"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 wrote Othello. 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.
CHAPTER XXVII
RICORDO'S WOOING
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.
