The Fourth Generation

“And so you come to me. Why should I pay your Hotel Bill?”

“There is no reason that I know of except the fact that I have referred the Hotel Clerk to you as a Member of Parliament and a gentleman.”

“You come home boasting of your wealth, being next door to penniless.”

“You forget – the Accumulations – ”

“And you end with the confession that you were lying.”

“You mean putting the best foot forward – presenting myself in the enviable light of the successful uncle – the modern Nabob.”

“And you levy money on your people?”

“I borrow on my reversionary interests – in the Accumulations.”

“I will pay your bill on the understanding that you take yourself off. How much is it?”

Uncle Fred named the amount. It was a staggerer.

“Good Heavens! Man, you must have bathed in champagne.”

“There has been champagne,” Fred replied with dignity. “I had to support my position. City men lunched with me and dined with me. We discussed the Fourth Act in the Comedy of Barlow Brothers – the Realisation. As for the Bill, I borrow the amount.”

Leonard sat down and wrote a cheque. Uncle Fred took it, read it, folded it, and sighed with a tear of regret that he had not named double the amount.

“Thanks,” he said. “The act was ungraciously performed. But the main thing is to get the cheque. That I have always felt, even when I got it out of old Sixty per Cent. Well, I go back to a land which has been hitherto inhospitable. Farewell, my nephew. I shall bask: I shall batten, whatever that means: I shall fatten: I shall swell out with fatness in the sunshine – the Sydney sunshine is very fattening – of gratitude, and the generosity of a Sydney millionaire.”

He buttoned his coat, and went away with loud and resounding footsteps, as he had come, the furniture cracking, the picture-frames rattling. So far, Leonard has not received the promised explanation of the Mystery of Barlow Brothers; nor has that check been returned. There remained one more credit to the Family. It was Christopher, the eminent and learned counsel.

He, too, called half an hour after the departure of his brother.

“I came,” he said, “first of all to warn you against giving or lending any more money to that fraud – my brother Fred.”

“You are too late, then. I have paid his hotel bill. You have paid his passage out – ”

“No, I paid his hotel bill; you paid his passage out.”

“Oh, well! so long as he goes – ”

“I paid his hotel bill because he threatened to go into the City and expose my real name.”

“Go into the City? What could he do in the City? Whom does he know in the City? Your brother is just a mass of lies and impostures. What does it matter if he is really going?”

“He must go. Nobody except you and me will lend or give him any money. He goes as he came – the wealthy Australian. He has promised my people to make them rich by his will: he hinted at an incurable disorder: and he bade farewell for ever – with my cheque in his pocket!”

“Let him go. You had something else to say?”

“Yes. It was about my own affairs. They know all, Leonard.”

“They know all? Who told them?”

“I’ve had a terrible time with the wife and daughter. But they know all. That vindictive little Beast called at the house, went upstairs, and told them everything. Then he went away grinning. There was a terrible scene.”

“So I should suppose.”

“Yes. It’s all right, though, at last. I persuaded them, with a good deal of trouble, that the profession was rather more holy than the Church. I set forth the facts – the honour and glory – the secret diffusion and cultivation of a better taste – higher standards – a Mission – nobler æsthetics – and the income – especially the income.”

“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, I told them, 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 has fished it all out. Why, sir, the man is a Fraud – a common Fraud! He buys everything!”

So with this tribute to truth and honesty the weaver of speeches for other people 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. The pretence of it, the ready way in which his cousin Algernon had dropped into it, belonged to someone else – not to himself. The family honour – such as he had always regarded it and believed in it – was gone – smashed and broken up into fragments. The House of the Campaignes, like every other family, had its decaying branches; its dead branches; its off-shoots and humble branches; its branches of dishonour.

There is no such thing existing as a family where men have been always Bayards and its women always beyond reproach. Upon him had fallen the blow of finding out the things concealed: the blot on the scutcheon, the ugly stories of the past: the poor relations and the unworthy relations. The discovery humiliated him at the outset: it became rapidly a thing apart from himself and outside himself. Uncle Fred might be an impostor and fraud. Very good. It mattered nothing to him. Uncle Christopher was a pretender and a humbug – what did it matter? The East-End solicitor was a person with no pretence at honour and honesty – what did it matter? They belonged to him by blood relationship; yet he was still – himself.

Only one thing remained. And now even the horror of that was more tolerable than the humiliation of the first revelations. It was the terrible story of the crime and the seventy years of expiation in which there had been no expiation, because nothing can ever atone for a crime or make it as if it had not been.

Men pray for forgiveness – “neither reward us after our iniquities.”

There should be another and a less selfish prayer that all shall be in the world as if the iniquity had never been committed: that the consequences of the iniquity shall be stayed, miraculously stayed – because, but for a miracle, they must take their course according to the great law of Nature, that nothing can happen save under conditions imposed by the record of the past. The dream of the sinner is that he shall be forgiven and shall go straight to the land of white clothing and hearts at peace for ever, while down below the children and the grandchildren are in the misery of the consequences – the inevitable consequences of his follies and his crimes. So every soul stands or falls by itself, yet in its standing or in its falling it supports or it drags down the children and the grandchildren.

These thoughts, and other thoughts like unto these, crowded into the brain of the young man when he sat alone – the dossier of the crime locked up in the drawer – the disgraces of his cousins pushed aside – and the crime which caused so much little more than a memory and an abiding pity. Everything had come to Leonard which Constance, not knowing what the words might mean, desired for him. How great the change it made in him, as yet he hardly suspected.

CHAPTER XX

HE SPEAKS AT LAST

WAS it really the last day of Visitation? Punishment or Consequence, would there be no more?

Punishment or Consequence, it matters little which. 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. There is a change.”

A change! When a man is ninety-five 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. How 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 plain and unmistakable. It came to me in the night. I thought it was a dream. Now I think it was a message.”

“You said that all the misfortunes were over. Like your message, it was a dream. Yet now we get this telegram.”

“Why – do you call this a misfortune? What better 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 early spring. 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, even 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.

“Let us sit down in this place,” said Leonard. “Before we go on I have something to say – I should like to say it before we are face to face with that most unhappy of men.”

Constance obeyed and sat down upon the stile.

“When we came here before,” he began, with a serious voice and grave eyes, “I was fresh from the shame and the discovery of the family misfortunes. And we talked of the sins of the fathers, and the eating of sour grapes, and the consolation of the Prophet – ”

“I remember every word.”

“Very well. I think you will understand me, Constance, when I say that I am rejoiced that I made the discovery of this fatal family history with all that it entailed – the train of evils and shames – yes, even though it has led to these weeks of a kind of obsession or possession, during which I have been unable to think of anything else.”

“What do you think now? Are the sins of the fathers visited upon the children, or was the Prophet right?”

“I see, with you, that it is impossible to avoid the consequences of the father’s life and actions. The words ‘Third or Fourth Generation’ must not be taken literally. They mean that from father to son there is a continual chain of events linked together and inseparable, and always moulding and causing the events which follow, and this though we know not the past and cannot see the connecting links that form the chain. In a higher stage humanity will refrain from some things and will be attracted by other things entirely through the consideration of their effect upon those who follow after. It will be a punishment self-imposed by those who fall that they must, in pity and in mercy, have no children to inherit their shame.”

“You put my own thoughts into words. But about the children I am not so sure; their very shames may be made a ladder such as Augustine made his sins.”

“There is nothing so true as the inheritance of consequences, except that one does not inherit the guilt. Even with the guilt there is sometimes the tendency to certain lines of action. ‘Nothing so hereditary as the drink craving,’ says the physician. So I suppose there may be a hereditary tendency in other directions. Some men – I have known some – cannot sit down to steady work; they must lie about in the sun; they must loaf; they have a vitium, an incurable disease, as incurable as a humpback, of indolence, mind and body. Some seem unable to remain honest – we all know examples of such men; some cannot possibly tell the truth. What I mean” – Leonard went on, clearing his own mind by putting his wandering thoughts into argumentative array – “is that the liability to temptation – the tendency – is inherited, but the necessity which forces a man to act is not inherited; that is due to himself. What says the Prophet again? ‘As I live, saith the Lord God’ – saith the Lord God. It is magnificent; it is terrible in its depth of earnestness. He declares an inspiration; through him the Lord strengthens His own word – veritably strengthens His own word – by an oath, ‘As I live, saith the Lord God.’ Can you imagine anything stronger, more audacious, but for the eternal Verity that follows?”

The speaker’s voice trembled; his cheek, touched by the setting sun, glowed; the light of the western sky filled his eyes. Constance, woman-like, trembled at the sight of the man who stood revealed to her – the new man – transformed by the experience of shames and sorrows.

“As the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is Mine; but if a man doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live, saith the Lord God.”

“ ‘Saith the Lord God!’ ” Leonard repeated. “What must have been the faith of a man who could so attribute his words? How to sound the depths of his faith and his insight?”

“He verily believed that he heard the voice of the Lord.”

“We live for and by each other,” Leonard returned. “We think that we stand by ourselves, and we are lifted up by the work of our forefathers; we talk as if we lived alone, and we are but links in the chain; we are formed and we form; we are forged and we forge. I have been like unto one who stands in a crowd and is moved here and there, but believes all the time that he is alone on a hill-top.” He was silent for awhile. Presently he went on. “All that has followed the crime,” he said, “has been in the nature of consequence. The man who committed the act retired from the world; he deserted the world; he gave up his duties; he resigned his children to others. One of them went to sea; he was drowned; others were drowned with him – that was but a consequence. His daughter, neglected and ill educated, ran away with a vulgar adventurer whom she took for a gallant gentleman – that was a consequence. His son found out the dreadful truth and committed suicide; his boys had no father; two of them fell into evil ways – that was a consequence. My own father died young, but not so young as to leave me a mere infant – that was a misfortune, but not a consequence. In other words, Constance, the sins of that old man have been visited upon the children, but the soul of the son has been as the soul of the father. That is the sum and substance of the whole. The consequences are still with us. That poor lady in the Commercial Road is still in the purgatory of poverty which she brought upon herself. Her son is, and will continue, what he is. Her daughter rises above her surroundings. ‘She shall surely live, saith the Lord God.’ My two uncles will go on to the end in their own way, and so, I suppose, shall I myself.”

He stopped; the light went out of his eyes. He was once more outwardly his former self.

“That is all, Leonard?”

“That is all. I want you to understand that at the end – if this is the end – I desire to feel towards that old man no thought or feeling of reproach, only of pity for the fatal act of a moment and the long punishment of seventy years – and you, whose ancestor he smote – ”

“Only with forgiveness in the name of that ancestor and of pity akin to yours and equal to yours. Come, Leonard: perhaps the end has come already.”

They entered the Park by the broken gate and the ruined Lodge.

“I have been looking for some such call,” said Constance. “This morning 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 well – “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 a happiness that there is always an end of everything – of 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 glories 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 – forgiveness.”

Everything 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 news that there was a “change” – word meaning much – at the Hall had reached the village. 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 to be 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 early 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 memories – 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 went 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 church.

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 story was finished. Then the door opened, and the 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 began 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, Thomas.”

“By your leave. Presently. I shall lend a hand to-morrow or next day to digging a grave. We must all come 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 will soon be lyin’ dead, how he 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 man murdered? The Squire’s brother-in-law. Who murdered him? John Dunning, they said. John Dunning, he was tried and he 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 the proffered glass of beer.

“I know who done 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’ killed me. Who was it, then? I’ll tell you. It was the man that lies a-dyin’ 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! I remember what my father said, ‘The Squire, he left Mr. Holme 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.

Thomas did not go home. He turned his steps in the direction of the Hall, and he hobbled along with a purpose in his face. His revelation had been received with scorn and derision. Perhaps in another place it would be received with more respect.

The housekeeper met Leonard and Constance at the open door. It had stood open all day, as if for the admission of the guest whose wings were hovering very near.

“He’s in the library,” said the woman, with the corner of her apron brushing away the tears with which women-servants always meet the approach of Azrael. “I wanted him to go upstairs and to bed, but he takes no notice. He’s been in the library nearly all day.”

“Did he go out this morning after breakfast?”

“He took his breakfast as usual, and he went out afterwards as usual, walking as upright as a post, and looking as strong and as hard as ever. After a bit he stopped and shook all over. Then he turned round and went indoors. He went into the library, and he sat down before the fire.”

“Did he speak?”

“Never a word. I offered him a glass of wine, but he only shook his head. At one o’clock I took him his dinner, but 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’s 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 went 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 great head lying back – splendid even in decay, like autumn opulent. His eyes 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! I know what they are and whose they are.” She drew down her veil to hide her tears.

The sun had now gone down. 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 flickering lights and shadows about the room; they lit up the face of the old man, and his figure seemed to stand out clear and 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 out of it. What was come to take their place? As yet, nothing but doubt and pain and trouble. As for the whispers, there was no proof that 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.