Chapter 21.9 - Shirley

York bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye confessed the impeachment. Yes, he had family pride. You saw it in his whole bearing. More is a gentleman, echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. She would not give them utterance, but her look spoke much at the moment. What, York tried to read, but could not. The language was there, visible, but untranslatable. A poem. A fervid lyric in an unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however. No simple gush of feeling. No ordinary love confession, that was obvious. It was something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault, baffled, puzzled. She enjoyed the moment, not he. And if more is a gentleman, you can only be a lady, therefore. Therefore, there would be no inequality in our union. None. Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away, when I relinquish the name of Kealdar for that of Moor?" Mr. York, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not divine what her look signified, whether she spoke in earnest or in jest. There was purpose and feeling, banter and scoff, playing, mingled, on her mobile lineaments. I don't understand thee," he said, turning away. She laughed. Take courage, sir. You are not singular in your ignorance. But I suppose if Moor understands me, that will do, will it not? Moor may settle his own matters henceforward. For me, I'll neither meddle nor mate with them in future.