Chapter IV: Part 4

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.