‘Is it always so?’ he said, stealing always a little further on. ‘For then this world would be a sadly unsatisfactory place, and life would not be worth living.’
‘Ah, everybody says so,’ cried Agnes; ‘that is what I always rebel against. Because one thing disappoints you, why should everything? They say the world is so bad, all full of delusion; but God made it—it cannot be so bad if we took pains enough to find out what is best.’
Oswald’s heart was touched; by the eagerness in her face and the beauty of its dimples—but a little by the contrast between this young creature’s abstract purpose and his own want of any purpose at all. ‘I am not good enough to keep up such an argument,’ he said ingenuously enough; ‘I am afraid I am content to get along just as it happens from day to day. You make me blush for myself.’
When he said this an overpowering blush covered the face which was turned towards him under the poke-bonnet. ‘Oh, what have I been saying?’ she cried, crimson with shame and compunction. How she had been talking to a stranger, a man, a person whose very name she did not know! What would the Sisters say, what would mamma say if she knew? Would not this heinous offence against all the proprieties prove everything they had ever said against her independent outset in the world? And he, what could he think? Agnes wished the pavement might open and swallow her up—as it had done once or twice before at very great crises of history. She could not run away from him, that would be a worse folly still, especially as the ‘House’ was already in sight. But she shrank away from him as far as the narrow pavement would permit, and did not dare to look at him again.
‘You have said nothing but what it was good to say,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Do not be angry with yourself for having spoken to me. I am not unworthy of it. It will do me good, and it cannot have harmed you. I do not even know your name’—here he made a slight pause, hoping she might tell him—‘mine is Oswald Meredith. I am not much good, but if anything could make me better it would be hearing what you have said. Life is perhaps too pleasant to me—and I don’t take thought enough of what is best; but I will think of you and try,’ said Oswald, with a little innocent, honest, natural hypocrisy. He meant it for the moment though he did not mean it. A little glow of virtuous feeling rose in his breast. Yes, to be sure, he, too, would think of what was best in life and do it—why not? it would be good and right in itself, and agreeable to her. To be sure he would do it. The resolution was very easy and gave him quite a warm glow of virtue and goodness. He had no secret wickedness to give up, or struggles with favourite vices to look forward to. He would be good, certainly, and made up his mind to it with all the bland confidence and light-hearted certainty of a child.
And then he went across the street to the ‘House’ and put down his name for such a subscription as made the heart leap within the sober bosom of Sister Mary Jane.
CHAPTER XXI.
A CONFIDENCE.
‘Cara, I want to tell you something,’ said Oswald. ‘Look here; here is a comfortable chair. Never mind your aunt; my mother will take care of her. I never have you now, not for half a minute. If I were not in love with her, I should hate your aunt—she is always there. I never can manage to say a word to you.’
This was said in Mrs. Meredith’s drawing-room after dinner. Of course it is needless to say that Mrs. Meredith, apprised of Miss Cherry’s arrival, had immediately done her part of neighbourly and friendly kindness by asking her to dinner at once.