A few minutes later Winfield returned. He entered the carriage without a word. He seemed stunned by what he had heard.
"What is it, Winfield?—tell me."
Winfield looked thoughtful, he seemed at a loss what to do or to say. Then he opened the carriage window.
"Drive on," he said to the coachman.
"Where to, sir?"
"The station," he said; "that is, The Beeches Station."
"Yes, sir."
"I say, what is it, Winfield?"
"I don't know."
"Don't be an ass—tell me."
"It's the general impression that there's to be no wedding to-day," said Winfield grimly.
Leicester seemed prepared for this. He never moved a muscle of his face, but it was evident his mind was working quickly.
"Go on," he said quietly.
"I found the church caretaker, or sexton, or whatever they call him," said Winfield, "and he told me that he had received orders at eight o'clock this morning to open neither the church gates nor the church doors, as the wedding would not take place to-day."
"I see," said Leicester. "What besides?"
"It seems the talk among these people that the telegraph clerk has had a busy time this morning. It is said that he has sent hundreds of telegrams, all signed 'Castlemaine.' I expect that's a bit exaggerated," he added.
"And the purport of these telegrams?"
"There is a general impression that they all repeated the information which the caretaker gave me. I say, Leicester, have you any explanation to give?"
"I? None. No, I must receive the information. Yes, at least that's due to me."
"Have you received no communication of any sort?"
"I? No, I forgot. I did not ask about my letters this morning. I—I think I was too—excited."
"Drinking?"
"No; but if—I say!" He put his head out of the carriage window. "Not to The Beeches Station," he said; "the house—you understand?"
The driver grinned. Evidently he had heard what had been said, but he said "Yes, sir," quite civilly, and changed the direction of the horses' heads.
Winfield wanted to say more to Leicester, but he dared not, the look on the man's face was too ghastly.
"Here's fine copy for the yellow journalist," thought Winfield. "It seems a pity that this kind of thing is not in my line. It would be more eagerly read than any news about the Armenian atrocities. But there, there will be enough to give this matter publicity. I wonder what lies at the bottom of it. Of course some plausible excuses will be given to the local reporters—Miss Castlemaine ill, or Mr. Leicester called to Abyssinia; but there's some tragedy at the back of this, as sure as my name's Arthur Winfield. Poor old Leicester, he looks death-stricken."
The carriage drew up at the door of The Beeches, and Winfield looked out. No one was to be seen. There were no signs that anything of importance had happened, or would happen. It might have been an empty house, for all the signs of life that were visible. As for suggestions of a wedding, they were nowhere apparent. The springtime had not come, but the day was warm, and an air of restfulness seemed to reign over the grounds. The hall door was closed.
Leicester leapt from the carriage, then he looked around in a dazed kind of way. He noted the great beeches in the park, and the passing of a distant train.
"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is ill," said Winfield, "or it may be that something has happened to her father." He wanted to chase away the ghastly look which rested on the other's face.
But Leicester seemed to take no heed; rather he appeared to be trying to realise the situation.
"Let me see, Winfield," he said. "I want to understand. Put me right if I am in the wrong. To-day is the day arranged for my wedding-day. Two hundred guests were invited. We were to be married up at the church yonder, by that man Sackville. When we got there we found the place locked, while you were informed that the caretaker had received orders to keep the place locked, as there was to be no wedding. You were also told that the telegraph clerk had sent away a lot of messages saying the same thing as the man at the church told you. Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. But Miss Castlemaine or her father may be ill, you know. You did not look at your letters this morning, and thus were in ignorance."
"I only wanted to be sure I had got hold of the facts," replied Leicester. "I might be mistaken, you know. I feel all knocked about."
He went to the door and rang the bell. After what seemed ages to him, it was opened by an old servant.
"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"
The man hesitated a second, and then said:
"I believe so, sir."
"Is—is—she well?"
He did not seem to realise what he was saying, and yet he watched the servant's face closely.
"As far as I know of, sir."
"Will you tell her I wish to see her?"
Again the man hesitated.
"Excuse me, sir," he said presently, "but you can't see her."
"Why?" he asked in a dazed way.
"It's not for me to say, sir."
By a strong effort he controlled himself, the old look of determination came back into his eyes, and he spoke more like his normal self.
"Am I to understand that you have her orders to this effect?"
"Yes, sir—that is, from Mr. Castlemaine, sir."
"Will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I wish to see her?"
There was a tone of command in his voice. The man felt like obeying.
"It's no use, sir," he said; "my orders was most explicit, sir."
A savage look flashed into his eyes, but he held himself under control.
"I wish you to go to Miss Castlemaine and tell her that I must see her."
"My orders, sir, was most——"
"Go and tell her," he said quietly, "that I must see her, and that I shall wait here until I do."
The look in his eyes frightened the old servant. Besides, for some time now, he had been led to look upon him as his future master.
"For God's sake, Mr. Leicester——" he said piteously.
"Go, or I will not be answerable for the consequences," he said, in the same quiet tones; "tell them that I will not take 'No' for an answer."
The servant looked helplessly, first at Leicester and then at Winfield. Finally he closed the door in their faces like one afraid.
"I'll do the best I can, sir," he said, "but you must not come in."
A few minutes later he came back again, and his face was almost as pale as that of the young man who had stood as still as a statue on the doorstep.
"If you please, sir, you are both to follow me," he said in a frightened whisper.
Leicester was perfectly calm now, but the calm was unnatural; his every feature was set and rigid, his face had a pallor that was deathly. He followed the man without a word. As for Winfield, he felt that the whole atmosphere of the place was charged with excitement, and he wondered why he was also asked to follow the servant.
With faltering steps the man led the way into the library. Leicester knew that this was John Castlemaine's favourite room, and that it was here he spent most of his time when he was at home. The servant opened the door, and then closed it again, noiselessly.
Olive Castlemaine and her father were both standing near the fireplace as the young men entered. The man's face was cold, and stern, and relentless. As for Olive, she gave evidence of a sleepless night. Her eyes were dry and hard, but her face, though pale, suggested no signs of weakness. She looked almost composed, except that her lips were compressed.
Leicester took a step towards her, but only a step. The look in her eyes forbade him. Still he remained calm.
"I am naturally come for—for an explanation," he said.
"I thought that my letter would have relieved me of that necessity," said John Castlemaine.
"I have received no letter."
"I sent one by hand this morning."
"I have not seen it."
Leicester knew by the look on Olive's face that something terrible had happened, and the look nerved him to expect anything.
"In my letter," said John Castlemaine, "I explained why no wedding could take place to-day, why from henceforth my doors must be closed to you."
"You did not say this last night."
"Much has happened since then."
"Nothing can have happened since then to justify such treatment as I have received."
"Perhaps not," replied John Castlemaine quietly, "but information concerning past events has reached me since last night which will justify any treatment."
Leicester's calm was beginning to leave him.
"Olive," he cried, "surely after what was said last night between us you will not——"
"You will kindly address whatever remarks you wish to make to me," interrupted John Castlemaine. "I do not wish my daughter to have any intercourse with you whatever."
"Then will you give me an explanation of—of this—fiasco," said Leicester. He still spoke quietly, but any one could detect the tone of anger that had come into his voice.
"Nothing in the shape of a fiasco exists," said the older man. "Personally, I do not imagine that any explanation is needed, but, for form's sake, I will make it. You were received into this house as a gentleman. I do not think that any of the servants, to say nothing of myself, have ever regarded you in any other light. I am an old-fashioned man, Mr. Leicester, and when I know that a man has acted as no gentleman could or would act, I simply forbid him my house, and I give my servants instructions accordingly."
"Since when have I ceased to have the right to be treated like a gentleman?" asked Leicester.
"Since I knew that you made my daughter the subject of a wager," replied John Castlemaine, with quiet scorn. "Since you wagered a hundred pounds that you would win her as your wife."
The blow had fallen; the blow which Leicester had feared. That which had haunted him for months had come to pass. The truth had leaked out, and both Olive Castlemaine and her father knew the worst. He knew it was no use making any denials, or urging any extenuating circumstances. There was enough of truth in the charge to justify Mr. Castlemaine's every word.
"I do not think I need to say more," went on John Castlemaine. "I see that you quite understand. You cannot wonder therefore that I have nullified all arrangements for—what we expected to take place to-day. That is all, I think. There is no need to prolong an interview which, whatever it is to you, is very painful to me."
But Leicester was not to be put off so easily. He felt that it was for him to confess everything, and then fight to the very last. Besides, he felt he had not been treated fairly. At least he should have been allowed to justify his position before having the door closed in his face.
"However much truth there may be in what you say," he said, speaking still quietly, "I think the right of explanation is due to me. Nay more, I think I might have been allowed to answer whatever charges were made against me before—before the church caretaker had his orders."
"I could not see how any man could desire to make explanations," said John Castlemaine. "Personally, I think I should have thought less badly of you if shame had kept you away. The information I have received was so exact, so convincing, so well authenticated, that there was no room for doubt. Your whole behaviour, your every visit has been an insult to my daughter."
"Insult?"
"Insult. I can use no milder term. Still, you mention explanation. If I gave you no chance to make it before annulling arrangements, I give it now. Much against my will, it is true; but I give it."
The words gave Leicester a ray of light. If this interview was against Mr. Castlemaine's will, then Olive must have influenced him. He turned towards her eagerly.
"You at least will hear me," he said; "you will understand what your father cannot."
"I think I told you to address your remarks to me," said John Castlemaine coldly; "my daughter wishes no further intercourse with you."
During their conversation Olive had remained standing by the fireplace, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the window. Nevertheless, it was evident she had heard all that was said. At her father's words she aroused herself and said:
"No, let him say what he will; it will be interesting."
Leicester felt the scorn of her words. At that moment he felt that she regarded him as a creature beneath contempt. Still, he was fighting for life, nay, more than life.
"I will admit," he said, "that appearances are against me." Here he hesitated like a man who could not find words to express his thoughts. He looked around almost helplessly, but only silence followed his words.
"Who gave you this—this information?" he demanded.
"That is no concern of yours or mine at present," she replied, "seeing even you cannot deny the truth of what my father has repeated."
"There—are extenuating circumstances," he stammered.
"Yes, I suppose there were," she said coldly. "You were drunk; at least I suppose that is the extenuating circumstance to which you refer. While you were in this condition you said that all women were base, and without honour. You said they could be all bought with a price. It seems that my price was the position which you could offer me. Satisfy my ambition, and then I would consent to be the wife of any man who might choose to ask me."
Never until then did he realise the meaning of what he had done. Even in the hours when he had regretted his wager most, he never felt its purport as he felt it then. Her words burnt him like hot iron, but he still spoke quietly.
"You put the case unfairly," he said; "it has never occurred to me in that light."
"Then give it your own version," she said; "as I said, it will be interesting."
He tried to speak, but could not. He tried to think of some means whereby he could put the whole sordid business in a more favourable light, but his tongue refused to obey his will. Nothing but the horrible naked truth as she had put it appeared to him.
She looked up at him scornfully.
"You do not answer," she went on in the same quiet, bitter tones. "You admit, then, that I was the subject of a wager, the wager being that you could satisfy my ambition, and that therefore I could be won as yourwife! Of course I feel greatly—honoured. Who would not? I believe that I was suggested by this other—gentleman. Then being thought a fit subject for a wager, my price being a hundred pounds, you set to work to gain admission to this house. Well, I refuse to be utilised in such a way. That is all, I think. I am sure we need not detain you longer."
"No, no, it is not all," said Leicester. "It is not fair to me that I should make my explanations before—others, but you compel me. I must admit that I did participate in this vile business; but I was not myself that night. I was——"
"Yes, you were drunk," said John Castlemaine; "go on."
"I confessed the truth to you," continued Leicester, still keeping his eyes on Olive. "I told you that this habit had grown upon me; but never since—since that night—you remember—have I tasted a drop. But—yes, and you knew my reputation; concerning those things I never deceived you."
Olive was silent.
"It is true I believed that women were all base, and selfish, and sordid," he went on. "Yes, I did, and I did not hide my views. Then when Purvis and Sprague challenged me I confessed my willingness to put them to the test. I told them to choose the best and noblest woman they knew of, and——"
"They chose me," said Olive. "I am greatly honoured."
"I did not know you then," said Leicester; "my acquaintance with women had made me believe that all of them were what I said."
"And yet you were willing to marry one of them," she said quietly.
"No, I would not," he cried. "I simply wanted to prove my words. I would never have married such a woman."
"But you would seek to win her, and after you had won her you would discard her. That is even worse than the other."
"Yes, yes," he said bitterly, "I deserve it all, doubtless. Yes, I was intoxicated if you like, and I made a wager that I would win you as my wife. I did not know you, and I believed that you were like all other women. I was told that it was commonly believed that I should have a brilliant career, and I believed that the prospect of being the wife of a successful parliamentarian would be sufficient to gain your consent to being my wife. Yes, I will confess the whole truth. I believed you to be like the rest of the world; but I did not intend to marry you. I intended to gain your consent, and——"
"And then drag my name into another drunken orgie," she said, and her eyes flashed fire. "My name was to be bandied about in the clubs, I was to be mentioned as one who had proved the truth of Mr. Radford Leicester's exalted views, I was to be pointed out as one who was to be won for a wager, and then discarded when the wager was won."
"No," he cried. "Loathsome as was the whole business, it was not so bad as that. We bound ourselves that no word of the affair should leak out, not one word. Only three men knew of it beside myself. You know whom they were, I daresay. Two of them had proposed to you and had been rejected; the other, as you say, was Winfield here. Whatever had happened, no one would have known had they not told. One of the other two has told you, which I do not know as yet; but I will know—mind that. Perhaps you will tell me?"
Olive was silent.
"Well, that does not matter. I shall find out, yes, I shall find out, and then——" He laughed bitterly, and any one who had looked into his eyes would have seen murder there. "But there is another side to this business, bad as it is, and no one feels its loathsomeness more than I. Let me at least have the opportunity of putting the other side."
For the first time Olive seemed to unbend a little. She did not speak, but she seemed ready, nay, even eager, to hear what he had to say.
"Let me say this, then," said Leicester. "Almost ever since the first time I saw you I have repented of the whole business. It has haunted me night and day. When I came to know you, and to realise how noble and true you were, I scorned, I loathed myself. I would have given anything to have undone what had been done. I dared not tell you, for I feared you would drive me from your presence. No man honours a woman more than I honour you, no man believes in a woman's nobility and honour more than I believe in yours. As I said, as soon as I saw you I loathed what had taken place, for I loved you."
"You mean," said Olive, "that you no longer came here because of your desire to win this wager, but——"
"Because I loved you," said Leicester eagerly. He forgot the presence of Winfield, and John Castlemaine. Only he and Olive were together, the others did not exist. "Yes, that is true, I came only for you. More than once I was tempted to tell you everything; but I was a coward—I was afraid. I had learnt that you were a proud woman, and I felt sure that if I told you, you would drive me from your presence. And I could not bear the thought of it, Olive. You are everything to me, life, hope, heaven! You know you are—yes, you know it. As for the other business, I hated it, as I hated myself when I thought of it. My great desire was to drive it from my mind. Surely you believe this, Olive—you must! Yes, I deserve all you have said—all and more; but now that you know the truth, now that you know what was begun in ghastly farce has ended in terrible reality, now you know that all my life is bound up in you, you only, you will forgive, will you not?"
Olive Castlemaine never took her eyes from him as he spoke, she seemed to be trying to read his inmost thoughts. Once or twice her face softened as he spoke, as though she wanted to yield to his pleading, but when he had finished she hesitated.
"This is true?" she said quietly. "Every word is true, is it not?"
"By all I hold sacred it is true," he cried. "I had not known you a week before I loathed the business, and cast it from me as I would cast a serpent from me. I thought of you only, because I loved you more than ever man loved woman, because the very thought of life was unbearable without you."
"Then there is another question I would ask you," she said.
Leicester, whose heart was again beating with hope, took a step nearer to her as she spoke.
"I will answer any question you ask me, Olive," he said; "let everything come to light."
"I wish to know," she said calmly, "if what you say is true, why you told the others that you were only seeking to marry me to prove your wager."
"It is a lie," said Leicester; "I never told them."
"Less than two months ago you told them. After our wedding-day had been fixed you told them. You met them in your club, in the same room where I was first discussed. The two others, and this—gentleman. They besought you to give up this"—Olive hesitated as though the very thought stung her—"this wager. But you insisted on paying the money yourself—this hundred pounds, the price at which I was valued. They urged you, I repeat, and you refused. They asked you whether you had become reformed in your opinions and you denied it. Then they accused you of still playing a part to obtain my consent to marry you, that you might win your wager. And you admitted it."
"That is a lie."
"I happen to remember the words that were used," said Olive, speaking in the same hard, quiet voice. "One of them said to you, it does not matter which, but one of them used these words after you had made certain statements: 'Then you have been simply playing a part with Miss Castlemaine?' and you replied, 'And if I have, what is that to you?' Then this man said, 'You admit it then? All this teetotalism, this tone of moral earnestness which you have introduced into your speeches, it is all to win your wager?' And then you answered, 'And if it is, have I ever pretended to believe in any of the whining sentimentality of the world? Have I not all along insisted that it was a matter of price?' Then these men said I ought to know, whereupon you threatened them with terrible punishment if they dared to tell me. Do you pretend to deny this?"
"I deny everything," said Leicester sullenly. The resurrection of the past, the destruction of his happiness had unhinged his mind. He scarcely knew what he was saying, the ground seemed to be dug from under his feet.
"I wondered whether you were base enough to deny that," she said; "I even hoped that you were not, but after I had learnt what I have learnt I dared not believe. My informant asked me to appeal to Mr. Winfield to verify the truth of this, that was why I told the servant to bring him with you. Mr. Winfield, have I described exactly what took place? Did this man say the words I have repeated?"
Winfield, who had been listening like a man in a dream, felt himself unable to speak. He could not, with Olive's eyes upon him, tell a lie, and say that what had been told her was false, neither could he, as he saw the deathly pallor on Leicester's face, and the fearful look in his eyes, confess the truth.
"You do not speak, Mr. Winfield," she said; "even you cannot support your friend. Still, if I have misjudged him, it is right that you should tell the truth. Did he, or did he not say these things?"
"I am sure he did not mean them," said Winfield tamely.
"Thank you; now then, go, Mr. Leicester."
Leicester started like a man who had been stung.
"You surely do not mean that," he cried. "No, no, Olive, you cannot mean that."
"The disgrace of being the subject of hundreds of gossiping tongues, as I am at this moment, is nothing to this disgrace of being the subject of a wager among drunken men. Do you think I could ever speak to you again after knowing what I know? Even now I feel contaminated by being in your presence. It is like poison to me. Your every word has been proved to be lies, your protestations worthy of the creed you profess. Go, then, and may God forgive you for the pain you have caused."
But Leicester never moved.
"If I were a man," she said, "I would throw you out of the house; and but for the fact that the servants would talk, I would ring for them at this moment, that you might be treated as such as you deserve. As it is, seeing you have not shame enough to leave such a house as this for the telling, I will leave the room myself."
Leicester lost control of himself. The man's sky had become as black as night; all he regarded as worth living for had been destroyed in an hour.
"You shall not go," he cried, "that is, you shall not go until I have explained those words which were uttered in a fit of madness."
"Explain? yes, doubtless you would explain, if I would sully my ears by listening; but I will not. Moreover, see to it that you never dare to cross my path again."
"I dare anything," he cried, "anything, everything. No, you shall not get away from me so easily. Oh, yes, I remember, and you remember, too, the promise which you made last night. You said then, that whatever might happen, you wouldnevermarry another man. Surely you, with your fine notions, will never break your promise?"
He was beside himself, or he would never have uttered such words. He saw, moreover, that the arrow had gone home; a look of pain shot across her face.
"Oh, yes, I've got you," he went on wildly, "and I will hold you to your words, too. If ever you dream of marrying another man, I will tell him what you said. Yes, I will do that and more, and——"
"Let me pass," she cried; "as though I could ever dream of marrying an honourable man after promising to be the wife of such as you. Stand aside, or I will call the servants."
But she had no need to make this threat. Her words had crushed him too completely. He obeyed her like a frightened child, and then watched her with a dazed look in his eyes as she walked out of the room.
"Now go," said John Castlemaine, as he rang the bell. A servant appeared, and Radford Leicester walked out of the house with the black night of hell in his heart.
The carriage was still waiting, and both men entered it without a word.
"Where to, sir?" asked the coachman.
But Leicester did not reply, indeed he did not know the man had spoken.
"Where to, sir?" repeated the driver in a louder voice.
Winfield mentioned the name of a station which they had come from that morning. For two miles they rode in silence, then Leicester turned and looked at his companion.
"Are you doing anything particular this afternoon, Winfield?" he said.
"No. Nothing in particular."
"Then come back with me to the club, will you?"
"Yes, if you wish."
"Thank you." And again he looked out of the carriage window in a way that made Winfield sorry he had given his promise.
After they had got into the train, and were on their way back to London, Leicester spoke again.
"Winfield," he said, "do you think she meant what she said? that is, do you think she will ever be led to change her mind?"
"All things are possible," said Winfield.
"Yes, but do you think she will?"
"No," said Winfield, "I do not believe she ever will." He was sorry, after he had spoken, that he had not fenced with the question, so terrible was the look in Leicester's eyes.
"Ah," he replied, "I was only curious to know what you thought. I have always looked upon you as a level-headed fellow."
"I think," said Winfield, "that her pride was wounded, that she was very angry at being made the subject of a wager. What woman wouldn't? Then that conversation we had together a few weeks ago was made to look very black. Of course you might write a letter, giving a full explanation. By to-morrow she will be able to see things in a clearer light."
"No," said Leicester, "she never will."
Winfield was silent.
"Still, I'll write the letter."
"I should."
"I'll write it as soon as we get back to the club. I'll state the whole truth. I ought to have done it before."
"It would have been best. But who would have thought that those two fellows would have——"
"Don't talk about them yet, Winfield. Please don't—if—if—but never mind that now."
The man's face was contorted with passion, but he spoke quietly, almost coldly. Winfield shivered as he spoke, however. If ever murder burned in a man's eyes, it burned in Leicester's at that moment.
Directly they arrived at the club, he seized a pen and wrote rapidly, while Winfield remained near him smoking a cigar. Page after page was covered with Leicester's bold, clear writing; when he had finished he passed what he had written to Winfield.
"It's mean of me to bother you," he said, "but I'm quite bowled over. I hardly know whether I've set everything down exactly as it occurred. Would you mind reading what I've written and tell me whether I've made the whole affair plain?"
Winfield read the letter from the first word to the last.
"Yes," he said; "nothing could be more clearly stated. Nothing could be more plain or straight-forward."
"Thank you. I wanted to be sure I was in my right mind. I'll not trouble you with the rest of the letter."
Again he wrote; and this time it was evident by the look on his face that he was setting down what was only for Olive Castlemaine's eyes. As a matter of fact, he was pleading with her as only a desperate man can plead. He threw his pride to the winds, and prayed her mercy and her forgiveness.
"What time is it?" he said, when he had finished.
"Three o'clock," said Winfield, looking at his watch, "and I've had no lunch."
"No; you expected—that is, we expected to——I say, Winfield, I'm going to send this by hand."
"Wait until to-morrow."
"No; to-morrow is an eternity. I must send it now. Great God! you don't know what this means to me. Get your lunch, Winfield; I'll be back presently."
He left the room as he spoke, while Winfield went into the dining-room.
"Poor beggar," said the young man as he examined the menu, "he's got it bad, and no wonder; for it was a knock-down blow. Well, it must be kept out of the papers, anyhow."
When he had nearly finished his lunch Leicester joined him.
"I've sent it off," he said, "and have told the man to wait for an answer."
"Better if you'd waited until to-morrow," said Winfield.
"I couldn't, man. Most likely she'll go away somewhere to-night—that is—unless—you know. If I'd waited until to-morrow, she'd never have got my letter, she'd be on the way to the Continent, or—heaven knows where. No, I've done right."
"Perhaps you have. Anyhow, sit down and get some lunch. A man must eat, you know."
"I could just as easily fly. Ah, and that reminds me. Winfield, let's go for a ride out in the country. We can get a couple of horses at Bilson's. He has a mad mare that I want to ride. She's a fearful creature, and scarcely any one dares to mount her. I must do something to keep the devil out of me."
"Very well. I'm just in the humour for a gallop; but get some lunch, old man."
"Come on, if you have finished. We can get to Wimbledon Common in an hour—in less than an hour. Then we will give those horses of Bilson's a chance to know what they can do."
"But we must get some riding togs on, old man. You can't go a-riding with a frock coat, and a top hat."
"Oh, I forgot; but that's soon remedied. We can be back by seven or eight o'clock, and by that time there should be—an answer."
A few minutes later, they were on their way towards Wimbledon Common. But for Winfield, Leicester would have galloped through the crowded streets, and more than once he was on the point of resenting his companion's restrictions. When they arrived at the open country, however, he gave his horse rein, and tore across the Common, while Winfield kept close at his heels.
"I wish I could ride to Brighton," said Leicester presently. "This helps me to keep the devil down."
"Why not?" said Winfield.
"I must get back now," he replied. "There will be an answer to my letter. It may be—you see—she is very just."
"What does a man want of women while he has a good horse under him, the open sky above him, and the country all around him?" asked Winfield, with a laugh.
"What does a man want with heaven when he's been living in hell?" asked Leicester.
"As you will, Leicester," said his companion; "but take my advice. Don't expect—too much, and make up your mind to have a good time, whatever may happen."
Leicester laughed, and it was the laugh of a madman.
"Do you believe in the devil, Winfield?" he said.
"I don't see that the devil has anything to do with it," replied the other. "We are young, we have life before us, and——"
But Leicester did not listen to him further. He struck his spurs into his horse's sides, and the animal tore off at a mad gallop. Winfield's horse started to follow, but the young man held him back. "Let him go," he said to himself, "he's better without me. I've made a mistake evidently, and, great heavens! I don't like to think of what will happen."
Winfield watched the other, who galloped wildly across the broad open space, and then waited while he rode the mad passion out of himself.
When Leicester returned, half an hour later, there was a quieter look in his eyes, his face looked more natural.
"I thought you'd gone, Winfield," he said; "let's get back to town. What a wedding-day I'm having, eh?"
Both their horses were black with sweat when they returned them to the job-master from whom they had borrowed them, but Leicester did not wait to listen to the man's remarks. He hurried back to the club, and went straight to the office.
"Any letters for me?" he asked.
A number were handed to him which had come through the post.
"Not these," he said impatiently. "Has one come by private messenger?"
"Oh yes, I had forgotten. Here it is, sir."
He took the letter. Yes, it was addressed in Olive Castlemaine's hand-writing, and without a word he rushed straight to his bedroom. He wanted to be alone. Feverishly he turned on the electric light, and then broke the seal. The envelope contained nothing but his own unopened letter.
For some time he stood still. No sound, no movement did he make. He felt now that the last thread which held him to hope was broken, and yet he could not realise what it meant. Ever since he had left The Beeches that morning, he had lived in a kind of trance. The blow which had fallen had to an extent paralysed him. Everything seemed a long way off, even although he knew that a tragedy had taken place in his own life. Presently, however, it became real to him. Hope was gone, joy was gone, purpose was gone. The sun had gone down on his wedding-day, and it had also gone down on his life. There was no light anywhere. For years he had lived a hopeless life, for years he had been chained by a degrading habit, for years he had ceased to believe in God, in virtue—in anything that made life worth the living. Then a new force had come into his life. Hope, faith, and more than all, love had sprung up in his heart. The world had become new, and he knew what heaven meant. Then, when the day had come on which all his desires were to be fully realised, black ruin had fallen. The new-born hope and faith were destroyed in an hour. No ray of light appeared anywhere.
"Leicester, old man, may I come in?" It was Winfield who spoke.
"No—yes—that is, who are you?"
"It is I, Winfield."
"Come in."
Winfield entered, and he had no need to be told what had happened. For this reason he asked no questions, he only said:
"Come and have some dinner, Leicester."
"Look," said Leicester, showing him the unopened letter.
"Yes, I see, old man. Come and have some dinner."
"Good," replied Leicester feverishly, "that's it, dinner! Haven't I always maintained that there was no love affair in the world but could be cured by a good dinner and a bottle of champagne? We'll prove it old man. Dinner, that's it; and afterwards—we'll make a night of it somewhere."
A new light had come into his eyes, and even Winfield, who was no saint, saw that it was evil.
"I haven't touched a drop of whisky for months," went on Leicester. "I've been a whining dog, running at the heels of—but there, I'll make up for lost time to-night. Come on, Winfield!"
"Hadn't we better dress for dinner?" said Winfield. "I always keep some dress clothes here at the club."
"Hang dressing! Let's go as we are; how can we be better dressed for a drinking bout than in riding attire? Tally ho! my boy. 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' That's the proper spirit, isn't it? I've been a sort of a dog led by a string for the last few months, now I am free again. I was becoming the kind of man that every one should despise, a whining sentimentalist. I had actually begun to talk about the moral aspect of things. What of that? It's never too late to mend, eh, Winfield? Off with the trappings, have done with shams, Richard's himself again! Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."
His face was still pale, but his eyes shone with a mad light.
"But we can't go down like this, Leicester, we may as well——"
"All right, have your own way. I'll join you in five minutes. 'The apparel oft proclaims the man,' therefore let us be respectable. Respectable, oh, I'll let some of 'em know what respectability means."
Winfield left the room deep in thought. He was a man of the world, but he was sorry to see how Leicester was taking his blow. He would rather have seen him give way to grief, or make threats of vengeance.
A few minutes later they met in the dining-room. Both were in faultless attire, although Winfield noticed that his friend's mood had not changed.
"The club dinner," said Leicester to the waiter, "and let us have it at once."
"Yes, sir. What'll you take to drink, sir?"
"Drink! Oh, whisky and soda. Bring a large bottle of each."
The waiter went away. He had heard that Leicester was to have been married that day, and he naturally wondered what he was doing there; but of course he showed no surprise.
"By the way, Leicester," said Winfield, as he toyed with a piece of bread on the table, "I've been thinking that things may not be so bad as we thought."
"Oh, chuck it, Winfield. I've learnt my lesson. I've been a fool, but I'll not close my eyes to facts any longer."
"She may love you still," persisted the other.
"Woman's love! I was right in the old days. It's all a matter of price; only I made a mistake about the price. I didn't reckon upon a woman's vanity—that's all."
"Well, let us meet facts fairly. It was natural that she should be mad. When a high-minded girl like Miss Castlemaine——"
"High-minded! Don't talk such drivel."
"Yes, I repeat, high-minded. When she is told that the engagement was a matter of a wager, and when, after the wedding-day was fixed, you admitted that it was still a matter of winning the wager, then——"
"What are you driving at? I say, I'll kick up a row about the management of this club. That whisky has been ordered at least three minutes, and it's not brought yet."
"I'm driving at this. She was mad, and her madness was justifiable, but by to-morrow she'll have calmed down. I told you it was too soon for you to send that letter. If I were you I'd go down again to-morrow, and I'll warrant she'll be in a different frame of mind."
Winfield was wanting to gain time. He knew that if the whisky came while Leicester was in his present mood, nothing would stop him from fulfilling his threat.
"She returned my letter unopened. She did not deign to read a word."
"Yes, and it was quite natural; but give her breathing space, old man. She's a proud girl, you know that, and well—she would not listen to reason. But through to-night she'll be lonely. She'll be thinking of the past. She'll recall many things which hadn't occurred to her in her anger. To-morrow, mark my word, she'll be longing to see you."
The waiter came, bringing a bottle of whisky, and placed it on the table, but Leicester did not touch it.
Winfield sent the waiter away on some trifling commission, and then he went on:
"If I were you, I would not start drinking to-night. You might be mistaken, you know, and if you are——"
Leicester rose to his feet hurriedly.
"I can't eat, Winfield, and I can't sit down to the mockery of a dinner. I'm going somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Probably to throw myself in the Thames. Sorry to be such a fool, old man. A good appetite to you."
He rushed out of the club, and did not return till past midnight; but when he returned he showed no signs of drinking.
The next morning he started for The Beeches again.
By ten o'clock Leicester was at the door of John Castlemaine's house. Any one who had seen him on his way from London the previous morning would not have recognised him as the same man. For one thing he looked at least ten years older. His face was haggard, his eyes were dull, he walked with a kind of hesitation. The grounds were deserted, no one was anywhere visible.
He rang the door bell, and a minute later the door was opened by the old servant who had appeared the day before.
"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"
"No, sir."
"Come, now, that is a polite figment. You mean that she is not at home to me."
"I mean what I say, sir; she is not at home."
"And Mr. Castlemaine?"
"He's not at home either, sir."
"Do you mean to say they are gone away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Come, now, no more of your lies," he said. "You know very well. Tell me, I'll make it worth your while."
He felt angry with himself for speaking in this way, but he had lost his self-control.
"I don't know, sir," repeated the man.
"When did they go?"
"Last night, sir."
"What time?"
"I didn't notice, sir," and he prepared to close the door.
"Come now, you are not to get away like this. Listen to me a minute longer." He spoke in his old tone of command, and the man instinctively felt like obeying.
"You say they went away last night. Was it late?"
"Yes, sir—that is, I didn't notice the time."
"But late?"
"Yes, sir—that is, I should think so; but as I said——"
"They went abroad?"
"Yes, sir—that is, they didn't tell me."
"But you have some idea where they are gone?"
The man was silent.
Leicester took a step nearer, while the man shrank back.
"No, my man," he said, "you are not going till you tell me what you know."
The old servant looked around fearfully, and then said:
"I know nothing, sir; nobody knows anything."
"Don't tell any more lies. They must have letters forwarded."
"The housekeeper may know, sir."
"The housekeeper is at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let me see her."
"No, sir. You must see no one in the house. Sorry, sir, but orders is orders."
"You have received orders about me?"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Sorry, sir; but last night, sir. You were to be ordered away if you came."
Leicester laughed bitterly.
"Ah, I see. Mr. and Miss Castlemaine left last night, and they told no one but the housekeeper where they were going, but they gave orders that the dogs were to be set upon me."
"Not quite so bad as that, sir, but——"
"I see. Yes, I understand."
"You see Miss Castlemaine is very ill, sir," said the man, as though he recollected something. "Of course that was why the wedding couldn't take place. A sort of stroke I think it was."
Leicester laughed aloud.
"Good," he said, "and Mr. and Miss Castlemaine are gone away together?"
"With Mr. Sackville, the minister, sir."
"Oh, the parson, eh! Good. Was sheverymuch worse after I left yesterday?"
"I never saw her, sir. I know nothing. All I know is, that they're gone away for a goodish bit, but where they're gone I don't know. But I did have orders to send you away. I'm very sorry, sir. Will you excuse me now, sir? I have my dooties."
Leicester took a sovereign from his pocket, and threw it to the man.
"All right, Simmons," he said, "have a good time while they are away. You are a very fair liar, Simmons, a very fair liar indeed."
He strode back to the station, and waited for a train to take him back to London. The porters watched him curiously. They had heard scores of rumours, and thus this man was of great interest to them. They had heard that Miss Castlemaine had been told that he was already married; they had been also told that he was guilty of forgery, and had lately come out of gaol. Others again had it that it was not because of Leicester at all that the wedding had not taken place, but that Miss Castlemaine had been taken ill the previous day, and on calling in the doctor she had been told that she must not think of getting married, but must immediately leave the country. One report had it that the doctor had told her she could not live six months, while another rumour said that if she went away for a twelve months' voyage around the world she might return well and strong. Of course the servants had been closely questioned, but their knowledge was very scanty, and such as they had they were forbidden on pain of dismissal to divulge.
But Leicester took no notice of those who directed their glances towards him. He might have been in a trance for all the cognisance he took of his surroundings. He had some time to wait for his train, and he walked slowly up and down the platform, heedless of everything.
"Sad about Miss Castlemaine, sir."
He turned and saw the station-master, who was a noted gossip. Leicester looked straight at the man, but did not utter a word.
"Of course it must be terrible for you, sir. Nobody ever suspected that she was ill; but it must be terrible, for Mr. Castlemaine told me himself when he left last night that they might not return for months."
"Ah, he told you that, did he?"
"Yes, sir. I could see he was in great trouble; but he scarcely spoke to me, which is different from what he usually is. He often had a chat with me in the mornings when waiting for his train. He always took the same train, the 10.9, and he was always here five minutes before time. However, when I asked him, he told me he was going abroad. What part have they gone to, sir?"
"Did he not tell you?"
"No, I asked him; but he seemed as though he didn't want to talk. Of course you know, sir? Where are they gone, if I might ask?"
But Leicester turned on his heel and walked away. The old servant had told him the truth, then. He turned to the bookstall and began to idly read the posters. "Postponement of a fashionable wedding. Bride taken dangerously ill," he read.
"Another religious lie," and he laughed bitterly. "These pious people know how to hush up things by fraud."
He bought a paper, and got into the train which was just entering the station. He had the carriage all to himself, and so was able to read the news unobserved. He was not long in finding the paragraph he desired.
"Postponement of wedding," he read. "The marriage between Radford Leicester, Esq., and Miss Olive Castlemaine, which was arranged for yesterday, has been indefinitely postponed, owing to the serious illness of the latter. The large number of guests who had been invited to The Beeches received an early intimation that the wedding would not take place, and on inquiries as to the reason, we are informed that Miss Castlemaine was taken seriously ill a few hours before the time announced for the nuptials. We are also given to understand that Miss Castlemaine has been ordered out of England for a lengthened stay, and that, accompanied by her father and her maid, they left London for the Continent last night. The reason of the sudden illness of the bride is causing much discussion in the neighbourhood of Miss Castlemaine's home."
Leicester threw the paper from him with an oath. "Lies, lies, lies!" he muttered. "And she connives at them. She the Sunday-school teacher, the immaculate one. She threw me over because her pride was wounded, but she could tell lies in order to hide the truth. Oh, what a blithering fool I've been! Why did I not—but there——! What's the use of anything?"
"It's all over now," he went on presently. "That chapter is written, the play's played out. Is it, though? Shall I be beaten in this way? The truth concerning this affair is bound to become known. People are not going to be fooled by a bungling report like this. Taken seriously ill in the morning, and off to the Continent in the evening! Bah, even the British public is not so blind as that!
"Well, what now? Shall I tamely submit to this? In a few days I shall be the laughing-stock of every one who knows me. Perhaps I am now. Purvis and Sprague are by this time enjoying themselves hugely. For it is they who have done this. One or both of them, it does not matter. But I'll settle my accounts with them. As for her——!"
He ground his teeth together, and his eyes shone like the eyes of a madman.
"I'll have her yet!" he cried. "To begin with, I have her sacred promise that she'll never marry another man. Even yesterday she told me that she could not dream of being the wife of an honourable man after promising to marry such a thing as I. But she shall pay for that, by —— she shall! Yes, my proud lady, I'll humble your pride to the dust. You shall eat your words."
He started to his feet, and paced the empty carriage like a mad lion paces his cage. A new passion had laid hold of him now.
"No more whining sentimentality for me!" he cried, "no more moral platitudes, no more drivel about trying to be a good man. Good man! Ha, ha! But I'll humble her; yes, I'll not be beaten. Yes, and when I've got my way, I'll taunt her with her words, I'll make her suffer what I'm suffering; ay, and more—if it is possible. You little thought, my pattern young Sunday-school teacher, of what you were doing when you drove me to the devil."
He caught up the paper, and read the paragraph again. On the face of it, it was a lie, a poor clumsy attempt to cover up the truth. The world would soon know all about it. There were at least seven in the secret. There was Purvis, and Sprague, and Winfield, and John Castlemaine—yes, and the minister Sackville. John Castlemaine would be sure to tell him. Then, as a matter of course, the minister would tell his wife. After that—well, every old woman in the congregation would mouth the spicy bit of gossip. Miss Castlemaine had cast him off, because he in a drunken freak had made a wager that he would win her as his wife, and she had found him out! He reflected on the way that the fat silly old women in the world of so-called Society would discuss it over afternoon tea, he imagined brainless dudes giving their opinions about him over their whiskies. The men he had despised would pity him, and utter inanities about him. Of course the news would reach his constituency too. What capital his opponents would make of it all! He imagined the leading article which would appear in the rag calledThe Taviton Argus, about the reasons for Miss Castlemaine being taken suddenly ill. And it would all be true! Ay, and what was worse, people would say that he, Leicester, the cynic, the man who despised the conventional goodness of the age, had become a teetotaler, a supporter of philanthropic institutions in order to win a wager. Ay, more, he who had laughed at religion had gone to church like a family grocer, had sat in the pew of a Nonconforming conventicle, and had listened to the prosy platitudes of an unctuous spiritual shepherd, to win a girl who had found him out. He fancied the cartoons which would appear inThe Taviton Argus, picturing him sitting in church, and singing Sankey's hymns. Perhaps they would have him kneeling at the penitent form, all to get a girl who found him out to be a liar and a hypocrite!
The reflection maddened him. But he would pay them all out. Yes, Purvis and Sprague should bitterly repent the day they opposed his will; as for Olive Castlemaine—well, she should suffer more than he was suffering.
But this mood did not last long. Try as he might he could not hide the gloomy black future which loomed before him. He pictured himself as he was before the wager was made, a hopeless cynic, a hard bitter man, a slave to whisky. And he was worse now. He had been in heaven during these last few months. Yes, he could not deny that a woman had cleared his cloudy sky, and had aroused in him hopes and longings to which he had been a stranger. The future had appeared to him as a paradise, a heaven because a woman he loved more than words could say had promised to be his wife. Oh, and he had loved her! Say what he would about the falseness of women, and the evil of the world, this woman had changed everything for him, so that he had contemplated the future with joy; but now he saw nothing but hell. What had the future for him now? Lonely misery, haunted by bitter thoughts of what might have been. What was a seat in Parliament now? Who cared about him? For years he had alienated those who would be his friends, he had become a pariah, a kind of intellectual and moral Ishmael. How could he bear it?
With this thought the craving for whisky came back to him again. He had promised Olive he would never touch it again, but that was a thing of the past. Yes, he would go back to his club, and he would drink until he forgot. He would debauch himself with spirits. He had been a fool ever to give it up. God, if there were a God, offered him nothing; nay, more, He had taken from him the one thing that would have made a man of him; but the devil was faithful. The whisky bottle could be always kept close to his elbow. Yes, and he would run the whole gamut of sin. There was nothing to restrain him, and he had no motive power to make him desire anything else.
When the train arrived at the terminus, he jumped into a cab, and drove straight to his club. No, he would not go to the smoke-room, he would go to his own private room, and there he would drink and forget. A few minutes later, he sat alone in his room, a bottle of whisky by his side. With steady hands he uncorked it, and poured out a large quantity; he filled the tumbler with soda-water, and looked at the yellow liquid as it sparkled in the glass.
"Here is my wife now," he cried. "She will be faithful to me, or even if she fails, there is that green devil called absinthe. No, no, the devil does not forsake a man while he has a five-pound note in his pocket."
Even then he did not lift the glass to his lips. After all, those months during which he had known Olive still counted. It was true that in spite of his resolutions he doubted whether he would ever meet her again; but those hours he had spent by her side were not without their influence. After all, to be a man was nobler than to be a beast. He recalled her words on the night he had made known his love to her. She had told him that the man who trusted in a woman for his salvation rested on a weak reed, and that only God could save a man. He remembered his answer too.
"If there is a God, I have given Him His chance," he cried, "and He has failed me. Now I choose this yellow devil. A fascinating devil, too. See how light and sparkling he is!"
He held the glass up to the light, and watched while the bright gaseous globules floated from the bottom of the glass to the top.
"Good-bye to false sentiment and false ideals, to false hopes and foolish fancies!" he cried, "and hereby I do take thee to be my lawful wedded wife from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish, till death us do part!"
He laughed as he uttered the words.
"All joy to you Radford Leicester, on your wedding-day," he said aloud, "and may you and your wife be faithful to each other."
And still he hesitated. It might seem as though an invisible angel of goodness held his hand. Then his thoughts flew to the past, and again to the future. What had the future for him? He lifted the glass to his lips, and drank; when he set it down it was nearly empty.
"Ah, but this is the great forgetter," he said.
He sat down in an armchair, and closed his eyes. In a few minutes the strong spirit began to have its effect on him. The fire crept along his veins, he felt his nerves tingling.
"It's because I've not touched it for so long," he said. "A few months ago I should not have known I had tasted a drop like this."
He drained the glass to the bottom, and poured out more. For two hours he remained there, drinking, and brooding, and trying to forget.
Presently he arose, and went down to the smoking-room. He walked steadily, but he never remembered whisky to affect him as it was affecting him now. He wanted companionship; the whisky had destroyed all desire for privacy. On entering the room, he saw that the men who had gathered there were greatly excited. He had expected that some one would pretend to commiserate with him on the postponement of his marriage, but to his surprise no one seemed to heed him.
"Ah, MacGregor," he said, to a young Scotchman, whom he knew slightly, "the devil hasn't claimed you yet, then. But trust a Scotchman to outwit even the devil."
"Leicester, is that you?" said the Scotchman. "I heard you were off for your honeymoon; but I suppose even happy bridegrooms have to submit to General Elections."
"General Elections—what do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
The Scotchman laughed.
"Why, where have you been during the day?"
"I've been busy in my room," he replied warily.
"But haven't you heard?"
"I've heard nothing."
"What, not that there has been a dissolution of Parliament?"
"What?"
"Just that. We'll all have to hurry off to our constituencies now—that is, those of us who have been fools enough to meddle with politics. I'm off in two hours."
"Well, you will be all right. You'll get returned again, I suppose?"
"Yes, thanks to my wife, I believe I shall. She's far more popular in the constituency than I, and people will vote for me for her sake. I suppose you'll be off to Taviton to-night?"
"Not I."
"But, man, it'll be——"
"It's not worth the candle," said Leicester; "what's the odds which party is in? Liberal or Conservative, it's only a question of which set of maggots shall eat the cheese." The words which MacGregor had spoken about his wife had stung him.
"But that's all nonsense. It's true you've lately got married, but you must go down and fight. It'll be all beer and skittles with you. A good speaker like you, and just married to a charming and rich wife, can do anything. An electioneering honeymoon! My word, that will be a new thing in wedded life. Quite a subject for a romance. By the way, I have not congratulated you. How is Mrs. Leicester?"
He turned on his heel and walked away.
"Hullo, Leicester," said another man, "here you are. By the way, what is the truth about that paragraph I saw in the papers?"
"Oh, it's all right."
"Is—is Miss Castlemaine seriously ill?"
"I don't know, and I don't care."
"You don't mean to say that——"
"I mean to say that I'll have a drink with you, Bryant," he said.
"But you've turned teetotaler."
"Then I'll break my pledge. What'll you take?"
"But, I say, Leicester——"
"Will you have a drink?"
"With pleasure, only I thought that——"
"I was a reformed rake, eh? Well, I'm not. Whiskies for two, waiter. I say, tell us about this dissolution. What do you think about it?"
"I think our side will have a stiff fight. Besides, you know what has to be our chief card?"
"I know nothing, I've been busy with—other things."
Bryant laughed.
"Whatisthe meaning of this postponement of your marriage, Leicester? Did you know the Government was going to smash up?"
"Why, you know we've been expecting it every day." He despised himself for using this subterfuge, but he could think of nothing better to say. "What is to be our chief card, Bryant?"
"The drink question, licensing reform, and all that kind of rot."
"Then let's drink to the success of the destruction of the drink curse, Bryant," he said. "It's all of a piece."
The other looked at him curiously. This was not like the Leicester he had known lately.
"I say, Leicester, has that girl jilted you?" he said.
The words stung him more than anything he had heard during the day.
"Yes," he said angrily, "and your wife would have jilted you, if I had proposed to her on the morning of your wedding-day."
With that he got up and walked away. He could not stay among these men any longer. He would go down to the National, and find out more particulars about the dissolution. It would help him to forget. When he returned, two hours later, he found a telegram awaiting him. It was from the chairman of his political association. "Urgent that you come down immediately," he read; "to-morrow, if possible. Wire if I may arrange for a big meeting in Taviton to-morrow night. Have forestalled others and taken hall provisionally. Don't fail. Deeply sorry to hear about Miss Castlemaine."
Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he seized a telegraph form, and said that he would be at Taviton the next day.
"There," he said, as he sent it off, "drink and politics will help me to forget," but he did not dream of what would happen before the morrow came to an end.