GOD AND THE MAN
When he reached the top of the hill he drew a long, deep breath. Away on
every hand stretched the fine, undulating country--patches of wood,
homely farmsteads, well-cultivated fields, and broad stretches of
moorland. It was a day to rejoice in, it was a scene to revel in; but
Leicester did not rejoice. And yet he had gained that for which he had
struggled. Olive Castlemaine had promised to be his wife, and thus he
would be able to wreak the vengeance over which he had brooded. Last
night the thought had brought him a cruel, savage joy; that morning even
he had gloated over the thought of his revenge; but now all was
different. Suppose he had his way, suppose he played the game he was
playing to the bitter end, what would be the good of it all? He would
have fulfilled his vow; but somehow it seemed mean, paltry, unworthy.
Besides, his scheme was of a devilish nature. It was savagery, coated
with the veneer of civilisation. Murder would be far more merciful.
"That woman knows a secret to which I am a stranger," he said as he
looked down on the lonely farmhouse. "Of course I could explain away all
she said, and I could laugh at her childish superstition, but she
possesses something which is hidden from me. And she was right, too.
What is a man the better for revenge? When one has had his eye for an
eye, when he has given measure for measure of scorn and disgrace, who's
the better? Suppose I have my way and--do what I said, what then?
Suppose, when I have worked my will, I go away, leaving only desolation
and disgrace behind, should I be any happier? No, I should still be in
hell!"
He strode along like a man in anger.
"I felt that I was Radford Leicester again when she kissed me last
night," he went on. "I was at The Beeches again, and for a minute I was
in heaven--yes, in heaven. I was the lover once more, and, great heaven,
how sweet it was to love!"
A new light came into his eyes, and he looked more like the Leicester of
old, Leicester at his best. For a moment dark passions were dispelled by
something higher, purer; the sunshine of joy rested upon him, but only
for a moment.
"No," he cried, "that's all gone. I'll see the thing through to the end.
Besides, it is not I whom she loves. It is a rich foreigner, a partner
in the Great Tripoli Company, a Signor Ricordo, a man with an Italian
father and a Moorish mother. Radford Leicester is nothing to her; she
said so. She declared she could never marry him; ay, and in spite of her
promise to him, she is willing to marry Ricordo. A woman's promise!
Byron was right, in spite of all canting moralists. A woman's fidelity
is like thistledown, and her promises are written in the sands.
"I wonder why that woman is so happy?" he went on presently. "A lonely
widow, she has lost her husband, and her son was killed in the war, and
yet she is happy. Her faith is strong, she has no fear. Of course she's
simple, and she's ignorant; but if she's happy--great God, what does all
our learning amount to? What is the value of all this culture of which
we boast? She might have known all about me in telling that story of
Aaron Goudge, for, after all, the motives of that sullen blackguard were
quite as high as mine. Liddicoat wronged him and he tried to murder him.
Olive Castlemaine wronged me, and I have brooded over something which is
really worse than murder. He had his way, and then lived in torments;
and supposing I have my way, what shall I be the better? Oh, what a
bitter mockery life is!"
He strode along the valley which he had entered, and then, climbing the
hill before him, came upon a long stretch of waste land.
"She told me she loved me," he went on; "told me that, in spite of
struggle, her heart went out to me; told me, that while she feared me,
she was never happy unless I was near; ay, and she told me, that
although her promise never to marry seemed binding when she thought of
others, it seemed to become less and less real when she thought of me.
Well, why can't I be happy? Why can't I keep up my character, and live
in happiness with her? She loves me, and I--no, I don't--I hate her
still--yes, I hate her more than ever!"
But evidently he was not satisfied. The simple farmwoman had started him
off on a new train of thought.
"'Nothing is ever worth doing wrong for; it never was, and it never will
be.' Who said that? It's true after all. We may sneer at right and
wrong, we may say that right and wrong alter with different peoples,
different countries, but they remain; yes, and right is heaven, and
wrong is hell. And I know enough of life to have learnt that hate means
black night. The joy of it is devil's joy, only to turn to bitterness
and gall. What is revenge, after all, but going to hell yourself in
order to drag some one else there? And that's what I've been thinking
of. But if I don't, what then? Let me think of that now; but no, I
won't. I'm not one who vows to do a thing, and then throws it over
lightly."
The sun began to lower, and the air grew cooler. The sweet, fresh air of
the moors fanned his brow, and it seemed to bring healthier thoughts to
him.
"Winfield refused to stay with me as my guest, when he knew what was in
my heart," he said, "and Winfield does not profess to be a saint; he's
only just a clean-minded, honest fellow. Was he right, I wonder? Why,
after all, can't I be happy? Let me think now; yes, I will think it out.
Suppose I give up my scheme of revenge; suppose I go away and leave my
plans unrealised. Not that I am going to do it; but suppose, for the
sake of argument, that I did, what then? I should never see her again,
and she would think of me as an Eastern adventurer who proposed to her,
and then was obliged to leave the neighbourhood because he feared the
law or something of that sort. Never see her again!"
He stopped in his walk as though some unseen force barred the way.
"Never see her again!" he repeated time after time. The thought seemed
to stagger him as it became more and more real to him.
"I hate her!" he cried. "Did she not drive me away from her, and in
driving me away sent me to regions which----"
He started on his walk again.
"I loved her last night for a minute; yes, I loved her then. I forgot
everything, and I was in paradise. I loved her; yes, and O God, I
believe I love her now!"
For an hour he walked along with stern, set face. Away in the far
distance he could see the tor which rose up behind the ninth hole, at
the golf links. With that as a landmark, he could not lose his way. Not
that he would have cared if he had. A great passion burned within him,
to which even he had been a stranger.
"Could I--could I--after all, do what I have made up my mind to do?
Could I, out of pure devilry and desire for revenge, drag her name into
the mud of disgrace? Could I make her the byword for gossiping women?
Could I leave her a wrecked, ruined woman just because I----Besides,
what should I feel? Hell! No hell which I have ever entered would be as
deep as that. Talk about a bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone--it
would be nothing to what I should feel."
Again he thought of the woman at the farmhouse, while the story of Aaron
Goudge came back to him; and as he thought, a new feeling rose within
him as though he heard something saying, "Be a man; do the thing that is
right."
"What is right?" he asked. "Suppose I were to go to her now and tell her
everything--everything. What would she do? She would drive me away as
though I were a leper. She told me that she did not love Radford
Leicester, and that she would never marry him, even if he came back
repentant and worthy. How much less would she love him, then, if I were
to tell her the whole truth? If I was unworthy of her six years ago, how
much less am I worthy of her now! Let me think, now. There are three
things I could do. First, I could go away and send to her telling her
that Signor Ricordo was an adventurer and had to fly for fear of his
life. Then all would be as though I had never come. No, it would not.
Then I hated her; but now, yes, I believe I hate her still! But I should
give up my scheme of vengeance, and let her remain to live her own life.
That is the first. Then, second, I could carry out my scheme. I could go
on as I had marked it out. I could leave her, wounded and disgraced, as
I should know she would feel herself wounded and disgraced. And oh, the
thought of revenge is sweet! Then, third, I could go to her, cap in
hand, and tell her the whole story--that Leicester was dead, but that he
has risen again. But in either case I should have to leave her; I should
go away, and never see her again. And could I bear that? No. And that
reminds me, there is another way. I, Signor Ricordo, could marry her. I
could live here. I could play the squire; I could be happy. But could I?
To know all the time that I was a living lie! Besides, the truth would
be bound to come out. No, there would be no rest nor peace that way."
Everything, he scarcely knew why, was changed. The thing he had longed
for was within his reach, and yet he did not want to stretch out his
hand and grasp it. The kiss which still burned on his lips somehow
roused within him new feelings. The story of the country-woman changed
the course of his thoughts. He still longed for revenge, but the
sweetness of it was gone.
There was a change in the look of the sky. Right in front of him, and
behind the tor, a great blue-black cloud was rising rapidly. In a few
minutes it seemed to cover the whole of the southern horizon. The wind
blew colder, the air seemed charged with sulphur. Not that he minded.
Indeed, he scarcely noticed the change of the atmosphere. Presently the
sun seemed to change colour. First it shone through a great purple haze,
and then it was blotted out.
He found himself shivering. Across the wild wastes of the moors he heard
a moan, like the moan of some despairing monster. He knew it was only
the wind, but to him there was a kind of personality behind it. The
great spirit of the moors was breathing across the broad expanse, just
as he had heard the spirit of the desert breathe across the great wastes
of sand.
A few minutes later he heard the distant rumbling of thunder, and
although it was yet day, it became almost as dark as a winter evening.
The thunder came nearer, and then he saw a flash of lightning. He still
trudged on. The weather did not matter. The storm in his heart drove
away all thoughts of the storm that was coming upon him.
Again the thunder rolled. This time it was nearer, while the flashes of
lightning were more vivid. The rain began to fall too, not rapidly, but
large, heavy drops splashed against his face.
"No, I can't give up the scheme of years," he cried. "I won't be the
plaything of a passing fancy. She might have made a man of me; but
instead she sent me into outer darkness. I might have been a good man
if--if she had--but should I? Was my reformation anything but a passing
mood? Might I not, if I had married her, dragged her down into the mire
even as I have planned to do since? After all, I was but a straw in the
wind. The moment she gave me up I flew to the drink and to the devil.
What right had I, after all, to expect anything else?"
In spite of himself, he gave a start. It seemed as though right above
his head the heavens were torn in twain, while the whole sky was lit up
with blue vivid flashes of light. The rain fell in torrents.
"How relentless Nature is, after all!" he thought. "What can man do in
face of such forces as those? Is God behind it all, I wonder? If so,
what is the use of our working against Him? Let the breath of the
Almighty touch a man, and he shrivels like the leaves in autumn. Unless
he works in unison with Nature, Nature crushes him. Have I been trying
to do battle against God all these years, I wonder?"
The rain continued to fall, but he still trudged on. He had a sort of
savage delight in feeling the rain beat against him, in seeing the
lightning's flash and hearing the thunder's roar.
"I was a blind fool," he cried. "I believed that I hated her, I believed
I should hate her for ever. Yet, at the first touch of her lips on mine,
I find myself as weak as a child, and still I can't give up my dreams of
revenge. What playthings we are, after all!"
A moment later he was blinded, first by a flash of lightning, which he
thought had struck him, and then by the rain, which came upon him in a
deluge.
"I can't battle against this," he said; "it's impossible, yet there's no
shelter anywhere." Through the blinding storm he saw a huge rock. At
least that would shelter him somewhat, and with difficulty he made his
way towards it. From there he could watch the tornado of the elements.
"Is there a God behind it all, I wonder?" he thought as thunder-clap
followed thunder-clap, and the whole heavens were lit up with streaks of
light. "If there is, does He care? Yes, there is a God, there must be. I
wonder if that woman was right? Did Jesus Christ come to tell us what
God was like? Is there any meaning in that story? She believes it, and
she says that that man Aaron Goudge found peace in it. I wonder, now; I
wonder."
"God help me!" he cried presently. It was an involuntary prayer. It had
passed his lips even before he knew, and yet, although he knew it not,
it was the natural expression of a soul in torment.
He laughed aloud. "I've been praying," he said. "Well, why not? I wonder
now if God cares? Would He hear me if I spoke to Him?"
The thought struck him as curious. He had scarcely ever prayed in his
life, but somehow there was a meaning in it now. Some words came back to
his mind, like the memory of some forgotten dream. "Are not two sparrows
sold for a farthing? and yet not one of them falls to the ground without
your Heavenly Father. Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall
find; knock, and the door shall be opened unto you."
Who said that? Yes, it was Jesus, the Man of Galilee, who claimed to be
the Son of God. Was God His Father? Well, and why should he not pray?
Perhaps it was because of the experience through which he had been
passing, perhaps it was because of the storm which swept in mad fury
across the moors, or perhaps it was because of a deeper reason which no
man can put into words, but Leicester knelt down on the heather and
prayed while the lightnings flashed and the thunder rolled.
He uttered no wild, incoherent cries, he scarcely spoke a word; but he
prayed, and as he prayed the whole of his life seemed to sweep before
him. Things forgotten, thoughts that were strange, visions seen only
from afar came to him. There was something awesome, majestic about it
all--the storm-tossed man pouring out his soul to his Maker, amidst the
storm-rent heavens.
"Great God, tell me what to do, and I'll do it," he said at length. No
voice came out of the skies, no message came to him from out of the
angry winds. The storm still swept on in wild fury. How long he knelt he
knew not, it might have been hours, but he knew that he had entered deep
in the heart of things. A man who really prays enters into an experience
to which the prayerless man is a stranger. What thoughts passed through
his mind I cannot tell; perhaps he could not have told himself--he only
knew that the foundations of his life had been broken up. He realised
what he had been, he knew what he was. He saw life as he had never seen
it before--saw how poor and vain were the thoughts of man, how great
were the thoughts of God. The great deeps seemed to be revealed to him,
and he knew that no man lives unless he links himself to the Eternal
Heart, the Heart made real by the Son of God, who lived and died. The
reasonings of man seemed but the crying of children; the logic of the
schoolmen no more than children's castles on the sands. There were great
deeps beyond all their theories, deeps never to be understood by the
mind, but felt by the soul. God had spoken.
When he rose to his feet, he also knew that he had risen from the dead.
There was a new life in his heart, and he was conscious of it. The
Radford Leicester of hours before, and the Radford Leicester of now,
were different. He had passed from death unto life.
For a time he walked on, almost unheeding whither he went, but
presently, as the sky became clearer, he saw the dim outline of the tor
which had been his landmark. As he saw it, he realised that he was not
more than an hour's walk from Vale Linden. In two hours or so he would
see Olive again, and he would tell her what was right for him to tell.
For he knew what he had to do now. The only course was the right course,
and he must walk in it. He knew what it meant, too. When he told Olive
who he was, and related the story of the past six years, she would bid
him go away, as she had bidden him long ago; but he must tell her all.
He owed it to her, and he would pay his debt. The future was not in his
hands, but in God's, and he would fight against his Maker no longer.
"Good gracious, sur, you've been out in all this weather."
"In every bit of it, Mrs. Briggs."
"And there's not a dry thread on 'ee."
"Not one." And he laughed as he spoke.
"I've bin wonderin' 'bout 'ee for 'ours. It's bin a ter'ble storm."
"It's been very wonderful. Have you any hot water, Mrs. Briggs?"
"Plenty, sir."
"I'll have a bath, and dress for dinner. The simpler the meal the
better, Mrs. Briggs."
"Certainly, sur. I'm thankful you are safe. I was afraid you was struck
by the lightning, sur. Were you afraid of it all, sur?"
"Yes, I think I was."
"Well, thank God, you are safe, sur."
"Yes, I thank God too, Mrs. Briggs."
The woman looked at him curiously; there was a new tone in his voice, a
new light in his eyes. He no longer seemed a "strange Eastern gentleman"
to her.
He ate his dinner in silence. He had but little appetite, but he went
through the form of eating for fear Mrs. Briggs should think he was not
pleased with her cooking.
Presently he rose to go out. "Goin' out again, sur? I should have
thought you'd been tired after bein' out in all that storm. I should
think you don't get any wilder storms in the parts you've come from."
"Different, Mrs. Briggs, entirely different."
"I suppose it's very grand, in they furrin parts," said Mrs. Briggs,
"but I don't want to leave Vale Linden."
"Nor I, Mrs. Briggs; but I shall have to."
"Not yet, sur, I hope."
"Yes, very soon, I expect."
"I am sorry. I was hopin' you'd stay a long time, I was, for sure. The
house won't seem like the same without 'ee. You do git more English too,
sur, makin' so bold."
"Thank you, Mrs. Briggs; you've been very good to me."
"You won't be laivin' before the end of the summer, will 'ee, sur?"
"Very likely I shall leave to-morrow."
"Nothin' wrong happened, I 'ope, sur?"
"A great deal has happened, but nothing wrong. Mrs. Briggs, do you
believe a man can rise from the dead?"
"Not in these days, sur. Of course they did in the time of our Lord.
There was Lazarus, and the young man in the village of Nain. Of course
the Lord can do whatever He will."
"Yes," said Leicester quietly, "I believe He can."
He went out into the night. The storm had gone now, and the sky was
cloudless. After the wild tempest, a peace had come. The air was fresh,
and pure, and sweet. Nature was a parable of his own life. After the
black death of winter came the resurrection of spring, after the wild
storm had come a peace. Life was new to him. He felt it in every fibre
of his being; old things had passed away, but he felt a great sorrow in
his heart. For he knew what lay before him. From that night Signor
Ricordo would be no more, and he, Radford Leicester, must go out into
the wilderness again.
He hesitated for a moment, and then went indoors again to his own room.
In a few minutes he came out again, and started for Vale Linden Hall.
"It is the will of God," he said, as he went, "it is the price I must
pay. Well, I will pay it to the uttermost farthing. Then I will go away,
and live my new life."
He was not long in reaching the house, and he was admitted without a
word.