Olive Castlemaine sat on the lawn of her Devonshire home, looking away across the valley towards the moorlands which lay beyond. By her side stood a young fellow of from thirty to thirty-five years of age.

"You don't say you are sorry for me, Miss Castlemaine," he said.

"You are not on my side, you see," she replied, with a smile.

"Would that make a difference? Would you have congratulated me if I were on your side, and won the seat?"

"And if you had lost it—if you had made a good fight."

"You believe in fighting?"

"To the very end."

"Still, I can't turn my coat—even for you," he said apologetically.

"I would not like you to."

"And, after all, the battle's not lost, because of one defeat."

"You are going to stand again?"

"Yes, I am going to stand again. We must have a General Election in a year or two; meanwhile I shall keep on pegging away. The majority was not insurmountable. The Government is bound to make a fool of itself, the General Election will come, and I shall win the seat."

"You seem very certain."

"The man who keeps pegging away, and never gives up, has always reason to be certain. And I never give up."

Olive was silent.

"Don't you believe in that attitude?" he asked.

"Yes—in a way. Still, I should make sure I was not striving after an impossibility."

"Everything that has ever been done worth the doing,—I mean every really great thing—has been done by attempting the impossible."

Olive turned towards him with a glance that did not lack admiration. He was a fine-looking young fellow; tall, well formed, and well favoured. He belonged to that class which maintains the best traditions of the old county families. He was the owner of an estate which lay contiguous to that of John Castlemaine, and he was a healthy-minded, clear-brained young Englishman. In many things the two were opposed. His sympathies were, in the main, with the classes; hers with the people; he had but little belief in the democracy, she had. He believed in the aristocracy of birth; she in the aristocracy of intellect and personal worth. Not that he was not interested in the well-being of the people—he was; but their ideas as to the way in which that well-being would be realised were different. His mind had been shaped and coloured by the class among which he had been reared, by the atmosphere in which he had lived, and the atmosphere of this Devonshire squire's home was different from that which had surrounded Olive Castlemaine's life.

"No," he went on presently, "I never believe in giving up. That is a characteristic of my race. The Briarfields have always been noted for their—obstinacy."

"It is not always a pleasant characteristic," she said with a laugh.

"But a useful one," he said. "It has saved me from defeat more than once. When I first went to a public school I fought a boy bigger than myself. He whipped me badly; but I mastered him in the end."

There was no boastfulness in the way he spoke; moreover, he evidently had a reason for leading the conversation into this channel.

"That is one reason why I refuse to take 'No' from you," he continued. "I never loved any other woman; I never shall; and I shall never give up hope of winning you."

"Really, I am very sorry for this, Mr. Briarfield."

"Don't say that, Miss Castlemaine. I suppose it is bad policy to expose my hand in this way; nevertheless what I tell you is true. Although you first refused me three years ago, I shall never give up hoping that I shall win you, and never give up trying."

"Had we not better change the subject?" she said rather coldly, although there was no look of anger or resentment in her eyes.

"I only wanted to tell you this. It is more than a year since I spoke to you last, and I wished you to know that I have not altered—never shall alter. I love you, and I shall not give up hope of winning you. I know I am not of your way of thinking. To be perfectly frank, I interpret the duties and responsibilities of a landholder differently from you. But I admire you all the same. No doubt you have given a great deal of pleasure by keeping an open house; no doubt, too, your home of rest for a jaded multitude is very fine, but then I have old-fashioned ideas."

Olive laughed gaily. She had almost enjoyed the criticisms which, during the past five years, had been passed upon her work.

"At any rate the house was never used in such a way before," she said.

"Never," said Herbert Briarfield. "The late owner—well, he did not believe in using his home as a sort of hydro, or convalescent establishment."

"No," said Olive, "I suppose he did not, but then one has one's duties."

"Yes, but duty is a word which is interpreted differently by different people. For my own part, I do not see why one should open one's house to everybody. Of course, it is not my business, but don't you think you fulfilled your duty when you built your home of rest?"

"No," said Olive. "The Home of Rest, as you call it, is for strangers, but those I invite here are people I have known. They come here as my personal friends."

"You must have a lot of personal friends."

"I have, and really these last few years have been a revelation to me. I never realised the number of over-worked gentlefolk there were, neither did I ever dream of the amount of gratitude there is in the world."

"And do you mean to continue doing this—this—kind of thing, Miss Castlemaine?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What, when you get married?"

"I shall never marry."

Herbert Briarfield looked at her steadily. For the last three years he had been a suitor for Olive Castlemaine's hand, and although she had given him no encouragement, he had never given up hope that he would one day win her. Moreover, so certain was he that he would one day succeed, that he had almost unconsciously assumed a kind of proprietary right over her.

"Of course you will marry," he said, "and then you will think differently. Your first duties then will be to your husband—and to—to your position."

Olive Castlemaine did not reply. He had so often expressed this kind of sentiment, that she did not think it worth while.

"Miss Castlemaine," continued Herbert Briarfield, "you will not be offended if I speak plainly, will you?"

"I am not likely to be offended with my friends, Mr. Briarfield," she said, "but there is one subject that should be debarred. You know very well that I have made up my mind."

"Let no subject be debarred, Miss Castlemaine. It is not right that it should be. If there were some one else, of course I should have to regard your refusal as inevitable. But there is no one else—is there?"

Olive Castlemaine did not speak, but there was a look in her eyes which, had Herbert Briarfield seen, he would have thought it wise to be silent.

"We are neither of us children," he went on; "I am thirty-six, and therefore not ignorant of the world. I know that you have had many offers of marriage, and I—I know that the man to whom you were once engaged is dead."

He felt he was acting like a fool while he was speaking, but the words escaped him, in spite of himself.

"But you are not going to allow that to wreck your life," he went on. "You are young—and—and you know how beautiful you are. Besides, I love you; love you like my own life. You are the only woman in the world to me. I do not know the—the story of that business, but—but surely—oh, Olive, you cannot allow such an episode—the fact that a worthless fellow committed suicide—to close your heart to me for ever. Oh, Olive, do have a little pity on me!"

Her first feeling as he spoke was of anger, but this was followed by pity. She had always thought of him with kindness. In many respects he was a fine young fellow, and was beloved in the neighbourhood; thus the fact of his love could not be altogether unpleasant.

"Mr. Briarfield," she said, "really I am very sorry for this; but let me say once and for all——"

"No, no, not now. Give me another three months—let me speak to you again then. In the meanwhile think it all out again, Olive."

"It is no use, Mr. Briarfield. I am not one to alter my mind easily."

"But there is no one else, is there?"

"No."

"Then let me speak to you again in three months' time. May I?"

"But my answer will be the same as now."

"No, it will not. You will let me speak again then, won't you?"

"And you'll accept what I say then as final?"

"If you wish it. That is, if you'll promise me one thing."

"Tell me what it is."

"That if you refuse me at the end of three months, and then if you alter your mind afterwards, you'll let me know."

"Yes, I promise that. But mind, after that you are not to speak to me, that is, on this subject, till I tell you."

"Yes, I promise that."

Herbert Briarfield turned away from Olive as he spoke, and walked to the end of the lawn. There could be no doubt that he was deeply in earnest. A look of fierce determination shone from his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously.

"She must, she must," he said. "There is no one else, and I will win her."

He returned to her presently and, drawing a chair near hers, sat down by her side.

"I suppose your Home of Rest is full," he said, with seeming carelessness.

"Yes," she said: "had it been twice as large it would have been filled. As for the golf links, they are always popular. You see, while it is foggy and miserable in London, it is perfect weather here. Just fancy, we are only in the middle of April, and yet we are sitting out of doors in perfect comfort. It's as warm as June."

"There is a mixed crew down there," said Briarfield, nodding in the direction of what he had called "the Home of Rest."

"Yes?"

"Yes. It is a good thing you are so cosmopolitan in your views. I dropped in there last night, and had a talk with a German and a Frenchman, while I saw, sitting in the smoking-room, an Arab of some sort. At any rate, he wore a fez."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I did not speak to him, as he seemed in a rather unsociable mood; but the German told me he was a remarkable sort of character. It seems he has spent most of his life away in Africa, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Desert of Sahara, I think."

"What led him to come here?"

"Heaven only knows. Why did the German and the Frenchman come? I suppose they heard of the presiding genius of the home, of its beautiful surroundings, and its healthful climate. Besides, in addition to its cheapness, all sorts of stories are afloat about the place. You know that."

Olive laughed.

"I heard only yesterday," went on Briarfield, "that you built it on account of a dream you had when a child; while some time ago some one told me that you had loved some youth some years ago, who had died of consumption, because of the want of a home of rest like this."

Olive laughed again.

"I have been there very little lately," she said. "I've had so many other things to do."

"Yes, but I think they all hope to see you. This German told me that the man with the fez is a fatalist, and does not believe in right or wrong. He's a striking-looking fellow, and would be noticed in any crowd. He's only been there two days, but is quite a centre of interest."

"Indeed," said Olive; "what is he like?"

"I did not see him standing, but I should judge he's of more than ordinary height. He has an intensely black beard, which he allows to grow long. His face is very much tanned, and thus he has quite an Oriental appearance."

"How old is he?"

"Oh, I should think quite forty-five. But, for that matter, he might be any age. As I said, I did not hear him speak, but the fellow suggests all sorts of mysteries. There's a look in his eyes which tells wonderful things. He might be an esoteric Buddhist, or a Mohammedan who has dwelt much in Mecca. The fellow makes one think of reincarnation, and spirit wanderings, and magic—in fact, anything that is mysterious. The German told me he had a conversation with him."

"In what language?"

"In German. It seems that he speaks all the languages. The Frenchman told me he spoke French like a Parisian, while the German says his knowledge of German literature is profound. He talks to the waiters in English, and reads the newspapers of several countries. When I saw him he was writing in Arabic."

"Do you know Arabic?"

"No; but from what I could judge from the distance, he was writing in Arabic characters. But it might have been in Chinese, or any other language; I don't know."

"Do you know his name?"

"Yes; the fellow so interested me that I inquired."

"What was it?"

"Signor Ricordo."

"Ricordo? That sounds Italian."

"He may be Italian. I suppose lots of Italians go across to Tunis from Genoa. He might be anything, in fact—Russian, Spaniard, Italian, or Arab."

"I suppose he is a gentleman?"

"As I told you, I never spoke to him; but the German told me that there could be no doubt but that he was a man of considerable position. He thinks him a count, or something of that sort; but, as I told him, Italian counts are cheap. Be that as it may, he speaks of himself as a simple 'Signore,' and makes no parade of his greatness whatever."

"That may be because he has none."

"But I should gather that he has. This German is a man who knows things, and he tells me that there can be no doubt but that Signor Ricordo has moved in the most influential circles. Oh, I can assure you there is no difficulty in believing it. You cannot look at his face without feeling that he is a man who has lived at the heart of things."

"You make me quite curious. I must visit the home, and make his acquaintance."

"It will be very interesting to know what you think of him."

"Of course he is not rich? He would not go to The Homestead if he were."

"The question did not come up. The truth is, he is not the kind of man who suggests such things. You are impressed by the personality of the man, not by his belongings."

"I wonder you did not try and make his acquaintance."

"I wanted to badly; but, as I said, he seemed to be in an unsociable mood."

"I daresay you will speak to him some time."

"Oh, yes. I am going in there to-night to dine with my German acquaintance."

Olive raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, yes, I know of what you are thinking. You are saying to yourself that I am false to my creed by dining with a stranger, in order to see a man who may have been a donkey-boy in Cairo; but if I have made you curious by talking about him, what must I be, who have seen him?"

"You have accepted the invitation of the German, then, in order to get an introduction to Signor Ricordo?"

"Exactly. I know I am not courteous to my German host, but it is the truth. Besides, to give your Home of Rest its due, they do things very well there."

"Thank you," said Olive, with a laugh. "I am always pleased when I give my customers satisfaction."

A little later Herbert Briarfield left Vale Linden and rode back to his home.

"How much she must have loved the fellow after all!" he said to himself. "It must be six years at least since he threw up the sponge, and yet she remains true to his memory. I cannot understand it. Of course one doesn't know all that happened; yet how could she give the fellow up because he was such a cur, and then refuse to marry any one else because he committed suicide?"

During the afternoon he rode out to see some off-farms, and then came back to dress for dinner. "What an idea to build such a place!" he said as the carriage rolled along. "Still, I suppose a wilful woman must have her way."

Herr TrÜbner, the German, met him with a great show of politeness, and did the honours of the dinner with much effusion.

"You know the patroness of this establishment?" he said presently.

"Yes, I know her," replied Briarfield, rather ungraciously.

"I have hoped to see her," said Herr TrÜbner, "but up to now I have been unsuccessful. And yet I was told she came here constantly. It was one of the things which induced me to come. So beautiful, so generous, so pious, I could not resist the desire to see her."

"It is possible you may be disappointed," said Briarfield. He was rather angry that the woman he hoped to marry should be talked about in such a way.

"Oh, no, I shall not be disappointed," replied the German. "Only half an hour ago I was told that while I was out walking with Signor Ricordo she was down here, and that she had arranged for a concert to be held in two evenings from now. Ah, and I love music! I who am from the country of Handel and Strauss, and Schubert and Wagner, I love it! I may be a poor, broken-down old German, but I love it, as I love all things beautiful."

"Is it not rather strange that your friend Signor Ricordo, who is a rich man, should have come to a place which was built—well, not as a money-making concern?" said Briarfield rather brutally.

"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 TrÜbners 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 TrÜbner 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 TrÜbner 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.