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CHAPTER IX
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING

"Olive," he said presently, "you've heard strange things about me?"

She nodded.

"You've believed them?"

"You have not denied them. But never mind those now. The past is past."

"Is it?" he said moodily. "Sometimes I almost believe it is; but only sometimes. Generally I have a feeling that there is no past; that what we call past keeps rising up against us, and cursing us."

"Radford, you are not well."

"Yes, I am. My trouble is that I am too happy. Oh, I know what I am talking about. I am too happy. To-morrow is our wedding-day. Think of it, to-morrow you are to be my wife, you are to be mine – mine. The wedding is to be early, then in the afternoon we are going to drive to London, and take the train for the Continent. We are going to Florence, to Rome, to Naples, to Capri, to Corsica. We are going away to sunshine, we are going to miss six weeks of dreary weather, and then when we return the spring will be here. Think of it! And I shall have you. You all the time; you, my wife! Is it a wonder that I am too happy?"

There was a look of pride in the girl's eyes. It rejoiced her to feel that she could so arouse this proud, self-contained man, that she could drive his cynicism from him. She thought of the old Leicester, and the new, and her heart grew warm.

"And yet I am miserable," he went on; "I am haunted with a great fear lest all this can never come to pass."

She laughed almost gaily.

"The wedding dress has been bought," she said, "and even now our minister, Mr. Sackville, is talking with father about the ceremony to-morrow."

"Yes, yes, I know, but if there is no past. If it is resurrected – "

"Let us not talk about it," she said. "I have heard all about it, and – well, I have given you my promise."

"But if I am worse than you thought," he cried; "if you find out something which you cannot forgive. If some one told you that I am a fraud, a lie, a villain?"

"I should still trust you," she said quietly. "You have never told me a lie, have you?"

"No," he said, "I have never told you a lie."

"Then I should laugh at what I heard. You have told me that since your Oxford fiasco, when that girl jilted you, no woman has in any way ever come into your life."

"Yes, I have told you that, and it is true; bad as I may have been since that time, I have never given any woman but you a thought. If there is a God, He knows that my words are true."

Olive Castlemaine laughed merrily.

"Then," she said, "I shall not trouble a little bit about what I hear."

He looked up into her face, his eyes all afire with the ardour of his love. With her by his side, all things were possible. He was still a cynic with regard to others, but he no more doubted Olive than he doubted the sunlight. She was beyond suspicion, and yet his very faith in her made him fear that the coming day could never fulfil his hopes.

"I am not fit that you should be my wife," he cried. "I know I am not, and yet I would murder the man who tried to take you away from me. Oh, I am in earnest; I would. Why, you don't know what you are to me. You are hope, faith, motive power, heaven."

He started up, and walked away from her as though he were ashamed to stay by her side. But he quickly came back.

"Oh yes, I hate professions of faith," he went on. "I despise repentant sinners. I would a thousand times rather have to do with a good pronounced blackguard than with your whining convert. And yet I know I shall be a good fellow with you as my wife. And I never break my promises. I was never so mean as that. Oh yes, I was whisky-sodden when I knew you first, and I was a plaything to the habit; but since that day – you remember, Olive – I've never touched it, and I never will – no, I never will!"

Olive Castlemaine was a little frightened at the intensity of his words; nevertheless, she was proud of her power over her lover. What woman would not be?

"And yet I am removed from you, Olive. I don't know why, but I feel it. You love me, don't you?"

For answer, she put her hand in his, and looked steadily into his eyes.

"You know, Radford," she said.

"Yes," he said; "yes, I know; but not as I love you. No, no, you couldn't. There's not enough in me to love. You are the only woman in the world to me; I could no more marry another than I could rise from the dead. Could you marry another man?"

"Of course not," said the girl; "you know I could not."

"Say that again," he said passionately, "say it again. Tell me that whatever may happen – yes, I repeat it —whatever may happen, you'll never marry another."

"Radford, what is the matter with you?" she cried. His face was as pale as death, and his eyes shone with a strange light.

"Matter with me!" he cried. "It is our wedding-day to-morrow; just think of it! I am going to be at the church early, and I am going to wait there till noon, and then you will come, and the minister will read the marriage service, and you will promise to take me for better or for worse, and you will vow to keep to me as long as we both shall live. Yes, I've been reading the marriage service. My God, the wonder of it! That's why I'm afraid. If I lost you, I should sink into a deeper hell than ever Dante saw in his wild journeyings. No 'thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice,' no bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone could be as terrible as the hell to which I should go if I lost you. That is what is the matter with me. And you promise me, don't you? Whatever may happen, you'll never marry another man?"

"No," she said, "I will never marry another man!"

"You could not, could you?" he said, almost plaintively.

"No," she replied, "I could not."

"And to you a promise is sacred, isn't it? You are not like other women, to whom a promise is no more than a garment which is out of the fashion."

"Of course a promise is sacred to me," she replied.

He looked at her with fierce, devouring eyes. He tried to read her very soul.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked at him, and their eyes met, his burning with the light of his passion, yet steady with the strength of the man behind them; hers steady too, and fervent with the love and admiration which filled her heart.

"Say it again."

"Say what again?"

"Say you will never marry another man, whatever may happen."

"I will never marry another man, whatever may happen."

He clasped her to his heart, and rained kisses upon her, and then he laughed.

"I do not fear now," he said, "I am like the man they sing about – 'I fear no foe in shining armour bright' I can face anything. Olive, there is no happier man in the world than I; nay, nor not half so happy. I feel as though I were king of the world. Now let us talk quietly."

He sat down by her side, and looked steadily into the fire. Outside the wind wailed its way across the park, but he did not seem to heed it. The flames from a log of wood in the grate shot up the chimney, and although he seemed to be gazing at them he did not see them.

"It's all so wonderful!" he said.

"What is, Radford?"

"My happiness. I am not worthy of it. Yes, I have been a bad fellow. No, I have not been the wild rake about town, my vices have not run in that direction. But I have been a selfish brute; I've been a fellow without hope, mercy, or faith. I've cared nothing for others. If a man has stood in my way I've shoved him aside. I've seen only the worst in life, and I've acted on what I saw. I was drink-sodden, too. I was a slave to a vile habit. But for the fact that drink made no visible impression upon me, I should have been one of those drunken sots that have to be put to bed every night. I did not believe in God nor man. No, I scorned God, and religion, and morality, and I sold myself to the devil of my own selfishness. Yes, I did, I know it. And yet you love me! You, you, of all women, you!"

"Yes," she replied, and there was an uneasy look in her eyes, "but you have repented, Radford."

"And if I had not?"

"Then," she said, "I would not have promised to marry you."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I mean that. I could never truly love a man whom I did not respect. And I could not respect such a man as you were, no matter how clever I might think you to be. Even although I might love a bad man, I would never marry him."

He knew she meant what she said, and while it saddened him, it made him rejoice also. Yes, she had driven all his old theories to the winds. Whatever was true with other women, this woman was prompted by true thoughts, inspired by high ideals.

He was silent for a while.

"Yes," he said presently, "and you are right. What you say is right. And I want to believe, Olive; sometimes I do, I do now. And I want to be a good man, yes, a good man. You'll help me, won't you?"

"I'll do all that a woman may, Radford; but only God can make a man truly good."

"It's wonderful, that Christian story," he said.

"And you believe it, don't you, Radford?"

Again he was silent.

"I will not tell a lie even for you, Olive," he said. "Do I believe? Yes, in a way. I believe in its sublime ethics, I believe in Christ – in a way. Oh yes, He was a wonderful man, ay, a Divine man. I believe, too, that He has ennobled the whole thought of the world about God; but for the rest – I don't know. Still, you know what I promised you: if there's a God, I'll find Him. That is all I can say, Olive, except that I'm going to try to be a good man. Faith in man, in human motives? Don't press me too hard, Olive. Are you content?"

There was manifest sincerity in his voice, his eyes were lovelit. What wonder, then, that Olive confessed her contentment, and her happiness?

Shortly before midnight he left The Beeches. For an hour before he said good-night, he seemed to forget all sad thoughts. He talked cheerfully with John Castlemaine, and Mr. Sackville, the minister of the church with which both Olive and her father were associated. All dark clouds seemed to have lifted. In less than twelve hours from that time he and Olive would be man and wife. Before the next day had come to an end, they would be on their way to Italy, the land of sunshine and song. The future revealed itself to him in glowing colours. He saw himself climbing the hill of fame with Olive by his side. It was almost certain that the General Election would take place in less than two months from that time, and even if it did not, it could not be postponed later than the following autumn. Then he would enter Parliament, and after that his position was assured. Already the ex-Cabinet Minister who had spoken with him at Taviton had told him that he expected great things from him in the House, and had also suggested certain questions to which he should give special attention. Moreover, they were questions in which Olive was deeply interested: housing of the poor, the drink curse, and others of a similar nature.

"These things," said the ex-Cabinet Minister, "are bound to be brought forward. Master them, Leicester, and you will make yourself indispensable to your party."

And so he was happy. Hope shone in his sky, love burned in his heart, while his whole being was filled with great purpose.

Olive accompanied him to the door as he left the house. She had entered into Leicester's spirit of gladness. She rejoiced as she saw how her father admired him, and how keenly he enjoyed his conversation. She noted with gladness, too, that her marriage was not going to cause her father the sorrow she had feared. Rather, he seemed to look forward with pleasure to the prospect of having his clever son-in-law to live with him.

"Until to-morrow, Olive," he said, as he kissed her good-night.

"Yes, it will not be long."

"No, only a few hours, although it seems an eternity. You are happy, aren't you?"

"Yes, entirely"; and she meant what she said. "Are you?"

"Happy!" he cried. "Ah, you can't realise how happy! Only until to-morrow, and then there will be no more separation."

There was a new tone of tenderness in his voice, and as he spoke the tears came into her eyes.

"Some day, Radford," she said, "you will know how good God is, you will know the joy of being a Christian."

For answer he kissed her tenderly.

"Good-night, my love," he said, "good-night until to-morrow – my wife."

"Until to-morrow, Radford."

He walked a few steps up the drive; then he turned and saw her standing at the door watching him. He came back to her side again.

"One kiss more – until to-morrow, our wedding-day," he said.

She held up her face to him with a glad laugh. He kissed her again, and then hurried away, not daring to look back a second time.

She had scarcely returned to the drawing-room, when, she knew not why, a feeling of great depression came into her heart. Her sky, which a few seconds before was clear, now hung with great black clouds. Shadowy forebodings came into her mind and heart. She heard her father talking with Mr. Sackville in the smoking-room. They were chatting and laughing pleasantly, and yet the sound of their voices made her almost angry.

A servant entered the room.

"Yes, Masters, what is it?"

"A letter has just come for you, miss."

"By the last post?"

"No, miss, it was brought by hand, only a few minutes ago. I did not like to bring it, till Mr. Leicester had gone, miss."

She took the letter without a word, and went up into her bedroom. Her maid came to her, but she told her she did not need her any more that night; she wanted to be alone. Still holding the letter unopened in her hand, she drew a chair before the fire, and sat back in it, and closed her eyes. Why this strange feeling of depression? Why was she so sick at heart? Radford's kisses were still warm upon her lips, his words still rang in her ears.

Almost mechanically she broke the seal of the letter which had been brought, and glanced carelessly at it. A minute later her eyes became riveted to the paper. As she read, one expression followed another on her face – wonder, indignation, shame, passion, in turn possessed her.

She read the letter a second time, then a third, then a fourth. Her features became set, her eyes became hard, her hands clenched and unclenched themselves as though she had no control over them. She threw the letter from her; but immediately she caught it up again, and then read it for the fifth time. It was a long letter, plainly and legibly written, evidently by an educated person.

After she had read it a fifth time, she sat staring into the fire. She saw nothing, heard nothing. She was oblivious to her surroundings. Her face, even her lips, were bloodless. She sat thus for a long time.

Presently she aroused herself, and pulled the bell-cord. A servant-maid appeared.

"Is my father gone to bed?" She did not turn her face towards her, and she spoke with evident difficulty. Her voice was almost toneless.

"No, miss, he is just saying good-night to Mr. Sackville."

"Will you please go to him, and ask him to go into the library."

"Yes, miss."

"Why are you waiting?"

"Shall I tell him that you will come to him, miss?"

"Yes."

The girl left the room, while Olive continued to look into the fire with the same stony stare.

Again she read the letter through. This time slowly, word by word, sentence by sentence, as though she would weigh its meaning carefully and judicially. When she had finished, she had apparently made up her mind. She rose to her feet, and took a step towards the door, but she was unable to proceed further. Her brain whirled, she felt herself falling. Clutching the back of the chair she held herself for a few seconds, then, as if by a sudden effort of will, she controlled herself. Then she walked across the room steadily, opened the door, and went downstairs slowly. Her face, even to her lips, was still ashy pale, and in her eyes was a stern set look. There was no sign of weakness in her movements, and yet she looked as though she had been stunned. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked slowly around her, as though she were not quite sure of her whereabouts. There was a dazed expression in her eyes, which suggested the look in the eyes of a sleep-walker.

Again she seemed to make a sudden effort, and then she walked to the library door and opened it. John Castlemaine looked up at his daughter's entrance, and was startled by her appearance. He was sitting in an armchair, smoking a last pipe before going to bed.

"Olive, my darling, what is the matter? Are you ill?" he asked tenderly.

She tried to speak, but could not; then she moved towards him, and threw herself into his arms, while John Castlemaine held her, as he had held her years before, when she was a baby.

The next morning Radford Leicester woke early. Contrary to his expectations, no sooner had he placed his head on the pillow the night before than he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. After the excitement of the evening, nature demanded rest, and so she wrapped her kindly arms around him, as if she desired to be specially kind to him just then. When he awoke he could not for a time realise where he was; but the truth soon came to him. He remembered, too, that it was the morning of his wedding-day. His heart gave a leap as the thought came into his mind, and then to stay in bed any longer was an impossibility. He dressed with great care, now and then looking out of the window, and noting with satisfaction the blue of the skies and the sweetness of the air.

"Only a little while longer," he said again and again to himself. "I wonder how she will look as she walks up the church aisle on her father's arm?"

The wedding arrangements had been discussed several days before, and everything was settled in due order. When Leicester had been asked whom he wished to invite to the wedding, he did not mention a single name.

"No one at all?" John Castlemaine had said.

"No one," replied Leicester. "I have no real friend on earth, neither man nor woman. Yes, I have a lot of acquaintances, but I do not wish them to come to my wedding. My father died five years ago. I can scarcely remember my mother. As for all the rest of the world – no, I do not wish to invite any one."

"But you must so far conform to convention as to have a best man."

"Must I? Very well, now let me think. Yes, Winfield will do. He's about the best chap I know."

He had barely mentioned his name, however, when he would gladly have recalled it. Like lightning the fact flashed into his mind that on the night of the wager it was Winfield who had suggested the name of Olive Castlemaine.

"That's all right," said Mr. Castlemaine. "He's just the fellow. So you will invite no one else?"

"I would rather not invite him," said Leicester.

"But you must, Leicester. I must positively insist on that. For my own part, I think I should have liked you to have invited some of your chief supporters in your constituency."

"No, no," said Leicester, "don't ask me; really, I would rather not."

And so, although Leicester did not like the thought of it, Winfield was asked to act as best man, and arrangements had been made for the two to meet that morning at a station three miles from The Beeches, which happened to be on the line which the young journalist most frequently used.

At the time agreed upon Leicester was there, and found the carriage which he had engaged. Here, too, he found Winfield, and the two drove to the church where the wedding was to take place.

"You must be a happy man," remarked Winfield.

"Yes."

"Everything has gone smoothly, I hope?"

"Yes."

"Of course you were at The Beeches last night?"

"Yes."

"You have a beautiful day for the wedding, too."

"Yes, it seems as though spring were coming early."

"I say, old man, you don't look as happy as you ought, you know."

"Wait till the knot is tied, and there'll not be a happier man in Europe," said Leicester.

Winfield looked at Leicester questioningly, and wondered what he was thinking about. He reflected that he was not a man from whom one could easily obtain confidences, and so held his peace.

"I say," said Leicester, as the carriage drew near the church, "let us pull down these confounded blinds. I don't want to be gaped at by the crowd."

"There's sure to be a crowd?"

"Sure to be. I suppose Mr. Castlemaine has invited nearly two hundred guests. Besides, Miss Castlemaine is so well known that the whole neighbourhood will be at the church doors."

When the carriage drew close to the church, Winfield pulled the curtain aside sufficiently to look out. He noticed that the church gates were locked and that there were no signs of a wedding, save that a number of people looked wonderingly and disappointedly at the closed gates, and the closed doors beyond.

"What's the matter?" asked Leicester, who noticed the look on Winfield's face.

"Was everything right last night, Leicester?"

"Everything. Why do you ask?"

"Because – well, look out for yourself and see."

Leicester looked at the church. The front gates were locked, the church doors were locked. A number of people stood around talking.

A strange look came into Leicester's eyes. His heart became like lead.

"Stay where you are, Leicester. You don't want to show yourself to this crowd. I'll get out, and make inquiries."

He leapt out of the carriage, and then closed the door with a bang, while Leicester sat inside.

"Great God, what can it mean?" he said again and again.