The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  Those two hours, moreover, with her husband in the morning became very wearisome to her. At first she had declared that it would be her greatest ambition to help her husband in his work, and she had read all the letters from the MacNabs and MacFies, asking to be made gaugers and landing-waiters, with an assumed interest. But the work palled upon her very quickly. Her quick intellect discovered soon that there was nothing in it which she really did. It was all form and verbiage, and pretence at business. Her husband went through it all with the utmost patience, reading every word, giving orders as to every detail, and conscientiously doing that which he conceived he had undertaken to do. But Lady Laura wanted to meddle with high politics, to discuss reform bills, to assist in putting up Mr. This and putting down my Lord That. Why should she waste her time in doing that which the lad in the next room, who was called a private secretary, could do as well?

  Still she would obey. Let the task be as hard as it might, she would obey. If he counselled her to do this or that, she would follow his counsel, — because she owed him so much. If she had accepted the half of all his wealth without loving him, she owed him the more on that account. But she knew, — she could not but know, — that her intellect was brighter than his; and might it not be possible for her to lead him? Then she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he was as stiff-necked as an ox. Mr. Kennedy was not, perhaps, a clever man; but he was a man who knew his own way, and who intended to keep it.

  “I have got a headache, Robert,” she said to him one Sunday after luncheon. “I think I will not go to church this afternoon.”

  “It is not serious, I hope.”

  “Oh dear no. Don’t you know how one feels sometimes that one has got a head? And when that is the case one’s armchair is the best place.”

  “I am not sure of that,” said Mr. Kennedy.

  “If I went to church I should not attend,” said Lady Laura.

  “The fresh air would do you more good than anything else, and we could walk across the park.”

  “Thank you; — I won’t go out again to-day.” This she said with something almost of crossness in her manner, and Mr. Kennedy went to the afternoon service by himself.

  Lady Laura when she was left alone began to think of her position. She was not more than four or five months married, and she was becoming very tired of her life. Was it not also true that she was becoming tired of her husband? She had twice told Phineas Finn that of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most. She did not esteem him less now. She knew no point or particle in which he did not do his duty with accuracy. But no person can live happily with another, — not even with a brother or a sister or a friend, — simply upon esteem. All the virtues in the calendar, though they exist on each side, will not make a man and woman happy together, unless there be sympathy. Lady Laura was beginning to find out that there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her husband.

  She thought of this till she was tired of thinking of it, and then, wishing to divert her mind, she took up the book that was lying nearest to her hand. It was a volume of a new novel which she had been reading on the previous day, and now, without much thought about it, she went on with her reading. There came to her, no doubt, some dim, half-formed idea that, as she was freed from going to church by the plea of a headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from other Sunday hindrances. A child, when it is ill, has buttered toast and a picture-book instead of bread-and-milk and lessons. In this way, Lady Laura conceived herself to be entitled to her novel.

  While she was reading it, there came a knock at the door, and Barrington Erle was shown upstairs. Mr. Kennedy had given no orders against Sunday visitors, but had simply said that Sunday visiting was not to his taste. Barrington, however, was Lady Laura’s cousin, and people must be very strict if they can’t see their cousins on Sunday. Lady Laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation of discussing the chances of the new Reform Bill with the Prime Minister’s private secretary; and had left her chair, and was standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in Mr. Monk, and violently denouncing Mr. Turnbull, when her husband returned from church and came up into the drawing-room. Lady Laura had forgotten her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which would have taught her to moderate her political feeling at her husband’s return.

  “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 book-shelf 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?

  CHAPTER 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 dépôt 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 to-morrow. 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 to-morrow. 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 to-morrow at half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. You shall ride Meg Merrilies, and if she don’t carry you, you may shoot her.”

  “Is she one of the pulling ones?”

  “She is heavy in hand if you are heavy at her, but leave her mouth alone and she’ll go like flowing water. You’d better not ride more in a crowd than you can help. Now what’ll you drink?”

  They sat up half the night smoking and talking, and Phineas learned more about Lord Chiltern then than ever he had learned before. There was brandy and water before them, but neither of them drank. Lord Chiltern, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from which he sipped occasionally. “I’ve taken to beer,” he said, “as being the best drink going. When a man hunts six days a week he can afford to drink beer. I’m on an allowance, — three pints a day. That’s not too much.”

  “And you drink nothing else?”

  “Nothing when I’m alone, — except a little cherry-brandy when I’m out. I never cared for drink; — never in my life. I do like excitement, and have been less careful than I ought to have been as to what it has come from. I could give up drink to-morrow, without a struggle, — if it were worth my while to make up my mind to do it. And it’s the same with gambling. I never do gamble now, because I’ve got no money; but I own I like it better than anything in the world. While you are at it, there is life in it.”

  “You should take to politics, Chiltern.”

  “And I would have done so, but my father would not help me. Never mind, we will not talk about him. How does Laura get on with her husband?”

  “Very happily, I should say.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Lord Chiltern. “Her temper is too much like mine to allow her to be happy with such a log of wood as Robert Kennedy. It is such men as he who drive me out of the pale of decent life. If that is decency, I’d sooner be indecent. You mark my words. They’ll come to grief. She’ll never be able to stand it.”

  “I should think she had her own way in everything,” said Phineas.

  “No, no. Though he’s a prig, he’s a man; and she will not find it easy to drive him.”

  “But she may bend him.”

  “Not an inch; — that is if I understand his character. I suppose you see a good deal of them?”

  “Yes, — pretty well. I’m not there so often as I used to be in the Square.”

  “You get sick of it, I suppose. I should. Do you see my father often?”

  “Only occasionally. He is always very civil when I do see him.”

  “He is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust man I ever met.”

  “I should not have thought that.”

  “Yes, he is,” said the Earl’s son, “and all from lack of judgment to discern the truth. He makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient proof, and then nothing will turn him. He thinks well of you, — would probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought of a doubt; but if you were to tell him that I didn’t get drunk every night of my life and spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he would not believe you. He would smile incredulously and make you a little bow. I can see him do it.”

  “You are too hard on him, Chiltern.”

  “He has been too hard on me, I know. Is Violet Effingham still in Grosvenor Place?”

  “No; she’s with Lady Baldock.”

  “That old grandmother of evil has come to town, — has she? Poor Violet! When we were young together we used to have such fun about that old woman.”

  “The old woman is an ally of mine now,” said Phineas.

  “You make allies everywhere. You know Violet Effingham of course?”

  “Oh yes. I know her.”

  “Don’t you think her very charming?” said Lord Chiltern.

  “Exceedingly charming.”

  “I have asked that girl to marry me three times, and I shall never ask her again. There is a point beyond which a man shouldn’t go. There are many reasons why it would be a good marriage. In the first place, her money would be serviceable. Then it would heal matters in our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is against me. And I love her dearly. I’ve loved her all my life, — since I used to buy cakes for her. But I shall never ask her again.”

  “I would if I were you,” said Phineas, — hardly knowing what it might be best for him to say.

  “No; I never will. But I’ll tell you what. I shall get into some desperate scrape about her. Of course she’ll marry, and that soon. Then I shall make a fool of myself. When I hear that she is engaged I shall go and quarrel with the man, and kick him, — or get kicked. All the world will turn against me, and I shall be called a wild beast.”

  “A dog in the manger is what you should be called.”

  “Exactly; — but how is a man to help it? If you loved a girl, could you see another man take her?” Phineas remembered of course that he had lately come through this ordeal. “It is as though he were to come and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart out of me. Though I have no property in her at all, no right to her, — though she never gave me a word of encouragement, it is as though she were the most private thing in the world to me. I should be half mad, and in my madness I could not master the idea that I was being robbed. I should resent it as a personal interference.”

  “I suppose it will come to that if you give her up yourself,” said Phineas.

  “It is no question of giving up. Of course I cannot make her marry me. Light another cigar, old fellow.”

  Phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that he owed a certain duty in this matter to Lady Laura. She had commissioned him to persuade her brother that his suit with Violet Effingham would not be hopeless, if he could only restrain himself in his mode of conducting it. Phineas was disposed to do his duty, although he felt it to be very hard that he should be called upon to be eloquent against his own interest. He had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he should be the man whom Lord Chiltern was resolved to kick. He looked at his friend and host, and became aware that a kicking-match with such a one would not be pleasant pastime. Nevertheless, he would be happy enough to be subject to Lord Chiltern’s wrath for such a reason. He would do his duty by Lord Chilte
rn; and then, when that had been adequately done, he would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself.

  “You are too sudden with her, Chiltern,” he said, after a pause.

  “What do you mean by too sudden?” said Lord Chiltern, almost angrily.

  “You frighten her by being so impetuous. You rush at her as though you wanted to conquer her by a single blow.”

  “So I do.”

  “You should be more gentle with her. You should give her time to find out whether she likes you or not.”

  “She has known me all her life, and has found that out long ago. Not but what you are right. I know you are right. If I were you, and had your skill in pleasing, I should drop soft words into her ear till I had caught her. But I have no gifts in that way. I am as awkward as a pig at what is called flirting. And I have an accursed pride which stands in my own light. If she were in this house this moment, and if I knew she were to be had for asking, I don’t think I could bring myself to ask again. But we’ll go to bed. It’s half-past two, and we must be off at half-past nine, if we’re to be at Exton Park gates at eleven.”