“Everyone is as God made him, and very often worse.”
SPANISH PROVERB.
“Vera, you must see her, you must try to help her!” cried Daphne, with a
force and vigour which rang through the drawing-room like a trumpet
call. Lady Middleton sighed, she did not care for trumpet calls in her
drawing-room, she preferred low, musical laughs, and a quiet drawl.
“Daphne, dear,” she said, “there is always a footman, and you invariably
overlook his possibility. I am sure you must be a Socialist at heart.”
“But Vera, she only needs a helping hand. It could hardly hurt you to
have her to tea, and Arthur is doing all he can, only there are so few
things a man _can_ do! You might take her out shopping, or give her a
lunch-party, mightn’t you?” Lady Middleton felt distinctly uncomfortable
and, naturally, knowing that she had done nothing to deserve discomfort,
she became aggrieved.
“I really think it is very hard on me,” she said. “People always say I
have done so much good, and I gave ten pounds to that young man Mitchell
only the other day for a slum chapel, yet you break off your engagement
to the catch of the season, and Arthur Field disappoints all my
expectations.”
“You are not very logical,” said Daphne bitterly, “you wish me to marry
a drunkard and yet you won’t receive your sister who——” Vera seldom
looked angry, when she did her eyes appeared small. They appeared very
small indeed at this moment, and she interrupted Daphne, by dropping a
cup.
“It was really good china,” she said, looking at the pieces regretfully.
“Don’t say any more, Daphne, unless you know how to put things more
carefully. I have always said there ought to be societies for those sort
of people, with Homes. I should be quite willing to help support her at
one of them. As for David, a husband is a different thing. You need
never have known anything about it, if you had gone about properly
chaperoned. All one really needs is a beaten track. You have stepped out
of it, and so uncomfortable things have happened. Very few men would
marry you now, suitable men I mean. It is no use offering you advice, or
I should say return to your uncle and find a curate.”
“And you won’t help Rosamonde?” said Daphne, buttoning up her gloves.
Lady Middleton put her hand up to her hair. It was all so unpleasant.
“If I could do her any _real_ good!” she said, “I don’t mind calling
some morning, she might like to do things for a bazaar; besides, I know
a book on the ‘Power of the Will over Vice,’ I might lend her that, but
it would be impossible for me to receive her here. She couldn’t expect
it of me, it would be so exceedingly awkward. Besides,” added Lady
Middleton virtuously, “I don’t think that sort of thing ought to be
encouraged. She is my own sister, but the sin is just the same.” Lady
Middleton took out her pocket-handkerchief, it was edged with beautiful
lace. “Dear child,” she said, “your young, fresh mind cannot understand,
I have intense principles——”
“You have intensely selfish ones!” cried Daphne with blazing eyes.
“Lady Cheston, my lady!” Lady Cheston emitted a sharp, friendly shriek,
and tapped both the women on the shoulder with the handle of her fan.
“Positively dyin’ for tea, Vera,” she began. “That dreadful old hag,
Mrs. Rounceman, has been talkin’ to me about her children for an hour.
Only dumb people ought to have children, it’s so fatiguin’, and this hot
weather, too—I told her finally that I loved Reggie when he was at
Eton, but I only _talked_ about him in the Christmas holidays! What’s
the matter with you, child?” she said, turning upon Daphne suddenly.
“You haven’t got a family so you needn’t be dumb! And now I come to look
at you, you’re angry! Has Vera been talking sense to you? People
oughtn’t to talk sense except in Advent. That’s the time we’re meant to
meditate on the four last things, you know.” Daphne rose to her feet.
Her mission had failed. Looking from one to the other of them, she knew
why.
“Yes,” she said, “Vera has been talking sense to me, only I wasn’t quite
sure what to call it. I am not so good at finding names for things as
you are, Lady Cheston!”
“Don’t get sharp-tongued, my dear,” said Lady Cheston, “leave that to
old women like me who have to keep up a second complexion. Don’t you
find yours, awfully tryin’ this weather, Vera?” Vera looked dreamily at
the sugar-tongs.
“Two lumps, dear?” she questioned.
Daphne left the room in all the hot disgust of indignant youth. It is so
easy to sit in the seat of the scornful, when one is under twenty-five.
Wandering about in the hall as if it belonged to someone else, and he
was not altogether sure that he might not be turned out, she found Sir
Henry Middleton. He was a young man with a very fair moustache. Daphne
was exceedingly sorry for him.
“Sir Henry,” she said, “why aren’t you in Scotland?” He shook hands with
her heartily.
“Well, I’m very glad I’m not,” he said cordially, “at this present
moment. Fact is, I’m waiting for Vera, something has got to come off
first. I’m not quite sure what, but the kind of thing that does come
off, you know.”
“Oh, yes! I know!” said Daphne sympathetically.
“I hope you won’t mind,” the young man began nervously, “but I’ve
something to say to you. It’s jolly awkward having things to say, isn’t
it?”
“Horrid,” said Daphne, “but are you quite sure you have got to say it?”
“Well, yes,” he said, “it’s about—it’s about——” he hesitated
painfully.
“Vera?” questioned Daphne.
“In a way—yes,” he said. “It seems she had a sister. I didn’t know; who
married that chap Field who used to be about so much, do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Daphne, “I remember.”
“Well, you see,” he went on, pushing a rug over with his foot, “Vera’s
queer about it. Won’t have her here, shut me up when I talked about her,
and it doesn’t seem quite fair, you know, does it—one’s own sister?
Unless she’s come an awful cropper, of course. So the long and short of
it is, do you know what’s wrong? I don’t want you to tell me
out-and-out, but if it’s too bad, then it’s all right you see,” he
finished lamely.
“And if it isn’t?” Daphne questioned.
“Oh! well, then I must fairly make a row,” said Sir Henry sturdily.
Daphne’s eyes shone with pleasure, she had not known that he had
anything in him.
“She is fighting hard against her troubles,” she said finally, “and a
helping hand from Vera might put her straight. Perhaps I had better tell
you what it is after all—she drinks.” Sir Henry gave a low whistle.
“Oh, yes! I know,” said Daphne impatiently, “a man takes a glass too
much and you call him a good fellow, when a woman does you whistle, and
the whistle keeps the door shut.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Sir Henry. Daphne held out her hand to him.
“Then you’re a better man than most,” she said warmly. “Only don’t make
a row. Send her one of Vera’s invitation cards to the ball. That’s what
is coming off next week.”
“Yes, and a jolly nuisance it is,” said her host.
“Well, will you do it?” said Daphne, “and introduce her to all Vera’s
friends as her sister? She’ll be bound to recognize her after that.”
“By Jove!” said the startled young man, “but you’re fairly knowing!”
Daphne frowned.
“Will you?” she repeated.
“There’ll be the devil to pay you know,” he mused helplessly.
“Well—pay him then,” said Daphne sharply, “if that’s where you owe it!”
“All right!” said the young man, straightening his shoulders, “I will.”
“Do you know,” said Daphne very softly, “I am so sorry you ever married
Vera.”
“Oh, come! come!” the young man exclaimed with a vague gentleness.
Daphne turned to the door with tears in her eyes.
“Good-bye!” she said.
When the door closed, the young man looked after her for a moment: he
also was very sorry that he had married Vera.