Mr. Kennedy, as Phineas entered, slowly rose from his chair, putting down the Bible which had been in his hands. He did not speak at once, but looked at his visitor over the spectacles which he wore. Phineas thought that he was even more haggard in appearance and aged than when they two had met hardly three months since at Loughlinter. There was no shaking of hands, and hardly any pretence at greeting. Mr. Kennedy simply bowed his head, and allowed his visitor to begin the conversation.
“I should not have come to you on such a day as this, Mr. Kennedy—”
“It is a day very unfitted for the affairs of the world,” said Mr. Kennedy.
“Had not the matter been most pressing in regard both to time and its own importance.”
“So the woman told me, and therefore I have consented to see you.”
“You know a man of the name of—Slide, Mr. Kennedy?” Mr. Kennedy shook his head. “You know the editor of the People’s Banner?” Again he shook his head. “You have, at any rate, written a letter for publication to that newspaper.”
“Need I consult you as to what I write?”
“But he—the editor—has consulted me.”
“I can have nothing to do with that.”
“This Mr. Slide, the editor of the People’s Banner, has just been with me, having in his hand a printed letter from you, which—you will excuse me, Mr. Kennedy—is very libellous.”
“I will bear the responsibility of that.”
“But you would not wish to publish falsehood about your wife, or even about me.”
“Falsehood! sir; how dare you use that word to me? Is it false to say that she has left my house? Is it false to say that she is my wife, and cannot desert me, as she has done, without breaking her vows, and disregarding the laws both of God and man? Am I false when I say that I gave her no cause? Am I false when I offer to take her back, let her faults be what they may have been? Am I false when I say that her father acts illegally in detaining her? False! False in your teeth! Falsehood is villany, and it is not I that am the villain.”
“You have joined my name in the accusation.”
“Because you are her paramour. I know you now;—viper that was warmed in my bosom! Will you look me in the face and tell me that, had it not been for you, she would not have strayed from me?” To this Phineas could make no answer. “Is it not true that when she went with me to the altar you had been her lover?”
“I was her lover no longer, when she once told me that she was to be your wife.”
“Has she never spoken to you of love since? Did she not warn you from the house in her faint struggle after virtue? Did she not whistle you back again when she found the struggle too much for her? When I asked you to the house, she bade you not come. When I desired that you might never darken my eyes again, did she not seek you? With whom was she walking on the villa grounds by the river banks when she resolved that she would leave all her duties and desert me? Will you dare to say that you were not then in her confidence? With whom was she talking when she had the effrontery to come and meet me at the house of the Prime Minister, which I was bound to attend? Have you not been with her this very winter in her foreign home?”
“Of course I have—and you sent her a message by me.”
“I sent no message. I deny it. I refused to be an accomplice in your double guilt. I laid my command upon you that you should not visit my wife in my absence, and you disobeyed, and you are an adulterer. Who are you that you are to come forever between me and my wife?”
“I never injured you in thought or deed. I come to you now because I have seen a printed letter which contains a gross libel upon myself.”
“It is printed then?” he asked, in an eager tone.
“It is printed; but it need not, therefore, be published. It is a libel, and should not be published. I shall be forced to seek redress at law. You cannot hope to regain your wife by publishing false accusations against her.”
“They are true. I can prove every word that I have written. She dare not come here, and submit herself to the laws of her country. She is a renegade from the law, and you abet her in her sin. But it is not vengeance that I seek. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ ”
“It looks like vengeance, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Is it for you to teach me how I shall bear myself in this time of my great trouble?” Then suddenly he changed; his voice falling from one of haughty defiance to a low, mean, bargaining whisper. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you will say that she shall come back again I’ll have it cancelled, and pay all the expenses.”
“I cannot bring her back to you.”
“She’ll come if you tell her. If you’ll let them understand that she must come they’ll give way. You can try it at any rate.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. Why should I ask her to submit herself to misery?”
“Misery! What misery? Why should she be miserable? Must a woman need be miserable because she lives with her husband?
