The Fourth Generation.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XXII, 25 November 1899, Page 946

The Fourth Generation.

[COPYRIGHT.]

By

Sir Walter Besant.

Author of “All Sorts and Conditions of Men,” “Herr Paulus.” “The Master Craftsman.” “Armorel of T.yoness-,” “The World Went Very Well Then,” “All in a Garden Fair,” “Children of Gibeon,” etc., etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTER. CHAPTER I.—Mr Algernon Campaigne, an old man of over 90 years, occupies a house which is. through neglect, falling into decay, whilst he himself has lived the life of a recluse, and never uttered a word for 70 years. His great grandson comes monthly to visit him, and see that he is attended to, tut gets no word or look of recognition from him. At last, on the occasion of one of the young man's visits he hears his ancestor say as he is asleep, “I can speak and end it.” He tells the old man’s attendant, and she declares that something dreadful is going to happen. CHAPTER ll.—Leonard Campaigne, the young man already introduced, is a literary student and an M.P. He occupies a flat in a London mansion, and one morning receives a letter from an Uncle Fred, whom he has never seen since a child. His uncle had been abroad, leaving his country through debt, but he now wrote home saping he was returning a prosperous prodigal. He also receives a dunning letter from a dissolute nephew, who professes to be studying the drama as a playwright. Leonard has formed a kind of attachment for a Miss Constance Ambry, the occupant of a similar flat to his own, who is a lecturer on English literature. She declines his offer of marriage, but tells him that if fortune provides him with family scandals, or something to make him vulnerable. in that case, well, she “did not know—perhaps.” CHAPTERS 111. & IV.—Leonard Campaigne is waited upon by a Mr Samuel Galley-Campaigne, who claims to be a cousin. He comes with the request that Leonard will call upon Samuel’s grandmother. He tells him. much to his surprise, that his great-grandfather had lost in one day his wife and his brother-in-law. who was murdered. He also Informed him that his uncle had lefF'that country on account of forgery. In Chapter IV’.. Mr Fred Campaigne, under the name of Barlow, visits Mr Crediton, the name taken by Mr Christopher Campaigne, the legal light of the family, and recognising each other, laugh heartily over their deceptions. Crediton is far from being a barrister, as his family believe him, but an agent for the preparation of after-dinner speeches for his clients. "Mr Barlow,” of New South Wales, also wants a speech, for his dinner on his return from Australia, and Crediton promises it shall be the speech of the evening. ® ® ® CHAPTER V. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL. Mrs Christopher Campaigne was at home. The rooms were filled with people, chiefly young people, friends of her son and daughter. Most of them were endowed with those literary and artistic leanings which made them severe critics, even if they had not yet produced immortal works. The chief attraction of the evening, however, was the newly-returned Australian, said to be a millionaire, who took up a large space in the room, being tall and broad. He also took up a large space in the conversation. He talked loud and laughed loud. He presented successfully the appearance lie desired, namely, that of a highly prosperous gentleman a<*customed to the deference due to millions. Leonard came late. “I am glad to see you here." said his hostess. “Frederick, you do not remember your other nephew, son of Algernon." Frederick held out a manly grasp. “When I left England." he said, “you were a child of four or five. I cannot pretend to remember you, Leonard.” “Nor can I remember you." He tried to dismiss from his mind a certain ugly word. “But you are welcome home oner more. This time, I hope, to stay." “I think not. Affairs—affairs are sometimes peremptory, particularly large affairs—large affairs. The city may insist ii|x>n my staying a few weeks, or the city may allow me to go back. I am wholly in the hands of the city." If you come to think of it, a man must lie rich indeed to be in the hands of the city. The people grazed upon the s|M‘iker with increased interest, and even awe. They were not in the hands of the city. “I confess," he went on. “that T should like to remain. Society, when one returns to it after many years, is pleasing. Some people say that it is hollow. Perhaps. The frocks vary,"

He looked round critically. “They are not the same as they were five and twenty years ago; but the effect remains the same. And the effect is everything. We must not look behind the scenes. The rough old colonist” — yet no one in th«e room was better groomed—“looks on from the outside and finds it all delightful.” “Can things unreal ever be delightful?” murmured a lady in the circle, with a sigh. “At all events,” Leonard continued, “you will not leave us for a time.” “There, again, lam uncertain. 1 have a partner in Australia. I have connections in the city: but for a fewweeks 1 believe I may reckon on a holiday and a look round. What are you doing, Leonard?” ’I am in the House.” “As your father was. And your grandfather. It is a great career.” “It may be a great career.” “True. true. There must be many failures, many failures. When are you most likely to be found?” Leonard told him. “Give me a note of it before we go to-night. I daresay T can get round some time.” The ugly word once more unpleasantly returned to Leonard’s mind. Mr Frederick Campaigne proceeded with his interrupted discourse, which proved the necessity of the existence of the poor in order to make the condition of the rich possible and enviable. He took the millionaire’s point of view and dwelt not only on the holiness of w-ealth. but also on the duties of the poor towards their superiors. Leonard slipped away. He. felt uncomfotable. He could not forget what had been told him about this loud and prosperous and self-satisfied person. Besides, he seemed to be overdoing it—acting a part. Why?

Tn the inner drawing-room he found his two cousins, Algernon and Philippa. The former a young man of three or four and twenty, was possessed of a tall figure, but rather too small a head. He smiled a good deal, and talked with an easy confidence common to his circle of friends. Tt was a handsome face, but it did not suggest possibilities of work. Leonard asked him how he was getting on. “Always the same,’’ he replied, with a laugh. “The study of the dramatic Art presents endless difficulties. That is whv we are loaded up with bad plays.” “Then it remains for you to show the world what a play is.” “That is my mission. T shall continue my studies for a year or so more —and then —• you see. Leonard. T study the Art on the stage itself. T sit in various parts of the stalls and watch and learn. Presently T shall sit down to write.” “Well, T look forward to the result.” “Look here, Leonard—” he dropped his voice. “I hear that you go to see the old man sometimes. He is nearly ninety-five. He can’t last much longer: of course the estate is yours. But how’ about the accumulations?” “I know nothing about accumulations.” “With the Pater’s large practice and our share of the accumulations, don’t you think it is too bad of him to keep up this fuss about my work? Why should T work? There will be plenty of money. My work,” he said, proudly, “shall be, at least, the work of one who is not driven by the ignoble stimulus of necessity. It will lx l entirely free from the ignoble stimulus of necessity. Tt will be free from the commercial taint—the curse of Art. the blighting incubus of Art.” Leonard left him. Tn the doorway stood his cousin Philippa. “You have just been talking to Algernon.” she said. ‘Toil see, he is always stretching out his hands in the direction of dramatic Art.”

“Sb T observe,” he replied l drily “Some day, perhaps he will grasp it And you?”

”1 have but one dream, always one dream,” she replied, oppressed, with endeavour. “I hope it will come true, then. By the way, Philippa, I have just found a whole family of new cousins.” “New cousins? Who are they?” “And a great aunt. T have seen one of the cousins, and I am going tomorrow to see the great aunt and perhaps the other cousin.” “Who are they? If they are your cousins they must be cousins on papa's side. I thought that we three were the only cousins on his side.” Your uncle Fred may have children. Have you asked him if he is married ?” “No. He has promised to tell all his adventures. He is a bachelor. Is it not interesting to get another uncleami a bachelor—and rolling in money? Algernon had already borr ” She stopped, remembering a warning. "Hut who are these cousins?”

“Your grandfather's sister,, Luey, married one Isaac Galley about the year 1847. It was not a good marriage for her. The husband became a bankrupt, and as by this time her father had fallen into his present condition there was no help from him. Then they fell into poverty. Her son became a small clerk in the city; her grandson is a solicitor in the Commercial Road—not, I imagine, in the first or highest walks of that profession; and her granddaughter is a teacher in a Board school.” “Indeed!” The girl listened coldly; her eyes wandered round the room filled with well-dressed people. “A teacher in a Board school! How interesting! Shall we tell all these people about our new cousins?” “No doubt they have all got their own second cousins.” “I dare say. At the same time we have always thought our family a good deal above the general run. And it’s rather a blow, Leonard, don’t you think?” “It is, Philippa. But it is a good old family, and you may still be proud of it.” He left the girl and went in search of his uncle, whom he found, as he expected, in his study apart from the throng. “Always over your papers,” he said. “May I interrupt for a moment?” The barrister shuffled his papers hurriedly into a drawer. “Always busy.” he said. “We lawyers work harder than any other folk, I believe—especially those with a practice like my own, which makes no noise and is never heard of.” “But not the less valuable, eh?” The barrister smiled. “We make both ends meet,” he said meekly, “both ends meet.” “I went to see the old man the other day,” Leonard went on, taking a chair. “I thought you would like to know. He remains perfectly well, and there is no change in any respect. What I want to ask you is this. First, is he in a. condition to make a will?” The lawyer took time to give an opinion. Backed by his long legal experience and extensive practice it was an opinion carrying weight. “My opinion,” he said, gravely, “is that he is not ndw. and has not been for seventy years, in a. condition of mind that allows a man to make a will.” “The reason why 1 ask,” said Leonard, “is that I have found a family of cousins. One of them is a solicitor. of a somewhat low class, practising in the Commercial Road. The other is a Board School teacher ” “Strange cousins—for us. Who are they?” “They are the grandchildren of my grand fa th efr —'your faither's — sister, Lucy, who married one .Isaac Galley." “I es. I have heard my mother speak of her when we lived in Cornwall.” “These are her grandchildren. I am to see the old lady in a day or two.”

“Do they want anything? Help? Recognition ?” “Nothing, so far as I know. Not even recognition.” “That is well. I don’t mind how many poor relations we’ve got, provided they don’t ask for money or for recognition. If you give them money they will infallibly decline to work and live upon you. If you call upon them and give them recognition they will infallibly disgrace you.” “The solicitor asked for nothing. As for myself, I have never yet considered the position of the old man. The estate is all right, I suppose?" “I believe so.” “Then he has a very large income. This cousin of ours has been building hopes upon what he calls accumulations. He evidently thinks that the old man is not in a condition to make a will, and that all that is left of personal property will be divided among your father's heirs on our side and the old lady, his grandmother, on the other side.”

“That is, I am afraid, quite true. But there may have been a will before he fell into—eccentricity. It is a great pity, Leonard, that these people have turned up —a great misfortune — because shall have to share with them. Still, there must be enormous accumulations. My mother did not tell us anything about these possibilities; yet they’ do exist, and they are very serious and important possibilities. They will probably make us all rich. And now Fred has turned up. and he will share, too. Another misfortune.” “How came my grandfather to die so young?” Leonard passed on to another point. “He fell into a fever. I was only two years old at the time.” Leonard said nothing about the suicide. dearly, not himself only, but his uncles also, had been kept in the dark about the true cause of that unexpected demise. He departed, closing the door softly’, so as not to shake up and confuse the delicate tissues of a brain always occupied in arriving at an opinion. As soon as he was gone the barrister drew out his papers once more and resumed the speech for Which he had prepared half-a-dozen most excellent stories. In sue.h a case the British public does not ask for all the stories to be new. Leonard rejoined the company upstairs. His Uncle Fred walked part of the way home with him. “I hadn’t expected,” he said, “to find the old man still living. Of course, it eannot go on much longer. Have you thought about what may happen—when the end comes?” “Not much, I confess.” “One must, I take it that he does not spend the fiftieth part of his income. I have heard as a boy that the estate is worth £7,000 a year.” “Very likely, unless there has been depression.” “Say he spends £l5O a year. That leaves £6,850 a year. Take £BOO for expenses and repairs — that leaves £6,000 a year. He has been going on like this for (seventy years. Tohafl accumulations, £420,000? At compound interest for all these years it must reach two millions or so. Who is to have it?” “His descendants, I suppose.” “You, my brother Christopher, and myself. Two millions to divide between us. A very pretty fortune — very pretty indeed. Good-night, mv boy; good-night.” He walked away cheerfully and with elastic step. “Accumulations —• accumulations!” said Leonard looking after him. “They are all for accumulations. Shall I. too. begin to calculate how much has been accumulated? And how if the accumulations turn out to be lost—wasted—gone—to somebody else?” CHAPTER VT. THE CHILD OF SORROWS. On a cold day, with a grey sky and an east wind. Leonard for the? first time walked down the Commercial Road to coll upon the newly found cousins. Tt is a broad thoroughfare, hut breadth does not always bring cheerfulness with it; even under a warm summer sun, some thoroughfares cannot be cheerful. Nothing can relieve the unvarying depression of the Commercial Road. Tt is felt even by the children who refuse to play in it. preferring the narrow streets running out of it; the depression is felt even by the drivers and the con-

ductors of the tram cars, persons who are generally superior to these influences. Here and there is a chapel, here and there is a model lodging-house or a factory, or a square or a great shop. One square was formerly picturesque when the Fair of the Goats was held upon it; now it has become respectable; the goats are gone, and the site provokes melancholy. North and south of the road branch off endless rows of streets, crossed by streets laid out in a uniform check pattern. All these streets are similar and similarly situated like Euclid’s triangles. One wonders how a resident finds his own house; nevertheless the houses, though they are all alike, are all neat and clean and well kept. The people in them are prosi>erous, according to their views on prosperity, the streets are cheerful, though the road to which they belong is melancholy. “Alas!” it says, “how can one lie cheerful? I lead to Docks, and Limehouse, and Poplar, and Canning Town and the Isle of Dogs,” Mr Galley’s house was on the north side, conveniently near to a certain police court, in which he practised daily, sometimes coining home with as much as three or four half crown» in his poeket, sometimes with less; for competition among the professional solicitors in the police courts is keen and even fierce. Five shillings is a common fee for the defence of a prisoner, and rumour whispers that even this humble sum has to be shared secretly with a certain functionary who must be nameless.

A brass plate was on the door. “Mr Samuel Galley-Camgaigne, solicitor.” It was a narrow three storeyed house, quite respectable, and as depressing as the road in which it stood.

Leonard knocked doubtfully. After a few moments' delay the door was opened by a boy who had a pen stuck behind his ear.

“Oh! you want Mrs Galley?” he said. “There you are! Back parlour,” and ran up the stairs again, leaving the visitor on the door mat.

He obeyed, instructions. however, and opened the door indicated. He found himself in a small back room—pity that the good old word “parlour” has gone out!- —where there were sitting three ladies representing three stages of human life; namely, twenty, fifty and seventy. The table was laid for tea; the kettle was on the old fashioned hob — pity that the hospitable hob has gone —singing; the buttered toast and the muffins were before the fire, within the high old fashioned fender; the tea things and the cake and the bread and butter were on the table: and the ladies were in their Sunday “things.” waiting for him. It was with some relief that Leonard observed the absence of Mr Samuel.

The eldest of the three ladies welcomed him. “My grand-nephew Leonard." she said, giving him her hand.

“I am very glad—very glad indeed — to make your acquaintance. This.” she introduced the lady of middle life, “is my daughter-in-law. the widow—alas!—of my only son. And this,” indicating the girl, “is my granddaughter.”

The speaker was a gentlewoman. The fact was proclaimed in her speech; in her voice; in her bearing; in her fine features. She was tall, liku the rest of the family; her abundant white hair was confined by a black lace cap, the last of the family pos sessions; her cheek was still soft, touched with gentle colour and a tender bloom; her eyes were still full of light and warmth; her hands were delicate; her figure was still shapely; there was no bending of the shoulders; no dropping of the head. She reminded Leonard of the Recluse; but her expression was different; his was hard and defiant, hers was gentle and sad.

The second lady, who wore a widow's cap and a great quantity of black crape, evidently belonged to anothei class. Some people talk of a lower middle class. The distinction. 1 know, is invidious. Why do we say the lower middle class? We do not say the lower upper class. However, this lady belonged to the great and numerous class which has to live on slender means, and has to consider, before all things, the purchasing power of sixpence. This terrible necessity, when in its worst form, takesail the joy and happiness out of life. When every day brings its own anxieties about this sixpence, there is left no room for the graces, for culture, for art, for jioetry,

for anything that is lovely and delightful. It makes life the continual endurance of fear, as dreadful as continued pain of body. Even when the terror of the morrow has vanished, oi is partly removed, the scars and the memory remain.

Mrs Galley the younger belonged to that class in which the terror of the morrow has been partly removed. But she rementbered. In what followed she sat in silence. But she occupied, as of ii'ght. the proud position of pouring out the tea. She was short of stature, and might have been at one time pretty.

The third, the girl, who was MaryAnne. the Board School teacher. In some respects resembled her mother, being short and somewhat insignificant of aspect. But when she spokw she disclosed capacity. It is not to girls without capacity and resolution that places in Board Schools are offered.

“Let me look at you, Leonard.” The old lady still held his hand. “Ah! what a joy it is to see once more one of my own people. You are very tall, Leonard, like the rest of us: you have ths Campaigne face; and you are proud, like my father and my brothers. It is fifty years—fifty years and moresince I have seen any of my own peo pie. We have suffered—we have suffered.” She sighed heavily. She released his hand. “Sit down, my dear,* she said, gently. “Sit down and foi once take a meal with us. Mary Anne, give your cousin some cake—it is my own inakingunless he will liegin with bread and butter.” The tea was conducted with some ceremony; indeed, it was an occasion; 'hospitalities were not often proffered in this establishment. Leonard was good enough to take some cake and two cups of tea. The old lady talked while the other two ministered.

“I know your name. Leonard,” she said. “I remember your birth, seven-and-twenty—yes, it was in 1872, about the same time as Samuel was born. Your mother and your grandmother lived together in Cornwall. I corresponded with my sister-in-law until she died; since then I have heard nothing about you. My grandson tells me that you are in the House. Father to son. We have always been in the House.” So she went on while the cups went round, the other ladies preserving silence. At last the banquet was considered finished. Mary Anne herself carried out the tea things. Mrs Galley the younger followed, and Leonard was left alone with flhe old lady, as had been arranged. She wanted to talk with him about the family.

“Look,” she said, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall, “that is the portrait of my husband at thirty. Not quite at 'his best—but—still handsome. don’t you think? As a young man he was considered very handsome indeed. His good looks went off early.” Leonard reflected that comeliness may go with very different forms of expression. In this case the expression was of a very inferior City kind. There also appeared to be a stamp or brand upon it is of strong drinks. “That is my son at the side. He was half a Campaigne to look at; but not a regular Campaigne. No; he had too miicb of the Galley in him. None of the real family pride, poor hoy!”

The face of the young man. apparently about twenty years of age. was weak and irresolute, and without character.

“That was why he remained only a clerk in the City all his life. If he had had any pride 'he would have risen.”

“I must tell you,” said Leonard, “that I have been kept, no doubt wisely, in ignorance of my own family history. It was only yesterday that I heard from your son that there have been troubles and misfortunes in our records.”

“Troubles and misfortunes? And you have never 'heard of them? Why —my children, who haven't nearly so much right as you to know, have learned the history of my people better than that of their own mother or their grandfather's people. To be sure, with the small folk, like those who live round here, trouble is not the same thing as with us. Mostly they live in trouble, and they look for nothing but misfortune, and they don't mind it a bit so long as they get their dinners. And you haven't even heard of the family misfortunes? I am astonished. Why, there never has been any family like ours for trouble. And you might have been cut off in your prime, or struck down with a

stroke, or been run over with a waggon. and never even known that you were born to misfortune as the sparks fly upwards.”

“Am I Ixirii to misfortune? More than other people?”

“(If course you are. That’s our distinction. That’s what it is to be a Campaigne. The misfortunes, however, don’t go on for ever. They will leave off after your generation. It will be when I am dead and gone, but I should like. I confess, to see happiness coming back to the family.” “Your grandson spoke of a murder and of a suicide among other things.” “Other things, indeed! Why, there was my husband's bankruptcy. There was your Uncle Fred and what he did. and my |K>or brother. There was a trial, too. Did he tell you about the trial?” "What trial?”

“The great trial for the murder. It’s a most curious case. 1 believe the man who was tried really did it. because no one else was about fhe place. But he got off. My father was very good about it; he gave the man counsel, who got him off. I’ve got all the evidence in the case—cut out of newspapers and pasted in a book. I will lend it to you if you like.”

“Thank you. It might be interesting,” he said, carelessly. “It is interesting. But don’t you call these filings enough misfortunes for a single family?” "Quite enough, but not enough to make us born to misfortune.”

“Oh. Leonard! If you had seen what I have seen, and suffered what 1 have suffered! I’ve been the most unfortunate of all. My brothers gone; poor dear Langley by his own 'hand; Christopher. dear lad. drowned; my father a wreck. Like him I live on. I live on. and wait for more trouble.” She shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes. “I was a poor neglected thing with no mother, and as good as no father, to look after me. Galley came along; he was handsome, and I thought he was a gentleman; so 1 married him. 1 ran away with him ami married him. Then I found out. lie thought I had a large fortune, and I had nothing: and father would not answer my letters. Well, he failed, and he used me cruelly—cruelly—-and poverty came on—grinding, horrible poverty. You don’t know, my dear nephew, what that means. I pray that you never may. There is no misfortune so bad as poverty, except it is dishonour. He died at last, and his son was a clerk, and kept us all. Now he’s dead, and my grandson keeps me. For fifty years I have been slave and housemaid and cook and drudge and nurse to my husband and my son and my grandson. And oh. I longed to speak onee more with one of my own people!”

Leonard took her hand and kissed it. There was nothing to be said. “Tell me more,” she said, “about yourself.”

He told her. briefly, his position and bis ambitions. “You have done well.” she said, “so far —but take care. There is the Family Luck. It may pass you over, but I don't know. I doubt. I fear. There are so many kinds of misfortune. 1 keep thinking of them all.” She folded her hands—resigned. “Let trouble come to me,” she said. “Not to you or the younger ones. To me. That is what I pray daily. I am too old to suffer. Leonard. T remember now that your grandmother spoke in one of her letters of keeping the children from the knowledge of all this trouble. Yes. I remember.” She went on talking: she told the

whole of the family history. She narrated every misfortune at length. To Leonard, listening in that little back room with the gathering twilight and the red tire, to the soft, sad voice of the mournful lady, there came again the vision of two women, lx>th in willows’ weeds, in the cottage among the flowers —tree fuchsias, climbing roses, myrtles, and Passion flowers. All through his childhood they sat together, seldom speaking, pale-faced, sorrowful. He understood now. It was not their husbands for whom they wept; it was for the fate which they imagined to be hanging over the heads of the children. Once he heard his mother say—now the words came back to h'.m—“Thank God! 1 have but one.”

"Leonard,” the old woman was going on, "for fifty years I have been considering and thinking. It means some great crime. The misfortunes began with my father; his life has been wrecked and ruined in punishment for some one else’s (‘rime. His was the first generation: mine was the second. All our lives have been wrecked in punishment for that crime. Then came the third—your father died early and his brother ran away because he was a forger. Oh! to think of a Campaigne doing such a thing! That was the third generation. You are the fourth -and the curse will be removed. I’nto the third and fourth—but not the fifth." “N es,” said Leonard. “I believe—l now remember—they thought— at home—something of this kind. But, my dear lady, consider. If misfortune falls upon us in consequence of some great crime commi t ted long ago and impossible to be repaired or undone. what is there for us but to sit. down quietly and to go on with our work?”

She shook her head. “It. is very well to talk. Wait, till tile blows begin. If we could find out ithe crime—but we never can. If we could atone—but we cannot. We are sio jtowerless—oh, my God! so powerless and yet so innocent!" She rose. She had said all she wished to say. Her face was buried in her handkerchief. I think it. consoled her to cry over the recollection of her sorrows almost as much as to tell (them to her gran clue phew. “I will come again.” he said. “If there is anything I can do—any increase to comfort ”

‘No —no—not that. dear Leonard. He will take it all”—she pointed in the direction of the office, the front room. “Only come again, and let me see you. sometimes.”

He pressed her hand again. “Have faith. dear lady. We cannot be crushed in revenge for a.nv crime bv any other person. Do not think of past sorrows. Do not tremble at imaginary dangers. The future is in the hands of Justice, not of Revenge.” They were brave words, but in his heart there lurked, say. the possibilities of apprehension. bn the hall. Samuel himself intercepted him. running out of liis office. “I had my tea in here.” he said, “because I wanted her to have a talk with you alone: and I’m sick of her family, to tell the truth, except for that chance of the accumulations. Did she mention them?” he whispered. “I thought she wouldn't. I can't get her to feel properly about the maltter. Women have got no im-nn-ination -none. Well, a, man like th-’t can't make a will. Ho can’t. Good evening. Mr Campaigne. We relv upon von to maintain the interests of the family. if necessary, .against madmen's wills. Those accumulations—Ah!”

(To be continued.)