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 n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.s which is happily growing less and less in the English Church--that cla.s.s which cares far more about fox-hunting than his parish work. As a consequence the people have become drunken, thriftless, G.o.dless."

"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.