The Man Who Rose Again Part 47

"Is he rich?" asked the German.

"I thought you told me he was a man of considerable position."

"And what then, Mr. Briarfield? A man may be poor, and still be a gentleman. I am poor--but I do not say it to boast--I am of the best families in Germany. My mother was a Von Finkelstein, while the Trubners are of the best blood in my country. Ah, yes!"

"I am sure I beg your pardon. But I do not see Signor Ricordo."

"Ah, but he is here in The Homestead. Yes, I like that name. It makes me think of Germany, that word 'homestead.' That is why we Germans and you English are a great people. No nation can have the feeling so strongly that they are obliged to have the word 'home' without being a great people. The French with their _chez vous_, and the Italians with their _casa sua_, are poor, not only in their language, but in that sublime quality which makes a people invent the word 'home.' Forgive me for being prosy; but I like to think that the Germans and the English are akin. But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Signor Ricordo is in The Homestead, and he is looking forward to meeting you. When I told him that you knew our patron saint, he became interested, and asked that he might have the honour of being introduced. Have you finished? That is well. We will have our coffee brought into the smoking-room."

As Herbert Briarfield walked behind Herr Trubner into the smoking-room, he asked himself why he had been so foolish as to accept the latter's invitation to dine. He knew that Olive had built the place with an idea of charity, and although he had no doubt that Herr Trubner was of a good German family, he did not relish dining with a number of impecunious people. As he entered, however, he no longer regretted that he had come, for, sitting in the corner of the room, he saw the man who had aroused his interest so strongly the night before, and whom he had really come to see.

CHAPTER XX

HERBERT BRIARFIELD AND THE STRANGER

Signor Ricordo rose as Herr Trubner and Herbert Briarfield came up to him. As he did so, the latter noticed that he was of more than ordinary height, and that he was evidently a man of great muscular strength. But he quickly forgot the stranger's physical proportions as he realised that peculiar quality in the man's presence, to indicate which no better word can be used than "personality." Had he been asked afterwards to describe him, he would not have dwelt upon his physical appearance at all, except only in so far as it suggested that subtle power which made him remarkable. For he was remarkable. Before he spoke a word, Briarfield felt it. It was not that his face told him anything. The chin and the mouth were covered by a thick black beard and moustache, while the forehead was hidden from him by the Turkish fez which he wore.

Nevertheless, the face was one which he knew he should never forget. The stranger's eyes were large, but they were seldom opened wide, because of his peculiar habit of half closing them. In the lamplight they looked black, but they might easily be any other colour. Moreover, the protruding forehead threw them in a shadow. His skin was much tanned, as though he had lived his life beneath a tropical sun; his large nervous hands were also almost as brown as an Indian's. There was nothing Oriental in his attire, excepting his fez, and yet he suggested the East. Even the voice was different from the English voice. It was, if one may use the terms, more subtle, more fluid. Moreover, he seldom raised his voice; even when he was deeply interested, he never showed his interest by eagerness or loudness of speech. His hearers felt it, rather than heard or saw it.

No one would have spoken of him as a talkative man, and yet he spoke freely--at least, he seemed to; nevertheless, even while he was speaking, Herbert Briarfield was wondering what he was really thinking.

"The life here must be somewhat strange to you, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield, after their coffee was brought.

"In what way?"

The question seemed natural, and yet, while he spoke in low tones, it suggested a kind of anger.

"Herr Trubner tells me you have spent your life in the East. I do not know much about the East, but I have called at Tunis, and have spent a few days in Cairo. It therefore struck me that to one who has lived his life there, a Devons.h.i.+re village must seem strange."

"Did it never occur to you, Mr. Briarfield"--he uttered the name hesitatingly, as though he were not certain about the exact p.r.o.nunciation--"that the differences which one sees in various parts of the world all lie on the surface?"

"No, I cannot say that. From what I have seen, they are deep."

"How deep?"

"Of course, it is impossible to calculate that."

"I do not think so. What is the covering of the world here? Mud. Yes, call it another name if you like; but it is still mud. Of course, it is very useful; it grows food. Away in Africa the world is covered in many places by sand; but it is only another form of mud. Grind it sufficiently fine, and it becomes slime--mud. But we must not grumble; it grows food. It is not exactly the same as you have here; but its qualities are similar. It goes to making blood, and bone, and sinew.

Essentially, it is the same; superficially only, it is different."

"But I was thinking of men and women. The characteristics of the people who live near the Nile are different from those of us living here in England."

"Again, how deep is the difference?"

"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."

"And yet the thought is very simple. The sand of Sahara, of Libya is different from your Devons.h.i.+re soil. Just so; but, as I said, it grows food. It contains the same vital elements. The Arab is different from the Englishman; yes, but how deep is the difference? His skin is darker, true; he conveys his thoughts by different sounds, true. Even his thoughts may on the surface be different; but dig down deep, and you find the same elemental characteristics. The Eastern eats and sleeps, so does an Englishman. The Eastern loves and hates, so does an Englishman.

The Eastern ponders over life's mysteries and wonders about the great unknown, so does the Englishman. In a less degree, I will admit, but he does. Pull aside the tawdry excrescences, Mr. Briarfield, and all places are alike, all men are alike. All men, all climes, all ages tell the same story."

"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.

"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."

"Why?"

"It's not worth while."

Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the man was in earnest or not.

"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.

"Three months."

"In what part, if I may ask?"

"London."

"And you like London?"

"Yes--no--London is h.e.l.l."

He spoke quietly, yet there was a strange intensity in his tones.

"Pardon me," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "I do not particularise when I say that London is h.e.l.l. It only appears more like h.e.l.l than other places, because there are more people there."

"You are alluding to the east of London?"

"And to the west. To the east most, perhaps, because the people are more real there. There is less artificiality, less veneer. The nearer to real life you get, the nearer to h.e.l.l. And yet I don't know; the same fires burn in the west, although they are more carefully hidden from view."

"You have visited other parts of England?"

"Yes, visited."

"And how did the other parts strike you?"

"Still h.e.l.l, but duller."

Herbert Briarfield looked towards Signor Ricordo with a kind of nervous laugh. Even yet he did not know how to regard him.

"I agree with your--what do you call him?--Dr. Johnson. When he was asked where he would rather live in the summer, he said, 'On the whole, London.' 'And where in the winter?' asked his questioner. 'Ah, in winter,' he said, 'there is no place else. Yes, London is interesting.'"

"What impressed you most in London?" asked Briarfield, for want of a better question.

Ricordo hesitated a second.