"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 h.e.l.l. 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, 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 a.s.sociations 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 s.p.a.ces, 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 G.o.d, 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 gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s; 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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?"