Chapter XXXI: “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.