– " he said presently. "But no, I'll not be refused. If she says no a hundred times, I'll ask her again. I won't, no I can't be refused. It would be – "
The man's body grew rigid as he spoke. Evidently Radford Leicester was in a stern mood, and bent upon a mission which affected him deeply.
The train stopped, and the porters shouted the name of the station. He stepped on to the platform and looked around him. Only a very few people had come by the train; the time was yet too early for the City men. Outside the station he engaged a hansom, and told the man to drive him to The Beeches.
"I wonder if she's at home," he said to himself, "and if she is, I wonder if she'll see me?"
There could be no doubt that Radford Leicester was untrue to the creed which he had so often professed. "Nothing is worth while," he had answered many times, when he was asked why he did not take life seriously. But he was serious now. His eyes shone with the light of expectancy and of determination. He did not notice the country through which the cab was passing. He did not realise that, instead of busy streets and tall buildings, there were lanes and quiet meadows. He did not notice that the speculating builder had not been allowed to ruin a pleasant neighbourhood, and that although he was not many miles distant from the heart of London, the district was suggestive of a country village. Yet so it was. John Castlemaine owned all the land around, and he had kept the speculating builder at bay. It is true he had built many workmen's cottages – cottages which reflected credit alike upon his heart and upon his artistic tastes, but long rows of jerry-built ugliness were nowhere visible, and the countryside retained the sweet rusticity of a purely rural district.
The Beeches was a fine old mansion standing far back in its own grounds, and surrounded by a number of large old trees, which gave the house its name. Once inside the lodge gates, it was difficult to believe that London, with its surging life, lay in the near distance. An atmosphere of restfulness and repose reigned, only disturbed by the passing of the trains, which ran a little more than a mile away from John Castlemaine's house.
While Radford Leicester was passing along the quiet road he took no notice of his surroundings, but once inside the lodge gates he seemed to realise where he was. He had been to the house twice before, but he had not noticed the grounds. Indeed, he had had no opportunity. Night had fallen before he came, and as he had left at midnight, it was impossible to see anything. Now, however, all was different. It was true the time was late autumn, and many of the trees were denuded of leaves; but the sun shone brilliantly, and the autumn flowers gleamed in the sunlight. He noticed, too, the air of stately repose which characterised the house; he was impressed by the extensive lawns, and the gnarled old trees which dotted the park. Here was no tawdry, ornamented dwelling of the nouveau riche; it was the solid, substantial dwelling of a City merchant of the old school. Even the servants had an air of proprietorship. They were not of the "month on trial" order. Evidently they had served the family for many years, and had become accustomed to their surroundings.
Leicester had noticed, when he told the cabman to drive to The Beeches, that the man had treated him with marked respect. Visitors of John Castlemaine were not to be regarded lightly.
"Will you wait a minute," said Leicester to the cabman, as he drew up at the door. He was not sure whether the one he had come to see might be disposed to see him. He rang the bell, realising that his heart was beating faster than was its wont.
"Is Mr. Castlemaine at home?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is in?"
"Yes, sir."
The servant recognised him again, and took his card in to Olive with a smile.
"Will you walk in, sir?" he said presently, and then Leicester, having dismissed the cabman, entered the house for the third time.
Everything was strangely quiet. The house might have been in the heart of the country. To the young man it felt almost like a temple, so different was it from the gaily decorated club where he spent so much of his time. When the servant left him, and he looked around the room into which he had been shown, he felt like a man in a dream. It seemed to him as though he had entered a new world. The air of refinement and culture which he had realised when he first entered this room seemed more than ever present. Then a great pain shot through his heart. Why was he there? What had led to his being there?
He heard a rustle of garments outside, and Olive Castlemaine entered. He felt as though this was the first time he had seen her at home. Evidently she had expected no visitors, and she was dressed for no function. He noticed that she looked younger now than when he had seen her on other occasions, more girlish, more than ever a child of nature. He preferred to see her in this way. It had always seemed to him that women appeared at their worst in the attire which society demands for evening functions. It gave the impression of artificiality, of being dressed for "show." But now all was different. She stood before him in a simple, closely fitting dress, which perfectly harmonised with her glossy dark brown hair and perfect complexion, and also revealed to advantage her finely moulded form.
"I make no apology for taking a great liberty, Miss Castlemaine," he said. "I have called this afternoon on the chance of seeing you, because I could do no other."
She gave him a quick glance; but quick as it was, it revealed the fact that Leicester's mocking, cynical manner was gone. The flash of his eyes, the stern, set features showed that he was deadly in earnest.
"You frighten me," she said, with a laugh. "I hope you have brought me no bad news."
"I have not the slightest idea how you will regard it," he said, "but I have come to ask you a favour."
"What is it?" she said, still smiling. "Is it to give a subscription to some charity which you have been in the habit of condemning?"
"No," he replied, "I have come to ask you to listen to me patiently for a few minutes."
She froze somewhat at this. Perhaps the look in his eyes made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. She realised that it was somewhat unusual for a comparative stranger to come in such a way.
"I am afraid I am a poor listener," she said, "and, what is more, I am at a loss to conceive how I can advantage you by doing so."
"Still, you will hear me out, won't you?"
"I have no choice, have I?" she said, almost nervously.
"I want to be frankly egotistic," he said. "I want to speak about a worthless subject – myself."
She felt her heart fluttering; but she spoke composedly.
"Then I think we had better sit down," she said.
She suited the action to the word, but Leicester continued standing. He laid his hat and gloves on a chair, but stood before her, his body almost rigid.
"I have seldom been earnest during the last few years," he said, "but when I have been, I have always wanted to stand up. I am in earnest now."
Olive Castlemaine did not reply, but she sat watching him. There was no longer a tone of mockery in his voice, and his pale face and earnest eyes gave no suggestion of the cynical faithlessness which characterised him at their first meeting. She felt as though she would like to refuse to listen to him, but his presence forbade her. He was strong and masterful, even in his appeal.
"Miss Castlemaine," he said, "I imagine that you have heard but little that is good of me. You have been told that I am an atheist, a man without faith in man, or in God, and what you have heard is in the main true. Not altogether, but in the main. I am not what is called a
