went to the backs of the chairs and he felt a wild lurch of familiarity clutch at him and his muscles tightened convulsively. The antimacassars were embroidered with a design of white heather and purple ribbons. He knew every stitch of it, every bell of the flowers and curl of scroll.
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 want to feel all that. It frightens me. I don't like it. You frighten me. I don't love that way - and I don't want you to love me like that - I can't live up to it - and I would hate trying to. I want ..." She bit her lip. "I want peace - I want to be comfortable."