Charlie Lien met me in a corridor this morning. He is staying at this
hotel. He says he came down to play in a hockey match this evening. Had
it been possible I would have avoided him. He had evidently planned to
give me no such opportunity. He addressed me with: “Hello, old girl.”
And then protested life was no good without me, he must have someone on
whom to spend his money. He invited me to drive out in the afternoon
with him to Aylmer. I declined. He drew me into a recess and used his
every art to break my resolve. I allowed him to kiss me, to put his arm
about me, but I held to my determination and made no response. To give
the devil his due, as Dad would say, he did not tell me he loved me. But
then, perhaps, he knew that if he told me he loved me I would ask him if
he desired to marry me. So perhaps I am more than just to him. In any
case these reflections helped me to gather my wits together and I calmly
walked away from him. From first to last I had not uttered a word.
Away from him at first I felt sorry I had not accepted his
invitation—and then glad. How strangely are we, am I, constituted.
There is something attractive and something offensive about that young
man.
This evening there was a concert in the drawing-room. Like the bazaar,
it was in aid of charity; and like the bazaar was under vice-regal
patronage. There were songs and a speech from His Excellency. Then a
painting by Lady Muriel was to be auctioned. The gathering was all very
grand and interesting. Ministers high in the Government and their wives
were present. The dresses were gorgeous.
The picture Lady Muriel had painted and which was to be sold was a log
cabin in the forest with a mountain towering in the background. Mr.
Bang, I noticed, regarded it with a critical eye. I could notice that
Lady Muriel had her mind on it; and when it was put on sale became
visibly interested. She was standing with her mother and sisters, and
with them also was a good-looking man, who I afterwards learned was
generally known as Dapper Dicky.
“How much am I offered for the picture?” asked the auctioneer.
“Seventy-five dollars,” replied Dapper Dicky over his shoulder. He was
deep in conversation with Her Excellency.
“One hundred dollars,” bid a voice at my side. It was Mr. Bang.
“One hundred and twenty-five,” came from Dapper Dicky.
“One hundred and fifty,” bid Mr. Bang.
“One hundred and seventy-five,” responded the other, glancing again over
his shoulder in an endeavour to see who was opposing him.
“And fifty would be a big price for it,” Uncle whispered in his nephew’s
ear.
“Two hundred dollars,” offered Mr. Bang.
“Two hundred and fifty,” cried Dapper Dicky.
“Three hundred,” came from Mr. Bang.
Those present became interested and stared at Mr. Bang. Evidently he
alone was the object of curiosity.
Dapper Dicky was evidently known to them. And he evidently was curious
also. He gazed at Mr. Bang in a wondering sort of way and with an
expression, which told that he did not exactly know where he was.
“Four hundred dollars,” he bid.
“Five hundred dollars,” bid Mr. Bang.
Good Lord I thought, can it be that Mr. Bang has had his head turned by
Lady Muriel and is going to ruin himself?
Dapper Dicky became visibly confused.
“Six hundred dollars.”
“Six hundred and twenty-five,” bid Mr. Bang.
“Ah,” I thought, “Mr. Bang is becoming more cautious.”
“Six hundred and fifty.”
“Seven hundred.”
Mr. Bang offering seven hundred dollars for a picture not worth, as
Uncle said, fifty!
“Eight hundred dollars,” retorted Dapper Dicky, whose full attention was
now devoted to his opponent. His eyes were flashing in anger.
“Nine hundred,” bid Mr. Bang.
“One thousand dollars,” spluttered his opponent, while the company was
lost in wonderment. No further word came from Mr. Bang.
“Any advance on one thousand dollars?” questioned the auctioneer. There
was a silence as if of the tomb.
“Sold,” called the auctioneer.
“Come and have some supper, all of you, and I’ll invite Fraser.”
Mr. Fraser was gathered in and Mr. Bang marshalled us all towards the
dining-room.
“Will you tell me what in the name of goodness you mean, by offering
nine hundred dollars for a picture, not much better than I could do
myself?” demanded Mumsie.
“Now Auntie! do give me credit for a little sense—common sense—and
sense of humour! I had no intention of buying the thing.”
“What did you bid for then?”
“Don’t you know who that was I was bidding against?” Mr. Bang in turn
demanded.
“Your nephew was bidding against Dapper Dicky,” explained Mr. Fraser, in
matter of fact tones.
“It was amusing to see the expression on his face, when he found he had
opposition. He is accustomed to have it all his own way. Now if you only
knew Dapper Dicky—”
“He is not half a bad fellow, in fact a very decent fellow, I’ve found,”
said Mr. Fraser.
“Who is he, what is he?” demanded Mumsie.
“Up till a few short months ago, he was a staunch supporter of the
Liberal Government. He sold us many things, and made much money and
then—”
“And then the Government changed, and so did Dicky,” interjected Mr.
Bang. “‘You know,’ he said as he shook hands with one of Borden’s
ministers, ‘I always was with you. I really never did care for these
damned Grits.’”
“I believe, now, to make doubly sure, he has taken into partnership
Colonel Nimble. Colonel Nimble is a life-long supporter of the party in
power and will be able on that score, to command inordinate profits from
them,” said Mr. Fraser.
“By the way, what is the Government going to do with Tom and Jerry,”
asked Mr. Bang, looking into the Member’s eyes.
“Give ’em a hundred million or more I suppose, what else can they do?”
“Let ’em bust,” suggested Mr. Bang savagely.
“It would bring ruination to Canada, spoil our credit,” said Mr. Fraser.
“Bosh! it would do us good, shake things down to rock bottom, make us
quit gambling and go to work. In this country, the net result of most
people losing their money is that they begin to lead useful lives.”
“It would never do, you are joking. The banks, the money of the widows
and orphans.”
“What most politicians and financiers are concerned about is their own
money and their own speculations,” suggested Mr. Bang.
“The Canadian is a gambler no doubt,” said Uncle, “but when he loses in
the gamble he cheerfully faces the issue.”
“But the trouble is that while he will cheerfully face adverse fortune
himself, he expects others to accept the fate he brings them with equal
nonchalance,” objected the disagreeable one.
“You Tories are to blame for Tom and Jerry’s road, the ‘Poverty,
Distress and Want’,” claimed Mr. Fraser.
“I deny the allegation,” retorted Uncle with affected heat.
“Laurier wasted over two hundred million dollars on the
Transcontinental,” said Mr. Bang. “The road was built to win the support
of Quebec. So the price we pay for the honour of having Laurier Prime
Minister for two extra terms is at least two hundred million dollars.”
“The road will pay some day and be regarded as a blessing.”
“That is a delightful possibility. But I know, know with a big ‘K,’ that
the reason the Transcontinental was built was to hold Laurier in power.
Quebec is always ready for public expenditure—within Quebec. The
habitant makes his own whiskey, grows his own tobacco, pays no taxes. If
debt is heaped up he can look on with indifference.”
“My man,” thought I, “you certainly have your knife out for the Canadian
French.”
“Do you think,” asked Uncle, looking at Mr. Fraser, “that the Government
of to-day is any improvement on that constituted by the Family Compact
in Ontario?”
“Certainly, our present Government is by the people.”
“But as a Government, I mean, are officials more conscientious, more
honest, does the man in the street fare better, is there less waste of
public money?”
“I think so! Yes.”
“Is working a graft less pernicious when carried out by an elected
representative, than when it is done by a member of an autocracy like
the Family Compact?”
“They call it graft here; while in England it is known as ‘family
influence’,” cut in Mr. Bang. “This was a distinction framed by an
Englishman I knew in Dawson City.”
“There is no difference,” acknowledged Mr. Fraser in reply to Uncle’s
question.
“What was the Family Compact?” I asked.
“As its name implies, a compact that lorded over Ontario in the old
days.”
“It came to an end after the William Lyon MacKenzie rebellion.
MacKenzie, with a bunch of Scotch Grits and devil-dodgers, set out to be
the father of a Northern Revolution. The scheme failed after a little
bloodshed. Since that time, the descendants of the leaders have used so
much ink in trying to show how the rebellion was justified and its
results meritorious, that the poor old Family Compact has suffered
badly.”
“Poor Family Compact,” murmured Mr. Fraser in mock tones of condolence.
“People who use doubtful means invariably complain that their opponents
were the first to be unfair,” continued Mr. Bang, who was quite
unruffled. “This is a process much used by the Yankees since their
revolution, and it apparently has secured them peace of mind.”
And so banter was indulged in and our supper ended pleasantly. I learned
what a devil-dodger is. “There are those who tread the straight and
narrow way from love of God; others from fear of the devil,—and these
are the devil-dodgers. Scotch Grits are mostly devil-dodgers,” said Mr.
Bang.
“It requires the highest type of patriotism to prompt an honest Canadian
to devote his life to politics,” so said Uncle.
“That ‘the Government of a people is as good as they deserve’ is an old
saying, and Canada is no exception. Our press panders to the rich. Our
Governments confer knight-hoods on grafters, financial adventurers, and
corruptionists—” this from Mr. Bang.
Uncle chimed in, “Democracy is an experiment to which the regent has yet
to be applied.”
“Man is a mean and vicious animal, and the process of ‘trusting the
people’ must bring trouble to the world.”—Mr. Bang.
“Virtue is an abnormal development.”—Uncle.
“Society is the folly of the day.”—Mr. Fraser.
“Class prejudice is the strongest lever in politics.”—Mr. Bang.
Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!