The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Why not I, as well as you?”

  “If you do not understand, I cannot tell you. But you must not see him; — and you shall not.”

  “Who will hinder me?”

  “If you put me to it, I will see that you are hindered. What is the man to you that you should run the risk of evil tongues, for the sake of visiting him in gaol? You cannot save his life, — though it may be that you might endanger it.”

  “Oswald,” she said very slowly, “I do not know that I am in any way under your charge, or bound to submit to your orders.”

  “You are my sister.”

  “And I have loved you as a sister. How should it be possible that my seeing him should endanger his life?”

  “It will make people think that the things are true which have been said.”

  “And will they hang him because I love him? I do love him. Violet knows how well I have always loved him.” Lord Chiltern turned his angry face upon his wife. Lady Chiltern put her arm round her sister-in-law’s waist, and whispered some words into her ear. “What is that to me?” continued the half-frantic woman. “I do love him. I have always loved him. I shall love him to the end. He is all my life to me.”

  “Shame should prevent your telling it,” said Lord Chiltern.

  “I feel no shame. There is no disgrace in love. I did disgrace myself when I gave the hand for which he asked to another man, because, — because — ” But she was too noble to tell her brother even then that at the moment of her life to which she was alluding she had married the rich man, rejecting the poor man’s hand, because she had given up all her fortune to the payment of her brother’s debts. And he, though he had well known what he had owed to her, and had never been easy till he had paid the debt, remembered nothing of all this now. No lending and paying back of money could alter the nature either of his feelings or his duty in such an emergency as this. “And, mind you,” she continued, turning to her sister-in-law, “there is no place for the shame of which he is thinking,” and she pointed her finger out at her brother. “I love him, — as a mother might love her child, I fancy; but he has no love for me; none; — none. When I am with him, I am only a trouble to him. He comes to me, because he is good; but he would sooner be with you. He did love me once; — but then I could not afford to be so loved.”

  “You can do no good by seeing him,” said her brother.

  “But I will see him. You need not scowl at me as though you wished to strike me. I have gone through that which makes me different from other women, and I care not what they say of me. Violet understands it all; — but you understand nothing.”

  “Be calm, Laura,” said her sister-in-law, “and Oswald will do all that can be done.”

  “But they will hang him.”

  “Nonsense!” said her brother. “He has not been as yet committed for his trial. Heaven knows how much has to be done. It is as likely as not that in three days’ time he will be out at large, and all the world will be running after him just because he has been in Newgate.”

  “But who will look after him?”

  “He has plenty of friends. I will see that he is not left without everything that he wants.”

  “But he will want money.”

  “He has plenty of money for that. Do you take it quietly, and not make a fool of yourself. If the worst comes to the worst — “

  “Oh, heavens!”

  “Listen to me, if you can listen. Should the worst come to the worst, which I believe to be altogether impossible, — mind, I think it next to impossible, for I have never for a moment believed him to be guilty, — we will, — visit him, — together. Good-bye now. I am going to see that friend of his, Mr. Low.” So saying Lord Chiltern went, leaving the two women together.

  “Why should he be so savage with me?” said Lady Laura.

  “He does not mean to be savage.”

  “Does he speak to you like that? What right has he to tell me of shame? Has my life been so bad, and his so good? Do you think it shameful that I should love this man?” She sat looking into her friend’s face, but her friend for a while hesitated to answer. “You shall tell me, Violet. We have known each other so well that I can bear to be told by you. Do not you love him?”

  “I love him! — certainly not.”

  “But you did.”

  “Not as you mean. Who can define love, and say what it is? There are so many kinds of love. We say that we love the Queen.”

  “Psha!”

  “And we are to love all our neighbours. But as men and women talk of love, I never at any moment of my life loved any man but my husband. Mr. Finn was a great favourite with me, — always.”

  “Indeed he was.”

  “As any other man might be, — or any woman. He is so still, and with all my heart I hope that this may be untrue.”

  “It is false as the Devil. It must be false. Can you think of the man, — his sweetness, the gentle nature of him, his open, free speech, and courage, and believe that he would go behind his enemy and knock his brains out in the dark? I can conceive it of myself, that I should do it, much easier than of him.”

  “Oswald says it is false.”

  “But he says it as partly believing that it is true. If it be true I will hang myself. There will be nothing left among men or women fit to live for. You think it shameful that I should love him.”

  “I have not said so.”

  “But you do.”

  “I think there is cause for shame in your confessing it.”

  “I do confess it.”

  “You ask me, and press me, and because we have loved one another so well I must answer you. If a woman, a married woman, — be oppressed by such a feeling, she should lay it down at the bottom of her heart, out of sight, never mentioning it, even to herself.”

  “You talk of the heart as though we could control it.”

  “The heart will follow the thoughts, and they may be controlled. I am not passionate, perhaps, as you are, and I think I can control my heart. But my fortune has been kind to me, and I have never been tempted. Laura, do not think I am preaching to you.”

  “Oh no; — but your husband; think of him, and think of mine! You have babies.”

  “May God make me thankful. I have every good thing on earth that God can give.”

  “And what have I? To see that man prosper in life, who they tell me is a murderer; that man who is now in a felon’s gaol, — whom they will hang for ought we know, — to see him go forward and justify my thoughts of him! that yesterday was all I had. To-day I have nothing, — except the shame with which you and Oswald say that I have covered myself.”

  “Laura, I have never said so.”

  “I saw it in your eye when he accused me. And I know that it is shameful. I do know that I am covered with shame. But I can bear my own disgrace better than his danger.” After a long pause, — a silence of probably some fifteen minutes, — she spoke again. “If Robert should die, — what would happen then?”

  “It would be — a release, I suppose,” said Lady Chiltern in a voice so low, that it was almost a whisper.

  “A release indeed; — and I would become that man’s wife the next day, at the foot of the gallows; — if he would have me. But he would not have me.”

  CHAPTER LII

  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 ha
d 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.

  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 wi
ll, 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.