THE OLD FOLK AND THE YOUNG.
The intercourse between the two houses went on for some time in that
uncomfortable and embarrassing way which comes between the sudden pause
of a domestic crisis and the inevitable but delayed explanation. The
evening after that on which Mrs. Meredith had a headache, Mr. Beresford
had an engagement. Next night she went to the opera, which had just
re-opened; the next again he had a meeting of his Society; and thus they
continued, avoiding the meeting at which something would require to be
said, and suffering intensely each with a sense of unkindness on the
part of the other. James Beresford could not but feel that to cut him
off thus, demonstrated a coolness of interest on the part of his friend
which went against all those shows of kindness which made her so
beloved--those soft ministrations of sympathy which, he supposed
bitterly, anybody might have for the asking, but which were withdrawn as
easily as they were given; while she, on her part, with a certain
wondering resentment, felt his tame withdrawal from her, and
uncourageous yielding of her friendship to the first suggestion of
conventional fault-finding. But this could not go on for ever between
two people of honest feeling. There came a time when he could not bear
it, and she could not bear it. Mr. Beresford’s return to the house which
he had visited daily for so long attracted naturally as much observation
as the cessation of his visits had done. While these visits were
habitual there might be private smiles and comments; but the sudden
stoppage of them naturally aroused all the dormant criticism; and when,
after a ten days’ interval, he knocked at Mrs. Meredith’s door again,
all her servants and his own, and the houses next door on each side,
were in a ferment of curiosity. What was going to happen? He walked
upstairs into the drawing-room, with his elderly heart beating a little
quicker than usual. Hearts of fifty are more apt to palpitate in such
cases as this than in any other. James Beresford was not in love with
his neighbour’s wife, but he had found in her that tender friendship,
that healing sympathy which men and women can afford to each other,
better, perhaps, than men can to men, or women to women--a friendship
which is the most enduring charm of marriage, but not necessarily
confined to it; which is the highest delight of fraternal intercourse,
yet not always to be found in that. The loss of it without fault on
either side makes one of those rents in life which are as bad as death
itself, even when accompanied by full understanding, on both sides, of
the reason for the separation; and very rarely can these reasons be
accepted and acknowledged on both sides alike, without pangs of injury
or development of other and less blameless sentiments. Vulgar opinion
with one unanimous voice has stigmatised the relationship as impossible;
from which it may be conceded that it is dangerous and difficult; but
yet solitary examples of it are to be found all over the world;
occurring here and there with delicate rarity like a fastidious flower
which only some quintessence of soil can suit; and it flourishes most,
as is natural, among those to whom the ordinary relationships of life
have not been satisfactory. Beresford, bereft half-way on the hard road
of existence of his natural companion, and Mrs. Meredith deserted by
hers, were, of all people in the world, the two most likely to find some
compensation in such a friendship; but I do not say it is a thing to be
permitted or encouraged, because here were two for whom it was a kind of
secondary happiness. They were as safe from falling into the sin which
neither of them were the least inclined to, as if they had been two
rocks or towers; but others might not be so safe, and social laws must,
so long as the world lasts under its present conditions, be made for
vulgar minds. Perhaps, too, Cara would have occupied a different place
as her mother’s representative had not her father found a confidant and
companion of his own age, who was so much to him; and the boys might
have found their mother more exclusively their own, had not so
confidential a counsellor been next door. But it is doubtful whether in
the latter particular there was anything to be regretted, for boys must
go out into the world, according to the same vulgar voice of general
opinion, and have nothing to do with their mother’s apron-string. Still
it was not a thing to be permitted, that those two should be such
friends; and now at last the world’s will had been fully signified to
them; and after an attempt to elude the necessity of explanation, the
moment had come at which they must obey the fiat of society, and meet to
part.
He walked into the room, his heart thumping with a muffled sound against
his bosom--not like the heart-beats of young emotion--heavier, less
rapid, painful throbs. She was seated in her usual place by the fire, a
little table beside her with a lamp upon it, and some books. She had her
knitting in her hand. She did not rise to receive him, but raised her
eyes in all the old friendly sweetness, and held out her hand. She was
agitated too, but she had more command over herself. There are cases in
which a man may, and a woman must not, show emotion.
‘Well?’ she said, in a voice with a falter in it, taking no notice of
his absence, or of any reason why they should not meet. ‘Well?’ half a
question, half a salutation, betraying only in its brevity that she was
not sufficiently at her ease for many words.
He went up and stood before her, putting out his hands to the fire with
that want of warmth which all unhappy people feel. He could not smile or
take no notice as she tried to do. ‘I have come to ask you what is the
meaning of this?’ he said; ‘and whether there is no resource. If it must
be----’
‘The meaning of--what?’ she said, faltering; then again a pause: ‘I have
nothing to do with it, Mr. Beresford; I do not understand it. These
people speak a strange language.’
‘Don’t they?’ he cried; ‘a vile language, made for other ears than
yours. Are we to be ruled by it, you and I, to whom it is a jargon of
the lower world?’
She did not make any answer; her fingers trembled over her knitting, but
she went on with it. That he should speak so, gave her a little
consolation; but she knew very well, as perhaps he also knew, that there
was nothing for it but to yield ‘What harm can I do you?’ he said, with
a kind of aimless argument. ‘I am not a man to harm people by the mere
sight of me, am I? I am not new and untried, like a stranger whom people
might be doubtful of. All my antecedents are known. What harm can I do
you? or the boys--perhaps they think I will harm the boys.’
‘Oh, do not talk so,’ she said; ‘you know no one thinks of harm in you.
It is because everything that is unusual must be wrong; because--but why
should we discuss it, when there is no reason in it?’
‘Why should we obey it, when there is no reason in it?’ he said.
‘Alas! we cannot help ourselves now; when a thing is said, it cannot be
unsaid. After this we could not be the same. We should remember, and be
conscious.’
‘Of what?’
‘Oh, of--nothing, except what has been said. Don’t be angry with me. I
have so many things to think of--the boys first of all; there must be no
talking for them to hear. Don’t you think,’ she said, with tears in her
eyes, which glistened and betrayed themselves, yet with an appealing
smile, ‘that least said is soonest mended? To discuss it all is
impossible. If you could come--now and then--as other people come.’
Then there was a pause. To come down to the level of other people--to
confess that their intercourse must be so restricted--was not that of
itself a confession that the intercourse was dangerous, impossible, even
wrong? ‘Other people!’ Mr. Beresford repeated, in a low tone of
melancholy mockery, with a resenting smile. If it had come to that,
indeed!--and then he stood with his head bent down, holding his hands to
the fire. She was silent, too: what could they say to each other? So
many times they had sat in this room in tranquil companionship,
sometimes talking, sometimes silent, no bond of politeness upon them to
do one thing or the other, understanding each other. And now all at once
this comradeship, this brotherhood (are all these nouns of alliance
masculine?) had to be dropped, and these two friends become as other
people. Not a word was said now--that was the tolling of the dead bell.
‘I think I shall go away,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Life has not so much
in it now-a-days, that it can have the best half rent off, and yet go on
all the same. I think I shall go away ‘Where will you go to?’ she asked
softly.
‘What do I care?’ he said, and then there was another long pause.
All this time, on the other side of the wail, by the fire which
corresponded like one twin to another with this, Edward was reading to
Cara and Miss Cherry. There is no time in his life in which a young man
is so utterly domestic, so content with the little circle of the
fireside, as when he is in love. All the amusements and excitements of
life were as nothing to Edward in comparison with the limited patch of
light in which Miss Cherry and her niece did their needlework. He was
very unhappy, poor young fellow; but how sweet it was to be so unhappy!
He thought of all that Oswald was relinquishing, with a sense of
semi-contempt for Oswald. Nothing would he have done against his
brother’s interests, however his own were involved: but he could not
help the rising sense that in this case at least it was he who was
worthy rather than his brother. And it was a never-ceasing wonder to him
that Cara took it so placidly. Oswald went to her in the morning and
held long conversations with her, but in the evening he pursued his
ordinary course, and in the present disorganised state of the two houses
all the mutual dinners and evening meetings being made an end of, they
scarcely saw each other except in the morning. This, however, the girl
seemed to accept as the natural course of affairs. She was not gay, for
it was not Cara’s habit to be gay; but she went seriously about her
little world, and smiled upon Edward with absolute composure as if
Oswald had no existence. It was a thing which Edward could not
understand. He sat at the other side of the table and read to her,
whatever she chose to place before him, as long as she chose. He was
never weary; but he did not derive much intellectual advantage from what
he read. While he was giving forth someone else’s sentiments, his own
thoughts were running on a lively under-current. Why was Oswald never
here? and why did Cara take his absence so quietly? These were the two
leading thoughts with which he perplexed himself; and as he never made
out any sort of answer to them, the question ran on for ever. That
evening on which Mr. Beresford had gone to have his parting interview
with Mrs. Meredith, Miss Cherry was more preoccupied than usual. She
sighed over her crewels with more heaviness than could be involved in
the mere difficulties of the pattern. To be sure, there was enough in
that pattern to have driven any woman out of her senses. And as she
puckered her brows over it, Miss Cherry sighed; but this sigh told of a
something more heavy which lay upon her mind, the distracted state of
which may be best described by the fact that when they were in the
middle of their reading, Cara hemming on with a countenance absorbed,
Miss Cherry made the communication of which she was full, all at once,
without warning, breaking in, in the middle of a sentence, so that
Edward’s voice mingled with hers for a line or so, before he could stop
himself--
‘Your papa is thinking of going away.’
‘What?’ cried Cara and Edward in a breath.
‘Your papa,’ said Miss Cherry, with another great sigh, ‘is thinking of
shutting up his house again, and going away.’
‘Aunt Cherry!’ cried Cara, with the colour rushing suddenly to her face
as it had a way of doing when she was moved: and she half-turned and
cast a glance at Edward of wonder and sudden dismay. As for him, he had
not leisure to feel the strange delight of this confidential glance, so
entirely struck dumb was he with the appalling news. He grew pale as
Cara grew red, and felt as if all the blood was ebbing out of his heart.
‘It is not that we will not be happy--oh! happy beyond measure--to have
you again, my darling,’ said Miss Cherry; ‘but I would be false if I did
not say what a disappointment it is to think, after all our hopes for my
poor James, that he is not able to settle down in his own house. I can’t
tell you what a disappointment it is. So far as we are concerned--Aunt
Charity and I--it will be new life to us to have you home. But we did
not wish to be selfish, to think of our own comfort, and it will be such
a shock to dear Aunt Charity. She always said, as you know, Cara, what a
comfort it was to think that the only man of the family was at hand,
whatever happened. I don’t know how I am to break it to her, and in her
weak state of health.’
‘But, Aunt Cherry--what does it mean?--What has made him change?--Are
you sure you are not mistaken? Don’t you think you have misunderstood?
It does not seem possible. Are you quite, quite certain?’
‘I am not so silly as you think me, my dear,’ said Miss Cherry, half
offended, ‘I know the meaning of words. Yes, there are reasons. He is
not so happy as he thought he might be. No, my darling, I don’t think
you are to blame. He does not blame you; he only says it is not
possible. If you could get him to move perhaps to another house--but not
here: he could not possibly stay here.’
Now it was Cara’s turn to grow pale and Edward’s to grow red. She looked
at him again with a wondering, questioning glance, but he did not reply.
‘I hope it has nothing to do with the folly of any busybody--making
mischief between him and his friends,’ Edward said, with indignation.
‘Mr. Beresford ought to have some philosophy--he ought not to mind.’
‘Ah--he might not mind for himself--but when others are concerned,’ said
Miss Cherry, mysteriously. ‘But so it is, my dear, Whether we approve or
not. I meant to have gone back to poor dear Aunt Charity, but now I am
to stay on to shut up the house and settle everything. It is an ill wind
that blows nobody good,’ she added, with a smile; ‘we shall have you
back again, Cara; and that will be like the spring to the flowers. We
gave you up without grumbling--but it is not in nature that we should
not be glad to have you back.’
This gentle piece of self-congratulation was all, however, that was
said. Cara had grown quite still and pale. She turned her eyes to Edward
once more, and looked at him with a sort of woeful appeal that made his
heart beat. ‘This is dreadful news,’ he said, with his voice trembling;
and then, true to his brotherly generosity, added as steadily as he
could, ‘It will be dreadful news for poor Oswald.’ Cara clasped her
hands together in a kind of mute prayer.
‘Do you think nothing can be done?’ she said.
Now it was Miss Cherry’s turn to feel a little, a very little wounded.
‘You have soon forgotten your old home,’ she said. ‘I thought, though
you might be sorry, you would be glad too--to get home.’
‘It is not that,’ said Cara, with tears in her voice. What a break was
this of the calm happiness of the evening, the pleasure of being
together, the charm of the poetry, all those ‘influences of soul and
sense’ that had been stealing into the girl’s innocent soul and
transforming her unawares! No doubt she might have outlived it all and
learnt to look back upon that first shock with a smile--but nevertheless
it was the first shock, and at the moment it was overwhelming. She
looked at Edward again amazed, appealing to him, asking his sympathy;
ought he to thrust in Oswald between them once more? Between love and
honour the young man did not know what to do or say. His heart was wrung
with the thought of parting, but it was not to him the same shock and
unforeseen, unbelievable calamity--under which she turned appealing to
earth and heaven.
‘And I am going to India,’ he said, with a kind of despairing smile and
quivering lips.
The elder pair on the other side of the wall were not moved by these
ineffable visionary pangs. They did not stand aghast at the strange
thought that their happiness was being interfered with, that heaven and
earth had ceased to favour them--nor did they think that everything was
over and life must come to a standstill. Their feelings were less full
of the rapture of anguish; yet perhaps the heavy oppression of pain that
troubled them was more bitter in its way. They knew very well that life
would go on just as before, and nothing dreadful happen. They would only
miss each other--miss the kind look and kind word, and simple daily
consolation and quiet confidence each in the other. Nobody else could
give them that rest and mutual support which they were thus forced to
give up without cause. It was a trouble much less to be understood by
the common eye, and appealing a great deal less to the heart than those
pangs of youth which we have all felt more or less, and can all
sympathise with--but it was not a less real trouble. After the interval
of silence which neither of them broke, because neither of them had
anything to say, James Beresford sank upon his knees and took her hands
into his--not in any attitude of sentimental devotion, but only to
approach her as she sat there. They looked at each other through tears
which to each half blurred the kind countenance which was the
friendliest on earth. Then he kissed the hands he held one after the
other. ‘God bless you,’ she sobbed, her tears falling upon his sleeve.
Why was it? Why was it? yet it had to be. And then they parted; he going
back to his gloomy library, she sitting still where he had left her in
her lonely drawing-room, wiping away the tears, few but bitter, which
this unlooked-for parting had brought to her eyes. They would not
complain nor resist--nor even say what the separation cost them--but the
young ones would cry out to heaven and earth, sure at least of pity,
and perhaps of succour. That made all the difference. While her father
came in with his latch-key, and shut his door, shutting himself up with
his thoughts, Cara was lifting the mute anguish of her sweet eyes to
Edward, disturbing his very soul, poor fellow, with the question,
whether it was only his sympathy she asked as a spectator of her misery
in parting with his brother, whether it was---- When he said that about
going to India, with that tremulous smile and attempt to mock at his own
pain, the tears fell suddenly in a little shower, and a sob came from
Cara’s oppressed bosom. For whom? Such distracting tumults of excitement
do not rise in the maturer being--he was almost out of himself with
wonder and anxiety, and hope and dread, dismay and terror. Was it for
Oswald? Was it only his sympathy she asked for--was it but a pang of
sisterly pity intensified by her own suffering, that she gave to him?
The same roof, divided only by a partition, stretched over all those
agitated souls, old and young. The only quite light heart it covered was
that of Oswald, who came in rather late from a merry party, and lingered
still later, smoking his cigar, and thinking what was the next step to
be taken in his pursuit of that pretty frightened Agnes, who was no
doubt suffering for his sake. It did not hurt Oswald to think that she
was suffering for him--rather it brought a smile on his face, and a
pleasurable sensation. He had got a hold on her which nothing else could
have given him. When they met again he would have a right to inquire
into it, to give her his tender sympathy. After all, a scolding from
Sister Mary Jane was not very tragical suffering. On the score of that
it might be permitted to him to say a great many things that otherwise
he could not have said, to suggest conclusions more momentous. And he
did not think Agnes would be hard to move. He believed that she would
pardon him, and not take away her favour from him--rather perhaps, even
in her own despite, look upon him with eyes more kind. Oswald smoked at
least two cigars in her honour, wondering if perhaps she was crying over
the catastrophe of the evening, and feeling assured that there would be
sweetness in her tears. He was apt to be very sure of the favour of all
he cared to please, and that everything would go well with him. And as
for the troubles that were under the same roof with him, he knew nothing
of them, and would not have thought much had he known. He would have
laughed--for of course each of these commotions had its ludicrous side,
and Oswald would have made fun of them quite successfully. But they were
much less important anyhow than his own preoccupations--full of which,
with confidence in his heart, and a smile on his lips, he went
cheerfully upstairs, past the door within which his mother lay awake in
the dark, thinking over all her life, which had not been, in external
circumstances, a very bright one; and that which was closed upon
Edward’s conflict and confusion. Neither conflict nor confusion was in
the mind of Oswald as he went smiling upstairs with his candle. All was
likely to turn out well for him at least, whatever might happen to the
rest of the world.