“Yes;—I have heard of it,” said Phineas.
“Everybody has heard of it. That is one of the terrible cruelties of such a blow.”
“All those things are very bad of course. I was very much grieved—because you have both been intimate friends of mine.”
“Yes—yes; we were. Do you ever see her now?”
“Not since last July—at the Duke’s party, you know.”
“Ah, yes; the morning of that day was the last on which I spoke to her. It was then she left me.”
“I am going to dine with Lord Brentford tomorrow, and I dare say she will be there.”
“Yes;—she is in town. I saw her yesterday in her father’s carriage. I think that she had no cause to leave me.”
“Of course I cannot say anything about that.”
“I think she had no cause to leave me.” Phineas as he heard this could not but remember all that Lady Laura had told himself, and thought that no woman had ever had a better reason for leaving her husband. “There were things I did not like, and I said so.”
“I suppose that is generally the way,” replied Phineas.
“But surely a wife should listen to a word of caution from her husband.”
“I fancy they never like it,” said Phineas.
“But are we all of us to have all that we like? I have not found it so. Or would it be good for us if we had?” Then he paused; but as Phineas had no further remark to make, he continued speaking after they had walked about a third of the length of the hall. “It is not of my own comfort I am thinking now so much as of her name and her future conduct. Of course it will in every sense be best for her that she should come back to her husband’s roof.”
“Well; yes;—perhaps it would,” said Phineas.
“Has she not accepted that lot for better or for worse?” said Mr. Kennedy, solemnly.
“But incompatibility of temper, you know, is always—always supposed—. You understand me?”
“It is my intention that she should come back to me. I do not wish to make any legal demand;—at any rate, not as yet. Will you consent to be the bearer of a message from me both to herself and to the Earl?”
Now it seemed to Phineas that of all the messengers whom Mr. Kennedy could have chosen he was the most unsuited to be a Mercury in this cause—not perceiving that he had been so selected with some craft, in order that Lady Laura might understand that the accusation against her was, at any rate, withdrawn, which had named Phineas as her lover. He paused again before he answered. “Of course,” he said, “I should be most willing to be of service, if it were possible. But I do not see how I can speak to the Earl about it. Though I am going to dine with him I don’t know why he has asked me;—for he and I are on very bad terms. He heard that stupid story about the duel, and has not spoken to me since.”
“I heard that, too,” said Mr. Kennedy, frowning blackly as he remembered his wife’s duplicity.
“Everybody heard of it. But it has made such a difference between him and me, that I don’t think I can meddle. Send for Lord Chiltern, and speak to him.”
“Speak to Chiltern! Never! He would probably strike me on the head with his club.”
“Call on the Earl yourself.”
“I did, and he would not see me.”
“Write to him.”
“I did, and he sent back my letter unopened.”
“Write to her.”
“I did;—and she answered me, saying only thus; ‘Indeed, indeed, it cannot be so.’ But it must be so. The laws of God require it, and the laws of man permit it. I want someone to point out that to them more softly than I could do if I were simply to write to that effect. To the Earl, of course, I cannot write again.” The conference ended by a promise from Phineas that he would, if possible, say a word to Lady Laura.
When he was shown into Lord Brentford’s drawing-room he found not only Lady Laura there, but her brother. Lord Brentford was not in the room. Barrington Erle was there, and so also were Lord and Lady Cantrip.
“Is not your father going to be here?” he said to Lady Laura, after their first greeting.
“We live in that hope,” said she, “and do not at all know why he should be late. What has become of him, Oswald?”
“He came in with me half an hour ago, and I suppose he does not dress as quickly as I do,” said Lord Chiltern; upon which Phineas immediately understood that the father and the son were reconciled, and he rushed to the conclusion that Violet and her lover would also soon be reconciled, if such were not already the case. He felt some remnant of a soreness that it should be so, as a man feels where his headache has been when the real ache itself has left him. Then the host came in and made his apologies. “Chiltern kept me standing about,” he said, “till the east wind had chilled me through and through. The only charm I recognise in youth is that it is impervious to the east wind.” Phineas felt quite sure now that Violet and her lover were reconciled, and he had a distinct feeling of the place where the ache had been. Dear Violet! But, after all, Violet lacked that sweet, clinging, feminine softness which made Mary Flood Jones so preeminently the most charming of her sex. The Earl, when he had repeated his general apology, especially to Lady Cantrip, who was the only lady present except his daughter, came up to our hero and shook him kindly by the hand. He took him up to one of the windows and then addressed him in a voice of mock solemnity.
“Stick to the colonies, young man,” he said, “and never meddle with
