“I do declare,” she said, “that if Mr. Turnbull opposes the Government measure now, because he can’t have his own way in everything, I will never again put my trust in any man who calls himself a popular leader.”
“You never should,” said Barrington Erle.
“That’s all very well for you, Barrington, who are an aristocratic Whig of the old official school, and who call yourself a Liberal simply because Fox was a Liberal a hundred years ago. My heart’s in it.”
“Heart should never have anything to do with politics; should it?” said Erle, turning round to Mr. Kennedy.
Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a Sunday, nor yet did he wish to say before Barrington Erle that he thought it wrong to do so. And he was desirous of treating his wife in some way as though she were an invalid—that she thereby might be, as it were, punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way that Barrington should be aware of the punishment.
“Laura had better not disturb herself about it now,” he said.
“How is a person to help being disturbed?” said Lady Laura, laughing.
“Well, well; we won’t mind all that now,” said Mr. Kennedy, turning away. Then he took up the novel which Lady Laura had just laid down from her hand, and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed it on a bookshelf which was remote from them. Lady Laura watched him as he did this, and the whole course of her husband’s thoughts on the subject was open to her at once. She regretted the novel, and she regretted also the political discussion. Soon afterwards Barrington Erle went away, and the husband and wife were alone together.
“I am glad that your head is so much better,” said he. He did not intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which almost amounted to severity.
“Yes; it is,” she said, “Barrington’s coming in cheered me up.”
“I am sorry that you should have wanted cheering.”
“Don’t you know what I mean, Robert?”
“No; I do not think that I do, exactly.”
“I suppose your head is stronger. You do not get that feeling of dazed, helpless imbecility of brain, which hardly amounts to headache, but which yet—is almost as bad.”
“Imbecility of brain may be worse than headache, but I don’t think it can produce it.”
“Well, well;—I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Headache comes, I think, always from the stomach, even when produced by nervous affections. But imbecility of the brain—”
“Oh, Robert, I am so sorry that I used the word.”
“I see that it did not prevent your reading,” he said, after a pause.
“Not such reading as that. I was up to nothing better.”
Then there was another pause.
“I won’t deny that it may be a prejudice,” he said, “but I confess that the use of novels in my own house on Sundays is a pain to me. My mother’s ideas on the subject are very strict, and I cannot think that it is bad for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother.” This he said in the most serious tone which he could command.
“I don’t know why I took it up,” said Lady Laura. “Simply, I believe, because it was there. I will avoid doing so for the future.”
“Do, my dear,” said the husband. “I shall be obliged and grateful if you will remember what I have said.” Then he left her, and she sat alone, first in the dusk and then in the dark, for two hours, doing nothing. Was this to be the life which she had procured for herself by marrying Mr. Kennedy of Loughlinter? If it was harsh and unendurable in London, what would it be in the country?
XXIV
The Willingford Bull
Phineas left London by a night mail train on Easter Sunday, and found himself at the Willingford Bull about half an hour after midnight. Lord Chiltern was up and waiting for him, and supper was on the table. The Willingford Bull was an English inn of the old stamp, which had now, in these latter years of railway travelling, ceased to have a road business—for there were no travellers on the road, and but little posting—but had acquired a new trade as a depot for hunters and hunting men. The landlord let out horses and kept hunting stables, and the house was generally filled from the beginning of November till the middle of April. Then it became a desert in the summer, and no guests were seen there, till the pink coats flocked down again into the shires.
“How many days do you mean to give us?” said Lord Chiltern, as he helped his friend to a devilled leg of turkey.
“I must go back on Wednesday,” said Phineas.
“That means Wednesday night. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ve the Cottesmore tomorrow. We’ll get into Tailby’s country on Tuesday, and Fitzwilliam will be only twelve miles off on Wednesday. We shall be rather short of horses.”
“Pray don’t let me put you out. I can hire something here, I suppose?”
“You won’t put me out at all. There’ll be three between us each day, and we’ll run our luck. The horses have gone on to Empingham for tomorrow. Tailby is rather a way off—at Somerby; but we’ll manage it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can get back to Stamford by rail. On Wednesday we shall have everything very comfortable. They’re out beyond Stilton and will draw home our way. I’ve planned it all out. I’ve a trap with a fast stepper, and if we start tomorrow at half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. You shall ride Meg Merrilies, and if she don’t carry you, you
