CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST DAY.

On the first of September, when Mauney came to Lockwood to find a boarding-place and to buy a few articles of clothing before the school term began, he found everybody in ill humor. Along Queen Street West, in the shop district, men were sweltering, with handkerchiefs tucked about their collars, carrying their coats and fanning themselves with their hats. In a shoe store the air was humid and suffocating, and the patience of the young clerk seemed dangerously exhausted.

“I don’t know why you don’t like those oxfords,” he said, gruffly, as he unlaced the third shoe he had tried to sell his customer.

“And we’re not going into the reasons for our dislike,” Mauney replied. “I don’t like them, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well,” sighed the clerk, “we’ve got better shoes in the store; but you’d have to pay twelve-fifty.”

“Have you any objection to me paying twelve-fifty?”

The shoes were fitted.

“You won’t make any mistake if you get those, sir,” affirmed the salesman, more affably. “I just sold a pair of those very shoes to Ted Courtney, not more than an hour ago.”

“And who the devil is Ted Courtney?” asked Mauney.

The clerk surveyed his customer blankly for a moment. “If you don’t know who the Courtneys are,” he mumbled, at length, “you don’t know much about Lockwood.”

“I’ll have to confess that I don’t,” admitted Mauney, with a chuckle to himself, “but these shoes suit me all right.”

He next entered a haberdashery shop and asked for shirts. The clerk was a smartly-dressed man of middle age.

“You don’t care for those,” he commented, as Mauney finished surveying some that were on display. “Well, we haven’t much choice left in the cheaper lines, but I can show you some in a very excellent material. This particular shirt,” he continued, as he selected an example, “is being worn by the best dressers this season. We have had difficulty keeping stocked in it. I may say that I sold a half-dozen of this line to Mr. Ted Courtney, only yesterday.”

Mauney’s hand fell limply on the counter as he began to laugh for no reason apparent to the serious-faced salesman.

“I wish you’d tell me who Ted Courtney is. I haven’t been able to decide as yet whether he is the Beau Nash of Lockwood or a cousin of the Prince of Wales.”

“You’re a stranger in town? Indeed. The Courtneys, of course, are among our wealthiest residents—awfully nice people, with whom it is always a pleasure to deal.”

“In that case,” said Mauney, with an amused expression, “I suppose I had better fall in line.”

Next he proceeded to a tobacconist’s to buy a newspaper and cigarettes. While he was talking to the clerk he realized that he was being gently, but effectively, elbowed sidewise by a stranger, who, in his impatience to capture a newspaper from a pile nearby, reached directly in front of Mauney’s face. In drawing out his copy of the journal he not only upset the pile, but knocked the silver out of Mauney’s hand. Turning in expectation of adjusting what was evidently an unavoidable situation, Mauney was surprised to behold the young man walking quickly away through the door and entering a sumptuous motor-car at the curb. He watched him drive away, then turned to the clerk.

“Did you notice who that fellow was?” he asked.

“You bet I did,” the other snarled, as he brought order once more to the untidy counter, “and I’ve got his number, too. That bird is getting just a wee bit too fresh. Just because his old man happened to make a few dishonest millions out West, he’s got the idea that the rest of us bums just live to wait on him. But I’ll tell you one thing,” he added with a curse, “the next time he tries any rough-house he’s going to get a heavy lid.”

“I wouldn’t blame you much,” said Mauney, picking up his change. “Who is he?”

“Don’t you know him? Why that’s Mister Edward Courtney. Lives in that house down Queen East that looks like a bloody prison. Got about twenty motor-cars, but don’t know when he’s well off. Just let him try that trick again and, so help me Kate, I don’t care if it takes me to the police court, he’s goin’ to get a rocker right on that damned dimple!”

That evening, when talking to Freda, Mauney related the incident and was surprised when she defended Courtney.

“I haven’t any use for the family taken collectively,” she admitted, “but you’d have to know Ted to understand that incident. He’s really not such a bad lot—a most terrible enthusiast over trifles and frightfully absent-minded at times. Probably when he bunted into you he was in a hurry to get to the ball game and didn’t realize what he was doing. I’ve known Ted just about all my life, and I’d put it down to pure thoughtlessness and animal pep. Of course, he’s spoiled and needs a lesson, I know that!”

“You’ll get accustomed to Lockwood ways, perhaps,” she said a little later, as she took Mauney for a spin up the river road, out of town. “And perhaps you won’t. I hate to discourage you, but I’m a little afraid you never will tune up to Lockwood. I never have, and we’re something alike, are we not?”

As they sped along the winding tarvia road, under arching elms, past clusters of willows in the hollows, and groves of pine, with numerous summer residences facing the river, Freda kept nodding to acquaintances in other cars.

“Isn’t that Courtney’s roadster?” asked Mauney, turning to see it disappear behind them.

“Yes, and Ted saw me,” laughed Freda, “and, what’s more exciting, he saw you. I’ll bet anything he’ll turn around and overtake us before we’ve gone much farther. I’ll tell you what, Mauney! We’ll stop at the Country Club. I’m not a member any more, but a lot of the real Lockwood swells hang out there. Of course, I just want to show you off. Mrs. Beecher will see you and then to-morrow at some tea or other she’ll let out the big item of the season. I can just hear her as she makes her announcement: ‘What do you suppose! Freda MacDowell breezed into the club last night with a Mr. Bard, who, I understand, is the new member of the collegiate staff. Hum, hum, now what do you think of that?’”

“And what will they think of it, Freda?” asked Mauney seriously.

“They can’t think. They haven’t got the equipment. It’s just the news they’re after, nothing more. They can’t think anything, anyway. But I want them to know that you were riding in my car. Of course,” chuckled Freda, “if you were a married man, then they’d be happier. They’d have a scandal, then.”

“Is there much scandal in Lockwood?” Mauney asked, carelessly.

“Scandal!” she exclaimed. “Why, these people live on it. I just wish I could smuggle you into a real _bona fide_ afternoon tea. It’s a very tame tea that doesn’t succeed in executing at least one hitherto unblemished reputation. It’s love affairs they prefer, of course. But—am I boring you?”

“On the contrary I’m quite interested, Freda. Most towns are the same.”

“But Lockwood has developed it to something like a fine art,” she replied, with the certainty of tone of an expert who has studied the matter in hand. Then she proceeded to give a characteristically accurate summary of the entire subject.

“There were afternoon teas in Lockwood before there were churches, and even to-day they are better attended. Church, with these people, is an occasional business, but teas are a constant necessity. Some of these fat society dames have reached the sublime stage of existence where their enfeebled brains can deal with only the simplest data. They can’t read books that require any thought. They don’t have to read, so for that very reason they don’t read. But they do have to go to afternoon teas, because it’s there they find the exact food they’re in need of. I don’t mean cookies and cakes, either, because most of them have been requested by their M.D.’s to cut down on carbo-hydrates. What they need, Mauney, is scandal. If the scandal deals with a love affair, why then it’s an A1 scandal. Anything racy and illicit holds them like nothing else. Now, just why these bloated excuses for womanhood—and many of them have had turbulent enough youths themselves—should get to the stage where only vicarious experiences can stir their vanishing passions, is a question that revolts me. I leave that for the morbid psychologists to settle.”

“I’ll tell you something, Mauney,” she went on, as she looked before her along the road. “These afternoon teas are no joke with me. I hate them as I hate anything that’s noisy and empty. They had a lot to do with my leaving home.”

“But did you ever think, Freda,” asked Mauney, “that gossip unconsciously cleanses society? People, fearing scandal, are more likely to be careful how they act.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied. “There’s something in that argument, too. If these old gossipers in Lockwood were conscientiously trying to reform society by means of publicity campaigns I’d give them credit. In the first place, however, they don’t give a continental about morals, public or private, and in the second place, they’re very corruptible.”

“Corruptible?”

“Yes; they grant exemptions. There are people in Lockwood who can get away with murder just because they’ve got money. There are people who are never discussed because the scandal-mongers fear to lose their favor. No; I put no stock in that cleansing business at all. I’ve told you exactly what I think of the whole bunch.”

“But why take them so seriously, Freda?” asked Mauney. “It’s almost an adage that women will gossip just as men will smoke.”

“I suppose it’s because of the way I’m constituted,” she replied. “We had a wash-woman who used to say to me, ‘Freda, everything all depends on just how it is with you.’ And I’ll tell you just how it is with me, Mauney. I’ve got a serious streak somewhere in my system.”

“I think you’re the most serious girl I know,” interrupted Mauney.

“Thanks. I admire your insight, young man. I really do want to thank you for just that, Mauney. But I was going to tell you that I went through hell, almost literally, six years ago, just before I went to college. The real hard-boiled fact of the case was that I lost my respect for my own mother, and the main reason I lost it was because, apparently, she could live and thrive and be entirely satisfied on the mental diet of afternoon-tea scandals. So, although, as you say, gossiping may be considered as part of the day’s work, it sometimes has unforeseen results. And once or twice I’ve seen people rendered extremely unhappy, by scandals they didn’t deserve. The ladies aren’t a bit accurate.”

“I think,” said Mauney, “you ought to write a book on scandal-mongery as well as one on a university.”

“Oh, but I was going to tell you the hidden irony of this scandal-mongery in Lockwood. It will show you just how insincere they are. The persons scandalized become popular, provided their misdeeds are not merely stupid. They become actually heroes. They are admired secretly all the time. They gain an importance never before enjoyed. But they don’t know this, and they suffer needlessly under the lash of women’s tongues. I tell you, Mauney, these women will excuse a person for anything. All they ask is the vicarious fun of it for themselves. I knew a merchant in town who never had much of a business until after it was reported that he had for years been running another home up in Merlton. Apparently they admired, not only his personal cleverness, but his business ability to be able to afford it. He became popular at once and has had a good trade ever since.”

Freda was now turning down a side road to the river, where on the level bank stood the Country Club House, a long, low bungalow finished in shingles of British Columbia cedar. On the wide verandahs which surrounded it many young and middle-aged people were sitting at tables, drinking or standing in groups engaged in conversation.

They left the car at the end of a long line on the side of the road and walked towards the verandah. They could hear the tones of the piano within the pavilion, and as they came nearer could see the moving figures of people dancing. As Freda guided Mauney about the verandah, nodding to several of the guests, he noticed that the constant buzz of conversation was concerned chiefly with golf. Mauney was introduced to some of the members, and as he talked with them found himself slightly ill at ease, because he had never learned to play golf. After a few minutes he began to be conscious of many curious eyes turned in his direction, some of them friendly enough, others merely curious, and a few intensely critical. The conversation was growing less. He felt awkward until he suddenly realized that all these people had been waiting for something, when at last a roadster, which had now become familiar to Mauney, glided quickly up to the verandah, uncomfortably filled with men. As they alighted, carrying musical instruments, it became clear that Courtney had motored to town after an orchestra. An impromptu dance immediately followed.

It had no sooner begun than Courtney, finding Freda at a table with Mauney, came up to speak to her. Gracefully tall, wearing flannels, bare-headed and completely at ease, he appeared to be not older than twenty-five. His black hair was scrupulously barbered and glossy. His flashing, black eyes seemed to know the world, and there was an air of mild superiority, not only in his confident carriage, but in the exclusive smile of black moustachios, red lips, and very white, perfect teeth, with which he greeted Freda.

“Hello, Fly-away,” he said in a deep, musical voice. “I swear you were doing fifty when I passed you.”

“Mr. Courtney,” said Freda, turning towards Mauney, who had risen, “meet Mr. Bard, my friend.”

“How do you do?” said Courtney, with a stiff nod; then devoted himself quickly to Freda once more.

“Awful night for a dance,” he admitted. “But everybody wanted it, so I blew down for Pinkerton’s Harmony Hounds. Lockwood must be agreeing with you, Freda. I never saw you look more captivating.”

“Thanks for those few kind words, Ted,” she replied dryly, although she blushed and wished in a queer flash that Mauney could occasionally say such flattering things.

“Are you dancing?” Courtney inquired.

“Really, Ted, it’s too warm, thank you; and Mr. Bard and I will be leaving soon, anyhow.”

“Indeed!” he said, with a quick side-glance in Mauney’s direction. Then he turned towards him. “Staying in town long, Mr. Bard, may I ask?”

“Quite a little while,” said Mauney. “I’m billed to appear every morning at nine—at the collegiate, in the role of plain teacher.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Courtney with evident surprise. “Teacher! Oh, indeed! I don’t envy you the job of trying to pound knowledge into some of the local skulls, but I hope you like the town.”

“So far I’ve found it unusually interesting,” replied Mauney, with a twinkle of mischievous light in his eyes. “I think the word ‘variegated’ would describe my first impressions—some skulls much thicker than others, as you can readily imagine.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” said Courtney, a trifle puzzled at Mauney’s apparent innuendo. “I’m damned if I quite grasp what you mean, though.”

“Well, you see, it’s like this,” smiled Mauney, with sudden decision to soften his own manner to the meaningless vapidity of Courtney’s, “I’ve really been here only one day as yet and, no matter how shrewd an observer I was, one could hardly expect me to know the place, could one?”

“Of course not,” readily admitted Courtney, with a glance toward Freda, who was quite preoccupied. “Well, Freda,” he said, turning to leave, “I trust you will be more careful about speeding in future. I hear Pinkerton’s outfit getting into their stride; so, cheerio!” With a little wave of his hand he left, without again looking at Mauney.