THE COMPLETE SUPPLY
It was eleven o’clock that same evening. Leonard sat before his fire
thinking over the day’s work. It was not a day on which he could
congratulate himself. He had been refused: he had been told plain
truths: he had been called too fortunate: he had been warned that the
gods never make any man completely happy: he had been reminded that his
life was not likely to be one long triumphal march, nor was he going to
be exempt from the anxieties and the cares which beset other people.
Nobody likes to be told that he is too fortunate, and that he wants
defeated ambition, poor relations, and family scandals to make him level
with the rest of mankind. Moreover, he had received, as if in
confirmation of the oracle, the addition to his family of a doubtful
uncle.
The Mansion was quiet: no pianos were at work: those of the people who
were not out were thinking of bed.
Leonard sat over the fire feeling strangely nervous: he had thought of
doing a little work: no time like the quiet night for good work. Yet
somehow he could not command his brain: it was a rebellious brain:
instead of tackling the social question before him, it went off
wandering in the direction of Constance and of her refusal and of her
words--her uncomfortable, ill-boding words.
Unexpectedly, and without any premonitory sound of steps on the stair,
there came a ring at his bell. Now, Leonard was not a nervous man, or a
superstitious man, or one who looked at the present or the future with
apprehension. But this evening he felt a chill shudder: he knew that
something disagreeable was going to happen. He looked at the clock: his
man must have gone to bed: he got up and went out to open the door
himself.
There stood before him a stranger, a man of tall stature, wrapped in a
kind of Inverness cape, with a round felt hat.
“Mr. Leonard Campaigne?” he asked.
“Certainly,” he replied snappishly. “Who are you? What do you want here
at this time of night?”
“I am sorry to be so late. I lost my way. May I have half an hour’s talk
with you? I am a cousin of yours, though you do not know me.”
“A cousin of mine? What cousin? What is your name?”
“Here is my card. If you will let me come in, I will tell you all about
the relationship. A cousin I am, most certainly.”
Leonard looked at the card.
“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne.” In the corner were the words, “Solicitor,
Commercial Road.”
“I know nothing about you,” said Leonard. “Perhaps, however--will you
come in?”
He led the way into the study, and turned on one or two more lights.
Then he looked at his visitor.
The man followed him into the study, threw off his cape and hat, and
stood before him--a tall, thin figure, with a face which instantly
reminded the spectator of a vulture; the nose was long, thin, and
curved; his eyes were bright, set too close together. He was dressed in
a frock-coat which had known better days, and wore a black tie. He
looked hungry, but not with physical pangs.
“Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne,” he repeated. “My father’s name was
Galley; my grandmother’s maiden name was Campaigne.”
“Oh, your grandmother’s name was Campaigne. Your own name, then, is
Galley?”
“I added the old woman’s name to my own; it looks better for business
purposes. Also I took her family crest--she’s got a coat of arms--it
looks well for business purposes.”
“You can’t take your grandmother’s family shield.”
“Can’t I? Who’s to prevent me? It’s unusual down our way, and it’s good
for business.”
“Well, as you please--name and coat of arms and everything. Will you
explain the cousinship?”
“In two words. That old man over there”--he indicated something in the
direction of the north--“the old man who lives by himself, is my
grandmother’s father. He’s ninety something, and she’s seventy
something.”
“Oh! she is my great-aunt, then. Strange that I never heard of her.”
“Not at all strange. Only what one would expect. She went down in the
world. You went up--or stayed up--of course they didn’t tell you about
her.”
“Well--do you tell me about her. Will you sit down? May I offer you
anything--a cigarette?”
The visitor looked about the room; there was no indication of whisky. He
sighed and declined the cigarette. But he accepted the chair.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is more friendly sitting down. You’ve got
comfortable quarters. No Mrs. C. as yet, is there? The old woman said
that you were a bachelor. Now, then. It’s this way: She married my
grandfather, Isaac Galley. That was fifty years ago--in 1849. No, 1850.
Isaac Galley failed. His failure was remarked upon in the papers on
account of the sum--the amount--of his liabilities. The _Times_ wanted
to know how he managed to owe so much.”
“Pray go on. I am interested. This part of our family history is new to
me.”
Leonard continued standing, looking down upon his visitor. He became
aware, presently, of a ridiculous likeness to himself, and he found
himself hoping that the vulture played a less prominent part in his own
expression. All the Campaigne people were taller--much taller--than the
average; their features were strongly marked; they were, as a rule, a
handsome family. They carried themselves with a certain dignity. This
man was tall, his features were strongly marked; but he was not
handsome, and he did not carry himself with dignity. His shoulders were
bent, and he stooped. He was one of the race, apparently, but gone to
seed; looking “common.” No one could possibly mistake him for a
gentleman by birth or by breeding. “Common” was the word to apply to Mr.
Galley-Campaigne. “Common” is a word much used by certain ladies
belonging to a certain stage of society about their neighbours’
children; it will do to express the appearance of this visitor.
“Pray go on,” Leonard repeated mechanically, while making his
observations; “you are my cousin, clearly. I must apologise for not
knowing of your existence.”
“We live at the other end of town. I’m a gentleman, of course, being in
the Law--lower branch----”
“Quite so,” said Leonard.
“But the old woman--I mean my grandmother--takes jolly good care that I
shall know the difference between you and me. You’ve had Eton and
College to back you up. You’ve got the House of Commons and a swagger
club. That’s your world. Mine is different. We’ve no swells where I
live, down the Commercial Road. I’m a solicitor in what you would call
a small way. There are no big men our way.”
“It is a learned profession.”
“Yes. I am not a City clerk, like my father.”
“Tell me more about yourself. Your grandfather, you say, was bankrupt.
Is he living?”
“No. He went off about ten years ago, boastful to the end of his great
smash. His son--that’s my father--was in the City. He was a clerk all
his life to a wine-merchant. He died four or five years ago. He was just
able to pay for my articles--a hundred pounds--and the stamp--another
eighty--and that pretty well cleared him out, except for a little
insurance of a hundred. When he died I was just beginning to get along;
and I’ve been able to live, and to keep my mother and my
grandmother--it’s a tight fit, though--with what I can screw out of Mary
Anne.”
“Who is Mary Anne?”
“My sister, Mary Anne. She’s a Board School teacher. But she shoves all
the expenses on to me.”
“Oh! I have a whole family of cousins, then, previously unknown. That is
interesting. Are there more?”
He remembered certain words spoken only that morning, and he winced.
Here were poor relations, after all. Constance would be pleased.
“No more--only me and Mary Anne. That is to say, no more that you would
acknowledge as such. There’s all father’s cousins and their children:
and all mother’s cousins and brothers and nephews and nieces: but you
can’t rightly call them your cousins.”
“Hardly, perhaps, much as one would like....”
“Now, Mr. Campaigne. The old woman has been at me a long time to call
upon you. I didn’t want to call. I don’t want to know you, and you don’t
want to know me. But I came to please her and to let you know that she’s
alive, and that she would like, above all things, to see you and to talk
to you.”
“Indeed! If that is all, I shall be very pleased to call.”
“You see, she’s always been unlucky--born unlucky, so to speak. But
she’s proud of her own family. They’ve never done anything for her,
whatever they may have to do--have to do, I say.” He became threatening.
“Have to do,” repeated Leonard softly.
“In the future. It may be necessary to prove who we are, and that before
many years--or months--or even days--and it might save trouble if you
were to understand who she is, and who I am.”
“You wish me to call upon my great-aunt. I will certainly do so.”
“That’s what she wants. That’s why I came here to-night. Look here, sir:
for my own part, I would not intrude upon you. I’ve not come to beg or
to borrow. But for the old woman’s sake I’ve ventured to call and ask
you to remember that she is your great-aunt. She’s seventy-two years of
age, and now and then she frets a bit after a sight of her own people.
She hasn’t seen any of them since your grandfather committed suicide.
And that must have been about the year 1860, before you and I were
born.”
Leonard started.
“My grandfather committed suicide? What do you mean? My grandfather died
somewhere about 1860. What do you mean by saying that he killed
himself?”
“What! Don’t you know? Your grandfather, sir,” said the other firmly,
“died of cut-throat fever. Oh yes, whatever they called it, he died of
cut-throat fever. Very sudden it was. Of that I am quite certain,
because my grandmother remembers the business perfectly well.”
“Is it possible? Killed himself? Then, why did I never learn such a
thing?”
“I suppose they didn’t wish to worry you. Your father was but a child, I
suppose, at the time. Perhaps they never told him. All the same, it’s
perfectly true.”
Committed suicide! He remembered the widow who never smiled--the
pale-faced, heavy-eyed widow. He now understood why she went in mourning
all the days of her life. He now learned in this unexpected manner, why
she had retired to the quiet little Cornish village.
Committed suicide! Why? It seemed a kind of sacrilege to ask this
person. He hesitated; he took up a trifling ornament from the
mantelshelf, and played with it. It dropped out of his fingers into the
fender, and was broken.
“Pray,” he asked, leaving the other question for the moment, “how came
your grandmother to be separated from her own people?”
“They went away into the country. And her father went silly. She never
knew him when he wasn’t silly. He went silly when his brother-in-law was
murdered.”
“Brother-in-law murdered? Murdered! What is this? Good Lord, man! what
do you mean with your murder and your suicide?”
“Why, don’t you know? His brother-in-law was murdered on his grounds.
And his wife died of the shock the same day. What else was it that drove
him off his old chump?”
“I--I--I--know nothing”--the vulgarity of the man passed unnoticed in
the face of these revelations--“I assure you, nothing of these
tragedies. They are all new to me. I have been told nothing.”
“Never told you? Well, of all the---- Why, the old woman over there is
never tired of talking about these things. Proud of them she is. And you
never to know anything!”
“Nothing. Is there more? And why do you call my great-grandfather mad?”
“He’s as much my great-grandfather as yours. Mad? Well, I’ve seen him
over the garden wall half a dozen times, walking up and down his terrace
like a Polar bear. I don’t know what you call mad. As for me, I’m a man
of business, and if I had a client who never opened or answered a
letter, never spoke a word to anybody, neglected his children, let his
house go to ruin, never went to church, would have no servants about the
place--why, I should have that mis’rable creature locked up, that’s
all.”
Leonard put this point aside.
“But you have not told me about his wife’s death. It is strange that I
should be asking you these particulars of my own family.”
“Mine as well, if you please,” the East End solicitor objected, with
some dignity. “Well, sir, my grandmother is seventy-two years of age.
Therefore it is just seventy-two years since her mother died. For her
mother died in child-birth, and she died of the shock produced by the
news of her own brother’s murder. Her brother’s name was Langley Holme.”
“Langley? My grandfather’s name.”
“Yes, Langley Holme. I think he was found lying dead on a hillside. So
our great-grandfather, I say, lost in one day his wife and his
brother-in-law, who was the best friend he had in the world. Why, sir,
if you ever go down to see him and find him in that state, does it not
occur to you to ask how it came about?”
“I confess--he is so old. I thought it eccentricity of age.”
“No!” His cousin shook his head. “Age alone would not make a man go on
like that. I take it, sir, that extreme age makes a man care nothing
about other people, not even his own children; but it does not cut him
off from money matters.”
“You are perhaps right. Yet--well, I know nothing. So the old man’s mind
was overthrown by the great shock of a double loss. Strange that they
never told me! And his son, my grandfather, committed suicide. And his
sister’s husband became a bankrupt.”
“Yes; there are misfortunes enough. The old woman is never tired of
harping on the family misfortunes. The second son was drowned. He was a
sailor, and was drowned. My father was never anything better than a
small clerk. I’ve known myself what it is to want the price of a dinner.
If you want to know what misfortune is like, wait till you’re hungry.”
“Indeed!” Leonard replied thoughtfully. “And all these troubles are new
to me. Strange that they should be told me on this very day!”
“Then there’s your own father. He died young, too, and the last case
that the old woman talks about is your father’s brother. I forget his
name; they packed him off to Australia after he had forged your father’s
name.”
“What?”
“Forged. That’s a pretty word to use, isn’t it? Yes, sir, there are
misfortunes enough.” He got up. “Well, the point is, will you come and
see the old woman?”
“Yes. I will call upon her. When shall I find her at home?”
“She lies down on the sofa beside the fire every afternoon from two to
four or half-past four, then wakes up refreshed and able to talk. Come
about half-past four. It’s the back-parlour; the front is my office, and
my clerk--I have only one as yet--works in the room over the
kitchen--the gal’s bedroom it is, as a rule. It is a most respectable
house, with my name on a door-plate, so you can’t miss it.”
“I will call, then.”
“There is one thing more, Mr. Campaigne. We have not thrust ourselves
forward, or tried to force ourselves on the family, and we shall not,
sir, we shall not. We live six miles apart, and we have our own friends,
and my friends are not yours. Still, in a business way, there is a
question which I should like to ask. It is a business question.”
The man’s face became suddenly foxy. He leaned forward and dropped his
voice to a whisper. Leonard was on his guard instinctively.
“If it has to do with the Campaigne estates, I have nothing whatever to
say. Would it not be well to go to the lawyers who manage the estate?”
“No. They would not tell me anything. What I want to know is this. He
has, I believe, a large estate?”
“He has, I believe. But he has no power to part with any portion of it.”
“The estate produces rents, I suppose?”
“That is no doubt the case.”
“Well, for seventy years the old man has spent nothing. There must be
accumulations. In case of no will, these accumulations would be divided
equally between your grandfather’s heirs and my grandmother. Do you know
of any will, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“I know nothing of any will.”
“It is most unlikely that there should be any will. A man who has been
off his head for nearly seventy years can hardly leave a will. If he
did, one could easily set it aside. Mr. Campaigne, it is on the cards
that there may be enormous accumulations.”
“There may be, as you say, accumulations.”
“In that case, it is possible--I say possible--that my sister and I may
become rich, very rich--I hardly dare to put the possibility upon
myself--but there must be--there must be--accumulations, and the
question which I would put to you, sir, is this: Where are those
accumulations invested? And can a man find out what they amount to--what
they are worth--who draws the dividends--how are they applied--and is
there a will? Was it made before or after the old man went off his
chump? And if the money is left out of the family, would you, sir, as
the head of the family, be ready to take steps to set aside that will?
Those are my questions, Mr. Campaigne.” He threw himself back again in
the chair, and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes.
“These are very important questions,” said Leonard. “As a lawyer, you
must be aware that I cannot give you any answer. As to the
administration of the property, I believe I have no right to ask the
lawyers and agents any questions. We must assume that the owner of the
estate is in his right mind. As for disputing a will, we must wait till
a will is produced.”
“Sir”--the cousin leaned over his knees and whispered hoarsely--“sir,
the accumulations must be a million and a half. I worked it all out
myself with an arithmetic book. I learned the rule on purpose. For I
never got so far in the book as compound interest. It meant hundreds of
sums; I did ’em all, one after the other. I thought I should never get
to the end. Mary Anne helped. Hundreds of sums at compound interest, and
it tots up to a million and a half--a million and a half! Think of that!
A million and a half!”
He got up and put on his overcoat slowly.
“Sir,” he added, with deep emotion and a trembling voice, “this money
must not be suffered to go out of the family. It must not. It would be
sinful--sinful. We look to you to protect the rights of the family.”
Leonard laughed. “I fear I have no power to help you in this respect.
Good-night. I hope to call upon my great-aunt as she wishes.”
He shut the door upon his visitor. He heard his feet going down the
stairs. He returned to his empty room.
It was no longer empty. The man had peopled it with ghosts, all of whom
he had brought with him.
There was the old man--young again--staggering under the weight of a
double bereavement--wife and best friend in the same day. There was his
own grandfather killing himself. Why? The young sailor going out to be
drowned; his own father dying young; the returned colonial--the
prosperous gentleman who, before going out, had forged his brother’s
name. Forged! forged! The word rang in his brain. There was the daughter
of the House--deserted by the House, married into such a family as Mr.
Galley represented. Were not these ghosts enough to bring into a quiet
gentleman’s flat?
Yes, he had been brought up in ignorance of these things. He knew
nothing of the cause of the old man’s seclusion; not the reason of his
grandfather’s early death; not any of those other misfortunes. He had
been kept in ignorance of all. And now these things were roughly
exploded upon his unsuspecting head.
He sat down before the fire; he worked at the “Subject” no more that
night. And in his brain there rang still the strange warnings of
Constance--that he wanted something of misfortune, such as harassed the
rest of the world, in order to bring him down to a level with the men
and women around him.
“I have got that something,” he said. “Poor relations, family scandals,
and humiliations and all. But so far I feel no better.”