The Fourth Generation. Walter Besant

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