“I cannot,” said Vivian, with some confusion; “I cannot, for this day I leave London. Some other time perhaps,—for,” he added, but not heartily, “we may meet again.”
“I hope so,” said I, wringing his hand, “and that is likely, since, in spite of yourself, I have guessed your secret,—your birth and parentage.”
“How!” cried Vivian, turning pale and gnawing his lip. “What do you mean? Speak.”
“Well, then, are you not the lost, runaway son of Colonel Vivian? Come, say the truth; let us be confidants.”
Vivian threw off a succession of his abrupt sighs; and, then, seating himself, leaned his face on the table, confused, no doubt, to find himself discovered.
“You are near the mark,” said he, at last, “but do not ask me further yet. Some day,” he cried impetuously, and springing suddenly to his feet, “some day you shall know all,—yes, some day, if I live, when that name shall be high in the world; yes, when the world is at my feet!” He stretched his right hand as if to grasp the space, and his whole face was lighted with a fierce enthusiasm. The glow died away, and with a slight return of his scornful smile he said: “Dreams yet; dreams! And now, look at this paper.” And he drew out a memorandum, scrawled over with figures.
“This, I think, is my pecuniary debt to you; in a few days I shall discharge it. Give me your address.”
“Oh!” said I, pained, “can you speak to me of money, Vivian?”
“It is one of those instincts of honor you cite so often,” answered he, coloring. “Pardon me.”
“That is my address,” said I, stooping to write, in order to conceal my wounded feelings. “You will avail yourself of it, I hope, often, and tell me that you are well and happy.”