THE Fourth Generation.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 23, 27 January 1900, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE Fourth Generation.

BY SIR WALTER BESANT-

Author of "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," "Herr Paulus," "The Master Craftsman," "Armorel of Lvonesse," "The World Went Very Well Then," "All In a Garden Fair," "Children of Gibeon," etc., etc.

' Sir Walter Besant needs no introduction to fiction readers. They know well the directness and grace of his style, and the atmosphere of romance which pervades all his books. Optimistic, frank, healthy, his work is the atithesis of that seen in the neurotic class of novels which have been the bane of modern fiction. His imaginative works are the expression of a temperament rarely indeed met with His historical and antiquarian proclivities commingle with a love of nature so intense as to recall Richard Jefl'eries, and these two sets of qualities, enhanced by a magic pen, result in a type of fiction unique in contemporary literature. But if he is a -romancist, he is also a keen man of -the world, a thorough student of character, with a close knowledge of modern life. When it is added that he has a fertile brain for plots, it will be seen that he has all the qualifications of a first-class novelist.

CHAPTER I,

A REMOTE ANCESTOR

It was a morning of early March, ■when a north-east 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, nor even the celandine; the earth had, as yet, assumed no early vernal softeniug; there were no tender shoots; dolefullj' 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 live 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 heard 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; about the-first-floor windows ran a row of small circular louvres 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 sorhewhat of a foreign appearance; it wa sone 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 lay round 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. Be.yohd 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 bee hives 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 moulds which had once been beds of asparagus and celery, the strawberry plants fought for existence and maintained it, by the sacrifice of fruit with thistles; 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 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 moruing, 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 it 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 —over full—running over. His great age was apx^arent 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 hi.s 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 three, 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 looked 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, natmrally— 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 flowerbeds; 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 awaj r, 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.

At the open door of the house, at about half-past twelve, 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 the 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?" He had heard ■ some . rumour—not

at home, for his mother, for some reason, told him nothing about these thing-s—of a shock. Something happened which put the man off his balance; he became this solitary. Yet, they said, not mad at all. There was no sign of madness in him; only this strange way of solitary life. And he had carried it on for close on seventy years! Seventy years! It is the whole life of the average man, and this strange creature had spent the whole time alone, in silence, in soliture, and without occupation. It was not the whole span of the man's own life, for he was now completing his ninety-fifth 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; passed in front of the visitor in the doorway and stood watching to catch the eye of the master. She said nothing*, but stood 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. Vet this young man, the only one of all his descendants, paid this visit once a month to see if he was still in health and cared for.

He walked straight into the room which was his single sitting-room and dining-room and living room. It was 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 oldfashioned 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 meais. 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 the beverage proper to old age; it warms and comforts; it pleases and exhilarates; itimparts a sense of strength, and when the common forms of food can no longer he 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 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; or that it took advantage of the movement to remove itself from the binding; had .you examined long enough you would have found that there was not one book in the whole library of a date later than IS2G. Of all the thousands upon thousands of books published in the seventy years since that time, not one was in ttis library. For instance, the Quarterly and Edinburgh Reviews— they stood here bound. They stopped at 1820*; the Annual Register was here also, bound; it stopped at 15213. 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 182 G. 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 in front of the shelves; there it was wmole, but its colour was faded. In front of the fire was placed a common thick sheepskin.

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 thatthe port should be of the best and that the steak should be "treated" scientifically, in order to ensure its tenderness and juiciness.

He took his food fast and eagerly. One could have perceived that in earlier days' he must have enjoyed a great and noble power of putting away beef. : lie took his steak with fierceness, he. devoured an immense quantity of bread, he drank his wine off in goblets as iri the old days he had tossed off the great glasses of beer. He did not sip the generous wine, nor did he roll it abqitt in his glass and hold it up to thelight: 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, 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;

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 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

you know who T am; you know why 11 am here.* Very well. It is, I suppose, j your luimour'to.affect silence and solitude. Nothihg v that 1 can say will. I, suppose, induce you to break this j silence."- ..'■ !

There was no sign of recognition,! no reply, or any change of movement, i

"Why you have imposed upon yourself this life long misery I do not know, nor shall I inquire. Perhaps I shall never know. It seems to me a great mistake. Whatever the cause. For 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 as I do not know the cause 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 beconVe 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 wasi no answer

"I have been over the house, this-. morning,"; the young man went on pitilessly. allowed it to fall into a shameful- condition. The damp has got into pictures and wall paper; it will use 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?" 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 main.doing his morning tramp; 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 remonstrance. This was always received, as George the Third received the remonstrance 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 oi ninety-four. There was very little resemblance between a man of that age

and himself at twenty six. Yet there may be sonre. 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-grand-father. 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 amis of the chair, and he spoke. His voice was rough and harsh, as if rusted with long disuse. His eyes remained closed, yet his attitude "was that of someone whom he saw—with whom he was conversing. What he said was this:

"Yes —I can speak—l can speak — and 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 yearshad 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 was 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 eared 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. He was a kind of family bogey; he always lived the sameiife, taking the same walk in the morning and sleeping in the 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 outdoor sports, yet not a boor or a barbarian; one who, had passed through the Uni%*ersity 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 country 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. He remembered all this talk.

anchorite, in the family—it is uncom-1 moil, like a folio Shakespeare; more-j over, he was the head of the family,; and lived in the place where the family j had always lived from time beyond i the memory of'man. -'•'■' ,' [ He remembered his "mother, a sad-j faced widow, and his grandmother, another sad-faced widow. A certain day came hack 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 toe-ether, 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?" asked the other. "What have we done?''" >■-■■'' '■' The-- elder lady shook her ihead."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 upon the guilty, upon his children and his grand-children unto the third and fourth generation " "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 I'rim and still abides with him after seventy years. What mis- | fortunes? But they spoke of something else. Why do these old words come back to me? Ancestor, sleep I

In the hall he saw the old housekeeper, who stopped to ask 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, T can speak and end it.' "

"Say it again." He said it again

"Sir," she said, "something dreadful will happen. It is the first time for seventy years that he.has spoken one single word."

"It was in his sleep."

"The first time for seventy years! Something dreadful, for sure, something dreadful is going to happen."

CHAPTER n. 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 was not any too large for its reason of existence, for it was 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 history or of refer-' ence. A revolving bookcase stood: ready at hand filled also with books of reference. These, it might have been observed, were principally concerned with statistics of trade, histories of trade, books on political economy, 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 abtruse kind, which he endeavoured to make his own, he was heart! with some deference and reported at some length. More than this is not permitted to slx-and-twenty. These spbjects were such as demanded a clear head, untiding 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 11. Div. I. Class 1.," and wept that they could not as they hope to do before long, carry their examinations on to Part 111. and then to Part IV., and so to examine' their candidates, alwayf; decreasing in number, once a year for the rest .of their natural lives, ending with a disgraceful pluck at eigbtv. "Part n. Division L Class I." No on e can do better than that. I, believe that only one man in Leonard's year did as well. Therefore, he went down

having a good record and a great reputation for ability to begin with. As to private fortune, he was independent with an income derived from his mother of £ SOO 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 a 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 bye-election on the Liberal side. So far he had followed the traditions of his family. 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 age of thirty-two. His father, who in his turn distinguished himself at the Uni-

versify, also in his turn .entered the

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 greatgrandfather. 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

root, were conspicuously present. That a young man who hoped to rise by the most severe of all studies should habitually smoke a pipe will be to any well regulated mind a most .promising cir-* 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. Be^-ond them the kitchen and the room for the man" and wife who "did" for ilr 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 d 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 I meditative, but" then he was actually meditating. In conversation and in debate his expression was alert'and 1 even eager. He did not. in fact, he-

long* to that school which admires nothing-, desires nothing, and believesl in nothing. He believed strongly, for instance, that the general standard:-: of happiness could be raised by wise y 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 im-.

provement of that standard. That Is a good solid lump of belief to begin

With. ..:..^ Presently he sat down again and: renewed the thread of his investiga-; tions. After an hour or so he threw aside his pen. He had accomplished what he had proposed to do thati morning. If a man is going to she-' eeed 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, ahd^ before twelve o'clock Leonard pushed? back his chair and sprang to his feet with a sigh of relief. Much as menmay love work, it is always a satisfaction to get it done. On the table: beside his papers lay a pile of lettersnot yet opened. He took them up,and; read them standing before the fire.; The first was in 'a handwriting un-

known to him. He opened it. The notepaper was headed with the name of an hotel. "My dear Nephew,—

i "I arrived home after many years 'a few days ago, and I lose no time, after the transaction Of certain necessary business, in communicating with you. At this point, pray turn to my signature." .. (Leonard did so. "Your affectioni Uncle, Fred." Uncle Fred! Yes, he remembered hearing something about ia certain Uncle Fred. What- was it? j What was it? For the I moment he had "forgotten. Therefore he ■ went 'on reading the 'letter.) "I am- the long-lost wander--Ler. -I do not suppose that you can remember me, seeing that I when I went away you- were then no I more than four or five years of age.^ ; One does not-'confide all family mat- ; ters to a child of those tender" years.y ' When I left my country T was'under" a cloud—a light cloud, it is true-^-a 1 sort of nebulous haze, a mysterious | glowing in the sunshine. It was no more than the mystery of debt, my nephew. I went off. I was shoved - off, in fact, by the united cold shoulders of all my 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 -5-pen't nothing"ibut''my irdebts. I am now home again. I should have called but I have important appointments in the city. Meantime, I hear that ;: you will be asked to meet me at my brother Christophers on. Wednesday. I shall, therefore, hope to see you then. It was, I believe, customary in former times for the prodigal son : to return in rags. We..have changed y 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, lam sure, to hear that I am prosperous exceedingly." ; ■ ■'.-- ■-.;,..; Leonard read this letter with a little V uneasiness or doubt in his mind. There was a certain ring in the words;. —an affectation of lightheadedness which did not sound true. "I had forgotten," he said, "that we had a prodigal son in the family. Indeed, I hardly knew the fact. ' 'Prosperous exceedingly' is he? Important appointments in the city.' Well, we shall, see. I can wait very well until Wednesday.". , •'. . . He opened the next letter. It was from a certain cousin-—the son of another uncle, the abovenamed Christopher, the legal light of the family.

"Dear Leonard, — - yy 'T am sorry to worry you, hut, 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 lam doing no work. This is most tin-, reasonable, as there is no man who works harder at his Art than 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,

It is' a. laudable custom in every family to receive their members on their own representations. Uncle Fred: would, of course, on his return, be received as a wealthy colonist. Algernon was already received as a dramatist—not yet arrived. Leonard sighed, but sent the cheque to the great poet of the future. ' He opened the third letter.

"Algernon.".

"Dear Leonard,

House and was also in his turn considered a young man of promise, when he too was carried off at about the same age. Ihere were moments when Leonard asked himself whether this untoward fate was to be his as well, There were special reasons for asking this question of. which he as yet knew n°rrt mS'; -i ""■■ " x! '. .--' 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 j IT"™™! roT W,IS n* iV *lL stu ent, consumer of the midnight oil.! Above it was a drawing of ,a country house, the same house wheh you have a ready seen One observed aso with pleasure further proofs that the occupant has his hours of relaxation. Tobacco ahd that vulgar thing the briar-

"Will you look in, if you possibly can, on Wednesday'to meet your uncle Fred? He has come home. 'Of courseyou cannot remember him. He was wild, I believe, in the old days: but he says that all is over now. 'indeed it is high time. He seems to be doing well, and is most cheerful. As the head :of the family, you will, lam sure, give him a welcome-and forget and forgive, if there is anything"to ' forgive. Algernon is, I feat*; working too hard. I could not have believed that the Art of plavwriting required ?--«s.uch close attention to the theatres. He is making many acquaintance* 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 dramatist

who has more . conscientiously studied his Art.—Affectionately yours,

"Dorothy Campaigne." j

Leonard wrote a note accepting this invitation, and then dismissed the subject of the returned prodigal from his 'mind. Had he been a. person of wider exnerience he would have observed that cheerfulness is the dominant note of the Prodigal under all circumstances, even the most unpromising. His cheerfulness is his principal, some-. times his only, virtue. He is cheerful j 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 seldom, does he lose his cheerfulness and assume a responsible and anxious counte-j nance like the steady arid plodding I elder brother. ."" "I

The next 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 al 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, liis relaxations were those of one who lived and movecj 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 Leonai-d 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 was an emancipated young woman. The word has become belated; in a year or two it will be obsolete. Emancipation has ceased to carry any reproach or tp excite any astonishment. Many girls and unmarried women live alone in flats and mansions and similar places: they have their latchkey; they marvel that there could have been^-formerly a time when the latchkey was withheld from girls; they go where they like, to see what they wish to see, to i 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 praneings and curvettings there were; now, she has settled down, the question of intellect being no longer discussed, and goes'on, in many respects, almost as if she1 was 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 carreer 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 sympathise even With the woman's point of view—which, indeed, women have always done their utmost to con"ceal. On leaving Girton, she accepted a post as Lecturer in 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 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 compro- , raising her by taking- tea in her dravy-ing-room, nor was Constance afraid , of compromising herself by venturing j alone into the opposite flat if she wanted to talk about anything. It is i a dangerous position, even for one j who is emancipated. In fact the posi- ; tion had become embarrassing; for! the young man, without any premo-1 nitions, suddenly became what might j have, been expected. He explained j things by a letter. It was a cold letter { for a lover, if you read it critically, j "My dear Friend,-^- j ;, "Lam about to imperil a situation . the preservation of wliich is my great-est-happiness. You have allowed me to talk to you ivM'y about' my little ] ambitions. You have even done me the \ honour of consulting me about your own. I would not throw away this, position of confidence, for s 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, '~;.' '■' ;",-' T.li ' - V"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 j consideration." She' was to send or' hr-ing her reply that morning. j Constance knocked at the door. She! eahit in fromyher own' rooms without-! a lint. She took a chair—Leonard's own wpoden. chair—and sat down, beginning to talk about other things, as if such a matter as a proposal of mar-

is their idea of woman's liberty. She is not to form friendships. Don't abuse them. 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 features, ; 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 beg*an by looking at the things over the mantel as if she was greatly interested in tobacco and cigarettes. Then she turned upon him abruptly. "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, conI fusion, or weakening. It is not with I such a face that a girl gives herself to iher 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 particle? I bring you —" but he spoke with a coldness due to the discouragement in the maiden's face —"the fullest worship of yourself." "I do not want worship. Besides— what kind of worship? Is it of attainments or of intellect —or of what men call feminine attractions?" - - It is the worship of all those qualities and possessions and accomplishments that go to make up Constance." "Then what does it amount to? You offer to Worship, that is, extravagantly to praise or uncritically to admire, an intellect below your own. Where is your critical power? Or you propose to worship a face which will lose any charm it may now have in a dozen years, and become hideous." "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 pla.ce. As for my own face, and j those so-called feminine attractions, I confess that I am not interested |in them. Not in the least." I "If you will only let me go on j admiring " "Oh!" she shook that admirable head impatiently, "as much as you please." Leonard sighed.' Persuasion he j knew well was of no use with this I young lady; she knew her own mind. i "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. 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; 1 can 'do very well 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 ca,n 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 dvyell perpetually on a mere episode, in life, to magnify its importance, to deify j the poet's' mistress, that, I told my J 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 knowsshe 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?" I "Not extravagant love. Their 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. I» a? y i ! 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 iindei- ; stand what you mean by desiring -

riage was of no importance. But that any change." No, she understood was only her way, which was always nothing of the sacred passion. "But feminine. there must be no difference in con-

"I was told last night," she said, sequence. I could not bear to think "at the club—fancy, at the club!—that that my answer even to such a trifle I have, been compromising myself by should make any difference between dining night after night with you and us." letting you walk home with me. That , "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 wits necessary for you—or best for you — I might, perhaps— though I could not give yon what you expect—l mean —responsive worship and the rest of it." "Necessary?" he repeated. "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. Of all men that I know you are the most self-reliant. Why not? You are the most fortunate of all men. You arc miles ahead of your contemporaries; you are independent as to fortune; you are of a good family. You are the heir to a fine property; you have no scandals

in your family records; yon have g*ot no poor or degraded relations; you have nothing* to hide or to conceal; not even hereditary weaknesses. You are too fortunate, Leonard. You expect the whole of life to be one long* triumphal march. Why, you are so fortunate that you are outside humanity. You are out of sympathy with men and women. They have to fig-ht 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 sudden change of front. "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 Lcve. Perhaps not. Certainly you do not. Love means support on both sides. You and I do not want support. You are clad in mail armour. You do not —you cannot — need to know what Love means." He made no reply. This .turning of the tables 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 provide you with family scandals, with poor relations who would make you feel ashamed, with something to make you like other people, vulnerable, you would learn that Love might mean—and then—in that impossible case—l 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!" He had received his answer. He was refused. Perhaps the girl's observation on his fitness for love were just, because, after a moment's hesitation, he sat down again at his table and resumed consideration of his subject. (To be continued next Saturday.)

Since the days of Cleopatra the number of young women actually taking part- in' the conduct of the wars of their respective countries has been few. At the present day there is only one lady Avho, with any justice, can be termed "A Geneial/ in Petticoats," and that is Mrs Joubert, the wife of General Joubert, Commandei-in-Chiel ot the Transvaal forces. Mrs Joubert has accompanied her husband in all the wars he has undertaken, and frpm the days of her earliest childhood has been used to wars alarms. She can load and fire off a gun with a most as much skill as her hustand 'Sinn Piet (\n»*lice, "Clever Piet") himself, and on many occasions has shown vne greatest courage. Mrs Joubert s last appearance in'a war was during the comparatively recent Magatoland oainraio'n, at the north of the Transvaal. An artillery, burgher, and native force of nearly 10,000 men was despatched to the'front to subdue the rebel chief M'Pefu, entrenched in a series of rocky fastnesses, backed by the Limpopo. Notwithstanding what feared would be the sanguinary nature ot :-the war, the heat-over 100 degrees in , the . ha de—and the fever, the plucky .woman joined the general a week or two after his arrival, accompanied by only two or three little Kaffir maids. Finding General Joubert in an anything but comfortable tent, sue routed him out, erected a tent of her own, and installed him amidst all the comforts of home. What was more, she reconstructed the general's mess arrangements, and cooked his meals with her own hands. The wite of the Commander-in-Chief peeling potatoes was an ordinary sight any day during the campaign. The war came to an early close, owing to the,., military genius of General Joubert, and it is not too much to say, of his better half. The plans of the campaign from the time Mrs Joubert arrived till the camp was struck were talked oyer at her dinner table, her sound advice and almost unequalled knowledge ot Kaffir warfare being held in high esteem. Although such a warrior, Mrs Joubert is a true woman, lliere is nothing masculine about either her appearance or manner. Unlike mostDutch Afrikanders of her sex, she is slim,' especially when compared with the robust proportions of General Joubert. Wonderfully active for her sixty years and over, she can accomplish as much hard work in an hour as a town-bred woman would in a week.