Part 32 (2/2)
”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?
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