The Man Who Rose Again Part 55

"Yes, Miss Castlemaine, I have lived in h.e.l.l. I have been deeper into its depths than Dante ever saw. The flames which he saw have burnt me, the 'thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice,' which Shakespeare spoke of have crushed out of me all those qualities natural to humanity. Nay, I forgot, not all, not all!"

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 pa.s.sion.

"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 h.e.l.l 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 circ.u.mstances," 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d. 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 h.e.l.l, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion. Presently he rose and paced the room; it seemed as though the volcanic pa.s.sions 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-cla.s.s 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."