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
his _alter 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.”