Shirley

truth.«
    »Fortunately, I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's words: for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventional subterfuges that are shabbier than lies.«
    »But papa is dead: they should let him alone now.«
    »They should – and we
will
let him alone. Cry away, Cary, it will do you good: it is wrong to check natural tears; besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at you: every drop blots out a sin. Weep – your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked: like Jordan, they can cleanse a leprous memory.«
    »Madam,« she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, »did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your daughter together – marking your marvellous similarity in many points – observing, pardon me – your irrepressible emotions in the presence and still more in the absence of your child, and not form my own conjectures? I formed them, and they are literally correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd.«
    »And you said nothing?« observed Caroline, who soon regained the quiet control of her feelings.
    »Nothing. I had no warrant to breathe a word on the subject.
My
business it was not: I abstained from making it such.«
    »You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you guessed it?«
    »Is that so difficult?«
    »It is not like you.«
    »How do you know?«
    »You are not reserved. You are frankly communicative.«
    »I may be communicative, yet know where to stop. In showing my treasure, I may withhold a gem or two – a curious, unbought, graven stone – an amulet, of whose mystic glitter I rarely permit even myself a glimpse. Good-day.«
    Caroline thus seemed to get a view of Shirley's character under a novel aspect. Erelong, the prospect was renewed: it opened upon her.
    No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a change of scene – the excitement of a little society – than Miss Keeldar sued daily for her presence at Fieldhead. Whether Shirley had become wearied of her honoured relatives is not known: she did not say she was; but she claimed and retained Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an addition to that worshipful company was not unwelcome.
    The Sympsons were Church people: of course, the Rectors niece was received by them with courtesy. Mr. Sympson proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper, pious principles, and worldly views; his lady was a very good woman, patient, kind, well-bred. She had been brought up on a narrow system of views – starved on a few prejudices: a mere handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till their natural flavour was extracted, and with no seasoning added in the cooking; some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised-crust of bigotry, difficult to digest: far too submissive was she to complain of this diet, or to ask for a crumb beyond it.
    The daughters were an example to their sex. They were tall, with a Roman nose a-piece. They had been educated faultlessly. All they did was well done. History, and the most solid books, had cultivated their minds. Principles and opinions they possessed which could not be mended. More exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would have been difficult to find anywhere. They knew by heart a certain young-ladies'-school-room code of laws on language, demeanour, etc.; themselves never deviated from its curious little pragmatical provisions; and they regarded with secret, whispered horror, all deviations in others. The Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them: they had discovered that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Originality. Quick were they to recognise the signs of this evil; and wherever they saw its trace – whether in look, word, or deed; whether they read it in the fresh, vigorous style of a book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackneyed, pure, expressive language – they shuddered – they recoiled: danger was above their heads – peril about their steps. What was this strange Thing? Being unintelligible, it must be bad. Let it be denounced and chained up.
    Henry Sympson – the only son, and youngest child of the family – was a boy of fifteen. He generally kept with his tutor; when he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This boy differed from his sisters: he was little, lame, and pale; his large eyes shone somewhat