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.
"And you loved this man--this--this Leicester?" he asked presently.
"Yes, I think so--that is, I must have loved him, or I should never have
promised to be his wife."
"And you gave him up because he was a bad man?"
"Because he insulted me. Because he did not seek me because he loved me,
but because he would win his wager. How could I do otherwise?"
"But he loved you really--that is, afterwards?"
"He said so; but how did I know? He told--those men that it was only to
win the wager."
"And he explained to you that for him the jest had become an earnest
purpose?"
He spoke quietly, as though he were a judge sifting evidence.
"Yes, but when I accused him of having admitted to those--men, less than
a month before the wedding-day, that he only sought to win the wager, he
could not deny it."
"And then you cast him off?"
"I told him I would never see him again."
"And he--what became of him? Ah yes, you told me, he dragged your name
before a public meeting, he fell down drunk on the platform at a public
meeting--and then he committed suicide."
"Yes." She shuddered as she spoke; she never felt the tragedy of the
circumstance as she felt it now.
"And before the day fixed for your wedding, you promised never to marry
another man?"
"Yes."
"And that is the reason why you have never married?"
She did not resent this mode of putting questions to her. Somehow she
felt he had the right. He had asked her to be his wife, and he had the
right to know. Besides, she was strangely wrought upon. If he had not
slept since the previous night, neither had she.
"Yes--no," she answered--"that is, I have never met any one that I cared
for--enough to marry."
"Then you love this man--Leicester--still?"
"No."
"He is nothing to you now?"
"No, I do not think so."
"You have never felt that you treated him harshly, unfairly; that you
did not give him a chance of proving to you that his love was real?"
"What could I do?" she asked. "No woman with self-respect could consent
to be treated in such a way. He had deceived me once, how could I trust
him again?"
"How indeed?"
She looked at him quickly. She could not understand the tone of his
voice, and again a great fear possessed her. He seemed to have mastered
her will, rather than her heart. She stood almost in awe of this man
whose life was still a mystery to her, but who had, in a way she could
not understand, made her feel that he was all the world to her. For he
had done this, and yet in her heart of hearts she did not feel that she
loved him.
"Did it ever strike you," he went on, "that this man--Leicester, I think
you call him--did not commit suicide?"
"But he did!"
"How do you know?"
"The papers, the coroner's inquest, the--that is, there could be no
doubt. Letters addressed to him were found on his dead body."
"I was only considering it from the standpoint of one who is terribly
interested in all this, more interested than even you can think. For
your story has a vital meaning to me, signorina; you can imagine that.
How can it be otherwise, when your answer to my plea means so much? For
let me tell you this, although your refusal would mean more to me than
anything you can dream of, I would not marry a woman half of whose heart
was buried in the grave of another man. May I ask you another question,
signorina?"
She nodded her head, wondering and fearing, she knew not why, what it
would be.
"Suppose this man were not dead, supposing he is still alive, and were
to come back, repentant perhaps, and reformed--would you marry him now?"
"No, no, never." She uttered the words eagerly.
"He is nothing to you now?"
"His memory is a black shadow on my life."
"But only a shadow?"
"That is all."
"In a sense, you have forgotten him, then?"
"Yes, he has--lately become--as--as nothing to me."
"Since how long?"
She did not answer.
"Signorina," and he spoke very gently, "is it since--since that day I
spoke to you first up on the hills yonder?"
She did not reply, but she knew that his question contained the truth.
"You will be my wife, signorina? Forgive me if I cannot tell you all
that is in my heart. But it is the dearest wish of my life--nay more,
all I hope for, all I live for, depends on your answer. Let that story
be forgotten. There, it is gone for ever. Tell me that you will be my
wife."
"But my promise," she said weakly.
"Your promise--what is it?" he laughed. "A promise made in a moment of
excitement, made when you did not realise what it meant. You did not
think he would die, and since he is dead--what does it avail? That is
all gone. It has no meaning. It has no more binding power than a
gossamer thread. You must be mine. I was led here that this hour might
come. You will be my wife, signorina?"
Still she hesitated, and then the man pleaded again, pleaded with
burning words, and as he spoke barriers seemed to break down one by
one. Her fear passed away, her heart grew warm again. He seemed to cast
a kind of spell on her once more, and she had no desire to refuse him.
"You will be my wife," he said, "you will fulfil the dreams of years,
you will bring light and joy into my life--say you will--Olive."
She held out her hand and looked up into his face, and then he caught
her in his arms; but even as he did so it seemed as though the dead past
came back again, and that it was Leicester, and not the stranger, who
held her to his heart.