Mrs. Pratt was racked by indecision. She was faced by a stupendous
problem. She could not determine whether to invite the young girls who
had so frankly snubbed “Mod” to drive home in her limousine, or whether
to honour herself by cringing before a group of elderly notables. She
had not possessed a motor long enough to understand that people to whom
driving would be a boon, do not expect to be invited, and that only
those who own cars, themselves, or are perfectly able to hire taxis,
should be asked to enjoy the convenience of a motor.
So she made the mistake of offering to drop Miss Lily Tyrrell at her
remote apartment, and prodded Maude into urging the Carmichael sisters
to be driven home.
“We could easily take a couple more,” she announced from the doorway,
rather as a barker tries to fill up his sight-seeing car. “No trouble at
all!” But as couples were slow in stepping forward, she strode off with
the persons already captured.
There was silence for a space after Mrs. Pratt had telephoned directions
to her chauffeur. A sensitive stranger would have suspected that each
member of the party was waiting for the other to throw the first stone.
But such was not precisely the case. The unpleasant _timbre_ in the
atmosphere was due to the fact that between each individual there
existed a definite sense of animosity which was clothed with the
filmiest cloak. Each seemed to be waiting an opportunity to step into
the open and club the others into sensibility of her own importance.
Mrs. Pratt looked at the ears of her chauffeur. Miss Tyrrell turned her
head towards the window and thanked Heaven she would soon be able to
take off her shoes. The Carmichaels maintained a series of signals by
kicking one another beneath the lap robes, and Maude stared into her
folded hands, wondering vaguely why people were born at all. Chickens
and dogs and cats seemed so much more worth while.
“Where do _you_ live?” asked Miss Tyrrell, with just the proper shade of
patronage. She wished to make very clear to the Carmichael sisters that
there existed no intimacy between Mrs. Pratt and herself.
The former plunged into a minute description of the improvements she had
effected in the Tillington place, and warned Miss Tyrrell that she would
scarcely recognise it, now.
“I suppose in its day, it was considered all right,” she said, “but it
was quite impossible when I took it over. You must see it . . . Of
course, you _will_! With a husband in Parliament, I shall have to do a
lot of entertaining. Do you like to dance?” she asked Mona, suddenly.
“I adore it,” returned the girl, with elaborate indifference. “You
don’t, do you?” she demanded of Maude.
“Oh, yes, I love dancing.”
“Really? I never see you, anywhere.”
“Mod is just home from school,” said Mrs. Pratt. “I don’t believe in a
girl carrying all her brains in her feet. She went out rather more than
was good for her in Montreal . . . not being vurry strong. That’s why I
can’t let her go to the University, as she wants.”
“What a pity,” murmured the sisters, in a tone that made Miss Tyrrell
bite her lips to keep from laughing.
The moment they were alone, Mrs. Pratt wheeled upon her daughter.
“Whatever will I do with you, Mod?” she scolded. “Aren’t you ever going
to learn to say anything for yourself?”
“I don’t like those girls,” muttered Mod.
“I should hope not! But is that any reason why you shouldn’t make
friends with them?”
“I don’t want to have friends that I don’t like.”
Mrs. Pratt was struck speechless by such philosophy. It had never
occurred to her that anyone could hold views at variance with her own,
least of all, her daughter. She found herself at a loss for an argument,
a retort, indeed. The girl might just as well have said she didn’t like
having two hands.
“But everybody has!” exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. “There’s no getting around
it! Look at your father . . . look at me!”
Maude looked.
“You don’t suppose I went to that Dilling imbecile’s tea because I
_liked_ her—or any of the people there, for the matter of that—do
you?”
“Then why did you go?” asked Maude, sullenly.
“Why—why—how absurd you are! I went, and you will have to go because
other people do—because it’s the way of Society, because, whether you
like it or not, it’s THE THING!”
They found Mr. Rufus Sullivan enjoying the fruits of the cellar when
they reached home.
“Blame Gus, not me!” he cried. “Heaven knows I’ve tried to take myself
off half a dozen times. Is this your girl?”
“Yep,” answered Pratt, his harsh voice softening. “This is our baby.”
“Too big for me to kiss, I suppose,” said Sullivan, secretly
congratulating himself that this was so. Maude bore a striking
resemblance to her mother.
Mrs. Pratt acknowledged this witticism with a dry cackle, and invited
the Hon. Member to stay and take _pot-pourri_ with them. She slurred
over the words cautiously, never quite certain as to the correct
application of the phrase. Some people, she knew, said pot luck, but
this had, to her way of thinking, a vulgar sound.
“That’s the stuff,” cried Gus. “We can go back to the House together
after a bite of supper.”
“Dinner,” corrected his wife, coldly. “You’re quite all right as you
are, Mr. Sullivan. None of us will dress.”
“I should hope not,” breathed the irrepressible Pratt, and drained his
glass with a smack. “Sullivan’s no party.”
As it had been this gentleman’s intention to stay and talk with Mrs.
Pratt, he demurred politely, calling himself an inconsiderate nuisance
and other equally applicable terms. But in the end he allowed himself to
be persuaded, and settled down to accomplish the object of his coming.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet a woman with so keen a sense for
politics,” he remarked, speaking to Pratt but indicating his wife. Mr.
Sullivan was one of the few men who could eat and talk at the same time,
without seeming to give undue preference to either operation. “Our
Canadian women take shockingly little interest in the life of the
country.”
“Don’t blame ’em,” mumbled Pratt, struggling with a very hot potato.
“Augustus!” Between telegraphing reproach to her husband, and directing
the maid in what she conceived to be the correct serving of a meal, Mrs.
Pratt’s heavy eyebrows attained a bewildering flexibility. “He pretends
not to take his position seriously, but leave him to me, Mr. Sullivan,
leave him to me!”
“With confidence, Madam,” returned the Hon. Member, gallantly. “Would
that I had half so much in the other women of the Party. Is it not
curious,” he went on, “that a politician’s wife rarely appreciates the
extent of her influence in shaping her husband’s career? The parson’s
lady identifies herself with his interests; the doctor’s wife realises
that she can attract or repel patients; and only the other day, the wife
of a small-town banker confided to me that she never misses an
opportunity for doing a stroke of business on her husband’s behalf. As a
matter of fact, I understand that she was largely responsible for the
rival institution closing its doors, and leaving the field. Yet, a
politician’s wife as a rule, seems to take pride in holding herself
aloof from politics.”
“Dirty business for a woman,” commented Pratt, stroking Maude’s hand
underneath the table.
“Not a whit dirtier than Society, my dear fellow, and there she likes to
wallow. Am I not right, Mrs. Pratt? As a woman of the world, I feel sure
you will agree with me.”
Mrs. Pratt, who desired above all else to be a woman of the world,
agreed with him, darkly. In this coalition, they seemed to form a vague
but tacit compact from which the recently-elected Member for Ottawa was
excluded.
“What, in your opinion, is the vurry best way for a woman to help her
husband, politically?” she enquired, as they rose from the table.
Sullivan managed to assume an arch expression as he pressed her arm, and
answered,
“How can you ask such a question of a mere man?”
“I can ask anything of anybody when there’s something I want to find
out,” was the blunt retort. “Gus—Augustus—has _got_ to make good.”
“He will! We have the utmost faith in him . . . and may I add, in you.
You’ll be a tower of strength to Gus, Mrs. Pratt, with your keen sense
for politics. Only the other evening, I was making this statement to my
little friend, Mrs. Dilling.”
“Mrs. Dilling?”
“Yes. Wife of the Member for Pinto Plains. You should know her, Mrs.
Pratt. A creature of rare beauty and charm.”
Mrs. Pratt confessed to a slight acquaintance in a tone calculated to
chill her guest’s enthusiasm. “She gave a big tea, this afternoon. Mod
and I were there.”
“Really? I am glad to hear it. You two ought to be great friends—with
interests that are so nearly identical.” As Mrs. Pratt said nothing, the
Hon. Member continued—somewhat more easily, noting that his host and
Maude had left the room—“I’m so fond of her . . . almost _too_ fond,
I’m afraid! She’s a wonderful little woman, Mrs. Pratt—and I’ve known a
good many in my day. Do you realise that Marjorie could simply _make_
her husband, if she had a tithe of your political sense . . . if she
only knew how!”
“You surprise me,” said Mrs. Pratt, and in her tone the Hon. Member was
gratified to detect the ring of truth.
“Well, it’s a fact. Dilling’s a marvel, my dear lady. Even the
Opposition concede him the respect due a powerful antagonist.”
“He’s not a bad speaker,” admitted Mrs. Pratt.
“There isn’t a man in the House who can touch him! Now, is there?”
Mrs. Pratt hedged by suggesting that the country looked for something
more than forensic eloquence.
“A profound remark!” Mr. Sullivan could not restrain his admiration. He
beamed and stroked his knees, deriving from the performance, apparently,
much satisfaction. “Trust you to dig right down to the root of the
matter! Not that he hasn’t principles, dear lady, and also the courage
necessary to express them. We mustn’t overlook that. Moreover, it’s
almost impossible to defeat him in argument . . . Such disconcerting
agility of mind, you know. He lets the other fellow expend himself in an
offensive, and then, without apparent effort, stabs and thrusts until
his opponents fall in regular—er—regular—”
“Windrows,” suggested Mrs. Pratt, whose unacknowledged relatives were
honest farming people.
“Windrows, a capital comparison! They fall in regular windrows before
him. Why, he can prove that black is white any day in the week.”
“Men are fools!” was the lady’s oracular remark.
“Unfortunately for them . . . us, I really ought to say. I, myself, have
felt the force of that young man’s power, and I’ve been absolutely putty
in his hands.”
Mrs. Pratt drew her lips into a thin, straight line, and forbore to
comment on this weakness.
“The trouble is—as, of course, you are aware—he has been trained in a
bad school, and it may take some time to undo the effect of early
education. Then, naturally, he’s only human and the wine of success is a
heady beverage. He’s somewhat determined—”
“Mule-ish,” amended Mrs. Pratt.
“No, no, I protest,” cried the Hon. Member, playfully. “You must not be
too hard on the fellow. All he needs is a little guidance—perhaps even
a shade more definite opposition. For example, this elevator and freight
idea of his . . .”
“G’aranteed to plunge the whole country into roon,” interrupted Mrs.
Pratt, whose investments were centred strictly to the East.
“I anticipated you would take the view of the better minds,” returned
Mr. Sullivan, perceiving that the time had come for him to discard the
subtler implements of finesse, and employ the rough, but honest trowel.
“But when all’s said and done, it may be better to support a man with
whose policies we are not in accord than to split into groups, and
eventually be forced from our seats into the benches on the opposite
side of the house.”
Mrs. Pratt watched her guest with unmistakable bewilderment in her hard
blue eyes.
“I see that you agree with me,” he went on, “and you are probably
wondering, just as I am, how soon the need will come for us to prove our
Party loyalty. It can’t be far away, dear lady. I have ten dollars in my
pocket that says there’ll be a Cabinet vacancy before the spring.”
“And Dilling will get the portfolio!” barked Mrs. Pratt, thrown
completely off her guard.
“What a head you have!” cried Sullivan. “I’ll wager there aren’t a dozen
men who have suspected it! But he needs support . . . he must have it.
We must stand solidly behind him, for no matter how divergent may be our
views upon this question of western freight, we’ve got to train up a
man—a good strong fellow—who will sweep the country and be able to
step into the shoes of the Prime Minister, some day!”
“Prime Minister!” gasped Mrs. Pratt, and fell to preening herself in
order that she might hide the trembling of her hands.
She hated the Dillings—Raymond for his reputed genius, the clear, cold
brilliance that would not be eclipsed, and Marjorie for her childish
friendliness and ingratiating ways. The meek might inherit the Kingdom
of Heaven without provoking her envy, but that they should also inherit
the earth was a contingency that aroused her cold fury.
She saw them sought after, deferred to, taking precedence over everyone
save the representative of the King! Her thoughts fell into narrower
channels and she pictured Marjorie opening bazaars, lending her
patronage to this or that gathering of Society’s choicest blossoms,
arriving at the state where she would be unstirred by invitations to
Government House!
Under the turquoise velvet, her bosom rose and fell, heavily. At the
moment she hated her husband no less fiercely than she hated the man
whom she chose to consider his rival. What could Augustus carve in the
way of a career? How could he ever hope to triumph over this aggressive
man from the West? Where would she be when Marjorie Dilling had become
the wife of Canada’s young Prime Minister?
The suave voice of Rufus Sullivan fashioned itself into words. The first
ones she failed to catch, but the last pierced her like the point of a
white-hot rapier.
“. . . and then, naturally, a title. And how graciously she will wear
it, eh?”
A title . . . Mrs. Pratt felt suffocated. A portfolio was bad enough;
the Premiership was a possibility that she could not consider without a
cataclysm of emotion, but a title . . . the pinnacle of human desire,
the social and political apogee . . .
Sir Raymond and Lady Dilling . . . Lady Dilling . . .
She rose abruptly and strode to the door. Pratt avoided a collision with
difficulty. He was just coming in.
“No more time for philandering,” he cried, with vulgar geniality. “On to
Pretoria! Nelson expects every man to do his duty!”
Mrs. Pratt watched their departure with contradictory sensations. The
Hon. Member for Morroway was not the man to spoil a good impression by
an inartistic exit. He made a graceful adieu, managing to convey the
idea that, although now and again he might be the bearer of news that
was disturbing, on the whole he was a man who could be mulct by a woman
of astuteness, of the most intimate and useful information.
* * * * *
Augustus Pratt, M.P., arrived home on the stroke of midnight to find his
wife and daughter in the midst of a litter of stationery, calling lists,
telephone and Blue Books.
“What’s up now?” he demanded, picking his way across the floor as one
hops over a brook by means of stepping stones.
“Look at that,” cried his wife, and pointed to the evening paper.
Pratt gave his attention to the item indicated. It headed the Personal
column, and read,
“The following ladies and gentlemen had the honour of dining at
Government House last evening . . . and Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Dilling.”
“Well,” he yawned, “there’s nothing very startling about that! I don’t
see the answer.”
“No! Naturally you wouldn’t!” Mrs. Pratt pounded a stamp on an envelope.
The M.P. turned to his daughter. “Tell her old dad what it means, little
Maudie.”
“Mother’s giving a big dinner party, on the seventeenth.”
“Oh, my God!” sighed Augustus. Then, “I’ve got to go to Montreal on that
date, Minnie—honest, I have!”
“You dare! And listen, Gus, while I think of it; if I ever hear that
you’ve given one atom of support to that Dilling, I’ll have my trunks
packed and the house closed, before you can get home! Now, don’t
forget!”
“Dear, dear!” Pratt assumed an air of panic. “What’s the poor beggar
been up to now?”
“He’s up to getting himself into the Cabinet, if men like you don’t want
the job, yourselves—that’s what he’s up to. And once in the Cabinet,
you know where he’ll land next.”
“Where?”
“In the Prime Minister’s seat,” returned Mrs. Pratt, sourly.
“In the Senate, you mean,” laughed Augustus, and pinched Maude’s ear.
“Your idea of jokes is sickening,” Mrs. Pratt declared. “Sometimes I
wonder why I bother with you. Now, Mod, read out the names on those
envelopes down there!”
Dutifully, Maude complied . . . “Mr. and Mrs. Chesley . . .”
“Like enough they won’t come,” interrupted her mother. “We’ve never
called.”
“. . . Mr. and Mrs. Long! Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hudson . . .”
“There’s another hateful snob. This afternoon I could have strangled
her!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Truman . . .”
“They say she only goes to Government House,” mused Mrs. Pratt.
“However, I took a chance. It only cost two cents—and you never know.”
“You bet you’ll never know,” said the Member. “Minnie, you’re plain
crazy asking all these swells that you don’t even know when you see ’em!
Why don’t we have any _real_ friends, nowadays?”
Mrs. Pratt answered with a baleful glance that was more eloquent than
words. Then, assured that there would be no further interference from
her husband, directed Maude to finish her work.
“. . . Sir Eric and Lady Denby . . .”
“They ought to come, anyhow,” she groaned, hopefully, “seeing it’s the
Party. The Fanshawes, the Howarths, Sullivan and Azalea Deane . . .
she’s sure to come . . . that makes twenty-nine. There’s one more
envelope, Mod!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Dilling,” read the girl.
“Dilling?” echoed her father.
“Of course, Augustus. Don’t gape at me in that way!”
“But you just told me—I thought you had your knife into the Dillings.”
“So I have, you fool!”
“Then why the hell do you ask them to your party?”
Mrs. Pratt so forgot herself as to stamp her foot. “Can’t you see,” she
cried, “that they’re getting on?”