The Man Who Rose Again
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"'I am afraid you will be awfully bored at this long description of a man you have perhaps never seen nor heard of, but he's the talk of the town just now, and really he's a most fascinating man. If ever you have the chance to meet him, be sure and embrace it. You'll want to disagree with everything he says, but you'll find him interesting.'"
"Is that all?"
"Yes, all about him."
"He must be a smart fellow, I should think. Should you not like to meet him?"
"I'm not sure. Of course, you know that Bridget is rather given to enthuse. Still, a clever person is always interesting."
"Because," said Mr. Castlemaine slowly, "it is rather a strange coincidence."
"What is?"
"Why, this same Mr. Radford Leicester is one of the two men who are coming to dine here to-night."
"It'll be interesting to compare notes with Bridget," said Olive, after a moment's hesitation. "But why is he coming here?"
"Oh, a Mr. Lowry, a sort of local magnate in the neighbourhood of Taviton, wishes to see me on a matter of some importance, and he has asked this Mr. Leicester to be his spokesman. I did not wish to be in town to-night, so I asked him to come here to dinner."
"And to spend the night?"
"No. They will return to town. There is a train about twelve."
But for her friend's letter Olive Castlemaine would have paid no attention to the fact that two men were coming to dine, but remembering what she had just read she felt rather desirous of seeing Mr. Radford Leicester. Perhaps that was why she told her maid to take special care in selecting a dress that night, and why, just after seven o'clock, Olive made her way to the drawing-room with more than usual interest.
She heard steps and voices in the hall just before the dinner-hour, and a few minutes later the two visitors were announced.
John Castlemaine introduced them to his daughter, and then watched her face with an amused smile. Perhaps he wondered if her opinion tallied with that of the letter she had received that very day. Mr. Lowry caused no interest. He was simply a commonplace man who had succeeded in becoming rich. Olive had seen such by the dozen, and valued them at their true worth. But few of them were interesting. As a rule, they looked at everything through the medium of money. To them passing events were of interest because of the effect they might have upon the financial market. And even here their outlook was narrow and superficial. It was evident, however, that Radford Leicester did interest her. He was a perfect contrast to the commonplace, corpulent man of business. Mr. Lowry seemed rather awed by coming into the home of one who stood so high in the commercial world. He was impressed by the quiet dignity of the great house. The old-fashioned, costly furniture, the sombre richness of everything, gave a feeling of repose to which his own house was a stranger. He wondered why it was so. He had given instructions to the manager of one of the largest furnishing establishments in Tottenham Court Road to spare no expense either in decorating or furnishing the mansion he had built, and although they had obeyed him he knew that it was different from this. As a consequence he felt ill at ease, and he stammered when Olive spoke to him. But Radford Leicester was different. He was perfectly at ease in the great drawing-room, and placed himself in the right relationship towards every one immediately. And yet a careful observer could see that he was more than usually interested. His large eyes flashed when he saw Olive Castlemaine. He had seen her only once before, and then had not been introduced to her. If he had given her a thought, it was only to regard her as the daughter of a very rich City man, and that she was said to be very religious. Now, however, all was different. While under the influence of whisky he had made a wager that he would win this woman's consent to be his wife, and now that they met face to face he had strange feelings. The first was a feeling of shame. He would not have admitted it even to himself, but he knew the feeling was in his heart. For another thing, he doubted himself. Before a word was spoken he knew that this woman was no shallow creature to be carried away by high-sounding phrases. Neither would she mistake cynical opinion, cleverly expressed, for truth. He almost felt afraid of the large brown eyes which were lifted so fearlessly to his.
When he had entered the house he, like Mr. Lowry, had felt the quiet dignity and the atmosphere of cultured refinement which prevailed.
"Who has created this," he asked himself, "the father or the daughter?"
"It is not the father," he concluded before John Castlemaine had spoken a dozen words. It was true that John Castlemaine bore an untarnished reputation for honour and uprightness, but he was not a cultured man; he would never give the house its tone. There were a hundred things which suggested the artist's feeling, the scholar's taste. When he saw Olive Castlemaine, he had no further doubt.
And he felt ashamed. Not that his opinions about women in general were altered. His experiences had been too bitter. He simply felt that his conversation in the club in London a week or so before was, to say the least of it, in bad taste. He did not mean to go back upon his words; that was not his habit. Besides, the difficulties which presented themselves made him more determined to carry his plans into effect.
As for Olive, she felt that her friend had estimated this man rightly – at least in part. He was a striking-looking man; he was a clever man. The florid merchant by his side looked mean and common compared with him. The quiet masterfulness of Leicester impressed her. He suggested a reserve of strength and knowledge which she had never before felt when brought into contact with other political aspirants. She knew the general type of Parliamentary candidates. Some had made money and wanted to have the honour associated with the British House of Legislature; others, again, were brought up with the idea of adopting the political life as a career. Neither in the one case nor the other were they men of note; they would be simply voting machines, even if they entered the House of Commons – just dull, uninteresting men, who had never grasped the principles which govern a nation's life.
But this man was different. The strong chin, the well-shaped head, the large grey eyes, could only mean a man of more than ordinary note.
They sat near each other at dinner, and all the time Radford Leicester was seeking to weigh Olive Castlemaine in the balance of his own opinions.
"I hope none of those fellows will let the wager leak out," he said to himself. "The girl makes me angry. What business has a rich City man's daughter – a religious woman and a Nonconformist – to look with searching eyes like that? I must be careful."
"You are an admirer of Tolstoi, Miss Castlemaine," he said, glancing towards a picture on the wall.
"You say that because of his picture," she replied. "An artist friend of ours knows the family. He paid a visit to Tolstoi's home, and the Count consented to sit for his picture. I believe it is very good."
"But you admire him?"
"Why do you think so?"
"Because you allow his picture to hang on your wall."
"You forget that my father would naturally govern such matters."
"I should not imagine that your father would elect to give honour to a man of Tolstoi's views."
"My father greatly admires the artist's work."
"But not this one. You are quite right, Mr. Leicester," said Mr. Castlemaine, who had overheard their conversation. "I am not an admirer of this Russian's revolutionary ideas. My daughter and I had quite an argument about this picture."
"And Miss Castlemaine had the best of it."
"What man was ever equal to a woman in argument?" said Mr. Castlemaine good-humouredly. "Yes, what were you saying, Mr. Lowry?"
"Why do you admire him?" asked Radford Leicester, turning to Olive.
"A woman always admires strength, courage, honesty," replied Olive.
"And which most?"
"Honesty."
"That is interesting. Might one ask why?"
"Because the other two do not exist without it."
Radford Leicester did not repress the answer that rose to his lips. He could not be altogether a hypocrite, even to carry out his plans.
"That is a very respectable tradition," he said.
"You do not believe it?"
"I would not try to destroy it for worlds," he said. "I can feel the whole constitution rattling about my ears at the very thought of its destruction."
"But you do not believe it?"
"What would you say if I told you I did not?"
"I should say that Tolstoi's life would prove you in the wrong."
"Have you ever considered what a complex thing humanity is, Miss Castlemaine? I have known honest men – that is, as honest men go – as timid as rabbits, and I have known scoundrels who have been as brave as lions. Is not human nature constantly laughing at us?"
"That is because our judgments are so shallow. We do not look beneath the surface."
"Yes, doubtless you are right. But my main objection to the so-called honest man is that he is so frightfully dull."
"To say the least of him, Tolstoi is not dull."
"Therefore he is not honest."
"Surely a sweeping conclusion from a very uncertain premiss."
"No, not uncertain."
"No? May I ask how you can prove it true?"
"By constantly meeting with men – and women."
"You mean that all the honest people you have met with are dull?"
"Pardon me, I am not sure I have ever met with an honest man. But I have met with those who are called honest, and – "
The girl looked at him steadily. She was not sure whether he was in earnest. It is true his face was perfectly serious, and yet she thought she detected a mocking tone in his voice.
"Children, for example," she said. "The most interesting children are those who are least self-conscious. The moment they become self-conscious and begin to act a part they cease to be attractive."
"Then you think that all but children are dull?"
"Why do you say so?"
"Because all grown-up people are acting a part."
"Again, are we not still on the surface?"
"No, we are down very deep. We are considering life. Life is simply acting a part. Why we act the parts we do is difficult to tell. Only I have noticed this: in life, as on the stage, those who elect to act the part of the good honest person are invariably dull. It is your villain who interests, and your villain who does the daring things – except in melodrama," he added quickly.
"What an unfortunate man you must be, Mr. Leicester," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you have been so unfortunate in the society you have frequented."
"Oh no, I have been singularly fortunate."
"Yes?"
"Yes, on the whole, I have found people wonderfully interesting."
What did he mean by talking in this fashion? Olive Castlemaine tried to answer the question, but was baffled. She was sure he was not such a little man as to pride himself upon breaking away from recognised rules of life simply for the sake of appearing odd. She was about to lead the conversation into another direction when a servant came bearing a card.
"Mr. Purvis," said John Castlemaine. "I wonder if he has had his dinner."
Olive Castlemaine and Radford Leicester looked at each other, they hardly knew why, and each thought that the other looked uncomfortable.
CHAPTER IV
A DOUBLE PERSONALITY
A few minutes later Purvis sat at the dinner-table. It appeared that he wished to see Mr. Castlemaine, and not knowing he would be engaged, had taken the liberty of calling. He seemed surprised at seeing Leicester there, but naturally said nothing. As for Leicester, his interest in the gathering seemed to evaporate at Purvis's entrance. He suddenly became rather moody, and when he spoke, addressed his remarks to Mr. Castlemaine rather than to his daughter. This evidently pleased Purvis, who became quite cheerful at Leicester's gloomy demeanour.
Presently dinner came to an end, when Olive went away into the drawing-room, while the men adjourned to the library. Mr. Lowry seemed rather annoyed at Purvis's presence, but made the best of the situation by talking to Mr. Castlemaine in low tones.
"You are abstemious to-night, Leicester," said Purvis.
"Indeed!"
"Yes, after all, you are not willing for her to know all the truth."
Leicester did not reply.
"Surely you are not going on with this business?"
"Else why am I here?"
"But you are to let her know your character in full."
"No man's character is known in full."
"But – but – "
"Look here, Purvis, I shall play the game. See that you do," and he gave the young man a glance which made him slightly uncomfortable.
"Of course – of course," he said nervously. "I don't like it. Still, there's no danger – that is, there will not be when she knows everything."
"Which you will see to."
"I shall tell her nothing of our conversation; as for the rest – well, there will be no need for me to tell her that."
Leicester gave the other a look which was almost angry.
"No," he said, "I daresay you are right. A man's so-called vices soon become public property. Of course," he went on, "you will talk with her about me."
"Why should I?"
"Oh, you will. You will let her know all the world says, and a little more."
"I say, Leicester."
"Oh, don't grow indignant, my dear fellow. I know the worth of your indignation; besides, I only wanted to tell you that you are quite at liberty to say what you like."
"You mean that?"
"Oh, certainly. Of course the wager is a secret. As for the rest, I authorise you to give your imagination full scope. I say, Purvis, I imagine Mr. Castlemaine and Mr. Lowry wish to talk with me about a private matter. I'm sure you don't mind, do you? and Miss Castlemaine will be lonely. I'm not in the least jealous, my dear fellow."
Mr. Castlemaine was much impressed with the way Leicester stated the affair which Mr. Lowry wished to bring before him. Everything was so carefully thought out, and so clearly expressed, that the man who was accustomed to deal with vast business enterprises was simply delighted. As he declared afterwards, it was quite an intellectual treat to talk with such a man. Besides, he made the conversation so interesting by introducing matters which appealed to John Castlemaine's tastes, that he felt like insisting on him staying the night. As a rule, whenever he talked of business matters in his own house, which was very seldom, he got through it as quickly as possible. But to-night all was different. When the business conversation came to an end, he still continued to talk.
"By the way," he remarked when Leicester had said something which more than ordinarily amused him, "my daughter ought to hear that, and we might as well go into the drawing-room. You've finished your cigar, haven't you?"
Leicester threw his cigar-end into the grate, and having finished his whisky, he followed his host.
They found Purvis eagerly talking with Miss Castlemaine, and Leicester knew the moment he entered that he had been the subject of their conversation. She gave him a quick, searching glance, as if she could scarcely believe what Purvis had been telling her. The look made him angry. He had told Purvis that he was at liberty to make known his character, and yet he keenly resented his communication. There had been times when he had taken pleasure in his peculiar reputation; but to-day everything seemed different. Still Leicester was not a man who shrunk from a difficult situation; indeed, he presently found himself possessed with a sort of savage joy, as he found himself uttering sentiments which had become commonplaces to men of his way of thinking. Moreover, he seemed desirous of showing Purvis that he did not desire to hide from Miss Castlemaine the kind of man he really was.
"I hear you are making great progress in your constituency down in Devonshire, Leicester," said Purvis.
"Oh yes, we are enjoying ourselves hugely down there," was the reply.
"For my own part, I do not find it fun to nurse a constituency," said Purvis.
"That's because you do not look on the humorous side of the question," replied Leicester. "When one regards the whole business in the same light as that in which a boy plays a game of marbles, it is great fun."
"I cannot think of the Government of my country in that light," said Purvis loftily.
"No," said Leicester quietly; "well, tastes differ. Politics are just what you make them, comedy or serious drama. And I prefer comedy."
"Thus it too often becomes a fiasco. A man becomes a member of Parliament for the good of his country. He sacrifices his time and money for the welfare of his fellow-creatures. At least he should. I know of no higher calling than to be a legislator in one's own land. It is not fun, it is duty."
"The greatest comedy I know of," said Leicester, "is the pretence to be serious. I never laugh so immoderately as I do at so-called serious drama. One can so easily see the make-up of the whole business. The passion, the pathos, the high moral sentiment, the remorse, it is all got up for the occasion – and it is great fun."
"But politics are different from the drama."
"Are they? I have never had much to do with the dramatic world, but I am told that managers run theatres to make money for themselves by amusing the spectators. When comedy fails, they try tragedy. Politics are pretty much the same. Politicians put pieces on the stage to amuse the spectators, and there-by benefit themselves. When they fail to obtain the support of the audience – well, they are kicked off the stage and another set of actors put on."
"Only in politics the actors don't make money."
"No," said Leicester quietly, "they don't, at least not many. But they are inspired by the same motive as the actor is."
"And that?"
"Self, my dear fellow, self. The bonâ fide actor is generally poor, and he seeks money and popularity. The politician does not always want money, but he wants fame. He wants to lift his head above the crowd, he wants to be mentioned in the newspapers, he wants to be singled out as he passes along the stage of life. Does the actor care a fig about the welfare of the spectators? All he wants is their money and their applause. Does the politician care a fig about the welfare of the voter? Still, it's great fun."
"Come, come, Mr. Leicester," said Mr. Lowry, "it wouldn't do for the people down at Taviton to hear you say such things."
"Exactly," said Leicester; "the people like to be fooled. Therefore the best thing is to fool them. Besides, is it not all a part of one great show? We are puppets on the stage of life, and we have to play our part. And each plays it with his eye on the audience."
"Personally," said Purvis, "I should not spend time and money for such a purpose. I know it may sound like boasting; but I would give up politics to-morrow but for the good of my country."
"Some time ago," said Leicester mockingly, "I was invited to speak at a political meeting, to assist the candidature of a young politician, who is supposed to be filled with very noble sentiments. I went and listened to this young politician. During his speech a man interrupted. The speaker tried to answer him, and failed. The man continued his interruption. At last some one shouted, 'Don't trouble about him, he hasn't got a vote.' Immediately this young, high-souled politician said, 'I came to speak to electors, not to men who have no vote, and therefore no stake in the country.' Exactly. But think a moment. Who was this interrupter? He was a man with a life to live. He had his burdens to bear and his battles to fight. But he was not a voter, he could not help to send him to Parliament, therefore – " and Leicester shrugged his shoulders.
During this speech Purvis looked more and more angry. The blood mounted to his face and he shifted in his seat. Moreover, he saw that the eyes of the others were upon him, which did not add to his comfort.
"Yes, it's great fun," went on Leicester, "this acting on the great stage of life while the audience cheers or groans, as the case may be. But as to motives – well, let them pass."
"But, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, who had keenly enjoyed the conversation, partly because she was not sure whether Leicester was serious or only joking, "are you not forgetting that there are conscientious artists? Are there not artists who live for their art and care nothing about praise or blame?"
"Is not that another form of selfishness?" remarked Leicester.
"But surely, Leicester," said Purvis, "you do not mean that you confess to these sordid motives; – that you regard politics as only a game to play, in order to win applause? Do you mean to say that you are no better than the crowd you describe?"
"My dear fellow, I am a great deal better, for the simple truth that I am honest. I don't profess to having these high sentiments which some boast of."
"The last time I heard you speak," said Purvis, "you spoke in no measured terms of the present Government. You declared it to be the bounden duty of the country to thrust it from power. Why did you say this if one party is as good as another, and all men uniformly selfish?"
"Because they do not play the game well," replied Leicester quietly; "because they make false moves, and because it grates upon one's artistic feelings to see a thing done badly. I would for the same reason hoot an orchestra off a platform for making discords. To begin with, the present Government have a very poor piece, and, secondly, they play it very badly. Miss Castlemaine," he added, turning to Olive, "please forgive us for talking in this way; but you see we are all alike. All men talk shop, just the same as women do."
"The part you are acting now is very interesting to me," said Olive, with a laugh.
"And to me also," said Leicester, looking at Purvis. "Indeed, when one comes to think of it, all parts played seriously, especially when a great deal depends on the way one plays them, are tremendously interesting."
"Then you admit you are acting a part?"
"Are we not all acting a part?" replied Leicester.
"And for the amusement of the audience?"
"And for selfish purposes? Else why do we act?"
The girl looked at him steadily, as if trying to read his thoughts. That she was interested in him she had to admit, not so much because of what he said, as because of his strong personality. She could not help feeling that he was the dominating influence in the room. She did not believe in the opinions to which he had given expression, neither did she believe that he believed in them; nevertheless he uttered them with such an air of conviction that he impressed her in spite of herself.
"My reading of life is utterly different from yours," she said presently. "Did Charles Lamb act a part when he sacrificed the woman he loved and the life he hoped to live in order to give his life to protect his poor mad sister?"
"Charles Lamb has never ceased to be praised since he did it," remarked Leicester.
"But he never thought of the praise at the time," said Olive.
"No, I will admit that you've brought a strong exception which proves the rule," said Leicester, "and yet poor Lamb was a drunkard."
He looked at Purvis as he spoke, as if to remind him that he was playing his part fairly.
"Of course that was a terrible weakness of Lamb's," said Olive, "and yet one cannot help feeling kindly towards him. He was so penitent, so contrite; besides, he has gladdened the world by his bright, cheery outlook on life. Even from your standpoint, the man who looks for the evil in life plays his part badly. It is he who looks for the good and the beautiful that really helps the spectators."
"I think otherwise," remarked Leicester. "The doctor who exposes a disease, and fights it, is he who is the greatest benefactor."
"To expose a disease without fighting it, on the other hand, is of but little use," said Olive; "besides, it seems to me that the greatest physician is he who teaches us to live such healthy lives that the diseases find in us nothing to live on. The best remedy against the encroachment of disease is strong, vigorous health."
"But how to obtain that strong, vigorous health, Miss Castlemaine, is not that the great question?"