THE Fourth Generation.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 41, 17 February 1900, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE Fourth Generation.

m SIR WALTER BESANT-. Author of "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," "Herr Paulus," "The Master Craftsman,"' "Armorel of Lyonesse," "The World Went Very Well Then," "All 'in a Garden Fair,". "Children of Gibeon," etc., .etc. ■-■

CHAPTER VII. ' 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 unaltered.

"You look thoughtful," she said, presently 5 after twice making an observation which failed to catch his attention:. "And you are absentminded."

"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 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 Batcliffe or Shadwell, or perhaps '. Stepney." "Oh!" Constance naturally waited for more, if more wa,s to follow. Perhaps 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 _ we ll, the man is a solicitor who practises in a police court, defending those "who are drunk and disorderly, with all who are pickpockets, hooligans; and common frauds." "That promises many things." "He is'something like my familyfall, with sharp features —more perhaps of the vulture than the eagle in, him. But we 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 no poor relations." , "I meant that you are a spoiled child of fortune. 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 W the accession of poor relations a\d—other things. Your mention of things omitted reminded Fate, I supposo." "lip the poor relations want money?" ; "Ye\ but not from me. The solicitor thinks that there ,mnst be great sVims. .o\ money accumulated by the • Plt'riarc\ of whom' I have spoken to you.' •'■ Cupidity sent him to me. Part■iy Wv .waited to put in his claim i iufor\rially,\and partly he prepared the■".yW to. make me dispute any . Tvili-thai the\)ld man may have made. ■ fee is poV ant therefore he is grasping,,.l suppose." ■'.. , ; V:;"lJ;beTiete' we all' have poor rela- " t'ions?'''.'sa'id\ Constance. "Mine, how- •■ ever;, dp-not trouble me." ."Theie has' been an enlargement •in .another direction.. A certain 4 uncle'of mine, who formerly enacted with- muchf crecliK the, old tragedy of ' the Prodigal Son, lias come back from Australia."

"Has "he been living on the same diet as -the Prodigal ?'\ "I don't know. He U v.'ell-dressed, big, and important. He-repeats constantly "that he is prosperous. I doubt somehow —"

"The return of a middle-a,getl Prodigal/is., interesting and unusual. I fear: If'must not congratulate you, altogether, 6-n this unexpected enlargement." ■ "Yet you said I ought to have poor relation's. However, there is more • behind. What was it you said a.bout disgraces? Well—they've come too. "Oh! But, Leonard. -I am very \sorry, And I really never supposed

I "Of course not. It is the merest • coincidence. But I've stepped into Miite a remarkable family history, f"*l of surprising events—all of them disasters." I^ut you have already a remarkably family history." '%> I thought—ending with the ancient recluse of'whom I have told you. We are rather proud of this old, kd man; this singular being ■who h\s been a recluse for seventy years. T have always known about him. Oi^e of the very earliest things £ 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—l suppWe because it js a horrible stoxy—\why the old man. became a reclus\e. That I only learned yesterday from this ancient aunt, who is the c\nly da.nghter ot the stil more .ancieW recluse." '-'Why was -^hat? ; That is—don't let me ask abc\ut your private affairs;"

"Not at, all. T.We-is nothing that needn't be proclaii peel from the house 'top.': .There never \is. There are no private affairs, if wt'< would only think so. '. .-Well—it seem\s that one day, seventy years .ago, the broth er-in-law of this gentleman, the n a hearty young fellow of five or six I'lnd twenty, was staying at the Hall. \ He went out after \breakf ast, and ,/was presently found murdered in a wood ; and in consequence of hearing \ this dreadful thing suddenly, his sistOr, my ancestors wife, died on the sai'lie day. The ancient aunt was born oil the day that the mother died. \ The blow, •which was certainly very te'rrible,affected my ancestor's head ; he'became at once what he is now, a j nelancholy recluse, taking no longer the least interest in anything. It is t. ? me very strange that a' young mai \, strong physically and mentally, should not have, shaken off this oppression."

"It does seem very strange j. I remember that I had an ancestor murdered somewhere —father of i one of my grandmothers.'. But your ibase is different." \

" The aged aunt to)d me the .'story. ; She had a theory al^oui some great ■crime' having' been committed. P- She '• Suggests that the pareiit of the rei|luse /must have been a great, unknown, suspected criminal—a. kind of G.Ules de Eetz; There1 have been misfortunes scattered about; she related a whole yStritigbi calamities— all, she thinks in ■ consequence of some crime' conimitt ed

"by this worth}-—as mild a Christian, I believe, as ever followed the hounds or drank a bottle of port."

"She is thinking, of course, of the third and fourth generation. To vvhich do yo'uf 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.'

" Of course, if there is no crime there can be no consequences. Have the misfortunes been very marked ?"

" Yes, very marked and unmistakable misfortunes."

" What docs your recluse say about thorn ?"

"He says nothing. He never speaks. I 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 arc dry. There is a pretty vil- . lage, an old church, an eighteenth century house falling into ruins, great gardens all run to bramble and thistle ■and a park, resides the recluse himself." "The recluse might not like my visit." "He will not notice it. Besides, he ■ sleeps all the afternoon. When he is awake he sees nobody. His eyes go straight through one like the Eontgen ray. I believe he sees the bones and nothing else." The "least frequented of the great high roads running out of London is i 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 bicj'cles 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 j are churches every two or three miles, churches memorable for the most part, and beautiful. Almost every church in this country has some, famous man associated with it. On the right is the burial place of the Russeljs, 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 burial place of Perm and Ehvood, 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 greatest patriot. The road goes up and the road goes down in long low hills and long low valleys. On this side and on that are woods and coppices and paries, with trees scattered about and country houses. No shire in England is more studded with country houses than this of Bucks. At distances of six or eight miles, there stand the towns. All the towns in Bucks are small; all are picturesque. All have open market places and town halls and ancient inns andold houses. I know of one where there is an inn of the fourteenth century. , I have had it sketched by a skilful limner and 1 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 Falstafr himself, sitting- in the great chair by the fire. On a fine," clear day in early May, 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 *'It'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 loyely 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 ao-ain I will show you Milton's cottage and Perm's burial ground, John I-iampden's church and tomb, and the old manor house of Chenies and Latimer. To-day I am going to show you our old family house. It is now, unfortunately, in a condition oi 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 {\ncl go home by train." "That will please 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 au immense time. We have never produced a great man or a distinguished man. If you consider it, there are really not enough distinguished, men to go round the families. We have twice recently Made a bid for a distinguished man. My own father and mv'grandfather we\-e both promising politicians, but they We 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 hick. Listen. It is like the his-toi-y oi a House driven and scourged by the "hand of fate." She listened while he went through the terrible list. "Why," she said, "your list'tif disaster does really suggest the tQml>le' words 'unto the third, and. fourth generation.' I don't wonder at yo\r aunt looking about for a criminal. \Wkat had your forefathers done ?" \ "Let us get dowij and rest a little." They sat down on a style, and turned, the talk into a more-serious vein. "What have my forefathers done? Nothing—of that I am, quite certain. Our misfortunes are, all feure bad luck, and nothing else. T,hose\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' vaisdeeds that it cannot be:so.' And thjen I remembered hearing,that there was somewhere among the Prophetic Books a passage strongly expressing exactly the opposite opinion. And 1 found'it. Ezekiel it is who says words to this effect. They are very fine words. Bo you know them ?" "No." "Listen. '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. you 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."

" Those are very fine words " —and, indeed, Leonard gave them with much

solemnity. "At the same time, Leonard, there are consequences of every act, consequences which may reach far down to many generations. A man loses his fortune and position :

down go the children and the grandchildren. A man makes a great name and a great fortune : he ennobles his> descendants. A man commits a shameful action : not only he but his children are disgraced." "Yes, yes, but if a man is good he shall surely live. I repeat these words, yet —yet —I confess that I have been shaken by the revelations of the old lady. They explain so much. Now I understand why my mother's sorowful eyes were always resting upon me, as if in expectation. ■She was looking for some disaster, and I understand why I was kept in ignorance of these things. I began to be haunted by the 'third and fourth generation' words ; so that it was like a direct message to read this passage of the Hebrew Prophet."

"It is very direct certainly."

"And 1 have taken all the misfortunes in turn. They have nothing to 'do with heredity. My great grandfather has his head turned by a great

: troublle. His son commits suieiide. Why ? Nobody knows. The young, sailor is drowned Why ? Because 1 lie 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 ab-sent-minded. You have begun to think too much about these troubles."

He smiled. " I am serious, I suppose, from the way in which I Avas brought, up. We lived in Cornwall, right in the country, close to the sea

shore, with no houses near us, until 1 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 wore 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. "It brings you closer. 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 storeys only, in front was a carriage drive, but no garden or enclosure at all. The house rose straight out of the park itself. "At the back," said Leonard, are. the gardens ; but everything is grown over, nothing ha.sbeen 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: servants' entrance. The front doors are never opened."

The great hall with the marble floor made rolling and rumbling a.bout the house above as they walked across. There were arms on the walls and armour, but all rusted and decaying in the damp air. There were two or three portraits on the walls, but the colour had peeled off and the portraits had become ghosts. " 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. Nothinghad been touched. There stood the great dining-hall. ■ Against the walls were standing a row of leather chairs. There was the sideboard; the mahogany things were not affected by the long waiting except that they hud lost thefr lustre. The leather on the chairs . was decaying and peeling off. -.The carpet was moth-eaten and in threadsThe paper on the wall, the old-fash-ioned red velvet paper, was hanging down in folds. The steel fender was covered with rust. On the walls the pictures Avere in better preservation tham those in the hall, but they were hopelessly injured by the damp. The curtains \yere falling away from the rings. " Tfyink of the festive dinners that have b<;en given in that room," said Leonard. " Think of t!he talk amd the laughter and the happiness ! And suddenly, unexpectedly,. \ the .wliole .came to am end, and there has been silence and emptiness for seventy years." . ■'■■

He closed tie door and opened another. This was. in times gone by the

dTawing-room.- It was a noble room,1 long, high, well proportioned. A harp stood in one comea1, 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 amd the wires with rust, Old-fashioned sofas and couches stood about. The mantel - shelf was ornamented with strange thing's in china. There were occasional tables in. the' Old fashion oC yellow and white and gold. The paper was peeling off like that of the diningroom. Over against tlhe piano, in a strong light, hung a portrait better preserved than most. It Avas the portrait of a young man ; a handsome young man, a young man with a singularly pleasing and amiable face. Constance looked, at it curiously. Them she started, " Leonard !—who is this ?" "This? I believe it is my greatgrandimotiher's brother. Why—now I know —my old aunt told me —this us the uufokmiate man avlio was murdered. It must have been murder— she had but one brother—that caused her death and her husband's eccentricities." " His murder ? Oh ! Leonard ! Leonard ! It is my own great-grand-father. His name Avas La-ngley Holms. Oh, it was so long ago. I have never realised it before. 1 knew there was a murder but I did not inquire. I have another portrait of him in my chambers. -'It is not so good as this. Oh ! And to think that the murder happened here !". " Constance ? Is it possible ? Then Aye a.re cousins." He held out his

hand. " Very distant cousins," she replied. " But oh, how strange ! I will tell you all I know about it. How lovely he is. Oh, what a brother to lose! I have been told . Y Tou see lam descended from him by the daughter a.nd the granddaughter—and it is the father's family which one thinks of most. He left one daughter only, named Constance ; s>he was a child at the' time of his death. Con-stance married agemtleman named Mortimer, and had-a son and a daughter. The daughter married my father, Mr Ed-

mund Ambry.. I heard it was a family legend almost that my ancestor, this noble gentleman," she could not take her eyes from the portrait, " was staying with a friend, and was found murdered in a wood."

"That is all there is to know, I believe! Except, as I told you, that the news killed his sister the same day. If this portrait can be preserved I will have a copy made for you, Constance." "Oh! If ybHi ; would —if you would. Leonard, shall we hunt up all we can find about the murder? It is too late to discover anything- more about it; but I should like to know what really happened."

Leonard took down the portrait, and turned its face to the wall. "I will give it to the old hcrasekeeper to keep," he-jStiid, "until I can send for it. Come now, I want you to see the man himself who married your ancestor's sister. Her portrait is somewhere here, -among those "around us, but they are too far gone. 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 long1 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 fhat 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

i 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 whs your presence, Constance, that in some, way siiggested 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 sudh a strong man as that. Why, he was in the full strength of his early manhood. And he never recovered— all these seventy years.l He has never spoken all,these years, except once in my heaxingvit was iri'his sleep. What did he say?\l can speak and end it.' Strange worasV' The tears werX standing in the girl's eyes. "The pity of it, Leonard! The pity of it!" \

"Come into the gur-^ens. They were formerly, in the last "xjentury —-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 the trees were dead, and under the dead boughs there flourished a rank undergrowth.

"I have never before," said Constance, "realised 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 this 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 oflice, a blacksmith's shop, 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 Holms, born at Great Missenden, June, 1798, found murdered in a wood in this parish, June 14th, 182 G. Married February Ist, 1824, to Eleanor, daughter of the late Marmaduke Flight, of Little Beauchamp, in this country; left one child, Constance, boi-n January Ist, 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 ainongr the graves. Tie looked up and straightened himself slowly, as one with stiffened joints.

"Mornin', sir," he said. "Mornin', miss. 1 hope I see you well.' Beg your pardon, sir, but you be a Campaigne, for sure. All the Gampaig-nes are alike—goodly men they are, and good to look upon. But you're not so tall, nor yet so strong built as the scjnire. Been to see the old gentleman, sir? Ay, he. do lavst on, he do. It's wonderful. Close on ninety-five he is. Everybody in the village knows his birthday. Why, he 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 3'ou?" 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 j-ou to do with the murder?"

"I was scaring- birds on the hill-side above the wood. I see the Squirehe 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 into the, wood together. The Squire came out, but the other gentleman did not. 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 teed, but he got off. Everybody knows he never done it. But they never found out who done it." '

"That is all yon 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 that we should get all the information so soon after jour discovery of the picture."

They mounted their wheels and rode away in silence. But the jojr!had gone out of the day. The evening fell. The wind in the trees became a. dirge; their hearts were full of violence arid blood and death; in their ears rang the cries of a bereaved woman, and the groans of a man g-one mad witli trouble. (To be Continued.) ,

I•" "The general impression that literary men and those engaged in brain work need quietness in order to produce good material is hardly borne out by facts," says the author of the paragraph entitled "Can't Write Without Noise," appearing- in "Cassell's Saturday Journal." "Indeed, many writers who are able to turn -out 'copy' in the midst of a hurdy-burly of noise would find themselves quite at a loss for ideas if they were shut up in a ' room away from the ordinary bustle of life. A journalist who was recently appointed to the staff of an influential northern newspaper was anxious to prove himself worthy of the post, but found to his distress that his 'copy' was by no means equal to that which he had been accustomed to write for hisi old paper. For some time he was quite at a loss to account for this sudden falling off in. his style, and it was not until an ominous remonstran'ee from head-quarters reached him that he at length hit upon the reason. In j his former place his room had been j situated exactly above the printing department, and the throbbing of the engines had always kept time to his work; whereas his new office was in •a very quiet part of the building, to ' winch scarcely a sound penetrated the ! whole day. Immediately he realised these facts the journalist got himself I removed to the compositors' room, and the noise made by the men and the machines at once inspired him. A well-known writer of ediieational books is always at his best when he takes his paper-pad into a public park which thousands of people frequent every day. He seats himself on a garden chair, and the more noise the folk who patronise the place make the, better he is able to get on. He has produced much of his best work under these conditions, and he states that he finds it almost impossible to pen a decent sentence in the seclusion of his; I own study."