Carità

(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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

TELLING TALES.

‘Meredith! but of course you know them, Aunt Charity—poor Annie’s friend, whom she was so fond of—the only person who was allowed to come in when she was ill—the most delightful, kind woman.’

‘People change as years go on; and Cherry is always enthusiastic—gushing, as my young people say. But do you know, Miss Charity, that poor Mr. Beresford is always there? dining there on Sunday; sitting till one does not know how late; and she is a woman separated from her husband,’ said Mrs. Burchell, lowering her voice. ‘I am sure that is a thing of which you cannot approve.’

‘Of women separating from their husbands?’ Miss Charity was sitting in her dressing-gown, in her bedroom, by the fire. She had been laid up by ‘one of her attacks.’ This was how everybody spoke of it; and though she was completely out of danger, it was necessary to take care. The consequence was that she lived in her bedroom, and chiefly in her dressing-gown, and was sometimes fretful, hard to manage, and a strain upon Miss Cherry’s powers. Almost any visitor, who would come and bring a little variety, and particularly a little news, was an advantage; therefore Cherry was very reluctant to interfere with what Mrs. Burchell said, especially as she was hungering for news of the child who, though she wrote so regularly, did not say half what Miss Cherry wanted to hear.

‘I can’t pronounce on such a question without knowing the circumstances,’ said Miss Charity. ‘Women are fools, but then so are most men as well.’

‘Oh, Miss Charity! that is one of your quaint ways of stating things. Mr. Burchell always says you have such quaint ways of expressing yourself; but always judicious, quite above what could be expected from a woman.’

‘Mr. Burchell is a good judge; he has means of knowing what may be expected from a woman,’ said the old lady, sharply. ‘And so you think badly of Mrs. Meredith? But make your mind easy; she is not separated from her husband.’

‘Not!’ Mrs. Burchell echoed the negative in a tone which was faint with disappointment. ‘Oh, but pardon me, I fear you must be mistaken, for Roger says——’

‘I thought that boy was a nice boy. What have you done to him to make him a gossip? Cherry, that was the one I thought well of, was it not? The others were naught, except Agnes; but this was a nice boy.’

‘Agnes is very self-willed,’ said Mrs. Burchell; ‘she is gone to that mission, though I am sure there is plenty to do at home and in the parish. I don’t know what to say to her. But as for the others being naught, I don’t think it is very kind of you to say so,’ she added, looking as if she meant to cry.

‘It is only one of my quaint ways of expressing myself,’ said Miss Charity, grimly. ‘I hate a boy who is a gossip. It is bad enough in girls; but then one is sorry for the poor things that have nothing better to do. What does this boy of yours say? If he was my boy, I’d whip him for tale-telling. And what was he doing in the Square?’

‘My children have always been brought up to confide in their mother,’ said Mrs. Burchell, on the verge of tears; ‘they have always told me their impressions. Thank Heaven, though my lot is not luxurious like some people’s, I have always had comfort in my children.’

‘That is a hit at you and me, Cherry, who have no children,’ said the old lady, who was sharp and keen after her illness. ‘My dear, we are quite willing to admit your superiority. What did the boy say?’

‘I am sure there was no boasting in my mind. I have very little occasion to boast. A poor clergyman’s wife, with so large a family to bring up! but I am proud of the confidence of my children. Dear Roger went to see Cara out of kindness. He has always had a kind feeling to her, and the poor boy’s heart was quite touched to see her among such people. They seem to live in an ungodly way, with dinner-parties on Sunday, and that sort of thing—no regard for poor servants or for the bad example they are setting. And as for the lady, Roger did not tell me all; but he says Mr. Beresford stays—stays after Cara goes home, and, in short, is never out of the house. I felt that you ought to be told. Gentlemen have very peculiar ideas, I know—they don’t follow our rules; but for a man to take his daughter, his young daughter, into such society——’

‘Maria!’ Miss Cherry was speechless with horror and dismay. She managed to get out this ejaculation, and no more. But the old lady was less easily moved. She put on the spectacles to which she had taken quite lately, and looked into her visitor’s face.

‘Here is an odd thing now,’ she said, ‘a very odd thing. I am willing to suppose you are an innocent sort of woman, Maria Burchell. You never did anything very bad—for one thing, you have never been tempted—and yet you are ready to believe any evil, at the first word, of another woman whom you know nothing in the world about. It is the oddest thing I know. If you had been a wicked person, one could have understood it. But a clergyman’s wife, as you say, in a quiet country place, out of the way of temptation—why, you ought to think well of everybody! You ought to be the sort of person who could be taken in, who would not believe harm of anyone, an innocent woman like you!’

‘Am I an innocent woman?’ said Mrs. Burchell, shaking her head, with a sad smile. The distinction, if flattering to her moral character, was derogatory to her dignity. ‘Ah, how little we know each other! and what is called charity is so often mere laxness of principle. I hope I know the depravity of my own heart.’

‘In that case, my dear, there’s nothing more to be said,’ said Miss Charity, briskly, ‘only that you ought not to come here under false pretences, taking us all in, and looking respectable, as you do. But, however bad you may be, Mrs. Meredith is not bad. I don’t know much about the husband; perhaps they don’t get on together very well. Perhaps it is health. She lives here, and he lives there—that is all I know; but she is a better woman than I am; that I’ll answer for. How she can put up with that fool of a nephew of mine, I can’t tell. He is very learned, I grant, and a fellow of half the societies. Well, and so your boy said——? What is the woman crying for, I would like to know?’

‘Oh!’ wept Mrs. Burchell, ‘I never thought to have lived to be so spoken to; and by an old friend. Oh, Cherry! you that have known me from a girl, how can you sit still and do your knitting, and hear me talked to so?’

‘She does not mean it,’ said Miss Cherry, softly, ‘dear Maria! She has been ill. She can’t help being a little irritable.’

‘Stuff!’ said Miss Charity. ‘She brought it on herself. Go away, Cherry; if I were irritable, it is you who would feel it first. Now, Maria, don’t be more of a fool than you can help. What did the boy say?’

Miss Cherry went back to her knitting, with a suppressed sigh. It was very true that it was she who paid the penalty first; but to see anybody crying troubled the kind soul. She gave a kind little pat as she passed to Mrs. Burchell’s fat shoulders. She was knitting a huge white shawl in thick wool, to keep the old lady warm, and her own slight person was half lost in its folds.

But there was not very much more to be got from Mrs. Burchell. The boy had not, indeed, said any more, nor so much as she had reported. He had been betrayed by the sore state of his feelings, poor Roger, to give a very slight sketch of his uncomfortable Sunday—how he did not think the lady to whom Mr. Beresford talked so earnestly, who had a husband, and yet had no husband—who asked people to dinner on Sunday, and who—but Roger did not say this—had two sons who interfered so uncomfortably with his own inclinations—was at all a good friend for Cara. This was the extent of Roger’s confidence, and he regretted bitterly having given it before the evening was out; for it is one thing to disburden your heart of a grievance, and quite another to have that grievance enlarged and embittered by constant reference and repetition. He heard so much of it before he left the Rectory that evening that he was furious with himself for having betrayed his wound, and felt ashamed of it, and guilty so far as Cara was concerned. Therefore, Mrs. Burchell was rather glad of the personal offence which concealed the fact that she had very little to say. It had given a great zest to her visit that she had Roger’s news to tell; but there was much less detail than she could have desired, so she dropped into her own personal grievance about Agnes, who had insisted on going to the mission-house to teach, when there was plenty to do at home; but neither of the ladies entered warmly into it, Agnes being a greater favourite with them than her mother. When she was gone, however, Miss Charity fell into a musing. Age had crept a little, just a little, upon her. She was no longer the vigorous woman, of no particular age, whom Dr. Maxwell had commended as a type of womankind. Winter is unfavourable to the human frame when it approaches seventy. With a soft, perpetual summer, never blazing, as it is in the south, and chequered by no chilly gales, would it be necessary that threescore and ten should be man’s limit, or that we should ever die? Miss Charity felt the unkindly influence of the winter. When summer came back she would be all right again—or so, at least, she thought.

‘It as amazing, the ill people have in their thoughts,’ she said, at last. ‘That woman, with her “laxness of principle” and her depraved heart, and her indignation, to be taken at her word! Now, Cherry, that was an inoffensive girl enough. When she was Maria Thompson there was no particular harm in her. I believe we ought all to die at twenty. What a deal of mischief it would save the world.’

‘And good, too,’ said Miss Cherry, in her soft voice.

‘Good! not so much good. Do you know, I don’t feel comfortable about Mrs. Meredith. I know she’s a nice woman; but, bless my soul, the number of nice women I have known, who have been—no better than they should be! And Cara, you know—Cara is our business, Cherry; we are her nearest relations. I do believe she would be better here. Nobody can say that you are—no better than you should be. You don’t form friendships with men. I daresay that’s all Mrs. Meredith’s sin at bottom.’

‘But that is only,’ said Miss Cherry, composedly, ‘because there are no men to form friendships with. You may laugh, Aunt Charity; but I say quite what I mean. I am not a young girl—neither is Mrs. Meredith. If she is good to my poor brother James, shouldn’t we be grateful? And as for Cara—though Heaven knows how much I would give to have her back again——’

‘Who is that at the door? I won’t see any more people—that woman has put me out for the day. Though I know it is nonsense, I can’t get it out of my head. She is a great deal too fond of being popular. She is——. Whom do you say? Mr. Maxwell? to be sure, it is his day. Well, I suppose he must come in, of course. And just as well; we can ask him, and set it to rest.’

Mr. Maxwell came in, as he had done regularly every week for no one knew how many years. He was redder and rustier, and perhaps a trifle stouter; but that did not show to familiar eyes. Otherwise, the five years which had elapsed since Mrs. Beresford’s death had made no alteration in the doctor. He was on that tableland in the middle of life when five years tell less than at any other period. He came in with the slight bustle which was characteristic of him, and sat down by Miss Charity, and got through quickly that little confidential talk which is necessary between a doctor and his patient, during which Miss Cherry took her big piece of work to the window, and stood there, holding the mass of white wool in her arms, and knitting on, with her back towards the others. When this formula had been gone through she returned to her chair. Her interest in the matter was too great to allow even her aunt to open it. ‘Have you seen my brother James lately?’ she said.

‘Your brother James!’ The question seemed to startle and confuse the doctor. ‘We have seen very little of each other these five years.’

‘Ah! I thought you were not so intimate,’ said Miss Cherry, whom the suspicion had pained. ‘Is there—any reason? I should like so much to know.’

‘Well! I suppose there always is some reason or other. But no—estrangements come by accident constantly, Miss Cherry. I can’t tell what is the reason. I don’t suppose I know. We have drifted apart, that’s all; people do so every day without knowing why.’

‘People know when it begins,’ said Miss Cherry, eagerly; but here she was interrupted by her aunt.

‘Never mind about estrangements. What we want to ask you, Mr. Maxwell, is whether you have seen Cara, little Cara, you remember? and also something about their neighbours. There is Mrs. Meredith, for instance. We hear she sees a great deal of them. Eh! why shouldn’t I tell Mr. Maxwell exactly what we have heard? A doctor isn’t a tale-bearer; he’d lose all his practice in a week. We’ve been disturbed by hearing (especially Cherry; she is more particular than I) something about Mrs. Meredith. You, that know everything, tell us if it is true.’

‘I have seen very little of Mrs. Meredith. I don’t know much about James. Cara would be a great deal better here. What does he want with the child in London? he doesn’t require her; he has done without her all these years. I’d have her back, Miss Charity, if I were you.’

‘It is very easy to talk of having her back. She is his child after all. Come, speak out; they say James is there constantly—and that this lady—she isn’t separated from that husband of hers, eh?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Not that you know of! Of course you know whatever there is to know. What is the matter? A woman should not let herself be talked of.’

‘Mrs. Meredith is not talked of, if that is what you meant but I have heard that James is constantly there. He oughtn’t to do it. If he is fond of her, as I don’t doubt he is fond of her——’

‘Mr. Maxwell, how can you speak so of my brother?’ said Miss Cherry, agitated and blushing, with the tears ready to come. ‘A married woman! I am sure he has no more thought of anything of the kind. What has his life been since Annie died? That speaks for itself; he has thought of no one but her.’

‘Hold your tongue, Cherry, my dear. You are an old maid; but you have a foolish young soul. What do you know of such things? Let us talk it over quietly. Now, Mr. Maxwell, you need not be upon p’s and q’s with me. If he is fond of her? that is the question. Nothing but what is innocent, you goose. We don’t think James a bad man, do you suppose? Now, doctor, we must be at the bottom of it, now we have opened the question. What do people say?’

‘I say—if he is fond of her, he oughtn’t to compromise her, Miss Charity; that is all about it. Innocent! of course it’s all innocent enough; but the woman is married, and her husband is thousands of miles off, and he ought to have more sense than to go there every evening, as he does. Yes, we’ve talked of it among ourselves; not to let it go any further; not to make any scandal, Heaven knows. No one thinks of any scandal; but he oughtn’t to do it. I am not blaming your brother, Miss Cherry; he has fallen into it, poor fellow, without knowing. He and I are not such friends as we were. I have thought I had reason not to be quite pleased with him; but I don’t do him injustice here. He means no harm; but he oughtn’t to do it. The more he is fond of her, the more he ought to take care. And there you have my opinion, and that’s all about it. I don’t think anyone has ever ventured to say more.’

‘It is too much to have said,’ said the old lady, ‘and she ought to know better. I don’t put it all on him. She ought to have put a stop to it. Women see these things better than men; and besides, it is the women who suffer, not the men. She ought to have put a stop to it. I don’t put it all on him, as you seem disposed to do.’

‘How could she put a stop to it?’ said the doctor, warmly. ‘She is good to everybody. She opened her house to him when he was miserable. How is a woman to say to a man, after she has been kind to him, “Don’t come any more; people are beginning to talk?” Good Lord! it would be like supposing they had some reason to talk. If any woman said that to me I should feel that she thought me a brute bad enough for anything. No, no; everybody says women are hardest upon each other——’

‘Everybody says a deal of nonsense,’ said Miss Charity, sharply. ‘A woman does not need to speak so plainly. She can let the man see when he is going too far without a word said. How? oh, there’s no need to tell you how. We know how, that’s enough. She could have done it, and she ought to have done it. Still, I don’t think any harm of her; and it must simply be put a stop to, now we know.’

‘Ah!’ said the doctor, drawing a long breath, ‘but how?’

‘How, again? Why, what kind of people are you who call yourselves their friends? It’s your business to do it. Cherry, my dear, I am a deal better; the bronchitis is all gone, and Barbara is as careful of me as a woman can be. You’ll go off directly to the Square. If I were well enough, if it were not for this stupid bronchitis, I’d go myself; but it isn’t worth a life; is it, doctor? See how things are going on. Of course you won’t make any fuss, Cherry; but whatever ought to be done you’ll do.’

Maxwell turned, as the old lady made this address to her niece, and looked at her. What would poor old Cherry do? he said to himself, watching her with curiosity and wonder. Was she a person to face this dilemma, which had kept various and more determined persons in difficulty? She let her work drop upon her knee, and looked up with an agitated face. She grew pale and red, and pale again.

‘How am I to speak to James?’ she said, hurriedly catching her breath—‘a man!’

Then she made a pause and an effort, and the doctor, astonished, saw a soft light of resolution come into the mild old maiden’s face.

‘Of course,’ she said, still a little breathless, ‘I will not think of that if there is anything I can do.’

‘And of course there is something to do!’ said the more energetic old lady. ‘My patience! what do people get old for, doctor? I should do it without thinking twice. What do they say about a sound mind in a sound body? I wish, for my own part, when an old woman gets bronchitis, she could get it in her soul as well, and be all bad together. But for this old body, I’m as strong as ever I was; and Cherry was always weakly, poor dear.’

‘Do not vex yourself, Aunt Charity; I will go,’ said Miss Cherry, with only a slight faltering in her voice. ‘Mrs. Meredith is a good woman, and my brother James is a good man too, though I wish he was more religious. When a thing is plain duty, that makes it—easy; well, if not easy, at least——. I will do my best,’ she said softly. Mr. Maxwell watched her quite intently. It was all very well to say this here; but would she venture to do it? He had always taken an interest in Cherry, more or less. All these years, during which he had come weekly to the Hill, he had been always sensible when Cherry was not there, and had a way of looking round for her grey gown when he came in. Everybody knew his way of looking round, but no one, much less the chief person concerned, had ever divined that it was that grey garment which he missed when it was not there. Poor faded, fluttering, nervous Cherry; he had always taken an interest in her; would she really have the courage to take this bold, independent step, and do the thing which not one of James Beresford’s friends had dared to do?

CHAPTER XIX.

THE HOLY INQUISITION.

Miss Cherry’s sudden arrival at the Square was a sudden surprise to everybody, and, like most surprises, was not quite successful for the moment. She arrived in the afternoon, when Cara was out with Mrs. Meredith, and when her appearance with her box excited no small astonishment among the servants, who were quite unprepared for a visitor. And Miss Cherry was nervous and self-conscious, feeling her mission in every nerve, though all the rest of the world remained unaware of what she had come to do. When she had seen her things deposited in the spare room, and had been served with the unfailing cup of tea in poor Annie’s drawing-room, the sight of which, after so long, cost her some tears, she detained Nurse, who had brought this refreshment to her, to make what gentle preliminary investigations she could manage without exciting any suspicion.

‘Is Miss Cara happy, do you think? Does she like being with her papa? It must be a great change to her, Nurse. Of course, a child ought to be happy with her father; but—and then to change all at once from the country, and at this time of the year. Oh, Nurse! I hope my dear child is happy. You know how she was thought of at the Hill,’ said Miss Cherry, who was weeping-ripe, and scarcely could keep down the tears.

‘Well, ma’am, for happy I can’t say; but she keeps her ‘elth,’ said Nurse; ‘that is what I’ve got most to do with. I don’t think as there’s much to brag of in the mornings, when she’s here by herself. If I was master I’d get out of this house, Miss Cherry, and I’d pull this room to pieces, and change everything. That’s why he can’t abide to come in here. It’s almost as bad as if my poor lady was a-lying here in state still, though it’s five years and more since she was took from us. It’s all as I can do myself to keep steady when I sees all her things, as she took such pride in; and master he can’t stand it—and I don’t wonder. But it ought to be changed. When the young gentlemen comes in, then Miss Cara brightens up——’

‘The young gentlemen, Nurse?’

‘The Mr. Merediths, ma’am, from next door. Mr. Edward has but just come back; but Mr. Oswald has been here regular, almost every day, and that cheers up a young lady——’

‘But, Nurse——!’ Cherry said, with a gasp, and could say no more.

‘Yes, ma’am—I allow as it’s running a risk,’ said Nurse, very gravely; ‘but what is a person to say? If there was a lady to take the charge—but master pays no attention. I don’t think as he ever notices who comes and who goes.’

‘But, oh! why didn’t I know?’ cried Cherry. ‘Such a state of affairs ought not to have been permitted for a day.’

‘No more it didn’t ought to, Miss Cherry; but what can a person do? I’ve said a word now and again, when I’ve had an opportunity, about the deceitfulness of young men, and as how young ladies had best pay no heed to them—when I could, you know, ma’am. But whether them warnings is ever any good I’m not the one to say. A young lady like Miss Cara never thinks that it can be her as is meant. Even me, I can remember, though but a poor girl, it was always in my mind, as I was the exception, and there couldn’t be no question of deceiving with me.’

‘Oh, deceiving!’ said Cherry; ‘that is not the question; but Cara is with her papa in the evenings? That must be a comfort to him, and to her too, poor child.’

Nurse gave a little cough. ‘Master—mostly—spends the evening out,’ she said.

Miss Cherry did not ask any more; her suspicions were all confirmed and her anxieties increased; for though there was no question of deceiving in Nurse’s sense of the word, and though that good woman’s homilies no doubt fell quite harmless upon Cara, yet the visits of a couple of young men to a girl ‘almost every morning’ conveyed an idea of danger which made Miss Cherry’s hair stand on end. What the poor child had been plunged into the moment she left that safe feminine nest at the Hill, all flowery and sweet, where some kind guardian was always at hand! Launched into the world—never words could be more true. Miss Cherry sat in the haunted room, where poor Cara felt her mother’s eyes upon her, so full of pondering that she had no leisure to be affected by that memory. The poor woman, who was dead and safe, died away out of all thoughts when the affairs of the living came uppermost—the living who were so far from being safe, whose life lay before them, liable to be coloured through and through by the events of any solitary moment. This could scarcely be said of James Beresford perhaps, whose life was three-parts over; but what penalties might not Cara have to pay for the pleasure of the moment!—the gay visitors who ‘brightened her up’ might leave darkness behind when their more active life carried them away to other scenes and occupations, and the companionship which made this opening of her existence cheerful might throw all the rest into shadow. So Miss Cherry, whose life knew nothing more than this, who had no varied experiences to show how one affection pushed out another, and on what lines of natural progress the course of life was drawn, thought to herself as she waited by the side of the fire, slowly sipping her cup of tea, for Cara’s return. She thought no more of her brother and Mrs. Meredith—people who were old enough to manage their own concerns. Cara occupied all her thoughts. She was herself, though she was old, more on Cara’s level of life than on that which was occupied by the kind neighbour for whom she had been so anxious when she came. After a while she heard voices outside, and going to the window, saw a little group at the house next door, the centre of which was Mrs. Meredith herself, smiling graciously upon someone who had arrived too early for her usual reception, and who was going disappointed away, when stopped by her arrival. Behind Mrs. Meredith was Cara, looking up to a handsome, dark-haired young man, who smiled upon her in a way which gave even to old Miss Cherry’s heart a sympathetic thrill. Surely he looked sincere, she said to herself; and what girl could resist such a look? For a moment Cherry forgot her terror and her precautions. Why should not Cara be the one happy girl whose happy love was to be blessed and sanctioned by everybody from the very beginning? Why should it not be so? Cherry asked herself. There was money enough in the family to make it possible to indulge this only child of their hearts in whatever she might please to want—a husband if she liked, or any other toy. It was not, however, with such light-minded expressions that Cherry treated so solemn a subject. If he loved her, and if she loved him, why should there be any difficulty? Cherry herself was ready to give up everything to ‘secure’ her darling’s ‘happiness.’ These were the words to use:—‘To secure Cara’s happiness!’ Then there need be no question of danger or trouble of any kind. The young couple would be married quite young, as it was for everybody’s happiness (people said) to be, and there need be no further anxiety, no further pain, on Cara’s account. They did not see her at the window, but stood talking, close together, the girl looking up, the young man looking down, until the door was opened, and they all disappeared. Cherry went back to her seat at the fireside and cried a little for pleasure at the thought of this happiness which was to come. To think of your child having precisely the blessedness, the good-fortune, which has not fallen to you, and which would have made your more happy than anything else,—could there be compensation more sweet? She cried for pleasure as she had cried before for anxiety, and sat with the firelight sparkling in that moisture which filled her eyes, and calculated how it could be done. Mrs. Meredith would allow her son something—as much at least as his school and university allowance, if not more; and though Aunt Charity was careful of her money, she could be liberal, too, on occasion. I am not sure even that it did not flash across Miss Cherry’s mind that one day the Hill and all its wealth would be her own; but she repulsed the thought with poignant compunction: unless, indeed, it might be that the Hill should go at once to Cara, and thus make her marriage, as of a queen-regnant able to endow her husband plentifully, the most wise and seemly thing in the world, even though she was so young. After all her troubles and terrors, Miss Cherry had a moment of exquisite pleasure as she sat by the fire and arranged it all. She forgot that the room was haunted, she forgot her sister-in-law’s strange death, her brother’s long misery, and now the consolation which he had found, and which all his friends disapproved of, and she herself had come here to put a stop to. What were all these things in comparison with Cara happy, Cara blessed in that best and sweetest lot which had never come to herself? What matter, if it came to her dearest child?

She had plenty of time to indulge these thoughts, for her dearest child was a long time coming, and but for her delightful dreams Miss Cherry might have felt somewhat dull and deserted in the still house. If she could but look through the partition and see into the drawing-room next door!—just a peep, to see her Cara with that charming young man beside her, bending over her. They were like a pair in a novel, Miss Cherry felt, or in a poem, which was better still—she, with those great blue eyes, which were Cara’s chief feature; he, dark and splendid, with a glow of manly colour. How nice that he should be so handsome! For indeed sometimes, girls are quite pleased and happy with those who are not handsome, so that this was something pardessus le marché, an exceptional advantage. Someone began to play the piano after a while, and the sound came through the wall. Was it perhaps he? Cara could not play so well as that. If it was he, then he must be accomplished too, as well as handsome. What a happy, happy girl! Though Miss Cherry was a little tired of waiting before Cara came in, she had not at all flagged in her enthusiasm, and when the girl flew to her, all flushed and excited with pleasure at the sight of her, it was all she could do to restrain her congratulations and blessings. ‘For I must not say a word till she gives me her confidence,’ she said to herself.

‘Nurse told me as she let me in that you were here. Oh, Aunt Cherry, how glad I am! When did you come? Why did you not send for me? Here I have been waiting nearly an hour at Mrs. Meredith’s, and you here!’

‘My darling, you were happier there——’

‘Happier than with you? I was happier than when I am alone; but if I had known you were here! And, oh! Aunt Cherry, there is only time to get ready for dinner! We can’t talk just now; how provoking it is! Tell me about Aunt Charity and home; but we must not keep dinner waiting.’

‘No, dear. How pleased I am,’ said Miss Cherry, kissing her child with tender fondness, ‘to see you so considerate and careful of your papa’s comfort?’

‘Yes,’ said Cara, doubtfully. ‘Papa, of course—but it is more for cook and John; they don’t like to have dinner kept waiting. Papa is often a little late himself, but of course no one could say anything to him.’

This explanation was made as they went upstairs arm-in-arm, the girl clinging to her aunt with pretty fondness, embracing Miss Cherry’s arm with both her hands. Cara was paler than she had been at the Hill. Her eyes looked bigger and bluer than ever, her transparent complexion more delicate and changeable. She was prettier than Miss Cherry had ever seen her, but ‘did not look strong,’ her anxious aunt thought. Was it the excitement of her position, the absorbing influence which had taken hold of her? How kind Cherry longed to take the child in her arms to beg for her confidence! ‘But I must not say a word till she tells me,’ she said to herself, with a sigh.

Mr. Beresford took his sister’s arrival very calmly. He accepted her halting explanation of her sudden visit to town with the calm of indifference. When he had said he was glad to see her, had he not said all that was necessary? Miss Cherry’s excuse was the dentist, that scourge yet blessing of middle-aged folks. And Cara, too, accepted the explanation with calmness though not with indifference. She led her back to the drawing-room after dinner with a light-hearted playfulness, unlike her usual gravity.

‘How nice it is to have someone sitting opposite,’ she said. ‘Everything looks so cheerful to-night. And now we can talk.’

‘Yes, Cara, as much as you please; and when your papa comes upstairs—— ’

‘Oh, papa never comes upstairs, Aunt Cherry. He does not like this room. Mrs. Meredith has made him come two or three times to try and get him used to it; but he never looks happy here.’

‘Then you go down to the library and sit with him there?’

‘Ought I to do that? He never said so, and I did not like to do it out of my own head. And then he goes out——’

‘How lonely for you, my darling.’

‘Yes, it is lonely. Sometimes I feel a little frightened. It is so quiet; listen!’ said the girl, drawing nearer to her companion’s side. ‘I don’t mind to-night when you are here; but there is not a sound—Cook and John shut all the doors to keep the house quiet for papa; but, oh! I should be so glad sometimes if I could hear them in the kitchen for company! I know it is very silly. Why should I be afraid? No one could come here but mamma, and she would never do harm to me, only good; and yet I feel sometimes as if I could not bear it. How is it, I wonder? This is London, and the Hill is the country; but one always heard something stirring there.’

‘My dearest!’ said kind Miss Cherry, crying over her; ‘my own child! If I had known, if I could have thought you were left so much to yourself! But, dear, you see a great deal of the people next door. That must cheer you up: tell me about them. There is Mrs. Meredith—she used to be a very nice woman; are you fond of her, Cara? And then there are her sons——’

‘Very fond,’ said Cara, with composure; ‘and the boys are kind. They come often in the morning to see me. I am not sure which of them I like best. Edward has just come home. He is the one that is going to India; and Oswald writes poetry and is very clever. I go out with Mrs. Meredith in the afternoon—you must not think I am not very fond of her, Aunt Cherry—but then she is fond of so many people. You should see her afternoons. She is at home always at five, and the number of people who come! and she looks at them all alike, and listens to them as if she thought of no one else. Yes, I am very fond of her; but I like people to belong to me, not to everybody—like you, Aunt Cherry; you are mine, mine!’ the girl cried, with the flattery of exclusive appropriation which is so sweet to all, and especially to those who are beyond the first fascinations of life.

‘Yes, my darling,’ said Miss Cherry, with tears in her soft eyes; ‘me, and everything I have and everything I am, to do whatever you please with.’ She had a right to be more lavish than any lover in her self-offering; for no love could have been so ready to give up will and wish, which are the last things any human creature likes to sacrifice, for the sake of the beloved. Miss Cherry would have allowed herself to be cut into little pieces at any moment, for the sake of the child.

But these were not the kind of confidences she expected. She made an effort to bring Cara back to the other ground, and to elicit from her some tender confession. Romantic old Cherry was disappointed not to have seen some trace of this confidence, irrepressible, eager to unbosom itself, but she was not hopeless of it still.

‘I saw you go in,’ she said. ‘I watched you from the window, Cara. Was that one of the Merediths that was with you?—Very nice-looking, rather dark. Which was that? You seemed to be great friends.’

‘This afternoon! Were you at the window? How stupid I was not to see you! I will never come near the house again without looking up at the windows. It was Oswald, Aunt Cherry; he is always the one who has time to go out with us. Do you think a man ought to have so much time? Yes, he is nice-looking, I think; he is like a poet; and he is the one who chiefly stands by me, and comes to see me in the morning. He never seems to have anything particular to do,’ Cara added, with a slight air of vexation, which raised Miss Cherry’s hopes.

‘But if he writes?’ she said, with a little awe.

‘Ah, he does that at night; he sits up writing, and all day long he seems just to do what he likes. They laugh at him for it, but he never minds. Mrs. Meredith sometimes says—— Ah!’ cried Cara, stopping short, and drawing a long sighing breath. A sort of muffled hollow sound went through the house—the shutting of the great hall-door, which seemed to vibrate upwards from floor to floor.

‘What is it, Cara?’ said Miss Cherry, whose nerves were weak, and who jumped at any noise, even when she knew really what it was.

‘It is papa going out,’ said Cara, with a little sigh; and then ensued a momentary silence, which showed that this mighty event was of importance to her and inspired her imagination. ‘But I do not mind to-night,’ she added, with soft sudden laughter, putting her hands together with an infantile movement of pleasure, ‘when I have you!’

They sat and talked the whole evening through, with that fertility of communication which exists between people who have very little to tell, and yet are in perfect confidence with each other. What did they say? not much of any consequence. Miss Cherry told Cara all the news of the Hill, and Cara confided to Miss Cherry without meaning, or being aware of it, a hundred small details of her life, chiefly repetitions of what she had already said, yet throwing fresh light upon those simple monotonous dull days, which were so interesting to the elder lady. But not all Miss Cherry’s delicate leadings up to the point could win any confidential statement from the girl of the character her aunt had expected to hear. She was all confidence, and told everything without keeping back a thought; but there was nothing of this description to tell; and Miss Cherry was at last obliged to acknowledge it to herself with great disappointment. ‘There has been no explanation yet,’ she said to herself. She was not the first who has been disappointed by finding that a supposed romance had no existence. They sat quite late, till Miss Cherry, used to early hours, began to droop and get weary; but even after this feeling had crept over her eyes, and betrayed her into a yawn or two, she sat still, heroically waiting for her brother’s return.

‘When does your papa come in? Is he not late to-night?’ she said at last, when her endurance had nearly reached its limits. She would have suffered any hardship for her darling, but the habits of her early innocent country life were strong upon her, and to stay up till midnight seemed almost immoral to Miss Cherry; still more immoral it seemed to her, however, to go to bed, without bidding your host good-night.

‘I think he is always late; but no one waits up for him,’ said Cara. ‘I never see him after dinner. Have I tired you out talking? I go to bed early,’ said the little girl, with a forlorn look, ‘because it is so dull; but I am so happy to-night. Oh, I wish you would never go away any more.’

‘My darling, I thought you had a great deal better company than me.’

‘Ah, but you were mistaken, you see. Sometimes I have very nice company though, when we dine with the Merediths. She asks us every week, and sometimes I go out to parties with her, which are pleasant. But it is very dull the other nights,’ said Cara, with unconscious pathos; ‘and the only thing I can do to amuse myself is to go to bed.’

She laughed, but it was not a cheerful laugh. And was it possible that on the other side of the partition her father was sitting, whose poor little daughter had nothing better to do to amuse herself than to go to bed? What could James mean by such conduct? It was very hard for Cherry to be just in such strange circumstances, and not to blame, as most people would have done, the woman who was concerned. Visions of ill-names, such as ‘elderly siren,’ which innocent Miss Cherry had read in the papers, drifted into her simple brain in spite of herself. Why did she let him do it? Why did she encourage him to go to her? What were they talking about? Miss Cherry, though she was so sleepy, could not really rest, even after she went to bed, till she heard once more that dull sound through the house of the great door shutting. The houses in the Square were well built for London houses, and the corresponding sounds in the house next door, when the visitor departed, did not reach the watcher’s ears. But it was with some anxiety in her thoughts that Miss Cherry wondered how the sons liked it, and what they thought of their mother’s constant visitor: and she a married woman: and James still making believe to feel his wife’s loss so deeply that he could not enter his drawing-room without pain! Miss Cherry blushed in the darkness, throwing a warm reflection upon the pillow, if there had been any light to show it, over this thought.

CHAPTER XX.

THE PERUGINO.

Oswald Meredith had a new direction given to his thoughts. He was not, as may be easily divined, so clever as Cara gave him credit for being, nor, indeed, as his family supposed, who knew him better than Cara did; but he was full of fancy and a kind of gay, half-intellectual life which might be called poetic so far as it went. His head was full of the poets, if not of poetry; and a certain joyous consciousness of existence and of well-being which made his own pursuits and enjoyments beautiful and important to him, was in all he did and said. He was not so much selfish as self-occupied, feeling a kind of glory and radiance about his youth, and conscious freedom and conscious talents which elated him, without any absolute vanity or self-love. Naturally all the people who were equally self-occupied, or whose temperaments ran counter to Oswald’s, took it for granted that he was vain and selfish; and those who loved him best were often impatient with him for this happy contentment, which made him pleased with his own aimless ways, and indifferent to everything that demanded any exertion which would interfere with the smooth current of his enjoyable and enjoying life. For himself he was too good-natured to criticise or find fault with anyone—having no ideal himself to derange his satisfaction with his own circumstances and behaviour, he had no ideal for others, and was quite content that they, too, should enjoy themselves as they pleased, and find each for himself the primrose paths which suited him best; but he did not inquire into the primrose paths of others. He was so pleased with his own, so ready to tell everybody how delightful it was, how he enjoyed it, what pretty fancies it abounded in, and pleasant intercourse, and merry sunshiny ways. For Edward, who worked, he had the kindest toleration, as for an odd fellow who found his pleasure that way; and his mother, who sympathised with everybody, he regarded also with half-laughing, satisfied eyes as one whose peculiar inclinations laid her open to a charge of ‘humbug,’ which, perhaps, was not quite without foundation. Let everybody follow their own way: that was the way in which, of course, they found most pleasure, he said to himself, and in the lightness of his heart had no idea of any other rule. Cara had brought in a new and very pleasant element into his life; he liked to go to her and tell her what he was doing and receive that ready sympathy which was to him something like the perfume of flowers—a thing for which it was quite unnecessary to make any return, but which was delightful to receive, and which added a something more exquisite and delicate to the very atmosphere in which this young demi-god lived, caressed by gods and men. What more could he do for Cara or anyone but communicate his own satisfaction to her, make her a sharer in the pleasure he felt in himself and his life? He was ‘very fond’ of Cara. He would not, for a moment, have permitted anyone to take her companionship and sympathy from him. To tell Cara, was not that the first thing that occurred to him when anything happened, any new gratification or success? As for hearing from her in return what thoughts came into her little head, what happened in her quiet life—that did not occur to Oswald. To talk of himself seemed so much more natural and so much more interesting, to Cara as well as to himself. Was it not really so? He was a man, three-and-twenty, at the very most triumphant period of life, free to go anywhere he pleased, to do anything he liked, strong, clever, handsome, sufficiently rich. Could any circumstances be more delightful, more satisfactory? No woman, let alone a little girl, without freedom of action, could be so well off, so consciously at the ‘high top-gallant’ of mortal pleasantness. The sense of this suffused, so to speak, his whole being. It was not selfishness, any more than happiness is selfishness; there was even a kind of spontaneous unconscious gratitude in it for all the pleasant things in his lot.

It was with this feeling strong in his mind that he had walked along the streets the day of the accident to the little schoolgirl. It had been just his luck to meet with a true Perugino face. Little processions of school-children are the commonest things in the world, but you might have passed a hundred of them before you came upon anything like the soft Umbrian glow of that complexion, that tender roundness of the soft form, the devout, sweet eyes. The incident itself, it was true, was something of a break upon the general felicity; but Oswald was able to hope that the little girl whom he had carried with the utmost care and kindness to the hospital, with a sympathetic pallor on his handsome face, would turn out to be not so much hurt, or at least would mend rapidly and be none the worse. He felt very sorry for the poor little thing, yet felt there was a certain luck in the accident, for otherwise he could only have looked at the Perugino, not spoken to her as he did now. He found out the name of the house to which she belonged, and asked permission of the Sister who had been in charge of the procession to go and inquire for the little sufferer. ‘Alas, I am afraid for a long time inquiries must be made at the hospital,’ she said, but gave him her name, Sister Mary Jane, with natural pleasure in the kindness of so handsome a young man, and one who looked so comme il faut, so thoroughly a gentleman. It is just as good in an ugly and common person to be kind, but somehow nobody thinks so, and Oswald’s anxiety to hear of the child’s progress seemed exceptional virtue in the mind even of the good Sister. ‘Never say the upper classes are indifferent to other people’s welfare,’ said Sister Mary Jane. ‘I don’t believe a working man could have shown half so much feeling.’ And young Agnes, the teacher, said nothing against this, but admired secretly and wondered why he had looked at her so, and whether by any chance they might ever meet again. Oswald, for his part, went away from the hospital with his head full of that new ‘poem’ which he had begun on the spot even before the rapprochement of the accident—