"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 s.e.x, a great deal. And I would not desire even to suggest a thought that would seem to reflect on the s.e.x to which the signorina adds so much l.u.s.tre."

"But surely I am not responsible for my s.e.x, 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 pa.s.sion, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed out of your life."