"You'll be back for your lunch, Mr. Ricordo?"
"No, Mrs. Briggs. I'm going for a long walk, a very long walk; I don't know how far."
"But you'll be back for dinner to-night?"
"Don't expect me till you see me."
The simple country-woman looked up into his face, and although she did not know why, she thought she saw a change in him. The old look of cynical melancholy was gone, the eyes were no longer half closed, but wide open, eager, expectant.
"Did 'ee sleep well last night, sur?"
"I had strange dreams, Mrs. Briggs, very strange."
"Pleasant, I hope, sur."
"They were very strange, very wonderful. Good-morning, Mrs. Briggs. Don't be anxious about me."
He left the house and took the road up to the golf links. When he reached the top of the hill, he stopped and took a long look at Olive's home. He knew she expected him this morning; he had told her that he would come and ask her father to consent to her becoming his wife. But he did not intend going; he wanted to be away among the moors, he wanted to think. His last evening's experiences had meant more to him than he knew. Mrs. Briggs was right when she thought she saw a change in him. The world yesterday and the world to-day were different, and he was different. He was no longer the thoughtful, melancholy Eastern gentleman who called himself Ricordo; he was Radford Leicester. Not only had he risen from the dead, but the past had risen. The buried years seemed to be with him again, in a way he could scarcely realise.
When he had left England long years before, he had left it with one thought in his mind. He would go away only to return again, and he would return only to be revenged on the woman he had loved. For his love had turned to hatred. As he had loved passionately, and with all the fervour of his nature, now he hated with as much intensity. For a few weeks he had lived in paradise only to be cast into an inferno, all the more ghastly because of the paradise in which he had lived. Through her he had become disgraced, through her he had become the byword of all who had known him. He had been a proud man, and this woman had wounded his pride, she had wounded his sense of justice, she had aroused all that was evil in him. And he had vowed vengeance. Revenge is one of the primitive passions of humanity, and when Leicester found himself cast on the sea of life, without anchor or rudder, he determined that he would make Olive Castlemaine suffer as he had suffered. His disgrace should be hers. If he had been the byword for all who had known him, so should she.
At length when the time was ripe he came to England again. In his mind only one thought held possession in his heart, only one feeling was dominant—his hatred for the woman whom he had once loved should find expression. When he came to Vale Linden, and saw how matters stood, he formulated his plans. The thing he had conceived was cruel, but he had gloated over it. After all, the veneer of civilisation counts for very little. Rob a man of religion and he is only a savage, with a savage's instincts and desires. The Mosaic code expresses the natural bent of the heart; "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." For years Leicester had brooded over his vow, and now the debt should be paid to the uttermost farthing. No thought of pity or of mercy came into his mind. He felt he had been wronged; love had turned to hatred, and he would be revenged. The savage in him was covered by the thin veneer of civilisation, but it was there.
He seemed in a strange mood as he walked rapidly across the moors. Sometimes he laughed quietly, as though some pleasant thought possessed him, and again he became moody, stern, and silent. But he was no longer the "Eastern gentleman with a fez." The day was warm, and he had clothed himself in a suit of light flannels, and instead of a fez he wore a panama. In spite of his black beard and brown skin he would no longer be taken for an Eastern. Every movement was that of an athletic Englishman. He was no longer acting a part; the old life was soon to come to an end, and he would begin anew. What that new life was he hardly dared to confess even to himself, but it was there, in the background of his mind.
"I have won, I have got my way, I have conquered," he said again and again as he strode along. "God, if there is a God, is giving me my revenge. And if there is any justice in the world, it is just."
Hour after hour he walked; he seemed to be trying to tire himself, to, in some way, throw off the abundant energy that surged within him. Presently he came to a shady dell, where he stopped. At his feet gurgled a stream of clear water. He lay flat on his face and took a long, deep drink.
"I wonder what whisky would taste like now," he said to himself. "It is six years since I touched it, six years; but the first year was a year of torment."
He shuddered at the thought of it. The memory of the time when it held him enslaved was terrible to him even yet.
"But I conquered it," he went on; "I vowed I would, and I have. Had the struggle been ten times as hard, I would have conquered it. No man is master of anything if whisky masters him."
He sat down beneath the tree and ate a simple lunch, then, taking another deep draught of the water, he continued his walk. A high hill was in front of him covered with gorse and bracken. In a few minutes he reached the top, and then he looked around him.
A look of recognition came into his eyes. He saw the cottage at which he had stayed after he had been driven out of Taviton; away in the distance was the pool which the country people said was haunted by the devil. He remembered it when he saw it last as dark and forbidding, but to-day it gleamed in the sunlight. Below him, not much more than a mile away, was the farmhouse in which he had sheltered himself from a storm, when he was planning what he should do with his life.
Scarcely without knowing why, he turned his footsteps towards the farm.
"I wonder if the woman lives there still?" he said to himself. "Let me see, what was she called? Yes, Mrs. Pethick, I remember now, and she talked religion to me. She believed in it, too!"
He cast his mind back over the years again, and remembered what the woman had said to him.
"I wonder, I wonder if there's anything in it, after all?" he said with a sigh.
Everything was quiet at the farmyard when he came to it. A sheep-dog lifted his head sleepily and prepared to growl, but, seeing a well-dressed man, decided that all was well. The chickens crouched beneath the shade of a tree; evidently the day was too warm for them to care to seek for food. Nothing was to be heard save the hum of insects and the occasional chirp of a bird. It was far warmer there in the farmyard than up among the moors where he had been walking.
Leicester walked up to the kitchen door and knocked.
"Come in," said a voice which, in spite of the years which had elapsed, Leicester remembered.
He opened the door and walked in. He recognised the kitchen at once—the cool slate floor, the huge chimney-place at the end, and the long deal table. Then a huge fire leaped up the chimney. Now there were only a few red embers, on which a kettle sang merrily.
Mrs. Pethick appeared as he entered. She was but little altered; the six years had sat lightly upon her, and she looked the same healthy, buxom country-woman that she had looked then. And yet Leicester thought he saw a sadder look in her eyes, and he wondered why it was.
"I wondered if you would sell me a glass of milk, ma'am," he said by way of introducing himself.
"Glass ov milk," she replied. "You c'n 'ave so much milk as you mind to, but I shaan't zell a drap a milk. 'Twud'dn be vitty."
"You mean that you won't take any money?" said Leicester.
"To be sure I wa'ant. I shud be shaamed to look 'ee in the faace, ef I wos to taake yer money fer a drop o' milk."
Leicester laughed at the woman's vehemence.
"Have 'ee come from far then, sur; you do look 'ot and tired?" she continued.
"Yes, I have walked a good many miles—from Vale Linden. Have you ever heard of it?"
"Iss, I've 'eerd ov it, but I've never been there. Why, that must be more'n twenty mile."
"Very likely. I've walked from there."
"And how be 'ee goin' back?"
"I'm going to walk."
"Good gracious! Why—but wudden 'ee ruther 'ave a cup of tay, sur?"
"I am afraid it would be troubling you."
"Trouble! Nothin' of the sort. Besides, I be goin' to 'ave one myzelf. Ef you'll jist wait two or three minits 't 'll be ready. There, you go and set in the armchair there, while I d' git et."
For the first time he realised that he was tired. He accepted the woman's invitation, and sat down. How quiet and peaceful everything was! Not a sound save the ticking of the eight-day clock and the kettle singing on the glowing embers. A little later Mrs. Pethick laid a snowy cloth on the end of the table nearest Leicester, and then brought a loaf of white bread and a basin of clotted cream.
"There now," she said presently, "draw yer cheer up and 'ave some tay; 't 'll be better than cloggy stuff like milk on a 'ot day like this."
It did not seem strange that this woman should treat him so kindly. He knew that her hospitality was nothing uncommon in rural districts. Nevertheless, he felt thankful to her. The sight of her face did him good.
"Es the tay to yer likin', then?" she asked.
"It is beautiful tea," he replied. "As for your Devonshire cream, 'tis delicious."
"I'm glad you like 'et, but I'd allays call et Cornish craim. I've lived 'ere now better'n twenty 'ear, but I can never make out that I bean't in Cornwall. I caan't fer sure. I was raired there, you zee. 'Ave 'ee ever bin to Cornwall then, zur, maakin' so bowld?"
"Never."
"Then you shud, zur. Some people do like Devonshire best, but I've never seed nothin' in Devonshire so purty as Truro revver. Besides, I do miss the Cornish revivals, I do."
"Revivals?"
"Iss; I was converted at a revival, I was. Not but wot we do 'ave good meetin's over to the Brianite Chapel, but ted'n like Cornwall. Be you a perfessor yerself then, sur?"
"A professor?—what of?"
"Of religion, zur. Be 'ee a perfessin' Christian?"
"I'm afraid not," he replied.
"Ah," she said, "I thot I ded'n see the joy of the Lord in yer eyes."
Try as he would, he could not help laughing. But there was nothing derisive in his laughter. The woman was too sincere.
"I am afraid I've seen too much of the devil to have the joy of the Lord," he replied.
"Aw, my deear," she said, dropping into the Cornish vernacular, "you do mind me of a gen'l'man wot called 'ere years and years agone, afore my 'usband and my pore dear boy died."
"Oh," said Leicester, "what gentleman?"
"Not that you be anything like en," assured Mrs. Pethick. "Aw, my deear, 'ee was as pale as a ghost, and as thin as a coot, 'ee was. Not but wot 'ee was a fine 'an'some gen'leman, for oal that. 'Twas, lev me zee, six years agone this last spring. Aw, 'ee ded talk funny, he ded. He zed 'ee loved the devil, 'ee ded, and towld me 'ow the devil tempted un to go to Crazzick pool, and sink, and sink, and sink, and thus find paice."
"And what did you say to him?"
"I towld un that 'ee'd never find no paice that way. Ther's no paice 'cept in the dear Lord. I'm sorry you be'ant a perfessin' Christian, sur."
It did not seem strange to Leicester that she should talk in this way. It seemed natural to her. Besides, in the rural parts of Cornwall and Devonshire, religion is the main topic of conversation among those who love the little roadside chapels.
"Well, as I was a-sayin'," she went on, "this gen'l'man ded zay funny things. He zed 'ee'd nuther father, nor mawther, nor wife, nor sweetheart, and that he ded'n care nothin' 'bout livin'. And then all ov a sudden he axed me wot I wud do ef I wos in his plaace."
"And what did you tell him?" asked Leicester.
"I towld 'im that he must seek the Lord, and fight the devil. Ther's no other way fer et, sur."
"And did he, do you think?"
"I'm feard not, sur. For afterwards it comed to me who he was. I d' believe he was the gen'leman who tried to git into Parliament for Taviton. I s'pose 'ee wos a awful character. He decaived 'is young laady, he was a ter'ble drunkard, and then afterwards, he thrawed hisself in the revver up to London. 'Twa'sn' he that ded conquer the devil, but the devil conquered he. Ah well, the poor thing es ded now ef 'twas 'ee; 'tes a sad pity."
"And do you believe if he'd sought the Lord, as you call it, that he would have conquered the devil?"
"I doan't believe, sur, I'm sure."
Again Leicester became interested in the country-woman's simple talk. There was such a ring of sincerity in her voice, that he could not but be respectful.
"Mrs. Pethick," he said, "I've been in many countries, and known many religions, but I don't find that the devil is easily killed."
"The Lord Jesus can do et, sur."
"How do you know?"
"Knaw, sur! I do knaw the difference in my heart before I was converted, and after. Besides, there was Aaron Goudge; you doan't know Aaron Goudge, I s'poase?"
"No, I don't know him."
"Well, ef you do look out of the winder you can zee his 'ouse. Aaron was a ter'ble character, 'ee was. He killed his wife, 'ee ded. Ah, poor critter, she ded live a life! Not as you may say oal to wance he ded'n kill her, but little by little. She jist faaded away, she ded. Aaron was a poacher too, and used to stail things. He was allays a-gittin' drunk and fightin'. He was a terror to the parish, he was. Aw, many es the time I've talked to un, bit 'twas oal no use. Grace ded'n tich his heart, so to spaik. Then after his poor wife died, his maid got into trouble, and ef there wos wawn thing in life Aaron cared 'bout, 'twas this maid, and the man that ruined her was Bill Liddicoat, Squire Hendy's gamekeeper. Nothin' could be proved 'gin un, and then, to maake matters wuss, Bill Liddicoat catched Aaron poachin', and he wos put to gaol. When Aaron comed out ov gaol, I spoke to un, and tried to do un good. 'Mrs. Pethick,' ses 'ee, 'I've sould myself to the devil to do fer Bill Liddicoat. I've offered un my soul, ef 'ee'll 'elp me, and 'ee've promised to. And I tell 'ee what, I'll never rest till I've paid out Bill Liddicoat, ef I've got to swing fer it, and ef I've got to go to hell for it, I'll be square with un.' 'But what good'll that do 'ee?' ses I. ''Tes oal I've got to live fer now,' ses 'ee, 'and I b'leeve I cud be 'appy ef I cud pay en out. And I will too, by God, I will!' I tried to raison weth un, but 'twas no use. You cud zee murder in 'is eyes, as he walked the roads. Then wawn mornin', we 'eard 'ow Bill Liddicoat was vound up in Ternouth woods in a pool of blood. He wad'n dead, but the doctors ded'n give much 'ope ov his life. Aaron was tooked up, and tried, but nothin' could be proved agin him. He proved wot is called a allyby—that es, he made out that he was zum plaace else that very night."
Leicester listened eagerly to the story.
"And was he ever found out?" he asked.
"No, as you may zay he wos never vound out. But aw, my deear, wot a way 'ee wos in. You never seed such a ghastly faace as 'ee 'ad. Ef ever the devil 'aunted a man, it was Aaron. He went as thin and pale as a ghoast. In a way he 'ad 'is rights in payin' out Bill Liddicoat, but he suffered the torments of the lost. He wudden tell nothin' and nothin' cud be proved agin un, but 'ee wos the most miserable man that ever walked the earth. Wawn day I spoked to un, but 'ee wudden zay nothin,' but 'The devil's a 'ard maaster, Mrs. Pethick.' I axed un to come to chapel, but he wudden come. Night after night I wrastled in prayer fur un, but 'ee wad'n altered. He jist went round like a man weth a 'alter round 'is neck. I've been the class laider up to the Bible Christian Chapel for a long time, and one night we zed as 'ow we would agree to pray fer Aaron, and we ded. For two weeks we prayed, and then wawn Sunday night Aaron comed to chapel. The praicher ded'n come that night, so we turned the sarvice into a prayer-meetin'. Oa, Aaron was convicted of sin, but 'ee wudden yield for a long while; but after a time he got 'pon his knees, and began to cry, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner.' But he ded'n git no liberty. 'Wy caan't I git paice?' he cried. So I said, 'Ef we repent ov our sins, He is faithful and just to fergive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' 'Wot do 'ee main by repent?' ses 'ee. 'Be sorry fer all the wrong you've done,' I sed; 'make yer paice with man and God, and fergive everybody, and then trust in the mercy of the Lord for salvation.' 'Wot! fergive Bill Liddicoat?' he zed; 'never!' 'But you've paid un out,' I zed; 'surely you can fergive un now.' ''Ow do you knaw I've paid un out?' he asked. 'The Lord tould me,' I said. For a long time he was hardened, then he said, 'Lord, ef You'll fergive me, I'll fergive Bill Liddicoat.' And still 'ee ded'n git no paice. At this my faith was a bit shaken; then it comed to me that I hadn't quoted the Scripture right, so I repeated et agean. 'Ef we confess our sins,' I sed. 'Confess wot?' ses 'ee. 'Confess wot you've done to Bill Liddicoat, and ax un to forgive 'ee,' I sed. 'Wot, ax Bill Liddicoat to forgive me?' he said; 'wot, 'ee that 'ave ruined my little maid? I'll burn in hell first.' 'If ye fergive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,' I said. 'Is that in the Bible?' ses 'ee. 'Our dear Lord said it Himself,' I replied. Oh, the struggle was terrible. 'I've bin in hell for weeks,' ses 'ee, 'ever since I tried to kill Bill. I thought ef I 'ad my revenge I should be 'appy, but I was in hell.' Then oal of a sudden he cried out, 'Lord, ef You'll give paice, ef You'll make a new man ov me, I'll do wotever You want me to. I'll forgive Bill Liddicoat, I'll ax un to forgive me, I'll confess that I tried to kill un. 'Tes ter'ble 'ard, but I'll do et.'"
Mrs. Pethick stopped in her recital, and looked at the eager face of the man who was watching her.
"Would you believe et, sur, his faace changed in a moment. He seemed to become like a little child. Then he got on his feet, and praised the Lord. That was five years agone, and Aaron Goudge is a local preacher now, and the happiest man in the parish. As for Bill Liddicoat, well, sur, he got better, and now Aaron's maid is his wife. Tha's wot the dear Lord Jesus can do fer a man, sur."
Leicester made no reply. He tried to think of something mocking to say, but the words would not come. It seemed to be impossible to call up a sneer in the face of the woman's simple faith.
"Plaise forgive me, sur, for talkin' like this. But I was prayin' when I heerd you knock; besides, in a way you do make me think of the poor gen'l'man that comed 'ere years agone, and wot throwed 'isself into the revver afterwards. As I sed to 'ee, ef we doan't conquer the devil, 'ee'll conquer we. You be'ant offended, be 'ee, sur?"
"Offended? Certainly not." He tried to laugh, but somehow the laugh died on his lips. "But you see, it's—it's a long time since I heard any one talk like this."
"Es et, sur? Ah, but the dear Loard Jesus es oal I've got to live for now. Four years ago my 'usband died, and then my boy was killed in the war. I felt 'ard and bitter for a little time. But 'tes oal right, I shall meet them again. They will not come to me, but I shall go to them."
Leicester rose to his feet, and looked for his hat.
"You wa'ant 'ave another cup of tay, sur?"
"No, thank you."
"You'll forgive an old woman, sur, and I knaw I'm very bould in spaikin' to 'ee, and I'm fast baitin' on for sixty, but you do'ant look 'appy, sur. I'm tould sometimes that I talk too much 'bout the Lord Jesus, but He's all I've got now, and d'reckly you comed into the 'ouse, I had a feelin' that you wad'n 'appy. Be 'ee, sur?"
"No, great God, no," and Leicester seized his hat as though he were angry.
"Then you do'ant mind an old woman prayin' for 'ee, do 'ee, sur?"
"Yes, pray for me, I need it," he said. "Thank you very much for the tea, and, by the way, I want you to give something for me to your chapel."
He gave her a sovereign, and walked away. A few minutes later he was out on the moors again.
When he reached the top of the hill he drew a long, deep breath. Away on every hand stretched the fine, undulating country—patches of wood, homely farmsteads, well-cultivated fields, and broad stretches of moorland. It was a day to rejoice in, it was a scene to revel in; but Leicester did not rejoice. And yet he had gained that for which he had struggled. Olive Castlemaine had promised to be his wife, and thus he would be able to wreak the vengeance over which he had brooded. Last night the thought had brought him a cruel, savage joy; that morning even he had gloated over the thought of his revenge; but now all was different. Suppose he had his way, suppose he played the game he was playing to the bitter end, what would be the good of it all? He would have fulfilled his vow; but somehow it seemed mean, paltry, unworthy. Besides, his scheme was of a devilish nature. It was savagery, coated with the veneer of civilisation. Murder would be far more merciful.
"That woman knows a secret to which I am a stranger," he said as he looked down on the lonely farmhouse. "Of course I could explain away all she said, and I could laugh at her childish superstition, but she possesses something which is hidden from me. And she was right, too. What is a man the better for revenge? When one has had his eye for an eye, when he has given measure for measure of scorn and disgrace, who's the better? Suppose I have my way and—do what I said, what then? Suppose, when I have worked my will, I go away, leaving only desolation and disgrace behind, should I be any happier? No, I should still be in hell!"
He strode along like a man in anger.
"I felt that I was Radford Leicester again when she kissed me last night," he went on. "I was at The Beeches again, and for a minute I was in heaven—yes, in heaven. I was the lover once more, and, great heaven, how sweet it was to love!"
A new light came into his eyes, and he looked more like the Leicester of old, Leicester at his best. For a moment dark passions were dispelled by something higher, purer; the sunshine of joy rested upon him, but only for a moment.
"No," he cried, "that's all gone. I'll see the thing through to the end. Besides, it is not I whom she loves. It is a rich foreigner, a partner in the Great Tripoli Company, a Signor Ricordo, a man with an Italian father and a Moorish mother. Radford Leicester is nothing to her; she said so. She declared she could never marry him; ay, and in spite of her promise to him, she is willing to marry Ricordo. A woman's promise! Byron was right, in spite of all canting moralists. A woman's fidelity is like thistledown, and her promises are written in the sands.
"I wonder why that woman is so happy?" he went on presently. "A lonely widow, she has lost her husband, and her son was killed in the war, and yet she is happy. Her faith is strong, she has no fear. Of course she's simple, and she's ignorant; but if she's happy—great God, what does all our learning amount to? What is the value of all this culture of which we boast? She might have known all about me in telling that story of Aaron Goudge, for, after all, the motives of that sullen blackguard were quite as high as mine. Liddicoat wronged him and he tried to murder him. Olive Castlemaine wronged me, and I have brooded over something which is really worse than murder. He had his way, and then lived in torments; and supposing I have my way, what shall I be the better? Oh, what a bitter mockery life is!"
He strode along the valley which he had entered, and then, climbing the hill before him, came upon a long stretch of waste land.
"She told me she loved me," he went on; "told me that, in spite of struggle, her heart went out to me; told me, that while she feared me, she was never happy unless I was near; ay, and she told me, that although her promise never to marry seemed binding when she thought of others, it seemed to become less and less real when she thought of me. Well, why can't I be happy? Why can't I keep up my character, and live in happiness with her? She loves me, and I—no, I don't—I hate her still—yes, I hate her more than ever!"
But evidently he was not satisfied. The simple farmwoman had started him off on a new train of thought.
"'Nothing is ever worth doing wrong for; it never was, and it never will be.' Who said that? It's true after all. We may sneer at right and wrong, we may say that right and wrong alter with different peoples, different countries, but they remain; yes, and right is heaven, and wrong is hell. And I know enough of life to have learnt that hate means black night. The joy of it is devil's joy, only to turn to bitterness and gall. What is revenge, after all, but going to hell yourself in order to drag some one else there? And that's what I've been thinking of. But if I don't, what then? Let me think of that now; but no, I won't. I'm not one who vows to do a thing, and then throws it over lightly."
The sun began to lower, and the air grew cooler. The sweet, fresh air of the moors fanned his brow, and it seemed to bring healthier thoughts to him.
"Winfield refused to stay with me as my guest, when he knew what was in my heart," he said, "and Winfield does not profess to be a saint; he's only just a clean-minded, honest fellow. Was he right, I wonder? Why, after all, can't I be happy? Let me think now; yes, I will think it out. Suppose I give up my scheme of revenge; suppose I go away and leave my plans unrealised. Not that I am going to do it; but suppose, for the sake of argument, that I did, what then? I should never see her again, and she would think of me as an Eastern adventurer who proposed to her, and then was obliged to leave the neighbourhood because he feared the law or something of that sort. Never see her again!"
He stopped in his walk as though some unseen force barred the way.
"Never see her again!" he repeated time after time. The thought seemed to stagger him as it became more and more real to him.
"I hate her!" he cried. "Did she not drive me away from her, and in driving me away sent me to regions which——"
He started on his walk again.
"I loved her last night for a minute; yes, I loved her then. I forgot everything, and I was in paradise. I loved her; yes, and O God, I believe I love her now!"
For an hour he walked along with stern, set face. Away in the far distance he could see the tor which rose up behind the ninth hole, at the golf links. With that as a landmark, he could not lose his way. Not that he would have cared if he had. A great passion burned within him, to which even he had been a stranger.
"Could I—could I—after all, do what I have made up my mind to do? Could I, out of pure devilry and desire for revenge, drag her name into the mud of disgrace? Could I make her the byword for gossiping women? Could I leave her a wrecked, ruined woman just because I——Besides, what should I feel? Hell! No hell which I have ever entered would be as deep as that. Talk about a bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone—it would be nothing to what I should feel."
Again he thought of the woman at the farmhouse, while the story of Aaron Goudge came back to him; and as he thought, a new feeling rose within him as though he heard something saying, "Be a man; do the thing that is right."
"What is right?" he asked. "Suppose I were to go to her now and tell her everything—everything. What would she do? She would drive me away as though I were a leper. She told me that she did not love Radford Leicester, and that she would never marry him, even if he came back repentant and worthy. How much less would she love him, then, if I were to tell her the whole truth? If I was unworthy of her six years ago, how much less am I worthy of her now! Let me think, now. There are three things I could do. First, I could go away and send to her telling her that Signor Ricordo was an adventurer and had to fly for fear of his life. Then all would be as though I had never come. No, it would not. Then I hated her; but now, yes, I believe I hate her still! But I should give up my scheme of vengeance, and let her remain to live her own life. That is the first. Then, second, I could carry out my scheme. I could go on as I had marked it out. I could leave her, wounded and disgraced, as I should know she would feel herself wounded and disgraced. And oh, the thought of revenge is sweet! Then, third, I could go to her, cap in hand, and tell her the whole story—that Leicester was dead, but that he has risen again. But in either case I should have to leave her; I should go away, and never see her again. And could I bear that? No. And that reminds me, there is another way. I, Signor Ricordo, could marry her. I could live here. I could play the squire; I could be happy. But could I? To know all the time that I was a living lie! Besides, the truth would be bound to come out. No, there would be no rest nor peace that way."
Everything, he scarcely knew why, was changed. The thing he had longed for was within his reach, and yet he did not want to stretch out his hand and grasp it. The kiss which still burned on his lips somehow roused within him new feelings. The story of the country-woman changed the course of his thoughts. He still longed for revenge, but the sweetness of it was gone.
There was a change in the look of the sky. Right in front of him, and behind the tor, a great blue-black cloud was rising rapidly. In a few minutes it seemed to cover the whole of the southern horizon. The wind blew colder, the air seemed charged with sulphur. Not that he minded. Indeed, he scarcely noticed the change of the atmosphere. Presently the sun seemed to change colour. First it shone through a great purple haze, and then it was blotted out.
He found himself shivering. Across the wild wastes of the moors he heard a moan, like the moan of some despairing monster. He knew it was only the wind, but to him there was a kind of personality behind it. The great spirit of the moors was breathing across the broad expanse, just as he had heard the spirit of the desert breathe across the great wastes of sand.
A few minutes later he heard the distant rumbling of thunder, and although it was yet day, it became almost as dark as a winter evening. The thunder came nearer, and then he saw a flash of lightning. He still trudged on. The weather did not matter. The storm in his heart drove away all thoughts of the storm that was coming upon him.
Again the thunder rolled. This time it was nearer, while the flashes of lightning were more vivid. The rain began to fall too, not rapidly, but large, heavy drops splashed against his face.
"No, I can't give up the scheme of years," he cried. "I won't be the plaything of a passing fancy. She might have made a man of me; but instead she sent me into outer darkness. I might have been a good man if—if she had—but should I? Was my reformation anything but a passing mood? Might I not, if I had married her, dragged her down into the mire even as I have planned to do since? After all, I was but a straw in the wind. The moment she gave me up I flew to the drink and to the devil. What right had I, after all, to expect anything else?"
In spite of himself, he gave a start. It seemed as though right above his head the heavens were torn in twain, while the whole sky was lit up with blue vivid flashes of light. The rain fell in torrents.
"How relentless Nature is, after all!" he thought. "What can man do in face of such forces as those? Is God behind it all, I wonder? If so, what is the use of our working against Him? Let the breath of the Almighty touch a man, and he shrivels like the leaves in autumn. Unless he works in unison with Nature, Nature crushes him. Have I been trying to do battle against God all these years, I wonder?"
The rain continued to fall, but he still trudged on. He had a sort of savage delight in feeling the rain beat against him, in seeing the lightning's flash and hearing the thunder's roar.
"I was a blind fool," he cried. "I believed that I hated her, I believed I should hate her for ever. Yet, at the first touch of her lips on mine, I find myself as weak as a child, and still I can't give up my dreams of revenge. What playthings we are, after all!"
A moment later he was blinded, first by a flash of lightning, which he thought had struck him, and then by the rain, which came upon him in a deluge.
"I can't battle against this," he said; "it's impossible, yet there's no shelter anywhere." Through the blinding storm he saw a huge rock. At least that would shelter him somewhat, and with difficulty he made his way towards it. From there he could watch the tornado of the elements.
"Is there a God behind it all, I wonder?" he thought as thunder-clap followed thunder-clap, and the whole heavens were lit up with streaks of light. "If there is, does He care? Yes, there is a God, there must be. I wonder if that woman was right? Did Jesus Christ come to tell us what God was like? Is there any meaning in that story? She believes it, and she says that that man Aaron Goudge found peace in it. I wonder, now; I wonder."
"God help me!" he cried presently. It was an involuntary prayer. It had passed his lips even before he knew, and yet, although he knew it not, it was the natural expression of a soul in torment.
He laughed aloud. "I've been praying," he said. "Well, why not? I wonder now if God cares? Would He hear me if I spoke to Him?"
The thought struck him as curious. He had scarcely ever prayed in his life, but somehow there was a meaning in it now. Some words came back to his mind, like the memory of some forgotten dream. "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Heavenly Father. Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened unto you."
Who said that? Yes, it was Jesus, the Man of Galilee, who claimed to be the Son of God. Was God His Father? Well, and why should he not pray?
Perhaps it was because of the experience through which he had been passing, perhaps it was because of the storm which swept in mad fury across the moors, or perhaps it was because of a deeper reason which no man can put into words, but Leicester knelt down on the heather and prayed while the lightnings flashed and the thunder rolled.
He uttered no wild, incoherent cries, he scarcely spoke a word; but he prayed, and as he prayed the whole of his life seemed to sweep before him. Things forgotten, thoughts that were strange, visions seen only from afar came to him. There was something awesome, majestic about it all—the storm-tossed man pouring out his soul to his Maker, amidst the storm-rent heavens.
"Great God, tell me what to do, and I'll do it," he said at length. No voice came out of the skies, no message came to him from out of the angry winds. The storm still swept on in wild fury. How long he knelt he knew not, it might have been hours, but he knew that he had entered deep in the heart of things. A man who really prays enters into an experience to which the prayerless man is a stranger. What thoughts passed through his mind I cannot tell; perhaps he could not have told himself—he only knew that the foundations of his life had been broken up. He realised what he had been, he knew what he was. He saw life as he had never seen it before—saw how poor and vain were the thoughts of man, how great were the thoughts of God. The great deeps seemed to be revealed to him, and he knew that no man lives unless he links himself to the Eternal Heart, the Heart made real by the Son of God, who lived and died. The reasonings of man seemed but the crying of children; the logic of the schoolmen no more than children's castles on the sands. There were great deeps beyond all their theories, deeps never to be understood by the mind, but felt by the soul. God had spoken.
When he rose to his feet, he also knew that he had risen from the dead. There was a new life in his heart, and he was conscious of it. The Radford Leicester of hours before, and the Radford Leicester of now, were different. He had passed from death unto life.
For a time he walked on, almost unheeding whither he went, but presently, as the sky became clearer, he saw the dim outline of the tor which had been his landmark. As he saw it, he realised that he was not more than an hour's walk from Vale Linden. In two hours or so he would see Olive again, and he would tell her what was right for him to tell. For he knew what he had to do now. The only course was the right course, and he must walk in it. He knew what it meant, too. When he told Olive who he was, and related the story of the past six years, she would bid him go away, as she had bidden him long ago; but he must tell her all. He owed it to her, and he would pay his debt. The future was not in his hands, but in God's, and he would fight against his Maker no longer.
"Good gracious, sur, you've been out in all this weather."
"In every bit of it, Mrs. Briggs."
"And there's not a dry thread on 'ee."
"Not one." And he laughed as he spoke.
"I've bin wonderin' 'bout 'ee for 'ours. It's bin a ter'ble storm."
"It's been very wonderful. Have you any hot water, Mrs. Briggs?"
"Plenty, sir."
"I'll have a bath, and dress for dinner. The simpler the meal the better, Mrs. Briggs."
"Certainly, sur. I'm thankful you are safe. I was afraid you was struck by the lightning, sur. Were you afraid of it all, sur?"
"Yes, I think I was."
"Well, thank God, you are safe, sur."
"Yes, I thank God too, Mrs. Briggs."
The woman looked at him curiously; there was a new tone in his voice, a new light in his eyes. He no longer seemed a "strange Eastern gentleman" to her.
He ate his dinner in silence. He had but little appetite, but he went through the form of eating for fear Mrs. Briggs should think he was not pleased with her cooking.
Presently he rose to go out. "Goin' out again, sur? I should have thought you'd been tired after bein' out in all that storm. I should think you don't get any wilder storms in the parts you've come from."
"Different, Mrs. Briggs, entirely different."
"I suppose it's very grand, in they furrin parts," said Mrs. Briggs, "but I don't want to leave Vale Linden."
"Nor I, Mrs. Briggs; but I shall have to."
"Not yet, sur, I hope."
"Yes, very soon, I expect."
"I am sorry. I was hopin' you'd stay a long time, I was, for sure. The house won't seem like the same without 'ee. You do git more English too, sur, makin' so bold."
"Thank you, Mrs. Briggs; you've been very good to me."
"You won't be laivin' before the end of the summer, will 'ee, sur?"
"Very likely I shall leave to-morrow."
"Nothin' wrong happened, I 'ope, sur?"
"A great deal has happened, but nothing wrong. Mrs. Briggs, do you believe a man can rise from the dead?"
"Not in these days, sur. Of course they did in the time of our Lord. There was Lazarus, and the young man in the village of Nain. Of course the Lord can do whatever He will."
"Yes," said Leicester quietly, "I believe He can."
He went out into the night. The storm had gone now, and the sky was cloudless. After the wild tempest, a peace had come. The air was fresh, and pure, and sweet. Nature was a parable of his own life. After the black death of winter came the resurrection of spring, after the wild storm had come a peace. Life was new to him. He felt it in every fibre of his being; old things had passed away, but he felt a great sorrow in his heart. For he knew what lay before him. From that night Signor Ricordo would be no more, and he, Radford Leicester, must go out into the wilderness again.
He hesitated for a moment, and then went indoors again to his own room. In a few minutes he came out again, and started for Vale Linden Hall.
"It is the will of God," he said, as he went, "it is the price I must pay. Well, I will pay it to the uttermost farthing. Then I will go away, and live my new life."
He was not long in reaching the house, and he was admitted without a word.
The servant opened the door of the drawing-room, which, although the sun had set, was far from dark. The time was summer, and the air was so clear that darkness seemed impossible.
"I will light a lamp, and then I will tell Miss Castlemaine that you are here," she said.
"No, no," said Leicester, almost eagerly; "do not trouble about a lamp. It would be a pity to spoil the light of the moon. Besides, it is almost as light as day. Tell Miss Castlemaine that I am waiting here, will you?"
The servant went away without a word; she did not pay much attention to the gentleman's behaviour. What could be expected of these strange men from the East? They could not be expected to act like civilised Englishmen.
"Signor Ricordo is in the drawing-room, miss," she said to Olive. "I wanted to light the lamps, but he asked me not to. He said the moonlight was so very beautiful."
Olive laughed almost nervously. She had been in a state of suspense all the day. She had expected him soon after breakfast, and she wondered, with many fears in her heart, why he had not come. If she had known all that had been in Leicester's mind that day, she would have feared still more. More than once she had felt angry. To say the least, it was strange that after she had promised to be his wife in the evening, he should fail to come to her in the morning, and she realised more than ever that strange dread of her promised husband. Besides, the thought of Leicester had come back to her again. She remembered how, after they were engaged, he spent every moment he could tear himself away from his affairs at her side. This man, on the other hand, had spent the whole day away from her, while only a narrow valley lay between them. All sorts of strange questions haunted her, and especially was she anxious when her father asked her why he had not come according to his promise. Every hour of the day she had expected him, and when, after the storm had passed, John Castlemaine drove away to dine at a neighbouring house, a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon her.
But he had come now, and she hurried towards him. When she entered the room, she saw him only dimly. He was standing in a part of the room where dark shadows fell. She went towards him timidly, her heart beating wildly. She no longer thought of Leicester now; this man filled the whole horizon of her life. When she was within a few feet of him, she stopped. Her heart became as heavy as lead. Why did he not come to meet her? Why did he stand there in the shadow, without moving a step towards her, after he had been away all the day?
"You are come at last," she said.
"Yes. Will you come and sit by me?"
Almost fearfully she did as she was bidden. The sofa on which they sat was so much in the darkness that she could not see his face plainly; only the dim outline of his form was visible. He acted in a most unlover-like fashion. He did not even offer to take her hand. She almost feared to sit by his side.
"Aren't you—you very late?" she stammered. "Is anything the matter?" She hardly knew what she was saying, and the silence had become oppressive.
"Yes," he replied, "something is the matter."
"You—you are not ill, are you?"
"I don't know—oh, no, certainly not—not in the way you think."
"Why did you not come earlier—this morning, as you promised?" she asked. It was not a bit what she meant to say, but she had lost control over herself.
"I've been very busy—that is, I've been finding out something."
"What?"
"I've been making inquiries about—Leicester."
"About whom?"
"About Leicester. I've discovered something."
Her heart ceased to beat. What did he mean by speaking to her like this? What could he have discovered about Leicester? Besides, his voice was strange. She no longer heard the low, fluid tones of an Oriental, but the voice of the past.
"What?" she asked.
"I've discovered that Leicester is not dead."
"What!"
"I've discovered that Leicester is not dead. That is why I've been away all the day. It has put everything that is—in a new light."
She sat as moveless as a statue. His voice sounded far away. It was very strange too, and yet it was very familiar.
"Not dead?"
"No. There can be no doubt about it. He died, but he has risen again."
A strange feeling possessed her heart. She was not sure whether it was an overmastering joy, or a terrible fear. Perhaps it was both. But the news was also a great shock, and the room seemed to swim around her.
"But, but," she stammered presently, "how do you explain—the—the, that is——"
"How do I explain the coroner's inquest, and all that was associated with it? I will tell you. It is darker than I thought. Will you light the lamp?"
Like one in a dream she did as she was bidden. Her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold the match to the wick of the lamp; but she succeeded at length, and the mellow light filled the room.
"There," she said, and she tried to laugh, "I have managed to do it. But tell me you are jesting with me."
"No, I am not jesting. Look at me."
She turned to him as he spoke, but she was powerless to speak a word.
"Did I not speak the truth? Has not Leicester come to life again?"
She looked at him like one spell-bound. There, standing before her, was Leicester. The huge black beard and moustache were shaven off; he no longer wore the fez which had helped to give him an Eastern appearance. His face was paler. He was stouter than the Leicester of old, and there was still a suggestion of strangeness about him; but the black beard and moustache, the fez, and the Eastern appearance were gone. She could not doubt her eyes.