“Oh, no!” protested Serena.

“No,” said Mrs Floore. “She wouldn’t, because I should have something to say to it!”

“Very rightly! But I don’t think there is such a Duke, ma’am.”

“It’ll be as well for him if there isn’t,” said Mrs Floore darkly.

Serena left her brooding vengefully, and went off to change a book at Duffield’s Library, on Milsom Street. This accomplished, she left the library, almost colliding on the doorstep with a tall man, who fell back instantly, saying: “I beg your pardon!”

Even as she looked quickly up at him he caught his breath on a gasp. She stood gazing almost incredulously into a face she had thought forgotten.

“Serena!” he said, his voice shaking. “Serena!”

More than six years slid from her; she put out her hand, saying as unsteadily as he: “Oh, can it be possible? Hector!”

8

They stood hand-fasted, the gentleman very pale, the lady most delicately flushed, hazel eyes lifted wonderingly to steady blue ones, neither tongue able to utter a word until a testy: “By your leave, sir! by your leave!” recalled them to a sense of their surroundings, and made Major Kirkby drop the hand he was holding so tightly, and step aside, stammering a confused apology to the impatient citizen whose way he had been blocking.

As though released from a spell, Serena said: “After all these years! You have not altered in the least! Yes, you have, though: those tiny lines at the corners of your eyes were not there before, I think, and your cheeks were not so lean—but I swear you are as handsome as ever, my dear Hector!”

He smiled at the rallying note in her voice, but his own was perfectly serious as he answered, in a low tone: “And you are more beautiful even than my memories of you! Serena, Serena—! Forgive me! I hardly know what I am saying, or where I am!”

She gave an uncertain little laugh, trying for a more commonplace note. “You are in Milsom Street, sir, wholly blocking the way into Duffield’s excellent library! And the spectacle of a gentleman of military aspect, standing petrified with his hat in his hand, is attracting a great deal of attention, let me tell you! Shall we remove from this too public locality?”

He cast a startled glance about him, coloured up, laughed, and set his high-crowned beaver on his fair head again. “Oh, by God, yes! I am so bemused—! May I escort you—? Your maid—footman—?”

“I am alone. You may give me your arm, if you will be so good, but were you not about to go into the library?”

“No—yes! What can that signify? Alone? How comes this about? Surely—”

“My dear Hector, my next birthday, which is not so far distant, will be my twenty-sixth!” she said, placing her hand in his arm, and drawing him gently away from the entrance to the library. “Did I never go out without a footman in attendance when you knew me before? Perhaps I did not, since I was in my Aunt Theresa’s charge! She has the most antiquated notions! How long ago it seems! I was barely nineteen, and you were so proud of your first regimentals! To what exalted heights have you risen? Tell me how I should address you!”

His free hand came up to press her gloved fingers, lying so lightly in the crook of his left arm. “As you do! The sound of Hector on your lips is such music as I never hoped to hear again! There were no exalted heights: I have no more imposing title than that of Major.”

“It sounds very well, I promise you. Are you on furlough? You do not wear regimentals.”

“I sold out at the end of last year. You might not be aware—my elder brother has been dead these three years. I succeeded to the property at the time of Bonaparte’s escape from Elba, and but for that circumstance must have sold out two years ago.”

“I did not know—pray forgive me!”

“How should you?” he said simply. “I never dreamed that I could hold a place in your memory!”

She was struck to the heart, realizing how small a place had been held by him, and said haltingly: “Or I—that you should recall so clearly—after so long—!”

“You have never been absent from my thoughts. Your face, your smiling eyes, have been with me through every campaign!”

“No, no, how can you be so romantical?” she exclaimed, at once startled and touched.

“It is true! When I read of your engagement to Lord Rotherham—how can I describe to you what I suffered?”

“You saw that notice!”

“I saw it.” He smiled ruefully. “I was used, whenever a London newspaper came in my way, to search the social columns for the sight of your name! Absurd of me, was it not? The Morning Post that included that announcement was sent to me by my sister. She knew I had been acquainted with you, and thought I should be interested to learn of your engagement. She little guessed what passions were roused in me! I had prepared myself for your marriage to another; I could have borne it, I hope, with better command over my own sensations had it been any other than Rotherham!”

She looked up in surprise. “Did you dislike him so much? I had thought you scarcely knew him!”

“It was true: I met him perhaps three times only.” He paused, and she saw his well-moulded lips tighten. After a moment, he said: “I have always believed that it was he who separated us.”

She was startled. “Oh, no! Indeed, it wasn’t so! Why, how could it have been possible?”

“His influence over your father was brought to bear. I knew him for my enemy, Serena, from the outset.”

“No! Recollect how young you were! His manners are not conciliating, and that abrupt way he has, and the frowning look, made you think he disliked you. My father would not countenance the match from worldly reasons. He thought us, besides, too young, and—oh, I suppose he had even then set his heart on my marrying Rotherham!”

“Had he not allowed Rotherham to persuade him into the belief that we were not suited to one another, I cannot think he would have been so adamant! His affection for you was too great to admit of his sacrificing you to mere worldly ambition.”

“Perhaps he did think that, but that Ivo put it into his head I will not allow! Good God, Hector, why should he have done so?”

“When I read the notice of your engagement, I knew the answer to that enigma!”

“Nonsense! That came three years later! Ivo had no thought of marrying me then!” She flushed, and added: “I jilted him, you know.”

“I did know it. For you, it must have been painful indeed; for me—a relief I cannot describe to you! I knew then that your heart had not been engaged, that the match was made by your father, de convenance!”

She was silent for a moment, but said presently: “I hardly know how to answer you. Papa most earnestly desired it. He promoted it, but no more than that! There was no compulsion—no pressure exerted to make me—Hector, if it distresses you, I am sorry for it, but I should be sorrier still to deceive you! I was very willing: I fancied myself in love with Ivo. There! It is out, and you know now that I was not as constant as you.”

He said, in a moved tone: “It is what I always loved in you—your honesty I that fearless look in your eyes, a frankness so engaging—! But you did not love Rotherham!”

“No—a brief, bitterly fought campaign, that engagement of ours! I behaved shockingly, of course, but you may believe he was as well rid of me as I of him!”

Again he pressed her hand. “I couldn’t believe that. That you were well rid of him, yes! His temper, so peremptory and overbearing—”

“Oh, yes, but my own temper, you know, is very bad!” she said ruefully.

He smiled. “It is like you to say so, but it is not true, Serena.”

“I’m afraid you don’t know me.”

“Don’t I? If ever it was bad, there must have been great provocation!”

“I thought so, at all events,” she said, a gleam of fun in her eyes. “I always think so, whenever I lose it! That was one of the questions on which Rotherham and I could never agree!”

“I cannot bear to think of you subjected, even for so short a time, to that imperious, tyrannical disposition!”

She could not help laughing. “I wish he might be privileged to hear you! He would think it a gross injustice that you should have no pity for his sufferings!”

“I can believe it! Do you ever meet him now?”

“Frequently. There was no estrangement. We are very good friends, except when we are sworn foes! Indeed, he is my Trustee.”

“Your Trustee!” he said, looking as though he found the information shocking. “I knew how much attached to him Lord Spenborough was, but that he should have placed you in a position of such embarrassment—Forgive me! I should not be speaking to you so!”

“You mistake: I don’t find it embarrassing! To be sure, I was in such a passion when I first discovered how it was to be—But there were circumstances enough to enrage me! Never mind that! As for meeting Ivo, in the old way, neither of us has been aware of any awkwardness. It is the popular notion that I should be cast into blushes in Ivo’s presence, but either that’s a great piece of nonsense, or I am a creature sadly lacking in sensibility! I can’t be shy of a man I’ve known all my life! Since my father’s death, too, he seems sometimes to me like a link with—” She broke off. “But, come!—We have talked enough of me! Tell me of yourself! I long to hear of all your doings in Spain!”

“I don’t think I could ever hear enough of you,” he said seriously. “Nothing of any consequence has befallen me. Nothing until today! When I saw you, it was as though these six years and more had never been!”

“Oh, hush! I too was conscious of just that feeling, but it is nonsensical! Much has happened to both of us!”

“To you! I know well how great a tragedy your father’s death must have been to you. To have written to you would have been presumption: I could only wish that I had the right to comfort you!”

As always, she was rendered uncomfortable by spoken sympathy. She said: “Thank you. The shock was severe, and the sense of loss must remain with me for long and long, but you must not think me borne down by it, or out of spirits. I go on very well.”

“I know your indomitable courage!”

Her impulse was to check him. She subdued it, afraid of wounding him, and walked on beside him with downcast eyes while he continued talking of her father. That he truly understood the extent of her loss, and most sincerely entered into her feelings, she could not doubt. He spoke well, and with great tenderness: she would rather he had been silent.

He seemed to realize it, and broke off, saying: “It is painful for you to talk of it. I will say no more: what I feel—all that I cannot express—you must know!”

“Yes, I—You are very good, very kind! How glad I am I should have chosen to go to Duffield’s this very morning! Do you make a long stay in Bath?”

“I came to visit my mother, and arrived only yesterday. There are no calls upon my time, and I had meant to remain with her for a few weeks. Since my father’s death, she has resided here. The climate agrees with her constitution, and she derives benefit from the baths. She is a sad invalid, and seldom goes out, or—But are you living here too, Serena?”

“For a few months only, with my mother-in-law.”

“Ah! I knew that Lord Spenborough had married again, and feared that you must have been made unhappy.”

“No, indeed!”

“You live with Lady Spenborough? You like her? She is kind to you?” he said anxiously.

“Very!”

“I am very much relieved to hear you say so. I was afraid it might not be so. To have had a mama thrust upon you at your age cannot have been agreeable. Too often one hears of mamas-in-law domineering over the children of a previous marriage! But if she is truly motherly to you I can believe that you may be glad now that the marriage took place. Her protection must be a comfort to you.”

Her eyes began to dance, but she said demurely: “Very true! I look forward to presenting you to her. I hope you will not think her very formidable!”

“Will you let me call on you?” he said eagerly. “She will not object to it?”

“I am sure she will receive you most graciously!”

“There is something quelling in the very word!” he said, smiling. “As for dowager, that conjures up such a picture as might terrify the boldest! If she should wear a turban, I shall shake in my shoes, for it will remind me of a great-aunt of whom, as a boy, I lived in dread! When may I call on her? Where is your direction?”