"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.
"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."
"Why?"
"It's not worth while."
Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the man was in earnest or not.
"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.
"Three months."
"In what part, if I may ask?"
"London."
"And you like London?"
"Yes – no – London is hell."
He spoke quietly, yet there was a strange intensity in his tones.
"Pardon me," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "I do not particularise when I say that London is hell. It only appears more like hell than other places, because there are more people there."
"You are alluding to the east of London?"
"And to the west. To the east most, perhaps, because the people are more real there. There is less artificiality, less veneer. The nearer to real life you get, the nearer to hell. And yet I don't know; the same fires burn in the west, although they are more carefully hidden from view."
"You have visited other parts of England?"
"Yes, visited."
"And how did the other parts strike you?"
"Still hell, but duller."
Herbert Briarfield looked towards Signor Ricordo with a kind of nervous laugh. Even yet he did not know how to regard him.
"I agree with your – what do you call him? – Dr. Johnson. When he was asked where he would rather live in the summer, he said, 'On the whole, London.' 'And where in the winter?' asked his questioner. 'Ah, in winter,' he said, 'there is no place else. Yes, London is interesting.'"
"What impressed you most in London?" asked Briarfield, for want of a better question.
Ricordo hesitated a second.
"The friendliness of the waiters, I think," he replied.
All three burst out laughing.
"Good," said Herr Trübner. "Ah, it is true, true. A man walks London streets and never meets a friend; but let him go into a restaurant, and the waiters take him into their confidence immediately."
"And did you visit our national institutions while in London?"
"Yes, I worked very hard. I saw everything. East, west, north, south, I went everywhere – everywhere. I wanted to see, to understand."
"And your impressions?"
"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"
"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"
"The east."
"Why?"
"Because the people are so much happier."
"You are joking."
"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to the places of amusement, I watched the people's faces. In the west I paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah! they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of titillating people's palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah, you should have seen the people eat there! Even those who were poorest, and who had only their – what do you call them? – their bloaters, their tripe and onions, their black puddings – ah, but they enjoyed those things far more than your fashionable diners at the Savoy! Oh yes, I went everywhere. I went to the churches, the chapels. Again the same difference struck me. In the east, there was a sense of reality; but in the west – ah, Great Allah! forgive me!"
"Then you would rather live in the east?"
"Yes and no, Signor Briarfield. Yes, because, in spite of poverty and wretchedness, I saw more of what we call happiness in the East End; no, because, although the people seemed happy, to me it was hell. The sights, the smells, the sounds! Still, if I were given to pity, I should pity your people who live in Mayfair, rather than those at Stepney."
"You went to the House of Commons?"
"I went everywhere."
"And you saw – ?"
"The puppets – yes. It was very amusing – very."
"What amused you most?"
"The pretence at being in earnest, I think. But the machinery was too plain to enjoy it really. They do things better at the theatres. There the players pretend to be puppets, but convince you that they are real. At Westminster, the players pretend they are real, but convince you that they are puppets. After all, your House of Commons did me good."
"How?"
"It gave me a sort of faith in human nature, in the simplicity of the people who send the actors there. It proves that the people of England are more fools than knaves. But it amused me vastly. No, Mr. Briarfield, your Dr. Johnson was right. If one must live in England, I should say London is the best place in the summer; while in the winter there is no place else."
"One wonders, what led you to this out-of-the-way place, then?"
"I wanted to be quiet. London is a maelstrom, from which I got out with difficulty, but I did get out. Then I said, 'Let me be quiet, let me think.' Then I met a man who had been here, and who said it was the most beautiful place in England. Moreover, he told me a romantic story about the lady who reigns here. And we Easterns love romance. So I came. I have not seen the beautiful lady yet. Do you know her?"
"Yes. I know her."
"Ah, I should like to hear about her. Will you tell me what she is like?"
"I am afraid I have not your gift of description, Signor Ricordo."
The man with the fez looked at Briarfield steadily out of his half-opened eyes, but not a muscle of his face moved. What he thought, it was impossible to tell, but that he drew his own conclusions was evident.
"I have been told that she is very gifted, very beautiful, very pious," he said.
"You speak our language well," said Briarfield; "but for a slight foreign intonation, I should take you for an Englishman."
"Allah forbid!" he cried, lifting his hands beseechingly.
"You would not like to be an Englishman?"
"If I must be of one country, yes. But I am of no country. If you have a country, you have responsibilities, duties, prejudices."
"And you are without these?"
"Would you have me assume them?"
"Without them no man lives his full life."
"With them he becomes narrow, insular, and what your poet calls 'cribbed, cabined, and confined.'"
"They are the necessary limitations of our humanity."
"Does not that depend on the purpose for which a man lives, signore? Besides, there are things which happen to some men which say to them, 'Messieurs, you are without country, without father, mother, friends, and responsibilities, and therefore without prejudices; live your lives in your own way.'"
"That is impossible, Signor Ricordo."
"And why?"
"A man is always responsible to the humanity of which he forms a part, he is responsible to the God who made him."
"Always to the latter, not always to the former."
"You believe in God, then?"
The stranger was silent a moment. An expression shot across his face which suggested pain.
"A man might be what you call an atheist in London, Signor Briarfield," he said, "with the grey, leaden sky, its long lines of streets, and its myriads of men and women crawling over each other like ants on an ant-hill; but in the East, amidst the great silences – no, a man must believe in God there. The sun by day, and the moon and stars by night, with the great silence brooding over him – great God, yes!"
Briarfield was struck dumb by the quiet intensity of his words.
"This is a man who has suffered," he thought; but he said aloud, after an awkward silence, "You are a Mohammedan, I suppose, signore?"
"I," replied the other, "I am nothing, signore, and I am everything – Christian, Mohammedan, Brahmin, what you will. I believe in them all, because all postulate a devil."
"You believe in a devil, then?"
"Have I not lived in London? Ay, and in Morocco also. But above all, I have lived!"
Had some men said this, there would be something theatrical, melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the others never thought of it.
"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired. You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great philanthropist, I suppose?"
"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.
"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of gratitude to my benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me, why did she build this place?"
"I know of nothing except what the world knows. She was anxious to befriend those whom such a place as this would help, so she built it. She also keeps the house at Vale Linden open; that is, she invites all sorts of people there as her guests. She has been a Lady Bountiful to the district."
"Distributes tracts, and all that?"
"I do not know. She has never given me one."
"She is simply one of these 'viewy' women, then?"
"She must have views, certainly, else she would not have done what she has."
Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.
"I think I see," he said presently.
"What do you see?"
"Her motives."
"What are they, then?" asked Briarfield almost angrily.
"Notoriety – and, shall we say, position?"
"Are you not judging without sufficient reason?" asked Herbert Briarfield warmly. "You have never seen Miss Castlemaine."
"I am no longer a boy," said the other, with a sigh.
"What might that mean?"
"That I have seen women – in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Damascus, Constantinople, Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta. Yes, I have seen them – women of all tongues, all nationalities. And everywhere they are the same."
"Well, and what is the sum total of your experience?"
"I would rather not tell you."
"Why? It is always well to know the truth."
"Mr. Briarfield, if there is one thing I am afraid of it is the truth. For many years I have made it my business to keep my eyes from beholding the truth; nevertheless, it always keeps thrusting itself upon me – always. That is why I am a sad man."
"Perhaps you have only seen one side of life."
Again a look suggesting pain shot across the stranger's face, but he still spoke quietly.
"Mr. Briarfield," he said, "I have even read the book which is to the English people a text-book of religion. I fancy I am somewhat of an exception, but I have. Well, the part of that book which interests me most is the Book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps that is because the experience of its writer is my own experience. In all essential features, Solomon, or whoever was the author, wrote my experience. I have tried everything, Mr. Briarfield."
"And your conclusion?"
"Solomon's."
"If that were my creed," said Briarfield, "I should commit suicide."
"Of course I have thought of that – without fear. But I came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth while. 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come! Ay, there's the rub.' Besides, I've something to live for."
"According to your creed I do not see what," said Briarfield. "It would be interesting to know."
"Ah, but I have something to live for, Mr. Briarfield."
"I suppose I might be intruding on your privacy if I sought to know what it was?"
"It's not love, and it's not money," said Ricordo. "Ah, Herr Trübner, I apologise. I have monopolised your guest completely, and that is unforgivable. You have a great gift, my friend – all the Germans have – and it makes them a great people."
"What gift is that, signore?"
"The gift of listening."
After this the conversation drifted into general subjects, and a little later Herbert Briarfield took his leave.
"The man interests me, fascinates me, and yet I do not like him," he said to himself as he rode home-ward. "I wonder who and what he is? But for that peculiar far-away sound in his voice, he speaks English like an Englishman. Sometimes I thought I detected a suggestion of Oxford in his tones. But then, again, when he spoke German to Trübner, he might have been reared in Berlin or Heidelberg. Again, he seems to know the East perfectly. I want to know more about him, and yet I feel afraid of him. In any case, I'll be at that concert on Friday. I wonder what she will think of him?"
"What do you think of Mr. Briarfield, signore?" asked Herr Trübner when he found himself alone with the stranger.
"I think he is in love with what you call the guardian angel of this place."
"I never thought of that," said the German. "What made you think of it?"
"I kept my eyes open and I listened, that is all."
"It may be as you say," said the German reflectively. "Well, I should say from what I have heard, it would be a good match. He is a fine specimen of the English gentleman. I am told that he is well-off and very ambitious."
"And in what way does his ambition express itself?"
"Parliament."
Signor Ricordo laughed.
"You seem amused, signore. You are more merry than usual to-night. You like Mr. Briarfield. Do you not think he would be a good husband to our guardian angel?"
"I will tell you after Friday night."
"Why then?"
"Because I shall then have seen the lady of whom you have told me such wondrous things. I mean to be introduced to her, to talk with her. Ah!"
Herr Trübner looked towards his companion as he heard his exclamation. For once he saw that Signor Ricordo's eyes were wide open, and that a look which he never saw before rested on his face. But only for a moment. His eyes soon became half-closed again, and the air of cynical melancholy came back to him.
"We have some more visitors, I see," he said, nodding towards two men who had just entered the room.
The German turned, and saw two strangers take their seats.
"Got any cigars on you, Purvis?" he heard one say. "I left mine in another pocket, and I don't suppose we can get anything here fit to smoke."
In reply, the other pulled his case from his pocket, and the two talked in low tones together.
"Yes, Herr Trübner," said Signore Ricordo, "I look forward towards an interesting evening on Friday."
CHAPTER XXI
A GAME OF GOLF – A GAME OF LIFE
"I wish I hadn't come here, Purvis."
"Why not?"
"Well, you know how I feel."
Purvis shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mistake can easily be remedied, Sprague. You have only to take the train from Vale Linden station, and then you can go to Ilfracombe or Westward Ho! or, for that matter, return to London."
"Yes, I know; and I know, too, that it was through me you came down here. All the same, I feel jolly mean. Do you know, although that letter meant the smashing up of the engagement, and thus saving her life from ruin, she has never acknowledged it, and, for that matter, has never spoken to me since. Not that I expected gratitude, at least for a time, but after six years – "
"You know we both left England for a long sojourn abroad, directly we knew that the bubble had burst."
"Yes, I know; still, I did think that out of pure gratitude she might have – "
"She's not that sort, Sprague. Follow my example, and think no more about her. Hang it, we are not children; and she's not the only woman in the world. She gave us both our congé; let us take it graciously, and enjoy our golf."
"I wish I could forget her, old man; but I can't. I don't feel comfortable. For all these six years I've never forgotten her, and when Leicester made an end of himself, I said to myself, 'In two or three years' time she'll feel so grateful to me that – ' Well, you know what I thought. But she's never recognised me in any way. Other people we know have been invited to Vale Linden, but I've never been one of the lucky ones. That was why I urged you to come with me to this place of hers. It meant having a chance of seeing her, and I hoped that she would feel kindly towards me."
"Well, she may. Who knows?"
"I wonder how she feels about Leicester now?"
"Most likely she's forgotten him."
"Hardly."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, she's married no one else."
"I make nothing of that. Besides, if she really loved him, do you think she'd have thrown him over?"
"Yes," said Sprague, after a moment's hesitation.
"How do you make it out?"
"No woman with such pride as Olive has could have married him after the letter I wrote. I presented a strong case, man. You see, Leicester gave himself away so completely, that I had only to quote his exact words to prove – well, exactly what I wanted to prove. At any rate, she did throw him over."
"Do you think Leicester really cared for her?"
"Heaven only knows. It was impossible for any one to tell exactly what he felt. At any rate, he went the whole hog afterwards, and then killed himself. Do you know, although the fellow's end was so terribly sad, I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the report in the newspapers? If he'd lived – well, I don't like to think what would have happened to either of us. You know that terrible look in his eyes when he threatened us."
"Yes; but, after all, what could he do?"
"There's no knowing what a fellow like Leicester would have done. But there, he's dead, and that's an end of it."
The two men climbed the hill towards the moors in silence. Some distance behind, two boys followed, carrying their golf clubs.
"I suppose all this land around here belongs to John Castlemaine," remarked Purvis presently.
"I suppose so. I say, Purvis, did you notice what a mixed lot we are at The Homestead?"
"Rather; but I like it. They do things very well there, too. Of course, it was never intended for the likes of us; yet I am sure there are people there who have no need to economise. Some one told me that a neighbouring squire was dining there last night; and did you notice that Turkish chap?"
"Yes; remarkable-looking fellow, isn't he? He makes one think of vampires. Still, I hear he's a good sort. I should like to have a chat with him."
"Well, that should be easy enough. Somebody told me he had gone on the links. We may see him there."
They made their way to the club-house, and prepared to commence their game. A couple of men were on the first tee, waiting to start.
"We shan't have to wait long," said Purvis. "I say, there is that Turkish fellow. I think he's looking for a match."
"Surely he won't be able to play."
"Anyhow, he has his clubs, and he seems to be wanting a game. Let's ask him to join us. It'll only be civil."
"I don't like threesomes."
"Neither do I on a crowded links, but it doesn't matter here. We have plenty of time; it's not ten o'clock yet."
"But I expect he's only a beginner. If he is, he'll spoil our game."
"Well, let's see."
Signor Ricordo stood near the tee as they came up. He bowed to them and stood aside.
"Are you not playing, sir?" asked Purvis.
"Yes," replied Ricordo. "I will go around by myself after you are gone. I arranged to meet a gentleman here just after nine; but I have received word to say he can't come."
"Have you played much?" asked Sprague.
Ricordo looked at him, his eyes half closed; nevertheless, there was evident interest in his gaze.
"We in the East do not play the game. But when I came to England – what would you? – what others did, I did. That is the English fashion, eh?" and he laughed quietly.
"Have you a handicap?" asked Sprague.
"A what?"
"A handicap. That means – well, it is a number of strokes allowed to a player."
"A handicap. Ah, yes, I am handicapped; but not in that way, signore. I am afraid I do not play well enough even to have a handicap."
"Won't you join us?" asked Purvis. "We can easily make a threesome."
The stranger darted a look, not at Purvis, but at Sprague, and he saw that he did not take the proposition kindly. Both Purvis and Sprague were good players, and especially the latter did not wish the game spoiled.
"I cannot refuse such a kind invitation," said Signor Ricordo. "But I will not interfere with your play. Let the match be between you two, while I will struggle on as best I may. If – if I do not prove such a – a – what do you call it? – duffer as I fear, then I might sometimes enter into the competition; but that, I imagine, will not be. Still, I cannot refuse such courtesy."
He looked a striking figure as he stood by them. His clothes, although not very different from those worn by the others, were somewhat foreign in style; while his fez, surmounting his dark, Oriental-looking face, would single him out anywhere as an Eastern.
"Will you proceed, gentlemen?" he continued; "as for me, I will bring up the rear. If I find I am spoiling your game, I will drop out."
Purvis and Sprague tossed for the honour, and the former, having won it, drove first. His ball flew straight as an arrow towards the distant flag. Sprague followed next, and sent his ball within a dozen yards of the one which Purvis had driven.
"Ah," said Signore Ricordo, "I feel humbled before I begin. I see I shall not long deserve your society."
He struck his ball, and foozled it badly. It went away among the heather, where some two or three minutes were spent in finding it. Sprague and Purvis halved the hole, while Ricordo was several strokes down.
"We shall have to get rid of the fellow," said Sprague. "You see he's only a beginner."
"Let us be civil," said Purvis. "We are staying at the same place, and he promises to be interesting."
The next hole Ricordo fared a little better, but only a little. Sprague began to think of some hint he could give him that would cause him to leave them.
"I will play one or two holes more with you, Mr. – Mr. – ah, I am afraid I did not catch your name."
"Sprague is my name."
"Sprague, Sprague – thank you; yes, I will remember. My name is Ricordo – that means remember, and I will remember, yes."
"And mine is Purvis."
"Thank you. Yes, I will remember. I will play one or two holes more with you, and then, if I continue to be such a – duffer – yes, that is the word – then I will go away, and challenge you for to-morrow."
"Golf is a difficult game," said Sprague; "one does not pick it up in a day."
"Ah, you do not think I will be a match for you to-morrow."
"Why, do you?" and Sprague laughed lightly.
"If not to-morrow, then the next day. I never rest until I am a match for my – what do you call it – enemy?"
"Not quite so bad as that – opponent," said Purvis.
"Opponent, yes, that is the word. I learnt English when I was a boy, but I have had such little practice at it lately, and so – but there, I will remember. Whenever I play a game – and is not life a game? – I am often beaten at first. But then I remember that there is always a to-morrow, and so I go on."
"Until you are a match for your opponent?"
"Until I have beaten him," said Ricordo.
Sprague laughed. "A lot of to-morrows are required in golf, Mr. Ricordo," he said.
"Yes, they are required for most things; but they come. Still, this match is only just begun yet. Who knows? I may improve!"
This conversation had taken place while walking from the green to the tee, which in this case was some little distance.
For the next five holes Sprague and Purvis played with varying fortunes, but when the seventh hole was played the former was one up. As for Ricordo, while he greatly improved, he did not even halve a single hole with either of them. As he improved they offered to give him strokes, and so make the possibility of a match, but he refused.
"I always like to play level," he said sententiously. "You never beat a man if he gives you strokes. Let me see, I am now seven down. If I lose two more it will be impossible for me to win the match, eh?"
"That is the arithmetic of it, I imagine," said Purvis.
"Ah!" said Ricordo.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The three balls flew through the air, and each went straight to the green, only in this case Ricordo's ball went several yards further than the others.
