“That does not answer my question. Has she asked you not to come?”
“She said that which left on my mind an impression that she would sooner that I did not come.”
“What did she say?”
“How can I answer such a question as that, Kennedy? Is it fair to ask it?”
“Quite fair—I think.”
“I think it quite unfair, and I must decline to answer it. I cannot imagine what you expect to gain by cross-questioning me in this way. Of course no man likes to go to a house if he does not believe that everybody there will make him welcome.”
“You and Lady Laura used to be great friends.”
“I hope we are not enemies now. But things will occur that cause friendships to grow cool.”
“Have you quarrelled with her father?”
“With Lord Brentford?—no.”
“Or with her brother—since the duel I mean?”
“Upon my word and honour I cannot stand this, and I will not. I have not as yet quarrelled with anybody; but I must quarrel with you, if you go on in this way. It is quite unusual that a man should be put through his facings after such a fashion, and I must beg that there may be an end of it.”
“Then I must ask Lady Laura.”
“You can say what you like to your own wife of course. I cannot hinder you.”
Upon that Mr. Kennedy formally shook hands with him, in token that there was no positive breach between them—as two nations may still maintain their alliance, though they have made up their minds to hate each other, and thwart each other at every turn—and took his leave. Phineas, as he sat at his window, looking out into the park, and thinking of what had passed, could not but reflect that, disagreeable as Mr. Kennedy had been to him, he would probably make himself much more disagreeable to his wife. And, for himself, he thought that he had got out of the scrape very well by the exhibition of a little mock anger.
LIX
The Earl’s Wrath
The reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to Phineas—a rumour indeed which reached him from a source which he regarded as very untrustworthy—that Violet Effingham had quarrelled with her lover. He would probably have paid no attention to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated to him in another quarter. “A bird has told me that your Violet Effingham has broken with her lover,” Madame Goesler said to him one day. “What bird?” he asked. “Ah, that I cannot tell you. But this I will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news are seldom very credible—and are often not very creditable. You must take a bird’s word for what it may be worth. It is said that they have quarrelled. I daresay, if the truth were known, they are billing and cooing in each other’s arms at this moment.”
Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing—did not like to be told even of their quarrelling. Though they were to quarrel, it would do him no good. He would rather that nobody should mention their names to him;—so that his back, which had been so utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured. From what he knew of Violet he thought it very improbable that, even were she to quarrel with one lover, she would at once throw herself into the arms of another. And he did feel, too, that there would be some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken. But, nevertheless, these rumours, coming to him in this way from different sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth. He began to think that his broken back was not cured;—that perhaps, after all, it was not in the way of being cured. And was it not possible that there might be explanations? Then he went to work and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit of the possibility of Violet Effingham becoming his wife.
This had been in April, and at that time all that he knew of Violet was, that she was not yet in London. And he thought that he knew the same as to Lord Chiltern. The Earl had told him that Chiltern was not in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in saying so had seemed to express displeasure against his son. Phineas had met Lady Baldock at some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find himself graciously received by the old woman. She had said not a word of Violet, but had spoken of Lord Chiltern—mentioning his name in bitter wrath. “But he is a friend of mine,” said Phineas, smiling. “A friend indeed! Mr. Finn. I know what sort of a friend. I don’t believe that you are his friend. I am afraid he is not worthy of having any friend.” Phineas did not quite understand from this that Lady Baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have preferred him—especially now when people were beginning to speak well of him—to that terrible young man, who, from his youth upwards, had been to her a cause of fear and trembling. Of course it was desirable that Violet should marry an elder son, and a peer’s heir. All that kind of thing, in Lady Baldock’s eyes, was most desirable. But, nevertheless, anything was better than Lord Chiltern. If Violet would not take Mr. Appledom or Lord Fawn, in heaven’s name let her take this young man, who was kind, worthy, and steady, who was civilised in his manners, and would no doubt be amenable in regard to settlements. Lady Baldock had so far fallen in the world that she
