The Palliser Novels (367 page)

“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?

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, the preservation of foxes, the maintenance of good humour with the farmers, the proper compensation for poultry really killed by four-legged favourites, the growth and arrangement of coverts, the lying-in of vixens, and the subsequent guardianship of nurseries, the persecution of enemies, and the warm protection of friends, — when he follows the sport, accomplishing all the concomitant duties of a true sportsman, he has not much time left for anything. Such a one as Mr. Spooner of Spoon Hall finds that his off day is occupied from breakfast to dinner with grooms, keepers, old women with turkeys’ heads, and gentlemen in velveteens with information about wires and unknown earths, His letters fall naturally to the Sunday afternoon, and are hardly written before sleep overpowers him. Many a large fortune has been made with less of true devotion to the work than is given to hunting by so genuine a sportsman as Mr. Spooner.

Our friend had some inkling of this himself, and felt that many of the less important affairs of his life were neglected because he was so true to the one great object of his existence. He had wisely endeavoured to prevent wrack and ruin among the affairs of Spoon Hall, — and had thoroughly succeeded by joining his cousin Ned with himself in the administration of his estate, — but there were things which Ned with all his zeal and all his cleverness could not do for him. He was conscious that had he been as remiss in the matter of hunting, as that hard-riding but otherwise idle young scamp, Gerard Maule, he might have succeeded much better than he had hitherto done with Adelaide Palliser. “Hanging about and philandering, that’s what they want,” he said to his cousin Ned.

“I suppose it is,” said Ned. “I was fond of a girl once myself, and I hung about a good deal. But we hadn’t sixpence between us.”

“That was Polly Maxwell. I remember. You behaved very badly then.”

“Very badly, Tom; about as bad as a man could behave, — and she was as bad. I loved her with all my heart, and I told her so. And she told me the same. There never was anything worse. We had just nothing between us, and nobody to give us anything.”

“It doesn’t pay; does it, Ned, that kind of thing?”

“It doesn’t pay at all. I wouldn’t give her up, — nor she me. She was about as pretty a girl as I remember to have seen.”

“I suppose you were a decent-looking fellow in those days yourself. They say so, but I never quite believed it.”

“There wasn’t much in that,” said Ned. “Girls don’t want a man to be good-looking, but that he should speak up and not be afraid of them. There were lots of fellows came after her. You remember Blinks, of the Carabineers. He was full of money, and he asked her three times. She is an old maid to this day, and is living as companion to some crusty crochetty countess.”

“I think you did behave badly, Ned. Why didn’t you set her free?”

“Of course, I behaved badly. And why didn’t she set me free, if you come to that? I might have found a female Blinks of my own, — only for her. I wonder whether it will come against us when we die, and whether we shall be brought up together to receive punishment.”

“Not if you repent, I suppose,” said Tom Spooner, very seriously.

“I sometimes ask myself whether she has repented. I made her swear that she’d never give me up. She might have broken her word a score of times, and I wish she had.”

“I think she was a fool, Ned.”

“Of course she was a fool. She knows that now, I dare say. And perhaps she has repented. Do you mean to try it again with that girl at Harrington Hall?”

Mr. Thomas Spooner did mean to try it again with the girl at Harrington Hall. He had never quite trusted the note which he had got from his friend Chiltern, and had made up his mind that, to say the least of it, there had been very little friendship shown in the letter. Had Chiltern meant to have stood to him “like a brick,” as he ought to have stood by his right hand man in the Brake country, at any rate a fair chance might have been given him. “Where the devil would he be in such a country as this without me,” — Tom had said to his cousin, — “not knowing a soul, and with all the shooting men against him? I might have had the hounds myself, — and might have ‘em now if I cared to take them. It’s not standing by a fellow as he ought to do. He writes to me, by George, just as he might do to some fellow who never had a fox about his place.”

“I suppose he didn’t put the two things together,” said Ned Spooner.

“I hate a fellow that can’t put two things together. If I stand to you you’ve a right to stand to me. That’s what you mean by putting two things together. I mean to have another shy at her. She has quarrelled with that fellow Maule altogether. I’ve learned that from the gardener’s girl at Harrington.”

Yes, — he would make another attempt. All history, all romance, all poetry and all prose, taught him that perseverance in love was generally crowned with success, — that true love rarely was crowned with success except by perseverance. Such a simple little tale of boy’s passion as that told him by his cousin had no attraction for him. A wife would hardly be worth having, and worth keeping, so won. And all proverbs were on his side. “None but the brave deserve the fair,” said his cousin. “I shall stick to it,” said Tom Spooner. “
Labor omnia vincit
,” said his cousin. But what should be his next step? Gerard Maule had been sent away with a flea in his ear, — so, at least, Mr. Spooner asserted, and expressed an undoubting opinion that this imperative dismissal had come from the fact that Gerard Maule, when “put through his facings” about income was not able to “show the money.” “She’s not one of your Polly Maxwells, Ned.” Ned said that he supposed she was not one of that sort. “Heaven knows I couldn’t show the money,” said Ned, “but that didn’t make her any wiser.” Then Tom gave it as his opinion that Miss Palliser was one of those young women who won’t go anywhere without having everything about them. “She could have her own carriage with me, and her own horses, and her own maid, and everything.”

“Her own way into the bargain,” said Ned. Whereupon Tom Spooner winked, and suggested that that might be as things turned out after the marriage. He was quite willing to run his chance for that.

But how was he to get at her to prosecute his suit? As to writing to her direct, — he didn’t much believe in that. “It looks as though one were afraid of her, you know; — which I ain’t the least. I stood up to her before, and I wasn’t a bit more nervous than I am at this moment. Were you nervous in that affair with Miss Maxwell?”

“Ah; — it’s a long time ago. There wasn’t much nervousness there.”

“A sort of milkmaid affair?”

“Just that.”

“That is different, you know. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll just drive slap over to Harrington and chance it. I’ll take the two bays in the phaeton. Who’s afraid?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Ned.

“Old Chiltern is such a d–––– cantankerous fellow, and perhaps Lady C. may say that I oughtn’t to have taken advantage of her absence. But, what’s the odds? If she takes me there’ll be an end of it. If she don’t, they can’t eat me.”

“The only thing is whether they’ll let you in.”

“I’ll try at any rate,” said Tom, “and you shall go over with me. You won’t mind trotting about the grounds while I’m carrying on the war inside? I’ll take the two bays, and Dick Farren behind, and I don’t think there’s a prettier got-up trap in the county. We’ll go to-morrow.”

And on the morrow they did start, having heard on that very morning of the arrest of Phineas Finn. “By George, don’t it feel odd,” said Tom just as they started, — “a fellow that we used to know down here, having him out hunting and all that, and now he’s — a murderer! Isn’t it a coincidence?”

“It startles one,” said Ned.

“That’s what I mean. It’s such a strange thing that it should be the man we know ourselves. These things always are happening to me. Do you remember when poor Fred Fellows got his bad fall and died the next year? You weren’t here then.”

“I’ve heard you speak of it.”

“I was in the very same field, and should have been the man to pick him up, only the hounds had just turned to the left. It’s very odd that these coincidences always are happening to some men and never do happen to others. It makes one feel that he’s marked out, you know.”

“I hope you’ll be marked out by victory to-day.”

“Well; — yes. That’s more important just now than Mr. Bonteen’s murder. Do you know, I wish you’d drive. These horses are pulling, and I don’t want to be all in a flurry when I get to Harrington.” Now it was a fact very well known to all concerned with Spoon Hall, that there was nothing as to which the Squire was so jealous as the driving of his own horses. He would never trust the reins to a friend, and even Ned had hardly ever been allowed the honour of the whip when sitting with his cousin. “I’m apt to get red in the face when I’m overheated,” said Tom as he made himself comfortable and easy in the left hand seat.