Dilling was not so sure. Average and sub-average persons, wholly unable to apprehend the subtle forces of will and intellect behind a great achievement, accept it with dull simplicity and dismiss it with a word of praise. But average and sub-average persons experiencing the driving power of emotion in varied degrees think themselves capable of understanding a sublime passion and therefore place it—perhaps unconsciously—ahead of intellectual accomplishment. In fine, we bring others down to our own level, a fact that explains why “human interest” and “heart interest” make a wider appeal than things that live and move and have their being on the higher plane of mind and spirit.
“I doubt it,” he said, answering Hebe’s question. “I doubt, for example, that Parnell’s skill in leadership depended upon the dashing Kitty O’Shea, or that Nelson would have failed at Trafalgar save for Lady Hamilton.”
“Do you mean that noparticularwoman is necessary to a man, or that emotional relationship between two persons of opposite sexes is over-estimated?”
“Either, and both,” laughed Dilling, and rose. “But I really must find my wife. She will think I have deserted her, and, anyway, late hours are forbidden in our house. Shall we go down?”
But Hebe held him.
“Just a moment,” she begged. “I can’t allow you to leave me with a wrong impression. Oh, I know quite well how my conduct to-night must appear in your eyes—your blind eyes, Raymond, and it is not a sense of prudishness that impels me to explain that I do not throw myself at you for a narrow, personal satisfaction. It is true that I love you, but I love the big You, the public man, the orator, the statesman, and I have a supreme longing to see you attain greater honours and bring greater glory to Canada. To achieve this, I am firmly convinced that a closed door in your nature must be opened. You are like a man working in artificial light. He can see, yes—but he attains results through greater strain than is immediately apparent and, therefore, his season of usefulness is lessened. There is sunshine, Raymond, and in its radiance, much of what was work becomes play. Love is my sunshine and is a miraculous creative force. With your frail body, you must draw power from an outside source, Raymond, and what other reservoir is there but Love? Listen, dear, just a moment more,” she cried, tightening her arms about him. “I would rather see you love some other woman than not love at all, for I know that the awakening of your soul would be Canada’s great gain. And now,” she concluded, rising, “will you kiss me before you go?”
Dilling hesitated, and in that instant’s delay a step sounded on the stair and a gentle tattoo beat upon the door.
“Come in,” cried Hebe, crossly. “Oh, Uncle Rufus, we were just going down!”
Representing the constituency of Morroway by no means exhausted the dynamic energy of the Hon. Rufus Sullivan, and he had ample time for engaging in pursuits of a tenderer and more congenial nature. But occasions did arise when concentration upon Parliamentary problems became a necessary part of the day’s routine, for they affected not only the political standing of the Hon. Member, but the size and stability of his income.
He sat alone in his office, oblivious for the moment, of the heavy gilt mirror that hung opposite his desk, and to the contents of the drawer marked “Unfinished Business”. He glared unwinkingly into space, forgetful of the existence of a fluffy-haired little manicurist who sat waiting for him in an over-decorated, under-lighted apartment of his choosing. Sullivan was carefully reviewing each step taken at the caucus he had just attended, and satisfying himself that his own part in the proceedings would react in an advantageous manner.
The anticipated vacancy in the Cabinet had occurred, and the inevitable complications had developed. Howarth stepped modestly into the spotlight, and put forth claims that were not without justification. Gilbert, the Radical, stood out as an advocate for Reciprocity and felt the power of the Middle West behind him. Dilling, more or less thrust into the contest, was supported by the phalanxes of Eastlake and Donahue, and opposed any such trafficking with the United States.
Sullivan endorsed him.
This was an extraordinary thing. Even Howarth was surprised, and no one found it more unaccountable than Dilling, himself.
The constituency of Morroway was divided on the Reciprocity issue, but the preponderance of sentiment was favourable. This involved a little difficulty for the Hon. Member, who did not approve it although he was confident that in securing the measure, the Borden Government would in no way imperil the existence of Canadian Federation. On the contrary, Mr. Sullivan was secretly—oh, very secretly!—of the opinion that unrestricted Reciprocity with the United States would be the most effective antidote to the disintegration sentiment with which our National wells are being poisoned. He believed that it would mean peace, plenty, and a renewed ambition amongst a class of people in whom hope had almost died; that its immediate result would be employment in lieu of discontented idleness, and an instantaneous circulation of money. He saw clearly the advantage that would accrue to the fishermen of British Columbia and the Maritime Provinces, were they able to dispose of their perishable merchandise quickly in the American market at a maximum price and a minimum cost for transportation. He saw also that the Quebec and Ontario farmers could sell to the Middle States at an advanced profit, while the grain speculators of the Prairies could offer their wheat in the Chicago pit before it was harvested and at the lowest possible figure for haulage. Moreover, Mr. Sullivan realised that there would be no congestion at the freight terminals, because cars would be moving north and south as well as east and west; and, furthermore, the railways of both countries would be co-operating.
Nor did he overlook the fact that the prairie farmers could buy their implements at fifty per cent less than present prices for Canadian manufactures—a Utopian condition for which every man with large holdings ardently prayed according to the particular doctrine he professed.
But Mr. Sullivan opposed Reciprocity. For years he had opposed it. He held a considerable number of bonds issued by the Grand Trunk Pacific, which though guaranteed by the Government of Canada must inevitably depreciate if the silver stream continued to be diverted from the National coffers in to the channels fashioned by Eastlake and Donahue—those enterprising exponents of the cult whose treasure lies in earthen vessels. He also happened to be heavily invested in Eastern industrial corporations. Long ago, Mr. Sullivan had decided that anything less than an impregnable tariff barrier between the United States and Canada would spell his financial obliteration.
Therefore, although it irked him to lift a finger towards Dilling’s political advancement, and although he found it extremely difficult to justify his support in the face of his traditional opposition to Eastlake and Donahue, Mr. Sullivan threw the weight of his influence against Howarth, who expected it, and Gilbert, who hoped for it, in order that Dilling might obtain the portfolio.
“In him we have a specimen of a genuine twentieth century man,” he argued, “one who actually believes there is such a thing as a British Constitution. He prints it inCapitals, (God save us all!) and he loves it with as much veneration as the younger Pitt. Furthermore, he believes that the incredible utterance of Pitt, in 1784, is true to-day and forever—‘The British Constitution,’ he said, ‘is equally free from the distractions of democracy and the tyranny of monarchy. It is the envy of the world . . .’
“For myself,” the Hon. Member continued, “I think that Dilling is the best debater we have had in the Commons since Confederation. He eclipses Cartwright—the best of his day—because when that strict economist fell a victim to his own high temper, he swapped logic for vituperation and lost the ear of the Big Men of the House; he is a match for Denby, who too often talks to Hansard and the Galleries, and too seldom comes to grips with his antagonists on the floor of the Chamber. When, I ask you, gentlemen, has Sir Eric ever influenced a vote on a Division?
“Dilling, on the other hand, captures both parties by his earnestness, and his logic is as irrefragable as his temper is cold. Although I have heard him declare that he despises rhetoric, yet we all know his ability to draw deep from the pure wells of English undefiled. What Horace Walpole said of the youthful Fox as a debater, could be as aptly applied to Dilling . . . . ‘Cicero’s laboured orations are puerile in comparison with this boy’s manly reason’.”
The Hon. Member brought his remarks to a climax by terming Gilbert a traitor, charging Borden with political locomotor ataxia for making no effort to stem the tide of Western opinion towards the Reciprocity movement, and pronounced it treason against the Imperial Crown—thus serving at one and the same time, his ambition and his pocket-book.
The contest was short and sharp. It was universally recognised—even by those who held divergent political opinions and were personally antipathetic—that Dilling was the man for the Cabinet, and Sullivan’s speech left them no alternative but to support him.
Howarth and Turner rattled the handle of the door and demanded admission. Sullivan complied jauntily, giving no sign of the mental struggle in which he had been engaged. Indeed, at the moment of their entrance, he recalled the gilt mirror that hung opposite his desk, the drawer marked “Unfinished Business” and the fact that a little manicurist was disconsolately awaiting him.
With an admirable gesture of preoccupation, he concerned himself with the telephone.
“Is that my dearie?” he questioned into the instrument. “Forgotten? ’Pon my soul, I hadn’t! Simply couldn’t break away . . . eh? Yes, in my office, certainly . . . No, there was no thought of another party. . . . Well, I won’t come if you are going to be cross . . . Promise? All right . . . within five minutes . . .”
The business that was never finished while the three of them lived, was placed upon the desk and uncorked. Sullenly, two men drank, while the third tossed off his portion and then consulted his reflection with meticulous care.
“Sorry,” he said, “but I must rush off. Exacting little devils—these women.Très exigèante, as our French friends say. But help yourselves, boys, and lock the drawer when you leave—that is if you have the grace to leave anything!”
His flair met with no response.
“Damned if I can understand you, Sullivan,” Howarth burst out. “Here, for months, we’ve been trying to freeze Dilling to death, and keep the E. D. Co. from establishing a firmer foothold in Parliament, and now you turn right round and boost him into the Cabinet. Surely, one of us is crazy!”
“Only under stress, old man! Ordinarily, you are merely peculiar,” returned Sullivan, with a smile.
“Gilbert’s a much safer man,” Howarth went on, “to say nothing of any qualificationImay possess.”
“Yes,” Turner cut in, “what the devil were you thinking of, Rufus? Didn’t Bill, here, deserve your support?”
“Neither of you would believe me if I were to tell you my reason for backing Dilling’s claims,” said the Hon. Member for Morroway, feeling that he must make some sort of explanation.
“Let’s have it, anyway,” said Howarth.
“Well—er—” confessed the other man, pulling on his gloves, “I acted according to my best judgment in the interest of the whole country.”
“Oh, hell!” remarked Mr. Turner, M.P.
“I’ve been asked to swallow many a big mouthful,” cried Howarth, “but this one chokes me.”
“And granting this noble patriotism—this alarmingly noble patriotism, I might say—” sneered Turner “why such sudden interest in the welfare of our fair Dominion?”
“By God!” breathed Howarth. “I believe in my soul that that little baby-faced simpleton has put one over on you, Rufus! She’s got you halter-broke and working for her husband!”
“Mrs. Dilling?” echoed Turner, incredulously.
“No fool like an old fool,” quoted his friend. “I’ve become accustomed to seeing him lose his heart over a fine pair of shoulders and a well-turned ankle, but I’m damned if I ever thought he would lose his head!”
Sullivan paused with his hand on the door.
“It strikes me, Billy,” he said, “that disappointment makes you rather coarse. Forgive my seeming inhospitality, gentlemen, but I dare not keep a lady waiting.”
As he turned from the bright thoroughfare into a shadowy street, Mr. Sullivan was not free from disturbing reflections. This was a big game he played, and one that admitted of miscalculations. He tried to keep before him its analogy to Chess, when a man sees ultimate gain developing out of a temporary triumph won by his opponent. He tried to assure himself that he had been wise in helping Dilling to victory as a means whereby to accomplish his swifter defeat. Only the short-sighted player tries to vanquish his foe at every turn.
There was nothing small about Rufus Sullivan. Even his defamers granted him a largeness that extended to his very vices. He sinned, but he sinned grandly, with ajoie de vivrethat was lacking in the righteous deeds of confessed Christians. He loved readily and hated magnificently, but he did not begrudge the object of his hatred a modicum of pleasure. So, in this matter, he could look with equanimity upon Dilling’s attainment of the Ministership and feel no envy at his brief success.
For itmustbe brief . . . and yet . . .
As he swung along, his eyes fixed on a window where a balloon of rose light swayed out into the darkness, the Hon. Member for Morroway realised that such schemes had been known to fail. By some totally unforeseen miracle, the anticipated downfall had not occurred, and men had lived to bite the hand that so calculatingly fed them. Would Dilling prove to be one of these exceptions? Would he survive to frustrate Rufus Sullivan’s ambitions?
These and other cogent problems engaged the Hon. Member throughout the ensuing hours. The taffy-haired manicurist found him abstracted and singularly unresponsive.
The new Minister wore his honours with such an utter absence of hauteur, that, to many persons his manner was wanting in the dignity they had been taught to associate with the position.
Never cordial and rarely responsive, Dilling now made the unfortunate error of trying to be both, and few there were possessed of sufficient astuteness to recognise in his changed attitude, a sincerity as native to him as it was embarrassing. Most people saw only the insinuating affability of the professional politician and added another black mark to his already heavy score.
Marjorie, on the other hand, half-convinced that by following the advice of Lady Denby and Azalea, her “stiffness” had been a factor in securing Dilling the appointment, redoubled her efforts to appear ungracious—with the result that the indifference of many acquaintances crystallised into active dislike.
“They’re experimenting withreceetsfor popularity,” remarked Mrs. Pratt to her social rival, Mrs. Prendergast. “I don’t mind anybody being popular,” she graciously conceded, “if I don’t have to see how they go about it. But this business,” she jerked her head towards the Dillings, “is, in my opinion, perfeckly disgusting!”
The ladies sat in a corner of the Royal Ottawa Golf Club, and although they had just partaken of a dinner given in honour of Raymond Dilling, their mien was far from congratulatory. They had made astonishing progress in their ascent towards Society’s Parnassian Heights, and once a week, at least, their names appeared in the local calendar of fame.
Mrs. Pratt employed the methods of a battering ram, charging through obstructions with ruthless vigour, and indifferent alike to wounds inflicted or received. She spent her money shrewdly, squeezing double its worth from every dime. Even her victims respected her.
Mrs. Prendergast adopted the opposite course. She slithered through the barriers lying in her path sublimely unaware that they were supposed to be barriers. It was related of her that one morning, happening to shop in a store sanctified by the immediate presence of a party from Government House, she preceded the Governor’s lady down a cleared passage, passed first through the door held open by an apoplectic Aide-de-Camp, and bestowed upon that young gentleman a gracious, if bovine, smile. She spent the proceeds from Prendergast’sAnti-Agony Alimentlavishly, using two dollars to accomplish the work of one, with regal unconcern. Slowly, she was buying her way onward and upward.
Both she and Mrs. Pratt entertained—if one may be permitted so euphemistic a word—with resolute frequency. Mrs. Pratt rarely received anyone less important than a Senator, now, and Mrs. Prendergast had recently dined a lady, honourable in her own right. The fact was chronicled in the Montreal papers and also inSaturday Night.
Both ladies saw the advantage of making their homes a rendezvous for the young, and using their children’s friends as a bridge, however precarious, to that happy land where Society dwelt. Moreover, both expressed the resentment of their class against one who, in their judgment, had been exalted above her station, and from that altitude demanded homage from people not only just as good but far better, i.e., themselves. There was no limit to the servility they would offer an unworthy aristocrat, but a deserving member of the bourgeoisie—never!
“How do you mean ‘experimenting’?” asked Mrs. Prendergast, referring to her friend’s remark.
“Well, it’s hard to explain,” said Mrs. Pratt, “in so many words, that is.” The implication here was somewhat veiled. How many words legitimately belonged to an explanation, Mrs. Pratt didn’t know. But Mrs. Prendergast was not embarrassingly curious, so she continued.
“When they first came,hewas the disagreeable one, so superior and grumpy you couldn’t get a word out of him.”
“Yes,” assented the other. “I remember saying to the Dawkter that it must be very trying to be married to a mute.”
“On the other hand,shewas just the opposite—apparently trying to cover up his grouchiness and bad manners. I don’t know whether you understand me, Mrs. Prendergast?”
“Oh, yes! Oh, certainly,” cried Mrs. Prendergast, emphatic in defence of her intelligence. “I understand exactly. Indeed, I remember saying to the Dawkter that I found her quite a pleasant little thing.”
“Well, she’s fur from pleasant, now! Heaven knows I try to see good in everybody, but rully, Mrs. Prendergast, I think I may be purdoned for saying that by the airs she puts on, you’d think she was a member of the Royal family! And now thathehas been given such a prominent position in the Party—can you blame me for asking what is politics coming to?”
Mrs. Prendergast hastened to assure her that such a question was blameless. She was not vitally interested in politics nor the intrigues that grew out of Party differences, and it concerned her very little who occupied the positions of prominence. That they should appreciate her and those belonging to her was a matter of far greater importance.
She cherished an ambition to be associated with the “Old Families” of the Capital—those who regarded the ever-changing political element with disfavour. Substantial clubs appealed to her—the Rideau for her husband, the Minto for her children, the Laurentian Chapter, I.O.D.E., for herself, and the Royal Ottawa for them all. As a matter of fact, she and the Doctor had just been admitted as Life Members of the latter. In the ordinary course of procedure, they might have waited twenty-years.
A banging of doors and loud commotion in the hallway prevented further conversation, and Hebe Barrington, surrounded by a group of Naughty Niners, danced breezily into the room. Seeing Dilling, she ran forward and caught him by both arms.
“Congratulations, Raymond!” she cried. “I’ve been out of town or you would have had them sooner. Aren’t you very proud and happy? Your friends are, for you! Whose funeral is this?” she demanded looking with gay impudence over the group. “Ugh! I can guess. One of these deadly Party affairs, given—of course—in your honour! How do you do, Mrs. Dilling? Why, hello, Mr. Pratt . . .andDoctor Prendergast!” She extended a naked left arm and shook hands across the enraged head of Lady Denby. “Come along with us, Raymond. We’re going to dance. Mona Carmichael will teach us some new convolutions, so to speak. Come!”
In a low, embarrassed voice, Dilling demurred.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense! They won’t miss you. And, besides, a Minister must acquire a bagful of lightsome parlour tricks, otherwise he’ll be monstrously heavy wheeling. Gaze upon this company, Raymond, and take warning!”
She laughed gaily, ignoring the tensity with which the atmosphere was charged.
“Seize him!” she cried. “Lay violent hands upon him, and if he struggles, smother him—with affection.”
Half a dozen boys and girls rushed forward and dragged Dilling away. As Hebe moved off after them, Pratt called out to her.
“Won’t you take me, Mrs. Barrington? I may be a Minister some day—you never can tell.” He bravely avoided his wife’s eyes.
“You shall be my particular charge,” retorted Hebe with well-feigned delight. Mr. Pratt bored her inexpressibly. He was rapidly acquiring the manner of the professional politician, who looks upon every individual as a vote and who conducts himself as though life were a perpetual election campaign. He had the air of one who thinks he is the soul of the very party, moving about from group to group, telling ancient political stories as having happened to himself, and releasing at set and stated intervals, borrowed and well-worn epigrams.
Certainly, Hebe did not find the companionship of Augustus Pratt inspiring, but just now it pleased her to pretend the contrary and bear him off beneath the battery of angry eyes the women trained upon her.
As they moved towards the door and his rather moist hand caressed her unclad elbow, she said in a loud voice,
“None but the immediate relatives of the deceased followed the body to the grave . . . I don’t wonder people have wakes, do you, dear Mr. Pratt? Solemnity in massive doses is so depressing. Have you tried the Argentine? It’s enchanting! You take three steps to the right . . .”
A brief silence followed their exit. The women glowered at Mrs. Pratt and Marjorie Dilling as though they were personally responsible for their husbands’ defection. The men fidgetted and offered one another fresh cigarettes.
Lady Denby drew her lips into a thin line and remarked to Madame Valleau who was choking back a yawn,
“I do wish that woman would wear some clothes! It simply infuriates me to see her going abroad like that!”
The Frenchwoman smiled.
“Perhaps that is why she does it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, and I don’t see anything funny,” Lady Denby retorted.
“One observes so much! For myself, I think it very funny you do not realise that instead of dressing to please men, as most people think, women dress to annoy other women. Consider yourself,par exampleand this gay Madame Barrington! There, you see?”
The gay Madame Barrington presented a violently contrasting appearance the following morning, as she lay on the Eyrie Chesterfield and consumed a box of Russian cigarettes.
Her eyes were heavy and dull. Her complexion, wearing the make-up of the night previous, looked thick and dead. Over her citron-tinted sleeping robe she had flung an inadequatebatikgarment that required continuous adjustment or reclaiming from the floor.
Sharp spears of light thrust themselves between the close-drawn mulberry curtains, and sought out the vulnerable spots in Hebe’s house-keeping. A thin film of dust lay on a teakwood table; flakes of ash and tobacco strewed the floor. A stale odour combining scent, cigarettes and anise-seed hung in the still air.
Mr. Sullivan, correct in new spring tweeds, lay back in an easy chair and absently caressed the glass he held in his hand. Beside him on the table, stood a decanter and syphon.
He sniffed, with disapproving discernment.
“Do you find absinthe a satisfying beverage, my dear?”
“Oh, as satisfying as any other.”
“Well, tastes differ . . . and stomachs. For my part, I’m afraid of the stuff. The less subtle and more reliable Scotch is good enough for me, although there are occasions, it goes without saying, when the bouquet of a fine wine is somewhat more acceptable. I am fond of a high grade of Burgundy, and am unique, I believe, in fancying a glass of old Madeira, which, by the way, is not adequately appreciated among the English people.”
Hebe watched him sullenly, but said nothing.
“It was during the French war that our soldiers made the discovery of this delectable drink, and it was they who carried the taste for it back to England, where, I admit, its flavour deteriorates. Climate probably, though there are some who maintain that Englishmen don’t know how to keep it.”
“Why did you come to see me?” Hebe asked the Hon. Member, bluntly.
She lit a fresh cigarette and dragged her negligée from the floor, knowing that Mr. Sullivan had not called upon her to discuss the virtues of various intoxicants. She suspected that the real object of his visit would be even less agreeable as a topic of conversation. Her feeling towards Mr. Sullivan could never be accurately described as blind adoration, but this morning she unqualifiedly hated him.
“Whydidyou come here at such an hour, Uncle Rufus? You know how I loathe to be disturbed early in the day. I’m never human till noon.”
“The artistic temperament is interesting in all its phases,” murmured Mr. Sullivan, suavely.
“Don’t be funny!”
“Nothing is further from my intention. With perfect gravity I assert that a woman is infinitely appealing to me in her gentler moods. Her fragility, her beautiful feminine weakness . . . She inspires me with overwhelming tenderness . . . And how doubly charming when her verve returns.” He smiled, reflectively, at the tip of his boots.
“Oh, drop that nonsense and tell me what brings you here!”
“Well, my dear Hebe, I must plead a stupid man’s irresistible desire to discuss a somewhat delicate situation—albeit of his own making—with the cleverest woman of his acquaintance.”
“Bosh!”
“The unadulterated truth, I assure you. I am paying you no idle compliment, my child.”
“Thanks,” said Hebe, shortly. “Go on.”
“I succumbed to the imperious need for feminine companionship, sympathy, understanding.”
“Eliminate the first two.”
“Charming naivèté! Delicious frankness! Hebe, you enchant me!” The Hon. Member drained his glass, touched his lips with a lavender handkerchief and beamed upon his sulky hostess. “But, tell me, what do you think of our new Minister?”
“You know what I think. Not that my opinion matters a damn!”
“A mistake, my dear. If you approve of the appointment, then your opinion coincides with my own, and that, in itself, lends it some importance. I feel that Dilling is the very man for the post . . .”
“. . . which is the very best reason in the world for your opposition to his securing it.”
Sullivan laughed, indulgently. He raised his cuff and consulted the face of his watch.
“In ten minutes,” said he, “you will be human. Meanwhile, may I help myself?”
The hiss of a syphon filled the room and Hebe stretched out her hand for the glass. For a space neither of them spoke, and then the midday gun sounded its message over the city.
“Now,” said the Hon. Member for Morroway, “what about this business with Dilling?”
“I can’t do anything. I’ve tried.”
Mr. Sullivan protested that she hardly did herself justice. “A woman of your age—er—experience,” he tactfully amended, “andtalents . . .” He smiled benignly at her. “Now is your golden opportunity. The more prominent his position, the more conspicuous he becomes, and every act is subject to criticism.”
“I tell you I can’t do it.”
“Don’t be so childish. The world talks of men compromising women, but that’s a difficult task compared with the ease with which women compromise men. What’s the matter? Are your weapons rusty with disuse? It seems to me that only just before you came up here I heard rumours of . . . Oh, but let that pass! The point is now, that there must be no further dallying. Before’s there’s any possibility of his obtaining any hold on the country, Dilling must go, must hang himself, must dig his own grave and bury himself! It’s up to you!”
Hebe avoided his glance, and, as he regarded her, a change came over him. His suavity vanished, his smile disappeared, as his lips set themselves into firmer lines. In his eyes, tiny hot sparks gleamed like pinpoints of fire. There awoke in Mr. Sullivan’s breast a disturbing suspicion.
“What’s the matter?” he repeated. “Why don’t you drag him through the streets at your chariot wheels—as is your playful wont? Let people see that this zealous prophet who preaches righteousness and a higher idealism, is bitten no deeper by his fine doctrine than is the average disciple of orthodoxy. Get busy, girl; get busy!”
“He won’t respond,” muttered Hebe. “He’s different.”
“Bah!You’redifferent—that’s the trouble. I’m half inclined to believe you’ve fallen for this aesthetic milk-veined Parliamentarian—that you’ve become the victim instead of the victor—that you have allowed your undisciplined emotions to play you tricks. But by God! you shan’t play any on me! I’m a bad man to double cross, Hebe, and don’t lose sight of that for an instant. You undertook to see this thing through . . . now, go to it!”
“I tell you it can’t be done! I’ve worked like a dog, and anyhow, there’s nothing in it for me—nothing but humiliation . . . Besides,” she added, with seeming irrelevance, “I can’t live on Toddles’ salary!”
Mr. Sullivan laughed as he made his way to the door. With the knob in his hand he turned, and observed,
“I know you can’t! Moreover, I know youdon’t. . . my dear!”
Everybody now called upon Marjorie. Even the A.D.C.’s from Government House were to be found at her receptions on Monday afternoons. Invitations poured in upon her. She was an integral part of Canada’s official life, and her presence was deemed necessary at all public assemblages. Socially, she was accounted of importance, and her attendance at private affairs lent to them that subtle odour of distinction which—with a fine disregard for principle—democracy loves to inhale. Tradespeople solicited her custom, agents waited upon her pleasure and her patronage was sought for a bewildering variety of functions.
She found herself in the hands of exploiters, who called at all hours, with slight excuse or no excuse, to crave favours or heap them upon her, with high hope that she would liquidate the debt in social currency, and Marjorie never learned to deny herself to these people. She was more embarrassed than flattered by their ambiguous attentions, and was positively distressed at having to take precedence over those who, but yesterday, had snubbed her.
Life became a round of perplexing complications, and she yearned for the peace and quiet that used to be hers at home.
Then, too, she was worried by the fierce light of publicity that played upon her. Interviewers distorted her timid utterances in half a dozen metropolitan papers. Illustrated weeklies requested her photograph for publication. Local reporters took a sudden and absorbing interest in her gowns, and the gatherings at which she was expected to wear them—gatherings, which, under other conditions, would not have attracted the Press by so much as a line.
“The Sweet Arbutus Club enjoyed the distinction of entertaining Mrs. Raymond Dilling at its annual supper on Thursday evening. The President of the Club, Mrs. Horatio Gullep, received the members, and little Miss Ermyntrude Polduggan presented the distinguished guest with a shower bouquet of white carnations. The Secretary, Mrs. (Dr.) Deitrich, and the Treasurer, Miss Emmeline Crogganthorpe, presided at the supper table, while the following young ladies assisted . . . Throughout the evening several delightful selections were rendered by the Club Orchestra, consisting of the Messrs. . . . and the Misses . . . Mrs. (Rev.) Muldoon charmed her audience with three recitations, and the programme was brought to a close with a chorus sung by seven dainty little maidens all under the age of seven . . .”
“The Sweet Arbutus Club enjoyed the distinction of entertaining Mrs. Raymond Dilling at its annual supper on Thursday evening. The President of the Club, Mrs. Horatio Gullep, received the members, and little Miss Ermyntrude Polduggan presented the distinguished guest with a shower bouquet of white carnations. The Secretary, Mrs. (Dr.) Deitrich, and the Treasurer, Miss Emmeline Crogganthorpe, presided at the supper table, while the following young ladies assisted . . . Throughout the evening several delightful selections were rendered by the Club Orchestra, consisting of the Messrs. . . . and the Misses . . . Mrs. (Rev.) Muldoon charmed her audience with three recitations, and the programme was brought to a close with a chorus sung by seven dainty little maidens all under the age of seven . . .”
This was the sort of thing that Mrs. Long claimed not to have read and that drove Lady Denby to a state closely akin to frenzy.
“I never saw anyone so intractable,” she cried to Azalea. “You would think that she actually preferred those awful people!”
“I believe they are ardent workers in the church,” murmured Azalea.
“Even so! Church work should be encouraged, and I admire her for undertaking so much of it. But you know as well as I do, Azalea, that a Minister’s wife has her own peculiar duties to perform, and they are not fundamentally concerned with—”
“Church workers,” suggested the girl.
“Well, I mean to say that she needn’t be afraid we will contaminate her. ThereareChristians outside the Church.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Lady Denby! There certainly aren’t many in it.”
“Child! How can you think of such things?”
“You flatter me,” returned Azalea. “It’s not original. Nietzsche gave me the idea. He said there was but one Christian, and Him they crucified.”
Lady Denby was outraged by this blasphemy. She was not the only person who thought Azalea Deane had developed an unpleasant emancipation since the death of her father, and she took this occasion to mention her feeling in the matter.
“I have nothing to say against the Civil Service,” she concluded, “but I have noticed that so many of the women who enter it acquire an air of independence that is unbecoming to a lady. I am speaking as a friend, and for your own good, my dear, so I trust that you will give heed to what I say.”
“Thank you, Lady Denby,” murmured Azalea. “Now to return to the Dillings—”
“Youmustmake her see that these parochial affairs should not claim her attention.”
“I have tried to make her see that, but it is difficult. You will remember that her creed is a literal acceptance of the golden rule. Indeed, she is literal in everything.”
Lady Denby sighed. “Well, keep on trying. Upon my word, I think the world is turning upside down! Wherearethe nice young people, nowadays? Why couldn’t she have been like Helena Chesley or Eva Leeds, or the Angus-McCallums, or—er—even you? You would have made him a very good wife, Azalea!”
Azalea turned a painful scarlet, but Lady Denby was too deeply immersed in her own trend of thought to notice her companion’s confusion or to read its meaning.
“There seem to be but two types of young woman,” she complained, “hers, and the one represented by that terrible Barrington person. Of the two I almost incline towards the latter. At least, she would give some tone to the Party.”
“I grant it.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Azalea! You know well enough what I mean. She has a manner . . . On the other hand, here is a young couple, qualified in many respects to adorn not only the Party but the Dominion. Heaven knows we need his brains. Except for a few of the older men, notably my husband, the country can’t muster enough to fill a good-sized thimble! But what do they make of their gifts! Nothing! Less than nothing! They ignore advice, scorn convention and, unless they suffer a radical change of heart, they will undermine the foundations of the very structure which has made them, by refusing to adapt themselves to the exigencies of their official position. Can you imagine him a Prime Minister, representing Canada abroad—for example, at an Imperial Conference?”
“Yes, I can!” flared Azalea. “And furthermore, I can imagine that in a broader field, associating with bigger people, Raymond Dilling would be accepted at his genuine worth. Proportions would be adjusted, and the gifts he undoubtedly possesses would shine with a brilliance undimmed by the shadow of his humble origin. I mean to say,” she went on, “a shadow that is formed, locally, by petty insistence upon a matter that is of no importance. Here, in this trivial atmosphere, heavy with a spurious culture, most of us regard the position as less significant than the man. We expect him to adorn his office, and the manner in which he wears his mantle means more to us than the manner in which he administers his public duty.”
“Fine feathers . . .” began Lady Denby.
“Moreover,” continued Azalea, unheeding the interruption, “we are impressed with his personality first and his political integrity later. People of a different calibre would relegate the mantle to its proper place, and Dilling, the orator, the statesman, would come into his own. Do you suppose,” she cried, with more heat than she realised, “that the men who mould our Imperial policies are influenced in their estimate of Raymond Dilling’s usefulness to Canada—to the Empire, indeed—by considerations of his talents and inflexibility of purpose, or by his adherence to custom in wearing a black tie or a white?”
“Now you are being stupid, Azalea,” pronounced Lady Denby. “Conventions cannot be broken without harming both the offender and the cause he represents. There never has been a telling argument in favour of conventionality, yet it persists. My charwoman may begaucheand amuse me, but similar behavior on the part of Lady Elton, for example, would disgust me and kill my respect.”
“But the Dillings arenot gauche,” Azalea defended. “I know few words that could be more inaptly applied to them. Mrs. Pratt isgauche, for if she followed her instincts she would do the clumsy, cruel and vulgar thing. The Dillings, on the other hand, do the orderly, kind and decent thing. They make no pretence, use no lacquer or veneer. If they err at all, it is not due togaucherie, but utter simplicity. They do not think that it becomes them to ape or assume the manner of the great. They even go so far as to belogical, which is the last attribute that one should have to be socially presentable. Oh, why, Lady Denby,” she cried, “whycan’t people let them alone, stop this carping criticism, and applaud, if they won’t follow, the fine example that is being set them? As a man thinketh . . .”
They parted in some constraint, Lady Denby unpleasantly stirred by the truth behind Azalea’s championship, and Azalea quivering with indignation at the unreasonableness of such attacks upon the Dillings. Never had she hated her townsfolk more bitterly than at this moment. “They are like a swarm of vicious wasps,” was her thought, as she raced along through the mild spring night, “stinging a lovely and unoffending body until its sweetness is absorbed and its beauty marred.”
And Azalea was alive to another sensation. Above the clamour of her directed thinking, Lady Denby’s words rushed unbidden into her mind, and would not be dislodged.
“You would have made him a good wife, Azalea!”
“God,” she thought, “why must life be so cruel? Why is it that some of us are denied not only the privilege of having, but even that of giving? I could give him so much . . . so much . . .”
A verse filtered through her memory. It was the cry of Ibsen’sAgnes, and it spoke to her own heavy heart: