Part 92 (1/2)
”No;--he is not here. He would not come. I came alone.”
”Is not Miss Effingham with you?”
”No;--she is to come with my father later. She is here no doubt, now.
But answer my question, Mr. Finn;--unless you find that you cannot answer it. What was it that you did say to my husband?”
”Nothing to justify what he has told you.”
”Do you mean to say that he has spoken falsely?”
”I mean to use no harsh word,--but I think that Mr. Kennedy when troubled in his spirit looks at things gloomily, and puts meaning upon words which they should not bear.”
”And what has troubled his spirit?”
”You must know that better than I can do, Lady Laura. I will tell you all that I can tell you. He invited me to his house and I would not go, because you had forbidden me. Then he asked me some questions about you. Did I refuse because of you,--or of anything that you had said? If I remember right, I told him that I did fancy that you would not be glad to see me,--and that therefore I would rather stay away.
What was I to say?”
”You should have said nothing.”
”Nothing with him would have been worse than what I did say. Remember that he asked me the question point-blank, and that no reply would have been equal to an affirmation. I should have confessed that his suggestion was true.”
”He could not then have twitted me with your words.”
”If I have erred, Lady Laura, and brought any sorrow on you, I am indeed grieved.”
”It is all sorrow. There is nothing but sorrow. I have made up my mind to leave him.”
”Oh, Lady Laura!”
”It is very bad,--but not so bad, I think, as the life I am now leading. He has accused me--, of what do you think? He says that you are my lover!”
”He did not say that,--in those words?”
”He said it in words which made me feel that I must part from him.”
”And how did you answer him?”
”I would not answer him at all. If he had come to me like a man,--not accusing me, but asking me,--I would have told him everything. And what was there to tell? I should have broken my faith to you, in speaking of that scene at Loughlinter, but women always tell such stories to their husbands when their husbands are good to them, and true, and just. And it is well that they should be told. But to Mr.
Kennedy I can tell nothing. He does not believe my word.”
”Not believe you, Lady Laura?”
”No! Because I did not blurt out to him all that story about your foolish duel,--because I thought it best to keep my brother's secret, as long as there was a secret to be kept, he told me that I had,--lied to him!”
”What!--with that word?”
”Yes,--with that very word. He is not particular about his words, when he thinks it necessary to express himself strongly. And he has told me since that because of that he could never believe me again.
How is it possible that a woman should live with such a man?” But why did she come to him with this story,--to him whom she had been accused of entertaining as a lover;--to him who of all her friends was the last whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such a tale? Phineas as he thought how he might best answer her, with what words he might try to comfort her, could not but ask himself this question. ”The moment that the word was out of his mouth,” she went on to say, ”I resolved that I would tell you. The accusation is against you as it is against me, and is equally false to both. I have written to him, and there is my letter.”
”But you will see him again?”