Chapter XXXII: 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.