How can I compose myself sufficiently to record all that befell me, all
I experienced, and the world I was introduced to at Mrs. Lien’s ball? My
hand trembles as I take up my pen. As I was yesterday a different person
from what I was when first I entered Uncle’s home, so to-day I am
different from what I was a few short hours ago. I know now that another
world exists of which previously I had not even dreamed. I have found
myself overflowing with emotion, pulsating, trembling under the spell of
curious impulses. Oh! what a strange being am I!
Ethel Bassett called for me in a cab and came into the hall to say
Good-evening to Mumsie and Uncle.
At least that was the ostensible reason; perhaps it was pride in her
appearance that was the real influence. If so, it was justified. For I
gazed at her a moment, standing beneath a flood of crimson light from
the shaded hall lamp, and, strangely enough, realized I looked upon a
higher type than myself. She is what Mr. Bang or Uncle would call a
“sound girl,” and with the white collar of her opera cloak about her
ears, her charms were well set off. She has a shy manner, and her cheeks
are dimpled and cherry-red, almost as clear as my own. A man could see
in her more than half the charms usually found in a novelist’s heroine
and what more could any man want? What more could Mr. Bang want? I feel
Mr. Bang is looking for a wife. Why does he not pay suit to this example
of all those virtues he demands of woman?
Strange that these thoughts should have flashed through my mind. Strange
that I should never before have given Ethel’s personality a thought.
We kissed Mumsie and passed to our cab. Uncle cheerily bade us a merry
evening. We bumped away in our sleigh, a covered sleigh, a cab on
runners. It seemed so weird. And the houses came into light and fell
into shadow in a spectral procession.
The sleigh passed on to parts unknown to me and soon I noticed the
houses were large and standing far back from the street. They
represented property, position, power.
Our sleigh came to a halt. I saw before us a line of sleighs and motors
stretching from the street to the portiere of a great stone mansion
pouring out light from a score of windows. I could see muffled figures
hurrying up the steps into the wide, open doors, and my heart began to
thump. It pounded even harder as I made my entrance to the great hall. I
expected to make my bow to the host and hostess and had my best smile
ready; but all that happened was, a maid whispered to Ethel: “Straight
up stairs, please.” Not very dramatic!
The dressing-room was crowded. Ethel and I had to wait a long time ere
we could have a look in a glass. The dresses of the women were gorgeous,
some a glitter of transparencies, others shimmering silk; all the
colours—it was Paradise. There were dresses also a good deal bolder
than the fashion plates. Chatter was going on all about us, a perfect
Babel.
Of course, there were some girls there with simple gowns besides
ourselves, but they and we had to wait while the peacocks restored their
plumage. It seemed as if the best dressed could push the most. This
observation, I am afraid, is worthy of Mr. Bang. How that man is
affecting me! Unconsciously, I find, he is influencing my thought.
At last Ethel and I were able to go downstairs. At least the roses Mr.
Bang gave me were as good as those anyone else was wearing, and I knew
that my cheeks were not a mess of rouge and powder.
At the head of what evidently was the drawing-room, we found our host
and hostess. We filed in, shook hands, and passed on. I was astounded,
their faces looked so bored. Mr. Lien alone attempted a mechanical
smile, as he took my hand in his. Mrs. Lien moved not a muscle. Nor were
we treated differently from the general, for Ethel and I passed to
chairs from which I could watch the reception of those who came after
us.
From my seat I watched Mr. Lien. He was a small man, stooping, and weak
of face and body. His hair was light, his forehead narrow, his nose
large. When he spoke his head shook nervously; he was not a thing of
beauty.
His hair, where it crowned his forehead, was twisted into a bustling
tuft, which I remembered was a characteristic of his hockey-playing son.
Evidently the boy inherited his father’s features, and the bodily
strength of his mother. As I gathered these impressions Mabel Lien came
up to her parents, spoke a few words and then passed on to the orchestra
in a bow window. A moment later the music struck up, and in response to
it a number of young men filed into the room, paid their addresses to
their host and hostess and sought their partners, programmes in hand.
Couples began to waltz. A young man asked Ethel to dance, and I was
alone. Then Mrs. Lien brought up an awkward-looking youth and introduced
him to me; we waltzed. My partner danced well enough, but had nothing to
say for himself, and I was glad when the dance ended. I asked to be
taken to Ethel; I felt very depressed.
I saw Mr. MacKenzie, Mr. Townsend, and Mr. Davidson among the dancers,
but they all failed to see me. I know I can dance if I cannot skate
well. My depression grew. A two-step followed the waltz; and then
another waltz. The third dance I had with a frivolous youth, and when it
ended I asked him to take me through the portieres into the hall.
As soon as dances ended I noticed couples passing through this way as
well as into the conservatory. The more gorgeously decked women sought
the conservatory; the less ostentatious the hall. Several nooks and
sitting-out places were occupied; and a number of couples were mounting
the stairs. Evidently there were sitting-out places on the landing and
floor above, but one seat remained in the lower hall. It was built
against the wall at the head of a stairs, that evidently led into a
basement. My partner and I sat there, and as we did so, I heard a
clatter of voices.
“What is that, what is down there?” I whispered to my companion.
“That—that is the men’s dressing-room, really a billiard-room. The
fellows down there are having a fine time, but I don’t drink.” An odour
of tobacco smoke came up the stairway. Here then was the explanation of
the delinquent youths, whose absence caused the great number of
wall-flowers in the ball-room.
“I should have thought young men accepted Mrs. Lien’s invitation to make
themselves agreeable to the ladies,” I said. “They could smoke and drink
at home.”
“The fellows think Mrs. Lien is mighty lucky in getting them at all, and
that’s the way I look at it. I’ve got only one more dance engaged and
then I am going to join ’em too; dancin’ is too much like work. Do you
like dancin’?”
“Yes,” I replied with but a small spirit of the enthusiasm I commanded a
few hours earlier. Then curiosity overcame me. My partner had not
engaged his dance with me; Ethel had brought him up and introduced him,
evidently at his request. If he had the succeeding dance engaged, he
should have had the one he danced with me engaged too. So I asked the
question frankly.
“Well, you see, I really had the dance engaged and my girl went off with
another fellow. Of course it was a mistake, but I notice those mistakes
are always made in favour of some fellow who has more money, or is more
in the swim than the victim, see? So, as I always think it necessary for
appearance sake to put in a few dances, I wanted to get it over. That’s
why I asked you. I saw you were a stranger, and with Miss Bassett.”
“The men in the smoking-room have even less regard for appearances than
you have?” I suggested. I was annoyed, disappointed and disgusted.
“That’s it; you see Charlie Lien does not care for dancin’ and those are
his friends.”
The music began again and my partner asked if I would care to be taken
back to the ball-room. This I declined. I wished to be alone. I realized
that I received attention only at the request of Mrs. Lien, or as a
matter of convenience. Bitterness was upon me, a bitterness that might
have been born of Mr. Bang’s bitterness. Drat that man! His personality
seems to be overpowering mine! He, his sayings and moods, are ever
cropping up in my mind. I wish I had never seen him. I am becoming such
a cynic as he.
From my seat I could see into the ball-room on my right, and the
dining-room on my left; this I surveyed. Upon the table there was a
profusion of dainties and the flowers were magnificent. Yuletide
decorations were festooned about the ceiling. On the side-board beyond
the table was a great punch-bowl and I noticed several decanters.
Couples passed into the dining-room and helped themselves from the
punch-bowl, laughing and chatting. Evidently the exercise was making
them thirsty. I was thirsty myself.
While I watched eagerly, my ears caught scraps of conversation coming up
the stairway. They all bore upon foot-ball and hockey, and as time went
by the noise became worse.
But nothing could distract my mind from the bitter thoughts within me,
as I watched the enjoyment of the other girls, the pets of society,
those with the costly and extreme dresses. Their laughter was so clear,
spontaneous and free, their manners so familiar and easy. Men were
continually passing up and down from the billiard-room. A footman went
down, and shortly afterwards I heard a voice say, “I’ll be back in a
minute, boys,” and Charlie Lien came running up the stairs. It was the
first time I had seen him in his own house. He caught sight of me as he
passed and exclaimed, “Hello!” in a startled way, and then he laughed.
He passed down the hall to his mother who immediately began to upbraid
him. From my seat in the shade I had a good view of her every
expression. Charlie did not seem to take things seriously for he
answered flippantly. His mother became more angry as the altercation
proceeded. Charlie finally broke away and passed to the ball-room,
paused, looked in and then came down the hall. I thought, and evidently
his mother also, had the same suspicion, that he was going back to his
friends. Picture my surprise when he stopped before me.
“Say,” he said, “the mater says I am disgracing myself, that I should
look after her guests. I don’t know anything about dancing and its her
dance and Mabel’s—not mine.”
“I know that,” I answered. “I saw you play against the Leafs; it was
grand.”
His eyes lighted up.
“You did!” he exclaimed. “Say you’re a nice little girl, will you dance
with me?”
“With pleasure,” I answered; “the next waltz.”
“Good! come and have a drink first.”
He led the way into the dining-room, up to the punch-bowl. He gave me a
drink and took one himself.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Claret cup.”
We both drank. He smacked his lips and put on a wry face. “Awful trash,”
he muttered. “I’ll improve it,” and he took up a large flask and emptied
it into the punch-bowl.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Improving the claret cup.”
“What is that you put into it?”
“Oh nothing, some sherry! Come,” he demanded.
We waltzed. Whether it was the effect of the punch or not I don’t know,
or whether it was simply reaction after my depression, but a new spirit
had come over me. We danced fast and furiously; we suited each other
admirably.
“That was fine,” he exclaimed, as we ceased with the music. “You are a
very nice, little girl; come and have another drink.”
Back into the dining-room we went, and despite my refusals, he handed me
a glass of the improved claret cup.
He drank his at a gulp; I sipped mine.
“Drink it, it will do you good,” he commanded.
The effect of the previous glass was still upon me, the taste of the
second was already tingling through my system. “Drink,” he enjoined
again with a grin. Some boys and girls were regarding me curiously,
laughingly. I drank. I then caught sight of the decanter that my
companion had emptied into the punch-bowl. “What a beautiful decanter!”
I remarked, and peered at the delicate tracings cut into the glass.
Among the branches, leaves and flowers, nymphs and cupids, I saw the
word “Whiskey.” I put down the glass and took Charlie Lien’s arm and
faced towards the door. He followed my lead; I wished to gain our old
seat.
“Not there,” he whispered, and led me through the hall, then through the
ball-room and on into the conservatory. My head was drooping, my brain
was in a whirl. He led me to a secluded seat. The odour of flowers was
in the air. In the uncertain light, however, my senses seemed clouded,
my faculties unbalanced.
He sat, I—flopped, I felt like swooning.
“You are not used to claret cup,” he said.
“That was whiskey you put into the punch-bowl,” I charged him.
“Just a little,” he protested.
“Just a whole lot.”
“You’ll be all right in a minute or two,” he whispered and put his arm
around me.
I felt dizzy, helpless. I was however conscious of his drawing me to him
and kissing me.
The blood surged through my head. I felt my face flush as I had never
known it flush before. Intense with indignation as I was, the only words
I could force from my lips were:
“Nobody can see us, can they?” What a fool, fool, fool, I was!
“You can rely on me for that,” and he kissed me again.
I realized I was drunk—the horror of it!—yet my mind seemed perfectly
clear. I heard every sound, or thought I did, and all the facts of my
situation came again and again to my mind. I found myself unable to
protect myself against the indignity put upon me, although I endeavoured
to protest. At length I managed to mutter.
“You mustn’t kiss me.”
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said laughingly, and kissed me again.
In my humiliation and weakness I again pictured my grandfather, the old
army officer, the personification of honour and gentleness, and the
contrast he bore to the skin-flint progenitor of the cad who had
insulted me. With half a cry I broke from his embrace, and threw myself
as far from him as the seat allowed.
“You cad,” I breathed.
“Now don’t get cross, its no use; besides all the girls do it,” he
coaxed and cajoled—was a picture of weakness contemptible.
“They let the men kiss them?” I demanded.
“Certainly,—all the girls that have a good time. After all what harm
does a little flirtation do?”
The explanation strangely assuaged my anger. “All the girls do
it,”—evidently it was custom. I sank back listless once again. He made
an effort to put his arm around me.
“Don’t touch me,” I demanded, and he made no further attempt. My head
getting increased command over my tongue, I asked him questions
concerning his hockey, how young he was when he first began to play,
etc. He fell into an easy conversation and soon I had compelled myself
to forget the worst unpleasantness.
After a little while I suggested that his mother might be wondering
about him.
“Never mind mother; she’ll get over it,” he protested.
“But we should really go back to the ball-room,” I said.
“Are you all right?” he asked with a genuine concern.
“Oh yes,” I replied and stood up. I took his arm and we passed from the
conservatory.
“If any of the other girls drink much of that claret cup, they’ll
get—as I was,” I remarked.
He only laughed.
“But it is not right.”
“Do you want to get on in society?” he asked.
“I have felt at times I should like to make friends among nice people,”
I replied.
“Well, let me tell you, you can get along easier by not being too
straight-laced, and be sure you make friends with the men, believe me.
Say, they are having supper, let me be your cavalier,” and he led the
way to the dining-room.
The room was crowded to suffocation. At one end of the table stood Mr.
Lien, while Mrs. Lien was at the other. Men and women, boys and girls,
were eating sandwiches, cake, ices, trifles. I caught sight of Ethel.
She had a cup of coffee in her hand and was talking sedately to her
companion; they both were the picture of propriety.
Charlie Lien elbowed his way to the table and secured me a plate of
chicken and a cup of coffee. I drank and ate. Charlie was certainly
assiduous, most attentive, trying to make up for his bad behaviour. I
began to feel pleased with myself. I was indeed in the fashionable
world. Mrs. Lien was a society leader; I was singled out for special
attention by her son.
Suddenly, from the outer world came the sounds of successive steam
whistles, screeching and screaming, and a series of explosions. Mr. Lien
held aloft a glass and said, “I wish you all a very happy New Year.”
Everybody near the table took a glass and drank to the toast. Charlie
Lien thrust one into my hand. The wine trickled into my soul like the
spirit of infinite joy. A cheer went up and my voice, I am sure, was as
loud as any other. Somebody began to sing _Should Auld Acquaintance be
Forgot_, and in a moment there was a circle with hands joined singing
round the table, while outside the clamour continued. And then somebody
shouted three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. Lien, which was answered by a yell
and supported by _For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow_, with which was blended,
_We Won’t go Home Till Morning_.
Then came more drinks, more champagne. This wine I found most
stimulating. I was conscious after a time that the crowd in the
dining-room was much lessened. I sought Ethel Bassett: she was gone. No
doubt she was suffering from the misfortune of being respectable. About
me were nothing but fashionable girls and men.
One girl plucked a rose from her breast and threw it across the table.
It hit a man, who immediately picked it up and threw it back; that set
the bottle rolling. In a moment flowers were flying everywhere, and soon
pieces of cake were used as missiles, and sandwiches and what not.
Glasses went over and smashed. The fusillade only ceased when there was
nothing left on the table, that could be easily thrown. Only then did
the clamour die down, and we fell into silence; and with the absence of
the exhilaration and excitement, a realization of what we had done, came
over me. Mr. and Mrs. Lien were not to be seen.
Charlie Lien whispered to me, “Come and dance.” He was strong, he guided
and held me up. When the dance was over he seated me in the ball-room
and went and brought me a partner for the succeeding dance, one of his
own friends. This man—I don’t know his name—danced divinely and
treated me in his conversation and references, as, not a young girl, but
a real woman of the world. I was Oh! so happy. The dances now were a
riot, men and women sang to the music of the orchestra as they romped.
The orchestra themselves were exhilarated, and had decorated themselves,
or somebody had decked them with the flowers arranged about the bow
window. Once beautiful plants were in ruin.
Dance followed dance, and I had no lack of partners: men I had seen
dancing with Miss Mount, and Mabel Lien herself, came to me. My
satisfaction was complete. I was happy. For once I was completely
happy—and in society.
One of my partners happened to seat me near two demure maidens, who were
without partners and evidently lacked admiration. I am afraid I didn’t
feel as sympathetic as I ought.
“I have just come down from the dressing-room,” I heard one say. “The
boys have got into the nursery and thrown things around simply awful. I
looked in at the door. One was trying to sit on a rocking horse and
broke it. Another was buffeting his friend with the mattress torn from a
child’s cot. I saw Percy Jenkins put his foot through a drum; and dolls
and animals were smashed and thrown all over the place.
“My!” exclaimed the other.
“Yes, I think this drinking is just horrible. I hear that one of the
footmen, a Scotchman, who was himself drunk, emptied champagne into the
claret cup.”
“I’ve heard it’s awfully risky to mix drinks.”
“Yes, and if news of this gets out I know Mother will never let me go to
a New Year’s party again.”
“Good Lord!” I thought, “how am I to get home, what will Ethel Bassett
think?” Would she tell her mother or Mumsie? What would Mumsie say if
she knew I had taken glasses of champagne and claret cup? I felt in my
bones that Ethel would be hunting me out soon. We had ordered our cab
for half-past one. There was nothing for me to do but to speak to
Charlie Lien about Ethel. So I asked my partner to ask him to come to
me, which he soon did.
“I know Miss Bassett will wish to go on time,” Charlie declared. “I
noticed she had no partner the last dance. And she’s a nice girl too. If
you feel shaky you had better take a little more champagne.”
“Not more!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, more, it will straighten you up. Be sure you don’t talk too much
and tell her a drunken footman emptied champagne into the claret cup and
that you innocently took some. She’s a decent girl.”
“You started that story,” I cried.
“Yes—why?”