The Man Who Rose Again

He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A few steps from the bottom he stopped.

"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's nothing to live for."

He went nearer the river.

His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.

It was the dead body of a man.

He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.

"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"

He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.

"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.

Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and examined the body.

"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's left any mark of his identity?" he said, whereupon he lit another match and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen, but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them – not even a pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken trouble to leave no traces of his identity behind.

He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven, too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.

Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the corner.

"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.

There was a sort of fascination in the thought.

"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless; there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"

He started, as though some one had struck him.

"Why shouldn't it be?"

In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.

"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary, after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be asked. After that – he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim him. But why shouldn't I become – ?"

His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He was eager, excited.

He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.

Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of identity. He put the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester, Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the steps.

"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."

By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge Street.

A policeman passed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.

"Good-night, constable."

"Good-night, sir; out late."

"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they passed on, he towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.

When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered what the result of it would be. There was something intensely interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who, according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton, appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they heard the news?

He thought of Olive Castlemaine. What would she say? Had she forgotten him? he wondered. No, no, that could not be. The woman who had cared enough about him to promise to be his wife could not forget him so easily.

Oh, but this was a joke, a joke he really enjoyed. Let all those who knew him be fooled! He laughed at the thought of it, and there was a sort of bitter pleasure in his heart as he went to bed.

The following day the old woman who swept his room and did odd jobs for him came in the ordinary way. She had not the slightest idea who he was. If some one told her that he was Radford Leicester, it would have meant nothing to her. She knew nothing, and cared just as little about the doings of the world. If she met him in the street she would not have recognised him; she was too blind.

"Want me any more to-day?" she asked as she was leaving.

"No – yes," said Leicester; "you might come about half-past six to-night. I may want you, and will you bring me an evening newspaper?"

"All right. Which? there's so many on 'em."

"Oh, it does not matter. Bring half a dozen. You can get them off the man who stands at the corner of the top of Chancery Lane."

"'L right," she said, taking the sixpence he gave her.

Throughout the rest of the day he sat alone, still thinking and brooding. When evening came he looked impatiently at his watch. He was anxious to see the evening newspapers.

The old woman did not come till seven o'clock.

"Here are the papers," she said; "anything you want me to do?"

"Yes, go out and buy a chop, and then bring it back and grill it."

The woman took the money for the chop, nodded, and went away without a word. Leicester opened one of the newspapers eagerly.

He had no need to search long for what he wanted to find. Almost the first paragraph which caught his eye was about himself. He laughed aloud as he read it. Truly, it was a grim joke.

"This morning, at early dawn, as a police constable was passing over Blackfriars Bridge, he looked over the parapet and saw something which appeared to him as a strange-looking object lying on one of the steps which lead down to the river. On going nearer, he found it was the body of a dead man, which to all appearance had been in the river some time, and had been carried to the steps by the outgoing tide, and left stranded there. The constable whistled, and was immediately joined by two others. The body was taken to the – mortuary. On examination, two proofs of the man's identity were found. The first was a letter, and the other a handkerchief bearing the deceased's name in the corner. But for these two things it would have been impossible to identify him, as the face is distorted and swollen beyond all recognition. It is with great regret that we have to state that both the letter and the handkerchief bore the name of Radford Leicester. Many of our readers will have known Mr. Radford Leicester by repute. After a brilliant career at Oxford, he eventually became Parliamentary candidate for Taviton, and many prophesied that his splendid abilities would take him high in the councils of the nation. He became engaged to a charming young lady of wealth and position, but although the wedding-day was fixed, the marriage never took place. Whatever the reason for this, it is believed that it unhinged the late gentleman's mind. Since the sad circumstances which took place in Taviton, and which were recorded in the daily press some time ago, Mr. Leicester has not been seen, and until the sad discovery of this morning, no one had any idea of his whereabouts. The deceased gentleman was a man of few friends, and until his engagement lived very much the life of a recluse. It is with great sorrow that we record the above, as it was fully hoped and believed that he would not only have a very distinguished future, but that he would have been of great value to his country."

Leicester threw down the paper.

"Good," he said; "everything is turning out exactly as I thought."

He read the other papers, and found that each gave very nearly the same version. One moralised at some length on the sad end of the deceased, and enlarged on the evils of drinking.

It was a strange experience, this reading of his own obituary notices, but it agreed with his mood. He had not enjoyed himself so much for a long time.

He did not leave the house. He determined to do nothing which might shake any one's belief in the farce that was being played. He would see the mockery out to the bitter end. This was not long in coming. The inquest was held without delay, and the early impressions were confirmed. It was a case of circumstantial evidence. Radford Leicester had hinted at suicide to the proprietor of the Red Lion Hotel, Taviton. Since that time he had not been seen alive by any who had previously known him. He had also left Taviton in disgrace, his political career being blighted, while it was commonly believed that Miss Castlemaine had refused to marry him because she had discovered something disgraceful in his life. His drinking habits were known to many. Therefore, when a body was discovered, and on it two proofs of its identity, the jury could come to no other conclusion than they did.

Moreover, a strange coincidence took place at the inquest. The solicitor of Radford Leicester appeared, bearing a document signed by the said Radford Leicester, stating his desire that, in the event of his death, his property should be allowed to accumulate for ten years from the date of his decease, and should then be given to Guy's Hospital. This solicitor was an old man of the name of Mr. Flipp, an exceedingly eccentric but a much respected member of the profession nevertheless.

Accordingly a verdict of suicide while in an unsound condition of mind was brought in; and orders were given that the body should be buried, the expenses to be paid out of the deceased gentleman's estate.

Leicester went to the funeral. Mr. Flipp was there, together with Winfield and two or three others with whom he had been on terms of intimacy. He had so disguised himself that no suspicion was aroused, and he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.

He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx. Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little heed.

"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.

"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.

The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.

"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in this fashion."

When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and noticed the placards on the board outside:

"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"

He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the article, which had used him for its text.

"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."

"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried. After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public. Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place. Now I must carry my plans into effect."

CHAPTER XVII

HOW OLIVE RECEIVED THE NEWS

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.