“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