The girl had stepped out now from between the trees, and was standing before him, quite calm, but with a little droop of the lids he was not slow to interpret. It meant disdain. But he cared for nothing now, save his one mad longing to tell her.
"You do know," said he in a strange voice. "I dare you to say otherwise. You know that I love you." It was out. It was said. The very air was ringing with it. He repeated it. To himself it seemed that he was shouting the great news, but in reality his voice was low—intense. "I love you. I have loved you always— always. Even whilst that woman lived. You know that, too. I have seen it in your eyes so often. No, not a word! Let me speak.... I have been silent so long."
"To be silent for ever would be better," said Agatha. She was very pale, but she had a certain courage of her own, and it stood to her, so far, most valiantly. "You must see what folly this is. Why do you speak? What good will it do you?"
"It means life!" said Darkham. "What nights, what days have been filled with my vain longing for such an hour as this! To say it —to tell you how unutterably dear you are to me—has been my consuming passion since first we met. Often, often, when attending your aunt, a craving to speak to you—to lay bare my heart—to take you in my arms—-"
He moved towards her, and she shrank back affrightedly. After all, a girl's best courage does not amount to much.
"What!" said he, "do you think I would touch you? No, no!"
"You must be mad," said she. She was trembling now. "How can you talk to me like this?—to me, who—-"
"Well?" said he—his voice was a question—"well?"
"Why go into it?" said the girl gently, touched by the horrible anguish in his face. "Is it not enough for you to—-"
"To what?"—violently, as she hesitated to finish her sentence.