The Man Who Rose Again

by Joseph Hocking

He hesitated a second as though he expected her to speak, but not a word escaped her lips. He thought the look in her eyes hard and repellent. As he moved towards the door he took a last look at her, but she made no sign, nor spoke a word.

"Good-night, good-bye," he said, and was gone.

She heard him go into the hall, and open the front door; afterwards the sound of his footsteps on the drive reached her; but she did not move. The man's revelations had stunned her; she felt incapable of acting or thinking. All she knew was that a feeling of utter desolation possessed her.

She was glad her father was out of the house, for she had a great dread of meeting any one just then. In a vague way she had a longing to understand the meaning of what she had heard. For more than an hour she sat in utter silence. Little by little the reality of Leicester's story came to her. Leicester was not dead. He had come back to wreak his revenge on her.

At first she was angry. That he whom she had driven away should come back as a stranger in order to drag her into disgrace, hurt her pride.

But the anger did not long remain. She reflected that he had renounced his plan of revenge. Nay, more, he had come to her almost humbly, and told her that he had learnt to be ashamed of his unworthy designs.

Without knowing it she began to analyse her feelings. What was to become of her? Ricordo was gone—there never had been a Ricordo, except in name. And yet she had loved him. The night before, when she had promised to be his wife, and felt his lips upon hers, she knew that her life had gone out to his. Even although she could not understand it, she knew it was so. In spite of the fear which had possessed her, her heart had responded to his pleadings. Even then the thought of it was strange. If, years before, any one had told her that she would have given her heart to a man with Ricordo's professed antecedents, she would have laughed at such a suggestion as impossible. And yet, in spite of herself, she had loved him, she did love him. And yet there was no Ricordo; there never had been.

Then, like a flash, the whole truth came to her. It was Leicester she had loved all the time. She realised now why, even at their first meeting, he had such an influence over her. It was not a stranger with an Italian name, it was Leicester, the man who had won her years before, and whom she had sent away in anger, but whom she had never been able to forget. Her heart had thrilled its recognition of the man, even although she thought him to be a stranger. It was Leicester all the time. Everything was plain to her now; there never had been any Signor Ricordo; at most he was only a name, a fancy. That was why, the night before, it had seemed to her that it was Leicester who had kissed her. It was not a new love at all. It was but the resurrection of an old love, the one love of her life.

For a moment she forgot everything in this one great thought. Leicester was still alive, that she still loved him, and that she had never loved any one else. She had only cared about the stranger because her heart knew it was he.

Then she realised that he had gone, and with that realisation a great blackness fell upon her life. In spite of all he had told her, she loved him still. She might be angry at the revenge of which he had told her, her anger was lost in her longing for him. Nevertheless he had gone, and left her desolate.