"I say 'not yet,' because without her I shall be alone. Fancy me living in this great house without Olive. It will become like a vault, an empty vault, and I do not know how I can bear it."
"I am free to live where you like," said the young man. "I will build a house close by here if it is your will, or I will buy one. I saw one for sale on my way here."
"Then why not live here?" asked John Castlemaine. The thought of having his son-in-law always near him was pleasant.
"If Olive is willing, I will gladly consent," he replied, "and in that case you will not insist on a long engagement."
When Leicester returned to town that night, it seemed as though the air were filled with music; as though angel forms were all around him. He felt Olive's warm kisses on his lips, while words of love rang in his ears. Again and again he recalled the words she had spoken, when at length her natural reserve had been broken, and the strangeness of the situation had been dispelled. And he had laughed at the joy of lovers, he had scorned a woman's promises! But all that had gone now. At least he thought so. He did not realise that the past could not be buried, and that the Nemesis of every life walks unchecked. How could he? It seemed to him that the very gates of heaven had been opened, and that his love had created a barrier between him and the dark past, so real and so strong that nothing could break it down.
He had no craving for drink that night; he slept like a child, and when at length the grey November day broke, it seemed to him as fair as a May morning.
CHAPTER VIII
THE FOUR MEN MEET AGAIN
The wedding was arranged for an early date. Leicester pleaded for a month's engagement only, and although that month was multiplied by five, he yielded with good grace, especially as he spent a great deal of time at The Beeches. Not that he was idle during those five months. Rather he worked as he had never worked before. He was anxious to prove himself worthy of the woman he loved. To his casual acquaintances he did not seem to alter much. If he was not cynical, he was satirical; he laughed, as of old, at what he called the humour of politics and religion. He professed but little faith in either philanthropy or self-sacrifice. More than once he offended some of his constituents by his remarks about their institutions, which they said were for the good of humanity. All the same, he rose greatly in the estimation of the people as a whole. They recognised something like moral earnestness behind his brilliant speeches, while at every meeting he attended he seemed to strike a deeper, truer note.