Shirley

acknowledge that – I could not describe the dignity of her voice and mien as she addressed me thus: still, I fear, she was selfish, my dear. I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank; but I think she was a little selfish.
    I remember,« continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, »another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter with quite a grand air. ›WE,‹ she would say, – ›WE need the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which WE reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people, however well educated, must necessarily be under-bred, and as such unfit to be inmates of OUR dwellings, or guardians of OUR children's minds and persons. WE shall ever prefer to place those about OUR offspring, who have been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement as OURSELVES.‹«
    »Miss Hardman must have thought herself something better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held that their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to minister to her convenience. You say she was religious: her religion must have been that of the Pharisee, who thanked God that he was not as other men are, nor even as that publican.«
    »My dear, we will not discuss the point: I should be the last person to wish to instil into your mind any feeling of dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of envy or insubordination towards your superiors. Implicit submission to authorities, scrupulous deference to our betters (under which term I, of course, include the higher classes of society) are, in my opinion, indispensable to the wellbeing of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is, that you had better not attempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would be too severe for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe towards either Mrs. or Miss Hardman; only, recalling my own experience, I cannot but feel that, were you to fall under auspices such as theirs, you would contend a while courageously with your doom; then you would pine and grow too weak for your work: you would come home – if you still had a home – broken down. Those languishing years would follow, of which none but the invalid and her immediate friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden: consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is the history of many a life: I would not have it yours. My dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please.«
    They both rose and slowly paced a green natural terrace bordering the chasm.
    »My dear,« erelong again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she spoke, »the young, especially those to whom nature has been favourable – often – frequently – anticipate – look forward to – to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes.«
    And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with promptitude, showing a great deal more self-possession and courage than herself on the formidable topic now broached.
    »They do; and naturally,« she replied, with a calm emphasis that startled Mrs. Pryor. »They look forward to marriage with some one they love as the brightest, – the only bright destiny that can await them. Are they wrong?«
    »Oh, my dear!« exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands: and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager eye on the face of her friend: that face was much agitated. »My dear,« she murmured, »life is an illusion.«
    »But not love! Love is real: the most real, the most lasting, – the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know.«
    »My dear – it is very bitter. It is said to be strong – strong as death! Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to their sweetness – nothing is so transitory: its date is a moment, – the twinkling of an eye: the sting remains for ever: it may perish with the dawn of eternity, but it tortures through time into its deepest night.«
    »Yes, it tortures through time,« agreed Caroline, »except when it is mutual love.«
    »Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious. You do not read them, I hope?«
    »Sometimes – whenever I can get them, indeed; but romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it.«
    »Nothing whatever, my dear!« assented Mrs. Pryor, eagerly; »nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot be too strongly condemned. They are not like reality: they show