A CONFIDENCE.
‘Cara, I want to tell you something,’ said Oswald. ‘Look here; here is a
comfortable chair. Never mind your aunt; my mother will take care of
her. I never have you now, not for half a minute. If I were not in love
with her, I should hate your aunt--she is always there. I never can
manage to say a word to you.’
This was said in Mrs. Meredith’s drawing-room after dinner. Of course it
is needless to say that Mrs. Meredith, apprised of Miss Cherry’s
arrival, had immediately done her part of neighbourly and friendly
kindness by asking her to dinner at once.
‘Never! She has been here two days,’ said Cara.
‘Two days is a very long time, especially when new thoughts are coming
into one’s mind, and new resolutions. I think we are all too
worldly-minded, Cara. Life is a more serious thing than you and I have
been thinking. A great revolution has occurred in my thoughts.’
‘Oh, Oswald! you have been hearing some great preacher; he has made you
think? Who was it? I have so often heard of things like that. It must be
my fault,’ said Cara, piteously; ‘it never has any effect upon me--but
perhaps I never heard anyone good enough.’
‘That is it,’ said Oswald. ‘It was not a preacher, but someone I met
casually. I have made up my mind to be a great deal more in
earnest--much more serious.’
‘Oh, Oswald! I am so glad! That was all you wanted to make you very,
very nice--quite what one wished.’
‘So you did not think me very, very nice, Cara? I flattered myself you
did like me. For my part, I never criticised you, or thought anything
wanting. You were Cara--that was enough for me. I should have liked to
think that simply because I was Oswald----’
‘So it was! If I had not liked you because you were Oswald, should I
ever have ventured to say _that_ to you?’ asked Cara, with a little
indignation. ‘But you may be very fond of people, and yet see that
something would make them still nicer. How happy your mother will
be--and Edward----’
‘Edward may go to Jericho!’ said Oswald, with some indignation. ‘What
right has he to set himself up as a judge of his elder brother? I can
see with the back of my head that he is watching us now, and furious
because I am talking to you. You are too gentle, Cara, and have too much
consideration for him. A boy like that should be kept in his place--not
but that he’s a very good fellow when you don’t bring him forward too
much. I wrote a little thing last night that I want to read to you.
Shall you be alone at twelve to-morrow if I come in? Do something with
Aunt Cherry; send her out shopping--all ladies from the country have
shopping to do; or to her dentist, if that is what she has come to town
for, poor dear old soul. But anyhow be alone, Cara, to-morrow. I want
your opinion of my last poem. The subject is a face that I met by
accident in the street--a complete Perugino, as if it had stepped out of
a picture; though I don’t know which it resembles most--one of the
angels in that great picture in the Louvre, or a Madonna somewhere
else--but such colour and such sentiment! I want to read them to you,
and to hear what you think.’
‘Yes, Oswald; but tell me about this other thing, this change in your
mind.’
‘It is all the same thing; my heart is full of it. You think me
mysterious; but I can’t talk freely to-night with all these people so
close round us. Listen, Cara,’ he said, approaching his face
close to hers, and speaking in a half-whisper of profoundest
confidentialness--‘Listen, I want your sympathy. I think I have arrived
at a crisis in my life.’
This little group was watched by more than one pair of eyes, and with
very varied feelings. The party consisted of Mr. Beresford, Miss Cherry,
and that old friend of the Meredith family, who attended all Mrs.
Meredith’s receptions, Mr. Sommerville. And of all the spectators Mr.
Beresford was perhaps the only one who did not cast a glance and a
thought towards the two young people so distinctly isolating themselves
from the rest in their corner. Mr. Sommerville looked at them with a
sort of chuckle, reflecting that, as the only child of her father, Cara
was no doubt well worth the trouble; and that, at this moment at least,
the idle Oswald was not losing his time. Mrs. Meredith glanced at them
with a soft pride and sympathetic pleasure in what she considered her
son’s happiness; a pleasure unmarred by the thought that her other son
was rendered anything but happy by this spectacle. But the two whose
minds were absorbed by the scene, and who scarcely could even make a
pretence of attending to anything else, were Miss Cherry and Edward
Meredith. Poor Edward sat behind backs with a book in his hand, but he
never turned over the leaf. All that he was capable of seeing for the
moment was his brother’s shoulders, which were turned to him, and which
almost shut out the view of Cara, who was sitting on a little sofa
fitted into a corner, separated entirely from the rest of the party by
Oswald, who sat in front of her, with his back turned to the others,
leaning forward to talk to her. More than the habitual suppressed sense
that his brother was preferred to him in everything was the feeling in
Edward’s mind now. This time he was disappointed as well as wounded.
Edward had been more light-hearted, more self-confident, than he had
ever been known to be in his life before, since the conversation with
Cara which has been recorded in this history. He had thought then that
at last he had found someone who was capable of judging between Oswald
and himself, and of understanding that all the good was not on one side.
When Cara had spoken of the difference between those who talked of
themselves, and those whose minds were open to the troubles of others,
Edward’s heart had danced with sudden pleasure. She had made the
unfailing comparison between them which Edward felt everybody to make,
and she had not thrown herself, as most of the world did (he thought),
entirely on Oswald’s side. Alas, poor Edward! what was he to think now?
He sat and watched with indescribable feelings while this little scene
arranged itself, feeling it intolerable, yet incapable of doing anything
to prevent it. Had her feelings changed, then, or had she only spoken so
to please him, not meaning it; adopting the doubtful practice--very
doubtful, though St. Paul seems to recommend it--of being all things to
all men? Edward suffered sometimes from seeing his mother do this; must
he find the same in _her_ too? The thought was bitter to him. With his
book held, he did not know how, in his hands, he watched the pair.
Oswald bent forward close to her, talking low, so that she only could
hear, shutting out the rest of the people in the room, the rest of the
world, how many soever and how important they might have been,
appropriating her altogether to himself; and Cara yielded to it, and
smiled, and showed no displeasure. Could this mean anything but one
thing? Perhaps some passing lovers’ quarrel had disturbed the
equilibrium of affairs between them, when she spoke to Edward as she had
done, and raised his hopes. Perhaps---- But why speculate on anything so
little encouraging? It threw him down, as it were, at a plunge from
those airy and lovely heights of youthful possibility, where Oswald had
always preceded him, gleaning everything that was most desirable. It
seemed to Edward that he had never cared for anything in his life but
Cara--her ‘sweet friendship,’ as the young man called it, the
appreciation and understanding of him which he had read in her eyes.
Surely the elder brother who had all the success and all the social
happiness for his portion might have spared him this. It was the rich
man and the poor man over again. Oswald was welcome to anything but
Cara; and yet he had come out of his way to pluck this one flower which
Edward had hoped might be for him. His heart sank as he watched them,
down, down, to unimaginable depths. Oswald would not care for her as he
would have done. She would but be a pleasure the more to the elder
brother, whereas to Edward she would have been everything. No doubt he
was talking to her now of himself, his own prowess, and what he had done
or was going to do. Herself and how she was feeling would drop as things
unworthy consideration; but Edward would have made them the chief, the
most interesting topics--he would have forgotten himself to set her high
above all others. Was this the way of the world, of which so much was
written in books and sung in poetry? The book trembled in Edward’s hand,
and his heart suddenly swelled and filled with a sick and bitter
discontent.
As for Miss Cherry, she was at the opposite point of the compass. She
forgot her terrors, forgot her troubles, in pleasure at that most
consoling of sights. Her gentle soul floated in a very sea of soft
reflected happiness. Never to her had come that delight of youth. Dreams
had been her portion all her life; perhaps disappointment, perhaps only
the visionary suspense of waiting for something which never came; but to
see before her eyes her dearest child reaping the harvest of her own
silent wishes! Was not that almost a better portion than being happy in
her own person? Cherry forgot to talk, and made only a rambling reply
when addressed, so much was her heart absorbed in the ‘young people.’
She thought that now surely Cara would tell her, and that she would take
the child into her arms and cry over her, and rejoice in her. Better
than happiness of her own! Her own happiness (Miss Cherry reflected),
had she got it, would have been half worn out by this time--waning,
perhaps faded by time. Whereas, the deferred blessedness which Cara
would enjoy instead of her would be fresh as any flower, and fill all
hearts with joy. She sat at the corner of the fire opposite, saying ‘God
bless them,’ over and over, and working out in her mind all kinds of
calculations about money, and how much they would begin on, and where
they should live. For Miss Cherry was resolved that Cara should not be
balked of her happiness. On that point she would be firm as a rock. If
the young man had not very much, what did that matter so long as they
loved each other, and Cara had plenty? And Cara should have plenty,
however anyone might oppose or obstruct. God bless them! All the
happiness that should have been hers, and their own in addition--that
was what she wished for this happy, happy, happy pair; and so sat there,
taking no share in the conversation, making answers so far from the mark
that lively old Mr. Sommerville set her down as a very stupid person,
and even Mrs. Meredith, who was kind in her judgment of everybody, could
not help thinking that Cherry had grown duller with years.
All this happened because Oswald Meredith, having arrived, as he said,
at a crisis in his life, and being one of the people to whom a
confidante is needful, had chosen to elect Cara, with whom up to the
time of meeting his Perugino Agnes he had been half in love, to that
office--so easily are people deceived--not a soul in the room could have
believed it possible that the love which he was whispering in Cara’s ear
was love for somebody else; nor indeed, so limited were the
communications which were possible with so many people close about them,
had Cara herself any clear idea on the subject. That he had something to
tell her was certain, and she had almost pledged herself to get Aunt
Cherry out of the way, and see him alone next day, to receive his
confidence. And no fluttering of Cara’s heart, no reluctance to give
this promise, or excitement about the explanation, complicated the
matter as far as she was concerned. The two who gave rise to all these
speculations--to the misery in Edward’s heart, and the joy in Miss
Cherry’s--were the two calmest people in the room, and the least
occupied by this interview which had made them the observed of all
observers. After a while, Mrs. Meredith called to Cara (with a little
compunction at disturbing Oswald in his happiness; but for the moment
that very evident exhibition of it had lasted long enough, the kind
mother thought) and made her come out of her corner and sing. And Oswald
went with her to the piano, where the lights were dim as usual, and
where her sweet floating young voice rose up, not too loud nor too much
in the centre of everything, the very luxury of drawing-room
performances. The elder people might talk if they were so disposed
without disturbing the singer, or might stop and listen when a high pure
tone floated upward like a bird into the skies, and enjoy the momentary
ecstasy of it without formal attention to every bar. She sang, ‘If he
upbraid’ and ‘Bid me discourse,’ those twin melodies; and those flowing
fragments of the divine Ariel, which seem to breathe fragrance as well
as sweetness to the ear. Miss Cherry knew the songs by heart; had she
not played the accompaniments till her fingers ached, and ‘practised’
them over and over, till the young voice got familiar with them to that
height of delicious perfection? But she sat and listened now as if she
had never heard them before--asking herself was there not a sweeter,
more exquisite tone, born of love and happiness, in Cara’s voice. As for
Edward, poor fellow, he never budged from his seat, and never put down
his book--of which, however, he had not read a line. She was Oswald’s
now and not his. He did not know why it was that this disappointment,
this desertion gave him so deep a pang; for he had not been thinking
about love, nor had he any experience in it. One more had gone over to
Oswald’s side; but somehow the whole world on Edward’s did not feel as
if it could balance that one. Why should he listen to those notes that
seemed to tear his heart? He would have done all that for Cara that her
song declared her ready to do--was it for Oswald?--answered her
upbraiding with unresentful smiles, and thought her looks, however
angry, to be like morning roses washed in dew. All that he could have
done--but it was Oswald these looks were for, and not for him. Poor boy!
he sat with his book before his face, paying no attention, as it seemed,
but hearing and seeing everything. And at the end of every song came a
little murmur of their voices as they consulted what the next was to
be--the prettiest group! he stooping over her, finding her music for
her--and the gleam of the candles on the piano making a spot of light
about her pretty head and white dress. But Edward would not look, though
he seemed to have a picture of them painted upon the blackest of
backgrounds in his heart.
Miss Cherry was so led astray from the object of her special mission
that she scarcely observed that her brother lingered behind them when
they left, and in the flurry of finding Oswald at her side as they went
down the steps of one house and up the steps of the other, no very
lengthened pilgrimage--overlooked altogether the fact that Mr. Beresford
had stayed behind. Her heart was beating far more tumultuously than
Cara’s, which, indeed, was calm enough, as they went upstairs. The
lights were out in the drawing-room, and the two went up to Miss
Cherry’s room, where the fire was burning cheerfully. Cara stood before
the fire with her little white cloak dropping from her shoulders, and
the ruddy glow warming her whiteness, the very image and type of
exquisite half-childish maidenhood to the kind eyes which saw her
through such soft tears.
‘Oh, my darling!’ said Miss Cherry, ‘surely you will tell me now? I
don’t want to thrust myself into your confidence, Cara. I have not said
a word, though I have been thinking of nothing else; but oh, my sweet!
after to-night you will surely tell me now.’
Miss Cherry had moisture in her eyes. She was breathless and panting
with eagerness and with the hurry of running upstairs. The colour went
and came as if she had been the heroine of the romance--and indeed she
looked a great deal more like the heroine of a romance than Cara did,
who turned upon her, calm but wondering, the serenity of her blue eyes.
‘Tell you what, Aunt Cherry? Of course I will tell you everything that
happens; but what is there to tell?’
‘You don’t expect me to be blind,’ said Miss Cherry, almost crying in
her disappointment; ‘what I see with my own eyes I can’t be deceived in.
And do you think I am so stupid or so old, or, oh, Cara! so indifferent,
as not to see everything that concerns my darling’s happiness? You
cannot do me such injustice as that.’
‘But what is it that concerns my happiness?’ said the girl, with a
tranquil smile. ‘Did anything happen that I don’t know of? I don’t know
anything about it, for my part.’
Miss Cherry paused and looked at her with something like offended
dignity. ‘Cara, this is not like you,’ she said. ‘Did not I see him
following you about everywhere--shutting you up in the corner to talk to
you? Ah, my dear, nothing can deceive anxious eyes like mine! And there
is no harm in it that you should hesitate to tell me. I should be only
too happy to know, and so would Aunt Charity, that you had escaped all
the uncertainties of life by an early suitable marriage--a marriage of
pure love.’
‘Marriage!’ Cara’s face grew crimson; and the word came forth faltering
in a tremor, half of shame, half of laughter. ‘Aunt Cherry, what can you
be thinking of? There is nothing, nothing of the kind--oh, would you
believe that I could do such a thing? There! You were only laughing at
me.’
‘Cara, I never, never laugh on such subjects. They are far, far too
important and serious. A girl’s whole future might be ruined by getting
frightened or laughing at the wrong time. Oh, my Cara, don’t take it too
lightly! If Oswald Meredith has not asked you, it is only for want of an
opportunity: perhaps he thought it too public to-night, and so it was. I
should not have liked him to ask you to-night,’ said Miss Cherry,
reassuring herself. ‘It was not private enough. But he will do it the
first opportunity; of that I am as sure as that I’m living. Didn’t he
ask you--he must have asked you--to see him to-morrow?’
‘Aunt Cherry, you are mistaken. I know you are mistaken,’ said Cara,
growing as pale as she had been red. The bow drawn at a venture had
flown straight to the very red. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ she faltered, ‘I
assure you he doesn’t mean anything of the sort.’
‘He asked you to see him to-morrow?’ said Miss Cherry, delighted by her
success.
‘He asked me, certainly, if I would be at home to-morrow; but he often
does--he often comes. Aunt Cherry, do believe me. It is not that, not
that at all, whatever it is.’
‘My dearest,’ said Miss Cherry, with great dignity, ‘I know how people
look when that is what is in their minds. You think I have had no
experience, and so many people suppose. One does not brag of such
things. But, Cara, I hope you will not allow yourself to be taken by
surprise as--well, as I was. I sometimes think if I had only had someone
to say to me “dear”’--Miss Cherry went on, with fresh tears coming into
her mild eyes--‘“you should think a great deal, and be very sure of your
own feelings before you spoil a young man’s life for him.” A girl does
that sometimes out of simple want of thought, and because she is
startled. I could tell you of such a thing happening--and how I--she was
sorry after, but never had it in her power to mend it. Oh, Cara, my
darling, it is a very serious thing to spoil another’s life!’
‘Aunt Cherry! but you are wrong. I am quite sure you are wrong,’ said
Cara, trembling. She could not help feeling a certain awe at the idea of
this sudden power which seemed to be thrust into her hands; and yet it
was too incredible to affect her profoundly. ‘Oswald is not like that,’
she said, ‘even if he meant it. He is not so serious, he does not feel
so strongly.’ But then Cara herself paused, uncertain, thinking of the
revolution in his thoughts of which he had told her, the crisis in his
life.
‘Ah, Cara, even while you are speaking to me your view changes--you see
the truth of what I say. Oh, think of it, my dear, and pray to God to
direct you. It is not a thing to laugh about, as so many people do.
Good-night, my darling, good-night! I must not talk any more, or I shall
say more than I want to say, and it ought to be all left to your own
feelings. Run away, run away, my own child, and think it over and judge
for yourself.’
Cara withdrew with a little nervous shiver, drawing her cloak round her.
The seriousness of this appeal overawed the girl. That she should plunge
out of her almost childhood into this serious crisis, upon which so much
depended, seemed incredible. She had scarcely turned away from the door
when Miss Cherry put out her head again.
‘Cara, just one word. If there should be difficulties, I will stand by
you. You shall not be crossed in anything that is for your happiness. We
have plenty for you both. Good-night, my darling, good-night.’
This did not ease Cara’s mind as Miss Cherry intended, but only
bewildered her. She stood for a moment wondering, till the door was
closed again and her aunt disappeared. What did she mean? Difficulties
to be surmounted which could make it comforting to know that there was
plenty for both had not occurred to Cara’s mind, which indeed went not a
step beyond the present dilemma. Could it be true? Awe, wonder, fright,
contended in her mind with a suppressed sense of amusement which Cara
thought wicked. Could Oswald feel so gravely, so deeply as Aunt Cherry
thought? It did not seem possible; and could it be homely Cara who was
the object of so serious a sentiment? Her little head seemed to go round
and round as she tried to think. She dropped upon the hearthrug before
the fire, kneeling, putting out her small hands to the warmth. Emotion
is always chilly, and the effort of thinking upon such a wonderful
subject made Cara shiver. She began to put things together, to remember
the unusual warmth with which Mrs. Meredith embraced her, the strange
look Edward gave her. When she remembered Edward’s look Cara grew colder
than ever, and felt disposed to cry, she could not tell why. That, then,
was what they all believed, not Aunt Cherry alone, who was romantic, but
everybody--and poor Edward! Cara felt a sudden pang go through her
heart. Why did Edward look at her so seriously, so pitifully? Was it
only sympathy for what was going to happen--was it? But Oswald? Then she
felt disposed to laugh. Could Oswald have anything so serious, anything
so solemn in his thoughts? To be sure he had spoken mysteriously of a
revelation, a revolution. Cara did not know what to think. She was so
young that the idea of anyone being ‘in love’ with her gave a strange
thrill of half-alarmed, half-wondering excitement to her being--was it
possible that someone thought of a little girl like herself, as of Una,
or Rosalind? A little laugh, frightened and faltering, broke from her
unawares--and then she blushed crimson and was horrified with herself.
Laugh! on such a subject! Her heart began to beat; her head turned
round. What could she say to him, what must she do, if it was this that
was in Oswald’s thoughts?