“Any stranger would have taken your part. The footman would, if you had asked him. But then, James is not your father.”
“It seems a very small thing to be bidden to leave the room. But I will never expose myself to a repetition of it.”
“Quite right. But what do you mean to do? for, after all, though parental love is an imposition, parental authority is a fact.”
“I will get married.”
“Out of the frying pan into the fire! Certainly, if you are resolved to marry, the present is as good as another time, and more convenient. But there must be some legal formalities to go through. You cannot turn into the first church you meet, and be married offhand.”
“Ned must find out all that. I am sadly disappointed and disilluded,
Nelly.”
“Time will cure you as it does everybody; and you will be the better for being wiser. By the bye, what did Sholto mean about Mrs. Fairfax?”
“I dont know.”
“She has evidently been telling him a parcel of lies. Do you remember her hints about him yesterday at lunch? I have not the least doubt that she has told him you are frantically in love with him. She as good as told you the same about him.”
“Oh! she is not capable of doing such a thing.”
“Isnt she? We shall see.”
“I dont know what to think,” said Marian, despondently. “I used to believe that both you and Ned thought too little of other people; but it seems now that the world is nothing but a morass of wickedness and falsehood. And Sholto, too! Who would have believed that he could break out in that coarse way? Do you remember the day that Fleming, the coachman, lost his temper with Auntie down at the Cottage. Sholto was exactly like that; not a bit more refined or dignified.”
“Rather less so, because Fleming was in the right. Let us go to bed. We can do nothing tonight, but fret, and wish for tomorrow. Better get to sleep. Resentment does not keep me awake, I can vouch for that: I got well broken in to it when I was a child. I heard Uncle Reginald going to his room some time ago. I am getting sleepy, too, though I feel the better for the excitement.”
“Very well. To bed be it,” said Marian. But she did not sleep at all as well as Nelly.
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