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The Man Who Rose Again

by Joseph Hocking · English · Gutenberg #33964 · 633,027 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Man Who Rose Again

Author: Joseph Hocking


        
Release date: September 28, 2010 [eBook #33964]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33964

Credits: Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO ROSE AGAIN ***




Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                           THE MAN WHO ROSE AGAIN

                             BY JOSEPH HOCKING


    WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR

    CINCINNATI
    JENNINGS & GRAHAM

    PRINTED IN 1907


_The central idea of this story is based upon an incident in real life,
related to me by C. Hagberg Wright, Esq., LL.D., of the London Library,
to whom I wish to express my grateful acknowledgment and sincere
thanks._

_J. H._




[Illustration: "What do our pattern young men say?" sneered Leicester.]




CONTENTS


I. A CYNIC'S CHALLENGE

II. THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

III. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN MEET

IV. A DOUBLE PERSONALITY

V. THE STRENGTHENING OF THE CHAIN

VI. LEICESTER'S WOOING

VII. A WOMAN'S HEART

VIII. THE FOUR MEN MEET AGAIN

IX. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING

X. THE WEDDING-DAY

XI. LEICESTER AND WINFIELD

XII. THE LAST LINK BROKEN

XIII. DEGRADATION

XIV. LEICESTER'S FAREWELL TO TAVITON

XV. THE CYNIC AND THE COUNTRYWOMAN

XVI. A GRIM JOKE

XVII. HOW OLIVE RECEIVED THE NEWS

XVIII. OLIVE'S LIFE IN DEVONSHIRE

XIX. THE MAN WITH THE FEZ

XX. HERBERT BRIARFIELD AND THE STRANGER

XXI. A GAME OF GOLF--A GAME OF LIFE

XXII. SIGNOR RICORDO AND OLIVE

XXIII. SPRAGUE'S EXPLANATION

XXIV. RICORDO'S REMINISCENCES

XXV. THE COMING OF WINFIELD

XXVI. REVELATIONS

XXVII. RICORDO'S WOOING

XXVIII. THE SECOND MEETING OF THE CYNIC AND THE COUNTRYWOMAN

XXIX. GOD AND THE MAN

XXX. THE MAN WHO ROSE AGAIN




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"WHAT DO OUR PATTERN YOUNG MEN SAY?" SNEERED LEICESTER.

"WITH YOU FOR MY WIFE, I CAN DO ANYTHING."

SIGNOR RICORDO.

SHE GAZED AT HIM DUMBFOUNDED.




THE MAN WHO ROSE AGAIN




CHAPTER I

A CYNIC'S CHALLENGE


Four men sat in the smoking-room of a London club. They were alone. That
is scarcely to be wondered at, for it was far past midnight. Moreover,
it was not a large club, and even when the place was most frequented
large numbers were seldom present. Three of the men were chatting
cursorily about a defeat of the Government which had taken place that
night, but the fourth, by far the most striking looking man of the
quartette, sat almost by himself, moody and silent.

They were all young men. The oldest had barely reached his thirty-fifth
year, while the youngest was evidently less than thirty. All of them
gave evidence of being young men of leisure, and each of them could
claim to belong to that class which is vaguely termed English gentlemen.

"Will the Government resign, think you?" said one.

"No," another replied.

"Why? It could hardly be called a snatch division."

"No, but governments do not resign unless the country is against them."

"Which it is."

"In a sense, yes; but in another sense, no. The question to-night was a
brewer's question. Well, if they resigned and went to the country, they
would be returned again. The brewers, for whom the Government has been
fighting, would be sufficiently strong at the polls to secure the return
of their supporters."

"Which is a strong reason why the Government will resign."

They went on discussing the question, neither saying anything worthy of
record. They seemed to be deeply interested, however; perhaps because
two of them were Parliamentary candidates. The man who sat apart,
however, took no note of the conversation. He could by listening
carefully have heard all that was said, but his mind seemed elsewhere.
Neither did he speak to the others, although he knew each one
intimately. Of what he was thinking it would be difficult to tell. There
was a strange, vacant look in his eyes, and his face was very pale.

He seemed utterly oblivious of the time, and although a waiter hovered
near, as if to remind the party that he was very sleepy, this young man
especially took no note of his presence.

Presently he aroused himself, and rang a bell which stood on the table
at his elbow.

The waiter came towards him sleepily.

"Whisky," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"A large one."

"Yes, sir."

"And make haste about it."

The waiter left the room, while the others glanced at each other
significantly.

"How many is that to-night?" said one in a low voice.

"Heaven knows, I don't. He's on the drink again."

"If I'd taken half he's had, I should have to be carried to bed."

"Pity, isn't it? He's ruining his career."

"I don't know. He never shows he's been drinking. He's always at his
best when he's drunk."

"He's never drunk."

"Well, you know what I mean. He can never do himself justice now, unless
he's had what would make any one of us incapable."

"Yes, but that kind of thing can't last. No constitution could stand it.
In time it'll destroy his nerves, and then----"

"Yes, it's a pity."

The waiter brought the young man a large measure of whisky and a bottle
of soda-water. He poured a small quantity of soda into the whisky. His
hand was steady and he did not seem to be in the least affected by what
he had drunk.

He lifted the glass to his lips and nearly drained it. Then he sat back
in the chair and closed his eyes.

"I should think he will soon be asleep, now," whispered one.

"Not he."

"It's an awful pity. Don't you think one ought to try and warn him?"

"Try it. I would not like to."

"But he's ruining his life. A fellow of such brilliance, too. Do you
remember that speech he made at the Eclectic?"

"Remember! Who doesn't? You know the constituency he's candidate for?
Well, the story of his adoption for that constituency by the general
committee is worth telling. I don't quite know how it was, but through a
misunderstanding two men were invited on the same night to come and
address them with a view to adoption. Well, the other man was young Lord
Telsize, an able, capable fellow, by no means a bad speaker, and as rich
as a money-lending Jew. Each had to address the meeting in turn, and
Telsize came first. He made a rattling speech; he voiced all their pet
opinions, and every one was made to understand that if he were adopted
it would not cost them a penny to fight the election. The meeting wanted
to vote straight away and adopt Telsize without hearing Leicester,
especially when they heard that he would contribute practically nothing
to the funds. However, the chairman overruled this. He said it would not
be courteous to ask a man down and not hear him speak; so they called
him in. Leicester saw at a glance how things stood, and that put him on
his mettle. In three minutes the meeting was at a white heat, and before
half an hour was over he was unanimously invited to fight their battles.
A man who was there told me that Leicester's speech was the most
remarkable thing he'd ever heard."

"I don't care, he's ruining himself. The truth about him is sure to come
out, and then he'll be drummed out of the place."

"I suppose Miss Blackstone refused him because she had heard about this
habit of his."

"Oh, it wasn't that only. Miss Blackstone is a very religious young
lady, and, as you know, Leicester is an agnostic. Not only that, but his
views about marriage would not be likely to commend themselves to her.
Fancy Radford Leicester being accepted by a girl like Miss Blackstone!"

They had been speaking in low tones, although they thought the young man
was too much under the influence of whisky to take any notice of them,
even although the sound of their voices could reach him plainly. They
were greatly surprised, therefore, when he to whom they had referred as
Radford Leicester rose from his chair and came close to them. He looked
at them quietly, glancing first at one and then at the other. Each
returned his glance, as if wondering what he would say.

"I was in doubts," he said, "as to whether I was in one of Moody and
Sankey's meetings or whether some strange fate had thrown me into the
midst of a Dorcas society."

"Why, old man?"

"Because at first I heard of some scheme for snatching a brand from the
burning, and afterwards I heard some gossip which was as full of lies as
the gossip of a Dorcas society usually is. When I opened my eyes I was a
bit surprised. I found I was in the smoking-room of my club, where women
are not admitted. Am I mistaken? For the plan for my salvation was
essentially feminine, while the gossip was scarcely up to the level of a
woman's charity meeting."

He drew a chair into the circle and sat down, each man looking rather
uncomfortable as he did so.

"Don't you feel like a word of prayer?" he said mockingly. "I am rather
in the humour for it. What is the process? First conviction, and then
conversion, isn't it?"

There was no thickness in his voice, each word was carefully
articulated. He gave no sign of drinking, if we except the peculiar look
in his eyes.

"Your father is a parson, isn't he, Purvis?" he went on. "He will be
pleased to know that his son is walking in his father's footsteps, while
Sprague's mother is great at women's meetings. Sprague has evidently
inherited his mother's gifts."

Sprague turned towards him angrily.

"Steady, steady, old man," said Leicester, with a mocking smile on his
lips. "You can't deny that you assist your mother at her drawing-room
meetings, neither can you deny that the story of Miss Blackstone's
refusal of me was born in one of them."

"It might have been mentioned there," said Sprague, thrown off his
guard.

"It originated there," said Leicester lightly.

"Why do you say that?" asked Sprague.

"Because it is safe to assume that, when a story without any foundation
in fact is afloat, especially if it is a trifle malicious, it was born
in a religious meeting run by women. Besides, I know your mother started
this gossip."

Each of the three men looked more uncomfortable. They had no idea that
the quick ears of the man had heard every word.

"I'm a sad case," went on Leicester, mockingly. "I'm ruining my career,
my nerves are breaking down, and I shall soon be drummed out of my
constituency. Let's see, how many whiskies have I had to-night? Surely,
surely, you fellows, who are so immaculate, should have a few words of
prayer. Come now, Purvis, a few words of exhortation. I will listen
patiently."

"We said nothing wrong, Leicester," said Purvis, "and we meant nothing
wrong. We only said what those who know you best, and like you best, are
thinking. You may keep the fact of your hard drinking from the public a
little longer, but not much. Such things are bound to leak out."

"Especially when I have such loyal friends."

"That isn't fair, Leicester. Not one of us would ever dream of saying
outside what we say among ourselves. We can't close our eyes or our
ears. We've heard you order whisky after whisky to-night, and we've seen
you drink them."

"And what then?"

"What then?"

"Yes, what then? I am as sober as you. I say, hold out your hands as I
am holding out mine. Are yours steadier than mine? I tell you, no whisky
that was ever distilled could bowl me over."

"All nonsense, Leicester; all nonsense. Whisky is whisky, and nerves are
nerves, and whisky will beat you, if you go on drinking so. It may be
unpleasant for you to hear us say so, but truth is truth."

"I know when to stop," said Leicester. "While my head and my heels are
steady I know I'm all right."

"All the same, you can't stop people talking, and there is some truth in
the Blackstone story."

"How much?"

"You know."

"Yes, I know," said Leicester quietly; "and as you chaps are so deeply
interested in my soul, I'll tell you. I never proposed to Miss
Blackstone; I never thought of proposing to her."

"Then why did you cease going to her father's house?"

Leicester laughed.

"Because her father has ceased to invite me," he replied. "Do you know
why? I'll tell you. The devil got hold of me one night and I trod on the
old man's moral and religious corns. I knocked the sawdust out of his
dolls. I was feeling a bit cynical, and I attacked the motives and
morals of religious people. Now, then, you know. But I never proposed to
Miss Blackstone; if I had, I should have been accepted."

"It's good to have a high opinion of one's self."

"Or a poor opinion of women," replied Leicester.

"What has that to do with the question?"

"Only this. Women don't trouble about morals. What women want in a
husband is a man that shall be talked about; a man who is courted and
petted; a man who is quoted in the papers. Given position, and notoriety
on the lines I have mentioned, and women don't trouble about the other
things."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I know."

"How do you know?"

"I am thirty years of age, and I have kept my eyes open during these
last ten years--that's all. You talk about my religious views and my
ideas on marriage, and what you call my cynicism generally. But let the
best of the women believe that a man will give them the position they
covet and then he can believe what he likes and do what he likes. No, my
dear, pious friends, you need not fear either about me or my future as
long as you believe in your views about what is called my abilities."

"That's a libel on women," said Sprague.

"I'm willing to put my views to a test," replied Leicester.

"What do you mean?"

"My language is pretty plain," replied Leicester.

Each of the other men felt the influence of Leicester's stronger
personality, and each of them resented it at the same time. They felt
almost angry that the man whom they had been pitying as a drunkard
should so coolly hold them at bay.

"It is a poor thing to say you'll put your views to the test, when you
know it cannot be done," remarked Sprague.

"Look here, my dear, exemplary friends, who are so anxious for my moral
reclamation," said Leicester in his quiet, mocking tone, "I've made a
statement, and I'll stand by it. I'm not a marrying man, as you know;
still I am willing to sacrifice my own feelings for the good of my
fellows. So, then, pick out your most pious and high-principled young
woman; Sunday-school teacher preferred, warranted to be sound in
doctrine, and having a proper horror of men like myself. Choose her
carefully, and I'm prepared to prove my words."

"If she'll have you."

"That's the point. I maintain that neither orthodoxy of life nor conduct
weigh with women as long as the suitor has the qualifications I have
mentioned. Now it is believed, rightly or wrongly, that I am going to
have what is commonly called a brilliant career. Well, choose your most
pattern young woman--she must be what is called a lady, of course, and
I must stipulate that she is passably good-looking and is not
penniless."

"And then?"

"I am prepared to put my views to the test. Of course, model young men
like you would not think of a wager; but if I don't succeed--well, I'll
give a hundred pounds to any religious cause you like to mention."

The man's eyes flashed with a new light. The plan he had sketched seemed
to amuse and excite him.

"It's all nonsense," said Sprague.

"Test it," laughed Leicester.

He had apparently imbued the others with his own spirit. For the moment
they were eager to see what would happen.

"Name your woman," went on Leicester. "What, are you afraid? Will you
not support your doctrine of the nobility of women? I give it as my
opinion that women are uniformly selfish, vain, and sordid. I maintain
that what they want is a man who will give them position, name,
prominence. Given that, and everything goes by the board. And I stand by
it. I place a hundred pounds upon it. All I ask you to do is to name
your woman."

There was a wild gleam in his eye, and he was evidently prepared to
stand by his words. As for the others, they yielded more and more to his
stronger personality.

"No," said Sprague presently, "it is not fair. If either of us had a
sister we would not like to make her the subject of such a proposition."

"But if you are right, my dear, good friends," went on Leicester, "no
harm can be done. I propose to the lady, and I am refused. What then? It
is only another illustration of the downfall of Radford Leicester, the
atheist, the cynic, the drunkard. But I am willing to risk it. All I say
is, name the woman. Let her be the best you can think of; let her be the
most exemplary, the most high-minded, the most orthodox, and I maintain
that she'll not care a fig about all my failings, if she believes in the
brilliance of my career."

"If you hadn't drunk so much whisky you'd not propose such a thing,"
said Purvis.

"Oh, you are backing out, are you?" sneered Leicester. "It is always the
same. Fellows like you utter pious platitudes; you proclaim the glory of
women; you hold up your hands with horror at a man who dares tell the
truth, and then you back out like cowards. I say there is no woman but
who has her price. You quote that lying gossip about Miss Blackstone
refusing me because of my heresies and my whisky drinking. I tell you it
is a lie invented by Sprague's mother, and I go further and I say that
there is no woman who really cares a fig for these things, provided you
can satisfy her ambition. And I'm prepared to stand by it. All I say is,
name your woman."

"Miss Olive Castlemaine."

The man who had taken no part in the conversation spoke this time, and
as the name escaped his lips both Purvis and Sprague gave a start. Even
Leicester was silent for a moment. He looked from one to another
suspiciously, then he burst out laughing.

"You've made a bold bid, Winfield," he said. "You make even me tremble.
Miss Olive Castlemaine is, so I suppose, the most sought-after heiress
in London. She fulfils all my conditions, and, more than that, she has
refused both Sprague and Purvis. I suppose, from what I am told, that
she looked upon Sprague as a bit of a hypocrite, and Purvis as--well,
not likely to have a great future."

He evidently stung both these men by his words. It was perfectly true
that both of them had been refused by Miss Olive Castlemaine, it was
just as true that she had been sought after by a number of other
eligible marriageable men, and had refused them all.

Miss Olive Castlemaine was known to be a young lady of more than
ordinary beauty, of good social standing, and, what was more, an heiress
to great wealth. But she was not a society woman. Some women laughed at
her because she preferred seeking to do good in the world to living the
life of a butterfly. She worked among the poor, she taught a class of
ragged children, and she was known to have strong opinions both about
men and things. She had taken a degree at St. Andrews University, she
was a Girton girl, and had attained to a high position there. Without
being a "blue stocking" she was a cultured woman, and was acquainted
with the language and literature of more than one country. But, more
than all, she had caused many society women to raise their eyebrows at
the mention of her name, because she was, to use their expression,
"pious." She belonged to no set, and was rarely seen at receptions. She
loved London because it was the centre of English life--life
intellectual, political, religious: but society functions had no
attractions for her. Some had called her a female prig, but few
regarded her as such--she was too healthy-minded, too natural, too real.

Her mother had died when she was quite a child, and thus she became the
one earthly delight and pride of her father, who was managing director
of, and chief shareholder in, one of the most prosperous and respectable
firms in London. She lived with her father in one of those fine old
houses, surrounded by a large tract of park-lands, a few of which yet
remain within the precincts of Larger London, in spite of the ravages of
the speculative builder.

She was at the time of the commencement of this history about
twenty-three years of age. She was a perfectly womanly woman. She hated
much of the foolish flippancy which characterised many of the women she
knew, and had a healthy disgust for those who talked lightly about not
being bound by those great social institutions which lie at the basis of
our national greatness and purity. Nevertheless, she dared to think for
herself, and had an almost masculine way of defending her opinions.

Being the only child of John Castlemaine, who occupied not only a high
position in the City of London, but owned more than one fine estate in
England, she had all that money could buy, while her father's integrity
and honourable reputation made her the envy of those who, socially,
would regard her as an inferior. For John Castlemaine, while bearing a
name known in English history, and possessed of great wealth, was still
a member of what is called the "middle classes." He simply stood high up
in his own class. He was not of those who mingled freely with the men
who guide the destinies of the nation. Rich men came to his house, men
great in the world of finance; but men great in the world of politics
and science and letters were unknown to him. Perhaps this was his own
fault, or perhaps it was because his tastes were simple and because he
did not possess the qualities which would attract men of influence and
power to his house. For John Castlemaine was a plain man. He belonged to
the merchant class, and he prided himself on the position he held.

As we have said, his daughter, Olive Castlemaine, had had many suitors
for her hand, but she had refused them all. Among those who had been
unfortunate were Harold Sprague and Herbert Purvis. They were both
mediocre but respectable young men. Both had been in love with her, and
both were wounded at her refusal. Perhaps this was why the mention of
her name made them start as if with pain.

"Do you accept?" said Winfield.

"What do our pattern young men say?" sneered Leicester, and he looked
from one to another as if awaiting their answer.




CHAPTER II

THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED


For a minute there was a silence. In spite of the fact that Radford
Leicester had instilled his own spirit into the party, there was
something in his cynicism that repelled them as well as fascinated them.
They were not bad young men. Not that they had high ideals, or were
filled with lofty enthusiasms. But they had been reared on conventional
lines, and although neither of them would have admitted it, they were
influenced by the conventions which had surrounded their lives. To them
there was something sordid, something repellent, in the thought of a man
coolly offering to marry any one in order that he might prove the truth
of a cynical statement to which he had given utterance. Nevertheless,
they longed to accept his challenge. Radford Leicester's spirit
possessed them; the man's cool and confident cynicism attracted them.
The very daring of the proposal broke down their conventional ideas.
Besides, in spite of Leicester's confidence, they did not believe that
his opinions were true. Especially was this true of Purvis and Sprague.
They had proposed to Miss Olive Castlemaine and had been refused. Other
very eligible young men had also suffered the same fate. Was it likely,
then, that Leicester, whose reputation was so peculiar, would be more
fortunate than they?

More than all this, both of them felt somewhat bitter towards the woman
who had refused them, and although they would not confess it even to
themselves, they would rejoice if she should suffer something of the
humiliation which they had felt. Such a feeling is natural to weak men.
The sting of disappointment made them eager to fasten on anything which
promised them a kind of revenge. They had a feeling that Miss
Castlemaine was proud of her conquests, and they would rejoice if her
pride could be humbled.

"What do our pattern young men say?" repeated Leicester. He emptied his
glass as he spoke, and then turned towards them. "Why, think, my dear
Moody and Sankey," he went on. "You were longing to save me from the
error of my ways a few minutes ago; now here is your chance. It is true
I only know this young lady by sight, but I have heard of her religious
proclivities. Why, she might convert me. She might snatch the brand from
the burning. She is such a pattern young woman, so high-principled, so
good. Besides, I am told that she belongs to the Nonconforming order of
pious people. She is a Wesleyan, or an Independent, or a Presbyterian, I
don't know which; but being one of them, her principles will be more
pronounced than those who belong to the worldly State Church. Here is
your opportunity, not only of proving your belief in the nobility of
women, but of bringing me under religious influences."

He spoke quietly and composedly, yet no doubt he was influenced by the
whisky he had been drinking.

"Besides," he continued, "here is your chance of proving that the woman
who refused you would also refuse me. Come, now, what do you say?"

"I accept," said Purvis.

"And you, too, Sprague?"

"Miss Castlemaine would not give you a second thought."

"Then you accept my offer? Look here, if I am rejected I give a hundred
pounds to--what shall we say--Guy's Hospital? While if I am accepted you
give the same sum. Is it a bargain?"

"I tell you she would not look at you. If she is not already acquainted
with what those who know you think about you, she would soon become
acquainted, and then--well, you would be driven from the house."

"Exactly; then you agree?"

"Oh yes, if you like."

"Good; as for Winfield, his only part in the business is naming the
lady. Gentlemen, I am really much obliged to you. I have not felt so
interested in life for a long time. You are really benefactors. But
come, now, we must go into this affair in a business-like way, and, 'pon
my word, I'll have another glass in order to drink success to the
enterprise."

He rang the bell and the waiter appeared.

"Four whiskies, waiter," he said.

"I don't like this," said Sprague.

"What, the whisky? I'll complain to the management."

"No, the whole business. It isn't right."

"Not right? Why, it gives me a new interest in life, man. Already my
moral sentiments are being elevated. I see myself going to that
Nonconformist church with a hymn-book and Bible under my arm. I even
see myself a deacon, or an elder, or something of that sort. Not right,
when it is having such a regenerating influence?"

"Stick to your guns, you chaps," remarked Winfield quietly, who had been
the silent member of the party.

"But I must have fair play," said Leicester. "I want a fair field and no
favour. All I demand is that you chaps shall hold your tongues. This
conversation must not go beyond these walls. That's fair, isn't it?"

"That's nothing but just," said Winfield.

"But how are you to get an introduction?" said Sprague. "Old John
Castlemaine is very particular as to whom he has at his house, and
although I have consented to this business, I'll take no part in it."

"Nor I," said Purvis; "and now I come to think about it, I withdraw from
it altogether."

"Except to pay your hundred pounds if I succeed," said Leicester.

"You can't back out from that," remarked Winfield.

"Still, I'll be a party to nothing," he said weakly. "Of course I know
it'll end in nothing. Miss Castlemaine is one of the cleverest women I
know, and she'll see through everything at a glance."

"Then I'm to have fair play?"

"Oh yes, I shall not interfere with you. There will be no need."

"That is to say, not a whisper of this conversation goes outside this
room."

"Of course that is but fair," urged Winfield again.

"Very well," said Purvis, "I shall say nothing; but mind you, I do not
believe in the business. It's wrong, it's not--well, it's not in good
form. But there, it doesn't matter. It'll end in nothing."

"Exactly," said Leicester; but there was a strange light in his eyes.
"And you, Sprague, you'll act straight, too?"

"Oh, certainly," said Sprague. "I shall say nothing; all the same, I
don't like it. But Leicester'll give up the whole idea to-morrow. He'd
never have thought of it to-night if he hadn't been drunk."

"I drunk, my friends! I am as sober as the Nonconforming parson of the
church that Miss Castlemaine attends. I'm as serious as a judge. No, no,
I stand on principle--principle, my friends. I have a theory of life,
and I stand by it, and I am ready to make sacrifices."

"But how are you to get an introduction?" asked Sprague. Evidently he
was uneasy in his mind.

"Leave that to me; I ask you to do nothing but to hold your tongues, and
that you've promised to do. I stand alone. I'm like your Martin Luther
of old times. Against me are arrayed conventions and orthodoxy, pride
and prejudice, thunders temporal and spiritual, but I fear them not.
I--I, a poor solitary cynic, am stronger than you all, because I stand
on the truth, and you stand on sentiment, convention, orthodoxy.
Gentlemen, I drink to you in very mediocre club whisky; nay, I don't
drink to you, I drink to the man who stands on the truth--truth,
gentlemen, truth!"

Again he lifted a glass of whisky to his lips and set it down empty.

"I'm going to bed," said Sprague.

"And I," said Purvis.

"And I, gentlemen," said Leicester, "remain here. Like all men who
undertake great enterprises, I must make my plans. As a champion of
truth I must vindicate it. I live to rid the world of lies, of sham, of
hypocrisy. Good-night, gentlemen, good-night."

The whisky was beginning to show its effects at last, although his voice
was still clear, his hand still steady. An unhealthy flush had come to
his cheeks; the strange look in his eyes had become more pronounced.

And yet had a stranger entered the room at that moment, that stranger
would have been struck by his tall, stalwart figure and his striking
face. For Radford Leicester was no ordinary-looking man. Compared with
him the others were commonplace. Neither was his face a bad face. It
suggested lack of faith and lack of hope, but it did not suggest evil.
Moreover, the well-shaped head, the broad forehead, the finely formed
features, suggested intellectuality and force of character. It also told
of a man whom nothing could daunt when his mind was made up. But it was
not the face of a happy man. No man who is without faith and hope can
be.

Radford Leicester had come into the world handicapped. His father was a
hard drinker before him, and he had inherited the love for alcohol. But
more, he had been educated in a bad school. His mother had died when he
was a child, and thus he became entirely under his father's influence.
His father was a clever man, but a man whom life had embittered. He had
been embittered by the death of his wife; he had been embittered because
he had never obtained the success he had coveted. He saw men who did not
possess half the brains or half the scholarship which he possessed, leap
into fame, while he remained obscure. Perhaps this was because his
theory of life was so utterly hopeless, and his faith in men and women
was so little. Young Radford was naturally influenced by his father's
views and his father's character, and thus by the time he was old enough
to go to a public school he was, like Shelley, an atheist.

Presently his father, who was ambitious for his son's future, sent him
to Oxford. He became a student at Magdalen College, where he obtained,
not only a reputation as a scholar and a debater, but he became
notorious pretty much on the same lines that Shelley became notorious.
He became more and more imbued with the materialistic philosophy which
was accepted by a certain section of the men there; indeed, he became
their leader and spokesman. He professed an utter contempt for life. He
regarded men and women as so many worthless things spawned upon the
shores of time, to be presently swept away into nothingness. He had
little or no faith in the nobility of human nature. Men were mostly
sordid, selfish, and base. Trace men's motives to their source, and they
were in the main selfish. Women were, if possible, worse than men. When
he was about twenty-four he altered his opinion for a time. He fell in
love with a girl who fascinated him by her wit, her beauty, and what he
believed to be her goodness. For a time his love made him cast off his
father's hopeless philosophy. He formed plans for the future. Through
his mother he possessed an income which, while not large, placed him in
a position of affluence. It was large enough to enable him to enter
Parliament, where he believed he could make for himself a brilliant
future.

He proposed to the girl with whom he had become enamoured, and was
accepted. He had barely become a happy accepted lover, however, when a
young barrister who had won a great deal of praise at the Bar, and had
also entered Parliament, where he was spoken of as a man with a great
future, also proposed to her. Without hesitation this girl, Blanche
Bridgetown by name, cast Leicester aside and accepted the man who had
made a reputation, rather than keep her faith with one whose future was
uncertain. In this decision Blanche Bridgetown was largely influenced by
her mother.

Radford Leicester soon recovered from the wound he had received in his
heart, but he did not recover from the blow which was struck at his
faith. All his old cynicism and hopelessness reasserted themselves.
Whenever he spoke of women he spoke bitterly, his outlook on life became
less cheerful than ever.

Then another element entered his life. Up to this time he had not been a
hard drinker; but now the taste which he had inherited grew stronger.
Drink made him forget his wounded pride; and, confident in his boast
that no distilled spirits could ever affect him outwardly, he indulged
in this evil habit more and more freely.

Still, pride was not dead. Professing, as he did, that life was a
miserable sort of affair at the best, he still had ambition. He wanted
to carve out for himself a place of position and power. His party had
found a constituency for him, and he had contested it. At the time of
the contest, however, the political opinions which Radford had adopted
were not popular. His opponent won the seat.

Again he was embittered, again his pride was wounded, and the habit
which had been gaining in strength now seemed to have obtained a
complete mastery over him. Thus Radford Leicester, who had never been
known to be drunk, was a drunkard. He had no faith in man; he had no
faith in God.

There was one power in his life, however--ambition. He wanted to be
renowned. He knew that he possessed unusual abilities; his career in
Oxford had proved it; his friends had admitted it a hundred times in a
hundred ways. Moreover, the vice which had mastered him had not degraded
him in the eyes of men. Only a very few knew that he was a hard drinker.
He always dressed well, spoke clearly, and walked steadily. Of his
cynicism he made no secret, of his repudiation of the Christian story
and of Christian morals he almost boasted; nevertheless, nearly every
one spoke of him as a man who would make a great name.

Besides, to weaker men he had a kind of fascination. He inspired others
with his own recklessness, and many almost admired his scorn of
conventional beliefs. In a way, moreover, he was liked. While
repudiating accepted morality in theory, he was in many respects most
punctilious about points of honour. When he gave his word he never broke
it. In his political speeches he never pandered to popular cries. He did
not say things because they were popular, and even while he declared
that all men had their price, he was never known to sell himself.

At the present time many eyes were turned towards him. He had become a
great favourite in his constituency. The leader of his party had come to
speak at a great gathering, and when, as the accepted candidate, he had
also to address the meeting, the great man had been simply carried away
by his speech. As he remarked afterwards to his colleagues, it was the
speech of a statesman and an orator. It might have been Macaulay, or
Burke, who had come to life again.

At times Leicester pretended to despise all this, but at heart he was
proud of it. Indeed, as I have said before, ambition was the one thing
which kept him from being a wastrel.

No doubt Radford Leicester's story has been repeated many times in many
ways; nevertheless, it is necessary to tell it again, in order to
understand something of the complex character whom I have introduced to
my readers.

The club in which they had met was situated in the region of Pall Mall,
and while not in the strict sense political, it was mostly frequented by
those who were of Leicester's way of thinking. As I have said, it was
not a large club; nevertheless, it provided a limited number of beds.
These young men had come up to listen to a debate at the House of
Commons, and preferred spending the night at the club to going to an
hotel.

"Going to carry this thing through, Leicester?" said Winfield when the
others had gone.

"If only to knock the nonsense out of those prigs," replied the other.

"Marriage is a dear price to pay."

"Then why are fellows so eager for it?"

"I don't know. Men are mostly fools, I suppose."

"Yes; but then it was not a question of marriage. It was only a question
of being accepted as a possible husband."

"The same thing. No man of honour can win a woman's promise to be his
wife and then jilt her."

"A great many do it. Besides, women don't care."

"Don't they? Why do you think so?"

"Because women are women. And it isn't as though this Miss Castlemaine
had fears of being placed on the shelf."

"You are very cool about it, old man."

"Quite the reverse. I am quite excited. Just fancy my scheming to be the
promised husband of a beautiful heiress, a sort of glorified Quakeress,
rich, pious, and high-minded. Winning an election will be a small thing
compared with winning her."

"But surely you'll not try and carry the thing through?"

"Why?"

"Because you don't love her."

Leicester gave a significant whistle.

"Love," he said: "does that come in?"

"It's supposed to."

"It's one of the many illusions which still exist among a certain number
of people. As for its reality----"

He shrugged his shoulders significantly, and then became quiet.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Winfield presently.

"A man's secret thoughts are sacred," replied Leicester mockingly. "Do
you think my pious sentiments are for public utterance?"

Winfield rose and held out his hand.

"Good-night Leicester," he said.

"What, going to bed?"

"Yes, it's past one o'clock."

"Well, what then? You've no wife to regulate your hours."

"No, but I have work to regulate them. A journalist is a slave to the
public."

"Stay half an hour longer."

"What's the good?"

"I can't sleep, and it's horrible to go to bed and lie awake. Besides, I
believe I've a touch of D.T."

"Nonsense. You who boast that your nerves are steel, and that no whisky
can bowl you over."

"That's true, and yet--look here, Winfield, you are not one of these
whining sentimentalists, and one can speak to you plainly. I was never
drunk in my life; that is, I was never in a condition when I couldn't
walk straight, and when I couldn't express my thoughts clearly.
Nevertheless, it tells, my son, it tells. I don't get excited, and I
don't get maudlin. Perhaps it would be better for me if I did."

"Why?"

"Then I should be afraid. As it is, I am afraid of nothing. And yet, I
tell you, I have a bad time when I am alone in the dark. It's hell,
man--it's hell!"

"Then give it up."

"I won't. Because it's all the heaven I have. Besides, I can do nothing
without it. Without whisky my mind's a blank, my brains won't act. With
it--that is, when I take the right quantity--nothing's impossible,
man--nothing. Only----"

"What?"

"The right quantity increases--that's all. Good-night. When I come to
remember, I shan't have the blues to-night."

"Why?"

"Why? Have I not to make my plans for conquest? I must win my wager!"

"Nonsense. You don't mean that?"

"But I do. Good-night, old man. Let me dream."

Radford Leicester remained only a few minutes after Winfield had left
the room. Once he put his hand upon the bell, as if to ring for more
whisky, but he checked himself.

"No," he said aloud, "I have had too much to-night already."

He walked with a steady step across the room, and the waiter, who had
hovered around, prepared to turn out the lights.

"Good-night, Jenkins," said Leicester, as the man opened the door.

"Good-night, sir."

"Every one gone to bed except you?"

"Nearly every one, sir."

"Then I'll leave it to you to arrange for my bath in the morning.
Half-past nine will do."

"Yes, sir. Hot or cold?"

A cold blast of air came along the passage. He was about to say "Cold,"
but he changed his mind.

"Hot, Jenkins," he said. "Good-night."

When he got to his bedroom and turned on the lights he looked at the
mirror, long and steadily.

"Thirty," he said presently, "only thirty, and I'm ordering a hot bath
at half-past nine in the morning. It's telling."

He wandered around the room aimlessly, but with a steady step.

"Yes," he said aloud presently, "I'll do it, if only to have the laugh
out of those puppies. What's the odds? Blanche Bridgewater or Olive
Castlemaine? Women are all alike--mean, selfish, faithless. Well, what
then? I'm in the mood for it."

He threw himself in a chair beside the bed and began to think.

"Yes," he said presently, "that plan will work."




CHAPTER III

THE MAN AND THE WOMAN MEET


"Olive," said John Castlemaine, after reading the letters which had come
to his house one morning, "I am expecting two men here to dinner
to-night."

"All right, father," said the girl, who was intent on a letter of her
own, "I'll tell Mrs. Bray."

John Castlemaine went to the sideboard and cut a slice of ham, and then
returned to the table again. His daughter was still intent on her
letter, although she occasionally took a sip of coffee.

"Letter interesting, Olive?"

"Very."

Mr. Castlemaine looked steadily at his daughter and sighed. He was not a
sad-looking man, even although he sighed. There was a merry twinkle in
his keen grey eyes and a smile played around his mouth. Perhaps he
sighed because his daughter reminded him of her mother, who was dead.
Perhaps he remembered the fact that she was his only child, and that if
she married he would be all alone. That he was proud of her there could
be no doubt. No one could see the look he gave her without being sure of
it; that he loved her very dearly was just as certain.

And indeed it was no wonder that this should be so, for Olive
Castlemaine had for years been his only earthly joy and comfort.
Especially was this so since she had left school. He had bestowed all
his affection on her as a child, but when she returned home from
Germany, after having received many honours both at St. Andrews and
Girton, pride was added to his love.

When one goes amongst a large concourse of people there is generally one
face, one personality that stands out clearly and distinctly from the
rest. The great majority are commonplace, unnoteworthy; but there is
generally one, if not more, who strikes the attention, and claims the
interest of the observer. When you see such a one you begin to ask
questions. You want to know his or her history, antecedents, or
achievements. If you learn nothing of importance you are disappointed.
You feel that you have been defrauded of something.

"With such a face, such a personality," you say, "he or she should do
and be something out of the ordinary."

Olive Castlemaine was always the one in a crowd. People seldom passed
her without wanting to have a second look. When she went into society,
which was seldom, many questions were invariably asked about her. There
might be more beautiful women present; there might be women who were
noteworthy because of some book they had written or some picture they
had painted, but they did not excite the interest which Olive
Castlemaine excited. It was not because of any exceeding beauty of form
or face. Not that nature had dealt niggardly towards her in this
direction--quite the contrary; she had a finely formed face, and there
were those who raved about the purity of her complexion and the glory
of her "nut-brown hair." She was tall, and well formed too, and carried
herself with grace. But it was not beauty of face and form that singled
her out from the crowd. What it was I will not try and tell. I should
only fail if I attempted. Beauty rightly understood is a spiritual
thing, and is not dependent on contour of features or a brilliant
complexion--it is in truth indefinable. A doll may be pretty, but it is
not beautiful. Beauty is suggested rather than portrayed--it is
something which lies behind the material. I have on rare occasions seen
plain women who are beautiful. What has made them so I cannot tell,
except that there has been what I call, for want of a better term, a
spiritual essence, which has ennobled and glorified everything.

Looking at Olive Castlemaine's photograph, you would have said, "That is
a fine, striking-looking girl." If you met her and talked with her, you
would not use those words. Perhaps you would not try to describe her at
all. You would be impressed by a sense of nobility, of spirituality, and
you would be surprised if you heard of her doing anything mean and
small. Indeed you would not believe it. Perhaps that was why strangers
generally asked questions about her. For beauty which suggests truth,
loveliness of mind, purity of soul, is of the rarest kind. And yet this
beauty is possible to all.

"I say, Olive."

"Yes, father."

"Nearly finished?"

"Oh, please forgive me. I ought to be ashamed of myself, but it is an
interesting letter."

"Who is it from?"

"From Bridget Osborne. We were together in Germany, you know."

"Bridget Osborne? Where does she live?"

"In Devonshire--Taviton Grange. Don't you remember?"

"Oh yes," said John Castlemaine with a smile. Then he added, "What a
coincidence!"

"What is a coincidence?"

"Oh, my letter is from a man in Taviton."

"What letter?"

"The letter which led me to tell you that two men are coming here to
dinner to-night."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten. Yes, I must tell Mrs. Bray. Half-past
seven, I suppose."

"Yes; by the way, what makes your letter so interesting?"

"Well, Bridget's letters are always interesting. As you know, she writes
well, and she has quite a gift in summing up people. You remember her
letter about that French Count?"

"Very well. Yes, yes, it was very clever. Has some one else of note been
staying at the Grange?"

"In a way, yes. At least she thinks he will be of note. Indeed she
describes a very striking man."

"Who is he?"

"He is the candidate which her father has persuaded to fight Sir Charles
Trefry at the next election."

John Castlemaine opened his eyes rather widely for a moment, then a
rather amused look came upon his face.

"Tell me what she thinks about him," he said quietly.

Olive Castlemaine took up the letter she had placed on the table and
began to search for the part which gave the description to which she
had referred.

"There's a lot about the girls we met in Germany," went on Olive;
"you'll not be interested in them. Oh, here it is. Listen: 'A very
interesting guest has just left us. I am not sure whether I like him or
no. Sometimes I think I do, and at others I am just as sure that I
don't. He is the candidate who has been elected to fight Sir Charles
Trefry, and father feels sure that he's bound to win. He came here to
dinner last night, after which he addressed a meeting at the Taviton
Public Hall, and then came back here again for the night. Of course
father knows him very well, but, as I have always been away when he has
been here before, this is the first time I have seen him. He arrived
about six in the evening, and, owing to the meeting, we had to have an
early dinner. The thing which was most remarkable about him before the
meeting was his silence. He scarcely spoke a word. And yet I am sure
that nothing escaped him. He has large grey eyes, which have a strange
look in them. His face is very pale, and he looks all the more striking
because he is cleanly shaven. As I said, he was very silent, and yet I
felt interested in him. He impressed me as one of those strong,
masterful men who compel people to do things against their wills. Of
course father asked two or three people of local importance to meet him,
and the quiet way in which he snubbed them without being rude--ay, and
without their feeling that they were snubbed--amused me. I rarely go to
these political meetings, but I was so interested that I wanted to hear
him, and I went. Of course there was a great crowd, but I took very
little notice of it; I was too intent upon studying Mr. Radford
Leicester's face. I have heard him spoken of as a keen politician, but I
never saw a man look so utterly bored. Especially was this so at the
beginning of the meeting; a little later a smile of amused contempt came
upon his face as he listened to eulogiums on "our historic party." When
he got up to speak, he looked disgusted at the way the people cheered,
and although the former part of his speech was clever, there was nothing
striking about it. He did not seem to think the audience worth an
effort. Presently, however, one of the cleverest men in the town--he
belonged to the other side--got up and heckled him. Then the fun began.
He seemed to realise that he was on his mettle, and the way he
pulverised our "local clever man" will be the talk of the town for a
week of Sundays. Never before did I realise the influence of a strong,
clever man. He simply played with the audience and swayed the people at
will.

"'When we got home after the meeting he was again very silent for some
time; then the vicar of our parish called, and again the fun commenced.
This time politics were mingled with religion, and although such
discussions are generally very dull, I would not have missed it for
anything. To see the Rev. William Dunstable writhe and wriggle and try
to explain and qualify was simply splendid. I think I see his method.
Mr. Dunstable would make one of his very orthodox assertions, with which
Mr. Leicester would seem to agree. After this he would lead the vicar on
by a series of the most innocent questions, but which presently led him
to an awful pit from which he could not get out. What Mr. Leicester
believes himself I have no idea, although I am told he has very queer
opinions; but that he gave Mr. Dunstable a very bad time there can be no
question. Indeed, he is one of the cleverest men I ever met.

"'And yet I don't think I like him. He doesn't seem sincere, and you
always have the feeling that he's mocking you. Besides, he seems to have
no faith in anything. He coolly pours scorn upon our most cherished
traditions, and yet you can't fasten upon a single saying which commits
him. In a sense, he's a sort of modern Byron, and yet you can never
associate him with Byron's vices.

"'I am afraid you will be awfully bored at this long description of a
man you have perhaps never seen nor heard of, but he's the talk of the
town just now, and really he's a most fascinating man. If ever you have
the chance to meet him, be sure and embrace it. You'll want to disagree
with everything he says, but you'll find him interesting.'"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, all about him."

"He must be a smart fellow, I should think. Should you not like to meet
him?"

"I'm not sure. Of course, you know that Bridget is rather given to
enthuse. Still, a clever person is always interesting."

"Because," said Mr. Castlemaine slowly, "it is rather a strange
coincidence."

"What is?"

"Why, this same Mr. Radford Leicester is one of the two men who are
coming to dine here to-night."

"It'll be interesting to compare notes with Bridget," said Olive, after
a moment's hesitation. "But why is he coming here?"

"Oh, a Mr. Lowry, a sort of local magnate in the neighbourhood of
Taviton, wishes to see me on a matter of some importance, and he has
asked this Mr. Leicester to be his spokesman. I did not wish to be in
town to-night, so I asked him to come here to dinner."

"And to spend the night?"

"No. They will return to town. There is a train about twelve."

But for her friend's letter Olive Castlemaine would have paid no
attention to the fact that two men were coming to dine, but remembering
what she had just read she felt rather desirous of seeing Mr. Radford
Leicester. Perhaps that was why she told her maid to take special care
in selecting a dress that night, and why, just after seven o'clock,
Olive made her way to the drawing-room with more than usual interest.

She heard steps and voices in the hall just before the dinner-hour, and
a few minutes later the two visitors were announced.

John Castlemaine introduced them to his daughter, and then watched her
face with an amused smile. Perhaps he wondered if her opinion tallied
with that of the letter she had received that very day. Mr. Lowry caused
no interest. He was simply a commonplace man who had succeeded in
becoming rich. Olive had seen such by the dozen, and valued them at
their true worth. But few of them were interesting. As a rule, they
looked at everything through the medium of money. To them passing events
were of interest because of the effect they might have upon the
financial market. And even here their outlook was narrow and
superficial. It was evident, however, that Radford Leicester did
interest her. He was a perfect contrast to the commonplace, corpulent
man of business. Mr. Lowry seemed rather awed by coming into the home of
one who stood so high in the commercial world. He was impressed by the
quiet dignity of the great house. The old-fashioned, costly furniture,
the sombre richness of everything, gave a feeling of repose to which his
own house was a stranger. He wondered why it was so. He had given
instructions to the manager of one of the largest furnishing
establishments in Tottenham Court Road to spare no expense either in
decorating or furnishing the mansion he had built, and although they had
obeyed him he knew that it was different from this. As a consequence he
felt ill at ease, and he stammered when Olive spoke to him. But Radford
Leicester was different. He was perfectly at ease in the great
drawing-room, and placed himself in the right relationship towards every
one immediately. And yet a careful observer could see that he was more
than usually interested. His large eyes flashed when he saw Olive
Castlemaine. He had seen her only once before, and then had not been
introduced to her. If he had given her a thought, it was only to regard
her as the daughter of a very rich City man, and that she was said to be
very religious. Now, however, all was different. While under the
influence of whisky he had made a wager that he would win this woman's
consent to be his wife, and now that they met face to face he had
strange feelings. The first was a feeling of shame. He would not have
admitted it even to himself, but he knew the feeling was in his heart.
For another thing, he doubted himself. Before a word was spoken he knew
that this woman was no shallow creature to be carried away by
high-sounding phrases. Neither would she mistake cynical opinion,
cleverly expressed, for truth. He almost felt afraid of the large brown
eyes which were lifted so fearlessly to his.

When he had entered the house he, like Mr. Lowry, had felt the quiet
dignity and the atmosphere of cultured refinement which prevailed.

"Who has created this," he asked himself, "the father or the daughter?"

"It is not the father," he concluded before John Castlemaine had spoken
a dozen words. It was true that John Castlemaine bore an untarnished
reputation for honour and uprightness, but he was not a cultured man; he
would never give the house its tone. There were a hundred things which
suggested the artist's feeling, the scholar's taste. When he saw Olive
Castlemaine, he had no further doubt.

And he felt ashamed. Not that his opinions about women in general were
altered. His experiences had been too bitter. He simply felt that his
conversation in the club in London a week or so before was, to say the
least of it, in bad taste. He did not mean to go back upon his words;
that was not his habit. Besides, the difficulties which presented
themselves made him more determined to carry his plans into effect.

As for Olive, she felt that her friend had estimated this man
rightly--at least in part. He was a striking-looking man; he was a
clever man. The florid merchant by his side looked mean and common
compared with him. The quiet masterfulness of Leicester impressed her.
He suggested a reserve of strength and knowledge which she had never
before felt when brought into contact with other political aspirants.
She knew the general type of Parliamentary candidates. Some had made
money and wanted to have the honour associated with the British House of
Legislature; others, again, were brought up with the idea of adopting
the political life as a career. Neither in the one case nor the other
were they men of note; they would be simply voting machines, even if
they entered the House of Commons--just dull, uninteresting men, who had
never grasped the principles which govern a nation's life.

But this man was different. The strong chin, the well-shaped head, the
large grey eyes, could only mean a man of more than ordinary note.

They sat near each other at dinner, and all the time Radford Leicester
was seeking to weigh Olive Castlemaine in the balance of his own
opinions.

"I hope none of those fellows will let the wager leak out," he said to
himself. "The girl makes me angry. What business has a rich City man's
daughter--a religious woman and a Nonconformist--to look with searching
eyes like that? I must be careful."

"You are an admirer of Tolstoi, Miss Castlemaine," he said, glancing
towards a picture on the wall.

"You say that because of his picture," she replied. "An artist friend of
ours knows the family. He paid a visit to Tolstoi's home, and the Count
consented to sit for his picture. I believe it is very good."

"But you admire him?"

"Why do you think so?"

"Because you allow his picture to hang on your wall."

"You forget that my father would naturally govern such matters."

"I should not imagine that your father would elect to give honour to a
man of Tolstoi's views."

"My father greatly admires the artist's work."

"But not this one. You are quite right, Mr. Leicester," said Mr.
Castlemaine, who had overheard their conversation. "I am not an admirer
of this Russian's revolutionary ideas. My daughter and I had quite an
argument about this picture."

"And Miss Castlemaine had the best of it."

"What man was ever equal to a woman in argument?" said Mr. Castlemaine
good-humouredly. "Yes, what were you saying, Mr. Lowry?"

"Why do you admire him?" asked Radford Leicester, turning to Olive.

"A woman always admires strength, courage, honesty," replied Olive.

"And which most?"

"Honesty."

"That is interesting. Might one ask why?"

"Because the other two do not exist without it."

Radford Leicester did not repress the answer that rose to his lips. He
could not be altogether a hypocrite, even to carry out his plans.

"That is a very respectable tradition," he said.

"You do not believe it?"

"I would not try to destroy it for worlds," he said. "I can feel the
whole constitution rattling about my ears at the very thought of its
destruction."

"But you do not believe it?"

"What would you say if I told you I did not?"

"I should say that Tolstoi's life would prove you in the wrong."

"Have you ever considered what a complex thing humanity is, Miss
Castlemaine? I have known honest men--that is, as honest men go--as
timid as rabbits, and I have known scoundrels who have been as brave as
lions. Is not human nature constantly laughing at us?"

"That is because our judgments are so shallow. We do not look beneath
the surface."

"Yes, doubtless you are right. But my main objection to the so-called
honest man is that he is so frightfully dull."

"To say the least of him, Tolstoi is not dull."

"Therefore he is not honest."

"Surely a sweeping conclusion from a very uncertain premiss."

"No, not uncertain."

"No? May I ask how you can prove it true?"

"By constantly meeting with men--and women."

"You mean that all the honest people you have met with are dull?"

"Pardon me, I am not sure I have ever met with an honest man. But I have
met with those who are called honest, and----"

The girl looked at him steadily. She was not sure whether he was in
earnest. It is true his face was perfectly serious, and yet she thought
she detected a mocking tone in his voice.

"Children, for example," she said. "The most interesting children are
those who are least self-conscious. The moment they become
self-conscious and begin to act a part they cease to be attractive."

"Then you think that all but children are dull?"

"Why do you say so?"

"Because all grown-up people are acting a part."

"Again, are we not still on the surface?"

"No, we are down very deep. We are considering life. Life is simply
acting a part. Why we act the parts we do is difficult to tell. Only I
have noticed this: in life, as on the stage, those who elect to act the
part of the good honest person are invariably dull. It is your villain
who interests, and your villain who does the daring things--except in
melodrama," he added quickly.

"What an unfortunate man you must be, Mr. Leicester," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you have been so unfortunate in the society you have
frequented."

"Oh no, I have been singularly fortunate."

"Yes?"

"Yes, on the whole, I have found people wonderfully interesting."

What did he mean by talking in this fashion? Olive Castlemaine tried to
answer the question, but was baffled. She was sure he was not such a
little man as to pride himself upon breaking away from recognised rules
of life simply for the sake of appearing odd. She was about to lead the
conversation into another direction when a servant came bearing a card.

"Mr. Purvis," said John Castlemaine. "I wonder if he has had his
dinner."

Olive Castlemaine and Radford Leicester looked at each other, they
hardly knew why, and each thought that the other looked uncomfortable.




CHAPTER IV

A DOUBLE PERSONALITY


A few minutes later Purvis sat at the dinner-table. It appeared that he
wished to see Mr. Castlemaine, and not knowing he would be engaged, had
taken the liberty of calling. He seemed surprised at seeing Leicester
there, but naturally said nothing. As for Leicester, his interest in the
gathering seemed to evaporate at Purvis's entrance. He suddenly became
rather moody, and when he spoke, addressed his remarks to Mr.
Castlemaine rather than to his daughter. This evidently pleased Purvis,
who became quite cheerful at Leicester's gloomy demeanour.

Presently dinner came to an end, when Olive went away into the
drawing-room, while the men adjourned to the library. Mr. Lowry seemed
rather annoyed at Purvis's presence, but made the best of the situation
by talking to Mr. Castlemaine in low tones.

"You are abstemious to-night, Leicester," said Purvis.

"Indeed!"

"Yes, after all, you are not willing for her to know all the truth."

Leicester did not reply.

"Surely you are not going on with this business?"

"Else why am I here?"

"But you are to let her know your character in full."

"No man's character is known in full."

"But--but----"

"Look here, Purvis, I shall play the game. See that you do," and he gave
the young man a glance which made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Of course--of course," he said nervously. "I don't like it. Still,
there's no danger--that is, there will not be when she knows
everything."

"Which you will see to."

"I shall tell her nothing of our conversation; as for the rest--well,
there will be no need for me to tell her that."

Leicester gave the other a look which was almost angry.

"No," he said, "I daresay you are right. A man's so-called vices soon
become public property. Of course," he went on, "you will talk with her
about me."

"Why should I?"

"Oh, you will. You will let her know all the world says, and a little
more."

"I say, Leicester."

"Oh, don't grow indignant, my dear fellow. I know the worth of your
indignation; besides, I only wanted to tell you that you are quite at
liberty to say what you like."

"You mean that?"

"Oh, certainly. Of course the wager is a secret. As for the rest, I
authorise you to give your imagination full scope. I say, Purvis, I
imagine Mr. Castlemaine and Mr. Lowry wish to talk with me about a
private matter. I'm sure you don't mind, do you? and Miss Castlemaine
will be lonely. I'm not in the least jealous, my dear fellow."

Mr. Castlemaine was much impressed with the way Leicester stated the
affair which Mr. Lowry wished to bring before him. Everything was so
carefully thought out, and so clearly expressed, that the man who was
accustomed to deal with vast business enterprises was simply delighted.
As he declared afterwards, it was quite an intellectual treat to talk
with such a man. Besides, he made the conversation so interesting by
introducing matters which appealed to John Castlemaine's tastes, that he
felt like insisting on him staying the night. As a rule, whenever he
talked of business matters in his own house, which was very seldom, he
got through it as quickly as possible. But to-night all was different.
When the business conversation came to an end, he still continued to
talk.

"By the way," he remarked when Leicester had said something which more
than ordinarily amused him, "my daughter ought to hear that, and we
might as well go into the drawing-room. You've finished your cigar,
haven't you?"

Leicester threw his cigar-end into the grate, and having finished his
whisky, he followed his host.

They found Purvis eagerly talking with Miss Castlemaine, and Leicester
knew the moment he entered that he had been the subject of their
conversation. She gave him a quick, searching glance, as if she could
scarcely believe what Purvis had been telling her. The look made him
angry. He had told Purvis that he was at liberty to make known his
character, and yet he keenly resented his communication. There had been
times when he had taken pleasure in his peculiar reputation; but to-day
everything seemed different. Still Leicester was not a man who shrunk
from a difficult situation; indeed, he presently found himself possessed
with a sort of savage joy, as he found himself uttering sentiments which
had become commonplaces to men of his way of thinking. Moreover, he
seemed desirous of showing Purvis that he did not desire to hide from
Miss Castlemaine the kind of man he really was.

"I hear you are making great progress in your constituency down in
Devonshire, Leicester," said Purvis.

"Oh yes, we are enjoying ourselves hugely down there," was the reply.

"For my own part, I do not find it fun to nurse a constituency," said
Purvis.

"That's because you do not look on the humorous side of the question,"
replied Leicester. "When one regards the whole business in the same
light as that in which a boy plays a game of marbles, it is great fun."

"I cannot think of the Government of my country in that light," said
Purvis loftily.

"No," said Leicester quietly; "well, tastes differ. Politics are just
what you make them, comedy or serious drama. And I prefer comedy."

"Thus it too often becomes a fiasco. A man becomes a member of
Parliament for the good of his country. He sacrifices his time and money
for the welfare of his fellow-creatures. At least he should. I know of
no higher calling than to be a legislator in one's own land. It is not
fun, it is duty."

"The greatest comedy I know of," said Leicester, "is the pretence to be
serious. I never laugh so immoderately as I do at so-called serious
drama. One can so easily see the make-up of the whole business. The
passion, the pathos, the high moral sentiment, the remorse, it is all
got up for the occasion--and it is great fun."

"But politics are different from the drama."

"Are they? I have never had much to do with the dramatic world, but I am
told that managers run theatres to make money for themselves by amusing
the spectators. When comedy fails, they try tragedy. Politics are pretty
much the same. Politicians put pieces on the stage to amuse the
spectators, and there-by benefit themselves. When they fail to obtain
the support of the audience--well, they are kicked off the stage and
another set of actors put on."

"Only in politics the actors don't make money."

"No," said Leicester quietly, "they don't, at least not many. But they
are inspired by the same motive as the actor is."

"And that?"

"Self, my dear fellow, self. The _bona fide_ actor is generally poor,
and he seeks money and popularity. The politician does not always want
money, but he wants fame. He wants to lift his head above the crowd, he
wants to be mentioned in the newspapers, he wants to be singled out as
he passes along the stage of life. Does the actor care a fig about the
welfare of the spectators? All he wants is their money and their
applause. Does the politician care a fig about the welfare of the voter?
Still, it's great fun."

"Come, come, Mr. Leicester," said Mr. Lowry, "it wouldn't do for the
people down at Taviton to hear you say such things."

"Exactly," said Leicester; "the people like to be fooled. Therefore the
best thing is to fool them. Besides, is it not all a part of one great
show? We are puppets on the stage of life, and we have to play our part.
And each plays it with his eye on the audience."

"Personally," said Purvis, "I should not spend time and money for such a
purpose. I know it may sound like boasting; but I would give up politics
to-morrow but for the good of my country."

"Some time ago," said Leicester mockingly, "I was invited to speak at a
political meeting, to assist the candidature of a young politician, who
is supposed to be filled with very noble sentiments. I went and listened
to this young politician. During his speech a man interrupted. The
speaker tried to answer him, and failed. The man continued his
interruption. At last some one shouted, 'Don't trouble about him, he
hasn't got a vote.' Immediately this young, high-souled politician said,
'I came to speak to electors, not to men who have no vote, and therefore
no stake in the country.' Exactly. But think a moment. Who was this
interrupter? He was a man with a life to live. He had his burdens to
bear and his battles to fight. But he was not a voter, he could not help
to send him to Parliament, therefore----" and Leicester shrugged his
shoulders.

During this speech Purvis looked more and more angry. The blood mounted
to his face and he shifted in his seat. Moreover, he saw that the eyes
of the others were upon him, which did not add to his comfort.

"Yes, it's great fun," went on Leicester, "this acting on the great
stage of life while the audience cheers or groans, as the case may be.
But as to motives--well, let them pass."

"But, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, who had keenly enjoyed the
conversation, partly because she was not sure whether Leicester was
serious or only joking, "are you not forgetting that there are
conscientious artists? Are there not artists who live for their art and
care nothing about praise or blame?"

"Is not that another form of selfishness?" remarked Leicester.

"But surely, Leicester," said Purvis, "you do not mean that you confess
to these sordid motives;--that you regard politics as only a game to
play, in order to win applause? Do you mean to say that you are no
better than the crowd you describe?"

"My dear fellow, I am a great deal better, for the simple truth that I
am honest. I don't profess to having these high sentiments which some
boast of."

"The last time I heard you speak," said Purvis, "you spoke in no
measured terms of the present Government. You declared it to be the
bounden duty of the country to thrust it from power. Why did you say
this if one party is as good as another, and all men uniformly selfish?"

"Because they do not play the game well," replied Leicester quietly;
"because they make false moves, and because it grates upon one's
artistic feelings to see a thing done badly. I would for the same reason
hoot an orchestra off a platform for making discords. To begin with, the
present Government have a very poor piece, and, secondly, they play it
very badly. Miss Castlemaine," he added, turning to Olive, "please
forgive us for talking in this way; but you see we are all alike. All
men talk shop, just the same as women do."

"The part you are acting now is very interesting to me," said Olive,
with a laugh.

"And to me also," said Leicester, looking at Purvis. "Indeed, when one
comes to think of it, all parts played seriously, especially when a
great deal depends on the way one plays them, are tremendously
interesting."

"Then you admit you are acting a part?"

"Are we not all acting a part?" replied Leicester.

"And for the amusement of the audience?"

"And for selfish purposes? Else why do we act?"

The girl looked at him steadily, as if trying to read his thoughts. That
she was interested in him she had to admit, not so much because of what
he said, as because of his strong personality. She could not help
feeling that he was the dominating influence in the room. She did not
believe in the opinions to which he had given expression, neither did
she believe that he believed in them; nevertheless he uttered them with
such an air of conviction that he impressed her in spite of herself.

"My reading of life is utterly different from yours," she said
presently. "Did Charles Lamb act a part when he sacrificed the woman he
loved and the life he hoped to live in order to give his life to protect
his poor mad sister?"

"Charles Lamb has never ceased to be praised since he did it," remarked
Leicester.

"But he never thought of the praise at the time," said Olive.

"No, I will admit that you've brought a strong exception which proves
the rule," said Leicester, "and yet poor Lamb was a drunkard."

He looked at Purvis as he spoke, as if to remind him that he was playing
his part fairly.

"Of course that was a terrible weakness of Lamb's," said Olive, "and yet
one cannot help feeling kindly towards him. He was so penitent, so
contrite; besides, he has gladdened the world by his bright, cheery
outlook on life. Even from your standpoint, the man who looks for the
evil in life plays his part badly. It is he who looks for the good and
the beautiful that really helps the spectators."

"I think otherwise," remarked Leicester. "The doctor who exposes a
disease, and fights it, is he who is the greatest benefactor."

"To expose a disease without fighting it, on the other hand, is of but
little use," said Olive; "besides, it seems to me that the greatest
physician is he who teaches us to live such healthy lives that the
diseases find in us nothing to live on. The best remedy against the
encroachment of disease is strong, vigorous health."

"But how to obtain that strong, vigorous health, Miss Castlemaine, is
not that the great question?"

"By breathing pure air. By partaking of pure food, mental and moral, as
well as physical," she replied. "The conversation so far has made me
feel quite morbid."

John Castlemaine and Mr. Lowry laughed heartily, while Purvis heaved a
sigh of relief. He had wondered how this conversation affected Olive,
and he rejoiced that it had not pleased her. As for Leicester, he gave
her a quick glance of admiration. He was glad that Winfield had
mentioned her. Here at least was a woman better worth winning than any
he had ever seen. Again he felt ashamed of the conversation that had
taken place at the club, even while he was more than ever determined to
prove to Purvis and Sprague that he was right in his contention.

"At any rate, Purvis cannot accuse me of hiding my opinions," he said to
himself, and then he turned the course of the conversation.

During the rest of the evening Leicester seemed to forget his sad,
hopeless opinions, and he completely restored the good opinion which
John Castlemaine had formed concerning him at first, and which he had
well-nigh lost during the time when Leicester was giving expression to
his cynical views. And this was no wonder, for even Purvis himself was
well-nigh carried away by his cleverness. He spoke well concerning
current books and current events. He compared notes with Olive
concerning places both had visited and books which both had read. He
exerted himself to be agreeable, and he succeeded vastly. Perhaps the
atmosphere of the house helped him, perhaps he found in Olive one who
helped to restore his good opinion of womanhood; perhaps he realised his
determination to win his wager and obtain the promise of Olive
Castlemaine to be his wife. Be that as it may, the Radford Leicester of
the early part of the evening was not the Radford Leicester of the
latter.

Olive felt this. He reminded her of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His dual
personality became somewhat of a problem. Which was the real man? Both
were interesting--almost fascinating. He was clever when the pessimistic
mood was upon him; he was far more clever when he became the student
and the scholar, talking brilliantly of books, of architecture, of art,
and of the struggling, troubled life of humanity.

Concerning religion he said nothing. Once or twice, when Olive
introduced the subject into their conversation, he avoided it. Perhaps
he shrank from expressing his lack of faith in those truths by which, to
Olive, all the opinions of men must be tested; but of other things he
spoke freely and well. Moreover, the girl helped him. Her
straightforwardness, her freedom from petty meannesses, and her wide,
intelligent outlook on life made him for the moment forget his
oft-expressed opinion of women. Besides, he had his part to play, and he
played it.

Presently a servant came saying that Mr. Lowry's motor-car was at the
door.

"You are not going up to town by train?" said Mr. Castlemaine.

"No, I had the car in London, and I thought I might as well use it,"
replied Mr. Lowry; "besides, I can get back quicker in the car."

"Yes," replied Mr. Castlemaine, "I suppose so; but, personally, I would
rather be behind a pair of good horses. I am really sorry you have to go
so soon," he said, turning to Leicester. "I am very glad to have met
you. I hope we shall see more of each other."

Purvis looked angrily at Leicester as he heard John Castlemaine say
this, but he said nothing; he was a little afraid.

"Are you going back to London, Purvis?" asked Leicester. "If you are,
I'm sure Mr. Lowry will be glad to give you a lift."

"Thank you," said Purvis; then, as an afterthought, he added, "I should
like a word with Mr. Castlemaine before I go. We have all been so
interested in Mr. Leicester's opinions that I had almost forgotten the
errand on which I came."

For a minute Leicester was alone with Olive.

"I have to thank you for a pleasant evening, Miss Castlemaine," he said,
"one of the few pleasant evenings of my life."

She looked up at him inquiringly.

"I mean what I say," he said. "While we were at dinner I told you that I
had found life very interesting. I told you a lie. Why I told it I don't
know. It slipped from my tongue before I realised what I was saying. I
have not found life interesting, I have found it anything but
that--anything. But this evening has been an oasis in the desert, and I
thank you."

"I am glad you have had a pleasant evening," said Olive quietly;
nevertheless she wondered how much truth there was in his words.

"You do not believe me," he said, "but what I say is perfectly true. I
do not find the stage of life very interesting to act on."

"Then it is best not to act," said Olive.

"That is not a matter of choice."

"I think it is. One can choose to play a part, or he can choose to live
a life."

"The same thing," he replied.

"Pardon me, I do not think so."

"All the same, I thank you for a pleasant evening. When one has very few
of them, it is a great deal to be thankful for."

There was something in the tones of his voice that convinced her that he
meant what he said. She reflected that his face was sad, and that there
was no joy in his eyes.

"Forgive me, a stranger, asking a question," he went on. "Do you find
life happy?"

"Exceedingly."

"That is interesting. I wish I knew your secret."

"By ceasing to play a part."

She had not meant to say this; but the words escaped her before she
realised them.

"How can one do that?"

"By seeking to serve the spectators, instead of pleasing them."

He laughed almost bitterly.

"If the spectators were only worth it," he said. He held out his hand.
"Good-night, Miss Castlemaine," he said; "thank you again very much."

He walked into the hall, where Mr. Lowry stood awaiting him.

"Is Purvis ready?"

"He is talking with Mr. Castlemaine."

Instinctively Leicester felt that he was the subject of the
conversation, and Leicester was right.

Purvis had explained his visit to Mr. Castlemaine in a very few words,
then he said, "A funny fellow--Leicester, isn't he?"

"He is no ordinary man," said Mr. Castlemaine. "He should have a great
career."

Purvis shook his head.

"You do not think so?"

"I do not deny his cleverness," said Purvis. "That is generally
recognised; but--but----"

"Oh, I take but little notice of his joking," said John Castlemaine,
"for he was joking."

"No, he was not joking."

"You mean that----"

"He believes in nothing--neither in God nor man. He does not believe in
the commonplaces of Christian morality. He makes a boast of his
atheism."

Mr. Castlemaine looked serious.

"That is a great pity for the poor fellow," he said.

"But that's not the worst," said Purvis.

"No?"

"No; it's an awful pity, but he's a hard drinker."

"Ah, I'm very sorry, for he struck me as a man with great
possibilities."

Mr. Castlemaine did not seem to enjoy Purvis's conversation, and he
moved into the hall, to bid his guests good-night.

During the ride to London Leicester was very silent. The car swept
swiftly along the now almost empty roads, and presently stood outside
the club where we first met the man whose story I am trying to tell.

Directly they entered the smoking-room, Leicester ordered a large
whisky, which he drank quickly. It seemed as though his abstinence at
Mr. Castlemaine's had caused cravings which he was eager to appease.

"Well," said Purvis presently, "you've taken the first step."

"Yes, I've taken the first step."

"I say, Leicester, give it up--it's not right."

Leicester shrugged his shoulders.

"Even if you succeeded it would be----"

"You mean that I am not worthy of her?"

"You know that yourself."

Leicester laughed.

"You see you rush to whisky the moment you get back."

"Well, she knows all about it."

"How?"

"You told her--and you told her father too."

Purvis's eyes dropped.

"Oh, don't be downcast, my dear fellow," said Leicester mockingly. "I
gave you liberty to tell them, and you took advantage of my permission.
And you told her all the rest, too. Oh, I know you well enough for that,
and on the whole I'm glad. But mind," and he rose to his feet like a man
in anger, "if you let on about the rest----"

"You mean the wager?"

"Call it what you like--if you or Sprague let on about that, then, to
quote your Bible, it were better that a millstone were hanged about your
neck, and you were cast into the depths of the sea."

Purvis shrank before the savage gleam of the man's eye.

"You--you surely don't mean that--that you are going on with--with this
business?"

"Yes, I am," replied Leicester. His voice was quiet, but he spoke like a
man in anger. "I am going on, and--and--if you do not play the
game--well, you know me, Purvis."

"Of course a promise is a promise," said Purvis; "all the same----"

"Go to bed, my son," said Leicester mockingly. "I think you'll be all
right now."

If Purvis had remained he would have been almost frightened at the look
which came into Leicester's eyes.




CHAPTER V

THE STRENGTHENING OF THE CHAIN


For the next few days following the night of the dinner at John
Castlemaine's house, a change seemed to have come over Radford
Leicester. He became less hopeless, and he did not drink so freely. It
might seem as though an evening spent in the society of a good woman had
a beneficial effect upon him. He did not take any further steps to carry
out his avowed intention, but when he spoke of women it was with less
bitterness.

Both Sprague and Purvis noticed this, and both wondered what it
portended. Could it be that Leicester meant to reform, or did it mean
that he was simply playing a part, in order to win the woman he had
boasted he could win?

Nevertheless he was moody, and seemed unhappy. He met these men
sometimes at the club, but spoke little. Moreover, in public he was very
abstemious, so much so that even the waiter noticed it.

"Is he turning over a new leaf?" asked Purvis of Sprague.

"If he is, he is not playing the game," replied the other.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it was understood that he should win her on the understanding
that he was an atheist and a drunkard."

"But surely you don't object to his reforming?"

"No, of course I should be only too glad if he did, only in that case
all the point of our discussion would be gone."

They were, during this conversation, sitting in the club where we first
met them, and just as Purvis was about to reply to the other Leicester
entered the room. He looked even paler than usual, and the dark rings
around his eyes suggested pain either physical or mental. No sooner did
he see them than he walked towards them, as if glad of an opportunity of
companionship.

"How are you, Leicester?"

"I have a beastly headache," he replied.

Sprague and Purvis looked at each other significantly, a look which
Leicester noticed.

"No," he said, "don't draw your conclusions. I have not been drinking.
It's that confounded constituency."

"Why, anything happened there?"

"No--nothing of importance. It's only the old game. This man has to be
written to, and the other man has to have a certain statement explained.
I'd give up the whole thing for twopence."

"Where would your career be then, Leicester?"

"Hang the career," he said moodily.

"It's all very well to say that, old man, but a great deal depends on
it."

"What?"

"Well, your future--your future in Parliament, and your future
matrimonial arrangements."

He gave the two men an angry look.

"Surely that's my affair," he said.

"Sorry to contradict you, old man; but it is our affair too. That
hundred pounds, you know."

Leicester gave expression to a sentiment which was more forcible than
elegant.

Sprague looked at him eagerly. Ever since the night when we first met
these men, he had cherished anger in his heart towards Leicester. He
felt that this man despised him, and he was glad of the opportunity of
giving him one, as he termed it, "on his own account."

"Our gallant warrior is afraid to fight," he said with a sneer.

Leicester started as though he were stung. The look on Sprague's face
maddened him. For Leicester was in a nervous condition that night. His
abstention from spirits was telling on him terribly. Every fibre of his
being was crying out for whisky, and every nerve seemed on edge.

"What do you mean, Sprague?" he demanded.

"I mean that our gallant warrior is pulling down his flag," said
Sprague. "He has found out that the citadel cannot be easily taken, and
he's ready to give up without striking a blow."

Leicester looked on the ground moodily. In his heart of hearts he was
ashamed of the whole business, but he felt he would rather do anything
than confess it before these fellows.

"I hear he's turned teetotaller, too," went on Sprague, who seemed
anxious to pay off old scores. "Who knows? we may see Leicester posing
as a temperance advocate yet."

Leicester rose to his feet as if unable to contain himself. To be
sneered at by a man like Sprague was too much. He seemed about to give
vent to an insulting remark, then as if thinking better of it checked
himself. He rung a bell which stood on the table.

A waiter came in answer to his summons.

"Whisky," he said.

"A large or a small one, sir?"

"Bring--bring a bottle," he said savagely.

"I say, Leicester, don't do that!" said Purvis.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't start drinking again."

Again Leicester was almost overwhelmed with anger. How dare these
fellows seek to interfere with him!

"May I ask my dear Moody and Sankey when the control of my actions came
within your province?" he said, with a strong effort at self-control.

"Don't take it in that way, old man. I'm sure you are ashamed of the
other business, and----"

"What business?"

"You know what business. You can't go on with it. You would never have
thought of it if you hadn't been drinking too much; and really, I was
awfully glad when I saw that you were giving it up."

Leicester did not reply, but instead looked eagerly towards the waiter,
who was coming towards him.

He poured out a large portion of whisky into a glass, and then, having
added a small quantity of soda-water, he took a long draught.

"There," he said, when he set down the glass empty, "that for your pious
platitudes, my friends."

The action seemed to restore something of his equanimity, and it also
brought back the old bravado which had characterised him.

"The brave warrior appears to require Dutch courage," remarked Sprague,
who seemed bent on arousing all that was evil in him.

"Better that than none at all," remarked Leicester quietly. "And let me
tell you this, my friend, you can tell your mother that I shall not
assist you in your drawing-room meetings. By the way, what line are you
on now? Is it Hottentot children, anti-smoking, or the conversion of the
Jews?"

The colour had risen to his cheeks, the old light had come back to his
eyes.

"As if I cared for your Dorcas meeting standards of morality," he went
on. "What, you thought the poor sinner was repenting, eh? And you had
all your texts, and your rag-tags of advice to pour into my willing
ears. Tell me, Sprague, have you selected one of your women speakers to
speak a word in season? You know how partial I am to public women."

"You tried to give up the drink for a whole week for one," retorted
Sprague angrily.

"Did I, now? Well, then, I'll make up for my past misdeeds. I repent of
my backsliding, my dear pastor, and I return to my spiritual comforter."

He poured out more whisky, still with a steady hand, and looked at them
with a mocking smile.

"Have faith, Sprague," he said; "have faith, as your favourite women
speakers say so eloquently at those dear drawing-room meetings which you
love so much, 'there's nothing done without faith.'"

Purvis, who was the better fellow of the two, looked really distressed.
He was ashamed of what had taken place, and had sincerely hoped that
Leicester had given up the wild scheme upon which they had embarked.

"I am sorry for all this, Leicester," he said, "and I confess frankly I
hoped----"

"That I had been brought to the stool of repentance, that I was ashamed
of my misdeeds, and that I was going to give up the game. No, my
friends, I stand by what I said, and what is more, I am going to carry
it through. I am not converted to your professed belief in the nobility
of women, and as for being ashamed--tah, as though I cared for your
copybook morality!"

Neither of the men spoke in reply. They were almost afraid of the man.
He spoke quietly, and yet the strange light in his eyes showed how much
moved he was.

"And what is more, dear Moody and Sankey," he went on, "I'll play the
game honestly. I'll hide none of my sentiments. I'll win this woman
under no false colours. Why should I? There is no need. What did I say?
Let women have their selfish ambition gratified, and nothing else
matters."

"Come now, Leicester, you know it is not so. I should think your visit
to Mr. Castlemaine's would at least have caused you to drop that
rubbish."

He had by this time finished his second glass of whisky, and while as on
the former occasion it showed no effects on his perfect articulation,
and while he spoke very quietly, it doubtless made him say and do what
without its influence he would never think of doing.

"I say, Purvis," he said, lying back comfortably in his chair, and
lighting a cigar, "did I hide my sentiments at Mr. Castlemaine's? Did I
pose as a moral reformer? And what is more, did you spare me? Did you
not, with great and loyal friendship, give both Mr. and Miss
Castlemaine your views concerning me? Did you not tell Miss Castlemaine
of my reputation at Oxford, and of my terrible opinions? Did you not
tell Mr. Castlemaine that I was an atheist, that I had laughed at
Christian morality, and that I was a hard drinker? Come now, deny it if
you can."

"You know what you said to me," said Purvis, looking on the floor like a
man ashamed.

"Of course I did, my dear fellow. Don't look so miserable about it.
Well, I did my worst, and you did your worst. Now look at that!"

He threw a letter to Purvis as he spoke.

"Am I to read it?"

"Else why did I give it you?"

Purvis opened the letter and read it. It was an invitation to Mr.
Castlemaine's to dinner.

"Are you going?" asked Purvis.

"Of course I am. Do you think I am going to let such an opportunity
slip? Oh, you need not be afraid to show it to Sprague. It is not an
invitation to a drawing-room meeting, it is only to a dinner."

"Well, that means nothing," said Sprague.

"No? I think it proves my statements to the hilt. That invitation would
not have come from John Castlemaine without his daughter's
consent--perhaps it was at her instigation. And yet she knows that I
am--well--all you've described me to be. I am an atheist, I've thrown
copybook morals overboard, I am a hard drinker. But what then? I conform
to the conventions; no man has ever seen me drunk; but more than all
that, I am mentioned as one who is going to have a brilliant career.
Hence the invitation."

"An invitation to dinner means nothing," urged Sprague.

"Hence the invitation, and hence the future justification of my
statements," he persisted. "Good-night, my friends, I am sorry I cannot
stay longer."

He walked out of the room quite gaily. A casual passer-by, if he had met
him, would at that moment have thought of him as a happy man.

And yet, although Sprague and Purvis did not know it, Leicester had
entered the smoking-room of the club that night with a strong
inclination to refuse the invitation to John Castlemaine's house. He
_had_ been ashamed of making a woman the subject of a wager, and more,
he had for several days been fighting against the craving for alcohol.
He realised more than any man the mastery which it had gained over him,
and he knew that unless he conquered the habit, he would soon be a slave
to it, body and soul. An evening spent in the society of a good woman,
moreover, had aroused his latent manhood, and he felt that he could not
degrade himself by standing by the challenge he had made. He knew as
well as they that it was made under the influence of whisky, and that no
man of honour should stand by it.

During the days he had been fighting his craving for drink, the thought
of what he had done became more and more repugnant, and when he entered
the room where Sprague and Purvis were, he intended telling them that
nothing more must be said about it.

It seemed, however, that the fates were against him. He was in a
nervous, irritable mood, caused by his abstention from the poison which
had become almost a necessity to him, and the significant glances of the
two men maddened him. Had they met him in the right spirit, it is
possible that the affair, which did not reflect credit upon any of them,
might have been dismissed as an idle joke. As we have seen, however,
they had taunted him, they had aroused him to anger; these men whom he
regarded as his inferiors had assumed an air of superiority, and this in
the present state of his nerves was more than he could bear. He had
ordered whisky, and after that his good resolutions went by the board.
Radford Leicester would have died rather than have confessed himself
beaten. Thus do great issues often rest upon unimportant events.

After he had gone a silence fell between the two young men for some
time.

"I wish we hadn't been such fools, Sprague," said Purvis presently.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we are as bad as he is, perhaps worse. We at least were
sober."

"Yes, I know; but who would have thought that he would stand by his
guns?"

"We know what he is. I believe if we had been wise to-night he might
have been led to give it up. But now nothing will move him."

"Well, it may teach Miss Castlemaine a lesson," said Sprague, whose
pride had not yet recovered from the wound which her refusal had made;
"but there--it's all right. It'll never come to anything. For that
matter, if anything serious came of it, I would tell her the whole
history of the joke."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Why?"

"Because you dare not. Because she would despise us all to our last day,
because she would never speak to us again. You know the kind of girl
she is."

Sprague was silent.

"Is it a dinner-party which Mr. Castlemaine is giving, or is Leicester
invited in a friendly way, I wonder?" he said presently.

"Evidently a friendly invitation, seeing Mr. Castlemaine has written the
letter with his own hand."

"Was it true that you told Mr. Castlemaine the truth about him?"

Purvis looked uncomfortable.

"Evidently he did not believe it," he replied, after hesitating a few
seconds. "You know Leicester's way. When you look into those wonderful
eyes of his you cannot tell whether he's joking or whether he's in
earnest. Besides, he's such a handsome, fascinating chap, and I saw that
Mr. Castlemaine took to him. Then, although it is perfectly true that he
talked in his usual mocking way during a part of the evening, he altered
his tone before he left. Evidently he found Miss Castlemaine to be a
congenial companion, for he grew quite earnest in his conversation, and
you know that when he is earnest, he is nothing short of brilliant. In
fact, he showed us two Radford Leicesters that night: we had Leicester
the cynic, but we had also Leicester the scholar, the brilliant
conversationalist, the man who has read everything worth reading, and
seen everything worth the seeing. No one could help noticing how Miss
Castlemaine admired him."

"And you believe he'll carry this thing through now?"

"I'm sure he'll propose to her. Didn't you see his eyes? And you know
what a fellow he is. When once he sets his mind upon a thing he'll go
straight on. Ordinary considerations do not daunt him. Refusals will
only make him more determined. Besides, you wounded his pride to-night,
and--well, I wish we had not been such fools. For my own part, I am
ashamed of the whole business."

"I tell you we need not fear. We know what Miss Castlemaine is. She is
not the kind of woman to be carried away by a handsome presence and
clever speeches. It isn't as though this would be her first offer."

"No, but she admires strength. Do you know her favourite characters in
history?"

"No."

"Well, just think. The men she admires most are Luther, Richelieu,
Cromwell, and Napoleon."

"A curious combination."

"Yes, but each one of them had the same characteristics. All of them
were strong men, men who dared great things, played for great stakes."

"Well, Leicester has not dared great things."

"But he's capable of great things. Why, you know as well as I, that when
he's in a room, every one else is put in the shade, that is if he cares
to exert himself. I tell you Leicester could be a great man, if he only
had the motive power."

"But we need have no fear. When did you say he was invited to Mr.
Castlemaine's?"

"Next Thursday week."

"I wish we were invited too," said Sprague.

"Who knows?--perhaps we may be."

As a matter of fact they were, and when the night of the dinner came
round they both found themselves sitting not only in close proximity to
Leicester, but also to Miss Olive Castlemaine. For this was one of
those rare occasions when John Castlemaine gave a dinner-party.

Radford Leicester sat beside Olive Castlemaine, and all admitted that
they were the most striking-looking couple in the room. Had they met in
some brilliant society throng, they would have been just as noteworthy.
Moreover, this was one of those nights when Radford Leicester found
himself in a mood to exert himself, while Olive Castlemaine, as hostess,
naturally desired to be agreeable.

For the first part of the dinner but little of note was said. The
conversation passed from one topic to another. Motor-cars, a continental
exhibition, the latest new novel of note, and the political situation
were each discussed in their turn. Society scandal was not indulged in,
and the sayings and doings of actresses and music-hall singers were not
to be mentioned. Thus, when one comes to think about it, the
conversation was of a considerably higher standard than that often
indulged in at society functions. But then it must be remembered that
John Castlemaine was a middle-class man, who professed the Christian
religion, and the atmosphere of his house was not favourable to "smart"
talk.

Indeed, if the truth must be told, Radford Leicester grew rather restive
under it. He noticed, too, that both Sprague and Purvis were watching
him closely, and listening to all he had to say. He instinctively knew
of what they were thinking, and more, he felt certain that if his host
and hostess were aware of the circumstances which led to his being their
guest that night, a servant would have shown him to the door. Moreover,
although he was not afraid of the outward effect of taking much wine at
dinner, he was obliged to be abstemious. Olive Castlemaine had heard of
his weakness, and would doubtless take note of the number of times the
waiter filled his glass.

Presently, when discussing politics, someone remarked on the amount of
self-sacrifice which had been practised by Members of Parliament,
especially by those who held a prominent position in the country.

"Mr. Leicester does not believe in that," remarked Purvis. "He is of
opinion that it is all great fun."

At this all eyes were turned towards Leicester.

"You are mistaken," he replied, "I believe the self-sacrifice of these
men is very great."

"Mr. Leicester has surely altered his opinion of late," remarked
Sprague. "Behold, a Saul among the prophets!"

"Not in the slightest, I assure you," replied Leicester. "I believe that
hosts of these men sacrifice themselves a great deal. If you ask me who
they sacrifice themselves for, I should say--themselves."

"Then the candidate for Taviton sacrifices his leisure for----"

"The candidate for Taviton, exactly. My dear Sprague, you have hit off
the situation with your usual felicity."

"I don't think Mr. Leicester is fair to himself," remarked Olive
Castlemaine, looking questioningly into Leicester's face.

"I assure you I am," replied Leicester. "Indeed, I am inclined to think
that the people who are called self-sacrificing are very undesirable
people to associate with."

"Come, come now, Leicester, you don't believe that," said Purvis.

"I assure you I do most sincerely," replied Leicester quietly. "The
other day I was at a house where there were six people present, and they
were waiting to play some game where only four could take part. Well,
four of them were self-sacrificing people, and wanted to give way to the
others. Two were selfish, and desired to engage in the game. Well,
neither of these four would give way in their unselfishness--with the
result that the game was never played at all. The evening was spoiled by
unselfish people."

He looked so serious as he spoke that Olive Castlemaine laughed
outright.

"Many an evening which might have been pleasant," went on Leicester,
"has been spoiled for me by these unselfish people making themselves and
everybody else uncomfortable, under the pretence that they were trying
to make us comfortable. Of this I am sure, if people were really and
truly honest, and were openly selfish, then each man would seek his own
enjoyment and find it."

"And be miserable when he had found it," remarked Olive quietly.

"I assure you that is a fallacy," said Leicester, "else why is it that
the so-called moral and unselfish people are the most disagreeable to
deal with? This I can say truly, the most morose and unhappy people I
have ever met are these moral reformers."

"Then what would you suggest?"

"A good healthy paganism. I know this is an awful heresy, but can any
reasonable man say that the English, with all their religious
institutions, are as happy as the old Greeks were?"

"We can't accuse Leicester of hiding his light under a bushel," said
Sprague to Purvis, after dinner, during which Leicester continued to
talk in the same strain.

"No, but I have yet to see that Miss Castlemaine is repelled by him."

"That's because she believes he is playing a part."

"You believe that she thinks he's been joking?"

"Exactly."

But they were wrong. Olive Castlemaine believed that there was an
undertone of sincerity in all Leicester said, and she was sorry for him.
During the evening she saw a great deal of him, and although she did not
feel quite comfortable in his presence, his personality fascinated her.
Indeed, he became quite an enigma to her. Sometimes, when the cynical
side of his nature was uppermost, she felt almost sorry that he had been
invited to the house, but when he changed and spoke earnestly on matters
which interested her, she forgot her feelings of aversion.

Indeed, when all the guests had left the house that night, Olive
Castlemaine reflected what a fine man Radford Leicester would be if the
sad, hopeless spirit were cast out of him, and he could be inspired by
high and noble motives.

"I wonder what would do it?" she asked herself again and again.




CHAPTER VI

LEICESTER'S WOOING


During the next few weeks Radford Leicester and Olive Castlemaine met
more than once. By what seemed a strange coincidence Leicester received
invitations to houses where Olive Castlemaine had promised to go. They
spoke but little on these occasions, nevertheless it was evident that
each found the other very interesting. It was noticed, moreover, that
Leicester was less cynical and hopeless when in her presence. His eyes
shone with a new light, and his voice was resonant with eagerness. She
seemed to act upon him as a kind of mental and spiritual tonic. The old
bored air passed away when she appeared, and while he seemed to be
little interested in the society of others, there could be no doubt that
Olive Castlemaine aroused him to earnestness.

When he was with men, he was cold and cynical as ever, neither did he
seem to be fighting the habit which had gained such mastery over him.
Sprague and Purvis often talked about him, but they had no idea of what
he intended to do. True to their promise, they said nothing about the
compact which they had made, and while some of Leicester's friends
thought he would be a suitor for Miss Castlemaine's hand, others were
just as certain that he was "not a marrying man." But no one seemed
certain. Leicester was not a man who gave his confidence freely, and of
late he seemed less sociable to his acquaintances than ever. As for
friends, he did not possess any.

More than once Purvis and Sprague sought to make him divulge his
intentions, but when they asked him questions he looked at them in a way
that, to say the least, did not encourage them. When he happened to meet
Olive Castlemaine, he was interested, eager, and sometimes almost
excited; with others he was moody, taciturn, and evidently far from
happy.

At last one day the light of resolution came into his eyes. He lunched
at his club, and then, having dressed with great care, he made his way
to Olive Castlemaine's home. He had received no invitation, neither did
he know whether he would find her in the house. Nevertheless he went.
During his journey there, he seemed in deep thought. At the railway
station he bought a paper, but he never looked at it. Sometimes he
looked out of the window, but evidently he saw nothing. He was as
unconscious of his surroundings as a sleep-walker.

Presently he drew near the station which he knew to be the nearest to
The Beeches, and then he rose in the carriage and walked between the
seats, as though he were considering some course of action.

"Shall I tell her the truth, the whole truth?" he said presently. "Shall
I relate to her the miserable----? No, no--not that!" He set his teeth
firmly together as he spoke. "No, no--not that!" he repeated, and again
he looked out of the carriage window with the same stony stare.

"If she refuses me----" he said presently. "But no, I'll not be refused.
If she says no a hundred times, I'll ask her again. I won't, no I
_can't_ be refused. It would be----"

The man's body grew rigid as he spoke. Evidently Radford Leicester was
in a stern mood, and bent upon a mission which affected him deeply.

The train stopped, and the porters shouted the name of the station. He
stepped on to the platform and looked around him. Only a very few people
had come by the train; the time was yet too early for the City men.
Outside the station he engaged a hansom, and told the man to drive him
to The Beeches.

"I wonder if she's at home," he said to himself, "and if she is, I
wonder if she'll see me?"

There could be no doubt that Radford Leicester was untrue to the creed
which he had so often professed. "Nothing is worth while," he had
answered many times, when he was asked why he did not take life
seriously. But he was serious now. His eyes shone with the light of
expectancy and of determination. He did not notice the country through
which the cab was passing. He did not realise that, instead of busy
streets and tall buildings, there were lanes and quiet meadows. He did
not notice that the speculating builder had not been allowed to ruin a
pleasant neighbourhood, and that although he was not many miles distant
from the heart of London, the district was suggestive of a country
village. Yet so it was. John Castlemaine owned all the land around, and
he had kept the speculating builder at bay. It is true he had built many
workmen's cottages--cottages which reflected credit alike upon his heart
and upon his artistic tastes, but long rows of jerry-built ugliness
were nowhere visible, and the countryside retained the sweet rusticity
of a purely rural district.

The Beeches was a fine old mansion standing far back in its own grounds,
and surrounded by a number of large old trees, which gave the house its
name. Once inside the lodge gates, it was difficult to believe that
London, with its surging life, lay in the near distance. An atmosphere
of restfulness and repose reigned, only disturbed by the passing of the
trains, which ran a little more than a mile away from John Castlemaine's
house.

While Radford Leicester was passing along the quiet road he took no
notice of his surroundings, but once inside the lodge gates he seemed to
realise where he was. He had been to the house twice before, but he had
not noticed the grounds. Indeed, he had had no opportunity. Night had
fallen before he came, and as he had left at midnight, it was impossible
to see anything. Now, however, all was different. It was true the time
was late autumn, and many of the trees were denuded of leaves; but the
sun shone brilliantly, and the autumn flowers gleamed in the sunlight.
He noticed, too, the air of stately repose which characterised the
house; he was impressed by the extensive lawns, and the gnarled old
trees which dotted the park. Here was no tawdry, ornamented dwelling of
the _nouveau riche_; it was the solid, substantial dwelling of a City
merchant of the old school. Even the servants had an air of
proprietorship. They were not of the "month on trial" order. Evidently
they had served the family for many years, and had become accustomed to
their surroundings.

Leicester had noticed, when he told the cabman to drive to The Beeches,
that the man had treated him with marked respect. Visitors of John
Castlemaine were not to be regarded lightly.

"Will you wait a minute," said Leicester to the cabman, as he drew up at
the door. He was not sure whether the one he had come to see might be
disposed to see him. He rang the bell, realising that his heart was
beating faster than was its wont.

"Is Mr. Castlemaine at home?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is in?"

"Yes, sir."

The servant recognised him again, and took his card in to Olive with a
smile.

"Will you walk in, sir?" he said presently, and then Leicester, having
dismissed the cabman, entered the house for the third time.

Everything was strangely quiet. The house might have been in the heart
of the country. To the young man it felt almost like a temple, so
different was it from the gaily decorated club where he spent so much of
his time. When the servant left him, and he looked around the room into
which he had been shown, he felt like a man in a dream. It seemed to him
as though he had entered a new world. The air of refinement and culture
which he had realised when he first entered this room seemed more than
ever present. Then a great pain shot through his heart. Why was he
there? What had led to his being there?

He heard a rustle of garments outside, and Olive Castlemaine entered. He
felt as though this was the first time he had seen her at home.
Evidently she had expected no visitors, and she was dressed for no
function. He noticed that she looked younger now than when he had seen
her on other occasions, more girlish, more than ever a child of nature.
He preferred to see her in this way. It had always seemed to him that
women appeared at their worst in the attire which society demands for
evening functions. It gave the impression of artificiality, of being
dressed for "show." But now all was different. She stood before him in a
simple, closely fitting dress, which perfectly harmonised with her
glossy dark brown hair and perfect complexion, and also revealed to
advantage her finely moulded form.

"I make no apology for taking a great liberty, Miss Castlemaine," he
said. "I have called this afternoon on the chance of seeing you, because
I could do no other."

She gave him a quick glance; but quick as it was, it revealed the fact
that Leicester's mocking, cynical manner was gone. The flash of his
eyes, the stern, set features showed that he was deadly in earnest.

"You frighten me," she said, with a laugh. "I hope you have brought me
no bad news."

"I have not the slightest idea how you will regard it," he said, "but I
have come to ask you a favour."

"What is it?" she said, still smiling. "Is it to give a subscription to
some charity which you have been in the habit of condemning?"

"No," he replied, "I have come to ask you to listen to me patiently for
a few minutes."

She froze somewhat at this. Perhaps the look in his eyes made her feel
somewhat uncomfortable. She realised that it was somewhat unusual for a
comparative stranger to come in such a way.

"I am afraid I am a poor listener," she said, "and, what is more, I am
at a loss to conceive how I can advantage you by doing so."

"Still, you will hear me out, won't you?"

"I have no choice, have I?" she said, almost nervously.

"I want to be frankly egotistic," he said. "I want to speak about a
worthless subject--myself."

She felt her heart fluttering; but she spoke composedly.

"Then I think we had better sit down," she said.

She suited the action to the word, but Leicester continued standing. He
laid his hat and gloves on a chair, but stood before her, his body
almost rigid.

"I have seldom been earnest during the last few years," he said, "but
when I have been, I have always wanted to stand up. I am in earnest
now."

Olive Castlemaine did not reply, but she sat watching him. There was no
longer a tone of mockery in his voice, and his pale face and earnest
eyes gave no suggestion of the cynical faithlessness which characterised
him at their first meeting. She felt as though she would like to refuse
to listen to him, but his presence forbade her. He was strong and
masterful, even in his appeal.

"Miss Castlemaine," he said, "I imagine that you have heard but little
that is good of me. You have been told that I am an atheist, a man
without faith in man, or in God, and what you have heard is in the main
true. Not altogether, but in the main. I am not what is called a good
man, indeed I cannot claim to have been even an admirer of goodness.
Certainly I have believed in very little of it."

Olive interrupted him. "As a strong Protestant, Mr. Leicester," she
said, "I am not a believer in confessions, and I am sure I am not fitted
to be your confidante."

"You promised to listen to me, Miss Castlemaine," he said, "and I claim
the fulfilment of the promise. Believe me, I did not come here lightly,
neither am I speaking meaningless words. This afternoon will be a crisis
in my life, and if there is a God, He knows that I am as sincere as a
man can be."

Again she was silenced. The strength of the man's personality was,
although she did not know it, bending her will to his. On the other
hand, she was exercising no power of resistance, and she was interested
to know what he would say.

"I do not know that I am an atheist," he said. "Indeed, I have sometimes
a feeling at the back of my mind that there must be a God, and that this
life is only a fragment of life as a whole; but that is not often. That
is no wonder. I was brought up to believe that there was no God. I was
trained to distrust every one, and to look for evil motives in every
life. I believe my father meant to be kind in doing this for me; anyhow,
I am a result, at least in part, of his training. I never knew a
mother's care.

"Please do not misunderstand me; I am not growing maudlin nor
sentimental; I am simply stating facts. I went to Oxford, and while
there, my father's training was confirmed, accentuated. I suppose I had
abilities, and was informed when I took my degree that my career there
was--well, more than creditable. I did the usual thing when I was three
or four and twenty. I fell in love."

"Really, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, "there can be no----"

"It was the fancy of a boy," went on Radford, as if he had not heard
her, "and it did not last long. She jilted me in a very ordinary
fashion, and my heart-wounds were not deep. All it did, I think, was to
confirm my early impressions about woman's love. Since that time I have
avoided women. Yes, I speak quite sincerely, I have avoided them.
Despising them, I neglected seeking the society of women altogether. I
have lived mainly at my club, so that I might not be brought into
contact with them. You will naturally ask, if you are interested in me
at all, what I have lived for, I quite realise that every man must have
some motive power in life, some driving-force, and I have had mine. It
is very poor, very mean in your eyes, no doubt; but I will tell the
truth. My driving-power has been ambition. Rightly or wrongly, many who
know me believe I have gifts above the ordinary; they have told me that
if I will, I can have a notable parliamentary career. Possibly they are
right--I do not know. But I realise, even in spite of my creed, that the
motive is insufficient. Besides, I cannot help laughing at the whole
political world. The great bulk of our political magnates have no sense
of humour, but they are irresistibly funny nevertheless. I can see that
they are only pawns in the game, although they think they are of great
importance, and then----"

He stopped, and took two or three steps towards the window; then he
returned and, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, went on speaking.

"I have been wondering during the last few weeks whether I have not been
blind to a very real world," he said. "This I know: I have been simply
longing to believe in things the existence of which I have denied. I
have wanted to believe in a final Will, a final Beneficence; I have
wanted to believe that we are not the playthings of a blind chance, and
that what we call disorder and discord are but the preludes to a divine
Harmony. With that longing has come another and this is a selfish
longing. It is to play something like a worthy part on the stage of
life. Sometimes this longing scarcely exists; sometimes it grows strong
and clamorous. There are times when I believe that I, even I, can live a
life that is really worth the living. This belief is only a new-born
child. It is sickly, and lacks vitality, but it exists.

"No, no, bear with me a few minutes longer. I know I have chosen a poor
subject to talk about, but then I confess myself to be an egotist. I,
like every other man, regard myself as the only person worth talking
about; so please forgive me. But do not mistake me. I do not pose as a
good man, or a worthy man. I still doubt whether such exists; but there
are times when I have strange longings, and these longings sometimes,
though rarely, become a kind of belief that I, worthless, faithless as I
am, can live a life which is worth the living."

He was silent a few seconds, and seemed at a loss how to proceed, while
Olive Castlemaine sat, scarcely realising the true condition of affairs,
at the same time feeling the masterfulness of the man who spoke to her.

"Perhaps you are hardly interested to know the reason for this," he went
on, "nevertheless I must tell you. You are the reason."

Olive glanced up like one startled.

"I, Mr. Leicester?"

"You. I have not learnt to believe in goodness generally, but I believe
in your goodness. I have not learnt to believe in women, but I believe
in a woman. I believe in you. And I believe in you because I love you."

He spoke quietly, and there was no tremor in his voice, but his face
was, if possible, paler than usual. That he was deadly in earnest no one
could doubt.

"I make no pretences," he went on. "I do not say, nay, I do not think
that I shall ever become a pattern man. Even now I have no strong faith,
even if I have any, in either God or man; but I love you!"

He seemed to be carried away by his own confession. Almost rudely he
turned his back on her and walked to the window and looked out over the
stretch of lawn and park-land. But he did not remain there. When he came
back again Olive glanced at him almost fearfully, and for a moment was
well-nigh repelled by the fierce look in his eyes.

"I love you," he went on, still quietly; but his voice had changed.
There was an intensity in its tones which she had never heard before. "I
love you so, that--that with you by my side, I feel I could conquer
anything, accomplish anything--anything! Look at me, yes, like that. Now
then, do you love me?"

Almost mechanically she shook her head. She did not know why she did
this, only it seemed as if some unseen monitor compelled her.

Radford Leicester took a step towards her.

"You must," he said, in the same low tone, but still almost fiercely,
"you must, you must! You must not withhold it. Good God! you do not know
what this hour means to me. My life, my future, my faith, my all is in
your hands."

Still she remained silent. Her face had become pale, and although the
look in her eyes was not of fear, it showed no confidence.

"Speak to me," he went on. "I am not a boy longing for a new toy. I am a
hardened man, a hardened sinner, if you like. I make no boasts, no
professions, but I love you, love you! and you must love me, you must."

For a moment the girl resented his air of masterfulness. She was not of
the weak and pliable kind of women that could be carried away by wild
assault. She looked up at him steadily now, and Leicester saw by the
expression in her eyes that he had touched a wrong chord.

"Forgive me my rudeness," he said, before she had a chance to speak,
"but I think a man in earnest is sure to be rude; he must be. Do not
think, moreover, that I do not realise the value of what I am asking
for. I do. I know that you have been sought after on all hands. I know
that you are said to be rich, and that you can choose where you will.
Oh, yes; I have thought of all that, and I have realised my madness in
coming to you; but I am a desperate man. No, no, do not think I have
been simply attracted by a beautiful face. I have been seeing beautiful
faces any time these last ten years; it's not that. It's you, you. I
love you, I tell you, and if you cannot love me I shall go into a
blacker hell than I have yet known, and I shall go there with eagerness,
and eagerness born of despair. But with your love I can do anything. Oh,
I am not boasting, and I am not speaking before looking down to the
very depths, but with your love I can live a life worth the living; I
can make a position worth the making. Tell me, Olive Castlemaine, tell
me that you can give a thought, a kind thought, a loving thought to me."

In spite of herself she was moved. Olive Castlemaine admired strong,
masterful men. She could forgive rudeness where there was sincerity and
strength, and certainly she had never been wooed in this way before. She
could not help comparing Leicester with men like Purvis and Sprague.
They were weak and effeminate beside him. His very cynicism, his
faithlessness seemed to her but as an expression of a strong nature,
which was dissatisfied with conventions and a weak assent to commonly
accepted beliefs. It is true she had seen his weakness, she had heard
him express the purposelessness of his life; but she had also seen in
him another Radford Leicester which was great and strong. And yet he had
not won her. Something, she knew not what, told her to refuse. An
indefinable fear, perhaps owing to her Puritan training and her healthy
upbringing, kept her from uttering the words he longed to hear.

Still Radford Leicester had caused her heart to beat as it had never
beaten before; never had she been drawn by such an admiration, an
admiration akin to affection, as she was drawn now. He was a strong man,
and she instinctively felt that in him were the possibilities of
greatness and of goodness. She believed, too, that she could be the
means of translating those possibilities into actual life; but she did
not give him a ray of hope. A few minutes before, she felt like
speaking. Now the desire had gone. She had nothing to say, she knew not
why.

"You are thinking of what you have heard about me," he said, "are you
not?"

"Perhaps."

He was silent for a moment. Perhaps it was because he thought of the
night which led to this meeting, and as a consequence felt ashamed.
Once, on his way thither, he had thought of telling her the whole story,
but now he would rather have suffered death than that she should know.
Even then he determined that if either of the men who were parties to
the shameful compact, should divulge the secret he would make their
lives a hell. For Radford Leicester was not making love to gain a wager.
A passion to which he had hitherto been a stranger had gripped him body
and soul. At that moment Olive Castlemaine was everything to him. He
would have bartered his immortal soul to gain her love. The cold,
cynical crust of the man's nature had been broken, and the hot lava
which had been lying beneath now burst forth.

"And you care for that," he said.

"Yes, I care for that."

"And if I had been what you call a good man, what then?"

"I do not know."

"But it would influence you?"

"It would influence me greatly."

"You believe in all you have heard?"

"You have denied nothing--and no, Mr. Leicester, even if I loved a bad
man, I would crush that love--that is, as you have been speaking of it."

He called to mind what he had said to Sprague and Purvis on the night
the compact was made, and while there was a feeling of joy in his heart
at her words, the memory of that night pierced him like a poisoned
arrow. This woman had disproved his creed by a single sentence. For he
knew that she meant it. There was no weak, faltering hesitancy in her
words. The flash of her eyes, the tone of her voice, told him that she
had uttered no idle threat. Here was a nature as strong as his own, a
nature which loved goodness as much as he had pretended to despise it.

He felt that the ground was slipping under his feet, but he retained his
calm.

"Wait a moment," he said, "there is something else I want to say to
you."




CHAPTER VII

A WOMAN'S HEART


If a few months before any one had told Radford Leicester that in order
to gain a woman's good opinion he would excuse his own mode of life, he
would have either grown angry or laughed that man to scorn. Yet he
contemplated doing it at that moment. Perhaps if Sprague or Purvis had
been in the room at that moment, they would not have been sure whether
he were in earnest, or whether he were playing a part in order to win
his wager. For they believed him to be capable of anything. But
Leicester was not playing a part. He felt that nothing was too much,
that no sacrifice was too great to win the woman who stood before him.
And yet in his sacrifice he would not appear to humble himself, for he
was a proud man.

"In the past I have not taken the trouble to contradict idle gossip," he
said. "I did not think it worth while. Besides, I did not mind what
people believed about me. But I have the right to tell you the truth."

"Really, Mr. Leicester, there is no need, and I do not wish to hear
confessions."

"But I have the right."

"What right?"

"The right of a man whose future is in your hands, the right of a man
whom you can send to heaven or to hell," he replied. "Oh, I am not
speaking idle words. Forgive me if I seem to boast. I am no dandy who
has made love a dozen times, and to whom a refusal means nothing but
what a bottle of wine or a trip to the Continent can atone for. Whether
your answer is yes or no, means everything to me. For you must become my
wife, I tell you you _must_!"

The girl's eyes flashed refusal, even while they did not lack in
admiration. No woman respects a man the less because he will not
contemplate refusal.

"Listen, then," he went on. "You have heard all sorts of things about
me. I am an atheist, I am a drunkard, I am a cynic, and I laugh at the
standards of Mrs. Grundy. Yes, you have heard all that."

"And I have no right to interfere with your mode of life," she said,
"only, Mr. Leicester----"

"Wait a moment before you say what is on your lips," he interrupted. "In
this case it is for me to speak, and you can do no other than listen."

"Why?" she asked, almost angrily.

"Your sense of what is fair and honourable forbids you," he said. "Yes,
I may be what is commonly reported, but there is another side even to
that. Let me tell you, then, that I, who never professed to believe in
what is called truth and honour, never willingly deceived any man,
either by word or by deed. Yes, let me do myself justice. I, who have
laughed at Mrs. Grundy and all her ways, never broke a promise made. And
more, no man can accuse me of sullying either the honour of man or
woman. I may be all that is said of me, but I am not that kind of man."

Something, not only in his words, but in his manner, appealed to her. In
spite of herself, she gave him a quick, searching glance. There was
something noble in his face, there was a healthy anger in his words.
Whatever his creed might be, he was not a bad man.

"I had the right to tell you so much," he went on; "that at least was my
privilege, and now, having told you, I must tell you something else. You
may refuse me once, you may refuse me twice; but in the end you will
have to accept me."

Again there was a gleam of anger in her eyes, and he saw the look of
scorn which rested on her face.

"I will tell you why. You cannot run the risk of sending a man to hell.
With you as my wife I can do anything. Oh yes, I know my words seem like
the words of a mountebank, but even my worst enemies have never accused
me of being a boaster, and I repeat it; no guardian angel which your
story-books tell about could do for a man what you could do for me. I
could work, I could think, I could even become great and good. But
without you--even the thought of it is like looking into hell."

[Illustration: "With you for my wife, I can do anything."]

"And I," said Olive, "could have but little faith in a man who dared not
stand alone. If a man's future, his character, his career, are dependent
on a woman, then he rests upon a weak reed. A man to be strong must rest
on God."

"That may be your theory; if it is, I know that human nature is always
laughing at you. If God is, He's giving you the opportunity of making a
man of me."

"I would try and help you," said Olive, "but what you ask is my love,
and love cannot be given for the asking. It can only be given as it
comes. In such a matter we are not free agents."

"And could you not love me? Answer me honestly, could you not love me?"

This was the first sign of Leicester's advantage. Her eyes dropped, and
the colour came to her cheeks.

Leicester's heart beat aloud for joy; he could not repress a cry of
exultation.

But Olive Castlemaine mastered herself by a strong effort of will.

"You ask me to speak to you honestly," she said. "Well, I will. I could
never love a man--that is as you would be loved--if I did not respect
him and I could not respect a man who was the slave to an evil habit."

"You mean----" he hesitated, and looked on the floor.

"Yes, I mean that."

"Look here," he said eagerly, "promise that you will be my wife, and I
will never taste a drop of alcohol of any sort again. I give you my word
for that. Neither wine, nor whisky, nor spirits of any sort shall ever
again pass my lips."

Again she looked at him eagerly, and he thought he saw her eyes soften.

"I mean it," he went on. "What I want is motive power; given that, I can
conquer anything. Well, I will do this; say yes, and from this time
forward I will never touch it again--never, never!"

"If a thing is an evil, if it is a wrong," she said, "a man should fight
it because it is wrong. If a habit has mastered you, you should fight
it, and conquer it--because of your respect of--your own manhood."

"You ask too much," he said. "No man can do and be without a sufficient
motive. Take you out of my life, and what motive have I?"

"The belief in your own manhood."

"Why should I believe in that? If you refuse me, what have I to live
for? Yes, I fight for a position which at heart I despise. I become a
member of the British Parliament; many who have not the brains of a
rabbit, nor the ideals of a low tavern-keeper, occupy that position.
Faith in God and man! I can only think of them through you."

She felt the unworthiness of his position. She knew that her ideal man
must always be strong and brave, whatever the circumstances of his life
might be, and, so far, Leicester had disappointed her. Nevertheless,
there was in his words a subtle flattery which appeals to every woman.
She was, humanly speaking, the saving power of his life. The destiny of
this strong man was in her hands. What might he not do and be if he were
inspired by great hopes and lofty ambitions? His name could be a
household word in the land. Millions of struggling, starving people
would have cause to bless his name. And she, she could be the means used
by God whereby all that was best and noblest in this man could be
realised. For she, like all who knew him, felt the wondrous
possibilities of his life. It might seem like boasting when he said that
with her by his side he could do anything, but she felt sure it was
true.

Besides, Leicester appealed to her woman's pride. Every woman longs for
strength, masterfulness in the man she loves; she would rather be
mastered by a strong man, than be master of a weak man. At that moment
she forgot Leicester's cynicism, his professed scorn for all she held
most dear; she thought of him as the man he could be.

Behind all that was unworthy, the real man lay strong and brave. He
might become a Cabinet Minister, Prime Minister! He had power which
could fit him even for this. The sphere of such a man's influence was
simply boundless. He could uplift the whole tone of the nation. And
then, more than all, he loved her! This was not the sneering,
unbelieving man who first came to her father's house a few weeks before,
who took a pleasure in laughing at all that was best and truest. No one
could accuse him of lack of earnestness to-day. He had almost frightened
her by the intensity of his appeal, the passion of his words. And did
she love him? If perfect love casteth out fear, she did not love him.
Nevertheless, no man had ever appealed to her like this man. Others had
asked her for her love, and she had refused them without hesitation; but
Leicester was different. If she refused him, it would be after many
questions, it would be with an aching heart.

And yet she was afraid. She wanted to think, she wanted to examine her
own heart in loneliness and in silence. Yes, and she wanted to speak to
her father. Was this a sign that she did not really love him? It was
difficult to say. Leicester had been spoken of in her hearing as one who
sneered at all things which to her were sacred, and it was out of
harmony with her whole life-thought to link her life with such a man.
But there was another side of the question. He loved her, and the
thought of his love made her heart beat quickly, and filled her with a
strange joy.

These thoughts passed through her mind in a flash. Nay, perhaps she did
not think them at all. They became a kind of consciousness to her, a
series of impressions which possessed her being without mental activity
on her own part. Moreover, Leicester, by a kind of intuition, divined
what was in her mind. For these two natures were closely akin, although
their training, outlook, and conceptions of life were entirely
different. If he were a keen-brained, strong, masterful man, she was in
her degree his equal. She loved strength even as he rejoiced in it.
Although in many respects presenting a strong contrast, Mother Nature
had cast them in a similar mould.

Meanwhile, Leicester was watching her closely. He tried to read her face
as he would read an open book, with what eagerness we need scarcely say.
What had begun in grim and almost repelling jest had resulted in
terrible earnestness. This man loved with all the strength of his
nature.

"I want your answer," he said at length. "And I must only have one
answer. Oh, forgive me if I seem rude, but I cannot help it. I know that
I have not spoken as I ought: that is because I have spoken as I was
compelled. I know how unworthy I am--yes, I am in deadly earnest. I know
I am not worthy to brush your boots; but I love you with all the
strength of my life. Tell me, Olive Castlemaine, that I may hope."

"No," she said quietly, "I cannot tell you that--that is--yet."

She knew she yielded the whole position in that qualification, although
she would not have admitted it--so strange a thing is a woman's heart.
Leicester felt sure of it too, and, unbeliever as he was, he could have
said "Thank God."

"I must have time to think," she went on. "I must speak to my father."

He took a step forward as if to grasp her hand, but she drew back.

"No," she said. "I did not expect--that--you would come to me in this
way, and--it is not a decision which can be made lightly."

"No, great God, no," said Leicester. His voice was hoarse, and almost
trembling. He never could have believed that he could have been so much
moved. "It is everything to me--everything."

In his heart of hearts he believed that she would accept him, and yet
the fear that she should not became a ghastly nightmare.

"Excuse me," she went on, "but I think I would like to be alone now. I
want----"

"Yes," interrupted Leicester, taking his hat and gloves. "I understand.
Good-afternoon."

She felt almost disappointed. Was he going away like this? Did he take
it for granted that she would write him her decision? But she said
nothing. A servant came in answer to her ring, and Leicester walked into
the hall. To the servant his manners seemed that of a visitor who had
been coldly received.

"Shall I call a carriage, sir?"

"No, I shall walk to the station."

The man opened the door, and he left the house without another word. He
walked to the station almost like a man in a dream; he could hardly
realise that what had taken place was an actual fact. He had proposed
to Olive Castlemaine, and he had not been refused. He found he had
twenty minutes to wait for a train back to London, but that did not
trouble him. Nothing mattered now. A new element had come into his life;
everything had changed. He was no longer a ship upon life's sea, he was
a man who loved, and was loved. True, Olive had not said so much as
this, but he had read enough of her character to know that had there not
been strong hope for him, she would have refused him there and then.

He walked up and down the platform without seeing or hearing anything.
One thought filled his mind, one hope filled his heart. Presently, when
his train arrived, he had a vague idea that he was on the way to the
City.

An hour later he arrived at his club. By this time the spell which the
interview with Olive had cast over him had lost some of its power.
Doubts began to arise, fears came into his heart. He was no longer sure
of himself or of her. As the excitement passed away, the old longing for
whisky came back to him. He was on the point of ordering it when he
remembered what he had said to Olive.

"She has not yet promised you," said temptation. "Indulge freely while
you may. You will be breaking no promise." He stretched out his hand to
ring a bell, but as quickly withdrew it.

"No," he said, "I should be ashamed to meet her again if I did. I'll not
be such a weak thing as that."

He scarcely slept that night. Hope and fear, joy and despair alternately
possessed him, and in his darker hours the craving for drink dogged him.
Once he went so far as to take a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, but
when he realised what he was doing he opened the window and poured the
contents into the street. Never in his whole life had a night seemed so
long. Again and again did he switch on the electric light and try to
read, only to throw one book after another from him in anger and
weariness. When morning at length came, it brought no comfort. What had
given him hope and joy the day before only filled his mind with doubt
now. Besides, every fibre of his drink-sodden nature cried out for
satisfaction. Life became almost unbearable.

"It's this uncertainty," he said. "If she had said yes, I could drive
the craving from me as such an accursed thing should be driven, but
while I am in doubt I seem like a feather in the wind."

As the thought passed through his mind, the humour of the situation
possessed him. He laughed at himself. He, Radford Leicester, who for
years had despised women, was now admitting that his whole future
depended on the single word of one of the despised sex. What would his
acquaintances say? This reminded him of Purvis and Sprague, and of the
compact they had made, and then he felt like laughing no more. What if
they should ever divulge what had taken place between them!

He seized a telegraph form, and wrote quickly: "_Expect me to-night at
six. Leicester._" This dispatch he addressed to Olive Castlemaine, and
after that he became more calm. It seemed to form another link between
him and the woman he loved. He spent the morning in answering letters
which had come from his constituency, and then, after lunch, he went to
a livery stable and hired a horse. When he returned he hardly knew
where he had been, but the owner of the horse knew he had been ridden
hard, so hard that he resolved to make certain stipulations before
trusting him again with such a valuable animal.

A few minutes before six Radford Leicester was again at The Beeches.

"Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir," said the servant, as he took
his hat and coat; "he will be down in a few minutes. Will you step this
way, sir?"

It was the same room. He noted the chair where Olive had sat the day
before, he remembered the quiet ticking clock on the mantelpiece, the
fire-irons that were placed on the hearth. He recalled the words of the
servant, "Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir." Did that mean that
Olive had deputed her father to speak for her? If so, it meant refusal.
His heart grew cold at the thought. The door opened and Olive entered.
Eagerly he looked at her, feverishly he tried to read her answer in her
eyes.

She came up close to him, and then stood still. Her eyes were full of
tears.

"Olive?" he said. Everything he meant seemed to be in her name as he
uttered it. It was a question, it was an expression of his love, of his
heart's longings.

"Yes," she replied.

He lifted her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it. He longed to
take her in his arms, and to tell her of his heart's joy; he longed to
kiss her lips, and tell her that he would give his whole life to make
himself worthy of her trust. But something sealed his lips. What was it?

Is there, humanly speaking, a diviner power on earth than the love of a
pure, womanly woman? Is there anything that can make a bad man ashamed
of his badness, or lead a purposeless man to devote his life to some
great and worthy cause, so really and truly as the love of a woman whom
he knows to be worthy of the name of woman? If there is, I do not know
of it. If the old, old story that sin came upon the race by a woman is
true, it is more true that good women are God's greatest means of
purifying the world of its sin. Radford Leicester had not been a good
man. If he had not fallen as low as some, it was because of innate
pride, and because his nature abhorred some of the grosser and coarser
forms of sin. He had not been filled with high purposes, he had lived
wholly for self; but as he kissed Olive's hand, such a contrition, such
a shame as he had never known before, came into his heart. Proud man as
he was, he found himself saying what he would have laughed to scorn a
few months before.

"Thank you, Olive," he said, still holding her hand, "you have given me
a new life to live." He hesitated a moment, and then went on speaking
again. "I want to tell you this," he said. "Although I am unworthy of
you, I will try and make myself worthy. That promise I made yesterday I
will keep. Yes, I will keep it. And--and if there is a God, I will find
Him."

He spoke the words reverently. There was not a touch of the cynic in his
voice; it was even as he felt. God had used this woman to lead him the
first step towards his salvation.

"You have no doubt, no fear, Olive?" he said.

"No," she said quietly, "not one. I believe you, I trust you
implicitly."

"And you love me?"

"Yes," she said.

"Really and truly. You know what I mean?" He spoke quietly and slowly,
but his voice trembled.

"How could I say what I have said--else?" There was a sob in her voice
as she spoke, and yet the sob sounded like a laugh.

"Thank God!"

He did not believe, this man, that God existed, and yet it was the only
way that he could express the great joy of his heart. Never, until then,
had he known what happiness meant. The old, hopeless, purposeless past
was forgotten; that night his history began anew.

       *       *       *       *       *

After dinner that night, John Castlemaine and Radford Leicester talked
long and earnestly. It was no light matter to the father to promise his
child in marriage; moreover, although he admired Leicester, and while he
believed that a great career was possible to him, he did not feel quite
happy. For John Castlemaine belonged to the old school of thought, and
he had no sympathy with the modern looseness of ideas. He came of a
stock who for more than a hundred years had fought the battle of
religious liberty, and who had been ready to sacrifice their goods, even
their lives, for principle. He was a Puritan of the best order. He
retained all their old strong characteristics, he stood for their
noblest ideals, without adhering to much that was sunless and repugnant.
He was a happy, genial man, kind almost to indulgence as far as his
daughter went, but he was strong in his hatred of the so-called morals
of that class to which Leicester was supposed to belong. Moreover, Olive
was his only child. Upon her he had poured the wealth of his affection,
and thus the thought of giving her to a man was no light matter. Could
he then give her to Leicester? It was a hard struggle; but in the end
Leicester won. He spoke to John Castlemaine freely and frankly, and he
spoke with such fervour, such strength of purpose, that in spite of all
he had heard, John Castlemaine was convinced of the other's worthiness.

"But not yet, not yet," said the older man. "I cannot bear to lose her
yet."

"But why need we wait?" asked Leicester. "We are neither of us children,
and I need her, Mr. Castlemaine. She is all the world to me."

"I say 'not yet,' because without her I shall be alone. Fancy me living
in this great house without Olive. It will become like a vault, an empty
vault, and I do not know how I can bear it."

"I am free to live where you like," said the young man. "I will build a
house close by here if it is your will, or I will buy one. I saw one for
sale on my way here."

"Then why not live here?" asked John Castlemaine. The thought of having
his son-in-law always near him was pleasant.

"If Olive is willing, I will gladly consent," he replied, "and in that
case you will not insist on a long engagement."

When Leicester returned to town that night, it seemed as though the air
were filled with music; as though angel forms were all around him. He
felt Olive's warm kisses on his lips, while words of love rang in his
ears. Again and again he recalled the words she had spoken, when at
length her natural reserve had been broken, and the strangeness of the
situation had been dispelled. And he had laughed at the joy of lovers,
he had scorned a woman's promises! But all that had gone now. At least
he thought so. He did not realise that the past could not be buried, and
that the Nemesis of every life walks unchecked. How could he? It seemed
to him that the very gates of heaven had been opened, and that his love
had created a barrier between him and the dark past, so real and so
strong that nothing could break it down.

He had no craving for drink that night; he slept like a child, and when
at length the grey November day broke, it seemed to him as fair as a May
morning.




CHAPTER VIII

THE FOUR MEN MEET AGAIN


The wedding was arranged for an early date. Leicester pleaded for a
month's engagement only, and although that month was multiplied by five,
he yielded with good grace, especially as he spent a great deal of time
at The Beeches. Not that he was idle during those five months. Rather he
worked as he had never worked before. He was anxious to prove himself
worthy of the woman he loved. To his casual acquaintances he did not
seem to alter much. If he was not cynical, he was satirical; he laughed,
as of old, at what he called the humour of politics and religion. He
professed but little faith in either philanthropy or self-sacrifice.
More than once he offended some of his constituents by his remarks about
their institutions, which they said were for the good of humanity. All
the same, he rose greatly in the estimation of the people as a whole.
They recognised something like moral earnestness behind his brilliant
speeches, while at every meeting he attended he seemed to strike a
deeper, truer note.

Especially was this true at a meeting which Olive attended. She paid a
visit to her old friend at Taviton Grange, and during the time she was
there a demonstration was arranged for in the Public Hall. Olive had
never heard Leicester speak in public, and she looked forward to the
gathering with great eagerness. There were to be two speeches on the
occasion, besides that of the chairman. One was by one of the most
important leaders of the Opposition, and the other by Leicester, who was
to speak as the accepted candidate. Of course the hall was packed. The
ex-Cabinet Minister was spoken of as the ablest speaker in the party,
and his name was a household word. Naturally, moreover, the ex-Cabinet
Minister had the place of honour. For more than an hour he spoke,
leading the thoughts of the people from one point to another, until, as
some one remarked, he had covered the whole field of politics, leaving
nothing for Leicester to say. Olive Castlemaine, who was naturally
keenly interested in the meeting, felt this more than any one. She
wanted to hear her lover at his best, and when the circumstances should
be of the most favourable nature.

"How can Radford be at his best after the people have been listening to
this great man for more than an hour?" she said to herself. "Oh, I wish
he would stop!"

He came to an end at length, and the people cheered heartily. His speech
was a strong vindication of his own policy, and a stronger condemnation
of the doings of the Government. In truth, there seemed nothing more to
say. Still Leicester, as the accepted candidate, was called upon to
speak, and as he rose the people gave him a great welcome. The air was
hot and stifling, the audience had listened attentively for more than an
hour to the speaker of the evening, but in a few sentences Leicester led
them to forget their weariness, and to be unconscious of the stifling
atmosphere of the hall.

In turning to address the chairman he saw Olive's eyes fixed on him, and
he realised that this was the first time they had ever been together on
such an occasion. He must prove worthy of her confidence, of her hope,
of her love. He had told her that he could do anything with her by his
side, and he longed to show her that he had not uttered an empty boast.
Besides, his heart thrilled at the thought that she was his promised
wife--this, the one woman in all the world to him.

Men said afterwards that the great speech of the ex-Cabinet Minister was
only worthy of being called an introduction to the real speech of the
evening. Never had Leicester spoken as he spoke that night, for in
addition to brilliant epigram, scathing criticism, and searching
analysis there was a great moral fervour. For the moment he cast aside
his old hopelessness; and his words were glowing with warmth, and
convincing because of the ardent sincerity of his own beliefs. The
meeting forgot that an ex-Cabinet Minister had been speaking for more
than an hour, and remembered only that the present speaker was lifting
them into a higher realm of thought, and presently, when he sat down,
the audience rose _en masse_, and gave him an ovation.

Directly he went into the ante-room a crowd gathered around him to
congratulate him, but he took but little notice of them. Their praise to
him was merely words. Even the congratulations of the ex-Cabinet
Minister seemed nothing to him: his eyes were keenly scanning the faces
of those present, in order to see some one who had not yet spoken. She
came presently, and as Leicester saw her, his heart beat with a great
joy. He knew what she thought--it was evident from the look she gave
him.

Forgetful of all else he rushed to her side; he did not speak, but
waited anxiously for what she might say.

"I _am_ proud," she said in a whisper.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"That is only a suggestion of what I feel," was her reply.

And she spoke the truth. Never did she feel towards him as she did that
night. She forgot the impression he had first made upon her, forgot all
the stories she had heard about him. She thought only of her pride in
him, and the great future which lay before him. And with it all came the
consciousness that she had caused the change. She was giving him nobler
thoughts of life; she was making him realise the great powers which had
been lying dormant. It was something to be proud of. To be the means of
making a possible great man to realise his greatness, and of bringing
into life latent powers of which even he had not been conscious.

Visions rose before her mind of what he would be. She had read the
history of the career of men like the younger Pitt, of John Bright, of
Disraeli, of Gladstone, and she believed that Leicester was equal to the
best of them. She saw him the leader of a people, voicing their wants,
and interpreting their language; she saw him a prophet, revealing to the
world the deeper meanings of a nation's life. And she was the instrument
chosen for his salvation. He had learnt to love her, he had declared
that if he was to be anything but a cynic, a scoffer, it must be through
her. She was his inspiration, his lode-star, his hope. For her, and
with her by his side, he could do anything.

She believed it now. In her excitement she compared his speech with the
brilliant orations of the great leaders. She was sure that Leicester's
powers were of the same order as the powers of Macaulay and Burke. And
she--_she_ was the instrument used by God to make everything possible.

As she walked back to Taviton Grange, her hand resting on his arm, she
seemed to be treading on air. Her life seemed enlarged, her purpose in
living seemed greater. She was willing to forget herself, to sink her
own personality, so that the man she had accepted as her husband might
be the man God intended him to be.

John Castlemaine had been at the meeting also, and while not a believer
in all his political doctrines, was also carried away by the brilliance
of Leicester's speech. He felt proud of his future son-in-law; and he
was sure that Olive had done wisely in accepting him as her husband.

So far Leicester had been true to his promise to Olive. He had never
touched alcohol since the day he had asked her to be his wife. Sometimes
the craving had been terrible, but he had resisted. He had even borne
the covert sneers of his acquaintances without retort. What had begun in
a grim and unworthy joke had become to him the great motive power of his
life.

Indeed, but for one thing, Leicester was supremely happy. He could never
think of the compact which led to his introduction to her without shame,
and he had a great dread lest in some way it should come to her ears.
More than once, after his engagement had become known, he had sought to
obtain an interview with Purvis and Sprague and Winfield; but for a
long time the opportunity which he sought did not come, and he was too
proud to seek them for the ostensible purpose of speaking to them about
it.

One day in February, however, he saw them together. He had come to his
club late one night, and found them alone in the smoking-room. He had
spent the evening with Olive, and had come back by the last train. As
may be imagined, neither Sprague nor Purvis felt very kindly towards
him. No man looks kindly on a successful rival. It angered them also
when they remembered that it was through their instrumentality that the
engagement had come to pass.

They had been talking about Leicester before he came in. Like many
others, they did not believe in his sincerity. How could Leicester, the
cynic, the scoffer at women, the man who when under the influence of
whisky had made a wager that he could win a woman, love the woman he had
won? Was it not simply to win his wager that he was playing this part?

"For my own part," said Winfield, "I believe him to be sincere. What
begun in a jest has ended in earnest. When he met Miss Castlemaine, he,
who for years had avoided women, realised how wrong he had been. He has
evidently fallen deeply in love, and I for my part am glad that she
accepted him. Leicester will be a fine fellow, and will have a great
future. I hear he never touches drink now."

"I do not believe it," said Sprague. "The Ethiopian cannot change his
skin, nor the leopard his spots. I believe he is simply playing a game.
As for his giving up the drink, yes, that may be possible. I believe
Leicester is capable of doing anything whereby he can have his way.
You'll find that at the end he'll wriggle out of it."

"I don't say that," said Purvis. "Why should he? As we know, she will be
a great heiress. There must be pots of money, and Leicester means to
have the handling of it."

"It ought to be stopped," said Sprague.

"But how can it be stopped?" asked Winfield. "Even if we desired, we
cannot hinder them from marrying. I am told that Miss Castlemaine is
deeply in love with him."

"All the more reason why she should be told the truth."

"But she can't be. We have promised to hold our tongues, and--well, a
promise is a promise."

"Not when given under such circumstances. We have no right to allow a
woman to wreck her life. For Leicester will wreck her life."

"Personally I don't believe it," said Winfield. "Leicester is in love,
and Leicester in love will be a model husband."

"Leicester in love! He is not capable of knowing what love means. The
man who is capable of such a wager is not capable of making such as Miss
Castlemaine happy."

"Anyhow, it is not our affair," said Winfield. "Besides, we've promised
to hold our tongues, and we can do no other than keep our promise."

"But to ruin such a life as hers because of a mistaken idea of
honour--well, isn't that worse than breaking a promise?"

"My own feeling is, let the affair go on," said Purvis. "At any rate, it
may do her good."

At this moment Leicester entered the room. Seeing them together he made
his way towards them. He was, as we have said, anxious for an
opportunity of speaking to these men together.

The months which had elapsed since we first saw Leicester in this room
had made a great change in him. Hope gleamed in his eyes, and with that
look of hope had come a happier, healthier expression. It is true he
often suffered from nervous attacks. Mother Nature will not be abused as
he had abused her without exacting a terrible penalty. Still, his change
of life was having its effect, and as a consequence the Leicester of a
few months before was no longer the man who stood before them now.

"I am glad to meet you chaps," he said, as he came up to them, "and I
think myself lucky in finding you all together. I want to speak to you."

Purvis and Sprague exchanged glances, and from the eyes of the latter an
evil look shone. He had not forgiven Leicester for the many times he had
held him up to ridicule, neither did he forgive him for being successful
where he, Sprague, had failed.

"When last we were all together in this clubroom," said Leicester,
speaking with an effort, for as may be imagined the thoughts in his mind
were far from pleasant, "we--well, as you know, a kind of wager was
made."

They waited for him to go on.

"As you know," he continued presently; "I--I--have----"

"Won the wager," said Sprague. "That being so, I shall be prepared to
give my cheque to--what was it? Guy's Hospital. All the same, I think it
is time that this farce should cease. It was unworthy of us all and for
my own part I regret having had anything to do with it."

Sprague's tones, rather than his words, angered Leicester. The thought
of the woman he loved more than all on earth being associated with a
wager maddened him.

"To whom shall I send my cheque, Leicester?" went on Sprague. "Purvis
also wants to know. Having fulfilled our part of the business, you will,
of course, also finish yours. It reflects no credit upon any of us."

"No," said Leicester, speaking very quietly. "If any cheque is sent, I
will send it myself."

"You mean then that all we have heard is false, and that the young lady
has refused you."

"What I mean does not affect you, providing I send the cheque," replied
Leicester, still speaking quietly.

"Leicester has been converted at a drawing-room meeting, after all,"
said Sprague, with a sneer. "I hear he has adopted quite a different
tone in his speeches. We shall see him addressing mothers' meetings
yet."

Still Leicester kept himself under control, although Sprague tried him
sorely.

"Come, Leicester," want on Sprague, "if you are converted, you ought to
give up this unworthy business; if you are not, then you have no right
to ruin a woman's life."

"I think I can mind my own business," said Leicester.

"But the question is, are you converted from the error of your ways?
Have you turned moral reformer, temperance lecturer, and the rest of
it?"

"And if I have?"

"Oh, nothing--only I think it ought to be duly reported in the religious
papers."

Leicester still kept himself under control, nevertheless Sprague's
sneers were telling on him.

"Besides," went on his tormentor, "you've hardly played the game,
Leicester. The understanding was that you were to win her as an atheist,
hard drinker, and a cynic, whereas you've turned moral reformer. You've
been wearing a mask."

"Well, that's not your business."

"I think it is. Anyhow, you admit that this engagement is a grim joke."

"I repeat that that is not your business," said Leicester; "if I send
the cheque to the hospital, the matter is done with, as far as you are
concerned."

"And you really mean to say that you are a reformed character? I
sincerely congratulate you."

"If you mean by that that I believe in your profession or your
drawing-room meetings, no. I regard them as I always did."

"Then you have been simply playing a part with Miss Castlemaine?"

"And if I have, what is that to you?"

He was scarcely master of himself now, or he would not have allowed the
conversation to drift into such a channel. But the man angered him
almost beyond words, all the more so because he was mixed up in the
affair, of which he felt ashamed.

"You admit it, then. All this teetotalism, this tone of moral
earnestness which you have introduced into your speeches--it's all to
win your wager."

"And if it is!" he cried. "Have I ever pretended to believe in any of
the whining sentimentality of the world? Have I not all along insisted
that everything is a matter of price!"

He had meant to have said exactly opposite to this when he saw these
men, but they had, in spite of himself, aroused him to a kind of
unreasoning anger.

"I think Miss Castlemaine ought to know," said Sprague.

"Perhaps you mean to tell her?" he asked.

"I have thought of it, certainly."

"Then let me tell you this, you fellows," he said, "if ever you do, I'll
crush you, as I would crush an empty egg-shell. I'll make life a hell
for you. I mean it! I have no fear of Winfield. He makes no profession
of religion, and therefore will act squarely; but I say this to you two
fellows--you, Sprague, and Purvis--if ever Miss Castlemaine hears of it,
I know it will come from one of you two. No one else knows of it, and I
shall quickly find out which of you two has told her. Well, I tell you
this, no lost soul in the hell about which you preach to sinners shall
suffer as you shall suffer."

He had taken the wrong line, and he knew it, yet he did not think, at
that time, of a way in which he could make them feel what he felt. His
pride forbade him telling them that he was really in earnest now, and
that he was ashamed of the compact they had made. He did try to bring
himself to it; but to go to Sprague and Purvis and to tell them that he
really loved Miss Castlemaine, and to ask them to refrain from
mentioning what had passed between them, was too much. Had they been men
of a different order, he might have done it; but after the way he had
regarded them, after he had laughed to scorn their religious notions,
and their professed faith in women, he could not. He would maintain his
old character, and he would make them fear to divulge the secret, which
had now become the great fear of his life.

For the first time Sprague felt that he had pierced the weak place in
Leicester's armour. He knew now that the man who had laughed at him was
afraid of him, and he determined to take advantage of the position he
held. It would help him to pay off old scores.

"If you will assure us that you are sincere in this new role you are
playing," said Sprague, "and if you will promise never to touch drink of
any sort again, it might be that----"

But Leicester did not allow him to finish the sentence. He rose to his
feet in his passion.

"Promise you!" he cried, "Promise _you_!" He laughed bitterly, and
scornfully. Then he sat down again, ashamed of himself for having
allowed a man like Sprague to anger him so. "You mistake yourself," he
said. "A gentleman does not argue with a cabman, or invite his laundress
to dinner. You are presuming too far." He hesitated again for a second.
"No," he went on, "I shall not promise anything, nor profess anything. I
simply tell you that no word of this affair must pass your lips."

Sprague, stung by Leicester's words, was about to retort angrily.

"No, no, wait a minute," said Leicester, who now spoke very quietly.
"Look at me for a moment--that's it. Now, you know me. You know that I
am not tied down to claptrap morality. And you know this, too, when I
say a thing I'll do it, ay, even if I have to swing for it. I'll do it.
Whatever part I play elsewhere, I'm not playing a part now. I am in
deadly earnest, and the devil always helps the man who is faithful to
him. Well, I say this: if either of you breathe one word concerning that
compact of ours--one word, mark you, especially to Miss
Castlemaine--then no leper on a leper island shall suffer what you shall
suffer, no victim of the Inquisition invented by your religious teachers
has ever gone through the torments which you shall go through; no hell
that was ever invented shall be as ghastly as the hell I will drag you
through."

"You mean she would throw you over if she knew."

"No matter what I mean; but remember this, I am a man of my word, and I
am in earnest about this. Winfield I know is safe, he is a gentleman,
and he's not a rejected lover; but you others--well, I have said my
say."

He left the club as he spoke, while the three men looked at each other
wonderingly.

For some time after this nothing happened to disturb the serenity of
Leicester's life. Little by little he was mastering the drink craving,
while his outlook on life made him more and more cheerful. Olive
Castlemaine had indeed wrought a wondrous change. When he was in her
presence, at all events, the old Leicester was gone, and a new and
happier man had taken his place. It is true Olive was not demonstrative
in her affection towards him, but he was content, and as the wedding-day
drew near it seemed to him that his happiness could not continue. The
sky of his life was too bright, the joy was too great. Especially did he
feel this on the evening before the day fixed for their wedding. He had
come down from town to dinner, and when, after he had smoked a cigar
with John Castlemaine, he and Olive were alone, it seemed to him as
though his present happiness were a dream, and that he would presently
awake to grim and stern realities.

"Why are you so sad, Radford?" asked Olive; "is anything worrying you?"

"Yes, no--I don't know."

She looked at him keenly.

"Something _is_ troubling you," she said. "Won't you tell me?"

"Olive," he said, "to-morrow is our wedding-day. I--I want to ask you
something. I want you to promise me something."

She looked at him wonderingly, and then waited for him to continue.




CHAPTER IX

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING


"Olive," he said presently, "you've heard strange things about me?"

She nodded.

"You've believed them?"

"You have not denied them. But never mind those now. The past is past."

"Is it?" he said moodily. "Sometimes I almost believe it is; but only
sometimes. Generally I have a feeling that there is no past; that what
we call past keeps rising up against us, and cursing us."

"Radford, you are not well."

"Yes, I am. My trouble is that I am too happy. Oh, I know what I am
talking about. I am too happy. To-morrow is our wedding-day. Think of
it, to-morrow you are to be my wife, you are to be mine--mine. The
wedding is to be early, then in the afternoon we are going to drive to
London, and take the train for the Continent. We are going to Florence,
to Rome, to Naples, to Capri, to Corsica. We are going away to sunshine,
we are going to miss six weeks of dreary weather, and then when we
return the spring will be here. Think of it! And I shall have you. _You_
all the time; you, my wife! Is it a wonder that I am too happy?"

There was a look of pride in the girl's eyes. It rejoiced her to feel
that she could so arouse this proud, self-contained man, that she could
drive his cynicism from him. She thought of the old Leicester, and the
new, and her heart grew warm.

"And yet I am miserable," he went on; "I am haunted with a great fear
lest all this can never come to pass."

She laughed almost gaily.

"The wedding dress has been bought," she said, "and even now our
minister, Mr. Sackville, is talking with father about the ceremony
to-morrow."

"Yes, yes, I know, but if there is no past. If it is resurrected----"

"Let us not talk about it," she said. "I have heard all about it,
and--well, I have given you my promise."

"But if I am worse than you thought," he cried; "if you find out
something which you cannot forgive. If some one told you that I am a
fraud, a lie, a villain?"

"I should still trust you," she said quietly. "You have never told me a
lie, have you?"

"No," he said, "I have never told you a lie."

"Then I should laugh at what I heard. You have told me that since your
Oxford fiasco, when that girl jilted you, no woman has in any way ever
come into your life."

"Yes, I have told you that, and it is true; bad as I may have been since
that time, I have never given any woman but you a thought. If there is a
God, He knows that my words are true."

Olive Castlemaine laughed merrily.

"Then," she said, "I shall not trouble a little bit about what I hear."

He looked up into her face, his eyes all afire with the ardour of his
love. With her by his side, all things were possible. He was still a
cynic with regard to others, but he no more doubted Olive than he
doubted the sunlight. She was beyond suspicion, and yet his very faith
in her made him fear that the coming day could never fulfil his hopes.

"I am not fit that you should be my wife," he cried. "I know I am not,
and yet I would murder the man who tried to take you away from me. Oh, I
am in earnest; I would. Why, you don't know what you are to me. You are
hope, faith, motive power, heaven."

He started up, and walked away from her as though he were ashamed to
stay by her side. But he quickly came back.

"Oh yes, I hate professions of faith," he went on. "I despise repentant
sinners. I would a thousand times rather have to do with a good
pronounced blackguard than with your whining convert. And yet I know I
shall be a good fellow with you as my wife. And I never break my
promises. I was never so mean as that. Oh yes, I was whisky-sodden when
I knew you first, and I was a plaything to the habit; but since that
day--you remember, Olive--I've never touched it, and I never will--no, I
never will!"

Olive Castlemaine was a little frightened at the intensity of his words;
nevertheless, she was proud of her power over her lover. What woman
would not be?

"And yet I am removed from you, Olive. I don't know why, but I feel it.
You love me, don't you?"

For answer, she put her hand in his, and looked steadily into his eyes.

"You know, Radford," she said.

"Yes," he said; "yes, I know; but not as I love you. No, no, you
couldn't. There's not enough in me to love. You are the only woman in
the world to me; I could no more marry another than I could rise from
the dead. Could you marry another man?"

"Of course not," said the girl; "you know I could not."

"Say that again," he said passionately, "say it again. Tell me that
whatever may happen--yes, I repeat it--_whatever_ may happen, you'll
never marry another."

"Radford, what is the matter with you?" she cried. His face was as pale
as death, and his eyes shone with a strange light.

"Matter with me!" he cried. "It is our wedding-day to-morrow; just think
of it! I am going to be at the church early, and I am going to wait
there till noon, and then you will come, and the minister will read the
marriage service, and you will promise to take me for better or for
worse, and you will vow to keep to me as long as we both shall live.
Yes, I've been reading the marriage service. My God, the wonder of it!
That's why I'm afraid. If I lost you, I should sink into a deeper hell
than ever Dante saw in his wild journeyings. No 'thrilling regions of
thick-ribbed ice,' no bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone could be
as terrible as the hell to which I should go if I lost you. That is what
is the matter with me. And you promise me, don't you? _Whatever_ may
happen, you'll never marry another man?"

"No," she said, "I will never marry another man!"

"You could not, could you?" he said, almost plaintively.

"No," she replied, "I could not."

"And to you a promise is sacred, isn't it? You are not like other women,
to whom a promise is no more than a garment which is out of the
fashion."

"Of course a promise is sacred to me," she replied.

He looked at her with fierce, devouring eyes. He tried to read her very
soul.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked at him, and their eyes met, his burning with the light of his
passion, yet steady with the strength of the man behind them; hers
steady too, and fervent with the love and admiration which filled her
heart.

"Say it again."

"Say what again?"

"Say you will never marry another man, whatever may happen."

"I will never marry another man, whatever may happen."

He clasped her to his heart, and rained kisses upon her, and then he
laughed.

"I do not fear now," he said, "I am like the man they sing about--'I
fear no foe in shining armour bright' I can face anything. Olive, there
is no happier man in the world than I; nay, nor not half so happy. I
feel as though I were king of the world. Now let us talk quietly."

He sat down by her side, and looked steadily into the fire. Outside the
wind wailed its way across the park, but he did not seem to heed it. The
flames from a log of wood in the grate shot up the chimney, and although
he seemed to be gazing at them he did not see them.

"It's all so wonderful!" he said.

"What is, Radford?"

"My happiness. I am not worthy of it. Yes, I have been a bad fellow. No,
I have not been the wild rake about town, my vices have not run in that
direction. But I have been a selfish brute; I've been a fellow without
hope, mercy, or faith. I've cared nothing for others. If a man has stood
in my way I've shoved him aside. I've seen only the worst in life, and
I've acted on what I saw. I was drink-sodden, too. I was a slave to a
vile habit. But for the fact that drink made no visible impression upon
me, I should have been one of those drunken sots that have to be put to
bed every night. I did not believe in God nor man. No, I scorned God,
and religion, and morality, and I sold myself to the devil of my own
selfishness. Yes, I did, I know it. And yet you love me! You, you, of
all women, you!"

"Yes," she replied, and there was an uneasy look in her eyes, "but you
have repented, Radford."

"And if I had not?"

"Then," she said, "I would not have promised to marry you."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I mean that. I could never truly love a man whom I did not
respect. And I could not respect such a man as you were, no matter how
clever I might think you to be. Even although I might love a bad man, I
would never marry him."

He knew she meant what she said, and while it saddened him, it made him
rejoice also. Yes, she had driven all his old theories to the winds.
Whatever was true with other women, this woman was prompted by true
thoughts, inspired by high ideals.

He was silent for a while.

"Yes," he said presently, "and you are right. What you say is right. And
I want to believe, Olive; sometimes I do, I do now. And I want to be a
good man, yes, a good man. You'll help me, won't you?"

"I'll do all that a woman may, Radford; but only God can make a man
truly good."

"It's wonderful, that Christian story," he said.

"And you believe it, don't you, Radford?"

Again he was silent.

"I will not tell a lie even for you, Olive," he said. "Do I believe?
Yes, in a way. I believe in its sublime ethics, I believe in Christ--in
a way. Oh yes, He was a wonderful man, ay, a Divine man. I believe, too,
that He has ennobled the whole thought of the world about God; but for
the rest--I don't know. Still, you know what I promised you: if there's
a God, I'll find Him. That is all I can say, Olive, except that I'm
going to try to be a good man. Faith in man, in human motives? Don't
press me too hard, Olive. Are you content?"

There was manifest sincerity in his voice, his eyes were lovelit. What
wonder, then, that Olive confessed her contentment, and her happiness?

Shortly before midnight he left The Beeches. For an hour before he said
good-night, he seemed to forget all sad thoughts. He talked cheerfully
with John Castlemaine, and Mr. Sackville, the minister of the church
with which both Olive and her father were associated. All dark clouds
seemed to have lifted. In less than twelve hours from that time he and
Olive would be man and wife. Before the next day had come to an end,
they would be on their way to Italy, the land of sunshine and song. The
future revealed itself to him in glowing colours. He saw himself
climbing the hill of fame with Olive by his side. It was almost certain
that the General Election would take place in less than two months from
that time, and even if it did not, it could not be postponed later than
the following autumn. Then he would enter Parliament, and after that his
position was assured. Already the ex-Cabinet Minister who had spoken
with him at Taviton had told him that he expected great things from him
in the House, and had also suggested certain questions to which he
should give special attention. Moreover, they were questions in which
Olive was deeply interested: housing of the poor, the drink curse, and
others of a similar nature.

"These things," said the ex-Cabinet Minister, "are bound to be brought
forward. Master them, Leicester, and you will make yourself
indispensable to your party."

And so he was happy. Hope shone in his sky, love burned in his heart,
while his whole being was filled with great purpose.

Olive accompanied him to the door as he left the house. She had entered
into Leicester's spirit of gladness. She rejoiced as she saw how her
father admired him, and how keenly he enjoyed his conversation. She
noted with gladness, too, that her marriage was not going to cause her
father the sorrow she had feared. Rather, he seemed to look forward with
pleasure to the prospect of having his clever son-in-law to live with
him.

"Until to-morrow, Olive," he said, as he kissed her good-night.

"Yes, it will not be long."

"No, only a few hours, although it seems an eternity. You are happy,
aren't you?"

"Yes, entirely"; and she meant what she said. "Are you?"

"Happy!" he cried. "Ah, you can't realise how happy! Only until
to-morrow, and then there will be no more separation."

There was a new tone of tenderness in his voice, and as he spoke the
tears came into her eyes.

"Some day, Radford," she said, "you will know how good God is, you will
know the joy of being a Christian."

For answer he kissed her tenderly.

"Good-night, my love," he said, "good-night until to-morrow--my wife."

"Until to-morrow, Radford."

He walked a few steps up the drive; then he turned and saw her standing
at the door watching him. He came back to her side again.

"One kiss more--until to-morrow, our wedding-day," he said.

She held up her face to him with a glad laugh. He kissed her again, and
then hurried away, not daring to look back a second time.

She had scarcely returned to the drawing-room, when, she knew not why, a
feeling of great depression came into her heart. Her sky, which a few
seconds before was clear, now hung with great black clouds. Shadowy
forebodings came into her mind and heart. She heard her father talking
with Mr. Sackville in the smoking-room. They were chatting and laughing
pleasantly, and yet the sound of their voices made her almost angry.

A servant entered the room.

"Yes, Masters, what is it?"

"A letter has just come for you, miss."

"By the last post?"

"No, miss, it was brought by hand, only a few minutes ago. I did not
like to bring it, till Mr. Leicester had gone, miss."

She took the letter without a word, and went up into her bedroom. Her
maid came to her, but she told her she did not need her any more that
night; she wanted to be alone. Still holding the letter unopened in her
hand, she drew a chair before the fire, and sat back in it, and closed
her eyes. Why this strange feeling of depression? Why was she so sick at
heart? Radford's kisses were still warm upon her lips, his words still
rang in her ears.

Almost mechanically she broke the seal of the letter which had been
brought, and glanced carelessly at it. A minute later her eyes became
riveted to the paper. As she read, one expression followed another on
her face--wonder, indignation, shame, passion, in turn possessed her.

She read the letter a second time, then a third, then a fourth. Her
features became set, her eyes became hard, her hands clenched and
unclenched themselves as though she had no control over them. She threw
the letter from her; but immediately she caught it up again, and then
read it for the fifth time. It was a long letter, plainly and legibly
written, evidently by an educated person.

After she had read it a fifth time, she sat staring into the fire. She
saw nothing, heard nothing. She was oblivious to her surroundings. Her
face, even her lips, were bloodless. She sat thus for a long time.

Presently she aroused herself, and pulled the bell-cord. A servant-maid
appeared.

"Is my father gone to bed?" She did not turn her face towards her, and
she spoke with evident difficulty. Her voice was almost toneless.

"No, miss, he is just saying good-night to Mr. Sackville."

"Will you please go to him, and ask him to go into the library."

"Yes, miss."

"Why are you waiting?"

"Shall I tell him that you will come to him, miss?"

"Yes."

The girl left the room, while Olive continued to look into the fire with
the same stony stare.

Again she read the letter through. This time slowly, word by word,
sentence by sentence, as though she would weigh its meaning carefully
and judicially. When she had finished, she had apparently made up her
mind. She rose to her feet, and took a step towards the door, but she
was unable to proceed further. Her brain whirled, she felt herself
falling. Clutching the back of the chair she held herself for a few
seconds, then, as if by a sudden effort of will, she controlled herself.
Then she walked across the room steadily, opened the door, and went
downstairs slowly. Her face, even to her lips, was still ashy pale, and
in her eyes was a stern set look. There was no sign of weakness in her
movements, and yet she looked as though she had been stunned. When she
reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked slowly around her, as
though she were not quite sure of her whereabouts. There was a dazed
expression in her eyes, which suggested the look in the eyes of a
sleep-walker.

Again she seemed to make a sudden effort, and then she walked to the
library door and opened it. John Castlemaine looked up at his daughter's
entrance, and was startled by her appearance. He was sitting in an
armchair, smoking a last pipe before going to bed.

"Olive, my darling, what is the matter? Are you ill?" he asked tenderly.

She tried to speak, but could not; then she moved towards him, and threw
herself into his arms, while John Castlemaine held her, as he had held
her years before, when she was a baby.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning Radford Leicester woke early. Contrary to his
expectations, no sooner had he placed his head on the pillow the night
before than he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. After the excitement
of the evening, nature demanded rest, and so she wrapped her kindly arms
around him, as if she desired to be specially kind to him just then.
When he awoke he could not for a time realise where he was; but the
truth soon came to him. He remembered, too, that it was the morning of
his wedding-day. His heart gave a leap as the thought came into his
mind, and then to stay in bed any longer was an impossibility. He
dressed with great care, now and then looking out of the window, and
noting with satisfaction the blue of the skies and the sweetness of the
air.

"Only a little while longer," he said again and again to himself. "I
wonder how she will look as she walks up the church aisle on her
father's arm?"

The wedding arrangements had been discussed several days before, and
everything was settled in due order. When Leicester had been asked whom
he wished to invite to the wedding, he did not mention a single name.

"No one at all?" John Castlemaine had said.

"No one," replied Leicester. "I have no real friend on earth, neither
man nor woman. Yes, I have a lot of acquaintances, but I do not wish
them to come to my wedding. My father died five years ago. I can
scarcely remember my mother. As for all the rest of the world--no, I do
not wish to invite any one."

"But you must so far conform to convention as to have a best man."

"Must I? Very well, now let me think. Yes, Winfield will do. He's about
the best chap I know."

He had barely mentioned his name, however, when he would gladly have
recalled it. Like lightning the fact flashed into his mind that on the
night of the wager it was Winfield who had suggested the name of Olive
Castlemaine.

"That's all right," said Mr. Castlemaine. "He's just the fellow. So you
will invite no one else?"

"I would rather not invite _him_," said Leicester.

"But you must, Leicester. I must positively insist on that. For my own
part, I think I should have liked you to have invited some of your chief
supporters in your constituency."

"No, no," said Leicester, "don't ask me; really, I would rather not."

And so, although Leicester did not like the thought of it, Winfield was
asked to act as best man, and arrangements had been made for the two to
meet that morning at a station three miles from The Beeches, which
happened to be on the line which the young journalist most frequently
used.

At the time agreed upon Leicester was there, and found the carriage
which he had engaged. Here, too, he found Winfield, and the two drove to
the church where the wedding was to take place.

"You must be a happy man," remarked Winfield.

"Yes."

"Everything has gone smoothly, I hope?"

"Yes."

"Of course you were at The Beeches last night?"

"Yes."

"You have a beautiful day for the wedding, too."

"Yes, it seems as though spring were coming early."

"I say, old man, you don't look as happy as you ought, you know."

"Wait till the knot is tied, and there'll not be a happier man in
Europe," said Leicester.

Winfield looked at Leicester questioningly, and wondered what he was
thinking about. He reflected that he was not a man from whom one could
easily obtain confidences, and so held his peace.

"I say," said Leicester, as the carriage drew near the church, "let us
pull down these confounded blinds. I don't want to be gaped at by the
crowd."

"There's sure to be a crowd?"

"Sure to be. I suppose Mr. Castlemaine has invited nearly two hundred
guests. Besides, Miss Castlemaine is so well known that the whole
neighbourhood will be at the church doors."

When the carriage drew close to the church, Winfield pulled the curtain
aside sufficiently to look out. He noticed that the church gates were
locked and that there were no signs of a wedding, save that a number of
people looked wonderingly and disappointedly at the closed gates, and
the closed doors beyond.

"What's the matter?" asked Leicester, who noticed the look on Winfield's
face.

"Was everything right last night, Leicester?"

"Everything. Why do you ask?"

"Because--well, look out for yourself and see."

Leicester looked at the church. The front gates were locked, the church
doors were locked. A number of people stood around talking.

A strange look came into Leicester's eyes. His heart became like lead.

"Stay where you are, Leicester. You don't want to show yourself to this
crowd. I'll get out, and make inquiries."

He leapt out of the carriage, and then closed the door with a bang,
while Leicester sat inside.

"Great God, what can it mean?" he said again and again.




CHAPTER X

THE WEDDING-DAY


A few minutes later Winfield returned. He entered the carriage without a
word. He seemed stunned by what he had heard.

"What is it, Winfield?--tell me."

Winfield looked thoughtful, he seemed at a loss what to do or to say.
Then he opened the carriage window.

"Drive on," he said to the coachman.

"Where to, sir?"

"The station," he said; "that is, The Beeches Station."

"Yes, sir."

"I say, what is it, Winfield?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be an ass--tell me."

"It's the general impression that there's to be no wedding to-day," said
Winfield grimly.

Leicester seemed prepared for this. He never moved a muscle of his face,
but it was evident his mind was working quickly.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"I found the church caretaker, or sexton, or whatever they call him,"
said Winfield, "and he told me that he had received orders at eight
o'clock this morning to open neither the church gates nor the church
doors, as the wedding would not take place to-day."

"I see," said Leicester. "What besides?"

"It seems the talk among these people that the telegraph clerk has had a
busy time this morning. It is said that he has sent hundreds of
telegrams, all signed 'Castlemaine.' I expect that's a bit exaggerated,"
he added.

"And the purport of these telegrams?"

"There is a general impression that they all repeated the information
which the caretaker gave me. I say, Leicester, have you any explanation
to give?"

"I? None. No, I must receive the information. Yes, at least that's due
to me."

"Have you received no communication of any sort?"

"I? No, I forgot. I did not ask about my letters this morning. I--I
think I was too--excited."

"Drinking?"

"No; but if--I say!" He put his head out of the carriage window. "Not to
The Beeches Station," he said; "the house--you understand?"

The driver grinned. Evidently he had heard what had been said, but he
said "Yes, sir," quite civilly, and changed the direction of the horses'
heads.

Winfield wanted to say more to Leicester, but he dared not, the look on
the man's face was too ghastly.

"Here's fine copy for the yellow journalist," thought Winfield. "It
seems a pity that this kind of thing is not in my line. It would be more
eagerly read than any news about the Armenian atrocities. But there,
there will be enough to give this matter publicity. I wonder what lies
at the bottom of it. Of course some plausible excuses will be given to
the local reporters--Miss Castlemaine ill, or Mr. Leicester called to
Abyssinia; but there's some tragedy at the back of this, as sure as my
name's Arthur Winfield. Poor old Leicester, he looks death-stricken."

The carriage drew up at the door of The Beeches, and Winfield looked
out. No one was to be seen. There were no signs that anything of
importance had happened, or would happen. It might have been an empty
house, for all the signs of life that were visible. As for suggestions
of a wedding, they were nowhere apparent. The springtime had not come,
but the day was warm, and an air of restfulness seemed to reign over the
grounds. The hall door was closed.

Leicester leapt from the carriage, then he looked around in a dazed kind
of way. He noted the great beeches in the park, and the passing of a
distant train.

"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is ill," said Winfield, "or it may be that
something has happened to her father." He wanted to chase away the
ghastly look which rested on the other's face.

But Leicester seemed to take no heed; rather he appeared to be trying to
realise the situation.

"Let me see, Winfield," he said. "I want to understand. Put me right if
I am in the wrong. To-day is the day arranged for my wedding-day. Two
hundred guests were invited. We were to be married up at the church
yonder, by that man Sackville. When we got there we found the place
locked, while you were informed that the caretaker had received orders
to keep the place locked, as there was to be no wedding. You were also
told that the telegraph clerk had sent away a lot of messages saying the
same thing as the man at the church told you. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. But Miss Castlemaine or her father may be ill, you
know. You did not look at your letters this morning, and thus were in
ignorance."

"I only wanted to be sure I had got hold of the facts," replied
Leicester. "I might be mistaken, you know. I feel all knocked about."

He went to the door and rang the bell. After what seemed ages to him, it
was opened by an old servant.

"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"

The man hesitated a second, and then said:

"I believe so, sir."

"Is--is--she well?"

He did not seem to realise what he was saying, and yet he watched the
servant's face closely.

"As far as I know of, sir."

"Will you tell her I wish to see her?"

Again the man hesitated.

"Excuse me, sir," he said presently, "but you can't see her."

"Why?" he asked in a dazed way.

"It's not for me to say, sir."

By a strong effort he controlled himself, the old look of determination
came back into his eyes, and he spoke more like his normal self.

"Am I to understand that you have her orders to this effect?"

"Yes, sir--that is, from Mr. Castlemaine, sir."

"Will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I wish to see
her?"

There was a tone of command in his voice. The man felt like obeying.

"It's no use, sir," he said; "my orders was most explicit, sir."

A savage look flashed into his eyes, but he held himself under control.

"I wish you to go to Miss Castlemaine and tell her that I must see her."

"My orders, sir, was most----"

"Go and tell her," he said quietly, "that I must see her, and that I
shall wait here until I do."

The look in his eyes frightened the old servant. Besides, for some time
now, he had been led to look upon him as his future master.

"For God's sake, Mr. Leicester----" he said piteously.

"Go, or I will not be answerable for the consequences," he said, in the
same quiet tones; "tell them that I will not take 'No' for an answer."

The servant looked helplessly, first at Leicester and then at Winfield.
Finally he closed the door in their faces like one afraid.

"I'll do the best I can, sir," he said, "but you must not come in."

A few minutes later he came back again, and his face was almost as pale
as that of the young man who had stood as still as a statue on the
doorstep.

"If you please, sir, you are both to follow me," he sai

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