‘What is the meaning of all this?’ he said. ‘Agnes, what do you want here? Where have you been? My father has come up to town in trouble about you; my mother is ill of it at home. Where have you been? These people have nothing to do with you. You’ve got to give me an explanation of it—and you too, sir!’ cried Roger, with natural inconsistency, turning fiercely upon Oswald. What! this fellow, who had appropriated Cara so calmly, was he to have Agnes too?
‘Oh, Roger! don’t quarrel—don’t quarrel! I went home this morning. Mamma knows,’ cried Agnes, flushed and tearful, clasping her hands.
‘And I am ready to give you every explanation,’ said Oswald. ‘You have a right to it. We were married on Tuesday. It was no doing of hers. The fault is all mine. And your mother is satisfied. Come in with us, and you shall have every detail. And come, Roger, shake hands with me. There is no harm done after all.’
‘Harm done!’ cried the young man in his bitterness; ‘harm done! Is it no harm that she has disgraced herself? I don’t know what greater harm is in the world.’
‘Oh, Roger, Roger!’
‘This has gone far enough,’ said Oswald; ‘take care what you say. Agnes, my darling, take my arm, and come to my mother. He does not know what he is saying; and Ned, come along, you and Cara. There are a hundred things to tell you. I want you to hear everything to-day.’
They passed him, while he stood fuming with bitter rage, not on account of Agnes, though she was the excuse for it. She took all the guilt to herself, however, looking at him pitifully, appealing to him as her husband led her to his mother’s door.
‘Roger, oh Roger, dear, come with us!’ she cried. She had spoken to no one but him.
But Roger paid no attention to Agnes. It was the other pair who had all his thoughts; he seemed to be supplanted over again, to have all the pangs of failure to bear over again. The idea of Oswald’s success with Cara had become familiar to him, and there was a little consolation in the fact that Edward, like himself, was unhappy. But at this new change, the poor young fellow ground his teeth. It was more than he could bear. Rage and anguish were in his eyes. Even Cara’s kind look at him, her little mute apology and deprecation of his wrath, increased it. Why should he go with them? What did it matter to him? His sister? Oh, there were plenty of people to look after his sister, and why should he follow them, who cared so little for him? But, after a while, he did follow them. There is something in this kind of suffering which attracts the sufferer to the rack. He is in course of healing when he has the courage to turn his back upon it, and go firmly away.
The whole young party went into the dining-room, where the Times which Mr. Burchell had grudged to Mrs. Meredith was still on the table. A dining-room is an oppressive place for such a purpose. It looks like bad interviews with fathers when there are admonitions to be given, or those fearful moments when a young offender is detained after the others have left the cheerful table, to be told of his faults. Agnes went into the house of her husband’s mother, with her heart in her mouth, or, at least, in her throat, leaping wildly, ready to sink into the ground with shame and terror. How would Mrs. Meredith receive her? Her own mother had yielded only to the arguments which the poor girl despised the most, to the details of Oswald’s income, and the settlements, about which he had already written to his lawyer. This mollified her—not Agnes’s weeping explanations; and the bride’s heart was still sore from the pang of this forgiveness, which Oswald, not caring in the least for Mrs. Burchell, had been quite satisfied with. He did not care very much for anything except herself, she had already found out, and took all disapproval with the frankest levity of indifference, which made it burn all the more into the heart of Agnes. Perhaps it was necessary for her to have a burden of one kind or another. And his mother; how would his mother look upon her? Would she set her down, as it was so natural for mothers to do, as the guilty party, the chief offender? Agnes had felt that her own mother had done this. She had excused Oswald. ‘No man would ever think of such a thing, if he had not got encouragement.’ Even Sister Mary Jane had said so, in a modified and more generous way. Was it always the poor girl’s, the poor wife’s fault? Agnes shrank into a corner. She could not take any courage from Cara’s caressings, who came and hung about her, full of admiration and interest.