The Fourth Generation.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue IV, 27 January 1900, Page 148

The Fourth Generation.

[COPYRIGHT.]

By

Sir Walter Besant.

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

CHAPTER XX. THE PASSING BELL. The passing bell informed the village that death had come at last to the old man of the Hall. The pride of the people, because no other village in England entertained a recluse who lived by himself in a great house and allowed everything to fall into decay, was taken from them. No more would strangers flock over on Sunday mornings from the nearest town and the villages round, to look over the wall at the tall, stalwart figure pacing his terrace in all weathers with the regularity of a pendulum. In the village house of call the men assembled to hear and tell and whisper what they had heard. Then the old story was revived- — the story which had almost gone out of men’s memoriesi—how the poor gentleman, then young, still under thirty, with a fine high temper of his own—it was odd how the fine high temper had got itself remembered—lost in a single day his wife and his brother-in-law, and never held up his head again, nor w’ent. out of the house, nor took notice of man. woman, or child, nor took a gun in his hand, nor called his dogs, nor rode to hounds, nor went to ehu roll. These reminiscences had been told a thousand times in the dingy little room of the village public-house. They reeked, like the room, of beer and tobacco and wet garments. For seventy years they had been told in the same words. They had been, so far, that most interesting form of imaginative work—the story without an end. Now the end had arrived and there would be no more to tell. The bell ceased, the story was finished. Then the door opened and bhe ci-devant scarer of birds appeared. He limped inside, he closed the door carefully; he looked around the room. He supported himself bravely with his two sticks and he begun to speak. “We’re all friends here? All friends’ There’s nobody here as will carry things to that young man? No.” “Take half-a-pint, Sexton.” “By your leave. Presently. I shall lend a hand to-morrow or next day to digging a grave. We must all eome to it. Why not, therefore?” He looked important, and evidently had something more to say, if he could find a way to say it. “We’re all thinking of the same thing.” 'he began. "It’s the old squire who now lies dead, and never went out of the place for seventy long years—as long as I can remember. Why? Because there was a man murdered and a woman died. Who was the murdered man? The squire's brother-in-law. Who murdered him? John Dunning, tihey said. John Dunning, he was tried and got off, and he went away. Who murdered that man? John Dunning didn’t. Why? Because John Dunning didn’t go to the wood for two hours afterwards. Who murdered that man. I say?” At this point, he accepted the hospitality of a glass of beer. "1 know who did it. I always have known. Nobody knows but me. I’ve known for all these years: and I’ve never told. For why? He would ha’ killed me too. For certain sure he would ha’ killeel me. Who was it then? I'll tell you. It was the man that lies dead over there. It was the squire himself—that’s who it was. No one else was in the wood all the morning but the squire and the other gentleman. I say the squire done it; the squire and nobody else. The squire done it. The squire done it." The men looked at each other in amazement. Then the blacksmith rose and he said, solemnly:

“Thomas, you’re close on eighty years of age. You’ve gone silly in your old age. You and your squire! 1 remember what my father said, ‘The squire, he left Mr Holms at the wood and turned back.’ That was the evidence at the inquest and the trial. You and your squire! Go home, Thomas, and go to bed and get your memory back again.” Thomas looked round the room again. The faces of all were hard and unsympathetic. He turned and hobbled out. The days that followed were few and evil, for he could speak about nothing else, and no one heeded his garrulous utterances. Assuredly if there had been a lunatic asylum in the village he would have been enclosed there. A fatal example of the mischief of withholding evidence! Now. had this boy made it clear at the inquest that the two gentlemen were together in the wood for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, one knows not what .might have followed. One of the London morning papers devoted a leading article to the subject of the modern Recluse. The following is a passage from that excellent leader: — “ The Hermit, or the Recluse, has long disappeared from the roadside, from the bridge end, from the river bank. His Hermitage sometimes remains, as at Warkworth, but the ancient oceu]>a.nt is gone. He was succeeded by the Eccentric, who flourished mightily in the last century and took many strange forms ; some lived alone, each in a single room ; some became misers and crept out at nigtht, to pick up offal for food ; some lived in hollow trees. Some never washed and allowed nothing in the house to be washed. There were no absurdities too ridiculous to be practised by' the Eccentric of the last century. “ For reasons which the writer of social manners may discover, the Eccentric has mostly followed the Recluse : there are none left. Therefore the life of the late Algernon Campa.igne, of Campaigne Park, Bucks, an Eccentric, of the eighteenth century' type, will afford a pleasing exception to the dull and monotonous chronicles of modern private life. “ This worthy, a country gentleman of good family and large estate, was married in quite early manhood, having succeeded to the property' at twen-ty-one or so. His health was excellent ; he was a model of humanity to look at, being much over six feet high and large of frame in proportion. He had gone through the usual course of public school and the University, not without distinction ; he had been called to the Bar ; he -was a magistrate ; and he was understood to have ambitions of a Parliamentary career. In a word, no young man ever started with fairer pros|»ects or with a better chance of success in whatever line he proposed to take up. “ Unfortunately a single tragic event blasted these prospects and ruined his life. His brother-in-law, a gentleman of his own rank and station, and his most intimate friend, while on a. visit at Campaigne Park, was brutally' murdered—by whom it was never discovered. The shock of this event brought, the young wife of Mr Campaigne. to premature labour, and killed her as well on the same day. “ This misfortune so weighed upon the unhappy' man that he fell into a despondent, condition, from which he never rallied. He entered into a voluntary retirement from the world. He lived alone in his great house, with no one but an occasional old woman for a housekeeper for the remainder of h’s life—seventy years. During the whole of that, time he has preserved absolute silence ; he has not uttered a word. He has neglected his affairs ; when his signature was absolutely necessary his agent left the document on his table, and next day found it signed. He would have nothing done to the house ; the fine furniture and the noble paintings are reported to

be ruined with damp and cold, his garden and glass-houses are overgrown and destroyed. He spent his mornings, in all weathers, walking up and down the brick terrace overlooking his ruined lawns ; he dined at one o’clock on a beefsteak and a bottle of port ; he slept before the fire all the afternoon, he went to bed at nine. He never opened a book or a newspaper or a letter. He was careless what became of his children, and he refused to see his friends. A more melancholy useless existence can hardly' be imagined. And his life he followed without the least change for seventy years. When he died, the day before yesterday, it was on his ninety-fifth birthday.” More followed, but these were the facts, as presented to the readers with a moral to follow. They- buried the old man with his forefathers “in sure and certain hope.” The words many' pass, perhaps, for he had been punished—if punishment can atone for crime. Constance brought him a message of forgiveness, but could he forgive himself ? All manner of sins can be forgiven. The murdered man, the dishonoured woman, the wronged orphan, the sweated workwoman, the ruined shareholder, the innocent man done to death or prison by perjury — all may lift up their hands in pity and ery aloud with tears their forgiveness, but will the guilty mam forgive himself ? Until he can the glorious streets of the New Jerusalem will be dark, the sound of the harp and the voices of praise will be but a confused noise, and the new life itself will be nothing better than an intolerable prolonging of the old burden. " Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” Then they went away, and when they were all gone the old bird-scarer came hobbling to the grave and looked into it and murmured, but not aloud, for fear the man in the grave might arise and kill him too: “You done it ! Yon done it! You done it!” The funeral party walked back to the house, Where for the first time for seventy' years there was a table spread. All were there—the ancient lady, daughter of the dead man, stately with her black silk and laces, with the bearing of a Duchess, leaning on the arm of her grand-nephew, the two grandsons, Fred and Christopher, the wife and children of the latter, Mr Samuel Galley and Mary Anne his sister, ami Constance, great-grandniece of the deceased. With them came the agent, a solicitor from the neighlKturing town. After luncheon the agent produced the will. “ This will,” he said, “ was drawn up by my great-grandfather in the year 1826 — exactly one month after the tragic event which so weighed upon his client's mind ” “ Was he in his right mind ?” asked Sam. turning very red. “I ask the question without prejudice.” “ Sir. he was always in his right mind. He would not speak, but on occasion he would write. He was never, down to the very end, in any sense out of his mind. I have letters and instructions from him, year after year, for seventy years—my' firm has acted for this family for a hundred years — which will establish his complete sanity, should that be questioned.” “Well, the Will.” said Sam. “Let’s get to the Will.” “I will read the Will.”

It was for a Will, short. When it was read, they looked at each other. “Perhaps,” said one, “you will explain what the WiH meanq.” “Certainly. The testatpr toad at the time of making his will a certain amount of personal property to bequeath. The property consisted partly of invested moneys, chiefly' his mother’s fortune. As he was an only child the whole of this fortune came to him. Partly it consisted of a town house in Berkeley Square, his pictures, his library, and his furniture, carriages, horses, etc. The latter part he has bequeathed to the heir of the Campaigne estate—to you, Mr Leonard. The former part, consisting of the invested moneys, he bequeathed to his three Children in equal portions. As the second child was drowned and left no heirs, this money will be divided among the heirs of the elder son and the daughter—you, Mrs Galley.” “With all the Accumulations,” cried Sain. “Ah!” with a long, long breath of relief. “No, not the Accumulations. The testator expressly states that tjhe amount standing in his name at that date shall be so divided. ‘And,’ he continues, ‘seeing that I may live some years against my desire, I bequeath all moneys arising out of interest, compound interest, new investments, and interest upon them, to the heirs of Langley Holms, my late brother-in-law, for a reason which he knows.’ ” “And we are to have none of the of our own money?” Sam sprang to his feet. “I give notice I shall dispute the Will.” “As you please, sir.” “Will you tell me,” asked Fred, “what is the sum to be divided among us?” “There was .£90,000, more or less, so invested. The half of that sum, or £45,000, will go to this lady, Mrs Galley; the other half, which means £15,000 a piece, tlo Mr Leonard Campaigne, Mr Frederick Campaigne, and Mr Christopher Campaigne.” "It’s only' £450 a year,” said Fred. “Humph! I can do better in Australia—with my letter.” He felt for the pocket-book which contained thafl letter. “It’s only' £450 a. year,” said Christopher to his son, “we shall do a great deal better with the Bureau.” “And t*he Accumulations?” affeked Samuel, once more. “Who is to have them?” “They amount to a very large sum of money—very large indeed. The only heir surviving of Mr Langley Holms is, I have just learned,” he turned to Constance, “this young lady.” CHAPTER XXI. THE FLOWER OF SYMPATHY. Leonard and Constance returned to town together. Some of the others stayed to look at the old place —the mouldy rooms, the worm-eaten hangings. the faded pictures, the ruined gardens. Tn the carriage the girl sat behind Leonard in silence, her hands folded, her eyes dropped. “You are a great heiress, Constance,” he said. “I learnt that the accumulations now amount to an immense sum. What will you do with all this money?” “I do not know. I shall pretend to myself that 1 haven’t got any. Perhaps in time someone may help me to use it. I have enough already. I do not want to buy anything that costs large sums. I do not want to dress more expensively, I have as good society' as I can desire, and I cannot, I believe, eat any more than 1 have always done.” “Yet how happy would some people be at such a windfall!” “The difficulty of doing something with it will be very' terrible. Let us never talk aboult it. Besides, that cousin of yours is going to set the will aside, if he can.” She relapsed into silence. It was not c(f her newly-acquired fortune that she was 'thinking.

They drove from the station to the "Mansions.” They mounted the stairs to the first floor. “Let me come in with you, Leonard,” she said. “I want to say something. It had better be said today and at once. Else it will become impossible.” He observed that she was embarrassed in her manner; that she spoke with some constraint, and that she was blushing. A presentiment seized him. Presentiment is as certain as coincidence. He, too, changed colour. But he waited. They remained standing face to face. “Tell me first,” she said, “is the Possession of your mind wholly gone? Are you quite free from the dreadful thing?” “Happily, yes. *1 am quite free. Mv mind is completely clear again. There is plenty to think about —one is not likely to forget the last few weeks —but I can think as I please. My will is my own once more.” “I also am quite free. The first thing that 1 want to say is this. What are we to do with our knowledge?” “You are the person to decide. If you wish, .it shall lie proclaimed abroad.” “I do not possibly wish that.” “Or—if you wish—a history of the case shall be written out and shown to every member of the family, and placed with the other documents of our people, so that those who follow shall be able to read and understand the history.” “No. I want the story absolutely closed so that it can never again be re-opened. In a few years the memory of the event itself will have vanished from the village; your cousins of the Commercial Road will certainly not. keep the story alive; besides, they know nothing. There remains only the Book of Extracts. Let us burn the Book of Extracts. Leonard produced the volume. Constance tore out the leaves one by one, rolled them up, laid them neatly in the grate, put the cover on the top, and set light to the whole. In one minute the dreadful story was destroyed; there was no more any evidence, ex eept in the piles of old newspapers which are slowly mouldering in thi vaults of the British Museum. “Never again!” she said. “Nevei again will we speak of it. Nobody shall know what we discovered. It is our secret—yours and mine. Whose secret should it be but yours and mine?” “If it were a burden to you, I would it were all mine.” “It is no burden henceforth. Why should that be a burden which has been forgiven? It is our secret, too, that the suffering was laid upon us, so that we might be led to the discovery of the truth.” “Were we led? You would make mi believe, Constance, even me, in supernatural guidance? But it seems natural, somehow, that- you should believe that we were, as you say, led,” “You, who believe nothing but what you see, you will not understand. Oh! It is so plain to me, so very plain. You have been forced—conqielled against your will—to investigate the ease. Who compelled you? I know not; but sincv the same force made me follow you, I think it was that murdered man him, self. Confess you were forced; you said so yourself.” “It is true that I have been absorbed in the case.” "Who sent your cousin from thu East End? Who fired your imagination with half-told tales of trouble? Wht. sent you the book? How do you ex plain the absorbing interest, of a case so old, so long forgotten?” “Is it not natural?” “No, it is not natural that a man of your will power should become the slave of a research so hopeless—as it seemed. Who was it, after we had mastered every detail and tried every theory and examined every scrap of evidence, and after you> had examined the ground and talked to the surviving witness—l say, after the way hair been prepared—who was it sent the two voices from the grave: the one which made it quite certain that those t.wo were the only persons in the wood and the other which showed that they were quarrelling, and the one was ungoverned in his wrath? Can you explain that, Leonard?” “\ on believe that we were led by unseen. hands, step by step, towards the discovery, for the purpose of those who led,” “There were two purposes. One for the consolation of that old man, and the other for yourself.”

“How for myself?” “Look, back only a month. Are you the same or are you changed? I told you then that you were outside all other men, and because you hao everything—wealth sufficient, pride oi ancestry, intellectual success, and no contact with the lower world, the vulgar and the common, or the criminal or the disreputable world. You reineinlier? Yes—are you changed?” “If to possess all these undesirable things ean change one, I am changed. - “If to lose the things which separate you from the world, and to receive the things which bring you nearer to the world, do change a man, then you ar«. changed. You will change more and more; because more and more you will feel that you belong to the world of men and women—not of caste and books. When all is gone there still remains yourself—alone before the world.” He made no reply. “Where is now your pride of birth? It is gone. Where is your contempt for things common and undean? You have had the vision of S. Pete,r..lf there are things common and unclean they belong to you as well as to the meanei sorts—for to that kind you also lielong.” “Something of this I have understood.” “And then there was the other purpose. While with blow after blow It is destroyed, you are led on a.nd on with this mystery; voices from the dead are brought to you till at. last the whole mystery is made plain and stands out confessed I—and 1 —and with it, I am moved and compelled to follow you, till at the end I am taken to see the dying man, and to deliver to him the forgiveness of the man he s’ew. Oh, Leonard, believe me; if it is true that the soul survives the death of the body, if it is possible for tne soul still to see what goes on among the living, then have you and I been moved and directed and led.” Again he made no reply. But he was moved beyond the power of speech. “Forgiveness came long since. Oh! I ami sure of that, long since. That which followed—was it Consequence or Punishment? —lasted for seventy years. Oh, what a life! Oh, what a long, long agony. Always to dwell it, one moment; day after day, night after night, with never a change and no end; to whirl the heavy branch upon the head of the brother, to see hin, fall back, dead, to know that he was a murderer. Leonard! Leonard! Think of it!” “I do think of it, Constance. But you must not go on thinking of it.” “No, no—this is the last time. For-, giveness, yes —he would forgive. God*s sweet souls cannot but forgive. But Justice must prevail, with the condemnation of self-reproach, till Fo>, giveness overcomes—until, in some mysterious way, the sinner ean forgive himself.” She sat down and buried her face in her hands. “You say that we have been led—perhaps. 1 neither deny nor accept. But whatever has been done for that old man whom we buried this morning, whatever has been done for the endowment of myself with cousins and people—well, of the more common sort—one thing more it has accomplished. Between you and me, Constance, there flows a strea.ni of blood.” She lifted her head; she rose from the chair she stepped closer to him; she stood before him face to face, her hands clasped, her face pale, the tears yet lying on her cheek, her eyes soft and full of a strange tender light. “You asked me, three or four weeks ago,” she said, “to marry you. I refused. I told you that I did not know the meaning of Love or the necessity for Love. I now understand that it means, above all. the perfect sympathy and the necessity for sympathy. I now understand, besides, that you did not then know, any more than I myself, the necessity for sympathy. You were a lonely man, content to be lonely. and sufficient for yourself. You were a proud man — proud through and through, belonging to a caste separated from the people by a long line of ancestry and a record full of honour. You had no occasion to earn your daily bread; you were already distinguished; there was no man of your age in the whole country more fortunate than you. or more self-centred. I was able to esteem you—but you could not move mv heart. Are yon following me. Leona rd ?” “I am trying to follow you.”

“Many things have happened to you since then. You have joined the vast company of those who suffer from the sins of their own people; you have known shame ami humiliation ” “And between us flows that stream.” Even for a strong and resolute woman. who is not afraid of misunderstanding and does not obey conventions, there are some things very hard to say. “There is one thing, and only one thing, Leonard, that can dry that stream.” His face ehanged. He understood what she meant. “Is there anything? Think, Constance, Langley Holms was your ancestor. He was done to death by mine.” “Yes, there is one way. Oh, Leonard, in this time of trouble and anxiety I have watched you. day by day. I have found the man beneath the scholar. If I had accepted your offer

three weeks ago it woujd have been out of respect for the scholar. But a woman can only love a man—not a scholar, believe me, nor a student — nor a poet, nor an artist, nor anything except a man.” “Constance! It is impossible! You are his daughter.” “It is fortunate that I am, as you say, the daughter of the man who was killed. He suffered less than the other. The suffering was but a pang; but the other's—oh. it was a lifelong agony! If I marry the son of the man who did the wrong it is because the message I carried to the dying man was a sign that all was forgiven—‘to the third and fourth generation.’ ” “Tell me. Constance, is this pity, or ?” “Oh, Leonard. I know not what flowers there are which grow out of pity and sympathy, but- ” She said no more, because there was no need. [THE END.]