“I came out because it was worse,” she said. “It irritated me so that I could not stand the house any longer.”
“I will send to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“Pray do nothing of the kind, Robert. I do not want Dr. Macnuthrie at all.”
“Where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient.”
“I am not ill. A headache is not illness.”
“I had thought it was,” said Mr. Kennedy, very drily.
“At any rate, I would rather not have Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“I am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of the sun. Had you been here long, Finn?”
“All the morning;—here, or hereabouts. I clambered up from the lake and had a book in my pocket.”
“And you happened to come across him by accident?” Mr. Kennedy asked. There was something so simple in the question that its very simplicity proved that there was no suspicion.
“Yes;—by chance,” said Lady Laura. “But everyone at Loughlinter always comes up here. If anyone ever were missing whom I wanted to find, this is where I should look.”
“I am going on towards Linter forest to meet Blane,” said Mr. Kennedy. Blane was the gamekeeper. “If you don’t mind the trouble, Finn, I wish you’d take Lady Laura down to the house. Do not let her stay out in the heat. I will take care that somebody goes over to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.” Then Mr. Kennedy went on, and Phineas was left with the charge of taking Lady Laura back to the house. When Mr. Kennedy’s hat had first appeared coming up the walk, Phineas had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the service of Lady Laura. Indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which Lady Laura had made to him. But he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband’s presence, that any show of tenderness—of criminal tenderness—was impossible. The absence of all suspicion on the part of Mr. Kennedy had made Phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain from such tenderness. Lady Laura began to descend the path before him without a word;—and went on, and on, as though she would have reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her. “Does your head still pain you?” he asked.
“Of course it does.”
“I suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the heat.”
“I do not know. It is not worth while to think about that. He sends me in, and so of course I must go. And he tells you to take me, and so of course you must take me.”
“Would you wish that I should let you go alone?”
“Yes, I would. Only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not tell him that you left me at my request.”
“Do you think that I am afraid of him?” said Phineas.
“Yes;—I think you are. I know that I am, and that papa is; and that his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own. I do not know why you should escape.”
“Mr. Kennedy is nothing to me.”
“He is something to me, and so I suppose I had better go on. And now I shall have that horrid man from the little town pawing me and covering everything with snuff, and bidding me take Scotch physic—which seems to increase in quantity and nastiness as doses in England decrease. And he will stand over me to see that I take it.”
“What;—the doctor from Callender?”
“No;—but Mr. Kennedy will. If he advised me to have a hole in my glove mended, he would ask me before he went to bed whether it was done. He never forgot anything in his life, and was never unmindful of anything. That I think will do, Mr. Finn. You have brought me out from the trees, and that may be taken as bringing me home. We shall hardly get scolded if we part here. Remember what I told you up above. And remember also that it is in your power to do nothing else for me. Goodbye.” So he turned away towards the lake, and let Lady Laura go across the wide lawn to the house by herself.
He had failed altogether in his intention of telling his friend of his love for Violet, and had come to perceive that he could not for the present carry out that intention. After what had passed it would be impossible for him to go to Lady Laura with a passionate tale of his longing for Violet Effingham. If he were even to speak to her of love at all, it must be quite of another love than that. But he never would speak to her of love; nor—as he felt quite sure—would she allow him to do so. But what astounded him most as he thought of the interview which had just passed, was the fact that the Lady Laura whom he had known—whom he had thought he had known—should have become so subject to such a man as Mr. Kennedy, a man whom he had despised as being weak, irresolute, and without a purpose! For the day or two that he remained at Loughlinter, he watched the family closely, and became aware that Lady Laura had been right when she declared that her father was afraid of Mr. Kennedy.
“I shall follow you almost immediately,” said the Earl confidentially to Phineas, when the candidate for the borough took his departure from Loughlinter. “I don’t like to be there just when the election is going on, but I’ll be at Saulsby to receive you the day afterwards.”
Phineas took his leave from Mr. Kennedy, with a warm expression of friendship on the part of his host, and from Lady Laura with a mere touch of the hand. He tried to say a word; but she was sullen, or, if not, she
