"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.
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. Thebonâ fideactor 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.
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. Hehadbeen 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.
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 Ican'tbe 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 thenouveau 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.