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 with _receets_ for 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’s Anti-Agony
Aliment lavishly, 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 in Saturday 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, _he_ was 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, _she_ was 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 that _he_ has 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 . . . _and_ Doctor 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 example_ and
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 inadequate _batik_ garment 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.
“Why _did_ you 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, “_and_ talents . . .”
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’re_ different—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 you _don’t_ . . . my dear!”