“No,” said Mary. “But T will never admit that a man is not the better for being a hero. According to you, he is the worse. I heartily despise a woman who marries a fool in order that she may live comfortably despotic in her own house. I do not make absolute heroism an indispensable condition — I do not know exactly what heroism means; but I think a man may reasonably be expected to be free from vulgar prejudices against the efforts of artists to make life beautiful; and to have so disciplined himself that a wife can always depend on his selfcontrol and moral rectitude. It must be terrible to live in constant dread of childish explosions of temper from one’s husband, or to fear, at every crisis, that he will not act like a man of sense and honor.”
Conolly looked at her curiously, and then, with an intent deliberation, that gave the fullest emphasis to his words, leaned a little toward her with his hands upon his knees, and said “Did you ever live with a person whose temper was imperturbable — who never hesitated to apply his principles, and never swerved from acting as they dictated? One who, whatever he might be to himself, was to you so void of petty jealousies, irritabilities and superstitions of ordinary men, that, as far as you understood his view of life, you could calculate his correct behavior beforehand in every crisis with as much certainty as upon the striking of a clock?”
“No,” said Lady Geraldine emphatically, before Mary could reply; “and I should not like to, either.”
“You are always right,” said Conolly. “Yet such a person would fulfill Miss Sutherland’s conditions. Like Hamlet,” he continued, turning to Mary, “you want a man that is not Passion’s slave. I hope you may never get him, for I assure you, you will not like him. He would make an excellent God, but a most unpleasant man, and an unbearable husband. What could you be to a wholly self-sufficient man? Affection would be a superfluity with which you would be ashamed to trouble him. I once knew a lady whom I thought the most beautiful, the most accomplished, and the most honest of her sex. This lady met a man who had learned to stand alone in the world — a hard lesson, but one that is relentlessly forced on every sensitive but unlovable boy who has his own way to make, and who knows that, outside himself, there is no God to help him. This man had realized all that is humanly possible in your ideal of a self-disciplined man. The lady was young, and, unlike Lady Geraldine, not wise. Instead of avoiding his imperturbable self-sufficiency, she admired it, loved it, and married it. She found in her husband all that you demand. She never had reason to dread his temper, or to doubt his sense and honor. He needed no petting, no counsel, no support. He had no vulgar prejudices against art, and, indeed, was fonder of it than she was. What she felt about him I can only conjecture. But I know that she ceased to love him, whilst around her thousands of wives were clinging fondly to husbands who bullied and beat them, to fools, savages, drunkards, knaves, Passion’s slaves of many patterns, but all weak enough to need caresses and forgiveness occasionally. Eventually she left him, and it served him right; for this model husband, who had never forfeited his wife’s esteem, or tried her forbearance by word or deed, had led her to believe that he would be as happy without her as with her. A man who is complete in himself needs no wife. If you value your happiness, seek for someone who needs you, who begs for you, and who, because loneliness is death to him, will never cease to need you. Have I made myself clear?”
“ Yes,” said Mary. “I think I understand, though I do not say I agree.”
Sir John came in just then, opportunely enough, and he found Conolly quite willing to talk about the prospects of the Company, although the ladies were thereby excluded from any part or interest in the conversation. Mary took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed save by her hostess. When Conolly’s attention was released by Sir John going to the library fore some papers, he found himself alone with Lady Geraldine.
“Mr Conolly,”said Lady Geraldine, overcoming , with obvious effort, her reluctance to speak to him: “although you were of course not aware of it, you chose a most unfortunate moment for explaining your views to Miss Sutherland. There are circumstances which render it very undesirable that her judgment should be biased against marriage just at present.”
“I hardly follow you,” said Conolly, with a benignant self-possession which made Lady Geraldine privately quail. “Are you opposed to the suit of Mr Hoskyn?” She looked at him in consternation.” I see you are surprised by my knowledge of Miss Sutherland’s affairs,” he continued. “But that only convinces me that you do not know Mr Hoskyn. In business matters he can sometimes keep a secret. In personal matters he is indiscretion personified. Everybody in Queen Victoria Street, from the messenger to the Chairman, is informed of the state of his affections.”
“But why, if you knew this, did you talk as you did?”
“Because,” said he, smiling at her impatience, “I did not then know that you disapproved of his proposal.”
“Mr Conolly,” said Lady Geraldine, trying to speak politely: “I don’t disapprove of it.”
“Then we are somehow at cross purposes. I too, approve; and as Hoskyn is not, to my knowledge, likely to be a hero in the eyes of a young lady of Miss Sutherland’s culture, I ventured to warn her that he might be all the better qualified to make her happy.”
“I told her so myself. But if you want to encourage a young girl to marry, surely it is not a very judicious thing to give such a bad account of your own married life.”
“Of my own married life?”
“I mean,” said Lady Geraldine, coloring deeply, “of your own experience of married life — what you have observed in others.” She stopped, feeling that this was a paltry evasion, and added, “I beg your pardon. I fear I have made a very painful blunder.”
“No. An allusion to my marriage — from you — does not pain me. I know your sympathies are not with me; and I am pleased to think that they are therefore where they are most needed and deserved. As to Miss Sutherland, I do not think that what I said will have the effect you fear. In any case, my words are beyond recall. If she refuses Mr Hoskyn, I shall bear the blame. If she accepts him; I will claim to have been your ally.
“She would be angry if she knew that you were aware, all the time you were talking, of her position.”
“Angry with me: yes. That does not matter. But if she knew that Mr. Hoskyn had told me, she would be angry with him; and that would matter very much.”
Before Lady Geraldine could reply, her husband returned; and Conolly withdrew shortly afterwards for the night.
Next day, Mary received from Hoskyn a second letter begging her to postpone her answer until he had seen her, as he had become convinced that such matters ought to be conducted personally instead of by writing. As soon as he had ascertained which hotel was the near Sir John’s house, he would, he wrote, put up there and ask Mary to contrive one long interview. She was not to mention his presence to Lady Geraldine, lest she should think he expected to be asked on a visit. Mary immediately made Lady Geraldine promise that he should not be asked on a visit; and then, to avoid the threatened interview, made up her mind and wrote to him as follows:
Dear Mr. Hoskyn —
I shall not give you the trouble of coming down here to urge what you so frankly proposed in your first letter. 1 trust it will relieve your anxiety to learn that I have decided to accept your offer. However, as the position we are now in is one that we could not properly maintain whilst visiting at the house of a friend, I beg that you will give up all idea of seeing me until I leave Devonshire. My social duties here are so heavy that I can hardly, without seeming rude, absent myself to write a long letter. I suppose you will go back to Trouville until we all return to London. — I am, dear Mr. Hoskyn,
Yours sincerely,
Mary Sutherland.
Mary composed this letter with difficulty, and submitted it to Lady Geraldine, who said, “It is not very loving. That about your social duties is a fib. And you want him to go to Trouville because he cannot write so often.”
“I