'While the lamp holds out to burn,The vilest sinner may return!'"
'While the lamp holds out to burn,The vilest sinner may return!'"
"And what then, Mrs. Pethick?"
"Why, then you become a new man, zur."
A little while later he left the house. Of course it was all nonsense, nevertheless the simple woman's talk made him better. The storm had now gone, and the moors were bathed in evening sunlight. It was a wonderful panorama which stretched out before him. The moors, which two hours before were dark and forbidding, were now wondrous in their beauty. And sunlight had done it all! Sunlight!
All through the evening he sat and thought. It seemed, from the look in his eyes, that a new purpose had come into his life. The next day he left his lonely lodgings, and found his way back to London. He went to a part of the city which was far away from his old haunts, and to which he was an utter stranger. No one recognised him, no one knew him in the little hotel to which he went. He gave his name as Robert Baxter, as he had given it to the old woman on the moors. Why he had come to London he knew not, except that a great longing had come into his heart to be again in the midst of the great surging life of the city. Nevertheless he stayed in his room at the hotel. After a pretence at eating, he picked up a newspaper. He glanced through it carelessly. He had lost interest in life. The reports concerning the General Election did not interest him. What mattered which set of puppets were at Westminster? The whole business was an empty mockery. Presently, however, a paragraph chained his attention:
"No news is yet to hand concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Radford Leicester. Many suppose that he has left the country, while some are afraid that the hints he dropped to the hotel proprietor at Taviton were serious."
He had no idea that the London newspapers would comment on his disappearance. He thought that he had dropped out of the life of the world, and that no one cared. Presently he read the remainder of the paragraph. Up to this time he had never thought of taking any particular trouble about hiding his identity. The matter of giving another name was mere acting on impulse.
He rang the bell, and ordered a cab. "It is lucky I remember his address," he said to himself, "lucky too that he is as silent as an oyster."
A little later he drove up to a house in one of the many quiet London squares. It was quite dark, and he had pulled the collar of his coat high up around his neck and face. No one recognised him as he entered, but when he walked into a dimly lit room, an old man said to him: "I knew it. You were not such a fool as to throw up the sponge."
After this Leicester talked to the old man for a long time. When he left the house, the light of purpose was in his eyes, although, had a close observer seen him, that observer would have said that there was also much doubt and irresolution.
A week later Leicester was still in London. He had removed from the little hotel to which he had at first gone, and had taken a room in one of those old-fashioned enclosures which still remain in the heart of London. Here he fended for himself, the room being cleaned by an old deaf and nearly blind woman, who was glad to earn a few shillings a week in this way. He saw no one. Throughout the day he kept in his solitary chamber; he only went out at night, and then after the city had gone to sleep. What was in his mind it was difficult to say.
One night after midnight he went out alone. The theatres had all emptied themselves, and the streets, save for an occasional passer-by, were deserted. The lights still burned, but to him it looked like a city of the dead. The echoing footfalls which occasionally reached his ears sounded like the steps of some ghostly visitant rather than of a being of flesh and blood.
He presently came to the Law Courts, and walked in the direction of Ludgate Hill. The great buildings rose up stately and grand at his side, but they reminded him rather of a stupendous monument of the dead than of a battle-ground where keen intellects and grave wisdom waged war.
"Justice," he thought. "What justice is there in the world? What do either judges, or barristers, or juries care about justice? The whole world stinks with lies and injustice and cruelty. And yet why do I prate about these things? What is justice? Is there any such thing? What are all our thoughts but blind gropings after a phantom?"
The moon shone clearly overhead, and the spring air was clear and sweet even in the heart of the city; nevertheless there was a cold bite in the wind which found its way across the open spaces.
"As though Anything cared?" he went on musing. "What does it matter whether one is good or bad, idle or industrious? Some work and some play, some are rich and some are poor. Well, what's the odds? We are only like gnats, born when the sun rises, and die when it goes down. The worst of it is that this beastly little race leaves others of the same species behind. And so the farce will go on, until the earth grows cold and the race dies. Well, and what then? Whether one dies young or old, what does it affect? Who cares? Nothing cares."
He looked up at the great dome of blue, and saw here and there a star.
"As though, if there is Anything at the back of all things, the Force which caused those worlds could care for a paltry little earthworm like I am!"
He laughed aloud, and then shuddered at the sound of his own voice. The city seemed like some huge phantom which had no real existence.
He turned into one of the many ways which lead from Fleet Street to the river. If possible, it seemed more silent than ever here. The lights were less brilliant, life seemed to be extinct.
"Oh, what a coward, a poor whining coward I am," he said. "I think, and brood, and drink, and dream, and curse; but I do nothing. I, who used to boast of my will-power and my determination. I live like a rat in a hole; I dare not come out and show myself, and I dare not put an end to the dirty business called life, because I have a sort of haunting fear that I should not make an end of myself even although this carcase of mine should rot."
Presently he reached the Embankment, and he walked to the wall which bounded the river and looked over. The tide was going out. The dark, muddy river, carrying much of the refuse of London, rolled on towards the sea. Yet the waters gleamed bright, both in the light of the moon as well as in those of the lamps which stood by its banks, but the water was foul all the same, foul with the offal of a foul city. He turned away from it with a shudder.
"Why haven't I the pluck to take the plunge, instead of being the whining, drivelling idiot I am?" he cried. "Nothing cares, and nothing would happen—except nothingness."
He walked along the Embankment. "And yet I told her that I could be a man. After all, was she not right? What if she were unjust? Was such a creature as I am fit to be the husband of a pure woman? See the thing I have become in less than a month. Might I not, if I had married her, have become tired of my newrôle, and drifted? Well, if I had I should have dragged her with me. Did I really love her? Did I not love myself all the time? It was not of her I thought. It was all of my miserable, sordid little self. Still, if there is an Almighty, He made a mistake in treating me so! But there, as though an Almighty cared about such as I. If He does, He regards us all as a part of a grim joke."
"I'nt got a bit a bacca on yer, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"
A man rose from a seat as he spoke, and shivered. At the other end of the seat lay a woman asleep.
"I cawn't sleep, I'm so bloomin' cold," went on the man, "and I'm just dyin' for a bit a bacca."
"Why do you try to sleep here?" asked Leicester.
"'Cause I in't got no weers else, guv'nor. That's why. Besides, my hinsides is empty, and yer cawn't sleep when yer empty. Tell yer, I'm fair sick on it."
"Why don't you make an end of it?"
"Wot yer mean?"
Leicester pointed to the river.
"Would for tuppence," said the man.
Leicester put his hand in his pocket and took out the first coin he felt. It was a two-shilling piece.
"Here's a dozen tuppences," he said; "now let's see if you've got the pluck."
The man snatched at the coin, examined it in the light of the lamp, and spat on it. Then he went to the woman and shook her.
"Cum on, Mord," he said.
"Weer?" said the woman sleepily.
"Daan ter ole Jerry's doss-aas."
"We cawn't; we in't got fo'pence."
"Yus, we 'as; a swell hev chucked me two bob. Cum on."
The woman rose and prepared to follow the man.
"But you told me——"
"That I'd do it for tuppence, but not fer two bob, guv'nor. Goo'-night, and thenk yer."
Leicester laughed. He had not expected the man to throw himself into the river; indeed, had he attempted it, he would most likely have stopped him; but he laughed all the same. Two shillings meant food and a warm place to lie, and the tramp clung to life.
"We are all such cowards," he said, as he walked on towards Blackfriars Bridge. The great space outside Blackfriars underground railway station was empty. Not a soul was to be seen. He crossed to the road at the end of the bridge, and stood at the top of the steps which led down to the river.
"I'll look at it closer," he said. "It'll be fun to stand and watch the dirty stuff sweep on to the sea."
He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A few steps from the bottom he stopped.
"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's nothing to live for."
He went nearer the river.
His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.
It was the dead body of a man.
He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.
"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"
He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.
"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.
Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and examined the body.
"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's left any mark of his identity?" he said, whereupon he lit another match and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen, but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them—not even a pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken trouble to leave no traces of his identity behind.
He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven, too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.
Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the corner.
"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.
There was a sort of fascination in the thought.
"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless; there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"
He started, as though some one had struck him.
"Why shouldn't it be?"
In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.
"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary, after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be asked. After that—he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim him. But why shouldn't I become——?"
His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He was eager, excited.
He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.
Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of identity. He put the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester, Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the steps.
"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."
By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge Street.
A policeman passed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.
"Good-night, constable."
"Good-night, sir; out late."
"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they passed on, he towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.
When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered what the result of it would be. There was something intensely interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who, according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton, appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they heard the news?
He thought of Olive Castlemaine. What would she say? Had she forgotten him? he wondered. No, no, that could not be. The woman who had cared enough about him to promise to be his wife could not forget him so easily.
Oh, but this was a joke, a joke he really enjoyed. Let all those who knew him be fooled! He laughed at the thought of it, and there was a sort of bitter pleasure in his heart as he went to bed.
The following day the old woman who swept his room and did odd jobs for him came in the ordinary way. She had not the slightest idea who he was. If some one told her that he was Radford Leicester, it would have meant nothing to her. She knew nothing, and cared just as little about the doings of the world. If she met him in the street she would not have recognised him; she was too blind.
"Want me any more to-day?" she asked as she was leaving.
"No—yes," said Leicester; "you might come about half-past six to-night. I may want you, and will you bring me an evening newspaper?"
"All right. Which? there's so many on 'em."
"Oh, it does not matter. Bring half a dozen. You can get them off the man who stands at the corner of the top of Chancery Lane."
"'L right," she said, taking the sixpence he gave her.
Throughout the rest of the day he sat alone, still thinking and brooding. When evening came he looked impatiently at his watch. He was anxious to see the evening newspapers.
The old woman did not come till seven o'clock.
"Here are the papers," she said; "anything you want me to do?"
"Yes, go out and buy a chop, and then bring it back and grill it."
The woman took the money for the chop, nodded, and went away without a word. Leicester opened one of the newspapers eagerly.
He had no need to search long for what he wanted to find. Almost the first paragraph which caught his eye was about himself. He laughed aloud as he read it. Truly, it was a grim joke.
"This morning, at early dawn, as a police constable was passing over Blackfriars Bridge, he looked over the parapet and saw something which appeared to him as a strange-looking object lying on one of the steps which lead down to the river. On going nearer, he found it was the body of a dead man, which to all appearance had been in the river some time, and had been carried to the steps by the outgoing tide, and left stranded there. The constable whistled, and was immediately joined by two others. The body was taken to the —— mortuary. On examination, two proofs of the man's identity were found. The first was a letter, and the other a handkerchief bearing the deceased's name in the corner. But for these two things it would have been impossible to identify him, as the face is distorted and swollen beyond all recognition. It is with great regret that we have to state that both the letter and the handkerchief bore the name of Radford Leicester. Many of our readers will have known Mr. Radford Leicester by repute. After a brilliant career at Oxford, he eventually became Parliamentary candidate for Taviton, and many prophesied that his splendid abilities would take him high in the councils of the nation. He became engaged to a charming young lady of wealth and position, but although the wedding-day was fixed, the marriage never took place. Whatever the reason for this, it is believed that it unhinged the late gentleman's mind. Since the sad circumstances which took place in Taviton, and which were recorded in the daily press some time ago, Mr. Leicester has not been seen, and until the sad discovery of this morning, no one had any idea of his whereabouts. The deceased gentleman was a man of few friends, and until his engagement lived very much the life of a recluse. It is with great sorrow that we record the above, as it was fully hoped and believed that he would not only have a very distinguished future, but that he would have been of great value to his country."
Leicester threw down the paper.
"Good," he said; "everything is turning out exactly as I thought."
He read the other papers, and found that each gave very nearly the same version. One moralised at some length on the sad end of the deceased, and enlarged on the evils of drinking.
It was a strange experience, this reading of his own obituary notices, but it agreed with his mood. He had not enjoyed himself so much for a long time.
He did not leave the house. He determined to do nothing which might shake any one's belief in the farce that was being played. He would see the mockery out to the bitter end. This was not long in coming. The inquest was held without delay, and the early impressions were confirmed. It was a case of circumstantial evidence. Radford Leicester had hinted at suicide to the proprietor of the Red Lion Hotel, Taviton. Since that time he had not been seen alive by any who had previously known him. He had also left Taviton in disgrace, his political career being blighted, while it was commonly believed that Miss Castlemaine had refused to marry him because she had discovered something disgraceful in his life. His drinking habits were known to many. Therefore, when a body was discovered, and on it two proofs of its identity, the jury could come to no other conclusion than they did.
Moreover, a strange coincidence took place at the inquest. The solicitor of Radford Leicester appeared, bearing a document signed by the said Radford Leicester, stating his desire that, in the event of his death, his property should be allowed to accumulate for ten years from the date of his decease, and should then be given to Guy's Hospital. This solicitor was an old man of the name of Mr. Flipp, an exceedingly eccentric but a much respected member of the profession nevertheless.
Accordingly a verdict of suicide while in an unsound condition of mind was brought in; and orders were given that the body should be buried, the expenses to be paid out of the deceased gentleman's estate.
Leicester went to the funeral. Mr. Flipp was there, together with Winfield and two or three others with whom he had been on terms of intimacy. He had so disguised himself that no suspicion was aroused, and he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.
He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx. Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little heed.
"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.
"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.
The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.
"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in this fashion."
When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and noticed the placards on the board outside:
He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the article, which had used him for its text.
"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."
"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried. After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public. Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place. Now I must carry my plans into effect."
Olive Castlemaine sat beneath a mimosa-tree in the garden of an hotel in Grasse in the south of France. Near her sat her father, who was diligently reading a French newspaper. They had been sitting thus for some time, neither speaking to the other. In spite of the sunshine, and the fresh winds which blew across the hills on which this French village was built, Olive looked pale and tired. Much of her old vivacity was gone. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes; her abundant life had departed. She looked wistfully away towards Cannes, the fashionable town which lay several hundreds of feet lower, away by the shores of the Mediterranean; then she glanced around the garden, and noted the almost tropical plants which grew in such abundance.
"Father, I want to get home," she said.
"You will have great difficulty in finding a more beautiful spot than this," said John Castlemaine.
"Yes, I know, but I cannot bear it any longer. I want to get back to work."
"You'll find it very hard to go back to the old scenes again; besides, you know what gossips our neighbours are."
"I do not see that that matters. I did a very cowardly thing in coming away."
"You did what I insisted on," replied her father.
"Yes, I know; but I ought to have insisted also."
"Yes, and—well, it has been bad enough here where we are unknown, but home at The Beeches—why, those newspaper reports would have driven us mad."
"They would have done nothing of the sort. If they had—well, it would not have mattered."
"You have not driven the fellow out of your mind yet."
"No," replied Olive.
"Then my advice is, do so. Why, think of those Taviton papers? To be drunk on a public platform; to allow your picture to be thrown on a screen, while he stammered out his drunken drivel. No wonder the people hooted him out of the town."
Olive was silent, although her face twitched with pain.
"At any rate, I am glad he had the shame to go away into hiding. I saw by a paper yesterday that nothing is known of his whereabouts."
"Yes, I know."
"You saw it?"
Olive nodded.
"I hope we've seen the last of him."
She did not speak.
John Castlemaine turned, and saw Mr. Sackville coming towards them, bearing a packet of letters and newspapers.
"The post has just come in," said the minister, "and I took the liberty of bringing your letters and papers."
He laid them on an empty chair by Olive Castlemaine as he spoke, and then went on.
"I must take the next train back to England."
"So soon?"
"Yes, there are two or three matters which require my immediate attention. You see—well, I came away somewhat suddenly, you know."
He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words escaped his lips, for he saw a look of pain shoot across Olive Castlemaine's face. But he had enough tact not to hurt her more by seeking to offer explanations.
"Nothing serious, I hope," said Mr. Castlemaine.
"My sister's husband has just died," he replied simply.
"Ah, I see, and your sister will need you. You have my deepest sympathy, my friend; if there is anything I can do to lighten her burden—or yours——"
"Thank you, Mr. Castlemaine, you are always very good."
"But you will remember what I have said?"
"Yes, thank you, I will remember; but at present she only needs me. You don't mind my hurrying away, do you? Good-bye."
"I shall go with you to the station," said Mr. Castlemaine. "You cannot leave for two hours yet."
"And I will go too," said Olive. "I am so sorry you are going, Mr. Sackville."
Her words were more than an empty convention, and the minister felt it. His heart had gone out with a great pity towards the girl whom he had baptized as a baby, whom he had romped with as a child, and whom he had received into the Church in after years. He loved her almost as much as John Castlemaine himself, and no one had sympathised with her more deeply than he.
"Thank you, Olive," he said. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all the morning?"
The girl was silent.
"I am sure it's right," he said, "God never makes a mistake."
"But we do," replied Olive.
"Yes, but it's all right. I am not an easy-going optimist, as you know, and I don't see how what I have said can be true. But it is. It helps me to bear my own sorrow to say it. God bless you, my little girl."
He went back to the hotel, leaving father and daughter together. In spite of the sad news he brought, in spite of the fact of his going away, his words comforted her. There is always help in the words and presence of a good man.
"If I were sure I did right," she said presently.
"You could have done nothing else," said John Castlemaine.
She did not answer for some time, neither did she turn to the letters and papers which Mr. Sackville had laid by her side. She was thinking of the words which Leicester had spoken to her. She remembered how he had said that if there was a God, He had used her as a means of his salvation, and she wondered how much truth there was in what he had said. Even yet she did not understand her own heart; all she knew was that since she had read the letter which had destroyed her hopes, life had been a great pain. Anger, pride, disappointment, and love had each in their turn fought for the mastery, and her heart had seemed to be broken in the struggle.
"No," she said, "I suppose I could not."
"We see what his reformation was worth," said John Castlemaine. "Evidently he was playing you false all the time."
Olive was silent.
"Now honestly, Olive," said her father, "suppose you had a chance of altering the past, what would you do? Would you marry him?"
"No."
The word came from her lips before she knew she had uttered it. It seemed as though her heart spoke for her. John Castlemaine breathed a sigh of satisfaction.
"He was a bad, selfish, cynical man all the time, Olive," he said. "In no possible light was his conduct excusable. A drunkard I could have forgiven, if that were all, although you could never have married a drunkard——"
"No," said Olive quietly.
"But to—no, I will not repeat it. The man forfeited all right to respect."
"I want to get back home, father; I want to take up my work. I was a coward to come away; let us go back with Mr. Sackville."
"Impossible, my dear; still, I will not keep you here against your will. Perhaps to-morrow—but read your letters, Olive."
Almost mechanically she turned to her letters, and read them. They were of no importance, and she skimmed them carelessly. Then she unfastened the wrapper of one of the newspapers, and began to read. A minute later she uttered a cry of pain as it fell from her hands.
"What is it, my dear?"
She did not speak; but looked away with a stony stare towards the shining sea in the distance.
"Tell me, Olive, what is the matter?"
She pointed to the newspaper.
"He is dead," she said.
A look, almost like relief, came into John Castlemaine's face, and he picked up the paper. As he read, a sensation, the like of which he had never felt before, came into his heart. The paragraph described the finding of Leicester's body on the steps by the side of the river near the Blackfriars pier. It discussed the causes which led to it, and pointed out that in all probability Leicester had committed suicide. It hinted that possibly he had fallen into the river while in a state of intoxication, but urged that the balance of evidence lay in the direction of suicide. It referred to his career at Oxford, his great intellectual gifts, and the hopes entertained by so many that he would rise high in the councils of the nation. The event at Taviton, however, had revealed the true state of affairs, and thus his tragic death added another victim to the list of those who had been destroyed by England's greatest curse.
When he had finished he turned to Olive. She was still looking towards the Mediterranean, but he knew that she saw nothing.
"You have nothing for which you can blame yourself, Olive," he said, "you could have done no other."
She did not speak.
"It was a sad day for us when he came into our lives," he continued. "I know what you feel, my darling. You are laying his death at your own door, but you are wrong. His end came through the vices which made you do what you did. Evidently he was a drunkard all the time. He may have kept his vice in the background when he came to The Beeches, but—but—this was the inevitable result—of—all the rest."
"Father," she said, "would you mind leaving me alone for a little while, I want——"
But she did not finish the sentence. Almost mechanically she rose from her seat, picked up the bundle of newspapers, and went to the hotel, where she slowly climbed the stairs towards her bedroom. Perhaps, although the garden was deserted, its very publicity made it impossible for her to stay there. She wanted to be alone, where she could, in quietness, think out everything again. She forgot all about Mr. Sackville's departure, forgot almost where she was. She felt stunned, and yet in some respects her mind was more than ordinarily clear.
Leicester's death had brought a new and unexpected influence into her existence. While he was alive, while he showed his real nature by bandying her name at a public meeting, and by appearing before an audience in a state of intoxication, she felt that her conduct, in spite of a feeling which suggested remorse, was excusable; but now he was dead, all was different. Perhaps in a vague, dim sort of a way she had felt the possibility of his coming into her life again, although she had no definite consciousness of it, but now she realised that he was gone from her life, except as a memory. She pictured him lying on the cold steps beside the river; she thought of the feelings which must have been in his heart as he threw himself into its dark, turbid waters. It was very terrible; ghastly, in fact. She did not consider who sent her the paper, her mind was absorbed in the fact it contained.
Presently she asked herself what would have happened if she had married him. Would this dread tragedy have been averted, and would she have been able, as he had said, to have led him to a noble manhood? Even then her heart had answered no. The reformation which she thought she had worked was only a mockery; even if it had been real, it was only a veneer of reformation, so thin that it had failed him when she refused to hold further intercourse with him. She wondered whether she really loved him, else why could she think of his death so calmly? Her heart was very sore, and she felt stunned by the news of his death, yet she was able to think quite clearly and collectedly.
She read the paragraph concerning Leicester again. She supposed that there could be no doubt that it was he. The name upon the handkerchief, the letter addressed to him—no, there could be no doubt. Perhaps in a day or so the English newspapers would contain further news about him. There would, of course, be an inquest, and then the circumstantial evidence would be tested; but of course he was dead.
Suddenly the remembrance of their last interview came back to her. He had reminded her of her promise never to marry another man, no matter what might happen. She remembered the reply she had made, too. It was as bitter and as cruel as she could make it, and she called to mind the look on his face when she had spoken. Nevertheless shehadpromised never to marry another man. But it did not matter. She would never want to marry; the thought of such a thing was repugnant. She wished she could cry, but her eyes were dry; she wished she had some feeling of tenderness in her heart; but she had none. She was cold and calm; indeed, she seemed to be past feeling. If she felt anything at all, it was anger. Even yet she was angry that her picture had been exhibited at the political meeting at Taviton, and that she should be spoken about by a man who a few minutes afterwards fell on the platform in drunken helplessness. Why was it? Surely Leicester's death should have destroyed any such feelings. He had atoned now for all he had done.
A minute later a knock came to the door, and she heard her father's voice.
"Olive, may I come in?"
"Yes, father; what is it?"
John Castlemaine came in, and she saw the moment he entered that he had something of importance to tell her.
"When would you like to go back to England, Olive?" he said.
"I don't know," she said. Somehow her interest in returning home had evaporated since the news of Leicester's death.
"I don't mean to The Beeches, Olive."
"Where, then?"
He sat down beside her, and took a letter from his pocket.
"As you know, Olive, I have little by little taken a less active part in business."
"Yes," she said.
"And I'm tired of London. The eternal fogs and grey skies of the winter oppress me. For years I've longed to live in the country. Even at The Beeches we are more and more invaded by the London fogs. Besides, there is no necessity for me to live near London any longer. I have quite as much money as I need, and, added to this, I have been able to trust more and more in the heads of the various departments of my business. An occasional visit will be quite enough for me."
"Well, father?"
"Well, some little time ago a fine old estate in Devonshire fell into the market."
"In Devonshire!"
"Yes, about thirty miles from Taviton. I did not speak to you about it, because I wished to surprise you. I instructed a man to make an offer for it; but owing to some hitch, the affair was not settled, and I was informed that it had passed into other hands. I was awfully disappointed because—because—well, Olive, I wanted to give it to you for a wedding present, and then invite myself as your perpetual guest."
Olive did not speak.
"When matters turned out as they did, I was almost glad that I had not bought it; but among the letters which Mr. Sackville brought down to us a little while ago was this."
He handed her a letter as he spoke. As she read, a look of interest came into her eyes, which her father noted with pleasure.
"It is a beautiful place," went on John Castlemaine, "and situated in the loveliest part of Devonshire. The house stands high, and the climate, so I am told, is the finest in England. The neighbourhood has been frequently recommended by the doctors for its healthfulness."
In spite of herself she was interested.
"You have visited it, have you, father?" she said.
"Yes, I spent two days there some time ago. In its way, the estate is unique. It is very large, and most of the land is very fertile; but there is a large tract of moorland, where there is some very fine shooting. The late owner neglected it terribly. There is a large village which is very squalid, and wretched. You see, neither the squire nor the parson cared for it. The former refused to spend a penny on the estate, while the latter—well, he belongs to that class which is happily growing less and less in the English Church—that class which cares far more about fox-hunting than his parish work. As a consequence the people have become drunken, thriftless, godless."
"But I thought the Free Churches were strong in Devonshire. Is there no village chapel?"
John Castlemaine shook his head.
"The late squire owned the parish, and would not allow a chapel to be built. If any of the people were to go to a dissenting chapel—well, I need not go on. I only mention the fact to show you that there is need for the influence of such a girl as you, Olive. Would you not like to be Lady Bountiful in a Devonshire village, Olive?"
Evidently the thought was pleasant to her, and her father rejoiced that he was able to distract her mind from her trouble.
"You have not bought the place, father?"
"No, but a telegram from me will settle the matter. It all depends on you, Olive. As you know, I did not like the thought of going back to The Beeches, neither for your sake nor mine."
"But we could not go there to live at once, father?"
"There need be but little delay. The late owner has only lately died, and left the estate so mortgaged that the heirs cannot afford to live there. They are anxious, moreover, that all the furniture of the house shall be bought with the estate. Of course it will need some amount of overhauling, but it should not take long. If I were to send a telegram to-day, the place would be ours by to-morrow; then if we waited here a week or so, we could go back and take up residence there. Of course you would want to alter a lot of things, but a few days in London would be sufficient for you to select all the things you wanted."
"Suppose I were to say yes, and then were to get tired of it?" she said.
"I don't think you would, Olive; but even if you did, it would be a very good investment."
"Would you sell The Beeches?" she asked.
"Not at present; you see I should like to keep a place near London."
She thought a minute, and as she thought the picture of the old Devonshire home became more and more pleasant. The idea of going back to a London suburb became less and less pleasant, while the thought of an old house situated amongst broad parks, and rich pasture lands which stretched away to the moors, and the sea, grew upon her.
"Send the telegram, father," she said.
"That's right, Olive," said John Castlemaine as he left the room.
"I can't realise it, I can't realise it," she said when he was gone. "It is all so strange, so terribly strange. Even now I can't feel that he is dead."
Later, however, her doubts were removed. Papers came containing the reports of the inquest, and then of the funeral. Radford Leicester was dead, and thus gone out of her life for ever.
"I am glad I've been able to buy that place," said John Castlemaine to himself as he watched her face. "She'll be able to forget him amidst new scenes; besides, she's eager to work among the poor in the village."
A few days later they started for their new home.
By the middle of May John Castlemaine and his daughter had settled at Vale Linden, an old family mansion situated amidst beautiful and romantic scenery. Even Devonshire, the garden of England, had no more attractive place to offer. From the front of the house Olive could see a wide panorama of beautiful country. Immediately beyond the lawns stretched the park, dotted with giant trees, such as can be seen only in the southern and western counties of England. Beyond the park was a fine undulating country of wooded dells and rich pasture land. Here and there she could see the farmsteads nestling amongst the trees, while still beyond was the vast stretch of the moors, fast becoming a great blaze of golden and purple glory. Everywhere the birds sang gaily, while the air was filled with the perfume of flowers.
Spring comes early in Devonshire. Ofttimes when the air is cold and biting in the more northern counties it is balmy and caressing there. Not that it lacks the crisp vitalising elements which are supposed to belong to the north. There is no air in England more invigorating than that which sweeps across Dartmoor, and yet you feel that all nature is generous and kind there. During the first few weeks of Olive's residence in her new home, it was a constant revelation of new wonders. Day by day she wandered along the lanes, and through the fields, almost unconsciously revelling in the unfolding life around her. Primroses simply bedecked the hedges, while the whole countryside was ablaze with wild-flowers. She heard the ploughboys singing in the fields, and watched the lambs sporting in the meadows; she listened to the River Linden singing its way into the sea, and breathed the air of healthful restfulness which pervaded the whole countryside.
John Castlemaine had acted wisely in buying Vale Linden. Knowing his daughter's beauty-loving nature, he had been right in believing that if anything could divert Olive's mind from her sorrow, it would be to place her in surroundings like these. It seemed almost providential that the post which brought news of Leicester's death also brought him the letter telling him that Vale Linden was still for sale, and as he watched the good effect that the place was having upon her, he rejoiced that he was a rich man, and thus able to obtain what would have been impossible to one who was poor. Not that John Castlemaine was blind to the sense of his responsibilities as a rich man. He used his money wisely and well, and while he did not appear before the public gaze as a philanthropist, few men worked harder to use his money in order to minister to the needs of humanity than he. He never advertised himself in the newspapers, nevertheless he regarded himself as a steward of the Almighty, and used his money accordingly. In buying Vale Linden, therefore, while he was anxious to please and help his daughter, he was not forgetful of his duties towards those who lived on the estate. Indeed, he felt sure that it would not only be in the new scenes, but in the new duties which would appear to Olive, that she would find that healing which she needed.
Nevertheless for the first few weeks he rejoiced to see her revelling in the beauties of the countryside. Often he accompanied her on her walks, and went with her into the farmhouses, where she chatted with the farmers' wives. He climbed with her to Linden Tor, from which they could see the wide expanse of the moors; he sat with her in wooded dells, and listened to the song of the birds, and the rill of the river.
"You are pleased with Vale Linden, Olive?" he said to her one day.
"You know, father," she replied.
"And you can be happy here?"
"I think so; I hope so—presently," she replied.
"But not yet?"
She was silent.
"We must get some friends down here, Olive. You must have girls of your own age to stay here. It must be a bit lonely for you only having me."
"No," she said, "I am not lonely, and I want no friends—yet. I want to be quiet for a little while—presently——"
"Presently you will want them?"
"No, I think not, father, and yet I don't know. Yes, perhaps I shall. Besides, I think we ought. But it was not of that I was thinking."
"I daresay the people around here will be calling soon."
"No, I do not think so."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, the farmers will not dare to call; they will think it presumptuous. As for the county people, they will not think it incumbent upon them to do so."
"No?"
"Two things will stand in the way of their doing so. First, you are what they call a dissenter, and that would be sufficient to ostracise us; and, second, they would regard us as of thenouveau richeorder, because you have made your wealth by commerce."
John Castlemaine laughed.
"I do not imagine we shall be much poorer because of their lack of courtesy, Olive; still, I hope you are mistaken."
"Why, do you long for their society?"
"Oh, no; I was only hoping that broader and healthier ideas were coming into the community."
"I am afraid it is a vain hope," said Olive. "Why, just think. When the vicar called the other day he was simply stunned when you told him you were a Nonconformist, while when you told him that you intended building a chapel, I thought he was going to faint."
"Yes, he did seem overwhelmed," said John Castlemaine.
"Before you told him these things, he spoke of his wife and daughters calling, but not afterwards. Neither, as a matter of fact, have they called."
"Ah, but that is because of pure chagrin, I imagine. Besides, Mr. Lestrange is noted for his bigotry, and is not therefore a fair sample."
"Of course there is an utterly different atmosphere here," said Olive. "Not that it troubles me. The people whose intellectual outlook is so limited that the question of religious opinion influences social courtesies, are not very desirable companions. Still, we will have to bear it in mind in considering our future. As for—by the way, are you very rich, father?"
"Yes," said John Castlemaine quietly; "I suppose I am."
"That question will be inquired into, no doubt," said Olive, "and it may be that in time the minor county families will overlook our other failings on account of your being a wealthy man."
"Aren't you a bit cynical, Olive?"
"I was only wondering whether these people were worth considering, father. As you know, I don't care a little bit about what is called society, and I have been thinking about other plans for the future."
"What plans?"
"I have been trying to think what I shall do with my life."
"Yes?" said John Castlemaine eagerly.
"Yes. We cannot live here for ever idly; at least, I cannot. Besides, it would not be right. Even if we were to take part in the social life of the county, I could not content myself to be a mere butterfly. Following the hounds, going to dances, paying calls, and the rest of it, is not a very interesting programme."
"No, it is not," John Castlemaine assented.
"I love the country," said Olive, "far more than I love the city, and—and I want to live in the country. Besides, there is as much work to do here as there is in the city. Of another kind, perhaps, but just as important."
"I think so, too; but what do you propose doing?"
"We have some responsibility towards the people here. Especially those on the estate you have bought. As it is very large, that will involve a great deal of work."
John Castlemaine nodded.
"But that is not all. I should like the house to be—well, a kind of centre of life."
"That sounds very well; but tell me what you mean in greater detail. Would you invite the villagers to it? Would you give them dinners, and dances?"
"Perhaps so, but I was not thinking of that so much. As a rule, people build great houses for purely selfish purposes. They invite people whose presence will give them pleasure. They give dinners to those who live in a land of plenty, they offer pleasure to those who are satiated with it."
"Exactly," said John Castlemaine; "what then?"
"I think we could invite to our house those whom we could really benefit by inviting."
"Start a sort of hotel for poor people. I am afraid it would not do, Olive. They would be miserable amidst such surroundings."
"There are many people we know who would not be miserable, and to whom we should be rendering real kindness by inviting. In this way we could be using this great house for the good of needy people. There are young professional men, ministers, doctors, and the like who are very poor, and yet who are people of refined and cultured tastes. An invitation here would be a perfect godsend to them, and at the same time we should be meeting people who are our equals in the best sense of the word."
"Yes," said John Castlemaine, "there is Dr. Rickard's daughter, whom you used to invite to The Beeches. A fortnight here would be like paradise to the girl."
"There are hosts of such. But more than that, father; I think it is possible to help those who might not be happy as our guests in the house, or for that matter whom we might not like to have there."
"Well, what would you do for those?"
"I would choose one of the loveliest spots on the estate, and build a large house, fitting it up on the lines of a good hotel. I would make it open to those to whom it might possibly be a kind of health resort."
"Would you admit them gratis?" asked Mr. Castlemaine with a smile, "or would they have to pay, like ordinary residents in an hotel?"
"I think they should pay; but their payment should be so arranged that while no one should be pauperised, no one, whom it might be desirable to receive, should be kept out because of money considerations."
Again the keen man of business smiled.
"And what would you do with them when you got them here, Olive?" he asked.
"Well, as I said, the place should be fitted up on the lines of an hotel or hydro, so that there should be plenty of opportunities for indoor amusement."
"Yes, but this is essentially an outdoor place."
"Exactly, therefore you should have tennis courts, a cricket field, and, what is more, golf links."
John Castlemaine lifted his eyebrows.
"Have you any idea what this would cost, Olive?" he asked.
"Yes, I have a pretty shrewd suspicion; but, as you told me just now, you are a rich man, and no one has the right to either hoard up money or to spend it entirely on one's self. Besides, there is a tract of moorland just behind Hillhead Farm which, when laid out, would make a perfect golf links. There I think a club house should be built."
"Would you allow intoxicants to be sold?" asked John Castlemaine, and he was sorry he had asked the question the moment it had escaped his lips. He knew it made her think of Leicester, and brought up many painful memories. She did not speak for a few seconds, but presently she answered quietly:
"No, father, and if the estate were mine, not a single public-house should exist on it."
"Have you finished sketching your plans yet?" asked John Castlemaine.
"No, not yet," was the reply. "I would build a little church, and a village hall. The parish church here is in a moribund condition, and the services, owing to the vicar being out of harmony with the times, are neither interesting nor inspiring. Among your guests you will have ministers of all denominations. Many of these will be broad-minded, cultured men, and these will be perfectly willing to conduct services. Thus not only the visitors to the place, but the villagers also, will be privileged with healthful religious teaching."
"But even then you would meet the needs of only a part of your visitors. Many belonging to the State Church would come, we should hope."
"They would have the parish church; besides, I said I would have ministers of all denominations to conduct the services in the church you will build, so that the needs of people belonging to every section of the Christian Church should be met."
"The Roman Catholics?"
"If they care to avail themselves of it."
John Castlemaine laughed quietly.
"You have large ideas, Olive," he said, "but such a scheme as you mention would need an indefatigable secretary, one who would give a great deal of time and labour to it."
"I would see to that, father."
"What! do you mean that you would superintend the whole affair?"
"Yes."
Mr. Castlemaine looked at her steadily.
"I do not say your scheme is impossible, Olive," he said. "It would cost a great deal of money; but that fact should not stand in the way. I can see, too, that no man should own such a place as this, and then selfishly reserve it all to himself. What is more, I feel sure that you could make it a great success, in the best sense of the word; but I see one almost insurmountable difficulty."
"And that?"
"Well, to begin with, such an affair should have one controlling hand, one controlling mind. While yours was the controlling hand, and the controlling mind, all would be well; but presently you would not be able to give the necessary time and attention, and then the thing would become a matter of committeeism, and paid secretaryism, which would be utterly out of accord with my ideas."
"But why should I not continue to give the necessary amount of time and attention?"
"Well, for example, you might get married."
Her face became as pale as death.
"I shall never marry," she said.
"Nonsense!"
"I shall never marry," she repeated.
"You do not mean that you regard yourself as bound by that mad promise to Leicester?"
She was silent, but she nodded her head in assent.
"But, Olive, this would be madness. The man is dead—a suicide. Even although the promise were valid had he lived, it has no meaning now he is dead."
"Yes, it has," she said.
An angry look shot from John Castlemaine's eyes. The girl's determination was so absurd that he had difficulty in keeping himself from speaking impatiently. He kept silence, however. He reflected that the tragic death of Leicester was so recent, that Olive's mind was in a morbid condition.
"Anyhow, I'll think over what you say, Olive," he said kindly. "I imagine, moreover, that I shall do what you say. Even if the scheme fails, it will be a splendid failure, and I do not think it will land us either in the workhouse or the bankruptcy court."
A few weeks later Olive was busy examining architects' plans, listening to professional golfers' ideas concerning the best way of laying out golf links, and hearing protests from certain in the parish concerning her wild, utopian, and unpractical scheme. Difficulties, however, did not turn her aside from her purpose, and in her arduous labours she was led to brood less over the tragic cloud which had fallen upon her life.
A year later a great change came over Vale Linden. The little wayside station some three miles away, which had been seldom used, became quite busy. The hills and vales, which had been well-nigh forsaken, echoed to the laughter of many voices. Tired, over-worked men and women found health and recreation amongst the wild moors, and roaming amidst wooded dells, while many who, amidst the crowded thoroughfares of London, found little to rejoice in, felt that their youth was renewed as they filled their lungs with the balmy air of Devon.
The great house at Vale Linden, which during the late ownership never received a guest, save those of a select class, was now often filled with people they would have called plebeian; nevertheless, it had never since its erection been such a centre of hospitality and gladness as now.
The new homestead was filled almost as soon as it was opened, while in the new church, which John Castlemaine had built, people who had listened to no preacher but the prosy vicar, rejoiced in the thoughts of men who had a real message to deliver, while those who had lived their lives amidst turmoil and strife felt that their spiritual and intellectual needs were met, in this quaint Devonshire village, "far from the madding crowd."
And Olive Castlemaine was the presiding genius everywhere. It was she who arranged for competitions on the golf links, and matches in the tennis courts. No concert or lecture at the village hall seemed to be complete without her. The ministers who came to the little church declared that but for the organ which she played, and the choir she trained, they would find it far more difficult to preach, while the vicar of the parish sorrowed with a great sorrow that such a beautiful and accomplished girl should be a dissenter.
Nevertheless, he could not deny that a new life was lived by the people. Books which the villagers had never heard of before were now read eagerly, while drunkenness was becoming more and more a thing of the past.
Thus Olive Castlemaine entered upon a new phase of her life. In the midst of her many new duties she tried to forget the one who crossed the pathway of her life, and then had suddenly left it. Not that she altogether succeeded. Often in her quiet hours the picture of this man as she had first seen him came back to her. Again she saw the pale face, and the straight, erect form, while the memory of his cynical and faithless words haunted her. Even yet she could not help admiring him. No matter who might be in the room, his was the most striking figure; no one, in spite of his cynicism, had been listened to as eagerly as he. Even while she grew angry at the thought of his wagering to win her as his wife, she wondered whether she had done right in driving him away. She knew that he had been drunk when he had done it, knew, too, that within a few weeks of the wedding he had confessed that he was marrying her to win his wager, and to participate in her father's wealth. No, she could not have done otherwise. Her self-respect, her woman's pride would not have allowed her; moreover, his professions of reformation were only a part of his plan for deceiving her. Within three days of the time when he should have married her, he had, while drunk, allowed her picture to be exhibited before a crowd of gaping rustics; he had uttered maudlin words about her, and then fallen on the platform in a condition of drunken imbecility. No, she had done right, and yet she felt sure that he must have loved her. Besides, in spite of his vices, he was a noteworthy man. There was something fine even in his cynicism, something almost noble in his scorn for conventional morality.
Still, it was all over. He had paid for his vices and his deceit with his own life. He had preferred to die in the turbid waters of the Thames to living a life of uselessness and regret. She ought to forget him; but she could not. Sometimes she upbraided herself for being the cause of his death; but not often. She was too healthy-minded, too sane for that. The man who could throw away his life because of what she had done, could never have been one whom she could respect.
Her solace was in work, in living for the benefit of others, and to this she gave her life. Little by little, as the leading families of the county came to know her, they paid her many attentions. Instinctively they realised that she was no ordinary woman, while her father's great wealth added charm to her accomplishments. Before two years had passed away more than one county magnate had sought her hand in marriage, while many wondered at her evident determination to remain single.
But as the years passed away her father thought he saw a change in her. She no longer grew impatient when he spoke to her of marriage, and he hoped with a great hope that his old age might be cheered by the shouts of children's voices, and by the thought that his only child had buried a dead past.