THE CYNIC AND THE COUNTRYWOMAN
Radford Leicester stayed at the cottage among the Devonshire moors for
several days. A more lonely place could not be well imagined. The
cottage itself stood in a little dell where trees grew, and a moorland
stream babbled. Early spring flowers were to be seen there, and the
smell of the bursting new life of bracken and heather and willow bush
was sweet beyond words; but the view from the cottage was such as one
only finds in a moorland district. For miles nothing was to be seen but
a wild waste of nearly uninhabited land. The few cottages were occupied
by those who had reclaimed strips of waste land, and obtained a scanty
living thereon. A month or two later the whole scene would be aglow with
the bloom of furze and heather; but now it was grim and grey and, under
a cloudy sky, forbidding. But Leicester was not sorry for this. The
countryside, the loneliness, fitted in with his mood. He felt that the
past was destroyed, and that the things which were once possible to him
had come to an end. What had the future for him? What was he to do? That
was the question he had to face.
Immediately after he had realised that Olive Castlemaine was lost to him
for ever, he had conceived wild schemes of revenge. He wanted to make
Olive suffer as he had suffered; he swore that he would humble her pride
to the dust, and that he would win the wager which for the present had
lost him the woman he had loved. But that was all over now. He had
become degraded in the eyes of the nation. He had no respect for the
morality of the political world; but however low it might be, there was
a kind of moral standard which people demanded in their representatives.
They were not troubled because he had drunk too much, it was that he had
become intoxicated at the wrong time. He had actually appeared on a
public platform in a state of drunken imbecility. He had given the
opponents of his party the whip hand, and he had in all probability lost
his party the election. That was his sin, and it would take years for
them to forget it.
Besides, he was not the kind of man to go back and plead forgiveness.
His pride forbade him. What? He, Radford Leicester, who had laughed at
these clodhoppers, go back cap in hand, and plead with them to take him
back! But what could he do? What had the future for him? That was the
question he had to face. Hope gone, faith gone, purpose gone, while the
old craving for whisky dogged him at every step, what was there for him
to do? Life was a mockery, a great haggard failure! Why should he seek
to prolong it?
And so he spent his days amidst the loneliness of the moors, thinking
and brooding. He saw no newspapers, received no letters, had no
visitors. He had told the old lady who kept the cottage that he wanted a
week or two's quiet, and freedom from the bustle of the world. Besides,
he had a big problem to solve, and he had come there to solve it. He
gave his name as Robert Baxter; it was the first that came to his lips,
and he spoke of himself as keenly interested in sociology. It happened
that old Mrs. Sleeman had not the slightest idea what sociology meant,
but she had had several gentlemen in the past who had come to lodge with
her; they had called themselves artists, and naturalists, and they had
come pretty much in the same way as Leicester had come. They had been
easy to please, they had paid her well, and when they had left had
promised not only to come again, but to recommend her house to their
friends. His advent therefore was quite welcome to her, and as he had no
tastes that were difficult to satisfy, she hoped he would stay for a
long while.
Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her
husband with great tact. It was also said that her influence was very
great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays.
John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his
little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in
the little kitchen, which to Leicester was a sealed chamber.
No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely.
Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was
arranged that when a letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at
the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road.
Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove
to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this
was only on very rare occasions.
As a consequence, therefore, Leicester's life was completely isolated.
Day after day passed without any event happening to break the monotony
of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he
could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which
was gnawing at his heart.
He knew nothing of what was happening in the country; and he asked no
questions. He was sick of the world, and sick of life. The great
question was, what should he do? Should he commit suicide, and thus put
an end to an existence which to him had no meaning or purpose, or should
he go somewhere and begin anew? His nature, in spite of his beliefs,
rebelled against the former. He could not bring himself, little as he
cared for life, to destroy it by his own hand. As for the latter
alternative, the old question reiterated itself, where should he go?
what should he do?
He loathed the thought of going back to London, to live the life of a
useless parasite amidst clubs and club loungers. The political door was
closed against him, and even if it were not, he felt he could not enter
it now. He had an income sufficient for all his needs, and as a
consequence had no need to work for his living. It would have been
better for him if he had. Humanly speaking, there are few better moral
tonics than work.
Looming larger than all other questions was this: Had he for ever lost
Olive Castlemaine? Had he won her only to lose her? But for the
determination which in spite of his despair lay at the back of his mind,
I imagine he would have put an end to an existence which at times became
almost unbearable.
He was pondering over all these things for the hundredth time one day as
he was walking across the moors alone. The clouds hung heavily in the
sky, while occasionally gusts of cold wind, accompanied by driving rain,
reminded him that winter had not yet come to an end. As he walked and
thought, a storm had gathered, and he saw that the sky threatened a
downpour of rain.
"What do I care?" he laughed bitterly. "I feel like old King Lear.
Nothing is wanting now but Tom Fool to make the picture complete. 'Blow,
blow, thou winter wind!'"
The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his
way to a lonely farmhouse in order to find shelter. By the time he
reached it, his clothes were soaked with rain.
He stood in a cart-shed, and watched the flood as it fell. The few trees
that grew around the farmstead looked drear and forbidding; away in the
distance the hills seemed to smoke.
"And this is life," he laughed. "We are born, we suffer, we make fools
of ourselves, and we die."
And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had
Olive Castlemaine by his side, he could have been a happy man. But she
had driven him from her presence, she had commanded him never to speak
to her again.
"Won't 'ee come in by the vire, zur? You mus' be fine 'n' wet."
"Thank you," said Leicester, in reply to the invitation of the buxom
farmer's wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which a
huge wood fire was burning.
"Why, you be fair streamin'," said the woman. "Zet cloas by the vire,
and dry yerzelf. Do 'ee then. You'll catch yer death ef you doan't."
"Well, there'd be one less in the world," said Leicester, "and as the
world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter."
"Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'."
"I never joke," replied Leicester. "Still, if I died, there'd be the
trouble of burying me, and that would be a pity."
"Fer shaame, I d' zay," said the kindly woman; "what would your mother
zay, ef she 'eerd 'ee?"
"Haven't got a mother."
"Yer vather, then?"
"No father either," said Leicester. "If he were alive I'm inclined to
think he'd say, 'Die, and have done with it.'"
"But you've got brothers, or sisters, or a wife, or a sweetheart?" She
said this not so much for the sake of proving that he was in the wrong,
but because, like the rest of her sex, especially those who live in
lonely places, she desired to know something about this stranger.
Leicester shook his head.
"Well, you be in a bad way."
"Exactly," said Leicester, "I am." He yielded to a sudden impulse. "Now
I put it to you, ma'am," he said, "suppose you had no friends, no one
who cared for you; suppose you found the world a dirty sort of place,
and found no pleasure in living, what would you do?"
"Do! I shud git somebody that ded care for me."
"I've tried, but failed."
"Ain't 'ee got a sweetheart, then?"
"Not one."
"Is there no one that you do like?"
"Yes," he said, "but she's thrown me overboard."
"Gived 'ee the sack, you do main?"
"Exactly."
"Why then, zur, maakin' so bould?"
He was in a reckless mood, and in a way he could not understand, the
buxom, kind-hearted woman led him to speak.
"Because I'm a bad 'un."
"Nonsense."
"Fact, I assure you. A right down bad 'un."
"And es she very good?"
"Terribly good, terribly proud, and terribly unforgiving."
"And ded she give 'ee the sack 'cause you wos so bad?"
"More because I hurt her pride, I think."
"Ah, I zee."
"Come now, under these circumstances, what would you do?"
"I'd begin by bein' a good man, and laive the rest to God."
"God!" and Leicester laughed.
"Why, doan't 'ee believe in God?"
"I think I believe in the devil, if that's any good."
"Then, zur, I'd kill the devil."
"Can't; I love him too much."
"What, love the devil?"
"I hug him to my heart. He served me a nasty trick the other day, but I
stick to him all the same. Yes, he's my only friend. He's nearly always
with me. When I'm friendly with him, he helps me to forget. All the
same, I'm tired of him in a way. Now, then, what would you do?"
"The devil is allays our enemy, zur, allays. You must kill 'ee or you're
done for."
The conversation was out of her depth, but she felt sure she was saying
what was right.
"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Leicester, with a bitter
laugh. "And yet I don't know. What do you think he's been persuading me
to do this afternoon?"
"Summin' bad, you may depend, zur."
"I don't know. You know that big pool up among the moors. It has a kind
of fascination for me, and the devil always meets me there. He is always
telling me that it is very peaceful and quiet at the bottom of the
pool."
"What, you d' main Crazzick Pool? It ain't got no bottom to et. Et's the
devil's pool, tha's wot 'tes."
"Exactly. Well, he tempts me to walk into it, and sink, and sink, and
find rest and peace."
"You doan't git no peace except in Christ, zur," said Mrs. Pethick, who
was a class-leader among the Bible Christians.
Leicester looked at the dame's kindly face and wondered. Had this
simple, homely, kindly-faced woman learned any secret unknown to him? To
say the least, the question interested him.
"Look here," he said, "you don't mind speaking to a poor devil like I am
quite honestly, do you? In fact, it's no use speaking to me at all,
unless you do speak quite honestly, for I can detect a lie in a minute.
Do you really believe that Christ does help you?"
"Do I believe et? I'm zure, zur. Why, when I'm tempted to do wrong, to
think of Christ do 'elp me. Whenever I d' 'ave bad, wicked thoughts, I
d' jist think of Him, and they do go, zur. For zure they do."
"And He gives you peace, does He?" said Leicester half mockingly, half
seriously.
"Iss, zur, 'e do fer zure. I wudden zay zo ef I wasn't zackly zure. A
paice which I caan't git no other way. Why, when I be comin' home from
class-mitten' by myzelf, I git feared zumtimes, when tes dark; for the
way es loanly. But I d' talk weth Jesus oal the way, and then--well,
zur, the loanly road ez vull of light."
The mocking laugh left Leicester's lips as she spoke: it was impossible
to doubt what she said.
"But there," went on Mrs. Pethick, with all a woman's tact, "you be
could and wisht, you be. I'll git a cup ov tay for 'ee, and zum bread
and craim. You c'n jist raid the paaper while I be gone."
He sat down close by the roaring wood fire, and wondered. Why should
this simple woman's faith be denied to him? He picked up the paper she
had offered him; it was the first he had seen since he left Taviton. The
first words he read were these: "New candidate selected for the Taviton
division."
He read through the article with strange interest. It seemed to him as
though it spoke of some one else. It referred to the unfortunate
selection the party had made, but stated that their mistake had been
rectified in the selection of a local man, whose career was known to
all. "As for the man who has done the party so much harm," concluded the
article, "we do not know what has become of him. He left the town in
disgrace, since which time no one has seen him. Endeavours have been
made to trace his whereabouts, but in vain. Inquiries have been made at
his old haunts in London, but no one has seen him there. It is a sad
pity that a young man of such brilliant parts should end his career in
such a way, but for our own part we may say that we are well rid of him.
He brought no honour, or credit, either to our party or our county, and
although some of his friends speak of him as having suicidal tendencies,
we sincerely hope that he may repent of his past life, and begin anew in
another country where he is unknown."
Leicester threw down the paper with a laugh. It was only the effusion of
a local journalist who did not know the A B C of his trade, but it
amused him.
"Begin a new life in another country where he is unknown." The words
haunted him. Why not, after all? Perhaps--but the thoughts which flashed
into his mind refused to take definite shape.
Mrs. Pethick brought him some tea and bread and cream.
"Ther' now, you be nearly dry now," she said; "zet up to the table, and
'ave zum tay. 'Twill do 'ee good, my dear."
Mrs. Pethick had spent her childhood in Cornwall, and had not forgotten
some of the Cornish expressions.
"This is beautiful tea," said Leicester presently.
"Iss, ted'n zo bad. As Mrs. Maddern d' zay to me, 'Mrs. Pethick,' she do
zay, 'nobody but you do buy the best tay.'"
"Mrs. Pethick," said Leicester, half quizzically, "do you believe the
devil can be killed?"
"Not killed, my dear, at laist not by we, but we c'n drive en away."
"How, Mrs. Pethick?"
"Prayer, zur; prayer."
Leicester laughed.
"'Tes true, zur. Ther's 'ope fer the wust. As I zed to Franky Flew at
the last revival, I zed, 'Franky,
'While the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return!'"
"And what then, Mrs. Pethick?"
"Why, then you become a new man, zur."
A little while later he left the house. Of course it was all nonsense,
nevertheless the simple woman's talk made him better. The storm had now
gone, and the moors were bathed in evening sunlight. It was a wonderful
panorama which stretched out before him. The moors, which two hours
before were dark and forbidding, were now wondrous in their beauty. And
sunlight had done it all! Sunlight!
All through the evening he sat and thought. It seemed, from the look in
his eyes, that a new purpose had come into his life. The next day he
left his lonely lodgings, and found his way back to London. He went to a
part of the city which was far away from his old haunts, and to which he
was an utter stranger. No one recognised him, no one knew him in the
little hotel to which he went. He gave his name as Robert Baxter, as he
had given it to the old woman on the moors. Why he had come to London he
knew not, except that a great longing had come into his heart to be
again in the midst of the great surging life of the city. Nevertheless
he stayed in his room at the hotel. After a pretence at eating, he
picked up a newspaper. He glanced through it carelessly. He had lost
interest in life. The reports concerning the General Election did not
interest him. What mattered which set of puppets were at Westminster?
The whole business was an empty mockery. Presently, however, a paragraph
chained his attention:
"No news is yet to hand concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Radford
Leicester. Many suppose that he has left the country, while some are
afraid that the hints he dropped to the hotel proprietor at Taviton were
serious."
He had no idea that the London newspapers would comment on his
disappearance. He thought that he had dropped out of the life of the
world, and that no one cared. Presently he read the remainder of the
paragraph. Up to this time he had never thought of taking any particular
trouble about hiding his identity. The matter of giving another name was
mere acting on impulse.
He rang the bell, and ordered a cab. "It is lucky I remember his
address," he said to himself, "lucky too that he is as silent as an
oyster."
A little later he drove up to a house in one of the many quiet London
squares. It was quite dark, and he had pulled the collar of his coat
high up around his neck and face. No one recognised him as he entered,
but when he walked into a dimly lit room, an old man said to him: "I
knew it. You were not such a fool as to throw up the sponge."
After this Leicester talked to the old man for a long time. When he left
the house, the light of purpose was in his eyes, although, had a close
observer seen him, that observer would have said that there was also
much doubt and irresolution.