Chapter XIX: At Diana’s Wedding

“I said to the rose: The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.”--TENNYSON.

Mr. Essex has the grace to be ashamed of himself the following day, when he recovers from his degrading condition, though in the somewhat heated argument he holds with his wife afterward he still adheres to his text that he was sick--an assertion at which her red lip curls in scornful silence.

For Vivian is angry--bitterly angry with her husband, and gives him the full benefit of her indignation.

So the first breach is made between the wedded pair, and only widens as successive offenses against sobriety open Vivian’s eyes to the fact that her husband is notoriously addicted to stimulants. But society, which is very gay in Richmond that winter, smiles indulgently at his follies, but none the less, at a discreet distance, comments on his recklessness.

It is whispered, too, that Essex is fond of play, and, moreover, loses heavily sometimes. His intimacy with Monsieur Orne is a subject of comment, for it is well known that the Frenchman is the leader of a fast set of young men who are busily sowing a large crop of “wild oats.” It is a set from which prudent Benedicts might well stand aloof in horror, yet Essex throws himself into their company with zest, and bids fair to rival the gayest member of the wild coterie.

Not that he really neglects his wife. She is too beautiful, and he is too madly jealous of her smiles to neglect her; but there is a powerful influence for evil in strong drink, and the wife, however fair or loving, who finds a rival in the wine-cup, is pitted against a demoniac enemy--one strong as death and cruel as the grave.

At Diana’s wedding, which occurs in November, on a grand scale, Mr. Essex goes his length.

To do him justice, he had meant to be very abstinent that night--not that he deemed himself in any danger--but out of real respect for the prejudices of his young wife.

But a gay company is invited, and wine flows so freely, that he finds himself called on to drink more toasts than are safe for his head.

Judge Leigh and his son are present, and also the fast set of young men headed by the brilliant Frenchman. All the beauty and fashion of the city are represented, and among them all Vivian moves like a star--the cynosure of all eyes--radiant in white silk and lace, with diamond ornament that cost a small fortune. Her father and brother look on, well pleased with her beauty and her seeming gladness.

But the mask of brightness worn for their loving eyes, falls a moment when she goes to the supper-room, where some convivial spirits still linger, to seek her husband.

“Earle, dear, I want you to come and dance with me,” she whispers, when she has beckoned him to the door.

“Presently, darling. Go back, and I will follow soon.”

“But I want you now,” and she pouts petulantly.

“But, indeed, I cannot go just yet. I was talking to Mr. Owen about a very important matter when you interrupted us. Let me finish the conversation; then I will come to you.”

But she clings to him entreatingly, pleading:

“Oh, come with me now. If you stay here longer, you will forget to come, and only think how mortified I should be if you drank too much to-night, and papa and Charlton both here!”

“Charlton, indeed!” laughs Earle Essex. “Why, my dear, only look at your precious Charlton there in the midst of the wine-bibbers!”

He draws her slightly forward and points to a side-table, where a hilarious group of young men are gathered about a central figure--a tall, manly form, with outstretched hand flourishing an empty glass, and making an impromptu speech to the applauding listeners.

It is Charlton Leigh, flushed with wine and excitement, staggering so that he can hardly keep his feet.

“Yes, gentlemen,” he cries, with a flourish of his glass. “Yes, I--hic--believe it is good to take a little wine--hic--for the stomach’s sake! I am opposed--hic--to temperance societies on principle. I--hic, hic--believe that they only aggravate the evil! I will never bind myself--hic--by a pledge of total abstinence! I will always,” here he lurches forward and is only saved from a fall by the ready arm of a friend, “always--hic, hic--drink moderately like a gentleman.”

“Hear! hear!” cry several voices; and, encouraged by their cheers, the orator proceeds:

“I will never--hic--get drunk, either! It is ungentlemanly to--hic--drink to excess. Hurrah, boys! Give me--hic, hic--liberty, or--hic--give me--hic--death!” and wildly reeling and gesticulating, the eloquent defender of moderate drinking is about to measure his length on the floor, but is saved by the intervention of one of the waiters, who judiciously leads him from the heated room to the cool back piazza.

Poor Vivian! a low cry bursts from her lips and her nerveless hands fall weekly from her husband’s arms. Essex coolly takes advantage of her consternation to return to his convivial friends, and his wife hurries out on the piazza in search of her brother.

He is there, hugging a column of the porch to steady himself, and she cries out in anguish:

“Oh, Charlton! oh, my brother!”

“Is that you, Viva?” he mutters, stupidly. “What’s matter, dear? Sick? So am I. Go in and tell--hic--waiter to give you--hic--glass of wine. Make you feel--hic--better!”

But she clings to him, weeping bitterly. Her lace dress and dark tresses blowing about her in the cold night air.

“What’s matter?” he asks again. “Cold, Viva? Go back--hic--child, into the house.”

But his drunken solicitude fails to move her. She clings fast to him, dazed and shivering, and when Eve comes in search of her presently, she finds her there in the chilly autumn air, unconscious of her naked arms and neck, that are blue with cold.

“This is your fault, Charlton. Viva will be sick, and you are to blame,” her cousin says, sharply, as she drags Viva off to her dressing-room to warm her shivering form before the cozy fire.

Before the glowing blaze, with a white furred cloak about her shoulders, Vivian gets warm again, but a strange weariness and drowsiness steal over her, and turning to her cousin, she says plaintively:

“I am tired, Eve. Will you ask Earle to take me home?”

“So soon, dear? Why, it is only two o’clock, and we mean to dance two hours longer.”

“I am so tired,” Vivian repeats wearily, and leans her head sadly against the back of the chair. How wan and white her face looks against the violet velvet lining.

“I will go for your husband,” Eve exclaims, with a thrill of pity for the unhappy young wife.

He comes presently, with a scent of wine and cigars that is sickening.

“What, _ma petite_, tired so early?” caressing her cheek with a shapely white hand.

“Tired to death, Earle. Let us go home, please.”

“Oh, Viva, not yet. It is not so very late. Come and dance with me first,” in the maudlin tone of intoxication.

“I do not care to dance.”

“Only once, love.”

He drags her up, almost rudely, from the seat, and pulls the white cloak from her bare shoulders.

“Don’t wear that thing,” he says, thickly; “I will not have my beautiful wife bundled up like an old woman.”

What use to contend with a drunken man? He will only make a scene, Viva thinks, bitterly; and, full of keenest shame and pain, follows him to the ball-room.

She feels strangely ill, she is hot and cold by turns.

But he does not get the dance. The bride herself interferes.

“Mr. Essex you must not make Viva dance. See how ill she looks. Take her home, and let her get to bed at once. Eve has told me what she has been suffering.”

Diana is imperious where she chooses, and she cannot help but be anxious about her cousin, whose pale face is attracting general attention. So Mr. Essex, unwillingly enough, obeys her mandate, and summons his carriage.

Then he goes to find Judge Leigh and Charlton, who are his guests.

Charlton is discovered asleep on a sofa, and is cross and stupid when awakened. After much ado he is put in the carriage and his equally helpless brother-in-law is bundled in after him. Judge Leigh hands his daughter to her seat, and steps in after her. The drive is not a long one, but to the end of her life, Vivian remembers it with all the pain, anger, and disgust, that thrill her now, sitting opposite the two intoxicated men, whose heavy breath taints the silken cushions of her carriage.