Shirley

bankruptcy.«
    The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and modestly (as Caroline thought), was felt keenly and comprehended clearly.
    »Indeed, I only think – or I
will only
think – of you as my cousin,« was the quick answer. »I am beginning to understand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came to England: better than I did, a week – a day ago. I know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not misunderstand me, if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?«
    »What made you think so?«
    »Your look – your manner.«
    »But look at me now –«
    »Oh! you are different now: at present, I dare speak to you.«
    »Yet I am the same, except that I have left the tradesman behind me in the Hollow: your kinsman alone stands before you.«
    »My cousin, Robert; not Mr. Moore.«
    »Not a bit of Mr. Moore. Caroline –«
    Here the company was heard rising in the other room; the door was opened; the pony-carriage was ordered; shawls and bonnets were demanded; Mr. Helstone called for his niece.
    »I must go, Robert.«
    »Yes, you must go, or they will come in, and find us here; and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, will take my departure through the window: luckily, it opens like a door. One minute only – put down the candle an instant – good-night! I kiss you because we are cousins; and, being cousins – one – two – three kisses are allowable. Caroline, good-night!«
     
     
Chapter VIII
Noah and Moses
    The next day, Moore had risen before the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made the café au lait, or cut the tartines for his breakfast. What business he transacted there, he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not her wont to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them. The secrets of business – complicated and often dismal mysteries – were buried in his breast, and never came out of their sepulchre, save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent: indeed, a general habit of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood.
    Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents, and glanced them over. They were all short, but not – it seemed – sweet; probably rather sour on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils emitted a derisive and defiant snuff; and, though he burst into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye which seemed to invoke the devil, and lay charges on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen and stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger-fury – only finger-fury, his face was placid – he dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and walked through the mill: on coming back, he sat down to read his newspaper.
    The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch: in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather – for it was a fine and mild morning for the season – and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open, the breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.
    A dark blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words »He's comed, sir,« and vanished.
    Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and grey-worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat; which he did, making the remark – as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown – that it was »raight dahn warm for Febewerry.« Mr. Moore assented: at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully