Читать книгу: «The Man Who Rose Again», страница 18

Again Olive Castlemaine shivered. She thought of Leicester again, she knew not why. Lately the thought of him had less and less possessed her mind. A man who had died more than six years before had naturally become more and more only a memory. She could not have told why she thought of him, for this stranger, with his thick black beard and dark skin, bore little resemblance to the pale-faced, clean-shaven man she had known and loved years ago. Besides, the voice, the manner of speech were different. He was cast in a larger mould than Leicester, too, and was older by many years.

"I am afraid my speech is distasteful to you," went on Ricordo, "and I plead your forgiveness. I am not used to your ways, your modes of expression. And I trust I have not offended you. Believe me, such a thought, such a desire is far from me."

"By no means," she said quickly. "I – I am very interested. Doubtless the experiences of those who have lived in other lands are different from those who spend their lives in surroundings such as these."

Signor Ricordo cast his eyes quickly around, and beheld one of the fairest tracts of country on earth. Spring had come early, and the bursting life everywhere made one think of a universal resurrection. All nature seemed to be throwing off its grave-clothes. Woods and hedgerows, fields and gardens seemed to be clothing themselves in a magic mantle before their eyes, while the choirs of heaven were chanting for very joy.

"I think it must be easy to be good amidst surroundings like these, and on such a day as this," said Olive.

Ricordo stopped suddenly, and lifted his head. His eyes flamed with a new light, his face betrayed passion.

"What is it all but mockery?" he said – "a promise never to be realised, the fair skin which covers disease – rottenness? Signorina – forgive me. But there are spots on earth fairer than this – fairer, yes, a thousand times. Flowers, foliage, compared with which all that you see is but a suggestion. The sun! Great Allah! have you seen an Eastern sun, have you seen the prodigality with which nature scatters her beauty? But goodness! When did ever natural beauty help what you call moral goodness? In those places where nature has been most bountiful in her gifts, there you find the blackest and foulest lives. What is everything, if there is a canker at the heart; what matters if hell goes on burning in our lives? Forgive me, signorina; if there is one thing in which I have agreed with your Christian preachers, it is that natural beauty is powerless to cleanse the heart of what you call sin."

"But surely a man is affected by his circumstances," interposed Herbert Briarfield.

"Is not nature always laughing at us?" said Ricordo. "We dream our little dreams, make our little plans, and live in a fool's paradise. Let people be surrounded by beautiful things, we say; let them have works of art, fine pictures, music; let them live in the sunshine, and behold the beauties of nature, then they will live beautiful lives. I have heard your moral reformers preach this – this nonsense. Well, what happens? Is the morality of your west of London any better than the east? Ah, but I tell you I have lived in the most beautiful places on earth, but they have been hell all the same. Can you cure a cancer by placing a bunch of flowers in the room of your patient?"

"Then what is your antidote – your gospel?" asked Olive.

"Is there the one or the other?" asked Ricordo.

The party went on quietly for a few minutes. Ricordo seemed to be thinking deeply; now and then he lifted his eyes for a passing glance at his companions.

Again Olive Castlemaine thought of Leicester. Memories of those days which he spent at The Beeches came rushing back to her. She thought of the happiness which was hers, when she hoped and prayed that she should be the means whereby the man she loved should be brought to faith – to God. In some subtle way which she could not understand, the stranger made him real, ay, and more, he made her feel that she had been harsh and unfair to the man whose wife she had promised to be. After all, was it not her pride he had wounded? Moreover, Ricordo had interested her in himself, in a way that she had been interested in no other man for a long time. It was not so much because of what he said. Rather, it lay in the fascination of the man himself. He made such as Herbert Briarfield seem small and commonplace. She felt sure that he had lived in a realm of thought and being to which the young squire was a stranger.

The essence of interest is mystery. It is rather in the things not seen, than in the things seen, that fascination lies. We are for ever longing to explore new regions, to tread ground hitherto untrodden. The secret chamber of a house is of infinitely more interest than those chambers which are open to inspection; that is why we care little about those people in whose life there is no secret chamber of thought and experience.

"I wonder you don't write a book, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield presently.

"And why, Mr. Briarfield?"

"You must have a wonderful story to tell."

"Yes, a wonderful story, perhaps; but would you have me lay open my soul to the gaze of the vulgar crowd?"

"Other men have."

"Why?"

"Perhaps to make money, perhaps to obtain renown or to do good. Dante gave the world his vision of hell, and of heaven; why not you?"

"Because I am not a poet, and because – well, every man has his own way of telling his story. Besides, if ever I were to tell the story of my life I should choose my audience."

They had by this time reached the gate which opened the way into the grounds of The Homestead, and as if by one consent the trio stopped.

"Are you staying here long, signore?" asked Olive.

"I do not know. I am given to understand that there is an unwritten rule that no visitor shall stay at your beautiful home for the poor, and the tired, for more than a month, Miss Castlemaine," he said. "The rule is just and wise. Your desire is to give the greatest happiness to the greatest number, and therefore it is not right that I should stay more than a month. Still, because the place seems to grow more beautiful, and more interesting every day, I may take rooms in some farmhouse. On the other hand, I may leave at the end of next week."

He looked up at her as he spoke, and watched her attentively out of his half-closed eyes.

"I hope I may have the privilege of seeing you again before I go, whether my stay be long or short," he added presently.

She knew not why, and she wondered afterwards whether she had done right. She had seen him that day for the first time. All she knew of him was that he was an Eastern stranger, who from his own confession had a strange past, and held opinions which to say the least of them seemed dangerous, yet yielding on the impulse of the moment she expressed the hope that she should see him at Vale Linden.

"Ah, signorina," said Ricordo, "I am not worthy of so great an honour; nevertheless, I accept it before you have time to repent, and withdraw your invitation." At this moment he stopped at the gates of The Homestead.

Again she half held out her hand, but again he did not notice it. He lifted his fez slightly, and then, with a somewhat exaggerated bow, he passed into the garden. But he did not stay to notice those who were sitting in the warm spring sunshine: he seemed to be eager to get to his rooms. Arrived there, he sat for a long time staring into vacancy. His eyes were no longer half closed, but were wide open, and there was an expression which, had Olive Castlemaine seen, would have made her shudder. For in them was the fierce glare of a madman. The old look of cynical melancholy, or placid indifference, was gone. He was no longer a fatalist philosopher, the thoughtful Eastern gentleman who laughed quietly at conventional notions. His hands clenched and unclenched themselves, his features worked with passion. Presently he rose and paced the room; it seemed as though the volcanic passions of his being could no longer be repressed; his whole body trembled, his eyes became almost lurid.

"She has forgotten, forgotten," he said presently. "She is happy as Lady Bountiful, and she has half made up her mind to marry that heavy-headed, heavy-limbed squire. But – "

He stopped speaking and threw himself into a chair again.

"I am invited up to the great house," he continued presently. "There I shall meet – who knows?"

He turned to a mirror, and looked at himself long and steadily. At first there was a curious look in his eyes, as though he wanted to be sure about something; but presently the look of curiosity changed to one of satisfaction.

When he went down to the dining-room, and mingled with the other guests, his face was perfectly placid again, while his eyes became half closed, as though he had not enough interest in life to open them wide.

CHAPTER XXIII
SPRAGUE'S EXPLANATION

Meanwhile Purvis and Sprague sat in the golf club-house eating the chops that the caretaker's wife had cooked for them. They had been very silent during the early part of the meal, and seemed to be intent either on the fare that was set before them, or on the moorland, which they could see from the windows of the dining-room.

"I say, Purvis, what do you think of him?"

"Of whom?"

"You know. Don't you think he was laughing at us during the early part of the game?"

"Why?"

"Why, just think. For the first few holes he played like a twenty-seven handicap man, or even worse than that. Then suddenly – why, you saw for yourself. I played a good game, and so did you; but where were we? He might have been a first-class professional. What do you think he meant by it?"

"Probably nothing. I should say he is one of those remarkable fellows about whom one hears sometimes, but seldom sees, who can do almost anything. Somehow, I don't know why, but I felt the moment I spoke to him that he was a man with tremendous reserve power."

"Do you know who he reminds me of?"

"Yes."

"Yes, that's it. Of course he's utterly unlike what Leicester was, and yet he makes one think of him. You remember what a fine golfer he was and how deadly he was on the greens. If Leicester had lived, and had come here, they would have found a lot in common with each other."

"If Leicester had lived, my dear fellow, I don't suppose we should ever have come here."

"No, perhaps not. Still, this man reminds me of him. There is always the feeling that he's keeping something back. Somehow, I don't know why, but the fellow got on my nerves this morning. I was always seeing a double meaning in everything he said. Why, do you know at one time I positively feared him. I seemed to be playing for some fearful stake. I was reminded of that picture where a man plays chess with the devil for his soul. Then every now and then I fancied it was Leicester who was speaking. Yes, I know it was not Leicester's voice, neither is he like what Leicester was. His eyes are different, and of course his face is different. Leicester's face was pale as death; it was thin, too, and suggested the Greeks; this man, with his great black beard and dark skin, is different from what Leicester was; and yet sometimes he was like Leicester. Don't you remember that Oxford insolence of Leicester's which used to madden some people, and how while saying the most innocent-sounding things he was just laughing at them all the time? That's what I felt about this fellow. He speaks English with a foreign accent, and yet I felt sometimes as though he knew England well."

"Probably he does."

"He says he's only been in the country three months."

"You saw him go away with – "

"Yes, I saw him. That young fellow who was with her introduced him. By the way, do you think she was near enough to know who we were?"

"I should think not. They moved away directly the stranger came up."

"We shall see her at the concert to-morrow night, I suppose. My word, Purvis, I feel nervous."

"Give it up, Sprague – give it up, man. You asked her years ago, and she refused you. What has happened since is not likely to endear you to her."

"Rather I think it is. Do you know I have a feeling that she is thankful to me now?"

"By the way, I should like you to challenge this Signor Ricordo to golf to-morrow. I will get a match with some one in the morning, and then during the afternoon we can play a foursome."

"I suppose one of us must ask him to play again; but do you know, I don't like the fellow."

"On the other hand, I do," said Purvis. "I shall make up to him to-night. He is one of those men who make you want to know them better. I'll warrant he could tell us a curious history if he liked."

The next day Signor Ricordo and Sprague played their return match, but the latter was not at his best. He complained that he had an attack of indigestion, and that his nerves had gone wrong. As a consequence Ricordo won easily.

"You play a remarkable game, signore; that is for one who has had so little practice," he said.

"Ah, I am but a beginner, Mr. Sprague," he said quietly; "some time perhaps I may play a good game."

"You never suffer from nerves, I suppose?"

"Yes, horribly."

"Then you have wonderful self-command."

"A man can will anything. There is no difficulty that will-power cannot overcome. Golf, like life, is a game; to will to win, is to win."

"I willed to win; but lost."

"No, you made up your mind to try. I always go further. I willed to win, if not one day, then the next."

"And you always do?"

"Yes, I always do."

Sprague laughed uneasily.

"Do you mean to say that you have gained everything that you have set your mind upon?" he asked curiously.

"Not yet, but I shall. Some games are long, they take time. But there is always a to-morrow to the man who wills."

"Is that a part of your Eastern philosophy?"

"If you will. Eastern or Western, it does not matter – human nature is always the same."

"But human nature has its limitations. Life is not very long, after all."

"I do not know your English literature well, Signore Sprague; but I have read your Browning. He had the greatest brain of the nineteenth century, I think. His mixture of Eastern blood may account for it. He said 'Leave "now" to dogs and apes, man has for ever.' That is always true. There is no death, or if there is, man always rises again."

"Then you believe that what a man fails to do in this life, he will do in another?"

"Always. There is one thing a man never loses – memory. It may leave him for a time; but it always returns. Do you know Italian, signore?"

"No."

"My name is Ricordo. It means remembrance. It is not only a name, it is an expression of an eternal truth. Nothing is forgotten, nothing. Even those whom we call dead remember."

"Ah, you are beyond me," laughed Sprague uneasily. "I am no philosopher. Still, I shall remember what you say about 'willing.' When next we play I shall will to win."

"So shall I."

"What will happen then?"

"Victory for the strongest will."

The two men separated, Sprague with an uneasy feeling in his heart, and Ricordo with a strange smile upon his face.

That evening the concert was held in the village hall, during which Signor Ricordo manifested but little enthusiasm. Indeed, during most of the time he sat with his eyes closed, and once or twice he seemed to suppress a yawn with difficulty, as though he were bored. When Olive sang, however, all was different. He watched her face closely, and listened with almost painful attention. He seemed pleased when the audience applauded, and more than once he uttered a low "bravo"; but there was no marked enthusiasm in his appreciation. Indeed, it was difficult to tell what he thought of her performance as a whole.

When the concert was over, he was introduced to John Castlemaine. This was the first time he had met him. Mr. Castlemaine had been away to London for several days, and had only returned the day before. Olive had spoken to him concerning Ricordo on her return from the golf links, and he was prepared to be interested in the man from the East.

"This must be a great change from your Eastern life, Signor Ricordo," he said.

"Yes, and no," replied Ricordo; "but it has been very interesting."

"Are you staying long?"

"In Vale Linden? Only a few days, I expect. In England? Yes, for some months, I think. Probably until your summer is over. It would be hard to spend another winter in England. I came just after your Christmas, and I spent three months in London. I had affairs there."

"Ah, you are a man of business, then?"

"We all have business, haven't we? I am a partner in the Tripoli, Fezzan, Mourzouck Company."

John Castlemaine's eyes flashed with satisfaction. The stranger was no wandering, nameless adventurer. The Tripoli, Fezzan, Mourzouck Company was the great trading power of the East, doing not only great business in England, but throughout the world.

"I am not here as a representative of my firm, Signor Castlemaine," said Ricordo, "but I know the English customs." He took a small case from his pocket, and presented a card to him, and also papers which revealed the imprimatur of the company. Mr. Castlemaine also saw that the stamp of the firm was upon his letter-case.

"I feel honoured in welcoming you to our neighbourhood," said John Castlemaine. "Years ago I did business with you. I little thought then that I should meet with a partner in your famous firm under such circumstances."

"The world is small," said Ricordo quietly. "For the last year I have taken but little active part in affairs; and I have come to England because of personal matters."

"And I am delighted to see you, signore – delighted. More than that, I cannot consent for you to leave Vale Linden soon. I hope you will come up to my house, Signor Ricordo. I am now a man of leisure, and shall look forward to seeing much of you. Olive, do you know that the great company of which Signor Ricordo is a partner is well known to me? It is very fortunate you met him yesterday. Yes, signore, I can take no refusal. I must insist on your coming up to Vale Linden to-night, for a smoke and a chat."

For a moment there was a look almost like anxiety in the stranger's eyes, but he spoke in his quiet, easy way.

"I feel greatly honoured," he said; "but we in the East have many – what you call conventions. Before I enter into the delights of your house, I must prove that I am what my card indicates."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense," said John Castlemaine heartily. "No one could carry such papers as you carry without – "

"Excuse me, Mr. Castlemaine, if I persist," said the stranger. "If not to satisfy you, to satisfy myself." He drew a small piece of peculiar parchment from his case, and handed it to John Castlemaine. "My people always desire it, when we come into contact with the heads of great houses," he added.

Mr. Castlemaine took the parchment almost reverently and read that Abdul Ricordo was a responsible partner of the firm of Tripoli, Fezzan and Mourzouck, and the document was signed by the firm.

"Of course I do not need this, signore," said John Castlemaine; "nevertheless, I thank you for letting me see this. It shows me the methods of your firm, and from that standpoint alone this document is exceedingly interesting."

He turned again to his daughter.

"Will you not help me to persuade Signor Ricordo to walk up to the house with us, Olive?" he said. "It is quite early yet, and, wonder of wonders, we have no guests at present."

Ricordo turned to Olive, who expressed her delight at the thought of his accompanying them.

"Then I can do no other than gratefully accept," said Ricordo; "but I am afraid I am monopolising your company, Signor Castlemaine."

He turned aside as he spoke, and made room for Purvis and Sprague, who had evidently been waiting for a chance to speak to them.

"I could not help making the most of the opportunity which you have afforded," said Sprague. "I am afraid The Homestead was not meant for such as Purvis and myself; but you will forgive me, won't you?"

There was marked restraint in John Castlemaine's welcome of the two men, still he greeted them civilly. Perhaps he had partly forgotten the part they took in the painful drama of years before. As for Olive, she was evidently undecided what to do. She ended, however, by speaking civilly to them both, but did not seem at all pleased that they should come and speak to her.

"I see you know my late opponent on the golf links," said Sprague, turning to Ricordo.

"We have met to-night for the first time," said Mr. Castlemaine, turning towards the stranger, and as he turned he saw a look in his eyes that made him feel uncomfortable. There was such a sinister expression on Ricordo's face, that he wondered if he had done right in asking him, in spite of his unquestionable credentials, to his house. For this reason he was almost glad that Sprague and Purvis were there. He had known them well years before, and although he had no pleasure in recalling the past, he felt that he might seem churlish, and uncivil, if he did not extend his invitation to them. Acting on the impulse of the moment, therefore, a thing which was very rare with him, he asked them both to walk up to the house.

"Signor Ricordo is coming up," he said; "you might as well join him if you care, and then you can all walk back together."

"Delighted, I am sure," said Sprague; but Purvis pleaded a headache, and declared that he would be such a dull companion that he would not inflict his company upon them. The quartette started their walk, and passed through the village almost without a word. Whether Ricordo was pleased or annoyed because of Sprague's presence it was impossible to say. He showed no sign either way. While they were in the village they walked abreast, but after they had passed through the lodge gates, Sprague and Olive walked side by side, while Ricordo and Mr. Castlemaine came on behind. Sprague found himself strangely nervous when he realised that he was alone with Olive. It was he who had sent the letter which had been followed by such fatal results, and never since that time had he and Olive Castlemaine spoken to each other.

"I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you alone, Miss Castlemaine," he said.

Olive did not reply, but waited for him to continue. For years her heart had been very bitter towards him, in spite of the fact that she believed he had revealed to her the real character of the man she had promised to marry. But then Sprague's part in the affair was not altogether honourable. He had been a party to the discussion which led to the wager, and although on his own account he had done his best to persuade Leicester from pursuing the course he had adopted, she could not think of him without a feeling of anger.

"I do not know whether you were angry, or thankful to me, for writing that letter," he said. "I never received any reply to it."

"There was nothing to which I could reply," she said.

"Perhaps not," replied Sprague, "and yet I have never known how you regarded my action in the matter. That is why I am so thankful for this opportunity of speaking to you."

"Pardon me," said Olive, "but would you mind letting the past be dead, and forgotten? As you may imagine, it cannot be pleasant to me."

"I only wanted to know that you had forgiven me," said Sprague. "Moreover, I wanted to tell you the truth. No one can be more ashamed than I at the course events took. But I never dreamt that – that ever your name would be mentioned. It was, as it were, forced upon me. As for that letter – well, I felt I could do no other than write it. It would have been cowardly, and base of me, not to tell you the truth."

"And what you told me was the truth – the whole truth?" asked Olive. She spoke quickly and nervously, as though a great deal depended upon the answer.

"As far as I know I told you exactly what happened – exactly. It seemed to me you had a right to know, and that it would have been criminal on my part if I had kept silent. That is what I wished to say."

"And now, having said it, will you never refer to it again."

"Just another word, please. You are not angry with me, that is, you do not think badly of me because I told you?"

"I ought to be grateful to you for that part of your action in the matter, and – I am."

She seemed to speak with an effort, but Sprague was evidently satisfied.

"You have chosen a beautiful place to live in, Miss Castlemaine," he said; "and hundreds of people are grateful because of what you have done. I hardly feel justified in benefiting by – shall I call it your hospitality? – but I really wanted to see you again."

"Yes, it is a beautiful neighbourhood," said Olive; "and I hope you will enjoy your stay here."

"Thank you, I am sure I shall," replied Sprague. He had got through the painful part of his conversation – clumsily, it is true; but still it was over, and now he felt a real pleasure in thinking that for the next few days he would be living in close proximity to the woman whom he had once asked to be his wife.

"What do you think of Signor Ricordo?" he went on. "Striking-looking fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes," replied Olive.

"Do you know I've played golf with him twice, and I can't make him out. Perhaps it is because of his Eastern mode of speech, but he always makes me think of mysteries. When I saw him first he made me think of vampires, and although that feeling has gone, I am not sure that I like him."

"I should think he is a very remarkable man," said Olive evasively.

"He is mysterious, at all events," said Sprague. "How beautiful the park looks in the moonlight!"

He stopped as he spoke, and looked across the park towards the moorlands that were dimly visible in the light of the moon. As they stopped, Mr. Castlemaine and Signor Ricordo came up.

"I am enjoying your wonderful scenery, Mr. Castlemaine," said Sprague.

"Yes, it is very fine. You can almost see the golf links from here."

"Ah, don't talk of them," said Sprague, with a laugh. "I thought I could play a decent game, but Signor Ricordo has beaten me so badly to-day that I feel humiliated. I thought I should find him an easy opponent, too. He told me he was only a beginner."

"You may have better luck next time," said Mr. Castlemaine.

"If Signor Ricordo thinks I am worthy to be his opponent for another game," responded Sprague.

"Oh yes," replied Ricordo, "our play is not played out yet. We will play it to the bitter end."

He laughed quietly as he spoke, but Olive thought she detected something sinister in it.

"I hope there will be nothing bitter in it," said Sprague. "For my own part I think golf is the most friendly and sociable game in the world."

"Ah, but as I told you, I am an Eastern," said Ricordo; "and to us all games are serious. But we will play it, signore, we will play the game out."

"That's right," said Mr. Castlemaine; "meanwhile, here we are at the house. Will you enter, gentlemen?"

Signor Ricordo and Sprague entered the house side by side.