LEICESTER'S WOOING
During the next few weeks Radford Leicester and Olive Castlemaine met
more than once. By what seemed a strange coincidence Leicester received
invitations to houses where Olive Castlemaine had promised to go. They
spoke but little on these occasions, nevertheless it was evident that
each found the other very interesting. It was noticed, moreover, that
Leicester was less cynical and hopeless when in her presence. His eyes
shone with a new light, and his voice was resonant with eagerness. She
seemed to act upon him as a kind of mental and spiritual tonic. The old
bored air passed away when she appeared, and while he seemed to be
little interested in the society of others, there could be no doubt that
Olive Castlemaine aroused him to earnestness.
When he was with men, he was cold and cynical as ever, neither did he
seem to be fighting the habit which had gained such mastery over him.
Sprague and Purvis often talked about him, but they had no idea of what
he intended to do. True to their promise, they said nothing about the
compact which they had made, and while some of Leicester's friends
thought he would be a suitor for Miss Castlemaine's hand, others were
just as certain that he was "not a marrying man." But no one seemed
certain. Leicester was not a man who gave his confidence freely, and of
late he seemed less sociable to his acquaintances than ever. As for
friends, he did not possess any.
More than once Purvis and Sprague sought to make him divulge his
intentions, but when they asked him questions he looked at them in a way
that, to say the least, did not encourage them. When he happened to meet
Olive Castlemaine, he was interested, eager, and sometimes almost
excited; with others he was moody, taciturn, and evidently far from
happy.
At last one day the light of resolution came into his eyes. He lunched
at his club, and then, having dressed with great care, he made his way
to Olive Castlemaine's home. He had received no invitation, neither did
he know whether he would find her in the house. Nevertheless he went.
During his journey there, he seemed in deep thought. At the railway
station he bought a paper, but he never looked at it. Sometimes he
looked out of the window, but evidently he saw nothing. He was as
unconscious of his surroundings as a sleep-walker.
Presently he drew near the station which he knew to be the nearest to
The Beeches, and then he rose in the carriage and walked between the
seats, as though he were considering some course of action.
"Shall I tell her the truth, the whole truth?" he said presently. "Shall
I relate to her the miserable----? No, no--not that!" He set his teeth
firmly together as he spoke. "No, no--not that!" he repeated, and again
he looked out of the carriage window with the same stony stare.
"If she refuses me----" he said presently. "But no, I'll not be refused.
If she says no a hundred times, I'll ask her again. I won't, no I
_can't_ be refused. It would be----"
The man's body grew rigid as he spoke. Evidently Radford Leicester was
in a stern mood, and bent upon a mission which affected him deeply.
The train stopped, and the porters shouted the name of the station. He
stepped on to the platform and looked around him. Only a very few people
had come by the train; the time was yet too early for the City men.
Outside the station he engaged a hansom, and told the man to drive him
to The Beeches.
"I wonder if she's at home," he said to himself, "and if she is, I
wonder if she'll see me?"
There could be no doubt that Radford Leicester was untrue to the creed
which he had so often professed. "Nothing is worth while," he had
answered many times, when he was asked why he did not take life
seriously. But he was serious now. His eyes shone with the light of
expectancy and of determination. He did not notice the country through
which the cab was passing. He did not realise that, instead of busy
streets and tall buildings, there were lanes and quiet meadows. He did
not notice that the speculating builder had not been allowed to ruin a
pleasant neighbourhood, and that although he was not many miles distant
from the heart of London, the district was suggestive of a country
village. Yet so it was. John Castlemaine owned all the land around, and
he had kept the speculating builder at bay. It is true he had built many
workmen's cottages--cottages which reflected credit alike upon his heart
and upon his artistic tastes, but long rows of jerry-built ugliness
were nowhere visible, and the countryside retained the sweet rusticity
of a purely rural district.
The Beeches was a fine old mansion standing far back in its own grounds,
and surrounded by a number of large old trees, which gave the house its
name. Once inside the lodge gates, it was difficult to believe that
London, with its surging life, lay in the near distance. An atmosphere
of restfulness and repose reigned, only disturbed by the passing of the
trains, which ran a little more than a mile away from John Castlemaine's
house.
While Radford Leicester was passing along the quiet road he took no
notice of his surroundings, but once inside the lodge gates he seemed to
realise where he was. He had been to the house twice before, but he had
not noticed the grounds. Indeed, he had had no opportunity. Night had
fallen before he came, and as he had left at midnight, it was impossible
to see anything. Now, however, all was different. It was true the time
was late autumn, and many of the trees were denuded of leaves; but the
sun shone brilliantly, and the autumn flowers gleamed in the sunlight.
He noticed, too, the air of stately repose which characterised the
house; he was impressed by the extensive lawns, and the gnarled old
trees which dotted the park. Here was no tawdry, ornamented dwelling of
the _nouveau riche_; it was the solid, substantial dwelling of a City
merchant of the old school. Even the servants had an air of
proprietorship. They were not of the "month on trial" order. Evidently
they had served the family for many years, and had become accustomed to
their surroundings.
Leicester had noticed, when he told the cabman to drive to The Beeches,
that the man had treated him with marked respect. Visitors of John
Castlemaine were not to be regarded lightly.
"Will you wait a minute," said Leicester to the cabman, as he drew up at
the door. He was not sure whether the one he had come to see might be
disposed to see him. He rang the bell, realising that his heart was
beating faster than was its wont.
"Is Mr. Castlemaine at home?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is in?"
"Yes, sir."
The servant recognised him again, and took his card in to Olive with a
smile.
"Will you walk in, sir?" he said presently, and then Leicester, having
dismissed the cabman, entered the house for the third time.
Everything was strangely quiet. The house might have been in the heart
of the country. To the young man it felt almost like a temple, so
different was it from the gaily decorated club where he spent so much of
his time. When the servant left him, and he looked around the room into
which he had been shown, he felt like a man in a dream. It seemed to him
as though he had entered a new world. The air of refinement and culture
which he had realised when he first entered this room seemed more than
ever present. Then a great pain shot through his heart. Why was he
there? What had led to his being there?
He heard a rustle of garments outside, and Olive Castlemaine entered. He
felt as though this was the first time he had seen her at home.
Evidently she had expected no visitors, and she was dressed for no
function. He noticed that she looked younger now than when he had seen
her on other occasions, more girlish, more than ever a child of nature.
He preferred to see her in this way. It had always seemed to him that
women appeared at their worst in the attire which society demands for
evening functions. It gave the impression of artificiality, of being
dressed for "show." But now all was different. She stood before him in a
simple, closely fitting dress, which perfectly harmonised with her
glossy dark brown hair and perfect complexion, and also revealed to
advantage her finely moulded form.
"I make no apology for taking a great liberty, Miss Castlemaine," he
said. "I have called this afternoon on the chance of seeing you, because
I could do no other."
She gave him a quick glance; but quick as it was, it revealed the fact
that Leicester's mocking, cynical manner was gone. The flash of his
eyes, the stern, set features showed that he was deadly in earnest.
"You frighten me," she said, with a laugh. "I hope you have brought me
no bad news."
"I have not the slightest idea how you will regard it," he said, "but I
have come to ask you a favour."
"What is it?" she said, still smiling. "Is it to give a subscription to
some charity which you have been in the habit of condemning?"
"No," he replied, "I have come to ask you to listen to me patiently for
a few minutes."
She froze somewhat at this. Perhaps the look in his eyes made her feel
somewhat uncomfortable. She realised that it was somewhat unusual for a
comparative stranger to come in such a way.
"I am afraid I am a poor listener," she said, "and, what is more, I am
at a loss to conceive how I can advantage you by doing so."
"Still, you will hear me out, won't you?"
"I have no choice, have I?" she said, almost nervously.
"I want to be frankly egotistic," he said. "I want to speak about a
worthless subject--myself."
She felt her heart fluttering; but she spoke composedly.
"Then I think we had better sit down," she said.
She suited the action to the word, but Leicester continued standing. He
laid his hat and gloves on a chair, but stood before her, his body
almost rigid.
"I have seldom been earnest during the last few years," he said, "but
when I have been, I have always wanted to stand up. I am in earnest
now."
Olive Castlemaine did not reply, but she sat watching him. There was no
longer a tone of mockery in his voice, and his pale face and earnest
eyes gave no suggestion of the cynical faithlessness which characterised
him at their first meeting. She felt as though she would like to refuse
to listen to him, but his presence forbade her. He was strong and
masterful, even in his appeal.
"Miss Castlemaine," he said, "I imagine that you have heard but little
that is good of me. You have been told that I am an atheist, a man
without faith in man, or in God, and what you have heard is in the main
true. Not altogether, but in the main. I am not what is called a good
man, indeed I cannot claim to have been even an admirer of goodness.
Certainly I have believed in very little of it."
Olive interrupted him. "As a strong Protestant, Mr. Leicester," she
said, "I am not a believer in confessions, and I am sure I am not fitted
to be your confidante."
"You promised to listen to me, Miss Castlemaine," he said, "and I claim
the fulfilment of the promise. Believe me, I did not come here lightly,
neither am I speaking meaningless words. This afternoon will be a crisis
in my life, and if there is a God, He knows that I am as sincere as a
man can be."
Again she was silenced. The strength of the man's personality was,
although she did not know it, bending her will to his. On the other
hand, she was exercising no power of resistance, and she was interested
to know what he would say.
"I do not know that I am an atheist," he said. "Indeed, I have sometimes
a feeling at the back of my mind that there must be a God, and that this
life is only a fragment of life as a whole; but that is not often. That
is no wonder. I was brought up to believe that there was no God. I was
trained to distrust every one, and to look for evil motives in every
life. I believe my father meant to be kind in doing this for me; anyhow,
I am a result, at least in part, of his training. I never knew a
mother's care.
"Please do not misunderstand me; I am not growing maudlin nor
sentimental; I am simply stating facts. I went to Oxford, and while
there, my father's training was confirmed, accentuated. I suppose I had
abilities, and was informed when I took my degree that my career there
was--well, more than creditable. I did the usual thing when I was three
or four and twenty. I fell in love."
"Really, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, "there can be no----"
"It was the fancy of a boy," went on Radford, as if he had not heard
her, "and it did not last long. She jilted me in a very ordinary
fashion, and my heart-wounds were not deep. All it did, I think, was to
confirm my early impressions about woman's love. Since that time I have
avoided women. Yes, I speak quite sincerely, I have avoided them.
Despising them, I neglected seeking the society of women altogether. I
have lived mainly at my club, so that I might not be brought into
contact with them. You will naturally ask, if you are interested in me
at all, what I have lived for, I quite realise that every man must have
some motive power in life, some driving-force, and I have had mine. It
is very poor, very mean in your eyes, no doubt; but I will tell the
truth. My driving-power has been ambition. Rightly or wrongly, many who
know me believe I have gifts above the ordinary; they have told me that
if I will, I can have a notable parliamentary career. Possibly they are
right--I do not know. But I realise, even in spite of my creed, that the
motive is insufficient. Besides, I cannot help laughing at the whole
political world. The great bulk of our political magnates have no sense
of humour, but they are irresistibly funny nevertheless. I can see that
they are only pawns in the game, although they think they are of great
importance, and then----"
He stopped, and took two or three steps towards the window; then he
returned and, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, went on speaking.
"I have been wondering during the last few weeks whether I have not been
blind to a very real world," he said. "This I know: I have been simply
longing to believe in things the existence of which I have denied. I
have wanted to believe in a final Will, a final Beneficence; I have
wanted to believe that we are not the playthings of a blind chance, and
that what we call disorder and discord are but the preludes to a divine
Harmony. With that longing has come another and this is a selfish
longing. It is to play something like a worthy part on the stage of
life. Sometimes this longing scarcely exists; sometimes it grows strong
and clamorous. There are times when I believe that I, even I, can live a
life that is really worth the living. This belief is only a new-born
child. It is sickly, and lacks vitality, but it exists.
"No, no, bear with me a few minutes longer. I know I have chosen a poor
subject to talk about, but then I confess myself to be an egotist. I,
like every other man, regard myself as the only person worth talking
about; so please forgive me. But do not mistake me. I do not pose as a
good man, or a worthy man. I still doubt whether such exists; but there
are times when I have strange longings, and these longings sometimes,
though rarely, become a kind of belief that I, worthless, faithless as I
am, can live a life which is worth the living."
He was silent a few seconds, and seemed at a loss how to proceed, while
Olive Castlemaine sat, scarcely realising the true condition of affairs,
at the same time feeling the masterfulness of the man who spoke to her.
"Perhaps you are hardly interested to know the reason for this," he went
on, "nevertheless I must tell you. You are the reason."
Olive glanced up like one startled.
"I, Mr. Leicester?"
"You. I have not learnt to believe in goodness generally, but I believe
in your goodness. I have not learnt to believe in women, but I believe
in a woman. I believe in you. And I believe in you because I love you."
He spoke quietly, and there was no tremor in his voice, but his face
was, if possible, paler than usual. That he was deadly in earnest no one
could doubt.
"I make no pretences," he went on. "I do not say, nay, I do not think
that I shall ever become a pattern man. Even now I have no strong faith,
even if I have any, in either God or man; but I love you!"
He seemed to be carried away by his own confession. Almost rudely he
turned his back on her and walked to the window and looked out over the
stretch of lawn and park-land. But he did not remain there. When he came
back again Olive glanced at him almost fearfully, and for a moment was
well-nigh repelled by the fierce look in his eyes.
"I love you," he went on, still quietly; but his voice had changed.
There was an intensity in its tones which she had never heard before. "I
love you so, that--that with you by my side, I feel I could conquer
anything, accomplish anything--anything! Look at me, yes, like that. Now
then, do you love me?"
Almost mechanically she shook her head. She did not know why she did
this, only it seemed as if some unseen monitor compelled her.
Radford Leicester took a step towards her.
"You must," he said, in the same low tone, but still almost fiercely,
"you must, you must! You must not withhold it. Good God! you do not know
what this hour means to me. My life, my future, my faith, my all is in
your hands."
Still she remained silent. Her face had become pale, and although the
look in her eyes was not of fear, it showed no confidence.
"Speak to me," he went on. "I am not a boy longing for a new toy. I am a
hardened man, a hardened sinner, if you like. I make no boasts, no
professions, but I love you, love you! and you must love me, you must."
For a moment the girl resented his air of masterfulness. She was not of
the weak and pliable kind of women that could be carried away by wild
assault. She looked up at him steadily now, and Leicester saw by the
expression in her eyes that he had touched a wrong chord.
"Forgive me my rudeness," he said, before she had a chance to speak,
"but I think a man in earnest is sure to be rude; he must be. Do not
think, moreover, that I do not realise the value of what I am asking
for. I do. I know that you have been sought after on all hands. I know
that you are said to be rich, and that you can choose where you will.
Oh, yes; I have thought of all that, and I have realised my madness in
coming to you; but I am a desperate man. No, no, do not think I have
been simply attracted by a beautiful face. I have been seeing beautiful
faces any time these last ten years; it's not that. It's you, you. I
love you, I tell you, and if you cannot love me I shall go into a
blacker hell than I have yet known, and I shall go there with eagerness,
and eagerness born of despair. But with your love I can do anything. Oh,
I am not boasting, and I am not speaking before looking down to the
very depths, but with your love I can live a life worth the living; I
can make a position worth the making. Tell me, Olive Castlemaine, tell
me that you can give a thought, a kind thought, a loving thought to me."
In spite of herself she was moved. Olive Castlemaine admired strong,
masterful men. She could forgive rudeness where there was sincerity and
strength, and certainly she had never been wooed in this way before. She
could not help comparing Leicester with men like Purvis and Sprague.
They were weak and effeminate beside him. His very cynicism, his
faithlessness seemed to her but as an expression of a strong nature,
which was dissatisfied with conventions and a weak assent to commonly
accepted beliefs. It is true she had seen his weakness, she had heard
him express the purposelessness of his life; but she had also seen in
him another Radford Leicester which was great and strong. And yet he had
not won her. Something, she knew not what, told her to refuse. An
indefinable fear, perhaps owing to her Puritan training and her healthy
upbringing, kept her from uttering the words he longed to hear.
Still Radford Leicester had caused her heart to beat as it had never
beaten before; never had she been drawn by such an admiration, an
admiration akin to affection, as she was drawn now. He was a strong man,
and she instinctively felt that in him were the possibilities of
greatness and of goodness. She believed, too, that she could be the
means of translating those possibilities into actual life; but she did
not give him a ray of hope. A few minutes before, she felt like
speaking. Now the desire had gone. She had nothing to say, she knew not
why.
"You are thinking of what you have heard about me," he said, "are you
not?"
"Perhaps."
He was silent for a moment. Perhaps it was because he thought of the
night which led to this meeting, and as a consequence felt ashamed.
Once, on his way thither, he had thought of telling her the whole story,
but now he would rather have suffered death than that she should know.
Even then he determined that if either of the men who were parties to
the shameful compact, should divulge the secret he would make their
lives a hell. For Radford Leicester was not making love to gain a wager.
A passion to which he had hitherto been a stranger had gripped him body
and soul. At that moment Olive Castlemaine was everything to him. He
would have bartered his immortal soul to gain her love. The cold,
cynical crust of the man's nature had been broken, and the hot lava
which had been lying beneath now burst forth.
"And you care for that," he said.
"Yes, I care for that."
"And if I had been what you call a good man, what then?"
"I do not know."
"But it would influence you?"
"It would influence me greatly."
"You believe in all you have heard?"
"You have denied nothing--and no, Mr. Leicester, even if I loved a bad
man, I would crush that love--that is, as you have been speaking of it."
He called to mind what he had said to Sprague and Purvis on the night
the compact was made, and while there was a feeling of joy in his heart
at her words, the memory of that night pierced him like a poisoned
arrow. This woman had disproved his creed by a single sentence. For he
knew that she meant it. There was no weak, faltering hesitancy in her
words. The flash of her eyes, the tone of her voice, told him that she
had uttered no idle threat. Here was a nature as strong as his own, a
nature which loved goodness as much as he had pretended to despise it.
He felt that the ground was slipping under his feet, but he retained his
calm.
"Wait a moment," he said, "there is something else I want to say to
you."