"That was a fine putt of yours, signore; did you win the match?" said Herbert Briarfield, as he came up.
"No, it was only halved. The game has to be played out yet."
"Signore, let me introduce you to Miss Castlemaine, to whose goodness we owe these links."
Olive looked at him eagerly. She half held out her hand, but the stranger did not offer to take it. He bowed low, placing his right hand on his fez; but he did not lift it.
"I am greatly honoured," he said, in low tones, and Briarfield thought he detected an accent which he had not noticed before.
"You are enjoying your visit here, signore, I hope," said Olive, looking towards him curiously.
"It is becoming more interesting each day," was his reply.
"I am very glad," said Olive. "Perhaps you felt the place rather strange at first, and now, as you find congenial acquaintances, you feel, as we English say, 'more at home.'"
"Yes, I am making acquaintances. This morning, for example, I have enlarged the circle, and I found Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis very interesting."
"Whom did you say?" asked Olive quickly.
"Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis," said Ricordo, emphasising their names just as a foreigner might do. "Ah, you know them? I think they are coming this way."
"I must get back, Mr. Briarfield," said Olive quickly. "Father is expecting me to lunch."
"I will walk back with you," said Briarfield.
"And I, too, if I may," said Ricordo.
"You are not playing this afternoon?" said Briarfield.
"No, I think I am lazy, or perhaps I am getting old. We Easterns, you know, love to sit in the sun rather than exercise in it. Not that I feel tired. The air here gives one vigour. Ah, Miss Castlemaine, you were a benefactress to the tired part of the people of your country when you built your homestead."
"Only to a small degree, I am afraid," replied Olive. "It is only the few who can take advantage of it."
"Ah, but if all, situated as you are, would do likewise——" remarked Ricordo. "But there, I must not complain, I am one of the few. Besides, I have more than my deserts. I have not been regarded as an alien. Ah, you must be very trustful to take a stranger in without asking questions."
"Miss Castlemaine is no respecter of nationalities," interposed Herbert Briarfield.
"Ah, no, to be poor, to be tired—that is enough. But Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis, whom I played the golf with, they did not look either poor or tired. But perhaps they know you—they spoke as though they did."
Olive did not reply, neither did she meet the eyes of Ricordo, which were lifted to her face. She wondered whether they had told this man anything of the past.
"And you like Vale Linden?" she asked presently, in order to break the silence.
"It is the Garden of Eden," replied Ricordo; "yes, the Garden of Eden before the serpent brought trouble."
She wanted to speak in reply; but nothing came to her to say. She felt that Herbert Briarfield was right. The man suggested mystery; she was not sure that he had favourably impressed her, and yet there was a kind of fascination in his presence.
"You know England?" she said presently; "you speak our language so well, you must have spent a good deal of time in the country."
"Can any man know a country?" asked Ricordo. "The geography, that is not difficult. An hour with a map, and even London can be known. But the fields, the hills, the roads, the towns, they do not make a country. The people of England, then? Ah, I am profoundly ignorant of the people."
"And yet we are not a difficult people to understand," remarked Olive.
"No, you think not? I do not know, I have never tried to know."
"No?"
"I am content to look on the surface."
"Is not that a strange attitude of mind for an Eastern?"
"I am afraid I do not follow you."
"Well, I have always been led to believe that people from the East are very philosophical and great seekers after truth."
"Ah, but years teach wisdom, signorina, and that wisdom says, 'Never seek the truth.'"
"Why?"
"Because truth is never worth the knowing."
He spoke quite naturally, and did not seem to be aware that he was making a cynical statement. Neither did he lift his eyes to her. He walked slowly, keeping his eyes on the ground.
Olive felt a strange fascination in his presence; moreover, she could not feel that she was speaking to a stranger. She had a feeling that she had seen him before, heard him speak before. And yet everything about him was strange. His voice was not familiar to her, and it had a peculiar fluid tone which sounded un-English, and yet she fancied that she had heard it somewhere. As she listened, she found herself recalling the past, and thinking of the days before the dark shadow fell upon her life. Without knowing why, she found herself thinking of Leicester. The stranger's cynicism reminded her of the night when she first met him. She remembered how Leicester had dominated the gathering at her father's house, and that she had found herself admiring him, even while she had disagreed with everything he had said. The same thing was happening now. Herbert Briarfield, of whom she had thought a great deal during the last few days, seemed to have sunk in the background. He was one who did not matter, while the man who was a stranger had blotted him out. Perhaps this was because she found herself putting a double meaning on everything he said. Of course this might be because, owing to his Eastern associations, he would regard things differently from the way an Englishman would regard them; but she had spoken to men from the Orient before, and they had not impressed her in the same way. Still, she felt a kind of pleasure in matching her wits with his, even although she felt she might not come off best in the encounter.
"But would not your attitude of mind be fatal if it were universal, signore?" she asked.
"Pardon me, I think it is universal."
"You mean that we are not anxious to find the truth?"
"Exactly. Mind you, I do not say that you English people who boast of your honesty do not in theory hold that truth is the great thing to be sought after; but in action, in life, no. Let a man be true to truth and he is put down as a madman, a fool."
"Would you mind giving an example?"
"A dozen if you like. Here is one. It is a commonly accepted theory that well-being, happiness, depends not on what we possess, but on what we are. That 'to be' is more than 'to have.' How many are true to their creed? One in a million? Where one spends his energies in enriching his life, a million spend theirs on seeking to obtain what by common consent is evanescent. If half the energy were spent on beautifying character that is spent on 'getting on' in the ordinary acceptance of the term, what Christians call the millennium would come."
"Are you not assuming a great deal, signore?"
"But what, signorina?"
"That you understand the motives of the human heart?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"One judges by what one sees," he said. "And it is best to content oneself with that. The man who looks beneath the surface goes mad."
"And yet you are not mad?" and she laughed gaily.
"I am not sure," he said, and there was a quiet intensity in his tones—"no, I am not sure. Sometimes I think I am. But what then, signorina? We have our little lives to live, our little part to play on the world's stage."
Again she was reminded of Leicester, and as she thought of him a kind of shiver passed through her. This was Leicester over again; but another Leicester—a Leicester with a difference.
"But why play it, if it is so bad?"
"Ah, signorina, do you not think I have asked that question a thousand times? But then I have lived in the East. What can a man do against fate? The Arabians have got hold of a great truth: Kismet. Is not all philosophy centred in that?"
"No," she said, "I do not think so. If that is true, then every bad deed done would be the expression of God's will. Every murder, outrage, and abomination has His sanction, His benediction."
"Signorina has never lived in the East?"
"I do not see that that matters."
Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.
"It is refreshing to hear you," he said. "I can see into your mind now. You are thinking that the fatalistic doctrine destroys all virtue, all responsibility."
"Exactly."
"And yet are we responsible? Is not every action of life determined for us by circumstances, disposition, heredity, all forces over which we have no control?"
"And after you admit all that, every faculty of your being tells you you are responsible. After you have conceded every fatalist argument, you know that it is wrong. And more, you know that when you do wrong you are haunted by remorse, because you feel that youcouldhave done right."
"Right! wrong!" said Ricordo, and he laughed in his soft, insinuating way.
"You do not believe in them?"
"Ah, signorina, let us cease to argue. Your faith is a tree which has borne such beautiful flowers and such wondrous fruits that you baffle logic. But then, signorina, you have never lived in hell."
Both Herbert Briarfield and Olive cast quick glances at him, but he did not alter his position; he walked quietly on, his eyes fixed on the ground.
"I say, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield in an expostulating tone.
"That's why I am afraid of the truth," went on Ricordo, without seeming to notice Briarfield. "When a man has lived in hell for years, it upsets preconceived notions, it scatters logic to the winds, it makes conventional morality appear to be—what it is."
Olive Castlemaine felt that the man had thrown a kind of spell upon her. She did not realise that, to say the least, their conversation was not what was natural between people who had met for the first time. Had any one told her the previous day that on meeting a stranger of whom she knew nothing she would enter into a discussion with him on such topics, she would have laughed at it as impossible, yet she felt nothing of the incongruity of the situation. Somehow Ricordo seemed like a voice out of the past, and for a time she forgot things present.
"You have lived—that is——"
"Yes, Miss Castlemaine, I have lived in hell. I have been deeper into its depths than Dante ever saw. The flames which he saw have burnt me, the 'thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice,' which Shakespeare spoke of have crushed out of me all those qualities natural to humanity. Nay, I forgot, not all, not all!"
Again Olive Castlemaine shivered. She thought of Leicester again, she knew not why. Lately the thought of him had less and less possessed her mind. A man who had died more than six years before had naturally become more and more only a memory. She could not have told why she thought of him, for this stranger, with his thick black beard and dark skin, bore little resemblance to the pale-faced, clean-shaven man she had known and loved years ago. Besides, the voice, the manner of speech were different. He was cast in a larger mould than Leicester, too, and was older by many years.
"I am afraid my speech is distasteful to you," went on Ricordo, "and I plead your forgiveness. I am not used to your ways, your modes of expression. And I trust I have not offended you. Believe me, such a thought, such a desire is far from me."
"By no means," she said quickly. "I—I am very interested. Doubtless the experiences of those who have lived in other lands are different from those who spend their lives in surroundings such as these."
Signor Ricordo cast his eyes quickly around, and beheld one of the fairest tracts of country on earth. Spring had come early, and the bursting life everywhere made one think of a universal resurrection. All nature seemed to be throwing off its grave-clothes. Woods and hedgerows, fields and gardens seemed to be clothing themselves in a magic mantle before their eyes, while the choirs of heaven were chanting for very joy.
"I think it must be easy to be good amidst surroundings like these, and on such a day as this," said Olive.
Ricordo stopped suddenly, and lifted his head. His eyes flamed with a new light, his face betrayed passion.
"What is it all but mockery?" he said—"a promise never to be realised, the fair skin which covers disease—rottenness? Signorina—forgive me. But there are spots on earth fairer than this—fairer, yes, a thousand times. Flowers, foliage, compared with which all that you see is but a suggestion. The sun! Great Allah! have you seen an Eastern sun, have you seen the prodigality with which nature scatters her beauty? But goodness! When did ever natural beauty help what you call moral goodness? In those places where nature has been most bountiful in her gifts, there you find the blackest and foulest lives. What is everything, if there is a canker at the heart; what matters if hell goes on burning in our lives? Forgive me, signorina; if there is one thing in which I have agreed with your Christian preachers, it is that natural beauty is powerless to cleanse the heart of what you call sin."
"But surely a man is affected by his circumstances," interposed Herbert Briarfield.
"Is not nature always laughing at us?" said Ricordo. "We dream our little dreams, make our little plans, and live in a fool's paradise. Let people be surrounded by beautiful things, we say; let them have works of art, fine pictures, music; let them live in the sunshine, and behold the beauties of nature, then they will live beautiful lives. I have heard your moral reformers preach this—this nonsense. Well, what happens? Is the morality of your west of London any better than the east? Ah, but I tell you I have lived in the most beautiful places on earth, but they have been hell all the same. Can you cure a cancer by placing a bunch of flowers in the room of your patient?"
"Then what is your antidote—your gospel?" asked Olive.
"Is there the one or the other?" asked Ricordo.
The party went on quietly for a few minutes. Ricordo seemed to be thinking deeply; now and then he lifted his eyes for a passing glance at his companions.
Again Olive Castlemaine thought of Leicester. Memories of those days which he spent at The Beeches came rushing back to her. She thought of the happiness which was hers, when she hoped and prayed that she should be the means whereby the man she loved should be brought to faith—to God. In some subtle way which she could not understand, the stranger made him real, ay, and more, he made her feel that she had been harsh and unfair to the man whose wife she had promised to be. After all, was it not her pride he had wounded? Moreover, Ricordo had interested her in himself, in a way that she had been interested in no other man for a long time. It was not so much because of what he said. Rather, it lay in the fascination of the man himself. He made such as Herbert Briarfield seem small and commonplace. She felt sure that he had lived in a realm of thought and being to which the young squire was a stranger.
The essence of interest is mystery. It is rather in the things not seen, than in the things seen, that fascination lies. We are for ever longing to explore new regions, to tread ground hitherto untrodden. The secret chamber of a house is of infinitely more interest than those chambers which are open to inspection; that is why we care little about those people in whose life there is no secret chamber of thought and experience.
"I wonder you don't write a book, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield presently.
"And why, Mr. Briarfield?"
"You must have a wonderful story to tell."
"Yes, a wonderful story, perhaps; but would you have me lay open my soul to the gaze of the vulgar crowd?"
"Other men have."
"Why?"
"Perhaps to make money, perhaps to obtain renown or to do good. Dante gave the world his vision of hell, and of heaven; why not you?"
"Because I am not a poet, and because—well, every man has his own way of telling his story. Besides, if ever I were to tell the story of my life I should choose my audience."
They had by this time reached the gate which opened the way into the grounds of The Homestead, and as if by one consent the trio stopped.
"Are you staying here long, signore?" asked Olive.
"I do not know. I am given to understand that there is an unwritten rule that no visitor shall stay at your beautiful home for the poor, and the tired, for more than a month, Miss Castlemaine," he said. "The rule is just and wise. Your desire is to give the greatest happiness to the greatest number, and therefore it is not right that I should stay more than a month. Still, because the place seems to grow more beautiful, and more interesting every day, I may take rooms in some farmhouse. On the other hand, I may leave at the end of next week."
He looked up at her as he spoke, and watched her attentively out of his half-closed eyes.
"I hope I may have the privilege of seeing you again before I go, whether my stay be long or short," he added presently.
She knew not why, and she wondered afterwards whether she had done right. She had seen him that day for the first time. All she knew of him was that he was an Eastern stranger, who from his own confession had a strange past, and held opinions which to say the least of them seemed dangerous, yet yielding on the impulse of the moment she expressed the hope that she should see him at Vale Linden.
"Ah, signorina," said Ricordo, "I am not worthy of so great an honour; nevertheless, I accept it before you have time to repent, and withdraw your invitation." At this moment he stopped at the gates of The Homestead.
Again she half held out her hand, but again he did not notice it. He lifted his fez slightly, and then, with a somewhat exaggerated bow, he passed into the garden. But he did not stay to notice those who were sitting in the warm spring sunshine: he seemed to be eager to get to his rooms. Arrived there, he sat for a long time staring into vacancy. His eyes were no longer half closed, but were wide open, and there was an expression which, had Olive Castlemaine seen, would have made her shudder. For in them was the fierce glare of a madman. The old look of cynical melancholy, or placid indifference, was gone. He was no longer a fatalist philosopher, the thoughtful Eastern gentleman who laughed quietly at conventional notions. His hands clenched and unclenched themselves, his features worked with passion. Presently he rose and paced the room; it seemed as though the volcanic passions of his being could no longer be repressed; his whole body trembled, his eyes became almost lurid.
"She has forgotten, forgotten," he said presently. "She is happy as Lady Bountiful, and she has half made up her mind to marry that heavy-headed, heavy-limbed squire. But——"
He stopped speaking and threw himself into a chair again.
"I am invited up to the great house," he continued presently. "There I shall meet—who knows?"
He turned to a mirror, and looked at himself long and steadily. At first there was a curious look in his eyes, as though he wanted to be sure about something; but presently the look of curiosity changed to one of satisfaction.
When he went down to the dining-room, and mingled with the other guests, his face was perfectly placid again, while his eyes became half closed, as though he had not enough interest in life to open them wide.
Meanwhile Purvis and Sprague sat in the golf club-house eating the chops that the caretaker's wife had cooked for them. They had been very silent during the early part of the meal, and seemed to be intent either on the fare that was set before them, or on the moorland, which they could see from the windows of the dining-room.
"I say, Purvis, what do you think of him?"
"Of whom?"
"You know. Don't you think he was laughing at us during the early part of the game?"
"Why?"
"Why, just think. For the first few holes he played like a twenty-seven handicap man, or even worse than that. Then suddenly—why, you saw for yourself. I played a good game, and so did you; but where were we? He might have been a first-class professional. What do you think he meant by it?"
"Probably nothing. I should say he is one of those remarkable fellows about whom one hears sometimes, but seldom sees, who can do almost anything. Somehow, I don't know why, but I felt the moment I spoke to him that he was a man with tremendous reserve power."
"Do you know who he reminds me of?"
"Yes."
"Yes, that's it. Of course he's utterly unlike what Leicester was, and yet he makes one think of him. You remember what a fine golfer he was and how deadly he was on the greens. If Leicester had lived, and had come here, they would have found a lot in common with each other."
"If Leicester had lived, my dear fellow, I don't suppose we should ever have come here."
"No, perhaps not. Still, this man reminds me of him. There is always the feeling that he's keeping something back. Somehow, I don't know why, but the fellow got on my nerves this morning. I was always seeing a double meaning in everything he said. Why, do you know at one time I positively feared him. I seemed to be playing for some fearful stake. I was reminded of that picture where a man plays chess with the devil for his soul. Then every now and then I fancied it was Leicester who was speaking. Yes, I know it was not Leicester's voice, neither is he like what Leicester was. His eyes are different, and of course his face is different. Leicester's face was pale as death; it was thin, too, and suggested the Greeks; this man, with his great black beard and dark skin, is different from what Leicester was; and yet sometimes he was like Leicester. Don't you remember that Oxford insolence of Leicester's which used to madden some people, and how while saying the most innocent-sounding things he was just laughing at them all the time? That's what I felt about this fellow. He speaks English with a foreign accent, and yet I felt sometimes as though he knew England well."
"Probably he does."
"He says he's only been in the country three months."
"You saw him go away with——"
"Yes, I saw him. That young fellow who was with her introduced him. By the way, do you think she was near enough to know who we were?"
"I should think not. They moved away directly the stranger came up."
"We shall see her at the concert to-morrow night, I suppose. My word, Purvis, I feel nervous."
"Give it up, Sprague—give it up, man. You asked her years ago, and she refused you. What has happened since is not likely to endear you to her."
"Rather I think it is. Do you know I have a feeling that she is thankful to me now?"
"By the way, I should like you to challenge this Signor Ricordo to golf to-morrow. I will get a match with some one in the morning, and then during the afternoon we can play a foursome."
"I suppose one of us must ask him to play again; but do you know, I don't like the fellow."
"On the other hand, I do," said Purvis. "I shall make up to him to-night. He is one of those men who make you want to know them better. I'll warrant he could tell us a curious history if he liked."
The next day Signor Ricordo and Sprague played their return match, but the latter was not at his best. He complained that he had an attack of indigestion, and that his nerves had gone wrong. As a consequence Ricordo won easily.
"You play a remarkable game, signore; that is for one who has had so little practice," he said.
"Ah, I am but a beginner, Mr. Sprague," he said quietly; "some time perhaps I may play a good game."
"You never suffer from nerves, I suppose?"
"Yes, horribly."
"Then you have wonderful self-command."
"A man can will anything. There is no difficulty that will-power cannot overcome. Golf, like life, is a game; to will to win, is to win."
"I willed to win; but lost."
"No, you made up your mind to try. I always go further. I willed to win, if not one day, then the next."
"And you always do?"
"Yes, I always do."
Sprague laughed uneasily.
"Do you mean to say that you have gained everything that you have set your mind upon?" he asked curiously.
"Not yet, but I shall. Some games are long, they take time. But there is always a to-morrow to the man who wills."
"Is that a part of your Eastern philosophy?"
"If you will. Eastern or Western, it does not matter—human nature is always the same."
"But human nature has its limitations. Life is not very long, after all."
"I do not know your English literature well, Signore Sprague; but I have read your Browning. He had the greatest brain of the nineteenth century, I think. His mixture of Eastern blood may account for it. He said 'Leave "now" to dogs and apes, man has for ever.' That is always true. There is no death, or if there is, man always rises again."
"Then you believe that what a man fails to do in this life, he will do in another?"
"Always. There is one thing a man never loses—memory. It may leave him for a time; but it always returns. Do you know Italian, signore?"
"No."
"My name is Ricordo. It means remembrance. It is not only a name, it is an expression of an eternal truth. Nothing is forgotten, nothing. Even those whom we call dead remember."
"Ah, you are beyond me," laughed Sprague uneasily. "I am no philosopher. Still, I shall remember what you say about 'willing.' When next we play I shall will to win."
"So shall I."
"What will happen then?"
"Victory for the strongest will."
The two men separated, Sprague with an uneasy feeling in his heart, and Ricordo with a strange smile upon his face.
That evening the concert was held in the village hall, during which Signor Ricordo manifested but little enthusiasm. Indeed, during most of the time he sat with his eyes closed, and once or twice he seemed to suppress a yawn with difficulty, as though he were bored. When Olive sang, however, all was different. He watched her face closely, and listened with almost painful attention. He seemed pleased when the audience applauded, and more than once he uttered a low "bravo"; but there was no marked enthusiasm in his appreciation. Indeed, it was difficult to tell what he thought of her performance as a whole.
When the concert was over, he was introduced to John Castlemaine. This was the first time he had met him. Mr. Castlemaine had been away to London for several days, and had only returned the day before. Olive had spoken to him concerning Ricordo on her return from the golf links, and he was prepared to be interested in the man from the East.
"This must be a great change from your Eastern life, Signor Ricordo," he said.
"Yes, and no," replied Ricordo; "but it has been very interesting."
"Are you staying long?"
"In Vale Linden? Only a few days, I expect. In England? Yes, for some months, I think. Probably until your summer is over. It would be hard to spend another winter in England. I came just after your Christmas, and I spent three months in London. I had affairs there."
"Ah, you are a man of business, then?"
"We all have business, haven't we? I am a partner in the Tripoli, Fezzan, Mourzouck Company."
John Castlemaine's eyes flashed with satisfaction. The stranger was no wandering, nameless adventurer. The Tripoli, Fezzan, Mourzouck Company was the great trading power of the East, doing not only great business in England, but throughout the world.
"I am not here as a representative of my firm, Signor Castlemaine," said Ricordo, "but I know the English customs." He took a small case from his pocket, and presented a card to him, and also papers which revealed the imprimatur of the company. Mr. Castlemaine also saw that the stamp of the firm was upon his letter-case.
"I feel honoured in welcoming you to our neighbourhood," said John Castlemaine. "Years ago I did business with you. I little thought then that I should meet with a partner in your famous firm under such circumstances."
"The world is small," said Ricordo quietly. "For the last year I have taken but little active part in affairs; and I have come to England because of personal matters."
"And I am delighted to see you, signore—delighted. More than that, I cannot consent for you to leave Vale Linden soon. I hope you will come up to my house, Signor Ricordo. I am now a man of leisure, and shall look forward to seeing much of you. Olive, do you know that the great company of which Signor Ricordo is a partner is well known to me? It is very fortunate you met him yesterday. Yes, signore, I can take no refusal. I must insist on your coming up to Vale Linden to-night, for a smoke and a chat."
For a moment there was a look almost like anxiety in the stranger's eyes, but he spoke in his quiet, easy way.
"I feel greatly honoured," he said; "but we in the East have many—what you call conventions. Before I enter into the delights of your house, I must prove that I am what my card indicates."
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense," said John Castlemaine heartily. "No one could carry such papers as you carry without——"
"Excuse me, Mr. Castlemaine, if I persist," said the stranger. "If not to satisfy you, to satisfy myself." He drew a small piece of peculiar parchment from his case, and handed it to John Castlemaine. "My people always desire it, when we come into contact with the heads of great houses," he added.
Mr. Castlemaine took the parchment almost reverently and read that Abdul Ricordo was a responsible partner of the firm of Tripoli, Fezzan and Mourzouck, and the document was signed by the firm.
"Of course I do not need this, signore," said John Castlemaine; "nevertheless, I thank you for letting me see this. It shows me the methods of your firm, and from that standpoint alone this document is exceedingly interesting."
He turned again to his daughter.
"Will you not help me to persuade Signor Ricordo to walk up to the house with us, Olive?" he said. "It is quite early yet, and, wonder of wonders, we have no guests at present."
Ricordo turned to Olive, who expressed her delight at the thought of his accompanying them.
"Then I can do no other than gratefully accept," said Ricordo; "but I am afraid I am monopolising your company, Signor Castlemaine."
He turned aside as he spoke, and made room for Purvis and Sprague, who had evidently been waiting for a chance to speak to them.
"I could not help making the most of the opportunity which you have afforded," said Sprague. "I am afraid The Homestead was not meant for such as Purvis and myself; but you will forgive me, won't you?"
There was marked restraint in John Castlemaine's welcome of the two men, still he greeted them civilly. Perhaps he had partly forgotten the part they took in the painful drama of years before. As for Olive, she was evidently undecided what to do. She ended, however, by speaking civilly to them both, but did not seem at all pleased that they should come and speak to her.
"I see you know my late opponent on the golf links," said Sprague, turning to Ricordo.
"We have met to-night for the first time," said Mr. Castlemaine, turning towards the stranger, and as he turned he saw a look in his eyes that made him feel uncomfortable. There was such a sinister expression on Ricordo's face, that he wondered if he had done right in asking him, in spite of his unquestionable credentials, to his house. For this reason he was almost glad that Sprague and Purvis were there. He had known them well years before, and although he had no pleasure in recalling the past, he felt that he might seem churlish, and uncivil, if he did not extend his invitation to them. Acting on the impulse of the moment, therefore, a thing which was very rare with him, he asked them both to walk up to the house.
"Signor Ricordo is coming up," he said; "you might as well join him if you care, and then you can all walk back together."
"Delighted, I am sure," said Sprague; but Purvis pleaded a headache, and declared that he would be such a dull companion that he would not inflict his company upon them. The quartette started their walk, and passed through the village almost without a word. Whether Ricordo was pleased or annoyed because of Sprague's presence it was impossible to say. He showed no sign either way. While they were in the village they walked abreast, but after they had passed through the lodge gates, Sprague and Olive walked side by side, while Ricordo and Mr. Castlemaine came on behind. Sprague found himself strangely nervous when he realised that he was alone with Olive. It was he who had sent the letter which had been followed by such fatal results, and never since that time had he and Olive Castlemaine spoken to each other.
"I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you alone, Miss Castlemaine," he said.
Olive did not reply, but waited for him to continue. For years her heart had been very bitter towards him, in spite of the fact that she believed he had revealed to her the real character of the man she had promised to marry. But then Sprague's part in the affair was not altogether honourable. He had been a party to the discussion which led to the wager, and although on his own account he had done his best to persuade Leicester from pursuing the course he had adopted, she could not think of him without a feeling of anger.
"I do not know whether you were angry, or thankful to me, for writing that letter," he said. "I never received any reply to it."
"There was nothing to which I could reply," she said.
"Perhaps not," replied Sprague, "and yet I have never known how you regarded my action in the matter. That is why I am so thankful for this opportunity of speaking to you."
"Pardon me," said Olive, "but would you mind letting the past be dead, and forgotten? As you may imagine, it cannot be pleasant to me."
"I only wanted to know that you had forgiven me," said Sprague. "Moreover, I wanted to tell you the truth. No one can be more ashamed than I at the course events took. But I never dreamt that—that ever your name would be mentioned. It was, as it were, forced upon me. As for that letter—well, I felt I could do no other than write it. It would have been cowardly, and base of me, not to tell you the truth."
"And what you told me was the truth—the whole truth?" asked Olive. She spoke quickly and nervously, as though a great deal depended upon the answer.
"As far as I know I told you exactly what happened—exactly. It seemed to me you had a right to know, and that it would have been criminal on my part if I had kept silent. That is what I wished to say."
"And now, having said it, will you never refer to it again."
"Just another word, please. You are not angry with me, that is, you do not think badly of me because I told you?"
"I ought to be grateful to you for that part of your action in the matter, and—I am."
She seemed to speak with an effort, but Sprague was evidently satisfied.
"You have chosen a beautiful place to live in, Miss Castlemaine," he said; "and hundreds of people are grateful because of what you have done. I hardly feel justified in benefiting by—shall I call it your hospitality?—but I really wanted to see you again."
"Yes, it is a beautiful neighbourhood," said Olive; "and I hope you will enjoy your stay here."
"Thank you, I am sure I shall," replied Sprague. He had got through the painful part of his conversation—clumsily, it is true; but still it was over, and now he felt a real pleasure in thinking that for the next few days he would be living in close proximity to the woman whom he had once asked to be his wife.
"What do you think of Signor Ricordo?" he went on. "Striking-looking fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes," replied Olive.
"Do you know I've played golf with him twice, and I can't make him out. Perhaps it is because of his Eastern mode of speech, but he always makes me think of mysteries. When I saw him first he made me think of vampires, and although that feeling has gone, I am not sure that I like him."
"I should think he is a very remarkable man," said Olive evasively.
"He is mysterious, at all events," said Sprague. "How beautiful the park looks in the moonlight!"
He stopped as he spoke, and looked across the park towards the moorlands that were dimly visible in the light of the moon. As they stopped, Mr. Castlemaine and Signor Ricordo came up.
"I am enjoying your wonderful scenery, Mr. Castlemaine," said Sprague.
"Yes, it is very fine. You can almost see the golf links from here."
"Ah, don't talk of them," said Sprague, with a laugh. "I thought I could play a decent game, but Signor Ricordo has beaten me so badly to-day that I feel humiliated. I thought I should find him an easy opponent, too. He told me he was only a beginner."
"You may have better luck next time," said Mr. Castlemaine.
"If Signor Ricordo thinks I am worthy to be his opponent for another game," responded Sprague.
"Oh yes," replied Ricordo, "our play is not played out yet. We will play it to the bitter end."
He laughed quietly as he spoke, but Olive thought she detected something sinister in it.
"I hope there will be nothing bitter in it," said Sprague. "For my own part I think golf is the most friendly and sociable game in the world."
"Ah, but as I told you, I am an Eastern," said Ricordo; "and to us all games are serious. But we will play it, signore, we will play the game out."
"That's right," said Mr. Castlemaine; "meanwhile, here we are at the house. Will you enter, gentlemen?"
Signor Ricordo and Sprague entered the house side by side.
Although the spring was well advanced, a bright fire burned in the room where Mr. John Castlemaine ushered his guests. Several easy chairs were placed around the fire. Evidently Mr. Castlemaine used this room as a kind of smoking lounge, although there were also evidences that it was not used for men exclusively.
They had scarcely seated themselves, when a servant entered, bearing cigars and a decanter containing spirits.
"You will take a little whisky, Signor Ricordo?" said Mr. Castlemaine, turning to his guest.
"No, thank you, I never take whisky."
"You are an abstainer?"
"Yes."
There was a strange tone in his voice, but he spoke very quietly, as was his custom.
"Ah, perhaps you are a Mohammedan," said Sprague, who accepted Mr. Castlemaine's invitation.
"No, Mr. Sprague, I am not a Mohammedan, as you understand it. I do not take whisky because—well, because a man who was once my friend was ruined through it."
At that moment Olive entered the room, and took a chair close by her father's. She had heard Ricordo's answer to Sprague.
"That's scarcely a reason for refusing a harmless beverage," said Sprague.
"Harmless?" said Ricordo; "well, that is surely a matter of opinion."
"One would have to give up everything in life, on that principle of argument," urged Sprague.
"I do not wish to argue," said Ricordo, "but I will put a case to Mr. Castlemaine. Suppose he had a friend for whom he cared greatly, or for whom some one dear to him cared greatly, and that friend were ruined through alcohol; suppose he ceased to be a man and became a fiend through it, would he offer whisky to his guests?"
Signor Ricordo put the question to his host; but he kept his eyes on Olive, who started as if she had been stung, and then became as pale as death.
John Castlemaine laughed uneasily.
"You are almost as strong in your hatred of alcohol as my daughter, signore," he said. "Personally, I am a very abstemious man. I have closed nearly every public-house on the estate; but I remember my duties as a host."
Ricordo did not reply, but Olive felt how illogical her father's position was.
"But you smoke," went on Mr. Castlemaine, passing him a box of cigars. "I don't think these are bad."
"I am sure they are excellent," said Ricordo, "but I am obliged to smoke only one brand. I had to pay a heavy duty to bring a sufficient stock with me, but I had either to do it, or give up smoking. You will not mind if I smoke this, instead of yours, which I have no doubt are very much better."
"Oh, certainly not, if you wish," said Mr. Castlemaine rather coldly.
Ricordo bowed, and lit a cigar which he had taken from his own case. His refusal either to take whisky or to smoke his host's cigars had caused a feeling of restraint in the party.
"My cigars are a special brand," went on Ricordo. "They are no better than others, I suppose, but I can smoke no others. I imagine the constitution of the Easterns must be peculiar."
He looked at Olive as he spoke, and noted that she was watching him. As their eyes met, she dropped hers. She had not spoken since she entered the room.
"The manners and customs of those who live in the East are, of course, very different from ours. And of course their ideas are different too."
"How so, signore?"
He lay back in his chair as he spoke, and closed his eyes, as one who is enjoying a lazy contentment.
"Well, I suppose their ideas of hospitality are different. I have been told that they will never partake of the fare of an enemy."
"Is not that right?"
"Then again, of course their customs are different, I suppose. They are allowed a plurality of wives."
"And as a consequence many fail to marry at all."
"You seem to speak feelingly," laughed Sprague.
"Oh no, I assure you. I simply state a fact. For example, here am I, who can no longer be called a boy, and who am an Eastern, am also a celibate."
"You have never been married?"
"Never."
"Well," said Sprague, "there is nothing so wonderful in that. I am no longer a boy, and I have never married."
"You make one curious," said Ricordo.
"How?"
"One would like to know why you, Mr. Sprague, who are evidently a domestic kind of man, have never married."
"I will tell you on one condition."
"And that?"
"That you will tell me why you never married."
"I accept."
"Then I have never married because the only woman I ever wanted refused to have me."
"And I have refrained from getting married because I am afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Exactly."
"Of what?"
"Of many things, signore, many things."
"You make me curious to know what those things are."
"To tell you would be to tell the story of another man's life," replied Signor Ricordo gravely. "As you remarked, I am an Eastern, but we Easterns are not different from the Westerns in that direction. All of us have a secret chamber in our lives."
"Still," urged Sprague, "I cannot conceive of you, signore, being afraid of anything."
"I am not often in a communicative mood," said Ricordo; "I think I am to-night. Perhaps it is because I have received so much kindness. I am profoundly impressed," and here he bowed to Mr. Castlemaine and Olive, "by the fact that I, an alien, am received into the home of a representative of what is regarded as a proud and exclusive race. Never can I forget such hospitality. But one thing keeps me from communicating my thoughts: I would not willingly give pain to the signorina."
"To me, Signor Ricordo?" said Olive. "Pray, how am I concerned?"
"Directly not at all; but, as every woman is a champion of her sex, a great deal. And I would not desire even to suggest a thought that would seem to reflect on the sex to which the signorina adds so much lustre."
"But surely I am not responsible for my sex, signore," said Olive, with a laugh. Again he had cast a kind of spell on her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.
"Ah well, then, let me be communicative," said Ricordo. "I said I had never married because I was afraid. I told the truth. Forgive me if I seem sentimental; but once, years ago—ah, how many I do not like to think—I might have yielded to love. Others had done so, and why not I? But I had a friend, a man whom I loved beyond all others. For years we had been more than brothers, his thoughts were mine, and mine were his. Then he fell in love with a woman, beautiful, and true, and good—at least, so we believed. She became his lode-star, his hope, his joy, and I naturally became as nothing to him. I did not grow angry at that. My only desire was that he should be happy, and as he found happiness in her love, what was I? He was not an angel, not altogether a good man, and often in my love for him I tried to reclaim him; I failed; but where I failed this woman succeeded. Ah, great Allah! how he loved her! He became her slave, and yet I rejoiced because she was lifting him to heaven. He was on his way to becoming a great man in the East, and then—this woman, because of some imperfection in his past—what do you call it?—jilted him. My friend was an intense kind of man. He had given his hope, his faith, his love, to this woman, and then, without giving him an opportunity of explaining himself, she threw him aside with scorn. Did he deserve her scorn? This I know, my poor friend, the byword of those who knew him, overwhelmed with a hopeless passion, thrown on the sea of life without anchor or rudder, drifted. Where? Ah, that is a story I cannot tell. But this woman, who might have been his salvation, and who professed to return his love, sent him into regions more terrible than ever your Milton, or our Italian Dante, saw with the eyes of vision."
"And where is he now?" asked Sprague.
"Where? That I cannot tell you. For a time I followed him, watched him, as he sank deeper and deeper into the pit. I stood upon the brink and looked in; but he had neither the strength nor the will to grasp my hand, and if he had, I should not have been strong enough to have pulled him out."
"And the woman?" asked Sprague.
"The woman is, I believe, meditating marriage with some one else. A common story, I know. Perhaps you could tell similar ones; perhaps, too, the commonness of such stories makes me afraid."
He was sitting back in his chair as he spoke. His eyes were half closed and he lazily smoked his cigar. Nevertheless, Olive thought he was watching her furtively. But perhaps that was because his story aroused memories which made the past live again.
From this time the conversation drifted on to other subjects, and Signor Ricordo made himself vastly agreeable. Without in any degree monopolising the conversation, he became the centre of interest. He showed that, although an Eastern, he was acquainted with English literature, and although he spoke English with a peculiar intonation, he expressed his thoughts with great clearness. Olive said but little. The story he had told contained such a meaning for her, that she had no desire to speak; nevertheless, she listened eagerly to his every word. Besides, his presence continued to have a kind of fascination for her. Why, she could not tell, yet when he rose to take his leave, she felt that everything would seem tame and commonplace after he had gone.
Mr. Castlemaine again pressed refreshments upon him; but again he refused to take them. It is true that he refused with a great show of courtesy, but he seemed determined to partake of nothing which the house could offer.
"I am afraid you are thinking of my sad story," he said, turning to Olive as he was on the point of saying good-night. "Of course you English have different thoughts and customs from the Easterns; still, I would like to ask you a question, if I might."
"Certainly," replied Olive, trying to appear cheerful.
"Do you think my friend would be justified in seeking revenge on the woman who sent him to despair, and worse than death?"
"I do not know all the circumstances, signore," she replied, "neither do I think that revenge is ever justifiable."
"Ah, no. You believe in the teaching of the Founder of your religion, 'love your enemies,' eh? But if you knew, signorina, if you knew!"
"The woman may be suffering more than you think."
"Suffering! Ah, I have seen her. Her life is one long song. She is careless, she has a life full of pleasure. Her admirers throng around her. She professes to be a Christian, too, and goes to church; but she thinks not of the poor soul wandering in blackest night. But I think he would be justified in seeking revenge."
"What revenge?" asked Olive. "What kind of revenge could he take?"
"I have thought of that, signorina, and I cannot think what it should be. She is to all appearances beyond his reach. She is rich, powerful, petted, courted; while he—ah, if I only knew where he was! Yet sometimes I think he must be planning his revenge. It would be better for her if he had died. For, if he does take revenge, it will be sure, and the torture will be exquisite."
"Perhaps he loves her still."
"Loves her! No, he hates her with all the madness with which he loved her. His passion of love has turned to bitterness, to wormwood. That is why I think his degradation and despair will drive him to revenge. I am glad I am in a Christian country, where the vendetta is not known. Good-night, signorina."
"Did you notice, Olive, that he refused to partake of any form of refreshment?" said John Castlemaine to his daughter, after Sprague and Ricordo had gone.
"Yes," said Olive; "but then I am told that people from the East seldom drink spirits. I am sorry you asked him."
"He's a remarkable kind of man."
"Yes."
"Do I know whom you are thinking of, Olive?"
She nodded her head.
"He reminds me of him, too. Sometimes I fancied I heard him speaking. Still, that is of course pure fancy. Olive, when are you going to forget him?"
"I don't know."
"I was hoping that he had passed out of your life."
"I thought he had, but that man's story seemed to bring everything back."
"I confess he made me feel uncomfortable. Still, he is a most entertaining man, and his position and rank are unquestionable. He belongs to a firm which rules the trade of the East, and he must be highly connected, or he would never have been admitted into partnership. We must invite him here to some social function before he leaves. You would like it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Olive, "he's a most entertaining man. By all means let us invite him."
Meanwhile Ricordo and Sprague walked back to The Homestead, and as they walked they talked business. Sprague could not help feeling astonishment at Ricordo's knowledge of English commercial life, and entered into a discussion concerning its position and prospects with great eagerness. By the time they reached the house, Sprague had revealed to the stranger many particulars concerning his own relations with the commercial world.
The next day, without having given any warning to any one concerning his intention, Ricordo went to London, where he stayed several days. He had retained his rooms at The Homestead, however, and told the lady who had the management of it that he might return at any time. While in London, his time seemed very fully occupied, and he had long interviews with men occupying high positions in the commercial world. He also invested largely, and took part in far-reaching transactions. At the end of a few days he returned to Vale Linden again.
"It is simply a matter of time now," he said to himself, as the train swept on towards the south. "I have my hands on all the strings, and I have enveloped him as the proverbial spider envelops the proverbial fly. Whatever he does, he cannot escape. As for her——"
He sat back in the railway carriage, and apparently fell into deep thought. To the casual observer he seemed a prosperous Eastern gentleman, one whose whole demeanour and appearance suggested a man of rank and power. The close observer, however, would have detected a cruel smile beneath his black moustache, while in his eyes he would have seen a look that suggested dark deeds. The face would have impressed him with the suggestion of an indomitable will, and of a kind of imperious pride, but there was no suggestion of mercy or pity to be seen there.
When he arrived at Vale Linden, however, he had assumed his old manner of cynical melancholy, and he met the people he knew with the easy grace peculiar to him.
"We have missed you sorely," said Sprague, as he sat beside him at dinner; "in fact, all of us have wondered where you have been."
"Ah, Signor Sprague, where could one go in England, except to London? I have had affairs there. Usually I do not trouble about these things, but at times fits of industry come upon me."
"Ah, yes. I have heard that you are a partner in the great Tripoli Company. I had no idea I had made the acquaintance of one who practically rules the trade of the East."
"One is not in the habit of publishing one's position from the housetops," replied Ricordo.
"Oh no, of course not. Are you staying much longer?"
"Possibly; I do not know. I have come back for some more golf."
"Shall we have our match to-morrow?" asked Sprague. "I have been playing a good game while you have been away."
"I will tell you in the morning," replied the other. "Have you been up to the great house since I left?"
"No. I have seen Miss Castlemaine, though. She was on the golf links to-day."
Ricordo's eyes lit up with satisfaction, although he said nothing; but soon after dinner he left the house, and walked towards Olive Castlemaine's home. He had barely left the village when he saw Olive coming out of a cottage. He half lifted his fez, and bowed.
"May I make a confession, Miss Castlemaine?" he asked.
"Why not, if it is not of a serious nature?" responded Olive. There was a look of pleased expectancy in her eyes as she saw him.
"Then I was on the point of going to your house."
"You wished to see father. I am sure he will be pleased. I am just going home."
"And may I walk back with you?"
"Certainly, if you care to."
"I was not going to see your father, Miss Castlemaine."
"No?"
"No, I was going to see you. Do you know I have been playing golf since I came to England?"
"Yes, I heard that you performed wonders on our links. As you will remember, I saw you there."
"And I have heard that you are great at the game. I have had the audacity to wonder if you would play with me to-morrow morning. I can assure you it would be an act of charity towards a lonely man if you would."
"I am afraid, from what I have heard of your prowess, I should scarcely be able to give you a game, but if you will condescend so far I will do my best."
"Thank you, you are very kind. Indeed, every one is kind to me. I have been away to London for only a few days, and yet Mr. Sprague met me as though I were an old friend. It is pleasant to have a welcome in a strange land."
He seemed in a gay mood during the remainder of their walk, but when they came to the house he would not go in. He had letters to write, he said, and he wanted to get them off his mind.
"You do not believe me," he laughed; "you believe that we Easterns are all indolent, shiftless. But no, even I can be most industrious at times. Why, while I have been in London, I have worked harder than an Arab."
"Do Arabs work hard?"
"Ah, you do not believe me. But I can assure you that my activity and industry have been wonderful. You would never guess why."
"Oh, yes," said Olive; "men of business work to make money."
"Ah, no, I think I have lost money; but that does not matter, because I have done what I set out to do.A rividerici, signorina."
"A domani."
"You know Italian then?"
"Only a little."
"But still a little. That is good. There is no other language when you know Italian.A domani, then. Shall I meet you here, and then we can walk to the links together?"
"No, I have some sick people to see before I start, but I shall be passing The Homestead at ten o'clock."
"That is well.Buona sera, Signorina."
But Signor Ricordo did not go back to The Homestead. Instead he walked up to the golf links, and spent hours on the great moors beyond. He seemed to be trying to weary himself, for he tramped from peak to peak, not seeming to care whither he was going. It was after midnight when he reached the house, nevertheless he met Olive with a smile the next morning.
"I shall think that the world has libelled your English weather," he said almost gaily, looking up at the blue skies. "And now for the battle. I feel as though to-day will create a new epoch in my life."
Olive answered him by a pleasant laugh, yet she wondered what he meant.