On the day after the departure of Phineas Finn for Loughton Lady Laura Kennedy still had a headache. She had complained of a headache ever since she had been at Loughlinter, and Dr. Macnuthrie had been over more than once. “I wonder what it is that ails you,” said her husband, standing over her in her own sitting-room upstairs. It was a pretty room, looking away to the mountains, with just a glimpse of the lake to be caught from the window, and it had been prepared for her with all the skill and taste of an accomplished upholsterer. She had selected the room for herself soon after her engagement, and had thanked her future husband with her sweetest smile for giving her the choice. She had thanked him and told him that she always meant to be happy—so happy in that room! He was a man not much given to romance, but he thought of this promise as he stood over her and asked after her health. As far as he could see she had never been even comfortable since she had been at Loughlinter. A shadow of the truth came across his mind. Perhaps his wife was bored. If so, what was to be the future of his life and of hers? He went up to London every year, and to Parliament, as a duty; and then, during some period of the recess, would have his house full of guests—as another duty. But his happiness was to consist in such hours as these which seemed to inflict upon his wife the penalty of a continual headache. A shadow of the truth came upon him. What if his wife did not like living quietly at home as the mistress of her husband’s house? What if a headache was always to be the result of a simple performance of domestic duties?
More than a shadow of truth had come upon Lady Laura herself. The dark cloud created by the entire truth was upon her, making everything black and wretched around her. She had asked herself a question or two, and had discovered that she had no love for her husband, that the kind of life which he intended to exact from her was insupportable to her, and that she had blundered and fallen in her entrance upon life. She perceived that her father had already become weary of Mr. Kennedy, and that, lonely and sad as he would be at Saulsby by himself, it was his intention to repudiate the idea of making a home at Loughlinter. Yes;—she would be deserted by everyone, except of course by her husband; and then—Then she would throw herself on some early morning into the lake, for life would be insupportable.
“I wonder what it is that ails you,” said Mr. Kennedy.
“Nothing serious. One can’t always help having a headache, you know.”
“I don’t think you take enough exercise, Laura. I would propose that you should walk four miles every day after breakfast. I will always be ready to accompany you. I have spoken to Dr. Macnuthrie—”
“I hate Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“Why should you hate Dr. Macnuthrie, Laura?”
“How can I tell why? I do. That is quite reason enough why you should not send for him to me.”
“You are unreasonable, Laura. One chooses a doctor on account of his reputation in his profession, and that of Dr. Macnuthrie stands high.”
“I do not want any doctor.”
“But if you are ill, my dear—”
“I am not ill.”
“But you said you had a headache. You have said so for the last ten days.”
“Having a headache is not being ill. I only wish you would not talk of it, and then perhaps I should get rid of it.”
“I cannot believe that. Headache in nine cases out of ten comes from the stomach.” Though he said this—saying it because it was the commonplace commonsense sort of thing to say, still at the very moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes. What if this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life?
“It is nothing of that sort,” said Lady Laura, impatient at having her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy.
“Then what is it? You cannot think that I can be happy to hear you complaining of headache every day—making it an excuse for absolute idleness.”
“What is it that you want me to do?” she said, jumping up from her seat. “Set me a task, and if I don’t go mad over it, I’ll get through it. There are the account books. Give them to me. I don’t suppose I can see the figures, but I’ll try to see them.”
“Laura, this is unkind of you—and ungrateful.”
“Of course;—it is everything that is bad. What a pity that you did not find it out last year! Oh dear, oh dear! what am I to do?” Then she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to her temples.
“I will send for Dr. Macnuthrie at once,” said Mr. Kennedy, walking towards the door very slowly, and speaking as slowly as he walked.
“No;—do no such thing,” she said, springing to her feet again and intercepting him before he reached the door. “If he comes I will not see him. I give you my word that I will not speak to him if he comes. You do not understand,” she said; “you do not understand at all.”
“What is it that I ought to understand?” he asked.
“That a woman does not like to be bothered.”
He made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the door, and collecting his thoughts. “Yes,” said he at last; “I am beginning to find that out;—and to find out also what it is that bothers a woman, as you call it. I can see now what it is that makes your head ache. It is not the stomach. You are quite right there. It is the prospect of
