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.
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
