By ten o'clock Leicester was at the door of John Castlemaine's house. Any one who had seen him on his way from London the previous morning would not have recognised him as the same man. For one thing he looked at least ten years older. His face was haggard, his eyes were dull, he walked with a kind of hesitation. The grounds were deserted, no one was anywhere visible.

He rang the door bell, and a minute later the door was opened by the old servant who had appeared the day before.

"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"

"No, sir."

"Come, now, that is a polite figment. You mean that she is not at home to me."

"I mean what I say, sir; she is not at home."

"And Mr. Castlemaine?"

"He's not at home either, sir."

"Do you mean to say they are gone away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Come, now, no more of your lies," he said. "You know very well. Tell me, I'll make it worth your while."

He felt angry with himself for speaking in this way, but he had lost his self-control.

"I don't know, sir," repeated the man.

"When did they go?"

"Last night, sir."

"What time?"

"I didn't notice, sir," and he prepared to close the door.

"Come now, you are not to get away like this. Listen to me a minute longer." He spoke in his old tone of command, and the man instinctively felt like obeying.

"You say they went away last night. Was it late?"

"Yes, sir—that is, I didn't notice the time."

"But late?"

"Yes, sir—that is, I should think so; but as I said——"

"They went abroad?"

"Yes, sir—that is, they didn't tell me."

"But you have some idea where they are gone?"

The man was silent.

Leicester took a step nearer, while the man shrank back.

"No, my man," he said, "you are not going till you tell me what you know."

The old servant looked around fearfully, and then said:

"I know nothing, sir; nobody knows anything."

"Don't tell any more lies. They must have letters forwarded."

"The housekeeper may know, sir."

"The housekeeper is at home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see her."

"No, sir. You must see no one in the house. Sorry, sir, but orders is orders."

"You have received orders about me?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Sorry, sir; but last night, sir. You were to be ordered away if you came."

Leicester laughed bitterly.

"Ah, I see. Mr. and Miss Castlemaine left last night, and they told no one but the housekeeper where they were going, but they gave orders that the dogs were to be set upon me."

"Not quite so bad as that, sir, but——"

"I see. Yes, I understand."

"You see Miss Castlemaine is very ill, sir," said the man, as though he recollected something. "Of course that was why the wedding couldn't take place. A sort of stroke I think it was."

Leicester laughed aloud.

"Good," he said, "and Mr. and Miss Castlemaine are gone away together?"

"With Mr. Sackville, the minister, sir."

"Oh, the parson, eh! Good. Was she very much worse after I left yesterday?"

"I never saw her, sir. I know nothing. All I know is, that they're gone away for a goodish bit, but where they're gone I don't know. But I did have orders to send you away. I'm very sorry, sir. Will you excuse me now, sir? I have my dooties."

Leicester took a sovereign from his pocket, and threw it to the man.

"All right, Simmons," he said, "have a good time while they are away. You are a very fair liar, Simmons, a very fair liar indeed."

He strode back to the station, and waited for a train to take him back to London. The porters watched him curiously. They had heard scores of rumours, and thus this man was of great interest to them. They had heard that Miss Castlemaine had been told that he was already married; they had been also told that he was guilty of forgery, and had lately come out of gaol. Others again had it that it was not because of Leicester at all that the wedding had not taken place, but that Miss Castlemaine had been taken ill the previous day, and on calling in the doctor she had been told that she must not think of getting married, but must immediately leave the country. One report had it that the doctor had told her she could not live six months, while another rumour said that if she went away for a twelve months' voyage around the world she might return well and strong. Of course the servants had been closely questioned, but their knowledge was very scanty, and such as they had they were forbidden on pain of dismissal to divulge.

But Leicester took no notice of those who directed their glances towards him. He might have been in a trance for all the cognisance he took of his surroundings. He had some time to wait for his train, and he walked slowly up and down the platform, heedless of everything.

"Sad about Miss Castlemaine, sir."

He turned and saw the station-master, who was a noted gossip. Leicester looked straight at the man, but did not utter a word.

"Of course it must be terrible for you, sir. Nobody ever suspected that she was ill; but it must be terrible, for Mr. Castlemaine told me himself when he left last night that they might not return for months."

"Ah, he told you that, did he?"

"Yes, sir. I could see he was in great trouble; but he scarcely spoke to me, which is different from what he usually is. He often had a chat with me in the mornings when waiting for his train. He always took the same train, the 10.9, and he was always here five minutes before time. However, when I asked him, he told me he was going abroad. What part have they gone to, sir?"

"Did he not tell you?"

"No, I asked him; but he seemed as though he didn't want to talk. Of course you know, sir? Where are they gone, if I might ask?"

But Leicester turned on his heel and walked away. The old servant had told him the truth, then. He turned to the bookstall and began to idly read the posters. "Postponement of a fashionable wedding. Bride taken dangerously ill," he read.

"Another religious lie," and he laughed bitterly. "These pious people know how to hush up things by fraud."

He bought a paper, and got into the train which was just entering the station. He had the carriage all to himself, and so was able to read the news unobserved. He was not long in finding the paragraph he desired.

"Postponement of wedding," he read. "The marriage between Radford Leicester, Esq., and Miss Olive Castlemaine, which was arranged for yesterday, has been indefinitely postponed, owing to the serious illness of the latter. The large number of guests who had been invited to The Beeches received an early intimation that the wedding would not take place, and on inquiries as to the reason, we are informed that Miss Castlemaine was taken seriously ill a few hours before the time announced for the nuptials. We are also given to understand that Miss Castlemaine has been ordered out of England for a lengthened stay, and that, accompanied by her father and her maid, they left London for the Continent last night. The reason of the sudden illness of the bride is causing much discussion in the neighbourhood of Miss Castlemaine's home."

Leicester threw the paper from him with an oath. "Lies, lies, lies!" he muttered. "And she connives at them. She the Sunday-school teacher, the immaculate one. She threw me over because her pride was wounded, but she could tell lies in order to hide the truth. Oh, what a blithering fool I've been! Why did I not—but there——! What's the use of anything?"

"It's all over now," he went on presently. "That chapter is written, the play's played out. Is it, though? Shall I be beaten in this way? The truth concerning this affair is bound to become known. People are not going to be fooled by a bungling report like this. Taken seriously ill in the morning, and off to the Continent in the evening! Bah, even the British public is not so blind as that!

"Well, what now? Shall I tamely submit to this? In a few days I shall be the laughing-stock of every one who knows me. Perhaps I am now. Purvis and Sprague are by this time enjoying themselves hugely. For it is they who have done this. One or both of them, it does not matter. But I'll settle my accounts with them. As for her——!"

He ground his teeth together, and his eyes shone like the eyes of a madman.

"I'll have her yet!" he cried. "To begin with, I have her sacred promise that she'll never marry another man. Even yesterday she told me that she could not dream of being the wife of an honourable man after promising to marry such a thing as I. But she shall pay for that, by —— she shall! Yes, my proud lady, I'll humble your pride to the dust. You shall eat your words."

He started to his feet, and paced the empty carriage like a mad lion paces his cage. A new passion had laid hold of him now.

"No more whining sentimentality for me!" he cried, "no more moral platitudes, no more drivel about trying to be a good man. Good man! Ha, ha! But I'll humble her; yes, I'll not be beaten. Yes, and when I've got my way, I'll taunt her with her words, I'll make her suffer what I'm suffering; ay, and more—if it is possible. You little thought, my pattern young Sunday-school teacher, of what you were doing when you drove me to the devil."

He caught up the paper, and read the paragraph again. On the face of it, it was a lie, a poor clumsy attempt to cover up the truth. The world would soon know all about it. There were at least seven in the secret. There was Purvis, and Sprague, and Winfield, and John Castlemaine—yes, and the minister Sackville. John Castlemaine would be sure to tell him. Then, as a matter of course, the minister would tell his wife. After that—well, every old woman in the congregation would mouth the spicy bit of gossip. Miss Castlemaine had cast him off, because he in a drunken freak had made a wager that he would win her as his wife, and she had found him out! He reflected on the way that the fat silly old women in the world of so-called Society would discuss it over afternoon tea, he imagined brainless dudes giving their opinions about him over their whiskies. The men he had despised would pity him, and utter inanities about him. Of course the news would reach his constituency too. What capital his opponents would make of it all! He imagined the leading article which would appear in the rag called The Taviton Argus, about the reasons for Miss Castlemaine being taken suddenly ill. And it would all be true! Ay, and what was worse, people would say that he, Leicester, the cynic, the man who despised the conventional goodness of the age, had become a teetotaler, a supporter of philanthropic institutions in order to win a wager. Ay, more, he who had laughed at religion had gone to church like a family grocer, had sat in the pew of a Nonconforming conventicle, and had listened to the prosy platitudes of an unctuous spiritual shepherd, to win a girl who had found him out. He fancied the cartoons which would appear in The Taviton Argus, picturing him sitting in church, and singing Sankey's hymns. Perhaps they would have him kneeling at the penitent form, all to get a girl who found him out to be a liar and a hypocrite!

The reflection maddened him. But he would pay them all out. Yes, Purvis and Sprague should bitterly repent the day they opposed his will; as for Olive Castlemaine—well, she should suffer more than he was suffering.

But this mood did not last long. Try as he might he could not hide the gloomy black future which loomed before him. He pictured himself as he was before the wager was made, a hopeless cynic, a hard bitter man, a slave to whisky. And he was worse now. He had been in heaven during these last few months. Yes, he could not deny that a woman had cleared his cloudy sky, and had aroused in him hopes and longings to which he had been a stranger. The future had appeared to him as a paradise, a heaven because a woman he loved more than words could say had promised to be his wife. Oh, and he had loved her! Say what he would about the falseness of women, and the evil of the world, this woman had changed everything for him, so that he had contemplated the future with joy; but now he saw nothing but hell. What had the future for him now? Lonely misery, haunted by bitter thoughts of what might have been. What was a seat in Parliament now? Who cared about him? For years he had alienated those who would be his friends, he had become a pariah, a kind of intellectual and moral Ishmael. How could he bear it?

With this thought the craving for whisky came back to him again. He had promised Olive he would never touch it again, but that was a thing of the past. Yes, he would go back to his club, and he would drink until he forgot. He would debauch himself with spirits. He had been a fool ever to give it up. God, if there were a God, offered him nothing; nay, more, He had taken from him the one thing that would have made a man of him; but the devil was faithful. The whisky bottle could be always kept close to his elbow. Yes, and he would run the whole gamut of sin. There was nothing to restrain him, and he had no motive power to make him desire anything else.

When the train arrived at the terminus, he jumped into a cab, and drove straight to his club. No, he would not go to the smoke-room, he would go to his own private room, and there he would drink and forget. A few minutes later, he sat alone in his room, a bottle of whisky by his side. With steady hands he uncorked it, and poured out a large quantity; he filled the tumbler with soda-water, and looked at the yellow liquid as it sparkled in the glass.

"Here is my wife now," he cried. "She will be faithful to me, or even if she fails, there is that green devil called absinthe. No, no, the devil does not forsake a man while he has a five-pound note in his pocket."

Even then he did not lift the glass to his lips. After all, those months during which he had known Olive still counted. It was true that in spite of his resolutions he doubted whether he would ever meet her again; but those hours he had spent by her side were not without their influence. After all, to be a man was nobler than to be a beast. He recalled her words on the night he had made known his love to her. She had told him that the man who trusted in a woman for his salvation rested on a weak reed, and that only God could save a man. He remembered his answer too.

"If there is a God, I have given Him His chance," he cried, "and He has failed me. Now I choose this yellow devil. A fascinating devil, too. See how light and sparkling he is!"

He held the glass up to the light, and watched while the bright gaseous globules floated from the bottom of the glass to the top.

"Good-bye to false sentiment and false ideals, to false hopes and foolish fancies!" he cried, "and hereby I do take thee to be my lawful wedded wife from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish, till death us do part!"

He laughed as he uttered the words.

"All joy to you Radford Leicester, on your wedding-day," he said aloud, "and may you and your wife be faithful to each other."

And still he hesitated. It might seem as though an invisible angel of goodness held his hand. Then his thoughts flew to the past, and again to the future. What had the future for him? He lifted the glass to his lips, and drank; when he set it down it was nearly empty.

"Ah, but this is the great forgetter," he said.

He sat down in an armchair, and closed his eyes. In a few minutes the strong spirit began to have its effect on him. The fire crept along his veins, he felt his nerves tingling.

"It's because I've not touched it for so long," he said. "A few months ago I should not have known I had tasted a drop like this."

He drained the glass to the bottom, and poured out more. For two hours he remained there, drinking, and brooding, and trying to forget.

Presently he arose, and went down to the smoking-room. He walked steadily, but he never remembered whisky to affect him as it was affecting him now. He wanted companionship; the whisky had destroyed all desire for privacy. On entering the room, he saw that the men who had gathered there were greatly excited. He had expected that some one would pretend to commiserate with him on the postponement of his marriage, but to his surprise no one seemed to heed him.

"Ah, MacGregor," he said, to a young Scotchman, whom he knew slightly, "the devil hasn't claimed you yet, then. But trust a Scotchman to outwit even the devil."

"Leicester, is that you?" said the Scotchman. "I heard you were off for your honeymoon; but I suppose even happy bridegrooms have to submit to General Elections."

"General Elections—what do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

The Scotchman laughed.

"Why, where have you been during the day?"

"I've been busy in my room," he replied warily.

"But haven't you heard?"

"I've heard nothing."

"What, not that there has been a dissolution of Parliament?"

"What?"

"Just that. We'll all have to hurry off to our constituencies now—that is, those of us who have been fools enough to meddle with politics. I'm off in two hours."

"Well, you will be all right. You'll get returned again, I suppose?"

"Yes, thanks to my wife, I believe I shall. She's far more popular in the constituency than I, and people will vote for me for her sake. I suppose you'll be off to Taviton to-night?"

"Not I."

"But, man, it'll be——"

"It's not worth the candle," said Leicester; "what's the odds which party is in? Liberal or Conservative, it's only a question of which set of maggots shall eat the cheese." The words which MacGregor had spoken about his wife had stung him.

"But that's all nonsense. It's true you've lately got married, but you must go down and fight. It'll be all beer and skittles with you. A good speaker like you, and just married to a charming and rich wife, can do anything. An electioneering honeymoon! My word, that will be a new thing in wedded life. Quite a subject for a romance. By the way, I have not congratulated you. How is Mrs. Leicester?"

He turned on his heel and walked away.

"Hullo, Leicester," said another man, "here you are. By the way, what is the truth about that paragraph I saw in the papers?"

"Oh, it's all right."

"Is—is Miss Castlemaine seriously ill?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"You don't mean to say that——"

"I mean to say that I'll have a drink with you, Bryant," he said.

"But you've turned teetotaler."

"Then I'll break my pledge. What'll you take?"

"But, I say, Leicester——"

"Will you have a drink?"

"With pleasure, only I thought that——"

"I was a reformed rake, eh? Well, I'm not. Whiskies for two, waiter. I say, tell us about this dissolution. What do you think about it?"

"I think our side will have a stiff fight. Besides, you know what has to be our chief card?"

"I know nothing, I've been busy with—other things."

Bryant laughed.

"What is the meaning of this postponement of your marriage, Leicester? Did you know the Government was going to smash up?"

"Why, you know we've been expecting it every day." He despised himself for using this subterfuge, but he could think of nothing better to say. "What is to be our chief card, Bryant?"

"The drink question, licensing reform, and all that kind of rot."

"Then let's drink to the success of the destruction of the drink curse, Bryant," he said. "It's all of a piece."

The other looked at him curiously. This was not like the Leicester he had known lately.

"I say, Leicester, has that girl jilted you?" he said.

The words stung him more than anything he had heard during the day.

"Yes," he said angrily, "and your wife would have jilted you, if I had proposed to her on the morning of your wedding-day."

With that he got up and walked away. He could not stay among these men any longer. He would go down to the National, and find out more particulars about the dissolution. It would help him to forget. When he returned, two hours later, he found a telegram awaiting him. It was from the chairman of his political association. "Urgent that you come down immediately," he read; "to-morrow, if possible. Wire if I may arrange for a big meeting in Taviton to-morrow night. Have forestalled others and taken hall provisionally. Don't fail. Deeply sorry to hear about Miss Castlemaine."

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he seized a telegraph form, and said that he would be at Taviton the next day.

"There," he said, as he sent it off, "drink and politics will help me to forget," but he did not dream of what would happen before the morrow came to an end.