MYSTIFIED.
‘My dear boy,’ said Mrs. Meredith, ‘I see what you are thinking of. You
are young to settle in life, and about means there might be some
difficulty; but to see you happy I would make any sacrifice. Nothing is
so important as to make a good choice, which you have done, thank God.
That goes beyond every prudential consideration. Nothing else matters in
comparison.’ And, as she said this, tears stood in her soft eyes. It was
a long speech for Mrs. Meredith. Oswald had come back to the
drawing-room in a loose jacket, with some lingering odour of his cigar
about him, to bid his mother good-night. She was standing by the
mantelpiece with her candle in her hand, while he stood close by,
looking down into the fire, caressing the down, scarcely developed into
a moustache, on his upper lip, and thus hiding a conscious smile.
‘So you think my choice a good one, mother?’ he said, with a laugh.
Mrs. Meredith did not think him serious enough for such a serious
moment; but then how useless it is to go on contending with people
because they will not feel as you think proper in every emergency! After
all, everyone must act according to his nature; the easy man cannot be
made restless, nor the light-hearted solemn. This was Mrs. Meredith’s
philosophy. But she gave a little sigh, as she had often done, to the
frivolity of her elder son. It was late, and the fire was very low upon
the hearth--one of the lamps had burned out--the room was dimmer than
usual; in a corner Edward sat reading or pretending to read, rather
glum, silent, and sad. Oswald, who had come in, in a very pleasant
disposition, as indeed he generally was, smoothed his young moustache
with great complacency. He saw at once that it was Cara of whom his
mother was thinking, and it was not at all disagreeable to him that she
should think so. He was quite willing to be taken for Cara’s lover.
There was no harm in a little mystification, and the thought on the
whole pleased him.
‘Ah, Oswald, I wish you were a little more serious, especially at such
a moment,’ said his mother; ‘there are so many things to think of. I
wish you would try to realise that it is a very, very important moment
in your life.’
‘It is a very pleasant one, at least,’ he said, smiling at her--with a
smile which from the time of his baby naughtiness had always subdued his
mother--and he lighted her candle, and stooped with filial grace to kiss
her cheek. ‘Good-night, mother, and don’t trouble about me. I am very
happy,’ he said, with a half-laugh at his own cleverness in carrying on
this delusion. Oswald thought a great deal of his own cleverness. It was
a pleasant subject to him. He stood for some time after his mother was
gone, looking down into the waning fire, and smiling to himself. He
enjoyed the idea reflected from their minds that he was an accepted
lover, a happy man betrothed and enjoying the first sweetness of love.
He had not said so; he had done nothing, so far as he was aware, to
originate such a notion; but it rather amused and flattered him now that
they had of themselves quite gratuitously started it. As for Cara
herself being displeased or annoyed by it, that did not occur to him.
She was only just a girl, not a person of dignity, and there could be no
injury to her in such a report. Besides, it was not his doing; he was
noway to blame. Poor dear little Cara! if it did come to that, a man was
not much to be pitied who had Cara to fall back upon at the last.
Thus he stood musing, with that conscious smile on his face, now and
then casting a glance at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He
was not thinking of his brother, who sat behind with the same book in
his hands that he had been pretending to read all the evening. Edward
rose when his mother was gone, and came up to the fire. He was no master
of words befitting the occasion; he wanted to say something, and he did
not know what to say. His elder brother, the most popular of the two--he
who was always a little in advance of Edward in everything, admired and
beloved and thought of as Edward had never been--how was the younger,
less brilliant, less considered brother to say anything to him that bore
the character of advice? And yet Edward’s heart ached to do so; to tell
the truth, his heart ached for more than this. It had seemed to him that
Cara confided in himself, believed in his affectionate sympathy more
than she did in Oswald’s; and to see Oswald in the triumphant position
of avowed lover, as they all thought him to be, was gall and bitterness
to the poor young fellow, in whose heart for all these years a warm
recollection of Cara had been smouldering. He was the poor man whose
ewelamb his rich brother had taken, and the pang of surprised distress
in his soul was all the bitterer for that consciousness which never
quite left his mind, that Oswald was always the one preferred. But
Edward, though he felt this, was not of an envious nature, and was
rather sad for himself than resentful of his brother’s happiness. He
went up to him, dragged by his tender heart much against the resistance
of his will, feeling that he too must say something. He laid his hand,
which quivered a little with suppressed agitation, on Oswald’s shoulder.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, old fellow,’ he said, with an attempt
at an easy tone. ‘I needn’t wish you happiness, for you’ve got it----’
In spite of himself Oswald laughed. He had a schoolboy’s delight in
mystification, and somehow a sense of Edward’s disappointment came in,
and gave him a still greater perception of the joke. Not that he wished
to hurt Edward, but to most men who know nothing of love there is so
much of the ridiculous involved, even in a disappointment, that the one
who is heart-whole may be deliberately cruel without any evil intention.
‘Oh, yes, I am happy enough,’ he said, looking round at his brother,
who, for his part, could not meet his eyes.
‘I hope you won’t mind what I am going to say to you,’ said Edward. ‘I
am not so light-hearted a fellow as you are, and that makes me, perhaps,
notice others. Oswald, look here--_she_ is not so light-hearted as you
are, either. She wants taking care of. She is very sensitive, and feels
many things that perhaps you would not feel. Don’t be vexed. I thought I
would just say this once for all--and there is no good thing I don’t
wish you,’ cried Edward, concluding abruptly, to cover the little break
in his voice.
‘You needn’t look so glum about it, Ned,’ said his brother. ‘I don’t
mean to be turned off to-morrow. We shall have time to mingle our tears
on various occasions before then. Mamma and you have a way of jumping at
conclusions. As for _her_----’
‘I don’t like slang on such a subject,’ said Edward, hotly. ‘Never
mind; there are some things we should never agree upon if we talked till
doomsday. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, old man, and I wish you a better temper--unless you’ll come
and have another cigar first,’ said Oswald, with cheerful assurance. ‘My
mind is too full for sleep.’
‘Your mind is full of----’
‘Her, of course,’ said Oswald, with a laugh; and he went downstairs
whistling the air of Fortunio’s song--
Je sais mourir pour ma mie,
Sans la nommer.
He was delighted with the mistake which mystified everybody, and
awakened envies, and regrets, and congratulations, which were all in
their different ways tributes to his importance. And no doubt the
mistake might be turned into reality at any moment should he decide that
this would be desirable. He had only to ask Cara, he felt, and she would
be as pleased as the others; and, indeed, under the influence of a
suggestion which made him feel his own importance so delightfully,
Oswald was not at all sure that this was not the best thing, and the
evident conclusion of the whole. But in the meantime he let his mind
float away upon other fancies. _Her!_ how little they knew who She was
whom they thus ignorantly discussed. When he had got into the sanctuary
of smoke, at which Mrs. Meredith shook her head, but which she had
carefully prepared for her boys all the same, Oswald lit the other cigar
which he had invited his brother to accompany, and sat down with that
smile still upon his face, to enjoy it and his fancies. He laid his hand
indolently upon a book, but his own musings were at the moment more
amusing, more pleasantly exciting than any novel. The situation pleased
and stimulated his fancy in every way. The demure little school
procession, the meek young conventual beauty, so subdued and soft, yet
with sparkles responsive to be struck out of her, half-frightened, yet
at the same time elevated above all the temptations that might have
assailed other girls--it was scarcely possible to realise anything more
captivating to the imagination. He sat and dreamed over it all till the
small hours after midnight sounded one by one, and his fire went out,
and he began to feel chilly; upon which argument Oswald, still smiling
to himself, went to bed, well pleased with his fancies as with
everything else belonging to him; and all the better pleased that he
felt conscious of having roused a considerable deal of excitement and
emotion, and of having, without any decided intention on his own part,
delightfully taken in everybody, which delighted the schoolboy part of
his nature. To be so clever as he was conscious of being, and a poet,
and a great many other fine things, it was astonishing how much of the
schoolboy was still in him. But yet he had no compunction as he went up
the long staircase: he had not finished, nor indeed made the least
advance with his poem.
From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung
Fair face!----
This beginning was what he liked best.
Edward was moved in a very different way. He would have been magnanimous
and given up Cara--that is, having no real right to Cara, he might have
given up the youthful imagination of her which had always been his
favourite fancy, to his brother, with some wringing of the heart, but
with that compensation which youth has in the sublime sense of
self-sacrifice. But there is no bitterness greater in this world, either
for young or old, than that of giving up painfully to another something
which that other holds with levity and treats with indifference. To hear
Cara, the sacred young princess of his own fancy, spoken of lightly, and
the supreme moment of possible union with her characterised as ‘turning
off,’ was a downfall which made Edward half-frantic with pain and shame,
and indignation and impatience. She would be to Oswald only a
commonplace little wife, to be petted when he was in the humour,
standing very much lower than himself in his own good graces; whereas,
to Edward she would have been----! but it was Oswald, not Edward, whom
she had chosen. How strange they are! all those wonderful confusions of
humanity which depress the wisest, the blind jumps at fate, the foolish
choices, the passing over of the best to take the worst, which form the
ordinary course of existence everywhere, the poor young fellow thought,
in this first encounter with adverse events; and this was mingled with
that strange wonder of the tender heart to find itself uncomprehended
and rejected, while gifts much less precious than those it offers are
accepted, which is one of the most poignant pangs of nature:--and these
feelings surging dimly through Edward’s mind, filled him with a
despondency and pain beyond words. Indeed, he could not have told all
the bitterness of the vague heavy blackness which swallowed up the fair
world and everything lovely before him. It was not only that Cara had
(he thought) chosen Oswald instead of himself, but also that the lesser
love was preferred to the greater, and that the thing one man would have
worshipped was thrown to the careless keeping of another, as if it were
a thing of no price. The personal question and the abstract one twisted
and twined into one, as is general in the first trials of youth. He
himself unconsciously became to himself the symbol of true love
misjudged, of gold thrown away for pinchbeck--and Cara the symbol of
that terrible perennial mistake which is always going on from chapter to
chapter of the world’s history. Even, for he was generous in the very
pangs of that visionary envy, it added another pang of suffering to
Edward’s mind, that he could not but consider his brother as the
pinchbeck, so far as Cara at least was considered. While Oswald sat
smiling to himself through the fumes of his cigar, Edward threw his
window open and gazed out into the chill darkness of the winter night,
feeling the cold wind, which made him shiver, to be more in consonance
with his feelings than the warmth of the comfortable room inside.
Thus the whole little world was turned upside down by Oswald’s
light-hearted preference of his own gratification to anything other
people might think. He had half-forgotten the appointment he had so
anxiously made with Cara when the morning came, having got into full
swing with his verses--which was still a more captivating way of
expressing his sentiments than confession of them to Cara--
Fair face from old Pietro’s canvas sprung,
Soft as the eve, fresh as the day,
Sweet shadow of angelic faces, young
And heavenly bright as they,
Soul of all lovely things, by poets sung--
He could not content himself with the last line--‘Accept my lay,’ or ‘my
humble lay,’ was the easiest termination, but it was prosaic and
affected. The consideration of this occupied him to the entire exclusion
of Cara, and he only recollected with what anxiety he had begged her to
get rid of her aunt and see him alone at a quarter past twelve, having
appointed to meet her at noon. He thrust the bit of paper on which he
had been scribbling into his pocket, when he remembered, and went off
languidly to pay his visit; he had meant to have completed the poem, and
read it over to her, but it was clear that this must be postponed to
another day.
Meanwhile good Miss Cherry, full of anxieties, had got up much earlier
than was necessary, and had spent a long day before twelve o’clock. By
way of giving to her withdrawal at that fated hour an air of perfect
naturalness and spontaneity, she invented a great many little household
occupations, going here and there over the different rooms with Nurse,
looking over Cara’s things to see what was wanted, and making a great
many notes of household necessities. The one most serious occupation
which she had in her mind she postponed until the moment when the lover,
or supposed lover, should appear. This was her real object in coming to
London, the interview which she had determined to have with her brother.
With a heart beating more loudly than it had beaten for years, she
waited till Oswald Meredith’s appearance gave the signal for this
assault, which it was her duty to make, but which she attempted with so
much trembling. By the time Oswald did appear her breath had almost
forsaken her with agitation and excitement, and she had become almost
too much absorbed in her own enterprise to wonder that at such a moment
the young man should be late. She was already in the library when Oswald
went upstairs. Two interviews so solemn going on together! the comfort
of both father and daughter hanging in the balance. Miss Cherry knocked
so softly as to be unheard, and had to repeat the summons before that
‘Come in’ sounded through the closed door, which was to her as the trump
of doom.
She went in. Mr. Beresford was seated as usual at his writing-table,
with all his books about him. He was busy, according to his gentle idea
of being busy, and looked up with some surprise at his sister when she
entered. Miss Cherry came noiselessly forward in her grey gown, with her
soft steps. He held his pen suspended in his fingers, thinking perhaps
it was some passing question which she meant to ask, then laid it down
with the slightest shadow of impatience, covered immediately by a
pretended readiness to know what she wanted, and a slight sigh over his
wasted time. Those who have their bread to work for take interruptions
far more easily than those whose labours are of importance to nobody,
and Macaulay writing his History would not have breathed half so deep a
sigh as did James Beresford over the half-hour he was about to lose.
‘You want something?’ he said, with the smile of a conscious martyr.
‘Only to speak to you, James,’ said Miss Cherry, breathless. Then she
looked up at him with a deprecating, wistful smile. ‘It is not very
often that we meet now, or have any opportunity for a little talk,’ she
said.
‘Yes, Cherry, that is true enough. I have been so much away.’
‘And people drift apart; that is true too. I know I can’t follow you in
all your deep studies, James; but my heart is always the same. I think
of you more than of anyone, and of Cara. I hope she will live to be the
dearest comfort to you as she always was to us. The light went away from
the Hill, I think, when she went away.’
‘You have been very good to her, I am sure,’ he said, with due
gratefulness, ‘and most kind. You have brought her up very wisely,
Cherry. I have no fault to find with her. She is a good little girl.’
Miss Cherry, to hear her small goddess thus described, felt a sudden
shock and thrill of horror; but she subdued herself. ‘I wanted to speak
to you, James,’ she said, ‘of that:’ then, with a slight pant and heave
of her frightened bosom--‘oh, James! do you not think you could give her
a little more of your society--learn to know her better? You would find
it worth your while!’
‘Know her better! My dear Cherry, I know her very well, poor child. She
is a good little girl, always obedient and dutiful. There cannot be very
much fellowship between a man of my occupations and a quiet simple girl
such as Cara is, I am glad to say; but I am very fond of her. You must
not think I don’t appreciate my child.’
‘It is not quite that,’ said poor Cherry. ‘Oh, James, if you only knew
it, our Cara is a great deal more than merely a good little girl. I
would not for a moment think of finding fault with you; but if you would
see her a little more in the evening--if you would not go out quite so
much----’
‘Go out!--I really go out very seldom. I think you are making a mistake,
Cherry, my dear.’
‘Oh, no, James; since I have come it has been my great thought. I know
you don’t mean to be unkind; but when you are out every evening----’
‘Really, Cherry, I had no idea that my liberty was to be infringed, and
my habits criticised.’
Miss Cherry came up to him with an anxious face and wet eyes. ‘Oh,
James, don’t be angry! That is not what I mean. It is not to criticise
you. But if you would stay with your child in the evening sometimes. She
is so sweet and young. It would give you pleasure if you were to
try--and--it would be better, far better in other ways too.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he said, hurriedly.
‘No, no. I was sure, quite sure, you never thought, nor meant anything.
But the world is a strange world. It is always misconceiving innocent
people--and, James, I am certain, nay, I _know_, it would be so much
better: for every one--in every way.’
‘You seem to have made up your mind to be mysterious, Cherry,’ he said.
‘I don’t see to whom it can be of importance how I pass my time. To Cara
you think? I don’t suppose she cares so much for my society. You are an
old-fashioned woman, my poor Cherry, and think as you were brought up to
think. But, my dear, it is not necessary to salvation that a man should
be always in his own house, and between a man of fifty and a girl of
seventeen there is not really so much in common.’
‘When they are father and daughter, James----’
‘That does not make very much difference that I can see. But if you
think Cara is dull, we must hit upon something better than my society.
Young friends, perhaps--if there is any other girl she likes
particularly, let her invite her friend by all means. I don’t want my
little girl to be dull.’
‘It is not that, James. She never complains; but, oh, if you would try
to make friends with the child! She would interest you, she would be a
pleasant companion. She would make you like your home again: and, oh!
pardon me, James, would not that be better than finding your happiness
elsewhere?’
At this moment the door was opened, and John appeared ushering in a
scientific visitor, whose very name was enough to frighten any humble
person like Miss Cherry. She withdrew precipitately, not sorry to be
saved from further discussion, and wondering at herself how she could
have had the audacity to speak so to James. Nothing but her anxiety
could have given her such boldness. It was presumption, she felt, even
in her secret soul, to criticise, as he said, a man like her brother,
older and so much wiser than herself; but sometimes a little point of
custom or regard to appearances might be overlooked by a clever man in
the very greatness of his thoughts. This was how kind Miss Cherry put
it--and in that way the mouse might help the lion, and the elderly,
old-fashioned sister be of use to a wise and learned man, though he was
a member of all the societies. And how kindly he had listened to her,
and received her bold animadversions! When there is anything to admire
in the behaviour of those they look up to, kind women, like Miss Cherry,
can always find some humble plea like this at least, for a little
adoration. Such a clever man, had he not a right to be furious, brutal
if he pleased, when a simple little woman dared to find fault with him?
But, on the contrary, how well he took it--what a man he was!
Miss Cherry, hurrying upstairs, met Cara coming down, and her other
excitement came back to her in a moment. She took the girl’s hands in
hers, though it was in no more retired place than the landing on the
stairs. ‘Well, my darling,’ she said, anxiously.
‘Well, Aunt Cherry!’ said Cara, and laughed. ‘I was coming to look for
you, to ask you to come out and get some ribbon----’
‘But Cara----’
‘Come!’ cried the girl, running upstairs again to get her hat; and what
had really happened that morning Miss Cherry never knew. So that both
her excitements came to nothing, and the day turned out uneventful like
other common days.