Chapter XVII: Edward

Cara had a visitor quite early next day, when she had just retired upstairs to the drawing-room after breakfast. It was Edward Meredith, who came with some message from his mother. He had been Cara’s friend when they were both children, though Oswald was the one who had claimed her intimacy since she grew up; and he had come now on a sort of investigation to see for himself whether his brother had taken his place. I think Cara, too, had a consciousness of Edward’s meaning, though neither of them could have put it into words; and no idea of love, properly so called, was in the minds of the boy and girl. To be sure, he was twenty-one, no longer legally a boy, and thought himself very much a man in many ways. He was aware that the little serious maiden, who had been the friend of his childhood, appeared very sweet and attractive to him now, and that he did not like Oswald to assume the privileged place by her, to be the one who talked with her and walked with her, and offered her those small services which it is often more pleasant to render than to receive. Edward was not jealous of his brother, but he had the suppressed consciousness of being placed at a disadvantage by Oswald, which is not very unusual in the mind of the younger of such a pair. Oswald had been, not above him, but a step in front of him all his life; he had what those who did not like him called more showy qualities, what those who did like him described as greater talents than Edward’s. He talked better, he was more ready in demonstration of his sentiments, and could always express himself--whether on paper or in speech--more fluently. These were real advantages; and to these, as was natural, the young man who felt himself to be second added others which were not so real. He thought Oswald’s verses, and literary pretensions, and gracefulness, and good looks were all infinitely superior to his own, and was apt to be depressed, and not to do himself justice in Oswald’s presence. It was a relief to find how late Oswald was, and that he could come in, early in the morning, to test Cara, and find out if all her friendliness had been transferred to his brother. If so, Edward would not grumble, but he would know what he had to expect, and would not look for anything more. When he had delivered his mother’s message, there was a little pause. They had both a little ingenuous awe of each other, and did not know how to begin.

‘How long it is since I have been here!’ Edward said at last; ‘not since the days when I used to be afraid to move for fear of breaking some of the beautiful things. My mother wisely refrained from china in those days; but we were always told that Mrs. Beresford was “very particular.” You do not mind my speaking of her? I remember her so well lying on the sofa, like a picture. You are like her, Cara, but not very like her---- ’

‘No; for she was beautiful,’ said Cara, simply; and Edward took her words as she said them, without interposing a laughing compliment, as Oswald would have done. ‘I do not mind; though sometimes I wonder, when I am sitting alone here----’

‘You wonder? what?’

‘All about her,’ said Cara, her voice dropping lower; ‘about her dying. Don’t you think it must be hard to die like that when everybody wishes you to live? And then--about--whether she ever comes here? the drawing-room is just as she left it----’

Edward looked round it, following her glance. He did not smile; his countenance had an air of sympathy and interest, almost awe.

‘It is so strange, sitting here when all the house is still. One seems to see a chair placed differently to what it was before. I did not do it; and then everything is so still. One feels as if someone was looking, gazing at one. Sometimes I am sure that the eyes are there--not unkind, to frighten me, but solemn and steady, not changing from one thing to another, as we do. Did you ever think what happens when we die?’

‘Not much, I am afraid,’ said the young man, himself feeling the spell of the stillness, and as if those eyes might be upon him of which she spoke. ‘But Cara, you ought not to be here by yourself, for it cannot be good for you to feel like this, or to be thinking such things. _I_ like you to be here; but it would be better, more natural, for you in the country. You ought not to stay----’

‘This is home,’ said Cara, with a little sigh; and then she brightened up. ‘I think I am making believe for the pleasure of being sympathised with,’ she said. ‘I am not dull. It is only sometimes, only now and then, in the morning. Somehow one feels more lonely in the morning, when everybody is busy. To have nothing to do, and to see no one all the long, active forenoon! At the Hill one could run out in the garden; there was always something to do; or if it rained, there was work; but no one asks what I do with myself here.’

‘My poor little Cara! forgive me. I thought you were a little girl again.’

‘Oh, I don’t need to forgive you. It is very kind of you, Edward. Am I a little girl, or am I rather old? I can’t be quite sure sometimes. I suppose it is because I am fanciful,’ said Cara, the tears coming to her eyes in spite of herself. ‘Aunt Cherry always said I was. Look, I am going to cry--for nothing at all! You never--th--thought I was so silly,’ she said, with a smile on her face, but a childish sob breaking her voice.

‘I wish you were with Aunt Cherry again,’ said Edward; ‘you ought not to be left by yourself here.’

‘Oh, I must be here. It is home, and I like it--sometimes. Your mother is very kind to me; and Oswald comes and talks----’

Perhaps it was scarcely possible that Edward should resist this temptation to inquire into Oswald’s degree of favour. He was not jealous. No, he thought, he felt sure that he was not jealous; but he was always the second, and no one likes that. He felt a slight passing sting and check when she spoke of Oswald, and in spite of himself could not but feel anxious to find out what degree of intimacy existed between them.

‘Do you say this to Oswald? Does he know?’ he added.

‘I never said anything,’ said Cara, recovering herself; ‘why should I? it was nonsense. And then Oswald has so much to tell me about _him_--it is much more amusing than to chatter about one’s self. Don’t think me very silly, Edward. It was because you seemed to want to know about _me_----’

‘So I did,’ he said; ‘so I do, Cara. It was you and I that used to be the friends. Oswald was bigger, don’t you remember? It was always you and I----’

Cara made no direct reply to this representation. She even disregarded the anxious look he gave her, as he made this appeal to old recollections, of which she was not specially thinking at this moment for her part.

‘How different people are,’ she said. ‘Some people tell you about themselves; some make you talk, I don’t know how, of _you_. I don’t think you would have a good moral effect upon me, Edward. You make me selfish; you make me think of myself. Oswald does not ask about me. He makes me listen to him. Oh, it is very pleasant, and it must be better, I feel sure----’

‘You like it better? I am such an uninteresting fellow, Cara, not like Oswald. I prefer to hear about you----’

‘Thanks,’ she said, with a little shy glance at him, and a slight reddening which she could not explain. ‘Did you think poor Roger very rough and very strange last night? I hope you did not think badly of him. He was, perhaps, a little cross, but he is not like that always, not even often. I don’t think I ever saw him so cross before.’

‘I understand him, Cara. He was an old friend, too, and he hoped to have you to himself; whereas he found you among still older friends than he was, and intimate, and at your ease. And he was not at all at his ease--I understand him. I have had the very same sort of thing happen to me.’

‘With whom?’ Cara asked rather abruptly. She was surprised, even slightly nettled, without knowing why. Did Edward know any other girl well enough? she asked herself. It was nothing to her, and yet she was half-displeased.

‘Oh, with no one in particular,’ he said. ‘I have stolen a march upon Oswald,’ he added, with a laugh. ‘I have had the luck of the early bird. He was always a late fellow. To be sure, he sits up writing when the rest of us go to bed.’

‘And is it true that he would not go to India, and put it upon you? I am very fond of poetry,’ said Cara; ‘I would rather be a poet than anything else in the world; but not to put the disagreeable work upon someone else--not to please myself at the expense of another----’

‘That is not the way to put it, Cara. I am really the one that can go best. Oswald should have a brilliant career at home. He is clever enough to do whatever he pleases, but it is not the same with me. Oh, I am not going in for humility; I can cram for an examination better than he can; it is a humble quality, but it is very serviceable. So we have both the part that suits us best.’

‘But you don’t like it, Edward.’

‘Which of us likes best the special thing he has got to do? We all think something else would be better. Even you, Cara---- oh, Heaven knows I did not mean to vex you. Is it I that have brought the tears into your eyes?’

‘No,’ she said, putting out her hand; ‘but it is quite true. I am--out of sorts, I suppose, this morning. I can’t help crying; and what you say is quite true. One always thinks something else would be better. Aunt Cherry says the same thing, but different. Edward, I will try to go to my India as you go to yours--without grumbling----’

‘If I had not grumbled, you would not have known anything about it,’ he said; ‘and, Cara, if you were coming to India I should not grumble. I should be quite reconciled. It is parting from--everyone I care for, that makes it so hard to me.’

A kind of crimson reflection had come over Cara’s face--not a blush, much more visionary than real--a reflection of a blush: the touch of a vague sentiment which was somehow in the air, and which lighted upon the girl’s face because it was more sensitive than the boy’s--that was all. But he saw the shadow of a rosy tint over her features, and it moved him with a vague sweetness of fancy, he did not quite know what. If Cara were to go to India--not with him, not as his wife, his thoughts had not gone so far--but if she, too, had to go, in some incomprehensible, delightful way, how the aspect of that banishment would change! All at once, as he sat there, he seemed to see himself looking over the high bulwarks of the ship by her side, the blue water flying in soft ripples behind them, the foam-bubbles dancing on the waves, the sunshine shining, all the world so new and so sweet. How distinctly he realised the scene, which was just about as likely as that the Queen should go with Edward to India! He came back from that vision as from a long way off, with a half-choking sigh. ‘That is nonsense, I suppose. Still it is that, and not India, that vexes me. Parting from those I care for here.’

‘And Oswald--would have had that, too.’

‘Yes,’ said Edward, doubtfully; ‘Oswald would have had that, too--but Oswald----’

He stopped, and Cara did not ask him to go on. There was a little doubt in the repetition of the name. ‘But Oswald----’ What was he going to say? She was too shy, too conscious, to ask. Cara did not blush, even in this shadowy way, when Oswald spoke to her, but she had a vague sense that perhaps he would be pleased to make her blush, would like to move her. She was far more clear-sighted about him than about Edward. Just as she knew her own power over Roger, she knew that Oswald would be pleased to have a like power over herself. She did not discriminate these fine differences of sentiment in words, but she was aware of them, without attempting definition. She could play upon Roger if she pleased as upon an instrument, and Oswald was trying, and would like, to bring music out of her in the same way. She knew this instinctively, and perhaps Cara would not have been very much surprised to be told that Oswald was ‘in love’ with her; but about Edward she had no insight, no theory. He was kind, and she could talk to him and open her heart; that was all she knew.

Just then they were interrupted by the entrance of Oswald himself, who came in, as he had got into the habit of doing, after his late breakfast. ‘Hallo, Ned, you here!’ he said, in a tone of surprise. He was not by any means delighted by the appearance of his brother. ‘I did not expect to find you occupied so early,’ he said to Cara. ‘Have you had the bear at your levee, too? I hope he has recovered his temper this morning. If your natives in Berkshire are all of that complexion, Cara, I don’t wonder you are glad to get away.’

‘Poor Roger! he did not mean to be rude. Did Mrs. Meredith think he was a bear?’

‘Oh, my mother! She would not be the universal charmer she is if she was not something of a hypocrite,’ said Oswald. ‘You may be sure she will not allow that any of her visitors is ever disagreeable. I suppose Ned brought you her message about going out? Then I need not repeat it. And there is to be a tea-drinking to-morrow, Cara, with all sorts of strange beasts--authors and authoresses, and that kind of people. If you will keep close to me I’ll tell you who they are. It will be a very funny company.’

‘But, Oswald, I thought you were an author, too. Why do you laugh at them? I should have thought there would be sympathy----’

‘Wait till you see them,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘My dear little Cara, there is a great difference always between out-and-out professionals and--other people. A man may indulge in as much literature as he pleases, and it does him no harm--indeed, it may chance to do him a little good. But the people who have nothing but literature to stand upon, that’s a different thing altogether; they are generally people who are out of society. Ned, what are you going to do this morning? You don’t mean to say you are wasting your time like an ordinary mortal? You were supposed to have gone to Westminster Hall, or the British Museum, or at the very least, the London Library. See how cheaply some people get a character for virtue! and all the time, Cara, he was amusing himself and talking to you.’

‘I am going to work now,’ said Edward. ‘Remember, this is the first chance I have had of seeing Cara. You are not to sit and think,’ he said softly, taking her hand. ‘Go to my mother, will you, Cara? Do not stay all the long morning here.’

‘I shall not be--dull,’ she said, in the same tone, with a grateful, friendly look, which went to Edward’s heart. He was comforted, though he had to go away and leave the field clear for his brother, and did so without even the half-painful, half-compunctious feeling as of a grudge which he was ashamed of, which generally moved him when Oswald was concerned. Why should he entertain any grudge at his brother’s success? If Oswald was not more agreeable, more bright, more winning than himself, he would not be more popular. But, more than all these reasonings, with which he was familiar, Edward felt the consolation of those discriminating words by which Cara had indicated the difference between himself and his brother--he, who made her talk; Oswald, who talked of himself. This kept him warm all the way to Westminster Hall, or wherever else it was that he went to pursue his studies for the future government of India; but perhaps the way in which he had occupied the first hours of the morning did not make his mind more clear for this much more important subject of thought.

‘It is well that there should be one hard-working fellow in the family,’ said Oswald, as the door closed, ‘for the family’s sake; and then it is astonishing what a zest it gives to one’s own leisure--like--I suppose I must not quote Latin to you, Cara--like seeing a ship pitching and tossing at sea when one is safe on shore.’

‘How can you say so! how dare you say so!’ cried Cara, with flashing eyes. ‘Oh, what is the good of your poetry and stuff if it only makes you enjoy the sight of another person working--doing what you ought to have done! Is that all the good it is? It ought to be something pure, something noble, something to make your heart rise----’

‘Why, Cara!’ cried Oswald, aghast, yet half-laughing. ‘Poetry and stuff! is it you who are speaking, or someone else? This is quite a new outbreak for you.’

‘I did not mean that,’ cried Cara, with the hot blush of youthful shame; ‘still, if poetry does not make you more--a man--does not make you stronger and better, and more noble and true----’

‘My dear little girl! Poetry is not morals and the Ten Commandments. You have got confused in your reasonings. Come, never mind scolding me, Cara. Listen to this. Your little temper has been put out with your bear last night, and Ned’s gravities this morning. You want me to smooth you down again. And I don’t like to be scolded. It answers with coarser natures, but I am too sensitive. I want the warm atmosphere of commendation to bring me out. Ask my mother if it has not been ever thus from childhood’s hour. Ned can stand it. You may scold him for his good as much as you please--he will like it; but come here, Cara mia. Listen to this----’

‘Oh, Oswald!’

‘Don’t scold me, Cara! Look here. I am just going to send it off to the _Piccadilly_. I shall not be half so sure of it unless my little critic approves. Come, you are not going to be hardhearted. I do want so very much to hear what you think of this.’

He held out the dainty little manuscript, set forth in those irregular lines which are dear to youth. And Cara could not help feeling the pleasure and the grandeur of being his critic, and of hearing the poem read by its author, which was going to be printed, and to live for ever. It glanced across her mind how when Oswald was a great poet, as great as Tennyson or Browning, people would tell how he used to go and read his young verses to a girl whom he had known when he was a child; and this little scene arranged itself historically in her mind as a scene which would make the hearts of other girls beat with secret envy of her, the confidant of a poet. Thus Cara was mollified and yielded, and criticised only the verses, not the poet. Indeed, her criticism of the verses was of the mildest description, just enough to give zest to her almost unbounded praise. And the poet enjoyed himself greatly reading those innocent lines--which were quite innocent, if somewhat insipid--seeing her absorbed face and soft eyes full of attention, and delighting himself in the melody he had made. How wonderful is this appetite of youth for mere rhyme! Cara listened to each line chiming with the other in a trance of attention. It was as sweet to her as if it had been the truest music, and charmed her very soul.

Oswald went down to the office of the _Piccadilly_ afterwards, in great satisfaction with his work. Sometimes these productions brought him in a guinea or two, and then how pleased he was! more pleased than if he had inherited a fortune. He thought himself on the high road to fame and fortune when this happened, and was pleased to let his friends think that he made a good deal of money by his pen. Luckily for him, he did not need to put any dependence upon these dilettante earnings; but they sweetened life to him, if they did not put much money in his purse. And the idea of Cara gave him a soft pleasure. He, too, thought how it might be told hereafter that his first critic was a beautiful girl, and that it was her enthusiasm which stirred him on to the heights he afterwards attained. ‘And what became of the beautiful girl?’ he thought he could hear somebody ask in posterity. Yes, indeed! what became of her? Should she marry the poet, and be his muse and his critic combined, or should she be drifted away into some other career, and carry the memory of him with her to her last day, not quite breaking her heart, perhaps, or at least no more than could be mended? He smiled as he went along, with a little conscious warmth on his face, and wondered how this would be.

But just then chance threw something else in his way. He met a procession of school girls--not a very wonderful thing--attended by one or two Sisters of one of the many modern Anglican sisterhoods, in poke bonnets and black veils, decorations which are often very effective when they surround a fair young countenance. Oswald had just caught sight of one which charmed him, and which was enclosed by a poke less rigid, and a veil less heavy than the others, which he concluded to mean novicehood, or even mere associateship. The owner of this soft serious face was too young to have made any permanent choice of so grave a kind, and was, indeed, only a governess to whom a modification of the conventual dress had been permitted as a privilege. Oswald crossed the road, and went along very demurely, though it was not his way, parallel with the procession, looking furtively, and, as he flattered himself, with purely artistic admiration, at the little shepherdess of the flock. ‘She is a Perugino,’ he said to himself, and already the ready verses began to flutter to his lips. He would write a poem about her; she was the most charming subject--a true Perugino, with just that warm glow of colour, not fair but mellow--those soft features, those modest eyes. He began on the spot:--

From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung,
Fair face! that thus so sweetly can combine
The maiden and the mother ever young--

(The reader will perceive that Oswald’s verses were not of the highest quality.) He had got just this length when a sudden shriek disturbed him. The little procession was crossing a side street, and one of the younger children had made a rush from her companion, and in a moment, before anyone could draw a breath, had been knocked down and apparently crushed by a cart which came lumbering slowly up the street, too slow and too heavy to alarm anyone. Oswald, to do him justice, was not given to mooning when there was any need for active service. He rushed across the street, reaching the scene of the disaster before anyone else, except his Perugino, who had flown with one small cry, and was herself half under the heavy cart, pushing it back with all her force, while the others stood aghast and shrieked, not knowing what to do. Nothing could be more swift, more ready, than the Perugino novice. She had already drawn the child half into her arms before Oswald reached the spot, and was feeling the little limbs all over, with a little panting cry, half horror, half want of breath. ‘Let me carry the child to the nearest doctor,’ cried Oswald. The colour had all gone out of the Perugino face--the big wheel of the cart touching her delicate shoulder made a background for her; she was a St. Catherine now. ‘There is something broken; she must go to the hospital,’ the girl said, looking up at him with that sudden acquaintance and confidence which comes in such a moment. Her shoulder brushed against him as she transferred the little burden to him. The child had fainted. He took the poor little crushed creature in his arms. They were within a stone’s throw of the great hospital, and there was nothing to be done but to carry it there. The elder Sister by this time had joined them, sending the curious, anxious, crying girls away under the charge of the remaining governess. ‘Agnes, you ought to go back with them. You are as white as a sheet. You will faint,’ said the Sister, putting an arm round the girl.

‘Oh, no; I am better. Let me go and see what it is,’ she said.

Agnes? Was that the name? It was one of the saints, he had felt sure.