably mean is that you object to my doing the things which are interesting women all over the world.”

“When have I ever objected to anything you’ve done?”

“I’ve done nothing, have I? Been secretary to a few small town clubs. Kept house. Tended my babies. That’s all I’ve done except play the piano.”

“Did that dissatisfy you as much as your tone implies?”

“It’s not enough to satisfy women now.”

He shrugged.

“Well--do anything you please, my dear. I certainly won’t stop you if you run for office.”

She was very cold.

“You’re sneering at me, Gage.”

He tossed away his cigarette and came up to her where she stood, still muffled in the cloak she had worn. She was fast in his embrace and it gave her the moment of relief she had sought. She closed her eyes and lay relaxed against his shoulder. And then came the creeping little fear. He had managed her like that. He couldn’t respect her.

“Darling Helen--”

Her thought spoke.

“Margaret would never have let herself go off the point like this--”

“Oh, damn Margaret!” said Gage, letting her go, angrily.

Helen looked at him in disgust and went upstairs.

* * * * *

It wasn’t, thought Gage, pacing up and down the living room, as if he were a reactionary. Helen knew that. He had no objection to women doing anything. He’d said so. He’d shown it. He’d put women on his local Republican committee. And sized them up pretty well too, he told himself. They worked well enough on certain things. Some of them had good minds. But the issue with him and Helen had nothing to do with granting women a concession here and there. That was all right. The trouble was with this woman, these women who made Helen so restless, so unsettled for no particular reason, with no particular object. He hated, as he had said, the self-consciousness of it all. He hated this self-conscious talk, this delving into emotions, this analysis of psychical states and actions, this setting of sex against sex. It ate into emotions. It had made women like that Margaret. He measured his dislike of her, bitterly. Even on their wedding trip she had interfered. He remembered the first flagging in Helen’s abandonment to her love for him. That letter from Margaret, outwardly kind, he felt, outwardly all right, but suggesting things had brought it about. Helen had shown it to him.

“She’s afraid we’ll become commonplace married people,” she said, “but we won’t, will we?”

There, at the start, it had begun. Discussion when there should have been no discussion--feelings pried into. How he hated college women. It should be prohibited somehow--these girls getting together and talking about things. Forming these alliances. All along the line, for six years, and this was the first time he’d even met her, this Margaret had been held up to him. Margaret’s letters had come and with each of them would sweep over Helen that fear that she was becoming dull--sliding backward--those little reactions against him--those pull-backs. At the time Bennett was born the same thing had happened. First the natural beauty, then that fear of being swept under by “domesticity.” The way they used the word as if it were a shame, a disgrace. He felt he had never told Helen the half he felt about these things. And now that rotten oath had put him in the wrong. He’d have to apologize. He’d have to begin with an apology and there he would be put in the entire wrong again. It wasn’t as if women didn’t have to be handled like children anyhow. They did. What could you do with them when they got into moods except coax them out of it? There was Helen upstairs now, probably hating him--wishing she were free--envying that spinster friend of hers.

His thoughts took a sudden turn. She couldn’t quite wish that. Surely she didn’t want not to be married to him. She’d never said anything like that. He didn’t really think she had ever for a minute wished it. She was crazy about Bennett and Peggy. She loved him too.

On that thought he went upstairs, his apology on his lips, his mind tangled, but his need of peace with Helen very great.