Kitabı oku: «The Man Who Rose Again», sayfa 2

He proposed to the girl with whom he had become enamoured, and was accepted. He had barely become a happy accepted lover, however, when a young barrister who had won a great deal of praise at the Bar, and had also entered Parliament, where he was spoken of as a man with a great future, also proposed to her. Without hesitation this girl, Blanche Bridgetown by name, cast Leicester aside and accepted the man who had made a reputation, rather than keep her faith with one whose future was uncertain. In this decision Blanche Bridgetown was largely influenced by her mother.

Radford Leicester soon recovered from the wound he had received in his heart, but he did not recover from the blow which was struck at his faith. All his old cynicism and hopelessness reasserted themselves. Whenever he spoke of women he spoke bitterly, his outlook on life became less cheerful than ever.

Then another element entered his life. Up to this time he had not been a hard drinker; but now the taste which he had inherited grew stronger. Drink made him forget his wounded pride; and, confident in his boast that no distilled spirits could ever affect him outwardly, he indulged in this evil habit more and more freely.

Still, pride was not dead. Professing, as he did, that life was a miserable sort of affair at the best, he still had ambition. He wanted to carve out for himself a place of position and power. His party had found a constituency for him, and he had contested it. At the time of the contest, however, the political opinions which Radford had adopted were not popular. His opponent won the seat.

Again he was embittered, again his pride was wounded, and the habit which had been gaining in strength now seemed to have obtained a complete mastery over him. Thus Radford Leicester, who had never been known to be drunk, was a drunkard. He had no faith in man; he had no faith in God.

There was one power in his life, however – ambition. He wanted to be renowned. He knew that he possessed unusual abilities; his career in Oxford had proved it; his friends had admitted it a hundred times in a hundred ways. Moreover, the vice which had mastered him had not degraded him in the eyes of men. Only a very few knew that he was a hard drinker. He always dressed well, spoke clearly, and walked steadily. Of his cynicism he made no secret, of his repudiation of the Christian story and of Christian morals he almost boasted; nevertheless, nearly every one spoke of him as a man who would make a great name.

Besides, to weaker men he had a kind of fascination. He inspired others with his own recklessness, and many almost admired his scorn of conventional beliefs. In a way, moreover, he was liked. While repudiating accepted morality in theory, he was in many respects most punctilious about points of honour. When he gave his word he never broke it. In his political speeches he never pandered to popular cries. He did not say things because they were popular, and even while he declared that all men had their price, he was never known to sell himself.

At the present time many eyes were turned towards him. He had become a great favourite in his constituency. The leader of his party had come to speak at a great gathering, and when, as the accepted candidate, he had also to address the meeting, the great man had been simply carried away by his speech. As he remarked afterwards to his colleagues, it was the speech of a statesman and an orator. It might have been Macaulay, or Burke, who had come to life again.

At times Leicester pretended to despise all this, but at heart he was proud of it. Indeed, as I have said before, ambition was the one thing which kept him from being a wastrel.

No doubt Radford Leicester's story has been repeated many times in many ways; nevertheless, it is necessary to tell it again, in order to understand something of the complex character whom I have introduced to my readers.

The club in which they had met was situated in the region of Pall Mall, and while not in the strict sense political, it was mostly frequented by those who were of Leicester's way of thinking. As I have said, it was not a large club; nevertheless, it provided a limited number of beds. These young men had come up to listen to a debate at the House of Commons, and preferred spending the night at the club to going to an hotel.

"Going to carry this thing through, Leicester?" said Winfield when the others had gone.

"If only to knock the nonsense out of those prigs," replied the other.

"Marriage is a dear price to pay."

"Then why are fellows so eager for it?"

"I don't know. Men are mostly fools, I suppose."

"Yes; but then it was not a question of marriage. It was only a question of being accepted as a possible husband."

"The same thing. No man of honour can win a woman's promise to be his wife and then jilt her."

"A great many do it. Besides, women don't care."

"Don't they? Why do you think so?"

"Because women are women. And it isn't as though this Miss Castlemaine had fears of being placed on the shelf."

"You are very cool about it, old man."

"Quite the reverse. I am quite excited. Just fancy my scheming to be the promised husband of a beautiful heiress, a sort of glorified Quakeress, rich, pious, and high-minded. Winning an election will be a small thing compared with winning her."

"But surely you'll not try and carry the thing through?"

"Why?"

"Because you don't love her."

Leicester gave a significant whistle.

"Love," he said: "does that come in?"

"It's supposed to."

"It's one of the many illusions which still exist among a certain number of people. As for its reality – "

He shrugged his shoulders significantly, and then became quiet.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Winfield presently.

"A man's secret thoughts are sacred," replied Leicester mockingly. "Do you think my pious sentiments are for public utterance?"

Winfield rose and held out his hand.

"Good-night Leicester," he said.

"What, going to bed?"

"Yes, it's past one o'clock."

"Well, what then? You've no wife to regulate your hours."

"No, but I have work to regulate them. A journalist is a slave to the public."

"Stay half an hour longer."

"What's the good?"

"I can't sleep, and it's horrible to go to bed and lie awake. Besides, I believe I've a touch of D.T."

"Nonsense. You who boast that your nerves are steel, and that no whisky can bowl you over."

"That's true, and yet – look here, Winfield, you are not one of these whining sentimentalists, and one can speak to you plainly. I was never drunk in my life; that is, I was never in a condition when I couldn't walk straight, and when I couldn't express my thoughts clearly. Nevertheless, it tells, my son, it tells. I don't get excited, and I don't get maudlin. Perhaps it would be better for me if I did."

"Why?"

"Then I should be afraid. As it is, I am afraid of nothing. And yet, I tell you, I have a bad time when I am alone in the dark. It's hell, man – it's hell!"

"Then give it up."

"I won't. Because it's all the heaven I have. Besides, I can do nothing without it. Without whisky my mind's a blank, my brains won't act. With it – that is, when I take the right quantity – nothing's impossible, man – nothing. Only – "

"What?"

"The right quantity increases – that's all. Good-night. When I come to remember, I shan't have the blues to-night."

"Why?"

"Why? Have I not to make my plans for conquest? I must win my wager!"

"Nonsense. You don't mean that?"

"But I do. Good-night, old man. Let me dream."

Radford Leicester remained only a few minutes after Winfield had left the room. Once he put his hand upon the bell, as if to ring for more whisky, but he checked himself.

"No," he said aloud, "I have had too much to-night already."

He walked with a steady step across the room, and the waiter, who had hovered around, prepared to turn out the lights.

"Good-night, Jenkins," said Leicester, as the man opened the door.

"Good-night, sir."

"Every one gone to bed except you?"

"Nearly every one, sir."

"Then I'll leave it to you to arrange for my bath in the morning. Half-past nine will do."

"Yes, sir. Hot or cold?"

A cold blast of air came along the passage. He was about to say "Cold," but he changed his mind.

"Hot, Jenkins," he said. "Good-night."

When he got to his bedroom and turned on the lights he looked at the mirror, long and steadily.

"Thirty," he said presently, "only thirty, and I'm ordering a hot bath at half-past nine in the morning. It's telling."

He wandered around the room aimlessly, but with a steady step.

"Yes," he said aloud presently, "I'll do it, if only to have the laugh out of those puppies. What's the odds? Blanche Bridgewater or Olive Castlemaine? Women are all alike – mean, selfish, faithless. Well, what then? I'm in the mood for it."

He threw himself in a chair beside the bed and began to think.

"Yes," he said presently, "that plan will work."

CHAPTER III
THE MAN AND THE WOMAN MEET

"Olive," said John Castlemaine, after reading the letters which had come to his house one morning, "I am expecting two men here to dinner to-night."

"All right, father," said the girl, who was intent on a letter of her own, "I'll tell Mrs. Bray."

John Castlemaine went to the sideboard and cut a slice of ham, and then returned to the table again. His daughter was still intent on her letter, although she occasionally took a sip of coffee.

"Letter interesting, Olive?"

"Very."

Mr. Castlemaine looked steadily at his daughter and sighed. He was not a sad-looking man, even although he sighed. There was a merry twinkle in his keen grey eyes and a smile played around his mouth. Perhaps he sighed because his daughter reminded him of her mother, who was dead. Perhaps he remembered the fact that she was his only child, and that if she married he would be all alone. That he was proud of her there could be no doubt. No one could see the look he gave her without being sure of it; that he loved her very dearly was just as certain.

And indeed it was no wonder that this should be so, for Olive Castlemaine had for years been his only earthly joy and comfort. Especially was this so since she had left school. He had bestowed all his affection on her as a child, but when she returned home from Germany, after having received many honours both at St. Andrews and Girton, pride was added to his love.

When one goes amongst a large concourse of people there is generally one face, one personality that stands out clearly and distinctly from the rest. The great majority are commonplace, unnoteworthy; but there is generally one, if not more, who strikes the attention, and claims the interest of the observer. When you see such a one you begin to ask questions. You want to know his or her history, antecedents, or achievements. If you learn nothing of importance you are disappointed. You feel that you have been defrauded of something.

"With such a face, such a personality," you say, "he or she should do and be something out of the ordinary."

Olive Castlemaine was always the one in a crowd. People seldom passed her without wanting to have a second look. When she went into society, which was seldom, many questions were invariably asked about her. There might be more beautiful women present; there might be women who were noteworthy because of some book they had written or some picture they had painted, but they did not excite the interest which Olive Castlemaine excited. It was not because of any exceeding beauty of form or face. Not that nature had dealt niggardly towards her in this direction – quite the contrary; she had a finely formed face, and there were those who raved about the purity of her complexion and the glory of her "nut-brown hair." She was tall, and well formed too, and carried herself with grace. But it was not beauty of face and form that singled her out from the crowd. What it was I will not try and tell. I should only fail if I attempted. Beauty rightly understood is a spiritual thing, and is not dependent on contour of features or a brilliant complexion – it is in truth indefinable. A doll may be pretty, but it is not beautiful. Beauty is suggested rather than portrayed – it is something which lies behind the material. I have on rare occasions seen plain women who are beautiful. What has made them so I cannot tell, except that there has been what I call, for want of a better term, a spiritual essence, which has ennobled and glorified everything.

Looking at Olive Castlemaine's photograph, you would have said, "That is a fine, striking-looking girl." If you met her and talked with her, you would not use those words. Perhaps you would not try to describe her at all. You would be impressed by a sense of nobility, of spirituality, and you would be surprised if you heard of her doing anything mean and small. Indeed you would not believe it. Perhaps that was why strangers generally asked questions about her. For beauty which suggests truth, loveliness of mind, purity of soul, is of the rarest kind. And yet this beauty is possible to all.

"I say, Olive."

"Yes, father."

"Nearly finished?"

"Oh, please forgive me. I ought to be ashamed of myself, but it is an interesting letter."

"Who is it from?"

"From Bridget Osborne. We were together in Germany, you know."

"Bridget Osborne? Where does she live?"

"In Devonshire – Taviton Grange. Don't you remember?"

"Oh yes," said John Castlemaine with a smile. Then he added, "What a coincidence!"

"What is a coincidence?"

"Oh, my letter is from a man in Taviton."

"What letter?"

"The letter which led me to tell you that two men are coming here to dinner to-night."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten. Yes, I must tell Mrs. Bray. Half-past seven, I suppose."

"Yes; by the way, what makes your letter so interesting?"

"Well, Bridget's letters are always interesting. As you know, she writes well, and she has quite a gift in summing up people. You remember her letter about that French Count?"

"Very well. Yes, yes, it was very clever. Has some one else of note been staying at the Grange?"

"In a way, yes. At least she thinks he will be of note. Indeed she describes a very striking man."

"Who is he?"

"He is the candidate which her father has persuaded to fight Sir Charles Trefry at the next election."

John Castlemaine opened his eyes rather widely for a moment, then a rather amused look came upon his face.

"Tell me what she thinks about him," he said quietly.

Olive Castlemaine took up the letter she had placed on the table and began to search for the part which gave the description to which she had referred.

"There's a lot about the girls we met in Germany," went on Olive; "you'll not be interested in them. Oh, here it is. Listen: 'A very interesting guest has just left us. I am not sure whether I like him or no. Sometimes I think I do, and at others I am just as sure that I don't. He is the candidate who has been elected to fight Sir Charles Trefry, and father feels sure that he's bound to win. He came here to dinner last night, after which he addressed a meeting at the Taviton Public Hall, and then came back here again for the night. Of course father knows him very well, but, as I have always been away when he has been here before, this is the first time I have seen him. He arrived about six in the evening, and, owing to the meeting, we had to have an early dinner. The thing which was most remarkable about him before the meeting was his silence. He scarcely spoke a word. And yet I am sure that nothing escaped him. He has large grey eyes, which have a strange look in them. His face is very pale, and he looks all the more striking because he is cleanly shaven. As I said, he was very silent, and yet I felt interested in him. He impressed me as one of those strong, masterful men who compel people to do things against their wills. Of course father asked two or three people of local importance to meet him, and the quiet way in which he snubbed them without being rude – ay, and without their feeling that they were snubbed – amused me. I rarely go to these political meetings, but I was so interested that I wanted to hear him, and I went. Of course there was a great crowd, but I took very little notice of it; I was too intent upon studying Mr. Radford Leicester's face. I have heard him spoken of as a keen politician, but I never saw a man look so utterly bored. Especially was this so at the beginning of the meeting; a little later a smile of amused contempt came upon his face as he listened to eulogiums on "our historic party." When he got up to speak, he looked disgusted at the way the people cheered, and although the former part of his speech was clever, there was nothing striking about it. He did not seem to think the audience worth an effort. Presently, however, one of the cleverest men in the town – he belonged to the other side – got up and heckled him. Then the fun began. He seemed to realise that he was on his mettle, and the way he pulverised our "local clever man" will be the talk of the town for a week of Sundays. Never before did I realise the influence of a strong, clever man. He simply played with the audience and swayed the people at will.

"'When we got home after the meeting he was again very silent for some time; then the vicar of our parish called, and again the fun commenced. This time politics were mingled with religion, and although such discussions are generally very dull, I would not have missed it for anything. To see the Rev. William Dunstable writhe and wriggle and try to explain and qualify was simply splendid. I think I see his method. Mr. Dunstable would make one of his very orthodox assertions, with which Mr. Leicester would seem to agree. After this he would lead the vicar on by a series of the most innocent questions, but which presently led him to an awful pit from which he could not get out. What Mr. Leicester believes himself I have no idea, although I am told he has very queer opinions; but that he gave Mr. Dunstable a very bad time there can be no question. Indeed, he is one of the cleverest men I ever met.

"'And yet I don't think I like him. He doesn't seem sincere, and you always have the feeling that he's mocking you. Besides, he seems to have no faith in anything. He coolly pours scorn upon our most cherished traditions, and yet you can't fasten upon a single saying which commits him. In a sense, he's a sort of modern Byron, and yet you can never associate him with Byron's vices.

"'I am afraid you will be awfully bored at this long description of a man you have perhaps never seen nor heard of, but he's the talk of the town just now, and really he's a most fascinating man. If ever you have the chance to meet him, be sure and embrace it. You'll want to disagree with everything he says, but you'll find him interesting.'"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, all about him."

"He must be a smart fellow, I should think. Should you not like to meet him?"

"I'm not sure. Of course, you know that Bridget is rather given to enthuse. Still, a clever person is always interesting."

"Because," said Mr. Castlemaine slowly, "it is rather a strange coincidence."

"What is?"

"Why, this same Mr. Radford Leicester is one of the two men who are coming to dine here to-night."

"It'll be interesting to compare notes with Bridget," said Olive, after a moment's hesitation. "But why is he coming here?"

"Oh, a Mr. Lowry, a sort of local magnate in the neighbourhood of Taviton, wishes to see me on a matter of some importance, and he has asked this Mr. Leicester to be his spokesman. I did not wish to be in town to-night, so I asked him to come here to dinner."

"And to spend the night?"

"No. They will return to town. There is a train about twelve."

But for her friend's letter Olive Castlemaine would have paid no attention to the fact that two men were coming to dine, but remembering what she had just read she felt rather desirous of seeing Mr. Radford Leicester. Perhaps that was why she told her maid to take special care in selecting a dress that night, and why, just after seven o'clock, Olive made her way to the drawing-room with more than usual interest.

She heard steps and voices in the hall just before the dinner-hour, and a few minutes later the two visitors were announced.

John Castlemaine introduced them to his daughter, and then watched her face with an amused smile. Perhaps he wondered if her opinion tallied with that of the letter she had received that very day. Mr. Lowry caused no interest. He was simply a commonplace man who had succeeded in becoming rich. Olive had seen such by the dozen, and valued them at their true worth. But few of them were interesting. As a rule, they looked at everything through the medium of money. To them passing events were of interest because of the effect they might have upon the financial market. And even here their outlook was narrow and superficial. It was evident, however, that Radford Leicester did interest her. He was a perfect contrast to the commonplace, corpulent man of business. Mr. Lowry seemed rather awed by coming into the home of one who stood so high in the commercial world. He was impressed by the quiet dignity of the great house. The old-fashioned, costly furniture, the sombre richness of everything, gave a feeling of repose to which his own house was a stranger. He wondered why it was so. He had given instructions to the manager of one of the largest furnishing establishments in Tottenham Court Road to spare no expense either in decorating or furnishing the mansion he had built, and although they had obeyed him he knew that it was different from this. As a consequence he felt ill at ease, and he stammered when Olive spoke to him. But Radford Leicester was different. He was perfectly at ease in the great drawing-room, and placed himself in the right relationship towards every one immediately. And yet a careful observer could see that he was more than usually interested. His large eyes flashed when he saw Olive Castlemaine. He had seen her only once before, and then had not been introduced to her. If he had given her a thought, it was only to regard her as the daughter of a very rich City man, and that she was said to be very religious. Now, however, all was different. While under the influence of whisky he had made a wager that he would win this woman's consent to be his wife, and now that they met face to face he had strange feelings. The first was a feeling of shame. He would not have admitted it even to himself, but he knew the feeling was in his heart. For another thing, he doubted himself. Before a word was spoken he knew that this woman was no shallow creature to be carried away by high-sounding phrases. Neither would she mistake cynical opinion, cleverly expressed, for truth. He almost felt afraid of the large brown eyes which were lifted so fearlessly to his.

When he had entered the house he, like Mr. Lowry, had felt the quiet dignity and the atmosphere of cultured refinement which prevailed.

"Who has created this," he asked himself, "the father or the daughter?"

"It is not the father," he concluded before John Castlemaine had spoken a dozen words. It was true that John Castlemaine bore an untarnished reputation for honour and uprightness, but he was not a cultured man; he would never give the house its tone. There were a hundred things which suggested the artist's feeling, the scholar's taste. When he saw Olive Castlemaine, he had no further doubt.

And he felt ashamed. Not that his opinions about women in general were altered. His experiences had been too bitter. He simply felt that his conversation in the club in London a week or so before was, to say the least of it, in bad taste. He did not mean to go back upon his words; that was not his habit. Besides, the difficulties which presented themselves made him more determined to carry his plans into effect.

As for Olive, she felt that her friend had estimated this man rightly – at least in part. He was a striking-looking man; he was a clever man. The florid merchant by his side looked mean and common compared with him. The quiet masterfulness of Leicester impressed her. He suggested a reserve of strength and knowledge which she had never before felt when brought into contact with other political aspirants. She knew the general type of Parliamentary candidates. Some had made money and wanted to have the honour associated with the British House of Legislature; others, again, were brought up with the idea of adopting the political life as a career. Neither in the one case nor the other were they men of note; they would be simply voting machines, even if they entered the House of Commons – just dull, uninteresting men, who had never grasped the principles which govern a nation's life.

But this man was different. The strong chin, the well-shaped head, the large grey eyes, could only mean a man of more than ordinary note.

They sat near each other at dinner, and all the time Radford Leicester was seeking to weigh Olive Castlemaine in the balance of his own opinions.

"I hope none of those fellows will let the wager leak out," he said to himself. "The girl makes me angry. What business has a rich City man's daughter – a religious woman and a Nonconformist – to look with searching eyes like that? I must be careful."

"You are an admirer of Tolstoi, Miss Castlemaine," he said, glancing towards a picture on the wall.

"You say that because of his picture," she replied. "An artist friend of ours knows the family. He paid a visit to Tolstoi's home, and the Count consented to sit for his picture. I believe it is very good."

"But you admire him?"

"Why do you think so?"

"Because you allow his picture to hang on your wall."

"You forget that my father would naturally govern such matters."

"I should not imagine that your father would elect to give honour to a man of Tolstoi's views."

"My father greatly admires the artist's work."

"But not this one. You are quite right, Mr. Leicester," said Mr. Castlemaine, who had overheard their conversation. "I am not an admirer of this Russian's revolutionary ideas. My daughter and I had quite an argument about this picture."

"And Miss Castlemaine had the best of it."

"What man was ever equal to a woman in argument?" said Mr. Castlemaine good-humouredly. "Yes, what were you saying, Mr. Lowry?"

"Why do you admire him?" asked Radford Leicester, turning to Olive.

"A woman always admires strength, courage, honesty," replied Olive.

"And which most?"

"Honesty."

"That is interesting. Might one ask why?"

"Because the other two do not exist without it."

Radford Leicester did not repress the answer that rose to his lips. He could not be altogether a hypocrite, even to carry out his plans.

"That is a very respectable tradition," he said.

"You do not believe it?"

"I would not try to destroy it for worlds," he said. "I can feel the whole constitution rattling about my ears at the very thought of its destruction."

"But you do not believe it?"

"What would you say if I told you I did not?"

"I should say that Tolstoi's life would prove you in the wrong."

"Have you ever considered what a complex thing humanity is, Miss Castlemaine? I have known honest men – that is, as honest men go – as timid as rabbits, and I have known scoundrels who have been as brave as lions. Is not human nature constantly laughing at us?"

"That is because our judgments are so shallow. We do not look beneath the surface."

"Yes, doubtless you are right. But my main objection to the so-called honest man is that he is so frightfully dull."

"To say the least of him, Tolstoi is not dull."

"Therefore he is not honest."

"Surely a sweeping conclusion from a very uncertain premiss."

"No, not uncertain."

"No? May I ask how you can prove it true?"

"By constantly meeting with men – and women."

"You mean that all the honest people you have met with are dull?"

"Pardon me, I am not sure I have ever met with an honest man. But I have met with those who are called honest, and – "

The girl looked at him steadily. She was not sure whether he was in earnest. It is true his face was perfectly serious, and yet she thought she detected a mocking tone in his voice.

"Children, for example," she said. "The most interesting children are those who are least self-conscious. The moment they become self-conscious and begin to act a part they cease to be attractive."

"Then you think that all but children are dull?"

"Why do you say so?"

"Because all grown-up people are acting a part."

"Again, are we not still on the surface?"

"No, we are down very deep. We are considering life. Life is simply acting a part. Why we act the parts we do is difficult to tell. Only I have noticed this: in life, as on the stage, those who elect to act the part of the good honest person are invariably dull. It is your villain who interests, and your villain who does the daring things – except in melodrama," he added quickly.

"What an unfortunate man you must be, Mr. Leicester," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you have been so unfortunate in the society you have frequented."

"Oh no, I have been singularly fortunate."

"Yes?"

"Yes, on the whole, I have found people wonderfully interesting."

What did he mean by talking in this fashion? Olive Castlemaine tried to answer the question, but was baffled. She was sure he was not such a little man as to pride himself upon breaking away from recognised rules of life simply for the sake of appearing odd. She was about to lead the conversation into another direction when a servant came bearing a card.

"Mr. Purvis," said John Castlemaine. "I wonder if he has had his dinner."

Olive Castlemaine and Radford Leicester looked at each other, they hardly knew why, and each thought that the other looked uncomfortable.