“Be sure you do, Hortense. Here she comes. That was her shadow passed the window, I believe.”
“Ah! truly. She is too early — half an hour before her time. — My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?”
This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender figure.
“I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and how Robert was too. I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night. I did not hear till this morning. My uncle told me at breakfast.”
“Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Your uncle sympathizes with us?”
“My uncle is very angry — but he was with Robert, I believe, was he not? — Did he not go with you to Stilbro’ Moor?”
“Yes, we set out in very martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way.”
“Of course nobody was hurt?”
“Why, no; only Joe Scott’s wrists were a little galled with being pinioned too tightly behind his back.”
“You were not there? You were not with the wagons when they were attacked?”
“No. One seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist.”
“Where are you going this morning? I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard.”
“To Whinbury. It is market day.”
“Mr. Yorke is going too. I met him in his gig. Come home with him.”
“Why?”
“Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke — at least, poor people do not dislike him.”
“Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?”
“Who are misunderstood. That, probably, is the word. Shall you be late? — Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?”
“It is too probable. He has often much business to transact at Whinbury. Have you brought your exercise-book, child?”
“Yes. — What time will you return, Robert?”
“I generally return at seven. Do you wish me to be at home earlier?”
“Try rather to be back by six. It is not absolutely dark at six now, but by seven daylight is quite gone.”
“And what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, when daylight is gone? What peril do you conceive comes as the companion of darkness for me?”
“I am not sure that I can define my fears, but we all have a certain anxiety at present about our friends. My uncle calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that millowners are unpopular.”
“And I am one of the most unpopular? Is not that the fact? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think me liable to Pearson’s fate, who was shot at — not, indeed, from behind a hedge, but in his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going to bed.”
“Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door,” remarked Caroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and arranged it and her muff on a side-table. “You know,” she continued, “there is a hedge all the way along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations to pass; but you will be back by six — or before?”
“Certainly he will,” affirmed Hortense. “And now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I put the peas to soak for the purée at dinner.”
With this direction she left the room.
“You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline,” said Mr. Moore, “and doubtless you know me to be destitute of friends?”
“Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle — besides, of course, many more.”
Robert smiled. “You would be puzzled to name your ‘many more,’” said he. “But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish schoolgirl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments, when they are acquired?”
“You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell. I suppose to keep my uncle’s house till — — “ She hesitated.
“Till what? Till he dies?”
“No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying. He is only fifty-five. But till — in short, till events offer other occupations for me.”
“A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?”
“I used to be, formerly. Children, you know, have little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal themes. There are moments now when I am not quite satisfied.”
“Why?”
“I am making no money — earning nothing.”
“You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?”
“I do. I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my war in life.”
“Go on. Let us hear what way.”
“I could be apprenticed to your trade — the cloth-trade. I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father’s debts; perhaps I could help you to get rich.”
“Help me? You should think of yourself.”
“I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of oneself?”
“Of whom else do I think? Of whom else dare I think? The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow.”
“No, Robert — — “
“Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man’s heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may smell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke Prudence to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as any north wind.”
“No cottage would be happy then.”
“When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed penury of the man in debt. My grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, careworn tradesman.”
“Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have become too fixed in your mind. It may be presumptuous to say it, but I have the impression that there is something wrong in your notions of the best means of attaining happiness, as there is in — — “ Second hesitation.
“I am all ear, Caroline.”
“In (courage! let me speak the truth) — in your manner — mind, I say only manner — to these Yorkshire workpeople.”
“You