“Be careful,” I whispered. “People will notice you; speak lower.”
His voice sank; it was still, however, hoarse with passion.
“I shall know soon,” he said, “very soon, whether the years have made her any kinder; whether the dream, the wild dream of my life, is any nearer completion. Oh, you may start!” he added, looking into my white, puzzled face; “you and your father, and Deville, and the whole world may know it. I love her still! I am going to regain her or die! There! You see it is to be no secret war; go and tell your father if you like, tell them all, bid them prepare. If they stand in my way they must suffer. Soon I am going to her. I am going to stand before her and point to my grey hairs, and say, ‘Every one of them is a thought of you; every day of my life has been moulded towards the winning of you.’ And when I tell her that, and point to the past, she will be mine again.”
“You are very sure of her,” I murmured.
His face fell.
“Alas! no,” he cried, “I cannot say that; only it is my hope and my passion which are so strong. They run away with me; I picture it to myself—this blessed thing—and I forget. Listen!” he added, with sudden emphasis, “you must promise me something. I have let my tongue go too fast. I have talked to you as my other self; you must promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“You must promise me that you will not speak of my presence here to her. In a day or two—well, we shall see. I shall go to her then; I shall risk everything. But at present, no! She must be ignorant of my return until I myself declare it. You will promise me this?”
I promised. I scarcely dared do otherwise if I wished to avoid a scene, for already the agitation and occasional excitement of his speech were attracting attention. But, having promised, I asked him a question.