"You mean that you will fulfil the threat you made to Sprague and Purvis?"

"I mean that I always try to pay my debts, my friend--always."

Again Winfield wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Even yet he could scarcely realise what had taken place. It seemed to him that all the foundations of his being were shaken.

"Give it up, Leicester."

"Give what up, my friend?"

"This mad scheme of yours."

"Mad! Nay, I've pondered over it for years. I've brooded over it in the silent places. I've suffered as few men have suffered, that I might gain the power that I wanted. No, my friend, I'll drag her as low as she dragged me. I'll make her feel the sting of scorn and insult as she made me feel it. She cared nothing for my disgrace, and do you think I'll stay my hand?"

"But how?"

"Not even to you dare I tell that, my friend. There are bounds, even to my trustfulness. But do not fear; it shall be sure, even if it is slow in coming."

"But, Leicester, you used to be a man. Even although you were cynical, and laughed at women's virtue, you were in your own way honourable, and chivalrous."

"Honour! Chivalry! I bade them good-bye years ago. Work with a gang of Arab ruffians for two years, as I have done, and where would your honour and chivalry be?"

"But you did that of your own accord. She did not rob you of your fortune, or your liberty, or your life."

"She robbed me of hope, of faith--of all that from your standpoint makes life worth the living. Yes, I know, I was a slave to drink; I know.

Perhaps I inherited the taste for it. I was an unbeliever, I laughed at standard morality--yes, all that. But I was still a man, Winfield. She had it in her power to make me even a good man. But when--she did what she did, she robbed me of everything--everything. I ceased to be a man; I became a devil. But for her I should never have sunk to the depths I have sunk to since. When she went out of my life, the devil entered me.

Man, if I were to tell you all I've gone through since--I saw you last, you'd--but what's the use?"

For an hour more they talked, Winfield eagerly expostulating, and pleading, the other answering coldly and cruelly, but never raising his voice, or showing any signs of excitement.

"Then you are determined?" said Winfield at length.

"My friend, I never make a plan one day to give it up the next."

"Then you'll excuse me, I am sure."

"For what?"

"Nothing, only I am going back to London to-night. I cannot remain your guest, knowing what I know."

Ricordo half lifted his fez, and bowed mockingly.

"I am honoured by your society, even for a few hours, Signor Winfield,"

he said. "It has been pleasant to talk about--old times, eh? I will tell the estimable Mrs. Briggs at the farm, who wisely rules her husband, to send back your luggage to the station. A busy editor--called suddenly back, eh? Good-day, Signor Winfield."

The other stood undecided.

"I say, Leicester, old man, will nothing move you?"

"Nothing, my friend, nothing. I have only one thing to live for now, and that I am going to have. It is a pleasant walk to the station, signore.

I hope you will enjoy it."

Winfield turned away with a heavy heart. Twice he stopped as if undecided what to do, then, as if making a final resolution, he walked rapidly towards the station. As for the other, he stood and watched him until he was out of sight; but his face retained its relentless look, in his eyes was the wild stare of a madman.

"Even if I loved her as much as I hate her, I would still do what I set out to do," he said as Winfield pa.s.sed out of sight.

That evening a servant at Vale Linden house announced that Signor Ricordo had called to see Miss Castlemaine.

CHAPTER XXVII

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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.