“For two years,” he was saying, “I had once a pupil who grew very dear to me.  Henry is dear, but she was dearer.  Henry never gives me trouble; she—­well—­she did.  She spilled the draught from my cup; and having taken from me my peace of mind and ease of life, she took from me herself, quite coolly—­just as if, when she was gone, the world would be all the same to me.  At the end of two years it fell out that we encountered again.  She received me haughtily; but then she was inconsistent:  she tantalised as before.  When I thought of her only as a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me a glimpse of loving simplicity, warm me with such a beam of reviving sympathy that I could no more shut my heart to her image than I could close that door against her presence.  Explain why she distressed me so.”

“She could not bear to be quite outcast,” was the docile reply.

Caroline would have understood still more could she have read what Louis Moore wrote in his diary that night:  “What a child she is sometimes!  What an unsophisticated, untaught thing!  I worship her perfections; but it is her faults, or at least her foibles, that bring her near to me.  If I were a king and she were a housemaid, my eye would recognise her qualities.”

Robert Moore had long been absent from Briarfield, and no one knew why he stayed away.  It could not be that he was afraid, for he had shown the utmost fearlessness in bringing to justice and transportation the four ringleaders in the attack on the mill.  He had now returned, and one day as he rode over Rushedge Moore from Stilbro’ market with a bluff neighbour, he unbosomed himself of the reason why he had remained thus long from home.

“I certainly believed she loved me,” he said.  “I have seen her eyes sparkle when she found me out in a crowd.  When my name was uttered she changed countenance; I knew she did.  She was cordial to me; she took an interest in me; she was anxious about me.  I saw power in her; I owed her gratitude.  She aided me substantially and effectively with a loan of five thousand pounds.  Could I believe she loved me?  With an admiration dedicated entirely to myself I smiled at her being the first to love and to show it.  That whip of yours seems to have a good heavy handle.  Knock me out of the saddle with it if you choose, for I never felt as if nature meant her to be my other and better self.  Yet I walked up to Fieldhead and in a hard, firm fashion offered myself—­my fine person—­ with all my debts, of course, as a settlement.  There was no misunderstanding her aspect and voice as she indignantly ejaculated:  ‘God bless me!’ Her eyes lightened as she said:  ’You have pained me; you have outraged me; you have deceived me.  I did respect, I did admire, I did like you, and you would immolate me to that mill—­your Moloch!’ I was obliged to say, ‘Forgive me!’ To which she replied, ’I could if there was not myself to forgive too, but to mislead a sagacious man so far I must have done wrong.’  She added, ’I am sorry for what has happened.’  So was I, God knows.”