‘I understand him, Cara. He was an old friend, too, and he hoped to have you to himself; whereas he found you among still older friends than he was, and intimate, and at your ease. And he was not at all at his ease—I understand him. I have had the very same sort of thing happen to me.’
‘With whom?’ Cara asked rather abruptly. She was surprised, even slightly nettled, without knowing why. Did Edward know any other girl well enough? she asked herself. It was nothing to her, and yet she was half-displeased.
‘Oh, with no one in particular,’ he said. ‘I have stolen a march upon Oswald,’ he added, with a laugh. ‘I have had the luck of the early bird. He was always a late fellow. To be sure, he sits up writing when the rest of us go to bed.’
‘And is it true that he would not go to India, and put it upon you? I am very fond of poetry,’ said Cara; ‘I would rather be a poet than anything else in the world; but not to put the disagreeable work upon someone else—not to please myself at the expense of another——’
‘That is not the way to put it, Cara. I am really the one that can go best. Oswald should have a brilliant career at home. He is clever enough to do whatever he pleases, but it is not the same with me. Oh, I am not going in for humility; I can cram for an examination better than he can; it is a humble quality, but it is very serviceable. So we have both the part that suits us best.’
‘But you don’t like it, Edward.’
‘Which of us likes best the special thing he has got to do? We all think something else would be better. Even you, Cara—— oh, Heaven knows I did not mean to vex you. Is it I that have brought the tears into your eyes?’
‘No,’ she said, putting out her hand; ‘but it is quite true. I am—out of sorts, I suppose, this morning. I can’t help crying; and what you say is quite true. One always thinks something else would be better. Aunt Cherry says the same thing, but different. Edward, I will try to go to my India as you go to yours—without grumbling——’
‘If I had not grumbled, you would not have known anything about it,’ he said; ‘and, Cara, if you were coming to India I should not grumble. I should be quite reconciled. It is parting from—everyone I care for, that makes it so hard to me.’
A kind of crimson reflection had come over Cara’s face—not a blush, much more visionary than real—a reflection of a blush: the touch of a vague sentiment which was somehow in the air, and which lighted upon the girl’s face because it was more sensitive than the boy’s—that was all. But he saw the shadow of a rosy tint over her features, and it moved him with a vague sweetness of fancy, he did not quite know what. If Cara were to go to India—not with him, not as his wife, his thoughts had not gone so far—but if she, too, had to go, in some incomprehensible, delightful way, how the aspect of that banishment would change! All at once, as he sat there, he seemed to see himself looking over the high bulwarks of the ship by her side, the blue water flying in soft ripples behind them, the foam-bubbles dancing on the waves, the sunshine shining, all the world so new and so sweet. How distinctly he realised the scene, which was just about as likely as that the Queen should go with Edward to India! He came back from that vision as from a long way off, with a half-choking sigh. ‘That is nonsense, I suppose. Still it is that, and not India, that vexes me. Parting from those I care for here.’