Mrs. Christopher Campaigne was at home. The rooms were filled with people—chiefly young people, friends of her son and daughter. Most of them were endowed with those literary and artistic leanings which made them severe critics, even if they had not yet produced immortal works of their own. The chief attraction of the evening, however, was the newly-returned Australian, said to be a millionaire, who took up a large space in the room, being tall and broad; he also took up a large space in the conversation: he talked loud and laughed loud. He presented successfully the appearance he desired, namely, that of a highly prosperous gentleman, accustomed to the deference due to millions.

Leonard came late.

“I am glad to see you here,” said his hostess. “Frederick, you can hardly remember your other nephew, son of Algernon.”

Frederick held out a manly grasp. “When I left England,” he said, “you were a child of four or five; I cannot pretend to remember you, Leonard.”

“Nor can I remember you.” He tried to dismiss from his mind a certain ugly word. “But you are welcome home once more. This time, I hope, to stay.”

“I think not. Affairs—affairs are sometimes peremptory, particularly large affairs. The City may insist upon my staying a few weeks, or the City may allow me to go back. I am wholly in the hands of the City.”

If you come to think of it, a man must be rich indeed to be in the hands of the City.

The people gazed upon the speaker with increased interest, and even awe. They were not in the hands of the City.

“I confess,” he went on, “that I should like to remain. Society, when one returns to it after many years, is pleasing. Some people say that it is hollow. Perhaps. The frocks vary”—he looked round critically—“they are not the same as they were five-and-twenty years ago; but the effect remains the same. And the effect is everything. We must not look behind the scenes. The rough old colonist”—yet no one in the room was better groomed—“looks on from the outside and finds it all delightful.”

“Can things unreal ever be delightful?” murmured a lady in the circle with a sigh.

“At all events,” Leonard continued, “you will not leave us for a time.”

“There, again, I am uncertain. I have a partner in Australia. I have connections to look up in the City. But for a few weeks I believe I may reckon on a holiday and a look round, for Colonials have to show the City that all the enterprise is not theirs, nor all the wealth—nor all the wealth. And what,” he asked with condescension, “what are you doing, Leonard?”

“I am in the House.”

“As your father was—and your grandfather. It is a great career.”

“It may be a great career.”

“True—true. There must be many failures—many failures. Where and when are you most likely to be found?”

Leonard told him.

“Give me a note of it before we go to-night. I dare say I can get round some time.”

The ugly word once more unpleasantly returned to Leonard’s mind.

Mr. Frederick Campaigne proceeded with his interrupted discourse, which proved the necessity of the existence of the poor in order to make the condition of the rich possible and enviable. He took the millionaire’s point of view, and dwelt not only on the holiness of wealth, but also on the duties of the poor towards their superiors.

Leonard slipped away. He felt uncomfortable. He could not forget what had been told him about this loud and prosperous and self-satisfied person. Besides, he seemed to be overdoing it—acting a part. Why?

In the inner drawing-room he found his two cousins, Algernon and Philippa. The former, a young man of three-or four-and-twenty, was possessed of a tall figure, but rather too small a head. He smiled a good deal, and talked with an easy confidence common to his circle of friends. It was a handsome face, but it did not suggest possibilities of work.

Leonard asked him how he was getting on.

“Always the same,” he replied, with a laugh. “The study of the dramatic art presents endless difficulties. That is why we are loaded up with plays.”

“Then it remains for you to show the world what a play should be.”

“That is my mission. I shall continue my studies for a year or so more; and then—you shall see. My method is to study the art on the stage itself, not in books. I go to men and women on the stage. I sit in various parts of the stalls and watch and learn. Presently I shall sit down to write.”

“Well, I look forward to the result.”

“Look here, Leonard”—he dropped his voice. “I hear that you go to see the old man sometimes. He is nearly ninety-five. He can’t last much longer. Of course the estate is yours. But how about the accumulations.”

“I know nothing about the accumulations.”

“With the pater’s large practice and our share of the accumulations, don’t you think it is too bad of him to keep up this fuss about my work? Why should I trouble my head about money? There will be—there must be—plenty of money. My work,” he said proudly, “shall be, at least, the work of one who is not driven by the ignoble stimulus of necessity. It will be entirely free from the ignoble stimulus of necessity. It will be free from the commercial taint—the curse of art—the blighting incubus of art—the degrading thought of money.”

Leonard left him. In the doorway stood his cousin Philippa.

“You have just been talking to Algernon,” she said. “You see, he is always stretching out his hands in the direction of dramatic art.”

“So I observe,” he replied dryly. “Some day, perhaps, he will grasp it. At present, as you say, he is only stretching out arms in that direction. And you?”

“I have but one dream—always one dream,” she replied, oppressed with endeavour.

“I hope it will come true, then. By the way, Philippa, I have just found a whole family of new cousins.”

“New cousins? Who are they?”

“And a great aunt. I have seen one of the cousins; and I am going to-morrow to see the great-aunt and perhaps the other cousin.”

“Who are they? If they are your cousins, they must be cousins on papa’s side. I thought that we three were the only cousins on his side.”

“Your uncle Fred may have children. Have you asked him if he is married?”

“No; he has promised to tell all his adventures. He is a bachelor. Is it not interesting to get another uncle, and a bachelor, and rolling in money? Algernon has already——” She stopped, remembering a warning. “But who are these cousins?”

“Prepare for a shock to the family pride.”

“Why, we have no poor relations, have we? I thought——”

“Listen, my cousin. Your grandfather’s sister Lucy married one Isaac Galley about the year 1847. It was not a good marriage for her. The husband became a bankrupt, and as by this time her father had fallen into his present condition or profession of a silent hermit, there was no help from him. Then they fell into poverty. Her son became a small clerk in the City, her grandson is a solicitor in the Commercial Road—not, I imagine, in the nobler or higher walks of that profession—and her grand-daughter is a teacher in a Board School.”

“Indeed!” The girl listened coldly; her eyes wandered round the room filled with well-dressed people. “A teacher in a Board School! And our cousin! A Board School teacher! How interesting! Shall we tell all these people about our new cousins?”

“No doubt they have all got their own second cousins. It is, I believe, the duty of the second cousin to occupy a lower rank.”

“I dare say. At the same time, we have always thought our family a good deal above the general run. And it’s rather a blow, Leonard, don’t you think?”

“It is, Philippa. But, after all, it remains a good old family. One second cousin cannot destroy our record. You may still be proud of it.”

He left the girl, and went in search of his uncle, whom he found, as he expected, in his study apart from the throng.

“Always over your papers,” he said. “May I interrupt for a moment?”

The barrister shuffled his papers hurriedly into a drawer.

“Always busy,” he said. “We lawyers work harder than any other folk, I believe, especially those with a confidential practice like my own, which makes no noise and is never heard of.”

“But not the less valuable, eh?”

The barrister smiled.

“We make both ends meet,” he said meekly—“both ends meet. Yes, yes, both ends meet.”

“I went to see the old man the other day,” Leonard went on, taking a chair. “I thought you would like to know. He remains perfectly well, and there is no change in any respect. What I want to ask you is this. It may be necessary before long to get the question decided. Is he in a condition to make a will?”

The lawyer took time to give an opinion. Backed by his long legal experience and extensive practice, it was an opinion carrying weight.

“My opinion,” he said gravely, and as one weighing the case judicially—in imagination he had assumed the wig and gown—“my opinion,” he repeated, “would be, at first and on the statement of the case, that he is unfit and has been unfit for the last seventy years, to make a will. He is undoubtedly on some points so eccentric as to appear of unsound mind. He does nothing; he allows house and gardens and furniture and pictures to fall into decay; he never speaks; he has no occupation. This points, I say, to a mind unhinged by the shock of seventy years ago.”

“A shock of which I only heard the other day.”

“Yes—I know. My sister-in-law—your mother and your grandfather—thought to screen you from what they thought family misfortune by never telling you the truth—that is to say, the whole truth. I have followed the same rule with my children.”

“Family misfortune! I hardly know even now what to understand by it.”

“Well, they are superstitious. Your father died young, your grandfather died young; like you, they were young men of promise. Your great-grandfather at the age of six-and-twenty or thereabouts was afflicted, as you know.”

“And they think——”

“They think that it is the visiting of the unknown sins of the fathers upon the children. They think that the old man’s father must have done something terrible.”

“Oh, but this is absurd.”

“Very likely—very likely. Meantime, as to the power of making a will, we must remember that during all these years the old man has never done anything foolish. I have seen the solicitors. They tell me that from father to son, having acted for him all these years, they have found him perfectly clear-headed about money matters. I could not ask them what he has done with all his money, nor what he intends to do with it. But there is the fact—the evidence of the solicitors as to the clearness of his intellect. My opinion, therefore, is that he will do something astonishing, unexpected, and disgusting with his money, and that it will be very difficult, if not impossible, to set aside his will.”

“Oh, that is your opinion, is it? The reason why I ask is that I have just discovered a family of hitherto unknown cousins. Do you know the name of Galley?”

“No. It is not a name, I should say, of the highest nobility.”

“Possibly not. It is the name of our cousins, however. One of them is a solicitor of a somewhat low class, I should say; the man has no pretensions whatever to be called a gentleman. He practises and lives in the Commercial Road, which is, I suppose, quite out of the ordinary quarter where you would find a solicitor of standing.”

“Quite, quite; as a place of residence—deplorable from that point of view.”

“He has a sister, it appears, who is a Board School teacher.”

“A Board School teacher? It is at least respectable. But who are these precious cousins of ours?”

“They are the grandchildren of an aunt of yours—Lucy by name.”

“Lucy! Yes. I have heard of her; I thought she was dead long ago.”

“She married a man named Galley. They seem to have gone down in the world.”

“More family misfortune.” The lawyer shuddered. “I am not superstitious,” he said, “but really—more misfortunes.”

“Oh, misfortunes! Nonsense! There are always in every family some who go down—some who go up—some who stay there. You yourself have been borne steadily upwards to name and fortune.”

“I have,” said the lawyer, with half a groan. “Oh yes—yes—I have.”

“And my uncle Fred, you see, comes home—all his wild oats sowed—with a great fortune.”

“Truly.” The lawyer’s face lengthened. “A great fortune. He told you so, didn’t he? Yes; we have both been most fortunate and happy, both Fred and I. Go on, Leonard. About these cousins——”

“These are the grandchildren of Lucy Campaigne. I am to see the old lady in a day or two.”

“Do they want anything? Help? Recognition?”

“Nothing, so far as I know. Not even recognition.”

“That is well. I don’t mind how many poor relations we’ve got, provided they don’t ask for money, or for recognition. If you give them money, they will infallibly decline to work, and live upon you. If you call upon them and give them recognition, they will infallibly disgrace you.”

“The solicitor asked for nothing. This cousin of ours has been building hopes upon what he calls accumulations. He evidently thinks that the old man is not in a condition to make a will, and that all that is left of personal property will be divided in two equal shares, one moiety among your father’s heirs on our side, while the other will go to the old lady his grandmother on the other side.”

“That is, I am afraid, quite true. But there may have been a Will before he fell into—eccentricity. It is a great pity, Leonard, that these people have turned up—a great misfortune—because we may have to share with them. Still, there must be enormous accumulations. My mother did not tell us anything about possible cousins; yet they do exist, and they are very serious and important possibilities. These people will probably interfere with us to a very serious extent. And now Fred has turned up, and he will want his share, too. Another misfortune.”

“How came my grandfather to die so young?” Leonard passed on to another point.

“He fell into a fever. I was only two years old at the time.”

Leonard said nothing about the suicide. Clearly, not himself only, but his uncles also, had been kept in the dark about the true cause of that unexpected demise.

He departed, closing the door softly, so as not to shake up and confuse the delicate tissues of a brain always occupied in arriving at an opinion.

As soon as he was gone the barrister drew out his papers once more, and resumed the speech for which he had prepared half a dozen most excellent stories. In such a case the British public does not ask for all the stories to be new.

Leonard rejoined the company upstairs.

His uncle Fred walked part of the way home with him.

“I hadn’t expected,” he said, “to find the old man still living. Of course, it cannot go on much longer. Have you thought about what may happen—when the end comes?”

“Not much, I confess.”

“One must. I take it that he does not spend the fiftieth part of his income. I have heard as a boy that the estate was worth £7,000 a year.”

“Very likely, unless there has been depression.”

“Say he spends £150 a year. That leaves £5,850 a year. Take £800 for expenses and repairs—that leaves £5,000 a year. He has been going on like this for seventy years. Total accumulations, £420,000. At compound interest for all these years, it must reach two millions or so. Who is to have it?”

“His descendants, I suppose.”

“You, my brother Christopher, and myself. Two millions to divide between us. A very pretty fortune—very pretty indeed. Good-night, my boy—good-night.”

He walked away cheerfully and with elastic step.

“Accumulations—accumulations!” said Leonard, looking after him. “They are all for accumulations. Shall I, too, begin to calculate how much has been accumulated? And how if the accumulations turn out to be lost—wasted—gone—to somebody else?”