Shirley

clever, nice. Your sole fault is that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put your work down: read to me. I like your southern accent: it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression, or purity of accent.«
    »I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach, I could not understand his broad, northern tongue.«
    »Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?«
    »No: I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well; quite otherwise than your worthy uncle: correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift.«
    »Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?«
    »Why, he was
as
he was – and, happily, of that you, child, can form no conception – I cannot tell: it is a deep mystery. The key is in the hands of his Maker: there I leave it.«
    »Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away: put down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head: it engages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is your favourite – Cowper.«
    These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded, Caroline would say, archly, –
    »You will spoil me, mamma
.
I always thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet.«
    So did Mrs. Pryor.
     

 
Chapter XXVI
Old Copy-Books
    By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield, Caroline was nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had received news by post of her friend's convalescence, hardly suffered an hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her first call at the Rectory.
    A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden-wicket was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form passed the window. On her entrance, her feelings were evinced in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved, by serious fears or joys, she was not garrulous. The strong emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue; and even her eye refused it more than a furtive and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, then said: –
    »You are better.«
    And a minute after, – »I see you are safe now, but take care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain no more shocks!«
    She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of vivacious discourse, her eye still wandered to Caroline: there spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some trouble, and some amaze.
    »She may be better,« it said; »but how weak she still is! What peril she has come through!«
    Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor: it pierced her through.
    »When will my governess return to me?« she asked.
    »May I tell her all?« demanded Caroline of her mother. Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently enlightened on what had happened in her absence.
    »Very good!« was the cool comment. »Very good! But it is no news to me.«
    »What! Did you know?«
    »I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard somewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history – not from herself, but from others. With every detail of Mr. James Helstone's career and character I was acquainted: an afternoon's sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar therewith: also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning-examples – one of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers – both these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dark side of life – but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and he said, – ›Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel –‹ Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it.«
    »I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing – go on: you are no friend if you withhold from me the truth: I hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the