The Letters of Her Mother to ElizabethTrowbridge, W. R. H. (William Rutherford Hayes)
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The Letters of Her Mother to Elizabeth
Trowbridge, W. R. H. (William Rutherford Hayes)
Epistolary fiction; Mothers and daughters -- Fiction
I saw Blanche off at Paddington, and wished I had decided to go with
her; you need not be surprised if you get a telegram from me to-morrow
to say I have gone home. It is wretchedly dull by myself, and I can't
take Thérèse with me everywhere; besides I have to come up to my room
early, as it is not proper for me to sit in the public rooms by myself
at night.
{_Talks of Marrying again_}
Thérèse, in brushing out my hair to-night, asked me why I didn't marry
again; she said that she knew men admired me, for one of the
Vane-Corduroys' footmen at Shotover had told her I was a woman to drive
men mad. Thérèse of course gauges the value of men's admiration from the
footman class, but I think I have not yet got to the shady side of
beauty, and that perhaps it is just as well Valmond saw you before he
met me. As money will never be a consideration, and I have social
position, and as I am not yet forty-five, I shall not marry for love, so
I shall keep my freedom, which I enjoy so much.
Once again, my darling, I congratulate you, and wish you all happiness.
Good-night.--Your dearest Mamma.
LETTER XXXI
MONK'S FOLLY, 19th November
DARLING ELIZABETH:
{_Home again_}
Simply couldn't endure it in town in November by myself, so came home
to-day. Yesterday, after Blanche left, I counted up the things I could
do by myself in order to kill time. In spite of London being so big,
there are so few things one can do by oneself to amuse oneself. The
early post brought me the proofs from Alice Hughes; Paquin comes out
splendidly, but I look silly in the one in which I am standing near a
balustrade, holding a sheaf of wheat. I have ordered a dozen of myself
in a garden, under a lovely old tree, with a stuffed greyhound at my
side. It looks awfully natural, and you would never dream I was more
than twenty. I thought the proofs had been sent me by mistake, till I
recognised my frock, and then when you look at them a long time, you see
how really like you they are. They are just the thing to send one's
acquaintances.
{_Lady Sophia Dashton's Novel_}
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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