Sleep eluded her. Wide awake, she lay on her back, staring into the
tepid darkness and listening to the whisper of a thin, spring rain. Her
thoughts were of Raymond Dilling.
Only at night, beyond the reach of prying eyes, did Azalea dare to open
the doors of her soul’s concealment. Only then did she allow herself the
freedom of the emotion that possessed her, and enjoy the warmth of a
communion that no one could suspect. Her thoughts were like perfumed
caresses . . . tender, delicate, and as they held him in sweet contact,
she glowed with the reflection of their radiance, conscious that her
entire being was suffused with a light—an ectoplasm—visible to the
naked eye.
To-night, however, her thoughts were poisoned with acute bitterness. The
world, as Lady Denby had said, was upside down. Clamouring for justice,
it offered high reward for iniquity, nepotism and refined knavery of
every colour.
“Give us Honour and Idealism,” cried the voice of the People, “but give
them to us garbed in the motley of hypocrisy and alluring vice. If you
must be good, disguise yourself, so that you are still a knave and a
rattling good fellow!”
Would the Public—that vague, vast body, of which none of us
acknowledges himself a member—never come to the realisation that in
Raymond Dilling the country had the man for whom it sought, a man of
magnificent honesty, courage and fidelity to high purpose; a man whose
talents were devoted to more lasting matters than the wearing of a
morning coat, and the sequence of forks at a dinner-table? Would the
Public never see that to him these things were non-essentials? Beau
Brummel, she reminded herself with angry vehemence, spent several hours
daily conferring with his tailor, and doubtless both found the
association profitable. A pilot, on the other hand, has time—during the
pursuit of his calling—for no such recreation. That he guide his ship
through shoal and reef, fog and other dangers of the sea, is all that is
required of him. Nor is he adjudged a less worthy pilot because he
appears unshaven to steer his vessel into port.
Which did Canada need—a Beau Brummel to lend her picturesqueness in the
Council of the Nations, or a pilot to guide the destiny of her Ship of
State through the reefs of ready disaster?
Into her mind came the story of a young man who climbing in the Alps,
lost his footing and was hurled to his death in the glacier hundreds of
feet below. One of his companions, a scientist, computed that at the end
of so many years, the body would reappear as the glacier moved towards a
certain outlet. On the date specified, a group of the youth’s friends
gathered at the spot signified, to see if the computation would prove
correct.
It did. There, before the company of old men, battered and scarred in
their struggles against life, lay the body of the boy—fair and
unsullied as on the day he had left them.
Azalea wondered whether Raymond Dilling, having climbed so far along the
treacherous crags of politics, must lose his foothold and plunge into a
glacier of oblivion; and she wondered, passionately, if such had to be,
would he emerge after a lapse of years, beautiful and fair, to reproach
the country that had rejected him.
Azalea was, perhaps, the only person who saw Dilling’s reaction to
Public Opinion. Universally, he was supposed to be indifferent, a man of
stone, impervious alike to enmity and friendship. But she could recall
half a dozen instances when the lack of sympathy—more difficult to
endure than active opposition—from men whose warm approbation he richly
deserved, filled him with corroding discouragement. She knew that he
felt his isolation keenly, and was depressed by it.
Her thoughts turned to this new appointment, and her happiness for him
was dulled by the manner in which Ottawa had received it. There had been
noticeably lacking the warmth of genuine congratulation that made formal
expression of it acceptable. The Press of the Dominion and many foreign
countries commented enthusiastically upon the Government’s action, and
paid a worthy tribute to the young Minister, but the people amongst whom
the Dillings lived, were lukewarm and perfunctory. Azalea knew that to
Raymond, the honour—the cloak—was cold, and that he shivered as he
wore it.
She wondered what he thought about the attitude of Rufus Sullivan. There
was something altogether extraordinary in the support of the Hon. Member
for Morroway. Azalea did not agree with certain organs of the Press that
credited him with sinking private considerations in the interest of
public weal. She did not believe in the sincerity of Mr. Sullivan’s
vaunted Imperialism. Unable to find any proof for her suspicions, yet
she came very near the truth in listening to the warning of her
instinct.
Of Mr. Sullivan’s private affairs, she knew nothing. Nor of his
ambitions. Amongst his friends—and he had friends!—he was not adjudged
an ambitious man. He kept modestly out of the Press, and appeared in
Hansard only often enough to satisfy his rather easygoing constituents.
He never gave interviews. Interviews, he had observed, had an unpleasant
way of rising to condemn one. It was safer not to espouse a cause, for
then one could not be accused of inconstancy when one disavowed it.
This reticence on the part of Mr. Sullivan was variously regarded as
humility towards those of superior wisdom, and an almost extinct
distaste for publicity. There were many who thought that save for a
certain moral obliquity, Mr. Sullivan was a very fine man!
But Azalea distrusted him. With the feminine shrewdness that is really a
manifestation of Bergsonian intuition, she saw his modesty as caution,
and naturally inferred that caution is only necessary when one has
something to conceal. The fact that he never declared himself definitely
upon any stand, made her suspicious of his enthusiastic support of
Dilling. Azalea sensed treachery behind it.
Scattered bits of gossip, an odd suggestion dropped here and there,
unremarked at the time, rose now to the surface of her mind, and
strengthened her case against Rufus Sullivan. Besides, had not Lady
Denby hinted that Sir Eric was not unqualifiedly pleased at the
championship of the Hon. Member for Morroway? That, in itself, was cause
for apprehension.
So far as Azalea knew, Mr. Sullivan had never denounced Eastlake and
Donahue, nor had he uttered any anti-Imperialistic shibboleths, but she
simply could not bring herself to accept his attitude as sincere, and
something warned her that this sudden flare of patriotism served an
ignoble end.
What, she asked herself, could he gain by putting Dilling in a position
of honour and importance?
Bribery was unthinkable, but might it not be that he sought some higher
honour for himself, some post which could be more easily acquired by a
friend at court than by personal application?
“That’s stupid,” thought Azalea, “for the man has hosts of influential
friends, who, though hesitating to introduce him to their wives and
daughters, would exert no end of energy to gratify a political whim.
There must be something else . . .”
She drew in her breath sharply.
What if animosity towards Dilling, and not friendship, or even
self-interest, had prompted this extraordinary act of Mr. Sullivan’s!
Was it possible, she asked herself, that he had built his policy on the
theory that Dilling would be self-defeated by the deficiencies which
Lady Denby so persistently deplored? Did he rely on the Capital’s
beguilement by a Beau Brummell, and its rejection of a pilot who placed
the substance before the shadow? Sullivan was astute enough to aim at
Dilling’s most vulnerable spot, realising that it was scarcely probable
for him to be overthrown by a political misadventure.
A motive was not far to seek . . . Marjorie! Did Mr. Sullivan wish to
cripple his antagonist beyond the chance of giving battle, and then
himself reap the spoils? He was, she decided, quite capable of such
infamy.
She required no complaints from Lady Denby to remind her of the
Dillings’ social short-comings. Times without number, she had tried to
convince Marjorie that in Ottawa—in any Capital, probably—Success
demands that aspect of good breeding which may be described as a
superficial adaptability to others. But neither Marjorie nor her husband
would conform to the standards set by other people, when those standards
were opposed to the principles on which they had been nurtured.
“It’s deceit,” said Marjorie.
“It’s duplicity,” said Raymond.
Success was not worth attaining unless it accompanied a cleanly heart.
In such small matters did they transgress against the rules of that
great governing body called Society. In such stupid little things! It
was immaterial to Dilling whether he appeared in black shoes or tan.
Marjorie developed a perfect genius for wearing the wrong clothes. At a
luncheon given to some distinguished visitor, she could see no reason
for “dressing up”, while for an affair confined to the humbler members
of the Sunday School, she would wear the best that her wardrobe
afforded. Similarly, in entertaining, she would provide the simplest
repast for a guest of high degree, and spread before the officers of the
Sweet Arbutus Club, a dinner that was elaborate by comparison.
“People like Lady Sommerville and the Countess of Lynwood,” she argued,
“have so much better than I could give them, they wouldn’t even notice
any effort I could make. But with the others . . . it means something to
them to be entertained in a Minister’s house. When I have them here, I
am giving somebody real pleasure. Don’t you think it is worth a good
deal of trouble?”
The caparisons of greatness would always remain for them non-essentials.
All externalities were vain pomp and inglorious display. The things that
counted lay within—within the heart and mind and soul of man, and these
they pursued and cultivated ardently.
Azalea began to fear that without a drastic shifting of ideals, life
would soon become quite insupportable for them in their Land of
Afternoon.
The birds were stirring, and a sullen dawn was taking possession of the
sky before she fell into a troubled doze. She was conscious of a
disturbing dissonance, a harsh thumping that beat against her brain, and
she awoke to the sound of Lady Denby’s voice crying,
“You would have made him a good wife, Azalea!”
* * * * *
Heavy-eyed, she entered the office in the morning.
“Hello,” cried Dilling. “You’re here, at last! I’d begun to fear that
you were ill.”
The eagerness in his manner enraptured her. She drew it into her being,
and was refreshed as from a draught of wine. She was conscious of a
lifting of the weight that lay upon her spirit. He had been watching for
her . . . he had been anxious . . . afraid that she was ill . . .
She looked at him, standing in the doorway, vibrant with unusual health
and vigour, scarcely able to keep the glory of her happiness from
shining through her eyes. “Here you are, at last,” he had said. It was
wonderful but it was true.
Dilling relapsed into his accustomed matter-of-factness. He was utterly
unconscious of his dependence upon this girl. At least, he was
unconscious of the extent of his reliance. During the time he was
waiting here, when his thoughts were definitely concerned with her, he
was by no means wholly aware that she stood for him as an absorbing
problem, intensifying mysteries and contrasts, pricking strange and
sensitive spots in the sheath of his imagination. He only dimly
suspected how much he owed her for the enlargement of his world and the
discovery of new regions of thought and feeling.
He had looked at the clock, trying to summon a sense of irritation.
Azalea had never been late before. Instead, he succumbed to anxiety. She
must be ill . . . He tried to recall her appearance, yesterday, and
failed. He was stupid, that way . . . intensely stupid. He never noticed
people . . . Marjorie was very clever. She could have seen in an instant
whether Azalea Deane was ill . . .
A curious thought cut athwart the woof of his reflection, a thought that
had disturbed him more than once. Might she be tiring of her work? Did
she find it—him—too exacting? Perhaps she wasn’t coming back at all!
He rose, opened the door and looked out into the corridor. She was not
coming. Tired out, probably . . . sick of her job! How could he make the
work more interesting, he wondered? How could he show her greater
consideration?
He found it difficult not to drive Azalea. She encouraged him to overtax
her strength. “If she’d only tell me when she’s had enough,” he thought
guiltily. “But she won’t stop . . . won’t take advantage of the
scheduled periods of rest!”
Dilling felt that he must put a stop to this sort of thing. For example,
the girl must go out for lunch. He must see that she went. Anticipation
of proposed tyranny sent an agreeable warmth over him. There were many
Members who took their secretaries out to lunch . . . why should he not
take Azalea?
A very sensible solution, so far as it went. He would see that she ate a
proper meal in the middle of the day. He might take her at noon . . . if
she would only come.
The sequence of his thoughts was shattered, and Dilling caught himself
speculating upon a hitherto unconsidered problem—Azalea’s relations
with other men. What were they? Had she any close friends? If so, which
were the men, and if not, why? Had she ever been in love, and why had
she not married?
Hastily, he discarded all the men he knew as unworthy of such a
relationship, and then he fell to wondering how much she liked him. Was
she capable of any depth of feeling, or was a sort of consistent
cordiality, the expression of an intellectual glow that substituted for
emotion?
But he made little headway. He found that the clear, cold reason that
ate like an acid through the metal of ordinary barriers, was impotent to
solve this subtler question . . . that he was slow and clumsy in
considering the psychology of Romance.
Not that Dilling scented the least romantic element in his relationship
with Azalea Deane. On the contrary! Never had he consciously admitted
her femininity; never was he aware of the slightest exoteric appeal.
Truly, did women say of him, “He’s a cold fish!” Azalea was, to him, a
fine mind, a sort of disembodied intelligence, upon whose judgment he
unconsciously leaned, and whose approbation he keenly desired.
As he drew the telephone towards him to put an end to his impatience,
the door opened and she entered the room.
* * * * *
“One might judge from your cheerful aspect, that the House would
prorogue before lunch,” she smiled at him.
“No such luck! Although, as a matter of fact, I believe the end’s in
sight. The Budget should be down this week. There won’t be much more
after that.”
“This week?” Azalea bent diligently over her desk, “Then it won’t be
long before you start West, again.”
“Marjorie and the kids will probably go home. But I have no intention of
accompanying them.”
“Well, what will you do?” asked Azalea, in surprise.
“I shall stay around Ottawa and become a golf addict. I played eighteen
holes yesterday afternoon.”
Above the mad singing of her heart, she caught a strange note in his
voice, a note she was at a loss to diagnose. “I shall stay in Ottawa
. . .” he said calmly, but in a peculiar way.
She dared not trust herself to look at him. Eyes are responsible for
more betrayals than are the lips. She wondered, nervously, whether he
was looking at her. “I shall stay in Ottawa . . .” Surely, he had not
meant . . . No, no! The thing was impossible! Never, by so much as a
fleeting glance, had Raymond Dilling expressed anything more than
friendliness towards her, and at that, it was the friendliness that man
offers man. Had he not deplored the fact that she was born a woman? Hope
that was as dear as it was unfounded, died under one smart blow of
Reason and Azalea called herself a weak fool. She was ashamed.
“You are singularly uninterested in the affairs pertaining to your
Minister,” Dilling teased. “Why don’t you ask me some intelligent
questions?”
He looked at her with a sudden softening in his glance that was almost
warm enough to be affectionate.
“Very well. Why are you going to stay in Ottawa?” she asked, looking
squarely at him.
“Ah, that’s the wrong question. I can’t tell you at this moment. But you
may make a note and refer to it, again.” The same curious sombreness
crept into his voice. A new intensity shone in his face. “Later, I will
remind you that I _had_ a reason! But ask another . . .”
“With whom did you play golf?”
“None other than His Royal Highness. Are you impressed?”
“Not a whit! I’m not even surprised.”
“What?”
“No! I’ve already seen it in the papers.”
“You’re joking!”
“Really! It’s the first item in the Social Column. Only the reporter
neglected to mention the score.”
Dilling thanked heaven for that. The Duke, he thought, must be one of
the best players in the United Kingdom. “He beat me”, he added. “Indeed,
Pratt, who followed us round with fatuous insistence, called it a
wallop.”
“Do you know,” said Azalea, “I can scarcely picture you being beaten.
Somehow, one feels that you ought to do everything well.”
“Heaven forfend! You don’t understand me, Miss Deane! You think me
always and inevitably serious—that my disposition will not permit me to
do things by halves. Nothing is further from the truth.”
“But you don’t agree with Horace, do you? Remember, he said that it is
pleasant to play the fool deliberately, and be silly now and then.”
“I do not! No one who recognises the thin line that divides sanity from
its awful opposite, can ever willingly approach that line. On the other
hand, however, I believe that it is an expedient of great psychonomic
value to do things which one knows he does badly—or let us say
inartistically—at times.”
“Golf certainly offers rare opportunities to many persons,” murmured
Azalea.
“And dancing! Look at me . . . I dance as badly as I play golf, but
candidly, I don’t _want_ to do either of them well. My mind rests itself
in the conviction that I am doing badly, and so I am refreshed.”
“What harm do you see in doing them well?”
“Speaking for myself—and myself alone, you understand—I should be
ashamed of excelling in either of these arts, because excellence spells
much long and arduous labour in acquiring perfection. You remember
Herbert Spencer’s rebuke to the young man who beat him handily at
billiards . . . ‘Your exceedingly great skill argues a mis-spent youth’,
he said. That’s just it! Skill in trivial things is not worth while
unless you are earning your bread thereby. For example, were I a golf
pro. or a dancing master . . . No, Miss Deane, I despise the crack
amateur.”
“Oh!”
“It’s true, and having said so much, you will be prepared to hear me add
that I dispute the sonorous counsel, ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
do it with all thy might’. Utter nonsense, I call it!”
“Alack, alack!” cried Azalea. “What shall we do for copybook mottoes?”
“I’ll give you a better one . . . ‘What’s only worth doing once in a
while, should be forgotten until the next time!’ Now for the foreign
papers. This parcel? Thank you.”
He glanced rapidly through half a dozen of them—English, French and
German. Azalea, watching him, saw his expression darken into
apprehension, the meaning of which she could not fathom. Nor was she
able to interpret his increasing preoccupation until one August morning
he called her to the telephone.
“I can tell you now why I stayed in Ottawa,” he said. “Despatches have
just arrived . . . England has declared war on Germany . . . Canada will
have to fight!”
PART THREE
They Conquered