The Irrational Knot/Chapter X
Next morning Mr. Lind rose before his daughter was astir, and went to
his club, where he breakfasted. He then went to the offices in Queen
Victoria Street. Finding the board-room unoccupied, he sat down there,
and said to one of the clerks:
"Go and tell Mr. Conolly that I desire to speak to him, if he is disengaged. And if anyone wants to come in, say that I am busy here. I do not wish to be disturbed for half an hour or so."
"Yes, sir," said the clerk, departing. A minute later, he returned, and said: "Mr. Conly is disengaged; and he says will you be so good as to come to his room, sir."
"I told you to ask him to come here," said Mr. Lind.
"Well, thats what he said, sir," said the clerk, speaking in official Board School English. "Shloy gow to him and tell him again?"
"No, no: it does not matter," said Mr. Lind, and walked out through the office. The clerk held the door open for him, and carefully closed it when he had passed through.
"Ow, oy sy!" cried the clerk. "This is fawn, this is."
"Wots the row?" said another clerk.
"Woy, owld Lind sends me in to Conly to cam in to him into the board-room. 'Aw right,' says Conly, 'awsk him to cam in eah to me.' You should 'a seen the owld josser's feaches wnoy towld im. 'Oyd zoyred jou to sy e was to cam in eah to me.' 'Shloy gow and tell him again?' I says, as cool as ennything. 'Now,' says he, 'Oil gow myself.' Thets wot Aw loike in Conly. He tikes tham fellers dahn wen they troy it on owver im."
Meanwhile, Mr. Lind went to Conolly's room; returned his greeting by a dignified inclination of the head; and accepted, with a cold "Thank you," the chair offered him. Conolly, who had received him cordially, checked himself. There was a pause, during which Mr. Lind lost countenance a little. Then Conolly sat down, and waited.
"Ahem!" said Mr. Lind. "I have to speak to you with—with reference to—to a—a matter which has accidentally come to my knowledge. It would be painful and unnecessary—quite unnecessary, to go into particulars."
Conolly remained politely attentive, but said nothing. Mr. Lind began to feel very angry, but this helped him to the point.
"I merely wish—that is, I quite wish you to understand that any intimacy that may have arisen between you and—and a member of my family must—must, in short, be considered to be at an end. My daughter is—I may tell you—engaged to Mr. Sholto Douglas, whom you know; and therefore—you understand."
"Mr. Lind," said Conolly, decisively: "your daughter is engaged to me."
Mr. Lind lost his temper, and rose, exclaiming, "I beg you will not repeat that, either here or elsewhere."
"Pray be seated," said Conolly courteously.
"I have nothing more to say, sir."
Conolly rose, as though the interview were at an end, and seemed to wait for his visitor to go.
"We understand one another, I presume," said Mr. Lind, dubiously.
"Not quite, I think," said Conolly, relenting. "I should suggest our discussing the matter in full, now that we have a favorable opportunity—if you will be so good."
Mr. Lind sat down, and said with condescension, "I am quite willing to listen to you."
"Thank you," said Conolly. "Will you tell me what your objections are to my engagement with your daughter?"
"I had hoped, sir, that your common sense and knowledge of the world would have rendered an explanation superfluous."
"They havnt," said Conolly.
Mr. Lind rose to boiling point again. "Oh, Mr. Conolly, I assure you I have no objection to explain myself: none whatever. I merely wished to spare you as far as possible. Since you insist on my mentioning what I think you must be perfectly well aware of, I can only say that from the point of view of English society our positions are different; and therefore an engagement between you and any member of my family is unsuitable, and—in short—out of the question, however advantageous it might be to you. That is all."
Mr. Lind considered he had had the better of that, and leaned back in his chair more confidently. Conolly smiled and shook his head, appreciative of the clearness with which Mr. Lind had put his case, but utterly unmoved by it. He considered for a moment, and then said, weighing his words carefully:
"Your daughter, with her natural refinement and delicate habits, is certainly not fit to be married to a foul-mouthed fellow, ignorant, dirty, besotted, and out of place in any company except at the bar in a public house. That is probably your idea of a workman. But the fact of her having consented to marry me is a proof that I do not answer to any such description. As you have hinted, it will be an advantage to me in some ways to have a lady for my wife; but I should have no difficulty in purchasing that advantage, even with my present means, which I expect to increase largely in the course of some years. Do you not underrate your daughter's personal qualities when you assume that it was her position that induced me to seek her hand?"
"I am quite aware of my daughter's personal advantages. They are additional reasons against her contracting an imprudent marriage."
"Precisely. But in what respect would her marriage with me be imprudent? I possess actual competence, and a prospect of wealth. I come of a long lived and healthy family. My name is, beyond comparison, more widely known than yours. [Mr. Lind recoiled]. I now find myself everywhere treated with a certain degree of consideration, which an alliance with your daughter will not diminish."
"In fact, you are conferring a great honor on my family by condescending to marry into it?"
"I dont understand that way of looking at things, Mr. Lind; and so I leave you to settle the question of honor as you please. But you must not condemn me for putting my position in the best possible light in order to reconcile you to an inevitable fact."
"What do you mean by an inevitable fact, sir?"
"My marriage, of course. I assure you that it will take place."
"But I shall not permit it to take place. Do you think to ignore me in the matter?"
"Practically so. If you give your consent, I shall be glad for the sake of Marian, who will be gratified by it. But if you withhold it, we must dispense with it. By opposing us, you will simply—by making Marian's home unbearable to her—precipitate the wedding." Conolly, under the influence of having put the case neatly, here relaxed his manner so far as to rest his elbows on the table and look pleasantly at his visitor.
"Do you know to whom you are speaking?" said Mr. Lind, driven by rage and a growing fear of defeat into desperate self-assertion.
"I am speaking," said Conolly with a smile, "to my future father-in-law."
"I am a director of this company, of which you are the servant, as you shall find to your cost if you persist in holding insulting language to me."
"If I found any director of this company allowing other than strictly business considerations to influence him at the Board, I should insist on his resigning."
Mr. Lind looked at him severely, then indignantly, then unsteadily, without moving him in the least. At last he said, more humbly: "I hope you will not abuse your position, Mr. Conolly. I do not know whether you have sufficient influence over Marian to induce her to defy me; but however that may be, I appeal to your better feelings. Put yourself in my place. If you had an only daughter—"
"Excuse my interrupting you," said Conolly, gently; "but that will not advance the argument unless you put yourself in mine. Besides, I am pledged to Marian. If she asks me to break off the match, I shall release her instantly."
"You will bind yourself to do that?"
"I cannot help myself. I have no more power to make her marry me than you have to prevent her."
"I have the authority of a parent. And I must tell you, Mr. Conolly, that it will be my duty to enlighten my poor child as to the effect a union with you must have on her social position. You have made the most of your celebrity and your prospects. She may be dazzled for the moment; but her good sense will come to the rescue yet, I am convinced."
"I have certainly spared no pains to persuade her. Unless the habit of her childhood can induce Marian to defer to your prejudice—you must allow me to call it so: it is really nothing more—she will keep her word to me."
Mr. Lind winced, recollecting how little his conduct toward Marian during her childhood was calculated to accustom her to his influence. "It seems to me, sir," he said, suddenly thinking of a new form of reproach, "that, to use your own plain language, you are nothing more or less than a Radical."
"Radicalism is not considered a reproach amongst workmen," said Conolly.
"I shall not fail to let her know the confidence with which you boast of your power over her."
"I have simply tried to be candid with you. You know exactly how I stand. If I have omitted anything, ask me, and I will tell you at once."
Mr. Lind rose. "I know quite as much as I care to know," he said. "I distinctly object to and protest against all your proceedings, Mr. Conolly. If my daughter marries you, she shall have neither my countenance in society nor one solitary farthing of the fortune I had destined for her. I recommend the latter point to your attention."
"I have considered it carefully, Mr. Lind; and I am satisfied with what she possesses in her own right."
"Oh! You have ascertained that, have you?"
"I should hardly have proposed to marry her but for her entire pecuniary independence of me."
"Indeed. And have you explained to her that you wish to marry her for the sake of securing her income?"
"I have explained to her everything she ought to know, taking care, of course, to have full credit for my frankness."
Mr. Lind, after regarding him with amazement for a moment, walked to the door.
"I am a gentleman," he said, pausing there for a moment, "and too old-fashioned to discuss the obligations of good breeding with a Radical. If I had believed you capable of the cynical impudence with which you have just met my remonstrances, I should have spared myself this meeting. Good-morning."
"Good-morning," said Conolly, gravely. When the door closed, he sprang up and walked to and fro, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and occasionally uttering a short laugh. When he had sufficiently relieved himself by this exercise, he sat down at his desk, and wrote a note.
"The Conolly Electro-Motor Company of London, Limited. Queen
Victoria Street, E.C.
"This is to let your ever-radiant ladyship know that I am fresh
from an encounter with your father, who has retired in great wrath,
defeated, but of opinion that he deserved no better for arguing
with a Radical. I thought it better to put forth my strength at
once so as to save future trouble. I send this post haste in order
that you may be warned in case he should go straight home and scold
you. I hope he will not annoy you much.—E.C."
Having despatched the office boy to Westbourne Terrace with this letter, Conolly went off to lunch. Mr. Lind went back to his club, and then to Westbourne Terrace, where he was informed that the young ladies were together in the drawing-room. Some minutes later, Marian, discussing Conolly's letter with Elinor, was interrupted by a servant, who informed her that her father desired to see her in his study.
"Now for it, Marian!" said Nelly, when the servant was gone. "Remember that you have to meet the most unreasonable of adversaries, a parent asserting his proprietary rights in his child. Dont be sentimental. Leave that to him: he will be full of a father's anguish on discovering that his cherished daughter has feelings and interests of her own. Besides, Conolly has crushed him; and he will try to crush you in revenge."
"I wish I were not so nervous," said Marian. "I am not really afraid, but for all that, my heart is beating very unpleasantly."
"I wish I were in your place," said Elinor. "I feel like a charger at the sound of the trumpet."
"I am glad, for poor papa's sake, that you are not," said Marian, going out.
She knocked at the study door; and her father's voice, as he bade her come in, impressed her more than ever before. He was seated behind the writing-table, in front of which a chair was set for his daughter. She, unaccustomed from her childhood to submit to any constraint but that which the position of a guest, which she so often occupied, had trained her to impose on herself, was rather roused than awed by this magisterial arrangement. She sat down with less than her usual grace of manner, and looked at him with her brows knitted. It was one of the rare moments in which she reminded him of her mother. An angry impulse to bid her not dare look so at him almost got the better of him. However, he began prudently with a carefully premeditated speech.
"It is my duty, Marian," he said gravely, "to speak of the statement you made last night. We need not allude to the painful scene which took place then: better let that rest and be forgotten as soon as possible. But the discovery of what you have been doing without my knowledge has cost me a sleepless night and a great deal of anxiety. I wish to reason with you now quite calmly and dispassionately; and I trust you will remember that I am older and have far more experience of the world than you, and that I am a better judge of your interests than you yourself can possibly be. Ahem! I have been this morning to the City, where I saw Mr. Conolly, and endeavored to make him understand the true nature of his conduct toward me—and, I may add, toward you—in working his way clandestinely into an intimacy with you. I shall not describe to you what passed; but I may say that I have found him to be a person with whom you could not hope for a day's happiness. Even apart from his habits and tastes, which are those of a mere workman, his social (and, I fear, his religious) views are such as no lady, no properly-minded woman of any class, could sympathize with. You will be better able to judge of his character when I tell you that he informed me of his having taken care, before making any advances to you, to ascertain how much money you had. He boasted in the coarsest terms of his complete influence over you, evidently without a suspicion of the impression of venality and indelicacy which his words were calculated to make on me. Besides, Marian, I am sure you would not like to contract a marriage which would give me the greatest pain; which would offend my family; and which would have the effect of shutting you out from all good society."
"You are mistaken in him, papa."
"I beg you will allow me to finish, Marian. [He had to think for a moment before he could substantiate this pretence of having something more to say.] I have quite made up my mind, from personal observation of Mr. Conolly, that even an ordinary acquaintance between you is out of the question. I, in short, refuse to allow anything of the kind to proceed; and I must ask you to respect my wishes in the matter. There is another subject which I will take this opportunity of mentioning; but as I have no desire to force your inclinations, I shall not press you for a declaration of your feelings at present. Sholto Douglas—"
"I do not want to hear anything about Sholto Douglas," said Marian, rising.
"I expect you, Marian, to listen to what I have to say."
"On that subject I will not listen. I have felt very sore and angry ever since you told me last night to leave the room when Sholto insulted me, as if I were the aggressor."
"Angry! I am sorry to hear you say so to me."
"It is better to say so than to think so. There is no use in going on with this conversation, papa. It will only lead to more bitterness between us; and I had enough of that when I tasted it for the first time last night. We shall never agree about Mr. Conolly. I have promised to marry him; and therefore I am not free to withdraw, even if I wished to."
"A promise made by you without my sanction is not binding. And—listen to me, if you please—I have obtained Mr. Conolly's express assurance that if you wish to withdraw, he is perfectly willing that you should."
"Of course, he would not marry me if I did not wish it."
"But he is willing that you should withdraw. He leaves you quite free."
"Yes; and, as you told me, he is quite confident that I will keep faith with him; and so I will. I have had a letter from him since you saw him."
"What!" said Mr. Lind, rising also.
"Dont let us quarrel, papa," said Marian, appealingly. "Why may I not marry whom I please?"
"Who wants to prevent you, pray? I have most carefully abstained from influencing you with regard to Sholto Douglas. But this is a totally different question. It is my duty to save you from disgracing yourself."
"Where is the disgrace? Mr. Conolly is an eminent man. I am not poor, and can afford to marry anyone I can respect. I can respect him. What objection have you to him? I am sure he is far superior to Sholto."
"Mr. Douglas is a gentleman, Marian: Mr. Conolly is not; and it is out of the question for you to ally yourself with a—a member of the proletariat, however skilful he may be in his handicraft."
"What is a gentleman, papa?"
"A gentleman, Marian, is one who is well born and well bred, and who has that peculiar tone and culture which can only be acquired by intercourse with the best society. I think you should know that as well as I. I hope you do not put these questions from a desire to argue with me."
"I only wish to do what is right. Surely there is no harm in arguing when one is not convinced."
"Humph! Well, I have said all that is necessary. I am sure that you will not take any step calculated to inflict pain on me—at least an act of selfishness on your part would be a new and shocking experience for me.
"That is a very unfair way of putting it, papa. You give me no good reason for breaking my word, and making myself unhappy; and yet you accuse me of selfishness in not being ready to do both."
"I think I have already given you my assurance, weighted as it is by my age, my experience, my regard for your welfare, and, I hope, my authority as a parent, that both your honor and happiness will be secured by your obeying me, and forfeited by following your own headstrong inclinations."
Marian, almost crushed by this, hesitated a moment, twisting her fingers and looking pitiably at him. Then she thought of Conolly; rallied; and said: "I can only say that I am sorry to disagree with you; but I am not convinced."
"Do you mean that you refuse to obey me?"
"I cannot obey you in this matter, papa. I—"
"That is enough," said Mr. Lind, gravely, beginning, to busy himself with the writing materials. Marian for a moment seemed about to protest against this dismissal. Then she checked herself and went out of the room, closing the door quite quietly behind her, thereby unconsciously terrifying her father, who had calculated on a slam.
"Well," said Elinor, when her cousin rejoined her in the drawing-room: "have you been selfish and disobedient? Have you lacerated a father's heart?"
"He is thoroughly unfair," said Marian. "However, it all comes to this: he is annoyed at my wanting to marry Ned: and I believe there will be no more peace for me until I am in a house of my own. What shall we do in the meantime? Where shall we go? I cannot stay here."
"Why not? Uncle Reginald will sulk; sit at dinner without speaking to us; and keep out of our way as much as he can. But you can talk to me: we neednt mind him. It is he who will be out in the cold, biting his nose to vex his face. Such a state of things is new to you; but I have survived weeks of it without a single sympathizer, and been none the worse, except, perhaps, in temper. He will pretend to be inexorable at first: then he will come down to wounded affection; and he will end by giving in."
"No, Nelly, I couldnt endure that sort of existence. If people cannot remain friends they should separate at once. I will not sleep in this house to-night."
"Hurrah!" cried Miss McQuinch. "That will be beginning the war with spirit. If I were in your place, I would stay and fight it out at close quarters. I would make myself so disagreeable that nobody can imagine what life in this house would be. But your plan is the best—if you really mean it."
"Certainly I mean it. Where shall we go, Nelly?"
"Hm! I am afraid none of the family would make us very comfortable under the circumstances, except Marmaduke. It would be a splendid joke to go to West Kensington; only it would tell as much against us and Ned as against the Roman father. I have it! We will go to Mrs. Toplis's in St. Mary's Terrace: my mother always stays there when she is in town. Mrs. Toplis knows us: if she has a room to spare she will give it to us without making any bother."
"Yes, that will do. Are you ready to come now?"
"If you can possibly wait five minutes I should like to put on my hat and change my boots. We will have to come back and pack up when we have settled about the room. We cannot go without clothes. I should like to have a nightdress, at least. Have you any money?"
"I have the housekeeping money; but that, of course, I shall not take. I have thirty pounds of my own."
"And I have my old stocking, which contains nearly seventeen. Say fifty in round numbers. That will keep us going very comfortably for a month."
"Ridiculous! It will last longer than that. Oh!"
"Well?"
"We mustnt go, after all. I forgot you."
"What of me?"
"Where will you go when I am married? You cant live by yourself; and papa may not welcome you back if you take my part against him."
"He would not, in any case; so it makes no difference to me. I can go home if the worst comes to the worst. It does not matter: my present luxurious existence must come to an end some time or another, whether we go to Mrs. Toplis's or not."
"I am sure Ned will not object to your continuing with me, if I ask him."
"No, poor fellow! He wont object—at first; but he might not like it. You have no right to inflict me on him. No: I stick to my resolution on that point. Send for the carriage. It is time for us to be off; and Mrs. Toplis will be more impressed if we come in state than if we trudge afoot."
"Hush," said Marian, who was standing near the window. "Here is George, with a face full of importance."
"Uncle Reginald has written to him," said Elinor.
"Then the sooner we go, the better," said Marian.
"I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George."
As they passed through the hall on their way out they met the clergyman.
"Well, George," said Elinor, "how are the heathen getting on in Belgravia? You look lively."
"Are you going out, Marian," he said, solemnly, disregarding his cousin's banter.
"We are going to engage a couple of rooms for some errant members of the family," said Elinor. "May we give you as a reference?"
"Certainly. I may want to speak to you before I go, Marian. When will you return?"
"I do not know. Probably we shall not be long. You will have plenty of opportunities, in any case."
"Will you walk into the study, please, sir," said the parlormaid.
The Rev. George was closeted with his father for an hour. When he came out, he left the house, and travelled by omnibus to Westbourne Grove, whence he walked to a house in Uxbridge Road. Here he inquired for Mr. Conolly, and, learning that he had just come in, sent up a card. He was presently ushered into a comfortable room, with a pleasant view of the garden. A meal of tea, wheatcakes, and fruit was ready on the table. Conolly greeted his visitor cordially, and rang for another cup. The Rev. George silently noted that his host dined in the middle of the day and had tea in the evening. Afraid though as he was of Conolly, he felt strengthened in his mission by these habits, quite out of the question for Marian. The tea also screwed up his courage a little; but he talked about the electro-motor in spite of himself until the cloth was removed, when Conolly placed two easy chairs opposite one another at the window; put a box of cigarets on a little table close at hand; and invited his visitor to smoke. But as it was now clearly time to come to business, the cigaret was declined solemnly. So Conolly, having settled himself in an easy attitude, waited for the clergyman to begin. The Rev. George seemed at a loss.
"Has your father spoken to you about an interview he had with me this morning?" said Conolly, good-naturedly helping him out.
"Yes. That, in fact, is one of the causes of my visit."
"What does he say?"
"I believe he adheres to the opinion he expressed to you. But I fear he may not have exhibited that self-control in speaking to you which I fully admit you have as much right to expect as anyone else."
"It does not matter. I can quite understand his feeling."
"It does matter—pardon me. We should be sorry to appear wanting in consideration for you."
"That is a trifle. Let us keep the question straight before us. We need make no show of consideration for one another. I have shown none toward your family."
"But I assure you our only desire is to arrange everything in a friendly spirit."
"No doubt. But when I am bent on doing a certain thing which you are equally bent on preventing, no very friendly spirit is possible except one of us surrender unconditionally."
"Hear me a moment, Mr. Conolly. I have no doubt I shall be able to convince you that this romantic project of my sister's is out of the question. Your ambition—if I may say so without offence—very naturally leads you to think otherwise; but the prompting of self-interest is not our safest guide in this life."
"It is the only guide I recognize. If you are going to argue the question, and your arguments are to prevail, they must be addressed to my self-interest."
"I cannot think you quite mean that, Mr. Conolly."
"Well, waive the point for the present: I am open to conviction. You know what my mind is. I have not changed it since I saw your father this morning. You think I am wrong?"
"Not wrong. I do not say for a moment that you are wrong. I—"
"Mistaken. Ill-advised. Any term you like."
"I certainly believe that you are mistaken. Let me urge upon you first the fact that you are causing a daughter to disobey her father. Now that is an awful fact. May I—appealing to that righteousness in which I am sure you are not naturally deficient—ask you whether you have reflected on that fact?"
"It is not half so awful to me as the fact of a father forcing his daughter's inclinations. However, awful is hardly the word for the occasion. Let us come to business, Mr. Lind. I want to marry your sister because I have fallen in love with her. You object. Have you any other motive than aristocratic exclusiveness?"
"Indeed, you quite mistake. I have no such feeling. We are willing to treat you with every possible consideration."
"Then why object?"
"Well, we are bound to look to her happiness. We cannot believe that it would be furthered by an unsuitable match. I am now speaking to you frankly as a man of the world."
"As a man of the world you know that she has a right to choose for herself. You see, our points of view are different. On Sundays, for instance, you preach to a highly privileged audience at your church in Belgravia; whilst I lounge here over my breakfast, reading Reynold's Newspaper. I have not many social prejudices. Although a workman, I dont look on every gentleman as a bloodsucker who seizes on the fruits of my labor only to pursue a career of vice. I will even admit that there are gentlemen who deserve to be respected more than the workmen who have neglected all their opportunities—slender as they are—of cultivating themselves a little. You, on the other hand, know that an honest man's the noblest work of God; that nature's gentlemen are the only real gentlemen; that kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood, and so forth. But when your approval of these benevolent claptraps is brought to such a practical test as the marriage of your sister to a workman, you see clearly enough that they do not establish the suitability of personal intercourse between members of different classes. That being so, let us put our respective philosophies of society out of the question, and argue on the facts of this particular case. What qualifications do you consider essential in a satisfactory brother-in-law?"
"I am not bound to answer that; but, primarily, I should consider it necessary to my sister's happiness that her husband should belong to the same rank as she."
"You see you are changing your ground. I am not in the same rank—after your sense—as she; but a moment ago you objected to the match solely on the ground of unsuitability."
"Where is the difference?" said the clergyman, with some warmth. "I have not changed my ground at all. It is the difference in rank that constitutes the unsuitability.
"Let us see, then, how far you are right—how far suitability is a question of rank. A gentleman may be, and frequently is, a drunkard, a gambler, a libertine, or all three combined."
"Stay, Mr. Conolly! You show how little you understand the only true significance—"
"One moment, Mr. Lind. You are about to explain away the term gentleman into man of honor, honest man, or some other quite different thing. Let me put a case to you. I have a fellow at Queen Victoria Street working for thirty shillings a week, who is the honestest man I know. He is as steady as a rock; supports all his wife's family without complaining; and denies himself beer to buy books for his son, because he himself has experienced what it is to be without education. But he is not a gentleman."
"Pardon me, sir. He is a true gentleman."
"Suppose he calls on you to-morrow, and sends up his name with a request for an interview. You wont know his name; and the first question you will put to your servant is 'What sort of person is he?' Suppose the servant knows him, and, sharing your professed opinion of the meaning of the word, replies 'He is a gentleman!' On the strength of that you will order him to be shewn in; and the moment you see him you will feel angry with your servant for deceiving you completely as to the sort of man you were to expect by using the word gentleman in what you call its true sense. Or reverse the case. Suppose the caller is your cousin, Mr. Marmaduke Lind, and your high-principled servant by mistaking the name or how not, causes you to ask the same question with respect to him. The answer will be that Mr. Marmaduke—being a scamp—is not a gentleman. You would be just as completely deceived as in the other case. No, Mr. Lind, you might as well say that this workman of mine is a true lord or a true prince as a true gentleman. A gentleman may be a rogue; and a knifegrinder may be a philosopher and philanthropist. But they dont change their ranks for all that."
The clergyman hesitated. Then he said timidly, "Even admitting this peculiar view of yours, Mr. Conolly, does it not tell strongly against yourself in the present instance?"
"No; and I will presently shew you why not. When we digressed as to the meaning of the word gentleman, we were considering the matter of suitability. I was saying that a gentleman might be a drunkard, or, briefly, a scoundrel. A scoundrel would be a very unsuitable husband for Marian—I perceive I annoy you by calling her by her name."
"N—no. Oh, no. It does not matter."
"Therefore gentility alone is no guarantee of suitability. The only gentlemanliness she needs in a husband is ordinary good address, presentable manners, sense enough to avoid ridiculous solecisms in society, and so forth. Marian is satisfied with me on these points; and her approval settles the question finally. As to rank, I am a skilled workman, the first in my trade; and it is only by courtesy and forbearance that I suffer any man to speak of my class as inferior. Take us all, professions and trades together; and you will find by actual measurement round the head and round the chest, and round our manners and characters, if you like, that we are the only genuine aristocracy at present in existence. Therefore I meet your objection to my rank with a point-blank assertion of its superiority. Now let us have the other objections, if there are any others."
The clergyman received this challenge in silence. Then, after clearing his throat uneasily twice, he said:
"I had hoped, Mr. Conolly, to have been able to persuade you on general grounds to relinquish your design. But as you are evidently not within reach of those considerations which I am accustomed to see universally admitted, it becomes my painful duty to assure you that a circumstance, on the secrecy of which you are relying, is known to me, and, through me, to my father."
"What circumstance is that?"
"A circumstance connected with Mr. Marmaduke Lind, whom you mentioned just now. You understand me, I presume?"
"Oh! you have found that out?"
"I have. It only remains for me to warn my sister that she is about to contract a close relationship with one who is—I must say it—living in sin with our cousin."
"What do you suppose will be the result of that?"
"I leave you to imagine," said the clergyman indignantly, rising.
"Stop a bit. You do not understand me yet, I see. You have said that my views are peculiar. What if I have taken the peculiar view that I was bound to tell Marian this before proposing to her, and have actually told her?"
"But surely—That is not very likely."
"The whole affair is not very likely. Our marriage is not likely; but it is going to happen, nevertheless. She knows this circumstance perfectly well. You told her yourself."
"I! When?"
"The year before last, at Carbury Towers. It is worth your consideration, too, that by mistrusting Marian at that time, and refusing to give her my sister's address, you forced her to appeal to me for help, and so advanced me from the position of consulting electrician to that of friend in need. She knew nothing about my relationship to the woman in a state of sin (as you call it), and actually deputed me to warn your cousin of the risk he was running by his intimacy with her. Whilst I was away running this queer errand for her, she found out that the woman was my sister, and of course rushed to the conclusion that she had inflicted the deepest pain on me. Her penitence was the beginning of the sentimental side of our acquaintance. Had you recognized that she was a woman with as good a right as you to know the truth concerning all matters in this world which she has to make her way through, you would have answered her question, and then I suppose I should have gone away without having exchanged a word with her on any more personal matters than induction coils and ohms of resistance; and in all probability you would have been spared the necessity of having me for a brother-in-law."
"Well, sir," said the Rev. George dejectedly, "if what you say be true, I cannot understand Marian, I can only grieve for her. I shall not argue with you on the nature of the influence you have obtained over her. I shall speak to her myself; since you will not hear me."
"That is hardly fair. I have heard you, and am willing to hear more, if you have anything new to urge."
"You have certainly listened to my voice, Mr. Conolly. But I fear I have used it to very little purpose."
"You will fail equally with Marian, believe me. Even I, whose ability to exercise influence you admit, never obtained the least over my own sister. She knew me too well on my worst side and not at all on my best. If, as I presume, your father has tried in vain, what hope is there for you?"
"Only my humble trust that a priest may be blessed in his appeal to duty even where a father's appeal to natural affection has been disregarded."
"Well, well," said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor disconsolately prepared to go, "you can try. I got on by dint of dogged faith in myself."
"And I get on by lowly faith in my Master. I would I could imbue you with the same feeling!"
Conolly shook his head; and they went downstairs in silence. "Hallo!" said he, as he opened the door, "it is raining. Let me lend you a coat."
"Thank you, no. Not at all. Good-night," said the clergyman, quickly, and hastened away through the rain from Conolly's civilities.
When he arrived at Westbourne Terrace, there was a cab waiting before the house. The door was opened to him by Marian's maid, who was dressed for walking.
"Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch," she said, meaning, evidently, "Look out for squalls."
He went upstairs, and found Elinor, with her hat on, standing by the pianoforte, with battle in her nostrils. Mr. Lind, looking perplexed and angry, was opposite to her.
"George," said Mr. Lind, "close the door. Do you know the latest news?"
"No."
"Marian has run away!"
"Run away!"
"Yes," said Miss McQuinch. "She has fled to Mrs. Toplis's, at St. Mary's Terrace, with—as Uncle Reginald was just saying—a most dangerous associate."
"With—?"
"With me, in short."
"And you have counselled her to take this fatal step?"
"No. I advised her to stay. But she is not so well used to domestic discomfort as I am; so she insisted on going. We have got very nice rooms: you may come and see us, if you like."
"Is this a time to display your bitter and flippant humor?" said the Rev. George, indignantly. "I think the spectacle of a wrecked home—"
"Stuff!" interrupted Elinor, impatiently. "What else can I say? Uncle Reginald tells me I have corrupted Marian, and refuses to believe what I tell him. And now you attack me, as if it were my fault that you have driven her away. If you want to see her, she is within five minutes walk of you. It is you who have wrecked her home, not she who has wrecked yours."
"There is no use in speaking to Elinor, George," said Mr. Lind, with the air of a man who had tried it. "You had better go to Marian, and tell her what you mentioned this afternoon. What has been the result of your visit?"
"He maintains that she knows everything," said the Rev. George, with a dispirited glance at Elinor. "I fear my visit has been worse than useless."
"It is impossible that she should know. He lies," said Mr. Lind. "Go and tell her the truth, George; and say that I desire her—I order her—to come back at once. Say that I am waiting here for her."
"But, Uncle Reginald," began Elinor, in a softer tone than before, whilst the clergyman stood in doubt—
"I think," continued Mr. Lind, "that I must request you, Elinor, to occupy the rooms you have taken, until you return to your parents. I regret that you have forced me to take this step; but I cannot continue to offer you facilities for exercising your influence over my daughter. I will charge myself with all your expenses until you go to Wiltshire."
Elinor looked at him as if she despaired of his reason. Then, seeing her cousin slowly going to the door, she said:
"You dont really mean to go on such a fool's errand to Marian, George?"
"Elinor!" cried Mr. Lind.
"What else is it?" said Elinor. "You asserted all your authority yourself this morning, and only made matters worse. Yet you expect her to obey you at second hand. Besides, she is bound in honor not to desert me now; and I will tell her so, too, if I see any sign of her letting herself be bullied."
"I fear Marian will not pay much heed to what I say to her," said the clergyman.
"If you are coming," said Elinor, "you had better come in my cab. Good-night, Uncle Reginald."
"Stay," said Mr. Lind, irresolutely. "Elinor, I—you—Will you exercise your influence to induce Marian to return? I think you owe me at least so much."
"I will if you will withdraw your opposition to her marriage and let her do as she likes. But if you can give her no better reason for returning than that she can be more conveniently persecuted here than at St. Mary's Terrace, she will probably stay where she is, no matter how I may influence her."
"If she is resolved to quarrel with me, I cannot help it," said Mr. Lind, pettishly.
"You know very well that she is the last person on earth to quarrel with anyone."
"She has been indulged in every way. This is the first time she has been asked to sacrifice her own wishes."
"To sacrifice her whole life, you mean. It is the first time she has ever hesitated to sacrifice her own comfort, and therefore the first time you are conscious that any sacrifice is required. Let me tell her that you will allow her to take her own course, Uncle Reginald. He is well enough off; and they are fond of one another. A man of genius is worth fifty men of rank."
"Tell her, if you please, Elinor, that she must choose between Mr. Conolly and me. If she prefers him, well and good: I have done with her. That is my last word."
"So now she has nobody to turn to in the world except him. That is sensible. Come, cousin George! I am off."
"I do not think I should do any good by going," said the clergyman.
"Then stay where you are," said Elinor. "Good-night." And she abruptly left the room.
"It was a dreadful mistake ever to have allowed that young fury to enter the house," said Mr. Lind. "She must be mad. What did he say?"
"He said a great deal in attempted self-justification. But I could make no impression on him. We have no feelings in common with a man of his type. No. He is evidently bent on raising himself by a good marriage."
"We cannot prevent it."
"Oh, surely we—"
"I tell you we cannot prevent it," repeated Mr. Lind, turning angrily upon his son. "How can we? What can we do? She will marry this—this—this—this beggar. I wish to God I had never seen her mother."
The clergyman stood by, cowed, and said nothing.
"You had better go to that woman of Marmaduke's," continued Mr. Lind, "and try whether she can persuade her brother to commute his interest in the company, and go back to America, or to the devil. I will take care that he gets good terms, even if I have to make them up out of my own pocket. If the worst comes, she must be persuaded to leave Marmaduke. Offer her money. Women of that sort drive a hard bargain; but they have their price."
"But, sir, consider my profession. How can I go to drive a bargain with a woman of evil reputation?"
"Well, I must go myself, I suppose."
"Oh, no. I will go. Only I thought I would mention it."
"A clergyman can go anywhere. You are privileged. Come to breakfast in the morning: we can talk over matters then."