This morning Mumsie received a letter from Sister Mary intimating that
she would arrive by the day train. “It is so good of you to think I
should like to see dear Jack, and I am so proud Uncle wishes the
children to come.” The new-comer would stay just for a few days. Brother
Jack opined that she really meant this, as she could do a world of
shopping in a few hours. Mumsie and I decided that she and the children
should have my room, and that I should occupy the sewing-room as
temporary quarters.
During breakfast Mr. Bang seemed more than usually intent on reading the
_Telegraph_. In the process he read aloud: “Sir Thomas Billings returned
yesterday from a visit over the lines of the Poverty, Distress and Want
System. He reports the company’s affairs in a particularly prosperous
condition, and in answer to a question inferred that the stock is due
for a substantial rise.”
“That’s what might be called a straight tip,” laughed Uncle, “written in
very poor journalese.”
“According to Timkins the process of making money in the circumstances
is easy. The fourth of January, too,” mused Mr. Bang.
Nothing more was said. I went into the drawing-room to look over my New
Year’s gift. I became absorbed in it, until I was startled by hearing
Mr. Bang’s voice at the telephone.
“Is that you, Timkins? This is Bang speaking.”
* * * * *
“I see Tom’s red hot tip in the _Telegraph_.”
* * * * *
“Yes, it’s pretty coarse. I think I may as well have a little easy money
as let you make it all. Please have your broker sell a hundred shares in
the Poverty, Distress and Want on my account.”
* * * * *
“No, a hundred is enough for me. I’m not in your class, you know.”
* * * * *
“Very good, thank you. I am going to walk down town for the exercise.
Will look in and see you.”
The receiver was hung up. Mr. Bang and Uncle left the house together en
route to the city, and I was left to my thoughts and _The Vicar of
Wakefield_. I soon became interested in the book, reading passages here
and there, and examining the illustrations. As I glanced over the pages
the story came back to me, the fine old Vicar and his foolish wife, the
girls who wished to see “high life,” and their numerous disappointments,
with Olivia’s tragic danger. “High Life!”—an inspiration flashed upon
me. As I have said I am getting into Mr. Bang’s processes of reasoning.
I am beginning to use his own philosophy against himself. No person can
tell me that he fell upon this book haphazard, or because the binding
was handsome, and the illustrations charming and clever. Oh, no, not Mr.
Bang! He is quite too serious a person for that. Not only does he take
it upon himself to out do Uncle in the effort to mould my mind, but
essays to lecture me by the pen of Oliver Goldsmith. Mr. Bang, I believe
I’m a match for you now.
My eyes caught the lines:
“When lovely woman stoops to conquer.”
I felt stunned. The significance of the song struck me as a blow. I had
forgotten the lines, now they are established in my memory. Perhaps it
was that I might fall upon those few words that prompted the gift of the
volume. I wonder! And then, possibly Mr. Bang has found out I was in the
Henry-the-Eighth yesterday. Oh dear! Oh dear! this conscience of mine
does keep preaching. I do wish it would keep quiet. The only thing to do
is not to let my mind dwell upon the past. The future—that’s it—the
bright, beautiful, jolly, glorious future. I went on with the book. I
read the story of George and his wanderings. It inspired thoughts of Mr.
Bang. I was going to ask Mr. Bang’s opinion on George’s wanderings.
Possibly a wanderer may be the best judge of a wanderer’s story.
I had just come to the realization that it was time to hunt Mumsie up
and tell her the story I had framed, when she came into the
drawing-room—on a tour of inspection. Her face seemed so open, so
genuine, so good, so motherly that my heart sank. I felt I could not
tell her a lie. “Well, dear,” was her only greeting as she came into the
room, looking like radiant love. I hesitated, I could not begin my false
story until I realized I had promised to go to the Hunt Club, I had
promised, the fact gave me strength, courage. I smiled, and then I
stretched and yawned. It was an instinct, and yet not without strategy;
it suggested that I considered going out to lunch a bore. I felt the
lack of enthusiasm, which lent my story credit.
“Well, my dear,” said Mumsie after I had told my fiction, “you are here
to enjoy yourself, I’m sure I’m glad to see you do so.”
Dear old Mumsie, how little she deserves my treatment of her!
Before I dressed for the Hunt Club, I put my things together so that the
maids might move them to the room I am to occupy during Sister Mary’s
stay.
As I walked into town the idea impressed itself on me that there was no
reason why I should not have told Mumsie I was invited to the Hunt Club
by some friends—she goes there herself.
Conscience again.
My first motor drive. The very first time I rested in the deep and
luxurious cushions and was whirled away by hidden mechanism. Of course
it would not do to let my companions know the truth, that this was a
first experience, and I think I succeeded fairly well. I’m sure I
succeeded. But I needed every bit of my self-control.
How grand I felt sweeping over the frozen snow, snuggled in furs; and
how I admired Charlie for his mastery of the mechanism: I believe this
appealed to me more than his prowess as a hockeyist.
We went miles and miles and then turned off the road and on through a
grove of forest trees until we brought up before a great building. There
were a number of other motors standing about.
The club was beautifully warm and we entered the lounge, as Iris
explained, where huge logs were burning in a fireplace. About the place
were small tables just like the Palm-room of the King Henry-the-Eighth
Hotel. All was wonderfully neat and had the appearance of being well
kept. The air was stimulating with the breath of the forest. I glanced
through a window and looked over a few fields and a great stretch of
water. How beautiful I thought, how lovely it must be to take such
things as the Hunt Club as a matter of course. Poor little me, how my
soul yearns for the money that is power.
There were card-players at several tables. “Shall I have to play?” was
my thought. Iris carried me off to the cloak-room and I asked her if we
were to play.
“Certainly,” she replied.
“Oh!” I exclaimed.
“What is it, didn’t you expect to play?”
“It never struck me we should play, and I don’t think I have enough
money, if I should lose—”
Iris laughed immoderately.
“You are a funny girl, really you are; why let such a matter trouble
you? Besides, you’ll have Charlie Lien as partner. If you lose, he’ll
pay the bill.”