JOHN VASSAR’S triumphant return to his home on Stuyvesant Square, after the introduction of his sensational bill in Congress, was beset with domestic complications. Congratulations from his father, nieces, and Wanda had scarcely been received before the trouble began.
“But you must hear Miss Holland!” Zonia pleaded.
John Vassar shook his head.
“Not tonight, dear—”
“I’d set my heart on introducing you. Ah, Uncy dear—please! She’s the most eloquent orator in America—”
“That’s why I hate her and all her tribe—”
A rosy cheek pressed close to his.
“Not all her tribe—”
“My Zonia—no—but I could wring her neck for leading a chick of your years into her fool movement—”
“But she didn’t lead me, Uncy dear, I just saw it all in a flash while she was speaking—my duty to my sex and the world—”
“Duty to your sex! What do you know about duty to your sex?—you infant barely out of short dresses! Your hair ought to be still in braids. And it was all my fault. I let you out of the nursery too soon—”
He paused and looked at her wistfully.
“And I promised your father’s spirit the day you came to us here that I’d guard you as my own—you and little Marya. I haven’t done my duty. I’ve been too busy with big things to realize that I was neglecting the biggest thing in the world. You’ve slipped away from me, dear—and I’m heartsick over it. Maybe I’ll be in time for Marya—you’re lost at eighteen—”
“Marya’s joined our Club too—”
“A babe of twelve?”
“She’s going to be Miss Holland’s page in the suffrage Pageant—”
John Vassar groaned, laid both hands on the girl’s shoulders and rose abruptly.
“Now, Zonia, it’s got to stop here and now. I’m not going to allow this brazen Amazon—”
His niece broke into a fit of laughter.
“Brazen Amazon?”
“That’s what I said. This brazen Amazon is my enemy—”
The girl lifted her finger laughingly.
“But you’re not afraid of her? John Vassar, a descendant of old Yan Vasa in whose veins ran the royal blood of Poland—ten years in Congress from this big East Side district—the idol of the people—chairman of the National House Committee on Military Affairs”—she paused and her voice dropped to the tensest pride—“my candidate for governor of New York—you positively won’t go to the meeting in union Square tonight?” she added quietly.
“Positively—”
“Then, Uncy dear, I’ll have to deliver the message—”
She drew a crumpled note from her bosom and handed it to him without a word.
He broke the seal and read with set lips:
Hon. John Vassar, M. C.,
16 Stuyvesant Square,
New York.
Dear Sir: Our committee in charge of the canvass of your congressional district in the campaign for woman’s suffrage have tried in vain to obtain an expression of your views. We are making a house to house canvass of every voter in New York. You have thus far side-stepped us.
You are a man of too much power in the State and nation to overlook in such a fight. The Congressional Directory informs us that you are barely thirty-six years old. You have already served ten years in Washington with distinction and have won your spurs as a national leader. A great future awaits you unless you incur the united opposition of the coming woman voter.
I warn you that we are going to sweep the Empire State. Your majority is large and has increased at each election. It is not large enough if we mark you for defeat. I have sincerely hoped that we might win you for our cause.
I ask for a declaration of your position. You must be for us or against us. There can be no longer a middle course.
I should deeply regret the necessity of your defeat if you force the issue. Your niece has quite won my heart and her passionate enthusiasm for her distinguished uncle has led me to delay this important message until the introduction of your bill for militarism has forced it.
Sincerely,
Virginia Holland,
Pres’t National Campaign Committee.
John Vassar read the letter a second time, touched the tips of his mustache thoughtfully and fixed his eyes on Zonia.
“And my little sweetheart will join the enemy in this campaign!”
A tear trembled on the dark lashes.
“Ah, Uncy darling, how could you think such a thing!”
“You bring this challenge—”
“I only want to vote—to—elect—you—governor—”
The voice broke in a sob, as he bent and kissed the smooth young brow.
She clung to him tenderly.
“Uncy dear, just for my sake, because I love you so—because you’re my hero—won’t you do something for me—Just because I ask it?”
“Maybe—”
“Go to union Square with me then—”
He shook his head emphatically.
“Against my principles, dear—”
“It’s not against your principles to make me happy?”
He took her cheeks between his hands.
“Seeing that I’ve raised you from a chick—I don’t think there ought to be much doubt about how I stand on the woman question as far as it affects two little specimens of the tribe—do you?”
“All right then,” she cried gayly, “you love Marya and me. We are women. You can’t refuse us a little old thing like a ballot if we want it—can you?”
She paused and kissed him again.
“So now, Uncy, you’re going to hear Miss Holland speak just to make me happy—aren’t you?”
He smiled and surrendered.
“To make you happy—yes—”
He couldn’t say more. The arms were too tight about his neck.
He drew them gently down.
“This is what I dread in politics, dear—when the women go in to win. We’ve graft enough now. When the boys run up against this sort of thing—God help us!—and God save the country if you should happen to make a mistake in what you ask for! Well, you’ve won this fight—come on, let’s get up front and hear the argument. I hate to stand on the edge and wonder what the hen is saying when she crows—”
Zonia handed his hat and cane and, radiant with smiles, opened the door.
“I suppose we’ll let Marya stay with Grandpa?” he asked.
“They’ve been gone half an hour!”
“Oh—”
“I had no trouble with Grandpa at all. He agreed to sit on the platform with me—”
“Indeed!”
“But I don’t think he really understood what the meeting was about—”
“Just to please his grandchick, however, the old traitor agreed to preside at my funeral—eh?”
“He won’t if you say not—shall I tell him to keep off? Marya will be awfully disappointed if we make them get down—”
“No—let him stay. Maybe he can placate the enemy. They can hold him as hostage for my good behavior.”
The hand on his arm pressed tighter.
“It’s so sweet of you, Uncy!”
“At what hour does this paragon of all the virtues, male and female, harangue the mob?”
“You mean Miss Holland?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, they’ll all be there tonight. Miss Holland is the principal speaker for the Federated Women’s Clubs of America—she’s the president, you know—”
“No—I didn’t know—”
“She won’t speak until 9:30. We can hear the others first. There’ll be some big guns among the men too—the Honorable Plato Barker and the Reverend A. Cuthbert Pike, the president of the American Peace union—and Waldron, the multi-millionaire, he presides at Miss Holland’s stand—”
“Indeed—”
“Yes—they say he’s in love with her but she doesn’t care a rap for him or any other man—”
John Vassar had ceased to hear Zonia’s chatter. The name of Charles Waldron had started a train of ugly thought. Of all the leaders of opinion in America this man was his pet aversion. He loathed his personality. He hated his newspaper with a fury which words could not express. It stood squarely for every tendency of degenerate materialism in our life, a worship of money and power first and last against all sentiment and all the hopes and aspirations of the masses. He posed as the Pecksniffian leader of Reform and the reform he advocated always meant the lash for the man who toils. His hatreds were implacable, too, and he used the power of his money with unscrupulous brutality. He had lately extended the chain of banks which he owned in New York until they covered the leading cities of every state in the union. His newspaper, the Evening Courier, was waging an unceasing campaign for the establishment of an American aristocracy of wealth and culture.
Vassar was cudgeling his brain over the mystery of this man’s sudden enthusiasm for woman suffrage and the Cause of Universal Peace. It was a sinister sign of the times. He rarely advocated a losing cause. That this cold-blooded materialist could believe in the dream of human emancipation through the influence of women was preposterous.
Zonia might be right, of course, in saying that he had become infatuated with the young Amazon leader of the Federated Women’s Clubs. And yet that would hardly account for his presence as the presiding genius of a grand rally for suffrage. There were too many factions represented in such a demonstration for his personal interest in one woman to explain his activity in bringing those people together. His paper had, in fact, led the appeal to co-ordinate Demagogery, Labor, Peace Propaganda, Socialism, and Feminism in one monster mass meeting.
The longer Vassar puzzled over it, the more impenetrable became Waldron’s motive. His leadership in the movement was uncanny. What did it mean?