Radford Leicester stayed at the cottage among the Devonshire moors for several days. A more lonely place could not be well imagined. The cottage itself stood in a little dell where trees grew, and a moorland stream babbled. Early spring flowers were to be seen there, and the smell of the bursting new life of bracken and heather and willow bush was sweet beyond words; but the view from the cottage was such as one only finds in a moorland district. For miles nothing was to be seen but a wild waste of nearly uninhabited land. The few cottages were occupied by those who had reclaimed strips of waste land, and obtained a scanty living thereon. A month or two later the whole scene would be aglow with the bloom of furze and heather; but now it was grim and grey and, under a cloudy sky, forbidding. But Leicester was not sorry for this. The countryside, the loneliness, fitted in with his mood. He felt that the past was destroyed, and that the things which were once possible to him had come to an end. What had the future for him? What was he to do? That was the question he had to face.

Immediately after he had realised that Olive Castlemaine was lost to him for ever, he had conceived wild schemes of revenge. He wanted to make Olive suffer as he had suffered; he swore that he would humble her pride to the dust, and that he would win the wager which for the present had lost him the woman he had loved. But that was all over now. He had become degraded in the eyes of the nation. He had no respect for the morality of the political world; but however low it might be, there was a kind of moral standard which people demanded in their representatives. They were not troubled because he had drunk too much, it was that he had become intoxicated at the wrong time. He had actually appeared on a public platform in a state of drunken imbecility. He had given the opponents of his party the whip hand, and he had in all probability lost his party the election. That was his sin, and it would take years for them to forget it.

Besides, he was not the kind of man to go back and plead forgiveness. His pride forbade him. What? He, Radford Leicester, who had laughed at these clodhoppers, go back cap in hand, and plead with them to take him back! But what could he do? What had the future for him? That was the question he had to face. Hope gone, faith gone, purpose gone, while the old craving for whisky dogged him at every step, what was there for him to do? Life was a mockery, a great haggard failure! Why should he seek to prolong it?

And so he spent his days amidst the loneliness of the moors, thinking and brooding. He saw no newspapers, received no letters, had no visitors. He had told the old lady who kept the cottage that he wanted a week or two's quiet, and freedom from the bustle of the world. Besides, he had a big problem to solve, and he had come there to solve it. He gave his name as Robert Baxter; it was the first that came to his lips, and he spoke of himself as keenly interested in sociology. It happened that old Mrs. Sleeman had not the slightest idea what sociology meant, but she had had several gentlemen in the past who had come to lodge with her; they had called themselves artists, and naturalists, and they had come pretty much in the same way as Leicester had come. They had been easy to please, they had paid her well, and when they had left had promised not only to come again, but to recommend her house to their friends. His advent therefore was quite welcome to her, and as he had no tastes that were difficult to satisfy, she hoped he would stay for a long while.

Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her husband with great tact. It was also said that her influence was very great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays. John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in the little kitchen, which to Leicester was a sealed chamber.

No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely. Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was arranged that when a letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road. Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this was only on very rare occasions.

As a consequence, therefore, Leicester's life was completely isolated. Day after day passed without any event happening to break the monotony of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which was gnawing at his heart.

He knew nothing of what was happening in the country; and he asked no questions. He was sick of the world, and sick of life. The great question was, what should he do? Should he commit suicide, and thus put an end to an existence which to him had no meaning or purpose, or should he go somewhere and begin anew? His nature, in spite of his beliefs, rebelled against the former. He could not bring himself, little as he cared for life, to destroy it by his own hand. As for the latter alternative, the old question reiterated itself, where should he go? what should he do?

He loathed the thought of going back to London, to live the life of a useless parasite amidst clubs and club loungers. The political door was closed against him, and even if it were not, he felt he could not enter it now. He had an income sufficient for all his needs, and as a consequence had no need to work for his living. It would have been better for him if he had. Humanly speaking, there are few better moral tonics than work.

Looming larger than all other questions was this: Had he for ever lost Olive Castlemaine? Had he won her only to lose her? But for the determination which in spite of his despair lay at the back of his mind, I imagine he would have put an end to an existence which at times became almost unbearable.

He was pondering over all these things for the hundredth time one day as he was walking across the moors alone. The clouds hung heavily in the sky, while occasionally gusts of cold wind, accompanied by driving rain, reminded him that winter had not yet come to an end. As he walked and thought, a storm had gathered, and he saw that the sky threatened a downpour of rain.

"What do I care?" he laughed bitterly. "I feel like old King Lear. Nothing is wanting now but Tom Fool to make the picture complete. 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind!'"

The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his way to a lonely farmhouse in order to find shelter. By the time he reached it, his clothes were soaked with rain.

He stood in a cart-shed, and watched the flood as it fell. The few trees that grew around the farmstead looked drear and forbidding; away in the distance the hills seemed to smoke.

"And this is life," he laughed. "We are born, we suffer, we make fools of ourselves, and we die."

And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had Olive Castlemaine by his side, he could have been a happy man. But she had driven him from her presence, she had commanded him never to speak to her again.

"Won't 'ee come in by the vire, zur? You mus' be fine 'n' wet."

"Thank you," said Leicester, in reply to the invitation of the buxom farmer's wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which a huge wood fire was burning.

"Why, you be fair streamin'," said the woman. "Zet cloas by the vire, and dry yerzelf. Do 'ee then. You'll catch yer death ef you doan't."

"Well, there'd be one less in the world," said Leicester, "and as the world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter."

"Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'."

"I never joke," replied Leicester. "Still, if I died, there'd be the trouble of burying me, and that would be a pity."

"Fer shaame, I d' zay," said the kindly woman; "what would your mother zay, ef she 'eerd 'ee?"

"Haven't got a mother."

"Yer vather, then?"

"No father either," said Leicester. "If he were alive I'm inclined to think he'd say, 'Die, and have done with it.'"

"But you've got brothers, or sisters, or a wife, or a sweetheart?" She said this not so much for the sake of proving that he was in the wrong, but because, like the rest of her sex, especially those who live in lonely places, she desired to know something about this stranger.

Leicester shook his head.

"Well, you be in a bad way."

"Exactly," said Leicester, "I am." He yielded to a sudden impulse. "Now I put it to you, ma'am," he said, "suppose you had no friends, no one who cared for you; suppose you found the world a dirty sort of place, and found no pleasure in living, what would you do?"

"Do! I shud git somebody that ded care for me."

"I've tried, but failed."

"Ain't 'ee got a sweetheart, then?"

"Not one."

"Is there no one that you do like?"

"Yes," he said, "but she's thrown me overboard."

"Gived 'ee the sack, you do main?"

"Exactly."

"Why then, zur, maakin' so bould?"

He was in a reckless mood, and in a way he could not understand, the buxom, kind-hearted woman led him to speak.

"Because I'm a bad 'un."

"Nonsense."

"Fact, I assure you. A right down bad 'un."

"And es she very good?"

"Terribly good, terribly proud, and terribly unforgiving."

"And ded she give 'ee the sack 'cause you wos so bad?"

"More because I hurt her pride, I think."

"Ah, I zee."

"Come now, under these circumstances, what would you do?"

"I'd begin by bein' a good man, and laive the rest to God."

"God!" and Leicester laughed.

"Why, doan't 'ee believe in God?"

"I think I believe in the devil, if that's any good."

"Then, zur, I'd kill the devil."

"Can't; I love him too much."

"What, love the devil?"

"I hug him to my heart. He served me a nasty trick the other day, but I stick to him all the same. Yes, he's my only friend. He's nearly always with me. When I'm friendly with him, he helps me to forget. All the same, I'm tired of him in a way. Now, then, what would you do?"

"The devil is allays our enemy, zur, allays. You must kill 'ee or you're done for."

The conversation was out of her depth, but she felt sure she was saying what was right.

"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Leicester, with a bitter laugh. "And yet I don't know. What do you think he's been persuading me to do this afternoon?"

"Summin' bad, you may depend, zur."

"I don't know. You know that big pool up among the moors. It has a kind of fascination for me, and the devil always meets me there. He is always telling me that it is very peaceful and quiet at the bottom of the pool."

"What, you d' main Crazzick Pool? It ain't got no bottom to et. Et's the devil's pool, tha's wot 'tes."

"Exactly. Well, he tempts me to walk into it, and sink, and sink, and find rest and peace."

"You doan't git no peace except in Christ, zur," said Mrs. Pethick, who was a class-leader among the Bible Christians.

Leicester looked at the dame's kindly face and wondered. Had this simple, homely, kindly-faced woman learned any secret unknown to him? To say the least, the question interested him.

"Look here," he said, "you don't mind speaking to a poor devil like I am quite honestly, do you? In fact, it's no use speaking to me at all, unless you do speak quite honestly, for I can detect a lie in a minute. Do you really believe that Christ does help you?"

"Do I believe et? I'm zure, zur. Why, when I'm tempted to do wrong, to think of Christ do 'elp me. Whenever I d' 'ave bad, wicked thoughts, I d' jist think of Him, and they do go, zur. For zure they do."

"And He gives you peace, does He?" said Leicester half mockingly, half seriously.

"Iss, zur, 'e do fer zure. I wudden zay zo ef I wasn't zackly zure. A paice which I caan't git no other way. Why, when I be comin' home from class-mitten' by myzelf, I git feared zumtimes, when tes dark; for the way es loanly. But I d' talk weth Jesus oal the way, and then—well, zur, the loanly road ez vull of light."

The mocking laugh left Leicester's lips as she spoke: it was impossible to doubt what she said.

"But there," went on Mrs. Pethick, with all a woman's tact, "you be could and wisht, you be. I'll git a cup ov tay for 'ee, and zum bread and craim. You c'n jist raid the paaper while I be gone."

He sat down close by the roaring wood fire, and wondered. Why should this simple woman's faith be denied to him? He picked up the paper she had offered him; it was the first he had seen since he left Taviton. The first words he read were these: "New candidate selected for the Taviton division."

He read through the article with strange interest. It seemed to him as though it spoke of some one else. It referred to the unfortunate selection the party had made, but stated that their mistake had been rectified in the selection of a local man, whose career was known to all. "As for the man who has done the party so much harm," concluded the article, "we do not know what has become of him. He left the town in disgrace, since which time no one has seen him. Endeavours have been made to trace his whereabouts, but in vain. Inquiries have been made at his old haunts in London, but no one has seen him there. It is a sad pity that a young man of such brilliant parts should end his career in such a way, but for our own part we may say that we are well rid of him. He brought no honour, or credit, either to our party or our county, and although some of his friends speak of him as having suicidal tendencies, we sincerely hope that he may repent of his past life, and begin anew in another country where he is unknown."

Leicester threw down the paper with a laugh. It was only the effusion of a local journalist who did not know the A B C of his trade, but it amused him.

"Begin a new life in another country where he is unknown." The words haunted him. Why not, after all? Perhaps—but the thoughts which flashed into his mind refused to take definite shape.

Mrs. Pethick brought him some tea and bread and cream.

"Ther' now, you be nearly dry now," she said; "zet up to the table, and 'ave zum tay. 'Twill do 'ee good, my dear."

Mrs. Pethick had spent her childhood in Cornwall, and had not forgotten some of the Cornish expressions.

"This is beautiful tea," said Leicester presently.

"Iss, ted'n zo bad. As Mrs. Maddern d' zay to me, 'Mrs. Pethick,' she do zay, 'nobody but you do buy the best tay.'"

"Mrs. Pethick," said Leicester, half quizzically, "do you believe the devil can be killed?"

"Not killed, my dear, at laist not by we, but we c'n drive en away."

"How, Mrs. Pethick?"

"Prayer, zur; prayer."

Leicester laughed.

"'Tes true, zur. Ther's 'ope fer the wust. As I zed to Franky Flew at the last revival, I zed, 'Franky,

"And what then, Mrs. Pethick?"

"Why, then you become a new man, zur."

A little while later he left the house. Of course it was all nonsense, nevertheless the simple woman's talk made him better. The storm had now gone, and the moors were bathed in evening sunlight. It was a wonderful panorama which stretched out before him. The moors, which two hours before were dark and forbidding, were now wondrous in their beauty. And sunlight had done it all! Sunlight!

All through the evening he sat and thought. It seemed, from the look in his eyes, that a new purpose had come into his life. The next day he left his lonely lodgings, and found his way back to London. He went to a part of the city which was far away from his old haunts, and to which he was an utter stranger. No one recognised him, no one knew him in the little hotel to which he went. He gave his name as Robert Baxter, as he had given it to the old woman on the moors. Why he had come to London he knew not, except that a great longing had come into his heart to be again in the midst of the great surging life of the city. Nevertheless he stayed in his room at the hotel. After a pretence at eating, he picked up a newspaper. He glanced through it carelessly. He had lost interest in life. The reports concerning the General Election did not interest him. What mattered which set of puppets were at Westminster? The whole business was an empty mockery. Presently, however, a paragraph chained his attention:

"No news is yet to hand concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Radford Leicester. Many suppose that he has left the country, while some are afraid that the hints he dropped to the hotel proprietor at Taviton were serious."

He had no idea that the London newspapers would comment on his disappearance. He thought that he had dropped out of the life of the world, and that no one cared. Presently he read the remainder of the paragraph. Up to this time he had never thought of taking any particular trouble about hiding his identity. The matter of giving another name was mere acting on impulse.

He rang the bell, and ordered a cab. "It is lucky I remember his address," he said to himself, "lucky too that he is as silent as an oyster."

A little later he drove up to a house in one of the many quiet London squares. It was quite dark, and he had pulled the collar of his coat high up around his neck and face. No one recognised him as he entered, but when he walked into a dimly lit room, an old man said to him: "I knew it. You were not such a fool as to throw up the sponge."

After this Leicester talked to the old man for a long time. When he left the house, the light of purpose was in his eyes, although, had a close observer seen him, that observer would have said that there was also much doubt and irresolution.