“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 percent 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 percent 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?
LIII
None but the Brave Deserve the Fair
Though Mr. Robert Kennedy was lying dead at Loughlinter, and though Phineas Finn, a member of Parliament, was in prison, accused of murdering another member of Parliament, still the world went on with its old ways, down in the neighbourhood of Harrington Hall and Spoon Hall as at other places. The hunting with the Brake hounds was now over for the season—had indeed been brought to an auspicious end three weeks since—and such gentlemen as Thomas Spooner had time on their hands to look about their other concerns. When a man hunts five days a week, regardless of distances, and devotes a due proportion of his energies to the necessary circumstances of hunting,
