"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."
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 youmust!"
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."
"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.
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 roseen 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.
"Iamproud," 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—shewas 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, "Promiseyou!" 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.
"Somethingistroubling 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.
"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.Youall 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—whatevermay 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?Whatevermay 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 invitehim," 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.