[Cover Illustration]




[Illustration: “Oh! the glory of it—to rescue the man I loved.” (See
page 298)]




[Illustration]

                            AS OTHERS SEE US

                          BEING THE DIARY OF A
                           CANADIAN DEBUTANTE

                            BY “GOOSEQUILL”


                     TORONTO: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                 OF CANADA, LTD., AT ST. MARTIN’S HOUSE
                                 MCMXV




                      COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1915, BY
                THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LIMITED




                                   To
                         MY MOST PATIENT CRITIC




                                PREFACE


The purpose of this story is to form some impression of salient facts
and tendencies in Canadian life, and to show its strength, and through
its strength, its weakness. So I planned before the gods ruled for war,
and the soldiers began to write history with the sword which, despite
Lytton, is proved infinitely mightier than the pen.

However, here is the book, and I hope the reader will not be sorry to
meet again old friends. Elsie has—though she does not intend it—a
serious purpose.

The English have never truly understood the Colonial.

In May of last year (1914) a writer in the _Times_ said that he had
lived in Canada for a number of years, and was satisfied that Canada was
becoming Americanized, because the Canadian talked with an American
accent. It was possible that what he saw and regarded with alarm is what
I have here drawn in gentle satire. Society is our bane; and a new
society is certain to be, in many respects, intolerable. The craze for,
and hunt after, society is not limited to any country; it is a
world-wide weakness. The Snob is—as Thackeray showed us—ubiquitous.

As to my references to the Spread-Eagle citizens of the United States, I
have had access to two books, _The Loyalists of Massachusetts_, by John
H. Stark, Boston, published by himself, and _The True History of the
American Revolution_, by Sydney George Fisher, (Lippincott). These are
remarkable books; and a knowledge of the contents of either would go far
to enable an Englishman to measure the Canadian’s attitude towards the
United States. The story these books tell parallels that set forth in
the press, as shown by the onslaught of German hordes into Belgium. The
outstanding difference is that whereas the Germans cry “Kultur” the
Yankees yelled “Liberty.” The Archives of the United States tell of
30,000 cases of outrage against the Loyalists which, I fancy, is a
greater number than can be laid at the door of the Huns.

The books mentioned are significant of a popular move. That this move
should have originated in the “Land of the Free” is remarkable. That
popular appreciation should have been held from the Canadian so long is
deplorable. That recognition has been withheld from Canadians is shown
by the after-dinner speech made a few years ago at New York, by a noble
Lord. The gentleman I refer to is reported to have said in effect: “The
Revolutionists would have been unworthy of their ancestors had they not
taken up arms.” The implied inference is that the Loyalists were
unworthy of their ancestors.

I do not claim the right to speak for any one but myself, but as all my
ancestors were in America before the Revolution, few have a better
claim. Canada is peopled by a sound stock, somewhat lacking in
philosophy. It is an important asset to civilization and, as has been
proved in Flanders, an heroic constituent of the British Empire. But our
people need a truer appreciation of proper values; when they have this,
they will be second to none among the peoples of the world. But at
present we do not lack that virtue which finds reward within itself.

The reader is asked to believe that this book was designed and largely
written before August, 1914.

                                                        GOOSEQUILL.

Toronto, November 1st, 1915.




                            AS OTHERS SEE US
                BEING THE DIARY OF A CANADIAN DEBUTANTE


DECEMBER 15TH.

Mumsie is a dear, and I am going to put all about her in this diary.
Mumsie says I am an old-fashioned girl (how little she knows me!), but
I’ll be old-fashioned enough anyhow to keep a diary. It will be useful
to read about the people, and parties, and things I’m going to enjoy.
Yes, enjoy is the word. Dances and afternoon teas, and those things the
rich people do, I’m going to have my share of. I’m glad I’m a girl,
especially when one has such a good aunt as Mumsie. She was nothing more
than a friend of my mother—the mother I never knew. And, I am sure, the
best of friends!

Just to think I am really to spend a winter in this great Canadian City!
I shall call it the City of Mammon. After my village home that seems the
only name for it, and there is evidence of wealth everywhere. I almost
gasp when I think of what some things I see must have cost, the silk
dresses, the great hats with ostrich plumes, the motors. And I must
confess to being dazed when I came out of the station. The bells clanged
so loudly and the engines puffed as if they wished to specially frighten
me; but they didn’t, that is, not much. Perhaps it is that the station
held the noises in under its great, glass roof; but the noise and the
buffeting, and the many people in a hurry made a strange confusion. At
home the station roof is the vault of Heaven, so that we score sometimes
in our village. And when we got into the street the cars, the motors,
and the lights flashing here and there—it was all so fairy-like and
heavenly that—Oh! it is good to be alive.

Mumsie has given me such a big room with an outlook over the street. I
feel almost as Cinderella must have felt when at the Prince’s Ball
before the midnight bell. I wonder if I shall be asked to any balls! But
of course I shall. If Uncle should try to be an old fogey—but he won’t.

That is enough to write about for the first day. No, I must put down
more about Mumsie. When she met me at the station and took me in her
arms and kissed me, it seemed as if her heart opened and I fell right
in; and when she spoke I felt as if I had known her voice all my life.
She had a hundred things to ask about myself: how she thought of them
all I can’t imagine. She is full of fun, with lots of amusing stories,
or at least she seems to make fun out of almost anything. She has
reddish hair—a poet would no doubt call it golden—which she does like
the Queen, and her voice when she gets talking is generally loud, though
the louder it gets the nicer it sounds, it is so cheery. My uncle, her
husband, Mr. George Somers, is a largish man with roast-beef cheeks and
gray hair, though he is not the least bit old looking. He has a straight
nose, a full and polished forehead, and a cropped, white moustache. He
is a lawyer, and has a voice for humbugging with. I like him, and there
is a twinkle in his eye.

P.S. I am so happy!

DECEMBER 16TH.

I looked out of my window this morning and the trees glistened prettily
in the sunlight. I could not help thinking of the Fairy Godmother. But I
mustn’t think these thoughts. I am a grown-up person of eighteen. Though
it doesn’t matter what I write here, as I am never going to show this
diary to anybody, not even to the beloved Mumsie.

After breakfast we, that is, Mumsie and I, set out on a shopping
expedition. I knew them all by name: Horace’s, Lewis’s, and Carlisle’s;
I had at home pored over their advertisements so often. And just to
think I was really going to visit them and buy lots of things! Dad had
given me one hundred dollars, saying I must dress myself properly. One
hundred dollars! I have never before had so much money to spend. Poor
Dad! he must find it so dull living in the country, and his patients are
such poor pay.

We went to Lewis’s first and bought an evening dress and the duckiest
little hat that ever was, and after that we went to Horace’s. This I
knew was really the fashionable shop. Mumsie said we were to buy a suit;
she said I would need one. Indeed, I already felt I was shabby, and was
sorry I had not put on my new hat at Lewis’s and had my old one sent
home.

I gasped as we entered Horace’s, the dresses were all so grand, and
there were so many ladies present. No person paid any attention to us at
first; but when they did they looked at Mumsie first and then at me, and
their eyes (I think) lingered on me.

After we had made our purchases, Mumsie took me to a ribbon counter, not
far away from a most beautifully dressed woman. Her ermine stole did not
hide a diamond and sapphire brooch at her throat. Her blue velvet suit
was in the latest fashion. She was large and dark. Her face was rounded,
and lofty eyebrows made her eyes appear prominent. A cold, deliberate
manner gave the impression of absolute control. She bowed to Mumsie and
my heart went into my mouth. I am silly to be so fluttered and shy. The
strange lady advanced and held her hand out to Mumsie.

“How do you do Mrs. Somers? How is Mr. Somers? I hope you are all well.”

“Quite well, thank you,” replied Mumsie, not too genially I thought.

“You will take a hand in our Ragamuffins’ Feast, won’t you?”

“Certainly, I would not miss for the world,” answered Auntie.

Mumsie’s manner was more formal than I had yet known her use, and it
struck me the lady had something on her mind.

“I suppose you are doing your Christmas shopping early out of
consideration for the help.”

“No, not exactly,” replied Mumsie, “I am helping my friend here. Elsie,
let me introduce you to Mrs. Lien. This is my niece, Elsie Travers, who
is to spend the winter with me. She is a debutante.”

Mrs. Lien flashed me a critical glance, and said rather grandly: “I have
no doubt Miss Travers will enjoy herself. It must be very interesting
getting her outfit.”

When she had gone I wondered whether her manner had wounded or gladdened
me. I had received something of a shock.

At dinner I said to Uncle: “Who is Mrs. Lien?”

Uncle repeated the question with a smile growing on his lips and the
merriest twinkle in his eyes.

“My dear, one would think you were Mrs. Grundy herself,” laughed Mumsie,
“by the severe way in which you asked the question.”

“Mrs. Lien is a Yankee; so we know nothing of her antecedents. She is
the wife of Stephen Lien, who on his part,” said Uncle slowly “is the
son of his father.”

I suppose I showed I was puzzled.

“Mr. Lien, senior,” continued Uncle, “was an English attorney who came
to this country in the forties and accommodated the farmers by lending
them money.”

“How very considerate of him,” I claimed, while Auntie looked oddly at
Uncle.

“Yes, he used consideration and discrimination also, for he was a master
hand at selecting those farmers whose lands were good, and who were
themselves less capable.”

There was now a curious smile, cynical I think it should be called, on
Uncle’s lips. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing, which I
have decided is sometimes the wisest thing to say.

“He soon owned the farm,” continued Uncle.

“That is a very clever way of making money—” I began.

“Elsie!” cried Mumsie in horror.

What had I said to startle her?

“There was a period of bad crops,” said Uncle, reflectively. “A humane
man who would lend money to farmers, a man with a heart and a conscience
would be a godsend in a new country, but unfortunately Lien pere was not
a humane man, and his son, and his son’s wife, and their bright boy,
Charlie——”

“Hush!” said Auntie.

I wonder why!

“Elsie,” said Uncle gravely, “we owe a debt of gratitude to our
forefathers. This land is to-day drunk with prosperity, yet every foot
of our broad acres, these miles and miles of fertile fields, have been
won by the sweat of toiling manhood, supported by the tears of trusting,
oftentimes gentle, womanhood. I am afraid the fruit of all these
sacrifices are not falling into the hands of those who are worthiest of
them.”

“That might be said of any land,” objected Mumsie. “I suppose all land
was wild once upon a time.”

“In Europe the land was cleared two or three thousand years ago; our
land has been cleared within the last few generations,” retorted Uncle.
“I don’t suppose our ancestors in the British Isles or in Normandy found
it much hardship to live in log huts, to do their own washing, or to
forego their morning paper.”

“That is where the Lien money came from—from grinding these poor
farmers’?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I was not sorry for the reply, because it showed I was not wrong in my
instinctive dislike of the good lady.

“And what does the present Mr. Lien do?”

“He’s a stockbroker. When a rich man dies and leaves a son of no
particular abilities they make a broker of him. The stock market covers
a multitude of sins.” Uncle was smiling again.

“Does it?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, yes, a multitude of sins. Now one may not keep a tavern and sell
booze——”

“George!” exclaimed Mumsie with mock horror.

“I wanted to be frank, my dear.”

“You always do,” she complained cheerily.

“One may not keep a tavern or even be a brewer and keep respectability,
but it is quite in order to hold stock in a brewery company or hotel.”

“What a cynic you are,” I cried.

“And what we have come to now! Old man Lien was kept in his place in the
old days. He was a plain man with a hard fist. They are gentry. The son
and his son’s wife lord it to-day. But the foundation of their fortune
and proud estate was the life-blood of men and women whose veins ran
with better blood, who had truer gentility than they can ever claim with
all their social rudeness.”

“But Uncle,” I pleaded, “because the old man was a skin-flint, you would
not visit his sins on the son and the son’s wife, would you?”

“‘The sins of the father,’ my young lady. I am no more charitable than
my Maker. Without his money old Lien would never have had any notice
taken of him; and, if you pay obeisance at his shrine, and drink his
claret cup, you may, if your imagination be strong enough, taste the
salt of tears shed long ago.”

“George! What a Tory!”

“Thank God!” replied Uncle, and shaking his finger at me: “Remember,
Elsie, if Belle takes you to call on Mrs. Lien, you call on her money,
on her father’s guilty money, remember that!”

“George, you dear old ass. Why do you put such ideas into the child’s
head’?” (Child indeed!) Then turning to me: “Don’t pay any attention to
what he says, Elsie. Old man Lien—as your Uncle calls him—may have
made his start that way, but the great fortune they now have has grown
from wise investment.”

“Exactly, if I sow a kernel of wheat and it produces twenty, it is the
same wheat,” retorted Uncle.

“Nonsense!”

That was the end of it for a time, as we rose from the table. Mumsie put
her arm about me and said: “Pay no attention to George, to what he says,
when in a teasing mood. He’s incorrigible!” and she made a grimace at
him which seemed to please him, for he seized her hand and squeezed it.

“I like him,” I said, when she and I were alone, and I think my tribute
pleased her.

DECEMBER 17TH.

Last night after I went to bed I thought and thought. At last I am
really “in the world.” I had read so often of Mrs. Lien in the society
news in the city papers, that to be actually living in the house with
one who would dare to attack her is cheering. And Mumsie is so glorious
and dignified. Hers is a native dignity. I still feel as if her kindness
were all about me like a glorious cloak. I wish I could put my present,
overflowing happiness into cold storage, so that I could enjoy it bit by
bit in after years.

Immediately after breakfast this morning Mumsie told me she was giving
the day to the work of preparing for the Ragamuffins’ Feast. Mumsie is a
woman of capacity and makes no false moves.

The first thing she did was to go to the telephone.

“Mrs. Mount, this is Belle Somers speaking. I wish you to give me some
lettuce from your conservatories for the poor boys’ feast.”

* * * * *

“Six heads.”

* * * * *

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’ll tell Mrs. Lien,” and she banged on the receiver,
and sat on the seat beside me, her face twitching with annoyance.

“What is it?” I asked impulsively.

“Wait a minute.”

The telephone rang again.

“Yes.” Mumsie answered.

* * * * *

“Yes, Mrs. Lien is managing it this year.”

* * * * *

“All right, you’ll send them to the hall to my care.”

* * * * *

And again the receiver was put back on the hook and Mumsie, trembling
with agitation, sat again beside me.

“I know how to fix that woman,” she declared. “I told her I would report
to Mrs. Lien, and then, my dear, she promised not only to send the six
heads of lettuce I asked for, but a turkey and a dozen Charlotte russes
as well.” In delivering the last sentence Mumsie’s chin protruded in a
manner I judged to be an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Mount.

We went to the hall where a great many ladies were working among hampers
of food. They all seemed nice and genially kind as Mumsie introduced me.
We all got to work, laid tables, and arranged the food. One of the women
who seemed to take a special interest in me was Mrs. Bassett. She has a
large nose with prominent eyebrows, her chin is pointed, and her mouth
drawn into a perpetual smile. I suppose she is daily described as
aristocratic looking. But I know what she will look like at eighty with
her teeth gone—a witch. In the old days she’d have hardly escaped
burning. She told me she had two daughters; one my age, Ethel, and hoped
we would be friends.

I found the good ladies very uninteresting, though Mrs. Bassett, with
her sharp eyes, is capable of humour at times. Nothing was said about
society—which is growing my chief interest—and they dressed dowdily.

Mrs. Lien in all her grandeur, came in while we worked, asked a few
questions and departed. She did not even nod to me, though she must have
seen me. I am inclined to believe that to be kind means to be
commonplace. Mrs. Lien seems to be _neither_.

I was waiting with impatience to talk to Uncle on the subject of Mrs.
Mount, but succeeded in restraining myself until Uncle had finished his
first helping of meat. My idea was that, his hunger appeased, I could
get him off to a better start. I asked innocently enough: “Uncle, do you
know Mrs. Mount?”

His eyes met mine and then settled on his wife.

“Mrs. Mount! Do I know Mrs. Mount? Belle, why do you not introduce Elsie
to someone milder than that old battle-axe?”

“I have not introduced her,” replied Mumsie promptly. “I asked Mrs.
Mount over the ’phone for some lettuce for our feast and had to bring in
Mrs. Lien before I could get it.”

Uncle roared with laughter.

“Elsie, during your stay with us, you will get an insight into human
nature if into nothing else,” was his severe comment. “Mrs. Mount” he
went on, “is a social-climber; the term is self-explanatory and she and
her notions are illuminating. Her past history would make a compendium
on the process of social climbing, and the progress of snobbery
invaluable to those who have the mean ambition to inflict themselves
upon their betters, or, perhaps it were more correct to say, intrude
where they are not wanted.”

I was surprised and piqued by his harshness. I think that “pique” looks
well.

“Is it wrong,” I asked “to try and get into society?”

“Not wrong, Elsie, but probably unworthy. Of course much depends upon
the society aimed at. Ambition is, as the poets have often taught us, a
fruitful source of woe, humiliation, and remorse, and social ambition is
to my mind the pettiest of vanities. It is as pernicious to-day as when
Greece produced—and slew—Socrates.”

I then asked a question which in these new days has often occurred to
me.

“What is society? What would a philosopher call it? Let me see! Society
is an affiliation of friends mutually acceptable. If it remained so,
that would be good enough; unfortunately it has tended to the wealthy
gathering into a clique, whose doings are naturally the more spectacular
and so attract the weakling, the snob, the social-climber.”

Mustering up what I hope looked like world-wisdom, I said: “That Uncle,
is also, a natural process.”

He laughed at me, quite kindly.

“Undoubtedly, you wise miss, Mammon has always had his measure of
worshippers. But the point is that to enter such society was never a
worthy ambition. In the days of Charles II, society, as we use the word,
meant the court circle, and that was certainly a discreditable
institution. Queen Victoria, of course, made her circle one of a high
standard; but, society in her day no longer meant the circle nearest the
throne, nor does it convey that meaning to-day.”

“Of course,” continued Uncle in his kind tones. (He certainly is taking
trouble with me—dear man!) “I need not talk about society in England.
One may not know all about everything in England and the English after a
three month’s visit. But of Canada I do know much: and this—that both
this country and the United States are society mad. If there is any
greater snob on earth than the average Canadian, it is the average
citizen of that particular Land of the Free.”

I do not like the Yankees, or mind hearing them abused; but I object to
hearing the supposed failings of my own people set forth.

“Uncle, you are severe.”

“Elsie,” Uncle replied in tones that were low, and I thought bore an
echo of sadness, “you are on the threshold of life; your happiness is
largely your own to make or break. If you develop the society bug,—the
society craze—you kiss good-bye to your peace of mind, and peace is the
true foundation of happiness. When you choose your friends, imagine
yourself with them alone on a desert island. Under those circumstances
what sort of companions would they be? That’s the test.”

“Bosh!” cried Mumsie. “Isn’t the girl down here to see some life, to go
to balls and parties, and have as good a time generally as we can give
her?”

“I was just telling her—” he began, but was promptly cut short.

“You were just trying to fill her head with nonsense. A desert island.
Fiddlesticks!”

There was naturally a pause after this, but I was glad to see Uncle was
not completely down. I watched his face, rejoicing at the evident signs
of consideration before a new assault.

“I once knew a politician who came from Alberta. He made a lot of money,
his enemies said by shady means, but I believe by his native cleverness
in land speculation. His was a happy home, the family united by
affection. And then all went society mad. Paterfamilias took to horses
and the boys followed suit. To make a long story short, with the advent
of riches and horses, happiness flew out of the window, and there was
ruin.”

Uncle was now cracking nuts; in a minute he would be rising and going to
his den, and I had not yet heard about Mrs. Mount. So, I asked again.

“Mrs. Mount, my child, was the daughter of old Bustard, who—how
wonderful when we go back to the beginnings—kept a tavern at a
crossroads in the country. First he sold butter and sugar openly, and
grog on the sly; then he blossomed into keeping a tavern. He made money
fast and speculated. He dabbled in the Chicago wheat pit, and in real
estate. He appreciated the lessons of history and got out at the top of
several booms. In short, he was a successful money-maker, and collected
a pile, and then died. Mount, who was, what out west they call a
shyster, married the girl, Miss Bustard. That’s all.”

“And how did she with those disadvantages manage to climb into society?”
I asked.

“Money first; then the Church. She gave to charities, tinted her hair a
golden yellow, drove a fine pair of horses before the motor came chu-ing
along, carried impecunious dowagers home from meetings of the Women’s
Auxiliary. Oh, it was all easy, only a matter of persistence. The
dowagers had to ask her to tea, and when she was able to pay them back,
she took care that the papers made a splash of it. So Mrs. Mount got
thick with the old families.”

“But,” I objected (I can’t help asking questions), “if she was so
generous to charities, why did she wish to limit Mumsie to two heads of
lettuce?”

Uncle was, I think, needlessly scornful as he replied: “You don’t feed a
fish bait after you have caught him.”

That was all.

DECEMBER 18TH.

Only a week from Christmas! Mrs. Bassett’s tea was delightful; that is
to me. Her house was not very big, being semi-detached and the crowding
was certainly dreadful.

I’m sure those present were all such ladies as Uncle would have approved
of, but somehow to me, they seemed much alike, some even shabby, and
their kindness and graciousness I took (Dear me! am I becoming a weak
snob? It looks like it) as an effort to make up for their deficiencies
in plumage.

Shortly after breakfast Mrs. Bassett rang up Mumsie and asked if I would
care to go.

“A waste of good money,” was Uncle’s comment.

“But the woman must do something to return the hospitality shown Ethel,
and it is out of the question for her to afford a dance,” stormed
Mumsie.

“But if she did not allow Ethel to know all and sundry, she need not
feel it incumbent on her to make this sort of return,” retorted Uncle,
nailing his colours to the mast. “Moreover, when I was a boy the full
expenses of a dance was some ten dollars and we enjoyed it. To-day the
pace is tuned so high that a dance at home costs ten times as much; and,
for a flare up at a hotel or public-hall, a thousand dollars is too
little. To so-called leaders of fashion, like Mrs. Lien, or social
climbers like the Mount woman, the advertisement is no doubt worth the
money. But few people in Canada who are truly distinguished can feel it
a satisfactory way of spending money.”

“A woman—” began Mumsie.

“There is an old tradition that if a woman wishes to give her daughter a
run in the matrimonial market, it is necessary to bring her out. But
when I look back on the society belles I have known, the percentage of
them who are now old maids, or have become victims of unfortunate
alliances is enormous.”

“The crooked stick at last,” I suggested.

“Yes, or the bad egg.”

“Ho,” grunted Mumsie.

“A girl or a young man,” continued Uncle, with a grin, “makes a stab at
society for two reasons. One is to have a good time with plenty of
excitement; the other is chase and capture a partner in life. But with
the average mother it’s the chance at a husband first. And this I’m sure
of, that so far as the big game of dances, parties, and so on goes, it
is sheer wasted money and often the ruin of a girl’s health.”

“Bosh!” from Mumsie, whereat I laughed.

“Then, too,” went on Uncle, after a mocking bow to his interrupting
wife, “when the girl has got her husband, he is nearly always a waster.
I am satisfied that the proportion of unfortunate matings made in your
dizzy whirl is fifty per cent higher than in more sober circles. There
now!”

“You seem to have strong ideas on the subject of matrimony,” I ventured.

“He’s got strong ideas on most subjects,” protested Mumsie, “and he’s
poured them into my ears for twenty years. I’m fed up with his nonsense.
Now that you’re here, he’s got a new victim. And, when Jack comes it
will be worse and worse!” Mumsie pretended to be in despair. Who was
“Jack”? At the mention of Jack I saw Uncle fumble in his pocket and
produce a letter.

“Talk of the devil,” he said. “Jack will be here for Christmas.”

“Good! and now you’re in for it, Elsie,” cried Mumsie. “When these men
have talked to you for a week, you may consider yourself master of the
accumulated knowledge of the ages.”

Uncle made no effort to counter this sally, and Mumsie continued as if
she had read the question I had in mind, the most natural question.

“Jack, my dear, Jack Bang, (What a name!) is a railway contractor,
miner, prospector, or what not; as strong as an ox, as cheery as a
sand-boy, as generous as a sailor on leave, and with a jaw like that of
Napoleon.”

“Is he——”

“Yes, very good looking. Jack was the misfit of the family.”

“He is the only one of the six who has any brains,” protested Uncle
stormily.

“He came to visit us once when he was fifteen, and he and my Micawber,
(Mumsie sometimes speaks of Uncle as her Micawber) became great friends.
The result———”

“Leave Jack alone; let the girl form her own opinion of him,” put in
Uncle, and Mumsie complied with his request by being silent.

I wonder if I shall like Mr. Bang. Jack Bang! Such an odd name. Mrs.
Bang! I don’t think I like westerners; not that I have ever seen any.

DECEMBER 19TH, SUNDAY.

Of course we went to church. The afternoon I put in writing this diary.
I often wonder what makes me write it, but write it I will. I believe
Mumsie knows already I’m keeping it. If I am forced to confess, I will
say I am doing it for practice, that some day I shall publish a novel.

I know Uncle would think more of me if I had such an ambition. Perhaps
it would be a good thing to tell him. No, he would cease then to be such
“good copy,” as the journalists call it. I do so enjoy getting him and
Mumsie at verbal fighting; it’s great fun.

DECEMBER 20TH.

To-day we had the feast—and it _was_ a feast. Dirty little ragamuffins!

Of course Mumsie was in attendance early. It was all one wild scramble,
food, dirty imps, steam and struggle. I found it hard work and
appreciated the reason why the feast was held so early, five days before
Christmas. It was that we might get rest in time for our own
festivities. I was disappointed that no stylish people came to help.
Indeed, Mrs. Lien did turn up, also several other smart ladies, but they
merely grinned, tossed their heads, and went away. Virtue is very
dull—there is no question of that.

I have made up my mind about one thing. I’m going to get into society.
It’s the spirit of the age. So why not? I’ll be in the fashion so soon,
and far, as I can. I’m sure that Uncle’s ideas are old-fashioned. Of
course I love Uncle and all that, but I know he’s wrong. I’ve used my
eyes. I’m sure of it. Times change, fashions change, customs change,
don’t they? And, people change, nations change, everything changes. The
young are as likely to be right as the old, for _they_ can’t be rid of
their old opinions. How nice it must be to go every place and to
everything, and to have one’s name always figuring prominently in the
notices—like Georgie Cochrane, and Mabel Lien, and Doris Mount.

I know now why I am writing this diary! It’s partly practice, that some
day I may write something good and make a name for myself. It is also to
record my passing impressions of the society doings I _am_ going to
enjoy. For after I get back home again to the country, I’ll have plenty
of time and it will be dull if I don’t employ myself. To-day in town I
heard one girl say to a friend: “Good-bye—good luck. Be good and you’ll
be happy—but you’ll have a mighty slow time.” Now I wonder!

And I have a right to a place in society. My grandfather was an army
officer. So even Uncle could not call me a “social climber.” I only wish
to see real life and get some enjoyment. The thing to do is to make
friends among those who have aspirations and aims similar to mine—true
friends, good friends. I wonder if Grandfather had any more joy in being
honourable and upright than “old man” Lien, who lent to and ruined
unfortunate farmers, and other incapable persons. Of course, old Lien
had no friends outside his own class, but then Grandfather’s friends
borrowed money from him and never returned it,—and drank his port wine.
So I wonder which got the greater joy from life.

No doubt Grandfather would have despised old Lien, while Lien would have
pitied Grandfather. There is no doubt that Mabel Lien has had a better
time than I. And I can quite conceive that old Lien’s joy in his wide,
rich lands was greater than Grandfather’s could be in being
comparatively poor, however respectable. Yes, Uncle doesn’t know
everything, and I’m not such a little girl as he thinks.

DECEMBER 21ST.

Nothing doing.

DECEMBER 22ND.

I have seen Mrs. Mount.

Mumsie and I were going down Maple Avenue when I saw her. She wore a
large, beautiful, black velvet hat, with ermine trimming, and came
marching down the street majestically in her seal-skin jacket and ermine
stole. Her hair is gold: I don’t mean coppery gold or any other kind of
gold, but real, brassy, gold-yellow. I had an eye on her some time
before Mumsie caught sight of her. I knew it was Mrs. Mount—instinct
told.

I grasped Mumsie by the arm and whispered. “Yes, it is she,” she said.

From the way Mrs. Mount held her head it was evidently her intention of
passing us with a mere bow. But to show how kind Mumsie is, she
exclaimed: “Oh, Mrs. Mount, thank you so much for the lettuce, and
things.”

It was very well done, just as if speaking to her had been an
afterthought. We all stopped; Mumsie and she shook hands, and I’m sure I
beamed.

Mrs. Mount gazed across the street for a moment ere she replied: “It was
nothing, really, it was nothing; I’m always only too glad to help
anything Mrs. Lien or you are arranging. What would the poor do without
Mrs. Lien? I have my own troubles it is true,” she continued without
pause in her drawling voice, “chasing around these horrid shops for
corsets, corsets! Do you know, really, it is too awful for words. Those
I can get here are quite impossible, and the others have not arrived
from Paris.” Mrs. Mount accompanied her words by protruding her chin
after the manner I had observed Mumsie affect.

“Too bad,” murmured Mumsie sympathetically.

“Do you know, really it is.” She spoke as if every other word were in
capitals. “I always get mine from Paris,” and with a most pronounced
sigh, “but they cost a hundred francs a pair, twenty dollars a pair!”

With the closing of this speech she turned and regarded me, and Mumsie
introduced me.

“Nice looking little girl, a bud?” Mrs. Mount was pleased to say. “Well,
my dear, you will have a good time, if you make friends with the right
people; make it a rule, only the right people.”

“That’s very———” I began. I wanted to let her see I appreciated what
she was saying; but she went on in her loud, slow voice:

“Isn’t Christmas a bore? I have just bought some things for some reduced
gentle people. One has to look after the unfortunate of one’s own class
you know really—old mother and three old maids—so sad you know.”

“I’m sure———”

“Yes, I suppose it is kind, but we all have to do it. But I must go, Sir
Thomas and Lady Billings are coming to dinner to-night, and I must call
at the florists, and goodness knows what else—Christmas prices too.”

“Your own———”

“My own conservatories don’t seem able to produce the flowers these
professionals can; do you know, really, my gardener is supposed to be an
expert from England. Now, Miss Travers,” she turned to me, “do take my
tip and know only nice people. They are the only people who live, really
they are. Good-bye Mrs. Somers. Mr. Somers well? Glad to hear it. We
never see him now: I know he is not fond of society, so strange!”

I said: “Good-bye Mrs. Mount. I’m delighted to have met you,” in my best
attempt at the proper manner. I wanted to make a good impression. Mumsie
seemed amused, I wonder why.

As we walked on I felt I had one foot on the ladder; the position was
improved. At last I knew a leading lady in society.

“Well, Elsie, what do you think of her?” Mumsie asked.

“I think she is most interesting,” I replied.

We trudged home.

As we came up the steps the door opened, and a great man seemed to fall
on Mumsie. “Here I am again, Auntie, to bother you and shock your
friends over Christmas!”

Mumsie beamed more than ever.

“Elsie, this is Jack, Mr. Bang! Jack, this is Miss Travers.”

“Hullo, Little Partner,” he cried. That was his greeting. Familiar I
call it. He grasped my hand in his great paw. “I’ve heard of you and
your father: I judge you are in town on a bit of a spree,” and Mr. Bang
grinned.

Perhaps my surprise at this remark showed in my face, for he remarked:
“There is more than one kind of intoxication, you know,” whereat Mumsie
gave him a loving tap on the shoulder, and said,

“Don’t begin lecturing her too soon, Jack,” and turning to me, “Elsie,
don’t take what he may say to you too seriously. He is worse than your
uncle.”

“Very well, Auntie,” replied the reproved one; “I’ll remember that.” And
we entered the house.

Of course, at dinner I told Uncle I had met Mrs. Mount, and, of course,
Uncle asked what I thought of her.

“I could not quite make her out,” I replied, which was quite true. With
all her mighty ways I did not altogether like her. She was rather too
high and mighty.

“Let me tell you something, Elsie,” said Uncle in his fatherly way. “It
is my guess that her ladyship was not hunting corsets at all, nor was
she making purchases for impoverished ladies; she was really talking for
effect.”

“Uncle, how ungenerous of you!” I exclaimed.

“I know for a fact that Sir Thomas Billings is in Toronto to-day, so she
is _not_ entertaining him this evening.”

“Oh!” I cried, flabbergasted.

“When you know more of the world, little niece—” he said.

“When you know more of the world, Little Partner,” this from Mr. Bang.

“But Uncle how do people tolerate such a fraud?” I put in.

“Tolerate! why people like it: it never deceives: it only amuses. Mrs.
Mount and her sayings have amused us for twenty years.”

“Disgusting!” I felt annoyed.

“I suppose your experience has not been large enough to teach you
philosophy enough for that,” put in Mr. Bang. Like his cheek to be
patronizing me!

“The public taste for cheap notorieties, little people with a big noise,
is on a par with its taste for literature and the drama,” said Mr. Bang,
and the tone he used was bitter. As I am some day going to write a book,
I thought I might as well find out more of this, so I turned to him and
asked: “Do you really think so?”

“Certainly, the fact is plain as the nose on your—er—on my face. The
man who cultivates a sound literary style and thinks the public will buy
his books because of it, is not very far from the pawn shop.” (How
vulgar!) “So, too, the young man or maiden who seeks to impress society
with good manners would do better to tie his or her head in a wet
blanket and cultivate a knowledge of what’s what.”

“Elsie, Jack thinks all society people fools,” laughed Mumsie.

“So they are!” stormed the young man. “Look how much trash on paper
finds a ready market, while genius may be starving. Look at the social
columns of our newspapers and see how nonentities find prominence.”

I was annoyed at this tirade, and the tone it was uttered in, the
bitterness. “Do you mean to say,” I added, “that no clever people find
eminence in society; how about the great Disraeli, is he not supposed to
be the original of ‘Vivian Grey’?”

“That was England: this is Canada. Society in England is more catholic
than here.”

I felt this was getting a little beyond me, so I doubled back. “Don’t
you think,” I asked, “if some of your masters of literary style could
produce a ‘best seller’ they would do so, and don’t you also think that
some of your bright examples of good manners would be only too glad to
occupy outstanding positions in society?”

“Absurd! Absurd!” stormed Mr. Bang. “A man of letters, a master of
style, cannot write trash. I’m told that Conrad once tried to do it—and
he couldn’t. Also it is impossible for a man of brains and good manners
to attain eminence in the rushing society here. There is too little real
recompense for the strain required. Vulgarity has no true
attractiveness.”

“Don’t good manners count for anything?” I asked meekly. Jack—I mean
Mr. Bang—smiled a smile of pitying tolerance.

“I once had an Englishman remark to me that he found the ruder he was to
people here the more they esteemed him. He was a man of education and
intelligence. I give you his opinion for what it is worth.”

“I can’t believe that,” I exclaimed.

“It is quite in keeping with the bluff of our social-climbers,” said
Uncle.

They both were against me. I looked to Mumsie, but she shook her head,
as if to say, “Where are they leading the child?”

“I can tell you it is unsafe even to offer a passing civility to a
society lady one does not know. I met a girl once carrying golf clubs;
we were members of the same club, I politely offered to relieve her of
the load. She declined.”

“Poor Jack,” murmured Mumsie.

“The poor girl thought that if she accepted my civility I would make it
the basis of acquaintance, and we had not been introduced. She did not
know if I might belong to her set or not. As for the value she placed
upon herself one may pity her.”

“But, Mr. Bang,—” I began, thinking that something could be said,
surely, from the girl’s point of view.

“There is no but about it,” he interrupted, rudely. “I can read these
people like a book ———”

“It’s the schools that do it,” Uncle cut in. “Our girls’ schools are too
much under the domination of such monstrosities, fed with those
delusions and snobberies. We need to educate our educationalists.” I
could see that his feeling, too, was strong.

“The world is all wrong,” laughed Mumsie, satirically.

“Anyhow, the girls’ schools are wrong,” retorted Uncle. “Get at the
inner workings of those institutions, and you find one or two brats of
the _Nouveaux Riches_, at the head of the strongest clique, making life
hell for the other girls, who won’t toady to them. The result is the
school becomes a breeding ground for the society ‘bug’, as we have it in
America. The rich girls have the biggest hampers, extravagant clothes,
the most money to spend; and are encouraged to show off to the full. The
girls’ school is the nursery-bed of worldliness.”

“And the boys’ schools?” asked Mumsie.

“Much the same: the natural cad once he enters a fraternity house, dons
a smoking jacket, sticks a pipe in his mouth and thinks he is a superior
being. The whole system—for boys and girls—is rotten and wrong.”

“I may say,” put in my fellow guest, “that close on the time I asked
Miss Fashion if I might carry her golf-sticks I met a poor woman
carrying a valise. I took it from her. She was grateful. The moral is
that one may help the old and homely, but not the young and gay.”

“The old need help more than the strong,” said Uncle.

“That reminds me of the story of the Irishman in the street-car, who
gave up his seat to a wizened old maid,” said Mumsie. “‘Thank you very
much,’ said she. ‘Not at all, not at all,’ replied Paddy. ‘Some people
they gets up only when a good-looking girl wants a seat, but I don’t,
sez I to meself sez I, Pat, it’s the sex ye should honour, not the
individual. Not at all mum, not at all’.”

The joke was new to me and I laughed. The men creatures brightened up
too. So I gained new courage and asked: “The boys and girls of the old
families,—what of them?”

“Ah, now, Elsie,” said Uncle, “you are touching upon the really sad
phase of the question. The spectacle of the son or daughter of
self-respecting people fawning on the vulgar-rich is unspeakably
deplorable, and, unfortunately, becoming more common day by day.”

“Agreed, Uncle,” cried Mr. Bang, “and even more apparent in conservative
old England.”

“The kingdom of the mind,—that’s putting it briefly—weakens before the
spell of the motor and the dizzy whirl,” continued Uncle.

“The only remedy is War,”[1] said Mr. Bang, and seemed to glare at me.

“War!” I exclaimed, “how awful!” and I glanced from the one to the
other.

Mumsie shook her head despairingly and rose from the table. As we left
the dining-room Uncle put his arm over my shoulder. “I hope my ideas
don’t frighten you,” he said. “You are to enjoy life.” Dear Uncle!

Two experiences I have had to-day, making the acquaintance of Mrs.
Mount, and meeting Mr. Bang. Were my relations with them reversed, were
I to meet Mr. Bang only occasionally or not at all, and live in the same
house as Mrs. Mount, I feel I should be happier. That shows what I think
of Jack Bang’s social fears.

I don’t know what to make of Mr. Bang, except that I think I do not like
him. Why Uncle and he do not like society is because society does not
like them, and society does not like them because—they take life too
seriously.

But, I may as well record my impression of this interfering visitor. Mr.
Bang is fully six feet tall and his shoulders broad. His hair and small
moustache are black; his face square, clean-cut, and certainly powerful.
In repose his face is thoughtful, sometimes even abstracted. I will put
down what he says, for what it may be worth, to use his own words. I’m
afraid he will be a kill-joy.

I will tell Mumsie confidentially, I am writing a book; and if Uncle
learns I am writing, the fact I have already confided in her will save
me from embarrassment. Again Mr. Bang called me Little Partner as he
said good-night—I suppose I am still a child in his eyes. How dare he!

[1] This passage was written in January, 1914.

DECEMBER 23RD.

Shopping, Mumsie and I went down town. The Christmas rush is on and
happiness was abroad. The snowflakes were falling softly. I bought
Mumsie a pair of gloves. For Uncle, a box of cigars at $1.25, and for
his nephew a silk handkerchief, of all colours. We met the Bassett girls
with their mother in Lewis’s. It appears to me that I am always meeting
the Bassetts. My mind is fully made up. I’m for society with a big “S”.
The Bassetts and other good people bore me to death. I feel as if I’ve
burnt my boats. All the better!

Of course, I took Ethel’s hand with cordiality: I realize that if I am
to be a society success I must be nice to everybody, whatever I feel.
But there was a price to pay: she returned my cordiality by asking me to
go skating with her in the evening; and before I could invent an excuse
Mumsie told me to accept “and take Jack.” Heavens!—and all I could do
was to smile and say “Thank you, I shall be delighted.” Ethel and Mr.
Bang! In parting Ethel said she would call for us.

We met Mr. Bang by appointment.

Our cavalier had loaded himself with parcels. He remarked,
apologetically, that the delivery men would have enough work to do as it
was: and even then when Mumsie made more purchases he insisted on
carrying them. “I’ve done enough hard work to sympathize with any
worker,” he said. Worker indeed! I could not help wondering what Mrs.
Lien or Mrs. Mount would say if they saw us. However, Mumsie seemed
indifferent. I suppose Uncle’s ideas have had some effect.

After lunch Mumsie and I walked out to deliver presents. I was
introduced to many of her friends; all genial, placid, and
uninteresting. Dinner passed with nothing said worth recording, and
after dinner Ethel Bassett came and gathered up Mr. Bang and myself. We
walked to the rink.

As we entered the large, spectral building, Ethel signed our names in a
book and there was no charge for admission, which puzzled me. When we
entered the dressing-room there were no young rowdies about as is always
the case in our small rink at home. I was still more at a loss to
comprehend, the situation when I noticed the boys and girls present were
all well dressed, evidently society folk.

The girls were congregated in one section of the large dressing-room,
the boys in the other. Mr. Bang, of course, went to the men’s section. I
took everything in, but still was mystified. Ethel began changing her
boots, so I did too. My wonder growing, I whispered: “Why, Ethel, what
is this?” The new conditions were so different from anything I had met
before.

“Why don’t you know? I thought you knew. That is the Skating Club,” she
whispered in return.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, and I almost blurted out—“then I shall see some
society people.” I wonder if I am really a snob! I’m afraid—

We left the dressing-room and descended to the ice. The immense, arched
roof was studded with electric lights. This then was the Skating Club
about which I had so often read in the society columns of our paper at
home.

At first I skated into a corner with Ethel, and watched the others. The
ice was covered with boys and girls, men and women, practising fancy
figures: some were evidently adepts, others as evidently less expert. A
few found partners and went off in a way I had never seen before. I
watched and waited. Mr. Bang skated up and chatted with Ethel. I kept my
eye on a girl dressed in green velvet, who with her partner, was
performing wonders. All this was new to me and—enchanting!

My dream was suddenly broken; the band struck up and almost every man
sought a partner and away they went in the waltz, actually waltzing on
ice. Mr. Bang came up and asked if I waltzed. I replied that I didn’t.
This avowal might under other circumstances have caused me pain.

He and Ethel then went to skate, but were evidently not as good skaters
as the majority present. Ethel particularly, did not seem to have
mastered the art. She and Jack did not seem to skate so smoothly and
confidently as the others. But how I envied the girl in green: I was
fascinated by her, enthralled.

The band stopped, and I sighed; my friends came back to me.

“You must learn to waltz, Little Partner,” Mr. Bang remarked kindly.

“Yes,” I replied without enthusiasm. I did not relish having Ethel hear
me addressed as “Little Partner,” though she seemed neither shocked nor
amused. I would positively have disliked the girl in green to have been
a witness.

“Ethel, who is that girl in green?” I had to ask.

“Doesn’t she skate beautifully—that’s Mabel Lien.”

“Mabel Lien! She does,” I sighed. I thought of her grandfather and mine,
the disparity between the girl in green and myself; she sought after,
petted and pampered, in fine plumage: and me—! For two pins I’d be a
socialist.

A young man came up and engaged Ethel for the next band. He was
introduced to me and then they went away skating, hand in hand. So Mr.
Bang and I were left together. He amused himself by twirling away at
figures, while I resumed my reverie.

Mr. Bang asked me to try and skate with him. We tried and failed. I was
counted a good skater among the girls at home. I asked my cavalier who
Mabel Lien had for a partner, and was told, “Polly Townsend.” Polly!

Then Ethel came back with her companion, who asked if I waltzed. On
answering no, he said, “So sorry,” lifted his cap and skated away. No
person asked Ethel for the succeeding “band”—as they call it—so she
kindly tried to teach me the waltz while Mr. Bang secured one of the few
dowdy girls present, and went away. Ethel may not be a social figure,
but is certainly unselfish and kind. I must remember that.

She explained the strokes I should master, and said I should practise
with Mr. Bang. Mr. Bang! I’m sick of Mr. Bang. I asked Ethel if any of
the good skaters ever asked her to skate and she replied they did not.
When I asked her if she knew any of them, she answered “Nearly all.” I
do not know what to make of this. I hope I did not hurt Ethel’s
feelings. Anyhow it is funny.

Ethel pointed out to me Doris Mount, who did not skate at all well, not
nearly as well as she herself did. Polly Townsend was then skating with
her. I suppose Polly finds it convenient to do the polite to her; while
no person found it necessary to be polite to Ethel; and as for myself I
might as well have been “not present.”

One person, at any rate, was pleased with Doris Mount—her mother sat on
the promenade and leaning on the rail glued her eyes on her daughter.
She was alone, so I left the ice and walked to where she sat. Her
greeting was not cordial; but I seated myself beside her, deciding to
await her humour. I was pleased to consider her abstracted; she kept
dangling her muff over the ice.

At last I exclaimed, “Oh! Mrs. Mount,”—the exclamation was in the idea
of leading her to thinking I was suddenly visited by an inspiration from
the Heavens. Of course this was in imitation of Mumsie’s greeting when
she stopped Mrs. Mount on the street. “I have remembered what you said
about meeting only nice people, so I have decided to ask you to
introduce me, will you?”

“Who brought you here?” she asked abruptly and coldly. I felt snubbed:
but my blood was up.

I would have answered “Ethel Bassett”, but realized that the inference
she would draw would be hardly fair to Ethel, so I answered, “Mr. Bang,”
feeling a martyr as I did so.

“But he is not a member,” she objected.

There was nothing for it, so I said: “And Miss Bassett.”

“Humph,” she snorted, “I don’t know really: the Bassett girl can’t do
anything for you, her father is an old fogey and the mother has no go.
They have no money;” reflectively and then more good naturedly, “well
all right,” and kept on dangling her muff while she turned her eyes for
a moment on me. I cannot say I was proud of myself. As I write this for
my own eyes, I confess I am ashamed of myself. However!

The band stopped, the waltz was ended and up skated Doris and Polly. I
was introduced to them. “Ask her for a band,” Mrs. Mount commanded
Polly, “and ask Jerry Davidson and Leith MacKenzie to be introduced and
to give her a band. Doris, my dear, you look lovely to-night. Yes,
really!”

Doris beamed, while Polly replied:

“Really, Mrs. Mount, I’m engaged every band; you know I always skate the
fifth with Doris.”

“Well, give the girl a show; ask MacKenzie.” Both Mr. MacKenzie and Mr.
Davidson were therefore brought up and introduced. The latter had all
his bands engaged and the smile he wore as he announced the fact was
very complacent. I hated him for it, but hid my wrath. Mr. MacKenzie
asked me for the seventh band.

“You are very kind, thank you, Mrs. Mount,” I whispered, when the others
had departed. “It must be so nice to be able to command kindness for
strangers. I’ve heard Uncle speak so loudly (it was no lie for Uncle did
speak loudly whenever he discussed Mrs. Mount) of your goodness.”

She looked at me with a penetrating gaze, and then smiled as she
returned to contemplate her daughter. However, she added after a few
minutes—it was kind of her on the whole. “Now, my dear, you’ll have to
learn to skate, if you want the boys to give you bands. Look how
beautifully my Doris glides over the shimmering ice.”

The ice was not shimmering, but weather-stained and dull, and Doris
skated abominably—by comparison with the other girls.

“Your daughter is very beautiful, more beautiful even than her skating,”
I commented. I don’t seem to be able to lie with all the assurance I
would wish, but my untruthfulness was sufficient.

“Do you know, really, I think she is. How long is your stay in town?”
Mrs. Mount’s voice was kinder still.

“A month or six weeks, Mumsie—Mrs. Somers—asked me for. I should like
to live in the city always. So many nice people are to be met in the
city.”

Mrs. Mount swung her muff for another minute, and then she said:

“You are a sensible little girl. I have a great mind—”

She paused as if she felt she was liable to say too much. I waited
expectantly, eagerly. What was in her mind, what idea was then being
discreetly curbed? I could not help but feel she was thinking of taking
me under her wing.

There was nothing I could say or do, no prompting I could give, to
consolidate her ideas into words. I could only guess. I felt very much
as one feels on hearing of a great treasure at the bottom of the sea. It
would do Mrs. Mount no harm to give me an opportunity of making friends.

The sixth band came to an end and Doris with her partner, and others,
came again to her mother. I took no part in the chattering —for I was
yet in doubt as to what had been in Mrs. Mount’s mind and now was likely
never to know.

The seventh band struck up, and MacKenzie came for me. We skated away
but I told him I could not waltz, so we practised in a corner. He has a
funny little face, with a pointed nose, the skin covering of which is
tight and transparent. His mouth twitched when he intended to smile and
his speech was affected. He followed one question with another. He
professed not to know anything of Mumsie or Uncle, and when I
inadvertently mentioned Mr. Bang, his jaw dropped. At the end of the
band he skated hurriedly away. A nice man!

Soon I hinted to Ethel that I should be glad to go home and she agreed,
so we changed our footgear and went. As we passed Mrs. Mount I
whispered: “Thank you very much for the introduction, Mrs. Mount. I
enjoyed myself immensely.”

On the way home I allowed Ethel to monopolize Mr. Bang. They got on well
together and seemed to be talking earnestly. But my mind was full of
thought. I have decided to make a bold venture. I have, I realize,
minted my self-respect; and am doling it out coin upon coin. As yet, I
must own to myself, the returns have been nil; no pleasure—rather
chagrin: no gratification—rather depression. But still! I’m afraid I’m
self-conscious in the presence of Ethel or Mr. Bang. Not that it makes
much difference if either of them judges the import of my actions. But
let me hope that, after I’ve paid, and paid, and paid, that I shall some
day realize my happiness.

DECEMBER 24TH.

Christmas Eve! I woke this morning with a new fund of spirits—I’m glad
to say. I went off into the city to see the crowds. Mr. Bang accompanied
me. He said he had a business engagement. We parted in the business
section.

I know all the streets now, or most of them, and can find my way about
nicely. I did not meet any of my friends, or anybody I knew. While
pleasant and interesting, it was an uneventful morning.

Shortly after my return Mr. Bang arrived carrying a bundle which proved
to contain a quantity of evergreen wreathing. This he dumped on the
drawing-room floor, remarking: “You may help me decorate this afternoon,
Little Partner.”

After lunch we set to work, festooning the chandeliers and picture
frames, and soon I became absorbed in the effort—and in Mr. Bang’s
conversation. For the time being I forgot society and found myself
laughing quite merrily. In fact, I confess I was thoroughly happy.

Mr. Bang, like Uncle, has a tendency to run off into long, confidential
dissertations. He began to talk about himself, and I was interested. I
will try and reproduce what he said in his own words. He is rather fond
of long words, which sometimes are ponderous.

“I’m engaged in driving a tunnel on the Rat River Railway; MacDonald,
who is my partner, and I have the contract. This will keep us going for
months. It is an important piece of work and he is here negotiating for
it. There is plenty of red-tape in the way, so I am likely to be here a
tolerable time. Shall you be glad?”

Fancy asking me that question! “I shall be glad if you have a good
time,” I said cautiously.

“There is no reason you should be glad if I stay, so far as I can see,”
he said frankly. “I asked the question simply out of interest in your
reply. May I confess that I take an interest in my ‘Little Partner,’ and
am anxious to learn if society is spoiling her? She is too good to be
spoiled.” He looked at me as if he were looking through me.

“Why?” I demanded, startled by the trend of his conversation.

“You have a conscience and—you have a heart.”

“I!”

“Yes,” and again this man’s serious eyes were upon me. Evidently he saw
through my motives last night. I thought of last night, of Ethel
Bassett’s goodness to me and my mental attitude towards her—and the
humiliation attending my talk with Mrs. Mount.

“I’m afraid—” I began, and faltered, not quite knowing what to say.

“The fact that you’re afraid shows you have a conscience.”

“Do you like the West?” I asked, to change the conversation.

“The West! I love the West. British Columbia is the best province in
Canada; the climate the best, the scenery the grandest, the people the
nicest.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” I laughed.

“But, of course, my ideas of nice people are different from those of
say, Mrs. Mount.”

“Yes!” I said, somewhat mischievously. He went on:

“Many of us were poor when we went West, but the thing is that we’re
cosmopolitan and have formed the habit of looking below the surface of
things. Remember that! The social side of life out West is different
from the East. So are the people. Here the fellows are all the same;
were you to throw a dozen fellows into a sack and heave them about, the
product of one grab from the bag would be the same as another. You could
not tell them apart, all with the same narrow views of life.” Mr. Bang
then suddenly changed his tone, “I’m ready to admit the fellows here
have as much right to hate me as I have to hate them.”

“You hate them, hate the East?”

“I hate the East, or rather the hollowness and shallowness of its
people, their snobbery, their affectations, silly emulation, mean
ambitions and limitations; their patronizing impertinences.”

The delivery of this weighty charge relieved him, for he smiled and
proposed a walk.

At dinner I talked of my Skating Club experiences, Uncle opening the way
by asking how I had enjoyed myself. I replied, “Nicely, thank you,” and
followed up with the announcement that I had met Polly Townsend, Mr.
MacKenzie, and Mr. Davidson.

“Ah, so you met Polly Townsend. That was an experience. What did you
think of him?”

“I liked him, that is, I think I do, though he did not skate with me. I
really———”

“Polly would be a profitable study, if you are seriously interested in
such folk. A study of such insects is helpful to establishing an
entomological view of society.”

“Well,” I said, “he is the best skater——”

“Pooh! His skating is the least interesting phase of Polly. He is the
expression of modern social finesse. He has no brains, no manners, save
those that are bad, no money——”

“No money! then that discredits the theory that wealth is necessary in
society,” I sang out.

“Therein lies whatever genius the man possesses,” exclaimed Uncle with
glee. “Polly has a wealth of impertinence, of self-assurance, and
conceit. By birth he should be a gentleman, but a gentleman’s instincts
he lacks. Whatever he does, he does well,—tennis, golf, skating. Even
his self-adulation is masterly. But of the things that really matter he
is a futility. He can be ineffably rude, insolent, contemptible through
his contemptuousness.”

“From this one may gather———”

“That the snub is an effective lever with weak human nature. We are
jealous of our sensibilities and guard them. When social exigencies
compel us to approach such as Polly, we lift our hat to the conqueror.
The only self-respecting way to treat Polly is to leave him alone; but
because of his success in sport, at the golf club, and so on, Polly is
an unavoidable evil.”

“Poor Polly?” I dared to ask, as Uncle closed his long speech.

“His chin goes in,” he rejoindered, as if he enjoyed it, “his forehead
goes back, his nose is squash, and his voice resembles—as you
suggest—that of ‘Poor Poll’.”

I realized the resemblance.

“And Mr. Davidson?”

“Davidson? Merely a snob—only that and nothing more.”

“Mr. MacKenzie?”

“A monstrosity,” spoke up Mr. Bang, “yet he taught me a good lesson.”

“How could Mr. MacKenzie teach you a lesson?” I exclaimed laughingly,
although I couldn’t help emphasizing the “you.” The emphasis was,
however, apparently quite lost on Mr. Bang. His composure and gravity
were serene, as he replied:

“Once in early youth I came to this city and hoped to become a member of
a tennis club to which MacKenzie belonged. I knew Mac and schemed to
improve our acquaintance in order to help me in. I invited him to lunch,
filled him with wine, attempted to talk on literature, and finally told
him I was a tennis enthusiast.”

Mr. Bang paused, and Uncle asked mischievously:

“Did he respond?”

“He responded by asking if he might insure my life.”

We roared, that is, save Mr. Bang.

“That was a cold douche which drowned my social ambitions. I reasoned
that society that would tolerate such a Yahoo as he had nothing to offer
worth having.”

“The girls laugh at him,” said Mumsie.

“Possibly,” replied Mr. Bang, who began to unburden himself further.

“The trouble with most of our sports is that they are, as Uncle says,
communal and in the hands of devotees who build them up. Cliques are
formed which such people as Townsend and MacKenzie run. Golf is somewhat
the exception to this general rule, which possibly accounts for the ever
increasing popularity of the game. Golf clubs, generally, make
provisions for the admittance of strangers, and, for some reason or
other, good-fellowship is more common in golf clubs than in other
associations.”

“That’s true,” commented Uncle.

“I generally tell people whom I meet casually,” continued Mr. Bang,
“that I have navvied and mined throughout the West, especially if they
suggest themselves to me as being a bit snobbish, and I often find
myself treated as a tough character. I do this merely to be honest. I
daresay this is a mistake, for people ascribe my candour to simplicity.”

“What do you do with the tenderfoot when he arrives in the West?” I
asked Mr. Bang.

“We treat him well and give him a show. If he is loaded with nonsense we
kindly knock it out of him.”

Was there ever a stranger character than this Mr. Bang? In spite of my
dislike for him, I am becoming interested.

“The westerner’s quarrel with the easterner is not unique,” put in Uncle
as his nephew ceased speaking. “It is the same with the Englishman who
returns home from Australia or Rhodesia. Frontier communities are made
up of wanderers; and its social life frames itself to suit the
scallywag. Settled communities have no experience in such wanderers, and
their prejudices are strong.”

Uncle made this explanation dispassionately, as if he simply wished to
further my understanding. I suppose I am still a child in my knowledge
of the world. But I’m cleverer than they seem to think. Men are
self-satisfied creatures, sometimes.

After dinner we went into the city, walked into the crowded streets.
Sleighbells were ringing, here, there, and everywhere. Sleighbells are
almost the jolliest thing about Christmas; the automobile horns sounded
out of place. There was a great deal of laughing and of merry greetings
to be heard.

Mr. Bang is certainly prodigal with his money. He gave a poor boy a
dollar and told him to buy a new shirt; and he gave a poor, old woman
two dollars. He did not do it secretly, nor ostentatiously, but in an
open-hearted, matter-of-course sort of way. I suppose it is the result
of his western training.

But if Mr. Bang hates eastern society, I confess the more I see of its
movement and brightness, the more I intend to get on. The way will
open—I know that—and I am quite rid of the queer ideas that filled my
mind last night. I can make use of Mr. Bang and Ethel Bassett, and
possibly—Mrs. Mount, “that old battle-axe,” who is more like, shall I
say, a Fairy Godmother. Possibly, we’ll see.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Such a heavenly day, sunshine with ice crystals, no wind.

Mumsie came into my room at peep of dawn, carrying a bundle. There was a
letter in it from Dad enclosing another hundred dollars for me to spend.
Dear old Dad! And then there was a parcel marked, “From Jack to his
Little Partner.” I undid the fastenings and there were four shaggy,
hairy skins. I could not make out what they were. And a pair of gloves
from Mumsie—women always give gloves. I tried on the gloves and Mumsie
suggested that we go to early service.

I jumped out of bed and as I dressed looked at the furs,—I had never
seen anything like them, so brown and glossy. What sort of an animal
could they have belonged to?

I went downstairs and saw a fire burning in the den and two men standing
before it—Uncle and Jack. So I entered the room, and a cheery voice
greeted me with “Merry Christmas!” and Uncle gathered me in his arms and
kissed me. Mr. Bang, rather dolefully echoed: “Merry Christmas!” It
struck me as strange that Uncle had not given me a present, even if only
a handkerchief. I shook hands with Mr. Bang and said, “Thank you very
much for the skins.”

“They’re nothing,” he replied almost indifferently. “Uncle is going to
have them made into a muff and collar for you as his present. I got the
skins from an Indian. You see,” continued he in his usual tone, “the
British Columbia government has shut down on the destruction of beaver
for a number of years to save these animals from becoming extinct, and
it is against the law to have the skins in one’s possession.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “then you ran chances of being fined for my sake. How
good you are!”

“No, not so good, as I did not know of your existence at the time, and
could hardly have been concerned with that. What I mean is that they did
not cost me much. As the animals were already dead my conscience did not
trouble me and I took particular pains to give such small value for the
skins, that I don’t fancy the noble red man will think it worth his
while to break the law again.”

I do not know how to describe the manner of address used by Mr. Bang to
me and I have borrowed Uncle’s dictionary to help me out. “Didactic”
will hardly do, nor will “pedantic.” Perhaps “patronizing” is the only
term that I can apply to it, but then “patronizing” is not quite just.
Of course, Uncle is equally guilty at times, but only at times; and I
love Uncle. And if I am to have a complete set of furs at their hands, I
can forgive much! Perhaps “elderly” or “condescending” is the word: but
it doesn’t matter.

But were Mr. Bang and Uncle serious. Beaver!—I have seen beaver, soft,
grey, delicate fur, and this is bristling like a porcupine almost. So I
thought I would begin a question and then stammer. If I laughed
prettily, I could appear innocent: and I did so successfully, though
there is often a doubtful, pitying look in Jack’s quizzical, grey eyes.

“Oh! Uncle do tell me, are beavers ever born with—with—Oh, I don’t
know—something like—first cousin—Porcupine—long hairs—”

“Oh,” laughed Uncle, while Mr. Bang grinned broadly, “You are troubled
over the shaggy appearance of the skins. They have not been plucked—the
long coarse hairs are generally plucked from the beaver, otter, fur
seal, and a few others, when the fur remaining is soft and silky.”

“And I may have mine made into real beaver—how lovely!”

“I would suggest,” put in Mr. Bang, still smiling, “that you leave them
as they are, they would become you and not be unfashionable.”

“Would they?” I asked, impetuously turning to Uncle.

“As Jack suggests, I think they would be becoming,” and Uncle smiled.
“You can always trust Jack.”

“Then I shall,” I said and left them. I meant leave the skins as they
were, and if they thought I meant trusting Jack that is their look-out.

After breakfast I saw Bowman, the man who tends Uncle’s furnace and
clears away the snow, passing out into the street with a cigar box under
his arm. I was sure it was the box I gave Uncle. I thought I would
investigate so I went into the den where the two men were smoking. They
were enjoying cigars, the odour of which seemed fine.

“Oh Uncle!” I cried, “I’m so glad to find you smoking. I noticed Bowman
with a cigar box under his arm and I wondered——”

“Bowman takes such things as empty cigar boxes as his perquisites,
see!”—and Uncle took a jar off the mantle and removing the cover showed
me many cigars. Both of them then laughed. I was very annoyed.

Whenever I am in Mr. Bang’s presence he gazes intently at me and I am
beginning to loathe his quiet smile. Nothing escapes him, and after
Uncle’s explanation I’m sure he saw me start as I noticed a half
consumed cigar box in the grate. Evidently there were the contents of
two boxes of cigars in the jar.

In any case I won’t trouble my head about what Uncle did with my cigars.
I dislike men very much sometimes.

Dinner came at four and Mumsie had the table looking like a dream, such
a sparkle of glass and silver, setting off the roses and carnations
nicely. And the holly and mistletoe, which over-shadowed the lamp, and
the bon-bons,—the crackers lying on each napkin! Oh, it was delicious!
I may say heavenly.

Mumsie was at her brightest, looking the picture of Christmas geniality.
Uncle, too, was particularly kind as he welcomed us to the feast.
Someway, I was impressed that all and everything were for me. All
Uncle’s pleasantries were addressed to me or for my benefit. I believe
Uncle is becoming fond of me.

His good nature seemed also to affect Mr. Bang, who told us stories of
his own, wild life, and incidents in the lives of others; and in his
calm way he can be very humorous. Then he told of the many strange
circumstances under which he had eaten his Christmas dinner—in camps,
in towns and cities, in hotels, in homes, in log cabins, even under
canvas. And then I noticed his mouth draw into a smile, as he fixed his
eyes on his wine glass which he kept absently turning.

“What have you in your mind, Jack?” asked Mumsie.

“I was thinking of the only Christmas dinner I ever ate away from
friends or acquaintances and how in this case, I met poor Tom Dahlmun.
It was in Dawson City, Christmas, 1900—”

“Tell us of it,” demanded Uncle.

“You never told us how you came to go to the Klondike,” said Mumsie;
“Please tell us about it.”

“To tell you how I came to go to the Klondike and my adventures in
getting there would be a longer story than you would care to listen to,”
he protested.

“Do, do tell us all about it,” I cried eagerly.

“Well, I will abstain from frills, and try and not weary you.”

“You won’t do that,” I said with assurance.

“With your permission, Auntie, I shall in my telling of my adventures
affect the manner of the miner at his camp-fire. Now and again I may
mention details that appear inconsequent.”

“Never mind, go on!”

“Well, about September, 1900, I was at Skagway on the Alaskan Coast
without money, and with no prospect of profitable employment.

“The Canadian Customs at Skagway gave me short jobs, but by the end of
the month they petered out and I was faced with the necessity of finding
means even for food.

“There seemed no alternative but to go south. But I harboured the idea
of going to Dawson and some fiend nourished it. No more quixotic plan
can ever have entered the mind of man, but I went.

“I crossed to White Horse, the port on the Upper Yukon River. The
thermometer had sunk below zero, though the weather was mild. I spent
some days figuring ways and means of carrying out my mad idea, and spent
more dollars than I could afford. I shall always maintain that
friendships struck up in a bar-room are productive of nothing but losses
and waste of time.

“Possibly I was inspired with a blind faith in fortune or I didn’t care
a ——— button. Somebody suggested I should try and work my way on one
of the steamers. I tried and failed. A good thing too, for I would have
earned little or no money that way and been landed five hundred miles
nearer the north pole, and so much further from civilization.

“Then came the voice of destiny; a man called from a scow tied to the
dock: ‘Do you want to go to Dawson? Give you seven and a half dollars
per day.’ ‘All right,’ said I.

“The wage was high, which is an indication that travel was not
northwards. The weather turned wonderfully mild, considering the recent
exploits of the thermometer, and the sun shone brightly as we set out to
the unknown. Only one of us had been down that river before.

“I was one of a party of six and our craft consisted of two scows lashed
together. Each scow contained twenty tons of freight, and three thousand
two hundred dollars was to be paid for transporting this to Dawson. My
companions consisted of the four owners and a chap who was working his
passage to his camp down the river, where he was engaged chopping wood
for sale to the river steamers.

“One of the owners was a Yankee, two were Scotch-Canadians, and one was
a Swede. The Yankee had worked all summer as deck-hand on a river
steamer and so had knowledge of the currents. One of the Scotchmen was a
Salvation Army man and the other just old Mac. The Swede was a decent
fellow. All but the Yankee were straight-forward. He, Alec, would never
look one in the face, and was of a nature soft and unassertive. I should
have felt more comfortable with him had he occasionally lost his temper
and sworn a bit. His only qualification was his knowledge of the river.

“I soon gathered the business details. The four owners had built one
scow and tried to sell it, but, through the lateness of the season and
difficulty in getting men to man it, were unable to dispose of it. So
they purchased another scow and essayed to get their money out of both
by contracting to deliver freight in Dawson.

“The joy of such a trip is the scenery; and then the appetite one is
blessed with! Our trip through the Thirty Mile was somewhat remarkable.
This river is a part of the Upper Yukon, and has caused more wrecks than
any other portion of the great waterway.

“It was strewn with wrecks of scows which had tried to get through in
the day time. We went through at night for the good and sufficient
reason that we could not stop.

“The Thirty Mile is very swift, and our Pilot was reluctant to tie up
any sooner than was absolutely necessary. In fact, on this occasion it
was I who made the suggestion that we moor to the bank ere darkness had
completely come.

“Strange to say my advice was acted upon; the pilot grabbed a rope and
ordered the scows to be diverted towards the left bank. Then he made a
spring, landed, and sought a tree to which he might tie up. There was
none, but rather a world of fallen brush. The scows were moving at
better than six miles per hour, and with the result that the pilot,
trying in vain to keep up with us, was forced to let go the rope. There
was only one thing to do, and that was for somebody on the scows to take
the dingey we had with us and row back for our mate. This was done with
the result that the scows were left with four men only to manage them.
The gloom settled over us and the shores were dimly visible, while we
swept down the canyon. A heavily-laden scow travels faster than the
current that bears it. This explains how we obtained a good lead on the
dingey. The light then failed, and the only thing visible was the
reflection of the sky on the water. I began to give orders, or, I had
better say, make suggestions. I became frightened of leaving the dingey
altogether, or of coming to other calamities, so I told my fellows I
would attempt to tie up the scows. Our shouts to the pilot and his
rescuer brought response from both up and down the river. There was
evidently a scow safely moored below us. Hastily we shouted our trouble,
and the crew of the moored scow said we might tie to them. Frantically
we worked to get the scows across the current for they were tied to the
right bank; it was no use, we passed them. But the impetus we gained was
carrying us into the right bank. Vaguely I saw the shadows, jumped, and
landed up to my hips in water. I scrambled ashore and ran into a wall of
rock. The rope I held tightened, and I followed its lead along the face
of the rock till I went in to my middle; and then I, too, let go the
rope.

“In due time, the boat picked me up and we set out in pursuit of the
scows. We gained on them; finally gathering from the shouting that the
woodcutter had gained the shore, had thrice snubbed the scows and the
scows three times pulled a tree up by the roots. So Alec shouted to let
the scows drift. We pulled the woodcutter into the boat and then
regained the scows.

“The moon had risen over the canyon and light and shadow, glimmering
water and sparkling skies, ranged themselves in wonderful combination,
all weird, some magnificent. I remember that besides marvelling at the
sights about me, I remarked the softness of the air. What the
thermometer was I do not know, it could not have been much, if at all,
above freezing, yet, while I was wet to the middle I have no
recollection of being cold.

“In due time we floated into a great lagoon on the shores of which was a
settlement. A dozen or so of river men and prospectors, a gambler or
two, and a couple of policemen here had their abode.

“The stillness of lone lands is one of their special features. I know I
enjoyed it, and my companions had no doubt some rude, unconscious
sympathy with the natural beauties. At any rate, as the hoarse laughter
floated across the lagoon it sounded a discord, and hearing it men
became quiet.

“I have spoken of our capacity for eating. I shall never forget the
moose tenderloin steaks we got from Indians at Little Salmon River. The
joy of eating! civilization knows nothing like it. The best of fresh
meat after weeks of bacon!

“At Little Salmon River, a tributary stream, the heavy frosts came upon
us again, and here an interesting development affected our night’s rest.
Our beds were made upon the cargo and beneath a great tarpaulin. No
poles suspended the canvas; it lay flat against the hay and oats that
constituted our load. The vapour arising from the comparatively warm
water in the scow, the water that would correspond to the bilge of a
ship, condensed upon the canvas. The effect was a coating of beautiful
ice crystals, some of them an inch long. In the daylight they showed the
most orderly system of spears and shafts, elaborate yet exact.

“As we crawled to our lairs at night the fairy-like ferns tingled
joyously and fell upon us in wintry showers. In the morning they melted
and drenched us. But we did well enough. Between times through the night
we slept, all standing, as the sailors say, warm and comfortable.

“Frost is a most powerful agent in the north land. As you may guess,
King Frost is a term used widely and not without reason. Indeed our
passage was eminently a kindly dispensation of the monarch. As day
succeeded day the ultimate closing of the mighty jaws of the river drew
nearer. The owners’ money, my money, all our fortunes, depended on the
absence of delays. Delays while inevitable, humanly speaking, were still
a matter of chance. We were held at the caprice of winter.

“Jack Frost is indeed versatile. Not only did he commence to throw cakes
of ice in the river, but placed a more active, if less tangible
hindrance in our way. Over the river in the early mom a billowy,
swaying, pink, yellow, purple, orange, blue mantle of mist hung. To
guide our craft it was necessary to see, for the Yukon’s stream has many
channels, only one of which, as a rule, is navigable for such a vessel
as ours. About us were sand bars and islands, and to run aground meant
loss of precious time, and possibly destruction.

“Of course, the sun rising would in time dissipate the fog, but while
Jack Frost and he had their morning game at tossing cloud banks, we
would lose an hour or two. As the days went by, and we lay further
towards the arctic circle, the frost became heavier and the daily range
of temperature less marked. About three days from our goal we ran into a
snow storm and passed a few tributaries throwing out lumps of ice. The
presence of floating ice, however, was a blessing, because it marked the
more shallow spots and helped us to avoid them. When the air was not
filled with snow, the skies were gray and sullen. It was a blessing
there was no wind.

“Our last night out from Dawson I remember distinctly. The running ice
had filled the river. At dusk we tied up at a woodcutter’s cabin, and
learned we had fifty miles still to go. We went to bed, under our
tingling tarpaulin; and, I remember, I lay awake just one minute
listening to the ice crashing into our craft. Would the planks hold? A
moment’s apprehension, and then—sleep.

“We started again at a perilously early hour. The ice had increased
enormously during the night. The river was ‘bank full’ as the term is;
it was a grinding, mixing lot. Had we struck a bar the rush of ice would
have piled us on so tight we never would have got off again. But to
offset this, the shore ice had now extended so far out that only the
deepest channels were running. We could not have got aground if we had
wanted to.

“At six o’clock the night had fallen; we heard the toot of a factory
whistle. Five hundred miles behind us we had left Whitehorse, an outpost
of civilization. We had travelled by an agency over which we had no
control five hundred miles, into a wilderness that ranged beyond the ken
of men. Here was an oasis. A whistle, discordant at most times, was
music to us then. It sang of dangers past.

“But our danger was not past until we succeeded in stopping. To be
carried beyond Dawson would be as great a calamity as to be stranded
above it. There was no difference so far as the discharge of our cargo
was concerned.

“The lights flashed out and a thousand times winked welcome,
irresistibly my mind fell to playing with the fact; here was a world in
miniature and I at the heart of it.

“The river before Dawson is broad and there is a deep eddy. Strangely
enough the eddy was yet unfrozen and free of ice. We struggled into the
still water and so to shore. It took us an hour’s hard labour to get
there. It was joy to hear a friendly hand on shore shout: ‘All fast!’

“We went to bed and slept as long as we liked: a luxury. Arising, we
found the world a riot of colour. The sun was up, the air was clear save
for the steam arising from the water, and the thermometer was twenty
below zero. Away out in mid-channel the ice-floes still ground
persistently on their way, but round about us was ice clear, black, and
resonant. We were frozen in.”

Here Mr. Bang paused and looked enquiringly at Mumsie. Uncle caught the
glance and reassured him.

“Go on, Jack, we’re interested.”

“Yes, Jack, indeed we are,” added Mumsie.

“And my Little Partner?” asked he.

“Oh! I am so interested, do go on.”

“I was in Dawson. I had made one hundred and ten dollars in wages on the
trip down besides twenty-five dollars, which I earned by bringing a
ballot-box in from the police post one hundred miles up the river.
Dawson had just enjoyed its first experience of the Franchise.

“Had I been wise I would have stayed with my friends, who prudently
secured a cabin and settled down for the winter. Instead of that, I
engaged a room at the principal hotel at a cost of four dollars per day,
European plan. Meals cost a dollar and a half each. Then instead of
borrowing a hand-sled and hauling my trunk up from the scow, as a
Dawsonite would have done, I engaged a boy with a dog. The dog’s name, I
remember, was ‘Sleepy’ and the youth charged two dollars. The distance,
be it said, was only about two hundred yards.

“As a matter of fact, Dawson was at that time remarkably free from
convention and prejudice. I had in mind to try for clerical work from
the Government. Had I been seen hauling my trunk through the streets or,
given my address as such and such a cabin, my chances would have been
none the less, while the dollars I might have saved would have
represented so much security against starvation. But perhaps my risking
an extravagant bid for preferment was supported by the knowledge that I
was a Canadian in a city in Canada, where the vast majority of the
population was alien; also I built on the hope that as one of my life’s
best friends had formerly held high administrative office in the
country, but was then in South Africa fighting, I might meet with
particular consideration from the authorities. I found, however, that
the dispenser of Government patronage in Dawson was the open enemy of my
friend. So this source of interest failed.

“A friend of a relative spoke in my behalf to the all-powerful head of
the political machine, and I was advised to apply. I did so. ‘How do you
vote?’ he asked. I told him I had never voted in my life, but, as he of
course knew, my people voted Tory. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I won’t do
anything for you; we have to get back at you fellows, you know.’ This
represents the spirit of the Grit administration in Dawson. Those who
ruled, who pulled the wires would, and did assist, and grant favours to
Yankees in preference to political opponents among their own people. And
yet the Grits claim they are not pro-Yankee!

“Somehow I made the acquaintance of the ‘old man,’ one of the most
remarkable characters in all the world. He was very strong in religion
but weak on cleanliness; a slight, grizzled man with a stoop. He had a
cabin, I had none. I had some money, he had none. Our duty to each other
was obvious.

“There were eighteen hundred men starving in Dawson that winter, yet no
word was uttered about the unemployed. Anyway, everyway, we were putting
in the winter. We—the old man and I, we joined their ranks.

“The old man’s cabin was larger than usual and divided into two
compartments. It had been badly constructed and was in very bad repair.
The larger compartment had a window. This was our home; the other
compartment serving as wood-shed and lumber-room.

“The first task I set myself after I took my residence there was to tidy
up. A number of filthy old rags which I threw into the lumber-room
turned out to be the old man’s ‘clothes.’ He was mortally offended.

“The weather was intensely cold, and in our happy home a bucket of water
froze solid in a night. On waking in the morning we would find our
blankets glued together by our frozen breath. I spilt some water
accidentally on the floor in December, and the consequent sheet of ice
lasted until February. Our stove was small and of tin; it sat in a
corner. The fact that numerous holes in the chinking allowed the wind to
enter, together with our very limited supply of wood, and the smallness
of the stove, accounted for the coldness of the cabin. We had to haul
our own wood from three miles down river, and what we then obtained was
poor, as one day’s work would secure only three days’ supply.

“We used to arise at eleven and cook porridge. The old man would prepare
it, always of course, after his way. I never summoned up courage to cook
it my way. He would bring the water to a boil and then dump in enough
oatmeal to drink up the water. The meal was never boiled and came out
with the consistency of mortar. Nor was any salt added; the old man did
not believe salt was good for the system. He said if the meal were
boiled it would become sticky. This disgusting mess was invariably our
breakfast. If our dishes were washed, even over long periods, it was I
who did it. Of course, there was really no danger in leaving the dishes
dirty, for they froze immediately and ill effects were thereby
prevented.

“After breakfast we went down town; the old man generally to the Free
Library, and I to the gambling saloons, or the shop of a merchant I
knew, and then to the library. At six we would come home, cook and eat
the heavy meal of the day. It consisted generally of bacon and beans,
the bacon of questionable quality. Then we would travel into town again,
returning to our cabin at midnight for supper and bed. Supper generally
was a repetition of breakfast. Once indeed, I suggested making some
slap-jacks and was allowed to carry the idea into effect. We both ate
and the old man was laid up next day. Towards evening he managed to
disgorge the mass and having a scientific mind, he enquired into it. He
found the dough completely undigested. This has always been a wonder to
me for I had no trouble with my meal and have always had a weak
digestion, whereas the old man had the digestion of an ostrich.

“I don’t know what a student of hygiene would say to our diet and mode
of life, but I can say my powers of digestion were never better. And our
general mode of life was out of the ordinary. We never took our clothes
off in going to bed. I must confess, however, that I sometimes took a
bath and changed my underclothing. When I announced my intention of
spending a dollar on a bath, the old man would sadly shake his head. Not
that he objected to what I did with my money, but rather that he looked
upon that expenditure as an insane waste.

“On Christmas day I did not seek out the old man. His philosophy was not
satisfied with Christmas—although he was a great churchman.

“I enjoyed the luxury of a dinner, a special turkey dinner, costing me a
dollar and a half. I entered the Northern Annex, being the restaurant
connected with one of the leading gambling saloons of the city, sat
down, and a plate of soup was slammed in front of me. I let it be and
gazed about me. I was the only one rejoicing in a table to myself. About
me were ranged human hulks and derelicts, most of them in pea-jackets,
some with fur collars turned above their ears.

“As I sat musing, a man sat down at my side. His features were good,
that is, they were regular. They might have been handsome had their
lines been a little stronger, as it was they lacked colour. I tendered a
few commonplace civilities and had them returned. I remarked on the
weather; so did he. I said ‘I have been reviewing all the Christmases I
have memory of’. ‘We all do it, a distressing process.’ ‘Think of the
great range of Christendom,’ I said. ‘Is it not well to think that you
and I are the exceptions? What joy has England had to-day and
Anglo-Saxon America; a joy that would be enhanced did the partakers but
view us as we sit and so by contrast establish a fitting measure of
their own good fortune.’ This was of course off at a tangent, but I
wished to draw him out.

“‘I have had my mind occupied with my own Christmases my mind travelling
over time rather than geography,’ he said.

“‘It is weird, is it not; from the nuts and candies in the stocking hung
for Santa Claus and devoured ere the mornings light had well broken, to
the well-laid table and the maiden kissed beneath the mistletoe at later
hours in later years?’ I’m afraid my advances were hardly tactful and my
conversation was rather stilted; but if these were so I was evidently
forgiven, for my companion replied:

“‘With me but two Christmases outstand, that of 1907, and the following
Christmas. Widely different as they may be I do not know which will live
the longer in my memory.’

“The expression of his face told me he was suffering, and I essayed no
further remark. Expectantly I waited. ‘Christmas 1908, I spent at Wind
City,’ he said. The very name told of horror, Wind City being the place
where a number of adventurers had wintered two years before. It is a
name at which the strong men who know shudder.

“‘I spent the day digging a grave for the best Pal a man ever had. The
tools I used I bought in England, fondly picturing the wealth they would
win me.’

“He knew the simple facts would convey to me the story of the grave that
covers the body of the one and the heart of the other. As we ate the
food that had been served us, I watched my companion’s face and while no
twitching disturbed its calm I knew, something told me, the desire to
unburden his mind was strong in him.

“He told me of that last Christmas day at home; of old mater who had
caught the spirit and shared his optimism. To them the Klondike was—as
to all of us—the Promised Land. And there was the girl steady and
trusting; the kind that will go through fire and water for her man. She
was penniless. You know the old story. ‘Behold the sequel!’ he said of a
sudden.” As he spoke Mr. Bang’s face was full of sympathy.

“So ended our dinner. Such too often is life.

“I frequently met Tom Dahlmun afterwards and we became friendly. One day
I learned of work at Gold Run Creek, forty-five miles from Dawson, and
engaged employment for two.

“Tom and I made an appointment to set out on foot for the scene of our
labours. He did not turn up on time; I waited, then went on alone. The
next thing I heard he was dead. He had gone to work on Hold Hill and had
died of spinal meningitis; but I guess his malady was sheer want. Many a
good man has starved. These are hardly thoughts for Christmas.”

We all remained silent.

“This little story of poor Tom has no more moral than that. My only
justification for telling it is that when I’m particularly happy at
Christmas, it always comes to mind there are so many good fellows just
like Tom.”

“It was a strange spirit,” went on Mr. Bang, “that animated Dawson’s
legion, an unreasonable, unwise spirit; yet not without beauty. Many of
the starving host could have had credit from the merchants, yet they
refrained from asking it. Personal pride restrained them. They were good
business risks and they knew it. With the return of summer, gold would
come from the creeks and wages would be high; yet these rough diamonds
of fellows would not run the risk lest fortune’s hazardous there, should
intervene and prevent their settling.”

And that was the end of Mr. Bang’s narrative, which made me think.

DECEMBER 26TH.

I have had such a time writing Mr. Bang’s narrative, hours last night
and hours to-day. For one thing this writing keeps me from being a
burden on Mumsie. Uncle says there will be nothing doing in society
between Christmas and the New Year. I wonder why he said this.

Last night as I lay in bed I thought of many things. I certainly don’t
wish to go West, where the manhood is of the type of Mr. Bang. Too
rough! Too unrefined! This is my world in the East, a gentleworld, where
the men instead of struggling for rude wealth, help the girls to enjoy
themselves. I must get into society; I’m determined on that. I won’t be
put off by Jack’s or Uncle’s prejudices, but I must act discreetly, even
covertly. I must make friends with Mrs. Mount and her set. I know such
things can be done. Uncle gave me a hint when he said excellence in
sport was a qualification. How am I to learn to skate, to waltz? Mr.
Bang must teach me.

So this morning, notwithstanding it was Sunday, I started a discussion
by saying I wished to learn to waltz. The upshot was as I hoped—Mr.
Bang offered to take me skating at Badger Lake.

The cars took us there. The small boy was much in evidence, but this had
its compensation in that it lessened the probability of any nice people
being there and seeing me with my cavalier. I know this would sound to
another extremely snobbish, but I realize that, as Mr. Bang has been a
visitor to this city a number of times, and has not been taken up, my
chances will be lessened if I am seen too much with him. If Mr. Bang is
an example of manly virtue, if he lacks “side” and affectation, and is
guiltless of all those foibles he and Uncle condemn in others, I can’t
say much for his success socially.

He was very kind and quite a proficient teacher, and I believe I made
progress.

I have told Mumsie I am writing a book and told her not to tell anybody
at all, on her word of honour and all that. This minimizes the chances
of discovery by the men folk.

DECEMBER 27TH.

This morning at breakfast Uncle passed me over the portion of the paper
which contains the social news. As he did so, his face wore a teasing
smile and his eyes twinkled. I was unable to with-hold the little cry
that sprang to my lips as I read,—“An addition to the coterie of pretty
maids (for whom this city is justly famous) who will adorn our society
this winter is Miss Elsie Travers, the guest of Mr. and Mrs. George
Somers, Iroquois Avenue.”

“Oh! Mumsie, listen to this,” I cried, and read it out. We all laughed;
but how proud I felt. I felt myself colouring to the roots of my hair.
After such a pretty notice, I hope I shall find social progress easy.

“Elsie,” said Mumsie, beaming, “I congratulate you. My Micawber here and
I will be completely outdistanced.”

“Elsie, I’m proud of you,” Uncle endorsed.

I hope he was sincere—he was certainly kind enough.

Mr. Bang said nothing. I dislike him!

My eyes passed down the column and were again arrested. “Mrs. Lien has
issued invitations to the younger set to a dance at her home on New
Year’s Eve.” No invitation had come for me; my heart sank.

Again I read the notice aloud.

“No doubt a very swell affair,” suggested Uncle, rather cynically.

“I must get you an invitation,” said Mumsie.

“Me! an invitation!” I exclaimed. “Can you get me an invitation?”

“I can ask for one. In the old days———”

“Don’t do it, Auntie,” cut in Bang.

“Why not?” I demanded. Why should this beast of a man interfere with me
and my joys and ambitions?

“Because,” and he looked at me with the most exasperating smile I have
ever seen on a man’s face, “I can arrange it—I can ask Mrs. Malone.”

I gasped and then I wilted. I hope I did not display the anger I had
felt.

“That would do nicely,” agreed Mumsie. “Good idea.”

Whatever I had done or whatever misdirected temper I displayed, I must
see it through, so I asked, with what I hoped was a sincere smile:

“That would be so kind of you Mr. Bang, but who is Mrs. Malone that she
does as you wish?”

“Mrs. Malone happens to be the society editress of the _Telegraph_, and
when she suggests a social favour it is generally acted upon.” He was
certainly frank enough and natural. “Besides, something you may well be
excused for not knowing, Mrs. Lien clapped eyes on me the other day. If
I mistake not she knows I am your fellow guest, and if Auntie asks an
invitation for you, it will carry with it a suggestion for me, which I
don’t want at any cost. Mrs. Malone will discreetly acquaint Mrs. Lien
with the fact that I leave for Toronto on New Year’s Eve.”

Mr. Bang was more good natured at the close of his big speech, but did
the world ever know such another man?

No more was said, and Mr. Bang went with Uncle to town; I to my room.
About lunch-time the telephone rang and Mumsie was told by Mrs. Lien
that an invitation for me was on the way.

In the afternoon I walked out with Mumsie and we ended up at the Queen
Charlotte tea-rooms. Whom should we meet there but Mrs. Bassett and
Ethel? Of course we joined them. In two minutes Mrs. Bassett was pouring
out a tale of woe about her cook who was Scotch and untidy. The standard
topic of respectable society seems to be the servant question.

“Don’t talk to me about servants—old country servants, at least the
kind we get out here, are exasperating, and the native-born domestic has
ceased to exist. I’m all right now, but a month ago I had a
terror—English. She wore white, transparent stockings, and tennis shoes
about the house and, above deck, low neck dresses. I told her she must
alter her attire, and she used up a bottle of my blacking transforming
her tennis shoes. As to rising she was another Elsie Marley. One morning
Mr. Somers met her on the stairs late as usual, and told her he was
about to take her breakfast up to her. This did not affect her in the
least for next day she admired a brooch I was wearing. ‘What a nice
brooch,’ she exclaimed, ‘are the stones real?’”

This sort of talk went on until in came Mrs. Mount. I was so glad, for
although Mrs. Bassett was warming up, she was yet leagues behind Mrs.
Mount in her appeal to my interest. Imagine my joy, therefore, when I
saw Mrs. Mount making directly towards us. She bounced up to our table
and sat down, giving an order to a waitress as she did so. “So glad to
see you both,” she gushed, evidently viewing Ethel and myself as
nonentities or not viewing us at all, “Doris and I are sailing on the
_Carmania_ from New York for the Mediterranean on January 15th; and, do
you know, really, it is such a fag. There’s Mrs. Lien’s ball on New
Year’s Eve. Of course Doris must have a new dress and possibly I may
give a dance too, before we sail. I suppose you girls have been
invited?” And we were for the first time honoured by her notice.

“They both are going,” replied Mumsie.

“Mrs. Lien is so kind; and, after all, there is nothing like the old
families, provided there is go in them.”

I could see however, she was surprised at my being invited.

“What I was going to say is that I will take this opportunity of saying
good-bye.”

“You like Italy?” I could see Mumsie was brimming with merriment.

“Yes, I like Italy,” she threw her head back as if to bring her chin
into special prominence. “But, now it is so beastly common, full of
trippers, German and American. One meets them everywhere and cannot get
away from them. Their ways are”—she paused for the word—“uncouth.
Naples?—No! Rome?—No! Florence? Yes. Florence has the best tea-room in
Europe.”

“Venice must be very interesting,” suggested Mrs. Bassett, with a half
sigh that told me she felt her prospects of seeing Italy were remote,
and her desire to do so great, “the Palace of the Doges,—the Lion of
St. Mark.”

“Venice is no place to go to; most disappointing. There is not a decent
tea-room in the place.”

Mumsie seemed amused at this, and Ethel Bassett grinned broadly. After
this last delivery the lady with a few more gushes shook hands with us
all and beamed upon Ethel and me. Possibly this was by way of recompense
for her earlier slight.

Mrs. Mount seems a woman of whims; no doubt is of a nervous disposition.
At the rink only two days ago she was, I am sure, on the verge of
declaring herself my friend. To-day she announces she is off to Europe
and treats me as if she had never seen me before.

I waited until soup was finished at dinner to-night ere I thanked Mr.
Bang for his good offices. “Possibly you have more than that to thank
him for,” suggested Mumsie.

“I have thanked him for the skins,” I replied.

“Possibly there is something else,” she added.

I looked at my benefactor but his face was inscrutable. He evidently had
no desire to have this line of conversation pursued, for he put in:

“Mrs. Malone is one of the few women in this city for whom I have a
regard.”

“Oh!” I said. I couldn’t help it. A man has no right suddenly to make
that sort of statement.

“She has had a hard time of it,” cried Uncle, “drunken husband—one of
the old families—and has been forced to fight her way by writing trash
for the society columns,——”

“Mrs. Malone is a good friend, and a good woman, and you know you always
read the social columns,” asserted Mumsie interrupting her husband.

“Of course, to laugh at———”

“You read it, nevertheless; and therefore justify those columns in the
newspaper.”

“A newspaper is supposed to tell the news—the news!” he emphasized.

“Isn’t the social column news?”

“No. It’s a free advertising column for social climbers.”

“Which you and everybody else reads, either because of your gaping
curiosity, or because you are a cynical old stick.”

“Exactly!”

This time Mumsie had downed Uncle beautifully and I was glad. Uncle did
not seem to mind, however, for he turned to me and continued:

“Remember, my dear, as your young mind seems set upon these vain things,
Mrs. Malone is a woman who can make or break the social future of any
boy or girl in this city. That is why she can command almost any
invitation she cares to ask for. Our lady society-writers on the whole,
and Mrs. Malone in particular, are, anyhow, just.”

“They are, and kindly too,” agreed Mr. Bang. “Of course, they display
their personal bias occasionally; they would not be human, if they
didn’t. I know one girl at least who first gained a reputation as a
belle and then won a rich husband through Mrs. Malone’s good offices.”

“Evidently Mrs. Malone is not as exacting as you are,” I ventured.

“The girl’s mother happens to be an old friend of Mrs. Malone’s,”
retorted Mr. Bang with unnecessary severity. “The newspapers as a rule
give their society reporters free scope,” he went on, “they being awake
enough not to overlook the wives and daughters of good advertisers. But
occasionally notices are inspired. I know this because of experiences I
gained when I attended a public ball in Toronto. I did not know many of
the ladies present, as is to be supposed; but outside the few I danced
with, saw a rather pretty girl I knew. I did not ask her to dance for
the reason I did not think her people amounted to much. Next day’s paper
contained a triumphant account of this damsel’s appearance, etc., etc.,
and I felt sorry I had not asked her to dance, and then I knew myself to
be a snob.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed.

“And you certainly were!” said Mumsie.

“Never mind, Jack,” laughed Uncle, “you have anyhow the strength to
confess your old weakness.”

“A day or two later I met the lady who puts together the society news
for that particular paper. The ball came up for discussion, and I
introduced the subject of the belle. ‘Oh, yes, quite pretty, is she not?
I do not know her myself; she is a friend of our general manager’s, who
asked me to notice her favourably,’ was my friend’s reply. This actually
consoled me,” he went on, “but I could not absolve myself of
snobbishness.”

“And a knowledge of the fault in yourself enables you to remark it in
others,” I said, not caring much if I offended or not.

“That’s it exactly. Isn’t Little Partner getting severe?” he said.
“Snobbery is always disgusting.”

This was not the answer I had anticipated. I could only smile in answer;
what else could I do? Mumsie smiled too, while Mr. Bang naively added,
“Had I had an English Public School education, I should have had it
knocked out of me in my boyhood. Snobbishness is an inherent human
failing. It is only the truly Christlike spirit that is free from it.”

This kaleidoscopic character had given himself another turn and
presented a new picture. I had never recognized in him religious
inclinations, and had gathered from his tirades against people in high
places, that his was a democratic nature. Mumsie evidently had a similar
impression, for she asked:

“How comes it, Jack, that you have developed such a high regard for the
English, and please, when did you take religion?”

“I have not ‘taken’ religion as the cynical call it, but Christ seems to
me the perfect man, free from every vice and worldliness and
meanness—and looked at in the light of His ideal what a paltry
organization your society is.”

“And the Englishman?”

“We Canadians, as boys in the process of ancestor worship, look upon the
Englishman as a superior being. As youths we meet the remittance-man and
consider ourselves infinitely his superior. As grown men we recognize
the salt of the earth to be the English. And”—he paused—“it is the
judgment of grown manhood that counts.”

“How is Timkins?” asked Uncle with an aggression that displayed a marked
desire to change the subject, “is he a millionaire yet?”

“He is getting on that way.”

“And, who is Mr. Timkins?” I asked, interested in anyone with whom this
extraordinary Bang was acquainted.

“Timkins is of Jack’s school of philosophy—Jack, tell your Little
Partner about Timkins.”

“Ha! Timkins is a chap, who has been through the mill out West. He reads
the news of the stock-market, knows the especial affiliations of each
newspaper, broker, and many of the reporters. He works on the theory
that all newspaper talk in the stock-market is inspired, and governs
himself accordingly—and makes money.” Mr. Bang looked at Mumsie and
then at me somewhat defiantly.

“You means he gambles in the market!” suggested Mumsie.

“Auntie,” replied Mr. Bang with mock gravity, (I assume it was affected,
though it seemed so real) “I’m afraid you stick to the respectable at
any and every cost. This is the great Canadian tendency.” Turning to me,
he continued, (and I put down his words as I am able, for I am not used
to the phrases of the market, but I think I have it). “According to Mr.
Timkins, the tendency people have to cater to the respectable is played
upon by those who sell stocks. A purchaser comes to a broker with money
he wishes to employ. Nine times out of ten he is a buyer and probably
names an issue or two that have suggested themselves to him. Nine times
out of ten, the broker has special affiliations, so he hedges the
customer about with one objection after another, until he has him on the
path he wishes. In this process, if all else fails, the broker intimates
that the course the customer would pursue would be gambling, shrugs his
shoulders and leaves the old reliable spirit of respectability to do the
rest.”

“And—the rest?” asked Uncle.

“Is that the customer buys what the broker wishes him to buy—and
loses.”

“Always?” asked Mumsie. “You are much too positive, Jack.”

“Well, Auntie, I think I’m justified. People who follow the advice of
those so-called brokers lose nineteen times out of twenty; statistics
show it.”

“Why ‘so-called’ brokers?”

“Because the term broker means one who buys and sells on commission, but
many of our brokers are really what in England is called a jobber, who
speculate for themselves and underwriters.

“And your friend Mr. Timkins?”

“Plays a lone hand and wins. He is the twentieth or the hundredth, as
the case may be.”

“I don’t think that is a very respectable way to make money,” objected
Mumsie.

“If you take the ordinary broker’s advice, there is no fear of your
making money—according to Timkins.”

“Bother Timkins!”

“People make money selling stocks, not buying them.”

“You mean short selling?” asked Uncle becoming interested.

“Either short selling or promoting, and there is really not much
difference.”

“I never could get at the bottom of this short selling, do tell me what
it means?”

“I have told you often,” Uncle said to his wife. “No woman has ever been
able to understand it and not overly many men. In ordinary commerce a
man buys and sells later: the short seller in the market, or the bear,
sells first and buys afterwards: it is the simple reversal of a simple
process.”

“But it’s gambling, I’ve read so in the papers,” protested Mumsie.

“So are lots of things; in fact, it is a rare process in this world that
is not a gamble,” replied Mr. Bang with heat. “I know the whole
argument, but let me say that anyone who buys a stock because he thinks
it will go up is as much of a gambler as he who sells it because he
thinks it will go down. In England, where the fundamentals are sought
for, and the people are not so much humbugged as they are here, the
prejudice against ‘selling a bear’ in the market is unknown.”

“You’re joking.”

“Indeed I am not: our land is filled with milk-fed sophistries and the
men who propagate them. The ordinary mind is incapable of matching the
processes of the wit of our stock exchanges. Let us examine the
processes of one of our millionaires. He buys a water-power for a
trifle: organizes it into a stock company, and sells stock to the widow
and orphan at an advance of anywhere from a hundred to a thousand per
cent. profit. He makes his money not because he holds the stock, but
because he sells it—because the public buys it.”

“That sounds reasonable,” grimly asserted Uncle.

“But the interesting study is that of the public. The promoter makes a
grant of say, $50,000 to a charity. The foolish woman in the country,
doctor, or lawyer, reasons that one who would give so much to the public
must be really very godly and would not cheat a poor body, so he or she
puts money into any old proposition such philanthropists advance. This,
I fancy, is token of the shallowness of the ordinary mind in financial
matters, and such shallowness explains why some men easily accumulate
wealth, the result of labour.”

I believe Mr. Bang can see no good in anybody or anything, his is—in
spite of his personal kindness, like the gift of the furs—a narrow
nature. Mumsie, I am sure, was not convinced, no more was I; probably
she remained silent out of weariness.

“Jack, you certainly would not increase your popularity by publishing
such statements,” said Uncle.

“I know that well. Timkins tried it with the result that throughout the
financial districts every man’s voice was against him. When you cannot
refute a man’s statement, the next thing to do is drown it with calumny.
The inference the public draws is that a liar cannot speak the truth, or
a dishonest man honest, or a fool occasionally wise. So the thing to do
is to persuade the public that one’s enemy is a liar, a rascal or a
fool.”

“But, what has become of Timkins?”

“He fell into bad ways; he misjudged the limitations of _The Tarbrush_,
the sheet to which he contributed, and wrote up the President of a
rascally mining promotion. The President of the Mining Company was also
President of a social club to which the editor and proprietor were
ambitious members. In the process of re-establishing themselves the two
jelly-fish wrote a letter of apology to the injured president, promising
to receive no more communications from the offender. That illustrates
the processes of a certain type of financial newspaper, for, after all,
the writer was not responsible, as the article had passed a sub-editor.”

“And Timkins?”

“Timkins will go to London. As a budding author he can establish himself
there. All Canadian writers, as soon as they begin to gain a footing in
the literary world here, go to England. Canada is a land whose people do
not seem to trust their own.”

I am weary—it has been the most difficult job I ever knew—of writing
all these expressions of Mr. Bang’s, but doing so is anyhow practice for
the book I am some day to write. How agreeable a character he would be,
did he say pleasant things, instead of unpleasant; were he constructive,
instead of a puller-down. But as I have decided before, he would never
do in a novel—never. And now about novels. Mr. Bang appears to have
opinions on all subjects. I thought, therefore, I would ask him what he
knows about novel writing.

But before I could frame the question, Mumsie began to tell of her
gossip in the tea-room and of having related the story of the drowsy
domestic.

“How old was she?” asked Mr. Bang.

“About twenty-five,” Mumsie replied patiently, though apparently not a
little surprised at the enquiry.

“It might not have been the girl’s fault at all: extreme drowsiness is
often developed in a change of climate, especially in the case of young
people, and possibly the girl was not accustomed to hard work———”

“She never did enough around here to keep herself warm,” retorted Uncle.
“You can find much more worthy objects for your sympathy, my boy.”

Advancing obscure and outlandish theories is evidently a habit with Mr.
Bang.

Mumsie reported Mrs. Mount’s conversation. Uncle and Mr. Bang roared
when they heard what she said about the tea-rooms. I’m afraid there is
some point in that I don’t quite see: I shall not ask, because to do so
would display ignorance, but what could be more natural than that a lady
travelling should visit especially those cities with the nice tea-rooms?

“What is your idea of the Mediterranean trip?” Uncle asked, looking
towards Mr. Bang. I verily believe Uncle asked the question to draw him
out, for my especial benefit. How Uncle could dream of my being
entertained by such expressions of ill-nature I don’t know. I hope he is
not slyly poking fun at me.

“The Mediterranean trip is a most beneficial experience for a Canadian:
it teaches him to value his own country. ‘Thank God I live in Canada,’
is the exclamation of most of us, as we view the filth of Naples, hear
its noise, and suffer from its chilling winds, when the weather is
mean.”

“See Naples and die,” quoted Uncle.

“Among my grandfather’s papers,” said Mr. Bang, “is a letter from one of
his staff when on a visit to Naples in 1823. The writer says he would
value the place more, if there was less noise and more honesty.”

“There is Pompeii,” suggested Mumsie. “That’s some compensation.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bang reflectively, “there is Pompeii. Pompeii will
always remind me of Captain Jinks, an English gentleman-guide, who
according to his own account, had already gone through two fortunes,
and, unsatisfied with past exploits, wanted to go through mine.”

Mr. Bang paused for us to laugh, though my mirth must have sounded
hollow, for I merely followed Uncle’s example. I could not see anything
clever in the remark.

“The vast majority of people,” Mr. Bang continued, “who go to Italy in
the winter are of the Mrs. Mount type, mere slaves of silly fashion.
Jinks told me of a Yankee, who gave him a commission at five hundred
dollars, to write a genealogy, tracing his descent from a citizen of
Pompeii, who, as a butcher, flourished previous to A.D. 78. The only
fact upon which the descent was to be based was a fancied similarity of
names.”

Now was my chance; I cut in.

“It is a puzzle to me, Mr. Bang, that with all your varied experiences,
you have never attempted to write a book.”

“He has literary ideas too,” seconded Mumsie, evidently approving of my
attempt at conversation.

“Perhaps, some day,” gravely responded the adventurer, “in the meantime
I am supplying Timkins with mighty thoughts.”

“Drat Timkins, but if it must be Timkins, what has he to say on book
building?”

“Have a story and tell it, use simple language and be consistent, and
above all make your characters stand out. That’s his gospel. No matter
how you do it, make each character announce himself in the first
sentence he utters; and maintain it no matter if your character is like
nothing on the earth above, and talks a dialect that never was uttered
by tongue of man, make him say, ‘It is I, Jacques, who says it.’”

“Jack has, as always, the right idea,” said Uncle.

“Oh you men!” said Auntie.

“In painting and sculpture it is the same. The great masters, both with
the brush and the chisel, formed lines out of proportion and introduced
figures in impossible positions, but they told their story, they reached
their aim. So with letters.”

“And then out West we have the animal fakers. Lord! how the men of the
wilds do hate those fellows who hear the dear beasts talk like Sunday
teachers.”

“They make lots of money,” suggested Uncle, ever practical.

“So they do, and so do the chaps who manufacture quack medicines.”

I won’t write any more of this dialogue; I’m tired and it is all really
much the same. I really wonder more and more as the days go by, why I
bother over Mr. Bang. I suppose I give him more space than Uncle for two
reasons; one, because he says more; secondly, because his aggressive
manner impresses itself upon me. I dislike the man exceedingly.

But what he said about writing, I have taken to heart. Let me analyze my
diary to date. Of characters I have Mumsie first. Then Uncle and Mr.
Bang—one the same character as the other, only more so. I’ll leave
Uncle out of it as a character, and hold out Mr. Bang. Then there’s Mrs.
Mount. She is a character certainly. And then I believe I am a character
too.

One, two, three, four real, live characters, that would do for a story.
If Mr. Bang would only elope, or commit a murder, or flare-up in some
way, I might make this into something. As it is there is too much
philosophy and talk in this diary and too little action. However, Mrs.
Lien’s party is coming, and with the passing of New Year’s Day society
will get under way again. I wonder what Mumsie was hinting at in
suggesting that I had something more for which my thanks were due to Mr.
Bang. Could it be—did he inspire that notice in the newspaper—ask Mrs.
Malone to insert it. Had he wished to please me he could not have done
better, but then why is he inconsistent? He condemns social ambition and
conceit in others. Why should he encourage it in me?

The furs are to be home to-morrow evening.

DECEMBER 28TH.

“I wish you all to come and see a hockey match with me to-night,” said
Mr. Bang, at breakfast.

“The Maple Leafs against the Beavers?” enquired Uncle.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I should care to go,” said Mumsie. “I must do a lot of
running round this afternoon———”

“And I have some reading which I must do and which I have put off
already too long, but you and Elsie go.” This from Uncle. It struck me
that he was fibbing and that Mumsie would not have been too tired had
she really wished to go, or had not a reason for staying away.

“I don’t think I should like to go. Hockey does not interest me,” I
ventured.

“Have you ever seen a real hockey match?” Mr. Bang asked.

“I have seen the school boys playing it on the ice at home.”

“That’s not real hockey,” said Uncle looking at me over his glasses,
with his dear, kindly twinkle. “You had better accept Jack’s invitation;
it will be a grand sight. There’ll be thousands there and the game
should be one of the best of the season.”

“The first of the Champion series,” said Mr. Bang.

“Do go, Elsie, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” persuaded Mumsie.

“There’ll be thousands there?” I asked weakly.

“There will be three or four thousand,” replied Uncle.

“Anything up to ten thousand,” Mr. Bang added.

I agreed to go.

Much shouting seemed to make the great rink shake, as we entered; shout
after shout went up. The giant building seemed to vibrate with noise.

Mr. Bang grasped my arm and struggled through the swaying mass of people
crowding the entrances; and when I got inside I found myself beneath a
great vaulted roof ribbed by arches bearing a myriad of electric lights.

Around the ice a great amphitheatre was ranged, rising till it met the
roof; and the whole was drawn on such magnitude and the occupants of the
seats were so densely numerous, that in nearly every direction I found
it impossible to pick out individuals. I knew those black and mottled
masses ranged about me were human beings, closely packed, because they
could be nothing else, and the noise was human, but otherwise they were
merely a vague, vast mass.

We found our seats, they were behind two young men, who kept up an
almost continuous shouting, with frequent gesticulation. I suppose
throwing the arms about might be properly called gesticulating.

When not giving vent to their exuberance, they exchanged remarks in
voices that were hoarse, from liquor or shouting, possibly from both.

Only vaguely, at first, could I make out the contest. Figures were
rushing about at marvellous speed, doubling back, twisting, circling.
Sticks were banging, skates were clashing, and men were tumbling.

As my eyes became accustomed to the light I made out the costumes of the
players: some were in pale blue with white stripes, the others in red
with black stripes. Mr. Bang volunteered the information that the
players in blue were the Beavers, and those in red the Maple Leafs. My
eyes began to mark the movements and exploits of two of the players, one
was a great fat Maple Leaf, evidently known as Buster; the other a
slight, wiry, nimble, scurrying, dashing, eminently agile, fair-haired
youth, belonging to the Beavers. “Go it, Lien, well done, Beavers, lean
to it,” shouted the enthusiasts.

The name struck me, I whispered an enquiry.

“He is Mrs. Lien’s son,” said my companion.

Instinctively I named the fat man Froggy. Buster might do for the
populace, but to me he appeared a great, fat frog. No doubt Buster was a
name applied when his present proportions were less. His movements were
those of a frog; in skating he held his legs far apart and drew them
after him, skate edge to ice. He was “Back” on his side, a sort of
outpost to the goal-keeper. His movements were deliberate and seldom
hurried, at least they were performed in a matter of fact sort of way,
yet they were wonderfully effective.

Clashes between Lien and Froggy were frequent. In fact the game seemed
to be carried on through the strivings of these two. The movements of
the forwards were too quick almost for the eye to follow, but out of the
confusion Lien would dart, manoeuvring the puck. Now he would slam it
against the side boards and dodging his opponents, pick it up and on
towards the goal and the obtruding Froggy. Again he would carry it down
the middle of the rink, feinting, feigning, dodging: he was simply
marvellous. Soon I too was breathless with excitement and felt glad the
two young men made so much noise, for my enthusiasm matched theirs. Even
the infection carried to my companion, as shown by his fixed attention
and occasional shout of approval or groan of dismay.

Once the Leafs carried the puck close upon the goal of the Beavers and
the raid ended in a grand mêlée. Out of this darted Lien with the puck,
with two swift raiders after him. The whole sheet of ice was clear save
for Froggy and the goal-keeper. Blows fell upon Lien’s stick and bodies
bumped against him, but he managed to worm his way through. Then he was
forced against the right side of the rink, and it looked as if he would
be either checked or compelled to resort to the dangerous expedient of
bumping the puck into the boards. His opponents closed in, and he
manoeuvred his club to dash the puck against the boards.

But it was a feint. So quick that eye could scarce follow the move, he
twitched the puck into the middle of the ice, jumped over an opponent’s
club, and picking up the puck again, was off. The cheer that went up
seemed as if it would lift the roof, friend and foe seemed to combine in
frenzy. In a second he was upon Froggy, my heart stood still. For the
first time he eluded him and shot the puck at goal. The cheering was
frantic, evidently anticipating a victory. But not yet. The puck was met
by one of the goal-keepers and although young Lien threw himself against
the goal-keeper, as if to carry puck and man together in the onslaught,
the desperate recourse was of no avail. With his skate the goal-keeper
knocked away the puck and a friendly stick sent it spinning behind the
goal. Everybody, including myself, cheered.

“A fast game,” murmured my companion. “How do you like it?”

“It’s grand, Oh! I adore it—the excitement,” and I smiled. It was the
first time I had felt cordial towards him.

Almost at once after the unsuccessful try the puck was at the Beavers’
goal, threatening it—occasion for more shouting. What a fast game
hockey is! How exhilarating to watch! How I envied those boys. What
excitement, what exhilaration it must be for them! Here was fame
spontaneous, overwhelming, real. This was their world, much what the
social world would be to me,—I hoped.

Time was called and the cheering fell to a subdued murmur. The players
left the ice for their dressing-rooms. The first period was over—no
score.

The interval, of course, was devoted to conversation, but I used the
opportunity to look about me.

I could see people, no doubt in society, women well and fashionably
dressed, men prosperous-looking and intelligent. But my opportunities of
observation were extremely limited, extending only to right and left of
me a small distance, in front of me and behind. Of course, it would not
be good form to stare over my shoulder too often. The opposite side of
the amphitheatre and the ends were too far distant for exact
observation.

“Say, I tell you, this is some game,” I heard one flashy young man say
to the other.

“That ain’t no lie,” replied his companion.

“First period gone, and no score!”

“That’s going some.”

“Lien is right up to the mark; say that fellow could get five thousand
dollars a season if he turned professional.”

“That ain’t no lie neither, but say, what’s the use of money to a guy
like that, his father’s got lots.”

“They say his father’s father stole it from the ‘boobs’.”

“I guess that ain’t no dream. Most fellows what get money steals it
anyway one way or another.”

“Cornering hockey tickets is stealing money I say, or makin’ a feller
stand in line all night to pay two dollars and a half each for them
ain’t no better. Tickets were bringin’ ten dollars apiece at five
o’clock this afternoon.”

Imagine paying ten dollars, or even two dollars and a half, to see a
hockey match, and my companion must have paid well for his, for he did
not purchase until to-day. I had thought the cost of admission must have
been twenty-five cents at the most; and the thousands present! I am
afraid Mr. Bang is extravagant.

The intermission ended and again the sides “faced off.” A clash of
sticks, a scraping of skates and the game was on. The crowd gave a
shout, evidently for practice, possibly it was exultation that again
something was doing, for in hockey something is doing every minute.

In the second period Lien made one of the earliest drives; he picked the
puck out of the initial scrimmage and got away with it. Of course much
noise was made. I believe our people like to work themselves into a
frenzy, noise being both the cause and the expression of that condition.

The second period was even more swift and exciting than the first; and
what an excitement there was when Lien finally scored a goal! A moment
before he had fallen, tripped over another player’s skate and sprawled
at full length over the ice and lay as if stunned. No doubt he was. But
waking he caught sight of the puck coming towards him. He jumped to his
feet, made a dash on goal, outwitted Froggy and landed the puck. What a
cheer there was! What yelling, shouting, cat-calls, and the hammering of
hockey sticks against the boards that bounded the ice! How proud I felt,
for I had glued my sympathy to Lien, not that I cared for his mother,
but it was that I knew something of him and I disliked Froggy, and also
(perhaps this was the most potent influence) I felt my companion’s
interest was with the Leafs and against Lien.

As I watched the continuance of the battle, the raging, storming men,
charging and clashing through entangled sticks and ringing skates, I
found my mind occupied with the problem of whether Mr. Bang’s
championing of the Leafs was due to predilections for them, or to mere
opposition.

The finish came, the Beavers away in the lead and Lien the darling of
the populace. With the close of the contest a stream of figures jumped
over the boards to the ice and crowded round the players, and in me was
awakened a spirit of pride, as I noticed the marked demonstrations
directed towards Lien.

Slowly the masses moved towards the exits. The shoutings had died away
and in its place was the shuffling of feet and the clatter of
conversation. With my cavalier I passed towards the street.

A woman hailed Mr. Bang; he turned to her. She had a clever face, with
kind eyes and was dressed in workable, rather than fashionable clothes.

“So this is your Little Partner; well, she’s all you said of her.” She
beamed at me.

“Yes, this is she,” and turning to me, Mr. Bang said, “Let me introduce
you to Mrs. Malone.”

I greeted Mrs. Malone with warmth; had she not spoken well of me, and
did not Uncle say she could make or break any boy or girl in the social
world.

“Wasn’t he lovely?” I asked with enthusiasm.

“You mean Charlie Lien? Yes, he’s a wonderful boy if he does not get his
head turned. I suppose this was quite a novelty to you?” Mrs. Malone
accompanied the question with a smile, so good natured that her question
did not appear the least patronizing.

“Believe me, she is quite a fan,” put in Mr. Bang, whereat I laughed.

We entered the street and as we did so great gusts of snow-laden wind
came down. A blizzard had got up during the process of the game and
drove against us in breath-taking, blinding swirls.

“How are you going to get home?” asked my cavalier of his jolly friend.

“Walk,” she answered.

“Walking through the storm is fine fun for the young and active———”

“But grass widows of uncertain age had better take a cab, eh?”

“I should think so.” How horribly frank Mr. Bang is; but then Mrs.
Malone seemed to take it as a joke. “Wait here and see if I can engage
one,” and away he went leaving me with her. We tried to put our backs
against the storm but this ended in our tramping round and round, for
the immense building seemed so to twist the wind that it came from every
direction at once.

“Glorious, isn’t it?” laughed Mrs. Malone.

“Yes,” I gasped.

“There is not a cab to be had,” announced the spectral figure of Mr.
Bang, as he loomed up out of the storm. “We’ll see you home; you’re good
for it, are you not, Little Partner?”

So we, notwithstanding her protests, walked home with Mrs. Malone and
sought temporary refuge in her flat, whence Mr. Bang telephoned for a
sleigh and in due course he and I arrived home. Mrs. Malone kissed me as
I left her, so no doubt I have a place in her regard, even after all
allowance is made for the warmth of her Irish heart.

I lay long awake glowing with warmth, the reaction after our struggle
through the storm, and with satisfaction at being snug in bed; while
outside the storm raged.

DECEMBER 29TH.

This morning at breakfast I noticed Mumsie look puzzled as she read a
letter she had just received. Then my eye caught that of Uncle’s and he,
too, read his wife’s face.

“What have you got?” asked he.

Mumsie sighed.

“Anything serious, your death warrant?”

“Just a letter from Mary.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bang. “What does she want now?”

“She does not say she wishes for anything,” replied Mumsie.

“She never does,” retorted Mr. Bang.

“Let us have it,” suggested Uncle.

“My dear Aunt Bell: It was so sweet of you to remember me at Christmas:
(I sent her a card only) it is so satisfactory to know one is not
forgotten. (I send her a card every Christmas, but this is the only time
she has ever acknowledged one.) The children had a splendid time,
especially Jessie. Lawrence is yet too young to anticipate his joys or
measure their fulness. Everybody was so good to them. Jessie was
enraptured with the doll Jack sent her, and Lawrence makes no end of a
row with his horn. James put up with it over Christmas day, but since
then, insists we hide it when he is at home.

“How is dear Jack? I should like so much to see the dear boy. It is so
nice too, that Uncle takes such an interest in him. I wonder when I
shall see him again.

“With love to all, I remain,

                                        “Affectionately yours,
                                                            “Mary.”

“That is plain as day,” commented Mr. Bang. “She wishes to pay you a
visit or come to town for some reason or other, possibly to do some
shopping.”

“Who is Mary,” I enquired, full of wonder at such open criticism, even
from Mr. Bang. I cannot help asking questions.

“My sister,” coldly replied Mr. Bang, “has a husband, a civil servant,
named James Strickland. Sister Mary is respectable, and the
personification of propriety.”

There seemed to me bitterness in Mr. Bang’s tone.

“I fancy Jack is right. Mary wishes to pay us a visit,” declared Uncle
in a matter of fact tone.

“What shall I do?” asked Mumsie absentmindedly.

“Ask her to come,” replied he with decision.

“Where can I put her?” Mumsie then asked, wrinkling her forehead.

“Give her my room, put me anywhere, or I can go to an hotel,” said Mr.
Bang.

“You’ll stay right here,” said Uncle. “She’ll only want one room, even
if she brings the children. Hope she does, I’d like to see ’em.”

“I’ll give up my room if you have any other place to put me,” I said,
with a forced cheerfulness, for the idea of giving up my room was really
unpleasant.

“I’ll write and ask her and the children, perhaps she does not really
wish to come.”

“Auntie, I wager you a box of candy she comes,” declared Mr. Bang.

To-morrow evening is Skating Club night. Mr. Bang’s friend Mr. Timkins
has put him up there, and for some time at least I shall have entree. So
it would be well for me to practise waltzing. But Badger Lake would be
covered with the snow of last night’s storm. Somehow or other I blurted
out my desires and fears at breakfast.

Mr. Bang knew of a rink we could go to. No, it was not the hockey rink,
nor the Skating Club rink, but another. I wonder why Mr. Bang is so
attentive to Me. I surely am not overly polite to him. Why is he so
patient—so unnaturally so, it almost seems? I wonder if he will marry.
Our personalities—his and mine—are far from being parallel, so that I
am safe. What keeps him east? He says business, and, indeed, he leaves
for Toronto on New Year’s Eve. If he wants a wife, I should suggest his
addressing his attention to Ethel Bassett. She is the type of womanhood
of which he approves. I cannot admire dowdiness myself.

Again, Mr. Bang’s bitterness puzzles me. Fancy anyone disliking a sister
enough to speak of her as he spoke. I determined upon asking him why it
should be so, and as we walked to the rink I did so.

“Do I?” he cried. “I’m sorry if I appear bitter, bitter is an ugly word
but no doubt I have earned it, if you, who are my friend, find
bitterness in my words. Sister Mary is a type—one of those scheming
women, scheming in harmless little ways, who fancies herself clever,
when she is really most transparent. I think you may accept it as an
axiom, that the average of us are more adept at seeing through the
schemes of others than covering up one’s own designs. Sister Mary had a
great deal to do with bringing me up; perhaps my bitterness arises from
her having made so complete a failure of the job.”

“Are you a failure?” I asked with genuine surprise. A man who can give
away furs!

But my interruption did not alter the trend of his ideas.

“I fancy though, I may justly charge her with the hatred I have for the
respectable. The inherent pugnacity of the human animal made me
irresponsible early in life, partly as an affectation, but later from
habit and inclination.

“How strange!” I exclaimed.

“Not strange, but a frequent circumstance: the parson’s son is
proverbially a madcap.”

We skated about, hand in hand: my thoughts dwelling upon the strange
being who was my companion. My mental attitude towards him had undergone
a change. My interest, my sympathy were aroused. He was in the full glow
of manhood, full of ambition, fighting his way in the world; and
evidently doing so successfully. His abilities were constructive; his
past had been hard. The story he told at the Christmas dinner while
showing what he had seen and experienced also showed much of himself.
Yet he could be egotistical. He is one of those who can talk of
themselves without paining or boring the hearer; after all, a rare and
delightful accomplishment. But his peculiar animosity to his sister I
could not understand. I prompted him.

“I often think,” he said, his voice soft, his speech slow and
thoughtful, his utterance suggesting his desire to speak true, “that I
perhaps wrong my sister; that the lack of balance, which I had so much
trouble in combating in my earlier youth was due really to heredity. I
believe that many of the tendencies which experience has told me are to
my hurt were as strongly developed in and as detrimental to my
grandfather. It is wrong, I believe, to look upon a child’s character as
something which may be moulded as a piece of clay. One might as well try
and mould his features.”

“But that may be done,” I exclaimed, remembering the maternal squeezing
of some infant snub-noses.

“But an Apollo could not be made out of Richard the Third. No,” he went
on thoughtfully, as is his wont, “we are in appearance as nature
intended us to be, and temperamentally also. We may use artifice to
change our appearance or we may study mannerisms—some do—but they are
all more or less subterfuge. As a child my failing was unwittingly to
antagonize people, and the same attribute was the bane of my
grandfather.”

“Tell me of him,” I suggested, and I think my curiosity pleased him.

“He was educated in law; and, when the California gold excitement
developed, walked across the continent to San Francisco. There he wished
to practise his profession, but the Yankees would not let him do so,
unless he became naturalized. This he refused to do—a right Canadian
he!—so he worked in the mines and then walked home again and died in
penury. The probabilities are that he would have accumulated great
wealth had he become a citizen of California, the opportunity there was
so great.”

“He was at least a patriot,” I suggested. “Bravo for Canada!”

“Assuredly he was so. His son, my Uncle, told my mother that his lack of
success in life was due neither to lack of ability, nor of industry, but
to his unfortunate manner, which alienated the sympathy of those he
met.”

“Dear! Dear! I have heard of such people,” I said.

“Yes,” replied my companion, “such failings are sometimes, even, the
attributes of genius, but in the case of my grandfather and Uncle I have
never heard that either developed brilliancy in any direction.”

“And yourself?” I asked. “Perhaps you ———”

He laughed. “If I have any genius, it has yet to be proved, and I’m old
enough to have doubts of it. I’ve inherited the wrong traits that’s
certain. Perhaps it is that those of us who believe in heredity find its
evidence in our faults.”

For the first time Mr. Bang spoke to me without shrouded facetiousness
but in earnest, and I felt pleased. I forgot he was a young man; and I
am ready to believe he forgot I was a girl. We were just friends. It was
a new experience to me and I welcomed it.

Suddenly I came to realize there were others about, that I was skating
round and round the rink with my companion openly holding my hand. I
brought myself up with a round turn, and suggested we practise our
figures, threes and eights.

Mr. Bang came out of his reverie. He corrected my skating in a kindly
way, though he was exact enough, and showed no tendency to gloss over my
mistakes. After an hour’s skating, we decided to walk home. I was glad
of this, for it gave opportunity for further conversation and I asked
him several questions, to which generally he said—as well as I can
remember it:

“I don’t think I was a bad boy; I never had any vices except indolence;
yet I alienated my people at such an early date that I cannot remember
the time when they did not think it necessary to apologize to others for
me. Pleasant, wasn’t it? Ours was a large family, yet no member of it
dreamed of planting in my mind those seeds of worldly wisdom so useful
to youth. On the other hand, I was shunted, given up for hopeless,
before I was well on the threshold of life. My mother, while she taught
me the Bible, sighed: ‘What will become of the boy?’ That sort of
apology did not improve me. One brother was in the habit of telling me I
would be a perpetual expense to the family, though he did not help me to
learn to do otherwise, or give me any money encouragement. I was
certainly kept in the back ground. The result was that I early got so
mean an opinion of myself that I was ready to apologize for my very
existence. Whether this was an inherited trait and itself explains the
attitude of my people towards me, or whether it developed under the
contempt of my own people, I have no opinion. I had to be a sort of
crab. Couldn’t help it!”

Mr. Bang could not have offered me a greater token of friendship than so
to lay bare before me his thoughts and confidence like this. Why he
should do so is the greater puzzle the more I think of it. Had I been as
frank with him what a mean girl I should seem.

“I suppose,” he continued with a smile, “you will see me as the small
boy, who ever laments that he is not understood—like so many martyrs in
novels and dramas?”

I could only answer with a smile, also. Then we trudged along not
speaking. The night was falling, the air was clear and refreshing: but
the jingle of the bells on the passing sleighs, and hootings of the
motor horns spoiled the peace. The bells brought to me visions of the
old Canadian world, of a homely social life, such as Uncle talks of and
looks back upon with sighs. The hootings seemed the message of a new
order, the power of wealth—discordant and a pollution. And then I
started inwardly; was I a traitor to my own ambitions? I had recently
become a convert to the new order; why was I forsaking my allegiance?

As we were nearly home Mr. Bang added: “Being what I was, I followed the
lines of least resistance and went west. Settled industry and
competition with normal personalities offered me no field; and by a
natural process I evaded the issue. I threw myself into the mill. I
fought while I starved, and starved while I fought. It was a stern
conflict, a bitter struggle.”

My companion paused ere he continued:

“There is no personality so out of tune with mankind but he will be
attractive to some one; no nature so unlovely but will find a responding
chord; no murderer but may gain an advocate; so there is no money-making
scheme so unbalanced but will draw support from some foolish purse.”

“There never was a Jack, without a Jill,” I said. I don’t know why I
said it; it just came out.

“There never was a Jack who could not find his Jill—though sometimes,
alas! too late.”

“I once found a friend,” he ventured. “We won.”

We found Mumsie in the hall; I kissed her and ran to my room; I was
unsettled. In my ears sounded the sleigh bells. My conscience was
troubling me; perhaps it was my self-respect, the spirit of my
forefathers. Like a ghost of the past my grandfather’s presence was with
me, reproving me, admonishing me, cherishing me.

I dressed for dinner and gained mastery of myself. I was happy, laughed
to myself, was singing softly a bit of a song, and perfumed my hair and
neck. I was grasping for a new foothold, struggling to find myself. My
spirits were so unsettled, so boisterous. Mr. Bang looked puzzled and
watched me intently. Evidently he had expected other things. He, poor
fool, claims to read women like a book; and yet, while I am false to his
friendship, in its every phase, he this afternoon bared his heart to me,
as one could only do to a trusted and valued friend.

DECEMBER 30TH.

My furs arrived to-day. They are lovely. It was so good of Uncle to have
them made up for me and I feel I am able to carry them off well. Went
shopping in the morning, walked with Mumsie in the afternoon, and to the
Skating Club with Mr. Bang in the evening. As a precaution I asked Ethel
Bassett to call for me, so she shared the burden of Mr. Bang. I kept in
a corner practising.

DECEMBER 31ST.

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?”

I preferred not to answer, and am glad now that I didn’t answer.

We stood in a corner of the dining-room, sipping champagne, very little
I took.

“I’d like to see you again,” and he looked smilingly into my eyes. “Will
you come and have tea with me some day?”

I felt brave and answered, “Yes.”

“When?”

I thought a moment.

“On Monday.”

“Not till then?” His voice was full of solicitude.

“I must stay in to-morrow with Mumsie, Mrs. Travers, the day after
to-morrow is Sunday; Monday is the first possible day, isn’t it?”

“Where can I meet you?”

“Wherever you suggest.”

“Horace’s, at three.”

“Very well, Horace’s at three o’clock,” I agreed.

“And now good-night.” His arm went about me once more and he kissed me
even passionately. I felt all a flutter of emotion; can that have been
passion too? I believe I should have been disappointed had he not kissed
me.

We passed into the hall and sure enough I saw Ethel evidently in search
of me. We went to her, I mastering myself the best I could. A waltz was
playing. I was delighted when my companion begged, “Just let us finish
this waltz.”

And away we went once more.

With the ending of the waltz, which I enjoyed to the full, I was anxious
as to how I should appear in Ethel’s eyes. I determined to be in good
spirits and prayed that she would see it only as the effect of dancing.
How I got upstairs and into my things I don’t know. I remembered what
Ethel said to Mrs. Lien, as we said good-bye; but not what I myself
said. After that my mind is much of a blank. Am sure that I found myself
telling the story of the drunken footman as directed, and that an
infinite relief came over me when I found that neither Mumsie or Uncle
had stayed up for my return.

NEW YEAR’S DAY.

Oh! what a headache I had this morning, the terror of it will remain
with me as long as I live. My whole brain seemed one ache, a swollen
brain, all turned into ache. And the thirst I had! It too, was almost
tangible, material.

And my conscience, that conscience that I have heard makes cowards of us
all, came preaching at me. A great terror haunted me; it seemed to be
smothering me. I had to face Uncle and Mumsie, I, who had been—drunk!
What would they say if they knew; could they read it in my face; could
they read anything there? How ashamed and unhappy I felt!

I placed my hand on my forehead, as if to keep my head from bursting.
Then I glanced at the clock on the dressing-table. A quarter to ten. But
that was all right. Mumsie told me to lie in bed as long as I liked
after the ball. I pressed my throbbing temples and thought and thought.
I reviewed the history of the night before till my mind focussed on one
object, one face, Charlie Lien. I saw the bristling tuft of dirty,
yellow hair upon his forehead, his narrow, weak forehead, his prominent
and pimpled nose, his protruding upper lip, his ever-open mouth, heard
his croaking laughter. Oh! to think I had allowed that beast of a man to
kiss me. I felt an agony of humiliation; as if I, my person, had been
polluted. I had allowed him to kiss me—and that last kiss—I had
expected it. I did not guard against it. The shame to me! . . . What a
cad the man was; in his mother’s house—to act so towards a guest. I
found relief in tears. I cried.

Tears eased my headache, but I knew it would not do to allow my eyes to
tell tales, so I arose and bathed my face.

I realized that by no earthly process, at this early date, could Mumsie
and Uncle have heard any accounts of the ball, and that my cowardice was
but the child of a guilty conscience. But this assurance I gave myself
inspired a greater question. What was the chance of their eventually
learning the truth? If they were likely to hear the story through the
ordinary process of gossip, had I not better make at least some small
confession of it. If I said nothing, and later they were to hear a wild
story of our doings, what would they say? I dressed myself quickly and
passed quietly down the stairs.

“Happy New Year,” I chirped to Uncle as I peeped into his den.

“Good-morning, little mouse,” responded dear Uncle, putting down the
_Telegraph_ and turning his kind face to me. “I have just been reading
the account of the ball. You have not been neglected by the imaginative
reporter.”

I felt a qualm of anxiety and then of keen curiosity, as I walked over
to Uncle and he drew me to sit upon the arm of his chair. He read the
account of the ball. My name was mentioned as that of one of the “buds,”
who had received marked attention. Having satisfied my curiosity, Uncle
told me he had waited breakfast for me and led the way to the
dining-room. Mumsie came in and kissed me tenderly, and wished me the
compliments of the season. I was glad Mr. Bang was away.

“Now, Elsie,” began Uncle, “tell us all about your experiences.”

“I had a lovely time, perfectly delightful,” I said, with as much
semblance of delight as I could muster. My temples were throbbing
violently.

“That’s good. What did you say to the men, when they came crowding to be
introduced? They must have seen you were my niece by adoption?”

“Don’t answer him, Elsie,” cut in Mumsie and turning to me, “He’s an
awful tease, this Micawber of mine.”

“Did you begin to make conversation, like the gentle maiden who said to
each new acquaintance, ‘I had a little kitten and it died.’” Uncle
imitated a little girl’s voice.

“Oh Uncle,” I protested, “I’m not so green as that, surely!”

“I told you to pay no attention to him: quit—” and Mumsie made to throw
a napkin across the table at her husband.

But I was really delighted, for Uncle’s mood gave me reassurance and
Mumsie’s threat to throw her napkin at her Micawber inspired me to
broach the subject of the riot at the ball. I told of the girls throwing
flowers, whereat Uncle pricked up his ears, and soon I had given them a
mild account of what happened.

“I heard,” and I spoke with great seriousness, “that someone, one of the
servants, put champagne in the claret cup.”

“I hope you did not take any of it,” Mumsie said, her voice in alarm.

“I had a glass before the champagne was added,” I replied, my heart in
my mouth.

“Does she look as if she had been on the bat, does she talk as if this
were the morning after?” Uncle asked his wife in kind mockery.

How grateful I felt to Uncle! Mumsie, however, did not respond to her
husband’s raillery as readily as I could have wished. This troubled me,
left me full of doubts. I went to my room as quickly as I could.

The last words Uncle said to me were that if his memory were good and
his experience counted for anything, I would not feel as played out
to-day, as I would to-morrow. Of course, Uncle was not figuring on the
wine, what he meant was the effect of the late hours and excitement. It
struck me that if I had a worse headache to-morrow than I had to-day, I
would die of it.

On returning to my room, I threw myself on my unmade bed and worried. I
must break with this Charlie Lien. I must write him a letter telling him
it would not be right for me to meet him, and intimating what my sober
senses thought of his familiarity with me.

But how could I word it: it might fall into some other body’s hands. His
mother might open my letter by mistake—awful thought!

Oh! what a day of misery has been this New Year’s day!

SUNDAY, JANUARY 2ND.

My conscience is darker than ever, it is really oppressive. I went to
church in the morning. I prayed, I asked for strength and wisdom. But I
really don’t think I would have gone, had it not been that I wished to
meet Ethel Bassett, so that I might judge by her manner, as to the
impression I had made during the ball and after. I felt that if she were
pleasant to me, my conduct would not have been so bad.

At breakfast and on the way to church I could not raise a single jest
from Mumsie. I know it is only my conscience, that Mumsie is not cross
with me, does not dream anything of my doings. But oh, if I could only
read in black and white that she truly thinks, so that there would not
be the tiniest little bit of doubt about it.

What a relief it was after church to come upon Ethel Bassett and her
mother, and receive from each of them a cheery smile. I fairly fell upon
Ethel: I wanted to get her to myself and confide in her. And I did, I
told her that my conscience was troubling me. I poured out abuse upon
the legendary drunken footman, and dilated upon the awfulness of my
having drunk a glass of claret cup to which champagne had been added.

Ethel smiled, and dimpled her cheeks so prettily that I felt I could
have fallen on her neck and wept. At that moment I felt I could have
fallen at her feet. And when she remarked in her shy way, on my
mentioning my conscience: “But you know it is said we must not humour
our conscience too much,” I nearly wept.

In fact, when I rejoined Mumsie, I realized that her tardiness in
responding to my efforts at inspiring levity was the result of her being
temporarily out of sorts. For she was talking with Mrs. Bassett at a
great rate.

After our Sunday dinner (mid-day) I returned to my room and sat by the
window. I had much to think about. I realized my conscience troubled me
chiefly and more persistently as danger threatened. Danger removed, my
soul was less troubled. Moralizing so, I deemed I had mastered
philosophy, that I was philosophical and my self-esteem and confidence
increased. But for Charlie Lien I had a real detestation and repugnance.
He was an utter beast. I must write him a letter refusing to meet him
to-morrow. How shall I word it?

I took pen and paper and wrote:

    “My dear Mr. Lien,—

    “I am very sorry to have to disappoint you in my engagement to
    take tea with you to-morrow. I find———”

No excuse would frame itself in my mind. I thought of pleading a
forgotten pre-engagement but put this aside as unworthy. My pride rose.
I tore the letter into bits and sat again by the window. I found Uncle’s
prophecy had come true. I felt really more tired to-day than yesterday.
My brain refused to work. I strove to recall my doings since first I
came under Uncle’s roof, my aims and aspirations, and my efforts towards
attaining them, but my brain seemed muddled. I could not think
systematically or with any decent effect.

Then I had an inspiration. It struck me a letter such as I should write
to Charlie Lien should be written in the third person. Again I took up
my pen and wrote:

“Miss Travers begs to be excused from keeping her engagement with Mr.
Charlie Lien on Monday afternoon.”

Just as I stamped the envelope, Mumsie came to the door and said Uncle
wanted me to go for a walk. I slipped the letter into my muff and
dressed hurriedly.

Mumsie did not come with us, pleading a headache. I was half glad, half
sorry. We walked through the city for several miles. Uncle did the
talking, I had little to say. I could not get my mind off the letter in
my muff. We passed a score of post boxes: but when we returned home I
still was in possession of the letter. Before going to bed I tore it up.

JANUARY 3RD.

I feel I have irretrievably thrown in my lot with Charlie Lien and his
set. I found my course with them to-day so easy, they took me to
themselves so quickly. It was all so simple. As I came away from the
King Henry-the-Eighth Hotel, I felt my head was high in the air. We met
Polly Townsend and I bowed to him in the most patronizing manner I could
command and got a profound return. After all, the Skating Club crowd are
a sloppy crowd, as Charlie says—namby-pamby men and bread-and-butter
maidens.

I struggled hard not to keep my appointment, but at the time arranged
found myself at Horace’s. Charlie was there, buying a tie. He took me in
hand immediately and we crossed the street to the Henry-the-Eighth. I
had seen it before, of course, a great tall building mounting to the
sky, but did not know it was an hotel. We entered a door that seemed
very small for such a great building, but I have since learned this is
the “Ladies’ Entrance.” We had no sooner entered the passage-way inside
than we passed into the elevator and Charlie gave orders for the
Palm-room. We mounted a dozen feet only, and stopped, the man opened the
cage door, we turned round a corner, and were in a low room filled with
cigarette-smoke, and some palms and easy chairs and tables. In an
instant I took in these surroundings and the people present. Several
tables were about, each occupied by a man and girl. Some of the men were
old with coarse faces, and some were young and sallow. I could judge
little or nothing of the men. Some of the women were not young, and
their faces were of a type I had only before seen on the street. They
were unhealthy and unwholesome looking. I am sure I could not make
friends with them. To me they were repulsive. The young girls all wore
extreme costumes, and some were much made-up. Paint and powder were
thrown on them. They also were distasteful to me. What sort of a place
had I got into? And the thought struck me that an outsider looking down
upon us must have found me in my simple and plain attire, conspicuous by
contrast.

A waiter came to our table and stood expectant.

“What will you have?” asked my host.

I picked up a card and made a show of looking at it and replied, “An
ice.”

“Two plain ice creams, and two Manhattan cocktails,” ordered Charlie.

I gasped: cocktails! I had often heard of them as being a man’s drink. I
did not wish to drink a cocktail.

“Not a cocktail for me,” I protested; but already the waiter was gone.

“That’s all right,” laughed my host in his discordant way. “You needn’t
drink it, if you don’t want to.” How his croaking laugh jarred on me! I
felt positively frightened.

“What will the other people think?” I asked.

“What do you care what they think?” retorted my companion. “Besides
nobody here knows you, and besides here it is the custom.”

“The custom!” “All the girls do it!” These phrases again passed through
my mind, but did not assuage my fears as my indignation had been
assuaged in Mrs. Lien’s conservatory on Friday night.

“Do you wish to make a drunkard of me?” I asked, finding fortitude I
know not where.

“Look here,” he demanded almost crossly, “you say you want to get into
our set. The people whose guests you are, are not rich; you are not
rich. You have nothing to give except your own good company and the
pleasure one may find in your companionship. I have taken a fancy to
you, feel as if I would like to be kind to you. I am ready to introduce
you to my friends and give you a good time, but the girls I know, and
who are my friends, are not Puritans. They take an occasional drink,
they smoke cigarettes, on the whole they enjoy themselves.”

Charlie Lien paused as if for want of words, but I did not take the
opportunity to speak, as indeed there was nothing to say. I suppose he
was trying to find words to intimate that those who ask of others must
be prepared to give. Could I have got away, withdrawn at this point,
undoubtedly I would have done so. I lacked courage, however, to make the
breach openly.

“Come and sit with us,” I heard Charlie call out, and I saw a lady with
a boy of Charlie’s age making towards us. Charlie stood up and handed
the lady to a seat. They were introduced to me, Iris Carey and Basil
Locke. I was startled out of my boots almost, as I heard my companion
say, “Miss Travers is from England.”

“Good Lord,” I mused. “What does this mean?”

The waiter now appeared with our ices. “Ice cream good for you?”
enquired Charlie of them, and being so assured he repeated his earlier
order.

The two new-comers were evidently on the most familiar terms with
Charlie. I was ignored for the moment, and an animated conversation
sprang up in which each addressed the other by the Christian name. The
conversation bore upon the Hunt Club and motoring; and was doubtless a
measure of high life. At a pause Miss Carey turned to me and asked.

“Have you been long in Canada?”

“Some time, and I like it immensely.”

This seemed to please her; so my embarrassment passed.

“English people always accuse us of asking them how they like our
country: you have evidently learned to forestall the question,” she
remarked. These words seemed to me surprising from one whose
conversation a moment before had been so flippant. I was glad she did
not continue that line, but came under the necessity of answering
Charlie Lien. For one thing my embarrassment was great, and for another
I wished to observe her.

Irish Carey is a tall, willowy girl with a long neck. She is dark and
her complexion very bright. Her cheeks were undoubtedly rouged. Her
forehead is high, bold and very white; her mouth small as is her chin.
How I envied her her command of chatter. I suppose the ability to
chatter is a gift, I find it impossible even to transcribe it, so how
can I hope to copy it?

In Basil Locke, I observed a slight youth with a pale and narrow face.
He had a deliberate way of speaking, a drawl. And he did not have much
to say, the chatter being chiefly between Miss Carey and Charlie.

When we had finished our ices, or even a little before, Basil produced a
cigarette-case and passed it to me. I took one and my heart fell into my
boots. I toyed with it, Miss Carey took a cigarette as did each of the
men. Charlie Lien struck a match and held it towards me. I was smoking
before I knew it. I saw Charlie regarding me, evidently with approval.

My cocktail was still untouched, when the men had finished theirs and
Iris’s glass was half empty. Charlie noticed this, caught my eye and
then glanced at the glass. I drank a little to counteract the effect of
the cigarette, and then smoked to counteract the drink. And then I
talked because I felt like talking.

What I talked about, what we all talked about for an hour and a half I
don’t know, except that my friends did not favour balls, to which their
own set was not asked, or at which the hostess did not provide wine.
From all they said about what each had done or was doing, or intended to
do, I could gather but little and can remember less.

Before we left the hotel Miss Carey suggested that I be shown the
drawing-room of the hotel and Charlie invited me to come with him. We
went up a few steps and soon were among great pillars and pictured, and
hangings, and things, and big upholstered chairs, in which sat couples,
who became strangely silent on our approach. I took advantage of an
opportunity to ask Charlie why he had introduced me as English.

“Why! because you look English. Besides,” and he spoke slowly, “dressed
as you are, or are not, as a Canadian girl you would hardly do for our
set.” We were in a passage-way. Charlie turned round and looked behind
him. Instinctively I knew what was coming: he put his arm about me and
kissed me. I felt that I was being put to the test, my acquiescence
meant I accepted him as my friend with all that went with it. My refusal
meant a final break and a hum-drum existence. I feel I am drifting, that
I have ceased to have any power to select where I shall next place my
foot. I have gone so far, I feel I cannot turn back. One good thing is
that the idea of being untrue to Mumsie and Uncle troubles me less. I
argue to myself that many girls, Iris Carey, for instance, must deceive
somebody. And, after all, if all one reads and hears is true, there must
be a vast number of naughty people in the world. Charlie has promised to
motor Iris, Basil and me out to the Hunt Club to-morrow.

On arrival home I did not give any account of my doings to Mumsie. But I
will have to patch up some story for to-morrow. I don’t like it, but I
must lie. What can I invent?

I settled down to my seat at dinner with a positive feeling of
satisfaction in Mr. Bang’s presence, and by my plate, I found a handsome
copy of _The Vicar of Wakefield_ inscribed as a New Year’s gift to me
from him. I had read the book and told him so.

“Long ago?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “Father asked me to read it years ago.” In reality it
was three or four years ago.

“You will read it again just to please me,” he pleaded.

I agreed to do so. Uncle asked him some question bearing upon his
business in Toronto. I was glad of this as it prevented any question
being fired at me as to my afternoon’s doings, and I could use my brain
planning how to keep such a question from being asked. I determined to
get Mr. Bang and Uncle talking and to keep them talking. So when a pause
came, I asked Uncle, “What is a Puritan?” little dreaming of what a
flood-gate I would turn loose.

“A Puritan! Who has been calling you a Puritan?” demanded Uncle.

I was just going to reply that I had heard of one girl at Mrs. Lien’s
ball speaking of another as a Puritan, and wished to know exactly what
was meant. All this, of course, would have been half lies—for I was the
girl—but I must lie it seems as things are going. Mr. Bang saved the
necessity.

“Now-a-days a Puritan is considered as an overly good person whom in
business dealings, it is necessary to watch,” he growled.

Uncle smiled and agreed.

“The Puritans most famous in our history are those who settled in New
England in the early 17th century as you know———” he began.

“They were a bad lot,” cut in J. B., “far from what their name would
imply, so you see to be called a Puritan now can hardly be accepted as a
term of respect.”

“Were they very bad?” I asked, inwardly rejoicing at the success of my
strategy.

“Their chief recreation was hanging Quakers, Episcopalians, and Papists;
they, together with the descendants of twenty thousand odd convicts, and
other scum that England had dumped into the New World. Such were the
‘Fathers of the Revolution’ in the great Republic.”

“Twenty thousand convicts is not many in a big nation,” Mumsie
suggested. She always wants to bolster up any bad case.

“The total immigration to the American Colonies before the revolution
was one hundred thousand, out of which grew the three million people
constituting the population at that time,” Mr. Bang replied, looking
severely at his aunt, “and then the British Government swept the streets
of their large cities to find these people wives.”

I noticed that as Mr. Bang said this, he brushed together a number of
crumbs on the table cloth in a significant manner.

“Jack! what a thing to say, and before the child!” Mumsie protested.
“The Child,” indeed!

“If she doesn’t hear worse among the Liens and Mounts than anything she
does from me, she will be lucky,” retorted the amiable one: “besides” he
continued, “the version taught in our schools of the causes that led to
the American Revolution is the only version that could justify the
world’s greatest robbery, perpetuated by the most virulent set of utter,
damned scoundrels the world has ever known.” He looked like a
turkey-cock in his trumpetting indignation.

“Don’t start another revolution,” cried Mumsie, shocked.

It quieted Mr. Bang. He continued in more moderate tones.

“No doubt these women were included in the one hundred thousand. If you
read Mary Johnson’s book, _To Have and to Hold_, you will see there
written that one shipload of wives was warranted honest, but this I
fancy we may put down to the bias and prejudice of the author.”

“Why?” I asked.

“For the simple reason that to-day the serving women[2] of England are
reluctant to come to Canada to receive double the pay they receive at
home. When you consider that a hundred years ago, a passage across the
Atlantic was looked upon with horror and undertaken in terror, and that
in the seventeenth century the danger of being tomahawked by the Indians
in the colonies was very real, you will understand that honest maids did
not then so seek to espouse honest convicts.”

“In old colonial days,” said Uncle, “crossing the Atlantic in sailing
ships was a fearful ordeal. Our family legends are full of stories of
its terrors.”

“Tell her of old Aunt Havelock,” suggested Mumsie.

“What of her?” I said. I preferred anecdotes to Mr. Bang’s jeremiads.

“Aunt Havelock was my aunt; Jack’s great aunt. She was crossing from
England in a sailing ship sometime between 1830 and 1840. The steward
gave her a plate one day that had not been properly washed. She handed
it to him, saying, ‘Sandy, this plate is not clean.’ The honest Scot
took it, looked at it disdainfully and spat upon it, rubbed it with his
apron, and handed it back to her.”

I shuddered. So did Mumsie. Horrid!

“I remember Aunt Havelock, when I was a small boy playing at her feet, a
lady of excellent refinement, a model of the old school,” said Mr. Bang.
“She had the most gentle, and sweetest voice I ever heard. When you
consider, what she, an army officer’s wife, had to put up with, you can
conceive what the treatment of the serving classes would be. No, No,”
and Mr. Bang shook his head, “not many of the maids that went to
Virginia as wives were honest.”

We were still a long way from the nuts and raisins. I was dreading lest
Mumsie turned the conversation. What would be more natural, if she
wished to do so, than for her to ask, “Elsie, what did you do with
yourself this afternoon?” I shuddered at the thought. I must keep Mr.
Bang talking.

“You think then, Mr. Bang, that no person came to America unless he had
to?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly,” he replied. “Few leave England permanently to-day unless
necessity compels. And the chief argument against the stories of the
Fourth of July orators is that the lukewarm Briton, who comes to reside
in Canada immediately turns into a redhot Imperialist. Human nature was
the same yesterday, as it is to-day. It is against nature for any normal
body of Englishmen to do what the Yankees did, no matter what the
provocation.”

“But there were Englishmen who revolted.” I suggested.

“Puritanism was doubtless an expression of religious insanity,” he
replied with fervour, “and then what child would believe his father a
felon? The children of felons invariably believe their fathers the
victims of oppression. No doubt the Yankee children were taught of
bloody kings and dukes and earls—and of feudal oppression. Such legends
are current even to-day. The highest expression of Yankee humour is that
wherein the western bully spits tobacco juice on the patent-leather
boots of the eastern dandy. Class intolerance is still active in Yankee
land.”

“Jack’s quite right there,” put in Uncle.

“I’ve never known you to find him wrong.”

“Now Auntie,” pleaded Mr. Bang, “you know I have had special
opportunities of studying the Yanks. Besides they are re-writing their
history. One old gentleman of Boston wrote up the history of the
Loyalists of his state, and incidentally showed the majority of those
who signed the Declaration of Independence to be unspeakable scoundrels.
Their descendants, I am told, beat the poor old man up and wrecked his
home. And then _The True American Revolution_, goes into all the
harrowing details and shows that the story of the wrongs inflicted upon
the colonies was more invention to justify the atrocities committed.”

“Canada is loyal,” said Mumsie soothingly.

“Canada is loyal and Canada’s loyalty is the wonder of the age,”
commented Uncle.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why! think of what our forefathers suffered, the Loyalists!” cried Mr.
Bang.

“The revolutionaries were only one-third of the population of the
colonies,” Uncle replied. “These people banded themselves together,
transgressed every moral law against those who would not renounce their
lawful kind, tarred and feathered innocent officials, ill-treated their
wives and daughters. The houses of Loyalists were broken into and
destroyed; and while the faithful patiently waited the happy day when
law and order would be established, Whig eloquence sounded platitudes in
the British House of Commons.” Uncle was almost as serious about it as
Mr. Bang.

“I always think,” said that worthy, “that history should recognize as a
supreme token of the righteousness of British rule in the colonies, the
fact that many of the unfortunate followers of Prince Charlie in the
rebellion of Forty-five, who went to America, sided with King George.”
Turning to me, Mr. Bang continued, “Little Partner, if you read the
mournful tales of the persecutions that followed the battle of Culloden,
you will agree that Major MacDonald, the husband of the gentle Flora,
had little cause to love the House of Hanover.”

“Loyalty, Elsie,” said Uncle, “is best considered as an expression of
ancestor worship. I can make nothing else out of it.”

“The Englishman comes out to Canada and hears himself spoken of as a
‘damn fool of an Englishman,’” added Mr. Bang, “and therefore concludes
his country is not popular. Uncle’s definition of loyalty is as good as
any other.”

Mr. Bang had one other idea he could not restrain.

“If you wish for a definition of the Yankee you will find it on the old
revolutionary banner.”

“What was that,” I asked.

“A coiled rattle-snake—the snake in the grass. That’s the Yankee.
That’s the animal the statesmen of Britain toady to, and yet we love
England still.” And Mr. Bang smiled, and actually his smile was not
cynical.

“What about taxation without representation?” asked Mumsie.

“Largely advanced subsequent to Independence,” explained Mr. Bang.
“England fought France and took Canada to prevent the raiding of New
England’s frontiers. This cost England seven hundred million dollars.
The colonies were rolling in prosperity, but when asked to meet a
portion of the cost, according to their agreement, they evaded the
issue. They guessed England would be an easier mark than France, and
they guessed rightly. But this was only because the Lord in his
inscrutable scheme created the Whig.”

“Is the Whig such a very dreadful person?” asked Mumsie.

“The Whigs instigated indirectly the Yankee Revolution. That brought on
the French Revolution, for the war of the American Revolution cost
France more than it did the Yankees, and the oppressive taxation to pay
for France’s participation in it incidentally brought about her Reign of
Terror. This in turn evoked Napoleon and his twenty-five years of war.
Surely that is a sufficiently heavy score?”

“You might add the War of 1812,” suggested Uncle.

“Undoubtedly; when the Yanks thought they saw Napoleon winning, the
master of Europe, they attacked Canada, believing their success assured
and that they could so curry favour with the despot, Napoleon in Elba.
They signed a treaty of peace in which no mention was made of the
ostensible cause of the war, namely, the right to search on the high
seas. Yet they teach in their schools that they fought the War of
Independence for the principle of ‘No taxation without representation,’
and they call the War of 1812 their second war of independence.”

“A Whig must indeed be a very dreadful person,” I remarked in glee. I
have stumbled on a way to keep myself from being asked questions, and
the opportunity to denounce anything—anything, and everything, and
everybody—seems to bring joy to Mr. Bang. After all one does good when
one gives pleasure. “What was a Whig?” I asked.

“One whose instincts were good and understanding bad,” replied Uncle.

“A political Jesuit,” suggested Mr. Bang.

“The ancestor of the Scottish Grit, in Canada, and the Liberal in
England,” Mumsie explained.

Of course, I did not understand quite all this, but it did not affect my
enjoyment. Such talk is very stimulating.

“The Whig or what he has developed into,” said Mr. Bang, “is a dangerous
being. Gladstone forsook Gordon and laid the seeds of trouble in the
Transvaal; and as the Whig party caused the American Revolution, so are
Whiggish principles leading to the impending war in Europe.”

“Why?” enquired Mumsie quite seriously.

“Because the Germans think they can bamboozle England as the Yankees
did, and because, were the Tories in power in England, they would bring
commercial ruin to their European rival.”

“But,” said Mumsie, “Germany may be guiltless of bad intentions.”

“Auntie,” almost thundered Mr. Bang, “once in Alaska, I had a German as
mining partner. We slept under the same blanket for months. I learned to
read the German mind. The frugal German is not putting countless
millions into armament without believing he will get a return. I have
also travelled in Germany.”

“This is then why you think regeneration of our society is at hand?”
asked Mumsie, doubtless referring to Mr. Bang’s suggestion of many
nights previous. Oh, how long ago it seems!

“Yes, that’s it. A great war will come when England will have to strain
every muscle. Then let us hope our women folk turn from those who trifle
with them, and spend their money on them, to those who defend them.”

Dinner ended with no bones broken. In fact, we were all in very good
humour. I made the excuse of a headache and slipped away to my room.
Soon my joy left me, my head became filled with difficult thoughts.
Laughter, I believe, is not a measure of the joy within me, not always.
I believe I now laughed in an attempt to induce joy, not as an
expression of it.

I have decided to tell Mumsie that I have an engagement for to-morrow
afternoon to go shopping and take tea with some fictitious person. This
I believe to be the safest device. Should I say Ethel Bassett for
instance, Mumsie might find out I fibbed, which would look bad. I can
say I met Hannah Smart at Mrs. Lien’s ball. I know there is no real
Hanna Smart. What a sneak I feel—and am.

[2] It may interest old country people to learn that servants coming to
Canada generally expect to take their meals with the family, or enjoy
other social advancements.

JANUARY 4TH.

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.”

I know I blushed and looked confused.

“Do you know,” Iris continued, “Charlie Lien’s taking you up is the
funniest thing—”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because you are so unlike Vivi Strange—”

“Vivi Strange?”

“Don’t you know?” said Iris. “Why I thought everybody knew!”

“No,” I had to say.

“Vivi Strange was Charlie’s old girl. Her mother has taken her to the
Mediterranean for the benefit of her health,—so she says—that is her
mother. But those whose chief delight it is to gossip say it was to get
her away from Charlie.”

I felt red and angry. A surge of jealousy swept through me. So Charlie
has or had another girl.

We played cards, we drank, smoked, had lunch, played cards, drank again,
and smoked more, and returned to the city. I asked to be put down at
Horace’s. I wished for a cup of coffee, naturally I must pull myself
together before returning home.

I had tea all by myself in Horace’s. I’m afraid my nerves are getting in
a frightful shape, however, I had a good tea, for Charlie gave me our
winnings, three dollars and sixty-five cents. Thank goodness, Sister
Mary would be at home on my return and her children. They would draw
attention from me.

As I walked home I kept revolving in my mind “Vivi Strange was Charlie’s
old girl.” What a fool I am! But the realization that I am a fool did
not dissipate my jealousy. I obtained some relief by occupying my mind
with the problem as to why Mrs. Strange had taken her daughter away and
of what she was frightened. Who were the Stranges and would not Charlie
Lien be considered a good match? And yet I knew that in entertaining
this question, I was deceiving myself. I realized I could only so
deceive myself, because I wished to do so.

“’Ook, ’ook Uncle Dack, ’orses,” I heard a child’s voice exclaim as I
passed along the upper hall to my new retreat, the small room adjoining
my former room and used by Mumsie as a sewing and lumber-room.

“Yes, they are very fine horses,” replied the voice of Mr. Bang. The
child was evidently Miss Jessie.

“’Ook, ’ook, Uncle Dack, why does one ’orse put out his hoot before the
other ’orse puts his hoot out?”

“That’s because the horses are not keeping step, Jessie. What makes you
ask so many questions?”

Jessie evidently ignored both the question and the implied admonition,
for she continued:

“’Ook, ’ook, Uncle Dack, the moon has its hace all boken.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Bang.

“Why doesn’t the moon get its hace mended?”

“Because the moon is naughty and is too careless.”

I took off my things and as the door was open, entered the room, Mr.
Bang was at the window amusing himself with Lawrence. Mr. Bang turned at
my entrance and with the shade of a smile on his face introduced Jessie
to me. The little girl was very bashful and placed her arms over her
eyes and remained quiet. Her Uncle urged her to shake hands with the
kind lady, but without result, until she raced towards me and threw her
arms around my neck and gave me a great hug.

“Where’s Mother?” I asked.

As Jessie did not answer, Mr. Bang informed me his sister had gone with
Mumsie on some errand, and that Jean, the nurse, was in the kitchen
preparing the nursery supper.

Then I heard Uncle in the hall and soon he came cheerily in, caught the
children up and kissed them, beaming with pleasure. I could not but feel
sorry for him as an old thought came back to me that Providence had been
unkind in not giving him a family. What a different atmosphere this was
to the one I had recently been in, the Hunt Club! What a pain it would
be to Uncle had he a daughter, and found her out in deceit such as mine.
My conscience was at me again, and my head ached.

I was really prepared for something very awful in Sister Mary, and the
fact that Jessie and Lawrence were such fine youngsters had not affected
my estimate. Picture my surprise, when I found her a very pretty woman
with most engaging manners. She enquired after my health and said she
hoped I was enjoying my stay in town so prettily, that she quite won my
heart and made me dislike her brute of a brother still more. I cannot
understand how Uncle and Mumsie allowed him to speak so ill-naturedly of
her. “If Sister Mary had as good an opinion of other people as she has
of herself, she would be a high-class citizen,” is his latest comment.

At dinner Mumsie gossiped with Sister Mary, and Uncle and Mr. Bang
chatted on politics and business. I understand Uncle is financially
interested in his nephew’s enterprises. I was left pretty much to my own
thought, which, needless to say, dwelt upon Charlie Lien and my other
new friends. When conversation flagged I amused myself watching the
expressions of Sister Mary and her brother. Whenever the latter made a
remark to Auntie, apprehension marked the features of his sister. She
appeared to have seated herself on the proverbial keg of powder. And
he—Mr. Bang—appeared also to be on edge, and even more taciturn and
cynical than ever.

“Why did they give the Henry-the-Eighth Hotel its name?” I asked Uncle.

All eyes at once were turned on me. Mr. Bang’s glance being even
contemptuous if not surly, I thought.

“Because that jolly monarch’s name suggests magnificence and
extravagance. You have read of the ‘Field of the Cloth of Gold?’”

I assented to the soft impeachment.

“Merry King Hal’s name also suggests a plenitude of wives, an
over-indulgence in womankind, ha!” he went on.

Sister Mary’s large eyes were wide open now, and I fancied I could
almost see in them an expression of fear, as well as pain. Evidently she
did not know what to expect next, and, I fancy if this guess of mine is
right, shared the apprehensions of the rest of us.

“Oh, oh, Jack,” gasped his sister.

“All right, Mary. Don’t be frightened; but this place is largely what
the French call a ‘House of Pleasure’ and it’s just as well Little
Partner should be warned.”

If the French mean anything dreadful by “House of Pleasure,” the words
conveyed nothing more to me than what I had found it, a place frequented
by men and women, many of them vulgar, who drank cocktails and smoked
cigarettes. But why should I be warned?

“I’m sure I’ve had dinner there often,” spoke up Mumsie, “and I know
many good people who frequently go there for tea.” That was comforting
anyhow.

“Yes,” drawled Mr. Bang, “ostensibly it’s an hotel.”

Then Uncle hit me a blow when he said, “But Belle, you would not care to
hear that Elsie had been seen in the Palm-room there, would you?” I am
quite sure that Uncle did not know the truth; though his nephew may
have. But oh! the pain it gave me, the agony of doubt and apprehension!

“Not exactly,” said Mumsie.

“The hotel was built to fill a long felt want,” said Uncle.

“And thereby hangs a tale,” retorted the nephew. “According to
Timkins,—(the blessed Timkins)—when the idea of building the hotel
came up, the Jinricky family led the patriotic enterprise. They invited
aid from the public-spirited, and opened a stock list. The hotel was
built and then the owning company leased it to an operating
company—which was the Jinrickeys—with the result that the stock of the
original company is worthless, while the stock of the new company is
profitable.”

“It was a palpable fraud,” murmured Mumsie.

“But unfortunately, a fraud the law can’t punish,” commented Uncle.

“It simply shows what people owning millions will do. There’s no measure
to human avarice. Personally, I refuse to have anything to do with
people who derive revenue from whiskey, either directly or through
stock-holdings. I have worked with a pick and shovel, rather than make
money by selling whiskey. Selling whiskey is absolutely beyond the pale,
and I claim the right to despise all those connected with it, down half
a dozen generations.”

At the end of this speech Sister Mary began to smile, finding relief no
doubt in the idea that her brother had spent his store of fury. I
believe his ill-nature accumulates till it gushes like a geyser, or
erupts like a volcano, which having gushed or erupted feels at ease. I
rather believe he is incensed with me. I am sure he knows I have been to
the Henry-the-Eighth. But I do not care, who is he?

In honour of Sister Mary we invaded Uncle’s den and talked, at least
Mumsie and Sister Mary and Uncle talked. Mr. Bang and I listened.
Perhaps only I was listening, for I do not think Mr. Bang paid the least
attention to the conversation. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. I can
see the antagonism existing between that brother and sister. To Mary,
Jack is still the _enfant terrible_. In her presence he becomes even
more irascible, and bridles up as if anticipating a reproof from her for
anything he may say. She seems always prepared to disagree with him,
and, at this, one perhaps may not wonder.

Uncle went into raptures over Jessie and Lawrence—Jessie is so bright,
so original, so active, and vivacious; and Lawrence has the makings of a
fine boy. I won’t try to describe either mother or children, for I do
not consider I shall ever be clever enough to write of children, and I
am quite sure Sister Mary is too deep for me to fathom.

When I might I slipped off to my own room—to think. The shock Uncle
gave me at dinner still hurt, and I am beginning to think the game is
not worth the candle. I believe in my efforts to get into society, I
have merely got switched into the fast set, and this is more than I
bargained for. How my head aches—and my nerves are all on edge.
Cocktails and cigarettes!

No further engagement was made with me by Charlie. I think I shall leave
the future to him. If he wishes to see me again, he can ring me up or
write. Since I arrived in town I have sought pleasure assiduously and
found—sensations. I dwell in fear continuously—fear that I shall be
discovered in my duplicity. Life is a nightmare—and yet I go on! No
doubt my remorse is due to reaction after this afternoon’s festivities.
If only Mr. Bang were as nice as I believe him to be good! Why are good
people so uninteresting, and in some cases so—positively repugnant?

Nothing on the tapis for to-morrow but writing this wretched diary
and—possibly a shopping expedition.

JANUARY 5TH.

Someone has said: “You can never tell from the way the wind blows how
the baby will look in the photograph.” Mumsie, Sister Mary and I walked
demurely into town escorted by Mr. Bang. Could anything be less
promising?

Nothing would do our cavalier but that we must enjoy his hospitality at
the Green Tree Restaurant for lunch. “They have a decent orchestra and
the grub is not half bad,” he pleaded.

We entered a confectionery shop and passed up a handsome stairway to the
first floor, where we were met by a head waiter, and shown to a table
from which, through the large window, we commanded a view of the street.
As we approached our table, I recognized at the next one Mrs. Mount and
her daughter, and at a table over against the wall Iris Carey and Basil
Locke. I kept my eyes away from these last and prepared my best smile
for Mrs. Mount, and with Mumsie bowed my acknowledgments. I took a seat
that would place my back to Iris and her swain.

Mr. Bang pressed me to supplement my modest order with several dainties
and we settled down to await the arrival of a generous lunch. I felt the
place very hot, though the air was not close.

Mumsie set her eyes on the young creatures and said to Sister Mary,
“There’s the Carey girl having lunch with Basil Locke, and drinking wine
too—the brats.”

“Isn’t it awful, and so young?” agreed Sister Mary.

“They belong to the fastest of the fast—such a pity! The Careys are
such a good old family———”

“And the boy is doing his best to add his people to the ranks of the
genteel poor,” added Mr. Bang.

“Too bad!” muttered Sister Mary.

“How’s that?” I asked, feeling I might safely appear curious. “Why
poor?”

“He’s supposed to be a mining broker. What of his father’s money he
can’t lose trying to rig the market, he loses playing poker,” explained
Mr. Bang.

Yesterday I won some of his money, but our game was only bridge,
eminently more respectable than poker.

The Mounts were the first to rise. Condescendingly her ladyship
approached our table. Mr. Bang rose deferentially; his manners are
certainly excellent. Sister Mary was introduced.

“And how are the dear people in Ottawa, Lady Lawson, Lady Matthews, and
dear Sir Charles? Do you know, really, I think Sir Charles Matthews is
the most _delightful_ man; really charming manners—so rare now-a-days.
Lady Matthews—Clair I always call her—has asked me down for the
Opening of Parliament, and, do you know, really, Doris has _never_
attended a Drawing-room yet! You know we go to Europe so often, or to
Bermuda, for the winter.”

“Are you not leaving on the 15th by the _Carmania_ from New York?” asked
Mumsie.

“No, do you know, really, it is the March winds I feel the most, if
_only_ I can get away for March, and you know I always do,” she put in
parenthetically with a glance at Sister Mary and me; and then continued,
accompanying her words, by nodding her head, and advancing her chin in
her own peculiar way. “I think I shall this year take Doris to the
Drawing-room, and then to St. Agathe or Algonquin Park for winter sport.
And then you know Clair—that is Lady Matthews—is so pressing in her
invitation—Why!”

For some moments before Mrs. Mount broke off her conversation I noticed
Mr. Bang’s eyes directed towards Iris and Basil. A slight rustle behind
me and Mr. Bang jumping to his feet, caused the interruption. Mr. Bang
made a bolt towards where his eyes had been directed, and I wheeled
round and saw him bending over the form of Iris, while beside him stood
Basil, looking on more or less stupidly. Of course, we all rushed to
help. Mr. Bang grabbed a tumbler of water and threw it in the face of
the unconscious girl. The waiters came crowding round, and some of the
other guests.

“I think we had better take her to one of the Reception-rooms,” said Mr.
Bang.

“What—Oh, what—is the matter, with her?” cried Mrs. Mount.

“She’s fainted,” answered Mr. Bang, “Don’t you think I had better take
her into the Reception-room?”

“Oh, no, no, let her come out of it,” protested Mrs. Mount.

“But it may be a long time before she does,” Mr. Bang objected.

“Perhaps we had,” agreed Basil at last.

So without more ceremony Mr. Bang gathered her in his arms, and,
followed by Basil, made his way through a portico into what I believe
was a Reception-room.

“Oh my! Oh my! poor Mrs. Carey! What will she say, how can she bear it?
And Iris has been talked about quite a lot, too. Do you know really, if
it had been Doris here———”

“But Mrs. Mount,” protested Mumsie, “Iris Carey became overcome by the
heat and fainted.”

Mrs. Mount looked steadily out of the window, advanced her chin, drew up
her mouth into the grimmest of grim expressions, and said slowly and
deliberately, “Yes, Iris Carey fainted,” and then under her voice, in
the thinnest of tones, “and Mr. Bang is a fool.”

Mumsie, Sister Mary and myself moved sadly back to our table. Mrs. Mount
said good-afternoon, and rustled away.

Naturally the incident was a shock and particularly to me. I have not
yet got over the fright Uncle gave me by his remark about the
Henry-the-Eighth Palm-room. Now I have this added stress. But I have
this consolation, Mumsie does not know that I know Iris.

Mr. Bang came back to his place.

“What ailed the girl?” asked Mumsie.

“A combination of things, I fancy.”

“Of what?”

“Wine, heat, and possibly, chiefly, a cigarette in which there was a
little too much opium.”

“Poor girl,” muttered Sister Mary.

“I smelled her breath,” added Mr. Bang, “and it was strong with
alcohol.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Mount suspects,” said Mumsie.

“Sort of trained knowledge, as it were. Yes, I suppose a tavern-keeper’s
daughter ought to be able to distinguish between a case of acute
intoxication and a fainting fit.” His voice was sarcastic.

With that our luncheon came to an end.

I felt relieved when the discussion of the affair at lunch, which as I
knew, would prove a topic at dinner, was ended. I made a remark about
the _Vicar of Wakefield_.

I was still curious to know why Mr. Bang had given the copy of it to me.
What was the idea behind the offering?

“Have you read the copy Jack gave you?” Uncle asked.

“Only a little here and there to see how much of the story comes back to
me.”

“I always think the _Vicar of Wakefield_ such a delightful story,” and
Sister Mary smiled sweetly upon me.

“That is true,” said Uncle, “but the feature of the tale is that the
social ‘bug’ seems to have been active in Goldsmith’s time too, and
perhaps was then just as prevalent as it is to-day. Don’t you think,
Elsie, you can find a suspicion of very fine satire here and there?”

“Really, Uncle, I read the story so long ago, I have quite forgotten the
impression it made on me. I was so young and now I have only glanced
through it and read the story told by George, the vicar’s son.”

“That is a page out of Goldsmith’s own life.”

“Poor Poet Noll!” said Mumsie. “Except Charles Lamb, wasn’t he the
dearest?”

“Because he ‘wrote like an angel,’” suggested Uncle.

“Goldsmith was a loveable, weak character with whom starchy,
business-like people often lost patience. He was anyhow better than his
judges.”

“His heart was too soft,” suggested Sister Mary.

“And he had vanities,” said Uncle, “but he was of the salt of the earth.
A born Irishman! When he died old Samuel Johnson wept, and Joshua
Reynolds said he could do no more work that day. These are testimonies
to worth. I have always suspected Bozzy of being jealous of Goldy.”

“What I meant,” said Mr. Bang, whose strong point is evidently not
literature, “was that Goldsmith was one of the kind who are easily
misunderstood.”

“So are we all,” cried Uncle. “Your aunt invariably misunderstands me.”

“Oh pooh!” said Mumsie.

“And I think his contemporary Dr. Johnson a most interesting character,”
smiled Mary in her drawing-room manner.

“At any rate he knew the Yankee,” put in Mr. Bang.

I looked at Uncle and smiled. Uncle smiled too, then drew his face into
a fearful frown and bringing his clenched fist down on the table
thundered—in what must have been meant for the Johnsonian manner—“Sir!
they are a race of convicts.”

“Yes, that’s it,” cried Jack and burst out laughing. So did I.

“What’s the joke?” demanded Sister Mary.

Poor Mr. Bang! I’m quite sure he gave me the _Vicar of Wakefield_
because he thought it might do me good. How kind of him! Pooh! as Auntie
says.

JANUARY 6TH.

What luck I am in! We are going to Ottawa, Uncle and Mumsie, their
nephew and myself. I am going to attend the Drawing-room. Hoo, hoo!

I had the blues all day before I knew. Perhaps it was because I worked
so hard at this diary this morning. In the afternoon—to get rid of
cobwebs—I walked out by myself. Indeed, I had the blues. I realized I
had lost the grip on life that was mine by inheritance, and I saw no
other in prospect. I feel I am a social derelict.

On my return home I came softly up the stairs and entered my room. Mr.
Bang was with the children and I left the door ajar that I might hear
them.

“Tell me a story, Uncle Dack,” Jessie demanded.

“Red Ridinghood?”

“No, No, another story, a new story, a great big story, that has not got
an end.”

“All stories come to an end sometime Jessie; but I will try and tell you
a long story.”

“Once upon a time a beautiful, young lady set out upon a highway. The
highway was called Life, and beside it grew the flowers of Friendship
and Truth. It ran through a valley and as she journeyed along she beheld
all things about her were very beautiful. The fields, the woods, the
meadows, all lay in contentment and joy. Shadows came, but they quickly
passed and the world seemed more beautiful than if they had never been.
The people she saw travelling on the highway were many and different.
Some had beautiful dresses, such as she wore; others were shabby. Some
carried heavy loads, but all were happy. Some were beautiful, some ugly,
and some were neither good-looking nor plain. Do you understand me,
kiddie?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the child gravely. Anyhow, I understood.

“And the beautiful young lady was happy, and sang gaily as she walked
along. But soon she came to where the road ran beside a great mountain,
and here she was met by a grand lady. This lady was very, very grand;
she wore tinsel, and spangles, and diamonds, and rubies, and saphires,
and emeralds, and pearls, and her name was Ambition. And Ambition smiled
sweetly upon the young lady, and said ‘I am your friend, come with me.’
And the young lady said, ‘Where to?’ and Ambition said, ‘Away up on this
mountain, which is called Society.’ ‘But,’ said the beautiful, young
lady, ‘I am happy, why should I toil?’ To this Ambition made reply,
‘Because if you climb this mountain with me you will be able to look
down upon the rest of the world.’”

“What is a mountain, Uncle Dack? Tell me,” interrupted Jessie.

“A mountain, Jessie, is a great high hill, a hundred times higher than
this house. ‘Will I be happier because I look down upon other people?’
asked the beautiful, young lady. ‘Oh! very much,’ replied Ambition, and
with this she took the young lady’s hand and led her up the hill.”

“Did Ambition have a big, long nose, and long ears, and great, big,
shining teeth?” demanded Jessie.

“No, Jessie, Ambition is naturally pleasing. So they started off,
Ambition and the beautiful young lady. As they left the highway and
stepped on the rising ground, they found people sitting about in groups
and all were very merry and gay. Through these Ambition led the
beautiful, young lady until the ground began to rise more and more, and
here Ambition said to her: ‘Behold the world, does it not appear more
beautiful, now that you may look down upon it?’ And the beautiful, young
lady looked upon the Highway of Life, and the world did appear more
beautiful than when she was on the beaten way. She did not, however, see
the smiling, happy faces, nor hear the gay laughter of the people. But
the laughter of those who also had left the Highway of Life sounded in
her ears, and appeared much more merry, and their smiles were much
broader.

“Ambition then cried, ‘On, on,’ and drew the young lady up the steep
side of the mountain. And the dear girl noticed that the flowers of
Friendship and Truth were much tramped upon and pulled up by the roots,
and she spoke in wonder at it. And Ambition said, ‘Oh, those are only
flowers. They who have gone before have used them to pull themselves up
by.’ But the beautiful, young lady said to herself that she would not so
treat the flowers of Friendship and Truth; but Ambition urged her on and
on, and soon she found that she, too, was destroying the flowers of
Friendship and Truth. And whenever she would speak Ambition would say,
‘On, on, hurry, hurry!’ and so the beautiful, young lady did not know
what she did. And the beautiful, young lady noticed that the higher she
climbed, the fewer were the flowers of Friendship and Truth, and the
higher she climbed the more were the flowers of Friendship and Truth
uprooted and torn, and the more wearied looked the faces of those she
met.

“But Ambition still called ‘On, on,’ and the beautiful, young lady
climbed up and up till there were no more flowers of Friendship and
Truth, and those who sat about were old and wizened, and ugly. Up and
up, and up, the young lady climbed, leaving all others behind until she
stood on the very top of the mountain called Society. Here she looked
down upon the beautiful world; but she was so far above it, that she
could not see the green fields, or the gay meadows, or the woods, the
flowers, or anything; and she sighed and turned towards Ambition, but
Ambition had fled; Ambition was nowhere to be seen. And the wind that
blew against her was chill and cold, and the beautiful, young lady felt
very, very sad.”

I don’t know if I may be called a beautiful, young lady, but I believe
that Mr. Bang was telling this tale for my ears. He must be troubling
his head a great deal about me. He has not shown me much attention
lately, but I know I am continually in his mind. I’m sure I could never
support being called “Mrs. Bang.”

At dinner Uncle announced that he had to go to Ottawa on the ninth; and
then Mr. Bang electrified us all by inviting Mumsie and me to go too as
his guests, for the opening of Parliament on the thirteenth, and the
Drawing-room on the evening of the following Saturday. He had made two
hundred and fifty dollars he said, in a little speculation for the
decline in Poverty, Distress and Want Railway Stock, and he would enjoy
“blowing it in.” Such an expression!

“Just for a few days at the ‘Boardin’[3] House’” I thought it very
strange that Mr. Bang, with his general broadness, had decided to take
us to a Boarding House. If he wished to spend two hundred and fifty
dollars in a few days, I should think a hotel was the proper place.

I have never been to Ottawa, so I asked Uncle what the city was like.

“Ottawa is a very pretty place, and its winter climate good—if you ask
about the city as a city. If you ask about it socially ———”

“It is best described as the re-incarnation of the home of the original
snob,” broke in Mr. Bang.

What else was said, I shall not here set down. I think it will be much
better to set down my own ideas of Ottawa.

And then the conversation drifted to comparisons of the men of these and
other days. Uncle was of the opinion that the general code of honour was
higher now than it was at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Mr.
Bang agreed with this but stated it was unwise to lean too heavily upon
any man’s sense of honour.

“I once sued a descendant of an Irish king for one hundred dollars. I
thought the fellow could not evade the facts, but when he got into the
stand he lied a hole through a stone-wall. If you wish a sample of a
high-class liar, get a weak creature on the wrong side of a law-suit and
then watch him wiggle. My friend was of people who fancy themselves of
superior clay, and yet he lied—lied confusedly—to beat one, who had
befriended him, out of one hundred dollars. Imagine a man being
admonished by a judge to remember he was on his oath! Is such
humiliation worth the privilege of cheating a friend out of one hundred
dollars?”

My mind keeps playing upon Charlie Lien. I did not meet him to-day. It
is so humiliating to think he does not seem to care. As I passed the
Henry-the-Eighth to-day, I felt I would like a glass of wine and a
cigarette, my nerves seem to demand them.

[3] Possibly Elsie might have spelt this word differently.

JANUARY 7TH.

I have seen Charlie Lien. I have had lunch with him. I am the most
wretched of girls—women. I am a woman. I have developed in the last ten
days.

But did a more inconsistent girl, woman or child ever live? I am
consistent only in my inconsistency. Battledore-shuttlecock. Hither and
thither I am bounced like a weak, feathery thing. One impulse throws me
against my conscience, and then I rebound. And then another whim,
inclination, impulse, instinct, or what-not, sends me off again.
Happiness can be found only in contentment! I am far from contented, I
am far from happy.

After all what does it matter? One dissolute person more or less in the
world cannot matter, and dear, old Dad will not live long, and Uncle and
Mumsie will not feel more than sorry—very sorry. Eternity is so very
hard to conceive of, forever and ever and ever. I have felt remorse,
just enough to understand or feel how its quintessence might well be
hell. And yet, there are so many worse than Elsie Travers. May I not
suffer as bravely as they?

This morning’s mail brought a letter from Charlie, so I lied to Mumsie
and came away,—same story, an invitation from Hannah Smart. With
Charlie I was happy, or shall I say excited. But as I walked home,
reaction set in. Charlie Lien is an evil influence, against which my
inherent sense of rightness revolts. Calm analysis tells me that social
ambition is passing from me. What is supplanting it? I do not know. But
I know what it is to which I cling—the real and tangible pride of
ancestry—which Uncle and Mr. Bang say is loyalty. Surely
ancestor-worship is a comprehensive virtue—better than social-climbing.
It is the rock to which I hold, the rock to which I shall continue to
cling.

I told Charlie we were going to Ottawa. He told me his mother was taking
Mabel to Norway House on Norway Lake for three weeks. At this
information I felt relieved.

JANUARY 8TH.

Packing and shopping was the order of to-day. Of course, Sister Mary is
returning with us and dear little Jessie and Lawrence, and Jean. Dear
old Uncle, I know, will revel in Jessie; and the number of questions
Jessie will ask in the hours of our journey!

JANUARY 9TH.

The station at Ottawa is quite the grandest I have ever seen and on
entering it I was so lost in wonderment, so overcome by its immensity,
that I followed my seniors without any questionings. We entered a tunnel
and walked up an incline which seemed interminable. En route, Mr. Bang
remarked: “This passage-way always reminds me of the tunnel that leads
to the tomb of Seti in the ‘Valley of the Dead’,” I suppose he was
referring to some distant parts.

Soon we came into a room flooded with electric light and then passed
into an elevator and so up one floor, where we stepped out into what
struck me, as being of necessity a great hotel. Uncle and Mr. Bang
passed to the counter, and registered. I could restrain myself no
longer, so I whispered a question to Mumsie.

“That was only Jack’s joke: this is one of the really good hotels of
Canada.”

I looked about and saw ceilings immensely high and passage-ways that
led—anywhere. I felt really happy.

Porters struggled with our hand-luggage and a bell-boy holding keys in
his hand passed into the elevator and so we went to our rooms. I entered
mine and in a moment was alone. I opened one door and looked into a
clothes-closet. I opened another and saw a bath. And then I pulled up
the blind and looked out. To my left lights flashed far below, to the
right impenetrable space, in front of me were great spectral masses—an
inspiration—the Houses of Parliament! I felt sorry I had been so unkind
in my thoughts of Mr. Bang. I was indebted to him for all this grandeur.

My trunk was brought into the room. Would I dress? Certainly. I felt
satisfaction in my worldly wisdom when Mumsie called for me and I found
her in full dress and Uncle and Mr. Bang in their dinner-jackets.

I know my putting down these trivialities would appear childish to
anyone who read them; but this is actually the first hotel in which I
have ever been a guest.

I felt small in the great dining-room, and overawed by the tall waiter
who led us to our table. What a blessing it is that thoughts are not
visible! I was given a bill of fare and immediately lost myself in a
world of words and figures. I was asked what I would have, but the cost
of everything seemed so great I felt positively too frightened to
choose. Dear old Mumsie saw my embarrassment, and ordered for me; then
my nervousness left me.

Uncle and Mr. Bang pointed out different politicians in the dining-room,
whom they recognized; but I am really not interested in politicians.

Being Sunday there was nothing for us to do, so we sat long at dinner
discussing politics and politicians. Mr. Bang hates the Liberals, or
“Grits,” as he invariably calls them most cordially. Would the
Government again introduce the Navy Bill?

“The Grit opposition to the Navy Bill is politics, merely dirty
politics. They claim to advance the scheme for a Canadian Navy, but had
the Government advanced their scheme they would have opposed it, they
would have had some other,” he said.

“Is it not the duty of an Opposition to act such a part as a process of
sounding the popular will?” queried Uncle.

“In some cases, yes: but not in this. The Government did the most
practical thing: Ministers went to England and consulted the Admiralty.
The British Government told them what they deemed expedient, suggested
three Dreadnoughts, told them of an emergency and gave them the benefit
of their secret service. What could be more practical? The Grits carried
their opposition too far.”

“The Senate did the deed.”

“Subservient to the Grit caucus the Senate did the deed,” agreed Mr.
Bang.

“You really believe there is an emergency,” asked Mumsie, “that there is
need for these ships?”

“I do. What is more evident than that the British Government is taxing
the Mother Country to death to meet an emergency, real or fancied, and
it is the duty of Canada to bear a part. Isn’t it an Empire concern? But
the Grits think that Canada, forgetful of all else but money-making, is
willing to play the stability and existence of the Empire against a
stake of thirty-five million dollars. The populace has an open ear for
pleasing assurance. So they figure chances, but life and liberty are not
given us to be gambled with. There are some things we may not gamble
with—and one of them—” he went on, “is a maiden’s reputation.”

Mr. Bang’s remark surprised Mumsie and frightened me. I wish I could
sound the depths of that young man’s mind. True he did not glance at me.
Had he done so, it could only have meant a warning, that he had
knowledge of my—intrigue. And here I feel the pain of my folly, my
duplicity. Oh, what a fool was I! Social-climbing—the folly of it!

“You don’t accuse the Grits of being disloyal, do you?” asked Mumsie.

“The Grits have no political affiliations outside Canada and are not
disloyal. Given an occasional opportunity to misgovern[4] the country,
they are happy enough. They look upon the Yankee as a success, that is
the Scotch Grits do——”

“How about the French?” queried Uncle.

“The Canadian Frenchman does not like the Yankee and is not a
money-seeker. He, like the Scotch Grit, has no outside affiliation. He
has no love for British institutions. How could it be expected of him?
He is not actively disloyal: he does not lie awake at night worrying
about the vitality of the British Empire. Being, perforce, a guest of
the Empire, he has decided to enjoy its privileges and dodge its
obligations.”

“That would seem reasonable enough,” suggested Uncle. “Put ourselves in
his place.”

“I was in Ville Marie, a French village, that remains in its primeval
state. About it I saw floating a dozen French flags, but no British. Of
what was this the expression? Not of loyalty to Britain. But it was not
necessarily the token of love of France. In fact your French-Canadian
hates the old country Frenchman. Laurier—” Mr. Bang stopped with the
one word and beckoned a man passing from his dinner. The gentleman came
towards us, was introduced and invited to join our party. He was Mr.
Fraser, a Western Member.

“You are a personal friend of your chief: what is his outstanding
characteristic?” asked Mr. Bang.

“Serenity,” came the quick response.

“We were discussing politics,” explained Mr. Bang, “and I am conscious I
am prejudiced.”

Mr. Fraser chatted a few moments and then excused himself.

“A most apt description,” said Uncle. “I don’t know any better.”

“Fraser is a clever fellow, the wonder is he remains a Grit,” agreed Mr.
Bang. “Serenity—the serenity of his mind; that’s it. Polished to
reflect the philosophy of others. A man of learning, but of no
understanding: that’s Laurier.”

“No understanding! how could a man have been the Premier of Canada
without understanding?” I asked.

“By the serenity of his mind. Cleverness is a native attribute. In
homely circles it is called common-sense. A serene mind is the
complement of a healthy body and the polish of learning. A man may be
learned and yet not clever, or he may be clever and yet not learned.
Herein is the world deceived.”

“What do you call a clever man?” asked Mumsie, smiling.

“That needs some definition too. A clever man is a man of understanding,
one who has his mind in tune with the scheme of the universe; a man who
can feel the influences at play about him and foresee to some extent the
play of events. Clever men are rare: and are seldom attractive. They
work their minds so assiduously that they have no time for the
commonplace. In a general way as man’s best study is man, so the clever
man is he who has the clearest understanding of human nature. Laurier
has no understanding of human nature.”

“And Borden, what of him?” I asked.

“Borden’s outstanding impulse is affection for the British Empire. As
Laurier is a French-Canadian, so is Borden a British Loyalist. At the
present time this is the most valuable attribute in the Premier of
Canada. French Canada is hunting for an impulse, and so its tide of life
is dormant. Loyalist Canada is responding to its inherent virility,
reaching out. Borden is doing his best to train its growth. Beyond his
loyalty Borden is a kindly gentleman.”

“Is he not clever?” I enquired.

“You are probably labouring under the mistaken idea that a Prime
Minister is a Napoleon. You don’t trouble to realize that the Prime
Minister is selected by his associates. With the Grits the custom is to
choose a man of upright character and turn the limelight on him, so that
they may practise their rascalities in his shadow. In this process the
stronger the light the greater their immunity.” Mr. Bang did not answer
my question and I did not repeat it. But his systematic and patronizing
abuse of the Grits amused me.

“You know, Elsie,” remarked Mumsie, “these two have decided that the
whole parliamentary system is wrong.”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed inwardly, “they must be out of their minds.”

“Not the parliamentary system,” corrected Uncle, “but the processes of
electing members———”

“We won’t inflict our arguments and ideas upon you,” cut in Mr. Bang,
with what was intended to be a pleasant smile. “But the public is such a
poor judge of character, we are all of us so easily caught by the
pleasing ways which cover either weakness or villainy, that it would be
better were the selection of representatives taken from us and left to
the goddess of Fortune.”

I looked puzzled while Mumsie smiled. Uncle explained: “The idea is that
our judges select, say, twenty candidates in each riding, to represent
all classes, and from these twenty one is selected by lot and sent to
Parliament whether he would or not. The larger questions of the day
should be settled by direct vote, by plebiscite, so that the popular
will could find direct expression.”

I did not feel interested but pretended that I did. Mr. Bang tried
further to enlighten me.

“In England at the last election, if a man wished to support Home Rule
he would vote for the Government, or, if he desired to support Free
Trade he would do the same, but there was no process by which he could
support the one and oppose the other, whereas, if he had a ballot—or
referendum—on which these definite, different principles were set down,
a clear expression of the national wish could be given. That is
impossible under the present system.”

“I thought you did not value public opinion,” I said. I thought I had
caught him there.

“The public mind is suspicious, shallow, vacillating and generally
contemptible. In other words the public is a cad and not too honest. So
much for my opinion of the public. But the point I would make is that
Parliament does not necessarily express the public mind. The party
system has robbed Parliament of its full capacity, and as an institution
I’m inclined to think it will pass away.”

“Jack is looking some far distance into the future,” said Uncle.

“The growth of ages as the system of Parliament is does not die in a
night,” said Mr. Bang. “But I daresay there are some people, mostly
Grits, who are fond of saying, ‘Vox populi, vox Dei’; whereas really,
the voice of the people is the braying of an ass. The homely idea is
that the ordinary mother is fitted by nature with an instinct, which
directs her properly to look after her infant, whereas, as any doctor
will tell you, the human mother is naturally extraordinarily incapable.”

The mother and her child! on what subject has this strange man not an
idea?

On the whole, as at the end of the great day I snuggled into bed, I felt
pleased with the way the world was treating me, and looked forward with
pleasurable anticipation to the morrow.

[4] Doubtless Mr. Bang would not have said this had he known the
rottenness existing in Manitoba.

JANUARY 10TH.

Owing to the fog I could see only the spires of the House of Parliament,
and the different blocks when I looked out of my window this morning.
But then, after we had breakfast, and left the Boardin’ House and walked
up Parliament Hill, I saw them shining in the bright frosty air, in the
winter sunlight and through the fading mist; they seemed to express the
character of a young and healthy nation. As we walked past them and came
to Nepean Point, and looked over the river and the hills of Quebec,
wrapped in forest, some dreams of Empire came into my mind. Here I was
at the heart of a nation; what was to be its development? A hundred
years hence, for instance, what rank would Canada take among the
nations? Would I could think our future was as bright as the physical
prospect before us! All seemed so beautiful, so clean, so strong, so
perfect! For the first time in my life I felt my personal
responsibility, that I had a duty to this, my country.

We gazed upon the prospect for many minutes, Mr. Bang and Uncle pointing
out the Chaudiere, the location of Rideau Hall, and other objects of
interest. As we turned away Mr. Bang with a sigh exclaimed, “What a pity
our people are so dishonest in their politics!” Doubtless his mind was
filled with thoughts similar to mine.

Uncle took leave of us, saying he must attend to business; so we were
left with Mr. Bang as our sole guide. We visited the House of Commons,
the Senate Chamber, and the Library. In some way the things I saw did
not match my expectations. Of course I was much interested in the Senate
Chamber, for here I understood His Excellency would open Parliament on
Thursday at three; and here would I make my bow on Saturday evening.

Sight-seeing is tiresome work, and I was glad when lunch-time came.

At tea Mr. Bang informed us of a bazaar to be held in the evening, at
which the Government House party would attend. This filled me with
joyous anticipation. I would for the first time cast eyes on a real,
live Lord, and his Lady, and their noble family. I wonder what they will
look like. I am interested because my grandmother, my mother’s mother,
was the grand-daughter of an earl. Poor little me! It does not do me
much good—those exalted antecedents!

At dinner we had a dissertation on guinea-pig directors. When a rascally
promoter wishes to lend credit to his enterprise he employs a guinea-pig
director to act for him or, when the promoter has a reputation and is
careful of it he does the same. The guinea-pig director must be of
commanding presence, have a title, or some notoriety to give his name
value and be able to make an after-dinner speech. Colonel Grass is a
professional guinea-pig; Colonel Sir Lancelot Pill is lapsing that way.

“Colonel Sir Lancelot Pill!” I exclaimed, “why I thought he was one of
our highest citizens.”

“I have no doubt,” responded Mr. Bang, “he would feel grateful could he
hear you say so: he gives away vast amounts of money but then he can
only do that because the public buy his wares. But Sir Lancelot began to
lose cast ever since he promoted ‘The Slough of Despond’.”

‘The Slough of Despond’ it appears was a mining venture capitalized for
an enormous sum.

“When Sir Lancelot found the boom had burst and the public would not buy
the stock, he conceived the idea of asking authority from the
Legislature for the company to buy in its own stock. This was
granted—which shows what fools make our laws—and the gallant Colonel
used his company’s treasury to support the market. And then with
quotations marked up by such unusual methods, another shuffle of the
cards took place and the stock was issued in London to the accompaniment
of more market rigging. So do our patriots establish our credit abroad.”

“How on earth did Sir Lancelot ever get such authority?” asked Uncle.

“There is only one way: he went to Wee Macgregor, who in turn fixed it
up with the Mulligan Guards.”

“What a name!” I exclaimed. “Who—”

“The Mulligan Guards is our Conservative Club where our members
foregather to select the sheep from the goats, barter and sell our
legislation. Wee Macgregor was a lawyer and no doubt he received an
enormous fee in the guise of a reward for professional service. What do
our farmers know of high finance?”

“Here I should have thought was a chance for Timkins—”

“Timkins did—but what was the result. Some years afterwards Timkins
decided, being a good Tory and the Mulligans being a good lunching club,
to go up for election. He was turned down. Think of it, a man of
Timkin’s brains and character being refused membership of the Mulligan
Guards—”

“Rather thick,” commented Uncle.

“Time was when clubs were supposed to be homes for gentlemen. To-day,
from such point of view our clubs are jokes. Politics, finance, and
society are intimately interwoven. Our society is no better than our
politics, and our finance is as rotten as its two associates. Colonel
Sir Lancelot Pill was able to employ our legislature to put one over on
the British Public. Timkins was kept out of the Mulligan Guards to wreck
a personal spite, and all this in our enlightened age, our democratic
age.”

“How did Sir Lancelot get his title?” I asked.

“He lent the Prince—”

“That be blowed for a story!” broke in Mr. Bang. “He carried a
speculative account for one of Laurier’s Ministers, an old reprobate,
and the game ended up two hundred thousand dollars to the bad. Pill
accepted a knighthood as the only thing to be had in the premises. There
is nothing in the white charger—Prince story.”

“I suppose,” ventured Uncle, meekly, “it is quite on the cards the
knighthood was a complete ‘quid pro quo’?”

“Quite, oh quite,” agreed Mr. Bang, “most useful for stock market
purposes.”

The bazaar, I found just like bazaars at home, only larger; and Lord and
Lady Saffron had nothing remarkable about them, while Ladies Margaret,
Muriel and Millicent were dressed quite dowdily. To me the three girls
seemed ordinary, and one of them, Lady Muriel, stood talking to Mr. Bang
before everybody for quite a long time. I know the people of Ottawa did
not like it, from a conversation I overheard.

During the evening Mr. Bang went off by himself to play roulette and
evidently after this had palled on him, wandered among the booths and
soon met Lady Muriel, who was selling tickets for a lottery. I happened
to see them meet, for Mumsie, who had fallen in with an old acquaintance
was engaged, and so I had nothing to do but to see everything and hear
everything I could. Two ladies were conversing in the most English of
accents.

“I don’t know why their Excellencies allow their daughters to take so
much interest in a beastly bazaar. Bazaars are all the same, wretched
things. I came of course, because of the vice-regals.”

“I quite agree with you. Look at Lady Muriel, selling tickets just like
any common girl! And who is that she is talking with? Oh, really this is
too much.”

“I don’t know, really. Ask Montie.”

The other called to a man, evidently their cavalier, and asked him who
Mr. Bang was.

“Oh that fellow,” was the ready response in contemptuous tones, “he
comes to Ottawa often. He is a railway navvy, contractor, or something
like that. I’ve seen him about the hotels.”

“How dreadful! Just a common navvy. I suppose he’s made money some way.
I’ll—”

At this point in the conversation the ladies had sauntered beyond my
hearing.

JANUARY 11TH.

At breakfast this morning I said to Mr. Bang, “You had quite a long
conversation with Lady Muriel Saffron last evening.”

“Did I? I was not aware of the fact,” he responded coldly.

“Why, you were standing talking to her for five or ten minutes: I heard
one lady ask another who you were.”

“Not really?” In saying this Mr. Bang’s voice seemed more affected than
natural. Possibly it was an expression of sarcasm.

“Indeed you did,” I affirmed.

“I did not know it was Lady Muriel I was talking to, but I am not
surprised, as her manners were very good, and her sentiments worthy and
gracious.”

Never have I known Mr. Bang to talk with greater assurance. I felt
snubbed.

“Do you mean to say Lady Muriel talked with you all that time, without
knowing who you were, or anything about you, and without a formal
introduction?”

“Certainly, why not?”

I looked from Mumsie to Uncle, but the former was abstracted, and the
latter deep in the columns of the _Citizen_.

“Auntie, who were the females my Little Partner heard talking about me
last evening?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mumsie.

Mr. Bang’s voice was such that it seemed as if he were imitating the
ladies who had complained. I smiled expectantly.

“Did they use the English accent?” asked he.

“I believe they did,” I replied.

“They were probably members of the Government House set—”

“I thought them English,” I ventured.

“Which shows only that you lack experience.” That was rather blunt.

A moment’s pause and then Mr. Bang continued, “You know there are lots
of old maids in Ottawa.”

“Now, Jack, leave the ladies alone,” protested Mumsie. But unfortunately
my curiosity got the better of my dignity and my loyalty to my sex.

“Ottawa young ladies won’t look at men of their own class, the sons of
civil servants, but set their caps towards Government House.”

“Yes,” I said weariedly.

“To them the aides are the only fish in the matrimonial sea.”

“Have they caught many?”

“In this particular they remind me of the Irishman at sea, who fell
asleep on the look-out. ‘Ahoy’ called the mate. No answer. ‘Ahoy’ again
called the mate, and this time the awakened salt replied:—‘Shoo! Shoo!
Sir, whist! I’m ketchin’ rats.’ ‘How many have you caught?’ asked the
mate. ‘When I ketch this one and two more I’ll have three.’ Now when
Ottawa society ketches one aide and then—”

“Hush Jack, somebody may hear you,” pleaded Mumsie, and our breakfast
ended in silence. I wonder if Mr. Bang has proposed to some Ottawa girl
and been refused!

After breakfast we wandered into the lounge, where we found Mr. Fraser.
Mr. Bang led us to him saying,

“You have been in Ottawa off and on, over many years, what is the origin
of the English accent here?”

Mr. Fraser looked up from his paper, rose to his feet, and after we were
seated answered, “It’s barrack-room English, that’s what it is.”

“Barrack-room English!—surely not?”

“Yes it is: I lived in Halifax for thirty years and I know.”

“But it’s not the voice of Tommy Atkins—”

“No, it is the voice in which the senior Major’s wife calls over the
back fence to the neighbouring officer’s lady to know if she can have
the loan of some hair-pins. Lord! how I hate it!”

“The English accent as an affectation,” interposed Uncle, “has been
handed down for generations.”

“If it is of ancient lineage here, it has died out in England,” said Mr.
Bang with his usual assurance. “One does not hear it in Piccadilly or on
the promenade at Eastbourne.”

“They take it as the correct thing, here in Ottawa.”

Mr. Fraser was interrupted by Mr. Bang, who said: “I often thought—when
in England I noticed its absence—that it would be a good thing if
Ottawa were to send a delegation to London to furnish instruction in the
English accent. Now here’s an idea for you: introduce a Bill in
Parliament bearing out this suggestion. You’d make a name for yourself.”

“I’d make an ass of myself. Leave the society people alone, if it amuses
them it cannot do us much harm—”

“They should be sat upon,” said Mr. Bang. “What are English people to
think of us when they hear such whinings uttered in all earnestness—”

“A visitor who would draw his estimate of a people after merely a survey
of the court circle, would show such disregard for history and such
general shallowness, that it would not matter what he thought.”

I felt this remark would appeal to Mr. Bang. His only comment was:

“Yes, and the Government House set of Ottawa corresponds to a court
circle.”

“Exactly, and you know the stories they tell about our Government House
set. One is that a visitor one day found a number of young ladies in the
drawing-room playing a game with one of the aides. The young gallant
would sit on a chair and a damsel would sit on his knee, another on her
knee, and so on with the others until the line of damsels on the young
aide’s knee would stretch across the room. Then he would stand up and
all of them would fall amid shrieks of laughter.”

Mr. Fraser told this with such satisfaction that he angered me; I was
still more angered when Uncle remarked:—

“Sounds as if it were an incident culled from memoirs of Charles the
Second.”

“Do you know whether the story is true or not,” I asked.

“No! I told it as current gossip to be taken for what it is worth,”
replied Mr. Fraser.

“Quite likely it’s true: it’s not much worse than the
‘What-a-liar-you-are’ story,” said Mr. Bang.

I was so annoyed that I would not give Mr. Bang an opportunity to
exercise his bitterness, so I held my tongue and did not ask the perhaps
expected question. Mumsie was not so wise, and gave him the opening.

“This is of a maiden from the prairies, who went to dinner at Government
House. An aide was commissioned to take her in to dinner and she asked
him whether she should wear her gloves at the table. The aide replied,
‘Yes,’ but when the young lady found she had been deceived, she
immediately tore off her gloves, remarking, as she did so, ‘What a liar
you are.’ This story has become an Ottawa classic.”

“How could such a girl get an invitation to Government House?” I
demanded, “surely———”

“She had de beeg pull wid Laurier,” replied Uncle.

Mr. Fraser smiled and remarked.

“You Tories will never forget that story.”

“Please tell it to me,” I was glad of a change.

“You tell it, Bang,” requested Fraser.

“No, you tell it,” and so requests and protests were bandied. At last
Mr. Fraser complied.

“A French-Canadian, a habitant farmer, met a compatriot one January day
some years ago, and remarked:

“‘Queen Victoria shees dead.’

“‘Queen Victoria shees dead! who get shees job?’

“‘Prince of Wales gets shees job.’

“‘By gosh, dat Prince of Wales feller mus’ have beeg pull wid Laurier.’

“From what I have seen and heard,” then said Mr. Bang, “I believe Ottawa
society would accept a Hottentot lady and swear she was Diana, so long
as she came as a Minister’s wife.”

“I hope you don’t refer to the heroine of the ‘What-a-liar-you-are’
story, for she is quite a friend of mine,” said Mr. Fraser.

“Do you find her amusing?”

“Quite.”

I felt satisfied that the young lady referred to had snubbed Mr. Bang at
some time. His rancour must have been born of personal spite. So I made
some remark to that effect, smiling sweetly.

Mr. Bang ignored my jibe for a moment; and then he told the following
story:

“Once I was staying at Ottawa for some days. Some person told me it was
the custom for visitors to call upon the wives of Ministers. Why people
should desire to call, or why the obligation to receive all and sundry
should be thrown upon Ministers’ wives, I don’t know; but, being idle, I
called upon one of them. I knew the daughter of the house and talked to
her for the regulation five minutes, and then made a motion to leave.
The girl begged me to stay, and I stayed. From my corner of the room,
the constant stream of frivolity in and out amused me, it was a novelty.
I stayed, making myself useful, until the ebb set in and then I went
away. I attended the rink that evening and the first thing I heard was
that I had visited at a Minister’s house that afternoon and stayed over
an hour. This girl had asked me to overstay custom for the sole purpose
of having something to gossip about. Knowing that she and her people
were a source of innocent merriment, she planned to make me, in turn, an
object of ridicule. But can any civilized being understand the mind that
would stoop to such folly? Yet Ottawa accepted these people, as ‘so
quaint don’t you know?’ They were quaint indeed.”

To-day was not as cold as yesterday, and we went for a drive. We drove
about Rockcliffe and through the grounds of Government House—Rideau
Hall. At dinner Uncle announced that he had secured tickets for an
exhibition of skating to be held this evening.

Such skating as I saw I had never before pictured in the wildest flights
of fancy. There was skating free, and skating in pairs, and there were
figures done by fours. Such grace, such rhythmic motion, such ease, such
exactness! And the music, the band helped one to ecstasy. One would
think to watch the skating that those people had been bred to it, they
swung from circle to circle with such marvellous ease and assurance.

The dance of the fairies will ever live in my memory. The rink was
darkened and a shaft of green light was thrown upon the ice. Over the
ice came a band of maidens led by a most beautiful skater of delightful
form, swaying and flitting, their white draperies responding to their
motions which were tuned to the music. The leader came down the middle
of the ice, her followers filed at the sides. They were as sprites. I’m
sure nothing so lovely was ever seen before. They filled the rink,
swayed, marked time, as it were, and then retreated. They went as they
came, rhythmic, beautiful.

There were other scenes, pageants, call them what you will, but I paid
little heed to them. The dance of the fairies had appealed to me so
strongly that the others made little impression. And then when the
lights went up after the dance of the fairies, I saw among the
spectators Charlie Lien. It made me sick at heart. I had decided, as the
vulgar say, to cut him out; and now—I found my heart pounding. All my
resolutions faded as a fog-bank dissolves before the rising sun. Oh
dear!

JANUARY 12TH.

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!

JANUARY 13TH.

I sat through the Opening of Parliament without a word. Gossip, comment,
praise, and ridicule, bombarded my ears from four sides. I was lost in
reverie. I once more reviewed my experiences, aims, and aspirations, the
workings of my mind, and my schemings, since I came to Mumsie; and while
my ways have been devious I seem to have journeyed from nowhere to—the
same no—place. My first effort towards making friends with Mrs. Mount
has, as Mr. Bang would say, “petered out.” This ambition was lost in
those newer impulses that came from contact with Charlie Lien. How can I
analyze them? Coming like a thought, a visitation from space, from
infinity, I do not recognize them and I may not ask. Had I now a
mother—Ah! Mumsie is a dear—it is with that sentence I began this
diary—but I am not of her; flesh of her flesh, mind of her mind. Had I
a mother, I could ask her and she could explain to me this development
of what Uncle and Mr. Bang call the “social bug.”

And then the rest!

Mr. Bang’s fairy tale to little Jessie, the story of Ambition, really
does not parallel my case, for I have not climbed. I have not had even
the fleeting breath of happiness enjoyed by the “beautiful young lady,”
while still she was amid the flowers of Friendship and Truth. Perhaps
had I never met Charlie Lien and really had luck in securing somebody
like Mrs. Mount to take an interest in me, I might have enjoyed that
fleeting measure of reward. And the flowers of Friendship and Truth!—I
had uprooted and trod them under foot that is true. But it is this
blowing hot and cold over Charlie Lien that mystifies me—I seem to
control myself so little, where he is concerned.

In his court dress, His Excellency, standing before his Senators, their
wives and daughters, the High Court officials with their wives and
daughters, and the Members of Parliament; the reading of his words of
commendation and hope, all appealed to me, as being of a world to which
I truly belonged. To me the assembled officials in their robes, spoke of
a world with which my ancestors were intimate. Perhaps such thoughts are
in keeping with the inherent process of ancestor worship—that Mr. Bang
and Uncle say is ours. In any case, as I have before set down, I can
find in it nothing but good.

It was an impressive scene, a pageant of far more potency than any mere
form would cause. It spoke of great loyalty, a rule of faith and love.
Altogether it was elevating and ennobling. I thank His Excellency for
it: I thank Mr. Bang for it. I must not forget, or rather I must try and
remember the extent of my indebtedness to him. I am certain that my mind
was widened and broadened by this great experience.

There is quite a lot of ceremony about the Opening of Parliament. It
always starts at three in the afternoon, and there are those who can get
entree to the floor of the Senate Chamber by way of the entrance behind
the dais. That is if they have enough “pull.” But I won’t bother with
that.

The drowsiness developed by my musings, and the heat of the Senate
Chamber, was quickly dispelled on our return to the Hotel by meeting
Mrs. Mount.

“Why Mrs. Mount,” exclaimed Mumsie, on finding her in the rotunda.

Mrs. Mount looked at us coldly, said: “How do you do,” and started away
on a long tirade.

“I got so beastly tired of home and, do you know, I said to Doris that I
really thought we must have a change. Doris has never yet attended a
Drawing-room,” etc., etc. It was a long dissertation about her habits
and doings. She was evidently a guest of the Hotel, so was not the guest
of Lady Matthews. Nor did she offer any explanation of the difference
from what she had led us to expect. Probably she had forgotten the
account she gave us a week or so ago, wherein Lady Matthews,—“Clair as
I always call her”—had invited her to the opening. Mrs. Mount I’m
afraid, has lost her novelty for me, and I’m with Uncle in putting her
beyond the pale.

Mr. Bang was most attentive to-day. Probably my latest mood has
attracted him. Still I cannot reconcile myself to the thought of
inscribing on my visiting card, “Mrs. Bang.”

After the opening I fell into a long conversation with Mr. Fraser. He is
a pleasant man to talk to. And I can quite understand how his chief is
the charming personality everybody says he is.

“It is not wonderful,” said he, “that you find Mr. Bang a strange
character. He is of the school of many years ago. Changes of
temperament, like fashions, develop in the great centres, the capitals
of Europe. Jack’s tricks of mind are of another age handed down from
generation to generation, true to its parent culture, that culture which
took life seriously and whose chief diversion was controversy. His
ideals are of that school and have been impervious to change.”

“Oh! I see,” I agreed, in no positive tone.

“I don’t know if I have made myself clear,” continued Mr. Fraser, “but
perhaps you may better understand what I mean when I tell you, that
French scholars say they find in Quebec phrases and expressions that
have been dead for ages in France. So old habits of thought are still
with us. Jack is, however, one of the best of fellows.”

Mr. Fraser’s tone in speaking of Mr. Bang is most sympathetic which
reconciles me somewhat to the man, if not to his name.

JANUARY 14TH.

“Oh, Mrs. Somers,” blustered Mrs. Mount to Mumsie when I was with her in
the drawing-room this morning, “I have had such a shock, such a shock
and do you know, really, I don’t exactly know _how_ I am to get over
it.”

“Why, what can the matter be?” asked Mumsie, responding to the evidences
of distress with measurable interest.

“Oh! I have had a shock, such a dreadful shock———”

“What is it?” again demanded Mumsie, apprehensively, while I felt like
quoting: “Oh dear! what can the matter be?”

“Do you know, really, I have always understood that my Doris was to have
the most expensive dress at the Opening, and now, do you know what I
have discovered? I have found out that a horrid American creature, a
Miss Spruce from New York, has arrived and is to wear a dress costing no
less than ten thousand dollars—ten thousand dollars—think of that!
Dear! dear! dear!” and the good lady stamped her foot and protruded her
chin.

“That is too bad, it must be a great disappointment,” said Mumsie in the
most sympathetic tones, “but then Doris may be—I have no doubt is—a
very much better-looking girl than Miss Spruce.”

“Yes, yes, yes; no, no, no; that is, Doris is much the better-looking
girl, certainly. Doris is so sweet, so graceful, so everything don’t you
know, really, but then you know these American creatures make up so
wonderfully ———”

“Can’t you have Doris make up too?” suggested Mumsie with innocence
sublime.

“But everybody will know Miss Spruce’s dress has cost ten thousand
dollars, they do already, you know. I’ve heard it from half a dozen
people and she has been in the hotel only one hour—only one hour—just
fancy!”

Mumsie affected a fitting expression of amazement, which I copied to the
best of my ability.

“Only one hour!” repeated Mumsie in doleful tones, and then pitching her
voice to a key of joyousness cried: “Don’t tell anybody and they will
never know Doris’s did not cost ten thousand dollars—nobody will know
the difference ———”

Mrs. Mount gazed at Mumsie as if she were deciding whether to shriek or
cry. She did not do either, but in a voice sepulchral murmured:

“Mrs. Somers, I’ve already told twenty people that Doris’s dress cost
one thousand dollars. As a matter of fact, it really only cost six
hundred and fifty, but I said a thousand as I always like to deal in
round figures. All Ottawa has heard of Doris’s thousand dollar dress,
and that I cabled to Paris for it. There is nothing for it; I’m beat,
I’m beat. And, by a beastly Yankee whose father made his money out of
chewing-gum. Chewing gum! just fancy!” Mrs. Mount wore an air of
complete defeat as she walked away.

As Mrs. Mount left us, Uncle and Mr. Bang came up, and Mumsie recounted
the scene with admirable skill. Uncle was highly amused and laughed
immoderately; Mr. Bang being in a less doleful frame of mind than usual,
became almost gleeful. Dear old Mumsie!

Uncle then informed us that he must leave for home by the Sunday morning
train. This was a disappointment to us, of course, and then Mr. Bang
said:

“Auntie, I learn that Norway Lake Hotel is the last word of comfort
and—as Elsie will be pleased to hear—fashion. We can leave here Sunday
morning and be there at three in the afternoon. And, do you know—I
won’t add the ‘really,’ unless my ears or understanding played me
false—Mrs. Mount is also——”

“If Mrs. Mount is going that fact will give Norway Lake its
certificate,” cut in Mumsie.

I stood limp—Norway Lake!—not Mrs. Mount or her daughter was the
person to whom my mind flew, but Charlie Lien. But what could I say—do?
For a healthy debutante to decline to go to a winter resort, such a
winter resort as Norway House, would be suspicious. I said nothing.

JANUARY 15TH.

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.

JANUARY 17TH.

Jack Bang has saved my life and I hate him! How I hate him! I know now
the meaning of “a consuming hate.” My heart seems of lead. I am
frightened because I hate him so much.

Charlie Lien was taking me down the toboggan slide when it happened.
Mrs. Lien and Mrs. Mount were there, each with a cavalier; and Mumsie
with Mr. Bang. Charlie and I had reached the head of the stairs and had
placed our toboggan ready and I had just seated myself. Mrs. Mount was
next in turn and was talking to Charlie.

“Do you know, really, Mr. Lien, I think you are the nicest young man I
ever met. You are such a good sport, and so good to everybody, even if
they don’t amount to anything ———”

At this point I felt the toboggan move, and a moment after a number of
shrieks, and then a great thump behind and then—a hundred sensations.
The toboggan skidded this way and that, first on one side of the slide
and then on the other, till it settled down to its arrow-like course, by
which time I was exhausted through fright. To fortify myself I put my
arm behind me and with it encircled what I thought was the head of
Charlie Lien, murmuring, “Oh, Charlie, oh! Charlie.”

Imagine my feelings when I found I had the head of Mr. Bang. At the
moment I would willingly have severed my right hand to have retrieved my
mishap. Oh! oh! how can I express my mortification? No words of mine can
tell.

I suppose Mumsie, and Uncle, and other old-fashioned people would say
that it was noble of Mr. Bang to say “It was nothing,” and to ignore the
fact that I had put my arm about his neck and called him Charlie. If he
had only appeared one whit more self-satisfied after the occurrence, I
believe I could almost love him. But, possibly, for him to feel more
self-satisfied than he does is beyond his capacity. And then if he had
only smiled even cynically when our eyes met at the bottom of the slide,
I could forgive him much—the beast!

It all happened through that wretched woman, Mrs. Mount, who wants him
for a son-in-law, trying to win him, I know. Charlie let go the handles
of the toboggan just a moment to look at this audacious creature when
the toboggan slid off. Of course, without its steersman it would have
run over the side of the run-way and I would have been killed. But Mr.
Bang, who was watching everything as usual, made a spring as I passed
him and landed, where Charlie should have been, behind me. He certainly
did well after he gained the steersman’s seat. Had he been unable to
steady the toboggan and we had both gone over the run-way, we would have
been killed—wouldn’t we?

Of course, it broke up the tobogganning for the morning. Everybody
crowded round us. Mumsie was almost as white as the snow when she came
up. Mrs. Lien was most sympathetic. Others said nice things and then
Mrs. Mount, having reserved her fire until the last, said: “Oh! Miss
Travers, it was all so melographic. We shall expect a romance to grow
out of this, shan’t we, Mrs. Somers?”

I was so angry I nearly fainted through the effort I made in restraining
myself. Of course, too, I had no fitting retort ready. It would be so
nice if we would only have a stock of retorts ready for use on
emergency. And I don’t believe there is any such word as melographic.

I know Mrs. Mount wants Charlie Lien for her Doris, and this knowledge
came through a conversation I heard last night. Norway House has
wonderful acoustic properties. Sounds come from everywhere, anywhere,
and last night as I lay in bed, I heard the following:

“But, Mother, the Travers girl is quite good-looking, and I don’t see
why Charlie Lien should not marry her.”

“Doris,” came Mrs. Mount’s voice in the severest tones, “You must not
contradict your mother. I say the Travers girl is not nearly as
good-looking as you are—you who are all grace and beautiful as a
cowslip in the morning dew—”

“Oh, Mother!”

“Now, don’t contradict—”

“But, Mother, Charlie has had Miss Travers to lunch at the Hunt Club,
and they’ve been seen together several times.”

“Now, now, Doris, you should know young men will be young men. But it’s
time Charlie Lien began to look around serious-like—”

“But why should he fancy me?”

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s why I want you to put your best foot
forward, don’t you know, really———”

“But Mother, if Mrs. Somers did not think there was something in the
affair between Charlie and Miss Travers———”

“Now, Doris, I don’t want any more back answerings. To show I ain’t a
fool, I may tell you that I’ve sounded Mrs. Somers and have found out
it’s the big fellow who has put up the coin, so now! It’s all very
plain—”

“But Mother, Mr. Bang is not paying Miss Travers any attention.”

“Now, Doris, I have told you already I don’t want any back answerings.
You’re my daughter, and I want to see you well married. When I’m dying I
don’t want to be thinking of you sitting round a boarding-house about
the time you should be a grandmother.”

“There’s lots of time, Mother.”

“There ain’t lots of time, and you know it. Don’t you know, really,
there ain’t a Charlie Lien to be picked up every day.”

“But, Mother, I can’t pick him—”

“Doris,” the mother’s voice was rising in anger, “what did I say about
back answerings?”

“Well, Mother, do please give me time to think. Assuming Charlie is
having a harmless flirtation—”

“Harmless flirtation, indeed, with a hussy that has no money, and no
good clothes to set off what few good looks she has got—”

At this point I heard a door slam. Evidently Doris had left her mamma
whose voice was getting coarser every second the controversy continued.
“Hussy indeed!” I thought. Her Doris! Bah! But how in the name of
fortune did Doris learn of my doings with Charlie Lien. Of course, no
mention was made of the Palm-room, which is a comfort. And how coarse
the mother’s voice became as it gained in heat. Her “ain’ts” and her
“back answerings”—Oh! to think of my having toadied to her! I painted
her picture at my age, a buxom slattern, that is what she was, a
slattern, the butt of every jolly cavalier who felt a budding wit; bare
feet, possibly, and dirty petticoats, tattered and torn! And her home,
the tavern at the dusty corner, the long intervals between the coming
and going of guests; the wild acclaim, the shouted jest, the latest news
from the seat of war, political, or otherwise.

And to think that I, Elsie Travers, toadied to her!

The conversation I have recorded I heard on Sunday night. Of course,
there has been nothing else to record—beyond the fact that we travelled
by the same train as the Mounts.

And now to return to the thread of my narrative. After the first flutter
of excitement and Mrs. Mount’s stab at matchmaking, I had a fit of
nerves and went to my room. I had my lunch sent to me; I wished to
think. And I thought and thought; and then I realized that all my effort
could not hit upon a line of action. What to do? Would that a fairy
would speak!

But a demon spoke—a demon, a hell-cat’s words with the philosophy of
Satan!

Shortly after lunch I heard the Mounts at it again.

“I’m sure she’ll never marry him now. What girl would marry a man who
would imperil her life so?”

“What do you know of diplomacy? Will you answer me that now, you who was
so fond of back answering last night?”

“I—”

“I tell you, you know nothing. The girl’s gone to bed, and her no more
scared than you be.”

“But, Mother, her nerves—”

“Her nerves, her nothing, all bunkum! She’s gone to bed to ketch him.
She’s going to ketch him if you don’t look out. That’s what I’m
frightened of.”

“But how?”

“How—how—how? Don’t you know how the chorus girls ketch the lordlings?
Why, keep him at a distance, you bet. I’ll tell you she’s no fool, that
girl is no fool. That fledgling is a wise bird, as wise as the
‘chicken[5] wid de big eye.’”

“Will keeping a lordling at a distance catch him?”

“Ketch him? Certainly, didn’t I say so before. Keep him chasing,
chasing, chasing and never satisfy him until he pops.”

“Pops, Mother?”

“Pops the question, of course. Now mark my words, see if the hussy does
not pout, squirm, and lally gag; make out she’s mortal offended and play
him to a finish. That is, she would do it if she knew enough—”

Of course, I could not see Mrs. Mount as she spoke; but her voice—her
words and expression were totally different from what she used in
society. But her words gave a stimulus to my thoughts. I was very angry.
To be called a “hussy.” And the slurs the women made against me! I hated
her for it, even more than I hated Jack. And so I thought again. And
then I reached a decision. I would fulfil Mrs. Mount’s prophecy. I would
repulse Charlie Lien and flirt with Jack Bang. But I would revenge
myself on both the woman and the man, I mean Charlie Lien. If Charlie
proposes to me I shall say “NO.” So bids the spirit of my ancestors.

I appeared at dinner and was the sensation of the moment. I smiled, oh
so sweetly, on Mr. Bang, and after dinner settled down to a book at the
side of Mumsie in the fireside circle. Mrs. Lien and Mumsie fell to
talking. Out of the vast amount of small talk that I heard, the
following remains in my memory:

“Do you know, Mrs. Somers, my cook absolutely refused to cook a dinner
if Lady Billings was to be a guest. I reasoned with her—it was no use.
‘Mrs. Lien,’ said she, ‘I refuse to cook a dinner for Molly Fenton.’
‘But, Kate,’ I pleaded, ‘I don’t ask you to serve it. All I ask you to
do is to cook it.’ ‘I don’t care,’ she answered. ‘I’ll walk out of your
house before I’ll cook a dinner for Molly Fenton, even if she now is
Lady Billings. When we were children together, Mother would not allow me
to play with her, and I won’t cook a dinner for her now.’”

[5] An Italian navvy once shot and ate an owl, and when he was asked
what he had eaten, he replied: “De chicken wid de big eye.”

JANUARY 18TH.

I arranged it all most successfully. I really believe I am diplomatic.
Mr. Bang asked me to go snow-shoeing with him this morning. We went. The
sky was bright, the wind was up and it was very cold, almost numbing. We
crossed Norway Lake, and down into the forest, and then we felt no wind,
and as we walked and walked, I felt a gentle glow come over me.

I soon found I lost myself in the interest I gained in Mr. Bang’s
conversation, just as I did one day long ago. He told me of the forest
wilds of British Columbia, and trappers’ tales of the deer, and the
martin, and the fisher, and the beaver, and that strange creature, the
Canada-Jay, or Whiskey Jack.

“You talk like an animal story book,” I remarked.

“Do I?” he asked. “I’m sorry. The animal story men are fakers, and I
would not like you to think me a faker. There is not a trapper in the
West who is not more or less conversant with the writings of this class
of authors. All I have heard speak of them, damn them up and down. Even
I dislike them, and wonder at the public taste. But then the public is
an ass.”

Wapoose is the rabbit of the North. His tracks were everywhere about. In
the North everybody, everything lives on the rabbit. The Indians,
trappers, the owls, the fox, the wolf, all feast upon poor wapoose. And
like many another faithful friend he is despised.

But the silence of the forest is oppressive. Stepping into it one feels
as if one entered the realm of nature. One feels the temporary guest of
the world where a ceaseless war is being waged, in which the fittest
only survive, where animal life is maintained by the death of animal
life. Nature is as cruel as a steel-trap that the fur-hunter sets for
the fox.

And the trees stand about spectral in the silence; the firs and spruces
with their branches laden with snow-droop as if in shame. They picture
modesty. The clatter of a squirrel, or the squeak of a tom-tit, or the
hammer, hammer of the woodpecker come at long intervals. They merely
announce the great oppressive silence, each striking his own note.

All the region round about Norway Lake is a Government game and timber
reserve. The streams are filled with beaver and the woods with other
fur-bearing animals.

We came to a beaver-dam, Mr. Bang recognizing the rounded ridge in the
snow marking the dam and domes of snow marking the houses. He told me of
the strange family huddled in these humble homes and the superstitions
they have engendered.

And after two hours tramp we came to Napoleon’s cabin. Napoleon is one
of the game wardens, and by a strange chance was known to Mr. Bang. Mr.
Bang had planned our tramp that we might call on his friend. Napoleon
was at home. I really believe Mr. Bang had sent him word we were coming,
as everything about the cabin was so neat, and the warm air that greeted
us at the open door was in itself hospitable. It told me I might take
off my wraps and rest and be comfortable.

Napoleon was a grim customer whose broken English was that of the
Canadian French. His grin was expansive. He asked question after
question of mutual friends in the Kootenays, but his eye was continually
on me; that is, in a sly way, he was continually glancing at me.

As I sat perfectly happy and lazy it struck me I was in an odd position,
deep in the forest, in the cabin of a good-natured savage. But somehow I
felt safe, and I felt I was absorbing local colour by the bucket-full,
and could now feel superior to the mere reader of books. I fancied my
two companions fighting wolves, and bears, and wild Indians, all most
exciting. This shows only that in some ways I have not yet ceased being
a child.

Just as Napoleon was putting the finishing touches on the laying of the
lunch table, his accumulating admiration burst its bounds.

“By gosh! shees look for nice leetle girl, some day maybe shees Messus
Bang, uh?”

Of course, I blushed crimson. Fortunately Mr. Bang’s face was turned
away from me, and, of course, he could not turn to look at me, and so
could not measure, my confusion. But I saw his—his confusion. He
flushed a moment and admonished Napoleon not to take things too
seriously. But I had heard it, the spoken words, “Mrs. Bang.” Really,
they did not sound so very awful. I think the pleasurable anticipation I
felt for the savory lunch must have made them less objectionable.

I did enjoy that lunch!

JANUARY 20TH.

I am to be Mrs. Bang and am reconciled. Fate has spoken and all
sensibilities have been matched by Fate. And oh! what an adventure was
ours. Has all history such another tale to tell? I know now what my hate
for Jack meant; it was the fight my spirit put up against his spirit.
But his has now the mastery and I love him. After all, I believe a
woman’s greatest privilege is to love. It is so much more blessed to
give than to receive. How infinite is the philosophy of the Bible!

As I held his poor, lacerated head in my lap in the depths of the forest
last night, I gave up my soul. He murmured, “You have saved my life,”
and I felt it was true. It was all so tragic, so terrible, so glorious.

As I lie in bed propped up in pillows, my own head bandaged, I can see
them now, savage, furious, bristling beasts—the World, the Flesh and
the Devil. What power they held, what fury, hate, and passion! How vast
is the scope of nature.

Jack and I went to Napoleon’s cabin and had lunch and then it began to
snow and we tarried. And then the snow stopped and we set out, and the
wolves came. How my blood ran chill as I heard their howling coming near
and nearer. We were too far from Napoleon’s cabin to retreat, besides
their howlings came from our rear.

I suppose I have no right to call old Devil by that name, as he was
leader of the pack, but it fitted him so well.

There was no hesitation in his movements. As an arrow from a twanging
bow-string he sprang at Jack’s throat. Of course, I only call them the
World, the Flesh, and the Devil for the purposes of this narrative. I am
not trying to turn my diary into an allegory. They were all devils, but
I must individualize them. Devil was the biggest, strongest, fiercest.

When Jack learned by the howling of the wolves they were on our trail,
he armed himself with a great club, and after arming me with a smaller
club, he lifted me into the branches of a birch tree. Then he took up
his stand, my defender, my savior, my hero. He stood with his back
against the tree trunk.

His views of life are so noble, so broad, so profound. I have told him
everything, that is, almost all about everything. This, of course, is
since the fight. His comment was so far-reaching, so generous.

Folly visits most homes and most individuals sometimes in our lives. The
thing is to come through it, and having come through it not to be worse
than when going in, for we must be wiser. Our grip on life is stronger.
To have made an error in younger life and to recognize that error makes
us surer-footed on the trail of life, and it gives us a measure of our
powers of resistance.

And then I told him the real climax of my life, which is the climax of
this story, came to me last Thursday as I sat in the Senate Chamber.
Then the spirit of my ancestor spoke as it never spoke before. Then I
made my choice; then I realized Society was indeed the folly of the age.
To this he replied with the question:

“Can you wonder the Chinese worship their ancestors? Perhaps we—”

“Perhaps we may drop Christianity for ancestor—”

“It is not necessary to drop Christianity. Christianity is not
incompatible with ancestor-worship.”

Dear Jack!

Darkness was settling down over the scene and Devil’s eyes gleamed fire
as he came. And so did the eyes of World and Flesh, for the three were
in the air at the same time. Three pairs of jaws snapped together like
steel traps, pitilessly. Oh! the cruelty of those jaws.

As the three snapped their jaws, Jack’s club swung round and they were
hurled away. In the attack Devil sprang at Jack with Flesh at his left
and World at his right. Jack’s club caught Flesh behind the ear and made
him feel very sorry. And World and Devil sat on their haunches and
snapped.

Jack glared at the wolves and the wolves glared at Jack. I called to
him: “Jack, why do you not come up into the tree with me?” It was the
first time I had ever called him Jack.

“That would not do, for if we stayed in the tree very long we should
freeze to death. I must stay below and fight for us both, dear.”

My hero!

World and Devil sat at a distance and licked their chops, while Flesh
wandered about with his head bent low.

What woman knowing she was loved by such a man could help returning his
love. We were primitive, and I’ve heard love is primitive, back through
the ages to when man had little but his superior intelligence to guard
his love.

As Flesh regained his senses, the three threshed about up and down and
then they sprang, this time Devil coming at my foot. Of course, it was
all fancy, but I fancied I felt his hot breath. I foiled his attempt
while Jack managed to hit him over the back. It was not a very hard blow
as its force was spent ere it reached him, it having actually been aimed
at the other two.

Darkness was settling fast, and this fact increased my horror. Jack
enquired if I were cold. I answered, no. This was between the howling of
the wolves. Jack asked me if I could climb higher into the tree. I
replied I could not. Then he told me to pluck from the tree all the
loose bark I could and roll it into bundles. This I did as the wolves
held a longer council of war. They circled round and round the tree,
ugly, grey, devilish, watchful brutes. Jack told me to undo the sash I
wore round my waist and lower it to him. This I did, and then he told me
to shout and wave my arms to attract the wolves’ attention. When I did
as he requested, he drew his knife and his match-box from his pocket
and, placing his club between his knees, tied them into the end of the
sash and told me to hoist away. With the knife I managed to secure a
much greater quantity of birch bark. I asked if I should light any of
the bark, but Jack said no, as it was no use driving the wolves away
unless we beat them. By this he meant that should we merely frighten
them into the forest depths we were still their prisoners. The bark was
to be for an emergency.

The wolves crept closer, ever watchful, the cruel beasts! Their howlings
and the snap, snap of their teeth seemed to grow louder and more
frequent. Suddenly they sprang, Devil at Jack’s throat. Jack had swung
his club in order to guard me; this caused his left shoulder to remain
unprotected. Devil seized it in his fangs. Fortunately Jack had been
able to throw up his left elbow to protect his neck, but over he went.
Quick as lightning the other two were on him.

I lighted the birch bark, and with it flaming in my hand, dropped into
the midst of the raging, struggling pack. Oh! the glory of it—to rescue
the man I loved—and, incidentally, to save my own life, for I did not
know then that Napoleon was on his way to our rescue.

First in the face of one, then in the face of another I flung the
flaming bark, and screamed and shouted. The smell of singeing hair
sickened me, but it frightened them away. Although they had tasted
blood, dear Jack’s blood, they drew off. And then I remembered. I placed
the flaming bark against the birch tree; it burst into flames; the
forest round about was lighted up, and then I knelt by the side of my
lover.

Napoleon came. His rifle rang out. Devil at least was dead.

And now I have Jack, my Jack! The Mounts and the Liens and all that
vulgar, selfish, self-advertising, wasteful crowd; they are nothing
. . . .

Mrs. Bang!

                                THE END
               Toronto: T. H. Best Printing Co., Limited




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

    Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where
    multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

    Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer
    errors occur.

    Book name and author have been added to the original book cover.
    The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _As Others See Us_, by William Henry Pope Jarvis.]