was a third letter—from his aunt:
“Dear Leonard,
“Will you look in, if you possibly can, on Wednesday to meet your uncle Fred? He has come home again. Of course, you cannot remember him. He was wild, I believe, in the old days, but he says that is over now. Indeed, it is high time. He seems to be doing well, and is most cheerful. As the acting head of the family, you will, I am sure, give him a welcome, and forget and forgive, if there is anything to forgive. Algernon is, I fear, working too hard. I could not have believed that the art of play-writing required such close attention to the theatres. He is making many acquaintances among actors and actresses, who will be able, he says, to help him tremendously. I tell his father, who sometimes grumbles, that when the boy makes up his mind to begin there will be no living dramatist who has more conscientiously studied his art.
“Affectionately yours,
“Dorothy Campaigne.”
Leonard wrote a note accepting this invitation, and then endeavoured, but without success, to dismiss the subject of the returned prodigal from his mind. It was a relief to feel that he was at least prosperous and cheerful. Now, had Leonard been a person of wider experience, he would have remembered that cheerfulness in a prodigal is a most suspicious attribute, because cheerfulness is the dominant note of the prodigal under all circumstances, even the most unpromising. His cheerfulness is his principal, sometimes his only, virtue. He is cheerful because it is always more pleasant to be cheerful than to be miserable; it is more comfortable to laugh than to cry. Only when the prodigal becomes successful—which is very, very seldom—does he lose his cheerfulness and assume a responsible and anxious countenance like the steady and plodding elder brother.
CHAPTER IV
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
