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CHAPTER XXIV
RICORDO'S REMINISCENCES

Although the spring was well advanced, a bright fire burned in the room where Mr. John Castlemaine ushered his guests. Several easy chairs were placed around the fire. Evidently Mr. Castlemaine used this room as a kind of smoking lounge, although there were also evidences that it was not used for men exclusively.

They had scarcely seated themselves, when a servant entered, bearing cigars and a decanter containing spirits.

"You will take a little whisky, Signor Ricordo?" said Mr. Castlemaine, turning to his guest.

"No, thank you, I never take whisky."

"You are an abstainer?"

"Yes."

There was a strange tone in his voice, but he spoke very quietly, as was his custom.

"Ah, perhaps you are a Mohammedan," said Sprague, who accepted Mr. Castlemaine's invitation.

"No, Mr. Sprague, I am not a Mohammedan, as you understand it. I do not take whisky because – well, because a man who was once my friend was ruined through it."

At that moment Olive entered the room, and took a chair close by her father's. She had heard Ricordo's answer to Sprague.

"That's scarcely a reason for refusing a harmless beverage," said Sprague.

"Harmless?" said Ricordo; "well, that is surely a matter of opinion."

"One would have to give up everything in life, on that principle of argument," urged Sprague.

"I do not wish to argue," said Ricordo, "but I will put a case to Mr. Castlemaine. Suppose he had a friend for whom he cared greatly, or for whom some one dear to him cared greatly, and that friend were ruined through alcohol; suppose he ceased to be a man and became a fiend through it, would he offer whisky to his guests?"

Signor Ricordo put the question to his host; but he kept his eyes on Olive, who started as if she had been stung, and then became as pale as death.

John Castlemaine laughed uneasily.

"You are almost as strong in your hatred of alcohol as my daughter, signore," he said. "Personally, I am a very abstemious man. I have closed nearly every public-house on the estate; but I remember my duties as a host."

Ricordo did not reply, but Olive felt how illogical her father's position was.

"But you smoke," went on Mr. Castlemaine, passing him a box of cigars. "I don't think these are bad."

"I am sure they are excellent," said Ricordo, "but I am obliged to smoke only one brand. I had to pay a heavy duty to bring a sufficient stock with me, but I had either to do it, or give up smoking. You will not mind if I smoke this, instead of yours, which I have no doubt are very much better."

"Oh, certainly not, if you wish," said Mr. Castlemaine rather coldly.

Ricordo bowed, and lit a cigar which he had taken from his own case. His refusal either to take whisky or to smoke his host's cigars had caused a feeling of restraint in the party.

"My cigars are a special brand," went on Ricordo. "They are no better than others, I suppose, but I can smoke no others. I imagine the constitution of the Easterns must be peculiar."

He looked at Olive as he spoke, and noted that she was watching him. As their eyes met, she dropped hers. She had not spoken since she entered the room.

"The manners and customs of those who live in the East are, of course, very different from ours. And of course their ideas are different too."

"How so, signore?"

He lay back in his chair as he spoke, and closed his eyes, as one who is enjoying a lazy contentment.

"Well, I suppose their ideas of hospitality are different. I have been told that they will never partake of the fare of an enemy."

"Is not that right?"

"Then again, of course their customs are different, I suppose. They are allowed a plurality of wives."

"And as a consequence many fail to marry at all."

"You seem to speak feelingly," laughed Sprague.

"Oh no, I assure you. I simply state a fact. For example, here am I, who can no longer be called a boy, and who am an Eastern, am also a celibate."

"You have never been married?"

"Never."

"Well," said Sprague, "there is nothing so wonderful in that. I am no longer a boy, and I have never married."

"You make one curious," said Ricordo.

"How?"

"One would like to know why you, Mr. Sprague, who are evidently a domestic kind of man, have never married."

"I will tell you on one condition."

"And that?"

"That you will tell me why you never married."

"I accept."

"Then I have never married because the only woman I ever wanted refused to have me."

"And I have refrained from getting married because I am afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Exactly."

"Of what?"

"Of many things, signore, many things."

"You make me curious to know what those things are."

"To tell you would be to tell the story of another man's life," replied Signor Ricordo gravely. "As you remarked, I am an Eastern, but we Easterns are not different from the Westerns in that direction. All of us have a secret chamber in our lives."

"Still," urged Sprague, "I cannot conceive of you, signore, being afraid of anything."

"I am not often in a communicative mood," said Ricordo; "I think I am to-night. Perhaps it is because I have received so much kindness. I am profoundly impressed," and here he bowed to Mr. Castlemaine and Olive, "by the fact that I, an alien, am received into the home of a representative of what is regarded as a proud and exclusive race. Never can I forget such hospitality. But one thing keeps me from communicating my thoughts: I would not willingly give pain to the signorina."

"To me, Signor Ricordo?" said Olive. "Pray, how am I concerned?"

"Directly not at all; but, as every woman is a champion of her sex, a great deal. And I would not desire even to suggest a thought that would seem to reflect on the sex to which the signorina adds so much lustre."

"But surely I am not responsible for my sex, signore," said Olive, with a laugh. Again he had cast a kind of spell on her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Ah well, then, let me be communicative," said Ricordo. "I said I had never married because I was afraid. I told the truth. Forgive me if I seem sentimental; but once, years ago – ah, how many I do not like to think – I might have yielded to love. Others had done so, and why not I? But I had a friend, a man whom I loved beyond all others. For years we had been more than brothers, his thoughts were mine, and mine were his. Then he fell in love with a woman, beautiful, and true, and good – at least, so we believed. She became his lode-star, his hope, his joy, and I naturally became as nothing to him. I did not grow angry at that. My only desire was that he should be happy, and as he found happiness in her love, what was I? He was not an angel, not altogether a good man, and often in my love for him I tried to reclaim him; I failed; but where I failed this woman succeeded. Ah, great Allah! how he loved her! He became her slave, and yet I rejoiced because she was lifting him to heaven. He was on his way to becoming a great man in the East, and then – this woman, because of some imperfection in his past – what do you call it? – jilted him. My friend was an intense kind of man. He had given his hope, his faith, his love, to this woman, and then, without giving him an opportunity of explaining himself, she threw him aside with scorn. Did he deserve her scorn? This I know, my poor friend, the byword of those who knew him, overwhelmed with a hopeless passion, thrown on the sea of life without anchor or rudder, drifted. Where? Ah, that is a story I cannot tell. But this woman, who might have been his salvation, and who professed to return his love, sent him into regions more terrible than ever your Milton, or our Italian Dante, saw with the eyes of vision."

"And where is he now?" asked Sprague.

"Where? That I cannot tell you. For a time I followed him, watched him, as he sank deeper and deeper into the pit. I stood upon the brink and looked in; but he had neither the strength nor the will to grasp my hand, and if he had, I should not have been strong enough to have pulled him out."

"And the woman?" asked Sprague.

"The woman is, I believe, meditating marriage with some one else. A common story, I know. Perhaps you could tell similar ones; perhaps, too, the commonness of such stories makes me afraid."

He was sitting back in his chair as he spoke. His eyes were half closed and he lazily smoked his cigar. Nevertheless, Olive thought he was watching her furtively. But perhaps that was because his story aroused memories which made the past live again.

From this time the conversation drifted on to other subjects, and Signor Ricordo made himself vastly agreeable. Without in any degree monopolising the conversation, he became the centre of interest. He showed that, although an Eastern, he was acquainted with English literature, and although he spoke English with a peculiar intonation, he expressed his thoughts with great clearness. Olive said but little. The story he had told contained such a meaning for her, that she had no desire to speak; nevertheless, she listened eagerly to his every word. Besides, his presence continued to have a kind of fascination for her. Why, she could not tell, yet when he rose to take his leave, she felt that everything would seem tame and commonplace after he had gone.

Mr. Castlemaine again pressed refreshments upon him; but again he refused to take them. It is true that he refused with a great show of courtesy, but he seemed determined to partake of nothing which the house could offer.

"I am afraid you are thinking of my sad story," he said, turning to Olive as he was on the point of saying good-night. "Of course you English have different thoughts and customs from the Easterns; still, I would like to ask you a question, if I might."

"Certainly," replied Olive, trying to appear cheerful.

"Do you think my friend would be justified in seeking revenge on the woman who sent him to despair, and worse than death?"

"I do not know all the circumstances, signore," she replied, "neither do I think that revenge is ever justifiable."

"Ah, no. You believe in the teaching of the Founder of your religion, 'love your enemies,' eh? But if you knew, signorina, if you knew!"

"The woman may be suffering more than you think."

"Suffering! Ah, I have seen her. Her life is one long song. She is careless, she has a life full of pleasure. Her admirers throng around her. She professes to be a Christian, too, and goes to church; but she thinks not of the poor soul wandering in blackest night. But I think he would be justified in seeking revenge."

"What revenge?" asked Olive. "What kind of revenge could he take?"

"I have thought of that, signorina, and I cannot think what it should be. She is to all appearances beyond his reach. She is rich, powerful, petted, courted; while he – ah, if I only knew where he was! Yet sometimes I think he must be planning his revenge. It would be better for her if he had died. For, if he does take revenge, it will be sure, and the torture will be exquisite."

"Perhaps he loves her still."

"Loves her! No, he hates her with all the madness with which he loved her. His passion of love has turned to bitterness, to wormwood. That is why I think his degradation and despair will drive him to revenge. I am glad I am in a Christian country, where the vendetta is not known. Good-night, signorina."

"Did you notice, Olive, that he refused to partake of any form of refreshment?" said John Castlemaine to his daughter, after Sprague and Ricordo had gone.

"Yes," said Olive; "but then I am told that people from the East seldom drink spirits. I am sorry you asked him."

"He's a remarkable kind of man."

"Yes."

"Do I know whom you are thinking of, Olive?"

She nodded her head.

"He reminds me of him, too. Sometimes I fancied I heard him speaking. Still, that is of course pure fancy. Olive, when are you going to forget him?"

"I don't know."

"I was hoping that he had passed out of your life."

"I thought he had, but that man's story seemed to bring everything back."

"I confess he made me feel uncomfortable. Still, he is a most entertaining man, and his position and rank are unquestionable. He belongs to a firm which rules the trade of the East, and he must be highly connected, or he would never have been admitted into partnership. We must invite him here to some social function before he leaves. You would like it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Olive, "he's a most entertaining man. By all means let us invite him."

Meanwhile Ricordo and Sprague walked back to The Homestead, and as they walked they talked business. Sprague could not help feeling astonishment at Ricordo's knowledge of English commercial life, and entered into a discussion concerning its position and prospects with great eagerness. By the time they reached the house, Sprague had revealed to the stranger many particulars concerning his own relations with the commercial world.

The next day, without having given any warning to any one concerning his intention, Ricordo went to London, where he stayed several days. He had retained his rooms at The Homestead, however, and told the lady who had the management of it that he might return at any time. While in London, his time seemed very fully occupied, and he had long interviews with men occupying high positions in the commercial world. He also invested largely, and took part in far-reaching transactions. At the end of a few days he returned to Vale Linden again.

"It is simply a matter of time now," he said to himself, as the train swept on towards the south. "I have my hands on all the strings, and I have enveloped him as the proverbial spider envelops the proverbial fly. Whatever he does, he cannot escape. As for her – "

He sat back in the railway carriage, and apparently fell into deep thought. To the casual observer he seemed a prosperous Eastern gentleman, one whose whole demeanour and appearance suggested a man of rank and power. The close observer, however, would have detected a cruel smile beneath his black moustache, while in his eyes he would have seen a look that suggested dark deeds. The face would have impressed him with the suggestion of an indomitable will, and of a kind of imperious pride, but there was no suggestion of mercy or pity to be seen there.

When he arrived at Vale Linden, however, he had assumed his old manner of cynical melancholy, and he met the people he knew with the easy grace peculiar to him.

"We have missed you sorely," said Sprague, as he sat beside him at dinner; "in fact, all of us have wondered where you have been."

"Ah, Signor Sprague, where could one go in England, except to London? I have had affairs there. Usually I do not trouble about these things, but at times fits of industry come upon me."

"Ah, yes. I have heard that you are a partner in the great Tripoli Company. I had no idea I had made the acquaintance of one who practically rules the trade of the East."

"One is not in the habit of publishing one's position from the housetops," replied Ricordo.

"Oh no, of course not. Are you staying much longer?"

"Possibly; I do not know. I have come back for some more golf."

"Shall we have our match to-morrow?" asked Sprague. "I have been playing a good game while you have been away."

"I will tell you in the morning," replied the other. "Have you been up to the great house since I left?"

"No. I have seen Miss Castlemaine, though. She was on the golf links to-day."

Ricordo's eyes lit up with satisfaction, although he said nothing; but soon after dinner he left the house, and walked towards Olive Castlemaine's home. He had barely left the village when he saw Olive coming out of a cottage. He half lifted his fez, and bowed.

"May I make a confession, Miss Castlemaine?" he asked.

"Why not, if it is not of a serious nature?" responded Olive. There was a look of pleased expectancy in her eyes as she saw him.

"Then I was on the point of going to your house."

"You wished to see father. I am sure he will be pleased. I am just going home."

"And may I walk back with you?"

"Certainly, if you care to."

"I was not going to see your father, Miss Castlemaine."

"No?"

"No, I was going to see you. Do you know I have been playing golf since I came to England?"

"Yes, I heard that you performed wonders on our links. As you will remember, I saw you there."

"And I have heard that you are great at the game. I have had the audacity to wonder if you would play with me to-morrow morning. I can assure you it would be an act of charity towards a lonely man if you would."

"I am afraid, from what I have heard of your prowess, I should scarcely be able to give you a game, but if you will condescend so far I will do my best."

"Thank you, you are very kind. Indeed, every one is kind to me. I have been away to London for only a few days, and yet Mr. Sprague met me as though I were an old friend. It is pleasant to have a welcome in a strange land."

He seemed in a gay mood during the remainder of their walk, but when they came to the house he would not go in. He had letters to write, he said, and he wanted to get them off his mind.

"You do not believe me," he laughed; "you believe that we Easterns are all indolent, shiftless. But no, even I can be most industrious at times. Why, while I have been in London, I have worked harder than an Arab."

"Do Arabs work hard?"

"Ah, you do not believe me. But I can assure you that my activity and industry have been wonderful. You would never guess why."

"Oh, yes," said Olive; "men of business work to make money."

"Ah, no, I think I have lost money; but that does not matter, because I have done what I set out to do. A rividerici, signorina."

"A domani."

"You know Italian then?"

"Only a little."

"But still a little. That is good. There is no other language when you know Italian. A domani, then. Shall I meet you here, and then we can walk to the links together?"

"No, I have some sick people to see before I start, but I shall be passing The Homestead at ten o'clock."

"That is well. Buona sera, Signorina."

But Signor Ricordo did not go back to The Homestead. Instead he walked up to the golf links, and spent hours on the great moors beyond. He seemed to be trying to weary himself, for he tramped from peak to peak, not seeming to care whither he was going. It was after midnight when he reached the house, nevertheless he met Olive with a smile the next morning.

"I shall think that the world has libelled your English weather," he said almost gaily, looking up at the blue skies. "And now for the battle. I feel as though to-day will create a new epoch in my life."

Olive answered him by a pleasant laugh, yet she wondered what he meant.

CHAPTER XXV
THE COMING OF WINFIELD

Nothing of importance happened during the golf match on the links. Neither Ricordo nor Olive played their best, and when the eighteenth green was reached both seemed relieved.

"What is the time, signore?" asked Olive.

"It is just after one, signorina."

"Then it is too late for me to go home to lunch," said Olive.

"That is well," said Ricordo. "You have made such excellent arrangements here that the matter of lunch can easily be dealt with. Moreover, unlike many clubs, you have not insisted on the idiotic rule of men and women lunching in different rooms. As a matter of fact, knowing we could not finish until one, I took the liberty of telling the good woman here that she must use her culinary skill on our behalf. I hope I have not done wrong."

Olive laughed gaily. The moorland air, the brightness of the skies, and the healthy exercise she had taken, had made her ravenously hungry.

"Rather, I must thank you heartily," she said; "but I must get back soon after lunch. I think I will send my caddy with a note, so that a trap may come for me."

"Is that essential?" asked Ricordo.

Olive looked at him questioningly.

"Because," continued Ricordo, "I had looked forward to the pleasure of walking back with you – if you will grant me so great an honour."

For a moment she hesitated. Had he been an Englishman she would have thought nothing of it. Her father had invited him to the house; he had also spoken of him as a kind of prince of merchants, and as a consequence there could be no doubt as to his position. Nevertheless, the fact that his education and associations had not been English, kept her from immediately acceding to his request.

"I ask this," went on Ricordo, "because I am afraid I conveyed a false impression on the night I was a guest at your father's house. Even a poor alien like myself does not desire to appear in a false light."

Her eyes met his as he spoke, and the force of her objections seemed to have fled.

"I thought you might wish to play again this afternoon," she said; "but if you wish, I shall be very glad."

An hour later they started to walk back to Vale Linden.

"I have sometimes wondered whether you do not regard me as somewhat of an enigma, signorina. You build a beautiful house for the benefit of people who need rest and change, but who cannot afford to pay for the comforts of a good hotel, and then you find that it is encumbered by a man who can abundantly afford to pay even for a few luxuries. No doubt that has struck you as strange?"

"I am afraid I have not thought much about it," replied Olive.

"Still, now that I have been received so kindly, I think I ought to explain. While I was in London I met a man, I had affairs with him, named – let me think, yes, Winfield. I grew tired of London, and he told me of this place, and of you. He described the work you had done here, and your gracious influence in the village and neighbourhood. His story appealed to me. I longed to see this beautiful Vale Linden, and being a lonely man without ties – well, that is all, I think, signorina. But now I am here, I want to stay – for a time at least. I recognise the fact that I can no longer benefit by – your boundless charity to the needy, and – "

"Surely, Signor Ricordo, there is no need for you to leave The Homestead."

"Yes there is, I could not stay there, when – well, many who may need your kindness are waiting for admission. But the place has come to have a charm for me, signorina. The quiet restfulness, the rustic beauty, the pure air – the associations have conquered me. I have wondered whether it would be possible for you to have me as a tenant, a neighbour. There is a delightful house which I am told was occupied by the steward of the late owner, and which is now empty. I would either buy it or rent it. Would it be possible, signorina?"

"That is scarcely a matter which falls within my province," replied Olive. "My father manages the estate. Since he has partially retired from business, it is his great hobby."

"Pardon me, signorina, everything depends on you."

"On me?"

"Yes. In this way. I could not think of remaining here unless the thought of it were pleasing to you. I am a lonely man, signorina, a man whose friends have either died or disappeared, and the thought of living in the same neighbourhood as yourself brings joy to me; but I would not do so, unless the scheme had your approbation."

They had by this time come to the road which led down the hill towards Vale Linden, and Olive was turning towards it, when Ricordo put out his hands as if to stop her.

"Pardon me," he said, "there is another path to Vale Linden. It is a little longer; it leads over the moors, and it is very beautiful. May I plead with you to take the longer road?"

Almost without demur, she consented. Although she did not realise it, the man had again exercised a kind of fascination over her. For the moment his will became hers. As for the man, he too seemed more than ordinarily interested. There was a tone of pleading and of intensity in his voice which she had never heard before. He was revealing himself in a new light.

"Thank you," he said, as they walked along the moorland path; "I almost hope that your consent to take the longer path augurs well for my plan. For your English life possesses a kind of charm for me, signorina. Yes, I who have known the East with its mystery, its great silent spaces, and its wondrous life, confess it. It has taught me the meaning of your English word 'home.' And I have never known it in practice, signorina – never."

"Still, I should think your life in the East must be very fascinating?"

A strange expression flashed across his face, but the smile on his lips was hidden by his thick moustache.

"Fascinating, great Allah, yes! I should like to tell you of it some time, signorina – the story of my life. It would interest you; yes, I promise you that it would interest you. It would take a long time, I am afraid, but you would listen, yes, you would listen to the very end."

He spoke quietly, but there was an intensity in his tone, and as he spoke Olive's heart began to beat more rapidly. Again she was reminded of Leicester, the man she had once promised to marry, and who had died more than six years before. She almost felt afraid, for it seemed to her that he was about to reveal some terrible secret. More than that, his personality impressed her, just as Leicester's did in the old days.

"Do you know," he went on, "why I did not accept your father's hospitality – that is, why I refused food and drink when I visited your house that night of the concert?"

"I suppose because you were not hungry, and, as you said, you never drink intoxicants," she said, uttering the first answer that came to her lips.

"No, it was not that. I know, too, that my action in refusing his cigars was rude. Even I know enough of your English laws of hospitality for that. I wanted to walk back with you to tell you about this. Shall I tell you?"

"I never thought of rudeness. I thought you meant what you said. Tell me, if you wish."

"I refused because I thought you resented my presence. Forgive me if I misinterpreted your face. You looked as though you were angry with me, and angry at what I said."

"I am exceedingly sorry if any act or look of mine gave pain to a guest in my father's house. Nothing could be further from my wishes. Neither did I interpret your refusal to accept what was offered in that light."

"And yet you grew pale when I refused to take whisky."

Olive was silent.

"I will admit I should have done that under any circumstances," he went on. "There the Mohammedans have much superiority over Christians. Not that I am a Mohammedan – what religion I believe in is Christian; but whisky, no. The depths into which it has dragged so many are too deep. Nevertheless you grew pale as I mentioned it. I wondered why."

Still Olive did not speak. The dead past was rising all around her again, and yet, strange to say, she did not think of Leicester with tenderness. Rather, although the memories associated with him rose thick and fast, he himself receded into the dim distance.

"I am glad I was mistaken," went on Ricordo; "and may I also accept that as your consent to my approaching your father, with a view to my becoming your neighbour?"

"I am sure, if you decide to live here, I hope you will be very happy," said Olive.

"Thank you; you make my sun shine brightly," was the response. "Whether I shall live here much, I cannot tell, for the East always claims the man upon whom it has cast its spell. And it has cast its spell upon me. Yes, some time I must claim your consent to tell you about my life there. I may, may I not?"

Before she realised what she was doing, she had given her consent. The man's presence suggested mysteries which she desired to know.

They had now turned down the hill, and were walking to Vale Linden. She was almost sorry that their walk would so soon come to an end, and she wished that he would tell her something of the past as they walked. But as they neared the village Signor Ricordo became moody and silent, so silent that their walk became almost painful. When they came to the park gates, however, he spoke again.

"It is kind of you to have pity on a lonely man," he said, "ay, and one who is a stranger, grown old before his time."

"Old, signore?" she said, with a laugh that was almost forced.

"Yes, old, signorina. How old should you think?"

She lifted her eyes to his face, and as she looked she felt a shiver pass through her.

"I should not like to hazard a guess," she said.

"No," he replied, "I suppose not; and yet, would you believe it, I am but little older than you. As I told you when first I saw you, I have been in hell; down in its very depths. And it ages a man – yes, it ages him, it gives him not years, but it gives him wisdom. Good-day, signorina."

Olive felt strangely depressed as he parted from her, and she found herself wondering at many things he said. Indeed, he was in her thoughts during the rest of the day. She was strangely interested in him, and yet she had a kind of fear of him. He was different from the rest of her world, different from her father, different from Herbert Briarfield, different from any of the guests who had come to the house. In many ways he reminded her of Leicester, and yet from that day Leicester became more and more a memory to her.

A few days later she heard that Signor Ricordo had taken rooms at Linden Manor Farm, a rather fine old house, occupied by a farmer by the name of Briggs. Meanwhile her father told her that Ricordo had approached him with a view of buying the house concerning which he had spoken to her. After this they met occasionally, but not often; nevertheless, each time they met, Olive became more deeply interested in him. The fact of his coming from the East became less and less an obstacle to their friendship, and John Castlemaine, while he could never break through a certain kind of reserve which seemed to surround the man who had come to live in their midst, confessed that he was the most interesting personality he had ever met.

As the weeks passed by Olive realised that the time would soon arrive when Herbert Briarfield would claim the right to plead his suit for the last time, and she began to wonder what she would say to him. Since the occasion when he had pleaded this privilege, he had not visited her home often; but every time she had seen him he had revealed more and more what a fine manly young fellow he was. Certainly, as her father had told her more than once, she would soon have to decide whether she would remain single all her life, or whether she would accept the love he offered. Yet, even as she thought of this, she wondered what Ricordo would say, and she thought also of the promise which she had made to Leicester on the night before the day on which they should have been married. For that promise still haunted her. She remembered the look on Leicester's face when he exacted the promise, and her assurance that, no matter what might happen, she would never marry another man was not to be easily forgotten.