“Conolly, my dear.”
“Stuff!” said Lady Geraldine sharply. Sir John smiled in deprecation. “At least,” she added, repenting, “I mean that he is married already.”
“But he is free to marry again.”
“Besides, he is not a gentleman.”
“Well,” said Sir John, good humoredly, “I think we agreed just now that that did not matter.”
“Yes, in Hoskyn’s case.”
“Just so. Now Conolly is a man of greater culture than Hoskyn. Of course, it is only a notion of mine; and I dare say you are quite right if you disapprove of it. But since Mary is a girl with nice tastes — for art and so forth — I thought that perhaps she might not suit a thorough man of business. Hoskyn is only an Americanized commercial traveler.”
“Conolly is an American too. But that has nothing to do with it. Conolly treated his wife badly: that is enough for me. I am certain he would make any woman miserable.”
“If he really did.”
“But, dear,” interrupted Lady Geraldine, with restrained impatience, “don’t you know he did? Everybody knows it.”
Sir John shrugged himself placidly. “They say so,” he said. “I am afraid he was not all that he should have been to her. She was a charming creature — a great beauty, and, I thought, great rectitude. Dear me! You are right, as usual, Joldie, it would not suit.”
Lady Geraldine left the library, and went to dress for dinner, disturbed by the possibility which Sir John had suggested. At dinner she watched Conolly and observed that he conversed chiefly with Mary, and seemed to know more than she on all her favorite subjects. Afterwards, when they were in the drawing room, Mary asked him whether he played the piano. As he replied in the affirmative, Lady Geraldine was compelled to ask him to favor her with a performance. At their request he played some of Jack’s music, much more calmly and accurately than Jack, himself played it. Then he made Mary sing, and was struck by her declamatory style, which jarred Lady Geraldine’s nerves nearly as much as it had Mrs Phipson’s. He next sang himself, Mary accompanying him, and at first soothed Lady Geraldine by his rich baritone voice, and then roused her suspicions by singing a serenade with great expression, which she privately set down as a coldblooded hypocrisy on his part. She at last persuaded herself that he was deliberately trying to engage the affections of Mary, with the intention of making her his second wife. Afterwards, he went out with Sir John, who often smoked cigars after dinner in the portico, and was fond of having a companion on such occasions.
“Thank goodness!” said Lady Geraldine. “Bluebeard has gone; and we can have our chat at last.”
“Why Bluebeard?” said Mary, laughing. “His beard is auburn. Has he been married more than once?”
“No. But mark my words, he will marry at least half-a-dozen times; and he will kill all his wives, unless they run away from him, as poor Marian did. However, so long as he does not marry us, he can do as he likes. The question of the day is, what are you going to say to Mr John Hoskyn?”
“Oh!” said Mary, her face clouding. “Let Mr John Hoskyn wait. I wish he were in America.”
“And why?” said Lady Geraldine in an obstinate tone.
“Because I want to enjoy my visit here and not be worried by his proposals.”
“You can answer him in five minutes, and then enjoy your visit as much as if he actually were in America.”
“That is true. Except that it will take much longer than five minutes to devise a letter that will not hurt his feelings too much.”
“I could write a sensible letter for you that would not hurt his feelings at all.”
“Will you? I shall be so much obliged. I hate refusing people.”
“Mary: I hope you are not going to be foolish about this offer.”
“Do you mean,” said Mary, astonished, “that you advise me to accept it?”
“Most decidedly.”
“But you said last night that he was not even a gentleman.”
“Oh, a gentleman! Nonsense! What is a gentleman? Who is a gentleman nowadays? Is Mr Conolly, with whom you seem so well pleased” (Mary opened her eyes widely) a gentleman? Or Mr. Jack?”
“Do you consider Mr. Herbert a gentleman?”
“Yes, I grant you that. I forgot him, but I only conclude from your experience of him that a mere gentleman would not do for you at all. Do you dislike Mr Hoskyn?”
“No. But then I do not absolutely dislike any man; and I know nearly a hundred.”
“Is there anyone whom you like better?”
“N–no. Of course I am speaking only of people whom I could marry. Still that is not saying much. If I heard that he was leaving the country for ever, I should be rather relieved than otherwise.”
“Yes, my dear, I know it is very annoying to be forced to make up one’s mind. But you will gain nothing by putting off. I have been speaking to Sir John about Mr Hoskyn and everything he has told me is satisfactory in the highest degree.”
“I am sure of it. Respectable, well off, rising, devotedly attached to me, calculates his figures at a percentage off the minimum, and so forth.”
“Mary,” said Lady Geraldine gravely: “have I mentioned I even one of those points to you?”
“No,” said Mary, taken a little aback. “But what other light can you see him in?”
“In the best of all lights: that of a comfortable husband. I am in dread for you lest your notions of high art should make you do something foolish. When you have had as much experience as I, you will know that genius no more qualifies a man to be a husband than good looks, or fine manners, or noble birth, or anything else out of a story book.”
“But want of genius is still less a qualification.”
“Genius, Mary, is a positive disqualification. Geniuses are morbid, intolerant, easily offended, sleeplessly self-conscious men, who expect their wives to be angels with no further business in life than to pet and worship their husbands. Even at the best they are not comfortable men to live with; and a perfect husband is one who is perfectly comfortable to live with. Look at the matter practically. Do you suppose, you foolish child, that I am a bit less happy because Sir John does not know a Raphael from a Redgrave, and would accept the last waltz cheerfully as a genuine something-or-other by Bach in B minor? Our tastes are quite different; and, to confess the truth, I was no more romantically in love with him when we were married than you are at present with Mr Hoskyn. Yet where will you find such a modern Darby and Joan as we are? You hear Belle Saunders complaining that she has ‘nothing in common’ with her husband. What cant! As if any two beings living in the same world must not have more things in common than not; especially a husband and wife living in the same house, on the same income, and owning the same children. Why, I have something in common with Macalister, the gardener. I can find you a warning as well as an example, I knew Mr Conolly’s wife well before she was married. She was a woman of whom it was impossible to believe anything bad. In an evil hour she met Conolly at a charity concert where they had both promised to sing. Of course he sang as if he was all softness and gentleness, much as he did just now, probably. Then there was a charming romance. She like you, was fond of books, pictures, and music. He knew all about them. She was very honest and candid: he a statue of probity. He was a genius too; and his fame was a novelty then: everybody talked of him. Never was there such an match. She was the only woman in England worthy of him: he the only man worthy of her. Well, she married him, in spite of the patent fact that with all his genius, he is a most uncomfortable person. She endured him for two years then ran away with an arrogant blockhead who had nothing to recommend him to her except an imposing appearance and an extreme