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 participate 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 passed Winfield's face.
"I saw her under unpleasant circumstances," 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."
Winfield was silent a second.
"Are you interested in her?" he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"In a way, yes. I live on her lands; she is—well, the good fairy of the district. Yes, I am interested."
"I see no reason why I should not tell you," replied Winfield. "It is a matter of six years ago now, and the man is dead."
"Dead, eh? Who was he?"
"A fellow by the name of Radford Leicester."
"A good fellow? A pattern young man, eh?"
"No; anything but that. Nevertheless I liked him. In many respects I suppose I was his best friend—perhaps his only friend. But there, I'll tell you. Leicester was a cynic, a drunkard, a man who, while I believe he lived a clean, straight life, laughed at morality and truth and virtue. A drunkard, did I say? Well, that is true and false at the same time. He was a slave to drink, and yet he never appeared drunk. Well, he had brilliant gifts, was a fine speaker, a close reasoner, and every one believed that if he would give up his vice, he might become a great man. As I said, he believed in nothing. He was an atheist, and scorned virtue. One night I was sitting with him, and two others, and he was taken to task for his——"
"Yes, I understand; go on."
"Well, he defended himself, and declared that there was no woman on earth but had her price. The other two chaps, Sprague and Purvis by name, defended the women. Then Leicester offered to make a wager that he, a kind of pariah as he was, could win any woman they liked to name, provided he was able to pay the price. Then I named Olive Castlemaine. Leicester then offered to stake £100 that he would win her. He said that although she knew him to be a drunkard, an atheist, a cynic, a despiser of women, he would win her, by making her believe he would give her a high place in the land. After he had won her, he was to——"
"What you call jilt her," suggested Ricordo, as he saw Winfield hesitate for a word.
"Exactly. Well, he did win her. The day of the wedding was arranged. Meanwhile, Sprague and Purvis believed he was simply seeking to win his wager. Indeed, he confessed as much to them a week or so before the wedding. For my own part, I believe that although Leicester began in grim jest, he ended by being deadly in earnest."
"Yes, go on, my friend," said Ricordo, as the other paused. "I am greatly interested in your story. More interested than you can imagine. I will tell you why presently."