"I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George."
As they pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude, 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 a.s.sure 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 n.o.blest work of G.o.d; 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 cla.s.ses. 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 const.i.tutes 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 cla.s.s 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 a.s.sertion 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 a.s.sure you that a circ.u.mstance, on the secrecy of which you are relying, is known to me, and, through me, to my father."
"What circ.u.mstance is that?"
"A circ.u.mstance connected with Mr. Marmaduke Lind, whom you mentioned just now. You understand me, I presume?"
"Oh! you have found that out?"