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!