The Man Who Rose Again Part 37

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, 'n.o.body 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,

'While the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return!'"

"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 ident.i.ty. 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.

CHAPTER XVI

A GRIM JOKE

A week later Leicester was still in London. He had removed from the little hotel to which he had at first gone, and had taken a room in one of those old-fashioned enclosures which still remain in the heart of London. Here he fended for himself, the room being cleaned by an old deaf and nearly blind woman, who was glad to earn a few shillings a week in this way. He saw no one. Throughout the day he kept in his solitary chamber; he only went out at night, and then after the city had gone to sleep. What was in his mind it was difficult to say.

One night after midnight he went out alone. The theatres had all emptied themselves, and the streets, save for an occasional pa.s.ser-by, were deserted. The lights still burned, but to him it looked like a city of the dead. The echoing footfalls which occasionally reached his ears sounded like the steps of some ghostly visitant rather than of a being of flesh and blood.

He presently came to the Law Courts, and walked in the direction of Ludgate Hill. The great buildings rose up stately and grand at his side, but they reminded him rather of a stupendous monument of the dead than of a battle-ground where keen intellects and grave wisdom waged war.

"Justice," he thought. "What justice is there in the world? What do either judges, or barristers, or juries care about justice? The whole world stinks with lies and injustice and cruelty. And yet why do I prate about these things? What is justice? Is there any such thing? What are all our thoughts but blind gropings after a phantom?"

The moon shone clearly overhead, and the spring air was clear and sweet even in the heart of the city; nevertheless there was a cold bite in the wind which found its way across the open s.p.a.ces.

"As though Anything cared?" he went on musing. "What does it matter whether one is good or bad, idle or industrious? Some work and some play, some are rich and some are poor. Well, what's the odds? We are only like gnats, born when the sun rises, and die when it goes down. The worst of it is that this beastly little race leaves others of the same species behind. And so the farce will go on, until the earth grows cold and the race dies. Well, and what then? Whether one dies young or old, what does it affect? Who cares? Nothing cares."

He looked up at the great dome of blue, and saw here and there a star.

"As though, if there is Anything at the back of all things, the Force which caused those worlds could care for a paltry little earthworm like I am!"

He laughed aloud, and then shuddered at the sound of his own voice. The city seemed like some huge phantom which had no real existence.

He turned into one of the many ways which lead from Fleet Street to the river. If possible, it seemed more silent than ever here. The lights were less brilliant, life seemed to be extinct.

"Oh, what a coward, a poor whining coward I am," he said. "I think, and brood, and drink, and dream, and curse; but I do nothing. I, who used to boast of my will-power and my determination. I live like a rat in a hole; I dare not come out and show myself, and I dare not put an end to the dirty business called life, because I have a sort of haunting fear that I should not make an end of myself even although this carcase of mine should rot."

Presently he reached the Embankment, and he walked to the wall which bounded the river and looked over. The tide was going out. The dark, muddy river, carrying much of the refuse of London, rolled on towards the sea. Yet the waters gleamed bright, both in the light of the moon as well as in those of the lamps which stood by its banks, but the water was foul all the same, foul with the offal of a foul city. He turned away from it with a shudder.

"Why haven't I the pluck to take the plunge, instead of being the whining, drivelling idiot I am?" he cried. "Nothing cares, and nothing would happen--except nothingness."

He walked along the Embankment. "And yet I told her that I could be a man. After all, was she not right? What if she were unjust? Was such a creature as I am fit to be the husband of a pure woman? See the thing I have become in less than a month. Might I not, if I had married her, have become tired of my new _role_, and drifted? Well, if I had I should have dragged her with me. Did I really love her? Did I not love myself all the time? It was not of her I thought. It was all of my miserable, sordid little self. Still, if there is an Almighty, He made a mistake in treating me so! But there, as though an Almighty cared about such as I.

If He does, He regards us all as a part of a grim joke."

"I'nt got a bit a bacca on yer, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"

A man rose from a seat as he spoke, and shivered. At the other end of the seat lay a woman asleep.

"I cawn't sleep, I'm so bloomin' cold," went on the man, "and I'm just dyin' for a bit a bacca."

"Why do you try to sleep here?" asked Leicester.

"'Cause I in't got no weers else, guv'nor. That's why. Besides, my hinsides is empty, and yer cawn't sleep when yer empty. Tell yer, I'm fair sick on it."

"Why don't you make an end of it?"