‘I am quite well, papa—I don’t want Mr. Maxwell or anyone.’
‘Well, if you are sure—but you look pale; I will speak to Mrs. Meredith, and see what she thinks.’ Cara felt a sensation of anger at this suggestion. She denied again with much earnestness that there was anything the matter with her—and though the heat of her reply almost roused her father to real consideration, it did not after all go quite so far as that. He went to his library, and she to her drawing-room. The morning was the cheerful time of her day. It was the hour for Oswald, who came in quite pleasantly excited, and told her of the expedition he was going to make into the country on the chance of having an interview and explanation with his Agnes. Cara thought this was a very good thing to do. ‘She ought to know exactly what you feel about her,’ she said; ‘and oh, Oswald, you ought to tell everybody, and make an end of all these mysteries.’
‘That is one word for her and two for yourself, Cara,’ he said, laughing; ‘you want to be free of me. But no, wait just a little longer. Look here, I will send you the Vita Nuova, and there you will see that Dante had a screen to keep people from suspecting that it was Beatrice.’
‘I will not be your screen,’ said Cara, with energy; ‘it is wicked of you to speak so.’
‘Why, it is in the Vita Nuova!’ said Oswald, with indignant innocence; ‘but never mind, it will be over directly; and you shall come and see her, and help us. My mother must come too.’
‘I am glad of that. I am sure that Mrs. Meredith would go to-day if you were to ask her.’
‘Not to-day, let us get our holiday first. I want to see her blush and her surprise as she sees me—but after that you shall see how good and reasonable and correct I shall be.’
He went away smiling. It was June, and the very atmosphere was a delight. He had brightened Cara for the moment, and she stepped out upon the balcony and breathed the sweet air, which was sweet even there. Oswald thought she was looking after him as he walked away, and was flattered by Cara’s affection—and other people thought so too. As she looked down into the Square she caught the eyes of Edward who had just come out, and who took it for granted that this was a little overflowing of tenderness on her part, a demonstration of happy love. He looked up at her almost sternly she thought, but he did not mean it so. He had grown pale and very serious these last few weeks. And he took off his hat to her without a word. Cara went in again as if she had received a blow. She covered her face with her hands and cried. Oh, if it really was in the Vita Nuova! Cara hoped the lady who was the screen for Beatrice did not feel it as she did—and what did it matter?—that lady, whoever she was, must have been dead for hundreds of years. But she was alive, and this falsehood embittered her whole life.