Mr. Sullivan became affectionately confidential. The most important thing, he assured her, was persuading Dilling how ardently she wanted him to accept the position.
“But he won’t refuse . . . will he?”
“There is just that little possibility . . . yes, it is conceivable that he might. I mustn’t tire you with an exposition of the complicated question,” he went on, “but to secure the support he needs, would require a slight change of policy . . . not quite superficially, either. I might go so far as to sayab imo pectore, if you know what I mean.”
He watched the strained bewilderment in her eyes with something akin to brutal pleasure.
“Raymond is a strong man, determined almost to stubbornness, may I say? He is guided—er misguided, many of the older parliamentarians think—by an idée fixe. If I know him as I think I do, it will be hard to convince him that relinquishing it will be a sign not of weakness, but of strength.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand all of this . . .”
“Don’t bother your lovely head with it! I did not come here to worry you with tedious politics, but I do want you to understand me . . . so that we can work together in this most momentous matter. Raymond must be made to see that all previous measures now require adjustment to the changed times. The end of War is in sight, thank God, but we can’t delude ourselves with the thought that the world will find immediate peace, that it will pick up its burdens and its pleasures where it left them off, and that the policies we followed prior to 1914 are those to take us forward to-day. He must change. Can’t you persuade him?”
“I never interfere,” said Marjorie, in a low voice. “He would think I was crazy to suggest anything about politics. I’m so stupid, you know.”
“But you can plead your own cause—convince him of the happiness this promotion would mean to you . . . and,” he hurried on, “you realise what it would mean for him, for the children, for the country! Why, he would be the youngest, the most brilliant Prime Minister in the world! Think of it, little Marjorie . . . our own splendid Raymond, of Pinto Plains!”
He rose to take his leave. Marjorie got rather dizzily to her feet. The room heaved in gentle waves, and the harsh lights suddenly went dim. An awful sickness attacked her, and out of the curious amethyst fog, the face of Mr. Sullivan advanced upon her, huge, satyric, terrible.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Oh, dear, what is the matter?”
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he asked, in a voice that scorched her.
“Oh . . . please . . .”
Marjorie escaped from the hand that came towards her. She slipped behind the table. Mr. Sullivan followed. She ran to the Morris chair and took refuge on the other side of it, for a moment. Her knees would scarcely support her. This cloud threatened to blind her. The room was filled with a noise as of some one’s heavy breathing. It occurred to her that Althea must be sobbing, upstairs.
“Come on, child! Don’t be silly!” The voice of the Hon. Member sounded husky, but very loud. It thumped against her consciousness. “Aren’t you going to give me one little kiss in return for the help I’m giving Raymond?”
“No, no! Please . . .” She circled unsteadily around the table, again.
“Well, by God, you will, then!” cried Mr. Sullivan. “I’ve had just about enough of this catch-as-catch-can. You come here!”
“No . . . oh, no . . .”
Marjorie crumpled in a heap on the floor, and burst into wild sobbing. She was beside herself with terror. Never again in his gentlest moments, would the Hon. Member deceive her with his avuncular air. Always, she would see him as a beast of prey, his eyes flaming, his hands searching for her.
Quite unconsciously, she began to pray.
“Oh, God, please . . . Dear God . . .”
Mr. Sullivan paused in his advance. He looked at the disordered heap on the floor. A revulsion of feeling came over him, and he turned away.
“Bah!” he said, angrily. “Women!” and, seizing his hat, he left the house.
The Cathedral was palpitant with Fashion. For the moment, its dim religious light was lost in the flamboyance of smart Society’s glare. Its serene atmosphere was fractured by cross-currents that blew in from an impious world. The Flesh and the Devil walked on the feet that pressed the red carpet to save from pollution the soles of those who were bidden to the Sloane-Carmichael wedding. And there were many, for Mona Carmichael was a Minister’s daughter and the moving spirit of the Naughty Nine. Also, she was a bride extremely good to look upon. She possessed the slender body of thejeune fils, and an age-old wisdom in the advantageous exhibition of it. When not engaged in devising spectacular “stunts” for her eight disciples, she was usually enjoying masculine approbation expressed in terms that described the speaker as being simply crazy about her. She had reached the point when a modest man was the most boresome thing on earth.
No sermon that was ever preached from the pulpit of the sacred fane would have exposed the mephistophelean cynicism of the present day in its attitude towards the Solemnization of Matrimony by the Church, as did this particular wedding. It might have been a deliberate revival of some medieval mystery play, staged for the purpose of provoking a recreant world to repentance. Men in youth and age were there, whose thoughts throughout the ceremony were never lifted above the level of lubricity. Their presence at any of the matrimonial pageants of that gallant Defender of the Faith, Henry the Eighth, would have lent a distinct flavour to the atmosphere.
The younger married women among the guests recalled their own weddings, and endeavoured to convey the impression that they had relinquished themselves to their husbands with protest, if not martyrdom. They wore an unconvincingly pensive air.
The spinsters betrayed a touch of malice, although they tried to look as though feeling that any woman who married was a fool. Bitterly, they realised the transparency of their attitude, and that here and there, people were saying,
“Oh, there’s So-and-so. Isn’t it a pityshenever married?”
Over all the Church, there was a restlessness, a strange suppression, louder and more definite than the syllabub of broken conversation.
Ushers, khaki-clad, passed ceaselessly up and down the aisles, wearing a manner of mixed hauteur and nervousness. They showed the effect of too much prenuptial and anti-prohibition entertainment. Groups of guests gathered, argued, accepted the places provided with scantily veiled distaste, and became part of the general unrest. Few there were who regarded marriage in the light of a spiritual concept, nor was it easy to see in these exotic social episodes any striving towards an æsthetic ideal. On the contrary, two young people came together, drained the moment of its last dram of pleasure, and separated—if not in a physical sense, certainly in a spiritual one, seeking amusement elsewhere, and with hectic sedulousness.
The family of the bride persistently referred to the spectacle as “simple”, and endeavoured to preserve the illusion of economy throughout. This was a War Wedding.
A jungle of palms crowded the chancel and reared their feathered heads against the pillars of the Church. Masses of yellow tulips and daffodils suggested the simplicity of spring. Some twenty pews on either side of the centre aisle were barricaded against intrusion by plain silken cords instead of the richer bands of ribbon that ordinarily would have been used to separate those who had presented gifts in ridiculous excess of their means and affection, from those who had blessed the happy pair with sugar spoons and bon-bon dishes. Even the gowns of the women—according to their own description—harmonised with the note of rigid simplicity that prevailed. Mrs. Long, securely imprisoned by the yellow silken cord, smiled as she watched the procession, for she had seen—by the merest accident—Miss Caplin’s advance copy on the function. Miss Caplin was the Society editress ofThe Chronicle. “The mother of the bride wore a rich but simple creation of dove-grey radium satin, panelled with bands of solid grey pearls. The sleeves were formed of wings that fell to the hem of the gown and were made of dyed rose point. Mrs. Carmichael’s hat was of grey tulle with no trimming save a simple bird of Paradise.”
That was the sort of thing she had been instructed to say.
Mrs. Blaine passed in review. She was gowned in a black crepe meteor, with bands of rhinestones forming the corsage, and she wore a hat of uncurled ostrich feathers.
Mrs. Pratt’s idea of economy was expressed by a royal purple chiffon velvet, trimmed with ornaments of amethyst and pearl.
Lady Elton had managed to pick up an imported creation at a figure that was reduced no more than her own, but she called it a “simple frock” of Delft georgette over silver cloth. Owing to some unfortunate confusion in the composing room, a few lines reporting work on the Civic Playgrounds crept into the account of the wedding, and the following extraordinary announcement appeared:
“Lady Elton looked exceptionally charming in a dull blue chiffon over three lavatories and two swimming baths.”
“Lady Elton looked exceptionally charming in a dull blue chiffon over three lavatories and two swimming baths.”
A trembling usher, green-white from fatigue and dissipation, bowed Mr. and Mrs. Hudson into the pew. Mrs. Long’s practised eye noted that the latter wore a sapphire charmeuse, relieved by old Honiton and showing a motif of fleur-de-lys done in hand embroidery.
“I don’t know whether I’m all here or not,” panted Mrs. Hudson. “Such a scramble at the last minute!”
“There doesn’t seem to be any of you missing,” murmured Mrs. Long.
“Oh, how do you do?” she bowed, as Sir Eric and Lady Denby crowded in.
Commonplaces were exchanged.
“I haven’t seen you for some time,” observed Lady Denby, leaning across the Hudsons.
“I’ve been keeping very quiet,” returned Mrs. Long. “In fact, I’m going into the hospital to-morrow for rather a beastly operation.”
Vague expressions of sympathy were dropped into the subdued noise about them. “I’m so sorry . . . No, you don’t look well . . . Oh, there’s Mrs. . . . I hope it’s nothing serious . . . WhathasEva Leeds got on?”
“That’s the dress Haywood made for Lady Elton and she wouldn’t accept,” volunteered Mrs. Hudson. “They say he gave it to her. . . .”
Lady Denby interrupted. “What hospital have you chosen?” she asked, making a mental note of the fact that the event called for floral recognition.
“St. Christopher’s.”
“Oh, how perfect!” breathed Mrs. Hudson, indifferently. “You’ll love it, there. The nurses aresogood to your flowers!”
The recently-created knight, Sir Enoch Cunningham, lumbered up the aisle in the wake of his wife. Sir Enoch had established a record for patriotic service by charging the Government only four times a reasonable profit on the output of his mill. He was prominently listed in the Birthday Honours and on this, his first public appearance, was profoundly self-conscious.
“There go the Cunninghams,” whispered Lady Elton from the pew behind Mrs. Long. “Aren’t they sickening?”
“When Knighthood was in Flour,” murmured Lady Denby, over her shoulder.
“He always reminds me of a piece of underdone pastry,” said Mrs. Long.
“Well,” remarked Mrs. Hudson, with a giggle, “they’ll be pie for everyone now.”
Across the aisle, Pamela de Latour was agitating herself over the fact that Major and Mrs. Beverley were sitting amongst the intimate friends of the groom.
“Why, in heaven’s name, do you supposetheyhave been putthere?” she demanded of Miss Tyrrell and the Angus-McCallums, who shared her pew.
“Didn’t he and Sloane fly together?” suggested one of the latter. “Or did he save his life . . . or something?”
“I don’t know. But it seems odd to put them away up there. I heard he’d lost his job,” said Miss de Latour.
“I heard that, too,” agreed Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum.
Miss Tyrrell couldn’t believe it. She urged her companions to recall everything that looked like corroborative evidence, and even then cried skeptically,
“But are yousure? May he not have taken on something else?”
Miss Latour didn’t think so. She had the news on pretty good authority. She regretted, however, to have caused Miss Tyrrell such acute distress, and hoped the report might be incorrect.
“Although I doubt it,” she said. “Colonel Mayhew told me that they were going back to England.”
“I had no idea they were such great friends of yours, Lily,” whispered Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. “In most quarters they were not very popular.”
“Friends?” echoed Miss Tyrrell, indignantly. “They were no friends of mine, I assure you!”
“Then why—” began the other three “—why are you so upset by hearing that he’s lost his job?”
“Because,” answered Miss Tyrrell. “I was afraid it wasn’t so!”
Several rows behind them, Azalea Deane sat crushed against the ample folds of Miss Leila Brant. She had refused to accompany Marjorie Dilling, despite the latter’s threat that she would stay at home rather than go alone.
“I know you are not serious,” returned Azalea, in her gently insistent way, “for, of course, you should be there. A special seat will be reserved for you, and you must pretend to enjoy hob-snobbing with the notables.”
Miss Brant fidgetted, fretting at her failure to impress Azalea with a sense of her importance. Like Mr. Sullivan, her activities were conducted largely and with a certain grandeur that was pleasing even to those who recognised its intense untruth. She adorned the cheap and commonplace, and had really a shrewd eye for transforming simple articles into pieces of expensive and decorative uselessness. Furthermore, she shared with Dilling a perfect genius for discovering clever assistants—artisans—whose ideas were better than her own, and whom she never tried to lead, but was content to follow. Moreover, she learned long ago to cultivate none but the wealthiest of patrons. Her shop, her wares, even she, herself, exuded an atmosphere of opulent exclusiveness. To be a regular patron of the Ancient Chattellarium was to attain a certain social eminence, to share the air breathed by Millionaires, Knights and Ladies—by Government House. One never stepped into the shop without meeting somebody of importance.
At the moment, however, she was not entirely happy. She had a vast respect for Azalea, but didn’t like her. Azalea always made her uncomfortable. She was conscious of secret amusement, perhaps a tinge of contempt behind the enigmatic expression in her etiolated eyes. Whereas Dilling, in Azalea’s presence, felt himself the man he wished to be, Miss Brant recognised a very inferior person hiding behind the arras of her very superior manner, and she felt that Azalea saw this creature plainly, penetrating its insincerity, its petty ambitions; in short, that she perceived all the weaknesses that Miss Brant hoped none would suspect.
“There’s So-and-So,” she cried, incessantly. “In strict confidence, I will tell you that they have just given me rather a nice commission to do their—Oh, and there’s So-and-So! Where in the world,doyou suppose they will seat all these people?”
Azalea smiled and shrugged. Miss Brant felt snubbed, as though her companion had said, “Why bother? It’s not your affair. You always take such delight in meddling in other people’s business.”
She took refuge in that too-little used harbour, Silence. But briefly. She left it to remark,
“Oh, there go the Prendergasts! How do you do?” she bowed, with extreme affability, catching Mrs. Prendergast’s eye. Then she flushed. Azalea was regarding her with a smile that seemed to strip every particle of cordiality from her salutation and reduce it to a medium of barter exchanged for the extremely expensive gift Mrs. Prendergast had been cajoled into buying for the bridal pair. Miss Brant felt somehow that Azalea was thinking,
“If she hadn’t made a satisfactory purchase, you wouldn’t even bother to nod your head. You never used to.”
“You may not believe it, Azalea,” she said, as though moved to self-justification, “but Mrs. Prendergast isreallyrather a dear. It sounds stupid, but one can’t help seeing that her intentions are good.”
“Really! Aristotle said that Nature’s intentions were always good. The trouble was that she couldn’t carry them out.”
“But they reallyaregetting on,” protested Miss Brant, watching the ostentatious progress of her patron down the aisle. “Don’t you think they are acquiringquitean air?”
“I think the Dawkter is acquiring quite a pragmatic walk. And it’s especially conspicuous in church.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” assented Miss Brant, hastily, and wondering if Azalea referred to some physical disability that had resisted the effects ofAnti-Agony. “There! They’ve been put with the Pratts. Confidentially, I’ll tell you thatshebought rather a good bit, too . . . didn’t want to be eclipsed by the Prendergasts, you know.Isn’ttheir rivalry amusing?”
“And lucrative, I should say.”
Miss Brant veered away from the sordid business angle. “Look at them, now,” she cried. “Mrs. Pratt has the floor. She doesn’t even pause for breath. Azalea, whatcanshe be saying?”
“Words—words—words! I’m afraid Mr. Pratt frequently regrets ignoring Nietzsche’s advice.”
“Whose?”
“Nietzsche’s. Don’t you remember, he said, ‘Before marriage this question should be put—Will you continue to be satisfied with this woman’s conversation until old age? Everything else in marriage is transitory’.”
Miss Brant cast an inward glance upon her own conversational powers, and wondered if there was anything personal behind Azalea’s remark. Aloud, she said,
“How clever of you to remember all those quotations, my dear! I always wish—Oh, there goes Mrs. Dilling! Heavens, doesn’t she look like a ghost?”
Azalea had already noted the haggardness of Marjorie’s appearance, and, knowing nothing of her encounter with Mr. Sullivan, attributed it solely to the over-strain of War Work.
“She doesn’t know how to save herself,” she said.
“Yes, she really has been rather splendid, hasn’t she?” assented Miss Brant. “Everyonesays so . . . I remember the first time I ever saw her. She wanted a terrible what-not-thing repaired. Little did I imagine, then, that some day she would be the wife of a Minister of the Crown. And have you heard a rumour about the Premiership? It makes me feelquiteweepy. Only—only—Iwishshe wouldn’t wear suchawfulhats!”
“What do people say?” asked Azalea, ignoring the latter remark.
“Oh,youknow the sort of thing—that she has done so much more than lend her name to patriotic functions and sit on platforms; that she has actually worked in the War Gardens, packed boxes, sewed, cooked and visited the soldiers’ wives. You know, itisrather splendid!”
Azalea nodded and raised her eyes to the stained glass window memorialising another Gentle Spirit who found His happiness in ministering to the needs of the humbler folk. “Itisrather splendid,” she agreed.
“It must be very late,” said Miss Brant. “I wonder if that little minx, Mona, has been up to some of her tricks. By the way, have you heard about the Trevelyans?”
“Mercy, no! Not already?”
“Positively!”
“Why, it seems only last week since we were watching them get married. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Both! And the screaming part of it is that the instant Mona heard the news, shehad herself insured against twins!”
“You’re joking!”
“It’s a fact. Lloyd’s took her on. I say, Azalea, doesn’t Mrs. Dilling look ghastly?”
Marjorie sat next Mrs. Blaine and Lady Fanshawe, feeling more ghastly than she looked. She had never been ill in her life, save when the babies came and that, of course, didn’t count. One just naturally had babies and made no fuss about it. But this was different. She had no particular pain. She wasn’t quite sure that her head ached. But she felt strangely weak and uncertain of herself.
Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Blaine were complaining of their servants. Neither would admit the other’s supremacy in having the worst the Dominion afforded.
“But you have a very good cook,” Mrs. Blaine protested.
“My dear, howcanyou say so?” cried Lady Fanshawe. “Twice, she has nearly poisoned us!”
“Well, the dinner I ate last Thursday at your house couldn’t have been better.”
“A happy exception, I assure you.”
“Why don’t you get rid of her?” asked Mrs. Blaine.
“I shall . . . but not at once—not until I have some one else in view. However, if you need a cook, dear,” she went on, “why not try Mrs. Hudson’s Minnie?Sheis really an excellent woman, and can always be tempted with higher wages.”
Mrs. Blaine turned away with a fine assumption of indifference, and Marjorie ventured a sympathetic word in Lady Fanshawe’s ear.
“It’s very bothersome, isn’t it?” she murmured, “especially when one does so much entertaining. You always seem to have such bad luck with your servants. I believe I could send you a cook.”
The older woman flung a peculiar look at her, and whispered, “You dear, simple soul! I’ve a perfecttreasure! But I don’t dare say so; every one of my friends would try to take her from me!”
Outside, the handsome departmental car drew smartly to a standstill, and the Hon. Peter Carmichael assisted his daughter to alight. She tripped up the carpeted stairs with no more concern than though she were going to a Golf Club Tea.
The trembling, green-white usher came forward to meet her. A group of bridesmaids stood near the door.
“Well, old thing,” cried Mona, “how’s the silly show, anyway?”
“Full house,” returned the usher. “S.R.O. as the theatres say. At five dollars a head, you’d have quite a tidy nest egg, y’know!”
“Rotten business—ushing,” cried Mona. “You look all in, young fella me lad.”
“I am. A company of duds, I call ’em. Balky as mules. Nobody wants to sit with anybody else.”
“Do you blame them?”
“My God, no! As the poet sang, ‘I’d rather live in vain than live in Ottawa’!”
“Come, daughter,” said the Hon. Peter, fussily crooking his elbow.
“The lovely bride entered the church on the arm of her father,” simpered Mona, pinching his ear. “Forward, everybody. We’re off!”
Four little flower girls led the way, four being a simple number, much less intricate than forty-four or ninety-four and a fraction. Their costumes were beautifully simple—flesh-coloured tights and a pair of wings, in cunning imitation of Dan Cupid. They carried bows and a quiver full of arrows, the latter tipped with yellow daffodils.
They were followed by the six bridesmaids, who also carried out this note of extreme simplicity. Their costumes were composed of yellow tulle, sprinkled with a profusion of brilliants, and were supposed to suggest early morning dew upon a field of tulips. In place of flowers, they carried simple parasols of chiffon, and each wore the gift of the groom—a gold vanity box bearing a simple monogram in platinum.
The bride was gowned in plainest ivory satin. She had dispensed with the conventional wreath of orange blossoms, and her brow was crowned with a simple rose-point cap, whose billowy streamers fell to the tip of her slender train. She wore no ornaments save the gift of the groom—a simple bar of platinum supporting thirty-two plain diamonds.
At the sight of her, a ripple of admiration ran through the crowd. She felt it and was pleased in her youthfully insolent fashion. She bore herself with none of the modesty that characterised the bride of fifty years ago. Rather was she suggestive of the mannequin on parade.
The bridal party was just turning from the altar to the inspiriting strains from Mendelssohn, when Hebe Barrington entered the church with Mr. Sullivan.
“Oh, Lord, we’re late,” she muttered, pulling him quickly along the aisle. “We’ll have to find seats somewhere before the parade reaches us.”
“Not so far forward,” protested the Hon. Rufus, trying to hang back.
“Don’t be so bashful,” returned Hebe. “We’re creating quite a sensation and stealing some of the limelight from the bride. ‘La vice appuyé sur la bras de crime,’ ” she whispered, enjoying herself enormously.
“This is a damned awkward mess,” growled Mr. Sullivan, under his breath. “I can’t see a seat, anywhere.”
“Nor I, and they’re nearly upon us. We’ll have to stop here.”
The location selected for the enforced halt was not a happy one for Lady Denby—nor, indeed, for any of the occupants of that pew. In order to prevent confusion and a disarrangement of the procession, Mrs. Barrington and her escort were obliged to disregard the silken cord and squeeze in beside Sir Eric, and thus cut off quite successfully the view of the spectacle from his diminutive and enraged wife.
She accepted their apologies frostily, and made an obvious effort to escape from the offending pair, but the density of the crowd frustrated her design. She found herself impinged upon Mrs. Barrington’s scented shoulder, and absolutely unable to free herself. The colour mounted hotly to her delicate cheeks. Her eyes sparkled dangerously.
“Youmustcome to some of my parties, dear Lady Denby,” Hebe said, sweetly. “You, and Sir Eric . . . just simple affairs, you know, where we can snatch an hour’s relaxation. A little drink . . . a cigarette, a game of cards—er—do you dance?”
“I do not,” said Lady Denby.
“Ah! What a pity!”
“Nor do I smoke.”
“What?”
“Nor drink, nor gamble.”
“Perhaps you swear,” suggested Hebe, with elaborate mischievousness. “One must have some vices.”
“I don’t agree with you,” snapped Lady Denby, relieved to find that they had almost reached the door.
“Well, whatdoyou do, then?” queried Hebe, in a tone that was louder than was at all necessary.
Lady Denby stepped into the vestibule. In a space momentarily cleared, she turned and faced her tormentor.
“What do I do?” she repeated. “I mind my own business . . . wear untransparent petticoats, and . . . sleep in myownhusband’s bed!”
Dilling had refused to go to the wedding. Work was his excuse. He intended to clear up the accumulation of departmental business that lay massed in an orderly disarray upon his desk.
But he didn’t work. Each attempt proved to be a failure. He was conscious of fatigue—or, if not precisely that—of the ennui one feels when work is universally suspended, as on a rainy, dispiriting holiday.
The outer office was hushed and empty. That Azalea’s absence could so utterly bereave the atmosphere, struck him as preposterous, an incomprehensible thing. He struggled against it, but without success. He was lapped about by a feeling of isolation, of stark desolation. Staring at Azalea’s vacant chair, it seemed as if he stood in the midst of a dead and frozen world. With an effort at pulling himself together, he closed the door and returned to his position by the window.
He looked with blind eyes towards the southern sky, where pennons of smoke followed the locomotive that crossed and re-crossed the little subway bridge. Winter had been industrious during the past months and seemed loath, even now, to relinquish her supremacy to Spring. Tall pyramids of snow still clung to the corners of the Museum where abutments of the building shut off the warmth of a pale gold sun. The ground was black and spongy, and in every gutter, rivulets of water stirred the urge of the sea in the minds of swarms of children.
But Dilling saw none of these things. He was fighting the oppression of this curious lassitude and striving to recapture his ardour for work. The effect was not noticeably successful. He felt tired, stupid, drugged, as though some vital part of him was imprisoned and inert. He longed to be free, to abandon himself to a riot of emotion, to feel as acutely with his body as with his mind. He longed to overcome this numbness, this nostalgia of the senses, and to taste the fruits that gave to life its pungent tang and flavour. For the first time he saw himself emotionally shrivelled, inappetent of joy, and he veered away from the knowledge, wishing that he could remodel himself to love and suffer and hunger like other men.
He forced himself to a perception of the panorama at which he had been staring, the clumps of bushes heavy with uncurled buds, the gay costumes of the children playing in the icy gutters opposite, a sharp red tulip bravely facing the frosty air. He knew now that never had he taken into account the vital force behind living objects—cattle, flowers, trees, even the wheat itself, and he began to feel that all these and even inanimate things, such as the chair and desk in the desolate outer office, were instinct with life; Azalea’s life! How pitiful his limitations!
He loved her. He wanted her. He needed her. Life was without form and void lacking the stimulation, the inspiration of her presence. She was hisalter ego, upon whom his mind and spirit depended as did his frail body upon food. Thinking upon her made him free of the hitherto remote pleasance of comradeship between the sexes.
“What torment,” he muttered, repeatedly. “What torment to know this joy and be unable to possess it!”
The telephone rang. He turned impatiently to the instrument.
“Sullivan?” he echoed. “No—not too busy. I’ll be up there shortly.”
During the week preceding his conversation with Marjorie, the Hon. Member for Morroway had busied himself in a cautious testing of the extent of his influence. He found that a majority of the Western Members needed no incentive from him to support Raymond Dilling, and from them he withheld all mention of the proposed change in policy he had suggested to Dilling’s wife. With the Maritime Members, however, he employed slightly different tactics, approaching them as one entrusted with confidential information, and hinting that in exchange for the premiership, Dilling would be willing to foreswear his platform, betray his original sponsors, and stand forth as a defender of Eastern interests, with especial emphasis upon those concerned in the annihilation of the Freight Bill, the abandonment of the Elevator project, and the indefinite postponement of the Eastlake and Donahue railway measures.
With but an odd exception or two, his self-imposed mission was entirely successful. He called on Marjorie. He arranged for an interview with Dilling.
Five men rose as the youthful Minister entered the room: Howarth, Turner, young Gilbert, the Radical, the Hon. Gordon Blaine, who administered his Ministerial office—without portfolio—with unbroken suavity and bonhomie, and Mr. Sullivan, himself.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Dilling. “No, I won’t drink, if you will excuse me.”
He accepted the chair that Howarth offered, and waited for some one to speak.
What a scene it was, and what an episode for the Muse of History . . . Over in France, the flower of Canada’s youth—the heirs of the ages—were freely offering their splendid bodies upon the altar of War in testimony of the eternal need of human sacrifice for things that transcend all human values. Over there, the spirit of the young nation was responding magnificently to a supreme test of its fineness. Here at home, within the very walls of the buildings dedicated to the purpose of moulding and directing the welfare of the nation, men of mature years were not ashamed, by plot and intrigue, to make of Canada a scorn and a byword. A man of the highest instincts for public service was being tempted by his political associates to foreswear his ideals by a sordid bargaining for power.
The Hon. Member for Morroway was the first to break the silence.
“Mr. Dilling,” he began, “we are all men of plain speech, here, and there is nothing to be gained by euphemisms or beating about the bush. In a word, then, we wish to sound you on this question of the Premiership, and to offer you an option—let us call it—on the post.”
So, and in this wise, the supreme moment of his career had come to Raymond Dilling.
The shock was such that his mind refused for a moment to function. The Premiership! The goal for which he had striven! The pinnacle of his ambition! And to be reached so soon!
What would Azalea say? . . . and poor little Marjorie?
“You—er—take me at a disadvantage, gentlemen,” he said. “I am unprepared for this . . .” and he turned again to the spokesman.
Mr. Sullivan felt his way after the manner of a cautious pachyderm,
“This offer,” he said, “is contingent upon a slight change of policy. You would, no doubt, be willing to reverse your attitude on what I may describe as the Wheat and Railway proposals. I need not say,” he continued, smoothly, “that this can be done without any forfeiture of your honesty of purpose, or any reflection upon your acumen as a statesman. Understand that we approach you in the true and best interest of the Canadian people. Once understand that, Mr. Dilling, and I am convinced that you will allow no consideration of personal disadvantage to weigh against your compliance with our wishes.”
Dilling made no reply, but a pungent French phrase that he had read somewhere, welled up to him curiously from the subconscious . . . “Il faut faire tout le rebours de ce qu’il dit.” This gave him pause, the instinct for caution was touched. Was this his cue for the answer he should ultimately give? Did this not warn him to take the very opposite course to that pointed out to him? He must have no illusions as to the right of the matter.
Then temptation gripped him. His soul was in tumult. Principle cried out, “Abhor that which is evil,” while the Will to Power smote him with the reminder that “Opportunity knocks but once at the door of kings”. What could he not accomplish for his beloved country with sovereign power in his hands and his talents in the very flower of their prime! How subtle was the lure.
Must he not recognise in this offer the call of destiny to complete the work of nation-building begun by those fathers of Confederation—Macdonald, and Cartier and Tupper? These were names never to be erased from the scroll of Fame, and why should not he be numbered of their immortal company?
The torch of constructive patriotism lighted by them, had burned low. Let it be his to revive the waning flame. Was this not the vision that had inspired him, that had drawn him from the Last Great West?
That Dilling was powerfully moved was patent to those who had come to tempt him. His frail body quivered with the strain, and Sullivan was too astute a politician to neglect this fleeting advantage. He pressed for an answer before sober second-thought could evoke for Dilling a suspicion of the duplicity underlying the offer.
“What do you think of the idea, Dilling?”
This challenge to a swift decision served to impress him with the danger of the situation, and Dilling’s mind reacted with fine discernment. No matter how he decided, he would not be swayed by impulse.
“What do I think of the idea? I think your proposal is most generous in its implication of my fitness for so tremendous a post. I am overwhelmed by the honour you would do me, deeply grateful to you and your influential friends for this frank appreciation of my efforts in public life. But I fear you estimate them too highly.”
“Nothing of the kind,” the Hon. Gordon Blaine interrupted, amiably.
“The only man for the job,” muttered Turner.
“Be that as it may,” Dilling continued, “I must take time to consider. For you, as well as for the country and myself, my decision must not be arrived at on the low plane of personal advantage. But I shall not delay you longer than to-morrow morning, gentlemen. There is need, I see, for prompt decision. Meanwhile, accept my assurance of obligation, and allow me to bid you good afternoon.”
It was only natural perhaps, that Dilling should suffer the full and terrible force of Sullivan’s temptation after he thought he had conquered it, for it was only then that he permitted himself the dangerous pleasure of examining its possibilities. In his silent office, surrounded by the hush of a building deserted now save by the Dominion Police who never relaxed their vigilance, he considered the might-have-beens, and wrestled with beasts that threatened to rise up and devour him.
Sullivan’s implications recurred in their most convincing aspect. Sullivan was so nearly right. Must not a statesman possess flexibility of mind as well as rigidity of principle? Must not he be able to adapt himself to the exigencies of the time? Dilling required none to remind him that the whole fabric of Canada’s political life was changed, that the policy in ante-bellum days was, in many cases, inimical to the public good, to-day. He saw, clearly, that concentration of the Dominion’s resources upon Returned Soldiers and their re-establishment was an inevitable consequence of War. He knew that Freight, Elevator and Railway projects must be postponed. And he was in favour of postponing them. But Sullivan asked more. He asked that the very principles that had inspired his support be abandoned in exchange for a post of power.
Ambition’s seductive voice whispered of compromise. What else is diplomacy, indeed? Supreme issues have been won by a trick; statesmanship is permitted greater latitude than is allowed the private individual.
He had learned that a sensitive conscience is a disability in political life. If a man is revolted by the corruptness of his Party, he can not lead it with spirit, nor can he justify it as a medium for serving the State. It is sadly true that rather to his imperfections than to the fineness of his qualities is the success of the statesman due.
On the other hand, public men of genius, in these days, are not excused for theirdulcia vitiaas they used to be. “I would be damned,” he reflected, “for the frailties that seemed to endear Pitt to the populace. So long as a leader is chaste and sober, he may be unscrupulous with impunity.”
His spirit cried out in anguish, and he was tortured by the whirling orb of thought that compels great minds to suffer the perturbation of a common life-time in the space of a moment. He raised his eyes to the window, unconsciously seeking strength from the glory framed there. Suddenly, his soul was quickened; he became alive to the wonder of God in Nature . . . the sun was setting in amber dust . . . pale greenish streaks stretched overhead and dissolved in a pansy mist. Upon the horizon, masses of heavy cloud lay banked like a mountain range bathed in violet rain.
The words of the psalmist flashed across Dilling’s mind and he murmured, “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’ If God can pour strength into a frail vessel, may He pour it generously into me.”
There was a light tap on the door, and Azalea entered the room.
Dilling stared at her without speaking. He had never attached much importance to coincidences. They were, he thought, significant only in the world of fiction. When they occurred in reality, they only emphasised the incoherency of the substance. But Azalea’s coming was like an answer to prayer. He could think of nothing to say.
“Marjorie told me you had not come home,” she began, “and I thought that perhaps the work—Why, what is it?” Her tone changed. “What is the matter?”
Briefly, he told her. “They have given me until to-morrow morning to make up my mind.”
“Perhaps I’d better go,” she said.
“No, no! Stay and help me. I don’t feel as if I could fight this thing out alone.”
Heavily, he threw himself into a chair. His thinness, his pallor, his general air of frailness, made Azalea faint with pity for him. Sitting in the half-tone of departing daylight, his hair seemed silvered with frost, his face was drawn, his body sagged like that of an old man.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked her.
“What you know is right.”
“But if I don’t know what is right?”
“Ah, but you must! None knows it better. Education is only a matter of knowing what is right and then having the courage to do it.”
He objected almost petulantly, supposing that he lacked the necessary courage. Azalea smiled, and there was pride behind the gesture.
“That, above all others, is the virtue you possess. It is the foundation upon which all the rest are built. It is that which helps them to endure . . .”
Dilling listened to the quiet confident voice with an emotion so profound that it was like a deep-bosomed bell ringing in his soul. He was conscious of a curious sensation, as though his spirit had escaped a crushing weight—(a weight that still cramped his body)—as though it had been set free.
In a low voice, and in phrases that were disjointed and but half spoken, he began to talk about himself, his ambitions, his career; and Azalea listened feeling that part of him had died, and that she was hearing but the echo of his voice.
“It never occurred to me that my life was barren,” she heard him say, “barren and grim . . . just a brain . . . a machine that, given direction, could drive on with peculiar force and vanquish those of different constitution . . . Never felt the need of friends . . . nor the lack of them . . . Alone and grim . . . But I loved Canada!” A suggestion of warmth stole into his voice. “I loved the West . . . I asked for nothing better than to serve my country—it may be that some men serve women that way . . . I wanted to get into the heart of it, to feel the throb, the life-waves beating out across the land . . . Then the Capital . . . so different . . . The men, the administration . . . Bewildering to find that I could take my place with those upon whom I had looked as gods . . . Poor Marjorie! This would mean much to her . . .”
“When the facts are known, you will go down in history,” Azalea told him, “as a shining example of political integrity.”
“I’m not so sure. More likely, I will be held up to illustrate the failure of Success. My God,” he cried, suddenly, “why can’t I live . . . why can’t I live?”
His suffering was terrible for her to bear. Yet, she held herself in strict control. “Success has become an odious word to me,” she said, “a juggernaut to which Truth and Justice are too often sacrificed. You have achieved . . . there is achievement even in failure . . .”
Her words filled him with bleak despair. He had hoped that she would argue his decision, try to persuade him to alter it, show him that he was wrong. For a fleeting second, he was guilty of resentment, doubting that she divined his pain at relinquishing his career. But he looked into her face and was ashamed.
“Azalea!”
“Raymond!”
A flame of delight ran through his being. It was as though his whole body had been transfused with the ultimate beauty of life. “Do you think I have achieved?”
“Yes . . . the expression of a great spiritual truth,” she answered. “No compromise, no diplomacy—another name for deceit. That you have been misunderstood and defamed was only to have been expected. It is the price men pay for putting forth the truth. But you, who have been so fearless—you are not weakening now?”
“No,” he said. “I cannot weaken with you to help me. I will go back. There is no other way.”
“Go back?” she echoed. “Go back to the West?”
“Life would be intolerable here—especially for Marjorie.”
“You will leave Ottawa altogether?” The words were scarcely audible. She had not anticipated this.
“Not altogether. Part of me will remain. This is my soul’s graveyard, Azalea . . . They say a soul cannot die, but never was there a more soothing untruth spread abroad for the peace of the credulous. Mine died to-day—only a few hours after it was born.”
“My dear, my dear,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice free from the coldness of death that lay upon her own spirit.
They sat in silence a space, while waves of misery welled up about them. Then Azalea’s control broke. She covered her face with her hands.
“Don’t!” cried Dilling, sharply. “Don’t! Tell me the truth—do you want me to stay?”
“No!”
Suddenly, he left his chair and knelt beside her, burying his face in the folds of her dress, and groping for her hand. For a time, he could not speak, could not tell how much he loved her, could not articulate the thought that hers was the power to make vocative his life’s stern purpose. He could only cling to her and suffer.
“Azalea,” he cried, at last, “how can I go? I can’t live without you—I’m not even sure that I can die!”
She felt strangled and heard words falling from her lips without understanding how she spoke them. “Are you forgetting the needs of the West—the opportunity for your talents, there? Will you close your ears to the call of your ambition?”
He denied the existence of ambition. It had died when life was stricken from his soul.
She raised his head between her hands. They trembled and were cold.
“Raymond, do you love me?”
“You know it.”
“Then pick up the standard once more! Carry on! Respond to that inner voice that presently will cry out to you. Ambition is inspired by emotion rather than intellect. If you love me, don’t fling down the torch!”
“But I need you,” he protested. “You are the fount, the source of all my power. You are my torch. Without you, the world is plunged in darkness. I can see to do nothing.”
“There is an inextinguishable beam of friendship. More . . . When one achieves an understanding such as ours, one enters into a spiritual romance.”
He bowed his head against her breast. Gently, she encircled his body with her arms. Twilight quivered in the still room.
Presently, he looked up.
“And what of you, my dear? Yours is the harder part . . . Will you suffer very much, Azalea?”
She closed her eyes to hide from him her agony. “Emotions, even the most happy ones, are shot with pain,” she said.
“Yes, I’m learning that, myself, God pity me! But I don’t want you to suffer through my love. Oh, Azalea . . . woman . . . you have been my white angel, my guiding star, that I took for granted as naturally as that one, in the sky! You have been for me the Truth and the Light, the balm for which I cried in all my agony and strife. You have accepted me as I am, nor asked a profession of my love in any way that was notme. And I leave you, never having served you. What is there of me that can hold a place in your life?”
She thought a moment, then,
“Listen,” she whispered. “Here is my answer. I wrote it yesterday . . .