It seemed an age of waiting. There was a bird singing somewhere behind him in the garden, and the sound of wind in the young leaves in the apple trees beyond the wall around the vicarage. Somewhere in the distance a lamb bleated and a ewe answered it.
Then without warning the door opened. He had not heard the feet coming to the other side. A pert, pretty maid stood expectantly, her starched apron crisp, her hair half hidden by a lace cap.
His voice dried in his throat and he had to cough to force out the words.
“Good morning, er-good afternoon. I-I'm sorry to trouble you at this-this hour-but I have come from London- yesterday…”He was making an extraordinary mess ofthis. When had he ever been so inarticulate? “Maylspeak with Mrs. Ward, please? It is a matter of some importance.” He handed her a card with his name, but no occupation printed.
She looked a little doubtful, but regarded him closely, his boots polished and very nearly new, his trousers with a little dust on the ankles from his walk up from the station, but why not on such a pleasant day? His coat was excellently cut and his shirt collar and cuffs very white. Lastly she looked at his face, normally with the confidence of a man of authority but now a facade, and a poor one. She made her decision.
“I'll ask.” Something like amusement flickered in her smile and her eyes definitely had laughter in them. “If you'll come to the parlor and wait, please, sir.”
He stepped inside and was shown to the front parlor. Apparently it was a room not frequently used; probably there was a less formal sitting room to the rear of the house.
The maid left him and he had time to look. There was a tall upright clock against the nearest wall, its case elaborately carved. The soft chairs were golden brown, a color he found vaguely oppressive, even in this predominantly gentle room with patterned carpet and curtains, all subdued and comfortable. Over the mantelpiece was a landscape, very traditional, probably somewhere in the Lake District-too many blues for his taste. He thought it would have been subtler and more beautiful wim a limited palette of grays and muted browns.
Then his eyes went to the backs
It was absurd. He already knew that this was the woman. He knew it from what Markham had told him. He did not need this wrench of the emotional memory to confirm it. And yet this was knowledge of quite a different nature, not expectation but feeling. It was what he had come for-at last.
There was a quick, light step outside the door and the handle turned.
He almost choked on his own breath.
She came in. There was never any doubt it was her. From the crown of her head, with its softly curling fair hair; her honey-brown eyes, wide-set, long-lashed; her full, delicate lips; her slender figure; she was completely familiar.
When she saw him her recognition was instant also. The color drained out of her skin, leaving her ashen, then it flooded back in a rich blush.
“William!” She gasped, then collected her own wits and closed the door behind her. “William-what on earth are you doing here? I didnt think I should ever-I mean-that we should meet again.” She came towards him very slowly, her eyes searching his face.
He wanted to speak, but suddenly he had no idea what to say. All sorts of emotions crowded inside him: relief because she was so exactly what all his memories told him, all the gentleness, the beauty, the intelligence were there; fear now that the moment of testing was here and there was no more time to prepare. What did she think of him, what were her feelings, why had he ever left her? Incredulity at himself.
How little he knew the man he used to be. Why had he gone? Selfishness, unwillingness to commit himself to a wife and possibly a family? Cowardice? Surely not that-selfishness, pride, he could believe. That was the man he was discovering.
“William?” Now she was even more deeply puzzled. She did not understand silence from him. “William, what has happened?”
He did not know how to explain. He could not say, I have found you again, but I cannot remember why I ever lost you!
“I-I wanted to see how you are,” he said. It sounded weak, but he could think of nothing better.
“I-I am well. And you?” She was still confused. “What brings you to…? Another case?”
“No-no.” He swallowed. “I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Why!” The question seemed preposterous. Because he loved her. Because he should never have left. Because she was all the gentleness, the patience, the generosity, the peace that was the better side of him, and he longed for it as a drowning man for air. How did she not know that? “Her-mione!” The need burst from him with the passion he had been trying to suppress, violent and explosive.
She backed away, her face pale again, her hands moving up to her bosom.
“William! Please…”
Suddenly he felt sick. Had he asked her before, told her his feelings, and she had rejected him? Had he forgotten that, because it was too painful-and only remembered that he loved her, not that she did not love him?
He stood motionless, overcome with misery and appalling, desolating loneliness.
“William, you promised,” she said almost under her breath, looking not at him but at the floor. “I can't. I told you before-you frighten me. I don't feel that-I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to care so much about anything, or anyone. You work too hard, you get too angry, too involved in other people's tragedies or injustices. You fight too hard for what you want, you are prepared to pay more than I-for anything. And you hurt too much if you lose.” She gulped and looked up, her eyes full of pleading. “I don't
Comfortable! God Almighty!
“William? Don't be angry-I can't help it-I told you all that before. I thought you understood. Why have you come back? You'll only upset things. I'm married to Gerald now, and he's good to me. But I don't think he would care for you coming back. He's grateful you proved my innocence, of course he is-” She was speaking even more rapidly now, and he knew she was afraid. “And of course I shall never cease
For the sake of his own dignity, some salve to his self-respect, he must assure her he would go quietly, not cause her any embarrassment. There was no purpose whatever in staying anyway. It was all too obvious why he had left in the first place. She had no passion to match his. She was a beautiful vessel, gentle at least outwardly, but it was born from fear of unpleasantness, not of compassion, such as a deeper woman might have felt-but she was a shallower vessel than he, incapable of answering him. She wanted to be comfortable; there was something innately selfish in her.
“I am glad you are happy,” he said, his voice dry, catching in his throat. “There is no need to be frightened. I shall not stay. I came across from Guildford. I have to be in London tomorrow morning anyway-a big trial. She-the woman accused-made me think of you. I wanted to see you-know how you are. Now I do; it is enough.”
“Thank you.” The relief flooded her face. “I-I would rather Gerald did not know you were here. He-he wouldn't like it.”
“Then don't tell him,” he said simply. “And if the maid mentions it, I was merely an old friend, calling by to enquire after your health, and to wish you happiness.”
“I am well-and happy. Thank you, William.” Now she was embarrassed. Perhaps she realized how shallow she sounded; but it was at least past, and she had no intention of apologizing for it or trying to ameliorate its truth.
Nor did she offer him refreshment. She wanted him to leave before her husband returned from wherever he was- perhaps church.
There was nothing of any dignity or worth to be gained by remaining-only a petty selfishness, a desire for a small revenge, and he would despise it afterwards.
“Then I shall walk to the station and catch the next train towards London.” He went to the door, and she
