"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Leicester, but I was obliged to make arrangements. As soon as I got the telegram saying that Parliament had dissolved, I thought I had better take the bull by the horns, and——"
"It's all right, Smith, all right. I don't feel like election speeches, but they've got to be made, and we'll fight this affair for all it's worth."
"Thank you, Mr. Leicester, you relieve my mind very much. Of course I saw that paragraph in the newspaper yesterday, and I knew that you must be greatly upset. I sincerely hope it's nothing serious, and that Miss Castlemaine will soon be well."
"We'll drop Miss Castlemaine, please."
Smith was Leicester's election agent, and seemed anxious to make certain explanations.
"Certainly, sir. I only thought——"
"All right, but there are certain subjects I wish avoided—that's one."
The man knew nothing but what had appeared in the papers; but Leicester had a feeling that he knew everything and spoke accordingly. Besides, he had scarcely slept through the night, and he was a prey to dark fancies.
Smith looked at him wonderingly. He had many doubts about telegraphing Leicester, and had feared that he would not come to Taviton at all. There had been a great deal of gossip in the town about the postponed wedding, and already the opposition party had been seeking to make capital out of it.
"Forgive me, Mr. Leicester," he said, "but my own opinion is that, properly worked, this should bring us a good many votes. Of course we had hoped that when the election took place Mrs. Leicester would appear on the platform with you, and be a kind of leader among the ladies. I have only had the pleasure of meeting her once, but from an electioneering standpoint, I should say she was just perfect, sir, just perfect. Well, if a judicious statement were made at the meeting to-night—I repeat the word judicious, sir—and delicately put, to the effect that, that is—well, sir, she is very ill, but is greatly grieved that she is not able to be with you, and that the doctors hope that in a few months, perhaps less, sir, the wedding will come off, I believe it would work wonders. Of course I don't press it, sir, but if she could send a message to be read at one of the public meetings, it would——"
But Leicester did not let him finish the sentence. At first he had listened in a dazed sort of way, scarcely realising what he was saying, but as the man continued he lost his self-control.
"Curse it, Smith," he said, "haven't I told you to drop that question."
But Smith was one of those persistent men who will not be turned aside from his purpose.
"I know it must be painful to you, sir, and you being so fond of each other, too. But the truth is, the other side is talking,—too much for your good, I am inclined to think."
"Let it talk," said Leicester angrily.
"Yes, sir, but I have my own reputation to think of, as well as yours. I've never lost an election yet, sir, and I don't mean to leave any stone unturned in order to win this. It was at my suggestion that Mr. Grayburn wired to you last night, and I've been working like a slave ever since. Judiciously managed, sir, the fact of the postponement of your wedding may do us a lot of good. Judiciously managed, sir, of course. Weak heart, sir, I was thinking about, and then excess of joy at the thought of the wedding, brought on dangerous complications which made a journey out of the country inevitable. That is what I suggest, sir. And may I also say, sir, that you made a bad move in not coming down by the six o'clock train, as I wired this morning. I could then have got a big turn-out to meet you. The proper thing was what I wanted. I had arranged for a lot of men to take the horses out of the carriage I had engaged, and have drawn you up to town in style. Your wire an hour ago, saying you would be here earlier, gave me no time, sir. Still, I must get over that; but I do urge the other, sir. I quite appreciate the delicacy of your feelings, but we must put our feelings in the background at electioneering times. In fact, as you may know, Miss Castlemaine had her photograph taken when she was down here, and I've had a slide made of it for a magic lantern. My idea is that her picture be thrown on a screen to-night before the chairman speaks, and that an explanation be made about the postponement of the wedding. I can explain about your coming down unexpectedly. I can say that after your great trouble, although your sense of duty made you overcome it in order to come down early, you did not feel like being met by a crowd of your loyal supporters. That would be a good card, sir, and it would tell with the voters."
The man's words angered him, but he controlled himself. After all, why shouldn't he let him have his way? The whole thing was a bit of play-acting, a farce, a mockery—why not play the game thoroughly then?
He had been drinking freely through the day, and while, as of old, it did not affect him outwardly, it influenced him far more than it would have done a few months before. His abstinence had made him far more susceptible to the power of whisky. Under its influence, moreover, he felt like consenting to things which without it he would have scorned. What had taken place had utterly destroyed the feelings which Olive Castlemaine had caused to take root in his heart. Besides, this would be one method of paying off old scores. Let the farce be kept up. Nothing mattered now. Even if the truth were discovered he did not care.
"Of course the notice is short," went on the election agent, "but I thought it better to strike while the iron was hot. The dissolution yesterday came upon us like a bombshell, but I determined to make capital out of it, and I tell you, sir, there'll be a tremendous crowd to hear you to-night. There'll be two cards to play, sir. First we shall arouse a tremendous amount of sympathy for you, on account of Miss Castlemaine being taken ill, that is if the matter is judiciously worked; and then, second, the people are just burning to hear about the causes which led to the Government's downfall. Of course you've got everything first hand, sir. That's enough for to-night, and if we play our game well, the battle is nearly won before the other side have had a chance to get a look in."
"All right," said Leicester desperately, "anything to win."
"That's the proper spirit, anything to win. But I've a bit of unpleasant news, sir—perhaps you can explain it?"
"What?" asked Leicester.
"Well, you know, sir, you have generally stayed with Mr. Osborne at The Grange when you've visited the constituency. Accordingly, I took the liberty of calling upon him to-day, suggesting that he should invite you, as on other occasions, but he refused to do so."
"Just so," said Leicester; "did he tell you why?"
"Not a word, sir; as a consequence I engaged rooms for you here at the Red Lion."
"That's all right," he said. "Mr. Osborne is a little out of sympathy with us just now; but on the whole I am very glad. I would much rather be here in the hotel."
"Still, it's a bit of a knock-down blow. Mr. Osborne is the most influential man in the constituency, and the other side will be sure to ask ugly questions."
"Let them ask."
"Very well, sir. Then you'll let me arrange things in my own way, and make what explanation I think fit."
"Yes, anything you like. And look here, Smith, spare neither money nor lies. It seems they are both necessary. Only, as you say, let everything be judiciously managed." And he laughed bitterly.
"Trust me for that, sir, trust me for that. You wouldn't like to go round to the Central Committee Rooms, sir? I've arranged to meet the principal workers there."
"No, I'll not go just now. Don't let me detain you Smith. I shall want something to eat, and a little time to think of my speech. And, by the way, I don't want to be disturbed by any one, until a quarter of an hour before the meeting. You understand that?"
"Quite, Mr. Leicester. I'm glad you approve of the steps I've taken."
"Delighted, delighted. You've done marvels."
"I've worked like a slave all day; there's been a thousand things to arrange. But I'm what the Americans call a bit of a hustler, and I mean to win. One must not be too squeamish at times like these, you know. I was afraid a few weeks ago that you were going to hamper me with foolish restrictions, but I am glad you give me a free hand."
"Yes, go ahead, only be judicious. Don't give the other side any chance of making us come a cropper."
"I'll see to that," and the agent departed.
When he was gone, Leicester lay back in his chair and laughed bitterly.
"What's the odds?" he said. "Let him do what he likes. I don't care. The whole business is a piece of jobbery. Smith thinks he's clever, and is trying to outwit the agent on the other side, while he in his turn is trying to outwit Smith. Well, let them. I'll get into Parliament, and I'll play the game, and yes, I'll make Olive Castlemaine come to me on bended knees. I hurt her pride, did I, by making her the subject of a wager? Well, she would listen to no explanation afterwards, and now she shall take the consequences. I see the meaning of Osborne's action. John Castlemaine will have sent him some account of this business, and—and—well, it's no use worrying. I'll make them all squirm before I've finished; yes, and I'll win my wager too!"
His eyes flashed with a dangerous light. "High ideals! Moral purpose! Raise the standard of politics! Those were her watchwords!" And he laughed mockingly.
He was sitting in a private room in the Red Lion Hotel, and, as he had said, he was glad that he was to have the liberty of the hotel, rather than suffer the restrictions which a private house would place upon him. Moreover, Bridget Osborne, as the friend of Olive Castlemaine, would learn something of the truth, and it would be impossible for him to stay there.
"I will keep up the farce of respectability," he said; "reports have been spread that I've turned teetotaler. Well, I'll play the hypocrite."
He rang the bell and a waiter appeared.
"I'll have dinner alone here at seven o'clock," he said.
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Yes, a bottle of soda-water."
"Nothing with it, sir?"
"No, nothing."
He laughed as the man left the room. The old peculiar look had returned to his eyes. After the waiter had brought a bottle of soda-water and a tumbler, he went to his portmanteau, and took therefrom a bottle of whisky. He poured a large portion into the glass, added a little soda-water, and drank greedily.
"I shall suffer the torments of hell if I keep up this," he said; "but I don't care. It's better than eternally brooding. Now I'll set to work on my speech. Oh yes, she'll be sure to get a copy of the Taviton papers, trust a woman for that,—well, she shall see that I can do without her."
His brain was still clear, and he showed no outward signs of drinking. Men had said that his nerves were of steel, and that no spirits ever distilled could affect him. He outlined the address he intended to publish next day, and then sketched the speech he meant to deliver that night. He laughed as his pen moved quickly across the paper.
"They want lies," he laughed, "they want pious platitudes; well, they shall have them, and they shan't suspect that the man who utters them is drunk, and that he's living in hell."
Again and again did he replenish his glass, and as often did he empty it; but it still had no outward effect, save that his eyes became glazed, and dull, and his face assumed an unhealthy look. His hand did not shake, his writing was as clear as ever. His thoughts were expressed in clear and convincing form.
"Yes," he said presently, "that will do. Olive's illness explained in vague terms, but still explicit enough to satisfy every one. I'll arouse their sentimental feelings, and get their votes. Of course the truth will come out presently, but what do I care? Further lies will put everything right. They want lies and they shall have them—the world is built on lies. Then I'll have a fine high-sounding attack on the Government. Oh, I'll play the moral card, showing that their downfall is a judgment from heaven. That'll please the pious Nonconformists. After that I'll finish up with the statement that the battle of this election is a battle between sobriety and drunkenness, between the friends of temperance and the brewers and whisky distillers. I'll have a fine peroration on the evils of drink; I'll picture a hundred and fifty thousand poor devils staggering down to drunkards' graves every year. That'll fetch 'em. Of course I shall be drunk all the time, but what does that matter? In the old days I made my best speeches when I was drunk, and to-night I'll give them a masterpiece. Of course the other side will inquire here about what I've taken to drink, and the waiter will say I've only had a bottle of soda-water!"
He laughed grimly at the thought, then noting the time he went into his bedroom and carefully washed out his glass.
He caught a reflection of himself in a mirror, and the sight gave him a start.
"My God," he said, "I've aged ten years in three days, and my head feels a bit unsteady. I must be careful. It would spoil everything if I were bowled over."
When a quarter to eight came, Leicester was ready for the advent of his chief supporters. He was faultlessly dressed, and he looked calm and dignified. He received the chairman of the meeting with grave courtesy, and after a few minutes' conversation he walked with them to the Public Hall, which was only a few yards away.
As may be imagined, the hall was crowded. Although the country had expected the Government either to resign or to dissolve for weeks past, the news of dissolution seemed sudden. The political fires were lighted, and all the town was agog with excitement. People wanted to hear news first hand, and they imagined that Leicester would bring it. They also expected one of the brilliant speeches for which he was noted. Never before, they reflected, had such a chance been given him, and they felt sure that he would make the most of it. Therefore when the chairman, followed by Leicester and the leading magnates of the town, came upon the platform, the meeting roseen masse, and shouted until they were hoarse. The fight which they had so long desired had commenced, and the leader of the battle was before them.
Exactly as the clock struck eight the chairman rose. It was not his purpose, he said, to make a speech at that juncture. He knew that every one was eager to hear their candidate, and that he would be committing an unpardonable sin if he stood between them and the speaker of the evening, and the hero of the fight. Nevertheless, there was an explanation he would like to give. As many of them knew, Mr. Leicester had expected to be married two days before, but owing to the sudden and severe illness of the bride the wedding had not taken place. Many men would have been prostrated by such a blow, but Mr. Leicester had risen above it. The call of duty had been louder than the voice of sorrow, and though he was naturally suffering great grief, he had risen above the grief, and was with them to fight their battles.
Of course this was received with tremendous applause. It appealed to young and old alike. There was something pathetic, as well as heroic, in their candidate overcoming his grief to be with them in their battles. As for Leicester, he sat unmoved amidst the shouts of sympathy. To him it was bitter mockery, and ghastly tragedy; but he mastered his feelings, and sat pale and motionless.
"Nevertheless," went on the chairman, "we have the sympathy and good wishes of the lady, whom we hoped would be with us in this fight. She is not with us in person, but she is with us in spirit, aye, and more than spirit, for——"
And here the agent's eye for dramatic effect came in. At that moment, the electric lights in the building were suddenly extinguished, and the picture of Olive Castlemaine was thrown on the canvas, which had been placed on the wall behind the platform.
Again there was a shout of enthusiasm. "Three cheers for the lady, and may she soon be well enough to be Mrs. Leicester," some one shouted.
The suggestion was taken up with a will. Cheer after cheer filled the hall, and Mr. Smith, the election agent, felt rather glad that he wedding had not come off. Her introduction in this way was worth more votes, he reflected, than if she had appeared in person. In truth, the face thrown upon the screen was sufficient to arouse the enthusiasm of any crowd. Olive Castlemaine had been very happy when that photograph had been taken. She had gone to the photographer's the day after Leicester had made his memorable speech, and she appeared at her best. Moreover, the photographer, and the maker of the slide, were to be congratulated. It was a fine picture. There was a smile upon her lips, the light of gladness was in her eyes, while the nobility of her face impressed all who saw it.
Almost without realising it, Leicester turned and saw. He remembered accompanying her to the photographer's, and he recalled the happy day they had spent afterwards. Yes, this was the woman he had won—and lost. All the ghastly mockery of the business came to him as he beheld the beautiful woman who had sent him away from her home in scorn and anger. The shouts of the multitude maddened him. He wanted to rise and tell them that the whole thing was a shameful lie, a bitter mockery. But he sat still, looking and looking. Presently he became almost unconscious of the shouting crowd, in his consciousness of his hopeless misery, and wrecked hopes. Great God! what was this election to him now, when his heart was all torn and bleeding, and when, to forget everything, he had debauched himself in whisky! Never had he realised his loss more than he realised it then. She was his no longer, she had driven him from her because he had outraged her woman's pride, because he had made her the subject of a drunken jest.
In a moment all had changed again. The hall was ablaze with light, and the slide had been removed from the lantern. They were again brought back to the business of the meeting.
"And now," said the chairman, "I have pleasure, unbounded pleasure, in asking our brilliant candidate, who I am sure will be not only your future member, but in good time will occupy Cabinet rank in this country, to address you. Moreover, I want, in your name, to assure him that we are all anxious, not only to welcome him as our future member, but to tell him that we look forward to the time when we shall see him and his beautiful wife upon this platform."
The chairman was not possessed of a very sensitive nature, or he would not have uttered this last sentiment. Besides, he was carried away with the ardour of the meeting and the dignity of his own position.
As Leicester rose to speak he felt that his head was swimming, and he realised that his brain refused to fasten upon the things he wanted to say. The atmosphere of the ill-ventilated hall had now become stifling to a degree, and the whisky he had been drinking during the last two days was having its effect. As he had said, his long abstinence had made him more susceptible to its power, and he not only knew that he was drunk, but he also realised that others were in danger of knowing it as well.
He stood staring stupidly at the audience, as cheer followed cheer. At first a great dread filled his heart, only to be followed by a kind of idiotic mirth, over which he had no control. When he spoke it seemed to him that his voice was not his own; it sounded ludicrous in the extreme; it was like the babble of a senseless idiot, rather than that of a strong, self-contained man.
"Ladies and gen'l'men," he said, and felt himself rocking to and fro as he spoke, "I'm 'bliged to you, verr-y 'bliged to you, for the kind sen'iments you've 'spressed f'r my beau'ful bride." Here he stopped; he felt that the people were looking towards him with wonder. He heard derisive laughter in the hall. He tried to think of something else to say, but his brain refused to act: the whisky had taken effect. The scenes through which he had passed and the stifling atmosphere of the room had mastered him. For the first time in his life he revealed the fact that he was drunk. For several seconds he stood, staring at the people with lack-lustre eyes, and rocking to and fro in his helplessness.
"Ladies and gen'l'men," he hiccoughed, "I've been drinking to her health t'day, and I b'leeve I'm lill bit drunk. Never'less, I'll 'nde'vour to——"
He tried to speak further, but in vain; then, looking around the hall, he broke into a senseless laugh, and fell on the floor of the platform in a state of imbecility.
Even when this had taken place, the meeting scarcely realised the true condition of affairs. It is true that those belonging to the opposing side laughed derisively, but a number of Leicester's friends attributed his condition to the grief he felt for Miss Castlemaine's illness. Amidst the uproar and confusion of the meeting, a number of men on the platform lifted him up and carried him into an ante-room, where he lay back in an armchair and looked around him with drunken gravity. In the excitement of the moment, not only his friends, but his foes, came into the room. A local reporter for the opposition paper entered, and the editor, eager for spicy copy, followed him. They nudged each other with meaning glances, while whispers concerning the capital that must be made out of the event passed between them.
"We must send for a doctor," said Mr. Smith, his election agent, who saw as plainly as any one the true condition of affairs.
"Doctor!" laughed the local editor, "he doesn't want a doctor. He'll sleep it off all right. He's only drunk."
"Drunk!" said Leicester solemnly, "I'm sober as a judge. Word of honour, gentlemen. Overcome with 'motion, tha's whass marr w'me."
Both the reporter and the editor laughed ironically.
"We must get him back to the hotel," said Mr. Smith, "and we must have the doctor immediately."
"Yes, put him to bed at once," said the opposition editor. "He'll be all right in the morning, except for a bad headache."
"Bed," said Leicester, struggling with himself, "bed, who dare talk to me 'bout bed? I mus' do duty. Two thousand faithful s'porters are waitin' for word from thr leader. Hic! I must s'port my party also. 'Scuse me, gentlemen, I—I must return to th' platform. I want to warn my countrymen 'gainst the ter'ble evil 'v drink! No, nod ev'n sorr-ow shall keep me fr-rom duty. Has ses poet, 'Whr duty calls or danger, O ner be wantin' there.'"
He tried to rise; but in vain. Again he fell back with a drunken giggle, while the editor and his reporter laughed gleefully.
"I hope you'll not take an unfair advantage of Mr. Leicester's illness, gentlemen," said Mr. Smith.
"I assure you we'll only report faithfully what we have seen," was the reply. "But, really, I don't think there is any need for newspaper reports, the people have seen for themselves."
With all speed Leicester was taken back to the hotel, protesting all the while that he wished to address his faithful followers, and warn them against the evils of drink. Presently, when he reached his room, he rang the bell.
"Boll whisky, James," he said. "Gen'l'men, le's drink 'elth party—sobriety 'n' freedom."
"No, Mr. Leicester," said the chairman of the political organisation which had accepted him as their candidate, "you have drunk too much whisky already. You have not only disgraced yourself, but you've disgraced your party. You've ruined our chances of winning this election, you have made us the byword of our opponents, and of the country."
"Qui' m'stak'n, gen'l'men; sob'r's judge. Wha'! Rafford Lester drunk? I cu'nn be drunk if I tried. Whisky cu'nn do it. Le's 'ave a drink!"
A doctor entered the room, and came to his side.
"They say I'm drunk, doctor. Tell 'em wha' fools they are. Tell 'em I'm avocate ov temp'rance."
"Get him to bed," said the doctor. He had been a supporter of Leicester's, and was disgusted at what had taken place. "Here, take this," he said, pouring some liquid into a glass.
"Is it whisky, docker? No, thank you. I'm ple'ged t'totlerr. I never tush cursed stuff."
"Drink!" said the doctor sternly.
"Anything 'blige you, doctor," he said, as he swallowed the draught. A few minutes later he was in bed asleep, while the whole town was talking eagerly about what had taken place that night. Many there were, in spite of what they had seen, who maintained that his mind had been unhinged by grief, and that instead of turning their backs upon him, they must support him all the more loyally; but in the main it was believed that the opposition editor's dictum was correct, and that he had insulted them by appearing on the platform in a state of intoxication. As the night went on, reports were afloat to the effect that Miss Castlemaine was not ill at all, but that it was a report which originated with Leicester himself, the real truth being that Miss Castlemaine, having at the last moment discovered him to be a drunkard, had ordered him from her home. Before the town had gone to sleep, Leicester was declared to be guilty of every sin in the calendar, and that they must be very thankful that they had found out his real character. Mr. Smith and his staff were in despair, while the agent of the other candidate was jubilant. Their success was now assured, they felt.
Hour after hour Leicester slept. The doctor's potion, together with the whisky fumes, had to be slept off, and he lay like a log, breathing heavily. More than once the proprietor of the hotel came and looked at him. As he looked, he wondered. Even in his drunken sleep there was something noble about him. The face, all discoloured as it was, suggested a strong, masterful man. It seemed impossible that the self-restrained man who came to his house a few hours before, and had ordered nothing but soda-water from the waiter, could have fallen on the platform in drunken helplessness. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt about it. As he listened to his maudlin mutterings there could be but one opinion about his condition.
When Leicester woke daylight had come, but although he felt that something terrible had happened, he did not fully realise what had taken place. His mouth was dry and parched, and his head throbbed terribly. He had a vague remembrance of having acted strangely, but he could not piece together the scattered thoughts which floated through his brain.
"What is it?" he asked, after vainly thinking. "Am I still asleep? Is it all a nightmare?"
He looked around the room, and saw the sun's rays streaming through the windows. No, he was not asleep, he was in the bedroom of his hotel. But why was he there? Why was his heart so heavy? Why did his head throb so terribly?
Slowly memory began to work: he remembered dimly the swaying crowds, the shouts of enthusiastic supporters. But it was all very vague, and it seemed a long way off. His tongue was dry and parched, it would hardly move in his mouth. He felt an all-devouring thirst.
"Whisky," he said, "I must have whisky!"
He moved to get out of bed; but as he did so, all the events of the past three days came to him as if in a flood. The wedding-day, the scorn of Olive Castlemaine, the black terror of hopeless darkness, the return to whisky, the dissolution of Parliament, the telegram summoning him to his constituency.
It all came to him with such a shock that for a moment his thirst left him. The scenes of the previous evening filled him with horror. Yes, he had been drinking hard all the day, and the whisky had proved too much for him. He had walked to the Public Hall all right; but the hot, fetid atmosphere, the sight of Olive Castlemaine's face thrown on the canvas had completely overmastered him. Had he not given up drinking whisky it would have been all right. He would have made his speech, and no one would have suspected that he had been drinking; but as it was he had become a maudlin fool, he had fallen down in drunken helplessness.
The thought stung him to madness. This, then, was his boasted strength; this was what Radford Leicester had come to. The warnings of the pious friends whom he had sneered at had come true. Whisky had made him as drunk as a navvy who had spent his week-end in debauchery on receiving his week's wage. Cynic as he had always been, even in his best hours, he had also been always a proud man. He had professed contempt for the men who had not been able to conquer the vices which disgraced them in the eyes of the world. This pride had checked him from the vulgar indulgence in sin, before he had met Olive Castlemaine. He had always acted and spoken as a gentleman, even when he had drunk enough whisky to make other men hopelessly incapable. However debauched he might have been by the habit which chained him, he had always dressed with scrupulous care, and he had never associated with those whom he regarded as low and debased.
But now all had come to an end. Directly after his dismissal by Olive Castlemaine he had cast all good resolutions to the winds, and as a consequence he was at that moment a laughing-stock to the town, to-morrow he would be an object of ridicule for the whole country. And Olive Castlemaine would know of it. Bridget Osborne would send the local newspaper to her, and she would read that——
What a thin veneer his so-called reformation was, and what a broken reed he was, in spite of all his boasted strength! He had been a poor thing whose moral elevation had depended on the smile of a woman, and when that smile was withdrawn, he had returned like a swine to its wallow!
But worse than all, there was the disgrace of it! Never before had he sacrificed his pride, never before had he given any one the opportunity of saying that he did not retain a full possession of his faculties. He who had boasted that he had nerves of steel, and that no whisky ever distilled could make him drunk!
He leaped out of bed, and with trembling hands opened his portmanteau. Ah! there it was—a bottle of whisky. He pulled out the cork, and then hesitated. Was he so weak, then, as to return to the poison that had made him the byword of clodhoppers? The thought staggered him, and possibly he might have put it from him, had not the smell of the whisky reached him. This was like a match to a powder magazine. He took a deep drink, and he felt better.
"If I had only been careful it would never have happened," he reflected. "I wonder now if——"
He heard a knock at the door.
"Yes."
"A gentleman to see you, sir."
"His name?"
"Mr. Grayburn, sir."
"Very well, tell him I'll be with him in a few minutes. Ask him to take a seat, will you, James?"
He spoke in his old voice. After all, the event of the previous evening was only an episode. He was not really altered; perhaps he would be able to put all things right even yet.
He determined that nothing should be left undone, on his part, to atone for the miserable past. He went to the bathroom, which adjoined his room, and plunged into cold water; after this he shaved himself, and then dressed with great care. When he appeared before Mr. Grayburn there were no traces of the events of the previous night. His nerves stood him in good stead again. He was never more quiet and composed in his life. Yet he felt like a man who had signed his own death warrant.
"Ah! good-morning, Mr. Grayburn."
"Good-morning, Mr. Leicester."
"Have you breakfasted? I see the man has set the table for one only, but that can soon be rectified."
"Thank you, I have breakfasted."
Mr. Grayburn spoke very quietly, but he was evidently ill at ease. Had Leicester appeared before him haggard and trembling, his work would have been easier. It seemed impossible to take the superior attitude towards Leicester as he appeared at that moment.
"I have come, Mr. Leicester, at the request of the Executive Committee of our Political Association. As chairman of that committee, they thought I was the proper person. You will, of course, guess why."
Leicester was silent.
"The events of last night will, of course, make it impossible for you to again appear in the Division as a candidate."
"Excuse me," said Leicester; "but surely my illness of last night will not——"
"Illness!" interrupted Mr. Grayburn.
"Well, call it what you like. Say I was intoxicated. Is that enough to nullify all the work I have done in the constituency for the last three years?"
"The member for this Division must be a gentleman whose personal character is stainless," said Mr. Grayburn. "It is true that many would excuse last night in view of your recent disappointment, but only a few. And even they would turn against you as soon as certain facts came to light."
"What facts?"
"Facts which Mr. Osborne could reveal if he would. At present he simply characterises them as disgraceful."
Leicester still fought on grimly. Why, he hardly knew.
"I take it that even a political organisation will not be so mean as to believe a vague and unproved charge," he said.
"When it comes from a man like Mr. Osborne, yes."
Leicester laughed bitterly—his old cynical laugh.
"Oh! I see," he said, "the hero of one day is the criminal of the next. Of course, three years' service and hundreds of pounds spent go for nothing. Well, I might have expected it."
"One of the chief planks of our political platform is temperance reform," said Mr. Grayburn. "How can the people believe in your sincerity?"
Again Leicester laughed.
"If I were a brewer, and made a huge income out of the drink, I should be believed in," he said.
"Possibly, if you did not appear in——"
"Exactly. My great sin is, not that I drink whisky, but that I happened to drink it at the wrong time. Why, my dear fellow, I have seen you in this very room hilarious by the whisky you have drunk at my expense. I have heard you sing comic songs in most melodious tones, and I have had to send for a cab to take you home."
"But never in public," said Mr. Grayburn uneasily.
"Just so. I see my failing. Mr. Grayburn, allow me to congratulate you on your high moral standard. Drink as much as you like, only don't let any one know it."
"Look here, Mr. Leicester," said the other. "I am as sorry for this as any man, and if I only considered myself—well, things would be different. But I'm only one. There are these teetotalers to think of, and they are a strong party here. I tell you the people are mad with you; if you appeared outside the hotel now, you'd be hooted. If you appeared at a meeting you'd be hissed off the platform; nay, more, I don't believe you'd be safe to go into the streets. You'd be pelted with rotten eggs, and the refuse of the town."
He had stung Leicester at last. All the cheap veneer of cynicism was gone now, and he did not know what to say.
"Just look at this," went on Mr. Grayburn. "This is an account of last night's meeting, brought out by the editor of the opposition paper. It seems that he and the reporter got into the ante-room, and the reporter is a clever caricaturist in his way. Here you are in various attitudes: First, Mr. Leicester rising to address the meeting. Second, Mr. Leicester endeavouring to proceed. Third, Mr. Leicester finishing his speech. Fourth, Mr. Leicester in the ante-room. How could we stand by you in face of pictures like these?"
As Leicester looked at the sheet which Mr. Grayburn exhibited, he realised the meaning of the other's words. Each picture showed him in a state of drunken helplessness, and under each picture was a quotation from what he had said, so spelt as to bear out the fact of his intoxication.
"Did I say this?" he stammered.
"You did, Mr. Leicester; that, and more."
He was silent for a moment, and then through the open windows of the room he heard shouting in the street.
"Wha'! Rafford Lester drunk! Cood'n be drunk. Sober 's judge. Friend o' temperance. Hooray for pardy sbriety!"
A shout of laughter followed, brutal, derisive, laughter, and he, Leicester, was the cause of it. He walked to the window and saw a crowd of people outside the hotel; they were looking towards him. No sooner did they see him than they began to shout and laugh derisively.
"You wish me to resign," he said quietly.
"My committee, which met this morning, asked me to wait on you for that purpose."
"Very well," he said. He seized a pen and wrote with a steady hand. "There," he said presently, "will that do?"
"Yes, that'll do perfectly. And believe me, Mr. Leicester, I am as sorry as any man. And you'll forgive me, but my advice to you is, get out of the town as quickly as you can. But don't leave by the Taviton Station. There'll be a crowd there to watch every train, and that crowd means to mob you."
"I'll see about that," said Leicester, his eyes flashing.
"Don't go to Taviton Station, Mr. Leicester. No doubt you could have the law on them afterwards; but it's no use fighting the rabble. They think you've lost them the election. My advice is, get a cab up quietly, and drive to West Billington, a little wayside station five miles away. From there you can get to London without coming through Taviton at all. I am awfully sorry, Mr. Leicester, but I am sure you understand my position."
Leicester wanted to shout in his anger—he longed to pour curses upon his visitor, upon the town, the election, upon every one. But he controlled himself.
"Good-morning," he said.
Mr. Grayburn held out his hand, but Leicester would not see it. When he had gone, he closed the door behind him, and sat down to think. His breakfast was untouched, a number of letters which lay on the table before him were unopened. What should he do? He did not notice the waiter who came to remove the breakfast which he had not eaten; he sat with closed eyes, thinking and brooding.
Presently he picked up a Bradshaw, and began to study it. Now and again he would lift his eyes and stare into vacancy, then he would turn eagerly to the time-table again, not to study the trains so much as the map of the various railway lines.
About midday he rang for some sandwiches, and asked the waiter to send the proprietor to him.
"I'm sorry for what has taken place, Mr. Leicester," that gentleman said when he came.
"Very creditable of you, Jenkins," he said; "meanwhile you can get me a carriage, and send me my bill."
"Yes, sir. Of course Mr. Grayburn told you I should have to get you out of the town on the sly. This I must say, though, since you sent in your resignation they are talking more kindly about you."
"How considerate of them! But that does not alter my plans. I wish to be driven to West Billington."
"Yes, sir. From there you return to London?"
"I don't know. I presume, moreover, that where I go is remarkably like my own business."
"Exactly, sir. I was only thinking about your letters."
"You can burn them. I don't care. I want no letters. You send the carriage."
"If anybody inquires about you?"
"I believe you profess to be a very religious man, Jenkins, in spite of your calling. The teetotalers say your calling is to send people to hell. Well, I'll not be so explicit. Tell inquirers that I am gone to a region where fires are supposed to be very good."
"But, sir——"
"As I told you before, this seems remarkably like my own business; yours being to send my bill, and get a carriage."
"Yes, sir."
"And, by the way, Jenkins," added Leicester, with a joyless laugh, "excuse me for meddling. I suppose I can tell those whom you have sent to that place where I'm bound for, that you'll be on presently?"
Half an hour later he left the hotel in a close carriage, and drove to West Billington. It seemed to him that his career had ended now. He had left the town in disgrace. He had left by a backway, like a thief. Arrived at West Billington, he took a ticket for a station twenty miles away, among the Devonshire meadows. But he did not stop there. He did not alight from the train until it had arrived at a little lonely station among the wild moors. There he got out, and looked around. He was the only passenger who alighted, and the porter eyed him wonderingly.
"Want to git anywhere speshul, zur?" he asked.
"Yes. I want to find some old dame who has a room to spare in her cottage," he said.
"Early fer fishin,' and laate fer shettin,' zur, be'ant 'ee? All th' zame, I d' knaw a plaace."
"Where?"
"My a'nt, zur, d' live two miles fr'm 'ere, ovver the moors. Purty lill plaace shee've got, ef you doan't mind et bein' quiet. Ef you'll wait ten minnits I'll go ovver weth 'ee. I shaan't be wanted fer a 'our or zo."
An hour later Leicester was sitting in a cottage parlour among the lonely Devonshire moors. The old lady had provided him with a simple meal, and the quietness of the place made him feel better. The day was now drawing to a close, and the evening shadows were falling.
"Will 'ee 'ave a lamp then, zur?" asked the old lady.
"Not yet," said Leicester; "I'm going out for a walk."
For an hour he tramped, until the day had gone.
"I must make up my mind," he said: "the old life is impossible now. What shall I do? Pull down the shutters, or shall I——?"
He entered the cottage again, and was met by the kindly presence of the old lady of the house.
Radford Leicester stayed at the cottage among the Devonshire moors for several days. A more lonely place could not be well imagined. The cottage itself stood in a little dell where trees grew, and a moorland stream babbled. Early spring flowers were to be seen there, and the smell of the bursting new life of bracken and heather and willow bush was sweet beyond words; but the view from the cottage was such as one only finds in a moorland district. For miles nothing was to be seen but a wild waste of nearly uninhabited land. The few cottages were occupied by those who had reclaimed strips of waste land, and obtained a scanty living thereon. A month or two later the whole scene would be aglow with the bloom of furze and heather; but now it was grim and grey and, under a cloudy sky, forbidding. But Leicester was not sorry for this. The countryside, the loneliness, fitted in with his mood. He felt that the past was destroyed, and that the things which were once possible to him had come to an end. What had the future for him? What was he to do? That was the question he had to face.
Immediately after he had realised that Olive Castlemaine was lost to him for ever, he had conceived wild schemes of revenge. He wanted to make Olive suffer as he had suffered; he swore that he would humble her pride to the dust, and that he would win the wager which for the present had lost him the woman he had loved. But that was all over now. He had become degraded in the eyes of the nation. He had no respect for the morality of the political world; but however low it might be, there was a kind of moral standard which people demanded in their representatives. They were not troubled because he had drunk too much, it was that he had become intoxicated at the wrong time. He had actually appeared on a public platform in a state of drunken imbecility. He had given the opponents of his party the whip hand, and he had in all probability lost his party the election. That was his sin, and it would take years for them to forget it.
Besides, he was not the kind of man to go back and plead forgiveness. His pride forbade him. What? He, Radford Leicester, who had laughed at these clodhoppers, go back cap in hand, and plead with them to take him back! But what could he do? What had the future for him? That was the question he had to face. Hope gone, faith gone, purpose gone, while the old craving for whisky dogged him at every step, what was there for him to do? Life was a mockery, a great haggard failure! Why should he seek to prolong it?
And so he spent his days amidst the loneliness of the moors, thinking and brooding. He saw no newspapers, received no letters, had no visitors. He had told the old lady who kept the cottage that he wanted a week or two's quiet, and freedom from the bustle of the world. Besides, he had a big problem to solve, and he had come there to solve it. He gave his name as Robert Baxter; it was the first that came to his lips, and he spoke of himself as keenly interested in sociology. It happened that old Mrs. Sleeman had not the slightest idea what sociology meant, but she had had several gentlemen in the past who had come to lodge with her; they had called themselves artists, and naturalists, and they had come pretty much in the same way as Leicester had come. They had been easy to please, they had paid her well, and when they had left had promised not only to come again, but to recommend her house to their friends. His advent therefore was quite welcome to her, and as he had no tastes that were difficult to satisfy, she hoped he would stay for a long while.
Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her husband with great tact. It was also said that her influence was very great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays. John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in the little kitchen, which to Leicester was a sealed chamber.
No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely. Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was arranged that when a letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road. Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this was only on very rare occasions.
As a consequence, therefore, Leicester's life was completely isolated. Day after day passed without any event happening to break the monotony of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which was gnawing at his heart.
He knew nothing of what was happening in the country; and he asked no questions. He was sick of the world, and sick of life. The great question was, what should he do? Should he commit suicide, and thus put an end to an existence which to him had no meaning or purpose, or should he go somewhere and begin anew? His nature, in spite of his beliefs, rebelled against the former. He could not bring himself, little as he cared for life, to destroy it by his own hand. As for the latter alternative, the old question reiterated itself, where should he go? what should he do?
He loathed the thought of going back to London, to live the life of a useless parasite amidst clubs and club loungers. The political door was closed against him, and even if it were not, he felt he could not enter it now. He had an income sufficient for all his needs, and as a consequence had no need to work for his living. It would have been better for him if he had. Humanly speaking, there are few better moral tonics than work.
Looming larger than all other questions was this: Had he for ever lost Olive Castlemaine? Had he won her only to lose her? But for the determination which in spite of his despair lay at the back of his mind, I imagine he would have put an end to an existence which at times became almost unbearable.
He was pondering over all these things for the hundredth time one day as he was walking across the moors alone. The clouds hung heavily in the sky, while occasionally gusts of cold wind, accompanied by driving rain, reminded him that winter had not yet come to an end. As he walked and thought, a storm had gathered, and he saw that the sky threatened a downpour of rain.
"What do I care?" he laughed bitterly. "I feel like old King Lear. Nothing is wanting now but Tom Fool to make the picture complete. 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind!'"
The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his way to a lonely farmhouse in order to find shelter. By the time he reached it, his clothes were soaked with rain.
He stood in a cart-shed, and watched the flood as it fell. The few trees that grew around the farmstead looked drear and forbidding; away in the distance the hills seemed to smoke.
"And this is life," he laughed. "We are born, we suffer, we make fools of ourselves, and we die."
And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had Olive Castlemaine by his side, he could have been a happy man. But she had driven him from her presence, she had commanded him never to speak to her again.
"Won't 'ee come in by the vire, zur? You mus' be fine 'n' wet."
"Thank you," said Leicester, in reply to the invitation of the buxom farmer's wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which a huge wood fire was burning.
"Why, you be fair streamin'," said the woman. "Zet cloas by the vire, and dry yerzelf. Do 'ee then. You'll catch yer death ef you doan't."
"Well, there'd be one less in the world," said Leicester, "and as the world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter."
"Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'."
"I never joke," replied Leicester. "Still, if I died, there'd be the trouble of burying me, and that would be a pity."
"Fer shaame, I d' zay," said the kindly woman; "what would your mother zay, ef she 'eerd 'ee?"
"Haven't got a mother."
"Yer vather, then?"
"No father either," said Leicester. "If he were alive I'm inclined to think he'd say, 'Die, and have done with it.'"
"But you've got brothers, or sisters, or a wife, or a sweetheart?" She said this not so much for the sake of proving that he was in the wrong, but because, like the rest of her sex, especially those who live in lonely places, she desired to know something about this stranger.
Leicester shook his head.
"Well, you be in a bad way."
"Exactly," said Leicester, "I am." He yielded to a sudden impulse. "Now I put it to you, ma'am," he said, "suppose you had no friends, no one who cared for you; suppose you found the world a dirty sort of place, and found no pleasure in living, what would you do?"
"Do! I shud git somebody that ded care for me."
"I've tried, but failed."
"Ain't 'ee got a sweetheart, then?"
"Not one."
"Is there no one that you do like?"
"Yes," he said, "but she's thrown me overboard."
"Gived 'ee the sack, you do main?"
"Exactly."
"Why then, zur, maakin' so bould?"
He was in a reckless mood, and in a way he could not understand, the buxom, kind-hearted woman led him to speak.
"Because I'm a bad 'un."
"Nonsense."
"Fact, I assure you. A right down bad 'un."
"And es she very good?"
"Terribly good, terribly proud, and terribly unforgiving."
"And ded she give 'ee the sack 'cause you wos so bad?"
"More because I hurt her pride, I think."
"Ah, I zee."
"Come now, under these circumstances, what would you do?"
"I'd begin by bein' a good man, and laive the rest to God."
"God!" and Leicester laughed.
"Why, doan't 'ee believe in God?"
"I think I believe in the devil, if that's any good."
"Then, zur, I'd kill the devil."
"Can't; I love him too much."
"What, love the devil?"
"I hug him to my heart. He served me a nasty trick the other day, but I stick to him all the same. Yes, he's my only friend. He's nearly always with me. When I'm friendly with him, he helps me to forget. All the same, I'm tired of him in a way. Now, then, what would you do?"
"The devil is allays our enemy, zur, allays. You must kill 'ee or you're done for."
The conversation was out of her depth, but she felt sure she was saying what was right.
"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Leicester, with a bitter laugh. "And yet I don't know. What do you think he's been persuading me to do this afternoon?"
"Summin' bad, you may depend, zur."
"I don't know. You know that big pool up among the moors. It has a kind of fascination for me, and the devil always meets me there. He is always telling me that it is very peaceful and quiet at the bottom of the pool."
"What, you d' main Crazzick Pool? It ain't got no bottom to et. Et's the devil's pool, tha's wot 'tes."
"Exactly. Well, he tempts me to walk into it, and sink, and sink, and find rest and peace."
"You doan't git no peace except in Christ, zur," said Mrs. Pethick, who was a class-leader among the Bible Christians.
Leicester looked at the dame's kindly face and wondered. Had this simple, homely, kindly-faced woman learned any secret unknown to him? To say the least, the question interested him.
"Look here," he said, "you don't mind speaking to a poor devil like I am quite honestly, do you? In fact, it's no use speaking to me at all, unless you do speak quite honestly, for I can detect a lie in a minute. Do you really believe that Christ does help you?"
"Do I believe et? I'm zure, zur. Why, when I'm tempted to do wrong, to think of Christ do 'elp me. Whenever I d' 'ave bad, wicked thoughts, I d' jist think of Him, and they do go, zur. For zure they do."
"And He gives you peace, does He?" said Leicester half mockingly, half seriously.
"Iss, zur, 'e do fer zure. I wudden zay zo ef I wasn't zackly zure. A paice which I caan't git no other way. Why, when I be comin' home from class-mitten' by myzelf, I git feared zumtimes, when tes dark; for the way es loanly. But I d' talk weth Jesus oal the way, and then—well, zur, the loanly road ez vull of light."
The mocking laugh left Leicester's lips as she spoke: it was impossible to doubt what she said.
"But there," went on Mrs. Pethick, with all a woman's tact, "you be could and wisht, you be. I'll git a cup ov tay for 'ee, and zum bread and craim. You c'n jist raid the paaper while I be gone."
He sat down close by the roaring wood fire, and wondered. Why should this simple woman's faith be denied to him? He picked up the paper she had offered him; it was the first he had seen since he left Taviton. The first words he read were these: "New candidate selected for the Taviton division."
He read through the article with strange interest. It seemed to him as though it spoke of some one else. It referred to the unfortunate selection the party had made, but stated that their mistake had been rectified in the selection of a local man, whose career was known to all. "As for the man who has done the party so much harm," concluded the article, "we do not know what has become of him. He left the town in disgrace, since which time no one has seen him. Endeavours have been made to trace his whereabouts, but in vain. Inquiries have been made at his old haunts in London, but no one has seen him there. It is a sad pity that a young man of such brilliant parts should end his career in such a way, but for our own part we may say that we are well rid of him. He brought no honour, or credit, either to our party or our county, and although some of his friends speak of him as having suicidal tendencies, we sincerely hope that he may repent of his past life, and begin anew in another country where he is unknown."
Leicester threw down the paper with a laugh. It was only the effusion of a local journalist who did not know the A B C of his trade, but it amused him.
"Begin a new life in another country where he is unknown." The words haunted him. Why not, after all? Perhaps—but the thoughts which flashed into his mind refused to take definite shape.
Mrs. Pethick brought him some tea and bread and cream.
"Ther' now, you be nearly dry now," she said; "zet up to the table, and 'ave zum tay. 'Twill do 'ee good, my dear."
Mrs. Pethick had spent her childhood in Cornwall, and had not forgotten some of the Cornish expressions.
"This is beautiful tea," said Leicester presently.
"Iss, ted'n zo bad. As Mrs. Maddern d' zay to me, 'Mrs. Pethick,' she do zay, 'nobody but you do buy the best tay.'"
"Mrs. Pethick," said Leicester, half quizzically, "do you believe the devil can be killed?"
"Not killed, my dear, at laist not by we, but we c'n drive en away."
"How, Mrs. Pethick?"
"Prayer, zur; prayer."
Leicester laughed.
"'Tes true, zur. Ther's 'ope fer the wust. As I zed to Franky Flew at the last revival, I zed, 'Franky,