Shirley

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
con
sidered it desirable to step in and let ye know. A houseful 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 was 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 sœur?« 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 up-stairs 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 Œdipus! – you would have baffled the Sphynx! – 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.«
    »And I am Robert, am I not?« asked the new comer, 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