"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 good man, indeed I cannot claim to have been even an admirer of goodness. Certainly I have believed in very little of it."
Olive interrupted him. "As a strong Protestant, Mr. Leicester," she said, "I am not a believer in confessions, and I am sure I am not fitted to be your confidante."
"You promised to listen to me, Miss Castlemaine," he said, "and I claim the fulfilment of the promise. Believe me, I did not come here lightly, neither am I speaking meaningless words. This afternoon will be a crisis in my life, and if there is a God, He knows that I am as sincere as a man can be."
Again she was silenced. The strength of the man's personality was, although she did not know it, bending her will to his. On the other hand, she was exercising no power of resistance, and she was interested to know what he would say.
"I do not know that I am an atheist," he said. "Indeed, I have sometimes a feeling at the back of my mind that there must be a God, and that this life is only a fragment of life as a whole; but that is not often. That is no wonder. I was brought up to believe that there was no God. I was trained to distrust every one, and to look for evil motives in every life. I believe my father meant to be kind in doing this for me; anyhow, I am a result, at least in part, of his training. I never knew a mother's care.
"Please do not misunderstand me; I am not growing maudlin nor sentimental; I am simply stating facts. I went to Oxford, and while there, my father's training was confirmed, accentuated. I suppose I had abilities, and was informed when I took my degree that my career there was – well, more than creditable. I did the usual thing when I was three or four and twenty. I fell in love."
"Really, Mr. Leicester," said Olive, "there can be no – "
"It was the fancy of a boy," went on Radford, as if he had not heard her, "and it did not last long. She jilted me in a very ordinary fashion, and my heart-wounds were not deep. All it did, I think, was to confirm my early impressions about woman's love. Since that time I have avoided women. Yes, I speak quite sincerely, I have avoided them. Despising them, I neglected seeking the society of women altogether. I have lived mainly at my club, so that I might not be brought into contact with them. You will naturally ask, if you are interested in me at all, what I have lived for, I quite realise that every man must have some motive power in life, some driving-force, and I have had mine. It is very poor, very mean in your eyes, no doubt; but I will tell the truth. My driving-power has been ambition. Rightly or wrongly, many who know me believe I have gifts above the ordinary; they have told me that if I will, I can have a notable parliamentary career. Possibly they are right – I do not know. But I realise, even in spite of my creed, that the motive is insufficient. Besides, I cannot help laughing at the whole political world. The great bulk of our political magnates have no sense of humour, but they are irresistibly funny nevertheless. I can see that they are only pawns in the game, although they think they are of great importance, and then – "
He stopped, and took two or three steps towards the window; then he returned and, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, went on speaking.
"I have been wondering during the last few weeks whether I have not been blind to a very real world," he said. "This I know: I have been simply longing to believe in things the existence of which I have denied. I have wanted to believe in a final Will, a final Beneficence; I have wanted to believe that we are not the playthings of a blind chance, and that what we call disorder and discord are but the preludes to a divine Harmony. With that longing has come another and this is a selfish longing. It is to play something like a worthy part on the stage of life. Sometimes this longing scarcely exists; sometimes it grows strong and clamorous. There are times when I believe that I, even I, can live a life that is really worth the living. This belief is only a new-born child. It is sickly, and lacks vitality, but it exists.
"No, no, bear with me a few minutes longer. I know I have chosen a poor subject to talk about, but then I confess myself to be an egotist. I, like every other man, regard myself as the only person worth talking about; so please forgive me. But do not mistake me. I do not pose as a good man, or a worthy man. I still doubt whether such exists; but there are times when I have strange longings, and these longings sometimes, though rarely, become a kind of belief that I, worthless, faithless as I am, can live a life which is worth the living."
He was silent a few seconds, and seemed at a loss how to proceed, while Olive Castlemaine sat, scarcely realising the true condition of affairs, at the same time feeling the masterfulness of the man who spoke to her.
"Perhaps you are hardly interested to know the reason for this," he went on, "nevertheless I must tell you. You are the reason."
Olive glanced up like one startled.
"I, Mr. Leicester?"
"You. I have not learnt to believe in goodness generally, but I believe in your goodness. I have not learnt to believe in women, but I believe in a woman. I believe in you. And I believe in you because I love you."
He spoke quietly, and there was no tremor in his voice, but his face was, if possible, paler than usual. That he was deadly in earnest no one could doubt.
"I make no pretences," he went on. "I do not say, nay, I do not think that I shall ever become a pattern man. Even now I have no strong faith,