In spite of himself Oswald laughed. He had a schoolboy’s delight in mystification, and somehow a sense of Edward’s disappointment came in, and gave him a still greater perception of the joke. Not that he wished to hurt Edward, but to most men who know nothing of love there is so much of the ridiculous involved, even in a disappointment, that the one who is heart-whole may be deliberately cruel without any evil intention. ‘Oh, yes, I am happy enough,’ he said, looking round at his brother, who, for his part, could not meet his eyes.
‘I hope you won’t mind what I am going to say to you,’ said Edward. ‘I am not so light-hearted a fellow as you are, and that makes me, perhaps, notice others. Oswald, look here—she is not so light-hearted as you are, either. She wants taking care of. She is very sensitive, and feels many things that perhaps you would not feel. Don’t be vexed. I thought I would just say this once for all—and there is no good thing I don’t wish you,’ cried Edward, concluding abruptly, to cover the little break in his voice.
‘You needn’t look so glum about it, Ned,’ said his brother. ‘I don’t mean to be turned off to-morrow. We shall have time to mingle our tears on various occasions before then. Mamma and you have a way of jumping at conclusions. As for her——’
‘I don’t like slang on such a subject,’ said Edward, hotly. ‘Never mind; there are some things we should never agree upon if we talked till doomsday. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, old man, and I wish you a better temper—unless you’ll come and have another cigar first,’ said Oswald, with cheerful assurance. ‘My mind is too full for sleep.’
‘Your mind is full of——’
‘Her, of course,’ said Oswald, with a laugh; and he went downstairs whistling the air of Fortunio’s song—
Je sais mourir pour ma mie,
Sans la nommer.
He was delighted with the mistake which mystified everybody, and awakened envies, and regrets, and congratulations, which were all in their different ways tributes to his importance. And no doubt the mistake might be turned into reality at any moment should he decide that this would be desirable. He had only to ask Cara, he felt, and she would be as pleased as the others; and, indeed, under the influence of a suggestion which made him feel his own importance so delightfully, Oswald was not at all sure that this was not the best thing, and the evident conclusion of the whole. But in the meantime he let his mind float away upon other fancies. Her! how little they knew who She was whom they thus ignorantly discussed. When he had got into the sanctuary of smoke, at which Mrs. Meredith shook her head, but which she had carefully prepared for her boys all the same, Oswald lit the other cigar which he had invited his brother to accompany, and sat down with that smile still upon his face, to enjoy it and his fancies. He laid his hand indolently upon a book, but his own musings were at the moment more amusing, more pleasantly exciting than any novel. The situation pleased and stimulated his fancy in every way. The demure little school procession, the meek young conventual beauty, so subdued and soft, yet with sparkles responsive to be struck out of her, half-frightened, yet at the same time elevated above all the temptations that might have assailed other girls—it was scarcely possible to realise anything more captivating to the imagination. He sat and dreamed over it all till the small hours after midnight sounded one by one, and his fire went out, and he began to feel chilly; upon which argument Oswald, still smiling to himself, went to bed, well pleased with his fancies as with everything else belonging to him; and all the better pleased that he felt conscious of having roused a considerable deal of excitement and emotion, and of having, without any decided intention on his own part, delightfully taken in everybody, which delighted the schoolboy part of his nature. To be so clever as he was conscious of being, and a poet, and a great many other fine things, it was astonishing how much of the schoolboy was still in him. But yet he had no compunction as he went up the long staircase: he had not finished, nor indeed made the least advance with his poem.
From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung
Fair face!——