Shirley
look up for that kindling, something I have seen in past days, when my
face, or my language, or my disposition had at some happy moment pleased
him; I should discover only darkness. I had better go home."
She took her bonnet from the table where it lay, and was just fastening
the ribbon, when Hortense, directing her attention to a splendid bouquet
of flowers in a glass on the same table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had
sent them that morning from Fieldhead; and went on to comment on the
guests that lady was at present entertaining, on the bustling life she
had lately been leading; adding divers conjectures that she did not very
well like it, and much wonderment that a person who was so fond of her
own way as the heiress did not find some means of sooner getting rid of
this _cortége_ of relatives.
"But they say she actually will not let Mr. Sympson and his family go,"
she added. "They wanted much to return to the south last week, to be
ready for the reception of the only son, who is expected home from a
tour. She insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends
here in Yorkshire. I dare say she partly does it to oblige Robert and
myself."
"How to oblige Robert and you?" inquired Caroline.
"Why, my child, you are dull. Don't you know--you must often have
heard----"
"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that you
told me to boil in treacle--the congfiters, as you call them--is all
burnt to the pan."
"Les confitures! Elles sont brûlées? Ah, quelle négligence coupable!
Coquine de cuisinière, fille insupportable!"
And mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large linen apron, and
tying it over her black apron, rushed _éperdue_ into the kitchen,
whence, to speak truth, exhaled an odour of calcined sweets rather
strong than savoury.
The mistress and maid had been in full feud the whole day, on the
subject of preserving certain black cherries, hard as marbles, sour as
sloes. Sarah held that sugar was the only orthodox condiment to be used
in that process; mademoiselle maintained--and proved it by the practice
and experience of her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother--that
treacle, "mélasse," was infinitely preferable. She had committed an
imprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the preserving-pan, for her
want of sympathy in the nature of its contents had induced a degree of
carelessness in watching their confection, whereof the result was--dark
and cindery ruin. Hubbub followed; high upbraiding, and sobs rather loud
than deep or real.
Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was shading her
ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under her cottage bonnet, certain
that it would not only be useless but unpleasant to stay longer, when,
on the sudden opening of the back-door, there fell an abrupt calm in the
kitchen. The tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit and bridle.
"Was it--was it--Robert?" He often--almost always--entered by the
kitchen way on his return from market. No; it was only Joe Scott, who,
having hemmed significantly thrice--every hem being meant as a lofty
rebuke to the squabbling womankind--said, "Now, I thowt I heerd a
crack?"
None answered.
"And," he continued pragmatically, "as t' maister's comed, and as he'll
enter through this hoyle, I _con_sidered it desirable to step in and let
ye know. A household o' women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out
warning. Here he is.--Walk forrard, sir. They war playing up queerly,
but I think I've quietened 'em."
Another person, it was now audible, entered. Joe Scott proceeded with
his rebukes.
"What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, thou quean, canst t'
not light a candle? It war sundown an hour syne. He'll brak his shins
agean some o' yer pots, and tables, and stuff.--Tak tent o' this
baking-bowl, sir; they've set it i' yer way, fair as if they did it i'
malice."
To Joe's observations succeeded a confused sort of pause, which
Caroline, though she was listening with both her ears, could not
understand. It was very brief. A cry broke it--a sound of surprise,
followed by the sound of a kiss; ejaculations, but half articulate,
succeeded.
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Est-ce que je m'y attendais?" were the words
chiefly to be distinguished.
"Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne sœur?" inquired another
voice--Robert's, certainly.
Caroline was puzzled. Obeying an impulse the wisdom of which she had not
time to question, she escaped from the little parlour, by way of leaving
the coast clear, and running upstairs took up a position at the head of
the banisters, whence she could make further observations ere presenting
herself. It was considerably past sunset now; dusk filled the passage,
yet not such deep dusk but that she could presently see Robert and
Hortense traverse it.
"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterwards, "venez voir
mon frère!"
"Strange," commented Miss Helstone, "passing strange! What does this
unwonted excitement about such an every-day occurrence as a return from
market portend? She has not lost her senses, has she? Surely the burnt
treacle has not crazed her?"
She descended in a subdued flutter. Yet more was she fluttered when
Hortense seized her hand at the parlour door, and leading her to Robert,
who stood in bodily presence, tall and dark against the one window,
presented her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as though they
had been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual introduction.
Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather awkwardly, and turning from her with
a stranger's embarrassment, he met the doubtful light from the window.
It fell on his face, and the enigma of the dream (a dream it seemed)
was at its height. She saw a visage like and unlike--Robert, and no
Robert.
"What is the matter?" said Caroline. "Is my sight wrong? Is it my
cousin?"
"Certainly it is your cousin," asserted Hortense.
Then who was this now coming through the passage--now entering the room?
Caroline, looking round, met a new Robert--the real Robert, as she felt
at once.
"Well," said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished face, "which is
which?"
"Ah, this is _you_!" was the answer.
He laughed. "I believe it is _me_. And do you know who _he_ is? You
never saw him before, but you have heard of him."
She had gathered her senses now.
"It _can_ be only one person--your brother, since it is so like you; my
other cousin, Louis."
"Clever little Œdipus! you would have baffled the Sphinx! But now, see
us together.--Change places; change again, to confuse her, Louis.--Which
is the old love now, Lina?"
"As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak! You should
have told Hortense to ask. But you are not so much alike. It is only
your height, your figure, and complexion that are so similar."
"And I am Robert, am I not?" asked the newcomer, making a first effort
to overcome what seemed his natural shyness.
Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive ray from her eye
beamed on the real Robert. It said much.
She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon. Robert himself was
peremptory in obliging her to remain. Glad, simple, and affable in her
demeanour (glad for this night, at least), in light, bright spirits for
the time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to be
willingly parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally rather a
grave, still, retiring man; but the Caroline of this evening, which was
not (as you know, reader) the Caroline of every day, thawed his reserve,
and cheered his gravity soon. He sat near her and talked to her. She
already knew his vocation was that of tuition. She learned now he had
for some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had been
travelling with him, and had accompanied him to the north. She inquired
if he liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite or
license further question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. She
thought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face as
Louis's; for he _had_ a sensible face, though not handsome, she
considered, when seen near Robert's. She turned to make the comparison.
Robert was leaning against the wall, a little behind her, turning over
the leaves of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the same
time, to the dialogue between her and Louis.
"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself. "I see now it is
Hortense Louis resembles, not Robert."
And this was in part true. He had the shorter nose and longer upper lip
of his sister rather than the fine traits of his brother. He had her
mould of mouth and chin--all less decisive, accurate, and clear than
those of the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate and
reflective, could scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, in
sitting near and looking up at him, that a slower and probably a more
benignant nature than that of the elder Moore shed calm on your
impressions.
Robert--perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandered towards and
dwelt upon him, though he had neither met nor answered it--put down the
book of engravings, and approaching, took a seat at her side. She
resumed her conversation with Louis, but while she talked to him her
thoughts were elsewhere. Her heart beat on the side from which her face
was half averted. She acknowledged a steady, manly, kindly air in Louis;
but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so near
him--though he was silent, though he did not touch so much as her
scarf-fringe or the white hem of her dress--affected her like a spell.
Had she been obliged to speak to him _only_, it would have quelled, but,
at liberty to address another, it excited her. Her discourse flowed
freely; it was gay, playful, eloquent. The indulgent look and placid
manner of her auditor encouraged her to ease; the sober pleasure
expressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature.
She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and as Robert was
a spectator, the consciousness contented her. Had he been called away,
collapse would at once have succeeded stimulus.
But her enjoyment was not long to shine full-orbed; a cloud soon crossed
it.
Hortense, who for some time had been on the move ordering supper, and
was now clearing the little table of some books, etc., to make room for
the tray, called Robert's attention to the glass of flowers, the carmine
and snow and gold of whose petals looked radiant indeed by candlelight.
"They came from Fieldhead," she said, "intended as a gift to you, no
doubt. We know who is the favourite there; not I, I'm sure."
It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest--a sign that her spirits were at
high-water mark indeed.
"We are to understand, then, that Robert is the favourite?" observed
Louis.
"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "Robert--c'est tout ce qu'il y a de plus
précieux au monde; à côté de lui le reste du genre humain n'est que du
rebut.--N'ai-je pas raison, mon enfant?" she added, appealing to
Caroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her beacon was quenched. Her
star withdrew as she spoke.
"Et toi, Robert?" inquired Louis.
"When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was the quiet answer.
Whether he reddened or paled Caroline did not examine. She discovered
that it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not even
Robert could detain her now.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
The future sometimes seems to sob a low warning of the events it is
bringing us, like some gathering though yet remote storm, which, in
tones of the wind, in flushings of the firmament, in clouds strangely
torn, announces a blast strong to strew the sea with wrecks; or
commissioned to bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence covering