Chapter XXXVI: 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.’