The Yellow House Part 9

"You are going to surprise him?" I remarked.

"I am going to surprise her," he corrected.

There was a short silence. I had no more doubt in my mind. Chance had brought me face to face with the writer of that letter to my father, the man to find whom he was even now in London. Perhaps they had already met; I stole a glance at him; he was furtively watching me all the while.

"I have also," he said, "a sister of whom I am very fond. She lives in Paris. I have written to her to come to me--not here, of course, to London."

I turned a little in my chair and faced him.

"I wonder," I said, "if amongst those friends of whom you speak there is any one whom I know."

His lips parted, and he showed all his glistening white teeth.

"Somehow," he said, softly, under his breath, "I thought you knew. Has your father sent you here? Have you any message for me? If so, let me have it, we may be disturbed."

I shook my head.

"My father is in London," I told him. "He left the morning he had your letter."

"When is he coming back?" he asked, eagerly.

"On Friday, I believe," I answered. "I am not quite sure. At any rate, he will be here by Sunday."

An odd look flashed for a moment across the man's face. It gave me an uneasy sensation.

"Have you seen him in London?" I asked, quickly.

"Certainly not," he answered; "I have seen no one. I have only been in England for a day or two. I shall look forward," he added, "to the pleasure of seeing your father on Sunday."

"And Mr. Bruce Deville?" I inquired.

He looked at me suspiciously. He was wondering how much I knew.

"Mr. Bruce Deville?" he said, slowly. "I have not seen him lately; they tell me he has altered a great deal."

"I have only known him a week, and so I cannot tell," I answered.

Again he fixed his little dark eyes upon me; he was evidently completely puzzled.

"You have only known him a week, and yet you know that--that he and I are not strangers?"

"I learned it by accident," I answered.

Obviously he did not believe me; he hesitated for a moment to put his disbelief into words, and in the meantime I made a bold stroke.

"Have you seen Adelaide Fortress yet?" I asked.

His face changed. He looked at me half in wonder, half eagerly; his whole expression had softened.

"Not yet," he said; "I am waiting to know where she is; I would go to her to-day--if only I dared--if only I dared!"

His dark eyes were lit with pa.s.sion; a pale shade seemed to have crept in upon the sallowness of his cheeks.

"When you talk of her," he said, speaking rapidly, and with his voice thick with some manner of agitation, "you make me forget everything! You make me forget who you are, who she is, where we are! I remember only that she exists! Oh, my G.o.d!"

I laid my hand upon his coat sleeve.

"Be careful," I whispered. "People will notice you; speak lower."

His voice sank; it was still, however, hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion.

"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 pa.s.sion 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.

"Will not Mr. Deville tell her--or my father?"

"It is just possible that Mr. Deville might," he said, with the air of one who had well considered the matter. "But I do not think it likely; there are certain reasons which would probably keep him silent."

"And my father?" I asked.

Again there was an odd look in his face. Somehow it filled me with vague alarm; I could not imagine what it meant.

"I do not think," he answered, "that your father will tell her; I am nearly sure that he will not. No, I myself shall announce my return. I shall stand face to face with her before she has learned to school her countenance. I shall see in the light or in the darkness how she holds me. It will be a test--a glorious test."

Lady Naselton came rustling up to us with beaming face. "My dear girl," she said, "I am so sorry to disturb you, you both look so interested. Whatever you have found to talk about I can't imagine. Lady Romney is going; she would so like to know you. Would you mind coming to speak to her?"

"With pleasure," I declared, rising at once to my feet; "I must be going too. Good afternoon, Mr. Berdenstein."

He held out his hand, but I had no intention of shaking hands with him. I bowed coldly, and turned to follow Lady Naselton.

"Perhaps it is best," he murmured, leaning a little forward. "We cannot possibly be friends; no doubt you hate me; we are on opposite sides. Good afternoon, Miss Ffolliot."

I followed Lady Naselton, but before we had reached the Romneys I stopped her.

"Lady Naselton, who is that man?" I asked her. "What do you know of him?"

"My dear child," she answered, "from the confidential manner in which you have been talking all this time, I should have imagined that he had told you his history from childhood. Frankly, I don't know anything about him at all. He was very good to Fred in South America, and he has made a lot of money, that is really all I know. Fred met him in town, and brought him down without notice. I hope," she added, looking at my pale face, "that he has been behaving himself properly."