_The Fourth Generation_
_The FOURTH
GENERATION_
_BY_
_SIR WALTER BESANT_
_Author of_
“ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,” “THE MASTER
CRAFTSMAN,” “A FOUNTAIN SEALED,” “THE
CITY OF REFUGE,” ETC.
[Illustration: colophon]
_FOURTH EDITION_
_NEW YORK_
_Frederick A. Stokes Company_
_Publishers_
COPYRIGHT, 1899, 1900,
BY WALTER BESANT.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A REMOTE ANCESTOR 1
II. WHAT HE WANTED 24
III. SOMETHING TO COME 49
IV. THE COMPLETE SUPPLY 59
V. A LEARNED PROFESSION 74
VI. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 90
VII. THE CHILD OF SORROWS 103
VIII. IN THE LAND OF BEECHES 118
IX. MARY ANNE 151
X. A DINNER AT THE CLUB 164
XI. THE BOOK OF EXTRACTS 174
XII. ON THE SITE 202
XIII. A COMPROMISE 224
XIV. CONSULTATION 232
XV. “BARLOW BROTHERS” 248
XVI. AND ANOTHER CAME 258
XVII. YET ANOTHER! 278
XVIII. THE LIGHT THAT BROKE 290
XIX. THE SIGNS OF CHANGE 306
XX. HE SPEAKS AT LAST 322
XXI. THE WILL 341
PREFACE
It is perhaps well to explain that this story first appeared as a serial
early in 1899: that on revision it was found desirable partly to rewrite
certain chapters and to enlarge upon certain points. The structure of
the story, the characters, and the situations remain unaltered.
The question with which the story deals is not fully answered. It is one
of those questions which can never be answered; from time to time every
man must ask himself why the innocent must suffer, and do suffer every
day and in every generation, for the follies and the sins of their
forefathers. Every man must find his own answer, or must acknowledge
sorrowfully that he can find none. I venture to offer in these pages an
answer that satisfies myself. It substitutes consequence for punishment,
and puts effect that follows cause in place of penalties. And, as I hope
is made plain, it seems to me that I have no less an authority for this
view than the greatest of the Prophets of Israel. The consequences of
ancestral and paternal actions may be a blessing and a help: or they may
be a curse and a burden for generations; in either case they are
consequences which can only affect the body, or the mind, or the social
position of the descendants. They may make ambition impossible: they may
make action impossible: they may keep a man down among the rank and
file: but they cannot do more. The Prophet defines and limits their
power. And the consequences, whatever they are, may be made a ladder for
the soul to rise or a weight to drag it down. In the pages which follow
they are shown as to some a ladder, but to others a way of descent.
W. B.
UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB,
_June, 1900_.
THE FOURTH GENERATION
CHAPTER I
A REMOTE ANCESTOR
It was a morning of early March, when a northeast wind ground together
the dry branches on which as yet there were no signs of coming spring;
the sky was covered by a grey cloud of one even shade, with no gleams of
light or streak of blue, or abatement or mitigation of the sombre hue;
the hedges showed as yet no flowers, not even the celandine; the earth
had as yet assumed no early vernal softening; there were no tender
shoots; dolefully the birds cowered on the branches, or flew up into the
ivy on the wall, where they waited for a milder time, with such patience
as hunger only half appeased would allow. Those who lived upon berries
and buds remembered with anxiety that they had already eaten up all the
haws and stripped the currant bushes of all their buds, and must now go
further afield; those who hunt the helpless chrysalis, and the slug and
the worm and the creeping creatures of the field, reflected that in such
weather it was impossible to turn over the hard earth in search of the
former, or to expect that the latter would leave their winter quarters
on such a day. At such a time, which for all created things is far worse
than any terrors offered by King Frost, the human creatures who go
abroad wrap themselves in their warmest, and hurry about their business
in haste, to finish it and get under shelter again.
The south front of the house looked down upon a broad terrace paved with
red bricks; a balustrade of brick ran along the edge of the terrace; a
short but nobly designed and dignified flight of stairs led into the
garden, which began with a broad lawn. The house itself, of the early
eighteenth century, was stately and spacious; it consisted of two
stories only; it had narrow and very high windows; above the first-floor
windows ran a row of small circular louvres set in the roof, which was
of a high pitch and of red tiles; the chimneys were arranged in artistic
groups or stacks. The house had somewhat of a foreign appearance; it was
one of considerable pretension; it was a house which wanted to be
surrounded by ancient trees, by noble gardens and stately lawns, and to
be always kept deep in the country, far away from town houses and
streets; in the surroundings of a city, apart from gardens, lawns, park
and lordly trees, it would have been out of place and incongruous. The
warm red brick of which it was built had long since mellowed with age;
yellow lichen clung to the walls here and there; over one wing, that of
the west, ivy grew, covering the whole of that end of the house.
The gardens were more stately than the house itself. They began with a
most noble lawn. On one side grew two cedars of Lebanon, sweeping the
bare earth with their drooping branches. On the other side rose three
glorious walnut-trees. The space between was a bowling-green, on which
no flower-beds had ever been permitted. Beyond the bowling-green,
however, were flower-beds in plenty. There were also box-trees cut into
the old-fashioned shapes which one only sees in old-fashioned gardens.
Beyond these was a narrow plantation of shrubs, mostly evergreen. Then
stretched out, in order, the ample kitchen-gardens, the crowded orchard,
and the “glass.” Here, also, were ranged the beehives in a row, for the
owners of the house were bee-masters as well as gardeners.
The whole was stately. One was filled with admiration and respect for so
noble a house, so richly set, only by walking along the road outside the
park and gazing upon the house from a distance. There were, however,
certain bounds imposed upon the admiration and respect of the visitor.
These were called for, in fact, by the gardens, and the lawns, and the
“glass,” as they must have been in the past. As for the garden of the
present, it was difficult even to guess when the hand of man, the spade
of the gardener, had last touched any part of the place. Everything was
overgrown; weeds covered the ground which had once been beds of
asparagus and celery; the strawberry plants fought for existence with
thistles, and maintained it, by the sacrifice of fruit; couch grass and
those thistles, with shepherd’s-purse and all the weeds of the field,
covered and concealed the flower-beds. The lanes and walks were covered
ways, long since rendered impassable by reason of branches that had shot
across them; the artificial shapes of the box-trees, formerly so trim
and precise, showed cloudy and mysterious through the branches which had
grown up outside them; the bowling-green was covered with coarse grass
never mown from year to year. In the glass houses the doors stood open:
the glass was broken; the vines grew wild, pushing their way through the
broken panes. There could be no respect possible for a garden in such a
condition. Yet, the pity of it! the pity of it! So fine a place as it
had been, as it might again become, if gardeners were once more ordered
to restore it to its ancient splendours!
If one turned from the garden and walked towards the house, he would
notice, first, that the stairs of brick leading to the terrace were a
good deal battered and broken; that many bricks had been displaced, that
weeds grew between the bricks, that in the balustrade there were places
where the square brick pillars were broken away; that if he mounted the
stairs, the brick pavement of the terrace showed holes and damaged
places here and there; that if he looked at the house itself he would
discern there, as well as in the garden, a certain air of neglect and
decay. The window-frames wanted painting, the door wanted painting,
there were no curtains or blinds visible anywhere; one or two panes of
glass were broken, and not even patched. Stately, even in decay, were
house and gardens; but the spectator shivered, as one shivers at the
sight of age and decay and death hovering over what should still be
rejoicing in the strength of manhood.
On this morning, when the cold of winter ushered in the deceitful
spring, a man was walking to and fro on the brick terrace. He was a man
very far advanced in life. Cold as he was, he wore no overcoat; he had
no wrapper or handkerchief round his neck; he wore no gloves.
When one looked more closely, he was not only advanced in years: he was
full of years--overfull, running over. His great age was apparent in the
innumerable lines of his face; not in the loss of his hair, for his
abundant white locks fell flowing, uncut and untrimmed, upon his
shoulders, while a full white beard lay over his ample chest. His age
was shown by the heightening of the cheek-bones and the increased
prominence of the nose, in the sunken mouth, and the thin lips, and the
deep-set eyes. But though his face had been roughly handled by time, his
frame seemed to have escaped any touch. Old as he was, he bore himself
upright still; he walked with a firm, if not an elastic, step; he
carried a stick, but did not use it. He was still six feet four, or
even more, in stature; his shoulders were still broad, his back was not
curved, nor was his huge, strong body bowed, nor were his strong legs
bent or weakened. Nothing could be more anomalous than the difference
between the man’s face, chipped and lined and covered with curves and
diagrams, like an Ordnance Survey map, and his figure, still so strong,
so erect, so vigorous.
He walked from one end of the terrace to the other rapidly, and, so to
speak, resolutely. Then he turned and walked back. He look neither to
one side nor to the other; he was absorbed in some kind of meditation,
for his face was set. It was a stern face naturally; the subject of his
thoughts made it, perhaps, still harder and more stern. He wore a kind
of shooting-jacket, a broad-brimmed felt hat, stout boots fit for the
fields, and leggings, as if he were going to take out his gun, and he
carried his stick as if it had been a gun. A masterful man--that was
apparent at the outset; aggressive--that was also apparent at the
moment; defiant--of what? of whom? Evidently a man built originally as a
fighting man, endowed with great courage and enormous strength;
probably, also, with a quick temper; retaining still the courage, though
some of the strength had gone, and the fighting temperament, though his
fighting days were done.
There was no sound about the place--no clatter of servants over their
work, no footsteps in the house or outside it, no trampling of horses
from the stables, or sight of gardeners working quietly among the
forlorn flower-beds: all was silent. And the cold wind whistled, and the
old man, without the common protection from the wintry wind, walked
methodically and rapidly from east to west and from west to east.
So he went on all the morning, hour after hour, untiring over this
meaningless exercise. He began it at nine, and at half-past twelve he
was still marching in this aimless manner, turning neither to the right
nor to the left, and preserving unchanged that fixed expression which
might have meant patience--a very old man has to be patient--or it might
have been, as I have called it, defiance: a man who has known
misfortunes sometimes acquires this expression of defiance, as one who
bids Fortune do her very worst, and, when she can do no more, still
repeats with courage, ‘Come what may.’
In the distance, half a mile or so away, was a clock in a church-tower.
If one listened from the garden, one might hear the striking of the
hours; without waiting for it and expecting it, one would not hear the
clock at all. A melodious clock at a distance falls in with the general
whisper of the atmosphere. We call it silence, but, indeed, there is no
such thing in Nature. Silence would drive us mad. In the country we hear
a gentle whisper, tuneful and soothing, and we say it is the sweet
silence of the country; but it is not--it is the blend of all the
country sounds.
The morning dragged on slowly. The beat of the old man’s footstep on the
terrace was as regular as the ticking of a clock. Neither in his
carriage, nor in his pace, nor in his face was there the least change.
He walked like a machine, and his face was as expressionless as any face
of idol or of an image.
It was about eleven o’clock that another step might have been heard. The
step of a man on dry branches and among dead leaves. The old man on the
terrace paid no attention: he made as if he heard nothing: when the
figure of a rustic emerged from the orchard and stood under the
walnut-trees, the old man of the terrace made as if he saw nothing.
The rustic was also well advanced in age, though far short of the tale
of years which belonged to the other. He was dressed as one who goes
afield: he walked as one who has spent his life in the ridges and
furrows of the ploughed field: he carried a spade over his shoulder.
Standing under the walnut-trees, he lowered his spade and laid his hands
upon the handle as if to support himself. And then he gazed upon the old
man of the terrace. He did not, after the wont of some men, pretend to
be at work and cast a furtive glance of curiosity. On the contrary, he
made no pretence at all: he leaned upon his spade, and he gazed boldly
and without any shame. He marked the steady and firm step of the man:
his own step was not half so firm or half so steady: he marked the
bearing of the man: his own back was bent and his shoulders lowered: he
marked the health and strength that still lay in his face: his own
cheeks were wrinkled and his eyes were dim. Presently he lifted his
spade to his shoulder and he turned away. “If I go first----” he said.
Whether he came or whether he departed, whether he walked in silence
over the coarse grass or snapped the twigs and rustled the dead leaves,
the old man of the terrace took no notice. He neither saw nor heard
anything.
Then the east wind continued dry and cold, and the birds chirped in
discomfort, and the branches in the orchard fell to grinding each other,
and the old man walked on. And the quarters struck from the church-tower
somewhere, not far off.
At the open door of the house, at about half-past twelve, there appeared
a young man dressed warmly, as was due to the weather. He was tall--over
six feet in height; his face resembled that of the old man strikingly;
he was certainly some close relation. He stood at the door looking on
while that walk, as dismal, as monotonous, as purposeless as that of
prisoners in their yard, went on minute after minute, hour after hour.
He stood there, not hour after hour, but for a full half-hour, watching
and wondering.
“Always and every day--and for all these years!”--to give words to his
thoughts. “Why this tramp day by day every morning; always alone, always
silent, seeing and not seeing, dead to outward things, apart from the
world, taking no interest in the world? No recluse in a vault could be
more lonely. No occupation; nothing to do; nothing to think about. Good
heavens! what does he think about? No books, no newspapers to read; no
letters to write. Why?”
The young man was the great-grandson of this ancient person: he was not
only the great-grandson, but the heir to the house and the estates which
belonged to the house: next to this old man he was the head of the
family. He therefore, as a mark of respect and a matter of duty, ran
down from London occasionally to see that his ancestor was properly
cared for and in health. He was also in communication with the
solicitors who managed the property.
It was a very curious case: from childhood the young man had been told
of the strange and eccentric great-grandfather. He lived alone: he had
no other servant than a woman with her daughter: he only saw them when
they brought his meals: he received no visitors: he never went out of
the house except to walk every morning, whatever the weather, for four
hours up and down the terrace: he never spoke even to his housekeeper:
if anyone spoke to him, he made no reply: he never read
anything--neither book nor paper: his affairs were in the hands of a
firm of solicitors in the neighbouring market-town: when they wanted his
signature to a cheque, they drew it and sent it in to him, when he
signed and returned it; when they consulted him concerning business, he
received their statements in writing, and replied with the greatest
brevity: there was no sign of mental derangement: so far as the
solicitors, the only persons who were able to speak on the subject,
understood, the man’s faculties were perfectly sound and his intellect
as clear as ever. Moreover, there was no sign upon him of any
hallucination, any melancholia, any mental trouble: if he maintained
silence, his face betrayed no perturbation. Day after day he presented
to the morning sun a calm and cloudless face: if he smiled not, neither
did he sigh.
Now, the most remarkable thing was that this eccentricity, which might
have been explained on the theory of great age and the loss of all his
friends and contemporaries, had been practised for nearly seventy years.
As a young man, quite a young man, he began this life, and he had
continued it ever since. The reason, his great-grandson had always
understood, was the shock caused by the sudden death of his wife.
Further than this he neither knew nor did he inquire. If one grows up in
presence of a certain strange line of conduct, it becomes accepted
without inquiry. The old man had become a solitary when this young man’s
grandfather was a boy: his grandfather, his father, and he himself had
always had before them the knowledge, if not the sight, of this
eccentricity. There was no curiosity in his mind at all about the
possible cause.
Seventy years! It is the whole life of the average man, and this
strange creature had spent the whole time alone, in silence, in
solitude, and without occupation. It was not the whole span of the man’s
own life, for he was now completing his ninety-fourth year.
From the distant church-tower came presently the striking of the
quarters followed by the stroke of one. At that moment an old woman came
out; she passed in front of the visitor in the doorway, and stood
watching to catch the eye of the master. She said nothing, but waited
there until he noticed her presence. Perhaps he was expecting her. He
stopped; the old woman retired; her master entered the house, taking no
notice whatever of the young man as he passed him; his eyes looked
through him with no gleam of recognition or even of intelligence as to
his presence. Yet this young man, the only one of all his descendants,
paid him a visit once a month or so to see if he was still in health.
He walked straight into the room which was the single sitting-room and
dining-room and living-room. It had been the library--a large room with
a north aspect, lofty, and at all times of the year rather dark and
cold. A good fire burned in the broad old-fashioned grate. Before the
fire was a small table--it had formerly stood in the window for a
reading or writing table; now it served as a table set there for the old
man’s meals. The cloth was, in fact, spread, and the early dinner laid
upon it--a plain dinner of steak, potatoes, and a bottle of port, which
is a beverage proper to old age; it warms and comforts; it pleases and
exhilarates; it imparts a sense of strength, and when the common forms
of food can no longer be taken, this generous drink supplies their
place. The walls were lined with shelves which were filled with books.
Evidently some former member of the family had been a scholar and a
bibliophile. The books were all bound in leather; the gilt of the titles
had mostly disappeared. If you took a volume from the shelf, you found
that it had parted from the binding; if not, it took advantage of the
movement to remove itself from the binding; if you examined the shelves
long enough, you would have found that there was not one book in the
whole library of a date later than 1829. Of all the thousands upon
thousands of books published in the seventy years since that time, not
one was in this library. For instance, the _Quarterly_ and _Edinburgh
Reviews_--they stood here bound; they stopped at 1829. The _Annual
Register_ was here also, bound; it stopped at 1829. And on this great
library table there were lying, as if for daily use, scattered volumes
and magazines which had been placed there for the reading of the house
in 1829. No one had touched the table since some time in that year. A
long low leather chair stood beside the fire--the leather was in rags
and tatters, worn to shreds; at the table was placed a splendid great
wooden chair, which looked like the chair of a hall-porter; the carpet
was in rags and tatters, except the part along the front of the
shelves; there it was whole, but its colour was faded. In front of the
fire was placed a common thick sheepskin.
The young man followed his ancestor into the library. He took a chair,
placed it by the fire, and sat down, his long legs curled, watching and
waiting. He had been in the same place before. The silence of the old
man, the meaningless look in his eyes, terrified him on the first
occasion. He was then unaccustomed to the manner of the man. He had
gradually grown accustomed to the sight; it no longer terrified him, and
he now sat in his place on the other side of the fire, resolved upon
making sure that the old man was properly cared for, properly fed,
properly clad, properly looked after in all respects, that his health
was good and that there was no need of seeking advice. He sat down
therefore, by the fire and looked on while the old man took his dinner.
The visitor, I have said, was the great-grandson of the recluse. He was
also the heir of his house and the future owner of the place and its
possessions. As for what he was by calling you shall hear presently.
Being the heir-presumptive, he assumed the duty of making these
occasional visits, which were received--as has been stated--in silence,
and with not the slightest show of recognition.
Without heeding his presence, then, the old man took his seat at the
table, lifted the cover, and began his dinner. It consisted every day of
the same dish. Perhaps there are not many men at ninety-four who can
devour every day a full-sized steak with potatoes and bread, and can
drink with it a whole bottle of port. Yet this is what the recluse did.
The descendant for his part made it his business that the port should be
of the best and that the steak should be “treated” scientifically, in
order to ensure its tenderness and juiciness.
The recluse took his food fast and eagerly. One could perceive that in
earlier days he must have enjoyed a great and noble power of putting
away beef. He took his steak with fierceness, he devoured an immense
quantity of bread, he drank his wine off in goblets as in the old days
he had tossed off the great glasses of beer. He did not sip the generous
wine, nor did he roll it about in his glass and hold it up to the light;
he drank it, as a child drinks water, unconsciously and yet eagerly,
regardless of the taste and careless of its qualities.
When the bottle was empty and there was nothing more to eat, he left the
wooden chair and cast his great length into the long easy-chair, where
he stretched out his legs towards the fire, and, leaning his head upon
his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair, he gazed into the fire,
but with eyes which had in them no kind of expression. “Evidently,”
thought the spectator, “the old man has two senses left; he likes strong
meat and drink; he likes the physical comfort that they provide, and he
likes the warmth of a fire.” Then he rose slowly and stood with his
back to the fire, looking down upon his ancestor, and began a
remonstrance, which he repeated with variations on every visit.
“Sir,” he said, “I come to see you from time to time, as you know. I
come to make sure that you are cared for, and that you are well. I come
to see if anything can be done for you. On these occasions you never
fail to pretend that you do not see me. You make believe that I am not
present. You do see me; you know I am here; you know who I am; you know
why I am here. Very well. It is, I suppose, your humour to affect
silence and solitude. Nothing that I can say will, I fear, induce you to
break this silence.”
There was no sign of recognition, no reply, nor any change of movement.
“Why you have imposed upon yourself this lifelong misery I do not know,
nor shall I inquire. Perhaps I shall never know. It seems to me a great
mistake, whatever the cause--a sudden bereavement, I have always
understood. If it was in consequence of another person’s fault, or
another person’s misfortune, the waste and wreck of your own life would
not remove the cause; and if it was any fault of your own, such a wreck
and waste of life would only be an aggravation of the offence. But if it
was bereavement, surely it would be the manlier part to bear it and to
go on with the duties of life. However, as I do not know all the
circumstances, I have no right to speak on this point. It is too late,”
he went on, “to make up for all the years you have thrown away, but is
it too late for a change? Can you not, even now, at this late hour, go
back among your fellow-creatures and become human again, if it is only
for a year or two? I should say it was harder to continue this life of
loneliness and misery than to go back to the life for which you were
born.”
There was no answer.
“I have been over the house this morning,” the young man went on
pitilessly. “You have allowed it to fall into a shameful condition. The
damp has got into pictures and wall-paper; it will need many thousands
to restore the place to a condition proper to a gentleman’s house. Don’t
you think you ought to spend that money and live in it as a gentleman of
your position ought to do?”
There was still no answer. But, then, the heir expected none.
The old man lifted his head from his hand and dropped it back on the
chair. His eyes closed, his hands dropped, his breathing was soft and
regular; he was asleep.
His great-grandson still stood over him. This kind of scene affected him
but little, because it occurred on every visit. He arrived at eleven or
so; he walked across the park; he saw the old man doing his morning
tramp as usual; he spent an hour going over the empty, desolate house;
he watched the old man taking his walk; he followed him into the
library; he watched him taking his food; he stood over him afterwards
and addressed his remonstrances. This was always received, as George the
Third used to receive the remonstrances of the City of London, in
silence discouraging. And always in the midst of the remonstrance the
patriarch fell asleep.
The young man waited awhile, watching his great-grandfather of
ninety-four. There is very little resemblance between a man of that age
and himself at twenty-six. Yet there may be some. And no one could look
upon that old man without becoming conscious that in early manhood he
must have been of singular and wonderful comeliness--full of strength
and vigour, of fine proportions, of noble stature, and of remarkable
face and head. All these things the descendant possessed as well, but in
less marked degree, with more refinement, perhaps the refinement of
scholarship and culture, but with less strength. He had done what he
came to do; he had delivered his message; it was a failure; he expected
nothing less. He might as well go; there was nothing more to do, or to
be obtained, by staying.
But then a very remarkable event happened. He heard for the first time
the voice of his great-grandfather. He was to hear it once more, and
only once more. No one, except himself on this occasion, had heard it
for nearly seventy years.
The patriarch moved in his sleep, his fingers twitched, his legs jerked,
he rolled his head. Then he sat up and clutched the arms of his chair;
his face became twisted and distorted, as if under the possession of
some evil spirit. He half rose to his feet, still holding to the arms of
the chair, and he spoke. His voice was rough and harsh, as if rusted
with long disuse. His eyes remained fixed, yet his attitude was that of
someone whom he saw--with whom he was conversing. What he said was this:
“That will end it.”
Then he sank back. The distortion went out of him. He laid his head upon
the chair; calm and peace, as of a child, returned to his face; he was
again asleep--if he had been awake.
“A dream,” said the looker on. But he remembered the words, which came
back to him, and remained with him--why, he could not tell.
He looked about the room. He thought of the strange, solitary,
meaningless life, the monotonous life, the useless life, that this
patriarch had lived for so many years. Seventy long years! This recluse
during the whole of that time--for seventy long years--had never got
outside the walls of his garden; he had seen none of his old friends;
only his great-grandson might from time to time visit the place to
ascertain if he were still living. He had done no kind of work during
that long time; he had not even put a spade into the ground; he had
never opened a book or seen a newspaper; he knew nothing that had
happened. Why, for him the world was still the world before the Reform
Act. There were no railways, there were no telegraph-wires; none of the
inventions and improvements and new ideas and new customs were known to
him, or suspected by him; he asked for nothing, he cared for nothing, he
took interest in nothing: he never spoke. Oh, the wretchedness of it!
The folly of it! What excuse could there be--what reason--sufficient for
this throwing away of a life in which so much might have been done? What
defence could a man have for thus deserting from the Army of Humanity?
As long as this young man remembered anything, he had heard of this old
man: it was always the same story; there was a kind of family bogie, who
wore always the same clothes, and took the same walk every morning and
slept every afternoon. Sometimes his mother would tell him, when he was
a boy, scraps of history about the Recluse. Long ago, in the reign of
George the Fourth, the gloomy solitary was a handsome, spirited, popular
young man; fond of hunting, fond of shooting and fishing and all
out-door sports, yet not a boor or a barbarian; one who had passed
through the University with credit, and had learning and cultivation. He
had a fine library which he used, he enjoyed conversations with
scholars, he had travelled on the Continent, a thing which then was
rare; he was thinking of entering the House. He had a fine, though not a
large, estate, and a lovely house and stately gardens. No one in the
county had greater reason to be satisfied with his lot, no one had a
clearer right to look forward to the future with confidence, than Mr.
Algernon Campaigne. The boy remembered all this talk.
He now contemplated the sleeping figure with a curious blend or mixture
of emotions. There was pity in the blend, there was contempt in it,
there was something of the respect or reverence due to an ancestor. One
does not often get the chance of paying respect to so remote an ancestor
as a great-grandfather. The ancestor lay back in his chair, his head
turned a little on one side; his face, perfectly calm, had something of
the transparent waxen look that belongs to the newly dead.
The young man went on thinking of what he had heard of this old man, who
was at once the pride and the shame of the family. No one can help being
proud of having a recluse, an anchorite, in the family--it is uncommon,
like an early Shakespeare; moreover, the recluse was the head of the
family, and lived in the place where the family had always lived from
time beyond the memory of man.
He remembered his mother, a sad-faced widow, and his grandmother,
another sad-faced widow. A certain day came back to him--it was a few
weeks after his father’s early death, when he was a child of seven--when
the two women sat together in sorrow, and wept together, and conversed,
in his presence--but the child could not understand--and said things
which he recalled at this moment for the first time.
“My dear,” said the elder lady, “we are a family of misfortune.”
“But why--why--why?” asked the other. “What have we done?”
The elder lady shook her head. “Things are done,” she said, “that are
never suspected. Nobody knows, nobody finds out, but the arm of the Lord
is stretched out and vengeance falls, if not upon the guilty, then upon
his children and his grandchildren unto the third and fourth generation.
It has fallen heavily upon that old man--for the sins of his father,
perhaps--and upon us--and upon the children----”
“The helpless, innocent children? Oh! It is cruel.”
“We have Scripture for it.”
These words--this conversation--came back suddenly and unexpectedly to
the young man. He had never remembered them before.
“Who did what?” he asked. “The guilty person cannot be this venerable
patriarch, because this affliction has fallen upon him and still abides
with him after seventy years. But they spoke of something else. Why do
these old words come back to me? Ancestor, sleep on.”
In the hall he saw the old housekeeper, and stopped to ask her after the
master.
“He spoke just now,” he said.
“Spoke, sir? Spoke? The master spoke?”
“He sat up in his sleep and spoke.”
“What in the name o’ mercy did he say?”
“He said, quite clearly, ‘That will end it.’”
“Say it again.”
He said it again.
“Sir,” she said, “I don’t know what he means. It’s most time to end it.
Master Leonard, something dreadful will happen. It is the first time for
seventy years that he have spoken one single word.”
“It was in his sleep.”
“The first time for seventy years! Something dreadful, for sure, is
going to happen.”