THE WEDDING-DAY
A few minutes later Winfield returned. He entered the carriage without a
word. He seemed stunned by what he had heard.
"What is it, Winfield?--tell me."
Winfield looked thoughtful, he seemed at a loss what to do or to say.
Then he opened the carriage window.
"Drive on," he said to the coachman.
"Where to, sir?"
"The station," he said; "that is, The Beeches Station."
"Yes, sir."
"I say, what is it, Winfield?"
"I don't know."
"Don't be an ass--tell me."
"It's the general impression that there's to be no wedding to-day," said
Winfield grimly.
Leicester seemed prepared for this. He never moved a muscle of his face,
but it was evident his mind was working quickly.
"Go on," he said quietly.
"I found the church caretaker, or sexton, or whatever they call him,"
said Winfield, "and he told me that he had received orders at eight
o'clock this morning to open neither the church gates nor the church
doors, as the wedding would not take place to-day."
"I see," said Leicester. "What besides?"
"It seems the talk among these people that the telegraph clerk has had a
busy time this morning. It is said that he has sent hundreds of
telegrams, all signed 'Castlemaine.' I expect that's a bit exaggerated,"
he added.
"And the purport of these telegrams?"
"There is a general impression that they all repeated the information
which the caretaker gave me. I say, Leicester, have you any explanation
to give?"
"I? None. No, I must receive the information. Yes, at least that's due
to me."
"Have you received no communication of any sort?"
"I? No, I forgot. I did not ask about my letters this morning. I--I
think I was too--excited."
"Drinking?"
"No; but if--I say!" He put his head out of the carriage window. "Not to
The Beeches Station," he said; "the house--you understand?"
The driver grinned. Evidently he had heard what had been said, but he
said "Yes, sir," quite civilly, and changed the direction of the horses'
heads.
Winfield wanted to say more to Leicester, but he dared not, the look on
the man's face was too ghastly.
"Here's fine copy for the yellow journalist," thought Winfield. "It
seems a pity that this kind of thing is not in my line. It would be more
eagerly read than any news about the Armenian atrocities. But there,
there will be enough to give this matter publicity. I wonder what lies
at the bottom of it. Of course some plausible excuses will be given to
the local reporters--Miss Castlemaine ill, or Mr. Leicester called to
Abyssinia; but there's some tragedy at the back of this, as sure as my
name's Arthur Winfield. Poor old Leicester, he looks death-stricken."
The carriage drew up at the door of The Beeches, and Winfield looked
out. No one was to be seen. There were no signs that anything of
importance had happened, or would happen. It might have been an empty
house, for all the signs of life that were visible. As for suggestions
of a wedding, they were nowhere apparent. The springtime had not come,
but the day was warm, and an air of restfulness seemed to reign over the
grounds. The hall door was closed.
Leicester leapt from the carriage, then he looked around in a dazed kind
of way. He noted the great beeches in the park, and the passing of a
distant train.
"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is ill," said Winfield, "or it may be that
something has happened to her father." He wanted to chase away the
ghastly look which rested on the other's face.
But Leicester seemed to take no heed; rather he appeared to be trying to
realise the situation.
"Let me see, Winfield," he said. "I want to understand. Put me right if
I am in the wrong. To-day is the day arranged for my wedding-day. Two
hundred guests were invited. We were to be married up at the church
yonder, by that man Sackville. When we got there we found the place
locked, while you were informed that the caretaker had received orders
to keep the place locked, as there was to be no wedding. You were also
told that the telegraph clerk had sent away a lot of messages saying the
same thing as the man at the church told you. Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. But Miss Castlemaine or her father may be ill, you
know. You did not look at your letters this morning, and thus were in
ignorance."
"I only wanted to be sure I had got hold of the facts," replied
Leicester. "I might be mistaken, you know. I feel all knocked about."
He went to the door and rang the bell. After what seemed ages to him, it
was opened by an old servant.
"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"
The man hesitated a second, and then said:
"I believe so, sir."
"Is--is--she well?"
He did not seem to realise what he was saying, and yet he watched the
servant's face closely.
"As far as I know of, sir."
"Will you tell her I wish to see her?"
Again the man hesitated.
"Excuse me, sir," he said presently, "but you can't see her."
"Why?" he asked in a dazed way.
"It's not for me to say, sir."
By a strong effort he controlled himself, the old look of determination
came back into his eyes, and he spoke more like his normal self.
"Am I to understand that you have her orders to this effect?"
"Yes, sir--that is, from Mr. Castlemaine, sir."
"Will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I wish to see
her?"
There was a tone of command in his voice. The man felt like obeying.
"It's no use, sir," he said; "my orders was most explicit, sir."
A savage look flashed into his eyes, but he held himself under control.
"I wish you to go to Miss Castlemaine and tell her that I must see her."
"My orders, sir, was most----"
"Go and tell her," he said quietly, "that I must see her, and that I
shall wait here until I do."
The look in his eyes frightened the old servant. Besides, for some time
now, he had been led to look upon him as his future master.
"For God's sake, Mr. Leicester----" he said piteously.
"Go, or I will not be answerable for the consequences," he said, in the
same quiet tones; "tell them that I will not take 'No' for an answer."
The servant looked helplessly, first at Leicester and then at Winfield.
Finally he closed the door in their faces like one afraid.
"I'll do the best I can, sir," he said, "but you must not come in."
A few minutes later he came back again, and his face was almost as pale
as that of the young man who had stood as still as a statue on the
doorstep.
"If you please, sir, you are both to follow me," he said in a frightened
whisper.
Leicester was perfectly calm now, but the calm was unnatural; his every
feature was set and rigid, his face had a pallor that was deathly. He
followed the man without a word. As for Winfield, he felt that the whole
atmosphere of the place was charged with excitement, and he wondered
why he was also asked to follow the servant.
With faltering steps the man led the way into the library. Leicester
knew that this was John Castlemaine's favourite room, and that it was
here he spent most of his time when he was at home. The servant opened
the door, and then closed it again, noiselessly.
Olive Castlemaine and her father were both standing near the fireplace
as the young men entered. The man's face was cold, and stern, and
relentless. As for Olive, she gave evidence of a sleepless night. Her
eyes were dry and hard, but her face, though pale, suggested no signs of
weakness. She looked almost composed, except that her lips were
compressed.
Leicester took a step towards her, but only a step. The look in her eyes
forbade him. Still he remained calm.
"I am naturally come for--for an explanation," he said.
"I thought that my letter would have relieved me of that necessity,"
said John Castlemaine.
"I have received no letter."
"I sent one by hand this morning."
"I have not seen it."
Leicester knew by the look on Olive's face that something terrible had
happened, and the look nerved him to expect anything.
"In my letter," said John Castlemaine, "I explained why no wedding could
take place to-day, why from henceforth my doors must be closed to you."
"You did not say this last night."
"Much has happened since then."
"Nothing can have happened since then to justify such treatment as I
have received."
"Perhaps not," replied John Castlemaine quietly, "but information
concerning past events has reached me since last night which will
justify any treatment."
Leicester's calm was beginning to leave him.
"Olive," he cried, "surely after what was said last night between us you
will not----"
"You will kindly address whatever remarks you wish to make to me,"
interrupted John Castlemaine. "I do not wish my daughter to have any
intercourse with you whatever."
"Then will you give me an explanation of--of this--fiasco," said
Leicester. He still spoke quietly, but any one could detect the tone of
anger that had come into his voice.
"Nothing in the shape of a fiasco exists," said the older man.
"Personally, I do not imagine that any explanation is needed, but, for
form's sake, I will make it. You were received into this house as a
gentleman. I do not think that any of the servants, to say nothing of
myself, have ever regarded you in any other light. I am an old-fashioned
man, Mr. Leicester, and when I know that a man has acted as no gentleman
could or would act, I simply forbid him my house, and I give my servants
instructions accordingly."
"Since when have I ceased to have the right to be treated like a
gentleman?" asked Leicester.
"Since I knew that you made my daughter the subject of a wager," replied
John Castlemaine, with quiet scorn. "Since you wagered a hundred pounds
that you would win her as your wife."
The blow had fallen; the blow which Leicester had feared. That which had
haunted him for months had come to pass. The truth had leaked out, and
both Olive Castlemaine and her father knew the worst. He knew it was no
use making any denials, or urging any extenuating circumstances. There
was enough of truth in the charge to justify Mr. Castlemaine's every
word.
"I do not think I need to say more," went on John Castlemaine. "I see
that you quite understand. You cannot wonder therefore that I have
nullified all arrangements for--what we expected to take place to-day.
That is all, I think. There is no need to prolong an interview which,
whatever it is to you, is very painful to me."
But Leicester was not to be put off so easily. He felt that it was for
him to confess everything, and then fight to the very last. Besides, he
felt he had not been treated fairly. At least he should have been
allowed to justify his position before having the door closed in his
face.
"However much truth there may be in what you say," he said, speaking
still quietly, "I think the right of explanation is due to me. Nay more,
I think I might have been allowed to answer whatever charges were made
against me before--before the church caretaker had his orders."
"I could not see how any man could desire to make explanations," said
John Castlemaine. "Personally, I think I should have thought less badly
of you if shame had kept you away. The information I have received was
so exact, so convincing, so well authenticated, that there was no room
for doubt. Your whole behaviour, your every visit has been an insult to
my daughter."
"Insult?"
"Insult. I can use no milder term. Still, you mention explanation. If I
gave you no chance to make it before annulling arrangements, I give it
now. Much against my will, it is true; but I give it."
The words gave Leicester a ray of light. If this interview was against
Mr. Castlemaine's will, then Olive must have influenced him. He turned
towards her eagerly.
"You at least will hear me," he said; "you will understand what your
father cannot."
"I think I told you to address your remarks to me," said John
Castlemaine coldly; "my daughter wishes no further intercourse with
you."
During their conversation Olive had remained standing by the fireplace,
her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the window. Nevertheless, it was
evident she had heard all that was said. At her father's words she
aroused herself and said:
"No, let him say what he will; it will be interesting."
Leicester felt the scorn of her words. At that moment he felt that she
regarded him as a creature beneath contempt. Still, he was fighting for
life, nay, more than life.
"I will admit," he said, "that appearances are against me." Here he
hesitated like a man who could not find words to express his thoughts.
He looked around almost helplessly, but only silence followed his words.
"Who gave you this--this information?" he demanded.
"That is no concern of yours or mine at present," she replied, "seeing
even you cannot deny the truth of what my father has repeated."
"There--are extenuating circumstances," he stammered.
"Yes, I suppose there were," she said coldly. "You were drunk; at least
I suppose that is the extenuating circumstance to which you refer. While
you were in this condition you said that all women were base, and
without honour. You said they could be all bought with a price. It seems
that my price was the position which you could offer me. Satisfy my
ambition, and then I would consent to be the wife of any man who might
choose to ask me."
Never until then did he realise the meaning of what he had done. Even in
the hours when he had regretted his wager most, he never felt its
purport as he felt it then. Her words burnt him like hot iron, but he
still spoke quietly.
"You put the case unfairly," he said; "it has never occurred to me in
that light."
"Then give it your own version," she said; "as I said, it will be
interesting."
He tried to speak, but could not. He tried to think of some means
whereby he could put the whole sordid business in a more favourable
light, but his tongue refused to obey his will. Nothing but the horrible
naked truth as she had put it appeared to him.
She looked up at him scornfully.
"You do not answer," she went on in the same quiet, bitter tones. "You
admit, then, that I was the subject of a wager, the wager being that you
could satisfy my ambition, and that therefore I could be won as your
_wife_! Of course I feel greatly--honoured. Who would not? I believe
that I was suggested by this other--gentleman. Then being thought a fit
subject for a wager, my price being a hundred pounds, you set to work
to gain admission to this house. Well, I refuse to be utilised in such a
way. That is all, I think. I am sure we need not detain you longer."
"No, no, it is not all," said Leicester. "It is not fair to me that I
should make my explanations before--others, but you compel me. I must
admit that I did participate in this vile business; but I was not myself
that night. I was----"
"Yes, you were drunk," said John Castlemaine; "go on."
"I confessed the truth to you," continued Leicester, still keeping his
eyes on Olive. "I told you that this habit had grown upon me; but never
since--since that night--you remember--have I tasted a drop. But--yes,
and you knew my reputation; concerning those things I never deceived
you."
Olive was silent.
"It is true I believed that women were all base, and selfish, and
sordid," he went on. "Yes, I did, and I did not hide my views. Then when
Purvis and Sprague challenged me I confessed my willingness to put them
to the test. I told them to choose the best and noblest woman they knew
of, and----"
"They chose me," said Olive. "I am greatly honoured."
"I did not know you then," said Leicester; "my acquaintance with women
had made me believe that all of them were what I said."
"And yet you were willing to marry one of them," she said quietly.
"No, I would not," he cried. "I simply wanted to prove my words. I would
never have married such a woman."
"But you would seek to win her, and after you had won her you would
discard her. That is even worse than the other."
"Yes, yes," he said bitterly, "I deserve it all, doubtless. Yes, I was
intoxicated if you like, and I made a wager that I would win you as my
wife. I did not know you, and I believed that you were like all other
women. I was told that it was commonly believed that I should have a
brilliant career, and I believed that the prospect of being the wife of
a successful parliamentarian would be sufficient to gain your consent to
being my wife. Yes, I will confess the whole truth. I believed you to be
like the rest of the world; but I did not intend to marry you. I
intended to gain your consent, and----"
"And then drag my name into another drunken orgie," she said, and her
eyes flashed fire. "My name was to be bandied about in the clubs, I was
to be mentioned as one who had proved the truth of Mr. Radford
Leicester's exalted views, I was to be pointed out as one who was to be
won for a wager, and then discarded when the wager was won."
"No," he cried. "Loathsome as was the whole business, it was not so bad
as that. We bound ourselves that no word of the affair should leak out,
not one word. Only three men knew of it beside myself. You know whom
they were, I daresay. Two of them had proposed to you and had been
rejected; the other, as you say, was Winfield here. Whatever had
happened, no one would have known had they not told. One of the other
two has told you, which I do not know as yet; but I will know--mind
that. Perhaps you will tell me?"
Olive was silent.
"Well, that does not matter. I shall find out, yes, I shall find out,
and then----" He laughed bitterly, and any one who had looked into his
eyes would have seen murder there. "But there is another side to this
business, bad as it is, and no one feels its loathsomeness more than I.
Let me at least have the opportunity of putting the other side."
For the first time Olive seemed to unbend a little. She did not speak,
but she seemed ready, nay, even eager, to hear what he had to say.
"Let me say this, then," said Leicester. "Almost ever since the first
time I saw you I have repented of the whole business. It has haunted me
night and day. When I came to know you, and to realise how noble and
true you were, I scorned, I loathed myself. I would have given anything
to have undone what had been done. I dared not tell you, for I feared
you would drive me from your presence. No man honours a woman more than
I honour you, no man believes in a woman's nobility and honour more than
I believe in yours. As I said, as soon as I saw you I loathed what had
taken place, for I loved you."
"You mean," said Olive, "that you no longer came here because of your
desire to win this wager, but----"
"Because I loved you," said Leicester eagerly. He forgot the presence of
Winfield, and John Castlemaine. Only he and Olive were together, the
others did not exist. "Yes, that is true, I came only for you. More than
once I was tempted to tell you everything; but I was a coward--I was
afraid. I had learnt that you were a proud woman, and I felt sure that
if I told you, you would drive me from your presence. And I could not
bear the thought of it, Olive. You are everything to me, life, hope,
heaven! You know you are--yes, you know it. As for the other business, I
hated it, as I hated myself when I thought of it. My great desire was to
drive it from my mind. Surely you believe this, Olive--you must! Yes, I
deserve all you have said--all and more; but now that you know the
truth, now that you know what was begun in ghastly farce has ended in
terrible reality, now you know that all my life is bound up in you, you
only, you will forgive, will you not?"
Olive Castlemaine never took her eyes from him as he spoke, she seemed
to be trying to read his inmost thoughts. Once or twice her face
softened as he spoke, as though she wanted to yield to his pleading, but
when he had finished she hesitated.
"This is true?" she said quietly. "Every word is true, is it not?"
"By all I hold sacred it is true," he cried. "I had not known you a week
before I loathed the business, and cast it from me as I would cast a
serpent from me. I thought of you only, because I loved you more than
ever man loved woman, because the very thought of life was unbearable
without you."
"Then there is another question I would ask you," she said.