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CHAPTER XVIII
OLIVE'S LIFE IN DEVONSHIRE

By the middle of May John Castlemaine and his daughter had settled at Vale Linden, an old family mansion situated amidst beautiful and romantic scenery. Even Devonshire, the garden of England, had no more attractive place to offer. From the front of the house Olive could see a wide panorama of beautiful country. Immediately beyond the lawns stretched the park, dotted with giant trees, such as can be seen only in the southern and western counties of England. Beyond the park was a fine undulating country of wooded dells and rich pasture land. Here and there she could see the farmsteads nestling amongst the trees, while still beyond was the vast stretch of the moors, fast becoming a great blaze of golden and purple glory. Everywhere the birds sang gaily, while the air was filled with the perfume of flowers.

Spring comes early in Devonshire. Ofttimes when the air is cold and biting in the more northern counties it is balmy and caressing there. Not that it lacks the crisp vitalising elements which are supposed to belong to the north. There is no air in England more invigorating than that which sweeps across Dartmoor, and yet you feel that all nature is generous and kind there. During the first few weeks of Olive's residence in her new home, it was a constant revelation of new wonders. Day by day she wandered along the lanes, and through the fields, almost unconsciously revelling in the unfolding life around her. Primroses simply bedecked the hedges, while the whole countryside was ablaze with wild-flowers. She heard the ploughboys singing in the fields, and watched the lambs sporting in the meadows; she listened to the River Linden singing its way into the sea, and breathed the air of healthful restfulness which pervaded the whole countryside.

John Castlemaine had acted wisely in buying Vale Linden. Knowing his daughter's beauty-loving nature, he had been right in believing that if anything could divert Olive's mind from her sorrow, it would be to place her in surroundings like these. It seemed almost providential that the post which brought news of Leicester's death also brought him the letter telling him that Vale Linden was still for sale, and as he watched the good effect that the place was having upon her, he rejoiced that he was a rich man, and thus able to obtain what would have been impossible to one who was poor. Not that John Castlemaine was blind to the sense of his responsibilities as a rich man. He used his money wisely and well, and while he did not appear before the public gaze as a philanthropist, few men worked harder to use his money in order to minister to the needs of humanity than he. He never advertised himself in the newspapers, nevertheless he regarded himself as a steward of the Almighty, and used his money accordingly. In buying Vale Linden, therefore, while he was anxious to please and help his daughter, he was not forgetful of his duties towards those who lived on the estate. Indeed, he felt sure that it would not only be in the new scenes, but in the new duties which would appear to Olive, that she would find that healing which she needed.

Nevertheless for the first few weeks he rejoiced to see her revelling in the beauties of the countryside. Often he accompanied her on her walks, and went with her into the farmhouses, where she chatted with the farmers' wives. He climbed with her to Linden Tor, from which they could see the wide expanse of the moors; he sat with her in wooded dells, and listened to the song of the birds, and the rill of the river.

"You are pleased with Vale Linden, Olive?" he said to her one day.

"You know, father," she replied.

"And you can be happy here?"

"I think so; I hope so – presently," she replied.

"But not yet?"

She was silent.

"We must get some friends down here, Olive. You must have girls of your own age to stay here. It must be a bit lonely for you only having me."

"No," she said, "I am not lonely, and I want no friends – yet. I want to be quiet for a little while – presently – "

"Presently you will want them?"

"No, I think not, father, and yet I don't know. Yes, perhaps I shall. Besides, I think we ought. But it was not of that I was thinking."

"I daresay the people around here will be calling soon."

"No, I do not think so."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, the farmers will not dare to call; they will think it presumptuous. As for the county people, they will not think it incumbent upon them to do so."

"No?"

"Two things will stand in the way of their doing so. First, you are what they call a dissenter, and that would be sufficient to ostracise us; and, second, they would regard us as of the nouveau riche order, because you have made your wealth by commerce."

John Castlemaine laughed.

"I do not imagine we shall be much poorer because of their lack of courtesy, Olive; still, I hope you are mistaken."

"Why, do you long for their society?"

"Oh, no; I was only hoping that broader and healthier ideas were coming into the community."

"I am afraid it is a vain hope," said Olive. "Why, just think. When the vicar called the other day he was simply stunned when you told him you were a Nonconformist, while when you told him that you intended building a chapel, I thought he was going to faint."

"Yes, he did seem overwhelmed," said John Castlemaine.

"Before you told him these things, he spoke of his wife and daughters calling, but not afterwards. Neither, as a matter of fact, have they called."

"Ah, but that is because of pure chagrin, I imagine. Besides, Mr. Lestrange is noted for his bigotry, and is not therefore a fair sample."

"Of course there is an utterly different atmosphere here," said Olive. "Not that it troubles me. The people whose intellectual outlook is so limited that the question of religious opinion influences social courtesies, are not very desirable companions. Still, we will have to bear it in mind in considering our future. As for – by the way, are you very rich, father?"

"Yes," said John Castlemaine quietly; "I suppose I am."

"That question will be inquired into, no doubt," said Olive, "and it may be that in time the minor county families will overlook our other failings on account of your being a wealthy man."

"Aren't you a bit cynical, Olive?"

"I was only wondering whether these people were worth considering, father. As you know, I don't care a little bit about what is called society, and I have been thinking about other plans for the future."

"What plans?"

"I have been trying to think what I shall do with my life."

"Yes?" said John Castlemaine eagerly.

"Yes. We cannot live here for ever idly; at least, I cannot. Besides, it would not be right. Even if we were to take part in the social life of the county, I could not content myself to be a mere butterfly. Following the hounds, going to dances, paying calls, and the rest of it, is not a very interesting programme."

"No, it is not," John Castlemaine assented.

"I love the country," said Olive, "far more than I love the city, and – and I want to live in the country. Besides, there is as much work to do here as there is in the city. Of another kind, perhaps, but just as important."

"I think so, too; but what do you propose doing?"

"We have some responsibility towards the people here. Especially those on the estate you have bought. As it is very large, that will involve a great deal of work."

John Castlemaine nodded.

"But that is not all. I should like the house to be – well, a kind of centre of life."

"That sounds very well; but tell me what you mean in greater detail. Would you invite the villagers to it? Would you give them dinners, and dances?"

"Perhaps so, but I was not thinking of that so much. As a rule, people build great houses for purely selfish purposes. They invite people whose presence will give them pleasure. They give dinners to those who live in a land of plenty, they offer pleasure to those who are satiated with it."

"Exactly," said John Castlemaine; "what then?"

"I think we could invite to our house those whom we could really benefit by inviting."

"Start a sort of hotel for poor people. I am afraid it would not do, Olive. They would be miserable amidst such surroundings."

"There are many people we know who would not be miserable, and to whom we should be rendering real kindness by inviting. In this way we could be using this great house for the good of needy people. There are young professional men, ministers, doctors, and the like who are very poor, and yet who are people of refined and cultured tastes. An invitation here would be a perfect godsend to them, and at the same time we should be meeting people who are our equals in the best sense of the word."

"Yes," said John Castlemaine, "there is Dr. Rickard's daughter, whom you used to invite to The Beeches. A fortnight here would be like paradise to the girl."

"There are hosts of such. But more than that, father; I think it is possible to help those who might not be happy as our guests in the house, or for that matter whom we might not like to have there."

"Well, what would you do for those?"

"I would choose one of the loveliest spots on the estate, and build a large house, fitting it up on the lines of a good hotel. I would make it open to those to whom it might possibly be a kind of health resort."

"Would you admit them gratis?" asked Mr. Castlemaine with a smile, "or would they have to pay, like ordinary residents in an hotel?"

"I think they should pay; but their payment should be so arranged that while no one should be pauperised, no one, whom it might be desirable to receive, should be kept out because of money considerations."

Again the keen man of business smiled.

"And what would you do with them when you got them here, Olive?" he asked.

"Well, as I said, the place should be fitted up on the lines of an hotel or hydro, so that there should be plenty of opportunities for indoor amusement."

"Yes, but this is essentially an outdoor place."

"Exactly, therefore you should have tennis courts, a cricket field, and, what is more, golf links."

John Castlemaine lifted his eyebrows.

"Have you any idea what this would cost, Olive?" he asked.

"Yes, I have a pretty shrewd suspicion; but, as you told me just now, you are a rich man, and no one has the right to either hoard up money or to spend it entirely on one's self. Besides, there is a tract of moorland just behind Hillhead Farm which, when laid out, would make a perfect golf links. There I think a club house should be built."

"Would you allow intoxicants to be sold?" asked John Castlemaine, and he was sorry he had asked the question the moment it had escaped his lips. He knew it made her think of Leicester, and brought up many painful memories. She did not speak for a few seconds, but presently she answered quietly:

"No, father, and if the estate were mine, not a single public-house should exist on it."

"Have you finished sketching your plans yet?" asked John Castlemaine.

"No, not yet," was the reply. "I would build a little church, and a village hall. The parish church here is in a moribund condition, and the services, owing to the vicar being out of harmony with the times, are neither interesting nor inspiring. Among your guests you will have ministers of all denominations. Many of these will be broad-minded, cultured men, and these will be perfectly willing to conduct services. Thus not only the visitors to the place, but the villagers also, will be privileged with healthful religious teaching."

"But even then you would meet the needs of only a part of your visitors. Many belonging to the State Church would come, we should hope."

"They would have the parish church; besides, I said I would have ministers of all denominations to conduct the services in the church you will build, so that the needs of people belonging to every section of the Christian Church should be met."

"The Roman Catholics?"

"If they care to avail themselves of it."

John Castlemaine laughed quietly.

"You have large ideas, Olive," he said, "but such a scheme as you mention would need an indefatigable secretary, one who would give a great deal of time and labour to it."

"I would see to that, father."

"What! do you mean that you would superintend the whole affair?"

"Yes."

Mr. Castlemaine looked at her steadily.

"I do not say your scheme is impossible, Olive," he said. "It would cost a great deal of money; but that fact should not stand in the way. I can see, too, that no man should own such a place as this, and then selfishly reserve it all to himself. What is more, I feel sure that you could make it a great success, in the best sense of the word; but I see one almost insurmountable difficulty."

"And that?"

"Well, to begin with, such an affair should have one controlling hand, one controlling mind. While yours was the controlling hand, and the controlling mind, all would be well; but presently you would not be able to give the necessary time and attention, and then the thing would become a matter of committeeism, and paid secretaryism, which would be utterly out of accord with my ideas."

"But why should I not continue to give the necessary amount of time and attention?"

"Well, for example, you might get married."

Her face became as pale as death.

"I shall never marry," she said.

"Nonsense!"

"I shall never marry," she repeated.

"You do not mean that you regard yourself as bound by that mad promise to Leicester?"

She was silent, but she nodded her head in assent.

"But, Olive, this would be madness. The man is dead – a suicide. Even although the promise were valid had he lived, it has no meaning now he is dead."

"Yes, it has," she said.

An angry look shot from John Castlemaine's eyes. The girl's determination was so absurd that he had difficulty in keeping himself from speaking impatiently. He kept silence, however. He reflected that the tragic death of Leicester was so recent, that Olive's mind was in a morbid condition.

"Anyhow, I'll think over what you say, Olive," he said kindly. "I imagine, moreover, that I shall do what you say. Even if the scheme fails, it will be a splendid failure, and I do not think it will land us either in the workhouse or the bankruptcy court."

A few weeks later Olive was busy examining architects' plans, listening to professional golfers' ideas concerning the best way of laying out golf links, and hearing protests from certain in the parish concerning her wild, utopian, and unpractical scheme. Difficulties, however, did not turn her aside from her purpose, and in her arduous labours she was led to brood less over the tragic cloud which had fallen upon her life.

A year later a great change came over Vale Linden. The little wayside station some three miles away, which had been seldom used, became quite busy. The hills and vales, which had been well-nigh forsaken, echoed to the laughter of many voices. Tired, over-worked men and women found health and recreation amongst the wild moors, and roaming amidst wooded dells, while many who, amidst the crowded thoroughfares of London, found little to rejoice in, felt that their youth was renewed as they filled their lungs with the balmy air of Devon.

The great house at Vale Linden, which during the late ownership never received a guest, save those of a select class, was now often filled with people they would have called plebeian; nevertheless, it had never since its erection been such a centre of hospitality and gladness as now.

The new homestead was filled almost as soon as it was opened, while in the new church, which John Castlemaine had built, people who had listened to no preacher but the prosy vicar, rejoiced in the thoughts of men who had a real message to deliver, while those who had lived their lives amidst turmoil and strife felt that their spiritual and intellectual needs were met, in this quaint Devonshire village, "far from the madding crowd."

And Olive Castlemaine was the presiding genius everywhere. It was she who arranged for competitions on the golf links, and matches in the tennis courts. No concert or lecture at the village hall seemed to be complete without her. The ministers who came to the little church declared that but for the organ which she played, and the choir she trained, they would find it far more difficult to preach, while the vicar of the parish sorrowed with a great sorrow that such a beautiful and accomplished girl should be a dissenter.

Nevertheless, he could not deny that a new life was lived by the people. Books which the villagers had never heard of before were now read eagerly, while drunkenness was becoming more and more a thing of the past.

Thus Olive Castlemaine entered upon a new phase of her life. In the midst of her many new duties she tried to forget the one who crossed the pathway of her life, and then had suddenly left it. Not that she altogether succeeded. Often in her quiet hours the picture of this man as she had first seen him came back to her. Again she saw the pale face, and the straight, erect form, while the memory of his cynical and faithless words haunted her. Even yet she could not help admiring him. No matter who might be in the room, his was the most striking figure; no one, in spite of his cynicism, had been listened to as eagerly as he. Even while she grew angry at the thought of his wagering to win her as his wife, she wondered whether she had done right in driving him away. She knew that he had been drunk when he had done it, knew, too, that within a few weeks of the wedding he had confessed that he was marrying her to win his wager, and to participate in her father's wealth. No, she could not have done otherwise. Her self-respect, her woman's pride would not have allowed her; moreover, his professions of reformation were only a part of his plan for deceiving her. Within three days of the time when he should have married her, he had, while drunk, allowed her picture to be exhibited before a crowd of gaping rustics; he had uttered maudlin words about her, and then fallen on the platform in a condition of drunken imbecility. No, she had done right, and yet she felt sure that he must have loved her. Besides, in spite of his vices, he was a noteworthy man. There was something fine even in his cynicism, something almost noble in his scorn for conventional morality.

Still, it was all over. He had paid for his vices and his deceit with his own life. He had preferred to die in the turbid waters of the Thames to living a life of uselessness and regret. She ought to forget him; but she could not. Sometimes she upbraided herself for being the cause of his death; but not often. She was too healthy-minded, too sane for that. The man who could throw away his life because of what she had done, could never have been one whom she could respect.

Her solace was in work, in living for the benefit of others, and to this she gave her life. Little by little, as the leading families of the county came to know her, they paid her many attentions. Instinctively they realised that she was no ordinary woman, while her father's great wealth added charm to her accomplishments. Before two years had passed away more than one county magnate had sought her hand in marriage, while many wondered at her evident determination to remain single.

But as the years passed away her father thought he saw a change in her. She no longer grew impatient when he spoke to her of marriage, and he hoped with a great hope that his old age might be cheered by the shouts of children's voices, and by the thought that his only child had buried a dead past.

CHAPTER XIX
THE MAN WITH THE FEZ

Olive Castlemaine sat on the lawn of her Devonshire home, looking away across the valley towards the moorlands which lay beyond. By her side stood a young fellow of from thirty to thirty-five years of age.

"You don't say you are sorry for me, Miss Castlemaine," he said.

"You are not on my side, you see," she replied, with a smile.

"Would that make a difference? Would you have congratulated me if I were on your side, and won the seat?"

"And if you had lost it – if you had made a good fight."

"You believe in fighting?"

"To the very end."

"Still, I can't turn my coat – even for you," he said apologetically.

"I would not like you to."

"And, after all, the battle's not lost, because of one defeat."

"You are going to stand again?"

"Yes, I am going to stand again. We must have a General Election in a year or two; meanwhile I shall keep on pegging away. The majority was not insurmountable. The Government is bound to make a fool of itself, the General Election will come, and I shall win the seat."

"You seem very certain."

"The man who keeps pegging away, and never gives up, has always reason to be certain. And I never give up."

Olive was silent.

"Don't you believe in that attitude?" he asked.

"Yes – in a way. Still, I should make sure I was not striving after an impossibility."

"Everything that has ever been done worth the doing, – I mean every really great thing – has been done by attempting the impossible."

Olive turned towards him with a glance that did not lack admiration. He was a fine-looking young fellow; tall, well formed, and well favoured. He belonged to that class which maintains the best traditions of the old county families. He was the owner of an estate which lay contiguous to that of John Castlemaine, and he was a healthy-minded, clear-brained young Englishman. In many things the two were opposed. His sympathies were, in the main, with the classes; hers with the people; he had but little belief in the democracy, she had. He believed in the aristocracy of birth; she in the aristocracy of intellect and personal worth. Not that he was not interested in the well-being of the people – he was; but their ideas as to the way in which that well-being would be realised were different. His mind had been shaped and coloured by the class among which he had been reared, by the atmosphere in which he had lived, and the atmosphere of this Devonshire squire's home was different from that which had surrounded Olive Castlemaine's life.

"No," he went on presently, "I never believe in giving up. That is a characteristic of my race. The Briarfields have always been noted for their – obstinacy."

"It is not always a pleasant characteristic," she said with a laugh.

"But a useful one," he said. "It has saved me from defeat more than once. When I first went to a public school I fought a boy bigger than myself. He whipped me badly; but I mastered him in the end."

There was no boastfulness in the way he spoke; moreover, he evidently had a reason for leading the conversation into this channel.

"That is one reason why I refuse to take 'No' from you," he continued. "I never loved any other woman; I never shall; and I shall never give up hope of winning you."

"Really, I am very sorry for this, Mr. Briarfield."

"Don't say that, Miss Castlemaine. I suppose it is bad policy to expose my hand in this way; nevertheless what I tell you is true. Although you first refused me three years ago, I shall never give up hoping that I shall win you, and never give up trying."

"Had we not better change the subject?" she said rather coldly, although there was no look of anger or resentment in her eyes.

"I only wanted to tell you this. It is more than a year since I spoke to you last, and I wished you to know that I have not altered – never shall alter. I love you, and I shall not give up hope of winning you. I know I am not of your way of thinking. To be perfectly frank, I interpret the duties and responsibilities of a landholder differently from you. But I admire you all the same. No doubt you have given a great deal of pleasure by keeping an open house; no doubt, too, your home of rest for a jaded multitude is very fine, but then I have old-fashioned ideas."

Olive laughed gaily. She had almost enjoyed the criticisms which, during the past five years, had been passed upon her work.

"At any rate the house was never used in such a way before," she said.

"Never," said Herbert Briarfield. "The late owner – well, he did not believe in using his home as a sort of hydro, or convalescent establishment."

"No," said Olive, "I suppose he did not, but then one has one's duties."

"Yes, but duty is a word which is interpreted differently by different people. For my own part, I do not see why one should open one's house to everybody. Of course, it is not my business, but don't you think you fulfilled your duty when you built your home of rest?"

"No," said Olive. "The Home of Rest, as you call it, is for strangers, but those I invite here are people I have known. They come here as my personal friends."

"You must have a lot of personal friends."

"I have, and really these last few years have been a revelation to me. I never realised the number of over-worked gentlefolk there were, neither did I ever dream of the amount of gratitude there is in the world."

"And do you mean to continue doing this – this – kind of thing, Miss Castlemaine?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What, when you get married?"

"I shall never marry."

Herbert Briarfield looked at her steadily. For the last three years he had been a suitor for Olive Castlemaine's hand, and although she had given him no encouragement, he had never given up hope that he would one day win her. Moreover, so certain was he that he would one day succeed, that he had almost unconsciously assumed a kind of proprietary right over her.

"Of course you will marry," he said, "and then you will think differently. Your first duties then will be to your husband – and to – to your position."

Olive Castlemaine did not reply. He had so often expressed this kind of sentiment, that she did not think it worth while.

"Miss Castlemaine," continued Herbert Briarfield, "you will not be offended if I speak plainly, will you?"

"I am not likely to be offended with my friends, Mr. Briarfield," she said, "but there is one subject that should be debarred. You know very well that I have made up my mind."

"Let no subject be debarred, Miss Castlemaine. It is not right that it should be. If there were some one else, of course I should have to regard your refusal as inevitable. But there is no one else – is there?"

Olive Castlemaine did not speak, but there was a look in her eyes which, had Herbert Briarfield seen, he would have thought it wise to be silent.

"We are neither of us children," he went on; "I am thirty-six, and therefore not ignorant of the world. I know that you have had many offers of marriage, and I – I know that the man to whom you were once engaged is dead."

He felt he was acting like a fool while he was speaking, but the words escaped him, in spite of himself.

"But you are not going to allow that to wreck your life," he went on. "You are young – and – and you know how beautiful you are. Besides, I love you; love you like my own life. You are the only woman in the world to me. I do not know the – the story of that business, but – but surely – oh, Olive, you cannot allow such an episode – the fact that a worthless fellow committed suicide – to close your heart to me for ever. Oh, Olive, do have a little pity on me!"

Her first feeling as he spoke was of anger, but this was followed by pity. She had always thought of him with kindness. In many respects he was a fine young fellow, and was beloved in the neighbourhood; thus the fact of his love could not be altogether unpleasant.

"Mr. Briarfield," she said, "really I am very sorry for this; but let me say once and for all – "

"No, no, not now. Give me another three months – let me speak to you again then. In the meanwhile think it all out again, Olive."

"It is no use, Mr. Briarfield. I am not one to alter my mind easily."

"But there is no one else, is there?"

"No."

"Then let me speak to you again in three months' time. May I?"

"But my answer will be the same as now."

"No, it will not. You will let me speak again then, won't you?"

"And you'll accept what I say then as final?"

"If you wish it. That is, if you'll promise me one thing."

"Tell me what it is."

"That if you refuse me at the end of three months, and then if you alter your mind afterwards, you'll let me know."

"Yes, I promise that. But mind, after that you are not to speak to me, that is, on this subject, till I tell you."

"Yes, I promise that."

Herbert Briarfield turned away from Olive as he spoke, and walked to the end of the lawn. There could be no doubt that he was deeply in earnest. A look of fierce determination shone from his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously.

"She must, she must," he said. "There is no one else, and I will win her."

He returned to her presently and, drawing a chair near hers, sat down by her side.

"I suppose your Home of Rest is full," he said, with seeming carelessness.

"Yes," she said: "had it been twice as large it would have been filled. As for the golf links, they are always popular. You see, while it is foggy and miserable in London, it is perfect weather here. Just fancy, we are only in the middle of April, and yet we are sitting out of doors in perfect comfort. It's as warm as June."

"There is a mixed crew down there," said Briarfield, nodding in the direction of what he had called "the Home of Rest."

"Yes?"

"Yes. It is a good thing you are so cosmopolitan in your views. I dropped in there last night, and had a talk with a German and a Frenchman, while I saw, sitting in the smoking-room, an Arab of some sort. At any rate, he wore a fez."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I did not speak to him, as he seemed in a rather unsociable mood; but the German told me he was a remarkable sort of character. It seems he has spent most of his life away in Africa, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Desert of Sahara, I think."

"What led him to come here?"

"Heaven only knows. Why did the German and the Frenchman come? I suppose they heard of the presiding genius of the home, of its beautiful surroundings, and its healthful climate. Besides, in addition to its cheapness, all sorts of stories are afloat about the place. You know that."

Olive laughed.

"I heard only yesterday," went on Briarfield, "that you built it on account of a dream you had when a child; while some time ago some one told me that you had loved some youth some years ago, who had died of consumption, because of the want of a home of rest like this."