‘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 Sphinx—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 cousin 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 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