The Man Who Rose Again Part 17

"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 G.o.d'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 coa.r.s.er 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 G.o.d, 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d!"

He did not believe, this man, that G.o.d 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 n.o.blest 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 cla.s.s 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.

CHAPTER VIII

THE FOUR MEN MEET AGAIN

The wedding was arranged for an early date. Leicester pleaded for a month's engagement only, and although that month was multiplied by five, he yielded with good grace, especially as he spent a great deal of time at The Beeches. Not that he was idle during those five months. Rather he worked as he had never worked before. He was anxious to prove himself worthy of the woman he loved. To his casual acquaintances he did not seem to alter much. If he was not cynical, he was satirical; he laughed, as of old, at what he called the humour of politics and religion. He professed but little faith in either philanthropy or self-sacrifice.

More than once he offended some of his const.i.tuents by his remarks about their inst.i.tutions, which they said were for the good of humanity. All the same, he rose greatly in the estimation of the people as a whole.

They recognised something like moral earnestness behind his brilliant speeches, while at every meeting he attended he seemed to strike a deeper, truer note.

Especially was this true at a meeting which Olive attended. She paid a visit to her old friend at Taviton Grange, and during the time she was there a demonstration was arranged for in the Public Hall. Olive had never heard Leicester speak in public, and she looked forward to the gathering with great eagerness. There were to be two speeches on the occasion, besides that of the chairman. One was by one of the most important leaders of the Opposition, and the other by Leicester, who was to speak as the accepted candidate. Of course the hall was packed. The ex-Cabinet Minister was spoken of as the ablest speaker in the party, and his name was a household word. Naturally, moreover, the ex-Cabinet Minister had the place of honour. For more than an hour he spoke, leading the thoughts of the people from one point to another, until, as some one remarked, he had covered the whole field of politics, leaving nothing for Leicester to say. Olive Castlemaine, who was naturally keenly interested in the meeting, felt this more than any one. She wanted to hear her lover at his best, and when the circ.u.mstances should be of the most favourable nature.

"How can Radford be at his best after the people have been listening to this great man for more than an hour?" she said to herself. "Oh, I wish he would stop!"

He came to an end at length, and the people cheered heartily. His speech was a strong vindication of his own policy, and a stronger condemnation of the doings of the Government. In truth, there seemed nothing more to say. Still Leicester, as the accepted candidate, was called upon to speak, and as he rose the people gave him a great welcome. The air was hot and stifling, the audience had listened attentively for more than an hour to the speaker of the evening, but in a few sentences Leicester led them to forget their weariness, and to be unconscious of the stifling atmosphere of the hall.

In turning to address the chairman he saw Olive's eyes fixed on him, and he realised that this was the first time they had ever been together on such an occasion. He must prove worthy of her confidence, of her hope, of her love. He had told her that he could do anything with her by his side, and he longed to show her that he had not uttered an empty boast.

Besides, his heart thrilled at the thought that she was his promised wife--this, the one woman in all the world to him.

Men said afterwards that the great speech of the ex-Cabinet Minister was only worthy of being called an introduction to the real speech of the evening. Never had Leicester spoken as he spoke that night, for in addition to brilliant epigram, scathing criticism, and searching a.n.a.lysis there was a great moral fervour. For the moment he cast aside his old hopelessness; and his words were glowing with warmth, and convincing because of the ardent sincerity of his own beliefs. The meeting forgot that an ex-Cabinet Minister had been speaking for more than an hour, and remembered only that the present speaker was lifting them into a higher realm of thought, and presently, when he sat down, the audience rose _en ma.s.se_, and gave him an ovation.

Directly he went into the ante-room a crowd gathered around him to congratulate him, but he took but little notice of them. Their praise to him was merely words. Even the congratulations of the ex-Cabinet Minister seemed nothing to him: his eyes were keenly scanning the faces of those present, in order to see some one who had not yet spoken. She came presently, and as Leicester saw her, his heart beat with a great joy. He knew what she thought--it was evident from the look she gave him.

Forgetful of all else he rushed to her side; he did not speak, but waited anxiously for what she might say.

"I _am_ proud," she said in a whisper.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"That is only a suggestion of what I feel," was her reply.

And she spoke the truth. Never did she feel towards him as she did that night. She forgot the impression he had first made upon her, forgot all the stories she had heard about him. She thought only of her pride in him, and the great future which lay before him. And with it all came the consciousness that she had caused the change. She was giving him n.o.bler thoughts of life; she was making him realise the great powers which had been lying dormant. It was something to be proud of. To be the means of making a possible great man to realise his greatness, and of bringing into life latent powers of which even he had not been conscious.

Visions rose before her mind of what he would be. She had read the history of the career of men like the younger Pitt, of John Bright, of Disraeli, of Gladstone, and she believed that Leicester was equal to the best of them. She saw him the leader of a people, voicing their wants, and interpreting their language; she saw him a prophet, revealing to the world the deeper meanings of a nation's life. And she was the instrument chosen for his salvation. He had learnt to love her, he had declared that if he was to be anything but a cynic, a scoffer, it must be through her. She was his inspiration, his lode-star, his hope. For her, and with her by his side, he could do anything.

She believed it now. In her excitement she compared his speech with the brilliant orations of the great leaders. She was sure that Leicester's powers were of the same order as the powers of Macaulay and Burke. And she--_she_ was the instrument used by G.o.d to make everything possible.

As she walked back to Taviton Grange, her hand resting on his arm, she seemed to be treading on air. Her life seemed enlarged, her purpose in living seemed greater. She was willing to forget herself, to sink her own personality, so that the man she had accepted as her husband might be the man G.o.d intended him to be.

John Castlemaine had been at the meeting also, and while not a believer in all his political doctrines, was also carried away by the brilliance of Leicester's speech. He felt proud of his future son-in-law; and he was sure that Olive had done wisely in accepting him as her husband.

So far Leicester had been true to his promise to Olive. He had never touched alcohol since the day he had asked her to be his wife. Sometimes the craving had been terrible, but he had resisted. He had even borne the covert sneers of his acquaintances without retort. What had begun in a grim and unworthy joke had become to him the great motive power of his life.

Indeed, but for one thing, Leicester was supremely happy. He could never think of the compact which led to his introduction to her without shame, and he had a great dread lest in some way it should come to her ears.

More than once, after his engagement had become known, he had sought to obtain an interview with Purvis and Sprague and Winfield; but for a long time the opportunity which he sought did not come, and he was too proud to seek them for the ostensible purpose of speaking to them about it.

One day in February, however, he saw them together. He had come to his club late one night, and found them alone in the smoking-room. He had spent the evening with Olive, and had come back by the last train. As may be imagined, neither Sprague nor Purvis felt very kindly towards him. No man looks kindly on a successful rival. It angered them also when they remembered that it was through their instrumentality that the engagement had come to pa.s.s.

They had been talking about Leicester before he came in. Like many others, they did not believe in his sincerity. How could Leicester, the cynic, the scoffer at women, the man who when under the influence of whisky had made a wager that he could win a woman, love the woman he had won? Was it not simply to win his wager that he was playing this part?

"For my own part," said Winfield, "I believe him to be sincere. What begun in a jest has ended in earnest. When he met Miss Castlemaine, he, who for years had avoided women, realised how wrong he had been. He has evidently fallen deeply in love, and I for my part am glad that she accepted him. Leicester will be a fine fellow, and will have a great future. I hear he never touches drink now."