Lady Laura Kennedy’s Headache
Phineas went down to Loughlinter early in July, taking Loughton in
his way. He stayed there one night at the inn, and was introduced to
sundry influential inhabitants of the borough by Mr. Grating, the
ironmonger, who was known by those who knew Loughton to be a very
strong supporter of the Earl’s interest. Mr. Grating and about half a
dozen others of the tradesmen of the town came to the inn, and met
Phineas in the parlour. He told them he was a good sound Liberal and
a supporter of Mr. Mildmay’s Government, of which their neighbour the
Earl was so conspicuous an ornament. This was almost all that was
said about the Earl out loud; but each individual man of Loughton
then present took an opportunity during the meeting of whispering
into Mr. Finn’s ear a word or two to show that he also was admitted
to the secret councils of the borough,--that he too could see the
inside of the arrangement. “Of course we must support the Earl,” one
said. “Never mind what you hear about a Tory candidate, Mr. Finn,”
whispered a second; “the Earl can do what he pleases here.” And it
seemed to Phineas that it was thought by them all to be rather a fine
thing to be thus held in the hand by an English nobleman. Phineas
could not but reflect much upon this as he lay in his bed at the
Loughton inn. The great political question on which the political
world was engrossed up in London was the enfranchisement of
Englishmen,--of Englishmen down to the rank of artisans and
labourers;--and yet when he found himself in contact with individual
Englishmen, with men even very much above the artisan and the
labourer, he found that they rather liked being bound hand and foot,
and being kept as tools in the political pocket of a rich man.
Every one of those Loughton tradesmen was proud of his own personal
subjection to the Earl!
From Loughton he went to Loughlinter, having promised to be back in
the borough for the election. Mr. Grating would propose him, and he
was to be seconded by Mr. Shortribs, the butcher and grazier. Mention
had been made of a Conservative candidate, and Mr. Shortribs had
seemed to think that a good stand-up fight upon English principles,
with a clear understanding, of course, that victory should prevail
on the liberal side, would be a good thing for the borough. But the
Earl’s man of business saw Phineas on the morning of his departure,
and told him not to regard Mr. Shortribs. “They’d all like it,” said
the man of business; “and I daresay they’ll have enough of it when
this Reform Bill is passed; but at present no one will be fool enough
to come and spend his money here. We have them all in hand too well
for that, Mr. Finn!”
He found the great house at Loughlinter nearly empty. Mr. Kennedy’s
mother was there, and Lord Brentford was there, and Lord Brentford’s
private secretary, and Mr. Kennedy’s private secretary. At present
that was the entire party. Lady Baldock was expected there, with
her daughter and Violet Effingham; but, as well as Phineas could
learn, they would not be at Loughlinter until after he had left it.
There had come up lately a rumour that there would be an autumn
session,--that the Houses would sit through October and a part of
November, in order that Mr. Mildmay might try the feeling of the new
Parliament. If this were to be so, Phineas had resolved that, in the
event of his election at Loughton, he would not return to Ireland
till after this autumn session should be over. He gave an account to
the Earl, in the presence of the Earl’s son-in-law, of what had taken
place at Loughton, and the Earl expressed himself as satisfied. It
was manifestly a great satisfaction to Lord Brentford that he should
still have a borough in his pocket, and the more so because there
were so very few noblemen left who had such property belonging to
them. He was very careful in his speech, never saying in so many
words that the privilege of returning a member was his own; but his
meaning was not the less clear.
Those were dreary days at Loughlinter. There was fishing,--if Phineas
chose to fish; and he was told that he could shoot a deer if he was
minded to go out alone. But it seemed as though it were the intention
of the host that his guests should spend their time profitably. Mr.
Kennedy himself was shut up with books and papers all the morning,
and always took up a book after dinner. The Earl also would read a
little,--and then would sleep a good deal. Old Mrs. Kennedy slept
also, and Lady Laura looked as though she would like to sleep if
it were not that her husband’s eye was upon her. As it was, she
administered tea, Mr. Kennedy not liking the practice of having it
handed round by a servant when none were there but members of the
family circle, and she read novels. Phineas got hold of a stiff bit
of reading for himself, and tried to utilise his time. He took Alison
in hand, and worked his way gallantly through a couple of volumes.
But even he, more than once or twice, found himself on the very verge
of slumber. Then he would wake up and try to think about things. Why
was he, Phineas Finn, an Irishman from Killaloe, living in that great
house of Loughlinter as though he were one of the family, striving to
kill the hours, and feeling that he was in some way subject to the
dominion of his host? Would it not be better for him to get up and go
away? In his heart of hearts he did not like Mr. Kennedy, though he
believed him to be a good man. And of what service to him was it to
like Lady Laura, now that Lady Laura was a possession in the hands of
Mr. Kennedy? Then he would tell himself that he owed his position in
the world entirely to Lady Laura, and that he was ungrateful to feel
himself ever dull in her society. And, moreover, there was something
to be done in the world beyond making love and being merry. Mr.
Kennedy could occupy himself with a blue book for hours together
without wincing. So Phineas went to work again with his Alison, and
read away till he nodded.
In those days he often wandered up and down the Linter and across the
moor to the Linn, and so down to the lake. He would take a book with
him, and would seat himself down on spots which he loved, and would
pretend to read;--but I do not think that he got much advantage
from his book. He was thinking of his life, and trying to calculate
whether the wonderful success which he had achieved would ever be of
permanent value to him. Would he be nearer to earning his bread when
he should be member for Loughton than he had been when he was member
for Loughshane? Or was there before him any slightest probability
that he would ever earn his bread? And then he thought of Violet
Effingham, and was angry with himself for remembering at that moment
that Violet Effingham was the mistress of a large fortune.
Once before when he was sitting beside the Linter he had made up his
mind to declare his passion to Lady Laura;--and he had done so on the
very spot. Now, within a twelvemonth of that time, he made up his
mind on the same spot to declare his passion to Miss Effingham, and
he thought his best mode of carrying his suit would be to secure the
assistance of Lady Laura. Lady Laura, no doubt, had been very anxious
that her brother should marry Violet; but Lord Chiltern, as Phineas
knew, had asked for Violet’s hand twice in vain; and, moreover,
Chiltern himself had declared to Phineas that he would never ask
for it again. Lady Laura, who was always reasonable, would surely
perceive that there was no hope of success for her brother. That
Chiltern would quarrel with him,--would quarrel with him to the
knife,--he did not doubt; but he felt that no fear of such a quarrel
as that should deter him. He loved Violet Effingham, and he must
indeed be pusillanimous if, loving her as he did, he was deterred
from expressing his love from any fear of a suitor whom she did not
favour. He would not willingly be untrue to his friendship for Lady
Laura’s brother. Had there been a chance for Lord Chiltern he would
have abstained from putting himself forward. But what was the use
of his abstaining, when by doing so he could in no wise benefit
his friend,--when the result of his doing so would be that some
interloper would come in and carry off the prize? He would explain
all this to Lady Laura, and, if the prize would be kind to him, he
would disregard the anger of Lord Chiltern, even though it might be
anger to the knife.
As he was thinking of all this Lady Laura stood before him where he
was sitting at the top of the falls. At this moment he remembered
well all the circumstances of the scene when he had been there with
her at his last visit to Loughlinter. How things had changed since
then! Then he had loved Lady Laura with all his heart, and he had now
already brought himself to regard her as a discreet matron whom to
love would be almost as unreasonable as though he were to entertain
a passion for the Lord Chancellor. The reader will understand how
thorough had been the cure effected by Lady Laura’s marriage and the
interval of a few months, when the swain was already prepared to make
this lady the depositary of his confidence in another matter of love.
“You are often here, I suppose?” said Lady Laura, looking down upon
him as he sat upon the rock.
“Well;--yes; not very often; I come here sometimes because the view
down upon the lake is so fine.”
“It is the prettiest spot about the place. I hardly ever get here
now. Indeed this is only the second time that I have been up since
we have been at home, and then I came to bring papa here.” There was
a little wooden seat near to the rock upon which Phineas had been
lying, and upon this Lady Laura sat down. Phineas, with his eyes
turned upon the lake, was considering how he might introduce the
subject of his love for Violet Effingham; but he did not find the
matter very easy. He had just resolved to begin by saying that Violet
would certainly never accept Lord Chiltern, when Lady Laura spoke a
word or two which stopped him altogether. “How well I remember,” she
said, “the day when you and I were here last autumn!”
“So do I. You told me then that you were going to marry Mr. Kennedy.
How much has happened since then!”
“Much indeed! Enough for a whole lifetime. And yet how slow the time
has gone!”
“I do not think it has been slow with me,” said Phineas.
“No; you have been active. You have had your hands full of work. I
am beginning to think that it is a great curse to have been born a
woman.”
“And yet I have heard you say that a woman may do as much as a man.”
“That was before I had learned my lesson properly. I know better than
that now. Oh dear! I have no doubt it is all for the best as it is,
but I have a kind of wish that I might be allowed to go out and milk
the cows.”
“And may you not milk the cows if you wish it, Lady Laura?”
“By no means;--not only not milk them, but hardly look at them. At
any rate, I must not talk about them.” Phineas of course understood
that she was complaining of her husband, and hardly knew how to reply
to her. He had been sharp enough to perceive already that Mr. Kennedy
was an autocrat in his own house, and he knew Lady Laura well enough
to be sure that such masterdom would be very irksome to her. But he
had not imagined that she would complain to him. “It was so different
at Saulsby,” Lady Laura continued. “Everything there seemed to be my
own.”
“And everything here is your own.”
“Yes,--according to the prayer-book. And everything in truth is my
own,--as all the dainties at the banquet belonged to Sancho the
Governor.”
“You mean,” said he,--and then he hesitated; “you mean that Mr.
Kennedy stands over you, guarding you for your own welfare, as the
doctor stood over Sancho and guarded him?”
There was a pause before she answered,--a long pause, during which he
was looking away over the lake, and thinking how he might introduce
the subject of his love. But long as was the pause, he had not begun
when Lady Laura was again speaking. “The truth is, my friend,” she
said, “that I have made a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, Phineas, a mistake. I have blundered as fools blunder, thinking
that I was clever enough to pick my footsteps aright without asking
counsel from any one. I have blundered and stumbled and fallen, and
now I am so bruised that I am not able to stand upon my feet.” The
word that struck him most in all this was his own Christian name. She
had never called him Phineas before. He was aware that the circle
of his acquaintance had fallen into a way of miscalling him by his
Christian name, as one observes to be done now and again in reference
to some special young man. Most of the men whom he called his friends
called him Phineas. Even the Earl had done so more than once on
occasions in which the greatness of his position had dropped for a
moment out of his mind. Mrs. Low had called him Phineas when she
regarded him as her husband’s most cherished pupil; and Mrs. Bunce
had called him Mr. Phineas. He had always been Phineas to everybody
at Killaloe. But still he was quite sure that Lady Laura had never so
called him before. Nor would she have done so now in her husband’s
presence. He was sure of that also.
“You mean that you are unhappy?” he said, still looking away from her
towards the lake.
“Yes, I do mean that. Though I do not know why I should come and tell
you so,--except that I am still blundering and stumbling, and have
fallen into a way of hurting myself at every step.”
“You can tell no one who is more anxious for your happiness,” said
Phineas.
“That is a very pretty speech, but what would you do for my
happiness? Indeed, what is it possible that you should do? I mean it
as no rebuke when I say that my happiness or unhappiness is a matter
as to which you will soon become perfectly indifferent.”
“Why should you say so, Lady Laura?”
“Because it is natural that it should be so. You and Mr. Kennedy
might have been friends. Not that you will be, because you are unlike
each other in all your ways. But it might have been so.”
“And are not you and I to be friends?” he asked.
“No. In a very few months you will not think of telling me what are
your desires or what your sorrows;--and as for me, it will be out
of the question that I should tell mine to you. How can you be my
friend?”
“If you were not quite sure of my friendship, Lady Laura, you would
not speak to me as you are speaking now.” Still he did not look at
her, but lay with his face supported on his hands, and his eyes
turned away upon the lake. But she, where she was sitting, could see
him, and was aided by her sight in making comparisons in her mind
between the two men who had been her lovers,--between him whom she
had taken and him whom she had left. There was something in the hard,
dry, unsympathising, unchanging virtues of her husband which almost
revolted her. He had not a fault, but she had tried him at every
point and had been able to strike no spark of fire from him. Even by
disobeying she could produce no heat,--only an access of firmness.
How would it have been with her had she thrown all ideas of fortune
to the winds, and linked her lot to that of the young Phoebus who
was lying at her feet? If she had ever loved any one she had loved
him. And she had not thrown away her love for money. So she swore to
herself over and over again, trying to console herself in her cold
unhappiness. She had married a rich man in order that she might be
able to do something in the world;--and now that she was this rich
man’s wife she found that she could do nothing. The rich man thought
it to be quite enough for her to sit at home and look after his
welfare. In the meantime young Phoebus,--her Phoebus as he had
been once,--was thinking altogether of some one else.
“Phineas,” she said, slowly, “I have in you such perfect confidence
that I will tell you the truth;--as one man may tell it to another. I
wish you would go from here.”
“What, at once?”
“Not to-day, or to-morrow. Stay here now till the election; but do
not return. He will ask you to come, and press you hard, and will be
hurt;--for, strange to say, with all his coldness, he really likes
you. He has a pleasure in seeing you here. But he must not have that
pleasure at the expense of trouble to me.”
“And why is it a trouble to you?” he asked. Men are such fools;--so
awkward, so unready, with their wits ever behind the occasion by a
dozen seconds or so! As soon as the words were uttered, he knew that
they should not have been spoken.
“Because I am a fool,” she said. “Why else? Is not that enough for
you?”
“Laura--,” he said.
“No,--no; I will have none of that. I am a fool, but not such a fool
as to suppose that any cure is to be found there.”
“Only say what I can do for you, though it be with my entire life,
and I will do it.”
“You can do nothing,--except to keep away from me.”
“Are you earnest in telling me that?” Now at last he had turned
himself round and was looking at her, and as he looked he saw the hat
of a man appearing up the path, and immediately afterwards the face.
It was the hat and face of the laird of Loughlinter. “Here is Mr.
Kennedy,” said Phineas, in a tone of voice not devoid of dismay and
trouble.
“So I perceive,” said Lady Laura. But there was no dismay or trouble
in the tone of her voice.
In the countenance of Mr. Kennedy, as he approached closer, there was
not much to be read,--only, perhaps, some slight addition of gloom,
or rather, perhaps, of that frigid propriety of moral demeanour for
which he had always been conspicuous, which had grown upon him at his
marriage, and which had been greatly increased by the double action
of being made a Cabinet Minister and being garrotted. “I am glad that
your headache is better,” he said to his wife, who had risen from
her seat to meet him. Phineas also had risen, and was now looking
somewhat sheepish where he stood.
“I came out because it was worse,” she said. “It irritated me so that
I could not stand the house any longer.”
“I will send to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“Pray do nothing of the kind, Robert. I do not want Dr. Macnuthrie at
all.”
“Where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient.”
“I am not ill. A headache is not illness.”
“I had thought it was,” said Mr. Kennedy, very drily.
“At any rate, I would rather not have Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“I am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of
the sun. Had you been here long, Finn?”
“All the morning;--here, or hereabouts. I clambered up from the lake
and had a book in my pocket.”
“And you happened to come across him by accident?” Mr. Kennedy
asked. There was something so simple in the question that its very
simplicity proved that there was no suspicion.
“Yes;--by chance,” said Lady Laura. “But every one at Loughlinter
always comes up here. If any one ever were missing whom I wanted to
find, this is where I should look.”
“I am going on towards Linter forest to meet Blane,” said Mr.
Kennedy. Blane was the gamekeeper. “If you don’t mind the trouble,
Finn, I wish you’d take Lady Laura down to the house. Do not let her
stay out in the heat. I will take care that somebody goes over to
Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.” Then Mr. Kennedy went on, and Phineas
was left with the charge of taking Lady Laura back to the house. When
Mr. Kennedy’s hat had first appeared coming up the walk, Phineas
had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the
service of Lady Laura. Indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal
tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which Lady Laura had made to
him. But he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband’s
presence, that any show of tenderness,--of criminal tenderness,--was
impossible. The absence of all suspicion on the part of Mr. Kennedy
had made Phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain
from such tenderness. Lady Laura began to descend the path before
him without a word;--and went on, and on, as though she would have
reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her. “Does
your head still pain you?” he asked.
“Of course it does.”
“I suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the
heat.”
“I do not know. It is not worth while to think about that. He sends
me in, and so of course I must go. And he tells you to take me, and
so of course you must take me.”
“Would you wish that I should let you go alone?”
“Yes, I would. Only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not
tell him that you left me at my request.”
“Do you think that I am afraid of him?” said Phineas.
“Yes;--I think you are. I know that I am, and that papa is; and that
his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own. I do not know why
you should escape.”
“Mr. Kennedy is nothing to me.”
“He is something to me, and so I suppose I had better go on. And
now I shall have that horrid man from the little town pawing me
and covering everything with snuff, and bidding me take Scotch
physic,--which seems to increase in quantity and nastiness as doses
in England decrease. And he will stand over me to see that I take
it.”
“What;--the doctor from Callender?”
“No;--but Mr. Kennedy will. If he advised me to have a hole in my
glove mended, he would ask me before he went to bed whether it was
done. He never forgot anything in his life, and was never unmindful
of anything. That I think will do, Mr. Finn. You have brought me out
from the trees, and that may be taken as bringing me home. We shall
hardly get scolded if we part here. Remember what I told you up
above. And remember also that it is in your power to do nothing else
for me. Good-bye.” So he turned away towards the lake, and let Lady
Laura go across the wide lawn to the house by herself.
He had failed altogether in his intention of telling his friend of
his love for Violet, and had come to perceive that he could not for
the present carry out that intention. After what had passed it would
be impossible for him to go to Lady Laura with a passionate tale of
his longing for Violet Effingham. If he were even to speak to her of
love at all, it must be quite of another love than that. But he never
would speak to her of love; nor,--as he felt quite sure,--would she
allow him to do so. But what astounded him most as he thought of the
interview which had just passed, was the fact that the Lady Laura
whom he had known,--whom he had thought he had known,--should have
become so subject to such a man as Mr. Kennedy, a man whom he had
despised as being weak, irresolute, and without a purpose! For the
day or two that he remained at Loughlinter, he watched the family
closely, and became aware that Lady Laura had been right when she
declared that her father was afraid of Mr. Kennedy.
“I shall follow you almost immediately,” said the Earl confidentially
to Phineas, when the candidate for the borough took his departure
from Loughlinter. “I don’t like to be there just when the election is
going on, but I’ll be at Saulsby to receive you the day afterwards.”
Phineas took his leave from Mr. Kennedy, with a warm expression of
friendship on the part of his host, and from Lady Laura with a mere
touch of the hand. He tried to say a word; but she was sullen, or, if
not, she put on some mood like to sullenness, and said never a word
to him.
On the day after the departure of Phineas Finn for Loughton Lady
Laura Kennedy still had a headache. She had complained of a headache
ever since she had been at Loughlinter, and Dr. Macnuthrie had been
over more than once. “I wonder what it is that ails you,” said her
husband, standing over her in her own sitting-room up-stairs. It was
a pretty room, looking away to the mountains, with just a glimpse of
the lake to be caught from the window, and it had been prepared for
her with all the skill and taste of an accomplished upholsterer. She
had selected the room for herself soon after her engagement, and had
thanked her future husband with her sweetest smile for giving her
the choice. She had thanked him and told him that she always meant
to be happy,--so happy in that room! He was a man not much given to
romance, but he thought of this promise as he stood over her and
asked after her health. As far as he could see she had never been
even comfortable since she had been at Loughlinter. A shadow of the
truth came across his mind. Perhaps his wife was bored. If so, what
was to be the future of his life and of hers? He went up to London
every year, and to Parliament, as a duty; and then, during some
period of the recess, would have his house full of guests,--as
another duty. But his happiness was to consist in such hours as these
which seemed to inflict upon his wife the penalty of a continual
headache. A shadow of the truth came upon him. What if his wife did
not like living quietly at home as the mistress of her husband’s
house? What if a headache was always to be the result of a simple
performance of domestic duties?
More than a shadow of truth had come upon Lady Laura herself.
The dark cloud created by the entire truth was upon her, making
everything black and wretched around her. She had asked herself a
question or two, and had discovered that she had no love for her
husband, that the kind of life which he intended to exact from her
was insupportable to her, and that she had blundered and fallen in
her entrance upon life. She perceived that her father had already
become weary of Mr. Kennedy, and that, lonely and sad as he would
be at Saulsby by himself, it was his intention to repudiate the
idea of making a home at Loughlinter. Yes;--she would be deserted by
everyone, except of course by her husband; and then-- Then she would
throw herself on some early morning into the lake, for life would be
insupportable.
“I wonder what it is that ails you,” said Mr. Kennedy.
“Nothing serious. One can’t always help having a headache, you know.”
“I don’t think you take enough exercise, Laura. I would propose that
you should walk four miles every day after breakfast. I will always
be ready to accompany you. I have spoken to Dr. Macnuthrie--”
“I hate Dr. Macnuthrie.”
“Why should you hate Dr. Macnuthrie, Laura?”
“How can I tell why? I do. That is quite reason enough why you should
not send for him to me.”
“You are unreasonable, Laura. One chooses a doctor on account of
his reputation in his profession, and that of Dr. Macnuthrie stands
high.”
“I do not want any doctor.”
“But if you are ill, my dear--”
“I am not ill.”
“But you said you had a headache. You have said so for the last ten
days.”
“Having a headache is not being ill. I only wish you would not talk
of it, and then perhaps I should get rid of it.”
“I cannot believe that. Headache in nine cases out of ten comes from
the stomach.” Though he said this,--saying it because it was the
common-place common-sense sort of thing to say, still at the very
moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes. What if
this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life?
“It is nothing of that sort,” said Lady Laura, impatient at having
her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy.
“Then what is it? You cannot think that I can be happy to hear you
complaining of headache every day,--making it an excuse for absolute
idleness.”
“What is it that you want me to do?” she said, jumping up from her
seat. “Set me a task, and if I don’t go mad over it, I’ll get through
it. There are the account books. Give them to me. I don’t suppose I
can see the figures, but I’ll try to see them.”
“Laura, this is unkind of you,--and ungrateful.”
“Of course;--it is everything that is bad. What a pity that you did
not find it out last year! Oh dear, oh dear! what am I to do?” Then
she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to
her temples.
“I will send for Dr. Macnuthrie at once,” said Mr. Kennedy, walking
towards the door very slowly, and speaking as slowly as he walked.
“No;--do no such thing,” she said, springing to her feet again and
intercepting him before he reached the door. “If he comes I will not
see him. I give you my word that I will not speak to him if he comes.
You do not understand,” she said; “you do not understand at all.”
“What is it that I ought to understand?” he asked.
“That a woman does not like to be bothered.”
He made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the
door, and collecting his thoughts. “Yes,” said he at last; “I am
beginning to find that out;--and to find out also what it is that
bothers a woman, as you call it. I can see now what it is that makes
your head ache. It is not the stomach. You are quite right there. It
is the prospect of a quiet decent life, to which would be attached
the performance of certain homely duties. Dr. Macnuthrie is a learned
man, but I doubt whether he can do anything for such a malady.”
“You are quite right, Robert; he can do nothing.”
“It is a malady you must cure for yourself, Laura;--and which is to
be cured by perseverance. If you can bring yourself to try--”
“But I cannot bring myself to try at all,” she said.
“Do you mean to tell me, Laura, that you will make no effort to do
your duty as my wife?”
“I mean to tell you that I will not try to cure a headache by doing
sums. That is all that I mean to say at this moment. If you will
leave me for awhile, so that I may lie down, perhaps I shall be able
to come to dinner.” He still hesitated, standing with the door in his
hand. “But if you go on scolding me,” she continued, “what I shall
do is to go to bed directly you go away.” He hesitated for a moment
longer, and then left the room without another word.