‘I never had an opening; but I have sat on Jessy’s stool by your chair in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings together, listening excitedly to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebelling against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir: I am proud to have been born in the same county and parish as yourself. Truthful, upright, independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless.’

‘Not to the poor, lass, nor to the meek of the earth: only to the proud and high-minded.’

‘And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, a higher-minded man than yourself does not exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your inferiors; you are too haughty, too ambitious, too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you are all alike. Helstone also is proud and prejudiced; Moore, though juster and more considerate than either you or the Rector, is still haughty, stern, and, in a public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall to be found occasionally—men of large and kind hearts, who can love their whole race, who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or more powerful than they are. Such men may have less originality, less force of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind.’

‘And when is it to be?’ said Mr. Yorke, now rising.

‘When is what to be?’

‘The wedding.’

‘Whose wedding?’

‘Only that of Robert Gérard Moore, Esq., of Hollow’s Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar, of Fieldhead Hall.’

Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour; but the light in her eye was not faltering; it shone steadily—yes, it burned deeply.

‘That is your revenge,’ she said slowly, then added: ‘Would it be a bad match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar’s representative?’

‘My lass, Moore is a gentleman. His blood is pure and ancient as mine or thine.’

‘And we, too, set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one of us at least is a Republican?’

Yorke 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.

‘Moore 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 that moment: what, Yorke 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 Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady, therefore—’

‘Therefore there would be no inequality in our union?’

‘None.’