DIANA'S STORY.
My cup is not yet full. I hear that Mr. and Mrs. Warrington are not
coming; he has slightly sprained his ankle, and is unable to walk. I
learn something also that vexes me still more: Lord Rexborough is
here.
"Such a jolly party!" Curly tells me, with enthusiasm, "and only a
small one,--which makes it all the pleasanter; though I'm awfully
sorry about poor old Warrington. Lady Gwyneth's sister, Lady Audrey,
just as jolly as Lady Gwyn. Miss Puggins, Desborough's cousin,--such
a caution" (subsiding into laughter); "but I'm not to make fun of
her, because Lady Gwyn wants to get up a match between her and
Charlie Montagu. Fancy, Di, a good-looking chap like that taking up
with Miss Puggins! Puggins! by jingo! what a name! I don't wonder
at her wanting to change it. That makes four ladies, with you, and
we four men: so we're just complete. I wouldn't mind changing that
little snob Desborough for some one else,--say Seldon, for instance"
(with a sly glance at me). "And, Di" (frowning a little), "I say, do
make up your mind to be pleasant and civil to Lady Gwyn. I'm sure
you'd like her if you knew her as well as I do."
"Grant me patience!" I think; but I answer by a smile. If I am
unhappy and dissatisfied at being here, that is no reason I should
wish to infect him with my discontent.
I do not meet my hostess until we are assembled before dinner. She
greets me with much politeness, not to say cordiality, and I cannot
help thinking that, so far, she shines to more advantage in her own
house than she did at Warrington. Her sister is a second edition of
herself; if anything, rather noisier, and more free of speech. Lord
Rexborough greets me effusively; my host, who looks smaller and more
snobbish than ever, treats me with patronizing civility.
"So we are reduced to eight," says Lady Gwyneth, addressing Lord
Rexborough,--"a most odious number, particularly at dinner, where it
entails two men and two women sitting together."
"Can't be helped," he answers. "Only having a lady on one side of
you, you can't make the other jealous, you know."
"Ah, but you are one of the fortunate ones," laughs Lady Gwyneth.
"Knowing your proclivities, I have taken care that you sha'n't be
left out in the cold."
Here dinner is announced. Mr. Desborough takes me (I suppose he
could not very well take any one else). After all, it is just as
well. I would rather sit next to him than Lord Rexborough; and Curly
could not take his own sister. As for Captain Montagu (I cannot
bring myself to think of him as colonel), he of course has the
heiress assigned him; and heaven knows the less I speak to him the
less likely am I to feel bitter and miserable. Lady Audrey sits on
my left, but she does not waste the sweets of her conversation upon
me: she, her sister, Lord Rexborough, and Curly make a very lively,
not to say noisy, quartet. The other four members of the party are
as conspicuously dull and silent. I am not a big enough swell to
make my host put out his conversational powers. Miss Puggins, on his
other side, does not seem very talkative; and Captain Montagu devotes
himself to his dinner. I have remarked that whatever disturbing
causes may affect a man's mind, they very rarely interfere with his
enjoyment of dinner, especially if, as in this instance, it is an
exceptionally good one. Such is not the case with a woman, I
suppose, or, at all events, with a girl. I have naturally a most
healthy appetite, but under the influence of any excitement food is
abhorrent to me. So I say, "No, thank you," to almost everything, to
my host's evident disgust, and occupy myself by watching furtively my
opposite neighbors.
"Really, Miss Carew," says Mr. Desborough, out of all patience at
last, "I am afraid you are very hard to please, or your appetite is a
wonderfully small one. It would be hardly worth while to keep a
two-hundred-guinea _chef_ for so unappreciative a lady."
"I have a very good appetite, thank you," I answer. "Everything
looks delicious, but at home I am only accustomed to one or two
dishes, and those of the plainest kind."
He stares at me in undisguised astonishment. He evidently cannot
imagine any one revealing their own shame (poverty is shame to him),
much less glorying in it. For somehow I do take a delight in making
the worst and humblest of myself before him, by way of contrast to
his vulgar assumption.
"Oh!" he says, when he can find words; "there will be some mutton
presently, I dare say."
Meantime, I am taking an inventory of Miss Puggins's charms. She has
red hair, plain red,--not auburn, nor burnished gold, nor _mordoré_,
nor the subtle sun-kissed shade dear to painters, but red, plain red,
such as in common unvarnished speech is called carrotty. And her
complexion! one might call her tallow-face, if one did not remember
that Juliet's father once said,--
"Out on you, tallow-face!"
She has nothing to remind one of Juliet, except perhaps that her
Romeo is next her, and my eyes flit from her dull, vacant face and
rest lovingly on his. Yes, lovingly; I will not recall the word;
however low he may have fallen in my esteem, however I may have
banished him from his throne in my heart, nothing can detract from
the outward beauty of his face, that makes it a pleasure (a sad
enough one, heaven knows!) only to look at him. And Romeo's name was
Montagu, I think, and the conceit pleases me. I resume my
contemplation of her face, which looks uglier by contrast with the
beauty of his, as his looks handsomer from its proximity to the
plainness of hers. She has dull blue eyes, a short, thick nose, a
mouth rather wide and thin-lipped, but her teeth--oh, great redeeming
point!--are good. She has large red hands, and seems to know it, for
she tries to hide them. Now and then Colonel Montagu talks to her.
It is evidently uphill work, but her dull face brightens up with
pleasure, and she takes the opportunity to glance shyly up in the
face that she evidently finds as handsome as I do. Poor girl! I
feel no spite or grudge against her; indeed, I am rather sorry for
her than otherwise,--she is so utterly unattractive, the most jealous
woman on earth could not suffer one pang through her. If she marries
him ten times over, I shall feel no jealousy of her; of what value is
the beautiful case when the jewels are gone from it?
It is a dreary ordeal to me, this long, sumptuous, costly dinner; the
many wax lights, the heavy odorous flowers, the glittering gold and
silver plate, the shining glass, are no curious feast for my eyes,
now they have grown accustomed to such sights. The loud, merry
laughter of the hostess and her friends jars upon me. Once or twice
they try to draw Colonel Montagu into their gay talk, but he too
seems somewhat out of sorts to-night, and only half responds.
"What's the matter with you, Charlie?" roars Lord Rexborough across
the table. "You're as dull as ditch-water. Are you uncomfortable
about the Leger, or are you meditating upon the heavy responsibility
of being a lieutenant-colonel?"
"That's it," answers Colonel Montagu, looking up and laughing. "I am
trying to think how the deuce I shall spend all my leave."
"Oh, go and look on at them, and make yourself popular by doing other
fellows' 'guards,' like the 'bus-driver on a holiday."
"That might be a good plan," replies the other, and then he returns
to silence and his dinner.
Curly's voice is loud, his face is flushed, and a sudden fear steals
over me lest he should be drinking more than is good for him. I
begin to watch; the butler is going round constantly filling the
guests' glasses, and I see with intense anxiety that Curly never
refuses. What can I do? A feeling of positive agony comes over me
as I reflect how impossible it would be for me to interfere or even
to give him the slightest hint. I forget the very existence of the
people who have so utterly occupied me until now, and strain my ears
painfully to catch what he is saying. He is talking in a boasting,
swaggering way, oh, so different from his usual tone and manner! and
I see with indignant pain that Lady Gwyneth, her sister, and Lord
Rexborough are leading him on, and exchanging occasional glances of
amusement. My blood begins to boil: all my old instinctive dislike
to Lady Gwyneth surges up in my heart. I positively hate her. At
last,--at last she rises from the table, and I rise too, trembling in
every limb, for I have made up my mind what to do. I cross straight
over to him, and whisper, entreatingly, "Dear boy, do come with us,
or, if you stay, pray don't drink any more."
He looks at me with an angry glance and turns away without a word,
and I am obliged to follow the other women.
"Lady Gwyneth," I say, as the door closes upon us, "may I speak to
you a moment?" and she answers, "Certainly," with a glance of chill
surprise at my flushed, excited face. The trains of the other two
are disappearing round the corner, and my hostess and I are standing
in the vast hall, under one of the great swinging lamps, whose light
makes every expression of our faces plainly visible to each other.
"My brother is not used to drink very much at home," I whisper,
dashing eagerly into my subject: "he has had, I fear, more than is
good for him to-night, and papa would be so dreadfully vexed."
"Nonsense!" she answers, with a light laugh: "he is all right enough.
You can't keep him tied to your apron-string forever. It will do him
good to break out for a change."
I feel bitterly incensed with her for making light of what seems so
dreadfully serious to me.
"That is not our idea," I answer, hotly. "Papa would never forgive
me if I allowed him to--to disgrace himself."
"What do you propose doing, then?" she asks, looking at me coldly.
"Perhaps you would prefer to disgrace him forever in his own eyes by
sending the butler to fetch him out of the room."
"There is no need of that," I say, hastily. "If you would send some
message to him, he would come at once, and you could make an excuse
to prevent his going back."
"I will be no party to it," she replies, moving off. "You are at
liberty to do anything you like. And as to the boy's having had too
much, it is simply your own imagination."
And Lady Gwyneth walks away, and leaves me alone under the lamp with,
if my face is as great an index to my mind as people pretend, a very
charming and amiable expression upon it. I, Diana Carew, who, until
last winter, never knew the sensation of anger or hatred. Perhaps I
made too much of it. I have often thought so since; but papa and I
were so proud of our boy that to see him do anything calculated to
lower him in the estimation of others would be the cruellest pain to
us. When I join the other women, Lady Gwyneth and her sister are
talking to each other in a low voice. There is nothing left for me
but to address myself to the heiress, and to count with agony the
long minutes until the rest of the party shall join us. Half an
hour--half an eternity it seems to me--creeps away, and then I hear,
with no relief, alas! Lord Rexborough's loud laugh mingling with
Curly's. When they enter, Curly is leaning on the other's arm, not
only as a mark of familiar affection, but because I see, in an agony
of shame, that he is incapable of supporting himself alone. His fair
face is flushed, his utterance is thick, and he is unmistakably the
worse for drink. Lord Rexborough looks delighted. "So," I think,
with the exaggeration of excited feeling, "so might the arch-fiend
triumph at the destruction of a human soul." From the experience of
later years, I have no doubt that my emotions on the occasion were
excessive, and that I was very harsh in judging so angrily the rest
if the party, to whom the fact of an Eton boy taking two or three
more glasses of wine than was good for him was so venial, not to say
natural, an offense that they looked upon it only with amused
indulgence.
Lord Rexborough has piloted him to a sofa, where he lolls with an
abandon that he would never dream of at other moments, for there is
no better-mannered young fellow in the world than our boy.
"Who's for a round game?" cries Lady Gwyneth.
"I am," shouts Curly: "by jingo, yes, let's have a round game! Where
are the cards? Here, let me help you get them." And he tries to
stagger up.
"Better hold on to the sofa, my boy," roars Lord Rexborough; and Lady
Gwyneth--how I hate her!--joins in the laugh. Every one takes a
place at the round table except myself, and, although Lord Rexborough
holds out the inducement of being my partner and of instructing me in
the mysteries of the game, I resolutely decline. I have no heart to
play, even if it were not for the deterring thought that they will
play for money, which I cannot afford. This conjecture is correct.
I take a book and pretend to read; in reality I am listening and
watching with feverish anxiety. Curly is evidently not in a state to
attend to the game; he makes frequent mistakes, and is utterly
reckless in his play, and I can see that he is losing a good deal
more than he can afford. What is worse, he is losing his temper, and
has already said one or two sharp rude things. My cheeks blush for
him until the water comes into my eyes: never in my life have I
experienced such torture before. There can be no keener pang than
witnessing and seeing others witness the degradation of one you love
with all your heart. At last my long anguish culminates. Curly
screams out,--
"You're cheating, Desborough. I swear you're cheating! I saw you,
by George I did!"
Mr. Desborough gets up, flinging his cards on the table.
"Why do you notice him?" says Lady Gwyneth. "Sit down: don't spoil
the game."
"I'm not going to play with a drunken young fool who doesn't know how
to behave," her husband retorts.
"How dare you call me names," shrieks Curly, springing to his feet.
"You little----"
But before he can utter another word I have grasped him by the arm
like a vice and am dragging him towards the door.
"Come with me this instant!" I say, in a voice of such low,
concentrated anger that I can scarcely believe it is Diana Carew's;
then, as he stares stupidly at me and half resists, a hand is put
through his other arm, and we lead him away between us.
I do not look up until we are outside the door, and then I see that
it is Colonel Montagu. Curly stumbles up one or two stairs, then
leans staggering against the balustrade.
"Go on and show me the way," whispers Colonel Montagu: and, as I
obey, he takes him up in his arms like a child and carries him.
I did not think this languid Guardsman was so strong. My swift,
trembling feet precede him, and he lays his unresisting burden on the
bed.
"Now," he whispers, kindly, "go away for a little while and I will
put him to bed. Don't look distressed" (smiling) "I have had the
same office performed for me dozens of times when I was a lad." And
he begins to unfasten Curly's necktie and pull off his boots as
gently as a woman.
I go as he bids me, blessing him a thousand times in my heart, every
angry thought of him banished utterly, only so thankful to set my
idol half-way up on his pinnacle again. I wander in a desultory way
about the corridor until he comes out.
"He is asleep now," he says. "You can sit with him a little while,
if you like. You won't care to come down again to-night, I dare say.
Good-night" (with a kind pressure of the hand). "Don't think
anything of it: no one else will."
Not think anything of it! As I sit listening to Curly's uneasy
stertorous breathing, my heart is torn with pain; I feel as if some
dire calamity had come upon our house. A horrible vista stretches
out before me, wherein, with all the reckless exaggeration of
inexperience, I see Curly going irretrievably to perdition, and his
evil angels, in the shape of Lady Gwyneth and Lord Rexborough,
hounding him on.
I am roused from my horrid reverie by his voice calling me.
"Oh, my head! my head!" he moans. "Oh, Di, I feel so ill!"
It is hours before I leave him. At last he is sleeping quietly and
peacefully, and, heavy at heart, I go to my own room. The lights are
still burning; in the distance I hear voices and laughter; the party
has evidently not yet broken up. I look at my watch: it wants ten
minutes to two.
I go to bed, but not to sleep for a long time. One thing, I feel, is
inevitable,--that we leave on the morrow. I shrink from it, because
it involves humiliation to my darling brother, but none the less I
feel, for his own sake, for the duty I owe to him, for my sense of
responsibility to papa, it must be done. Then at last, when it is
broad daylight, I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep, out of which I
am awakened by a knock at my door. It is rather loud and imperative,
as though it were not the first summons. I wake _en sursaut_, as the
French happily express it, and cry,--
"Come in."
The door opens, and Curly comes in. He is dressed, but he looks pale
and not himself. In a moment every detail of last night's scene
rushes vividly across me. He comes towards me, and then suddenly,
before I can utter a word, he has flung himself on his knees by my
bedside and is sobbing his heart out. No need for any reproach from
me. I might have known how it would be with my boy; so I lay loving
hands on his drooped head, loving lips on his golden curls, and my
tears rain down as swift as his, and my heart is choked with sobs.
"Forgive me, darling Di!" he says, at last, in a smothered voice. "I
don't feel as if I could ever forgive myself. How could I be such a
beast?"
How can I heap words upon my boy's bitter self-reproach?--and yet how
can I defend him? So I am silent.
"It is the first time," he says, tremulously, "and it shall be the
last, I swear, Di. Don't say a word,--I know what you must think;
but I will make up for it,--you shall see."
"It was all Lady Gwyneth's fault," I cry, hotly.
"No, it was not," he maintains, stoutly; "it was my own, and no one
else's. But I will beg Desborough's pardon, and if ever they catch
me getting drunk again, may I--may I feel as sorry and ashamed as I
do now!"
And so all thought of a hasty and abrupt departure takes wing, and I
do not even tell Curly what I had intended.
"I'd rather not go down without you," he says, presently. "You won't
mind, Di, will you?"
Mind! Would I not gladly bear upon my head all the brunt of the
shame, if I could? I put my arms round his neck and answer him by a
kiss.
I have slept late, and when we go down-stairs every one is already
there. Curly goes straight up to his host, his fair honest face
flushing, and says, in a quivering voice,--
"Mr. Desborough, I am heartily ashamed of my behavior last night, and
I beg your pardon and everybody else's a thousand times."
I don't know how any one else feels, but my eyes are blinded with
tears, and I am only too glad to drop unnoticed into the first chair.
When I look up again, every one is talking and laughing very gayly,
and, thank God! if I suffered shame for my brother last night, I can
feel proud of him again this morning.