"Never see her again!" he repeated time after time. The thought seemed to stagger him as it became more and more real to him.
"I hate her!" he cried. "Did she not drive me away from her, and in driving me away sent me to regions which——"
He started on his walk again.
"I loved her last night for a minute; yes, I loved her then. I forgot everything, and I was in paradise. I loved her; yes, and O God, I believe I love her now!"
For an hour he walked along with stern, set face. Away in the far distance he could see the tor which rose up behind the ninth hole, at the golf links. With that as a landmark, he could not lose his way. Not that he would have cared if he had. A great passion burned within him, to which even he had been a stranger.
"Could I—could I—after all, do what I have made up my mind to do? Could I, out of pure devilry and desire for revenge, drag her name into the mud of disgrace? Could I make her the byword for gossiping women? Could I leave her a wrecked, ruined woman just because I——Besides, what should I feel? Hell! No hell which I have ever entered would be as deep as that. Talk about a bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone—it would be nothing to what I should feel."
Again he thought of the woman at the farmhouse, while the story of Aaron Goudge came back to him; and as he thought, a new feeling rose within him as though he heard something saying, "Be a man; do the thing that is right."
"What is right?" he asked. "Suppose I were to go to her now and tell her everything—everything. What would she do? She would drive me away as though I were a leper. She told me that she did not love Radford Leicester, and that she would never marry him, even if he came back repentant and worthy. How much less would she love him, then, if I were to tell her the whole truth? If I was unworthy of her six years ago, how much less am I worthy of her now! Let me think, now. There are three things I could do. First, I could go away and send to her telling her that Signor Ricordo was an adventurer and had to fly for fear of his life. Then all would be as though I had never come. No, it would not. Then I hated her; but now, yes, I believe I hate her still! But I should give up my scheme of vengeance, and let her remain to live her own life. That is the first. Then, second, I could carry out my scheme. I could go on as I had marked it out. I could leave her, wounded and disgraced, as I should know she would feel herself wounded and disgraced. And oh, the thought of revenge is sweet! Then, third, I could go to her, cap in hand, and tell her the whole story—that Leicester was dead, but that he has risen again. But in either case I should have to leave her; I should go away, and never see her again. And could I bear that? No. And that reminds me, there is another way. I, Signor Ricordo, could marry her. I could live here. I could play the squire; I could be happy. But could I? To know all the time that I was a living lie! Besides, the truth would be bound to come out. No, there would be no rest nor peace that way."
Everything, he scarcely knew why, was changed. The thing he had longed for was within his reach, and yet he did not want to stretch out his hand and grasp it. The kiss which still burned on his lips somehow roused within him new feelings. The story of the country-woman changed the course of his thoughts. He still longed for revenge, but the sweetness of it was gone.
There was a change in the look of the sky. Right in front of him, and behind the tor, a great blue-black cloud was rising rapidly. In a few minutes it seemed to cover the whole of the southern horizon. The wind blew colder, the air seemed charged with sulphur. Not that he minded. Indeed, he scarcely noticed the change of the atmosphere. Presently the sun seemed to change colour. First it shone through a great purple haze, and then it was blotted out.