THE LAST LINK BROKEN
By ten o'clock Leicester was at the door of John Castlemaine's house.
Any one who had seen him on his way from London the previous morning
would not have recognised him as the same man. For one thing he looked
at least ten years older. His face was haggard, his eyes were dull, he
walked with a kind of hesitation. The grounds were deserted, no one was
anywhere visible.
He rang the door bell, and a minute later the door was opened by the old
servant who had appeared the day before.
"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"
"No, sir."
"Come, now, that is a polite figment. You mean that she is not at home
to me."
"I mean what I say, sir; she is not at home."
"And Mr. Castlemaine?"
"He's not at home either, sir."
"Do you mean to say they are gone away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Come, now, no more of your lies," he said. "You know very well. Tell
me, I'll make it worth your while."
He felt angry with himself for speaking in this way, but he had lost his
self-control.
"I don't know, sir," repeated the man.
"When did they go?"
"Last night, sir."
"What time?"
"I didn't notice, sir," and he prepared to close the door.
"Come now, you are not to get away like this. Listen to me a minute
longer." He spoke in his old tone of command, and the man instinctively
felt like obeying.
"You say they went away last night. Was it late?"
"Yes, sir--that is, I didn't notice the time."
"But late?"
"Yes, sir--that is, I should think so; but as I said----"
"They went abroad?"
"Yes, sir--that is, they didn't tell me."
"But you have some idea where they are gone?"
The man was silent.
Leicester took a step nearer, while the man shrank back.
"No, my man," he said, "you are not going till you tell me what you
know."
The old servant looked around fearfully, and then said:
"I know nothing, sir; nobody knows anything."
"Don't tell any more lies. They must have letters forwarded."
"The housekeeper may know, sir."
"The housekeeper is at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let me see her."
"No, sir. You must see no one in the house. Sorry, sir, but orders is
orders."
"You have received orders about me?"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Sorry, sir; but last night, sir. You were to be ordered away if you
came."
Leicester laughed bitterly.
"Ah, I see. Mr. and Miss Castlemaine left last night, and they told no
one but the housekeeper where they were going, but they gave orders that
the dogs were to be set upon me."
"Not quite so bad as that, sir, but----"
"I see. Yes, I understand."
"You see Miss Castlemaine is very ill, sir," said the man, as though he
recollected something. "Of course that was why the wedding couldn't take
place. A sort of stroke I think it was."
Leicester laughed aloud.
"Good," he said, "and Mr. and Miss Castlemaine are gone away together?"
"With Mr. Sackville, the minister, sir."
"Oh, the parson, eh! Good. Was she _very_ much worse after I left
yesterday?"
"I never saw her, sir. I know nothing. All I know is, that they're gone
away for a goodish bit, but where they're gone I don't know. But I did
have orders to send you away. I'm very sorry, sir. Will you excuse me
now, sir? I have my dooties."
Leicester took a sovereign from his pocket, and threw it to the man.
"All right, Simmons," he said, "have a good time while they are away.
You are a very fair liar, Simmons, a very fair liar indeed."
He strode back to the station, and waited for a train to take him back
to London. The porters watched him curiously. They had heard scores of
rumours, and thus this man was of great interest to them. They had heard
that Miss Castlemaine had been told that he was already married; they
had been also told that he was guilty of forgery, and had lately come
out of gaol. Others again had it that it was not because of Leicester at
all that the wedding had not taken place, but that Miss Castlemaine had
been taken ill the previous day, and on calling in the doctor she had
been told that she must not think of getting married, but must
immediately leave the country. One report had it that the doctor had
told her she could not live six months, while another rumour said that
if she went away for a twelve months' voyage around the world she might
return well and strong. Of course the servants had been closely
questioned, but their knowledge was very scanty, and such as they had
they were forbidden on pain of dismissal to divulge.
But Leicester took no notice of those who directed their glances towards
him. He might have been in a trance for all the cognisance he took of
his surroundings. He had some time to wait for his train, and he walked
slowly up and down the platform, heedless of everything.
"Sad about Miss Castlemaine, sir."
He turned and saw the station-master, who was a noted gossip. Leicester
looked straight at the man, but did not utter a word.
"Of course it must be terrible for you, sir. Nobody ever suspected that
she was ill; but it must be terrible, for Mr. Castlemaine told me
himself when he left last night that they might not return for months."
"Ah, he told you that, did he?"
"Yes, sir. I could see he was in great trouble; but he scarcely spoke to
me, which is different from what he usually is. He often had a chat with
me in the mornings when waiting for his train. He always took the same
train, the 10.9, and he was always here five minutes before time.
However, when I asked him, he told me he was going abroad. What part
have they gone to, sir?"
"Did he not tell you?"
"No, I asked him; but he seemed as though he didn't want to talk. Of
course you know, sir? Where are they gone, if I might ask?"
But Leicester turned on his heel and walked away. The old servant had
told him the truth, then. He turned to the bookstall and began to idly
read the posters. "Postponement of a fashionable wedding. Bride taken
dangerously ill," he read.
"Another religious lie," and he laughed bitterly. "These pious people
know how to hush up things by fraud."
He bought a paper, and got into the train which was just entering the
station. He had the carriage all to himself, and so was able to read the
news unobserved. He was not long in finding the paragraph he desired.
"Postponement of wedding," he read. "The marriage between Radford
Leicester, Esq., and Miss Olive Castlemaine, which was arranged for
yesterday, has been indefinitely postponed, owing to the serious illness
of the latter. The large number of guests who had been invited to The
Beeches received an early intimation that the wedding would not take
place, and on inquiries as to the reason, we are informed that Miss
Castlemaine was taken seriously ill a few hours before the time
announced for the nuptials. We are also given to understand that Miss
Castlemaine has been ordered out of England for a lengthened stay, and
that, accompanied by her father and her maid, they left London for the
Continent last night. The reason of the sudden illness of the bride is
causing much discussion in the neighbourhood of Miss Castlemaine's
home."
Leicester threw the paper from him with an oath. "Lies, lies, lies!" he
muttered. "And she connives at them. She the Sunday-school teacher, the
immaculate one. She threw me over because her pride was wounded, but she
could tell lies in order to hide the truth. Oh, what a blithering fool
I've been! Why did I not--but there----! What's the use of anything?"
"It's all over now," he went on presently. "That chapter is written, the
play's played out. Is it, though? Shall I be beaten in this way? The
truth concerning this affair is bound to become known. People are not
going to be fooled by a bungling report like this. Taken seriously ill
in the morning, and off to the Continent in the evening! Bah, even the
British public is not so blind as that!
"Well, what now? Shall I tamely submit to this? In a few days I shall be
the laughing-stock of every one who knows me. Perhaps I am now. Purvis
and Sprague are by this time enjoying themselves hugely. For it is they
who have done this. One or both of them, it does not matter. But I'll
settle my accounts with them. As for her----!"
He ground his teeth together, and his eyes shone like the eyes of a
madman.
"I'll have her yet!" he cried. "To begin with, I have her sacred promise
that she'll never marry another man. Even yesterday she told me that she
could not dream of being the wife of an honourable man after promising
to marry such a thing as I. But she shall pay for that, by ---- she
shall! Yes, my proud lady, I'll humble your pride to the dust. You shall
eat your words."
He started to his feet, and paced the empty carriage like a mad lion
paces his cage. A new passion had laid hold of him now.
"No more whining sentimentality for me!" he cried, "no more moral
platitudes, no more drivel about trying to be a good man. Good man! Ha,
ha! But I'll humble her; yes, I'll not be beaten. Yes, and when I've got
my way, I'll taunt her with her words, I'll make her suffer what I'm
suffering; ay, and more--if it is possible. You little thought, my
pattern young Sunday-school teacher, of what you were doing when you
drove me to the devil."
He caught up the paper, and read the paragraph again. On the face of it,
it was a lie, a poor clumsy attempt to cover up the truth. The world
would soon know all about it. There were at least seven in the secret.
There was Purvis, and Sprague, and Winfield, and John Castlemaine--yes,
and the minister Sackville. John Castlemaine would be sure to tell him.
Then, as a matter of course, the minister would tell his wife. After
that--well, every old woman in the congregation would mouth the spicy
bit of gossip. Miss Castlemaine had cast him off, because he in a
drunken freak had made a wager that he would win her as his wife, and
she had found him out! He reflected on the way that the fat silly old
women in the world of so-called Society would discuss it over afternoon
tea, he imagined brainless dudes giving their opinions about him over
their whiskies. The men he had despised would pity him, and utter
inanities about him. Of course the news would reach his constituency
too. What capital his opponents would make of it all! He imagined the
leading article which would appear in the rag called _The Taviton
Argus_, about the reasons for Miss Castlemaine being taken suddenly ill.
And it would all be true! Ay, and what was worse, people would say that
he, Leicester, the cynic, the man who despised the conventional goodness
of the age, had become a teetotaler, a supporter of philanthropic
institutions in order to win a wager. Ay, more, he who had laughed at
religion had gone to church like a family grocer, had sat in the pew of
a Nonconforming conventicle, and had listened to the prosy platitudes of
an unctuous spiritual shepherd, to win a girl who had found him out. He
fancied the cartoons which would appear in _The Taviton Argus_,
picturing him sitting in church, and singing Sankey's hymns. Perhaps
they would have him kneeling at the penitent form, all to get a girl who
found him out to be a liar and a hypocrite!
The reflection maddened him. But he would pay them all out. Yes, Purvis
and Sprague should bitterly repent the day they opposed his will; as for
Olive Castlemaine--well, she should suffer more than he was suffering.
But this mood did not last long. Try as he might he could not hide the
gloomy black future which loomed before him. He pictured himself as he
was before the wager was made, a hopeless cynic, a hard bitter man, a
slave to whisky. And he was worse now. He had been in heaven during
these last few months. Yes, he could not deny that a woman had cleared
his cloudy sky, and had aroused in him hopes and longings to which he
had been a stranger. The future had appeared to him as a paradise, a
heaven because a woman he loved more than words could say had promised
to be his wife. Oh, and he had loved her! Say what he would about the
falseness of women, and the evil of the world, this woman had changed
everything for him, so that he had contemplated the future with joy; but
now he saw nothing but hell. What had the future for him now? Lonely
misery, haunted by bitter thoughts of what might have been. What was a
seat in Parliament now? Who cared about him? For years he had alienated
those who would be his friends, he had become a pariah, a kind of
intellectual and moral Ishmael. How could he bear it?
With this thought the craving for whisky came back to him again. He had
promised Olive he would never touch it again, but that was a thing of
the past. Yes, he would go back to his club, and he would drink until he
forgot. He would debauch himself with spirits. He had been a fool ever
to give it up. God, if there were a God, offered him nothing; nay, more,
He had taken from him the one thing that would have made a man of him;
but the devil was faithful. The whisky bottle could be always kept close
to his elbow. Yes, and he would run the whole gamut of sin. There was
nothing to restrain him, and he had no motive power to make him desire
anything else.
When the train arrived at the terminus, he jumped into a cab, and drove
straight to his club. No, he would not go to the smoke-room, he would go
to his own private room, and there he would drink and forget. A few
minutes later, he sat alone in his room, a bottle of whisky by his side.
With steady hands he uncorked it, and poured out a large quantity; he
filled the tumbler with soda-water, and looked at the yellow liquid as
it sparkled in the glass.
"Here is my wife now," he cried. "She will be faithful to me, or even if
she fails, there is that green devil called absinthe. No, no, the devil
does not forsake a man while he has a five-pound note in his pocket."
Even then he did not lift the glass to his lips. After all, those months
during which he had known Olive still counted. It was true that in spite
of his resolutions he doubted whether he would ever meet her again; but
those hours he had spent by her side were not without their influence.
After all, to be a man was nobler than to be a beast. He recalled her
words on the night he had made known his love to her. She had told him
that the man who trusted in a woman for his salvation rested on a weak
reed, and that only God could save a man. He remembered his answer too.
"If there is a God, I have given Him His chance," he cried, "and He has
failed me. Now I choose this yellow devil. A fascinating devil, too. See
how light and sparkling he is!"
He held the glass up to the light, and watched while the bright gaseous
globules floated from the bottom of the glass to the top.
"Good-bye to false sentiment and false ideals, to false hopes and
foolish fancies!" he cried, "and hereby I do take thee to be my lawful
wedded wife from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better for
worse, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish, till death us do
part!"
He laughed as he uttered the words.
"All joy to you Radford Leicester, on your wedding-day," he said aloud,
"and may you and your wife be faithful to each other."
And still he hesitated. It might seem as though an invisible angel of
goodness held his hand. Then his thoughts flew to the past, and again to
the future. What had the future for him? He lifted the glass to his
lips, and drank; when he set it down it was nearly empty.
"Ah, but this is the great forgetter," he said.
He sat down in an armchair, and closed his eyes. In a few minutes the
strong spirit began to have its effect on him. The fire crept along his
veins, he felt his nerves tingling.
"It's because I've not touched it for so long," he said. "A few months
ago I should not have known I had tasted a drop like this."
He drained the glass to the bottom, and poured out more. For two hours
he remained there, drinking, and brooding, and trying to forget.
Presently he arose, and went down to the smoking-room. He walked
steadily, but he never remembered whisky to affect him as it was
affecting him now. He wanted companionship; the whisky had destroyed all
desire for privacy. On entering the room, he saw that the men who had
gathered there were greatly excited. He had expected that some one would
pretend to commiserate with him on the postponement of his marriage, but
to his surprise no one seemed to heed him.
"Ah, MacGregor," he said, to a young Scotchman, whom he knew slightly,
"the devil hasn't claimed you yet, then. But trust a Scotchman to outwit
even the devil."
"Leicester, is that you?" said the Scotchman. "I heard you were off for
your honeymoon; but I suppose even happy bridegrooms have to submit to
General Elections."
"General Elections--what do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
The Scotchman laughed.
"Why, where have you been during the day?"
"I've been busy in my room," he replied warily.
"But haven't you heard?"
"I've heard nothing."
"What, not that there has been a dissolution of Parliament?"
"What?"
"Just that. We'll all have to hurry off to our constituencies now--that
is, those of us who have been fools enough to meddle with politics. I'm
off in two hours."
"Well, you will be all right. You'll get returned again, I suppose?"
"Yes, thanks to my wife, I believe I shall. She's far more popular in
the constituency than I, and people will vote for me for her sake. I
suppose you'll be off to Taviton to-night?"
"Not I."
"But, man, it'll be----"
"It's not worth the candle," said Leicester; "what's the odds which
party is in? Liberal or Conservative, it's only a question of which set
of maggots shall eat the cheese." The words which MacGregor had spoken
about his wife had stung him.
"But that's all nonsense. It's true you've lately got married, but you
must go down and fight. It'll be all beer and skittles with you. A good
speaker like you, and just married to a charming and rich wife, can do
anything. An electioneering honeymoon! My word, that will be a new thing
in wedded life. Quite a subject for a romance. By the way, I have not
congratulated you. How is Mrs. Leicester?"
He turned on his heel and walked away.
"Hullo, Leicester," said another man, "here you are. By the way, what is
the truth about that paragraph I saw in the papers?"
"Oh, it's all right."
"Is--is Miss Castlemaine seriously ill?"
"I don't know, and I don't care."
"You don't mean to say that----"
"I mean to say that I'll have a drink with you, Bryant," he said.
"But you've turned teetotaler."
"Then I'll break my pledge. What'll you take?"
"But, I say, Leicester----"
"Will you have a drink?"
"With pleasure, only I thought that----"
"I was a reformed rake, eh? Well, I'm not. Whiskies for two, waiter. I
say, tell us about this dissolution. What do you think about it?"
"I think our side will have a stiff fight. Besides, you know what has to
be our chief card?"
"I know nothing, I've been busy with--other things."
Bryant laughed.
"What _is_ the meaning of this postponement of your marriage, Leicester?
Did you know the Government was going to smash up?"
"Why, you know we've been expecting it every day." He despised himself
for using this subterfuge, but he could think of nothing better to say.
"What is to be our chief card, Bryant?"
"The drink question, licensing reform, and all that kind of rot."
"Then let's drink to the success of the destruction of the drink curse,
Bryant," he said. "It's all of a piece."
The other looked at him curiously. This was not like the Leicester he
had known lately.
"I say, Leicester, has that girl jilted you?" he said.
The words stung him more than anything he had heard during the day.
"Yes," he said angrily, "and your wife would have jilted you, if I had
proposed to her on the morning of your wedding-day."
With that he got up and walked away. He could not stay among these men
any longer. He would go down to the National, and find out more
particulars about the dissolution. It would help him to forget. When he
returned, two hours later, he found a telegram awaiting him. It was from
the chairman of his political association. "Urgent that you come down
immediately," he read; "to-morrow, if possible. Wire if I may arrange
for a big meeting in Taviton to-morrow night. Have forestalled others
and taken hall provisionally. Don't fail. Deeply sorry to hear about
Miss Castlemaine."
Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he seized a telegraph form, and said
that he would be at Taviton the next day.
"There," he said, as he sent it off, "drink and politics will help me to
forget," but he did not dream of what would happen before the morrow
came to an end.