‘I was his confidante all the time,’ said Cara; ‘but how was I to know that his Agnes was you?’
Agnes did not get much comfort out of this; she was not quite sure even that she liked him to have had a girl confidante. Though she was ‘happy,’ in the ordinary sense of the word, as applied to brides, happy in the love of her new husband, and in her own love for him, yet the troubles of the moment had seized hold upon her at their worst. She trembled for the opening of the door. She was almost at the limit of her powers of endurance. Her ‘happiness’ had cost her dear. She had got it at the sacrifice of all her tender prejudices, all her little weaknesses of sentiment. She took Roger’s angry speech for true, and endorsed it. However happily it might all turn out, though everything should be better than she thought, still she would have disgraced herself. Nobody could be so much shocked at the whole business as she herself was. To everyone who censured her she was ready to say amen. It may be supposed, therefore, that the feelings with which she awaited Oswald’s mother were agitating enough. If Mrs. Meredith received her unkindly, or coldly—and how was it possible that a mother could receive otherwise than coldly such an unexpected bride?—it seemed to Agnes, in her discouragement and terror, that she must fall at her feet and die.
‘Go and tell my mother, Ned,’ said Oswald, who was himself rather breathless with suspense. ‘Go, you and Cara—take Cara with you. She will be kinder if you go together.’
‘Was she ever unkind?’ said Cara, half indignant.
‘Come all the same,’ said Edward, taking her hand in the freedom of the moment. ‘If I offer to make a sacrifice to her if she will forgive them?’ he whispered, as they went upstairs together—‘it will not be true—Cara, may I do it, not being true?’
‘Does she want to be paid for her kindness?’ said Cara, whispering back; but she smiled, notwithstanding, not knowing what he meant, yet knowing quite well what he meant. They went into the drawing-room thus, still for the moment hand in hand, which Mrs. Meredith perceiving, turned round from her guests with a little excitement. What had they come to tell her? She disengaged herself from the people whom she was talking to, and hurried towards them, breathless—‘Children, what is it?’ the conjunction had already had its effect.
‘Mother, Oswald and his wife are downstairs; come and speak to them—come and console her.’
‘His wife! Good heavens! has it gone so far?—and is that all?’ the mother said inconsistently in one breath.
Edward went up close to her, and whispered in her ear—‘And I no longer think of going to India. If that pleases you, forgive them.’
‘Traitor!’ said Mrs. Meredith; ‘that is not the reason;’ and then, ‘God bless you, my darling!’ she said, with tears in her eyes.