A WOMAN'S HEART
If a few months before any one had told Radford Leicester that in order
to gain a woman's good opinion he would excuse his own mode of life, he
would have either grown angry or laughed that man to scorn. Yet he
contemplated doing it at that moment. Perhaps if Sprague or Purvis had
been in the room at that moment, they would not have been sure whether
he were in earnest, or whether he were playing a part in order to win
his wager. For they believed him to be capable of anything. But
Leicester was not playing a part. He felt that nothing was too much,
that no sacrifice was too great to win the woman who stood before him.
And yet in his sacrifice he would not appear to humble himself, for he
was a proud man.
"In the past I have not taken the trouble to contradict idle gossip," he
said. "I did not think it worth while. Besides, I did not mind what
people believed about me. But I have the right to tell you the truth."
"Really, Mr. Leicester, there is no need, and I do not wish to hear
confessions."
"But I have the right."
"What right?"
"The right of a man whose future is in your hands, the right of a man
whom you can send to heaven or to hell," he replied. "Oh, I am not
speaking idle words. Forgive me if I seem to boast. I am no dandy who
has made love a dozen times, and to whom a refusal means nothing but
what a bottle of wine or a trip to the Continent can atone for. Whether
your answer is yes or no, means everything to me. For you must become my
wife, I tell you you _must_!"
The girl's eyes flashed refusal, even while they did not lack in
admiration. No woman respects a man the less because he will not
contemplate refusal.
"Listen, then," he went on. "You have heard all sorts of things about
me. I am an atheist, I am a drunkard, I am a cynic, and I laugh at the
standards of Mrs. Grundy. Yes, you have heard all that."
"And I have no right to interfere with your mode of life," she said,
"only, Mr. Leicester----"
"Wait a moment before you say what is on your lips," he interrupted. "In
this case it is for me to speak, and you can do no other than listen."
"Why?" she asked, almost angrily.
"Your sense of what is fair and honourable forbids you," he said. "Yes,
I may be what is commonly reported, but there is another side even to
that. Let me tell you, then, that I, who never professed to believe in
what is called truth and honour, never willingly deceived any man,
either by word or by deed. Yes, let me do myself justice. I, who have
laughed at Mrs. Grundy and all her ways, never broke a promise made. And
more, no man can accuse me of sullying either the honour of man or
woman. I may be all that is said of me, but I am not that kind of man."
Something, not only in his words, but in his manner, appealed to her. In
spite of herself, she gave him a quick, searching glance. There was
something noble in his face, there was a healthy anger in his words.
Whatever his creed might be, he was not a bad man.
"I had the right to tell you so much," he went on; "that at least was my
privilege, and now, having told you, I must tell you something else. You
may refuse me once, you may refuse me twice; but in the end you will
have to accept me."
Again there was a gleam of anger in her eyes, and he saw the look of
scorn which rested on her face.
"I will tell you why. You cannot run the risk of sending a man to hell.
With you as my wife I can do anything. Oh yes, I know my words seem like
the words of a mountebank, but even my worst enemies have never accused
me of being a boaster, and I repeat it; no guardian angel which your
story-books tell about could do for a man what you could do for me. I
could work, I could think, I could even become great and good. But
without you--even the thought of it is like looking into hell."
[Illustration: "With you for my wife, I can do anything."]
"And I," said Olive, "could have but little faith in a man who dared not
stand alone. If a man's future, his character, his career, are dependent
on a woman, then he rests upon a weak reed. A man to be strong must rest
on God."
"That may be your theory; if it is, I know that human nature is always
laughing at you. If God is, He's giving you the opportunity of making a
man of me."
"I would try and help you," said Olive, "but what you ask is my love,
and love cannot be given for the asking. It can only be given as it
comes. In such a matter we are not free agents."
"And could you not love me? Answer me honestly, could you not love me?"
This was the first sign of Leicester's advantage. Her eyes dropped, and
the colour came to her cheeks.
Leicester's heart beat aloud for joy; he could not repress a cry of
exultation.
But Olive Castlemaine mastered herself by a strong effort of will.
"You ask me to speak to you honestly," she said. "Well, I will. I could
never love a man--that is as you would be loved--if I did not respect
him and I could not respect a man who was the slave to an evil habit."
"You mean----" he hesitated, and looked on the floor.
"Yes, I mean that."
"Look here," he said eagerly, "promise that you will be my wife, and I
will never taste a drop of alcohol of any sort again. I give you my word
for that. Neither wine, nor whisky, nor spirits of any sort shall ever
again pass my lips."
Again she looked at him eagerly, and he thought he saw her eyes soften.
"I mean it," he went on. "What I want is motive power; given that, I can
conquer anything. Well, I will do this; say yes, and from this time
forward I will never touch it again--never, never!"
"If a thing is an evil, if it is a wrong," she said, "a man should fight
it because it is wrong. If a habit has mastered you, you should fight
it, and conquer it--because of your respect of--your own manhood."
"You ask too much," he said. "No man can do and be without a sufficient
motive. Take you out of my life, and what motive have I?"
"The belief in your own manhood."
"Why should I believe in that? If you refuse me, what have I to live
for? Yes, I fight for a position which at heart I despise. I become a
member of the British Parliament; many who have not the brains of a
rabbit, nor the ideals of a low tavern-keeper, occupy that position.
Faith in God and man! I can only think of them through you."
She felt the unworthiness of his position. She knew that her ideal man
must always be strong and brave, whatever the circumstances of his life
might be, and, so far, Leicester had disappointed her. Nevertheless,
there was in his words a subtle flattery which appeals to every woman.
She was, humanly speaking, the saving power of his life. The destiny of
this strong man was in her hands. What might he not do and be if he were
inspired by great hopes and lofty ambitions? His name could be a
household word in the land. Millions of struggling, starving people
would have cause to bless his name. And she, she could be the means used
by God whereby all that was best and noblest in this man could be
realised. For she, like all who knew him, felt the wondrous
possibilities of his life. It might seem like boasting when he said that
with her by his side he could do anything, but she felt sure it was
true.
Besides, Leicester appealed to her woman's pride. Every woman longs for
strength, masterfulness in the man she loves; she would rather be
mastered by a strong man, than be master of a weak man. At that moment
she forgot Leicester's cynicism, his professed scorn for all she held
most dear; she thought of him as the man he could be.
Behind all that was unworthy, the real man lay strong and brave. He
might become a Cabinet Minister, Prime Minister! He had power which
could fit him even for this. The sphere of such a man's influence was
simply boundless. He could uplift the whole tone of the nation. And
then, more than all, he loved her! This was not the sneering,
unbelieving man who first came to her father's house a few weeks before,
who took a pleasure in laughing at all that was best and truest. No one
could accuse him of lack of earnestness to-day. He had almost frightened
her by the intensity of his appeal, the passion of his words. And did
she love him? If perfect love casteth out fear, she did not love him.
Nevertheless, no man had ever appealed to her like this man. Others had
asked her for her love, and she had refused them without hesitation; but
Leicester was different. If she refused him, it would be after many
questions, it would be with an aching heart.
And yet she was afraid. She wanted to think, she wanted to examine her
own heart in loneliness and in silence. Yes, and she wanted to speak to
her father. Was this a sign that she did not really love him? It was
difficult to say. Leicester had been spoken of in her hearing as one who
sneered at all things which to her were sacred, and it was out of
harmony with her whole life-thought to link her life with such a man.
But there was another side of the question. He loved her, and the
thought of his love made her heart beat quickly, and filled her with a
strange joy.
These thoughts passed through her mind in a flash. Nay, perhaps she did
not think them at all. They became a kind of consciousness to her, a
series of impressions which possessed her being without mental activity
on her own part. Moreover, Leicester, by a kind of intuition, divined
what was in her mind. For these two natures were closely akin, although
their training, outlook, and conceptions of life were entirely
different. If he were a keen-brained, strong, masterful man, she was in
her degree his equal. She loved strength even as he rejoiced in it.
Although in many respects presenting a strong contrast, Mother Nature
had cast them in a similar mould.
Meanwhile, Leicester was watching her closely. He tried to read her face
as he would read an open book, with what eagerness we need scarcely say.
What had begun in grim and almost repelling jest had resulted in
terrible earnestness. This man loved with all the strength of his
nature.
"I want your answer," he said at length. "And I must only have one
answer. Oh, forgive me if I seem rude, but I cannot help it. I know that
I have not spoken as I ought: that is because I have spoken as I was
compelled. I know how unworthy I am--yes, I am in deadly earnest. I know
I am not worthy to brush your boots; but I love you with all the
strength of my life. Tell me, Olive Castlemaine, that I may hope."
"No," she said quietly, "I cannot tell you that--that is--yet."
She knew she yielded the whole position in that qualification, although
she would not have admitted it--so strange a thing is a woman's heart.
Leicester felt sure of it too, and, unbeliever as he was, he could have
said "Thank God."
"I must have time to think," she went on. "I must speak to my father."
He took a step forward as if to grasp her hand, but she drew back.
"No," she said. "I did not expect--that--you would come to me in this
way, and--it is not a decision which can be made lightly."
"No, great God, no," said Leicester. His voice was hoarse, and almost
trembling. He never could have believed that he could have been so much
moved. "It is everything to me--everything."
In his heart of hearts he believed that she would accept him, and yet
the fear that she should not became a ghastly nightmare.
"Excuse me," she went on, "but I think I would like to be alone now. I
want----"
"Yes," interrupted Leicester, taking his hat and gloves. "I understand.
Good-afternoon."
She felt almost disappointed. Was he going away like this? Did he take
it for granted that she would write him her decision? But she said
nothing. A servant came in answer to her ring, and Leicester walked into
the hall. To the servant his manners seemed that of a visitor who had
been coldly received.
"Shall I call a carriage, sir?"
"No, I shall walk to the station."
The man opened the door, and he left the house without another word. He
walked to the station almost like a man in a dream; he could hardly
realise that what had taken place was an actual fact. He had proposed
to Olive Castlemaine, and he had not been refused. He found he had
twenty minutes to wait for a train back to London, but that did not
trouble him. Nothing mattered now. A new element had come into his life;
everything had changed. He was no longer a ship upon life's sea, he was
a man who loved, and was loved. True, Olive had not said so much as
this, but he had read enough of her character to know that had there not
been strong hope for him, she would have refused him there and then.
He walked up and down the platform without seeing or hearing anything.
One thought filled his mind, one hope filled his heart. Presently, when
his train arrived, he had a vague idea that he was on the way to the
City.
An hour later he arrived at his club. By this time the spell which the
interview with Olive had cast over him had lost some of its power.
Doubts began to arise, fears came into his heart. He was no longer sure
of himself or of her. As the excitement passed away, the old longing for
whisky came back to him. He was on the point of ordering it when he
remembered what he had said to Olive.
"She has not yet promised you," said temptation. "Indulge freely while
you may. You will be breaking no promise." He stretched out his hand to
ring a bell, but as quickly withdrew it.
"No," he said, "I should be ashamed to meet her again if I did. I'll not
be such a weak thing as that."
He scarcely slept that night. Hope and fear, joy and despair alternately
possessed him, and in his darker hours the craving for drink dogged him.
Once he went so far as to take a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, but
when he realised what he was doing he opened the window and poured the
contents into the street. Never in his whole life had a night seemed so
long. Again and again did he switch on the electric light and try to
read, only to throw one book after another from him in anger and
weariness. When morning at length came, it brought no comfort. What had
given him hope and joy the day before only filled his mind with doubt
now. Besides, every fibre of his drink-sodden nature cried out for
satisfaction. Life became almost unbearable.
"It's this uncertainty," he said. "If she had said yes, I could drive
the craving from me as such an accursed thing should be driven, but
while I am in doubt I seem like a feather in the wind."
As the thought passed through his mind, the humour of the situation
possessed him. He laughed at himself. He, Radford Leicester, who for
years had despised women, was now admitting that his whole future
depended on the single word of one of the despised sex. What would his
acquaintances say? This reminded him of Purvis and Sprague, and of the
compact they had made, and then he felt like laughing no more. What if
they should ever divulge what had taken place between them!
He seized a telegraph form, and wrote quickly: "_Expect me to-night at
six. Leicester._" This dispatch he addressed to Olive Castlemaine, and
after that he became more calm. It seemed to form another link between
him and the woman he loved. He spent the morning in answering letters
which had come from his constituency, and then, after lunch, he went to
a livery stable and hired a horse. When he returned he hardly knew
where he had been, but the owner of the horse knew he had been ridden
hard, so hard that he resolved to make certain stipulations before
trusting him again with such a valuable animal.
A few minutes before six Radford Leicester was again at The Beeches.
"Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir," said the servant, as he took
his hat and coat; "he will be down in a few minutes. Will you step this
way, sir?"
It was the same room. He noted the chair where Olive had sat the day
before, he remembered the quiet ticking clock on the mantelpiece, the
fire-irons that were placed on the hearth. He recalled the words of the
servant, "Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir." Did that mean that
Olive had deputed her father to speak for her? If so, it meant refusal.
His heart grew cold at the thought. The door opened and Olive entered.
Eagerly he looked at her, feverishly he tried to read her answer in her
eyes.
She came up close to him, and then stood still. Her eyes were full of
tears.
"Olive?" he said. Everything he meant seemed to be in her name as he
uttered it. It was a question, it was an expression of his love, of his
heart's longings.
"Yes," she replied.
He lifted her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it. He longed to
take her in his arms, and to tell her of his heart's joy; he longed to
kiss her lips, and tell her that he would give his whole life to make
himself worthy of her trust. But something sealed his lips. What was it?
Is there, humanly speaking, a diviner power on earth than the love of a
pure, womanly woman? Is there anything that can make a bad man ashamed
of his badness, or lead a purposeless man to devote his life to some
great and worthy cause, so really and truly as the love of a woman whom
he knows to be worthy of the name of woman? If there is, I do not know
of it. If the old, old story that sin came upon the race by a woman is
true, it is more true that good women are God's greatest means of
purifying the world of its sin. Radford Leicester had not been a good
man. If he had not fallen as low as some, it was because of innate
pride, and because his nature abhorred some of the grosser and coarser
forms of sin. He had not been filled with high purposes, he had lived
wholly for self; but as he kissed Olive's hand, such a contrition, such
a shame as he had never known before, came into his heart. Proud man as
he was, he found himself saying what he would have laughed to scorn a
few months before.
"Thank you, Olive," he said, still holding her hand, "you have given me
a new life to live." He hesitated a moment, and then went on speaking
again. "I want to tell you this," he said. "Although I am unworthy of
you, I will try and make myself worthy. That promise I made yesterday I
will keep. Yes, I will keep it. And--and if there is a God, I will find
Him."
He spoke the words reverently. There was not a touch of the cynic in his
voice; it was even as he felt. God had used this woman to lead him the
first step towards his salvation.
"You have no doubt, no fear, Olive?" he said.
"No," she said quietly, "not one. I believe you, I trust you
implicitly."
"And you love me?"
"Yes," she said.
"Really and truly. You know what I mean?" He spoke quietly and slowly,
but his voice trembled.
"How could I say what I have said--else?" There was a sob in her voice
as she spoke, and yet the sob sounded like a laugh.
"Thank God!"
He did not believe, this man, that God existed, and yet it was the only
way that he could express the great joy of his heart. Never, until then,
had he known what happiness meant. The old, hopeless, purposeless past
was forgotten; that night his history began anew.
* * * * *
After dinner that night, John Castlemaine and Radford Leicester talked
long and earnestly. It was no light matter to the father to promise his
child in marriage; moreover, although he admired Leicester, and while he
believed that a great career was possible to him, he did not feel quite
happy. For John Castlemaine belonged to the old school of thought, and
he had no sympathy with the modern looseness of ideas. He came of a
stock who for more than a hundred years had fought the battle of
religious liberty, and who had been ready to sacrifice their goods, even
their lives, for principle. He was a Puritan of the best order. He
retained all their old strong characteristics, he stood for their
noblest ideals, without adhering to much that was sunless and repugnant.
He was a happy, genial man, kind almost to indulgence as far as his
daughter went, but he was strong in his hatred of the so-called morals
of that class to which Leicester was supposed to belong. Moreover, Olive
was his only child. Upon her he had poured the wealth of his affection,
and thus the thought of giving her to a man was no light matter. Could
he then give her to Leicester? It was a hard struggle; but in the end
Leicester won. He spoke to John Castlemaine freely and frankly, and he
spoke with such fervour, such strength of purpose, that in spite of all
he had heard, John Castlemaine was convinced of the other's worthiness.
"But not yet, not yet," said the older man. "I cannot bear to lose her
yet."
"But why need we wait?" asked Leicester. "We are neither of us children,
and I need her, Mr. Castlemaine. She is all the world to me."
"I say 'not yet,' because without her I shall be alone. Fancy me living
in this great house without Olive. It will become like a vault, an empty
vault, and I do not know how I can bear it."
"I am free to live where you like," said the young man. "I will build a
house close by here if it is your will, or I will buy one. I saw one for
sale on my way here."
"Then why not live here?" asked John Castlemaine. The thought of having
his son-in-law always near him was pleasant.
"If Olive is willing, I will gladly consent," he replied, "and in that
case you will not insist on a long engagement."
When Leicester returned to town that night, it seemed as though the air
were filled with music; as though angel forms were all around him. He
felt Olive's warm kisses on his lips, while words of love rang in his
ears. Again and again he recalled the words she had spoken, when at
length her natural reserve had been broken, and the strangeness of the
situation had been dispelled. And he had laughed at the joy of lovers,
he had scorned a woman's promises! But all that had gone now. At least
he thought so. He did not realise that the past could not be buried, and
that the Nemesis of every life walks unchecked. How could he? It seemed
to him that the very gates of heaven had been opened, and that his love
had created a barrier between him and the dark past, so real and so
strong that nothing could break it down.
He had no craving for drink that night; he slept like a child, and when
at length the grey November day broke, it seemed to him as fair as a May
morning.