THE Fourth Generation.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 83, 7 April 1900, Page 14 (Supplement)

THE Fourth Generation.

BY SIR WALTER BESANTAuthor 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 XVIII,

THE TIDE BEGINS TO TURN.

When Leonard was lef alone 'he looked about, him as if expecting to see something-, lie opened the drawer in which the book lay, but mechanically. To his great surprise he was not compelled to take out the book or to read in its accursed pages. Further, the pages of that book no longer floated before his eyes as had been their abominable habit for three weeks. For the moment, at least, he was free of the book. More than this, although the discovery—the horrible discovery—was fresh in his mind, he found himself once more free to think of other things. While he considered

this phenomenon a strange weariness fell upon him. He lay down on his couch, closed his eyes, and instantly fell asleep.

It was then noon. When he awoke the room was dark; he got up and turned on the light. It was midnight. Again he felt the heaviness of sleep; be' went into his bedroom, undressed, :.ay down, and again fell fast asleep, fie slept till noon next day. He had slept twice round the clock, so great was: the relief from the long tension of. the last three weeks.

He dressed, .expecting- the customary summons.:to the Book 'aud the Case. None came. He took breakfast and opened the paper. For three weeks he had been tmabh to read the paper at a!!. Now, to his surprise, he approached it with all his customary interest. Nothing was suggested to •his mind as to the book. He went into the study, he even opened the drawer; h e was not afraid, though no compulsion obliged him to take out the book; since he was not constrained, as before, to open it, he put it back again. He remarked that the loathing- with which he had regarded it only the day before was gone. In fact, he heeded tlie book no longer; it was like the dead body of a demon which could do no more harm.

He turned to the papers on his writing-table; there were the unfinished sheets of the article for the "Quarterly Review." He took them up with a new-born delight and the anticipation of the pleasure of finishing the thing; he wondered how he had been abie to suspend his work for so long. There was a pile of letters, the unopened, unanswered letters of the last. three weeks; he hurriedly tore them open; they must be answered without delay. All this time he was not forgetful of the Discovery. That was now made; it was complete.

He sat down, his mind clear once more, and made out the steps by which the. truth had been recovered. To give his thoughts words, "We started with two assumptions, both of which were false; and both made it impossible to find the truth. The first of these was the assumption that the two were fast and firm friends, whereas they were for the moment at variance on some serious affair— so much at variance that on two occasions before- the last, one of them had become like a madman in his rage. The second was the assumption that the squire had turned and gone home at the entrance of the wood. Both at the inquest and the trial that had been taken for granted. Now the boy had simply said that they went into the wood together and that one had come out alone.

"In consequence of these two assumptions we were bound to find someone m ie wood who must have done the deed, The boy declared that no one was in the wood at half-past five in the morning, and that he saw no one go in till John Dunning- went in at noon. The cottage woman said that no one at all (had'used that path that day. The squire must have seen anybody who was lurking there. If we remove the two assumptions—if •we suppose that they entered the rwood quarrelling —if we remember that the evening- before one of them ihad become like a madman for rage— if we ■ give' them ten minutes or a quarter of an hour together—if we remember the- superior height of one, which alone enabled the blow to fall on the top of the others head—if we add to air this the subsequent behaviour of the -survivor, there is no longer the least room for doubt. The murderer was. Algernon Campaigne, Justice of • the ' Peace, Master of Campaign c Park." All this he reasoned out coldly and clearly. That he could once more reason on any subject gave him so much relief, that the blow and shame of the discovery were greatly lessened. He remembered that the,event 'happened seventy years before; that' there oould be no further inquiry; and that there was no need to .speak of it to any other members of his family. By this time, what was left of the ■family honour? He laughed bitterly as he reflected on the blots upon that fair white scutcheon. Suicide—bankruptcy —the mud and mire of dire poverty—forgery —shame and pretence, and at 'last the culminating1 crime beyond which one can hardly g o —the last crime which was also the first.—the slaying of a man by his brother—MUßDEß!

A knock1 at.the door roused him, Was it mWe trouble? He sat up instinctively to meet it. But ho was quite calmv He did not expect trouble. When it comes one generally feels it beforehand. Now he felt no kind of anticipation1. It was in fact only a letter from Constance. s

"I write to \ell you that the misfortunes of your House are over. There will be no more. lam certain of what I say. Do not ask me how I learned this, because yoi? would not believe. We have been led to the discovery which ends it all."

"Constance. "The Discovery," he thought, "wliich is worse than alit-he rest put together. IS To more misfortunes?'' No more consequences, then. What clops slie mean? Consequences must go on." You remember how one day there cflme one who told of trouble, and i almost before he had finished speaking ' there came also another with more i trouble, and yet a third with more.

This afternoon the opposite happened. There came three, but they were not messengers of trouble, but of peace and even joy

The first was his cousin, Mary Anne

"I've come," she said, "with a message from my brother. Sam is very sorry that lie carried on here as he says' he did. I don't know how he carried on, but Sara is very nasty sometimes when his temper and his troubles get the better of him." "Pray do not let him be troubled. I have quite forgotten what he said." "11. seems that he brought his precious bill against Granny and showed it to you. He says that he's put it in the fire, and that he didn't mean it, except in the hope that you'd lend him a little money." 'T see. Well, my cousin, is that all?" "Oh, he begs your pardon humbly. And he says that the builder has got the bank to back him after all, and | he'll wait now for his share of the j accumulations." j "I am sorry that he still entertains hopes in that direction." "As for Granny, she's so vexed and put out about his showing you that bill—and so am I—that a grandson of hers should do such things, that we've arranged to part company. Granny will live with me—l can afford it —and ' mother will go on with Sam. And I do hope, Mr Campaigne, that you will ! come and see her sometimes. She I says have you read the book?" I "Yes, I will go to see her sometimes. I Tell her so. And as for the book, I have read it all through." "And did it do you good to road the book? To me at always makes that old gentleman so grand and good, finding lawyers for the poor innocent man and all." "Tell her the book has produced all the effects she desired and more." While she was still speaking Uncle Fred burst in. Mary Anne retired, making way for the visitor, who, she ! perceived from the family likeness, j was a large and very magnificent ' specimen of the Campaigne family. "My boy," he cried, "I am going back again. Barlow Brothers must be saved. Nothing short of a national disaster must be averted." '■Indeed! I am glad. You are now going to make a company, of it, I suppose?" \ "Perhaps," he replied wiffli decision. "The City has had its chance and has refused its opportunity. I now re- ! turn to Australia. The firm of Barlow j Brothers may rise conspicuous and 'colossal, or it may continue to.be a purveyor of sardines and bottled •■butter." . \ At this point his eye fell upon a | letter, it was one of the documents |in the Case; in fact, it was the letter I from Australia, which came with John |Dunning"s memorandum. By accident lit had not been put away with the rest. He read the superscription on the seal —"John Dunning's Sons." "John Dunning's Sons?" he asked. "John Dunning's Sons?" "It's an old story. Your grandI father helped John Dunning in early life." Leonard took out the letter. "They write to express the gratitude, a post-mortem gratitude, of the late I John Dunning to the family generally. Would you like to read it?" Uncle Fred read it. His jovial face became grave, even austere in thoughtfulness. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "By your leave," he | said. "My dear boy, the Dunning-s are the richest people in the colony. I am a made man. Their gratitude amply warms my heart. It inspires belief in human nature. With this letter —with this introduction—Barlow Brothers vanish. the sardine boxes! Fred Campaigne retiirns to Australia and Fortune smiles. My boy, farewell. With this letter in my I pocket I start to-morrow." There remained one more —Christopher, the speechmaker. He came with a subdued joy. "They know all, Leonard. I've had a terrible time with the wife and the daughter. But now they know it."

"How do they know?"

"That BEAST called at the house, went upstairs, and told the wife. There was a terrible scene."

"So I should suppose." "Yes. It's aft right, though. I persuaded them, with a good deal of trouble,-that the profession was rather more holy than the Church. I produced the facts, especially the in-

come."

"That would be a serious factor in the case."

"Yes. And I pointed out the educational side —the advance of oratory. So they came round little by little, and I clinched the thing by offering to go back to the Bar, in which case we should have to live at Shepherd's Bush, in a £40 a year semi-detached, while Algernon went into the City as a clerk at fifteen shillings a week, which is more than his true value."

" Well, since it did well I congratulate you. The profession will be continued, of course ?"

"Of course. But I confess I was surprised at the common sense of Algernon. He will immediately enter at the Bar ; he will join me ; there will henceforth be two successful lawyers in the family instead of one." " And what about the threatened exposure ?" " Algernon has gone to see the BEAST. He is to promise him that if a word or a hint is dropped, everybody shall know where he, the BEAST, buys his stories and his poems, and his epigrams, as well as his after - dinner speeches. Algernon lias fished it all out."

So with a chuckle.of congratulation the -weaver of speeches went away. Only the day before Leonard would have received this communication with disgust as another humiliation. The way of deception—the life of pretence —was kept open. It would have been a tearing down of more family pride. Now, it was' nothing ; part of the pretence which keeps society going. It no longer belonged to himself, any more than that ug-ly old story common to the two brothers, in which-some-body's name was put to somethingwhy should he trouble about that grimy old legend ? As for the coarse and common cunning- of the struggling solicitor—what did it matter to him ? How was he affected when his distant cousin Sam wanted to get money from him by threats or by cajoling ? He was hardly conscious that so great a change had fallen\upon him. Nor did he, as yet, attribute it to_ the Discovery, which had at first thrilled his soul with horror. Had the children been. \ visited enough ? If the old man was\ of the first generation, then he was of the fourth. "Unto the third and fourth/ Why then, in his own person, the visitation, whetther Consepuence or Punishment, should come to- an end. CHAPTER XIX. ■: . SPEAKS—AT LAST. Was it really, at last, the last day)f "Visitation ? Punishment or Consejnence, would there be no more ?

Punishment or Consequence. One thing more happened on this eventful day. It came in a telegram from the ancestral housekeeper. " Please come down as soon as you can. The master is going on queer. I think he is changing." Changing ! When, a man is ninetyfive what change do his friends expect? Leonard carried the telegram to Constance. " I think," he said, " it must be the end." "It is assuredly the end. You will go at once—to-day. Let me go with you, Leonard." " You ! But it would only distress you." " It will not distress me if I can take him, before he dies, a simple message." " You sent me a message, ilow did you know that it was a message ?" " I knew it was a message because I saw it with my mind's eye written clear, and bright, and because I heard it pkiin and unmistakable." " You said that all the misfortunes were over. Yet now we get this telegram." " Why —do you call this a misfortune ? What more can we desire for that poor old man but the end ?" They started at once ; they caught a train which landed them at the nearest station a little before seven. It was an evening in April. The sun was sinking, the cloudless sky was full of' peace and light, the air was as soft as it was fragrant ; there was no rustle of branches, the birds were hushed. " It is the end," said Constance, softly, " and it is peace." They had not spoken since they started together for the station. When one knows the mind of his companion what need for words ? Presently they turned from the road into the park. It was opposite the stile over which, seventy years ago, one man had passed on his way to death, and another, less fortunate, on his way to destruction. Then the girl spoke. " I have been looking for this,' she said. " Yesterday I sent you that message. I knew it was a true message, because there fell upon me, quite suddenly, a deep calm. All my anxieties vanished. We have been so torn" — she spoke as if the House was hers as we ll—"by troubles and forebodings, with such woes and rumours of woes, that when they vanished suddenly and unexpectedly, I knew that the time was over." " You are a witch, Constance. " Many women are when they are interested. Oh, Leonard ! what v happiness that there is always an end of everythingI—ol1—ol sorrow, nay of joy ! There must come—at last— the end, even of Punishment or of Consequence." She looked up and round. " The evening is so peaceful—look at the o-lories of the west—it is so peaceful that one cannot believe in storm and hail and frost. It seems to mean, for us, relief—and for him—forgiveEverything was, indeed, still—there was no sound even of their own footsteps as they walked across the springy turf of the park, and the house when they came within view of it was bathed in the colours of the west, every window flaming with the joy of life instead of the despair of death. Yet within was a dying man._ "Death is coming," said Constance, "with pardon upon his wings." The housekeeper met them, weeping, as women servants always weep, at°the approach of Death. "He's in the library," she said. "He went out this morning as usual, but came back after a bit and went in and sat down. I offered him a o-lass of Avine, but he shook his head. At one o'clock I took him his dinner, bnt he could eat nothing. Presently he drank a glass of wine. At four o'clock I took him his tea, but he wouldn't touch it. Only he drank another glass of wine. That 9 all he's had since the morning. And now he is.sitting doubled up, with his face working terrible," They opened the door of the library softly and wen'.t in. He was not sitting "doubled up," he was lying back" in his ragged old leather chair, extended—his long legs stretched out, his hands on the arms of the chair his broad shoulders and his o-reat head lying back—splendid even hi decay, like autumn opulent. Hiseves were open, staring straight upwards to the ceiling. His face was, as the housekeeper put it, "working. It spoke of some internal struggle. What was it that he was fighting in his weary brain? "Leonard," the girl whispered, "it is not despair in his face. It is not defiance. Look! It is doubt. There is something he cannot understand. He hears whispers. Oh, I think. I hear them, too.! 1 know what they axe and whose-they are." She drew down her veil to hide her tears.

The sun had now, gone clown. The shadows of the twilight lay about the corners of the big room, the] rows of books looked ghostly; the western light began to fall, and the colours began to fade. A fire burned in the grate, as it always burned all the year round; the flames began to throw nickering lights and shadows about the room; they lit up j the face of the old man, and his j fioiire fieemed to stand out cleanand apart, as if there were nothing in the room but himself; nay, as if there were no room, no furniture, no house, nothing but that one sole figure in the presence—the unspeakable presence —of the Judge. His face was changing: the housekeeper spoke the truth. The defiance and the stubbornness were going oiitj of it. What was come to take their i place? As) yet nothing but doubt; and pain and trouble. As for the whispers, thei'e was no proof thait, there were any whispers, save from | the assurance of the girl who heard them with the ear of faith. Leonard stepped forward and bent over him. i "Sir," he said, solemnly, "you know i me. I am your -great-grandson—j the grandson.ookfk your eldest son,. who killed himself because he discovered a secret —your secret. And, he could no longer dndui'e it and live. I am his grandson." j The words were plain, eye'n bra-; tal. Leonard intended that there should be no mistake about them. But, plain as they were, they produced no effect. There was not even a gleam in the old man's eye to show that he heard. "You are ninety-five," Leonard went on.. "It is time to speak. I have brought with me one who will recall a day—if you have ever forgotten it—of tragic memoi-ies—the day when you lost at once your wife and your brother-in-law. You have never forgotten that day, have you?" The old man made no reply. But he closed his eyes, perhaps as a sign that he refused to listen. "Sir, I "have a message for you. It is from the man whom you saved from the gallows: the innocent man whom you saved at a trial for murfier. He sent a message from his

death-ibed—words of gratitude and | of prayer. The good deed that you did has grown and borne fruit a: I JiundredJ-fold—your good deed. Let j 1 the grateful words of that man be! some comfort to you." ■ Again the old man made no sign. ! i At this point an unexpected inter- ' riiption took place, for the door was , opened and a man, a villager, came j clumping in noisily. It was the boy who had done, the bird-snaring. "They told me," he addressed Leonard but he looked at the figure in the chair, "that you were here—and they said'that-he was going at last. jSo I came. I minded what you said. Did never a one suspect? That's what you said. I don't care for him now." He nodded valiantly at the figure of his old master. . "He won't hurt no one — no more. He clumped across the room, being j rheumatic, . and planted himself be- j fore the chair, 'bringing his stick j down with a bump on the floor. "Did never a man suspect?" He looked round and held up his finger. He suspected. And he knew. "Old j man" — he addressed himself ; directly to the silent figure—"who j done that job? " You done it. Nobody else done it. Nobody else j could ha' done it. Who done it? [ You done it. There was nobody else in the wood but you before John Dunning came along." ' Leonard took him by the arm and .led him unresisting out of the library. l3ut he went on repeating his story as ijf he could not say it often enough to satisfy his conscience. "I always meant to tell him some day before I died. Now I have told him. I'll tell all the people tooall of them. Why should I go on putting of it away and hiding of it? He ought to ha' swung long ago—he ought. And he shall too. He shall yet—though he' be ninety years and more- Who done it? Who done it? Who done it? He done it. He done it. He done it, <I say." They heard his voice as Leonard led ■him to the door; they heard his voice when Leonard shut the door upon him, repeating- his refrain in a senile sin&-sang. "What matter?" said Leonard. "Let him sing his, burden all over the village. The time has gone by when such as he cam. hurt." But "the" old Wan still made as if he had heard noth'hig. He remained perfectly impassible... Not even the Spinx could be more \oibst,.inately fixed oil betraying no etncltion. Presently he stirred : perhaps! because he was moved : he pulled himself up with difficulty ; he sai\ supported by the arms of the chair! his body bending under the weight qf. the massive head and broad shoulders, too heavy at last, even for that: gigantic frame: his head was bent sMghtly forward : his eyes deep set, were' now fixed upon the red coals of the fire which burned all the year round to warm him : hi& face was drawn by hard lines which stood out like ropes in the firelight. His abundant white hair lay xipon his shoulders, and his long white beard fell round him to the "waist. And thus he had been for seventy years—while his early manhood passed slowly into the prime of life, while the first decay touched his locks with tiny streaks of grey, while early age fell upon him, while his face grew furrowed, while his eyes sank and his cheek bones stood out, while his teeth fell out and his long face Avas shortened and his ancient comeliness vanished. So he had remained while his neglected children grew up, whilfa Consequences fell unheeded and unknown Upon his house, ignorant of what went on in the outer world, though a new world grew up around him with .new thoughts, new ideas, new standards, and a new civilisation. . The Great Revolution which we call . the Nineteenth Century went on ; around him, and he knew nothing ; | he lived, as he was born, in the eighteenth century, which was prolonged to the days of King George the Fourth . If he thought at all in his long life, • his thoughts were as the thoughts . of the time in which he was born. Did he think at all ? Of what could , he think when day followed day and one was like another and there was no i change ; when spring succeeded win-' ; ter unheeded ; and cold and heat ! were alike to one who felt neither ; ) and there was no book or newspaper • or voice of friend to bring food for , the mind or to break the monotony of ' the days. The anchorite of the Church could i pray; his only occupations were prayer and his nightty wrestling with the ; Devil. Sineje this anchorite of the ; Country House could not pray there • was left with him, day and night, the , latter resource. : Surely, after seventy ' long years, this occupation must have ■ proved wearisome. " You said once," Leonard went on, "that you could end it if you would ! only speak." The old man made no ; sign. "Speak then. Speak, and end ! | it. Speak, and tell us what we already ' know." ! There was still no reply. L "You have suffered so long. You I have made atonement so terrible ; it I is time to speak and end it." His face visibly hardened. • j " Oh ! It is no use," Leonard cried, I 1 in despair. "It is like walking into ' a brick wall, Sir, you hear me—you : in derstand what is said. You cannot " I tell us one single thing that we do not ' | know already." He made a gesture 'I of despair and back; Then, Constance -herself stepped forword. She threw herself at his feet— , like a Greek supplicant she clasped i his knees and she spoke, slowly and . softly : " You must hear me. I have ;l a right to be heard. Look at me. I Jam the great-granddaughter of Lang- ■. ley Holms." She. raised her veil. 11 The old man sci-egmed aloud. Ho I caught-the' arms of the chair and sat I upright.' He stared at her face. I-I& . i trembled and shook ,all over; inso- • I much that at the shaking of his large j - j frame, the floor also trembled and , • shook, and the plates on the table ■ and the fender rattled. 'i "Langley !" he cried, seeing nothing 1, but her face. "Langley! You have

come back. At last!

At last."

He could not understand that this was a living woman, not a dead man —he saw only her face, and it was the face of Lang'ley himself. "Yes," she said, boldly. "Langley come back.' He says that you have suffered long enough. He says that he has forgiven you long ago. His sister has forgiven you. All is forgiven, Langley says. Speak—speak— in the very presence of God Who knows. It was your hand that murdered Langley. Speak. Yon struck him with the elwb in the forehead so that he fell dead- When he w,as brought houve dead your punishment began with the "death of your wife, and has gone on ever since. Speak." The old man shook his head me--1 chanically. He tried to speak. It was as if his lips refused to utter the words. He sank back in. the chair,

"Langley knows— Langley knows,"

he said. "Speak!" Constance commanded. "Langley knows -" "Speak!" , still gazing upon "the face and trembling. At last lie spoke. "I did it!" said the old man. Constance knelt down before him and prayed aloud. "I did it!" he repeated. Constance took his hand and kissed it, ~ "I am Langley's child," she said. "In his name you are forgiven. On, the long- punishment is over. You are forgiven." Then a strange thing happened. It happens often with the very old that in the hour of death there falls upon the face a return of youth. The old man's face became young; the years fell from him; but for his white hair you would have thought him young again. The hard lines vanished, with the crow's-feet and the creases and the furrows, the sott colour of youth re-appeared upon his cheek. Oh! the goodly man—the splendid face and figure of a man. He stood up, without apparent difficulty ; he held Constance by the hand —biit he stood up without support, towering in his six feet six, erect and St"°Fc?r°-iven ?" he asked. "What is there to be forgiven? Let us walk into the wood, Langley. Let us walk into the wood. My dear, I do not understand. Langley's child is but » baby in arms." His hand dropped. He 'would have fallen to the ground but that Leonard caught him and laid him gently on the chair. ' "It is the end," said Constance. i±e has spoken." It was the end. The Eecluse was dead.

(To be continued.)