"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. Kind 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."




CHAPTER XI


One morning the Rev. George Lind received a letter addressed in a
handwriting which he did not remember and never thenceforth forgot.
Within the envelope he found a dainty little bag made of blue satin,
secured by ribbons of the same material. This contained a note written
on scented paper, edged with gold, and decorated with a miniature
representation of a _pierrot_, sitting cross-legged, conning a book, on
the open pages of which appeared the letters L.V. The clergyman
recognized the monogram no more than the writing. But as it was
evidently from a lady, he felt a pleasant thrill of expectation as he
unfolded the paper.

                                        "Laurel Grove West Kensington
                                             "Wednesday
  "Dear Mr. George

  "I have made poor little Lucy believe that Kew is the most heavenly
  place on earth to spend a May morning so Bob has had to promise to
  row her down there to-morrow (Thursday) after breakfast and I shall
  be at home alone from eleven to one this is very short notice I
  know but opportunities are scarce and another might not present
  itself for a month.

  "Believe me Dear Mr. George

                                     "Yours sincerely
                                            Lalage Virtue."

The Rev. George became thoughtful, and absently put the note in a little
rack over the mantelpiece. Then, recollecting that a prying servant or
landlady might misinterpret it, he transferred it to his pocket. After
breakfast, having satisfied himself before the mirror that his dress was
faultless, and his expression saintly, he went out and travelled by rail
from Sloane Square to West Kensington, whence he walked to Laurel Grove.
An elderly maid opened the gate. It was a rule with the Rev. George not
to look at strange women; and this morning the asceticism which he
thought proper to his office was unusually prominent in his thoughts. He
did not look up once while the maid conducted him through the shrubbery
to the house; and he fully believed that he had not seen at the first
glance that she was remarkably plain, as Susanna took care that all her
servants should be. Passing by the drawing-room, where he had been on a
previous occasion, they went on to a smaller apartment at the back of
the house.

"What room is this?" he asked, uneasily.

"Missus's Purjin bodoor, sir," replied the main.

She opened the door; and the clergyman, entering, found himself in a
small room, luxuriously decorated in sham Persian, but containing
ornaments of all styles and periods, which had been purchased and
introduced just as they had caught Susanna's fancy. She was seated on a
ottoman, dressed in wide trousers, Turkish slippers, a voluminous sash,
a short Greek jacket, a long silk robe with sleeves, and a turban, all
of fine soft materials and rare colors. Her face was skilfully painted,
and her dark hair disposed so as not to overweight her small head. The
clergyman, foolishly resisting a natural impulse to admire her, felt
like St. Anthony struggling with the fascination of a disguised devil.
He responded to her smile of welcome by a stiff bow.

"Sit down," she said. "You mustnt mind this absurd dress: it belongs to
a new piece I am studying. I always study in character. It is the only
way to identify myself with my part, you see."

"It seems a very magnificent dress, certainly," said the clergyman,
nervously.

"Thank you for the compliment----"

"No, no," said he, hastily. "I had no such intention."

"Of course not," said Susanna, with a laugh. "It was merely an
unpremeditated remark: all compliments are, of course. I know all about
that. But do you think it a proper costume?"

"In what sense, may I ask?"

"Is it a correct Eastern dress? I am supposed to be one of the wives of
the Caliph Somebody al Something. You have no idea how difficult it is
to get a reliable model for a dress before laying out a heap of money on
it. This was designed in Paris; but I should like to hear it
criticized--chronologically, or whatever you call it--by a scholar."

"I really do not know, Madam. I am not an Orientalist; and my studies
take a widely different direction from yours."

"Yes, of course," said Susanna, with a sigh. "But I assure you I often
wish for your advice, particularly as to my elocution, which is very
faulty. You are such a master of the art."

The clergyman bowed in acceptance of the compliment, and began to take
heart; for to receive flattery from ladies in exchange for severe
reproof was part of his daily experience.

"I have come here," he said, "to have a very serious conversation with
you."

"All right, Doctor. Fire away."

This sudden whim of conferring on him a degree in divinity, and her
change of manner--implying that she had been laughing at him
before--irritated him. "I presume," he said, "that you are acquainted
with the movements of your brother."

"Of Ned?" said Susanna, frowning a little. "No. What should I know about
him?"

"He is, I believe, about to be married."

"No!" screamed Susanna, throwing herself back, and making her bangles
and ornaments clatter. "Get out, Doctor. You dont mean it."

"Certainly I mean it. It is not my profession to jest. I must also tell
you that his marriage will make it quite impossible for you to continue
here with my cousin."

"Why? Who is he going to marry?"

"Ahem! He has succeeded in engaging the affections of my sister."

"What! Your sister? Marian Lind?"

"Yes."

Susanna uttered a long whistle, and then, with a conviction and
simplicity which prevented even the Rev. George from being shocked,
said: "Well, I _am_ damned! I know more than one fool of a girl who will
be sick and sorry to hear it." She paused, and added carelessly: "I
suppose all your people are delighted?"

"I do not know why you should suppose so. We have had no hand in the
matter. My sister has followed her own inclinations."

"Indeed! Let me tell you, young man, that your sister might have gone
farther and fared worse."

"Doubtless. However, you will see now how impossible it is that you
should remain in your present--that you should continue here, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

"You cannot," said the clergyman, accustomed to be bold and stern with
female sinners, "when you are sister-in-law to Miss Lind, live as you
are now doing with her cousin."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be a scandal. I will say nothing at present of the sin
of it: you will have to account for that before a greater than I."

"Just so, Doctor. You dont mind the sin; but when it comes to a
scandal----!"

"I did not say so. I abhor the sin. I have prayed earnestly for your
awakening, and shall do so in spite of the unregenerate hardness of
heart----"

"Hallo, Doctor! draw it mild, if you please. I am not one of your
parishioners, you know. Perhaps that is the reason your prayers for me
have not met with much attention. Let us stick to business: you may talk
shop as much as you please afterwards. What do you want me to do?"

"To sever your connexion with Marmaduke at once. Believe me, it will not
prove so hard a step as it may seem. You have but to ask for strength to
do it, and you will find yourself strong. It will profit you even more
than poor Marmaduke."

"Will it? I dont see it, Doctor. You think it will profit _you_: thats
plain enough. But it wont profit me; it wont profit Bob; and it wont by
any means profit the child."

"Not immediately, perhaps, in a worldly sense----"

"That is the sense I mean. Drop all that other stuff: I dont believe in
you parsons: you are about the worst lot going, as far as I can see.
Just tell me this, Doctor. Your sister is a very nice girl, I have no
doubt: she would hardly have snapped up Ned if she wasn't. But why is
she to have everything her own way?"

"I do not understand."

"Well, listen. Here is a young woman who has had every chance in life
that hick could give her: silk cradles, gold rattles, rank, wealth,
schooling, travelling, swell acquaintances, and anything else she chose
to ask for. Even when she is fool enough to want to get married, her
luck sticks to her, and she catches Ned, who is a man in a
thousand--though Lord forbid we should have many of his sort about! Yet
she's not satisfied. She wants _me_ to give up my establishment just to
keep her family in countenance."

"She knows nothing of my visit, I assure you."

"Even if she doesnt, it makes no odds as to the facts. She can go her
own way; and I will go mine. I shant want to visit her; and I dont
suppose she will visit me. So she need trouble herself no more than if
there was no such person as I in the world."

"But you will find that it will be greatly to your advantage to leave
this house. It is not our intention that you shall suffer in a pecuniary
point of view by doing so. My father is rich----"

"What is that to me? He doesnt want me to go and live with him, does
he?"

"You quite misunderstand me. No such idea ever entered----"

"There! go on. I only said that to get a rise out of you, Doctor. How do
you make out that I should gain by leaving this house?"

"My father is willing to make you some amends for the withdrawal of
such portion of Marmaduke's income as you may forfeit by ceasing your
connexion with him."