"No," he replied, "I suppose not; and yet, would you believe it, I am but little older than you. As I told you when first I saw you, I have been in hell; down in its very depths. And it ages a man—yes, it ages him, it gives him not years, but it gives him wisdom. Good-day, signorina."
Olive felt strangely depressed as he parted from her, and she found herself wondering at many things he said. Indeed, he was in her thoughts during the rest of the day. She was strangely interested in him, and yet she had a kind of fear of him. He was different from the rest of her world, different from her father, different from Herbert Briarfield, different from any of the guests who had come to the house. In many ways he reminded her of Leicester, and yet from that day Leicester became more and more a memory to her.
A few days later she heard that Signor Ricordo had taken rooms at Linden Manor Farm, a rather fine old house, occupied by a farmer by the name of Briggs. Meanwhile her father told her that Ricordo had approached him with a view of buying the house concerning which he had spoken to her. After this they met occasionally, but not often; nevertheless, each time they met, Olive became more deeply interested in him. The fact of his coming from the East became less and less an obstacle to their friendship, and John Castlemaine, while he could never break through a certain kind of reserve which seemed to surround the man who had come to live in their midst, confessed that he was the most interesting personality he had ever met.
As the weeks passed by Olive realised that the time would soon arrive when Herbert Briarfield would claim the right to plead his suit for the last time, and she began to wonder what she would say to him. Since the occasion when he had pleaded this privilege, he had not visited her home often; but every time she had seen him he had revealed more and more what a fine manly young fellow he was. Certainly, as her father had told her more than once, she would soon have to decide whether she would remain single all her life, or whether she would accept the love he offered. Yet, even as she thought of this, she wondered what Ricordo would say, and she thought also of the promise which she had made to Leicester on the night before the day on which they should have been married. For that promise still haunted her. She remembered the look on Leicester's face when he exacted the promise, and her assurance that, no matter what might happen, she would never marry another man was not to be easily forgotten.
One morning Ricordo sat on the lawn outside the Manor Farm House. He had breakfasted in the open air, and was now sitting on a garden chair smoking a cheroot. Ricordo was still regarded as a mystery in the neighbourhood. No one knew anything more about him now than they did on the day of his arrival, save that he was a partner in a great Eastern trading firm. That he had plenty of money was beyond question. He had opened an account at the nearest bank, and the manager had opened his eyes with astonishment when he saw the amount written on the cheque that was presented to him. Of course this sum was not mentioned to the world, but the clerks at the bank made no secret of the fact that their new client was enormously rich. But beyond this nothing was known. The best houses for miles around had opened their doors to him; but Ricordo never entered them. Beyond calling occasionally at The Homestead, and at the great house at Vale Linden, he showed no desire for companionship. If he had left at the end of two months he would have been spoken of as the mysterious Eastern gentleman who wore a fez, and while all sorts of surmises would have been offered concerning him, nothing would have been known.
