The Man Who Rose Again Part 49

"This is a man who has suffered," he thought; but he said aloud, after an awkward silence, "You are a Mohammedan, I suppose, signore?"

"I," replied the other, "I am nothing, signore, and I am everything--Christian, Mohammedan, Brahmin, what you will. I believe in them all, because all postulate a devil."

"You believe in a devil, then?"

"Have I not lived in London? Ay, and in Morocco also. But above all, I have lived!"

Had some men said this, there would be something theatrical, melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the others never thought of it.

"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired.

You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great philanthropist, I suppose?"

"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.

"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of grat.i.tude to my benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me, why did she build this place?"

"I know of nothing except what the world knows. She was anxious to befriend those whom such a place as this would help, so she built it.

She also keeps the house at Vale Linden open; that is, she invites all sorts of people there as her guests. She has been a Lady Bountiful to the district."

"Distributes tracts, and all that?"

"I do not know. She has never given me one."

"She is simply one of these 'viewy' women, then?"

"She must have views, certainly, else she would not have done what she has."

Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.

"I think I see," he said presently.

"What do you see?"

"Her motives."

"What are they, then?" asked Briarfield almost angrily.

"Notoriety--and, shall we say, position?"

"Are you not judging without sufficient reason?" asked Herbert Briarfield warmly. "You have never seen Miss Castlemaine."

"I am no longer a boy," said the other, with a sigh.

"What might that mean?"

"That I have seen women--in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Damascus, Constantinople, Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta. Yes, I have seen them--women of all tongues, all nationalities. And everywhere they are the same."

"Well, and what is the sum total of your experience?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"Why? It is always well to know the truth."

"Mr. Briarfield, if there is one thing I am afraid of it is the truth.

For many years I have made it my business to keep my eyes from beholding the truth; nevertheless, it always keeps thrusting itself upon me--always. That is why I am a sad man."

"Perhaps you have only seen one side of life."

Again a look suggesting pain shot across the stranger's face, but he still spoke quietly.

"Mr. Briarfield," he said, "I have even read the book which is to the English people a text-book of religion. I fancy I am somewhat of an exception, but I have. Well, the part of that book which interests me most is the Book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps that is because the experience of its writer is my own experience. In all essential features, Solomon, or whoever was the author, wrote my experience. I have tried everything, Mr. Briarfield."

"And your conclusion?"

"Solomon's."

"If that were my creed," said Briarfield, "I should commit suicide."

"Of course I have thought of that--without fear. But I came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth while. 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come! Ay, there's the rub.' Besides, I've something to live for."

"According to your creed I do not see what," said Briarfield. "It would be interesting to know."

"Ah, but I have something to live for, Mr. Briarfield."

"I suppose I might be intruding on your privacy if I sought to know what it was?"

"It's not love, and it's not money," said Ricordo. "Ah, Herr Trubner, I apologise. I have monopolised your guest completely, and that is unforgivable. You have a great gift, my friend--all the Germans have--and it makes them a great people."

"What gift is that, signore?"

"The gift of listening."

After this the conversation drifted into general subjects, and a little later Herbert Briarfield took his leave.

"The man interests me, fascinates me, and yet I do not like him," he said to himself as he rode home-ward. "I wonder who and what he is? But for that peculiar far-away sound in his voice, he speaks English like an Englishman. Sometimes I thought I detected a suggestion of Oxford in his tones. But then, again, when he spoke German to Trubner, he might have been reared in Berlin or Heidelberg. Again, he seems to know the East perfectly. I want to know more about him, and yet I feel afraid of him.

In any case, I'll be at that concert on Friday. I wonder what she will think of him?"

"What do you think of Mr. Briarfield, signore?" asked Herr Trubner when he found himself alone with the stranger.

"I think he is in love with what you call the guardian angel of this place."

"I never thought of that," said the German. "What made _you_ think of it?"

"I kept my eyes open and I listened, that is all."

"It may be as you say," said the German reflectively. "Well, I should say from what I have heard, it would be a good match. He is a fine specimen of the English gentleman. I am told that he is well-off and very ambitious."

"And in what way does his ambition express itself?"