Shirley

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 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,