But in truth neither of Lady Laura’s councillors was able to give her advice that could serve her. She felt that she could not leave her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt, also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness. And when she saw Violet and her brother together there came to her dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner. She could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man who would have been her lover, if she would have let him—of whose love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. She had married Mr. Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was then a nobody;—almost nobody. It was not Mr. Kennedy’s money that had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr. Kennedy she had maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own people—among the first socially and among the first politically. But had she married Phineas—had she become Lady Laura Finn—there would have been a great descent. She could not have entertained the leading men of her party. She would not have been on a level with the wives and daughters of Cabinet Ministers. She might, indeed, have remained unmarried! But she knew that had she done so—had she so resolved—that which she called her fancy would have been too strong for her. She would not have remained unmarried. At that time it was her fate to be either Lady Laura Kennedy or Lady Laura Finn. And she had chosen to be Lady Laura Kennedy. To neither Violet Effingham nor to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted her.
“I shall go back to Loughlinter,” she said to her brother.
“Do not, unless you wish it,” he answered.
“I do not wish it. But I shall do it. Mr. Kennedy is in London now, and has been there since Parliament met, but he will be in Scotland again in March, and I will go and meet him there. I told him that I would do so when I left.”
“But you will go up to London?”
“I suppose so. I must do as he tells me, of course. What I mean is, I will try it for another year.”
“If it does not succeed, come to us.”
“I cannot say what I will do. I would die if I knew how. Never be a tyrant, Oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. And remember this, there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. Talk of beating a woman! Beating might often be a mercy.”
Lord Chiltern remained ten days at Saulsby, and at last did not get away without a few unpleasant words with his father—or without a few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. On his first arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day, and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the Earl. But when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had been ordered for seven o’clock the next morning, he felt that his son was ungracious and abrupt. There were many things still to be said, and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as yet.
“That is very sudden,” said the Earl.
“I thought Laura had told you.”
“She has not told me a word lately. She may have said something before you came here. What is there to hurry you?”
“I thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me here, and as I said that I would be back by the first, I would rather not change my plans.”
“You are going to hunt?”
“Yes;—I shall hunt till the end of March.”
“You might have hunted here, Oswald.” But the son made no sign of changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change them, became solemn and severe. There were a few words which he must say to his son—something of a speech that he must make;—so he led the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and pointed to a great deep armchair for his son’s accommodation. But as he did not sit down himself, neither did Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would not give to his father. “I had hoped to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you about the future,” said the Earl.
“I think we shall be married in July,” said Lord Chiltern.
“So I have heard;—but after that. Now I do not want to interfere, Oswald, and of course the less so, because Violet’s money will to a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the property.”
“It will more than restore them altogether.”
“Not if her estate be settled on a second son, Oswald, and I hear from Lady Baldock that that is the wish of her relations.”
“She shall have her own way—as she ought. What that way is I do not know. I have not even asked about it. She asked me, and I told her to speak to you.”
“Of course I should
