Nothing of importance happened during the golf match on the links. Neither Ricordo nor Olive played their best, and when the eighteenth green was reached both seemed relieved.
"What is the time, signore?" asked Olive.
"It is just after one, signorina."
"Then it is too late for me to go home to lunch," said Olive.
"That is well," said Ricordo. "You have made such excellent arrangements here that the matter of lunch can easily be dealt with. Moreover, unlike many clubs, you have not insisted on the idiotic rule of men and women lunching in different rooms. As a matter of fact, knowing we could not finish until one, I took the liberty of telling the good woman here that she must use her culinary skill on our behalf. I hope I have not done wrong."
Olive laughed gaily. The moorland air, the brightness of the skies, and the healthy exercise she had taken, had made her ravenously hungry.
"Rather, I must thank you heartily," she said; "but I must get back soon after lunch. I think I will send my caddy with a note, so that a trap may come for me."
"Is that essential?" asked Ricordo.
Olive looked at him questioningly.
"Because," continued Ricordo, "I had looked forward to the pleasure of walking back with you—if you will grant me so great an honour."
For a moment she hesitated. Had he been an Englishman she would have thought nothing of it. Her father had invited him to the house; he had also spoken of him as a kind of prince of merchants, and as a consequence there could be no doubt as to his position. Nevertheless, the fact that his education and associations had not been English, kept her from immediately acceding to his request.
"I ask this," went on Ricordo, "because I am afraid I conveyed a false impression on the night I was a guest at your father's house. Even a poor alien like myself does not desire to appear in a false light."
Her eyes met his as he spoke, and the force of her objections seemed to have fled.
"I thought you might wish to play again this afternoon," she said; "but if you wish, I shall be very glad."
An hour later they started to walk back to Vale Linden.
"I have sometimes wondered whether you do not regard me as somewhat of an enigma, signorina. You build a beautiful house for the benefit of people who need rest and change, but who cannot afford to pay for the comforts of a good hotel, and then you find that it is encumbered by a man who can abundantly afford to pay even for a few luxuries. No doubt that has struck you as strange?"
"I am afraid I have not thought much about it," replied Olive.
"Still, now that I have been received so kindly, I think I ought to explain. While I was in London I met a man, I had affairs with him, named—let me think, yes, Winfield. I grew tired of London, and he told me of this place, and of you. He described the work you had done here, and your gracious influence in the village and neighbourhood. His story appealed to me. I longed to see this beautiful Vale Linden, and being a lonely man without ties—well, that is all, I think, signorina. But now I am here, I want to stay—for a time at least. I recognise the fact that I can no longer benefit by—your boundless charity to the needy, and——"
"Surely, Signor Ricordo, there is no need for you to leave The Homestead."
"Yes there is, I could not stay there, when—well, many who may need your kindness are waiting for admission. But the place has come to have a charm for me, signorina. The quiet restfulness, the rustic beauty, the pure air—the associations have conquered me. I have wondered whether it would be possible for you to have me as a tenant, a neighbour. There is a delightful house which I am told was occupied by the steward of the late owner, and which is now empty. I would either buy it or rent it. Would it be possible, signorina?"
"That is scarcely a matter which falls within my province," replied Olive. "My father manages the estate. Since he has partially retired from business, it is his great hobby."
"Pardon me, signorina, everything depends on you."
"On me?"
"Yes. In this way. I could not think of remaining here unless the thought of it were pleasing to you. I am a lonely man, signorina, a man whose friends have either died or disappeared, and the thought of living in the same neighbourhood as yourself brings joy to me; but I would not do so, unless the scheme had your approbation."
They had by this time come to the road which led down the hill towards Vale Linden, and Olive was turning towards it, when Ricordo put out his hands as if to stop her.
"Pardon me," he said, "there is another path to Vale Linden. It is a little longer; it leads over the moors, and it is very beautiful. May I plead with you to take the longer road?"
Almost without demur, she consented. Although she did not realise it, the man had again exercised a kind of fascination over her. For the moment his will became hers. As for the man, he too seemed more than ordinarily interested. There was a tone of pleading and of intensity in his voice which she had never heard before. He was revealing himself in a new light.
"Thank you," he said, as they walked along the moorland path; "I almost hope that your consent to take the longer path augurs well for my plan. For your English life possesses a kind of charm for me, signorina. Yes, I who have known the East with its mystery, its great silent spaces, and its wondrous life, confess it. It has taught me the meaning of your English word 'home.' And I have never known it in practice, signorina—never."
"Still, I should think your life in the East must be very fascinating?"
A strange expression flashed across his face, but the smile on his lips was hidden by his thick moustache.
"Fascinating, great Allah, yes! I should like to tell you of it some time, signorina—the story of my life. It would interest you; yes, I promise you that it would interest you. It would take a long time, I am afraid, but you would listen, yes, you would listen to the very end."
He spoke quietly, but there was an intensity in his tone, and as he spoke Olive's heart began to beat more rapidly. Again she was reminded of Leicester, the man she had once promised to marry, and who had died more than six years before. She almost felt afraid, for it seemed to her that he was about to reveal some terrible secret. More than that, his personality impressed her, just as Leicester's did in the old days.
"Do you know," he went on, "why I did not accept your father's hospitality—that is, why I refused food and drink when I visited your house that night of the concert?"
"I suppose because you were not hungry, and, as you said, you never drink intoxicants," she said, uttering the first answer that came to her lips.
"No, it was not that. I know, too, that my action in refusing his cigars was rude. Even I know enough of your English laws of hospitality for that. I wanted to walk back with you to tell you about this. Shall I tell you?"
"I never thought of rudeness. I thought you meant what you said. Tell me, if you wish."
"I refused because I thought you resented my presence. Forgive me if I misinterpreted your face. You looked as though you were angry with me, and angry at what I said."
"I am exceedingly sorry if any act or look of mine gave pain to a guest in my father's house. Nothing could be further from my wishes. Neither did I interpret your refusal to accept what was offered in that light."
"And yet you grew pale when I refused to take whisky."
Olive was silent.
"I will admit I should have done that under any circumstances," he went on. "There the Mohammedans have much superiority over Christians. Not that I am a Mohammedan—what religion I believe in is Christian; but whisky, no. The depths into which it has dragged so many are too deep. Nevertheless you grew pale as I mentioned it. I wondered why."
Still Olive did not speak. The dead past was rising all around her again, and yet, strange to say, she did not think of Leicester with tenderness. Rather, although the memories associated with him rose thick and fast, he himself receded into the dim distance.
"I am glad I was mistaken," went on Ricordo; "and may I also accept that as your consent to my approaching your father, with a view to my becoming your neighbour?"
"I am sure, if you decide to live here, I hope you will be very happy," said Olive.
"Thank you; you make my sun shine brightly," was the response. "Whether I shall live here much, I cannot tell, for the East always claims the man upon whom it has cast its spell. And it has cast its spell upon me. Yes, some time I must claim your consent to tell you about my life there. I may, may I not?"
Before she realised what she was doing, she had given her consent. The man's presence suggested mysteries which she desired to know.
They had now turned down the hill, and were walking to Vale Linden. She was almost sorry that their walk would so soon come to an end, and she wished that he would tell her something of the past as they walked. But as they neared the village Signor Ricordo became moody and silent, so silent that their walk became almost painful. When they came to the park gates, however, he spoke again.
"It is kind of you to have pity on a lonely man," he said, "ay, and one who is a stranger, grown old before his time."
"Old, signore?" she said, with a laugh that was almost forced.
"Yes, old, signorina. How old should you think?"
She lifted her eyes to his face, and as she looked she felt a shiver pass through her.
"I should not like to hazard a guess," she said.
"No," he replied, "I suppose not; and yet, would you believe it, I am but little older than you. As I told you when first I saw you, I have been in hell; down in its very depths. And it ages a man—yes, it ages him, it gives him not years, but it gives him wisdom. Good-day, signorina."
Olive felt strangely depressed as he parted from her, and she found herself wondering at many things he said. Indeed, he was in her thoughts during the rest of the day. She was strangely interested in him, and yet she had a kind of fear of him. He was different from the rest of her world, different from her father, different from Herbert Briarfield, different from any of the guests who had come to the house. In many ways he reminded her of Leicester, and yet from that day Leicester became more and more a memory to her.
A few days later she heard that Signor Ricordo had taken rooms at Linden Manor Farm, a rather fine old house, occupied by a farmer by the name of Briggs. Meanwhile her father told her that Ricordo had approached him with a view of buying the house concerning which he had spoken to her. After this they met occasionally, but not often; nevertheless, each time they met, Olive became more deeply interested in him. The fact of his coming from the East became less and less an obstacle to their friendship, and John Castlemaine, while he could never break through a certain kind of reserve which seemed to surround the man who had come to live in their midst, confessed that he was the most interesting personality he had ever met.
As the weeks passed by Olive realised that the time would soon arrive when Herbert Briarfield would claim the right to plead his suit for the last time, and she began to wonder what she would say to him. Since the occasion when he had pleaded this privilege, he had not visited her home often; but every time she had seen him he had revealed more and more what a fine manly young fellow he was. Certainly, as her father had told her more than once, she would soon have to decide whether she would remain single all her life, or whether she would accept the love he offered. Yet, even as she thought of this, she wondered what Ricordo would say, and she thought also of the promise which she had made to Leicester on the night before the day on which they should have been married. For that promise still haunted her. She remembered the look on Leicester's face when he exacted the promise, and her assurance that, no matter what might happen, she would never marry another man was not to be easily forgotten.
One morning Ricordo sat on the lawn outside the Manor Farm House. He had breakfasted in the open air, and was now sitting on a garden chair smoking a cheroot. Ricordo was still regarded as a mystery in the neighbourhood. No one knew anything more about him now than they did on the day of his arrival, save that he was a partner in a great Eastern trading firm. That he had plenty of money was beyond question. He had opened an account at the nearest bank, and the manager had opened his eyes with astonishment when he saw the amount written on the cheque that was presented to him. Of course this sum was not mentioned to the world, but the clerks at the bank made no secret of the fact that their new client was enormously rich. But beyond this nothing was known. The best houses for miles around had opened their doors to him; but Ricordo never entered them. Beyond calling occasionally at The Homestead, and at the great house at Vale Linden, he showed no desire for companionship. If he had left at the end of two months he would have been spoken of as the mysterious Eastern gentleman who wore a fez, and while all sorts of surmises would have been offered concerning him, nothing would have been known.
This morning, Signor Ricordo lay back in his chair, smoking a cheroot. As usual, his eyes were nearly closed, and the same look of cynical melancholy rested on his face. Once or twice he picked up the previous day's paper, only to throw it aside. Evidently he had but little interest in the affairs of the country. Presently he lifted his head quickly, and saw the village postman coming towards him.
"Mornin', sur."
"Good-morning, Beel. Got some letters for me?"
"Sever'l, sur. 'Ere you be."
"Thank you."
The postman left him, and made his way towards the house.
For a time he sat deep in thought, not referring to the letters, but his face gave no indication as to whether his thoughts were pleasant or otherwise. It was as expressionless as the face of the sphinx. After a time he turned to the letters and glanced at them carelessly. At length, however, his eyes showed a glow of interest. He tore open one of the letters and read it almost eagerly:
"Dear Signor Ricordo,—At last I am able to accept your kind invitation, and by the time you get this I shall be on my way to Vale Linden. As I am starting by an early train I shall arrive at the station by one o'clock. I am simply longing to be amidst the beautiful scenery which you describe so eloquently, and more than all to have a long chat with you. All news when we meet.—Yours,"A. Winfield.""P.S.—I shall lunch in the train."
"Dear Signor Ricordo,—At last I am able to accept your kind invitation, and by the time you get this I shall be on my way to Vale Linden. As I am starting by an early train I shall arrive at the station by one o'clock. I am simply longing to be amidst the beautiful scenery which you describe so eloquently, and more than all to have a long chat with you. All news when we meet.—Yours,
"A. Winfield."
"P.S.—I shall lunch in the train."
Certainly there was nothing in the letter of a striking nature, yet Ricordo walked up and down the lawn like one greatly moved.
"It is coming, it is coming," he repeated more than once.
Hastily scanning the other letters, he went into the house, and having carefully locked them in a safe, he went out on the moors and walked for many miles. By one o'clock he was at Vale Linden station, but no one would have judged that he had trudged a long distance that summer day. As he waited the coming of the train he looked as cool as if he had just dressed after a cold bath.
"Ah, Mr. Winfield, I am glad to see you," he said, as the train drew up at the platform, and Winfield got out. "I am rejoiced that you have come to participate in the beauties of this place. I owe you much for advising me to come here."
"It is good of you to ask me to come," said Winfield, "I find I can just squeeze out three days."
"Ah, longer, longer, my friend. By the way, are you tired? There is a man waiting here with a trap, if you would like to ride back."
"No, I would rather walk, if you don't mind," said Winfield. "The air is so delicious, and I have been in the railway carriage so long, that the thought of a country walk is enchanting."
"That is well. I will send back your luggage by the trap, and we will walk. A roundabout way, if you don't mind, over the moors."
"Just what I should like," said Winfield, and the two started.
While they were climbing a steep footpath which led to the moors, little was said, but presently, when they had reached an eminence from which they could see a vast expanse of country, both drew breath.
"This is glorious," said Winfield; "it makes me feel ten years younger."
"I want to take you the loneliest walk in the district, and the most striking, Mr. Winfield," said Ricordo. "It will mean eight miles to my farmhouse that way; do you mind?"
"The longer the better," said Winfield. "What a glorious sight! Look at the roll of hill and dale, think of the glory of furze and heather! And the air is like some fabled elixir of life. You must be very happy here, signore."
"As happy as Lucifer when he was cast out of Paradise," said the other calmly.
Winfield looked at him curiously.
"You will have your joke," he laughed.
"I never joke," said the other.
"By the way," went on Winfield, "have you met the guardian angel of this place? You stayed at her home of rest for some time. I am told that she often visits it. Surely you must have seen her?"
"Yes, I have seen her."
"Well, and what is your impression? I knew her slightly, years ago."
"And what do you think of her?"
A shadow passed Winfield's face.
"I saw her under unpleasant circumstances," he said. "I am afraid I am not able to judge fairly."
"I have heard," said Ricordo slowly, "that she is a woman with a history. Gossips have it that she had an unhappy love affair years ago. Is it true? Not that I pay much attention to gossip; but I thought you might know."
"Yes, I am afraid there is some truth in it."
"Tell me,amico mio."
Winfield was silent a second.
"Are you interested in her?" he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"In a way, yes. I live on her lands; she is—well, the good fairy of the district. Yes, I am interested."
"I see no reason why I should not tell you," replied Winfield. "It is a matter of six years ago now, and the man is dead."
"Dead, eh? Who was he?"
"A fellow by the name of Radford Leicester."
"A good fellow? A pattern young man, eh?"
"No; anything but that. Nevertheless I liked him. In many respects I suppose I was his best friend—perhaps his only friend. But there, I'll tell you. Leicester was a cynic, a drunkard, a man who, while I believe he lived a clean, straight life, laughed at morality and truth and virtue. A drunkard, did I say? Well, that is true and false at the same time. He was a slave to drink, and yet he never appeared drunk. Well, he had brilliant gifts, was a fine speaker, a close reasoner, and every one believed that if he would give up his vice, he might become a great man. As I said, he believed in nothing. He was an atheist, and scorned virtue. One night I was sitting with him, and two others, and he was taken to task for his——"
"Yes, I understand; go on."
"Well, he defended himself, and declared that there was no woman on earth but had her price. The other two chaps, Sprague and Purvis by name, defended the women. Then Leicester offered to make a wager that he, a kind of pariah as he was, could win any woman they liked to name, provided he was able to pay the price. Then I named Olive Castlemaine. Leicester then offered to stake £100 that he would win her. He said that although she knew him to be a drunkard, an atheist, a cynic, a despiser of women, he would win her, by making her believe he would give her a high place in the land. After he had won her, he was to——"
"What you call jilt her," suggested Ricordo, as he saw Winfield hesitate for a word.
"Exactly. Well, he did win her. The day of the wedding was arranged. Meanwhile, Sprague and Purvis believed he was simply seeking to win his wager. Indeed, he confessed as much to them a week or so before the wedding. For my own part, I believe that although Leicester began in grim jest, he ended by being deadly in earnest."
"Yes, go on, my friend," said Ricordo, as the other paused. "I am greatly interested in your story. More interested than you can imagine. I will tell you why presently."
"Yes, I believe he really loved her. He gave up drink, and although to his acquaintances he seemed as cynical and faithless as ever, I saw a change had come over him. He chose me for his best man at the wedding. Well, on the eve of the wedding-day Miss Castlemaine got a letter, telling her the whole story. Personally, I believe Sprague wrote it. I suppose the letter seemed to prove up to the hilt that Leicester was simply playing the game to win his bet, and that although he was prepared to marry her, he was doing so because she was one of the richest heiresses in London."
"Well?"
"The wedding never came off. When he went to see her, she drove him from the house. I was there, and I saw and heard everything. I shall never forget Leicester's look as long as I live. I did my best for him, but in vain. She went abroad, and he—went to the devil."
"Tell me how, my friend."
"He flew to whisky; he gave himself over to the devil. Then the General Election came off, and he went to his constituency, only to fall down on the platform, at a public meeting, in a state of maudlin drunkenness. He was hooted out of the constituency. Where he went, God only knows. But a few weeks later his body was found washed on the steps by Blackfriars Bridge."
"Ecco! that is almost a tragedy, eh?" and Ricordo laughed almost merrily.
"It was tragedy to me; for, to tell the truth, I liked him. I had seen more of him than perhaps any other."
"And she, my friend—did she grieve?"
"I don't know. I should think not. I heard that a few weeks later her father had bought Vale Linden and that she was making merry with her friends."
"Just like a woman," said Ricordo quietly; "but there is one thing which is not quite clear to me. Why, if she did not care, has she not married some one else?"
"Well, I am not quite sure if that is the reason, but she made a vow to Leicester the night before the day fixed for the wedding that she would never marry another man, no matter what might happen."
"And you think she is keeping the vow?"
"Possibly; I don't know."
"A very interesting story, Mr. Winfield. I think I could tell you one quite as interesting. And you say the man committed suicide?"
"Yes," said Winfield with a sigh.
"Why?"
"Well, I suppose he had nothing to live for. He was disgraced, he was hooted out of his constituency, he had alienated friends, and he had neither faith nor hope."
For a few minutes they walked in silence. Then Ricordo said:
"And was he the kind of man, Mr. Winfield, who, according to your thoughts, would commit suicide?"
"There can be no doubt about it. It is true the body was unrecognisable, but there were letters found on him by which he could be identified. Neither coroner nor jury had any doubts about it."
"Was he a weak, incapable man—a man without resource?"
"Great heavens, no! He was a man who could do anything. Had he known what was good for him, I believe he might have been Prime Minister."
"A man of weak will, eh?"
"No; rather a man of iron will, when he made up his mind."
"And he had vowed to marry this Miss Castlemaine?"
"Yes."
"And was he the kind of man to give up so easily?"
"I do not think you quite realise the circumstances."
"I am trying to realise the man."
"Yes; but the letters found on the body."
Ricordo laughed quietly.
"Did you say the body was identified? Was it recognisable?"
"No."
"Ah!"
"I was with him when he had given up all hope of ever winning Miss Castlemaine," said Winfield. "He was in a state of utter despair."
"A weak man might have committed suicide; but a strong man, who had made a vow like that—never!"
"You do not believe that Radford Leicester committed suicide?"
"I mean that such a man as you have described would rise again, even although he died."
Winfield shook his head, and sighed.
"You do not believe it?"
"I knew Leicester. I saw the state he was in. He was not a happy man before he met Miss Castlemaine, then—well, she became everything to him. Afterwards, when he had by his own act made everything impossible, what was left for him? He would say, 'Let me die, and have done with it.'"
Again Ricordo laughed quietly.
"Were this Sprague and Purvis friends of his?" he asked presently.
"No. He did not like either of them, and he vowed that if either of them ever breathed to Miss Castlemaine anything about the wager, he would be revenged on them."
"And was he the kind of man to leave that vow unfulfilled?"
"I believe he was in such a state of despair that he was tired of life," said Winfield.
"Then you believe that this Radford Leicester is dead?"
"Yes, I believe he is."
They were walking along a ravine. On either side of them rose steep, precipitous cliffs. At their feet a moorland stream gurgled its way to the River Linden.
"Winfield," said the other, in altered tones, "look at me closely. Forget the brown skin and the black beard. Picture me a little thinner and paler. Now, then, do you think Radford Leicester is dead?"
He took off his fez, and stood face to face with the man to whom he spoke.
"That's it, look closer—feature by feature. Now then, do you believe Radford Leicester is dead?"
"My God!" said Winfield.
"Ah," said the other quietly, "I thought you would recognise me if I put it to you truly."
"But—but——"
"Yes, you recognise my voice now. I am no longer the Eastern gentleman with the quiet, musical voice. The dead man has risen, eh?"
"But, I say, Leicester——"
"Not yet, Winfield. I am Signor Abdul Ricordo. I have an Italian father and a Moorish mother, and I speak English with an Eastern voice, and with a slight accent. But I speak your language well, don't I?"
"I—I can't believe it!" stammered Winfield.
"Yes, you can. Why"—and he moved his shoulders like the Leicester of old—"do you think I am a kind of thing fed on asses' milk, a poor, weak, pulpy thing that would allow myself to be the plaything of a woman and two cads like Sprague and Purvis? Did you believe that, Winfield?"
"Then you did not——"
"Die? No. I went to hell, but I did not die."
"But, I say—I am dazed, bewildered. I hardly know where I am. I have a feeling that I shall wake up presently and find that I have dreamed this."
The other laughed quietly, and Winfield detected the laughter of Radford Leicester of six years before.
"But, I say, Leicester, tell me—that is, tell me the—the meaning of it all."
The other looked around him almost fearfully. The place was silent as death. No sound was heard save the gurgling of the moorland stream.
"Do not mention that name again, Winfield—at least not yet. I am Abdul Ricordo. Ricordo, as you know, is an Italian word which means 'remember.' I remember, my friend; I remember. I have forgotten nothing; no, by heaven,nothing."
"But tell me, old man——"
"I say, Winfield, you do not seem glad. You do not congratulate me; you do not offer to shake hands, nor do you tell me how thankful you are that I did not throw myself in the river."
"You know, old man. It goes without saying. But I am shaken out of my reckonings. I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels. Glad to see you! I am more than glad. I need not tell you now, what I told you just now when I did not know who you were. But I did not know it was possible that I could be so deceived; besides, I am in the dark about everything. Tell me, old man, tell me everything. That's right, don't put on that fez again. I can see you better without that. I remember the shape of the head now. Yes, and keep to your old voice, my friend—it helps me to feel I am on solid ground. Now then, tell me what happened."
"Winfield, I trust you. You were the only man who was faithful to me in the old days. You will be faithful still. Nothing that you have discovered, nothing that I shall tell you shall pass your lips, until I tell you that you may speak."
"I promise that, my friend. Nothing shall pass my lips—not a hint, not a suggestion."
The other put on his fez again. "That is understood, then," he said quietly. He spoke in the old fluid tones which he had adopted since he came to Vale Linden. "I say, Winfield, look at me again. I never forget, never—mind that."
For a moment Winfield had a feeling like fear. Perhaps it was because he had not yet recovered from the shock he had received.
"We will speak of Radford Leicester in the third person, if you please. I am still Signor Ricordo, mind that. Think of me as such till I tell you otherwise. Signor Abdul Ricordo, partner in the great Tripoli trading company, eh?" and he bowed to the other ceremoniously. "I am acting my part still. Presently I will change my attire and my part; then I will be what I was. Well, you wish to know about Radford Leicester. I will tell you. Yes, he did contemplate suicide; but little as he loved life, he loved it too much to put an end to it. Besides, he feared what lay beyond what we call death. Is any man an atheist,amico mio? I think not. One night, while standing by Blackfriars Bridge, thinking of what would happen if he gave himself to the river, he saw a dead body washed on the steps. It was a bright night, and he saw that the man's face was unrecognisable; moreover, he saw that the thing had once been what is called a gentleman. Then a plan was born in his mind. After making sure that there were no marks of identification on what he saw—well, you see the rest. Radford Leicester read his own obituary notices. Ha! my friend, they were pleasant reading. He even went to his own funeral. He saw you there. Thank you, Winfield, for paying your last respects to your friend."
Winfield wiped the perspiration from his brow; it was many years since he had been so much moved.
"You were at the funeral!" he gasped.
"Radford Leicester was at the funeral. He read what a certain religious paper had to say about him. Many preachers drew profitable morals from his career. After all was over, he went away. He had made up his mind what to do. He had died, and he meant to rise again. He has risen again. He had a great battle to fight, Signor Winfield. You guess what it was. He had well-nigh conquered his enemy once for love of a woman, now he determined to conquer him completely, but from a different motive."
"Whisky," said Winfield.
"Whisky," repeated the other. "He knew that while it had dominion over him he would be the plaything of—anything. For two years he went where he could not get it."
"Where?"
"Some time he will tell you himself—that and other things. But he fought it, and he mastered it, not for love, but for something different."
"What?"
"Can't you guess? Think of the kind of man Radford Leicester was, Winfield. What do you think would be his motive?"
Winfield was silent.
"When you get down to the bedrock of this little human nature of ours, Winfield, you find that the same elemental passions exist, no matter what be our race or our country. Shakespeare knew it when he conceived the character of Shylock, and when he wroteOthello. What do you think Radford Leicester would want to live for?"
"You love her still?"
"Love her! As much as Shylock loved Antonio, my friend; as much as any other man loves one who has lifted him into heaven only to hurl him into hell."
"Then you do not love her?"
"Why should Radford Leicester love her, my friend? Tell me that."
"Perhaps because he cannot help it."
"No; he hates her because he cannot help it."
"Hate her!"
"If there is one thing the East teaches a man, it is how to hate well. He has learnt his lesson. Great God, he has learnt it well!"
"And why have you come back?"
"Why should Radford Leicester come back, Winfield? Tell me that. Think out the whole case quietly. Why should he come back? That Bible of yours is full of human nature. Those old Jews realised the elemental passions of life—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That appeals to a man as just."
"But—but, I say——"
"Yes, tell me."
"Think of what it means. It is not right."
Ricordo laughed quietly.
"Right, wrong. They are a part of the stock-in-trade of your moralists. Let a man go through what Leicester has gone, my friend, and even if he had a little respect for it before, it would all be crushed out of him. Why, man, Radford Leicester has lived the life of a slave in Morocco, and away out in the great desert he has herded with wild beasts in the shape of men. He has seen the religion of the Christian and the Mohammedan and the Hindoo tested; he knows what it means. Do you think, after going through what he has gone, that your tawdry rag-tags of morality will have any weight with him? No, no; to hate is as natural as to love; and if love is right, so is hate."
"But, I say, old man——"
"Yes, go on."
"To put it in plain words, what you mean is this. When you realised that—that she—had cast you off—your love turned to hatred; that you played a grim joke on the world by making every one believe you were dead; that for six years you have brooded over what you believe to be your wrongs, nursing revenge all the time, and that you have come back to—to have, well, your revenge on the woman whom you once loved. Is that it?"
"It sounds melodramatic, eh? Just like a bit taken out of one of the old Adelphi melodramas. We used to laugh at them, didn't we, when we heard the pit and the gallery hissing the villain and cheering the hero. But even in those days I sympathised with the villain."
"But you don't mean that?"
"Why not?"
"It would not be right."
"Right! And even according to your smug morality, is it right for her to thrust a man where she thrust Leicester, to make him suffer the torments which he has suffered, and then to allow her to go unpunished?"
"Perhaps she has suffered."
"Suffered! Watch her even as I have watched her. Look at her smooth, fair face. There's not a line of care and suffering upon it. Hear her speak as I have heard her. Every word tells you she is without a care. Hear her laugh as I have heard her, and you would know that she thinks no more of having driven a man to his doom than a heartless gambler cares for the victim he has ruined."
"And you have risen from the dead for——"
"Just that, my friend, just that."
"What revenge?"
"One that shall be sufficient, Signor Winfield."
The two men walked on. Presently the gorge was behind them, and they stood up on the high moorland, while on every side stretched the wild, rugged countryside. The sun shone brightly, the air was sweet and clean, the birds sang joyously. Revenge seemed to be impossible amidst such surroundings.
"I say, Lei—"
"Signor Ricordo. Yes."
"How do you know I shall not go to her, and tell her—everything?"
"You couldn't do it, my friend. Do you think I didn't think it all out before I told you—what I have? How do I know you will not tell her? Because I know you. Besides, do you think it matters? Do you think you could baulk me? You do not know what is in my mind. You might tell her all you know—but that would not hinder me from carrying out my plans. No, no, I have not risen again to be frustrated a second time."
"Shall I tell you what I think?"
"I know. You think it would have been better if I had not risen, that you would have preferred for me to have died in the Thames, to coming back here to make her suffer as I have suffered. Very well, Signor Winfield, but that does not alter me."
"You mean that you will fulfil the threat you made to Sprague and Purvis?"
"I mean that I always try to pay my debts, my friend—always."
Again Winfield wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Even yet he could scarcely realise what had taken place. It seemed to him that all the foundations of his being were shaken.
"Give it up, Leicester."
"Give what up, my friend?"
"This mad scheme of yours."
"Mad! Nay, I've pondered over it for years. I've brooded over it in the silent places. I've suffered as few men have suffered, that I might gain the power that I wanted. No, my friend, I'll drag her as low as she dragged me. I'll make her feel the sting of scorn and insult as she made me feel it. She cared nothing for my disgrace, and do you think I'll stay my hand?"
"But how?"
"Not even to you dare I tell that, my friend. There are bounds, even to my trustfulness. But do not fear; it shall be sure, even if it is slow in coming."
"But, Leicester, you used to be a man. Even although you were cynical, and laughed at women's virtue, you were in your own way honourable, and chivalrous."
"Honour! Chivalry! I bade them good-bye years ago. Work with a gang of Arab ruffians for two years, as I have done, and where would your honour and chivalry be?"
"But you did that of your own accord. She did not rob you of your fortune, or your liberty, or your life."
"She robbed me of hope, of faith—of all that from your standpoint makes life worth the living. Yes, I know, I was a slave to drink; I know. Perhaps I inherited the taste for it. I was an unbeliever, I laughed at standard morality—yes, all that. But I was still a man, Winfield. She had it in her power to make me even a good man. But when—she did what she did, she robbed me of everything—everything. I ceased to be a man; I became a devil. But for her I should never have sunk to the depths I have sunk to since. When she went out of my life, the devil entered me. Man, if I were to tell you all I've gone through since—I saw you last, you'd—but what's the use?"
For an hour more they talked, Winfield eagerly expostulating, and pleading, the other answering coldly and cruelly, but never raising his voice, or showing any signs of excitement.
"Then you are determined?" said Winfield at length.
"My friend, I never make a plan one day to give it up the next."
"Then you'll excuse me, I am sure."
"For what?"
"Nothing, only I am going back to London to-night. I cannot remain your guest, knowing what I know."
Ricordo half lifted his fez, and bowed mockingly.
"I am honoured by your society, even for a few hours, Signor Winfield," he said. "It has been pleasant to talk about—old times, eh? I will tell the estimable Mrs. Briggs at the farm, who wisely rules her husband, to send back your luggage to the station. A busy editor—called suddenly back, eh? Good-day, Signor Winfield."
The other stood undecided.
"I say, Leicester, old man, will nothing move you?"
"Nothing, my friend, nothing. I have only one thing to live for now, and that I am going to have. It is a pleasant walk to the station, signore. I hope you will enjoy it."
Winfield turned away with a heavy heart. Twice he stopped as if undecided what to do, then, as if making a final resolution, he walked rapidly towards the station. As for the other, he stood and watched him until he was out of sight; but his face retained its relentless look, in his eyes was the wild stare of a madman.
"Even if I loved her as much as I hate her, I would still do what I set out to do," he said as Winfield passed out of sight.
That evening a servant at Vale Linden house announced that Signor Ricordo had called to see Miss Castlemaine.
Olive Castlemaine was alone when the servant brought her the message, and for the first time since she had first met Ricordo, the news of his presence was not welcome. She wanted to be alone to think. That afternoon Herbert Briarfield had pleaded his cause once more, and she had promised to give him her answer in two days. For the first time since she had known him, moreover, she wanted to accede to his wishes. Not because her heart felt any warmer towards him, but because she thought of him as a friend and a protector. Whatever else he might be, he was a strong, healthy-minded man, one who would be faithful and loving. And almost for the first time in her life, Olive felt a longing for such an one. For a great fear had come into her heart—a fear of Signor Ricordo. She could not explain it, nor define it. The man had fascinated her—had, indeed, thrown a kind of spell upon her. She thought of him continually. Leicester had faded into the background of her life. But for the fact of her promise never to marry another man, he seemed to have passed out of her existence. But in place of Leicester, Ricordo had come, and although in one sense she regarded him only as a casual acquaintance, she knew that in another sense he exercised a powerful influence over her. In considering Herbert Briarfield's plea, she thought of Ricordo. She feared what he might say; while she had a kind of feeling that she ought to consult him before coming to a final decision. Why this was so she could not tell. Signor Ricordo was only a distinguished foreigner who had come to live in the neighbourhood, and whom she had met only occasionally; and yet he was the most potent factor in her life. The fact almost angered her. Why should this middle-aged man constantly obtrude his personality upon her thoughts? Why should she care what he thought of Herbert Briarfield's proposal? But she did. Even that afternoon while he was pleading his love, she saw the dark face of the Eastern stranger.
Therefore while alone, thinking of what answer she should give to the young squire, a feeling like fear came into her heart as the servant announced the advent of Ricordo. She almost wished she had accepted Briarfield. She felt that he would protect her; that as his wife she would be free from the vague, indefinable fears which haunted her. Still, she would see him. No thought of telling the servant to send him away came into her mind. Indeed, although she feared him, she had a strange desire to talk with him.
When she entered the room where he was, she saw him rise with a stately bow. She thought he looked older than usual, while there was an expression in his eyes which she had never noticed before. Still, he spoke with his old easy grace, and he revealed nothing of the passion that burned in his heart.
"Will you excuse me for calling without an invitation, signorina?" he said. "But, truth to tell, I saw something this evening which compelled me."
She looked up at him with a fast-beating heart, for there was something in his voice which struck her as strange.
"You wonder what it was," he went on. "I will tell you. I met Mr. Herbert Briarfield a little while ago."
In spite of herself she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she retained her self-control.
"Surely there is nothing so wonderful in that," she said.
"No, not in seeing him; the wonder was in what I read in his face."
At this she was silent, while Ricordo went on:
"Yes, I saw love, hope, there—nay, more than hope, I saw what looked like conquest, certainty. Am I right, signorina?"
Again she felt the kind of mastery which his presence always exercised over her; but she determined not to yield to it. Rather, she was almost angry with him.
"I am at a loss to know why you should ask me what you saw in his face," she said.
"Because what I saw depends on you," he answered quietly.
"And what then, signore?"
"I know that, if I saw truly, you have spoken words of hope. I know that he believes you have given him reason to think himself a victor. That is why, signorina."
"Still, I can scarcely understand why such a matter can interest you, signore."
"No? That is why I came, signorina. When I saw his face wreathed with smiles; when I looked into his eyes, lit up with the thought of victory; when I heard his voice ringing with gladness, it revealed something to me. Ah, you have not guessed it. Who am I—a poor alien—that I should think such thoughts? But no man is master of his heart, Miss Castlemaine. For if I saw truly, and he is lifted into heaven, then I am hurled into hell. No, you do not think of this. Why should you? You regarded me as a mild-mannered foreigner, who had come to live in your beautiful neighbourhood. But did you think, when I told you that I wanted to stay here, that it was because of your scenery, your climate? You did not think that the fires of love could burn in my heart. Why should you? I dared not tell you. But your hills and dales are nothing to me; your healthful climate does not affect me; it was you—you who are everything. At first I tried to believe there was no danger. I laughed at myself for thinking of it; but when I saw the young squire's face, I could laugh no longer. I knew then that he had told you that he loved you, knew that he had asked you to be his wife; and then I could not rest—I could do nothing, but come to you and tell you. Listen, signorina, and of your goodness listen with kindness in your heart. You think of me as a man past his prime, as one who is middle-aged, cold-hearted. But you may remember that I told you I was but little older than you. It is true; I am but young in years; I have my life yet to live, and you will believe me, I am sure, when I tell you that never man felt towards a woman as I feel towards you. Signorina, I think of you always. Ever since I first saw you I have thought of you. Never for an hour have you been absent from my thoughts, never for an hour. Asleep or awake there is but one face, one form which haunts me. Only one voice rings in my ears. I have fought against this feeling—only God knows how—but all in vain, all in vain. Before I saw Herbert Briarfield to-day, before—ah, long before—I had dreamed of our future, dreamed with a joy which is unknown to you, and which you cannot understand, and rather than give up those dreams, I would die. Oh, yes, I would much rather die."
His voice quivered with passion, his eyes blazed with a strange light. All his old cynical indifference was gone. There could be no doubt about it, he was fearfully, terribly in earnest. Olive felt this, and the very earnestness of his appeal moved her. But more than that, the man's personality mastered her. He seemed to fill the whole of her horizon. At that moment Herbert Briarfield faded into nothing; it was as though he did not exist, while the past was dim, far—far away.
"For the last hour, no one knows what I have suffered," he went on; "for the very thought of you being his wife is terrible to me. You do not know what all this means to me; you cannot know; I could not tell you. To give up the hopes, the dreams of years—to have them destroyed——"
"Of years?" questioned Olive quickly. She was glad of this mistake which he had made. Somehow it gave her a chance of speaking, of giving some little expression to the wild tumult of her heart.
"Of years," repeated the other quickly. "Ah, you do not understand. I am an Eastern, and an Eastern thinks long, long thoughts. Like every man, I have dreamed of the woman I should love, and who should be all and in all to me; and do you know, signorina, that when out on the sands of the desert, all alone in the night, with the myriads of stars shining from the clear sky, I saw you. Yes, that was years ago. I remember it perfectly. No clouds flecked the wondrous blue of the sky, no moon shone, and yet the stars made darkness impossible. Nothing was to be seen around me but the wide stretch of sand, no sound stirred the silence. And I was alone, all alone with my heart and the Great Spirit of the desert. Then I saw your face, and heard your voice. Ay, as plainly as I have seen and heard this night. I knew I should meet you in reality. I dreamed of to-night then; I dreamed of what I should tell you, dreamed of what we should be to each other. Do you wonder, then, at what I felt as I saw the look in Briarfield's eyes, when I heard the laughter in his voice? What does he feel to what I feel? What are his hopes, his thoughts to mine? And so I come to you, signorina, and I ask you to forget him, to forget that he ever spoke to you. I ask you, nay, I plead with you—will you be my wife?"
Olive could hear the beating of her own heart, and she knew that Herbert Briarfield's pleadings were but as idle words compared with what this man had said. Nay more, she knew that although her fear for him had not left her, she could never marry the honest young Devonshire squire. Whether she loved Ricordo or no she was not sure, but she knew that the thought of him made it impossible for her to think of another. All distinctions of race, of education, of associations were broken down. There was no such thing as race. This man loved her, and his love stirred her heart in a way she could not understand. Everything was wondrously real to her, and yet nothing was real. Somehow his voice seemed the voice of long ago. When Herbert Briarfield had spoken to her that day, the thought of her promise to Leicester did not seem real, save when she thought of what Ricordo would say, but now the past became vivid again. She had never felt that she must tell Briarfield anything concerning her love for Leicester, but she knew that if she were to promise to be the wife of Ricordo, she could hide nothing from him. His eyes would be like the eyes of a basilisk piercing her very soul.
"Will you?" continued Ricordo. "I ask in all humility, but I cannot, no, I cannot take a refusal. I cannot conceive that you would cast me into darkness. You will fulfil the dream of my life, you will translate the dream into reality. Tell me, signorina, tell me!"
She looked into his face, and was frightened. He looked pale, in spite of years spent under an Eastern sun; his voice quivered, his hands trembled.
"I cannot answer you to-night," she replied. "I must have time to—to think."
"But when, when?" he asked.
"To-morrow—yes, to-morrow at this time."
"To-morrow night then—at this time I will be here. Good-night, signorina."
He walked away without another word. When he reached the park, instead of going down the drive, he turned away towards the golf links. Crossing the River Linden by a little wooden bridge, he climbed the hill, and presently he reached the broad expanse of moors. Then, and not until then, did he manifest any feeling whatever.
No one was near, the great moors were desolated by the night. Birds, and beasts, and flowers were asleep. The night winds swept gently across the spaces, making a kind of sad music. The man laughed aloud—a wild, harsh laugh. There was a kind of joy in the laugh, but it was unholy joy. It was the laugh of a man who believed he had succeeded in an evil thing—such a laugh as Mephistopheles uttered when he watched the ruin of Faust and Marguerite.
For hours he tramped the heathery moors; he seemed to rejoice in the silence of the night, in the loneliness of the region.
"To-morrow night," he said at length. "My answer is to come to-morrow. After six years I will hold her in my arms again. Six years! Great God, what I have been through in that time! Six years ago she drove me away from her, and she destroyed everything that was good in me, but now my time is come!"
For the first time for years he was unable to sleep that night. Hour after hour he tossed in his bed, and then presently, when the first dawn of morning appeared, he rose and went to the window.
How quiet and peaceful everything was! Save the faint twitter of the birds, who had not yet begun their glad thanksgiving chorus, and the gentle ripple of the river, no sound was to be heard. The valley lay in a light, thin haze, the dew hung on millions of blades of grass, the air was sweet with the purity of the morning. It seemed impossible for any one to cherish dreams of vengeance amidst such a scene, but there was no softening in Ricordo's eyes.
He dressed quickly and went out. The sun had now risen, and all nature had burst into new life. Everywhere the birds poured forth their song of praise, the lambs sported in the meadows, the cattle eagerly ate the dewy grass; everywhere life was a joy. He looked across the valley, and up on the hillside where Olive's home could be seen between the trees. The peacefulness and beauty of the scene seemed to affect him. A look of wonder came into his eyes, and there was an expression on his face difficult to describe. But it quickly passed away.
"No, no," he cried, "there is no hope for me. There is nothing worth living for now, save that. Oh, how I hate her!"
When he came back to breakfast, he was still the same polite but cynical man whom Mrs. Briggs had grown accustomed to.
"Beautiful mornin', sur. 'Tes lovely 'ere in the summer."
"But the winter will come, Mrs. Briggs."
"Then lev us enjoy the summer while we've a-got et, sur."
"You are a philosopher, Mrs. Briggs; but each must enjoy in his own way."
"Iss, tha's true; but I d'often feel as 'ow Vale Linden must be somethin' like the Garden of Eden where our first parents lived together."
"But the serpent came in, Mrs. Briggs."
"Iss, he ded. But you knaw the promise: 'The seed of the woman shall bruise the serpent's head.' And it did, ya knaw, sur, it did."
"The serpent seems to be pretty much alive," remarked
Ricordo.
Throughout the whole day he tramped the moors. Taking with him a pasty which Mrs. Briggs had baked, he stayed the entire day alone, and did not return until the sun was beginning to set behind the western hills. At precisely the same time as he had visited Vale Linden Hall the night before, he again approached the house. He was on the point of ringing when he saw Olive sitting beneath the broad-spreading branches of a great tree.
Eagerly he walked towards her.
"Signorina," he said eagerly, "I come to know my fate. On your answer depend the issues of my life. Am I to be lifted into paradise, or am I to be cast away into outer darkness?"
Olive was silent for a moment, then she said:
"Before I can answer you, signore, I have a confession to make."
"A confession!" he said. "Oh, but I shall be a very lenient confessor, if at the end—but you know what I would say. It would weary you to repeat what I said last night, neither is there need that I should. Surely you know what is in my heart. Since I saw you last night, no sleep has visited me. Half the night I tramped the moors, the other half I tossed sleeplessly on my bed. How could I sleep when I do not know what my future will be? Never mind the confession, signorina—tell me to be happy."
"I do not think I can," she replied.
"But you must, you must," he cried imperiously. "I tell you I will sweep away your objections like the wind sweeps away thistledown. You do not know what your refusal would mean to me."
"There is something I must tell you," she said quietly. "Last night you asked me to be your wife; at least let me tell you why—why I do not think I can."
A strange smile passed over Ricordo's face.
"Yes, tell me," he said quietly.
"I cannot marry you, because I promised I never would."
"Promised you would never marry me!" he cried. "Promised who?"
She told the story which we already know, little thinking of the effect it had upon her hearer. She omitted no detail which had any importance in the story. The man's presence caused every incident to come back to her with painful vividness. The past lived again. Sometimes it seemed to her that not a stranger, but Leicester, stood beside her while she spoke.
"And you loved this man—this—this Leicester?" he asked presently.
"Yes, I think so—that is, I must have loved him, or I should never have promised to be his wife."
"And you gave him up because he was a bad man?"
"Because he insulted me. Because he did not seek me because he loved me, but because he would win his wager. How could I do otherwise?"
"But he loved you really—that is, afterwards?"
"He said so; but how did I know? He told—those men that it was only to win the wager."
"And he explained to you that for him the jest had become an earnest purpose?"
He spoke quietly, as though he were a judge sifting evidence.
"Yes, but when I accused him of having admitted to those—men, less than a month before the wedding-day, that he only sought to win the wager, he could not deny it."
"And then you cast him off?"
"I told him I would never see him again."
"And he—what became of him? Ah yes, you told me, he dragged your name before a public meeting, he fell down drunk on the platform at a public meeting—and then he committed suicide."
"Yes." She shuddered as she spoke; she never felt the tragedy of the circumstance as she felt it now.
"And before the day fixed for your wedding, you promised never to marry another man?"
"Yes."
"And that is the reason why you have never married?"
She did not resent this mode of putting questions to her. Somehow she felt he had the right. He had asked her to be his wife, and he had the right to know. Besides, she was strangely wrought upon. If he had not slept since the previous night, neither had she.
"Yes—no," she answered—"that is, I have never met any one that I cared for—enough to marry."
"Then you love this man—Leicester—still?"
"No."
"He is nothing to you now?"
"No, I do not think so."
"You have never felt that you treated him harshly, unfairly; that you did not give him a chance of proving to you that his love was real?"
"What could I do?" she asked. "No woman with self-respect could consent to be treated in such a way. He had deceived me once, how could I trust him again?"
"How indeed?"
She looked at him quickly. She could not understand the tone of his voice, and again a great fear possessed her. He seemed to have mastered her will, rather than her heart. She stood almost in awe of this man whose life was still a mystery to her, but who had, in a way she could not understand, made her feel that he was all the world to her. For he had done this, and yet in her heart of hearts she did not feel that she loved him.
"Did it ever strike you," he went on, "that this man—Leicester, I think you call him—did not commit suicide?"
"But he did!"
"How do you know?"
"The papers, the coroner's inquest, the—that is, there could be no doubt. Letters addressed to him were found on his dead body."
"I was only considering it from the standpoint of one who is terribly interested in all this, more interested than even you can think. For your story has a vital meaning to me, signorina; you can imagine that. How can it be otherwise, when your answer to my plea means so much? For let me tell you this, although your refusal would mean more to me than anything you can dream of, I would not marry a woman half of whose heart was buried in the grave of another man. May I ask you another question, signorina?"
She nodded her head, wondering and fearing, she knew not why, what it would be.
"Suppose this man were not dead, supposing he is still alive, and were to come back, repentant perhaps, and reformed—would you marry him now?"
"No, no, never." She uttered the words eagerly.
"He is nothing to you now?"
"His memory is a black shadow on my life."
"But only a shadow?"
"That is all."
"In a sense, you have forgotten him, then?"
"Yes, he has—lately become—as—as nothing to me."
"Since how long?"
She did not answer.
"Signorina," and he spoke very gently, "is it since—since that day I spoke to you first up on the hills yonder?"
She did not reply, but she knew that his question contained the truth.
"You will be my wife, signorina? Forgive me if I cannot tell you all that is in my heart. But it is the dearest wish of my life—nay more, all I hope for, all I live for, depends on your answer. Let that story be forgotten. There, it is gone for ever. Tell me that you will be my wife."
"But my promise," she said weakly.
"Your promise—what is it?" he laughed. "A promise made in a moment of excitement, made when you did not realise what it meant. You did not think he would die, and since he is dead—what does it avail? That is all gone. It has no meaning. It has no more binding power than a gossamer thread. You must be mine. I was led here that this hour might come. You will be my wife, signorina?"
Still she hesitated, and then the man pleaded again, pleaded with burning words, and as he spoke barriers seemed to break down one by one. Her fear passed away, her heart grew warm again. He seemed to cast a kind of spell on her once more, and she had no desire to refuse him.
"You will be my wife," he said, "you will fulfil the dreams of years, you will bring light and joy into my life—say you will—Olive."
She held out her hand and looked up into his face, and then he caught her in his arms; but even as he did so it seemed as though the dead past came back again, and that it was Leicester, and not the stranger, who held her to his heart.