The Man Who Rose Again. Hocking Joseph
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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