Van Torp looked at her in some surprise, and not without admiration.
'There isn't anybody like you, anyway,' he said quietly. 'But there's going to be a circus on that ship if he's Leven,' he added. 'If he makes a fuss, I'll read the Riot Act and lock him up.'
'Oh, no,' answered Lady Maud, who was used to Mr. Van Torp's familiar vocabulary, 'why need there be any trouble? You've not told him I am coming, you say. Very well. If he sees me suddenly after he has been on board a little while, he'll certainly betray himself, and then I shall be sure. Leven is a man of the world —"was" or "is"—God knows which! But if it is he, [{332}] and he doesn't want to be recognised, he'll behave as if nothing had happened, after the first moment of surprise. At least I shall be certain! You may wonder—I don't know myself, Rufus—I wish you could help me!'
'I will, as far as I can.'
'No, you don't know what I mean! There's something in my life that I never quite told you, I can't tell why not. There must be people who know it besides my mother—I don't think my father ever did. Margaret has an idea of it—I let fall a few words one day. In one way, you and I have been so intimate for years —and yet——'
She stopped short, and the soft colour rose in her cheeks like a dawn. Van Torp looked down at the pavement as he walked.
'See here,' he said in a low voice, 'you'd better not tell me. Maybe you'll be sorry some day if you do.'
'It would be the first time,' she answered softly, 'and I've often wished you knew everything. I mean to tell you now—just wait a moment.'
They walked on; they were already in the outskirts of the dull little town. Van Torp did not again raise his eyes to her face, for he knew she would speak when she was ready. When she did, her voice was a little muffled, and she looked straight before her as he was doing. They were quite alone in the road now.
'When I was very young—nearly eleven years ago, in my first season—I met a man I liked very much, and he liked me. We grew very, very fond of each [{333}] other. He was not much older than I, and had just joined the army. We couldn't marry, because we had no money—my father had not come into the title then, you know—but we promised each other that we would wait. We waited, and no one knew, except, perhaps, my mother, and she kept us from seeing each other as much as she could. Then came the Boer war, and he was killed—killed in a wretched skirmish—not even in a battle—buried somewhere on the Veldt—if I only knew where! I read it in a despatch—just "killed"—nothing more. One doesn't die of things, I suppose, and years passed, and I went out just the same, and they wanted me to marry. You know how it is with a girl! I married to get rid of myself—I married Leven because he was good-looking and had money, and—I don't quite know why, but it seemed easier to marry a foreigner than an Englishman. I suppose you cannot understand that! It made all comparison impossible—perhaps that was it. When mine was dead, I could never have taken another who could possibly have known him, or who could be in the remotest degree like him.'