"If I could... my God! if I only could!.. say to thee what I cannot. Perhaps... some time.... Forgive me, but thou breakest my heart!.... Not because I care less for thee as my friend.... no, above all else, not that reason! We stay together, Oswald!... We shall always be what we have become to each other! Oh, we cannot change, not through all our lives! Not in death, not in anything! Oh, Oswald! that thou couldst think, for an instant, that I—I—would dream of turning away from thee... suffer a break for us two... because thou art made in thy nature as God makes mankind—as each and all, or not as each and all! We are what we are!... This terrible life of ours... this existence that men insist on believing is almost all to be understood nowadays—probed through and through—decided!... but that ever was and will be just mystery, all!...... Friendship between us? Oh, whether we are near or far! Forever! Forever, Oswald!... Here, take my hand! As long as I live... and beyond then! Yes, by God above us, by God in us!... Only, only, for the sake of the bond between us from this night, promise me that thou wilt never speak again of what thou hast told me of thyself—never, unless I break the silence. Nevermore a word of—of thy—thy—feeling for me. There are other things for us to talk of, my dear brother? Thou wilt promise?"
With his hand in mine, my heart so lightened that I was as a new creature, forgetting even the separation before me, I promised. Gladly, too. For, instead of loss, with this parting, what gain was mine! Imre knew me now as myself!—he really knew me: and yet was now rather the more my friend than less, so I could believe, after this tale of mine had been told him! His sympathy—his respect—his confidence—his affection—his continued and deeper share in my strange and lonely life—even if lands and seas should divide us two—ah, in those instants of my reaction and relief, it seemed to me that I had everything that my heart had ever sought of him, or would seek! I made the promise too, gladly with all my soul. Why should he or I ever speak of any stranger emotions again?
Abruptly, after another long pressure of my hand, my friend started up.
"Oswald we must go home!" he exclaimed. "It's nearly nine o'clock, surely. I have a regimental report to look at before ten... this affair of mine tomorrow."
Nearly the whole of our return-ride we were silent. The tram was full as before with noisy pleasure-trippers. Even after quitting the vehicle, neither of us said more than a few sentences... the beauty of the night, the charm of the old Z... park, and so on. But again Imre kept his arm in mine, all the way we walked. It was, I knew, not accident. It was the slight sign of earnest thoughts, that he did not care to utter in so many words.
We came toward my hotel.
"I shall not say farewell tonight, Oswald," said Imre, "you know how I hate farewells at any time... hate them as much as you. There is more than enough of such a business. Much better to be sensible.. to add as few as one can to the list.... I will look in on you tomorrow... about ten o'clock. I don't start till past midday."
I assented. I was no longer disturbed by any mortal concerns, not even by the sense of the coming sundering. Distrust—loneliness—the one was past, even if the other were to come!
The hotel-portier handed me a telegram, as we halted in the light of the doorway.
"Wait till I read this," I said.