MR. KENNEDY'S WILL.
Mr. Kennedy had fired a pistol at Phineas Finn in Macpherson's Hotel
with the manifest intention of blowing out the brains of his presumed
enemy, and no public notice had been taken of the occurrence. Phineas
himself had been only too willing to pass the thing by as a trifling
accident, if he might be allowed to do so, and the Macphersons had
been by far too true to their great friend to think of giving him in
charge to the police. The affair had been talked about, and had come
to the knowledge of reporters and editors. Most of the newspapers had
contained paragraphs giving various accounts of the matter; and one
or two had followed the example of The People's Banner in demanding
that the police should investigate the matter. But the matter had not
been investigated. The police were supposed to know nothing about
it,--as how should they, no one having seen or heard the shot but
they who were determined to be silent? Mr. Quintus Slide had been
indignant all in vain, so far as Mr. Kennedy and his offence had
been concerned. As soon as the pistol had been fired and Phineas
had escaped from the room, the unfortunate man had sunk back in
his chair, conscious of what he had done, knowing that he had
made himself subject to the law, and expecting every minute that
constables would enter the room to seize him. He had seen his enemy's
hat lying on the floor, and, when nobody would come to fetch it, had
thrown it down the stairs. After that he had sat waiting for the
police, with the pistol, still loaded in every barrel but one, lying
by his side,--hardly repenting the attempt, but trembling for the
result,--till Macpherson, the landlord, who had been brought home
from chapel, knocked at his door. There was very little said between
them; and no positive allusion was made to the shot that had been
fired; but Macpherson succeeded in getting the pistol into his
possession,--as to which the unfortunate man put no impediment in
his way, and he managed to have it understood that Mr. Kennedy's
cousin should be summoned on the following morning. "Is anybody else
coming?" Robert Kennedy asked, when the landlord was about to leave
the room. "Naebody as I ken o', yet, laird," said Macpherson, "but
likes they will." Nobody, however, did come, and the "laird" had
spent the evening by himself in very wretched solitude.
On the following day the cousin had come, and to him the whole story
was told. After that, no difficulty was found in taking the miserable
man back to Loughlinter, and there he had been for the last two
months in the custody of his more wretched mother and of his cousin.
No legal steps had been taken to deprive him of the management either
of himself or of his property,--so that he was in truth his own
master. And he exercised his mastery in acts of petty tyranny about
his domain, becoming more and more close-fisted in regard to money,
and desirous, as it appeared, of starving all living things about the
place,--cattle, sheep, and horses, so that the value of their food
might be saved. But every member of the establishment knew that the
laird was "nae just himself," and consequently his orders were not
obeyed. And the laird knew the same of himself, and, though he would
give the orders not only resolutely, but with imperious threats of
penalties to follow disobedience, still he did not seem to expect
compliance. While he was in this state, letters addressed to him came
for a while into his own hands, and thus more than one reached him
from Lord Brentford's lawyer, demanding that restitution should be
made of the interest arising from Lady Laura's fortune. Then he would
fly out into bitter wrath, calling his wife foul names, and swearing
that she should never have a farthing of his money to spend upon her
paramour. Of course it was his money, and his only. All the world
knew that. Had she not left his roof, breaking her marriage vows,
throwing aside every duty, and bringing him down to his present state
of abject misery? Her own fortune! If she wanted the interest of her
wretched money, let her come to Loughlinter and receive it there. In
spite of all her wickedness, her cruelty, her misconduct, which had
brought him,--as he now said,--to the verge of the grave, he would
still give her shelter and room for repentance. He recognised his
vows, though she did not. She should still be his wife, though she
had utterly disgraced both herself and him. She should still be his
wife, though she had so lived as to make it impossible that there
should be any happiness in their household.
It was thus he spoke when first one and then another letter came
from the Earl's lawyer, pointing out to him the injustice to which
Lady Laura was subjected by the loss of her fortune. No doubt these
letters would not have been written in the line assumed had not Mr.
Kennedy proved himself to be unfit to have the custody of his wife
by attempting to shoot the man whom he accused of being his wife's
lover. An act had been done, said the lawyer, which made it quite
out of the question that Lady Laura should return to her husband.
To this, when speaking of the matter to those around him,--which he
did with an energy which seemed to be foreign to his character,--Mr.
Kennedy made no direct allusion; but he swore most positively that
not a shilling should be given up. The fear of policemen coming down
to Loughlinter to take account of that angry shot had passed away;
and, though he knew, with an uncertain knowledge, that he was not in
all respects obeyed as he used to be,--that his orders were disobeyed
by stewards and servants, in spite of his threats of dismissal,--he
still felt that he was sufficiently his own master to defy the Earl's
attorney and to maintain his claim upon his wife's person. Let her
return to him first of all!
But after a while the cousin interfered still further; and Robert
Kennedy, who so short a time since had been a member of the
Government, graced by permission to sit in the Cabinet, was not
allowed to open his own post-bag. He had written a letter to one
person, and then again to another, which had induced those who
received them to return answers to the cousin. To Lord Brentford's
lawyer he had used a few very strong words. Mr. Forster had replied
to the cousin, stating how grieved Lord Brentford would be, how much
grieved would be Lady Laura, to find themselves driven to take steps
in reference to what they conceived to be the unfortunate condition
of Mr. Robert Kennedy; but that such steps must be taken unless some
arrangement could be made which should be at any rate reasonable.
Then Mr. Kennedy's post-bag was taken from him; the letters which
he wrote were not sent;--and he took to his bed. It was during this
condition of affairs that the cousin took upon himself to intimate
to Mr. Forster that the managers of Mr. Kennedy's estate were by
no means anxious of embarrassing their charge by so trumpery an
additional matter as the income derived from Lady Laura's forty
thousand pounds.
But things were in a terrible confusion at Loughlinter. Rents were
paid as heretofore on receipts given by Robert Kennedy's agent; but
the agent could only pay the money to Robert Kennedy's credit at his
bank. Robert Kennedy's cheques would, no doubt, have drawn the money
out again;--but it was almost impossible to induce Robert Kennedy
to sign a cheque. Even in bed he inquired daily about his money,
and knew accurately the sum lying at his banker's; but he could be
persuaded to disgorge nothing. He postponed from day to day the
signing of certain cheques that were brought to him, and alleged very
freely that an attempt was being made to rob him. During all his life
he had been very generous in subscribing to public charities; but
now he stopped all his subscriptions. The cousin had to provide even
for the payment of wages, and things went very badly at Loughlinter.
Then there arose the question whether legal steps should be taken for
placing the management of the estate in other hands, on the ground
of the owner's insanity. But the wretched old mother begged that
this might not be done;--and Dr. Macnuthrie, from Callender, was of
opinion that no steps should be taken at present. Mr. Kennedy was
very ill,--very ill indeed; would take no nourishment, and seemed to
be sinking under the pressure of his misfortunes. Any steps such as
those suggested would probably send their friend out of the world at
once.
In fact Robert Kennedy was dying;--and in the first week of May, when
the beauty of the spring was beginning to show itself on the braes of
Loughlinter, he did die. The old woman, his mother, was seated by his
bedside, and into her ears he murmured his last wailing complaint.
"If she had the fear of God before her eyes, she would come back
to me." "Let us pray that He may soften her heart," said the old
lady. "Eh, mother;--nothing can soften the heart Satan has hardened,
till it be hard as the nether millstone." And in that faith he died
believing, as he had ever believed, that the spirit of evil was
stronger than the spirit of good.
[Illustration: "He may soften her heart."]
For some time past there had been perturbation in the mind of that
cousin, and of all other Kennedys of that ilk, as to the nature of
the will of the head of the family. It was feared lest he should have
been generous to the wife who was believed by them all to have been
so wicked and treacherous to her husband;--and so it was found to be
when the will was read. During the last few months no one near him
had dared to speak to him of his will, for it had been known that
his condition of mind rendered him unfit to alter it; nor had he
ever alluded to it himself. As a matter of course there had been a
settlement, and it was supposed that Lady Laura's own money would
revert to her; but when it was found that in addition to this the
Loughlinter estate became hers for life, in the event of Mr. Kennedy
dying without a child, there was great consternation among the
Kennedys generally. There were but two or three of them concerned,
and for those there was money enough; but it seemed to them now that
the bad wife, who had utterly refused to acclimatise herself to the
soil to which she had been transplanted, was to be rewarded for her
wicked stubbornness. Lady Laura would become mistress of her own
fortune and of all Loughlinter, and would be once more a free woman,
with all the power that wealth and fashion can give. Alas, alas! it
was too late now for the taking of any steps to sever her from her
rich inheritance! "And the false harlot will come and play havoc
here, in my son's mansion," said the old woman with extremest
bitterness.
The tidings were conveyed to Lady Laura through her lawyer, but did
not reach her in full till some eight or ten days after the news of
her husband's death. The telegram announcing that event had come to
her at her father's house in Portman Square, on the day after that
on which Phineas had been arrested, and the Earl had of course known
that his great longing for the recovery of his wife's fortune had
been now realised. To him there was no sorrow in the news. He had
only known Robert Kennedy as one who had been thoroughly disagreeable
to himself, and who had persecuted his daughter throughout
their married life. There had come no happiness,--not even
prosperity,--through the marriage. His daughter had been forced to
leave the man's house,--and had been forced also to leave her money
behind her. Then she had been driven abroad, fearing persecution, and
had only dared to return when the man's madness became so notorious
as to annul his power of annoying her. Now by his death, a portion
of the injury which he had inflicted on the great family of Standish
would be remedied. The money would come back,--together with the
stipulated jointure,--and there could no longer be any question of
return. The news delighted the old Lord,--and he was almost angry
with his daughter because she also would not confess her delight.
"Oh, Papa, he was my husband."
"Yes, yes, no doubt. I was always against it, you will remember."
"Pray do not talk in that way now, Papa. I know that I was not to him
what I should have been."
"You used to say it was all his fault."
"We will not talk of it now, Papa. He is gone, and I remember his
past goodness to me."
She clothed herself in the deepest of mourning, and made herself a
thing of sorrow by the sacrificial uncouthness of her garments. And
she tried to think of him;--to think of him, and not to think of
Phineas Finn. She remembered with real sorrow the words she had
spoken to her sister-in-law, in which she had declared, while still
the wife of another man, that she would willingly marry Phineas at
the foot even of the gallows if she were free. She was free now; but
she did not repeat her assertion. It was impossible not to think of
Phineas in his present strait, but she abstained from speaking of him
as far as she could, and for the present never alluded to her former
purpose of visiting him in his prison.
From day to day, for the first few days of her widowhood, she heard
what was going on. The evidence against him became stronger and
stronger, whereas the other man, Yosef Mealyus, had been already
liberated. There were still many who felt sure that Mealyus had been
the murderer, among whom were all those who had been ranked among
the staunch friends of our hero. The Chilterns so believed, and Lady
Laura; the Duchess so believed, and Madame Goesler. Mr. Low felt sure
of it, and Mr. Monk and Lord Cantrip; and nobody was more sure than
Mrs. Bunce. There were many who professed that they doubted; men such
as Barrington Erle, Laurence Fitzgibbon, the two Dukes,--though the
younger Duke never expressed such doubt at home,--and Mr. Gresham
himself. Indeed, the feeling of Parliament in general was one of
great doubt. Mr. Daubeny never expressed an opinion one way or the
other, feeling that the fate of two second-class Liberals could
not be matter of concern to him;--but Sir Orlando Drought, and Mr.
Roby, and Mr. Boffin, were as eager as though they had not been
Conservatives, and were full of doubt. Surely, if Phineas Finn were
not the murderer, he had been more ill-used by Fate than had been any
man since Fate first began to be unjust. But there was also a very
strong party by whom no doubt whatever was entertained as to his
guilt,--at the head of which, as in duty bound, was the poor widow,
Mrs. Bonteen. She had no doubt as to the hand by which her husband
had fallen, and clamoured loudly for the vengeance of the law. All
the world, she said, knew how bitter against her husband had been
this wretch, whose villainy had been exposed by her dear, gracious
lord; and now the evidence against him was, to her thinking,
complete. She was supported strongly by Lady Eustace, who, much as
she wished not to be the wife of the Bohemian Jew, thought even that
preferable to being known as the widow of a murderer who had been
hung. Mr. Ratler, with one or two others in the House, was certain
of Finn's guilt. The People's Banner, though it prefaced each
one of its daily paragraphs on the subject with a statement as to
the manifest duty of an influential newspaper to abstain from the
expression of any opinion on such a subject till the question had
been decided by a jury, nevertheless from day to day recapitulated
the evidence against the Member for Tankerville, and showed how
strong were the motives which had existed for such a deed. But, among
those who were sure of Finn's guilt, there was no one more sure than
Lord Fawn, who had seen the coat and the height of the man,--and the
step. He declared among his intimate friends that of course he could
not swear to the person. He could not venture, when upon his oath,
to give an opinion. But the man who had passed him at so quick a
pace had been half a foot higher than Mealyus;--of that there could
be no doubt. Nor could there be any doubt as to the grey coat. Of
course there might be other men with grey coats besides Mr. Phineas
Finn,--and other men half a foot taller than Yosef Mealyus. And there
might be other men with that peculiarly energetic step. And the man
who hurried by him might not have been the man who murdered Mr.
Bonteen. Of all that Lord Fawn could say nothing. But what he did
say,--of that he was sure. And all those who knew him were well aware
that in his own mind he was convinced of the guilt of Phineas Finn.
And there was another man equally convinced. Mr. Maule, Senior,
remembered well the manner in which Madame Goesler spoke of Phineas
Finn in reference to the murder, and was quite sure that Phineas was
the murderer.
For a couple of days Lord Chiltern was constantly with the poor
prisoner, but after that he was obliged to return to Harrington
Hall. This he did a day after the news arrived of the death of his
brother-in-law. Both he and Lady Chiltern had promised to return
home, having left Adelaide Palliser alone in the house, and already
they had overstayed their time. "Of course I will remain with you,"
Lady Chiltern had said to her sister-in-law; but the widow had
preferred to be left alone. For these first few days,--when she must
make pretence of sorrow because her husband had died; and had such
real cause for sorrow in the miserable condition of the man she
loved,--she preferred to be alone. Who could sympathise with her now,
or with whom could she speak of her grief? Her father was talking to
her always of her money;--but from him she could endure it. She was
used to him, and could remember when he spoke to her of her forty
thousand pounds, and of her twelve hundred a year of jointure, that
it had not always been with him like that. As yet nothing had been
heard of the will, and the Earl did not in the least anticipate any
further accession of wealth from the estate of the man whom they had
all hated. But his daughter would now be a rich woman; and was yet
young, and there might still be splendour. "I suppose you won't care
to buy land," he said.
"Oh, Papa, do not talk of buying anything yet."
"But, my dear Laura, you must put your money into something. You can
get very nearly 5 per cent. from Indian Stock."
"Not yet, Papa," she said. But he proceeded to explain to her how
very important an affair money is, and that persons who have got
money cannot be excused for not considering what they had better do
with it. No doubt she could get 4 per cent. on her money by buying up
certain existing mortgages on the Saulsby property,--which would no
doubt be very convenient if, hereafter, the money should go to her
brother's child. "Not yet, Papa," she said again, having, however,
already made up her mind that her money should have a different
destination.
She could not interest her father at all in the fate of Phineas Finn.
When the story of the murder had first been told to him, he had been
amazed,--and, no doubt, somewhat gratified, as we all are, at tragic
occurrences which do not concern ourselves. But he could not be made
to tremble for the fate of Phineas Finn. And yet he had known the man
during the last few years most intimately, and had had much in common
with him. He had trusted Phineas in respect to his son, and had
trusted him also in respect to his daughter. Phineas had been his
guest at Dresden; and, on his return to London, had been the first
friend he had seen, with the exception of his lawyer. And yet he
could hardly be induced to express the slightest interest as to
the fate of this friend who was to be tried for murder. "Oh;--he's
committed, is he? I think I remember that Protheroe once told me
that, in thirty-nine cases out of forty, men committed for serious
offences have been guilty of them." The Protheroe here spoken of as
an authority in criminal matters was at present Lord Weazeling, the
Lord Chancellor.
"But Mr. Finn has not been guilty, Papa."
"There is always the one chance out of forty. But, as I was saying,
if you like to take up the Saulsby mortgages, Mr. Forster can't be
told too soon."
"Papa, I shall do nothing of the kind," said Lady Laura. And then she
rose and walked out of the room.
At the end of ten days from the death of Mr. Kennedy, there came the
tidings of the will. Lady Laura had written to Mrs. Kennedy a letter
which had taken her much time in composition, expressing her deep
sorrow, and condoling with the old woman. And the old woman had
answered. "Madam, I am too old now to express either grief or anger.
My dear son's death, caused by domestic wrong, has robbed me of any
remaining comfort which the undeserved sorrows of his latter years
had not already dispelled. Your obedient servant, Sarah Kennedy."
From which it may be inferred that she had also taken considerable
trouble in the composition of her letter. Other communications
between Loughlinter and Portman Square there were none, but there
came through the lawyers a statement of Mr. Kennedy's will, as far as
the interests of Lady Laura were concerned. This reached Mr. Forster
first, and he brought it personally to Portman Square. He asked for
Lady Laura, and saw her alone. "He has bequeathed to you the use of
Loughlinter for your life, Lady Laura."
"To me!"
"Yes, Lady Laura. The will is dated in the first year of his
marriage, and has not been altered since."
"What can I do with Loughlinter? I will give it back to them." Then
Mr. Forster explained that the legacy referred not only to the house
and immediate grounds,--but to the whole estate known as the domain
of Loughlinter. There could be no reason why she should give it up,
but very many why she should not do so. Circumstanced as Mr. Kennedy
had been, with no one nearer to him than a first cousin, with a
property purchased with money saved by his father,--a property to
which no cousin could by inheritance have any claim,--he could not
have done better with it than to leave it to his widow in fault of
any issue of his own. Then the lawyer explained that were she to give
it up, the world would of course say that she had done so from a
feeling of her own unworthiness. "Why should I feel myself to be
unworthy?" she asked. The lawyer smiled, and told her that of course
she would retain Loughlinter.
Then, at her request, he was taken to the Earl's room and there
repeated the good news. Lady Laura preferred not to hear her father's
first exultations. But while this was being done she also exulted.
Might it not still be possible that there should be before her a
happy evening to her days; and that she might stand once more beside
the falls of Linter, contented, hopeful, nay, almost glorious, with
her hand in his to whom she had once refused her own on that very
spot?