Shirley

evening – against the fire-tinged blue of an August sky, at eight o'clock P.M.
    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 – heart-breaking 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 to-day'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 cortège 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 daresay 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 cuisinère – 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