“Nor me,” replied Lady Laura. “He is coming because my friend Violet Effingham will be here.”
“Miss Effingham! Why was I not told of this? I knew nothing of Miss Effingham’s coming.”
“Robert, it was settled in your own presence last July.”
“I deny it.”
Then Lady Laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. Mr. Kennedy, when he found himself alone, was very unhappy. Looking back in his mind to the summer weeks in London, he remembered that his wife had told Violet that she was to spend her Christmas at Loughlinter, that he himself had given a muttered assent and that Violet—as far as he could remember—had made no reply. It had been one of those things which are so often mentioned, but not settled. He felt that he had been strictly right in denying that it had been “settled” in his presence;—but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting his wife so peremptorily. He was a just man, and he would apologise for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the value of his apology in additional austerity. He did not see his wife for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. “Laura,” he said, “I am sorry that I contradicted you.”
“I am quite used to it, Robert.”
“No;—you are not used to it.” She smiled and bowed her head. “You wrong me by saying that you are used to it.” Then he paused a moment, but she said not a word—only smiled and bowed her head again. “I remember,” he continued, “that something was said in my presence to Miss Effingham about her coming here at Christmas. It was so slight, however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an effort. I beg your pardon.”
“That is unnecessary, Robert.”
“It is, dear.”
“And do you wish that I should put her off—or put Oswald off—or both? My brother never yet has seen me in your house.”
“And whose fault has that been?”
“I have said nothing about anybody’s fault, Robert. I merely mentioned a fact. Will you let me know whether I shall bid him stay away?”
“He is welcome to come—only I do not like assignations for lovemaking.”
“Assignations!”
“Clandestine meetings. Lady Baldock would not wish it.”
“Lady Baldock! Do you think that Violet would exercise any secrecy in the matter—or that she will not tell Lady Baldock that Oswald will be here—as soon as she knows it herself?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Surely, Robert, it must have much to do with it. And why should not these two young people meet? The acknowledged wish of all the family is that they should marry each other. And in this matter, at any rate, my brother has behaved extremely well.” Mr. Kennedy said nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that Violet Effingham was to be a month at Loughlinter, staying from the 20th of December to the 20th of January, and that Lord Chiltern was to come there for Christmas—which with him would probably mean three days.
Before Christmas came, however, there were various other sources of uneasiness at Loughlinter. There had been, as a matter of course, great anxiety as to the elections. With Lady Laura this anxiety had been very strong, and even Mr. Kennedy had been warmed with some amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes and of the failures. The English returns came first—and then the Scotch, which were quite as interesting to Mr. Kennedy as the English. His own seat was quite safe—was not contested; but some neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. Then, when this was over, there were the tidings from Ireland to be received; and respecting one special borough in Ireland, Lady Laura evinced more solicitude than her husband approved. There was much danger for the domestic bliss of the house of Loughlinter, when things came to such a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at Loughshane produced.
“He is in,” said Lady Laura, opening a telegram.
“Who is in?” said Mr. Kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which his wife was now well accustomed. Though he asked the question, he knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred.
“Our friend Phineas Finn,” said Lady Laura, speaking still with an excited voice—with a voice that was intended to display excitement. If there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle. She would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling it in her husband’s face if he chose to take it as an injury. What—should she endure reproach from her husband because she regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother? She had done her duty by her husband—so at least she had assured herself;—and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she would be ready for the battle. And now the battle came. “I am glad of this,” she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her voice. “I am, indeed—and so ought you to be.” The husband’s brow grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. He had long been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his jealousy—if only he could keep the expression back. But his wife would not leave the subject. “I am so thankful for this,” she said, pressing the telegram between her hands. “I was so afraid he would fail!”
“You overdo your anxiety on such a subject,” at last he said, speaking very slowly.
“What do you mean, Robert?
