Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-oaks spired up tall. She looked at the close hedge of privet and laurel fencing in the garden; her eyes longed to see something more than the shrubs before they turned from that limited prospect. They longed to see a human figure, of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter the gate. A human figure she at last saw – nay, two. Frederick Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, dangling on his forefinger the keys of the mill. They were going to lock up mill and stables for the night, and then betake themselves home.
“So must I,” thought Caroline, as she half rose and sighed.
“This is all folly – heartbreaking folly,” she added. “In the first place, though I should stay till dark there will be no arrival; because I feel in my heart, Fate has written it down in today’s page of her eternal book, that I am not to have the pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he stepped in this moment, my presence here would be a chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so would turn half my blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill if I put mine into it; his eye would be clouded if I sought its beam. I should 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 considered 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 soeur?” 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 everyday 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 Oedipus! 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.”