THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR.
Mrs. Meredith’s drawing-room was not like the twin room next door. It
was more ornate, though not nearly so beautiful. The three windows were
draped in long misty white curtains, which veiled the light even at its
brightest and made a curious artificial semblance of mystery and
retirement on this autumn afternoon, when the red sunshine glowed
outside. Long looking-glasses here and there reflected these veiled
lights. There was a good deal of gilding, and florid furniture, which
insisted on being looked at. Cara sat down on an ottoman close to the
further window after their walk, while Mrs. Meredith went to take off
her bonnet. She wanted to see the people arrive, and was a little
curious about them. There were, for a country house, a good many
visitors at the Hill; but they came irregularly, and sometimes it would
happen that for days together not a soul would appear. But Mrs. Meredith
had no more doubt of the arrival of her friends than if they had all
been invited guests. Cara was still seated alone, looking out, her
pretty profile relieved against the white curtain like a delicate little
cameo, when the first visitor arrived, who was a lady, and showed some
annoyance to find the room already occupied. ‘I thought I must be the
first,’ she said, giving the familiar salutation of a kiss to Mrs.
Meredith as she entered. ‘Never mind, it is only Cara Beresford,’ said
that lady, and led her friend by the hand to where two chairs were
placed at the corner of the fire. Here they sat and talked in low tones
with great animation, the ‘he saids’ and ‘she saids’ being almost all
that reached Cara’s ear, who, though a little excited by the expectation
of ‘company,’ did not understand this odd version of it. By-and-by,
however, the lady came across to her and began to talk, and Cara saw
that some one else had arrived. The room filled gradually after this,
two or three people coming and going, each of them in their turn
receiving a few minutes particular audience. Nothing could be more
evident than that it was to see the lady of the house that these people
came; for, though the visitors generally knew each other, there was not
much general conversation. Every new-comer directed his or her glance
to Mrs. Meredith’s corner, and, if the previous audience was not
concluded, relapsed into a corner, and talked a little to the next
person, whoever that might be. In this way Cara received various points
of enlightenment as to this new society. Most of them had just returned
to town. They talked of Switzerland, they talked of Scotland; of meeting
So-and-so here and there; of this one who was going to be married, and
that one who was supposed to be dying; but all this talk was subsidiary
to the grand object of the visit, which was the personal interview.
Cara, though she was too young to relish her own spectator position,
could not help being interested by the way in which her friend received
her guests. She had a different aspect for each. The present one, as
Cara saw looking up, after an interval, was a man, with whom Mrs.
Meredith was standing in front of the furthest window. She was looking
up in his face, with her eyes full of interest, not saying much;
listening with her whole mind and power, every fold in her dress, every
line of her hair and features, falling in with the sentiment of
attention. Instead of talking, she assented with little nods of her head
and soft acquiescent or remonstrative movements of her delicate hands,
which were lightly clasped together. This was not at all her attitude
with the ladies, whom she placed beside her, in one of the low chairs,
with little caressing touches and smiles and low-voiced talk. How
curious it was to watch them one by one! Cara felt a strong desire, too,
to have something to tell; to go and make her confession or say her say
upon some matter interesting enough to call forth that sympathetic,
absorbed look--the soft touch upon her shoulder, or half embrace.
It was tolerably late when the visitors went away--half-past six, within
an hour of dinner. The ladies were the last to go, as they had been the
first to come; and Cara, relieved by the departure of the almost last
stranger, drew timidly near the fire, when Mrs. Meredith called her. It
was only as she approached--and the girl felt cold, sitting so far off
and being so secondary, which is a thing that makes everybody
chilly--that she perceived somebody remaining, a gentleman seated in an
easy-chair--an old gentleman (according to Cara; he was not of that
opinion himself), who had kept his place calmly for a long time without
budging, whosoever went or came.
‘Well, you have got through the heavy work,’ said this patient visitor,
‘and I hope you have sent them off happier. It has not been your fault,
I am sure, if they are not happier; they have each had their audience
and their appropriate word.’
‘You always laugh at me, Mr. Somerville: why should I not say what I
think they will like best to the people who come to see me?’
‘Ah, when you put it like that!’ he said; ‘certainly, why shouldn’t you?
But I think some of those good people thought that you gave them
beautiful advice and consolation, didn’t you? I thought it seemed like
that as I looked on.’
‘You are always so severe. Come, my darling, you are out of sight there;
come and smooth down this mentor of mine by the sight of your young
face. This is my neighbour’s child, Miss Beresford, from next door.’
‘Ah, _the_ neighbour!’ said Mr. Somerville, with a slight emphasis, and
then he got up somewhat stiffly and made Cara his bow. ‘Does not he come
for his daily bread like the rest?’ he said, in an undertone.
‘Mr. Beresford is going to dine with me to-night, with Cara, who has
just come home,’ said Mrs. Meredith, with a slight shade of
embarrassment on her face.
‘Ah! from school?’ said this disagreeable old man.
It had grown dark, and the lady herself had lighted the candles on the
mantelpiece. He was sitting immediately under a little group of lights
in a florid branched candlestick, which threw a glow upon his baldness.
Cara, unfavourably disposed, thought there was a sneer instead of a
smile upon his face, which was partially in shade.
‘I have never been to school,’ said the girl, unreasonably angry at the
imputation; and just then someone else came in--another gentleman, with
whom Mrs. Meredith, who had advanced to meet him, lingered near the
door. Mr. Somerville watched over Cara’s head, and certainly his smile
had more amusement than benevolence in it.
‘Ah!’ he said again, ‘then you miss the delight of feeling free: no girl
who has not been at school can understand the pleasure of not being at
school any longer. Where have you been, then, while your father has been
away?’
‘With my aunts, at Sunninghill,’ said Cara, unnecessarily communicative,
as is the habit of youth.
‘Ah, yes, with your aunts! I used to know some of your family. Look at
her now,’ said the critic, more to himself than to Cara--‘this is a new
phase. This one she is smoothing down.’
Cara could not help a furtive glance. The new comer had said something,
she could not hear what, and stood half-defiant at the door. Mrs.
Meredith’s smile spoke volumes. She held out her hand with a
deprecating, conciliatory look. They could not hear what she said; but
the low tone, the soft aspect, the extended hand, were full of meaning.
The old gentleman burst into a broken, hoarse laugh. It was because the
new-comer, melting all at once, took the lady’s hand and bowed low over
it, as if performing an act of homage. Mr. Somerville laughed, but the
stranger did not hear.
‘This is a great deal too instructive for you,’ he said. ‘Come and tell
me about your aunts. You think me quite an old man, eh? and I think you
quite a little girl.’
‘I am not so young! I am seventeen.’
‘Well! And I am seven-and-fifty--not old at all--a spruce and spry
bachelor, quite ready to make love to any one; but such are the
erroneous ideas we entertain of each other. Have you known Mrs. Meredith
a long time? or is this your first acquaintance?’
‘Oh, a very long time--almost since ever I was born!’
‘And I have known her nearly twenty years longer than that. Are you very
fond of her? Yes, most people are. So is your father, I suppose, like
the rest. But now you are the mistress of the house, eh? you should not
let your natural-born subjects stray out of your kingdom o’ nights.’
‘I have not any kingdom,’ said Cara, mournfully. ‘The house is so sad. I
should like to change it if papa would consent.’
‘That would be very good,’ said the volunteer counsellor, with alacrity.
‘You could not do anything better, and I dare say he will do it if you
say so. A man has a great deal of tenderness for his wife’s only child
when he has lost her. You have your own love and the other too.’
‘Have I?’ said the girl wistfully. Then she remembered that to talk of
her private affairs and household circumstances with a stranger was a
wonderful dereliction of duty. She made herself quite stiff accordingly
in obedience to propriety, and changed her tone.
‘Is not Oswald at home?’ she said. ‘I thought I should be sure to see
him.’
‘Oswald is at home, but he keeps away at this hour. He overdoes it, I
think; but sons like to have their mothers to themselves: I don’t think
they like her to have such troops of friends. And Oswald, you know, is a
man, and would like to be master.’
‘He has no right to be master!’ said Cara, the colour rising on her
cheeks. ‘Why should not she have her friends?’
‘That is exactly what I tell him; but most likely he will understand you
better. He is not my ideal of a young man; so you have no call to be
angry with me on account of Oswald.’
‘I--angry with--you; when I don’t know you--when I never saw you before!
I beg your pardon,’ cried Cara, fearing that perhaps this might sound
rude; but if it was rude it was true.
‘Must you go?’ said Mrs. Meredith to her visitor. ‘Well, I will not
delay you, for it is late; but that is all over, is it not? I cannot
afford to be misunderstood by anyone I care for. Won’t you say “How d’ye
do?” to Mr. Somerville, my old friend, whom you see always, and Miss
Beresford, my young friend, whom you have never seen before?’
‘I have not time, indeed,’ said the stranger, with a vague bow towards
the fireplace; ‘but I go away happy--it is all over, indeed. I shall
know better than ever to listen to detractors and mischief-makers
again.’
‘That is right,’ she said, giving him her hand once more. When he was
gone she turned back with a little air of fatigue. ‘Somebody had
persuaded that foolish boy that I thought him a bore. He is not a
bore--except now and then; but he is too young,’ said Mrs. Meredith,
shaking her head. ‘You young people are so exigent, Cara. You want
always to be first; and in friendship that, you know, is impossible. All
are equal on that ground.’
‘I am glad you have a lesson now and then,’ said Mr. Somerville. ‘You
know my opinion on that subject.’
‘Are you going to dine with us, dear Mr. Somerville?’ said Mrs.
Meredith, sweetly, looking at her watch. ‘Do. You know Mr. Beresford is
coming, who is very fine company indeed. No? I am so sorry. It would be
so much more amusing for him, not to speak of Cara and me.’
‘I am very sorry I can’t amuse you to-night,’ he said, getting to his
feet more briskly than Cara expected. Mrs. Meredith laughed; and there
was a certain sound of hostility in the laugh, as though she was glad of
the little prick she had bestowed.
‘Cara, you must run and dress,’ she said; ‘not any toilette to speak of,
dear. There will only be your father and Oswald; but you must be quick,
for we have been kept very late this evening. I wonder you can resist
that young face,’ she said, as Cara went away. ‘You are fond of youth, I
know.’
‘I am not fond of affording amusement,’ he said. He limped slightly as
he walked, which was the reason he had allowed Cara to go before him.
‘Yes; I like youth. Generally it makes few phrases, and it knows what it
means.’
‘Which is just what I dislike.’
‘Yes; elderly sirens naturally do. But next time Beresford comes to
dine, and you ask me, if you will give me a little longer notice I will
come, for I want to meet him.’
‘Let it be on Saturday, then,’ she said; ‘that is, if he has no
engagement. I will let you know.’
‘As if she did not know what engagements he had!’ Mr. Somerville said to
himself: ‘as if he ever dreamt of going anywhere that would interfere
with his visits here!’ He struck his stick sharply against the stairs as
he went down. He had no sense of hostility to Mrs. Meredith, but rather
that kind of uneasy liking akin to repugnance, which made him wish to
annoy her. He felt sure she was made angry by the sound of his stick on
the stairs. Her household went upon velvet, and made no noise; for
though she was not fanciful she had nerves, and was made to start and
jump by any sudden noise.
Cara heard him go with his stick along the Square, as nurse, who was her
maid, closed the windows of her room. The sound got less distinct after
this, but still she could hear it gradually disappearing. What a
disagreeable old man he was, though he said he did not think himself
old; at seven-and-fifty! Cara thought seven-and-twenty oldish, and
seven-and-thirty the age of a grandfather; and yet he did not think
himself old! So strange are the delusions which impartial people have to
encounter in this world. Nurse interrupted her thoughts by a question
about her dress. One of her very prettiest evening dresses lay opened
out upon her bed.
‘That is too fine,’ said Cara; ‘we are to be quite alone.’
‘You haven’t seen Mr. Oswald, have you, Miss Cara, dear? He has grown up
that handsome you would not know him. He was always a fine boy; but
now--I don’t know as I’ve ever seen a nicer-looking young man.’
‘I will have my plain white frock, please, nurse--the one I wore last
night,’ said Cara, absolutely unaware of any connection that could exist
between Oswald Meredith’s good looks and her second-best evening
dress--a dress that might do for a small dance, as Aunt Cherry had
impressed upon her. It never occurred to the girl that her own simple
beauty could be heightened by this frock or that. Vanity comes on early
or late, according to the character; but, except under very favourable
(or unfavourable) circumstances, seldom develops in early youth. Cara
had not even begun to think whether she herself was pretty or not, and
she would have scorned with hot shame and contempt the idea of
dressing for effect. People only think of dress when they have
self-consciousness. She did not understand enough of the a, b, c of that
sentiment to put any meaning to what nurse said, and insisted upon her
plain muslin gown, laughing at the earnestness of the attendant. ‘It is
too fine,’ she said. ‘Indeed I am not obstinate: it would be a great
deal too fine.’ Her father was waiting for her in the hall when the
simple toilette was completed, and Mrs. Meredith had not yet made her
appearance when the two went into the drawing-room next door. Mr.
Beresford sat down with his eyes turned towards the door. ‘She is almost
always late,’ he said, with a smile. He was a different man
here--indulgent, gentle, fatherly. Mrs. Meredith came in immediately
after, with pretty lace about her shoulders and on her head. ‘Oswald is
late, as usual,’ she said, putting her hand into Mr. Beresford’s. He
looked at her, smiling, with a satisfied friendly look, as if his eyes
loved to dwell upon her. He smiled at Oswald’s lateness; did not look
cross, as men do when they are waiting for their dinner. ‘Cara is
punctual, you see,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Cara is a dear child,’ said Mrs. Meredith. ‘She has been with me all
day. How odd that you should be made complete by a daughter and I by a
son, such old friends as we are! Ah! here is Oswald. Would you have
known him, Cara? Oswald, this is----’
‘There is no need to tell me who it is,’ said Oswald. Cara saw, when
she looked at him, that what the others had said was true. It did not
move her particularly, but still she could see that he was very
handsome, as everybody had told her. He took her hand, which she held
out timidly, and, without any ceremony, drew it within his arm. ‘We must
go to dinner at once,’ he said, ‘or Sims will put poison in the soup.
She longs to poison me, I know, in my soup, because I am always late;
but I hope she will let me off for your sake, Cara. And so really you
are little Cara? I did not believe it, but I see it is true now.’
‘Why did you not believe it? I think I should have known you,’ said
Cara, ‘if I had met you anywhere. It is quite true; but you are just
like Oswald all the same.’
‘What is quite true?’ Oswald was a great deal more vain than Cara was,
being older and having had more time to see the effect of his good
looks. He laughed, and did not push his question any further. It was a
pleasant beginning. He had his mother’s sympathetic grace of manner,
and, Cara felt at once, understood her and all her difficulties at a
glance, as Mrs. Meredith had done. How far this was true may be an open
question; but she was convinced of it, which for the moment was enough.
‘We did not come downstairs so ceremoniously last time we met,’ he said.
‘When you came for the nursery tea, with nurse behind you. I think
Edward held the chief place in your affections then. He was nearer your
age; but thank Heaven that fellow is out of the way, and I have a little
time to make the running before he comes back!’
Cara did not know what it meant to ‘make the running,’ and was puzzled.
She was not acquainted with any slang except that which has crept into
books, but an expression of pleasure in Edward’s absence appalled her.
‘I remember him best,’ she said, ‘because he was more near my age; but
you were both big boys--too big to care for a little thing like me. I
remember seeing you come in with a latch-key one afternoon and open the
door--ah!’ said Cara, with a little cry. It had been on the afternoon of
her mother’s death when she had been placed at the window to look for
her father’s coming, and had seen the two big boys in the afternoon
light, and watched them, with an interest which quite distracted her
attention for the moment, fitting the key into the door.
‘What is it?’ he said, looking at her very kindly. ‘You have not been
here for a long time--yes, it must bring back so many things. Look,
Cara! Sims is gracious; she will not poison me this time. She has not
even frowned at me, and it is all because of you.’
‘I like Sims,’ said Cara, her heart rising, she could not tell why. ‘I
like everybody I used to know.’
‘So do I--because you do; otherwise I am not so fond of my
fellow-creatures; some of them plague one’s life out. What are you going
to do when you get used to the excitement of seeing us all again? You
will find yourself very badly off for something to do.’
‘Do you?’ said Cara, innocently.
‘My mother does for me. She thinks me very idle. So I am, I suppose.
What is the good of muddling what little brains one has in work? One in
a family who does that is enough. Edward is that excellent person. He
goes in for Greek so that my head aches; though why he should, being
intended for the Civil Service, I don’t know.’
‘Won’t it do him any good?’ said Cara, with regret. She was practical,
and did not like to hear of this waste of labour. ‘Is
Edward--changed--like you?’ she added softly, after a pause. He looked
at her with laughing bright eyes, all softened and liquid with pleasure.
He knew what she meant, and that his handsome face was having its
natural effect upon Cara; though, being much older than Cara, he could
not have believed how little effect his good looks really had.
‘I think he is very like what he always was,’ he said; ‘he is such a
good fellow, Cara. If anyone asks you which is the best of the
Merediths, say Edward. You may be sure you will be right. Listen what
the elders are saying; they are talking about you and me.’
‘Why about you and me?’ Cara was always slightly alarmed to hear that
she was being talked of. It roused the latent suspicion in her which had
been startled into being at her mother’s death. She stopped talking, and
looked at the other two. His mother was opposite to Oswald, and her
father was opposite to her. What an odd arrangement it seemed when you
came to think of it! If papa had got one of the boys, and she, Cara, had
fallen to the lot of Mrs. Meredith--would that have been better? She
looked at Oswald’s mother and wondered; then bethought herself of the
Hill and blushed. No, such an idea was nothing but treachery to the
Hill, where it was Cara, and no other, who was the chosen child.
‘She has grown into a little lily,’ said Mrs. Meredith. ‘She is shy, but
open and winning, and I like girls to be shy like that. I do not wonder
that you are proud of her.’
‘Am I proud of her? I am not sure. She is nice-looking, I think.’
‘Nice-looking? She has grown into a little lily. It is wonderful how she
blends two likenesses; I see you both. Ah! have I said too much? A happy
child so often does that; you will forgive me if I say anything that
hurts----’
‘You could not say anything that hurts,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it
would not hurt coming from you.’
‘Well, perhaps it ought not,’ she said, with a smile, ‘because it is
said in true friendship. I noticed that at once in Cara--sometimes one
and sometimes the other--like both. That is not the case with my boys. I
shall not have Edward till Christmas. You know it has always been my
happy time when the boys were here.’
‘Is Oswald doing anything--?’ A close observer would have seen that Mr.
Beresford was not fond of Oswald. He was not nearly so well-disposed to
him as Mrs. Meredith was to Cara. Perhaps it was purely on moral grounds
and justifiable; perhaps the young man and his senior came in each
other’s way more than the girl and the matron did. This abrupt question
rather put a stop to poor Mrs. Meredith. She blushed a little and
faltered as she replied.