CHAPTER XXIII.
AN EVENING OUT.
One fine summer day that Caroline had spent entirely alone (her unclebeing at Whinbury), and whose long, bright, noiseless, breezeless,cloudless hours (how many they seemed since sunrise!) had been to her asdesolate as if they had gone over her head in the shadowless andtrackless wastes of Sahara, instead of in the blooming garden of anEnglish home, she was sitting in the alcove--her task of work on herknee, her fingers assiduously plying the needle, her eyes following andregulating their movements, her brain working restlessly--when Fannycame to the door, looked round over the lawn and borders, and not seeingher whom she sought, called out, "Miss Caroline!"
A low voice answered "Fanny!" It issued from the alcove, and thitherFanny hastened, a note in her hand, which she delivered to fingers thathardly seemed to have nerve to hold it. Miss Helstone did not ask whenceit came, and she did not look at it; she let it drop amongst the foldsof her work.
"Joe Scott's son, Harry, brought it," said Fanny.
The girl was no enchantress, and knew no magic spell; yet what she saidtook almost magical effect on her young mistress. She lifted her headwith the quick motion of revived sensation; she shot, not a languid, buta lifelike, questioning glance at Fanny.
"Harry Scott! who sent him?"
"He came from the Hollow."
The dropped note was snatched up eagerly, the seal was broken--it wasread in two seconds. An affectionate billet from Hortense, informing heryoung cousin that she was returned from Wormwood Wells; that she wasalone to-day, as Robert was gone to Whinbury market; that nothing wouldgive her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's company to tea, andthe good lady added, she was quite sure such a change would be mostacceptable and beneficial to Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss bothfor safe guidance and improving society since the misunderstandingbetween Robert and Mr. Helstone had occasioned a separation from her"meilleure amie, Hortense Gerard Moore." In a postscript she was urgedto put on her bonnet and run down directly.
Caroline did not need the injunction. Glad was she to lay by the brownholland child's slip she was trimming with braid for the Jew's basket,to hasten upstairs, cover her curls with her straw bonnet, and throwround her shoulders the black silk scarf, whose simple drapery suited aswell her shape as its dark hue set off the purity of her dress and thefairness of her face; glad was she to escape for a few hours thesolitude, the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down thegreen lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent the fragrance of hedgeflowers sweeter than the perfume of moss-rose or lily. True, she knewRobert was not at the cottage; but it was delight to go where he hadlately been. So long, so totally separated from him, merely to see hishome, to enter the room where he had that morning sat, felt like areunion. As such it revived her; and then Illusion was again followingher in Peri mask. The soft agitation of wings caressed her cheek, andthe air, breathing from the blue summer sky, bore a voice whichwhispered, "Robert may come home while you are in his house, and then,at least, you may look in his face--at least you may give him your hand;perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him."
"Silence!" was her austere response; but she loved the comforter and theconsolation.
Miss Moore probably caught from the window the gleam and flutter ofCaroline's white attire through the branchy garden shrubs, for sheadvanced from the cottage porch to meet her. Straight, unbending,phlegmatic as usual, she came on. No haste or ecstasy was ever permittedto disorder the dignity of _her_ movements; but she smiled, well pleasedto mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss and the gentle,genial strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly in, half deceived andwholly flattered. Half deceived! had it not been so she would in allprobability have put her to the wicket, and shut her out. Had she knownclearly to whose account the chief share of this childlike joy was to beplaced, Hortense would most likely have felt both shocked and incensed.Sisters do not like young ladies to fall in love with their brothers.It seems, if not presumptuous, silly, weak, a delusion, an absurdmistake. _They_ do not love these gentlemen--whatever sisterly affectionthey may cherish towards them--and that others should, repels them witha sense of crude romance. The first movement, in short, excited by suchdiscovery (as with many parents on finding their children to be in love)is one of mixed impatience and contempt. Reason--if they be rationalpeople--corrects the false feeling in time; but if they be irrational,it is never corrected, and the daughter or sister-in-law is disliked tothe end.
"You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in my note,"observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline towards the parlour; "butit was written this morning: since dinner, company has come in."
And opening the door she made visible an ample spread of crimson skirtsoverflowing the elbow-chair at the fireside, and above them, presidingwith dignity, a cap more awful than a crown. That cap had never come tothe cottage under a bonnet; no, it had been brought in a vast bag, orrather a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held wide with whalebone.The screed, or frill of the cap, stood a quarter of a yard broad roundthe face of the wearer. The ribbon, flourishing in puffs and bows aboutthe head, was of the sort called love-ribbon. There was a good deal ofit, I may say, a very great deal. Mrs. Yorke wore the cap--it becameher; she wore the gown also--it suited her no less.
That great lady was come in a friendly way to take tea with Miss Moore.It was almost as great and as rare a favour as if the queen were to gouninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subjects. A higher mark ofdistinction she could not show--she who in general scorned visiting andtea-drinking, and held cheap and stigmatized as "gossips" every maid andmatron of the vicinage.
There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore _was_ a favourite with her.She had evinced the fact more than once--evinced it by stopping to speakto her in the churchyard on Sundays; by inviting her, almost hospitably,to come to Briarmains; evinced it to-day by the grand condescension of apersonal visit. Her reasons for the preference, as assigned by herself,were that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment, without the leastlevity of conversation or carriage; also that, being a foreigner, shemust feel the want of a friend to countenance her. She might have addedthat her plain aspect, homely, precise dress, and phlegmatic,unattractive manner were to her so many additional recommendations. Itis certain, at least, that ladies remarkable for the opposite qualitiesof beauty, lively bearing, and elegant taste in attire were not oftenfavoured with her approbation. Whatever gentlemen are apt to admire inwomen, Mrs. Yorke condemned; and what they overlook or despise, shepatronized.
Caroline advanced to the mighty matron with some sense of diffidence.She knew little of Mrs. Yorke, and, as a parson's niece, was doubtfulwhat sort of a reception she might get. She got a very cool one, and wasglad to hide her discomfiture by turning away to take off her bonnet.Nor, upon sitting down, was she displeased to be immediately accosted bya little personage in a blue frock and sash, who started up like somefairy from the side of the great dame's chair, where she had beensitting on a footstool, screened from view by the folds of the wide redgown, and running to Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her arms roundher neck and demanded a kiss.
"My mother is not civil to you," said the petitioner, as she receivedand repaid a smiling salute, "and Rose there takes no notice of you; itis their way. If, instead of you, a white angel, with a crown of stars,had come into the room, mother would nod stiffly, and Rose never lifther head at all; but I will be your friend--I have always liked you."
"Jessie, curb that tongue of yours, and repress your forwardness!" saidMrs. Yorke.
"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie. "Miss Helstonehas never done you any harm; why can't you be kind to her? You sit sostiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry--what for? That's just thefashion in which you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar and every other younglady who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut--aut--I haveforgotten the word, but it means a machine in the shape of a humanbeing. However, between you, you will drive every soul away fromBriarmains; Marti
n often says so."
"I am an automaton? Good! Let me alone, then," said Rose, speaking froma corner where she was sitting on the carpet at the foot of a bookcase,with a volume spread open on her knee.--"Miss Helstone, how do you do?"she added, directing a brief glance to the person addressed, and thenagain casting down her gray, remarkable eyes on the book and returningto the study of its pages.
Caroline stole a quiet gaze towards her, dwelling on her young, absorbedcountenance, and observing a certain unconscious movement of the mouthas she read--a movement full of character. Caroline had tact, and shehad fine instinct. She felt that Rose Yorke was a peculiar child--one ofthe unique; she knew how to treat her. Approaching quietly, she knelt onthe carpet at her side, and looked over her little shoulder at her book.It was a romance of Mrs. Radcliffe's--"The Italian."
Caroline read on with her, making no remark. Presently Rose showed herthe attention of asking, ere she turned the leaf, "Are you ready?"
Caroline only nodded.
"Do you like it?" inquired Rose ere long.
"Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully taken withit."
"Why?"
"It seemed to open with such promise--such foreboding of a most strangetale to be unfolded."
"And in reading it you feel as if you were far away from England--reallyin Italy--under another sort of sky--that blue sky of the south whichtravellers describe."
"You are sensible of that, Rose?"
"It makes me long to travel, Miss Helstone."
"When you are a woman, perhaps, you may be able to gratify your wish."
"I mean to make a way to do so, if one is not made for me. I cannot livealways in Briarfield. The whole world is not very large compared withcreation. I must see the outside of our own round planet, at least."
"How much of its outside?"
"First this hemisphere where we live; then the other. I am resolved thatmy life shall be a life. Not a black trance like the toad's, buried inmarble; nor a long, slow death like yours in Briarfield rectory."
"Like mine! what can you mean, child?"
"Might you not as well be tediously dying as for ever shut up in thatglebe-house--a place that, when I pass it, always reminds me of awindowed grave? I never see any movement about the door. I never hear asound from the wall. I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys.What do you do there?"
"I sew, I read, I learn lessons."
"Are you happy?"
"Should I be happy wandering alone in strange countries as you wish todo?"
"Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander. Remember, however,that I shall have an object in view; but if you only went on and on,like some enchanted lady in a fairy tale, you might be happier than now.In a day's wandering you would pass many a hill, wood, and watercourse,each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone out or wasovercast; as the weather was wet or fair, dark or bright. Nothingchanges in Briarfield rectory. The plaster of the parlour ceilings, thepaper on the walls, the curtains, carpets, chairs, are still the same."
"Is change necessary to happiness?"
"Yes."
"Is it synonymous with it?"
"I don't know; but I feel monotony and death to be almost the same."
Here Jessie spoke.
"Isn't she mad?" she asked.
"But, Rose," pursued Caroline, "I fear a wanderer's life, for me atleast, would end like that tale you are reading--in disappointment,vanity, and vexation of spirit."
"Does 'The Italian' so end?"
"I thought so when I read it."
"Better to try all things and find all empty than to try nothing andleave your life a blank. To do this is to commit the sin of him whoburied his talent in a napkin--despicable sluggard!"
"Rose," observed Mrs. Yorke, "solid satisfaction is only to be realizedby doing one's duty."
"Right, mother! And if my Master has given me ten talents, my duty is totrade with them, and make them ten talents more. Not in the dust ofhousehold drawers shall the coin be interred. I will _not_ deposit it ina broken-spouted teapot, and shut it up in a china closet amongtea-things. I will _not_ commit it to your work-table to be smothered inpiles of woollen hose. I will _not_ prison it in the linen press to findshrouds among the sheets. And least of all, mother" (she got up from thefloor)--"least of all will I hide it in a tureen of cold potatoes, to beranged with bread, butter, pastry, and ham on the shelves of thelarder."
She stopped, then went on, "Mother, the Lord who gave each of us ourtalents will come home some day, and will demand from all an account.The teapot, the old stocking-foot, the linen rag, the willow-patterntureen will yield up their barren deposit in many a house. Suffer yourdaughters, at least, to put their money to the exchangers, that they maybe enabled at the Master's coming to pay Him His own with usury."
"Rose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told you?"
"Yes, mother."
"Sit down, and do a line of marking."
Rose sat down promptly, and wrought according to orders. After a busypause of ten minutes, her mother asked, "Do you think yourself oppressednow--a victim?"
"No, mother."
"Yet, as far as I understood your tirade, it was a protest against allwomanly and domestic employment."
"You misunderstood it, mother. I should be sorry not to learn to sew.You do right to teach me, and to make me work."
"Even to the mending of your brothers' stockings and the making ofsheets?"
"Yes."
"Where is the use of ranting and spouting about it, then?"
"Am I to do nothing but that? I will do that, and then I will do more.Now, mother, I have said my say. I am twelve years old at present, andnot till I am sixteen will I speak again about talents. For four years Ibind myself an industrious apprentice to all you can teach me."
"You see what my daughters are, Miss Helstone," observed Mrs. Yorke;"how precociously wise in their own conceits! 'I would rather this, Iprefer that'--such is Jessie's cuckoo song; while Rose utters the boldercry, 'I _will_, and I will _not_!'"
"I render a reason, mother; besides, if my cry is bold, it is only heardonce in a twelvemonth. About each birthday the spirit moves me todeliver one oracle respecting my own instruction and management. I utterit and leave it; it is for you, mother, to listen or not."
"I would advise all young ladies," pursued Mrs. Yorke, "to study thecharacters of such children as they chance to meet with before theymarry and have any of their own to consider well how they would likethe responsibility of guiding the careless, the labour of persuading thestubborn, the constant burden and task of training the best."
"But with love it need not be so very difficult," interposed Caroline."Mothers love their children most dearly--almost better than they lovethemselves."
"Fine talk! very sentimental! There is the rough, practical part of lifeyet to come for you, young miss."
"But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take a little baby into my arms--any poor woman'sinfant, for instance--I feel that I love that helpless thing quitepeculiarly, though I am not its mother. I could do almost anything forit willingly, if it were delivered over entirely to my care--if it werequite dependent on me."
"You _feel_! Yes, yes! I dare say, now. You are led a great deal by your_feelings_, and you think yourself a very sensitive personage, no doubt.Are you aware that, with all these romantic ideas, you have managed totrain your features into an habitually lackadaisical expression, bettersuited to a novel-heroine than to a woman who is to make her way in thereal world by dint of common sense?"
"No; I am not at all aware of that, Mrs. Yorke."
"Look in the glass just behind you. Compare the face you see there withthat of any early-rising, hard-working milkmaid."
"My face is a pale one, but it is _not_ sentimental; and most milkmaids,however red and robust they may be, are more stupid and less practicallyfitted to make their way in the world than I am. I think more, and morecorrectly, than milkmaids in general do; consequently, where they wouldoften, f
or want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of reflection,should act judiciously."
"Oh no! you would be influenced by your feelings; you would be guided byimpulse."
"Of course I should often be influenced by my feelings. They were givenme to that end. Whom my feelings teach me to love I _must_ and _shall_love; and I hope, if ever I have a husband and children, my feelingswill induce me to love them. I hope, in that case, all my impulses willbe strong in compelling me to love."
Caroline had a pleasure in saying this with emphasis; she had a pleasurein daring to say it in Mrs. Yorke's presence. She did not care whatunjust sarcasm might be hurled at her in reply. She flushed, not withanger but excitement, when the ungenial matron answered coolly, "Don'twaste your dramatic effects. That was well said--it was quite fine; butit is lost on two women--an old wife and an old maid. There should havebeen a disengaged gentleman present.--Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behindthe curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?"
Hortense, who during the chief part of the conversation had been in thekitchen superintending the preparations for tea, did not yet quitecomprehend the drift of the discourse. She answered, with a puzzled air,that Robert was at Whinbury. Mrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar shortlaugh.
"Straightforward Miss Moore!" said she patronizingly. "It is like you tounderstand my question so literally and answer it so simply. _Your_ mindcomprehends nothing of intrigue. Strange things might go on around youwithout your being the wiser; you are not of the class the world callssharp-witted."
These equivocal compliments did not seem to please Hortense. She drewherself up, puckered her black eyebrows, but still looked puzzled.
"I have ever been noted for sagacity and discernment from childhood,"she returned; for, indeed, on the possession of these qualities shepeculiarly piqued herself.
"You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound," pursued Mrs. Yorke;"and you have not the benefit of previous experience to aid you indiscovering when others plot."
Caroline felt this kind language where the benevolent speaker intendedshe should feel it--in her very heart. She could not even parry theshafts; she was defenceless for the present. To answer would have beento avow that the cap fitted. Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she sat withtroubled, downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figureexpressing in its bent attitude and unconscious tremor all thehumiliation and chagrin she experienced, felt the sufferer was fairgame. The strange woman had a natural antipathy to a shrinking,sensitive character--a nervous temperament; nor was a pretty, delicate,and youthful face a passport to her affections. It was seldom she metwith all these obnoxious qualities combined in one individual; stillmore seldom she found that individual at her mercy, under circumstancesin which she could crush her well. She happened this afternoon to bespecially bilious and morose--as much disposed to gore as any vicious"mother of the herd." Lowering her large head she made a new charge.
"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss Helstone. Such ladiesas come to try their life's luck here at Hollow's Cottage may, by a verylittle clever female artifice, cajole the mistress of the house, andhave the game all in their own hands. You are fond of your cousin'ssociety, I dare say, miss?"
"Of which cousin's?"
"Oh, of the lady's, _of course_."
"Hortense is, and always has been, most kind to me."
"Every sister with an eligible single brother is considered most kind byher spinster friends."
"Mrs. Yorke," said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, their blue orbs atthe same time clearing from trouble, and shining steady and full, whilethe glow of shame left her cheek, and its hue turned pale andsettled--"Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what you mean?"
"To give you a lesson on the cultivation of rectitude, to disgust youwith craft and false sentiment."
"Do I need this lesson?"
"Most young ladies of the present day need it. You are quite a modernyoung lady--morbid, delicate, professing to like retirement; whichimplies, I suppose, that you find little worthy of your sympathies inthe ordinary world. The ordinary world--every-day honest folks--arebetter than you think them, much better than any bookish, romancing chitof a girl can be who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle theparson's garden wall."
"Consequently of whom you know nothing. Excuse me--indeed, it does notmatter whether you excuse me or not--you have attacked me withoutprovocation; I shall defend myself without apology. Of my relations withmy two cousins you are ignorant. In a fit of ill-humour you haveattempted to poison them by gratuitous insinuations, which are far morecrafty and false than anything with which you can justly charge me. ThatI happen to be pale, and sometimes to look diffident, is no business ofyours; that I am fond of books, and indisposed for common gossip, isstill less your business; that I am a 'romancing chit of a girl' is amere conjecture on your part. I never romanced to you nor to anybody youknow. That I am the parson's niece is not a crime, though you may benarrow-minded enough to think it so. You dislike me. You have no justreason for disliking me; therefore keep the expression of your aversionto yourself. If at any time in future you evince it annoyingly, I shallanswer even less scrupulously than I have done now."
She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She had spoken in theclearest of tones, neither fast nor loud; but her silver accentsthrilled the ear. The speed of the current in her veins was just then asswift as it was viewless.
Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof, worded with a severity sosimple, dictated by a pride so quiet. Turning coolly to Miss Moore, shesaid, nodding her cap approvingly, "She has spirit in her, afterall.--Always speak as honestly as you have done just now," shecontinued, "and you'll do."
"I repel a recommendation so offensive," was the answer, delivered inthe same pure key, with the same clear look. "I reject counsel poisonedby insinuation. It is my right to speak as I think proper; nothing bindsme to converse as you dictate. So far from always speaking as I havedone just now, I shall never address any one in a tone so stern or inlanguage so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult."
"Mother, you have found your match," pronounced little Jessie, whom thescene appeared greatly to edify. Rose had heard the whole with anunmoved face. She now said, "No; Miss Helstone is not my mother's match,for she allows herself to be vexed. My mother would wear her out in afew weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better.--Mother, you have never hurtMiss Keeldar's feelings yet. She wears armour under her silk dress thatyou cannot penetrate."
Mrs. Yorke often complained that her children were mutinous. It wasstrange that with all her strictness, with all her "strong-mindedness,"she could gain no command over them. A look from their father had moreinfluence with them than a lecture from her.
Miss Moore--to whom the position of witness to an altercation in whichshe took no part was highly displeasing, as being an unimportantsecondary post--now rallying her dignity, prepared to utter a discoursewhich was to prove both parties in the wrong, and to make it clear toeach disputant that she had reason to be ashamed of herself, and oughtto submit humbly to the superior sense of the individual then addressingher. Fortunately for her audience, she had not harangued above tenminutes when Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray called her attention,first to the fact of that damsel having a gilt comb in her hair and ared necklace round her throat, and secondly, and subsequently to apointed remonstrance, to the duty of making tea. After the meal Roserestored her to good-humour by bringing her guitar and asking for asong, and afterwards engaging her in an intelligent and sharpcross-examination about guitar-playing and music in general.
Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline. Sitting on astool at her feet, she talked to her, first about religion and thenabout politics. Jessie was accustomed at home to drink in a great dealof what her father said on these subjects, and afterwards in company toretail, with more wit and fluency than consistency or discretion, hisopinions, antipathies, and preferences. She rated Caroline soundly forbeing a member of the Established Church, and for having an uncle aclergyman. She i
nformed her that she lived on the country, and ought towork for her living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, andeating the bread of idleness in the shape of tithes. Thence Jessiepassed to a review of the ministry at that time in office, and aconsideration of its deserts. She made familiar mention of the names ofLord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval. Each of these personages she adornedwith a character that might have separately suited Moloch and Belial.She denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington as a"hired butcher."
Her auditress listened with exceeding edification. Jessie had somethingof the genius of humour in her nature. It was inexpressibly comic tohear her repeating her sire's denunciations in his nervous northernDoric; as hearty a little Jacobin as ever pent a free mutinous spirit ina muslin frock and sash. Not malignant by nature, her language was notso bitter as it was racy, and the expressive little face gave a piquancyto every phrase which held a beholder's interest captive.
Caroline chid her when she abused Lord Wellington; but she listeneddelighted to a subsequent tirade against the Prince Regent. Jessiequickly read, in the sparkle of her hearer's eye and the laughterhovering round her lips, that at last she had hit on a topic thatpleased. Many a time had she heard the fat "Adonis of fifty" discussedat her father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's commentson the theme--genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire lips.
But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This is an autumn evening,wet and wild. There is only one cloud in the sky, but it curtains itfrom pole to pole. The wind cannot rest; it hurries sobbing over hillsof sullen outline, colourless with twilight and mist. Rain has beat allday on that church tower. It rises dark from the stony enclosure of itsgraveyard. The nettles, the long grass, and the tombs all drip with wet.This evening reminds me too forcibly of another evening some yearsago--a howling, rainy autumn evening too--when certain who had that dayperformed a pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery satnear a wood fire on the hearth of a foreign dwelling. They were merryand social, but they each knew that a gap, never to be filled, had beenmade in their circle. They knew they had lost something whose absencecould never be quite atoned for so long as they lived; and they knewthat heavy falling rain was soaking into the wet earth which coveredtheir lost darling, and that the sad, sighing gale was mourning aboveher buried head. The fire warmed them; life and friendship yet blessedthem; but Jessie lay cold, coffined, solitary--only the sod screeningher from the storm.
* * * * *
Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the music lesson and thelecture on politics, and concluded her visit to the cottage, at an hourearly enough to ensure her return to Briarmains before the blush ofsunset should quite have faded in heaven, or the path up the fields havebecome thoroughly moist with evening dew.
The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt that she also oughtto resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's cheek, and trip away homeward. Ifshe lingered much later dusk would draw on, and Fanny would be put tothe trouble of coming to fetch her. It was both baking and ironing dayat the rectory, she remembered--Fanny would be busy. Still, she couldnot quit her seat at the little parlour window. From no point of viewcould the west look so lovely as from that lattice with the garland ofjessamine round it, whose white stars and green leaves seemed now butgray pencil outlines--graceful in form, but colourless in tint--againstthe gold incarnadined of a summer evening--against the fire-tinged blueof an August sky at eight o'clock p.m.
Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-oaks spired uptall. She looked at the close hedge of privet and laurel fencing in thegarden; her eyes longed to see something more than the shrubs beforethey turned from that limited prospect. They longed to see a humanfigure, of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter thegate. A human figure she at last saw--nay, two. Frederick Murgatroydwent by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, dangling on hisforefinger the keys of the mill. They were going to lock up mill andstables for the night, and then betake themselves home.
"So must I," thought Caroline, as she half rose and sighed.
"This is all folly--heart-breaking folly," she added. "In the firstplace, though I should stay till dark there will be no arrival; becauseI feel in my heart, Fate has written it down in to-day's page of hereternal book, that I am not to have the pleasure I long for. In thesecond place, if he stepped in this moment, my presence here would be achagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so would turn halfmy blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill if I putmine into it; his eye would be clouded if I sought its beam. I shouldlook up for that kindling, something I have seen in past days, when myface, or my language, or my disposition had at some happy moment pleasedhim; I should discover only darkness. I had better go home."
She took her bonnet from the table where it lay, and was just fasteningthe ribbon, when Hortense, directing her attention to a splendid bouquetof flowers in a glass on the same table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar hadsent them that morning from Fieldhead; and went on to comment on theguests that lady was at present entertaining, on the bustling life shehad lately been leading; adding divers conjectures that she did not verywell like it, and much wonderment that a person who was so fond of herown way as the heiress did not find some means of sooner getting rid ofthis _cortege_ 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 beready for the reception of the only son, who is expected home from atour. She insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friendshere in Yorkshire. I dare say she partly does it to oblige Robert andmyself."
"How to oblige Robert and you?" inquired Caroline.
"Why, my child, you are dull. Don't you know--you must often haveheard----"
"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that youtold me to boil in treacle--the congfiters, as you call them--is allburnt to the pan."
"Les confitures! Elles sont brulees? Ah, quelle negligence coupable!Coquine de cuisiniere, fille insupportable!"
And mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large linen apron, andtying it over her black apron, rushed _eperdue_ into the kitchen,whence, to speak truth, exhaled an odour of calcined sweets ratherstrong than savoury.
The mistress and maid had been in full feud the whole day, on thesubject of preserving certain black cherries, hard as marbles, sour assloes. Sarah held that sugar was the only orthodox condiment to be usedin that process; mademoiselle maintained--and proved it by the practiceand experience of her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother--thattreacle, "melasse," was infinitely preferable. She had committed animprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the preserving-pan, for herwant of sympathy in the nature of its contents had induced a degree ofcarelessness in watching their confection, whereof the result was--darkand cindery ruin. Hubbub followed; high upbraiding, and sobs rather loudthan deep or real.
Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was shading herringlets from her cheek to smooth them under her cottage bonnet, certainthat 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 thekitchen. The tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit and bridle."Was it--was it--Robert?" He often--almost always--entered by thekitchen way on his return from market. No; it was only Joe Scott, who,having hemmed significantly thrice--every hem being meant as a loftyrebuke to the squabbling womankind--said, "Now, I thowt I heerd acrack?"
None answered.
"And," he continued pragmatically, "as t' maister's comed, and as he'llenter through this hoyle, I _con_sidered it desirable to step in and letye know. A household o' women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'outwarning. 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 withhis rebukes.
"What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, thou quea
n, canst t'not light a candle? It war sundown an hour syne. He'll brak his shinsagean some o' yer pots, and tables, and stuff.--Tak tent o' thisbaking-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, whichCaroline, though she was listening with both her ears, could notunderstand. 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 wordschiefly to be distinguished.
"Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne soeur?" inquired anothervoice--Robert's, certainly.
Caroline was puzzled. Obeying an impulse the wisdom of which she had nottime to question, she escaped from the little parlour, by way of leavingthe coast clear, and running upstairs took up a position at the head ofthe banisters, whence she could make further observations ere presentingherself. It was considerably past sunset now; dusk filled the passage,yet not such deep dusk but that she could presently see Robert andHortense traverse it.
"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterwards, "venez voirmon frere!"
"Strange," commented Miss Helstone, "passing strange! What does thisunwonted excitement about such an every-day occurrence as a return frommarket portend? She has not lost her senses, has she? Surely the burnttreacle has not crazed her?"
She descended in a subdued flutter. Yet more was she fluttered whenHortense 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 theyhad been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual introduction.
Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather awkwardly, and turning from her witha 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 noRobert.
"What is the matter?" said Caroline. "Is my sight wrong? Is it mycousin?"
"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 feltat once.
"Well," said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished face, "which iswhich?"
"Ah, this is _you_!" was the answer.
He laughed. "I believe it is _me_. And do you know who _he_ is? Younever 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; myother cousin, Louis."
"Clever little Oedipus! you would have baffled the Sphinx! But now, seeus together.--Change places; change again, to confuse her, Louis.--Whichis the old love now, Lina?"
"As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak! You shouldhave told Hortense to ask. But you are not so much alike. It is onlyyour height, your figure, and complexion that are so similar."
"And I am Robert, am I not?" asked the newcomer, making a first effortto overcome what seemed his natural shyness.
Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive ray from her eyebeamed on the real Robert. It said much.
She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon. Robert himself wasperemptory in obliging her to remain. Glad, simple, and affable in herdemeanour (glad for this night, at least), in light, bright spirits forthe time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to bewillingly parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally rather agrave, still, retiring man; but the Caroline of this evening, which wasnot (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. Shealready knew his vocation was that of tuition. She learned now he hadfor some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had beentravelling with him, and had accompanied him to the north. She inquiredif he liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite orlicense further question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. Shethought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face asLouis's; for he _had_ a sensible face, though not handsome, sheconsidered, when seen near Robert's. She turned to make the comparison.Robert was leaning against the wall, a little behind her, turning overthe leaves of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the sametime, to the dialogue between her and Louis.
"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself. "I see now it isHortense Louis resembles, not Robert."
And this was in part true. He had the shorter nose and longer upper lipof his sister rather than the fine traits of his brother. He had hermould of mouth and chin--all less decisive, accurate, and clear thanthose of the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate andreflective, could scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, insitting near and looking up at him, that a slower and probably a morebenignant nature than that of the elder Moore shed calm on yourimpressions.
Robert--perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandered towards anddwelt upon him, though he had neither met nor answered it--put down thebook of engravings, and approaching, took a seat at her side. Sheresumed her conversation with Louis, but while she talked to him herthoughts were elsewhere. Her heart beat on the side from which her facewas half averted. She acknowledged a steady, manly, kindly air in Louis;but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so nearhim--though he was silent, though he did not touch so much as herscarf-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 flowedfreely; it was gay, playful, eloquent. The indulgent look and placidmanner of her auditor encouraged her to ease; the sober pleasureexpressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature.She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and as Robert wasa 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 crossedit.
Hortense, who for some time had been on the move ordering supper, andwas now clearing the little table of some books, etc., to make room forthe tray, called Robert's attention to the glass of flowers, the carmineand snow and gold of whose petals looked radiant indeed by candlelight.
"They came from Fieldhead," she said, "intended as a gift to you, nodoubt. 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 athigh-water mark indeed.
"We are to understand, then, that Robert is the favourite?" observedLouis.
"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "Robert--c'est tout ce qu'il y a de plusprecieux au monde; a cote de lui le reste du genre humain n'est que durebut.--N'ai-je pas raison, mon enfant?" she added, appealing toCaroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her beacon was quenched. Herstar 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 discoveredthat it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not evenRobert could detain her now.