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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8012ee5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50177 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50177) diff --git a/old/50177-0.txt b/old/50177-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 31924c5..0000000 --- a/old/50177-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10522 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fourth Generation, by Walter Besant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Fourth Generation - -Author: Walter Besant - -Release Date: October 10, 2015 [EBook #50177] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOURTH GENERATION *** - - - - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - _The Fourth Generation_ - - - - - _The FOURTH - GENERATION_ - - _BY_ - - _SIR WALTER BESANT_ - - _Author of_ - - “ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,” “THE MASTER - CRAFTSMAN,” “A FOUNTAIN SEALED,” “THE - CITY OF REFUGE,” ETC. - - [Illustration: colophon] - - _FOURTH EDITION_ - - _NEW YORK_ - - _Frederick A. Stokes Company_ - - _Publishers_ - - COPYRIGHT, 1899, 1900, - BY WALTER BESANT. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAPTER PAGE - -I. A REMOTE ANCESTOR 1 - -II. WHAT HE WANTED 24 - -III. SOMETHING TO COME 49 - -IV. THE COMPLETE SUPPLY 59 - -V. A LEARNED PROFESSION 74 - -VI. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 90 - -VII. THE CHILD OF SORROWS 103 - -VIII. IN THE LAND OF BEECHES 118 - -IX. MARY ANNE 151 - -X. A DINNER AT THE CLUB 164 - -XI. THE BOOK OF EXTRACTS 174 - -XII. ON THE SITE 202 - -XIII. A COMPROMISE 224 - -XIV. CONSULTATION 232 - -XV. “BARLOW BROTHERS” 248 - -XVI. AND ANOTHER CAME 258 - -XVII. YET ANOTHER! 278 - -XVIII. THE LIGHT THAT BROKE 290 - -XIX. THE SIGNS OF CHANGE 306 - -XX. HE SPEAKS AT LAST 322 - -XXI. THE WILL 341 - - - - -PREFACE - - -It is perhaps well to explain that this story first appeared as a serial -early in 1899: that on revision it was found desirable partly to rewrite -certain chapters and to enlarge upon certain points. The structure of -the story, the characters, and the situations remain unaltered. - -The question with which the story deals is not fully answered. It is one -of those questions which can never be answered; from time to time every -man must ask himself why the innocent must suffer, and do suffer every -day and in every generation, for the follies and the sins of their -forefathers. Every man must find his own answer, or must acknowledge -sorrowfully that he can find none. I venture to offer in these pages an -answer that satisfies myself. It substitutes consequence for punishment, -and puts effect that follows cause in place of penalties. And, as I hope -is made plain, it seems to me that I have no less an authority for this -view than the greatest of the Prophets of Israel. The consequences of -ancestral and paternal actions may be a blessing and a help: or they may -be a curse and a burden for generations; in either case they are -consequences which can only affect the body, or the mind, or the social -position of the descendants. They may make ambition impossible: they may -make action impossible: they may keep a man down among the rank and -file: but they cannot do more. The Prophet defines and limits their -power. And the consequences, whatever they are, may be made a ladder for -the soul to rise or a weight to drag it down. In the pages which follow -they are shown as to some a ladder, but to others a way of descent. - -W. B. - -UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB, -_June, 1900_. - - - - -THE FOURTH GENERATION - - - - -CHAPTER I - -A REMOTE ANCESTOR - - -It was a morning of early March, when a northeast wind ground together -the dry branches on which as yet there were no signs of coming spring; -the sky was covered by a grey cloud of one even shade, with no gleams of -light or streak of blue, or abatement or mitigation of the sombre hue; -the hedges showed as yet no flowers, not even the celandine; the earth -had as yet assumed no early vernal softening; there were no tender -shoots; dolefully the birds cowered on the branches, or flew up into the -ivy on the wall, where they waited for a milder time, with such patience -as hunger only half appeased would allow. Those who lived upon berries -and buds remembered with anxiety that they had already eaten up all the -haws and stripped the currant bushes of all their buds, and must now go -further afield; those who hunt the helpless chrysalis, and the slug and -the worm and the creeping creatures of the field, reflected that in such -weather it was impossible to turn over the hard earth in search of the -former, or to expect that the latter would leave their winter quarters -on such a day. At such a time, which for all created things is far worse -than any terrors offered by King Frost, the human creatures who go -abroad wrap themselves in their warmest, and hurry about their business -in haste, to finish it and get under shelter again. - -The south front of the house looked down upon a broad terrace paved with -red bricks; a balustrade of brick ran along the edge of the terrace; a -short but nobly designed and dignified flight of stairs led into the -garden, which began with a broad lawn. The house itself, of the early -eighteenth century, was stately and spacious; it consisted of two -stories only; it had narrow and very high windows; above the first-floor -windows ran a row of small circular louvres set in the roof, which was -of a high pitch and of red tiles; the chimneys were arranged in artistic -groups or stacks. The house had somewhat of a foreign appearance; it was -one of considerable pretension; it was a house which wanted to be -surrounded by ancient trees, by noble gardens and stately lawns, and to -be always kept deep in the country, far away from town houses and -streets; in the surroundings of a city, apart from gardens, lawns, park -and lordly trees, it would have been out of place and incongruous. The -warm red brick of which it was built had long since mellowed with age; -yellow lichen clung to the walls here and there; over one wing, that of -the west, ivy grew, covering the whole of that end of the house. - -The gardens were more stately than the house itself. They began with a -most noble lawn. On one side grew two cedars of Lebanon, sweeping the -bare earth with their drooping branches. On the other side rose three -glorious walnut-trees. The space between was a bowling-green, on which -no flower-beds had ever been permitted. Beyond the bowling-green, -however, were flower-beds in plenty. There were also box-trees cut into -the old-fashioned shapes which one only sees in old-fashioned gardens. -Beyond these was a narrow plantation of shrubs, mostly evergreen. Then -stretched out, in order, the ample kitchen-gardens, the crowded orchard, -and the “glass.” Here, also, were ranged the beehives in a row, for the -owners of the house were bee-masters as well as gardeners. - -The whole was stately. One was filled with admiration and respect for so -noble a house, so richly set, only by walking along the road outside the -park and gazing upon the house from a distance. There were, however, -certain bounds imposed upon the admiration and respect of the visitor. -These were called for, in fact, by the gardens, and the lawns, and the -“glass,” as they must have been in the past. As for the garden of the -present, it was difficult even to guess when the hand of man, the spade -of the gardener, had last touched any part of the place. Everything was -overgrown; weeds covered the ground which had once been beds of -asparagus and celery; the strawberry plants fought for existence with -thistles, and maintained it, by the sacrifice of fruit; couch grass and -those thistles, with shepherd’s-purse and all the weeds of the field, -covered and concealed the flower-beds. The lanes and walks were covered -ways, long since rendered impassable by reason of branches that had shot -across them; the artificial shapes of the box-trees, formerly so trim -and precise, showed cloudy and mysterious through the branches which had -grown up outside them; the bowling-green was covered with coarse grass -never mown from year to year. In the glass houses the doors stood open: -the glass was broken; the vines grew wild, pushing their way through the -broken panes. There could be no respect possible for a garden in such a -condition. Yet, the pity of it! the pity of it! So fine a place as it -had been, as it might again become, if gardeners were once more ordered -to restore it to its ancient splendours! - -If one turned from the garden and walked towards the house, he would -notice, first, that the stairs of brick leading to the terrace were a -good deal battered and broken; that many bricks had been displaced, that -weeds grew between the bricks, that in the balustrade there were places -where the square brick pillars were broken away; that if he mounted the -stairs, the brick pavement of the terrace showed holes and damaged -places here and there; that if he looked at the house itself he would -discern there, as well as in the garden, a certain air of neglect and -decay. The window-frames wanted painting, the door wanted painting, -there were no curtains or blinds visible anywhere; one or two panes of -glass were broken, and not even patched. Stately, even in decay, were -house and gardens; but the spectator shivered, as one shivers at the -sight of age and decay and death hovering over what should still be -rejoicing in the strength of manhood. - -On this morning, when the cold of winter ushered in the deceitful -spring, a man was walking to and fro on the brick terrace. He was a man -very far advanced in life. Cold as he was, he wore no overcoat; he had -no wrapper or handkerchief round his neck; he wore no gloves. - -When one looked more closely, he was not only advanced in years: he was -full of years--overfull, running over. His great age was apparent in the -innumerable lines of his face; not in the loss of his hair, for his -abundant white locks fell flowing, uncut and untrimmed, upon his -shoulders, while a full white beard lay over his ample chest. His age -was shown by the heightening of the cheek-bones and the increased -prominence of the nose, in the sunken mouth, and the thin lips, and the -deep-set eyes. But though his face had been roughly handled by time, his -frame seemed to have escaped any touch. Old as he was, he bore himself -upright still; he walked with a firm, if not an elastic, step; he -carried a stick, but did not use it. He was still six feet four, or -even more, in stature; his shoulders were still broad, his back was not -curved, nor was his huge, strong body bowed, nor were his strong legs -bent or weakened. Nothing could be more anomalous than the difference -between the man’s face, chipped and lined and covered with curves and -diagrams, like an Ordnance Survey map, and his figure, still so strong, -so erect, so vigorous. - -He walked from one end of the terrace to the other rapidly, and, so to -speak, resolutely. Then he turned and walked back. He look neither to -one side nor to the other; he was absorbed in some kind of meditation, -for his face was set. It was a stern face naturally; the subject of his -thoughts made it, perhaps, still harder and more stern. He wore a kind -of shooting-jacket, a broad-brimmed felt hat, stout boots fit for the -fields, and leggings, as if he were going to take out his gun, and he -carried his stick as if it had been a gun. A masterful man--that was -apparent at the outset; aggressive--that was also apparent at the -moment; defiant--of what? of whom? Evidently a man built originally as a -fighting man, endowed with great courage and enormous strength; -probably, also, with a quick temper; retaining still the courage, though -some of the strength had gone, and the fighting temperament, though his -fighting days were done. - -There was no sound about the place--no clatter of servants over their -work, no footsteps in the house or outside it, no trampling of horses -from the stables, or sight of gardeners working quietly among the -forlorn flower-beds: all was silent. And the cold wind whistled, and the -old man, without the common protection from the wintry wind, walked -methodically and rapidly from east to west and from west to east. - -So he went on all the morning, hour after hour, untiring over this -meaningless exercise. He began it at nine, and at half-past twelve he -was still marching in this aimless manner, turning neither to the right -nor to the left, and preserving unchanged that fixed expression which -might have meant patience--a very old man has to be patient--or it might -have been, as I have called it, defiance: a man who has known -misfortunes sometimes acquires this expression of defiance, as one who -bids Fortune do her very worst, and, when she can do no more, still -repeats with courage, ‘Come what may.’ - -In the distance, half a mile or so away, was a clock in a church-tower. -If one listened from the garden, one might hear the striking of the -hours; without waiting for it and expecting it, one would not hear the -clock at all. A melodious clock at a distance falls in with the general -whisper of the atmosphere. We call it silence, but, indeed, there is no -such thing in Nature. Silence would drive us mad. In the country we hear -a gentle whisper, tuneful and soothing, and we say it is the sweet -silence of the country; but it is not--it is the blend of all the -country sounds. - -The morning dragged on slowly. The beat of the old man’s footstep on the -terrace was as regular as the ticking of a clock. Neither in his -carriage, nor in his pace, nor in his face was there the least change. -He walked like a machine, and his face was as expressionless as any face -of idol or of an image. - -It was about eleven o’clock that another step might have been heard. The -step of a man on dry branches and among dead leaves. The old man on the -terrace paid no attention: he made as if he heard nothing: when the -figure of a rustic emerged from the orchard and stood under the -walnut-trees, the old man of the terrace made as if he saw nothing. - -The rustic was also well advanced in age, though far short of the tale -of years which belonged to the other. He was dressed as one who goes -afield: he walked as one who has spent his life in the ridges and -furrows of the ploughed field: he carried a spade over his shoulder. - -Standing under the walnut-trees, he lowered his spade and laid his hands -upon the handle as if to support himself. And then he gazed upon the old -man of the terrace. He did not, after the wont of some men, pretend to -be at work and cast a furtive glance of curiosity. On the contrary, he -made no pretence at all: he leaned upon his spade, and he gazed boldly -and without any shame. He marked the steady and firm step of the man: -his own step was not half so firm or half so steady: he marked the -bearing of the man: his own back was bent and his shoulders lowered: he -marked the health and strength that still lay in his face: his own -cheeks were wrinkled and his eyes were dim. Presently he lifted his -spade to his shoulder and he turned away. “If I go first----” he said. - -Whether he came or whether he departed, whether he walked in silence -over the coarse grass or snapped the twigs and rustled the dead leaves, -the old man of the terrace took no notice. He neither saw nor heard -anything. - -Then the east wind continued dry and cold, and the birds chirped in -discomfort, and the branches in the orchard fell to grinding each other, -and the old man walked on. And the quarters struck from the church-tower -somewhere, not far off. - -At the open door of the house, at about half-past twelve, there appeared -a young man dressed warmly, as was due to the weather. He was tall--over -six feet in height; his face resembled that of the old man strikingly; -he was certainly some close relation. He stood at the door looking on -while that walk, as dismal, as monotonous, as purposeless as that of -prisoners in their yard, went on minute after minute, hour after hour. -He stood there, not hour after hour, but for a full half-hour, watching -and wondering. - -“Always and every day--and for all these years!”--to give words to his -thoughts. “Why this tramp day by day every morning; always alone, always -silent, seeing and not seeing, dead to outward things, apart from the -world, taking no interest in the world? No recluse in a vault could be -more lonely. No occupation; nothing to do; nothing to think about. Good -heavens! what does he think about? No books, no newspapers to read; no -letters to write. Why?” - -The young man was the great-grandson of this ancient person: he was not -only the great-grandson, but the heir to the house and the estates which -belonged to the house: next to this old man he was the head of the -family. He therefore, as a mark of respect and a matter of duty, ran -down from London occasionally to see that his ancestor was properly -cared for and in health. He was also in communication with the -solicitors who managed the property. - -It was a very curious case: from childhood the young man had been told -of the strange and eccentric great-grandfather. He lived alone: he had -no other servant than a woman with her daughter: he only saw them when -they brought his meals: he received no visitors: he never went out of -the house except to walk every morning, whatever the weather, for four -hours up and down the terrace: he never spoke even to his housekeeper: -if anyone spoke to him, he made no reply: he never read -anything--neither book nor paper: his affairs were in the hands of a -firm of solicitors in the neighbouring market-town: when they wanted his -signature to a cheque, they drew it and sent it in to him, when he -signed and returned it; when they consulted him concerning business, he -received their statements in writing, and replied with the greatest -brevity: there was no sign of mental derangement: so far as the -solicitors, the only persons who were able to speak on the subject, -understood, the man’s faculties were perfectly sound and his intellect -as clear as ever. Moreover, there was no sign upon him of any -hallucination, any melancholia, any mental trouble: if he maintained -silence, his face betrayed no perturbation. Day after day he presented -to the morning sun a calm and cloudless face: if he smiled not, neither -did he sigh. - -Now, the most remarkable thing was that this eccentricity, which might -have been explained on the theory of great age and the loss of all his -friends and contemporaries, had been practised for nearly seventy years. -As a young man, quite a young man, he began this life, and he had -continued it ever since. The reason, his great-grandson had always -understood, was the shock caused by the sudden death of his wife. -Further than this he neither knew nor did he inquire. If one grows up in -presence of a certain strange line of conduct, it becomes accepted -without inquiry. The old man had become a solitary when this young man’s -grandfather was a boy: his grandfather, his father, and he himself had -always had before them the knowledge, if not the sight, of this -eccentricity. There was no curiosity in his mind at all about the -possible cause. - -Seventy years! It is the whole life of the average man, and this -strange creature had spent the whole time alone, in silence, in -solitude, and without occupation. It was not the whole span of the man’s -own life, for he was now completing his ninety-fourth year. - -From the distant church-tower came presently the striking of the -quarters followed by the stroke of one. At that moment an old woman came -out; she passed in front of the visitor in the doorway, and stood -watching to catch the eye of the master. She said nothing, but waited -there until he noticed her presence. Perhaps he was expecting her. He -stopped; the old woman retired; her master entered the house, taking no -notice whatever of the young man as he passed him; his eyes looked -through him with no gleam of recognition or even of intelligence as to -his presence. Yet this young man, the only one of all his descendants, -paid him a visit once a month or so to see if he was still in health. - -He walked straight into the room which was the single sitting-room and -dining-room and living-room. It had been the library--a large room with -a north aspect, lofty, and at all times of the year rather dark and -cold. A good fire burned in the broad old-fashioned grate. Before the -fire was a small table--it had formerly stood in the window for a -reading or writing table; now it served as a table set there for the old -man’s meals. The cloth was, in fact, spread, and the early dinner laid -upon it--a plain dinner of steak, potatoes, and a bottle of port, which -is a beverage proper to old age; it warms and comforts; it pleases and -exhilarates; it imparts a sense of strength, and when the common forms -of food can no longer be taken, this generous drink supplies their -place. The walls were lined with shelves which were filled with books. -Evidently some former member of the family had been a scholar and a -bibliophile. The books were all bound in leather; the gilt of the titles -had mostly disappeared. If you took a volume from the shelf, you found -that it had parted from the binding; if not, it took advantage of the -movement to remove itself from the binding; if you examined the shelves -long enough, you would have found that there was not one book in the -whole library of a date later than 1829. Of all the thousands upon -thousands of books published in the seventy years since that time, not -one was in this library. For instance, the _Quarterly_ and _Edinburgh -Reviews_--they stood here bound; they stopped at 1829. The _Annual -Register_ was here also, bound; it stopped at 1829. And on this great -library table there were lying, as if for daily use, scattered volumes -and magazines which had been placed there for the reading of the house -in 1829. No one had touched the table since some time in that year. A -long low leather chair stood beside the fire--the leather was in rags -and tatters, worn to shreds; at the table was placed a splendid great -wooden chair, which looked like the chair of a hall-porter; the carpet -was in rags and tatters, except the part along the front of the -shelves; there it was whole, but its colour was faded. In front of the -fire was placed a common thick sheepskin. - -The young man followed his ancestor into the library. He took a chair, -placed it by the fire, and sat down, his long legs curled, watching and -waiting. He had been in the same place before. The silence of the old -man, the meaningless look in his eyes, terrified him on the first -occasion. He was then unaccustomed to the manner of the man. He had -gradually grown accustomed to the sight; it no longer terrified him, and -he now sat in his place on the other side of the fire, resolved upon -making sure that the old man was properly cared for, properly fed, -properly clad, properly looked after in all respects, that his health -was good and that there was no need of seeking advice. He sat down -therefore, by the fire and looked on while the old man took his dinner. - -The visitor, I have said, was the great-grandson of the recluse. He was -also the heir of his house and the future owner of the place and its -possessions. As for what he was by calling you shall hear presently. -Being the heir-presumptive, he assumed the duty of making these -occasional visits, which were received--as has been stated--in silence, -and with not the slightest show of recognition. - -Without heeding his presence, then, the old man took his seat at the -table, lifted the cover, and began his dinner. It consisted every day of -the same dish. Perhaps there are not many men at ninety-four who can -devour every day a full-sized steak with potatoes and bread, and can -drink with it a whole bottle of port. Yet this is what the recluse did. -The descendant for his part made it his business that the port should be -of the best and that the steak should be “treated” scientifically, in -order to ensure its tenderness and juiciness. - -The recluse took his food fast and eagerly. One could perceive that in -earlier days he must have enjoyed a great and noble power of putting -away beef. He took his steak with fierceness, he devoured an immense -quantity of bread, he drank his wine off in goblets as in the old days -he had tossed off the great glasses of beer. He did not sip the generous -wine, nor did he roll it about in his glass and hold it up to the light; -he drank it, as a child drinks water, unconsciously and yet eagerly, -regardless of the taste and careless of its qualities. - -When the bottle was empty and there was nothing more to eat, he left the -wooden chair and cast his great length into the long easy-chair, where -he stretched out his legs towards the fire, and, leaning his head upon -his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair, he gazed into the fire, -but with eyes which had in them no kind of expression. “Evidently,” -thought the spectator, “the old man has two senses left; he likes strong -meat and drink; he likes the physical comfort that they provide, and he -likes the warmth of a fire.” Then he rose slowly and stood with his -back to the fire, looking down upon his ancestor, and began a -remonstrance, which he repeated with variations on every visit. - -“Sir,” he said, “I come to see you from time to time, as you know. I -come to make sure that you are cared for, and that you are well. I come -to see if anything can be done for you. On these occasions you never -fail to pretend that you do not see me. You make believe that I am not -present. You do see me; you know I am here; you know who I am; you know -why I am here. Very well. It is, I suppose, your humour to affect -silence and solitude. Nothing that I can say will, I fear, induce you to -break this silence.” - -There was no sign of recognition, no reply, nor any change of movement. - -“Why you have imposed upon yourself this lifelong misery I do not know, -nor shall I inquire. Perhaps I shall never know. It seems to me a great -mistake, whatever the cause--a sudden bereavement, I have always -understood. If it was in consequence of another person’s fault, or -another person’s misfortune, the waste and wreck of your own life would -not remove the cause; and if it was any fault of your own, such a wreck -and waste of life would only be an aggravation of the offence. But if it -was bereavement, surely it would be the manlier part to bear it and to -go on with the duties of life. However, as I do not know all the -circumstances, I have no right to speak on this point. It is too late,” -he went on, “to make up for all the years you have thrown away, but is -it too late for a change? Can you not, even now, at this late hour, go -back among your fellow-creatures and become human again, if it is only -for a year or two? I should say it was harder to continue this life of -loneliness and misery than to go back to the life for which you were -born.” - -There was no answer. - -“I have been over the house this morning,” the young man went on -pitilessly. “You have allowed it to fall into a shameful condition. The -damp has got into pictures and wall-paper; it will need many thousands -to restore the place to a condition proper to a gentleman’s house. Don’t -you think you ought to spend that money and live in it as a gentleman of -your position ought to do?” - -There was still no answer. But, then, the heir expected none. - -The old man lifted his head from his hand and dropped it back on the -chair. His eyes closed, his hands dropped, his breathing was soft and -regular; he was asleep. - -His great-grandson still stood over him. This kind of scene affected him -but little, because it occurred on every visit. He arrived at eleven or -so; he walked across the park; he saw the old man doing his morning -tramp as usual; he spent an hour going over the empty, desolate house; -he watched the old man taking his walk; he followed him into the -library; he watched him taking his food; he stood over him afterwards -and addressed his remonstrances. This was always received, as George the -Third used to receive the remonstrances of the City of London, in -silence discouraging. And always in the midst of the remonstrance the -patriarch fell asleep. - -The young man waited awhile, watching his great-grandfather of -ninety-four. There is very little resemblance between a man of that age -and himself at twenty-six. Yet there may be some. And no one could look -upon that old man without becoming conscious that in early manhood he -must have been of singular and wonderful comeliness--full of strength -and vigour, of fine proportions, of noble stature, and of remarkable -face and head. All these things the descendant possessed as well, but in -less marked degree, with more refinement, perhaps the refinement of -scholarship and culture, but with less strength. He had done what he -came to do; he had delivered his message; it was a failure; he expected -nothing less. He might as well go; there was nothing more to do, or to -be obtained, by staying. - -But then a very remarkable event happened. He heard for the first time -the voice of his great-grandfather. He was to hear it once more, and -only once more. No one, except himself on this occasion, had heard it -for nearly seventy years. - -The patriarch moved in his sleep, his fingers twitched, his legs jerked, -he rolled his head. Then he sat up and clutched the arms of his chair; -his face became twisted and distorted, as if under the possession of -some evil spirit. He half rose to his feet, still holding to the arms of -the chair, and he spoke. His voice was rough and harsh, as if rusted -with long disuse. His eyes remained fixed, yet his attitude was that of -someone whom he saw--with whom he was conversing. What he said was this: - -“That will end it.” - -Then he sank back. The distortion went out of him. He laid his head upon -the chair; calm and peace, as of a child, returned to his face; he was -again asleep--if he had been awake. - -“A dream,” said the looker on. But he remembered the words, which came -back to him, and remained with him--why, he could not tell. - -He looked about the room. He thought of the strange, solitary, -meaningless life, the monotonous life, the useless life, that this -patriarch had lived for so many years. Seventy long years! This recluse -during the whole of that time--for seventy long years--had never got -outside the walls of his garden; he had seen none of his old friends; -only his great-grandson might from time to time visit the place to -ascertain if he were still living. He had done no kind of work during -that long time; he had not even put a spade into the ground; he had -never opened a book or seen a newspaper; he knew nothing that had -happened. Why, for him the world was still the world before the Reform -Act. There were no railways, there were no telegraph-wires; none of the -inventions and improvements and new ideas and new customs were known to -him, or suspected by him; he asked for nothing, he cared for nothing, he -took interest in nothing: he never spoke. Oh, the wretchedness of it! -The folly of it! What excuse could there be--what reason--sufficient for -this throwing away of a life in which so much might have been done? What -defence could a man have for thus deserting from the Army of Humanity? - -As long as this young man remembered anything, he had heard of this old -man: it was always the same story; there was a kind of family bogie, who -wore always the same clothes, and took the same walk every morning and -slept every afternoon. Sometimes his mother would tell him, when he was -a boy, scraps of history about the Recluse. Long ago, in the reign of -George the Fourth, the gloomy solitary was a handsome, spirited, popular -young man; fond of hunting, fond of shooting and fishing and all -out-door sports, yet not a boor or a barbarian; one who had passed -through the University with credit, and had learning and cultivation. He -had a fine library which he used, he enjoyed conversations with -scholars, he had travelled on the Continent, a thing which then was -rare; he was thinking of entering the House. He had a fine, though not a -large, estate, and a lovely house and stately gardens. No one in the -county had greater reason to be satisfied with his lot, no one had a -clearer right to look forward to the future with confidence, than Mr. -Algernon Campaigne. The boy remembered all this talk. - -He now contemplated the sleeping figure with a curious blend or mixture -of emotions. There was pity in the blend, there was contempt in it, -there was something of the respect or reverence due to an ancestor. One -does not often get the chance of paying respect to so remote an ancestor -as a great-grandfather. The ancestor lay back in his chair, his head -turned a little on one side; his face, perfectly calm, had something of -the transparent waxen look that belongs to the newly dead. - -The young man went on thinking of what he had heard of this old man, who -was at once the pride and the shame of the family. No one can help being -proud of having a recluse, an anchorite, in the family--it is uncommon, -like an early Shakespeare; moreover, the recluse was the head of the -family, and lived in the place where the family had always lived from -time beyond the memory of man. - -He remembered his mother, a sad-faced widow, and his grandmother, -another sad-faced widow. A certain day came back to him--it was a few -weeks after his father’s early death, when he was a child of seven--when -the two women sat together in sorrow, and wept together, and conversed, -in his presence--but the child could not understand--and said things -which he recalled at this moment for the first time. - -“My dear,” said the elder lady, “we are a family of misfortune.” - -“But why--why--why?” asked the other. “What have we done?” - -The elder lady shook her head. “Things are done,” she said, “that are -never suspected. Nobody knows, nobody finds out, but the arm of the Lord -is stretched out and vengeance falls, if not upon the guilty, then upon -his children and his grandchildren unto the third and fourth generation. -It has fallen heavily upon that old man--for the sins of his father, -perhaps--and upon us--and upon the children----” - -“The helpless, innocent children? Oh! It is cruel.” - -“We have Scripture for it.” - -These words--this conversation--came back suddenly and unexpectedly to -the young man. He had never remembered them before. - -“Who did what?” he asked. “The guilty person cannot be this venerable -patriarch, because this affliction has fallen upon him and still abides -with him after seventy years. But they spoke of something else. Why do -these old words come back to me? Ancestor, sleep on.” - -In the hall he saw the old housekeeper, and stopped to ask her after the -master. - -“He spoke just now,” he said. - -“Spoke, sir? Spoke? The master spoke?” - -“He sat up in his sleep and spoke.” - -“What in the name o’ mercy did he say?” - -“He said, quite clearly, ‘That will end it.’” - -“Say it again.” - -He said it again. - -“Sir,” she said, “I don’t know what he means. It’s most time to end it. -Master Leonard, something dreadful will happen. It is the first time for -seventy years that he have spoken one single word.” - -“It was in his sleep.” - -“The first time for seventy years! Something dreadful, for sure, is -going to happen.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -WHAT HE WANTED - - -In the lightest and sunniest rooms of an unpretending flat forming part -of the Bendor Mansions, Westminster, sat a young man of six-and-twenty. -You have already seen him when he called upon his irresponsive ancestor -at the family seat in the shire of Buckingham. He was now in his study -and seated at what used to be called his desk. This simple piece of the -scholar’s furniture has long since given way to a table as big as the -dimensions of the room permit--in this case one of eight feet long and -five broad. It did not seem to be any too large for the object of its -construction, because it was completely covered with books, papers, -Blue-books, French and German journals, as well as Transactions of -English learned and scientific societies. There was no confusion. The -papers were lying in orderly arrangement; the books stood upright along -the back of the table facing the writer. They were all books of -political history, political economy, or of reference. A revolving -bookcase stood ready at hand filled with other books of reference. -These, it might have been observed, were principally concerned with -statistics of trade--histories of trade, books on subjects connected -with trade, Free Trade, Protection, the expansion of trade, and points -connected with manufactures, industries, exports, and imports. - -Mr. Leonard Campaigne was already in the House. It would be too much to -say that he had already arrived at a position of authority, but he was -so far advanced that on certain subjects of the more abstruse kind, -which he endeavoured to make his own and to speak upon them with the -manner of a specialist, he was heard with some deference and reported at -some length. More than this is not permitted to six-and-twenty. - -These subjects were such as demand a clear head, untiring industry, the -grasp of figures, and the power of making them attractive. They also -required a prodigious memory. All these valuable qualities this young -man possessed. At Cambridge, where he went out in mathematics, he tore -himself reluctantly away from examiners who gave him all they could, -with tears that it could be no more than “Part II., Division I., Class -I.,” and wept that they could not, as all good examiners hope to do -before long, carry their examinations on to Part III., divided into -three parts and each part into three classes, and then to Part IV., also -divided into three divisions and each division into three classes, and -so to go on examining their candidates, always decreasing in number, -once a year for the rest of their natural lives, ending with a -disgraceful pluck at eighty. - -“Part II., Division I., Class I.” No one can do better than that. I -believe that only one man in Leonard’s year did as well. Therefore he -went down having a very good record and a solid reputation for ability -to begin with. As to private fortune, he was independent, with an income -derived from his mother of about £800 a year, and with those -expectations which, as you have seen, were certainties. He also had a -Fellowship worth at least five shillings a year, it having gone up -recently in consequence of an unexpected looking-up or recovery in the -agricultural interest. He came up to London, therefore, thus adequately -equipped, entered at the Bar, got called, without any intention of -practising, looked out for a borough, nursed it carefully for a -twelvemonth, and got in, without a contest, at a by-election, on the -Liberal side. So far he had followed the traditions of his family. He -was the third, in sequence of father to son, of University distinction. -His grandfather, son of the dumb recluse whom you have already seen, had -also done well at Cambridge, and had also entered the House, and had -also made a highly successful beginning when he was cut off prematurely -at the early age of thirty-two. His father, who in his turn -distinguished himself at the University, also in his turn entered the -House, and was also in his turn considered a young man of promise, when -he, too, was carried off at about the same age. There were moments when -Leonard asked himself whether this untoward fate was to be his as well. -There were, indeed, special reasons for asking this question, of which -he as yet knew nothing. Meantime, he asked no questions of the future, -nor did he concern himself about the decrees of fate. - -The study was pleasantly furnished with two or three easy chairs and the -student’s wooden chair. Books lined the walls; two or three cups stood -on the mantelshelf, showing that the tenant of the room was no pale -student, consumer of the midnight oil; above it there was a drawing of a -country house, the same house which you have already seen. One observed -also, with pleasure, further proofs that the occupant had his hours of -relaxation. Tobacco and that vulgar thing the briar-root were -conspicuously present. That a young man who hoped to rise by the most -severe of all studies should habitually smoke a pipe should be, to any -well-regulated mind, a most promising circumstance. The study opened -into the dining-room, which was a dining-room only, and a formal, even a -funereal place, with a few books and a few pictures--evidently not a -room which was inhabited. The tenant took his breakfast in it, and -sometimes his luncheon, and that was all. There were two bedrooms; -beyond them, the kitchen and the room for the man and wife who “did” for -Mr. Campaigne. - -The occupant of the flat presently laid down his pen, and sat up -turning his face to the light. Then he rose and paced the chamber. - -He was a young man of somewhat remarkable appearance. In stature, as you -have seen, he was much above the average, being at least six feet two -and of strong build, though not so massive a man as his -great-grandfather, the hermit of Campaigne Park. His features were good -and strongly marked; his forehead was broad rather than high; his eyes, -small rather than large, were keen and bright, the eyebrows were nearly -straight. His appearance at this moment was meditative; but, then, he -was actually meditating; in conversation and in debate his expression -was alert, and even eager. He did not, in fact, belong to that school -which admires nothing, desires nothing, and believes in nothing. He -believed strongly, for instance, that the general standard of happiness -could be raised by wise laws--not necessarily new laws--and by good -education--not necessarily that of the School Boards. And he ardently -desired to play his part in the improvement of that standard. That is a -good solid lump of belief to begin with. For a statesman such a solid -lump of belief is invaluable. - -Presently he sat down again and renewed the thread of his -investigations. After an hour or so he threw aside his pen; he had -accomplished what he had proposed to do that morning. If a man is going -to succeed, you will generally find that he knows what he means to do -and the time that he will take over it, and that he sets to work with -directness as well as resolution. - -The task was finished, then, and before twelve o’clock Leonard pushed -back his chair and sprang to his feet with a sigh of relief. Much as men -may love work, it is always a satisfaction to get it done. On the table -beside his papers lay a little pile of letters not yet opened. He took -up one and opened it. The letter was from the editor of a leading -magazine, accepting a proposal to contribute a paper on a certain -economic theory. Leonard smiled with satisfaction. The _Nineteenth -Century_ is the ladder of ambition. It is by means of this magazine, and -of one or two like unto it, that the ambitious young man is enabled to -put himself forward as a student, if not yet an authority, on any -subject--a more rapid way of advance than by means of the House. - -Leonard had already written on this subject, and with success, as a -student; he was now to write upon it with authority. You will understand -from all this that Leonard was a young man whose mind was fully -occupied, even absorbed, with work which was at once his greatest -delight and the ladder for his ambitions; that he occupied a good -position in society, and that his work, his thoughts, his relaxations -were those of one who lived and moved habitually on a high level, free -from meanness or sordid cares or anxieties of any kind. - -On the same staircase and the same floor was a flat exactly -corresponding in every particular to his own except that the windows -looked out towards the opposite pole. This flat, into which we will not -penetrate, was occupied by a young lady, who lived in it, just as -Leonard lived in his, with a man and his wife to look after her. People -may be neighbours in a “Mansion” and yet not know each other. It is not -likely that Leonard would have made the acquaintance of Miss Constance -Ambry but for the fortunate circumstance that he belonged to the same -club as well as the same collection of flats; that he was introduced to -her at the club; that he met her at dinner day after day; that he -speedily discovered the fact that they were neighbours; that they became -friends; that they often dined together at the club, and that they -frequently walked home together. - -It will be understood, therefore, that Miss Constance Ambry would have -been called, a few years ago, an emancipated young woman. The word has -already become belated; in a year or two it will be obsolete. -Emancipation has ceased to carry any reproach or to excite any -astonishment. Many girls and unmarried women live alone in flats and -mansions and similar places; they have their latch-key; they marvel that -there could have been formerly a time when the latch-key was withheld -from girls; they go where they like; they see what they wish to see; -they meet people they wish to meet. The emancipated woman twenty years -ago thought it necessary, in order to prove her superiority of -intellect, to become at least an atheist. That was part of the -situation; other prancings and curvettings there were; now she has -settled down, the question of comparative intellect being no longer -discussed, and goes on, in many respects, almost as if she were still in -the ancient House of Bondage. In this case there were strong reasons, -comfortably running into a good many hundreds a year, why Constance -Ambry should dare to go her own way and live at her own will. She began -her independent career by three years at Girton. During her studentship -she distinguished herself especially by writing critical essays, in -which it was remarked that the passion of Love, as depicted and dwelt -upon by poets, was entirely ignored by the critic; not so much, her -friends explained, from maidenly reserve, as from a complete inability -to sympathize even with the woman’s point of view--which, indeed, women -who write poetry and love-songs have always done their utmost to -conceal, or mendaciously to represent in the same terms and under the -same form as the masculine passion. On leaving Girton she accepted a -post as Lecturer on English Literature in a women’s college. It was a -poorly-paid office, and hitherto it had been difficult to find a good -lecturer to keep it. Constance could afford not only to take it, but -also to make it the sole object of her work and thoughts. One is pleased -to add that her ideas of the liberty of women included their liberty to -dress as well as they can afford. She presented to her admiring and -envious class the constant spectacle of a woman dressed as she should -be--not splendidly, but beautifully. The girls regarded their lecturer, -clad, like a summer garden, in varied beauty, with far greater awe than -they had entertained for her predecessor, who was dumpy, wore her hair -short, and appeared habitually in a man’s jacket. - -The two were friends close and fast. Leonard was not afraid of -compromising her by taking tea in her drawing-room, nor was Constance -afraid of compromising herself by venturing alone into the opposite flat -if she wanted to talk about anything. It is a dangerous position even -for a young man whose ambitions absorb his thoughts; who has put the -question of marriage into the background--to be taken up at some -convenient moment not yet arrived. It is dangerous also for a girl even -when she is emancipated. - -As regards the young man the usual consequences happened. First he -perceived that it gave him a peculiar pleasure to sit beside her at -dinner and to walk home with her: then he became disappointed if he did -not meet her: presently he found himself thinking a great deal about -her: he also detected himself in the act of confiding his ambitions to -her sympathetic ear--this is one of the worst symptoms possible. He had -now arrived at that stage when the image of the girl is always present -in a young man’s mind: when it sometimes interferes with work: when an -explanation becomes absolutely necessary if there is to be any peace or -quiet work. The Victorian lover no longer speaks or writes about flames -and darts, but he is still possessed and held by the dominant presence -in his mind, night and day, of his mistress. - -In these matters, there comes a time, the one moment, when words have to -be spoken. As with a pear which has half an hour of perfect ripeness, so -in love there is a day--an hour--a moment--when the words that mean so -much must be spoken. It is a most unfortunate thing if the lover chooses -the wrong moment. It is also very unfortunate if the ripeness is on one -side only. - -Leonard Campaigne made this mistake. Being a self-contained young man, -he thought about himself a great deal more than he thought of other -people: it is not necessarily a sign of selfishness or of -obtuseness--not at all; it is a defect with men of strong natures and -ambitious aims to think habitually about themselves and their aims. -Therefore, while he himself was quite ripe for a declaration, he did not -ask himself whether the ripeness was also arrived at by the other person -concerned. Unfortunately, it was not. The other person concerned was -still in the critical stage: she could consider her friend from the -outside: she felt, as yet, no attraction towards the uncritical -condition, the absorption of love. - -Leonard did not suspect this arrest, so to speak, of development. He -assumed that the maiden’s heart had advanced _pari passu_ with his. He -wrote a letter, therefore, a method of wooing which is less embarrassing -than that of speech--I believe that girls prefer the latter. Certainly, -it is difficult to be glowing in a letter; nor, if there should be any -doubt, is a letter so persuasive as the voice, aided by the pressure of -the hand and the ardour of the eye. - - -“MY DEAR FRIEND, - - “I am about to imperil a situation the preservation of which is my - greatest happiness. You have allowed me to talk to you freely about - my cherished ambitions. You have even done me the honour of - consulting me about your own. I would not throw away this position - of confidence for any consideration whatever. Let me, however, - venture to put before you a simple question. I ask you to consider - the possibility of a change in this situation. This change--there - is only one which we can consider--would not in any way affect this - confidence, but should draw it more closely. How it would affect me - I will tell you if you allow me. - -“Your friend, -“L. C.” - - - -Not a loverlike letter at all, is it? Yet there were possibilities about -it. You see, he held out the hope that more would be told. The young -lady answered by asking a few days for consideration. She was to send or -bring her reply that morning. - -Constance knocked at the door. She came in from her rooms without a hat. -She took a chair--Leonard’s own wooden chair--and sat down, beginning to -talk about other things, as if such a matter as a proposal of marriage -was of no importance. But that was only her way, which was always -feminine. - -“I was told last night,” she said, “at the club--fancy, at the -club!--that I have been compromising myself by dining night after night -with you and letting you walk home with me. That is their idea of -woman’s liberty. She is not to form friendships. Don’t abuse our -members. Pray remember, Leonard, that I do not in the least mind what -they say.” - -At the first glance at her face, one could understand that this girl was -not in the least alarmed as to what women might say of her. It was a -proud face. There are many kinds of pride--she might have been proud of -her family, had she chosen that form; or of her intellect and -attainments; or of her beauty--which was remarkable. She was not proud -in any such way; she had that intense self-respect which is pride of the -highest kind. “She was a woman, therefore, to be wooed,” but the wooer -must meet and equal that intense self-respect. This pride made her seem -cold. Everybody thought her intensely cold. Leonard was perhaps the only -man who knew by a thousand little indications that she was very far from -cold. The pose of her head, the lines of the mouth, the intellectual -look in her eyes, the clear-cut regularity of her features, proclaimed -her pride and seemed to proclaim her coldness. - -“I always remember what you say, Constance. And now tell me what you -came to say.” - -She rose from the chair and remained standing. She began by looking at -the things over the mantel as if she was greatly interested in tobacco -and cigarettes. Then she turned upon him abruptly, joining her hands. -“What I came to say was this.” - -He read the answer in her face, which was frank, hard, and without the -least sign of embarrassment, confusion, or weakening. It is not with -such a look that a girl gives herself to her lover. However, he -pretended not to understand. - -“What is it?” - -“Well, it is just this. I have thought about it for a whole week, and it -won’t do. That is my answer. It won’t do for either of us. I like you -very much. I like our present relations. We dine together at the club. I -come in here without fuss. You come to my place without fuss. We talk -and walk and go about together. I do not suppose that I shall ever -receive this kind of invitation from any man whom I regard so much. And -yet----” - -“‘Yet!’ Why this obstructive participle? I bring you”--but he spoke with -coldness due to the discouragement in the maiden’s face--“the fullest -worship of yourself.” - -She shook her head and put up her hand. “Oh no!--no!” she said. -“Worship? I want no worship. What do you mean by worship?” - -“I mean the greatest respect--the greatest reverence--the greatest -admiration----” - -“For what?” - -“For Constance Ambry.” - -“Thank you, my friend. Some of the respect I accept with gratitude, not -all of it. Still, I dare say, at this moment, you mean it all. But -consider a little. Do you worship my intellect? Confess, now. You know -that it is distinctly inferior to your own. I know it, I say. If you -came to me pretending to worship an intellect inferior to your own, I -should lose my respect for you, or I should lose my faith in your -truthfulness. It cannot be my intellect. Is it, then, worship of my -genius? But I have no genius. And that you know very well. Is it worship -of my attainments? They are far below most of the scholars of your -University and the Fellows of your college. You cannot possibly pretend -to worship my attainments----” - -“Let me worship Constance Ambry herself.” - -She laughed lightly. - -“It would be very foolish of you to do so. For you could not do so -without lowering your standards and your character, by pretending what -is not the case. For I am no higher than yourself in any of the virtues -possible to us both: not a bit higher: I believe that my standards of -everything--truth, honour, courage--patience--all--all--everything are -like my intellect, distinctly lower than your own. Such is the respect -which I entertain for you. Therefore, my friend, do not, pray, think of -offering me worship.” - -“You wrong yourself, Constance. Your nature is far higher than mine.” - -She laughed again. “If I were to marry you, in a week you would find out -your mistake--and then you might fall into the opposite mistake.” - -“How am I to make you understand?” - -“I do understand. There is something that attracts you. Men are so, I -suppose. It is face, or voice, or figure, or manner. No one can tell why -a man is attracted.” - -“Constance, is it possible that you are not conscious of your beauty?” - -She looked him full in the face, and replied slowly: “I wish I -understood things. I see very well that men are more easily moved to -love than women. They make the most appalling mistakes: I know of -some--mistakes not to be remedied. Do not let us two make a mistake.” - -“It would be no mistake, believe me.” - -“I don’t know. There is the question of beauty. Women are not fascinated -by the beauty of other women. A man is attracted by a face, and -straightway attributes to the soul behind that face all the virtues -possible. Women can behold a pretty face without believing that it is -the stamp of purity and holiness. Besides--a face! Why, in a dozen -years what will it be like? And in thirty years---- Oh! Terrible to -think of!” - -“Never, Constance. You could never be otherwise than wholly beautiful.” - -She shook her head again, unconvinced. “I do not wish to be worshipped,” -she repeated. “Other women may like it. To me it would be a humiliation. -I don’t want worship; I want rivalry. Let me work among those who truly -work, and win my own place. As for my own face, and those so-called -feminine attractions, I confess that I am not interested in them. Not in -the least.” - -“If you will only let me go on admiring----” - -“Oh!” she shook that admirable head impatiently, “as much as you -please.” - -Leonard sighed. Persuasion, he knew well, was of no use with this young -lady; she knew her own mind. - -“I will ask no more,” he said. “Your heart is capable of every -emotion--except one. You are deficient in the one passion which, if you -had it, would make you divine.” - -She laughed scornfully. “Make me divine?” she repeated. “Oh, you talk -like a man--not a scholar and a philosopher, but a mere man.” She left -the personal side of the question, and began to treat it generally. “The -whole of poetry is disfigured with the sham divinity, the counterfeit -divinity, of the woman. I do not want that kind of ascribed divinity. -Therefore I do not regret the absence of this emotion which you so much -desire; I can very well do without it.” She spoke with conviction, and -she looked the part she played--cold, loveless, without a touch of -Venus. “I was lecturing my class the other day on this very subject. I -took Herrick for my text; but, indeed, there are plenty of poets who -would do as well. I spoke of this sham divinity. I said that we wanted -in poetry, as in human life, a certain sanity, which can only exist in a -condition of controlled emotion.” - -It was perhaps a proof that neither lover nor maiden really felt the -power of the passion called Love that they could thus, at what to some -persons would be a supreme moment, drop into a cold philosophic -treatment of the subject. - -“Perhaps love does not recognise sanity.” - -“Then love had better be locked up. I pointed out in my lecture that -these conceits and extravagancies may be very pretty set to the music of -rhythm and rhyme and phrase, but that in the conduct of life they can -have no place except in the brains of men who have now ceased to exist.” - -“Ceased to exist?” - -“I mean that the ages of ungoverned passion have died out. To dwell -perpetually on a mere episode in life, to magnify its importance, to -deify the poet’s mistress--that, I told my class, is to present a false -view of life and to divert poetry from its proper function.” - -“How did your class receive this view?” - -“Well--you know--the average girl, I believe, likes to be worshipped. It -is very bad for her, because she knows she isn’t worth it and that it -cannot last. But she seems to like it. My class looked, on the whole, as -if they could not agree with me.” - -“You would have no love in poetry?” - -“Not extravagant love. These extravagancies are not found in the nobler -poets. They are not in Milton, nor in Pope, nor in Cowper, nor in -Wordsworth, nor in Browning. I have not, as you say, experienced the -desire for love. In any case, it is only an episode. Poetry should be -concerned with the whole life.” - -“So should love.” - -“Leonard,” she said, the doubt softening her face, “there may be -something deficient in my nature. I sincerely wish that I could -understand what you mean by desiring any change.” No, she understood -nothing of the sacred passion. “But there must be no difference in -consequence. I could not bear to think that my answer even to such a -trifle should make any difference between us.” - -“Such a trifle! Constance, you are wonderful.” - -“But it seems to me, if the poets are right, that men are always ready -to make love: if one woman fails, there are plenty of others.” - -“Would not that make a difference between us?” - -“You mean that I should be jealous?” - -“I could not possibly use the word ‘jealous’ in connection with you, -Constance.” - -She considered the point from an outside position. “I should not be -jealous because you were making love to some unseen person, but I should -not like another woman standing here between us. I don’t think I could -stay here.” - -“You give me hope, Constance.” - -“No. It is only friendship. Because, you see, the whole pleasure of -having a friend like yourself--a man friend--is unrestrained and open -conversation. I like to feel free with you. And I confess that I could -not do this if another woman were with us.” - -She was silent awhile. She became a little embarrassed. “Leonard,” she -said, “I have been thinking about you as well as myself. If I thought -that this thing was necessary for you--or best for you--I might, -perhaps--though I could not give you what you expect--I mean--responsive -worship and the rest of it.” - -“Necessary?” he repeated. - -There was no sign of Love’s weakness in her face, which had now assumed -the professional manner that is historical, philosophical, and -analytical. - -“Let us sit down and talk about yourself quite dispassionately, as if -you were somebody else.” - -She resumed the chair--Leonard’s own chair--beside the table; it was a -revolving chair, and she turned it half round so that her elbow rested -on the blotting-pad, while she faced her suitor. Leonard for his part -experienced the old feeling of standing up before the Head for a little -wholesome criticism. He laughed, however, and obeyed, taking the -easy-chair at his side of the fireplace. This gave Constance the slight -superiority of talking down to instead of up to him. A tall man very -often forgets the advantage of his stature. - -“I mean, if companionship were necessary for you. It is, I believe, to -weaker and to less fortunate men--to poets, I suppose. Love means, I am -sure, a craving for support and sympathy. Some men--weaker men than -you--require sympathy as much as women. You do not feel that desire--or -need.” - -“A terrible charge. But how do you know?” - -“I know because I have thought a great deal about you, and because I -have conceived so deep a regard for you that, at first, when I received -your letter I almost--almost--made a great mistake.” - -“Well--but tell me something more. To learn how one is estimated may be -very good for one. Self-conceit is an ever-present danger.” - -“I think, to begin with, that of all young men that I know you are the -most self-reliant and the most confident.” - -“Well, these are virtues, are they not?” - -“Of course, you have every right to be self-reliant. You are a good -scholar, and you have been regarded at the University as one of the -coming men. You are actually already one of the men who are looked upon -as arrived. So far you have justified your self-confidence.” - -“So far my vanity is not wounded. But there is more.” - -“Yes. You are also the most fortunate of young men. You are miles ahead -of your contemporaries, because where they all lack something you lack -nothing. One man wants birth--it takes a very strong man to get over a -humble origin: another man wants manner: another has an unfortunate -face--a harsh voice--a nervous jerkiness: another is deficient in style: -another is ground down by poverty. You alone have not one single defect -to stand in your way.” - -“Let me be grateful, then.” - -“You have that very, very rare combination of qualities which make the -successful statesman. You are good-looking: you are even handsome: you -look important: you have a good voice and a good manner as well as a -good presence: you are a gentleman by birth and training: you have -enough to live upon now: and you are the heir to a good estate. Really, -Leonard, I do not know what else you could ask of fortune.” - -“I have never asked anything of fortune.” - -“And you get everything. You are too fortunate, Leonard. There must be -something behind--something to come. Nature makes no man perfectly -happy.” - -“Indeed!” He smiled gravely. “I want nothing of that kind.” - -“In addition to everything else, you are completely healthy, and I -believe you are a stranger to the dentist; your hair is not getting -prematurely thin. Really, Leonard, I do not think that there can be in -the whole country any other young man so fortunate.” - -“Yet you refuse to join your future with mine.” - -“Perhaps, if there were any misfortunes or drawbacks one might not -refuse. Family scandals, now---- Many noble houses have whole cupboards -filled with skeletons: your cupboards are only filled with blue china. -One or two scandals might make you more human.” - -“Unfortunately, from your point of view, my people have no scandals.” - -“Poor relations again! Many people are much pestered with poor -relations. They get into scrapes, and they have to be pulled out at -great cost. I have a cousin, for instance, who turns up occasionally. He -is very expensive and most disreputable. But you? Oh, fortunate young -man!” - -“We have had early deaths; but there are no disreputable cousins.” - -“That is what I complain of. You are too fortunate. You should throw a -ring into the sea--like the too fortunate king, the only person who -could be compared with you.” - -“I dare say gout or something will come along in time.” - -“It isn’t good for you,” she went on, half in earnest. “It makes life -too pleasant for you, Leonard. You expect the whole of life to be one -long triumphal march. Why, you are so fortunate that you are altogether -outside humanity. You are out of sympathy with men and women. They have -to fight for everything. You have everything tossed into your lap. You -have nothing in common with the working world--no humiliations--no -disgraces--no shames and no defeats.” - -“I hardly understand----” he began, disconcerted at this unexpected -array of charges and crimes. - -“I mean that you are placed above the actual world, in which men tumble -about and are knocked down and are picked up--mostly by the women. You -have never been knocked down. You say that I do not understand Love. -Perhaps not. Certainly you do not. Love means support on both sides. You -and I do not want any kind of support. You are clad in mail armour. You -do not--you cannot--even wish to know what Love means.” - -He made no reply. This turning of the table was unexpected. She had been -confessing that she felt no need of Love, and now she accused him--the -wooer--of a like defect. - -“Leonard, if fortune would only provide you with family scandals, some -poor relations who would make you feel ashamed, something to make you -like other people, vulnerable, you would learn that Love might -mean--and then, in that impossible case--I don’t know--perhaps----” She -left the sentence unfinished and ran out of the room. - -Leonard looked after her, his face expressing some pain. “What does she -mean? Humiliation? Degraded relations? Ridiculous!” - -Then, for the second time after many years, he heard the voices of his -mother and his grandmother. They spoke of misfortunes falling upon one -and another of their family, beginning with the old man of the country -house and the terrace. Oh! oh! It was absurd. He sprang to his feet. It -was absurd. Humiliations! Disgrace! Family misfortunes! Absurd! Well, -Constance had refused him. Perhaps she would come round. Meanwhile his -eyes fell upon the table and his papers. He sat down: he took up the -pen. Love, who had been looking on sorrowfully from a lofty perch on a -bookshelf, vanished with a sigh of despair. The lover heard neither the -sigh nor the fluttering of Love’s wings. He bent over his papers. A -moment, and he was again absorbed--entirely absorbed in the work before -him. - - * * * * * - -In her own room the girl sat before her table and took up her pen. But -she threw it down again. “No,” she said, “I could not. He is altogether -absorbed in himself. He knows nothing and understands nothing--and the -world is so full of miseries; and he is all happiness, and men and -women suffer--how they suffer!--for their sins and for other people’s -sins. And he knows nothing. He understands nothing. Oh, if he could be -made human by something--by humiliation, by defeat! If he could be made -human, like the rest, why, then--then----” She threw away her pen, -pushed back the chair, put on her hat and jacket, and went out into the -streets among the men and women. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -SOMETHING TO COME - - -If you have the rare power of being able to work at any time, and after -any event to concentrate your thoughts on work, this is certainly a good -way of receiving disappointments and averting chagrin. Two hours passed. -Leonard continued at his table absorbed in his train of argument, and -for the moment wholly forgetful of what had passed. Presently his pen -began to move more slowly; he threw it down: he had advanced his -position by another earthwork. He sat up; he numbered his pages; he put -them together. And he found himself, after the change of mind necessary -for his work, able to consider the late conversation without passion, -though with a certain surprise. Some men--the weaker brethren--are -indignant, humiliated, by such a rejection. That is because their vanity -is built upon the sands. Leonard was not the kind of man to be -humiliated by any answer to any proposal, even that which concerns the -wedding-ring. He had too many excellent and solid foundations for the -good opinion which he entertained of himself. It was impossible for any -woman to refuse him, considering the standards by which women consider -and estimate men. Constance had indeed acknowledged that in all things -fortune had favoured him, yet owing to some feminine caprice or -unexpected perversity he had not been able to touch her heart. Such a -man as Leonard cannot be humiliated by anything that may be said or done -to him: he is humiliated by his own acts, perhaps, and his own blunders -and mistakes, of which most men’s lives are so full. - -He was able to put aside, as an incident which would perhaps be -disavowed in the immediate future, the refusal of that thrice fortunate -hand of his. Besides, the refusal was conveyed in words so gracious and -so kindly. - -But there was this strange attack upon him. He found himself repeating -in his own mind her words. Nature, Constance said, makes no man -perfectly happy. He himself, she went on, presented the appearance of -the one exception to the rule. He was well born, wealthy enough, strong -and tall, sound of wind and limb, sufficiently well favoured, with -proved abilities, already successful, and without any discoverable -drawback. Was there any other man in the whole world like unto him? It -would be better for him, this disturbing girl--this oracle--had gone on -to prophesy, if something of the common lot--the dash of bitterness--had -been thrown in with all these great and glorious gifts of fortune; -something would certainly happen: something was coming; there would be -disaster: then he would be more human; he would understand the world. As -soon as he had shared the sorrows and sufferings, the shames and the -humiliations, of the world, he would become more in harmony with men and -women. For the note of the common life is suffering. - -At this point there came back to him again out of the misty glades of -childhood the memory of those two women who sat together, widows both, -in the garb of mourning, and wept together. - -“My dear,” said the elder lady--the words came back to him, and the -scene, as plainly as on that day when he watched the old man sleeping in -his chair--“my dear, we are a family of misfortune.” - -“But why--why--why?” asked the other. “What have we done?” - -“Things,” said the elder lady, “are done which are never suspected. -Nobody knows; nobody finds out: the arm of the Lord is stretched out, -and vengeance falls, if not upon the guilty, then upon his children -and----” - -Leonard drove the memory back--the lawn and the garden: the two women -sitting in the veranda: the child playing on the grass: the words--all -vanished. Leonard returned to the present. “Ghosts!” he said. “Ghosts! -Were these superstitious fears ever anything but ghosts?” He refused to -think of these things: he put aside the oracle of the wise woman, the -admonition that he was too fortunate a youth. - -You have seen how he opened the first of a small heap of letters. His -eye fell upon the others: he took up the first and opened it: the -address was that of a fashionable West-End hotel: the writing was not -familiar. Yet it began “My dear nephew.” - -“My dear nephew?” he asked; “who calls me his dear nephew?” He turned -over the letter, and read the name at the end, “Your affectionate uncle, -Fred Campaigne.” - -Fred Campaigne! Then his memory flew back to another day of childhood, -and he saw his mother--that gentle creature--flushing with anger as she -repeated that name. There were tears in her eyes--not tears of sorrow, -but of wrath--and her cheek was aflame. And that was all he remembered. -The name of Frederick Campaigne was never more mentioned. - -“I wonder,” said Leonard. Then he went on reading the letter: - - -“MY DEAR NEPHEW, - - “I arrived here a day or two ago, after many years’ wandering. I - lose no time, after the transaction of certain necessary business, - in communicating with you. At this point, pray turn to my - signature.” - -“I have done so already,” said Leonard. He put the letter down, and -tried to remember more. He could not. There arose before his memory once -more the figure of his mother angry for the first and only time that he -could remember. “Why was she angry?” he asked himself. Then he -remembered that his uncle Christopher, the distinguished lawyer, had -never mentioned Frederick’s name. “Seems as if there was a family -scandal, after all,” he thought. He turned to the letter again. - - “I am the long-lost wanderer. I do not suppose that you can - possibly remember me, seeing that when I went away you were no more - than four or five years of age. One does not confide family matters - to a child of those tender years. When I left my country I was - under a cloud--a light cloud, it is true--a sort of nebulous haze, - mysteriously glowing in the sunshine. It was no more than the not - uncommon mystery of debt, my nephew. I went off. I was shoved off, - in fact, by the united cold shoulders of all the relations. Not - only were there money debts, but even my modest patrimony was gone. - Thus does fond youth foolishly throw good money after bad. I should - have kept my patrimony to go abroad with, and spent nothing but my - debts. I am now, however, home again. I should have called, but I - have important appointments in the City, where, you may be pleased - to learn, my name and my voice carry weight. Meantime, I hear that - you will be asked to meet me at my brother Christopher’s on - Wednesday. I shall, therefore, hope to see you then. My City - friends claim all my time between this and Wednesday. The magnitude - of certain operations renders it necessary to devote myself, for a - day or two, entirely to matters of _haute finance_. It was, I - believe, customary in former times for the prodigal son to return - in rags. We have changed all that. Nowadays the prodigal son - returns in broadcloth, with a cheque-book in his pocket and credit - at his bank. The family will be glad, I am sure, to hear that I am - prosperous exceedingly.” - -Leonard read this letter with a little uneasiness. He remembered those -tears, to begin with. And then there was a certain false ring in the -words, an affectation of light-heartedness which did not sound true. -There was an ostentation of success which seemed designed to cover the -past. “I had forgotten,” he said, “that we had a prodigal son in the -family. Indeed, I never knew the fact. ‘Prosperous exceedingly,’ is he? -‘Important appointments in the City.’ Well, we shall see. I can wait -very well until Wednesday.” - -He read the letter once more. Something jarred in it; the image of the -gentle woman for once in her life in wrath real and undisguised did not -agree with the nebulous haze spoken of by the writer. Besides, the touch -of romance, the Nabob who returns with a pocket full of money having -prospered exceedingly, does not begin by making excuses for the manner -of leaving home. Not at all: he comes home exultant, certain to be well -received on account of his money-bags. “After all,” said Leonard, -putting down the letter, “it is an old affair, and my poor mother will -shed no more tears over that or anything else, and it may be forgotten.” -He put down the letter and took up the next. “Humph!” he growled. -“Algernon again! I suppose he wants to borrow again. And Constance said -that I wanted poor relations.” - -It is true that his cousin Algernon did occasionally borrow money of -him: but he was hardly a poor relation, being the only son of Mr. -Christopher Campaigne, of Lincoln’s Inn, Barrister-at-law, and in the -enjoyment of a large and lucrative practice. It is the blessed privilege -of the Bar that every large practice is lucrative; now, in the lower -branch of the legal profession there are large practices which are not -lucrative, just as in the lower branches of the medical profession there -are sixpenny practitioners with a very large connection, and in the -Church there are vicars with very large parishes. - -Algernon, for his part, was studying with a great and ambitious object. -He proposed to become the dramatist of the future. He had not yet -written any dramas; he haunted the theatres, attended all the first -nights, knew a good many actors and a few actresses, belonged to the -Playgoers’ Club, spoke and posed as one who is on the stage, or at least -as one to whom the theatre is his chosen home. Algernon was frequently -stone-broke, was generally unable to obtain more than a certain -allowance from his father, and was accustomed to make appeals to his -cousin, the head of the family. - -The letter was, as Leonard expected, an invitation to lend him money: - - -“DEAR LEONARD, - - “I am sorry to worry you, but things have become tight, and the - pater refuses any advances. Why, with his fine practice, he should - grudge my small expenses I cannot understand. He complains that I - am doing no work. This is most unreasonable, as there is no man who - works harder at his art than I myself. I go to a theatre nearly - every evening; is it my fault that the stalls cost half a guinea? - All this means that I want you to lend me a tenner until the - paternal pride breaks or bends. - -“Yours, -“ALGERNON.” - - - -Leonard read and snorted. - -“The fellow will never do anything,” he said. Nevertheless, he sat down, -opened his cheque-book, and drew the cheque. “Take it, confound you!” he -said. - -And yet Constance had told him that for want of poor relations he was -out of harmony with the rest of the world. - -There was a third letter--from his aunt: - - -“DEAR LEONARD, - - “Will you look in, if you possibly can, on Wednesday to meet your - uncle Fred? He has come home again. Of course, you cannot remember - him. He was wild, I believe, in the old days, but he says that is - over now. Indeed, it is high time. He seems to be doing well, and - is most cheerful. As the acting head of the family, you will, I am - sure, give him a welcome, and forget and forgive, if there is - anything to forgive. Algernon is, I fear, working too hard. I could - not have believed that the art of play-writing required such close - attention to the theatres. He is making many acquaintances among - actors and actresses, who will be able, he says, to help him - tremendously. I tell his father, who sometimes grumbles, that when - the boy makes up his mind to begin there will be no living - dramatist who has more conscientiously studied his art. - -“Affectionately yours, -“DOROTHY CAMPAIGNE.” - - - -Leonard wrote a note accepting this invitation, and then endeavoured, -but without success, to dismiss the subject of the returned prodigal -from his mind. It was a relief to feel that he was at least prosperous -and cheerful. Now, had Leonard been a person of wider experience, he -would have remembered that cheerfulness in a prodigal is a most -suspicious attribute, because cheerfulness is the dominant note of the -prodigal under all circumstances, even the most unpromising. His -cheerfulness is his principal, sometimes his only, virtue. He is -cheerful because it is always more pleasant to be cheerful than to be -miserable; it is more comfortable to laugh than to cry. Only when the -prodigal becomes successful--which is very, very seldom--does he lose -his cheerfulness and assume a responsible and anxious countenance like -the steady and plodding elder brother. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE COMPLETE SUPPLY - - -It was eleven o’clock that same evening. Leonard sat before his fire -thinking over the day’s work. It was not a day on which he could -congratulate himself. He had been refused: he had been told plain -truths: he had been called too fortunate: he had been warned that the -gods never make any man completely happy: he had been reminded that his -life was not likely to be one long triumphal march, nor was he going to -be exempt from the anxieties and the cares which beset other people. -Nobody likes to be told that he is too fortunate, and that he wants -defeated ambition, poor relations, and family scandals to make him level -with the rest of mankind. Moreover, he had received, as if in -confirmation of the oracle, the addition to his family of a doubtful -uncle. - -The Mansion was quiet: no pianos were at work: those of the people who -were not out were thinking of bed. - -Leonard sat over the fire feeling strangely nervous: he had thought of -doing a little work: no time like the quiet night for good work. Yet -somehow he could not command his brain: it was a rebellious brain: -instead of tackling the social question before him, it went off -wandering in the direction of Constance and of her refusal and of her -words--her uncomfortable, ill-boding words. - -Unexpectedly, and without any premonitory sound of steps on the stair, -there came a ring at his bell. Now, Leonard was not a nervous man, or a -superstitious man, or one who looked at the present or the future with -apprehension. But this evening he felt a chill shudder: he knew that -something disagreeable was going to happen. He looked at the clock: his -man must have gone to bed: he got up and went out to open the door -himself. - -There stood before him a stranger, a man of tall stature, wrapped in a -kind of Inverness cape, with a round felt hat. - -“Mr. Leonard Campaigne?” he asked. - -“Certainly,” he replied snappishly. “Who are you? What do you want here -at this time of night?” - -“I am sorry to be so late. I lost my way. May I have half an hour’s talk -with you? I am a cousin of yours, though you do not know me.” - -“A cousin of mine? What cousin? What is your name?” - -“Here is my card. If you will let me come in, I will tell you all about -the relationship. A cousin I am, most certainly.” - -Leonard looked at the card. - -“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne.” In the corner were the words, “Solicitor, -Commercial Road.” - -“I know nothing about you,” said Leonard. “Perhaps, however--will you -come in?” - -He led the way into the study, and turned on one or two more lights. -Then he looked at his visitor. - -The man followed him into the study, threw off his cape and hat, and -stood before him--a tall, thin figure, with a face which instantly -reminded the spectator of a vulture; the nose was long, thin, and -curved; his eyes were bright, set too close together. He was dressed in -a frock-coat which had known better days, and wore a black tie. He -looked hungry, but not with physical pangs. - -“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne,” he repeated. “My father’s name was -Galley; my grandmother’s maiden name was Campaigne.” - -“Oh, your grandmother’s name was Campaigne. Your own name, then, is -Galley?” - -“I added the old woman’s name to my own; it looks better for business -purposes. Also I took her family crest--she’s got a coat of arms--it -looks well for business purposes.” - -“You can’t take your grandmother’s family shield.” - -“Can’t I? Who’s to prevent me? It’s unusual down our way, and it’s good -for business.” - -“Well, as you please--name and coat of arms and everything. Will you -explain the cousinship?” - -“In two words. That old man over there”--he indicated something in the -direction of the north--“the old man who lives by himself, is my -grandmother’s father. He’s ninety something, and she’s seventy -something.” - -“Oh! she is my great-aunt, then. Strange that I never heard of her.” - -“Not at all strange. Only what one would expect. She went down in the -world. You went up--or stayed up--of course they didn’t tell you about -her.” - -“Well--do you tell me about her. Will you sit down? May I offer you -anything--a cigarette?” - -The visitor looked about the room; there was no indication of whisky. He -sighed and declined the cigarette. But he accepted the chair. - -“Thank you,” he said. “It is more friendly sitting down. You’ve got -comfortable quarters. No Mrs. C. as yet, is there? The old woman said -that you were a bachelor. Now, then. It’s this way: She married my -grandfather, Isaac Galley. That was fifty years ago--in 1849. No, 1850. -Isaac Galley failed. His failure was remarked upon in the papers on -account of the sum--the amount--of his liabilities. The _Times_ wanted -to know how he managed to owe so much.” - -“Pray go on. I am interested. This part of our family history is new to -me.” - -Leonard continued standing, looking down upon his visitor. He became -aware, presently, of a ridiculous likeness to himself, and he found -himself hoping that the vulture played a less prominent part in his own -expression. All the Campaigne people were taller--much taller--than the -average; their features were strongly marked; they were, as a rule, a -handsome family. They carried themselves with a certain dignity. This -man was tall, his features were strongly marked; but he was not -handsome, and he did not carry himself with dignity. His shoulders were -bent, and he stooped. He was one of the race, apparently, but gone to -seed; looking “common.” No one could possibly mistake him for a -gentleman by birth or by breeding. “Common” was the word to apply to Mr. -Galley-Campaigne. “Common” is a word much used by certain ladies -belonging to a certain stage of society about their neighbours’ -children; it will do to express the appearance of this visitor. - -“Pray go on,” Leonard repeated mechanically, while making his -observations; “you are my cousin, clearly. I must apologise for not -knowing of your existence.” - -“We live at the other end of town. I’m a gentleman, of course, being in -the Law--lower branch----” - -“Quite so,” said Leonard. - -“But the old woman--I mean my grandmother--takes jolly good care that I -shall know the difference between you and me. You’ve had Eton and -College to back you up. You’ve got the House of Commons and a swagger -club. That’s your world. Mine is different. We’ve no swells where I -live, down the Commercial Road. I’m a solicitor in what you would call -a small way. There are no big men our way.” - -“It is a learned profession.” - -“Yes. I am not a City clerk, like my father.” - -“Tell me more about yourself. Your grandfather, you say, was bankrupt. -Is he living?” - -“No. He went off about ten years ago, boastful to the end of his great -smash. His son--that’s my father--was in the City. He was a clerk all -his life to a wine-merchant. He died four or five years ago. He was just -able to pay for my articles--a hundred pounds--and the stamp--another -eighty--and that pretty well cleared him out, except for a little -insurance of a hundred. When he died I was just beginning to get along; -and I’ve been able to live, and to keep my mother and my -grandmother--it’s a tight fit, though--with what I can screw out of Mary -Anne.” - -“Who is Mary Anne?” - -“My sister, Mary Anne. She’s a Board School teacher. But she shoves all -the expenses on to me.” - -“Oh! I have a whole family of cousins, then, previously unknown. That is -interesting. Are there more?” - -He remembered certain words spoken only that morning, and he winced. -Here were poor relations, after all. Constance would be pleased. - -“No more--only me and Mary Anne. That is to say, no more that you would -acknowledge as such. There’s all father’s cousins and their children: -and all mother’s cousins and brothers and nephews and nieces: but you -can’t rightly call them your cousins.” - -“Hardly, perhaps, much as one would like....” - -“Now, Mr. Campaigne. The old woman has been at me a long time to call -upon you. I didn’t want to call. I don’t want to know you, and you don’t -want to know me. But I came to please her and to let you know that she’s -alive, and that she would like, above all things, to see you and to talk -to you.” - -“Indeed! If that is all, I shall be very pleased to call.” - -“You see, she’s always been unlucky--born unlucky, so to speak. But -she’s proud of her own family. They’ve never done anything for her, -whatever they may have to do--have to do, I say.” He became threatening. - -“Have to do,” repeated Leonard softly. - -“In the future. It may be necessary to prove who we are, and that before -many years--or months--or even days--and it might save trouble if you -were to understand who she is, and who I am.” - -“You wish me to call upon my great-aunt. I will certainly do so.” - -“That’s what she wants. That’s why I came here to-night. Look here, sir: -for my own part, I would not intrude upon you. I’ve not come to beg or -to borrow. But for the old woman’s sake I’ve ventured to call and ask -you to remember that she is your great-aunt. She’s seventy-two years of -age, and now and then she frets a bit after a sight of her own people. -She hasn’t seen any of them since your grandfather committed suicide. -And that must have been about the year 1860, before you and I were -born.” - -Leonard started. - -“My grandfather committed suicide? What do you mean? My grandfather died -somewhere about 1860. What do you mean by saying that he killed -himself?” - -“What! Don’t you know? Your grandfather, sir,” said the other firmly, -“died of cut-throat fever. Oh yes, whatever they called it, he died of -cut-throat fever. Very sudden it was. Of that I am quite certain, -because my grandmother remembers the business perfectly well.” - -“Is it possible? Killed himself? Then, why did I never learn such a -thing?” - -“I suppose they didn’t wish to worry you. Your father was but a child, I -suppose, at the time. Perhaps they never told him. All the same, it’s -perfectly true.” - -Committed suicide! He remembered the widow who never smiled--the -pale-faced, heavy-eyed widow. He now understood why she went in mourning -all the days of her life. He now learned in this unexpected manner, why -she had retired to the quiet little Cornish village. - -Committed suicide! Why? It seemed a kind of sacrilege to ask this -person. He hesitated; he took up a trifling ornament from the -mantelshelf, and played with it. It dropped out of his fingers into the -fender, and was broken. - -“Pray,” he asked, leaving the other question for the moment, “how came -your grandmother to be separated from her own people?” - -“They went away into the country. And her father went silly. She never -knew him when he wasn’t silly. He went silly when his brother-in-law was -murdered.” - -“Brother-in-law murdered? Murdered! What is this? Good Lord, man! what -do you mean with your murder and your suicide?” - -“Why, don’t you know? His brother-in-law was murdered on his grounds. -And his wife died of the shock the same day. What else was it that drove -him off his old chump?” - -“I--I--I--know nothing”--the vulgarity of the man passed unnoticed in -the face of these revelations--“I assure you, nothing of these -tragedies. They are all new to me. I have been told nothing.” - -“Never told you? Well, of all the---- Why, the old woman over there is -never tired of talking about these things. Proud of them she is. And you -never to know anything!” - -“Nothing. Is there more? And why do you call my great-grandfather mad?” - -“He’s as much my great-grandfather as yours. Mad? Well, I’ve seen him -over the garden wall half a dozen times, walking up and down his terrace -like a Polar bear. I don’t know what you call mad. As for me, I’m a man -of business, and if I had a client who never opened or answered a -letter, never spoke a word to anybody, neglected his children, let his -house go to ruin, never went to church, would have no servants about the -place--why, I should have that mis’rable creature locked up, that’s -all.” - -Leonard put this point aside. - -“But you have not told me about his wife’s death. It is strange that I -should be asking you these particulars of my own family.” - -“Mine as well, if you please,” the East End solicitor objected, with -some dignity. “Well, sir, my grandmother is seventy-two years of age. -Therefore it is just seventy-two years since her mother died. For her -mother died in child-birth, and she died of the shock produced by the -news of her own brother’s murder. Her brother’s name was Langley Holme.” - -“Langley? My grandfather’s name.” - -“Yes, Langley Holme. I think he was found lying dead on a hillside. So -our great-grandfather, I say, lost in one day his wife and his -brother-in-law, who was the best friend he had in the world. Why, sir, -if you ever go down to see him and find him in that state, does it not -occur to you to ask how it came about?” - -“I confess--he is so old. I thought it eccentricity of age.” - -“No!” His cousin shook his head. “Age alone would not make a man go on -like that. I take it, sir, that extreme age makes a man care nothing -about other people, not even his own children; but it does not cut him -off from money matters.” - -“You are perhaps right. Yet--well, I know nothing. So the old man’s mind -was overthrown by the great shock of a double loss. Strange that they -never told me! And his son, my grandfather, committed suicide. And his -sister’s husband became a bankrupt.” - -“Yes; there are misfortunes enough. The old woman is never tired of -harping on the family misfortunes. The second son was drowned. He was a -sailor, and was drowned. My father was never anything better than a -small clerk. I’ve known myself what it is to want the price of a dinner. -If you want to know what misfortune is like, wait till you’re hungry.” - -“Indeed!” Leonard replied thoughtfully. “And all these troubles are new -to me. Strange that they should be told me on this very day!” - -“Then there’s your own father. He died young, too, and the last case -that the old woman talks about is your father’s brother. I forget his -name; they packed him off to Australia after he had forged your father’s -name.” - -“What?” - -“Forged. That’s a pretty word to use, isn’t it? Yes, sir, there are -misfortunes enough.” He got up. “Well, the point is, will you come and -see the old woman?” - -“Yes. I will call upon her. When shall I find her at home?” - -“She lies down on the sofa beside the fire every afternoon from two to -four or half-past four, then wakes up refreshed and able to talk. Come -about half-past four. It’s the back-parlour; the front is my office, and -my clerk--I have only one as yet--works in the room over the -kitchen--the gal’s bedroom it is, as a rule. It is a most respectable -house, with my name on a door-plate, so you can’t miss it.” - -“I will call, then.” - -“There is one thing more, Mr. Campaigne. We have not thrust ourselves -forward, or tried to force ourselves on the family, and we shall not, -sir, we shall not. We live six miles apart, and we have our own friends, -and my friends are not yours. Still, in a business way, there is a -question which I should like to ask. It is a business question.” - -The man’s face became suddenly foxy. He leaned forward and dropped his -voice to a whisper. Leonard was on his guard instinctively. - -“If it has to do with the Campaigne estates, I have nothing whatever to -say. Would it not be well to go to the lawyers who manage the estate?” - -“No. They would not tell me anything. What I want to know is this. He -has, I believe, a large estate?” - -“He has, I believe. But he has no power to part with any portion of it.” - -“The estate produces rents, I suppose?” - -“That is no doubt the case.” - -“Well, for seventy years the old man has spent nothing. There must be -accumulations. In case of no will, these accumulations would be divided -equally between your grandfather’s heirs and my grandmother. Do you know -of any will, if I may be so bold as to ask?” - -“I know nothing of any will.” - -“It is most unlikely that there should be any will. A man who has been -off his head for nearly seventy years can hardly leave a will. If he -did, one could easily set it aside. Mr. Campaigne, it is on the cards -that there may be enormous accumulations.” - -“There may be, as you say, accumulations.” - -“In that case, it is possible--I say possible--that my sister and I may -become rich, very rich--I hardly dare to put the possibility upon -myself--but there must be--there must be--accumulations, and the -question which I would put to you, sir, is this: Where are those -accumulations invested? And can a man find out what they amount to--what -they are worth--who draws the dividends--how are they applied--and is -there a will? Was it made before or after the old man went off his -chump? And if the money is left out of the family, would you, sir, as -the head of the family, be ready to take steps to set aside that will? -Those are my questions, Mr. Campaigne.” He threw himself back again in -the chair, and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. - -“These are very important questions,” said Leonard. “As a lawyer, you -must be aware that I cannot give you any answer. As to the -administration of the property, I believe I have no right to ask the -lawyers and agents any questions. We must assume that the owner of the -estate is in his right mind. As for disputing a will, we must wait till -a will is produced.” - -“Sir”--the cousin leaned over his knees and whispered hoarsely--“sir, -the accumulations must be a million and a half. I worked it all out -myself with an arithmetic book. I learned the rule on purpose. For I -never got so far in the book as compound interest. It meant hundreds of -sums; I did ’em all, one after the other. I thought I should never get -to the end. Mary Anne helped. Hundreds of sums at compound interest, and -it tots up to a million and a half--a million and a half! Think of that! -A million and a half!” - -He got up and put on his overcoat slowly. - -“Sir,” he added, with deep emotion and a trembling voice, “this money -must not be suffered to go out of the family. It must not. It would be -sinful--sinful. We look to you to protect the rights of the family.” - -Leonard laughed. “I fear I have no power to help you in this respect. -Good-night. I hope to call upon my great-aunt as she wishes.” - -He shut the door upon his visitor. He heard his feet going down the -stairs. He returned to his empty room. - -It was no longer empty. The man had peopled it with ghosts, all of whom -he had brought with him. - -There was the old man--young again--staggering under the weight of a -double bereavement--wife and best friend in the same day. There was his -own grandfather killing himself. Why? The young sailor going out to be -drowned; his own father dying young; the returned colonial--the -prosperous gentleman who, before going out, had forged his brother’s -name. Forged! forged! The word rang in his brain. There was the daughter -of the House--deserted by the House, married into such a family as Mr. -Galley represented. Were not these ghosts enough to bring into a quiet -gentleman’s flat? - -Yes, he had been brought up in ignorance of these things. He knew -nothing of the cause of the old man’s seclusion; not the reason of his -grandfather’s early death; not any of those other misfortunes. He had -been kept in ignorance of all. And now these things were roughly -exploded upon his unsuspecting head. - -He sat down before the fire; he worked at the “Subject” no more that -night. And in his brain there rang still the strange warnings of -Constance--that he wanted something of misfortune, such as harassed the -rest of the world, in order to bring him down to a level with the men -and women around him. - -“I have got that something,” he said. “Poor relations, family scandals, -and humiliations and all. But so far I feel no better.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A LEARNED PROFESSION - - -In one of the streets lying east of Chancery Lane is a block of -buildings, comparatively new, let out as offices. They generally consist -of three rooms, but sometimes there are four, five, or even six. The -geographical position of the block indicates the character of the -occupants: does not every stone in Chancery Lane and her daughters -belong to the Law? Sometimes, however, there are exceptions. A few -trading companies are established here, for instance; and occasionally -one finds written across the door such an announcement as “Mr. George -Crediton, Agent.” The clerks and people who passed up and down the -stairs every day sometimes asked each other what kind of agency was -undertaken in this office. But the clerks had their own affairs to think -about. Such a mystery as a business conducted in a quiet office to which -no clients ever come is a matter of speculation for a while, but soon -ceases to excite any attention. Some twenty years and more had passed -since that name had first appeared on the door and since the clerks -began to wonder. - -“Mr. George Crediton, Agent.” There are many kinds of agents. Land, -houses, property of all kinds, may be managed by an agent; there are -agents for taking out patents--several of these run offices near the -Patent Office; there are literary agents--but Chancery Lane is not -Parnassus; there are agents for the creation and the dissolution of -partnership; there are theatrical agents--but what has law land to do -with sock and buskin? And what kind of Agent was Mr. George Crediton? - -Mr. George Crediton, Agent, sat in his inner office. The room was -furnished solidly with a view to work. The large and ponderous table, -covered with papers so dear to the solicitor, was not to be seen here; -in its place was an ordinary study table. This was turned at an angle to -the wall and window. There was a warm and handsome carpet, a sheepskin -under the table, a wooden chair for the Agent, and two others for his -visitors. A typewriter stood on the table. The walls were covered with -books--not law books, but a miscellaneous collection. The Agent was -apparently a man who revelled in light reading; for, in fact, all the -modern humorists were there--those from America as well as those of our -own production. There was also a collection of the English poets, and -some, but not many, of France and Germany. On a table before him stood -half a dozen bound folios with the titles on the back--“Reference A--E,” -and so on. In one corner, stood an open safe, to which apparently -belonged another folio, entitled “Ledger.” - -The Agent, engaged upon his work, evidently endeavoured to present an -appearance of the gravest responsibility. His face was decorated by a -pair of small whiskers cut straight over and set back; the chin and lips -were smooth-shaven. The model set before himself was the conventional -face of the barrister. Unfortunately, the attempt was not successful, -for the face was not in the least like that conventional type. It had no -severity, it had no keenness; it was not set or grave or dignified. It -might have been the face of a light comedian. In figure the man was over -six feet high and curiously thin, with a slightly aquiline nose and -mobile, sensitive lips. - -He began his morning’s work by opening his letters; there were only two -or three. He referred to his ledger and consulted certain entries; he -made a few pencil notes. Then he took down from one shelf Sam Slick, -Artemus Ward, and Mark Twain, and from another a collection of Burnand’s -works and one or two of Frederick Anstey’s. He turned over the pages, -and began to make brief extracts and more notes. Perhaps, then, a -bystander might have thought he was about to write a paper on the -comparative characteristics of English and American humour. - -Outside, his boy--he had a clerk of fourteen at five shillings a -week--sat before the fire reading the heroic jests and achievements of -the illustrious Jack Harkaway. He was a nice boy, full of imagination, -resolved on becoming another Jack Harkaway when the time should arrive, -and for the moment truly grateful to fortune for providing him with a -situation which demanded no work except to post letters and to sit -before the fire reading in a warm and comfortable outer room to which no -callers or visitors ever came except his employer and the postman; and -if you asked that boy what was the character of the agency, he would not -be able to tell you. - -When Mr. George Crediton had finished making his extracts, he pinned the -papers together methodically, and laid them on one side. Then he opened -the last letter. - -“He’s answered it,” he chuckled. “Fred’s handwriting. I knew it--I knew -it. Called himself Barlow, but I knew it directly. Oh, he’ll come--he’ll -come.” He sat down and laughed silently, shaking the room with his -chuckling. “He’ll come. Won’t he be astonished?” - -Presently he heard a step and a voice: - -“I want to see Mr. George Crediton.” - -“That’s Fred,” said the Agent, chuckling again. “Now for it.” - -“There’s nobody with him,” the boy replied, not venturing to commit -himself, and unaccustomed to the arrival of strangers. - -The caller was a tall man of about forty-five, well set up, and strongly -built. He was dressed with the appearance of prosperity, therefore he -carried a large gold chain. His face bore the marks which we are -accustomed to associate with certain indulgences, especially in strong -drink. It is needless to dwell upon these evidences of frailty; besides, -one may easily be mistaken. It was a kind of face which might be met -with in a snug bar-parlour with a pipe and a glass of something hot--a -handsome face, but not intellectual or refined. Yet it ought to have -been both. In spite of broadcloth and white linen the appearance of this -gentleman hardly extorted the immediate respect of the beholder. - -“Tell Mr. Crediton that Mr. Joseph Barlow is outside.” - -“Barlow?” said the boy. “Why don’t you go in, then?” and turned over now -to his book of adventures. - -Mr. Barlow obeyed, and passed into the inner office. There he stopped -short, and cried: - -“Christopher, by all that’s holy!” - -The Agent looked up, sprang to his feet, and held out his hand. - -“Fred! Back again, and become a Barlow!” - -Fred took the outstretched hand, but doubtfully. - -“Come to that, Chris, you’re a Crediton.” - -“In the way of business, Crediton.” - -“Quite so. In the way of business, Barlow.” - -Then they looked at each other and burst into laughter. - -“I knew your handwriting, Fred. When I got your letter I knew it was -yours, so I sent you a type-written reply. Typewriting never betrays, -and can’t be found out if you want to be secret.” - -“Oh, it’s mighty funny, Chris. But I don’t understand it. What the devil -does it all mean?” - -“The very question in my mind, Fred. What does it mean? New rig-out, -gold chain, ring--what does it mean? Why have you never written?” - -“The circumstances of my departure--you remember, perhaps.” - -The Agent’s face darkened. - -“Yes, yes,” he replied hastily; “I remember. The situation was -awkward--very.” - -“You were much worse than I was, but I got all the blame.” - -“Perhaps--perhaps. But it was a long time ago, and--and--well, we have -both got on. You are now Barlow--Joseph Barlow.” - -“And you are now Crediton--George Crediton.” - -“Sit down, Fred; let us have a good talk. And how long have you been -back?” - -Fred took a chair, and sat down on the opposite side of the table. - -“Only a fortnight or so.” - -“And why didn’t you look me up before?” - -“As I told you, there was some doubt---- However, here I am. Barlow is -the name of my Firm, a large and influential Firm.” - -“In Sydney? or Melbourne?” - -“No, up-country--over there.” He pointed over his left shoulder. “That’s -why I use the name of Barlow. I am here on the business of the Firm--it -brought me to London. It takes me every day into the City--most -important transactions. Owing to the magnitude of the operation, my -tongue is sealed.” - -“Oh!” There was a little doubt implied by the interjection. “You a -business man? You? Why, you never understood the simplest sum in -addition.” - -“As regards debts, probably not. As regards assets and property---- But -in those days I had none. Prosperity, Chris--prosperity brings out all a -man’s better qualities. You yourself look respectable.” - -“I’ve been respectable for exactly four-and-twenty years. I am married. -I have a son of three-and-twenty, and a daughter of one-and-twenty. I -live in Pembridge Crescent, Bayswater.” - -“And you were by way of being a barrister.” - -“I was. But, Fred, to be honest, did you ever catch me reading a law -book?” - -“I never did. And now you’re an Agent.” - -“Say, rather, that I practice in the higher walks of Literature. What -can be higher than oratory?” - -“Quite so. You supply the world--which certainly makes a terrible mess -of its speeches--with discourses and after-dinner oratory.” - -“Oratory of all kinds, from the pulpit to the inverted tub: from the -Mansion House to the Bar Parlour: from the House of Commons to the -political gathering.” - -“What does your wife say?” - -“My wife? Bless you, my dear boy, she doesn’t know anything. She -doesn’t suspect. At home I’m the prosperous and successful lawyer: they -wonder why I don’t take silk.” - -“What? Don’t they know?” - -“Nobody knows. Not the landlord of these rooms. Not the boy outside. Not -any of my clients. Not my wife, nor my son, nor my daughter.” - -“Oh! And you are making a good thing out of it?” - -“So good that I would not exchange it for a County Court Judgeship.” - -“It’s wonderful,” said Fred. “And I always thought you rather a -half-baked lump of dough.” - -“Not more wonderful than your own success. What a blessing it is, Fred, -that you have come home without wanting to borrow any money”--he watched -his brother’s face: he saw a cloud as of doubt or anxiety pass over it, -and he smiled. “Not that I could lend you any if you did want it--with -my expensive establishment. Still, it is a blessing and a happiness, -Fred, to be able to think of you as the Head--I believe you said the -Head--of the great and prosperous Firm of Barlow & Co.” Fred’s face -distinctly lengthened. “I suppose I must not ask a business man about -his income?” - -“Hardly--hardly. Though, if any man---- But--I have a partner who would -not like these private affairs divulged.” - -“Well, Fred, I’m glad to see you back again--I am indeed.” - -They shook hands once more, and then, for some unknown reason, they were -seized with laughter, long and not to be controlled. - -“Distinguished lawyer,” murmured Fred, when the laugh had subsided with -an intermittent gurgle. - -“Influential man of business,” said Christopher. “Oh! Ho, Lord!” cried -he, wiping his eyes, “it brings back the old times when we used to -laugh. What a lot we had to laugh at! The creditors and the duns--you -remember?” - -“I do. And the girls--and the suppers! They were good old times, Chris. -You carried on shameful.” - -“We did--we did. It’s pleasant to remember, though.” - -“Chris, I’m thirsty.” - -“You always are.” - -His brother remembered this agreeable trait after five-and-twenty years. -He got up, opened a cupboard, and took out a bottle and glasses and some -soda-water. Then they sat opposite each other with the early tumbler and -the morning cigar, beaming with fraternal affection. - -“Like old times, old man,” said the barrister. - -“It is. We’ll have many more old times,” said Fred, “now that I’m home -again.” - -In the words of the poet, “Alas! they had been friends in youth,” as -well as brothers. And it might have been better had they not been -friends in youth. And they had heard the midnight chimes together. And -they had together wasted each his slender patrimony. But now they talked -friendly over the sympathetic drink that survives the possibility of -port and champagne, and even claret. - -“Don’t they really suspect--any of them?” asked Brother Fred. - -“None of them. They call me a distinguished lawyer and the Pride of the -Family--next to Leonard, who’s in the House.” - -“Isn’t there a danger of being found out?” - -“Not a bit. The business is conducted by letter. I might as well have no -office at all, except for the look of it. No, there’s no fear. Nobody -ever comes here. How did you find me out?” - -“Hotel clerk. He saw my name as a speaker at the dinner to-morrow, and -suggested that I should write to you.” - -“Good. He gets a commission. I say, you must come and see us, you know. -Remember, no allusions to the Complete Speech-maker--eh?” - -“Not a word. Though, I say, it beats me how you came to think of it.” - -“Genius, my boy--pure genius. When you get your speech you will be proud -of me. What’s a practice at the Bar compared with a practice at the -after-dinner table? And now, Fred, why Barlow?” - -“Well, you remember what happened?” His brother nodded, and dropped his -eyes. “Absurd fuss they made.” - -“Nobody has heard anything about you for five-and-twenty years.” - -“I took another name--a fighting name. Barlow, I called myself--Joseph -Barlow. Joe--there’s fight in the very name. No sympathy, no weakening -about Joe.” - -“Yes. For my own part, I took the name of Crediton. Respectability -rather than aggressiveness in that name. Confidence was what I wanted.” - -“Tell me about the family. Remember that it was in 1874 that I went -away--twenty-five years ago.” - -His brother gave him briefly an account of the births and deaths. His -mother was dead; his elder brother was dead, leaving an only son. - -“As for Algernon’s death,” said the speech-merchant, “it was a great -blow. He was really going to distinguish himself. And he died--died at -thirty-two. His son is in the House. They say he promises well. He’s a -scholar, I believe; they say he can speak; and he’s more than a bit of a -prig.” - -“And about the old man--the ancient one--is he living?” - -“Yes. He is nearly ninety-five.” - -“Ninety-five. He can’t last much longer. I came home partly to look -after things. Because, although the estate goes to Algernon’s -son--deuced bad luck for me that Algernon did have a son--there’s the -accumulations. I remembered them one evening out there, and the thought -went through me like a knife that he was probably dead, and the -accumulations divided, and my share gone. So I bundled home as fast as I -could.” - -“No--so far you are all right. For he’s hearty and strong, and the -accumulations are still rolling up, I suppose. What will become of them -no one knows.” - -“I see. Well, I must make the acquaintance of Algernon’s son.” - -“And about this great Firm of yours?” - -“Well, it’s a--as I said--a great Firm.” - -“Quite so. It must be, with Fred Campaigne at the head of it.” - -“Never mind the Firm, but tell me about this astonishing profession of -yours.” - -The Professor smiled. - -“Fortunately,” he said, “I am alone. Were there any competition I might -be ruined. But I don’t know: my reputation by this time stands on too -firm a basis to be shaken.” - -“Your reputation? But people cannot talk about you.” - -“They cannot. But they may whisper--whisper to each other. Why, just -consider the convenience. Instead of having to rack their brains for -compliments and pretty things and not to find them, instead of hunting -for anecdotes and quotations, they just send to me. They get in return a -speech just as long as they want--from five minutes to an hour--full of -good things! In this way they are able to acquire it at a cheap, that -is, a reasonable rate, for next to nothing, considering the reputation -of wit and epigram and sparkles. Then think of the company at the -dinner. Instead of having to listen to a fumbler and a stammerer and a -clumsy boggler, they have before them a speaker easy in his mind, -because he has learned it all by heart, bright and epigrammatic. He -keeps them all alive, and when he sits down there is a sigh to think -that his speech was so short.” - -“You must give me just such a speech.” - -“I will--I will. Fred, you shall start with a name that will make you -welcome at every City Company’s dinner. It will help you hugely over -your enormous transactions for the Firm. Rely on me. Because, you see, -when a man has once delivered himself of a good speech, he is asked to -speak again: he must keep it up; so he sends to me again. Look here”--he -laid his hands upon a little pile of letters--“here are yesterday’s and -to-day’s letters.” He took them up and played with them as with a pack -of cards. “This man wants a reply for the Army. This is a return for -Literature. This is a reply for the House of Commons. The Ladies, the -American Republic, Science, the Colonies--see?” - -“And the pay?” - -“The pay, Fred, corresponds to the privilege conferred. I make orators. -They are grateful. As for yourself, now----” - -“Mine is a reply for Australia. The dinner is on Friday at the Hotel -Cecil--Dinner of Colonial Enterprise.” - -“Really!” The Agent smiled and rubbed his hands. “This is indeed -gratifying. Because, Fred--of course you are as secret as death--I may -tell you that this request of yours completes the toast-list for the -evening. The speeches will be all--all my own--all provided by the -Agent. But the plums, my brother, the real plums, shall be stuffed in -yours. I will make it the speech of the evening. Mr. Barlow--Barlow--Barlow -of New South Wales.” - -Fred rose. “Well,” he said, “I leave you to my speech. Come and dine -with me to-night at the Hôtel Métropole--half-past seven. We might have -a look round afterwards.” - -They had that dinner together. It was quite the dinner of a rich man. It -was also the dinner of one who loved to look upon the winecup. - -After dinner Fred looked at his watch. “Half-past nine. I say, Chris, -about this time we used to sally forth. You remember?” - -“I believe I do remember. I am now so respectable that I cannot allow -myself to remember.” - -“There was the Holborn Casino and the Argyll for a little dance: the -Judge and Jury, Evans’s, and the Coalhole for supper and a sing-song: -Caldwell’s to take a shop-girl for a quiet dance: Cremorne----” - -“My dear Fred, these are old stories. All these things have gone. The -Holborn and the Argyll are restaurants, Cremorne is built over, Evans’s -is dead and gone: the Judge and Jury business wouldn’t be tolerated -now.” - -“What do the boys do now?” - -“How should I know? They amuse themselves somehow. But it’s no concern -of mine, or of yours. You are no longer a boy, Fred.” - -“Hang it! What am I to do with myself in the evenings? I suppose I can -go and look on if I can’t cut in any more?” - -“No; you mustn’t even look on. Leave the boys to themselves. Join a club -and sit by yourself in the smoking-room all the evening. That’s the -amusement for you.” - -“I suppose I can go to the theatre--if that’s all?” - -“Oh yes! You must put on your evening clothes and go to the stalls. We -used to go to the pit, you know. There are music-halls and variety shows -of sorts--you might go there if you like. But, you know, you’ve got a -character to maintain. Think of your position.” - -“Hang my position, man! Get up and take me somewhere. Let us laugh and -look on at something.” - -“My dear Fred, consider. I am a respectable barrister with a grown-up -son. Could I be seen in such a place? The head of the firm of Barlow and -Co., allow me to point out, would not improve his chances in the City if -he were seen in certain places.” - -“Nobody knows me.” - -“Remember, my dear brother, that if you mean to get money out of the -City you must be the serious and responsible capitalist in the evening -as well as in the morning.” - -“Then we’ll go and have tobacco in the smoking-room. One is apt to -forget, Chris, the responsibilities of success.” - -“Quite so.” Christopher smiled. “Quite so. Well put. The -responsibilities of success. I will introduce the phrase in your speech. -The responsibilities of success.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL - - -Mrs. Christopher Campaigne was at home. The rooms were filled with -people--chiefly young people, friends of her son and daughter. Most of -them were endowed with those literary and artistic leanings which made -them severe critics, even if they had not yet produced immortal works of -their own. The chief attraction of the evening, however, was the -newly-returned Australian, said to be a millionaire, who took up a large -space in the room, being tall and broad; he also took up a large space -in the conversation: he talked loud and laughed loud. He presented -successfully the appearance he desired, namely, that of a highly -prosperous gentleman, accustomed to the deference due to millions. - -Leonard came late. - -“I am glad to see you here,” said his hostess. “Frederick, you can -hardly remember your other nephew, son of Algernon.” - -Frederick held out a manly grasp. “When I left England,” he said, “you -were a child of four or five; I cannot pretend to remember you, -Leonard.” - -“Nor can I remember you.” He tried to dismiss from his mind a certain -ugly word. “But you are welcome home once more. This time, I hope, to -stay.” - -“I think not. Affairs--affairs are sometimes peremptory, particularly -large affairs. The City may insist upon my staying a few weeks, or the -City may allow me to go back. I am wholly in the hands of the City.” - -If you come to think of it, a man must be rich indeed to be in the hands -of the City. - -The people gazed upon the speaker with increased interest, and even awe. -They were not in the hands of the City. - -“I confess,” he went on, “that I should like to remain. Society, when -one returns to it after many years, is pleasing. Some people say that it -is hollow. Perhaps. The frocks vary”--he looked round critically--“they -are not the same as they were five-and-twenty years ago; but the effect -remains the same. And the effect is everything. We must not look behind -the scenes. The rough old colonist”--yet no one in the room was better -groomed--“looks on from the outside and finds it all delightful.” - -“Can things unreal ever be delightful?” murmured a lady in the circle -with a sigh. - -“At all events,” Leonard continued, “you will not leave us for a time.” - -“There, again, I am uncertain. I have a partner in Australia. I have -connections to look up in the City. But for a few weeks I believe I may -reckon on a holiday and a look round, for Colonials have to show the -City that all the enterprise is not theirs, nor all the wealth--nor all -the wealth. And what,” he asked with condescension, “what are you doing, -Leonard?” - -“I am in the House.” - -“As your father was--and your grandfather. It is a great career.” - -“It may be a great career.” - -“True--true. There must be many failures--many failures. Where and when -are you most likely to be found?” - -Leonard told him. - -“Give me a note of it before we go to-night. I dare say I can get round -some time.” - -The ugly word once more unpleasantly returned to Leonard’s mind. - -Mr. Frederick Campaigne proceeded with his interrupted discourse, which -proved the necessity of the existence of the poor in order to make the -condition of the rich possible and enviable. He took the millionaire’s -point of view, and dwelt not only on the holiness of wealth, but also on -the duties of the poor towards their superiors. - -Leonard slipped away. He felt uncomfortable. He could not forget what -had been told him about this loud and prosperous and self-satisfied -person. Besides, he seemed to be overdoing it--acting a part. Why? - -In the inner drawing-room he found his two cousins, Algernon and -Philippa. The former, a young man of three-or four-and-twenty, was -possessed of a tall figure, but rather too small a head. He smiled a -good deal, and talked with an easy confidence common to his circle of -friends. It was a handsome face, but it did not suggest possibilities of -work. - -Leonard asked him how he was getting on. - -“Always the same,” he replied, with a laugh. “The study of the dramatic -art presents endless difficulties. That is why we are loaded up with -plays.” - -“Then it remains for you to show the world what a play should be.” - -“That is my mission. I shall continue my studies for a year or so more; -and then--you shall see. My method is to study the art on the stage -itself, not in books. I go to men and women on the stage. I sit in -various parts of the stalls and watch and learn. Presently I shall sit -down to write.” - -“Well, I look forward to the result.” - -“Look here, Leonard”--he dropped his voice. “I hear that you go to see -the old man sometimes. He is nearly ninety-five. He can’t last much -longer. Of course the estate is yours. But how about the accumulations.” - -“I know nothing about the accumulations.” - -“With the pater’s large practice and our share of the accumulations, -don’t you think it is too bad of him to keep up this fuss about my -work? Why should I trouble my head about money? There will be--there -must be--plenty of money. My work,” he said proudly, “shall be, at -least, the work of one who is not driven by the ignoble stimulus of -necessity. It will be entirely free from the ignoble stimulus of -necessity. It will be free from the commercial taint--the curse of -art--the blighting incubus of art--the degrading thought of money.” - -Leonard left him. In the doorway stood his cousin Philippa. - -“You have just been talking to Algernon,” she said. “You see, he is -always stretching out his hands in the direction of dramatic art.” - -“So I observe,” he replied dryly. “Some day, perhaps, he will grasp it. -At present, as you say, he is only stretching out arms in that -direction. And you?” - -“I have but one dream--always one dream,” she replied, oppressed with -endeavour. - -“I hope it will come true, then. By the way, Philippa, I have just found -a whole family of new cousins.” - -“New cousins? Who are they?” - -“And a great aunt. I have seen one of the cousins; and I am going -to-morrow to see the great-aunt and perhaps the other cousin.” - -“Who are they? If they are your cousins, they must be cousins on papa’s -side. I thought that we three were the only cousins on his side.” - -“Your uncle Fred may have children. Have you asked him if he is -married?” - -“No; he has promised to tell all his adventures. He is a bachelor. Is it -not interesting to get another uncle, and a bachelor, and rolling in -money? Algernon has already----” She stopped, remembering a warning. -“But who are these cousins?” - -“Prepare for a shock to the family pride.” - -“Why, we have no poor relations, have we? I thought----” - -“Listen, my cousin. Your grandfather’s sister Lucy married one Isaac -Galley about the year 1847. It was not a good marriage for her. The -husband became a bankrupt, and as by this time her father had fallen -into his present condition or profession of a silent hermit, there was -no help from him. Then they fell into poverty. Her son became a small -clerk in the City, her grandson is a solicitor in the Commercial -Road--not, I imagine, in the nobler or higher walks of that -profession--and her grand-daughter is a teacher in a Board School.” - -“Indeed!” The girl listened coldly; her eyes wandered round the room -filled with well-dressed people. “A teacher in a Board School! And our -cousin! A Board School teacher! How interesting! Shall we tell all these -people about our new cousins?” - -“No doubt they have all got their own second cousins. It is, I believe, -the duty of the second cousin to occupy a lower rank.” - -“I dare say. At the same time, we have always thought our family a good -deal above the general run. And it’s rather a blow, Leonard, don’t you -think?” - -“It is, Philippa. But, after all, it remains a good old family. One -second cousin cannot destroy our record. You may still be proud of it.” - -He left the girl, and went in search of his uncle, whom he found, as he -expected, in his study apart from the throng. - -“Always over your papers,” he said. “May I interrupt for a moment?” - -The barrister shuffled his papers hurriedly into a drawer. - -“Always busy,” he said. “We lawyers work harder than any other folk, I -believe, especially those with a confidential practice like my own, -which makes no noise and is never heard of.” - -“But not the less valuable, eh?” - -The barrister smiled. - -“We make both ends meet,” he said meekly--“both ends meet. Yes, yes, -both ends meet.” - -“I went to see the old man the other day,” Leonard went on, taking a -chair. “I thought you would like to know. He remains perfectly well, and -there is no change in any respect. What I want to ask you is this. It -may be necessary before long to get the question decided. Is he in a -condition to make a will?” - -The lawyer took time to give an opinion. Backed by his long legal -experience and extensive practice, it was an opinion carrying weight. - -“My opinion,” he said gravely, and as one weighing the case -judicially--in imagination he had assumed the wig and gown--“my -opinion,” he repeated, “would be, at first and on the statement of the -case, that he is unfit and has been unfit for the last seventy years, to -make a will. He is undoubtedly on some points so eccentric as to appear -of unsound mind. He does nothing; he allows house and gardens and -furniture and pictures to fall into decay; he never speaks; he has no -occupation. This points, I say, to a mind unhinged by the shock of -seventy years ago.” - -“A shock of which I only heard the other day.” - -“Yes--I know. My sister-in-law--your mother and your -grandfather--thought to screen you from what they thought family -misfortune by never telling you the truth--that is to say, the whole -truth. I have followed the same rule with my children.” - -“Family misfortune! I hardly know even now what to understand by it.” - -“Well, they are superstitious. Your father died young, your grandfather -died young; like you, they were young men of promise. Your -great-grandfather at the age of six-and-twenty or thereabouts was -afflicted, as you know.” - -“And they think----” - -“They think that it is the visiting of the unknown sins of the fathers -upon the children. They think that the old man’s father must have done -something terrible.” - -“Oh, but this is absurd.” - -“Very likely--very likely. Meantime, as to the power of making a will, -we must remember that during all these years the old man has never done -anything foolish. I have seen the solicitors. They tell me that from -father to son, having acted for him all these years, they have found him -perfectly clear-headed about money matters. I could not ask them what he -has done with all his money, nor what he intends to do with it. But -there is the fact--the evidence of the solicitors as to the clearness of -his intellect. My opinion, therefore, is that he will do something -astonishing, unexpected, and disgusting with his money, and that it will -be very difficult, if not impossible, to set aside his will.” - -“Oh, that is your opinion, is it? The reason why I ask is that I have -just discovered a family of hitherto unknown cousins. Do you know the -name of Galley?” - -“No. It is not a name, I should say, of the highest nobility.” - -“Possibly not. It is the name of our cousins, however. One of them is a -solicitor of a somewhat low class, I should say; the man has no -pretensions whatever to be called a gentleman. He practises and lives in -the Commercial Road, which is, I suppose, quite out of the ordinary -quarter where you would find a solicitor of standing.” - -“Quite, quite; as a place of residence--deplorable from that point of -view.” - -“He has a sister, it appears, who is a Board School teacher.” - -“A Board School teacher? It is at least respectable. But who are these -precious cousins of ours?” - -“They are the grandchildren of an aunt of yours--Lucy by name.” - -“Lucy! Yes. I have heard of her; I thought she was dead long ago.” - -“She married a man named Galley. They seem to have gone down in the -world.” - -“More family misfortune.” The lawyer shuddered. “I am not -superstitious,” he said, “but really--more misfortunes.” - -“Oh, misfortunes! Nonsense! There are always in every family some who go -down--some who go up--some who stay there. You yourself have been borne -steadily upwards to name and fortune.” - -“I have,” said the lawyer, with half a groan. “Oh yes--yes--I have.” - -“And my uncle Fred, you see, comes home--all his wild oats sowed--with a -great fortune.” - -“Truly.” The lawyer’s face lengthened. “A great fortune. He told you so, -didn’t he? Yes; we have both been most fortunate and happy, both Fred -and I. Go on, Leonard. About these cousins----” - -“These are the grandchildren of Lucy Campaigne. I am to see the old lady -in a day or two.” - -“Do they want anything? Help? Recognition?” - -“Nothing, so far as I know. Not even recognition.” - -“That is well. I don’t mind how many poor relations we’ve got, provided -they don’t ask for money, or for recognition. If you give them money, -they will infallibly decline to work, and live upon you. If you call -upon them and give them recognition, they will infallibly disgrace you.” - -“The solicitor asked for nothing. This cousin of ours has been building -hopes upon what he calls accumulations. He evidently thinks that the old -man is not in a condition to make a will, and that all that is left of -personal property will be divided in two equal shares, one moiety among -your father’s heirs on our side, while the other will go to the old lady -his grandmother on the other side.” - -“That is, I am afraid, quite true. But there may have been a Will before -he fell into--eccentricity. It is a great pity, Leonard, that these -people have turned up--a great misfortune--because we may have to share -with them. Still, there must be enormous accumulations. My mother did -not tell us anything about possible cousins; yet they do exist, and they -are very serious and important possibilities. These people will probably -interfere with us to a very serious extent. And now Fred has turned up, -and he will want his share, too. Another misfortune.” - -“How came my grandfather to die so young?” Leonard passed on to another -point. - -“He fell into a fever. I was only two years old at the time.” - -Leonard said nothing about the suicide. Clearly, not himself only, but -his uncles also, had been kept in the dark about the true cause of that -unexpected demise. - -He departed, closing the door softly, so as not to shake up and confuse -the delicate tissues of a brain always occupied in arriving at an -opinion. - -As soon as he was gone the barrister drew out his papers once more, and -resumed the speech for which he had prepared half a dozen most excellent -stories. In such a case the British public does not ask for all the -stories to be new. - -Leonard rejoined the company upstairs. - -His uncle Fred walked part of the way home with him. - -“I hadn’t expected,” he said, “to find the old man still living. Of -course, it cannot go on much longer. Have you thought about what may -happen--when the end comes?” - -“Not much, I confess.” - -“One must. I take it that he does not spend the fiftieth part of his -income. I have heard as a boy that the estate was worth £7,000 a year.” - -“Very likely, unless there has been depression.” - -“Say he spends £150 a year. That leaves £5,850 a year. Take £800 for -expenses and repairs--that leaves £5,000 a year. He has been going on -like this for seventy years. Total accumulations, £420,000. At compound -interest for all these years, it must reach two millions or so. Who is -to have it?” - -“His descendants, I suppose.” - -“You, my brother Christopher, and myself. Two millions to divide between -us. A very pretty fortune--very pretty indeed. Good-night, my -boy--good-night.” - -He walked away cheerfully and with elastic step. - -“Accumulations--accumulations!” said Leonard, looking after him. “They -are all for accumulations. Shall I, too, begin to calculate how much has -been accumulated? And how if the accumulations turn out to be -lost--wasted--gone--to somebody else?” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE CHILD OF SORROWS - - -On a cold day, with a grey sky and an east wind, Leonard for the first -time walked down the Commercial Road to call upon the newly-found -cousins. It is a broad thoroughfare, but breadth does not always bring -cheerfulness with it; even under a warm summer sun some thoroughfares -cannot be cheerful. Nothing can relieve the unvarying depression of the -Commercial Road. It is felt even by the children, who refuse to play in -it, preferring the narrow streets running out of it; the depression is -felt even by the drivers and the conductors of the tram-cars, persons -who are generally superior to these influences. Here and there is a -chapel, here and there is a model lodging-house or a factory, or a -square or a great shop. One square was formerly picturesque when the -Fair of the Goats was held upon it; now it has become respectable; the -goats are gone, and the sight provokes melancholy. North and south of -the road branch off endless rows of streets, crossed by streets laid out -in a uniform check pattern. All these streets are similar and similarly -situated, like Euclid’s triangles. One wonders how a resident finds his -own house; nevertheless, the houses, though they are all turned out -according to the same pattern, are neat and clean and well kept. The -people in them are prosperous, according to their views on prosperity; -the streets are cheerful, though the road to which they belong is -melancholy. “Alas!” it says, “how can such a road as myself be cheerful? -I lead to the Docks, and Limehouse, and Poplar, and Canning Town, and -the Isle of Dogs.” - -Mr. Galley’s house was on the north side, conveniently near to a certain -police-court, in which he practised daily, sometimes coming home with as -much as three or four half-crowns in his pocket, sometimes with -less--for competition among the professional solicitors in the -police-courts is keen, and even fierce. Five shillings is a common fee -for the defence of a prisoner, and rumour whispers that even this humble -sum has to be shared secretly with a certain functionary who must be -nameless. - -A brass plate was on the door: “Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne, Solicitor.” -It was a narrow three-storied house, quite respectable, and as -depressing as the road in which it stood. - -Leonard knocked doubtfully. After a few moments’ delay the door was -opened by a boy who had a pen stuck behind his ear. - -“Oh, you want Mrs. Galley!” he said. “There you are--back-parlour!” and -ran up the stairs again, leaving the visitor on the doormat. - -He obeyed instructions, however, and opened the door indicated. He -found himself in a small back room--pity that the good old word -“parlour” has gone out!--where there were sitting three ladies -representing three stages of human life--namely, twenty, fifty, and -seventy. - -The table was laid for tea; the kettle was on the old-fashioned -hob--pity that the hospitable hob has gone!--and the kettle was singing; -the buttered toast and the muffins were before the fire, within the high -old-fashioned fender; the tea-things and the cake and the -bread-and-butter were on the table, and the ladies were in their Sunday -“things,” waiting for him. It was with some relief that Leonard observed -the absence of Mr. Samuel. - -The eldest of the three ladies welcomed him. - -“My grand-nephew Leonard,” she said, giving him her hand, “I am very -glad--very glad indeed to make your acquaintance. This”--she introduced -the lady of middle life--“is my daughter-in-law, the widow--alas!--of my -only son. And this”--indicating the girl--“is my grand-daughter.” - -The speaker was a gentlewoman. The fact was proclaimed in her speech, in -her voice, in her bearing, in her fine features. She was tall, like the -rest of her family; her abundant white hair was confined by a black lace -cap, the last of the family possessions; her cheek was still soft, -touched with a gentle colour and a tender bloom; her eyes were still -full of light and warmth; her hands were delicate; her figure was still -shapely; there were no bending of the shoulders, no dropping of the -head. She reminded Leonard of the Recluse; but her expression was -different: his was hard and defiant; hers was gentle and sad. - -The second lady, who wore a widow’s cap and a great quantity of black -crape, evidently belonged to another class. Some people talk of a lower -middle class. The distinction, I know, is invidious. Why do we say the -lower middle class? We do not say the lower upper class. However, this -lady belonged to the great and numerous class which has to get through -life on slender means, and has to consider, before all things, the -purchasing power of sixpence. This terrible necessity, in its worst -form, takes all the joy and happiness out of life. When every day brings -its own anxieties about this sixpence, there is left no room for the -graces, for culture, for art, for poetry, for anything that is lovely -and delightful. It makes life the continual endurance of fear, as -dreadful as continued pain of body. Even when the terror of the morrow -has vanished, or is partly removed by an increase of prosperity, the -scars and the memory remain, and the habits of mind and of body. - -Mrs. Galley the younger belonged to that class in which the terror of -the morrow has been partly removed. But she remembered. In what followed -she sat in silence. But she occupied, as of right, the proud position of -pouring out the tea. She was short of stature, and might have been at -one time pretty. - -The third, the girl, who was Mary Anne, the Board School teacher, in -some respects resembled her mother, being short and somewhat -insignificant of aspect. But when she spoke she disclosed capacity. It -is not to girls without capacity and resolution that places in Board -Schools are offered. - -“Let me look at you, Leonard.” The old lady still held his hand. “Ah! -what a joy it is to see once more one of my own people! You are very -tall, Leonard, like the rest of us: you have the Campaigne face: and you -are proud. Oh yes!--you are full of pride--like my father and my -brothers. It is fifty years--fifty years and more--since I have seen any -of my own people. We have suffered--we have suffered.” She sighed -heavily. She released his hand. “Sit down, my dear,” she said gently, -“sit down, and for once take a meal with us. Mary Anne, give your cousin -some cake--it is my own making--unless he will begin with -bread-and-butter.” - -The tea was conducted with some ceremony; indeed, it was an occasion: -hospitalities were not often proffered in this establishment. Leonard -was good enough to take some cake and two cups of tea. The old lady -talked while the other two ministered. - -“I know your name, Leonard,” she said. “I remember your birth, -seven-and-twenty--yes, it was in 1873, about the same time as Samuel was -born. Your mother and your grandmother lived together in Cornwall. I -corresponded with my sister-in-law until she died; since then I have -heard nothing about you. My grandson tells me that you are in the House. -Father to son--father to son. We have always sent members to the House. -Our family belongs to the House. There were Campaignes in the Long -Parliament.” So she went on while the cups went round, the other ladies -preserving silence. - -At last the banquet was considered finished. Mary Anne herself carried -out the tea-things, Mrs. Galley the younger followed, and Leonard was -left alone with the old lady, as had been arranged. She wanted to talk -with him about the family. - -“Look,” she said, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall, “that is -the portrait of my husband at thirty. Not quite at his best--but--still -handsome, don’t you think? As a young man he was considered very -handsome indeed. His good looks, unfortunately, like his good fortune -and his good temper--poor man!--went off early. But he had heavy trials, -partly redeemed by the magnitude of his failure.” - -Leonard reflected that comeliness may go with very different forms of -expression. In this case the expression was of a very inferior City -kind. There also appeared to be a stamp or brand upon it already at -thirty, as of strong drinks. - -“That is my son at the side. He was half a Campaigne to look at, but not -a regular Campaigne. No; he had too much of the Galley in him. None of -the real family pride, poor boy!” - -The face of the young man, apparently about twenty years of age, was -handsome, but weak and irresolute, and without character. - -“He had no pride in himself and no ambition, my poor boy! I could never -understand why. No push and no ambition. That is why he remained only a -clerk in the City all his life. If he had had any pride he would have -risen.” - -“I must tell you,” said Leonard, “that I have been kept, no doubt -wisely, in ignorance of my own family history. It was only yesterday -that I heard from your son that there have been troubles and misfortunes -in our records.” - -“Troubles and misfortunes? And you have never heard of them! Why, my -children, who haven’t nearly so much right as you to know, have learned -the history of my people better than that of their own mother or their -grandfather’s people. To be sure, with the small folk, like those who -live round here, trouble is not the same thing as with us. Mostly they -live up to the neck in troubles, and they look for nothing but -misfortune, and they don’t mind it very much so long as they get their -dinners. And you haven’t even heard of the family misfortunes? I am -astonished. Why, there never has been any family like ours for trouble. -And you might have been cut off in your prime, or struck off with a -stroke, or been run over with a waggon, and never even known that you -were specially born to misfortune as the sparks fly upwards.” - -“Am I born to misfortune? More than other people?” - -It was in a kind of dream that Leonard spoke. His brain reeled; the room -went round and round: he caught the arms of a chair. And for a moment he -heard nothing except the voice of Constance, who warned him that Nature -makes no one wholly happy: that he had been too fortunate: that -something would fall upon him to redress the balance: that family -scandals, poor relations, disgraces and shames, were the lot of all -mankind, and if he would be human, if he would understand humanity, he -must learn, like the rest of the world, by experience and by suffering. -Was she, then, a Prophetess? For, behold! a few days only had passed, -and these things had fallen upon him. But as yet he did not know the -full extent of what had happened and what was going to happen. - -He recovered. The fit had lasted but a moment; but thought and memory -are swifter than time. - -The old lady was talking on. “To think that you’ve lived all these years -and no one ever told you! What did they mean by keeping you in the dark? -And I’ve always thought of you as sitting melancholy, waiting for the -Stroke whenever it should fall.” - -“I have been ignorant of any Stroke, possible or actual. Let me tell you -that I have no fear of any Stroke. This is superstition.” - -“No--no!” The old lady shook her head, and laid her hand on his. “Dear -boy, you are still under the curse. The Stroke will fall. Perhaps it -will be laid in mercy. On me it fell with wrath. That is our -distinction. That’s what it is to be a Campaigne. The misfortunes, -however, don’t go on for ever. They will leave off after your -generation. It will be when I am dead and gone; but I should like, I -confess, to see happiness coming back once more to the family.” - -“Your grandson spoke of a murder and of a suicide among other things.” - -“Other things, indeed! Why, there was my husband’s bankruptcy. There was -your uncle Fred, my nephew, and what he did, and why he was bundled out -of the country. I thought your mother would have fallen ill with the -shame of it. And there was my poor father, too; and there was the trial. -Did they not tell you about the trial?” - -“What trial?” - -“The great trial for the murder. It’s a most curious case. I believe the -man who was tried really did it, because no one else was seen about the -place. But he got off. My father was very good about it. He gave the man -Counsel, who got him off. I’ve got all the evidence in the case--cut out -of newspapers and pasted in a book. I will lend it to you, if you like.” - -“Thank you. It might be interesting,” he said carelessly. - -“It is interesting. But don’t you call these things enough misfortunes -for a single family?” - -“Quite enough, but not enough to make us born to misfortune.” - -“Oh, Leonard! If you had seen what I have seen, and suffered what I have -suffered! I’ve been the most unfortunate of all. My brothers gone; poor -dear Langley by his own hand; Christopher, dear lad, drowned; my father -a wreck. Like him, I live on. I live on, and wait for more trouble.” She -shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes. - -“I was a poor neglected thing with no mother, and as good as no father, -to look after me. Galley came along; he was handsome, and I thought, -being a silly girl, that he was a gentleman; so I married him. I ran -away with him and married him. Then I found out. He thought I had a -large fortune, and I had nothing; and father would not answer my -letters. Well, he failed, and he used me cruelly--most cruelly, he did. -And poverty came on--grinding, horrible poverty. You don’t know, my dear -nephew, what that means. I pray that you never may. There is no -misfortune so bad as poverty, except it is dishonour. He died at -last”--the widow heaved a sigh of relief, which told a tale of woe in -itself--“and his son was a clerk, and kept us all. Now he’s dead, and my -grandson keeps me. For fifty years I have been slave and housemaid and -cook and drudge and nurse to my husband and my son and my grandson. -And, oh! I longed to speak once more with one of my own people.” - -Leonard took her hand and pressed it. There was nothing to be said. - -“Tell me more,” she said, “about yourself.” - -He told her, briefly, his position and his ambitions. - -“You have done well,” she said, “so far--but take care. There is the -Family Luck. It may pass you over, but I don’t know. I doubt. I fear. -There are so many kinds of misfortune. I keep thinking of them all.” She -folded her hands, resigned. “Let trouble come to me,” she said, “not to -you or the younger ones. To me. That is what I pray daily. I am too old -to mind much. Trouble to me means pain and suffering. Rather that than -more trouble to you young people. Leonard, I remember now that your -grandmother spoke in one of her letters of keeping the children from the -knowledge of all this trouble. Yes, I remember.” - -She went on talking; she told the whole of the family history. She -narrated every misfortune at length. - -To Leonard, listening in that little back room with the gathering -twilight and the red fire to the soft, sad voice of the mournful lady, -there came again the vision of two women, both in widows’ weeds, in the -cottage among the flowers--tree fuchsias, climbing roses, myrtles, and -Passion-flowers. All through his childhood they sat together, seldom -speaking, pale-faced, sorrowful. He understood now. It was not their -husbands for whom they wept; it was for the fate which they imagined to -be hanging over the heads of the children. Once he heard his mother -say--now the words came back to him--“Thank God! I have but one.” - -“Leonard,” the old woman was going on, “for fifty years I have been -considering and thinking. It means some great crime. The misfortunes -began with my father; his life has been wrecked and ruined in punishment -for someone else’s crime. His was the first generation; mine was the -second. All our lives have been wrecked in punishment for that crime. -His was the first generation, I say”--she repeated the words as if to -drive them home--“mine was the second; all our lives have been wrecked -in punishment for that crime. Then came the third--your father died -early, and his brother ran away because he was a forger. Oh! to think of -a Campaigne doing such a thing! That was the third generation. You are -the fourth--and the curse will be removed. Unto the third and -fourth--but not the fifth.” - -“Yes,” said Leonard. “I believe--I now remember--they thought--at -home--something of this kind. But, my dear lady, consider. If misfortune -falls upon us in consequence of some great crime committed long ago, and -impossible to be repaired or undone, what is there for us but to sit -down quietly and to go on with our work?” - -She shook her head. - -“It is very well to talk. Wait till the blows begin. If we could find -out the crime--but we never can. If we could atone--but we cannot. We -are so powerless--oh, my God! so powerless, and yet so innocent!” - -She rose. Her face was buried in her handkerchief. I think it consoled -her to cry over the recollection of her sorrows almost as much as to -tell them to her grand-nephew. - -“I pray daily--day and night--that the hand of wrath may be stayed. -Sitting here, I think all day long. I have forgotten how to read, I -think----” - -Leonard glanced at the walls. There were a few books. - -“Until Mary Anne began to study, there were no books. We were so poor -that we had to sell everything, books and all. This room is the only one -in the house that is furnished decently. My grand-daughter is my only -comfort; she is a good girl, Leonard. She takes after the Galleys to -look at, but she’s a Campaigne at heart, and she’s proud, though you -wouldn’t think it, because she’s such a short bunch of a figure, not -like us. She’s my only comfort. We talk sometimes of going away and -living together--she and I--it would be happier for us. My grandson is -not--is not--altogether what one would wish. To be sure, he has a -dreadful struggle. It’s poverty, poverty, poverty. Oh, Leonard!”--she -caught his hand--“pray against poverty. It is poverty which brings out -all the bad qualities.” - -Leonard interrupted a monologue which seemed likely to go on without -end. Besides, he had now grasped the situation. - -“I will come again,” he said, “if I may.” - -“Oh, if you may! If you only knew what a joy, what a happiness, it is -only to look into your face! It is my brother’s face--my father’s -face--oh, come again--come again.” - -“I will come again, then, and soon. Meantime, remember that I am your -nephew--or grand-nephew, which is the same thing. If in any way I can -bring some increase to your comforts----” - -“No, no, my dear boy. Not that way,” she cried hastily. “I have been -poor, but never--in that way. My father, who ought to help me, has done -nothing, and if he will not, nobody shall. I would, if I could, have my -rights; no woman of our family, except me, but was an heiress. And, -besides--_he_”--she pointed to the front of the house, where was the -office of her grandson--“he will take it all himself.” - -“Well, then, but if----” - -“If I must, I will. Don’t give him money. He is better without it. He -will speculate in houses and lose it all. Don’t, Leonard.” - -“I will not--unless for your sake.” - -“No--no--not for my sake. But come again, dear boy, and we will talk -over the family history. I dare say there are quantities of misfortunes -that I have left out--oh, what a happy day it has been to me!” - -He pressed her hand again. “Have faith, dear lady. We cannot be crushed -in revenge for any crime by any other person. Do not think of past -sorrows. Do not tremble at imaginary dangers. The future is in the hands -of Justice, not of Revenge.” - -They were brave words, but in his heart there lurked, say, the -possibilities of apprehension. - -In the hall Samuel himself intercepted him, running out of his office. -“I had my tea in here,” he said, “because I wanted her to have a talk -with you alone; and I’m sick of her family, to tell the truth, except -for that chance of the accumulations. Did she mention them?” he -whispered. “I thought she wouldn’t. I can’t get her to feel properly -about the matter. Women have got no imagination--none. Well, a man like -that can’t make a will. He can’t. That’s a comfort. Good-evening, Mr. -Campaigne. We rely entirely upon you to maintain the interests of the -family, if necessary, against madmen’s wills. Those accumulations--ah! -And he’s ninety-five--or is it ninety-six? I call it selfish to live so -long unless a man’s a pauper. He ought to be thinking of his -great-grandchildren.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -IN THE LAND OF BEECHES - - -Leonard met Constance a few days later at the club, and they dined at -the same table. As for the decision and the rejection, they were ignored -by tacit consent. The situation remained apparently unaltered. In -reality, everything was changed. - -“You look thoughtful,” she said presently, after twice making an -observation which failed to catch his attention. “And you are -absent-minded.” - -“I beg your pardon, yes. That is, I do feel thoughtful. You would, -perhaps, if you found your family suddenly enlarged in all directions.” - -“Have you received unknown cousins from America?” - -“I have received a great-aunt, a lesser aunt, and two second cousins. -They are not from America. They are, on the contrary, from the far East -End of this town--even from Ratcliffe or Shadwell, or perhaps Stepney.” - -“Oh!” Constance heard with astonishment, and naturally waited for more, -if more was to follow. Perhaps, however, her friend might not wish to -talk of connections with Shadwell. - -“The great aunt is charming,” he continued; “the lesser aunt is not so -charming; the second cousins are--are--well, the man is a solicitor who -seems to practice chiefly in a police-court, defending those who are -drunk and disorderly, with all who are pickpockets, hooligans, and -common frauds.” - -“A variegated life, I should say, and full of surprises and -unexpectedness.” - -“He is something like my family--tall, with sharp features--more perhaps -of the vulture than the eagle in him. But one may be mistaken. His -sister is like her mother, short and round and plump, and--not to -disguise the truth--common-looking. But I should say that she was -capable. She is a Board School teacher. You were saying the other day, -Constance, that it was a pity that I had never been hampered by poor -relations.” - -“I consider that you are really a spoiled child of fortune. I reminded -you that you have your position already made; you have your -distinguished University career; you are getting on in the House; you -have no family scandals or misfortunes, or poor relations, or anything.” - -“Well, this loss is now supplied by the accession of poor relations -and--other things. Your mention of things omitted reminded Fortune, I -suppose. So she hastened to turn on a supply of everything. I am now -quite like the rest of the world.” - -“Do the poor relations want money?” - -“Yes, but not from me. The solicitor thinks that there must be great -sums of money accumulated by the Patriarch of whom I have spoken to you. -Cupidity of a sort, but not the desire to borrow, sent him to me. Partly -he wanted to put in his claim informally, and partly he prepared the way -to make me dispute any will that the old man may have made. He is poor, -and therefore he is grasping, I suppose.” - -“I believe we all have poor relations,” said Constance. “Mine, however, -do not trouble me much.” - -“There has been a Family enlargement in another direction. A certain -uncle of mine, who formerly enacted with much credit the old tragedy of -the Prodigal Son, has come back from Australia.” - -“Has he been living on the same diet as the Prodigal?” - -“Shucks and bean-pods! He hardly looks as if that had been his diet. He -is well dressed, big, and important. He repeats constantly, and is most -anxious for everybody to know, that he is prosperous. I doubt, -somehow----” - -Leonard paused; the expression of doubt is not always wise. - -“The return of a middle-aged Prodigal is interesting and unusual. I fear -I must not congratulate you altogether on this unexpected enlargement.” - -“Yet you said I ought to have poor relations. However, there is more -behind. What was it you said about disgraces? Well, they’ve come too.” - -“Oh!” Constance changed colour. “Disgraces? But, Leonard, I am very -sorry, and I really never supposed----” - -“Of course not; it is the merest coincidence. At the same time, like all -coincidences, it is astonishing just after your remarks, which did -really make me very uncomfortable. But I’ve stepped into quite a -remarkable family history, full of surprising events, and all of them -disasters.” - -“But you had already a remarkable family history.” - -“So I thought--a long history and a creditable history, ending with the -ancient recluse of whom I have told you. We are rather proud of this -old, old man--this singular being who has been a recluse for seventy -years. I have always known about him. One of the very earliest things I -was told was the miraculous existence of this eccentric ancestor. They -told me so much, I suppose, because I am, as a matter of fact, heir to -the estate whenever that happens to fall in. But I was never told--I -suppose because it is a horrible story--why the old man became a -recluse. That I only learned yesterday from this ancient aunt, who is -the only daughter of the still more ancient recluse.” - -“Why was it? That is, don’t let me ask about your private affairs.” - -“Not at all. There is nothing that might not be proclaimed from the -house-top; there never is. There are no private affairs if we would only -think so. Well, it seems that one day, seventy years ago, the -brother-in-law of this gentleman, then a hearty young fellow of five-or -six-and-twenty, was staying at the Hall. He went out after breakfast, -and was presently found murdered in a wood, and in consequence of -hearing this dreadful thing suddenly, his sister, my ancestor’s wife, -died on the same day. The ancient aunt was born on the day that the -mother died. The blow, which was certainly very terrible, affected my -ancestor with a grief so great that he became at once, what he is now, a -melancholy recluse, taking no longer the least interest in anything. It -is to me very strange that a young man, strong physically and mentally, -should not have shaken off this obsession.” - -“It does seem very strange. I myself had an ancestor murdered -somewhere--father of one of my grandmothers. But your case is -different.” - -“The aged aunt told me the story. She had a theory about some great -crime having been committed. She suggests that the parent of the recluse -must have been a great unknown, unsuspected criminal--a kind of Gilles -de Retz. There have been misfortunes scattered about--she related a -whole string of calamities--all, she thinks, in consequence of some -crime committed by this worthy, as mild a Christian, I believe, as ever -followed the hounds or drank a bottle of port.” - -“She is thinking, of course, of the visitation upon the third and fourth -generation. To which of them do you belong?” - -“I am of the fourth according to that theory. It is tempting; it lends -a new distinction to the family. This lady is immensely proud of her -family, and finds consolation for her own misfortunes in the thought -that they are in part atonement for some past wickedness. Strange, is it -not?” - -“Of course, if there is no crime there can be no consequences. Have the -misfortunes been very marked?” - -“Yes, very marked and unmistakable misfortunes. They cannot be got over -or denied or explained away. Misfortunes, Dooms--what you please.” - -“What does your recluse say about them?” - -“He says nothing; he never speaks. Constance, will you ride over with me -and see the man and the place? It is only five-and-twenty miles or so. -The roads are dry; the spring is upon us. Come to-morrow. There is a -pretty village, an old church, an eighteenth-century house falling into -ruins, great gardens all run to bramble and thistle, and a park, besides -the recluse himself.” - -“The recluse might not like my visit.” - -“He will not notice it. Besides, he sleeps all the afternoon. And when -he is awake he sees nobody. His eyes go straight through one like a -Röntgen ray. I believe he sees the bones and nothing else.” - - * * * * * - -The least frequented of the great highroads running out of London is -assuredly that which passes through Uxbridge, and so right into the -heart of the shire of Buckingham--the home or clearing or settlement of -the Beeches. Few bicycles attempt this road; the ordinary cyclist knows -or cares nothing for the attractions. Yet there is much to see. In one -place you can visit the cottage where Milton finished “Paradise Lost.” -It is still kept just as when the poet lived in it. There are churches -every two or three miles, churches memorable, and even historical, for -the most part, and beautiful. Almost every church in this county has -some famous man associated with it. On the right is the burial-place of -the Russells, with their ancient manor-house, a joy and solace for the -eyes: also, on the right, is another ancient manor-house. On the left is -the quiet and peaceful burial-place of Penn and Elwood, those two -illustrious members of the Society of Friends. Or, also on the left, you -may turn aside to see the church and the road and the house of England’s -patriot John Hampden. The road goes up and the road goes down over long -low hills and through long low valleys. On this side and on that are -woods and coppices and parks, with trees scattered about and country -houses. No shire in England is more studded with country houses than -this of Bucks. At a distance of every six or eight miles there stands a -town. All the towns in Bucks are small; all are picturesque. All have -open market-places and town-halls and ancient inns and old houses. I -know of one where there is an inn of the fourteenth century. I have had -it sketched by a skilful limner, and I call it the Boar’s Head, -Eastcheap, and I should like to see anybody question the authenticity -of the name. If any were so daring, I would add the portrait of Jack -Falstaff himself, sitting in the great chair by the fire. - -On a fine clear day in early spring, two cyclists rode through this -country. They were Leonard and his friend Constance. They went by train -as far as Uxbridge, and then they took the road. - -At first it was enough to breathe the pure air of the spring; to fly -along the quiet road, while the rooks cawed in the trees, and over the -fields the larks sang. Then they drew nearer and began to talk. - -“Is this what you brought me out to see?” asked Constance. “I am well -content if this is all. What a lovely place it is! And what a lovely -air! It is fragrant; the sun brings out the fragrance from the very -fields as well as the woods.” - -“This is the quietest and the most beautiful of all the roads near -London. But I am going to show you more. Not all to-day. We must come -again. I will show you Milton’s cottage and Penn’s burial-ground, John -Hampden’s church and tomb, and the old manor-house of Chenies and -Latimer. To-day I am only going to show you our old family house.” - -“We will come when the catkins have given place to the leaves and the -hedge-rose is in blossom.” - -“And when the Park is worth looking at. Everything, however, at our -place is in a condition of decay. You shall see the house, and the -church, and the village. Then, if you like, we will go on to the -nearest town and get some kind of dinner, and go home by train.” - -“That pleases me well.” - -They went on in silence for a while. - -Leonard took up the parable again about his family. - -“We have been in the same place,” he said, “for an immense time. We have -never produced a great man or a distinguished man. If you consider it, -there are not really enough distinguished men to go round the families. -We have twice recently made a bid for a distinguished man. My own father -and my grandfather were both promising politicians, but they were both -cut off in early manhood.” - -“Both? What a strange thing!” - -“Yes. Part of what the ancient aunt calls the family luck. We have had, -in fact, an amazing quantity of bad luck. Listen. It is like the history -of a House driven and scourged by the hand of Fate.” - -She listened while he went through the terrible list. - -“Why,” she said, “your list of disaster does really suggest the terrible -words ‘unto the third and fourth generation.’ I don’t wonder at your -aunt looking about for a criminal. What could your forefathers have done -to bring about such a succession of misfortunes?” - -“Let us get down and rest a little.” They sat down on a stile, and -turned the talk into a more serious vein. - -“What have my forefathers done? Nothing. Of that I am quite certain. -They have always been most respectable squires, good fox-hunters, with a -touch of scholarship. They have done nothing. Our misfortunes are all -pure bad luck, and nothing else. Those words, however, do force -themselves on one. I am not superstitious, yet since that venerable -dame---- However, this morning I argued with myself. I said, ‘It would -be such a terrible injustice that innocent children should suffer from -their fathers’ misdeeds, that it cannot be so.’” - -“I don’t know,” said Constance. “I am not so sure.” - -“You, too, among the superstitious? I also, however, was brought up with -that theory----” - -“I suppose you went to church?” - -“Yes, we went to church. And now I remember that my mother, for the -reason which I have only just learned, believed that we were ourselves -expiating the sins of our forefathers. It is very easy for me to go back -to the language and ideas of my childhood, so much so that this morning -I made a little search after a certain passage which I had well-nigh -forgotten.” - -“What was that?” - -“It is directed against that very theory. It expresses exactly the -opposite opinion. The passage is in the Prophet Ezekiel. Do you remember -it?” - -“No. I have never read that Prophet, and I have never considered the -subject.” - -“It is a very fine passage. Ezekiel is one of the finest writers -possible. He ought to be read more and studied more.” - -“Tell me the sense of the passage.” - -“I can give you the very words. Listen.” He stood up and took off his -hat, and declaimed the words with much force: - -“‘What mean ye that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, -saying, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are -set on edge? As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not use this -proverb any more. Behold, all souls are Mine: as the soul of the father, -so also the soul of the son is Mine. The soul that sinneth, it shall -die. But if a man be just, he shall surely live.” - -“These are very noble words, Constance;” indeed, Leonard spoke them with -much solemnity. “The verbal interpretation of the Prophets no longer -occupies our minds. Still, they are very noble words. I have never -believed myself to be superstitious or to believe in heredity of -misfortune; still, after learning for the first time the long string of -disasters that have fallen upon my people, I became possessed with a -kind of terror, as if the Hand of Fate was pressing upon us all.” - -“They are very noble words,” Constance repeated. “It seems as if the -speaker was thinking of a distinction between consequences--certain -consequences--of every man’s life as regards his children and----” - -“What consequences--from father to son?” - -“Why, you have only to look around you. We live in conditions made for -us by our forefathers. My people behaved well and prospered: they saved -money and bought lands: they lived, in the old phrase, God-fearing -lives. Therefore I am sound in mind and body, and I am tolerably -wealthy.” - -“Oh! that, of course. But I was not thinking of consequences like -these.” - -“You must think of them. A man loses his fortune and position. Down go -children and grandchildren. The edifice of generations may have to be -built up again from the very foundations. Is it nothing to inherit a -name which has been smirched? If a man commits a bad action, are not his -children disgraced with him?” - -“Of course; but only by that act. They are not persecuted by the hand of -Fate.” - -“Who can trace the consequences of a single act? Who can follow it up in -all the lines of consequence?” - -“Yes; but the third and fourth generation....” - -“Who can say when those consequences will cease?” - -“‘As I live, saith the Lord.’ It is a solemn assurance--a form of words, -perhaps--only a form of words--yet, if so, the audacity of it! ‘As I -live’--the Lord Himself takes the oath--‘if a man be just, he shall -surely live.’” - -“A man may be kept down by poverty and shut out from the world by his -father’s shame. Yet he may still be just. It is the distinction that the -Prophet would draw. What misfortune has fallen upon your House which -affects the soul of a man? Death? Poverty? The wrong-doing of certain -members?” - -Leonard shook his head. “Yes, I understand what you mean. I confess that -I had been shaken by the revelations of that old lady. They seemed to -explain so much.” - -“Perhaps they explained the whole--yet not as she meant them to -explain.” - -“Now I understand so many things that were dark--my mother’s sadness and -the melancholy eyes which rested upon me from childhood. She was looking -for the hand of Fate: she expected disaster: she kept me in ignorance: -yet she was haunted by the thought that for the third and fourth -generation the sins--the unknown sins--of the fathers would be visited -upon the children. When I learned these things”--he repeated himself, -because his mind was so full of the thought--“I felt the same -expectation, the same terror, the same sense of helplessness, as if -wherever I turned, whatever I attempted, the Hand which struck down my -father, my grandfather, and that old man would fall upon me.” - -“It was natural.” - -“So that these words came to me like a direct message from the old -Hebrew Prophet. Our ancestors went for consolation and instruction to -those pages. They held that every doubt and every difficulty were met -and solved by these writers. Perhaps we shall go back to the ancient -faith. And yet----” He looked round; it was a new world that he saw, -with new ideas. “Not in my time,” he said. “We are a scientific age. -When the reign of Science is ended, we may begin again the reign of -Faith.” He spoke as one in doubt and uncertainty. - -“Receive the words, Leonard, as a direct message.” - -“At least, I interpreted the words into an order to look at events from -another point of view. And I have taken all the misfortunes in turn. -They have nothing whatever to do with heredity. Your illustration about -a man losing his money, and so bringing poverty upon his children, does -not apply. My great-grandfather has his head turned by a great trouble. -His son commits suicide. Why? Nobody knows. The young sailor is drowned. -Why? Because he is a sailor. The daughter marries beneath her station. -Why? Because she was motherless and fatherless and neglected. My own -father died young. Why? Because fever carried him off.” - -“Leonard”--Constance laid her hand upon his arm--“do not argue the case -any more. Leave it. A thing like this may easily become morbid. It may -occupy your thoughts too much.” - -“Let me forget it, by all means. At present, I confess, the question is -always with me.” - -“It explains something in your manner yesterday and to-day. You are -always serious, but now you are absent-minded. You have begun to think -too much about these troubles.” - -He smiled. “I am serious, I suppose, from the way in which I was brought -up. We lived in Cornwall, right in the country, close to the seashore, -with no houses near us, until I went to school. It was a very quiet -household: my grandmother and my mother were both in widows’ weeds. -There was very little talking, and no laughing or mirth of any kind, -within the house, and always, as I now understand, the memory of that -misfortune and the dread of new misfortunes were upon these unhappy -ladies. They did not tell me anything, but I felt the sadness of the -house. I suppose it made me a quiet boy--without much inclination to the -light heart that possessed most of my fellows.” - -“I am glad you have told me,” she replied. “These things explain a good -deal in you. For now I understand you better.” - -They mounted their cycles, and resumed the journey in silence for some -miles. - -“Look!” he cried. “There is our old place.” - -He pointed across a park. At the end of it stood a house of red brick, -with red tiles and stacks of red chimneys--a house of two stories only. -In front was a carriage-drive, but no garden or enclosure at all. The -house rose straight out of the park itself. - -“You see only the back of the house,” said Leonard. “The gardens are all -in the front: but everything is grown over; nothing has been done to the -place for seventy years. I wonder it has stood so long.” They turned off -the road into the drive. “The old man, when the double shock fell upon -him, dropped into a state of apathy from which he has never rallied. We -must go round by the servant’s entrance. The front doors are never -opened.” - -The great hall with the marble floor made echoes rolling and rumbling -about the house above as they walked across it. There were arms on the -walls and armour, but all rusted and decaying in the damp air. There -were two or three pictures on the walls, but the colour had peeled off -and the pictures had become ghosts and groups of ghosts in black frames. - -“The recluse lives in the library,” said Leonard. “Let us look first at -the other rooms.” He opened a door. This was the dining-room. Nothing -had been touched. There stood the great dining-hall. Against the walls -were arranged a row of leather chairs. There was the sideboard; the -mahogany was not affected by the long waiting, except that it had lost -its lustre. The leather on the chairs was decaying and falling off. The -carpet was moth-eaten and in threads. The paper on the wall, the -old-fashioned red velvet paper, was hanging down in folds. The -old-fashioned high brass fender was black with neglected age. On the -walls the pictures were in better preservation than those in the hall, -but they were hopelessly injured by the damp. The curtains were falling -away from the rings. “Think of the festive dinners that have been given -in this room,” said Leonard. “Think of the talk and the laughter and the -happiness! And suddenly, unexpectedly, the whole comes to an end, and -there has been silence and emptiness for seventy years.” - -He closed the door and opened another. This was in times gone by the -drawing-room. It was a noble room--long, high, well proportioned. A harp -stood in one corner, its strings either broken or loose. A piano with -the music still upon it stood open; it had been open for seventy years. -The keys were covered with dust and the wires with rust. The music which -had last been played was still in its place. Old-fashioned sofas and -couches stood about. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with strange things -in china. There were occasional tables in the old fashion of yellow and -white and gold. The paper was peeling off like that of the dining-room. -The sunshine streamed into the room through windows which had not been -cleaned for seventy years. The moths were dancing merrily as if they -rejoiced in solitude. On one table, beside the fireplace, were lying, -as they had been left, the work-basket with some fancy work in it; the -open letter-case, a half-finished letter, an inkstand, with three or -four quill pens: on a chair beside the table lay an open volume; it had -been open for seventy years. - -Constance came in stepping noiselessly, as in a place where silence was -sacred. She spoke in whispers; the silence fell upon her soul; it filled -her with strange terrors and apprehensions. She looked around her. - -“You come here often, Leonard?” - -“No. I have opened the door once, and only once. Then I was seized with -a strange sense of--I know not what; it made me ashamed. But it seemed -as if the room was full of ghosts.” - -“I think it is. The whole house is full of ghosts. I felt their breath -upon my cheek as soon as we came into the place. They will not mind us, -Leonard, nor would they hurt you if they could. Let us walk round the -room.” She looked at the music. “It is Gluck’s ‘Orpheo’; the song, -‘Orpheo and Euridice.’ She must have been singing it the day before--the -day before----” Her eyes turned to the work-table. “Here she was sitting -at work the day before--the day before---- Look at the dainty work--a -child’s frock.” She took up the open book; it was Paschal’s “Pensées.” -“She was reading this the day before--the day before----” Her eyes -filled with tears. “The music--no common music; the book--a book only -for a soul uplifted above the common level; the dainty, beautiful -work--Leonard, it seems to reveal the woman and the household. Nothing -base or common was in that woman’s heart--or in the management of her -house; they are slight indications, but they are sure. It seems as if I -knew her already, though I never heard of her until to-day. Oh, what a -loss for that man!--what a Tragedy! what a terrible Tragedy it was!” Her -eyes fell upon the letter; she took it up. “See!” she said. “The letter -was begun, but never finished. Is it not sacrilege to let it fall into -other hands? Take it, Leonard.” - -“We may read it after all these years,” Leonard said, shaking the dust -of seventy years from it. “There can be nothing in it that she would -wish not to be written there.” He read it slowly. It was written in -pointed and sloping Italian hand--a pretty hand belonging to the time -when women were more separated from men in all their ways. Now we all -write alike. “‘My dearest....’ I cannot make out the name. The rest is -easy. ‘Algernon and Langley have gone off to the study to talk business. -It is this affair of the Mill which is still unsettled. I am a little -anxious about Algernon: he has been strangely distrait for this last two -or three days; perhaps he is anxious about me: there need be no anxiety. -I am quite well and strong. This morning he got up very early, and I -heard him walking about in his study below. This is not his way at all. -However, should a wife repine because her Lord is anxious about her? -Algernon is very determined about that Mill; but I fear that Langley -will not give way. You know how firm he can be behind that pleasant -smile of his.’ That is all, Constance. She wrote no more.” - -“It was written, then, the day before--the day before---- Keep the -letter, Leonard. You have no other letter of hers--perhaps nothing at -all belonging to the poor lady. I wonder who Langley was? I had a -forefather, too, whose Christian name was Langley. It is not a common -name.” - -“The Christian name of my unfortunate grandfather who committed suicide -was also Langley. It is a coincidence. No doubt he was named after the -person mentioned in this letter. Not by any means a common name, as you -say. As for this letter, I will keep it. There is nothing in my -possession that I can connect with this unfortunate ancestress.” - -“Where are her jewels and things?” - -“Perhaps where she left them, perhaps sent to the bank. I have never -heard of anything belonging to her.” - -Constance walked about the room looking at everything; the dust lay -thick, but it was not the black dust of the town--a light brown dust -that could be blown away or swept away easily. She swept the strings of -the harp, which responded with the discords of seventy years’ neglect. -She touched the keys of the piano, and started at the harsh and grating -response. She looked at the chairs and the tables with their curly -legs, and the queer things in china that stood upon the mantel shelf. - -“Why,” she said, “the place should be kept just as it is, a museum of -George the Fourth fashion in furniture. Here is a guitar. Did that lady -play the guitar as well as the harp and the piano? The pictures are all -water-colours. The glass has partly preserved them, but some damp has -got in; they are all injured. I should like to get them all copied for -studies of the time and its taste. They are good pictures, too. This one -looks like a water-colour copy of a Constable. Was he living then? And -this is a portrait.” She started. “Good heavens! what is this?” - -“This? It is evidently a portrait,” said Leonard. “Why, Constance----” - -For she was looking into it with every sign of interest and curiosity. - -“How in the world did this picture come here?” Leonard looked at it. - -“I cannot tell you,” he said; “it is only my second visit to this room. -It is a young man. A pleasing and amiable face; the short hair curled by -the barber’s art, I suppose. The face is familiar; I don’t know why----” - -“Leonard, it is the face of my own great-grandfather. How did it come -here? I have a copy, or the original, in my own possession. How did it -come here? Was he a friend of your people?” - -“I know nothing at all about it. By the rolled collar and the curly -hair and the little whiskers I should say that the original must have -been a contemporary of my ancestor the Recluse. Stop! there is a name on -the frame. Can you read it?” He brushed away the dust. “‘Langley Holme, -1825,’ Langley Holme! What is it, Constance?” - -“Oh, Leonard, Langley Holme--Langley Holme--he was my great-grandfather. -And he was murdered; I remember to have heard of it--he was murdered. -Then, it was here, and he was that old man’s brother-in-law, -and--and--your Tragedy is mine as well.” - -“Why, Constance, are you not jumping to a conclusion? How do you know -that the murder in Campaigne Park was that of Langley Holme?” - -“I don’t know it; I am only certain of it. Besides, that letter. -Algernon and Langley were in the study. The letter tells us. Oh, I have -no doubt--no doubt at all. This is his portrait; he was here the day -before--the day before the terrible Tragedy. It must have been none -other--it could have been none other. Leonard, this is very strange. You -confide your story to me, you bring me out to see the spot where it -happened and the house of the Recluse, and I find that your story is -mine. Oh, to light upon it here and with you! It is strange, it is -wonderful! Your story is mine as well,” she repeated, looking into his -face; “we have a common tragedy.” - -“We are not certain yet; there may be another explanation.” - -“There can be no other. We will hunt up the contemporary papers; we -shall find an account of the murder somewhere. A gentleman is not -murdered even so far back as 1826 without a report in the papers. But I -am quite--quite certain. This is my great-grandfather, Langley Holme, -and his death was the first of all your many troubles.” - -“This was the first of the hereditary misfortunes.” - -“The more important and the most far-reaching. Perhaps we could trace -them all to this one calamity.” - -Leonard was looking into the portrait. - -“I said it was a familiar face, Constance; it is your own. The -resemblance is startling. You have his eyes, the same shape of face, the -same mouth. It is at least your ancestor. And as for the rest, since it -is certain that he met with an early and a violent end, I would rather -believe that it was here and in this Park, because it makes my Tragedy, -as you say, your own. We have a common history; it needs no further -proof. There could not have been two murders of two gentlemen, both -friends of this House, in the same year. You are right: this is the man -whose death caused all the trouble.” - -They looked at the portrait in silence for awhile. The thought of the -sudden end of this gallant youth, rejoicing in the strength and hope of -early manhood, awed them. - -“We may picture the scene,” said Constance--“the news brought suddenly -by some country lad breathless and panting; the old man then young, -with all his future before him; a smiling future, a happy life; his wife -hearing it; the house made terrible by her shriek; the sudden shock; the -heavy blow; bereavement of all the man loved best; the death of his wife -for whom he was so anxious; the awful death of the man he loved. Oh, -Leonard, can you bear to think of it?” - -“Yes; but other young men have received blows as terrible, and have yet -survived, and at least gone about their work as before. Is it in nature -for a man to grieve for seventy years?” - -“I do not think that it was grief, or that it was ever grief, that he -felt or still feels. His brain received a violent blow, from which it -has never recovered.” - -“But he can transact business in his own way--by brief written -instructions.” - -“We are not physicians, to explain the working of a disordered brain. We -can, however, understand that such a shock may have produced all the -effect of a blow from a hammer or a club. His brain is not destroyed: -but it is benumbed. I believe that he felt no sorrow, but only a dead -weight of oppression--the sense of suffering without pain--the -consciousness of gloom which never lifts. Is not the story capable of -such effects?” - -“Perhaps. There is, however, one thing which we have forgotten, -Constance. It is that we are cousins. This discovery makes us cousins.” - -She took his proffered hand under the eyes of her ancestor, who looked -kindly upon them from his dusty and faded frame. “We are cousins--not -first or second cousins--but still--cousins--which is something. You -have found another relation. I hope, sir, that you will not be ashamed -of her, or connect her with your family misfortunes. This tragedy -belongs to both of us. Come, Leonard, let us leave this room. It is -haunted. I hear again the shrieks of the woman, and I see the white face -of the man--the young man in his bereavement. Come.” - -She drew him from the room, and closed the door softly. - -Leonard led the way up the broad oaken staircase, which no neglect could -injure, and no flight of time. On the first floor there were doors -leading to various rooms. They opened one: it was a room filled with -things belonging to children: there were toys and dolls: there were -dresses and boots and hats: there was a children’s carriage, the -predecessor of the perambulator and the cart: there were nursery-cots: -there were slates and pencils and colour-boxes. It looked like a place -which had not been deserted: children had lived in it and had grown out -of it: all the old playthings were left in when the children left it. - -“After the blow,” said Leonard, “life went on somehow in the House. The -Recluse lived by himself in his bedroom and the library: the dining-room -and the drawing-room were locked up: his wife’s room--the room where she -died--was locked up: the boys went away: the girl ran away with her -young man, Mr. Galley; then the whole place was deserted.” He shut the -door and unlocked another. “It was her room,” he whispered. - -Constance looked into the room. It was occupied by a great four-poster -bed with steps on either side in order that the occupant might ascend to -the feather-bed with the dignity due to her position. One cannot imagine -a gentlewoman of 1820, or thereabouts, reduced to the indignity of -climbing into a high bed. Therefore the steps were placed in position. -We have lost this point of difference which once distinguished the -“Quality” from the lower sort: the former walked up these steps with -dignity into bed: the latter flopped or climbed: everybody now seeks the -nightly repose by the latter methods. The room contained a great amount -of mahogany: the doors were open, and showed dresses hanging up as they -had waited for seventy years to be taken down and worn: fashions had -come and gone: they remained waiting. There was a chest of drawers with -cunningly-wrought boxes upon it: silver patch-boxes: snuff-boxes in -silver and in silver gilt: a small collection of old-world curiosities, -which had belonged to the last occupant’s forefather. There was a -dressing-table, where all the toilet tools and instruments were lying as -they had been left. Constance went into the room on tiptoe, glancing at -the great bed, which stood like a funeral hearse of the fourteenth -century, with its plumes and heavy carvings, as if she half expected to -find a tenant. Beside the looking-glass stood open, just as it had been -left, the lady’s jewel-box. Constance took out the contents, and looked -at them with admiring eyes. There were rings and charms, necklaces of -pearl, diamond brooches, bracelets, sprays, watches--everything that a -rich gentlewoman would like to have. She put them all back, but she did -not close the box; she left everything as she found it, and crept away. -“These things belonged to Langley’s sister,” she whispered; “and she was -one of my people--mine.” - -They shut the door and descended the stairs. Again they stood together -in the great empty hall, where their footsteps echoed up the broad -staircase and in the roof above, and their words were repeated by -mocking voices, even when they whispered, from wall to answering wall, -and from the ceilings of the upper place. - -“Tell me all you know about your ancestor,” said Leonard. - -“Indeed, it is very little. He is my ancestor on my mother’s side, and -again on her mother’s side. He left one child, a daughter, who was my -grandmother: and her daughter married my father. There is but a -legend--I know no more--except that the young man--the lively young man -whose portrait I have--whose portrait is in that room--was found done to -death in a wood. That is all I have heard. I do not know who the -murderer was, nor what happened, nor anything. It all seemed so long -ago--a thing that belonged to the past. But, then, if we could -understand, the past belongs to us. There was another woman who suffered -as well as the poor lady of this house. Oh, Leonard, what a tragedy! And -only the other day we were talking glibly about family scandals!” - -“Yes; a good deal of the sunshine has disappeared. My life, you see, was -not, as you thought, to be one long succession of fortune’s gifts.” - -“It was seventy years ago, however. The thing must not make us unhappy. -We, at least, if not that old man, can look upon an event of so long ago -with equanimity.” - -“Yes, yes. But I must ferret out the whole story. I feel as if I know so -little. I am most strangely interested and moved. How was the man -killed? Why? Who did it? Where can I look for the details?” - -“When you have found what you want, Leonard, you can tell me. For my own -part, I may leave the investigation to you. Besides, it was so long ago. -Why should we revive the griefs of seventy years ago?” - -“I really do not know, except that I am, as I said, strangely attracted -by this story. Come, now, I want you to see the man himself who married -your ancestor’s sister. Her portrait is somewhere among those in the -drawing-room, but it is too far gone to be recognised. Pity--pity! We -have lost all our family portraits. Come, we will step lightly, not to -wake him.” - -He led her across the hall again, and opened very softly the library -door. Asleep in an armchair by the fire was the most splendid old man -Constance had ever seen. He was of gigantic stature; his long legs were -outstretched, his massive head lay back upon the chair--a noble head -with fine and abundant white hair and broad shoulders and deep chest. He -was sleeping like a child, breathing as softly and as peacefully. In -that restful countenance there was no suggestion of madness or a -disordered brain. - -Constance stepped lightly into the room and bent over him. His lips -parted. - -He murmured something in his sleep. He woke with a start. He sat up and -opened his eyes, and gazed upon her face with a look of terror and -amazement. - -She stepped aside. The old man closed his eyes again, and his head fell -back. Leonard touched her arm, and they left the room. At the door -Constance turned to look at him. He was asleep again. - -“He murmured something in his sleep. He was disturbed. He looked -terrified.” - -“It was your presence, Constance, that in some way suggested the memory -of his dead friend. Perhaps your face reminded him of his dead friend. -Think, however, what a shock it must have been to disturb the balance of -such a strong man as that. Why, he was in the full strength of his early -manhood. And he never recovered--all these seventy years. He has never -spoken all these years, except once in my hearing--it was in his sleep. -What did he say? ‘That will end it.’ Strange words.” - -The tears were standing in the girl’s eyes. - -“The pity of it, Leonard--the pity of it!” - -“Come into the gardens. They were formerly, in the last century--when a -certain ancestor was a scientific gardener--show gardens.” - -They were now entirely ruined by seventy years of neglect. The lawns -were covered with coarse rank grass; the walks were hidden; brambles -grew over the flower-beds; the neglect was simply mournful. They passed -through into the kitchen-garden, over the strawberry-beds and the -asparagus-beds, and everywhere spread the brambles with the thistle and -the shepherd’s-purse and all the common weeds; in the orchard most of -the trees were dead, and under the dead boughs there flourished a rank -undergrowth. - -“I have never before,” said Constance, “realized what would happen if we -suffered a garden to go wild.” - -“This would happen--as you see. I believe no one has so much as walked -in the garden except ourselves for seventy years. In the eyes of the -village, I know, the whole place is supposed to be haunted day and -night. Even the chance of apples would not tempt the village children -into the garden. Come, Constance, let us go into the village and see the -church.” - -It was a pretty village, consisting of one long street, with an inn, a -small shop, and post-office, a blacksmith’s, and one or two other -trades. In the middle of the street a narrow lane led to the churchyard -and the church. The latter, much too big for the village, was an early -English cruciform structure, with later additions and improvements. - -The church was open, for it was Saturday afternoon. The chancel was full -of monuments of dead and gone Campaignes. Among them was a tablet, “To -the Memory of Langley Holme, born at Great Missenden, June, 1798, found -murdered in a wood in this parish, May 18, 1826. Married February 1, -1824, to Eleanor, daughter of the late Marmaduke Flight, of Little -Beauchamp, in this county; left one child, Constance, born January 1, -1825.” - -“Yes,” said Constance, “one can realise it: the death of wife and friend -at once, and in this dreadful manner.” - -In the churchyard an old man was occupied with some work among the -graves. He looked up and straightened himself slowly, as one with -stiffened joints. - -“Mornin’, sir,” he said. “Mornin’, miss. I hope I see you well. Beg your -pardon, sir, but you be a Campaigne for sure. All the Campaignes are -alike--tall men they are, and good to look upon. But you’re not so tall, -nor yet so strong built, as the Squire. Been to see the old gentleman, -sir? Ay, he do last on, he do. It’s wonderful. Close on ninety-five he -is. Everybody in the village knows his birthday. Why, he’s a show. On -Sundays, in summer, after church, they go to the garden wall and look -over it, to see him marching up and down the terrace. He never sees -them, nor wouldn’t if they were to walk beside him.” - -“You all know him, then?” - -“I mind him seventy years ago. I was a little chap then. You wouldn’t -think I was ever a little chap, would you? Seventy years ago I was -eight--I’m seventy-eight now. You wouldn’t think I was seventy-eight, -would you?” A very garrulous old man, this. - -“I gave evidence, I did, at the inquest after the murder. They couldn’t -do nohow without me, though I was but eight years old.” - -“You? Why, what had you to do with the murder?” - -“I was scaring birds on the hillside above the wood. I see the -Squire--he was a fine big figure of a man--and the other gentleman -crossing the road and coming over the stile into the field. Then they -went as far as the wood together. The Squire he turned back, but the -other gentleman he went on. They found him afterwards in the wood with -his head smashed. Then I see John Dunning go in--same man as they -charged with the murder. And he came running out--scared-like with what -he’d seen. Oh! I see it all, and I told them so, kissing the Bible on -it.” - -“I have heard that a man was tried for the crime.” - -“He was tried, but he got off. Everybody knows he never done it. But -they never found out who done it.” - -“That is all you know about it?” - -“That is all, sir. Many a hundred times I’ve told that story. Thank you, -sir. Mornin’, miss. You’ll have a handsome partner, miss, and he’ll have -a proper missus.” - -“So,” said Leonard, as they walked away, “the murder is still -remembered, and will be, I suppose, so long as anyone lives who can talk -about it. It is strange, is it not, that all these discoveries should -fall together; that I should learn the truth about my own people, and -only a day or two afterwards that you should learn the truth about your -own ancestors? We are cousins, Constance, and a common tragedy unites -us.” - -They mounted their wheels and rode away in silence. But the joy had gone -out of the day. The evening fell. The wind in the trees became a dirge; -their hearts were full of violence and blood and death; in their ears -rang the cries of a bereaved woman, and the groans of a man gone mad -with trouble. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -MARY ANNE - - -It was the Sunday afternoon after these visits to the ancestor and to -the group in the Commercial Road. Leonard was slowly returning home -after a solitary lunch. He walked with drooping head, touching the -lamp-posts as he passed with his umbrella. This, as everybody knows, is -a certain sign of preoccupation and dejection. - -He was becoming, in fact, conscious of a strange obsession of his soul. -The Family History sat upon him like a nightmare: it left him not either -by day or by night. He was beginning to realise that he could not shake -it off, and that it was come to stay. - -When a man is born to a Family History, and has to grow up with it, in -full consciousness of it, he generally gets the better of it, and either -disregards it or treats it with philosophy, or laughs at it, or even -boasts of it. The illustrious Mr. Bounderby was one of the many who -boast of it. But, then, he had grown up with it, and it had become part -of him, and he was able to present his own version of it. - -Very different is the case when a man has a Family History suddenly and -quite unexpectedly sprung upon him. What could have been more desirable -than the position of this young man for a whole quarter of a century? -Sufficiently wealthy, connected for generations with gentlefolk, -successful, with nothing whatever to hamper him in his career, with the -certainty of succeeding to a large property--could mortal man desire -more? - -And then, suddenly, a Family History of the darkest and most gloomy -kind--murder, sudden death, suicide, early death, the shattering of a -strong mind, bankruptcy, poverty, cousins whom no kindliness could call -presentable--all this fell upon him at one blow. Can one be surprised -that he touched the lamp-posts as he went along? - -Is it wonderful that he could not get rid of the dreadful story? It -occupied his whole brain; it turned everything else out--the great -economical article for the _Nineteenth Century_, all his books, all his -occupations. If he read in the printed page, his eyes ran across the -lines and up and down the lines, but nothing reached his brain. The -Family History was a wall which excluded everything else; or it was a -jealous tenant who drove every intruder out as with a broom. If he tried -to write, his pen presently dropped from his fingers, for the things -that lay on his brain were not allowed by that new tenant to escape. And -all night long, and all day long, pictures rose up and floated before -his eyes; terrible pictures--pictures of things that belonged to the -History; pictures that followed each other like animated photographs, -irrepressible, not to be concealed, or denied, or refused admission. - -This obsession was only just beginning: it intended to become deeper and -stronger: it was going to hold him with grip and claw, never to let him -go by night or day until---- But the end he could not understand. - -You know how, at the first symptoms of a long illness, there falls upon -the soul a premonitory sadness: the nurses and the doctors utter words -of cheerfulness and hope: there is a loophole, there always is a -loophole, until the climax and the turning-point. The patient hears, and -tries to receive solace. But he knows better. He knows without being -told that he stands on the threshold of the torture chamber: the door -opens, he steps in, because he must: he will lie there and suffer--O -Lord! how long? - -With such boding and gloom of soul--boding without words, gloom -inarticulate--Leonard walked slowly homewards. - -It was about three in the afternoon that he mounted his stairs. In his -mood, brooding over the new-found tragedies, it seemed quite natural, -and a thing to be expected, that his cousin Mary Anne should be sitting -on the stairs opposite his closed door. She rose timidly. - -“The man said he could not tell when you would come home, so I waited,” -she explained. - -“He ought to have asked you to wait inside. Did you tell him who you -were?” - -“No. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to disturb your Sabbath calm.” - -“My---- Oh yes! Pray come in.” - -She obeyed, and sat down by the fire, glancing round the room curiously. -In her lap lay a brown-paper parcel. - -“I thought you would come home to dinner after chapel,” she began, “so I -got here about one.” - -She observed that his face showed some trouble, and she hesitated to go -on. - -“Have you come to tell me of more family misfortunes?” he asked -abruptly. - -“Oh,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t come. I told her you didn’t want it and -you wouldn’t like it. Besides, what’s the use? It all happened so long -ago. But granny would have it. I’ve brought you a book. She says you -must read it. If you’d rather not have it, I will take it back again. -Granny ought to know that you don’t want to be worried about these old -things.” - -He pulled himself together, and assumed a mask of cheerfulness. - -“Nonsense!” he said. “Why should I not read about these old things which -are to me so new? They belong to me as much as to you.” - -He observed the girl more narrowly while he spoke. Her words and her -hesitation showed perception and feeling at least. As for her -appearance, she was short and sturdy; her features were cast in one of -the more common moulds. She wore a black cloth jacket and a skirt of -dark green serge, a modest hat with black plumes nodding over her head -in the hearse-like fashion of the day before yesterday, and her gloves -were doubtful. - -The first impression was of complete insignificance; the second -impression was of a girl who might interest one. Her eyes were -good--they were the eyes of her grandmother; her hands were small and -delicate--they were the hands of her grandmother; her voice was clear -and soft, with a distinct utterance quite unlike the thick and husky -people among whom she lived. In all these points she resembled her -grandmother. Leonard observed these things--it was a distraction to -think of the cousin apart from the Family History--and became interested -in the girl. - -“My cousin,” he said unexpectedly, “you are very much like your -grandmother.” - -“Like granny?” She coloured with pleasure. As she was not a girl who -kept company with anyone, she had never before received a compliment. -“Why, she is beautiful still, and I---- Oh!” - -She laughed. - -“You have her voice and her eyes. She seems to be a very sweet and -gentle lady.” - -“She is the sweetest old lady in the world and the gentlest, and, oh! -she’s had an awful time.” - -“I am sorry to think so.” - -“She cried with pleasure and pride when you went away. For fifty years -not a single member of her family has been to see her. I never saw her -take on so, and you so kind and friendly. Sam said you had as much pride -as a duke.” - -“Your brother should not judge by first appearances.” - -“And you were not proud a bit. Well, granny said: ‘Nobody ever told him -of the family misfortunes, and it’s shameful. I’ve told him some, but -not all, and now I’ll send him my Scrap-book with the trial in it--the -trial, you know, of John Dunning for the wilful murder of Langley -Holme.’ And I’ve brought it; here it is.” She handed him the parcel in -her lap. “That’s why I came.” - -“Thank you,” said Leonard, laying it carelessly on the table: “I will -read it or look at it some time. But I own I am not greatly interested -in the trial; it took place too long ago.” - -“Once she had another copy, but she gave it to your grandfather a few -days before he killed himself.” - -Leonard remembered these words afterwards. For the moment they had no -meaning for him. - -“Granny says we’ve got hereditary misfortunes.” - -“So she told me. Hereditary? Why?” His brow contracted. “I don’t know -why. Hereditary misfortunes are supposed to imply ancestral crimes.” - -“She puts it like this. If it hadn’t been hereditary misfortune she -wouldn’t have married grandfather; he wouldn’t have been bankrupt; -father wouldn’t have been only a small clerk; Sam would have been -something in a large way; and I should be a lady instead of a Board -School teacher.” - -“You can be both, my cousin. Now look at the other side. Your -grandfather was ruined, I take it, by his own incompetence; his poverty -was his own doing. Your father never rose in the world, I suppose, -because he had no power of fight. Your brother has got into a -respectable profession; what right has he to complain?” - -“That’s what I say sometimes. Granny won’t have it. She’s all for -hereditary ill-luck, as if we are to suffer for what was done a hundred -years ago. I don’t believe it, for my part. Do you?” - -He thought of his talk with Constance in the country road. - -“It is a dreadful question; do not let it trouble us. Let us go on with -our work and not think about it.” - -“It’s all very well to say ‘Don’t think about it,’ when she talks about -nothing else, especially when she looks at Sam and thinks of you. There -was something else I wanted to say.” She dropped her head, and began -nervously to twitch with her fingertips. “I’m almost ashamed to say it. -Sam would never forgive me, but I think of granny first and of all she -has endured, and I must warn you.” She looked round; there was nobody -else present. “It’s about Sam, my brother. I must warn you--I must, -because he may make mischief between you and granny.” - -“He will find that difficult. Well, go on.” - -“He goes to your village in the country. He sits and talks with the -people. He pretends that he goes to see how the old man is getting on. -But it is really to find out all he can about the property.” - -“What has he to do with the property?” - -“He wants to find out what is to become of all the money.” - -“Does he think that the rustics can tell him?” - -“I don’t know. You see, his head is filled with the hope of getting some -of the money. He wants to get it divided among the heirs. It’s what he -calls the ‘accumulations.’” - -“Accumulations!” Leonard repeated impatiently. “They are all in a tale. -I know nothing about these accumulations, or what will be done with -them.” - -“Sam is full of suspicions. He thinks there is a conspiracy to keep him -out.” - -“Oh, does he? Well, tell him that my great-grandfather’s solicitor -receives the rents and deals with them as he is instructed. I, for one, -am not consulted.” - -“I said you knew nothing about it. Granny was so angry. You see, Sam can -think of nothing else. He’s been unlucky lately, and he comforts himself -with calculating what the money comes to. He’s made me do sums--oh! -scores of sums--in compound interest for him: Sam never got so far -himself. If you’ve never worked it out----” - -“I never have. Like Sam, I have not got so far.” - -“Well, it really comes to a most wonderful sum. Sometimes I think that -the rule must be wrong. It mounts up to about a million and a half.” - -“Does it?” Leonard replied carelessly. “Let your brother understand, if -you can, that he builds his hopes on a very doubtful succession.” - -“Half of it he expects to get. Granny and you, he says, are the only -heirs. What is hers, he says, is his. So he has made her sign a paper -giving him all her share.” - -“Oh! And where do you come in?” - -“There will be nothing for me, because it will all be granny’s: and she -has signed that paper, so that it is to be all his.” - -“I am sorry that she has signed anything, though I do not suppose such a -document would stand.” - -“Sam says she owes the family for fifty years’ maintenance: that is, -£20,000, without counting out-of-pocket expenses, incidentals, and rent. -How he makes it out I don’t know, because poor old granny doesn’t cost -more than £30 a year, and I find that. Can’t he claim that money?” - -“Of course not. She owes him nothing. Your brother is not, I fear, quite -a--a straight-walking Christian, is he?” - -She sighed. - -“He’s a Church member; but, then, he says it’s good for business. -Mother sides with Sam. They are both at her every day. Oh, Mr. -Campaigne, is it all Sam’s fancy? Will there be no money at all? When he -finds it out, he’ll go off his head for sure.” - -“I don’t know. Don’t listen to him. Don’t think about the money.” - -“I must sometimes. It’s lovely to think about being rich, after you’ve -been so poor. Why, sometimes we’ve had to go for days--we women--with a -kippered herring or a bloater and a piece of bread for dinner. And as -for clothes and gloves and nice things----” - -“But now you have an income, and you have your work. Those days are -gone. Don’t dream of sudden wealth.” - -She got up. - -“I won’t think about it. It’s wicked to dream about being rich.” - -“What would you do with money if you had it?” - -“First of all, it would be so nice not to think about the rent and not -to worry, when illness came into the house, how the Doctor was to be -paid. And next, Sam would be always in a good temper.” - -“No,” said Leonard decidedly; “Sam would not always be in a good -temper.” - -“Then I should take granny away, and leave mother and Sam.” - -“You would have to give up your work, you know--the school and the -children and everything.” - -“Couldn’t I go on with the school?” - -“Certainly not.” - -“I shouldn’t like that. Oh, I couldn’t give up the school and the -children!” - -“Well--but what would you buy?” - -“Books--I should buy books.” - -“You can get them at the Free Library for nothing. Do you want fine -clothes?” - -“Every woman likes to look nice,” she said. “But not fine clothes--I -couldn’t wear fine clothes.” - -“Then you’d be no better off than you are now. Do you want a carriage?” - -“No; I’ve got my bike.” - -“Do you want money to give away?” - -“No. It only makes poor people worse to give them money.” - -“Very well. Now, my cousin, you have given yourself a lesson. You have -work that you like: you have a reasonably good salary: you have access -to books--as many as you want: you can dress yourself as you please and -as you wish: would you improve your food?” - -“Oh, the food’s good enough! We women don’t care much what we eat. As -for Sam, he’s always wanting more buttered toast with his tea.” - -“Rapacious creature! Now, Mary Anne, please to reflect on these things, -and don’t talk about family misfortunes so long as you yourself are -concerned. And just think what a miserable girl you would be if you were -to become suddenly rich.” - -She laughed merrily. - -“Miserable!” she said. “I never thought of that. You mean that I -shouldn’t know what to do with the money?” - -“No, not that. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. You have been -brought up to certain standards. If you were rich, you would have to -change them. The only way to be rich,” said this philosopher who was -going to inherit a goodly estate, “is to be born rich, and so not to -feel the burden of wealth.” - -“I suppose so. I wish you would say it all over again for Sam to hear. -Not that he would listen.” - -“And how would you like just to have everything you want by merely -calling for it? There is no desire for anything with a rich girl: no -trying to get it: no waiting for it: no getting it at last, and enjoying -it all the more. Won’t you think of this?” - -“I will. Yes, I will.” - -“Put the horrid thought of the money out of your head altogether, and go -on with your work. And be happy in it.” - -She nodded gravely. - -“I am happy in it. Only, sometimes----” - -“And remember, please, if there is anything--anything at all that it -would please your grandmother to have, let me know. Will you let me -know? And will you have the pleasure of giving it to her?” - -“Yes, I will--I will. And will you come again soon?” - -“I will call again very soon.” - -“I will tell granny. It will please her--oh! more than I can say. And -you’ll read the book, won’t you, just to please her?” - -“I will read the book to please her.” - -“She longs to see you again. And so do I. Oh, Mr. Campaigne--cousin, -then--it’s just lovely to hear you talk!” - - - - -CHAPTER X - -A DINNER AT THE CLUB - - -Leonard stood looking straight before him when the girl had gone. Well, -the omissions so much regretted by Constance seemed to be fully -supplied. He was now exactly like other people, with poor relations and -plenty of scandals and people to be ashamed of. Only a week ago he had -none of these things. Now he was supplied with all. Nothing was wanting. -He was richly, if unexpectedly, endowed with these gifts which had been -at first withheld. As yet he hardly rose to the situation: he felt no -gratitude: he would have resigned these new possessions willingly: the -tragedies, the new cousins, the ennobling theory of hereditary sorrow. - -He remembered the brown-paper parcel which he had promised to read; he -tore off the covering. Within there was a foolscap volume of the kind -called “scrap-book.” He opened it, and turned over the pages. It was -more than half filled with newspaper cuttings and writing between and -before and after the cuttings. As he turned the pages there fell upon -him a sense of loathing unutterable. He threw the book from him, and -fell back upon an easy-chair, half unconscious. - -When he recovered, he picked up the book. The same feeling, but not so -strong, fell upon him again. He laid it down gently as a thing which -might do him harm. He felt cold; he shivered: for the first time in his -life, he was afraid of something. He felt that deadly terror which -superstitious men experience in empty houses and lonely places in the -dark--a terror inexplicable, that comes unasked and without cause. - -This young man was not in the least degree superstitious. He had no -terror at all concerning things supernatural; he would have spent a -night alone in a church vault, among coffins and bones and grinning -skulls, without a tremor. Therefore this strange dread, as of coming -evil, astonished him. It seemed to him connected with the book. He took -it up and laid it down over and over again. Always that shiver of dread, -that sinking of the heart, returned. - -He thought that he would leave the book and go out; he would overcome -this weakness on his return. And he remembered that the returned -Australian--the man of wealth, the successful man of the family--was to -dine with him at the club. He left the book on the table; he took his -hat, and he sallied forth to get through the hours before dinner away -from the sight of this enchanted volume charged with spells of fear and -trembling. - -Uncle Fred arrived in great spirits, a fine figure of Colonial -prosperity, talking louder than was considered in that club to be good -form. He called for a brandy and bitters, and then for another, which -astonished the occupants of the morning-room. Then he declared himself -ready for dinner. - -He was; he displayed not only an uncommon power of putting away food, -but also an enviable power of taking his wine as a running stream never -stopping. He swallowed the champagne, served after the modern fashion -with no other wine, as if it was a brook falling continuously into a -cave, without pause or limit. - -When the dinner was over, a small forest of bottles had been -successively opened and depleted. Never had the club-waiters gazed upon -a performance so brilliant in a house where most men considered a mere -little pint of claret to be a fair whack, a proper allowance. After -dinner this admirable guest absorbed a bottle of claret. Then, on -adjourning to the smoking-room, he took coffee and three glasses of -curaçoa in rapid succession. Then he lit a cigar, and called for a soda -and whisky. At regular intervals of a quarter of an hour he called for -another soda and whisky. Let us not count them. They were like the -kisses of lovers, never to be counted or reckoned, either for praise or -blame. It was half-past nine when this phenomenal consumption of wine -and whisky began, and it lasted until half-past eleven. - -Leonard was conscious that the other men in the room were fain to look -on in speechless wonder; the increased seriousness in the waiters’ -faces showed their appreciation and envy. The club-waiter loveth most -the happy few who drink with freedom. His most serious admiration and -respect go forth to one who becomes a mere cask of wine, and yet shows -no signs of consequences. Now, this performer, from start to finish, -turned not a hair; there was no thickness in his speech; there was no -sign of any effect of strong drink upon this big man. - -That he talked more loudly than was at this club generally liked is -true. But, then, he always talked loud enough to be heard in every part -of the largest room. The things of which he spoke; the stories he told; -the language in which he clothed these stories, astonished the other -members who were present--astonished and delighted them beyond measure, -because such a loud and confident guest had never before been known in -the place, and because it had been the fortune of Campaigne, Leonard -Campaigne--the blameless, the austere, the cold--who had brought this -elderly Bounder, this empty hogshead or barrel to be filled with strong -drink, this trumpet-voiced utterer of discreditable stories. Next day -there were anecdotes told in the club by those who had been present, and -scoffers laughed, and those who had not been present envied those who -had. - -“Leonard,” said this delightful guest, late in the evening, and in a -louder voice than ever, “I suppose someone has told you about the -row--you know--when I had to leave the country. There had been plenty -of rows before; but I mean the big row. You were only three or four -years old at the time. I suppose you can’t remember.” - -The other men lifted their heads. They were like Mrs. Cluppins. -Listening they scorned, but the words were forced upon them. - -“No one told me--that is to say, I heard something the other day. No -details--something alleged as the cause.” - -“Would you like to know the real truth?” - -“No! Good heavens, no! Let bygone scandals rest,” he replied, in a -murmur as low as extreme indignation would allow. “Let the thing -die--die and be forgotten.” - -“My dear nephew”--he laid a great hand on Leonard’s knee--“I dare say -they told you the truth. Only, you see”--he said this horrid thing loud -enough to gratify the curiosity of all present--“the real truth is that -the fellow who put the name at the bottom of you know what, and did the -rest of it, was not me, but the other fellow--Chris. That’s all. Chris -the respectable it was--not me.” - -“I tell you I want to know nothing about it.” - -“I don’t care. You must. After all these years, do you think now that I -am home again, with my pile made, that I’m going to labour under such an -imputation any longer? No, sir. I’ve come to hold up my head like you. -Chris may hang his if he likes. I won’t. (Boy, another whisky and -soda.) In those days Chris and I hunted in couples. Very good sport we -had, too. Then we got through the money, and there was tightness. Chris -did it. Run him in if you like. For, you see----” - -“Enough said--enough said.” Leonard looked round the room. There were -only three or four men present: they sat singly, each with a magazine in -his hand: they preserved the attitude of those who read critically, but -there was a _je-ne-sais-quoi_ about them which suggested that they had -heard the words of this delightful guest. Indeed, he spoke loud enough -for all to hear. It is not every day that one can hear in a respectable -club revelations about putting somebody’s name on the front and on the -back of a document vaguely described as “you know what.” - -“Enough said,” Leonard repeated impatiently. - -“My dear fellow, you interrupt. I am going to set the whole thing right, -if you’ll let me.” - -“I don’t want to hear it.” - -“It isn’t what you want to hear; it’s what you’ve got to hear,” said -uncle Fred impressively and earnestly. He had taken, even for him, a -little more than was good for him: it made him obstinate: it also made -his speech uncertain as to loudness and control: he carried off these -defects with increased earnestness. “Character, Leonard, character is -involved; and self-respect; also forgiveness. I am not come home to bear -malice, as will be shown by my testamentary dispositions when Abraham -calls me to his bosom----” - -“Oh! But really----” - -“Really--you shall hear! (Boy, why the devil do you keep me waiting for -another whisky and soda?) Look here, Leonard. There was a money-lender -in it----” - -“Never mind the money-lender----” - -“I must mind him. Man! he was in it. I quite forget at this moment where -old Cent. per Cent. got in. But he was there--oh yes! he was there. He -always was there in those days either for Chris or for me. Devil of a -fellow, Chris! Now, then. The money-lending Worm--or Crocodile--wanted -to be paid. He was always wanting to be paid. Either it was Chris or it -was me. Let me think----” - -“Does it matter?” - -“Truth, sir, and character always matter. What the money-lender said I -forget at this moment. I dare say Chris knows; it was more his affair -than mine. It amounted to this----” He drained his glass again, and -forgot what he had intended to say. “When the fellow was gone, ‘Chris,’ -I said, ‘here’s a pretty hole you’re in.’ I am certain that he was in -the hole, and not me, because what was done, you know, was intended to -pull him out of the hole. So it must have been Chris, and not me. It is -necessary,” he added with dignity, “to make this revolution--revelation. -It is due to self-respect. My brother Chris, then, you understand, was -in the hole. (Boy, I’ll take another whisky and soda.) I want you to -understand exactly what happened.” Leonard groaned. “Of course, when it -came to sticking a name on a paper, and that paper a cheque----” - -“For the Lord’s sake, man, stop!” Leonard whispered. - -“I knew and told him that the world, which is a harsh world and never -makes allowance, would call the thing by a bad name. Which happened. But -who could foresee that they would tack that name on to me?” - -Leonard sprang to his feet. The thing was becoming serious. “It is -eleven o’clock,” he said. “I must go.” - -“Go? Why, I’ve only just begun to settle down for a quiet talk. I -thought we should go on till two or three. And I’ve nearly done; I’ve -only got to show that the cheque----” - -“No--I must go at once. I have an appointment. I have work to do. I have -letters to write.” - -Uncle Fred slowly rose. “It’s a degenerate world,” he said. “We never -thought the day properly begun before midnight. But if these are your -habits--well, Leonard, you’ve done me well. The champagne was excellent. -Boy--no, I’ll wait till I get back to the hotel. Then two or three -glasses, and so to bed. Moderation--temperance--early hours. These are -now my motto and my rule.” - -“This way down the stairs,” said Leonard, for his uncle was starting off -in the opposite direction. - -“One warning. Don’t talk to Chris about that story, for you’ll hear a -garbled version--garbled, sir--garbled.” He lurched a little as he -walked down the stairs, but otherwise there were no indications of the -profound and Gargantuan thirst that he had been assuaging all the -evening. - -Leonard went home in the deepest depression and shame. Why did he take -such a man to such a club? He should have given him dinner in the -rowdiest tavern, filled with the noisiest topers. - -“He cannot be really what he pretends,” Leonard thought. “A man of -wealth is a man of responsibility and position. This man talks without -any dignity or reticence whatever. He seems to associate still with -larrikins and cattle-drovers; he sits in bars and saloons; he ought to -keep better company, if only on account of his prosperity.” - -The Family History asserted itself again. - -“You have entertained,” it said, “another Unfortunate. Here is a man -nearly fifty years of age. He has revealed himself and exposed himself: -he is by his own confession, although he is rich and successful, the -companion and the friend of riffraff; his sentiments are theirs. He has -no morals; he drinks without stint or measure; he has disgraced you in -the Club. No doubt the Committee will interfere.” - -It is, the moralist declares, an age of great laxity. A man may make a -living in more ways than were formerly thought creditable; men are -admitted to clubs who formerly would not have dared to put their names -down. In Leonard’s mind there still remained, strong and clear, the -opinion that there are some things which a gentleman should not do: -things which he must not do: companions with whom he must not sit. Yet -it appeared from the revelations of this man that, whatever he had done, -he had habitually consorted with tramps, hawkers, peddlers, and -shepherds. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE BOOK OF EXTRACTS - - -Leonard turned up his light in the study. His eye fell upon the Book of -Extracts. He looked at his watch. Nearly twelve. He took up the book -resolutely. Another wave of loathing rolled over his mind. He beat it -back; he forced himself to open the book, and to begin from the -beginning. - -The contents consisted, as he had already seen, of cuttings from a -newspaper, with a connecting narrative in writing. On the title-page was -written in a fine Italian hand the following brief explanation: - -“This book was given to me by Mrs. Nicols, our housekeeper for thirty -years. She cut out from the newspapers all that was printed about the -crime and what followed. There are accounts of the Murder, the Inquest, -and the Trial. She also added notes of her own on what she herself -remembered and had seen. She made two cuttings of each extract, and two -copies of her own notes; these she pasted in two scrap-books. She gave -me one; the other I found in her room after her death. I sent the latter -copy to my brother three days before he committed suicide.” - -This statement was signed “Lucy Galley, née Campaigne.” The extracts and -cuttings followed. Some of the less necessary details are here -suppressed. - -The first extract was from the weekly paper of the nearest county town: - -“We are grieved to report the occurrence of a crime which brings the -deepest disgrace upon our neighbourhood, hitherto remarkably free from -acts of violence. The victim is a young gentleman, amiable and respected -by everyone--Mr. Langley Holme, of Westerdene House, near the town of -Amersham. - -“The unfortunate gentleman had been staying for some days at the house -of his brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park. -On Tuesday, May 18, as will be seen from our Report of the Inquest, the -two gentlemen started together for a walk after breakfast. It was about -ten o’clock: they walked across the Park, they crossed the highroad -beyond, they climbed over a stile into a large field, and they walked -together along the pathway through the field, as far as a small wood -which lies at the bottom of the field. Then Mr. Campaigne remembered -some forgotten business or appointment and left his friend, returning by -himself. When Mr. Holme was discovered--it is not yet quite certain how -long after Mr. Campaigne left him, but it was certainly two hours--he -was lying on the ground quite dead, his head literally battered in by a -thick club--the branch of a tree either pulled off for the purpose, or -lying on the ground ready to the hand of the murderer. They carried the -body back to the house where he had been staying. - -“It is sad to relate that the unfortunate man’s sister, Mr. Campaigne’s -wife, was so shocked by the news, which seems to have been announced or -shouted roughly, and without any precaution about breaking it gently, -that she was seized with the pains of labour, and in an hour was dead. -Thus the unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, himself quite -young, has been deprived in one moment, so to speak, of wife and -brother-in-law. Mr. Langley Holme was also a married man, and leaves one -young child, a daughter, to weep with her mother over their irreparable -loss. The Inquest was held on Wednesday morning.” - -Then followed a passage in writing: - -“I was in my own room, the housekeeper’s room, which is the last room of -the south wing on the ground-floor overlooking the garden; there is an -entrance to the house at that end for servants and things brought to the -house. At ten o’clock in the morning, just after the clock in the -stables struck, I saw the master with Mr. Langley Holme walking across -the Terrace, down the gardens, and so to the right into the park. They -were talking together friendly and full of life, being, both of them, -young gentlemen of uncommon vivacity and spirit; with a temper, too, -both of them, as becomes the master of such a place as his, which cannot -be ruled by a meek and lowly one, but calls for a high spirit and a -temper becoming and masterful. - -“Three-quarters of an hour afterwards I heard steps in the garden, and -looked up from my work. It was the master coming home alone. He was -walking fast, and he was swinging his arms, as I’d often seen him do. -Now I think of it, his face was pale. One would think that he had a -presentiment. He entered the house by the garden door and went into his -study. - -“Now, this morning, my lady, when we called her, was not at all well, -and the question was whether we should send for the doctor at once. But -she refused to consent, saying that it would pass away. And so she took -breakfast in bed; but I was far from easy about her. I wish now, with -all my heart, that I had sent a note to the doctor, who lived three -miles away, if it was only for him to have driven over. Besides, as -things turned out, he might have been with her when the news came. - -“However, about twelve o’clock, or a little after, I heard steps in the -garden, and I saw a sight which froze my very blood. For four men were -carrying a shutter, walking slowly; and on the shutter was a blanket, -and beneath the blanket was a form. Oh! there is no mistaking such a -form as that--it was a human form. My heart fell, I say, like lead, and -I ran out crying: - -“‘Oh! in God’s name, what has happened?’ - -“Said one of them, John Dunning by name: - -“‘It’s Mr. Holme. I found him dead. Someone’s murdered him.’ - -“I screeched. I ran back to the house; I ran into the kitchen; I told -them, never thinking, in the horror of it, of my poor lady. - -“Then all over the house, suddenly, the air was filled with the shrieks -of women. - -“Alas! my lady had got up; she was dressed: she was on the landing; she -heard the cries. - -“‘What has happened?’ she asked. - -“‘Mr. Holme is murdered.’ - -“I do not know who told her. None of the maids confessed the thing, but -when she heard the news she fell back, all of a sudden, like a woman -knocked down. - -“We took her up and carried her to bed. When the doctor came in an hour -my lady was dead--the most beautiful, the kindest, the sweetest, most -generous-hearted lady that ever lived. She was dead, and all we could do -was to look after the new-born babe. And as for her husband, that poor -gentleman sat in his study with haggard looks and face all drawn with -his grief, so that it was a pity and a terror to look upon him. Wife and -brother-in-law--wife and friend--both cut off in a single morning! Did -one ever hear the like? As for the unfortunate victim, Mr. Holme that -had been, they laid him in the dining-room to wait the inquest.” - -At this point Leonard laid down the book and looked round. The place was -quite quiet. Even from the street there came no noise of footsteps or -of wheels. Once more he was overpowered by this strange loathing--a kind -of sickness. He closed his eyes and lay back. Before him, as in a vivid -dream, he saw that procession with the body of the murdered man; and he -saw the murdered lady fall shrieking to the ground; and he saw the old -recluse of the Park, then young, sitting alone, with haggard face, while -one body lay in the dining-room and the other on the marriage-bed. - -The feeling of sickness passed away. Leonard opened his eyes and forced -himself, but with a beating heart and a dreadful feeling of -apprehension, to go on with the reading: - -“I remember that the house was very quiet, so quiet that we could hear -in my room--the housekeeper’s room--the cries and shouts of the two -little boys in the nursery, which was the room next to where the mother -lay dead. The boys were Master Langley, the eldest, who was three, and -Master Christopher, then a year and a half. - -“Little did those innocents understand of the trouble that was coming -upon them from the terrible tragedy of that day. They would grow up -without a mother--the most terrible calamity that can befall a child: -and they were to grow up, as well, without a father, for the master has -never recovered the shock, and now, I fear, never will. - -“On the Wednesday morning, the next day, the Coroner came with his jury -and held the inquest. They viewed the body in the dining-room. I was -present and heard it all. The report of the paper is tolerably accurate, -so far as I remember.” - -The newspaper began again at this point: - -“On Wednesday last, the 19th inst., an inquest was held at Campaigne -Park on the body of Langley Holme, Esquire, Justice of the Peace, of -Westerdene House, near Amersham, aged twenty-eight years. The -unfortunate gentleman, as narrated in our last number, was found dead -under circumstances that pointed directly to murder, in a wood not far -from Campaigne Park, where he was staying as the guest of his friend and -brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne. - -“The cause of death was certified by Dr. Alden. He deposed that it was -caused by a single blow from a heavy club or branch which had probably -been picked up close by. The club was lying on the table--a jagged -branch thick at one end, which was red with blood. The nature of the -wound showed that it was one blow only, and that by a most determined -and resolute hand, which had caused death, and that death must have been -instantaneous. - -“Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park, deposed that the -deceased, named Langley Holme, his brother-in-law--his wife’s brother, -and his most intimate friend--was staying with them, and that on Tuesday -morning the two started together after breakfast for a walk. They walked -through the park, crossed the road, got over the stile on the other -side, and followed the pathway under the hill. They were entering the -wood in which the body was found when he himself recollected a letter -which had to be written and posted that morning. He therefore stopped -and explained that he must return immediately. Unfortunately, his -brother-in-law chose to continue his walk alone. Mr. Campaigne turned -and walked home as quickly as he could. He saw the deceased no more -until he was brought back dead. - -“The Coroner asked him if he had observed anyone in the wood: he said he -had not looked about him carefully, but that he had seen nobody. - -“A little boy, who gave the name of Tommy Dadd, and said that he knew -the meaning of an oath, deposed that he was on the hillside scaring -birds all day; that he saw the two gentlemen get over the stile, walk -along the footpath together, talking fast and loud; that they came to -the wood, and that one of them, Mr. Campaigne, turned back; that he -looked up and down the path as if he was expecting somebody, and then -walked away very fast. - -“‘Stop!’ said the Coroner. ‘Let us understand these facts quite plainly. -You saw Mr. Campaigne and the deceased get over the stile and walk as -far as the wood?’ - -“‘Yes.’ - -“‘And you saw Mr. Campaigne turn back and walk away?’ - -“‘Yes.’ - -“‘Go on, then.’ - -“‘A long time after that I see John Dunning walking from the farm across -the field to the pathway; he was carrying a basket of something over his -shoulder; he wore his smock-frock. He went into the wood, too. Presently -he came out and ran back to the farm-yard, and three other men came and -carried something away.’ - -“‘Did nobody else go into the wood?’ - -“‘No; nobody.’ - -“John Dunning said that he was a labourer; that on the day in question -he was on his way to some work, and had to pass through the wood; that -half-way through he came upon what he thought was a man asleep. When he -looked closer, he found that it was a gentleman, and he was dead, and he -lay in a pool of blood. There was no scuffle of feet or sign of a -struggle. That he tried to lift him, getting his hands and frock covered -with blood-stains; that he found a bit of rough and jagged wood lying -beside the body, which was covered with blood at one end; that on making -this discovery he ran out of the wood, and made his way as fast as he -could to the nearest farm, where he gave the alarm, and got four men to -come with him, carrying a shutter and a blanket. - -“The Coroner cross-examined this witness severely. Where did he work? -Was he a native of the village? Had he ever been in trouble? What was it -he was carrying on his shoulder? Would he swear it was not the club that -had been found near the body? - -“To all these questions the man gave a straightforward answer. - -“The Coroner then asked him if he had searched the pockets of the -deceased. - -“At this point the deceased’s valet stood up, and said that his master -had not been robbed; that his watch and rings and purse were all found -upon him in his pockets. - -“‘I presume that the murderer had no time,’ said the Coroner. ‘He must -have been disturbed. I never yet heard of a murder that was not a -robbery, unless, indeed, there was revenge in it.’ - -“Mr. Campaigne interposed. ‘I would suggest, Mr. Coroner,’ he said, -‘with submission----’ - -“‘Sir,’ said the Coroner, ‘your suggestions are instructions.’ - -“‘I venture, then, to suggest that perhaps there may have been some -person or persons unknown in the wood. The boy’s evidence was -straightforward, but he could not see through the wood.’ - -“‘That is true. Call up the parish constable.’ - -“This officer stood up to give evidence. He was asked if there were any -dangerous or suspicious persons in or near the village; if he had seen -any tramps, sturdy vagabonds, gipsies, or, in fact, any persons who -might reasonably be suspected of this outrage. - -“There was no one. The village, he said, was quite quiet and well -behaved. - -“He was asked if there were poachers about. He said there were -poachers, whom he knew very well, and so did his Honour’s gamekeeper; -but in the month of May there was little or nothing to poach, and no -excuse for going into the wood. Besides, why should they go into the -wood at ten in the morning? He was quite confident that the village -poachers had nothing to do with the business. - -“‘My suggestion, sir,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘seems unproductive. -Nevertheless, there was the chance that the mystery might be explained -if we could in this way light upon a clue.’ - -“‘There is another way of explanation,’ said the Coroner grimly. - -“He put other questions to the constable. Had he seen any gipsies or -tramps about the village or on the road? The constable declared that he -had seen none: that the village, lying as it did off the main road, from -which it was not even visible, did not attract gipsies or tramps or -vagabonds of any description. - -“Had the constable observed any case of drunkenness? He had not: there -were men who sometimes took more beer than was good for them, but they -carried their liquor peaceably and did not become quarrelsome in their -cups. - -“‘We come next,’ said the Coroner, ‘to the question whether the deceased -gentleman had any private enmities to fear?’ - -“To this Mr. Campaigne made reply: ‘My brother-in-law, sir, was a man -who may have made enemies as a magistrate, especially among poachers; -but if so, these enemies would be all in his own part of the county, -fifteen miles away. In this place he could have had neither friends nor -enemies.’ - -“‘Then, gentlemen of the jury,’ said the Coroner, ‘we can find no motive -for the crime. I said just now that there was another explanation -possible. We can put aside the theory of poachers being disturbed at -their work: and the theory of private enmity: and the theory of tramp or -gipsy attacking him for the sake of robbery. We come back therefore to -the broad facts. At ten in the morning the deceased entered the -wood--alone. At twelve the man Dunning ran out, his smock-frock covered -with blood. He said that he had found the dead body of this gentleman -lying on the grass, and he had tried to lift it, getting his smock-frock -stained with blood in doing so. Now, gentlemen, what was the good of -trying to lift a dead body? On the other hand, suppose that a man, -finding this gentleman unarmed, perhaps asleep, conceived the sudden -thought of killing him for the sake of taking his money: suppose him to -have been disturbed, or to have thought himself disturbed--it might be -by the bird-scaring boy--what would he do? Naturally he would give the -alarm, and pretend that the crime was committed by another man. You, -gentlemen of the jury, will form your own conclusion. You will return -such a verdict as seems to you reasonable, leaving further investigation -to the Law. Far be it from me to suggest your verdict or to influence -your judgment. You have now to consider how and by whom this murder--as -clear a case of murder as has ever been known--was committed.’ - -“The jury considered their verdict for half an hour. They then returned -a verdict of wilful murder against John Dunning. - -“The man was standing alone by this time: everybody shunned him. When -the verdict was given, he cried out, ‘No! No! I never done it! I never -done it!’ passionately, or with some show of passion. - -“The constable arrested him on the spot. After the first ejaculation the -man became quite passive, and made no kind of resistance. The Coroner -turned to Mr. Campaigne. - -“‘You are a magistrate, sir. You can formally commit the man for trial.’ - -“‘I commit this man?’ the bereaved gentleman seemed to have difficulty -in understanding the matter. However, he came to himself, and performed -his duties mechanically. - -“The man, John Dunning, now lies in gaol, awaiting his trial. We would -not say anything to forejudge the case, but it certainly looks black, so -far, against the accused.” - -To this the housekeeper added: “The Coroner’s Court was full, and a -sorrowful sight it was to see the master, tall and handsome and upright, -but ashy pale. On the same day, in the afternoon, they buried both the -brother and the sister in the parish church. They lie side by side in -the chancel.” - -Then followed the report of the trial of John Dunning. Part of it is a -repetition of the evidence heard at the inquest. He was defended by -counsel, and a very able counsel, too--a young man who had taken the -greatest pains to get up the case. Leonard knew the name. Later on he -had become a judge. The cross-examination was keen and searching. Every -little point was made the most of. - -The Report gave at full length all the evidence and the speeches. In -this place it is sufficient to give the most important questions and -answers. - -The counsel had a map of the wood. He made a great deal out of this map. -He called attention to distances; for instance, it would take five -minutes only to get from the wood to the farm. On these points he -cross-examined Mr. Campaigne closely. - -“‘I believe it is a small wood--little more than a coppice?’ - -“‘It is very little more than a coppice.’ - -“‘How long, now, would it take you to walk through the wood from end to -end?’ - -“‘Not five minutes.’ - -“‘Are there any seats in the wood--any places where a man might sit -down?’ - -“‘None.’ - -“‘Did your friend express any intention of lingering in the wood, or was -there any reason why he should linger in the wood?’ - -“‘No, certainly not. He entered the wood at a quick pace, and, so far as -I know, he intended to keep it up. He was walking partly for exercise -and partly to look at the condition of the fields.’ - -“‘There were no seats in the wood.’ The counsel returned to the point. -‘Were there any fallen trees to sit down upon?’ - -“‘Not to my knowledge.’ - -“‘Was it a morning for lying down on the grass?’ - -“‘No; there had been rain; the path was muddy and the grass was wet.’ - -“‘Did you suppose that the deceased would loiter about in the wet wood, -in the mud and in the long grass in the wood, for two long hours?’ - -“‘I do not. I think it most improbable--even impossible.’ - -“‘Your suggestion is that there was someone lurking in the wood?’ - -“‘Everything points to that, in my opinion.’ - -“‘Otherwise, on the theory of the prosecution, your brother-in-law must -have stood in the wood, doing nothing for nearly two hours; because -nobody disputes the fact that the prisoner entered the wood a little -before twelve.’ - -“‘That is so, I think.’ - -“‘I am sorry to press you, Mr. Campaigne, on a subject so painful, but I -have a life to save. Do you suppose that your friend was one who would -be likely to yield up his life without a struggle?’ - -“‘Certainly not. He was a strong and resolute man.’ - -“‘Again, look at the prisoner,’ who was not more than five feet five. -‘Do you suppose that your friend would stand still to be killed by a -little man like that?’ - -“‘It is absurd to suppose anything of the kind.’ - -“‘He might have been taken unawares, but then the blow would have been -at the back of the head. Now, it was in the front. Do you suppose it -possible that this labouring man should on entering the wood suddenly -resolve upon taking a strange gentleman’s life without a motive, not -even with the hope of plunder?--should rush upon him, find him off his -guard, and succeed in taking his life without receiving a blow or a -scratch?’ - -“‘I certainly do not. I consider the thing absolutely impossible.’ - -“‘Do you suppose that, if all these improbabilities or impossibilities -had taken place, the man would have run back covered with blood to tell -what he had found, and to pretend that some other man had done it?’ - -“‘I certainly do not.’ - -“The boy, who had already given his evidence, was recalled. - -“‘How long was it after Mr. Holme went into the wood before John Dunning -went in?’ - -“‘It was a long time.’ - -“‘We know the facts already,’ said the Judge; ‘the two gentlemen went -out at ten; they would reach the wood, according to this map, about -fifteen minutes past ten; the dead body was brought home a little after -noon. Therefore, as the prisoner was only a few minutes in the wood, it -must have been about twenty minutes to twelve that he went in.’ - -“‘And remained, my lord, no more than a few minutes.’ - -“‘So it would seem from the evidence. Much mischief, however, may be -done in a few minutes.’ - -“The counsel recalled the doctor. - -“‘When you saw the body it was, I think you said, a little before one -o’clock.’ - -“‘That is so.’ - -“‘The body was then quite stiff and dead, you say?’ - -“‘Quite. It had been dead some time--perhaps two hours.’ - -“‘It had been dead two hours. You are quite sure?’ - -“‘I will not swear to the exact time. I will say a long while.’ - -“‘If the boy’s evidence as to the time occupied by the prisoner in the -wood is correct, death would have been caused a few minutes before the -men brought the shutter. The body would have been quite warm.’ - -“‘It would.’ - -“‘Now--you saw the wound. Indicate for the jury exactly where it was.’ - -“The doctor laid his hand on the top of his head. - -“‘Not the front, but the top. Very good. Mr. Holme was six feet high. -Look at the prisoner. Is it possible that so short a man could have -inflicted such a blow on the top of the head?’ - -“‘Not unless he found his victim seated.’ - -“‘Quite so. And we have heard from Mr. Campaigne that it was impossible -to sit down in the wet wood. Thank you.’” - -One need not go on. This was the most important part of the evidence. At -first it looked very bad against the prisoner: no one else in the wood; -the blood on the smock; the weapon with which the deed was accomplished; -the apparent impossibility of anyone else being the criminal. Then came -this clever lawyer upon the scene, and in a little while the whole of -the case fell to pieces. - -First, the doctor’s evidence that death had been caused two hours before -the prisoner entered the wood; the evidence of the boy that the prisoner -had gone in only a few minutes before he came out running. That was -positive evidence in his favour. There was, next, the evidence of Mr. -Campaigne. His brother-in-law was the last man in the world who would be -murdered without making a fight. He was a powerful man, much stronger -than the fellow charged with murdering him. He was not taken unawares, -but received the fatal blow in full front. Again, there was no robbery. -If a poor man commits the crime of murder, he does it either for -revenge, or for jealousy, or for robbery. There could be none of those -motives at work in the murder of this unfortunate gentleman. - -Lastly, there was the best possible testimony in favour of the -prisoner’s personal character. This is not of much use where the -evidence is strong, but when it is weak it may be of the greatest -possible help. His employer stated that the prisoner was a good workman -who knew his business; that he was sober and industrious and honest; the -least likely man on his farm to commit this atrocious act. - -The Judge summed up favourably. The jury retired to consider their -verdict. They came back after an hour. Verdict: “Not guilty.” - -“Quite right,” said Leonard, laying down the book. “The man John Dunning -certainly was innocent of this charge.” - -Then followed more writing by the housekeeper: - -“When the verdict was declared the prisoner stepped down, and was -greeted with friendly congratulations by his master, the farmer, and -others. The Judge, before leaving the Court, sent for Mr. Campaigne. - -“‘Sir,’ he said, shaking hands with him, ‘we have to deplore our own -loss as well as yours in the melancholy events of that day. For my own -part, although I consider the verdict of the jury amply justified by the -evidence, I should like your opinion on the matter.’ - -“‘If it is worth your attention, you shall hear it. I had already made -up my mind on the point. The evidence at the inquest was quite -incomplete. After talking the matter over with the doctor, I was -convinced that the murder was most certainly committed long before the -man Dunning went into the wood at all. The state of the body showed, if -medical evidence is worth anything, that death had taken place two hours -before: that is, before eleven--in fact, shortly after I left him. He -must have been walking straight to his death when I left him and saw him -striding along through the wood.’ - -“‘And have you been able to form any theory at all?’ - -“‘None. Had there been robbery, I should have suspected gipsies. Our own -people about here are quiet and harmless. Such a thing as wilful and -deliberate murder would be impossible for them.’ - -“‘So the case only becomes the more mysterious.’ - -“‘I felt so strongly as to the man’s innocence that I not only provided -him with counsel, but I also provided counsel with my own full statement -of the case. The murderer of my brother-in-law, the slayer of my -wife’--here Mr. Campaigne turned very pale--‘will be discovered; some -time or other he must be discovered. I have understood that murder lies -on the conscience until life becomes intolerable. Then the man -confesses, and welcomes the shameful death to end it. Let us wait till -the murderer finds his burden too heavy to be borne.’ - -“‘Yet,’ said the Judge, ‘one would like to find him out by means of the -Law.’ - -“‘Well,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘for my own part, I resolved that I would -do all in my power so that an innocent man should not suffer for the -guilty if I could prevent it.’ - -“‘Sir,’ said the Judge, ‘your conduct is what the world expects of a -noble gentleman. There remains one conclusion. It is that there was -someone concealed in the wood. The boy said that no one went out. He was -thinking of the two ends; but he could not perhaps see through the wood, -or beyond the wood. It is not yet, perhaps, too late to search for -footsteps. However, no doubt all that can be done will be done.’ - -“So the trial was finished. I have not heard that any further -examination of the spot was made. As all the village, and people from -neighbouring villages and the nearest market-towns, crowded over every -Sunday for weeks after, gazing at the spot where the body was found, it -was of very little use to look for footsteps. - -“The man John Dunning went back to work. But the village folk--his old -friends--turned against him. They would no longer associate with him; -the taint of murder was upon him, though he was as innocent a man as -ever stepped. The Vicar spoke to the people, but it was in vain; anyone -who had been tried for murder must be a murderer, and he was shunned -like a leper or a madman. - -“Then the Vicar spoke about it to the Squire, who gave John money so -that he might emigrate; and with all his family he went to Botany Bay, -where the people are not all convicts, I am told. There, at least, it -ought not to be thrown in a man’s teeth that he had been tried and -acquitted for murder. I have never heard what became of John Dunning and -his family afterwards. - -“The Squire offered a reward of £500 for the apprehension and conviction -of some person unknown who had murdered Mr. Langley Holme. The printed -bill remained on the church door for years--long after the rain had -washed out the letters, until the whole bill was finally washed out and -destroyed. But the reward was never claimed, nor was there any attempt -to fix the guilt upon another; and as time went on, a belief grew up in -the minds of the world that, notwithstanding the acquittal, no other was -possible as the criminal than John Dunning himself. So that it was a -fortunate thing for him that he went away when he did, before the -popular belief was turned quite so dead against him. - -“The wood became haunted; no one dared pass through it alone, even by -day; because the murdered man walked by day as well as by night. I -cannot say, for myself, that I ever actually saw the ghost--not, that is -to say, to recognise the poor gentleman, though there are plenty of -credible witnesses who swear to having seen it--in the twilight, in the -moonlight, and in the sunshine. But one day, when I was walking home -from the village--it was in the morning about eleven o’clock--I saw a -strange thing which made my heart stand still. - -“It was a spring day, with a fresh breeze and sunshine, but with flying -clouds. They made light and shadow over the fields. In the wood, which, -as was stated at the trial, was more of a coppice than a wood, composed -of slender trees such as birches, which were on one side, and firs and -larches on the other, with a good deal of undergrowth among the birches, -I saw, as clear as ever I saw anything in my life, a figure--oh! quite -plain--a figure under the birches and among the bushes and undergrowth. -I knew there could be no one there, but I saw a figure, plain as the -figure of man or woman. It had its back to me, and I made out head and -shoulders and arms; the rest of the body was hidden. While I looked the -shadow passed away and the sun came out. Then the figure disappeared. I -waited for it to return. It did not. - -“I crept slowly through the wood, looking about fearfully to right and -left. There was nothing; the birds were singing and calling to each -other, but there was no ghost. Yet I had seen it. When I asked myself -how it was dressed I could not remember; nay, I had not observed. Then -there were some to whom the ghost had appeared clad as when he met the -murderer; nay, some to whom it has spoken; so that my own evidence is -not of so much importance as that of some others. - -“After the funeral we could not fail to observe a great change in the -habits of my master. - -“Before the trouble Mr. Campaigne was a man fond of society; he would -invite friends to dinner two or three times a week. He was fond of the -bottle, but no drunkard; once a week he went to the market town, and -there dined at the gentlemen’s ordinary. He was a Justice of the Peace, -and active; he farmed himself some of his own land, and took an interest -in the stock and in the crops; he went to church every Sunday morning, -and had prayers every morning for the household; he was fond of playing -with his children; he talked politics and read the paper every week. He -went hunting once or twice a week in the season; he went shooting nearly -every day in the autumn; he attended the races; he was a gardener, and -looked after his hothouses and conservatories; in a word, he was a -country gentleman who pleased himself with the pursuits of the country. -He was a good farmer, a good landlord, a good magistrate, a good father, -and a good Christian. - -“Yet, mark what followed. When the murder happened, the body was placed -in the dining-room. The master went into the library; there he had his -meals served. He never entered the dining-room afterwards; he sat in the -library when he was not walking on the terrace alone. - -“Suddenly, not little by little, he abandoned everything. He left off -going to church; he left off going to market; he left off shooting, -hunting, gardening, farming, reading; he gave up company; he refused to -see anyone; he opened no letters; he held no family prayers; he paid no -attention to his children; if he found them playing, he passed by the -innocents as if they had been strangers; as for the youngest, she who -cost her mother her life, I doubt if he ever saw her, or knew who she -was if he did see her. - -“And so it has continued all these years. Sometimes the lawyer comes -over when money is wanted; then the money is obtained. But he never -speaks; he listens, and signs a cheque. As his housekeeper, I used to -present an open bill from time to time; the money was put upon the bill -with no question. The grooms have been long dismissed; the horses turned -out to grass are long dead; the dogs are dead; the garden has run to -seed and weed; the rooms, in which there has been no fire, or light, or -air, or anything, are mouldering in decay. - -“As for the poor unfortunate children, they grew up somehow; the master -would allow no interference on the part of his own family; the lawyer, -Mr. Ducie, was the only person who could persuade him to anything. The -boys were sent to a preparatory school, and then to a public school. The -second went into the Navy--never was there a more gallant or handsome -boy--but he was drowned; the elder went to Oxford and into Parliament, -but he killed himself; the girl married a merchant who turned out bad. - -“Everything turned out bad. It was a most unfortunate family; father -and children alike--all were unfortunate.” - - * * * * * - -Here ended the housekeeper’s book of extracts and comments. There was -appended a letter. It was headed, “Mary’s letter, September, 2d, 1855:” - - -“DEAR LUCY, - - “I have not been able to answer your letter before--believe me. - There are times when the heart must be alone with the heart. I have - been alone with my sorrowful heart--oh, my sorrowful heart!--for a - month since it happened. - - “I can now tell you something--not all--that has fallen upon us, - upon my innocent babes and myself. You heard that Langley took his - own life with his own hand four weeks ago. You ask now why he did - it. He was doing well--no one was more promising, no one had - brighter prospects; friends assured me that in proper time I might - confidently expect to see him in the Cabinet; his powers and his - influence and his name were improving daily; he was acquiring daily - greater knowledge of affairs. At home I may say truthfully that he - was happy with his wife, who would have laid down her life - cheerfully to make him happy, and with his tender children. As for - anything outside his home, such as some young men permit - themselves, he would have no such thought, and could not have as a - man who considered his duty to wife and family or as a Christian. - Yet he killed himself--oh, my dear, he killed himself!--and I am - left. Why did he do it? - - “There was one thing which always weighed heavily upon his - mind--the condition of his father. He frequently talked of it. Why, - he asked, should a misfortune such as that which had befallen - him--the tragic death of a friend and the sudden death of his - wife--so completely destroy a strong man, young, healthy, capable - of rising above the greatest possible disasters? Why should this - misfortune change him permanently, so that he should neglect - everything that he had formerly loved, and should become a - miserable, silent solitary, brooding over the past, living the - useless life of a hermit? Of course, he felt also the neglect in - which he and his brother and sister had been left, and the lack of - sympathy with which his father had always regarded them. For, - remember, his father is not insane; he is able to transact business - perfectly. It is only that he refuses to speak or to converse, and - lives alone. - - “Now, dear Lucy, I am not going to make any suggestion. I want only - to tell you exactly what happened. You sent him a book of extracts - and cuttings, with supplementary notes. These cuttings were the - contemporary account of the murder of Mr. Langley Holme, the - inquest, the trial of a man who was acquitted, and the strange - effect which the whole produced upon Mr. Campaigne, then quite a - young man. - - “He received the book, and took it into his study. This was in the - morning. At midnight I looked in. He turned his face. My dear, it - was haggard. I asked him what was the matter that he looked so ill. - He replied, rambling, that the fathers had eaten sour grapes. I - begged him to leave off, and to come upstairs. He said something in - reply, but I did not catch it, and so I left him. - - “He never came upstairs. At five in the morning I woke up, and - finding that he was not in bed, I hurried down the stairs full of - sad presentiments. Alas! he was dead. Do not ask me how--he was - dead! - - “Dear Lucy, you are now the only one left of the three children. I - have burnt the book. At all events, my children shall not see it or - hear of this terrible story. I implore you to burn your copy.” - -Mrs. Galley wrote after this: “I have read the book again quite through. -I cannot understand at all why my brother killed himself. As for the -murderer, of course it was the man named John Dunning. Who else could it -have been?” - -Leonard looked up. It was three o’clock in the morning. His face was -troubled with doubts and misgiving. - -“Why did they burn the book?” he said. “As for the murder, there must -have been someone hidden in the wood. That is clear. No other -explanation is possible. But why did my grandfather cut his throat? -There is nothing in the book that could lead him to such an act.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -ON THE SITE - - -Leonard shut the book and threw it aside. He sat thinking over it for a -little. Then he thought it was time to go to bed. There was not much of -the night left; in fact, it was already broad daylight. But if it had -been a night of mid-winter for darkness he could not have been visited -by a more terrifying nightmare. - -In his sleep the Family History continued. It now took the form of a -Mystery--a Mystery in a Shape. It sat upon his afflicted chest and -groaned. He was unable to guess or understand what kind of Mystery it -was, or, in his sleep, to connect it with anything on the earth or in -the world outside this earth. He woke up and shook it off; he went to -sleep again, and it returned, unrelenting. It was vague and vast and -terrible; a Thing with which the sufferer wrestled in vain, which he -could not shake off and could not comprehend. - -There are many kinds of nightmares; that of the unintelligible mystery, -which will not go away and cannot be driven away, is one of the worst. - -When he rose, late in the morning, unrefreshed and tired, he did connect -the nightmare with something intelligible. It arose from the book and -its story; which, like Chaucer’s, was left half told. That, in itself, -would have mattered little. A strange thing happened: it began with this -morning: there fell upon him quite suddenly an irresistible sense that -here was a duty laid upon him: a duty not to be neglected: a thing that -had to be done to the exclusion of everything else. He had to follow up -this story, and to recover, after seventy years and more, the true -history of the crime which cast a shadow so long and so terrible upon -all those years and the children of those years. He looked at the papers -on his table: they were the half-finished article he had undertaken: his -mind bidden to think upon the subject rebelled: it refused to work: it -would not be turned in that direction: it went off to Campaigne Park and -to seventy years before. - -Without words Leonard was mysteriously commanded to follow up the story -to its proper conclusion. Without any words he was plainly and -unmistakably commanded to follow it up. By whom? He did not ask. He -obeyed. - -After seventy years the discovery of the guilty man would seem -difficult. We find historians grappling with the cases of accused -persons, and forming conclusions absolutely opposite, even when the -evidence seems quite full and circumstantial in every point. Take the -case of Anne Boleyn, for instance; or that of Mary Queen of Scots: two -of the most illustrious and most unfortunate princesses. What agreement -is there among historians concerning these ladies? Yet there are -monumental masses of documents--contemporary, voluminous, official, -private, epistolary, confidential, partisan--that exist to help them. - -In this case there were no other documents except those in the Book of -Cuttings. All that a private investigation could do was to read the -evidence that had already been submitted to two Courts, and to arrive, -if possible, at some conclusion. - -This Leonard proceeded to do. He laid aside altogether the work on which -he had been engaged, he placed the book before him, and he read the -whole contents again, word for word, albeit with the same strange -shrinking. - -Then he made notes. The first referred to the man Dunning. - -I. _John Dunning._--The prisoner was rightly acquitted; he was most -certainly innocent. The boy showed that he had not been in the wood more -than two or three minutes. The deceased was a man six inches taller than -Dunning, and strong in proportion. The latter could only have delivered -the fatal blow if he had come upon his victim from behind, and while he -was sitting. But the medical evidence proves that the blow must have -been delivered from the front; and it was also proved that the grass was -too wet from recent showers for the deceased to have been sitting down -on it. - -II. _The Time of Death._--If the medical evidence is worth anything, -the man when found had been lying dead for about two hours, as was -proved by the rigor mortis. This absolutely convinces one of Dunning’s -innocence, and it introduces the certainty of another hand. Whose? - -There he paused and began to consider. - -There must have been another person in the wood; this person must have -rushed upon his victim suddenly and unexpectedly. To rush out of the -wood armed with a heavy club torn from a tree was the act of a gorilla. -If there had been an escaped gorilla anywhere about, the crime could -have been fixed upon him. But gorillas in the year 1826 were not yet -discovered. - -Perhaps the assailant ran upon him from behind, noiselessly; perhaps -Langley Holme heard him at the last moment, and turned so that the blow -intended for the back of the head fell upon the fore part. - -This was all very well in theory. But why? Who wanted to kill this young -gentleman, and why? There was no robbery. The body lay for two hours and -more in this unfrequented place; there was plenty of time for the -murderer to take everything; the murderer had taken nothing. - -Then, why? How to explain it? Here was a young country gentleman, highly -popular; if he had enemies, they would not be outside his own part of -the country. Most country gentlemen, in those days, had many enemies. -These enemies, who were rustics for the most part, satisfied their -revenge and their hatred by poaching on the preserves. They also set -fire to the hayricks. Langley Holme was staying a welcome guest with his -friend and brother-in-law; he was walking along on a summer morning in a -wood not a mile away from the House and Park, and there he was -discovered lying dead--murdered! - -It may be objected that this attempt to solve the insoluble after -seventy years was a waste of time; that dead and gone crimes may as well -be left alone. Other people’s crimes may no doubt be left alone. But -this was his own crime, so to speak--a crime inflicted in and upon his -own family. Besides, he was dragged by ropes to the consideration of the -thing; his mind was wholly charged with it; he could think of nothing -else. - -Presently he shaped a theory, which at first seemed to fit in with -everything. It was really a very good theory, which promised, when he -framed it, to account for all the facts brought out in the inquest and -at the trial. - -The theory supposed an escaped lunatic--a homicidal maniac, of course; -that would account for everything. A maniac--a murderous maniac. He must -have been lying concealed in the wood; he must have rushed out armed -with his club, like that gorilla. This theory seemed to meet every point -in the case. He shut up the book; he had found out the truth; he could -now go about his own work again, forgetting the mysterious murder which -drove his great-grandfather off his balance. - -He sighed with satisfaction. He placed the book in a drawer out of the -way; he need not worry any more about the thing. So with another sigh of -relief he reached out for his books and returned once more to the study -of his “subject.” - -Presently he became aware that his eyes were resting on the page without -reading it; that his mind was back again to the Book of Extracts, and -that in his brain there was forming, without any volition of his own, -one or two difficult questions about that maniac. As, for instance, if -there had been such a creature wandering in the fields someone would -have seen him; he would probably have murdered more than one person -while he was in the mood for murder. There was a little boy, for -instance, scaring birds; he would have killed that little boy. Then, the -fact of a roving maniac would have been known. He must have escaped from -somewhere: his madness must have been known. There would have been some -sort of hue and cry after him: either at the inquest or at the trial -there would have been some mention of this dangerous person going about -at large; some suggestion that he might have been the guilty person. -Dangerous maniacs do not escape without any notice taken, or any warning -that they are loose. - -No. It would not do. Another and a more workable theory must be -invented. - -He got another. Poachers! Everybody knows the deadly hostility, far -worse seventy years ago than at present, that existed between a country -gentleman and a poacher. The latter was accustomed, in those days, to -get caught in a mantrap; to put his foot into a gin; to be fired upon by -gamekeepers; to be treated like a weasel or a stoat. In return the -poacher manifested a lamentably revengeful spirit, which sometimes went -as far as murder. In this case, no doubt, the crime was committed by a -poacher. - -The theory satisfied him at first, just as much as its predecessor. -Presently, however, he reflected that there is not much for a poacher to -do in early June, and that poachers do not prowl about the woods and -coverts in broad daylight and at noon; and that poachers do not, as a -rule, murder gentlemen belonging to other parts of the country. Besides, -poachers on one estate would not bear malice against the squire of -another estate fifteen miles distant. Leonard pushed his papers away in -despair. - -Any other kind of work was impossible; he could think of nothing else. -At this point, however, some kind of relief came to him. For he felt -that he must make himself personally acquainted with the place itself. -He wanted to see the wood of which so much mention was made--the place -where the blow was struck, the place where the murderer lay hidden. He -wanted the evidence of the wood itself, which was probably the same now -as it had been seventy years before, unless it had been felled or built -over. In that part of the country they do not destroy woods, and they do -not build upon their site; it is a conservative country. As the fields -were a hundred years ago, so they are now. - -Visitors to the house most conveniently approach it from the -Metropolitan Extension Line, which goes to Rickmansworth, Amersham, and -Verney. Leonard resolved upon going there that very morning. He took a -note-book and started, setting down the points on which he wished to -inquire. - -He arrived at the station a little before noon; a walk of ten minutes -brought him to the house. On the terrace at the back the old man, tall, -broad-shouldered, erect, walked as usual up and down, with his hard, -resolute air. Leonard did not speak to him; he passed into the garden, -and looking at his watch walked along the grass-grown walks, and at the -end, turning to the right, entered the park. - -It was but a small park: there was only one walk in the direction which -the two would have followed; this was now, like the garden walks, -overgrown with grass. At the end there was a lodge; but it had stood -empty for nearly seventy years; the gates were rusting on their hinges, -the windows were broken and the tiles had fallen off the roof. - -Beyond the park was an open road--the highroad; beyond the road a narrow -path led across a broad field into a small wood; on the right hand was a -low rising ground. This, then, was the wood where the thing was done; -this was the hillside on which the boy was scaring the birds when he -saw the two go in and the one come out. - -Leonard crossed the field and entered the wood. He looked at his watch -again. It had taken him twenty minutes to walk from the house to the -road; he made a note of that fact. He walked through the wood; it was a -pretty wood, more like a plantation than a wood--a wood with a few large -trees, many saplings, two or three trees lying on the ground and waiting -to be cut up. The spring foliage was out, dancing in the sunlight; the -varying light and shade were pleasing and restful, the air was soft, the -birds were singing. A peaceful, lovely place. - -This, then, was the spot where Langley Holme was suddenly done to death. -By whom? - -Now, as Leonard stood looking into the tangled mass of undergrowth, a -curious thing happened. It was the same thing which had happened to the -housekeeper, and was mentioned in her notes. By some freak of light and -shade, there was fashioned in a part of the wood where the shade was -darkest the simulacrum or spectre of a man--only the shoulders and upper -part of a man, but still a man. - -Leonard was no more superstitious than his neighbours; but at this -ghostly presentment he was startled, and for a moment his heart beat -quickly with that strange kind of terror, unlike any other, which is -called supernatural. - -There are men who boast that they know it not, and have never felt it. -These are men who would take their work into a deserted house, and -would carry it on serenely, alone, through the watches of the livelong -night. For my own part, I envy them not. Give me the indications of the -unseen world; the whisper of the unseen spirit; the cold breath of the -unseen guest; even though they are received with terror and -superstitious shrinkings. - -It was with such terror that Leonard saw this apparition. A moment after -and it was gone; then he perceived that it was nothing but the shadows -lying among the undergrowth, so that they assumed a solid form. Yet, as -to the housekeeper, to whom that same apparition had appeared, it seemed -to him the actual phantom of the murdered man. - -He retraced his steps. It took no more than five minutes, he found, to -walk through the wood from one end to the other. It was so small, and -the undergrowth of so light a character, with no heavy foliage, that any -person standing in any part of it would be easily visible; it would be -impossible for any man to conceal himself. He made a note, also, of -these facts. - -He then remembered the boy on the hillside scaring the birds. There was -no boy at the moment, but Leonard walked up the low hill in order to -learn what the boy had been able to see. - -The hill, although low, was a good deal higher than the trees in the -wood; it commanded a view of the land beyond the wood--another field -with young corn upon it. Leonard observed that one could not see -through the wood, but that he could see over it, and beyond it, and on -either side of it. - -If, for instance, anyone approached the wood from any direction, or ran -away from it, it would be quite possible for a boy standing on the -hillside to see that person. - -Then, in his imagination, he heard the boy’s evidence. “I see the Squire -and a gentleman with him. They came as far as the wood together. -Presently the Squire went away by himself. Then John Dunning came along, -and presently he came out, running over to the farm. Then they brought a -shutter and carried out something on it covered up. That’s all I see.” - -The words were so clear and plain that when they ceased he looked round, -and was astonished to find there was no boy. He sat down on a gate and -looked at his notes. - -1. The walk from the house to the wood took twenty minutes. - -2. The time taken in walking through the wood was five minutes. - -3. The wood was nowhere thick enough to conceal a man. - -4. The wood could not be seen through from the hillside. - -5. But it was overlooked on all sides from the hill. - -He considered these things, being now more than ever seized and -possessed with the weight and burden of the mystery. Consider. It was -no ordinary crime, such as one might read about, when in the annals of a -family one member of a long time ago was brutally and wickedly cut off. -It was a crime whose effects were felt by every member of his family in -the strange seclusion of the head. Whatever advantages might be -possessed by any member of this ancient and honourable house were lost; -for the head of it, and the owner of all the property, took no notice of -anyone; knew nothing of his existence, even; and lived entirely to -himself and by himself. - -It was, again, the first of all the numerous misfortunes which had -fallen upon the family. Lastly, it was a mystery which seemed -continually on the point of being cleared up by some theory which would -explain and account for everything. - -He looked round. The place seemed too peaceful for any deed of violence, -the sunshine was warm, the singing of birds filled his ear. The contrast -with his own thoughts bewitched him. He would have preferred a -thunderous atmosphere charged with electricity. - -He argued with himself that the thing took place seventy years ago; that -it might be very well left to be cleared up when the secrets of all -hearts will be known; that after all these years he could not hope to -clear it up; that he was only wasting his time; and so forth. He charged -the mystery, so to speak, to leave him. No demon of possession, no -incubus, ever refused more resolutely to be driven out. It remained -with him, more burdensome, more intolerable, than ever. - -He left the hillside and walked back to the road. There, instead of -walking through the park again, he turned to the left and entered the -village. One must eat; he ordered a chop at the village inn, and while -it was getting ready he went to the church. The monuments of his own -family were scattered about the church, and on the wall he read again -the tablet to the memory of the unfortunate man. - -Outside, in the churchyard, was the same old man who had accosted him -when he brought Constance here. He was sitting on a tombstone, basking -and blinking in the sun. He stood up slowly, and pulled off his hat. - -“Hope you’re well, sir,” he said. - -“Oh!” Leonard remembered. “You were the boy who was scaring birds on the -day--seventy years ago--when Mr. Holme was murdered.” - -“Surely, sir--surely. I haven’t forgotten. I remember it all--just as -yesterday. Better than yesterday. I’m old, master, and I remember what -happened when I was a boy better than what happened yesterday. To many -old people the same hath happened.” - -“Very likely; I have heard so. Now sit down and tell me all about it. -I’ve just come down from London to look at the place, and I remembered -your evidence.” - -“I will tell you everything, sir. Will you ask me, or shall I tell my -own story?” - -“You may tell your own story first, and I will ask you questions -afterwards.” - -So the old man repeated, in a parrot-like way: - -“It was on a fine morning in June, getting on to dinner-time. I’d been -scaring since five, and I was hungry. I was all alone on the hill, in -the field where there’s a little wood, and the path runs through the -wood. Then I saw two gentlemen--one was the Squire, the other I’d seen -at church with the Squire Sunday before, but I didn’t know his name. He -was tall, but nothing like so tall as the Squire. They were talking high -and loud and fast. I remember hearing them, but I couldn’t hear the -words. They went as far as the wood together. Directly after, the Squire -turned back; he looked up and down as if he was expecting somebody, then -he turned and walked home fast. The other gentleman didn’t go out with -the Squire, nor yet at the other end of the wood. - -“A long time after, John Dunning came along. He had on his smock-frock; -he hadn’t been in the wood two minutes before he came running out of it, -and he made for the farm. I saw that his smock-frock was red; and the -farmin’ men brought a shutter and carried out of the wood something -covered up. That is all I remember.” - -“Yes, that is all. That is what you said at the inquest and the trial, -is it not?” - -“That was it, sir.” - -“Yes. Was the wood then such as it is now?” - -“Just the same.” - -“Not a close dark wood, but light and open--just as at present?” - -“A light and open coppice with plenty of bushes.” - -“Could you, then, see through the wood?” - -“No; I could see over it and beyond it, but not through the road, where -I was standing.” - -“On that day what time was it when you arrived?” - -“My time was half-past five. Mother gave me my breakfast and sent me -out. I suppose it must ha’ been about that time.” - -“Very well. You went straight to the hillside and began your work, I -suppose?” - -“No; I went through the wood first.” - -“What for?” - -“To see the birds’ nests there.” - -“Oh! You were in the wood? Did you find anybody there, or any signs of -anybody being concealed there?” - -“Lord love you! how could a body hide in that little place?” - -“There might have been poachers, for instance.” - -“Not in June. If there was anyone at all, I should have seen him.” - -“Well, then you went up the hill and began your scaring. Did you see -anyone pass into the wood before the Squire and Mr. Holme arrived?” - -“No; if there had been anyone, I must have seen him--for certain sure I -must. There was no one all the morning--no one that way at all. There -very seldom was anyone.” - -“Where does the path lead?” - -“It leads across the fields to the village of Highbeech and the church.” - -“It is not a frequented way, then?” - -“No. Most days there will be only a single person on that way.” - -“Humph!” Leonard was disconcerted with the old man’s positiveness. -Nobody in the wood on his arrival, no one passed into it all the -morning. Where was the poacher? Where was the murderous maniac? “You -were only a little boy at the time,” he said. “Don’t you think your -memory may be at fault? It was seventy years ago, you know.” - -The old man shook his head. - -“Why, for months and months and for years and years I was asked over and -over again what happened and what I saw. Sometimes it was the Vicar and -his friends who talked about the matter and sent for me. Sometimes it -was the men at the Crown and Jug who talked about the murder and sent -for me. Sometimes it was the gossips. Don’t you think my memory fails, -master, because it can’t fail. Why,” he chuckled, “the very last thing I -shall see before I go up to the Throne will be the sight of them two -gentlemen going along to the wood.” - -“Very well, come back to that point. When they arrived at the wood, the -Squire turned back.” - -“Yes: first went in with the other gentleman.” - -“Oh! It doesn’t matter. But he went a little way into the wood, did he?” - -“I don’t know if it was a little way. It was a bit of a time--I don’t -know how long, five minutes, perhaps--two minutes, perhaps--I don’t -know--before he came out.” - -“Oh! Was this in your evidence?” - -“I answered what I was asked. Nobody ever asked me how long the Squire -was in the wood.” - -“Well, they entered the wood, and they were talking in an animated -manner. That is not in your evidence, either.” - -“Because I wasn’t asked. As for animated, they were talking high and -loud as if they were quarrelling.” - -“They could not be quarrelling.” - -“I didn’t hear what they said.” - -“Well: it doesn’t matter. The Squire turned back just at the entrance.” - -Again the sexton shook his head. - -“I know what I said,” he replied; “and I know what I saw.” - -“Is there anybody in the village,” Leonard asked, “besides yourself, who -remembers the--the event?” - -“It was seventy years ago,” he said. “I’m the oldest man in the village, -except the Squire. He remembers it very well, for all his mad ways. He’s -bound to remember it. There’s nobody else.” - -“Then they suspected one man.” - -“John Dunning it was. Why, I was only seven years of age, but I knew -well enough that it couldn’t be John. First, he wasn’t big enough--and -then, he wasn’t man enough--and then, he wasn’t devil enough. But they -tried him, and he got off and came back to the village. However, he had -to go, because, you see, the people don’t like the company of a man -who’s been tried for murder, even though he’s been let off; and they -wouldn’t work with John, so the Squire gave him money, and he went away, -out to Australia--him and all his family--and never been heard of -since.” - -“Was no one else ever suspected?” - -“There might be some who had suspicions, but they kept their suspicions -to themselves.” - -“Did you yourself have suspicions?” - -“It’s a long time ago, sir. The Squire and me are the only two people -that remember the thing. What’s the use, after all these years, of -having suspicions? I don’t say I have, and I don’t say I haven’t. If I -have, they will be buried with me in my grave.” - -Leonard returned to London. He now understood exactly the condition of -the ground, and he had examined the old man whose evidence was so -important. Nothing additional was to be got out of him; but the verbal -statement of a contemporary after seventy years concerning the event in -which Leonard was so much interested was remarkable. - -He returned to his own rooms. Hither presently came Constance. - -“My friend and cousin,” she said, in her frank manner, as if there had -never been any disturbing question between them, “you are looking -worried. What is the matter?” - -“Am I looking worried?” - -“The more important point is--are you feeling worried? Leonard, it has -nothing to do with that little conversation we had the other day?” - -“No,” he replied. “Nothing.” It was not a complimentary reply, but, -then, Constance was not a girl to expect or to care for compliments. - -“Well--is it the discovery of the poor relations?” - -“You will think me a very ridiculous person. I don’t worry in the least -about the poor relations. But I am worried about that crime--that murder -of seventy years ago.” - -“Oh! But why?” - -“It concerns you as well as me.” - -“Do you mean that I ought to worry about it? I cannot, really. It is too -long ago. I feel, really, no interest in it at all--except for a little -pity about my grandmother, whose childhood was saddened by the dreadful -thing. And that, too, was such a long time ago. But why should it worry -you?” - -“I can hardly tell you why. But it does. Constance, it is the most -wonderful thing. You do not suspect me of nerves or idle fancies?” - -“Not at all. You are quite a strong person as regards nerves.” - -“Then you will perhaps explain what has happened. Last night I came -home about eleven. I remembered that my newly discovered Great-Aunt had -sent me as a present--a cheerful present--a book containing a full -account, with cuttings from the papers of the time and notes by a woman -who was housekeeper at Campaigne Park, of the crime----” - -“Well?” - -“I took it out of its brown-paper covering. Again, Constance, am I a man -of superstitions?” - -“Certainly not!” - -“Well----” He considered the point for a few moments, as one perhaps -better concealed. Then he resolved upon communicating it. “When I opened -it I was seized with a most curious repulsion--a kind of loathing--which -it was difficult to shake off. This morning on looking at the book again -I had the same feeling.” - -“Yes, it is strange. But you got over it.” - -“In spite of it I persisted and resolutely went through the whole book. -I am repelled and I am attracted by the subject. I sat up half the night -reading it--I have never been so held by any book before.” - -“Strange!” Constance repeated. “And for a thing so long ago!” - -“I threw it aside at last and went to bed--and to dream. And the end--or -the beginning--of it is that I am compelled--I use the word -advisedly--compelled, Constance, to investigate the whole affair.” - -“Oh! but you are not in earnest? Investigate? But it happened seventy -years ago! What can be learned after seventy years?” - -“I don’t know. I must investigate and find out what I can.” - -Constance looked at him with astonishment. He sat at his desk--but with -his chair turned towards her. His face was lined and somewhat haggard: -he looked like one who is driven: but he looked resolved. - -“Leonard, this is idle fancy.” - -“I cannot help it; I must investigate the case. There is no help for me, -Constance--I must. This was the first of the family misfortunes. They -have been so heavy and so many that--well, it is weakness to connect -them with something unknown.” - -“I am sorry--I am very sorry--that you have learned the truth--even -though it makes me your cousin.” - -“I am very sorry, too. But Fate has found me--as it found my grandfather -and my father and that old, old man. Perhaps my own career is also to be -cut short.” - -“Nonsense, Leonard! You will investigate the case: you will find out -nothing: you will throw it aside: you will forget it.” - -“No; it is not to be forgotten or thrown aside.” - -“Well, make your inquiry as soon as you can and get it over. Oh, I -should have thought you the last person in the world to be moved by -fancies of compulsion or any other fancies.” - -“I should have thought so, too, except for this experience. When I got -up, Constance, I resolutely shut the book, and I made up my mind to -forget the whole business.” - -“And you could not, I suppose?” - -“I could not. I found it impossible to fix my attention, so I pulled out -the book again and went all over it from the beginning once more. -Constance, it is the most remarkable story I ever read. You shall read -it yourself.” - -“If I do, not even my duty to our ancestor will make me take it so -seriously as you are doing.” - -“To-day I have been down to the place. I have visited the wood where the -thing happened: I found again that old man of the churchyard, who paid -you an undeserved compliment.” Constance blushed, but not much. “I made -him tell me all he remembered: it was not much, but it sounded like the -unexpected confirmation of some old document.” - -“And have you come to any conclusion yet? Have you formed any theory?” - -“None that will hold water. I don’t know what is going to happen over -that business, but I must go on--I must go on.” - -She laid a hand upon his arm. - -“If you must go on, let me go with you. It is my murder as well as -yours. Lend me the book.” - -She carried it off to her own rooms, and that night another incubus sat -upon another sleeping person and murdered rest. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -A COMPROMISE - - -“Come to get another speech, Fred?” Christopher looked up cheerily from -the work before him. The sweet spring season, when the big dinners are -going on, is his time of harvest, and after June he can send his sheaves -of golden grain to the Bank. It promised to be a busy and a prosperous -season. “Come for another speech, old man?” he repeated. “I’m doing a -humorous one on Literature, but I can make room for you.” - -“Hang your speeches!” Fred sat down on the table. “You might offer a man -a drink.” He spoke as one oppressed with a sense of injustice. - -“Seem out of sorts, Fred. What’s gone wrong? Colonial Enterprise? The -great concern which interests all Lombard Street hitched up somehow?” He -asked with the exasperating grin of the doubter. But he opened a -cupboard and produced a bottle, a glass, and two or three sodas. “Well, -old man, there’s your drink.” - -Fred grunted, helped himself liberally, though it was as yet only eleven -in the forenoon. - -“The great Colonial concern is where it was,” he explained vaguely. - -“So I supposed. And about Lombard Street?” - -“Well, I thought better of the City. I thought there was still some -enterprise left in this rotten, stagnant, decaying, and declining old -country.” - -Christopher laughed. - -“They won’t look at it, eh?” - -“On the contrary, they won’t do anything till they have looked at it.” - -“Humph! Awkward, isn’t it? I say, Fred, what did you come back for at -all? Why not stay in Australia?” - -“I came back for many reasons. Partly to look after you, Brother Chris.” - -“Oh! After me? Why after me?” - -“Well, you see, you are the only one left who knew of my existence. -Leonard remembered nothing about me. My grandfather’s lawyers had never -heard of me. And one day there came into my head--it was like a voice -speaking to me--it said, ‘Fred, you are a Fool. You’ve been twenty years -in this country. You’ve got an old lunatic of a grandfather who must -have piles and piles of money. Perhaps he’s dead. And no one but -Christopher left to remember you. Get off home as quick as you can. -Christopher,’ said this remarkable voice, ‘is quite capable of putting -his hands on the lot and forgetting you.’ That is what the voice said, -my brother.” - -“Sometimes it’s rats: sometimes it’s cats: sometimes it’s circles: -sometimes it’s a voice. Fred, you must have been pretty far gone.” - -“Perhaps. But I listened to that voice, and, what is more, I obeyed it, -and came home. The old man isn’t gone yet. So far that’s safe. And the -lawyers know of my existence. So that’s all right. You won’t get the -chance of forgetting me, after all.” - -“Very good, very good. There will be very soon, I should say, the -division of a most almighty pile, Fred. You are quite welcome to your -share.” - -“Much obliged, I’m sure. Do you know how much it is?” - -“I am afraid to calculate. Besides, what will has he made?” - -“Will, my boy! He’s got £6,000 a year, and he spends nothing and he -gives nothing. All that money, with something he had from his mother, -has been rolling up and rolling up. How much is it? A million? Two -millions? And here am I hard up for want of a few pounds, and you, a -Fraud and an Impostor, working like a nigger, and all that money waiting -to be spent as it should be spent. It’s maddening, Chris--it’s -maddening.” - -“So it is, so it is. But nothing can be done. Well, you were on the -highroad to D.T., and, instead of seeing rats, you heard a voice -calumniating your brother, and you came home; and you put your vast -concern in your pocket--the waistcoat pocket held it all, no doubt.” - -“What the devil does it matter which pocket held it?” - -Christopher leaned back and joined the tips of his fingers. - -“I wasn’t going to spoil your game, Fred, though that devil of a voice -did speak such utterances. But I knew all along. I smelt a fake, so to -speak. You a man of business? You the head of a great Colonial -Enterprise? No, no; it was too thin, my brother--too thin. Not but what -you looked the part--I will say that.” - -“Upon my word, I thought it was going to come off. I got hold of a -company promoter. He said he’s steered craft more crazy than mine into -Port. Talked of a valuation: talked of assigning 50,000 shares to me as -owner of the Colonial business----” - -“Well, but, Fred, come to the facts; sooner or later the facts would -have to be faced, you know. What was the Colonial business?” - -“It was a going concern fast enough when I left it. Whether it’s going -now I don’t know. A lovely shanty by the roadside, stocked with a large -assortment of sardines, Day and Martin, tea, flour, and sugar. What more -do you want? The thing I traded on was not the shanty, but the possible -‘development.’” - -“The development of the shanty. Excellent!” - -“The development, I say, out of this humble roadside beginning. I made -great use of the humble beginning: I thought they would accept the -first steps of the development. I proposed a vast company with stores -all over Australia for the sale of everything. Barlow Brothers were to -serve the Australian Continent. We were to have our sugar estates in the -Mauritius: our coffee estates in Ceylon: our tea estates in Assam: our -flour-mills everywhere: our vineyards in France and Germany----” - -“I see--I see. Quite enough, Fred; the scheme does you great honour. So -you went into the City with it.” - -“I did. I’ve wasted buckets full of champagne over it, and whisky enough -to float a first-class yacht. And what’s the result?” - -“I see. And you’ve come to an end.” - -“That is so. The very end. Look!” He pulled out his watch-chain. There -was no watch at the end of it. “The watch has gone in,” he said. “The -chain will go next. And there’s the hotel bill.” - -“Rather a heavy bill, I should imagine.” - -“I’ve done myself well, Christopher.” - -“And how are you going to pay that bill? And what are you going to do -afterwards?” - -“I thought of those accumulations. I went down to see the old man. He’s -quite well and hearty--wouldn’t speak to me. Pretends to be deaf and -dumb. But the housekeeper says he understands everything. So he knows of -my existence. The woman gave me the address of his solicitors, and I’ve -been to see them. I wanted an advance, you know, just a little advance -on the accumulations.” - -“Ah!” - -“But they won’t acknowledge that they have any power. ‘My dear Sir,’ I -said, ‘I don’t ask whether you have any power or not--I don’t care -whether you advance me a thousand on my reversionary interest, or -whether you lend it yourself.’ No, sir, the fellow wouldn’t budge. Said -I must prove the possession of reversionary interest: said he wasn’t a -money-lender: said I had better go to a bank and show security. Here I -am one of the heirs to a noble fortune. I don’t know how much, but it -must be something enormous. Why, his estate is worth £6,000 a year, and -I know that there was money besides which he had from his mother. -Enormous! Enormous! And here I am wanting a poor thousand.” - -“It seems hard, doesn’t it? But, then, are you sure that you are one of -the heirs?” - -“The old man is off his head. Everything will be divided. He can’t live -long.” - -“No. But he may live five or six years more.” - -“Well, Christopher, the long and the short of it is that you will have -to find that money. You may charge interest: you may take my bond: you -will do what you like: but I must have that money.” - -“The long and the short of it, Fred, is this: I am not going to give, or -to lend, or to advance, any money to you at all. Put that in your pipe.” - -“Oh!” Fred helped himself to another whisky-and-water. “You won’t, eh? -Then, what do you think of my blowing this flourishing concern of -yours, eh?” - -Christopher changed colour. - -“What do you think, Christopher, of my going to call on Pembridge -Crescent, and letting out in the most natural and casual way in the -world, that I’ve just come from the rooms in Chancery Lane where you -carry on your business?” - -“Fred, you--you--you are a most infernal scoundrel!” - -“What business? asks my sister-in-law. What business? asks my niece. -What business? asks my nephew. Why, says I, don’t you know? Hasn’t he -told you? Quite a flourishing income--almost as flourishing as Barlow -Brothers. It’s in the Fraudulent Speech Supply Line. That’s a pretty -sort of shell to drop in the middle of your family circle, isn’t it?” - -“Fred, you were always the most cold-blooded villain that ever walked.” - -“That’s what I shall do, my dear brother. More than that, I shall go and -see Leonard. That aristocratic young gentleman, who thinks so much about -his family, will be greatly pleased, will he not?” - -We need not follow the conversation, which became at this point -extremely animated. Memories long since supposed to be forgotten and -buried and put away were revived, with comments satirical, indignant, or -contemptuous. Language of the strongest was employed. The office boy put -down his novelette, and wondered what Jack Harkaway would do under such -circumstances. Indeed, the past lives of the two brothers lent -themselves singularly to the recollection of romantic adventures and -episodes of a startling character. Presently--we are not Cain and -Abel--the conversation became milder. Some kind of compromise began to -be considered. - -“Well, I don’t mind,” said Fred at length. “I don’t care so long as I -can get the money. But I must have the money--or some money--and that -before long.” - -“You can put your case before Leonard, if you like. He won’t give you -much, because he hasn’t got much to give. I think he has a few hundreds -a year from his mother. He might advance on his reversions, but he isn’t -that sort of man at all.” - -“I’ll try. But, look you, Christopher, if he refuses I’ll take it out of -you. How would you like all the world to know how you live? And, by the -Lord, sir, if I have to tell all the world, I will.” - -“I was a great fool, Fred, to let you into the secret. I might have -known, from old experience, what you would do with it to suit your own -purpose. Always the dear old uncalculating, unselfish, truthful -brother--always!” - -Fred took another drink and another cigar. Then he invoked a blessing -upon his brother with all the cordiality proper for such a blessing and -retired. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -CONSULTATION - - -The rôle of coincidence in the history of the Individual is much more -important than any writer of fiction has ever dared to represent. Not -the coincidence which is dear to the old-fashioned dramatist, when at -the very nick and opposite point of time the long-lost Earl returns; the -coincidence of real life does not occur in this way. A man’s mind is -much occupied, and even absorbed, by one subject: he goes about thinking -upon that subject and upon little else. Then all kinds of things happen -to him which illustrate this subject. That is what coincidence means. - -For instance, I was once endeavouring to reconstruct for a novel a -certain scene among the overgrown byways and the secluded and forgotten -lanes of history. I had nothing at first to help me: worse still, I -could find nothing, not even in the British Museum. The most profound -knowledge of the books and pamphlets in that collection, in the person -of the greatest scholar, could not help me. I was reluctantly making up -my mind to abandon the project (which would have inflicted irreparable -damage on my novel) when a sheaf of second-hand catalogues came to me. -It was by the last evening post. I turned over two or three, without -much curiosity, until among the items I lit upon one which caught my -eye. It was only the title of a pamphlet, but it promised to contain the -exact information which I wanted. The promise was kept. I was too late -to buy the pamphlet, but I had the title, and it was found for me in the -British Museum, and it became my “crib.” Now that, if you please, was a -coincidence; and this kind of coincidence happens continually to every -man who thinks about anything. - -It is said of a most distinguished numismatist that he cannot cross a -ploughed field without picking up a rose noble. That is because his -thoughts are always turned to rose nobles and other delightful coins. If -one is studying the eighteenth century, there is not a museum, a -picture-gallery, a second-hand catalogue, which does not provide the -student with new information. Every man absorbed in a subject becomes -like a magnet which attracts to itself all kinds of proofs, -illustrations, and light. - -These things are mentioned only to show that the apparently miraculous -manner in which external events conspired together to keep up the -interest in this case was really neither remarkable nor exceptional. For -the interest itself, the grip with which the story of the newspaper -cuttings caught and held both these readers, was a true miracle. In -every group of situations there is the central event. In this case, the -mystery of the wood was the central event. - -“It is my murder, Leonard,” Constance repeated, “as much as yours. It -was my great-grandfather who was murdered, if it was your -great-grandmother who was also killed by that crime. Let me sit with you -while you work it out.” - -“You too, Constance?” Leonard saw in her eyes something that reminded -him of his own overpowering interest in the thing. “You too?” - -“Take back the book, Leonard.” - -“You have read it?” - -“I read it over and over again--I have been reading it all the livelong -night.” - -“And you--you also--feel--with me--the same----” He did not finish the -sentence. - -“I feel--like you--constrained to go on--why--I cannot tell you. It is -not pity, for one cannot feel pity for a man of whom one knows nothing -except that he was young and handsome and unfortunate, and that he was -an ancestor. It is not desire for revenge--how can one take revenge for -a crime when everybody concerned is dead and gone?” - -“Except the man who suffered most.” - -“Except that old, old man. Well, I cannot understand it. But the fact is -so. Like you, I am drawn by ropes to the subject.” - -“As for me I can think of nothing else. I am wholly possessed by the -story and by the mystery. We will work at it together--if any work is -possible.” - -They sat down together and they read the book aloud, both making notes. -They read parts of it over again. They compared notes. They went to the -club together and dined together: they went home and they spent the -evening together: they separated with the assurance that everything had -been done which could be done, and that they must reluctantly abandon -any further investigation. - -In the morning they met again. - -“I was thinking last night,” said Constance, “about the Inquest. There -are two or three points----” - -“I was thinking about the Trial,” said Leonard. “There are a few doubts -in my mind----” - -“Let us have out the book again.” - -Once more it was produced. Once more it lay on the table: once more they -sat on opposite sides and read and considered and took counsel -together--with no result: once more they locked up the book, and agreed -that further investigation was impossible. - -“To-morrow,” said Leonard, “I shall go on with my work again. This is -like the following of Jack-a-Lantern.” - -“To-morrow,” said Constance, with a sigh. “Strange that we should have -been led to consider the subject at all. Let the dead bury their dead. -It is an old story, and nothing more remains to be found out. Why have -we been so foolish?” - -Despite this agreement, they continued at their hopeless task. They sat -together day after day; during this time they talked and thought of -nothing else. Again and again they agreed there was nothing more to be -found. Again and again they made a show of putting the book away and -locking it up. Again and again they took it out again and read it till -they knew it all by heart. Together they went once more to Campaigne -Park; they visited the fatal wood, they wandered about the deserted -rooms of the house, haunted by the dreadful memory. How could they -expect to find anything now after all these years? - -“We have,” said Leonard, repeating the words a hundred times, “all the -evidence that can now be discovered--the evidence of the wood and the -place, the evidence of one survivor, the evidence of the trial. If the -truth cannot be discovered, why should we go on? Moreover, after all -these years nothing more can be discovered.” - -“Nothing more, except the hand that did it.” - -Why should they go on? Because they could not choose but go on. They -were compelled to go on. If they spoke of other things, their thoughts -and their talk wandered back to this same subject. As may always happen -when two persons are engaged on the subject and absorbed in it, their -faces assumed the same expression--that of one who searches and finds -not. With such a face the alchemist was accustomed every day to enter -his laboratory, hoping against hope, beaten back every evening, -returning in the morning. But with a difference--for the alchemist knew -what he wanted to find out, and these two were in search of they knew -not what. - -They went together, in the vain hope of finding or hearing something -more, to call upon the lady of the Commercial Road. She was most -gratified to be recognised as a cousin of this young lady; she desired -nothing better than to talk of the family and its misfortunes. But she -threw no more light upon the story, knowing, in fact, less than they -themselves knew. They left her; they agreed once more that it was absurd -to continue a quest so hopeless; they agreed once more to lock up the -book. Next day they took it out and laid their heads together again. - -“How long is this going to last?” Constance asked. - -“I don’t know,” Leonard replied wearily. “Are we possessed? Are we -bewitched?” - -“Are we two persons who do not believe in possession or in witchcraft, -yet are really possessed--I don’t know by whom, or why, or anything at -all about it--but if there is not possession, then the old stories mean -nothing.” - -“We might make a wax image, and call it by the name of the witch, and -stick pins in it----” - -“If we knew the name of the witch. Why, it seems as if we could speak -and think of nothing else. If one were superstitious----” - -“If,” echoed the other doubtfully, “one were superstitious----” - -“It might seem like part of the hereditary misfortunes; yet why should I -share in your sorrows?” Here she blushed because she remembered how, -before the misfortunes were even heard of, she had been invited to share -in the good fortune. But Leonard observed nothing. The quest left no -room for any thoughts of love. - -“No,” he replied gravely, “you must not share in our troubles. -Constance, I, too, ask myself every day how long this will last. Why -cannot I throw off the sense of being driven on against my own will in a -search which must be hopeless?” - -“Yes, I, too, am driven, but it is to follow you. What does it mean? Is -it imagination of a morbid kind?” She paused. Leonard made no reply. -“After all,” she continued, “there is nothing to do but to accept the -situation, and to go on and see what happens.” - -Leonard groaned. “Suppose,” he said, with a wintry smile, “that we are -doomed to go on day after day till the end of things, just as that old -man has walked up and down his terrace day after day for seventy years. -What a fearful tramp! What a monotony! What a life!” - -“A dreary prospect. Yet, to go over the same story day after day, every -day, seems little better than that walk up and down the terrace, does -it?” - -“Leave it, Constance. Give it up and go back to your own work.” - -He took up the fatal book and threw it to the other end of the room. - -“Frankly, I would leave it if I could. The thing weighs upon me. I -understand what possession means. I am possessed. I must follow you.” - -“Constance, we are growing ridiculous. We are two persons of culture, -and we talk of possession and of an unseen force that drags us.” - -“But since we are dragged----” - -“Yes, since we are dragged”--he crossed over the room, picked up the -book, and brought it back--“and we are dragged--let us obey.” - -It was then three weeks since this inquiry had begun. It was now the -sole object of their lives. They hunted in the British Museum among old -papers, they went to the Hall and turned out desks and drawers and -cupboards of letters, documents, papers, and accounts. They found enough -to reconstruct the daily life of the old man before the tragedy, and the -history of his predecessors. They were the simple annals of peaceful -country life, with no events but those that one expects--births of -children, buying of lands, festivities. - -You know that when Sisyphus had rolled his ball--or was it a wheel?--to -the top of the hill, the thing incontinently rolled all the way down -again. Then, with a sigh, the prisoner walked after it, as slowly as was -consistent with a show of obedience, and began again. So Leonard, with a -sigh, began again, when one theory after the other broke down. - -At this point the coincidences commenced. They were talking together one -morning. - -“If,” said Leonard, “we could only hear the man Dunning on the subject! -He would be more interesting, even, than the ancient boy who scared the -birds.” - -“He must be dead long ago. Yet, if he could be found----” - -At this moment--no coincidence, I have explained, can be considered -remarkable--Leonard’s servant opened the door and brought him a bulky -letter. It had an Australian postage stamp upon it. He looked carelessly -at the address, and tossed it on the table to wait his convenience. As -it lay on its back Constance read, printed across the securing fold, the -words “John Dunning’s Sons.” - -“John Dunning’s Sons,” she said. “This is strange.” She took up the -letter and pointed out the name. “Just as we were talking of John -Dunning. Open the letter, Leonard, and read it. Oh, this is wonderful! -Open it at once.” - -Leonard tore open the envelope. Within there was a letter and an -enclosure. He read both rapidly. - -“Good Heaven!” he cried. “It is actually the voice of the man himself, -Constance; it is the voice we were asking for. It is his voice speaking -from the grave.” - -He read aloud both the letter and the enclosure. The following was the -letter: - - -“DEAR SIR, - - “I found the enclosed paper only yesterday, though it was written - ten years ago, and my grandfather, by whom it was written, died - very shortly after it was written. I will not trouble you with the - causes which led to our overlooking it for so many years, but - hasten to send it on to you in accordance with the writer’s wishes. - - “The circumstances to which he refers happened seventy years ago. - No doubt everyone who can remember the events has long since - departed. I do not suppose that you even know the fact--to my - grandfather of vital importance--that his acquittal was secured by - the kind offices of your ancestor, who was then the owner of - Campaigne Park, and I do not suppose that you have ever heard of - the great kindness, the sympathy, the desire for justice, which - prompted those good offices, nor of the further generosity which - sent my grandfather out to Australia. He began life as an - agricultural labourer in England; he would have remained in that - humble position all his days but for the calamity which turned out - so great a blessing--his trial for murder: he came out here: he - died one of the richest men in the colony, for everything that he - touched turned to gold. - - “The paper which I enclose is a proof that gratitude is not wholly - dead in the world. I gather, from the published notes on the - Members of Parliament and their origin, that you are now the head - of the House. Seeing that you were distinguished in the University - of Oxford, and are a member of several clubs, as well as in the - House, I do not suppose that there is anything we can do to carry - out the wishes of my grandfather as regards yourself personally. It - may happen, however, that members of your family might come out to - this country, and might not be so fortunate as yourself. In that - case, will you please to inform those members that our worldly - wealth is great, that the origin of all our property was the - generosity of your ancestor, that my grandfather’s wishes are - commands, and that there is nothing which we can do for any member - of your family, if the opportunity should occur, which we will not - do cheerfully and readily. - -“I remain, dear sir, -“Very faithfully yours, -“CHARLES DUNNING.” - - - -“I should very much like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Charles -Dunning,” said Constance. “Now for what the grandfather says.” - -Leonard opened the other paper and read: - -“Being now in my eighty-sixth year, and therefore soon to be called -away, I desire to place in writing, in order that it may be sent after -my death to the present head of the Campaigne family, first my thanks -and heartfelt gratitude for what was done for me by the late Squire in -and after my trial for murder. I have enjoined upon my children and my -grandchildren that they are to part with their last farthing, if the -occasion arises, for the benefit of any descendants of that good man. I -suppose that he is dead and beyond the reach of my prayers. I can only -hope that he speedily recovered from the loss of his dear lady, and that -he enjoyed a long and happy life. - -“It is a dreadful thing to be accused of murder. All my life I have -remembered the charge and the trial. After the case was over, the people -of the village were cruel hard. The charge was thrown in my teeth every -day: no one would work with me, and no one would sit with me. So I had -to come away. If there is anyone living who remembers the case and me, I -would ask him to read and to consider two points that I found out after -the trial.” - -“This is indeed the Voice of the Dead,” said Constance, speaking low. - -“The first point is that I had witnesses, but I was too much stunned to -think of them, who could prove that I was at work all the morning until -just before noon in another place. - -“The second point may be more important. The path through the wood leads -to a stile opening on the lane to the village of Highbeech. There is a -cottage in the lane opposite the stile. On the morning of the murder the -woman of the cottage was washing outside the door. She told me after the -trial that not a soul had gone into the wood from her end of it all the -morning; she could not see the other end, but she saw me coming down the -hill on my way to the wood, and I had not been in the wood half a -minute before she saw me running back again and up the hill to the -farm-yard on the top. I hope that if there is any doubt left in the mind -of anyone as to my innocence, this new evidence will make it clear.” - -The paper was signed “John Dunning.” - -“There is no doubt left,” said Constance. “Still, what bearing has the -evidence of the cottage woman on the case? What do you think? Has the -Voice contributed anything?” - -“We will consider presently. Meantime, all he wanted was to clear -himself. I think that was effectually done at the trial. Still, he would -naturally catch at anything like corroboration. It proves that no one -went into the wood from the other end. As for anything else, why, it -would seem, with the boy’s evidence, to mean that nobody went into the -wood at all that morning except those two gentlemen.” - -“Then we come back to the old theory: the lurking in the wood of -poacher, madman, or private enemy.” - -“We asked for a Voice from the Grave, and it came,” said Leonard. “And -now it seems to have told us nothing.” - -He placed the paper in the book, leaving the letter on the table. - -They looked at each other blankly. Then Leonard rose and walked about -the room. Finally he took up a position before the fireplace, and began -to speak slowly, as if feeling his way. - -“I suppose that it is natural that I should connect this crime with that -great question about the inheritance of punishment or consequences.” - -“It is quite natural,” said Constance. “And yet----” - -“My mother and my grandmother, as I now understand, believed that the -misfortunes which they so carefully concealed from me were the -inheritance of the forefathers’ sins. And since these misfortunes began -with this crime, it was natural that they should attribute the cause to -the ancestor who died before the crime. Now, all I can learn about that -ancestor is, that he was a country gentleman and Justice of the Peace, a -Member of Parliament, and that he left behind him no record or memory of -anything uncommon. Now, to produce this enormous list of misfortunes, -one must be a Gilles de Retz at least.” - -“I am not acquainted with that example.” - -“He was a great master in every kind of villainy. About these -misfortunes, however. My great-grandfather, as you know---- My -grandfather died by his own hand: his brother was drowned at sea: his -sister has been unfortunate throughout her life: his son, my father, -died young: my uncle Frederick went abroad under a dread of disgrace, -which we may forget now he has come home again. The list of misfortunes -is long enough. But we cannot learn any cause--which may, even to the -superstitious, account for it--under anything of inheritance.” - -“Why should we try to account for the misfortunes? They are not caused -by you.” - -“I try because they are part of the whole business. I cannot escape or -forget the chain of misfortune.” - -“If you only could, Leonard! And it is so long ago, and no misfortune -has fallen upon you. Oh, what did I say once--in this very room?” - -“The misfortune that has fallen upon me is the knowledge of all these -misfortunes--these ruined lives. The old selfish contentment is gone. I -lived for myself. That is henceforth impossible. Well”--he shook himself -as a dog after a swim--“I am now what you wanted me to be--like other -people.” He relapsed into silence. “I cannot choose,” he said presently, -“but connect these misfortunes with that first and greatest. The point -of doubt is whether to speak of consequence or punishment.” - -“Must it be one or the other?” - -“The child must suffer for the father’s sin. That is most certain. If -the father throws away his property, the son becomes a pauper. If the -father loses his social position, the children sink down with him. If -the father contracts disease, the children may inherit. All this is -obvious and cannot be disputed.” - -“But that is not punishment for generations of innocent children.” - -“It is consequence, not punishment. We must not confuse the two. Take -the case of crime. Body and mind and soul are all connected together, so -that the face proclaims the mind and the mind presents the soul. The -criminal is a diseased man. Body and mind and soul are all connected -together. He lives in an evil atmosphere. Thought, action, impulse, are -all evil. He is wrapped in a miasma, like a low-lying meadow on an -autumn morning. The children may inherit the disease of crime just as -they may inherit consumption or gout. That is to say, they are born with -a tendency to crime, as they may be born with a tendency to consumption -or gout. It is not punishment, I repeat. It is consequence. In such -children there is an open door to evil of some kind or other.” - -“Since all men have weaknesses or faults, there must be always such an -open door to all children.” - -“I suppose so. But the son of a man reputed blameless, whose weaknesses -or faults are presumably light or venial, is less drawn towards the open -door than the son of the habitual criminal. The son of the criminal -naturally makes for the open door, which is the easy way. It is the -consequence. As for our own troubles, perhaps, if we knew, they, too, -may be the consequence--not the punishment. But we do not know--we -cannot find the crime, or the criminal.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -“BARLOW BROTHERS” - - -“The theory of consequence”--Leonard was arranging his thoughts on paper -for better clearness--“while it answers most of the difficulties -connected with hereditary trouble, breaks down, it must be confessed, in -some cases. Given, for instance, a case in which a boy is carefully -educated, has no bad examples before him, shows no signs of vice, and is -ignorant of the family misfortunes. If that boy becomes a spendthrift -and a prodigal, or worse, when there has never before been such a thing -in the family, how can we connect the case with the faults or vices of a -grandfather altogether unlike his own, and unknown to him? I should be -inclined rather to ascribe the case to some influences of the past, not -to be discovered, due to some maternal ancestry. A man, for instance, -may be so completely unlike any other member of the family that we must -search for the cause of his early life in the line of his mother or his -grandmother.” - -He was just then thinking of his uncle--the returned Colonial, in whom, -except for his commanding stature and his still handsome face, there was -nothing to remind the world of the paternal side. Whenever he thought of -this cheerful person, with whom life seemed a pleasant play, certain -doubts crossed his mind, and ran like cold water down his back. He had -come home rich--that was something. He might have come home as poor as -when he started. Rich or poor, he would have been the same--as buoyant, -as loud, as unpresentable. - -In fact, at this very moment, when these reflections were forming a part -of Leonard’s great essay on the after-effects of evil--an essay which -created only last month so great a stir that people talked of little -else for a whole evening--the rich Australian was on his way to confess -the fact that things were not exactly as he had chosen to present them. - -He did confess the truth, or as much of the truth as he could afford to -express, but in an easy and irresponsible manner, as if nothing mattered -much. He was a philosopher, to whom nothing did matter. He came in, he -shook hands and laughed buoyantly; he chose a cigar from Leonard’s box, -he rang the bell for whisky and a few bottles of soda; when the whisky -and the soda had arrived and were within reach, he took a chair, and -laughed again. - -“My boy,” he said, “I’m in a tight place again.” - -“In what way?” - -“Why, for want of money. That’s the only possible tight place at my age. -At yours there are many. It is only a temporary tightness, of course.” -He opened the soda-water and drank off the full tumbler at a gulp. -“Temporary. Till the supplies arrive.” - -“The supplies?” Leonard put the question in a nasty, cold, suspicious -manner, which would have changed smiles into blankness in a more -sensitive person. But uncle Fred was by no means sensitive or -thin-skinned. He was also so much accustomed to temporary tightness that -the incongruity of tightness with his pretensions of prosperity had not -occurred to him. - -“Supplies?” he replied. “Supplies from Australia, of course.” - -“I thought that you were a partner in a large and prosperous concern.” - -“Quite true--quite true. Barlow Brothers is both large and prosperous.” - -“In that case it is easy for you to draw upon your bankers or the agents -for your bank or some friends in the City. You go into the City every -day, I believe. Your position must be well known. In other words, I -mistrust this temporary tightness.” - -“Mistrust? And from you? Really, Leonard----” - -“I put things together. I find in you none of the habits of a -responsible merchant. I know that everywhere character is essential for -commercial success----” - -“Character? What should I be without character?” - -“You come home as the successful merchant: you drink: you talk as if you -were a debauched youngster about town: your anecdotes are scandalous: -your tastes are low. Those are the outward signs.” - -“I am on a holiday. Out there--it’s very different. As for drink, of -course in a thirsty climate like that of New South Wales--and this -place--one must drink a little. For my own part, I am surprised at my -own moderation.” - -“Very well. I will not go on with the subject, only--to repeat--if you -are in a tight place, those who know your solvency will be very willing -to relieve you. I hope you are not here to borrow of me, because----” - -The man laughed again. “Not I. Nobody is likely to borrow of you, -Leonard. That is quite certain--not even the stoniest broke. Make your -mind quite easy. As for my friends in the City, I know very well what to -do about them. No; I am here because I want to throw myself upon the -family.” - -“The family consists of your brother, who may be able to help you----” - -“I’ve asked him. He won’t--Christopher was always a selfish beast. Good -fellow to knock about with and all that--ready for anything--but -selfish--damned selfish.” - -“And your aunt Lucy----” - -“I don’t know her. Who is she?” - -“She is not able to assist you. And of myself.” - -“You forget the Head of the Family--my old grandfather. I am going to -him.” - -“You will get nothing out of him--not even a word of recognition.” - -“I know. I have been down there to look at him. I have been to see his -solicitors.” - -“You will get nothing from them without their client’s authority.” - -“Well, you know the family affairs, of course. I suppose that a word -from you authorising or advising the transfer of a few thousands--or -hundreds--out of that enormous pile----” - -“I have no right to authorise or advise. I know nothing about my -great-grandfather’s affairs.” - -“Tell me, dear boy, what about those accumulations? We mentioned them -the other day.” - -“I know nothing about them.” - -“Of course, of course. I’m not going to put questions. The bulk of -everything will be yours, naturally. I have no objection. I am not going -to interfere with you. Only, don’t you think you could go to the people, -the agents or solicitors, and put it to them, that, as a son of the -House, I should like an advance of--say a thousand pounds?” - -“I am quite certain beforehand they will do nothing for you.” - -“You’re a better man of the world than I thought, my boy. I respect you -for it. Nobody is to have a finger in the pie but yourself. And you look -so damned solemn over it, too.” - -“I tell you that I know nothing.” - -“Just so--just so. Well, you know nothing. I’ve made a rough -calculation--but never mind. Let the accumulations be. Very good, then, -I shall not interfere. Meantime, I want some money. Get me from those -lawyers a thousand.” - -“I cannot get you anything. As for myself, I have not got a thousand -pounds in the world. You forget that all I have is my mother’s small -fortune of a few hundreds a year. It is not in my power to lend you -anything.” - -He laughed again in his enjoyment of the situation. “Delicious!” he -said. “And I said that I wasn’t going to borrow anything. This it is to -be a British swell. Well, I don’t mind. I will draw upon you at six -months. Come. Long before that time I shall be in funds again.” - -“No. You shall not even draw upon me at six months,” Leonard replied, -with some vague knowledge of what was implied. “You told me you were -rich.” - -“Every man is rich who is a partner in a going concern.” - -“Then, again, why are you in this tight place?” - -“My partner, you see, has been playing the fool. Barlow Brothers, -General Stores, Colonial Produce, will be smashed if I can’t raise a few -hundreds.” - -“Your going concern, as you call it, is going to grief. And what will -you do?” - -“You shall just see what I wanted. Barlows’ is a General Store in a -rising town. There are great capabilities in Barlow Brothers. I came -over here to convert Barlow Brothers into a Limited Liability Company, -capital £150,000. Branches everywhere. Our own sugar estates, our own -tea and coffee plantations. That was my idea!” - -“It was a bold idea, at any rate.” - -“It was. As for Barlows’ General Store, I confess, between ourselves, -and considering that you don’t belong to the City, I don’t mind owning -up to you that it is little better than a shanty, where I sold sardines -and tea-leaves and bacon. But the capabilities, my dear boy--the -capabilities!” - -“And you brought this project to London! Well, there have been greater -robberies.” - -Uncle Fred took another glass of whisky-and-soda. He laughed no more. He -even sighed. - -“I thought London was an enterprising city. It appears not. No promoter -will so much as look at the Company. I was willing to let my interest in -it go for £40,000. If you’ll believe me, Leonard, they won’t even look -at it. A few hundreds would save it, a few thousands would make it a -Colossal Success. For want of it we must go to the wall.” - -“You were hoping to sell a bankrupt business as a flourishing business.” - -“That is so. But it hasn’t come off.” - -“Well, what shall you do?” - -“I shall have to begin again at the bottom. That’s all.” - -“Oh!” Leonard looked at him doubtfully, for he seemed in no way cast -down. “You will go back to Australia, then.” There was some consolation -in the thought. - -“I shall go back. I don’t know my way about in London. I will go back -and begin again, just as before, at the bottom rung. I shall have to do -odd jobs, I dare say. I may possibly have to become a shepherd, or a -night-watchman, or a sandwich-man. What does it matter? I shall only be -down among the boys who can’t get any lower. There’s a fine feeling of -brotherhood down there, which you swells would never understand.” - -“Have you no money left at all?” - -“None. Not more than I carry about with me. A few pounds.” - -“Then the fine show of prosperity was all a sham?” - -“All a sham. And it wouldn’t work. Nobody in the City will look at my -Company.” - -“Would it not be better to try for some definite kind of work? You can -surely do something. You might write for the papers, with all your -experience.” - -“Write for the papers? I would rather go on tramp, which is much more -amusing. Do something? What am I to do? Man, there isn’t on the face of -the earth a more helpless person than a bankrupt trader at forty-five. -He knows too much to be employed in his own trade. He’s got to go down -below and to stay there. Never mind. I can turn my hand to anything. If -I stayed at home I should have to be a sandwich-man. How would you like -that? Even my old grandfather would come back to the present life, if it -were only to burst with rage, if he met his grandson walking down Regent -Street between a pair of boards. You wouldn’t like it yourself, would -you? Come out to Sydney next year, and very likely you’ll see that, or -something like it.” - -“Then you go out to certain misery.” - -“Misery? Certain misery?” The Colonist laughed cheerfully. “My nephew, -you are a very narrow-minded person, though you are a scholar and a -Member of Parliament. You think that it is misery to take off a -frock-coat and a tall hat, and to put on a workingman’s jacket and -bowler. Bless you, my boy! that’s not misery. The real misery is being -hungry and cold. In Australia no one is ever cold, and very few are ever -hungry. In my worst times I’ve always had plenty to eat, and though I’ve -been many times without a shilling, I’ve never in all my life been -miserable or ashamed.” - -“But there is the companionship.” - -“The companions? They are the best fellows in the world. Misery? There -isn’t any with the fellows down below, especially the young fellows. -And, mind you, it is exciting work, the hand-to-mouth life. Now, by the -time I get out, the business will be sold up, and my partner, who is a -young man, will be off on another lay; they always put out the old man -as soon as they can. What shall I do? I shall go hawking and peddling. I -shall become Autolycus.” - -“And afterwards?” - -“There is no afterwards, till you come to the hospital, which is a -really pleasant place, and the black box. I’ve done it before, and I’ll -do it again.” He mixed another soda-and-whisky and drank it off. “It’s -thirsty work along the roads under the sun--a red-hot burning sun, not -like your red frying-pan skulking behind a cloud. Wherever you stop you -get a drink. Then you bring out your wares. I’ve got a tongue that runs -like an engine newly oiled. And where you put up for the night there are -the boys on the road, and there are songs and stories. Respectability go -hang!” - -He laughed again. He put on his hat and swung out of the room, laughing -as at the very finest joke in the world--to come home as a gentleman, -and to go back as a tramp. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -AND ANOTHER CAME - - -Almost immediately after the colonial merchant--the wholesale trader in -sardines and tea-leaves from a shanty--had departed, there came another. -They might almost have passed each other on the stairs. - -It was none other than the Counsel learned in the Law, the pride and -prop of his family, the successful barrister, Mr. Christopher Campaigne. - -“Good heavens!” cried Leonard, “what is the matter with this man?” For -his uncle dropped speechless, limp, broken up, into a chair, and there -lay, his hands dangling, his face filled with terror and care. “My dear -Uncle Christopher,” he said, “what has happened?” - -“The worst,” groaned the lawyer--“the very worst. The impossible has -happened. The one thing that I guarded against. The thing which I -feared. Oh, Leonard! how shall I tell you?” - - * * * * * - -Come with me to the chambers where the Professor of Oratory was -preparing, as in a laboratory, his great effects of laughter and of -tears. It was morning--high noon. He was engaged upon what is perhaps -the most fascinating branch of a most delightful profession--a speech of -presentation. Before him, in imagination, stood the mug; beside him the -recipient; and in front of him a vast hall filled with sympathetic -donors. Such a speech is the enunciation and the magnifying of -achievements. It must be illustrated by poetical quotations; the better -known and the more familiar they are, the more effective they will -prove. The speaker should tell one funny story at least; he must also -contrive, but not obtrusively--with modesty--to suggest his own personal -importance as, if anything, superior to that of the recipient; he must -not grovel before greatness. - -All these points the professional manufacturer of oratory understood and -had at his fingers’ ends. He was quite absorbed in his work, insomuch -that he paid no kind of attention to footsteps outside, nor even, at -first, to an angry voice in the outer office, which, as we have seen, -was only protected by the boy, who had nothing else to do, unless the -reading of Jack Harkaway’s adventures be considered a duty. - -“Stand out of my way!” cried the voice, apparently infuriated. “Let me -get at him!” - -The professional man looked up wonderingly. Apparently a row on the -stairs. But his own door burst open, and a young man, quite a little -man, with hot cheeks and eyes aflame, rushed in brandishing a stick. The -orator sprang to his feet, seizing the office ruler. He leaned over his -table, six feet three in height, with this formidable weapon in his -hand, and he faced the intruder with calm, cold face. - -We must not blame the assailant; doubtless he was of tried and proved -courage, but he was only five feet five. Before that calm face of -inquiry, on which there was no line of terror or of repentance, his eyes -fell. The fire and fury went out of him quite suddenly. Perhaps he had -not developed his æsthetic frame by rude exercise. He dropped his stick, -and stood irresolute. - -“Oh,” said his enemy quietly, “you think better about the stick, do you? -The horse-whipping is to stand over, is it? Now, sir”--he rapped the -table horribly with the ruler, so that the little man trembled all over; -the adventure unexpectedly promised pain as well as humiliation--“what -do you mean? What do you come here for, making this infernal racket? -What----” - -Here he stopped short, because to his unspeakable dismay he saw standing -in the doorway none other than his own son, Algernon, and Algernon’s -face was not good to look at, being filled with shame, amazement, and -bewilderment--with shame because he understood, all in a moment, that -his father’s life had been one long lie, and that by this way, and none -other, the family income had been earned. Had not his friend on the way -told him that the man Crediton was known in certain circles as the -provider of good after-dinner speeches for those who could afford to pay -for them?--how it was whispered that the rare and occasional evenings on -which the speeches were crisp and fiery and witty and moving all through -were those for which Crediton had supplied the whole?--and how for his -own speech, about which he had been most shamefully treated, he had paid -twenty guineas? So that he understood without more words, and looked on -open-mouthed, having for the moment no power of speech or utterance. - -The father first recovered. He went on as if his son was not present. - -“Who are you, sir, I say, who come to my quiet office with this -blackguard noise? If you don’t tell me on the spot, I will take you by -the scruff of your miserable little neck and drop you over the -banisters.” - -“I--I--I wrote to you for a speech.” - -“What speech? What name? What for?” - -His client, whose eyes at first were blinded by excess of wrath, now -perceived to his amazement that Mr. Crediton was none other than his -friend’s father, whom, indeed, he had met at the family mansion in -Pembridge Crescent. - -“Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s--it’s Mr. Campaigne!”--he glanced from -father to son, and back again--“Mr. Campaigne!” - -“And why not, sir--why not? Answer me that.” - -Again the ruler descended with a sickening resonance. - -“Oh, I don’t know why not. How should I know?” the intruder stammered. -“It’s no concern of mine, I’m sure.” - -“Then come to the point. What speech? What name? What for?” - -“The Company of Cartmakers. The speech that you sent me--it arrived by -post.” - -“A very good speech, too. I did send it. Much too good for you or for -the fee you paid. I remember it. What is the matter with it? How dare -you complain of it!” - -“The matter, sir--the matter,” he stammered, feeling much inclined to -sit down and cry, “is that you sent the same speech to the proposer. -Mine was the reply. The same speech--do you hear?--the same speech to -the proposer as to me, who had to reply. Now, sir, do you realise---- -Oh, I am not afraid of your ruler, I say;” but his looks belied his -words. “Do you understand the enormity of your conduct?” - -“Impossible! How could I do such a thing--I who have never made a -mistake before in all my professional career?” He looked hard at his -son, and repeated the words “professional career.” “Are you sure of what -you say?” He laid down his ruler with a very serious air. “Are you quite -sure?” - -“Certain. The same speech, word for word. Everything--every single -thing--was taken out of my mouth; I hadn’t a word to say.” - -“How did that happen, I wonder? Stay, I have type-written copies of both -speeches--the toast and the reply. Yes, yes, I always keep one copy. I -am afraid I do understand how I may have blundered.” He opened a drawer, -and turned over some papers. “Ah, yes, yes. Dear me! I sent out the -second copy of your speech to the other man instead of his own. Here is -his own duplicate--the two copies--which fully explains it. Dear, dear! -Tut, tut, tut! I fear you were unable to rise to the occasion and make -up a little speech for yourself?” - -“I could not; I was too much astonished, and I may add disgusted, to -do--er--justice to myself.” - -“No doubt--no doubt. My clients never can do justice to their own genius -without my help. Now sit down, sir, and let us talk this over for a -moment.” - -He himself sat down. His son meanwhile stood at the open door, still as -one petrified. - -“Now, sir, I confess that you have reason to complain. It was a most -unfortunate accident. The other man must have observed something wrong -about the opening words. However, most unfortunate.” He opened a safe -standing beside him, and took out a small bundle of cheques. “Your -cheque arrived yesterday morning. Fortunately, it is not yet paid in. I -return it, sir--twenty guineas. That is all I can do for you except to -express my regret that this accident should have occurred. I feel for -you, young gentleman. I forgive your murderous intentions, and I assure -you, if you will come to me again, I will make you the finest -after-dinner orator in the town. And now, sir, I have other clients.” - -He rose. The young man put the cheque in his pocket. - -“It will be,” he said grandly, “my duty to expose you--everywhere.” He -turned to his companion. “To expose you both.” - -“And yourself, dear sir--and yourself at the same time.” - -The Agent rattled the keys in his pocket, and repeated the words, -“Yourself at the same time.” - -“I don’t care--so long as I expose you.” - -“You will care when you come to think about it. You will have to tell -everybody that you came to me to buy a speech which you were about to -palm off as your own. There are one or two transactions of the same -nature standing over, so to speak. Remember, young gentleman, there are -two persons to be exposed: myself, whom the exposure will only -advertise, and you yourself, who will be ruined as an orator--or -anything else.” - -But the young man was implacable. He had his cheque back. This made him -stiffer and sterner. - -“I care nothing. I could never pretend again to be an orator after last -night’s breakdown. I was dumfoundered. I could say nothing: they laughed -at me, the whole Hall full of people--three hundred of them--laughed at -me--and all through you--through you. I’ll be revenged--I’ll make you -sorry for last night’s business--sick and sorry you shall be. As for -you----” He turned upon Algernon. - -“Shut up, and get out,” said his friend. “Get out, I say, or----” - -Algernon made room for him, and the aggrieved client marched out with as -much dignity as he could command. - -Left together, father and son glared at each other icily. They were both -of the same height, tall and thin, and closely resembling each other, -with the strong type of the Campaigne face; and both wore pince-nez. The -only difference was that the elder of the two was a little thin about -the temples. - -The consciousness of being in the wrong destroyed the natural -superiority of the father. He replied with a weak simulacrum of a -laugh. - -“Surely the situation explains itself,” he said feebly, opening the door -for explanation. - -“Am I to understand that for money you write--write--write speeches for -people who pretend--actually pretend--that they are their own?” - -“Undoubtedly. Did not your friend confess to you why he was coming -here?” - -“Well--of course he did.” - -“And did you remonstrate with him on account of his dishonesty?” - -Mr. Algernon Campaigne shirked the question, and replied by another. -“And do you regard this mode of money-making--I cannot call it a -profession--this mode--honourable--a thing to be proud of?” - -“Why not? Certain persons with no oratorical gifts are called upon to -speak after dinner or on other occasions. They write to me for -assistance. I send them speeches. I coach them. In fact, I am an -oratorical coach. They learn what they have to say, and they say it. It -is a perfectly honourable, laudable, and estimable way of making money. -Moreover, my son, it makes money.” - -“Then, why not conduct this--this trade--openly under your own name?” - -“Because, in the nature of things, it is a secret business. My clients’ -names are secret. So also is the nature of our transactions.” - -“But this place is not Lincoln’s Inn. How do you spare the time from -your law work?” - -“My dear boy, there has been a little deception, pardonable under the -circumstances. In point of fact, I never go to Lincoln’s Inn. There is -no practice. I’ve got a garret which I never go near. There never has -been any practice.” - -“No practice?” The young man sank helplessly into a chair. “No practice? -But we have been so proud all along of your distinguished career.” - -“There has never been any legal practice at all. I adopted this line in -the hope of making a little money at a time when the family was pretty -hard up, and it succeeded beyond my expectations.” - -Algernon sat down and groaned aloud. - -“We are done for. That--that little beast is the most spiteful creature -in the world, and the most envious. He is mad to be thought clever. He -has published some things--I believe he bought them. He goes about; he -poses. There isn’t a man in London more dangerous. He will tell -everybody. How shall we face the storm?” - -“People, my son, will still continue to want their after-dinner -speeches.” - -“I am thinking of my sister, myself, and our position. What will my -mother say? What will our friends say? Good Lord! we are all ruined and -shamed. We can never hold up our heads again. What on earth can we say? -How can we get out of it? Who will call upon us?” - -The parent was touched. - -“My dear boy,” he said humbly, “I must think the matter over. There will -be trouble, perhaps. Leave me for the present, and--still for the -present--hold your tongue.” - -His son obeyed. Then Mr. Crediton resumed his work, but the interruption -was fatal. He was fain to abandon the speech of presentation, and to -consider the prospect of exposure. Not that any kind of exposure would -destroy his profession, for that had now become a necessity for the -convenience of the social life--think what we should suffer if all the -speeches were home-made!--but there was the position of his wife and -family: the reproaches of his wife and family: the lowering of his wife -and family in the social world. It would be fatal for them if he were -known as a secret purveyor of eloquence; secrecy can never be considered -honourable or ennobling: dress it up as you will, the cloven foot of -fraud cannot be disguised. - -He went out because he was too much agitated to keep still or to do any -work, and he wandered through the streets feeling pretty small. How -would the exposure come? This young fellow had been brought to the -house; he called at the house; he came to their evenings and posed as -poet, story-teller, orator, epigrammatist; he knew a whole lot of people -in their set: he could certainly make things very disagreeable. And he -was in such a rage of disappointment and humiliation--for he had broken -down utterly and shamefully--that he certainly intended to be nasty. - -After a tempestuous youth in company with his brother, this man had -settled down into the most domestic creature in the world. Twenty-five -years of domestic joys had been his portion; they were made possible by -his secret profession. His wife adored and believed in him; his -children, while they despised his æsthetics, respected his law. In a -word, he occupied the enviable position of a successful barrister, a -gentleman of good family, and the owner of a good income. This position -was naturally more than precious: it was his very life. At home he was, -in his own belief, a great lawyer; in his office he was Mr. Crediton the -universal orator. They were separate beings; and now they were to be -brought together. Crediton would be known to the world as Campaigne, -Campaigne as Crediton. He was a forlorn and miserable object indeed. - -As he passed along the street he discovered suddenly that he was passing -one of the entrances to Bendor Mansions. A thought struck him. - -“I must ask someone’s advice,” he murmured. “I cannot bear the trouble -all alone and unsupported. I will tell Leonard everything.” - - * * * * * - -Leonard sprang to his feet, astonished at this extraordinary exhibition -of despair. - -“My dear uncle Christopher!” he exclaimed, “what does this mean? What -has happened?” - -The unhappy man, anxious to take counsel, yet shrinking from confession, -groaned in reply. - -“Has anything happened at home? My aunt? My cousins?” - -“Worse--worse. It has happened to me.” - -“Well.... But what has happened? Man, don’t sit groaning there. Lift up -your head and tell me what has happened.” - -“Ruin,” he replied--“social ruin and disgrace. That is all. That is -all.” - -“Then, you are the second member of our truly fortunate family who has -been ruined this very day. Perhaps,” Leonard added coldly, “it might be -as well if you could let me know what form your ruin has taken.” - -“Social ruin and disgrace. That is all. I shall never be able to look -anyone in the face any more.” - -“What have you done, then?” - -“I have done only what I have been doing blamelessly, because no one -ever suspected it, for five-and-twenty years. Now it has been found -out.” - -“You have been doing something disgraceful for five-and-twenty years, -and now you have been found out. Well, why have you come to me? Is it to -get my sympathy for disgracing your name?” - -“You don’t understand, Leonard.” - -He lost his temper. - -“How the devil am I to understand if you won’t explain? You say that you -are disgraced----” - -“Let me tell you all--everything--from the beginning. It came from -knocking about London with my brother Fred. He was a devil: he didn’t -care what he did. So we ran through our money--it wasn’t much--and Fred -went away.” - -“I have heard why. A most shameful business.” - -“Truly, yes. I always told him so. Since he came home, however, we have -agreed not to mention it.” - -“Go on. You were left with no money.” - -“I had just been called. I was engaged. I wanted to get married.” - -“You rapidly acquired an extensive practice----” - -“No--no. That is where the deception stepped in. My dear nephew, I -never had any practice at all. If any cases had been sent to me I could -not have taken them, because, you see, I never opened a law-book in my -whole life.” - -“You--never--opened--a law-book? Then--how----” - -“I loathed the sight of a law-book. But I was engaged--I wanted to be -married--I wanted to live, too, without falling back on your mother.” - -“Pray go on.” - -“I knew a man who wanted to get a reputation for an after-dinner -speaker. He heard me make one or two burlesque speeches, and he came to -me. After a little conversation, we talked business. I wrote him a -speech. It succeeded. I wrote him another. That succeeded. He leaped -into fame--leaped, so to speak, over my back--oratorical leap-frog--by -those two speeches. Then my price ran up. And then I conceived the idea -of opening out a new profession. For five-and-twenty years I have -pretended to go to chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, and I have gone to an -office in Chancery Lane, where, under another name, I have carried on -the business of providing speeches for all occasions.” - -“Good Heavens!” cried Leonard. “And this is the man of whom we were -proud!” His face had been darkening from the beginning, and it was now -very hard and dark. “I understand, I suppose. The beginning of the story -I had heard already. You got through your fortune in company with your -brother--in riotous living.” - -“Quite so--quite so.” - -“Was there not something about a cheque?” - -“Fred’s affair--not mine.” - -“Your brother says it was your affair. Don’t think I want to inquire -into the horrid story. I have found quite enough shame and degradation -among my family without wanting to know more.” - -“If Fred says that, it is simply disgraceful. Why, everybody knew--but, -as you say, why rake up old scandals?--at the time when it happened. But -why, as you say----” - -“Why, indeed? Except to make quite sure that there is no longer a shred -of family pride possible for us. I now learn, on your own confession, -that you entered upon a general course of imposition, and deception, by -which you have managed to live ever since, and to maintain your family -with credit because you have escaped detection.” - -“Excuse me. I don’t call it deception. Nobody is deceived, except -pleasantly. Is it wrong to present a fellow-creature in an agreeable and -quite unexpected character before the world? Can you blame me for -raising the standard of after-dinner oratory? Can you blame me for -creating reputations by the dozen?” - -“I make no doubt that you persuaded yourself that it was laudable and -honourable. Nevertheless----” - -“You must consider how it grew. I told you I was myself a good -after-dinner speaker. I was hard up. Then this man--old friend, now a -Colonial Judge--came to me for help. I wrote him a speech, and he bought -it--that is to say, he lent me ten pounds for it--really he bought my -secrecy. That’s how it began. Money was necessary. There was an -unexpected way of making money. So it spread.” - -“I have no doubt that the practice of imposition was duly paid for.” - -“You must consider--really. There is nothing envied so much as the -reputation of good after-dinner speaking. I supply that reputation. -People go where they are likely to hear good speeches. I supply those -speeches.” - -“I do not deny the position. But you are, nevertheless, helping a man, -for money, to deceive the world.” - -“To deceive the world? Not at all. To delight the world. Why, I am a -public benefactor. I open the purses at charity dinners, I send the -people home in good temper. Do you think the people care two pins who is -speaking if they can be amused?” - -“Then, why this secrecy?” - -“Why not?” He walked about the room, swinging his arms, and turning from -time to time on Leonard as he made his points and pronounced his -apology. “Why not? I ask. You talk as if some fraud was carried on. -Nobody is defrauded; I earn my fees as much as any barrister. Look you, -Leonard: my position is unique, and--and--yes, honourable, if you look -at it rightly.” - -“Honourable! Oh!” - -“Yes; I am the Universal After-Dinner Speaker. I supply the speeches for -every occasion. I keep up the reputation of the City for eloquence. Why, -we were rapidly sinking; we were already acknowledged to be far below -the American level. Then I came. I raised the standard. Our after-dinner -speeches--mine--are becoming part of our national greatness. Why? -Because I, sir--I, Christopher Campaigne--took them in hand.” - -“Yet, in secrecy.” - -“I carry on this business alone--I myself--hitherto without recognition. -The time may come when the national distinctions will be offered to -the--in fact, the After-Dinner Demosthenes.” - -“You look so far forward?” - -“I confess that the work is light, easy--to me, at least--and pleasant. -It is also well paid. People are willing to give a great deal for such a -reputation as I can make for them. Nobody ever wants to see me. Nobody -knows who I am. Nobody wants to know. That is natural, come to think of -it. The whole business is done by correspondence. I work for none but -persons of wealth and position. Confidence is respected on both sides. -Sometimes the whole of a dinner, so to speak, passes through my hands. I -have even known occasions on which I have sat unrecognised at a -dinner-table, and listened to my speeches being delivered well or ill -through the whole evening. Imagine, if you can, the glow and glory of -such an evening.” - -“I can imagine a ruddy hue--of shame. After five-and-twenty years of -deception, however, there is not much shame left. What has happened now? -You have been found out, I suppose?” - -“Yes; I have been found out. There was a little mistake. I sent a man -the wrong speech--the response instead of the proposer’s speech. To the -proposer I sent the same speech in duplicate. I cannot imagine how the -mistake was possible, but it happened. And you may imagine the feelings -of the poor young man who heard his own brilliant speech which was in -his pocket actually delivered, a few words only changed, by the man whom -he was about to answer. When his turn came he rose; he was overcome; he -blurted out three or four words, and sat down.” - -“Oh! And then?” - -“In the morning he came to beard me in my own den. He had never seen me -before, but he knew my address. He came with a big stick, being a little -man. Ho, ho! and he marched in flourishing his stick. You should have -seen him when I stood over him with the office ruler.” He laughed again, -but at the sight of Leonard’s dark face he checked his sense of humour. -“Well, the misfortune was that I know the fellow at home, and he comes -to our place, and knows me, and, worse than that, my own son, Algernon, -was with him to see fair----” - -“Oh, Algernon was with him. Then, Algernon knows?” - -“Yes, he knows. I packed off the fellow, and had it out with Algernon. -It was a tough business. I’m sorry for Algernon. Perhaps, he won’t put -on quite so much side, though. Yes,” he repeated thoughtfully, “I had it -out with that young man. He knows now what the real profession is.” - -“Well, what next?” - -“I don’t know what next.” - -“Shall you continue your trade of deception and falsehood?” - -“Shall I go into the workhouse?” - -“Upon my word, it would be better.” - -His uncle rose and took up his hat. - -“Well, Leonard, if you have nothing but reproaches, I may as well go. I -did think that you would consider my position--my very difficult -position. I have at least supported my family, and I have confided the -whole to you. If you have nothing to say except to harp upon -deception--as if that mattered--I may as well go.” - -“Stop! let’s consider the thing. Is there no other way of livelihood?” - -“None. The only question is whether I am to conduct the business -henceforth under my own name or not.” - -“I don’t know that I can advise or help in any way. Why did you come to -me?” - -“I came for advice--if you have any to give. I came because this -misfortune has fallen upon me, and you are reputed to be wise beyond -your years.” - -“The fact of your occupation is misfortune enough.” - -“Well? You have nothing more to say? Then I must go.” - -He looked so miserable that Leonard forgot his indignation, and inclined -his heart to pity. - -“You are afraid of exposure,” he said, “on account of your wife and -children.” - -“On their account alone. For my own part, I have done no wrong, and I -fear no exposure.” - -They were brave words, but he was as the donkey in the lion’s skin. He -spoke valiantly, but his knees trembled. - -“I should think,” Leonard replied, “that this young man, for his own -sake, would be careful not to spread abroad his experience, because he -would expose himself as well as you. He proposed deliberately to impose -upon the audience, as his own, an oration prepared by another man and -bought by himself. That is a position, if it were known and published, -even less dignified than your own. I think that Algernon should put this -side of the case to him strongly and plainly.” - -“He may leave himself out and whisper rumours abroad.” - -“Algernon should warn him against such things. If, however, the man -persists in his unholy ambition to obtain a false reputation, he will -probably have to come to you again, since there is no other -practitioner.” - -Mr. Crediton jumped in his chair. - -“That’s the point. You’ve hit it. That’s the real point. I’m glad I came -here. He’s not only got his ambition still, but he’s got his failure to -get over. He must come to me. There is no other practitioner. He must -come. I never thought of that.” He rubbed his hands joyously. - -“He may not be clever enough to see this point. Therefore Algernon had -better put it to him. If Algernon fails, you must make a clean breast to -your wife and daughter, and send it round openly among your personal -friends that you are willing to supply speeches confidentially. That -seems the only way out of it.” - -“The only way--the only way, Leonard. There will be no clean breast at -all, and that venomous beast will have to come to me again. I am so glad -that I came here. You have got more sense than all the rest of us put -together.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -YET ANOTHER! - - -When he was gone Leonard threw himself into the nearest chair, and -looked around him. He gazed with bewildered face, not upon the study -full of books, the papers which showed the man of learning, the reports -which spoke of the man of affairs, the engravings on the wall which -spoke of the man of culture. These are accidental: anyone may show them. -The artist sprung from the gutter, the self-made scholar, the mere -mushroom, might possess and exhibit all these things. He saw strewn -around him the wreck and ruin of all that he had hitherto considered the -essential, namely, the family honour. - -There are none so full of family pride as those who show it least. To -Leonard it had always been the greatest happiness merely to feel that -the records of his family went back to times beyond the memory of man. -It was not a thing to be talked about, but a prop, a stay, a shield, -anything that helps to make a man at peace with himself. No one knew -when the Campaignes first obtained their estate; in every century he -found his ancestors--not distinguished--indeed, they had never produced -a man of the first rank--but playing a part, and that not an unworthy -one. It was the record of an honourable line. There were no traitors or -turncoats in it: the men were without reproach, the women without a spot -or stain among them all. - -I suppose that nobody, either at school or college, ever knew or -suspected the profound pride which lay at the heart of this quiet and -self-possessed scholar. It was the kind of pride which is free from -arrogance. He was a gentleman; all his people had been gentlemen. By -gentlemen he meant people of good birth and breeding, and of blameless -life. The word, we well know, is now used so as to include the greater -part of male man. To most people it means nothing and matters nothing. -Even with people who use limitations the door is always open to those -who choose to lead the gentle life, and are privileged to follow the -work which belongs to the gentle life. - -He was a gentleman--he and all his people. He had no feeling of -superiority, not the least--no more than a man may entertain a feeling -of superiority on account of his stature. Nor had he the least feeling -of contempt for those who have no such advantages. A man who has a -grandfather may affect to despise one who has no grandfather, but not a -man who has a long line terminating like the ancestry of a Saxon king in -dim shapes which are probably Woden, Thor, and Freyya. - -The grand essentials of family pride are ancestry and honour. The former -cannot very well be taken away, but without the latter it is not worth -much. One might as well take pride in belonging to a long line in which -gallant highwaymen, footpads, costers, hooligans, and Marylebone boys -have succeeded each other for generations with the accompaniments and -distinctions of Tyburn Tree and the cart-tail. - -Therefore, I say, Leonard sat among the ruins of the essentials -regardless of the accidentals. The man who had just left him had -stripped off all that was left of his former pride; he could feel no -further support or solace in the contemplation of his forefathers. Think -what he had learned and endured in less than a month. It was line upon -line, precept upon precept. It was like unto the patriarch to whom, -while one messenger of evil was speaking, there came also another, -saying, “Thus and thus has it been done. Where is now thy pride?” - -First, he learned that he had cousins living in one of the least -desirable quarters of London; the man-cousin could not by any possible -stretch be considered as possessing any of the attributes of a -gentleman; the girl occupied a station and followed a calling which was -respectable, but belonging to those generally adopted by the Poor -Relation. He was thus provided with poor relations. Constance had said -that he wanted poor relations in order to be like other people. And then -they came as if in answer to her words. - -He had learned also that his grandfather almost at the outset of a -promising career had committed suicide for no reason that could be -discovered; that his father had died young, also at the outset of a -promising career, was a misfortune, but not a blot. - -Two persons were left of his father’s generation. He had welcomed one as -the prodigal, who had gone forth to the husks and returned bearing -sheaves of golden grain. At least there was the pretence of the golden -grain. The other he had regarded all his life with respect as one in -successful practice in a most honourable profession. Where were they -now? One was a bankrupt grocer or general store-keeper, the owner of a -shanty in an Australian township, a miserable little general shop -selling sardines and tea and oil and blacking, which he wanted to turn -into a company as a great business; one who made no pretence at truth or -honesty; the companion of tramps; devoid of honour or even the respect -or care for honour. He had been driven out by his family as a -spendthrift, a profligate, and a forger. He had come home unchanged and -unrepentant and ready to swindle and to cheat if he could do so without -the customary penalties. - -As for the other man, the pretended barrister, he stood revealed as one -who was living under false pretences. He had an equal right to stand in -pillory beside his brother. Once a prodigal and a spendthrift like him: -now living a daily lie which he had carried on for five-and-twenty -years. Good heavens! Christopher Campaigne, Barrister-at-Law of -Lincoln’s Inn, the successful Lawyer, on whom his family reposed a -confidence so profound and a pride so unbounded--who does not take pride -in a successful lawyer?--was nothing more than a common pretender and an -impostor. He wrote speeches and sold them to humbugs who wished to be -thought clever speakers. Honourable occupation! Delightful work! A proud -and distinguished career! - -So there was nobody left except himself to maintain the family honour. - -Certain words which you have already heard came back again. It seemed to -him as if Constance was saying them all over again: “You are independent -as to fortune; you are of a good house; you have no scandals in your -family records; you have got no poor or degraded relations ... you are -outside humanity.... If you had some family scandals, some poor -relations who would make you feel ashamed, something that made you like -other people, vulnerable----” Now he had them all. - -The door was opened. His servant brought him a card: “Mr. Samuel -Galley-Campaigne.” - -“Another!” Leonard groaned and sprang to his feet. “Another!” The sight -or the thought of this man, the caricature of his own family, tall and -thin, like himself, but with every feature vulgarized, and the meanness -of petty gains, petty cares, petty scheming and self-seeking stamped -upon his face, irritated Leonard unspeakably. And he was a cousin! He -stiffened involuntarily. His attitude, his expression, became that of -the “supercilious beast” formed by Mr. Galley on his previous business. - -The cousin came in and bowed slightly, not holding out his hand. There -was a look in his face which meant resolution held back by fear, the -desire to “try on” something, and the doubt as to whether it would be -successful. It is an expression which may be remarked on ‘Change and in -every market-town on market-day. - -It has been wisely, perhaps frequently, remarked that trouble brings out -a man’s true character far more certainly than prosperity, which may -encourage him to assume virtues not really his own. The lines about the -uses of adversity must be referred to the bystander rather than the -patient, because the former is then enabled to contemplate and observe -the true man for the first time. Mr. Galley, for instance, who was smug -in prosperity, was openly and undisguisedly vulgar in adversity. At this -moment, for instance, he was struggling with adversity; it made him red -in the face, it made him speak thick, it made him perspire -inconveniently, and it made his attitude ungraceful. - -He came up the stairs; he knocked at the door with an expression of -fixed resolution. One might have expected him to bang his fist on the -table and to cry out: “There! that’s what I want, and that’s what I mean -to have.” He did not quite do that, but he intended to do it when he -called, and he would have done, I have no doubt, but for the cold, quiet -air with which his cousin received him. - -“Mr. Campaigne,” he began, “or cousin, if you like----” - -“Mr. Campaigne, perhaps,” said Leonard the supercilious. - -“Well, Mr. Campaigne, then, I’ve come to have a few words of -explanation--explanation, sir!” he repeated, with some fierceness. - -“By all means. Pray take a chair.” - -He took a chair, and was then seized by the doubt of which we have -spoken. Perhaps the cause was the commanding position of his cousin, -standing over him six foot three in height, and with a face like that of -a Judge not personally interested in the case before him. - -“The point is this: I’ve got a bill against your family, and I want to -know whether I am to present it to you or to my great-grandfather?” - -“A bill? Of what nature?” - -“A bill for maintenance. We have maintained my grandmother for fifty -years. She has been kept partly by my grandfather, partly by my family, -and partly by myself, and it’s time that your family should do their -duty.” - -“That is a very remarkable claim.” - -“Putting it at £50 a year, which is cheap for the lavish way she’s been -kept, that makes £2,500. At compound interest it mounts up to £18,000 -and odd. I shall be contented to square the claim for £18,000.” - -“You propose to send in a bill--a bill for keeping your own -grandmother?” - -“That is just what I am going to do.” - -“You must surely be aware that such a claim would not be entertained for -a moment. No Court of Law would so much as look at it.” - -“I am aware of the fact. But this is not a claim of an ordinary kind; it -is a claim that rests on equity--on equity, not on Law.” - -“What is the equitable side of the claim?” - -“Well, it’s this way: My grandfather, who failed for an enormous -amount--which showed the position he occupied in the City--married my -grandmother in the reasonable expectation that she would bring him a -fortune. It is true that the old man was then not more than fifty or so, -but he did not count so much on a will as on a settlement.” - -“I understand that the marriage was undertaken without consultation with -my great-grandfather, or, under the circumstances, with his solicitors.” - -“That was, no doubt, the case; but when one marries into so wealthy a -family, and when the head of it is not in a position to be consulted, -the least that can be expected is a settlement--a settlement of some -kind. My grandfather said that he expected nothing less than twenty -thousand--twenty thousand. He dated his subsequent misfortunes to the -failure of this expectation, because he got nothing. Perhaps, Mr. -Campaigne, as you were not born then, you can hardly believe that he got -nothing.” - -“I am in ignorance of the whole business.” - -“Quite so--quite so. I think, therefore, that I am quite justified in -asking your people to pay me just the bare sum--out-of-pocket -expenses--which we have expended upon my grandmother.” - -“Oh!” - -The tone was not encouraging, but the other man was not versed in these -external signs, and went on, unabashed: - -“You saw yourself the other day the style in which we live, I believe, -Mr. Campaigne; you will acknowledge that it was a noble Tea.” - -Leonard bowed solemnly. - -“An account rendered, under any circumstances, for the maintenance of a -grandmother, a mother, and a wife I should myself tear up and throw -into the fire. But it is no concern of mine. You can send your claim to -my great-grandfather----” - -“My great-grandfather as much as yours.” - -“To his solicitors, whose name and address you probably know; if not, I -will furnish you with them. If that is all you have to say----” - -He moved towards the door. - -“No, no. I mean this. We had a right to expect a fortune, and there has -been none.” - -“You said that before. Again, Mr. Galley, I cannot discuss this matter -with you. Take your claim to the right quarter.” - -“I’m not obliged to keep the old woman,” he replied sulkily. - -“I decline to discuss your views of duty.” - -“I want to wake up the old man to a sense of justice. I will, too. If -he’s mad we will find out. If he isn’t, I will make him pay--even if I -have to expose him.” - -Leonard stepped to the door and threw it open. Mr. Galley rose. His face -betrayed many emotions. In fact, the conversation had not proceeded -quite on the lines he hoped. - -“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said. “Give me a little time.” - -Leonard closed the door and returned to the hearth-rug. - -“Take time, Mr. Galley.” - -“I don’t want,” he said, “to behave ungentlemanly, but I’m in desperate -trouble. If you think it’s no good sending in a claim, I withdraw it. -The fact is, Mr. Campaigne, I want money. I want money desperately.” - -Leonard made no reply. This was discouraging. - -“I’ve been speculating--in house property--backing a builder; and the -man is going. That is what has happened to me. If I can’t raise a -thousand pounds in the course of a day or two I must go too.” - -“You will not raise anything by sending in a bill for the maintenance of -your grandmother. Put that out of your head, Mr. Galley.” - -He groaned. - -“Then, will you lend me a thousand pounds, Mr. Campaigne? You were very -friendly when you came to see us the other day. The security is -first-class--the shells of three unfinished houses--and I will give you -eight per cent. for the accommodation. Good security and good interest. -There you are. Come, Mr. Campaigne: you are not a business man, and I -don’t think you can make, as a rule, more than three per cent. at the -outside.” - -“I have no money either to lend or to advance.” - -“I have been to the bank, but they won’t look at the business. It’s a -mean, creeping, miserable bank. I shall change it.” - -“Well, Mr. Galley, I am sorry to hear that you are in trouble, but I -cannot help you.” - -“If I do go bankrupt,” he said savagely, “the old woman will go into the -workhouse. That’s one consolation. And she’s your great-aunt.” - -“You forget your sister, Mr. Galley. From what I know of Board Schools, -I should say that she is quite able to maintain her grandmother. If not, -there may be other assistance.” - -“There’s another thing, then,” he persisted. “When I spoke to you first, -I mentioned the word ‘accumulations.’” - -“No one mentions any other word just now, I think,” Leonard replied, -with a touch of temper. - -“They must be enormous. I’ve been working it out. Enormous! And that old -man can’t live much longer. He can’t. He’s ninety-five.” - -“Mr. Galley, I put it to you as a lawyer, or, at least, as a solicitor: -Do you think that your great-grandfather has lived all these years -without making a will?” - -“He can’t make a will. He is a madman.” - -“Ask his solicitors for an opinion on that subject. The old man will not -speak, but he receives communications and gives instructions.” - -“I shall dispute the will if I’m not named in it. I shall expect a full -share. I shall show that he’s a madman.” - -“As you please. Meanwhile, it is doubtful whether the testator ever -heard your name.” - -“He knows his daughter’s name. And what’s hers is mine.” - -“I must open the door again, Mr. Galley, if you talk nonsense. I hear, -by the way, that you have made that lady sign certain papers. As a -solicitor, you must know that such documents would be regarded by the -Court with extreme suspicion.” - -“If I have to go bankrupt I shall let the whole world know that you -wouldn’t lift a finger to save your own cousin.” - -“As you please.” - -“And if there’s a will that turns out me, I’ll drag the whole thing into -Court and expose you. I will expose you, by----” - -Leonard opened the door again. - -“This time, Mr. Galley, you will go.” - -He obeyed. He dropped his hat on his head, he marched out, and he bawled -on the stairs as he went down: - -“I’ll expose you--I’ll expose you--I’ll expose you!” - -These terrifying and minatory words rang up and down the stairs of that -respectable mansion like the voice of an Accusing Angel, so that -everybody who heard them jumped and turned pale, and murmured: - -“Oh, good Lord! What’s come out now?” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THE LIGHT THAT BROKE - - -It was Sunday morning. Leonard sat before the fire doing nothing. He had -done nothing for three weeks. He had no desire to do anything: his work -lay neglected on the table, books and papers piled together. He was -brooding over the general wreck of all he had held precious: over the -family history; the family disgraces and disasters; and the mystery -which it was hopeless to look into but impossible to forget. - -The bells were ringing all around: the air was full of the melody, or -the jingle of the bells of many Churches. - -Then Constance knocked at his door. “May I come in?” she asked, and came -in without waiting for an answer. “I was proposing to go to the Abbey,” -she said. “But things have got on my nerves. I felt that I could not sit -still for the service. I must come and talk to you.” - -“I suppose that we know the very worst now,” said Leonard. “Why do you -worry yourself about my troubles, Constance?” - -“Because we are cousins--because we are friends. Isn’t that enough?” - -She might have added, as another reason, that the events of the last -three weeks had drawn them more closely together--so closely that it -wanted but a word--if once their minds were free from the obsession of -the mystery--to bind them so that they should never again drift asunder. - -Leonard replied, with a wintry smile: “Without you to talk things over, -Constance, I believe I should go mad.” - -“And I feel so guilty--so guilty--when I think of what I said so lightly -about scandals and poor relations with all this hanging over your head.” - -“Nothing more, I should think”--he looked about the room, as if to make -sure that no telegrams or letters were floating in the air--“can happen -now--except to me. Everybody else is laid low. One cousin has brought me -a bill for the maintenance of his grandmother for fifty years--says he -will take eighteen thousand pounds down. One ought really to be proud of -such a cousin.” - -“The solicitor of the Commercial Road, I suppose. But, really, what does -it matter?” - -“Nothing. Only at the moment there is a piling up; and every straw helps -to break the camel’s back. The man says he is going to be a bankrupt. My -uncle Frederick--that large-souled, genial, thirsty, wealthy, prosperous -representative of colonial enterprise--now turns out to be an impostor -and a fraud----” - -“Oh, Leonard!” - -“An impostor and a fraud,” he repeated. “He has a small general store in -an Australian township, and he has come over to represent this as a big -business and to make a Company out of it. The other uncle--the learned -and successful lawyer----” - -“Don’t tell me, Leonard.” - -“Another time, then: we ought certainly to have heard the worst. Let us -go to the village and bury the Family Honour before the altar in the -Church, and put up a brass in memory of what our ancestors created.” - -“No. You will guard it still, Leonard. It could not be in better hands. -You must not--you cannot, bury your own soul.” - -Leonard relapsed into silence. Constance stood over him sad and -disheartened. Presently she spoke. - -“How long?” she asked. - -“How long?” he replied. “Who can say? It came of its own accord--it was -uninvited. Perhaps it will go as it came.” - -“You would rather be left alone?” she asked. “Let me stay and talk a -little. My friend, we must have done with it. After all, what does it -matter to us how a crime was committed seventy years ago?” - -“It concerns your own ancestor, Constance.” - -“Yes. He, poor man, was killed. Leonard, when I say ‘poor man’ the words -exactly measure the amount of sorrow that I feel for him. An ancestor of -four generations past is no more than a shadow. His fate awakens a -little interest, but no sadness.” - -“I should say the same thing, I suppose. But my ancestor was not killed. -He was condemned to a living death. Constance, it is no use; whether I -will or no, the case haunts me day and night.” He sprang to his feet, -and threw up his arms as one who would throw off chains. “How long -since I first heard of it through that unfortunate old lady of the -Commercial Road? Three weeks? It seems like fifty years. As for any -purpose that I had before, or any ambition--it is gone--quite gone and -vanished.” - -“As for me, I am haunted in the same manner.” - -“I am like a man who is hypnotised--I am no longer a free agent. I am -ordered to do this, and I do it. As for this accursed Book of -Extracts”--he laid his hand upon the abomination--“I am forced to go -through it over and over again. Every time I sit down I am prompted by a -kind of assurance that something will be discovered. Every time I rise -up, it is with disgust that nothing has occurred to me.” - -“Are we to go on all our lives looking for what we can never find?” - -“We know the whole contents by heart. Yet every day there is the feeling -that something will start into light. It is madness, Constance. I am -going mad--like my grandfather, who killed himself. That will end the -family tale of woes, so far as I am concerned.” - -“Send the book back to its owner.” - -He shook his head. “I know it all. That will be no use.” - -“Burn the dreadful thing.” - -“No use. I should be made to write it all out again.” - -“I dropped an envelope in your letter-box last night. Have you opened -it?” - -“I don’t think I have read a single letter for the last three weeks.” - -“Then it must be among the pile. What a heap of letters! Oh, Leonard, -you are indeed occupied with this business. I found last night three -letters from Langley Holme to his wife. They were written from Campaigne -Park; but on what occasion I do not know. I thought at first that I -might have found something that would throw a little light upon the -business. But of course, when one considers, how could he throw light -upon his own tragic end?” - -He took the packet carelessly. “Do the letters tell us anything?” - -“Nothing important, I believe. They show that he was staying at the -Park.” - -“We know that already. It is strange how we are continually mocked by -the things we learn. It was the same with the letter from Australia.” - -“That was an interesting letter--so are these--even if they tell us -nothing that we do not know already.” - -He opened the envelope, and took out the packet of letters. There were -three: they were written on square letter paper: the folds had been worn -away, and the letters were now dropping to pieces. The ink was faded as -becomes ink of the nineteenth century. Leonard laid them on the table to -read because they were in so ragged a condition. “The date,” he said, -“is difficult to make out, but the last letter looks like ‘6’--that -would make it 1826. You say that there is nothing important in them.” - -“Nothing, so far as I could make out. But read them. You may find -something.” - -The first letter was quite unimportant, containing only a few -instructions and words of affection. The next two letters, however, -spoke of the writer’s brother-in-law: - -“My little dispute with Algernon is still unsettled. He makes a personal -matter of it, which is disagreeable. He really is the most obstinate and -tenacious of mortals. I don’t like to seem to be thinking or saying -anything unkind about him. Indeed, he is a splendid fellow all round, -only the most obstinate. But I shall not budge one inch. Last night in -the library he entirely lost command of himself, and became like a -madman for a few minutes. I had heard from others about the ungovernable -side of his temper, but had never seen it before. He really becomes -dangerous at such times. He raged and glared like a bull before a red -rag. Since Philippa is happy, she has certainly never seen it.” - -In the third letter he spoke of the same dispute. - -“We had another row last night. Row or no row, I am not going to budge -one inch. We are going to discuss the matter again--quietly, he -promises. I will write to you again and tell you what is settled. My -dear child, I am ashamed to see this giant of a man so completely lose -control of himself. However, I suppose he will give way when he sees -that he must.” - -“There seems to have been a slight dispute,” said Leonard. “His -brother-in-law lost his temper and stormed a bit. But they made it up -again. Well, Constance, that is all--a little quarrel made up again -undoubtedly.” - -He replaced the letters in the envelope and returned them to Constance. - -“Keep them,” he said. “They are valuable to you as letters from your -ancestor. Like the letter from Mr. John Dunning, which we received with -amazement as a voice from the grave, they help us to realise the -business--if one wanted any help. But we realised it before--quite -vividly enough--and that,” he sighed, “is all. We are no whit advanced. -There were no more papers?” - -“I searched the desk over and over again, but I could find nothing more. -Now, Leonard.” She took a chair and placed it beside his own at the -table. “Leave the fire and take your chair, and we will begin and -finish. This time must be the very last. It is high time that we should -make an end of this. As for me, I came here this morning just to say -that whatever happens I am determined that we must make an end. The -thing is becoming dangerous to your peace of mind.” - -“We cannot make an end.” - -“Yes--yes--we are now persons bewitched. Let us swear that after this -morning we will put away the book and the papers and cease from any -further trouble about it.” - -“If we can,” he replied gloomily. - -“Leonard, for the first time in your life you are superstitious.” - -“We may swear what we like. We shall come back to the case again -to-morrow.” - -“We will not. Let us resolve. Nay, Leonard, you must not continue. To -you it is becoming dangerous.” - -Leonard sighed. “It is weary work. Well, then, for the last time.” He -laid the packet of papers upon the table. He opened the dreadful -book--the Book of Fate. “It is always the same thing. Whenever I open -the book there is the same sense of sickness and loathing. Are the pages -poisoned?” - -“They are, my friend.” - -He began the old round. That is to say, he read the case as they had -drawn it up, while Constance compared it with the evidence. - -“‘These are the facts of the inquest, of the trial, of the effects of -the crime, the evidence of place, and the evidence of time: - -“‘The two leave the house, they walk together through the Park; they -cross the road, they get over the stile, they enter the wood. Then the -Squire turns back----’” - -“After some short time,” Constance corrected. “According to the -recollection of the ancient man who was the bird-scarer, he went into -the wood.” - -“‘Then the Squire walked homewards rapidly. If the housekeeper gave the -time correctly, and it took him the same time to get home as to reach -the wood--I have timed the distance--he may have been ten minutes--a -quarter of an hour in the wood. - -“‘Two hours or so later, the boy saw a working man, whom he knew well by -sight and name, enter the wood. He was dressed in a smock-frock, and -carried certain tools or instruments over his shoulder. He remained in -the wood a few minutes only, and then came running out, his white smock -spotted with red, as the boy could see plainly from the hillside. He ran -to the farmyard beyond the field, and returned with other men and a -shutter. They entered the wood, and presently came out carrying -“something” covered up. The boy was asked both at the inquest and the -trial whether anyone else had entered the wood or had come out of it. He -was certain that no one had done so, or could have done so without his -knowledge. - -“‘The men carried the body to the house. They were met on the terrace by -the housekeeper, who seemed to have shrieked and run into the house, -where she told the women-servants, who all together set up a shrieking -through the house. Someone, after the mistress was thus terrified, -blurted out the dreadful truth. In an hour the Squire had lost his wife -as well as his brother-in-law. - -“‘At the inquest, the Squire gave the principal evidence. He said that -he walked with his brother-in-law as far as the wood, when he turned -back.’” - -“Not ‘as far as the wood.’ He said that on entering the wood he -remembered an appointment, and turned back. Remembering the evidence of -the boy and your timing of the distance, we must give him some little -time in the wood.” - -“Very well--the longer the better, because it would show that there was -nobody lurking there. - -“‘Then John Dunning deposed to finding the body. It lay on its back; the -fore-part of the head was shattered in a terrible manner; the -unfortunate gentleman was quite dead. Beside the body lay a heavy branch -broken off. It would seem to have been caught up and used as a cudgel. -Blood was on the thicker end. - -“‘A medical man gave evidence as to the fact of death. He reached the -house at about one, and after attending the unfortunate lady, who was -dying or dead, he turned his attention to the body of the victim, who -had then been dead sometime, probably two hours or thereabouts. The -valet deposed, further that the pockets were searched, and that nothing -had been taken from them. - -“‘The coroner summed up. The only person who had gone into the wood -after the deceased gentleman was the man John Dunning. Who but John -Dunning could have committed this foul murder? The verdict of the jury -was delivered at once--“Wilful murder against John Dunning.” - -“‘We have next the trial of John Dunning. Mr. Campaigne was so fully -persuaded in his own mind of the man’s innocence that he provided him, -at his own expense, with counsel. The counsel employed was clever. He -heard the evidence, the same as that given at the inquest, but instead -of letting it pass, he pulled it to pieces in cross-examination. - -“‘Thus, on examining Mr. Campaigne, he elicited the very important fact -that Mr. Holme was six feet high and strong in proportion, while the -prisoner was no more than five feet six, and not remarkably strong; that -it was impossible to suppose that the murdered man would stand still to -receive a blow delivered in full face by so little a man. That was a -very strong point to make. - -“‘Then he examined the doctor as to the place in which the blow was -received. It appeared that it was on the top of the head, behind the -forehead, yet delivered face to face. He made the doctor acknowledge -that in order to receive such a blow from a short man like the prisoner -the murdered man must have been sitting or kneeling. Now, the wood was -wet with recent rain, and there was nothing to sit upon. Therefore it -required, said the doctor, a man taller than Mr. Holme himself to -deliver such a blow.’” - -Leonard stopped for a brief comment: - -“It shows how one may pass over things. I passed over this point -altogether at first, and, indeed, until the other day, perhaps, because -the newspaper cutting is turned over at this place. The murderer, -therefore, was taller than Langley Holme, who was himself six feet high. -The point should have afforded a clue. At all events, it effectively -cleared the prisoner.” - -“‘It appears that the crime created the greatest interest in the -neighbourhood. There were kept up for a long time after the acquittal of -John Dunning, discussions and arguments, for and against, as to his -guilt or innocence. No one else was arrested and no one tried, and the -police left off looking after the case. Indeed, there was nothing more -than what I have set down in these notes. - -“‘The friends of Mr. Campaigne, however, speedily discovered that he was -entirely changed in consequence of the double shock of the deaths of -brother and sister, brother-in-law and wife, in one day. He ceased to -take interest in anything; he refused to see his friends; he would not -even notice his children; he gradually retreated entirely into himself; -he left his business affairs to an agent; he dismissed his servants. He -sent his children to the care of a distant cousin to get them out of the -way; he never left the house at all except to walk on the terrace; he -kept neither horses nor dogs; he never spoke to anyone; he had never -been known to speak for all these years except once, and then two or -three words to me.” - -“The following,” he went on, “is also a part of the case: - -“‘We have been a very unfortunate family. Of Mr. Campaigne’s three -children, the eldest committed suicide for no reason discoverable, the -next was drowned at sea, the third married a bankrupt tradesman, and -dropped very low down in the world. Of the next generation, the eldest, -my father, died at an early age and at a time when his prospects were as -bright as those of any young member of the House; his second brother has -just confessed that he has led a life of pretence and deception; and his -younger brother, who was sent abroad for his profligacy, told me -yesterday that he is about to become bankrupt, while another member of -the family is threatened with ruin, and, to judge from his terror, with -worse than ruin.’” - -“There are still two or three facts that you have omitted,” said -Constance. “We had better have them all.” - -“What are they?” - -“You have not mentioned that the boy went into the wood early in the -morning and found no one; that the woman in the cottage--this was the -voice of the grave that we asked for and obtained--said that nobody at -all had been through the wood that day until the gentlemen appeared.” - -“We will consider everything. But remember, Constance, we are sworn not -to go through this ceremony again whatever the force that draws us.” - -“We have forgotten; there is the half-finished letter that we found upon -the table. Read that again, Leonard.” - -It was in one envelope among the papers. Leonard took it out. - -“There is nothing in it that we do not know. Langley was staying in the -house.” - -“Never mind; read it.” - -He read it: - -“‘Algernon and Langley have gone into the study to talk business. It is -this affair of the Mill that is still unsettled. I am a little anxious -about Algernon; he has been strangely distrait for the last two or three -days. Perhaps he is anxious about me. There need be no anxiety; I am -quite well and strong. This morning he got up very early, and I heard -him walking about in the study below. This is not his way at all. -However, should a wife repine because her Lord is anxious about her? -Algernon is very determined about that Mill, but I fear that Langley -will not give way. You know how firm he can be behind that pleasant -smile of his.’ - -“Nothing much in that letter, Constance, is there?” - -“I don’t know. It is the voice of the dead. So are these letters of -Langley’s to his wife. They speak of a subject of disagreement: neither -would give way. Mr. Campaigne was at times overcome with anger -uncontrolled. Leonard, it is wonderful how much we have learned since we -first began this inquiry--I mean, this new evidence of the quarrel and -Mr. Campaigne’s ungovernable temper and his strange outburst in the -evening. Oh! it is new evidence”--her face changed: she looked like one -who sees a light suddenly shine in the darkness--a bright and unexpected -light. “It is new evidence,” she repeated with wondering, dazzled eyes. -“It explains, everything”--she stopped and turned white. - -“Oh!” - -She shrank back as if she felt a sudden pain at her heart: she put up -her hands as if to push back some terrible creature. She sprang to her -feet. She trembled and shook: she clasped her forehead--the gesture was -natural to the face of terror and amazement and sudden understanding. - -Leonard caught her in his arms, but she did not fall. She laid her hand -upon his shoulder, and she bowed her head. - -“Oh, God, help us!” she murmured. - -“What is it? Constance, what is it?” - -“Leonard, no one--no one--no one was in the wood but only those two--and -they quarrelled, and the Squire was taller than his brother--and we have -found the truth. Leonard, my poor friend--my cousin--we have found the -truth.” - -She drew herself away from him, and sank back into her chair, hiding her -face in her hands. - -Leonard dropped the papers. - -“Constance!” he cried. For in a moment the truth flashed across his -brain--the truth that explained everything--the despair of the wretched -man, the resolve to save an innocent man, a remorse that left him not by -day or night, so that he could do nothing, think of nothing, for all the -long, long years that followed; a remorse which forbade him to hold -converse with his fellow-man, which robbed him of every pleasure and -every solace, even the solace of his little children. “Constance!” he -cried again, holding out his hands as if for help. - -She lifted her head but not her eyes; she took both his hands in hers. - -“My friend,” she whispered, “have courage.” - -So for a brief space they remained, he standing before her, she sitting, -but holding both his hands, with weeping eyes. - -“I said,” he murmured, “that nothing more would happen. There wanted -only the last--the fatal blow.” - -“We were constrained to go on until the truth came to us. It has come to -us. After all these years--from the memory of the old man who scared the -birds: from the innocent man who was tried--he spoke from the grave: -from the murdered man himself. Leonard, this thing should be marvellous -in our eyes, for this is not man’s handiwork.” - -He drew away his hands. - -“No. It is Vengeance for the spilling of blood.” She made no reply, but -she rose, dashed the tears from her eyes, placed the papers in the book, -closed it, tied it up again neatly with tape, and laid the parcel in the -lowest drawer of the table. - -“Let it lie there,” she said. “To-morrow, if this Possession is past, as -I think it will be, we will burn it, papers and all.” - -He looked on, saying nothing. What could he say? - -“What are we to do with our knowledge?” he asked after a few minutes. - -“Nothing. It is between you and me. Nothing. Let us nevermore speak of -the thing. It is between you and me.” - -The unaccustomed tears blinded her eyes. Her eyes were filled with a -real womanly pity. The student of books was gone, the woman of Nature -stood in her place; and, woman-like, she wept over the shame and horror -of the man. - -“Leave me, Constance,” he said. “There is blood between us. My hands and -those of all my house are red with blood--the blood of your own people.” - -She obeyed. She turned away; she came back again. - -“Leonard,” she said, “the past is past. Courage! We have learned the -truth before that unhappy man dies. It is a sign. The day of Forgiveness -draws nigh.” - -Then she left him softly. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -THE SIGNS OF CHANGE - - -Leonard was left alone. He threw himself into a chair and tried to -think. He could not. The power of concentration had left him. The -tension of the last three weeks, followed by the wholly unexpected -nature of the discovery, was too much for a brain even so young and -strong as his. The horror of the discovery was not even felt: he tried -to realise it: he knew that it ought to be there: but it was not: all he -felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. He fell asleep in the chair -before the fire. It was then about noon on Sunday. From time to time his -man looked in, made up the fire, for the spring day was still chilly, -but would not awaken his master. It was past seven in the evening when -he woke up. Twilight was lying about the room. He remembered that -Constance had laid the papers in a drawer. He opened the drawer. He took -out the papers and the book. He held them in his hand. For the first -time since his possession of those documents he felt no loathing of the -book and its accursed pages: nor did he feel the least desire to open it -or to read any more about the abominable case. He returned the packet to -the drawer. Then he perceived that he was again down-laden with the -oppression of sleep. He went into his bedroom and threw himself dressed -as he was upon the bed, when he instantly fell sound asleep. - -He was neither hungry nor thirsty: he wanted no food: he wanted nothing -but sleep: he slept the clock round, and more. It was ten on Monday -morning when he woke up refreshed by his long and dreamless sleep, and -in a normal condition of hunger. - -More than this, although the discovery--the tragic discovery--was fresh -in his mind, he found himself once more free to think of anything he -pleased. - -He dressed, expecting the customary summons to the Book and the Case. -None came. He took breakfast and opened the paper. For three weeks he -had been unable to read the paper at all. Now, to his surprise, he -approached it with all his customary interest. Nothing was suggested to -his mind as to the book. He went into the study, he again opened the -drawer; he was not afraid, though no compulsion obliged him, to take out -the book: since he was not constrained, as before, to open it, he put it -back again. He remarked that the loathing with which he had regarded it -only the day before was gone. In fact, he heeded the book no longer: it -was like the dead body of a demon which could do no more harm. - -He turned to the papers on his writing-table; there were the unfinished -sheets of his article lying piled up with notes and papers in neglect. -He took them up with a new-born delight and the anticipation of the -pleasure of finishing the thing; he wondered how he had been able to -suspend his work for so long. There was a pile letters, the unopened, -unanswered letters of the last three weeks; he hurriedly tore them open: -some of them, at least, must be answered without delay. - -All this time he was not forgetful of the Discovery. That was now made: -it was complete. Strange! It did not look so horrible after -four-and-twenty hours. It seemed as if the discovery was the long-looked -for answer to the mystery which explained everything. - -He sat down, his mind clear once more, and tried to make out the steps -by which the truth had been recovered. To give his thoughts words, “We -started with two assumptions, both of which were false; and both made it -impossible to find the truth. The first of these was the assumption that -the two were fast and firm friends, whereas they were for the moment at -variance on some serious affair--so much at variance that on one -occasion at least before the last, one of them had become like a madman -in his rage. The second was the assumption that the Squire had turned -and gone home at the entrance of the wood. Both at the inquest and the -trial that had been taken for granted. Now, the boy had simply said that -they went into the wood together, and that one had come out alone. - -“In consequence of these two assumptions, we were bound to find some one -in the wood who must have done the deed. The boy declared that no one -was in the wood at half-past five in the morning, and that he saw no one -but these two go in till John Dunning went in at noon. The cottage -woman said that no one at all had used that path that day. The coppice -was so light that the two who went in must have seen anybody who was -lurking there. If we remove the two assumptions--if we suppose that they -entered the wood quarrelling--if we remember that the evening before one -of them had become like a madman for rage--if we give them ten minutes -or a quarter of an hour together--if we remember the superior height of -one, which alone enabled the blow to fall on the top of the other’s -head--if we add to all this the subsequent behavior of the survivor, -there can no longer be the least room for doubt. The murderer was -Algernon Campaigne, Justice of the Peace, Master of Campaigne Park.” - -All this he reasoned out coldly and clearly. That he could once more -reason on any subject at all gave him so much relief that the blow and -shame of the discovery were greatly lessened. He remembered, besides, -that the event happened seventy years before; that there could be no -further inquiry; that the secret belonged to himself and to Constance; -and that there was no need to speak of it to any other members of his -family. - -By this time, what was left of the family honour? He laughed bitterly as -he reflected on the blots upon that once fair white scutcheon. -Suicide--bankruptcy--the mud and mire of dire poverty--forgery--shame -and pretence, and at last the culminating crime beyond which one can -hardly go--the last crime which was also the first--the slaying of a man -by his brother--MURDER! - -A knock at the door roused him. Was it more trouble? He sat up -instinctively to meet it. But he was quite calm. He did not expect -trouble. When it comes, one generally feels it beforehand. Now he felt -no kind of anticipation. It was, in fact, only a note from Constance: - - “I write to tell you that the misfortunes of your House are over. - There will be no more. I am certain of what I say. Do not ask me - how I learned this, because you would not believe. We have been - led--and this you will not believe--by the hand of the man who was - killed, and none other--to the Discovery which ends it all. - -“CONSTANCE.” - - - -“The Discovery,” he thought, “which is worse than all the rest put -together. No more misfortunes? No more consequences, then. What does she -mean? Consequences must go on.” - -You remember how, one day, there came to a certain Patriarch one who -told of trouble, and almost before he had finished speaking there came -also another with more trouble, and yet a third with more. You remember -also how to this man there came, one after the other, messengers who -brought confession of fraud and disgrace. - -This afternoon the opposite happened. There came three; but there were -not messengers of trouble, but of peace, and even joy. - -The first was his cousin Mary Anne. - -“I’ve come,” she said, “with a message from my brother. Sam is very -sorry that he carried on here as he says he did. I don’t know how he -carried on, but Sam is very nasty sometimes, when his temper and his -troubles get the better of him.” - -“Pray do not let him be troubled. I have quite forgotten what he said.” - -“It seems that he brought his precious bill against granny, and showed -it to you. He says that he’s put it in the fire, and that he didn’t mean -it, except in the hope that you’d lend him a little money.” - -“I see. Well, my cousin, is that all?” - -“Oh, he begs your pardon humbly. And he says that the builder has got -the Bank to back him after all: and he’ll be contented to wait now for -his share of the accumulations.” - -“I am sorry that he still entertains hopes in that direction.” - -“Oh! he thinks about nothing else. He has got the whole amount worked -out: he knows how much there will be. If it is left to you or to anybody -else he will dispute the will. He’ll carry it up to the Lords, he says.” - -“Very good. We may wait until the will is produced. Meantime, Mary Anne, -there is a little point which he seems to forget. It his grandmother and -not himself who could have a right to dispute the will. Can he be so -poor in law as not to know that?” - -“He makes granny sign papers. I don’t know how many she has signed. He -is always thinking about some other danger to be met, and then he draws -up a paper and makes her sign it with me as witness. Granny never asks -what the paper means.” - -“Signing documents is dangerous. You must not allow it, my cousin. If -there is anything coming to your branch of the family from Campaigne -Park, you are as much concerned as Sam.” - -She laughed. “You don’t know Sam. He means to have it all. He says that -he’s arranged to have it all.” - -“Let us talk about something else. Is your grandmother content to go on -living as she does now?” - -“No. But she has always been so unhappy that a few years more of Sam’s -bad temper and selfishness don’t seem to matter. I came here this -morning partly to tell you that I’ve arranged it at last. I had it out -with Sam yesterday. I told him that he could go on living with mother, -and I would take granny--she’s so vexed, you can’t think--that Sam -should have gone and made out a bill for her keep and presented to -you--that I was able to persuade her. Granny will live with me--I can -afford it--and mother will go on with Sam. And I do hope, Mr. Campaigne, -that you will come and see her sometimes. She says, have you read the -book?” - -“Yes. I will go to see her sometimes. Tell her so. And as for the book, -I have read it all through.” - -“And did it do you good to read the book? To me it always makes that old -gentleman so grand and good--finding lawyers for the poor innocent man -and all.” - -“Tell her the book has produced all the effect she desired and more.” - -While she was still speaking, Uncle Fred burst in. Mary Anne retired, -making way for the visitor, who, she perceived, from the family -likeness, was a large and very magnificent specimen of the Campaigne -family. - -He burst in. He came in like an earthquake, making the furniture crack, -and the glasses rattle, and the picture-frames shake. He showed the most -jovial, happy, benevolent air possible. No one could look happier, more -benevolent, and more contented with himself. - -“Congratulate me, my dear boy!” he cried, offering the most friendly -hand in the world. There was a fine and large forgiveness in that -extended hand. The last conversation was forgotten and dismissed from -memory. “Barlow Brothers is saved!” - -“Oh! how have you saved it?” - -“I will tell you how. It has been a most wonderful stroke of luck for -Australian enterprise. Nothing short of a national disaster has been -averted.” - -“Indeed! I gathered from your last communication that the business -was--well, not worth saving.” - -“Not worth saving? My dear Leonard! it is colossal--colossal!” - -Leonard is still mystified, whenever he thinks of it, by this abrupt -change of front. What did he mean? - -“I am immediately going back to Australia to put things on a right -footing.” - -“Oh! You have made a Company in the City after all!” - -“No,” he replied with decision. “The City has had its chance and has -refused its opportunity. I leave the City to lament its own -short-sighted refusal. I am sorry for the City. I now return to -Australia. The firm of Barlow Brothers may rise conspicuous and -colossal, or it may continue to be a purveyor of sardines and blacking, -or it may go smash.” - -At this point his eye fell upon a letter. It was one of the documents in -the Case; in fact, it was the letter from Australia which came with John -Dunning’s memorandum. By accident it had not been put away with the -rest. He read the superscription on the seal: “John Dunning’s Sons.” - -“John Dunning’s Sons?” he asked. “John Dunning’s Sons?” - -“It’s an old story. Your grandfather helped John Dunning in early life.” -Leonard took out the letter. “His family write to express the -gratitude--a post-mortem gratitude--of the late John Dunning to the -family generally. Would you like to read it?” - -Uncle Fred read it. His jovial face became grave--even austere in -thoughtfulness. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. - -“By your leave,” he said. “My dear boy, the Dunnings are the richest -people in the colony. I am a made man. Their gratitude simply warms my -heart. It inspires once more the old youthful belief in human nature. -With this letter--with this introduction--Barlow Brothers vanish. Damn -the sardine boxes! Fred Campaigne returns to Australia, and Fortune -smiles. My boy, farewell. With this letter in my pocket, I start -to-morrow.” - -“Stop, stop!” cried Leonard. “How about the colossal business? How -about the saving of that important shanty where you dispensed sardines?” - -Uncle Fred looked at his watch. - -“But you say that you have saved it--how?” - -“I have just time”--again he looked at his watch--“to keep--ah! a most -important appointment. I shall go out to Australia next week. On the way -out I will amuse myself by writing you an account of the Barlow -Brothers--in several chapters--The Conception, The First Box of -Sardines, The Shanty, the Realisation, the Millionaire. Novels would not -be more thrilling.” - -“But you abandon this Colossal undertaking?” - -“I give it up. Why? Because an easier way lies open. I should be more -than human if I did not take the easier way.” - -“You are going out to Mr. Dunning with that letter in your pocket?” - -“I am, going, sir, to throw myself into the arms of gratitude. Human -Nature! Human Nature! How lovely a thing is Human Nature when it is -grateful!” - -Leonard grunted. - -“I am not sure,” he said, “that I did right in giving you that letter.” - -“You can have it back again. I know the contents. And now, my dear -nephew, there is but one small duty to perform--I allude to the Hotel -Bill. My brother has found the passage-money--Christopher was always a -selfish beast, but his language at parting with that money was -inexcusable. He refuses the Hotel Bill.” - -“And so you come to me. Why should I pay your Hotel Bill?” - -“There is no reason that I know of except the fact that I have referred -the Hotel Clerk to you as a Member of Parliament and a gentleman.” - -“You come home boasting of your wealth, being next door to penniless.” - -“You forget--the Accumulations----” - -“And you end with the confession that you were lying.” - -“You mean putting the best foot forward--presenting myself in the -enviable light of the successful uncle--the modern Nabob.” - -“And you levy money on your people?” - -“I borrow on my reversionary interests--in the Accumulations.” - -“I will pay your bill on the understanding that you take yourself off. -How much is it?” - -Uncle Fred named the amount. It was a staggerer. - -“Good Heavens! Man, you must have bathed in champagne.” - -“There has been champagne,” Fred replied with dignity. “I had to support -my position. City men lunched with me and dined with me. We discussed -the Fourth Act in the Comedy of Barlow Brothers--the Realisation. As for -the Bill, I borrow the amount.” - -Leonard sat down and wrote a cheque. Uncle Fred took it, read it, folded -it, and sighed with a tear of regret that he had not named double the -amount. - -“Thanks,” he said. “The act was ungraciously performed. But the main -thing is to get the cheque. That I have always felt, even when I got it -out of old Sixty per Cent. Well, I go back to a land which has been -hitherto inhospitable. Farewell, my nephew. I shall bask: I shall -batten, whatever that means: I shall fatten: I shall swell out with -fatness in the sunshine--the Sydney sunshine is very fattening--of -gratitude, and the generosity of a Sydney millionaire.” - -He buttoned his coat, and went away with loud and resounding footsteps, -as he had come, the furniture cracking, the picture-frames rattling. So -far, Leonard has not received the promised explanation of the Mystery of -Barlow Brothers; nor has that check been returned. There remained one -more credit to the Family. It was Christopher, the eminent and learned -counsel. - -He, too, called half an hour after the departure of his brother. - -“I came,” he said, “first of all to warn you against giving or lending -any more money to that fraud--my brother Fred.” - -“You are too late, then. I have paid his hotel bill. You have paid his -passage out----” - -“No, I paid his hotel bill; you paid his passage out.” - -“Oh, well! so long as he goes----” - -“I paid his hotel bill because he threatened to go into the City and -expose my real name.” - -“Go into the City? What could he do in the City? Whom does he know in -the City? Your brother is just a mass of lies and impostures. What does -it matter if he is really going?” - -“He must go. Nobody except you and me will lend or give him any money. -He goes as he came--the wealthy Australian. He has promised my people to -make them rich by his will: he hinted at an incurable disorder: and he -bade farewell for ever--with my cheque in his pocket!” - -“Let him go. You had something else to say?” - -“Yes. It was about my own affairs. They know all, Leonard.” - -“They know all? Who told them?” - -“I’ve had a terrible time with the wife and daughter. But they know all. -That vindictive little Beast called at the house, went upstairs, and -told them everything. Then he went away grinning. There was a terrible -scene.” - -“So I should suppose.” - -“Yes. It’s all right, though, at last. I persuaded them, with a good -deal of trouble, that the profession was rather more holy than the -Church. I set forth the facts--the honour and glory--the secret -diffusion and cultivation of a better taste--higher standards--a -Mission--nobler æsthetics--and the income--especially the income.” - -“That would be a serious factor in the case.” - -“Yes. And I pointed out the educational side--the advance of oratory. So -they came round, little by little. And I clinched the thing by offering -to go back to the Bar; in which case, I told them, we should have to -live at Shepherd’s Bush, in a £40 a year semi-detached, while Algernon -went into the City as a clerk at fifteen shillings a week, which is more -than his true value.” - -“Well, since it did well I congratulate you. The profession will be -continued, of course?” - -“Of course. But I confess I was surprised at the common-sense of -Algernon. He will immediately enter at the Bar: he will join me; there -will henceforth be two successful lawyers in the family instead of one.” - -“And what about the threatened exposure?” - -“Algernon has gone to see the BEAST. He is to promise him that if a word -or a hint is dropped, everybody shall know where he--the BEAST--buys his -stories, and his poems, and his epigrams, as well as his after-dinner -speeches. Algernon has fished it all out. Why, sir, the man is a -Fraud--a common Fraud! He buys everything!” - -So with this tribute to truth and honesty the weaver of speeches for -other people went away. Only the day before Leonard would have received -this communication with disgust as another humiliation. The way of -deception--the life of pretence--was kept open. It would have been a -tearing down of more family pride. Now it was nothing. The pretence of -it, the ready way in which his cousin Algernon had dropped into it, -belonged to someone else--not to himself. The family honour--such as he -had always regarded it and believed in it--was gone--smashed and broken -up into fragments. The House of the Campaignes, like every other family, -had its decaying branches; its dead branches; its off-shoots and humble -branches; its branches of dishonour. - -There is no such thing existing as a family where men have been always -Bayards and its women always beyond reproach. Upon him had fallen the -blow of finding out the things concealed: the blot on the scutcheon, the -ugly stories of the past: the poor relations and the unworthy relations. -The discovery humiliated him at the outset: it became rapidly a thing -apart from himself and outside himself. Uncle Fred might be an impostor -and fraud. Very good. It mattered nothing to him. Uncle Christopher was -a pretender and a humbug--what did it matter? The East-End solicitor was -a person with no pretence at honour and honesty--what did it matter? -They belonged to him by blood relationship; yet he was still--himself. - -Only one thing remained. And now even the horror of that was more -tolerable than the humiliation of the first revelations. It was the -terrible story of the crime and the seventy years of expiation in which -there had been no expiation, because nothing can ever atone for a crime -or make it as if it had not been. - -Men pray for forgiveness--“neither reward us after our iniquities.” - -There should be another and a less selfish prayer that all shall be in -the world as if the iniquity had never been committed: that the -consequences of the iniquity shall be stayed, miraculously -stayed--because, but for a miracle, they must take their course -according to the great law of Nature, that nothing can happen save under -conditions imposed by the record of the past. The dream of the sinner is -that he shall be forgiven and shall go straight to the land of white -clothing and hearts at peace for ever, while down below the children and -the grandchildren are in the misery of the consequences--the inevitable -consequences of his follies and his crimes. So every soul stands or -falls by itself, yet in its standing or in its falling it supports or it -drags down the children and the grandchildren. - -These thoughts, and other thoughts like unto these, crowded into the -brain of the young man when he sat alone--the _dossier_ of the crime -locked up in the drawer--the disgraces of his cousins pushed aside--and -the crime which caused so much little more than a memory and an abiding -pity. Everything had come to Leonard which Constance, not knowing what -the words might mean, desired for him. How great the change it made in -him, as yet he hardly suspected. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -HE SPEAKS AT LAST - - -Was it really the last day of Visitation? Punishment or Consequence, -would there be no more? - -Punishment or Consequence, it matters little which. One thing more -happened on this eventful day. It came in a telegram from the ancestral -housekeeper. - -“Please come down as soon as you can. There is a change.” - -A change! When a man is ninety-five what change do his friends expect? -Leonard carried the telegram to Constance. - -“I think,” he said, “it must be the end.” - -“It is assuredly the end. You will go at once--to-day. Let me go with -you, Leonard.” - -“You? But it would only distress you.” - -“It will not distress me if I can take him, before he dies, a simple -message.” - -“You sent me a message. How did you know that it was a message?” - -“I knew it was a message, because I saw it with my mind’s eye written -clear and bright, and because I heard it plain and unmistakable. It came -to me in the night. I thought it was a dream. Now I think it was a -message.” - -“You said that all the misfortunes were over. Like your message, it was -a dream. Yet now we get this telegram.” - -“Why--do you call this a misfortune? What better can we desire for that -poor old man but the end?” - -They started at once; they caught a train which landed them at the -nearest station a little before seven. It was an evening in early -spring. The sun was sinking, the cloudless sky was full of peace and -light, the air was as soft as it was fragrant; there was no rustle of -branches, even the birds were hushed. - -“It is the end,” said Constance softly, “and it is peace.” - -They had not spoken since they started together for the station. When -one knows the mind of his companion, what need for words? - -Presently they turned from the road into the park. It was opposite the -stile over which, seventy years ago, one man had passed on his way to -death, and another, less fortunate, on his way to destruction. - -“Let us sit down in this place,” said Leonard. “Before we go on I have -something to say--I should like to say it before we are face to face -with that most unhappy of men.” - -Constance obeyed and sat down upon the stile. - -“When we came here before,” he began, with a serious voice and grave -eyes, “I was fresh from the shame and the discovery of the family -misfortunes. And we talked of the sins of the fathers, and the eating of -sour grapes, and the consolation of the Prophet----” - -“I remember every word.” - -“Very well. I think you will understand me, Constance, when I say that I -am rejoiced that I made the discovery of this fatal family history with -all that it entailed--the train of evils and shames--yes, even though it -has led to these weeks of a kind of obsession or possession, during -which I have been unable to think of anything else.” - -“What do you think now? Are the sins of the fathers visited upon the -children, or was the Prophet right?” - -“I see, with you, that it is impossible to avoid the consequences of the -father’s life and actions. The words ‘Third or Fourth Generation’ must -not be taken literally. They mean that from father to son there is a -continual chain of events linked together and inseparable, and always -moulding and causing the events which follow, and this though we know -not the past and cannot see the connecting links that form the chain. In -a higher stage humanity will refrain from some things and will be -attracted by other things entirely through the consideration of their -effect upon those who follow after. It will be a punishment self-imposed -by those who fall that they must, in pity and in mercy, have no children -to inherit their shame.” - -“You put my own thoughts into words. But about the children I am not so -sure; their very shames may be made a ladder such as Augustine made his -sins.” - -“There is nothing so true as the inheritance of consequences, except -that one does not inherit the guilt. Even with the guilt there is -sometimes the tendency to certain lines of action. ‘Nothing so -hereditary as the drink craving,’ says the physician. So I suppose there -may be a hereditary tendency in other directions. Some men--I have known -some--cannot sit down to steady work; they must lie about in the sun; -they must loaf; they have a _vitium_, an incurable disease, as incurable -as a humpback, of indolence, mind and body. Some seem unable to remain -honest--we all know examples of such men; some cannot possibly tell the -truth. What I mean”--Leonard went on, clearing his own mind by putting -his wandering thoughts into argumentative array--“is that the liability -to temptation--the tendency--is inherited, but the necessity which -forces a man to act is not inherited; that is due to himself. What says -the Prophet again? ‘As I live, saith the Lord God’--saith the Lord God. -It is magnificent; it is terrible in its depth of earnestness. He -declares an inspiration; through him the Lord strengthens His own -word--veritably strengthens His own word--by an oath, ‘As I live, saith -the Lord God.’ Can you imagine anything stronger, more audacious, but -for the eternal Verity that follows?” - -The speaker’s voice trembled; his cheek, touched by the setting sun, -glowed; the light of the western sky filled his eyes. Constance, -woman-like, trembled at the sight of the man who stood revealed to -her--the new man--transformed by the experience of shames and sorrows. - -“As the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is Mine; but if -a man doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live, saith -the Lord God.” - -“‘Saith the Lord God!’” Leonard repeated. “What must have been the faith -of a man who could so attribute his words? How to sound the depths of -his faith and his insight?” - -“He verily believed that he heard the voice of the Lord.” - -“We live for and by each other,” Leonard returned. “We think that we -stand by ourselves, and we are lifted up by the work of our forefathers; -we talk as if we lived alone, and we are but links in the chain; we are -formed and we form; we are forged and we forge. I have been like unto -one who stands in a crowd and is moved here and there, but believes all -the time that he is alone on a hill-top.” He was silent for awhile. -Presently he went on. “All that has followed the crime,” he said, “has -been in the nature of consequence. The man who committed the act retired -from the world; he deserted the world; he gave up his duties; he -resigned his children to others. One of them went to sea; he was -drowned; others were drowned with him--that was but a consequence. His -daughter, neglected and ill educated, ran away with a vulgar adventurer -whom she took for a gallant gentleman--that was a consequence. His son -found out the dreadful truth and committed suicide; his boys had no -father; two of them fell into evil ways--that was a consequence. My own -father died young, but not so young as to leave me a mere infant--that -was a misfortune, but not a consequence. In other words, Constance, the -sins of that old man have been visited upon the children, but the soul -of the son has been as the soul of the father. That is the sum and -substance of the whole. The consequences are still with us. That poor -lady in the Commercial Road is still in the purgatory of poverty which -she brought upon herself. Her son is, and will continue, what he is. Her -daughter rises above her surroundings. ‘She shall surely live, saith the -Lord God.’ My two uncles will go on to the end in their own way, and so, -I suppose, shall I myself.” - -He stopped; the light went out of his eyes. He was once more outwardly -his former self. - -“That is all, Leonard?” - -“That is all. I want you to understand that at the end--if this is the -end--I desire to feel towards that old man no thought or feeling of -reproach, only of pity for the fatal act of a moment and the long -punishment of seventy years--and you, whose ancestor he smote----” - -“Only with forgiveness in the name of that ancestor and of pity akin to -yours and equal to yours. Come, Leonard: perhaps the end has come -already.” - -They entered the Park by the broken gate and the ruined Lodge. - -“I have been looking for some such call,” said Constance. “This morning -I sent you that message. I knew it was a true message, because there -fell upon me, quite suddenly, a deep calm. All my anxieties vanished. We -have been so torn”--she spoke as if the House was hers as well--“by -troubles and forebodings, with such woes and rumours of woes, that when -they vanished suddenly and unexpectedly I knew that the time was over.” - -“You are a witch, Constance.” - -“Many women are when they are interested. Oh, Leonard! what a happiness -that there is always an end of everything--of sorrow, nay, of joy! There -must come--at last--the end, even of Punishment or of Consequence.” She -looked up and round. “The evening is so peaceful--look at the glories of -the west--it is so peaceful that one cannot believe in storm and hail -and frost. It seems to mean, for us, relief--and for him--forgiveness.” - -Everything was, indeed, still--there was no sound even of their own -footsteps as they walked across the springy turf of the park, and the -house when they came within view of it was bathed in the colours of the -west, every window flaming with the joy of life instead of the despair -of death. Yet within was a dying man. - -“Death is coming,” said Constance, “with pardon upon his wings.” - -The news that there was a “change”--word meaning much--at the Hall had -reached the village. The pride of the people, because no other village -in England entertained a recluse who lived by himself in a great house -and allowed everything to fall into decay, was to be taken from them. No -more would strangers flock over on Sunday mornings from the nearest town -and the villages round, to look over the wall at the tall stalwart -figure pacing his terrace in all weathers with the regularity of a -pendulum. In the village house of call the men assembled early to hear -and tell and whisper what they had heard. - -Then the old story was revived--the story which had almost gone out of -men’s memories--how the poor gentleman, then young, still under thirty, -with a fine high temper of his own--it was odd how the fine high temper -had got itself remembered--lost in a single day his wife and his -brother-in-law, and never held up his head again, nor went out of the -house, nor took notice of man, woman, or child, nor took a gun in his -hand, nor called his dogs, nor rode to hounds, nor went to church. - -These reminiscences had been told a thousand times in the dingy little -room of the village public-house. They reeked, like the room, of beer -and tobacco and wet garments. For seventy years they had been told in -the same words. They had been, so far, that most interesting form of -imaginative work--the story without an end. Now the end had arrived, and -there would be no more to tell. - -The story was finished. Then the door opened, and the ci-devant scarer -of birds appeared. He limped inside, he closed the door carefully; he -looked around the room. He supported himself bravely with his two -sticks, and he began to speak. - -“We’re all friends here? All friends? There’s nobody here as will carry -things to that young man? No.” - -“Take half a pint, Thomas.” - -“By your leave. Presently. I shall lend a hand to-morrow or next day to -digging a grave. We must all come to it. Why not, therefore?” - -He looked important, and evidently had something more to say, if he -could find a way to say it. - -“We’re all thinking of the same thing,” he began. “It’s the old Squire -who will soon be lyin’ dead, how he never went out of the place for -seventy long years--as long as I can remember. Why? Because there was a -man murdered and a woman died. Who was the man murdered? The Squire’s -brother-in-law. Who murdered him? John Dunning, they said. John Dunning, -he was tried and he got off and he went away. Who murdered that man? -John Dunning didn’t. Why? Because John Dunning didn’t go to the wood for -two hours afterwards. Who murdered that man, I say?” - -At this point he accepted the hospitality of the proffered glass of -beer. - -“I know who done it. I always have known. Nobody knows but me. I’ve -known for all these years; and I’ve never told. For why? He would ha’ -killed me, too. For certain sure he would ha’ killed me. Who was it, -then? I’ll tell you. It was the man that lies a-dyin’ over there. It was -the Squire himself--that’s who it was. No one else was in the wood all -the morning but the Squire and the other gentleman. I say, the Squire -done it; the Squire and nobody else. The Squire done it. The Squire done -it.” - -The men looked at each other in amazement. Then the blacksmith rose, and -he said solemnly: - -“Thomas, you’re close on eighty years of age. You’ve gone silly in your -old age. You and your Squire! I remember what my father said, ‘The -Squire, he left Mr. Holme at the wood and turned back.’ That was the -evidence at the Inquest and the Trial. You and your Squire! Go home, -Thomas, and go to bed and get your memory back again.” - -Thomas looked round the room again. The faces of all were hard and -unsympathetic. He turned and hobbled out. The days that followed were -few and evil, for he could speak about nothing else, and no one heeded -his garrulous utterances. Assuredly, if there had been a lunatic asylum -in the village he would have been enclosed there. A fatal example of the -mischief of withholding evidence! Now, had this boy made it clear at the -inquest that the two gentlemen were together in the wood for ten minutes -or a quarter of an hour, one knows not what might have followed. - -Thomas did not go home. He turned his steps in the direction of the -Hall, and he hobbled along with a purpose in his face. His revelation -had been received with scorn and derision. Perhaps in another place it -would be received with more respect. - - * * * * * - -The housekeeper met Leonard and Constance at the open door. It had stood -open all day, as if for the admission of the guest whose wings were -hovering very near. - -“He’s in the library,” said the woman, with the corner of her apron -brushing away the tears with which women-servants always meet the -approach of Azrael. “I wanted him to go upstairs and to bed, but he -takes no notice. He’s been in the library nearly all day.” - -“Did he go out this morning after breakfast?” - -“He took his breakfast as usual, and he went out afterwards as usual, -walking as upright as a post, and looking as strong and as hard as ever. -After a bit he stopped and shook all over. Then he turned round and went -indoors. He went into the library, and he sat down before the fire.” - -“Did he speak?” - -“Never a word. I offered him a glass of wine, but he only shook his -head. At one o’clock I took him his dinner, but he could eat nothing. -Presently he drank a glass of wine. At four o’clock I took him his tea, -but he wouldn’t touch it. Only he drank another glass of wine. That’s -all he’s had since the morning. And now he is sitting doubled up, with -his face working terrible.” - -They opened the door of the library softly and went in. He was not -sitting ‘doubled up’: he was lying back in his ragged old leather chair, -extended--his long legs stretched out, his hands on the arms of the -chair, his broad shoulders and his great head lying back--splendid even -in decay, like autumn opulent. His eyes were open, staring straight -upwards to the ceiling. His face was, as the housekeeper put it -‘working.’ It spoke of some internal struggle. What was it that he was -fighting in his weary brain? - -“Leonard,” the girl whispered, “it is not despair in his face. It is not -defiance. Look! It is doubt. There is something he cannot understand. He -hears whispers. Oh, I think I hear them, too! I know what they are and -whose they are.” She drew down her veil to hide her tears. - -The sun had now gone down. The shadows of the twilight lay about the -corners of the big room, the rows of books looked ghostly; the western -light began to fall, and the colours began to fade. A fire burned in the -grate, as it always burned all the year round; the flames began to throw -flickering lights and shadows about the room; they lit up the face of -the old man, and his figure seemed to stand out clear and apart, as if -there were nothing in the room but himself; nay, as if there were no -room, no furniture, no house, nothing but that one sole figure in the -presence--the unspeakable presence--of the Judge. - -His face was changing; the housekeeper spoke the truth. The defiance and -the stubbornness were going out of it. What was come to take their -place? As yet, nothing but doubt and pain and trouble. As for the -whispers, there was no proof that there were any whispers, save from the -assurance of the girl who heard them with the ear of faith. Leonard -stepped forward and bent over him. - -“Sir,” he said solemnly, “you know me. I am your great-grandson--the -grandson of your eldest son, who killed himself because he discovered a -secret--your secret. And he could no longer endure it and live. I am his -grandson.” - -The words were plain, even brutal. Leonard intended that there should be -no mistake about them. But, plain as they were, they produced no -effect. There was not even a gleam in the old man’s eye to show that he -heard. - -“You are ninety-five,” Leonard went on. “It is time to speak. I have -brought with me one who will recall a day--if you have ever forgotten -it--of tragic memories, the day when you lost at once your wife and your -brother-in-law. You have never forgotten that day, have you?” - -The old man made no reply. But he closed his eyes, perhaps as a sign -that he refused to listen. - -“Sir, I have a message for you. It is from the man whom you saved from -the gallows--the innocent man whom you saved at a trial for murder. He -sent a message from his death-bed--words of gratitude and of prayer. The -good deed that you did has grown, and borne fruit a hundredfold--your -good deed. Let the grateful words of that man be some comfort to you.” - -Again the old man made no sign. - - * * * * * - -At this point an unexpected interruption took place, for the door was -opened, and a man, a villager, came clumping in noisily. Seventy years -agone he was the boy who had done the bird-scaring. - -“They told me”--he addressed Leonard, but he looked at the figure in the -chair--“that you were here, and they said that he was going at last. So -I came. I minded what you said. Did never a one suspect? That’s what you -said. I don’t care for him now.” He nodded valiantly at the figure of -his old master. “He won’t hurt no one--no more.” - -He clumped across the room, being rheumatic, and planted himself before -the chair, bringing his stick down with a bump on the floor. - -“Did never a man suspect?” He looked round and held up his finger. - -He suspected. And he knew. - -“Old man”--he addressed himself directly to the silent figure--“who done -that job? You done it. Nobody else done it. Nobody else couldn’t ha’ -done it. Who done it? You done it. There was nobody else in the wood but -you before John Dunning came along.” - -Leonard took him by the arm, and led him unresisting out of the library. -But he went on repeating his story, as if he could not say it often -enough to satisfy his conscience. - -“I always meant to tell him some day before I died. Now I have told him. -I’ve told all the people too--all of them. Why should I go on putting of -it away and hiding of it? He ought to ha’ swung long ago, he ought. And -he shall too. He shall yet, though he be ninety years and more. Who done -it? Who done it? Who done it? He done it. He done it. He done it, I -say.” - -They heard his voice as Leonard led him to the door; they heard his -voice when Leonard shut the door upon him, repeating his refrain in a -senile sing-song. - -“What matter?” said Leonard. “Let him sing his burden all over the -village. The time has gone by when such as he can hurt.” - -But the old man still made as if he had heard nothing. He remained -perfectly impassible. Not even the Sphinx could be more obstinately -fixed on betraying no emotion. Presently he stirred--perhaps because he -was moved; he pulled himself up with difficulty; he sat supported by the -arms of the chair, his body bending under the weight of the massive head -and broad shoulders, too heavy at last even for that gigantic frame; his -head was bent slightly forward; his eyes, deep set, were now fixed upon -the red coals of the fire, which burned all the year round to warm him; -his face was drawn by hard lines, which stood out like ropes in the -firelight. His abundant white hair lay upon his shoulders, and his long -white beard fell round him to the waist. - -And thus he had been for seventy years, while his early manhood passed -slowly into the prime of life, while the first decay touched his locks -with tiny streaks of grey, while early age fell upon him, while his face -grew furrowed, while his eyes sank and his cheek-bones stood out, while -his teeth fell out and his long face was shortened and his ancient -comeliness vanished. So he had remained while his neglected children -grew up, while Consequences fell unheeded and unknown upon his house, -ignorant of what went on in the outer world, though a new world grew up -around him with new thoughts, new ideals, new standards, and a new -civilisation. The Great Revolution which we call the Nineteenth Century -went on around him, and he knew nothing; he lived, as he was born, in -the eighteenth century, which was prolonged to the days of King George -the Fourth. If he thought at all in his long life, his thoughts were as -the thoughts of the time in which he was born. - -Did he think at all? Of what could he think when day followed day, and -one was like another, and there was no change; when spring succeeded -winter unheeded; and cold and heat were alike to one who felt neither; -and there was no book or newspaper or voice of friend to bring food for -the mind or to break the monotony of the days? - -The anchorite of the Church could pray; his only occupations were prayer -and his mighty wrestling with the Devil. Since this anchorite of the -Country House could not pray, there was left with him, day and night, -the latter resource. Surely, after seventy long years, this occupation -must have proved wearisome. - -Leonard went on: “Speak.” - -The old man made no sign. - -“Speak, then. Speak, and tell us what we already know.” - -There was still no reply. - -“You have suffered so long. You have made atonement so terrible: it is -time to speak--to speak and end it.” - -His face visibly hardened. - -“Oh! it is no use,” Leonard cried in despair. “It is like walking into a -brick wall. Sir, you hear me--you understand what is said! You cannot -tell us one single thing that we do not know already.” - -He made a gesture of despair, and stepped back. - -Then Constance herself stepped forward. She threw herself at his feet; -like a Greek suppliant she clasped his knees, and she spoke slowly and -softly: - -“You must hear me. I have a right to be heard. Look at me. I am the -great-grand-daughter of Langley Holme.” - -She raised her veil. - -The old man screamed aloud. He caught the arms of the chair and sat -upright. He stared at her face. He trembled and shook all over, insomuch -that at the shaking of his large frame the floor also trembled and -shook, and the plates on the table and the fender rattled. - -“Langley!” he cried, seeing nothing but her face--“Langley! You have -come back. At last--at last!” - -He could not understand that this was a living woman, not a dead man. He -saw only her face, and it was the face of Langley himself. - -“Yes,” she said, boldly. “Langley come back. He says that you have -suffered long enough. He says that he has forgiven you long ago. His -sister has forgiven you. All is forgiven, Langley says. Speak--speak--in -the very presence of God, Who knows. It was your hand that murdered -Langley. Speak! You struck him with the club in the forehead so that he -fell dead. When he was brought home dead, your punishment began with the -death of your wife, and has gone on ever since. Speak!” - -The old man shook his head mechanically. He tried to speak. It was as if -his lips refused to utter the words. He sank back in the chair, still -gazing upon the face and trembling. At last he spoke. - -“Langley knows--Langley knows,” he said. - -“Speak!” Constance commanded. - -“Langley knows----” - -“Speak!” - -“I did it!” said the old man. - -Constance knelt down before him and prayed aloud. - -“I did it!” he repeated. - -Constance took his hand and kissed it. - -“I am Langley’s child,” she said. “In his name you are forgiven. Oh, the -long punishment is over! Oh, we have all forgiven you! Oh, you have -suffered so long--so long! At last--at last--forgive yourself!” - -Then a strange thing happened. It happens often with the very old that -in the hour of death there falls upon the face a return of youth. The -old man’s face became young; the years fell from him; but for his white -hair you would have thought him young again. The hard lines vanished -with the crow’s-feet and the creases and the furrows; the soft colour of -youth reappeared upon his cheek. Oh, the goodly man--the splendid face -and figure of a man! He stood up, without apparent difficulty; he held -Constance by the hand, but he stood up without support, towering in his -six feet six, erect and strong. - -“Forgiven?” he asked. “What is there to be forgiven? Forgive myself? -Why? What have I done that needs forgiveness? Let us walk into the wood, -Langley--let us walk into the wood. My dear, I do not understand. -Langley’s child is but a baby in arms.” - -His hand dropped. He would have fallen to the ground but that Leonard -caught him and laid him gently on the chair. - -“It is the end,” said Constance. “He has confessed.” - -It was the end. The Recluse was dead. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE WILL - - -One of the London morning papers devoted a leading article to the -subject of the modern Recluse. The following is a passage from that -excellent leader: - -“The Hermit, or the Recluse, has long disappeared from the roadside, -from the bridge-end, from the river bank. His Hermitage sometimes -remains, as at Warkworth, but the ancient occupant is gone. He was -succeeded by the Eccentric, who flourished mightily in the last century, -and took many strange forms; some lived alone, each in a single room; -some became misers and crept out at night, to pick up offal for food; -some lived in hollow trees; some never washed, and allowed nothing in -the house to be washed. There were no absurdities too ridiculous to be -practised by the Eccentric of the last century. - -“For reasons which the writer of social manners may discover, the -Eccentric has mostly followed the Recluse; there are none left. -Therefore, the life of the late Algernon Campaigne, of Campaigne Park, -Bucks, an Eccentric of the eighteenth-century type, will afford a -pleasing exception to the dull and monotonous chronicles of modern -private life. - -“This worthy, a country gentleman of good family and large estate, was -married in quite early manhood, having succeeded to the property at -twenty-one or so. His health was excellent; he was a model of humanity -to look at, being much over six feet high and large of frame in -proportion. He had gone through the usual course of public school and -the University, not without distinction; he had been called to the Bar; -he was a magistrate; and he was understood to have ambitions of a -Parliamentary career. In a word, no young man ever started with fairer -prospects or with a better chance of success in whatever line he -proposed to take up. - -“Unfortunately, a single tragic event blasted these prospects and ruined -his life. His brother-in-law, a gentleman of his own rank and station, -and his most intimate friend, while on a visit at Campaigne Park, was -brutally murdered--by whom it was never discovered. The shock of this -event brought the young wife of Mr. Campaigne to premature labour, and -killed her as well on the same day. - -“This misfortune so weighed upon the unhappy man that he fell into a -despondent condition, from which he never rallied. He entered into a -voluntary retirement from the world. He lived alone in his great house, -with no one but an old woman for a housekeeper, for the whole remainder -of his life--seventy years. During the whole of that time he has -preserved absolute silence; he has not uttered a word. He has neglected -his affairs; when his signature was absolutely necessary, his agent left -the document on his table, and next day found it signed. He would have -nothing done to the house; the fine furniture and the noble paintings -are reported to be ruined with damp and cold; his garden and -glass-houses are overgrown and destroyed. He spent his mornings, in all -weathers, walking up and down the brick terrace overlooking his ruined -lawns; he dined at one o’clock on a beefsteak and a bottle of port; he -slept before the fire all the afternoon; he went to bed at nine. He -never opened a book or a newspaper or a letter. He was careless what -became of his children, and he refused to see his friends. A more -melancholy, useless existence can hardly be imagined. And this life he -followed without the least change for seventy years. When he died, the -day before yesterday, it was on his ninety-fifth birthday.” - -More followed, but these were the facts as presented to the readers, -with a moral to follow. - -They buried the old man with his forefathers “in sure and certain hope.” -The words may pass, perhaps, for he had been punished, if punishment can -atone for crime. Constance brought him a message of forgiveness, but -could he forgive himself? All manner of sins can be forgiven. The -murdered man, the dishonoured woman, the wronged orphan, the sweated -workwoman, the ruined shareholder, the innocent man done to death or -prison by perjury--all may lift up their hands in pity and cry aloud -with tears their forgiveness, but will the guilty man forgive himself? -Until he can the glorious streets of the New Jerusalem will be dark, the -sound of the harp and the voices of praise will be but a confused -noise, and the new life itself will be nothing better than an -intolerable prolonging of the old burden. - -“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” - -Then they went away, and when they were all gone the old bird-scarer -came hobbling to the grave, and looked into it, and murmured, but not -aloud, for fear the man in the grave might arise and kill him too: - -“You done it! You done it! You done it!” - -The funeral party walked back to the house, where for the first time for -seventy years there was a table spread. All were there--the ancient -lady, daughter of the dead man, stately with her black silk and laces, -with the bearing of a Duchess, leaning on the arm of her grand-nephew; -the two grandsons, Fred and Christopher; the wife and children of the -latter; Mr. Samuel Galley and Mary Anne his sister; and Constance, -great-grandniece of the deceased. With them came the agent, a solicitor -from the neighbouring town. - -After luncheon the agent produced the Will. - -“This Will,” he said, “was drawn up by my great-grandfather in the year -1826, exactly one month after the tragic event which so weighed upon his -client’s mind.” - -“Was he in his right mind?” asked Sam, turning very red. “I ask the -question without prejudice.” - -“Sir, he was always in his right mind. He would not speak, but on -occasion he would write. He was never, down to the very end, in any -sense out of his mind. I have letters and instructions from him year -after year for seventy years--my firm has acted for this family for a -hundred years--which will establish his complete sanity should that be -questioned.” - -“Well, the Will,” said Sam. “Let’s get to the Will.” - -“I will read the Will.” - -For the will of a rich man, it was comparatively short; there was in it, -however, a clause which caused Leonard to glance curiously and -inquiringly at Constance. - -“I don’t understand,” said Sam. “There’s something left to me----” - -“No, sir--to your grandmother. To you, nothing.” - -“It’s the same thing. What is hers is mine.” - -“No,” said the lady concerned, stiffly. “You will find, my grandson, -that you are mistaken.” - -“Well,” said Sam, disconcerted, “anyhow, you’ve got a share. What I want -to know is the meaning of that clause about somebody’s heirs. What have -they got to do with it?” - -“Perhaps,” said Leonard, “you might kindly explain the Will.” - -“Certainly. The testator had at the time of making his will a certain -amount of personal property to bequeath. The property consisted partly -of invested moneys, chiefly his mother’s fortune. As he was an only -child, the whole of this personal property came to him. Partly it -consisted of a town-house in Berkeley Square, also part of his mother’s -property not entailed, and his pictures, his library, and his furniture, -carriages, horses, etc. The latter part he has bequeathed to the heir -of the Campaigne estate--to you, Mr. Leonard. The former part, -consisting of the invested moneys, he bequeathes to his three children -in equal portions. As the second child was drowned and left no heirs, -this money will be divided equally between the elder son and the -daughter--you, Mrs. Galley; and as the elder son is dead, his heirs will -receive the money shared between them.” - -“With all the Accumulations!” cried Sam. “Ah!” with a long, long breath -of relief. - -“No, not the Accumulations; they are especially provided for. The -testator expressly states that only the amount actually standing in his -name at that date shall be divided, as I have set forth. ‘And,’ he -continues, ‘seeing that I may live some years yet, very much against my -wish, and that I shall not spend on myself or on my house or in any way, -being now and henceforth dead to the world and waiting in silence for my -removal whenever it may come, there will be interest on this money, -which I desire shall be invested year after year by my solicitors. And -on my death I desire that the difference between the money then and the -money now, whatever it may be, shall be given in equal shares to the -heirs of Langley Holme, my late brother-in-law, who was foully murdered -near my house, for a reason which he alone knows,’” - -“This is very wonderful,” said Frederick. “All the -accumulations--seventy years of compound interest! an immense -fortune--to be given to strangers or very distant cousins? Are we going -to allow this will to stand without a protest? You are the chief, -Leonard. What do you say?” - -“The question is whether the testator was sane at the time of making his -will,” said Leonard. - -“He was sane, then, I believe,” said the solicitor, “and he was -certainly sane at the end. I have here a note written by him three years -ago. All our communication was by writing. I ventured to ask him whether -he desired to make any change in his testamentary disposition. Here is -his reply.” - -He took a note out of his pocket-book. It was quite short. - - “Nothing has happened to cause any alteration in my will. The - reasons which made me set apart all moneys saved and accumulated - for the heirs of Langley Holme still exist. I do not know who the - heirs are.--A. C.” - -“Is that the letter of a person of unsound mind?” - -“I for one shall dispute the will,” said Sam, standing up and thrusting -his hands in his pockets. - -“Pardon me, sir, you have no _locus standi_.” - -“I don’t care. It is an iniquitous will.” - -“As you please, sir--as you please.” - -“Will you tell us the amount of the money which will come to us?” said -Fred. - -“There was a sum of £90,000 invested in the Three per Cents. The half of -that sum, or £45,000, will be divided among you three gentlemen as the -grandson and the sons of Mr. Campaigne’s eldest son. The other half will -be given to you, Mrs. Galley.” - -“Humph!” said Sam. “But when I get the will set aside----” - -“As for the accumulations, they amount at the present moment to a very -large sum indeed, an immense sum--more than a million of money. The late -Langley Holme left one daughter, whose only descendant is the young lady -here present, Miss Constance Ambry.” - -Constance rose. - -“We will talk about this business at another time,” she said. - -Leonard followed her out of the damp and grave-like house into the -ruined garden. And they sat down together in silence. - -“Fifteen thousand pounds!” said Fred. “It is no more at present rates of -interest than £400 a year. But it’s a pleasant little nest-egg to take -out to Australia--with the Dunnings to place if----” - -“Fifteen thousand pounds,” said Christopher to his son. “It’s a nice -little addition. But, my boy, the Bureau is worth ten times as much.” - -They walked away. They rambled about the house of Ruin and Decay. -Presently they walked to the station: the dream of huge wealth was -shattered. But still, there was a _solatium_. - -Mrs. Galley turned to the lawyer. - -“Sir,” she said, “when will that money be my very own?” - -“Immediately. It has only to be transferred. If you wish for an -advance----” - -“I wish for protection against my grandson.” - -“Quite right.” It was Mary Anne, who had not hitherto said a word. - -“He claims everything as his own.” - -“Madame,” said the lawyer, “we have acted, father and son, for four -generations for your family. Let me assure you that if you allow us your -confidence, you shall be amply protected.” - -Sam looked from one to the other. Then he put on his hat and walked away -gloomily. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Galley, laying her hand on her grand-daughter’s -shoulder, “I am again a gentlewoman. We will live, you and I, in a -country house, with a garden and flowers and servants and a pony -carriage. No, my dear, I will never go back to the Commercial Road. He -is welcome to everything there. Let us stay here in the village and -among the people where I was born--you and I together. Oh, my dear--my -dear! It is happiness too great. The hand of the Lord is lifted: His -wrath is stayed.” - -Leonard and Constance returned to town together. - -In the carriage the girl sat beside Leonard in silence, her hands -folded, her eyes dropped. - -“You are a great heiress, Constance,” he said. “I learn that the -accumulations now amount to an immense sum. What will you do with all -this money?” - -“I do not know. I shall pretend to myself that I haven’t got any. -Perhaps in time someone may help me to use it. I have enough already. I -do not want to buy anything that costs large sums. I do not want to -dress more expensively. I have as good society as I can desire, and I -cannot, I believe, eat any more than I have always done.” - -“Yet, how happy would some people be at such a windfall!” - -“The difficulty of doing something with it will be very terrible. Let us -never talk about it. Besides, that cousin of yours is going to set the -will aside, if he can.” - -She relapsed into silence. It was not of her newly-acquired fortune that -she was thinking. - -They drove from the station to the “Mansions.” They mounted the stairs -to the first-floor. - -“Let me come in with you, Leonard,” she said. “I want to say something. -It had better be said to-day and at once, else it will become -impossible.” - -He observed that she was embarrassed in her manner, that she spoke with -some constraint, and that she was blushing. A presentiment seized him. -Presentiment is as certain as coincidence. He, too, changed colour. But -he waited. They remained standing face to face. - -“Tell me first,” she said, “is the Possession of your mind wholly gone? -Are you quite free from the dreadful thing?” - -“Happily, yes. I am quite free. My mind is completely clear again. There -is plenty to think about--one is not likely to forget the last few -weeks--but I can think as I please. My will is my own once more.” - -“I also am quite free. The first thing that I want to say is this: What -are we to do with our knowledge?” - -“You are the person to decide. If you wish, it shall be proclaimed -abroad.” - -“I cannot possibly wish that.” - -“Or, if you wish, a history of the case shall be written out and shown -to every member of the family, and placed with the other documents of -our people, so that those who follow shall be able to read and -understand the history.” - -“No. I want the story absolutely closed, so that it can never again be -reopened. In a few years the memory of the event itself will have -vanished from the village; your cousins of the Commercial Road will -certainly not keep the story alive; besides, they know nothing. There -remains only the Book of Extracts. Let us first burn the Book of -Extracts.” - -Leonard produced the volume. Constance tore out the leaves one by one, -rolled them up, laid them neatly in the grate, put the cover on the top, -and set light to the whole. In one minute the dreadful story was -destroyed; there was no more any evidence, except in the piles of old -newspapers which are slowly mouldering in the vaults of the British -Museum. - -“Never again!” she said. “Never again will we speak of it. Nobody shall -know what we discovered. It is our secret--yours and mine. Whose secret -should it be but yours and mine?” - -“If it were a burden to you, I would it were all mine.” - -“It is no burden henceforth. Why should that be a burden which has been -forgiven? It is our secret, too, that the suffering was laid upon us, so -that we might be led to the discovery of the truth.” - -“Were we led? You would make me believe, Constance--even me--in -supernatural guidance. But it seems natural, somehow, that you should -believe that we were, as you say, led.” - -“You, who believe nothing but what you see, you will not understand. Oh! -it is so plain to me--so very plain. You have been forced--compelled -against your will--to investigate the case. Who compelled you? I know -not; but since the same force made me follow you, I think it was that -murdered man himself. Confess that you were forced; you said so -yourself.” - -“It is true that I have been absorbed in the case.” - -“Who sent your cousin from the East End? Who fired your imagination with -half-told tales of trouble? Who sent you the book? How do you explain -the absorbing interest of a case so old, so long forgotten?” - -“Is it not natural?” - -“No, it is not natural that a man of your willpower should become the -slave of a research so hopeless--as it seemed. Who was it, after we had -mastered every detail and tried every theory and examined every scrap of -evidence, and after you had examined the ground and talked to the -surviving witness--I say, after the way had been prepared--who was it -sent the two voices from the grave--the one which made it quite certain -that those two were the only persons in the wood, and the other which -showed that they were quarrelling, and that one was ungoverned in his -wrath? Can you explain that, Leonard?” - -“You believe that we were led by unseen hands, step by step, towards -the discovery, for the purpose of those who led.” - -“There were two purposes: one for the consolation of that old man, and -the other for yourself.” - -“How for myself?” - -“Look back only a month. Are you the same or are you changed? I told you -then that you were outside all other men, because you had -everything--wealth sufficient, pride of ancestry, intellectual success, -and no contact with the lower world, the vulgar and the common, or the -criminal or the disreputable world. You remember? Yes--are you changed? - -“If to possess all these undesirable things can change one, I am -changed.” - -“If to lose the things which separate you from the world, and to receive -the things which bring you nearer to the world, do change a man, then -you are changed. You will change more and more; because more and more -you will feel that you belong to the world of men and women--not of -caste and books. When all is gone, there still remains yourself--alone -before the world.” - -He made no reply. - -“Where is now your pride of birth? It is gone. Where is your contempt -for things common and unclean? You have had the vision of St. Peter. If -there are things common and unclean, they belong to you as well as to -the meaner sort--for to that kind you also belong.” - -“Something of this I have understood.” - -“And there was the other purpose. While with blow after blow it is -destroyed, you were led on and on with this mystery; voices from the -dead were brought to you, till at last the whole mystery was made plain -and stood out confessed--and with it I was moved and compelled to follow -you, till at the end I was taken to see the dying man, and to deliver to -him the forgiveness of the man he slew. Oh, Leonard, believe me; if it -is true that the soul survives the death of the body, if it is possible -for the soul still to see what goes on among the living, then have you -and I been directed and led.” - -Again he made no reply. But he was moved beyond the power of speech. - -“Forgiveness came long since. Oh! I am sure of that--long since. That -which followed--was it Consequence or Punishment?--lasted for seventy -years. Oh, what a life! Oh, what a long, long agony! Always to dwell on -one moment; day after day, night after night, with never a change and no -end; to whirl the heavy branch upon the head of the brother, to see him -fall back dead, to know that he was a murderer. Leonard! Leonard! think -of it!” - -“I do think of it, Constance. But you must not go on thinking of it.” - -“No, no--this is the last time. Forgiveness, yes--he would forgive. -God’s sweet souls cannot but forgive. But Justice must prevail, with the -condemnation of self-reproach, till Forgiveness overcomes--until, in -some mysterious way, the sinner can forgive himself.” - -She sat down and buried her face in her hands. - -“You say that we have been led--perhaps. I neither deny nor accept. But -whatever has been done for that old man whom we buried this morning, -whatever has been done for the endowment of myself with cousins and -people--well, of the more common sort--one thing more it has -accomplished. Between you and me, Constance, there flows a stream of -blood.” - -She lifted her head; she rose from the chair; she stepped closer to him; -she stood before him face to face, her hands clasped, her face pale, the -tears yet lying on her cheek, her eyes soft and full of a strange tender -light. - -“You asked me three or four weeks ago,” she said, “to marry you. I -refused. I told you that I did not know the meaning of Love or the -necessity for Love. I now understand that it means, above all, the -perfect sympathy and the necessity for sympathy. I now understand, -besides, that you did not then know, any more than I myself, the -necessity of sympathy. You were a lonely man, content to be lonely, and -sufficient for yourself. You were a proud man--proud through and -through, belonging to a caste separated from the people by a long line -of ancestry and a record full of honour. You had no occasion to earn -your daily bread; you were already distinguished; there was no man of -your age in the whole country more fortunate than you, or more -self-centred. I was able to esteem you--but you could not move my heart. -Are you following me, Leonard?” - -“I am trying to follow you.” - -“Many things have happened to you since then. You have joined the vast -company of those who suffer from the sins of their own people; you have -known shame and humiliation----” - -“And between us flows that stream.” - -Even for a strong and resolute woman, who is not afraid of -misunderstanding and does not obey conventions, there are some things -very hard to say. - -“There is one thing, and only one thing, Leonard, that can dry that -stream.” - -His face changed. He understood what she meant. - -“Is there anything? Think, Constance. Langley Holme was your ancestor. -He was done to death by mine.” - -“Yes. There is one way. Oh, Leonard, in this time of trouble and anxiety -I have watched you day by day. I have found the man beneath the scholar. -If I had accepted your offer three weeks ago, it would have been out of -respect for the scholar. But a woman can only love a man--not a scholar, -believe me, nor a student, nor a poet, nor an artist, nor anything -except a man.” - -“Constance! It is impossible! You are his daughter.” - -“It is fortunate that I am, as you say, the daughter of the man who was -killed. He suffered less than the other. The suffering was but a pang, -but the other’s--oh, it was a lifelong agony! If I marry the son of the -man who did the wrong, it is because the message I carried to the dying -man was a sign that all was forgiven, even to “‘the third and fourth -generation.’” - -“Tell me, Constance, is this pity, or----” - -“Oh, Leonard, I know not what flowers there are which grow out of pity -and sympathy, but----” - -She said no more, because there was no need. - - THE END. - - * * * * * - -Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: - -When the botle=> When the bottle {pg 15} - -must meeet and=> must meet and {pg 35} - -Algernoon was frequently=> Algernon was frequently {pg 56} - -lines of conquence=> lines of consequence {pg 129} - -when it the children left it=> when it the children left it {pg 142} - -be will lie there and suffer=> he will lie there and suffer {pg 153} - -has ever been been known=> has ever been known {pg 186} - -yov spare the time=> you spare the time {pg 265} - -to reach the the wood=> to reach the wood {pg 297} - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fourth Generation, by Walter Besant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOURTH GENERATION *** - -***** This file should be named 50177-0.txt or 50177-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/1/7/50177/ - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Fourth Generation - -Author: Walter Besant - -Release Date: October 10, 2015 [EBook #50177] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOURTH GENERATION *** - - - - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="268" height="450" alt="bookcover" title="" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border-top:4px double #F52A01;; -border-bottom:4px double #F52A01;;"> -<tr><td align="center"><i><b>The Fourth Generation</b></i></td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<h1> -<i>The FOURTH<br /> -GENERATION</i></h1> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"> -<br /> -<i>BY</i><br /> -<br /> -<big><i>SIR WALTER BESANT</i></big><br /> -<br /> -<i>Author of</i><br /> -<small> -<span class="smcap">“All Sorts and Conditions of Men,” “The Master<br /> -Craftsman,” “A Fountain Sealed,” “The<br /> -City of Refuge,” etc.</span></small></p> -<hr /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/colophon.png" width="100" height="68" alt="colophon image -not available" /> -</p> - -<p class="c"><i>FOURTH EDITION</i></p> -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"> -<i>NEW YORK</i><br /> -<span class="red"><i>Frederick A. Stokes Company</i></span><br /> -<i>Publishers</i></p> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1899, 1900,<br /> -By WALTER BESANT.</span><br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Chapter</span></td><td> </td> -<td><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Remote Ancestor</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">What he Wanted</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_24">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Something to Come</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_49">49</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Complete Supply</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_59">59</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Learned Profession</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_74">74</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Return of the Prodigal</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Child of Sorrows</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_103">103</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">In the Land of Beeches</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Mary Anne</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Dinner at the Club</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_164">164</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Book of Extracts</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_174">174</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">On the Site</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Compromise</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_224">224</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Consultation</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_232">232</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td> “<span class="smcap">Barlow Brothers</span>”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_248">248</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">And Another Came</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_258">258</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Yet Another!</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_278">278</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Light that Broke</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_290">290</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Signs of Change</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_306">306</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">He Speaks at Last</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_322">322</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Will</span></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_341">341</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> - -<p>I<small>T</small> is perhaps well to explain that this story first appeared as a serial -early in 1899: that on revision it was found desirable partly to rewrite -certain chapters and to enlarge upon certain points. The structure of -the story, the characters, and the situations remain unaltered.</p> - -<p>The question with which the story deals is not fully answered. It is one -of those questions which can never be answered; from time to time every -man must ask himself why the innocent must suffer, and do suffer every -day and in every generation, for the follies and the sins of their -forefathers. Every man must find his own answer, or must acknowledge -sorrowfully that he can find none. I venture to offer in these pages an -answer that satisfies myself. It substitutes consequence for punishment, -and puts effect that follows cause in place of penalties. And, as I hope -is made plain, it seems to me that I have no less an authority for this -view than the greatest of the Prophets of Israel. The consequences of -ancestral and paternal actions may be a blessing and a help: or they may -be a curse and a burden for generations; in either case they are -consequences which can only affect the body, or the mind, or the social -position of the descendants. They may make ambition impossible: they may -make action impossible: they may keep a man down among the rank and -file: but they cannot do more. The Prophet defines and limits their -power. And the consequences, whatever they are, may be made a ladder for -the soul to rise or a weight to drag it down. In the pages which follow -they are shown as to some a ladder, but to others a way of descent.</p> - -<p class="r"> -W. B.<br /> -</p> - -<p > -<span class="smcap">United University Club</span>,<br /> -<i>June, 1900</i>.<br /> -</p> - -<p><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_FOURTH_GENERATION" id="THE_FOURTH_GENERATION"></a>THE FOURTH GENERATION</h2> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /><br /> -<small>A REMOTE ANCESTOR</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>T</small> was a morning of early March, when a northeast wind ground together -the dry branches on which as yet there were no signs of coming spring; -the sky was covered by a grey cloud of one even shade, with no gleams of -light or streak of blue, or abatement or mitigation of the sombre hue; -the hedges showed as yet no flowers, not even the celandine; the earth -had as yet assumed no early vernal softening; there were no tender -shoots; dolefully the birds cowered on the branches, or flew up into the -ivy on the wall, where they waited for a milder time, with such patience -as hunger only half appeased would allow. Those who lived upon berries -and buds remembered with anxiety that they had already eaten up all the -haws and stripped the currant bushes of all their buds, and must now go -further afield; those who hunt the helpless chrysalis, and the slug and -the worm and the creeping creatures of the field, reflected that in such -weather it was impossible to<a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a> turn over the hard earth in search of the -former, or to expect that the latter would leave their winter quarters -on such a day. At such a time, which for all created things is far worse -than any terrors offered by King Frost, the human creatures who go -abroad wrap themselves in their warmest, and hurry about their business -in haste, to finish it and get under shelter again.</p> - -<p>The south front of the house looked down upon a broad terrace paved with -red bricks; a balustrade of brick ran along the edge of the terrace; a -short but nobly designed and dignified flight of stairs led into the -garden, which began with a broad lawn. The house itself, of the early -eighteenth century, was stately and spacious; it consisted of two -stories only; it had narrow and very high windows; above the first-floor -windows ran a row of small circular louvres set in the roof, which was -of a high pitch and of red tiles; the chimneys were arranged in artistic -groups or stacks. The house had somewhat of a foreign appearance; it was -one of considerable pretension; it was a house which wanted to be -surrounded by ancient trees, by noble gardens and stately lawns, and to -be always kept deep in the country, far away from town houses and -streets; in the surroundings of a city, apart from gardens, lawns, park -and lordly trees, it would have been out of place and incongruous. The -warm red brick of which it was built had long since mellowed with age; -yellow lichen clung to the walls here and there; over one wing,<a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a> that of -the west, ivy grew, covering the whole of that end of the house.</p> - -<p>The gardens were more stately than the house itself. They began with a -most noble lawn. On one side grew two cedars of Lebanon, sweeping the -bare earth with their drooping branches. On the other side rose three -glorious walnut-trees. The space between was a bowling-green, on which -no flower-beds had ever been permitted. Beyond the bowling-green, -however, were flower-beds in plenty. There were also box-trees cut into -the old-fashioned shapes which one only sees in old-fashioned gardens. -Beyond these was a narrow plantation of shrubs, mostly evergreen. Then -stretched out, in order, the ample kitchen-gardens, the crowded orchard, -and the “glass.” Here, also, were ranged the beehives in a row, for the -owners of the house were bee-masters as well as gardeners.</p> - -<p>The whole was stately. One was filled with admiration and respect for so -noble a house, so richly set, only by walking along the road outside the -park and gazing upon the house from a distance. There were, however, -certain bounds imposed upon the admiration and respect of the visitor. -These were called for, in fact, by the gardens, and the lawns, and the -“glass,” as they must have been in the past. As for the garden of the -present, it was difficult even to guess when the hand of man, the spade -of the gardener, had last touched any part of the place. Everything was -overgrown; weeds covered the<a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a> ground which had once been beds of -asparagus and celery; the strawberry plants fought for existence with -thistles, and maintained it, by the sacrifice of fruit; couch grass and -those thistles, with shepherd’s-purse and all the weeds of the field, -covered and concealed the flower-beds. The lanes and walks were covered -ways, long since rendered impassable by reason of branches that had shot -across them; the artificial shapes of the box-trees, formerly so trim -and precise, showed cloudy and mysterious through the branches which had -grown up outside them; the bowling-green was covered with coarse grass -never mown from year to year. In the glass houses the doors stood open: -the glass was broken; the vines grew wild, pushing their way through the -broken panes. There could be no respect possible for a garden in such a -condition. Yet, the pity of it! the pity of it! So fine a place as it -had been, as it might again become, if gardeners were once more ordered -to restore it to its ancient splendours!</p> - -<p>If one turned from the garden and walked towards the house, he would -notice, first, that the stairs of brick leading to the terrace were a -good deal battered and broken; that many bricks had been displaced, that -weeds grew between the bricks, that in the balustrade there were places -where the square brick pillars were broken away; that if he mounted the -stairs, the brick pavement of the terrace showed holes and damaged -places here and there; that if he looked at the house itself he would -discern there, as<a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a> well as in the garden, a certain air of neglect and -decay. The window-frames wanted painting, the door wanted painting, -there were no curtains or blinds visible anywhere; one or two panes of -glass were broken, and not even patched. Stately, even in decay, were -house and gardens; but the spectator shivered, as one shivers at the -sight of age and decay and death hovering over what should still be -rejoicing in the strength of manhood.</p> - -<p>On this morning, when the cold of winter ushered in the deceitful -spring, a man was walking to and fro on the brick terrace. He was a man -very far advanced in life. Cold as he was, he wore no overcoat; he had -no wrapper or handkerchief round his neck; he wore no gloves.</p> - -<p>When one looked more closely, he was not only advanced in years: he was -full of years—overfull, running over. His great age was apparent in the -innumerable lines of his face; not in the loss of his hair, for his -abundant white locks fell flowing, uncut and untrimmed, upon his -shoulders, while a full white beard lay over his ample chest. His age -was shown by the heightening of the cheek-bones and the increased -prominence of the nose, in the sunken mouth, and the thin lips, and the -deep-set eyes. But though his face had been roughly handled by time, his -frame seemed to have escaped any touch. Old as he was, he bore himself -upright still; he walked with a firm, if not an elastic, step; he -carried a stick, but did not use it. He was still six feet<a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a> four, or -even more, in stature; his shoulders were still broad, his back was not -curved, nor was his huge, strong body bowed, nor were his strong legs -bent or weakened. Nothing could be more anomalous than the difference -between the man’s face, chipped and lined and covered with curves and -diagrams, like an Ordnance Survey map, and his figure, still so strong, -so erect, so vigorous.</p> - -<p>He walked from one end of the terrace to the other rapidly, and, so to -speak, resolutely. Then he turned and walked back. He look neither to -one side nor to the other; he was absorbed in some kind of meditation, -for his face was set. It was a stern face naturally; the subject of his -thoughts made it, perhaps, still harder and more stern. He wore a kind -of shooting-jacket, a broad-brimmed felt hat, stout boots fit for the -fields, and leggings, as if he were going to take out his gun, and he -carried his stick as if it had been a gun. A masterful man—that was -apparent at the outset; aggressive—that was also apparent at the -moment; defiant—of what? of whom? Evidently a man built originally as a -fighting man, endowed with great courage and enormous strength; -probably, also, with a quick temper; retaining still the courage, though -some of the strength had gone, and the fighting temperament, though his -fighting days were done.</p> - -<p>There was no sound about the place—no clatter of servants over their -work, no footsteps in the house or outside it, no trampling of horses -from the<a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a> stables, or sight of gardeners working quietly among the -forlorn flower-beds: all was silent. And the cold wind whistled, and the -old man, without the common protection from the wintry wind, walked -methodically and rapidly from east to west and from west to east.</p> - -<p>So he went on all the morning, hour after hour, untiring over this -meaningless exercise. He began it at nine, and at half-past twelve he -was still marching in this aimless manner, turning neither to the right -nor to the left, and preserving unchanged that fixed expression which -might have meant patience—a very old man has to be patient—or it might -have been, as I have called it, defiance: a man who has known -misfortunes sometimes acquires this expression of defiance, as one who -bids Fortune do her very worst, and, when she can do no more, still -repeats with courage, ‘Come what may.’</p> - -<p>In the distance, half a mile or so away, was a clock in a church-tower. -If one listened from the garden, one might hear the striking of the -hours; without waiting for it and expecting it, one would not hear the -clock at all. A melodious clock at a distance falls in with the general -whisper of the atmosphere. We call it silence, but, indeed, there is no -such thing in Nature. Silence would drive us mad. In the country we hear -a gentle whisper, tuneful and soothing, and we say it is the sweet -silence of the country; but it is not—it is the blend of all the -country sounds.<a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a></p> - -<p>The morning dragged on slowly. The beat of the old man’s footstep on the -terrace was as regular as the ticking of a clock. Neither in his -carriage, nor in his pace, nor in his face was there the least change. -He walked like a machine, and his face was as expressionless as any face -of idol or of an image.</p> - -<p>It was about eleven o’clock that another step might have been heard. The -step of a man on dry branches and among dead leaves. The old man on the -terrace paid no attention: he made as if he heard nothing: when the -figure of a rustic emerged from the orchard and stood under the -walnut-trees, the old man of the terrace made as if he saw nothing.</p> - -<p>The rustic was also well advanced in age, though far short of the tale -of years which belonged to the other. He was dressed as one who goes -afield: he walked as one who has spent his life in the ridges and -furrows of the ploughed field: he carried a spade over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>Standing under the walnut-trees, he lowered his spade and laid his hands -upon the handle as if to support himself. And then he gazed upon the old -man of the terrace. He did not, after the wont of some men, pretend to -be at work and cast a furtive glance of curiosity. On the contrary, he -made no pretence at all: he leaned upon his spade, and he gazed boldly -and without any shame. He marked the steady and firm step of the man: -his own step was not half so firm or half so steady: he marked the -bearing of the man: his own back was bent and his<a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a> shoulders lowered: he -marked the health and strength that still lay in his face: his own -cheeks were wrinkled and his eyes were dim. Presently he lifted his -spade to his shoulder and he turned away. “If I go first——” he said.</p> - -<p>Whether he came or whether he departed, whether he walked in silence -over the coarse grass or snapped the twigs and rustled the dead leaves, -the old man of the terrace took no notice. He neither saw nor heard -anything.</p> - -<p>Then the east wind continued dry and cold, and the birds chirped in -discomfort, and the branches in the orchard fell to grinding each other, -and the old man walked on. And the quarters struck from the church-tower -somewhere, not far off.</p> - -<p>At the open door of the house, at about half-past twelve, there appeared -a young man dressed warmly, as was due to the weather. He was tall—over -six feet in height; his face resembled that of the old man strikingly; -he was certainly some close relation. He stood at the door looking on -while that walk, as dismal, as monotonous, as purposeless as that of -prisoners in their yard, went on minute after minute, hour after hour. -He stood there, not hour after hour, but for a full half-hour, watching -and wondering.</p> - -<p>“Always and every day—and for all these years!”—to give words to his -thoughts. “Why this tramp day by day every morning; always alone, always -silent, seeing and not seeing, dead to outward things,<a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a> apart from the -world, taking no interest in the world? No recluse in a vault could be -more lonely. No occupation; nothing to do; nothing to think about. Good -heavens! what does he think about? No books, no newspapers to read; no -letters to write. Why?”</p> - -<p>The young man was the great-grandson of this ancient person: he was not -only the great-grandson, but the heir to the house and the estates which -belonged to the house: next to this old man he was the head of the -family. He therefore, as a mark of respect and a matter of duty, ran -down from London occasionally to see that his ancestor was properly -cared for and in health. He was also in communication with the -solicitors who managed the property.</p> - -<p>It was a very curious case: from childhood the young man had been told -of the strange and eccentric great-grandfather. He lived alone: he had -no other servant than a woman with her daughter: he only saw them when -they brought his meals: he received no visitors: he never went out of -the house except to walk every morning, whatever the weather, for four -hours up and down the terrace: he never spoke even to his housekeeper: -if anyone spoke to him, he made no reply: he never read -anything—neither book nor paper: his affairs were in the hands of a -firm of solicitors in the neighbouring market-town: when they wanted his -signature to a cheque, they drew it and sent it in to him, when he -signed and returned it; when they consulted him concerning<a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a> business, he -received their statements in writing, and replied with the greatest -brevity: there was no sign of mental derangement: so far as the -solicitors, the only persons who were able to speak on the subject, -understood, the man’s faculties were perfectly sound and his intellect -as clear as ever. Moreover, there was no sign upon him of any -hallucination, any melancholia, any mental trouble: if he maintained -silence, his face betrayed no perturbation. Day after day he presented -to the morning sun a calm and cloudless face: if he smiled not, neither -did he sigh.</p> - -<p>Now, the most remarkable thing was that this eccentricity, which might -have been explained on the theory of great age and the loss of all his -friends and contemporaries, had been practised for nearly seventy years. -As a young man, quite a young man, he began this life, and he had -continued it ever since. The reason, his great-grandson had always -understood, was the shock caused by the sudden death of his wife. -Further than this he neither knew nor did he inquire. If one grows up in -presence of a certain strange line of conduct, it becomes accepted -without inquiry. The old man had become a solitary when this young man’s -grandfather was a boy: his grandfather, his father, and he himself had -always had before them the knowledge, if not the sight, of this -eccentricity. There was no curiosity in his mind at all about the -possible cause.</p> - -<p>Seventy years! It is the whole life of the average<a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a> man, and this -strange creature had spent the whole time alone, in silence, in -solitude, and without occupation. It was not the whole span of the man’s -own life, for he was now completing his ninety-fourth year.</p> - -<p>From the distant church-tower came presently the striking of the -quarters followed by the stroke of one. At that moment an old woman came -out; she passed in front of the visitor in the doorway, and stood -watching to catch the eye of the master. She said nothing, but waited -there until he noticed her presence. Perhaps he was expecting her. He -stopped; the old woman retired; her master entered the house, taking no -notice whatever of the young man as he passed him; his eyes looked -through him with no gleam of recognition or even of intelligence as to -his presence. Yet this young man, the only one of all his descendants, -paid him a visit once a month or so to see if he was still in health.</p> - -<p>He walked straight into the room which was the single sitting-room and -dining-room and living-room. It had been the library—a large room with -a north aspect, lofty, and at all times of the year rather dark and -cold. A good fire burned in the broad old-fashioned grate. Before the -fire was a small table—it had formerly stood in the window for a -reading or writing table; now it served as a table set there for the old -man’s meals. The cloth was, in fact, spread, and the early dinner laid -upon it—a plain dinner of steak, potatoes, and a bottle of port, which<a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a> -is a beverage proper to old age; it warms and comforts; it pleases and -exhilarates; it imparts a sense of strength, and when the common forms -of food can no longer be taken, this generous drink supplies their -place. The walls were lined with shelves which were filled with books. -Evidently some former member of the family had been a scholar and a -bibliophile. The books were all bound in leather; the gilt of the titles -had mostly disappeared. If you took a volume from the shelf, you found -that it had parted from the binding; if not, it took advantage of the -movement to remove itself from the binding; if you examined the shelves -long enough, you would have found that there was not one book in the -whole library of a date later than 1829. Of all the thousands upon -thousands of books published in the seventy years since that time, not -one was in this library. For instance, the <i>Quarterly</i> and <i>Edinburgh -Reviews</i>—they stood here bound; they stopped at 1829. The <i>Annual -Register</i> was here also, bound; it stopped at 1829. And on this great -library table there were lying, as if for daily use, scattered volumes -and magazines which had been placed there for the reading of the house -in 1829. No one had touched the table since some time in that year. A -long low leather chair stood beside the fire—the leather was in rags -and tatters, worn to shreds; at the table was placed a splendid great -wooden chair, which looked like the chair of a hall-porter; the carpet -was in rags and tatters, except the part along the<a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a> front of the -shelves; there it was whole, but its colour was faded. In front of the -fire was placed a common thick sheepskin.</p> - -<p>The young man followed his ancestor into the library. He took a chair, -placed it by the fire, and sat down, his long legs curled, watching and -waiting. He had been in the same place before. The silence of the old -man, the meaningless look in his eyes, terrified him on the first -occasion. He was then unaccustomed to the manner of the man. He had -gradually grown accustomed to the sight; it no longer terrified him, and -he now sat in his place on the other side of the fire, resolved upon -making sure that the old man was properly cared for, properly fed, -properly clad, properly looked after in all respects, that his health -was good and that there was no need of seeking advice. He sat down -therefore, by the fire and looked on while the old man took his dinner.</p> - -<p>The visitor, I have said, was the great-grandson of the recluse. He was -also the heir of his house and the future owner of the place and its -possessions. As for what he was by calling you shall hear presently. -Being the heir-presumptive, he assumed the duty of making these -occasional visits, which were received—as has been stated—in silence, -and with not the slightest show of recognition.</p> - -<p>Without heeding his presence, then, the old man took his seat at the -table, lifted the cover, and began his dinner. It consisted every day of -the same dish.<a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a> Perhaps there are not many men at ninety-four who can -devour every day a full-sized steak with potatoes and bread, and can -drink with it a whole bottle of port. Yet this is what the recluse did. -The descendant for his part made it his business that the port should be -of the best and that the steak should be “treated” scientifically, in -order to ensure its tenderness and juiciness.</p> - -<p>The recluse took his food fast and eagerly. One could perceive that in -earlier days he must have enjoyed a great and noble power of putting -away beef. He took his steak with fierceness, he devoured an immense -quantity of bread, he drank his wine off in goblets as in the old days -he had tossed off the great glasses of beer. He did not sip the generous -wine, nor did he roll it about in his glass and hold it up to the light; -he drank it, as a child drinks water, unconsciously and yet eagerly, -regardless of the taste and careless of its qualities.</p> - -<p>When the bottle was empty and there was nothing more to eat, he left the -wooden chair and cast his great length into the long easy-chair, where -he stretched out his legs towards the fire, and, leaning his head upon -his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair, he gazed into the fire, -but with eyes which had in them no kind of expression. “Evidently,” -thought the spectator, “the old man has two senses left; he likes strong -meat and drink; he likes the physical comfort that they provide, and he -likes the warmth of a fire.” Then he rose slowly and stood<a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a> with his -back to the fire, looking down upon his ancestor, and began a -remonstrance, which he repeated with variations on every visit.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” he said, “I come to see you from time to time, as you know. I -come to make sure that you are cared for, and that you are well. I come -to see if anything can be done for you. On these occasions you never -fail to pretend that you do not see me. You make believe that I am not -present. You do see me; you know I am here; you know who I am; you know -why I am here. Very well. It is, I suppose, your humour to affect -silence and solitude. Nothing that I can say will, I fear, induce you to -break this silence.”</p> - -<p>There was no sign of recognition, no reply, nor any change of movement.</p> - -<p>“Why you have imposed upon yourself this lifelong misery I do not know, -nor shall I inquire. Perhaps I shall never know. It seems to me a great -mistake, whatever the cause—a sudden bereavement, I have always -understood. If it was in consequence of another person’s fault, or -another person’s misfortune, the waste and wreck of your own life would -not remove the cause; and if it was any fault of your own, such a wreck -and waste of life would only be an aggravation of the offence. But if it -was bereavement, surely it would be the manlier part to bear it and to -go on with the duties of life. However, as I do not know all the -circumstances, I have no right to speak on this point. It is too late,” -he<a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a> went on, “to make up for all the years you have thrown away, but is -it too late for a change? Can you not, even now, at this late hour, go -back among your fellow-creatures and become human again, if it is only -for a year or two? I should say it was harder to continue this life of -loneliness and misery than to go back to the life for which you were -born.”</p> - -<p>There was no answer.</p> - -<p>“I have been over the house this morning,” the young man went on -pitilessly. “You have allowed it to fall into a shameful condition. The -damp has got into pictures and wall-paper; it will need many thousands -to restore the place to a condition proper to a gentleman’s house. Don’t -you think you ought to spend that money and live in it as a gentleman of -your position ought to do?”</p> - -<p>There was still no answer. But, then, the heir expected none.</p> - -<p>The old man lifted his head from his hand and dropped it back on the -chair. His eyes closed, his hands dropped, his breathing was soft and -regular; he was asleep.</p> - -<p>His great-grandson still stood over him. This kind of scene affected him -but little, because it occurred on every visit. He arrived at eleven or -so; he walked across the park; he saw the old man doing his morning -tramp as usual; he spent an hour going over the empty, desolate house; -he watched the old man taking his walk; he followed him into the -library; he watched him taking his food; he stood<a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a> over him afterwards -and addressed his remonstrances. This was always received, as George the -Third used to receive the remonstrances of the City of London, in -silence discouraging. And always in the midst of the remonstrance the -patriarch fell asleep.</p> - -<p>The young man waited awhile, watching his great-grandfather of -ninety-four. There is very little resemblance between a man of that age -and himself at twenty-six. Yet there may be some. And no one could look -upon that old man without becoming conscious that in early manhood he -must have been of singular and wonderful comeliness—full of strength -and vigour, of fine proportions, of noble stature, and of remarkable -face and head. All these things the descendant possessed as well, but in -less marked degree, with more refinement, perhaps the refinement of -scholarship and culture, but with less strength. He had done what he -came to do; he had delivered his message; it was a failure; he expected -nothing less. He might as well go; there was nothing more to do, or to -be obtained, by staying.</p> - -<p>But then a very remarkable event happened. He heard for the first time -the voice of his great-grandfather. He was to hear it once more, and -only once more. No one, except himself on this occasion, had heard it -for nearly seventy years.</p> - -<p>The patriarch moved in his sleep, his fingers twitched, his legs jerked, -he rolled his head. Then he sat up and clutched the arms of his chair; -his face became twisted and distorted, as if under the possession<a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a> of -some evil spirit. He half rose to his feet, still holding to the arms of -the chair, and he spoke. His voice was rough and harsh, as if rusted -with long disuse. His eyes remained fixed, yet his attitude was that of -someone whom he saw—with whom he was conversing. What he said was this:</p> - -<p>“That will end it.”</p> - -<p>Then he sank back. The distortion went out of him. He laid his head upon -the chair; calm and peace, as of a child, returned to his face; he was -again asleep—if he had been awake.</p> - -<p>“A dream,” said the looker on. But he remembered the words, which came -back to him, and remained with him—why, he could not tell.</p> - -<p>He looked about the room. He thought of the strange, solitary, -meaningless life, the monotonous life, the useless life, that this -patriarch had lived for so many years. Seventy long years! This recluse -during the whole of that time—for seventy long years—had never got -outside the walls of his garden; he had seen none of his old friends; -only his great-grandson might from time to time visit the place to -ascertain if he were still living. He had done no kind of work during -that long time; he had not even put a spade into the ground; he had -never opened a book or seen a newspaper; he knew nothing that had -happened. Why, for him the world was still the world before the Reform -Act. There were no railways, there were no telegraph-wires; none of the -inventions and improvements and new ideas and<a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a> new customs were known to -him, or suspected by him; he asked for nothing, he cared for nothing, he -took interest in nothing: he never spoke. Oh, the wretchedness of it! -The folly of it! What excuse could there be—what reason—sufficient for -this throwing away of a life in which so much might have been done? What -defence could a man have for thus deserting from the Army of Humanity?</p> - -<p>As long as this young man remembered anything, he had heard of this old -man: it was always the same story; there was a kind of family bogie, who -wore always the same clothes, and took the same walk every morning and -slept every afternoon. Sometimes his mother would tell him, when he was -a boy, scraps of history about the Recluse. Long ago, in the reign of -George the Fourth, the gloomy solitary was a handsome, spirited, popular -young man; fond of hunting, fond of shooting and fishing and all -out-door sports, yet not a boor or a barbarian; one who had passed -through the University with credit, and had learning and cultivation. He -had a fine library which he used, he enjoyed conversations with -scholars, he had travelled on the Continent, a thing which then was -rare; he was thinking of entering the House. He had a fine, though not a -large, estate, and a lovely house and stately gardens. No one in the -county had greater reason to be satisfied with his lot, no one had a -clearer right to look forward to the future with confidence, than Mr. -Algernon Campaigne. The boy remembered all this talk.<a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a></p> - -<p>He now contemplated the sleeping figure with a curious blend or mixture -of emotions. There was pity in the blend, there was contempt in it, -there was something of the respect or reverence due to an ancestor. One -does not often get the chance of paying respect to so remote an ancestor -as a great-grandfather. The ancestor lay back in his chair, his head -turned a little on one side; his face, perfectly calm, had something of -the transparent waxen look that belongs to the newly dead.</p> - -<p>The young man went on thinking of what he had heard of this old man, who -was at once the pride and the shame of the family. No one can help being -proud of having a recluse, an anchorite, in the family—it is uncommon, -like an early Shakespeare; moreover, the recluse was the head of the -family, and lived in the place where the family had always lived from -time beyond the memory of man.</p> - -<p>He remembered his mother, a sad-faced widow, and his grandmother, -another sad-faced widow. A certain day came back to him—it was a few -weeks after his father’s early death, when he was a child of seven—when -the two women sat together in sorrow, and wept together, and conversed, -in his presence—but the child could not understand—and said things -which he recalled at this moment for the first time.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said the elder lady, “we are a family of misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“But why—why—why?” asked the other. “What have we done?”<a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a></p> - -<p>The elder lady shook her head. “Things are done,” she said, “that are -never suspected. Nobody knows, nobody finds out, but the arm of the Lord -is stretched out and vengeance falls, if not upon the guilty, then upon -his children and his grandchildren unto the third and fourth generation. -It has fallen heavily upon that old man—for the sins of his father, -perhaps—and upon us—and upon the children——”</p> - -<p>“The helpless, innocent children? Oh! It is cruel.”</p> - -<p>“We have Scripture for it.”</p> - -<p>These words—this conversation—came back suddenly and unexpectedly to -the young man. He had never remembered them before.</p> - -<p>“Who did what?” he asked. “The guilty person cannot be this venerable -patriarch, because this affliction has fallen upon him and still abides -with him after seventy years. But they spoke of something else. Why do -these old words come back to me? Ancestor, sleep on.”</p> - -<p>In the hall he saw the old housekeeper, and stopped to ask her after the -master.</p> - -<p>“He spoke just now,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Spoke, sir? Spoke? The master spoke?”</p> - -<p>“He sat up in his sleep and spoke.”</p> - -<p>“What in the name o’ mercy did he say?”</p> - -<p>“He said, quite clearly, ‘That will end it.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Say it again.”</p> - -<p>He said it again.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said, “I don’t know what he means.<a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a> It’s most time to end it. -Master Leonard, something dreadful will happen. It is the first time for -seventy years that he have spoken one single word.”</p> - -<p>“It was in his sleep.”</p> - -<p>“The first time for seventy years! Something dreadful, for sure, is -going to happen.”<a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /><br /> -<small>WHAT HE WANTED</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>N</small> the lightest and sunniest rooms of an unpretending flat forming part -of the Bendor Mansions, Westminster, sat a young man of six-and-twenty. -You have already seen him when he called upon his irresponsive ancestor -at the family seat in the shire of Buckingham. He was now in his study -and seated at what used to be called his desk. This simple piece of the -scholar’s furniture has long since given way to a table as big as the -dimensions of the room permit—in this case one of eight feet long and -five broad. It did not seem to be any too large for the object of its -construction, because it was completely covered with books, papers, -Blue-books, French and German journals, as well as Transactions of -English learned and scientific societies. There was no confusion. The -papers were lying in orderly arrangement; the books stood upright along -the back of the table facing the writer. They were all books of -political history, political economy, or of reference. A revolving -bookcase stood ready at hand filled with other books of reference. -These, it<a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a> might have been observed, were principally concerned with -statistics of trade—histories of trade, books on subjects connected -with trade, Free Trade, Protection, the expansion of trade, and points -connected with manufactures, industries, exports, and imports.</p> - -<p>Mr. Leonard Campaigne was already in the House. It would be too much to -say that he had already arrived at a position of authority, but he was -so far advanced that on certain subjects of the more abstruse kind, -which he endeavoured to make his own and to speak upon them with the -manner of a specialist, he was heard with some deference and reported at -some length. More than this is not permitted to six-and-twenty.</p> - -<p>These subjects were such as demand a clear head, untiring industry, the -grasp of figures, and the power of making them attractive. They also -required a prodigious memory. All these valuable qualities this young -man possessed. At Cambridge, where he went out in mathematics, he tore -himself reluctantly away from examiners who gave him all they could, -with tears that it could be no more than “Part II., Division I., Class -I.,” and wept that they could not, as all good examiners hope to do -before long, carry their examinations on to Part III., divided into -three parts and each part into three classes, and then to Part IV., also -divided into three divisions and each division into three classes, and -so to go on examining their candidates, always decreasing<a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a> in number, -once a year for the rest of their natural lives, ending with a -disgraceful pluck at eighty.</p> - -<p>“Part II., Division I., Class I.” No one can do better than that. I -believe that only one man in Leonard’s year did as well. Therefore he -went down having a very good record and a solid reputation for ability -to begin with. As to private fortune, he was independent, with an income -derived from his mother of about £800 a year, and with those -expectations which, as you have seen, were certainties. He also had a -Fellowship worth at least five shillings a year, it having gone up -recently in consequence of an unexpected looking-up or recovery in the -agricultural interest. He came up to London, therefore, thus adequately -equipped, entered at the Bar, got called, without any intention of -practising, looked out for a borough, nursed it carefully for a -twelvemonth, and got in, without a contest, at a by-election, on the -Liberal side. So far he had followed the traditions of his family. He -was the third, in sequence of father to son, of University distinction. -His grandfather, son of the dumb recluse whom you have already seen, had -also done well at Cambridge, and had also entered the House, and had -also made a highly successful beginning when he was cut off prematurely -at the early age of thirty-two. His father, who in his turn -distinguished himself at the University, also in his turn entered the -House, and was also in his turn considered a young man of promise, when -he, too,<a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a> was carried off at about the same age. There were moments when -Leonard asked himself whether this untoward fate was to be his as well. -There were, indeed, special reasons for asking this question, of which -he as yet knew nothing. Meantime, he asked no questions of the future, -nor did he concern himself about the decrees of fate.</p> - -<p>The study was pleasantly furnished with two or three easy chairs and the -student’s wooden chair. Books lined the walls; two or three cups stood -on the mantelshelf, showing that the tenant of the room was no pale -student, consumer of the midnight oil; above it there was a drawing of a -country house, the same house which you have already seen. One observed -also, with pleasure, further proofs that the occupant had his hours of -relaxation. Tobacco and that vulgar thing the briar-root were -conspicuously present. That a young man who hoped to rise by the most -severe of all studies should habitually smoke a pipe should be, to any -well-regulated mind, a most promising circumstance. The study opened -into the dining-room, which was a dining-room only, and a formal, even a -funereal place, with a few books and a few pictures—evidently not a -room which was inhabited. The tenant took his breakfast in it, and -sometimes his luncheon, and that was all. There were two bedrooms; -beyond them, the kitchen and the room for the man and wife who “did” for -Mr. Campaigne.</p> - -<p>The occupant of the flat presently laid down his<a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a> pen, and sat up -turning his face to the light. Then he rose and paced the chamber.</p> - -<p>He was a young man of somewhat remarkable appearance. In stature, as you -have seen, he was much above the average, being at least six feet two -and of strong build, though not so massive a man as his -great-grandfather, the hermit of Campaigne Park. His features were good -and strongly marked; his forehead was broad rather than high; his eyes, -small rather than large, were keen and bright, the eyebrows were nearly -straight. His appearance at this moment was meditative; but, then, he -was actually meditating; in conversation and in debate his expression -was alert, and even eager. He did not, in fact, belong to that school -which admires nothing, desires nothing, and believes in nothing. He -believed strongly, for instance, that the general standard of happiness -could be raised by wise laws—not necessarily new laws—and by good -education—not necessarily that of the School Boards. And he ardently -desired to play his part in the improvement of that standard. That is a -good solid lump of belief to begin with. For a statesman such a solid -lump of belief is invaluable.</p> - -<p>Presently he sat down again and renewed the thread of his -investigations. After an hour or so he threw aside his pen; he had -accomplished what he had proposed to do that morning. If a man is going -to succeed, you will generally find that he knows what he means to do -and the time that he<a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a> will take over it, and that he sets to work with -directness as well as resolution.</p> - -<p>The task was finished, then, and before twelve o’clock Leonard pushed -back his chair and sprang to his feet with a sigh of relief. Much as men -may love work, it is always a satisfaction to get it done. On the table -beside his papers lay a little pile of letters not yet opened. He took -up one and opened it. The letter was from the editor of a leading -magazine, accepting a proposal to contribute a paper on a certain -economic theory. Leonard smiled with satisfaction. The <i>Nineteenth -Century</i> is the ladder of ambition. It is by means of this magazine, and -of one or two like unto it, that the ambitious young man is enabled to -put himself forward as a student, if not yet an authority, on any -subject—a more rapid way of advance than by means of the House.</p> - -<p>Leonard had already written on this subject, and with success, as a -student; he was now to write upon it with authority. You will understand -from all this that Leonard was a young man whose mind was fully -occupied, even absorbed, with work which was at once his greatest -delight and the ladder for his ambitions; that he occupied a good -position in society, and that his work, his thoughts, his relaxations -were those of one who lived and moved habitually on a high level, free -from meanness or sordid cares or anxieties of any kind.</p> - -<p>On the same staircase and the same floor was a flat exactly -corresponding in every particular to his own<a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a> except that the windows -looked out towards the opposite pole. This flat, into which we will not -penetrate, was occupied by a young lady, who lived in it, just as -Leonard lived in his, with a man and his wife to look after her. People -may be neighbours in a “Mansion” and yet not know each other. It is not -likely that Leonard would have made the acquaintance of Miss Constance -Ambry but for the fortunate circumstance that he belonged to the same -club as well as the same collection of flats; that he was introduced to -her at the club; that he met her at dinner day after day; that he -speedily discovered the fact that they were neighbours; that they became -friends; that they often dined together at the club, and that they -frequently walked home together.</p> - -<p>It will be understood, therefore, that Miss Constance Ambry would have -been called, a few years ago, an emancipated young woman. The word has -already become belated; in a year or two it will be obsolete. -Emancipation has ceased to carry any reproach or to excite any -astonishment. Many girls and unmarried women live alone in flats and -mansions and similar places; they have their latch-key; they marvel that -there could have been formerly a time when the latch-key was withheld -from girls; they go where they like; they see what they wish to see; -they meet people they wish to meet. The emancipated woman twenty years -ago thought it necessary, in order to prove her superiority of -intellect, to become at least an atheist. That was part<a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a> of the -situation; other prancings and curvettings there were; now she has -settled down, the question of comparative intellect being no longer -discussed, and goes on, in many respects, almost as if she were still in -the ancient House of Bondage. In this case there were strong reasons, -comfortably running into a good many hundreds a year, why Constance -Ambry should dare to go her own way and live at her own will. She began -her independent career by three years at Girton. During her studentship -she distinguished herself especially by writing critical essays, in -which it was remarked that the passion of Love, as depicted and dwelt -upon by poets, was entirely ignored by the critic; not so much, her -friends explained, from maidenly reserve, as from a complete inability -to sympathize even with the woman’s point of view—which, indeed, women -who write poetry and love-songs have always done their utmost to -conceal, or mendaciously to represent in the same terms and under the -same form as the masculine passion. On leaving Girton she accepted a -post as Lecturer on English Literature in a women’s college. It was a -poorly-paid office, and hitherto it had been difficult to find a good -lecturer to keep it. Constance could afford not only to take it, but -also to make it the sole object of her work and thoughts. One is pleased -to add that her ideas of the liberty of women included their liberty to -dress as well as they can afford. She presented to her admiring and -envious class the constant spectacle of a woman dressed as she should -<a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>be—not splendidly, but beautifully. The girls regarded their lecturer, -clad, like a summer garden, in varied beauty, with far greater awe than -they had entertained for her predecessor, who was dumpy, wore her hair -short, and appeared habitually in a man’s jacket.</p> - -<p>The two were friends close and fast. Leonard was not afraid of -compromising her by taking tea in her drawing-room, nor was Constance -afraid of compromising herself by venturing alone into the opposite flat -if she wanted to talk about anything. It is a dangerous position even -for a young man whose ambitions absorb his thoughts; who has put the -question of marriage into the background—to be taken up at some -convenient moment not yet arrived. It is dangerous also for a girl even -when she is emancipated.</p> - -<p>As regards the young man the usual consequences happened. First he -perceived that it gave him a peculiar pleasure to sit beside her at -dinner and to walk home with her: then he became disappointed if he did -not meet her: presently he found himself thinking a great deal about -her: he also detected himself in the act of confiding his ambitions to -her sympathetic ear—this is one of the worst symptoms possible. He had -now arrived at that stage when the image of the girl is always present -in a young man’s mind: when it sometimes interferes with work: when an -explanation becomes absolutely necessary if there is to be any peace or -quiet work. The Victorian<a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a> lover no longer speaks or writes about flames -and darts, but he is still possessed and held by the dominant presence -in his mind, night and day, of his mistress.</p> - -<p>In these matters, there comes a time, the one moment, when words have to -be spoken. As with a pear which has half an hour of perfect ripeness, so -in love there is a day—an hour—a moment—when the words that mean so -much must be spoken. It is a most unfortunate thing if the lover chooses -the wrong moment. It is also very unfortunate if the ripeness is on one -side only.</p> - -<p>Leonard Campaigne made this mistake. Being a self-contained young man, -he thought about himself a great deal more than he thought of other -people: it is not necessarily a sign of selfishness or of -obtuseness—not at all; it is a defect with men of strong natures and -ambitious aims to think habitually about themselves and their aims. -Therefore, while he himself was quite ripe for a declaration, he did not -ask himself whether the ripeness was also arrived at by the other person -concerned. Unfortunately, it was not. The other person concerned was -still in the critical stage: she could consider her friend from the -outside: she felt, as yet, no attraction towards the uncritical -condition, the absorption of love.</p> - -<p>Leonard did not suspect this arrest, so to speak, of development. He -assumed that the maiden’s heart had advanced <i>pari passu</i> with his.<a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a> He -wrote a letter, therefore, a method of wooing which is less embarrassing -than that of speech—I believe that girls prefer the latter. Certainly, -it is difficult to be glowing in a letter; nor, if there should be any -doubt, is a letter so persuasive as the voice, aided by the pressure of -the hand and the ardour of the eye.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">My Dear Friend</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I am about to imperil a situation the preservation of which is my -greatest happiness. You have allowed me to talk to you freely about -my cherished ambitions. You have even done me the honour of -consulting me about your own. I would not throw away this position -of confidence for any consideration whatever. Let me, however, -venture to put before you a simple question. I ask you to consider -the possibility of a change in this situation. This change—there -is only one which we can consider—would not in any way affect this -confidence, but should draw it more closely. How it would affect me -I will tell you if you allow me.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Your friend, <br /> -“L. C.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Not a loverlike letter at all, is it? Yet there were possibilities about -it. You see, he held out the hope that more would be told. The young -lady answered by asking a few days for consideration. She was to send or -bring her reply that morning.<a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a></p> - -<p>Constance knocked at the door. She came in from her rooms without a hat. -She took a chair—Leonard’s own wooden chair—and sat down, beginning to -talk about other things, as if such a matter as a proposal of marriage -was of no importance. But that was only her way, which was always -feminine.</p> - -<p>“I was told last night,” she said, “at the club—fancy, at the -club!—that I have been compromising myself by dining night after night -with you and letting you walk home with me. That is their idea of -woman’s liberty. She is not to form friendships. Don’t abuse our -members. Pray remember, Leonard, that I do not in the least mind what -they say.”</p> - -<p>At the first glance at her face, one could understand that this girl was -not in the least alarmed as to what women might say of her. It was a -proud face. There are many kinds of pride—she might have been proud of -her family, had she chosen that form; or of her intellect and -attainments; or of her beauty—which was remarkable. She was not proud -in any such way; she had that intense self-respect which is pride of the -highest kind. “She was a woman, therefore, to be wooed,” but the wooer -must meet and equal that intense self-respect. This pride made her seem -cold. Everybody thought her intensely cold. Leonard was perhaps the only -man who knew by a thousand little indications that she was very far from -cold. The pose of her head, the lines of the mouth, the intellectual -look in her eyes,<a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a> the clear-cut regularity of her features, proclaimed -her pride and seemed to proclaim her coldness.</p> - -<p>“I always remember what you say, Constance. And now tell me what you -came to say.”</p> - -<p>She rose from the chair and remained standing. She began by looking at -the things over the mantel as if she was greatly interested in tobacco -and cigarettes. Then she turned upon him abruptly, joining her hands. -“What I came to say was this.”</p> - -<p>He read the answer in her face, which was frank, hard, and without the -least sign of embarrassment, confusion, or weakening. It is not with -such a look that a girl gives herself to her lover. However, he -pretended not to understand.</p> - -<p>“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, it is just this. I have thought about it for a whole week, and it -won’t do. That is my answer. It won’t do for either of us. I like you -very much. I like our present relations. We dine together at the club. I -come in here without fuss. You come to my place without fuss. We talk -and walk and go about together. I do not suppose that I shall ever -receive this kind of invitation from any man whom I regard so much. And -yet——”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Yet!’ Why this obstructive participle? I bring you”—but he spoke with -coldness due to the discouragement in the maiden’s face—“the fullest -worship of yourself.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head and put up her hand. “Oh<a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a> no!—no!” she said. -“Worship? I want no worship. What do you mean by worship?”</p> - -<p>“I mean the greatest respect—the greatest reverence—the greatest -admiration——”</p> - -<p>“For what?”</p> - -<p>“For Constance Ambry.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, my friend. Some of the respect I accept with gratitude, not -all of it. Still, I dare say, at this moment, you mean it all. But -consider a little. Do you worship my intellect? Confess, now. You know -that it is distinctly inferior to your own. I know it, I say. If you -came to me pretending to worship an intellect inferior to your own, I -should lose my respect for you, or I should lose my faith in your -truthfulness. It cannot be my intellect. Is it, then, worship of my -genius? But I have no genius. And that you know very well. Is it worship -of my attainments? They are far below most of the scholars of your -University and the Fellows of your college. You cannot possibly pretend -to worship my attainments——”</p> - -<p>“Let me worship Constance Ambry herself.”</p> - -<p>She laughed lightly.</p> - -<p>“It would be very foolish of you to do so. For you could not do so -without lowering your standards and your character, by pretending what -is not the case. For I am no higher than yourself in any of the virtues -possible to us both: not a bit higher: I believe that my standards of -everything—truth, honour, courage—patience—all—all—everything are<a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a> -like my intellect, distinctly lower than your own. Such is the respect -which I entertain for you. Therefore, my friend, do not, pray, think of -offering me worship.”</p> - -<p>“You wrong yourself, Constance. Your nature is far higher than mine.”</p> - -<p>She laughed again. “If I were to marry you, in a week you would find out -your mistake—and then you might fall into the opposite mistake.”</p> - -<p>“How am I to make you understand?”</p> - -<p>“I do understand. There is something that attracts you. Men are so, I -suppose. It is face, or voice, or figure, or manner. No one can tell why -a man is attracted.”</p> - -<p>“Constance, is it possible that you are not conscious of your beauty?”</p> - -<p>She looked him full in the face, and replied slowly: “I wish I -understood things. I see very well that men are more easily moved to -love than women. They make the most appalling mistakes: I know of -some—mistakes not to be remedied. Do not let us two make a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“It would be no mistake, believe me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. There is the question of beauty. Women are not fascinated -by the beauty of other women. A man is attracted by a face, and -straightway attributes to the soul behind that face all the virtues -possible. Women can behold a pretty face without believing that it is -the stamp of purity and holiness. Besides—a face! Why, in a dozen<a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a> -years what will it be like? And in thirty years—— Oh! Terrible to -think of!”</p> - -<p>“Never, Constance. You could never be otherwise than wholly beautiful.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head again, unconvinced. “I do not wish to be worshipped,” -she repeated. “Other women may like it. To me it would be a humiliation. -I don’t want worship; I want rivalry. Let me work among those who truly -work, and win my own place. As for my own face, and those so-called -feminine attractions, I confess that I am not interested in them. Not in -the least.”</p> - -<p>“If you will only let me go on admiring——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” she shook that admirable head impatiently, “as much as you -please.”</p> - -<p>Leonard sighed. Persuasion, he knew well, was of no use with this young -lady; she knew her own mind.</p> - -<p>“I will ask no more,” he said. “Your heart is capable of every -emotion—except one. You are deficient in the one passion which, if you -had it, would make you divine.”</p> - -<p>She laughed scornfully. “Make me divine?” she repeated. “Oh, you talk -like a man—not a scholar and a philosopher, but a mere man.” She left -the personal side of the question, and began to treat it generally. “The -whole of poetry is disfigured with the sham divinity, the counterfeit -divinity, of the woman. I do not want that kind of ascribed divinity. -Therefore I do not regret<a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a> the absence of this emotion which you so much -desire; I can very well do without it.” She spoke with conviction, and -she looked the part she played—cold, loveless, without a touch of -Venus. “I was lecturing my class the other day on this very subject. I -took Herrick for my text; but, indeed, there are plenty of poets who -would do as well. I spoke of this sham divinity. I said that we wanted -in poetry, as in human life, a certain sanity, which can only exist in a -condition of controlled emotion.”</p> - -<p>It was perhaps a proof that neither lover nor maiden really felt the -power of the passion called Love that they could thus, at what to some -persons would be a supreme moment, drop into a cold philosophic -treatment of the subject.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps love does not recognise sanity.”</p> - -<p>“Then love had better be locked up. I pointed out in my lecture that -these conceits and extravagancies may be very pretty set to the music of -rhythm and rhyme and phrase, but that in the conduct of life they can -have no place except in the brains of men who have now ceased to exist.”</p> - -<p>“Ceased to exist?”</p> - -<p>“I mean that the ages of ungoverned passion have died out. To dwell -perpetually on a mere episode in life, to magnify its importance, to -deify the poet’s mistress—that, I told my class, is to present a false -view of life and to divert poetry from its proper function.”<a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a></p> - -<p>“How did your class receive this view?”</p> - -<p>“Well—you know—the average girl, I believe, likes to be worshipped. It -is very bad for her, because she knows she isn’t worth it and that it -cannot last. But she seems to like it. My class looked, on the whole, as -if they could not agree with me.”</p> - -<p>“You would have no love in poetry?”</p> - -<p>“Not extravagant love. These extravagancies are not found in the nobler -poets. They are not in Milton, nor in Pope, nor in Cowper, nor in -Wordsworth, nor in Browning. I have not, as you say, experienced the -desire for love. In any case, it is only an episode. Poetry should be -concerned with the whole life.”</p> - -<p>“So should love.”</p> - -<p>“Leonard,” she said, the doubt softening her face, “there may be -something deficient in my nature. I sincerely wish that I could -understand what you mean by desiring any change.” No, she understood -nothing of the sacred passion. “But there must be no difference in -consequence. I could not bear to think that my answer even to such a -trifle should make any difference between us.”</p> - -<p>“Such a trifle! Constance, you are wonderful.”</p> - -<p>“But it seems to me, if the poets are right, that men are always ready -to make love: if one woman fails, there are plenty of others.”</p> - -<p>“Would not that make a difference between us?”</p> - -<p>“You mean that I should be jealous?”<a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a></p> - -<p>“I could not possibly use the word ‘jealous’ in connection with you, -Constance.”</p> - -<p>She considered the point from an outside position. “I should not be -jealous because you were making love to some unseen person, but I should -not like another woman standing here between us. I don’t think I could -stay here.”</p> - -<p>“You give me hope, Constance.”</p> - -<p>“No. It is only friendship. Because, you see, the whole pleasure of -having a friend like yourself—a man friend—is unrestrained and open -conversation. I like to feel free with you. And I confess that I could -not do this if another woman were with us.”</p> - -<p>She was silent awhile. She became a little embarrassed. “Leonard,” she -said, “I have been thinking about you as well as myself. If I thought -that this thing was necessary for you—or best for you—I might, -perhaps—though I could not give you what you expect—I mean—responsive -worship and the rest of it.”</p> - -<p>“Necessary?” he repeated.</p> - -<p>There was no sign of Love’s weakness in her face, which had now assumed -the professional manner that is historical, philosophical, and -analytical.</p> - -<p>“Let us sit down and talk about yourself quite dispassionately, as if -you were somebody else.”</p> - -<p>She resumed the chair—Leonard’s own chair—beside the table; it was a -revolving chair, and she turned it half round so that her elbow rested<a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a> -on the blotting-pad, while she faced her suitor. Leonard for his part -experienced the old feeling of standing up before the Head for a little -wholesome criticism. He laughed, however, and obeyed, taking the -easy-chair at his side of the fireplace. This gave Constance the slight -superiority of talking down to instead of up to him. A tall man very -often forgets the advantage of his stature.</p> - -<p>“I mean, if companionship were necessary for you. It is, I believe, to -weaker and to less fortunate men—to poets, I suppose. Love means, I am -sure, a craving for support and sympathy. Some men—weaker men than -you—require sympathy as much as women. You do not feel that desire—or -need.”</p> - -<p>“A terrible charge. But how do you know?”</p> - -<p>“I know because I have thought a great deal about you, and because I -have conceived so deep a regard for you that, at first, when I received -your letter I almost—almost—made a great mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Well—but tell me something more. To learn how one is estimated may be -very good for one. Self-conceit is an ever-present danger.”</p> - -<p>“I think, to begin with, that of all young men that I know you are the -most self-reliant and the most confident.”</p> - -<p>“Well, these are virtues, are they not?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, you have every right to be self-reliant. You are a good -scholar, and you have been regarded at the University as one of the -coming men. You<a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a> are actually already one of the men who are looked upon -as arrived. So far you have justified your self-confidence.”</p> - -<p>“So far my vanity is not wounded. But there is more.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. You are also the most fortunate of young men. You are miles ahead -of your contemporaries, because where they all lack something you lack -nothing. One man wants birth—it takes a very strong man to get over a -humble origin: another man wants manner: another has an unfortunate -face—a harsh voice—a nervous jerkiness: another is deficient in style: -another is ground down by poverty. You alone have not one single defect -to stand in your way.”</p> - -<p>“Let me be grateful, then.”</p> - -<p>“You have that very, very rare combination of qualities which make the -successful statesman. You are good-looking: you are even handsome: you -look important: you have a good voice and a good manner as well as a -good presence: you are a gentleman by birth and training: you have -enough to live upon now: and you are the heir to a good estate. Really, -Leonard, I do not know what else you could ask of fortune.”</p> - -<p>“I have never asked anything of fortune.”</p> - -<p>“And you get everything. You are too fortunate, Leonard. There must be -something behind—something to come. Nature makes no man perfectly -happy.”<a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a></p> - -<p>“Indeed!” He smiled gravely. “I want nothing of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“In addition to everything else, you are completely healthy, and I -believe you are a stranger to the dentist; your hair is not getting -prematurely thin. Really, Leonard, I do not think that there can be in -the whole country any other young man so fortunate.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you refuse to join your future with mine.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, if there were any misfortunes or drawbacks one might not -refuse. Family scandals, now—— Many noble houses have whole cupboards -filled with skeletons: your cupboards are only filled with blue china. -One or two scandals might make you more human.”</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately, from your point of view, my people have no scandals.”</p> - -<p>“Poor relations again! Many people are much pestered with poor -relations. They get into scrapes, and they have to be pulled out at -great cost. I have a cousin, for instance, who turns up occasionally. He -is very expensive and most disreputable. But you? Oh, fortunate young -man!”</p> - -<p>“We have had early deaths; but there are no disreputable cousins.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I complain of. You are too fortunate. You should throw a -ring into the sea—like the too fortunate king, the only person who -could be compared with you.”<a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a></p> - -<p>“I dare say gout or something will come along in time.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t good for you,” she went on, half in earnest. “It makes life -too pleasant for you, Leonard. You expect the whole of life to be one -long triumphal march. Why, you are so fortunate that you are altogether -outside humanity. You are out of sympathy with men and women. They have -to fight for everything. You have everything tossed into your lap. You -have nothing in common with the working world—no humiliations—no -disgraces—no shames and no defeats.”</p> - -<p>“I hardly understand——” he began, disconcerted at this unexpected -array of charges and crimes.</p> - -<p>“I mean that you are placed above the actual world, in which men tumble -about and are knocked down and are picked up—mostly by the women. You -have never been knocked down. You say that I do not understand Love. -Perhaps not. Certainly you do not. Love means support on both sides. You -and I do not want any kind of support. You are clad in mail armour. You -do not—you cannot—even wish to know what Love means.”</p> - -<p>He made no reply. This turning of the table was unexpected. She had been -confessing that she felt no need of Love, and now she accused him—the -wooer—of a like defect.</p> - -<p>“Leonard, if fortune would only provide you with family scandals, some -poor relations who would make you feel ashamed, something to make you -like other<a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a> people, vulnerable, you would learn that Love might -mean—and then, in that impossible case—I don’t know—perhaps——” She -left the sentence unfinished and ran out of the room.</p> - -<p>Leonard looked after her, his face expressing some pain. “What does she -mean? Humiliation? Degraded relations? Ridiculous!”</p> - -<p>Then, for the second time after many years, he heard the voices of his -mother and his grandmother. They spoke of misfortunes falling upon one -and another of their family, beginning with the old man of the country -house and the terrace. Oh! oh! It was absurd. He sprang to his feet. It -was absurd. Humiliations! Disgrace! Family misfortunes! Absurd! Well, -Constance had refused him. Perhaps she would come round. Meanwhile his -eyes fell upon the table and his papers. He sat down: he took up the -pen. Love, who had been looking on sorrowfully from a lofty perch on a -bookshelf, vanished with a sigh of despair. The lover heard neither the -sigh nor the fluttering of Love’s wings. He bent over his papers. A -moment, and he was again absorbed—entirely absorbed in the work before -him.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>In her own room the girl sat before her table and took up her pen. But -she threw it down again. “No,” she said, “I could not. He is altogether -absorbed in himself. He knows nothing and understands nothing—and the -world is<a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a> so full of miseries; and he is all happiness, and men and -women suffer—how they suffer!—for their sins and for other people’s -sins. And he knows nothing. He understands nothing. Oh, if he could be -made human by something—by humiliation, by defeat! If he could be made -human, like the rest, why, then—then——” She threw away her pen, -pushed back the chair, put on her hat and jacket, and went out into the -streets among the men and women.<a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /><br /> -<small>SOMETHING TO COME</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>F</small> you have the rare power of being able to work at any time, and after -any event to concentrate your thoughts on work, this is certainly a good -way of receiving disappointments and averting chagrin. Two hours passed. -Leonard continued at his table absorbed in his train of argument, and -for the moment wholly forgetful of what had passed. Presently his pen -began to move more slowly; he threw it down: he had advanced his -position by another earthwork. He sat up; he numbered his pages; he put -them together. And he found himself, after the change of mind necessary -for his work, able to consider the late conversation without passion, -though with a certain surprise. Some men—the weaker brethren—are -indignant, humiliated, by such a rejection. That is because their vanity -is built upon the sands. Leonard was not the kind of man to be -humiliated by any answer to any proposal, even that which concerns the -wedding-ring. He had too many excellent and solid foundations for the -good opinion which he entertained of himself. It was impossible for<a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a> any -woman to refuse him, considering the standards by which women consider -and estimate men. Constance had indeed acknowledged that in all things -fortune had favoured him, yet owing to some feminine caprice or -unexpected perversity he had not been able to touch her heart. Such a -man as Leonard cannot be humiliated by anything that may be said or done -to him: he is humiliated by his own acts, perhaps, and his own blunders -and mistakes, of which most men’s lives are so full.</p> - -<p>He was able to put aside, as an incident which would perhaps be -disavowed in the immediate future, the refusal of that thrice fortunate -hand of his. Besides, the refusal was conveyed in words so gracious and -so kindly.</p> - -<p>But there was this strange attack upon him. He found himself repeating -in his own mind her words. Nature, Constance said, makes no man -perfectly happy. He himself, she went on, presented the appearance of -the one exception to the rule. He was well born, wealthy enough, strong -and tall, sound of wind and limb, sufficiently well favoured, with -proved abilities, already successful, and without any discoverable -drawback. Was there any other man in the whole world like unto him? It -would be better for him, this disturbing girl—this oracle—had gone on -to prophesy, if something of the common lot—the dash of bitterness—had -been thrown in with all these great and glorious gifts of fortune; -something would<a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a> certainly happen: something was coming; there would be -disaster: then he would be more human; he would understand the world. As -soon as he had shared the sorrows and sufferings, the shames and the -humiliations, of the world, he would become more in harmony with men and -women. For the note of the common life is suffering.</p> - -<p>At this point there came back to him again out of the misty glades of -childhood the memory of those two women who sat together, widows both, -in the garb of mourning, and wept together.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said the elder lady—the words came back to him, and the -scene, as plainly as on that day when he watched the old man sleeping in -his chair—“my dear, we are a family of misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“But why—why—why?” asked the other. “What have we done?”</p> - -<p>“Things,” said the elder lady, “are done which are never suspected. -Nobody knows; nobody finds out: the arm of the Lord is stretched out, -and vengeance falls, if not upon the guilty, then upon his children -and——”</p> - -<p>Leonard drove the memory back—the lawn and the garden: the two women -sitting in the veranda: the child playing on the grass: the words—all -vanished. Leonard returned to the present. “Ghosts!” he said. “Ghosts! -Were these superstitious fears ever anything but ghosts?” He refused to -think of these things: he put aside the oracle of the wise<a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a> woman, the -admonition that he was too fortunate a youth.</p> - -<p>You have seen how he opened the first of a small heap of letters. His -eye fell upon the others: he took up the first and opened it: the -address was that of a fashionable West-End hotel: the writing was not -familiar. Yet it began “My dear nephew.”</p> - -<p>“My dear nephew?” he asked; “who calls me his dear nephew?” He turned -over the letter, and read the name at the end, “Your affectionate uncle, -Fred Campaigne.”</p> - -<p>Fred Campaigne! Then his memory flew back to another day of childhood, -and he saw his mother—that gentle creature—flushing with anger as she -repeated that name. There were tears in her eyes—not tears of sorrow, -but of wrath—and her cheek was aflame. And that was all he remembered. -The name of Frederick Campaigne was never more mentioned.</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Leonard. Then he went on reading the letter:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">My dear Nephew</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I arrived here a day or two ago, after many years’ wandering. I -lose no time, after the transaction of certain necessary business, -in communicating with you. At this point, pray turn to my -signature.”</p></div> - -<p>“I have done so already,” said Leonard. He put<a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a> the letter down, and -tried to remember more. He could not. There arose before his memory once -more the figure of his mother angry for the first and only time that he -could remember. “Why was she angry?” he asked himself. Then he -remembered that his uncle Christopher, the distinguished lawyer, had -never mentioned Frederick’s name. “Seems as if there was a family -scandal, after all,” he thought. He turned to the letter again.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I am the long-lost wanderer. I do not suppose that you can -possibly remember me, seeing that when I went away you were no more -than four or five years of age. One does not confide family matters -to a child of those tender years. When I left my country I was -under a cloud—a light cloud, it is true—a sort of nebulous haze, -mysteriously glowing in the sunshine. It was no more than the not -uncommon mystery of debt, my nephew. I went off. I was shoved off, -in fact, by the united cold shoulders of all the relations. Not -only were there money debts, but even my modest patrimony was gone. -Thus does fond youth foolishly throw good money after bad. I should -have kept my patrimony to go abroad with, and spent nothing but my -debts. I am now, however, home again. I should have called, but I -have important appointments in the City, where, you may be pleased -to learn, my name and my voice carry weight. Meantime, I hear that -you will be asked to meet me at my brother Christopher<a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>’s on -Wednesday. I shall, therefore, hope to see you then. My City -friends claim all my time between this and Wednesday. The magnitude -of certain operations renders it necessary to devote myself, for a -day or two, entirely to matters of <i>haute finance</i>. It was, I -believe, customary in former times for the prodigal son to return -in rags. We have changed all that. Nowadays the prodigal son -returns in broadcloth, with a cheque-book in his pocket and credit -at his bank. The family will be glad, I am sure, to hear that I am -prosperous exceedingly.”</p></div> - -<p>Leonard read this letter with a little uneasiness. He remembered those -tears, to begin with. And then there was a certain false ring in the -words, an affectation of light-heartedness which did not sound true. -There was an ostentation of success which seemed designed to cover the -past. “I had forgotten,” he said, “that we had a prodigal son in the -family. Indeed, I never knew the fact. ‘Prosperous exceedingly,’ is he? -‘Important appointments in the City.’ Well, we shall see. I can wait -very well until Wednesday.”</p> - -<p>He read the letter once more. Something jarred in it; the image of the -gentle woman for once in her life in wrath real and undisguised did not -agree with the nebulous haze spoken of by the writer. Besides, the touch -of romance, the Nabob who returns with a pocket full of money having<a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a> -prospered exceedingly, does not begin by making excuses for the manner -of leaving home. Not at all: he comes home exultant, certain to be well -received on account of his money-bags. “After all,” said Leonard, -putting down the letter, “it is an old affair, and my poor mother will -shed no more tears over that or anything else, and it may be forgotten.” -He put down the letter and took up the next. “Humph!” he growled. -“Algernon again! I suppose he wants to borrow again. And Constance said -that I wanted poor relations.”</p> - -<p>It is true that his cousin Algernon did occasionally borrow money of -him: but he was hardly a poor relation, being the only son of Mr. -Christopher Campaigne, of Lincoln’s Inn, Barrister-at-law, and in the -enjoyment of a large and lucrative practice. It is the blessed privilege -of the Bar that every large practice is lucrative; now, in the lower -branch of the legal profession there are large practices which are not -lucrative, just as in the lower branches of the medical profession there -are sixpenny practitioners with a very large connection, and in the -Church there are vicars with very large parishes.</p> - -<p>Algernon, for his part, was studying with a great and ambitious object. -He proposed to become the dramatist of the future. He had not yet -written any dramas; he haunted the theatres, attended all the first -nights, knew a good many actors and a few actresses, belonged to the -Playgoers’ Club, spoke and posed as one who is on the stage, or at least -as<a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a> one to whom the theatre is his chosen home. Algernon was frequently -stone-broke, was generally unable to obtain more than a certain -allowance from his father, and was accustomed to make appeals to his -cousin, the head of the family.</p> - -<p>The letter was, as Leonard expected, an invitation to lend him money:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Leonard</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to worry you, but things have become tight, and the -pater refuses any advances. Why, with his fine practice, he should -grudge my small expenses I cannot understand. He complains that I -am doing no work. This is most unreasonable, as there is no man who -works harder at his art than I myself. I go to a theatre nearly -every evening; is it my fault that the stalls cost half a guinea? -All this means that I want you to lend me a tenner until the -paternal pride breaks or bends.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 6em;">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Algernon</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Leonard read and snorted.</p> - -<p>“The fellow will never do anything,” he said. Nevertheless, he sat down, -opened his cheque-book, and drew the cheque. “Take it, confound you!” he -said.</p> - -<p>And yet Constance had told him that for want of poor relations he was -out of harmony with the rest of the world.<a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a></p> - -<p>There was a third letter—from his aunt:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Leonard</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“Will you look in, if you possibly can, on Wednesday to meet your -uncle Fred? He has come home again. Of course, you cannot remember -him. He was wild, I believe, in the old days, but he says that is -over now. Indeed, it is high time. He seems to be doing well, and -is most cheerful. As the acting head of the family, you will, I am -sure, give him a welcome, and forget and forgive, if there is -anything to forgive. Algernon is, I fear, working too hard. I could -not have believed that the art of play-writing required such close -attention to the theatres. He is making many acquaintances among -actors and actresses, who will be able, he says, to help him -tremendously. I tell his father, who sometimes grumbles, that when -the boy makes up his mind to begin there will be no living -dramatist who has more conscientiously studied his art.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 6em;">“Affectionately yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Dorothy Campaigne</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Leonard wrote a note accepting this invitation, and then endeavoured, -but without success, to dismiss the subject of the returned prodigal -from his mind. It was a relief to feel that he was at least prosperous -and cheerful. Now, had Leonard been a person of wider experience, he -would have remembered that cheerfulness in a prodigal is a most -suspicious<a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a> attribute, because cheerfulness is the dominant note of the -prodigal under all circumstances, even the most unpromising. His -cheerfulness is his principal, sometimes his only, virtue. He is -cheerful because it is always more pleasant to be cheerful than to be -miserable; it is more comfortable to laugh than to cry. Only when the -prodigal becomes successful—which is very, very seldom—does he lose -his cheerfulness and assume a responsible and anxious countenance like -the steady and plodding elder brother.<a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><br /> -<small>THE COMPLETE SUPPLY</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>T</small> was eleven o’clock that same evening. Leonard sat before his fire -thinking over the day’s work. It was not a day on which he could -congratulate himself. He had been refused: he had been told plain -truths: he had been called too fortunate: he had been warned that the -gods never make any man completely happy: he had been reminded that his -life was not likely to be one long triumphal march, nor was he going to -be exempt from the anxieties and the cares which beset other people. -Nobody likes to be told that he is too fortunate, and that he wants -defeated ambition, poor relations, and family scandals to make him level -with the rest of mankind. Moreover, he had received, as if in -confirmation of the oracle, the addition to his family of a doubtful -uncle.</p> - -<p>The Mansion was quiet: no pianos were at work: those of the people who -were not out were thinking of bed.</p> - -<p>Leonard sat over the fire feeling strangely nervous: he had thought of -doing a little work: no time like the quiet night for good work. Yet -somehow<a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a> he could not command his brain: it was a rebellious brain: -instead of tackling the social question before him, it went off -wandering in the direction of Constance and of her refusal and of her -words—her uncomfortable, ill-boding words.</p> - -<p>Unexpectedly, and without any premonitory sound of steps on the stair, -there came a ring at his bell. Now, Leonard was not a nervous man, or a -superstitious man, or one who looked at the present or the future with -apprehension. But this evening he felt a chill shudder: he knew that -something disagreeable was going to happen. He looked at the clock: his -man must have gone to bed: he got up and went out to open the door -himself.</p> - -<p>There stood before him a stranger, a man of tall stature, wrapped in a -kind of Inverness cape, with a round felt hat.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leonard Campaigne?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” he replied snappishly. “Who are you? What do you want here -at this time of night?”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to be so late. I lost my way. May I have half an hour’s talk -with you? I am a cousin of yours, though you do not know me.”</p> - -<p>“A cousin of mine? What cousin? What is your name?”</p> - -<p>“Here is my card. If you will let me come in, I will tell you all about -the relationship. A cousin I am, most certainly.”</p> - -<p>Leonard looked at the card.<a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a></p> - -<p>“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne.” In the corner were the words, “Solicitor, -Commercial Road.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about you,” said Leonard. “Perhaps, however—will you -come in?”</p> - -<p>He led the way into the study, and turned on one or two more lights. -Then he looked at his visitor.</p> - -<p>The man followed him into the study, threw off his cape and hat, and -stood before him—a tall, thin figure, with a face which instantly -reminded the spectator of a vulture; the nose was long, thin, and -curved; his eyes were bright, set too close together. He was dressed in -a frock-coat which had known better days, and wore a black tie. He -looked hungry, but not with physical pangs.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne,” he repeated. “My father’s name was -Galley; my grandmother’s maiden name was Campaigne.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, your grandmother’s name was Campaigne. Your own name, then, is -Galley?”</p> - -<p>“I added the old woman’s name to my own; it looks better for business -purposes. Also I took her family crest—she’s got a coat of arms—it -looks well for business purposes.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t take your grandmother’s family shield.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t I? Who’s to prevent me? It’s unusual down our way, and it’s good -for business.”</p> - -<p>“Well, as you please—name and coat of arms and everything. Will you -explain the cousinship?”</p> - -<p>“In two words. That old man over there”—he<a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a> indicated something in the -direction of the north—“the old man who lives by himself, is my -grandmother’s father. He’s ninety something, and she’s seventy -something.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! she is my great-aunt, then. Strange that I never heard of her.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all strange. Only what one would expect. She went down in the -world. You went up—or stayed up—of course they didn’t tell you about -her.”</p> - -<p>“Well—do you tell me about her. Will you sit down? May I offer you -anything—a cigarette?”</p> - -<p>The visitor looked about the room; there was no indication of whisky. He -sighed and declined the cigarette. But he accepted the chair.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said. “It is more friendly sitting down. You’ve got -comfortable quarters. No Mrs. C. as yet, is there? The old woman said -that you were a bachelor. Now, then. It’s this way: She married my -grandfather, Isaac Galley. That was fifty years ago—in 1849. No, 1850. -Isaac Galley failed. His failure was remarked upon in the papers on -account of the sum—the amount—of his liabilities. The <i>Times</i> wanted -to know how he managed to owe so much.”</p> - -<p>“Pray go on. I am interested. This part of our family history is new to -me.”</p> - -<p>Leonard continued standing, looking down upon his visitor. He became -aware, presently, of a ridiculous likeness to himself, and he found -himself hoping<a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a> that the vulture played a less prominent part in his own -expression. All the Campaigne people were taller—much taller—than the -average; their features were strongly marked; they were, as a rule, a -handsome family. They carried themselves with a certain dignity. This -man was tall, his features were strongly marked; but he was not -handsome, and he did not carry himself with dignity. His shoulders were -bent, and he stooped. He was one of the race, apparently, but gone to -seed; looking “common.” No one could possibly mistake him for a -gentleman by birth or by breeding. “Common” was the word to apply to Mr. -Galley-Campaigne. “Common” is a word much used by certain ladies -belonging to a certain stage of society about their neighbours’ -children; it will do to express the appearance of this visitor.</p> - -<p>“Pray go on,” Leonard repeated mechanically, while making his -observations; “you are my cousin, clearly. I must apologise for not -knowing of your existence.”</p> - -<p>“We live at the other end of town. I’m a gentleman, of course, being in -the Law—lower branch——”</p> - -<p>“Quite so,” said Leonard.</p> - -<p>“But the old woman—I mean my grandmother—takes jolly good care that I -shall know the difference between you and me. You’ve had Eton and -College to back you up. You’ve got the House of Commons and a swagger -club. That’s your world. Mine is different. We’ve no swells where I -live, down the<a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a> Commercial Road. I’m a solicitor in what you would call -a small way. There are no big men our way.”</p> - -<p>“It is a learned profession.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I am not a City clerk, like my father.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me more about yourself. Your grandfather, you say, was bankrupt. -Is he living?”</p> - -<p>“No. He went off about ten years ago, boastful to the end of his great -smash. His son—that’s my father—was in the City. He was a clerk all -his life to a wine-merchant. He died four or five years ago. He was just -able to pay for my articles—a hundred pounds—and the stamp—another -eighty—and that pretty well cleared him out, except for a little -insurance of a hundred. When he died I was just beginning to get along; -and I’ve been able to live, and to keep my mother and my -grandmother—it’s a tight fit, though—with what I can screw out of Mary -Anne.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Mary Anne?”</p> - -<p>“My sister, Mary Anne. She’s a Board School teacher. But she shoves all -the expenses on to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I have a whole family of cousins, then, previously unknown. That is -interesting. Are there more?”</p> - -<p>He remembered certain words spoken only that morning, and he winced. -Here were poor relations, after all. Constance would be pleased.</p> - -<p>“No more—only me and Mary Anne. That is to say, no more that you would -acknowledge as such. There’s all father’s cousins and their children: -and all<a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a> mother’s cousins and brothers and nephews and nieces: but you -can’t rightly call them your cousins.”</p> - -<p>“Hardly, perhaps, much as one would like....”</p> - -<p>“Now, Mr. Campaigne. The old woman has been at me a long time to call -upon you. I didn’t want to call. I don’t want to know you, and you don’t -want to know me. But I came to please her and to let you know that she’s -alive, and that she would like, above all things, to see you and to talk -to you.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed! If that is all, I shall be very pleased to call.”</p> - -<p>“You see, she’s always been unlucky—born unlucky, so to speak. But -she’s proud of her own family. They’ve never done anything for her, -whatever they may have to do—have to do, I say.” He became threatening.</p> - -<p>“Have to do,” repeated Leonard softly.</p> - -<p>“In the future. It may be necessary to prove who we are, and that before -many years—or months—or even days—and it might save trouble if you -were to understand who she is, and who I am.”</p> - -<p>“You wish me to call upon my great-aunt. I will certainly do so.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what she wants. That’s why I came here to-night. Look here, sir: -for my own part, I would not intrude upon you. I’ve not come to beg or -to borrow. But for the old woman’s sake I’ve ventured to call and ask -you to remember that she is your great-aunt. She’s seventy-two years of -age, and now and then she frets a bit after a sight of her<a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a> own people. -She hasn’t seen any of them since your grandfather committed suicide. -And that must have been about the year 1860, before you and I were -born.”</p> - -<p>Leonard started.</p> - -<p>“My grandfather committed suicide? What do you mean? My grandfather died -somewhere about 1860. What do you mean by saying that he killed -himself?”</p> - -<p>“What! Don’t you know? Your grandfather, sir,” said the other firmly, -“died of cut-throat fever. Oh yes, whatever they called it, he died of -cut-throat fever. Very sudden it was. Of that I am quite certain, -because my grandmother remembers the business perfectly well.”</p> - -<p>“Is it possible? Killed himself? Then, why did I never learn such a -thing?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose they didn’t wish to worry you. Your father was but a child, I -suppose, at the time. Perhaps they never told him. All the same, it’s -perfectly true.”</p> - -<p>Committed suicide! He remembered the widow who never smiled—the -pale-faced, heavy-eyed widow. He now understood why she went in mourning -all the days of her life. He now learned in this unexpected manner, why -she had retired to the quiet little Cornish village.</p> - -<p>Committed suicide! Why? It seemed a kind of sacrilege to ask this -person. He hesitated; he took up a trifling ornament from the -mantelshelf, and<a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a> played with it. It dropped out of his fingers into the -fender, and was broken.</p> - -<p>“Pray,” he asked, leaving the other question for the moment, “how came -your grandmother to be separated from her own people?”</p> - -<p>“They went away into the country. And her father went silly. She never -knew him when he wasn’t silly. He went silly when his brother-in-law was -murdered.”</p> - -<p>“Brother-in-law murdered? Murdered! What is this? Good Lord, man! what -do you mean with your murder and your suicide?”</p> - -<p>“Why, don’t you know? His brother-in-law was murdered on his grounds. -And his wife died of the shock the same day. What else was it that drove -him off his old chump?”</p> - -<p>“I—I—I—know nothing”—the vulgarity of the man passed unnoticed in -the face of these revelations—“I assure you, nothing of these -tragedies. They are all new to me. I have been told nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Never told you? Well, of all the—— Why, the old woman over there is -never tired of talking about these things. Proud of them she is. And you -never to know anything!”</p> - -<p>“Nothing. Is there more? And why do you call my great-grandfather mad?”</p> - -<p>“He’s as much my great-grandfather as yours. Mad? Well, I’ve seen him -over the garden wall half a dozen times, walking up and down his terrace -like a Polar bear. I don’t know what you call mad.<a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a> As for me, I’m a man -of business, and if I had a client who never opened or answered a -letter, never spoke a word to anybody, neglected his children, let his -house go to ruin, never went to church, would have no servants about the -place—why, I should have that mis’rable creature locked up, that’s -all.”</p> - -<p>Leonard put this point aside.</p> - -<p>“But you have not told me about his wife’s death. It is strange that I -should be asking you these particulars of my own family.”</p> - -<p>“Mine as well, if you please,” the East End solicitor objected, with -some dignity. “Well, sir, my grandmother is seventy-two years of age. -Therefore it is just seventy-two years since her mother died. For her -mother died in child-birth, and she died of the shock produced by the -news of her own brother’s murder. Her brother’s name was Langley Holme.”</p> - -<p>“Langley? My grandfather’s name.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Langley Holme. I think he was found lying dead on a hillside. So -our great-grandfather, I say, lost in one day his wife and his -brother-in-law, who was the best friend he had in the world. Why, sir, -if you ever go down to see him and find him in that state, does it not -occur to you to ask how it came about?”</p> - -<p>“I confess—he is so old. I thought it eccentricity of age.”</p> - -<p>“No!” His cousin shook his head. “Age alone would not make a man go on -like that. I take it,<a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a> sir, that extreme age makes a man care nothing -about other people, not even his own children; but it does not cut him -off from money matters.”</p> - -<p>“You are perhaps right. Yet—well, I know nothing. So the old man’s mind -was overthrown by the great shock of a double loss. Strange that they -never told me! And his son, my grandfather, committed suicide. And his -sister’s husband became a bankrupt.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; there are misfortunes enough. The old woman is never tired of -harping on the family misfortunes. The second son was drowned. He was a -sailor, and was drowned. My father was never anything better than a -small clerk. I’ve known myself what it is to want the price of a dinner. -If you want to know what misfortune is like, wait till you’re hungry.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed!” Leonard replied thoughtfully. “And all these troubles are new -to me. Strange that they should be told me on this very day!”</p> - -<p>“Then there’s your own father. He died young, too, and the last case -that the old woman talks about is your father’s brother. I forget his -name; they packed him off to Australia after he had forged your father’s -name.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Forged. That’s a pretty word to use, isn’t it? Yes, sir, there are -misfortunes enough.” He got up. “Well, the point is, will you come and -see the old woman?”<a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes. I will call upon her. When shall I find her at home?”</p> - -<p>“She lies down on the sofa beside the fire every afternoon from two to -four or half-past four, then wakes up refreshed and able to talk. Come -about half-past four. It’s the back-parlour; the front is my office, and -my clerk—I have only one as yet—works in the room over the -kitchen—the gal’s bedroom it is, as a rule. It is a most respectable -house, with my name on a door-plate, so you can’t miss it.”</p> - -<p>“I will call, then.”</p> - -<p>“There is one thing more, Mr. Campaigne. We have not thrust ourselves -forward, or tried to force ourselves on the family, and we shall not, -sir, we shall not. We live six miles apart, and we have our own friends, -and my friends are not yours. Still, in a business way, there is a -question which I should like to ask. It is a business question.”</p> - -<p>The man’s face became suddenly foxy. He leaned forward and dropped his -voice to a whisper. Leonard was on his guard instinctively.</p> - -<p>“If it has to do with the Campaigne estates, I have nothing whatever to -say. Would it not be well to go to the lawyers who manage the estate?”</p> - -<p>“No. They would not tell me anything. What I want to know is this. He -has, I believe, a large estate?”</p> - -<p>“He has, I believe. But he has no power to part with any portion of it.”</p> - -<p>“The estate produces rents, I suppose?”<a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a></p> - -<p>“That is no doubt the case.”</p> - -<p>“Well, for seventy years the old man has spent nothing. There must be -accumulations. In case of no will, these accumulations would be divided -equally between your grandfather’s heirs and my grandmother. Do you know -of any will, if I may be so bold as to ask?”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing of any will.”</p> - -<p>“It is most unlikely that there should be any will. A man who has been -off his head for nearly seventy years can hardly leave a will. If he -did, one could easily set it aside. Mr. Campaigne, it is on the cards -that there may be enormous accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“There may be, as you say, accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“In that case, it is possible—I say possible—that my sister and I may -become rich, very rich—I hardly dare to put the possibility upon -myself—but there must be—there must be—accumulations, and the -question which I would put to you, sir, is this: Where are those -accumulations invested? And can a man find out what they amount to—what -they are worth—who draws the dividends—how are they applied—and is -there a will? Was it made before or after the old man went off his -chump? And if the money is left out of the family, would you, sir, as -the head of the family, be ready to take steps to set aside that will? -Those are my questions, Mr. Campaigne.” He threw himself back again in -the chair, and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes.</p> - -<p>“These are very important questions,” said<a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a> Leonard. “As a lawyer, you -must be aware that I cannot give you any answer. As to the -administration of the property, I believe I have no right to ask the -lawyers and agents any questions. We must assume that the owner of the -estate is in his right mind. As for disputing a will, we must wait till -a will is produced.”</p> - -<p>“Sir”—the cousin leaned over his knees and whispered hoarsely—“sir, -the accumulations must be a million and a half. I worked it all out -myself with an arithmetic book. I learned the rule on purpose. For I -never got so far in the book as compound interest. It meant hundreds of -sums; I did ’em all, one after the other. I thought I should never get -to the end. Mary Anne helped. Hundreds of sums at compound interest, and -it tots up to a million and a half—a million and a half! Think of that! -A million and a half!”</p> - -<p>He got up and put on his overcoat slowly.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” he added, with deep emotion and a trembling voice, “this money -must not be suffered to go out of the family. It must not. It would be -sinful—sinful. We look to you to protect the rights of the family.”</p> - -<p>Leonard laughed. “I fear I have no power to help you in this respect. -Good-night. I hope to call upon my great-aunt as she wishes.”</p> - -<p>He shut the door upon his visitor. He heard his feet going down the -stairs. He returned to his empty room.<a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a></p> - -<p>It was no longer empty. The man had peopled it with ghosts, all of whom -he had brought with him.</p> - -<p>There was the old man—young again—staggering under the weight of a -double bereavement—wife and best friend in the same day. There was his -own grandfather killing himself. Why? The young sailor going out to be -drowned; his own father dying young; the returned colonial—the -prosperous gentleman who, before going out, had forged his brother’s -name. Forged! forged! The word rang in his brain. There was the daughter -of the House—deserted by the House, married into such a family as Mr. -Galley represented. Were not these ghosts enough to bring into a quiet -gentleman’s flat?</p> - -<p>Yes, he had been brought up in ignorance of these things. He knew -nothing of the cause of the old man’s seclusion; not the reason of his -grandfather’s early death; not any of those other misfortunes. He had -been kept in ignorance of all. And now these things were roughly -exploded upon his unsuspecting head.</p> - -<p>He sat down before the fire; he worked at the “Subject” no more that -night. And in his brain there rang still the strange warnings of -Constance—that he wanted something of misfortune, such as harassed the -rest of the world, in order to bring him down to a level with the men -and women around him.</p> - -<p>“I have got that something,” he said. “Poor relations, family scandals, -and humiliations and all. But so far I feel no better.”<a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /><br /> -<small>A LEARNED PROFESSION</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>N</small> one of the streets lying east of Chancery Lane is a block of -buildings, comparatively new, let out as offices. They generally consist -of three rooms, but sometimes there are four, five, or even six. The -geographical position of the block indicates the character of the -occupants: does not every stone in Chancery Lane and her daughters -belong to the Law? Sometimes, however, there are exceptions. A few -trading companies are established here, for instance; and occasionally -one finds written across the door such an announcement as “Mr. George -Crediton, Agent.” The clerks and people who passed up and down the -stairs every day sometimes asked each other what kind of agency was -undertaken in this office. But the clerks had their own affairs to think -about. Such a mystery as a business conducted in a quiet office to which -no clients ever come is a matter of speculation for a while, but soon -ceases to excite any attention. Some twenty years and more had passed -since that name had first appeared on the door and since the clerks -began to wonder.</p> - -<p>“Mr. George Crediton, Agent.” There are many<a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a> kinds of agents. Land, -houses, property of all kinds, may be managed by an agent; there are -agents for taking out patents—several of these run offices near the -Patent Office; there are literary agents—but Chancery Lane is not -Parnassus; there are agents for the creation and the dissolution of -partnership; there are theatrical agents—but what has law land to do -with sock and buskin? And what kind of Agent was Mr. George Crediton?</p> - -<p>Mr. George Crediton, Agent, sat in his inner office. The room was -furnished solidly with a view to work. The large and ponderous table, -covered with papers so dear to the solicitor, was not to be seen here; -in its place was an ordinary study table. This was turned at an angle to -the wall and window. There was a warm and handsome carpet, a sheepskin -under the table, a wooden chair for the Agent, and two others for his -visitors. A typewriter stood on the table. The walls were covered with -books—not law books, but a miscellaneous collection. The Agent was -apparently a man who revelled in light reading; for, in fact, all the -modern humorists were there—those from America as well as those of our -own production. There was also a collection of the English poets, and -some, but not many, of France and Germany. On a table before him stood -half a dozen bound folios with the titles on the back—“Reference A—E,” -and so on. In one corner, stood an open safe, to which apparently -belonged another folio, entitled “Ledger.”<a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a></p> - -<p>The Agent, engaged upon his work, evidently endeavoured to present an -appearance of the gravest responsibility. His face was decorated by a -pair of small whiskers cut straight over and set back; the chin and lips -were smooth-shaven. The model set before himself was the conventional -face of the barrister. Unfortunately, the attempt was not successful, -for the face was not in the least like that conventional type. It had no -severity, it had no keenness; it was not set or grave or dignified. It -might have been the face of a light comedian. In figure the man was over -six feet high and curiously thin, with a slightly aquiline nose and -mobile, sensitive lips.</p> - -<p>He began his morning’s work by opening his letters; there were only two -or three. He referred to his ledger and consulted certain entries; he -made a few pencil notes. Then he took down from one shelf Sam Slick, -Artemus Ward, and Mark Twain, and from another a collection of Burnand’s -works and one or two of Frederick Anstey’s. He turned over the pages, -and began to make brief extracts and more notes. Perhaps, then, a -bystander might have thought he was about to write a paper on the -comparative characteristics of English and American humour.</p> - -<p>Outside, his boy—he had a clerk of fourteen at five shillings a -week—sat before the fire reading the heroic jests and achievements of -the illustrious Jack Harkaway. He was a nice boy, full of imagination,<a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a> -resolved on becoming another Jack Harkaway when the time should arrive, -and for the moment truly grateful to fortune for providing him with a -situation which demanded no work except to post letters and to sit -before the fire reading in a warm and comfortable outer room to which no -callers or visitors ever came except his employer and the postman; and -if you asked that boy what was the character of the agency, he would not -be able to tell you.</p> - -<p>When Mr. George Crediton had finished making his extracts, he pinned the -papers together methodically, and laid them on one side. Then he opened -the last letter.</p> - -<p>“He’s answered it,” he chuckled. “Fred’s handwriting. I knew it—I knew -it. Called himself Barlow, but I knew it directly. Oh, he’ll come—he’ll -come.” He sat down and laughed silently, shaking the room with his -chuckling. “He’ll come. Won’t he be astonished?”</p> - -<p>Presently he heard a step and a voice:</p> - -<p>“I want to see Mr. George Crediton.”</p> - -<p>“That’s Fred,” said the Agent, chuckling again. “Now for it.”</p> - -<p>“There’s nobody with him,” the boy replied, not venturing to commit -himself, and unaccustomed to the arrival of strangers.</p> - -<p>The caller was a tall man of about forty-five, well set up, and strongly -built. He was dressed with the appearance of prosperity, therefore he -carried a large gold chain. His face bore the marks which we are<a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a> -accustomed to associate with certain indulgences, especially in strong -drink. It is needless to dwell upon these evidences of frailty; besides, -one may easily be mistaken. It was a kind of face which might be met -with in a snug bar-parlour with a pipe and a glass of something hot—a -handsome face, but not intellectual or refined. Yet it ought to have -been both. In spite of broadcloth and white linen the appearance of this -gentleman hardly extorted the immediate respect of the beholder.</p> - -<p>“Tell Mr. Crediton that Mr. Joseph Barlow is outside.”</p> - -<p>“Barlow?” said the boy. “Why don’t you go in, then?” and turned over now -to his book of adventures.</p> - -<p>Mr. Barlow obeyed, and passed into the inner office. There he stopped -short, and cried:</p> - -<p>“Christopher, by all that’s holy!”</p> - -<p>The Agent looked up, sprang to his feet, and held out his hand.</p> - -<p>“Fred! Back again, and become a Barlow!”</p> - -<p>Fred took the outstretched hand, but doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“Come to that, Chris, you’re a Crediton.”</p> - -<p>“In the way of business, Crediton.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so. In the way of business, Barlow.”</p> - -<p>Then they looked at each other and burst into laughter.</p> - -<p>“I knew your handwriting, Fred. When I got your letter I knew it was -yours, so I sent you a type-written<a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a> reply. Typewriting never betrays, -and can’t be found out if you want to be secret.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s mighty funny, Chris. But I don’t understand it. What the devil -does it all mean?”</p> - -<p>“The very question in my mind, Fred. What does it mean? New rig-out, -gold chain, ring—what does it mean? Why have you never written?”</p> - -<p>“The circumstances of my departure—you remember, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>The Agent’s face darkened.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” he replied hastily; “I remember. The situation was -awkward—very.”</p> - -<p>“You were much worse than I was, but I got all the blame.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—perhaps. But it was a long time ago, and—and—well, we have -both got on. You are now Barlow—Joseph Barlow.”</p> - -<p>“And you are now Crediton—George Crediton.”</p> - -<p>“Sit down, Fred; let us have a good talk. And how long have you been -back?”</p> - -<p>Fred took a chair, and sat down on the opposite side of the table.</p> - -<p>“Only a fortnight or so.”</p> - -<p>“And why didn’t you look me up before?”</p> - -<p>“As I told you, there was some doubt—— However, here I am. Barlow is -the name of my Firm, a large and influential Firm.”</p> - -<p>“In Sydney? or Melbourne?”</p> - -<p>“No, up-country—over there.” He pointed over his left shoulder. “That’s -why I use the name of<a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a> Barlow. I am here on the business of the Firm—it -brought me to London. It takes me every day into the City—most -important transactions. Owing to the magnitude of the operation, my -tongue is sealed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” There was a little doubt implied by the interjection. “You a -business man? You? Why, you never understood the simplest sum in -addition.”</p> - -<p>“As regards debts, probably not. As regards assets and property—— But -in those days I had none. Prosperity, Chris—prosperity brings out all a -man’s better qualities. You yourself look respectable.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been respectable for exactly four-and-twenty years. I am married. -I have a son of three-and-twenty, and a daughter of one-and-twenty. I -live in Pembridge Crescent, Bayswater.”</p> - -<p>“And you were by way of being a barrister.”</p> - -<p>“I was. But, Fred, to be honest, did you ever catch me reading a law -book?”</p> - -<p>“I never did. And now you’re an Agent.”</p> - -<p>“Say, rather, that I practice in the higher walks of Literature. What -can be higher than oratory?”</p> - -<p>“Quite so. You supply the world—which certainly makes a terrible mess -of its speeches—with discourses and after-dinner oratory.”</p> - -<p>“Oratory of all kinds, from the pulpit to the inverted tub: from the -Mansion House to the Bar Parlour: from the House of Commons to the -political gathering.”</p> - -<p>“What does your wife say?”</p> - -<p>“My wife? Bless you, my dear boy, she doesn<a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>’t know anything. She -doesn’t suspect. At home I’m the prosperous and successful lawyer: they -wonder why I don’t take silk.”</p> - -<p>“What? Don’t they know?”</p> - -<p>“Nobody knows. Not the landlord of these rooms. Not the boy outside. Not -any of my clients. Not my wife, nor my son, nor my daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! And you are making a good thing out of it?”</p> - -<p>“So good that I would not exchange it for a County Court Judgeship.”</p> - -<p>“It’s wonderful,” said Fred. “And I always thought you rather a -half-baked lump of dough.”</p> - -<p>“Not more wonderful than your own success. What a blessing it is, Fred, -that you have come home without wanting to borrow any money”—he watched -his brother’s face: he saw a cloud as of doubt or anxiety pass over it, -and he smiled. “Not that I could lend you any if you did want it—with -my expensive establishment. Still, it is a blessing and a happiness, -Fred, to be able to think of you as the Head—I believe you said the -Head—of the great and prosperous Firm of Barlow & Co.” Fred’s face -distinctly lengthened. “I suppose I must not ask a business man about -his income?”</p> - -<p>“Hardly—hardly. Though, if any man—— But—I have a partner who would -not like these private affairs divulged.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Fred, I’m glad to see you back again—I am indeed.”<a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a></p> - -<p>They shook hands once more, and then, for some unknown reason, they were -seized with laughter, long and not to be controlled.</p> - -<p>“Distinguished lawyer,” murmured Fred, when the laugh had subsided with -an intermittent gurgle.</p> - -<p>“Influential man of business,” said Christopher. “Oh! Ho, Lord!” cried -he, wiping his eyes, “it brings back the old times when we used to -laugh. What a lot we had to laugh at! The creditors and the duns—you -remember?”</p> - -<p>“I do. And the girls—and the suppers! They were good old times, Chris. -You carried on shameful.”</p> - -<p>“We did—we did. It’s pleasant to remember, though.”</p> - -<p>“Chris, I’m thirsty.”</p> - -<p>“You always are.”</p> - -<p>His brother remembered this agreeable trait after five-and-twenty years. -He got up, opened a cupboard, and took out a bottle and glasses and some -soda-water. Then they sat opposite each other with the early tumbler and -the morning cigar, beaming with fraternal affection.</p> - -<p>“Like old times, old man,” said the barrister.</p> - -<p>“It is. We’ll have many more old times,” said Fred, “now that I’m home -again.”</p> - -<p>In the words of the poet, “Alas! they had been friends in youth,” as -well as brothers. And it might have been better had they not been -friends in youth. And they had heard the midnight chimes together.<a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a> And -they had together wasted each his slender patrimony. But now they talked -friendly over the sympathetic drink that survives the possibility of -port and champagne, and even claret.</p> - -<p>“Don’t they really suspect—any of them?” asked Brother Fred.</p> - -<p>“None of them. They call me a distinguished lawyer and the Pride of the -Family—next to Leonard, who’s in the House.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t there a danger of being found out?”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit. The business is conducted by letter. I might as well have no -office at all, except for the look of it. No, there’s no fear. Nobody -ever comes here. How did you find me out?”</p> - -<p>“Hotel clerk. He saw my name as a speaker at the dinner to-morrow, and -suggested that I should write to you.”</p> - -<p>“Good. He gets a commission. I say, you must come and see us, you know. -Remember, no allusions to the Complete Speech-maker—eh?”</p> - -<p>“Not a word. Though, I say, it beats me how you came to think of it.”</p> - -<p>“Genius, my boy—pure genius. When you get your speech you will be proud -of me. What’s a practice at the Bar compared with a practice at the -after-dinner table? And now, Fred, why Barlow?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you remember what happened?” His brother nodded, and dropped his -eyes. “Absurd fuss they made.”<a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a></p> - -<p>“Nobody has heard anything about you for five-and-twenty years.”</p> - -<p>“I took another name—a fighting name. Barlow, I called myself—Joseph -Barlow. Joe—there’s fight in the very name. No sympathy, no weakening -about Joe.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. For my own part, I took the name of Crediton. Respectability -rather than aggressiveness in that name. Confidence was what I wanted.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me about the family. Remember that it was in 1874 that I went -away—twenty-five years ago.”</p> - -<p>His brother gave him briefly an account of the births and deaths. His -mother was dead; his elder brother was dead, leaving an only son.</p> - -<p>“As for Algernon’s death,” said the speech-merchant, “it was a great -blow. He was really going to distinguish himself. And he died—died at -thirty-two. His son is in the House. They say he promises well. He’s a -scholar, I believe; they say he can speak; and he’s more than a bit of a -prig.”</p> - -<p>“And about the old man—the ancient one—is he living?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. He is nearly ninety-five.”</p> - -<p>“Ninety-five. He can’t last much longer. I came home partly to look -after things. Because, although the estate goes to Algernon’s -son—deuced bad luck for me that Algernon did have a son—there’s the -accumulations. I remembered them one evening out there, and the thought -went through<a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a> me like a knife that he was probably dead, and the -accumulations divided, and my share gone. So I bundled home as fast as I -could.”</p> - -<p>“No—so far you are all right. For he’s hearty and strong, and the -accumulations are still rolling up, I suppose. What will become of them -no one knows.”</p> - -<p>“I see. Well, I must make the acquaintance of Algernon’s son.”</p> - -<p>“And about this great Firm of yours?”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s a—as I said—a great Firm.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so. It must be, with Fred Campaigne at the head of it.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind the Firm, but tell me about this astonishing profession of -yours.”</p> - -<p>The Professor smiled.</p> - -<p>“Fortunately,” he said, “I am alone. Were there any competition I might -be ruined. But I don’t know: my reputation by this time stands on too -firm a basis to be shaken.”</p> - -<p>“Your reputation? But people cannot talk about you.”</p> - -<p>“They cannot. But they may whisper—whisper to each other. Why, just -consider the convenience. Instead of having to rack their brains for -compliments and pretty things and not to find them, instead of hunting -for anecdotes and quotations, they just send to me. They get in return a -speech just as long as they want—from five minutes to an hour—full of -good things! In this way they are able to<a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a> acquire it at a cheap, that -is, a reasonable rate, for next to nothing, considering the reputation -of wit and epigram and sparkles. Then think of the company at the -dinner. Instead of having to listen to a fumbler and a stammerer and a -clumsy boggler, they have before them a speaker easy in his mind, -because he has learned it all by heart, bright and epigrammatic. He -keeps them all alive, and when he sits down there is a sigh to think -that his speech was so short.”</p> - -<p>“You must give me just such a speech.”</p> - -<p>“I will—I will. Fred, you shall start with a name that will make you -welcome at every City Company’s dinner. It will help you hugely over -your enormous transactions for the Firm. Rely on me. Because, you see, -when a man has once delivered himself of a good speech, he is asked to -speak again: he must keep it up; so he sends to me again. Look here”—he -laid his hands upon a little pile of letters—“here are yesterday’s and -to-day’s letters.” He took them up and played with them as with a pack -of cards. “This man wants a reply for the Army. This is a return for -Literature. This is a reply for the House of Commons. The Ladies, the -American Republic, Science, the Colonies—see?”</p> - -<p>“And the pay?”</p> - -<p>“The pay, Fred, corresponds to the privilege conferred. I make orators. -They are grateful. As for yourself, now——”</p> - -<p>“Mine is a reply for Australia. The dinner is<a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a> on Friday at the Hotel -Cecil—Dinner of Colonial Enterprise.”</p> - -<p>“Really!” The Agent smiled and rubbed his hands. “This is indeed -gratifying. Because, Fred—of course you are as secret as death—I may -tell you that this request of yours completes the toast-list for the -evening. The speeches will be all—all my own—all provided by the -Agent. But the plums, my brother, the real plums, shall be stuffed in -yours. I will make it the speech of the evening. Mr. -Barlow—Barlow—Barlow of New South Wales.”</p> - -<p>Fred rose. “Well,” he said, “I leave you to my speech. Come and dine -with me to-night at the Hôtel Métropole—half-past seven. We might have -a look round afterwards.”</p> - -<p>They had that dinner together. It was quite the dinner of a rich man. It -was also the dinner of one who loved to look upon the winecup.</p> - -<p>After dinner Fred looked at his watch. “Half-past nine. I say, Chris, -about this time we used to sally forth. You remember?”</p> - -<p>“I believe I do remember. I am now so respectable that I cannot allow -myself to remember.”</p> - -<p>“There was the Holborn Casino and the Argyll for a little dance: the -Judge and Jury, Evans’s, and the Coalhole for supper and a sing-song: -Caldwell’s to take a shop-girl for a quiet dance: Cremorne——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Fred, these are old stories. All these things have gone. The -Holborn and the Argyll are restaurants, Cremorne is built over, Evans’s -is dead<a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a> and gone: the Judge and Jury business wouldn’t be tolerated -now.”</p> - -<p>“What do the boys do now?”</p> - -<p>“How should I know? They amuse themselves somehow. But it’s no concern -of mine, or of yours. You are no longer a boy, Fred.”</p> - -<p>“Hang it! What am I to do with myself in the evenings? I suppose I can -go and look on if I can’t cut in any more?”</p> - -<p>“No; you mustn’t even look on. Leave the boys to themselves. Join a club -and sit by yourself in the smoking-room all the evening. That’s the -amusement for you.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I can go to the theatre—if that’s all?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes! You must put on your evening clothes and go to the stalls. We -used to go to the pit, you know. There are music-halls and variety shows -of sorts—you might go there if you like. But, you know, you’ve got a -character to maintain. Think of your position.”</p> - -<p>“Hang my position, man! Get up and take me somewhere. Let us laugh and -look on at something.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Fred, consider. I am a respectable barrister with a grown-up -son. Could I be seen in such a place? The head of the firm of Barlow and -Co., allow me to point out, would not improve his chances in the City if -he were seen in certain places.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody knows me.”</p> - -<p>“Remember, my dear brother, that if you mean<a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a> to get money out of the -City you must be the serious and responsible capitalist in the evening -as well as in the morning.”</p> - -<p>“Then we’ll go and have tobacco in the smoking-room. One is apt to -forget, Chris, the responsibilities of success.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so.” Christopher smiled. “Quite so. Well put. The -responsibilities of success. I will introduce the phrase in your speech. -The responsibilities of success.”<a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><br /> -<small>THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Christopher Campaigne</span> was at home. The rooms were filled with -people—chiefly young people, friends of her son and daughter. Most of -them were endowed with those literary and artistic leanings which made -them severe critics, even if they had not yet produced immortal works of -their own. The chief attraction of the evening, however, was the -newly-returned Australian, said to be a millionaire, who took up a large -space in the room, being tall and broad; he also took up a large space -in the conversation: he talked loud and laughed loud. He presented -successfully the appearance he desired, namely, that of a highly -prosperous gentleman, accustomed to the deference due to millions.</p> - -<p>Leonard came late.</p> - -<p>“I am glad to see you here,” said his hostess. “Frederick, you can -hardly remember your other nephew, son of Algernon.”</p> - -<p>Frederick held out a manly grasp. “When I left England,” he said, “you -were a child of four or five; I cannot pretend to remember you, -Leonard.”<a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a></p> - -<p>“Nor can I remember you.” He tried to dismiss from his mind a certain -ugly word. “But you are welcome home once more. This time, I hope, to -stay.”</p> - -<p>“I think not. Affairs—affairs are sometimes peremptory, particularly -large affairs. The City may insist upon my staying a few weeks, or the -City may allow me to go back. I am wholly in the hands of the City.”</p> - -<p>If you come to think of it, a man must be rich indeed to be in the hands -of the City.</p> - -<p>The people gazed upon the speaker with increased interest, and even awe. -They were not in the hands of the City.</p> - -<p>“I confess,” he went on, “that I should like to remain. Society, when -one returns to it after many years, is pleasing. Some people say that it -is hollow. Perhaps. The frocks vary”—he looked round critically—“they -are not the same as they were five-and-twenty years ago; but the effect -remains the same. And the effect is everything. We must not look behind -the scenes. The rough old colonist”—yet no one in the room was better -groomed—“looks on from the outside and finds it all delightful.”</p> - -<p>“Can things unreal ever be delightful?” murmured a lady in the circle -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“At all events,” Leonard continued, “you will not leave us for a time.”</p> - -<p>“There, again, I am uncertain. I have a partner in Australia. I have -connections to look up in the<a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a> City. But for a few weeks I believe I may -reckon on a holiday and a look round, for Colonials have to show the -City that all the enterprise is not theirs, nor all the wealth—nor all -the wealth. And what,” he asked with condescension, “what are you doing, -Leonard?”</p> - -<p>“I am in the House.”</p> - -<p>“As your father was—and your grandfather. It is a great career.”</p> - -<p>“It may be a great career.”</p> - -<p>“True—true. There must be many failures—many failures. Where and when -are you most likely to be found?”</p> - -<p>Leonard told him.</p> - -<p>“Give me a note of it before we go to-night. I dare say I can get round -some time.”</p> - -<p>The ugly word once more unpleasantly returned to Leonard’s mind.</p> - -<p>Mr. Frederick Campaigne proceeded with his interrupted discourse, which -proved the necessity of the existence of the poor in order to make the -condition of the rich possible and enviable. He took the millionaire’s -point of view, and dwelt not only on the holiness of wealth, but also on -the duties of the poor towards their superiors.</p> - -<p>Leonard slipped away. He felt uncomfortable. He could not forget what -had been told him about this loud and prosperous and self-satisfied -person. Besides, he seemed to be overdoing it—acting a part. Why?<a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a></p> - -<p>In the inner drawing-room he found his two cousins, Algernon and -Philippa. The former, a young man of three-or four-and-twenty, was -possessed of a tall figure, but rather too small a head. He smiled a -good deal, and talked with an easy confidence common to his circle of -friends. It was a handsome face, but it did not suggest possibilities of -work.</p> - -<p>Leonard asked him how he was getting on.</p> - -<p>“Always the same,” he replied, with a laugh. “The study of the dramatic -art presents endless difficulties. That is why we are loaded up with -plays.”</p> - -<p>“Then it remains for you to show the world what a play should be.”</p> - -<p>“That is my mission. I shall continue my studies for a year or so more; -and then—you shall see. My method is to study the art on the stage -itself, not in books. I go to men and women on the stage. I sit in -various parts of the stalls and watch and learn. Presently I shall sit -down to write.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I look forward to the result.”</p> - -<p>“Look here, Leonard”—he dropped his voice. “I hear that you go to see -the old man sometimes. He is nearly ninety-five. He can’t last much -longer. Of course the estate is yours. But how about the accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about the accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“With the pater’s large practice and our share of the accumulations, -don’t you think it is too bad of<a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a> him to keep up this fuss about my -work? Why should I trouble my head about money? There will be—there -must be—plenty of money. My work,” he said proudly, “shall be, at -least, the work of one who is not driven by the ignoble stimulus of -necessity. It will be entirely free from the ignoble stimulus of -necessity. It will be free from the commercial taint—the curse of -art—the blighting incubus of art—the degrading thought of money.”</p> - -<p>Leonard left him. In the doorway stood his cousin Philippa.</p> - -<p>“You have just been talking to Algernon,” she said. “You see, he is -always stretching out his hands in the direction of dramatic art.”</p> - -<p>“So I observe,” he replied dryly. “Some day, perhaps, he will grasp it. -At present, as you say, he is only stretching out arms in that -direction. And you?”</p> - -<p>“I have but one dream—always one dream,” she replied, oppressed with -endeavour.</p> - -<p>“I hope it will come true, then. By the way, Philippa, I have just found -a whole family of new cousins.”</p> - -<p>“New cousins? Who are they?”</p> - -<p>“And a great aunt. I have seen one of the cousins; and I am going -to-morrow to see the great-aunt and perhaps the other cousin.”</p> - -<p>“Who are they? If they are your cousins, they must be cousins on papa’s -side. I thought that we three were the only cousins on his side.”<a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a></p> - -<p>“Your uncle Fred may have children. Have you asked him if he is -married?”</p> - -<p>“No; he has promised to tell all his adventures. He is a bachelor. Is it -not interesting to get another uncle, and a bachelor, and rolling in -money? Algernon has already——” She stopped, remembering a warning. -“But who are these cousins?”</p> - -<p>“Prepare for a shock to the family pride.”</p> - -<p>“Why, we have no poor relations, have we? I thought——”</p> - -<p>“Listen, my cousin. Your grandfather’s sister Lucy married one Isaac -Galley about the year 1847. It was not a good marriage for her. The -husband became a bankrupt, and as by this time her father had fallen -into his present condition or profession of a silent hermit, there was -no help from him. Then they fell into poverty. Her son became a small -clerk in the City, her grandson is a solicitor in the Commercial -Road—not, I imagine, in the nobler or higher walks of that -profession—and her grand-daughter is a teacher in a Board School.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed!” The girl listened coldly; her eyes wandered round the room -filled with well-dressed people. “A teacher in a Board School! And our -cousin! A Board School teacher! How interesting! Shall we tell all these -people about our new cousins?”</p> - -<p>“No doubt they have all got their own second cousins. It is, I believe, -the duty of the second cousin to occupy a lower rank.”<a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a></p> - -<p>“I dare say. At the same time, we have always thought our family a good -deal above the general run. And it’s rather a blow, Leonard, don’t you -think?”</p> - -<p>“It is, Philippa. But, after all, it remains a good old family. One -second cousin cannot destroy our record. You may still be proud of it.”</p> - -<p>He left the girl, and went in search of his uncle, whom he found, as he -expected, in his study apart from the throng.</p> - -<p>“Always over your papers,” he said. “May I interrupt for a moment?”</p> - -<p>The barrister shuffled his papers hurriedly into a drawer.</p> - -<p>“Always busy,” he said. “We lawyers work harder than any other folk, I -believe, especially those with a confidential practice like my own, -which makes no noise and is never heard of.”</p> - -<p>“But not the less valuable, eh?”</p> - -<p>The barrister smiled.</p> - -<p>“We make both ends meet,” he said meekly—“both ends meet. Yes, yes, -both ends meet.”</p> - -<p>“I went to see the old man the other day,” Leonard went on, taking a -chair. “I thought you would like to know. He remains perfectly well, and -there is no change in any respect. What I want to ask you is this. It -may be necessary before long to get the question decided. Is he in a -condition to make a will?”</p> - -<p>The lawyer took time to give an opinion. Backed<a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a> by his long legal -experience and extensive practice, it was an opinion carrying weight.</p> - -<p>“My opinion,” he said gravely, and as one weighing the case -judicially—in imagination he had assumed the wig and gown—“my -opinion,” he repeated, “would be, at first and on the statement of the -case, that he is unfit and has been unfit for the last seventy years, to -make a will. He is undoubtedly on some points so eccentric as to appear -of unsound mind. He does nothing; he allows house and gardens and -furniture and pictures to fall into decay; he never speaks; he has no -occupation. This points, I say, to a mind unhinged by the shock of -seventy years ago.”</p> - -<p>“A shock of which I only heard the other day.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I know. My sister-in-law—your mother and your -grandfather—thought to screen you from what they thought family -misfortune by never telling you the truth—that is to say, the whole -truth. I have followed the same rule with my children.”</p> - -<p>“Family misfortune! I hardly know even now what to understand by it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, they are superstitious. Your father died young, your grandfather -died young; like you, they were young men of promise. Your -great-grandfather at the age of six-and-twenty or thereabouts was -afflicted, as you know.”</p> - -<p>“And they think——”</p> - -<p>“They think that it is the visiting of the unknown sins of the fathers -upon the children. They think<a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a> that the old man’s father must have done -something terrible.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but this is absurd.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely—very likely. Meantime, as to the power of making a will, -we must remember that during all these years the old man has never done -anything foolish. I have seen the solicitors. They tell me that from -father to son, having acted for him all these years, they have found him -perfectly clear-headed about money matters. I could not ask them what he -has done with all his money, nor what he intends to do with it. But -there is the fact—the evidence of the solicitors as to the clearness of -his intellect. My opinion, therefore, is that he will do something -astonishing, unexpected, and disgusting with his money, and that it will -be very difficult, if not impossible, to set aside his will.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is your opinion, is it? The reason why I ask is that I have -just discovered a family of hitherto unknown cousins. Do you know the -name of Galley?”</p> - -<p>“No. It is not a name, I should say, of the highest nobility.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly not. It is the name of our cousins, however. One of them is a -solicitor of a somewhat low class, I should say; the man has no -pretensions whatever to be called a gentleman. He practises and lives in -the Commercial Road, which is, I suppose, quite out of the ordinary -quarter where you would find a solicitor of standing.”<a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a></p> - -<p>“Quite, quite; as a place of residence—deplorable from that point of -view.”</p> - -<p>“He has a sister, it appears, who is a Board School teacher.”</p> - -<p>“A Board School teacher? It is at least respectable. But who are these -precious cousins of ours?”</p> - -<p>“They are the grandchildren of an aunt of yours—Lucy by name.”</p> - -<p>“Lucy! Yes. I have heard of her; I thought she was dead long ago.”</p> - -<p>“She married a man named Galley. They seem to have gone down in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“More family misfortune.” The lawyer shuddered. “I am not -superstitious,” he said, “but really—more misfortunes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, misfortunes! Nonsense! There are always in every family some who go -down—some who go up—some who stay there. You yourself have been borne -steadily upwards to name and fortune.”</p> - -<p>“I have,” said the lawyer, with half a groan. “Oh yes—yes—I have.”</p> - -<p>“And my uncle Fred, you see, comes home—all his wild oats sowed—with a -great fortune.”</p> - -<p>“Truly.” The lawyer’s face lengthened. “A great fortune. He told you so, -didn’t he? Yes; we have both been most fortunate and happy, both Fred -and I. Go on, Leonard. About these cousins——”</p> - -<p>“These are the grandchildren of Lucy Campaigne. I am to see the old lady -in a day or two.”<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a></p> - -<p>“Do they want anything? Help? Recognition?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, so far as I know. Not even recognition.”</p> - -<p>“That is well. I don’t mind how many poor relations we’ve got, provided -they don’t ask for money, or for recognition. If you give them money, -they will infallibly decline to work, and live upon you. If you call -upon them and give them recognition, they will infallibly disgrace you.”</p> - -<p>“The solicitor asked for nothing. This cousin of ours has been building -hopes upon what he calls accumulations. He evidently thinks that the old -man is not in a condition to make a will, and that all that is left of -personal property will be divided in two equal shares, one moiety among -your father’s heirs on our side, while the other will go to the old lady -his grandmother on the other side.”</p> - -<p>“That is, I am afraid, quite true. But there may have been a Will before -he fell into—eccentricity. It is a great pity, Leonard, that these -people have turned up—a great misfortune—because we may have to share -with them. Still, there must be enormous accumulations. My mother did -not tell us anything about possible cousins; yet they do exist, and they -are very serious and important possibilities. These people will probably -interfere with us to a very serious extent. And now Fred has turned up, -and he will want his share, too. Another misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“How came my grandfather to die so young?” Leonard passed on to another -point.<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a></p> - -<p>“He fell into a fever. I was only two years old at the time.”</p> - -<p>Leonard said nothing about the suicide. Clearly, not himself only, but -his uncles also, had been kept in the dark about the true cause of that -unexpected demise.</p> - -<p>He departed, closing the door softly, so as not to shake up and confuse -the delicate tissues of a brain always occupied in arriving at an -opinion.</p> - -<p>As soon as he was gone the barrister drew out his papers once more, and -resumed the speech for which he had prepared half a dozen most excellent -stories. In such a case the British public does not ask for all the -stories to be new.</p> - -<p>Leonard rejoined the company upstairs.</p> - -<p>His uncle Fred walked part of the way home with him.</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t expected,” he said, “to find the old man still living. Of -course, it cannot go on much longer. Have you thought about what may -happen—when the end comes?”</p> - -<p>“Not much, I confess.”</p> - -<p>“One must. I take it that he does not spend the fiftieth part of his -income. I have heard as a boy that the estate was worth £7,000 a year.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely, unless there has been depression.”</p> - -<p>“Say he spends £150 a year. That leaves £5,850 a year. Take £800 for -expenses and repairs—that leaves £5,000 a year. He has been going on -like this for seventy years. Total accumulations, £420,<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>000. At compound -interest for all these years, it must reach two millions or so. Who is -to have it?”</p> - -<p>“His descendants, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“You, my brother Christopher, and myself. Two millions to divide between -us. A very pretty fortune—very pretty indeed. Good-night, my -boy—good-night.”</p> - -<p>He walked away cheerfully and with elastic step.</p> - -<p>“Accumulations—accumulations!” said Leonard, looking after him. “They -are all for accumulations. Shall I, too, begin to calculate how much has -been accumulated? And how if the accumulations turn out to be -lost—wasted—gone—to somebody else?”<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><br /> -<small>THE CHILD OF SORROWS</small></h2> - -<p>O<small>N</small> a cold day, with a grey sky and an east wind, Leonard for the first -time walked down the Commercial Road to call upon the newly-found -cousins. It is a broad thoroughfare, but breadth does not always bring -cheerfulness with it; even under a warm summer sun some thoroughfares -cannot be cheerful. Nothing can relieve the unvarying depression of the -Commercial Road. It is felt even by the children, who refuse to play in -it, preferring the narrow streets running out of it; the depression is -felt even by the drivers and the conductors of the tram-cars, persons -who are generally superior to these influences. Here and there is a -chapel, here and there is a model lodging-house or a factory, or a -square or a great shop. One square was formerly picturesque when the -Fair of the Goats was held upon it; now it has become respectable; the -goats are gone, and the sight provokes melancholy. North and south of -the road branch off endless rows of streets, crossed by streets laid out -in a uniform check pattern. All these streets are similar and similarly -situated, like Euclid’s triangles. One wonders how a resident finds<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> his -own house; nevertheless, the houses, though they are all turned out -according to the same pattern, are neat and clean and well kept. The -people in them are prosperous, according to their views on prosperity; -the streets are cheerful, though the road to which they belong is -melancholy. “Alas!” it says, “how can such a road as myself be cheerful? -I lead to the Docks, and Limehouse, and Poplar, and Canning Town, and -the Isle of Dogs.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Galley’s house was on the north side, conveniently near to a certain -police-court, in which he practised daily, sometimes coming home with as -much as three or four half-crowns in his pocket, sometimes with -less—for competition among the professional solicitors in the -police-courts is keen, and even fierce. Five shillings is a common fee -for the defence of a prisoner, and rumour whispers that even this humble -sum has to be shared secretly with a certain functionary who must be -nameless.</p> - -<p>A brass plate was on the door: “Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne, Solicitor.” -It was a narrow three-storied house, quite respectable, and as -depressing as the road in which it stood.</p> - -<p>Leonard knocked doubtfully. After a few moments’ delay the door was -opened by a boy who had a pen stuck behind his ear.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you want Mrs. Galley!” he said. “There you are—back-parlour!” and -ran up the stairs again, leaving the visitor on the doormat.</p> - -<p>He obeyed instructions, however, and opened the<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> door indicated. He -found himself in a small back room—pity that the good old word -“parlour” has gone out!—where there were sitting three ladies -representing three stages of human life—namely, twenty, fifty, and -seventy.</p> - -<p>The table was laid for tea; the kettle was on the old-fashioned -hob—pity that the hospitable hob has gone!—and the kettle was singing; -the buttered toast and the muffins were before the fire, within the high -old-fashioned fender; the tea-things and the cake and the -bread-and-butter were on the table, and the ladies were in their Sunday -“things,” waiting for him. It was with some relief that Leonard observed -the absence of Mr. Samuel.</p> - -<p>The eldest of the three ladies welcomed him.</p> - -<p>“My grand-nephew Leonard,” she said, giving him her hand, “I am very -glad—very glad indeed to make your acquaintance. This”—she introduced -the lady of middle life—“is my daughter-in-law, the widow—alas!—of my -only son. And this”—indicating the girl—“is my grand-daughter.”</p> - -<p>The speaker was a gentlewoman. The fact was proclaimed in her speech, in -her voice, in her bearing, in her fine features. She was tall, like the -rest of her family; her abundant white hair was confined by a black lace -cap, the last of the family possessions; her cheek was still soft, -touched with a gentle colour and a tender bloom; her eyes were still -full of light and warmth; her hands were delicate; her figure was still -shapely; there were no bending of the<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> shoulders, no dropping of the -head. She reminded Leonard of the Recluse; but her expression was -different: his was hard and defiant; hers was gentle and sad.</p> - -<p>The second lady, who wore a widow’s cap and a great quantity of black -crape, evidently belonged to another class. Some people talk of a lower -middle class. The distinction, I know, is invidious. Why do we say the -lower middle class? We do not say the lower upper class. However, this -lady belonged to the great and numerous class which has to get through -life on slender means, and has to consider, before all things, the -purchasing power of sixpence. This terrible necessity, in its worst -form, takes all the joy and happiness out of life. When every day brings -its own anxieties about this sixpence, there is left no room for the -graces, for culture, for art, for poetry, for anything that is lovely -and delightful. It makes life the continual endurance of fear, as -dreadful as continued pain of body. Even when the terror of the morrow -has vanished, or is partly removed by an increase of prosperity, the -scars and the memory remain, and the habits of mind and of body.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Galley the younger belonged to that class in which the terror of -the morrow has been partly removed. But she remembered. In what followed -she sat in silence. But she occupied, as of right, the proud position of -pouring out the tea. She was short of stature, and might have been at -one time pretty.<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a></p> - -<p>The third, the girl, who was Mary Anne, the Board School teacher, in -some respects resembled her mother, being short and somewhat -insignificant of aspect. But when she spoke she disclosed capacity. It -is not to girls without capacity and resolution that places in Board -Schools are offered.</p> - -<p>“Let me look at you, Leonard.” The old lady still held his hand. “Ah! -what a joy it is to see once more one of my own people! You are very -tall, Leonard, like the rest of us: you have the Campaigne face: and you -are proud. Oh yes!—you are full of pride—like my father and my -brothers. It is fifty years—fifty years and more—since I have seen any -of my own people. We have suffered—we have suffered.” She sighed -heavily. She released his hand. “Sit down, my dear,” she said gently, -“sit down, and for once take a meal with us. Mary Anne, give your cousin -some cake—it is my own making—unless he will begin with -bread-and-butter.”</p> - -<p>The tea was conducted with some ceremony; indeed, it was an occasion: -hospitalities were not often proffered in this establishment. Leonard -was good enough to take some cake and two cups of tea. The old lady -talked while the other two ministered.</p> - -<p>“I know your name, Leonard,” she said. “I remember your birth, -seven-and-twenty—yes, it was in 1873, about the same time as Samuel was -born. Your mother and your grandmother lived together in Cornwall. I -corresponded with my sister-in-law<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> until she died; since then I have -heard nothing about you. My grandson tells me that you are in the House. -Father to son—father to son. We have always sent members to the House. -Our family belongs to the House. There were Campaignes in the Long -Parliament.” So she went on while the cups went round, the other ladies -preserving silence.</p> - -<p>At last the banquet was considered finished. Mary Anne herself carried -out the tea-things, Mrs. Galley the younger followed, and Leonard was -left alone with the old lady, as had been arranged. She wanted to talk -with him about the family.</p> - -<p>“Look,” she said, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall, “that is -the portrait of my husband at thirty. Not quite at his best—but—still -handsome, don’t you think? As a young man he was considered very -handsome indeed. His good looks, unfortunately, like his good fortune -and his good temper—poor man!—went off early. But he had heavy trials, -partly redeemed by the magnitude of his failure.”</p> - -<p>Leonard reflected that comeliness may go with very different forms of -expression. In this case the expression was of a very inferior City -kind. There also appeared to be a stamp or brand upon it already at -thirty, as of strong drinks.</p> - -<p>“That is my son at the side. He was half a Campaigne to look at, but not -a regular Campaigne. No; he had too much of the Galley in him. None of -the real family pride, poor boy!”<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a></p> - -<p>The face of the young man, apparently about twenty years of age, was -handsome, but weak and irresolute, and without character.</p> - -<p>“He had no pride in himself and no ambition, my poor boy! I could never -understand why. No push and no ambition. That is why he remained only a -clerk in the City all his life. If he had had any pride he would have -risen.”</p> - -<p>“I must tell you,” said Leonard, “that I have been kept, no doubt -wisely, in ignorance of my own family history. It was only yesterday -that I heard from your son that there have been troubles and misfortunes -in our records.”</p> - -<p>“Troubles and misfortunes? And you have never heard of them! Why, my -children, who haven’t nearly so much right as you to know, have learned -the history of my people better than that of their own mother or their -grandfather’s people. To be sure, with the small folk, like those who -live round here, trouble is not the same thing as with us. Mostly they -live up to the neck in troubles, and they look for nothing but -misfortune, and they don’t mind it very much so long as they get their -dinners. And you haven’t even heard of the family misfortunes? I am -astonished. Why, there never has been any family like ours for trouble. -And you might have been cut off in your prime, or struck off with a -stroke, or been run over with a waggon, and never even known that you -were specially born to misfortune as the sparks fly upwards.”<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a></p> - -<p>“Am I born to misfortune? More than other people?”</p> - -<p>It was in a kind of dream that Leonard spoke. His brain reeled; the room -went round and round: he caught the arms of a chair. And for a moment he -heard nothing except the voice of Constance, who warned him that Nature -makes no one wholly happy: that he had been too fortunate: that -something would fall upon him to redress the balance: that family -scandals, poor relations, disgraces and shames, were the lot of all -mankind, and if he would be human, if he would understand humanity, he -must learn, like the rest of the world, by experience and by suffering. -Was she, then, a Prophetess? For, behold! a few days only had passed, -and these things had fallen upon him. But as yet he did not know the -full extent of what had happened and what was going to happen.</p> - -<p>He recovered. The fit had lasted but a moment; but thought and memory -are swifter than time.</p> - -<p>The old lady was talking on. “To think that you’ve lived all these years -and no one ever told you! What did they mean by keeping you in the dark? -And I’ve always thought of you as sitting melancholy, waiting for the -Stroke whenever it should fall.”</p> - -<p>“I have been ignorant of any Stroke, possible or actual. Let me tell you -that I have no fear of any Stroke. This is superstition.”<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a></p> - -<p>“No—no!” The old lady shook her head, and laid her hand on his. “Dear -boy, you are still under the curse. The Stroke will fall. Perhaps it -will be laid in mercy. On me it fell with wrath. That is our -distinction. That’s what it is to be a Campaigne. The misfortunes, -however, don’t go on for ever. They will leave off after your -generation. It will be when I am dead and gone; but I should like, I -confess, to see happiness coming back once more to the family.”</p> - -<p>“Your grandson spoke of a murder and of a suicide among other things.”</p> - -<p>“Other things, indeed! Why, there was my husband’s bankruptcy. There was -your uncle Fred, my nephew, and what he did, and why he was bundled out -of the country. I thought your mother would have fallen ill with the -shame of it. And there was my poor father, too; and there was the trial. -Did they not tell you about the trial?”</p> - -<p>“What trial?”</p> - -<p>“The great trial for the murder. It’s a most curious case. I believe the -man who was tried really did it, because no one else was seen about the -place. But he got off. My father was very good about it. He gave the man -Counsel, who got him off. I’ve got all the evidence in the case—cut out -of newspapers and pasted in a book. I will lend it to you, if you like.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you. It might be interesting,” he said carelessly.<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a></p> - -<p>“It is interesting. But don’t you call these things enough misfortunes -for a single family?”</p> - -<p>“Quite enough, but not enough to make us born to misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Leonard! If you had seen what I have seen, and suffered what I have -suffered! I’ve been the most unfortunate of all. My brothers gone; poor -dear Langley by his own hand; Christopher, dear lad, drowned; my father -a wreck. Like him, I live on. I live on, and wait for more trouble.” She -shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I was a poor neglected thing with no mother, and as good as no father, -to look after me. Galley came along; he was handsome, and I thought, -being a silly girl, that he was a gentleman; so I married him. I ran -away with him and married him. Then I found out. He thought I had a -large fortune, and I had nothing; and father would not answer my -letters. Well, he failed, and he used me cruelly—most cruelly, he did. -And poverty came on—grinding, horrible poverty. You don’t know, my dear -nephew, what that means. I pray that you never may. There is no -misfortune so bad as poverty, except it is dishonour. He died at -last”—the widow heaved a sigh of relief, which told a tale of woe in -itself—“and his son was a clerk, and kept us all. Now he’s dead, and my -grandson keeps me. For fifty years I have been slave and housemaid and -cook and drudge and nurse to my husband and my<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> son and my grandson. -And, oh! I longed to speak once more with one of my own people.”</p> - -<p>Leonard took her hand and pressed it. There was nothing to be said.</p> - -<p>“Tell me more,” she said, “about yourself.”</p> - -<p>He told her, briefly, his position and his ambitions.</p> - -<p>“You have done well,” she said, “so far—but take care. There is the -Family Luck. It may pass you over, but I don’t know. I doubt. I fear. -There are so many kinds of misfortune. I keep thinking of them all.” She -folded her hands, resigned. “Let trouble come to me,” she said, “not to -you or the younger ones. To me. That is what I pray daily. I am too old -to mind much. Trouble to me means pain and suffering. Rather that than -more trouble to you young people. Leonard, I remember now that your -grandmother spoke in one of her letters of keeping the children from the -knowledge of all this trouble. Yes, I remember.”</p> - -<p>She went on talking; she told the whole of the family history. She -narrated every misfortune at length.</p> - -<p>To Leonard, listening in that little back room with the gathering -twilight and the red fire to the soft, sad voice of the mournful lady, -there came again the vision of two women, both in widows’ weeds, in the -cottage among the flowers—tree fuchsias, climbing roses, myrtles, and -Passion-flowers. All through his childhood they sat together, seldom<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> -speaking, pale-faced, sorrowful. He understood now. It was not their -husbands for whom they wept; it was for the fate which they imagined to -be hanging over the heads of the children. Once he heard his mother -say—now the words came back to him—“Thank God! I have but one.”</p> - -<p>“Leonard,” the old woman was going on, “for fifty years I have been -considering and thinking. It means some great crime. The misfortunes -began with my father; his life has been wrecked and ruined in punishment -for someone else’s crime. His was the first generation; mine was the -second. All our lives have been wrecked in punishment for that crime. -His was the first generation, I say”—she repeated the words as if to -drive them home—“mine was the second; all our lives have been wrecked -in punishment for that crime. Then came the third—your father died -early, and his brother ran away because he was a forger. Oh! to think of -a Campaigne doing such a thing! That was the third generation. You are -the fourth—and the curse will be removed. Unto the third and -fourth—but not the fifth.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Leonard. “I believe—I now remember—they thought—at -home—something of this kind. But, my dear lady, consider. If misfortune -falls upon us in consequence of some great crime committed long ago, and -impossible to be repaired or undone, what is there for us but to sit -down quietly and to go on with our work?”<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It is very well to talk. Wait till the blows begin. If we could find -out the crime—but we never can. If we could atone—but we cannot. We -are so powerless—oh, my God! so powerless, and yet so innocent!”</p> - -<p>She rose. Her face was buried in her handkerchief. I think it consoled -her to cry over the recollection of her sorrows almost as much as to -tell them to her grand-nephew.</p> - -<p>“I pray daily—day and night—that the hand of wrath may be stayed. -Sitting here, I think all day long. I have forgotten how to read, I -think——”</p> - -<p>Leonard glanced at the walls. There were a few books.</p> - -<p>“Until Mary Anne began to study, there were no books. We were so poor -that we had to sell everything, books and all. This room is the only one -in the house that is furnished decently. My grand-daughter is my only -comfort; she is a good girl, Leonard. She takes after the Galleys to -look at, but she’s a Campaigne at heart, and she’s proud, though you -wouldn’t think it, because she’s such a short bunch of a figure, not -like us. She’s my only comfort. We talk sometimes of going away and -living together—she and I—it would be happier for us. My grandson is -not—is not—altogether what one would wish. To be sure, he has a -dreadful struggle. It’s poverty, poverty, poverty. Oh, Leonard!”—she -caught his hand—“pray against<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> poverty. It is poverty which brings out -all the bad qualities.”</p> - -<p>Leonard interrupted a monologue which seemed likely to go on without -end. Besides, he had now grasped the situation.</p> - -<p>“I will come again,” he said, “if I may.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you may! If you only knew what a joy, what a happiness, it is -only to look into your face! It is my brother’s face—my father’s -face—oh, come again—come again.”</p> - -<p>“I will come again, then, and soon. Meantime, remember that I am your -nephew—or grand-nephew, which is the same thing. If in any way I can -bring some increase to your comforts——”</p> - -<p>“No, no, my dear boy. Not that way,” she cried hastily. “I have been -poor, but never—in that way. My father, who ought to help me, has done -nothing, and if he will not, nobody shall. I would, if I could, have my -rights; no woman of our family, except me, but was an heiress. And, -besides—<i>he</i>”—she pointed to the front of the house, where was the -office of her grandson—“he will take it all himself.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, but if——”</p> - -<p>“If I must, I will. Don’t give him money. He is better without it. He -will speculate in houses and lose it all. Don’t, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“I will not—unless for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“No—no—not for my sake. But come again, dear boy, and we will talk -over the family history.<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> I dare say there are quantities of misfortunes -that I have left out—oh, what a happy day it has been to me!”</p> - -<p>He pressed her hand again. “Have faith, dear lady. We cannot be crushed -in revenge for any crime by any other person. Do not think of past -sorrows. Do not tremble at imaginary dangers. The future is in the hands -of Justice, not of Revenge.”</p> - -<p>They were brave words, but in his heart there lurked, say, the -possibilities of apprehension.</p> - -<p>In the hall Samuel himself intercepted him, running out of his office. -“I had my tea in here,” he said, “because I wanted her to have a talk -with you alone; and I’m sick of her family, to tell the truth, except -for that chance of the accumulations. Did she mention them?” he -whispered. “I thought she wouldn’t. I can’t get her to feel properly -about the matter. Women have got no imagination—none. Well, a man like -that can’t make a will. He can’t. That’s a comfort. Good-evening, Mr. -Campaigne. We rely entirely upon you to maintain the interests of the -family, if necessary, against madmen’s wills. Those accumulations—ah! -And he’s ninety-five—or is it ninety-six? I call it selfish to live so -long unless a man’s a pauper. He ought to be thinking of his -great-grandchildren.”<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br /> -<small>IN THE LAND OF BEECHES</small></h2> - -<p>L<small>EONARD</small> met Constance a few days later at the club, and they dined at -the same table. As for the decision and the rejection, they were ignored -by tacit consent. The situation remained apparently unaltered. In -reality, everything was changed.</p> - -<p>“You look thoughtful,” she said presently, after twice making an -observation which failed to catch his attention. “And you are -absent-minded.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, yes. That is, I do feel thoughtful. You would, -perhaps, if you found your family suddenly enlarged in all directions.”</p> - -<p>“Have you received unknown cousins from America?”</p> - -<p>“I have received a great-aunt, a lesser aunt, and two second cousins. -They are not from America. They are, on the contrary, from the far East -End of this town—even from Ratcliffe or Shadwell, or perhaps Stepney.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Constance heard with astonishment, and naturally waited for more, -if more was to follow. Perhaps, however, her friend might not wish to -talk of connections with Shadwell.<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a></p> - -<p>“The great aunt is charming,” he continued; “the lesser aunt is not so -charming; the second cousins are—are—well, the man is a solicitor who -seems to practice chiefly in a police-court, defending those who are -drunk and disorderly, with all who are pickpockets, hooligans, and -common frauds.”</p> - -<p>“A variegated life, I should say, and full of surprises and -unexpectedness.”</p> - -<p>“He is something like my family—tall, with sharp features—more perhaps -of the vulture than the eagle in him. But one may be mistaken. His -sister is like her mother, short and round and plump, and—not to -disguise the truth—common-looking. But I should say that she was -capable. She is a Board School teacher. You were saying the other day, -Constance, that it was a pity that I had never been hampered by poor -relations.”</p> - -<p>“I consider that you are really a spoiled child of fortune. I reminded -you that you have your position already made; you have your -distinguished University career; you are getting on in the House; you -have no family scandals or misfortunes, or poor relations, or anything.”</p> - -<p>“Well, this loss is now supplied by the accession of poor relations -and—other things. Your mention of things omitted reminded Fortune, I -suppose. So she hastened to turn on a supply of everything. I am now -quite like the rest of the world.”</p> - -<p>“Do the poor relations want money?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but not from me. The solicitor thinks that<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> there must be great -sums of money accumulated by the Patriarch of whom I have spoken to you. -Cupidity of a sort, but not the desire to borrow, sent him to me. Partly -he wanted to put in his claim informally, and partly he prepared the way -to make me dispute any will that the old man may have made. He is poor, -and therefore he is grasping, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I believe we all have poor relations,” said Constance. “Mine, however, -do not trouble me much.”</p> - -<p>“There has been a Family enlargement in another direction. A certain -uncle of mine, who formerly enacted with much credit the old tragedy of -the Prodigal Son, has come back from Australia.”</p> - -<p>“Has he been living on the same diet as the Prodigal?”</p> - -<p>“Shucks and bean-pods! He hardly looks as if that had been his diet. He -is well dressed, big, and important. He repeats constantly, and is most -anxious for everybody to know, that he is prosperous. I doubt, -somehow——”</p> - -<p>Leonard paused; the expression of doubt is not always wise.</p> - -<p>“The return of a middle-aged Prodigal is interesting and unusual. I fear -I must not congratulate you altogether on this unexpected enlargement.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you said I ought to have poor relations. However, there is more -behind. What was it you said about disgraces? Well, they’ve come too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Constance changed colour. “Disgraces?<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a> But, Leonard, I am very -sorry, and I really never supposed——”</p> - -<p>“Of course not; it is the merest coincidence. At the same time, like all -coincidences, it is astonishing just after your remarks, which did -really make me very uncomfortable. But I’ve stepped into quite a -remarkable family history, full of surprising events, and all of them -disasters.”</p> - -<p>“But you had already a remarkable family history.”</p> - -<p>“So I thought—a long history and a creditable history, ending with the -ancient recluse of whom I have told you. We are rather proud of this -old, old man—this singular being who has been a recluse for seventy -years. I have always known about him. One of the very earliest things I -was told was the miraculous existence of this eccentric ancestor. They -told me so much, I suppose, because I am, as a matter of fact, heir to -the estate whenever that happens to fall in. But I was never told—I -suppose because it is a horrible story—why the old man became a -recluse. That I only learned yesterday from this ancient aunt, who is -the only daughter of the still more ancient recluse.”</p> - -<p>“Why was it? That is, don’t let me ask about your private affairs.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. There is nothing that might not be proclaimed from the -house-top; there never is. There are no private affairs if we would only -think so. Well, it seems that one day, seventy years ago, the -brother-in-law of this gentleman, then a hearty<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> young fellow of five-or -six-and-twenty, was staying at the Hall. He went out after breakfast, -and was presently found murdered in a wood, and in consequence of -hearing this dreadful thing suddenly, his sister, my ancestor’s wife, -died on the same day. The ancient aunt was born on the day that the -mother died. The blow, which was certainly very terrible, affected my -ancestor with a grief so great that he became at once, what he is now, a -melancholy recluse, taking no longer the least interest in anything. It -is to me very strange that a young man, strong physically and mentally, -should not have shaken off this obsession.”</p> - -<p>“It does seem very strange. I myself had an ancestor murdered -somewhere—father of one of my grandmothers. But your case is -different.”</p> - -<p>“The aged aunt told me the story. She had a theory about some great -crime having been committed. She suggests that the parent of the recluse -must have been a great unknown, unsuspected criminal—a kind of Gilles -de Retz. There have been misfortunes scattered about—she related a -whole string of calamities—all, she thinks, in consequence of some -crime committed by this worthy, as mild a Christian, I believe, as ever -followed the hounds or drank a bottle of port.”</p> - -<p>“She is thinking, of course, of the visitation upon the third and fourth -generation. To which of them do you belong?”</p> - -<p>“I am of the fourth according to that theory. It is<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> tempting; it lends -a new distinction to the family. This lady is immensely proud of her -family, and finds consolation for her own misfortunes in the thought -that they are in part atonement for some past wickedness. Strange, is it -not?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, if there is no crime there can be no consequences. Have the -misfortunes been very marked?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, very marked and unmistakable misfortunes. They cannot be got over -or denied or explained away. Misfortunes, Dooms—what you please.”</p> - -<p>“What does your recluse say about them?”</p> - -<p>“He says nothing; he never speaks. Constance, will you ride over with me -and see the man and the place? It is only five-and-twenty miles or so. -The roads are dry; the spring is upon us. Come to-morrow. There is a -pretty village, an old church, an eighteenth-century house falling into -ruins, great gardens all run to bramble and thistle, and a park, besides -the recluse himself.”</p> - -<p>“The recluse might not like my visit.”</p> - -<p>“He will not notice it. Besides, he sleeps all the afternoon. And when -he is awake he sees nobody. His eyes go straight through one like a -Röntgen ray. I believe he sees the bones and nothing else.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The least frequented of the great highroads running out of London is -assuredly that which passes through Uxbridge, and so right into the -heart of the shire of Buckingham—the home or clearing or settlement<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> of -the Beeches. Few bicycles attempt this road; the ordinary cyclist knows -or cares nothing for the attractions. Yet there is much to see. In one -place you can visit the cottage where Milton finished “Paradise Lost.” -It is still kept just as when the poet lived in it. There are churches -every two or three miles, churches memorable, and even historical, for -the most part, and beautiful. Almost every church in this county has -some famous man associated with it. On the right is the burial-place of -the Russells, with their ancient manor-house, a joy and solace for the -eyes: also, on the right, is another ancient manor-house. On the left is -the quiet and peaceful burial-place of Penn and Elwood, those two -illustrious members of the Society of Friends. Or, also on the left, you -may turn aside to see the church and the road and the house of England’s -patriot John Hampden. The road goes up and the road goes down over long -low hills and through long low valleys. On this side and on that are -woods and coppices and parks, with trees scattered about and country -houses. No shire in England is more studded with country houses than -this of Bucks. At a distance of every six or eight miles there stands a -town. All the towns in Bucks are small; all are picturesque. All have -open market-places and town-halls and ancient inns and old houses. I -know of one where there is an inn of the fourteenth century. I have had -it sketched by a skilful limner, and I call it the Boar’s Head, -Eastcheap, and I should like to<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> see anybody question the authenticity -of the name. If any were so daring, I would add the portrait of Jack -Falstaff himself, sitting in the great chair by the fire.</p> - -<p>On a fine clear day in early spring, two cyclists rode through this -country. They were Leonard and his friend Constance. They went by train -as far as Uxbridge, and then they took the road.</p> - -<p>At first it was enough to breathe the pure air of the spring; to fly -along the quiet road, while the rooks cawed in the trees, and over the -fields the larks sang. Then they drew nearer and began to talk.</p> - -<p>“Is this what you brought me out to see?” asked Constance. “I am well -content if this is all. What a lovely place it is! And what a lovely -air! It is fragrant; the sun brings out the fragrance from the very -fields as well as the woods.”</p> - -<p>“This is the quietest and the most beautiful of all the roads near -London. But I am going to show you more. Not all to-day. We must come -again. I will show you Milton’s cottage and Penn’s burial-ground, John -Hampden’s church and tomb, and the old manor-house of Chenies and -Latimer. To-day I am only going to show you our old family house.”</p> - -<p>“We will come when the catkins have given place to the leaves and the -hedge-rose is in blossom.”</p> - -<p>“And when the Park is worth looking at. Everything, however, at our -place is in a condition of decay. You shall see the house, and the -church,<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> and the village. Then, if you like, we will go on to the -nearest town and get some kind of dinner, and go home by train.”</p> - -<p>“That pleases me well.”</p> - -<p>They went on in silence for a while.</p> - -<p>Leonard took up the parable again about his family.</p> - -<p>“We have been in the same place,” he said, “for an immense time. We have -never produced a great man or a distinguished man. If you consider it, -there are not really enough distinguished men to go round the families. -We have twice recently made a bid for a distinguished man. My own father -and my grandfather were both promising politicians, but they were both -cut off in early manhood.”</p> - -<p>“Both? What a strange thing!”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Part of what the ancient aunt calls the family luck. We have had, -in fact, an amazing quantity of bad luck. Listen. It is like the history -of a House driven and scourged by the hand of Fate.”</p> - -<p>She listened while he went through the terrible list.</p> - -<p>“Why,” she said, “your list of disaster does really suggest the terrible -words ‘unto the third and fourth generation.’ I don’t wonder at your -aunt looking about for a criminal. What could your forefathers have done -to bring about such a succession of misfortunes?”</p> - -<p>“Let us get down and rest a little.” They sat<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> down on a stile, and -turned the talk into a more serious vein.</p> - -<p>“What have my forefathers done? Nothing. Of that I am quite certain. -They have always been most respectable squires, good fox-hunters, with a -touch of scholarship. They have done nothing. Our misfortunes are all -pure bad luck, and nothing else. Those words, however, do force -themselves on one. I am not superstitious, yet since that venerable -dame—— However, this morning I argued with myself. I said, ‘It would -be such a terrible injustice that innocent children should suffer from -their fathers’ misdeeds, that it cannot be so.’ ”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Constance. “I am not so sure.”</p> - -<p>“You, too, among the superstitious? I also, however, was brought up with -that theory——”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you went to church?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we went to church. And now I remember that my mother, for the -reason which I have only just learned, believed that we were ourselves -expiating the sins of our forefathers. It is very easy for me to go back -to the language and ideas of my childhood, so much so that this morning -I made a little search after a certain passage which I had well-nigh -forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“What was that?”</p> - -<p>“It is directed against that very theory. It expresses exactly the -opposite opinion. The passage is in the Prophet Ezekiel. Do you remember -it?”<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a></p> - -<p>“No. I have never read that Prophet, and I have never considered the -subject.”</p> - -<p>“It is a very fine passage. Ezekiel is one of the finest writers -possible. He ought to be read more and studied more.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me the sense of the passage.”</p> - -<p>“I can give you the very words. Listen.” He stood up and took off his -hat, and declaimed the words with much force:</p> - -<p>“ ‘What mean ye that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, -saying, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are -set on edge? As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not use this -proverb any more. Behold, all souls are Mine: as the soul of the father, -so also the soul of the son is Mine. The soul that sinneth, it shall -die. But if a man be just, he shall surely live.”</p> - -<p>“These are very noble words, Constance;” indeed, Leonard spoke them with -much solemnity. “The verbal interpretation of the Prophets no longer -occupies our minds. Still, they are very noble words. I have never -believed myself to be superstitious or to believe in heredity of -misfortune; still, after learning for the first time the long string of -disasters that have fallen upon my people, I became possessed with a -kind of terror, as if the Hand of Fate was pressing upon us all.”</p> - -<p>“They are very noble words,” Constance repeated. “It seems as if the -speaker was thinking of a distinction between consequences—certain -consequences<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>—of every man’s life as regards his children and——”</p> - -<p>“What consequences—from father to son?”</p> - -<p>“Why, you have only to look around you. We live in conditions made for -us by our forefathers. My people behaved well and prospered: they saved -money and bought lands: they lived, in the old phrase, God-fearing -lives. Therefore I am sound in mind and body, and I am tolerably -wealthy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! that, of course. But I was not thinking of consequences like -these.”</p> - -<p>“You must think of them. A man loses his fortune and position. Down go -children and grandchildren. The edifice of generations may have to be -built up again from the very foundations. Is it nothing to inherit a -name which has been smirched? If a man commits a bad action, are not his -children disgraced with him?”</p> - -<p>“Of course; but only by that act. They are not persecuted by the hand of -Fate.”</p> - -<p>“Who can trace the consequences of a single act? Who can follow it up in -all the lines of consequence?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but the third and fourth generation....”</p> - -<p>“Who can say when those consequences will cease?”</p> - -<p>“ ‘As I live, saith the Lord.’ It is a solemn assurance—a form of words, -perhaps—only a form of words—yet, if so, the audacity of it! ‘As I -<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>live’—the Lord Himself takes the oath—‘if a man be just, he shall -surely live.’ ”</p> - -<p>“A man may be kept down by poverty and shut out from the world by his -father’s shame. Yet he may still be just. It is the distinction that the -Prophet would draw. What misfortune has fallen upon your House which -affects the soul of a man? Death? Poverty? The wrong-doing of certain -members?”</p> - -<p>Leonard shook his head. “Yes, I understand what you mean. I confess that -I had been shaken by the revelations of that old lady. They seemed to -explain so much.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they explained the whole—yet not as she meant them to -explain.”</p> - -<p>“Now I understand so many things that were dark—my mother’s sadness and -the melancholy eyes which rested upon me from childhood. She was looking -for the hand of Fate: she expected disaster: she kept me in ignorance: -yet she was haunted by the thought that for the third and fourth -generation the sins—the unknown sins—of the fathers would be visited -upon the children. When I learned these things”—he repeated himself, -because his mind was so full of the thought—“I felt the same -expectation, the same terror, the same sense of helplessness, as if -wherever I turned, whatever I attempted, the Hand which struck down my -father, my grandfather, and that old man would fall upon me.”<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a></p> - -<p>“It was natural.”</p> - -<p>“So that these words came to me like a direct message from the old -Hebrew Prophet. Our ancestors went for consolation and instruction to -those pages. They held that every doubt and every difficulty were met -and solved by these writers. Perhaps we shall go back to the ancient -faith. And yet——” He looked round; it was a new world that he saw, -with new ideas. “Not in my time,” he said. “We are a scientific age. -When the reign of Science is ended, we may begin again the reign of -Faith.” He spoke as one in doubt and uncertainty.</p> - -<p>“Receive the words, Leonard, as a direct message.”</p> - -<p>“At least, I interpreted the words into an order to look at events from -another point of view. And I have taken all the misfortunes in turn. -They have nothing whatever to do with heredity. Your illustration about -a man losing his money, and so bringing poverty upon his children, does -not apply. My great-grandfather has his head turned by a great trouble. -His son commits suicide. Why? Nobody knows. The young sailor is drowned. -Why? Because he is a sailor. The daughter marries beneath her station. -Why? Because she was motherless and fatherless and neglected. My own -father died young. Why? Because fever carried him off.”</p> - -<p>“Leonard”—Constance laid her hand upon his<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> arm—“do not argue the case -any more. Leave it. A thing like this may easily become morbid. It may -occupy your thoughts too much.”</p> - -<p>“Let me forget it, by all means. At present, I confess, the question is -always with me.”</p> - -<p>“It explains something in your manner yesterday and to-day. You are -always serious, but now you are absent-minded. You have begun to think -too much about these troubles.”</p> - -<p>He smiled. “I am serious, I suppose, from the way in which I was brought -up. We lived in Cornwall, right in the country, close to the seashore, -with no houses near us, until I went to school. It was a very quiet -household: my grandmother and my mother were both in widows’ weeds. -There was very little talking, and no laughing or mirth of any kind, -within the house, and always, as I now understand, the memory of that -misfortune and the dread of new misfortunes were upon these unhappy -ladies. They did not tell me anything, but I felt the sadness of the -house. I suppose it made me a quiet boy—without much inclination to the -light heart that possessed most of my fellows.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you have told me,” she replied. “These things explain a good -deal in you. For now I understand you better.”</p> - -<p>They mounted their cycles, and resumed the journey in silence for some -miles.</p> - -<p>“Look!” he cried. “There is our old place.”</p> - -<p>He pointed across a park. At the end of it stood<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> a house of red brick, -with red tiles and stacks of red chimneys—a house of two stories only. -In front was a carriage-drive, but no garden or enclosure at all. The -house rose straight out of the park itself.</p> - -<p>“You see only the back of the house,” said Leonard. “The gardens are all -in the front: but everything is grown over; nothing has been done to the -place for seventy years. I wonder it has stood so long.” They turned off -the road into the drive. “The old man, when the double shock fell upon -him, dropped into a state of apathy from which he has never rallied. We -must go round by the servant’s entrance. The front doors are never -opened.”</p> - -<p>The great hall with the marble floor made echoes rolling and rumbling -about the house above as they walked across it. There were arms on the -walls and armour, but all rusted and decaying in the damp air. There -were two or three pictures on the walls, but the colour had peeled off -and the pictures had become ghosts and groups of ghosts in black frames.</p> - -<p>“The recluse lives in the library,” said Leonard. “Let us look first at -the other rooms.” He opened a door. This was the dining-room. Nothing -had been touched. There stood the great dining-hall. Against the walls -were arranged a row of leather chairs. There was the sideboard; the -mahogany was not affected by the long waiting, except that it had lost -its lustre. The leather on the chairs was decaying and falling off. The -carpet was moth-eaten<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> and in threads. The paper on the wall, the -old-fashioned red velvet paper, was hanging down in folds. The -old-fashioned high brass fender was black with neglected age. On the -walls the pictures were in better preservation than those in the hall, -but they were hopelessly injured by the damp. The curtains were falling -away from the rings. “Think of the festive dinners that have been given -in this room,” said Leonard. “Think of the talk and the laughter and the -happiness! And suddenly, unexpectedly, the whole comes to an end, and -there has been silence and emptiness for seventy years.”</p> - -<p>He closed the door and opened another. This was in times gone by the -drawing-room. It was a noble room—long, high, well proportioned. A harp -stood in one corner, its strings either broken or loose. A piano with -the music still upon it stood open; it had been open for seventy years. -The keys were covered with dust and the wires with rust. The music which -had last been played was still in its place. Old-fashioned sofas and -couches stood about. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with strange things -in china. There were occasional tables in the old fashion of yellow and -white and gold. The paper was peeling off like that of the dining-room. -The sunshine streamed into the room through windows which had not been -cleaned for seventy years. The moths were dancing merrily as if they -rejoiced in solitude. On one table, beside the fireplace, were<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> lying, -as they had been left, the work-basket with some fancy work in it; the -open letter-case, a half-finished letter, an inkstand, with three or -four quill pens: on a chair beside the table lay an open volume; it had -been open for seventy years.</p> - -<p>Constance came in stepping noiselessly, as in a place where silence was -sacred. She spoke in whispers; the silence fell upon her soul; it filled -her with strange terrors and apprehensions. She looked around her.</p> - -<p>“You come here often, Leonard?”</p> - -<p>“No. I have opened the door once, and only once. Then I was seized with -a strange sense of—I know not what; it made me ashamed. But it seemed -as if the room was full of ghosts.”</p> - -<p>“I think it is. The whole house is full of ghosts. I felt their breath -upon my cheek as soon as we came into the place. They will not mind us, -Leonard, nor would they hurt you if they could. Let us walk round the -room.” She looked at the music. “It is Gluck’s ‘Orpheo’; the song, -‘Orpheo and Euridice.’ She must have been singing it the day before—the -day before——” Her eyes turned to the work-table. “Here she was sitting -at work the day before—the day before—— Look at the dainty work—a -child’s frock.” She took up the open book; it was Paschal’s “Pensées.” -“She was reading this the day before—the day before——” Her eyes -filled with tears. “The music—no common music; the book—a book only -for a soul uplifted above the<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> common level; the dainty, beautiful -work—Leonard, it seems to reveal the woman and the household. Nothing -base or common was in that woman’s heart—or in the management of her -house; they are slight indications, but they are sure. It seems as if I -knew her already, though I never heard of her until to-day. Oh, what a -loss for that man!—what a Tragedy! what a terrible Tragedy it was!” Her -eyes fell upon the letter; she took it up. “See!” she said. “The letter -was begun, but never finished. Is it not sacrilege to let it fall into -other hands? Take it, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“We may read it after all these years,” Leonard said, shaking the dust -of seventy years from it. “There can be nothing in it that she would -wish not to be written there.” He read it slowly. It was written in -pointed and sloping Italian hand—a pretty hand belonging to the time -when women were more separated from men in all their ways. Now we all -write alike. “ ‘My dearest....’ I cannot make out the name. The rest is -easy. ‘Algernon and Langley have gone off to the study to talk business. -It is this affair of the Mill which is still unsettled. I am a little -anxious about Algernon: he has been strangely distrait for this last two -or three days; perhaps he is anxious about me: there need be no anxiety. -I am quite well and strong. This morning he got up very early, and I -heard him walking about in his study below. This is not his way at all. -However, should a wife repine because her<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> Lord is anxious about her? -Algernon is very determined about that Mill; but I fear that Langley -will not give way. You know how firm he can be behind that pleasant -smile of his.’ That is all, Constance. She wrote no more.”</p> - -<p>“It was written, then, the day before—the day before—— Keep the -letter, Leonard. You have no other letter of hers—perhaps nothing at -all belonging to the poor lady. I wonder who Langley was? I had a -forefather, too, whose Christian name was Langley. It is not a common -name.”</p> - -<p>“The Christian name of my unfortunate grandfather who committed suicide -was also Langley. It is a coincidence. No doubt he was named after the -person mentioned in this letter. Not by any means a common name, as you -say. As for this letter, I will keep it. There is nothing in my -possession that I can connect with this unfortunate ancestress.”</p> - -<p>“Where are her jewels and things?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps where she left them, perhaps sent to the bank. I have never -heard of anything belonging to her.”</p> - -<p>Constance walked about the room looking at everything; the dust lay -thick, but it was not the black dust of the town—a light brown dust -that could be blown away or swept away easily. She swept the strings of -the harp, which responded with the discords of seventy years’ neglect. -She touched the keys of the piano, and started at the harsh and grating -response. She looked at the chairs and the<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> tables with their curly -legs, and the queer things in china that stood upon the mantel shelf.</p> - -<p>“Why,” she said, “the place should be kept just as it is, a museum of -George the Fourth fashion in furniture. Here is a guitar. Did that lady -play the guitar as well as the harp and the piano? The pictures are all -water-colours. The glass has partly preserved them, but some damp has -got in; they are all injured. I should like to get them all copied for -studies of the time and its taste. They are good pictures, too. This one -looks like a water-colour copy of a Constable. Was he living then? And -this is a portrait.” She started. “Good heavens! what is this?”</p> - -<p>“This? It is evidently a portrait,” said Leonard. “Why, Constance——”</p> - -<p>For she was looking into it with every sign of interest and curiosity.</p> - -<p>“How in the world did this picture come here?” Leonard looked at it.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you,” he said; “it is only my second visit to this room. -It is a young man. A pleasing and amiable face; the short hair curled by -the barber’s art, I suppose. The face is familiar; I don’t know why——”</p> - -<p>“Leonard, it is the face of my own great-grandfather. How did it come -here? I have a copy, or the original, in my own possession. How did it -come here? Was he a friend of your people?”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing at all about it. By the rolled<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> collar and the curly -hair and the little whiskers I should say that the original must have -been a contemporary of my ancestor the Recluse. Stop! there is a name on -the frame. Can you read it?” He brushed away the dust. “ ‘Langley Holme, -1825,’ Langley Holme! What is it, Constance?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Leonard, Langley Holme—Langley Holme—he was my great-grandfather. -And he was murdered; I remember to have heard of it—he was murdered. -Then, it was here, and he was that old man’s brother-in-law, -and—and—your Tragedy is mine as well.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Constance, are you not jumping to a conclusion? How do you know -that the murder in Campaigne Park was that of Langley Holme?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know it; I am only certain of it. Besides, that letter. -Algernon and Langley were in the study. The letter tells us. Oh, I have -no doubt—no doubt at all. This is his portrait; he was here the day -before—the day before the terrible Tragedy. It must have been none -other—it could have been none other. Leonard, this is very strange. You -confide your story to me, you bring me out to see the spot where it -happened and the house of the Recluse, and I find that your story is -mine. Oh, to light upon it here and with you! It is strange, it is -wonderful! Your story is mine as well,” she repeated, looking into his -face; “we have a common tragedy.”</p> - -<p>“We are not certain yet; there may be another explanation.”<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a></p> - -<p>“There can be no other. We will hunt up the contemporary papers; we -shall find an account of the murder somewhere. A gentleman is not -murdered even so far back as 1826 without a report in the papers. But I -am quite—quite certain. This is my great-grandfather, Langley Holme, -and his death was the first of all your many troubles.”</p> - -<p>“This was the first of the hereditary misfortunes.”</p> - -<p>“The more important and the most far-reaching. Perhaps we could trace -them all to this one calamity.”</p> - -<p>Leonard was looking into the portrait.</p> - -<p>“I said it was a familiar face, Constance; it is your own. The -resemblance is startling. You have his eyes, the same shape of face, the -same mouth. It is at least your ancestor. And as for the rest, since it -is certain that he met with an early and a violent end, I would rather -believe that it was here and in this Park, because it makes my Tragedy, -as you say, your own. We have a common history; it needs no further -proof. There could not have been two murders of two gentlemen, both -friends of this House, in the same year. You are right: this is the man -whose death caused all the trouble.”</p> - -<p>They looked at the portrait in silence for awhile. The thought of the -sudden end of this gallant youth, rejoicing in the strength and hope of -early manhood, awed them.</p> - -<p>“We may picture the scene,” said Constance—“the news brought suddenly -by some country lad<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> breathless and panting; the old man then young, -with all his future before him; a smiling future, a happy life; his wife -hearing it; the house made terrible by her shriek; the sudden shock; the -heavy blow; bereavement of all the man loved best; the death of his wife -for whom he was so anxious; the awful death of the man he loved. Oh, -Leonard, can you bear to think of it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but other young men have received blows as terrible, and have yet -survived, and at least gone about their work as before. Is it in nature -for a man to grieve for seventy years?”</p> - -<p>“I do not think that it was grief, or that it was ever grief, that he -felt or still feels. His brain received a violent blow, from which it -has never recovered.”</p> - -<p>“But he can transact business in his own way—by brief written -instructions.”</p> - -<p>“We are not physicians, to explain the working of a disordered brain. We -can, however, understand that such a shock may have produced all the -effect of a blow from a hammer or a club. His brain is not destroyed: -but it is benumbed. I believe that he felt no sorrow, but only a dead -weight of oppression—the sense of suffering without pain—the -consciousness of gloom which never lifts. Is not the story capable of -such effects?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. There is, however, one thing which we have forgotten, -Constance. It is that we are cousins. This discovery makes us cousins.”<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p> - -<p>She took his proffered hand under the eyes of her ancestor, who looked -kindly upon them from his dusty and faded frame. “We are cousins—not -first or second cousins—but still—cousins—which is something. You -have found another relation. I hope, sir, that you will not be ashamed -of her, or connect her with your family misfortunes. This tragedy -belongs to both of us. Come, Leonard, let us leave this room. It is -haunted. I hear again the shrieks of the woman, and I see the white face -of the man—the young man in his bereavement. Come.”</p> - -<p>She drew him from the room, and closed the door softly.</p> - -<p>Leonard led the way up the broad oaken staircase, which no neglect could -injure, and no flight of time. On the first floor there were doors -leading to various rooms. They opened one: it was a room filled with -things belonging to children: there were toys and dolls: there were -dresses and boots and hats: there was a children’s carriage, the -predecessor of the perambulator and the cart: there were nursery-cots: -there were slates and pencils and colour-boxes. It looked like a place -which had not been deserted: children had lived in it and had grown out -of it: all the old playthings were left in when the children left it.</p> - -<p>“After the blow,” said Leonard, “life went on somehow in the House. The -Recluse lived by himself in his bedroom and the library: the dining-room -and the drawing-room were locked up: his wife’s room—the room where she -died—was locked up:<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> the boys went away: the girl ran away with her -young man, Mr. Galley; then the whole place was deserted.” He shut the -door and unlocked another. “It was her room,” he whispered.</p> - -<p>Constance looked into the room. It was occupied by a great four-poster -bed with steps on either side in order that the occupant might ascend to -the feather-bed with the dignity due to her position. One cannot imagine -a gentlewoman of 1820, or thereabouts, reduced to the indignity of -climbing into a high bed. Therefore the steps were placed in position. -We have lost this point of difference which once distinguished the -“Quality” from the lower sort: the former walked up these steps with -dignity into bed: the latter flopped or climbed: everybody now seeks the -nightly repose by the latter methods. The room contained a great amount -of mahogany: the doors were open, and showed dresses hanging up as they -had waited for seventy years to be taken down and worn: fashions had -come and gone: they remained waiting. There was a chest of drawers with -cunningly-wrought boxes upon it: silver patch-boxes: snuff-boxes in -silver and in silver gilt: a small collection of old-world curiosities, -which had belonged to the last occupant’s forefather. There was a -dressing-table, where all the toilet tools and instruments were lying as -they had been left. Constance went into the room on tiptoe, glancing at -the great bed, which stood like a funeral hearse of the fourteenth -century, with its plumes and heavy carvings,<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> as if she half expected to -find a tenant. Beside the looking-glass stood open, just as it had been -left, the lady’s jewel-box. Constance took out the contents, and looked -at them with admiring eyes. There were rings and charms, necklaces of -pearl, diamond brooches, bracelets, sprays, watches—everything that a -rich gentlewoman would like to have. She put them all back, but she did -not close the box; she left everything as she found it, and crept away. -“These things belonged to Langley’s sister,” she whispered; “and she was -one of my people—mine.”</p> - -<p>They shut the door and descended the stairs. Again they stood together -in the great empty hall, where their footsteps echoed up the broad -staircase and in the roof above, and their words were repeated by -mocking voices, even when they whispered, from wall to answering wall, -and from the ceilings of the upper place.</p> - -<p>“Tell me all you know about your ancestor,” said Leonard.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, it is very little. He is my ancestor on my mother’s side, and -again on her mother’s side. He left one child, a daughter, who was my -grandmother: and her daughter married my father. There is but a -legend—I know no more—except that the young man—the lively young man -whose portrait I have—whose portrait is in that room—was found done to -death in a wood. That is all I have heard. I do not know who the -murderer was, nor what happened,<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> nor anything. It all seemed so long -ago—a thing that belonged to the past. But, then, if we could -understand, the past belongs to us. There was another woman who suffered -as well as the poor lady of this house. Oh, Leonard, what a tragedy! And -only the other day we were talking glibly about family scandals!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; a good deal of the sunshine has disappeared. My life, you see, was -not, as you thought, to be one long succession of fortune’s gifts.”</p> - -<p>“It was seventy years ago, however. The thing must not make us unhappy. -We, at least, if not that old man, can look upon an event of so long ago -with equanimity.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. But I must ferret out the whole story. I feel as if I know so -little. I am most strangely interested and moved. How was the man -killed? Why? Who did it? Where can I look for the details?”</p> - -<p>“When you have found what you want, Leonard, you can tell me. For my own -part, I may leave the investigation to you. Besides, it was so long ago. -Why should we revive the griefs of seventy years ago?”</p> - -<p>“I really do not know, except that I am, as I said, strangely attracted -by this story. Come, now, I want you to see the man himself who married -your ancestor’s sister. Her portrait is somewhere among those in the -drawing-room, but it is too far gone to be recognised. Pity—pity! We -have lost all our<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> family portraits. Come, we will step lightly, not to -wake him.”</p> - -<p>He led her across the hall again, and opened very softly the library -door. Asleep in an armchair by the fire was the most splendid old man -Constance had ever seen. He was of gigantic stature; his long legs were -outstretched, his massive head lay back upon the chair—a noble head -with fine and abundant white hair and broad shoulders and deep chest. He -was sleeping like a child, breathing as softly and as peacefully. In -that restful countenance there was no suggestion of madness or a -disordered brain.</p> - -<p>Constance stepped lightly into the room and bent over him. His lips -parted.</p> - -<p>He murmured something in his sleep. He woke with a start. He sat up and -opened his eyes, and gazed upon her face with a look of terror and -amazement.</p> - -<p>She stepped aside. The old man closed his eyes again, and his head fell -back. Leonard touched her arm, and they left the room. At the door -Constance turned to look at him. He was asleep again.</p> - -<p>“He murmured something in his sleep. He was disturbed. He looked -terrified.”</p> - -<p>“It was your presence, Constance, that in some way suggested the memory -of his dead friend. Perhaps your face reminded him of his dead friend. -Think, however, what a shock it must have been to disturb the balance of -such a strong man as that. Why, he was in the full strength of his early -manhood.<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> And he never recovered—all these seventy years. He has never -spoken all these years, except once in my hearing—it was in his sleep. -What did he say? ‘That will end it.’ Strange words.”</p> - -<p>The tears were standing in the girl’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“The pity of it, Leonard—the pity of it!”</p> - -<p>“Come into the gardens. They were formerly, in the last century—when a -certain ancestor was a scientific gardener—show gardens.”</p> - -<p>They were now entirely ruined by seventy years of neglect. The lawns -were covered with coarse rank grass; the walks were hidden; brambles -grew over the flower-beds; the neglect was simply mournful. They passed -through into the kitchen-garden, over the strawberry-beds and the -asparagus-beds, and everywhere spread the brambles with the thistle and -the shepherd’s-purse and all the common weeds; in the orchard most of -the trees were dead, and under the dead boughs there flourished a rank -undergrowth.</p> - -<p>“I have never before,” said Constance, “realized what would happen if we -suffered a garden to go wild.”</p> - -<p>“This would happen—as you see. I believe no one has so much as walked -in the garden except ourselves for seventy years. In the eyes of the -village, I know, the whole place is supposed to be haunted day and -night. Even the chance of apples would not tempt the village children -into the garden. Come, Constance, let us go into the village and see the -church.”<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a></p> - -<p>It was a pretty village, consisting of one long street, with an inn, a -small shop, and post-office, a blacksmith’s, and one or two other -trades. In the middle of the street a narrow lane led to the churchyard -and the church. The latter, much too big for the village, was an early -English cruciform structure, with later additions and improvements.</p> - -<p>The church was open, for it was Saturday afternoon. The chancel was full -of monuments of dead and gone Campaignes. Among them was a tablet, “To -the Memory of Langley Holme, born at Great Missenden, June, 1798, found -murdered in a wood in this parish, May 18, 1826. Married February 1, -1824, to Eleanor, daughter of the late Marmaduke Flight, of Little -Beauchamp, in this county; left one child, Constance, born January 1, -1825.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Constance, “one can realise it: the death of wife and friend -at once, and in this dreadful manner.”</p> - -<p>In the churchyard an old man was occupied with some work among the -graves. He looked up and straightened himself slowly, as one with -stiffened joints.</p> - -<p>“Mornin’, sir,” he said. “Mornin’, miss. I hope I see you well. Beg your -pardon, sir, but you be a Campaigne for sure. All the Campaignes are -alike—tall men they are, and good to look upon. But you’re not so tall, -nor yet so strong built, as the Squire. Been to see the old gentleman, -sir? Ay, he do last on, he do. It’s wonderful. Close on<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> ninety-five he -is. Everybody in the village knows his birthday. Why, he’s a show. On -Sundays, in summer, after church, they go to the garden wall and look -over it, to see him marching up and down the terrace. He never sees -them, nor wouldn’t if they were to walk beside him.”</p> - -<p>“You all know him, then?”</p> - -<p>“I mind him seventy years ago. I was a little chap then. You wouldn’t -think I was ever a little chap, would you? Seventy years ago I was -eight—I’m seventy-eight now. You wouldn’t think I was seventy-eight, -would you?” A very garrulous old man, this.</p> - -<p>“I gave evidence, I did, at the inquest after the murder. They couldn’t -do nohow without me, though I was but eight years old.”</p> - -<p>“You? Why, what had you to do with the murder?”</p> - -<p>“I was scaring birds on the hillside above the wood. I see the -Squire—he was a fine big figure of a man—and the other gentleman -crossing the road and coming over the stile into the field. Then they -went as far as the wood together. The Squire he turned back, but the -other gentleman he went on. They found him afterwards in the wood with -his head smashed. Then I see John Dunning go in—same man as they -charged with the murder. And he came running out—scared-like with what -he’d seen. Oh! I see it all, and I told them so, kissing the Bible on -it.”<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a></p> - -<p>“I have heard that a man was tried for the crime.”</p> - -<p>“He was tried, but he got off. Everybody knows he never done it. But -they never found out who done it.”</p> - -<p>“That is all you know about it?”</p> - -<p>“That is all, sir. Many a hundred times I’ve told that story. Thank you, -sir. Mornin’, miss. You’ll have a handsome partner, miss, and he’ll have -a proper missus.”</p> - -<p>“So,” said Leonard, as they walked away, “the murder is still -remembered, and will be, I suppose, so long as anyone lives who can talk -about it. It is strange, is it not, that all these discoveries should -fall together; that I should learn the truth about my own people, and -only a day or two afterwards that you should learn the truth about your -own ancestors? We are cousins, Constance, and a common tragedy unites -us.”</p> - -<p>They mounted their wheels and rode away in silence. But the joy had gone -out of the day. The evening fell. The wind in the trees became a dirge; -their hearts were full of violence and blood and death; in their ears -rang the cries of a bereaved woman, and the groans of a man gone mad -with trouble.<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><br /> -<small>MARY ANNE</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>T</small> was the Sunday afternoon after these visits to the ancestor and to -the group in the Commercial Road. Leonard was slowly returning home -after a solitary lunch. He walked with drooping head, touching the -lamp-posts as he passed with his umbrella. This, as everybody knows, is -a certain sign of preoccupation and dejection.</p> - -<p>He was becoming, in fact, conscious of a strange obsession of his soul. -The Family History sat upon him like a nightmare: it left him not either -by day or by night. He was beginning to realise that he could not shake -it off, and that it was come to stay.</p> - -<p>When a man is born to a Family History, and has to grow up with it, in -full consciousness of it, he generally gets the better of it, and either -disregards it or treats it with philosophy, or laughs at it, or even -boasts of it. The illustrious Mr. Bounderby was one of the many who -boast of it. But, then, he had grown up with it, and it had become part -of him, and he was able to present his own version of it.</p> - -<p>Very different is the case when a man has a<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> Family History suddenly and -quite unexpectedly sprung upon him. What could have been more desirable -than the position of this young man for a whole quarter of a century? -Sufficiently wealthy, connected for generations with gentlefolk, -successful, with nothing whatever to hamper him in his career, with the -certainty of succeeding to a large property—could mortal man desire -more?</p> - -<p>And then, suddenly, a Family History of the darkest and most gloomy -kind—murder, sudden death, suicide, early death, the shattering of a -strong mind, bankruptcy, poverty, cousins whom no kindliness could call -presentable—all this fell upon him at one blow. Can one be surprised -that he touched the lamp-posts as he went along?</p> - -<p>Is it wonderful that he could not get rid of the dreadful story? It -occupied his whole brain; it turned everything else out—the great -economical article for the <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, all his books, all his -occupations. If he read in the printed page, his eyes ran across the -lines and up and down the lines, but nothing reached his brain. The -Family History was a wall which excluded everything else; or it was a -jealous tenant who drove every intruder out as with a broom. If he tried -to write, his pen presently dropped from his fingers, for the things -that lay on his brain were not allowed by that new tenant to escape. And -all night long, and all day long, pictures rose up and floated before -his eyes; terrible pictures—pictures of things that belonged to the<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a> -History; pictures that followed each other like animated photographs, -irrepressible, not to be concealed, or denied, or refused admission.</p> - -<p>This obsession was only just beginning: it intended to become deeper and -stronger: it was going to hold him with grip and claw, never to let him -go by night or day until—— But the end he could not understand.</p> - -<p>You know how, at the first symptoms of a long illness, there falls upon -the soul a premonitory sadness: the nurses and the doctors utter words -of cheerfulness and hope: there is a loophole, there always is a -loophole, until the climax and the turning-point. The patient hears, and -tries to receive solace. But he knows better. He knows without being -told that he stands on the threshold of the torture chamber: the door -opens, he steps in, because he must: he will lie there and suffer—O -Lord! how long?</p> - -<p>With such boding and gloom of soul—boding without words, gloom -inarticulate—Leonard walked slowly homewards.</p> - -<p>It was about three in the afternoon that he mounted his stairs. In his -mood, brooding over the new-found tragedies, it seemed quite natural, -and a thing to be expected, that his cousin Mary Anne should be sitting -on the stairs opposite his closed door. She rose timidly.</p> - -<p>“The man said he could not tell when you would come home, so I waited,” -she explained.<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a></p> - -<p>“He ought to have asked you to wait inside. Did you tell him who you -were?”</p> - -<p>“No. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to disturb your Sabbath calm.”</p> - -<p>“My—— Oh yes! Pray come in.”</p> - -<p>She obeyed, and sat down by the fire, glancing round the room curiously. -In her lap lay a brown-paper parcel.</p> - -<p>“I thought you would come home to dinner after chapel,” she began, “so I -got here about one.”</p> - -<p>She observed that his face showed some trouble, and she hesitated to go -on.</p> - -<p>“Have you come to tell me of more family misfortunes?” he asked -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t come. I told her you didn’t want it and -you wouldn’t like it. Besides, what’s the use? It all happened so long -ago. But granny would have it. I’ve brought you a book. She says you -must read it. If you’d rather not have it, I will take it back again. -Granny ought to know that you don’t want to be worried about these old -things.”</p> - -<p>He pulled himself together, and assumed a mask of cheerfulness.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” he said. “Why should I not read about these old things which -are to me so new? They belong to me as much as to you.”</p> - -<p>He observed the girl more narrowly while he spoke. Her words and her -hesitation showed perception and feeling at least. As for her -appearance,<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> she was short and sturdy; her features were cast in one of -the more common moulds. She wore a black cloth jacket and a skirt of -dark green serge, a modest hat with black plumes nodding over her head -in the hearse-like fashion of the day before yesterday, and her gloves -were doubtful.</p> - -<p>The first impression was of complete insignificance; the second -impression was of a girl who might interest one. Her eyes were -good—they were the eyes of her grandmother; her hands were small and -delicate—they were the hands of her grandmother; her voice was clear -and soft, with a distinct utterance quite unlike the thick and husky -people among whom she lived. In all these points she resembled her -grandmother. Leonard observed these things—it was a distraction to -think of the cousin apart from the Family History—and became interested -in the girl.</p> - -<p>“My cousin,” he said unexpectedly, “you are very much like your -grandmother.”</p> - -<p>“Like granny?” She coloured with pleasure. As she was not a girl who -kept company with anyone, she had never before received a compliment. -“Why, she is beautiful still, and I—— Oh!”</p> - -<p>She laughed.</p> - -<p>“You have her voice and her eyes. She seems to be a very sweet and -gentle lady.”</p> - -<p>“She is the sweetest old lady in the world and the gentlest, and, oh! -she’s had an awful time.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to think so.”<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a></p> - -<p>“She cried with pleasure and pride when you went away. For fifty years -not a single member of her family has been to see her. I never saw her -take on so, and you so kind and friendly. Sam said you had as much pride -as a duke.”</p> - -<p>“Your brother should not judge by first appearances.”</p> - -<p>“And you were not proud a bit. Well, granny said: ‘Nobody ever told him -of the family misfortunes, and it’s shameful. I’ve told him some, but -not all, and now I’ll send him my Scrap-book with the trial in it—the -trial, you know, of John Dunning for the wilful murder of Langley -Holme.’ And I’ve brought it; here it is.” She handed him the parcel in -her lap. “That’s why I came.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Leonard, laying it carelessly on the table: “I will -read it or look at it some time. But I own I am not greatly interested -in the trial; it took place too long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Once she had another copy, but she gave it to your grandfather a few -days before he killed himself.”</p> - -<p>Leonard remembered these words afterwards. For the moment they had no -meaning for him.</p> - -<p>“Granny says we’ve got hereditary misfortunes.”</p> - -<p>“So she told me. Hereditary? Why?” His brow contracted. “I don’t know -why. Hereditary misfortunes are supposed to imply ancestral crimes.”</p> - -<p>“She puts it like this. If it hadn’t been hereditary misfortune she -wouldn’t have married grandfather;<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> he wouldn’t have been bankrupt; -father wouldn’t have been only a small clerk; Sam would have been -something in a large way; and I should be a lady instead of a Board -School teacher.”</p> - -<p>“You can be both, my cousin. Now look at the other side. Your -grandfather was ruined, I take it, by his own incompetence; his poverty -was his own doing. Your father never rose in the world, I suppose, -because he had no power of fight. Your brother has got into a -respectable profession; what right has he to complain?”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I say sometimes. Granny won’t have it. She’s all for -hereditary ill-luck, as if we are to suffer for what was done a hundred -years ago. I don’t believe it, for my part. Do you?”</p> - -<p>He thought of his talk with Constance in the country road.</p> - -<p>“It is a dreadful question; do not let it trouble us. Let us go on with -our work and not think about it.”</p> - -<p>“It’s all very well to say ‘Don’t think about it,’ when she talks about -nothing else, especially when she looks at Sam and thinks of you. There -was something else I wanted to say.” She dropped her head, and began -nervously to twitch with her fingertips. “I’m almost ashamed to say it. -Sam would never forgive me, but I think of granny first and of all she -has endured, and I must warn you.” She looked round; there was nobody -else present. “It’s about Sam, my brother. I must warn you—I must,<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> -because he may make mischief between you and granny.”</p> - -<p>“He will find that difficult. Well, go on.”</p> - -<p>“He goes to your village in the country. He sits and talks with the -people. He pretends that he goes to see how the old man is getting on. -But it is really to find out all he can about the property.”</p> - -<p>“What has he to do with the property?”</p> - -<p>“He wants to find out what is to become of all the money.”</p> - -<p>“Does he think that the rustics can tell him?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. You see, his head is filled with the hope of getting some -of the money. He wants to get it divided among the heirs. It’s what he -calls the ‘accumulations.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Accumulations!” Leonard repeated impatiently. “They are all in a tale. -I know nothing about these accumulations, or what will be done with -them.”</p> - -<p>“Sam is full of suspicions. He thinks there is a conspiracy to keep him -out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, does he? Well, tell him that my great-grandfather’s solicitor -receives the rents and deals with them as he is instructed. I, for one, -am not consulted.”</p> - -<p>“I said you knew nothing about it. Granny was so angry. You see, Sam can -think of nothing else. He’s been unlucky lately, and he comforts himself -with calculating what the money comes to. He’s made me do sums—oh! -scores of sums—in compound<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> interest for him: Sam never got so far -himself. If you’ve never worked it out——”</p> - -<p>“I never have. Like Sam, I have not got so far.”</p> - -<p>“Well, it really comes to a most wonderful sum. Sometimes I think that -the rule must be wrong. It mounts up to about a million and a half.”</p> - -<p>“Does it?” Leonard replied carelessly. “Let your brother understand, if -you can, that he builds his hopes on a very doubtful succession.”</p> - -<p>“Half of it he expects to get. Granny and you, he says, are the only -heirs. What is hers, he says, is his. So he has made her sign a paper -giving him all her share.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! And where do you come in?”</p> - -<p>“There will be nothing for me, because it will all be granny’s: and she -has signed that paper, so that it is to be all his.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry that she has signed anything, though I do not suppose such a -document would stand.”</p> - -<p>“Sam says she owes the family for fifty years’ maintenance: that is, -£20,000, without counting out-of-pocket expenses, incidentals, and rent. -How he makes it out I don’t know, because poor old granny doesn’t cost -more than £30 a year, and I find that. Can’t he claim that money?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. She owes him nothing. Your brother is not, I fear, quite -a—a straight-walking Christian, is he?”</p> - -<p>She sighed.</p> - -<p>“He’s a Church member; but, then, he says it<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>’s good for business. -Mother sides with Sam. They are both at her every day. Oh, Mr. -Campaigne, is it all Sam’s fancy? Will there be no money at all? When he -finds it out, he’ll go off his head for sure.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Don’t listen to him. Don’t think about the money.”</p> - -<p>“I must sometimes. It’s lovely to think about being rich, after you’ve -been so poor. Why, sometimes we’ve had to go for days—we women—with a -kippered herring or a bloater and a piece of bread for dinner. And as -for clothes and gloves and nice things——”</p> - -<p>“But now you have an income, and you have your work. Those days are -gone. Don’t dream of sudden wealth.”</p> - -<p>She got up.</p> - -<p>“I won’t think about it. It’s wicked to dream about being rich.”</p> - -<p>“What would you do with money if you had it?”</p> - -<p>“First of all, it would be so nice not to think about the rent and not -to worry, when illness came into the house, how the Doctor was to be -paid. And next, Sam would be always in a good temper.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Leonard decidedly; “Sam would not always be in a good -temper.”</p> - -<p>“Then I should take granny away, and leave mother and Sam.”</p> - -<p>“You would have to give up your work, you know—the school and the -children and everything.”</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t I go on with the school?”<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a></p> - -<p>“Certainly not.”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t like that. Oh, I couldn’t give up the school and the -children!”</p> - -<p>“Well—but what would you buy?”</p> - -<p>“Books—I should buy books.”</p> - -<p>“You can get them at the Free Library for nothing. Do you want fine -clothes?”</p> - -<p>“Every woman likes to look nice,” she said. “But not fine clothes—I -couldn’t wear fine clothes.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’d be no better off than you are now. Do you want a carriage?”</p> - -<p>“No; I’ve got my bike.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want money to give away?”</p> - -<p>“No. It only makes poor people worse to give them money.”</p> - -<p>“Very well. Now, my cousin, you have given yourself a lesson. You have -work that you like: you have a reasonably good salary: you have access -to books—as many as you want: you can dress yourself as you please and -as you wish: would you improve your food?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the food’s good enough! We women don’t care much what we eat. As -for Sam, he’s always wanting more buttered toast with his tea.”</p> - -<p>“Rapacious creature! Now, Mary Anne, please to reflect on these things, -and don’t talk about family misfortunes so long as you yourself are -concerned. And just think what a miserable girl you would be if you were -to become suddenly rich.”</p> - -<p>She laughed merrily.<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a></p> - -<p>“Miserable!” she said. “I never thought of that. You mean that I -shouldn’t know what to do with the money?”</p> - -<p>“No, not that. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. You have been -brought up to certain standards. If you were rich, you would have to -change them. The only way to be rich,” said this philosopher who was -going to inherit a goodly estate, “is to be born rich, and so not to -feel the burden of wealth.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. I wish you would say it all over again for Sam to hear. -Not that he would listen.”</p> - -<p>“And how would you like just to have everything you want by merely -calling for it? There is no desire for anything with a rich girl: no -trying to get it: no waiting for it: no getting it at last, and enjoying -it all the more. Won’t you think of this?”</p> - -<p>“I will. Yes, I will.”</p> - -<p>“Put the horrid thought of the money out of your head altogether, and go -on with your work. And be happy in it.”</p> - -<p>She nodded gravely.</p> - -<p>“I am happy in it. Only, sometimes——”</p> - -<p>“And remember, please, if there is anything—anything at all that it -would please your grandmother to have, let me know. Will you let me -know? And will you have the pleasure of giving it to her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will—I will. And will you come again soon?”<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></p> - -<p>“I will call again very soon.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell granny. It will please her—oh! more than I can say. And -you’ll read the book, won’t you, just to please her?”</p> - -<p>“I will read the book to please her.”</p> - -<p>“She longs to see you again. And so do I. Oh, Mr. Campaigne—cousin, -then—it’s just lovely to hear you talk!”<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br /><br /> -<small>A DINNER AT THE CLUB</small></h2> - -<p>L<small>EONARD</small> stood looking straight before him when the girl had gone. Well, -the omissions so much regretted by Constance seemed to be fully -supplied. He was now exactly like other people, with poor relations and -plenty of scandals and people to be ashamed of. Only a week ago he had -none of these things. Now he was supplied with all. Nothing was wanting. -He was richly, if unexpectedly, endowed with these gifts which had been -at first withheld. As yet he hardly rose to the situation: he felt no -gratitude: he would have resigned these new possessions willingly: the -tragedies, the new cousins, the ennobling theory of hereditary sorrow.</p> - -<p>He remembered the brown-paper parcel which he had promised to read; he -tore off the covering. Within there was a foolscap volume of the kind -called “scrap-book.” He opened it, and turned over the pages. It was -more than half filled with newspaper cuttings and writing between and -before and after the cuttings. As he turned the pages there fell upon -him a sense of loathing unutterable. He threw the book from him, and -fell back upon an easy-chair, half unconscious.<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a></p> - -<p>When he recovered, he picked up the book. The same feeling, but not so -strong, fell upon him again. He laid it down gently as a thing which -might do him harm. He felt cold; he shivered: for the first time in his -life, he was afraid of something. He felt that deadly terror which -superstitious men experience in empty houses and lonely places in the -dark—a terror inexplicable, that comes unasked and without cause.</p> - -<p>This young man was not in the least degree superstitious. He had no -terror at all concerning things supernatural; he would have spent a -night alone in a church vault, among coffins and bones and grinning -skulls, without a tremor. Therefore this strange dread, as of coming -evil, astonished him. It seemed to him connected with the book. He took -it up and laid it down over and over again. Always that shiver of dread, -that sinking of the heart, returned.</p> - -<p>He thought that he would leave the book and go out; he would overcome -this weakness on his return. And he remembered that the returned -Australian—the man of wealth, the successful man of the family—was to -dine with him at the club. He left the book on the table; he took his -hat, and he sallied forth to get through the hours before dinner away -from the sight of this enchanted volume charged with spells of fear and -trembling.</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred arrived in great spirits, a fine figure of Colonial -prosperity, talking louder than was considered<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> in that club to be good -form. He called for a brandy and bitters, and then for another, which -astonished the occupants of the morning-room. Then he declared himself -ready for dinner.</p> - -<p>He was; he displayed not only an uncommon power of putting away food, -but also an enviable power of taking his wine as a running stream never -stopping. He swallowed the champagne, served after the modern fashion -with no other wine, as if it was a brook falling continuously into a -cave, without pause or limit.</p> - -<p>When the dinner was over, a small forest of bottles had been -successively opened and depleted. Never had the club-waiters gazed upon -a performance so brilliant in a house where most men considered a mere -little pint of claret to be a fair whack, a proper allowance. After -dinner this admirable guest absorbed a bottle of claret. Then, on -adjourning to the smoking-room, he took coffee and three glasses of -curaçoa in rapid succession. Then he lit a cigar, and called for a soda -and whisky. At regular intervals of a quarter of an hour he called for -another soda and whisky. Let us not count them. They were like the -kisses of lovers, never to be counted or reckoned, either for praise or -blame. It was half-past nine when this phenomenal consumption of wine -and whisky began, and it lasted until half-past eleven.</p> - -<p>Leonard was conscious that the other men in the room were fain to look -on in speechless wonder; the<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> increased seriousness in the waiters’ -faces showed their appreciation and envy. The club-waiter loveth most -the happy few who drink with freedom. His most serious admiration and -respect go forth to one who becomes a mere cask of wine, and yet shows -no signs of consequences. Now, this performer, from start to finish, -turned not a hair; there was no thickness in his speech; there was no -sign of any effect of strong drink upon this big man.</p> - -<p>That he talked more loudly than was at this club generally liked is -true. But, then, he always talked loud enough to be heard in every part -of the largest room. The things of which he spoke; the stories he told; -the language in which he clothed these stories, astonished the other -members who were present—astonished and delighted them beyond measure, -because such a loud and confident guest had never before been known in -the place, and because it had been the fortune of Campaigne, Leonard -Campaigne—the blameless, the austere, the cold—who had brought this -elderly Bounder, this empty hogshead or barrel to be filled with strong -drink, this trumpet-voiced utterer of discreditable stories. Next day -there were anecdotes told in the club by those who had been present, and -scoffers laughed, and those who had not been present envied those who -had.</p> - -<p>“Leonard,” said this delightful guest, late in the evening, and in a -louder voice than ever, “I suppose someone has told you about the -row—you know—<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>when I had to leave the country. There had been plenty -of rows before; but I mean the big row. You were only three or four -years old at the time. I suppose you can’t remember.”</p> - -<p>The other men lifted their heads. They were like Mrs. Cluppins. -Listening they scorned, but the words were forced upon them.</p> - -<p>“No one told me—that is to say, I heard something the other day. No -details—something alleged as the cause.”</p> - -<p>“Would you like to know the real truth?”</p> - -<p>“No! Good heavens, no! Let bygone scandals rest,” he replied, in a -murmur as low as extreme indignation would allow. “Let the thing -die—die and be forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“My dear nephew”—he laid a great hand on Leonard’s knee—“I dare say -they told you the truth. Only, you see”—he said this horrid thing loud -enough to gratify the curiosity of all present—“the real truth is that -the fellow who put the name at the bottom of you know what, and did the -rest of it, was not me, but the other fellow—Chris. That’s all. Chris -the respectable it was—not me.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you I want to know nothing about it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care. You must. After all these years, do you think now that I -am home again, with my pile made, that I’m going to labour under such an -imputation any longer? No, sir. I’ve come to hold up my head like you. -Chris may hang his if<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> he likes. I won’t. (Boy, another whisky and -soda.) In those days Chris and I hunted in couples. Very good sport we -had, too. Then we got through the money, and there was tightness. Chris -did it. Run him in if you like. For, you see——”</p> - -<p>“Enough said—enough said.” Leonard looked round the room. There were -only three or four men present: they sat singly, each with a magazine in -his hand: they preserved the attitude of those who read critically, but -there was a <i>je-ne-sais-quoi</i> about them which suggested that they had -heard the words of this delightful guest. Indeed, he spoke loud enough -for all to hear. It is not every day that one can hear in a respectable -club revelations about putting somebody’s name on the front and on the -back of a document vaguely described as “you know what.”</p> - -<p>“Enough said,” Leonard repeated impatiently.</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow, you interrupt. I am going to set the whole thing right, -if you’ll let me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to hear it.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t what you want to hear; it’s what you’ve got to hear,” said -uncle Fred impressively and earnestly. He had taken, even for him, a -little more than was good for him: it made him obstinate: it also made -his speech uncertain as to loudness and control: he carried off these -defects with increased earnestness. “Character, Leonard, character is -involved; and self-respect; also forgiveness. I am not come home to bear -malice, as will be shown by my<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a> testamentary dispositions when Abraham -calls me to his bosom——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! But really——”</p> - -<p>“Really—you shall hear! (Boy, why the devil do you keep me waiting for -another whisky and soda?) Look here, Leonard. There was a money-lender -in it——”</p> - -<p>“Never mind the money-lender——”</p> - -<p>“I must mind him. Man! he was in it. I quite forget at this moment where -old Cent. per Cent. got in. But he was there—oh yes! he was there. He -always was there in those days either for Chris or for me. Devil of a -fellow, Chris! Now, then. The money-lending Worm—or Crocodile—wanted -to be paid. He was always wanting to be paid. Either it was Chris or it -was me. Let me think——”</p> - -<p>“Does it matter?”</p> - -<p>“Truth, sir, and character always matter. What the money-lender said I -forget at this moment. I dare say Chris knows; it was more his affair -than mine. It amounted to this——” He drained his glass again, and -forgot what he had intended to say. “When the fellow was gone, ‘Chris,’ -I said, ‘here’s a pretty hole you’re in.’ I am certain that he was in -the hole, and not me, because what was done, you know, was intended to -pull him out of the hole. So it must have been Chris, and not me. It is -necessary,” he added with dignity, “to make this revolution—revelation. -It is due to self-respect. My brother Chris, then, you understand,<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a> was -in the hole. (Boy, I’ll take another whisky and soda.) I want you to -understand exactly what happened.” Leonard groaned. “Of course, when it -came to sticking a name on a paper, and that paper a cheque——”</p> - -<p>“For the Lord’s sake, man, stop!” Leonard whispered.</p> - -<p>“I knew and told him that the world, which is a harsh world and never -makes allowance, would call the thing by a bad name. Which happened. But -who could foresee that they would tack that name on to me?”</p> - -<p>Leonard sprang to his feet. The thing was becoming serious. “It is -eleven o’clock,” he said. “I must go.”</p> - -<p>“Go? Why, I’ve only just begun to settle down for a quiet talk. I -thought we should go on till two or three. And I’ve nearly done; I’ve -only got to show that the cheque——”</p> - -<p>“No—I must go at once. I have an appointment. I have work to do. I have -letters to write.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred slowly rose. “It’s a degenerate world,” he said. “We never -thought the day properly begun before midnight. But if these are your -habits—well, Leonard, you’ve done me well. The champagne was excellent. -Boy—no, I’ll wait till I get back to the hotel. Then two or three -glasses, and so to bed. Moderation—temperance—early hours. These are -now my motto and my rule.”<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a></p> - -<p>“This way down the stairs,” said Leonard, for his uncle was starting off -in the opposite direction.</p> - -<p>“One warning. Don’t talk to Chris about that story, for you’ll hear a -garbled version—garbled, sir—garbled.” He lurched a little as he -walked down the stairs, but otherwise there were no indications of the -profound and Gargantuan thirst that he had been assuaging all the -evening.</p> - -<p>Leonard went home in the deepest depression and shame. Why did he take -such a man to such a club? He should have given him dinner in the -rowdiest tavern, filled with the noisiest topers.</p> - -<p>“He cannot be really what he pretends,” Leonard thought. “A man of -wealth is a man of responsibility and position. This man talks without -any dignity or reticence whatever. He seems to associate still with -larrikins and cattle-drovers; he sits in bars and saloons; he ought to -keep better company, if only on account of his prosperity.”</p> - -<p>The Family History asserted itself again.</p> - -<p>“You have entertained,” it said, “another Unfortunate. Here is a man -nearly fifty years of age. He has revealed himself and exposed himself: -he is by his own confession, although he is rich and successful, the -companion and the friend of riffraff; his sentiments are theirs. He has -no morals; he drinks without stint or measure; he has disgraced you in -the Club. No doubt the Committee will interfere.”</p> - -<p>It is, the moralist declares, an age of great laxity. A man may make a -living in more ways than were<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> formerly thought creditable; men are -admitted to clubs who formerly would not have dared to put their names -down. In Leonard’s mind there still remained, strong and clear, the -opinion that there are some things which a gentleman should not do: -things which he must not do: companions with whom he must not sit. Yet -it appeared from the revelations of this man that, whatever he had done, -he had habitually consorted with tramps, hawkers, peddlers, and -shepherds.<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><br /> -<small>THE BOOK OF EXTRACTS</small></h2> - -<p>L<small>EONARD</small> turned up his light in the study. His eye fell upon the Book of -Extracts. He looked at his watch. Nearly twelve. He took up the book -resolutely. Another wave of loathing rolled over his mind. He beat it -back; he forced himself to open the book, and to begin from the -beginning.</p> - -<p>The contents consisted, as he had already seen, of cuttings from a -newspaper, with a connecting narrative in writing. On the title-page was -written in a fine Italian hand the following brief explanation:</p> - -<p>“This book was given to me by Mrs. Nicols, our housekeeper for thirty -years. She cut out from the newspapers all that was printed about the -crime and what followed. There are accounts of the Murder, the Inquest, -and the Trial. She also added notes of her own on what she herself -remembered and had seen. She made two cuttings of each extract, and two -copies of her own notes; these she pasted in two scrap-books. She gave -me one; the other I found in her room after her death. I sent the latter -copy to my brother three days before he committed suicide.”<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a></p> - -<p>This statement was signed “Lucy Galley, née Campaigne.” The extracts and -cuttings followed. Some of the less necessary details are here -suppressed.</p> - -<p>The first extract was from the weekly paper of the nearest county town:</p> - -<p>“We are grieved to report the occurrence of a crime which brings the -deepest disgrace upon our neighbourhood, hitherto remarkably free from -acts of violence. The victim is a young gentleman, amiable and respected -by everyone—Mr. Langley Holme, of Westerdene House, near the town of -Amersham.</p> - -<p>“The unfortunate gentleman had been staying for some days at the house -of his brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park. -On Tuesday, May 18, as will be seen from our Report of the Inquest, the -two gentlemen started together for a walk after breakfast. It was about -ten o’clock: they walked across the Park, they crossed the highroad -beyond, they climbed over a stile into a large field, and they walked -together along the pathway through the field, as far as a small wood -which lies at the bottom of the field. Then Mr. Campaigne remembered -some forgotten business or appointment and left his friend, returning by -himself. When Mr. Holme was discovered—it is not yet quite certain how -long after Mr. Campaigne left him, but it was certainly two hours—he -was lying on the ground quite dead, his head literally battered in by a -thick club—the branch of a tree either pulled off for the purpose,<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> or -lying on the ground ready to the hand of the murderer. They carried the -body back to the house where he had been staying.</p> - -<p>“It is sad to relate that the unfortunate man’s sister, Mr. Campaigne’s -wife, was so shocked by the news, which seems to have been announced or -shouted roughly, and without any precaution about breaking it gently, -that she was seized with the pains of labour, and in an hour was dead. -Thus the unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, himself quite -young, has been deprived in one moment, so to speak, of wife and -brother-in-law. Mr. Langley Holme was also a married man, and leaves one -young child, a daughter, to weep with her mother over their irreparable -loss. The Inquest was held on Wednesday morning.”</p> - -<p>Then followed a passage in writing:</p> - -<p>“I was in my own room, the housekeeper’s room, which is the last room of -the south wing on the ground-floor overlooking the garden; there is an -entrance to the house at that end for servants and things brought to the -house. At ten o’clock in the morning, just after the clock in the -stables struck, I saw the master with Mr. Langley Holme walking across -the Terrace, down the gardens, and so to the right into the park. They -were talking together friendly and full of life, being, both of them, -young gentlemen of uncommon vivacity and spirit; with a temper, too, -both of them, as becomes the master of such a place as his, which cannot -be ruled by a<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> meek and lowly one, but calls for a high spirit and a -temper becoming and masterful.</p> - -<p>“Three-quarters of an hour afterwards I heard steps in the garden, and -looked up from my work. It was the master coming home alone. He was -walking fast, and he was swinging his arms, as I’d often seen him do. -Now I think of it, his face was pale. One would think that he had a -presentiment. He entered the house by the garden door and went into his -study.</p> - -<p>“Now, this morning, my lady, when we called her, was not at all well, -and the question was whether we should send for the doctor at once. But -she refused to consent, saying that it would pass away. And so she took -breakfast in bed; but I was far from easy about her. I wish now, with -all my heart, that I had sent a note to the doctor, who lived three -miles away, if it was only for him to have driven over. Besides, as -things turned out, he might have been with her when the news came.</p> - -<p>“However, about twelve o’clock, or a little after, I heard steps in the -garden, and I saw a sight which froze my very blood. For four men were -carrying a shutter, walking slowly; and on the shutter was a blanket, -and beneath the blanket was a form. Oh! there is no mistaking such a -form as that—it was a human form. My heart fell, I say, like lead, and -I ran out crying:</p> - -<p>“ ‘Oh! in God’s name, what has happened?’</p> - -<p>“Said one of them, John Dunning by name:<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a></p> - -<p>“ ‘It’s Mr. Holme. I found him dead. Someone’s murdered him.’</p> - -<p>“I screeched. I ran back to the house; I ran into the kitchen; I told -them, never thinking, in the horror of it, of my poor lady.</p> - -<p>“Then all over the house, suddenly, the air was filled with the shrieks -of women.</p> - -<p>“Alas! my lady had got up; she was dressed: she was on the landing; she -heard the cries.</p> - -<p>“ ‘What has happened?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Mr. Holme is murdered.’</p> - -<p>“I do not know who told her. None of the maids confessed the thing, but -when she heard the news she fell back, all of a sudden, like a woman -knocked down.</p> - -<p>“We took her up and carried her to bed. When the doctor came in an hour -my lady was dead—the most beautiful, the kindest, the sweetest, most -generous-hearted lady that ever lived. She was dead, and all we could do -was to look after the new-born babe. And as for her husband, that poor -gentleman sat in his study with haggard looks and face all drawn with -his grief, so that it was a pity and a terror to look upon him. Wife and -brother-in-law—wife and friend—both cut off in a single morning! Did -one ever hear the like? As for the unfortunate victim, Mr. Holme that -had been, they laid him in the dining-room to wait the inquest.”</p> - -<p>At this point Leonard laid down the book and looked round. The place was -quite quiet. Even<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> from the street there came no noise of footsteps or -of wheels. Once more he was overpowered by this strange loathing—a kind -of sickness. He closed his eyes and lay back. Before him, as in a vivid -dream, he saw that procession with the body of the murdered man; and he -saw the murdered lady fall shrieking to the ground; and he saw the old -recluse of the Park, then young, sitting alone, with haggard face, while -one body lay in the dining-room and the other on the marriage-bed.</p> - -<p>The feeling of sickness passed away. Leonard opened his eyes and forced -himself, but with a beating heart and a dreadful feeling of -apprehension, to go on with the reading:</p> - -<p>“I remember that the house was very quiet, so quiet that we could hear -in my room—the housekeeper’s room—the cries and shouts of the two -little boys in the nursery, which was the room next to where the mother -lay dead. The boys were Master Langley, the eldest, who was three, and -Master Christopher, then a year and a half.</p> - -<p>“Little did those innocents understand of the trouble that was coming -upon them from the terrible tragedy of that day. They would grow up -without a mother—the most terrible calamity that can befall a child: -and they were to grow up, as well, without a father, for the master has -never recovered the shock, and now, I fear, never will.</p> - -<p>“On the Wednesday morning, the next day, the Coroner came with his jury -and held the inquest<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>. They viewed the body in the dining-room. I was -present and heard it all. The report of the paper is tolerably accurate, -so far as I remember.”</p> - -<p>The newspaper began again at this point:</p> - -<p>“On Wednesday last, the 19th inst., an inquest was held at Campaigne -Park on the body of Langley Holme, Esquire, Justice of the Peace, of -Westerdene House, near Amersham, aged twenty-eight years. The -unfortunate gentleman, as narrated in our last number, was found dead -under circumstances that pointed directly to murder, in a wood not far -from Campaigne Park, where he was staying as the guest of his friend and -brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne.</p> - -<p>“The cause of death was certified by Dr. Alden. He deposed that it was -caused by a single blow from a heavy club or branch which had probably -been picked up close by. The club was lying on the table—a jagged -branch thick at one end, which was red with blood. The nature of the -wound showed that it was one blow only, and that by a most determined -and resolute hand, which had caused death, and that death must have been -instantaneous.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park, deposed that the -deceased, named Langley Holme, his brother-in-law—his wife’s brother, -and his most intimate friend—was staying with them, and that on Tuesday -morning the two started together after breakfast for a walk. They walked -through the park, crossed the road, got over the<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> stile on the other -side, and followed the pathway under the hill. They were entering the -wood in which the body was found when he himself recollected a letter -which had to be written and posted that morning. He therefore stopped -and explained that he must return immediately. Unfortunately, his -brother-in-law chose to continue his walk alone. Mr. Campaigne turned -and walked home as quickly as he could. He saw the deceased no more -until he was brought back dead.</p> - -<p>“The Coroner asked him if he had observed anyone in the wood: he said he -had not looked about him carefully, but that he had seen nobody.</p> - -<p>“A little boy, who gave the name of Tommy Dadd, and said that he knew -the meaning of an oath, deposed that he was on the hillside scaring -birds all day; that he saw the two gentlemen get over the stile, walk -along the footpath together, talking fast and loud; that they came to -the wood, and that one of them, Mr. Campaigne, turned back; that he -looked up and down the path as if he was expecting somebody, and then -walked away very fast.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Stop!’ said the Coroner. ‘Let us understand these facts quite plainly. -You saw Mr. Campaigne and the deceased get over the stile and walk as -far as the wood?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Yes.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘And you saw Mr. Campaigne turn back and walk away?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Yes.’<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> - -<p>“ ‘Go on, then.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘A long time after that I see John Dunning walking from the farm across -the field to the pathway; he was carrying a basket of something over his -shoulder; he wore his smock-frock. He went into the wood, too. Presently -he came out and ran back to the farm-yard, and three other men came and -carried something away.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Did nobody else go into the wood?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘No; nobody.’</p> - -<p>“John Dunning said that he was a labourer; that on the day in question -he was on his way to some work, and had to pass through the wood; that -half-way through he came upon what he thought was a man asleep. When he -looked closer, he found that it was a gentleman, and he was dead, and he -lay in a pool of blood. There was no scuffle of feet or sign of a -struggle. That he tried to lift him, getting his hands and frock covered -with blood-stains; that he found a bit of rough and jagged wood lying -beside the body, which was covered with blood at one end; that on making -this discovery he ran out of the wood, and made his way as fast as he -could to the nearest farm, where he gave the alarm, and got four men to -come with him, carrying a shutter and a blanket.</p> - -<p>“The Coroner cross-examined this witness severely. Where did he work? -Was he a native of the village? Had he ever been in trouble? What was it -he was carrying on his shoulder? Would he swear it was not the club that -had been found near the body?<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a></p> - -<p>“To all these questions the man gave a straightforward answer.</p> - -<p>“The Coroner then asked him if he had searched the pockets of the -deceased.</p> - -<p>“At this point the deceased’s valet stood up, and said that his master -had not been robbed; that his watch and rings and purse were all found -upon him in his pockets.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I presume that the murderer had no time,’ said the Coroner. ‘He must -have been disturbed. I never yet heard of a murder that was not a -robbery, unless, indeed, there was revenge in it.’</p> - -<p>“Mr. Campaigne interposed. ‘I would suggest, Mr. Coroner,’ he said, -‘with submission——’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Sir,’ said the Coroner, ‘your suggestions are instructions.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I venture, then, to suggest that perhaps there may have been some -person or persons unknown in the wood. The boy’s evidence was -straightforward, but he could not see through the wood.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘That is true. Call up the parish constable.’</p> - -<p>“This officer stood up to give evidence. He was asked if there were any -dangerous or suspicious persons in or near the village; if he had seen -any tramps, sturdy vagabonds, gipsies, or, in fact, any persons who -might reasonably be suspected of this outrage.</p> - -<p>“There was no one. The village, he said, was quite quiet and well -behaved.</p> - -<p>“He was asked if there were poachers about. He<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> said there were -poachers, whom he knew very well, and so did his Honour’s gamekeeper; -but in the month of May there was little or nothing to poach, and no -excuse for going into the wood. Besides, why should they go into the -wood at ten in the morning? He was quite confident that the village -poachers had nothing to do with the business.</p> - -<p>“ ‘My suggestion, sir,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘seems unproductive. -Nevertheless, there was the chance that the mystery might be explained -if we could in this way light upon a clue.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘There is another way of explanation,’ said the Coroner grimly.</p> - -<p>“He put other questions to the constable. Had he seen any gipsies or -tramps about the village or on the road? The constable declared that he -had seen none: that the village, lying as it did off the main road, from -which it was not even visible, did not attract gipsies or tramps or -vagabonds of any description.</p> - -<p>“Had the constable observed any case of drunkenness? He had not: there -were men who sometimes took more beer than was good for them, but they -carried their liquor peaceably and did not become quarrelsome in their -cups.</p> - -<p>“ ‘We come next,’ said the Coroner, ‘to the question whether the deceased -gentleman had any private enmities to fear?’</p> - -<p>“To this Mr. Campaigne made reply: ‘My brother-in-law, sir, was a man -who may have made<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> enemies as a magistrate, especially among poachers; -but if so, these enemies would be all in his own part of the county, -fifteen miles away. In this place he could have had neither friends nor -enemies.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Then, gentlemen of the jury,’ said the Coroner, ‘we can find no motive -for the crime. I said just now that there was another explanation -possible. We can put aside the theory of poachers being disturbed at -their work: and the theory of private enmity: and the theory of tramp or -gipsy attacking him for the sake of robbery. We come back therefore to -the broad facts. At ten in the morning the deceased entered the -wood—alone. At twelve the man Dunning ran out, his smock-frock covered -with blood. He said that he had found the dead body of this gentleman -lying on the grass, and he had tried to lift it, getting his smock-frock -stained with blood in doing so. Now, gentlemen, what was the good of -trying to lift a dead body? On the other hand, suppose that a man, -finding this gentleman unarmed, perhaps asleep, conceived the sudden -thought of killing him for the sake of taking his money: suppose him to -have been disturbed, or to have thought himself disturbed—it might be -by the bird-scaring boy—what would he do? Naturally he would give the -alarm, and pretend that the crime was committed by another man. You, -gentlemen of the jury, will form your own conclusion. You will return -such a verdict as seems to you reasonable, leaving further investigation -to the Law. Far be it from me to<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> suggest your verdict or to influence -your judgment. You have now to consider how and by whom this murder—as -clear a case of murder as has ever been known—was committed.’</p> - -<p>“The jury considered their verdict for half an hour. They then returned -a verdict of wilful murder against John Dunning.</p> - -<p>“The man was standing alone by this time: everybody shunned him. When -the verdict was given, he cried out, ‘No! No! I never done it! I never -done it!’ passionately, or with some show of passion.</p> - -<p>“The constable arrested him on the spot. After the first ejaculation the -man became quite passive, and made no kind of resistance. The Coroner -turned to Mr. Campaigne.</p> - -<p>“ ‘You are a magistrate, sir. You can formally commit the man for trial.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I commit this man?’ the bereaved gentleman seemed to have difficulty -in understanding the matter. However, he came to himself, and performed -his duties mechanically.</p> - -<p>“The man, John Dunning, now lies in gaol, awaiting his trial. We would -not say anything to forejudge the case, but it certainly looks black, so -far, against the accused.”</p> - -<p>To this the housekeeper added: “The Coroner’s Court was full, and a -sorrowful sight it was to see the master, tall and handsome and upright, -but ashy pale. On the same day, in the afternoon, they buried both<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a> the -brother and the sister in the parish church. They lie side by side in -the chancel.”</p> - -<p>Then followed the report of the trial of John Dunning. Part of it is a -repetition of the evidence heard at the inquest. He was defended by -counsel, and a very able counsel, too—a young man who had taken the -greatest pains to get up the case. Leonard knew the name. Later on he -had become a judge. The cross-examination was keen and searching. Every -little point was made the most of.</p> - -<p>The Report gave at full length all the evidence and the speeches. In -this place it is sufficient to give the most important questions and -answers.</p> - -<p>The counsel had a map of the wood. He made a great deal out of this map. -He called attention to distances; for instance, it would take five -minutes only to get from the wood to the farm. On these points he -cross-examined Mr. Campaigne closely.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I believe it is a small wood—little more than a coppice?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘It is very little more than a coppice.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘How long, now, would it take you to walk through the wood from end to -end?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Not five minutes.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Are there any seats in the wood—any places where a man might sit -down?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘None.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Did your friend express any intention of lingering in the wood, or was -there any reason why he should linger in the wood?’<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a></p> - -<p>“ ‘No, certainly not. He entered the wood at a quick pace, and, so far as -I know, he intended to keep it up. He was walking partly for exercise -and partly to look at the condition of the fields.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘There were no seats in the wood.’ The counsel returned to the point. -‘Were there any fallen trees to sit down upon?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Not to my knowledge.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Was it a morning for lying down on the grass?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘No; there had been rain; the path was muddy and the grass was wet.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Did you suppose that the deceased would loiter about in the wet wood, -in the mud and in the long grass in the wood, for two long hours?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I do not. I think it most improbable—even impossible.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Your suggestion is that there was someone lurking in the wood?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Everything points to that, in my opinion.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Otherwise, on the theory of the prosecution, your brother-in-law must -have stood in the wood, doing nothing for nearly two hours; because -nobody disputes the fact that the prisoner entered the wood a little -before twelve.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘That is so, I think.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I am sorry to press you, Mr. Campaigne, on a subject so painful, but I -have a life to save. Do you suppose that your friend was one who would -be likely to yield up his life without a struggle?’<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a></p> - -<p>“ ‘Certainly not. He was a strong and resolute man.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Again, look at the prisoner,’ who was not more than five feet five. -‘Do you suppose that your friend would stand still to be killed by a -little man like that?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘It is absurd to suppose anything of the kind.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘He might have been taken unawares, but then the blow would have been -at the back of the head. Now, it was in the front. Do you suppose it -possible that this labouring man should on entering the wood suddenly -resolve upon taking a strange gentleman’s life without a motive, not -even with the hope of plunder?—should rush upon him, find him off his -guard, and succeed in taking his life without receiving a blow or a -scratch?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I certainly do not. I consider the thing absolutely impossible.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Do you suppose that, if all these improbabilities or impossibilities -had taken place, the man would have run back covered with blood to tell -what he had found, and to pretend that some other man had done it?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I certainly do not.’</p> - -<p>“The boy, who had already given his evidence, was recalled.</p> - -<p>“ ‘How long was it after Mr. Holme went into the wood before John Dunning -went in?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘It was a long time.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘We know the facts already,’ said the Judge;<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> ‘the two gentlemen went -out at ten; they would reach the wood, according to this map, about -fifteen minutes past ten; the dead body was brought home a little after -noon. Therefore, as the prisoner was only a few minutes in the wood, it -must have been about twenty minutes to twelve that he went in.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘And remained, my lord, no more than a few minutes.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘So it would seem from the evidence. Much mischief, however, may be -done in a few minutes.’</p> - -<p>“The counsel recalled the doctor.</p> - -<p>“ ‘When you saw the body it was, I think you said, a little before one -o’clock.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘That is so.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘The body was then quite stiff and dead, you say?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Quite. It had been dead some time—perhaps two hours.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘It had been dead two hours. You are quite sure?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I will not swear to the exact time. I will say a long while.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘If the boy’s evidence as to the time occupied by the prisoner in the -wood is correct, death would have been caused a few minutes before the -men brought the shutter. The body would have been quite warm.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘It would.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Now—you saw the wound. Indicate for the jury exactly where it was.’<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a></p> - -<p>“The doctor laid his hand on the top of his head.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Not the front, but the top. Very good. Mr. Holme was six feet high. -Look at the prisoner. Is it possible that so short a man could have -inflicted such a blow on the top of the head?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Not unless he found his victim seated.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Quite so. And we have heard from Mr. Campaigne that it was impossible -to sit down in the wet wood. Thank you.’ ”</p> - -<p>One need not go on. This was the most important part of the evidence. At -first it looked very bad against the prisoner: no one else in the wood; -the blood on the smock; the weapon with which the deed was accomplished; -the apparent impossibility of anyone else being the criminal. Then came -this clever lawyer upon the scene, and in a little while the whole of -the case fell to pieces.</p> - -<p>First, the doctor’s evidence that death had been caused two hours before -the prisoner entered the wood; the evidence of the boy that the prisoner -had gone in only a few minutes before he came out running. That was -positive evidence in his favour. There was, next, the evidence of Mr. -Campaigne. His brother-in-law was the last man in the world who would be -murdered without making a fight. He was a powerful man, much stronger -than the fellow charged with murdering him. He was not taken unawares, -but received the fatal blow in full front. Again, there was no robbery. -If a poor man commits the crime of murder, he does it either for<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a> -revenge, or for jealousy, or for robbery. There could be none of those -motives at work in the murder of this unfortunate gentleman.</p> - -<p>Lastly, there was the best possible testimony in favour of the -prisoner’s personal character. This is not of much use where the -evidence is strong, but when it is weak it may be of the greatest -possible help. His employer stated that the prisoner was a good workman -who knew his business; that he was sober and industrious and honest; the -least likely man on his farm to commit this atrocious act.</p> - -<p>The Judge summed up favourably. The jury retired to consider their -verdict. They came back after an hour. Verdict: “Not guilty.”</p> - -<p>“Quite right,” said Leonard, laying down the book. “The man John Dunning -certainly was innocent of this charge.”</p> - -<p>Then followed more writing by the housekeeper:</p> - -<p>“When the verdict was declared the prisoner stepped down, and was -greeted with friendly congratulations by his master, the farmer, and -others. The Judge, before leaving the Court, sent for Mr. Campaigne.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Sir,’ he said, shaking hands with him, ‘we have to deplore our own -loss as well as yours in the melancholy events of that day. For my own -part, although I consider the verdict of the jury amply justified by the -evidence, I should like your opinion on the matter.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘If it is worth your attention, you shall hear it.<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a> I had already made -up my mind on the point. The evidence at the inquest was quite -incomplete. After talking the matter over with the doctor, I was -convinced that the murder was most certainly committed long before the -man Dunning went into the wood at all. The state of the body showed, if -medical evidence is worth anything, that death had taken place two hours -before: that is, before eleven—in fact, shortly after I left him. He -must have been walking straight to his death when I left him and saw him -striding along through the wood.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘And have you been able to form any theory at all?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘None. Had there been robbery, I should have suspected gipsies. Our own -people about here are quiet and harmless. Such a thing as wilful and -deliberate murder would be impossible for them.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘So the case only becomes the more mysterious.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I felt so strongly as to the man’s innocence that I not only provided -him with counsel, but I also provided counsel with my own full statement -of the case. The murderer of my brother-in-law, the slayer of my -wife’—here Mr. Campaigne turned very pale—‘will be discovered; some -time or other he must be discovered. I have understood that murder lies -on the conscience until life becomes intolerable. Then the man -confesses, and welcomes the shameful death to end it. Let us wait till -the murderer finds his burden too heavy to be borne.’<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a></p> - -<p>“ ‘Yet,’ said the Judge, ‘one would like to find him out by means of the -Law.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Well,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘for my own part, I resolved that I would -do all in my power so that an innocent man should not suffer for the -guilty if I could prevent it.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Sir,’ said the Judge, ‘your conduct is what the world expects of a -noble gentleman. There remains one conclusion. It is that there was -someone concealed in the wood. The boy said that no one went out. He was -thinking of the two ends; but he could not perhaps see through the wood, -or beyond the wood. It is not yet, perhaps, too late to search for -footsteps. However, no doubt all that can be done will be done.’</p> - -<p>“So the trial was finished. I have not heard that any further -examination of the spot was made. As all the village, and people from -neighbouring villages and the nearest market-towns, crowded over every -Sunday for weeks after, gazing at the spot where the body was found, it -was of very little use to look for footsteps.</p> - -<p>“The man John Dunning went back to work. But the village folk—his old -friends—turned against him. They would no longer associate with him; -the taint of murder was upon him, though he was as innocent a man as -ever stepped. The Vicar spoke to the people, but it was in vain; anyone -who had been tried for murder must be a murderer, and he was shunned -like a leper or a madman.<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a></p> - -<p>“Then the Vicar spoke about it to the Squire, who gave John money so -that he might emigrate; and with all his family he went to Botany Bay, -where the people are not all convicts, I am told. There, at least, it -ought not to be thrown in a man’s teeth that he had been tried and -acquitted for murder. I have never heard what became of John Dunning and -his family afterwards.</p> - -<p>“The Squire offered a reward of £500 for the apprehension and conviction -of some person unknown who had murdered Mr. Langley Holme. The printed -bill remained on the church door for years—long after the rain had -washed out the letters, until the whole bill was finally washed out and -destroyed. But the reward was never claimed, nor was there any attempt -to fix the guilt upon another; and as time went on, a belief grew up in -the minds of the world that, notwithstanding the acquittal, no other was -possible as the criminal than John Dunning himself. So that it was a -fortunate thing for him that he went away when he did, before the -popular belief was turned quite so dead against him.</p> - -<p>“The wood became haunted; no one dared pass through it alone, even by -day; because the murdered man walked by day as well as by night. I -cannot say, for myself, that I ever actually saw the ghost—not, that is -to say, to recognise the poor gentleman, though there are plenty of -credible witnesses who swear to having seen it—in the twilight, in the -moonlight, and in the sunshine. But one day,<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> when I was walking home -from the village—it was in the morning about eleven o’clock—I saw a -strange thing which made my heart stand still.</p> - -<p>“It was a spring day, with a fresh breeze and sunshine, but with flying -clouds. They made light and shadow over the fields. In the wood, which, -as was stated at the trial, was more of a coppice than a wood, composed -of slender trees such as birches, which were on one side, and firs and -larches on the other, with a good deal of undergrowth among the birches, -I saw, as clear as ever I saw anything in my life, a figure—oh! quite -plain—a figure under the birches and among the bushes and undergrowth. -I knew there could be no one there, but I saw a figure, plain as the -figure of man or woman. It had its back to me, and I made out head and -shoulders and arms; the rest of the body was hidden. While I looked the -shadow passed away and the sun came out. Then the figure disappeared. I -waited for it to return. It did not.</p> - -<p>“I crept slowly through the wood, looking about fearfully to right and -left. There was nothing; the birds were singing and calling to each -other, but there was no ghost. Yet I had seen it. When I asked myself -how it was dressed I could not remember; nay, I had not observed. Then -there were some to whom the ghost had appeared clad as when he met the -murderer; nay, some to whom it has spoken; so that my own evidence is -not of so much importance as that of some others.<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a></p> - -<p>“After the funeral we could not fail to observe a great change in the -habits of my master.</p> - -<p>“Before the trouble Mr. Campaigne was a man fond of society; he would -invite friends to dinner two or three times a week. He was fond of the -bottle, but no drunkard; once a week he went to the market town, and -there dined at the gentlemen’s ordinary. He was a Justice of the Peace, -and active; he farmed himself some of his own land, and took an interest -in the stock and in the crops; he went to church every Sunday morning, -and had prayers every morning for the household; he was fond of playing -with his children; he talked politics and read the paper every week. He -went hunting once or twice a week in the season; he went shooting nearly -every day in the autumn; he attended the races; he was a gardener, and -looked after his hothouses and conservatories; in a word, he was a -country gentleman who pleased himself with the pursuits of the country. -He was a good farmer, a good landlord, a good magistrate, a good father, -and a good Christian.</p> - -<p>“Yet, mark what followed. When the murder happened, the body was placed -in the dining-room. The master went into the library; there he had his -meals served. He never entered the dining-room afterwards; he sat in the -library when he was not walking on the terrace alone.</p> - -<p>“Suddenly, not little by little, he abandoned everything. He left off -going to church; he left off going to market; he left off shooting, -hunting, gardening,<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> farming, reading; he gave up company; he refused to -see anyone; he opened no letters; he held no family prayers; he paid no -attention to his children; if he found them playing, he passed by the -innocents as if they had been strangers; as for the youngest, she who -cost her mother her life, I doubt if he ever saw her, or knew who she -was if he did see her.</p> - -<p>“And so it has continued all these years. Sometimes the lawyer comes -over when money is wanted; then the money is obtained. But he never -speaks; he listens, and signs a cheque. As his housekeeper, I used to -present an open bill from time to time; the money was put upon the bill -with no question. The grooms have been long dismissed; the horses turned -out to grass are long dead; the dogs are dead; the garden has run to -seed and weed; the rooms, in which there has been no fire, or light, or -air, or anything, are mouldering in decay.</p> - -<p>“As for the poor unfortunate children, they grew up somehow; the master -would allow no interference on the part of his own family; the lawyer, -Mr. Ducie, was the only person who could persuade him to anything. The -boys were sent to a preparatory school, and then to a public school. The -second went into the Navy—never was there a more gallant or handsome -boy—but he was drowned; the elder went to Oxford and into Parliament, -but he killed himself; the girl married a merchant who turned out bad.</p> - -<p>“Everything turned out bad. It was a most unfortunate<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> family; father -and children alike—all were unfortunate.”</p> - -<p class="cb">* * * * * * *</p> - -<p>Here ended the housekeeper’s book of extracts and comments. There was -appended a letter. It was headed, “Mary’s letter, September, 2d, 1855:”</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucy</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I have not been able to answer your letter before—believe me. -There are times when the heart must be alone with the heart. I have -been alone with my sorrowful heart—oh, my sorrowful heart!—for a -month since it happened.</p> - -<p>“I can now tell you something—not all—that has fallen upon us, -upon my innocent babes and myself. You heard that Langley took his -own life with his own hand four weeks ago. You ask now why he did -it. He was doing well—no one was more promising, no one had -brighter prospects; friends assured me that in proper time I might -confidently expect to see him in the Cabinet; his powers and his -influence and his name were improving daily; he was acquiring daily -greater knowledge of affairs. At home I may say truthfully that he -was happy with his wife, who would have laid down her life -cheerfully to make him happy, and with his tender children. As for -anything outside his home, such as some young men permit -themselves, he would have no such thought, and could not have as a -man who considered his duty to wife and family or as a Christian.<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> -Yet he killed himself—oh, my dear, he killed himself!—and I am -left. Why did he do it?</p> - -<p>“There was one thing which always weighed heavily upon his -mind—the condition of his father. He frequently talked of it. Why, -he asked, should a misfortune such as that which had befallen -him—the tragic death of a friend and the sudden death of his -wife—so completely destroy a strong man, young, healthy, capable -of rising above the greatest possible disasters? Why should this -misfortune change him permanently, so that he should neglect -everything that he had formerly loved, and should become a -miserable, silent solitary, brooding over the past, living the -useless life of a hermit? Of course, he felt also the neglect in -which he and his brother and sister had been left, and the lack of -sympathy with which his father had always regarded them. For, -remember, his father is not insane; he is able to transact business -perfectly. It is only that he refuses to speak or to converse, and -lives alone.</p> - -<p>“Now, dear Lucy, I am not going to make any suggestion. I want only -to tell you exactly what happened. You sent him a book of extracts -and cuttings, with supplementary notes. These cuttings were the -contemporary account of the murder of Mr. Langley Holme, the -inquest, the trial of a man who was acquitted, and the strange -effect which the whole produced upon Mr. Campaigne, then quite a -young man.</p> - -<p>“He received the book, and took it into his study.<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> This was in the -morning. At midnight I looked in. He turned his face. My dear, it -was haggard. I asked him what was the matter that he looked so ill. -He replied, rambling, that the fathers had eaten sour grapes. I -begged him to leave off, and to come upstairs. He said something in -reply, but I did not catch it, and so I left him.</p> - -<p>“He never came upstairs. At five in the morning I woke up, and -finding that he was not in bed, I hurried down the stairs full of -sad presentiments. Alas! he was dead. Do not ask me how—he was -dead!</p> - -<p>“Dear Lucy, you are now the only one left of the three children. I -have burnt the book. At all events, my children shall not see it or -hear of this terrible story. I implore you to burn your copy.”</p></div> - -<p>Mrs. Galley wrote after this: “I have read the book again quite through. -I cannot understand at all why my brother killed himself. As for the -murderer, of course it was the man named John Dunning. Who else could it -have been?”</p> - -<p>Leonard looked up. It was three o’clock in the morning. His face was -troubled with doubts and misgiving.</p> - -<p>“Why did they burn the book?” he said. “As for the murder, there must -have been someone hidden in the wood. That is clear. No other -explanation is possible. But why did my grandfather cut his throat? -There is nothing in the book that could lead him to such an act.”<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><br /> -<small>ON THE SITE</small></h2> - -<p>L<small>EONARD</small> shut the book and threw it aside. He sat thinking over it for a -little. Then he thought it was time to go to bed. There was not much of -the night left; in fact, it was already broad daylight. But if it had -been a night of mid-winter for darkness he could not have been visited -by a more terrifying nightmare.</p> - -<p>In his sleep the Family History continued. It now took the form of a -Mystery—a Mystery in a Shape. It sat upon his afflicted chest and -groaned. He was unable to guess or understand what kind of Mystery it -was, or, in his sleep, to connect it with anything on the earth or in -the world outside this earth. He woke up and shook it off; he went to -sleep again, and it returned, unrelenting. It was vague and vast and -terrible; a Thing with which the sufferer wrestled in vain, which he -could not shake off and could not comprehend.</p> - -<p>There are many kinds of nightmares; that of the unintelligible mystery, -which will not go away and cannot be driven away, is one of the worst.</p> - -<p>When he rose, late in the morning, unrefreshed and tired, he did connect -the nightmare with something<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a> intelligible. It arose from the book and -its story; which, like Chaucer’s, was left half told. That, in itself, -would have mattered little. A strange thing happened: it began with this -morning: there fell upon him quite suddenly an irresistible sense that -here was a duty laid upon him: a duty not to be neglected: a thing that -had to be done to the exclusion of everything else. He had to follow up -this story, and to recover, after seventy years and more, the true -history of the crime which cast a shadow so long and so terrible upon -all those years and the children of those years. He looked at the papers -on his table: they were the half-finished article he had undertaken: his -mind bidden to think upon the subject rebelled: it refused to work: it -would not be turned in that direction: it went off to Campaigne Park and -to seventy years before.</p> - -<p>Without words Leonard was mysteriously commanded to follow up the story -to its proper conclusion. Without any words he was plainly and -unmistakably commanded to follow it up. By whom? He did not ask. He -obeyed.</p> - -<p>After seventy years the discovery of the guilty man would seem -difficult. We find historians grappling with the cases of accused -persons, and forming conclusions absolutely opposite, even when the -evidence seems quite full and circumstantial in every point. Take the -case of Anne Boleyn, for instance; or that of Mary Queen of Scots: two -of the most illustrious and most unfortunate princesses. What<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> agreement -is there among historians concerning these ladies? Yet there are -monumental masses of documents—contemporary, voluminous, official, -private, epistolary, confidential, partisan—that exist to help them.</p> - -<p>In this case there were no other documents except those in the Book of -Cuttings. All that a private investigation could do was to read the -evidence that had already been submitted to two Courts, and to arrive, -if possible, at some conclusion.</p> - -<p>This Leonard proceeded to do. He laid aside altogether the work on which -he had been engaged, he placed the book before him, and he read the -whole contents again, word for word, albeit with the same strange -shrinking.</p> - -<p>Then he made notes. The first referred to the man Dunning.</p> - -<p>I. <i>John Dunning.</i>—The prisoner was rightly acquitted; he was most -certainly innocent. The boy showed that he had not been in the wood more -than two or three minutes. The deceased was a man six inches taller than -Dunning, and strong in proportion. The latter could only have delivered -the fatal blow if he had come upon his victim from behind, and while he -was sitting. But the medical evidence proves that the blow must have -been delivered from the front; and it was also proved that the grass was -too wet from recent showers for the deceased to have been sitting down -on it.</p> - -<p>II. <i>The Time of Death.</i>—If the medical evidence<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a> is worth anything, -the man when found had been lying dead for about two hours, as was -proved by the rigor mortis. This absolutely convinces one of Dunning’s -innocence, and it introduces the certainty of another hand. Whose?</p> - -<p>There he paused and began to consider.</p> - -<p>There must have been another person in the wood; this person must have -rushed upon his victim suddenly and unexpectedly. To rush out of the -wood armed with a heavy club torn from a tree was the act of a gorilla. -If there had been an escaped gorilla anywhere about, the crime could -have been fixed upon him. But gorillas in the year 1826 were not yet -discovered.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the assailant ran upon him from behind, noiselessly; perhaps -Langley Holme heard him at the last moment, and turned so that the blow -intended for the back of the head fell upon the fore part.</p> - -<p>This was all very well in theory. But why? Who wanted to kill this young -gentleman, and why? There was no robbery. The body lay for two hours and -more in this unfrequented place; there was plenty of time for the -murderer to take everything; the murderer had taken nothing.</p> - -<p>Then, why? How to explain it? Here was a young country gentleman, highly -popular; if he had enemies, they would not be outside his own part of -the country. Most country gentlemen, in those days, had many enemies. -These enemies, who were<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a> rustics for the most part, satisfied their -revenge and their hatred by poaching on the preserves. They also set -fire to the hayricks. Langley Holme was staying a welcome guest with his -friend and brother-in-law; he was walking along on a summer morning in a -wood not a mile away from the House and Park, and there he was -discovered lying dead—murdered!</p> - -<p>It may be objected that this attempt to solve the insoluble after -seventy years was a waste of time; that dead and gone crimes may as well -be left alone. Other people’s crimes may no doubt be left alone. But -this was his own crime, so to speak—a crime inflicted in and upon his -own family. Besides, he was dragged by ropes to the consideration of the -thing; his mind was wholly charged with it; he could think of nothing -else.</p> - -<p>Presently he shaped a theory, which at first seemed to fit in with -everything. It was really a very good theory, which promised, when he -framed it, to account for all the facts brought out in the inquest and -at the trial.</p> - -<p>The theory supposed an escaped lunatic—a homicidal maniac, of course; -that would account for everything. A maniac—a murderous maniac. He must -have been lying concealed in the wood; he must have rushed out armed -with his club, like that gorilla. This theory seemed to meet every point -in the case. He shut up the book; he had found out the truth; he could -now go about his own work<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> again, forgetting the mysterious murder which -drove his great-grandfather off his balance.</p> - -<p>He sighed with satisfaction. He placed the book in a drawer out of the -way; he need not worry any more about the thing. So with another sigh of -relief he reached out for his books and returned once more to the study -of his “subject.”</p> - -<p>Presently he became aware that his eyes were resting on the page without -reading it; that his mind was back again to the Book of Extracts, and -that in his brain there was forming, without any volition of his own, -one or two difficult questions about that maniac. As, for instance, if -there had been such a creature wandering in the fields someone would -have seen him; he would probably have murdered more than one person -while he was in the mood for murder. There was a little boy, for -instance, scaring birds; he would have killed that little boy. Then, the -fact of a roving maniac would have been known. He must have escaped from -somewhere: his madness must have been known. There would have been some -sort of hue and cry after him: either at the inquest or at the trial -there would have been some mention of this dangerous person going about -at large; some suggestion that he might have been the guilty person. -Dangerous maniacs do not escape without any notice taken, or any warning -that they are loose.</p> - -<p>No. It would not do. Another and a more workable theory must be -invented.<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a></p> - -<p>He got another. Poachers! Everybody knows the deadly hostility, far -worse seventy years ago than at present, that existed between a country -gentleman and a poacher. The latter was accustomed, in those days, to -get caught in a mantrap; to put his foot into a gin; to be fired upon by -gamekeepers; to be treated like a weasel or a stoat. In return the -poacher manifested a lamentably revengeful spirit, which sometimes went -as far as murder. In this case, no doubt, the crime was committed by a -poacher.</p> - -<p>The theory satisfied him at first, just as much as its predecessor. -Presently, however, he reflected that there is not much for a poacher to -do in early June, and that poachers do not prowl about the woods and -coverts in broad daylight and at noon; and that poachers do not, as a -rule, murder gentlemen belonging to other parts of the country. Besides, -poachers on one estate would not bear malice against the squire of -another estate fifteen miles distant. Leonard pushed his papers away in -despair.</p> - -<p>Any other kind of work was impossible; he could think of nothing else. -At this point, however, some kind of relief came to him. For he felt -that he must make himself personally acquainted with the place itself. -He wanted to see the wood of which so much mention was made—the place -where the blow was struck, the place where the murderer lay hidden. He -wanted the evidence of the wood itself, which was probably the same now -as it had been seventy years before, unless it had been felled or<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a> built -over. In that part of the country they do not destroy woods, and they do -not build upon their site; it is a conservative country. As the fields -were a hundred years ago, so they are now.</p> - -<p>Visitors to the house most conveniently approach it from the -Metropolitan Extension Line, which goes to Rickmansworth, Amersham, and -Verney. Leonard resolved upon going there that very morning. He took a -note-book and started, setting down the points on which he wished to -inquire.</p> - -<p>He arrived at the station a little before noon; a walk of ten minutes -brought him to the house. On the terrace at the back the old man, tall, -broad-shouldered, erect, walked as usual up and down, with his hard, -resolute air. Leonard did not speak to him; he passed into the garden, -and looking at his watch walked along the grass-grown walks, and at the -end, turning to the right, entered the park.</p> - -<p>It was but a small park: there was only one walk in the direction which -the two would have followed; this was now, like the garden walks, -overgrown with grass. At the end there was a lodge; but it had stood -empty for nearly seventy years; the gates were rusting on their hinges, -the windows were broken and the tiles had fallen off the roof.</p> - -<p>Beyond the park was an open road—the highroad; beyond the road a narrow -path led across a broad field into a small wood; on the right hand was a -low rising ground. This, then, was the wood where the thing was done; -this was the hillside on which the<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> boy was scaring the birds when he -saw the two go in and the one come out.</p> - -<p>Leonard crossed the field and entered the wood. He looked at his watch -again. It had taken him twenty minutes to walk from the house to the -road; he made a note of that fact. He walked through the wood; it was a -pretty wood, more like a plantation than a wood—a wood with a few large -trees, many saplings, two or three trees lying on the ground and waiting -to be cut up. The spring foliage was out, dancing in the sunlight; the -varying light and shade were pleasing and restful, the air was soft, the -birds were singing. A peaceful, lovely place.</p> - -<p>This, then, was the spot where Langley Holme was suddenly done to death. -By whom?</p> - -<p>Now, as Leonard stood looking into the tangled mass of undergrowth, a -curious thing happened. It was the same thing which had happened to the -housekeeper, and was mentioned in her notes. By some freak of light and -shade, there was fashioned in a part of the wood where the shade was -darkest the simulacrum or spectre of a man—only the shoulders and upper -part of a man, but still a man.</p> - -<p>Leonard was no more superstitious than his neighbours; but at this -ghostly presentment he was startled, and for a moment his heart beat -quickly with that strange kind of terror, unlike any other, which is -called supernatural.</p> - -<p>There are men who boast that they know it not, and have never felt it. -These are men who would<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> take their work into a deserted house, and -would carry it on serenely, alone, through the watches of the livelong -night. For my own part, I envy them not. Give me the indications of the -unseen world; the whisper of the unseen spirit; the cold breath of the -unseen guest; even though they are received with terror and -superstitious shrinkings.</p> - -<p>It was with such terror that Leonard saw this apparition. A moment after -and it was gone; then he perceived that it was nothing but the shadows -lying among the undergrowth, so that they assumed a solid form. Yet, as -to the housekeeper, to whom that same apparition had appeared, it seemed -to him the actual phantom of the murdered man.</p> - -<p>He retraced his steps. It took no more than five minutes, he found, to -walk through the wood from one end to the other. It was so small, and -the undergrowth of so light a character, with no heavy foliage, that any -person standing in any part of it would be easily visible; it would be -impossible for any man to conceal himself. He made a note, also, of -these facts.</p> - -<p>He then remembered the boy on the hillside scaring the birds. There was -no boy at the moment, but Leonard walked up the low hill in order to -learn what the boy had been able to see.</p> - -<p>The hill, although low, was a good deal higher than the trees in the -wood; it commanded a view of the land beyond the wood—another field -with young corn upon it. Leonard observed that one could not<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a> see -through the wood, but that he could see over it, and beyond it, and on -either side of it.</p> - -<p>If, for instance, anyone approached the wood from any direction, or ran -away from it, it would be quite possible for a boy standing on the -hillside to see that person.</p> - -<p>Then, in his imagination, he heard the boy’s evidence. “I see the Squire -and a gentleman with him. They came as far as the wood together. -Presently the Squire went away by himself. Then John Dunning came along, -and presently he came out, running over to the farm. Then they brought a -shutter and carried out something on it covered up. That’s all I see.”</p> - -<p>The words were so clear and plain that when they ceased he looked round, -and was astonished to find there was no boy. He sat down on a gate and -looked at his notes.</p> - -<p>1. The walk from the house to the wood took twenty minutes.</p> - -<p>2. The time taken in walking through the wood was five minutes.</p> - -<p>3. The wood was nowhere thick enough to conceal a man.</p> - -<p>4. The wood could not be seen through from the hillside.</p> - -<p>5. But it was overlooked on all sides from the hill.</p> - -<p>He considered these things, being now more than ever seized and -possessed with the weight and burden<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a> of the mystery. Consider. It was -no ordinary crime, such as one might read about, when in the annals of a -family one member of a long time ago was brutally and wickedly cut off. -It was a crime whose effects were felt by every member of his family in -the strange seclusion of the head. Whatever advantages might be -possessed by any member of this ancient and honourable house were lost; -for the head of it, and the owner of all the property, took no notice of -anyone; knew nothing of his existence, even; and lived entirely to -himself and by himself.</p> - -<p>It was, again, the first of all the numerous misfortunes which had -fallen upon the family. Lastly, it was a mystery which seemed -continually on the point of being cleared up by some theory which would -explain and account for everything.</p> - -<p>He looked round. The place seemed too peaceful for any deed of violence, -the sunshine was warm, the singing of birds filled his ear. The contrast -with his own thoughts bewitched him. He would have preferred a -thunderous atmosphere charged with electricity.</p> - -<p>He argued with himself that the thing took place seventy years ago; that -it might be very well left to be cleared up when the secrets of all -hearts will be known; that after all these years he could not hope to -clear it up; that he was only wasting his time; and so forth. He charged -the mystery, so to speak, to leave him. No demon of possession, no -incubus,<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a> ever refused more resolutely to be driven out. It remained -with him, more burdensome, more intolerable, than ever.</p> - -<p>He left the hillside and walked back to the road. There, instead of -walking through the park again, he turned to the left and entered the -village. One must eat; he ordered a chop at the village inn, and while -it was getting ready he went to the church. The monuments of his own -family were scattered about the church, and on the wall he read again -the tablet to the memory of the unfortunate man.</p> - -<p>Outside, in the churchyard, was the same old man who had accosted him -when he brought Constance here. He was sitting on a tombstone, basking -and blinking in the sun. He stood up slowly, and pulled off his hat.</p> - -<p>“Hope you’re well, sir,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Leonard remembered. “You were the boy who was scaring birds on the -day—seventy years ago—when Mr. Holme was murdered.”</p> - -<p>“Surely, sir—surely. I haven’t forgotten. I remember it all—just as -yesterday. Better than yesterday. I’m old, master, and I remember what -happened when I was a boy better than what happened yesterday. To many -old people the same hath happened.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely; I have heard so. Now sit down and tell me all about it. -I’ve just come down from London to look at the place, and I remembered -your evidence.”<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a></p> - -<p>“I will tell you everything, sir. Will you ask me, or shall I tell my -own story?”</p> - -<p>“You may tell your own story first, and I will ask you questions -afterwards.”</p> - -<p>So the old man repeated, in a parrot-like way:</p> - -<p>“It was on a fine morning in June, getting on to dinner-time. I’d been -scaring since five, and I was hungry. I was all alone on the hill, in -the field where there’s a little wood, and the path runs through the -wood. Then I saw two gentlemen—one was the Squire, the other I’d seen -at church with the Squire Sunday before, but I didn’t know his name. He -was tall, but nothing like so tall as the Squire. They were talking high -and loud and fast. I remember hearing them, but I couldn’t hear the -words. They went as far as the wood together. Directly after, the Squire -turned back; he looked up and down as if he was expecting somebody, then -he turned and walked home fast. The other gentleman didn’t go out with -the Squire, nor yet at the other end of the wood.</p> - -<p>“A long time after, John Dunning came along. He had on his smock-frock; -he hadn’t been in the wood two minutes before he came running out of it, -and he made for the farm. I saw that his smock-frock was red; and the -farmin’ men brought a shutter and carried out of the wood something -covered up. That is all I remember.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is all. That is what you said at the inquest and the trial, -is it not?”<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a></p> - -<p>“That was it, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Was the wood then such as it is now?”</p> - -<p>“Just the same.”</p> - -<p>“Not a close dark wood, but light and open—just as at present?”</p> - -<p>“A light and open coppice with plenty of bushes.”</p> - -<p>“Could you, then, see through the wood?”</p> - -<p>“No; I could see over it and beyond it, but not through the road, where -I was standing.”</p> - -<p>“On that day what time was it when you arrived?”</p> - -<p>“My time was half-past five. Mother gave me my breakfast and sent me -out. I suppose it must ha’ been about that time.”</p> - -<p>“Very well. You went straight to the hillside and began your work, I -suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No; I went through the wood first.”</p> - -<p>“What for?”</p> - -<p>“To see the birds’ nests there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! You were in the wood? Did you find anybody there, or any signs of -anybody being concealed there?”</p> - -<p>“Lord love you! how could a body hide in that little place?”</p> - -<p>“There might have been poachers, for instance.”</p> - -<p>“Not in June. If there was anyone at all, I should have seen him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then you went up the hill and began your scaring. Did you see -anyone pass into the wood before the Squire and Mr. Holme arrived?”</p> - -<p>“No; if there had been anyone, I must have seen<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a> him—for certain sure I -must. There was no one all the morning—no one that way at all. There -very seldom was anyone.”</p> - -<p>“Where does the path lead?”</p> - -<p>“It leads across the fields to the village of Highbeech and the church.”</p> - -<p>“It is not a frequented way, then?”</p> - -<p>“No. Most days there will be only a single person on that way.”</p> - -<p>“Humph!” Leonard was disconcerted with the old man’s positiveness. -Nobody in the wood on his arrival, no one passed into it all the -morning. Where was the poacher? Where was the murderous maniac? “You -were only a little boy at the time,” he said. “Don’t you think your -memory may be at fault? It was seventy years ago, you know.”</p> - -<p>The old man shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Why, for months and months and for years and years I was asked over and -over again what happened and what I saw. Sometimes it was the Vicar and -his friends who talked about the matter and sent for me. Sometimes it -was the men at the Crown and Jug who talked about the murder and sent -for me. Sometimes it was the gossips. Don’t you think my memory fails, -master, because it can’t fail. Why,” he chuckled, “the very last thing I -shall see before I go up to the Throne will be the sight of them two -gentlemen going along to the wood.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, come back to that point. When they arrived at the wood, the -Squire turned back.”<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes: first went in with the other gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! It doesn’t matter. But he went a little way into the wood, did he?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know if it was a little way. It was a bit of a time—I don’t -know how long, five minutes, perhaps—two minutes, perhaps—I don’t -know—before he came out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Was this in your evidence?”</p> - -<p>“I answered what I was asked. Nobody ever asked me how long the Squire -was in the wood.”</p> - -<p>“Well, they entered the wood, and they were talking in an animated -manner. That is not in your evidence, either.”</p> - -<p>“Because I wasn’t asked. As for animated, they were talking high and -loud as if they were quarrelling.”</p> - -<p>“They could not be quarrelling.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t hear what they said.”</p> - -<p>“Well: it doesn’t matter. The Squire turned back just at the entrance.”</p> - -<p>Again the sexton shook his head.</p> - -<p>“I know what I said,” he replied; “and I know what I saw.”</p> - -<p>“Is there anybody in the village,” Leonard asked, “besides yourself, who -remembers the—the event?”</p> - -<p>“It was seventy years ago,” he said. “I’m the oldest man in the village, -except the Squire. He remembers it very well, for all his mad ways. He’s -bound to remember it. There’s nobody else.”</p> - -<p>“Then they suspected one man.”</p> - -<p>“John Dunning it was. Why, I was only seven<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a> years of age, but I knew -well enough that it couldn’t be John. First, he wasn’t big enough—and -then, he wasn’t man enough—and then, he wasn’t devil enough. But they -tried him, and he got off and came back to the village. However, he had -to go, because, you see, the people don’t like the company of a man -who’s been tried for murder, even though he’s been let off; and they -wouldn’t work with John, so the Squire gave him money, and he went away, -out to Australia—him and all his family—and never been heard of -since.”</p> - -<p>“Was no one else ever suspected?”</p> - -<p>“There might be some who had suspicions, but they kept their suspicions -to themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Did you yourself have suspicions?”</p> - -<p>“It’s a long time ago, sir. The Squire and me are the only two people -that remember the thing. What’s the use, after all these years, of -having suspicions? I don’t say I have, and I don’t say I haven’t. If I -have, they will be buried with me in my grave.”</p> - -<p>Leonard returned to London. He now understood exactly the condition of -the ground, and he had examined the old man whose evidence was so -important. Nothing additional was to be got out of him; but the verbal -statement of a contemporary after seventy years concerning the event in -which Leonard was so much interested was remarkable.</p> - -<p>He returned to his own rooms. Hither presently came Constance.<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a></p> - -<p>“My friend and cousin,” she said, in her frank manner, as if there had -never been any disturbing question between them, “you are looking -worried. What is the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Am I looking worried?”</p> - -<p>“The more important point is—are you feeling worried? Leonard, it has -nothing to do with that little conversation we had the other day?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied. “Nothing.” It was not a complimentary reply, but, -then, Constance was not a girl to expect or to care for compliments.</p> - -<p>“Well—is it the discovery of the poor relations?”</p> - -<p>“You will think me a very ridiculous person. I don’t worry in the least -about the poor relations. But I am worried about that crime—that murder -of seventy years ago.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! But why?”</p> - -<p>“It concerns you as well as me.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that I ought to worry about it? I cannot, really. It is too -long ago. I feel, really, no interest in it at all—except for a little -pity about my grandmother, whose childhood was saddened by the dreadful -thing. And that, too, was such a long time ago. But why should it worry -you?”</p> - -<p>“I can hardly tell you why. But it does. Constance, it is the most -wonderful thing. You do not suspect me of nerves or idle fancies?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. You are quite a strong person as regards nerves.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will perhaps explain what has happened.<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> Last night I came -home about eleven. I remembered that my newly discovered Great-Aunt had -sent me as a present—a cheerful present—a book containing a full -account, with cuttings from the papers of the time and notes by a woman -who was housekeeper at Campaigne Park, of the crime——”</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“I took it out of its brown-paper covering. Again, Constance, am I a man -of superstitions?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not!”</p> - -<p>“Well——” He considered the point for a few moments, as one perhaps -better concealed. Then he resolved upon communicating it. “When I opened -it I was seized with a most curious repulsion—a kind of loathing—which -it was difficult to shake off. This morning on looking at the book again -I had the same feeling.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is strange. But you got over it.”</p> - -<p>“In spite of it I persisted and resolutely went through the whole book. -I am repelled and I am attracted by the subject. I sat up half the night -reading it—I have never been so held by any book before.”</p> - -<p>“Strange!” Constance repeated. “And for a thing so long ago!”</p> - -<p>“I threw it aside at last and went to bed—and to dream. And the end—or -the beginning—of it is that I am compelled—I use the word -advisedly—compelled, Constance, to investigate the whole affair.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! but you are not in earnest? Investigate?<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> But it happened seventy -years ago! What can be learned after seventy years?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I must investigate and find out what I can.”</p> - -<p>Constance looked at him with astonishment. He sat at his desk—but with -his chair turned towards her. His face was lined and somewhat haggard: -he looked like one who is driven: but he looked resolved.</p> - -<p>“Leonard, this is idle fancy.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot help it; I must investigate the case. There is no help for me, -Constance—I must. This was the first of the family misfortunes. They -have been so heavy and so many that—well, it is weakness to connect -them with something unknown.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry—I am very sorry—that you have learned the truth—even -though it makes me your cousin.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry, too. But Fate has found me—as it found my grandfather -and my father and that old, old man. Perhaps my own career is also to be -cut short.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Leonard! You will investigate the case: you will find out -nothing: you will throw it aside: you will forget it.”</p> - -<p>“No; it is not to be forgotten or thrown aside.”</p> - -<p>“Well, make your inquiry as soon as you can and get it over. Oh, I -should have thought you the last person in the world to be moved by -fancies of compulsion or any other fancies.”</p> - -<p>“I should have thought so, too, except for this experience.<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> When I got -up, Constance, I resolutely shut the book, and I made up my mind to -forget the whole business.”</p> - -<p>“And you could not, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“I could not. I found it impossible to fix my attention, so I pulled out -the book again and went all over it from the beginning once more. -Constance, it is the most remarkable story I ever read. You shall read -it yourself.”</p> - -<p>“If I do, not even my duty to our ancestor will make me take it so -seriously as you are doing.”</p> - -<p>“To-day I have been down to the place. I have visited the wood where the -thing happened: I found again that old man of the churchyard, who paid -you an undeserved compliment.” Constance blushed, but not much. “I made -him tell me all he remembered: it was not much, but it sounded like the -unexpected confirmation of some old document.”</p> - -<p>“And have you come to any conclusion yet? Have you formed any theory?”</p> - -<p>“None that will hold water. I don’t know what is going to happen over -that business, but I must go on—I must go on.”</p> - -<p>She laid a hand upon his arm.</p> - -<p>“If you must go on, let me go with you. It is my murder as well as -yours. Lend me the book.”</p> - -<p>She carried it off to her own rooms, and that night another incubus sat -upon another sleeping person and murdered rest.<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><br /> -<small>A COMPROMISE</small></h2> - -<p>“Come to get another speech, Fred?” Christopher looked up cheerily from -the work before him. The sweet spring season, when the big dinners are -going on, is his time of harvest, and after June he can send his sheaves -of golden grain to the Bank. It promised to be a busy and a prosperous -season. “Come for another speech, old man?” he repeated. “I’m doing a -humorous one on Literature, but I can make room for you.”</p> - -<p>“Hang your speeches!” Fred sat down on the table. “You might offer a man -a drink.” He spoke as one oppressed with a sense of injustice.</p> - -<p>“Seem out of sorts, Fred. What’s gone wrong? Colonial Enterprise? The -great concern which interests all Lombard Street hitched up somehow?” He -asked with the exasperating grin of the doubter. But he opened a -cupboard and produced a bottle, a glass, and two or three sodas. “Well, -old man, there’s your drink.”</p> - -<p>Fred grunted, helped himself liberally, though it was as yet only eleven -in the forenoon.<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a></p> - -<p>“The great Colonial concern is where it was,” he explained vaguely.</p> - -<p>“So I supposed. And about Lombard Street?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I thought better of the City. I thought there was still some -enterprise left in this rotten, stagnant, decaying, and declining old -country.”</p> - -<p>Christopher laughed.</p> - -<p>“They won’t look at it, eh?”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, they won’t do anything till they have looked at it.”</p> - -<p>“Humph! Awkward, isn’t it? I say, Fred, what did you come back for at -all? Why not stay in Australia?”</p> - -<p>“I came back for many reasons. Partly to look after you, Brother Chris.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! After me? Why after me?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you see, you are the only one left who knew of my existence. -Leonard remembered nothing about me. My grandfather’s lawyers had never -heard of me. And one day there came into my head—it was like a voice -speaking to me—it said, ‘Fred, you are a Fool. You’ve been twenty years -in this country. You’ve got an old lunatic of a grandfather who must -have piles and piles of money. Perhaps he’s dead. And no one but -Christopher left to remember you. Get off home as quick as you can. -Christopher,’ said this remarkable voice, ‘is quite capable of putting -his hands on the lot and forgetting you.’ That is what the voice said, -my brother.”<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a></p> - -<p>“Sometimes it’s rats: sometimes it’s cats: sometimes it’s circles: -sometimes it’s a voice. Fred, you must have been pretty far gone.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. But I listened to that voice, and, what is more, I obeyed it, -and came home. The old man isn’t gone yet. So far that’s safe. And the -lawyers know of my existence. So that’s all right. You won’t get the -chance of forgetting me, after all.”</p> - -<p>“Very good, very good. There will be very soon, I should say, the -division of a most almighty pile, Fred. You are quite welcome to your -share.”</p> - -<p>“Much obliged, I’m sure. Do you know how much it is?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid to calculate. Besides, what will has he made?”</p> - -<p>“Will, my boy! He’s got £6,000 a year, and he spends nothing and he -gives nothing. All that money, with something he had from his mother, -has been rolling up and rolling up. How much is it? A million? Two -millions? And here am I hard up for want of a few pounds, and you, a -Fraud and an Impostor, working like a nigger, and all that money waiting -to be spent as it should be spent. It’s maddening, Chris—it’s -maddening.”</p> - -<p>“So it is, so it is. But nothing can be done. Well, you were on the -highroad to D.T., and, instead of seeing rats, you heard a voice -calumniating your brother, and you came home; and you put your vast -concern in your pocket—the waistcoat pocket held it all, no doubt.”<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a></p> - -<p>“What the devil does it matter which pocket held it?”</p> - -<p>Christopher leaned back and joined the tips of his fingers.</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t going to spoil your game, Fred, though that devil of a voice -did speak such utterances. But I knew all along. I smelt a fake, so to -speak. You a man of business? You the head of a great Colonial -Enterprise? No, no; it was too thin, my brother—too thin. Not but what -you looked the part—I will say that.”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, I thought it was going to come off. I got hold of a -company promoter. He said he’s steered craft more crazy than mine into -Port. Talked of a valuation: talked of assigning 50,000 shares to me as -owner of the Colonial business——”</p> - -<p>“Well, but, Fred, come to the facts; sooner or later the facts would -have to be faced, you know. What was the Colonial business?”</p> - -<p>“It was a going concern fast enough when I left it. Whether it’s going -now I don’t know. A lovely shanty by the roadside, stocked with a large -assortment of sardines, Day and Martin, tea, flour, and sugar. What more -do you want? The thing I traded on was not the shanty, but the possible -‘development.’ ”</p> - -<p>“The development of the shanty. Excellent!”</p> - -<p>“The development, I say, out of this humble roadside beginning. I made -great use of the humble beginning: I thought they would accept the -first<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> steps of the development. I proposed a vast company with stores -all over Australia for the sale of everything. Barlow Brothers were to -serve the Australian Continent. We were to have our sugar estates in the -Mauritius: our coffee estates in Ceylon: our tea estates in Assam: our -flour-mills everywhere: our vineyards in France and Germany——”</p> - -<p>“I see—I see. Quite enough, Fred; the scheme does you great honour. So -you went into the City with it.”</p> - -<p>“I did. I’ve wasted buckets full of champagne over it, and whisky enough -to float a first-class yacht. And what’s the result?”</p> - -<p>“I see. And you’ve come to an end.”</p> - -<p>“That is so. The very end. Look!” He pulled out his watch-chain. There -was no watch at the end of it. “The watch has gone in,” he said. “The -chain will go next. And there’s the hotel bill.”</p> - -<p>“Rather a heavy bill, I should imagine.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve done myself well, Christopher.”</p> - -<p>“And how are you going to pay that bill? And what are you going to do -afterwards?”</p> - -<p>“I thought of those accumulations. I went down to see the old man. He’s -quite well and hearty—wouldn’t speak to me. Pretends to be deaf and -dumb. But the housekeeper says he understands everything. So he knows of -my existence. The woman gave me the address of his solicitors, and I’ve -been to see them. I wanted an advance, you know, just a little advance -on the accumulations.”<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a></p> - -<p>“Ah!”</p> - -<p>“But they won’t acknowledge that they have any power. ‘My dear Sir,’ I -said, ‘I don’t ask whether you have any power or not—I don’t care -whether you advance me a thousand on my reversionary interest, or -whether you lend it yourself.’ No, sir, the fellow wouldn’t budge. Said -I must prove the possession of reversionary interest: said he wasn’t a -money-lender: said I had better go to a bank and show security. Here I -am one of the heirs to a noble fortune. I don’t know how much, but it -must be something enormous. Why, his estate is worth £6,000 a year, and -I know that there was money besides which he had from his mother. -Enormous! Enormous! And here I am wanting a poor thousand.”</p> - -<p>“It seems hard, doesn’t it? But, then, are you sure that you are one of -the heirs?”</p> - -<p>“The old man is off his head. Everything will be divided. He can’t live -long.”</p> - -<p>“No. But he may live five or six years more.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Christopher, the long and the short of it is that you will have -to find that money. You may charge interest: you may take my bond: you -will do what you like: but I must have that money.”</p> - -<p>“The long and the short of it, Fred, is this: I am not going to give, or -to lend, or to advance, any money to you at all. Put that in your pipe.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Fred helped himself to another whisky-and-water. “You won’t, eh? -Then, what do you<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> think of my blowing this flourishing concern of -yours, eh?”</p> - -<p>Christopher changed colour.</p> - -<p>“What do you think, Christopher, of my going to call on Pembridge -Crescent, and letting out in the most natural and casual way in the -world, that I’ve just come from the rooms in Chancery Lane where you -carry on your business?”</p> - -<p>“Fred, you—you—you are a most infernal scoundrel!”</p> - -<p>“What business? asks my sister-in-law. What business? asks my niece. -What business? asks my nephew. Why, says I, don’t you know? Hasn’t he -told you? Quite a flourishing income—almost as flourishing as Barlow -Brothers. It’s in the Fraudulent Speech Supply Line. That’s a pretty -sort of shell to drop in the middle of your family circle, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Fred, you were always the most cold-blooded villain that ever walked.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I shall do, my dear brother. More than that, I shall go and -see Leonard. That aristocratic young gentleman, who thinks so much about -his family, will be greatly pleased, will he not?”</p> - -<p>We need not follow the conversation, which became at this point -extremely animated. Memories long since supposed to be forgotten and -buried and put away were revived, with comments satirical, indignant, or -contemptuous. Language of the strongest was employed. The office boy put -down his<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a> novelette, and wondered what Jack Harkaway would do under such -circumstances. Indeed, the past lives of the two brothers lent -themselves singularly to the recollection of romantic adventures and -episodes of a startling character. Presently—we are not Cain and -Abel—the conversation became milder. Some kind of compromise began to -be considered.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t mind,” said Fred at length. “I don’t care so long as I -can get the money. But I must have the money—or some money—and that -before long.”</p> - -<p>“You can put your case before Leonard, if you like. He won’t give you -much, because he hasn’t got much to give. I think he has a few hundreds -a year from his mother. He might advance on his reversions, but he isn’t -that sort of man at all.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try. But, look you, Christopher, if he refuses I’ll take it out of -you. How would you like all the world to know how you live? And, by the -Lord, sir, if I have to tell all the world, I will.”</p> - -<p>“I was a great fool, Fred, to let you into the secret. I might have -known, from old experience, what you would do with it to suit your own -purpose. Always the dear old uncalculating, unselfish, truthful -brother—always!”</p> - -<p>Fred took another drink and another cigar. Then he invoked a blessing -upon his brother with all the cordiality proper for such a blessing and -retired.<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><br /> -<small>CONSULTATION</small></h2> - -<p>T<small>HE</small> rôle of coincidence in the history of the Individual is much more -important than any writer of fiction has ever dared to represent. Not -the coincidence which is dear to the old-fashioned dramatist, when at -the very nick and opposite point of time the long-lost Earl returns; the -coincidence of real life does not occur in this way. A man’s mind is -much occupied, and even absorbed, by one subject: he goes about thinking -upon that subject and upon little else. Then all kinds of things happen -to him which illustrate this subject. That is what coincidence means.</p> - -<p>For instance, I was once endeavouring to reconstruct for a novel a -certain scene among the overgrown byways and the secluded and forgotten -lanes of history. I had nothing at first to help me: worse still, I -could find nothing, not even in the British Museum. The most profound -knowledge of the books and pamphlets in that collection, in the person -of the greatest scholar, could not help me. I was reluctantly making up -my mind to abandon the project (which would have inflicted irreparable -damage<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a> on my novel) when a sheaf of second-hand catalogues came to me. -It was by the last evening post. I turned over two or three, without -much curiosity, until among the items I lit upon one which caught my -eye. It was only the title of a pamphlet, but it promised to contain the -exact information which I wanted. The promise was kept. I was too late -to buy the pamphlet, but I had the title, and it was found for me in the -British Museum, and it became my “crib.” Now that, if you please, was a -coincidence; and this kind of coincidence happens continually to every -man who thinks about anything.</p> - -<p>It is said of a most distinguished numismatist that he cannot cross a -ploughed field without picking up a rose noble. That is because his -thoughts are always turned to rose nobles and other delightful coins. If -one is studying the eighteenth century, there is not a museum, a -picture-gallery, a second-hand catalogue, which does not provide the -student with new information. Every man absorbed in a subject becomes -like a magnet which attracts to itself all kinds of proofs, -illustrations, and light.</p> - -<p>These things are mentioned only to show that the apparently miraculous -manner in which external events conspired together to keep up the -interest in this case was really neither remarkable nor exceptional. For -the interest itself, the grip with which the story of the newspaper -cuttings caught and held both these readers, was a true miracle. In -every group of situations there is the central event. In<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a> this case, the -mystery of the wood was the central event.</p> - -<p>“It is my murder, Leonard,” Constance repeated, “as much as yours. It -was my great-grandfather who was murdered, if it was your -great-grandmother who was also killed by that crime. Let me sit with you -while you work it out.”</p> - -<p>“You too, Constance?” Leonard saw in her eyes something that reminded -him of his own overpowering interest in the thing. “You too?”</p> - -<p>“Take back the book, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“You have read it?”</p> - -<p>“I read it over and over again—I have been reading it all the livelong -night.”</p> - -<p>“And you—you also—feel—with me—the same——” He did not finish the -sentence.</p> - -<p>“I feel—like you—constrained to go on—why—I cannot tell you. It is -not pity, for one cannot feel pity for a man of whom one knows nothing -except that he was young and handsome and unfortunate, and that he was -an ancestor. It is not desire for revenge—how can one take revenge for -a crime when everybody concerned is dead and gone?”</p> - -<p>“Except the man who suffered most.”</p> - -<p>“Except that old, old man. Well, I cannot understand it. But the fact is -so. Like you, I am drawn by ropes to the subject.”</p> - -<p>“As for me I can think of nothing else. I am wholly possessed by the -story and by the mystery. We will work at it together—if any work is -possible.”<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a></p> - -<p>They sat down together and they read the book aloud, both making notes. -They read parts of it over again. They compared notes. They went to the -club together and dined together: they went home and they spent the -evening together: they separated with the assurance that everything had -been done which could be done, and that they must reluctantly abandon -any further investigation.</p> - -<p>In the morning they met again.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking last night,” said Constance, “about the Inquest. There -are two or three points——”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking about the Trial,” said Leonard. “There are a few doubts -in my mind——”</p> - -<p>“Let us have out the book again.”</p> - -<p>Once more it was produced. Once more it lay on the table: once more they -sat on opposite sides and read and considered and took counsel -together—with no result: once more they locked up the book, and agreed -that further investigation was impossible.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow,” said Leonard, “I shall go on with my work again. This is -like the following of Jack-a-Lantern.”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow,” said Constance, with a sigh. “Strange that we should have -been led to consider the subject at all. Let the dead bury their dead. -It is an old story, and nothing more remains to be found out. Why have -we been so foolish?”</p> - -<p>Despite this agreement, they continued at their hopeless task. They sat -together day after day; during this time they talked and thought of -nothing<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> else. Again and again they agreed there was nothing more to be -found. Again and again they made a show of putting the book away and -locking it up. Again and again they took it out again and read it till -they knew it all by heart. Together they went once more to Campaigne -Park; they visited the fatal wood, they wandered about the deserted -rooms of the house, haunted by the dreadful memory. How could they -expect to find anything now after all these years?</p> - -<p>“We have,” said Leonard, repeating the words a hundred times, “all the -evidence that can now be discovered—the evidence of the wood and the -place, the evidence of one survivor, the evidence of the trial. If the -truth cannot be discovered, why should we go on? Moreover, after all -these years nothing more can be discovered.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing more, except the hand that did it.”</p> - -<p>Why should they go on? Because they could not choose but go on. They -were compelled to go on. If they spoke of other things, their thoughts -and their talk wandered back to this same subject. As may always happen -when two persons are engaged on the subject and absorbed in it, their -faces assumed the same expression—that of one who searches and finds -not. With such a face the alchemist was accustomed every day to enter -his laboratory, hoping against hope, beaten back every evening, -returning in the morning. But with a difference—for the alchemist knew -what he wanted to find out,<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> and these two were in search of they knew -not what.</p> - -<p>They went together, in the vain hope of finding or hearing something -more, to call upon the lady of the Commercial Road. She was most -gratified to be recognised as a cousin of this young lady; she desired -nothing better than to talk of the family and its misfortunes. But she -threw no more light upon the story, knowing, in fact, less than they -themselves knew. They left her; they agreed once more that it was absurd -to continue a quest so hopeless; they agreed once more to lock up the -book. Next day they took it out and laid their heads together again.</p> - -<p>“How long is this going to last?” Constance asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” Leonard replied wearily. “Are we possessed? Are we -bewitched?”</p> - -<p>“Are we two persons who do not believe in possession or in witchcraft, -yet are really possessed—I don’t know by whom, or why, or anything at -all about it—but if there is not possession, then the old stories mean -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“We might make a wax image, and call it by the name of the witch, and -stick pins in it——”</p> - -<p>“If we knew the name of the witch. Why, it seems as if we could speak -and think of nothing else. If one were superstitious——”</p> - -<p>“If,” echoed the other doubtfully, “one were superstitious——”</p> - -<p>“It might seem like part of the hereditary misfortunes; yet why should I -share in your sorrows?”<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> Here she blushed because she remembered how, -before the misfortunes were even heard of, she had been invited to share -in the good fortune. But Leonard observed nothing. The quest left no -room for any thoughts of love.</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied gravely, “you must not share in our troubles. -Constance, I, too, ask myself every day how long this will last. Why -cannot I throw off the sense of being driven on against my own will in a -search which must be hopeless?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I, too, am driven, but it is to follow you. What does it mean? Is -it imagination of a morbid kind?” She paused. Leonard made no reply. -“After all,” she continued, “there is nothing to do but to accept the -situation, and to go on and see what happens.”</p> - -<p>Leonard groaned. “Suppose,” he said, with a wintry smile, “that we are -doomed to go on day after day till the end of things, just as that old -man has walked up and down his terrace day after day for seventy years. -What a fearful tramp! What a monotony! What a life!”</p> - -<p>“A dreary prospect. Yet, to go over the same story day after day, every -day, seems little better than that walk up and down the terrace, does -it?”</p> - -<p>“Leave it, Constance. Give it up and go back to your own work.”</p> - -<p>He took up the fatal book and threw it to the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“Frankly, I would leave it if I could. The thing<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> weighs upon me. I -understand what possession means. I am possessed. I must follow you.”</p> - -<p>“Constance, we are growing ridiculous. We are two persons of culture, -and we talk of possession and of an unseen force that drags us.”</p> - -<p>“But since we are dragged——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, since we are dragged”—he crossed over the room, picked up the -book, and brought it back—“and we are dragged—let us obey.”</p> - -<p>It was then three weeks since this inquiry had begun. It was now the -sole object of their lives. They hunted in the British Museum among old -papers, they went to the Hall and turned out desks and drawers and -cupboards of letters, documents, papers, and accounts. They found enough -to reconstruct the daily life of the old man before the tragedy, and the -history of his predecessors. They were the simple annals of peaceful -country life, with no events but those that one expects—births of -children, buying of lands, festivities.</p> - -<p>You know that when Sisyphus had rolled his ball—or was it a wheel?—to -the top of the hill, the thing incontinently rolled all the way down -again. Then, with a sigh, the prisoner walked after it, as slowly as was -consistent with a show of obedience, and began again. So Leonard, with a -sigh, began again, when one theory after the other broke down.</p> - -<p>At this point the coincidences commenced. They were talking together one -morning.</p> - -<p>“If,” said Leonard, “we could only hear the man<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> Dunning on the subject! -He would be more interesting, even, than the ancient boy who scared the -birds.”</p> - -<p>“He must be dead long ago. Yet, if he could be found——”</p> - -<p>At this moment—no coincidence, I have explained, can be considered -remarkable—Leonard’s servant opened the door and brought him a bulky -letter. It had an Australian postage stamp upon it. He looked carelessly -at the address, and tossed it on the table to wait his convenience. As -it lay on its back Constance read, printed across the securing fold, the -words “John Dunning’s Sons.”</p> - -<p>“John Dunning’s Sons,” she said. “This is strange.” She took up the -letter and pointed out the name. “Just as we were talking of John -Dunning. Open the letter, Leonard, and read it. Oh, this is wonderful! -Open it at once.”</p> - -<p>Leonard tore open the envelope. Within there was a letter and an -enclosure. He read both rapidly.</p> - -<p>“Good Heaven!” he cried. “It is actually the voice of the man himself, -Constance; it is the voice we were asking for. It is his voice speaking -from the grave.”</p> - -<p>He read aloud both the letter and the enclosure. The following was the -letter:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I found the enclosed paper only yesterday,<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a> though it was written -ten years ago, and my grandfather, by whom it was written, died -very shortly after it was written. I will not trouble you with the -causes which led to our overlooking it for so many years, but -hasten to send it on to you in accordance with the writer’s wishes.</p> - -<p>“The circumstances to which he refers happened seventy years ago. -No doubt everyone who can remember the events has long since -departed. I do not suppose that you even know the fact—to my -grandfather of vital importance—that his acquittal was secured by -the kind offices of your ancestor, who was then the owner of -Campaigne Park, and I do not suppose that you have ever heard of -the great kindness, the sympathy, the desire for justice, which -prompted those good offices, nor of the further generosity which -sent my grandfather out to Australia. He began life as an -agricultural labourer in England; he would have remained in that -humble position all his days but for the calamity which turned out -so great a blessing—his trial for murder: he came out here: he -died one of the richest men in the colony, for everything that he -touched turned to gold.</p> - -<p>“The paper which I enclose is a proof that gratitude is not wholly -dead in the world. I gather, from the published notes on the -Members of Parliament and their origin, that you are now the head -of the House. Seeing that you were distinguished in the University -of Oxford, and are a member of several clubs, as well as in the -House, I do not suppose that<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> there is anything we can do to carry -out the wishes of my grandfather as regards yourself personally. It -may happen, however, that members of your family might come out to -this country, and might not be so fortunate as yourself. In that -case, will you please to inform those members that our worldly -wealth is great, that the origin of all our property was the -generosity of your ancestor, that my grandfather’s wishes are -commands, and that there is nothing which we can do for any member -of your family, if the opportunity should occur, which we will not -do cheerfully and readily.</p> - -<p class="c"> -“I remain, dear sir,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">“Very faithfully yours,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">“<span class="smcap">Charles Dunning</span>.”</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“I should very much like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Charles -Dunning,” said Constance. “Now for what the grandfather says.”</p> - -<p>Leonard opened the other paper and read:</p> - -<p>“Being now in my eighty-sixth year, and therefore soon to be called -away, I desire to place in writing, in order that it may be sent after -my death to the present head of the Campaigne family, first my thanks -and heartfelt gratitude for what was done for me by the late Squire in -and after my trial for murder. I have enjoined upon my children and my -grandchildren that they are to part with their last farthing, if the -occasion arises, for the benefit of any descendants of that good man. I -suppose that he<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> is dead and beyond the reach of my prayers. I can only -hope that he speedily recovered from the loss of his dear lady, and that -he enjoyed a long and happy life.</p> - -<p>“It is a dreadful thing to be accused of murder. All my life I have -remembered the charge and the trial. After the case was over, the people -of the village were cruel hard. The charge was thrown in my teeth every -day: no one would work with me, and no one would sit with me. So I had -to come away. If there is anyone living who remembers the case and me, I -would ask him to read and to consider two points that I found out after -the trial.”</p> - -<p>“This is indeed the Voice of the Dead,” said Constance, speaking low.</p> - -<p>“The first point is that I had witnesses, but I was too much stunned to -think of them, who could prove that I was at work all the morning until -just before noon in another place.</p> - -<p>“The second point may be more important. The path through the wood leads -to a stile opening on the lane to the village of Highbeech. There is a -cottage in the lane opposite the stile. On the morning of the murder the -woman of the cottage was washing outside the door. She told me after the -trial that not a soul had gone into the wood from her end of it all the -morning; she could not see the other end, but she saw me coming down the -hill on my way to the wood, and I had not been in the<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a> wood half a -minute before she saw me running back again and up the hill to the -farm-yard on the top. I hope that if there is any doubt left in the mind -of anyone as to my innocence, this new evidence will make it clear.”</p> - -<p>The paper was signed “John Dunning.”</p> - -<p>“There is no doubt left,” said Constance. “Still, what bearing has the -evidence of the cottage woman on the case? What do you think? Has the -Voice contributed anything?”</p> - -<p>“We will consider presently. Meantime, all he wanted was to clear -himself. I think that was effectually done at the trial. Still, he would -naturally catch at anything like corroboration. It proves that no one -went into the wood from the other end. As for anything else, why, it -would seem, with the boy’s evidence, to mean that nobody went into the -wood at all that morning except those two gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>“Then we come back to the old theory: the lurking in the wood of -poacher, madman, or private enemy.”</p> - -<p>“We asked for a Voice from the Grave, and it came,” said Leonard. “And -now it seems to have told us nothing.”</p> - -<p>He placed the paper in the book, leaving the letter on the table.</p> - -<p>They looked at each other blankly. Then Leonard rose and walked about -the room. Finally he took up a position before the fireplace, and began -to speak slowly, as if feeling his way.<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a></p> - -<p>“I suppose that it is natural that I should connect this crime with that -great question about the inheritance of punishment or consequences.”</p> - -<p>“It is quite natural,” said Constance. “And yet——”</p> - -<p>“My mother and my grandmother, as I now understand, believed that the -misfortunes which they so carefully concealed from me were the -inheritance of the forefathers’ sins. And since these misfortunes began -with this crime, it was natural that they should attribute the cause to -the ancestor who died before the crime. Now, all I can learn about that -ancestor is, that he was a country gentleman and Justice of the Peace, a -Member of Parliament, and that he left behind him no record or memory of -anything uncommon. Now, to produce this enormous list of misfortunes, -one must be a Gilles de Retz at least.”</p> - -<p>“I am not acquainted with that example.”</p> - -<p>“He was a great master in every kind of villainy. About these -misfortunes, however. My great-grandfather, as you know—— My -grandfather died by his own hand: his brother was drowned at sea: his -sister has been unfortunate throughout her life: his son, my father, -died young: my uncle Frederick went abroad under a dread of disgrace, -which we may forget now he has come home again. The list of misfortunes -is long enough. But we cannot learn any cause—which may, even to the -superstitious, account for it—under anything of inheritance.”<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a></p> - -<p>“Why should we try to account for the misfortunes? They are not caused -by you.”</p> - -<p>“I try because they are part of the whole business. I cannot escape or -forget the chain of misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“If you only could, Leonard! And it is so long ago, and no misfortune -has fallen upon you. Oh, what did I say once—in this very room?”</p> - -<p>“The misfortune that has fallen upon me is the knowledge of all these -misfortunes—these ruined lives. The old selfish contentment is gone. I -lived for myself. That is henceforth impossible. Well”—he shook himself -as a dog after a swim—“I am now what you wanted me to be—like other -people.” He relapsed into silence. “I cannot choose,” he said presently, -“but connect these misfortunes with that first and greatest. The point -of doubt is whether to speak of consequence or punishment.”</p> - -<p>“Must it be one or the other?”</p> - -<p>“The child must suffer for the father’s sin. That is most certain. If -the father throws away his property, the son becomes a pauper. If the -father loses his social position, the children sink down with him. If -the father contracts disease, the children may inherit. All this is -obvious and cannot be disputed.”</p> - -<p>“But that is not punishment for generations of innocent children.”</p> - -<p>“It is consequence, not punishment. We must not confuse the two. Take -the case of crime. Body and mind and soul are all connected together, so -that the face proclaims the mind and the mind presents<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> the soul. The -criminal is a diseased man. Body and mind and soul are all connected -together. He lives in an evil atmosphere. Thought, action, impulse, are -all evil. He is wrapped in a miasma, like a low-lying meadow on an -autumn morning. The children may inherit the disease of crime just as -they may inherit consumption or gout. That is to say, they are born with -a tendency to crime, as they may be born with a tendency to consumption -or gout. It is not punishment, I repeat. It is consequence. In such -children there is an open door to evil of some kind or other.”</p> - -<p>“Since all men have weaknesses or faults, there must be always such an -open door to all children.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. But the son of a man reputed blameless, whose weaknesses -or faults are presumably light or venial, is less drawn towards the open -door than the son of the habitual criminal. The son of the criminal -naturally makes for the open door, which is the easy way. It is the -consequence. As for our own troubles, perhaps, if we knew, they, too, -may be the consequence—not the punishment. But we do not know—we -cannot find the crime, or the criminal.”<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><br /> -<small>“BARLOW BROTHERS”</small></h2> - -<p>“The theory of consequence”—Leonard was arranging his thoughts on paper -for better clearness—“while it answers most of the difficulties -connected with hereditary trouble, breaks down, it must be confessed, in -some cases. Given, for instance, a case in which a boy is carefully -educated, has no bad examples before him, shows no signs of vice, and is -ignorant of the family misfortunes. If that boy becomes a spendthrift -and a prodigal, or worse, when there has never before been such a thing -in the family, how can we connect the case with the faults or vices of a -grandfather altogether unlike his own, and unknown to him? I should be -inclined rather to ascribe the case to some influences of the past, not -to be discovered, due to some maternal ancestry. A man, for instance, -may be so completely unlike any other member of the family that we must -search for the cause of his early life in the line of his mother or his -grandmother.”</p> - -<p>He was just then thinking of his uncle—the returned Colonial, in whom, -except for his commanding stature and his still handsome face, there was -nothing to remind the world of the paternal side. Whenever he thought of -this cheerful person, with<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a> whom life seemed a pleasant play, certain -doubts crossed his mind, and ran like cold water down his back. He had -come home rich—that was something. He might have come home as poor as -when he started. Rich or poor, he would have been the same—as buoyant, -as loud, as unpresentable.</p> - -<p>In fact, at this very moment, when these reflections were forming a part -of Leonard’s great essay on the after-effects of evil—an essay which -created only last month so great a stir that people talked of little -else for a whole evening—the rich Australian was on his way to confess -the fact that things were not exactly as he had chosen to present them.</p> - -<p>He did confess the truth, or as much of the truth as he could afford to -express, but in an easy and irresponsible manner, as if nothing mattered -much. He was a philosopher, to whom nothing did matter. He came in, he -shook hands and laughed buoyantly; he chose a cigar from Leonard’s box, -he rang the bell for whisky and a few bottles of soda; when the whisky -and the soda had arrived and were within reach, he took a chair, and -laughed again.</p> - -<p>“My boy,” he said, “I’m in a tight place again.”</p> - -<p>“In what way?”</p> - -<p>“Why, for want of money. That’s the only possible tight place at my age. -At yours there are many. It is only a temporary tightness, of course.” -He opened the soda-water and drank off the full tumbler at a gulp. -“Temporary. Till the supplies arrive.”</p> - -<p>“The supplies?” Leonard put the question in a<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a> nasty, cold, suspicious -manner, which would have changed smiles into blankness in a more -sensitive person. But uncle Fred was by no means sensitive or -thin-skinned. He was also so much accustomed to temporary tightness that -the incongruity of tightness with his pretensions of prosperity had not -occurred to him.</p> - -<p>“Supplies?” he replied. “Supplies from Australia, of course.”</p> - -<p>“I thought that you were a partner in a large and prosperous concern.”</p> - -<p>“Quite true—quite true. Barlow Brothers is both large and prosperous.”</p> - -<p>“In that case it is easy for you to draw upon your bankers or the agents -for your bank or some friends in the City. You go into the City every -day, I believe. Your position must be well known. In other words, I -mistrust this temporary tightness.”</p> - -<p>“Mistrust? And from you? Really, Leonard——”</p> - -<p>“I put things together. I find in you none of the habits of a -responsible merchant. I know that everywhere character is essential for -commercial success——”</p> - -<p>“Character? What should I be without character?”</p> - -<p>“You come home as the successful merchant: you drink: you talk as if you -were a debauched youngster about town: your anecdotes are scandalous: -your tastes are low. Those are the outward signs.”</p> - -<p>“I am on a holiday. Out there—it’s very different.<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> As for drink, of -course in a thirsty climate like that of New South Wales—and this -place—one must drink a little. For my own part, I am surprised at my -own moderation.”</p> - -<p>“Very well. I will not go on with the subject, only—to repeat—if you -are in a tight place, those who know your solvency will be very willing -to relieve you. I hope you are not here to borrow of me, because——”</p> - -<p>The man laughed again. “Not I. Nobody is likely to borrow of you, -Leonard. That is quite certain—not even the stoniest broke. Make your -mind quite easy. As for my friends in the City, I know very well what to -do about them. No; I am here because I want to throw myself upon the -family.”</p> - -<p>“The family consists of your brother, who may be able to help you——”</p> - -<p>“I’ve asked him. He won’t—Christopher was always a selfish beast. Good -fellow to knock about with and all that—ready for anything—but -selfish—damned selfish.”</p> - -<p>“And your aunt Lucy——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know her. Who is she?”</p> - -<p>“She is not able to assist you. And of myself.”</p> - -<p>“You forget the Head of the Family—my old grandfather. I am going to -him.”</p> - -<p>“You will get nothing out of him—not even a word of recognition.”</p> - -<p>“I know. I have been down there to look at him. I have been to see his -solicitors.”<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a></p> - -<p>“You will get nothing from them without their client’s authority.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you know the family affairs, of course. I suppose that a word -from you authorising or advising the transfer of a few thousands—or -hundreds—out of that enormous pile——”</p> - -<p>“I have no right to authorise or advise. I know nothing about my -great-grandfather’s affairs.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me, dear boy, what about those accumulations? We mentioned them -the other day.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about them.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, of course. I’m not going to put questions. The bulk of -everything will be yours, naturally. I have no objection. I am not going -to interfere with you. Only, don’t you think you could go to the people, -the agents or solicitors, and put it to them, that, as a son of the -House, I should like an advance of—say a thousand pounds?”</p> - -<p>“I am quite certain beforehand they will do nothing for you.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a better man of the world than I thought, my boy. I respect you -for it. Nobody is to have a finger in the pie but yourself. And you look -so damned solemn over it, too.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you that I know nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Just so—just so. Well, you know nothing. I’ve made a rough -calculation—but never mind. Let the accumulations be. Very good, then, -I shall not interfere. Meantime, I want some money. Get me from those -lawyers a thousand.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot get you anything. As for myself, I<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> have not got a thousand -pounds in the world. You forget that all I have is my mother’s small -fortune of a few hundreds a year. It is not in my power to lend you -anything.”</p> - -<p>He laughed again in his enjoyment of the situation. “Delicious!” he -said. “And I said that I wasn’t going to borrow anything. This it is to -be a British swell. Well, I don’t mind. I will draw upon you at six -months. Come. Long before that time I shall be in funds again.”</p> - -<p>“No. You shall not even draw upon me at six months,” Leonard replied, -with some vague knowledge of what was implied. “You told me you were -rich.”</p> - -<p>“Every man is rich who is a partner in a going concern.”</p> - -<p>“Then, again, why are you in this tight place?”</p> - -<p>“My partner, you see, has been playing the fool. Barlow Brothers, -General Stores, Colonial Produce, will be smashed if I can’t raise a few -hundreds.”</p> - -<p>“Your going concern, as you call it, is going to grief. And what will -you do?”</p> - -<p>“You shall just see what I wanted. Barlows’ is a General Store in a -rising town. There are great capabilities in Barlow Brothers. I came -over here to convert Barlow Brothers into a Limited Liability Company, -capital £150,000. Branches everywhere. Our own sugar estates, our own -tea and coffee plantations. That was my idea!”</p> - -<p>“It was a bold idea, at any rate.”</p> - -<p>“It was. As for Barlows’ General Store, I confess,<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> between ourselves, -and considering that you don’t belong to the City, I don’t mind owning -up to you that it is little better than a shanty, where I sold sardines -and tea-leaves and bacon. But the capabilities, my dear boy—the -capabilities!”</p> - -<p>“And you brought this project to London! Well, there have been greater -robberies.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred took another glass of whisky-and-soda. He laughed no more. He -even sighed.</p> - -<p>“I thought London was an enterprising city. It appears not. No promoter -will so much as look at the Company. I was willing to let my interest in -it go for £40,000. If you’ll believe me, Leonard, they won’t even look -at it. A few hundreds would save it, a few thousands would make it a -Colossal Success. For want of it we must go to the wall.”</p> - -<p>“You were hoping to sell a bankrupt business as a flourishing business.”</p> - -<p>“That is so. But it hasn’t come off.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what shall you do?”</p> - -<p>“I shall have to begin again at the bottom. That’s all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Leonard looked at him doubtfully, for he seemed in no way cast -down. “You will go back to Australia, then.” There was some consolation -in the thought.</p> - -<p>“I shall go back. I don’t know my way about in London. I will go back -and begin again, just as before, at the bottom rung. I shall have to do -odd jobs, I dare say. I may possibly have to become a shepherd, or a -night-watchman, or a sandwich-man.<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a> What does it matter? I shall only be -down among the boys who can’t get any lower. There’s a fine feeling of -brotherhood down there, which you swells would never understand.”</p> - -<p>“Have you no money left at all?”</p> - -<p>“None. Not more than I carry about with me. A few pounds.”</p> - -<p>“Then the fine show of prosperity was all a sham?”</p> - -<p>“All a sham. And it wouldn’t work. Nobody in the City will look at my -Company.”</p> - -<p>“Would it not be better to try for some definite kind of work? You can -surely do something. You might write for the papers, with all your -experience.”</p> - -<p>“Write for the papers? I would rather go on tramp, which is much more -amusing. Do something? What am I to do? Man, there isn’t on the face of -the earth a more helpless person than a bankrupt trader at forty-five. -He knows too much to be employed in his own trade. He’s got to go down -below and to stay there. Never mind. I can turn my hand to anything. If -I stayed at home I should have to be a sandwich-man. How would you like -that? Even my old grandfather would come back to the present life, if it -were only to burst with rage, if he met his grandson walking down Regent -Street between a pair of boards. You wouldn’t like it yourself, would -you? Come out to Sydney next year, and very likely you’ll see that, or -something like it.”</p> - -<p>“Then you go out to certain misery.”<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a></p> - -<p>“Misery? Certain misery?” The Colonist laughed cheerfully. “My nephew, -you are a very narrow-minded person, though you are a scholar and a -Member of Parliament. You think that it is misery to take off a -frock-coat and a tall hat, and to put on a workingman’s jacket and -bowler. Bless you, my boy! that’s not misery. The real misery is being -hungry and cold. In Australia no one is ever cold, and very few are ever -hungry. In my worst times I’ve always had plenty to eat, and though I’ve -been many times without a shilling, I’ve never in all my life been -miserable or ashamed.”</p> - -<p>“But there is the companionship.”</p> - -<p>“The companions? They are the best fellows in the world. Misery? There -isn’t any with the fellows down below, especially the young fellows. -And, mind you, it is exciting work, the hand-to-mouth life. Now, by the -time I get out, the business will be sold up, and my partner, who is a -young man, will be off on another lay; they always put out the old man -as soon as they can. What shall I do? I shall go hawking and peddling. I -shall become Autolycus.”</p> - -<p>“And afterwards?”</p> - -<p>“There is no afterwards, till you come to the hospital, which is a -really pleasant place, and the black box. I’ve done it before, and I’ll -do it again.” He mixed another soda-and-whisky and drank it off. “It’s -thirsty work along the roads under the sun—a red-hot burning sun, not -like your red frying-pan skulking behind a cloud. Wherever you stop you<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a> -get a drink. Then you bring out your wares. I’ve got a tongue that runs -like an engine newly oiled. And where you put up for the night there are -the boys on the road, and there are songs and stories. Respectability go -hang!”</p> - -<p>He laughed again. He put on his hat and swung out of the room, laughing -as at the very finest joke in the world—to come home as a gentleman, -and to go back as a tramp.<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><br /> -<small>AND ANOTHER CAME</small></h2> - -<p>A<small>LMOST</small> immediately after the colonial merchant—the wholesale trader in -sardines and tea-leaves from a shanty—had departed, there came another. -They might almost have passed each other on the stairs.</p> - -<p>It was none other than the Counsel learned in the Law, the pride and -prop of his family, the successful barrister, Mr. Christopher Campaigne.</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” cried Leonard, “what is the matter with this man?” For -his uncle dropped speechless, limp, broken up, into a chair, and there -lay, his hands dangling, his face filled with terror and care. “My dear -Uncle Christopher,” he said, “what has happened?”</p> - -<p>“The worst,” groaned the lawyer—“the very worst. The impossible has -happened. The one thing that I guarded against. The thing which I -feared. Oh, Leonard! how shall I tell you?”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Come with me to the chambers where the Professor of Oratory was -preparing, as in a laboratory, his great effects of laughter and of -tears. It was morning—high noon. He was engaged upon what is perhaps -the most fascinating branch of a most delightful profession—a speech of -presentation. Before<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a> him, in imagination, stood the mug; beside him the -recipient; and in front of him a vast hall filled with sympathetic -donors. Such a speech is the enunciation and the magnifying of -achievements. It must be illustrated by poetical quotations; the better -known and the more familiar they are, the more effective they will -prove. The speaker should tell one funny story at least; he must also -contrive, but not obtrusively—with modesty—to suggest his own personal -importance as, if anything, superior to that of the recipient; he must -not grovel before greatness.</p> - -<p>All these points the professional manufacturer of oratory understood and -had at his fingers’ ends. He was quite absorbed in his work, insomuch -that he paid no kind of attention to footsteps outside, nor even, at -first, to an angry voice in the outer office, which, as we have seen, -was only protected by the boy, who had nothing else to do, unless the -reading of Jack Harkaway’s adventures be considered a duty.</p> - -<p>“Stand out of my way!” cried the voice, apparently infuriated. “Let me -get at him!”</p> - -<p>The professional man looked up wonderingly. Apparently a row on the -stairs. But his own door burst open, and a young man, quite a little -man, with hot cheeks and eyes aflame, rushed in brandishing a stick. The -orator sprang to his feet, seizing the office ruler. He leaned over his -table, six feet three in height, with this formidable weapon in his -hand, and he faced the intruder with calm, cold face.</p> - -<p>We must not blame the assailant; doubtless he was of tried and proved -courage, but he was only<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a> five feet five. Before that calm face of -inquiry, on which there was no line of terror or of repentance, his eyes -fell. The fire and fury went out of him quite suddenly. Perhaps he had -not developed his æsthetic frame by rude exercise. He dropped his stick, -and stood irresolute.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said his enemy quietly, “you think better about the stick, do you? -The horse-whipping is to stand over, is it? Now, sir”—he rapped the -table horribly with the ruler, so that the little man trembled all over; -the adventure unexpectedly promised pain as well as humiliation—“what -do you mean? What do you come here for, making this infernal racket? -What——”</p> - -<p>Here he stopped short, because to his unspeakable dismay he saw standing -in the doorway none other than his own son, Algernon, and Algernon’s -face was not good to look at, being filled with shame, amazement, and -bewilderment—with shame because he understood, all in a moment, that -his father’s life had been one long lie, and that by this way, and none -other, the family income had been earned. Had not his friend on the way -told him that the man Crediton was known in certain circles as the -provider of good after-dinner speeches for those who could afford to pay -for them?—how it was whispered that the rare and occasional evenings on -which the speeches were crisp and fiery and witty and moving all through -were those for which Crediton had supplied the whole?—and how for his -own speech, about which he had been most shamefully treated, he had paid -twenty guineas? So that he understood<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> without more words, and looked on -open-mouthed, having for the moment no power of speech or utterance.</p> - -<p>The father first recovered. He went on as if his son was not present.</p> - -<p>“Who are you, sir, I say, who come to my quiet office with this -blackguard noise? If you don’t tell me on the spot, I will take you by -the scruff of your miserable little neck and drop you over the -banisters.”</p> - -<p>“I—I—I wrote to you for a speech.”</p> - -<p>“What speech? What name? What for?”</p> - -<p>His client, whose eyes at first were blinded by excess of wrath, now -perceived to his amazement that Mr. Crediton was none other than his -friend’s father, whom, indeed, he had met at the family mansion in -Pembridge Crescent.</p> - -<p>“Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s—it’s Mr. Campaigne!”—he glanced from -father to son, and back again—“Mr. Campaigne!”</p> - -<p>“And why not, sir—why not? Answer me that.”</p> - -<p>Again the ruler descended with a sickening resonance.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know why not. How should I know?” the intruder stammered. -“It’s no concern of mine, I’m sure.”</p> - -<p>“Then come to the point. What speech? What name? What for?”</p> - -<p>“The Company of Cartmakers. The speech that you sent me—it arrived by -post.”</p> - -<p>“A very good speech, too. I did send it. Much too good for you or for -the fee you paid. I remember<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a> it. What is the matter with it? How dare -you complain of it!”</p> - -<p>“The matter, sir—the matter,” he stammered, feeling much inclined to -sit down and cry, “is that you sent the same speech to the proposer. -Mine was the reply. The same speech—do you hear?—the same speech to -the proposer as to me, who had to reply. Now, sir, do you realise—— -Oh, I am not afraid of your ruler, I say;” but his looks belied his -words. “Do you understand the enormity of your conduct?”</p> - -<p>“Impossible! How could I do such a thing—I who have never made a -mistake before in all my professional career?” He looked hard at his -son, and repeated the words “professional career.” “Are you sure of what -you say?” He laid down his ruler with a very serious air. “Are you quite -sure?”</p> - -<p>“Certain. The same speech, word for word. Everything—every single -thing—was taken out of my mouth; I hadn’t a word to say.”</p> - -<p>“How did that happen, I wonder? Stay, I have type-written copies of both -speeches—the toast and the reply. Yes, yes, I always keep one copy. I -am afraid I do understand how I may have blundered.” He opened a drawer, -and turned over some papers. “Ah, yes, yes. Dear me! I sent out the -second copy of your speech to the other man instead of his own. Here is -his own duplicate—the two copies—which fully explains it. Dear, dear! -Tut, tut, tut! I fear you were unable to rise to the occasion and make -up a little speech for yourself?”<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a></p> - -<p>“I could not; I was too much astonished, and I may add disgusted, to -do—er—justice to myself.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt—no doubt. My clients never can do justice to their own genius -without my help. Now sit down, sir, and let us talk this over for a -moment.”</p> - -<p>He himself sat down. His son meanwhile stood at the open door, still as -one petrified.</p> - -<p>“Now, sir, I confess that you have reason to complain. It was a most -unfortunate accident. The other man must have observed something wrong -about the opening words. However, most unfortunate.” He opened a safe -standing beside him, and took out a small bundle of cheques. “Your -cheque arrived yesterday morning. Fortunately, it is not yet paid in. I -return it, sir—twenty guineas. That is all I can do for you except to -express my regret that this accident should have occurred. I feel for -you, young gentleman. I forgive your murderous intentions, and I assure -you, if you will come to me again, I will make you the finest -after-dinner orator in the town. And now, sir, I have other clients.”</p> - -<p>He rose. The young man put the cheque in his pocket.</p> - -<p>“It will be,” he said grandly, “my duty to expose you—everywhere.” He -turned to his companion. “To expose you both.”</p> - -<p>“And yourself, dear sir—and yourself at the same time.”</p> - -<p>The Agent rattled the keys in his pocket, and repeated the words, -“Yourself at the same time.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care—so long as I expose you.”</p> - -<p>“You will care when you come to think about it.<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a> You will have to tell -everybody that you came to me to buy a speech which you were about to -palm off as your own. There are one or two transactions of the same -nature standing over, so to speak. Remember, young gentleman, there are -two persons to be exposed: myself, whom the exposure will only -advertise, and you yourself, who will be ruined as an orator—or -anything else.”</p> - -<p>But the young man was implacable. He had his cheque back. This made him -stiffer and sterner.</p> - -<p>“I care nothing. I could never pretend again to be an orator after last -night’s breakdown. I was dumfoundered. I could say nothing: they laughed -at me, the whole Hall full of people—three hundred of them—laughed at -me—and all through you—through you. I’ll be revenged—I’ll make you -sorry for last night’s business—sick and sorry you shall be. As for -you——” He turned upon Algernon.</p> - -<p>“Shut up, and get out,” said his friend. “Get out, I say, or——”</p> - -<p>Algernon made room for him, and the aggrieved client marched out with as -much dignity as he could command.</p> - -<p>Left together, father and son glared at each other icily. They were both -of the same height, tall and thin, and closely resembling each other, -with the strong type of the Campaigne face; and both wore pince-nez. The -only difference was that the elder of the two was a little thin about -the temples.</p> - -<p>The consciousness of being in the wrong destroyed the natural -superiority of the father. He replied with a weak simulacrum of a -laugh.<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a></p> - -<p>“Surely the situation explains itself,” he said feebly, opening the door -for explanation.</p> - -<p>“Am I to understand that for money you write—write—write speeches for -people who pretend—actually pretend—that they are their own?”</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly. Did not your friend confess to you why he was coming -here?”</p> - -<p>“Well—of course he did.”</p> - -<p>“And did you remonstrate with him on account of his dishonesty?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Algernon Campaigne shirked the question, and replied by another. -“And do you regard this mode of money-making—I cannot call it a -profession—this mode—honourable—a thing to be proud of?”</p> - -<p>“Why not? Certain persons with no oratorical gifts are called upon to -speak after dinner or on other occasions. They write to me for -assistance. I send them speeches. I coach them. In fact, I am an -oratorical coach. They learn what they have to say, and they say it. It -is a perfectly honourable, laudable, and estimable way of making money. -Moreover, my son, it makes money.”</p> - -<p>“Then, why not conduct this—this trade—openly under your own name?”</p> - -<p>“Because, in the nature of things, it is a secret business. My clients’ -names are secret. So also is the nature of our transactions.”</p> - -<p>“But this place is not Lincoln’s Inn. How do you spare the time from -your law work?”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, there has been a little deception, pardonable under the -circumstances. In point of fact, I never go to Lincoln’s Inn. There is -no practice.<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a> I’ve got a garret which I never go near. There never has -been any practice.”</p> - -<p>“No practice?” The young man sank helplessly into a chair. “No practice? -But we have been so proud all along of your distinguished career.”</p> - -<p>“There has never been any legal practice at all. I adopted this line in -the hope of making a little money at a time when the family was pretty -hard up, and it succeeded beyond my expectations.”</p> - -<p>Algernon sat down and groaned aloud.</p> - -<p>“We are done for. That—that little beast is the most spiteful creature -in the world, and the most envious. He is mad to be thought clever. He -has published some things—I believe he bought them. He goes about; he -poses. There isn’t a man in London more dangerous. He will tell -everybody. How shall we face the storm?”</p> - -<p>“People, my son, will still continue to want their after-dinner -speeches.”</p> - -<p>“I am thinking of my sister, myself, and our position. What will my -mother say? What will our friends say? Good Lord! we are all ruined and -shamed. We can never hold up our heads again. What on earth can we say? -How can we get out of it? Who will call upon us?”</p> - -<p>The parent was touched.</p> - -<p>“My dear boy,” he said humbly, “I must think the matter over. There will -be trouble, perhaps. Leave me for the present, and—still for the -present—hold your tongue.”</p> - -<p>His son obeyed. Then Mr. Crediton resumed his work, but the interruption -was fatal. He was fain to<a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> abandon the speech of presentation, and to -consider the prospect of exposure. Not that any kind of exposure would -destroy his profession, for that had now become a necessity for the -convenience of the social life—think what we should suffer if all the -speeches were home-made!—but there was the position of his wife and -family: the reproaches of his wife and family: the lowering of his wife -and family in the social world. It would be fatal for them if he were -known as a secret purveyor of eloquence; secrecy can never be considered -honourable or ennobling: dress it up as you will, the cloven foot of -fraud cannot be disguised.</p> - -<p>He went out because he was too much agitated to keep still or to do any -work, and he wandered through the streets feeling pretty small. How -would the exposure come? This young fellow had been brought to the -house; he called at the house; he came to their evenings and posed as -poet, story-teller, orator, epigrammatist; he knew a whole lot of people -in their set: he could certainly make things very disagreeable. And he -was in such a rage of disappointment and humiliation—for he had broken -down utterly and shamefully—that he certainly intended to be nasty.</p> - -<p>After a tempestuous youth in company with his brother, this man had -settled down into the most domestic creature in the world. Twenty-five -years of domestic joys had been his portion; they were made possible by -his secret profession. His wife adored and believed in him; his -children, while they despised his æsthetics, respected his law. In a -word,<a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> he occupied the enviable position of a successful barrister, a -gentleman of good family, and the owner of a good income. This position -was naturally more than precious: it was his very life. At home he was, -in his own belief, a great lawyer; in his office he was Mr. Crediton the -universal orator. They were separate beings; and now they were to be -brought together. Crediton would be known to the world as Campaigne, -Campaigne as Crediton. He was a forlorn and miserable object indeed.</p> - -<p>As he passed along the street he discovered suddenly that he was passing -one of the entrances to Bendor Mansions. A thought struck him.</p> - -<p>“I must ask someone’s advice,” he murmured. “I cannot bear the trouble -all alone and unsupported. I will tell Leonard everything.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Leonard sprang to his feet, astonished at this extraordinary exhibition -of despair.</p> - -<p>“My dear uncle Christopher!” he exclaimed, “what does this mean? What -has happened?”</p> - -<p>The unhappy man, anxious to take counsel, yet shrinking from confession, -groaned in reply.</p> - -<p>“Has anything happened at home? My aunt? My cousins?”</p> - -<p>“Worse—worse. It has happened to me.”</p> - -<p>“Well.... But what has happened? Man, don’t sit groaning there. Lift up -your head and tell me what has happened.”</p> - -<p>“Ruin,” he replied—“social ruin and disgrace. That is all. That is -all.”</p> - -<p>“Then, you are the second member of our truly<a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a> fortunate family who has -been ruined this very day. Perhaps,” Leonard added coldly, “it might be -as well if you could let me know what form your ruin has taken.”</p> - -<p>“Social ruin and disgrace. That is all. I shall never be able to look -anyone in the face any more.”</p> - -<p>“What have you done, then?”</p> - -<p>“I have done only what I have been doing blamelessly, because no one -ever suspected it, for five-and-twenty years. Now it has been found -out.”</p> - -<p>“You have been doing something disgraceful for five-and-twenty years, -and now you have been found out. Well, why have you come to me? Is it to -get my sympathy for disgracing your name?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>He lost his temper.</p> - -<p>“How the devil am I to understand if you won’t explain? You say that you -are disgraced——”</p> - -<p>“Let me tell you all—everything—from the beginning. It came from -knocking about London with my brother Fred. He was a devil: he didn’t -care what he did. So we ran through our money—it wasn’t much—and Fred -went away.”</p> - -<p>“I have heard why. A most shameful business.”</p> - -<p>“Truly, yes. I always told him so. Since he came home, however, we have -agreed not to mention it.”</p> - -<p>“Go on. You were left with no money.”</p> - -<p>“I had just been called. I was engaged. I wanted to get married.”</p> - -<p>“You rapidly acquired an extensive practice——”</p> - -<p>“No—no. That is where the deception stepped<a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a> in. My dear nephew, I -never had any practice at all. If any cases had been sent to me I could -not have taken them, because, you see, I never opened a law-book in my -whole life.”</p> - -<p>“You—never—opened—a law-book? Then—how——”</p> - -<p>“I loathed the sight of a law-book. But I was engaged—I wanted to be -married—I wanted to live, too, without falling back on your mother.”</p> - -<p>“Pray go on.”</p> - -<p>“I knew a man who wanted to get a reputation for an after-dinner -speaker. He heard me make one or two burlesque speeches, and he came to -me. After a little conversation, we talked business. I wrote him a -speech. It succeeded. I wrote him another. That succeeded. He leaped -into fame—leaped, so to speak, over my back—oratorical leap-frog—by -those two speeches. Then my price ran up. And then I conceived the idea -of opening out a new profession. For five-and-twenty years I have -pretended to go to chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, and I have gone to an -office in Chancery Lane, where, under another name, I have carried on -the business of providing speeches for all occasions.”</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens!” cried Leonard. “And this is the man of whom we were -proud!” His face had been darkening from the beginning, and it was now -very hard and dark. “I understand, I suppose. The beginning of the story -I had heard already. You got through your fortune in company with your -brother—in riotous living.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so—quite so.”<a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a></p> - -<p>“Was there not something about a cheque?”</p> - -<p>“Fred’s affair—not mine.”</p> - -<p>“Your brother says it was your affair. Don’t think I want to inquire -into the horrid story. I have found quite enough shame and degradation -among my family without wanting to know more.”</p> - -<p>“If Fred says that, it is simply disgraceful. Why, everybody knew—but, -as you say, why rake up old scandals?—at the time when it happened. But -why, as you say——”</p> - -<p>“Why, indeed? Except to make quite sure that there is no longer a shred -of family pride possible for us. I now learn, on your own confession, -that you entered upon a general course of imposition, and deception, by -which you have managed to live ever since, and to maintain your family -with credit because you have escaped detection.”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me. I don’t call it deception. Nobody is deceived, except -pleasantly. Is it wrong to present a fellow-creature in an agreeable and -quite unexpected character before the world? Can you blame me for -raising the standard of after-dinner oratory? Can you blame me for -creating reputations by the dozen?”</p> - -<p>“I make no doubt that you persuaded yourself that it was laudable and -honourable. Nevertheless——”</p> - -<p>“You must consider how it grew. I told you I was myself a good -after-dinner speaker. I was hard up. Then this man—old friend, now a -Colonial Judge—came to me for help. I wrote him a speech, and he bought -it—that is to say, he lent me ten<a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a> pounds for it—really he bought my -secrecy. That’s how it began. Money was necessary. There was an -unexpected way of making money. So it spread.”</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt that the practice of imposition was duly paid for.”</p> - -<p>“You must consider—really. There is nothing envied so much as the -reputation of good after-dinner speaking. I supply that reputation. -People go where they are likely to hear good speeches. I supply those -speeches.”</p> - -<p>“I do not deny the position. But you are, nevertheless, helping a man, -for money, to deceive the world.”</p> - -<p>“To deceive the world? Not at all. To delight the world. Why, I am a -public benefactor. I open the purses at charity dinners, I send the -people home in good temper. Do you think the people care two pins who is -speaking if they can be amused?”</p> - -<p>“Then, why this secrecy?”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” He walked about the room, swinging his arms, and turning from -time to time on Leonard as he made his points and pronounced his -apology. “Why not? I ask. You talk as if some fraud was carried on. -Nobody is defrauded; I earn my fees as much as any barrister. Look you, -Leonard: my position is unique, and—and—yes, honourable, if you look -at it rightly.”</p> - -<p>“Honourable! Oh!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I am the Universal After-Dinner Speaker. I supply the speeches for -every occasion. I keep up the reputation of the City for eloquence. Why, -we were rapidly sinking; we were already acknowledged<a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a> to be far below -the American level. Then I came. I raised the standard. Our after-dinner -speeches—mine—are becoming part of our national greatness. Why? -Because I, sir—I, Christopher Campaigne—took them in hand.”</p> - -<p>“Yet, in secrecy.”</p> - -<p>“I carry on this business alone—I myself—hitherto without recognition. -The time may come when the national distinctions will be offered to -the—in fact, the After-Dinner Demosthenes.”</p> - -<p>“You look so far forward?”</p> - -<p>“I confess that the work is light, easy—to me, at least—and pleasant. -It is also well paid. People are willing to give a great deal for such a -reputation as I can make for them. Nobody ever wants to see me. Nobody -knows who I am. Nobody wants to know. That is natural, come to think of -it. The whole business is done by correspondence. I work for none but -persons of wealth and position. Confidence is respected on both sides. -Sometimes the whole of a dinner, so to speak, passes through my hands. I -have even known occasions on which I have sat unrecognised at a -dinner-table, and listened to my speeches being delivered well or ill -through the whole evening. Imagine, if you can, the glow and glory of -such an evening.”</p> - -<p>“I can imagine a ruddy hue—of shame. After five-and-twenty years of -deception, however, there is not much shame left. What has happened now? -You have been found out, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I have been found out. There was a little mistake. I sent a man -the wrong speech—the response<a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a> instead of the proposer’s speech. To the -proposer I sent the same speech in duplicate. I cannot imagine how the -mistake was possible, but it happened. And you may imagine the feelings -of the poor young man who heard his own brilliant speech which was in -his pocket actually delivered, a few words only changed, by the man whom -he was about to answer. When his turn came he rose; he was overcome; he -blurted out three or four words, and sat down.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! And then?”</p> - -<p>“In the morning he came to beard me in my own den. He had never seen me -before, but he knew my address. He came with a big stick, being a little -man. Ho, ho! and he marched in flourishing his stick. You should have -seen him when I stood over him with the office ruler.” He laughed again, -but at the sight of Leonard’s dark face he checked his sense of humour. -“Well, the misfortune was that I know the fellow at home, and he comes -to our place, and knows me, and, worse than that, my own son, Algernon, -was with him to see fair——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Algernon was with him. Then, Algernon knows?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he knows. I packed off the fellow, and had it out with Algernon. -It was a tough business. I’m sorry for Algernon. Perhaps, he won’t put -on quite so much side, though. Yes,” he repeated thoughtfully, “I had it -out with that young man. He knows now what the real profession is.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what next?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what next.”<a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a></p> - -<p>“Shall you continue your trade of deception and falsehood?”</p> - -<p>“Shall I go into the workhouse?”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, it would be better.”</p> - -<p>His uncle rose and took up his hat.</p> - -<p>“Well, Leonard, if you have nothing but reproaches, I may as well go. I -did think that you would consider my position—my very difficult -position. I have at least supported my family, and I have confided the -whole to you. If you have nothing to say except to harp upon -deception—as if that mattered—I may as well go.”</p> - -<p>“Stop! let’s consider the thing. Is there no other way of livelihood?”</p> - -<p>“None. The only question is whether I am to conduct the business -henceforth under my own name or not.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that I can advise or help in any way. Why did you come to -me?”</p> - -<p>“I came for advice—if you have any to give. I came because this -misfortune has fallen upon me, and you are reputed to be wise beyond -your years.”</p> - -<p>“The fact of your occupation is misfortune enough.”</p> - -<p>“Well? You have nothing more to say? Then I must go.”</p> - -<p>He looked so miserable that Leonard forgot his indignation, and inclined -his heart to pity.</p> - -<p>“You are afraid of exposure,” he said, “on account of your wife and -children.”</p> - -<p>“On their account alone. For my own part, I have done no wrong, and I -fear no exposure.”<a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a></p> - -<p>They were brave words, but he was as the donkey in the lion’s skin. He -spoke valiantly, but his knees trembled.</p> - -<p>“I should think,” Leonard replied, “that this young man, for his own -sake, would be careful not to spread abroad his experience, because he -would expose himself as well as you. He proposed deliberately to impose -upon the audience, as his own, an oration prepared by another man and -bought by himself. That is a position, if it were known and published, -even less dignified than your own. I think that Algernon should put this -side of the case to him strongly and plainly.”</p> - -<p>“He may leave himself out and whisper rumours abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Algernon should warn him against such things. If, however, the man -persists in his unholy ambition to obtain a false reputation, he will -probably have to come to you again, since there is no other -practitioner.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Crediton jumped in his chair.</p> - -<p>“That’s the point. You’ve hit it. That’s the real point. I’m glad I came -here. He’s not only got his ambition still, but he’s got his failure to -get over. He must come to me. There is no other practitioner. He must -come. I never thought of that.” He rubbed his hands joyously.</p> - -<p>“He may not be clever enough to see this point. Therefore Algernon had -better put it to him. If Algernon fails, you must make a clean breast to -your wife and daughter, and send it round openly among your personal -friends that you are willing to supply<a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a> speeches confidentially. That -seems the only way out of it.”</p> - -<p>“The only way—the only way, Leonard. There will be no clean breast at -all, and that venomous beast will have to come to me again. I am so glad -that I came here. You have got more sense than all the rest of us put -together.”<a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><br /> -<small>YET ANOTHER!</small></h2> - -<p>W<small>HEN</small> he was gone Leonard threw himself into the nearest chair, and -looked around him. He gazed with bewildered face, not upon the study -full of books, the papers which showed the man of learning, the reports -which spoke of the man of affairs, the engravings on the wall which -spoke of the man of culture. These are accidental: anyone may show them. -The artist sprung from the gutter, the self-made scholar, the mere -mushroom, might possess and exhibit all these things. He saw strewn -around him the wreck and ruin of all that he had hitherto considered the -essential, namely, the family honour.</p> - -<p>There are none so full of family pride as those who show it least. To -Leonard it had always been the greatest happiness merely to feel that -the records of his family went back to times beyond the memory of man. -It was not a thing to be talked about, but a prop, a stay, a shield, -anything that helps to make a man at peace with himself. No one knew -when the Campaignes first obtained their estate; in every century he -found his ancestors—not distinguished—indeed, they had never produced -a man of the first rank—but playing a part, and that not an unworthy -one. It was the record of an honourable line.<a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a> There were no traitors or -turncoats in it: the men were without reproach, the women without a spot -or stain among them all.</p> - -<p>I suppose that nobody, either at school or college, ever knew or -suspected the profound pride which lay at the heart of this quiet and -self-possessed scholar. It was the kind of pride which is free from -arrogance. He was a gentleman; all his people had been gentlemen. By -gentlemen he meant people of good birth and breeding, and of blameless -life. The word, we well know, is now used so as to include the greater -part of male man. To most people it means nothing and matters nothing. -Even with people who use limitations the door is always open to those -who choose to lead the gentle life, and are privileged to follow the -work which belongs to the gentle life.</p> - -<p>He was a gentleman—he and all his people. He had no feeling of -superiority, not the least—no more than a man may entertain a feeling -of superiority on account of his stature. Nor had he the least feeling -of contempt for those who have no such advantages. A man who has a -grandfather may affect to despise one who has no grandfather, but not a -man who has a long line terminating like the ancestry of a Saxon king in -dim shapes which are probably Woden, Thor, and Freyya.</p> - -<p>The grand essentials of family pride are ancestry and honour. The former -cannot very well be taken away, but without the latter it is not worth -much. One might as well take pride in belonging to a long line in which -gallant highwaymen, footpads, costers,<a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a> hooligans, and Marylebone boys -have succeeded each other for generations with the accompaniments and -distinctions of Tyburn Tree and the cart-tail.</p> - -<p>Therefore, I say, Leonard sat among the ruins of the essentials -regardless of the accidentals. The man who had just left him had -stripped off all that was left of his former pride; he could feel no -further support or solace in the contemplation of his forefathers. Think -what he had learned and endured in less than a month. It was line upon -line, precept upon precept. It was like unto the patriarch to whom, -while one messenger of evil was speaking, there came also another, -saying, “Thus and thus has it been done. Where is now thy pride?”</p> - -<p>First, he learned that he had cousins living in one of the least -desirable quarters of London; the man-cousin could not by any possible -stretch be considered as possessing any of the attributes of a -gentleman; the girl occupied a station and followed a calling which was -respectable, but belonging to those generally adopted by the Poor -Relation. He was thus provided with poor relations. Constance had said -that he wanted poor relations in order to be like other people. And then -they came as if in answer to her words.</p> - -<p>He had learned also that his grandfather almost at the outset of a -promising career had committed suicide for no reason that could be -discovered; that his father had died young, also at the outset of a -promising career, was a misfortune, but not a blot.</p> - -<p>Two persons were left of his father’s generation. He had welcomed one as -the prodigal, who had gone<a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a> forth to the husks and returned bearing -sheaves of golden grain. At least there was the pretence of the golden -grain. The other he had regarded all his life with respect as one in -successful practice in a most honourable profession. Where were they -now? One was a bankrupt grocer or general store-keeper, the owner of a -shanty in an Australian township, a miserable little general shop -selling sardines and tea and oil and blacking, which he wanted to turn -into a company as a great business; one who made no pretence at truth or -honesty; the companion of tramps; devoid of honour or even the respect -or care for honour. He had been driven out by his family as a -spendthrift, a profligate, and a forger. He had come home unchanged and -unrepentant and ready to swindle and to cheat if he could do so without -the customary penalties.</p> - -<p>As for the other man, the pretended barrister, he stood revealed as one -who was living under false pretences. He had an equal right to stand in -pillory beside his brother. Once a prodigal and a spendthrift like him: -now living a daily lie which he had carried on for five-and-twenty -years. Good heavens! Christopher Campaigne, Barrister-at-Law of -Lincoln’s Inn, the successful Lawyer, on whom his family reposed a -confidence so profound and a pride so unbounded—who does not take pride -in a successful lawyer?—was nothing more than a common pretender and an -impostor. He wrote speeches and sold them to humbugs who wished to be -thought clever speakers. Honourable occupation! Delightful work! A proud -and distinguished career!<a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a></p> - -<p>So there was nobody left except himself to maintain the family honour.</p> - -<p>Certain words which you have already heard came back again. It seemed to -him as if Constance was saying them all over again: “You are independent -as to fortune; you are of a good house; you have no scandals in your -family records; you have got no poor or degraded relations ... you are -outside humanity.... If you had some family scandals, some poor -relations who would make you feel ashamed, something that made you like -other people, vulnerable——” Now he had them all.</p> - -<p>The door was opened. His servant brought him a card: “Mr. Samuel -Galley-Campaigne.”</p> - -<p>“Another!” Leonard groaned and sprang to his feet. “Another!” The sight -or the thought of this man, the caricature of his own family, tall and -thin, like himself, but with every feature vulgarized, and the meanness -of petty gains, petty cares, petty scheming and self-seeking stamped -upon his face, irritated Leonard unspeakably. And he was a cousin! He -stiffened involuntarily. His attitude, his expression, became that of -the “supercilious beast” formed by Mr. Galley on his previous business.</p> - -<p>The cousin came in and bowed slightly, not holding out his hand. There -was a look in his face which meant resolution held back by fear, the -desire to “try on” something, and the doubt as to whether it would be -successful. It is an expression which may be remarked on ‘Change and in -every market-town on market-day.<a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a></p> - -<p>It has been wisely, perhaps frequently, remarked that trouble brings out -a man’s true character far more certainly than prosperity, which may -encourage him to assume virtues not really his own. The lines about the -uses of adversity must be referred to the bystander rather than the -patient, because the former is then enabled to contemplate and observe -the true man for the first time. Mr. Galley, for instance, who was smug -in prosperity, was openly and undisguisedly vulgar in adversity. At this -moment, for instance, he was struggling with adversity; it made him red -in the face, it made him speak thick, it made him perspire -inconveniently, and it made his attitude ungraceful.</p> - -<p>He came up the stairs; he knocked at the door with an expression of -fixed resolution. One might have expected him to bang his fist on the -table and to cry out: “There! that’s what I want, and that’s what I mean -to have.” He did not quite do that, but he intended to do it when he -called, and he would have done, I have no doubt, but for the cold, quiet -air with which his cousin received him.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Campaigne,” he began, “or cousin, if you like——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Campaigne, perhaps,” said Leonard the supercilious.</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. Campaigne, then, I’ve come to have a few words of -explanation—explanation, sir!” he repeated, with some fierceness.</p> - -<p>“By all means. Pray take a chair.”</p> - -<p>He took a chair, and was then seized by the doubt of which we have -spoken. Perhaps the cause was<a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a> the commanding position of his cousin, -standing over him six foot three in height, and with a face like that of -a Judge not personally interested in the case before him.</p> - -<p>“The point is this: I’ve got a bill against your family, and I want to -know whether I am to present it to you or to my great-grandfather?”</p> - -<p>“A bill? Of what nature?”</p> - -<p>“A bill for maintenance. We have maintained my grandmother for fifty -years. She has been kept partly by my grandfather, partly by my family, -and partly by myself, and it’s time that your family should do their -duty.”</p> - -<p>“That is a very remarkable claim.”</p> - -<p>“Putting it at £50 a year, which is cheap for the lavish way she’s been -kept, that makes £2,500. At compound interest it mounts up to £18,000 -and odd. I shall be contented to square the claim for £18,000.”</p> - -<p>“You propose to send in a bill—a bill for keeping your own -grandmother?”</p> - -<p>“That is just what I am going to do.”</p> - -<p>“You must surely be aware that such a claim would not be entertained for -a moment. No Court of Law would so much as look at it.”</p> - -<p>“I am aware of the fact. But this is not a claim of an ordinary kind; it -is a claim that rests on equity—on equity, not on Law.”</p> - -<p>“What is the equitable side of the claim?”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s this way: My grandfather, who failed for an enormous -amount—which showed the position he occupied in the City—married my -grandmother<a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a> in the reasonable expectation that she would bring him a -fortune. It is true that the old man was then not more than fifty or so, -but he did not count so much on a will as on a settlement.”</p> - -<p>“I understand that the marriage was undertaken without consultation with -my great-grandfather, or, under the circumstances, with his solicitors.”</p> - -<p>“That was, no doubt, the case; but when one marries into so wealthy a -family, and when the head of it is not in a position to be consulted, -the least that can be expected is a settlement—a settlement of some -kind. My grandfather said that he expected nothing less than twenty -thousand—twenty thousand. He dated his subsequent misfortunes to the -failure of this expectation, because he got nothing. Perhaps, Mr. -Campaigne, as you were not born then, you can hardly believe that he got -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“I am in ignorance of the whole business.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so—quite so. I think, therefore, that I am quite justified in -asking your people to pay me just the bare sum—out-of-pocket -expenses—which we have expended upon my grandmother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!”</p> - -<p>The tone was not encouraging, but the other man was not versed in these -external signs, and went on, unabashed:</p> - -<p>“You saw yourself the other day the style in which we live, I believe, -Mr. Campaigne; you will acknowledge that it was a noble Tea.”</p> - -<p>Leonard bowed solemnly.</p> - -<p>“An account rendered, under any circumstances, for the maintenance of a -grandmother, a mother, and<a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a> a wife I should myself tear up and throw -into the fire. But it is no concern of mine. You can send your claim to -my great-grandfather——”</p> - -<p>“My great-grandfather as much as yours.”</p> - -<p>“To his solicitors, whose name and address you probably know; if not, I -will furnish you with them. If that is all you have to say——”</p> - -<p>He moved towards the door.</p> - -<p>“No, no. I mean this. We had a right to expect a fortune, and there has -been none.”</p> - -<p>“You said that before. Again, Mr. Galley, I cannot discuss this matter -with you. Take your claim to the right quarter.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not obliged to keep the old woman,” he replied sulkily.</p> - -<p>“I decline to discuss your views of duty.”</p> - -<p>“I want to wake up the old man to a sense of justice. I will, too. If -he’s mad we will find out. If he isn’t, I will make him pay—even if I -have to expose him.”</p> - -<p>Leonard stepped to the door and threw it open. Mr. Galley rose. His face -betrayed many emotions. In fact, the conversation had not proceeded -quite on the lines he hoped.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said. “Give me a little time.”</p> - -<p>Leonard closed the door and returned to the hearth-rug.</p> - -<p>“Take time, Mr. Galley.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want,” he said, “to behave ungentlemanly, but I’m in desperate -trouble. If you think it’s no good sending in a claim, I withdraw it. -The<a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a> fact is, Mr. Campaigne, I want money. I want money desperately.”</p> - -<p>Leonard made no reply. This was discouraging.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been speculating—in house property—backing a builder; and the -man is going. That is what has happened to me. If I can’t raise a -thousand pounds in the course of a day or two I must go too.”</p> - -<p>“You will not raise anything by sending in a bill for the maintenance of -your grandmother. Put that out of your head, Mr. Galley.”</p> - -<p>He groaned.</p> - -<p>“Then, will you lend me a thousand pounds, Mr. Campaigne? You were very -friendly when you came to see us the other day. The security is -first-class—the shells of three unfinished houses—and I will give you -eight per cent. for the accommodation. Good security and good interest. -There you are. Come, Mr. Campaigne: you are not a business man, and I -don’t think you can make, as a rule, more than three per cent. at the -outside.”</p> - -<p>“I have no money either to lend or to advance.”</p> - -<p>“I have been to the bank, but they won’t look at the business. It’s a -mean, creeping, miserable bank. I shall change it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. Galley, I am sorry to hear that you are in trouble, but I -cannot help you.”</p> - -<p>“If I do go bankrupt,” he said savagely, “the old woman will go into the -workhouse. That’s one consolation. And she’s your great-aunt.”</p> - -<p>“You forget your sister, Mr. Galley. From what<a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a> I know of Board Schools, -I should say that she is quite able to maintain her grandmother. If not, -there may be other assistance.”</p> - -<p>“There’s another thing, then,” he persisted. “When I spoke to you first, -I mentioned the word ‘accumulations.’ ”</p> - -<p>“No one mentions any other word just now, I think,” Leonard replied, -with a touch of temper.</p> - -<p>“They must be enormous. I’ve been working it out. Enormous! And that old -man can’t live much longer. He can’t. He’s ninety-five.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Galley, I put it to you as a lawyer, or, at least, as a solicitor: -Do you think that your great-grandfather has lived all these years -without making a will?”</p> - -<p>“He can’t make a will. He is a madman.”</p> - -<p>“Ask his solicitors for an opinion on that subject. The old man will not -speak, but he receives communications and gives instructions.”</p> - -<p>“I shall dispute the will if I’m not named in it. I shall expect a full -share. I shall show that he’s a madman.”</p> - -<p>“As you please. Meanwhile, it is doubtful whether the testator ever -heard your name.”</p> - -<p>“He knows his daughter’s name. And what’s hers is mine.”</p> - -<p>“I must open the door again, Mr. Galley, if you talk nonsense. I hear, -by the way, that you have made that lady sign certain papers. As a -solicitor, you must know that such documents would be regarded by the -Court with extreme suspicion.”</p> - -<p>“If I have to go bankrupt I shall let the whole<a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a> world know that you -wouldn’t lift a finger to save your own cousin.”</p> - -<p>“As you please.”</p> - -<p>“And if there’s a will that turns out me, I’ll drag the whole thing into -Court and expose you. I will expose you, by——”</p> - -<p>Leonard opened the door again.</p> - -<p>“This time, Mr. Galley, you will go.”</p> - -<p>He obeyed. He dropped his hat on his head, he marched out, and he bawled -on the stairs as he went down:</p> - -<p>“I’ll expose you—I’ll expose you—I’ll expose you!”</p> - -<p>These terrifying and minatory words rang up and down the stairs of that -respectable mansion like the voice of an Accusing Angel, so that -everybody who heard them jumped and turned pale, and murmured:</p> - -<p>“Oh, good Lord! What’s come out now?”<a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><br /> -<small>THE LIGHT THAT BROKE</small></h2> - -<p>I<small>T</small> was Sunday morning. Leonard sat before the fire doing nothing. He had -done nothing for three weeks. He had no desire to do anything: his work -lay neglected on the table, books and papers piled together. He was -brooding over the general wreck of all he had held precious: over the -family history; the family disgraces and disasters; and the mystery -which it was hopeless to look into but impossible to forget.</p> - -<p>The bells were ringing all around: the air was full of the melody, or -the jingle of the bells of many Churches.</p> - -<p>Then Constance knocked at his door. “May I come in?” she asked, and came -in without waiting for an answer. “I was proposing to go to the Abbey,” -she said. “But things have got on my nerves. I felt that I could not sit -still for the service. I must come and talk to you.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose that we know the very worst now,” said Leonard. “Why do you -worry yourself about my troubles, Constance?”</p> - -<p>“Because we are cousins—because we are friends. Isn’t that enough?”</p> - -<p>She might have added, as another reason, that the<a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a> events of the last -three weeks had drawn them more closely together—so closely that it -wanted but a word—if once their minds were free from the obsession of -the mystery—to bind them so that they should never again drift asunder.</p> - -<p>Leonard replied, with a wintry smile: “Without you to talk things over, -Constance, I believe I should go mad.”</p> - -<p>“And I feel so guilty—so guilty—when I think of what I said so lightly -about scandals and poor relations with all this hanging over your head.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing more, I should think”—he looked about the room, as if to make -sure that no telegrams or letters were floating in the air—“can happen -now—except to me. Everybody else is laid low. One cousin has brought me -a bill for the maintenance of his grandmother for fifty years—says he -will take eighteen thousand pounds down. One ought really to be proud of -such a cousin.”</p> - -<p>“The solicitor of the Commercial Road, I suppose. But, really, what does -it matter?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing. Only at the moment there is a piling up; and every straw helps -to break the camel’s back. The man says he is going to be a bankrupt. My -uncle Frederick—that large-souled, genial, thirsty, wealthy, prosperous -representative of colonial enterprise—now turns out to be an impostor -and a fraud——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Leonard!”</p> - -<p>“An impostor and a fraud,” he repeated. “He has a small general store in -an Australian township, and he has come over to represent this as a big<a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a> -business and to make a Company out of it. The other uncle—the learned -and successful lawyer——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“Another time, then: we ought certainly to have heard the worst. Let us -go to the village and bury the Family Honour before the altar in the -Church, and put up a brass in memory of what our ancestors created.”</p> - -<p>“No. You will guard it still, Leonard. It could not be in better hands. -You must not—you cannot, bury your own soul.”</p> - -<p>Leonard relapsed into silence. Constance stood over him sad and -disheartened. Presently she spoke.</p> - -<p>“How long?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“How long?” he replied. “Who can say? It came of its own accord—it was -uninvited. Perhaps it will go as it came.”</p> - -<p>“You would rather be left alone?” she asked. “Let me stay and talk a -little. My friend, we must have done with it. After all, what does it -matter to us how a crime was committed seventy years ago?”</p> - -<p>“It concerns your own ancestor, Constance.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. He, poor man, was killed. Leonard, when I say ‘poor man’ the words -exactly measure the amount of sorrow that I feel for him. An ancestor of -four generations past is no more than a shadow. His fate awakens a -little interest, but no sadness.”</p> - -<p>“I should say the same thing, I suppose. But my ancestor was not killed. -He was condemned to a living death. Constance, it is no use; whether I -will or no, the case haunts me day and night.” He sprang to his feet, -and threw up his arms as one<a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a> who would throw off chains. “How long -since I first heard of it through that unfortunate old lady of the -Commercial Road? Three weeks? It seems like fifty years. As for any -purpose that I had before, or any ambition—it is gone—quite gone and -vanished.”</p> - -<p>“As for me, I am haunted in the same manner.”</p> - -<p>“I am like a man who is hypnotised—I am no longer a free agent. I am -ordered to do this, and I do it. As for this accursed Book of -Extracts”—he laid his hand upon the abomination—“I am forced to go -through it over and over again. Every time I sit down I am prompted by a -kind of assurance that something will be discovered. Every time I rise -up, it is with disgust that nothing has occurred to me.”</p> - -<p>“Are we to go on all our lives looking for what we can never find?”</p> - -<p>“We know the whole contents by heart. Yet every day there is the feeling -that something will start into light. It is madness, Constance. I am -going mad—like my grandfather, who killed himself. That will end the -family tale of woes, so far as I am concerned.”</p> - -<p>“Send the book back to its owner.”</p> - -<p>He shook his head. “I know it all. That will be no use.”</p> - -<p>“Burn the dreadful thing.”</p> - -<p>“No use. I should be made to write it all out again.”</p> - -<p>“I dropped an envelope in your letter-box last night. Have you opened -it?”<a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a></p> - -<p>“I don’t think I have read a single letter for the last three weeks.”</p> - -<p>“Then it must be among the pile. What a heap of letters! Oh, Leonard, -you are indeed occupied with this business. I found last night three -letters from Langley Holme to his wife. They were written from Campaigne -Park; but on what occasion I do not know. I thought at first that I -might have found something that would throw a little light upon the -business. But of course, when one considers, how could he throw light -upon his own tragic end?”</p> - -<p>He took the packet carelessly. “Do the letters tell us anything?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing important, I believe. They show that he was staying at the -Park.”</p> - -<p>“We know that already. It is strange how we are continually mocked by -the things we learn. It was the same with the letter from Australia.”</p> - -<p>“That was an interesting letter—so are these—even if they tell us -nothing that we do not know already.”</p> - -<p>He opened the envelope, and took out the packet of letters. There were -three: they were written on square letter paper: the folds had been worn -away, and the letters were now dropping to pieces. The ink was faded as -becomes ink of the nineteenth century. Leonard laid them on the table to -read because they were in so ragged a condition. “The date,” he said, -“is difficult to make out, but the last letter looks like ‘6’—that -would make it 1826. You say that there is nothing important in them.”<a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a></p> - -<p>“Nothing, so far as I could make out. But read them. You may find -something.”</p> - -<p>The first letter was quite unimportant, containing only a few -instructions and words of affection. The next two letters, however, -spoke of the writer’s brother-in-law:</p> - -<p>“My little dispute with Algernon is still unsettled. He makes a personal -matter of it, which is disagreeable. He really is the most obstinate and -tenacious of mortals. I don’t like to seem to be thinking or saying -anything unkind about him. Indeed, he is a splendid fellow all round, -only the most obstinate. But I shall not budge one inch. Last night in -the library he entirely lost command of himself, and became like a -madman for a few minutes. I had heard from others about the ungovernable -side of his temper, but had never seen it before. He really becomes -dangerous at such times. He raged and glared like a bull before a red -rag. Since Philippa is happy, she has certainly never seen it.”</p> - -<p>In the third letter he spoke of the same dispute.</p> - -<p>“We had another row last night. Row or no row, I am not going to budge -one inch. We are going to discuss the matter again—quietly, he -promises. I will write to you again and tell you what is settled. My -dear child, I am ashamed to see this giant of a man so completely lose -control of himself. However, I suppose he will give way when he sees -that he must.”</p> - -<p>“There seems to have been a slight dispute,” said Leonard. “His -brother-in-law lost his temper and stormed a bit. But they made it up -again. Well,<a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a> Constance, that is all—a little quarrel made up again -undoubtedly.”</p> - -<p>He replaced the letters in the envelope and returned them to Constance.</p> - -<p>“Keep them,” he said. “They are valuable to you as letters from your -ancestor. Like the letter from Mr. John Dunning, which we received with -amazement as a voice from the grave, they help us to realise the -business—if one wanted any help. But we realised it before—quite -vividly enough—and that,” he sighed, “is all. We are no whit advanced. -There were no more papers?”</p> - -<p>“I searched the desk over and over again, but I could find nothing more. -Now, Leonard.” She took a chair and placed it beside his own at the -table. “Leave the fire and take your chair, and we will begin and -finish. This time must be the very last. It is high time that we should -make an end of this. As for me, I came here this morning just to say -that whatever happens I am determined that we must make an end. The -thing is becoming dangerous to your peace of mind.”</p> - -<p>“We cannot make an end.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—yes—we are now persons bewitched. Let us swear that after this -morning we will put away the book and the papers and cease from any -further trouble about it.”</p> - -<p>“If we can,” he replied gloomily.</p> - -<p>“Leonard, for the first time in your life you are superstitious.”</p> - -<p>“We may swear what we like. We shall come back to the case again -to-morrow.”<a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a></p> - -<p>“We will not. Let us resolve. Nay, Leonard, you must not continue. To -you it is becoming dangerous.”</p> - -<p>Leonard sighed. “It is weary work. Well, then, for the last time.” He -laid the packet of papers upon the table. He opened the dreadful -book—the Book of Fate. “It is always the same thing. Whenever I open -the book there is the same sense of sickness and loathing. Are the pages -poisoned?”</p> - -<p>“They are, my friend.”</p> - -<p>He began the old round. That is to say, he read the case as they had -drawn it up, while Constance compared it with the evidence.</p> - -<p>“ ‘These are the facts of the inquest, of the trial, of the effects of -the crime, the evidence of place, and the evidence of time:</p> - -<p>“ ‘The two leave the house, they walk together through the Park; they -cross the road, they get over the stile, they enter the wood. Then the -Squire turns back——’ ”</p> - -<p>“After some short time,” Constance corrected. “According to the -recollection of the ancient man who was the bird-scarer, he went into -the wood.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Then the Squire walked homewards rapidly. If the housekeeper gave the -time correctly, and it took him the same time to get home as to reach -the wood—I have timed the distance—he may have been ten minutes—a -quarter of an hour in the wood.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Two hours or so later, the boy saw a working man, whom he knew well by -sight and name, enter the wood. He was dressed in a smock-frock, and<a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a> -carried certain tools or instruments over his shoulder. He remained in -the wood a few minutes only, and then came running out, his white smock -spotted with red, as the boy could see plainly from the hillside. He ran -to the farmyard beyond the field, and returned with other men and a -shutter. They entered the wood, and presently came out carrying -“something” covered up. The boy was asked both at the inquest and the -trial whether anyone else had entered the wood or had come out of it. He -was certain that no one had done so, or could have done so without his -knowledge.</p> - -<p>“ ‘The men carried the body to the house. They were met on the terrace by -the housekeeper, who seemed to have shrieked and run into the house, -where she told the women-servants, who all together set up a shrieking -through the house. Someone, after the mistress was thus terrified, -blurted out the dreadful truth. In an hour the Squire had lost his wife -as well as his brother-in-law.</p> - -<p>“ ‘At the inquest, the Squire gave the principal evidence. He said that -he walked with his brother-in-law as far as the wood, when he turned -back.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Not ‘as far as the wood.’ He said that on entering the wood he -remembered an appointment, and turned back. Remembering the evidence of -the boy and your timing of the distance, we must give him some little -time in the wood.”</p> - -<p>“Very well—the longer the better, because it would show that there was -nobody lurking there.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Then John Dunning deposed to finding the body. It lay on its back; the -fore-part of the head<a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a> was shattered in a terrible manner; the -unfortunate gentleman was quite dead. Beside the body lay a heavy branch -broken off. It would seem to have been caught up and used as a cudgel. -Blood was on the thicker end.</p> - -<p>“ ‘A medical man gave evidence as to the fact of death. He reached the -house at about one, and after attending the unfortunate lady, who was -dying or dead, he turned his attention to the body of the victim, who -had then been dead sometime, probably two hours or thereabouts. The -valet deposed, further that the pockets were searched, and that nothing -had been taken from them.</p> - -<p>“ ‘The coroner summed up. The only person who had gone into the wood -after the deceased gentleman was the man John Dunning. Who but John -Dunning could have committed this foul murder? The verdict of the jury -was delivered at once—“Wilful murder against John Dunning.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘We have next the trial of John Dunning. Mr. Campaigne was so fully -persuaded in his own mind of the man’s innocence that he provided him, -at his own expense, with counsel. The counsel employed was clever. He -heard the evidence, the same as that given at the inquest, but instead -of letting it pass, he pulled it to pieces in cross-examination.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Thus, on examining Mr. Campaigne, he elicited the very important fact -that Mr. Holme was six feet high and strong in proportion, while the -prisoner was no more than five feet six, and not remarkably strong; that -it was impossible to suppose that the murdered man would stand still to -receive a blow<a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a> delivered in full face by so little a man. That was a -very strong point to make.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Then he examined the doctor as to the place in which the blow was -received. It appeared that it was on the top of the head, behind the -forehead, yet delivered face to face. He made the doctor acknowledge -that in order to receive such a blow from a short man like the prisoner -the murdered man must have been sitting or kneeling. Now, the wood was -wet with recent rain, and there was nothing to sit upon. Therefore it -required, said the doctor, a man taller than Mr. Holme himself to -deliver such a blow.’ ”</p> - -<p>Leonard stopped for a brief comment:</p> - -<p>“It shows how one may pass over things. I passed over this point -altogether at first, and, indeed, until the other day, perhaps, because -the newspaper cutting is turned over at this place. The murderer, -therefore, was taller than Langley Holme, who was himself six feet high. -The point should have afforded a clue. At all events, it effectively -cleared the prisoner.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘It appears that the crime created the greatest interest in the -neighbourhood. There were kept up for a long time after the acquittal of -John Dunning, discussions and arguments, for and against, as to his -guilt or innocence. No one else was arrested and no one tried, and the -police left off looking after the case. Indeed, there was nothing more -than what I have set down in these notes.</p> - -<p>“ ‘The friends of Mr. Campaigne, however, speedily discovered that he was -entirely changed in consequence of the double shock of the deaths of -brother<a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a> and sister, brother-in-law and wife, in one day. He ceased to -take interest in anything; he refused to see his friends; he would not -even notice his children; he gradually retreated entirely into himself; -he left his business affairs to an agent; he dismissed his servants. He -sent his children to the care of a distant cousin to get them out of the -way; he never left the house at all except to walk on the terrace; he -kept neither horses nor dogs; he never spoke to anyone; he had never -been known to speak for all these years except once, and then two or -three words to me.”</p> - -<p>“The following,” he went on, “is also a part of the case:</p> - -<p>“ ‘We have been a very unfortunate family. Of Mr. Campaigne’s three -children, the eldest committed suicide for no reason discoverable, the -next was drowned at sea, the third married a bankrupt tradesman, and -dropped very low down in the world. Of the next generation, the eldest, -my father, died at an early age and at a time when his prospects were as -bright as those of any young member of the House; his second brother has -just confessed that he has led a life of pretence and deception; and his -younger brother, who was sent abroad for his profligacy, told me -yesterday that he is about to become bankrupt, while another member of -the family is threatened with ruin, and, to judge from his terror, with -worse than ruin.’ ”</p> - -<p>“There are still two or three facts that you have omitted,” said -Constance. “We had better have them all.”<a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a></p> - -<p>“What are they?”</p> - -<p>“You have not mentioned that the boy went into the wood early in the -morning and found no one; that the woman in the cottage—this was the -voice of the grave that we asked for and obtained—said that nobody at -all had been through the wood that day until the gentlemen appeared.”</p> - -<p>“We will consider everything. But remember, Constance, we are sworn not -to go through this ceremony again whatever the force that draws us.”</p> - -<p>“We have forgotten; there is the half-finished letter that we found upon -the table. Read that again, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>It was in one envelope among the papers. Leonard took it out.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing in it that we do not know. Langley was staying in the -house.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind; read it.”</p> - -<p>He read it:</p> - -<p>“ ‘Algernon and Langley have gone into the study to talk business. It is -this affair of the Mill that is still unsettled. I am a little anxious -about Algernon; he has been strangely distrait for the last two or three -days. Perhaps he is anxious about me. There need be no anxiety; I am -quite well and strong. This morning he got up very early, and I heard -him walking about in the study below. This is not his way at all. -However, should a wife repine because her Lord is anxious about her? -Algernon is very determined about that Mill, but I fear that Langley -will not give way. You know how firm he can be behind that pleasant -smile of his.’<a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a></p> - -<p>“Nothing much in that letter, Constance, is there?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. It is the voice of the dead. So are these letters of -Langley’s to his wife. They speak of a subject of disagreement: neither -would give way. Mr. Campaigne was at times overcome with anger -uncontrolled. Leonard, it is wonderful how much we have learned since we -first began this inquiry—I mean, this new evidence of the quarrel and -Mr. Campaigne’s ungovernable temper and his strange outburst in the -evening. Oh! it is new evidence”—her face changed: she looked like one -who sees a light suddenly shine in the darkness—a bright and unexpected -light. “It is new evidence,” she repeated with wondering, dazzled eyes. -“It explains, everything”—she stopped and turned white.</p> - -<p>“Oh!”</p> - -<p>She shrank back as if she felt a sudden pain at her heart: she put up -her hands as if to push back some terrible creature. She sprang to her -feet. She trembled and shook: she clasped her forehead—the gesture was -natural to the face of terror and amazement and sudden understanding.</p> - -<p>Leonard caught her in his arms, but she did not fall. She laid her hand -upon his shoulder, and she bowed her head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, God, help us!” she murmured.</p> - -<p>“What is it? Constance, what is it?”</p> - -<p>“Leonard, no one—no one—no one was in the wood but only those two—and -they quarrelled, and the Squire was taller than his brother—and we have -found the truth. Leonard, my poor friend—my cousin—we have found the -truth.”<a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a></p> - -<p>She drew herself away from him, and sank back into her chair, hiding her -face in her hands.</p> - -<p>Leonard dropped the papers.</p> - -<p>“Constance!” he cried. For in a moment the truth flashed across his -brain—the truth that explained everything—the despair of the wretched -man, the resolve to save an innocent man, a remorse that left him not by -day or night, so that he could do nothing, think of nothing, for all the -long, long years that followed; a remorse which forbade him to hold -converse with his fellow-man, which robbed him of every pleasure and -every solace, even the solace of his little children. “Constance!” he -cried again, holding out his hands as if for help.</p> - -<p>She lifted her head but not her eyes; she took both his hands in hers.</p> - -<p>“My friend,” she whispered, “have courage.”</p> - -<p>So for a brief space they remained, he standing before her, she sitting, -but holding both his hands, with weeping eyes.</p> - -<p>“I said,” he murmured, “that nothing more would happen. There wanted -only the last—the fatal blow.”</p> - -<p>“We were constrained to go on until the truth came to us. It has come to -us. After all these years—from the memory of the old man who scared the -birds: from the innocent man who was tried—he spoke from the grave: -from the murdered man himself. Leonard, this thing should be marvellous -in our eyes, for this is not man’s handiwork.”</p> - -<p>He drew away his hands.</p> - -<p>“No. It is Vengeance for the spilling of blood.”<a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a> She made no reply, but -she rose, dashed the tears from her eyes, placed the papers in the book, -closed it, tied it up again neatly with tape, and laid the parcel in the -lowest drawer of the table.</p> - -<p>“Let it lie there,” she said. “To-morrow, if this Possession is past, as -I think it will be, we will burn it, papers and all.”</p> - -<p>He looked on, saying nothing. What could he say?</p> - -<p>“What are we to do with our knowledge?” he asked after a few minutes.</p> - -<p>“Nothing. It is between you and me. Nothing. Let us nevermore speak of -the thing. It is between you and me.”</p> - -<p>The unaccustomed tears blinded her eyes. Her eyes were filled with a -real womanly pity. The student of books was gone, the woman of Nature -stood in her place; and, woman-like, she wept over the shame and horror -of the man.</p> - -<p>“Leave me, Constance,” he said. “There is blood between us. My hands and -those of all my house are red with blood—the blood of your own people.”</p> - -<p>She obeyed. She turned away; she came back again.</p> - -<p>“Leonard,” she said, “the past is past. Courage! We have learned the -truth before that unhappy man dies. It is a sign. The day of Forgiveness -draws nigh.”</p> - -<p>Then she left him softly.<a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><br /> -<small>THE SIGNS OF CHANGE</small></h2> - -<p>L<small>EONARD</small> was left alone. He threw himself into a chair and tried to -think. He could not. The power of concentration had left him. The -tension of the last three weeks, followed by the wholly unexpected -nature of the discovery, was too much for a brain even so young and -strong as his. The horror of the discovery was not even felt: he tried -to realise it: he knew that it ought to be there: but it was not: all he -felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. He fell asleep in the chair -before the fire. It was then about noon on Sunday. From time to time his -man looked in, made up the fire, for the spring day was still chilly, -but would not awaken his master. It was past seven in the evening when -he woke up. Twilight was lying about the room. He remembered that -Constance had laid the papers in a drawer. He opened the drawer. He took -out the papers and the book. He held them in his hand. For the first -time since his possession of those documents he felt no loathing of the -book and its accursed pages: nor did he feel the least desire to open it -or to read any more about the abominable case. He returned the packet to -the drawer. Then he perceived that he was again down-laden with the -oppression of sleep.<a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a> He went into his bedroom and threw himself dressed -as he was upon the bed, when he instantly fell sound asleep.</p> - -<p>He was neither hungry nor thirsty: he wanted no food: he wanted nothing -but sleep: he slept the clock round, and more. It was ten on Monday -morning when he woke up refreshed by his long and dreamless sleep, and -in a normal condition of hunger.</p> - -<p>More than this, although the discovery—the tragic discovery—was fresh -in his mind, he found himself once more free to think of anything he -pleased.</p> - -<p>He dressed, expecting the customary summons to the Book and the Case. -None came. He took breakfast and opened the paper. For three weeks he -had been unable to read the paper at all. Now, to his surprise, he -approached it with all his customary interest. Nothing was suggested to -his mind as to the book. He went into the study, he again opened the -drawer; he was not afraid, though no compulsion obliged him, to take out -the book: since he was not constrained, as before, to open it, he put it -back again. He remarked that the loathing with which he had regarded it -only the day before was gone. In fact, he heeded the book no longer: it -was like the dead body of a demon which could do no more harm.</p> - -<p>He turned to the papers on his writing-table; there were the unfinished -sheets of his article lying piled up with notes and papers in neglect. -He took them up with a new-born delight and the anticipation of the -pleasure of finishing the thing; he wondered<a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a> how he had been able to -suspend his work for so long. There was a pile letters, the unopened, -unanswered letters of the last three weeks; he hurriedly tore them open: -some of them, at least, must be answered without delay.</p> - -<p>All this time he was not forgetful of the Discovery. That was now made: -it was complete. Strange! It did not look so horrible after -four-and-twenty hours. It seemed as if the discovery was the long-looked -for answer to the mystery which explained everything.</p> - -<p>He sat down, his mind clear once more, and tried to make out the steps -by which the truth had been recovered. To give his thoughts words, “We -started with two assumptions, both of which were false; and both made it -impossible to find the truth. The first of these was the assumption that -the two were fast and firm friends, whereas they were for the moment at -variance on some serious affair—so much at variance that on one -occasion at least before the last, one of them had become like a madman -in his rage. The second was the assumption that the Squire had turned -and gone home at the entrance of the wood. Both at the inquest and the -trial that had been taken for granted. Now, the boy had simply said that -they went into the wood together, and that one had come out alone.</p> - -<p>“In consequence of these two assumptions, we were bound to find some one -in the wood who must have done the deed. The boy declared that no one -was in the wood at half-past five in the morning, and that he saw no one -but these two go in till John<a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a> Dunning went in at noon. The cottage -woman said that no one at all had used that path that day. The coppice -was so light that the two who went in must have seen anybody who was -lurking there. If we remove the two assumptions—if we suppose that they -entered the wood quarrelling—if we remember that the evening before one -of them had become like a madman for rage—if we give them ten minutes -or a quarter of an hour together—if we remember the superior height of -one, which alone enabled the blow to fall on the top of the other’s -head—if we add to all this the subsequent behavior of the survivor, -there can no longer be the least room for doubt. The murderer was -Algernon Campaigne, Justice of the Peace, Master of Campaigne Park.”</p> - -<p>All this he reasoned out coldly and clearly. That he could once more -reason on any subject at all gave him so much relief that the blow and -shame of the discovery were greatly lessened. He remembered, besides, -that the event happened seventy years before; that there could be no -further inquiry; that the secret belonged to himself and to Constance; -and that there was no need to speak of it to any other members of his -family.</p> - -<p>By this time, what was left of the family honour? He laughed bitterly as -he reflected on the blots upon that once fair white scutcheon. -Suicide—bankruptcy—the mud and mire of dire poverty—forgery—shame -and pretence, and at last the culminating crime beyond which one can -hardly go—the last crime which was also the first—the slaying of a man -by his brother—<small>MURDER</small>!<a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a></p> - -<p>A knock at the door roused him. Was it more trouble? He sat up -instinctively to meet it. But he was quite calm. He did not expect -trouble. When it comes, one generally feels it beforehand. Now he felt -no kind of anticipation. It was, in fact, only a note from Constance:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I write to tell you that the misfortunes of your House are over. -There will be no more. I am certain of what I say. Do not ask me -how I learned this, because you would not believe. We have been -led—and this you will not believe—by the hand of the man who was -killed, and none other—to the Discovery which ends it all.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Constance.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“The Discovery,” he thought, “which is worse than all the rest put -together. No more misfortunes? No more consequences, then. What does she -mean? Consequences must go on.”</p> - -<p>You remember how, one day, there came to a certain Patriarch one who -told of trouble, and almost before he had finished speaking there came -also another with more trouble, and yet a third with more. You remember -also how to this man there came, one after the other, messengers who -brought confession of fraud and disgrace.</p> - -<p>This afternoon the opposite happened. There came three; but there were -not messengers of trouble, but of peace, and even joy.</p> - -<p>The first was his cousin Mary Anne.</p> - -<p>“I’ve come,” she said, “with a message from my<a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a> brother. Sam is very -sorry that he carried on here as he says he did. I don’t know how he -carried on, but Sam is very nasty sometimes, when his temper and his -troubles get the better of him.”</p> - -<p>“Pray do not let him be troubled. I have quite forgotten what he said.”</p> - -<p>“It seems that he brought his precious bill against granny, and showed -it to you. He says that he’s put it in the fire, and that he didn’t mean -it, except in the hope that you’d lend him a little money.”</p> - -<p>“I see. Well, my cousin, is that all?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he begs your pardon humbly. And he says that the builder has got -the Bank to back him after all: and he’ll be contented to wait now for -his share of the accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry that he still entertains hopes in that direction.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! he thinks about nothing else. He has got the whole amount worked -out: he knows how much there will be. If it is left to you or to anybody -else he will dispute the will. He’ll carry it up to the Lords, he says.”</p> - -<p>“Very good. We may wait until the will is produced. Meantime, Mary Anne, -there is a little point which he seems to forget. It his grandmother and -not himself who could have a right to dispute the will. Can he be so -poor in law as not to know that?”</p> - -<p>“He makes granny sign papers. I don’t know how many she has signed. He -is always thinking about some other danger to be met, and then he draws -up a paper and makes her sign it with<a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a> me as witness. Granny never asks -what the paper means.”</p> - -<p>“Signing documents is dangerous. You must not allow it, my cousin. If -there is anything coming to your branch of the family from Campaigne -Park, you are as much concerned as Sam.”</p> - -<p>She laughed. “You don’t know Sam. He means to have it all. He says that -he’s arranged to have it all.”</p> - -<p>“Let us talk about something else. Is your grandmother content to go on -living as she does now?”</p> - -<p>“No. But she has always been so unhappy that a few years more of Sam’s -bad temper and selfishness don’t seem to matter. I came here this -morning partly to tell you that I’ve arranged it at last. I had it out -with Sam yesterday. I told him that he could go on living with mother, -and I would take granny—she’s so vexed, you can’t think—that Sam -should have gone and made out a bill for her keep and presented to -you—that I was able to persuade her. Granny will live with me—I can -afford it—and mother will go on with Sam. And I do hope, Mr. Campaigne, -that you will come and see her sometimes. She says, have you read the -book?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I will go to see her sometimes. Tell her so. And as for the book, -I have read it all through.”</p> - -<p>“And did it do you good to read the book? To me it always makes that old -gentleman so grand and good—finding lawyers for the poor innocent man -and all.”</p> - -<p>“Tell her the book has produced all the effect she desired and more.”<a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a></p> - -<p>While she was still speaking, Uncle Fred burst in. Mary Anne retired, -making way for the visitor, who, she perceived, from the family -likeness, was a large and very magnificent specimen of the Campaigne -family.</p> - -<p>He burst in. He came in like an earthquake, making the furniture crack, -and the glasses rattle, and the picture-frames shake. He showed the most -jovial, happy, benevolent air possible. No one could look happier, more -benevolent, and more contented with himself.</p> - -<p>“Congratulate me, my dear boy!” he cried, offering the most friendly -hand in the world. There was a fine and large forgiveness in that -extended hand. The last conversation was forgotten and dismissed from -memory. “Barlow Brothers is saved!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! how have you saved it?”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you how. It has been a most wonderful stroke of luck for -Australian enterprise. Nothing short of a national disaster has been -averted.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed! I gathered from your last communication that the business -was—well, not worth saving.”</p> - -<p>“Not worth saving? My dear Leonard! it is colossal—colossal!”</p> - -<p>Leonard is still mystified, whenever he thinks of it, by this abrupt -change of front. What did he mean?</p> - -<p>“I am immediately going back to Australia to put things on a right -footing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! You have made a Company in the City after all!”</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied with decision. “The City has had its chance and has -refused its opportunity. I<a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a> leave the City to lament its own -short-sighted refusal. I am sorry for the City. I now return to -Australia. The firm of Barlow Brothers may rise conspicuous and -colossal, or it may continue to be a purveyor of sardines and blacking, -or it may go smash.”</p> - -<p>At this point his eye fell upon a letter. It was one of the documents in -the Case; in fact, it was the letter from Australia which came with John -Dunning’s memorandum. By accident it had not been put away with the -rest. He read the superscription on the seal: “John Dunning’s Sons.”</p> - -<p>“John Dunning’s Sons?” he asked. “John Dunning’s Sons?”</p> - -<p>“It’s an old story. Your grandfather helped John Dunning in early life.” -Leonard took out the letter. “His family write to express the -gratitude—a post-mortem gratitude—of the late John Dunning to the -family generally. Would you like to read it?”</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred read it. His jovial face became grave—even austere in -thoughtfulness. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.</p> - -<p>“By your leave,” he said. “My dear boy, the Dunnings are the richest -people in the colony. I am a made man. Their gratitude simply warms my -heart. It inspires once more the old youthful belief in human nature. -With this letter—with this introduction—Barlow Brothers vanish. Damn -the sardine boxes! Fred Campaigne returns to Australia, and Fortune -smiles. My boy, farewell. With this letter in my pocket, I start -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Stop, stop!” cried Leonard. “How about the<a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a> colossal business? How -about the saving of that important shanty where you dispensed sardines?”</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred looked at his watch.</p> - -<p>“But you say that you have saved it—how?”</p> - -<p>“I have just time”—again he looked at his watch—“to keep—ah! a most -important appointment. I shall go out to Australia next week. On the way -out I will amuse myself by writing you an account of the Barlow -Brothers—in several chapters—The Conception, The First Box of -Sardines, The Shanty, the Realisation, the Millionaire. Novels would not -be more thrilling.”</p> - -<p>“But you abandon this Colossal undertaking?”</p> - -<p>“I give it up. Why? Because an easier way lies open. I should be more -than human if I did not take the easier way.”</p> - -<p>“You are going out to Mr. Dunning with that letter in your pocket?”</p> - -<p>“I am, going, sir, to throw myself into the arms of gratitude. Human -Nature! Human Nature! How lovely a thing is Human Nature when it is -grateful!”</p> - -<p>Leonard grunted.</p> - -<p>“I am not sure,” he said, “that I did right in giving you that letter.”</p> - -<p>“You can have it back again. I know the contents. And now, my dear -nephew, there is but one small duty to perform—I allude to the Hotel -Bill. My brother has found the passage-money—Christopher was always a -selfish beast, but his language at parting with that money was -inexcusable. He refuses the Hotel Bill.”<a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a></p> - -<p>“And so you come to me. Why should I pay your Hotel Bill?”</p> - -<p>“There is no reason that I know of except the fact that I have referred -the Hotel Clerk to you as a Member of Parliament and a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“You come home boasting of your wealth, being next door to penniless.”</p> - -<p>“You forget—the Accumulations——”</p> - -<p>“And you end with the confession that you were lying.”</p> - -<p>“You mean putting the best foot forward—presenting myself in the -enviable light of the successful uncle—the modern Nabob.”</p> - -<p>“And you levy money on your people?”</p> - -<p>“I borrow on my reversionary interests—in the Accumulations.”</p> - -<p>“I will pay your bill on the understanding that you take yourself off. -How much is it?”</p> - -<p>Uncle Fred named the amount. It was a staggerer.</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens! Man, you must have bathed in champagne.”</p> - -<p>“There has been champagne,” Fred replied with dignity. “I had to support -my position. City men lunched with me and dined with me. We discussed -the Fourth Act in the Comedy of Barlow Brothers—the Realisation. As for -the Bill, I borrow the amount.”</p> - -<p>Leonard sat down and wrote a cheque. Uncle Fred took it, read it, folded -it, and sighed with a tear of regret that he had not named double the -amount.</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” he said. “The act was ungraciously<a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a> performed. But the main -thing is to get the cheque. That I have always felt, even when I got it -out of old Sixty per Cent. Well, I go back to a land which has been -hitherto inhospitable. Farewell, my nephew. I shall bask: I shall -batten, whatever that means: I shall fatten: I shall swell out with -fatness in the sunshine—the Sydney sunshine is very fattening—of -gratitude, and the generosity of a Sydney millionaire.”</p> - -<p>He buttoned his coat, and went away with loud and resounding footsteps, -as he had come, the furniture cracking, the picture-frames rattling. So -far, Leonard has not received the promised explanation of the Mystery of -Barlow Brothers; nor has that check been returned. There remained one -more credit to the Family. It was Christopher, the eminent and learned -counsel.</p> - -<p>He, too, called half an hour after the departure of his brother.</p> - -<p>“I came,” he said, “first of all to warn you against giving or lending -any more money to that fraud—my brother Fred.”</p> - -<p>“You are too late, then. I have paid his hotel bill. You have paid his -passage out——”</p> - -<p>“No, I paid his hotel bill; you paid his passage out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well! so long as he goes——”</p> - -<p>“I paid his hotel bill because he threatened to go into the City and -expose my real name.”</p> - -<p>“Go into the City? What could he do in the City? Whom does he know in -the City? Your brother is just a mass of lies and impostures. What does -it matter if he is really going?”<a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a></p> - -<p>“He must go. Nobody except you and me will lend or give him any money. -He goes as he came—the wealthy Australian. He has promised my people to -make them rich by his will: he hinted at an incurable disorder: and he -bade farewell for ever—with my cheque in his pocket!”</p> - -<p>“Let him go. You had something else to say?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. It was about my own affairs. They know all, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“They know all? Who told them?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve had a terrible time with the wife and daughter. But they know all. -That vindictive little Beast called at the house, went upstairs, and -told them everything. Then he went away grinning. There was a terrible -scene.”</p> - -<p>“So I should suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. It’s all right, though, at last. I persuaded them, with a good -deal of trouble, that the profession was rather more holy than the -Church. I set forth the facts—the honour and glory—the secret -diffusion and cultivation of a better taste—higher standards—a -Mission—nobler æsthetics—and the income—especially the income.”</p> - -<p>“That would be a serious factor in the case.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And I pointed out the educational side—the advance of oratory. So -they came round, little by little. And I clinched the thing by offering -to go back to the Bar; in which case, I told them, we should have to -live at Shepherd’s Bush, in a £40 a year semi-detached, while Algernon -went into the City as a clerk at fifteen shillings a week, which is more -than his true value.”<a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a></p> - -<p>“Well, since it did well I congratulate you. The profession will be -continued, of course?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. But I confess I was surprised at the common-sense of -Algernon. He will immediately enter at the Bar: he will join me; there -will henceforth be two successful lawyers in the family instead of one.”</p> - -<p>“And what about the threatened exposure?”</p> - -<p>“Algernon has gone to see the <span class="smcap">BEAST</span>. He is to promise him that if a word -or a hint is dropped, everybody shall know where he—the <span class="smcap">BEAST</span>—buys his -stories, and his poems, and his epigrams, as well as his after-dinner -speeches. Algernon has fished it all out. Why, sir, the man is a -Fraud—a common Fraud! He buys everything!”</p> - -<p>So with this tribute to truth and honesty the weaver of speeches for -other people went away. Only the day before Leonard would have received -this communication with disgust as another humiliation. The way of -deception—the life of pretence—was kept open. It would have been a -tearing down of more family pride. Now it was nothing. The pretence of -it, the ready way in which his cousin Algernon had dropped into it, -belonged to someone else—not to himself. The family honour—such as he -had always regarded it and believed in it—was gone—smashed and broken -up into fragments. The House of the Campaignes, like every other family, -had its decaying branches; its dead branches; its off-shoots and humble -branches; its branches of dishonour.</p> - -<p>There is no such thing existing as a family where<a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a> men have been always -Bayards and its women always beyond reproach. Upon him had fallen the -blow of finding out the things concealed: the blot on the scutcheon, the -ugly stories of the past: the poor relations and the unworthy relations. -The discovery humiliated him at the outset: it became rapidly a thing -apart from himself and outside himself. Uncle Fred might be an impostor -and fraud. Very good. It mattered nothing to him. Uncle Christopher was -a pretender and a humbug—what did it matter? The East-End solicitor was -a person with no pretence at honour and honesty—what did it matter? -They belonged to him by blood relationship; yet he was still—himself.</p> - -<p>Only one thing remained. And now even the horror of that was more -tolerable than the humiliation of the first revelations. It was the -terrible story of the crime and the seventy years of expiation in which -there had been no expiation, because nothing can ever atone for a crime -or make it as if it had not been.</p> - -<p>Men pray for forgiveness—“neither reward us after our iniquities.”</p> - -<p>There should be another and a less selfish prayer that all shall be in -the world as if the iniquity had never been committed: that the -consequences of the iniquity shall be stayed, miraculously -stayed—because, but for a miracle, they must take their course -according to the great law of Nature, that nothing can happen save under -conditions imposed by the record of the past. The dream of the sinner is -that he shall be forgiven and shall go straight to<a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a> the land of white -clothing and hearts at peace for ever, while down below the children and -the grandchildren are in the misery of the consequences—the inevitable -consequences of his follies and his crimes. So every soul stands or -falls by itself, yet in its standing or in its falling it supports or it -drags down the children and the grandchildren.</p> - -<p>These thoughts, and other thoughts like unto these, crowded into the -brain of the young man when he sat alone—the <i>dossier</i> of the crime -locked up in the drawer—the disgraces of his cousins pushed aside—and -the crime which caused so much little more than a memory and an abiding -pity. Everything had come to Leonard which Constance, not knowing what -the words might mean, desired for him. How great the change it made in -him, as yet he hardly suspected.<a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><br /> -<small>HE SPEAKS AT LAST</small></h2> - -<p>W<small>AS</small> it really the last day of Visitation? Punishment or Consequence, -would there be no more?</p> - -<p>Punishment or Consequence, it matters little which. One thing more -happened on this eventful day. It came in a telegram from the ancestral -housekeeper.</p> - -<p>“Please come down as soon as you can. There is a change.”</p> - -<p>A change! When a man is ninety-five what change do his friends expect? -Leonard carried the telegram to Constance.</p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “it must be the end.”</p> - -<p>“It is assuredly the end. You will go at once—to-day. Let me go with -you, Leonard.”</p> - -<p>“You? But it would only distress you.”</p> - -<p>“It will not distress me if I can take him, before he dies, a simple -message.”</p> - -<p>“You sent me a message. How did you know that it was a message?”</p> - -<p>“I knew it was a message, because I saw it with my mind’s eye written -clear and bright, and because I heard it plain and unmistakable. It came -to me in the night. I thought it was a dream. Now I think it was a -message.”<a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a></p> - -<p>“You said that all the misfortunes were over. Like your message, it was -a dream. Yet now we get this telegram.”</p> - -<p>“Why—do you call this a misfortune? What better can we desire for that -poor old man but the end?”</p> - -<p>They started at once; they caught a train which landed them at the -nearest station a little before seven. It was an evening in early -spring. The sun was sinking, the cloudless sky was full of peace and -light, the air was as soft as it was fragrant; there was no rustle of -branches, even the birds were hushed.</p> - -<p>“It is the end,” said Constance softly, “and it is peace.”</p> - -<p>They had not spoken since they started together for the station. When -one knows the mind of his companion, what need for words?</p> - -<p>Presently they turned from the road into the park. It was opposite the -stile over which, seventy years ago, one man had passed on his way to -death, and another, less fortunate, on his way to destruction.</p> - -<p>“Let us sit down in this place,” said Leonard. “Before we go on I have -something to say—I should like to say it before we are face to face -with that most unhappy of men.”</p> - -<p>Constance obeyed and sat down upon the stile.</p> - -<p>“When we came here before,” he began, with a serious voice and grave -eyes, “I was fresh from the shame and the discovery of the family -misfortunes. And we talked of the sins of the fathers, and the eating of -sour grapes, and the consolation of the Prophet—<a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>—”</p> - -<p>“I remember every word.”</p> - -<p>“Very well. I think you will understand me, Constance, when I say that I -am rejoiced that I made the discovery of this fatal family history with -all that it entailed—the train of evils and shames—yes, even though it -has led to these weeks of a kind of obsession or possession, during -which I have been unable to think of anything else.”</p> - -<p>“What do you think now? Are the sins of the fathers visited upon the -children, or was the Prophet right?”</p> - -<p>“I see, with you, that it is impossible to avoid the consequences of the -father’s life and actions. The words ‘Third or Fourth Generation’ must -not be taken literally. They mean that from father to son there is a -continual chain of events linked together and inseparable, and always -moulding and causing the events which follow, and this though we know -not the past and cannot see the connecting links that form the chain. In -a higher stage humanity will refrain from some things and will be -attracted by other things entirely through the consideration of their -effect upon those who follow after. It will be a punishment self-imposed -by those who fall that they must, in pity and in mercy, have no children -to inherit their shame.”</p> - -<p>“You put my own thoughts into words. But about the children I am not so -sure; their very shames may be made a ladder such as Augustine made his -sins.”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing so true as the inheritance of consequences, except -that one does not inherit the<a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a> guilt. Even with the guilt there is -sometimes the tendency to certain lines of action. ‘Nothing so -hereditary as the drink craving,’ says the physician. So I suppose there -may be a hereditary tendency in other directions. Some men—I have known -some—cannot sit down to steady work; they must lie about in the sun; -they must loaf; they have a <i>vitium</i>, an incurable disease, as incurable -as a humpback, of indolence, mind and body. Some seem unable to remain -honest—we all know examples of such men; some cannot possibly tell the -truth. What I mean”—Leonard went on, clearing his own mind by putting -his wandering thoughts into argumentative array—“is that the liability -to temptation—the tendency—is inherited, but the necessity which -forces a man to act is not inherited; that is due to himself. What says -the Prophet again? ‘As I live, saith the Lord God’—saith the Lord God. -It is magnificent; it is terrible in its depth of earnestness. He -declares an inspiration; through him the Lord strengthens His own -word—veritably strengthens His own word—by an oath, ‘As I live, saith -the Lord God.’ Can you imagine anything stronger, more audacious, but -for the eternal Verity that follows?”</p> - -<p>The speaker’s voice trembled; his cheek, touched by the setting sun, -glowed; the light of the western sky filled his eyes. Constance, -woman-like, trembled at the sight of the man who stood revealed to -her—the new man—transformed by the experience of shames and sorrows.</p> - -<p>“As the soul of the father, so also the soul of the<a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a> son is Mine; but if -a man doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live, saith -the Lord God.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Saith the Lord God!’ ” Leonard repeated. “What must have been the faith -of a man who could so attribute his words? How to sound the depths of -his faith and his insight?”</p> - -<p>“He verily believed that he heard the voice of the Lord.”</p> - -<p>“We live for and by each other,” Leonard returned. “We think that we -stand by ourselves, and we are lifted up by the work of our forefathers; -we talk as if we lived alone, and we are but links in the chain; we are -formed and we form; we are forged and we forge. I have been like unto -one who stands in a crowd and is moved here and there, but believes all -the time that he is alone on a hill-top.” He was silent for awhile. -Presently he went on. “All that has followed the crime,” he said, “has -been in the nature of consequence. The man who committed the act retired -from the world; he deserted the world; he gave up his duties; he -resigned his children to others. One of them went to sea; he was -drowned; others were drowned with him—that was but a consequence. His -daughter, neglected and ill educated, ran away with a vulgar adventurer -whom she took for a gallant gentleman—that was a consequence. His son -found out the dreadful truth and committed suicide; his boys had no -father; two of them fell into evil ways—that was a consequence. My own -father died young, but not so young as to leave me a mere infant—that -was a misfortune, but<a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a> not a consequence. In other words, Constance, the -sins of that old man have been visited upon the children, but the soul -of the son has been as the soul of the father. That is the sum and -substance of the whole. The consequences are still with us. That poor -lady in the Commercial Road is still in the purgatory of poverty which -she brought upon herself. Her son is, and will continue, what he is. Her -daughter rises above her surroundings. ‘She shall surely live, saith the -Lord God.’ My two uncles will go on to the end in their own way, and so, -I suppose, shall I myself.”</p> - -<p>He stopped; the light went out of his eyes. He was once more outwardly -his former self.</p> - -<p>“That is all, Leonard?”</p> - -<p>“That is all. I want you to understand that at the end—if this is the -end—I desire to feel towards that old man no thought or feeling of -reproach, only of pity for the fatal act of a moment and the long -punishment of seventy years—and you, whose ancestor he smote——”</p> - -<p>“Only with forgiveness in the name of that ancestor and of pity akin to -yours and equal to yours. Come, Leonard: perhaps the end has come -already.”</p> - -<p>They entered the Park by the broken gate and the ruined Lodge.</p> - -<p>“I have been looking for some such call,” said Constance. “This morning -I sent you that message. I knew it was a true message, because there -fell upon me, quite suddenly, a deep calm. All my anxieties vanished. We -have been so torn”—she spoke as if the House was hers as well—“by -troubles<a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a> and forebodings, with such woes and rumours of woes, that when -they vanished suddenly and unexpectedly I knew that the time was over.”</p> - -<p>“You are a witch, Constance.”</p> - -<p>“Many women are when they are interested. Oh, Leonard! what a happiness -that there is always an end of everything—of sorrow, nay, of joy! There -must come—at last—the end, even of Punishment or of Consequence.” She -looked up and round. “The evening is so peaceful—look at the glories of -the west—it is so peaceful that one cannot believe in storm and hail -and frost. It seems to mean, for us, relief—and for him—forgiveness.”</p> - -<p>Everything was, indeed, still—there was no sound even of their own -footsteps as they walked across the springy turf of the park, and the -house when they came within view of it was bathed in the colours of the -west, every window flaming with the joy of life instead of the despair -of death. Yet within was a dying man.</p> - -<p>“Death is coming,” said Constance, “with pardon upon his wings.”</p> - -<p>The news that there was a “change”—word meaning much—at the Hall had -reached the village. The pride of the people, because no other village -in England entertained a recluse who lived by himself in a great house -and allowed everything to fall into decay, was to be taken from them. No -more would strangers flock over on Sunday mornings from the nearest town -and the villages round, to look over the wall at the tall stalwart -figure pacing his terrace in all weathers with the regularity of a -pendulum.<a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a> In the village house of call the men assembled early to hear -and tell and whisper what they had heard.</p> - -<p>Then the old story was revived—the story which had almost gone out of -men’s memories—how the poor gentleman, then young, still under thirty, -with a fine high temper of his own—it was odd how the fine high temper -had got itself remembered—lost in a single day his wife and his -brother-in-law, and never held up his head again, nor went out of the -house, nor took notice of man, woman, or child, nor took a gun in his -hand, nor called his dogs, nor rode to hounds, nor went to church.</p> - -<p>These reminiscences had been told a thousand times in the dingy little -room of the village public-house. They reeked, like the room, of beer -and tobacco and wet garments. For seventy years they had been told in -the same words. They had been, so far, that most interesting form of -imaginative work—the story without an end. Now the end had arrived, and -there would be no more to tell.</p> - -<p>The story was finished. Then the door opened, and the ci-devant scarer -of birds appeared. He limped inside, he closed the door carefully; he -looked around the room. He supported himself bravely with his two -sticks, and he began to speak.</p> - -<p>“We’re all friends here? All friends? There’s nobody here as will carry -things to that young man? No.”</p> - -<p>“Take half a pint, Thomas.”</p> - -<p>“By your leave. Presently. I shall lend a hand to-morrow or next day to -digging a grave. We must all come to it. Why not, therefore?”<a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a></p> - -<p>He looked important, and evidently had something more to say, if he -could find a way to say it.</p> - -<p>“We’re all thinking of the same thing,” he began. “It’s the old Squire -who will soon be lyin’ dead, how he never went out of the place for -seventy long years—as long as I can remember. Why? Because there was a -man murdered and a woman died. Who was the man murdered? The Squire’s -brother-in-law. Who murdered him? John Dunning, they said. John Dunning, -he was tried and he got off and he went away. Who murdered that man? -John Dunning didn’t. Why? Because John Dunning didn’t go to the wood for -two hours afterwards. Who murdered that man, I say?”</p> - -<p>At this point he accepted the hospitality of the proffered glass of -beer.</p> - -<p>“I know who done it. I always have known. Nobody knows but me. I’ve -known for all these years; and I’ve never told. For why? He would ha’ -killed me, too. For certain sure he would ha’ killed me. Who was it, -then? I’ll tell you. It was the man that lies a-dyin’ over there. It was -the Squire himself—that’s who it was. No one else was in the wood all -the morning but the Squire and the other gentleman. I say, the Squire -done it; the Squire and nobody else. The Squire done it. The Squire done -it.”</p> - -<p>The men looked at each other in amazement. Then the blacksmith rose, and -he said solemnly:</p> - -<p>“Thomas, you’re close on eighty years of age. You’ve gone silly in your -old age. You and your<a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a> Squire! I remember what my father said, ‘The -Squire, he left Mr. Holme at the wood and turned back.’ That was the -evidence at the Inquest and the Trial. You and your Squire! Go home, -Thomas, and go to bed and get your memory back again.”</p> - -<p>Thomas looked round the room again. The faces of all were hard and -unsympathetic. He turned and hobbled out. The days that followed were -few and evil, for he could speak about nothing else, and no one heeded -his garrulous utterances. Assuredly, if there had been a lunatic asylum -in the village he would have been enclosed there. A fatal example of the -mischief of withholding evidence! Now, had this boy made it clear at the -inquest that the two gentlemen were together in the wood for ten minutes -or a quarter of an hour, one knows not what might have followed.</p> - -<p>Thomas did not go home. He turned his steps in the direction of the -Hall, and he hobbled along with a purpose in his face. His revelation -had been received with scorn and derision. Perhaps in another place it -would be received with more respect.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The housekeeper met Leonard and Constance at the open door. It had stood -open all day, as if for the admission of the guest whose wings were -hovering very near.</p> - -<p>“He’s in the library,” said the woman, with the corner of her apron -brushing away the tears with which women-servants always meet the -approach of Azrael. “I wanted him to go upstairs and to bed,<a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a> but he -takes no notice. He’s been in the library nearly all day.”</p> - -<p>“Did he go out this morning after breakfast?”</p> - -<p>“He took his breakfast as usual, and he went out afterwards as usual, -walking as upright as a post, and looking as strong and as hard as ever. -After a bit he stopped and shook all over. Then he turned round and went -indoors. He went into the library, and he sat down before the fire.”</p> - -<p>“Did he speak?”</p> - -<p>“Never a word. I offered him a glass of wine, but he only shook his -head. At one o’clock I took him his dinner, but he could eat nothing. -Presently he drank a glass of wine. At four o’clock I took him his tea, -but he wouldn’t touch it. Only he drank another glass of wine. That’s -all he’s had since the morning. And now he is sitting doubled up, with -his face working terrible.”</p> - -<p>They opened the door of the library softly and went in. He was not -sitting ‘doubled up’: he was lying back in his ragged old leather chair, -extended—his long legs stretched out, his hands on the arms of the -chair, his broad shoulders and his great head lying back—splendid even -in decay, like autumn opulent. His eyes were open, staring straight -upwards to the ceiling. His face was, as the housekeeper put it -‘working.’ It spoke of some internal struggle. What was it that he was -fighting in his weary brain?</p> - -<p>“Leonard,” the girl whispered, “it is not despair in his face. It is not -defiance. Look! It is doubt. There is something he cannot understand. He -hears<a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a> whispers. Oh, I think I hear them, too! I know what they are and -whose they are.” She drew down her veil to hide her tears.</p> - -<p>The sun had now gone down. The shadows of the twilight lay about the -corners of the big room, the rows of books looked ghostly; the western -light began to fall, and the colours began to fade. A fire burned in the -grate, as it always burned all the year round; the flames began to throw -flickering lights and shadows about the room; they lit up the face of -the old man, and his figure seemed to stand out clear and apart, as if -there were nothing in the room but himself; nay, as if there were no -room, no furniture, no house, nothing but that one sole figure in the -presence—the unspeakable presence—of the Judge.</p> - -<p>His face was changing; the housekeeper spoke the truth. The defiance and -the stubbornness were going out of it. What was come to take their -place? As yet, nothing but doubt and pain and trouble. As for the -whispers, there was no proof that there were any whispers, save from the -assurance of the girl who heard them with the ear of faith. Leonard -stepped forward and bent over him.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” he said solemnly, “you know me. I am your great-grandson—the -grandson of your eldest son, who killed himself because he discovered a -secret—your secret. And he could no longer endure it and live. I am his -grandson.”</p> - -<p>The words were plain, even brutal. Leonard intended that there should be -no mistake about them. But, plain as they were, they produced no -effect.<a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a> There was not even a gleam in the old man’s eye to show that he -heard.</p> - -<p>“You are ninety-five,” Leonard went on. “It is time to speak. I have -brought with me one who will recall a day—if you have ever forgotten -it—of tragic memories, the day when you lost at once your wife and your -brother-in-law. You have never forgotten that day, have you?”</p> - -<p>The old man made no reply. But he closed his eyes, perhaps as a sign -that he refused to listen.</p> - -<p>“Sir, I have a message for you. It is from the man whom you saved from -the gallows—the innocent man whom you saved at a trial for murder. He -sent a message from his death-bed—words of gratitude and of prayer. The -good deed that you did has grown, and borne fruit a hundredfold—your -good deed. Let the grateful words of that man be some comfort to you.”</p> - -<p>Again the old man made no sign.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>At this point an unexpected interruption took place, for the door was -opened, and a man, a villager, came clumping in noisily. Seventy years -agone he was the boy who had done the bird-scaring.</p> - -<p>“They told me”—he addressed Leonard, but he looked at the figure in the -chair—“that you were here, and they said that he was going at last. So -I came. I minded what you said. Did never a one suspect? That’s what you -said. I don’t care for him now.” He nodded valiantly at the figure of -his old master. “He won’t hurt no one—no more.”</p> - -<p>He clumped across the room, being rheumatic,<a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a> and planted himself before -the chair, bringing his stick down with a bump on the floor.</p> - -<p>“Did never a man suspect?” He looked round and held up his finger.</p> - -<p>He suspected. And he knew.</p> - -<p>“Old man”—he addressed himself directly to the silent figure—“who done -that job? You done it. Nobody else done it. Nobody else couldn’t ha’ -done it. Who done it? You done it. There was nobody else in the wood but -you before John Dunning came along.”</p> - -<p>Leonard took him by the arm, and led him unresisting out of the library. -But he went on repeating his story, as if he could not say it often -enough to satisfy his conscience.</p> - -<p>“I always meant to tell him some day before I died. Now I have told him. -I’ve told all the people too—all of them. Why should I go on putting of -it away and hiding of it? He ought to ha’ swung long ago, he ought. And -he shall too. He shall yet, though he be ninety years and more. Who done -it? Who done it? Who done it? He done it. He done it. He done it, I -say.”</p> - -<p>They heard his voice as Leonard led him to the door; they heard his -voice when Leonard shut the door upon him, repeating his refrain in a -senile sing-song.</p> - -<p>“What matter?” said Leonard. “Let him sing his burden all over the -village. The time has gone by when such as he can hurt.”</p> - -<p>But the old man still made as if he had heard nothing. He remained -perfectly impassible. Not<a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a> even the Sphinx could be more obstinately -fixed on betraying no emotion. Presently he stirred—perhaps because he -was moved; he pulled himself up with difficulty; he sat supported by the -arms of the chair, his body bending under the weight of the massive head -and broad shoulders, too heavy at last even for that gigantic frame; his -head was bent slightly forward; his eyes, deep set, were now fixed upon -the red coals of the fire, which burned all the year round to warm him; -his face was drawn by hard lines, which stood out like ropes in the -firelight. His abundant white hair lay upon his shoulders, and his long -white beard fell round him to the waist.</p> - -<p>And thus he had been for seventy years, while his early manhood passed -slowly into the prime of life, while the first decay touched his locks -with tiny streaks of grey, while early age fell upon him, while his face -grew furrowed, while his eyes sank and his cheek-bones stood out, while -his teeth fell out and his long face was shortened and his ancient -comeliness vanished. So he had remained while his neglected children -grew up, while Consequences fell unheeded and unknown upon his house, -ignorant of what went on in the outer world, though a new world grew up -around him with new thoughts, new ideals, new standards, and a new -civilisation. The Great Revolution which we call the Nineteenth Century -went on around him, and he knew nothing; he lived, as he was born, in -the eighteenth century, which was prolonged to the days of King George -the Fourth. If he thought at all in his long life, his<a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a> thoughts were as -the thoughts of the time in which he was born.</p> - -<p>Did he think at all? Of what could he think when day followed day, and -one was like another, and there was no change; when spring succeeded -winter unheeded; and cold and heat were alike to one who felt neither; -and there was no book or newspaper or voice of friend to bring food for -the mind or to break the monotony of the days?</p> - -<p>The anchorite of the Church could pray; his only occupations were prayer -and his mighty wrestling with the Devil. Since this anchorite of the -Country House could not pray, there was left with him, day and night, -the latter resource. Surely, after seventy long years, this occupation -must have proved wearisome.</p> - -<p>Leonard went on: “Speak.”</p> - -<p>The old man made no sign.</p> - -<p>“Speak, then. Speak, and tell us what we already know.”</p> - -<p>There was still no reply.</p> - -<p>“You have suffered so long. You have made atonement so terrible: it is -time to speak—to speak and end it.”</p> - -<p>His face visibly hardened.</p> - -<p>“Oh! it is no use,” Leonard cried in despair. “It is like walking into a -brick wall. Sir, you hear me—you understand what is said! You cannot -tell us one single thing that we do not know already.”</p> - -<p>He made a gesture of despair, and stepped back.</p> - -<p>Then Constance herself stepped forward. She threw herself at his feet; -like a Greek suppliant she<a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a> clasped his knees, and she spoke slowly and -softly:</p> - -<p>“You must hear me. I have a right to be heard. Look at me. I am the -great-grand-daughter of Langley Holme.”</p> - -<p>She raised her veil.</p> - -<p>The old man screamed aloud. He caught the arms of the chair and sat -upright. He stared at her face. He trembled and shook all over, insomuch -that at the shaking of his large frame the floor also trembled and -shook, and the plates on the table and the fender rattled.</p> - -<p>“Langley!” he cried, seeing nothing but her face—“Langley! You have -come back. At last—at last!”</p> - -<p>He could not understand that this was a living woman, not a dead man. He -saw only her face, and it was the face of Langley himself.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, boldly. “Langley come back. He says that you have -suffered long enough. He says that he has forgiven you long ago. His -sister has forgiven you. All is forgiven, Langley says. Speak—speak—in -the very presence of God, Who knows. It was your hand that murdered -Langley. Speak! You struck him with the club in the forehead so that he -fell dead. When he was brought home dead, your punishment began with the -death of your wife, and has gone on ever since. Speak!”</p> - -<p>The old man shook his head mechanically. He tried to speak. It was as if -his lips refused to utter the words. He sank back in the chair, still -gazing upon the face and trembling. At last he spoke.<a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a></p> - -<p>“Langley knows—Langley knows,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Speak!” Constance commanded.</p> - -<p>“Langley knows——”</p> - -<p>“Speak!”</p> - -<p>“I did it!” said the old man.</p> - -<p>Constance knelt down before him and prayed aloud.</p> - -<p>“I did it!” he repeated.</p> - -<p>Constance took his hand and kissed it.</p> - -<p>“I am Langley’s child,” she said. “In his name you are forgiven. Oh, the -long punishment is over! Oh, we have all forgiven you! Oh, you have -suffered so long—so long! At last—at last—forgive yourself!”</p> - -<p>Then a strange thing happened. It happens often with the very old that -in the hour of death there falls upon the face a return of youth. The -old man’s face became young; the years fell from him; but for his white -hair you would have thought him young again. The hard lines vanished -with the crow’s-feet and the creases and the furrows; the soft colour of -youth reappeared upon his cheek. Oh, the goodly man—the splendid face -and figure of a man! He stood up, without apparent difficulty; he held -Constance by the hand, but he stood up without support, towering in his -six feet six, erect and strong.</p> - -<p>“Forgiven?” he asked. “What is there to be forgiven? Forgive myself? -Why? What have I done that needs forgiveness? Let us walk into the wood, -Langley—let us walk into the wood. My dear, I do not understand. -Langley’s child is but a baby in arms.”<a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a></p> - -<p>His hand dropped. He would have fallen to the ground but that Leonard -caught him and laid him gently on the chair.</p> - -<p>“It is the end,” said Constance. “He has confessed.”</p> - -<p>It was the end. The Recluse was dead.<a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><br /> -<small>THE WILL</small></h2> - -<p>O<small>NE</small> of the London morning papers devoted a leading article to the -subject of the modern Recluse. The following is a passage from that -excellent leader:</p> - -<p>“The Hermit, or the Recluse, has long disappeared from the roadside, -from the bridge-end, from the river bank. His Hermitage sometimes -remains, as at Warkworth, but the ancient occupant is gone. He was -succeeded by the Eccentric, who flourished mightily in the last century, -and took many strange forms; some lived alone, each in a single room; -some became misers and crept out at night, to pick up offal for food; -some lived in hollow trees; some never washed, and allowed nothing in -the house to be washed. There were no absurdities too ridiculous to be -practised by the Eccentric of the last century.</p> - -<p>“For reasons which the writer of social manners may discover, the -Eccentric has mostly followed the Recluse; there are none left. -Therefore, the life of the late Algernon Campaigne, of Campaigne Park, -Bucks, an Eccentric of the eighteenth-century type, will afford a -pleasing exception to the dull and monotonous chronicles of modern -private life.<a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a></p> - -<p>“This worthy, a country gentleman of good family and large estate, was -married in quite early manhood, having succeeded to the property at -twenty-one or so. His health was excellent; he was a model of humanity -to look at, being much over six feet high and large of frame in -proportion. He had gone through the usual course of public school and -the University, not without distinction; he had been called to the Bar; -he was a magistrate; and he was understood to have ambitions of a -Parliamentary career. In a word, no young man ever started with fairer -prospects or with a better chance of success in whatever line he -proposed to take up.</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately, a single tragic event blasted these prospects and ruined -his life. His brother-in-law, a gentleman of his own rank and station, -and his most intimate friend, while on a visit at Campaigne Park, was -brutally murdered—by whom it was never discovered. The shock of this -event brought the young wife of Mr. Campaigne to premature labour, and -killed her as well on the same day.</p> - -<p>“This misfortune so weighed upon the unhappy man that he fell into a -despondent condition, from which he never rallied. He entered into a -voluntary retirement from the world. He lived alone in his great house, -with no one but an old woman for a housekeeper, for the whole remainder -of his life—seventy years. During the whole of that time he has -preserved absolute silence; he has not uttered a word. He has neglected -his affairs; when his signature was absolutely necessary, his agent left -the document on his table, and next day found it signed.<a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a> He would have -nothing done to the house; the fine furniture and the noble paintings -are reported to be ruined with damp and cold; his garden and -glass-houses are overgrown and destroyed. He spent his mornings, in all -weathers, walking up and down the brick terrace overlooking his ruined -lawns; he dined at one o’clock on a beefsteak and a bottle of port; he -slept before the fire all the afternoon; he went to bed at nine. He -never opened a book or a newspaper or a letter. He was careless what -became of his children, and he refused to see his friends. A more -melancholy, useless existence can hardly be imagined. And this life he -followed without the least change for seventy years. When he died, the -day before yesterday, it was on his ninety-fifth birthday.”</p> - -<p>More followed, but these were the facts as presented to the readers, -with a moral to follow.</p> - -<p>They buried the old man with his forefathers “in sure and certain hope.” -The words may pass, perhaps, for he had been punished, if punishment can -atone for crime. Constance brought him a message of forgiveness, but -could he forgive himself? All manner of sins can be forgiven. The -murdered man, the dishonoured woman, the wronged orphan, the sweated -workwoman, the ruined shareholder, the innocent man done to death or -prison by perjury—all may lift up their hands in pity and cry aloud -with tears their forgiveness, but will the guilty man forgive himself? -Until he can the glorious streets of the New Jerusalem will be dark, the -sound of the harp and the voices of praise will be but a confused<a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a> -noise, and the new life itself will be nothing better than an -intolerable prolonging of the old burden.</p> - -<p>“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”</p> - -<p>Then they went away, and when they were all gone the old bird-scarer -came hobbling to the grave, and looked into it, and murmured, but not -aloud, for fear the man in the grave might arise and kill him too:</p> - -<p>“You done it! You done it! You done it!”</p> - -<p>The funeral party walked back to the house, where for the first time for -seventy years there was a table spread. All were there—the ancient -lady, daughter of the dead man, stately with her black silk and laces, -with the bearing of a Duchess, leaning on the arm of her grand-nephew; -the two grandsons, Fred and Christopher; the wife and children of the -latter; Mr. Samuel Galley and Mary Anne his sister; and Constance, -great-grandniece of the deceased. With them came the agent, a solicitor -from the neighbouring town.</p> - -<p>After luncheon the agent produced the Will.</p> - -<p>“This Will,” he said, “was drawn up by my great-grandfather in the year -1826, exactly one month after the tragic event which so weighed upon his -client’s mind.”</p> - -<p>“Was he in his right mind?” asked Sam, turning very red. “I ask the -question without prejudice.”</p> - -<p>“Sir, he was always in his right mind. He would not speak, but on -occasion he would write. He was never, down to the very end, in any -sense out of his mind. I have letters and instructions from him year -after year for seventy years—my firm has<a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a> acted for this family for a -hundred years—which will establish his complete sanity should that be -questioned.”</p> - -<p>“Well, the Will,” said Sam. “Let’s get to the Will.”</p> - -<p>“I will read the Will.”</p> - -<p>For the will of a rich man, it was comparatively short; there was in it, -however, a clause which caused Leonard to glance curiously and -inquiringly at Constance.</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand,” said Sam. “There’s something left to me——”</p> - -<p>“No, sir—to your grandmother. To you, nothing.”</p> - -<p>“It’s the same thing. What is hers is mine.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the lady concerned, stiffly. “You will find, my grandson, -that you are mistaken.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Sam, disconcerted, “anyhow, you’ve got a share. What I want -to know is the meaning of that clause about somebody’s heirs. What have -they got to do with it?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Leonard, “you might kindly explain the Will.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. The testator had at the time of making his will a certain -amount of personal property to bequeath. The property consisted partly -of invested moneys, chiefly his mother’s fortune. As he was an only -child, the whole of this personal property came to him. Partly it -consisted of a town-house in Berkeley Square, also part of his mother’s -property not entailed, and his pictures, his library, and his furniture, -carriages, horses, etc. The<a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a> latter part he has bequeathed to the heir -of the Campaigne estate—to you, Mr. Leonard. The former part, -consisting of the invested moneys, he bequeathes to his three children -in equal portions. As the second child was drowned and left no heirs, -this money will be divided equally between the elder son and the -daughter—you, Mrs. Galley; and as the elder son is dead, his heirs will -receive the money shared between them.”</p> - -<p>“With all the Accumulations!” cried Sam. “Ah!” with a long, long breath -of relief.</p> - -<p>“No, not the Accumulations; they are especially provided for. The -testator expressly states that only the amount actually standing in his -name at that date shall be divided, as I have set forth. ‘And,’ he -continues, ‘seeing that I may live some years yet, very much against my -wish, and that I shall not spend on myself or on my house or in any way, -being now and henceforth dead to the world and waiting in silence for my -removal whenever it may come, there will be interest on this money, -which I desire shall be invested year after year by my solicitors. And -on my death I desire that the difference between the money then and the -money now, whatever it may be, shall be given in equal shares to the -heirs of Langley Holme, my late brother-in-law, who was foully murdered -near my house, for a reason which he alone knows,’ ”</p> - -<p>“This is very wonderful,” said Frederick. “All the -accumulations—seventy years of compound interest! an immense -fortune—to be given to strangers or very distant cousins? Are we going -to allow this<a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a> will to stand without a protest? You are the chief, -Leonard. What do you say?”</p> - -<p>“The question is whether the testator was sane at the time of making his -will,” said Leonard.</p> - -<p>“He was sane, then, I believe,” said the solicitor, “and he was -certainly sane at the end. I have here a note written by him three years -ago. All our communication was by writing. I ventured to ask him whether -he desired to make any change in his testamentary disposition. Here is -his reply.”</p> - -<p>He took a note out of his pocket-book. It was quite short.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Nothing has happened to cause any alteration in my will. The -reasons which made me set apart all moneys saved and accumulated -for the heirs of Langley Holme still exist. I do not know who the -heirs are.—A. C.”</p></div> - -<p>“Is that the letter of a person of unsound mind?”</p> - -<p>“I for one shall dispute the will,” said Sam, standing up and thrusting -his hands in his pockets.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, sir, you have no <i>locus standi</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care. It is an iniquitous will.”</p> - -<p>“As you please, sir—as you please.”</p> - -<p>“Will you tell us the amount of the money which will come to us?” said -Fred.</p> - -<p>“There was a sum of £90,000 invested in the Three per Cents. The half of -that sum, or £45,000, will be divided among you three gentlemen as the -grandson and the sons of Mr. Campaigne’s eldest son. The other half will -be given to you, Mrs. Galley.”<a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a></p> - -<p>“Humph!” said Sam. “But when I get the will set aside——”</p> - -<p>“As for the accumulations, they amount at the present moment to a very -large sum indeed, an immense sum—more than a million of money. The late -Langley Holme left one daughter, whose only descendant is the young lady -here present, Miss Constance Ambry.”</p> - -<p>Constance rose.</p> - -<p>“We will talk about this business at another time,” she said.</p> - -<p>Leonard followed her out of the damp and grave-like house into the -ruined garden. And they sat down together in silence.</p> - -<p>“Fifteen thousand pounds!” said Fred. “It is no more at present rates of -interest than £400 a year. But it’s a pleasant little nest-egg to take -out to Australia—with the Dunnings to place if——”</p> - -<p>“Fifteen thousand pounds,” said Christopher to his son. “It’s a nice -little addition. But, my boy, the Bureau is worth ten times as much.”</p> - -<p>They walked away. They rambled about the house of Ruin and Decay. -Presently they walked to the station: the dream of huge wealth was -shattered. But still, there was a <i>solatium</i>.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Galley turned to the lawyer.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said, “when will that money be my very own?”</p> - -<p>“Immediately. It has only to be transferred. If you wish for an -advance——”</p> - -<p>“I wish for protection against my grandson.”<a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a></p> - -<p>“Quite right.” It was Mary Anne, who had not hitherto said a word.</p> - -<p>“He claims everything as his own.”</p> - -<p>“Madame,” said the lawyer, “we have acted, father and son, for four -generations for your family. Let me assure you that if you allow us your -confidence, you shall be amply protected.”</p> - -<p>Sam looked from one to the other. Then he put on his hat and walked away -gloomily.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Galley, laying her hand on her grand-daughter’s -shoulder, “I am again a gentlewoman. We will live, you and I, in a -country house, with a garden and flowers and servants and a pony -carriage. No, my dear, I will never go back to the Commercial Road. He -is welcome to everything there. Let us stay here in the village and -among the people where I was born—you and I together. Oh, my dear—my -dear! It is happiness too great. The hand of the Lord is lifted: His -wrath is stayed.”</p> - -<p>Leonard and Constance returned to town together.</p> - -<p>In the carriage the girl sat beside Leonard in silence, her hands -folded, her eyes dropped.</p> - -<p>“You are a great heiress, Constance,” he said. “I learn that the -accumulations now amount to an immense sum. What will you do with all -this money?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know. I shall pretend to myself that I haven’t got any. -Perhaps in time someone may help me to use it. I have enough already. I -do not want to buy anything that costs large sums. I do not want to -dress more expensively. I have as good society as I can desire, and I -cannot, I believe, eat any more than I have always done.”<a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a></p> - -<p>“Yet, how happy would some people be at such a windfall!”</p> - -<p>“The difficulty of doing something with it will be very terrible. Let us -never talk about it. Besides, that cousin of yours is going to set the -will aside, if he can.”</p> - -<p>She relapsed into silence. It was not of her newly-acquired fortune that -she was thinking.</p> - -<p>They drove from the station to the “Mansions.” They mounted the stairs -to the first-floor.</p> - -<p>“Let me come in with you, Leonard,” she said. “I want to say something. -It had better be said to-day and at once, else it will become -impossible.”</p> - -<p>He observed that she was embarrassed in her manner, that she spoke with -some constraint, and that she was blushing. A presentiment seized him. -Presentiment is as certain as coincidence. He, too, changed colour. But -he waited. They remained standing face to face.</p> - -<p>“Tell me first,” she said, “is the Possession of your mind wholly gone? -Are you quite free from the dreadful thing?”</p> - -<p>“Happily, yes. I am quite free. My mind is completely clear again. There -is plenty to think about—one is not likely to forget the last few -weeks—but I can think as I please. My will is my own once more.”</p> - -<p>“I also am quite free. The first thing that I want to say is this: What -are we to do with our knowledge?”</p> - -<p>“You are the person to decide. If you wish, it shall be proclaimed -abroad.”<a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a></p> - -<p>“I cannot possibly wish that.”</p> - -<p>“Or, if you wish, a history of the case shall be written out and shown -to every member of the family, and placed with the other documents of -our people, so that those who follow shall be able to read and -understand the history.”</p> - -<p>“No. I want the story absolutely closed, so that it can never again be -reopened. In a few years the memory of the event itself will have -vanished from the village; your cousins of the Commercial Road will -certainly not keep the story alive; besides, they know nothing. There -remains only the Book of Extracts. Let us first burn the Book of -Extracts.”</p> - -<p>Leonard produced the volume. Constance tore out the leaves one by one, -rolled them up, laid them neatly in the grate, put the cover on the top, -and set light to the whole. In one minute the dreadful story was -destroyed; there was no more any evidence, except in the piles of old -newspapers which are slowly mouldering in the vaults of the British -Museum.</p> - -<p>“Never again!” she said. “Never again will we speak of it. Nobody shall -know what we discovered. It is our secret—yours and mine. Whose secret -should it be but yours and mine?”</p> - -<p>“If it were a burden to you, I would it were all mine.”</p> - -<p>“It is no burden henceforth. Why should that be a burden which has been -forgiven? It is our secret, too, that the suffering was laid upon us, so -that we might be led to the discovery of the truth.”</p> - -<p>“Were we led? You would make me believe,<a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a> Constance—even me—in -supernatural guidance. But it seems natural, somehow, that you should -believe that we were, as you say, led.”</p> - -<p>“You, who believe nothing but what you see, you will not understand. Oh! -it is so plain to me—so very plain. You have been forced—compelled -against your will—to investigate the case. Who compelled you? I know -not; but since the same force made me follow you, I think it was that -murdered man himself. Confess that you were forced; you said so -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“It is true that I have been absorbed in the case.”</p> - -<p>“Who sent your cousin from the East End? Who fired your imagination with -half-told tales of trouble? Who sent you the book? How do you explain -the absorbing interest of a case so old, so long forgotten?”</p> - -<p>“Is it not natural?”</p> - -<p>“No, it is not natural that a man of your willpower should become the -slave of a research so hopeless—as it seemed. Who was it, after we had -mastered every detail and tried every theory and examined every scrap of -evidence, and after you had examined the ground and talked to the -surviving witness—I say, after the way had been prepared—who was it -sent the two voices from the grave—the one which made it quite certain -that those two were the only persons in the wood, and the other which -showed that they were quarrelling, and that one was ungoverned in his -wrath? Can you explain that, Leonard?”</p> - -<p>“You believe that we were led by unseen hands,<a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a> step by step, towards -the discovery, for the purpose of those who led.”</p> - -<p>“There were two purposes: one for the consolation of that old man, and -the other for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“How for myself?”</p> - -<p>“Look back only a month. Are you the same or are you changed? I told you -then that you were outside all other men, because you had -everything—wealth sufficient, pride of ancestry, intellectual success, -and no contact with the lower world, the vulgar and the common, or the -criminal or the disreputable world. You remember? Yes—are you changed?</p> - -<p>“If to possess all these undesirable things can change one, I am -changed.”</p> - -<p>“If to lose the things which separate you from the world, and to receive -the things which bring you nearer to the world, do change a man, then -you are changed. You will change more and more; because more and more -you will feel that you belong to the world of men and women—not of -caste and books. When all is gone, there still remains yourself—alone -before the world.”</p> - -<p>He made no reply.</p> - -<p>“Where is now your pride of birth? It is gone. Where is your contempt -for things common and unclean? You have had the vision of St. Peter. If -there are things common and unclean, they belong to you as well as to -the meaner sort—for to that kind you also belong.”</p> - -<p>“Something of this I have understood.”<a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a></p> - -<p>“And there was the other purpose. While with blow after blow it is -destroyed, you were led on and on with this mystery; voices from the -dead were brought to you, till at last the whole mystery was made plain -and stood out confessed—and with it I was moved and compelled to follow -you, till at the end I was taken to see the dying man, and to deliver to -him the forgiveness of the man he slew. Oh, Leonard, believe me; if it -is true that the soul survives the death of the body, if it is possible -for the soul still to see what goes on among the living, then have you -and I been directed and led.”</p> - -<p>Again he made no reply. But he was moved beyond the power of speech.</p> - -<p>“Forgiveness came long since. Oh! I am sure of that—long since. That -which followed—was it Consequence or Punishment?—lasted for seventy -years. Oh, what a life! Oh, what a long, long agony! Always to dwell on -one moment; day after day, night after night, with never a change and no -end; to whirl the heavy branch upon the head of the brother, to see him -fall back dead, to know that he was a murderer. Leonard! Leonard! think -of it!”</p> - -<p>“I do think of it, Constance. But you must not go on thinking of it.”</p> - -<p>“No, no—this is the last time. Forgiveness, yes—he would forgive. -God’s sweet souls cannot but forgive. But Justice must prevail, with the -condemnation of self-reproach, till Forgiveness overcomes—until, in -some mysterious way, the sinner can forgive himself.”<a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a></p> - -<p>She sat down and buried her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>“You say that we have been led—perhaps. I neither deny nor accept. But -whatever has been done for that old man whom we buried this morning, -whatever has been done for the endowment of myself with cousins and -people—well, of the more common sort—one thing more it has -accomplished. Between you and me, Constance, there flows a stream of -blood.”</p> - -<p>She lifted her head; she rose from the chair; she stepped closer to him; -she stood before him face to face, her hands clasped, her face pale, the -tears yet lying on her cheek, her eyes soft and full of a strange tender -light.</p> - -<p>“You asked me three or four weeks ago,” she said, “to marry you. I -refused. I told you that I did not know the meaning of Love or the -necessity for Love. I now understand that it means, above all, the -perfect sympathy and the necessity for sympathy. I now understand, -besides, that you did not then know, any more than I myself, the -necessity of sympathy. You were a lonely man, content to be lonely, and -sufficient for yourself. You were a proud man—proud through and -through, belonging to a caste separated from the people by a long line -of ancestry and a record full of honour. You had no occasion to earn -your daily bread; you were already distinguished; there was no man of -your age in the whole country more fortunate than you, or more -self-centred. I was able to esteem you—but you could not move my heart. -Are you following me, Leonard?”</p> - -<p>“I am trying to follow you.”<a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a></p> - -<p>“Many things have happened to you since then. You have joined the vast -company of those who suffer from the sins of their own people; you have -known shame and humiliation——”</p> - -<p>“And between us flows that stream.”</p> - -<p>Even for a strong and resolute woman, who is not afraid of -misunderstanding and does not obey conventions, there are some things -very hard to say.</p> - -<p>“There is one thing, and only one thing, Leonard, that can dry that -stream.”</p> - -<p>His face changed. He understood what she meant.</p> - -<p>“Is there anything? Think, Constance. Langley Holme was your ancestor. -He was done to death by mine.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. There is one way. Oh, Leonard, in this time of trouble and anxiety -I have watched you day by day. I have found the man beneath the scholar. -If I had accepted your offer three weeks ago, it would have been out of -respect for the scholar. But a woman can only love a man—not a scholar, -believe me, nor a student, nor a poet, nor an artist, nor anything -except a man.”</p> - -<p>“Constance! It is impossible! You are his daughter.”</p> - -<p>“It is fortunate that I am, as you say, the daughter of the man who was -killed. He suffered less than the other. The suffering was but a pang, -but the other’s—oh, it was a lifelong agony! If I marry the son of the -man who did the wrong, it is because the message I carried to the dying -man was<a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a> a sign that all was forgiven, even to “ ‘the third and fourth -generation.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Constance, is this pity, or——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Leonard, I know not what flowers there are which grow out of pity -and sympathy, but——”</p> - -<p>She said no more, because there was no need.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<p><a name="transcrib" id="transcrib"></a></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="padding:2%;border:3px dotted gray;"> -<tr><th align="center">Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:</th></tr> -<tr><td align="center">When the botle=> When the bottle {pg 15}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">must meeet and=> must meet and {pg 35}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">Algernoon was frequently=> Algernon was frequently {pg 56}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">lines of conquence=> lines of consequence {pg 129}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">when it the children left it=> when it the children left it {pg 142}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">be will lie there and suffer=> he will lie there and suffer {pg 153}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">has ever been been known=> has ever been known {pg 186}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">yov spare the time=> you spare the time {pg 265}</td></tr> -<tr><td align="center">to reach the the wood=> to reach the wood {pg 297}</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fourth Generation, by Walter Besant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOURTH GENERATION *** - -***** This file should be named 50177-h.htm or 50177-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/1/7/50177/ - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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