"But surely I am not responsible for my sex, 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 passion, 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."