Langham Hotel, London,
W., 10th August
Dear Miss Sutherland — I have returned for a few days from Trouville, where I left Nanny and the children comfortably settled. I was recalled by a telegram from our head office and now that my business there is transacted, I have nothing to do except lounge around this great barrack of a hotel until I take it into my head to go back to Trouville. I miss Cavendish Square greatly. Three or four time day I find myself preparing to go there, forgetting that there is nobody in the house, unless Nanny has left the cat to starve, as she did two years ago. You cannot imagine how lonely I find London. The hotel is full of Americans; and I have scraped acquaintance with most of them; but I am none the livelier for that: somebody or something has left a hole in this metropolis that all the Americans alive cannot fill. Tonight after dinner I felt especially dull. There are no plays worth seeing at this season; and even if there were, it is no pleasure to me to go to the theatre by myself. I have got out of the way of doing so lately; and I don’t feel as if I could ever get into it again. So I thought that writing to you would pass the time as pleasantly as anything.
You remember, I hope, a certain conversation we had on the 2nd inst. I agreed not to return to the subject until you came back from Lady Porter’s; but I was so flurried by having to speak to you sooner than I intended, that I have been doubtful ever since whether I put it to you in the right way. I am afraid I was rather vague; and though it does not do to be too businesslike on such occasions, still, you have a right to know to a fraction what my proposal means. I know you are too sensible to suppose that I am going into particulars from want of the good oldfashioned sentiment which ought to be the main point in all such matters, or by way of offering you an additional inducement. If you had only yourself to look to, I think I should have pluck enough to ask you to shut your eyes and open your mouth so far as money is concerned; but when other interested parties who may come on the scene hereafter are to be considered, it is not only allowable but right to go into figures.
There are just four points, as I reckon it: 1, I am thirty-five years of age, and have no person depending on me for support. 2, I can arrange matters so that if anything happens to me you shall have a permanent income of five hundred pounds per annum. 3, I can afford to spend a thousand a year at present, without crippling myself. 4, These figures are calculated at a percentage off the minimum, and far understate what I may reasonably expect my resources to be in the course of a few years.
I won’t go any closer into money matters with you, because I feel that bargaining would be out of place between as. You may trust me that you shall want for nothing, if — !!! I wish you would help me over that if. We got along very well together in July — at least I thought so and you seemed to think so too. Our tastes fit in together to a T. You have genius and I admire it. If I had it myself, I should be jealous of you, don’t you see? As it is, the more you sing and paint and play, the more pleased am I, though I don’t say that I would not be writing this letter all the same if you didn’t know B-flat from a bull’s foot. If you will just for this once screw up your courage and say yes, I undertake on my on my part that you shall never regret it.
An early answer will shorten my suspense. Not that I want you to write without taking plenty of time for consideration; but just remember that it will appear cent per cent longer to me than to you. Hoping you will excuse me if I have been unreasonable in following up my wishes, — I am, dear Miss Sutherland,
Sincerely yours,
John Hoskyn.
Mary thrust the letter into its envelope, and knit her brows. Lady Geraldine watched her, pretending meanwhile to be occupied with her own correspondence. “Do you know any of Mrs. Phipson’s family?” said Mary slowly, after some minutes.
“No,” replied Lady Geraldine, somewhat contemptuously. Then, recollecting that Mr Phipson’s daughter was Mary’s sister-in-law, she added, “There are brothers in Australia and Columbia who are very rich; and the youngest is a friend of Sir John’s. He’s in the Conolly Company, and is said to be a shrewd man of business. They all were, I believe. Then there were two sisters, Sarah and Lizzie Hoskyn. I can remember Lizzie when she was exactly like your brother Dick’s wife. She married a great Cornhill goldsmith in her first season. Altogether, they are a wonderful family: making money, marrying money, putting each other in the way of making and marrying more, and falling on their feet everywhere.”
“Are they the sort of people you like?”
“What do you mean by that, my dear?”
“I think I mean what I say,” said Mary laughing. “But do you think, for example, that Mrs. Phipson’s brothers and sisters are ladies and gentlemen?”
“Whether Dick’s wife’s aunts or uncles are ladies and gentlemen, eh?”
“Never mind about Dick. I have a reason for asking.”
“Well then, I think it must be sufficiently obvious to everybody that they are not what used to be called ladies and gentlemen. But what has that to do with it? Rich middle class tradespeople have had their own way in society and in everything else as long as I can remember. Even if we could go back to the ladies and gentlemen now, we could not stand them. Look at the county set here — either vapid people with affected manners, or pigheaded people with no manners at all. Each set seems the worst until you try another.”
“I quite agree with you — I mean about the Hoskyns, “ said Mary. And she changed the subject. But at bedtime, when she bade Lady Geraldine goodnight, she handed her Hoskyn’s letter, saying, “Read that; and tell me tomorrow what you think of it.”
Lady Geraldine read the letter in bed, and lay awake, thinking of it for half an hour later than usual. In the morning, Mary, before leaving her room, received a note. It ran:
“Sir John will come by the three train. We can chat afterwards — when he and Mr Conolly are settled here and off my mind. —
G. P.
Mary understood from this that she was not to approach the subject of Mr Hoskyn until Lady Geraldine invited her. At breakfast no allusion was made to him, except that once, when they chanced to look at one another, they laughed. But Lady Geraldine immediately after became graver than usual, and began to talk about the dairy farm.
At three o’clock Sir John, heavy, double chinned and white haired arrived with a younger man in a grey suit.
“Well, Mr Conolly,” said Sir John, as they passed under the Doric portico, “Here we are at last.”
“At home,” said Conolly, contentedly. Lady Geraldine, who was there to welcome them, looked at him quickly, her hospitality gratified by the word. Then the thought of what what he had made of his own home hardened her heart against him. Her habitual candid manner and abundance of shrewd comment forsook her in his presence. She was silent and scrupulously polite, and by that Mary and Sir John knew that she was under the constraint of strong dislike to her guest.
Later in the afternoon, Conolly asked permission to visit the farm, and inquired whether there was any running water in the neighborhood. Sir John proposed to accompany him; but he declined, on the ground that a prospecting engineer was the worst of bad company. When he was gone, Lady Geraldine’s bosom heaved with relief: she recovered her spirits, and presently followed Sir John to the library, where they had a long conversation together. Having concluded it to her satisfaction, she was leaving the room, when Sir John, who was seated at a writing table, coughed and said mildly:
“ My dear.”
Lady Geraldine closed the door again, and turned to listen.
“I was thinking, as we came down together,” said Sir John slowly, smiling and combing his beard with his fingers, “that perhaps he might