WHEN he was gone Leonard threw himself into the nearest chair, and looked around him. He gazed with bewildered face, not upon the study full of books, the papers which showed the man of learning, the reports which spoke of the man of affairs, the engravings on the wall which spoke of the man of culture. These are accidental: anyone may show them. The artist sprung from the gutter, the self-made scholar, the mere mushroom, might possess and exhibit all these things. He saw strewn around him the wreck and ruin of all that he had hitherto considered the essential, namely, the family honour.

There are none so full of family pride as those who show it least. To Leonard it had always been the greatest happiness merely to feel that the records of his family went back to times beyond the memory of man. It was not a thing to be talked about, but a prop, a stay, a shield, anything that helps to make a man at peace with himself. No one knew when the Campaignes first obtained their estate; in every century he found his ancestors—not distinguished—indeed, they had never produced a man of the first rank—but playing a part, and that not an unworthy one. It was the record of an honourable line. There were no traitors or turncoats in it: the men were without reproach, the women without a spot or stain among them all.

I suppose that nobody, either at school or college, ever knew or suspected the profound pride which lay at the heart of this quiet and self-possessed scholar. It was the kind of pride which is free from arrogance. He was a gentleman; all his people had been gentlemen. By gentlemen he meant people of good birth and breeding, and of blameless life. The word, we well know, is now used so as to include the greater part of male man. To most people it means nothing and matters nothing. Even with people who use limitations the door is always open to those who choose to lead the gentle life, and are privileged to follow the work which belongs to the gentle life.

He was a gentleman—he and all his people. He had no feeling of superiority, not the least—no more than a man may entertain a feeling of superiority on account of his stature. Nor had he the least feeling of contempt for those who have no such advantages. A man who has a grandfather may affect to despise one who has no grandfather, but not a man who has a long line terminating like the ancestry of a Saxon king in dim shapes which are probably Woden, Thor, and Freyya.

The grand essentials of family pride are ancestry and honour. The former cannot very well be taken away, but without the latter it is not worth much. One might as well take pride in belonging to a long line in which gallant highwaymen, footpads, costers, hooligans, and Marylebone boys have succeeded each other for generations with the accompaniments and distinctions of Tyburn Tree and the cart-tail.

Therefore, I say, Leonard sat among the ruins of the essentials regardless of the accidentals. The man who had just left him had stripped off all that was left of his former pride; he could feel no further support or solace in the contemplation of his forefathers. Think what he had learned and endured in less than a month. It was line upon line, precept upon precept. It was like unto the patriarch to whom, while one messenger of evil was speaking, there came also another, saying, “Thus and thus has it been done. Where is now thy pride?”

First, he learned that he had cousins living in one of the least desirable quarters of London; the man-cousin could not by any possible stretch be considered as possessing any of the attributes of a gentleman; the girl occupied a station and followed a calling which was respectable, but belonging to those generally adopted by the Poor Relation. He was thus provided with poor relations. Constance had said that he wanted poor relations in order to be like other people. And then they came as if in answer to her words.

He had learned also that his grandfather almost at the outset of a promising career had committed suicide for no reason that could be discovered; that his father had died young, also at the outset of a promising career, was a misfortune, but not a blot.

Two persons were left of his father’s generation. He had welcomed one as the prodigal, who had gone forth to the husks and returned bearing sheaves of golden grain. At least there was the pretence of the golden grain. The other he had regarded all his life with respect as one in successful practice in a most honourable profession. Where were they now? One was a bankrupt grocer or general store-keeper, the owner of a shanty in an Australian township, a miserable little general shop selling sardines and tea and oil and blacking, which he wanted to turn into a company as a great business; one who made no pretence at truth or honesty; the companion of tramps; devoid of honour or even the respect or care for honour. He had been driven out by his family as a spendthrift, a profligate, and a forger. He had come home unchanged and unrepentant and ready to swindle and to cheat if he could do so without the customary penalties.

As for the other man, the pretended barrister, he stood revealed as one who was living under false pretences. He had an equal right to stand in pillory beside his brother. Once a prodigal and a spendthrift like him: now living a daily lie which he had carried on for five-and-twenty years. Good heavens! Christopher Campaigne, Barrister-at-Law of Lincoln’s Inn, the successful Lawyer, on whom his family reposed a confidence so profound and a pride so unbounded—who does not take pride in a successful lawyer?—was nothing more than a common pretender and an impostor. He wrote speeches and sold them to humbugs who wished to be thought clever speakers. Honourable occupation! Delightful work! A proud and distinguished career!

So there was nobody left except himself to maintain the family honour.

Certain words which you have already heard came back again. It seemed to him as if Constance was saying them all over again: “You are independent as to fortune; you are of a good house; you have no scandals in your family records; you have got no poor or degraded relations ... you are outside humanity.... If you had some family scandals, some poor relations who would make you feel ashamed, something that made you like other people, vulnerable——” Now he had them all.

The door was opened. His servant brought him a card: “Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne.”

“Another!” Leonard groaned and sprang to his feet. “Another!” The sight or the thought of this man, the caricature of his own family, tall and thin, like himself, but with every feature vulgarized, and the meanness of petty gains, petty cares, petty scheming and self-seeking stamped upon his face, irritated Leonard unspeakably. And he was a cousin! He stiffened involuntarily. His attitude, his expression, became that of the “supercilious beast” formed by Mr. Galley on his previous business.

The cousin came in and bowed slightly, not holding out his hand. There was a look in his face which meant resolution held back by fear, the desire to “try on” something, and the doubt as to whether it would be successful. It is an expression which may be remarked on ‘Change and in every market-town on market-day.

It has been wisely, perhaps frequently, remarked that trouble brings out a man’s true character far more certainly than prosperity, which may encourage him to assume virtues not really his own. The lines about the uses of adversity must be referred to the bystander rather than the patient, because the former is then enabled to contemplate and observe the true man for the first time. Mr. Galley, for instance, who was smug in prosperity, was openly and undisguisedly vulgar in adversity. At this moment, for instance, he was struggling with adversity; it made him red in the face, it made him speak thick, it made him perspire inconveniently, and it made his attitude ungraceful.

He came up the stairs; he knocked at the door with an expression of fixed resolution. One might have expected him to bang his fist on the table and to cry out: “There! that’s what I want, and that’s what I mean to have.” He did not quite do that, but he intended to do it when he called, and he would have done, I have no doubt, but for the cold, quiet air with which his cousin received him.

“Mr. Campaigne,” he began, “or cousin, if you like——”

“Mr. Campaigne, perhaps,” said Leonard the supercilious.

“Well, Mr. Campaigne, then, I’ve come to have a few words of explanation—explanation, sir!” he repeated, with some fierceness.

“By all means. Pray take a chair.”

He took a chair, and was then seized by the doubt of which we have spoken. Perhaps the cause was the commanding position of his cousin, standing over him six foot three in height, and with a face like that of a Judge not personally interested in the case before him.

“The point is this: I’ve got a bill against your family, and I want to know whether I am to present it to you or to my great-grandfather?”

“A bill? Of what nature?”

“A bill for maintenance. We have maintained my grandmother for fifty years. She has been kept partly by my grandfather, partly by my family, and partly by myself, and it’s time that your family should do their duty.”

“That is a very remarkable claim.”

“Putting it at £50 a year, which is cheap for the lavish way she’s been kept, that makes £2,500. At compound interest it mounts up to £18,000 and odd. I shall be contented to square the claim for £18,000.”

“You propose to send in a bill—a bill for keeping your own grandmother?”

“That is just what I am going to do.”

“You must surely be aware that such a claim would not be entertained for a moment. No Court of Law would so much as look at it.”

“I am aware of the fact. But this is not a claim of an ordinary kind; it is a claim that rests on equity—on equity, not on Law.”

“What is the equitable side of the claim?”

“Well, it’s this way: My grandfather, who failed for an enormous amount—which showed the position he occupied in the City—married my grandmother in the reasonable expectation that she would bring him a fortune. It is true that the old man was then not more than fifty or so, but he did not count so much on a will as on a settlement.”

“I understand that the marriage was undertaken without consultation with my great-grandfather, or, under the circumstances, with his solicitors.”

“That was, no doubt, the case; but when one marries into so wealthy a family, and when the head of it is not in a position to be consulted, the least that can be expected is a settlement—a settlement of some kind. My grandfather said that he expected nothing less than twenty thousand—twenty thousand. He dated his subsequent misfortunes to the failure of this expectation, because he got nothing. Perhaps, Mr. Campaigne, as you were not born then, you can hardly believe that he got nothing.”

“I am in ignorance of the whole business.”

“Quite so—quite so. I think, therefore, that I am quite justified in asking your people to pay me just the bare sum—out-of-pocket expenses—which we have expended upon my grandmother.”

“Oh!”

The tone was not encouraging, but the other man was not versed in these external signs, and went on, unabashed:

“You saw yourself the other day the style in which we live, I believe, Mr. Campaigne; you will acknowledge that it was a noble Tea.”

Leonard bowed solemnly.

“An account rendered, under any circumstances, for the maintenance of a grandmother, a mother, and a wife I should myself tear up and throw into the fire. But it is no concern of mine. You can send your claim to my great-grandfather——”

“My great-grandfather as much as yours.”

“To his solicitors, whose name and address you probably know; if not, I will furnish you with them. If that is all you have to say——”

He moved towards the door.

“No, no. I mean this. We had a right to expect a fortune, and there has been none.”

“You said that before. Again, Mr. Galley, I cannot discuss this matter with you. Take your claim to the right quarter.”

“I’m not obliged to keep the old woman,” he replied sulkily.

“I decline to discuss your views of duty.”

“I want to wake up the old man to a sense of justice. I will, too. If he’s mad we will find out. If he isn’t, I will make him pay—even if I have to expose him.”

Leonard stepped to the door and threw it open. Mr. Galley rose. His face betrayed many emotions. In fact, the conversation had not proceeded quite on the lines he hoped.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said. “Give me a little time.”

Leonard closed the door and returned to the hearth-rug.

“Take time, Mr. Galley.”

“I don’t want,” he said, “to behave ungentlemanly, but I’m in desperate trouble. If you think it’s no good sending in a claim, I withdraw it. The fact is, Mr. Campaigne, I want money. I want money desperately.”

Leonard made no reply. This was discouraging.

“I’ve been speculating—in house property—backing a builder; and the man is going. That is what has happened to me. If I can’t raise a thousand pounds in the course of a day or two I must go too.”

“You will not raise anything by sending in a bill for the maintenance of your grandmother. Put that out of your head, Mr. Galley.”

He groaned.

“Then, will you lend me a thousand pounds, Mr. Campaigne? You were very friendly when you came to see us the other day. The security is first-class—the shells of three unfinished houses—and I will give you eight per cent. for the accommodation. Good security and good interest. There you are. Come, Mr. Campaigne: you are not a business man, and I don’t think you can make, as a rule, more than three per cent. at the outside.”

“I have no money either to lend or to advance.”

“I have been to the bank, but they won’t look at the business. It’s a mean, creeping, miserable bank. I shall change it.”

“Well, Mr. Galley, I am sorry to hear that you are in trouble, but I cannot help you.”

“If I do go bankrupt,” he said savagely, “the old woman will go into the workhouse. That’s one consolation. And she’s your great-aunt.”

“You forget your sister, Mr. Galley. From what I know of Board Schools, I should say that she is quite able to maintain her grandmother. If not, there may be other assistance.”

“There’s another thing, then,” he persisted. “When I spoke to you first, I mentioned the word ‘accumulations.’”

“No one mentions any other word just now, I think,” Leonard replied, with a touch of temper.

“They must be enormous. I’ve been working it out. Enormous! And that old man can’t live much longer. He can’t. He’s ninety-five.”

“Mr. Galley, I put it to you as a lawyer, or, at least, as a solicitor: Do you think that your great-grandfather has lived all these years without making a will?”

“He can’t make a will. He is a madman.”

“Ask his solicitors for an opinion on that subject. The old man will not speak, but he receives communications and gives instructions.”

“I shall dispute the will if I’m not named in it. I shall expect a full share. I shall show that he’s a madman.”

“As you please. Meanwhile, it is doubtful whether the testator ever heard your name.”

“He knows his daughter’s name. And what’s hers is mine.”

“I must open the door again, Mr. Galley, if you talk nonsense. I hear, by the way, that you have made that lady sign certain papers. As a solicitor, you must know that such documents would be regarded by the Court with extreme suspicion.”

“If I have to go bankrupt I shall let the whole world know that you wouldn’t lift a finger to save your own cousin.”

“As you please.”

“And if there’s a will that turns out me, I’ll drag the whole thing into Court and expose you. I will expose you, by——”

Leonard opened the door again.

“This time, Mr. Galley, you will go.”

He obeyed. He dropped his hat on his head, he marched out, and he bawled on the stairs as he went down:

“I’ll expose you—I’ll expose you—I’ll expose you!”

These terrifying and minatory words rang up and down the stairs of that respectable mansion like the voice of an Accusing Angel, so that everybody who heard them jumped and turned pale, and murmured:

“Oh, good Lord! What’s come out now?”