Chapter XII: 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.