Several circumstances combined to make possible the large and
representative crowd that attended Mrs. Raymond Dilling’s first big
crush. The day was fine, the season was only beginning so that there
were few counter-attractions, and the Parliamentary set, who were
hearing with increasing frequency of the fervid young prophet of the
prairies, went out of curiosity to see, as Mrs. Lorimer tactfully put
it, “_What_ he had married.”
Dilling had already made a strong impression—partly favourable, and
partly the reverse. But it was definite in either case.
Lastly, the Hollingsworth house, into which the Dillings had moved, was
a landmark which still bequeathed a flavour of by-gone grandeur to its
successive tenants, although no member of the illustrious family had
lived beneath its roof for close upon half a century. But no matter who
lived there, it was a mansion into which one could pass with dignity and
a certain satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that even should it be
converted into a boarding-house, there would remain the manifest though
indefinable air that differentiates the messuages of patricians from the
tenements of the proletariat.
That the Hollingsworths’ should be transformed into anything so needful
as a private hostelry, however, was almost inconceivable, for Ottawa’s
last concern was her housing problem.
Accommodation was so scarce at the seat of Government that many Members
began to fear, after a discouraging search, that they would have to
stand. Over-furnished rooms, and under-furnished houses were offered at
opulent rentals, but of comfortable pensions, there were none. There are
but two or three to-day. What solution has been reached, may be
attributed to the number of picturesque old residences that have been
remodelled and split into half a dozen inconvenient mouse-traps.
Inside, the Hollingsworths’ was a riot of fantastic ugliness. A gaunt
reception hall engulfed the visitor and cast him, from beneath a series
of grilled oak arches, into a sombre drawing room. One end was bounded
by folding doors that resisted all efforts at movement, and beyond,
there yawned a portentous bay window that invited invasion by the house
next door and reduced the cubic contents of the dining-room. Strange
abutments, niches that looked as though they had been designed for
cupboards and abandoned before completion, appeared in unsuspected
places. Angles were everywhere. The ceilings were lumpy, like the
frosting of a birthday cake, and there wasn’t a gracious line to be
seen.
Marjorie’s hangings, chosen with the idea of giving a cheerful touch,
looked somewhat as a collar of baby ribbon might have looked upon the
neck of an elephant. Her Brussels rugs were suggestive of a postage
stamp on a very large envelope, while the Mission furniture and mahogany
What-not, added to the general air of discord. With several violent
examples of the lithographers’ skill on the walls, there was completed a
terrorising picture that might aptly have been labelled “The Carnage of
Art”.
Marjorie stood in front of the cherry-wood fireplace and tried not to be
nervous, but she couldn’t forget that immense issues depended upon the
success of this tea—Raymond’s entire future, perhaps! It was a thought
that almost petrified her.
Pamela de Latour was one of the first guests to arrive. She was early
because she was assisting, and she was assisting because Lady Denby had
made the matter a personal favour to herself. It was customary, in
Ottawa, for unmarried ladies to “assist” in the dining-room, no matter
what their age, while matrons, either old or young, officiated at the
tea table. It therefore frequently developed that youthful
matrons—brides, indeed—were comfortably seated behind the tea-urn, or
that they cut interminable ices, while spinsters thrice their age,
percolated kittenishly among the guests on high-heeled slippers,
deprived by man’s short-sightedness, of the rest which their years were
craving.
Miss Lily Tyrrell, aristocrat by inclination and democrat by
necessity—a charming woman whose family had been both wealthy and
conspicuous in an older generation—also assisted, as did the wholesome
Misses McDermott. These latter were so much in demand that their
“assistance” had become almost a profession, as had tea-pouring for Mrs.
Chalmers, wife of the Black Rod, and presiding at meetings for Mrs. B.
E. Tillson.
“I’m so pleased to see you,” said Marjorie to Miss de Latour, a little
too precipitously, and spoiling the effect of Hawkin’s announcement.
Hawkins “announced” at every function of any importance, and infallibly
employed the precise nuance of impressiveness with which to garnish each
name.
“Miss de Latour,” he called, and in a tone which plainly said, “Here’s
Somebody!”
“Missus ’Anover,” he droned, a moment later, looking over that lady’s
shoulder, and taking a deep breath before booming,
“_Lydy Denby!_”
That was his way.
“It was so good of you to come,” Marjorie continued. “I didn’t know but
that you would have forgotten me.”
“Not at all,” murmured Miss de Latour, gazing with a sort of outraged
intensity about the room. “Had you a pleasant summer?”
“Oh, wonderful, perfectly wonderful! It was so good to get home and feel
. . .”
“Missus Moss,” observed Hawkins, listlessly.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Marjorie, nervously cordial. (She recalled
later, with considerable puzzlement, that most of her guests said
briefly, “How d’y do?” If they reciprocated her friendly sentiments,
they displayed admirable restraint in suppressing the fact.) “Isn’t it a
lovely day?”
“Glorious,” agreed Mrs. Moss, estimating Miss de Latour’s dress at an
even hundred. “I suppose you’re glad to be back in Ottawa? Those little
prairie towns must be so dull!”
Before Marjorie could spring to the defence of Pinto Plains, Mrs.
Hotchkiss was announced. The smile with which she was prepared to meet
her guest changed to a look of surprise. The rather plain little person
advancing towards her was not the dashing Mrs. Hotchkiss she so greatly
admired.
“You were expecting my namesake, I see,” laughed the newcomer, easily.
“Yes, there are two of us—no relation. She’s the good-looking Mrs.
Hotchkiss. I’m the other one!”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Marjorie, magenta-colour with embarrassment.
“Have you had—I mean, won’t you have your tea?”
“Mrs. Plantagenet Promyss,” blared Hawkins, as though impatient to get
Mrs. Hotchkiss out of the way.
A small, untidy woman plunged into the room.
“How d’y do?” she said, not only to Marjorie, but all who were within
hearing distance. “I hope I’m not too late for a nice hot cup of tea!
There’s nothing so depressing to me as a third lukewarm steeping . . .
and that’s what a good many sessional hostesses give one, my dear!” Then
catching sight of Mrs. Long, “I’ve just come from a meeting of the
Little Learning League, where Lady Elton read a perfectly delightful
paper called ‘Good Buys in Old By-town’. You know, she’s so clever at
bargaining and that sort of thing . . . eh? The Little Learning League,
my dear Mrs. Dilling, is the only organization of its kind in the
Capital. It concentrates once a fortnight, the essence—absolutely the
essence—of feminine culture and intelligence. Mrs. Lauderdale Terrace
is our president. You probably haven’t met her . . . yet,” she added,
kindly.
As a rule, Mrs. Promyss found the literary afternoons very wearisome.
She possessed a pretty gift for modelling in soap, and was eager to
instruct her fellow-members in the use of this charming and ductile
medium. So skillful was she that her copy of the famous Rogers’ group,
“You Dirty Boy” was once mistaken for the original. Indeed, she was so
intrigued by its artistic quality, that she was disposed to argue that
soap should be used for no other purpose, whatsoever!
Lady Elton’s personal title, however, combined with the smart caption of
her paper, had quite enchanted the sculptor, and she was in high good
humour. “You must come to see me in my studio,” she called, as one of
the Misses McDermott led her away to the dining-room and a hot cup of
tea.
Marjorie smiled and shook hands until faces, like great expressionless
balloons, wavered in the air. She lost all power to distinguish what was
being said to her, and had no idea what she replied. Now and again
phrases tumbled against her ear out of the general uproar but they
seemed to have very little sense.
“. . . very proud of his children,” shouted a richly-dressed person on
her right.
“. . . me, too,” came from a group on her left, “only we fry ours in
butter.”
From the direction of her leatherette divan drifted a remarkable
statement—“. . . and she learned to swim . . .” “with a floating kidney
. . .” “. . . and came ashore at Quebec in a Mandarin’s coat!”
Mechanically, she took the tea Azalea brought her, and approached a
group of Cabinet ladies.
“Appalling,” one of them was saying. “Like something in a nightmare!”
“Do you think she’ll ever learn?” murmured another. “He’s really
clever.”
They turned suddenly.
“We were just admiring your house,” exclaimed Mrs. Carewe. “This room
. . .”
“Oh, I’m so glad you like it!” Marjorie’s voice trembled with happiness.
“I feel very small in such grandeur, but we’re not using the top floor
at all, and that helps a little. It was fortunate that our furniture was
dark, wasn’t it? I used to think there was nothing more gorgeous than a
gold drawing-room suite, but even if I could have it, it wouldn’t do at
all in here, would it?”
“Positively not!” agreed the ladies, heartily.
At the other end of the room, a group of Ottawa’s youthful Smart Set
sought to extract a modicum of enjoyment from what they termed a dee-dee
party.
“They’re getting damnder and duller,” sighed one.
“I thought nothing could beat Lady Denby’s, but this has it skinned to a
finish!”
“Can’t any one think of a funny stunt?” asked another. “I’m so bored, I
could lie down on the floor and sing hymns.”
“Do it,” dared Mona Carmichael, obviously the leader of the group. “Go
on, Zoe . . . I’ll bet my new pink knickers, you haven’t the nerve!”
“Nerve’s my middle name,” declared Zoe, with a toss of her head. “But
the trouble with me is Mother. She’s prowling about somewhere in the
festal chamber, and she never appreciates my originality.”
“Let’s eat,” suggested Elsa Carmichael, the Minister’s second daughter.
“That always fills up time.”
“My time’s stuffed full,” observed Mona. “Had an awfully late lunch.”
Their shrieks of laughter sounded above the din.
“Sh—sh—sh—!” warned Zoe. “Little Nell from Pinto Plains is looking at
us.”
“Well, let’s do _something_,” insisted the first speaker. “Couldn’t we
go upstairs and hide things?”
Mona objected that this form of recreation was stale.
“We might smear their tooth brushes with cold cream,” suggested Elsa.
“Perhaps they don’t use them,” Zoe returned.
“I say,” cried Mona, suddenly alive to a new thought, “how many olives
can you hold in your mouth at once?”
Nobody had ever tried.
“Let’s do it now,” they agreed with one accord.
“Me first,” said Mona. “It was my idea.”
They seized a plate from the table, surrounded the experimentator, and
watched half a dozen large, green olives disappear.
“My word,” breathed Elsa, “she’s swallowing them whole!”
“Eight,” counted Dolly Wentworth, her cousin. “Nine, ten—my Sunday hat,
doesn’t she look like a chipmunk?”
This was too much for Mona. She gulped, grabbed the plate now almost
empty, and shot explosively, ten whole olives into it.
Screams of delight rewarded her.
“Look,” panted Zoe, “she hasn’t even bitten them!”
“You beast,” said Elsa, “now we can’t tell t’other from which.”
“Sorry,” replied her sister, “but you know I can’t eat them. They make
me disgustingly sick.”
“You’ve got to eat them,” cried Dolly. “If you don’t, they’ll be served
up at the next party.”
The thought threw them into agonising spasms of mirth. Oh, this was
wonderful . . . priceless . . . _mervellus_ . . . the very best ever!
They really expected to expire . . .
“Slip them back on the table,” commanded Mona, as she saw Marjorie
approaching.
“Not a minute too soon,” whispered Dolly. “Now then, girls, your best
Augusta Evans smile . . .”
“Have you had tea?” asked Marjorie, finding something about their
hilarity that was as incomprehensible as the sombreness of the other
groups who appeared to be too bored for words. She had little time for
reflection, but there flashed through her mind a comparison between this
and a tea in Pinto Plains, where a friendly atmosphere was
inter-penetrating and a hostess wasn’t ignored by her guests.
They turned to her with the insolence of people who felt they had graced
her home by their presence. Mona Carmichael answering for her friends,
replied, “Quarts . . . thanks.”
As that seemed to be productive of no further conversation, Marjorie
moved away, suddenly conscious that there was a slight commotion at the
door. A late guest was arriving. To her amazement, she recognised Mrs.
Augustus Pratt, coarctated in a sapphire velvet, whose fashionable slit
skirt revealed a length of limb that fascinated, while it unutterably
shocked her.
“Mrs. Pratt,” confided the lady to Hawkins.
“Parding?”
“Mrs. Pratt,” she repeated, bending a shade nearer.
“Missus Spratt!” he relayed, resentfully.
Hawkins knew Mrs. Pratt. He knew that she was marching round the golden
circle seeking a weak spot through which she might force an entrance,
and he felt it an insult to his position that he should have to deal
with any one outside the charmed enclosure. He hated Mrs. Pratt.
Mrs. Pratt bore down upon Marjorie, and in her wake followed a girl who
was obviously a relative.
“I came because I knew you must be expecting me. I said to Mod ‘. . .
something has happened to that invitation, and your father would never
forgive me if I didn’t make a particular effort to get down to Mrs.
Dilling’s this afternoon’. This is Mod, Mrs. Dilling. I suppose she’s a
little older than your children?”
Marjorie was unequal to the occasion. She was surprised that Azalea had
asked Mrs. Pratt. Azalea was surprised, herself, although she took in
the situation at a glance, knowing that it was not unusual for persons
of Mrs. Pratt’s calibre to attend functions at Government House—and
elsewhere—with a sublime disregard for the necessity of an invitation.
Maude was impaled upon the group of smart young ladies who stared
disapprovingly at her, while her mother wandered about for half an hour
with the intention of having everyone in the room know that she was
there. Later, that night, she took the precaution to telephone Miss
Ludlow, society reporter of The Dial, and, with cunning innocence,
offered the item about Mrs. Dilling’s tea as a means of helping the girl
to fill up her column—or colyum, in Mrs. Pratt’s phraseology. She
believed in helping women, and she realised how difficult a task
confronted the reporters. At any time, she would always be willing to
confide information, and advised Miss Ludlow (who listened with her
tongue in her cheek) not to hesitate to call upon her.
As the crowd thinned, a chic little motor drove up to the Dilling’s
door, and, after a tired glance in the direction of the bright chintz
curtains, the driver settled back to await the pleasure of his lady.
He was discovered almost immediately by the group standing in the
dining-room.
“What slavery,” murmured Mrs. Long. “I wonder if it’s worth it.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t mind,” suggested Mrs. Blaine.
“Oh, I should say it’s part of the day’s routine,” said Miss de Latour.
“He calls somewhere for her every afternoon. One can grow accustomed to
anything.”
“They say she’s writing a novel,” confided Mrs. Long, “an acrimonious
tale about all of us in the Capital.”
“How delicious,” cried Miss de Latour. “Dante will be jealous, I fear!”
“But it isn’t a novel,” Mrs. Blaine informed the group. “At least,
that’s not what she calls it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Blaine, “I’ve never seen it—nor any of the other
literary productions of which she is guilty, but she told me that it was
a sort of allegory, a child’s story, called “The Fable of the Fairy
Ferry-boat” . . . and she’s having it multigraphed for free distribution
among the children of the English peerage.”
“Be careful,” cautioned Pamela de Latour, “here she is!”
Mrs. Hudson fluttered to the window in response to the summons of Azalea
Deane. She waved a sprightly hand in the direction of the waiting car,
and mouthed,
“Coming, directly, darling!” as though speaking to a young and
inexperienced lip-reader.
“Isn’t it absurd?” she cooed coquettishly to the others. “But he _will_
come! One would think we were bride and groom,” and she made an
ineffectual effort to blush.
“Some men are lovers always,” sighed Mrs. Blaine.
“That’s Bob to the life,” cried Mrs. Hudson. “No wonder I’m so spoiled.”
“You certainly look exceptionally well,” remarked Mrs. Long. “Such a
becoming hat . . .” the fibs trickled fluently from her lips “. . . such
an artistic blending of gay colours . . . I like bright colours on any
one who can wear them. And your hair has grown so beautifully white
. . . not a dark strand to be seen anywhere . . .” Her eyes wandered to
the patient car “. . . And Mr. Hudson looks like a perfect boy . . .”