“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 white Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At other times this future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you stand face to face with a shrouded and unthought-of calamity – a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow’s Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning she felt oppressed with unwonted languor. At breakfast, at each meal of the following day, she missed all sense of appetite. Palatable food was as ashes and sawdust to her.
“Am I ill?” she asked, and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated, her cheeks seemed rosier, and fuller than usual. “I look well; why can I not eat?”
She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples; she felt, too, her brain in strange activity. Her spirits were raised; hundreds of busy and broken but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind. A glow rested on them, such as tinged her complexion.
Now followed a hot, parched, thirsty, restless night. Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger; when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.
How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had passed into her lungs and veins, and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire. After two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms, and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her. A few days would restore her, every one believed.
The few days passed, and – though it was still thought it could not long delay – the revival had not begun. Mrs. Pryor, who had visited her daily – being present in her chamber one morning when she had been ill a fortnight – watched her very narrowly for some minutes. She took her hand and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone’s study. With him she remained closeted a long time – half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid aside shawl and bonnet. She stood awhile at the bedside, one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a movement habitual to her. At last she said, “I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay here. It is my wish to remain with you till you are better. Your uncle kindly permits my attendance. Will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?”
“I am sorry you should take such needless trouble. I do not feel very ill, but I cannot refuse resolutely. It will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in the room; but don’t confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs. Pryor. Fanny nurses me very well.”
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was now smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.