ene to revel in; but
Leicester did not rejoice. And yet he had gained that for which he had
struggled. Olive Castlemaine had promised to be his wife, and thus he
would be able to wreak the vengeance over which he had brooded. Last
night the thought had brought him a cruel, savage joy; that morning even
he had gloated over the thought of his revenge; but now all was
different. Suppose he had his way, suppose he played the game he was
playing to the bitter end, what would be the good of it all? He would
have fulfilled his vow; but somehow it seemed mean, paltry, unworthy.
Besides, his scheme was of a devilish nature. It was savagery, coated
with the veneer of civilisation. Murder would be far more merciful.

"That woman knows a secret to which I am a stranger," he said as he
looked down on the lonely farmhouse. "Of course I could explain away all
she said, and I could laugh at her childish superstition, but she
possesses something which is hidden from me. And she was right, too.
What is a man the better for revenge? When one has had his eye for an
eye, when he has given measure for measure of scorn and disgrace, who's
the better? Suppose I have my way and--do what I said, what then?
Suppose, when I have worked my will, I go away, leaving only desolation
and disgrace behind, should I be any happier? No, I should still be in
hell!"

He strode along like a man in anger.

"I felt that I was Radford Leicester again when she kissed me last
night," he went on. "I was at The Beeches again, and for a minute I was
in heaven--yes, in heaven. I was the lover once more, and, great heaven,
how sweet it was to love!"

A new light came into his eyes, and he looked more like the Leicester of
old, Leicester at his best. For a moment dark passions were dispelled by
something higher, purer; the sunshine of joy rested upon him, but only
for a moment.

"No," he cried, "that's all gone. I'll see the thing through to the end.
Besides, it is not I whom she loves. It is a rich foreigner, a partner
in the Great Tripoli Company, a Signor Ricordo, a man with an Italian
father and a Moorish mother. Radford Leicester is nothing to her; she
said so. She declared she could never marry him; ay, and in spite of her
promise to him, she is willing to marry Ricordo. A woman's promise!
Byron was right, in spite of all canting moralists. A woman's fidelity
is like thistledown, and her promises are written in the sands.

"I wonder why that woman is so hap