Shirley

you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth, when sitting in the counting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged in her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face to read there my thoughts.«
    »You need fear no such infliction: I do not come near you: I only stand afar off, watching what may become of you.«
    »When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening after the mill is shut – or at night, when I take the watchman's place – I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle of every leaf, a movement made by you; tree-shadows will take your shape; in the white sprays of hawthorn, I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, you will haunt me.«
    »I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard.«
    »I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight: indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago, I was standing at the top of one of my long rooms, girls were working at the other end, and amongst half a dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group; what I sought had glided away: I found myself between two buxom lasses in pinafores.«
    »I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call me there.«
    »Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her, I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room: my sister had taken the light up-stairs with her; the window-blind was not drawn, and broad moonbeams poured through the panes: there you were, Lina, at the casement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. For half a second, your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at me; for half a second, my idea was to go and take your hand, to chide you for your long absence, and welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell: the drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of the complexion dissolved, and were formless: positively, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot, covered with a flush of bloom – ›sic transit,‹ et cetera.«
    »It was not my wraith, then? I almost thought it was.«
    »No; only gauze, crockery, and pink blossom; a sample of earthly illusions.«
    »I wonder you have time for such illusions, occupied as your mind must be.«
    »So do I. But I find in myself, Lina, two natures; one for the world and business, and one for home and leisure. Gérard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market: the person you call your cousin Robert is sometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere than in Cloth-hall and counting-house.«
    »Your two natures agree with you: I think you are looking in good spirits and health: you have quite lost that harassed air which it often pained one to see in your face a few months ago.«
    »Do you observe that? Certainly, I am disentangled of some difficulties: I have got clear of some shoals, and have more sea-room.«
    »And, with a fair wind, you may now hope to make a prosperous voyage?«
    »I may
hope
it – yes – but hope is deceptive: there is no controlling wind or wave: gusts and swells perpetually trouble the mariner's course; he dare not dismiss from his mind the expectation of tempest.«
    »But you are ready for a breeze – you are a good seaman – an able commander: you are a skilful pilot, Robert; you will weather the storm.«
    »My kinswoman always thinks the best of me, but I will take her words for a propitious omen: I will consider that in meeting her to-night, I have met with one of those birds whose appearance is to the sailor the harbinger of good-luck.«
    »A poor harbinger of good-luck is she who can do nothing – who has no power. I feel my incapacity: it is of no use saying I have the will to serve you, when I cannot prove it; yet I have that will. I wish you success; I wish you high fortune and true happiness.«
    »When did you