Olive Castlemaine sat beneath a mimosa-tree in the garden of an hotel in Grasse in the south of France. Near her sat her father, who was diligently reading a French newspaper. They had been sitting thus for some time, neither speaking to the other. In spite of the sunshine, and the fresh winds which blew across the hills on which this French village was built, Olive looked pale and tired. Much of her old vivacity was gone. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes; her abundant life had departed. She looked wistfully away towards Cannes, the fashionable town which lay several hundreds of feet lower, away by the shores of the Mediterranean; then she glanced around the garden, and noted the almost tropical plants which grew in such abundance.

"Father, I want to get home," she said.

"You will have great difficulty in finding a more beautiful spot than this," said John Castlemaine.

"Yes, I know, but I cannot bear it any longer. I want to get back to work."

"You'll find it very hard to go back to the old scenes again; besides, you know what gossips our neighbours are."

"I do not see that that matters. I did a very cowardly thing in coming away."

"You did what I insisted on," replied her father.

"Yes, I know; but I ought to have insisted also."

"Yes, and—well, it has been bad enough here where we are unknown, but home at The Beeches—why, those newspaper reports would have driven us mad."

"They would have done nothing of the sort. If they had—well, it would not have mattered."

"You have not driven the fellow out of your mind yet."

"No," replied Olive.

"Then my advice is, do so. Why, think of those Taviton papers? To be drunk on a public platform; to allow your picture to be thrown on a screen, while he stammered out his drunken drivel. No wonder the people hooted him out of the town."

Olive was silent, although her face twitched with pain.

"At any rate, I am glad he had the shame to go away into hiding. I saw by a paper yesterday that nothing is known of his whereabouts."

"Yes, I know."

"You saw it?"

Olive nodded.

"I hope we've seen the last of him."

She did not speak.

John Castlemaine turned, and saw Mr. Sackville coming towards them, bearing a packet of letters and newspapers.

"The post has just come in," said the minister, "and I took the liberty of bringing your letters and papers."

He laid them on an empty chair by Olive Castlemaine as he spoke, and then went on.

"I must take the next train back to England."

"So soon?"

"Yes, there are two or three matters which require my immediate attention. You see—well, I came away somewhat suddenly, you know."

He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words escaped his lips, for he saw a look of pain shoot across Olive Castlemaine's face. But he had enough tact not to hurt her more by seeking to offer explanations.

"Nothing serious, I hope," said Mr. Castlemaine.

"My sister's husband has just died," he replied simply.

"Ah, I see, and your sister will need you. You have my deepest sympathy, my friend; if there is anything I can do to lighten her burden—or yours——"

"Thank you, Mr. Castlemaine, you are always very good."

"But you will remember what I have said?"

"Yes, thank you, I will remember; but at present she only needs me. You don't mind my hurrying away, do you? Good-bye."

"I shall go with you to the station," said Mr. Castlemaine. "You cannot leave for two hours yet."

"And I will go too," said Olive. "I am so sorry you are going, Mr. Sackville."

Her words were more than an empty convention, and the minister felt it. His heart had gone out with a great pity towards the girl whom he had baptized as a baby, whom he had romped with as a child, and whom he had received into the Church in after years. He loved her almost as much as John Castlemaine himself, and no one had sympathised with her more deeply than he.

"Thank you, Olive," he said. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all the morning?"

The girl was silent.

"I am sure it's right," he said, "God never makes a mistake."

"But we do," replied Olive.

"Yes, but it's all right. I am not an easy-going optimist, as you know, and I don't see how what I have said can be true. But it is. It helps me to bear my own sorrow to say it. God bless you, my little girl."

He went back to the hotel, leaving father and daughter together. In spite of the sad news he brought, in spite of the fact of his going away, his words comforted her. There is always help in the words and presence of a good man.

"If I were sure I did right," she said presently.

"You could have done nothing else," said John Castlemaine.

She did not answer for some time, neither did she turn to the letters and papers which Mr. Sackville had laid by her side. She was thinking of the words which Leicester had spoken to her. She remembered how he had said that if there was a God, He had used her as a means of his salvation, and she wondered how much truth there was in what he had said. Even yet she did not understand her own heart; all she knew was that since she had read the letter which had destroyed her hopes, life had been a great pain. Anger, pride, disappointment, and love had each in their turn fought for the mastery, and her heart had seemed to be broken in the struggle.

"No," she said, "I suppose I could not."

"We see what his reformation was worth," said John Castlemaine. "Evidently he was playing you false all the time."

Olive was silent.

"Now honestly, Olive," said her father, "suppose you had a chance of altering the past, what would you do? Would you marry him?"

"No."

The word came from her lips before she knew she had uttered it. It seemed as though her heart spoke for her. John Castlemaine breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

"He was a bad, selfish, cynical man all the time, Olive," he said. "In no possible light was his conduct excusable. A drunkard I could have forgiven, if that were all, although you could never have married a drunkard——"

"No," said Olive quietly.

"But to—no, I will not repeat it. The man forfeited all right to respect."

"I want to get back home, father; I want to take up my work. I was a coward to come away; let us go back with Mr. Sackville."

"Impossible, my dear; still, I will not keep you here against your will. Perhaps to-morrow—but read your letters, Olive."

Almost mechanically she turned to her letters, and read them. They were of no importance, and she skimmed them carelessly. Then she unfastened the wrapper of one of the newspapers, and began to read. A minute later she uttered a cry of pain as it fell from her hands.

"What is it, my dear?"

She did not speak; but looked away with a stony stare towards the shining sea in the distance.

"Tell me, Olive, what is the matter?"

She pointed to the newspaper.

"He is dead," she said.

A look, almost like relief, came into John Castlemaine's face, and he picked up the paper. As he read, a sensation, the like of which he had never felt before, came into his heart. The paragraph described the finding of Leicester's body on the steps by the side of the river near the Blackfriars pier. It discussed the causes which led to it, and pointed out that in all probability Leicester had committed suicide. It hinted that possibly he had fallen into the river while in a state of intoxication, but urged that the balance of evidence lay in the direction of suicide. It referred to his career at Oxford, his great intellectual gifts, and the hopes entertained by so many that he would rise high in the councils of the nation. The event at Taviton, however, had revealed the true state of affairs, and thus his tragic death added another victim to the list of those who had been destroyed by England's greatest curse.

When he had finished he turned to Olive. She was still looking towards the Mediterranean, but he knew that she saw nothing.

"You have nothing for which you can blame yourself, Olive," he said, "you could have done no other."

She did not speak.

"It was a sad day for us when he came into our lives," he continued. "I know what you feel, my darling. You are laying his death at your own door, but you are wrong. His end came through the vices which made you do what you did. Evidently he was a drunkard all the time. He may have kept his vice in the background when he came to The Beeches, but—but—this was the inevitable result—of—all the rest."

"Father," she said, "would you mind leaving me alone for a little while, I want——"

But she did not finish the sentence. Almost mechanically she rose from her seat, picked up the bundle of newspapers, and went to the hotel, where she slowly climbed the stairs towards her bedroom. Perhaps, although the garden was deserted, its very publicity made it impossible for her to stay there. She wanted to be alone, where she could, in quietness, think out everything again. She forgot all about Mr. Sackville's departure, forgot almost where she was. She felt stunned, and yet in some respects her mind was more than ordinarily clear.

Leicester's death had brought a new and unexpected influence into her existence. While he was alive, while he showed his real nature by bandying her name at a public meeting, and by appearing before an audience in a state of intoxication, she felt that her conduct, in spite of a feeling which suggested remorse, was excusable; but now he was dead, all was different. Perhaps in a vague, dim sort of a way she had felt the possibility of his coming into her life again, although she had no definite consciousness of it, but now she realised that he was gone from her life, except as a memory. She pictured him lying on the cold steps beside the river; she thought of the feelings which must have been in his heart as he threw himself into its dark, turbid waters. It was very terrible; ghastly, in fact. She did not consider who sent her the paper, her mind was absorbed in the fact it contained.

Presently she asked herself what would have happened if she had married him. Would this dread tragedy have been averted, and would she have been able, as he had said, to have led him to a noble manhood? Even then her heart had answered no. The reformation which she thought she had worked was only a mockery; even if it had been real, it was only a veneer of reformation, so thin that it had failed him when she refused to hold further intercourse with him. She wondered whether she really loved him, else why could she think of his death so calmly? Her heart was very sore, and she felt stunned by the news of his death, yet she was able to think quite clearly and collectedly.

She read the paragraph concerning Leicester again. She supposed that there could be no doubt that it was he. The name upon the handkerchief, the letter addressed to him—no, there could be no doubt. Perhaps in a day or so the English newspapers would contain further news about him. There would, of course, be an inquest, and then the circumstantial evidence would be tested; but of course he was dead.

Suddenly the remembrance of their last interview came back to her. He had reminded her of her promise never to marry another man, no matter what might happen. She remembered the reply she had made, too. It was as bitter and as cruel as she could make it, and she called to mind the look on his face when she had spoken. Nevertheless she had promised never to marry another man. But it did not matter. She would never want to marry; the thought of such a thing was repugnant. She wished she could cry, but her eyes were dry; she wished she had some feeling of tenderness in her heart; but she had none. She was cold and calm; indeed, she seemed to be past feeling. If she felt anything at all, it was anger. Even yet she was angry that her picture had been exhibited at the political meeting at Taviton, and that she should be spoken about by a man who a few minutes afterwards fell on the platform in drunken helplessness. Why was it? Surely Leicester's death should have destroyed any such feelings. He had atoned now for all he had done.

A minute later a knock came to the door, and she heard her father's voice.

"Olive, may I come in?"

"Yes, father; what is it?"

John Castlemaine came in, and she saw the moment he entered that he had something of importance to tell her.

"When would you like to go back to England, Olive?" he said.

"I don't know," she said. Somehow her interest in returning home had evaporated since the news of Leicester's death.

"I don't mean to The Beeches, Olive."

"Where, then?"

He sat down beside her, and took a letter from his pocket.

"As you know, Olive, I have little by little taken a less active part in business."

"Yes," she said.

"And I'm tired of London. The eternal fogs and grey skies of the winter oppress me. For years I've longed to live in the country. Even at The Beeches we are more and more invaded by the London fogs. Besides, there is no necessity for me to live near London any longer. I have quite as much money as I need, and, added to this, I have been able to trust more and more in the heads of the various departments of my business. An occasional visit will be quite enough for me."

"Well, father?"

"Well, some little time ago a fine old estate in Devonshire fell into the market."

"In Devonshire!"

"Yes, about thirty miles from Taviton. I did not speak to you about it, because I wished to surprise you. I instructed a man to make an offer for it; but owing to some hitch, the affair was not settled, and I was informed that it had passed into other hands. I was awfully disappointed because—because—well, Olive, I wanted to give it to you for a wedding present, and then invite myself as your perpetual guest."

Olive did not speak.

"When matters turned out as they did, I was almost glad that I had not bought it; but among the letters which Mr. Sackville brought down to us a little while ago was this."

He handed her a letter as he spoke. As she read, a look of interest came into her eyes, which her father noted with pleasure.

"It is a beautiful place," went on John Castlemaine, "and situated in the loveliest part of Devonshire. The house stands high, and the climate, so I am told, is the finest in England. The neighbourhood has been frequently recommended by the doctors for its healthfulness."

In spite of herself she was interested.

"You have visited it, have you, father?" she said.

"Yes, I spent two days there some time ago. In its way, the estate is unique. It is very large, and most of the land is very fertile; but there is a large tract of moorland, where there is some very fine shooting. The late owner neglected it terribly. There is a large village which is very squalid, and wretched. You see, neither the squire nor the parson cared for it. The former refused to spend a penny on the estate, while the latter—well, he belongs to that class which is happily growing less and less in the English Church—that class which cares far more about fox-hunting than his parish work. As a consequence the people have become drunken, thriftless, godless."

"But I thought the Free Churches were strong in Devonshire. Is there no village chapel?"

John Castlemaine shook his head.

"The late squire owned the parish, and would not allow a chapel to be built. If any of the people were to go to a dissenting chapel—well, I need not go on. I only mention the fact to show you that there is need for the influence of such a girl as you, Olive. Would you not like to be Lady Bountiful in a Devonshire village, Olive?"

Evidently the thought was pleasant to her, and her father rejoiced that he was able to distract her mind from her trouble.

"You have not bought the place, father?"

"No, but a telegram from me will settle the matter. It all depends on you, Olive. As you know, I did not like the thought of going back to The Beeches, neither for your sake nor mine."

"But we could not go there to live at once, father?"

"There need be but little delay. The late owner has only lately died, and left the estate so mortgaged that the heirs cannot afford to live there. They are anxious, moreover, that all the furniture of the house shall be bought with the estate. Of course it will need some amount of overhauling, but it should not take long. If I were to send a telegram to-day, the place would be ours by to-morrow; then if we waited here a week or so, we could go back and take up residence there. Of course you would want to alter a lot of things, but a few days in London would be sufficient for you to select all the things you wanted."

"Suppose I were to say yes, and then were to get tired of it?" she said.

"I don't think you would, Olive; but even if you did, it would be a very good investment."

"Would you sell The Beeches?" she asked.

"Not at present; you see I should like to keep a place near London."

She thought a minute, and as she thought the picture of the old Devonshire home became more and more pleasant. The idea of going back to a London suburb became less and less pleasant, while the thought of an old house situated amongst broad parks, and rich pasture lands which stretched away to the moors, and the sea, grew upon her.

"Send the telegram, father," she said.

"That's right, Olive," said John Castlemaine as he left the room.

"I can't realise it, I can't realise it," she said when he was gone. "It is all so strange, so terribly strange. Even now I can't feel that he is dead."

Later, however, her doubts were removed. Papers came containing the reports of the inquest, and then of the funeral. Radford Leicester was dead, and thus gone out of her life for ever.

"I am glad I've been able to buy that place," said John Castlemaine to himself as he watched her face. "She'll be able to forget him amidst new scenes; besides, she's eager to work among the poor in the village."

A few days later they started for their new home.