BETWEEN THE TWO.
Oswald’s spirits very soon recovered the shock of his father’s death. He
was as light-hearted as ever after that day when he had visited little
Emmy at the hospital. Perhaps the satisfaction of having done a good
action was in his mind, for he was permitted to send Emmy to the seaside
to the abode of another sisterhood there. Agnes undertook after all to
make the proposal for him, which was graciously accepted, though she
herself received another admonition from the Superior. Sister Mary Jane
appointed a meeting with the other culprit who had made this charitable
offer. As usual, he was not supposed to be at all in fault. He was
allowed to enter the sacred convent gates, and wait in St. Elizabeth
(for so the Superior’s room was entitled) till Sister Mary Jane made her
appearance, who made all the arrangements, and took his money with much
gracious condescension, but said nothing about his ambassadress. Neither
did he say anything, though he looked up eagerly every time the door
opened, and made furtive investigations, as well as he could, through
the long bare passages, where all sorts of instruction were going on.
When he opened (as he had no right to do) one of the doors he passed, he
found it to be full of infants, who turned round _en masse_ to his great
terror, and saluted him with a simultaneous bob. They knew their manners
if he did not. But nowhere could he see Agnes, and not a word about her
did these unfeeling Sisters utter. To tell truth, they both waited for
each other. Sister Mary Jane had little doubt that his real mission at
the ‘House’ was to find out all he could from her, whereas he on his
part had a lively anticipation of being called to task for following and
talking to the governess. Oswald had something of the feeling of a
schoolboy who has escaped when he found that no explanation was asked
from him, and this was the only reason he gave to himself for not making
those inquiries into Agnes Burchell’s family which he felt it was now
really necessary to make. But why immediately? Let him make a little
more ground with her first, and establish his own position. It charmed
him a great deal more to think of winning her in this irregular way than
to plan the proper formal approach to her parents, and application for
their consent. To go and hunt up an unknown family and introduce himself
to them in cold blood, and ask them, ‘Will you give me your daughter?’
was quite alarming to him. He put it off, as it is so easy to do.
Certainly it would be his duty to do it, one time or other, if his suit
prospered, and he was not much afraid of the non-success of his suit.
But to go to them once for all, and inform them of his engagement with
their daughter, would, he thought, be a less difficult matter--and all
the delightful romance of the strange wooing would be lost should he
adopt the other plan. He felt that he had got off when the door of the
House closed upon him without any questioning from Sister Mary Jane; but
on her side the feeling was different. She was disappointed. She had
guessed how things were going, though not that they had gone nearly so
far, and she had been convinced that the young stranger’s anxiety to see
her arose from his honourable desire to set everything on a proper
footing. The reader will perceive that Sister Mary Jane was too simple
and too credulous. She was half vexed at the idea of losing the girl
whom she had grown fond of, and half glad that Agnes had found a new
life more suited to her than the routine of the House, for Agnes, it was
evident, had no ‘vocation,’ and she did not doubt for a moment what Mr.
Oswald Meredith’s real object was. She had made up her mind to allow
herself to be sounded, to yield forth scraps of information
diplomatically, and finally to divulge everything there was to tell, and
set the eager lover off to the rectory at the foot of the hill. But
Sister Mary Jane was much dismayed to be asked no questions at all on
the subject. She could not understand it, and all the disagreeable
stories she had ever heard of the wolves that haunt the neighbourhood of
a fold came into her mind and filled her with dismay. Instead of being
honourable and high-minded, as she had taken it for granted he must be,
was he designing and deceiving, according to the ideal of men who used
to appear in all the novels? Up to this moment Sister Mary Jane had felt
disposed to laugh at the Lothario of fiction. Was this that mythical
personage in his improper person? The result of the interview on her
side was that she reproved poor Agnes gently for a few days, and
declined to allow her to go anywhere, and would not make any reference
whatever to little Emmy’s going to the seaside. Yes, she was to go. Oh,
certainly, everything was arranged; but not a word about Emmy’s friend,
whose liberality procured her this change. Agnes felt her heart sink.
She had expected at least to be questioned about the young stranger who
must, she felt convinced, have asked questions about her, and the
silence was hard to bear. Once more, indeed, she was permitted to go out
to see Emmy before she went away; but the lay Sister, the porteress,
was sent with her on some pretext or other. Thus it happened that when
Oswald appeared as usual, he found himself confronted by a respectable
visage of forty under the poke-bonnet which he had supposed to enshrine
that Perugino countenance to which he had addressed so many uncompleted
verses. To be sure, the Perugino face was close by, but the dragon kept
so near that nothing could be said. Oswald talked a little about Emmy
loudly, by way of deceiving the respectable attendant. Then he ventured
upon a few hurried words in a lower tone. ‘Is this an expedient of the
Sisters?’ he said, hastily. ‘Am I never to speak to you again? Do they
think they can send me away like this, and get the better of me? Never!
You need not think so. You may send me away, but no one else shall.’
‘Mr. Meredith, for heaven’s sake----’
‘I am taking care; but you don’t mean to cast me off, Agnes?’
She gave him a sudden look. Her face was full of emotion. Fright,
melancholy, wistfulness, inquiring wonder, were in her eyes. What did he
mean? Was he as true, as reverent, as real in his love, as he had said?
He could not have realised in his confident happiness and ability to do
everything he wished the sense of impotent dejected wondering, and the
indignation with herself, for thinking about it so, which were in
Agnes’s mind. But something in her eyes touched and stopped him in his
eager effort to continue this undertone of conversation, to elude the
scrutiny of her companion. ‘Good-by,’ she said, with a slight wave of
her hand, hurrying on. Oswald was overcome in spite of himself. He fell
behind instinctively, and watched her moving quickly along the street
with the other black shadow by her in the sunshine. For the moment he
ceased to think of himself and thought of her. Had it been for her
comfort that he had crossed her path? It had been the most delightful
new existence and pursuit to him--but to her? Oswald could not have
imagined the waves of varied feeling, the secret storms that had gone
over Agnes in the quiet of the convent, on account of those meetings and
conversations; but he did consciously pause and ask himself whether this
which had been so pleasant to him had been equally pleasant to her. It
was but a momentary pause. Then he went after her a little more slowly,
not unselfish enough, even in his new care for her, not to be rather
anxious that Agnes should be aware that he was there. And, who knows?
perhaps it was more consolatory for her when she half turned round,
standing at the door of the House waiting for admittance, to see him
pass taking off his hat reverentially, and looking at her with eyes half
reproachful and tender, than it would have been had he accepted the
repulse she had given him, and put force upon himself and stayed
absolutely away. He had no intention of staying away. He meant to
continue his pursuit of her--to waylay her, to lose no possibility of
getting near her. He was pertinacious, obstinate, determined, even
though it annoyed her. Did it annoy her? or was there some secret
pleasure in the warm glow that came over her at sight of him? She
hurried in, and swore to herself not to think of this troublesome
interruption of her quiet life any more. It was over. Emmy was removed,
and there was an end of it. She would think of it no more; and with this
determination Agnes hastened to the girls in St. Cecilia, and never left
off thinking of it till weariness and youth together, making light of
all those simple thorns in her pillow, plunged her into softest sleep.
Oswald went to Cara to unburden his mind next day. He did not quite know
what his next step was to be. ‘I think it is all right,’ he said. ‘You
should have seen the look she gave me. She would not have given me a
look like that if she had not liked me. It set me wondering whether she
was as happy as--such a creature as she is ought to be. Would they scold
her badly because I followed her? You know what women do--would they be
hard upon her? But why? If I insisted upon being there it was not her
fault.’
‘They would say it was her fault. They would say that if she had refused
to speak to you you would not have come back.’
‘But I should. I am not so easily discouraged. Oh, yes, perhaps if she
had looked as if she hated me; but, then,’ said Oswald, with
complacence, ‘she did not do that.’
‘Don’t be so vain,’ said Cara, provoked. ‘Oh, I _hate_ you when you look
vain. It makes you look silly too. If she saw you with that imbecile
look on your face she would never take the trouble of thinking of you
again.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t she?’ said Oswald, looking more vain than ever. ‘Because
you are insensible, that is not to say that other people are. Of course
I should pull up if I did not mean anything. But I do mean a great deal.
I never saw anyone like her. I told you she was like a Perugino--and you
should hear her talk. She is thrown away there, Cara. I am sure she
never was meant to be shut up in such a place, teaching a set of little
wretches. I told her so. I told her a wife was better than a Sister.’
‘Are you so very sure of that?’ cried Cara; for what she called the
imbecile look of vanity on Oswald’s handsome face had irritated her.
‘Would it be so very noble to be your wife, Oswald? Now tell me. You
would like her to look up to you, and think you very grand and clever.
You would read your poetry to her. You would like her to order you a
very nice dinner----’
‘Ye-es,’ said Oswald, ‘but if she smiled at me sweetly I should forgive
her the dinner; and she should do as she pleased; only I should like
her, of course, to please me.’
‘And you would take her to the opera, and to parties--and give up your
club, perhaps--and you would take a great deal of trouble in furnishing
your house, and altogether enjoy yourself.’
‘Very much indeed, I promise you,’ said the young man, rubbing his
hands.
‘And now she is not enjoying herself at all,’ said Cara; ‘working very
hard among the poor children, going to visit sick people in the
hospital. Oh, yes, there would be a difference! The wife would be much
the most comfortable.’
‘I don’t like girls to be satirical,’ said Oswald. ‘It puts them out of
harmony, out of drawing. Now _she_ said something like that. She asked
me in her pretty way if it would be better to make one man happy than to
serve a great number of people, and take care of those that had nobody
to take care of them. That was what she said; but she did not laugh, nor
put on a satirical tone.’
‘That shows only that she is better than I am,’ said Cara, slightly
angry still; ‘but not that I am wrong. Your wife! it might be nice
enough. I can’t tell; but it would not be a great life--a life for
others, like what, perhaps, she is trying for now.’
‘You are complimentary, Cara,’ said Oswald, half offended. ‘After all, I
don’t think it would be such a very bad business. I shall take good
care of my wife, never fear. She _shall_ enjoy herself. Don’t you know,’
he added with a laugh, ‘that everybody thinks you and I are going to
make it up between us?’
Cara turned away. ‘You ought not to let anyone think so,’ she said.
‘What harm does it do? It amuses everybody, keeping them on the stretch
for news. They think we are actually engaged. The times that Edward has
tried to get it out of me--all particulars--and my mother too. It is far
too good a joke not to keep it up.’
‘But, Oswald, I don’t like it. It is not right.’
‘Oh, don’t be so particular, Cara. I shall believe you are going to be
an old maid, like Aunt Cherry, if you are so precise. Why, what possible
harm can it do? It is only keeping them on the rack of curiosity while
we are laughing in our sleeves. Besides, after all, Cara _mia_, it is
just a chance, you know, that it did not come to pass. If it had not
been for _her_, and that she turned up just when she did----’
‘I am much obliged to you, Oswald. You think, then, that it all depends
upon you, and that the moment it pleased you to throw your
handkerchief----’
‘Do not be absurd, my dear child. You know I am very fond of you,’ said
Oswald, with such a softening in his voice, and so kind a look in his
eyes, that Cara was quite disarmed. He put his hand lightly upon her
waist as a brother might have done. ‘We have known each other all our
lives--we shall know each other all the rest of our lives. I tell you
everything--you are my little conscience keeper, my adviser. I don’t
know what I should do without you,’ he said; and, being of a caressing
disposition, Oswald bent down suddenly, and kissed the soft cheek which
was lifted towards him. There were two doors to the room--the one most
generally used was in its second division, the back drawing-room; but
another door opened directly out upon the staircase, and the two were
standing, as it happened, directly in front of this. By what chance it
happened that Miss Cherry chose this door to come in by, and suddenly,
softly threw it open at this particular moment, will never be known.
There is something in such a salutation, especially when at all
ambiguous in its character, which seems to stir up all kinds of
malicious influences for its betrayal. The sudden action of Miss Cherry
in opening this door revealed the little incident not only to her but to
Edward, who was coming up the stair. Cara rushed to the other end of the
room, her lace scorching with shame; but Oswald, more used to the
situation, stood his ground, and laughed. ‘Ah, Aunt Cherry, are you
really going?’ he said, holding out his hand to her, while Edward
stalked into the room like a ghost. Of all the party, Oswald was the
least discomposed. Indeed, it rather pleased him, his vanity and his
sense of fun being both excited. He had a kind of notion that Edward was
jealous, and this added to his mischievous enjoyment. Where was the
harm?
‘Yes, I am going away,’ said Miss Cherry, ‘and perhaps it is
time--though I sometimes don’t know whether I ought to go or stay,’ she
added, mournfully, with a glance at her niece. Cara had turned her back
upon the company, and was in the other room arranging some music on the
piano, with trembling fingers. She could not bear either reproach or
laughter, for her shame was excessive, and out of all proportion to the
magnitude of the offence, as was to be expected at her years.
‘Oh, you must not be uneasy about Cara,’ said Oswald, lightly. ‘Cara
will be well taken care of. We will all take care of her. I must go now,
Cara. Good morning. I am going to look after the business I have been
telling you of. Why, there is nothing to make a bother about,’ he said,
in an undertone. ‘Cara! crying! Why, what harm is done?’
‘Oh, tell them, Oswald; if you have any pity for me, tell them!’
‘Tell them what? There is nothing to tell. If they put foolish
constructions on the simplest incident, it is not our fault. Good-by;
only look unconcerned as I do; there is no possible harm done.’
And with this he went away, shaking hands with Miss Cherry, who was very
pale with agitation and disapproval. As for Edward, he gave her a very
formal message from his mother about a drive which Cara was to take with
her in the afternoon. He scarcely spoke to the girl herself, who indeed
kept in the background and said nothing. Edward had grown quite pale: he
bowed in a formal way, and spoke so stiffly that Miss Cherry was almost
driven to self-assertion. ‘Pray don’t let Mrs. Meredith take any trouble
about Cara’s drive,’ she said, drawing herself up. ‘Cara can get an
airing very easily if this is troublesome.’
‘What I said was that my mother would call at four,’ said the young man;
and he bowed again and went away. With what a heavy heart he went
downstairs, not seeing the pitiful look Cara stole at him as he went
out, this time through the legitimate door, the neglect of which had
caused all the mischief; no, not the neglect, but Oswald’s dreadful
wicked levity and her own (as it almost seemed) crime.
‘I am going away,’ said Miss Cherry, with dignity. ‘I will not ask you
what you don’t choose to tell me, Cara. I have seen enough for myself;
but I can’t help saying that I go with a heavy heart. Your father and
you have both gone out of my reach. It is not for me to blame you. I am
old-fashioned, and prefer old ways, and perhaps it is you who know
best.’
‘Oh, Aunt Cherry,’ said the girl, in a passion of tears. ‘What can I say
to you? You are mistaken, indeed you are mistaken. I am not concealing
anything.’
‘We will not speak of it, my dear,’ said Miss Cherry with trembling
lips. ‘You are out of my reach, both your father and you. Oh, when I
think how things used to be! What a good child you were--so true, so
transparent! and now I don’t seem to know what truth is--everything is
muddled up. Oh, I wonder if it is our fault! They say that to have a
mother is everything; but I thought I had tried to be like a mother,’
cried Miss Cherry, giving way to the inevitable tears.
‘I am not false,’ said Cara, putting her arms round her. ‘Oh, Aunt
Cherry, believe me. I did not know what he was going to do. It was to
thank me, because he had been asking--my advice----’
‘_Your_ advice! Ah, you will be fine guides to each other, if this is
how you treat your best friends,’ said Miss Cherry. But she yielded a
little to the girl’s caressing, and dried her eyes. ‘I am going away
with a heavy heart,’ she added, after this partial making-up, shaking
her head sorrowfully. ‘I don’t know what it is all coming to. _He_ is
never at home--always _there_:--and you----. In my time we thought of
what was right, not only what we liked best; but they tell us in all the
books that the world is getting wiser, and knows better every day. I
only hope you will find it so. Oh, Cara,’ said Miss Cherry, ‘it is
thought a mean thing to say that honesty is the best policy, though it
was the fashion once; but it is. I don’t mean to say that is the
highest way of looking at it; but still it is so. For one vexation you
may have by speaking the truth, you will find a dozen from not speaking
it. I wish you would think of this. But I will not say any more.’
‘I am not a liar,’ said Cara, with a wild indignation in her heart which
was beyond words; and she refused to speak again, and saw her aunt off
with a throbbing heart, but neither tears nor words beyond what was
absolutely needful; never had she parted with anyone in this way before.
She came in and shut herself up in her room, directing them to say that
she was ill, and could not drive when Mrs. Meredith came for her.
Honesty the best policy! What breaking up of heaven and earth was it
that placed her amid all these shadows and falsities, she whose spirit
revolted from everything that was even doubtful? She lay down upon her
little bed, and cried herself, not to sleep, but into the quiet of
exhaustion. Aunt Cherry, who had been like her mother to her, had gone
away wounded and estranged. Edward--what a countenance his had been as
he turned and went out of the room! And Oswald, who had dragged her into
this false position and would not clear her, laughed! Cara hid her eyes
from the light in one of those outbursts of youthful despair, which are
more intolerable than heavier sorrows. Such pangs have before now driven
young souls to desperation. She was hemmed in, and did not know what to
do. And where in all the world was she to find a friend now?
While she was lying there in her despair, Oswald, walking along lightly,
could scarcely keep himself from laughing aloud when he thought of this
quaint misadventure. How absurd it was! He hoped Miss Cherry would not
be too hard upon Cara--but he took the idea of the scolding she would
receive with a certain complacence as well as amusement. It was as good
as a play; Miss Cherry’s look of horror, the blanched face of the
virtuous Edward, and poor little Cara’s furious blush and overwhelming
shame. What an innocent child it must be to feel such a trifle so
deeply! But they were all rather tiresome people with their punctilios,
Oswald felt, and the sooner he had emancipated himself, and settled
independently, the better. Thanks to that sensible old governor, who,
after all, could not have chosen a better moment to die in, there was no
need for waiting, and nobody had any power to raise difficulties in
respect to money. No, he could please himself; he could do what he liked
without interference from anyone, and he would do it. He would win his
little wife by his spear and his bow, without intervention of the old
fogeys who spoil sport; and when the romance had been exhausted they
would all live happy ever after like a fairy tale. As for any harm to be
done in the meantime, any clouding of other lives, he puffed that into
the air with a ‘Pshaw, nonsense!’ as he would have puffed away the smoke
of his cigar.
But it surprised him when he returned home to find his mother in tears
over Edward’s resolution, after all, to carry out his original plan and
go out to India. Mrs. Meredith was broken-hearted over this change. ‘I
thought it was all settled. Oh, Oswald, there are but two of you. How
can I bear to part with one of my boys?’ she said.
‘Well, mother, but you had made up your mind to it; and, to tell the
truth, it is a shame to sacrifice such prospects as his,’ said the elder
son, with exemplary wisdom. ‘I am very sorry, since you take it so to
heart; but otherwise one can’t deny it’s the best thing he could do.’