The Sturdy Oak by Samuel Merwin

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[Illustration] THE STURDY OAK

A composite Novel of American Politics by fourteen American 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

Illustrations by HENRY RALEIGH

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.

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