It is all over; I have made my bow. I am really in society. In a great,
gloomy corridor hundred and hundreds of us stood for hours, trampling on
each other. The human sand ran very slow, but at long last we—I—filed
in. Battered and bruised I passed up the aisle underneath the gallery
and handed my card to an aide. In stentorian tones he announced my name,
but although his voice was good and strong, I felt it falling on an
indifferent world. I passed into the limelight, curtesied to His
Excellency and then to Her Excellency. It was over. Only a moment, and
it was done.
The faces of their Excellencies, as I paid tribute, were smiling kindly.
Standing to the left of their Excellencies were their daughters. We
passed, the procession passed, in front of them, and out: and then
upstairs into the gallery, where I took my stand and watched those
coming after. This is all there is to making one bow, except getting
one’s bouquet crushed; and yet as a ceremony it means much. I am in
Society.
After it was over, back to the hotel we went. This as a dress parade was
a greater success than the Drawing-room, for the really grand dresses
simply swarmed in, and a better look was to be had of them.
Mrs. Mount, Doris and Miss Spruce were included in one party. Our own
was very happy, in fact, I felt more genuinely happy than I have been
since my first advent to Mumsie’s home. Of course, Mr. Bang abused the
Scotch Grits and the Yankees, but not to excess this time.
Mumsie asked Mr. Bang what practical good there was in abusing the
Yankees, to which he replied:
“Auntie, if one believes the Yankee version of their Revolution, and the
causes thereof, he must conclude the Loyalists, our ancestors, were a
people lacking in virility. To the everlasting harm of our country our
own schools teach that twaddle. British schools teach it, because it is
the essence of Whig doctrine, and the Whigs and the Liberals are fully
alive to the policy of catching recruits young.”
“But what harm does it do?” persisted Mumsie.
“Simply that the English youth emigrating to America choses Yankee-land
instead of Canada. And here in Canada, our young men, having been taught
to despise their fathers, and respect the Yankees, have left their homes
for the mammon of unrighteousness. But now a change is at hand. To-day
Canada is the land of opportunity. The United States has reached the
apex of its prosperity, it is becoming a tired people. The tide is
flowing with us and our young men are staying at home.”
Were this diary a novel, I should now bring it to a close. What a sorry
tale it is, telling only of failure, at least on my part. And what a
halting lover Mr. Bang would make, providing he is a lover; I cannot
help thinking. And Charlie Lien is tame even as a villain, but then he
might be doctored up. A little bit of melodrama! What a pity the
mock-marriage and the abduction is so worn out. Surely I can invent at
least a new staging for the old theme. Perhaps if I can do so, all this,
my writing, will not have been in vain. Indeed in a month I have felt
the impelling force of ambition, and all the pangs that come from
humiliation.
A strange mixing will take place at Norway House—Mrs. Lien, the women
of wealth, in whom ennui is a genuine complaint; Mrs. Mount, who envies
Mrs. Lien, but cannot command courage enough to affect her pose; Mumsie,
dear old Mumsie! Mr. Bang, Charlie Lien and—. Here is a setting for an
inventive mind, scope for the villain’s villainy, field for a hero’s
heroism. Who might be the hero? Could Mr. Bang be a hero? He hasn’t
quite the name.