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Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 65, 17 March 1900, Page 6 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XII

The role 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 apposite 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 a-ntt even absorbed by one subject: lie goes about thinking upon that subject and upon little else. Then all kinds of things happen to him wljieh illustrate this subject. That is what coincidence means. For instance, I was once endeavouring to reconstruct 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 conk! find nothing-, not even in the British Museum. The most profuund knowledge of the books a.nt* 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 (Miich would have inflicted irreparable damage on my novel) when a sheaf of second hand catalogues came to; me. Tt was by the last evening post. I turned over two or three, without /rrmch curiosity, until among- tlu. items I lit. upon one which caught m\ eye. It was only the title of a pamphlet, but it, promised to contain the exact information which I wanted. Now that was a coincidence; and tin* kind of coincidence, happens contimv. ally to every man who thinks about anything".

It is said of .-i most- distinguished numismatist that he cannot cross a ploughed field without picking np -^ rose" noble. That is because his thoughts are always turned to rose nobles and other delightful coins. It one is studying- the eighteenth ceritxiry, 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 all kinds of proof, illustrations and lig-kt. These things are mentioned only to show that the apparently miraculous manner in which external events conspired together to keep tip the interestin this case was neither remarkable* nor exceptional. Not that external events were wanted, either for instruction or for reminder —but they cams For the interest itself, the grip with which the story of the newspaper cuttings caught bid held both these readers was the tfue miracle. In every group of miracles there is the centraa event. In this case, the mystery oi the wood was the central event. "It is my murder, Leonard," Constance repeated, "as much as yours. It was my great-grandfather who wa& murdered', if it was your great grandmother who was also killed by that crime. Let me sit with you while you work it out."

They sat together day after day; during this time they talked and thought of nothing else. Again and again they agreed there was. nothing1 more to be found. Again and again they made a show of putting the book away and locking it up. Again and a^-ain they took it out again and reart it till they-knew it all by heart. Tog-e----ther they went once more to Campaigne Park; they visited the fata! Wood, they wandered about the <Je-%-ted rooms of the house, haunteft by the dreadful memory. How coulrt they expect to find anything, now, alter in these years?

"W\ have," said Leonard, repeating' the wtvrds a hundred times, "all the evidence that can now be discovered — ■the evidence of the wood and thu place, theXevidence of one survivor, the evidence orsthe trial. If the truth cannot be discovered why shauld we go on? Moreover, after all these years nothing more can be discovered." "Nothing mote, except the hand that did it."

Why should they go on? Because they could not choose but go on. They were compelled to i g-o 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 this 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 fino and these two were in search of they knew not what.

They went together to call upon the lady of the Commercial Eoad. She wan most grateful to be recognised as a cousin of this young lady, she desired nothing better than to talk of the, family and its misfortunes. But slit* threw no more light upon the story, knowing, in fact, less than they themselves knew. They left, her; they agreed that it was absurd to continue* a quest so hopeless; they locked up tlie book. Next day they took it out and laid their heads together again.

"How long is this going to last?'' Constance . asked. "I am hardly able to think of anything else. If one were superstitious " "If," echoed the other, doubtfully, "one were superstitioiis- "

"It might seem like part of the hereditary misfortunes; jet, why should I share in your sorrows?" Here she blushed because she remembered how, ■before the misfortunes Avere 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 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 happeES."

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 annuls 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 began the .coincidences. 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 seared 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 postagestamp 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, printted across the securing fold, the words "John Dunn ing's Sons."

"John Dunning," 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! it is wonderful. Open it at once."

\ Leonard tone open the envelope. Within there was a letter and an enclosure. He read both, rapidly.

"Good heavens!" lie cried. "It is actually the voice of the man himself, Constance, it is the'voice we were asking1 for. It is 'his voice speaking from the grave." He read aloud both the letter and the enclosure. The following- was the letter: — "Bear sir.—l found the enclosed paper only yesterday, though''it was written twenty years ago, and. my grandfather, by whom it was written, died ten years ago. I will not trouble you with the causes which led to our overlooking it for so many years, bull hasten to send it on to yon 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 you even know the fact —to ray grandfather of vital importance —that his acquittal 'was secured by the kind offices of your^ ancestor, who was then the owner oiCnmpa.ig-ne 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 was an agricultural labourer in England; he died one of the richest men m the colony, for everything;.that he totiched turned to g-old.

"I. remain, dear sir, \ "Very faitlifully yours, "Charles Dunniiig."

"I should like to m'fike the acquaintance of Mr Charles Dunriing.V said Constance. "Now, for'what-the grandfather says."

Leonard opened the other paper and read: — \

"The paper which I enclose is a proof that gratitude is not Avholly 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;' peeingthat you were distinguished ..in the University of Oxford, and are. the member of several clubs as well'as in the House, 1 do not suppose that there is anything we can do to carry out the wishes of my grandfather as. regards yo'nrself, 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?

".Being now in my S(sth year, and therefore soon to be called away, I desire to place in writing1, in order that it may be sent after my death to the present head of the Campaigr.e 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 mam. I suppose that lie. is dead and beyond the roach of my prayers. I. can only hope that he speedily recovered from the loss of his dear lady, and that he had 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. So I had to come away. II! there is anyone living whey remembers the ease and me 1 would ask him to read and to consider two points that T found out after the trial."

"It is indeed the voice of the dead," said Constance, speaking low.

"The first point is that I found witnesses who could prove that 1 was at work all the morning in another place.

"The second point is; more important. The path through the wood leads to a stile Opening on the lane to the village of. Highbeeeh. There is a cottage in the lane opposite the stiltl. On the morning of the murder the "woman of the cottage was washing outside the door. She said 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 farmyard 0:1 the top, I hope that if there is any doubt left in the the mind of anyone this new evidence will make it clear." The paper was signed "John Dunning." j "There is no doubt left," said Cou- ! stance. "Still, what bearing lias the 'evidence of the cottage woman-on the |ease? 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. has told us nothing."

i 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 beside the fireplace and began, to speak slowly, as if feeling his way. "The child may suffer for the father's sin. ■ That is most certain. The father throws away his property, the son .becomes a pauper. The father loses his, social position, the children sink down with him. The father contracts disease, the children 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. Talce the ease of crime. Body and mind and soul are all connected tog'ethei1, 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 inherit the disease of crime, just a,s they 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 troubles, perhaps, if we knew they too are the consequences, not the punishment. But we do not know. We cannot find the crime or the criminal."