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.