The Man Who Rose Again Part 62

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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l; 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.surance that, no matter what might happen, she would never marry another man was not to be easily forgotten.

One morning Ricordo sat on the lawn outside the Manor Farm House. He had breakfasted in the open air, and was now sitting on a garden chair smoking a cheroot. Ricordo was still regarded as a mystery in the neighbourhood. No one knew anything more about him now than they did on the day of his arrival, save that he was a partner in a great Eastern trading firm. That he had plenty of money was beyond question. He had opened an account at the nearest bank, and the manager had opened his eyes with astonishment when he saw the amount written on the cheque that was presented to him. Of course this sum was not mentioned to the world, but the clerks at the bank made no secret of the fact that their new client was enormously rich. But beyond this nothing was known. The best houses for miles around had opened their doors to him; but Ricordo never entered them. Beyond calling occasionally at The Homestead, and at the great house at Vale Linden, he showed no desire for companionship. If he had left at the end of two months he would have been spoken of as the mysterious Eastern gentleman who wore a fez, and while all sorts of surmises would have been offered concerning him, nothing would have been known.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Signor Ricordo.]

This morning, Signor Ricordo lay back in his chair, smoking a cheroot.

As usual, his eyes were nearly closed, and the same look of cynical melancholy rested on his face. Once or twice he picked up the previous day's paper, only to throw it aside. Evidently he had but little interest in the affairs of the country. Presently he lifted his head quickly, and saw the village postman coming towards him.

"Mornin', sur."

"Good-morning, Beel. Got some letters for me?"

"Sever'l, sur. 'Ere you be."

"Thank you."

The postman left him, and made his way towards the house.

For a time he sat deep in thought, not referring to the letters, but his face gave no indication as to whether his thoughts were pleasant or otherwise. It was as expressionless as the face of the sphinx. After a time he turned to the letters and glanced at them carelessly. At length, however, his eyes showed a glow of interest. He tore open one of the letters and read it almost eagerly:

"DEAR SIGNOR RICORDO,--At last I am able to accept your kind invitation, and by the time you get this I shall be on my way to Vale Linden. As I am starting by an early train I shall arrive at the station by one o'clock. I am simply longing to be amidst the beautiful scenery which you describe so eloquently, and more than all to have a long chat with you. All news when we meet.--Yours,

"A. WINFIELD."

"P.S.--I shall lunch in the train."

Certainly there was nothing in the letter of a striking nature, yet Ricordo walked up and down the lawn like one greatly moved.

"It is coming, it is coming," he repeated more than once.

Hastily scanning the other letters, he went into the house, and having carefully locked them in a safe, he went out on the moors and walked for many miles. By one o'clock he was at Vale Linden station, but no one would have judged that he had trudged a long distance that summer day.

As he waited the coming of the train he looked as cool as if he had just dressed after a cold bath.

"Ah, Mr. Winfield, I am glad to see you," he said, as the train drew up at the platform, and Winfield got out. "I am rejoiced that you have come to partic.i.p.ate in the beauties of this place. I owe you much for advising me to come here."

"It is good of you to ask me to come," said Winfield, "I find I can just squeeze out three days."

"Ah, longer, longer, my friend. By the way, are you tired? There is a man waiting here with a trap, if you would like to ride back."

"No, I would rather walk, if you don't mind," said Winfield. "The air is so delicious, and I have been in the railway carriage so long, that the thought of a country walk is enchanting."

"That is well. I will send back your luggage by the trap, and we will walk. A roundabout way, if you don't mind, over the moors."

"Just what I should like," said Winfield, and the two started.

While they were climbing a steep footpath which led to the moors, little was said, but presently, when they had reached an eminence from which they could see a vast expanse of country, both drew breath.

"This is glorious," said Winfield; "it makes me feel ten years younger."

"I want to take you the loneliest walk in the district, and the most striking, Mr. Winfield," said Ricordo. "It will mean eight miles to my farmhouse that way; do you mind?"

"The longer the better," said Winfield. "What a glorious sight! Look at the roll of hill and dale, think of the glory of furze and heather! And the air is like some fabled elixir of life. You must be very happy here, signore."

"As happy as Lucifer when he was cast out of Paradise," said the other calmly.

Winfield looked at him curiously.

"You will have your joke," he laughed.

"I never joke," said the other.

"By the way," went on Winfield, "have you met the guardian angel of this place? You stayed at her home of rest for some time. I am told that she often visits it. Surely you must have seen her?"

"Yes, I have seen her."

"Well, and what is your impression? I knew her slightly, years ago."

"And what do you think of her?"

A shadow pa.s.sed Winfield's face.

"I saw her under unpleasant circ.u.mstances," he said. "I am afraid I am not able to judge fairly."

"I have heard," said Ricordo slowly, "that she is a woman with a history. Gossips have it that she had an unhappy love affair years ago.

Is it true? Not that I pay much attention to gossip; but I thought you might know."

"Yes, I am afraid there is some truth in it."

"Tell me, _amico mio_."