Olive Castlemaine sat on the lawn of her Devonshire home, looking away across the valley towards the moorlands which lay beyond. By her side stood a young fellow of from thirty to thirty-five years of age.
"You don't say you are sorry for me, Miss Castlemaine," he said.
"You are not on my side, you see," she replied, with a smile.
"Would that make a difference? Would you have congratulated me if I were on your side, and won the seat?"
"And if you had lost it—if you had made a good fight."
"You believe in fighting?"
"To the very end."
"Still, I can't turn my coat—even for you," he said apologetically.
"I would not like you to."
"And, after all, the battle's not lost, because of one defeat."
"You are going to stand again?"
"Yes, I am going to stand again. We must have a General Election in a year or two; meanwhile I shall keep on pegging away. The majority was not insurmountable. The Government is bound to make a fool of itself, the General Election will come, and I shall win the seat."
"You seem very certain."
"The man who keeps pegging away, and never gives up, has always reason to be certain. And I never give up."
Olive was silent.
"Don't you believe in that attitude?" he asked.
"Yes—in a way. Still, I should make sure I was not striving after an impossibility."
"Everything that has ever been done worth the doing,—I mean every really great thing—has been done by attempting the impossible."
Olive turned towards him with a glance that did not lack admiration. He was a fine-looking young fellow; tall, well formed, and well favoured. He belonged to that class which maintains the best traditions of the old county families. He was the owner of an estate which lay contiguous to that of John Castlemaine, and he was a healthy-minded, clear-brained young Englishman. In many things the two were opposed. His sympathies were, in the main, with the classes; hers with the people; he had but little belief in the democracy, she had. He believed in the aristocracy of birth; she in the aristocracy of intellect and personal worth. Not that he was not interested in the well-being of the people—he was; but their ideas as to the way in which that well-being would be realised were different. His mind had been shaped and coloured by the class among which he had been reared, by the atmosphere in which he had lived, and the atmosphere of this Devonshire squire's home was different from that which had surrounded Olive Castlemaine's life.
"No," he went on presently, "I never believe in giving up. That is a characteristic of my race. The Briarfields have always been noted for their—obstinacy."
"It is not always a pleasant characteristic," she said with a laugh.
"But a useful one," he said. "It has saved me from defeat more than once. When I first went to a public school I fought a boy bigger than myself. He whipped me badly; but I mastered him in the end."
There was no boastfulness in the way he spoke; moreover, he evidently had a reason for leading the conversation into this channel.
"That is one reason why I refuse to take 'No' from you," he continued. "I never loved any other woman; I never shall; and I shall never give up hope of winning you."
"Really, I am very sorry for this, Mr. Briarfield."
"Don't say that, Miss Castlemaine. I suppose it is bad policy to expose my hand in this way; nevertheless what I tell you is true. Although you first refused me three years ago, I shall never give up hoping that I shall win you, and never give up trying."
"Had we not better change the subject?" she said rather coldly, although there was no look of anger or resentment in her eyes.
"I only wanted to tell you this. It is more than a year since I spoke to you last, and I wished you to know that I have not altered—never shall alter. I love you, and I shall not give up hope of winning you. I know I am not of your way of thinking. To be perfectly frank, I interpret the duties and responsibilities of a landholder differently from you. But I admire you all the same. No doubt you have given a great deal of pleasure by keeping an open house; no doubt, too, your home of rest for a jaded multitude is very fine, but then I have old-fashioned ideas."
Olive laughed gaily. She had almost enjoyed the criticisms which, during the past five years, had been passed upon her work.
"At any rate the house was never used in such a way before," she said.
"Never," said Herbert Briarfield. "The late owner—well, he did not believe in using his home as a sort of hydro, or convalescent establishment."
"No," said Olive, "I suppose he did not, but then one has one's duties."
"Yes, but duty is a word which is interpreted differently by different people. For my own part, I do not see why one should open one's house to everybody. Of course, it is not my business, but don't you think you fulfilled your duty when you built your home of rest?"
"No," said Olive. "The Home of Rest, as you call it, is for strangers, but those I invite here are people I have known. They come here as my personal friends."
"You must have a lot of personal friends."
"I have, and really these last few years have been a revelation to me. I never realised the number of over-worked gentlefolk there were, neither did I ever dream of the amount of gratitude there is in the world."
"And do you mean to continue doing this—this—kind of thing, Miss Castlemaine?"
"Yes, I think so."
"What, when you get married?"
"I shall never marry."
Herbert Briarfield looked at her steadily. For the last three years he had been a suitor for Olive Castlemaine's hand, and although she had given him no encouragement, he had never given up hope that he would one day win her. Moreover, so certain was he that he would one day succeed, that he had almost unconsciously assumed a kind of proprietary right over her.
"Of course you will marry," he said, "and then you will think differently. Your first duties then will be to your husband—and to—to your position."
Olive Castlemaine did not reply. He had so often expressed this kind of sentiment, that she did not think it worth while.
"Miss Castlemaine," continued Herbert Briarfield, "you will not be offended if I speak plainly, will you?"
"I am not likely to be offended with my friends, Mr. Briarfield," she said, "but there is one subject that should be debarred. You know very well that I have made up my mind."
"Let no subject be debarred, Miss Castlemaine. It is not right that it should be. If there were some one else, of course I should have to regard your refusal as inevitable. But there is no one else—is there?"
Olive Castlemaine did not speak, but there was a look in her eyes which, had Herbert Briarfield seen, he would have thought it wise to be silent.
"We are neither of us children," he went on; "I am thirty-six, and therefore not ignorant of the world. I know that you have had many offers of marriage, and I—I know that the man to whom you were once engaged is dead."
He felt he was acting like a fool while he was speaking, but the words escaped him, in spite of himself.
"But you are not going to allow that to wreck your life," he went on. "You are young—and—and you know how beautiful you are. Besides, I love you; love you like my own life. You are the only woman in the world to me. I do not know the—the story of that business, but—but surely—oh, Olive, you cannot allow such an episode—the fact that a worthless fellow committed suicide—to close your heart to me for ever. Oh, Olive, do have a little pity on me!"
Her first feeling as he spoke was of anger, but this was followed by pity. She had always thought of him with kindness. In many respects he was a fine young fellow, and was beloved in the neighbourhood; thus the fact of his love could not be altogether unpleasant.
"Mr. Briarfield," she said, "really I am very sorry for this; but let me say once and for all——"
"No, no, not now. Give me another three months—let me speak to you again then. In the meanwhile think it all out again, Olive."
"It is no use, Mr. Briarfield. I am not one to alter my mind easily."
"But there is no one else, is there?"
"No."
"Then let me speak to you again in three months' time. May I?"
"But my answer will be the same as now."
"No, it will not. You will let me speak again then, won't you?"
"And you'll accept what I say then as final?"
"If you wish it. That is, if you'll promise me one thing."
"Tell me what it is."
"That if you refuse me at the end of three months, and then if you alter your mind afterwards, you'll let me know."
"Yes, I promise that. But mind, after that you are not to speak to me, that is, on this subject, till I tell you."
"Yes, I promise that."
Herbert Briarfield turned away from Olive as he spoke, and walked to the end of the lawn. There could be no doubt that he was deeply in earnest. A look of fierce determination shone from his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously.
"She must, she must," he said. "There is no one else, and Iwillwin her."
He returned to her presently and, drawing a chair near hers, sat down by her side.
"I suppose your Home of Rest is full," he said, with seeming carelessness.
"Yes," she said: "had it been twice as large it would have been filled. As for the golf links, they are always popular. You see, while it is foggy and miserable in London, it is perfect weather here. Just fancy, we are only in the middle of April, and yet we are sitting out of doors in perfect comfort. It's as warm as June."
"There is a mixed crew down there," said Briarfield, nodding in the direction of what he had called "the Home of Rest."
"Yes?"
"Yes. It is a good thing you are so cosmopolitan in your views. I dropped in there last night, and had a talk with a German and a Frenchman, while I saw, sitting in the smoking-room, an Arab of some sort. At any rate, he wore a fez."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. I did not speak to him, as he seemed in a rather unsociable mood; but the German told me he was a remarkable sort of character. It seems he has spent most of his life away in Africa, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Desert of Sahara, I think."
"What led him to come here?"
"Heaven only knows. Why did the German and the Frenchman come? I suppose they heard of the presiding genius of the home, of its beautiful surroundings, and its healthful climate. Besides, in addition to its cheapness, all sorts of stories are afloat about the place. You know that."
Olive laughed.
"I heard only yesterday," went on Briarfield, "that you built it on account of a dream you had when a child; while some time ago some one told me that you had loved some youth some years ago, who had died of consumption, because of the want of a home of rest like this."
Olive laughed again.
"I have been there very little lately," she said. "I've had so many other things to do."
"Yes, but I think they all hope to see you. This German told me that the man with the fez is a fatalist, and does not believe in right or wrong. He's a striking-looking fellow, and would be noticed in any crowd. He's only been there two days, but is quite a centre of interest."
"Indeed," said Olive; "what is he like?"
"I did not see him standing, but I should judge he's of more than ordinary height. He has an intensely black beard, which he allows to grow long. His face is very much tanned, and thus he has quite an Oriental appearance."
"How old is he?"
"Oh, I should think quite forty-five. But, for that matter, he might be any age. As I said, I did not hear him speak, but the fellow suggests all sorts of mysteries. There's a look in his eyes which tells wonderful things. He might be an esoteric Buddhist, or a Mohammedan who has dwelt much in Mecca. The fellow makes one think of reincarnation, and spirit wanderings, and magic—in fact, anything that is mysterious. The German told me he had a conversation with him."
"In what language?"
"In German. It seems that he speaks all the languages. The Frenchman told me he spoke French like a Parisian, while the German says his knowledge of German literature is profound. He talks to the waiters in English, and reads the newspapers of several countries. When I saw him he was writing in Arabic."
"Do you know Arabic?"
"No; but from what I could judge from the distance, he was writing in Arabic characters. But it might have been in Chinese, or any other language; I don't know."
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes; the fellow so interested me that I inquired."
"What was it?"
"Signor Ricordo."
"Ricordo? That sounds Italian."
"He may be Italian. I suppose lots of Italians go across to Tunis from Genoa. He might be anything, in fact—Russian, Spaniard, Italian, or Arab."
"I suppose he is a gentleman?"
"As I told you, I never spoke to him; but the German told me that there could be no doubt but that he was a man of considerable position. He thinks him a count, or something of that sort; but, as I told him, Italian counts are cheap. Be that as it may, he speaks of himself as a simple 'Signore,' and makes no parade of his greatness whatever."
"That may be because he has none."
"But I should gather that he has. This German is a man who knows things, and he tells me that there can be no doubt but that Signor Ricordo has moved in the most influential circles. Oh, I can assure you there is no difficulty in believing it. You cannot look at his face without feeling that he is a man who has lived at the heart of things."
"You make me quite curious. I must visit the home, and make his acquaintance."
"It will be very interesting to know what you think of him."
"Of course he is not rich? He would not go to The Homestead if he were."
"The question did not come up. The truth is, he is not the kind of man who suggests such things. You are impressed by the personality of the man, not by his belongings."
"I wonder you did not try and make his acquaintance."
"I wanted to badly; but, as I said, he seemed to be in an unsociable mood."
"I daresay you will speak to him some time."
"Oh, yes. I am going in there to-night to dine with my German acquaintance."
Olive raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, yes, I know of what you are thinking. You are saying to yourself that I am false to my creed by dining with a stranger, in order to see a man who may have been a donkey-boy in Cairo; but if I have made you curious by talking about him, what must I be, who have seen him?"
"You have accepted the invitation of the German, then, in order to get an introduction to Signor Ricordo?"
"Exactly. I know I am not courteous to my German host, but it is the truth. Besides, to give your Home of Rest its due, they do things very well there."
"Thank you," said Olive, with a laugh. "I am always pleased when I give my customers satisfaction."
A little later Herbert Briarfield left Vale Linden and rode back to his home.
"How much she must have loved the fellow after all!" he said to himself. "It must be six years at least since he threw up the sponge, and yet she remains true to his memory. I cannot understand it. Of course one doesn't know all that happened; yet how could she give the fellow up because he was such a cur, and then refuse to marry any one else because he committed suicide?"
During the afternoon he rode out to see some off-farms, and then came back to dress for dinner. "What an idea to build such a place!" he said as the carriage rolled along. "Still, I suppose a wilful woman must have her way."
Herr Trübner, the German, met him with a great show of politeness, and did the honours of the dinner with much effusion.
"You know the patroness of this establishment?" he said presently.
"Yes, I know her," replied Briarfield, rather ungraciously.
"I have hoped to see her," said Herr Trübner, "but up to now I have been unsuccessful. And yet I was told she came here constantly. It was one of the things which induced me to come. So beautiful, so generous, so pious, I could not resist the desire to see her."
"It is possible you may be disappointed," said Briarfield. He was rather angry that the woman he hoped to marry should be talked about in such a way.
"Oh, no, I shall not be disappointed," replied the German. "Only half an hour ago I was told that while I was out walking with Signor Ricordo she was down here, and that she had arranged for a concert to be held in two evenings from now. Ah, and I love music! I who am from the country of Handel and Strauss, and Schubert and Wagner, I love it! I may be a poor, broken-down old German, but I love it, as I love all things beautiful."
"Is it not rather strange that your friend Signor Ricordo, who is a rich man, should have come to a place which was built—well, not as a money-making concern?" said Briarfield rather brutally.
"Is he rich?" asked the German.
"I thought you told me he was a man of considerable position."
"And what then, Mr. Briarfield? A man may be poor, and still be a gentleman. I am poor—but I do not say it to boast—I am of the best families in Germany. My mother was a Von Finkelstein, while the Trübners are of the best blood in my country. Ah, yes!"
"I am sure I beg your pardon. But I do not see Signor Ricordo."
"Ah, but he is here in The Homestead. Yes, I like that name. It makes me think of Germany, that word 'homestead.' That is why we Germans and you English are a great people. No nation can have the feeling so strongly that they are obliged to have the word 'home' without being a great people. The French with theirchez vous, and the Italians with theircasa sua, are poor, not only in their language, but in that sublime quality which makes a people invent the word 'home.' Forgive me for being prosy; but I like to think that the Germans and the English are akin. But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Signor Ricordo is in The Homestead, and he is looking forward to meeting you. When I told him that you knew our patron saint, he became interested, and asked that he might have the honour of being introduced. Have you finished? That is well. We will have our coffee brought into the smoking-room."
As Herbert Briarfield walked behind Herr Trübner into the smoking-room, he asked himself why he had been so foolish as to accept the latter's invitation to dine. He knew that Olive had built the place with an idea of charity, and although he had no doubt that Herr Trübner was of a good German family, he did not relish dining with a number of impecunious people. As he entered, however, he no longer regretted that he had come, for, sitting in the corner of the room, he saw the man who had aroused his interest so strongly the night before, and whom he had really come to see.
Signor Ricordo rose as Herr Trübner and Herbert Briarfield came up to him. As he did so, the latter noticed that he was of more than ordinary height, and that he was evidently a man of great muscular strength. But he quickly forgot the stranger's physical proportions as he realised that peculiar quality in the man's presence, to indicate which no better word can be used than "personality." Had he been asked afterwards to describe him, he would not have dwelt upon his physical appearance at all, except only in so far as it suggested that subtle power which made him remarkable. For he was remarkable. Before he spoke a word, Briarfield felt it. It was not that his face told him anything. The chin and the mouth were covered by a thick black beard and moustache, while the forehead was hidden from him by the Turkish fez which he wore. Nevertheless, the face was one which he knew he should never forget. The stranger's eyes were large, but they were seldom opened wide, because of his peculiar habit of half closing them. In the lamplight they looked black, but they might easily be any other colour. Moreover, the protruding forehead threw them in a shadow. His skin was much tanned, as though he had lived his life beneath a tropical sun; his large nervous hands were also almost as brown as an Indian's. There was nothing Oriental in his attire, excepting his fez, and yet he suggested the East. Even the voice was different from the English voice. It was, if one may use the terms, more subtle, more fluid. Moreover, he seldom raised his voice; even when he was deeply interested, he never showed his interest by eagerness or loudness of speech. His hearers felt it, rather than heard or saw it.
No one would have spoken of him as a talkative man, and yet he spoke freely—at least, he seemed to; nevertheless, even while he was speaking, Herbert Briarfield was wondering what he was really thinking.
"The life here must be somewhat strange to you, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield, after their coffee was brought.
"In what way?"
The question seemed natural, and yet, while he spoke in low tones, it suggested a kind of anger.
"Herr Trübner tells me you have spent your life in the East. I do not know much about the East, but I have called at Tunis, and have spent a few days in Cairo. It therefore struck me that to one who has lived his life there, a Devonshire village must seem strange."
"Did it never occur to you, Mr. Briarfield"—he uttered the name hesitatingly, as though he were not certain about the exact pronunciation—"that the differences which one sees in various parts of the world all lie on the surface?"
"No, I cannot say that. From what I have seen, they are deep."
"How deep?"
"Of course, it is impossible to calculate that."
"I do not think so. What is the covering of the world here? Mud. Yes, call it another name if you like; but it is still mud. Of course, it is very useful; it grows food. Away in Africa the world is covered in many places by sand; but it is only another form of mud. Grind it sufficiently fine, and it becomes slime—mud. But we must not grumble; it grows food. It is not exactly the same as you have here; but its qualities are similar. It goes to making blood, and bone, and sinew. Essentially, it is the same; superficially only, it is different."
"But I was thinking of men and women. The characteristics of the people who live near the Nile are different from those of us living here in England."
"Again, how deep is the difference?"
"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."
"And yet the thought is very simple. The sand of Sahara, of Libya is different from your Devonshire soil. Just so; but, as I said, it grows food. It contains the same vital elements. The Arab is different from the Englishman; yes, but how deep is the difference? His skin is darker, true; he conveys his thoughts by different sounds, true. Even his thoughts may on the surface be different; but dig down deep, and you find the same elemental characteristics. The Eastern eats and sleeps, so does an Englishman. The Eastern loves and hates, so does an Englishman. The Eastern ponders over life's mysteries and wonders about the great unknown, so does the Englishman. In a less degree, I will admit, but he does. Pull aside the tawdry excrescences, Mr. Briarfield, and all places are alike, all men are alike. All men, all climes, all ages tell the same story."
"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.
"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."
"Why?"
"It's not worth while."
Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the man was in earnest or not.
"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.
"Three months."
"In what part, if I may ask?"
"London."
"And you like London?"
"Yes—no—London is hell."
He spoke quietly, yet there was a strange intensity in his tones.
"Pardon me," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "I do not particularise when I say that London is hell. It only appears more like hell than other places, because there are more people there."
"You are alluding to the east of London?"
"And to the west. To the east most, perhaps, because the people are more real there. There is less artificiality, less veneer. The nearer to real life you get, the nearer to hell. And yet I don't know; the same fires burn in the west, although they are more carefully hidden from view."
"You have visited other parts of England?"
"Yes, visited."
"And how did the other parts strike you?"
"Still hell, but duller."
Herbert Briarfield looked towards Signor Ricordo with a kind of nervous laugh. Even yet he did not know how to regard him.
"I agree with your—what do you call him?—Dr. Johnson. When he was asked where he would rather live in the summer, he said, 'On the whole, London.' 'And where in the winter?' asked his questioner. 'Ah, in winter,' he said, 'there is no place else. Yes, London is interesting.'"
"What impressed you most in London?" asked Briarfield, for want of a better question.
Ricordo hesitated a second.
"The friendliness of the waiters, I think," he replied.
All three burst out laughing.
"Good," said Herr Trübner. "Ah, it is true, true. A man walks London streets and never meets a friend; but let him go into a restaurant, and the waiters take him into their confidence immediately."
"And did you visit our national institutions while in London?"
"Yes, I worked very hard. I saw everything. East, west, north, south, I went everywhere—everywhere. I wanted to see, to understand."
"And your impressions?"
"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"
"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"
"The east."
"Why?"
"Because the people are so much happier."
"You are joking."
"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to the places of amusement, I watched the people's faces. In the west I paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah! they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of titillating people's palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah, you should have seen the people eat there! Even those who were poorest, and who had only their—what do you call them?—their bloaters, their tripe and onions, their black puddings—ah, but they enjoyed those things far more than your fashionable diners at the Savoy! Oh yes, I went everywhere. I went to the churches, the chapels. Again the same difference struck me. In the east, there was a sense of reality; but in the west—ah, Great Allah! forgive me!"
"Then you would rather live in the east?"
"Yes and no, Signor Briarfield. Yes, because, in spite of poverty and wretchedness, I saw more of what we call happiness in the East End; no, because, although the people seemed happy, to me it was hell. The sights, the smells, the sounds! Still, if I were given to pity, I should pity your people who live in Mayfair, rather than those at Stepney."
"You went to the House of Commons?"
"I went everywhere."
"And you saw——?"
"The puppets—yes. It was very amusing—very."
"What amused you most?"
"The pretence at being in earnest, I think. But the machinery was too plain to enjoy it really. They do things better at the theatres. There the players pretend to be puppets, but convince you that they are real. At Westminster, the players pretend they are real, but convince you that they are puppets. After all, your House of Commons did me good."
"How?"
"It gave me a sort of faith in human nature, in the simplicity of the people who send the actors there. It proves that the people of England are more fools than knaves. But it amused me vastly. No, Mr. Briarfield, your Dr. Johnson was right. If one must live in England, I should say London is the best place in the summer; while in the winter there is no place else."
"One wonders, what led you to this out-of-the-way place, then?"
"I wanted to be quiet. London is a maelstrom, from which I got out with difficulty, but I did get out. Then I said, 'Let me be quiet, let me think.' Then I met a man who had been here, and who said it was the most beautiful place in England. Moreover, he told me a romantic story about the lady who reigns here. And we Easterns love romance. So I came. I have not seen the beautiful lady yet. Do you know her?"
"Yes. I know her."
"Ah, I should like to hear about her. Will you tell me what she is like?"
"I am afraid I have not your gift of description, Signor Ricordo."
The man with the fez looked at Briarfield steadily out of his half-opened eyes, but not a muscle of his face moved. What he thought, it was impossible to tell, but that he drew his own conclusions was evident.
"I have been told that she is very gifted, very beautiful, very pious," he said.
"You speak our language well," said Briarfield; "but for a slight foreign intonation, I should take you for an Englishman."
"Allah forbid!" he cried, lifting his hands beseechingly.
"You would not like to be an Englishman?"
"If I must be of one country, yes. But I am of no country. If you have a country, you have responsibilities, duties, prejudices."
"And you are without these?"
"Would you have me assume them?"
"Without them no man lives his full life."
"With them he becomes narrow, insular, and what your poet calls 'cribbed, cabined, and confined.'"
"They are the necessary limitations of our humanity."
"Does not that depend on the purpose for which a man lives, signore? Besides, there are things which happen to some men which say to them, 'Messieurs, you are without country, without father, mother, friends, and responsibilities, and therefore without prejudices; live your lives in your own way.'"
"That is impossible, Signor Ricordo."
"And why?"
"A man is always responsible to the humanity of which he forms a part, he is responsible to the God who made him."
"Always to the latter, not always to the former."
"You believe in God, then?"
The stranger was silent a moment. An expression shot across his face which suggested pain.
"A man might be what you call an atheist in London, Signor Briarfield," he said, "with the grey, leaden sky, its long lines of streets, and its myriads of men and women crawling over each other like ants on an ant-hill; but in the East, amidst the great silences—no, a man must believe in God there. The sun by day, and the moon and stars by night, with the great silence brooding over him—great God, yes!"
Briarfield was struck dumb by the quiet intensity of his words.
"This is a man who has suffered," he thought; but he said aloud, after an awkward silence, "You are a Mohammedan, I suppose, signore?"
"I," replied the other, "I am nothing, signore, and I am everything—Christian, Mohammedan, Brahmin, what you will. I believe in them all, because all postulate a devil."
"You believe in a devil, then?"
"Have I not lived in London? Ay, and in Morocco also. But above all, I have lived!"
Had some men said this, there would be something theatrical, melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the others never thought of it.
"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired. You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great philanthropist, I suppose?"
"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.
"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of gratitude to my benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me, why did she build this place?"
"I know of nothing except what the world knows. She was anxious to befriend those whom such a place as this would help, so she built it. She also keeps the house at Vale Linden open; that is, she invites all sorts of people there as her guests. She has been a Lady Bountiful to the district."
"Distributes tracts, and all that?"
"I do not know. She has never given me one."
"She is simply one of these 'viewy' women, then?"
"She must have views, certainly, else she would not have done what she has."
Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.
"I think I see," he said presently.
"What do you see?"
"Her motives."
"What are they, then?" asked Briarfield almost angrily.
"Notoriety—and, shall we say, position?"
"Are you not judging without sufficient reason?" asked Herbert Briarfield warmly. "You have never seen Miss Castlemaine."
"I am no longer a boy," said the other, with a sigh.
"What might that mean?"
"That I have seen women—in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Damascus, Constantinople, Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta. Yes, I have seen them—women of all tongues, all nationalities. And everywhere they are the same."
"Well, and what is the sum total of your experience?"
"I would rather not tell you."
"Why? It is always well to know the truth."
"Mr. Briarfield, if there is one thing I am afraid of it is the truth. For many years I have made it my business to keep my eyes from beholding the truth; nevertheless, it always keeps thrusting itself upon me—always. That is why I am a sad man."
"Perhaps you have only seen one side of life."
Again a look suggesting pain shot across the stranger's face, but he still spoke quietly.
"Mr. Briarfield," he said, "I have even read the book which is to the English people a text-book of religion. I fancy I am somewhat of an exception, but I have. Well, the part of that book which interests me most is the Book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps that is because the experience of its writer is my own experience. In all essential features, Solomon, or whoever was the author, wrote my experience. I have tried everything, Mr. Briarfield."
"And your conclusion?"
"Solomon's."
"If that were my creed," said Briarfield, "I should commit suicide."
"Of course I have thought of that—without fear. But I came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth while. 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come! Ay, there's the rub.' Besides, I've something to live for."
"According to your creed I do not see what," said Briarfield. "It would be interesting to know."
"Ah, but I have something to live for, Mr. Briarfield."
"I suppose I might be intruding on your privacy if I sought to know what it was?"
"It's not love, and it's not money," said Ricordo. "Ah, Herr Trübner, I apologise. I have monopolised your guest completely, and that is unforgivable. You have a great gift, my friend—all the Germans have—and it makes them a great people."
"What gift is that, signore?"
"The gift of listening."
After this the conversation drifted into general subjects, and a little later Herbert Briarfield took his leave.
"The man interests me, fascinates me, and yet I do not like him," he said to himself as he rode home-ward. "I wonder who and what he is? But for that peculiar far-away sound in his voice, he speaks English like an Englishman. Sometimes I thought I detected a suggestion of Oxford in his tones. But then, again, when he spoke German to Trübner, he might have been reared in Berlin or Heidelberg. Again, he seems to know the East perfectly. I want to know more about him, and yet I feel afraid of him. In any case, I'll be at that concert on Friday. I wonder what she will think of him?"
"What do you think of Mr. Briarfield, signore?" asked Herr Trübner when he found himself alone with the stranger.
"I think he is in love with what you call the guardian angel of this place."
"I never thought of that," said the German. "What madeyouthink of it?"
"I kept my eyes open and I listened, that is all."
"It may be as you say," said the German reflectively. "Well, I should say from what I have heard, it would be a good match. He is a fine specimen of the English gentleman. I am told that he is well-off and very ambitious."
"And in what way does his ambition express itself?"
"Parliament."
Signor Ricordo laughed.
"You seem amused, signore. You are more merry than usual to-night. You like Mr. Briarfield. Do you not think he would be a good husband to our guardian angel?"
"I will tell you after Friday night."
"Why then?"
"Because I shall then have seen the lady of whom you have told me such wondrous things. I mean to be introduced to her, to talk with her. Ah!"
Herr Trübner looked towards his companion as he heard his exclamation. For once he saw that Signor Ricordo's eyes were wide open, and that a look which he never saw before rested on his face. But only for a moment. His eyes soon became half-closed again, and the air of cynical melancholy came back to him.
"We have some more visitors, I see," he said, nodding towards two men who had just entered the room.
The German turned, and saw two strangers take their seats.
"Got any cigars on you, Purvis?" he heard one say. "I left mine in another pocket, and I don't suppose we can get anything here fit to smoke."
In reply, the other pulled his case from his pocket, and the two talked in low tones together.
"Yes, Herr Trübner," said Signore Ricordo, "I look forward towards an interesting evening on Friday."
"I wish I hadn't come here, Purvis."
"Why not?"
"Well, you know how I feel."
Purvis shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mistake can easily be remedied, Sprague. You have only to take the train from Vale Linden station, and then you can go to Ilfracombe or Westward Ho! or, for that matter, return to London."
"Yes, I know; and I know, too, that it was through me you came down here. All the same, I feel jolly mean. Do you know, although that letter meant the smashing up of the engagement, and thus saving her life from ruin, she has never acknowledged it, and, for that matter, has never spoken to me since. Not that I expected gratitude, at least for a time, but after six years——"
"You know we both left England for a long sojourn abroad, directly we knew that the bubble had burst."
"Yes, I know; still, I did think that out of pure gratitude she might have——"
"She's not that sort, Sprague. Follow my example, and think no more about her. Hang it, we are not children; and she's not the only woman in the world. She gave us both ourcongé; let us take it graciously, and enjoy our golf."
"I wish I could forget her, old man; but I can't. I don't feel comfortable. For all these six years I've never forgotten her, and when Leicester made an end of himself, I said to myself, 'In two or three years' time she'll feel so grateful to me that——' Well, you know what I thought. But she's never recognised me in any way. Other people we know have been invited to Vale Linden, but I've never been one of the lucky ones. That was why I urged you to come with me to this place of hers. It meant having a chance of seeing her, and I hoped that she would feel kindly towards me."
"Well, she may. Who knows?"
"I wonder how she feels about Leicester now?"
"Most likely she's forgotten him."
"Hardly."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, she's married no one else."
"I make nothing of that. Besides, if she really loved him, do you think she'd have thrown him over?"
"Yes," said Sprague, after a moment's hesitation.
"How do you make it out?"
"No woman with such pride as Olive has could have married him after the letter I wrote. I presented a strong case, man. You see, Leicester gave himself away so completely, that I had only to quote his exact words to prove—well, exactly what I wanted to prove. At any rate, she did throw him over."
"Do you think Leicester really cared for her?"
"Heaven only knows. It was impossible for any one to tell exactly what he felt. At any rate, he went the whole hog afterwards, and then killed himself. Do you know, although the fellow's end was so terribly sad, I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the report in the newspapers? If he'd lived—well, I don't like to think what would have happened to either of us. You know that terrible look in his eyes when he threatened us."
"Yes; but, after all, what could he do?"
"There's no knowing what a fellow like Leicester would have done. But there, he's dead, and that's an end of it."
The two men climbed the hill towards the moors in silence. Some distance behind, two boys followed, carrying their golf clubs.
"I suppose all this land around here belongs to John Castlemaine," remarked Purvis presently.
"I suppose so. I say, Purvis, did you notice what a mixed lot we are at The Homestead?"
"Rather; but I like it. They do things very well there, too. Of course, it was never intended for the likes of us; yet I am sure there are people there who have no need to economise. Some one told me that a neighbouring squire was dining there last night; and did you notice that Turkish chap?"
"Yes; remarkable-looking fellow, isn't he? He makes one think of vampires. Still, I hear he's a good sort. I should like to have a chat with him."
"Well, that should be easy enough. Somebody told me he had gone on the links. We may see him there."
They made their way to the club-house, and prepared to commence their game. A couple of men were on the first tee, waiting to start.
"We shan't have to wait long," said Purvis. "I say, there is that Turkish fellow. I think he's looking for a match."
"Surely he won't be able to play."
"Anyhow, he has his clubs, and he seems to be wanting a game. Let's ask him to join us. It'll only be civil."
"I don't like threesomes."
"Neither do I on a crowded links, but it doesn't matter here. We have plenty of time; it's not ten o'clock yet."
"But I expect he's only a beginner. If he is, he'll spoil our game."
"Well, let's see."
Signor Ricordo stood near the tee as they came up. He bowed to them and stood aside.
"Are you not playing, sir?" asked Purvis.
"Yes," replied Ricordo. "I will go around by myself after you are gone. I arranged to meet a gentleman here just after nine; but I have received word to say he can't come."
"Have you played much?" asked Sprague.
Ricordo looked at him, his eyes half closed; nevertheless, there was evident interest in his gaze.
"We in the East do not play the game. But when I came to England—what would you?—what others did, I did. That is the English fashion, eh?" and he laughed quietly.
"Have you a handicap?" asked Sprague.
"A what?"
"A handicap. That means—well, it is a number of strokes allowed to a player."
"A handicap. Ah, yes, I am handicapped; but not in that way, signore. I am afraid I do not play well enough even to have a handicap."
"Won't you join us?" asked Purvis. "We can easily make a threesome."
The stranger darted a look, not at Purvis, but at Sprague, and he saw that he did not take the proposition kindly. Both Purvis and Sprague were good players, and especially the latter did not wish the game spoiled.
"I cannot refuse such a kind invitation," said Signor Ricordo. "But I will not interfere with your play. Let the match be between you two, while I will struggle on as best I may. If—if I do not prove such a—a—what do you call it?—duffer as I fear, then I might sometimes enter into the competition; but that, I imagine, will not be. Still, I cannot refuse such courtesy."
He looked a striking figure as he stood by them. His clothes, although not very different from those worn by the others, were somewhat foreign in style; while his fez, surmounting his dark, Oriental-looking face, would single him out anywhere as an Eastern.
"Will you proceed, gentlemen?" he continued; "as for me, I will bring up the rear. If I find I am spoiling your game, I will drop out."
Purvis and Sprague tossed for the honour, and the former, having won it, drove first. His ball flew straight as an arrow towards the distant flag. Sprague followed next, and sent his ball within a dozen yards of the one which Purvis had driven.
"Ah," said Signore Ricordo, "I feel humbled before I begin. I see I shall not long deserve your society."
He struck his ball, and foozled it badly. It went away among the heather, where some two or three minutes were spent in finding it. Sprague and Purvis halved the hole, while Ricordo was several strokes down.
"We shall have to get rid of the fellow," said Sprague. "You see he's only a beginner."
"Let us be civil," said Purvis. "We are staying at the same place, and he promises to be interesting."
The next hole Ricordo fared a little better, but only a little. Sprague began to think of some hint he could give him that would cause him to leave them.
"I will play one or two holes more with you, Mr.—Mr.—ah, I am afraid I did not catch your name."
"Sprague is my name."
"Sprague, Sprague—thank you; yes, I will remember. My name is Ricordo—that means remember, and I will remember, yes."
"And mine is Purvis."
"Thank you. Yes, I will remember. I will play one or two holes more with you, and then, if I continue to be such a—duffer—yes, that is the word—then I will go away, and challenge you for to-morrow."
"Golf is a difficult game," said Sprague; "one does not pick it up in a day."
"Ah, you do not think I will be a match for you to-morrow."
"Why, do you?" and Sprague laughed lightly.
"If not to-morrow, then the next day. I never rest until I am a match for my—what do you call it—enemy?"
"Not quite so bad as that—opponent," said Purvis.
"Opponent, yes, that is the word. I learnt English when I was a boy, but I have had such little practice at it lately, and so—but there, I will remember. Whenever I play a game—and is not life a game?—I am often beaten at first. But then I remember that there is always a to-morrow, and so I go on."
"Until you are a match for your opponent?"
"Until I have beaten him," said Ricordo.
Sprague laughed. "A lot of to-morrows are required in golf, Mr. Ricordo," he said.
"Yes, they are required for most things; but they come. Still, this match is only just begun yet. Who knows? I may improve!"
This conversation had taken place while walking from the green to the tee, which in this case was some little distance.
For the next five holes Sprague and Purvis played with varying fortunes, but when the seventh hole was played the former was one up. As for Ricordo, while he greatly improved, he did not even halve a single hole with either of them. As he improved they offered to give him strokes, and so make the possibility of a match, but he refused.
"I always like to play level," he said sententiously. "You never beat a man if he gives you strokes. Let me see, I am now seven down. If I lose two more it will be impossible for me to win the match, eh?"
"That is the arithmetic of it, I imagine," said Purvis.
"Ah!" said Ricordo.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The three balls flew through the air, and each went straight to the green, only in this case Ricordo's ball went several yards further than the others.
"That was a lucky stroke of mine," he said, as he saw them exchange significant glances. "Ah! if I could only do it always!"
For the first time Sprague felt a suggestion of competition in the game. Although he was seven holes up on the stranger, and they had only eleven more to play, the possibility of losing flashed into his mind. Besides, he felt some little resentment, because of the superior way in which the foreigner spoke. He seized an iron club, and placed his ball within two yards of the hole.
"Why, that is magnificent," remarked Ricordo. "That is where skill comes in."
Purvis came next, and while he sent his ball on the green, it was at an extreme corner.
"If I lose this hole, my chance of winning on you shrinks to a vanishing point," remarked Ricordo. "Well, I must not lose it."
He looked at the ball steadily, and then turned to his companions.
"Is it not whimsical?" he said. "This little thing seems to have become a part of our life, eh? And the game of golf is also a game of life,non e vero? Forgive me, signores, but I am an Eastern, and everything in life is a parable to such as I."
He struck the ball, and laid it, according to golfers' parlance, "dead."
"Fine shot," said Purvis; as for Sprague, he said nothing.
For the first time Purvis lost a hole to Ricordo, but Sprague halved it with him.
"Good hole," remarked Purvis. "One under bogey."
"Ah yes," said Ricordo, "but I cannot afford even to halve with Mr. Sprague if I am to win the match, eh? Seven up and ten to play. No, I must win, and not halve. I have lost so much in the beginning of the game. The game of life is always hard to win, when you lose in the beginning."
Sprague took the honour, and drove with unerring precision. As he saw it fall, a look of satisfaction came into his eyes.
"Longest ball you've driven to-day, Sprague," said Purvis. "It's possible to reach the green with a good 'brassy' from there."
"Nasty hazard just before the green, by the look of it," remarked Sprague, looking steadily.
"Ther' iz, zur," said one of the caddies, "great big pit overgrawed weth vuss and vearny stuff."
Ricordo addressed his ball. It was teed rather too high, and he patted it down. A moment later he made his shot. There was a slight curve on it, but he outdrove Sprague by two or three yards. Purvis foozled his drive for the first time.
"Are you going to try it?" asked Purvis, as Sprague stood before his ball.
"It's risky," said the other. "Do your players here carry that green in two?" he asked the caddy who pulled out an iron for him.
"'T 'ave bin dun, zur," replied the caddy. "The perfeshernal 'ave done et, an' a gen'leman from London; but moasly they doan't. Bezides, ther's a little wind."
"I'll try it," said Sprague, taking the brassy.
He struck the ball fairly, but it did not carry. It fell into the bushes.
Sprague suppressed an angry exclamation.
"Goin' to play for safety, zur?" asked the caddy of Ricordo.
Ricordo took the brassy from the boy, and looked steadily towards the green.
"Risky," remarked Purvis, almost involuntarily. He knew that according to strict rules he had no right to say anything.
"The essence of life is risk," remarked Ricordo. Somehow both felt that he was a different man from what he had been an hour before. He no longer seemed to be playing a game upon which nothing depended, but to be struggling for a great victory in life. His eyes were no longer half closed, and the old expression of cynical indifference was gone. A few seconds later his ball fell within six yards of the pin.
Neither of the players uttered a sound; but the boys could not suppress their admiration.
"You are six up at the turn, signore," remarked Ricordo to Sprague. "That is odds against one; butnoi verremo."
Sprague walked silently to the next tee. It was the first hole he had lost to the foreigner, and although his position seemed well-nigh impregnable, he had a fear of losing. He felt as though he were not playing with a man, but with fate.
Ricordo took the honour. The green was over two hundred yards away, but he landed his ball safely on it. Sprague drove next; he failed to reach it by more than thirty yards. Purvis fared no better. Again Ricordo won the hole.
"Five up, and eight to play," he laughed pleasantly. "I cannot afford to make any mistakes, signore."
Ding, dong, went the balls. When they had played the seventeenth hole, Ricordo had actually placed himself one up on Purvis, and was all square with Sprague. The game was to be finished on the last green.
"Ah, I like that," said Ricordo lightly. "Life is never interesting when everything is settled early in the game, eh, Mr. Sprague? And everything is worth so much more when we win by a single bold stroke, eh?"
Why it was, Sprague could not tell, but his heart beat faster than was its wont. An atmosphere of grim earnestness possessed him, and more, a fear filled his heart. After having the game in his hands he was in danger of losing it. Not that he had played badly. In nearly every case he had been level with bogey, but then in nearly every case for the last nine holes the stranger had beaten him by a stroke. Yes, he was angry. The man had commenced as a beginner, he had thrown away his chances, and yet he had recovered all the ground he had lost. More than once he caught himself watching Ricordo's dark features. The fez which surmounted his face made him look sinister. The black beard and moustache covered his mouth, but he fancied a mocking smile playing around his lips. The man impressed him as a mystery. Sometimes he found himself thinking of him as an Englishman, but again strange fancies flitted through his mind concerning him. He pictured him away in desert places, dreaming of dark things.
"Anyhow, I can't win," said Purvis. "The best I can do is to halve the match with you, Mr. Ricordo."
"But I have a chance of winning," said Sprague. "By the way, signore, we've had nothing on the game. What do you say to a stake on this hole?"
"No, Mr. Sprague, I never play for stakes, except the stake of life."
"What do you mean?"
"A game is always more than a game to me. It has destiny in it. Thus we are playing for stakes, great stakes."
"What are they?"
"Ah, who can tell? Perhaps for heaven, perhaps for hell."
"Oh, I say!"
They were now standing on the eighteenth tee, and the green was near the club-house. Close to the flag they saw a woman and a man.
"Do you know who that is on the green?" Ricordo asked of the caddy who had made his tee and was moving away.
"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.
"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady—who knows?"
He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.
"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.
"I expected to see her when I came here," said the stranger; "but, as I said to Mr. Briarfield last night, although I have been here several days, I have not yet had the felicity of setting eyes on her. But fortune favours me now. Ah, we are playing for a great stake, Mr. Sprague. Who knows?"
"Perhaps the man who is standing by her side will win her," laughed Purvis. He hardly knew why he spoke.
"The man who is standing by may see most of the game," said Ricordo, "but he never wins—never. It is only the man who plays who wins. Ah, gentlemen, discussing the stakes on a tee is bad preparation for a stroke; therefore we will dismiss the subject. Besides, I never make wagers. Life itself is the wager."
He struck his ball, and although it flew far, it had what golfers call a "slice" on it. It cleared the hazard, but curled away to the right of the large green, at least twenty yards from the hole. He made no remark, but moved aside for Sprague to play.
"You've got your chance, Sprague," said Purvis in low tones. "A good straight shot, and you are close to the tee; it can't be more than a hundred and eighty yards."
Sprague felt his hands tremble. He had not missed a drive for the round; he determined he would not miss now. The stranger had made him feel that the gamewasa game of life. He knew not why, but it seemed to him that the future would depend on whether he won or lost.
His ball flew through the air. It was struck, and clean and true; it fell within ten yards of the hole.
"Good!" said Purvis, "a good putt, and you are down in two." Somehow, he had lost interest in the game himself: all interest was centred in the other two. Even when his ball failed to reach the green he did not mind; he did not care if he lost.
When they reached the green, they found that Sprague's ball had stymied Ricordo's—that is to say, it lay on the green on a straight line between Ricordo's ball and the hole.
"Will you either play out, or pick up your ball, signore?" said Ricordo quietly. "I believe it is the law that there are no stymies in a three-ball match."
He said this because Sprague stood waiting for him to play.
"If itisa stymie, certainly," he said, almost angrily.
"Look for yourself," said the stranger.
Sprague looked. "Very well, I'll play it out," he said.
He cast a hasty glance around, and saw that Olive Castlemaine and Herbert Briarfield had moved to the edge of the green and were watching the contest.
Sprague measured the distance carefully, then seizing the putter he played. The ball rolled to the lip of the hole, and stopped. His heart almost ceased to beat. Then perhaps a blade of grass bent or a breath of wind stirred—anyhow, the ball dropped into the hole.
Ricordo laughed pleasantly. "Ah, we halve it, I see," he said.
"It will take you all your time to do that," said Sprague triumphantly.
His words had scarcely escaped his lips when Signor Ricordo's ball came rolling across the green.
"Too lively," thought Purvis; but he was mistaken. It came straight to the hole and dropped in.
They heard some one clapping on the edge of the green; it was Herbert Briarfield, who had been watching.
"We will play it out another day," said Sprague.
Signor Ricordo walked away towards the spot where Herbert Briarfield and Olive Castlemaine stood. His eyes had half closed again, while the old air of cynical melancholy manifested itself in his face.